New Beginnings
Twenty seven days ago, I checked myself into an addiction treatment and recovery center... rehab. Alcohol has been a part of my daily life for the last 9 years. Of those 3,285 days, I can safely say that roughly 3,225 included alcohol. During college, I stood out as the drunker member of my fraternity, not a proud accomplishment, or an easy one, nonetheless. What started as something to get me out of my shell quickly turned into full blown alcoholism before I knew it. Along with another fraternity brother, nightly pints of Paul Masson Brandy became our thing. These weren’t the party type benders you might be thinking, these are the ‘sit in the lazy chair and watch tv’ benders. Monday night? Sure, it was a Monday after all. It didn’t matter the day. I was away from home and had nobody to tell me I couldn’t. What more could an unknowingly aspiring alcoholic ask for. On many occasions, when the funds were tight, we’d scrounge around couch cushions or bum dollar bills from other guys. Little did I know, I was making tremendous strides toward a lifelong disease flush with inescapable hopelessness and depression.
After college, the alcohol continued to pour but in fancier fashion now that I was employed. Somehow, the liquor ceased but the beer did not. Six to eight light beers immediately became a nightly routine. Living in a Kansas City apartment with another “just as drunk” fraternity brother was like fire and gasoline. The neighborhood bar less than a hundred steps away saw us plenty when I wasn’t drinking alone at home. The days went on like this with nonexistent splendor. Living to drink would pin it on the tail.
In 2017, I received a DUI charge in a small Kansas town after driving on the wrong side of the road. This would’ve scared most into sobriety, especially after a night in jail, but for me it was only about fifteen days. I was court ordered to keep and maintain an interlock device in my vehicle for 6 months, attend a day long drug and alcohol session, and pay a few thousand dollars in fines (not including lawyer fees). The interlock was cheatable though, I put it in a vehicle I didn’t normally drive and took in each month for calibration. When I did need to drive with it, I could use a plastic trash bag to satisfy the device with sober air. Lying, deceiving, and manipulating became my native tongue. Whatever it took to enable my drinking, as it was the first and foremost priority. For family trips, I’d bring enough to get me through or sneak away to the liquor store for a pint. When going out to eat, I’d excuse myself to the restroom only to sneak a shot at the adjoining bar.
As time moved on, my alcoholism progressively got worse, yet my success carried on. The progression of alcoholism, to most, may seem to be downward sloping in relation to the alcoholic’s achievements and successes. For me, it was not, at least at first. Toward the end, I had a good job, grain trading in the Kansas City area, making nearly six figures. I also owned a three hundred- and fifty-thousand-dollar home with 15 acres and a pond. Most notably, however, I had a seemingly stable relationship and was engaged to be married. One could say I had it all, or at least many reasons to be happy. Yet alcohol remained in my life like a snake in the grass, waiting for the deadly effects of its venom to take hold before moving in with the big swallow. It began to infect everything. After only 9 months,I quit my job after being mandated for poor performance. I couldn’t possibly take accountability for the daily hangover culprit. Instead, I blamed my boss for being verbally abusive.
Not just at work, but my home life was becoming even more unmanageable. My fiancée quickly noticed my unhidden drinking habits, and commented, “those [half gallon tequila] bottles sure don’t last long.” She was right. During the peak, I had been drinking a quarter gallon per night. Around this time, our new relationship quickly fell from the honeymoon phase into utter instability. I could not hide from the guilt and shame of my drunken angry outbursts and emotional instability, so I decided to stop drinking. I was prescribed Disulfiram, commonly known as Antabuse, which makes you sicker than a dog if alcohol is consumed within 21 days, or so the label says. It’s good medicine, if taken each day as a supplement to regular attendance at AA meetings of course. For me though, I didn’t see the beauty in being sober. I was a “dry drunk,” just as miserable as I had been while drinking. I had never been to an AA meeting even though my fiancée often urged me to. I thought that all I needed was sobriety, and the only way to be sober was to take the medicine.
I made it roughly 45 days sober and then got complacent, “I just quit for 45 days, I’m no alcoholic!”, I thought. So, my cunning and baffling alcoholic mind decided to test that medicine label for myself, “21 days... we’ll see about that.” Ten days after taking another dose, I found out the severity of the alcohol/disulfiram interaction the hard way. Throwing up in the sink, laying on the bathroom floor in a fetal position, and a headache I’ve never imagined. A couple days later, I tried again. 12 was the lucky number, with only minimal headache the day after. Of course, saving my relationship was still important to me, so I made sure my fiancée was under the impression I was still taking the meds, in turn believing I was sober. I quickly learned that a pint of tequila or vodka was the max I could drink to still appear sober, nothing more, and nothing less. The daily amphetamines, which I had convinced a doctor to prescribe for a put-on ADHD diagnosis, proved useful for combating the alcohol withdrawal fog in the AM, but enhanced my alcohol tolerance in the evenings. I got away with it well, hiding it in unimaginable places across the house. I would open NA beers, pour them out in the sink, fill a pint glass with a regular beer, and leave the empty NA can on the counter. I would also disperse a pint of liquor between different rooms of the house to avoid suspicion of going to the same room a dozen times in an evening. If there were times when my supply went dry, I’d “forget” my phone at home so my location couldn’t be tracked at the liquor store. Tequila and vodka were ideal too because you couldn’t smell them. You can hide it perfectly, with zero mistakes. I did it, but alcohol isn’t just alcohol. Its more than just a smell, it’s more than just slurred speech, and it’s more than just a buzz. It’s much, much more.
Drinking and isolating soon took its effect on my mind, but not before my physical health. A rash developed on my abdomen in the liver area, and drinking began to hurt. A stomach ulcer developed and caused me much pain after eating. Sleep became evasive as my body itched all night long. Bloody stools, which I haven’t disclosed to anyone until now, were also a common occurrence.
Without a job, and only seasonal farm work, I had too much time alone with my thoughts. Each day felt like just another date. “Today is shot, maybe tomorrow will better” I thought for several months. Depression, which I’ve battled my whole life, took its mighty hold on me in a new and different way that I’d never experienced. After imagining some life situation that I likely couldn’t handle (or so I thought), my mind found comfort in suicidal ideations. For example, I thought if my fiancée ever decided to leave, I truly would have no other choice but to end my own life. Hope of better days, a better life, a better everything, evaded me just like sobriety. My self-worth was nonexistent. These are the things I could not hide. The emotions I’d try to suppress only came out louder. I knew I needed help, but I didn’t think I deserved it. My pool of self-pity was soothed by the alcohol and fueled by it simultaneously. “Who could love a drunk, depressed, suicidal, verbally abusive asshole like me,” I thought almost tormentingly.
As you may have guessed, my fiancée did leave, and I don’t blame her. Maybe I did then, but not now. In retrospect, she saved my life. I would still be drinking to this day, guaranteed. I’m forever grateful for the impact she made on my life. I put her through a lot of shit that she didn’t deserve in the slightest and I’ll have to live with that.
But an alcoholic in their active addiction convinces persecution in himself, and that all are out to get him... how cunning it is. I truly believed that. The morning after was a Sunday and I decided to drive to the farm with one intention in mind, buy a half gallon of tequila and get busy dyin’. Thankfully, God’s hand remained on my shoulder through that night as I sobbed and toyed with my fate.
The next morning, I decided to finally find help for myself. I put some things together, got in the pickup, and drove myself two hours to an inpatient addiction treatment facility in Northwest Kansas.
Upon arrival, I was placed in a detox room for 3 days and was given Valium for alcohol withdrawal symptoms. I later discovered that each time I accepted a Valium dose, I’d be required to stay in detox another 24 hours. With that info, I declined each additional dose as I longed for enough privacy to just lay in bed and cry. My shakes lasted for 5-6 days and then finally dissipated. After detox, I was able to go to a regular room which had more privacy and a roommate. Each passing day seemed harder than the last for the first 10 days. My pockets were never searched during my intake, so I still had the pickup keys and often thought about leaving. That thought scared me though as I was reminded of how I had become upon arrival.
After about 12-15 days, things around me started to brighten. With daily chapel and Chaplain sessions, I rediscovered my faith in God. Through daily lectures and books, I’ve discovered the power of the Twelve Steps and how they can free me from my chains.
The patient group has changed drastically from 27 days ago. I count only one patient that’s been here longer than me, as he’s on a 45-day program. Being here, I’ve come to know how addiction doesn’t discriminate. People from all walks of life, people from all demographics... many for alcohol, many for meth, and many for fentanyl. Humility is easy to find here. Me, a depressed alcoholic whose fiancée dumped him, is a rather tame patient profile compared to most. There are addicts who face lengthy prison sentences when they leave. There are those who solicit themselves for prostitution as a sole stream of income. There are pregnant women who know they’ll have to forfeit their child to DCF. There are those that don’t have homes to return to. There are those whose families have abandoned them entirely due to their addiction. There are those who simultaneously battle a debilitating mental illness.
What’s also sad, however, are those who can’t let go of their addiction after arriving. On two occasions, two patients were found with fentanyl in their rooms, and both were subsequently discharged. The first was a young Caucasian woman in her mid 30’s. After the discovery, I witnessed her sobbing and asking for the drugs to be returned to her. The nurses replied with, “No, you’re abusing it!” Meanwhile, a severe thunderstorm warning had been issued, and heavy rain commenced outside. The young woman, clad with all her belongings, walked off the property and into the rain. I never saw her again after that.
The second patient, a young Hispanic woman in her mid-twenties, was also found with fentanyl. She had been sick the morning prior, which I speculate to be the opioid/suboxone interaction. Both women I talked to, laughed with, played board games in a group with, shared stories with. They are normal beautiful people like you and me. I will pray for those who continue to suffer and that they will come to follow God’s path.
As my time in this facility nears its end, I’ve come to accept who I am. I’ve come to accept the wrong I’ve done and acknowledge the people I’ve hurt. If you’re one of those, then I am truly sorry. I have forgiven myself, and wish to not forget the past, but to learn from it. I no longer bear a resentful and vengeful heart. I am not ashamed of where I am or who I am, for this is the plan God has made for me. I’m Jake, and I’m an alcoholic.