I WANTED TO CHANGE BUT IF NOTHING CHANGED, NOTHING WOULD CHANGE.

Treatment. The best thing I’ve ever done and at the same exact time, the worst thing for my confidence. Nothing in my life to this point would humble me more than my group of eight addicts, plus myself, but nothing would ever tempt me to continue drinking more than my group of eight addicts, plus me. 

I had stories of puking, and black-outs. I had stories of intense embarrassment and secretive secrets. In my world and in comparison to the surrounding company, they were white-collar crimes. These are not ideal stories, but neither are they stories that compare to those of drug-addicts. 

Hearing their stories assured me that I didn’t have a problem. I heard a different horrifying story that separated us a bit more each week, but as treatment moved forward I started recognizing characteristics in them that I knew damn well, I carried. 

But there’s the rub, my stories didn’t compare. My stories aren’t devastating enough compared to theirs and sitting next to these people, I don’t feel like a guy with a drinking problem. But, outside these walls, I’m the one who feels like the only one with a drinking problem. Again, how do I fit in?

I was lost and conflicted between the only person I knew to be, and who I wanted to be.

What was the trigger? What was the hurdle that brought me to my drunken knees every time? Sobriety easily trumped every area of my life unless it involved smooth skin, long hair, and perfume. 

Besides a drinking problem, what I learned from treatment was that I also had a major girl-ing problem. I’d get bored with the good ones, and I couldn’t stay sober long enough to get a read on the destructive ones. 

I wanted to be impressive. I wanted to blend in. And Treatment gave me the tools to do that without having to drink to feel normal. 

So, walking along the sidewalk on the very next date, I was scared as hell. Inside; my bones were shaking, my knees were wobbly and weak, and my stomach was turning at 50-miles an hour. On the outside; My Hand Did Not Shake. I was like Arthur Fonzarelli, and what’s Fonzie like? That’s right, cool. 

And then I drank. 

Against every fiber of my being, I drank, and every time my lips touched the glass/bottle I was a lit fuse of dynamite. I was the Guns of the Navarone. I would get so mad at myself for drinking against my own will that I wanted to smashed the glass or bottle and yet, I still couldn’t put it down.

I only wanted to be liked.

Weird, is not how I wanted to be known. I wanted to be someone’s prince, so I lied to them, in the name of love, I lied to them. All of them, except one. The one I’m married to today.

What was it that I wanted to hide? Was it that I was released from jail in the same year that I had been released from treatment? Was it 3-in-10? That’s heavy news for anyone. 

The only way to avoid the answer to the question of “why aren’t you drinking,” was to drink.

And so this was my life-cycle for a long time. It was vicious, it was heart-breaking and it played on a loop. 

I was smart enough to choose not to drink. 

I was strong enough to live a new clean lifestyle and not let others influence what was best for me. 

I was stupid enough to think that on the occasion, I could control it. 


The next 10-yrs passed before the lessons of treatment would take hold.

AFTER-EFFECTS

There they are, right in front of me on the other side of the glass. THE GLASS. THE FREAKING GLASS THAT SEPARATES YOU FROM YOUR VISITORS.I haven’t yet, but when the guard calls time, he’ll come in, tug my elbow and politely make me turn with him to walk away. That’s when the fight will begin.

I have fought before. In sixth grade a kid my age pushed my head into the window of our bus. It was probably for laughs, but I didn’t laugh. I would have, if he’d done it to someone else, but he didn’t, so when I stupidly dared him to do it again, he did, right into the back of the bus seat. That fight continued outside after we stepped off. There I was jumping on his back, working my way around to put him in a white-knuckled headlock and then giving him four straight uppercut lefts to the face until he fell to the ground. To finish him, I shoved his face full of ice and snow. Sorry Dave. I was already crying when I walked through the front door because you didn’t see the fight that was literally down the street from our house, and I was scared. The year before was a fight during recess. We pulled each others hair mostly, put each other in headlocks and I was punched in the nuts. That same year, defending the honor of a very shy girl, I squared off with one of the bigger kids in my class. He kicked me and I went down, fight over. In High School I was involved in a massive shoving match over a girl that isn’t, wasn’t, and will never be worth that much attention, with a mate who kept spitting in my face as we pushed each other. I didn’t spit in his face only because it was really gross and I never understood the point of spitting in someone else’s face. Either way, while I was dodging saliva, his buddy went down on all fours behind me and I toppled over him. Suddenly I realized it was 2-against-1 and I tap out.

I have fought before. 


Excuse me for a second, while I tally up the losses.


Now then. I haven’t yet, but when I turn to leave and start walking back to my cell, the fight will begin. I’m clueless how to fight labels. But that’s the next fight. Will my friends judge me as I walk away from them? Fighting someone who spits in your face is easier than fighting thoughts of inferiority. Thoughts of “please don’t laugh at me under your breath.” Are they talking behind my back? I hope not, but will this be the last visit? It’s not likely, but maybe there won’t be any thoughts running through their minds at all. I decided on my walk TO that visit: there will be no look-back for a second glance. I’ll just push through because I can’t bare the thought of seeing an expression that I don’t recognize. I know for a fact they were there to offer an amazing amount of support, so I didn’t doubt their motives; I doubted their reactions to the situation. 

When you sit in jail for any reason or any amount of time, and you have to rely on friends to climb into a number of cars (or hopefully, carpool), and drive all the way from their homes leaving actual important responsibilities behind for a couple hours, drive all the way to the local jailhouse that they’ve never been to and never probably imagined ever having to go to, walk in the doors of the jail house, sign in and register which most likely includes subjecting themselves to some type of pat-down search for contraband that they don’t have, sit in the small room while you are confined behind a bulletproof glass for misbehaving, you doubt your self-worth. The labels win. You doubt the level of love they might have for you. Worthiness is at an all-time low. 

I don’t remember a single word we all said to each other. What I can remember is each one of them talking to me over the jail phone line and when finished, passing the phone to the next person as if we were at a party smoking dope, which never happened, and as the phone was between each new set of hands, a thought: “I’m in jail talking to my friends over telephones only seen on TV.” Same thought, each exchange of hands. I don’t remember a single word we all said to each other. What I can remember are the number of moments of raw embarrassment. The number of times I wished they would leave only because I couldn’t handle being seen this way. Counting the number of opportunities there were to cut the conversation short just so they didn’t have to stay longer than they maybe wanted to. I felt bad because of a single looping thought that kept slapping me in the face of how thankful I was that these people weren’t my family members.
I envisioned you and Dad sitting in their seats a million times during the hour visit and each time felt the cringe of my face at the thought. 

Those are the things that went through my mind. A complete internal monologue of my own unworthiness as a friend, and person. 

By the time our time was up, I was prepared for the embarrassing process of being led out of visitation by the arm, letting the door close and then being hand-cuffed again when the door closed. Then, in the event that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to my own room cell, I’m led by the arm - again - until I’m literally belly-up to the thick, cold, never “welcoming” cell door.

It was the same excruciating mental grind every week for two months. I wouldn’t trade those days for gold.

A couple things learned on that initial visit; if I ever end up in jail again, upon release, kill me. But before that, please, COME VISIT. The second was a self-realization that I wished for and received an ability to go mentally numb. During days of misery and periods of what should be overwhelming sadness, I wished I could remove myself and shut it down.

At this instant, I look at my wife who is asleep on the couch, newly pregnant with our second child, and I wonder if she recognizes when I have no emotion in moments that call for it as easily as I do. If so, I wonder what she thinks of me. Has she uttered the words “He’s an unemotional jerk,” as many times as I’ve uttered “I’m an unemotional jerk?” Now we’re married, and with divorce not an option, we’re left with the unrecognizable-to-many tool of communication for when times are hard.

Now the questions are starting to over-flow. Will this be passed onto my kids? While trying to raise amazing kids, am I damaging them unknown? Who wants to raise emotionally stunted kids? Who wants to come off as “cold” to their own bride?

The instinct to care seems natural for others, yet, I consistently have to choose to care which means I have to man-up and say sorry a lot. I have to choose to be emotionally supportive. My instincts are to suck it up, push forward, and not allow emotions to dictate. My wife is emotionally supportive on cue but it doesn’t come easy for me.

Can it be overcome? Maybe, maybe not. But I’ll keep fighting.