BUT WHAT I HEARD INSTEAD WAS THE CLOSING OF THE BASEMENT DOOR

Sunday, June 2 2013

Lils,

Quick backstory: we had a bunch of rain. 2 or 3 days. The basement flooded, 2” standing water all around the walls and floor, blah blah blah... turned out that we (when I say we, I really mean, I) needed to rip everything off the wall - framing, planks, insulation, jerry-rigged waterproofing, the whole 9.

For 2 seconds during that afternoon, mom and I were downstairs together evaluating (big word) the standing water while you were upstairs waiting for us to come back. You walked to the downstairs doorway and we asked you to “stay there, honey. Don’t come down.” Which you did, thanks for listening by the way. I fully expected to hear the pitter-patter of your little feet running through the kitchen, into the dining room, and right into the living room which is where the pitter-patter stops because of the carpet floor.

But, what I heard instead is the closing of the basement door.

Mom and I didn’t think anything of it at first. We thought you just closed the door. That seems sort-of funny but not beyond a 2-year old’s ability. So it didn’t cross my mind. Matter of fact, I thought it was me. When we tried to open the door, I thought I mis-turned the knob and so I did it again. Then I did it again, not giving you any real possible chance. I did it again, and even again.

Finally mom said, “she locked the door.”

We started laughing. Oh, we were laughing. We got it on video and you have to watch it. It’s a classic. I kept asking you to unlock it and you kept replying, “I can’t.” “I can’t do it, daddy.”

Mom and I laughed the entire time we were locked downstairs trying to talk you through the process of unlocking the door. I even took the door knob apart thinking that at some point the lock would have to detach, but the lock was a separate entity. It wasn’t connected to the door knob at all.... we laughed. I’m not talking a chuckle. I’m talking belly laugh, red-faced, can’t breathe laughing.

So there we are, me and mom. Standing in the dark, in the downstairs stairwell, with a hundred door knob pieces in our hands, no other way to open the door, and not having any idea how we would ever get to freedom and there you are on the other side of the door, looking at us through the peephole that used to hold the door knob with a blank stare as if we were asking you to eat your dinner.

I was reminded of Ch. 7 in Kill Bill: The lonely grave of Paula Shulz and I started tapping our side of the door for a soft spot because I was about to perform a Beatrix Kiddo through that door, but seconds before I did, mom asked if I had my phone on me? We were home in the basement so why would I have it on me? Why wouldn’t it by laying in it’s spot, between the couch cushions? But I instinctively felt my pockets and BINGO! It was there. Right front pocket.

We then called Auntie Heather to come over and she did and we got out.

You didn’t care either way. But you certainly gave it a good try to keep us down. Watch the video (CLICK HERE). It’s a classic.

Fun story. Love ya.

Dad.

** For more Lily journal stories, go to the LILYANA tab **

"THIS ISN’T HOW I WANTED TO WAKE UP."

Imagine, if you can - you haven’t had a vacation in almost four years, probably longer.

Imagine, the day comes and you go out-of-town with a couple of really close friends, and it rocks. You can relax. You can finally. breathe.

On the way out of town, you eat fast food; you drink pop; and you house an entire bag of Hint of Lime tortilla chips. It doesn’t get much better than Hint of Lime tortilla chips, so things are great!

You get there and it’s everything you pictured in your head. The days are filled with easy activity - fishing, camping, hiking, grilling and you love it. Or you just sit in the lawn chair with the shade. Doesn’t matter which.

Stay with me now.

Imagine, you just finished a long fast-paced wog, that drenched you with sweat, and you’re hungry. You’re standing at the kitchen counter in your out-of-town lodge, drinking a cool glass of water, eyeballing the cupboards for a snack.

Until recently, not even a really deep breath could help get your pants to button. So, months ago you started watching your diet - specifically sweets because your sweet tooth has gotten the best of you. Being months into this, you’re still fresh. You’re still strong. You’re still nothing less than confident because it’s a healthy lifestyle change and you’re proud of yourself. Good job.

Imagine, a donut sits there on the open counter top and it could be any kind of donut - glaze, chocolate covered, jelly, sugar, half-eaten, doesn’t matter - this donut looks GOOD.

You want it. But, no. You pass it as you walk into the next room.

But you’re on vacation!

You pass it again as you walk back from the next room.

Nobody is going to care if you eat it. You’re on vacation, you should eat it!

You haven’t had one of those in five months - over five months - and it’s probably closer to seven months if you want to be exact, so this one day won’t throw you off your lifestyle change.

Plus, you’re on vacation with your close friends, nobody back home will even know for cryin’ out loud!

Plus, your new schedule has you at the gym often enough to wash-out the donut calories even if you did eat it, no big deal.

If you think about it, you really only need to avoid sweets when you’re in the middle of the daily grind, in the midst of everyday stress that life can unleash. On this day, given the fact that you're on vacation, eating a donut is just fine! You have the right tools to fight the craving when you really need to, but not right now while you’re out-of-town. You can go back to not eating donuts when you’re back home.

So you eat it and although you fought the impulse off for a tick, you always knew in the back of your mind you’d eat it.

Sometimes we just can’t say no. It happens. Luckily, it’s just a donut.

When Raffs asked if I wanted a drink, I just couldn’t say no. It happens. Unfortunately, my battle isn’t over donuts, but now you know my thinking process. Every time.

How many reasons can I find to give myself permission to take the “donut.”

The next morning, before my eyes open, I know this isn’t how I wanted to wake up.

It seems I know I’m sick even before I know I’m awake.

Cold sweats, the after-taste of alcohol has soaked into my tongue, body aches, congested chest, gagging, fatigue, headache. The Vegas Death Plague.

I couldn’t stay sober for more than two weeks on my own.

I feel spineless, and that isn’t a hangover symptom.

I wish I would have called the sponsor that I never got because my counselors told me I had to.

“You need a sponsor, Dennis.”

“Sure thing,” I replied.

I’m stupid.

Now, I’m awake before I’m even awake, lying face-down in my pillow trying to figure out how to escape the Vegas Effect, wondering how no became yes.

I’m weak.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute.

Slow down.

Stop beating yourself up, stupid.

In the coming years, this would become a common frustration, but this was the first time. It’s true, you always remember your first. This was the first relapse, and all it took was two weeks out of my support system, an old reconnection, and Las Vegas.

I had failed, yes, and this story has been a secret of mine for years. The first chance I had to stand up on my new legs and I fell flat on my face.

Until this admission, Raffs and I are the only ones who know it happened. I’m pretty sure he has no idea how much that night impacted me. Even now, today, I’m ashamed of myself at how easily I let persuasion persuade me.

Here is my list of top five truths about that night:

1) I didn’t want to quit drinking. I still doubted that I had a problem.

2) I was terrified of being different.

3) I was afraid of what Raffs would think of the new me.

4) I was afraid of what I would think of the new me.

5) I was afraid the entire city would notice that I might be the only guy within the state lines without a drink in my hand.

6) I wasn’t strong enough to say no.

Okay, so that’s six but I could have listed a hundred.

That was a humbling experience. To wake up ashamed of myself again. Did I hurt anyone? Yes. Me. I let myself down, and that is harder to accept than hurting another.

But that time in Vegas stayed with me. Perhaps that's what it was meant to do because it was five years before I had another drink.

"ANXIOUS FOR THE BUZZ"

Flashback:  
After the Winona State debacle, WSU asked me not to come back. It was a polite letter, and I granted their request. I transferred to IHCC and that’s where I met Raffs.

I was rehabbed. Ready to join society again. I felt like Ellis Redding, minus sixty and one-half years.

Let Freedom Ring - never spoke more truth, but considering I’m talking about coming home from a short 60-day jail stint versus years of slavery, my definition of those words amounts to nothing. So I won’t say it, but I hope you get the picture of how happy I was to be out of jail.

I was ready to face all the new stuff that people would think about me. Fun. I entered jail able to say that I’d never been to jail. But now it’s a completely different story I would swear to never tell. I belong to the population of people that HAVE been to jail. News that I might have to tell my kids, my nephews, any new friends I make, any new girlfriends I have, or any new employer that’s hiring and specifically asks if I’ve ever been to jail. Fun.

I don’t know how I even handle it today, thirteen years later, with more maturity and life under my belt. So I have no clue how I got through it back then.

Yes I do. Looking back: Man, I ran as fast as the wind blows. Not jogging. I ran out of town. Not down 61 to Newport. I ran out of state. Not just to Iowa, but through Iowa, where I would only go if I absolutely had no other route to drive. I ran out of the time zone all the way to Las Vegas.

Before you confuse me with Forrest Gump, I didn’t really run; I drove.

Vegas.

I didn’t go there to party, who me? (Yes I did). No, I went there to work. (No I didn’t).

In the first two hours that I was released from jail, I kissed the air, kissed you and Dad, kissed the interior of the car, kissed the driveway when we got home, kissed the front door, and then collapsed in the living room. I slept without the worry of wondering if I was going to wake up with someone trying to mount me.

When I woke up, my biggest addiction kicked in - night. And what did I do?

I didn’t go belly-up at any bar hoarding all the booze I’d missed out on during the past sixty days, trying to satisfy the stereotypical uncontrollable urge. Drinking was the last thing on my mind. Liar. It wasn’t the last thing on my mind; it’s always right up there near the top of the list, but here’s what I did -- I did the exact opposite of what every counselor told me not to do.

One flaw of mine has always been the same year after year: Tell me not to do something, and I will justify a reason to do it. How has it been the one thing you and Dad never caught on to? Can I offer some advice to you, from me, about me? If you recommend something and tell me why you recommend that certain thing, I’ll take your recommendation to the bank. But if you forbid me to do something, I will do it to show you that only I can make up my mind. Only I am willing to be so stubbornly stupid. How could you never catch onto that??? (hint, hint).

So, when my counselors told me not to reconnect with my old friends, it lit my wick, and I laughed. “Whatever you say, counselor.” And without sharing, I instantly made a list of why TO reconnect.

One of those guys was Raffs. We drank together, but our friendship was more than just booze and college girls. Together, we were in three or four of the same shows at Inver Hills CC. I played Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web; he played Templeton. I played Sammy Goldenbaum in Dark At The Top of The Stairs; he played Sammy’s best friend. I played Jack Favell in Rebecca; he played a few different supporting roles. We acted together; we studied together; we hung out together; we listened to rap together; we played hockey together; we dated a couple of the same ladies together; and yeah, we partied together.

So, after jail I called him up. He was touring the country with the National Theatre for Children, and I’m looking for work. He ended up scoring me an audition.

I went, and knocked it out of the park. I’m hired.

So we go to Vegas. Las Vegas. Las Vegas, Nevada.

Literally two weeks after I was released, I was on my way to the city with the most sin. Fresh out of jail, fresh out of treatment, but I was stronger than King Kong. My mind was better than Einstein’s in his heyday.

Entering The Strip is unlike any other city entrance, it’s hypnotizing. Raffs and I, strollin’ through the hood, listening to secondhand rap from the car next to us. I rolled down the window for a cleaner view of the sights and I could smell it. I love that smell. The smell of a party. A really big party. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Inside, I feel the switch flip.

Suddenly, I’m in a hotel lobby in Vegas. The cocktail cutie looks hot in her skimpy outfit with fishnet stockings and drink tray in hand while walking around taking orders. She stops in front of me and asks if I’d like a drink. She immediately flips the napkin over to write down my order while I check her out from head-to-toe - except in reverse order. She notices and acknowledges it by giving me the stink-eye. Like a scolded step-son, I humbly look away and order my drink. She scribbles on the napkin and walks away with my order. Again I check her out. I get my drink and lift the cool sweaty bottle up to my lips, anxious for the buzz. I open my eyes and exhale. We’re still in the car on The Strip, hearing the secondhand rap from the car next to us and, the truth is, that scene is from my past. The realization is that I’m better than that scene.

Never mind the fact that Raffs and I were neither in school nor girls, but we were like little school-girls as we drove through the strip: wide-eyed and jaws dangling out the window.

We had the pick of the litter - whatever hotel and casino we could find within our per diem. But, it was still pick of the litter to us: Circus Circus, The Flamingo, Paris, The Monte Carlo, New York New York, MGM, Caesars Palace...

I’m tired as we unpack the car. If the actual non-stop car ride from Minnesota to Nevada wasn’t tiring enough, then the last mile driving through The Strip and the emotions that came along with it was enough to trip me up and make me want to stay away from boozin.

The Extended Stay was nice. We moved in and caught our breath on the provided couch and loveseat.

Across the street from it was The Orleans Hotel and Casino. It would become ours. We’d own that place by the time we left three months later.

NIGHT ONE.
I grabbed my bags, yawned, and picked a bed from the room we were to share.

“Hey, wanna go out?”
"Out? I’m ready to crash, bro."

Inside The Orleans, is exactly how I envisioned it to be. Full of people. Smells of booze. Slot machines ding. Coins fall loudly into the catch-bins. Vegas wives walk all over the place. They scurry by and I check ‘em out equally as fast.

I know where the bar is. I can see it. I was like a Vegas Princess, except I wasn’t afraid to drink due to a previous night in Vegas, just previous nights. The internal monologue is deafening - and unavoidable. I check myself:

Why don’t I drink again? Just got out of jail, dummy.
Do I need a drink? No.
Do I want a drink? Sure.
Do I want this trip to be fun? Yes.
Am I lame if I don’t drink? Yes.

I keep that conversation a secret, and I completely avoid the real-life dialogue. If he offers me a drink, I’ll deal with it then. But I’m not bringing it up because if I don’t bring it up, maybe it won’t happen.

My heart is beating 220 miles per hour, but I want to stay sober.

Raffs looks at me, “Drink?”