Might Be An Alcoholic

Recalling what that weekend was like seventeen years ago still evokes painful memories. I hope it always does. For when I can look back and not remember the pain, I will have entered a dangerous place – a place that could take me back out. So today, I remember. I reflect. I feel. I stay sober. 

Throughout the early part of 2000, I had been on and off of work due to anxiety and panic attacks. The characteristic body trembling, hyperventilating, and often uncontrollable sobbing would occur suddenly and render me unable to function. On two occasions I ended up in the emergency room with nurses lain on top of me injecting me with large doses of Xanax. There were other times that I had to leave work abruptly and call my therapist for help.

What began as a couple weeks off in January, that year, evolved, by February, into several months of medical leave from work. The panic attacks ensued and I began seeing a psychiatrist for medication consultation in addition to my therapist who is a licensed psychologist. The psychiatrist prescribed several psychotropic medications: Depakote to stabilize my moods, Risperdal for the mild Schizophrenia that had me hearing sounds in my head, Zoloft as a general anti-depressant, and of course, Xanax for the anxiety. I saw the psychiatrist each month for 15 minutes for medication evaluation. The sessions resulted in a series of ongoing adjustments precipitated each visit by the question, “How are you feeling today, Michael?” If I said, “Good,” then she would reduce one drug, remove another, and adjust dosage on another. If I said, “Bad,” then it was the opposite: increase one, add another, etc. On and on it went. Furthermore, I took these medications for months before getting sober. Not only was that a deadly combination, but the alcohol negated any effects they might have had. Some years later, when I requested a copy of my records from that psychiatrist, I was astounded to find hand-written in the top margin of the very first page of notes, “Might be an alcoholic.”

The weeks leading up to admission into outpatient rehab on September 1^st were tough. I had been arrested for a third DUI. This time, however, I was not only drunk, but high on cocaine and pot, which combined with the host of prescribed medications, made me zombie-like. “I’ve been following you for four miles and you cannot stay in your own lane. You’re all over the road,” the state trooper said when he approached my truck.

“There’s no need to make me take the roadside sobriety test,” I replied. “I know where I’m going. I am messed up.” He kindly obliged, cuffed me, and helped me into the back seat of the squad car. I did know where I was going. On some level, I was relieved.

That latest DUI was a result of my attempt at coping with a brief, tumultuous relationship that had recently ended dramatically. Additionally, being off work for months afforded me the opportunity to drink more and do more drugs. I had been stockpiling pot, too – I’d ask everyone at the bar if they had some and if they did, I bought it and stuck it in the bottom of my entertainment center. I’m not exactly sure why I hoarded it, probably because it was the only thing that could help me sleep at night. I was on a downward spiral.

I was sick, too. I trembled constantly. Each morning, I’d walk through damp towels strewn all over the floor of my bathroom and bedroom from the night sweats that I didn’t even know I was having. I paced constantly.  I didn’t eat - I couldn’t, and the stomach pain was unbearable at times. I lost a lot of weight. I stopped driving because I didn’t’ feel in control and was afraid I’d hurt someone. If I needed cigarettes or booze, I walked. I was restless and didn’t know what to do with myself. Alone in my house, I played Solitaire over and over to keep my trembling hands and implacable mind busy. I drank more and smoked more. I made contact with almost no one. I didn’t take calls or return them. I only went to Cumps. I was in distress and ashamed of my current self- imprisoned state.  

I looked around the dimly lit bar that had been familiar to me for so long, and then slowly down at the bottle of Coors Light sitting in front of me. Both seemed suddenly foreign to me. I shook my head slowly, “I can’t do this anymore," I said to my friend, Kaaren, who worked at my favorite bar that July 29 night, even as I slowly sipped that beer she had habitually placed in front of me. I never sipped beer; I downed it. Everyone who knew me, including her, knew that. I had gotten plenty wasted the night before and awakened that morning hungover - something that had become all too normal for me. 

My mind wandered. What will I do if I quit? I thought to myself. If not here, where will I go? Am I prepared to not see this place anymore? What about Kaaren?

I jumped as she abruptly stopped washing glasses, stood up and stared at me as if she didn’t recognize me at all. “Do what?”  

“I can’t drink like this anymore. I need to stop,” I said, turning away to avoid her gaze. 

“What are you doing to do?”

“Rehab, I think,” I muttered.

 “Good.” Relieved at her approval, I turned back to her and could see the corners of her lips hint upward. Kaaren was insightful and I think she had seen this coming and actually hoped for it for a long time.

That brief conversation with Kaaren was my moment. It was that life-changing moment whereby one all-of-the-sudden sees clearly what the problem is, envisions the person they want to be, and sees the path clearly laid out before him. Some call it a spiritual awakening. It’s that defining moment that becomes the impetus for change. I don’t know what brought it about then and not the previous times. For some, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Others, sadly, never even get the opportunity. I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t realize it that night. I was too terrified of the journey that lay in front of me.

Sobriety, I’ve learned, is elusive. Most, even if they manage to quit drinking, don’t make it long term. Countless others who, by virtue of not having that moment of clarity, never get to try. I always knew I was an alcoholic. I just assumed I'd live out my life that way as so many in my family before me. I never realized I had a choice. That moment allowed me to see that I did, indeed, have a choice. The most significant discovery for me in early recovery was that notion of choice. “I choose not to drink today.” I am grateful for the gift of choice.

I had hit my bottom, finally. Twenty years of abusing my body and reckless behavior had finally caught up with me. The DUI was just the tipping point and the latest incident. My irresponsible money habits along with drinking and drugging- and now more fines and attorney’s fees, had left me virtually broke with a credit score that was abysmal. Even though I was receiving short-term disability benefits while off of work, I was still unable to pay my bills. I withdrew all of the money from my retirement account that I had managed to maintain for seven years. It covered me for a little while, but killed me with taxes and penalties.

Every other aspect of my life was a disaster as well.  I couldn’t maintain any relationship because of the abandonment and trust issues that were exacerbated by the incessant drinking. I had no friends, except Kaaren. The others were just “drinking buddies.” I had avoided and neglected most of my family except my gram and certainly had hurt them over the years by causing them worry and distress. At work, my company was bought and reorganized. I was told I had to apply for my own job and I didn’t get it. (I did maintain a position there for a while after.)  Life was simply not good.

 Some say it was a higher power that intervened that night at the bar. I couldn’t have seen it then, because I had given up on any idea of God. But I’ve learned a lot since then about how I view God versus a higher power. I had lost all faith in the God of the Bible when I was a child and I’ve never regained it. I probably won’t either since I see this God as a man-made deity not a spiritual concept. Back then, while Dad was beating my mom and siblings and cheating and drinking and threatening and constantly causing embarrassment, I prayed to this God of the Bible. I prayed hard for the violence to stop –for Dad to be the dad he was when he was sober – calm, quiet, non-violent. Over and over again, I lay in my bed, terrified and trembling, praying and begging God to make it stop. It only stopped years later once Dad was legally removed from the house.

Today, I wholly embrace the concept of a power greater than me, but I don’t see this power in the form of God as the Bible asserts, but rather as something that I don’t need to define clearly. It’s more of a sense, a feeling – of rightness or connected-ness. This “spirituality,” as opposed to religion, allows me to see the beauty in the world – even in the midst of negativity, disaster, and hatred. Religion is often black and white. Spirituality is the gray area that transcends the black and white and allows me to see that beauty. Consequently, I can better accept the ugliness and maintain some faith without all of the rules, expectations, and judgement that man-made religion supports. In the end, though, the most important thing for me to remember is that whatever my higher power is, it is NOT me.  That keeps me right-sized, humble, and sober.

Why that moment of clarity happened that night at Cump’s, I don’t know. But that fleeting moment changed my whole life and probably saved it. I am eternally grateful for it. Today, I have a life that is beyond my wildest dreams. I have become the person that I had previously only wished I could be. I love and appreciate myself and life and strive to give back in gratitude. That moment afforded me a whole new level of consciousness.

“So, what brings you here today, Mr. Burroway?” the cheerful intake counselor at Gateway Rehab asked on July 31, 2001 at 1pm when I showed up on their doorstep.  “I am completely mentally and physically in-ca-pacitated. I can no longer function in life.”

“You’ve come to the right place.”