by Margo Walter
Rose and I were staying at an Omni which had a great tavern, and it was open twenty-four hours a day. After checking in, I headed for the bar and drank my dinner. I was extremely nervous and told Rose that I could not go through with it. After I passed out, morning came, and I had three hours before the grand performance. Fortunately, I had brought some weed with me and went out in the parking lot to calm down. Rose suggested one drink before my infamous lunch, and I thought that was a great idea. We visited the hotel bar one more time. It was soon time for me to be on my way. It was a short ride in lots of traffic, so I took a taxi. At last, I was going to be able to ask, “Are you my father?” and get the answer that I wanted.
Arriving early at the rendezvous spot, I ordered a gin and tonic and watched everybody coming into the restaurant. I do not know how long I waited, but this older man in a dark suit walked up to the booth. Slowly and with a robotic gesture, I stood and extended my hand. He held out both arms and gave me an embrace that would be etched in my memory forever. I did not expect affection and was once again surprised but not shocked.
I felt like I wanted to throw up and was confused by that gesture. The stranger introduced himself as Matt and took a seat across from me. I felt like my hair was standing on end as I tried to gain control of my anxiety. At that moment, I knew that I wasn’t breathing normally. How was I going to speak if air was not even coming out of my mouth? I had rehearsed this moment for sixteen years, and I could not remember one of my practiced lines. Did we look alike? This man was not a corpse, and he did not die in a plane crash. Why had my mother mixed up the pieces of the puzzle so much?
***
The Admiral asked if we should order. The running movie in my head did not follow this script. The conversation was driven by his questions about my children, my soon-to-be ex-husband, my job, and what was I doing in D.C. I said very bravely, “I am here to meet you, my father, and thank you for all the letters over the years.” I was high, and I was drunk. It was embarrassing, and I just hoped that he did not know how drug-affected I really was. Lunch ended, and I do not remember what was said at the very end. I do recall him looking at his watch, and I did wonder if I was just another appointment. Before he left, he did ask about my mother, and I gave him a full report. That was it.
June 22, 1982
“Dear Janet… I had such a delightful time with you, I just wanted to tell you so. You are a lovely person in addition to being a lovely woman…. I am sure you can do anything you want. Please remember, learn as much as you can for as I said it certainly will open wider the spectrum of any options in the future for you. Love, Matt”
I guess that I performed well at our lunch meeting in Washington, D.C. and was still a highly functioning “problem drinker.”
***
I do not know exactly when I figured this out, but it was evident to me that I was extremely depressed, disappointed with both my parents and full of guilt and shame about my own family. I tried to stop drinking and just ended up smoking more pot. Maybe I did have a drug problem. I went back to alcohol and did not even try to hide my drinking or drug use. I was entirely out of control.
During this time there was a specialized training for real estate brokers in Charlottesville, Virginia. Every managing broker in the firm was required to attend. We were standing in line for a dinner reservation, and several of us were secretly smoking weed while we waited. I started hitting on one of my cohorts, and he reciprocated by suggesting we go back to his RV and skip the dinner. I share this story because it clearly illustrates just how careless, clueless, and critical my drug and alcohol use had become. It never crossed my mind that wearing his sweater over last night’s dress to attend class the next morning was unacceptable or that I should have been mortified. Things were spiraling down fast.
I had been so careless that I was afraid that I might be pregnant. After a scheduled appointment with a gynecologist, it was decided that I needed to plan a hysterectomy. Apparently, I had a fibroid tumor and would abort a fetus if I was pregnant. I did not know what I was doing or what to do. After the surgery, my self-loathing escalated, and I started lying to cover up the lies. In fact, I could not remember what lie I had told to cover up the last lie. The critical business meetings were being ignored. Wes had moved out, and I quit making mortgage payments or paying any bills. The financial structure was beginning to crash.
One night I went drinking at a bar downtown with some coworkers and passed out on Long Island Ice Teas. I woke up in a strange apartment with a nice, good-looking man helping me take a bath in Epsom salts. He was very handsome and did not want sex with me. He told me that I was in trouble and had to stop drinking and drugging. I still do not know who that angel was, but he helped me get home. I had lost my car and had no idea where I might have left it. Later in the day, my boss called to fire me. He apologized for doing it over the phone, but since I rarely went to my office anymore, it was the only way he could let me go. His final words were “Get some help!”
***
I had already met my father, so what was the problem? It felt like I had checked off a box on my bucket list and yet I was so disappointed. I had really botched my first encounter with my father and wanted to apologize. I did not know how. A couple of years down the road, I would have the opportunity to not only see the Admiral again but to forge a lasting relationship until his death.
Chapter 5: Learning to Fly Straight
Since locating and meeting my father did not solve my problems, I still was not sure what was wrong with me. There was good news. I was willing to get help and checked into a psychiatric hospital to fix what was broken. My children were ages five, seven, and nine, and their mother was missing, physically and emotionally. I asked my friend who was driving me to the loony bin to make a pit stop to pick up a six-pack of beer for the twenty-minute ride to the hospital. She agreed. I still did not see alcohol as a problem. I just needed to rest, to cool off, to ground myself, to feel safe, and get people off my back. All the issues were apparently caused by other people. I had a long list to blame, starting with my mother and my father. It had been a long time since I had slept (days or weeks), so maybe I could get some sleep. What I expected in this hospital did not happen. The first day I was introduced to a substance abuse counselor who tried to give me a book called the Big Book. I told her that I didn’t need any such book, as I could quit drinking anytime that I wanted to stop—as long as I was locked up, that is. I was assigned a roommate that liked to talk to the goldfish in the tank by the front door. She became my new cocaine dealer when she was released. Being extremely restless, I was permitted to go to the gym and play tennis against the back wall anytime that I wanted to. I still did not sleep and spent the first few nights hitting tennis balls… 1 am, 2 am, 3 am, and so on. The fourth day I decided this was all a big mistake and I decided to break out of the facility. I scaled a fourteen-foot anchor fence behind the outdoor tennis court and jumped to freedom. The first car that looked inviting was a Volkswagen full of adolescents who were visiting a friend. I had one credit card and a list of what I wanted to do upon my escape. The teens thought this was great fun and took me downtown on the street where the bars were located. I found a booth, ordered a German beer and began completing my “to do” list. Today, people call this a bucket list or putting your ducks in a row. I borrowed a phone and called a male friend to bring me some weed or cocaine and have some sex. He obliged on all counts, and there was only one thing left on my list. I wanted to kill myself and had to figure out how. I left the hotel and started walking. About eighteen miles was how far I walked and was picked up by a Ford truck on a road that runs through a state park. He was my second guardian angel and took charge of the situation. He asked me a simple question, “Where do you want me to take you?” I had no idea and no answer. I told him my psychiatric hospital plight and that I just needed to get away. He gave me two choices: “Call the police or call your psychiatrist.” I really had to
think about it. I called the hospital, and they sent a taxi to pick me up. My Chinese psychiatrist was waiting at the hospital and gave me a shot of something to get me to sleep. The next morning the doc showed up and took me outside the hospital grounds for a walk. He pointed out that he was wearing tennis shoes and could outrun me. His next words meant nothing at the time, but they did change my life forever: “You are bipolar. It is a brain disorder with no cure. It is sometimes called manic/depression, and there is a treatment.” I asked very few questions and inwardly denied everything he said. We went back to the ward, and I stayed in the hospital another four weeks without any incident. However, I did have alcohol withdrawal and shook for at least two of those long weeks.
***
I was thirty-two, unemployed, had not eaten properly for months, and weighed less than a hundred pounds. I had passed skinny and gone right to anorexic. My husband had taken custody of our children and was ready to discuss his full custody. What a nightmare! Amidst all this drama, my mother flew into town to save the day. I do love my mother, but there have been periods that I really did not like her, and this was one of those times. She believed if we took a trip to the Outer Banks in North Carolina with the kids, I would be able to “shake” whatever was bothering me. Those were her words. I do not know what she and the children did down in Nags Head, but I found a bar and got drunk. I told her it was only beer and not hard liquor, so I was OK.
***
My older brother, Edward, whom I had not seen for years, was remarried and living on an island in the Caribbean. Our mother had told him about my situation. He called and offered to pay my rent on a new townhome so I would have a place to live with the children when they were not with Wes. It was a very generous offer, and I would have turned it down if I had any other options. I had not learned to swallow my pride and ask for help when I needed it. There was one significant condition: “Stay away from drugs and alcohol and get treatment for the bipolar disorder.” Hitting bottom is a term you hear in Alcoholic Anonymous meetings. I thought that I had already hit bottom, but I kept bouncing off the bottom. I had tried AA and NA. I could admit that I was an addict and an alcoholic but was not willing to accept what that meant. Abstinence is a powerful word. Getting sober was the most challenging task that I had ever attempted. I migrated around the meetings for three years and could not get my act together. In other words, I kept going back to alcohol and drugs. During this self-absorbed period of my life, I began my “Walk to Nowhere.”
The temperature had dropped and there was some daylight, but I did see the beginning of sunset over the ocean. Parking my car in the deserted public parking spot in Sandbridge, I really did not know what I was doing. Sitting in the car was painstaking, as my anxiety level was higher than the seagulls I was watching. I needed to move.
Why didn’t I bring a jacket, a hoodie, a sweatshirt? As I approached the surf, I was also aware of a strong wind and the sand flying into my feet and shins. It was too bad that none of those natural phenomena influenced my decision to take a walk, a long walk. About fifty yards along the shore’s edge, viewing the raging waves at sea, I also realized that I was extremely angry. Cussing at the ocean, I was trying to understand why I was so furious and whom or what I was blaming this time. I was angry at God. To that point in time, my belief in a heavenly father was very murky. Yet here I was yelling at something or someone that I could not see. Why am I cursing at a bunch of waves rolling onto the beach? Maybe if I kept walking, I could find the answers. As darkness advanced, so did I, but I had no destination.
My blond hair, which was past my shoulders, was blowing in hundred different directions. Walking barefoot in the wet sand was no longer bearable so I moved higher on the shore to continue my journey to wherever I was going. Surely I would find solace or at least become less agitated as I progressed. I was very cold. However, my brain was on overdrive and I had what can only be called an epiphany. I do believe in God, because I am yelling at someone. Keep walking, Janet! Maybe more answers will come to you.
I not only left my shoes in the car, but all sense of rational thinking. It was not safe to walk the beach alone and hypothermia was a definite possibility. I don’t remember how far I had gone before I knew that I needed some shelter. It was getting colder and the wind was whipping up dried seaweed and anything else it could find to throw into my path. The beach was completely deserted, so I headed over the dunes to a line of beach bungalows on stilts. I selected the one cloaked in darkness and failed to find an open shed or porch where I might find refuge. However, I discovered an outside shower with a deflated raft hanging on a shower hook. This would have to do. Time was passing, but I had no way to know where I was or if it was midnight or time for sunset. I covered my body with the raft and cowered in a corner of the bath house. There was no door, and you can imagine my surprise when company arrived. A black Labrador invited himself in and proceeded to lie next to me and keep me warm. I don’t know how long we cuddled together, but it was getting lighter and I must have fallen asleep. I needed to vacate my overnight home and continue my walk to nowhere. The black Labrador decided to accompany me to the beach and walk along the water’s edge with me for what seemed a long, long way. Eventually, he turned around and headed back toward the bungalows. He was a saint and maybe a sign from this new God that I was trying to get to know.
My journey continued along the beach until I saw more houses, a small store, and a few jeeps parked over the dunes. I can only imagine what I looked like after walking thirty miles to Duck, North Carolina. I had no money, no ID, and my legs felt like they had been run over by a truck. My calf muscles were cramping, and it was difficult to walk one more step. A fellow in a pickup drove to where I was standing and asked if he could give me a ride to somewhere. Another knight in shining armor. I suggested that he drive me to Nags Head and leave me at Shoney’s. This was another divine intervention, as I knew there was an AA breakfast meeting at 9 am at the restaurant, and that is where I needed to be.
The series of events that took place that morning at the Outer Banks were quite amazing and somewhat unbelievable. I thanked my unknown chauffeur and proceeded into Shoney’s. I knew that my personal appearance was shocking and it was time for true humility to approach this AA group. There were two tables pushed together and a fellow got another chair for me and said, “Welcome. You can sit here with us.” It was the first time in a very long time that I felt like I was a part of “us.” One woman handed me a brush and another older woman said, “What do you want for breakfast? It’s on me.”
I do not remember anyone’s name at that meeting, nor what was discussed. After the meeting closed, one gentleman asked me if he could buy me some shoes, flip-flops. He had another agenda. Once we were in his truck, he asked very kindly if he could give me a ride to Helen’s. I did not respond immediately because I was thinking, who the hell is Helen? He explained that she was a dedicated member of AA with thirty-four years of sobriety who helped newcomers and lived two miles away. I was shocked when I was told that she was expecting me.
I do not remember much about my time with Helen except that she was old, from New York, spoke very directly, and did not mince words about how screwed up I was and what I needed to do about that. Another coincidence had to do with a woman’s AA retreat going on further down the coast in Okacroke. She told me she was going to take me to that group of women, and I was to find another fellow New Yorker, named Linda, and ask her to be my AA sponsor. I could hardly walk, as my legs felt like Jell-O, but I knew that there was no doubt about me following Helen’s direction. I was not sure what that meant, but as they say, the rest is history. After locating Linda, I asked for help and she agreed to be my sponsor.
This story does not have a happy ending. My pride, my addictions, and my lack of humility needed a whole lot of work. Back at Rehoboth Beach, I did start going back to AA meetings, spoke to my new sponsor daily, and began taking my medications as prescribed. However, there was s
till one big problem. I wanted someone to fix me, forgive me, love me, and take responsibility for me. A father? Is that really what was missing?
***
Years later, I was going to answer my own question. Accepting life on life’s terms is a daunting proposition. Accepting the family you are given is how you learn to love and not blame or judge. I located my biological father and that was a gift. He was really never missing. He was and is a part of me. His genes are in my genes. I am who I am, in part, because of who my father is and who my mother is. It is time for me to be who I am and accept the bad, the ugly, and the good. It is time to not only leave the nest and fly, but to fly straight. Learning to love myself and accept who I am becoming is a tall order. I need to learn how to be my own best parent. It will take years of therapy, counseling, and recovery. It is time for me to take responsibility for my own actions and change my life.
***
There was a great deal of repair work to be done. Over the years I have had many surgeries to repair a bad back, a dysfunctional shoulder, an arthritic knee, a deteriorating neck, and more. However, this was the first time that I experienced an emotional bankruptcy that surgery would not fix. I needed help, and I knew where to get it. My third rehab gave me answers that I had not heard before. “Stop drinking the first drink and do it one day at a time. Stop using the first drug and do that one day at a time. Go to as many AA or NA meetings as possible with a minimum of ninety meetings in ninety days. Get a sponsor and work the 12 Steps of the program. Get into service work and help others that are in recovery.” This all fits into one neat paragraph, and it is a simple program. My sponsor tells me, “It is a simple solution, and all you have to do is work the program and turn your whole life around.”