We Are Not Saints

by David M

  Oh well, since they were there I figured I may as well have a few. From that point on, the control I had attempted to gain over my drinking was out the window. Mornings turned into nights, and nights turned into weeks. I felt like I was living in an episode of Quantum Leap. I never knew where the next drink would land me. Life had become a series of blackouts again.

  At some point I started buying whiskey again. I was back to my old habit of knocking back the better part of a fifth before 10 am. I hadn’t owned the Cobra for two months when I noticed the first gouge on the passenger side by the gas cap. As hard as I tried; I just couldn’t recall what I had hit or when I had hit it. I told myself I needed to be more careful, but by this time I had lost all control.

  Another change began to occur around this time. I was no longer the happy drunk I had been all my life. A much darker, almost evil person seemed to be surfacing. I have vague memories of being in dark, seedy bars waiting for someone to say the wrong thing. On more than one occasion, I woke up in the morning with a black eye, fat lip or bloody knuckles, and no idea where they came from.

  I began to fear the blackouts more than anything in the world. I would wake up in the morning thankful to be in my own apartment rather than a hospital, or jail cell. Then I would crawl out of bed and go straight for the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter. I remember mornings, sitting on the kitchen floor with a glass of whiskey asking God to kill me before I did something unforgivable.

  Inevitably, the unforgivable happened. It was the first in a series of what I’ve come to call my unholy trinity of events. It marks the time in my life when Dr. Jekyll lost the battle with Mr. Hyde. The slight grip I had on reality was gone, and I had slipped into absolute insanity.

  It was 3 am and I had been out of whiskey since midnight. What little beer I had left was running out fast. I was storming around the house in a panic because I knew it wouldn’t be enough to get me through the night. It was never enough. Even if I could nurse the last few beers; what would I do in the morning? Once the last few beers were gone there would be no wine, whiskey or beer in the whole apartment.

  This was a first for me. I think I was actually going into withdraw before I quit drinking. I don’t even know if that’s possible, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it. I was in an absolute rage, trashing my apartment because I was running out of booze. That’s the last thing I can clearly remember until I woke up the next morning.

  As always, I woke up unsure of where I was, and thankful when I realized I was home. I crawled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen praying there would be at least one beer left. But when I opened the refrigerator I saw something I wasn’t expecting. There was a beer left, and it was sitting right next to two unopened twelve packs.

  I was thrilled, shocked and terrified all at the same time. Where in the hell had all this beer come from? Had I somehow been able to nurse those few beers until the bars opened, and then gone on a day-long bender? Had I blacked out for several days again? What the hell was happening to me?

  Then I spotted the half-full bottle of whiskey on the counter with the bar spout on it. Suddenly, scenes of the previous night flashed through my head like the highlight reel from a horror movie. I saw myself swerving down the road with a beer in my hand, carrying a crowbar to the back door of a local pub, laughing as I threw two twenty-dollar bills onto the empty bar.

  I couldn’t tell if these were memories or if my mind was playing tricks on me, but where else could all of this beer and whiskey have come from? If the whiskey wasn’t stolen from a bar, then why would it have the spout? Had I really broken into a bar in the middle of the night? Were the police looking for me right now? I wasn’t sure whether to hand myself over to the police or drink the evidence. I chose to do the latter.

  I barely left the house over the next few days, other than to make a trip to the liquor store or beer distributor. I decided to keep plenty of wine, whiskey and beer in reserve to avoid another psychotic episode in the middle of the night. But nothing stayed in reserve long, and it’s obvious to me now the stockpiling alcohol wasn’t the way to avoid psychotic episodes.

  Several days passed without a visit from the police, or maybe it was weeks; I don’t know. I decided it was safe to venture out to the bars again. By this time, most people kept their distance from me at the local pub. I was quiet, but quick to anger when bothered. I had gone for my knife on several occasions when it wasn’t necessary and though I had kept it hidden under the bar some of the regulars noticed. I was the drunk at the end of the bar that was better left alone.

  The night of my second major infraction was different. I had made a drinking buddy. I have no idea what we talked about, or if we were even making sense to those around us. All I know is that we were getting along famously. He was matching me beer for beer and shot for shot, and neither of us showed any signs of slowing down.

  At some point, I got up to use the restroom. That’s when things got odd. I was taking care of business when someone knocked on the restroom door. I responded with the usual “occupied,” or something of that nature, but the knocking just got louder.

  My next response was more along the lines of “give me a fucking minute,” but still the knocking continued. When I finally opened the bathroom door, my drinking buddy was waiting for me. As I tried to leave he blocked my way, saying he needed to talk to me. I said the bathroom, which was only big enough for one person, wasn’t the place to talk but he tried to push me back in, saying it would only take a minute.

  A split second later he was bleeding, and I was pushing my way past him as I slipped the knife back in my pocket. I casually strolled back up to the bar, and he finally got to see the inside of the bathroom. I knew he would be alright; I barely nicked him. My intent was to scare him, not to cause serious harm. At most he may have needed a few stitches. But I wasn’t sure a judge would see it the same way.

  My remorse over what I had done was immediate. There were a million other things I should have done, and I chose the one that would most likely land me in jail for a long time. Again I had to ask myself: what the hell was wrong with me. Was I trying to get locked up?

  I sat at the bar waiting for my former beer drinking friend to emerge from the bathroom. One of two things was about to happen. Either he would regain his composure and be looking for a fight, or he would walk up to me shaking his cell phone, confident that the police were on their way. I made up my mind that if he went with the second option I would go to jail for assault with a deadly weapon. If he went with the first option I would go to jail for murder.

  I had already decided I would have to beat my cellmate to death the first night in prison to establish myself as someone not to be fucked with. I had a mental image in my head of me smashing his face into the bars over and over again, when the man who would put me there finally came out of the bathroom. He walked straight to the side door of the bar, and left without a word.

  I assumed he was going to his car for a gun, but he never returned. All the while, I was still mentally mutilating my would-be cellmate just in case I had to make an example out of him at some point in the future. That seems to be a pattern of mine, even today; putting the broken-down cart in front of the crippled horse.

  I ran into this poor-fat bastard a few weeks later at the same bar. I walked in and sat two stools away from him before I realized who he was. It was the ugly scar on his face that gave him away. He spun such an interesting tail for the ladies at the bar that even I was sold. The story was full of thugs trying to rob a damsel in distress of her innocence. Luckily, our tubby hero was there to save the day.

  When the story was over, I was so impressed I bought him a shot and beer. If he recognized me; he never let on. I guess my would-be cellmate would get to live after all.

  But the worst of the unholy trinity was yet to come. I can only relay what I was told about the event because it took place in a total blackout. I woke up one morning to the sound of my phone, and it didn’t sound h
appy.

  I barely had the chance to say hello when an angry voice asked what the fuck was wrong with me. I knew from the caller ID that it was the girl down the street, but had no idea what I could have done to piss her off. To the best of my recollection we hadn’t spoken more than a few times in passing in several months. I listened in horror as she leveled her complaint against me.

  According to her, and I have no reason to doubt her, I let myself into her house uninvited and unwelcomed and propositioned her. I was apparently very open and explicit about my intentions, and made no attempt whatsoever to conduct myself in a reasonable, gentlemanly manner. At some point I even attempted to lead her by the hand to her bedroom.

  As shocking as this was for me to hear, it was made worse by the fact that prior to my arrival she had been enjoying a quiet night alone with her new boyfriend. I will never know how she got me out of the house without a single drop of blood being spilled, but for that I am thankful. I’m also thankful that she didn’t have me arrested. Understandably, it ended our friendship.

  This was more than the straw that broke the camel’s back; it was the bomb that blew the camel to kingdom-fucking-come. There was no longer any question in my mind as to whether I needed help. I needed a lot of help and I needed it now.

  I called the AA Hotline that day and got a list of meetings in my area. I had a few drinks that morning to fight off the shakes, but was determined not to touch a drop after I woke up from my nap. I thought it would be in poor taste to show up to an AA meeting drunk.

  That night, I drove to a church in my home town. I saw a few guys smoking cigarettes around the back and figured this must be the place. I waited until everyone went inside and then climbed out of the car. Once I was inside I went straight for the coffee pot, and a back seat.

  I listened for an hour as a string of men, who looked close to homeless; compared stories about who was the bigger alcoholic. Just when I thought the shit couldn’t possibly get any deeper, someone else would stand up and say, “Hi, my name is ‘whatever’ and I’m an alcoholic. They may as well have started off with, “If you think you were fucked up; listen to this”.

  The worst part is that no one’s life seemed to be getting any better since they stopped drinking. This was not what I came to a meeting for. I wanted to know how people got sober and how their lives had improved as a result. I wanted hope. I wasn’t getting it. I left the meeting that night and went straight to the bar.

  Another blackout led me to more guilt and shame, and back to another meeting. I still wasn’t getting it. I finally raised my hand at a meeting. I said I was new to AA and wanted to know how to get sober. Everyone in the room looked stunned and nobody spoke for a long time. Finally somebody began telling more war stories, and I was forgotten.

  When the meeting was coming to an end, the chair-person asked everyone with a year or more of sobriety to raise their hand, “to show the newcomer that it works”. About three hands went up. The little bit of hope I had was quickly leaving me. I went to the bar again.

  I lived this way for several weeks. Eventually, I even gave up on decorum and began showing up to meetings drunk. I thought that if I kept coming back I would eventually be struck sober. But as the astute reader has already guessed, I struck a telephone pole first.

  The strangest thing happened to me as I sat on the hood of that totaled car; I felt at peace for the first time. I had no idea what was about to happen to me, but I knew it had to be better than the way I had been living.

  My first thought was that I would probably end up in jail. Though this thought didn’t exactly appeal to me I figured at least I wouldn’t run over a kid crossing the street, or plow into a bus full of school children. If I kept drinking the way I had been, and doing the things I’d been doing, I would be going to jail for something far worse than driving under the influence.

  The other option, if I was given one, would be an alcohol rehabilitation center. The idea of being locked up in a hospital for an undetermined amount of time really didn’t appeal to me either, but again, it was better than the alternative.

  What ended up happening came as a bit of a surprise. After being hand cuffed and taken to the hospital to make sure I was alright (and donate some blood to the judge), I was taken home, un-cuffed, given back the knife the police found on me, and released.

  My friend had been dropped off at the house sometime earlier, and was about to call it a night on my couch when I walked through the door. Without missing a step, I walked straight to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.

  “Are you serious”, he asked. “You just totaled your car, nearly killed both of us, and got arrested, and the first thing you do after being released is grab a beer…at five in the morning. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I think my answer surprised me as much as it surprised him.

  “Well, that should be painfully obvious at this point. I’m an alcoholic,” I said.

  My friend looked at me as though he was expecting a punch line. When he realized none was coming, he slowly sat down and considered his next question.

  “So, what are you going to do about it,” he asked.

  “Well, I’ve been going to AA meetings for about a month. That didn’t work. I guess the next step would be rehab,” I replied.

  “Then finish your beer and go to sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow you’re calling the VA and getting checked into rehab.”

  Part Three

  Recovery

  Chapter twenty:

  Rehab sucked. There really is no way to sugar coat it. They woke us up at the ass-crack of dawn, fed us food that was subpar by Army standards and babbled crap that I didn’t understand. The worst part was that I wanted a drink, constantly and desperately.

  The first week of the three-week program is little more than a blur to me. I can remember being tired and sick all of the time, but not much else. I began to separate the other patients into groups after a few days. There were those who were there because someone else wanted them to be there, those who were there to get off of the street for a few weeks, and a handful of people who wanted to get sober. I hung out with them.

  My head began to clear up after the first week. That’s when I realized how bad the food really was. Now I was sick for a different reason.

  The first class I actually remember clearly was the anger management class. It sticks out in my mind clearly because it pissed me off. There was a kid with problems far worse than addiction sitting across the room from me, and throughout the entire class he rocked back and forth.

  Everyone in the room could see I was getting irritated, but nobody had any idea how bad it was getting to me until I told the kid I was going to stab him in the neck with my pen if he didn’t stop. He must have thought I was kidding, because he just smiled and began rocking harder. He stopped laughing when I grabbed my pen and stood up. This didn’t go over well with the shrink who was giving the class.

  Another fond memory is when we all went around the room talking about our “triggers.” These were the things that made us want to drink. I heard all sorts of things; my family makes me want to drink, bad memories, people, places and things are the cause. Again, seeing my irritation the shrink turned to me.

  “David, you seem annoyed. Can you tell us why,” he asked.

  “Because it’s a dumb fucking question,” I replied.

  “And why is that,” he responded.

  “Because you’re all talking about what makes you want to drink, but none of you has told the truth. You’re all just making shit up to hear yourselves talk” I said.

  “And what is the truth,” he asked.

  “That everything makes me want to drink. Not having a drink makes me want a drink. Waking up in the morning makes me want a drink. Taking a piss in the middle of the night makes me want a drink. Bad moods, good moods, rainy days, sunny days, day, night, rich, broke, the past, the future…they all make me want to drink.

  “All of you fucking idiots are talking about t
riggers as though this disease is conditional. It’s not, at least not for me. I am an alcoholic; everything makes me want a drink.”

  For the second time; I was sent to the principal’s office.

  By the end of the second week I was beginning to think that even the people in the program who were most like me, still weren’t very much like me. I was desperate. I knew if I couldn’t stop drinking I was going to die or go to prison. I had to find something underneath the horrible food and the freeloaders to grasp onto.

  I shared this with a counselor. Though she felt I was being a little harsh toward the cooks and the patients who only seemed to show up when it got too cold to live on the streets, she recommended I start with the basics. She offered me her copy of The Big Book, but asked that I return it when I was done.

  I liked the Idea of reading The Big Book better than listening to some of the other patients I was stuck with. After all, this was the textbook for the treatment of my disease. I was a little curious as to why we were all not handed a copy the night we arrived at rehab. I made a mental note to write a book someday, and to dedicate a portion of the proceeds to making sure every veteran in treatment had a copy of the book Alcoholics Anonymous.

  I was only about fifty pages into the book when I was struck by a thought. I had always been a rather voracious reader. When a subject interested me, like photography or motorcycles, I bought and read every book I could find on the subject. Yet it had never occurred to me to read about the thing that had been ruining my life for decades. I suddenly felt like a bit of a bonehead.

  I learned several things by reading the book. The first is that I was not alone. This disease had been killing people like me or ruining their lives ever since man first crushed grapes. I learned that until AA was formed doctors were clueless as to how alcoholism should be treated. I learned that a small group of men has come up with a solution, and more importantly; they had put all of the answers in a book.