The Other Side of the Story - A Tandem Post, The Conclusion

This is the conclusion of a tandem post written by DaMomma at Motherhood Is Not For Wimps, and Ellie at One Crafty Mother. The events described here occured in the summer of 2007. The entire post begins here and continues back and forth between us over three days.

This is the last chapter of that story.

Liz's conclusion begins here, with my perspective following below.

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I spent the first two weeks of rehab in denial. I said all the right things, spoke at group meetings, pretended I wanted to change. I told my counselor that even if I lost everything, I was ready to be sober. As I spoke those words, in my head I was thinking: Liar. I listened to the other patients, all the while thinking I wasn’t as bad as them, that after thirty days of not drinking I would be able to control it.   I wouldn’t have to stop.

And then came the day Steve and Liz took all the children to the fair. Across the bay at the rehab center, it was visitor’s day. Of the forty patients there, I was one of four who had no family or friends coming to see me.

Steve had told me the about the fair, and said that even if he hadn’t had plans with Liz, he wouldn’t be coming to see me. He said he was very angry, and he felt it would be too frightening for the kids. I opened my mouth to protest, but I had no words. I was crushed, but I wasn't going to beg him to come. And I didn't want the kids to see me like this. I felt they were better off without me. I felt everyone was better off without me.

One counselor was designated to take the four of us, the ones without visitors, to a local trail that leads to the ocean. I remember walking along a rocky path, gravel crunching under my shoes, smelling the salt air, feeling the warm breeze on my neck. It had been a long time since I had noticed these things.

We reached the water's edge and I wandered down the shore, craving some time alone.

I squinted into the sun and looked out across the bay. Somewhere, over there, are my kids, I thought. I imagined them squealing with delight on the ferris wheel, grinning sticky faces covered with cotton candy. I pictured Liz and Steve coming together to give them one normal day, and I felt grateful.

And then, like a stone falling out of the sky and landing at my feet, I realized: I am the problem.

The ugly truth of it took my breath away, and I fell to my knees. I felt sharp stones poking into my skin, and I pressed harder. I deserved the pain. I wanted to feel the pain.

I am here because I am very, very sick. I knew this with a sudden, startling clarity. I am here because I am not safe for my children. I said it over and over, like a mantra. I forced myself to stare at the truth, and for once I didn't look away.

My kids are going to be okay, I thought. Steve will be okay. Everyone is moving on without me.

I was relieved. My kids were surrounded by loving, capable people, and I was out of the way.

I didn't know if I would get better, because I didn't know if I cared enough to try. But I knew my children were safe, and at that moment, that was enough.

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Author's Note: In the throes of active alcoholism, in the end game, I was not present. Even when I wasn't drinking, I was thinking about drinking. It was a singular obsession of mind and body.

One the hardest parts about getting sober, for me, was admitting this cold hard truth: once I crossed the line into addiction nothing was more important to me than alcohol. Not my friends, not my family, not my kids. This fact is so ugly, so hard to process, so hurtful, that it is very difficult for people who love addicts to face it. The addict is powerless over alcohol or drugs, and loved ones are powerless over the addict. But they aren't powerless over themselves.

I was floundering, sick, obsessed and addicted, and the energy, time and love other people poured my direction were lost on me. I'm not sure I will ever find words to adequately describe what late stage addiction feels like. Here is what matters: I would not have gotten sober if the people in my life hadn’t drawn a hard line and stuck to it.

In the end, what got me to stop was that I was forced to go to rehab, where I finally got some clarity. I realized, sober, that I didn't want to lose my family or my friends. That was my bottom. When I finally I poked my head up out of my dark, addicted, hole and realized that nobody was left, that I was going to get sober or I was going to die alone, that was the moment I started to heal. If I had been able to find anyone – any family member or friend – who would still love me as an active addict, I wouldn’t have been able to stop.

It isn't pretty, but it is the truth.

The Other Side of the Story - A Tandem Post, Part Two

This is a tandem post with Liz at Motherhood Is Not For Wimps, describing the final days of my active drinking, how my friends came to terms with what was happening, and what it was like from my perspective.  Part Two of a three-part series. Part One begins here.    Liz's Part Two begins here, with my perspective following below.

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The last few weeks of drinking are a blur.

More fights with my husband, more stashed bottles found, angry accusations, desperate pleas, meaningless promises. And drinking, always drinking. I had crossed the line into physical addiction. I had to drink. If I didn't drink, my hands shook, I broke into a sweat, had panic attacks.

As Steve was desperately talking to my family and his family, trying to figure out what to do, I was plotting my escape, figuring out how to get more alcohol.

He hid the car keys. He dropped me off at a recovery meeting, and I pretended to go in. He had taken my purse away, but not before I had tucked $10 into my sock. As soon as he drove away, I ran down the street to the local mini-mart. I bought nips, sipped them as I ran back to the meeting. I made it back before it ended, pretended I'd been there all along.

As soon as I got in the car, he knew. I didn't care, because I had gotten my fix.

Towards the very end, although I didn't know it was nearing the end, I talked with Liz on the phone. I remember that I was hoping she would tell me I wasn’t that bad. I was up against the wall, desperate for a way out, so I used the kids as an excuse.

"I don't want to be away from the kids that long," I said, thinking that she would agree that the kids needed their mother.

At this point I wasn’t there for the kids at all, Steve was holding everything together, and she called me on it.

She told me that I needed help, needed to go to rehab, and it was like a punch in the gut.

Dead end, I thought. I hung up. There was nobody else left to call.

Shortly after this conversation, Steve sent me to a 30 day rehab.


Continued here - the conclusion to Liz's side of the story

The Other Side of the Story - A Tandem Post with Damomma

DaMomma and One Crafty Mother are writing a tandem post. It is a story about alcoholism and denial, about the protection of children and the meaning of friendship. The story begins here, with Liz, Part One, then continues with my perspective, below.  

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Karin surprised me with her call.   I didn't remember the conversation we had the night before.   If I had, I wouldn't have picked up the phone.   I knew she was testing the waters, trying to figure out how much, if anything, I remembered of our conversation the previous night.

I tried to make light of it, laugh my way through.   She didn’t buy it. "You were pretty drunk last night," she said.

I mumbled some responses - mini-apologies, loose explanations: things are just hard right now, I'm adjusting to the new job, I'm not sleeping, I haven't been feeling well, I'm going to go to meetings.  She was silent, and before she could respond I concocted an excuse and hung up.

I remember that I felt unburdened.   The worst had happened - my good friend called me on my drinking - and I got through it. I admitted drinking is a problem and that I'm doing something about it.   I could no longer distinguish truth from lies, because I believed what I told myself: I just need to do this my way.   I know drinking is a problem, and I'll get a handle on it. I will control my drinking so I don't have to stop completely.   I believed that I would be okay, that I would learn to drink like a normal person.   I had to believe this, because the thought of life without drinking was too terrifying to contemplate.   I thought I just needed more time.

I resolved to be more careful. No more phone calls after I've been drinking, I told myself.   I came up with a plan to admit a little bit, feed people just enough information to get them off my back.

I tried not to answer the phone.  On the odd occasion I would connect with someone, I pretended I was busy, when in fact I was alternating trips to the liquor store with naps. Steve was doing the drop-offs and pick-ups for the kids each day, part of my new work from home schedule. I spent my days scrabbling to hold things together - getting the kids up and ready for school, doing just enough to squeak by on my job, and then tucking the kids into bed at night. I thought I was doing a pretty good job. I was never exactly sober, but I tried not to get too drunk. I was pleased to be left to my own resources during the day - no kids to look after - so I could maintain my drinking.

Then things start to change, slip.   I realized that once I had one drink I couldn't predict what would happen. Some nights I would only have a few drinks and I would get drunk.   Other nights I drank and drank and couldn't get to the point of sweet oblivion I so craved. I broke my promise and called people at night, embarrassed myself. More and more I couldn't remember things from the night before.  I started scrawling down reminders to myself: remember Michelle called, you talked for an hour. Just chatted, nothing serious. Sometimes I couldn't read my drunken handwriting the next day.  

I felt a vague sense of panic, but not about my drinking.   I was terrified that I wasn't hiding it well enough.

There are lots of conversations I don't remember well, or at all.    But one conversation stands out in my mind. It was after a particularly bad fight with Steve.   He had found yet another hidden bottle, knew I had been drinking, and left with the kids. I called Liz, sobbing, my hands shaking.   

I was desperate for friendship, sympathy, a human connection.   I told her I thought Steve and I weren't going to make it. I told her we were fighting more and more.   "You have some tough choices to make," she said.   I remember thinking: tell her. Just tell her. Tell her Steve left because you can't stop drinking.  

I was too afraid.   I knew she would tell me I had to stop, so instead I told little bits of the truth, enough to feel validation, love.   It was one of those rare moments when I saw myself as I really was: drunk, addicted and scared. But not scared enough to tell the truth.

The fear of life without alcohol trumped everything.


For Part Two of the Tandem Posts, click here.