My apologies for the recent idleness of the site, I have always taken pride in the fact that TDA remains constantly updated. I have been traveling in Mexico since Sunday on business matters and the combination of free time and available connectivity have not coincided on enough occasions for new posting. Usually I would arrange in advance for guest posting and pre-written items, but my wife’s health has taken priority as it should.
Considering my travel and the increased family stress, I thought it might be appropriate to feature a story from the archives- a post on the importance of being anchored to one’s recovery while abroad.
An Anchor to Keep from Drifting
Most alcoholics find safe harbor in their recovery routines and comfortable surroundings. The support of friends and family, familiar meeting places, and yes, having those that know of our plight helping to assure our accountability all add a measure of safety and help staying sober at home an easier task. But what about those that travel or who are called away unexpectedly, especially for emotional issues like a death in the family or severe business trouble.
Nothing but strangers around, a lonely hotel room, and only the company of one’s thoughts can be a recipe for disaster for an alcoholic with no anchor to keep from drifting.
The picture of the recycled squirrel decanter seemed like fitting material for a light hearted weekend post. Inside this strange vessel is a 55% alcohol concoction made by Scottish firm BrewDog and marketed as the world’s strongest beer. Only twelve bottles of this high octane brew were made, cue the collective sigh of rodents everywhere. It’s called The End of History, using Fukuyama’s title to suggest that this is the apex of evolution in the beer family tree, but for those shelling out almost $800 for a bottle of road kill I’d just call it the end of common sense.
Notice the ashtray with butts to the side. This picture seems like a tribute to the idiocy of the sophisticated man- cancer sticks and liver acid for those with too much money to die of old age.
My wife was diagnosed with breast cancer a little over three weeks ago. What followed was a dizzying battery of tests and doctor appointments that for a while always seem to end in worst case scenario. Surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation were all discussed not just as options, but as a probable progression of treatment. Last week she underwent a bilateral mastectomy and removal of lymph nodes on one side. Since the surgery we have been seeing a little of the shiny side of luck, the pathology results of the cancer and lymph nodes have elevated her long term prognosis to excellent, even cancer free and radiation treatment is no longer on the table.
The good news is my wife is now cancer free, but she has given up much, suffered worse, and has a long slog of hardship ahead. Throughout this process she has remained strong and never once suggested just giving up. She has suffered pokes, prods, and traumatic surgery without complaint and has endured the resulting pain and follow-up dread as if it was nothing more than pulling a double shift. I am in awe of her strength, stoicism, and dignity.
In contrast to her ordeal I spent many years intentionally and willfully destroying myself. Upon realizing disease had set in, I possessed not the courage to fight the early diagnosis and instead chose submission. The insanity that followed erased any hope of a cure and left with me with only remission as an option. Eventually I did seek treatment, but in retrospect I know it was accomplished despite an egocentric haze of petulant self pity. My wife has been just the opposite. Taking good care of herself, she had annual checkups that included a mammogram (10 months ago no sign of cancer). Always a good diet, no smoking, and never a drop of alcohol- she is a pious woman that always places others above herself. Upon finding her disease- she attacked it with fearless aggressiveness. Compared to my wife, I suffered so much less in treatment, had to make no real personal sacrifice, and yet I managed to still weather the process somehow worse. I made it into recovery kicking and screaming, despite myself and the disease.
It’s not exactly fair to compare our experiences because of the apple/orange origin and nature of these afflictions. Neither does it seem right that she should be punished for living the straight and narrow. Regardless, it has been a humbling exercise. Recovering from alcoholism, in time I developed a degree of personal strength, selflessness, and a quiet determination that I did not realize could exist. Experiencing my wife’s ongoing recovery from cancer though, I’ve realized she already possessed these characteristics in spades. Thank goodness for this, for unlike me she did not have the luxury to spend years developing them. She is a fighter, a survivor, and has an innate mental toughness that is just plain remarkable. My wife’s plan is to beat cancer, yet faced with such a daunting mission and under extreme duress she remains compassionate and thoughtful of others. She is an amazing woman and I love her very much- wish us luck.
I’m dealing with a family medical emergency, so I’m using the way-back machine to resurrect another favorite from the 2007 version TDA. I’ll have an update on what’s going on in my life later this week and some new material I promise.
I grew up hearing the horror stories of heroin and PCP (70/80′s formative years). Back then most of us kids weren’t all that turned on by the thought of anything heroin related that involved a hypodermic needle and PCP, well too many cop shows had already made sure that I wasn’t interested in base jumping without a parachute. Alcohol on the other hand, was a whole different story. Take Bluto from Animal House in his cool “college” sweatshirt draining a bottle of Jack Daniels or crushing a beer can on his forehead, now that was just plain awesome.
The acceptance of the dangers of alcohol when compared to “hard” drugs is analogous to the irrational fear of flying compared to driving an automobile. The odds of being killed in the air are 1 in 11 million, but the chance of being killed in an automobile accident is a very probable 1 out of every 5000. Now I consider both equally dangerous, but our society’s acceptance of alcohol as a benign substance in moderation as compared to the taboo reputation of drugs is just plain illogical.
I grew up in the small town South, where alcohol was considered a rite of passage and drugs were big city evils. Of course once I got into my teens marijuana became just as accepted as drinking, but the hard drugs were still “scary”. Even after I was an accomplished alcoholic and prescription drug abuser I still had an aversion to cocaine and heroin. Sure I sampled almost everything being drunk enough to have lost my fears and inhibitions, but never once did I try intravenous injections.
My fear of flying high didn’t save me though; my alcoholism took me to that same rock bottom destination.
The Letters From Hell series written by guest poster Screedler were the most visited and read posts of the old Drupal powered TDA. Unbeknowst to me, the links to this series were broken in my switch to a WordPress platform so to make up for it I will post the whole series again one new one per day.
It’s been a while since I posted a Letters from Hell. This letter was not included in the original series, as it had been lost. It was found underneath the cushion of a sofa at a relative’s house last week. It would have originally fallen in between Parts 11 and 12; so I guess I could have named this Part 11.5.
Please click here to read all the other installments of the series. Just to catch people up who are new to the site – I spent 76 days in a correctional facility the summer before last as a direct result of my alcoholism. These are the letters I wrote to my family while there. Moral of the story – stay clean and stay out of jail – it’s not fun.
June 21, 2006
Dear Everyone,
Two days have passed since I last sat down to write. Things are okay, I have been thinking about my situation more than usual, which tends to make me more depressed than usual. It’s hard for me to keep my mind off worrying when there is so little to do here. I almost welcome the fighting, stealing, and scheming that go on around here as a diversion.
The book I am reading is very good, however it’s a two parter and I only have part one. I have requested part two, but I am doubtful that they have it. I will certainly get it when I get out.
The Letters From Hell series written by guest poster Screedler were the most visited and read posts of the old Drupal powered TDA. Unbeknowst to me, the links to this series were broken in my switch to a WordPress platform so to make up for it I will post the whole series again one new one per day.
This is the last letter in the series. I didn’t know I was going to get out until hours before it happened. Click here to read all the prior installments of the series.
July 17, 2006
Dear Dad, Sarah, Amy, James and Audrey,
I hope this letter finds everyone doing well. As I have told Dad, the last week has been pretty rotten. We have been in constant lockdown since last week due to fights and various episodes of contraband usage.
We are simply too overcrowded and the fact that they use this place as a way station for prison inmates awaiting trail dates does not help. They are usually trouble. We have been searched about 5 times in the last week. This means the guards go through and throw away and tear up all your stuff including my pens and writing pad. They also threw away all my letters and several articles of my clothing just for good measure. Since then I have gotten back a pen and some paper but did not have anything to write on (a pad or a table) until today.
Although I still have whatever kind of infection (staph), it is much better. Since Amy and Noah told me to stop using the Neosporin type stuff the nurse gave me it has gotten much better. Thank goodness, it was really bothering me.
There have been several arrivals and departures to my cell since last week. None were welcome, all I was glad to see go. One was a thief (yes he stole from me… and others) another was a bully. One was a thief and a bully. I must say I like only about 1 percent of the people I have met in here. I can tolerate about 20 percent. I dislike 60 percent of them and downright hate about 19 percent. I absolutely believe in the death penalty now. I have met some people here that have no redeeming value; the world would absolutely be a better place without them.
It was one of the top ten signs that I was becoming an alcoholic during the days of my still social binge drinking that I mastered the art of on-demand vomiting. Developed as a preventive measure to avoid getting sick in front of others (you know you have a problem when you hide it from other drunks), it became another one of the tricks of my trade to better handle a spirited game of presidents and assholes or an all night bender.
The key to this technique was situational awareness, having the experience to recognize the signs of an impending upchuck despite the mind numbing alcoholic fog. Three steps: Take a quick step out to the back yard or alley (bathroom too loud and problem of messy evidence), secure loose clothes and guard against spatter, then let loose without inhibition. The last part is crucial, no gagging like a cat carfing up a hairball- just assure coast is clear, check trajectory, let it fly and return to drinking.
Maybe at that point I hadn’t yet crossed that line in the sand of alcoholic submission, but it wasn’t long before I had learned how to choke the gag reflex. After all, what’s a little alcohol poisoning compared to the heresy of spitting up cheap alcohol?
The Letters From Hell series written by guest poster Screedler were the most visited and read posts of the old Drupal powered TDA. Unbeknowst to me, the links to this series were broken in my switch to a WordPress platform so to make up for it I will post the whole series again one new one per day.
This is the next to the last letter in the series. As you can probably tell from the contents it sounds like I am pretty much getting accustomed to Hell. You would be surprised what you can get used to. I can hardly imagine how numb the Correctional Officers must be. Click here to read all the prior installments of the series.
July 11, 2006
Dear Dad, Sarah, Amy, James and Audrey,
I hope this letter finds all doing well. It sounds like you all had a really good Fourth of July. We had a pretty quite one here in the slammer. Inmates just slept all day or watched TV. Everyone looked like someone had died, especially the ones that talked to their family and friends, hearing about cookouts and parties. I didn’t see any fireworks this year – not even on TV.
As usual people have come and gone out of my little 12 man area. Two welcome departures were Detroit (a.k.a. Lucifer) and his evil spawn ZuZu (a.k.a Little Nicky). After participating in three fights in two days the guards finally took them out of here. The last brawl with a Mexican resulted in bloodshed and I guess that finally got their attention.
This morning we had two more departures to Seg resulting in a total of four new beds open since last Friday in my cell alone. This was also the result of bloodshed. Several young inmates in my cell were picking on a new inmate named Ben – stealing his stuff and slapping him around. Another inmate, older and not out of prison for very long told them to leave him alone. One of the young guys called him a “bitch”. That was the wrong thing to do. You do not call guys from prison a couple of things and one of them is “bitch”. Needless to say the youngster who slapped Ben in turn got a thorough beating. There was blood on my bunk and sheets where the older guy slammed the youngster’s (we actually called him “Teenager”) head repeatedly. It’s weird but this stuff does not even faze me anymore. I actually sat within feet of the entire brawl calmly watching, eating a fried apple pie and having a cup of orange juice. Not quite “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” but equally entertaining.
I was going through and trying to fix some broken links in the archives and ran across this favorite from 2-1/2 years back. Figured I’d finish up with the site maintenance and use this for my update tonight. Take care and have a great and sober weekend!
Last night I killed someone while driving drunk. I had to flee, move away to avoid prosecution. I told everyone that my company had asked me to work overseas on an emergency project; I thought it was a good cover story. I had already forfeited my sobriety and life as I knew it, so of course there was no reason to stop drinking. I got a hotel in a town down further south that had a fab shop I had done a little business with in the past, shady business. I stayed in a hotel with cash obtained from a car title loan.
I figured I would drink myself to death, but unfortunately I just drank myself thirsty. Not real continuity or sense here, I found myself with a shopping car full of electric motors and five gallon bucket of paint that I tried to get twenty bucks for at the fab shop- they gave me ten. So I broke in later to make up the difference they owed. I used what little cash I had pretending I had money at bar, did so good I impressed another barfly so much she took me home.
Yea it was a drunk dream and no I didn’t quit before I got to the juicy part, in fact I skipped the part where I was beat unmercifully. Not quite sure how that happened because I woke up (momentarily depressed, scared, and shamed), but I can tell you with absolute conviction there was nothing juicy or enjoyable about this nightmare.
These dreams used to occur often in my early sobriety although they have become a rare event these days. They are still very powerful… as a reminder, a reminder of my past and what would be my future without recovery. I know of people who have relapsed after decades of sobriety. How this could happen after such a long period seems unexplainable, unless of course you asked me right after I woke up this morning.
Things like this are a great reminder that I still have those destructive tendencies; they have just been filed away. The alcoholic rut still exists in my brain just waiting for me to slip back into the old patterns. I may have sorted out a new life, but all it would take is one drink to take me back to where the filed things are.
The Letters From Hell series written by guest poster Screedler were the most visited and read posts of the old Drupal powered TDA. Unbeknowst to me, the links to this series were broken in my switch to a WordPress platform so to make up for it I will post the whole series again one new one per day.
Welcome to Letters from Hell – Part 14. Although in totality the letter and memories are pretty bleak, Part 14 nevertheless brings back some positive memories – in particular a change in my overall outlook from absolutely negative to somewhat positive. I think after seven weeks of drying out my brain was returning to a state that at least could be called medically stable. I think it was somewhere around this time that I may have genuinely laughed for the first time in five years. Click here to read all the prior installments of the series.
July 9, 2006
Dear Paul and Nan,
I hope this letter finds you both doing well. Nothing new here. The last couple of days have been okay. It was good seeing everyone on Saturday.
I guess the two biggest things I can talk about are how quite it has gotten since Detroit and his cousin have left the block and the fact that we have no soap. I do – because I order a bar of Lever 2000 every two weeks. – but most in here simply do not have any. Whew. They (the guards) say we went through 6 months worth of soap in 5 weeks. They are not saying when we will get any soap, but I am sure when we do it will be with restrictions. If we don’t get some soon I am sure attempts will be made to steal mine and from the few others that have it.
I have been taking a shower once and sometimes twice a day for the last couple of weeks because of the staph going around. I will probably drop back down to every other day to conserve my soap. Believe it or not if I smell clean people are going to “sweat” me for some soap and I mean constantly. It is getting pretty foul in here.
My apologies for the recent idleness of the site, I have always taken pride in the fact that TDA remains constantly updated. I have been traveling in Mexico since Sunday on business matters and the combination of free time and available connectivity have not coincided on enough occasions for new posting. Usually I would arrange in advance for guest posting and pre-written items, but my wife’s health has taken priority as it should.
I grew up hearing the horror stories of heroin and PCP (70/80′s formative years). Back then most of us kids weren’t all that turned on by the thought of anything heroin related that involved a hypodermic needle and PCP, well too many cop shows had already made sure that I wasn’t interested in base jumping without a parachute. Alcohol on the other hand, was a whole different story. Take Bluto from Animal House in his cool “college” sweatshirt draining a bottle of Jack Daniels or crushing a beer can on his forehead, now that was just plain awesome.
It’s been a while since I posted a Letters from Hell. This letter was not included in the original series, as it had been lost. It was found underneath the cushion of a sofa at a relative’s house last week. It would have originally fallen in between Parts 11 and 12; so I guess I could have named this Part 11.5.
This morning we had two more departures to Seg resulting in a total of four new beds open since last Friday in my cell alone. This was also the result of bloodshed. Several young inmates in my cell were picking on a new inmate named Ben – stealing his stuff and slapping him around. Another inmate, older and not out of prison for very long told them to leave him alone. One of the young guys called him a “bitch”. That was the wrong thing to do. You do not call guys from prison a couple of things and one of them is “bitch”. Needless to say the youngster who slapped Ben in turn got a thorough beating. There was blood on my bunk and sheets where the older guy slammed the youngster’s (we actually called him “Teenager”) head repeatedly. It’s weird but this stuff does not even faze me anymore. I actually sat within feet of the entire brawl calmly watching, eating a fried apple pie and having a cup of orange juice. Not quite “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” but equally entertaining.
Last night I killed someone while driving drunk. I had to flee, move away to avoid prosecution. I told everyone that my company had asked me to work overseas on an emergency project; I thought it was a good cover story. I had already forfeited my sobriety and life as I knew it, so of course there was no reason to stop drinking. I got a hotel in a town down further south that had a fab shop I had done a little business with in the past, shady business. I stayed in a hotel with cash obtained from a car title loan. 
I hope this letter finds you both doing well. Nothing new here. The last couple of days have been okay. It was good seeing everyone on Saturday.
