An Open Letter to Drunks and Dopers Like Me...
This is a letter to a young man who is going through it. I wrote it a few years ago, but I realized this week, on my 31st anniversary of not being so fucked up, that this could have been written to me in 1993, my young friend in 2021 or some kid in 2551, it doesn’t matter. The story never changes. Addicts are addicts are addicts. We all act the same, think the same, lie and manipulate the same. It’s all the same story.
He is me and I am him. This is written to both of us. A month ago, I didn’t know him at all. On many levels, I still don’t. On another level, I’ve known him all my life.
I’m writing this to you from my tool shed, my happy place. Find your own happy place, don’t worry about those who don’t understand you. They never will.
October 28, 1993... that was the day I dumped the last of my Oxy, Percodan, Xanax and sweet Seconal down the toilet. God, I do love Reds and Percs and vodka. Vodka is like oxygen to me. I didn’t need the doctors to tell me I was dying. I could smell and taste my death. The medical community simply confirmed what I knew. That day, 31 years ago, I simply could not hallucinate and puke and bleed and shake anymore.
Those days and the remembered taste in my throat of blood and vomit are still here and close at hand. Those days, those times, never leave. They slip under the surface; they don’t ever leave. Time doesn’t even dull the jagged edges, all time does is it lets you forget they are there sometimes, but they are still there, waiting for me to come back. Your demon will live with you forever. Never, ever think you have defeated him.
That night in 1993 I didn’t flush all the vodka, I kept my last emergency half gallon. Actually, my first day not using I drank a quart. To survive a day with only a quart of vodka and no pills was quite an accomplishment.
I didn’t want to die around my little girl’s birthday, in December. The plan was to die in January. I’m forever grateful to her for unwittingly gifting me this life. Without her knowledge she literally saved me.
At some point in those end years, my world shrunk to the singularity of that child. I know with absolute certainty if it was not for my baby girl my headstone would read a day in 1993 or 1994, as the day I died. I am sure it would have been an ugly and violent death. I also know the list of attendees of that funeral would have been sparse, a very thin group. I’m pretty sure the daughter and cousin Bob would have come. But others, I’m not so sure. Make no mistake, that meager attendance would have been fully deserved. I owned that. I own it all. You need to own your mess, too. The sooner you do, the sooner you’ll be allowed to heal.
It was actually late November before I can recall anything but hurt or being able to eat much solid food. There’s not much I took with me from those first two weeks, but shaking and puking. Detoxing alone is a colorful experience. If offered to you, please ponder the irony of taking a pill to give up taking pills and booze. I chose not to. Lithium used to give me days without drugs, but never clarity. I’m sure there are fancy new drugs now. The experience of cold detox leaves an indelible message. I can’t imagine getting clean in a hospital watching cartoons on TV.
It’s your choice, how to end this, but know this: There is no such thing as “California Sober,” there is no such thing as cutting back. A doctor told me years after the fact I could have died from detoxing alone. I laughed at him and said, “No shit, I was already dead when I started to detox.”
I’m glad I saw that horror—all of it, scared to death. It’s the only way it could have worked for me. When you choose to move past this, it’s an absolute. If you go back, you’ll die. If you think you can still party a little you’ll die. If you don’t stop you’ll die. Those are all the options at the bottom.
The first sensations of clarity are subtle. You can get there. I remember the first morning not shaking, then realized I didn’t need to puke. Then I realized I could walk. I remember putting on a pair of jeans for the first time in a long time. My stomach had become so bloated and distended I’d taken to wearing sweatpants for a few years.
Aim for clarity. Sobriety has too many strings and interpretations bound to it. And there are those, especially the religious fanatics, that will take advantage of you as you seek sobriety. The religious fanatics will try to feed on your vulnerability. Know this. Heed the words of Buddha, “Believe nothing, unless it agrees with your own reason and common sense.”
Aim for clarity and everything else you need will follow.
Recently, sitting with some friends on a hot summer day, a glass, iced, filled with Blue Moon Ale. A sip and then another and it’s like a hidden door is open. Like a sea rushing in. That moment, as I tasted that ice cold beer was a fast ticket to my rage and my insanity. I jumped up and left quickly. No one asked why. They knew, as I knew, why. Your last drink will be your last drink, or it will be one of your last acts. It’s that simple. It’s binary. Yes or no, on or off. There is no third choice.
I still sit in amazement at those who can take it or leave it. But, if I suddenly stand up at a table and have to leave—immediately —never ask why. Nobody wants to know why. I’ve reached the point now where being around people drinking or getting high doesn’t bother me at all. I’ve pondered smoking weed a few times, but then I see him sitting there waiting… that bastard I tried so hard to run from. My demon never takes a day off. Neither can I. Neither can you.
Getting high and having fun and partying stopped so long ago. No fun and laughter is to be found here. You know what it’s like, as do I. Clarity, even sobriety, isn’t a death knell, it’s not the end of fun. Be honest, the shit you are living in now is not fun. Clarity will bring you insight and humor and perspective you never imagined drunk.
The addict, me, the doper-drunk is still very much alive and strong. Don’t give me an inch. Don’t think for a moment I won’t rob you blind and cut you to get away from here, to get away from me. You don’t matter, family doesn’t matter, friends don’t matter, trust me, the law doesn’t matter; nothing matters. There is no right or wrong. There is only the need—not desire—the need to get fucked up, big and hard. Again, the edges may have dulled, but they still shine and they will cut you in less than a flash of light.
My young friend don’t rebel against a higher power. I was never big on all twelve steps, it took a woman throwing the AA Blue Book at my head and screaming at me, as she pointed to a doorknob, “That thing there has more control of your life than you do!” You have no control. Your higher power is literally anyone and anything. When you find your absolute bottom, you’ll know all too well what I mean. You’d rob the woman whose tits fed you for a handful of Reds or a bottle of Jack Daniels. Don’t ask me how I know this. I just know this.
You can find God or Allah or the Easter Bunny, or whatever you need to find. Just know that higher power is not you. The voices that tell you that you are in control are lying to you. Look at your life, yourself. You know you are lying.
The relentless self-inventory is important. You won’t heal until you face that asshole in the mirror and all he’s become and done. Own your every act and deed.
Making amends to those you harmed is important.
Some days, I wonder why the gift of sobriety was wasted on someone like me. There are many more deserving who never see this gift. Take the gift and share it so someday you can be the old guy telling some drunk kid the same story. It will never, ever change.
You are out of options. That train left the station a long while back. Maybe we were born broken like this. I’ve often considered that reality. You now only have one choice. My dad used to say, “Your best friends are those who are not afraid to tell you that you’re full of shit.” In that regard, consider me your best friend.
That’s it for this week. Here are some books to check out.
Please stay safe, it is getting weird out there!
Bill
Excellent.