The Last Christmas Before I Got Sober
Christmas Day, 1994
I was holed up in my 3-room, 1920's Hollywood style studio--blankets nailed over my windows to keep "them" from looking in. The electricity had been turned off, my sleepless nights filled with madness lit by candle light. Buying drugs and booze were more important than keeping the lights on. I had visited my dealer's house the night before, "all the drug addicts are here!" joked one of my lower companions. I stopped at the liquor store on the way home, there may or may not have been "Merry Christmas" from the store clerk. I was stocked with what I needed to get me through another day.
My great-grandmother had just died. She was my mother, my champion, the person who always encouraged me to be my best. She had set the bar high, both morally and scholastically. I felt like I let her down in every way. I helped care for her but in the end, I left due to my addiction. The cruel voices that tormented me said "she died without knowing he loved her". I tried to drown my remorse, to no avail. Her memorial service was the last time I had seen my family members. The grief of losing her, plus seeing me addicted must have been unbearable. I only ever saw my grandmother (her daughter) cry twice in my life: once was when I was tiny and she stumbled and dropped me, the other time was the little service in the living room of the home I had shared with them until I had to leave almost 2 years before because of my addiction.
Christmas was like any other day: I hadn't slept, my battery powered alarm clock ticking the hours by. In those days, phones were things attached to a wall and I never bothered to get one installed. I checked my black Motorola pager every so often to see if anyone cared. Good 'ol self-pity. I would imagine decent people asleep, then waking to a Christmas morning filled with the clamors of family, holiday music, an orgy of presents, giving way to food, family and friendship. I would watch the hours tick by as I was frozen in place, doomed to practice my ritual of self-destruction in the total isolation of my candle lit drug den.
Alcohol was the only drug that had ever worked for me. "Why do you drink?" asked Big Daddy in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. "To get chat click in my head" said Brick. I knew that click--everything was OK. Alcohol brought the ease and comfort I never had sober. I could deal with people. It gave me what I needed to face the world. The stuff in the little bags was just something I had gotten hooked on--it never worked.
Around 3pm Christmas day I opened a can of Spaghetti O's and washed it down with a $1.39 40oz bottle of Magnum. Jack Daniels was my booze of choice but my Christmas budget hadn't allowed for it. I reflected on Christmas dinners past, with loved my Grandparents and loved ones...and cried. I sobbed the sob of regret, remorse, and an alcoholic/addict coming down with no hopes of another drink or drug.
I OD'd not long after Christmas. I died for a minute or two but I guess it wasn't my time. Addiction is a monster that lives in a hole in my soul. Restless, irritable, discontent. I don't have separate monsters driving me to drink, drug, overeat, over-spend or act out sexually. This is the same monster, the one who wants to torture and kill me.
I hadn't always been this bad, only at the end. For years, I fancied myself pretty fabulous, roaring around in my little sports car, on the list of all the hot Hollywood clubs, a bevy of broken-hearted studs in my wake. At the end, my former friends would look away, pretending they hadn't seen me. I had turned to lower companions and felt like there was no hope for me.
8 1/2 months after Christmas 1994, I got sober. I am now 8,504 days without a drink or any mind-altering substance. That works out to 23 years and change. Christmas this year was full of light, love, and laughter. I swam in the ocean of a beautiful tropical beach, grateful for everything sobriety has given me. No one knows of my past unless I tell them. I am happy, joyous, free, and usefully whole.
I was holed up in my 3-room, 1920's Hollywood style studio--blankets nailed over my windows to keep "them" from looking in. The electricity had been turned off, my sleepless nights filled with madness lit by candle light. Buying drugs and booze were more important than keeping the lights on. I had visited my dealer's house the night before, "all the drug addicts are here!" joked one of my lower companions. I stopped at the liquor store on the way home, there may or may not have been "Merry Christmas" from the store clerk. I was stocked with what I needed to get me through another day.
My great-grandmother had just died. She was my mother, my champion, the person who always encouraged me to be my best. She had set the bar high, both morally and scholastically. I felt like I let her down in every way. I helped care for her but in the end, I left due to my addiction. The cruel voices that tormented me said "she died without knowing he loved her". I tried to drown my remorse, to no avail. Her memorial service was the last time I had seen my family members. The grief of losing her, plus seeing me addicted must have been unbearable. I only ever saw my grandmother (her daughter) cry twice in my life: once was when I was tiny and she stumbled and dropped me, the other time was the little service in the living room of the home I had shared with them until I had to leave almost 2 years before because of my addiction.
Christmas was like any other day: I hadn't slept, my battery powered alarm clock ticking the hours by. In those days, phones were things attached to a wall and I never bothered to get one installed. I checked my black Motorola pager every so often to see if anyone cared. Good 'ol self-pity. I would imagine decent people asleep, then waking to a Christmas morning filled with the clamors of family, holiday music, an orgy of presents, giving way to food, family and friendship. I would watch the hours tick by as I was frozen in place, doomed to practice my ritual of self-destruction in the total isolation of my candle lit drug den.
Alcohol was the only drug that had ever worked for me. "Why do you drink?" asked Big Daddy in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. "To get chat click in my head" said Brick. I knew that click--everything was OK. Alcohol brought the ease and comfort I never had sober. I could deal with people. It gave me what I needed to face the world. The stuff in the little bags was just something I had gotten hooked on--it never worked.
Around 3pm Christmas day I opened a can of Spaghetti O's and washed it down with a $1.39 40oz bottle of Magnum. Jack Daniels was my booze of choice but my Christmas budget hadn't allowed for it. I reflected on Christmas dinners past, with loved my Grandparents and loved ones...and cried. I sobbed the sob of regret, remorse, and an alcoholic/addict coming down with no hopes of another drink or drug.
I OD'd not long after Christmas. I died for a minute or two but I guess it wasn't my time. Addiction is a monster that lives in a hole in my soul. Restless, irritable, discontent. I don't have separate monsters driving me to drink, drug, overeat, over-spend or act out sexually. This is the same monster, the one who wants to torture and kill me.
I hadn't always been this bad, only at the end. For years, I fancied myself pretty fabulous, roaring around in my little sports car, on the list of all the hot Hollywood clubs, a bevy of broken-hearted studs in my wake. At the end, my former friends would look away, pretending they hadn't seen me. I had turned to lower companions and felt like there was no hope for me.
8 1/2 months after Christmas 1994, I got sober. I am now 8,504 days without a drink or any mind-altering substance. That works out to 23 years and change. Christmas this year was full of light, love, and laughter. I swam in the ocean of a beautiful tropical beach, grateful for everything sobriety has given me. No one knows of my past unless I tell them. I am happy, joyous, free, and usefully whole.
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