“Imagine trying to live without air.
Now imagine something worse.”
― Amy Reed, Clean
The stairway railing splintered into dozens of pieces. Two holes in the bedroom sheet-rock and a kicked in door completed my tirade.
Forever a pacifist, I was told that I had spit on a police officer and shouted obscenities from the top of my lungs.
I do not recall that outburst—I’ve only been told about my violent behavior. I do remember drinking my habitual shots of whiskey, curling up on the couch and laughing at some inane TV show. About 4 hours later I woke up on a cement bench in a poorly lit jail cell. My then-husband had called 911 when I lost control.
Blackout
Blackout. Freedictionery.com defines this phenomenon: “Alcoholic blackout anterograde amnesia experienced by alcoholics during episodes of drinking, even when not fully intoxicated; it is indicative of early but still reversible brain damage.”
In my second year of alcoholism and opioid addiction, I began blacking out—perhaps 2 or 3 times per week. My family and friends would witness these events and I would hear about them the next day. They talked about me stumbling about, slurring my words, talking incessantly and incoherently, and falling on the floor. My drunken stupors were certainly embarrassing—I even wet myself a few times. I dealt with that uncomfortable feeling the same way I dealt with any challenge, I drank and popped more pills.
A Conversation
A kind police woman escorted me to a small conference room as I awaited a ride home the next day.
“Do you want to continue on like this, or are you ready to seek help?” she asked. I wanted to stop but had convinced myself that I could not survive without my chemicals.
“I’m so unhappy,” I replied. “Without alcohol or pills, I feel ten times worse and I just know that I can’t get sober. I’m really frightened imagining life without being wasted.”
“I’m not a counselor,” she said, “but your logic is sure messed up. You say that you used to feel better, yet how do you feel now? Excuse me, but you look awful. You’re bloated and you have huge dark circles under your eyes. Your info says that you’re 40, yet you look like an old, ragged woman twice your age. I can’t believe that being an addict feels better than being clean. Isn’t it a least worth a try?”
I’ll admit that her words were sound, but I felt so sick… so withdrawal sick that I would have given my right arm for some booze and a handful of pills. And, once home I went right back to my poisons.
“Mom, I hate you,” my 8-year-old son said later that day. “I did love you, but now you’re always drunk and you’re not a good mom anymore.” He burst into tears and slammed his bedroom door as he left.
Getting Sober
“Hello? My name is Katie,” I said to the man on the phone. “I think I need help because I’m an addict. Can you help me?” As we talked, I surveyed the damage that I had done the evening before during that blackout.
I packed a suitcase and left for rehab the next morning. Prior to leaving, I downed approximately one-fifth of a bottle of vodka, and it took all my resolve to not hide a bottle of pills in my stuff.
The time had come. I got sober.
As I write now, decades later, I am so grateful to my son and to that officer.
I am a sober woman that understands the disease of addiction—the lies that we tell ourselves while using and the horrid places we visit. I am a sober woman that understands that sobriety is a Godsend.
Author: Katie H. is a writer, recovering addict, and mother based in Connecticut.