A New Freedom

A New Freedom

“I can’t sleep.” I said it out loud to myself. My partner was asleep in bed next to me and my kids were safe and sound in their slumbers as well. Why, then, did I feel so alone?

I lived my whole life believing that no one on Earth felt as outcast, alone, afraid and discontent as me? I was terminally unique. This feeling of distinctiveness set me apart from everyone else. Living with a self-image that vacillated between narcissism and inferiority pushed me away from any meaningful relationship with family, friends and co-workers. I lived in constant fear that people were judging me or had already decided they didn’t like me. Why not? I was doing the same thing to them.  

One week ago, I was on my knees with my legs tucked underneath me against the cold tiles. My arms were wrapped around the toilet seat. My head rested on my forearms as I vomited into my toilet until my stomach muscles hurt from dry-heaving. Still dizzy, I had enough strength to stand and awareness to attempt it cautiously.

I looked into the mirror, like I had done dozens of times before this one, and spoke to the person who looked like me, but wasn’t me. The guy in the mirror was a drunk. No, worse; he was a pathetic, loathsome and pitiless fool. Only someone that weak and inept could be staring back at themselves in this state for the one-hundredth time after telling themselves, after each time, it would be the last.

After five years of this repeated insanity, something changed. When I went to bed that night, I made the decision that I was done using alcohol. I had said it many times in the past five years. I had even tried to moderate my drinking: taking “breaks”, drinking just wine, waiting for special occasions. How did that work out for me? The breaks never lasted more than a few days. Drinking just wine meant I would drink two bottles by myself. And, every day could be a special occasion, like a good day at work or a bad day at work or the clocks being turned back. That night something was different. I heard a different voice in my head. It was from outside myself and it was the voice of strength, love, kindness and understanding. 

Now, I lie awake in my bed overwhelmed with fear and anxiety about going to rehab tomorrow.

I thought about getting out of bed to watch Netflix. This is the first time I consciously predicted the outcome. I would make a Manhattan to enjoy – who am I kidding? I don’t drink it to enjoy it – while binging Breaking Bad. The timing would be perfect – I would finish my drink just as the episode ends and start the next episode with a fresh drink. I had never, ever had just one because my body is defenseless against alcohol. Once I started, tonight would be no different than any other night. Hours later, I would wake from a blackout on the couch with a message from Netflix on my TV screen: Are you still watching?

I must have fallen asleep because my eight AM alarm woke me up. I was grateful that I was never an early morning drinker (unless I was still going from the night before) so my coffee was all I needed to start the day.

On the Uber ride to the airport, I considered the consequences of my decision to enter rehab. The idea of never having another alcoholic drink in my lifetime seemed an impossible task. Lifetime. Not only was it a daily ritual for me, but it also touched every part of my life. There would be so many activities and events that would drastically change for me. Could I have dinner out without a cocktail and wine? How can I be around people in social situations without alcohol to make me feel like I fit in? What will I do to unwind after a shitty day at work? How would people treat me if they knew I was an alcoholic? Would I have to hide this fact? How would I celebrate achievements? Or console myself in times of discontent? 

The driver looked in his rearview mirror and asked, “Are you traveling for business or a vacation?” 

I had no answer prepared. “I'm going on a retreat. Kind of like a spiritual retreat.” I had read about the spiritual aspects of recovery on the rehab’s website.

“That sounds relaxing,” he said. “Have you been there before?”

“No, I’ve never tried anything like this before. Just trying to see what it’s like.” I was trying to be truthful but not forthcoming, another alcoholic trait I’d acquired.  

“How long will you be gone?”

I hated small talk. This is why I used alcohol: to cope with the fear and anxiety I have when I’m around people. I can’t say shut up and I can’t simply say I don’t really want to talk so I end up just getting angry and let resentment build.

✻     ✻     ✻

As I expected, the TSA agents behaved like angry prison cafeteria workers. I exited security feeling agitated. I didn’t know this at the time, but it was pretty standard alcoholic behavior to let negative emotions fester. I still felt angry and irritable because of the TSA donkeys. These recurring thoughts of past events take up space in your head and allow resentment to live rent-free in your mind for a long time while whoever pissed you off has already forgotten about you. At Gate 12, I found a seat as far away from people as I could manage without losing sight of the gate’s automated TV screen. 

My flight was scheduled for twelve noon. Flying is one of those activities that I associate with drinking. Normally, I would start at the airport before boarding the plane and continue throughout the flight, getting annoyed when the landing procedure interferes with my pastime. I have never, in my adult life, boarded or left a plane sober. It can’t be done. At least, I have never tried to do it until now. 

As I waited, rather impatiently for my flight, I wallowed in my own negative thoughts. I was bored. I brought my Kindle with a hundred books ready to be absorbed but my mind was not prepared to take on this task. 

I was lonely because I was going to be away from my family for a month or maybe more. I was dreading the adjustment into a new environment. Getting to know people was the worst form of drudgery, especially without alcohol. It was a lot of work to be someone else; it required a continuous expense of emotional and mental energy because being yourself was never good enough.

I was discontented with my life, which seemed like a random sequence of non-decisions that just happened to me rather than a careful, coordinated plan of success. The more I tried to will things to happen in my life, the less control I actually had. 

The restaurants and bars started to open. Would it be so bad to have my last few drinks before getting on the plane to rehab? Yes, it would be. I would hate myself. I always sought other peoples’ approval (again, I would learn this is typical of an alcoholic) and I wouldn’t win anyone’s approval if I failed to make it to rehab in a sober state.  

I didn’t know what to expect in rehab. I figured I would go to rehab for thirty days, learn why I can’t stop drinking and that knowledge would empower me to stop. Or, at least control it like a sane person. In this case, power is not the answer; it never was. If I had the power to stop drinking, it would have happened many years ago. The alcoholic has no power, whatsoever. The secret is perplexing; you must come to terms with your powerlessness to overcome it. Once I did that, I would find a new beginning and start living in a whole new way. A new freedom and a new happiness awaited me. It was the promise the voice made.