Addiction

108. HOW I STARTED IN A.A. – PART ONE

big book 3

Long before the first time I walked into an A.A. meeting I was well aware I had a problem. Embracing the idea I was a drunk and letting others know gave me wonderful excuses to avoid anything approaching a life of responsibility. Often I would be called to do something on a whim or at odd hours only to be more than ready to tell my supervisor I was too hammered to drive. So be it. They knew, and as a result I could keep pounding away at my lifestyle. In the early nineties I maneuvered myself into a way to live on the upper west coast where all my bills were paid including everything but food. Rent, gas, electricity, phone, and even vehicle maintenance were covered by my supervisor. I thought I was being crafty and clever, but in reality I was putting a noose around my neck. Those gentle winds of change marked a coming hurricane of chaos I never saw coming.

I won’t lie, it was intoxicating at first. I was living in a new city, alone, traveling, and often making my own work schedule, but, I was poor in the truest sense of the word. I had nothing to come home other than a ten inch TV and of course, alcohol. My actual paycheck, past all those prepaid bills I mentioned, was only about one-hundred and twenty dollars a week. The cash I did have was spent on alcohol and food, in that order. I also dropped about twenty dollars a week into pinball machines, so my wasteful spending had more than one outlet.  I spent about two years in Seattle from early ’90 to  late ’91 and through a huge mistake on my part I was eventually shipped off to Des Moines to do the same work under the much worse conditions. Upon arrival I was actually sober for almost a month, white-knuckling it as it were. All too soon I found the availability of booze was much easier here than on the west coast. Grocery stores handled it, whereas in Seattle all liquor outlets were state-owned. At the time this was part of their “sin tax” program that was a substitute for most state tax programs. This has since vanished as far as I know.

By this time my days of blissful incoherence were a distant memory, one I still blindly chased, totally unaware I was even doing it. I was always sick and it showed. My diet, as unwholesome as it was, almost matched my skills of self-destruction with the bottle. When I did eat it was only after drinking a pint or two of very cheap vodka (usually taking less than twenty minutes) and never unless it was on an empty stomach; I wanted what I called “the sledge-hammer effect.” Frozen pizza with sour cream was my favorite meal after getting blitzed. The best way I could describe my existence was as if I were becoming a copy of a copy of a copy and so on. Each day my resolution faded a little. The structure was still there, but the details were slowly disappearing. Nothing that interested my only a few years prior held any appeal. Reading, writing, and art were collecting dust as reminders of a time when simpler, and honestly more productive and creative endeavors, held value.

I began to spend more and more time on the road. Half-star motels fueled a made-up need to drink more away from my lovely piece of crap apartment. The one I had in Seattle was actually somewhat nice compared to where I ended up. It was wasn’t modern or fancy, but at least it wasn’t built around the turn of the century. The building I was living in at this time was so old the storage bins underneath used to be horse stalls. Wooden floors, metal cabinets, radiators, and a refrigerator that only came up to the middle of my chest had replaced what I taken for granted in my previous residence. I used to describe it as living in Sam Spade’s apartment.

Once I arrived in Des Moines whatever sense of responsibility I still clung to started deteriorating rapidly. I began blowing off more and more duties in favor staying home and getting sloshed. All too often I would get out on the road and show up late just so I could go to a motel and lose myself in the bottle. The area I covered was from the Quad Cities to Lincoln Nebraska and down to Kansas City; quite a large triangle. I’d call who I was supposed to show up for that night and reschedule for the following evening. I continually talked myself into believing I wasn’t inconveniencing anyone since I was being locked into the store and no one else had to be there anyway. It was a wonder I was able to keep my job let alone drive. The people I pissed off were too numerous to count, and that included my then supervisor back in Denver.

I had never been to Alcoholics Anonymous before, but one day, when my shame was really getting on me, (and I WAS sober, by the way) I finally made a phone call. Turned out there was a meeting within walking distance of where I lived. I set off on foot not knowing what to expect. The memory of that first meeting is burned into my memory. I recall walking into a rustic looking room, which was in the basement of a building, sitting down in the corner and saying nothing. I looked around at the various faces; happy, angry, peaceful, in pain, confused, determined. My first order of business was to silently judge everyone, at least that’s what I was wired for. The initial inclination I came to was actually correct, I was surrounded by criminals, and I was one of them. The place scared the hell out of me, but I sat through the entire meeting. People were talking about things I had no connection to. I knew nothing of the structure of this organization, let alone the Big Book. For the next year I went sporadically in between my binges. Occasionally I would be able to stay sober for a week or so, but I would always find myself with a bottle in my hand, sitting alone, full of regret and hopelessness.

In nineteen-ninety-three, out of desperation, I called my best friend in Colorado and asked him if I could move in temporarily while trying to sober up. Amazingly he and his wife obliged. I separated what I wanted to keep, left everything else neatly stacked in the middle of my apartment, and set off back to Denver without telling the building management I was leaving. I convinced myself the furniture I left behind  and other items were not going to be much of a burden to the owners of the apartments since they already offered furnished units stocked with whatever have been left behind by previous tenants. I ended up throwing away thirty paper grocery bags full of empty bottles that were lying around my place. It added up to close to four-hundred pints, and that was only about six months worth since I had cleaned up several months prior. Keep in mind I spent more time on the road  than I did in my own place, so the number was actually quite a bit higher as to what I had consumed.  After everything I owned was packed into the back of my van, I could see out the rear window from the driver’s seat. What I still considered valuable, the stuff I both needed and wanted, was truly quite sparse. I was 28 years old and had nothing to show for my life. Once I got back to Denver that’s when things started  getting REALLY bad.

Part two coming soon.

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With Love and Compassion,

Daniel Andrew Lockwood

41. OUTRUNNING THE DEMONS

Dark_eyes_wallpaper_by_ONLYMEAGAIN

I used to have nightmares that would make Wes Craven’s movies look like Sesame Street. The hellish visions seemed so real I would find myself jumping out of bed in the middle of the night in a sweaty panic, fighting off the ghostly images that would follow me into the realm of reality. My solution to this predicament was even more of what was aiding their appearance to begin with; alcohol. To be honest it would actually work on occasion and allow me a period devoid of all awareness, all interest, all  feeling; so there were times I could escape the immediate threat of my inner twisted menagerie and float away on a sea of apathy.

Introspection is the perceived enemy to those who are their own worst threat. What I didn’t realize is that when I avoided looking at myself, those reflections would intensify and re-manifest in other ways. Part of my mind, the part that was fading quickly but still intact, was desperately doing everything it could to warn me of my inevitable demise. No subtleties  in play here. The carnival of madness was in full swing, and I was both the audience and the main attraction. My personality was split between rationality and insanity. The war that I encouraged between the two almost killed me. I was a candidate for a straight jacket and there’s no doubt I would have passed whatever test would have been required  to acquire one.

On occasion I had times of sobriety (but NOT recovery) and physically this would feel great, but abstinence does not equal nor even add to mental health. Every time I went into a period of  self-restraint my ego would eventually re-assert itself. I” would begin to think “I” could control the urge to do what I knew was wrong. The mistake was interpreting an attitude of smugness for resolve, and again I would find myself in deep trouble.

There came a time where I eventually painted myself into a symbolic corner. I had run out of choices. I had neither  the balls to blow out my brains and end it all in one fell swoop, nor the stamina to keep on living. Empty, tired, and desperate I FINALLY started asking for help. Those that came to my aid knew what had to take place. They were the ones who spun me around and showed me for the FIRST time what I was really running from; self-judgment. The absence of self-judgment is self-acceptance, and it is  in this state of mind where conflict ceases. What was once broken became whole again. This is something I never could have done alone. The idea of attempting to face my demons on my own was too horrifying a prospect to even contemplate.

IF you are in a place similar to where I was, the only way to get free from that which feels inescapable is to drop your defenses (no more excuses) and ask for help. One of my first entries on this blog (for which I have provided the following link) will clarify just how to go about doing this.

CLICK HERE  https://danielandrewlockwood.com/2013/05/04/how-to-know-if-you-are-on-the-right-track/

The secret I have learned is this; those demons I was running from only existed when I refused to face them. They are shadows, reflections without dimension. It was my running that gave them strength, my denial that fueled their resolve. Where understanding is present, fear is absent. Where fear is absent, love exists. Where love exists, life persists. Where life persists, the possibilities are endless……and I intend to continue proving it.

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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood