Getting Sober

     In 1995 I was about to die. I knew it because my liver hurt every time I took a swallow of alcohol. It was swollen and painful; I could feel it when I pressed my fingers against it on my right side under my ribcage, and it pressed against my ribs. I was scared but not scared enough to forego my next beer or G&T. I was a functioning (?) alcoholic. I drank slowly but steadily, all day long, every day, hardly ever slept for more than a couple of hours at a time, and had tremors so bad that I could barely feed myself. I was alone in the world. My family couldn't stand to watch me fade away, so they avoided me at all costs.

     My only source of income was a small VA disability, plus any money I could make as a handyman. I spent most of my available money on liquor or drugs, so I had no place to live. My pickup truck served as bedroom, kitchen, and living room. I used convenience store restrooms for my ablutions. I borrowed or bought paperback books at the used bookstore so I would have something to do while I drank. The grocery store provided cheap canned goods to eat.

     On March 6th of that year, while laying in my truck in a large parking lot, I ran out of money, patience, and time, all at once. I had just finished drinking my last beer and smoking my last joint, and I was trying to decide how to kill myself with the least inconvenience to anyone else (a drunks reasoning) when I apparently fell asleep. I learned later that a police officer rolled up next to me, tried to wake me, and when he couldn't he called an ambulance. While he waited for them to arrive he searched the truck and found the roach I'd left in the ashtray. Drunk, stoned and unconscious, I was placed under arrest.

     I awoke in a hospital bed sometime that night. Informed of my circumstances, I asked to see my sister and my family doctor. It turned out they had already been notified, and they'd been busy. My sister had talked to the district attorney about allowing me to get help and my doctor had talked to a counselor friend at the VA hospital in Shreveport. A bed was being saved for me in the detox ward. Early the next morning my brother-in-law drove me the 75 miles from Texarkana to Shreveport and helped me through the admittance procedures at the hospital.

     Detoxification is not fun. Five days of shots, shakes, and interrogations. The shots try to restore your body to some semblance of health. Drugs like  haloperidol, beta-blockers and clonidine are common medications that help the alcoholic recover from withdrawal. The drugs are monitored and taken regularly for 3 to 5 days to ensure a safe withdrawal. They help the drunk avoid the DT's or Delirium Tremors, but they can't really stop the shakes, which are a physical symptom of long term alcohol abuse. The interrogations are just a way of determining if the patient is a good candidate for the longer term, more intense, thirty day recovery program.

     Live in accomodations are available for veterans who don't live near a VA clinic or have unstable, or no housing. Special programs are offered to veterans with special concerns, and homeless patients. A drug abuser coming to VA will find the following kinds of care: first-time screening for alcohol or tobacco use in all care locations, short outpatient counseling including focus on motivation, residential (live-in) care, medically managed detoxification (stopping substance use safely) and services to get stable, continuing care and relapse prevention, along with self-help groups like Alcoholics Anonymous.

     Apparently the way had been greased for me, because despite my surliness at the process I was accepted for longer term treatment, and at the end of the five day detox I was moved one floor up to the treatment center. Placed in a four bed room, and then summoned by one of the counselors, I was asked a series of pro-forma questions about my life and drug usage. Yes, I said drug usage. Alcohol is nothing more or less than a mind altering drug, like marijuana or heroin. The only difference being that alcohol is legal.

     I settled into the daily routine fairly easily. Unsure that I wanted to be there, but unable to think of anything else to do with my life at the moment, other than die, I accepted that perhaps I could use a month of three hots and a cot. The daily routine was consistent, which is one of the things they were trying to teach us. We had three large, nourishing, and fairly tasty meals every day, an hour of individual one to one therapy with a counselor, two hours of group therapy, exercise and shop therapy, and an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting every evening. We were encouraged to attend church services on the ward every Sunday morning.

     As I had more days of sobriety the idea slowly came to me that there was a way to live that didn't include drugs. Perhaps life wasn't as hopeless as I thought. Maybe I could live a normal life, like so many other people do. At the same time, it was hard to imagine life without drugs and alcohol, because I'd depended on them for so many years. I was going to have to change my entire life if I was to lead a successful life. Now that's a scary thought for an addictive personality.

     I slowly understood that I could change. It might not be easy but others had done it and so could I. The AA meetings especially became a lifeline, a place where I could feel welcome and safe. I came to understand that I would never be judged there, as long as I was honest with myself and others. The twelve steps were a guideline to a new life, if I would just accept that I needed structure in my life. That I needed to be honest, and willing to change the way I looked at myself and the world.

              Next time I'll write about the ease and hardship of
                              of my first year of sobriety...