DESCENT INTO HELL

Descent Into Hell



Hell found me. I had been drug-free and sober for 15 years, and now I was sneaking cans of beer into my sister's bathroom at her going away party. I wasn't sure where my kids were. I wasn't thinking about how I was going to drive home. I wasn't thinking about anything except that I wanted to drink some beer as quickly as humanly possible to stop the pain I was feeling.

My husband had left me two weeks ago, and it looked like we were getting a divorce. He was sober and clean in A.A. for 13 years and his program was very strict. It didn't allow for a wife that stole his pain pills and replaced them with ibuprofen. He hated even having to take the pain pills, but his herniated disk really caused him horrible post-op pain that he couldn't manage. He couldn't believe that his long-time sober wife, a working certified substance abuse counselor, who sponsored many women in A.A., was not only low enough to take his codeine but heartless enough not to care that he would be in extreme pain without it. So he left me.

People warned me about becoming a substance abuse counselor. They said wearing two hats was dangerous. The hospital I worked for wanted me to be open about my own recovery story and my A.A. membership and personal recovery with A.A. Was the patient's insurance paying for what I'd learned for free in A.A.? Did A.A. suffer when I shared my personal story with a suffering alcoholic or drug addict in the emergency room who really wanted help only to learn that he/she could not stay for treatment because of lack of medical insurance? I ended up feeling like a used car salesperson. I felt dirty. The glow was tarnished on my pristine A.A. personal miracle after pulling it out for cash-on-demand show and tell so often.

And now on top of my impending divorce, my favorite sister and her family were moving from Illinois to Wisconsin. She was a large part of my support system. How would I manage with her all those miles away growing estranged from me and my concerns? I was heart sick over her move.

I had been sitting at the party earlier watching everyone drink their beers and thinking I wasn't bothered by it, as always, when suddenly I had the thought that I didn't care if I drank or not. The next thought was "Why not drink?" And then I walked over to the cooler and pulled out two beers, never just one, and headed inside to the bathroom.

When I had closed and locked the bathroom door I chugged the two beers in rapid succession, standing with my back to the door. I almost wanted to laugh at how different my drinking was from a normal drinker's. I had to drink in the bathroom and I felt I had to stand and drink quickly. I couldn't sit with the others and drink slowly and comfortably. They all knew I was a recovering, had been a recovering, alcoholic, and would be horrified to see me drink. I didn't want to upset my sister, and God knew I couldn't have my children finding out. At the very least they might tell their father who would then go for total custody.

I finished the beers and looked in the medicine cabinet for mouthwash. Fortunately I found some. A few swishes and a couple of gargles and I was back at the party sitting and smiling like the complete phony I was.

I felt nothing but the desire to go home where I could drink in peace without worrying about getting caught or having to drive. I stayed another half-hour and said my goodbyes. I cried saying goodbye to my sister and to her family.

As a D.U.I. education teacher who gave all the lectures from heart, I felt horribly guilty turning the key in the ignition as I prepared to drive off with my two little ones falling asleep already in the back seat. I said a prayer and told myself I was fine on just two beers, but in my heart I knew it was two too many.

Thank God we made it to our suburb. I pulled into Walgreen's and left the kids sleeping in the car. I bought a 12-pack of beer, the only thing I ever really drank, but enough to cause me to hit a very low alcoholic bottom at the age of 28.

When we got home I got the kids in bed and then ran to the refrigerator to get my first beer. I found out I still didn't drink slowly and comfortably. I always had been a one-two-three get-drunk drinker and I still was. Before I knew it, six of the 12 beers were gone.

I was just cracking open number seven when my daughter came rubbing her eyes out to the living room.

"Mommy, what are you doing? Isn't it late? Why are you still up? Are you drinking beer?"

She was six and could read the label or else she recognized it from some friend's parent.

"I'm going to bed in a little while, honey. This is just pretend beer. It is non-alcoholic." I hoped God would not punish me for lying to my precious daughter. It made me feel sick to do so.

"Can I have a sip?" she asked as she would ask no matter what I was drinking.

"No. I don't think you should drink this. It's kind of yucky. It's not for kids," I told her.

"Okay, Mommy. Will you come tuck me back in bed?"

"Sure, babycakes, let's go."

And off to her room we went. I hoped I didn't reek of beer.

I hated myself for my impatience for her to fall asleep. I couldn't wait to get back to my drinking. I told myself I had no choice now but to finish the 12-pack and get all of the beer out of the house before morning.

When I had drunk all the beer I felt like doing something exciting. I was bored. I got my iPod and made sure I had plenty of Van Morrison on it. Then I put on a jacket and started walking through our quiet neighborhood which bordered a forest preserve. I danced while I walked. I sang aloud a few times. I wondered if it was okay to have left the kids home alone. I normally never left them alone even during the daytime. Sonja was six but Eric was only four.

After about an hour and one-half I started getting tired. I did have to go to work tomorrow. I tried not to think how it would feel to give my Monday morning lecture on the signs and symptoms of relapse when I was hungover. I decided I would probably feel like a pedophile priest running a training course for new altar boys.

The next morning I had a terrible hangover. I had forgotten how bad they could be. I had taken for granted what it was like to live 15 years without a single one. I was irritable with the kids and rushed them through their breakfasts and getting dressed. I was swearing by the time I got us all in the car. The truth was I was upset about going to work and having to look all those recovering alcoholic/addict counselors in the eye and act like everything was the same. They weren't easily fooled. I was scared. I was on my own now, and I couldn't afford to lose this job.

I sweat a lot and I felt queasy, but I somehow made it through the day. I struggled to make conversation about my weekend and the patients just like I normally would have. I figured they expected some change in me since my long-time marriage had just broken up. And, besides, I told myself, when I finish this ungodly day, I get to go home and drink.

And that became my new routine. By day I was a substance abuse counselor and by night I was a substance abuser. I screened my calls and no longer picked up for the A.A. women I sponsored or anyone in A.A. Of course, I had to talk to my estranged husband to make arrangements for him to see the kids. I made sure those conversations were strictly kept to the phone and not made in person. I felt like if he could look at me he would know. He knew me too well.

Gradually I sank into the old alcoholic self I had so easily forgotten. My stomach was always upset and I never had a normal bowel movement. My hands started shaking, and I was terrified someone at work would notice. I couldn't sleep well. I lost my appetite. The old fears came back and then the old night terrors. Self-hatred became my constant companion. I isolated and made excuses to not see anyone. I asked a neighbor to start picking up my kids from school and other activities. And I snuck drinks. I had started drinking in a bathroom, and that is where I still did a lot of my drinking. Beer got too clumsy to hide and drink down fast in the bathroom, so I switched to vodka which stopped the tremors in my hands better. I was on my way to all the old nightmares of drinking alcoholically that had escaped my mind when I picked up those first two beers.

And then one weekend the worst thing that could happen happened. My soon to be ex-husband, John, had taken the kids for the day and normally kept them past dinner and brought them home around 7:00 p.m. It was Sunday night around 6:00 p.m. and I was sitting on the couch drinking beer and watching Sixty Minutes. I had been drinking most of the day since he'd picked them up at 9:00 a.m. I had gone back to smoking cigarettes, which the kids hated, and was just lighting a cigarette, when the front door banged open. The kids were playing around and barging in with their father close behind them.

"Joan, I thought I should make sure you were here," he started to say. Then he saw the can of beer.

"I don't believe this. You're drinking! Have you lost your mind? Don't you care about these children? Don't you care if you lose these children?"

"John, John, of course I care. I care more than anything in the world. I am going to quit tomorrow." Even I could hear how feeble and dishonest I sounded. "Please, John, you've got to give me a chance. I did it before. I can get sober again. I swear I can."

"Well, I can't trust you tonight," was all he said. "Come on kids. You're staying at my house tonight. Go pack your pajamas and your school clothes and anything you need for school tomorrow."

"Disgusting, Joan. I never knew you would stoop this low. You're a slipper and a slider. You're a loser. You're pitiful. I can't believe I was married to you," he wasn't finished yet.

"It's all been so hard, John. You leaving. Getting a divorce. My sister moving away," I was begging him to understand.

"And how much longer do you think you can get away with keeping your job? 'Substance abuse counselor'--what a joke! "

"Yeah, well it's the only job I've got and I've got to keep it."

John yelled to the kids to hurry up. They started crying.

"Mommy," Eric came out in tears, "I don't want to leave you. I'm supposed to be here with you. I have preschool tomorrow. You make my breakfast for me."

"It will be alright, sweetheart. It's just for one night. You'll be back home tomorrow," I told him.

"Mommy," Sonja was sobbing, "I am afraid to leave you alone. You'll be too sad without us."

"I'll be fine, munchkin. Now pack a bag and go stay with your Daddy just for tonight and I'll see you tomorrow after work."

I finally got them to stop crying and then they were a little excited about going off on their new adventure of sleeping at their Dad's on a school night. It was too quiet though when they left. I went and got the vodka bottle out from the back of the toilet and settled in to do some serious drinking since it was going to be my last night for it. I had to quit tomorrow or he would take my kids away for good. He had pretty much let me know that.



Three months later I found that alcoholism had a lower bottom than I had ever reached before. I had lost legal custody of my children for good. I didn't even have visiting privileges. I hadn't been able to quit drinking just because I promised myself I would. He had shown me no mercy. My heart was forever broken. I sat in the semi-dark at night in my car and wrote letters to my children that didn't get mailed telling them how very much I missed them.

Yes, I had been evicted after I had lost my job and now I was living in my car. It had been quite a scene the day I showed up drunk for work. I still couldn't bear to think about it or the way the patients had looked at me. The counselors had been disgusted but tried to hide it. The landlord had apologized for evicting me, but said he had no choice. Now I had no money for gas so I couldn't keep moving the car around, and the police were hassling me because people were complaining that I was living in my car in front of their houses. I felt like the whole world was crashing in on me ever tighter with each passing day.

And I was getting sicker. It was getting harder to get money to get a drink. The shakes were so bad when I couldn't drink. I had to resort to robbing cars for loose change to buy a bottle. I didn't break into cars, but you'd be surprised how many people didn't lock their cars. I already had been caught once and ended up in jail for car burglary, a felony. I'd ended up in Cook County Jail. I never expected to end up there. My spiral downward didn't seem over yet. Where would it end? In A.A. we used to say the white collars would get you (the medical people), or the black collars (the priest saying the last rites), or the blue collars (the police). Only the last rites were left for me, but who would bother a priest for the likes of me. I was human garbage.

Hell had definitely found me.