Ted M.
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I woke up alone and disoriented. And sweaty. I couldn’t quote the song at the time, I was so out of it, but looking back on the cloudy memories, I was definitely what The Band sung of as “feeling ’bout half past dead.”
Rising from my stupor, my body feeling like I’d gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson and my head fogged with only at best a vague memory of the day before, was nothing new to me by this point. That didn’t make it any less confusing or painful though.
“Where the hell am I?” I wondered to myself. I had been awoken by a knock on the door a few minutes earlier. 6:45 in the damned morning?!? Who had knocked, and why? As I glanced around the room assessing a scene of mild chaos in a place I simply did not recognize, I heard another knock on the door.
Wake up, we’re going to the meeting in 15 minutes!
Meeting? WTF!?! Wait a minute….the thoughts and memories slowly streamed through my liquor-addled mind…let’s see, there’s the clothes I was wearing last night…and my gym bag, with its contents strewn across the floor….I’m in what appears to be some sort of guest room…perhaps a hospital? That wouldn’t be anything new, I’d been hospitalised before after binges…and then it hit me….
Aw shit, I checked into rehab last night.
I threw on the previous day’s clothes, those booze-soaked rags I had been wearing when I walked into…wherever I had walked into, whatever Detox Mansion I had managed to find. Opened the door, took a deep breath, and nearly passed out.
One of the “aides” appeared out of nowhere, catching me before I hit the floor. I could barely hold my head up, and sort of hung on her arms, my head lolling back and forth like I was a fish out of water – except in my case I was a drunk out of vodka.
I had to be more careful getting up so quickly, the aide told me. Even in the condition I was in at the time, I still did not like people telling me what I “had to do.”
Despite my aversion to being told what to do, I was grateful she had kept me from cracking my head on the floor. Once, while in hospital going through delirium tremens, I had woken in the middle of the night with the need to “drain the main vein” (go the toilet, for those who don’t know the vernacular). I was pretty wobbly and sedated, and I stepped out of my hospital bed and right into the puke bucket laying on the floor, slipped backward, cracked my head on the concrete floor, and gave myself another concussion and a few more bruises.
So at least this time I hadn’t stepped in my own puke, or cracked my head on the ground. Baby steps, right?
I learned weeks later that the rehab staff kept an eye on us “newbies” while we were detoxing to make sure we didn’t have any accidents or suffer too much during seizures. The thing that is most interesting about that is that they did their jobs so well, we never noticed them or felt like they were hovering over us. But whenever one of us fell, tripped, convulsed or puked, a residential aide would immediately be there to assist us.
And so began the first day of rehabilitation. It had been months since I’d not had a drink first thing in the morning to calm the shakes, the bitter hellish symphony of my central nervous system breaking down due to deprivation of drink for a few hours.
The librium and sedatives I was being fed every six hours helped some – from what I understand, the primary goal of that particular chemical cocktail is to keep the body from going into shock, resulting in a seizure or, in cases like mine, possible death.
Even with the meds, my body still knew it was missing something. I was dizzy, weak, and very shaky. I was led to THE VAN – a white van, everything looked white that morning in a weird way – and soon after was in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I didn’t share much. In fact I don’t know if I said anything at all.
The rest of the day I spent either sleeping or staring off into space. At some point I tried turning on the television in my room. It only got three over-the-air channels. And each of the channels was laden with static. That could have been exacerbated by the withdrawal I was going through.
Damn, no cable in my room…what kind of shithole rehab facility had I picked?
The staff encouraged me to come out of my room when I felt up to it, primarily so they could attempt to get plenty of liquids into my system. Surprisingly, only water, fruit juices, and soda pop were offered – no gin? Not even a glass of wine? Again I found myself wondering what the hell kind of gulag I was in. And then I remembered….
The “7-Up” bottle I had left in the parking lot. Ah-ha! I thought at that moment that I was likely the smartest guy in the history of rehab treatment programs.
Sadly, I was too weak to journey out to the parking lot that day. And, as I laid in my bed, sweating and shaking and trying to work out where exactly I actually was geographically, my mind continued to rationalize.
Just wait until tomorrow…they will be less likely to notice you go to the parking lot then…
I don’t remember a lot of other details of Day 1, though then again there are periods of whole weeks prior to entering residential rehab that I can’t recall at all. And there is one thing about Day 1 that I will never forget.
I had gone through physical withdrawal and detoxification before – at least five times, but very likely actually twice that many if not more. Sometimes I had done it “on my own,” weaning myself to the point of having seizures that woke me in the middle of the night, and substituting pills for booze. Other times I detoxed under medical supervision, under heavy sedation along with Librium or Ativan.
This detox wasn’t like any previous drying out. This one was different. Between the sedative meds (be they “self-prescribed” or doctor-approved) and the fact that I normally had gone straight back to the bottle after each previous detox, every single previous detox was, to me, simply a horrific hallucination. This time I was in deep.
And this time, on that first day, as I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t recognize my own face.
Once I puzzled through who this distorted image in the mirror was, it looked to me like I was dying, but I could not understand why it was taking so long.
I stumbled back to the bed, laid down, and waited.
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When I walked in the door of the inpatient treatment facility, I was drunk off my ass. I mean happy as a clam, reeking of booze, swaying and slurring my words drunk.
I walked in “under my own power” though – that’s called acquired tolerance, kiddies. You build it up over time, and it allows you to do things like walk into a hospital on your own, tell them you’ve had “two drinks” that day, and then find out your blood alcohol content is .42 (that’s a tad high, FYI).
Later I learned that it’s quite common for people to enter rehab higher than kites. One person I befriended in rehab had been through the dreaded intervention with their family. At the end of the intervention he agreed to go to rehab on one condition: he could drink as much as he wanted that night and the next morning before departing for Detox Mansion, and no-one would say a word to him about how much he drank.
Another fellow traveler came in under the influence of booze (I think she clocked in at .27) as well as weed and painkillers. Booze and pills don’t mix well, boys and girls. She spent most of her first night running to the toilet to puke some of it up.
And one poor soul came in, went though the intake interview, and was evaluated as needing to physically detox in a hospital before even beginning the mental and spiritual parts of rehab. They came back after a week in hospital, and six days later had a seizure from the after-shock of withdrawal. That’s how much of a Game of Life we’re talking about here.
But back to my little tale (at least the parts of it I can remember or was told about later). A friend drove me to rehab, and in my memory it was dark as midnight when we got there (I learned later it was about 4 p.m.). We were to meet the manager of the facility at 5, so I had some time to kill. Naturally, as any stage 4 drunk would do, I camped out on a curb in the parking lot, sipping from my bottle of “7-Up”, and drunk-dialed people on my cell phone.
I still don’t know for sure who I called or what I said. I’ve asked a few friends since, and learnt that I had a few “interesting” conversations with people. And that “pop” sure did taste good.
When it was time to go in, I cleverly hid the bottle behind a curb. After all, it had a bit of vodka left in it…I could go retrieve it later. Brilliant!
So I staggered into the facility and announced that I had arrived. I met quite a few of the staff that night, though for the next week or so I found myself often saying:
Have we met? Were you here when I arrived?
They took it in good humour. As I mentioned, a lot of people check in under the influence.
My first night I went through an intake interview that I really don’t remember at all. Apparently, and to their credit, the staff realised that I required physical detoxification first and foremost. So, every six hours, I was given Librium and a sedative to keep my central nervous system from going into shock.
After getting a basic tour of the facility, I “fell asleep” (passed out) on the bed in my room. Around 3 or 4 AM I was given my dose of detox meds and promptly fell back to “sleep”.
And so began my little trip down rehab lane.
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Simple tests for complex problems do not work. The disease of alcoholism is recognized and defined by Alcoholics Anyonymous as (among other things) “cunning, baffling, and powerful.” I believe this to be very accurate.
Regrettably, alcoholism is not a disease that can be easily “tested for” or proven or dis-proven. If you, a loved one, or anyone else you know believe you may have a problem or feel that you or they drink too much, it is certainly worth examining further. However, in my own experiences and the experience of others, I have seen a variety of tempting but ultimately unproductive ways to approach that examination.
The first and most frequently-used simple test is, I believe, among the worst because it is so inaccurate: “Do you ever drink alone?” This is far too black and white a question, yet is considered by many laypeople to be a good jumping-off point for deciding that an intervention is in order for anyone who answers “Yes.”
The most simple rebuttal I have to that is the scenario of a single person who wishes to occasionally have a drink but does not drive after having even a drop of alcohol (a very good policy, by the way). If they go home and have one or two drinks after work by themselves, they would answer “Yes” to the question of whether they ever drink alone. Are they an alcoholic? Not necessarily.
A friend of mine who is aware of the fact that I am a recovering alcoholic and I were talking the other day, and he said, “Man, what a day I had! I felt like I really could use a drink after I got off work.” He then sheepishly apologized for saying that to me. I told him no apology was necessary – alcohol is in our society, for better or worse, and you have to get used to that.
He then asked me if feeling the “need” for a drink after a stressful day at work was a sign that he had a problem. It took me a minute to really process that and formulate a helpful answer. In the end, I replied:
I don’t think it’s that simple. Many people have days like that from time to time, and sometimes a drink is a nice little treat for someone after such a day. If you find yourself feeling that way quite often, or if you have more than one after a stressful day, you might have a problem. But it’s a cunning and complex disease, not one that is prone to simple tests. It’s good to ask yourself questions like that, but from what I know of you, you do not have a problem.
There are many other “basic” tests that people try to use. In the end, I think they are at best overly simplistic and, at worst, are used by some people to rationalize the outcome they want – “I don’t do x” (where x is a basic test), so “I do not have a drinking problem.” Alcoholics are masters of rationalization, often attempting to apply rules to limit their drinking (such as “I will not have a drink until 8 p.m.” or “I will only drink beer from now on”) to “prove” they don’t have a problem.
Would you like some simple tests? The first one is quite basic but requires honest, thoughtful reflection in responding to be of any use:
Are you concerned about the impact of your alcohol consumption?
If you have reason to ask this, whether you are asking it of yourself or with regard to a loved on, I would encourage you to spend some time reflecting on why you are asking the question.
Another simple test is:
Do your hands shake uncontrollably when you wake up? Do they stop shaking after you have had one or more drinks?
Aside from neurological conditions, the “morning shakes” are often a sign of physical dependence on alcohol. If they “clear up” after you drink, you need help. Now.
Other signs of alcohol dependence include:
- waking up one or more times during the night to have a drink to “help you sleep”
- profuse sweating when not drinking and/or while sleeping
- periods of time that you cannot remember
- obviously, a strong odor of alcohol (or even rubbing alcohol if you drink vodka because “it doesn’t have an odor”)
- aside from an odor of alcohol, many heavy drinkers will have a very strong odor of vinegar in their perspiration; if you smell vinegar when you wake up, your body is going into a state in which it cannot process the alcohol properly; again, get help – immediately
Alcoholism is indeed a very cunning, baffling, and powerful disease. It is progressive – without help, it will continue to get worse and worse. It is also fatal if untreated. If you get nothing else from reading this article, please get this. I have friends who drank themselves to death. I nearly drank myself to death. It is a painful, lonely, slow way to die.
There is help. There is light at the end of the tunnel. And there is no shame in it. Because we are anonymous, there are far more people who have struggled in similar ways than you know. You can get help. Just ask.
Please feel free to contact me anonymously if you don’t know where else to turn.
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Hi, my name is Ted, and I am an alcoholic.
It’s very hard to know where to start writing in this blog. The subject matter is intensely personal and will at times be very painful for both authors and readers.
In reality, it was even difficult to decide on a name for the blog itself. The current name (LearnAboutRehab.com) makes the site matter sound much more narrow in focus than the reality of what we write about here.
Another complicating set of factors in writing here is our intense need for our own – and our respect for others’ – anonymity. Many bottles of ink have been spilled and many heated discussions have occurred regarding this topic. The founders and charter members of Alcoholics Anonymous considered it so vital that they named the group accordingly; each A.A. meeting begins with reminders of the importance of respecting the anonymity of the group and the individuals in it; and each meeting is closed with another reminder about leaving what is said and who see in the room.
My own need to maintain my anonymity and to respect that of others’ is not borne simply from “respecting the Elders” of A.A. It is also driven by my own experiences of small-town living, of having heard how others felt when their privacy was violated, and my own feelings when well-intentioned people did not maintain my own anonymity and took it upon themselves to share information about my situation with others.
I do not doubt the motives of the people who did that – I sincerely believe them to have been well-intentioned at the time. That, however, does not erase the feelings it engendered in me:
- a sense of loss of control in a situation where so many other aspects of my life had spiralled out of control
- feelings of betrayal or “being used” as some sort of example (again, with good intentions; but there is a certain road that is paved with good intentions)
- self-isolation out of concern for further betrayals of confidences
The final, and perhaps the greatest challenge to writing this, is the intense swirl of emotions, the complicated inter-personal relationships between those involved, and the simple fact that I was a “blackout drunk” for quite some time.
The feelings and the relationships between the people writing here will obviously colour some of what is discussed. That is human nature.
But put quite simply, I could not construct any sort of cohesive history of what happened. I do not remember parts of it, and other memories are distorted. A frequent exercise in rehab programs is to ask the person how much they drank per day, week or month; or, worse yet, how much they spent on booze in a given time frame.
There is simply no way I could answer the first question – I had no idea. Near the end I drank enough to prevent myself from going into physical withdrawal. And the amount of money spent? I guess I’d sum that one up by saying two things:
- It doesn’t matter if you’re drinking Mad Dog 20/20, “just beer”, or Dom Perignon and Remy Martin – you can develop a problem with any of these
- In my experience, I slowly moved down the “food chain”, progressively buying cheaper brands to maximise quantity purchased
The term “blackout” is actually quite misleading. Blackout drunks aren’t just passed out. Those periods of actual loss of consciousness are the ones that are relatively easy to figure out; the person is passed out, “asleep” in a place they normally might not sleep. For example, a dumpster.
But the blackout drunks’ more natural state is to appear largely functional. They may slur their words a bit (or maybe not). They may sweat profusely, but they will always have an excuse as to why. The blackout drunk can (as I have done) have a Blood Alcohol Content of .30, .40, or higher, and still be largely functional. That’s just one glimpse into the fun world of being a blackout drunk.
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