A Story of Recovery

The engine behind addiction is pain - pure, unadulterated pain. The drugs become both fuel and medicine; fuel for the engine and medicine for the pain; relief and poison. A disease that sustains itself by curing itself; a vicious cycle that never allows you to address the problem: the pain. After years of addiction the source of that pain can become very obscure. Life is reduced to a single goal: to get high. Everything else fades far into the background...everything, and the disease takes on a life of its own.

Your spirit screams for help. Silenced by drugs, eventually it steps aside. How else can you explain the inhuman behavior? But it waits patiently for an opportunity to step back in. The hope and the prayer is that it happens before it's too late. Drug addiction is fatal.

"Drugs are not always necessary, but belief in recovery always is". Norman Cousins


Christopher's Story:

(Transcribed between July 2008 and November 2009 and updated 7/2012)

I have traveled a very long road over the past 25 years to arrive where I am today. I thank God for keeping me alive long enough to "get it". It takes what it takes and it took me, off and on, until November 2004. I'm closing in on 8 clean years. But a tremendous amount of damage has been done, especially to my relationships with my kids. As much as I would like to, I cannot change the past. I can only live my life with humility and do better now. I have no illusions, I will spend the rest of my life asking and praying for forgiveness.

I started smoking pot in high school. I remember the first time I tried it. My nervousness, my insecurities seem to disappear and were replaced by an uninhibited excitement. It was almost instantaneous – I felt better about myself. But most important, when I was high, it was easier for me to talk to girls - and I liked girls. Back then, getting high and drinking; that's what I did. Was I doing it more than everybody else? I didn't think so but quite honestly, I never gave it any thought. Unfortunately, back then, I never gave anything much thought. Looking back, I probably was doing it more. What's clear now is that I was thinking about it more. But how did I go from being a garden variety pot smoker to practically destroying my entire life and wreaking unimaginable havoc on my family with drugs? I'd like to tell you it took a long time but in fact, it did not.

I guess you could say that my frequent pot smoking kept me from reaching my potential in high school and college but I did pretty well. In high school, I played baseball: MVP, name and picture in the paper, a local hero of sorts. I was a pitcher and just for the record, I was very good. It is probably fair to say that if I was able to keep my focus on pitching instead of getting high, I may have had a chance to play professionally. I graduated Pace University with a degree in Political Science. I worked and even maintained a relationship, albeit stormy. Right out of college, I got married and started a family while at the same time building a successful business with my brother-in-law: a gourmet food business that took off immediately. Life was looking good. All that changed with a small innocuous looking line of powder. After doing that one little line, absolutely nothing would ever be the same for me or anyone around me. Forget about not feeling nervous or insecure, I was king of the universe. Fearless, powerful, indestructible..... Indescribable, really. What nobody tells you is that exact feeling will never happen again.


For quite a few years I was excellent at hiding my drug problem, especially from myself. During that time my cocaine habit grew and was costing conservatively, $80.00 to $150.00 a day not including collateral damage. I was stealing from the business (which I eventually ran into the ground), my wife, my parents, in-laws and friends. I even stole from my children. I would steal their jewelry and pawn it - horrifying; a violation of my little girls that created a barrier I have yet to break. I will never stop trying. Don't let any junkie fool you; there are no depths so low that we will not sink. Believe me, in the throes of addiction, using drugs does not seem optional. I continued to spiral downhill. My cocaine habit turned into a crack habit and in May of 1990 my family did an intervention. The plan was to fly me out to St. Mary's in Minneapolis, where they had a cutting edge "relapse prevention" program for substance abuse. After the intervention, my entire family brought me to Kennedy and my brother-in-law flew with me to St. Mary's and checked me in. I stayed the 28 days, and together with 4 other guys I met there, stayed an additional 3 months to do the aftercare program.


In September, I was coming home to be the Best Man in my brother's wedding. After getting home and spending one bad night with my wife, I took the car and the money I had to get fitted for the tux, and disappeared into the Bronx for days. I missed the wedding and pushed my wife into getting a restraining order, making me homeless and broke. I went into the Westchester County Shelter System and was assigned to a shelter on Grove Street in White Plains. This was a recovery oriented shelter where we went to AA meetings daily but I had already decided to go into long term residential treatment as an indigent to a program called Daytop. I received a bed date at their entry facility in Far Rockaway for December 6, 1991. I then rotated to a long term facility they had in Nyack. I remained in this behavior modification treatment until September 1993. Between 1990 and 1993, I was in Silver Hill for 1 month, St. Mary's for 1 month and Daytop for 20 months.


I didn't know at the time that this was just the beginning of my journey. I was convinced after each treatment that it would be my last, and came out with a renewed vigor for life. I didn't know that things would never change for me unless and until I was willing to change the life I was rushing back to resume!


Unfortunately, the drama didn't end with Daytop. In September of '93, I didn't exit my Daytop experience as I had my first two rehabs. After the first two, I came home believing I had the enthusiasm and dedication to go to meetings every day, get a sponsor, work the 12 steps of AA and develop a relationship with God. I did, in fact, do this both times but only went to meetings for short periods before my attendance would become sporadic then not at all. Something would always become more important at home or at work, and, after all, weren't these the two areas I had shortchanged for so long, buried in a bottle, pile of powder and crack stem? In retrospect, the ending was always predictable. After months of vigorously rebuilding my life by getting a new and, most often, better job, catching up on all the bills, replanting all the flowerbeds, reading bedtime stories to the kids and making love to my wife, I would forget where I had been. Once everyone around me thought I was all better, I believed I was all better and no longer had to do a thing.


After reconstructing the same life I had before, it was always only a matter of time before the uneasy, insecure, arrogant, egotistical and unfulfilled core of me would drift back to drugs and alcohol and sabotage everything once again. Always telling myself, "this time it will be different; this time I'll just do it on weekends"! Daytop ended with me doing drugs while on a weekend pass at home. After selling our house out from under my family and having a relationship while I was away in Daytop, my wife told me she was taking the kids and moving to Florida to live with her mom. I decided immediately to grab the keys to the car and run to get high. I'll show her! After 20 months of intense, and I mean intense, behavior modification treatment in Daytop, I still didn't have what it takes to deal with feelings of that magnitude. So I did the only thing I did know how to do: run. I was kicked out of Daytop, ran home to my parent’s house in Yorktown, and watched from my second floor bedroom window when my wife brought the kids to say goodbye to their grandparents. I can still see my 7 year old son walking around in circles in the driveway not really able to understand what was going on. I could not bring myself to go downstairs and face them all.

Eventually, I decided to move to Florida. I missed my kids and wanted to be closer to them even though I knew the feeling was not mutual. I situated myself a healthy distance away but I felt better knowing I was at least in the same state. Fortunately for me, I was always able to find work. Some jobs are definitely not well suited for addicts, like working for a moving company. It was much too easy to steal and I did, so those jobs never lasted long. In 2000, I caught a break. Don’t get me wrong. I know I have caught many breaks in my lifetime, many more then I deserved but this would really change my path. I got a job as a teacher in an Alternative Education School; a school for troubled kids. Imagine that, a troubled kid teaching troubled kids. But I can really identify with children who have major obstacles to overcome and who cannot even begin the battle until and unless they learn how to trust. I was teaching what I needed to learn. It’s a job that put me in front of kids who either do or sell drugs everyday!! Life is funny that way. This job would become a vital part of my healing. Regrettably, my drug addiction continued to flourish.

The fate of every junkie is loneliness and desperation. When you spend every penny you have on drugs, you would not believe what has to suffice as a meal. And ultimately, because you are constantly breaking the law, you get caught. In 2004 I was arrested. I will never forget the sound of that cell door closing behind me. I was facing 2 felony possession charges. My dad had recently been put in a nursing home after becoming incapacitated by a stroke and I was in the midst of my second divorce. On top of that, I was fired from my job after notifying them that I was going into rehab. But something happened while in rehab this time I can’t really explain or describe but I knew everything would be different. I now believe that 'something' is called grace; a gift from God; a moment of clarity in a life that had been spinning out of control for over 25 years. I started to "get it". I’m not sure how or why but over the next 7 months I was rehired as a teacher and all charges against me were dropped, the last on July 15, 2005. My dad died one week later, holding my hand, after I promised him I would take care of mom.


Once I allowed myself to become part of this Universe, to participate and contribute, good things came back to me. Once I began living my life with humility and dedicated myself to helping other people, somehow or another, whatever I needed kinda fell from the sky. Once I became willing to challenge my old notions of wealth and success and open myself to a new way of measuring, I realized how wealthy, successful and lucky I really am. This realization didn't, as you know, come cheap and the tricky thing about addiction is that it never leaves. It’s patient and so very seductive. My history has taught me that I can always reach a point where I forget, become complacent and try again. So, I go to AA meetings every day or night, sponsor other people and remind myself each day where I came from and who I am. I've been blessed in more ways than I know and I try to say "thank you" by the way I live my life.

The fact remains that without my complete downfall, without hitting rock bottom, I would not have; I could not have, rebuilt my life. I would have continued with my very marginal existence and ultimately, my addiction would have buried me. I was so limited before my recovery. Addiction hones selfishness and my ability to see past my own needs had become virtually non-existent. But in the “rooms”, in the confines of AA meetings, I found salvation. Who else could possibly help me other then someone who has been to hell and made it back; someone, like me, who felt death would have been a welcome relief from the nightmare they were living? Someone who has done the unimaginable to the people they love the most and found the courage to face them again? Someone who has had to deal with the agony of the people they love, but have hurt, not wanting any part of them. Only someone who has moved through their own pain, endured the consequences and was willing to share their experience could help me. The miracle of these rooms is that you are always in the presence of people who have done what you had come to believe was impossible; survive their addiction with all its aftermath, and found meaning in their life. I have discovered and experienced compassion, caring, acceptance and forgiveness for other people and for myself. Only then could I finally begin the process of healing. It has been a long, difficult and painful process but I am here and I am forever grateful and I am doing my best. With all the challenges I now face as a parent, I know I am at least capable of parenting. I wasn’t back then. I live with the reality that when my children needed me most, I was not available. But now I am really here for them. I think they know it. I hope they know it and I pray they let me back in.

Today, I am fully invested in my job a Substance Awareness Center and I am totally focused on restoring my relationship with my kids. I know, I have my work cut out for me. I thank God everyday for giving me another chance to get it right.

Postscript:

Chris tells his story with remarkable candor. He makes no excuses. He is remorseful about his past without being despondent. He is the father of four fabulous and very accomplished children. He lives in Florida and works as the Coordinator of The Substance Prevention Center; exactly where he feels he is meant to be.

The incredible thing about Chris's story is that it provides absolute proof that no matter how far you fall, you can get back up and start over. You can redeem and reinvent yourself. With enough determination and humility you can overcome anything.

Who am I to Chris? I am his best friend and his biggest fan. I pray for him every day.

When you look hard enough at addiction, you often find it is covering an extraordinarily tender and sensitive soul. More likely than not, that is how the whole problem starts. How many fathers know how to recognize and honor that in their son’s? Not many I’m afraid.

MISSION TO HAITI: DAY 3

There is no end to the sadness here. We discovered 76 starving children at an orphanage. I want to explain what an 'orphanage' is in Haiti. It is an open, outdoor space where children live. There may or not be a tarp to provide some shelter from the rain. The orphanage I was at yesterday, where I had Easter dinner, has a tarp. The one we discovered today does not. So......we try to figure out what to do. Getting anything done in Haiti, particularly in Port-au-Prince, is a logistical nightmare. Here are the particulars; a local store owner took in about 15 orphans a few years ago. He owned a grocery store and providing food and a little shelter was not a problem. Then, on January 12, 2010, there was the earthquake. Port-Au-Prince collapsed, including this nice man’s grocery store and the house he lived in with his orphaned children. In no time, his yard was filled with another 50 + children. Without any means to provide food, the situation quickly became desperate. To make matters worse, if his neighbors (who are all jobless, homeless and living outside in tents), see anyone come over with food or assistance, they steel the food or the little bit of money he may have been given. You see the problem? Even if we buy food, he has no place to put it and his neighbors will come and steal it. He has to be relocated. In the meantime, the kids need to be fed. Ultimately we found 4 bags of rice, some beans and a big strong Marine with a gun. We’ll go back tomorrow and see if we can make it better - but we can not make it 'right'. I’m not sure where all the money that has been donated is going. I see no signs of it here. I’m gonna hold off on the photos for now. I will provide a photo of my translator and body guard, Junior. He is responsible for making sure nothing bad happens to me:)

AND,big strong Marine with gun:

MISSION TO HAITI: DAY 1

What would a trip to JFK be without stopped traffic on The Van Wyck Expressway. It was backed up just enough to get my heart racing. I knew I would make my plane (with 2 hours to spare) but getting nervous on the way to the airport is tradition. My grandfather always liked to leave the house 5 hours before his flight. The truth is he would have preferred to leave the night before! He had a point. After I checked in, I went straight to the Duty Free shop. One of the relief workers requested that I bring a bottle of Tequila and I don’t like to disappoint. While sitting at the gate a friend called and asked if I was nervous. I said “no....and that’s because I’m an idiot”. She told me not to take any chances. I told her it was too late for that! As always, the conversation led to discussing a movie; Ghost Writer. It’s really fabulous (I blogged it). Polanski – the things he could have done if only he was able to control himself.
     
If Haiti is a mess (and believe me, it is), you would never know it from the people who boarded the plane. They were all very well dressed and very well groomed.

Haiti is devastated. The people of Port-Au-Prince are homeless. The ride from the airport through the streets of Port Au Prince are an endless pile of rubble, twisted medal, and buildings lying on their side. Many streets are impassable and the air stinks. There are tents pitched in the middle of major roads and every open area is now jam-packed with makeshift tents. There are naked children sleeping on the sidewalk and their mothers plead for money. After dumping off my stuff and setting up camp in the back of an abandon hospital, it was back on the road. The first stop was to our (I’ve hooked up with 2 guys - more about them later) translators’ house. He wanted me to take a look at his nephew’s belly. Not earthquake related; this was a simple umbilical hernia that was ignored and is now infected and painful. We’ll go back tomorrow and try to get him to a hospital. From there we went to an orphanage. I’ll post the photos tomorrow. They speak volumes.

I am way out of my comfort zone but I’m dealing with it. I’ll stay as long as I can. There is very little drinkable water and the food situation is not great. My living conditions are deplorable.
I am utterly exhausted.

The Phone Call

Chapter 1

In Training
The phone rang only once before I bolted up and slid over my husband’s body to pick it up. It was a little after 2 a.m. and I couldn't remember if he was on call or not. Either way, best if I don’t wake him.

“Is this Cory Kaiser” the voice on the other end asked, somewhat doubtful he would get a positive response? Cory Gould now, but yes, I am Cory Kaiser. “This is doctor…, “ I couldn't hear what he said his name was but I was certain whatever he had to tell me would force me out of bed. "We have a patient here who has your name and number in his wallet. He also has a few drivers' licenses. I doubt any of them are his. He’s unresponsive”. “What are the names on the licenses?” A pause, an audible sigh and he rattled off 4 names. “Listen” he said, “none of the dates of birth match the person lying on this stretcher….you understand?” I understood. “I can be there in an hour”

Who else could it be but my father? The phone call I had waited 35 years for was not what I expected but it was, after all, a phone call. The words were never spoken but I believe the doctor knew I was hoping he could keep him alive until I got there. In any event, he was alive…sort of. I stared down at a man who was unrecognizable as the man I once knew but I knew he was my father.

There was no peace in my house growing up, only fighting, screaming, hitting, crying, dishes flying, and phones being pulled out of walls. There was always ice and amber liquid in a glass, the pervasive sight and smell of cigarette smoke and the distinct smell of the mixture of the two.

Every aspect of life was fought over. The days and nights were filled with a crescendo of fighting followed by time spent cleaning up the mess. My mothers begging and pleading; my father’s incoherent, incomprehensible thundering in his drunken madness. Every night and every day, no breaks from it, at least not until closer to the time my father walked out. I look back now and wonder how any of us survived.

Any time spent alone with my father could end up in disaster. Even going to the supermarket could turn into a surreal nightmare of being left alone with a sea of strangers. The reason for the trip to the market would always be the same. No milk. No eggs, no juice. After the blow up over why there was no milk or whatever, my mother would beg my father not to go because he was too drunk. He would laugh, say something horribly cruel, grab the keys and I would beg him to take me. Only the first few times were terrifying. Eventually, even at a young age, my ability to maneuver myself around and keep safe became very well developed.

But the first time was serious business. No seat belts back then; just his big hand whipping in front of my tiny body to keep me from flying into the dashboard as he would run the stop sign at the bottom of our street. Only once his hand didn't harness me to the seat fast enough and I got a fat lip. Other then that time, considering his condition, he was remarkably good at it. It is a habit I picked up that my kids find quite hilarious because they are always strapped in tight. But thinking back to those times, I still can’t figure out what, exactly, I felt. Was it scary? I do not remember feeling scared. Was it exciting? I am not sure till this day what I felt. Whatever it was became a sensation I would have to reconcile later in life.

The supermarket was moderately busy. As always, I was so excited to be there with my dad and was hoping I would be able to talk him into buying me a coloring book. It was always easier talking him into buying me presents then it was my mom. She was too practical.
I walked close by my dad’s side, always looking up at him and feeling so happy when he would look down at me, smile, pat my head, call me "killer" and mess up my hair. Sometimes he would pick me up and carry me for while. I loved being up there. He got what we needed and a few things we didn’t and headed for the cashier.

I’m not sure when he left the store but in my mind he simply disappeared, like in a magic act. One second he was there, the next second he was gone. Afraid to move too far away from the shopping cart I tried my best to stretch, stand on my tip toes and look for him. A cart pushed in behind me completely blocking my view.

I don’t know if what I experienced was called panic but if it was not actually panic, it was a close relative. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. It was impossible to hear what anyone around me was saying. My legs became very weak and I had to work hard to keep from buckling. I was 5, almost 5 anyway. It was February and I would turn 5 in June. I remember it was February because soon after this incident my mom gave birth to my sister whose birthday is February 28th.

Ultimately, I told someone I could not find my dad. “Oh, don’t you worry sweetie, I’m sure he went to get something he forgot”. It actually never even occurred to me that was the case. I knew he was no longer in the store. I’m not sure how I knew, but I knew.

From my perspective, all I could see were people’s coats and their shoes. Lot’s of movement. Lot’s of muffled noise. The emotions and sensations I was experiencing were so overwhelming. It was hard to speak. I felt like I was being choked. There were plenty of tears.

I’m not sure how long I was standing there before someone knelt down and asked me why I was crying. "I want to go home". I remember saying that, very deliberate, very slowly because it was hard to push the words out, “I want……to…go……home.” A woman was kind and brought me to the store manager. A few questions, a phone call and my mom was there to pick me up. We only lived a half mile away but I had no sense of that.

I learned much later that my dad went to the bar across the street. The store manager got to know me. The supermarket scene played out a few more times before my mom stopped letting me go. I would have kept going. There was an excitement about being with my father that was hard to explain and my ability to manage in ridiculous situations became a tremendous source of pride.

Unfortunately, things got a lot worse before they got better because that is what happens when there is an alcoholic in the house. Initially, there were always apologies after an egregious act, sometimes even a gift. In time, that stopped. Whether it was subtle or not so subtle, my fathers' spiral down hill was uncontrollable. The scenarios of being ditched or being forced to find rescue continued until my father left in the summer of 1967. I was 12 and I was devastated.

Conventional wisdom would lead you to believe that I would have or should have, been grateful and relieved when my father left but that was simply not the case, far from it. I was deeply anguished and lost. So much of my life revolved around him. There was a huge void. And when he left, he really left. We did not hear from him for years, nothing, not even a phone call. But that did not stop me from waiting for one. For many years I waited, staring at the phone; jumping when it rang only to be disappointed when I picked it up and would hear someone else’s voice on the other end. In the beginning, I was so disoriented, I would just hang up or put the phone down without so much as a reply. Just because the major source of trouble left didn't mean our troubles were over. Quite the contrary, in many ways, they were just beginning. With my dad in the house, how could any of us have any problems? He had enough for everyone. We had them of course, but who could tell? Who could possibly even notice?

From that evening in the supermarket until the summer of 1967, there were 6 very eventful years. Years that would hone certain traits; some good, some bad and some ugly. There was no escaping the damage.

Despite all his craziness, my father managed to do some unbelievable things. In the summer of 1962, he bought a boat. Hard to imagine for a million reasons but it was just this type of thing that made our family look so ideal and actually enviable, to the outside world. Over the next five years, he would buy three boats, trading each one in for a bigger model. The last was a 38 foot Chris Craft Commander. After my parents divorced, my mother would spend the next 10 years paying off the debt my father accumulated. We even owed the Good Humor Man $220.00 and in 1967 that was a lot of money. My father was very flashy. He would buy ice cream for all the kids in the neighborhood. It was bedlam on our street when the ice cream truck came around and my dad was home. People still talk about it. The money was the least of it.

There were many occasions my dad simply forgot I was still swimming off the back of the boat. He would lift anchor and start the engine. I’d be flailing my skinny arms around madly trying to get his or my mothers' attention before I’d surely drown from the boats engine churning up the water around me or worse, I’d be chopped to pieces by the propellers spinning below me (those propellers loomed heavy on my mind). My desperate wailing was no match for the battle going on on board but somehow the engine would shut and an arm would reach down and pull my slippery and exhausted little body out of the water. I became quite the swimmer. It was usually the occupants of a neighboring boat that would get my parents attention. I can’t even imagine what those people were thinking after they would get a wave or thumbs-up sign and "thanks - got 'er" shouted across the water. Anyway, I caught on quick – never swim astern.

We kept our boat in Cos Cob, Connecticut. You can see the marina down on the right as you drive by exit 4 heading North on Interstate 95. The marina is situated on the Mianus River, near a draw bridge. There are 7 openings under the bridge. Only one is navigable and can handle a deep draft and keel of a large boat. Amongst local boaters, it’s common knowledge and although not well marked, it's marked. The fact is, my dad knew the right passage. I knew it. In retrospect, that he only missed it once was a miracle. But the day he missed it was not a good day and it would be the last day he would be out on the water with me on board. It was just the two of us that afternoon. It was low tide, overcast and drizzling. “Daddy, you’re heading towards the wrong opening”. We were on our way back in and he was in no condition to be driving the boat; something I could only recognize when I looked back as an adult. There was some sort of conversation between us but whatever was said did not really matter. We ran aground very close to one of the support columns of the bridge and near a set of rocks. I took the boat hook, a long telescoping pole we use to pull into our slip, and tried to push us off the silty bottom. No luck. The radio was broken (it would get the same treatment as our house phone). The solution to this problem was simple. I had to swim to the marina.

I was a very good swimmer, perfectly capable of making it in. My father was aware of that but I did not want to do it. The cold air made the water feel warmer then, in all probability, it was. The only scary part was being in the water so close to the support column. Water around a bridge is disgusting. Green algae, big seaweed, rust, litter and oil are nothing you want to be submerged in. Water around a marina is equally if not more disgusting because you have the added feathers and dead fish that always seem to be floating around. In some spots, I could touch the bottom – ech –awful! The swim to the marina was dedicated to thinking about how I was going to handle getting help. I was 9 and could handle myself in a lot of crazy situations but this seemed challenging. The problem wasn’t asking for help. “We ran aground near the rocks and we need a tow”. How was I going to explain getting to the marina? What do I say? “My dad made me swim here”. I would never say that. I hoisted myself up onto the dock, leaned back over and threw up. I picked little pieces of seaweed out of my hair and off of my very scrawny body and walked toward the marina’s store. I stared at my reflection in the push-letter sign (coke .25, Bait .35) and walked in. I’m sure I was quite the sight. Whatever I said got the job done. I went with one of the young launch workers to our boat. My dad threw him a rope he had tied to one of the fender locks near the bow and we were pulled free. By the way, no one ever asked how I got to the marina – thank God!

Although very few, there were sweet moments with my dad that revolved around the boat. Most of those moments took place on dry land. On occasion, he would take me to the marina and we would get a big bucket of steamers. I knew he was so proud that I loved them and was very proficient at eating them; opening them up, pulling them out of the shell, sliding off the wrinkled black membrane, dipping them in the salty water then into the melted butter and popping them in my mouth. Yummy! He would open the back of the station-wagon, pick me up and sit me on the hanging door, look down at me, smile, call me "killer" and mess up my hair. We would finish the whole bucket. The seagulls would be hovering around us and I remember wanting that moment to last forever. *In a healing process that took more then a decade, this memory would be vital.

The Year of Living with Disulfiram:
Better known as Antabuse, it was the first medication approved by the FDA for the treatment of alcohol dependence. What it is; a cruel joke played on families of alcoholics. It was discovered by accident in 1948 by researchers Erik Jacobsen, Jens Hald, and Keneth Ferguson at the Danish drug company, Medicinalco. The drug was intended to treat parasitic infections but an interesting thing happened when the researchers tested it on themselves and then went home and had a drink; they felt really sick. Fortunately, they all had the same habit of having a drink at night so they quickly came to the right conclusion; disulfiram and alcohol don’t mix. It works by interfering with the way our body metabolizes alcohol. When we consume alcohol, it is metabolized into acetaldehyde, a flammable, organic and very toxic chemical that in large amounts causes what we experience as a hangover. The body continues to metabolize (oxidize) the acetaldehyde into acetic acid which is harmless and your hangover dissipates. When Antabuse is taken, the ‘oxidation into acetic acid’ process doesn’t happen and guess what? A hangover takes on a whole new meaning and it does not go away so fast. In addition, even if the person stops taking it, Antabuse is absorbed through the gut extremely slowly and can last for up to two weeks in the body. If you continue to drink (and all alcoholics do) there will be a build up of acetaldehyde ten times greater then would normally occur and symptoms of a hangover will precipitously, increase. The results are not pretty.

"Antabuse makes drinking unpleasant". That is one of the great understatements. The unpleasant effects include; projectile vomiting, profuse sweating, difficulty breathing, extreme thirst, flushing, severe headache, chest pain, weakness, trembling, dizziness, blurred vision and confusion.Yes, very unpleasant to say the least. The idea (the hope) is that this severe adverse reaction will keep a person from consuming alcohol; a type of aversion therapy. I don’t think the success rate is too impressive and clearly, it had no effect, what-so-ever on my fathers drinking. It did however, have a huge effect on the rest of us. You would be amazed at how much vomiting that tiny little pill can cause; stunning, really. It also creates endless opportunities for embarrassment. The Antabuse period of our lives was short lived but it was memorable. So much time and effort was put into trying to get my father to take something that made our lives so much more difficult than it already was. It was hope against hope that somehow that little white pill was going to solve our problems.

It's hard to imagine how it all happens, how it can get so bad. It was so insidious. One bad night seemed to lead into a bad day and before you knew it, like wildfire, we were consumed. Life became dedicated to dealing with and managing someone who was incapable of managing themselves. To make matters worse, there was the constant manufacturing of stories to explain away what was going on. The amazing thing; we were fairly successful at it. No one knew how bad it was and compounding our problem was this constant covering up created a distorted sense of reality. The question that begs to be asked; "What happens when you grow up in an environment where your sanctuary is chaos?" I'm gonna get to that.

The Good and the Funny:
My dad thought he was Eroll Flynn.
To be continued....


*I consider my healing a life-long journey. I'm referring to getting help and stopping the insanity that was inevitable from growing up in a household like mine.