A Road Back through Nebraska
At five thirty in the morning on January 6th, 1982, I came into the world. A few hours later it became apparent that I might have a drinking problem. Knocking down two bottles of formula on my first day on Earth, I quickly discovered the meaning of the words never enough. Nineteen years later to the day I found myself kicked out of college after only a four month stay. The dean of the university told me that there is no room at this school for people who do not attend class. Attending class was not a priority – drinking and isolating however, were a priority. My short time at college was spent playing mini-golf on the Astroturf course I had laid out in my dorm. There was also a great deal of time spent reading Charles Dickens and drinking bourbon. Being 19 years old, I had this feeling that I could get away with anything and it would always be this way. Unfortunately for me, Wesleyan does not give out degrees in procrastination or idealism.
The next two years would be the most special of my life. During this period I would fall in love. I found inspiration in music. I found conciseness in the act of creating art. These times also marked the discovery of a madness that would follow me for the rest of my life. This is the time when I discovered my worst fears and my deepest aspirations at the same time.
After college I moved in with my parents keeping myself busy with work at record stores and a halfhearted effort at community college. One late night in the summer of 2002, I saw a movie about the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat on television. Becoming inspired I grabbed some house paint from the garage and picked up a paintbrush for the first time. Over the next few months I decided to drop out of community college. My plan was to be a Disc Jockey for money and paint for pleasure. In August of the same year I began to experience feelings of incredible bliss. I became convinced for the first time that the world was full of extreme possibilities. My thoughts raced around my brain at speeds I am not used to. A trip to the doctor confirmed that this is a major manic episode. This episode resulted in a six weeks stay at the plush mental ward of Dominion hospital. I came out of this facility 50 pounds heavier. A month and a half in a sea of lunacy and chocolate milk lead me to a state of exhaustion. The bliss had now vanished.
I found solace in consuming large amounts of cough medicine. Eventually, I run my course with Mom and Dad. They notified me that I needed to leave the house. Under the advice of an addictions counselor, I moved into an Oxford house. For a month I stopped drinking. Soon I realized no one at the Oxford house was keeping a close eye on me. I proceeded to get drunk inside the house two or three nights a week for five months. My doctor instructed me to take Lithium. In hopes of recapturing the highs of a manic episode, I ignored his instructions completely.
In April 2004, I walked out of the Deli where I had been working. I began to panic after relinquishing my duties as a sandwich sculptor. I became enveloped with the fear that I could not survive the responsibilities of the real world. In an attempt to go out like Kurt Cobain without the musical talent, I ingested a ninety-day supply of Lithium.
Two weeks later I awoke from a coma. I remembered my family and friends walking into the hospital room. Their presence was a blessing. An hour after I turned the hospital television to MTV, a song I had never heard before greets me. The chorus sings, “we were meant to live for so much more…but we lost ourselves.”
Sadly, I ignored these words. My drinking soared to new heights from here.
Years pass and nothing changes. I began to work as a Disc Jockey for local clubs and bars. Eventually I quit this as well. I hung my paintings at coffee shops, record stores, and restaurants. On an impulse I drove to New York and back in the span of 24 hours in pursuit of a record only available in Manhattan. Chaos and alcohol took the place of medication for the darker depressions.
Reality slowly began to set in. From 23 to 25 years of age, my life was a whirlwind. I stayed in three more Oxford houses. During this time I voluntarily admitted myself to the mental ward somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 times. One of my friends had given me ER scrubs so I could blend in during my next inevitable visit. My Doctor told me to stop wearing these scrubs because it was confusing the staff. She also told me to stop flirting with the nurses. Despite all my adventures, my life continued to decline further into disaster.
Fast forward to 2006. Each morning between 5:30 – 9:00 a.m. the Eleanor Kennedy homeless shelter comes together in the main room. This is one of four rooms on a floor that houses over 70 people. This was now my home. I heard the usual complaints float through the air. Some complained about lack of cigarettes and bus tokens. One man named Dean walks around in circles in a wet suit. Dean told me that he is “ready for some under water aquatics.” He repeated this strange phrase three or four times an hour with great pride.
During most of 2006 I lived in homeless shelters, slept on park benches and surfed on various couches. Two years prior to this I was making $35 an hour as a Disc Jockey for bars and clubs. By June 2006 I was sleeping on a bench that is half a block from a club I used to spin records at. All of these circumstances were a result of my drinking. Due to my drinking and my actions almost everyone in my life was keeping me at an arms length.
By the time I had set up camp on a bench, I had no real schedule. The traffic from morning rush hour would wake me from my slumber around six. I would wake up and head to the Starbucks for a large gulp of free water. While I was there I used the bathroom to shave and brush my teeth. My black Jansport backpack is filled with toiletries I got from my new friends at the Christian bookstore. I usually got hungry around two or three in the afternoon. Due to a check I bounced like a basketball, I had a platinum membership at the Sport and Health Club. This is where I ate and showered for free.
My Mother offers me a lifeline. She informed me that if I move to Nebraska, she would pay for the first couple months of treatment, along with the plane ticket there. I was not too keen about moving to Nebraska. It was either move here or continue to shave at the Starbucks in Washington, D.C.
I entered the Stephen Center on New Years Eve, 2005. Six days later I turned twenty- six years old. What I learnd there was that my recovery is my responsibility. It’s everything I am and it’s everything I lost. My past, present, and most definitely my future all depend on a healthy level of balance. Recovery is where the path I walk on and acceptance is a place I am trying to get to. My alcoholism is where I’ve been and the places I never need visit again. The act of healing is a work in progress. It’s the beginning of the beginning and the end of many errors. A new life this is much more than a phase. It is a daily commitment to push open the inner doors within us and dispel the darkness.
I graduated the Stephen Center Treatment program after six months and am currently living in the Transitional Living Apartments. Treatment was not what I expected, but it turned out to be just what I needed.
