Part Seven ~ California State Highway Intervention

The rules by which one governs their life begin to change when they are severely alcohol and drug addicted. When you can't go more than 24 hours without a drink, the world as you know it becomes very narrow. As a sober person, I now recognize this restriction as a prison; my own private hell that kept me bound at all times with no hope for respite.

My parents lived two hours away from me on the Central Coast of California. They weren't on my doorstep, but I was still obligated to visit occasionally and they would come to see me every once and a while. I was always able to hold it together for 24 to 48 hours while they were around. My visitation with them was limited to the amount of time that I knew I could safely handle not drinking. Yet even then, there were times that I would still find a way to get loaded.

I continued to give the appearance that I was in school while the reality was that I had stopped attending regularly. I would begin each semester with a new promise, a new zest; only to bottom out shortly after the term began. By the age of 24, I required a substance at every click of the clock just to survive. I needed chemicals to go to bed, I needed chemicals to wake up, I needed chemicals to level me off. It was better living through chemistry. At all times I needed the promise of a drink. Just knowing that it was available. Instead of time in class or studying, I became a regular at a local tavern by the campus where I would spend my afternoons and evenings getting wasted. After the bar would close I would come back to my dorm room to finish off the night with whatever booze I could get my hands on. I no longer went to bed, I "passed out." I no longer woke up, I "came to." But what was even more common were the blackouts. The lost hours that could never be recalled. I drove during these blackouts. I had interactions with other humans during these blackouts. I said and did things during these blackouts that I will never have first hand knowledge of.

The true horror of my condition was the toll it took on my health. From a distance I was a 5'10" long haired brunette with olive skin and brown eyes. Close up, my skin was sallow and dry. My eyes were always red from hangovers. My hair was dry and thin. My skin bruised easily. But the worst part were the infections. I couldn't heal because my immunity was so compromised by the alcohol. Chronic conjunctivitis, yeast infections, respiratory infections, gynecological infections. You name it, I had it. I failed to care for myself in any way because every spare dollar I had went to drugs and alcohol. I couldn't afford a healthy diet and I didn't take medications because most antibiotics require an abstinence from alcohol. One of many bottoms was the night I was found passed out in the dormitory bathroom. Ironically, I wasn't drunk. I was rushed to the emergency room and after 24 hours of tests they were able to determine that I had advanced pelvic inflammatory disease.

What they thought was appendicitis turned out to be nothing more than VD run amok. There was a very good chance that I had involuntarily sterilized myself. As I lay in the hospital for two days on drip antibiotics, I kissed goodbye any chance I had of having children in the future. Add to that horror the realization that I needed to contact my present and ex boyfriend and inform them of the situation. The true sickness in all of this? I tried to manipulate the friend that drove me to the hospital into bringing me alcohol while I was lying in the hospital bed. She didn't.

My recollection of the next nine months are dim. I have no real friends in that anyone who got close to me could see that I was toxic. There was no depth to my being. I existed within each 24 hour period with no other goal than to get high. There would be many times during those months when my condition could not be ignored and I prayed for an intervention. Why my family never committed me to rehabilitation was probably due to my success at keeping a controlled distance from them. Had they seen on a daily basis the horror that was my life, I believe they would have assisted me in some manner. But there was no assistance. None at all. Most people choose to ignore the alcoholic. The alcoholic is embarrassing, sloppy, loud, lewd, obnoxious, dangerous, etc. I know now that it wasn't that my behaviour was not being noticed. It was that my behaviour was feared. And while I didn't want to live this way, I wasn't prepared to divorce myself from alcohol. I had had a relationship with alcohol since I was a child, and for better or worse, it was my lover. An abusive lover; the worst kind of domestic violence. But it was the only constant in my life.

My circle of friends were ex felons and delinquents. My lovers were drug dealers. My confidantes were the bartenders on the other side of the bar. It was an abortion of a life.

One evening in October of 1994, I was pulled over by the California State Highway Patrol for speeding. I had been drinking since 10:00 AM. I had marijuana and cocaine in my system. I had marijuana and cocaine and paraphernalia in my car. And I'm still on probation for my DUI. There is no escaping the inevitable. This will be jail time.

I've hit my bottom.

Part seven in a series of ten posts chronicling my history with alcoholism and recovery. Comments may be emailed to my profile address.