I once read, "If you’ve got a problem with alcohol, the solution is easy. Just stop drinking. Because if your problem is with alcohol then when you stop, it will go away. But if you're truly an alcoholic, it's not that easy. Because when you stop drinking, the problem really begins.”
And that's what my 2016 was. Dark. Dark and sober. I couldn't hide behind the whiskey anymore. I was exposed and destroyed. Anyone can hide. But no one can hide forever. And in hindsight, lucky for me it only took seven years to be found.
I have a few people to thank but particularly the one who saved me that day. He knows who he is. Sometimes the brotherhood is dissonant. Sometimes they talk behind your back. But he approached me with concern and love and with a really harsh dose of reality. And I finally knew then if I kept going I would die. Or worse, kill someone else.
So today is a good day. It's been almost 19 months since I took my last drink; alone and sobbing in the dark at 3am, wondering how I'd ever be able to make it through the next 24 hours, let alone the rest of my life. I wish I could go back every day. And that's why sobriety is so hard. Because as freeing as it is, my mind still convinces me it's not better. Even when I remember everything it's done to me. I was good at drinking. Really good.
People often mentioned how horrible 2016 was. And I'd have to agree. But for me it was because I finally had to confront the things I'd always been able to cover up with alcohol. But life wasn't meant to be easy.
Long before I had even admitted being an alcoholic (and I openly admitted that to myself for years), I remember my first day on the fire department. My Captain at the time gave us a warning, which I promptly ignored but never forgot. He said “If any of you struggle with addiction and particularly alcohol just know this. This job will make it worse.” Back then I still thought I was in control. I might have even laughed. But he was right.
I used to look down on addicts and think they should just stop and be healthy and normal. But addiction is a prison, and if you went back to their childhood selves and asked anyone of them if they’d want to be where they are today, you’re going to get resounding “no’s” every time. In fact I tried to quit countless times. Sometimes I could go days. Sometimes weeks. I’ve poured out so much liquor down the drain on multiple occasions, I’m sure it would be painful to watch for some. But to the others struggling with addiction and substances in particular, I want to tell you this. I know what it’s like. I can see past the addiction now. To the brokenness underneath. I see you. And I want you to know you are not alone. And if you need someone to talk to I am here.
I’m sorry to those who are struggling and have reached out for help but received none. I know what it’s like. I know how it feels to wake up in the morning and wish you were dead. I know what it’s like to break down in the middle of work, not knowing if you’ll make it through the next 5 minutes, but put on sunglasses while you sob behind tinted agony and carry on anyway. I know what it’s like to go to your doctor, tell him everything and ask for help only to be sent away with nothing. I know what it’s like to try and fail so many times, you keep your whole life a secret, because it’s not worth telling anyone you failed again.
It’s actually funny. My life, and how some people envy it that is. Recently I’ve had someone tell me I live their dream life in fact. But little do they know what really goes on behind the scenes. The heartache, the failures and the nights I’ve spent crying myself into physical sickness. Everyone struggles. Everyone is fighting the darkness. So while some people have chosen different directions in life, does not mean they have it any easier or any more difficult. And if they do, who are we to judge what level of pain they’re currently living in; as if that entitles someone to any less empathy and care.
I never knew this, but it’s quite an empowering thing when someone sees through and picks apart your carefully crafted bullshit. And this summer out west, I was sitting by a beautiful lake, enjoying coffee with someone I've considered my mentor. He said “Kim, everyone that knows you knows you’re quiet, but I know you’re not quiet on the inside.” And he was right. On the inside I was screaming. But I keep my mouth shut and carry on. I don’t defend myself or fight back when accused. I store every word inside my heart and every day I wake up wanting nothing more than to drink until I can’t remember anything they’ve said. But now that there is no alcohol to hide behind, I smile, grit my teeth and fight it. I know the devil doesn’t like it when I smile.
Take care of your brothers and sisters. Listen. Even if it’s from a distance. If the opportunity presents itself, offer assistance if you feel it’s necessary. I was quietly confronted on a couple occasions over the years, but I denied it all. I had to deal with things on my own terms and to actually WANT help. And even when I wanted help, I still ended up having to hit complete rock bottom for the real waking up to begin. That’s one of the most difficult things about watching someone you care about suffering in addiction I imagine. Having to wait for them to see the truth.
If people tried to help me I would run from them, if I was given medication I would abuse it, and if God showed up at my door I would tell Him I’m not worth being saved. And so it seemed my stubbornness would bleed my heart dry even in my sobriety. But God did show up. He knelt down, met me at my level like he does in his gentle, patient way and handed me my own unique guardian angel.
God sent me a dog. Bucky is no service dog. But to me he may as well be. He does his part to keep my darkness at bay. It’s funny how animals just know. We protect each other in ways I don’t think many people will understand. Buck keeps me steady and smiling. He sits by my feet when I feel I can no longer breathe and gently nudges me back into first gear. And so far, the thought of leaving him has kept me here longer than anything else. I know I wouldn’t be the same person if he wasn’t around. I was sober one year before I brought him home, and the difference I’ve noticed in my own mental and emotional state cannot even be compared. I can’t even remember the last time I cried. However I also keep myself so busy that I don’t have time to think anymore, let alone get into trouble. I've been waiting to hit the publish button on this post for a very long time. For one, people tend to watch much more closely when they know you have the potential to fall back into whatever you ventured out of. And two, I guess I never completely trusted this freedom I found and in some ways I still don't. But if this resonates with anyone and stirs in your heart please reach out. Feel free to message me if you want to know more. Or just be encouraged that you are not alone.
I want to be clear this is nothing but a personal account of a bitter time in my life. While I do encourage others to seek help should they require it, I am not a professional and this shouldn’t be seen as any kind of medical, legal, emotional or other types of advice.
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