Recovery from alcoholism is not easy. The biggest step you take is admitting the problem and taking the road toward solving it. I had long since given up hope in quitting of my own free will and found myself turning to God for answers. I sat in the bottom of my shower, the water long since turning cold but still pelting my aching body. I cried out for some sort of relief for the torment and a voice responded within my mind, “Let my will be done.” The words continued to play as if on repeat as I prepared for my workday. I shoveled ibuprofen down my throat to ease the pounding in my head and exited my house.
The voice was a distraction from my duties, so I tried to tune it out. I knew it was important but I had always put my job before so many things, even my well-being. I always told myself that if I could make it through a few hours in the office I could numb my pain again with alcohol in the evening. I knew it was not an answer to my problem but it was all I could manage any more. My headache did not ease. It actually became even more difficult to ignore. The pressure surged behind my left ear and a strange tingling coursed down my left arm and leg. A panic set in, which only served to make it worse. I was sure I was going to have a heart attack or a stroke at any moment. I asked a co-worker to take me to the emergency room, to which he obliged. God was done waiting for me to listen.
The doctor on call for the emergency room listened as I admitted my fault. She looked at me with pity, which made me feel even worse. I felt pathetic, crying there in that tiny hospital gown. I was still holding onto the idea that I should have been strong enough to beat this on my own. A nurse came in shortly after with a small plastic cup with a tiny white pill inside. She tells me it was Xanax and that it would help with my anxiety and my withdrawal symptoms. I know what Xanax is. I witnessed many people abuse it as a teenager. Just the implications of ingesting it were frightening. Would I be trading one addiction for another? They assured me that it would help and I relented. The pill went down quickly and in time it eased my pain. My wife had watched through tears wondering if I would survive this ordeal but the doctor assured her that if I were willing that I could live through this.
I bowed my head to pray for the first time in a long time. I begged God for his help and asked to be saved from this torment my life had become. I gave in to his will and asked to be shown the way. The following days would be a testament to that. I set aside the alcohol and put forth an effort to be more than the man I had been before. I tried to put God first and my family second. I wanted to leave it all behind me. By week's end I made it a point to find my place in a pew at church. I needed to change my routine, get back to a place of peace, and do whatever it took to keep the bottle out of my hand. The only trouble was that I was still relying on that pill. That tiny white object silenced the screaming in my head and slowed the quake of my body. It was a relief and a curse all in one.
The following week was when the ringing began. It started as a low, almost inaudible hum in my right ear. The kind of noise that is simply annoying but not unbearable. I crudely shoved my pinky finger in the canal and wiggled it about as if trying to remove some small instrument that was creating the sound. It passed as quickly as it came. The instance was so easily dismissed but much like the trumpet that sounds for judgement, it was but a sign of things to come. Unfortunately, I did not understand the warning and the sound slowly increased in volume over the following week.
My habit had been to listen to talk radio on my commute to work. At random intervals, the broadcast would be interrupted by static as if receiving a bad signal. I tried adjusting the station but found that it seemed to happen no matter what I was listening to. This was odd but not alarming. The kind of thing you mention jokingly to friends or family. I would forget about it even happening for days on end before the incident would repeat itself and I would be reminded of how strange it seemed. As the weeks passed the static became more frequent and when words bled through the blurred signal I decided it was best to just turn off the radio completely. It was the same words as before, “Let my will be done.”
The benzodiazepines I had been prescribed were not intended for prolonged use. The doctor at the emergency room wanted to help relieve my withdrawal symptoms while I was coming down from my dependency on alcohol. I knew I could not keep taking them, so after a few weeks of relying on them to quiet my mind, I decided to forego my nightly dose. I was awoken at one in the morning by the constant whispering of voices. Imagine lying in bed with people surrounding you carrying on multiple conversations at the very same moment in quiet low murmurs. Their words would be so tangled that you would be unable to make sense of any of them but also so distracted by their consistency that it would make it impossible to sleep. That was how I spent my first night without medicine.
When my alarm sounded the next morning I was still awake, eyes bloodshot and staring at the glowing red numbers in front of me. I forced my way from the sheets and toward the bathroom. I relieved my bladder and splashed water on my face in an attempt to shake my exhaustion. I hobbled like a zombie toward the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe for a moment. My wife had already brewed a pot of coffee and I eagerly helped myself to a large cup. I took a large gulp but as soon as it hit my tongue I forced it back out across the counter. The dark brown liquid made an odd Rorschach upon the bright white laminate countertop.
“What the hell John?” my wife yelled, grabbing a towel from the dish strainer.
I stared at the image the beverage created and whispered, “It tastes horrible.”
My voice was disconnected and monotone. I was more concerned with the roundness of the coffee and the specks of white within that seemed to reveal a face. The eyes stared back as my wife’s rant continued behind me. Her words were muffled though, my thoughts consumed by the face in front of me. The ringing started again and grew so loud that I could barely hear anything else. I shook my head to try to eliminate the annoyance but it did not work. The sound came to an abrupt halt as my wife finished her sentence. I turned to look at her, confusion resting on my eyebrows.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” my words devoid of emotion.
She pushed passed me and wiped away my distraction, “I swear you never listen to a word I say.”
“Sorry, Catherine,” I murmured before looking down in my cup.
She took it from me and took a sip. It apparently tasted fine to her so I tried another taste. The bitterness that had filled my mouth before was gone and was replaced with the same brew I had become accustomed to. I tried to shake it off, along with the odd spill pattern but I was almost positive I could not function at work with so little sleep. I called my boss to let him know the situation and though he was frustrated, he tried to be understanding of the trials I was facing. He told me to rest up and to be in the morning. I returned to my room and closed all the blinds. I wanted to shut out all the light but some still seemed to filter through. My body curled under the sheets and I buried my head beneath my pillow. With the light smothered and my body hidden below the sheets, I was finally able to find rest.
My eyes fluttered open to see that the house was dark. My clock read half-past five, which meant I had slept most of the day. I eased my way out of bed and into the living room. The house was eerily quiet. I called out for my wife but received no answer. I glanced out the kitchen window to see that our car was not in the driveway. As I turned around I noticed message scrawled across the dry erase board across from me, “Gone to store, be back soon.” I gave a slight smile as I opened the fridge. My fingers released the handle, the door hung wide as I stared in awe. Every inch of the refrigerator was filled with bottles of beer. My wife had promised to clear every ounce when I decided to get sober and I could only wonder why she would fill it with my temptation.
I slammed the door shut, my stomach churning at the thought of what lay beyond the door. My hands rested against the fridge and my eyes stared into milky reflection within the white of the door. The plastic beneath my hands felt as though it were vibrating. The door begged to be opened and the circus of voices rose up within my mind. The noise grew louder and louder as the seconds ticked by. I wanted to cover my ears but I knew if I released my hold on the fridge door it would open. The voices became deafening as the doors began to fight violently to be free. I screamed out for all of it to stop but I only received one response, “Let my will be done.” With my will broken I ripped the door open and removed one of the cans of alcohol. Within seconds the amber liquid was down my throat and my sobriety dashed upon the rocks but the voices had stopped.
A smile slid across my lips as if I had won some contest. The cold beverage, however, began to turn within my stomach. It rolled and rose, the rumbling eruption found its way up my throat and out through my lips. Falling back against the cabinets I released my victory upon the floor. The liquid continued to flow from me like a fountain. First, it was golden like the beer but grew darker as the spectacle continued. My eyes grew wide and I was unable to make sense of what was happening. Beer eventually gave way to blood and my kitchen floor was coated in a bubbly layer of my insides. I was sure that this was how I would die. That was when my body rose with a jolt from my bed covered in sweat. The nightmare had been so real that I could still taste bile and blood on my tongue.
Smoke mixed with the night air as I puffed on my nicotine relief. It was pushing three o’clock in the morning and all the world was still amid the chaos that ruled my mind. The thought of checking the refrigerator crossed my mind but I shook it off. I did not want to know if there was alcohol within it. I finished one cigarette and lit another. The simple idea of closing my eyes brought the fear of another nightmare. The silence was broken by a distant and muffled sound. In my paranoia I turned toward the noise, convincing myself it was a voice. I leaned back inside the door and looked toward our bedroom. There was nothing and no one but I was certain I heard it. I stood listening for the sound intently and was only broken from my focus by the embers of my cigarette burning my fingers. I winced in pain, tossing the butt to the ground. Instinctively I placed my injured finger between my lips and stepped back inside. I convinced myself to go to bed before I hurt myself any further.
The low hum of the noise became a constant reminder of my insanity. I had started taking earphones to work so I could use music to drown out the noise. This ritual seemed to be the only way to keep my mind focused on the information that was supposed to be processed at my computer. I squinted as words blurred together and constantly rubbed at my eyes. Even the smallest of chores had become difficult and I was unsure of how much more I could take. By lunch, I was rolling the bottle of pills in my hand. The voice echoed in my head again, “Let my will be done.” The small white pill was swallowed in seconds and within the hour I was calm once again. As the humming faded and my senses became my own I rushed through my workload in an attempt to make it back home. My intention was to lock myself away until this torment ended. I had enough sick days to keep myself secluded for a couple of weeks at least. I was sure this insanity would have to end by then but I was wrong.
The dreams continued, becoming more vivid as time passed. In each one, I would be tempted to drink and in each I was not strong enough to resist. Witch each opened container a burst of dark laughter erupted as if a demon watched my pain with enjoyment. I would wake up with the taste of liquor on my tongue. Catherine had become worried about my mental state and asked me to seek help. My pride kept me from doing this. I could not let people see me this way. The pills were not working as well, so I took more. The world became a cloudy mess that left me confused of when I was awake or when I was dreaming. I was exhausted despite knowing I had slept the night before. My last day of sick leave was approaching and I knew I had to have a handle on this before returning to work but my illness seemed to be getting worse instead of better. I contemplated this as I stared myself in the mirror of our bathroom, splashing water across my eyes as if trying to wash my nightmares away.
That faded and distant voice called out again. I slowly turned to look from the doorway to the bed where Catherine lay sleeping and knew it could not have been her. The voice repeated, low and far away which made it impossible to understand. My feet shuffled in the dark, following the sound out of my bedroom and down the hall. I glanced in rooms as I passed and inched toward the opening of the living room. My house appeared far darker than it had ever been and I traced my fingers along the walls at my sides for guidance. The feeling became present before I noticed it but once my eyes adjusted there seemed to be a figure standing before me within the darkness. I could make out no features other than how small it was compared to myself. Catherine could not have passed by me without me noticing and when that realization hit me I began rubbing at my eyes again, sure I was mistaken. The figure remained and now I could hear it breathing. It was quick, deep, and deliberate like someone who was hyperventilating.
There are few times in my life I have been so afraid that I was unable to move or speak. This particular instance was one of them. Whatever stood before me in that hallway did not move and did not speak. It watched me quake in its presence and again the words found their way into my head, “Let my will be done.” The words summoned me awake but I had been so sure that I was not dreaming. Everything felt like a dream though. My hands pulled open my bedside drawer and grabbed for the pill bottle. I knew from the lack of sound that it was empty before I even opened it. In my panic, I opened it and turned it over anyway. I had to quiet my mind at any cost. It was not long before I was standing at the refrigerator with my hand upon the handle. I paused, questioning what I was about to do. The racket in my brain making it impossible for me to make a logical decision. It was not long before I jerked the door open.
The darkness of my kitchen was bathed in the dim light of my fridge and from that light, it would be easy to tell the disappointment that rested on my face. Catherine had discarded all of my alcohol as I had asked her to. The door slammed shut and I was back down the hall in seconds. I grabbed my car keys, wallet, and shoved my feet into my shoes. There was only one solution for my torment and I would get it at all costs. The tires squealed as I pulled out of my driveway. There was a twenty-four-hour liquor store a few miles away. The clerks there knew me fairly well. When I entered they greeted me by name but I ignored them. I was on a mission and my eyes were intent on a half-gallon bottle of Tennessee whiskey. One hand gripped tight around the neck of it while the other attempted to remove the cap. It resisted and I groaned in frustration while reaching for another. Somewhere inside my head, I heard laughter.
The clerk was approaching quickly. The young man could see the panic in my eyes and wanted to calm me down but he had no idea the power that had hold of me at that moment. I do not remember striking the man but when he pulled himself up from the floor his intent was to call the police. I tried opening another bottle but it too would not release. This struggle became tedious, so I simply struck the glass container against the shelf that I had removed it from. Tiny shards scattered the floor with specks of liquor sloshing out and landing beside them on the tiles. I quickly tilted back the container and began drowning myself in the bitter medicine. I stopped only long enough to catch my breath. The bottle was empty in mere minutes. Sirens echoed in the distance as I dropped to my knees. My vision blurred and I felt the numbing sensation take over. My body became limp, resting back against the cold tile as a figure loomed overhead, “Let my will be done.”
I write this during my time of reflection. The doctors here feel it could help with my recovery. My wife cannot stand visiting me here and those who knew me before do not understand what I have become. I still have visits though. A small-statured figure, shrouded in shadows comes to me at night. It tells me that I must leave this place and that it has a plan for me. They will not let me drink here, they say it is my disease. I do not know what is real anymore. They are afraid to medicate me, fearing it will only delay the healing process. All I know for sure is the voices have returned and my body quakes. My muscles ache and my ears keep ringing. I am not sure how much longer I can hold out. Its will must be done.