 
# Alcoholism-My Fate Worse Than Death and My Resurrection

# By Granddad Clem-with Clem's Niece

# Smashwords Edition

# Copyright Granddad Clem 2015

# Preface

This tale has a happy ending that can be replicated by any alcoholic.

I am an alcoholic over 30 years dry. No need for me to keep track of the exact number since there is no danger that I will ever drink again. I don't need to live one day at a time from the perspective of my alcoholism and never have since the beginning of my dry period. Why not? Read this and find out how I can make this claim.

Right away I have made a statement that defies many alcoholics and experts on alcoholism's sense of the reality of this disease. So please be warned that some of the material concerning treatment is unconventional and controversial. Some of the content and much of the presentation are also unconventional. On the other hand this is why this small book will perhaps fill a unique slot in the alcoholic literature.

I have purposely included light hearted incidents that although they bear significance, sometimes only remotely to my alcoholism, it is important not to get completely mired in the doom and gloom of my disease. Yes alcoholism is a disaster but I have beaten this scourge forever and have the right to tell my story with any type of episodes I think might be supportive and/or pertinent.

I spent half my life living in a state that involved some degree of alcohol dependence that progressed to the point at which I was a 'hopeless', deadbeat alcoholic. I was a hazard to myself and the world around me. Then out of the blue came my epiphany.

This is my story supplemented by a personal family impact narrative (Chapter 5), and an inspiring 'power of the mind' story written by Clem's Niece. Any book written by an alcoholic would be misleading if the Alcoholic tried to surmise the impact of his life on those around him, especially family and close associates. I was very fortunate to have a good friend, the wife of an alcoholic and talented writer, to provide the details of some of the most crucial parts of the story. But that is only the formal part of her contribution. Without Clem's Niece this book would never have been completed. Her editorial genius and advice plus many sections totally revamped, rewritten and added too, overcame wrenching difficulties that often plagued me.

There have been disasters in my life that often send dry alcoholics back to drinking. Yet I have not touched alcohol for the above mentioned 30 years. Some foods and drugs contain alcohol and I have no doubt unwittingly consumed tiny amounts in this manner, but also with no after effects.

Additionally since becoming dry I can serve others alcoholic beverages in my home, go to parties where drinking is prevalent, and even enter a liquor store and happily buy booze for someone else with no temptation to myself.

The reader might think I am inviting disaster or even stating the impossible when I make the following statement. 'I know with absolute certainty I will never again drink because I know for me even a single drink of alcohol is a fate worse than death'. Although I am 77 at the time of writing and 30 years without a drink, thus closer to death than most of my readers, so for me this may seem an easier task. Yet any ex alcoholic no matter how old or how many years sober is just one drink away from another certain bout of alcoholism.

This book is short. There are plenty of longer treatises full of facts and figures and experts various opinions and comments for those of you that prefer such treatments on this subject. This is mostly a no holds barred personal story, peppered here and there with relevant accounts of my experiences along with the bare bones facts and figures, ending with a solution that has guaranteed my abstinence for a period of 3 decades. Although at my age I might have only few more years to live, my resolve and ease of maintaining abstinence is stronger than ever. In fact the thought of ever drinking again would make me feel nauseous and filled with a searing contempt for myself. Thus even though inflicted with a terminal disease I never think of drinking again.

Are you an alcoholic, think you might be, or have you any connection with an alcoholic? If the answer to any of these is yes then this short book is a must read for you.

# Disclaimer

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. All incidents have been written in a manner to disguise the actual event.

# Chapter 1
# Introduction

The Paramedics found me dead drunk, passed out, face down, inches from the periphery of a shallow creek. Many years of drinking and finally I had sunk this deathly low, lured here by the love of my life, alcohol. This single incident was only one in what was becoming a series of near death experiences.

I will share only a couple of these with you because I want to keep the emphasis on the road signs to full blown alcoholism with the hope that many of my readers will recognize their alcoholism before reaching such near fatal consequences. I will do this by telling stories not only about my own decent but through incidents involving other alcoholics whose lives intersected mine.

It's a conundrum, the government sale and sanctioned use of a poisonous mind altering substance. Alcohol stands alone in most jurisdictions as the widely available mind altering 'drug' that may be legally purchased and used by mankind anytime at his own discretion. Its availability and use transcends the history of our species.

Alcohol is the widely used moniker for the poisonous chemical substance, ethyl alcohol, present in alcoholic drinks. However ethyl alcohol is the least poisonous member of a large group of closely chemically related alcohols. All ingested alcohols including ethyl alcohol cause alteration to human mind and body functioning and all if imbibed in sufficiently quantities will cause severe bodily harm and death.

Early in human history humans discovered that certain fermented liquids contained a substance that when consumed could be used to create a desired pleasurable reaction. Thus ethyl alcohol containing liquids become an integral part of our social menu. For many a social function without alcohol is a dreadful ordeal. For some, like me, alcohol becomes an essential component of everyday living. At this stage alcohol inevitably becomes the be all and end all of our existence, our greatest love, and the only essential component in daily life. Unless this pattern is truncated, chaotic incidents and ill health prevail and death is almost a certainty. Death can be the result of a wide variety of pathetic scenarios.

# Chapter 2

# Alcoholic, The Definitions and Typical Actions and Reactions

The material set forth here is intended as an introduction to many of the crucial topics that define an alcoholic and alcoholism. In chapters that follow incidents, that is, basic stories from my own life and that of Clem's Niece will be forthcoming.

## Definition of an Alcoholic

Clearly there is no unambiguous definition of alcoholic. The following would appear to cover this term.

An alcoholic is someone who depends completely on the consumption of alcohol to live daily life.

Google on its search page under the search request, 'Define an alcoholic' provides a list of commonly used terms for alcoholism. These are often used in a disparaging or amusing manner without conveying the reality that they truly represent synonyms for the serious problem that define an alcoholic.

A person suffering from alcoholism is variously denoted with synonyms such as: dipsomaniac, drunk, drunkard, heavy hard serious drinker, problem drinker, binger drinker, alcohol abuser, person with a drinking problem, tippler, sot, inebriate. Informal terms: boozer, lush, boozehound, dipso, juicer, wino, barfly.

## Dry Alcoholic

Again the definition is patently obvious but with one sad proviso.

A dry Alcoholic is an alcoholic that has given up drinking alcohol. The sad reality is that with the consumption of just one drink a dry alcoholic invariably returns to full scale active alcoholism in double quick time. Thus the dry alcoholic retains the moniker alcoholic.

The shocking fact is that less than 10% of alcoholics permanently stop drinking. This statistic varies among different sources, but 10% is a conservative estimate. A variety of studies reporting on Alcoholics Anonymous estimate that up to 90% (averaged figure) of members drop out before completing one year of attendance.

This data is indeed upsetting and could promote a sense of hopelessness among my readers. On the other hand as it was with me this can be a tremendous challenge. I hope that by the end of this dissertation others will be inspired to grab the proffered 'challenge' gauntlet.

## Personal Aside-Related Problem, Giving Up Smoking

I had a much greater problem giving up smoking than ending my drinking problem. I loved smoking as I once loved drinking. So much so in fact that when informed that I had a terminal disease one of my first reactions was to start smoking again. On the contrary despite this fatal revelation I have never once thought that I would want to rekindle my alcoholism. On the contrary my alcohol free life style is much too pleasant and would most certainly be destroyed by a return to drink. Nor by the way of interest, have I started smoking again.

This giving up tobacco enigma is a statement that I have several times heard from others. Because a much greater percentage of problem smokers have beaten the tobacco addiction suggests to me that there must be better ways then are presently utilized to treat problem drinking. Therefore please read on and I will divulge my own proven solution.

## Drinking the Social Amenity for Many- The All Consuming Addiction for Others

Most of us begin using alcohol at an early age. A stolen or permitted sip from a parental alcoholic drink can often be our preteen introduction. For the majority this experiment is a harmless event, but for a few it is the first tiny step on the road to full blown alcoholism. It is impossible to make a comprehensive list of why people drink alcohol. However there are several that would head such a list. These would include:

-To loosen up in social situations

-To overcome stress

-As a treatment for personality disorders such as depression, feelings of inadequacy, anxiety, rebelliousness and antisocial tendencies.

Apart from a few including loosening up in social situations, there are much better medical, alternative medicine and exercise related approaches than alcohol to achieve the desired effect. Most individuals could adopt alternate methods for dealing with situations in which alcohol use predominates. An alcoholic would continue using alcohol despite any less harmful alternative.

The causes of alcoholism are unknown. However there is a growing body of evidence that this problem runs in families. However should the heredity factor become a proven cause it is only one of many potential others.

Unfortunately many alcoholics use the fact that alcoholism is now widely recognized as a medical condition as the argument for their continued drinking. Like all other excuses for continuing as an actively drinking alcoholic, the medical excuse is invalid.

All alcoholics can stop actively drinking-full stop.

## Characteristics of an alcoholic

The following are some important prevalent characteristics of an alcoholic personality. Of course each individual differs in his or her makeup, background, intelligence, medical history and so on. Thus all individuals will have a unique selection, combination and priority ordering amongst these characteristics and undoubtedly others that are not herein listed.

An alcoholic can exhibit or be:

Self-pitying, demanding, low self-esteem, anxiety, blames others for his/her problems, guilty feelings or traits of overconfidence, under or overachieving nature, problems with coping even with normal problems, defiant, speaks of his/her worthlessness, complains incessantly, lies blatantly and compulsively, poor judgment, easily frustrated, hypersensitive to criticism, risky behaviours, resentful, argumentative, irritable, anger comes quickly and often, threatening behaviour, binge drinking to cover emotions of rewards or failures, denial of being an alcoholic, belief that since alcoholism runs in his family history (has genetic roots) he/she cannot avoid acquiring this problem, considers him/herself the victim.

## Enabling

This subject logically follows lock step with the alcoholic's characteristics list; also being the list of items that the alcoholic's enabler inadvertently employs.

In my estimation the problem of enabling, even encouraging the alcoholic is the single most serious practice that keeps an alcoholic from abstinence. The alcoholic's closest associates, particularly family members, are the most common unwitting practitioners of acts that keep an alcoholic practicing his addiction.

Although most readers will understand only too well the nature of these listed aberrations, a few require further comment because they are the most common attributes that lead to enablement. My choice will have a personal bias being my favourite ploys to invoke a perception of why I drank. In other words I could use these particular traits to my best advantage in obtaining sympathy for my drinking propensity.

### Self-Pity

I suffer from a severe learning disability (dyslexia) and have serious bipolarity. Additionally I have been bullied because I grew up in an era before learning disabilities had been discovered. Thus at that time people like me were castigated, even physically abused on the playground and harassed as being stupid. This problem was exacerbated because I was high functioning in many ways and yet, for example, I could not spell even some very simple words and was unable learn using the normal procedure of reading. My cursive writing was impossible to read so I had to print everything committed to paper.

With this goldmine of potential sources it is not hard for the reader to imagine how simply I could entice my loved ones to become trapped in my spider's web of self-pity.

### Blaming Others or Circumstances in Life for a Drinking Problem-the Victim Syndrome

Probably the most hurtful aspect of a typical drinker's behaviour, as was the case in my drunken harangues, is to blame others for his/her circumstances in life and hence for the drinking problem. The wife or husband is the most common target for this abuse. Such tirades can be exceedingly caustic providing an avalanche of mental abuse. Depending on the drinkers proneness to violence physical assault can become the end result. The content of these out bursts although mostly imagined or manufactured, usually contains enough material from old disagreements and arguments to beg the truth. Thus this manipulation of the material ends up with the recipient upset to the degree they actually believe they are culpable as the drunkard states. The worst part about accepting blame in any degree for the alcoholics drinking is that this acceptance is difficult or impossible to completely overturn throughout the rest of the recipient's life. However the unvarnished truth is that Nobody but the alcoholic is to blame for his/her drinking problem.

### Threatening Behaviour towards Others and Themselves

Often the alcoholic's antics eventually become so unbearable that a partner or spouse threatens to leave or divorce the offender. A common tactic amongst alcoholics is to threaten to kill him/herself or the protagonist if they take such action. Although this is the most violent of the threats in an alcoholics arsenal it is by no means the only really mind bending confrontation. Most alcoholics in their actively drinking stage, including myself, are cowards. Hence dramatically staged-to-fail suicide incidents become part of the alcoholic's pathetic repertoire. Intimidation through physical abuse including death threats towards the victim, usually a spouse or partner, should they reveal this carnage or actually try to leave the alcoholic are not uncommon.

### Poor Judgment

It is common knowledge that alcohol perverts the thought process and poor judgment ranks high on the list of malfeasances thus made manifest. A hallmark of poor judgment in my case was my propensity for poorly reasoned, snap decisions. Gazing back from my present state of sobriety I view a contorted map representing my active alcoholic period in life.

Poor judgment incidents that typify an alcoholic's life very often develop quickly and can be as innocent as a missed opportunity, serious as a lost job, as ominous as something criminal or even constitute a life threatening event. In my life I had examples of all except the loss of a job. Yes its 'sobering' (pun intended) to think how easily an alcoholic like myself due to poor judgment was involved in a criminal offense. Every time and there were many, that I drove a car in a drunken condition I was committing a crime. Likewise there were many times when I was in a life threatening position. Apart from being a threat to life, my own and those of others, when driving drunk I sometimes staggered out into traffic unable to control my perambulations. Then there were the arguments that I let get out of hand, that ended up in fist fights and on and on poor judgment reigned supreme.

Bipolarity was a problem that in my formative years very often went undiagnosed. Known first more descriptively as manic-depression it brings out extremes of character. In my case I was almost always in the manic phase coupled with a high degree of anxiety. Exacerbated by alcohol I showed truly bizarre manic instances of poor judgment. For example I could convince myself by some form of convoluted logic to go out and purchase large numbers of similar items. My present collection of 65 computers and tablet , 30 or so cameras, 15 light weight coats and so forth are only a few examples. The psychiatrists I frequented over many years plied me with drugs. In the first instance, over the span of about 25 years that my bipolarity went undiagnosed, they chose massive valium doses. Sadly I must emphasize that this led to a valium/alcohol cross addiction.

The above was only one extreme vestige of my poor judgment problem. Despite medications prescribed specifically to remove bipolar problems from the equation I still made poor judgments. During my drinking years loved ones were loath to harp at me for my poor judgment failings. This was one of their kindnesses that masqueraded as an unintended enabling factor in my continued drinking.

### Lying

Calling all liars! If any alcoholic fails to show-up to this summons then he is a lying.

If trademarks were assigned to drunkards then lying could share the head of this list.

The easiest person and commonly the only person a lying alcoholic fools is himself. Thus statements like; "I can quit drinking any time I wish" and "I drink a lot but I am not an alcoholic" or "heavy drinking is a family trait and that's why I am fated to do also" are frequently the mainstay of a non-repentant alcoholic's lexicon.

Looking back at my torrential rain of lies I told to others I wonder why I thought I should have bothered. Lying drunks are ridiculously transparent. Those close to the alcoholic learn to recognize drunken lies as certainly as remembering the colour of an orange. Sadly however in another typical act of unintended enablement these lies are often not challenged. This prompts the liar to think that he/she has successfully fooled the recipient and endless process continues.

Drunks are such atrocious liars that detection is almost too easy. Take me for example, when challenged over the phone if I had been drinking I had no problem saying no even when the timber of my voice had an easily recognizable slur. Even when my voice seemed steady there would be a tonality that was different than when I was sober. Even if I were sober enough to pass the voice test, which was seldom, I would often slip up by making the exact same statement or ask the same question twice during the conversation.

Although it is well known that even vodka, the only source of alcohol without its own distinctive smell, is easily detected on the breath of a drinker many alcoholics presume this to be false. Thus many alcoholics drink vodka and then lie about having been drinking. In my case I would drink vodka often in combination with strong smelling cough candies thinking that I could trick respondents standing near me into thinking I had not been drinking. The chemical alcohol has itself a very persistent high level of telltale odorous vapour that is always emitted from a drinker's breath and thus easily defeats all disguising attempts.

The 'I have not been drinking' lie is only one common example of a litany of falsehoods that alcoholics attempt to download on their audience. The list is endless.

## The Only Real Love of an Alcoholics Life

A chemical substance called alcohol (ethyl alcohol) takes complete control of an alcoholic's life. The top item on the alcoholics list of loves is alcohol. Nothing or nobody has a higher priority for an alcoholic than constant access to alcohol. That means family, friends, his/her vocation and even the possibility of death cannot displace alcohol as the active alcoholic's first priority item in life. In my case I would do anything necessary (eg. lie, cheat, even steal) to ensure my constant supply of alcohol.

## Personal Aside-More Bang per Drink

I drank 95% pure ethyl alcohol, easily obtainable for me and which I diluted to manageable concentrations with any mixer I found handy. Orange juice, colas and other soft drinks were my choices. Conventional sources of ethyl alcohol such as vodka, whiskey and gin are 80 proof which translates to about 40%. Thus I got a big alcohol induced bang for little expenditure.

Many alcoholics drain the family financial coffers purchasing their large daily quantities of alcohol of choice. As the alcoholic's problem progresses up the scale of more and more alcohol consumption needed per day the day the drain on the family finances increases proportionately. Many alcoholics reach the point that the type of alcoholic beverage of choice makes little difference. Literally any fluid containing ethyl alcohol will do. Thus cough medicines, mouth washes and the like become potential sources if no traditional alcoholic beverages are available at the moment. Due to this problem many manufacturers of such products have removed the ethyl alcohol in favour of a more neutral solvent.

There are 2 common processes that can limit the amount of drink an alcoholic consumes per day. These are the amount that causes the alcoholic to pass out and at a later stage, when liver damage sets in, lesser amounts that induce this somnolence due to poor liver function. No matter the drinking process can become a debilitating expense.

Really hard core down and out drunks in their demented quest for an alcohol containing drink choose household products containing methyl alcohol. This latter substance while delivering its desired high often causes blindness as an added side effect. Both ethyl and methyl alcohols can cause death in the short term when consumed in sufficient quantity. Methyl alcohol is deadly at much lower doses.

## Who Can End the Alcoholics Drinking problem?

Only the alcoholic can make the unreserved final decision to end a drinking problem. Nobody, not even health professionals, best friends or family members can do or say anything that will end someone else's alcoholism. Such people can try to convince the alcoholic to stop drinking. However no matter how emotive and sensible the arguments may be the alcoholic very commonly keeps right on drinking.

The most common ploy an alcoholic uses to extend his drinking while seeming to give hope that he will stop is to give a false promise to stop. Many scenarios then play out. Most commonly the alcoholic does stop drinking for a period of time but knowingly lacking an honest resolve, begins again. Many even go into a detox/treatment center and again, not acquiring an honest resolve, begin drinking again. An alcoholic's life can sometimes be characterized by a never ending serious of bogus pledges to end his/her drinking I have even seen many alcoholics ignore a doctor's statement that continued drinking will with certainty end in death and they do die as predicted.

# Chapter 3

# My Beginnings

## Let Me Introduce Myself

For the protection of my family I am writing this under a pseudonym, as is No. 1 Niece. Other than this and also using fictitious names for those mentioned in the stories, everything contained in this monograph is true.

It is important for the reader to understand the environment in which I became an alcoholic. However it is important to stress that nothing that follows is justification for my choice to make excessive use of alcohol which finally resulted in my alcoholism.

Alcoholism ran through the maternal male side of my family. I am severely bipolar, a disease that went undiagnosed until I reached my 40's. I self-medicated this problem and my dyslexia with alcohol which eventually became a cross addiction with valium. (Important Note-Here was my first excuse for heavy alcohol use. Note that like many potential alcoholics, I am starting to use the victim argument as justification for having acquired this problem).

I am a 77 year old male who was born in an industrial city into to a fine middleclass family. By fine I mean that both my father and mother were, within most telling parameters, good parents. My grandparents on my mother side lived with us. My grandmother, when I was very young, became my favourite person. Granddad, who I also loved dearly, was an alcoholic. Due to the long term incapacitating illness of my mother my grandmother became my mentor. My father was in a high level position and spent much of his free time away from home heading up service clubs or when at home was in his gardens or doing woodworking in the basement.

Mother and father were extremely religious. My father was an elder in a United Church. Mother was also given this designation but because of her illness was seldom able to assume this duty. I have a brother and sister and we three were indoctrinated into the faith. My brother and sister and their spouses are still devote Christians. I lost my faith many years ago and this stance has since bitterly hardened. My training in the sciences, expertise in environmental chemistry, frequent travel and consultancies to developing countries and exposure much too frequently to the nasty vagaries of human nature were the catalysts for my eventual atheism.

By the time my grandparents moved in with us granddad had his alcoholism basically under control. Now and again he would binge on alcohol based medications such as cough syrup or other alcohol containing house hold items. No alcoholic beverages were allowed in the house.

It's a miracle that I never developed lung cancer. Granddad was a roll-your-own chain-smoker. By the age of 20 I was a 2 pack a-day cigarette and occasional pipe smoker. Both granddad and I loved sports. We spent most evenings in the smoked choked tiny living room of my grandparents small upstairs apartment watching anything that bore any relationship to sport on his 12 inch black and white TV.

I married an exceptionally upstanding and marvelous woman who together with my wonderful children stuck with me through all my nasty foibles to this day 56 years later. My children, lovingly guided through to exemplary adulthood despite their miscreant father, have their mother to thank.

Despite what would appear to be a rather normal, even privileged upbringing I was prone toward lying and acquiring bad habits. I was an addict looking for an addiction or perhaps put more bluntly I was an addiction waiting to happen. I didn't have to wait long!

Many or perhaps most of my readers will be unable to identify with a basically unscarred upbringing such as mine. The majority of the fellow addicts that I met in treatment centers and while toying with death in the extremes of the alcoholic existence were badly scarred. They had horror stories in their pasts, often originating at birth, that were indeed heart rendering to hear.

## Onward and Downward

My life of addictions began at an early age.

My early childhood occurred during the 1930's and 40's, an era before illicit drugs, common today, were available in our neighbourhood. Had such tempting substances been obtainable I am certain I would have been using a selection of these.

We lived on a ravine and spent a good deal of spare time in my preteens smoking-up in a cave that we had stocked with several types of smoking materials. These were stored in a water proof tin box and hidden in a crevice in the wall of the cave. A good friend worked as a delivery boy for a drug store from which he stole any contraband we desired. Mouthwashes in those days were largely alcohol based and being available from the drugstore became part of the cave arsenal. Mouthwash served 2 purposes. It 'hid' the smell of smoke on our breath and was our introduction to alcohol consumption.

Addiction for most including me begins slowly and proceeds at a relative slowly but accelerating pace. My teen years were outwardly relatively normal and from an addiction point of view dominated largely by smoking. My interest in sport grew from watching events in my grandfather's smoke filled apartment into playing on a variety of high school sport teams. I was a lousy athlete but just good enough to make the senior teams but spending most of my time sitting on the bench.

My accelerating bursts of addiction during the teen years came mostly while working for minimum wage on weekends and summers with a friend Tommy on his father's farm. Like my own family Tommy's parents were very religious and this fact became a false sense of assurance for my parents that I would be in an influentially desirable environment. What a horrible misconception this turned out to be.

I learned to drive at the age of 14 on the farm roads and paths. My first experience behind the wheel was learning to drive a utility vehicle used mainly to pull the hay wagon. This vehicle had about a 1/3rd turn of play before the faulty steering mechanism kicked in. Needless to say I spent my initial driving forays frequently extracting myself from ditches and other farm road hazards. Despite my relative high level of driving expertise by the legal driving age of 16 I dutifully allowed my father to take me for driving lessons. Perhaps as pay back for my cockiness, I got into an accident during my driving license test and thus failed my first attempt. Pease let the record show that it was the other drivers fault, but non-the-less it was a humbling experience. My father in his wisdom took me back to the same driving tester a week or so later and I was successful.

But let's get back to the point of this narrative.

The following is one story typical of my early years and consequent acceleration towards heavy drinking.

Growing up in an outer suburb in a hoity-toity area in Hamilton Canada had many challenges. Unfortunately for us, my father had bought into the suburb, before any of its opulence became apparent. As an illustration of the rising neighbourhood affluence, the house across the street, built long after we moved in, was constructed replete with a commercial quality bowling alley in the basement! We were relatively insolvent at the time and fitting in was like pushing the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle. While the rest of the family struggled to adjust to this upper class environment, I was in a full state of rebellion. We were one of the few Protestant families in the neighborhood, so unfortunately for me, my parents were against me fraternizing with the local youth, who held different religious beliefs. I despised this religious intolerance and disregarded all their religion based isolationist ploys.

My above mentioned farming experience arose as one of the consequences of my dislike of traditional family protocols. Tommy, a copious drinker, quaintly nick named 'The Alc' became my mentor and close friend. From an early age like me, he was unconventional in spirit and deeds. For this he was generally frowned upon by the other male students. Tommy's parent's farm was a 30 minute drive from the city and instead of attending a nearby one room school; his family felt it important to enroll him in a city school. Tommy unlike unattractive me was one of the most handsome and muscular guys in the school and again using the curious teen slang of the day, he was "built like a brick shit house". Shit house is in reference to the outhouse, in the days before indoor plumbing arrived and was still evident in some of the local farming districts at that time. Despite his outcast status, his charisma and attractiveness enthralled plenty of teen females.

My passion for sports further solidified my friendship with Tommy thinking that by working on his farm I could improve my physical attributes and thus transition from bench sitter, to a prominent player on the hockey and football teams. Tommy showed plenty of enthusiasm for an alcohol loving friend like me working as an assistant on the farm. Despite the regime of physically demanding farming activities my attractive insignificance remained and although I grew very much stronger, my lack of innate sporting skills kept me chained to the benches as a substitute just as before. This lack of personal fulfilment on my part, Tommy's restless and mischievous nature combined with very inventive subterfuge from both sets of parents lead to heavy drinking and other related machinations.

Ah, but we had the Alc's girls, the dream of every teenage boy; they were numerous and mostly could be defined as bimboesque in appearance and demeanor. They adored handsome Tommy but would give me nary a second look and I had to be satisfied with the thrill from the accidental contact with a female body part, or some other such unintended encounter. To illustrate our shenanigans, Tommy owned a car and after we all had partaken in a few drinks, used to thrill me and 4 or 5 of his female cortege, by performing dangerous chicanery, like driving at break neck speed through the main intersection of the city. This intersection had no stoplights at that time, so a porcine Constable was assigned to directing traffic. When we careened through, Tommy would turn off and on the ignition key, which in the old automobiles of the day, occasioned a loud backfire and produced a dense blue smoky cloud. A glance back revealed the startled Constable wavering to and fro coughing, expectorating and cursing into the midst of the intense haze of exhaust! Because the Constable was alone while directing traffic and the subsequent haze obscured identifying details, Tommy was never pursued or had his license number recorded.

Tommy and I had an alcohol induced penchant for danger. Lengthy practice sessions at slow speed produced the following exhibition of frightening stupidity whilst driving. On a quiet gravel road, with the car full of his favourite females, Tommy would speed along and then spying an oncoming vehicle, would throw open his door and project himself out into space. With the door fully open, his hands clasping the armrest and his feet on the running board, I would be left to control the steering, by leaning over from the passenger seat. Amidst loud screaming from within and horn honking from the oncoming car, Tommy would wait for the last moment, before propelling himself back into the car and resuming driving as though nothing had happened.

A strange addendum to Tommy's life story concerned the consequences of his marriage and subsequent profession. His wife took an intense and immediate dislike to his former friends, particularly alcohol soaked me and submerged him in her own circle of more conventional companions. He was also convinced to make the decision to abandon drinking and later evidence that he did stop though very convincing was never corroborated. For example, this convincing evidence includes that after obtaining an Engineering degree, he rose through the ranks to become the Canadian Head of one of America's largest farm equipment firms. My one time colleague in alcoholic rebellion was not only lost as my friend, but became a bulwark of business, religious and societal convention.

# Chapter 4

# Me the Typical Full Blown Alcoholic-Some Typical Antics

Before my final collapse into full time drinking, I was able to control the timing of my drinking escapades. This put me in the category sometimes referred to as a binge drinker. Thus in large part I was not drinking during working hours. Of course weekends of binge drinking often lapsed into Mondays which caused absenteeism and hence did imping on my work hours, thus explaining the caveat, in large part, used above.

## My Disabilities- Victim and Self-Pity Ruses as Dodges to Promote Enablement

It became ritualistic; one of the first things I would do when I arrived at a destination for a conference or a consultancy was to break up a disposable razor giving me ready access to multiple stainless steel blades in case I decided to cut my wrists. Secondly I would remove the screens on the hotel windows in case I might prefer to jump to my death. These events occurred during the 1960's and 70's when most hotels that I could afford had openable windows with screens.

### Self-Pity-A personal Dilemma

Each Alcoholic has experiences in life that can lead to self-pity. Here is a major source of mine. Read this and then consider your own source(s) of this paralyzing phenomenon. Are yours as or more demoralizing than mine? Most importantly are such problems worth a dive into alcoholic self-destructive behaviour? Obviously I thought this to be so.

#### My Learning Disability, Undiagnosed Until Age 40

Almost every evening the dishes clanked in the Van Loon sink to the tune of a spelling quiz. As we washed, mother would say, "How do you spell 'their'?" As often as not I would reply t-h-i-e-r, which would occasion a quick but gentle reprimand. The exercise was repeated with other equally simple words

_ such as "always" and "family", which just as frequently came out "allways" and "familly" At school such errors, caused a more caustic response.

My Grade 6 teacher, circa 1940's, was a task master straight out of a Dickens workhouse. If you didn't pay attention he might just try bouncing a blackboard brush off your head. Every student suffered through his deviant tendencies, I worse than most. If I made a spelling error in an "easy" word I was banished to the blackboard to write it repetitively fifty times or more. The odds were very much in favour of another error occurring in such a multitude of repeats. It seemed as though I was "blind" to such errors. That is, I often could not (and still cannot) tell the order of letters in words. Surprisingly, letters can be reversed even when I say them in the correct order while I am writing. Of course, if I made another error I was kept at the board until I had correctly spelled the word all fifty times. I sometimes wonder why I am not still there, writing out words, because I seldom was able to complete the task satisfactorily. This problem is immutable and thus has followed me into my 70's even as I write the present narrative. No Spell Check existed on type writers used in my grade schooling era. Such innovation was waiting for word processors several decades in the future.

For the third time this same teacher ripped my assignment to shreds consigning the pieces to the waste basket with a theatrical flourish. His instructions had been to produce a report in a neat fashion, complete with a well laid out cover sheet. I began with the rest of the class to research and write the report. By the end of the first classroom work period, several classmates had finished the assignment. Most of us needed to complete the remaining work at home. The next day most students, including myself, handed in the fruits of their labours. Despite many attempts, I had been unable to center the title and accompanying diagram on the cover sheet. Additionally, my best attempt was marred by eraser markings and other smudges. The teacher caught sight of this as I timidly placed the report on his desk. This occasioned the initial volley of invective that was to grow into a crescendo of disparagements when, after several more evenings work, the product was still not to his satisfaction. No one else in the class received this blandishment.

Even more difficult to weather were statements by this and other teachers to the effect that if I couldn't spell a word I should get off my lazy butt and at least look up the correct spelling in a dictionary. I was much too embarrassed to admit that because my spelling was so bad I frequently could not even find these words in a dictionary. In later years and even up to the present even Spell Check is often unable to help.

Despite writing extensively over the years, my spelling remains at a Grade 9 level and no matter how hard I try I am virtually unable to bring any permanent improvement to either my spelling or the extent of my vocabulary. A thesaurus is now thankfully available on a computer using Click Keys (software download and the keystrokes Ctrl=m). Despite such innovation vocabulary is still a particularly sore point for me because I believe that an extensive vocabulary and good spelling are essential to being considered literate. During high school and university I purchased various books for vocabulary and spelling improvement such as _Two Weeks to a More Powerful Vocabulary._ This particular book consisted of fourteen lessons comprising word lists and exercises illustrating the correct spelling and proper use of words. I tried to work through these lessons day by day, as instructed, but I made little headway despite an intense and urgent effort.

I could never remember any of the previous day's words. In frustration I went through the book and wrote a selection of the best words on cards hoping to commit this summary to memory. I studied the cards formally during my study period, also on the subway, at bus stops and even while shaving in order to increase the exposure time. Alas, today I can easily recall only three (ambiance, negate, equivocate) of the hundreds of words I studied in this way over the years. However, with extensive use of the above mentioned _Thesaurus,_ my writing can contain a surprising variety of words, however few become a permanent part of my vocabulary.

My grade 9 level grammar and syntax cause me to suffer in a like manner in this creative area. Even computerized aids are of little help. As I use 'MS Word' and I see the ominous green squiggly underlining of a whole section, while striving through several unsuccessful iterations to make changes, I receive a hollow feeling in my stomach. Many times despite my best efforts, the squiggles remain.

I have always been unable to use cursive writing. No matter how hard I try my script comes out as mostly poor printing. In the grade school that I attended a student was allowed to switch from pencil to pen at the moment he could prove a facility in written script. I was the only student who was forced to retain the pencil through the entire eight grades. What an embarrassment! Likewise, regardless of how much effort I expended, my school work was messy. I made stupid errors, in the estimation of my teachers and school mates. It seemed to everyone a clear case of underachievement because of flashes of brightness in a few subjects.

Criticism from teachers over such difficulties could be at least bearable and often understandable, but similar comments from fellow students could be very upsetting. "Jeez, you're so stupid, you should be back in kindergarten," or, "You're a school inspector's son, you shouldn't be so stupid," were typical insults. Fortunately such criticism was not common and as I improved in my scholastic capabilities upon entering university, I became on a par with my protagonists.

Why do I have to work so hard for such a poor result? It is easy to pity oneself and think "why me?" There were many times when I wondered if it was worth continuing at such an intense pace. But in the long run criticism at school never made me want to give up. On the contrary, it became a motivation to push me to work even harder.

When I first arrived at the fence the chickens would scatter back towards the center of the coup. Soon however their curiosity got the best of them and they would come back to investigate. "My, Samantha looks lustrous and beautiful today, and Charley must have been fighting again; he's lost some feathers." These were the infantile musings that went through my mind as I pressed against the chicken coop fence.

In the 1940s there was a small farm next to George R. Allen Public School in Hamilton. At times of severe frustration I could find solace with the chickens. There was a grove of bushes between the school yard and the chicken coop where you could hide from people in the playground. I spent a good deal of time before and after school and during recess in quiet commiseration with these chickens. There was one hazard. The farmer had been plagued by pranks from the more aggressive members of the student body. As a result, when he caught you near his chickens you had to be fleet of foot or risk a good smack across the back from his homemade straw broom.

But often it was impossible to escape from the onslaught of criticism. To obtain relief I developed a trance-like nervous blinking habit with which I stared down any critic. I remember wondering how many times I would have to blink before they would stop and I would begin counting 1, 2, 3, 4, ...

In these early years all was certainly not pressure and despair. There was a group of about ten neighborhood children with whom I loosely associated. We played sports together in a local park for hours and I was comparably proficient in these activities. These playmates were not classmates and were very good to me. But as the years wore on the pressure of criticism and the fear that I would say or do something stupid prevented me from forming many strong or lasting relationships. This ever present fear is so deeply a part of my fabric that I am unable to properly accept praise for things done well. This is because of the worry that a big error is just waiting to occur that will completely erode my credibility.

If by such self-pity a person were able to evoke something positive I would, by now, likely have won at least one Nobel Prize. If the time I have wasted, am wasting, and will continue to waste in self-pity, self-deprecation and other acts of just plain selfishness were added together most people would be happy with this accumulated time as a guaranteed life expectancy. Even considering this self-admitted, horrendous deportment, I am the first one to reject such behaviour when I see it in others, especially when observed in my children and grandchildren.

Truly, none of us is born perfect. I have a learning disability; others have physical and other serious health problems, family problems, and so on. No one is given any guarantees in life. Why then does it seem that someone (often anyone) seems luckier than I am? (More recently walking through a children's cancer ward put things in better perspective). Non-the-less I fret that my life would be so much more productive academically, socially and almost in any way made more fruitful if I were able to make myself believe fully what I am now writing and give up the time-wasting and energy-consuming activity of self-pity.

It doesn't take much imagination to imagine how easily I could gain sympathy for wallowing in self-pity as manifest in using drink to ameliorate such feelings. My habit of using drink in this manner grew quickly with age. Those who loved me would seem like uncaring monsters if they reacted negatively to my sad dilemma. Thus the self-pity 'card' became one of the most dominant in my deck for invoking sympathy from those around me. So instead of telling me to suck it up and get on with life they enabled me to continue my drinking by buying into this growing tendency.

## My Bipolarity, Undiagnosed until My 40's

In my formative years my disease was called manic depression and then suddenly this affliction was renamed bipolar. Adopting a term already such common use for example in the basic physics of transistors and in biology relating to replace the phrase manic depression seems like a desperate attempt to mask the real nature of such a disease. I suppose the term bipolar sounds rather more favourable to medical experts, but to those of us with the affliction manic depression describes exactly what we suffer.

About 1% of the world's adult population has this affliction. Have you never wondered that if 8 to 10% are Alcoholics, 1% Bipolar, 10% learning Disabled, 3-5% of children have Attention Deficit Hypertensive disorder, 2% of adults have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and so on through a myriad of other mental and emotional disorders with new varieties continuously being discovered, can there be any normal people in this world? Out of curiosity I asked Google for the "percentage of people having normal behavior" and also used other related wording. No percentages were found to estimate this condition. So is nobody normal? It would appear that the word normal is redundant in describing behavior, it having many slightly varying connotations. In any case having an acronym attributable to my behaviour was another excellent mode to invoke the victim self-pity ruse and I used it ad nauseum.

Fifty years ago few of these maladies had been described as such. Perhaps they were just undiagnosed? In the case of many of these this probably mean that most did not exist until modern times and the onset is a result of human ingestion of complex pollutants, genetic mutations in human cells or as in the spate of new food allergies perhaps from genetically modified foods. The majority of Health Scientists would have us believe that most existed in the deep dark past and their recent discovery is the result of ground breaking research by specialists. I say, 'what a load of bunk'. I believe that some of the most prominent of these problems have existed undetected for years with many of our forefathers having suffered horrendously without treatment and without knowing the reason.

After massive alcoholic binges and/or suicide attempts, I spent time under heavy medication in what in my recent past would have been called a Lunatic Asylum but in the 1970's was a locked mental ward of a large city hospital and more recently, rehab. Being 76 years old and having 2 mental/emotional problems which went undetected for years, a learning disability and manic depression, I provide an excellent example of our prevalent dysfunctional medical environment. This is still characterized by lack of proper diagnosis, antiquated treatment, bungled treatment, disproportionate reliance on new technology and probably and appreciable dose of incompetence.

Alcoholics are typically masters of devising reasons from within their own lives to make others feel predisposed to go easy on them for their excessive drinking. Because I had disabilities like my bipolar and learning disabled conditions this was easier for me than most. The following is an illustration of my flawed thinking.

Valium and alcohol was the combination that brought me out of the depressions. As a matter of fact this combination worked well for many years until I almost ended life as a drunk wandering the streets.

My guess in my case is that the manic depression may have really reached full blossom somewhere in my teens. From there on I was on an emotional roller coaster. Unlike many I could thump from full blown manic to deep depression in very short intervals measured in I or 2 hours. More commonly I had longer intervals in both states but dominantly the manic phase.

Prior to diagnosis I was much more disturbed in my depression phases and my history with Psychiatry began focused on only this lesser dominant part of the duality. The fact that despite my academic successes none of the Psychiatrists in many years of therapy questioned how a depressed person could have accomplished such an achievement is a factor that boggled my mind. But of course this was because I never felt the need for psychiatric treatment during manic phases.

Since manic episodes predominated and defined in my mind, my basic life's parameters. It never struck me strange for example that purchasing many cameras was the least bit strange. My energy level and proclivity for extended intensive work periods were essential to my success. Mind you I had to break these periods into shorter intervals due to concentration problems caused by my learning disability. Non-the-less I could move from one interval to the next with intensive smoothness and hence these patterns which would be disruptive for most were an ingrained pattern in my working style. In these long manic stages my capability for highly interval patterned productive learning and working knew few bounds. I could work with little sleep and never seem tired. Manic living seemed my normal life style.

Depression therefore stood starkly out against this intensive high paced "normal" lifestyle. During these intervals I was in a narrow hole whose walls I could not surmount. Depression was the life style contrast that I could not fathom and hence complained most about. It left me in a motionless state both physically and emotionally. This then appeared an abnormality in which I sometimes struggled. Until diagnosis I never identified manic phases as being abnormal and these, which spanned the majority of my days, were never mentioned. Weren't achievers always high octane workers? Was it not only the unproductive, self-hating depressive periods that required treatment?

## My Suicide Attempts

Although I went through many suicidal threatening phases during my alcoholism, I don't think I ever really meant to actually end my life thusly. However one particular antic associated with these suicidal episodes could easily have ended my life accidentally. The first of the following was in that category.

### Hydrogen Cyanide Gas Method

As a chemist I had access to a large variety of dangerous chemicals. Among these were several cyanide containing compounds. The gas chamber method of carrying out the death penalty is to fill the room in which the prisoner is to be executed with the gas hydrogen cyanide. This causes a relatively quick death. Hydrogen cyanide gas can easily be generated by pouring sulfuric acid into a container of potassium cyanide.

Thus I took a supply of both of these chemicals from my laboratory storage facility and stored them together with a large beaker in which to mix these in deadly combination, in the back of one of my office desk drawers. On several occasions when contemplating suicide, I filled the beaker about 1/3 full of potassium cyanide and then opened the sulfuric acid bottle and tilted it menacingly over the beaker. On no occasion did I ever actually pour any acid into the beaker despite holding it for long periods with the liquid millimeters from the lip of the bottle. The danger of course was that an involuntary shudder or other movement of my pouring arm could easily have caused acid to spill into the beaker and I would have been killed.

### My Cutting Episodes

Unlike my hydrogen cyanide abortive suicide propensity, which I never mentioned to my family, my cutting episodes were 'painfully' obvious. To this day I have scares on my wrists and face that remind me of these suicide attempts.

In this picture of one wrist the light yellow lines and blotching including the lump on the main artery, is the souvenir I still carry as a daily reminder of a drunken wrist slashing attempt over 40 years ago. Such a permanent reminder is important to record since most of the real damage of alcoholism is invisible and resides in the alcoholics mind and in the minds of those whom he injured through his/her many-fold malfeasance.

Like most alcoholic cutters I did not really intend suicide but carried out these acts as attention getting ploys. Attacks on my head area with a razor blade were more common. Then with blood pouring down my face from many superficial wounds I would appear and petrify my poor family. Such acts invariably got plenty of attention with a trip to the emergency ward and lock up in the mental ward (rehab.). Looking back at this after 30 of sobriety I can only cringe at my selfish thoughtlessness and ponder the huge waste of time and needless dint in the public purse.

Being a research scientist manically driven to near the top of my field I was an Invited or Plenary speaker at International Conferences over a 20 year period in the late 1970's to 90's (hence hotels with screens on the windows). No one of consequence in my field internationally knew of my parallel binge alcoholic and suicidal proclivities that invariably walloped on and off during these events. The fact that I am writing this account is proof that I survived these episodes but non-the-less not without incidents. A comment on the source of the almost constant manic phases that were an integral part of my mental/emotional make-up follows.

## Binge Drinking Alcoholism- My Modus Operandi- My Eventual Downfall

The binge drinking alcoholic probably has the most trouble admitting to him/her that they are indeed irretrievably hooked on booze compared to any other flavour of habitual drinker. For years I posited that since I could refrain from drinking when absolutely necessary how could I possibly classed as an alcoholic? Surely this was the guarantee that I had control of my drinking? I went to work cold stone sober every day, even refraining from drinking with colleagues during lunches. In fact if necessary I could last for many days in a row and not touch a drink. What I could not do was avoid frequent intervals in which I became pass-out drunk. Once I gave myself permission to have the first drink I was as unable to stop until drunken blackouts occurred.

Binge Drinking's progression to ultimate uncontrolled drinking can emphatically be compared to playing episodes of Russian roulette with a gun whose chambers become increasingly full of bullets over time. Many individuals will relate to the use of alcohol as a means of overcoming of social difficulties. Of course the alcoholic is unable to stop drinking until this aid to sociability morphs into an intolerable drunken farce. I could cite dozens of examples but the following few will suffice to illustrate this point.

I began my excessive drinking on social occasions. My wife had the good sense to see when it was time to take me home and I was compliant. However after some years of such incidents I began to sneak drinks once I was at home, often until I passed out on a sofa. With time my wife lost control of my social drinking and it was becoming evident among my friends that I was drinking far too much. Running parallel to my social drinking binges were drinking binges on weekends and holidays. These usually began Friday nights and ran until late Sunday evenings. During these weekend binges I had periods in which I passed-out but once revived the 'hair of the dog' syndrome had me back in full flight soon again. Soon I was drinking every evening until I reached the state of somnolence.

Many alcoholics have the characteristic of being able to drink large amounts of booze without suffering much of a hangover the next day. I was one of these. Until liver impairment sets in this pattern usually persists. This absence of hangover phenomenon made it easy to day after day use excessive drinking as a crutch in stressful situations such as the following.

I jogged every night fortified with alcohol in windless -55 degrees C temperatures. My balaclava covered face, goggles and sweater filled heavy track suit, were my buffer against the ice fog that such temperatures occasioned. The rural roads that fanned out from my motel were treacherously potholed filled and in addition offered the odd scare from largely invisible farm utility vehicles that swept by on both sides of the roads. Such binge/boozed-up exercising was my routine every day after stiff mental challenges. In the present illustration pressure filled days as a consultant working at a large facility on the outskirts of a big city in Canada's northwest was the match that ignited my fuse.

These episodes occurred during a long ago February. The reader might wonder why do such exercising in the dark? In Canada's northwest in the winter time dawn would break about 9:30am with the sunset occurring about 3 pm. Thus much of the day was spent in darkness.

These half drunken recreational safaris were peppered with minor mishaps mostly of the minor trip and fall variety. Upon arriving back at the motel my habit became to reinstitute the drinking and continue until I passed out on the bed.

## Drug Addiction Complication in my Worse than Death Scenario

Addiction prone individuals like I can easily become addicted to drugs. I have already spoken of my many years addiction to smoking. I also had battles with prescription drugs and cross addition with alcohol.

### Thailand My Prescription Drug Donnybrook

The potential ease with which an alcoholic can become addicted to drugs is frightening and important to recognize. The following is a story of my own brush with this danger.

Unexpectedly Part 1 of our family's around-the-World trip prior to arriving to my posting in Australia was to end here in Bangkok. The original final leg before Australia, as designated on our tickets, was to be Singapore.

We all arrived in Bangkok in the pink of health. There were 2 episodes that bear mentioning here one for the humour and the other relating to my addiction proclivities. On the first day, after a restful overnight in the hotel in Bangkok we began the sight-seeing.

First, we took the famous floating market tour. These markets are Some distance from the center of Bangkok and we traveled to the location by motor boat. These were the strangest water craft I had ever seen. Long, low and narrow they had motors, which were small car engines mounted on long shafts with a propeller at the far end and the handle for steering protruding from the other end near the motor. The Pilot must have had arm muscles like steel, yet a gentle touch to maneuver so carefully as was required in these often congested waters. In open water the craft must have traveled at 40 to 50 kmph. Upon arrival at the markets we disembarked into several small crafts. A Thai woman guided this boat skillfully through the maze of floating markets and other traffic. In an indifferent type dialog that she had obviously enumerated countless times, she described all the most important facts of interest. At one point she nonchalantly bought a bunch of bananas and casually dispensed this into the bottom of the boat without missing a word of dialog. Sometime later in the tour she told people to help themselves to a banana. However when she looked down there were only 1 or 2 left, our young Jon had eaten all the others. Upon arrival back we continued the day's events with a walk in the crowded streets, our main destination being the temple of Dawn (Wat Arun), a Buddhist Temple of magnificent architecture and construction. Its spire, 70 meters tall, is world famous for the intricate and colorful ancient china (porcelain) and glass fragments embedded in the surface.

The highlight that evening was an authentic Thai meal (this is 1975 so such cuisine was not generally available in Toronto). Of particular note, I chose a seafood soup which was remarkably delicious. The rest of the courses were typically spicy, but not overly so. We retired to our hotel beds soon after, exhausted by the many activities of the day. At about 2.00 AM it began! I darted from my bed to the toilet with a fiery stomach and promptly barfed up all my meal. I was unable to vacate the bathroom, losing fluids from both ends in an almost continuous manner. A frantic call brought the Thai trained hotel Doctor. At a relatively quiescent point in my proceedings he gave me two small round, red pills. I almost immediately became light headed and with a silly smile on my face I staggered back to bed. For the next many hours and the next day and night after (the doctor came again with 2 more of these pills next morning and 2 again that evening) I had the most pleasant sensation in which I seemed to be wafting about 20 cm above the bed. Meanwhile, after fending me off Maureen and the kids had to walk to an airline office through a very seedy and apparently dangerous district of the city, to amend our tickets in order to bypass Singapore, to allow us to travel straight to Melbourne consistent with our expected arrival time. On the day of our departure I was wistfully delaying until the last minute back knowing the doctor would appear again so I could beg him for a supply of his magical pills in case these might be needed for the next few days. This was of course a dangerous situation for an addict like me, being treated with what must have been a type of opiate. Had I been alone with no family or job pressures forcing me to leave I could easily have stayed here and because such a drug was relatively easily procured, become addicted.

### Street Drugs a More Recent Addiction Problem

Today the term substance abuse is a widely encountered term. This refers to a wide range of addictive substances, usually 'street drugs' that are now abused with alcohol, individually or in a variety of combinations. It is crucial to mention the subject here.

I never personally got into the Recreational Drug scene. Thirty years ago at the time I quit drinking forever, in North America drugs could not be as easily procured and hence were not the problem they present today. However it is crucial to emphasize that drug addiction and alcohol addiction are a package deal. Thus an alcoholic who chooses sobriety must never touch addictive drugs of any kind.

Although I never personally used addictive street drugs the following is a sad story of an individual very close to me who was very deeply involved with drugs. It is important to read this story to emphasize the connection that use of drugs and alcohol possess. This story and others that crossed my path convinced me that drug addiction is also a 'worse than death problem'.

### A Prodigal Prodigies Sad Demise

It shocked and pained me deeply but I was not surprised; his limp body there on the floor, a homemade mask pulled over mouth and nose and plastic tubing protruding therefrom. I didn't even bother to check for a pulse, the dark blue pallor of his face screamed it out all too clearly. There was the end to it; Sasha could not endure his self-contrived tortured world any longer. That fine spring morning I had just arrived at the lab early expecting that nobody else would yet be present. I immediately called 911 and a few key University Officials.

Despite overt enthusiasm for his ground breaking research, Sasha conveyed a sense of dysphoria, together with the additional manifestation of being driven by a relentless internal engine that had only one speed and that was full on. Thinking back on the 1.5 tenure in my research group of this 16 year old PhD candidate, I realized that I shouldn't have been surprised at the piteous tableau confronting me on the floor of his laboratory cubicle.

Sasha had no interest in my own categories of research programs, so why had I accepted him as a member of my research group? In fact I had decided during our first interview that I would reject him on these grounds and because of his immediately obvious and unsettling, pretentious mannerisms. That was before he informed me that the rest of the departmental staff had rejected him and I was his last chance to gain admission. This coupled with the recollection of a phone conversation with a colleague pointing out that Sasha was in fact a scientific diamond in the rough, whose distressing behaviour, like that of many prodigies had likely emanated due to lack of traditional social skills. My colleague went on to say that his only reason for rejection was based on Sasha's emotional problems which he was unwilling to abide. Having suffered myself with repudiation from this same set of problems emanating from the consequences of my own bipolarity, I wasn't surprised at hearing myself tell Sasha he was accepted.

Sasha began his work in my lab, by during the first few months, discovering and patenting a method for binding organic compounds to metals that had potential to revolutionize industrial coating procedures. Such an achievement, born as it was in the mind of a 16 year old, placed him instantly in the category of prodigy. The prospects of ancillary related fundamental developments spilled profusely from his brain.

Unfortunately this scientific largess was accompanied by an equal volume of collateral emotionally based problems. Sasha had joined an off campus group that specialized in a procedure called 'scream therapy'. Try as I did to convince Sasha to adopt conventional assessment and treatment which was available free from skilled University Health service personnel, he rejected this approach in favour of alternative methods; scream therapy being only the most disturbing of the lot. In many ways Sasha behaved like a typical 12 or 13 year old battling the dynamism of entering the early stages of puberty. He had no serious commitment to any treatment, entering each just for camaraderie of likewise inclined individuals and the shock their outlandish practices rendered to outsiders.

Sasha became somewhat of a pariah around the department and I was under pressure by coworkers and my Professorial colleagues to take remedial action. I issued him a series of warnings which were often in poor judgment not enacted due to the success of his research. His bimonthly progress reports were astounding, highlighted by the end of the first year with his acquisition of 2 more patents and 3 publications in major journals. Even the Department Chair had to admit his work had been superior enough in quality and quantity to rank him academically near the top of PhD candidates.

He was a dynamo in the laboratory. Whereas most students needed about 8 meters of bench space for their experimentation, Sasha had multiple research stations, all simultaneously active, that occupied about 3 times this much area. I can still see acutely in my memory Sasha, laboratory water bottle in hand from which he constantly sipped, almost at a run servicing these multiple setups. Unlike most students he never seemed to pause to sit at his carrel to write up results; instead he scribbled scattered notes in lab books which were strategically positioned throughout his research locations. Creation of formal reports, publications and complicated patent applications flowed like magic. It was as though Sasha could coalesce rigorous scientific arguments from seemingly random observations his laboratory notebooks contained

Anytime was work time for Sasha. Sometimes when he was under sanction due to particularly severe emotional out bursts he would disappear for a few days. This would then be followed by a week or so in which he worked 20 hour days always at his double quick time. Finally in mid second year of his tenure after a serious of vociferous, salacious, threatening outbursts that could be heard by a large portion of the building, I told him he would be dismissed unless he received proper treatment. Miraculously he seemed to acquiesce and his outbursts ceased. During this interval Sasha was seldom seen around the lab, his excuse being that he was under intensive treatment. Strangely even during this interval his bimonthly reports contained the same volume of outstanding work. Just as suddenly came that fine spring morning that I found Sasha dead.

I was about to be arrested for possession and distribution of drugs. The police during their investigation had discovered drawers throughout my laboratory contained large but well hidden quantities of a variety of illegal drugs. It was only after assurances of University officials that I was definitely innocent that I avoided this catastrophe. Testimony of the building night cleaning staff revealed that during the above short period in which Sasha had supposedly been receiving treatment, he was in fact working all night. In addition he frequently put them to fright with his screaming; his practice of scream therapy no doubt. These kindly folk were reluctantly about to lodge a complaint but that was just before I found Sasha dead.

Death had occurred due to suffocation while breathing nitrous oxide (laughing gas) without an appurtenant flow of enough oxygen. Nitrous oxide was readily available in our lab for producing flame sources for our spectrometers.

Being the trusting, simple minded person that I was I never had any idea that Sasha was into drugs. This was my rueful introduction into the vagaries of the drug culture. Apparently breathing nitrous oxide with a deficiency of oxygen was a game of blind man's bluff. The magnitude of the high this produced was proportional to the depleted level of oxygen; depleted too far a lack of sufficient oxygen results in suffocation.

Whether it was death by misadventure or suicide does not matter. The result was a societal and scientific tragedy and it had happened on my watch.

## Prescription Drugs and Useless often harmful Psychiatry

Many alcoholics become cross addicted to prescription drugs. I was one of these. Additionally alcoholics often become involved in psychiatry and heavy doses of drugs that many prescribe. I was also one of these.

Medication has dominated my life. Bipolarity, also known as Manic Depression, went undiagnosed in my early years until age 45. When unchecked, this problem is typified by emotional oscillations from deep depression to manic excesses. The oscillation frequency in my case varied from minutes to weeks. Although I had periods of deep depression the manic phase dominated my bipolarity

Perhaps it is incorrect to label cigarettes, or more correctly their addictive chemicals, as a medication. But for 15 or so years following my teens, I used smoking to medicate and in some degree mollify my undiagnosed bipolarity.

Enter Psychiatrists beginning in my 20s, as a dominant fortnightly to monthly feature for the rest of my life. But even for 20 years under their tutelage my bipolarity continued undiagnosed, as the early practitioners filled me with valium. This medication coupled with alcohol became the perfect camouflage, by repressing my emotional extremes. I encountered an unusual variety of Psychiatrists that could be grouped according to their treatment preferences. Only few worked without emphasis on medications. My favorite amongst these used biofeedback as his weapon of choice. He taught relaxation procedures and their effectiveness was judged by evaluating squiggly signals on a monitor, with the device being attached to the patient. When the baseline of the signal travelled lower on the screen, it meant the patient was becoming more relaxed. The effectiveness of this approach became abundantly clear in one session, whereas although my baseline signal still indicated my severe agitated condition, when I looked over at the doctor I discovered that he had fallen asleep.

Of course the most effective practitioner was the one that finally 'diagnosed' my bipolarity. Surprisingly this gentleman had also previously employed the heaviest doses of valium, which had most effectively hidden my bipolar mood swings. To say he diagnosed this problem would perhaps be an error in semantics. After a series of consultations with colleagues he posed me the question, "Do you think you might be manic depressive"? I stated "perhaps". This really marked the onslaught of medications. Valium disappeared only to be replaced by an arsenal of up to twelve different drugs, all being consumed simultaneously on a daily basis.

The first major new drug introduction was the substance lithium carbonate. This is the most common staple used in the treatment of bipolar disease. In another form lithium will be recognized by most readers as the major constituent of rechargeable batteries, in electronic gadgets and electric cars. Although the previous comment on lithium batteries would appear to bear no relevance to my problem, lithium carbonate, while effectively performing its magic on the emotional swings had the not uncommon side effect of causing me to shuffle and shake as though I was a malfunctioning battery powered toy. The shaking problem became so severe that I could not move from point A to point B while holding an object, without the item in question crashing to the floor. The only alternative consisted of a medley of drugs of which three were dominant. The main one, an anti-seizure compound which was used to treat me because it had the unpredicted side effect of being useful for treating bipolar problems. Unfortunately it had to be administered in massive 1.5 gm doses, a factor that has deleterious effects on brain function when taken over many years.

To understand the treatment of bipolar disease one can imagine playing the violin. The musician practices until the melody contains the correct combination of notes and cords. These must then be played with satisfying emphasis and tonal quality. Likewise effective drug treatment for my emotional problem is a matter of practicing. The combinations of medications and the amount of each are varied by the practitioner from time to time, until the types and amounts of those that control the manic highs and level of those that prevent depression, have resulted in as close to a stable emotional state as possible. Imagine then the wear and tear that this chemical assault must levy on many body organs.

My Family Doctor the Addiction Specialist

The waiting room walls were chockablock covered with diplomas, certificates, testimonials and other official looking evidence proffering confidence that Dr. George must be highly qualified for the treatment of addition related maladies. Among Dr. Georges intimidating collection of framed testimonials hung one single faded defaced painting. In earlier times it was probably a peaceful scene of a man in a sailors costume seated is a small sailing punt gliding smoothly through the waves towards a featureless horizon. When I first observed it in its relatively obscure position among the document collage someone had skillfully penciled in a ghostly caricature of ugly looking sea creature, toothy mouth wide open about to devour the mariner boat and all. A closer look revealed the letters D G inscribed faintly onto the creatures tail. The allegory thus portrayed was soon to become obvious.

This was to be my first appointment. Dr. George had been one of the speakers at an addiction center at which I was receiving treatment. He was introduced as a former addict who had become a family doctor specializing in addiction treatment. His no nonsense style but seemingly relatively gentle manner that I had mistakenly assumed he exhibited appealed to me immediately. Upon being called into his office I was instantly aware of my misjudgment. His speaking demeanor and his bedside manner were at the opposite ends of the deportment scale. Having worked on farms and in the oilfields as a summer student I had acquired quite a prodigious vocabulary of vulgarity. But in the 15 minute lecture that preceded the clinical phase of my appointment my off colour vocabulary likely doubled. But that wasn't the worst problem rather it was shouted syntactical vibrancy of this well-reasoned colourful invective that really commanded my attention.

Dr. George had no sympathy for alcoholics with repeated failed attempts at sobriety. He was particularly annoyed with miscreants like me who had wasted taxpayer's money and the time of talented experts by falling off the wagon following enrolment in programs at renowned addiction clinics. Naively I presumed such verbal volleys were standard procedure for a patient's first appointment and that subsequent visits would be more clinical in nature. In fact I had received only the first instalment in what became part of his regular agenda.

His verbal abuse contained elements of his own personal history. Apparently at the time a clinic for hardcore addicts existed in Atlanta whose notorious program, although never fully divulged, sounded particularly ominous. Dr. George having been a so far successful graduate used the threat of some unspecified but apparently legally binding forced attendance thereat as a part of his regular preclinical harangue. Despite the knowledge that I could cease my tenure as his patient at any time, I initially lived in the fear that such a move might automatically induce an indentured trip to Atlanta.

On the clinical side, Dr. George prescribed a series of tests. Results like mine would have sent most sane patients scurrying to destroy all existing supplies of their substance of abuse, with a firm resolve never to offend again. Apart from the news that my fatty pock marked liver was in a state of deathly decline, Dr. George produced a vial obtained from the laboratory which he claimed to contain a sample of my blood. The contents had separated into 2 distinct layers. Heathy looking red blood filled ¾ of the vial but floating above was a greyish coloured layer which apparently represented an unusually large presence of fatty substances dominated by blood vessel clogging triglycerides. Very scary stuff! My tenure with Dr. George ended with his retirement and thankfully without a trip to Atlanta.

## The Mind as an Indispensable Healer

In an appreciable portion of the above I have rubbished treatments I received by medics, particularly of the Psychiatric type. Yet the mind in itself can be invaluable in how one battles disease including problems of addiction. I present the following stories that proved this important truth to me.

### The Positive versus the Negative Mindset

There are 2 people in my life history that had serious types of cancer. Both had the same type of this disease, one is dead and the other cancer free. Furthermore the family member now cancer free had the most virulent strain of this particular type of cancer. Although the final outcome of the of their disease may have been the same regardless of the following concept, there were significant differences in the way these individuals behaved in dealing with the mental aspects of their attempted recoveries.

Prior to their bouts with cancer both were positive active contributors to life. After cancer diagnosis and treatment, fundamentally the difference was that one lived in a depressed anxiety filled state beginning soon after the treatments were finished, while the other lived with the attitude that she was cured. Each day for the eventual cancer survivor was filled with optimism, had a positive attitude, engaged in the same active life style and had no doubts about the brightness of her future. The other could not return to her former active routines, spent much time in bed because of depression and generally her zest for life disappeared. Both of these individuals had similar medical treatments but the mentally positive one lived and the other died.

It would be easy to surmise that this one detailed isolated example does not prove anything about the power of the mind as a healer. Yet if you go to the internet dozens of similar stories can be found. As the believe in the power of the mind as a healer becomes more and more accepted as is the case with other related beliefs there are a variety of quacks ready to take monetary advantage of this phenomenon. Do not be deceived into negativity by these individuals.

### Inspiring Power of the Mind Story by Clem's Niece

She recounts the following.

I had a similar experience of this myself when I gave up smoking. I had tried to give up a number of times without success and each time I had walked through the valley of extreme torment. All I could think about was smoking and I couldn't stand every minute, every day, that went by without one. However, when I found out I was pregnant I decided that I wasn't going to risk the baby's health. I felt it was one thing for me to choose to kill myself, but another thing to affect the health of an unborn child. At this point, because I still believed in God, I made a promise to God that I wouldn't smoke another cigarette. My resolve was such that I didn't go through the torment of the damned and although I still had the physical withdrawal to deal with, I didn't have the emotional conflict.

So - my belief is that when someone makes an iron clad decision to stop whatever addiction they have and they have a big enough reason for doing so, then they will be able to cease taking the substance. When the mind knows that there is no return, it ceases to torment in that direction and gets on with the process of managing without whatever it previously believed it needed.

If however the person doesn't have a significant enough reason, then all they are doing is tormenting themselves to the point where they break and take the substance up again.

People always know when they have made a rock solid decision and when they haven't.

Examples of Pivotal Stories on my Road to Alcoholism

### Crazy Antics Related to Sport Events

#### Football and Associated Ritual in Brazil

What dominates a Brazilian? One might guess religion, since each town is overshadowed by an immense Cathedral, commonly contrasted by encroaching ramshackle homes. But this is far from the case when numbers of actual full doctrinal practicing church members are taken into account.

Football, at least among the males and younger females, creates a tremendous following. As is the case in many countries, the main cities attract the best players. Thus teams such as Flamengo in Rio and Corinthians in Sao Paolo dominate the field. All the main cities in Brazil have relatively large stadiums and teams, but not all teams play in the first division.

But is football the main preoccupation? Whilst in a small tropical city in Brazil on an Educational Consultancy for a large worldwide organization, I spent most Saturdays going to games. I came to realize that a pre-match hijinks create much of the vociferous spirit and for some actually constitutes the complete event. For most followers a 2pm match is often started midmorning with drinks and a meal at a Cantina. The drinks are nothing like I had ever experienced. They are called Caipirinha's, a name completely unfamiliar to me before my arrival in Brazil. They are constructed variously and served with a twist of lime in a high ball glass. The "various" compositions must be high in alcohol, and the finished product should at least contain a smidgen of lime juice. The alcohol, masking as cane liqueur in Brazil, is above 100 proof and often way above. Ice may be added if desired. Some poor souls never reach lunch, since after a few of these they are ready to be pushed vertically or horizontally out the door. This then makes space for more clientele. Upon attaining the lunch level, one is greeted by black bean slurry swimming with pieces of pork some still recognizable as pig's tails, pig's feet and of course a pig's noses. The basis for the formulation is, however, a beef heart. This dish, first served by the slaves on Brazilian coffee and sugar plantations, is called Feijoada. It seems quite acceptable, even tasty, especially after a few Caipirinhas.

From what I have described, one might assume that the next step, The Game, is anticlimactic and perhaps for some this is the case. For most, a new part of the delirium is about to begin.

After descending carefully from the Cantina precincts at a full alcohol fueled boil we approached the game bus. Helping each other aboard was a slow process. It is still far from the official gate opening time at the stadium, but past experience told us that we would be able to enter soon. After a short ride, the bus disgorged us into a milling crowd. The Caipirinha's and black bean swill often began to ferment in my stomach, giving me a nauseous feeling. Stay down, stay down I muttered under my breath.

Suddenly the gates opened and the stands began to fill. Seats were not an amenity provided in these older stadiums like the one in this small Brazilian city, just bare wooden tiers. Before the official gate opening time the stadium standing rows were usually fully occupied. None-the-less the gates remained open and fans continued to stream in. To accommodate the encroaching crowds, we became more and more compacted together along the rows. Many, often a hundred or more also climbed, or were dragged up onto to a small roof suspended over the top of part of the stadium which was supported at the corners by only single rowed cinder block columns resting on the wooden stadium structure. When the festivities began the occasional stomping of feet throughout the stadium caused a rhythmic vibration in the total structure. Surely we were ensconced at a disaster just waiting to happen!

One thing I had not counted on, were the flares being ignited by fans in the crowd. These were set off when their team scored a goal, after a perceived bad call by an official or opposing players were discovered involved in a misdemeanour. In the latter case the ignited flares would often be propelled onto the field. If you were unlucky enough to be sitting next to a flare possessing devotee, a bad burn could easily be suffered.

When a diversion seemed required due to lack of action, a number of fans in an upper row would organize a simultaneous push in the backs of those in the next lower row, causing a cascading effect which meant you ended up lying prone on the backs of those in the row in front, after unwittingly knocking them forward and so on with many rows tumbling like dominoes toward the bottom row. Problems incurred during the precarious mass recovery from such a mishap were legion and could even result in physical desecration of the protagonists.

What about supporter protection? As may be supposed from the above, there was little or none. A mote about 10 m wide and 6 m deep encircled the field edge. This supposedly protected the players and officials from intruding enthusiasts. In reality a few fans sometimes bridged this impediment. When the stands erupted in any really serious fan violence an intense beam of water from a water cannon, would be sprayed around the offending area. The effectiveness of such a weapon might well be thought of as being about as useful as a snow plough in the Sahara, since tropical rain storms of a much more violent nature were not uncommonly encountered in this area.

In reality, the rules allowed for the forfeiture of games and the designation of games to be held in the absence of supporters, should fan/player or fan/official physical molestation occur. These were only occasionally enforced and usually only invoked following death causing incidents. On the positive side regarding enthusiast activity, was the flying of colourful kites from the stands. This was particularly common among Flamengo fans visiting from Rio. On the other hand even these could erupt into duels where rival navigators would endeavour to down another's kite.

Smaller urban area teams, like the two from the city where I was headquartered, had little chance against the big city teams. Yet these games were extremely popular, because local fans had a chance to see many players who would be promoted to the National Team when world tournaments were held.

Canadian ice hockey is a part of my "culture" and its predisposition toward violence is frequently denoted by the homily; "Last night I went to a boxing match but an ice hockey game broke out". In the same vein my experience with Brazilian Football could well be described thusly; "I went to a Brazilian inebriated fan fest and a football match broke out"

#### Australian Rules Football

A weekly highlight on a typically cool wet Saturday afternoon in Melbourne, was the Australian Rules football matches. There were twelve teams and therefore six games that were played simultaneously across the city, in stadiums equipped with 35,000 to 100,000 seats. A cold twelve pack of beer and four meat pies constituted the minimum provisions of two footy (colloquial term for Aussie rules football) fans.

Footy combatants, and I use this word advisedly, wear no padding, yet the contact is every bit as rough as American Football, where players are required to wear both padding and helmets. The basics of Aussie rules football are easily understood. A type of mayhem ensues on the field from the drop of a rugby shaped ball. Players from the two teams defend separate ends and attack one another for ball possession. Once obtained the possessor dribbles and kicks the ball towards his enemy's end, while being hampered by fierce bumps, forearm assaults and tackles. If a team mate is observed to be in a preferable position, the ball can be passed using a punching motion. Each end has two sets of goal posts, one set inside the other. The object is to kick the ball between the relatively closely spaced center two posts for a score of 5. If the ball should instead fall through the outer posts, a point of only 1 is scored. If an unsuspecting, uniformed individual was suddenly beamed into this scene, his impression most likely would be he had been thrust into a German blitzkrieg.

Parking was generally desultory, being catch–as-catch-can, in an open field mostly devoid of definitive section or row numbers as well as no parking spot markers. The resultant rows of driving lanes were discontinuous waves at best. Thus exiting is an unimaginable pandemonium, with beer sodden fans trying, first to find their vehicles and then to exit at full throttle from the developing scrum. This scene could be more brutal than the game itself. More by luck as dictated by too much grog, than good management, me and my friend Bleaker could never remember the location of our car and out of necessity awaited the end of this carnage, hoping to find the vehicle in one piece and somewhere within view.

### 'The 6 O'clock Swill'

Many years ago I worked as a Invited Scientist at a prestigious Australian Government Facility. There were many others coming and going from a variety of other worldwide locations that like me were invited workers at the time.

One of the odd phenomena that plagued foreigners and Australians alike was so called 'early closing' of all pubs. What this term referred to was the law requiring that all pubs across Australia to close at 6 o'clock in the evening. This regulation, introduced during the First World War, came about as a result of pressure from the WCTU and as what turned out to be a falsely presumed measure to improve public morality. "Early closing' also dubbed the 'six o'clock swill' had the exact opposite result. Pub goers who commonly left work at 5.00 pm rushed to their favourite watering hole and many felt compelled to drink as much as possible during the resultant very short interval ending abruptly at 6 pm. Quite naturally public drunkenness and problems like alcohol related car crashes became epidemic during this period.

Alcoholics such as me invented many dodges to maximize the amount of drink consumed during these intervals. The favourite was to accumulate empty glasses and/or pitchers and then just before the 6 pm closing time have this extra stash completely refilled. To accomplish this obliging barkeeps had installed spigots on long hoses that could reach each patron crowded around the bar. Then without regard for the number of empty vessels in each drinker's cash filled each accordingly. Despite the denizens of patrons the barkeeps were always surprisingly accurate in their charges for each patron's total volume received.

This obviously counterproductive regulation was repealed on a state by state basis. Australian drinking laws are now very similar to those in the majority of developed countries worldwide.

There appears no reliable published data on the effect of the 6 o'clock swill on the incidence of Alcoholism. As an Alcoholic my experience suggests that any such variation in drinking laws has little effect on the hardcore alcoholic. Drink being the only true love of our life and the major essential substance for our existence, we devised many means legal and illegal to have a source of alcohol available at all times.

### Alcohol and Dynamite

An alcoholic "Shooter" was not the most propitious addition that our seismic team could imagine. Of course his problem was unknown to company officials at the time. He was however a friend of the Crew Chief.

Shooter was the moniker given to the crew member whose job it was to drive the dynamite truck and set off carefully calculated charges of dynamite loaded into holes previously drilled into the ditch along the road side. Shock waves from this controlled explosion reflect off the underground rock substrates and were detected by "microphones" on the ground strung along the roadside. The patterns of detected signals were assembled into a subterranean map. The objective was to find salt domes and other structures that often trapped large reservoirs of oil.

My summers as an undergraduate university student were spent in Western Canada, mostly southern Alberta and Saskatchewan, in the lucrative oil exploration business. In stark contrast to today during my university undergrad tenure in the 50's there were too few skilled students to fill the needs of the burgeoning job market in almost every category. In fact potential summer students with my training were so few that perks such as first class airfare were commonly offered. In my case for my "drunken shooter summer" as soon as my ticket tumbled through the mail slot it was quickly converted into a chit for the transcontinental train then known as the Canadian. Funds from this exchange were so ample that I was able to purchase a round trip ticket that outbound from Toronto included travel, bunk and all meals across Canada through the mountains to Vancouver and back around to my destination of Regina.

A small farming town in SE Saskatchewan was designated headquarters for this summer's exploration. We were billeted in the community's one local pub. I say local because this relatively immense structure, particularly the pub severed a large farming belt. Not being the savviest of my colleagues I avoided the scramble that ensued during the assignment of rooms. The result being that by default I found myself ensconced in the room directly above the pub. The results of this placement were both amusing and frustrating.

On the plus side I developed the priceless skill of being able to tell the exact hour by virtue of the level of noise and vibrations emanating from the beer hall below. As the evening progressed these same parameters became the bane of my sleep paradigm.

Although like many I was an Alcoholic from birth, at my young age at that period I was a relatively 'controlled' drinker and I habituated the pub only on weekends and in the evenings. I noted that the bar keep had the habit of downing of the contents of one of the glasses himself each time he filled a tray for a waiter. This same person had the job of signaling the end of each night's session by pulling the chain to turn off the bare light bulb over the bar. After a particularly busy evening those of us still with a degree of awareness were highly amused to observe this bleary eyed gentleman tug so briskly on the chain at evening's end that the fixture dethatched from the wall and fell in a trail of ominous looking sparks finely landing on his ample belly as he fell to the floor.

The majority of farmers their sons and hired male help (women were forbidden in these pubs in that era) chose Friday evening to have a good old fashioned Whoop-de-do. Having the foresight to consider their fate at the end of the evening's festivities they came by tractor with large attached wagons. Saturday morning provided an amusing site. The view from my window consisted of a panorama of tractor wagons filled with sprawled out slumbering bodies. A few not having the requisite agility to clamber into a wagon could be seen prone dotting the sidewalk nearby.

The coup-degas that summer was the demise of our "shooter" and my appointment as one half of his replacement. One typically clear hot day the crew was startled by a deafeningly loud blast that accompanied the usual muffled thump of the detonation of a dynamite charge in its hole. Upon emerging from the precautionary protection of our trucks we speculated on the cause of this disturbing phenomenon. Upon weaving unsteadily from his vehicle our shooter very seriously and with a straight face announced on a perfectly clear day that the bang was merely a clap of thunder. No chance of this and with the wires from the detonator cap dangling over and shorting out the overhead power lines it was obvious that a carelessly loaded charge had caused this potential catastrophe. Undependable charge placement is a serious danger to all members of the crew and the major sin for a person in the shooters position. The crew chief rightly fired the aberrant technician on the spot. This dismissal had not occurred earlier because of the friendship and the scarcity of technologists with requisite skills for this job.

The Crew Chief was qualified for the position of preparing and discharging dynamite so to prevent the necessity of shutting down the operation he combined this task with his premier responsibility of operating the instrument truck. The remaining problem was the dynamite truck had no driver and no one to handle the dynamite into and out of the vehicle.

As was to be expected the driver of such a vehicle and the purveyor and manipulator of the dynamite requires special training and licensing. Since I was the only other scientific member of our party and was doing less important work, all eyes focused on me. Ironically I was inserted into this vacancy.

'Ironically', because also being an alcoholic, a fact that was unknown to the team, I was taking over a position that as main condition required sobriety. I met this requirement because at this point in my life I could still control my drinking to weekend binges and evenings after work.

A course given by the Crew Chief for the training and operation of the vehicle required only a few days. The testing had to be provided by a specially qualified Provincial examiner only available in Regina. On the appointed day I was sent to Regina and was subjected to a stringent written and practical test. Dynamite handling procedures within and outside the truck were examined through a written test and then I had to show that I could drive the vehicle safely on and off road. Everything was proceeding without problems and I had passed the written testing easily. Now came the easiest part, the driving test on the typically quiet roads and fields of Regina. This was to obtain what in those days was called a Chauffeurs License. Had my Ontario driver's license been in that category, graining one for Saskatchewan would have been automatic. This not being the case I proceeded confidently with the examiner along the prescribed route. I drove not too slowly and not too quickly, I took care to observe all traffic signs and signals, particularly being certain to come to full stops when required. Parallel parking the truck, my only real concern, required only one backing motion. During our return to the testing office we conversed freely and happily. Imagine my shock when my examiner signed the test paper and smilingly handed it to me with the word "failed" at the bottom. What could I possibly have done to deserve this designation? The answer was very simple. After stopping at a red light and ascertaining no vehicles were approaching from the left I had turned right before the signal became green, legal in Ontario but not permitted in Saskatchewan.

My smiling verbose protagonist made me repeat the entire test! According to local mythology these driving testers loved to lie in wait for "smart ass Ontario city slickers".

## The Unintentional Drinking Contest Embarrassment

Picture this we have Pete, 6 feet 6 in. tall, with a hefty build and me, 5 ft. 8 in and 160 lb., an in the flesh pairing of Mutt and Jeff, at the same table at the banquet of an International Conference in South Africa. Pete was the international sales manager for a large instrument company located in the New York City area. In this capacity Pete was constantly travelling from conference to conference to meet with potential important customers or to visit large companies to finalize large sales the world round. As a consequence hosting banquets and other meal inclusive meetings were a regular part of his weekly game-plan.

One of Pete's secrets of success was that drink, even in large quantities, never seemed to put the slightest crimp in his demeanor or his ability to finesse a transaction. This was important since such affairs often meant extended periods of drinking. Pete had risen to this important capacity through innate skills that included a special mixture of social propriety and technological sales wizardry. It was impossible to dislike Pete unless of course you were a competitor's counterpart. Even then it was more a matter of envy than enmity.

As a frequent keynote speaker at International Conferences and other high profile events in a field that Intersected with the need for equipment available from Pete's company, I became a person of his particular interest. Pete travelled to these events alone unlike me who most often was accompanied by my wife, Lola. Pete and Lola were particularly compatible and Lola frequently presided as hostess at lavish dinners and other social functions that his company financed as a service to conference committees. The long and short of it was that Pete became a close family friend and frequent visitor to our home when his business interests brought him to our city.

I was at a stage in my drinking career when I could ration my heavy drinking to times when it did not interfere with professional activities. In fact much of my life was characterized by regular episodes of binge drinking. Like many alcoholics I had a capacity to consume large amounts of alcohol without serious aftereffects. Thus an evening of very heavy drinking that incapacitated most others for much of the next day left me able to wake relatively fresh and able to carry out all my tasks as usual. Pete and I were alike in this regard. In fact Pete had developed the reputation within his company that he could out drink anyone, a notoriety that he carried with pride.

Thus it was in disbelief that colleagues were observing that night the spectacle of mountainous Pete unsteadily arise from his chair at the table, stagger backwards to fall back therein and then bang his groggy head face down on the table. The evening had been much like many in other venues where Pete had gathered together a few colleagues and me in a hotel dining room for what was supposed to be a quiet dinner for discussion of new trends in our mutual field of expertise. I was present as a contributing member having recently been hired as a consultant for Pete's company. On this occasion we began the evening with several cocktails, before sitting around a table to partake in a multicourse sumptuous feast. Pete had preordered a selection of appropriate wines to complement each course with a warmed vintage cognac to follow.

The problem arose rather innocently with the servers being particularly vigilant to keep our glasses filled to the brim at all times. As the evening wore on most of the diners began stemming the flow by holding their hand over their tumblers to prevent such constant refills; not so with Pete and me. There had been much to converse and Pete and I found this to be thirsty work. Under such circumstances I had no idea how much booze we were consuming and the more the better as far as my alcoholic proclivities demanded. The meal ended and the cognac was served. Many of the attendees refuse this addendum.

By this time all eyes were on Pete and me. I had so much to drink that the vintage cognac was wasted on my now deadened taste buds and slightly impaired senses. Pete kept ordering the both of us cognacs. Several times during the meal I had excused myself to use the bathroom. After a few cognacs I found maneuvering to the bathroom was not entirely straight forward. Yet I had no feeling that I was losing essential control and felt confident that even after a couple of more I could leave the dining room without a serious problem which eventually was the case. Not so for poor Pete after one more cognac Pete's stumbling head down on the table spectacle occurred. His embarrassment was further exacerbated when a bevy of colleagues were required to support Pete as he was led away to his room in the hotel.

It became an embarrassing and dubious distinction to be touted far and wide as the only known individual to out drink my colleague Pete. Worse this was just another gallop down into my constantly deepening alcoholic abyss.

## A Plague of Rats

They came in a stream over the top of the toilet tank in the bathroom of my hotel room in Prague. Immediately I attempted a speedy retreat, but seemed rooted to the floor. The delusion continued as I felt this horde of rats beginning to nibble at my toes. Then in my extreme state of anxiety I must have passed out. I awoke blearily an hour or so later in the middle of the hallway leading from the bathroom. There were no rats and I had not been bitten.

I was in Prague at a time when Czechoslovakia was a part of the Soviet Union to give an invited scientific talk at a very prestigious International Conference in my field of expertise. It was relatively early in my career and I had rocketed into a position where my work was catching the admiration of several of my top scientist colleagues. My wife and I rented a car in West Germany for a week's sightseeing tour on our way to the conference. This was a mistake because my anxiety about the impending watershed moment in my career built every day as we approached our destination. I drank heavily at every opportunity with the result that my wife often had to drive the car as I slept off the result of each binge in the back seat of the car.

Upon arrival in Prague I knew I had to sober up and hence spent the next few days cold turkey. Then although still in a state of great mental agitation I pulled myself together and gave my talk in an unexpected propitious manner. Shortly thereafter which was late in the day I went looking for a store to purchase liquor only to discover that any that did exist were closed. It was during that night that the incident with the rats occurred; my first alcoholic delusional experience commonly designated the DT's. This would not be the last.

# Chapter 5

# Alcoholism the Family Disease

# (By Clem's Niece)

Alcoholism is often most aptly termed the family disease and for that reason this chapter has been included to discuss the impact of alcoholism on family members.

As there are so many different scenarios regarding alcoholism, I've decided to illustrate the damage wrought by alcoholism using my personal story. No matter how different any two people's actual circumstance may be, the underlying feelings often have much in common.

The alcoholic in my life was my husband. I married at the relatively young age of 21, although 30 years ago this was much more common than it is today. I had a troubled youth. My parents were extremely strict and I struggled to find my way in life, so although I knew nothing about alcoholism at the time I married, in hindsight my choice of partner is no surprise to me. I think this aspect is very important. Over the years I've come to see that there are no mistakes in life. Troubled people attract troubled people. The path to happiness is to understand this and rather than endeavouring constantly to change the external appearance of your life, spend more time on healing your mind and your life will automatically improve.

When I met Rob (pseudonym) in my late teens I thought that he was a lot of fun. I had left home and moved to the country and the people and places were all new to me. It was a great time in my life. Having grown up in the city, the sights and sounds of the countryside fascinated me. I took up leather carving, enjoyed horseback riding and discovered motorbikes. As I had moved to a mountainous region I enjoyed exploring the outdoors and I loved the slower pace of life. Everything seemed new and exciting and meeting Rob felt like the icing on the cake. After knowing him for some time we decided to travel around the country together as friends, but the friendship soon evolved to something more and our travelling only moved about 4 hours from our original location.

In this period of life we were young, relatively carefree and often broke and we existed doing mainly itinerant work. Rob was a shearer and I was a keen worker either inside the shearing shed as a rouseabout, or in the paddocks spud picking, lettuce hoeing or grape picking and vine tying. Throughout this time we would enjoy occasional outings to the local pub, but we also would often just enjoy each other's company. Life was good but I found myself in the awkward position of inadvertently living with my boyfriend. As we had started as friends the ramifications of a relationship whilst travelling had not occurred to me earlier and living together was a much bigger thing then than it is now – especially with my strict upbringing. And so, although I was very happy with my life, I was also very conflicted about my relationship status. I started badgering Rob about our relationship and asking him his intentions. This led to an unfortunate proposal of marriage, which was really just an ultimatum of me leaving, and life started to deteriorate. Rob, previously the relaxed boyfriend, became the harried fiancé, and although I wasn't personally pressuring him following the proposal, I realised in hindsight that even the smallest pressures can feel overwhelming to an alcoholic. Life had lost its joy and Rob was starting to show signs of crumbling.

My experience in life has been that most people, to a greater or lesser extent, duplicate their childhood, especially when it comes to family relationships and Rob and I were no exceptions. His father was his mother's second husband and similar to the first husband, he was also an alcoholic. Rob's home life had been tense, uncertain and unhappy and although up to this point he'd been mostly relaxed in his relationship with me, he was now showing signs of becoming belligerent. Unfortunately I was almost too busy to notice and when I did notice I stuck my head firmly in the sand and put it down to the stress of working and getting married. In the week prior to the wedding we had an explosive argument out the front of my parents' house one night and Rob shook me violently by the neck. I felt cornered. The wedding was only days away and I loved Rob but I was desperately concerned about the future. However, as everything was so imminent I felt unable to make the decision to change tracks.

And so as the bells tolled I walked out of the church as Rob's wife and life was never the same again. In my naïve enthusiasm I had previously declared many things about what I valued in life prior to marriage and Rob had agreed with every one of them. But as I walked out of the church, all those shared values dropped by the wayside and I became acquainted with a new Rob; a person that I had seen only briefly prior to the wedding but largely knew nothing about.

As my parents had both worked hard to raise a family I had believed that we also would work hard, start a family and slot into married life. However, the first change that came into existence after we married was a large increase in alcohol consumption. Although Rob had been a big drinker when I met him, he had calmed down dramatically in the time we'd been together, so I was surprised to see it emerge again so forcefully. We were living in a caravan and spud picking at the time and I was keen to save our funds, so I was unhappy about the money that disappeared into the pub, not to mention the change in his personality after consuming alcohol. He appeared to me very much like Jekyll and Hyde depending on whether he was drunk or sober. As I started to object to his alcohol consumption he concocted multiple reasons to instigate an argument, before storming out to the pub, often while my head was still reeling trying to determine what had just happened. In later years in Al Anon, I found that this part of the alcoholic behaviour was fairly universal.

Usually as things disintegrate the partner of the alcoholic begins on an emotionally downward spiral as they endeavour to apply rational argument to the irrational logic of the alcohol fuelled brain. As Rob was aggressive his approach was very confrontational. With less aggressive alcoholics their approach can often be largely more covert and they sneak out, rather than storming out to the pub. But as it is impossible to hide the effects of alcoholism from the family, whether the alcoholic sneaks or storms, the people at home soon become aware of the problem and set about trying to fix it by reasoning with the alcoholic. There are many promises made and none kept. As the promises are made and broken the partner becomes equally more despondent and more desperate. The alcoholic can appear to be contrite in their more sober moments and the partner, being emotionally unstable themselves, is convinced that they can still make things work. After each bout the alcoholic appears genuine in their remorse, and I believe at that moment they are actually genuinely remorseful. Unfortunately, although they sincerely mean everything they say, they seem to have no means of carrying out their intentions. The moment passes, the alcohol calls to them and all their declarations disappear with their next drink. Regardless of what they may have vowed and declared prior, they are unable to affect any real change. The alcoholic's partner becomes more and more desperate and starts to obsess. All their efforts become aimed at getting the alcoholic sober. They become increasingly fixated on the alcoholics' movements and more and more adept at discovering the lies and deceit, all of which does nothing but deteriorate their personal sense of emotional well-being.

You may wonder at this point that I have made such a statement regarding the partner's emotionally instability. After all, surely the one with the problem is most obviously the alcoholic? If only they would stop drinking, everything would improve; life would become normal and the partner would be able to relax and live the life they had planned. Although this seems reasonable on the exterior it contains a number of fundamental flaws in reasoning. The most obvious is that an emotionally stable person would not have remained in such an emotionally chaotic relationship in the first place. Of course there are a myriad of reasons that people give for staying (marriage, children, financial dependence) but at the heart of all of it I believe that they don't value themselves enough to leave and they strangely don't feel confident that they will be okay on their own either. Although I have always been what people would probably consider independent, when I first left Rob I felt very unsure about everything. It was as though I felt I needed him in some way for me to feel okay about myself. While I was focused on him and his behaviour it took the focus off me and what was not okay with me emotionally. But I have jumped ahead a bit here. Suffice to say that at the core of it the partner of an alcoholic lacks self-esteem. If they had more self-esteem they would have found the means to extract themselves from the relationship prior to it deteriorating to this point. The alcoholic's behaviour, although having peaks and troughs, is very much on a continual downward trend and the partner is generally well aware that something is wrong in the relationship long before children appear on the scene. This is an important point for the partner to reflect on, not in a self-critical way, but so that they can begin the process of internal change and thus create a better future.

As the relationship continues to deteriorate the partner in desperation can often start into a litany of threats – few if any of which are actually carried out. If you don't come home tonight, I'll... If you don't meet me at this place I'll... If you don't stay sober when we're at such and such place I'll.... All of which have little impact. Finally the partner threatens to leave and if they value their sanity and the emotional wellbeing of their family they will, but if they are just trying to affect change in the alcoholic then they are sadly doomed to failure.

Having said this, some alcoholics stop drinking, but the percentage is very low. Certainly if you are in a relationship with an alcoholic then your top priority is to yourself and any immediate family and extracting yourself from this situation is an imperative. If the alcoholic stops drinking in future and you are able to repair the relationship, then great. If they don't stop drinking at least you have saved yourself from the deteriorating misery. There is one certainty in regards to alcoholism and that is that nothing you can do or say will alter anything that the alcoholic does. I cannot stress this enough. If the alcoholic decides to stop drinking it is because they can no longer stand the emotional pain of drinking and they have been able to extract themselves from the haze of alcohol long enough to see the destruction in their wake. But you have not caused them to stop drinking. They have decided this on their own. All efforts on your part to alter their behaviour are an exercise in futility. When you understand that it is impossible for you to alter another person's behaviour, then you start back on the path to becoming rational and make decisions that are good for you, regardless of others' decisions. Generally speaking, when people communicate they seek to influence the behaviour of another person, but the recipient is always able to choose to be influenced or not. Everybody has free will and trying to inflict your will on somebody else, regardless of how good your motives, is doomed to failure.

So - moving back to my story. I was deep in the belief that I could and would save my marriage. I had no understanding of alcoholism and I lived from chaotic moment to chaotic moment. I had stormed out a number of times only to return and had in between times accidentally fallen pregnant. Unfortunately, Rob being a violent alcoholic, had escalated his number of violent outbursts and each time he would be extremely contrite and beg my forgiveness, although with each incident I noticed he was that little bit less convincing. In a classic Pollyanna mindset, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that life would improve and I started believing the reasons that he gave for his outbursts. If I hadn't left the washing in the basket in the loungeroom. If I gave him more freedom. If I didn't nag him about where he'd been if he didn't come home at night. If I didn't nag him period. If I understood that he's a country man and he drinks more than people in the city. If I wasn't so paranoid. If I wasn't so uptight. And on and on. By this time I had a young child and my life was slipping through my fingers along with my sanity. I was working to try to pay the bills and Rob was increasingly spending his itinerant shearing pay and coming back from week long camp-out sheds with very little money and even fewer concerns.

It is often said within the ranks of Al-Anon that the family problems caused by alcoholism can most often be more easily seen in the behaviour of the partner of the alcoholic. Whilst the alcoholic, at least to the outside world, appears relaxed and sociable, the partner can often seem distracted, tense and irritable. There are many types of alcoholics. Some of them are reclusive and drink alone, some drink constantly every day, some binge drink, some are belligerent and some are the life of the party. Rob was belligerent at home, but the life of the party socially. He had lots of friends, probably more aptly termed fellow drinkers and the good times seemed to roll around him. I on the other hand was becoming increasingly desperate. One of the central hallmarks of alcoholism is secrecy. In the early days I told nobody about my troubles and played out the pretence that everything was fine and most importantly, normal. But as the pressure increased the secrecy started to slip. Although I told my friends nothing, or at least very little about my problems, I did start to share my woes with my family. I hated to hear my mother's sigh when she picked up the phone, but I was desperate to talk to somebody. I needed somebody to tell me what I should do as I was no longer sure about anything. My parents visited a couple of times, but they could only share their normal person logic, which really didn't fit with the insanity of my situation. In desperation I even tried to talk to a couple of priests, both of whom had nothing to offer. I felt like I was going to explode from the pressure.

At the point where I felt that I could no longer cope, Rob was camped out at a shearing shed when a young shearer fatally shot two people in the shed and wounded two others. As Rob had sat with one of the dying people waiting for an ambulance at this remote shed, he had severe post-traumatic stress problems in the ensuing weeks. I rallied to help him adjust and even dared to hope that this would be a turning point. I hoped that Rob would be jolted into an awareness of our situation and choose a different path. Unfortunately, and probably predictably, this was not the case. The situation became much worse and I packed myself and my young daughter into the car and drove back, hat in hand, to my parents' house.

Everybody's tipping point is different, if indeed they have one. My tipping point had come with Rob's increasing violence. One night he came home late, walked into my daughter's bedroom whilst I was reading her a story, and following a few words picked me up and threw me across the room. I'm not sure why I cracked at this point. Why not when he'd previously broken the furniture, or ruptured my ear drum, or broke our window with my body and then threatened me with the shards of glass. Why now - I don't know. But I knew that if I didn't get myself and my daughter out of this situation, something very bad was going to happen.

Although my story is probably more extreme than many, I consider myself lucky to have escaped the slow boil of many alcoholic relationships. As the alcoholic descends in the downward spiral of increasing alcohol consumption, the partner usually follows them down on a parallel descending path of emotional health. Although desperate for change, they are so consumed by the behaviour of the alcoholic that time starts to disappear around them. They struggle to cope with daily life but manage to keep their heads just far enough above water to delude themselves that they are coping and that everything will somehow improve in future. And anyway, it's not too bad. Not really. In the mind of the partner, the alcoholic lifestyle can almost reach some type of strange normalcy, as they tell themselves that everything is fine. As long as nothing too extreme happens, they can continue down without really noticing the level of the descent.

Once I returned home, I found that leaving Rob was only the beginning of my recovery. Although I was no longer in immediate danger, I had to find a job and start building a life for myself and my daughter who was now three. But more importantly I had to find a way to heal my mind. Luckily at this point my mother suggested Al-Anon and I put aside my indignation long enough to attend a meeting. I know that Al-Anon isn't for everyone, but for me it was like a life raft to a drowning person. The first week I attended I sat frozen, statue like in my chair, hoping that nobody would look at me and terrified that somebody would ask me to speak. But each week became easier and each week I heard people talking honestly and openly about things that I had kept secret for years. And the longer term members, although speaking of the same emotional insanity that I had lived through, seemed normal - even happy. I used these longer term members as role models and I watched and listened to them every week. I stayed with Al-Anon for a number of years. In the earlier years I used their teachings to help heal my mind and in the later years I stayed to give some of these teachings back to the newer members. After about 8 years I moved on to other things, but I cannot express deeply enough my gratitude to those early members who supported me on my path to healing. I encourage anybody in an alcoholic relationship, even if you are no longer in the relationship, to give Al-Anon a go and see if their support can assist you on the path to rational thinking.

I also encourage everyone who reads this account not to focus on the differences, but to see the similarities between my story and your own (if indeed you have one). Regardless of your particular life circumstances, if you are living with an alcoholic, you are living in an unmanageable situation and your emotional stability is suffering with each day and each broken promise. But more importantly even, if you have children you are modelling the family disease of alcoholism for them in every interaction you have. You are patterning their young minds with how to behave in relationships. Your partner is modelling the alcoholism and you are modelling the irrational attempt at managing alcoholism. When they grow up the likelihood of them living in an alcoholic or other type of dependent relationship is extremely high.

As an afterword, Rob remarried and was physically and emotionally abusive to his second wife. He then became involved in drugs and was jailed for two years for murder. Finally he was acquitted on self-defence. Although he was sober for two years whilst in jail, he went straight back to where he left off with his drinking on his release. He now suffers poor health, his life is still chaotic, but he fares better emotionally as a single man than a married one.

# Chapter 6

# Finally Acceptance of and Resurrection from the Fate Worse Than Death

For years I was in denial of my alcoholism. That was not to say that at times during this period I did not mouth words stating that I was an alcoholic. Further I ended up in mental wards several times in an acute alcoholic state (for detox) and each time upon release returned to drink. Worse I underwent specialized treatment for alcoholism at one of Canada's premier addiction treatment centers at great expense to the Ontario health care system and my family's purse and returned to drinking. Ironically my second trip to another Canadian specialty addiction treatment clinic was really unnecessary (done at my families insistence), since it occurred after the episode responsible for finalizing my certain realization that my drinking was a 'fate worse than death'. I was the star patient. The first story below was that transformative episode.

The setting is Sydney Australia and this takes place following a consultancy which ended very successfully 2 months short of its expected duration. My hosts had been so pleased with the results they cut me loose so that I might spend the remaining time on my contract on full pay enjoying an Australian adventure. Up to that point I had confined my drinking to the after work hours that being weekends and evenings during which time I drank until I passed out in a stupor. Unlike most that drank due to seemingly unsolvable problems, disillusionments and other negative factors, I was at my worst during celebrations of success. My gifted 2 months of Australian adventure consisted of an almost continuous rounds of binge of drinking and ended as follows.

My 3 top front teeth were hanging uselessly, almost dislodged from my gums. I was choking on a mass of blood, puke and saliva, lying on my side in a hole by the side of a road. The last thing I remember was being kicked off a train coach, late in the day, at the last stop on the Royal National Park spur of the Waterfall line from Sydney Central. I must have staggered aimlessly in my drunken stupor about a kilometre. Crashing through some barricades at a roadside construction site on the outskirts of Engadine I had fallen about 3 meters down to where I now lay, a nearly empty bottle of cheap sherry by my side. This ignominious predicament had its origins in the night before.

It was a night like every other night; fitful sleep interrupted by several waking periods during which I desperately required a slug of booze. Likewise like every day my first order of business next morning was to acquire my daily supply of drink. There were plenty of bottle shops nearby; all presently closed it being only 7:30am. None the less I didn't feel safe until I had my liquor requirements secured. As usual my stomach had a familiar burning feeling and so rather than have a bit of breakfast, for which there was adequate time; I made a beeline to Ralph's Bottle shop. I then slumped up against the wall several feet from his front door waiting for opening time. Finally at about 9:00 am I heard a bolt inside the shop noisily clatter open and my spirits lifted. I made my way inside and grabbed 2 one liter bottles of Ralph's cheapest sherry, made my payment and stepped outside the building and slipped around the side. Here a clump of acacia was the perfect spot for a surreptitious slug of the wine. Immediately a flush of relief enveloped my person. It was to be a day like any other day, or was it?

As I lay choking in the construction site hole, fading in and out of consciousness, I became aware of another presence by my side. A gentle pair of hands began examining my contorted body; then in what seemed only an instant I awoke to find myself lying in an unfamiliar bed. My bed though unfamiliar was obviously in a room inside a familiar location another detox ward. As usual I felt like Hell from head to foot. But this time had a difference; physically injury accompanied the customary alcoholic symptomatic malaise. Upon receiving the news that I had almost choked to death and would have done so if by good fortune I had been discovered just in time, I broke out into a cold sweat.

Although I had been warned several times that my drinking could easily cause my death in a variety of ways, the reality had never set in.

But this time there was a difference I had actually nearly died. I had an obvious choice keep on in my present pattern and die, or give up alcohol forever and live.

Alcohol is a chemical poison. All alcoholics who continue in their abuse of this substance face premature death. Many never consciously accept this fact.

The interval constituting each alcoholics premature death obviously varies. There are basically two death precipitating factors that hover over the alcoholic's daily life. These are alcohol induced disease and death by misadventure. In the latter category I include alcohol overdose and accidents. Alcohol related accidents are unpredictable and may occur at any point. Death due to alcohol induced disease varies with the individual's physiology and daily alcohol consumption level. Nonetheless unabated alcoholic drinking will result in premature death.

If you are an alcoholic which do you choose, life or death?

Hold on to that question but before making your choice and let's backup several years in my life to view this present conundrum from a broader perspective.

During these years there were other related types of situations telescoping down with my near death in the hole in the construction site that helped force this decision to give up alcohol or die. These were serious incidents that devolved mostly in the latter years of my drinking that stood out as exclamation marks on my steadily rising curve of alcohol abuse, that made me promise to stop drinking and get treatment. Like many alcoholics I made these promises and followed through with the treatment but without the required resolve to never touch drink again. You probably know the ludicrous nature of such thoughts. Examples include: "at least I will be able to have an occasional glass of wine with dinner"; or "when I get out of here I will switch to drinking low alcohol content beer". A typical illustration of one of my disastrous drunken episodes followed by false promises and failed treatment follows.

I vaguely remember the sound of an ambulance approaching and wondering why it was slowing. This clouded memory was the result of a state of alcoholic disorientation that arose as a natural consequence of what follows.

I had been invited to a friend's house for dinner. I was at work some 7 km distant. A sensible person would have found appropriate transportation for the trip to the dinner location. It was midsummer and I had adopted the habit of jogging 10 km each day to work and taking public transportation home. It came to mind as I was leaving work that because I found social functions of any nature troublesome that l would leave early and have a drink on the way to loosen me up. For this purpose I grabbed a two-thirds filled liter plastic bottle of 95 % alcohol from my work bench, filled the remaining volume with water, placed the bottle in a bag and left the building. It was obvious that I could not board public transportation before having a drink from my stash so I found myself jogging to a nearby wooded park in which there was plenty of cover. In a very short time my one drink, taken in an effort to loosen myself up, had turned into the consumption of nearly ½ the bottle. Without the usual cola mixer my mouth was dry and my stomach was complaining, so I capped the bottle and stumbled out of the bushes. This very high percentage alcohol (over twice the strength of whisky) was starting to take effect. Using very poor judgement I decided I could easily jog to the location of the dinner. My memory of the remainder of this journey is spotty. Somewhere along the route I remember noting that my alcohol supply had dwindled further and that my clothing was dirt laden, torn and bloodied. Despite this enormous intake of alcohol I presumed I was reaching my destination. However this destination turned out to be to a hospital, by way of the ambulance that at the beginning of this story I vaguely remembered approaching and slowing.

The next day I woke up in the hospital mental ward doped up on injections of valium. As my vision began to focus there was my poor wife gazing down at me with a look of disgust and embarrassment. Having been located at the cottage where she had been vacationing with the children; she was driven back to my bedside by a close friend. In a fit mostly of fear for my marriage and the possible ejection from my home and family, rather than a concern for my wellbeing, I made a promise to stop drinking and to enter a program for treatment of my alcoholism.

What a farce this turned out to be! Perhaps the fact that my roommates name at the clinic was Ton Sawyer was prophetic of the fable I was about to act out. This particular clinic was expensive having gained the reputation of the best in the area. Programs in such clinics in the 70's and 80's were of a closely similar structure. The content of each component of the treatment varied as did the expertise and reputation of the clinic staff members. Basically patients were first made to feel like miscreant, rudderless, worthless children; which of course was true for those like us whose only love and dependence for daily living was a chemical substance. However most of us resisted this conception. Lectures and group therapy sessions consumed much of the day. Evenings were mandatory trips to AA meetings. Group therapy could be the most effective determinant factor and healing experience in the program.

I failed this program starting from the very beginning. I went to lectures with no intention of paying meaningful attention. Group sessions for me were opportunities to imagine how much better I was than these other poor sods as gauged by what I felt were pitiful often tear-filled renditions of hopeless tribulation. In my mind with my high level education, upper middleclass stature and recognized accomplishment's, but now admittedly going through a very bad patch; I had been thrown in with a bunch of lowlifes who I could not even relate to. Only after much more punishment inflicted on family, friends and myself, dotted with other failed sobriety programs did I begin to realize that I was in reality at the bottom of this alcoholic deck.

## My Epiphany

The before (my drinking days), and after (my sober days), were separated as if by an impenetrable curtain. The before was ensconced in a dark cloud filled with horrific memories and now I was on the other side free from my alcohol induced tethers, clear headed and in a land of potential freedom and promise.

After decades of alcoholic drinking how could all this repugnance end in what seemed to be an instant? Almost by definition an enduring reformation of an alcoholic must have the opposite characteristics of the many failed sobriety attempts and/or prolonged stages of denial of active alcoholism. This can happen in an instant, because an enduring freedom from addiction requires totally new mental default settings that must happen with keystroke rapidity and certainty.

### My Life Became Worse than Death

Each day for an alcoholic begins with one drink. There are many reasons we as alcoholics portend that we require to do so. But what really happens is that this procedure has become habitual and the reasons that created that habit are lurking like a black cloud in our memory. For many alcoholics drinking has become so habitual they cannot enunciate specific reasons for drinking, except that without alcohol they would be unable to contemplate beginning another day. In fact, living life under the influence of alcohol is the alcoholic's form of normal living. To non-alcoholics such behaviour is lunacy.

There was a time early on in my alcoholic life, the beginning of my progression to dissolution, when the scenario went more like this. The first 2 or 3 drinks created a pleasant buzz, a sensation that overrode my inertia, thus freeing me up to plunge with vigour into the day's activities. But as is typical for an alcoholic, these initial drinks were followed by more in the misguided belief that the pleasant sensation and its momentum could be prolonged. In fact, the continual progression of drinks ultimately caused the opposite to become the case. The adverse symptoms of this stage were legion and included erratic behaviour, missed and bungled commitments, outbursts of invective, slurring of speech and conversation full of repeated statements and much more.

As my alcoholic life clock ticked relentlessly on, drink became the only essential to living. It's impossible to give any sensible explanation to cover this predicament except that chemical dependency had achieved its grip. Although each day typically ended with a barf up and in a drunken passed out stupor, a situation so irrational one wonders how it came to be that the next day was certain to be a repeat of the former. To the outsider this could appear as bizarre as a flu victim deliberately and endlessly prolonging his disease when death is the assured result.

Yes death is the certain result of endless alcoholism. In almost all cases such a death is premature. In my case this could easily have been 30 years ago in my alcoholic related final fiasco in Australia or years before in any one of several incidents where, without direct third person intervention, I would not have survived.

But my own death from such an alcohol provoked incident was not the worst case scenario that my alcoholism could have precipitated. Had I continued unabated as a practicing alcoholic, death would have been the best result. In fact, during the final state of my alcoholism I was essentially dead. How so? At this stage only a very few life determining symptoms such as breathing, erratic movement and unintelligible speech remained and otherwise the case could easily be made that I was essentially brain dead.

But in truth my situation was even worse than that. Grind the clock back 20 years or so, throughout which interval I was daily an active dangerous menace waiting to strike. Right through these years my alcohol consumption was adversely affecting my physical reactions and my mental faculties, each becoming more dangerously impaired as my alcohol consumption continuously increased. Consequently, in this state of impairment I was a threat not only to myself but more importantly to those around me. Obvious examples come immediately to mind. I could have injured or killed innocent people driving while impaired. My decision making could have resulted in a variety of dangers to family, colleagues and friends. My irresponsible actions could easily have destroyed my marriage and my relationship with my kids.

But these examples were only the tip of the iceberg. My impairment had unpredictable consequences, many occurring unwittingly. Sadly, I will never know the real magnitude of the damage I caused throughout my active alcoholism.

It makes perfect sense to say that from the stand point of the forgoing, that during my years of alcohol impairment, the world would have been a better, safer place had I been dead. This may appear a harsh judgement considering that despite my alcohol induced impairment I managed to make worthwhile contributions. Thinking like this is dangerous since it could almost be construed as the starting blocks of an insidious track of enablement. However, looked at with cold hard truth, such was my ever present menace to society.

There can be no argument that during the majority of my alcohol impaired interval I was an individual whose balance sheet of life was in deeply negative territory. So if I had been dead the damage that I caused and the threat of other casualty would not have existed. Thus I must conclude that my alcoholism was a state worse than death.

Although the symptoms and behaviours may vary, all active alcoholics are running negative balance sheets of life and hence are detracting, rather than adding, to life – both their own and others. At the moment that an alcoholic truly gets the full import of their actions on their life and the lives of those around them, they will have no option but to quit drinking. To continue drinking would definitely indicate lunacy. The majority of alcoholics keep themselves in a delusional state, believing that things are not as bad as they actually are, in order to maintain their drinking.

If you have multiple regrets related to alcohol fuelled incidents, if those that you love have told you that they believe you have a problem with alcohol, and if you cannot live a daily existence without feeling the need to drink, then now is the time to reassess your life, save what is left of it and determine to never pick up another drink for as long as you live. This is not one answer, it is the only answer. You have no other choice; to do otherwise is to continue to accrue significant regrets and possible irretrievable damage to yourself and others. Today you have multiple regrets, but tomorrow you could easily be incarcerated for killing others on the road. You may say you wouldn't do this, but you know that once you drink you are unable to say with any certainty what you will do. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Make it count for something.

