First, some updates.
Don’t worry, When the Levee Breaks: Part III is still in the works, coming down the pipe, cooking in the oven, whatever metaphor you like. (They say truth is stranger than fiction, but they fail to mention that it’s much harder to write.) Be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss it.
In other news, I had the pleasure of joining Randall on his “Breakfast with an Alcoholic” podcast. Wow. What a great conversation and even greater host! If you’re looking for another newsletter on sobriety, this is the one to follow. Randall is leading the pack here on Substack. See you there.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled programing.
Have you ever been hit in the head?
When I finally got sober, my brain had reduced to two shrunken lobes of burnt ground beef. It did a good job at keeping me alive but not much else. Logic had been one of the first things to go, and it wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Without it, my brain didn’t have the power to reason itself back to reality. I was stuck in my own dream world for the foreseeable future.
This was probably for the best. If I fully understood how much I fucked my life up, I might not have made it through in one piece. It would have been too easy to give up without some imagined lifeline of completely fabricated hope. Insanity was my defense mechanism. Unfortunately, in my experience, it’s easier to be crazy alone than to be crazy amongst others.
People in rehab didn’t like me. Some did. Most didn’t. I imagine a lot of it stemmed from an unfortunate tic I developed. One of the ways my unhinged psyche presented itself was through sudden bursts of uncontrollable laughter. It came without warning and was almost never appropriate. The last thing someone wants to hear when they’re a couple days sober and opening up to a group of strangers is some punk in the back with the giggles. I have laughed at more stories about dead brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, friends, and colleagues than I’d like to admit.
This led to several incidents.
A few of them I’m still impressed with. Take, for example, the exorcism event. One morning, when I got out of bed after, I stepped onto several small pieces of paper scattered on the floor. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be dozens of crosses individually cut from the rehab’s welcome pamphlet. The other clients must have spent all evening cutting them out. Each one contained snippets of different quotes and phrases etched in bold, twelve-point font.
It works if you work it.
Keep coming back.
The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago, the second best time is now.1
These feeble crosses rung around my bed like a holy collage. I can only guess that the goal was to try and exorcize the demonic hyena that had possessed me. Unfortunately for everyone, it didn’t work. My unabashed laughter and one-sided conversations continued. There was no demon—just me.
When the power of Christ did not compel me, some clients resorted to other techniques. After returning from an AA meeting one night, we spilled out of the white passenger van like packaged hotdogs. Since we had gotten back early, there was still time to use the house phone before lights out. This was a rarity—actual time to connect with people on the outside. For some, this was the chance to get to hear the voice of a family member or friend. It was a reminder that they were not alone in this strange, drug-free world they found themselves in. For others, it was a chance to plea bargain. Mom, if you get me out of here I won’t even smoke cigarettes again.
Big-Ben had won the rights to the phone that night, mostly because he had broken his foot the other day and no one wanted to cross him. I didn’t mind. With only a couple weeks (mostly) sober2, no one on the outside really wanted to hear from me anyway. I was happy to saunter around the facility, laughing to myself.
Big-Ben yelled something into the phone as I passed. With an iron grip on his crutch, his knuckles turned white. The longer his conversation went on the whiter they got. When he locked eyes with me, I still had enough brain cells left to walk away.
I found a couch. Next to it lay another one of the rehab’s welcome pamphlets. The damn things were everywhere. As I flipped through it, there didn’t seem to be a single page without a quote wedged into it somewhere.
The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.
Sometimes it is the people no one can imagine anything of, who do the things no one can imagine.
Let go and let God.3
This last one didn’t sit well. It needed to change. Fortunately, being the avid notetaker that I was, I always had a pen on me. I pulled a bright orange one from my pocket and appended the words “fuck you up” to the quote. Pleased with my work, I slapped the welcome pamphlet closed and tossed it back on the coffee table for someone else to uncover.
My California-Ken doll of a roommate came into the room, snickering. “Yo, it’s almost lights-out. They want you to unplug the phone.”
This made sense to me. The staff made us clean our room, do the dishes, vacuum the hallways, Febreze the toilet, and sweep the kitchen. It stood to reason that disconnecting the phone for them was just another item on their list. And if I had learned anything with what little sobriety I had, it was that when I did what I was told, things were relatively easier.
“Ok,” I flashed a thumbs up and laughed. “Sounds good.”
California-Ken’s shirt smelt like coconut butter as I got up off the couch and ambled past him into the kitchen where the phone jack was. Plenty of people were still milling about. No one looked like they were getting ready for lights out. My eyes found the phone line and traced it up to where it connected with the wall. I pinched the plastic between my fingers and unplugged it. Pleased with my work, I spun around to see Big-Ben marching straight for me.
“Who do you think you are?”
He barreled down the kitchen, five tiles at a time. Nothing was going to slow him down, let alone stop him.
I was dead meat.
I heard the crack before I felt anything. The hollow aluminum of his crutch echoed through my cavernous skull—sending my meatball brain into my parietal wall. I stumbled to the side to compensate, grabbing the counter as I did. “Ow?” It came out as reflex, my head still didn’t hurt yet.
My heart kicked into gear, but Big-Ben didn’t follow up with anything else. He just turned and left. California-Ken stared back wide eyed. I doubt he expected his prank would have escalated to such immediate violence. A staff member dashed into the kitchen. “Shit. Is everyone okay?”
Whatever I said, it probably wasn’t coherent. More people spilled into the kitchen—their eyeballs goggling me. I shrugged the staff member’s questions off, so I could leave. No one followed. As I stumbled up the stairs to an empty room, the pain finally began pulsing into the side of my head. I found a walk in closet and sat behind a rack of hanging shirts. Water leaked from the crease in my eye. I blamed the throbbing.
After that…nothing changed. It turns out you can’t knock sense into me. The very next day, I was still laughing at everything, I was still defacing various forms of rehab literature, and I still didn’t want to be sober. Whether it was a cavalcade of inspirational quotes or a cane to the brain, I was too stubborn to change course that easily.
It took time. A lot of time. Close to six months.
When I finally started to change, it was because I wanted to, not because I finally read the perfect quote or because someone sufficiently threatened me. It was because I saw how fulfilled the people around me were. If these ex-alcoholics and ex-addicts were all as happy as they seemed, then why couldn’t I be? That’s the reason I started buying in. Hope.
However, there’d be no hope without people. If they hadn’t stuck around, I would never have known such a life was possible. If they thought I was too far gone (or too crazy, or too immature, or too weird, or too annoying, or too abrasive, etc.) and wanted nothing to do with me, I’d have been left to my own devices with no way of knowing what I was capable of. But because they accepted me for who I was and met me where I was at, I was able to grow.
So perhaps that’s the better question to ask: “Who do you think you can be?”
Alcoholic Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Chinese proverb
Shhh. Last time I ever got high was in said rehab, but that’s another story.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Alan Turing, No Idea (Popularized in AA and Christianity)
"When I finally started to change, it was because I wanted to, not because I finally read the perfect quote or because someone sufficiently threatened me."
Man, this always seems to the watershed moment. Thanks for writing, Matt.
Matt, I really enjoyed this dip into your life and the funny approach you take to serious stuff. I love the line, “It turns out you can’t knock sense into me“ I’m glad you found your way out of the hole. I wouldn’t say I was an addict, but the tendency for me was always bad things happened when I drank. My life has been on the up and up ever since I quit 7? 8? I don’t even know how many years ago now. Thank you so much for sharing your personal journey. Congrats on the bit with Randall. Keep it up.