The Ball of Life

The Ball of Life



Today is one of those days where I am not sure if the ball of life is filled with air or stuffed with hair. I am reasonably aware though that is still somewhat rounded. What is the cause of my confusion you may ask? It is the needless suffering of another friend to a disease that is so non-discriminating. She is brilliant, great looking, successful, financially well off, well liked, kind, compassionate, educated, articulate and drunk again.

She has struggled with the ravages of alcoholism. She has tried time and time again to quit. Whether on her own, in a rehab center or in her twelve step program she has put forth a valiant effort to quit drinking. It is not that she hasn’t put forth a tremendous endeavor, tried, cried, cursed, followed directions, read the books, understood intellectually or suffered the consequences that have arisen so far. She has fought the good fight and remains battered and bruised by the son of a bitch of disease that the Irish refer to as “the problem”.

It is one of those paradoxes that we face in life. The Japanese have a saying about it and I am paraphrasing here so please forgive my mutated remembrance of this bromide “The most obvious is the most obscure”. She cannot see the most obvious. This thing called recovery is in my opinion based on the experience of the first 100 people who have recovered from a seemingly hopeless state of mind and body and my own personal experience of the same. It is about surrender; not fighting the good fight but about simply surrendering. It is one of the simplest acts that a human being can perform but it is one of the most daunting. It requires that we trust something other than our experience, thinking, intuition or whatever else you want to call it. It requires a leap of faith and any good alcoholic in his cups would rather take a leap from the San Francisco Area Bay Bridge and end their life than even consider this concept. There are a number of things that stand in the way; ego and pride were the twin killers for me. They kept me drunk for a long time and miserable for a lot longer in sobriety.

I have lived with this condition surrounding me since I was born. First my father was afflicted, then me and now fellow sufferers that I need attend to maintain my own fragile state. It’s not that I want to drink; mind you, that is the last thing on my mind. It is the continuous reminder of how devastating this disease is reflected in the faces and lives of others. These are the faces of friends, acquaintances, strangers and loved ones. It wears me thin to see the pain and suffering in their lives that happens so needlessly.

Over the years I have been to too many funerals where friends have died by their own hands. Whether by rope, overdose, bullet or booze the end result remains consistent. Hearts are broken, lives are destroyed, and pain is passed around like a pizza at a party for all who attend to have their own personal slice. It continues to wear me down one day at a time.

I have been advised to detach for my own good, and I try but how does one pull the plug per se when one loves somebody deeply. That has always caused a dilemma in my life. Detach from my father whom I loved so intensely but was so profoundly conflicted by his behavior when he drank.

The warm summer nights as I slept in a single bed with my three brothers, the liquor that he needed did not allow the luxury of a single bed for each of us, huddled together holding on to each other as the angry words flew like missiles between my parents, flinching with each salvo. Wanting always to be somewhere else where it was quiet and peaceful. A place I would find in my early teens in a bottle of Silver Satin wine. That first drunk was so intense for me. The great fact for me was this and nothing less, I had had a deep and meaningful personal experience that revolutionized my thinking and my whole outlook on life. The demons in my head went silent for the first time, my fears went to sleep, it was new, it was exciting and it was certainly profound. I would speculate that my father had experienced the same thing many years before and sought it to the gates of hell (and to his death at age 44) as I was to do in my life. I have the privilege (that slowly kills me) of now watching it in others. Sometimes they understand enough and grasp the simple concept but most of the time they disappear maybe to show up years later or mostly to die alone, lost and afraid.

I am grateful for the sporadic victories that occur when someone grasps the concept, surrenders, is relieved of the obsession and carries the message forward to another sufferer. It is the ones who do not recover and suffer needlessly, destroying the lives of those who love and care for them the most that cause my pain and sometimes suffering. These are the ones that break your heart on a daily basis. I am passionate about recovery and I try to carry this message to anyone who suffers. I do this as it is explained in our text for living with no reward expected, no fee required. There are times that I have been blessed to see the miracle happen in others, to see a life renewed, families somewhat healed and life moving in the direction that God would be pleased with.

The reality for me though is that to watch someone who I care deeply about continue to commit suicide one glass at a time is overwhelming. It has caused me to weep, to pray, to be angry, to write and hopefully in the end put her in God’s hands where she belongs. I am so powerless over this damn disease and I hate it.

We are on our way to the hospital emergency room, it is 1:00 AM and I am worn out. I have spent the last 6 hours babysitting her. She has been drinking for the last 2 days and it has caused her to turn ugly at times, funny at others but always sad in this state from my experience and perspective. She has continued to deteriorate as the evening has passed. She is lost and confused, her body wracked with twitches and the shakes as her system detoxifies. Her words now turn angry as she cries out and slams her fists into her thighs repeatedly. I try to restrain her, she is strong and it is difficult to keep her from hurting herself. I intercept one of her blows on my forearm and it is smarting. I almost lose control of the car. I am worried that she will do something that I cannot stop her from and she will injure herself. She removes her seatbelt and asks me to wreck the car so that she might die and the suffering end. I cannot even consider such a request although if this were my pet suffering this deeply, euthanasia would be a viable alternative to her suffering.

Earlier in the evening I had to grab her as she climbed over the railing of her deck and restrain her from jumping to the yard below. She is fit and strong and fights me as I hold her back, my heart coming out of my chest, my whole body shaking with fear and the accompanying adrenaline rush. She struggles, it is only because of my size and her self imposed loss of balance that I can hold her back from hurting herself. The fall is not far but any fall has the potential of being catastrophic in her state. I hold her as I weep, she quiets down. She asks me if I am praying for her as I hold her and my reply is affirmative. I have in my hands this child of God (and I believe we are all children of God) and I am asking that He hear my plea and help me to do the right thing to be of service to her. I ask Him to somehow intervene in her life and save her from this hell that is devouring her. I ask that His will not mine be done. She stays quiet for a moment and struggles again but I will not let go, she is very strong. She asks me to, but I cannot, she begs me to and I will not. I have promised her that I will never let her go and I will not as long as a breath remains in my lungs and any strength remains in my arms.

We finally arrive after a thirty minute drive and enter the emergency room. She is more confused as the intake process proceeds. She is afraid that she will be sent to the psychiatric ward because of her behavior. Her actions are herky -jerky and totally disconnected from her normal demeanor. Her present state fills me with fear for her well being. Watching this deterioration is almost more than I can bear. She is an articulate being when sober; her words well thought out and full of candor and humor, the sound of her laughter makes me smile. Her words presently consist of despair, frustration, bewilderment and terror. The hideous four horsemen have arrived to pay their personal visit to her. She is a shivering denizen of King Alcohol’s mad realm. The chilling vapor that is loneliness settles in, becoming ever thicker and blacker as it surrounds her. The days of normal drinking are long in her past, she is approaching the jumping off point.

The intake done, we are instructed to take a seat in the waiting room. She sits beside me in the chair curled in a ball crying as I hold her in my arms and try to help her compose herself in front of the others in the room waiting to be attended to. She tells me that she wants to crawl under the chair and to please let her do so. I remind her that that type of activity might reinforce her greatest fear of being sent to the psycho ward, the thought goes away for a little while, but returns again and again. She tells me that she would like the others to quit staring at her; I assure her that the others are preoccupied by their own issues. She is afraid that the large black man seated across the room and bleeding from his chin and eyebrow is staring at her, he is not. He sits with his eyes closed, his face grimacing with pain from the blows he has apparently suffered in a confrontation. His pain is manageable, hers is not; her pain comes from a far different place. We sit until almost 3:00 AM when she decides that she has waited long enough for attention and decides that we should leave. I try to stall her in the hopes that attention will arrive quickly, it does not and she heads out the door despite my protests. In the parking lot she quickly walks away from me. I am hobbled by a broken ankle that is still healing from an accident last April and she gets away. She is filled with new resolve and defiant as I call to her to come back in, she is adamant in her position and will not. I cannot physically drag her back in so I try to show anger in my voice in the hopes that she will submit to my demands and reconsider, she responds with a new steely resolve of defiance. Not unlike a veteran prizefighter on the ropes after taking a heavy blow she is intuitively battling to regain control of herself and her situation.

She walks to the edge of the parking garage wall and lights a cigarette, my heart starts pounding again as I fear the worst and believe that she might climb the on top of wall, jump the two stories to the concrete below. My gimp ankle would never allow me to reach her in time if she decides to do so. I ask God to help her and keep her safe. I reach her and ask her to come back but her obstinate attitude is solid and she refuses with more defiance than I can believe ever existed in her. I have not seen this side of her before and I hope that I never see it again. It is as ugly an attitude as one can posses.

She starts walking away and again I cannot keep up. She yells that she is walking home. The hospital is in an area that is prone to crime and I am afraid that she will get lost or be hurt in this dangerous game she is playing. I reach the car and desperately seek her out. As I pass an intersection slowly and almost get all the way through I catch a glimpse of a figure walking in the shadows of a wall. It is her that I see. I have to turn the car around in the middle of the block and in my distress I manage to back into a tree that I did not see behind the car. The car now turned I head back to the intersection and see her a bit farther down the street. I approach in my upset state of mind, watching her walk away. I manage to drop the right front wheel of the car over the edge of a construction site hole causing the rocker panel to hit with a loud bang, it scares me and her. Good fortune is on my side as the car continues forward and does not stay stuck in the deep hole. I push the power window button and ask her to get in, she refuses. I plead, she refuses. I ask why and she states that she is afraid that I will beat her when she gets in. It is another example of her distressed state of mind and erratic thinking. I have never hit a woman in my life and I do not plan to start now. I look at her with pity and a bit of contempt. I reassure her that I will not and apologize for my decidedly though planned angry words.

To my relief she finally gets into the car. To turn around and try to take her back to the hospital would only cause her more harm I decide; I point the car in the direction to her home. As we drive home the car is deafened with her silent defiance and self anger. I do not know what to say, so I say nothing, I silently pray for an answer. After a few miles her hand touches mine lightly and I take it up. She squeezes tightly and cries that she is sorry. Tears fill my eyes as I drive and try to understand. I tell her it is ok and that is not the way that she wants to be but it is a result of her disease. I know this woman the way that God would like her to be, kind and loving, sweet and caring. It is such a drastic change.

I ask her what her plans are and she replies that she is done with life and cannot go on. I cannot go back to the rooms of recovery she tells me. My heart sinks again and I fight back the tears that want to flow from the sorrowful words that I have just been given. I am saddened by the thought of her not being there anymore and knowing how powerless I am if she decides to take this drastic action. I silently ask God for his Mercy and Intercession on her behalf as I drive onward. The hate for this disease rises in me again like the tides in the Bay of Fundy under a full moon.

I ask her not to give up. I assure her that if she just gives herself another chance that her life can and will turn around. My words fall on deaf ears. She repeats her desires to me. I am as heartsick as I have ever been in my life. I am so powerless and I am angry at my station in this situation. We arrive at her home and she gets out, her elderly mother waiting at the house below. She thanks me for all I have done and apologizes again. I watch with a very heavy heart as she walks down the drive. Perhaps I will see her again. I sit for a moment and ask God again to watch over her and to keep her out of harms way. I am heading home exhausted, physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally. I am spent and I do not believe that I have done enough but it is all that I can do. I am so powerless. It is 4:00 AM now and I crawl into bed full of hurt. I again ask God to help her and to keep her safe and help me get through this sadness that I am feeling. I drift off and sleep lightly for a few hours.

I awake full of anxiety about her, wondering if she has made it through the night. I am afraid to call lest the news be of the worst kind. I cannot bear the thought of burying her. I sit and cry in my loneliness. I cannot muster the courage to pick up the phone through the rest of the morning.

It is early afternoon when the phone rings and her name appears on my caller ID. As I pick up the phone I pray that it is her voice I hear and not that of her mother or one of her sisters. I hear her voice and I am greatly relieved by the sound of her sadness. She is remorseful and feeling badly both physically and emotionally. I break down and cry as we speak to each other. I tell her of my fears that run so deeply. She is crying now as we speak. Her words remind me how I hate this disease with a passion. I try to reassure her and comfort her with my words. I am worn out by the ordeal, I am simply a wreck and it is showing in my verbiage. I usually try to hold my composure and keep the party line but I cannot this time. I am so afraid for her and in fear for myself at what has transpired in the past forty eight hours. I break down again as the words cross my lips and microwave over the mouthpiece to her ears. I ask what she plans to do and she tells me that she has only one alternative and that is to continue to try to get sober. I am relieved at her decision and grateful to God that He has answered my prayers and seen fit to protect her and guide her. I assure her that it is a very good choice and certainly better than the other that she seemed so adamant about the night before.

I will continue to pray for her and ask all who read this to do so also. She needs each and every one of us to recover from this hopeless state of mind and body, as do so many others.

This has been a trying ordeal for me and for her and I am tired of it. I know that if I continue to try to carry this message that there are times when God’s Grace will come into play and one less will have to suffer any further.

I love my God. He is great and merciful to all those who seek Him. He loves each and every one of us in spite of all that we have done. If we just ask Him for forgiveness and to enter our hearts we will be amazed at the things that He will do with our lives. It is not an easy path for a person like me and that is the way it is supposed to be. If it were an easy thing to do it would lack meaning, depth, gravity, have little value and be easily cast aside. It sometimes takes a cry from a life of quiet desperation and hopelessness to set us on the path of recovery. That has been my experience and that of many others who have recovered from this seemingly hopeless state of mind and body. It is my sincerest hope that your life has meaning and depth as mine has. If at the very least you have read my words and they do not ring true at this time it is my hope that when your time comes and the crisis or overwhelming calamity arrives in your life that you remember that there is a solution. What does one have to lose by trying I will ask you? My biggest fear was that if I sought and found God that I would lose myself. The true reality of this is the exact opposite of what I expected. By finding God as I understand Him, He blessed me by allowing me to find myself, the type of man that He would have me become and for that I am grateful. But I still hate this disease and what it does to others and I always will.

The paradox is certainly this when it comes to this disease; it has taken so much from me and yet it has given so much more back in return. I am blessed to have survived so far but like many of you I am one drink away from disaster. It has been a long time and the obsession has been lifted but the suffering of others continues. I do not know why but it has always been there and probably always will.

The best hope for a real alcoholic like me is simply stated as such; I have had a deep and effective spiritual experience which has revolutionized my whole attitude toward life, toward my fellows and towards God’s universe. The central fact of my life today is that my Creator has entered into my heart and lives in a way that is indeed miraculous. He has commenced to accomplish things for me which I could never do for myself. This is far different from the experience I noted when I drank the Silver Satin wine for this is the truth the other was the lie.

I have been to the jumping off point and drank to the bitter end where no human power could reach me. The only thing left for me was to accept spiritual help or to leap into the abyss and end it all. The fact that I am here speaks volumes.