My Story: Part I

Part 1: Heaven, Hell and Everything In-between
‘Or the Big High’

         If it did happen, I wouldn’t be able to tell you when or how. I probably would have been too shit-faced to tell you anyways, but it may have come; I repeat, may have. It could have visited me when I first got sober, or when I just turned seventeen and my mother let me stay out until ten at night for the first time - as a naïve, (not so) little teenage, I was so ecstatic about the whole ordeal, I managed to come home with a huge, face-splitting shiner - but please, don’t ask. For all I know, the big high may have come in my sleep, and knowing my luck, that was probably it.
         What I do know is, every story has a beginning, middle and an ending, and sometimes not even in that order. While my story does have a beginning and a middle, the end is still being rolled around and conceived in the heads of the gods that weave the tapestry of life, despite the corny analogy. Even so, as I sit here writing this, less than two weeks before my 25th birthday, and almost 2 years free of alcohol, I am not a happy individual. I should be, but I am not; anyone could tell you I’m not, it wouldn’t take a psychologist to figure out why, either. On one hand, as a certain ‘anonymous’ group would have it, I have no control over anything I do or don’t do - which would probably make [anyone a little] uneasy, but on the other hand, if I decided to go back to where I was 2 years prior, the end of my story would be etched in stone, right then. No questions asked; Kaputz…
         That is, perhaps why I sat my ass down in a stupid attempt to reach out to others. My story may help others dealing with the same shit I do on a daily basis, but maybe it won’t. Either way, my story is my story and I am going to tell it…

         It was November 25, 2006 and I don’t remember too much what it was like outside, if anything spectacular happened that day or even if my parents were home when I woke up. What I do remember is being 23 years old, hurting over what-never-really-was with my only chick friend, dealing with the large amount of dead time during my first college semester break (which, by the way, had me thinking too much about everything) and… oh yeah, how the light shone in from the single basement window as it spilled over my whitewash wall and crept its way to the dusty bookcase in my bedroom. I laid there wondering why the fuck nothing I ever did stayed.
         ‘Look at Cassie, and my jobs’ I think I said out loud.

         It was a cold Saturday morning in Calgary, Alberta which meant I - among the other two-thirds of the Albertan city population - was hung-over. Now, I’m not saying we are all drunks here but let’s face it, what else is there to do in this town? We have our downtown core surrounded by suburb after suburb, after suburb. If there was any real culture in this town, someone would have to take me by the hand and literally plow it into my face.
         There was hockey culture here, however, which made me happy ever since my friend who I was hurting over now had shown me the sport. Two years had passed since the magical drunken playoff run that took our team all the way to the Stanley cup playoffs, only to be beat 2-1 in game 7 against the Tampa Bay Lightning - but not before the controversial game 6 where, yes, the puck was in and we should have had it. Lets say I was still nursing that sore, along with every single victory hangover that came with it.

         There isn’t too much memory of what happened that day, or even that weekend, for that matter but I would assume it kind of went like this: Get up, stretch, get dressed, head upstairs to the kitchen. I’d definitely make myself a bowl of cereal , which was the only thing I ate in those days, and head for my computer. There, I would do what any normal 23 year old drunken shut-in would do - play some mind-numbing video games, check my email; get nothing but spam, surf for porn - apply for more spam, get bored and head back upstairs for the couch and wait to fully wake up; Nothing out of the ordinary. Two days later, I found myself stumbling down a flight of stairs staring at a sign that invaded everything I feared and held on too.
         ‘YOU ARE NOT ALONE’ it read, as a I rolled my eyes and headed for my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I don’t know what prompted me, or how I got there, but something inside me broke down and convinced me I had to change. Perhaps it was the failing ‘relationship’ going on between me and my chick friend, or perhaps it was the bank still after me for a $100.00 fraud I pulled so I could get drunk. Maybe, it was the insurance company hounding me to get my side of the story so they could decide who to charge for the pile of scrap metal that used to be my dad’s Honda Civic until I totaled it in a drunk driving accident, almost a month ago. It could have been my best friend, threatening our friendship, telling me if I didn’t quit drinking, he wouldn’t be there anymore - it could have been. Or maybe, just maybe, it was all of those things combined. In any case, there I was, unsure and insecure, trying something new that I never thought would change my whole life upside-down and inside out.
         Imagine this: a tall, dark, scared, scrawny native kid, with an unusual amount of unshaved facial hair, shaking in a long black overcoat with padded shoulders and a pale green, beanie hat, who meekly made his way into a dimly lit basement filled with others like him. Of course, heads turned, unsure what to think of this newcomer, but I found my place in the back of the room and tried to listen.
         “…and thank you for my sobriety.” The typical finishing line said by a random up front.
         “Thank You.” The typical collective acknowledgment. Then, the chairman typically scanned the room looking for his next victim.
         “How ‘bout you, with the green hat and goatee?”
         “Who… me?” I asked, bringing my shoulders in, attempting to look smaller.
         “Yeah.”
         “Um…” Heads actually turned to hear what I had to say and I cleared my throat. “I think I’ll just listen, thank you…”
         “Thank you.” The chairman said and continued on.

---xxx---

         Day 3 of sobriety; the last day of November - another meeting. This time, it was smaller. Way smaller. While the first room I had entered held an intimidating 30-40 members, this one only had 10 people, at most. This meeting was closer to my house, so, if I had to, I could easily escape. This time, however, I heard what people had to say and some of it even made sense.
Perhaps I even talked a little - about what, I’m not entirely sure (and if I made sense, I don’t know either) - but people were kind and they listened, which I liked, because no one ever listened before.
         My friends would quietly nod their heads when I complained about a fresh new emotional scar some girl managed to inflict upon me, but then they would pass me another beer to suck on to shut me up. I knew I didn’t really belong, but I stayed there, and for some reason they let me stay. I was just the kid who came to get fucked up, and they accepted it. But when I went to this meeting, people were actually talking about what I wanted to talk about, and no one was getting weird about it, which I really liked. I mean, I almost felt relieved when I found this place. I think I could get used of this, I thought.
         “I wanna get drunk.” I told my sister over the phone, who was living in Cochrane (22 km west of Calgary) at the time with her then-boyfriend.
         “But, you’re doing so well.” She answered back.
         “So? You were making fun of me for my decision couple of days ago. You said I wasn’t an alcoholic.” There was a moment of silence.
         “How about you come spent the night at my place? We can just watch movies all night or something, if you want to.” She offered and slowly, reluctantly, I agreed.
         Let me tell you about my sister, Nova-Jean Courchene. Second born, first to graduate high school. She never did drugs, never drank until the age of 18, and even then was able to control it. As a child, she was didn’t have too many friends, except one, whom she held on to until they day we moved to Calgary in ‘99. Things got tough for her then, as she was a social outcast - probably because of her high values, morals and possibly her anger, which I’m placing my bets on the latter. I dealt with drugs and alcohol; she dealt with her raging temper, but we all have our problems. With our youngest sibling, Debbie, as her friend, she managed to stay strong until she met Bram.
         They were good together, as he was collected, cool and calm. My best friend and I used to make fun of them and said Bram was the one who ‘tamed the shrew’. Eventually, things got serious and they moved out together. I couldn’t have been more proud of her, as she had her life set up and here I was the oldest child, still struggling with just about everything life threw at me.
         It was a Friday night when I stayed over at Nova’s house and we ended up watching Will Farrell’s Stranger Than Fiction - the one about the accountant who was obsessed with only crunching numbers in everything he did. Soon enough, he learns he is only a character in someone else’s novel and is going to be killed off anyway. Eventually he meets a girl and learns to live his life fully without the aid of alco- numbers. I mean, numbers.

Kind of seems familiar, doesn’t it??

         I woke up on a Saturday morning. The air was cool and my head was clear. I got up, half expecting to feel the dizziness of yet another hangover, but there was nothing except the smiling wake of my acknowledgment I had made it another day. I let out a relieved sigh, searching my brain for any sorts of second thoughts of staying sober. As suspected, the demons were still there, waiting patiently. My sister had to work that day, so I got a free ride into town, with nothing important really mentioned and as I hopped the train that took me back down South, I figured I’d give my friend Cassie a call.
         The movie I had seen the previous night inspired me to set things right with her; I’d make her mine. Things were kind of going downhill with her ever since… forever, pretty much. There was this nice little pattern we had going on where I was bent on shamelessly and relentlessly making her my girlfriend, and she was bent on NOT being my girlfriend. When things to too intense we’d get out of each others hair and part ways for months on end only to find ourselves back to where we started. My family didn’t approve of this, which made it even more tempting to make it go my way, and even if she wouldn’t be mine, I’d set things up so it would appear to the rest of the world we were going out.
         I’d take her out dancing, a few dinners here and there, have her sleep over when she had no place to crash, or get her high and drunk, whatever she wanted. Sometimes I had to come over with food stolen from my mothers cupboard to feed her, then we’d lay on her bed and watch movies at her temporary place-of-residence (which never lasted long and  I often wondered how she was able to convince so many landlords to let her rent the place out). Mostly, though, it was getting fuck up and going dancing. How I loved dancing with her, though. No other girl compared. The way she’d rub her little round ass up against my crotch and let me hold her close when we grinded, almost made me forget about the world around me and how nothing last forever and possibly tonight was the night things would change. It wouldn’t though, because there was always some other boy in my way. Just when I thought I was making progress, she’d dig in her pockets and come up with another asshole who was able to please her in ways she wouldn’t let me. She told me it was for my own good, because I was too good for her, and she would only wreck me, but my heart broke every time.
         So there I was, for the final time, talking to her on MSN messenger, asking if she wanted to do something. I got a what do you want to do? Get drunk maybe?

Maybe…

         It was the last time I ever saw her, when she kissed me with a cigarette still hanging from my lips - it tasted like vodka and ash - but, it wasn’t the first time we kissed. The first time was the night I crashed my dad’s car. I was so drunk, the police report claimed I was laughing and crying at the same time, telling them ‘I wuz jus’ goin too fasst…’. But that’s beside the point. We talked to each other online and on the phone a couple of times after that, but nothing more. I can’t remember if it was on good or bad terms we stopped talking to each other, but as anyone could guess, it probably wasn’t the former. She went one direction and I left for the other, but eventually broke down near my house, crying and swearing off this shit forever. This time, this second time around, I was done with the liquor and the drama. And for the first time in my life, I knelt down and prayed to God for help, and actually meant it. For real.