Estimated read time: 21 min
Knock knock…. HOUSEKEEPING! It’s 7am on a Saturday what the actual fuck?!? My buddy jabs me in the ribs which, doesn’t take much effort considering he’s 6’3” and we’re wedged together in a double bed at the local Microtel we managed to book a room in just a few short hours ago. We were supposed to be waking up around noon on campus… but that plan was obviously long gone by now.
He’s hungover and I’m pissed because we were promised by the overnight staff that we would not be disturbed until at-least 10am, but what did they know.
Let’s back track a little bit though so I can bring you up to speed on how my (strictly platonic) friend and I ended up alone together, in a double bed, at a hotel just 2 miles from my dorm on campus.
For purposes of anonymity, we’re going to call my friend David. David and I went to high school together in a small north Georgia town. We both moved down south after high school to attend college. For the better half of fall semester our freshmen year of college we didn’t really hang out much. I vaguely remember knowing that we would be at the same school, but lost that knowledge sometime over the summer in between senior year of high school and the start of freshman year of college.
Needless to say, between him being quite the social butterfly and me being drunk trying to make things work with my, at the time, boyfriend, David and I didn’t really hang out much at first.
However, after I was kicked to the curb by the boyfriend, and the newness of being the cool kid on the hall dimmed for David, we reconnected albeit staying incorrigibly drunk from sunup to sundown the rest of that semester.
For the remainder of that semester we were basically in separable. We’d rotate trips to the quickie store dependent upon who’s turn it was to buy booze, go driving aimless down dirt roads, smoke cigarettes in the parking lot, and sit in the dorm blaring whatever rock or country song was stuck in our heads that day.
I’m not going to lie and say that by looking at us you would be able to tell that we were miserable sad sacks, I won’t even try to hide the fact that there were some good moments and fun times; however, we were both mostly miserable, most of the time.
I can’t officially speak for David, I’m not him, and I don’t know what exactly was going on in his head but I was miserable, broken, and empty. He’d reminisce on being back home and all that he’d left behind, crying into his beer and complaining about the people, places, and things in our new environment. He was homesick and skeptical about this whole college experience thus far, that’s understandable. No shame for David in this story at all.
I was miserable long before I ever got to college, but now I actually had the time to fully experience and acknowledge it all, and now I also had the pleasure of experiencing the gut-wrenching, heartbreak of losing the person (my own fault) I was truly convinced would be the person I loved for the rest of my life (we had already talked of marriage and a life together).
Granted I had never wanted to marry and wasn’t even really sure that I was actually totally and completely in love with this “boyfriend at the time” guy, but I also didn’t really know what that kind of love was supposed to look like. I figured you just kind of grew into the marriage type of love as time in the marriage progressed.
I digress, back to David and I. David would come to my tiny dorm room, twin bed and sit with me as I cried myself into a drunken sleep. We’d fantasize about running away and totally starting over. Create elaborate plans for breaking the law and evading police, all the delusions of grandiosity that would never come to fruition. But we were miserable, and it was a good distraction.
We made it to the end of the semester going on like that, all the while so bloody drunk that I honestly don’t know how we weren’t fatal victims of our own demise. Finals came and went, and we both went back to our hometown for Christmas break.
A few days before Christmas that year, David calls me up to tell me he wouldn’t be returning to school after the holiday break. Confused, I asked when he would be coming back. To which he replied probably never, he had decided to pursue other ventures, the workforce, military, police academy… almost anything else other than school.
Like a good alcoholic, and because everything is about me, I begged him to come back, to give school another shot, and whined about how I would be so alone without him there. Him, being more independent, emotionally stable, and self-sufficient, declined my proposals and was fully committed to starting a different chapter for his life after giving school the “good ole college try” (pun intended).
For sake of time, and to avoid boredom I’ll spare you the details of the next steps of that process, the logistics of dropping out of school, and all the little events that followed David’s decision. After all, this is about me you know.
So without the boyfriend, and now without David to be “alone together” with, the Spring semester was a real treat. I drank even more than before. I socialized even less if that was possible, and thoughts of suicide by literally drinking myself to death was my day to day reality. I still made it class, to work, and completed assignments. I may have even gone home a weekend or two that semester I’m really not sure, but I even more quickly spiraled to my rock bottom.
See I thought the previous semester was hell. As it turns out, hell has a basement. I did officially, on paper, make it through the Spring semester though. I signed up for the summer session, filed the appropriate paperwork to stay on my college campus for work and class purposes, and was on my way to finishing a four-year degree in 2 1/2 years. (If you read my very first post, High Functioning at Rock Bottom, this is the same summer of the water tower, salmonella poisoning, and living out of my car).
This puts us into my second fall semester of college. By this time, I had made it through the breakup, losing David as my company for misery on campus, salmonella poisoning, and living out of my car in the south Goergia heat. I was on a slight uptick, the spiral had slowed, or maybe ever so briefly paused for a moment. I was, dare I say it, doing better..ish?
It’s a few weeks into the fall semester, I was still guzzling booze of course, but “managing” a little better than the year prior. I get a text from my pal David. He’s coming to town for the weekend. A visit for his old roommate’s 20th birthday. Thrilled to see my friend, and dead set on proving to him that I was “okay” again and passed the rough state he last had seen me in, anxiously awaited his arrival.
The plan was for him to leave our hometown after work, arrive in our small South Georgia college town around 9 pm or so; party Friday and Saturday, and he’d go home again on Sunday. Sleeping arrangements included my dorm couch or the former roommate’s dorm couch, wherever he was able to pour himself into at the end of each night. Let’s just say things did NOT go according to plan, these things rarely do in my experience.
David did arrive in town around 9 pm. His first stop was to my dorm room. As a good friend does, I had a 12-pack of our favorite beer waiting for him when he arrived.
If you have learned anything about me by now, you know I had already been drinking all day, but what you may be surprised to hear is that I had definitely cut back on that particular day pending David’s arrival.
Typically, I was not presentable for public consumption by about 8 pm. I made an exception for this particular night, partially because I wanted to be able to enjoy spending time with David, but also because I had heard that there would be quality liquor at the birthday party we would be attending, and I wanted plenty of room to enjoy the good stuff I had been unable to afford as of late.
So, David arrived, we chatted for a bit, through back a few beers, and figured we probably ought to head down to the bottom floor, to the dorm room of the birthday boy before all the good stuff was gone. We made it down to the room and I was immediately skeptical. I was originally informed that since this was happening on campus, it would be quiet and low-key, just a few other people, the birthday boy, David, and myself. I was naïve, and so dead wrong. There was a strobe light, loud music, and at least 20 people crammed into this tiny dorm apartment. David assured me I was being a stick in the mud, to just grab something to drink and relax.
We had arrived just in time for the birthday boy to take 20 shots of tequila for his 20th birthday. Does anyone else see a problem with this plan? Other than David and myself, almost everyone at this party could be considered a lightweight when it comes to consuming alcohol, especially liquor.
To avoid being a buzzkill, I watched from the sidelines, cringing as I remember this same guy routinely pissing himself and being poured into bed after a few beers our fall semester as freshmen. Of course, no one else seeing where this activity was headed, they all cheered as he choked down each shot back to back, barely getting the 20th one down. Meanwhile, I was getting nervous about, well…a lot of things. Acute alcohol poisoning, noise complaints, the loud noise, the soon-to-be projectile vomiting we were all about to witness…you name it.
I was nursing my 32 oz. yeti cup of whiskey on the couch after having been in the room all of 20 minutes when the knock at the door came. David, like a dumbass, answered the door immediately as everyone else ignorantly wondered who it might could be.
Naturally, it was the CA’s knocking after having heard all the commotion while passing the dorm room in the hallway. Immediately they asked to enter the room, and upon seeing the copious amounts of alcohol, notified campus security, and asked everyone to make their way into the hallway and have a seat. Knowing that this shit show was going to last a hot minute, I asked if I could use the restroom before making my way to the hall. Hesitant but obviously nervous about any sort of confrontation, the CA said sure and followed me back to the bathroom. I opened the door to go take care of my business only to find 5 people crammed into the bathroom hiding.
Feeling like a complete jerk, and also frustrated at the idiocy of the people in the bathroom convincing themselves the entire dorm wouldn’t be searched room by room to confiscate any stray bottles and cans, the bathroom stowaways were now busted along with the rest of us.
As if divinely inspired by the powers that be, I quickly try to cover for them by asking one of the girls if her nose was still bleeding. Without hesitation, she said yeah, and everyone else moved as though they were there to help her. I casually explained, as if they had no idea, that a CA had knocked on the door and notified the police of the situation.
Acting convincingly surprised (hard to believe I know) they all followed instructions, gathered some tissue (for the bloody nose), and made their way to the hall. I did my business, walked out of the bathroom, nodded to the CA, and I instantly noticed David in the bedroom behind the CA struggling to get the window opened. I had no idea what the hell he was doing, but not wanting him to get caught I quickly tried to distract the CA and get us both into the hall with the others.
The distraction worked, but to my surprise a few minutes later David walked out into the hall as well. Confused I motioned him to join me in getting as far away from the others as possible without creating concern or alarm from the campus police and CA. I asked him what was going on and why he was still there in the dorm building. Naturally, I assumed he was jumping out the window to leave the “scene of the crime”. All he said was simply that “I brought my gun” and “campus police was parked right outside the window.”
I was stunned and for the first time that night, actually a bit terrified about what events may unfold next. See, what you need to understand is that in the state of Georgia there are campus carry laws that permit the presence of firearms on college campuses, BUT in order to do so, one must meet all the legal criteria (such as being 21 years of age, etc.) and even still, firearms are not allowed to be stored, or on your person in dorm/residence buildings. David was in no way compliant with this law as he wasn’t even 21, he was in a residence building, and I might add, not even a current student of the college. My professional analysis of the situation was that we were screwed.
Events continued to unfold as each individual was prompted to take a breathalyzer or be arrested on the spot for violation of underage drinking, minor in possession and drinking on a campus with a zero-tolerance policy for alcohol regardless of age. David and I weighed our options and made arrangements to ensure that we were the last possible people to be questioned. In all actuality we were trying to find a way to get off campus undetected, but that was not a viable option at this point.
Luckily for us, the officer was out of straws for his breathalyzer by the time he got to us and I was sober appearing enough to convince the officer that I had not consumed any alcohol and that we had only been there for maybe 30 minutes before the CA knocked. I, for all intents and purposes, got off scot-free. Meanwhile, the officer did not buy that David hadn’t been drinking, and wrote him a litany of citations, and advised him to get off campus if he didn’t want to see the inside of the county jail that night.
In speaking with the officer, it was made apparent that if David drove off campus that night he would be arrested for a DUI. I decided it was time to push my luck and test the waters to see what would happen if I drove David off-campus… was it a trick or did the officer really believe that I had not been drinking. Paranoid and distrustful of law enforcement I asked a million questions which all resulted in the same answer… no I would not be pulled over if I drove David and myself off campus that night.
WHEW! We were off the hook… or so I thought. As David made his way to the bedroom back inside the dorm to gather his belongings the officer said that he would need to search David’s bag for any additional contraband. To my bewilderment, David said sure and handed over his bag. I wanted to scream. There was no way in hell the officer would let either one of us go once he found the pistol in David’s bag. We’d both be toted off to jail, him for a major violation of the law, and me for vouching and covering for him. The officer searched the small bag for what seemed like ages, and then said, “All right, you’re free to go.”. No freaking way….
We get to my car out in the campus parking lot, and like all good drunks do, headed to the waffle house for a bite to eat before figuring out what to do next. With the adrenaline starting to fade, I instantly felt fatigued and then realized it was now 3 am. We parked and as I was about to get out of the car to head inside Waffle House, David stopped me and got a very serious look on his face. “Dude, we’re all clear, we made it!” I assured him, and he said, “No. I brought my gun”.
Tired and a bit annoyed I said “Yeah yeah, I heard you earlier, but he searched your bag. He didn’t find it we’re good”. But we were not good. David went on to explain everything that happened behind the scenes once we had gotten separated after the initial knock on the dorm room door earlier that evening.
It all became crystal clear as he explained the reason he had been in the bedroom trying to open the window was so that he could toss his gun out. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to leave himself because he was the one who had opened the door initially and that the CA had recognized him and knew his name from freshmen year when he lived on campus as a student. So, to avoid any further issues he tossed the gun.
The gun, by the way, landed about 15 feet from the front driver side tire of the parked patrol car. The patrol car that was still parked in the same location as it was when it pulled up, and the very same patrol car that the officer was still leaning up against as he filed his reports, and loaded up boxes and boxes (yes, multiple boxes) of contraband liquor. Why David waited till we were off-campus, and after we strongly encouraged not to return to campus for at least 24 hours, I still don’t know.
We began to devise a plan to a) get back on campus that night b) remain unseen by campus police who had been alerted of my car’s make/model/tag number c) retrieve the gun without getting caught and d) get off campus again undetected.
You may find that I describe the scenario like it was some sort of Tom Cruise, Mission Impossible, Laura Croft, Tomb Raider expedition, but in all honesty, that’s exactly how it felt at the time. We had just evaded a night in county lockup at the drunk tank, and now we had to go back into the same situation and snag an illegal firearm without getting caught again… the only other way to describe the situation is: incredibly stupid and totally avoidable.
Fast forward, the plan goes seamlessly, but I did not, however, get to order my All-Star Special from Waffle House that night. By the time our “mission” was successfully completed I was beginning to sober up (which I was pissed about) and we were both entirely exhausted. We now had to figure out our new sleeping arrangements, and while we had managed to squeeze ourselves into a twin bed together… figuring out how to make things any weirder than that, in a small little ’07 Ford Focus was not a task we were up to in our current state.
Luckily, we were familiar with the town, for obvious reasons, and knew where a nice little strip of halfway suitable hotels was located. You know the type, the ones who advertise free A/C on their marquis boards as if that’s not basically customary everywhere in this day and age.
We found one that still had its lights on, and asked to rent a room for the night. I don’t even want to know what was going through the head of that motel clerk’s mind when we showed up at almost 4 am asking for a room. He had a few rooms available, ironically only rooms with one double bed. David and I looked at each other, nodded, and said “we’ll take it.”, and take it we did. We paid for the room, got the rundown on hotel policies and practices (breakfast from 7-10 am, housekeeping at 10 am, checkout at 11 am), and went up to our room to crash until checkout time.
This brings us back to…
“knock-knock… “HOUSEKEEPING!”
If I stop here then I was successful at telling a nice long drunk-a-log. Maybe it was even entertaining to you, and perhaps you got a nice little chuckle or found that you can remember a similar situation you’ve been in before. While I do hope all of those things are true, it’s more important, to me, that there is some lesson or moral to be received if one is open and willing to receive one. I have always been told that if I am to share something I need to check in with myself and decide whether what I am sharing is a sickness or a solution-based story. So, in an attempt to turn this sickness into a solution, allow me to share with you what any of this has to do with my sobriety journey today.
Just a few short months after David’s visit is when I found myself at my first meeting in Alcoholics Anonymous. Kind of ironic I know, since I was “doing so much better” prior to the visit (was I though?). Looking back at all events of my drinking career, it’s kind of eerie how much foreshadowing there really was to the rooms of recovery, 12-step programs, and sobriety in general. This abrupt 7am Housekeeping call was a perfect example of this.
Not long after entering the room of Alcoholics Anonymous, I began to really begin listening to some of the more obscure slogans and phrases repeated among the members at my group. There were literal signs and quotes from various pieces of literature that were posted and verbally mentioned on more than one occasion. One of those sayings was “Trust God, Clean House, Help Others”. I won’t speak to the other two parts of the saying, but “Clean House” as you might have guessed, is really the gist of what this entire post is about.
After a crazy night of self-inflicted chaos, unnecessary martyrdom, high-risk low reward activities, incredibly poor judgment, and as a result, inadequate amounts of rest and recovery, the housekeeping call was frustrating, annoying, jarring, and in a way, painful to my existence in that moment.
Ironically, this has often been my experience when “cleaning house” as a part of my recovery journey. The maid at the hotel was just trying to do her job; to purge us from the room, clean, sanitize, and make room for more profit, gain, and growth for the motel’s business. “Cleaning House” as it relates to my recovery has not been so different from that of my motel experience that night all those years ago.
In sobriety, “cleaning house” is about an internal cleansing. Not to get too hokey, but my mind, body, soul, and spirit were contaminated by active addiction. I was full of shame, blame, guilt, resentment, myths, falsehoods, and fabrications that my disease brought about. All the “isms” as we like to call them in the rooms, and all these so-called “isms” brought their friends and they were squatters in the rooms of my mind. In order to effectively move forward, to face everything, and recover, I needed to do some long-overdue housekeeping. These guests or “isms” were staying in my head rent-free, and they needed to be removed, cleaned, sanitized, and purged from my system.
Personally, I think the maid at the hotel had a much easier task ahead of her than I would later discover in my own housekeeping journey. Very much like the hotel experience though, my “cleaning house” venture was jarring, uncomfortable, and irritating. I found that I was not well prepared for this experience either, but that it was absolutely necessary for me to profit, gain, and grow in my recovery, sobriety, and attempt to live life on life’s terms; one day at a time, without a drink in hand.
So, check out of your addiction hotel on time, remove the squatters, tip the maid, and don’t be afraid of a little House Keeping!
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