Chronic, Progressive, & Fatal

Estimated read time: 10 min

I’m angry. I’m angry, frustrated, sad, and selfish all at once. If I felt this way a decade ago, I would get drunk alone and find something to punch. Stop signs seemed to be my preference back then, but any hard surface would do. I spent two hours splitting wood that didn’t need to be split one time, too. I don’t have any wood to split. There is no way I will drink, and punching things seems a little pointless. At least you get the idea.

That’s the way I feel right now, and I have for about two weeks.

There is one truth about addiction that can’t be avoided. It is chronic, progressive and FATAL. Some of us are going to die. And, that pisses me off.

I’m not new to this fact. When I was in treatment, a good friend of mine explained it to me. Being rich, or smart or successful won’t save me from addiction. Addiction kills without discrimination or reason. He had a philosophical view that helped him deal with randomness of who lives or dies.

Right now, that just feels like a load of crap.

I’m angry because someone I knew very well is dead, and he doesn’t have to be.

I know it is a totally selfish feeling. I know that I should be more understanding and think of others. I know that not every alcoholic or addict gets to be sober. It doesn’t make a difference for now. I want to be angry, and I want to break things. I want to scream obscenities at the top of my lungs from the top of a water tower. I want to drive as fast as I can blaring music. I won’t. I won’t put myself or others at risk, but I really, really want to.

A former sponsee of mine killed himself just two weeks prior to this writing, and I am still angry.

I want to scream at the people who “partied” with him and now have the audacity to be shocked. I want to slap them full in the face for being an accessory to murder. I want the drug dealers hunted down and the quickie stores that sell pseudo drugs shuttered for good. I want to shake him until he understands that long-term treatment won’t take him away from his life, it will give him one.

None of that will happen anywhere but in my brain, but damn it, something has to change.

This guy was a good guy. He was a veteran who served in two war zones. He had a big heart and tried to help others when he couldn’t help himself. And, I failed him. No two ways about it.

The last time we talked, I didn’t call him out about the fact that he looked like hell, or that he seemed to be tweaking from his latest new drug. I just told him that I wanted to see him at some meetings, and when he could string 30 days of sobriety together, we could talk about the steps.

I never saw him again. In our last text exchange he told me he was still sober, doing good, and would be at a meeting soon. He had taken a job out of town to get a little extra money. I should have called him when he didn’t show up over the next week. I didn’t.

I took some comfort in the fact that whenever things got bad he would go to treatment for a month. This time he didn’t.

He took his own life and left everyone with more questions than answers.

This guy was the retread of retreads. He had been through at least two sponsors before I tried to take him on, and the longest he stayed sober, if he was being honest, was 90 days. He had a veteran’s pension and veteran’s healthcare services at his disposal. He was in and out of treatment at least five times in the two years I knew him.

Every time he came out of a treatment center, he would look healthy and start attending meetings regularly. Then, he would miss one or two meetings because of family obligations, take a job under the table where he worked too late to make it to meeting, or just start drinking and using again with no real cause.

Soon he would show up, head hanging from his latest relapse or still bouncing off the walls because he was in the middle of a spree. Within a few weeks to a couple of months, I would get a call from a number I didn’t recognize. He would sound excited about a new opportunity to be sober and bubble over about all that he had learned to help him this time.

Each time, we would discuss the importance of not taking on too much. He would promise to attend meetings at least four times a week. I would offer to help him with the steps. Then, within a few weeks it was evident we would get the chance to do the dance again.

On two separate occasions I thought I had him talked into longer-term treatment. He was offered two separate programs where he would be able to stay for up to a year. Both times, real or fabricated problems took precedence, and shortly thereafter a full-on spree ensued.

At some point, I got complacent. The type of complacent that gets people killed. I got it in my head, that this guy would be one of those who would meddle in addiction until he was in old age. He would always stay just a few steps away from recovery, and a few steps away from serious physical consequences. Importantly, he had the resources at his disposal to use when things got bad. Not all of us can return to rehab after a relapse. He always had that option. So he would rotate in an out and avoid death until he finally got tired of the game, I thought.

I was totally and completely wrong. My arrogance in thinking I understood the mercurial nature of addiction kept me from reaching out this last time. In the back of my mind, I was waiting for the call from a rehab.

That is my fault. That is where the center of my anger lies.

Make no mistake. I know I don’t keep people sober just as I don’t keep them drunk. I don’t have a magical wand that takes away a sponsee’s desire to drink or use. There are at least 18 former sponsees who can attest to that.

Still, I quit treating this one person like I would a green newcomer. I will always question whether or not, it would have made a difference.

Throughout all of our conversations about his struggles to avoid using when his emotions got the better of him, I forgot to ask the most important question: Do you want to die? I should have also asked him do you want to kill yourself? Those are very different questions and I neglected to ask either, and I am ashamed.

I know better than to set expectations. I still do it. But, I know better.

When it comes to helping others, I honestly try my best to see the person and his or her situation, as if it is brand new. For someone struggling to get sober, each day can be scary and everything is new. I never want to forget that, and I have always tried to avoid the all-knowing guru approach some use. I’ve seen them at meetings throwing their hands up in the air and saying, “I can’t do anything for someone who doesn’t want to get sober.” Bullshit!

That is a lie. I can do lots of things. I can be a friend. I can drop the shell around me, which has been hardened by recovery grifters and those who died in addiction. I can love addicts and alcoholics when they can’t figure out how to love themselves. I can go too far and feel slighted by a person who is not ready to give up active addiction. I can give rides holding my breath to make sure a drunk makes it home safely after a meeting. I can do all of these things because someone didn’t give up on me.

I remember sitting on a porch feeling lost and frustrated. I was smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee with an old-timer before a meeting. Only two weeks earlier, there had been a group of guys who had about the same time as I did in sobriety who had filled the porch before meetings. In a matter of two weeks, every one of them had relapsed.

I sipped my coffee contemplating what in the hell I was doing. If I was going to relapse, I wanted to get it over with. I was tired of fighting urges and cravings; it all seemed like a complete waste of time. I told the old-timer as much. “I guess I might as well get my relapse out of the way, too,” I said, testing a half-hearted laugh to pretend it was a joke.

The old-timer stopped raising the cup to his lips, raised one eyebrow, and through almost a clenched jaw that seemed ready for a fight uttered, “Hell, no!” Perhaps it was my imagination only, but it seemed like is grip on his cup had been tightened as if he were ready to punch me.

I laughed the moment off, and offered that I was just kidding around, but we both knew I wasn’t. I have often wondered if there was a sound of desperation in my voice that night, or if he just knew me well enough to know I was asking for permission. One thing he did know, so much better than I did at the time, is that relapses are not a joke. There is nothing fun or funny about a relapse because sooner or later they get you killed.

I think often of the last night I talked with my former sponsee. It was after a meeting, and I knew when I saw him waiting on the porch that he was going to ask me to be his sponsor again. I asked how long he had been sober, and he explained that he had a few days.

He said that he was tired of screwing up and was ready to stay sober this time. All of his body language said that he hadn’t even started to try, yet. He had two young sons and he wanted them to remember him as sober because he hadn’t been. He planned to get nine months under his belt and he wanted to go back to college to become a substance abuse counselor so he could help others.

That night I could have reminded him that WE are all in this thing together, and when things got tough he could always call me. I could have been enthusiastic about this new opportunity and excited that he was back for another attempt. I could have reminded him that I value him as a person and I enjoy seeing him at meetings.

In truth, I just half listened to him. I was partly in my own world instead of being fully present. I told him he needed to make some meetings and stay sober for a while before we could talk about working the steps. Whatever was so important that I couldn’t pay attention to someone who needed help was completely forgotten before I got in the car to go home. I will carry that regret, and I am still ashamed. My behavior that night is not f—ing good enough. I have to change.

I can’t change that people will sell and buy drugs and booze. I can’t be there to slap a bottle out of some one’s hand. I can’t stop an adult from making any decision. There are many things I can’t do when it comes to helping addicts and alcoholics like me. That doesn’t mean I am powerless.

What can I do?

I CAN listen and be excited about being sober. I CAN remember how important it was to feel like someone cared about me. I CAN be fully present in conversations with other alcoholics. I CAN remind people that I am grateful to have them in my life. I CAN put my problems to the side and pay attention to someone who desperately needs hope. I CAN do those little things that people did for me that saved my life. I can treat addiction like it is the life or death struggle it is, for f—ks sake.

I owed at least that to my former sponsee. I owe it to each alcoholic and addict I meet, and I owe it to myself.

I will never forget it again.

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For more posts on coping with grief and loss after losing a loved one to addiction or suicide:

“The Empty Chair It Could Have Been Mine” and “Time for Me to Be Fearless”