The disease of addiction is cunning, baffling, and powerful even to those of us who know and understand what it’s like to be an alcoholic. It’s a story as old as time itself, when we have the capacity to stop we don’t want to, when we want to, we can’t, and that’s what addiction is. Then, like myself, and the majority of other alcoholics I know, we eventually ask ourselves “Why Me?”
Prior to my own struggle with addiction, I was exposed to the effects addiction can have on the people who love and care for the addict. There are several of us all throughout my family tree on both sides. Most of us are dead, dying, or somewhere in between. It’s a harsh reality, but not one that can easily be denied.
Addiction doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, young or old, male or female. It’s like a game of roulette, some of us get “lucky”, and others get to drink with impunity, uninterrupted. My uncle and I are a few of the “lucky” ones in my family I suppose. Why him, why me? I honestly don’t know, but here we are.
How can I put this nicely… my uncle is a bonafide, real deal, hardcore addict. Make no mistake, he’s not special, there are millions of us out there, I’ve just had the privilege of watching his addiction unfold over the past 20 or so years.
I could dive into the drama and discord that has taken place over the years. I could recount my understanding of the traumas that he and my mother endured growing up, the tragic nature of his addiction, a highlight reel of his arrest records, hospital visits, and rehab trips, so on and so forth.
Honestly though, let’s face it, if you’re here, you probably have a basic understanding of how that happens anyway. So rather than repeating parts of your own story, through a retelling of his story, I’ll save us all some time.
The real reason I bring up my Uncle’s story at all is that his story plays a major role in why I am alive today to tell my story, and how I found the answer to the question frequently asked by alcoholics everywhere “Why Me?”
After years of hearing about his latest relapse, arrest, or admittance into rehab playing on a loop; my uncle’s struggle became the soundtrack of family visits and late-night phone calls between my mother and grandmother. Subconsciously, without my knowledge or permission, I was storing information about my uncle that would one day save my life.
In late fall of 2018, a month or so after I began attending AA meetings, I learned that my uncle would soon be discharged from the latest treatment center he was a patient at.
Over the years, it hasn’t been uncommon for us to call or write him in whatever rehab or jail he was in at the time. Almost as if perfectly poetic, as we exchanged letters in the Fall of 2018, he was getting more clean time, and I was throttling closer and closer to an alcoholic death. Never once did it occur to me to ask, “Why Him?” or “Why Me?”
Then, one evening, right as I was about to leave my dorm to go to a meeting, the phone rang… It was a number I didn’t recognize. Actually, the number was private and didn’t even show up, which was actually something I had grown acquainted with. I answered. Sure enough, it was my uncle.
…
Despite not having been around him for any length of time throughout most of my childhood, a “safety thing” according to my mother and grandmother, I have always thought highly of my uncle. He was a little sketchy, listened to his music too loud, and had a bunch of tattoos (not a common occurrence in my family), but he was sooo cool to me. I can’t explain it, there was just always something about him that made me want to be around him… (probably a sign now that I think about it.)
…
I answered the phone, as cheerfully as I could at the time, which in all honesty was probably not very convincing, especially to him.
We chatted a little bit as we told me about how things were going, what he had been up to, and his plans for after he was out of treatment. Believe it or not, this was the small talk portion of the conversation and one that we both had grown accustomed to. What happened next is what really threw me for a loop though.
“So, I really appreciate all the letters you’ve written since I’ve been here this time…” he said. I nodded into the phone and made some sort of comment about how it’s nice to use snail mail occasionally these days. He continued, “I couldn’t help but notice that in some of your letters, you had some interesting things to say…”
I panicked, and my heart started to race a little bit. See, by this time in my active addiction I was barely conscious most days. Up and moving, sure, but more like a zombie from The Walking Dead than anything. I could typically muster enough motivation to get to work, my college classes, and type a few papers but that was about all I could manage.
Now, after his comment, I was beginning to wonder what the hell had I written in those letters. I stayed quiet on my end of the phone call. The silence hung in the air for a minute, then he said: “Nina, it sounds like… like you may be a friend of Bill W.?”
I searched for something to say, ANYTHING to say. I had nothing. So, I just told the truth. I told him that yeah, maybe I was. I spilled my guts, to perhaps the only surviving member of my family who had the capacity to understand my story.
I told him about all the drinking, suicidal thoughts, chaos, destruction, and numbness. I explained that I had been attending meetings for the last month or so, and how they didn’t seem to be helping at all. I told him, that I was pretty sure I was dying, and that I didn’t know what else to do…
He stayed quiet, and most importantly, he just listened. Once I was done spewing all my shit to him he simply said, “I’m proud of you.”
It took everything in me not to burst into tears in that exact moment. Proud… of me? “Why Me?” Maybe he was more out of touch than everyone in the family gave him credit for…
He went on to explain how his experiences with addiction have played out over the years. His struggle to get clean, and his greater struggle to stay clean.
He recounted the misery of the revolving door to rehabs, hospitals, and jails. He mentioned how things felt different for him this time, how this long-term stint in treatment may have been just the thing that he needed this go around.
He suggested that once he got out, maybe we could even go to a few meetings together if I were to drive down for a visit to my grandparents (where he would be living). He said he was committing to “doing things right” this time around, and once December 9th hit, he would be ready this time.
Little did he know at the time, but I was planning on going into treatment on the 12th of that December. As the conversation came to a close, I asked him if it would be okay if I called him on the 11th, a few days after he was to be discharged home to my grandparents, on community control restrictions. He was overjoyed and agreed to look forward to my call, and then we hung up.
The days passed, and the 12th was creeping up on me quicker than I had anticipated. After an evening meeting on the 11th, I gave my uncle a call. The phone rang, and rang… then nothing. I called again… nothing. One more time… nothing again.
Confused, hurt, and a little panic-stricken, I called my mother. She picked up the phone, and I asked about my uncle to see if she had heard from him since he got out.
Frustrated, she gave an exasperated sigh and explained that less than 72 hours out of treatment he had violated the conditions of his community control agreement and was back in jail. It happened just that quickly…
I couldn’t understand it. What the hell had happened? I thought he would make it this time, I truly believed that. Then I was reminded of myself, all the times I had decided that things would be different today. That today I wouldn’t drink quite so much, or that I wouldn’t go to the quickie store to stock up on bottles today… but I always did it anyway.
Since that fall, my uncle has been back in jail on and off for the better part of the last 4 years. He has overdosed and died more times than I can count on one hand, but somehow, someway, he’s still alive. Despite his struggles, he never gives up!
As for me, I just recently celebrated 4 years of continuous sobriety. I have my life back. Some alcoholics find themselves asking, “Why Me?” when it comes to accepting their alcoholism. I often ask, “Why Me?” when it comes to accepting my recovery.
Why me and not my uncle? Why me and not the woman who has 3 children who love her dearly? Why me and not the celebrity who has everything to gain and nothing to lose by getting sober? Why do I get to recover? Why Me?
The reality is, regardless of why you’re asking the question, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter why me or why you. The point is, that “the car is in the ditch” as Stan likes to say. It doesn’t matter how or why. What matters is that this is where you are.
What are you going to do about it?
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