It’s 4:42am and I’m wide awake. Actually I’ve been awake
since 2:30, tossing and turning, alternating between watching YouTube videos
and pretending to sleep. I have a lot on my mind.
A little over twenty-four hours ago, I had to confront my
roommate for the third time in as many weeks about drinking. I had my
suspicions throughout the night—and honestly, the night before—that he was
acting a little weird, and took frequent trips to his room even with a guest
over. My suspicions were confirmed when he came home later and I happened to be
coming out of the bathroom which happens to be upstairs next to his bedroom,
and we crossed paths. I could smell the beer on his breath.
A range of emotion flooded my thoughts, and I knew that
nothing good could come of letting this slide. Last time I caught him, I had
the landlord come explain—again—in great detail that, although this is not a “sober
house,” this is a sober living environment. This means there isn’t any drinking
or using drugs on or off the premises. The threat of not having a place to live
seemed to do the trick, but that was just a few days before I went to
California, and I was a little worried about him being home alone for
Christmas. But my apprehension eased into relief when he picked me up from the
airport and told me about his family holiday celebration. We had a good chat
that night, and we talked about his new job at the Xcel Center, which he got
with very little help from me, and he seemed excited for a new challenge.
But then something must have happened. I’m not entirely sure when, how, or where, but he picked up the bottle again to cure some internal
misery that just won’t go away. I didn’t write that sentence specifically
because of something he said; it’s standard among us alcoholics.
I’ve walked in those shoes countless times, which is
probably why I don’t appear upset or angry with him. He’s my closest friend,
which does make me wonder if there’s anything else I could or should have done
to prevent this from happening, but the sick reality is, I have no control over
other people, and if he wants to drink, he will.
A little over twenty-four hours ago, I had to drive my
roommate to Ramsey County detox for the second time in three weeks. We were
buzzed through the first two sets of doors which opened up to the austere genuineness
of an institution. All of the art on the walls covered the same
splatter-resistant, hospital-white that covered every wall in Moose Lake
prison, and his only complaint upon arriving was that he would have to suffer
through the dreadful food, along with the night sweats and D.T.s.
So, what next? Well, the landlord and I talked and both
agreed that he’s not having any success quitting by himself. In-patient
treatment is the only road that is going to save his spot here at the house. That
was the last straw, so to speak. I wish nothing but the best for him, and I
have even prayed for him which is a pretty big deal for me. Feel free to
include him in your prayers if you do
such a thing.
On a completely related note, I talked to my other roommate
who disappeared about two months ago. I had my suspicions about him, too, and
they were also confirmed, but he is in a program out of state now, and is doing
well and coming home soon.
I’ve said it before, relapse is part of this program. Statistically,
I could have six more roommates, and about half of the time, one of them wouldn’t
relapse for a year. That’s almost shocking, but it is the disturbing truth
about recovery. 16% is the success rate of people that walk into treatment
centers and the rooms of A.A, and stay sober for a year. I don’t recall my
source for that fact, but you can do plenty of research if you need to, I’ve
done quite enough in my lifetime.
It’s 5:24am. I’m wide awake, full of coffee. I’m sober. I
haven’t picked up a drink or a drug for 923 days. For the third time in as many
weeks, I’ve had to dump out the contents of my roommate’s liquor bottles. I’ve
had the power to take a swig, while nobody was looking, but I declined. That
doesn’t make me better than anybody; it just means that I was able to resist
temptation for the two minutes that I had the bottles of vodka in my hands. I
haven’t yet gone through this process without the aid of a friend in recovery,
whether here in person, or on the phone, not because I don’t trust myself, but
because there’s no point in testing myself. I’m not dumb; I know how fast a
relapse can happen, and I know, in my case, how fast it can spiral out of
control.
It’s 5:33am, and I’m sober.
