Alcohol: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems.

The rusty wire that holds the cork, and keeps the anger in, gives way, and suddenly it's day again.
Roger Waters- Pink Floyd

I was never an angry drunk, or even really an angry person. But I can identify with that line from one of my favorite songs, Two Suns in the Sunset. Replace the word anger with stupidity, desperation, or disaster, and you have my life as an alcoholic pegged. More than a few periods of my life revolved around alcohol. I think they were all equally terrible, but this is what I have to consider the worst.

Just after the turn of the century, a few months before I went to Hazelden and began the greatest years of my life, I was essentially homeless for a couple months. I say essentially because for a while I was the useless lump on the couch of a very good friend that for some reason put up with me, even while battling his own demons with the crack pipe. It was February in St. Paul and it was as cold as ever. I had slept a few restless nights on a train bridge over Snelling Avenue before going to his house on a whim for some heat and a possible buzz. I had $20 to my name and was hell-bent on spending it on crack, one of my biggest vices in my earlier years of drug abuse.

That's not what this post is about. The $20 lasted me a good 10 minutes and we joked about me being pretty much a loser and then he told me he had a keg of beer on his back porch that had been there since the fall. It had surely frozen over but it might still be good. It turns out that it was nearly full, completely flat, and rancid as hell. That did not stop me. Off and on for the next two weeks or so, that keg was my life. 16 gallons of pain. He would go to work and that's when I would get up and start drinking. I had no food, but he had some dry goods like canned gravy and jellied cranberries that I would eat from time to time. It is true that a human can survive off of beer alone, I would know.

I would drink until I was unable to function, take a nap, and do it all over. On occasion, I would go out into the neighborhood to steal various things from garages in hopes of selling it, or trading it for crack. It worked once in a while, but more often I would just end up going back to my keg. Sometimes I would be so sick and tired I would go back to the train bridge to sleep it off. After a while I had to pretend I had a job so I could still stay at my friend's place, but once payday had arrived, I left for good. Not before draining that keg completely and giving myself an ulcer.

For days after I left, I roamed around the streets. I had nothing. No food, shelter, or clean clothing. No dignity, pride, or self-respect. And I didn't care. It was the lowest point in my life and I've been to prison. None of my friends wanted me around because I just brought chaos to every situation. I hated myself so much. I had some terrible emptiness inside me that I just couldn't figure out. I walked, and I walked, and  I walked.  My only goal while wandering was to find the next free buzz, which always meant stealing from people or businesses. Every time I was able to pawn something for a few dollars I would go to the liquor store and spend it all. I would sit by myself on the bridge where it all began and cry myself into blackout, then sleep.

Finally, half way through April of 2001, I made the best decision I have ever made. I walked to my mom's house and left her a letter. It was quite desperate sounding, I'm sure. And it paid off. I don't remember the details, everything was blurry back then, but I believe it was the next day that I was admitted into Hazelden Center for Youths and Families. It was Easter Sunday, and it was the beginning of nearly five years of sobriety for me.