An Unexpected Revisiting

Last night we watched the fourth episode of the series The Haunting of Hill House. It was called “The Twin Thing,” and it made me weep.

Not for the death of certain characters. It was for the portrayal of Luke’s addiction. It showed so very well the stages of addiction, the depths of it, the well of dependency you fall in. Above all it perfectly captured the despair.

In the recesses of addiction, at least for me, every moment is spent in wretchedness. You forgo the trust of loved ones to feed its greedy hunger. Over and over again, until they can no longer trust you in any fashion. Then those folks tell you plainly how angry they are at you, and rightfully so. You KNOW you’ve taken an emotional sledgehammer to that relationship, that you may have pushed it into unrecoverable territory. Yet that insidious need requires you to grab that handle and take another swing. And you do, damage and love be damned. Through disappointed and livid stares, you shatter hope.

You travel in spaces reserved for the despondent. Life’s cast offs, scrabbling for satiation in places where none can be found. This is your tribe; you share in their desolation. Your home is in the fringes, your bed is shame. Yet you push on, scheming for ways to at least take an edge off the craving, knowing it will not be the end. Moments are all you have now, moving from one to the next, praying for the pain to go away, if only for that moment.

There’s a freneticism to addition that is exhausting, but such is the power it has over you that you dare not stop. If you rest for even a second, your mind may replay all of the awfulness you’ve inflicted on others. Rarely does that correlate to the damage you’ve done to yourself; the movies your mind will play on a loop have an exclusive fixation on what your actions heaped upon your loved ones’ lives, strangers’ lives. You have no self-worth. You are worse than trash, for at least some of that can be recycled and reused. You don’t deserve any reclamation.

In the end, all you have is the high to make it go away for however brief a time. Nothing else matters. Sobriety is hell, being high is a temporary reprieve from the flames.

I did not expect a horror show like this to hit me so squarely in my past. All the feelings, all the loathing of self, all the utter despair shown on the screen in front of me wasn’t a show. It was me. No matter the fact that it has been over 25 years, it all rushed back, making me feel small and out of control. I was back in that well, scared that was where I belonged. All the years I’ve worked to restore trust, to build a better life, to be the very best man and father I can be, all of that fell away. The despair was front and center. The ugliness hit me, and I cried. A big heavy cry, the type that comes from the depths of self-imposed exile.

Jill, my anchor and the person who values me more than I do myself, turned as I started sobbing. She didn’t know that would hit me that hard either. But her caring face and thoughtful words lessened the demon’s grip, and her holding me brought me back to the life I’ve made. The life I’ve earned.

There were no trigger warnings. It just came in a rush. But when a story can capture something so dark and real that it pulls you into it, that is the sign of excellent story telling.

I never expected that the part of a horror story that would scare and affect me so profoundly would be an addict’s backstory. But let me assure you, that is the scariest thing of all; knowing that you have the capacity for harming those you love and care for, and questioning whether or not you’d be strong enough this time to battle it off if it came for you again.

Photo credit: lisado

The Shame I Harbor

Deep in the recesses of my past, a bleak darkness hides. Few know of this chapter in the history of me, and that is by design. It is a source of shame, this black hole that devoured me and nearly dragged those I love down with me, whom I’m certain felt the substantial pull of it. They know the depths that it took me, how far into the abyss it dragged me down. They also know the will and fortitude it took to make my way out from under crushing weight of its control.

Nearly everyone I love knows. All except my children. They don’t have the faintest inkling of my degradation. Truth is, I’m terrified to tell them. Terrified that they will think less of me. Terrified that they will step back from me, fear in their eyes. Terrified that I’ll lose their love for me. Terrified that they will no longer see me as their father, but as something less.

I’m terrified to tell them that I’ve been in prison. That I was arrested and spent nearly a year of my life as an inmate.

What is even more worrisome for me is to tell them why I was incarcerated. I was an addict, but not in thrall to drugs or liquor. My demon was gambling. I am scared out of my wits that once they learn the truth of me, the ugly side of me, they will only see me as what I was, and not what I am. I was an addict, a junkie. What I am is a father. A husband. A man who’s worked his way out of a shit heap of my own making, and managed to build a life that is more than I ever thought possible.

Nearly 25 years ago, I was arrested two days before Christmas. I was thrown in a cell in Dauphin County Prison, which happened to be right near a mall. Over the next two days, while the prison classified me to put me in general population, I watched through bars of a murky window the scores of people and cars moving briskly to get gifts for their loved ones. I let each armful of presents that walked by rip a part of my soul out. I was a terrible human being, and this was my atonement.

I knew this was the truth because of everything I’d done to end up in the prison that I was locked in, physically and mentally. I’d stolen money to feed the beast within. I’d lied to friends. I’d taken from my family, uprooting all trust they had in me. In the throes of my addiction, I’d rationalized these actions, falsely telling myself that if I could just hit the big bet, win against the odds stacked against me, just once, that I could pay everything back, and all would be well again. But it never happened. No matter the lies I told others to deceive them, the checks I wrote on bank accounts I had no money in, the way I pretended to be a person who had it all together. I was an addict. I was a deceiver. A liar. A charlatan who preyed on others. I deserved whatever punishment I was given.

The day after Christmas, I made a promise to myself. I was going to get myself well. I believed that if I could do that, then over time and with diligence, then perhaps I could regain the love and trust of my family. I knew this would not be an easy road; it would be one fraught with rightful accusations and angry words. As much of a climb this would be to the mountain top of my redemption, I was going to persevere. My parents were the ones I needed to rebuild with the most. I’d taken money from them, even stole their credit cards. Though they never verbalized it, I knew they were devastated. I was determined to show them, through actions, not words – those I was gifted enough to use as a shield to my egregious behaviors – that I was the man they raised their son to be, not the craven thief I’d become.

I struggled mightily, working two full time jobs for most of the first year of my parole. Most days I was lucky to get 3 hours of sleep. I rented a room in a building in the poorest section of Harrisburg, because that was the most I could afford. I shared a kitchen and a bathroom with the other tenants, one of which threatened me because he suspected I took his ketchup. I walked to work almost daily, not having enough money to take the bus. This was the greatest challenge I’ve faced in my life to that point. I’d created this challenge through my own actions, and I was going to defeat it by my own actions. I worked hard at paying back the significant amount of money I’d stolen. And I worked even harder at proving to my family that I was no longer the pathological liar who had duped them at every turn.

It took years of demonstrating my rehabilitation, but I did exactly that. Years of barely scraping by, surviving on ramen noodles and PB&J sandwiches. Years of rebuilding the foundation of trust I’d so wantonly destroyed because I chased the darkness.

A lot has happened in my life since then. I’ve married, had two marvelous sons, got divorced, bought a house, sold a house, bought another house, remarried, added two fabulous daughters to my family. I’ve worked in corporate IT for close to twenty years. I’ve lived a life that I’m grateful for. I shouldn’t feel so overwhelmed to tell my children about the grand mistake I made years before any of them were even alive.

Yet… I do.

Logically, I know that my kids will love me regardless of my past. They’ll see how I am now, as a man and a father. They’ll know I love them and care for them beyond any measurement that exists. Emotionally, I’m petrified. Doubt sits in the background, casually inserting itself just enough into my thoughts to cause chaos. That’s its purpose, after all, and its skill is undeniable. The power is exerts is subtle and devastating.

My wife, my champion, stands resolute by my side. She understands my hesitation, yet steadfastly reminds me of the unlikelihood that my fears will come to fruition. She empathizes with the side of me that believes I’m unworthy of the love I crave from my family. She also shoots straight with me. She fights the leviathan that is my doubt with truth and unequivocal love. Doubt doesn’t stand a chance to against the brilliance that is her light.

So this weekend, I will sit with my children, the ones who I love and adore most, and explain to them the most unflattering season of my life. I will tell them about my past addiction and all the ugly ways it infested my life. And then I will await their questions (for there WILL be questions) and answer them as honestly and earnestly as I can.

I hope they’ll take my tale of struggle and apply the hard lessons I had to learn and endure and use them in their own lives. I hope the message of work ethic and perseverance wins out in their young impressionable minds.

I hope they won’t think less of me. I hope they’ll still see me as their father, less than perfect, but ever on their side.

I hope it will be easier for them than it has been for me.

Image credit:  Uno Mas En La Familia