I awakened curled in a ball on the floor at the foot of the bed in my kids’ playroom, shivering under an open window, blanketless. I felt around blindly for my eyeglasses, and found them relatively quickly on the rug, propped against the closet door. I put them on and surveyed the room. I hadn’t bothered to turn off the overhead lights, so although my memories of the evening had been completely blacked out, I was quickly able to piece together clues which revealed how badly I had fucked up.
I had piled all the kids’ toys on the mattress to make room for my sleeping spot on the floor. It’s something I have done in the past many times. It is a result of drunken shame. It indicates what I feel I am worth at the moment I pass out. In the past, I have collapsed in the walk-in closet, thrown myself into the bathtub, or sprawled out on the living room floor. No pillows, no blankets. No comfort. I just put myself down like an animal; an animal who knows it has done wrong.
Beside the bed were a half-full plastic $7 fifth of Burnett’s vodka and the ice-cold remains of a $2 can of Spaghetti-Os, still in the pot I had warmed them in hours earlier; both further indications of what I felt I was worth that evening, as well as most of the months of September and October. What time was it? The view out the open window betrayed nothing. I would have to find my phone. After much flailing around and snapping of blankets, I found it wedged between the mattress and wall, headphones mercifully still attached. 2:37. Christ. I would have to somehow get back to sleep. But not here. I took a deep slug off the vodka bottle to settle the tremors, choked down two spoonfuls of cold pasta, and headed into the boys’ bedroom.
My 10 year-old son was not there. He had apparently decided to bed down with his Mom; a protective measure on his part, and further evidence I had behaved monstrously earlier that night. My 3 year-old was sound asleep in his playpen/bed. His nightlight was glowing and his sound machine was producing the calming sounds of rainfall that help him to fall asleep each night. I curled up on the floor beside him and just looked at his peaceful, sleeping body until I managed to drift off as well. I awakened soon after as he came scrambling over the side of the playpen. He had woken up, noticed me lying on the floor beside him, and wanted to snuggle. We climbed into the bottom rack of their bunk beds and pulled the blankets over us.
Having a 3 year-old is a hell of a thing. They are adorable and infuriating. Fabulously intelligent and hopelessly dopey. They look like you, and their teeth aren’t falling out yet. They’re little but they want to be big, but you think they’re getting big too fast and wish they’d stay small. They are unbelievably funny, but they get mad when you laugh because they think you’re laughing AT them. Their morning bed-head after a nighttime bath will melt your heart, you still smell their laundry while you’re folding it, and they have puppy-breath. They can spend all day driving you CRAZY, but the minute someone takes them to the store “to give you a break”, you’ll wander around the house forlornly, missing them and wishing they were back home. But one thing they are that can be devastating is unfiltered. So that night, in the middle of our fun, snuggle-time nonsense talk, when he told me, “Daddy, I get really sad when you yell at Mommy all the time”, it blasted me right between the fucking eyes, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had done too much damage this time. So much so, that there might not be any coming back from what I had done.
So, what had I done? In a word; projection. I had internalized every single fault in my life and personality, poured cheap booze all the fuck over it, projected those shortcomings and failures onto my wife, and proceeded to unleash a torrent of daily verbal abuse on her until the situation became unlivable for her. And I did this in front of the boys in a state of blackout intoxication. Real fucking class. So what were these failures?
- Money – The loss of my Driver’s License kept me from earning the money the family relied on for three times longer than I had anticipated. I had to produce an extremely thorough medical report in order to get the license back, and the two agencies I was dealing with in order to get this done were the Virginia DMV and the Veteran’s Administration. Predictably, this led to the process taking a full year rather than the four months I had originally anticipated. The financial dire straits this left us in forced me to go to my parents, hat in hand, for a loan. They agreed to lend us the money, but not before they blew my fucking doors off, leaving me awash in guilt and shame like only parents can do. Jennie, whose relationship with her parents is healthy and normal, was aghast.
- More Money – After the loan went through and put out the immediate fires, and I had returned to work, I expected a return to semi-normalcy. That didn’t happen. Regardless of how late I drove or how much money I made, we were still not making ends meet. This INFURIATED me. Was this her fault? Of course not. Inflation is kicking the crap out of everyone right now. But after the shit my parents had put me through, I no longer wanted to hear about money issues. I (stupidly and selfishly) felt I had “done my part”.
- Erectile Dysfunction – I have been diagnosed with Bipolar 2/ Depressive Disorder. I take two medications to stay out of clock-towers. Unfortunately, one of them is Paroxetine, better known as Paxil. Paxil is best known for making erections, and especially ejaculation, virtually impossible. My psychiatrist was good enough to prescribe Viagra to help out, but it has proven to be a 50/50 proposition at best, and when drinking, the odds go down to about 25/75. NOTHING will send a man’s level of self-hatred and self-loathing through the fucking roof more than failure to achieve and maintain an erection. I don’t want to say anymore about this.
- Marriage – I decided that all of this wrapped up together (and compared with my relatively peaceful, destitute-but-debt-free single lifestyle) indicated that the marriage was simply a failure, and should come to a merciful end. The only reason for keeping the whole shambolic farce together was “for the kids”. Yes, I am this stupid.
Now, ALL of the things listed above are 100% my fault, and made me a complete failure as a man, a husband, and a family provider. But when I got myself good and shitfaced, I was able to malevolently turn it all around and project these failures onto Jennie. Which, to my shame, I did. And she had finally had enough of her self-esteem being unfairly shattered by a loudmouth, drunken asshole. And having her children be witnesses to the whole rotten fucking show on a nightly basis.
At around 8:00 A.M., the little guy woke up and went into my room to snuggle Mommy and his big brother. I thought it’d be best to make myself scarce. I went back into the boys’ playroom and closed the door. I moved all the toys I had piled on the mattress, took another large swig out of the bottle, and laid down. I don’t know how much time passed before Jennie came into the room. She said simply that I needed to go to treatment, because she couldn’t live like this anymore. I sheepishly agreed. She said her co-worker, Katie, was coming to pick up the kids. I nodded and broke eye-contact. She left the room. I took another swig and laid back down.
When I heard the screen door open and close, I got up and stumbled out of the room. I looked out the screen door and saw Jennie installing the car seat in the back seat of Katie’s car. I went back into the playroom and waited for Jennie to come back in. She didn’t. I stumbled back out of the playroom and looked out the front window. Jennie had taken the minivan and was gone. I staggered back into the playroom and sat on the edge of the bed. I took a final slug out of the bottle of vodka, laid back down on the bed, and passed out.
“Chris!” Huh?
“Chris!” Who was speaking?
“Are you ok in there?” Angels!
“Uh, yeah!”
“Could you come to the door?”
“Who is that?”
“Woodstock Police” Whoops!
“Be right there!”
I went to the front door and there were three uniformed officers on my stoop.
“How you doing?”
“I’m fine. Come on in.”
“Ok, thanks!”
“No problem, what’s up?” Jesus, what the fuck had I done? I still couldn’t remember ANYTHING from the night before.
“We just wanted to talk to you. There’s a lot of people who care about you who are worried that you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Shit. I HAD been having suicidal ideations, and had even spoken with Jennie about them. But why were these officers aware of this? Who had called them? Why were they here? My phone rang. The screen display read “DAD”. Oh.
The rest of the conversation was a flurry of me agreeing to things, essentially so I could get the conversation to end and to get the police to peacefully leave my home. They did.
Shortly after they left, Jennie came home. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah”
I pulled a hooded sweatshirt on over my t-shirt, slapped my driver’s cap on my head, and staggered out to the minivan. I slumped down in the passenger seat, pulled the hood over my head, the cap over my face, and tried to get some sleep during the hour and a half drive to the Veteran’s Hospital in Martinsburg, West Virginia, where I would soon undergo alcohol detoxification while on suicide watch.
COMING SOON – PART TWO: Detox, Suicide Watch, and Welcome To CAT 5
[…] CLICK HERE IF YOU MISSED PART 1. […]
You are doing the right thing Internet friend. We are all cheering for you. You had your moment of clarity and now focus on YOU.
I can’t thank everyone enough for all your kind words and thoughts. I completed the program today, and will be returning home tomorrow. Having this site to come back to is always such a positive anchor for me, and I can’t begin to express how humble and grateful I am to be able to make my small contributions here. You guys and girls are my “normal”, and while this was a challenging time for me, with DFO as my ace-in-the-hole, there was no way I could lose. Peace and love and keep on having a wonderful holiday season. You all are truly the best.
Mo
Jeez man — SPOILER ALERT
Excellent work, Fronk. Keep fighting the good fight. The Clubhouse always has your back. Be well, amigo.
This is as powerful, raw and real of a story as I’ve ever read anywhere. Much love on your journey my brother and we’re all indeed here for you as needed.
Be well.
Furthermore, you have incredible writing talent. Maybe that can be channeled as an outlet during these times.
Goddamn man.
Good vibes sent your way.
Good on you Fronk for getting help and then being able to talk about it.
Proud of you for getting help, and I really hope for the best for you and the family.
This was a good – if difficult – read.
Such bravery and honesty, good man. Hang in and keep fighting the good fight.
Thank you for your courage in sharing this and much love to your wife for being able to help get you the help you need. May this writing be a productive part of your healing process.
I am not the praying type, but I am beaming every positive thought in the world your way, my darling dear.
As a person who has been in the downward spiral of self-loathing, drug/booze abuse, and projecting my self hatred onto others, I salute and commend you for having the guts to post this.
Thank you, Fronk.
Stay strong friend!
Holy crap, dude! That’s powerful and amazing that you’re sharing. Thank you so much for doing that.
We are behind you all the way. If you need anything, we’re here for you.
Phrasing.
Work the steps friend, Brother. Work the steps. I can promise you that there is a better place in your future. The humbling, incredible courage it takes to write this tells me, a guy who knows, that you are heading in the right direction. Be well Buddy. Find serenity.
This is powerful, Internet Friend. I am pulling for you to come through this better and more comfortable with yourself and life in general.
Damn.