Alcoholism: My Path to Freedom

NOTE: This is a journal chronicling my journey from the best times of my to life to the worst, and the struggle to regain control. It details cause and effect issues and the levels of support I, personnaly, had available to me and that I utilized in my climb back from the bottom. It is not a lesson. It is a story. And it is my inspiration.

Three-three years. Three decades. How does one become an alcoholic? If that was an easy answer, then we would, as a society, have far fewer. I can blame it on anything; previous family history, the traumatic death of a family member or close friends, sudden loss of riches. You name it, it can be used as an excuse. I became an alcoholic for a simple reason: I didn't have one.

I had my first drink at age 15. Sounds normal. Doesn't everybody? At 15, I was indestructible, as were my friends. High school, then enlistment in the United States Air Force and a trip to Germany for 2 years. I was without family for the first time, so Daddy's not checking on me. But I had yet to learn responsibility. Eventually, the military let me know, in their soothing, comforting terms, that I now had responsibility. That would be right after my first alcohol-related incident. A fellow troop insulted my German girlfriend, so I broke his arm. Pops would be proud.

Over the next few years, there were several near-misses, but thankfully, I did not hurt anyone else, only some property damage issues. Those close calls only delayed the inevitable. At 23, I got married. Now, everything was perfect. Three boys, a beautiful and loving wife. Hell, I could have written a Country and Western song about life (couldn't sing it, of course). I did some great work for the military in Southern California and Texas, then continued my career in Panama. Uh-oh. Unseen problems coming.

Looking back, Panama provided the first warning signs,and one of the most dangerous: Denial. Hiding booze. Thinking my wife didn't know. I was smarter than anybody else, wasn't I? But I still played it off as if nothing was wrong. Hell, I wouldn't know anything was wrong until years later. Coached my sons in Little League. Performed my military responsibilities flawlessly. Awards, citations, pats-on-the-back. Living the good life, completely ignorant of the future. Then, selection to the Non-Commissioned Officers Academy in Austin. First time I had ever been away from my wife and sons, for any extended length of time, ever.

Can't put my finger on it, but it just maifested itself. As soon as I settled in at Austin, my thoughts turned to my wife, and they were not pretty thoughts. She was cheating. She did not love me anynmore. She could do better, so why did she settle for me? As I reminiscence about those dark early days, I try to pinpoint those times and what prompted those thoughts. Know what I found? Nothing. Zero. No reason whatsoever, but there they were, causing panic, paranoia and total loss of self-esteem. There was ABSOLUTELY no reason for me to have any suspicions at all. I just did.

So, to drown those thoughts, I turned to drink. Not a shot, not just one, but as much as I needed, whenever I needed it, to dull the self-caused pain. Once I returned back home to Panama, everything kind of eased back to normal. Months later, my wife had the opportunity to attend a military financial class, I believe , in Austin, also. Well, guess what? Yep, the demons came back, with an attitude. The only saving grace, this time, was the fact that I had sole responsibility of the boys, so I really couldn't stay wasted, could I? That showed me I had some sort of self-control (that is what I later told myself). But I couldn't shake the absolute fear and paranoia in my mind that I felt when I went to Austin and again when my wife made her visit. In fact, that fear and paranoia seemed to be making up for lost time. Thank God for my boys, and my duties there.

Now comes the big equalizer: retirement, with a lot of empty time while I went to college and my wife worked, in a management capacity of sorts that put her in contact with men on a daily basis, some of whom were my friends, also. Hell, we played softball together. But the fields those first little seeds of  fear and paranoia had sown quickly became a full, ready-to-harvest crop. Slowly but surely, they captured me. I would drink like never  before. The sun came up. Drink! The sun went down. Drink! The imagination can go wild when you are living in a 0.24 BAC world, 24/7.  Somehow, I managed to function, going to class, taking the boys to practices and games, coaching them, and my wife and I, in baseball and softball. To this day, I do not know how I managed. I thought I was fooling everybody, but I was only fooling myself. The hammer dropped when I was asked to move out. I did, and I blamed everybody. Instead of realizing the problem, I denied it. The big, nasty "D" word. Instead of fighting for my marriage and my boys, I left them, right there on the stoop of our house in Abilene, Texas. Gave up on my studies, gave up on my boys and gave up on  myself. All in 3 short years. Didn't even put up a fight and moved to California. I quit. The bottle won.

In California, things only got worse. My Mom, as mothers are wont to do, enabled me and my Dad ignored it. My brother and sister just dealt with it in their own way. I, on the other hand, blissfully carried on, knowing but ignoring or not caring. I'm not sure which. I'm not sure it mattered. Again, any excuse to hoist one. Close calls followed, time and again. But no trouble.The divorce became final, and my boys would visit every summer for 2 months, and we would have a grand time. They would watch TV, go see grandma and grandpa, go downstairs to visit my future wife, Nickie. And I would.........drink. Yep, only saw my boys 10% of the year, and I drank. Hell, I would take them to the movies at the Century 5 because the Sail Inn bar was next door, and when the movie was over they would come and get me. Again, I  was fooling only myself when I thought they didn't know. My boys aren't stupid, but their old man was.

During this time, I somehow managed to squeeze 3 major back surgeries into my life. How I managed to rehabilitate from surgeries in a drunken stupor, I have no clue. But I did. I know I was crying out for help, but it was a silent plea. I would get so defensive and angry no one wanted to speak out. I don't blame them. I would not want to risk that kind of wrath, either. I wasn't violent, but my words could slice nasty gashes. I was a pro.

I don't know why it happened. Maybe it was the 2 visits to the ER in a 2 week period that woke me up. But one day I decided I wanted to stop drinking, with wanted being the key word here. April 15th, 2009. What followed was just a complete wave of support from every single person I knew. My wife, Nickie. My Mom and Dad, who never gave up. My brother and sister, nieces and nephews, who finally saw the real Norman, and actually have a conversation with him. You may find this ironic, but among my biggest supporters were my firends at the bar. Seriously. They knew what I was attempting, and they helped. No pressure to drink, no pressure not to drink.

I have had plenty of excuses to pile on a huge hammertime. The suicide of a close friend. My son's first and second deployments to Iraq. His close call with a roadside bomb. My birthday. My wife's burthday. Anniversary. Holidays. The sun came up. The sun went down. I have, to this point, resisted those excuses. I have the utmost confidence in my ability to continue on the path I have chosen, and I feel I have regained control of my life. I can do something as simple as a crossword puzzle. I can remember things easily, most times. I can have a conversation.

Don't let me get you into thinking I'm grown up and healed now. Far from it. Each and every day is a fight, and I face it head on. I'm winning, but I cannot afford to let my guard down, for even a minute. I know, from my nightmares, that those demons are just waiting for an opening, any opening, to pounce, and they are pissed. I draw strength from my wife, my family and my friends. I am proud of what I have done so far, and they are proud of me. That, my friend, is real motivation. I can't heal the things I have hurt in the past, but I can move forward with the self-confidence and knowledge that I won't cause that pain again. To all those who have been part of my recovery, thank you so much. For all of you that have been hurt by my actions in any way, I am profoundly sorry. And for all of you who took the time to read through this, thank you for your patience. I have acknowledged the enemy, but the battle remains, as it will forever.