Whatever It Takes To Save My Daughter: Alissa’s Story

Alissa is a mother, a professional, a practicing attorney, and a wife. Alissa is also a recovering alcoholic who was in and out of facilities throughout New Jersey. Alissa could tell you anything about any facility in Jersey, “I could’ve written a ton of Yelp reviews,” she laughed. 

Alissa, the oldest of four children, moved to New Jersey when she was six. She was raised in a middle-income home by parents who made sure to keep up appearances. Alissa attended a Catholic grade school, a Catholic High School, had good grades, volunteered, church, sports, and even got a college scholarship. Law school. Like many, Alissa’s successful outward appearance did not reflect how Alissa spent her life feeling unaccepted, stifled, and controlled by her parents. 

“My parents had an innate need to control me and everything that was going on. Especially through money. In college, I saw that the less they provided for me financially, the more control I had over my life.” For Alissa, attending school was a typical experience. Parties from Thursday through Sunday, then recovering during the week to get work done. Then, come Thursday, it was time to fade to black again. After graduating, Alissa’s peers were able to stop, and that’s where Alissa’s relationship with drinking began to spiral.

Rather than moving back in with her parents, she got an apartment. Although it wasn’t easy, she worked three jobs to make ends meet. “I knew that if I could be financially independent, I wouldn’t have to listen to what they say. So even to attend  law school, I took out loans, and I didn’t accept their help.” 

I’ve come to learn that the more I speak with women with addictions, no matter how different our lives can be, the more our stories remain the same. I had to stop and ask, “Did you ever have anything traumatic happen while in school?” Unfortunately, the answer was yes.

Alissa went on to describe a common nightmare that sadly comes true for many women. “Yea, so I once went out with my professor and some classmates to see a show. Afterward, I went back with one of the guys in my class to have a drink and decide what we would do for the rest of the night. We were having drinks…and he put something in mine. He sexually assaulted me…I woke up at his house the next morning. Rule follower that I am, I reported the incident. I thought that I would get justice and went through this entire legal process, even had a jury trial over it. And he was found not guilty. I had to wait three years for the jury trial to happen just for him to walk free.” The lack of justice, the isolation, and the lack of support all left Alissa diving, turning more to alcohol to provide comfort. 

“So, how did your drinking change once you were practicing law full time?” I asked.  “Oh, that was an every night situation, but EVERYBODY did it. Everybody drank, and that’s just how it was. If I had a jury trial, that was the only time I tried to take a break. But we all showed up to district court hungover. If you saw a lawyer with a blue Gatorade, you knew someone was having a rough morning.” “So, did you know you had a problem yet?” I asked her. “I mean, sure, there were consequences I was experiencing with my friends. But if something embarrassing happened one weekend, by the next one, someone else had already done something worse that took the attention away from me,” she responded. 

What about getting married? Alissa vaguely remembered her boyfriend proposing to her. In describing her wedding, Alissa smirked as she shared, “Oh, I barely remember my wedding; it was nice, it was pretty, but I was so wasted,” she retorted. “I mean, in hindsight, we got married, but we had nothing in common.” Completely relatable. When I married my ex, I tried hard to drink just enough to get drunk but not blackout. I really wanted to remember my wedding. I remember some of it. 

It didn’t take long for Alissa to find what she didn’t see in her husband with someone else. The summer following her wedding, Alissa’s boss sent her along with her colleagues to a week-long conference for attorneys. She recalled the team working diligently throughout the days and drinking copious amounts of liquor every night, the daily venture to the store. The sharpest memory in her mind from that week, however, was Peter. 

Peter was another lawyer on staff, and though she never thought twice about him at work, they connected romantically on this trip. Their affair was quiet, exciting, and a secret to start, but it grew into more than just an affair; they fell in love. Yes, she was married, and yes, he was engaged. Eventually, time and emotions forced them out of the dark, and they decided to each leave their respective partners in pursuit of a life together.

At this point, I was predicting this as the classic affair gone wrong—the type where the woman leaves her husband for another, only to be abandoned by both. Nevertheless, Alissa interrupted my wandering thoughts and exclaimed, “I mean, I never would have done this crazy shit had I been sober! And guess what, Peter is my actual husband now, and we had a child.” She continued, “What is difficult for me is the fact that I do love Peter very much, and I am so happy for my daughter. So when I romanticize alcohol, it’s easy for me to want to credit my relationship with it for giving me the love of my life and my family,” Alissa continued. 

Alissa’s train of thought reminded me of someone who recently emphasized that it is okay to have conflicting emotions. Both can exist simultaneously. In Alissa’s case, yes, alcohol did nearly ruin her life, AND alcohol also gave her the things in her life that she loves. Both are her realities.

“And don’t get me wrong, getting with Peter was so hard, especially on my career. We worked together, and though he never experienced consequences, the other women at work hated me. I mean, I represented a woman’s worst nightmare…Imagine being engaged. Your fiance comes home and is like, ‘I’m leaving you. There is someone else, so we’re not getting married.’ That’s devastating, and not to mention women are already terrible to each other. I had to find somewhere else to work. My job was becoming a dead end. And by then, I was drinking so much on the weekends that my body wasn’t back to normal til mid-week. I needed a change. I was pacing, shaking, anxious. I was telling people that I was ‘just’ suffering from ‘anxiety.’ Peter drank a lot, too.” 

“So Alissa, being an attorney, how were you able to balance your drinking with all your responsibilities, like your paperwork?” Her answer was simple and a common one for many women. Alissa was a performer. She was incredibly talented at getting people out of jail. She had strong relationships with prosecutors, was highly respected, and had what she called “jail cred.” If someone was in police custody, Alissa was THE lawyer to represent them. While everything inside was disintegrating, and Alissa often slapped her paperwork together, she always hit the mark in court. 

“I would get my hand slapped about not having someone’s documents done completely, and I’d respond, ‘Well, tell that to Joe, who I just got off of a 35-year sentence, and you let me know if he gives two shits about his paperwork being right.’ That was enough to keep everyone’s mouth shut.” And so she carried on, arranging her drinking around her work.

Eventually, Alissa’s body started to show signs of alcohol abuse. An emergency room doctor noticed during an urgent visit visible damage to her esophagus. In her mind, Alissa knew that it was due to her drinking and was expecting to be chastised by the doctor only to hear, “well, you have a stressful job. Make sure to take care of yourself.” How many doctors notice a patient is drinking too much and avoid confronting them? I wondered. 

Though the ER doctor didn’t mention Alissa’s drinking, as soon as she described her visit to the hospital to her parents, her mother cautioned her of her grandfather’s drinking and how it led to esophageal problems. “I felt caught! But still, I told her she was out of line,” Alissa laughed. But, all jokes aside, the emergency room visit was enough to get her to stop drinking, for two months. 

Alissa picked up a drink once again, and things quickly spiraled. She hit a low she thought she couldn’t escape from and tried to find a solution in a bottle of Klonopin. Hoping to not wake up, she found herself in a haze in a psychiatric ward to discover she was on a 72-hour hold for her suicide attempt. Alissa smirked as she looked back on that incident, describing how she thought she could “lawyer” her way out of it. She felt confident she would leave until the physician on call informed her that the courts would be involved if she tried to go home. Immediately Alissa knew that meant one of her judge friends would see the case. She paused,  “Nevermind, I’m good!” She sulked back to her room and stayed quiet for the remainder of the psychiatric hold. At this time, though her parents pretended to ignore the fact that she had a failed suicide attempt,they insisted that she needed to stop drinking. Peter was also concerned, so Alissa joined Alcoholics Anonymous. 

“I was working the steps, and things were going well, getting sober was great. Peter proposed. But then, I started doing Step 9. I went to make amends to my mom, and when I asked her what I could do to make things right, she said to me, ‘Now that you’re sober, what you can do for me is promise me that you won’t have kids.’” 

My mouth dropped open, and I muttered, “wait, what?” Alissa responded, “Right, so as I’m sitting there devastated looking at my mother wide-eyed, I’m doing what my sponsor said to do and take notes of all the shit she said. So when I left her house, crushed, I called my sponsor. Her response was, ‘pray about it.’ 

“What the fuck was I supposed to pray about? ‘This is bullshit,’ I said, ‘this program sucks.’ So I quit AA. I used it as an excuse and went back and forth drinking. Then I got pregnant so I stopped for my pregnancy.” The birth of her daughter brought the family together for a brief time to celebrate this new life. 

But by her first Mother’s Day, Alissa relapsed.

Her relationship with AA was on and off for a while. She would go back and attend meetings regularly for a time, baby in tow. Still, having a child and drinking that was not yet under control also gave Alissa’s parents the ammo to exert the power they lost when Alissa gained financial independence. Her fight against her parents’ control and the program’s suggestions for managing that conflict both motivated Alissa to drink and to stop drinking. She drank to escape and didn’t drink to outwardly prove she was acceptable in her parents’ eyes. Alissa did have a short span of sobriety, and as things started to calm down, she was up for a significant promotion at work. But then she drank, along with Peter, complicating her life once again. 

During this binge, they drank for about four days. Alissa threatened to leave during a drunken argument, and when Peter took her phone to prevent her from going out, she, in her words, “hurt him badly.” I didn’t ask what that meant. Nonetheless, it was enough for her parents to come and take their daughter away. Alissa was immediately hospitalized for 28 days. 

Alissa’s parents’ involvement became overwhelming, and this time because of her daughter, she felt pressured to yield to every request. Everything they asked for, she did in fear of them calling child protective services. She tried everything, but she still couldn’t stay consistently sober. When her parents caught Alissa drinking, they would take her daughter for a few days until she appeared steady. “I mean, I wasn’t really sober, but I didn’t want to lose my daughter. At this time, she was showing some delays with speaking and walking, and my parents proceeded to blame me for her developmental concerns,” Alissa said. “How is she now?” I asked. She responded, “Oh, she runs around and talks a ton now.” So glad to hear that. 

Subsequently, Alissa relapsed for the last time. Her and her husband’s arguing escalated to the point that she ran to the neighbors’ house. Alissa claimed that Peter was abusing her, so the police came and arrested Peter. They sent Alissa to a nearby hospital for alcohol intoxication, where she blew almost a .4. After which, the hospital transferred her to a residential facility for 35 days. She barely spoke to her husband then. From jail, Peter also went to a different treatment center. The little communication time she had was for FaceTime with her daughter. 

“I mean, I didn’t love rehab, but I was starting to feel better and looked forward to getting out. Then one day, one of the therapists took me to her office. She opens the door, and there is a representative from child protection services there. I couldn’t’ believe it! My parents actually decided to try to take my daughter from me, and on top of that, my court date was the day I left treatment.” At the hearing, Alissa did agree to give her parents temporary custody. However, since then, her parents have fought with her regarding visitations and intentionally planning events to create scheduling conflicts. They purposely organized social activities with her siblings and daughter when Alissa couldn’t attend. As a result, Alissa’s parents alienated her from the family.

Despite this ongoing battle for her daughter and freedom from her parents that Alissa is in, she has stayed sober. She’s back in AA, and she’s accepted working with a sponsor. She doesn’t love the program, but it’s helping to keep her sober.

Alissa’s been sober since November of 2020, and her sobriety since has been anything but easy. “A lot is riding on me staying sober,” Alissa reflected. Peter got sober, too. Today, Alissa works her recovery program and works with a therapist. She exercises and stays busy. 

Alissa remarked as we wrapped up, “I feel like I was always trying so hard to get the approval and praise of my family. I got it from everywhere else but them. Now, look where we’re at. Now I realize and understand where my parents’ behaviors came from. It doesn’t make it easy, but it helps to understand.” It’s an uncomfortable truth to accept, but Alissa knows that moving forward, it’s going to take a lot of work, including staying sober. 

“I’m doing whatever it takes. I can’t lose my daughter.” 

Where I Was

Audio

“I can’t post about my dating life! My dating life has nothing to do with my recovery,” I said. 

My friend Chris very quickly responded, “But your recovery is more than just you recovering from being an alcoholic. Your message of recovery is the life that you live now, so even if that includes a boyfriend, or whatever that is, that is your message of recovery. You’ve recovered from where you were. From the heartache, from the death of Ian…and you’re moving on with your life. That’s the testimony and that’s the recovery that you’re in. So you’re still portraying the same message. The message of wholeness, the message of happiness, the message of joy, the message of love, like all that’s prevalent. Everything that you post as far as your recovery does not have to be directly about alcohol or the stuff that you’ve dealt with. Having a new relationship is just as much recovery as well.” 

I never thought about it that way. 

I got anxious thinking about my fear of judgment because I’m “breaking” yet another one of the invisible “rules” of early sobriety. You know, “don’t do this…,” and, “don’t do that…,” and everything in between. esp

Suddenly it dawned on me that when I tried to follow invisible rules, attempting to didn’t get me sober. Accepting help from above and those around me, cutting myself loose from my secret, THAT is what helped me get and stay sober a day at a time to this point. 

My mentor often says, “you can do ANYTHING you want, as long as you’re sober. ANYTHING.” She’s definitely an admirable “rule-breaker” who has been sober for many years, so what she says is always something to really process. 

Anything, right? 

Well to that list of doing “anything” I want, I’ve added allowing my heart to mend. 

My heart has been touched by someone, actually. My hope is restored and crazy enough, I’m feeling again. I don’t know where this journey will take me, or what it may mean for my future, but what it does mean is that today I’m healing. 

We do recover from alcohol. We do recover from drugs.

And…we do recover from broken hearts. 

Better Than Using

A Submission by Cosette DeCesare

Please note that Bottomless to Sober does not endorse any specific recovery program or path to recovery. Neither does it endorse meeting or not meeting in person during the pandemic.

My story is your story, and your story is mine. I see the value in sharing them. Actually, that’s an understatement; telling our stories, that’s the lifeblood of the recovery community. When we share our stories, we are participating in mutuality. Kertz Ketcham once discussed how we give by getting and we get by giving. Not a single part of my story has NOT already been told by the women who have gone before me. Like them, I too felt insecure and uncomfortable in my skin and used my drinking and drug use to cope. Like them, I, too, have trauma and relied on perfectionism to feel some semblance of control and appear put together. Like them, I, too, ultimately engaged in behavior that is morally reprehensible. 

On and on.

I regularly engaged in swaps, giving a piece of myself, of dignity, trust, or consent away to others when I was in no position to give these things away. I would give anything in exchange for whatever was going to give me that sweet, sweet buzz. People who don’t feel whole ought not to go about giving bits of themselves away. Alas, that is what we all do. What alcoholic/addict would know NOT to do this? We do not know what we do not know.

We can describe the myriad of chaos and endless examples of the insanity of the disease through our stories. Of all that we did to get that freeing feeling. Frankly, thank God for that relief. That reprieve is how I got to feel better, sometimes, back then. How could I progressively move through MY life feeling the way I did without the respite from the chaos and the insanity that being glazed provided?! Using became the only thing that provided me relief. And it did…until it didn’t.  

That anyone gets and stays sober is an absolute miracle. People do it. I did it. I’ve been clean and sober as of writing this for twelve years. That is a miracle.  

I needed drugs and alcohol to live. So when I stopped using them, I thought to myself, “I had better replace them with something that works, and it better feel good!” To both of these proposals, I say they do!

If sharing our stories is the lifeblood of recovery, then living recovery is spiritual oxygen. This oxygen can only be inhaled by the community. 

Saint Francis, the 12th-century mystic, taught that the antidote to confusion and paralysis is always a return to simplicity, to what is right in front of us, to the nakedly obvious (Rohr, 2020).

It’s simple. We need to stop using, but we need others to help us. In turn, we need to help others so that we stay “stopped.” As trite as this sounds, we must go to meetings, get into the literature of recovery, and not drink or use in between meetings. Only then can we hear what we need to learn. We will hear what we need to do when we are ready for it. But we won’t if we are not at meetings or in recovery literature.  

We live in an extraordinarily technologically advanced times. Options are infinite in terms of the recovery spaces and resources that exist today. I am not suggesting that the sheer magnitude of the amount of these offerings is a bad thing, hardly at all. Someone could get overwhelmed though looking for help. 

Photo by Misha Vrana on Unsplash

Psychological theories and self-Help books abound. Have you noticed how large that section of the book store is? It’s huge. There are many talking heads and experts. Treatment centers are everywhere. Podcasts and Youtube channels. However, these offerings would not exist without what has been called “the most significant phenomenon in the history of ideas in the 20th century” (Kurtz & Ketcham, 1992). This, of course, is the Twelve Step recovery program outlined in The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. Therefore, as St Francis encouraged, let us get back to simplicity and back to basics. Let’s get back to The Big Book.  

While returning to simplicity sounds just as it is, simple, it is in no way easy. What The Big Book offers takes time and work. This is difficult to accept in this instant gratification world we inhabit. The Big Book unequivocally emphasizes the absolute importance of community. Within the community of recovery, we become acquainted with ourselves by getting acquainted with others.

Cosette, provided by author

Thank God we live in this technologically advanced age where we can connect with others online. That said, I would be remiss if I did not pointedly suggest that our online community must be supplemented with actual in-person connection and regular study of the literature. It is in this space where that spiritual oxygen can be exchanged. If the space is not physically shared by individuals, how then can this essence be transmitted? It can’t. It is not lost on me that as I write this, the global community has been rocked by an airborne pandemic. We have been prohibited, by law in some cases, to come together in our fellowship. All the more important that we come together again when we can as soon as we can.

One may very successfully stay dry or clean solely utilizing what is available at their fingertips and without crossing the threshold of their home. However, one might be denying themselves the opportunity of a type of quality of sobriety which creates the ultimate motivation to no longer use drugs and alcohol. That is the development of emotional sobriety. And it is this emotional sobriety that feels good. It takes time to obtain, but it is possible, and it is there for the taking for anyone who has the capacity to be honest, and works for it.

You may contact Cosette directly at cosettedecesare@gmail.com.

My Last Dance

Audio

Anonymous Submission

**If you are addicted to alcohol, please seek medical advice when considering your options to quit.**

Or Should I Say, My Latest Dance?

I’m now two months sober. But I’ve been through this too many times to say with even a shred of believable confidence that I won’t slip up again. Don’t get me wrong. I want this sobriety. I wanted it with equal sincerity every time in the past, too. 

What did my last day of drinking look like? It was January 6, the day of the insurrection in the US. My quitting on that date was merely a coincidence. Rather handy, though, as I’ve never previously taken note of my last day.

My quitting didn’t come on the heels of a big epiphany. You see, I couldn’t go cold turkey. I was so interminably dependent upon alcohol that even after I knew to my bones that I could no longer drink, I had to continue to do so to prevent myself from dying from the withdrawal. I had to agonizingly cut back for weeks before I could cease entirely, which felt like sharing a bed with someone I knew wanted to kill me.

What My Alcoholism Looked Like Before I Quit

In a nutshell, I drank around the clock. I no longer drank for pleasure. I drank for relief from the agony of withdrawal, which would rear its head after barely more than an hour or two without alcohol.

I’d wake up in the middle of the night with what felt every bit like a panic attack – heart racing, an inability to catch my breath, sweating so much that my sheets adhered to my skin. I’d reach for the bottle I kept next to my bed and swallow and swallow until I’d get pulled under.

Middle of the night drinking would only last until 6am at best, when it was time to take another drag. If I didn’t drink in the wee hours, by the time the morning was to start, I’d be shaking so hard that I could no longer hold a glass at all, not even be able to use a straw, could barely walk for the shaking. Even after a drink, when the liquid heat would steady my tremor, I still needed two hands to hold a drink to my mouth. And so, when most people are listening for the first birds of the day, I was filling up on liquor.

Repeat at around 9am, before noon, middle of the afternoon, before dinnertime, after dinnertime, around 11pm, again closer to 1am until one day bleeds into the next.

I could maintain short bouts of consciousness when work needed my attention, cooking for my family, most of all for my trips to resupply. Other than that, my eyes would slide shut with the force of iron doors. I was horizontal for most hours of most days.

Photo by Anshu A on Unsplash

I was going through 3 handles of hard alcohol about every 4-4.5 days, no fewer than 24 units of alcohol per day, sometimes as much as 30.

Physical Symptoms that Were New During This Period of Extreme Dependence

Not only did I no longer have any quality of life, I could absolutely feel my body shutting down. Even when fully dosed, I still shook enough that it was hard to conceal. If I started to withdraw, the shaking was so out of control that you couldn’t put a drink in my hands without the entirety of its contents flying out of the glass like a volcano erupting. My hands weren’t the only thing shaking. I shook from my core, my whole body, out of control. The feeling was miserable and felt like it arose from a place of anxious compulsion, not like the neutral shivers of being too cold. My tremors were tinged with a metallic unease.

Both malnutrition and problems within my brain led to terrible problems with balance and walking, a problem much deeper and more complex than the drunken stumbling depicted in movies. The shaking met with muscle weakness and brain distortions to make me completely unsure on my own legs. I could no longer safely manage stairs. I couldn’t walk for any distance without support. Additionally, my depth perception was impaired, and my eyesight was blurred.

Standing for more than a few minutes at a time was impossible. Before long, I’d grow so tired that I’d have to lean over for support, gasping for breath. More times than I could count, I ended up sinking to the floor in a puddle of tears, unable to stand. Even sitting was out of the question, for the most part.

I’d started having tingling in my hands leading partway up to my elbows. My lips were also fuzzy with the prickles of tingling. My tongue was so raw from the alcohol that it burned 24 hours every day.

The drinking stole away my eyesight quickly. I could no longer see or read at all without my glasses, and words were often out of reach even with them. Between my eyes and my shaking, it was hard to communicate with anyone via messages. Even the simplest sentence would take a ridiculous effort to type.

The alcohol had left my nervous system too tightly wound. Even the smallest movement or sound, from the ding of a new message to a reflection in my glasses, would make me jump.

The swelling above my beltline had become painfully obvious as even my elastic-banded pants became too tight. When standing, I could feel my liver pressing up on my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

My sense of smell became perverted. Most everything smelled horrible. Especially food, but my clothing and bed sheets were not excluded. I also experienced phantom smells. The trouble with my sense of smell combined with a lack of appetite meant that I’d go days at a time without eating. Even when I tried, my throat would reject food. It would also reject water. My desire to drink enough alcohol to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay and my constantly passing out meant that there were some days when I’d not even drink a whole glass of water.

It was entirely and abundantly clear that I’d succeeded in poisoning myself, and my body was disintegrating.

How I Quit On My Own

Both because of my mother’s alcoholism and my own experience, I knew that a person dependent upon alcohol cannot safely go cold turkey (and I know of no professional who would advise doing this without medical supervision). Withdrawing from alcohol is incredibly dangerous, and potentially deadly.

Even though I knew it was explicitly killing me, I was equally well aware that I couldn’t just pour my supply down the drain and count my first day. I had to taper slowly and gently, all while enduring the grinding symptoms of withdrawal.

At first, I drank on the same schedule, as often as needed, but I’d only allow myself enough to ease the withdrawal symptoms. Instead of gulping until I’d pass out, I’d take deliberate drinks, then observe, drink and observe. This meant experiencing more shakes than I was comfortable with, and also more time awake with symptoms. This period lasted about a week.

The next step was to start to increase the length of the intervals between drinks. At first, only a little bit. Then, I’d stretch it an hour beyond comfort before allowing myself enough alcohol to relieve my symptoms.

I can remember how it felt like I’d made a big step when I “only” drank six times per day, and still in the middle of the night and first thing in the morning. Eventually, I moved down to four times per day.

The first time I went a whole overnight without drinking was another milestone.

Nearer to the end, I’d only drink after 5pm. And finally, only at bedtime. The last night, January 6th, I had just one drink before bed. 

I felt no joy. I felt no pride. There were no balloons. I may have starved it of energy and attention, but my alcoholism, my monster, is still waiting quietly for me in the shadows. It is as patient as time.

Find more writing by this author here

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It Can’t Just Be Me: Life With Alcoholic Liver Disease

Audio

In her segment, “Sharp, ‘Off The Charts’ Rise In Alcoholic Liver Disease Among Young Women,” Yuki Noguchi discusses the implications of statistics that capture the increasing rates of alcoholic liver disease among young people, especially women. 

Reading the article, then listening to my voice back from April 2020, full of almost innocent-like hope, was so incredibly painful. 

Flashbacks are real. 

Anyway, I decided to expound on the experience of having had alcoholic liver disease. Statistics and numbers are great for envisioning the number of incidents, but they don’t paint a picture of what it’s like. My intention with this piece is to capture a sliver of how terrible ALD is. I also want to clarify that though I felt horrible, I had it fairly “easy” because I stopped drinking. My liver healed.  

Carolyn, Susan’s daughter, also had alcoholic liver disease, and she passed away in January. (See, “In Memory of Carolyn.”)

The summer leading up to my decision to start my recovery process was dreadful. In August of 2019 I drank at least a fifth of alcohol a day, around 17-20 drinks, in ONE day. I was POISONING MYSELF because I hated everything about existing. I perceived having no purpose because it was summer and I wasn’t accountable to anything or anyone. It was the perfect opportunity for me to isolate myself in my then-apartment. I had no commitments except to the bottles I nursed from when I woke up, until the moment I passed out, over and over and over again. I woke up, felt sick, drank, fell asleep to forget how sick I was feeling, rinse, cycle, repeat. 

Then one day, I had a doctor’s appointment. 

I remember being at the doctor’s office shaking, sweating, hoping I didn’t smell like liquor from drinking the night before. I tried drinking as much water as I could stomach that morning, knowing that it felt horrible to drink, well horrible to drink water, let me clarify. I hid my hands in my pockets to hide tremors. Then I felt the tremors in my neck and my head, my brain twitched, “Am I about to have a seizure?” Every single part of my body was aching or shaking. I just wanted to go home to snuggle up under the covers with my bottle in hand. While in the waiting room, I looked down at my feet. My sandal straps were cutting into them they were so swollen. I looked up instead. My eyes hurt. I remembered they were starting to get a very slight hint of yellow, so I grabbed my glasses from my purse and put them on to distract the doctor and nurse from looking right into my eyes. 

Signs of ALD in 2019

On that morning like many others, I couldn’t stop hacking. The fits were uncontrollable, and my ribs were so bruised that the few moments I could laugh in those times, I wouldn’t. I coughed up slimy green acidic bile, retching over whatever sink or toilet was near me until I could get to a drink. When I was off, I soothed my violent nausea in the mornings with whatever splashes of cheap bourbon remained in bottles I picked up off the floor around my bed or bathroom. When I gripped a bottle, I braced myself, anticipating the horrible taste and burn. It was fire down my throat, I burned while waiting for the temporary relief. The nausea stopped. The shaking subsided. Gasping, gripping the vanity in fear of falling over, I would look up in the mirror with liquor dripping out of the side of my mouth. I would look at and not recognize the woman looking back at me. I saw the unusual weight loss, random bruises, the dark circles. Cracked lips. A plump aching belly with no baby in it. I was transforming. I was imploding. 

I was fearful of getting on my phone to check my lab results. I didn’t want to think that I would be like my cousin, who died after bleeding out from a simple procedure because she could no longer heal. When I got the blood results back, however, I accepted my dark fate. I got a note from the doctor saying that I had alcoholic hepatitis. If what you see in the screenshot is something you would even want to consider a note. With no explanation from my doctor as to what numbers meant what, I spent quite a bit of time doing research.

2019 Lab Results

My AST/SGOT was 429, a standard range is 15-46 U/L. What did this mean? According to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, “AST/SGOT is one of the two liver enzymes. When liver cells are damaged, AST leaks out into the bloodstream and the level of AST in the blood becomes elevated. AST is different from ALT because AST is found in parts of the body other than the liver–including the heart, kidneys, muscles, and brain. When cells in any of those parts of the body are damaged, AST can be elevated.” And my ALT? It was 9 times the normal range. It was 160. That normal range was supposed to be 13-69. “ALT, is one of the two liver enzymes. When liver cells are damaged, ALT leaks out into the bloodstream, and the level of ALT in the blood is elevated.” My bilirubin was 1.8 when normal ranges are 0.2-1.3, so that was another indicator of my poor liver function. 

2019 Lab Result “Interpretation”

At that point, I was terrified because I understood that I had to stop, but I was afraid to ask for help without letting my secret out. I knew I needed alcohol to not feel ill but the idea of putting the bottle down terrified me. In my previous experience with getting sober in 2013, I simply stopped drinking, that shit wasn’t going to wrok this time. This time, it was different. I had been alone for what had been almost two months, and I just wanted to stay hidden in my apartment and forget this was even a problem. I wanted to disappear silently. Maybe one day I would fall asleep and not wake up, no one would notice, right?

The physical symptoms very quickly turned into psychological ones. I started to feel crippling anxiety and minor hallucinations. I noticed I would hear and see flashes of things that no one else saw. It got worse when I had to go back to work. Going back to school, I was forced to modify my drinking because I had to make it to the school building alive and barely sober. The daily withdrawal symptoms led to the worst school days. My only safe space, my classroom, riddled me with fear and panic. The sound of a notebook falling, a chair squeaking too hard, a child’s laughter, all those sounds terrorized me. They made my stomach drop each time. My coughing fits got so bad the kids thought I was having an asthma attack. I carried an asthma pump to “explain” the coughing. I knew what was going on. When your liver stops working, the fluids that should be leaving your body don’t, so they find other places to settle. In my case, it was my feet, ankles, and my lungs. It’s a miracle I didn’t get pneumonia. 

It wasn’t long before the panic, anxiety, and illness brought me to my knees. 

One morning in September of 2019, I couldn’t get out of bed to drive to work. I was terrified of walking out the door. I couldn’t go to work. I knew something had to give when I couldn’t go to the one place I loved the most. The only people I told that I was going to a hospital to were my principal and my sister. Neither knew I went in for my drinking. I blamed it on depression and anxiety. The rest is history, but I don’t know how I functioned when reflecting on those times. 

I don’t know how I functioned so SUCCESSFULLY. 

I stop sometimes and think, “What the hell?!” The only explanation I can think of is the power of the mind and its determination. A mind fueled by shame and guilt is profoundly capable of massive feats to put up appearances. I was killing myself, and yet I was showing up.

So yes, all these conversations about women and their dangerous relationships with alcohol need to happen, and I’m SO grateful that they are. I can only speak from my experience, but I will say a million times, it can’t just be me. The more we have these conversations, the more people we’ll have come forward saying, “You know what, I’ve got that problem, too.” 

In Memory of Carolyn

Submitted by her mother, Susan.

Audio

My daughter died on Jan 3 this year at age 50 from alcoholic liver disease. She had been struggling with alcoholism for many years, and finally, she succumbed. She was loved and had lots of encouragement to stop drinking. And she did make it to 90 days a few times, but it did not last. 

Photo by Rachel Cook on Unsplas

She was staying with another alcoholic for the past year and caring for her, so she had lots of opportunities to keep drinking. One of her many lies was that her liver was fine. 

Two months before she died, I noticed her jaundice. We went right to the hospital, where she had gone many times for help drying out, and she stayed for 3 days (all of this during COVID). Those who cared for her gave her good advice and hope, but she got worse and worse in the next 2 months with a swollen abdomen and legs and feet. She never lost her yellow coloring. 

She went back to the hospital a few times but was not admitted. She came to stay with me a few times but could not get up the stairs, and lived on my couch. It was horrible to watch. 

The last time she came was 4 days before Christmas since the hospital would not admit her. She was not eating, and I tried my best to take care of her. Her son, age 19, came to my house on Christmas Day, so she did have some time with him. The other son, age 21, did not come. They had not seen her for months, so he was shocked and scared. She told him, “I’m not going to die,” but the day after, I called an ambulance since she was very, very sick. The EMT hugged her dad and me and said we might want to consider hospice, which I had thought about. 

She gradually declined over the next 7 days, was on a feeding tube and developed pneumonia. The hospital took good care of her and even let us have 2 people visit as she got worse, and they allowed the closest family to be with her the night she died. It was horrible and not at all like the movies. 

She was angry and distant for the last few days, so we never had a “good” goodbye. One of the doctors said they had seen a big increase in the number of alcohol-related diseases in the past 6 months. 

Despite all the hard, hard, worrying times as her mother and her go-to person, we had many wonderful fun times. She always tried to make it through our holidays and get-togethers somewhat sober. I will miss her terribly, forever. 

We had a small ceremony. Everyone who sent cards and commented talked of her very wonderful, sparkly, and beautiful being. She was much loved.   

Thank you for letting me tell this story. I needed to write, just like you did. 

Sadly, 

Susan 

When I asked Susan for permission to share her and her daughter’s story, she also asked me to include her obituary. Susan wants to share with the world that yes, Carolyn was very sick, and more importantly, that she was incredibly loved. Please read below:
Carolyn Marie Wanner (July 14, 1970–January 3,2021)

A bright sparkly personality left us grieving when, despite her best efforts, Carolyn Marie Wanner, 50, lost her battle with alcoholism on January 3, 2021 at the Greeley Hospital. Her close family was present to say good bye and must now learn to live without her happy presence.

Carolyn was born in Eugene, Oregon, on July 14, 1970 and moved to Greeley when she was just 6 weeks old. Even as a little girl, she loved people and said hello to anyone who would catch her eye. She could also be counted on to defend her little friends from bullying or harm, a friend you could trust.

A capable student, she became an excellent writer and loved reading and all things having to do with performance and theater. After attending Cameron School, Maplewood Middle School and Heath Junior High, she graduated from Greeley Central in 1988, where she continued to participate in activities, especially theatre, choir, forensics with her group of friends who felt right at home at her house, doing their homework and just hanging around.

Photo by family

She never hesitated to help anyone, even if it meant giving away her last cigarette or $5 when she saw someone in need. Those who knew her were grateful to have had her friendship and those she briefly encountered were always graced with her welcoming smile.

She attended The University of Northern Colorado for one semester, taking a class from her dad and then went off to UC Boulder to earn a degree and had way too much fun socializing, gathering more friends into her life. When she earned her BA in English and Theatre, she was so proud.

In her own words, she said “The energy and allure of the hospitality industry and the people it attracts suit my personality perfectly. I love it!” and that is where she spent her career, working at a number of venues in various capacities, including the first Rock Bottom in Denver. She gave exceptional service at all times and earned a lot of tips with her huge smile and ability to put customers at ease, chatting to everyone, just like when she was a little girl. But, with Carolyn, it wasn’t just about the tips. She was a performer at heart. Her dreams of being an actress were played out doing improv with her customers.

On August 8, 1998, she married Dante Dunlap in Denver and they had two exceptional sons, Max, age 21 and Ethan, age 19, of Denver. She loved being a mom and was often called the “cool mom” by Max and Ethan’s friends. Her sons meant everything to her. Following her divorce, she had a variety of relationships, but never remarried.

In addition to Ethan and Max, she is survived by her saddened mother, Susan Malmstadt, and father, James Wanner, his wife Rene Oya, her loving brother, Christopher Wanner, sister-in-law Sonya PauKune, nephews Blake and Sabin Wanner along with her aunts, Patricia Malmstadt and Carol Haluska, an uncle Dick Wanner, cousins Tere and Steve Schultz, Andy May, Laurie Malone, Carissa Russell, Leslie Andrews, Jennifer and Kristin Wanner as well as extended family and a slew of friends across the state and the country.

The family would like to thank the medical staff at the Greeley Hospital 3rd Floor Acute Care Unit for the exceptional care they provided Carolyn and the family.

Contributions in Carolyn’s memory can be made by check to Greeley Central High School GCHS Thespian Troop 657, 1515 14th Avenue, Greeley, CO 80631 Attention: Brian Humphrey or to the Colorado Restaurant Association Angel Relief Fund for restaurant workers affected by COVID. 

Donate online at corestaurant.org.

To contact Susan, email me at jessica@jessicaduenas.net and I will relay the message to her.

Photo by Liana Mikah on Unsplash

My Journey Through Cancer and Addiction

Submission by Victoria English Martin

Audio of the story

Triple-negative breast cancer stripped me of my armor: hair, uterus, and breasts. But eight months out of treatment on New Year’s Eve 2019, I was determined: 2020 would be my year! 

I welcomed the New Year at home, in bed, actually. I was recovering from my final surgery. My three daughters were healthy and stable, and my 21-year-old son was finally sober. He was thriving in college. 

Getting cancer both required me and inspired me to stop drowning my feelings in alcohol. Going through cancer treatment, I had to develop a new set of coping skills. I faced the trauma and the disappointments of my new reality. I acknowledged the hurt, anger, and fear I had. I learned how to live life on life’s terms. 

That New Year’s Eve, I was approaching one year of solid alcohol-free living. I was getting my hair done at that point in life, wearing cute outfits. I even started a podcast. The cluster*&%$ was over. 

But by March 2020, instead of looking stylish, instead of building my career, instead of traveling to see my kids, I was doing quite the opposite. I found myself in ratty sweatpants, baking banana bread, and staring at three-inch-long salt and pepper roots. COVID-19 forced the world to pause. We had to sit still, examine our relationships with others and ourselves, and cope with a new way of life. We were either suddenly all things to all people or left in absolute isolation and loneliness. If you’re reading this, you know these scenes because you lived them. Maybe you still are. 

My therapist told me that her clients who had been through cancer and addiction were dealing with quarantine much better than those who had not. Perhaps it was because although everyone has experienced challenges, not everyone has had to face a life-threatening crisis head-on. Many individuals lack the tools necessary for managing financial challenges such as caring for ailing parents, one’s own illness, or career uncertainty. Experiencing hurdles like these for the first time, these uncertain and uncomfortable circumstances turned more people into maladaptive behaviors. Drinking and doing drugs became a simple solution. I noticed the marked increases in alcohol sales, domestic violence, overdoses, and suicides. The universe told me it was time to share my secret. 

My drinking had been in the closet. Literally. I drank in the closet, so nobody would know I had a problem coping with this disaster. Seeing the impact of COVID-19 on society propelled me to come out of my own closet and share my story. A year ago, if you had told me I would go public with my addiction, I would have laughed in your face. However, a year ago, we would have all laughed if a psychic had told us that this, this is how life would look today. 

My drinking did not land me at “rock bottom,” but it made me sick. It made me sad. It wasn’t serving me any useful purpose. Today, I run into people who I know feel the same shame I used to feel. They persist in hiding their precarious relationship with alcohol and drugs from friends, family, and frankly, even themselves. I did, too. I get it. They are not alone. 

You are not alone. 

Since the start of the pandemic, a growing number of people drink and use to cope. If people like me don’t come forward, the stigma and the impact of maladaptive drinking or drug use will always prevent us from living our best life. 

Today, my closet? It has become my office, a safe space where I record my podcast, “After the Crisis.” I share my story, talk to people who have overcome serious life challenges, converse with experts, all while offering healthy coping strategies to others on their journeys. 

Before I revealed my secret, I was a highly efficient mom of four, an active PTA member, and was deathly fearful of exposing my weaknesses. After sharing my story, people came forward to admit they were struggling just as much as I was. They confessed to having had uncomfortable relationships with alcohol and asked for help. 

Now, I have unmasked the real Victoria English Martin. She has bad moments, bad days, and even bad weeks, but nothing compares to those wretched days when she sought solutions at the bottom of a wine bottle. Today’s she’s free.

2021, I’m ready for you. 

Contact Victoria at victoria@afterthecrisiscoaching.com

99 Days

I got 99 days but I’ve really got just one. 

I couldn’t help but be corny, but today’s a big deal. If all goes well, it’ll be the last time I’ll ever be 99 days sober. If it doesn’t and I spiral entirely out of control to a certain dark fate, it will still be my last time being 99 days sober. If I fall and bounce back, then hopefully, I’d make it back to 99 days. At this very moment, all that matters is now.

Just about the same thing that I wrote, in case you don’t feel like reading.

I finished an interview about a month ago with Vic Vela from Colorado Public Radio for his show Back from Broken. We checked in this weekend, and I shared how I’ve managed to stay sober for this many days in a row. 

Immediately I thought of the generic response, “Well, you know, I follow the steps, I follow suggestions, I go to meetings, etc.” Not to say I don’t do those things, because I certainly do. They are a critical part of my toolbox along with accepting that I need medication and therapy.

However, the biggest thing that I’ve picked up on is my writing. Being sober makes it pretty easy to string a couple of sentences together coherently. It turns out that many feelings (especially my grief which triggered me nonstop) that I was always trying to suppress now have a way out. It’s either through pen to paper or by hitting that keyboard. A part of this writing is a part of my program,  a part of it is trying to capture others’ stories, and a lot of it is also just letting everything inside me out. No matter what, it just feels really good. It’s a great distraction, and I’m finding joy today in what I create rather than seeking joy grasping onto the external.

Clips from The Lost Weekend.
Clearly time doesn’t change addiction.

Oh, and a random thought worth sharing. I watched this old 1940’s film, The Lost Weekend, after a friend recommended it. I’ve experienced near end-stage alcoholism through my own eyes. However, I’ve never seen what it looks like from the outside to be nearly dying and to feel ready for it because every waking moment is a nightmare physically and emotionally. I’ve always known what it felt like, but not what it looks like. It’s terrifying, and I hate that several people I love had to see me like that, but I’m grateful not to be there today.

I pray I’m not there tomorrow, and that’s why I say I just have today. The 98 days before today are gone, they’ve vanished. Tomorrow’s not here. If it comes, however, it will be day 100 and that’s a nice number.  I do have hopes for tomorrow and for the tomorrows after that. 

The hope I carry is enough for me to stay sober, just for today. 

I’ll try again tomorrow.