Читать книгу The Courage to Surrender - John Hayes W. - Страница 3

It started on my eighth birthday as I was walking with two buddies from school to the restaurant where my friends were getting together for a party. We were only a couple streets away, when Ray paused as though he had a brain fart.

“Hey, let’s stop at Abe’s grocery store for a six-pack of beer. I’ll tell him it’s for my ol’ man, so he’ll give it to me for free,” he said.

That was indicative of our little village. Everyone trusted everyone, and people could buy anything by word alone. The business owners would keep tabs on their customer transactions with pencil and paper. Credit meant ‘I don’t have the money, but when payday comes I’ll be over to pay you.’

I was nervous about what beer might do to me, but I didn’t want to argue and risk being left behind. I followed them to Ray’s house.

I remember standing by a yellow chair in the living room rushing to finish my second beer, while the other guys dumped theirs in the sink so they could hurry to the party.

When I arrived at the party, I felt dizzy. It was like the room was spinning, as though the party was happening without me. I’m not sure, but I have mental snap shots of my friends laughing, although I wasn’t laughing with them. Maybe my drunken behavior was funny, I don’t remember.

This being my first taste of alcohol, I felt scared about what would happen next, but I guess that I made it home without incident.

The progression of my drinking was very slow, and I never realized there was anything wrong with me. Back then, all I cared about was laughing, making fun of life, and living every day to its fullest.

I didn’t know I had a life-threatening disease that was developing inside me, even when I wasn’t drinking. Looking back, the symptoms of alcoholism hadn’t become obvious. Except that, when I drank, I could never get enough.

I have come to believe that the innocence of those early beers had kicked off a disease that would affect how I lived the rest of my life.

My story belongs to many recovering alcoholics and drug addicts, except the hole I dug for myself was probably deeper, and I stayed there longer than most.

For years, I was a functional project manager in the high technology field, an involved father, and a husband whose family appeared to be enjoying the American Dream.

But beneath the façade, lay a secret world of alcohol and drugs. Throughout my life, I learned how to control my addictions like other successful baby boomer addicts who appeared normal to everyone. I convinced myself that nobody knew my secrets.

I experienced decades of my life with daily hangovers that left me mentally exhausted and physically sick. My ugly descent finally ended when death looked me square in the face. I surrendered that life for a miraculous recovery some 46 years after the first beer on the day I turned eight years old.

My memories lay scattered, but my story is real and lives in the families of millions who used drugs and drank with me as I traveled through the events of my time.

I left my small town with a vague idea of my parents’ expectations for the better life they assumed would result from a college education. The reality of my college years was a deferment from Vietnam, a love for beer, and a taste for marijuana.

~ ~ ~

My small town was nestled in a valley that ran through the Adirondack Mountains. In winter, the mountains stayed frigid with deep snow that was groomed above the tree line for expert skiing, with more gradual slopes near the bottom for beginners. It wasn’t always that way, though, as there were winters without much natural snow which meant little to no skiing.

During the long winters while temperatures settled below freezing, part of the school’s football field was turned into a skating rink that doubled as a hangout for teens.

In summer, the green of the forest made a lush backdrop to the clear blue lakes used for camping, swimming, and diving for things that could be seen 20 feet below the surface.

The town prospered as the seasonal traffic drove through the valley with skiers in the winter, vacationers in the summer and leaf peepers in autumn when the foliage sparkled.

The railroading was the employer in town so the men played sports together, stayed friends for life and shared a camaraderie that permeated throughout the village, giving people a respect for each other and a sense of pride for their community. Generations of men and boys in the valley spent their entire lives working on the railroad.

I was born into a generation of millions, the largest population explosion the country had ever experienced. Consequently, I was part of what became known as the first wave of baby boomers.

My childhood was typical of the simple lifestyles that defined the ’50s, when everyone knew their place in the social order of things, from a kids’ point of view, life seemed close to perfect.

The summer meant riding bikes to the playground for choose-up games of baseball. At some point, I qualified for skins and shirts basketball games with the older guys. During those days, kids used their same bicycle for more than just one summer. A little paint, some new handle grips, or a new tire made a bike look different enough for another year.

When the weather turned bad, I went to the local theater on Saturday afternoons. For 25 cents, I watched two movies, government propaganda, cartoons, and serials of my fantasy heroes.

For another 20 cents, I would buy a bag of popcorn and a box of Juicy Fruit, both of which were good for throwing at the usher as he roamed the aisles, for some reason.

In retrospect, I never realized how lucky we were to have safe places where kids could gather for fun, without looking over their shoulder to see if trouble was brewing. We were carefree and insulated from real life without any idea of what we were missing – the good and the bad.

~ ~ ~

At seven, I wasn’t eager to move away from the place where I grew up, but in a few months I enjoyed the roominess, a bigger yard, and a shorter walk to school. Two streets away, I met Sam, who became a lifelong friend, and it wasn’t long before we began to spend most of our free time together.

We were inseparable. There were some who even said that we began to look alike. Mom disliked the notion that any kid could be as good looking as me.

When we met, Sam’s beloved grandfather passed away, leaving his grandmother to live alone. Not long after, Sam moved in with his grandmother in order to keep her company and to avoid the explosive behavior of his alcoholic father.

It was in 1957, when Sam and I were in junior high school that I had my next experiences with drinking beer. Our usual Friday night drinking parties began when Sam would call me on Friday nights. We only had an operator to switch phone lines in those days, so without dialing functionality, he would tell the operator that he wanted “976” and she’d ring our phone. I’d be sitting on the sofa by the phone, waiting for his call.

“I stole a six pack of the old man’s beer and put it in the snow for after the basketball game!” he said, “Ask your Mom if you can sleep over tonight.”

We’d leave early for the gym so we could hide by a window to watch the cheerleaders undress, as they put on their uniforms.

Before the games ended, we slithered out the gym doors then sprinted to his grandmother’s place to dig out the beer, and de-ice the cans. In those days, he spent most of her time with hospice work. We learned early in our party escapades that glass bottles of beer would break when frozen. That night was a bummer.

With a “cold one,” we’d watch The Tonight Show or late-night dirty-wrestling. When we were drunk, we’d fall asleep on an oversized, very soft bed upstairs.

During the night, we would get up regularly to drain our thimble-sized bladders. I remember feeling sick and very tired on all those Saturday mornings. These were the first of many more to come.

We continued our drinking parties throughout the basketball season home games on Friday nights, but Sam went to the well too many times. One drunken night around midnight, Sam’s father walked into the living room and caught us red-handed.

The only part of the punishment that hurt was that we had to abandon the basketball parties.

Sam and I had secrets from everyone in town, but nothing was more significant than the 1965 holiday break from college when he brought pot home. He talked me into sharing a couple joints, as I was reluctant to smoke dope. By the time that break was over I was hooked on getting high.

~ ~ ~

As caretaker of the family, Mom doted on me and then, later, on my brother. I believe she was trying to compensate for Dad’s apparent lack of interest.

Bonding with Mom early in my life, she sheltered me from facing all adversities, and I was able to avoid risks.

For reasons I can only guess at, my perceptions of adults included a twisted fear of danger that kept me frozen with anxiety. That fear hampered my discovery of new experiences that came with just being a kid.

My inbred lack of trust kept me suspicious of everyone. I couldn’t trust a girl friend’s loyalty or a buddy who occasionally behaved in ways that made me suspicious of his motive. Since I never let my guard down, I was lonely for years.

Early in life, I accepted the notion that appearances were more important than reality. Later in life, there were times that kind of thinking would cause me to hide my real feelings so that I would feel accepted.

~ ~ ~

Dad’s approach to child rearing was based on his life experiences. He started to toughen me up early in life, teaching me the rites of passage for becoming a man while I was still learning how to write the alphabet.

One of my first lessons in his cruel approach to life occurred when Duffy, Mom’s cat, had a litter. I gazed at them. Their eyes closed as they nestled into their mom.

Suddenly, Dad grabbed each kitten and dropped it into a burlap bag that contained rocks. After all the kittens were bagged, he tied it.

“Take the bag to the car,” he said.

Once we got to the river outside of town, Dad slowed down while driving over the bridge.

“Throw the bag out the window and make sure it goes over the railing into the river.”

I hesitated, as I heard the soft meows, and felt them wiggling in the bag.

“What are you waiting for?” he barked. “Throw the damn bag out the window!” He drove slower on our second pass over the bridge.

I balanced on my knees on the shot gun seat, and leaned out the window holding the bag in both hands. I swung it with all my might and let go. The kittens hit nothing but water.

On the way home, I stared out the car window. I didn’t feel especially tougher or manlier. I was just confused over what happened, and sensing I had done something wrong.

That was the first time I did something I knew was wrong, but I continued throughout life to do the wrong things, mostly to appear like someone I wasn’t – or to get what I wanted.

This attempt to make me a man was one of many times I turned away from him. I knew I would never be like him, and made a promise to myself that I would forever try to correct his sins, so compassion became part of my character.

I was raised with his paradigm for being a man: Don’t cry or show emotion, suck it up, and stuff your feelings.

At times, I wondered if he resented me or wanted to make me feel the emotional pain he had lived with as a kid. He rarely hit me. Instead, he yelled and belittled me when he felt I failed him.

Mom’s brother was a drunk who poked along the town’s back streets in his old car traveling from one bar to another. When I asked why he lived like that, Mom explained that he had personal issues and warned me “Alcoholism runs in our family.”

At the time, I didn’t listen to her speculation, and guessed there was no scientific proof of her genetics theory. But later in life, I learned that both family trees were loaded with generations of alcoholics. I was doomed.

I made a conscience effort to protect my kids from the shame and embarrassment that are the companions of the disease, but I was powerless over the alcohol and drugs.

Although my behavior was a vast improvement over Dad’s dry drunk life, I still felt guilt when I caused the kids any emotional pain. I was only a generation better than Dad, and couldn’t stop all the symptoms that impacted relationships.

~ ~ ~

Dad loved sports and introduced me to Little League.

“Try being a catcher,” he suggested, “it will give you a better chance of being in the starting line-up and playing in more games.”

I crouched behind home plate while batters swung wildly at fast balls thrown by some kid with little control. Bats swished by my mask with only inches to spare. The bats were often thrown at my body when kids let loose after a hit.

Dad was right. No kid wanted to be a catcher. You’d have to be crazy to willingly crouch behind a kid with a bat swinging for the fence with every pitch

In my last year of Little League, Dad coached a team – but, it wasn’t mine. I was old enough to understand he drafted the best players, but it seemed a son would automatically be on his father’s team. It hurt my feelings and pissed me off whenever our teams would play each other. Striking out in those games went beyond humiliating. My father would watch me bat, and I felt as though he was glad when I failed because it meant an advantage for his team.

Dad’s insensitivity continued to alienate me at times when I felt I deserved his attention and compassion. Our relationship drifted from conditional to non-existent.

~ ~ ~

Although football was my favorite sport, I had no idea a collision sport would teach me about love, pride, and relationships, nor did I expect to interpret the acute pain inflicted upon me as feelings of rejection and betrayal. In my mind, hitting the opponent as hard as possible was the fun part, so blocking and tackling felt good.

Football was not always about the game; it was a tutorial on how hard work is not always rewarded and how pride can develop without any specific accomplishment.

One afternoon, at a two-a-day practice in the August heat, Coach Kaizer motioned for me to join him. “We’ll find a place for you on the varsity,” he said, “Pick up a game jersey before you leave.”

Work hard, do the right thing, don’t be afraid, and be rewarded became my work ethic before I even knew what that meant

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself and anxious to tell Dad about practice.

“Hey Dad,” I said, “I played linebacker against the upperclassmen in a scrimmage today and did well enough to get a varsity jersey.”

“No freshmen play on the varsity team,” he said, “Someone is fooling you. Don’t be so naïve!”

My rejection from Dad kind of staggered me with a blow that knocked the wind out of my self-esteem, and his hard, cold disregard was like a dagger to my self-confidence. I was confused, as I believed he should always be on my side, regardless of what I did. I felt betrayed and just walked away without a word.

He never apologized, and I never forgot.

~ ~ ~

It was sunny on the afternoon of Nov. 22, 1963 and, as the last leaves fluttered to the ground, I gazed out the window during my American History class.

I couldn’t have imagined that thousands of miles away, a sniper’s bullets had just killed President Kennedy. In that one second, the world stood still before it was changed forever.

Every American can remember when they heard the first rumor of the assassination. Everyone knows where they were, and what they were doing.

Our school principal walked into the classroom without knocking, and motioned to our teacher to join him. Then, the principal turned to us.

“President Kennedy has been assassinated,” he said. He swallowed deeply and went on to say, “He is in a hospital in Dallas, Texas, and I have not heard, yet, whether he is alive or dead. All classes will be dismissed within the hour.”

Nothing prepared me for the bombshell that our charismatic leader had been murdered. It seemed as though I was lost for the few seconds it took me to comprehend what had happened.

Using new technology, the assassination and related events became the first live TV broadcast, so Mom was glued to the little screen when I got home.

She was crying as the television news correspondent said three rifle shots were fired from a fifth floor window of the Texas Book Depository. I stared at the reruns of the killing.

“Oh no!” cried Mrs. Kennedy, as she tried to hold up President Kennedy’s head, half of which had been blown away.

As John’s coffin passed before them, Jackie held hands with her children as they said goodbye to life as they knew it. Likewise, the life we all knew was over.

Our age of innocence was lost forever.

~ ~ ~

Being raised as a strict Catholic, I was a God-fearing youngster. At the age of 12, I became an altar boy to prove my purity and devotion to the congregation.

The truth was I wanted to be like older guys who wore the cassock and surplus to serve on the altar. I followed them for the goodness they portrayed and, besides, it made me look like a good kid.

My family belonged to a Catholic church just down the street from where we lived, which was a convenience when carrying out our religious beliefs, as well as my altar boy responsibilities.

Not going to church for Sunday Mass was a mortal sin that kept everyone fearful.In general, it seemed that going to mass on Sundays washed away the sins of the past and validated the sins of the present. They believed missing mass was a one-way ticket on the road to hell.

I memorized Latin scriptures and literally learned how to go through the motions; I didn’t understand Mass, but neither did anyone in the parish, so I accepted it as gospel. Dad was a devout Catholic and Mom practiced Catholicism with slightly less zeal, so we selectively followed the Ten Commandments.

Every Tuesday, I had mandatory religious instruction at the church. I sat in the back pew with Derek and Pete most of the time, and didn’t pay much attention.

One afternoon I heard, “John, leave your seat and move to the front pew.” I said ‘OK’ and started walking up the aisle with my books, when the priest pushed me from behind.

“Stop pushing me – I am going to the front,” I said. As I gained my balance, he rushed toward me and pushed me even harder. This time, I stumbled and fell into the hard, wooden edge of a pew.

In half a second, I snapped, wheeled around, and punched him. He grabbed me and I wrestled him to the floor. In that same second, it dawned on me what I had done.

I pushed myself off him, and just stood for a second looking around at my friends who were in shock. It was surreal.

I picked up my stuff, left the church, and went home. When I walked in the house, Dad asked, “Why are you home so early?”

There was no easy way to say it, so I gave him the summary. “Father Drake kept pushing me, so I hit him and knocked him down.”

Quietly, Dad asked, “Did he hit you first?”

“Yes,” I answered, waiting for a tongue lashing at the very least.

Then, the strangest thing happened. Dad calmly put his paper down, slipped on his jacket, and began walking toward the church.

Derek later told me what had happened, “Your old man marched up the aisle in the middle of class, and stood in front of Father Drake.”

‘What happened with you and my son a few minutes ago?’ he asked.

Father Drake said ‘John was unruly, so I told him to move and he refused. He punched me when I approached him.’

Then, Derek told me what Dad had said to the priest:

“Whatever happened, keep your God damn hands off my kid or you will deal with me!”

It was the first time I could ever remember when my Dad stuck up for me. Maybe deep down he really did love me – or, possibly Father Drake’s reputation of punching God’s children had filtered into the church going elderly. I’ll never know.

I began calling myself a recovering Catholic.

~ ~ ~

In the spring of 1965, life as I knew it was coming to an end. I probably needed to talk with an adult about my future, but I had no one to go to, so I would just do what I thought was right. What the hell did I know about life?

I had three choices but wasn’t prepared to do any of them. I was a big fish in a small pond, successful and popular in an environment where self-respect was not a by-product for what I did, but rather about what the town’s people thought of Mom and Dad.

But inside, I didn’t always feel good about myself. I wondered how I would adapt to living in foreign places which, to me, was everywhere outside a 25-mile radius of where I lived. All I knew were blue-collar WASPs. I had never met a black person, and all that I’d heard about diversity was fear and bigotry.

My close friends were going to college, so I took the SAT tests and applied to colleges.

The easiest choice was to do nothing but, if I stayed in town, I’d have to ride on trains forever.

My second option was to join the Army before I got drafted. I only had a few images of the death and destruction of everyday life in the jungles of Vietnam where “kill or be killed” seemed to be the marching orders.

The war seemed closer than 12,000 miles, as guys I knew were being drafted, flown to Nam and went missing from my life. People were dying, but I didn’t know exactly why, or what our soldiers were doing over there? Hell, I didn’t even know if we were winning! But, more importantly for me, was how long I might have to stay.

All options considered, I backed into the unknown and decided to be the first in my family to leave the valley and head out to college like my friends. The idea of leaving home made me feel alone and insecure. I didn’t know anyone who left town and came back to tell me how to live on my own.

While Sam eagerly told me about the highlights of frat life, he neglected to let me know about how to live, study, and control my vices.

~ ~ ~

When I turned 17 I began to drink more often with my buddies, using false identification to bluff my way into bars. As a senior I drank into baseball season with my close friends on the team, as playing baseball didn’t require us to be in shape. All we had to do was just show up and play a game we’d played since our Little League days.

On weekends, I went with friends to the bars and blended into the atmosphere like the alcoholic I would become in the not too distant future. For reasons that are obvious to me now, I never noticed the guy in the last seat of the bar, drunk and still drinking. And, I never thought about drinking and driving, as it was ‘the norm’ for me.

When I got inside a bar, I could see enjoyment and friendship in the faces of people having a good time. It was fun holding a bottle of Miller High Life and pretending that I belonged. My heart raced with excitement as I assimilated into the crowd.

I didn’t know I was looking into the soul of my existence for the next three decades, and could not imagine that excitement would someday be replaced with desperation.

I turned 18 in June of 1965, and began going to the bars with increased frequency. The drinking age in New York State was 18, so we looked forward to legally doing what we had already been doing with false ID since we were 17.

The College Inn had an electric atmosphere, charged by all the kids drinking, laughing, and dancing. Live bands and a large sound system played music so loud it was hard to talk.

I began to ease away from my old life of socializing with my steady girlfriend to a drinking life with different friends. I embraced my alcoholism by drinking whenever I could. Unfortunately, I never knew when to stop, so I usually got drunk – sometimes by accident instead of intention.

Although the kids at the College Inn were having fun and Sam raved about college life, I hadn’t been tested, and my coping skills were home-schooled.

In the 18 years I lived in our little town, not much had changed. Each generation took over their family’s business and many lived in the same house. I had very few experiences in diversity, adversity, or significant life changes until I left for college.

I tucked my low self-esteem under my arm, and walked away from the only life I had known. It was time to discover the real me. I was full of anxiety about how I would care for myself in a world I didn’t understand.

I left my small town with a vague idea of my parents’ expectations for the better life they assumed would result from a college education. The reality of my college years was a deferment from Vietnam, a love for beer, and a taste for marijuana.