Читать книгу The Courage to Surrender - John Hayes W. - Страница 5

The Woodstock Music and Art Fair transformed a cow pasture on Max Yasgur’s farm into a counter-culture, where minds were opened, people were high, and love was free.

August 14, 1969, was the first day of a planned weekend event to bring musicians and artists together in Bethel, New York, but the plan blew up as thousands of unexpected people arrived, which overwhelmed the imagination of the organizers.

Richie Havens was the first to perform on stage, crying out an emotional “freedom” ballad with original music he was creating, in order to buy time for the other performers who were delayed on the road to Woodstock. Some said Haven’s performance was the anthem of a generation.

Michael Lang, the festival founder, kept telling Richie to continue entertaining the few hundred thousand concert-goers who had arrived. When Michael saw and heard the helicopters appearing on the horizon, he smiled and Richie left the stage, drenched from the intensity that poured out of his music.

After a shaky start, the concert began to recover nicely, as other performers flew over the gridlocked traffic, which had become the only way in. Pictures from above showed the logistical nightmare as abandoned vehicles, rather than parked cars. At the time, no one guessed there would ever have been a need for a parking lot for these 450,000 people drawn to the party of the century.

Lower New York State was paralyzed by concert-goers who blazed trails to Woodstock for generations to follow. Overwhelming popularity of the festival drew an audience of diversified people that included students, hippies, hog farmers, and foreigners.

The Woodstock nation grew without boundaries, as the news of a gigantic rock concert spread throughout the country, kicking off parties where drugs and rock music set the stage for peace and love.

These pockets of people brought to the surface the unity of those at the concert, and everyone who identified with them. That was the essence of lifestyles which evolved in the ’60s and the way seeds of peace were planted by our new generation. Arnold Skolnick, the artist who designed Woodstock's dove-and-guitar symbol, described it this way:

“Something has tapped a nerve in this country, and everybody just came.”

As with most baby boomers, I think of Woodstock as the ultimate celebration that introduced our new generation to the world. It defined who we were at that point in our evolution, and gave the world a view of out-of-control self-indulgence with enough self-discipline to respect everyone and let peace be the only control. Bert Feldman brought it to mind, but Dickens said it first:

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”

~ ~ ~

By the fourth of July, 1969, Rachael and I were married, and moved to Connecticut where I took a job as a computer programmer trainee at a major insurance company. We lived in a one bedroom cellar apartment. We became friends with a couple of college kids in the building. He was preparing for law school while she was working on an undergraduate degree at the same university.

Smoking pot was a religion to them, so naturally I gravitated toward their grass, and the humor they created. Their tastes ranged from “Reefer Madness” to “All in the Family” to Eric Clapton, and their views were liberal on everything. Their relationship on the surface was nonstop comedy which induced tear-type laughing.

Working as a computer programming trainee was not as easy as I expected. My training classes consisted of recent college graduates, and it was obvious to me that many had taken computer courses.

Most people wore new clothes for their first job in the business world, but I wore my wool herringbone sport coat, which was the only dress Jacket I owned. I was not very stylish or cool in that hot summer of 1969.

I finished months of training and got an assignment in a programming pool to actually work and get paid for it. I enjoyed the work but, doing it all day, five days a week for the foreseeable future, took a period of adjustment.

From the first pay check, I projected we would have to live week-to-week. Aside from living on my $7,200 annual salary, I was trying to save what we could until our baby was born.

We didn’t have a TV or a stereo when we first settled into our new life, so we read every word of the daily newspaper then moved to the novels to keep from going crazy. We took leisurely walks in area parks, fed the geese, and felt the peace all around us. I was learning the difference between need and want.

One night in June, Sam, who remained my closest friend from home, called.

“Hi,” he said, “have you heard about the Woodstock Music and Art Festival?”

“No, what’s it all about?” I asked.

“If I can get tickets would you and Rachael want to go? I just read about it in the newspaper, so I don’t know much,” he said, “but it’s in August somewhere in the Catskill Mountains. How bad can it be? It’ll be a pisser.”

“Any idea how much it costs?” I asked.

He called a couple days later saying he got the tickets for $8 apiece.

Sam was a professional artist who also taught high school art, so he was interested in the arts and crafts displays, especially those on Sunday, Aug. 17.

Although there were bands I’d have rather seen at other times during the festival, I looked forward to Sunday’s venue which included the Jefferson Airplane.

I rationalized spending the $16 for Woodstock as our only extravagance for the summer. Cheap beer was all I could afford and drinking only on weekends made me feel like a martyr. I felt I deserved the concert tickets as a reward for my drinking sacrifices.

I needed beer to relax and sedate myself, as I adjusted to being married with a baby on the way.

~ ~ ~

Sam lived in New York, just over the Connecticut border. It made sense for us to stop on the way so he and his wife could join us on our trip to Woodstock.

Since our tickets were for Sunday, we decided to leave on Saturday and drove to spend the night with a fraternity brother and his family. The plan was to leave his place early Sunday morning, and drive the few miles to Bethel, so we could have a full day at the festival, and leave by evening.

As we drove closer to the Catskill Mountain area we began to hear radio stations announce short updates about the Woodstock festival, which piqued our curiosity.

“Shit, did you hear what they just said on the radio? I think they mentioned Woodstock,” I blurted.

The closer we got to the New York State Thruway and Route 17, the more detailed the descriptions. “Turn up the radio,” Sam said, “they are definitely talking about Woodstock. Sounds like thousands of people are already there if they’re closing roads in the area.”

“Not likely they’d shut down the New York State Thruway, it isn’t very close to Bethel.” he said.

We had no idea the reports had underestimated the number of people, and the logistical problems caused by abandoned cars, trucks, and vans on the roads to Bethel.

When we arrived, his frat brother hollered to us before we got our suitcases through the door. “Check this out, he yelled. The concert is crazy with people and the Thruway is closed! A news reporter said it is one of the nation’s worst traffic jams!”

Before nightfall, the major networks were breaking into regular programming for special reports about Woodstock. My friends and I drank beer, smoked some pot and got charged up with the atmosphere that awaited us the next morning.

The TV reports started on Thursday, August 14th, as people at the Monticello Race Track noticed traffic backed up, unaware the destination was Bethel, N.Y., about eight miles away.

By 11 in the morning, more than 24 hours before the festival was to begin, traffic was at a standstill all the way down Route 17B to Route 17 – a distance of about 11 miles. By this time, the festival was out of control and had been declared as free of charge, so our tickets were worthless.

The scene appeared as though many people were getting separated from each other and it seemed unlikely anyone could be found searching through the sea of heads and bodies, as smoke from dope and fires drifted into clouds that obscured large groups of people.

TV shots of the people showed most were stoned or tripping, as they wandered (or floated) aimlessly into a friendly gathering space to stay with strangers.

On Sunday morning, we reluctantly abandoned the idea of just the guys hiking into the concert, leaving the three pregnant wives in the safety of the house.

Disappointed, we left early that morning to drive home before we got caught in the exodus of people we assumed would be leaving the festival.

~ ~ ~

Occasionally, I drove home to see my folks on weekends and chow down free meals. That summer we didn’t see Rachael’s parents. She was obviously carrying a baby, and we hadn’t told them anything about her pregnancy.

It was 3 a.m. on a Saturday morning when Rachael nudged me in bed to say it was time to go to the hospital. Her water broke even though it was three weeks before the due date.

Our daughter was born the following afternoon leaving us totally unprepared. I drove to a department store to buy blankets, diapers, formula, bottles and whatever else I thought we’d need.

We were a happy couple, and our daughter just added to our joy. We daydreamed from the hospital about playing together and laughing.

I spent all the money I had to get Rachael and our daughter out of the hospital. Pregnancy was considered a pre-existing condition, so the insurance coverage didn’t cover any bills. Begrudgingly, I was forced to borrow $250 from Dad to get both of them out of the Intercity Hospital, since the $1,000 charges were more than I’d saved.

We were financially destitute before we got home. It didn’t take long to see that three could not live as cheap as two, and any unforeseen expenses drove my already austere budget onto the rocks. We got deeper into debt every month because my daughter’s needs came first, after which I paid mandatory expenses to stay alive and, finally, I maintained our old car to keep us mobile.

Living under the pressure of not having enough money to live, and working hard to get what we needed kept me stressed out. Our arguments over which critical needs would get our money often escalated into marital fights. We made up relatively quickly, as it was tough to stay angry with the three of us tucked into our tiny living quarters.

I drank the cheapest beer available, and smoked other people’s pot whenever I could. I allocated a little money to score pot or hash, and justified getting high as my reward for work and relief from worry.

By the holidays that year, I had felt the euphoria of getting high enough that my mind declared the experience as my comfort zone. I had created a place in my head that allowed me to be mellow, stop obsessing over things I couldn’t control, and enjoy life for the moment. My demons began to surface when there was a pot drought. I pressed people to score for me because I felt empty, nervous and full of anxiety when I couldn’t get high.

As I tried to cope with the pressure of working full time and supporting a family, I felt financially hopeless. I hadn’t experienced real adversity, so I struggled to resolve day-to-day problems and worried about long-term insecurity.

Gradually grass took over my life. I didn’t want to be around people who didn’t smoke, so I isolated myself from everyone except Rachael, my daughter, Sam and the neighboring college kids.

~ ~ ~

Within a couple weeks I turned 21, and soon realized Uncle Sam hadn’t forgotten me. My “2S” student deferment was replaced with a “1A” classification that made me available for military service. The sarcasm in the fall of 1969 was that “A1” was the meat tenderizer and “1A” meant you were as good as dead meat.

While I researched the Selective Service policies and the draft classification process, I discovered I could not be drafted while I had an appeal in process. I immediately applied for the sole support deferment, claiming my daughter and Rachael would be without money if I went to war. Both parents wrote letters to President Nixon, stating they would not support my family if I were drafted and sent to Vietnam.

The sole support process bought me a couple months, but I was still “1A” going into December of 1969.

Around that time, the government announced a birthday lottery to be held on Dec. 1, 1969. Its purpose was to determine the order in which men, born between 1944 and 1950, would be called to report for induction into the military. They put all birth dates in a drum, and pulled birth dates one-by-one, so guys with a given date knew the relative sequence in which they would be drafted.

I waited and took my chances, secure in the knowledge that Canada was still an option. The lottery number for my birthday was 249, which meant all males whose birthday numbers were 248 and lower would get drafted before me. No one was sure how far into the birthday chain the draft would reach, so my number didn’t make me feel totally secure. As it turned out, 195 was the highest number drafted in my lottery.

Although my lottery number kept me away from the draft, I hadn’t lost my compassion for the U.S. troops in Vietnam, nor had I forgot the families and friends of those killed, wounded or captured. To me, fighting in Vietnam was like alcoholism: Only one person’s life was threatened, but all those people who knew him shared the emotional pain, grief, and the misery.

My daily reminder of the war was the body counts which were reported on the TV nightly news where the kill ratio showed more VC dead than U.S. troops. The TV clips of battles depicted the war as a horror, no matter who was winning. The death numbers supported the military reports that stated our strategies were working and we were winning.

Eye-witnesses confirmed that the practice of counting one dead VC multiple times which told a much different conclusion of our strategy than had the kill ratio been accurate. History has documented the hidden agendas that ran the war, and the lies used to defend the government war strategies.

The draft was a monkey on my shoulder but, with me, there was a connection to others who opposed the war and the draft that was used to feed the war-machine. Often, when we were getting high, the conversation would turn to the war and a discussion would ensue against the government and the atrocities we knew about. My opinions kept me away from people who were supporters of the war.

Books, movies, TV, current affairs, and music never let the war slip from my view or that of a generation. The peace symbol and the “V” hand symbol became synonymous with our generation in general, and with the Vietnam War, in particular.

~ ~ ~

I excelled at programming and kept getting the standard raises; however, I became frustrated and approached my manager.

“I would like to be transferred to a development job where I can use my new skills and be more creative,” I said. “I have worked on the maintenance of old programs for a year and need to be challenged.” He seemed pleased I had initiated the transfer request and, within a couple of days, I was moved into a development team.

In my new job, I sat next to a guy who had long hair. I assumed all guys who had shoulder length hair smoked pot, and this guy was no exception.

“Hi, I’m John. Do you live around here?” I asked.

“I’m Jason. I live off the Turnpike Exit 11, how about you?” He said.

“I live 2 exits farther east,” I answered. “Since we both go home in the same direction, do you want to stop for a beer after work some night?” I asked.

“No, I’m not into alcohol. Do you get high?” he asked conversationally.

I almost fell out of my chair, as I was expecting a little more small talk before we got to the subject of my real concern.

“Sure,” I said, keeping the conversation moving in the direction I thought would lead me to a joint, and possibly a new dealer.

“Why don’t you come over to my place tomorrow night? We can talk for a while. Here are the directions,” he said as he scribbled down a couple street names and turns. I was excited for the rest of the work day.

When I got home, I told Rachael I set up a meeting with a guy from work who was probably a dealer. She said good, maybe because she wanted to get high, but probably because she wanted me to find some dope so I could calm down. Our daughter was about one year old at the time and, since Rachael had not smoked cigarettes or pot since becoming pregnant, she was ready to have a little fun.

I agonized for the next 24 hours waiting to share a joint with Jason.

~ ~ ~

It was a warm spring evening as he led me up the stairs to a partially refurbished attic. We sat on the floor in front of a small window with bright sunlight pouring over us, and he pulled out a small garbage bag that looked to contain a few ounces. We were high after the first joint, and laughed about the people at work. As the sun was setting, he rolled another number that finished us off.

I wasn’t sure how long we smoked, but I sensed it was time to leave. In a casual way, I asked about dealers who would be open to selling me some pot. I desperately wanted to score, so I asked if I could buy some of his weed. He explained he wasn’t a dealer, but said he’d pass the word that I was looking to buy. He explained that whenever he found good stuff, he would buy a pound to smoke and party with friends. Then, he offered to give me a small baggie to hold me over until a new score presented itself. He wouldn’t take any money, but eye-balled the amount of pot in the baggie.

“You owe me this much whenever you score.” He said, and I went home excited.

“Jason is a cool guy, you will like him,” I told Rachael. “He looks like a solid pot connection with multiple dealers. He gave me a lid from his personal stash and wouldn’t take any money. We have an agreement that I will pay him with pot when I score.”

A few days after that night with Jason, he introduced me to a couple of guys in the sub-culture within the company’s world of drugs. I made friends with each of them and, for the next few years, Jason and I kept each other on top of what drugs were around.

Aside from getting high, I played basketball with Jason and his friends. They all lived in the same neighborhood all of their lives. They had been living the same life, year after year, even though they were in their 20s. At least Jason and his best friend had graduated from college before they returned to their old lives.

We were from different backgrounds and didn’t share the same lifestyles. Since I left home, I had graduated from two different colleges and moved my family twice in the first couple years of my career. For me, life was all about change.

After about a year, I only hung around them to score, and we all knew my motive. Jason and I remained friends, but our differences had escalated since I moved again and he hung out with his high school buddies. Although I felt uneasy being around a couple of his old friends, I sucked it up for obvious reasons.

My marijuana addiction and the need for acceptance by those guys began to cloud my judgment.

It’s a fairly standard rule for scoring drugs, that you not get high before trying new stuff. Otherwise, it’s difficult to judge the quality of what was for sale.

One night, I broke that rule while I was at Jason’s waiting for a deal to go down. We had been waiting for a couple of hours, and I was a little antsy doing nothing. A friend of his began sharing a joint with his son who looked about six years old. Everybody thought it was funny, but I felt self-righteous and needed a smoke to get mellow.

Even after I’d smoked awhile, I was still pissed at that father for giving his son marijuana at such an early age. I thought he was being completely irresponsible, and I couldn’t stand to watch the little kid get stoned. There was nothing I could do to stop it, since I was there only to buy drugs, and not to try cleaning up the next generation of neighborhood pot heads. So, I stood up to leave, and told Jason I trusted his judgment on the buy.

That was one of those times where drugs had put me in a place where I didn’t belong, and with people who made me feel uncomfortable by doing what I knew was wrong.

When I got deeper into drugs, I continued to do things I knew were wrong. As my addiction controlled more and more of my behavior, I eventually lost the courage to leave situations when I should have. Instead, I’d sit through anything just to get high, because that had become the driving force in my life.

I did my best at work, but I ignored career opportunities, because I feared the demands of success were beyond my abilities. After a couple of years, my inferiority complex and low self-esteem kept me from doing extra work and following a higher level protocol to position myself for better jobs.

I used drugs to take away the pressure to succeed. Getting high allowed me feel OK with myself, but gradually feelings of paranoia forced me into isolation. My social skills had degenerated, so I tended to avoid gatherings for the most part. When I was pushed into circles of people, I felt a need to get stoned and to drink faster than people could follow.

Although I seemed ‘cool’ by the definitions of the day, I couldn’t let my hair down enough to ignore that inbred question of trust. It was difficult to recover my ego after I saw people laughing at me, when I couldn’t laugh at myself. Although I had fun with drugs and those same people who laughed at others, I often felt compassion. I guess that, deep down, I took life too seriously.

Today, I live with feelings that hurt me from my experiences in 1965 when I was part of my college fraternity. My black and blue ass has healed, but the personal insults, demeaning accusations and general lack of concern for my feelings created questions about my person that I’ve never been able to reconcile.

Those guys were a run-away freight train and, although I was strong enough to hold on, I was dragged along the tracks until I was broken. I had choices, but that didn’t mean I had the courage, self-respect, or personal integrity to pass on things which were not in my best interest.

I wanted to be high all the time, and did whatever it took to satisfy that goal. I was powerless to stop my out-of-control behavior. The hole in my soul got bigger, and my heart got heavier with each bad decision.

Sometimes, I wondered if it was just me who distinguished right from wrong, and I would chastise myself for behavior other people thought was acceptable. But, it didn’t really matter who defined ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ because I would micromanage my personal issues to justify how I lived.

~ ~ ~

On May 4, 1970, students came out on the Kent State campus and scores of other universities to protest the bombing of Cambodia, an initiative by President Nixon that appeared to expand the Vietnam War.

The Ohio governor sent the National Guard to control the students. The Guard’s first response was to march into a group of angry demonstrators, and then all units would retreat up a small hill.

In several articles, the Akron Beacon Journal newspaper reported that, seconds before the Guard would have passed around the corner of a large building out of sight from the crowd, many of the Guardsmen wheeled around and fired their rifles directly into the students, wounding 13 and killing four.

The soldiers pulled their triggers over and over for 13 seconds. The Guardsmen were not in any immediate physical danger when they fired. The crowd was not pursuing them. The campus was full of onlookers and students on their way to class. The killing happened so fast and was so unexpected, that other students were walking around completely unaware of what had just happened. Two of the four dead didn’t get to their next class.

To add insult to tragedy, none of the Guardsmen were ever punished, claiming they fired at nonspecific targets. The message from President Nixon seemed to condone the killing and wounding of protestors.

After weeks of trials, the exhausted relatives settled with the state of Ohio for a reported $675,000 and only $15,000 apiece went to the families of the slain students.

I will never forget the picture of Mary Vecchio, bent over a fallen student who was shot. He lay face down on a campus sidewalk. Her face was contorted and she appeared to be in shock, trying to understand what her friend did that caused his death. Her arms pleaded for help, as though she were asking the soldiers why they killed her classmate.

That picture of the murder brought a message into the hearts of parents across the country that their kids weren’t safe. Even protesting against the war was a free-fire zone. And, angry with grief, much of the country called the killings “the most unpopular murders ever committed in the United States.”

Anyone too young to remember those times can’t really appreciate what it was like. On May 4, 1970, our Army killed our college kids.

~ ~ ~

In the early ’70s, the country continued to be torn apart. The population was fragmented, and both sides were forming walls. It was the pro-Vietnam groups versus the “Hell no, we won’t go” culture.

It was April 23, 1971, and 2,000 members of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War had gathered in Washington, D.C. for three days of protest. Dubbed “Operation Dewey Canyon III,” the protest took its name from two secret U.S. invasions of Laos.

The vets marched, staged a sit-in at the Supreme Court, and were turned away at the Arlington National Cemetery and the Pentagon, where some tried to turn themselves in for war crimes. In a climactic ceremony, 1200 vets threw their military medals onto the steps of the Capitol.

Like so many Americans, I felt helplessness, and my sadness was fueled even further by combinations of drugs and alcohol.

For over a year, the men in Rachael’s family goaded me with questions about the war in Vietnam and at home. I tried to give answers with substance, but was alone in defending the peace movement.

A send-off party was held for Rachael’s brother who got drafted. My mother-in-law’s house was filled with relatives. The men were all drinking, clearly proud that one of their own was going off to fight for their country.

“Why don’t you want to go to war to fight for your country?” they asked.

“Are you afraid of being shot at or killing a Vietnam piece of shit? I hear they all look the same and the Viet Cong use old women, kids and dogs to fight. I’d blow the shit out of anything that moved if I was there,” said one World War II vet.

“Did your old man go to war?” somebody asked.

“No, he didn’t, because his speech impediment disqualified him,” I snapped back. Dad had wanted to go to war with his buddies and his rejection hit him hard. He was still bummed about it years later. I couldn’t take their shit anymore, and I raised my voice to give my perspective about the war. The house went silent, as I vented my opinion of them and their stupid ideas.

“Because you have served in the military does not oblige you to support a worthless war that sacrifices the lives of our young men and women for vague causes. Think about our enemy and ask yourself why we want to kill them.

I asked them, “What are our goals? When will it be over? Are we winning? Is the government being honest about what is happening over there?” My tirade was enough to get the room fully engaged in a verbal battle.

“We need to fight Communism just like we have for years,” I was reminded.

“You are blind to what is happening,” I said. “We are fighting in the jungles of Vietnam where North Vietnam has never lost a war since the French came in the ’50s. We don’t know how to fight jungle warfare, and they are killing us by the thousands. Just watch the body counts on the news tonight.”

Months later when we all sat down for that year’s Thanksgiving dinner, the topic of draft dodging began to charge the air. In a controlled tone I said, “I am not going to go to `Nam, regardless of what people say, or think about me,” after which, I excused myself from the table and went for a walk to get away. No one tried to stop me or find me after I left, not even Rachael.

~ ~ ~

In the spring of 1972, I took a job as a system analyst with a mega-company, so we moved to a townhouse complex in New York. The information systems group where I was assigned used archaic technology; consequently, I quickly became a leader of about five people, showing them new concepts and working with data center techniques that were used in my prior job.

I made practical use of software tools they’d had access to for years, but ignored in favor of the old ways. My techniques were established practices around the company so they had been proven reliable. Within weeks, I fixed the glaring problems, discarded the status quo, and began using new ways to get things done. A couple of guys began to follow me, but others weren’t going to risk aligning themselves with my new ideas.

The time and cost savings from my projects earned me a company technology award and a step up the corporate ladder. One particular girl on my team had worked especially hard and deserved half the award, so I suggested they split the award money between us. A few days later, however, I was told that being a manager meant I got all the credit and all the money, which was the reward for being in charge. Their so-called “win-win” approach to managing was the notion that projects with good results were because of good management, and bad results were caused by the team.

Once I heard their management philosophy, I wasn’t sure if I had stepped up – or down, the company ladder. I continued to treat people with respect, rewarded their contributions, and used a team concept to manage projects.

The facility where I worked was a location for training mid-level managers. Graduates received promotions into prestigious positions of high level management. Before the manager promotions, there was a trial period during which the program graduates were field-tested in sites, worldwide. The training was difficult, intense, stressful, and the course work was done in addition to a candidate’s current job.

After about six months on the job, I was called into my manager's office.

“Have a seat, I have something for you,” he said.

From the corner of his desk, he took two textbooks for the first two courses of the management program and handed them to me.

“You have been selected for the management program. These will get you started on the fast track to success,” he said.

“Thanks.” I was flattered but didn’t know what else to say, so I gave him a smile and left his office. On my way out, he told me where to meet with the other people who were starting the program.

“Good luck.” I heard him say, as I turned to leave.

I glanced at the books’ covers on the way to my cube and saw they were both in a business function I didn’t like, which did not whet my appetite in the least. I put the books on my desk, and looked out my window trying to think of my options.

A couple of guys who worked for me stepped into my cube to congratulate me before they offered their unsolicited opinions about the courses, and war stories of how the program psychologically broke people they knew.

Before I left that day, I had already begun to feel the pressure to do well.

On the way home, I convinced myself I was not smart enough to do well but, more importantly, I wondered how much time would be taken from my personal life. By the time I got home, I’d decided I would need to figure a way to get out of the program, and save face.

On one sunny Sunday, a few weeks after I started going to classes, I had the textbooks opened to help me create solutions to some crazy business problem. My friends and family were at the pool, drinking and having fun.

By mid-afternoon I had mentally quit, so I slammed the book shut, got high, grabbed a beer and headed for the pool.

It was a few days before I told my manager that I had quit the program, which threw him into a tirade. He told me that no one had ever quit the program, but I gave him the books anyway, and walked out of his office.

The truth was that I liked software systems and technology, but did not want to be a manager in a part of the business I didn’t like. Even if I had aced all the courses, the reward of lengthy assignments and being without my family, didn’t interest me in the least.

At the time, I felt I had burned that bridge for career advancement, intentionally – and for the right reasons. Or, maybe my addictions had clouded my thinking, sapped my ambition, and allowed my inferiority complex as an excuse for not trying.

But, it was more than that. I felt my management award money should have been split with a team member – and, so I did just that. Again, I was reminded this was not appropriate ‘management’ protocol. Quite possibly, my middleclass work ethic of hard-work-for-good-pay didn’t prepare me for this work world, so I backed away from getting higher level jobs lest I fell deeper into a world I didn’t understand.

For whatever reason, I didn’t want to be in a position that wasn’t comfortable to me without an escape route, should I decide I wanted to leave. Within higher level management, there is no mechanism to go back to a job beneath the one you have, unless you quit the company.

One day, Rachael told me about a mother and wife who lived in the building next to ours in the townhouse development. As it turns out, her husband had been away for the better part of two years on multiple program-graduate assignments, leaving the woman alone with their child. It must have been the loneliness, too many responsibilities or whatever, because she had lost hope that her life would ever get better.

From her desperation, she pinned her daughter’s name to the little girl’s jacket and put her on a flight to her home town. She called her parents to say the girl was coming in, and the flight number. The woman then went to her bathtub and shot herself through the head.

Since that story was told to me, I’d heard a couple of other stories with similar situations and similar results.

For me, family always came first and, at this point in our lives, I needed to enjoy my family as we would never be able to experience this part of our lives, again. I knew that our kids would never be this age again, and felt that other things (like commitment to a job), could be controlled to some extent.

The compliments I would receive recognizing my work helped me to feel secure, while my career progressed at a pace fast enough to satisfy me.

I think I also felt a need to work my way to the top, so I would know how to manage people and systems on the way up. Although my approach to my career was always a quick-study work hard ethic, I felt the need to understand the positions around me, even if a system I implemented eliminated a job. How could I design the future for the job function I didn’t understand?

It came to pass that many managers in the high tech field who had taken the fast pace to the top, were poor designers and project managers because they didn’t understand the user environment, the problems or the possible solutions. Those guys must have had trouble sleeping at night wondering about what they’d done and where to go next.

Skipping big rungs on the ladder would get you to the top faster, but you would lack the required experience that was available on each rung. Sooner or later, one is confronted with the request to explain a knowledge-only question.

While living in suburbia, we had upgraded our living standards, and I was feeling confident with a secure future in my computer career. I knew more about technology than anyone in my IT group and wasn’t afraid of the fallout from dropping out of the program.

Within our townhouse complex, we made new friends with a couple who had originated from Hartford, Connecticut. They lived close to where we lived in our first ground-level apartment.

Larry was the first alcoholic I knew, and he drank nearly every waking moment. He was a technology salesman, so we had a little in common and became close friends. Within the year- and-a half that I lived near him, I had taken on his drinking habits.

I had crossed another line, and was fearful of where it would lead. We drank beer and got high every night during the week. On weekends, we drank beer and then switched to gin around noon. We stayed high from morning until night using different kinds of drugs. Denise, his wife, also drank alcoholically. Rachael was beginning to follow suit.

I could sense Rachael and I were beginning to drift apart because she was following in the footsteps of Larry’s wife, while I was drifting away from my family life to party with him. We were moving in the direction of their marriage which was a loose arrangement – not far from divorce. The hole in my gut told me it was time to change how I lived, but I was hooked.

A doctor in the area prescribed Valium for a variety of problems. Larry’s wife and I made appointments for nervous conditions, while he went for his back problem. With each appointment we got a monthly supply, so we scheduled visits to keep an inventory. Valium was the drug we took if there wasn’t any other chemical around.

My friend introduced me to methamphetamine or “crank” as it was called. I loved its high and the duration of its effect as it took getting high to a new level of euphoria that was overpowering. There were times after “tweaking” for hours that I knew I should sleep – or at least rest. I knew I should be tired, even though I wasn’t.

When the speed wore off, I would be mentally and physically drained. So, in order to avoid the inevitable crash, I would do more. I was high in no time, and didn’t feel tired at all.

My new friends became my sole source for drugs. If there were drugs we wanted, we would drive four hours to Connecticut to score from their contacts.

I “turned on” with tenants at parties, only to find people in adjoining townhouses had their own drugs of choice. They got stoned and drank like everyone else in my tiny circle of friends, and soon everyone who lived around me was cool about smoking and getting high. Even straight people joined in at parties.

After a couple of years, I started worrying about my mental well-being, and thinking about just how long I would live drinking and drugging in this fast-lane lifestyle. When I wasn’t high, I felt nervous, anxious and more insecure than I had ever experienced. I couldn’t participate in the real world because my priorities were jumbled, and my self-respect disappeared. I stopped looking in the mirror.

My “type A” personality kept me revved up for action, but my gut feelings controlled the hole in my soul and my distress accumulated every time I went against my will. The hole never felt better, only worse.

I didn’t know if I was going crazy. Daily, I soaked my brain with alcohol to curb my out-of-control thinking, and used drugs to lift me from insanity to feelings that I could accept.

I knew my brain and body well enough to let drugs dictate how I would function. To get the desired effect I knew how much alcohol and drugs to ingest and when to do it. This must have been the “better life through chemistry” show I missed on the Discovery Channel.

I lived so close to the edge of reality I became angry at everything and everybody who agitated me, or somehow interrupted my addictions.

With increasing frequency my behavior was out-of-control and I feared I would drink and drug my way through life.

I stopped socializing. I quit going to see my folks because I was usually wasted and couldn’t hide it. I lived with unpredictable fear and knew that, just below the surface of being high, there was a cauldron of trouble waiting for me to slip. At times I’d break down, and Rachael would talk me back from the edge.

Though I didn’t know where I was in life and didn’t have a plan for moving forward, I started job hunting, looking for a higher salary and a better career position. Now that my son was added to our family, we were strapped for things we needed, and a few things we wanted. I seemed to always have enough cash to drink and to use, though. After all, that was my life’s blood!

I landed a job with a small company in Rochester, New York, about a seven-hour drive from where we lived. At the courtesy of my new employer, Rachael and I went to Rochester to find a place to live. To help us make the best use of our short time, we drank beer and took speed for the three-day weekend.

My plan was to cover as many subdivisions as possible, thinking we could do more looking with less sleep. So the speed kept us awake, while the beer kept us sane enough to record locations, costs, features and its proximity to schools.

When it was time to decide, we were burned out and confused about which subdivisions were where. Clearly, my approach to house hunting failed, so we began a new search on the Sunday we were scheduled to leave.

We easily found a townhouse that suited our needs. Since our selection had not been on my short list, we scurried around to familiarize ourselves with the area before leaving for home.

My addiction to drugs left me wondering how I could score in our new environment and, for the next couple of weeks, I agonized about finding a dealer. I bought all the drugs I could get, hoping I had enough until I found a new source. In the meantime, I felt somewhat secure knowing that I could always drink.

* Chicago Reader, May 16, 1997