Dancing with Demons

Originally published on Nov. 7, 2023 » Essay: On addiction, living death, and arguing with the self

The above painting was a father-daughter collaboration

Many of you might recognize this piece. I published it last November. I am posting it again for two reasons: 1) I have nearly twice as many subscribers now, so several of you probably haven’t read it, and 2) I’ve unintentionally written somewhat of a prologue to this piece, which I will be publishing soon, by the week’s end, I hope. For those unfamiliar with this essay, it’s the first of a three-part series sharing experiences during the last few months of my drug and alcohol use. The third essay is more about early sobriety. The second essay you can find a link to at the end of this essay.

Thank you for reading

»» »» Let’s begin «« ««

The morning of my last drink, I walked around downtown’s empty streets at five a.m. and wondered whether I could be anybody other than a guy trying to keep it together. If I survived, could I be more than a former addict and a white-knuckling drunk, more than a fool, forever a hiccup away from the next drink? When you've spent two decades drinking daily and snorting whatever fits through a straw, death talks sweetly and taunts you, whispering, “Psst, over here. Comfort yourself and cry no more. Come hither, you crippled soul, and swing the scythe.”

Of course, sober or not, I can’t remember which day I roamed downtown and had existential thoughts. How could I? Days and years blur. Too often, I walked the dark streets alone in the morning and danced with demons. 

But not anymore. Instead, I write, which often feels as though I’m recreating myself, attempting to remix the past and search for time’s perfect recipe. I craft an alternative self with the same materials and tools as the previous messes and fabricate who I think I am then, in the moment, yet not knowing, not always. Knowledge is delayed, often forgotten. Nothing I say stays. It must be mixed and mashed, stirred and beaten. I try to lock onto the perfect words, one sentence—the one—a string of verbs and nouns so complete that they understand me. Dreaming or not, the words lead me. They need me as much as I imagine they do. But see, I romanticize, lose sight of the goal, and must start again. 

I don’t talk about my sobriety much. I’m not embarrassed. Nor am I afraid of emotions and memories surfacing when unraveling the subject. I just prefer not to think about it. I refuse to let it define me. Or maybe I fear it will, that if I’m not careful, sobriety will be all I have, my only label. I want my life to be less about sobriety and more about moving forward. 

So why am I writing about it? Well, believe it or not, I want you to know me better. Also, I’m a dedicated hypocrite, relentlessly at odds with myself. Internal conflicts ensue daily. With each twitch and fidget, indecision abounds.

»» »»

A newly sober person must adjust to what feels like a stranger’s brain. You’re infected with intrusive thoughts and have memories you’ve never met. Minutes live in seconds. Fear steals your voice and leaves you stuttering. The English language seems to have changed. One day, somebody speaking out of turn uses the word imposter as if developing a mantra and incidentally embeds it in your mind. You consult a dictionary for the first time and can’t help but notice the similarities between you and the printed imposter’s o. Uncomfortable isn’t the right word, but as soon as you can spit out the syllables without choking on your tongue, you use it often. Despite your expanding vocabulary, the only word you can think of to describe yourself is Nobody.

In books and movies, you typically see and read about an addict's downfall, the inevitable splat. Then the person gets sober once or twice, everybody smiles, and the story ends. The story ends but not the addict’s life, not yet, though it might end ten minutes later in a bathroom while his wife’s smiling and bouncing a baby on her lap, or maybe he makes it a few weeks or months, maybe even a year, then—bam—one spritzer too many, he gets behind the wheel, and death collects another accolade.

»» »»

Once you have a few months clean, you wake one day and say, “Who the fuck am I?,” an ongoing theme throughout sobriety. You think about it constantly. Suddenly, while you’re getting ready for work, you look in the mirror and notice your teeth are the color of mucus and coffee. Cavities have made craters. Your skin’s aged twenty years overnight, pockmarked and wrinkled. The thought of going to work and talking to people terrifies you. Should you be outgoing? Quiet? Play it cool? Cool, you think, I can be cool. What the fuck is cool? I could be confident. No, that won’t work, too much effort. Avoid everybody. Act busy even if you’re twiddling your thumbs. Yes, that’s the ticket. No way. I can’t. And it’s then you realize—you have no personality. You don’t know how to act because you don’t know who you are. You try to recall the previous days and how you behaved. All you can remember is you looked younger. You miss the days of acting impulsively without your self-consciousness. Now it’s overcompensating and thrives on torturing you. Your body is a bear trap you can’t wiggle free from, yet wiggle you will. You squirm when idle, bouncing your knees as your feet tango, your teeth grinding. You can exercise and talk, distract yourself all you want, but nothing will rid you of the awkward existence you’re stuck with if you want to push through the day and see the next one clearly. And you must push forward—you know that—or you will die. Those are your options: Stay sober or die.

And you will die, said the doctor I had to see each morning for a week, Monday through Friday, at an outpatient treatment center across the street from the building where I squatted in a one-bedroom apartment. The doctor would have me pee in a cup and ask me about my withdrawals. He’d check my vitals, analyze my behavior, doubt every word I said, and berate me for not being a better human. Then there was the Librium, a daily discussion about its effects and whether I had exceeded the prescribed dosage. On Thursday, he asked me to bring him the prescription bottle the next day. He wanted to see if I was lying. He didn’t understand.

»» »»

A few weeks before entering treatment, I went to the emergency room, one visit among many that autumn. Late one night, I admitted myself for psychological reasons. Nurses brought me to a room, gave me a warm blanket and kind words, fluffed my pillow, and adjusted the bed. One nurse stayed in the room, leaving twice, each for only a moment. 

Thirty minutes into my stay, two police officers walked into the room. 

For what? I was confused. I hadn’t done anything wrong, not this time. 

Because I was drunk, the hospital wouldn’t treat my acute mental distress: that’s what I’m calling it. So a police officer brought me to the county jail and tossed me into a cell for the night. Not a big deal, really. I spent nearly a year in that jail when I was twenty and have been in countless facilities where the doors lock only from the outside. One night in a cell wouldn’t bother me.

A corrections officer checked my blood alcohol level every hour until I blew zeros. In the morning, a police officer brought me back to the hospital. I waited in a windowless room for three hours. Between the bright white walls were a physician's table and a chair in the corner. Standing in the room’s middle, I could almost touch two walls. 

A woman interviewed me to see if I was a threat to myself. She wanted me to quit drinking but knew it was out of her control. I told her I would look into it. She prescribed me Librium 10mg tablets, enough for ten days, two a day: my usual dosage and allotment. 

“Good luck,” she said.

Though the Librium kept me from going mad and alleviated much of my discomfort, I only stayed sober for three days. 

»» »»

Back at the outpatient facility, I didn’t bring the prescription bottle as the doctor had requested. I couldn’t. I had only three left and was supposed to have much more. You see, he had prescribed me 5mg tablets. I took the prescribed dosage for the first day. Two hours after my nighttime dose, I couldn’t hold a glass of water. My breathing was rapid. I was dizzy and nauseated, a shivering wreck. My shirt was damp with sweat. So I took another tablet. Within an hour, I was calm enough to fall asleep. Sleep! Imagine that. Too bad it only lasted until the medicine wore off, a few hours. Then I walked around the empty city and talked to ghosts.

I was honest with the doctor. I told him his prescribed dosage was too low and reminded him that I tried to explain that during my intake interview. He refused to believe I knew what I was talking about, despite my having taken Librium many times and knowing how I respond to various dosages and their efficacy. All he saw was a junkie trying to get high.

His reaction:¹ “You’re going to die. Yes, you will. Unless you find somebody else who’s willing to help you, you are dead. Your skin will jaundice. The whites of your eyes will look like the nicotine stains on your fingers. You’ll vomit blood. Your abdomen will bulge from the fluid piling up in the peritoneal cavity. You won’t be able to eat. Your gums will bleed. Various parts of your body will swell when the kidneys slow down. Your urine will turn a dark brown. Toxins will seep into your brain. You’ll speak gibberish to people who aren’t—is this funny to you? Because you can’t smirk with a feeding tube down your throat. My brother lost so much weight that he looked like a corpse before he was even dead. Without a transplant, you will die. But you’ll be long gone before anybody even notices your name on the list. Honestly, if I were you, as soon as I left here, I’d head up to Wal-Mart and buy a shotgun and a box of ammo, though you’ll only need one shell to save yourself and spare your family the heartache of the slow suicide you’re so adamantly pursuing. But no, you don’t have the courage. I can tell by looking at you. For Christ’s sake, wipe your nose. What are you, an invalid? Speak! Doesn’t matter—do what you want. Kill yourself any way you like, just don’t do it here. You hear me? Never come back here. I won’t allow it. Nobody here can help you.”

I didn’t speak.

“No-no,” he said, “leave the door open.”

Enraged, I talked to myself while crossing the street, my fists clenched. “I’m not afraid of death. Who does he think he is? I should get him fired. Fine, I’ll do it on my own. I don’t need his help. I'll show him.”

I’ll never know whether I would’ve maintained sobriety without his unorthodox techniques. I think I would have. I hadn’t seen my daughter in months and wanted nothing more than to be the father she thought I was. If it wasn’t for her, I would probably be dead. Of course, other people also helped keep me alive. But my daughter undoubtedly saved my life. Which reminds me, I should thank her mother.

As for the doctor, he was fired a few months after he kicked me out of the program. He’d had several complaints filed against him. His last mistake was calling a friend of mine a junkie. I wonder if he’s still sober.

»» »» End Scene «« ««

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Thank you.

1. About 10% of the dialogue is fiction. I had used this scene in a novel I never finished and added some words here and there. I rewrote the dialogue from the novel and used it in this essay. But, at this point, I’m unsure what is fictional and what is real. The doctor did describe how I would die and told me I should kill myself. That much I know is true.

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Part 2