50 After 50 Read online

  I drank out of opaque plastic cups or other glasses that did not resemble wineglasses. Sometimes, I would bring roadies when I drove carpool from my children’s schools. Bad mother. Lucky I didn’t kill them. Or me. Or anyone else.

  I knew I had a drinking problem in high school and college because I had so many blackouts. During one of these blackouts in high school, I was raped. I found out 20 years later that someone watched while this occurred. The observer told me himself.

  I drunkenly lit my hair on fire once, by mistake, at a football game. I woke up in strange places, unsure of how I had gotten there. I favored Long Island Iced Teas because they got me obliterated the most quickly. Luckily, I mostly had friends who watched out for me, going to the effort of rescuing me from a bikers’ place at the beach one summer when I had passed out there during my teenage years. I got myself into very dangerous situations while drunk, and could have died on several occasions.

  My drinking subsided during pregnancy and early motherhood. My desire to be the kind of mother I had yearned for somehow overrode my compulsion to drink during those years.

  It raged back with a vengeance when I came out of my depression. It fueled my mania. And then it didn’t. It got me into loads of trouble. My husband gave me several chances to get sober. He really tried. He sent me to rehab. He came to family weekends there, and was understanding, to a point. Eventually, justifiably tired of my drunken escapades and disgusted by my terrible relapses between rehab stays, he told me not to return home.

  • 3 •

  A Living Problem

  My 13-year-old son walked across the stage to accept an award at his highly regarded private school’s eighth-grade graduation. I was not there. I was in rehab. I pictured the Chanel- and Burberry-clad, well-heeled parents discussing where the room parent was during this grand celebration. I imagined teachers asking my son where his normally omnipresent mother was and him responding, “Oh, she couldn’t make it. She’s in rehab.” Ugh. I just tried not to think about it.

  I never in a million years thought I would end up in rehab.

  Recovery, at least, frees you from worrying about what others think about you. Once we addicts fully uncover our demons, we are able to search for our most authentic selves. Sharing openly about my sobriety enabled me to help numerous women who had been grappling alone with the disease of alcoholism and the attendant shame. I wrote an article for Washingtonian magazine that caused many of my picture-perfect friends and acquaintances to ask me to take them to their first 12-step meeting.1 Before I started going to meetings, on several occasions, I sat outside in my car at a meeting site, afraid to go in. When I finally got the courage to enter a meeting, I found one of my oldest friends there. I had no idea he was in long-term recovery. Had I known, I may have asked him for help much earlier. He took me to meetings every day for my first weeks in recovery. He introduced me to many women in the program, including my sponsor. For that, I will be forever grateful and will strive to pay it forward.

  I had preferred to run from my skeletons for the prior 40-plus years. They were safely tucked away. I believed no one in my former country club life would understand the darkness of my past. The “ladies who lunch,” with whom I often shared company, could not possibly relate to my tortured childhood involving sexual abuse, police arresting my father for beating my mom, half brothers, step-siblings, racial slurs, and microaggressions. We were all so adept at making our lives appear so unblemished, so Tiffany-blue designer aubergine color-coordinated, so wrapped in mansion walls or, at least, picket fences. I overcompensated for my low sense of self-worth by attempting to over-function, people-please, organize and run as many events as possible in school, church, and neighborhood communities. My next-door neighbor jokingly called me the “mayor” of the town, and remarked that she gave my house as a landmark when telling people where she lived. My house was the frequent site of neighborhood welcome coffees, book clubs, fund-raisers, and dinner parties. My daughter and son attended prestigious private schools. My then-husband was an Ivy League–educated attorney, who had been well reared in Charleston, South Carolina. He provided well for our family. I gave up my law practice to attempt to create a modern Norman Rockwellian family life and to pretend that I belonged in the well-to-do WASP-y extended family and country clubs we joined.

  At least my children had the childhood I had longed for. I had not screwed that up. I gave them everything I had wanted as a child—a mom who was home for them, involved in their schools and was the Girl Scout troop leader; tennis, golf, piano, dance, swimming, and sailing lessons; cotillion to learn social graces; fashionable clothes; travel; family dinners almost every night; availability to help with homework; and a parent who attended every sporting and school event.

  In some ways, I tried too hard. When my children hit their teen years, they naturally stopped needing me so much and affirmatively tried to cut the apron strings, pushing away their over-involved mom. I went from knowing everyone in their circles to being given occasional scraps of information about their personal interactions outside our home. I was overeager to meet their friends and peppered them with inquiries that elicited the opposite of the intended effect.

  I did not know how to let go of my children properly and to give them their needed space. I felt untethered, having put too many of my eggs in the motherhood basket. I did everything in my power to nurture my children, but failed to give my relationship with my husband the attention it deserved. I had let him slip pretty far down the totem-pole of my attention recipients. Our Westie dog arguably received more of me on a daily basis.

  My depression following my father’s death had turned me into a ghost of myself. Then, I began surreptitiously drinking by myself, until it became a two wine bottles a day habit. The antidepression medication I took magnified the effects of the alcohol.

  The more I reflected on it, in some ways, the excessive drinking and attendant outrageous and self-sabotaging behavior may have been a backward cry for help. I recycled my cases of empty wine bottles, not just out of concern for Mother Earth. I probably wanted someone to notice them. The mounting pile of them. Empty, like I felt.

  The demons would not stay away. I snapped and couldn’t run anymore. My husband gave me an ultimatum and I went to 12-step meetings and then to rehab, one of five I checked into in 2012.

  Each one taught me something different and had slightly different approaches. The first one, Caron Treatment Center in Wernersville, Pennsylvania, convinced me through medical studies and presentations that alcoholism is a disease, as diabetes is a disease, and that it has a strong genetic component.

  My father and grandfather were both alcoholics. I would frequently arrive home during my teen years to find my father alone in a darkened living room, listening to Barbra Streisand on the record player and crying into his beer. He would look up and moan, “Angeline (my mother’s name), why did you leave me?” I would respond, “I am not Angeline! I am your daughter!” as I ran up the stairs and locked myself into my bedroom.

  My grandfather died of the disease of alcoholism. He was a proud colonel, who had served in World War II. His wife, my namesake, lived with us and suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. His martini glass seemed rarely empty. I can still picture the amber bottles with the four roses label. The numbing liquid corroded his liver and took his life.

  Caron showed us studies that the brains of alcoholics metabolize alcohol differently from those of nonalcoholics. As a lifelong Catholic, hatched during the days of pre–Vatican II brimstone, I had thought alcoholism was a matter of free will and a moral failing. I now know it is a cunning and baffling disease. It ruined my marriage and other relationships. I lied to my doctor about my excessive alcohol intake when she presented medical tests evidencing my liver’s destruction.

  My rehab group therapist practiced a tough love approach. My first day, I attempted to defend a patient who was being yelled at by the therapist for
violating a rule. He turned on me and shouted, “Maria! Take off your fucking nurse’s hat and get the hell out of this room!” Stunned, I pinched my bottom cheeks together to keep from crying—a tactic a rehab friend had suggested that actually works. The therapist had my number. He knew I would rather focus on anyone else’s problems but my own. Deflection would no longer prevent introspection by this alcoholic.

  My counselor at Caron thought I needed trauma counseling and recommended I go to The Ranch outside Nashville for intensive treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) for some sexual assault and abuse issues I had avoided for many years. I decided it was about time. I never wanted to leave my family for rehab again. I cried every day in rehab. One fellow patient nicknamed me “the human water sprinkler.”

  My greatest flow of tears followed the Sunday chapel services, which elicited a roller coaster of emotions. I listened to families giving testimony about how their loved ones were saved by rehab. I saw fellow alcoholics and drug addicts break down in despair and drag themselves back up. I saw musicians sing or play instruments, performing for the first time sober. Witnessing this was so moving to me that I later started open mic nights at my recovery club.

  I sought out the priest, Father Bill, after one of the services. I asked if he would hear my confession. He replied, with his hand touching my head, “You are forgiven for everything you did while in the clutches of this disease. Go out and sin no more.” I felt healing in this encounter.

  From the PTSD rehab, I learned that not dealing with one’s issues is like holding a beach ball under water. One can do it, but it takes a tremendous amount of energy. And whatever it is that one is not dealing with unwittingly pops up in unexpected ways. This explained a lot of the sideways behavior in which I had engaged in my life. Learning to forgive ourselves is a necessary part of recovery.

  Those in recovery often beat ourselves up over our mistakes. My sponsor encouraged me to question my interior dialogue when railing against myself. Sometimes it helps for me to ask if I would allow someone to speak to my children or a close friend in this way. Then I am more often able to choose compassion for myself.

  I benefited from equine therapy at this PTSD rehab. I had been fearful of horses. I learned that horses are ultrasensitive to the emotions of those around them. They tend not to cooperate, for example, if they sense fear from the one giving them commands. We cared for the horses and learned how to build mutual trust. Overcoming fear gave me confidence I needed as I rebuilt my life.

  The biggest lesson I learned at this rehab was the necessity of asking for help with addiction. The counselors engaged us in a powerful exercise. We were blindfolded and put into a maze. We were told that there was only one way out of the maze. I was nearly the last one out. As I heard others making their way out, my determination to find the exit doubled. The counselors shared with me later that it was often those, like me, with advanced degrees who were the last out of the maze. They thought they could think their way out of the maze. But the only way out of this maze was to ask for help—not something I will ever easily forget after this frustrating, yet compelling reminder.

  Another difficult lesson for me was physically letting go by jumping off a high cliff (while harnessed). I am afraid of heights. I cried atop that cliff but moved through the fear, while putting my fate in God’s hands. We were told that courage is moving through fear. Powerful exercise. I am still afraid of heights, though.

  The counselors made us say daily affirmations while looking in a mirror. We were required to say three positive things about ourselves before every group session. After saying each one, the rest of the group would robustly respond, “Yes you are!” In the beginning, I thought saying affirmations was a silly ritual. Over time, I came to believe my affirmations and truly felt a boost in confidence when I said them. I now have affirmations posted on my mirror at home and they do serve as personal buttresses. A few of my favorites:

  “I am patient and serene, for I have the rest of my life in which to grow.”

  “Every experience I have in life (even unpleasant ones) contributes to my learning and growth.”

  “I am a worthwhile and lovable human being.”

  “I have a Higher Power who loves me unconditionally.”

  “I create my reality.”

  “I am a child of God.”

  Everyone I met in rehab was, like me, broken. Some of their stories made me involuntarily recoil. I did not know our brand of desperation could lead someone to chug mouthwash or vanilla extract for the temporary escapism its alcohol content provided. I met a young woman who, while under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs, had attempted to peel off all of the skin on her arms, and had the gruesome scars to show for it. I got to know a middle-aged woman who downed laundry bleach because she could no longer stand her pain.

  When a heavily made-up 20-year-old with red dyed locks and four-inch heels, showing too much leg and cleavage joined our therapy group, I winced listening to her harrowing stories of living in a crack house and turning tricks for sick middle-aged men—the straight, white, married men asking for the most deviant of services—just to get her hands on another rock of cocaine. One client paid her to beat him with her fists. Others paid her to violate them with strap-on instruments or to watch her do twisted things with other people.

  I had no idea simply by looking at her that she may have been a prostitute. One of the hard-core addicts laughed at my surprise and joked, “Maria! Do you live under a rock? I took one look at her and said, ‘please, God, may there be an ATM here!’” (so that he could get cash to avail himself of sexual services from her). A sick joke.

  I became protective of this woman, especially since she was close to my daughter’s age. She was passionate about animals and hoped to work in a zoo someday. She even claimed that the rats in her former crack house did not bother her. I looked up programs during the 20-minute Internet allotment I was given occasionally, to give her a few leads. Her father wanted her to come back and work in the family’s business. She had her misgivings. “I can make a thousand bucks an hour with one old white guy who just wants me to beat him up,” the Lolita shared. “I don’t really want to sit in an office.” I never found out what happened to her, but continue to pray that she found a better life.

  We both shared a friendship with a gorgeous, former Ford model with a crystal meth addiction. She was bashful and doelike. I visited her after our rehab stay to meet her baby, who seemed to give her a reason for living a clean life. A year later, she died from an overdose.

  Another friend at this rehab had abused his liver so badly due to drinking that it visibly protruded from his abdomen. He almost had to carry it sometimes, supporting it with his arms. His wife pleaded with him to stop killing himself. He could not.

  One of my rehab roommates told me she had been placed there for “violence against others.” I looked at her and asked, “Are you going to hurt me?” She slowly looked me up and down before responding, “No.” I did not sleep well the one night we shared a room together.

  Another roommate committed suicide a few years after leaving the rehab. It is unlikely that I will ever know why she took her life. I do know that there is more to sobriety than not taking a drink or a drug, and that my battle to achieve emotional sobriety will take even longer than it took for me to stop seeking solace in a bottle. I pray that I never will stop working my 12-step program. There are many more layers of this onion to peel.

  I saw several well-known celebrities during my rehab stays. Like me, they put their pants on one leg at a time. And, like me, they were working on self-discovery and healing. Rehab is a shared journey of raw humanity, and no one is above or below another on the journey.

  Out of respect for their privacy, I shall not reveal by name the famous guests I met in rehab. They are, however, household names and people of immense talent. I helped one internationally successful musician work on a song, thou
gh I doubt she ever used it commercially. I do smile, though, when I see her in the media, and silently cheer her on in her recovery.

  The smorgasbord of people in rehab and in the recovery rooms never ceases to amaze me. And that we share so truthfully on a human level without judgment in rehab and recovery rooms is something I have not experienced elsewhere.

  I had not fully surrendered and relapsed after the first two rehab stays. I took dangerous drugs in an effort to hurt myself. I do not even enjoy drugs. I have seen these drugs kill others, but when a fellow sufferer gave them to me, I did not decline the offer. At that time, I was considering running my car into trees I passed, or jumping off bridges to end my pain. One of the benefits of not anaesthetizing with alcohol is that I can fully feel my feelings; this benefit also can be tough to bear, especially in early sobriety before learning how to use the tools of the program.

  I was filled with self-loathing and could not believe how low I had fallen. Part of me did not truly believe I was an alcoholic or addict. Part of me believed I could tackle my alcohol abuse without examining the pain that has plagued me throughout my life. Part of me believed I could control myself and my life, and that prior lapses were moral failings. Part of me did not believe I deserved the life I had.

  There is something called the “pink cloud” that many recovering alcoholics and addicts experience. It is a floating, heady feeling when one becomes newly sober. It is temporary, however, and has led many an alcoholic to let their guard down against this cunning, powerful and baffling foe.

  I became complacent, at a time that I should have remained vigilant. My disease took me to horrifying places. So I returned to rehabs three through five.

  I got kicked out of rehab number three. I was angry at myself and struggling with shame over the additional mistakes I had made. I fought with the counselors, demanding reasons for their excessive rules. The rules were in place in an attempt to keep us safe, but also to force us to give up control. Surrendering to a power greater than ourselves, whom I choose to call God, is an integral part of recovery. The approach at this particular rehab, however, was exactly opposite of what would have been effective for me at this point. I was in a chaotic, rebellious phase and their punitive measures only fueled my desire to act out. The more they prohibited me from doing something, the more attractive that something appeared to me. I had regressed into my former teenage behavior. It disgusts me now to think about how I behaved then.