A Life in Black and White

By JLK….   

I grew up in Seattle, and in the first 11 years of my life I was an overachiever. I was a good athlete, got good grades, and most important of all, I was a kid with the self-confidence to never back down from a fight.

Seattle in the 1950’s was a nest of racism and anti-Semitism, but I managed to avoid most of that as my best friend was Jewish and his father owned a butcher shop in the midst of the very large black community.

Then in 1958 my life changed forever. My father had been sick for years with an inoperable brain tumor that manifested in ever increasing Grand Mal seizures. We never knew when one would strike. The last I remember was in church when Dad collapsed on me as I was sitting next to him. I can still remember the sound of the toes of his shoes dragging as two dragged him out of Cathedral.

In April of that year I was at Boy Scout camp where I became very ill. Finally one of the “Dads” drove me back to Seattle. I went to bed immediately and my parents called a friend who was a Doctor. He made a house call (routine back then) and immediately had me hospitalized. The diagnosis was appendicitis and I went under the knife that night. Unfortunately it was too late and I had a burst appendix and peritonitis had set in. I was just recovering from one scourge when something much worse showed up. Someone forgot to wash their hands or instruments properly, and I was left with the gift of MRSA (Flesh Eating) Staph infection.

I was in bed 24/7 and visiting the doctor every day for three months. They had to leave the incision open to drain as there were no effective antibiotics back then. The strain was not even isolated until 1960. I would lie on the couch watching TV all day hovering between life and death (I found out later) while my father was upstairs doing the same thing. No one would come to visit me as I smelled so badly; even (especially) my sisters. I slept downstairs in the spare bedroom while my mother would sleep one night with me or one with dad depending on who was having the worst day.

Miraculously (less than 5% back then) I survived but my father did not. One month after my recovery, he died. I never knew how my mother managed those four horrendous months. If the reader can trudge through the rest of my story he/she can decide if I was the lucky one being a rare survivor of a deadly disease.

Although I did not know it at the time the year 1958 was the beginning of a journey that became increasingly nightmarish as I grew older.

The first change I noticed was an utter lack of confidence A 180 degree change from before my illness. I backed down from a fight and that ruined my reputation. I went from being a “popular” kid to being a loner of necessity.

When I was 13 my mother decided to move us to Portland where her two brothers (both physicians btw) and other family lived. Once we moved I became out of control. Not knowing at the time, this was the beginning of what I call my “dark years”.

Then the next change started to appear. Fatigue and “brain fog”. I could not stay awake in classes or concentrate on text book studies. In high school I was constantly brought in for questioning by the counselors as to why with my IQ test scores I was a “B” student. My friends made fun of me by mimicking my “look”, a result of constant fatigue. Meanwhile my mother was the source of a constant barrage of accusations of being “lazy”. And naturally the more she accused me of laziness the more rebellious I became.

I was arrested the first time at 15. My mother had to come down to the police station to pick me up as I was about 5 sheets to the wind. The police thought it would teach me a “lesson” by throwing me into the adult drunk tank with some fairly nasty characters. What I remember most about that episode was the sloping floor with a drain in the center to make it easier for the guards to hose down the puke.

My mother didn’t know it but that was just the start. I was arrested for alcohol-related adventures 3 times before I finally made 21. She would try to ground me but I would just sneak out not caring what she or anyone else thought.

When I entered college in 1965, alcohol was still de regeur so I joined the “Animal Frat House”. (Only “greasers” and African Americans smoked pot).More binge style drinking. Because she controlled a small trust fund for my education she forced me to go to a boring private Methodist school and even though I was an “Animal House” member it was still boring, boring, boring. My grades tanked, and as soon as I got my mitts (21 years old) on the Trust money I transferred to the University of Oregon. This was at the time a “Playboy Magazine” top five party school in the country. Logically one would think I would sink even further but the opposite occurred. In 1997 pot and other drugs (no shooting please) were now the “in” thing. So was sex. I was reborn. I was drinking all I wanted, smoking pot, doing acid, but the miracle discovery was speed.

Although I did not know it at the time, speed actually allowed me to concentrate. My grades shot up from a 2.2 to a 3.8 while indulging in drugs, sex and rock and roll to the max. I was in heaven! I never wanted it to end. But it did.

Halfway through grad school my money ran out. I was forced to work for a living. My first bouts of depression manifested. I was diagnosed with Chronic Depression at 23 and given drugs that were so awful I threw them out and went to the streets to self-medicate. From 23 to 28 I was in a spiral of ever increasing depression, suicide attempts, out of control drug use, and no real job.

This was after years of useless psychiatric treatment, with the counselor always blaming the death of my father as the origin of my problem. All bullshit as I learned years later.

I would assume PTSD was the diagnosis, but they tried every drug then on the market.  I was even given Lithium, Haldol, Wellbutrim even Dylantin for God knows what reason. I felt like a Guinea Pig.

My favorite story from those days: As I could not afford one-on-ones with a shrink, I attended “Group Therapy” sessions. The guy I sat next to had OCD. One day, being the curious creature I am, I asked him how many times a day he washed his hands (this was considered the main manifestation in those days). His answer: maybe 3-4 times a day. I said “well I wash mine more than that!” His answer: yeah but 3-4 hours at a time?”

Somehow I managed to pull out of the “dark years” in my late twenties, gave up street drugs and snagged my first “real” job as a commodity broker. I was still drinking though; the one drug I could not forgo.

At first my job was very tough. My personality didn’t fit the broker “type”. Tricyclics and alcohol helped but never raised my mood beyond “okay”. But anti-Depressant drugs did improve. And as they improved my work performance improved. One could draw a two line graph with the Y vertex showing the drug I am consuming and the X vertex showing the amount of money I was making. The graph line would remain flat then switch to a 45 degree angle when I started an improved drug. The biggest change was in 1990 when I switched from Tricyclics to SSRI’s

During this period of 25 years everything was going as well as could be expected from a ticking brain bomb…..until my late forties. That is when I lost control over my alcohol consumption. One study shows a relationship between the consumption of Lexapro (my SSRI of choice for five years previous) and that could have been the trigger.

I battled Stage One alcoholism for 6-7 years using legerdemain to rationalize my problem. Hiding and sneaking did not help, the fact that I was slurring my words by 6.00 every evening was obvious to all but most importantly my daughters and girlfriend (later to be my wife).

The worst times were flying overseas. I was commuting to Europe and Asia 4-5 times a year always flying first or business class. To an alcoholic FREE wine was manna. I would arrive in Atlanta making a (weaving) beeline to the Business Class lounge where the wine was also FREE. It got to the point where I would miss flights because I could not walk to the gate. What a schmozzle.

By the time I was in my early fifties I knew I was alcoholic (Step One in the Twelve Steps) but could not deal with the idea of never drinking again. Plus my first wife wanted me to keep drinking (she is what we call a non-alcoholic enthusiastic drinker.). She was constantly suggesting non AA programs that supposedly would allow me to keep drinking “normally”.

One of those programs was called “Moderate Drinking”. The founder ended up killing a woman and her daughter in a car accident then blowing a 0.16 (twice the legal limit) for the cops. When I read about that I had one of my “epiphany” moments. I knew choices were no longer there. I also knew that I could not quit with wife number one so that became one of the more salient reasons for divorce.

Two years after my divorce was finalized and I had taken up with my non-drinking wife-to-be I entered one of the expensive “fluff and buff” rehab centers. I was dead-set against AA for some reason, I guess it was because I was under the illusion of AA people all being losers and “dirtbags”.

I spent one night in rehab and hated it so much I had my girlfriend pick me up (she was not too happy). But during that one day spent there my life was changed.

The in-house physician, a former Vicodin addict, talked me into staying for two lectures that he designed for me. He explained the physiological dynamic of alcoholism along with other drugs like crack, heroin, morphine etc. I became convinced that my alcoholism was NOT a moral failing but a physical condition.

Rick (the doctor and Sid Caesar’s son of all people) then had me in his office for an exit interview. He spent the whole time convincing me of the fact that alcoholism is a lifetime battle, as the addiction never goes away. And the only path to success, was AA as it is (should be) a lifetime commitment concomitant with the progression of the disorder (remember “always gets worse never better).

The next day I was in a meeting and have been going ever since.

At first I thought I was “too smart” for the program as the psychology underpinning was obvious. Then I discovered two things:

1)   The often-used phrase “contempt prior to investigation” was obviously what I was using as a rationalization to leave the program

2)   Humility rather than my usual didactic arrogance for all things intellectual could go a long way. It allowed me to close my mouth and open my ears.

Almost ten years later I still attend one meeting a week. I do it because the new people are a constant reminder of the nightmare my life had become and was getting worse back in 2003.

I came to believe and still believe that the phrase written back in 1935 “always gets worse never better whether you drink or not” pertaining to alcohol and other addictive disorders. (Some people prefer the term “disease” or “allergy”…I prefer “disorder)

Since quitting, my financial position has not changed that much but my attitude  towards all things financial social and spiritual has changed radically. I no longer worry about finances. Because of my “handicaps” (the brain disorder and arthritis) I am unable to participate in athletics but I can and do participate in all things intellectual with a (relatively) clear head. I obsessively study and observe economics, history, particle physics, and mass psychology. My mind has developed the ability to make instantaneous connections between these disciplines. I am called “brainiac, “Meta Obsessive” and other things none of which are exactly true. It is only being well informed in a lot of areas that gives people that impression.

And for that I have AA to thank: giving me back my brain (complete with screwed-up Limbic Loop). I may not feel that much better but the people around me sure like me a lot more (with exceptions of course).

JLK