Hi! I’m D, and I’m an addict. Kind of slips right off the tongue now, but it hasn’t been so easily said in the past. I was an expert at denial and covering up -- or so I thought. I’m an addict, yes, but not to drugs or alcohol. I’m addicted to something as insidious and life-affecting as a narcotic, but easier to hide. With my addiction, I don’t get blood-shot eyes, dilated pupils -- I don’t even stagger when using. I’m addicted to being a victim.That may be hard for some of you to grasp, so I’d like to explain. My story has some events that were horrible, yet some of you probably have suffered worse. I’m not trying in any way to evoke sympathy from you, because that would just feed my addiction. I merely want to explain my addiction, and how God yanked me out of my denial, made me face my shortcomings, and guided me to the recovery I now enjoy.
Both my parents are practicing alcoholics, as were 3 of my 4 grandparents. Alcohol was more "normal" to drink in my house than water. My dad’s favorite home movie of me was when I was 15 months old, (not walking yet) and I drained several beer bottles at a party. I couldn’t even crawl straight. I tended bar at their parties before I could read the labels -- but I recognized them so I always mixed them right. I didn’t dare make an error, because the penalty was swift and painful.
I was born very premature, and as a result, I was a late bloomer and never developed much coordination. I didn’t crawl until I was a year old, and didn’t walk until 6 months after that. My entire family is "in" to sports. Both my parents used to water ski semi-professionally, my father was a boxer and football halfback. Growing up, my older sister was the best football player in the neighborhood, and often beat up on boys half again her age! I never did well at all in sports, though I really tried. I was an embarrassment to my father, and he made sure I knew it. Dad coached little league baseball for the entire 6 years I played, but he told me I wasn’t good enough to be on his team. I was always very small and wimpy. In fact, I weighed just over 100 pounds when I graduated from High School. I did go out for High School wrestling in the "fly weight" category, and made the team! But because it wasn’t a "real" sport, neither of my folks ever came to a match.
On those rare occasions when he would watch one of my baseball games, I’d always get beat for missing a fly ball or striking out. He was so ashamed of me, and made sure I knew it.
Physical punishment was bad, but the worst was when he’d just not speak to me for sometimes weeks at a time, without ever letting me know what major infraction of the rules I had committed. I always sat to his side at the dinner table, and he’d engage in conversation with Mom or my sister, but even if I spoke to him, he’d ignore me completely.
Beginning at a very young age, I was served a drink almost every evening before dinner -- usually bourbon, neat. Made doing homework a bit of a problem! He told me often that the only way I’d ever become a real man was to learn to drink like a man.
My mother is a sleepy drunk, and would just fall asleep on the couch every evening at about 7:00. Often, I’d have to help her to bed. My dad, though, was an angry drunk, and becomes unreasonably violent. I was most often the target, and got several broken bones and other scars as souvenirs. I tried so hard to do something to make him pleased with me, but it never happened.
In 1970, out of the rebelliousness of a 16-year-old, I committed the worst offence possible as far as Mom and Dad were concerned. I accepted Jesus, and was baptized soon thereafter.
My career choice was even an attempt to make Dad proud of me. I went to work for the phone company in 1973 -- the same company he worked for, as well as his father. When I hired on, the only jobs available were for operators. My dad was an engineer (a "real" job), and he was too ashamed of having a son be an operator, he made me promise that if I ran into anyone he knew, not to tell them we were related. In time, I finally got a "man’s job" but that wasn’t good enough for him, either. He told me I was useless unless I got promoted into management. At this same time, my sister also worked for the company. Dad had a special little plaque that he promised he’d give to whichever one of us got promoted first. In 1989, my boss called me into his office to congratulate me on being promoted into first-level management. He told me he had never seen anyone work so hard for it!
I was so excited that night to call my dad to tell him my good news! His congratulatory words? "Too bad your sister didn’t get the promotion. She deserves it!" Nine years later, when she was promoted, she received the coveted plaque.
In 1979, my first wife left me for another guy -- a heroine addict. We had three boys, ages 6, 4, and 1½. The divorce was really messy, with three attempts made on my life so they could collect life insurance money. Also, she and he ran up a very sizable debt while we were still married, so I got custody of the bills. Later my new wife and I fought for custody of my three sons, and on my ex’s first visitation weekend, she took them. That was April 1984, and until 1992, I didn’t know if they were alive or dead. Though I now know where my sons live, we are still estranged.
I buried myself in my work. Twelve-hour days were the norm, and often I’d be at the office 15 or more. I traveled a lot on business, sometimes making two transcontinental trips a month. This wasn’t fair to my wife or our two young children, but somehow that didn’t seem important. I was trying desperately to get approval from my boss. I now know that’s transference from trying to get approval from my folks. For a while, it worked. But only for a while.
In 1992, rumors of lay-off were rampant. We were all told (by a group voicemail) our jobs were in jeopardy, and we were just lucky if we stayed long enough to receive another paycheck. Because I drew my value of myself based on my work, this was devastating to more than just the loss of employment. It was a threat to the loss of who I was. Though I had had bouts of depression all my life, this was the first time I had a clue that I my mental health was in jeopardy, but I still didn’t seek any help. That was a weakness and what would my employer think when they found out!
I was persuaded, with the promise of a big promotion, to change departments. Big error on my part! I changed departments, but didn’t get the promotion. As a matter of fact, I was placed on a surplus list. It’s a long story, but my reputation within the company was besmirched, and I had difficulty finding any new assignment. When I finally did, it was disastrous. I was really sliding down into the deep darks of depression, and didn’t admit it.
One day at work in 1994, I found myself unable to think clearly, and paranoia had set in. I spent one entire day at work hiding under my desk, crying or sobbing. The phone ringing pierced like an arrow, and when my pager went off, it brought absolute panic. I couldn’t bear the thought of facing anyone -- especially myself. I was a complete failure at everything.
I had stepped from dysfunction to non-function.
The next morning, I reported off work ill, and went to see a doctor. I guess I was pretty irrational, because she had a very strong "suggestion" that I spend a few days in a hospital psychiatric ward. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but she persuaded me. Later, she told me that had I not "voluntarily" checked myself in, she would have had me involuntarily admitted. They called it a "nervous breakdown."
The first morning I woke up in the hospital was the worst day of my life. I already KNEW I was a failure at everything -- fatherhood, marriage, and career. How much worse can life get than being in a mental institution! I didn’t want ANYONE to know. I had even concocted a lie to tell my wife that I was out of town on business.
The doctors there filled me up with lots of antidepressants, tranquilizers, and anti-psychotic medications. In about three weeks, they released me to go home, but I was far from healthy. At last, though, I was finally painfully aware that there was lots wrong in my life and had been for a lot of years. I had never dealt with any of it in a healthy way.
My addiction: being a victim. I saw myself that way. I was victimized by my family, by my first wife, by my employer. One learns coping techniques as a child when living in the complete chaos of dysfunction and abuse. But those coping skills are inappropriate for a grown-up. I had never grown up. You might ask that, with all that booze for so many years, am I in denial about being an alcoholic? Well, as an adult, I used to pour myself a drink and forget to drink it. I never had difficulty stopping, and having alcohol or not wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts. When I finally did quit drinking totally, it wasn’t difficult in the least. I’m very happy for that, as I’ve come to know people who struggle that struggle daily.
When one defines themselves as being a victim, it has its own perks. For example, everything that goes wrong in life is someone else’s fault. I’m just a victim. As a victim, I’m sure that I will fail at everything, and it won’t be my fault. See the convenient excuses? As a victim, you expect the worst to happen, which becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy.
I was off work for 18 months on disability. During that time, the Social Security department had declared me a hopeless case, and granted full and permanent disability on very my first application. (If you have ever applied for Disability, you know how unusual that is!) But God had other ideas!
I used the time off to do the hardest work of my life. With the help of life-saving counseling, I faced myself for the first time. And for the first time in my life, I allowed myself to be loved, and felt it. I began attending a support group sponsored by my church. The first group I attended was called Men At Peace, a group for the control of anger. I got MAD when it was suggested I go to that group! I wasn’t ANGRY, I was DEPRESSED! Of course, I later learned those are two sides of the same coin. Later, I attended "Twelve-Steps: A Spiritual Journey" where I learned the power of the 12 steps to correct stinking thinking.
I was off work for 18 months. Then, in spite of what the Social Security department said, I returned to be very productive. But it was a toxic environment for me -- not unlike an alcoholic bartender trying to return to work -- surrounded by temptation, and lots of people to emulate! In April 1997, at age 43 and after more than 24 years service, I retired with a SERVICE pension -- not a medical retirement.
There are still many of areas in my life that need work, and my journey towards health won’t be over until I’m forever with Jesus, but for the first time in my entire life, I can honestly say I’m happy. I’m learning how to enjoy things for the pure pleasure of it. My worth isn’t based on what I do, but who I am, and that’s Abba’s Child. A sinner, saved by Grace, far from perfect, but loved by Perfection Himself. To not value my self is arguing with God! Who am I do argue with the Creator of All Things?!!
In the summer of 1995, I somehow found this e-mail support group, and joined. I immediately discovered that I was not the only Christian who suffers the malady of chronic depression. That in and of itself was healing! I found much help and support in my own struggle.
The list has made many changes over the years, including server changes and name changes. But the original intent: "A safe place for discussion for Christians who suffer depression in its many forms," has remained constant. We are an international community, and all are welcome.
The most important Scripture in my recovery is this:
"When I was a child, I used to speak as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I shall know fully just as I also have been fully known. But now abide in faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love."
1 Corinthians 13:11-13, New American Standard Bible
God bless you in your walk!
