Other Observations Indeed

After my commencement at the University of Michigan in 1997, I took a year off because I hadn’t thought enough of myself that I could get into law school. I’d taken the GRE, not the LSAT in the fall of 1996, a total waste of money and time. You live and learn. I relocated to the eastern outskirts of Ypsilanti after my lease was up in Ann Arbor. Goodbye, college years.

I used the time to prepare for the LSAT being offered in the fall of 1997. In the meantime, I’d applied to Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti as a backup plan of sorts. I did eventually take a semester’s worth of classes for “shits and giggles” because before classes started, I’d been accepted to…Ohio State Law School (the BUCKEYES?!), so I knew I would be matriculating at SOME law school.

Often, I’d frequent bars in Ypsi; I knew many bouncers and mostly would go there to hang out with them while they were working. It was a pretty chill and fun time in my life. I somewhat knew my way around Ypsilanti and would mostly take the most obvious and reliable ways home. (I-94)

One night that winter, I decided to take a different, backway home. I don’t know why other than I wanted to get a better understanding of my surroundings. I started taking a less-traveled way; I figured if I started to get lost, I’d backtrack to the way I knew. I found myself on a deserted road heading towards the Ford plant. Because it was so late, there was no traffic. Everything seemed so quiet and still.

Upon approaching the end of the road, I saw something that shocked the shit out of me: a waify girl with long blonde hair, literally naked from the waist up (no coat, no shirt, no bra), and no shoes or socks. She was sprinting through the snow on the edge of the road. A million thoughts zipped through my mind, and I’ve often wondered what other people would do. (Kind of like that show on ABC, where they set up situations with actors: “What Would YOU Do?”)

I followed my instincts and starter blaring my horn. I pulled over to the side of the road, rolled down my window, and yelled: “Do you need help???” She ran to my car and got in. She repeatedly shrieked: “He’s coming! He’s coming!”

I didn’t know what to think or do, but I believed her because she seemed terrified, plus, she was half-naked and freezing. I emphatically told her we needed to go to the police station, even though I had no idea where it was. I mean, I didn’t even really know where I was. She responded: “No, baby girl. I just need you to get me to my old man’s house.” At this moment, I’m stopped at a stop sign. I can turn left and go to her “old man’s house” or turn right and head into downtown Ypsilanti, which I would assume has a police presence, if not the actual station. I can’t go back the way I came because “HE” is THERE! And HE IS COMING!

I stutter: “Butttt, we NEED the police!” The year is 1998. I had my first cell phone, which I’d had for maybe a year. That was my time where I only used it when needed, which means: it wasn’t in my hand, it couldn’t HEAR me, Alexa, or Siri, or Bixby, or whowhatever. Basically, it wasn’t a thought in my mind. I had a pager on my pants, ok?

“Please, baby girl, just take me to my old man’s house.” I turned left. I don’t think we drove for more than five minutes, with me shrugging out of my Army green Nike winter coat that was so warm and cool that I still have it, and as I pulled into the driveway, “she” was warming up in the car and comfort of my jacket. I got out and came around to help her, still so shell-shocked that I assumed she needed help. I helped her out of the car, put my arm around her, and she leaned heavily on me, though she wasn’t HEAVY. We went around to the back of the house, up a few steps, and the door opened: “Girl, what happened to you?” This was said by a man leaning against the doorway, drink in hand, leering and not at all taken by surprise by the scene in front of him.

She went into the house, and I followed. As I watched her disappear around a corner, I tried to take in my surroundings. Some guys were just hanging out, listening to music, drinking, and talking. Nobody reacted. Nobody asked a question. Well, one guy did ask for my number. He got the now-defunct pager number.

A man appeared, her “old man”, with my coat in his hand. He looked me in the eye, handed me my jacket and said: “You must be an Angel sent by God to be where you were tonight. Thank you.” I nodded, smiled, turned, and walked out.

About a week later, some friends and I were taking a cab into Ypsilanti, and we passed by the spot where this happened, although we were coming at it from a different direction. I exclaimed: “This is where I was! This is where I picked up that girl!”

Having recognized the alarm and excitement in my voice, the cab driver leaned back and asked: “What? What girl? What happened?” I told him the story. As we turned right into downtown Ypsi, he said, knowingly: “That girl is a prostitute who took a John for a ride. And you are really lucky that she didn’t do the same to you.”

I leave you, the reader, to draw your own conclusions.

The Cuckoo's Nest

Because I have a habit of compartmentalizing, I separate my drinking and drugging into segments. Typically, I start my alcoholism with the beginning of my main abusive relationship because he was a very heavy drinker (and coke head), and so my drinking picked up rapidly and severely. That was 2006. He was an everyday drinker (straight vodka), and I soon followed. But enough about that, for now.

When I look back, however, I see instances where my drinking was NOT “normal.” Where there were serious consequences. One such occasion was at the law firm where I’d been headhunted. I was preparing to leave my first attorney job, and this firm had caught wind of my departure. I received a call from one of the managing partners: get this: Within my first year at my first firm, I was assigned a very medically intricate case, with numerous expert witnesses, that went to trial; I sat second chair. It was exhaustive, last 7 or 8 weeks. Being extremely excited, I threw myself into the prep and trial with gusto. Well, apparently it paid off. The attorney who called me had been our opposing counsel, and he said he remembered me (over two years later!) AND how intensely I paid attention to everything. He said I seemed to know everything that was going on with the trial and had done a great job assisting and second-chairing. I accepted his invitation for an interview, and I accepted the job.

How wonderful that when I started that job, the firm had moved into a new building. It was BEYOND! It was a gorgeous building that I can’t quite capture in words. What I can say is the my office was huge, with a ½ bath, and I had just about anything I needed at my disposal. When I needed anything, my wishes were granted with a mere email to the office manager. I’d never imagined such a job.

To make things even better, I loved the job! I loved the people, especially the partner I worked with. He was such an understanding man and truly cared about the clients. (We also clicked on a political level, thank God!)

Because of the new, fancy, “castle” building, the firm planned an open house party, inviting many lawyers and judges. No expense was spared: it was catered to the nines with an open bar. I invited a couple of friends. We had a blast…for awhile. I proceeded to get extremely drunk and babbled to many guests. Eventually, I ended up in my office with the door closed and engaged in cutting. I have been a cutter for awhile, with the location of choice being my left forearm. I know I felt insecure and unworthy of working there, but being wasted was the real impetus behind my unfortunate choice of behavior.

Eventually, a tour group arrived at my door; there was no stopping the encounter. People kinda freaked out, and after finding my boss, it was decided I needed to exit quietly, quickly, and as indiscreetly as possible out a side door.

The following day, my boss called to check on me. He also suggested, and asked if I’d be willing, to see a therapist; he even had a reputable person in mind. I readily agreed. I knew something was going on with me!

After a week of intense therapy appointments, I received a call from the other partner of the firm. He let me go: he said: “You are not able to work at a firm such as ours. If you’d like to meet for lunch to discuss this, we can do that. But know I won’t change my mind.” Uh, no thanks. He also told me he was sending two employees to pick up the files I had, the laptop the firm provided for me, and anything I else that was property of the firm. I felt humiliated (then) because it seem as if the firm didn’t even trust me to be on the property. By the time the employees arrived (two very good friends of mine), I had swallowed more than a handful of pills, both prescription and over the counter. I wanted to change the way I felt. And if I died, bonus.

Eventually, my brother realized something was wrong. He interrogated me about what I’d taken. I, of course, underplayed it; he saw right through me. And despite my forceful protests, he called 911. When they arrived, they sat me down to explain my options: I could go involuntarily and be admitted to the psych ward. Or, I could go voluntarily and sign myself in, which does NOT mean you can sign yourself out. I said I needed a few minutes to decide, and in the process, I bolted into my bedroom, locked the door, and emptied more bottles of pills into my mouth. I thought they were going to bash my door in. Eventually, I came out and agreed to go. I don’t remember that ambulance ride.

When I arrived in the E.R., I was told I was going to be drinking charcoal, and if I didn’t, they’d pump my stomach. I opted for the charcoal, but boy did I take my time. I had to drink several cups of that crap and be monitored for a long time before I was finally transferred to a room. I did have a guest for the night: I was on suicide watch.

The next afternoon, I was transferred to the psych ward. You know? I. Did. Not. Care. I mean, I didn’t like being strip searched, but other than that, I was ready to settle in.

First off I noticed how kind and informative the patients were; one was so informational that he warned me about the tiny towels that were dispensed. I was about to shower, which he noticed, so he told me to take a few towels. After my shower, I took my meds and went to bed. It’d been a long day and night. Oh! But I did meet my roommate first: Rachel who was wearing sunglasses, even though it was night. Didn’t phase me because she was sweet as pie.

Boy, those 20 minutes “checks” during the night sure were disruptive. “Girl, Interrupted” wasn’t kidding! When morning broke, I was instructed to head to the cafeteria. I have never felt more like a new kid in school. I perused the cafeteria, tray in hand, and eventually landed on an innocuous looking group: I saw an elderly lady in a wheelchair who looked very harmless. I quickly found that dear, old Katherine loved to repeat stories in rapid succession.

When group therapy began, I wasn’t aware of the possible rules. Instead, I offered (sound?) advice to those who spoke. I listened intently, could relate, and reflected back what I thought was encouraging and understanding reflection. Nobody stopped me, so I don’t know if I did the right thing.

Following group, I went into the Occupational Therapy (OT) room, which doubled as a kitchen. A client came over and hovered near me. He grabbed my wrist to inspect my wrist band. He said: “I thought you were a therapist in group therapy! But you’re you’re  fucking crazy like the rest of us!” I laughed and responded by saying: “Yes. Yes, I am! I’m fucking crazy!” We had a good laugh over that.

I relaxingly continued through my day: nobody had any expectations of me. I met with my psychiatrist, the guy who basically put me in there, and he told me he was thinking of releasing me that day, which was odd because he previously said I’d be there a week. But he ASKED: “Would you mind staying until after dinner tomorrow?” Uh, no problem, doc. I wasn’t scared of being there, actually was quite comfortable there.

I had to attend OT later that afternoon; we were making pumpkin bread. Everyone was encouraged to participate. A therapist asked me to do a task; I wasn’t sure if I was ready for all that! Then she asked, very slowly and calmly: “Nina, do you think you can get together a quarter cup of sugar?” I was perplexed for a moment, and then replied\: “Uh, yeah I can try.” Again, super low expectations. In other words: vacation from the outside world.

There was one disturbing thing I noticed: the nurses at the nurses’ station consistently ignored patients. And by ignored, I mean acted as if the patients didn’t exist; they heard nothing and saw nothing. I was flabbergasted they these people who were supposed to care for patients treated the patients less than human. Now I’m sure there was some reason for it: maybe they were bombarded with questions incessantly daily? Well, that’s just kinda too bad. As for me something surprising happened: apparently the nurses caught wind that I was an attorney admitted for an overdose/“suicide attempt.” That pissed me off even more. So when I walked by and saw someone asking questions, being ignored, I would ask their question just so they’d get a response.

I went into the ward on a Friday night. That Saturday was the Michigan-Michigan State football game under the lights at the Big House. I was decked out in all Michigan gear, including slippers from the gift shop that my brother and friends had brought me, waiting for pumpkin bread I’d helped make and the BIG GAME.

I started out watching the game in the cafeteria area with a couple of other people who weren’t paying a lot of attention. One person who was present was Katherine, a very elderly lady in a wheelchair. Katherine had a habit of talking your ear off AND repeating stories within minutes. She was also very aggressive in catching and keeping your attention. She was with it enough to watch for newcomers because those who had been subjected to her long enough had run out of patience. And many didn’t have much to begin with; I mean, we are in a psych ward for God’s sake. But there was something about Katherine that touched my heart, so I’d been listening patiently most of the day, not only for her, but maybe to keep everyone else a little calmer by preventing them from getting re-snared.

As the game started, I was seeking, and I hate to say it this way, some “normalcy”, but normal in my life was watching football with friends. Katherine was incessantly chattering way while my eyes were glued on the game. Sadly, by the middle of the fourth quarter, Michigan was down by 17 points; people were clearing out of the stands. I was starting to feel tired, but it was much too soon for nighttime “medication time”.

But the game wasn’t over: Michigan scored a field goal, followed by recovery of an onside kick! I started lurching in my chair. Katherine droned on, trying ever harder to keep my attention. When Michigan scored a touchdown, I jumped up clapping as Katherine fixed me with a glare. The game was becoming INTENSE, and my focus narrowed. When Michigan scored AGAIN, I jumped up cheering even harder than before; the game was TIED! Katherine was having none of it, and said: “Sit DOWN! You are bugging me!”

Look, I know she was elderly and forgetful and somewhat incapacitated, but we were all equals there: we were all ‘fucking crazy’, and expectations were loooooow. As Michigan State failed to win the game in regulation, and I clapped and yelled raucously, Katherine’s further attempt to control me failed. When she turned into a grumpy bitch demanding I sit still, I looked at her and yelled: ‘Fuck YOU, Katherine. FUCK YOU!” And I promptly walked out of the cafeteria to a different TV lounge to watch overtime.

Now alone, I was fired up for overtime, or the three that would ensue. I was talking to  myself and the TV, clapping away, feeling excited and HAPPY. As the game started up again, I was letting it all hang out. That’s when the real fun began. The few people besides Katherine, who had been in the cafeteria, followed me into that room. Maybe they were glad I yelled at Katherine, maybe they wanted to watch the game, maybe I don’t know why they came in. But they sat down and watched with me. The game rolled on. I was into it. As I was hooting and hollering, and my fellows offered some clapping here and there, one by one more people trickled into the room. You could see on their faces that they were curious what the hubbub was about. I swear on my favorite movie “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” that by the final overtime, the room was PACKED with smiling, laughing, clapping people. My roommate was in there wearing sunglasses and looking in the opposite direction of the TV when she yelled out to me: “What are we cheering for, Nina???” And I smiled and said: “Just keep yelling ‘Go Blue’, Rachel! Just keep yelling ‘Go Blue’!!” When Michigan secured their win, we were all jumping around and high-fiving each other. What an experience. Clearly one I’ll never forget. And if I’m being honest, the details of the game do tend to become fuzzy, but the FEELINGS I have from that memory don’t. Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve had that much fun watching a game since.

Any Ol' Tuesday

It was raining. Freezing rain. And it was dark. I don’t recall where we were before or what my day consisted of, but I was in a suit and a pink wool coat that I loved, yet it would be ruined from that cold, dark, rainy night. My pale pink coat would never recover, but I would.

Tom and I had definitely been drinking the day before, which was no different than just about any other day. We had left my car in a parking lot that stretched across many businesses, but it wasn’t quite a strip mall. I know one establishment was a bar; I can still see the neon window signs through the rain and my eyelashes that kept catching the freezing drops. There was also a K-Mart across the most expansive part of the lot from where we were. Where were we? I can’t recall the exact location, but I know we were fighting. Again.

So here we are, drunk and coming to get my car, which should stay put, really. But because it’s in this lot that belongs to I-don’t-know-who, I’m concerned it will get towed if it sits there for another night.

I don’t know what we’re fighting about, but usually it was about cheating (he did, repeatedly; I didn’t, until we hit the bitter end, and I’d moved out of the house by then.), or money or drugs or his kids or nothing. Suddenly, he turned and RAN towards the K-Mart, slip-sliding his way to the entrance wherein he eventually disappeared. I stood there, the miserable frigid rain soaking through my coat, my head dizzy with booze; I knew I wasn’t running ANYWHERE. I pulled out my cell phone and called him. Surprisingly, he answered. We both slipped easily into alternate personalities, slightly passive-aggressive, yet amenable: “Let’s talk about this,” I pleaded. “Ok,” he replied. We decided to meet in the store, back by the toy section, which he said was straight back from the entrance he’d ran into. We talked on the phone with me telling him I was approaching the store.

Through a second entrance, further away from the first, he ran out, sprinting back to his truck, having lied about wanting to resolve anything. He sped away, traversing the approximately 20-minute drive as quickly as possible, in slick, dangerous conditions, while drunk, which never seemed to phase us. Ever.

I remember that the code to open the garage was his daughter’s birthday, and I punched it in countless times. But for the life of me, I can’t remember it now. Odd how that happens, that details fade and disappear, but feelings can come back and hit you like a Mack truck. That garage where my car had carved out an indentation in the wall from continuously, drunkenly parking too far forward. The garage was utilized as our main entrance to the house. The other doors, front and back patio, were always locked. I don’t even know if there was a house key.

Tom arrived home, panicked and anxious and hopped out of his truck, punched in the code, and tucked his truck into the garage, away from the cold and wet night, quickly hitting the button to close the door. He did NOT want me in that house. Previously, during cocaine-fueled paranoid nights, Tom would pull the plug on the garage door connection so as to disable it completely. And that was his plan: disconnect the garage door opener, and I wouldn’t be able to get in the house. As he climbed up on his truck to “win the fight”, he heard coughing and hacking coming from the bed of the truck.

Startled, he looked down at a puddle. It was me in the bed of his truck. A sopping wet, drunk and stinky woolen mess. He reacted with surprise, or course, and more than a little admiration because I’d outsmarted him: I was IN the house.

 

I don’t know how I knew, but when you spend enough time around a chronic liar and wiley manipulator, you pick up a few tricks of your own. I never took one step towards that store. I crouched in the bed of the truck, banking on the idea that he would do exactly what he did. I talked to him on the phone as if I was walking towards the entrance, commenting on the miserable weather and puddles I was (not) stepping around. As I talked, I watched as he exited the store, sprinting back across the parking lot, determined to leave me there. Eventually, as he neared the truck, I said I’d see him in a minute and hung up. Perfect timing because he got behind the wheel, and I slid down in the wet bed of the truck, hugging the metal that separated us.

Addendum to my post "Addiction and Decision Making" published on October 27, 2014

This may come across as defensive, but it is an attempt to set the record straight on some flat out lies that were spread by the Oakland County Sheriff and reported by the media.
I never "pretended" to be my ex's attorney. I had been recognized by the court as his attorney of record, both in court before he was incarcerated and subsequently by an official filing of an Appearance. The Oakland County Sheriff and media consistently portrayed me as a liar and fraud in this regard. Further, I wasn't simply his attorney to bring him drugs; that was secondary to my official representation of him. I was working tirelessly to handle his case and his release from jail on work release. That "misrepresentation" (lie) has always devastated me. I had done enough to feed the need to bash me; why the overreaching to assassinate my character further? It was unnecessary.
Additionally, I was portrayed as a drug kingpin, maintaining a residence that was a drug hotbed. My home was raided by the Narcotic Enforcement Team of Oakland County; they had been conducting surveillance on me the day they arrived at least ten deep with personnel and  all the equipment and two vans screeching into my parking lot to raid and arrest me.
My ex possessed, legally, a medical marijuana license, and was attempting to grow marijuana for his own use; he never did grow one single bud. His "grow room" was in a locked area, per legal requirements, and before his incarceration, I had nothing to do with it. Subsequent to his jailing, I went in the room to pour water on burning, dead plants. Should I have unplugged the equipment? Yes, I should have. But for law enforcement to portray this failed attempt at growing marijuana as a "grow operation" (I think that was the term they used?) was laughable at best. In the end they confiscated a quarter of an ounce of useable marijuana; his card allowed him to possess two ounces.
Lastly, I would like to address one of my felony charges that I have never understood. Yes, I had furnished contraband to an inmate, a clear breaking of the law. But I was also charged with delivery of a controlled substance. That charge had NOTHING to do with the fact that I supplied him with drugs in jail; it is the typical charge for a drug dealer. I had a prescription to possess Xanax, and he had a prescription to possess Xanax. I ask readers: have you ever handed someone a controlled substance such as pain killers, for which they had a prescription? And if you really dig deep, have you ever shared a prescription with someone? Perhaps a Valium when they were upset, or a sleeping prescription pill to offer them relief during a period of insomnia? If you have, you too are a drug dealer. You too deserve, according the Prosecutor of Oakland County, to be charged with delivery of a controlled substance.
Is this post defensive? Yes. But it is also the truth.

Addiction And Decision Making

It hurts. It hurts almost more than anything I've experienced before. Losing my career, publicly no less, crushed me. The public blasting I received for my crimes that included smuggling drugs into the Oakland County Jail and the aftermath, the consequences, caused me to consider suicide for quite sometime. The month after it all went down was a suicidal blur. I had been arrested for three felonies, and while awaiting arraignment, in the Oakland County Jail no less, the story broke on the news, horrendous mug shot and all.
I was told repeatedly how fucking stupid I was and laughed at and ridiculed, all while the deputies took...pleasure? in mentally torturing me. There was at least one news reporter (Fox 2 News Detroit) camped outside of the jail, publicly berating me and making jokes and snide remarks about what I'd done. I watched this on t.v. every night in jail while being surrounded by inmates who snickered and reminded me that I was an idiot. (There was zero consideration of the role addiction played.)
When I was released, the barrage of public opinions continued. Shortly after my release, I found out that I was being evicted. (Completely understandable.) I would lie on my couch day after day, knowing I should be packing, but could do nothing but stare out at my patio contemplating ways to off myself. I knew I'd lost my career, that I was on the brink of losing my freedom, that I'd embarrassed my family, let down friends (yet again), and that I was a complete addict in every way. I felt helpless and hopeless. I couldn't imagine there was a way to bounce back from this. Death was a welcomed option. But for some reason, I just could not do it. I tried with drugs and alcohol, but they would not take me.
What amazed me was the pleasure that people, strangers and acquaintances, took from this time of my life, both then and even today. My attorney at the time, who represented me pro bono because of his innate compassion and who was my lifeline, warned me not to look at the news articles on the internet, to not read the comments. I couldn't help it. Boy, was I sorry. People are without a doubt entitled to their opinions, but I only wish the opinions had been based on the whole story.
I did what I did and I accept complete responsibility for my actions. However, I do have a side to my story for the commission of these crimes, not an excuse or a justification, but certainly an explanation of where I was at mentally and my reasoning, however misguided and irrational, behind my actions. Mainly I was an active addict (heroin, Xanax, and other pills) who was sleep deprived and vacillating between being high and having withdrawals; I'm not sure rational decision making was possible. I had irrational beliefs about my now ex-fiance's health and well-being, mainly that he was going to die from Xanax withdrawal, as he had ingested 60 milligrams within less than 24 hours. And what I observed about his treatment in jail confirmed that those deputies did not give a flying fuck about whether he lived or died. So yes, I smuggled in his properly prescribed Xanax (yet ridiculous dosage) with the mistaken belief that it was going to save his life. I didn't bring him street drugs, I didn't take drug orders from other inmates, and I didn't do this for shits and giggles, to pull one over on the jail.
In fact, given the same situation, the same misguided beliefs, I would do it all over again for someone I love. I begged those deputies to provide him with medical attention; my documented requests were ignored. I believed I had no other options, as additionally, the jail would not dispense Xanax to him. And moreover, right or wrong, I was the only one possessing the knowledge of his recent mass ingestion of the drugs; I didn't want to tell the deputies, as he had only had access to that amount of Xanax because he had smuggled it into the jail. I thought I was doing my best by repeatedly asking for medical attention, and I thought that would be enough. I know now that I should have "ratted him out," but I didn't consider that.
I know this post went off on a tangent, one not having to do with the traumatic and devastating, albeit self-inflicted, loss of my career, but soon enough I will re-visit those still existing feelings. They hurt though, they hurt a lot, and I continue to carry with them an overwhelming shame. A shame that I don't know how to permanently shake.

Drinking to Survive

The extreme nature of my alcoholism that hits me quite hard is the fact that there were times that I HAD TO drink to be able to stay alive. Literally. I remember my meeting I had with a gentleman to discuss getting into treatment/rehab, and one of his questions was: how often and how much do you drink? My response: every single day. I always had a liter of vodka in my freezer and drank about that much every day, sometimes more, sometimes slightly less, depending on if I passed out. There wasn't one day I could get through without drinking. My drink of choice at that time was straight, chilled vodka, sometimes with a Gatorade chaser, sometimes with a cigarette chaser. (I still have a hard time drinking certain flavors of Gatorade.) Toward the end of the that meeting (which was interrupted by calls from my work office and from my property manager letting me know that Sheriff's deputies were looking for me because they had a warrant for my arrest for violating my bond), that man told me in no uncertain terms that I would have to continue drinking until a bed opened up for me in treatment; if I stopped on my own, death was a very real possibility. To this alcoholic, I barely heard the life-threatening nature of his warning; I heard I had a green light to keep on drinking...music to my ears! I made the most of that mandate.
At this time, I was a practicing attorney. I would wake up in the morning and always have to decide if I could handle going to work that day, which usually involved going to at least a few different courts to handle cases. (I mainly practiced criminal defense.) If I thought I could manage to walk out the door, I would start by taking a shower. When I emerged from the shower, I would stand for several minutes in front of the mirror, barely able to look myself in the eye, and shake profusely, gag and have severe dry heaves, and sweat like crazy with tears running down my face from my always blood-shot eyes. The tears weren't from crying; the tears were from the physical torment my body was experiencing.
I would eventually finish "getting ready for work." I always looked like shit because I was so physically ill that I couldn't spend much time trying to look presentable. Every single step of the days I'd go to work was overwhelming. Often I'd forget one thing or another that I needed for the day, including case files. One of the most telling and humiliating occurrences during those work days was how much I'd be shaking. I can't even count the times that I would have to sign documents, directly in front of judges, clerks, and fellow attorneys, and my hand would be shaking uncontrollably. Sometimes I'd have to steady my writing hand with my other just to create some semblance of a signature. I'm pretty sure I wasn't fooling many people, as I looked like an alcoholic mess.
After treatment, I went around to various courts to talk to the same judges, clerks, etc. to explain that I was trying to pick up the pieces and get back on track. People are SO forgiving and understanding! Unfortunately, I wasn't "cured" and didn't utilize the tools treatment gave me so it became "fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." People will forgive you, but they won't forget. Moreover, they don't, and shouldn't, give you countless chances to get your shit together. In my case, that was more than understandable, as I had the enormous responsibility of helping people during some of their most trying times in life, not to mention I had their freedom in my hand. It makes me sick to my stomach today to think about that. How dare I.
Post-treatment, once I put the booze down for awhile (due to a probation violation and threats from my significant other that he was going to leave me if I didn't quit), I "coped" by using prescription drugs, namely Ativan and Xanax. I've heard before that Xanax can be a drink in pill form. That was true for me. I recall showing up at court one day, all hopped up on Xanax, only to receive word from the staff that the judge was removing me from the case. When I asked why, the response was that I was drunk. Oh, the indignation I felt at that false accusation! Immediately upon leaving court, I went to a drug/alcohol testing facility to request not only a Breathalyzer, but a urine test for alcohol that would detect the presence of alcohol as far back as the previous three days. Upon receiving the negative results, I wrote a scathing letter to that judge, basically saying: "how dare you! I quit drinking!" I eventually received an apology, justified in my mind at the time, but let's keep it real: she was right; she merely named the wrong substance. The way the addict mind thinks though! It's incredibly disturbing. Thank God she protected "my" client from me.

Insanity of Using, Part 1

When I went to treatment in May of 2008, I had no doubts about being an alcoholic. I never hesitated to identify myself as such. However, attending AA/NA meetings was sort of weird at first. I didn't know the "rules," such as no "cross-talking." And being newly sober, I thought I knew more than anyone else in the group. (It's a well-known joke at meetings that at some point most of us were striving to get an "A" in AA; being a perfectionist, I would accept nothing less of myself.) That all being the case, I attended meetings for only a few months post-treatment, as I didn't think they were doing anything for me. (When I did attend meetings, I would look for the table with the fewest people because I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I think my Higher Power was playing a joke on me because those inevitably were the groups that talked the longest!)
Upon moving back to my hometown of Houghton after being released from jail, (or as I typically explain to people: "I moved back under less than stellar circumstances"), I began attending meetings as a requirement for my probation with the State Bar. Meeting attendance didn't stop me from drinking. I would show up, bitch and complain, get my sheet signed to prove I was there, and go out and drink as quickly as I could, as much as I could. Eventually, however, some things started to sink in, and I was able to open my mind up a little bit.
I found that although our specific experiences were different, people at the tables had many things in common. One of my favorites was that when we are/were in active addiction, insanity made perfect sense. It is difficult for non-addicts to understand the behaviors and experiences of their addict loved ones; I know because I have shared many instances with my loved ones, and they cannot fathom why I was living the way I was. But other addicts get me. They understand the insanity. And even better? We can laugh about it!
When I laugh and joke about some of the experiences I had in active addiction, it isn't to make light of them; the life or death aspect is very clear to me, especially in terms of hurting/harming/possibly killing others. I can't even begin to count all of the times I woke up in the morning to find that I had done more damage to my car; sometimes I still cannot believe that I didn't hurt someone else! But waking up to my car firmly imbedded in the garage wall or observing another dent/scratch/missing piece of the grill didn't faze me. I realize now, with a clear mind, that other people would at least pause to see such a thing over and over again!
My ex (the evil one, and yes, I feel completely comfortable calling him the evil one) and I were both practicing attorneys, drinking vodka daily and snorting coke at least a few times a week. Another favorite pastime? Calling the police on each other. When I think of the damage that must have done to his children (they were present in the house for several such calls), it makes me sick. Obviously the neighbors were well-aware of many of these visits from the police; we drank anytime of day or night. At first, the neighbors would forbid their children from coming in the house. Then, they would restrict their children from being in the pool area (we had an in-ground, fenced in pool in the backyard.) Eventually, they would only allow their children to play with his children on their property. And why wouldn't they impose such restrictions? We were crazy! Always drinking, always fighting, always having a police presence. I have considered contacting that division of the Oakland County Sheriff's Department to obtain the number of incident reports, if not the actual reports themselves, to see the level of craziness. (His ex-wife ordered copies at one point to threaten him with parenting time restrictions, or maybe child support increases, but she, like me, was easily manipulated by this asshole and dropped the issue. I wouldn't have blamed her for keeping their children away from him/us, and in fact, in the end I provided her with information regarding the exact extent of our drinking and cocaine use in the house when the children were present.)
I recall one specific incident of a fight of ours in the parking lot of his office. We were initially sitting in his vehicle, yelling and screaming at each other. (Wait...I just flashed back to two separate times this happened in his office parking lot. One time our fight was caught on the voicemail of a very good friend of mine, and I remember her telling me that listening to those 10-15 minutes of him saying nasty, hateful things and me screaming and crying was very disturbing. I believe the voicemail ended with him snapping my phone in half?) Our fight became physical, and I exited the vehicle. He followed, and we were pushing, shoving, and hitting each other when I called 911. I'm not sure what I said if anything? But we ended up calming down (there was cocaine to use, for goodness' sake!) and went home. Just as we were opening up the precious package and pouring the chunks of coke on the living room table, the police showed up. He went to the back patio door, which looked in on the living room, and told the police in an arrogant, all-knowing attorney tone that they could NOT come in. The police responded by saying that since I had called them and that by now they were well-aware of MY number, they had every right to come in and check on me. I remained on the couch, and an officer sat in the chair near me. I said I was fine, he noted the marijuana roach on the table, and they decided to leave. My heart was pounding! The second they left, Evil asked me where the cocaine was. I oh-so-proudly revealed that it was on the floor, safely covered by my heeled shoe, and not ground into the carpeting. The sickest part? We were both extremely proud of me! This fucked up moment briefly brought us closer together! I have found that in toxic relationships it is very easy to have an "us vs. the world" mentality...
One more brief example of our insanity ridden existence: our drinking and drug use lifestyle obviously was not free of charge. Therefore, budget cuts had to be made, and for a period of time we stopped paying some household bills, including the gas bill. Here we were in this $300,000-plus home, and we couldn't afford to take a hot shower. Most obvious solution? Bathe in the pool in the backyard, of course! Every morning for about a week we would collect shampoo, soap, etc. in the morning and head outside to jump into our big bathtub. We NEVER had a conversation about how this was really fucked up. To the contrary, we would put on our business suits and head out for our respective days in court, meeting at the end of the day to drink and drug and fight all over again, because damn it, we were hard workers and we deserved it!
Insanity would continue to make perfect sense for quite some time.