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.

Everything Happens For A Reason

Viewing events of my life in retrospect gives me a different perspective; as I've told people before, my "stories" change over time. In particular, situations I thought were beautiful or life-changing (in a positive way) become merely the beginning of a path of destruction and/or regret. I understand that I cannot change the past, which eventually makes it easier to accept, but certainly I would be remiss if I didn't examine said events to learn something, to take something positive out of them, to try not to repeat mistakes.
After I lost my dream job in October of 2004 and visited the Psych ward, I received severance pay and had really good credit (I was able to take out a money loan of several thousand dollars with a 0% interest rate for the life of the loan) and therefore, was able to "take some time off" to figure out my next career move. I was then fortunate enough to work part-time for an attorney I had worked for in law school and use his office space rent-free to start creating my own practice. (Wow...the blessings that have been bestowed upon me always catch me off-guard!)
I began by researching how to obtain court-appointed criminal cases. I wrote letters to Judges in the district courts of Oakland, Wayne, and Macomb counties to introduce myself and to ask to be appointed to misdemeanors. I contacted the Circuit Courts of the same counties to investigate how to obtain felony cases. I attended seminars and ordered all of the necessary books that would provide me with a better understanding of how to handle such cases. The cases came in slowly, and despite what most people perceive about court-appointed attorneys, I worked my hardest on each and every case, going above and beyond what some retained attorneys would do.
I remember how scary it was to work on my first few felony cases in Wayne County; I was so nervous! But thankfully, I have a friend who was, and still is, a Prosecutor there, and she would help me in many ways, even taking the time to introduce me to Judges and their staff members. For the most part, I found everyone there, including other attorneys who I was competing with for cases, to be helpful and friendly.
One particular spring morning I walked into a courtroom, passed through "the bar" to the front, and opened up my briefcase like I knew what I was doing. When I glanced up to look around, I saw a man sitting at the Prosecutor's table staring at me. When I caught his eye, his face broke into a wide grin, and I do believe his eyes sparkled in the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. We said hello, and I thought about asking him about my case (he was the Prosecutor, right?) but then decided to go check in with other courts in the building before I settled in.
When I returned, I sat at the Defense table and promptly picked up a newspaper that had been abandoned and pretended to busy myself so as not to appear quite so nervous and uncertain. As I shook open a section, another blew off of the table, landing on the floor. That same gentleman from earlier happened to be walking by and quickly picked it up for me. He then shook my hand, holding it for longer than necessary, and introduced himself. Court was then called to order, interrupting any further conversation.
When I walked out of the courtroom an hour or so later, I heard my name right before I hopped onto the descending escalator to exit the building. I looked around, seeing that same man. He asked me out for lunch, and I promptly accepted. We walked together on this beautiful spring day in Detroit to a restaurant where our conversation flowed easily the entire time. Despite my protests, he paid for lunch and asked if we could do it again sometime. I readily agreed, and we exchanged business cards.
Later that afternoon, I was sitting at my desk (by now I could afford to rent my very own office) when the receptionist buzzed me. It was him! He was calling to tell me again how much he enjoyed meeting me and spending time with me. He could not see my again in the next day or two, as he had his children and would be busy with them and their activities. Wow! A nice, interesting GENTLEMAN, and he was a caring, involved father? I was impressed.
There was, however, another phone call he made to my cell phone when I was driving home that evening. His voice sounded different, a little slurry. And he made some very blunt comments about my legs, stating how sexy they were. I laughed awkwardly and quickly brushed off my nervousness. I mean, it was a compliment, right? And he had, after all, received rather favorable, albeit not exactly personal-knowledge based, reviews from all friends I had polled during the day.
The next time we went out was a Thursday evening date. It was supposed to be dinner, but it ended up being all liquids, especially vodka. I don't remember all of the details, but I do remember he wanted to rent a room with me, even though we only lived about 15 minutes away from where we were. I declined that invitation.
The next morning I had to be in the Wayne County Circuit Court, followed by an afternoon at the Wayne County Juvenile Court. My new "friend" had asked me to pick up some paperwork for him since he had to be in court in another county. At the end of this busy Friday, I was more than ready for an evening out at a sports bar to watch the Pistons in the playoffs. I left the Juvenile Court building in high spirits, one of the last people to leave for the day. As I walked down the I-75 service drive where I had parked, I became confused looking for my car. I thought: how far down did I park? Immediately following that thought, I saw a car that looked exactly like mine coming out of a driveway, and it proceeded to drive towards me and then passed me on the service drive. IT WAS MY CAR! A deputy ran outside and saw my shocked face. He immediately called the Detroit Police, and an unmarked car arrived within...a minute? The cops asked me which way my car had gone, and I vaguely pointed up the service drive. Shortly thereafter, I called the police to ask for someone to come out to take a report; I was told, in a disdainful tone, that the police had much more important things to do than come out to talk to me about my stolen vehicle. Welcome to Detroit! (Regardless, I do love that city.)
The deputy who had initially assisted me offered to drive me to the nearest precinct, bless his heart, and my brother drove down from our Oakland County suburb to bring me home. As reality sunk in that I may never see my car again (my car was recovered a day later at 4:00 a.m. occupied by a 15 year-old and a 13 year-old; the fact that I had been representing juvenile delinquents when my car was stolen was not lost on me, and eventually I faced these culprits in that very same building), I realized my new friend's paperwork was taken along with my car. I called him from outside the precinct to tell him what happened. Oh, was he understanding, asking if there was anything he could do and repeatedly asking if I was ok! I explained that I was ok, and that my brother was with me.
I went out that night as planned because I figured there was no reason to sit at home and stew about my car. After quite a few drinks, I decided to call my new friend for some more sympathy and kind words. His phone was answered by a woman who explained he was putting his kids to bed. When he finally came to the phone, his demeanor was very different; he was very business like. Later he told me that the woman who answered was "just a friend" and helped him with office work sometimes. Again, I stuffed down the slightly uneasy feeling in my gut.
What I didn't know then was that I was allowing myself to be grasped in the clutches of a sociopath, and that the woman who answered the phone that night would become my arch nemesis as we fought over this loser for the next couple of years, both of us swept up in a web of lies, deceit, manipulation, abuse, alcohol, and drugs. That "sparkle" I had seen in his eyes was something sinister, not sincere.

Relationships, Toxic or Otherwise, Part 1

Where to go next... It's overwhelming trying to pick one tangent to expand upon.
Toxic relationships... I've had too many. In fact, I'm not sure that I've ever had a "normal" relationship. Looking back from my perspective as an addict, I can now see how my drinking was affecting a lot of different aspects of my life, especially romantic relationships.
Once upon a time, I thought I'd found him, my soul mate, my one true love. We worked together at my first job as an attorney. We were both associate attorneys, worked for the same partner, our birthdays were less than 20 days apart (both Pisces, not that I'm aware of the real significance of that), and we both wanted the same things: successful law careers, families, happiness. We started to hang out as friends almost immediately, sharing lunches, going out for drinks after work, etc.
One evening after work, we were again at a local bar located on the water in St. Clair Shores, MI. It was a warm summer evening, we were seated outside, and we were having a good time with another associate attorney. At some point, they started picking on my about my ultra-liberal views, and I eventually got offended enough that I headed for the door. I had to stop to use the restroom first, and by the time I headed out to the parking lot, there he was, sitting on the curb, waiting for me.
I sat down next to him, and he apologized for upsetting me. He said that what I thought of him meant a lot, and I reciprocated, telling him that I really cared what he thought of me, if you know what I mean. (wink, wink) He knew exactly what I meant and indicated that he felt the same way. He was, however, dating someone at the time, and felt he had to do the right thing by ending things with her, before starting with me. I respected the hell out of that, but I still insisted on some drunken kissing, and boy, was it worth it!
After a somewhat shaky start, as I wondered if it had been the drinks talking, that he hadn't really had feelings for me, and because also, in my opinion, he took too long to end his dating situation, we were finally off and running and falling in love. We eventually moved in together, discussed marriage, and our future together, including possible names for children. However, there was one huge problem we couldn't overcome: fighting.
There were some really crazy fights. One time we were down in Detroit at the Hockey Town Café bar/restaurant/upper deck. We were hanging out with some of his friends. Some chick started making eyes at him, and when I went to the bathroom, they started talking to each other. I came back over, pissed as hell. An argument ensued, and he hurried down the several flights of stairs to exit the bar. Well, he is 6'4", and I'm 5'3" on a good day, so it was pretty difficult to keep up. I barely caught up to him in the parking structure next to the bar, but he wouldn't let me into his truck. I did the most obvious thing anyone would do (right?): I jumped in the bed of the truck. He drove out of the city and hit the expressways with me screaming at him from the bed of the truck, threatening to jump out. Eventually he pulled off of the highway, and not in the nicest of neighborhoods. We stood in the street fighting, until we became aware of our surroundings, which included some random, sketchy people coming over to see what the hell was going on. We got in the truck, the cab of the truck, and left.
There were several other fights that involved me threatening to jump out of the car and situations where he, in my opinion at the time, was acting shady. Always the next day in the aftermath of these fights, the day would be filled with silence and avoidance of each other, until we inevitably briefly talked it over and agreed not to do it again.
Regardless of our resolve, it didn't stop. It came to a point that this wonderful relationship was imploding in my face, so we decided I needed counseling for my anger issues. I wanted to salvage what I could, so I found a therapist and went with the best intentions. During our first session, the therapist wanted to talk about my alcohol use. I firmly stated to her that I was there for my anger issues; I already knew what the problem was. What was HER hang up? She would try to bring it up several more times, even broaching it in terms of "alcohol abuse," as opposed to "alcoholism." Each time I would reiterate for her that alcohol was NOT the problem, my anger issues were.
After a job change for him took him across the state, this fragile relationship couldn't withstand the distance. That is mostly because I quickly became very whiny and needy. In fact, so much so, that on one occasion, I set out one night after being at the bar, driving from Farmington Hills to Grand Rapids, and somehow found where he lived. I don't know the Grand Rapids area, and had no address to work from. I have laughingly shared this story with friends, joking that I sniffed him out. Needless to say, he didn't let me in. I crashed (slept, not an accident, which wouldn’t be surprising) in my car in his parking lot and drove away the next day.
Another fight worth mentioning occurred during a night at a club with a bunch of friends, including a co-worker of ours. She was like a mother to us, not only in age, but in other motherly ways. Well, he danced with her, and I blew a jealous gasket. I ruined everybody's night. And it took him more than one day to get over that.
My point to this story is that it wasn't until several years later (this relationship ended in the fall of 2003; I entered treatment in May of 2008), that I was able to look back with the eyes of an admitted alcoholic and see that my therapist knew exactly what she was talking about. Every single one of those fights happened when I was drinking. I don't threaten to jump out of cars when I'm sober. I don't drive a couple hundred miles in the middle of the night to stalk people. And to be fair, he never was acting shady; that was my alcohol-induced paranoia.

But with sober eyes I will say this: that relationship never would have lasted anyway. It had serious problems in other areas. I wish him all the best, and he knows that.

Consequences Part 1

I want to begin this brand-new blog by explaining what my blog title means by providing a brief explanation. First, I do not mean to imply that I am better than any other addict; it's simply given my story, I have been told before that I am not the typical "face" of addiction.  Addiction, and the fallout, can happen to anyone. In my case, no one saw this coming, especially the true depths of my addiction.

I seemingly had it all. There was my exceptional high school career: not only did I have the grades, but I was involved in many extracurricular activities: sports, student government, almost all of the clubs you could imagine, and had a very active social life. Following high school, I attended the University of Michigan and did very well there. Again, the grades and social life were in the palm of my hand. I had an enjoyable and successful experience. (There were a few traumatic experiences, but I will discuss those at a later date.)

Following college, it only made sense that I would continue in my education; I "always wanted to be an attorney" (SO cliché), and so I continued on to law school. I enrolled at the University of Detroit Mercy School of Law (on a two-thirds academic scholarship), and by most standards did a pretty good job, while continuing an active social life. Certainly law school was harder than my previous schooling, but I still managed to graduate cum laude. I was fortunate enough to blow right through the bar exam with minimal preparation.

After passing the bar came the job opportunities. Well, actually an opportunity, as I accepted the first offer that came my way. After putting in my time at my first job, I was head-hunted by two firms. Holy inflation of ego! And, of course, it was a great excuse to celebrate and drink more excessively, not that I needed one.

Once I changed jobs, I felt like I was on top of the world. And for a period of time, I was. More of a justification to celebrate on the regular, right? Unfortunately, the good times came to a screeching halt when I made a drunken fool of myself at my firm's open house where we were celebrating the grand opening of our beautiful and extravagant building. I had a gorgeous office with a private bathroom and almost anything (gadgets and a support staff included) in the palm of my sweaty, shaking hand. But I couldn't handle it and got completely wasted at the party (Judges and high-powered attorneys in attendance from the Detroit Metropolitan area) and sat cutting my arm while sitting at my massive, expensive desk, which occurred during tours of the office. Not exactly the highlight the firm was showcasing. I lost the job, and my mind, and admitted myself, albeit with pressure from doctors, to a psychiatric hospital unit. Everything was spinning out of control, and I didn’t know why or who to blame. What I did know is that drinking was NOT the problem.

I did bounce back and started my own practice and did very well, yet again. However, with all of that freedom to come and go as I pleased, the drinking escalated. And eventually the hard drugs started finding me, especially cocaine. I also entered an abusive relationship with a fellow attorney 20+ years my senior. I know now that he was truly a soulless creature, simply a biological entity wandering the earth leaving in his wake destruction and trauma. That's not to say he poured the booze down my throat and held my nose over the cocaine, but he didn't help things with his mind-fuckery. But again, another story for another time.

In late December of 2007, I was arrested for my first drunk driving. I received some leniency from the Judge and arresting officer, as I had been fleeing an abusive incident: I was covered in bruises, spaghetti sauce, and was wearing one shoe and one slipper.

A few months later, during another physical altercation, I called the police on my ex, but it resulted in my arrest. Those charges were eventually dropped, as my ex refused to pursue them, and I don't think it hurt that we were attorneys and had worked with the Prosecutor several times.

On a subsequent occasion, I was stopped for drunk driving but somehow managed to talk my slurry way out of it. It wasn't long, however, before I yet again had contact with the police. This time I couldn't talk my way out of it, not that I'd remember trying, as I was in a complete and total blackout. That's no surprise considering my BAC was .33, on a blood draw no less. (Very accurate.) I also urinated in a parking lot in front of a crowd of 20-30 people. Coming out of that blackout in jail in the Psychiatric Unit was scary. Not so much because of where I was, but more so because I easily could have been told I was there for killing someone; I had no recollection of what occurred, so that would not have been surprising. (It certainly would have been devastating, but I doubt that would have stopped me from continuing with the drinking and drug use.)

That last drunk driving arrest was in April of 2008. In May of that year, I checked myself into treatment.

Unfortunately, that was not the end of my drinking/drugging career, nor my criminal career (misdemeanors eventually escalated to felonies). I continued down my path of destruction and went on to rack up more consequences, including health, career, and financial, not to mention relationship issues with everyone I knew.

I guess that's a start for my first blog, and I hope to continue to put my story out there. Maybe it will help someone?