I was checking myself out in the mirror today when I got out of the shower, that’s not the weird part. Weird is when you won’t look at the mirror at all or, when you look, you don’t recognize the person looking back at you. An occasional heart to heart with yourself isn’t a bad thing.
“How Long has it been now?” I pointed at me, “me?” “Yeah, you, of course, you. How long have you been at it this time, five years? Six years?” I had to think about it for a minute, “yeah, I guess it’s been about five years exactly.”
I haven’t had a drink since August 2nd, 2014. You know it’s bad when you have the date etched in your brain like knowing which hand you use to hold a toothbrush—“August 2, 2014.” I know people who tattoo their sobriety date on their flesh—eh, whatever it takes! The truth is, that’s just the last day I drank, there’s a whole bunch of days that led up to that last time or at least that’s what they tell me.
It’s a sickness. And I sucked at it. I suck at being sick! It took me a couple of decades to figure that one out. It wasn’t until I was ordered by a judge to attend a six month study program that I was made aware how surreal my sickness was. I’d convinced myself that since I didn’t drink Monday through Friday and, I only drank on the weekends, I didn’t have a problem—I needed to learn that was a problem.
I learned waking up pissed off there’s still a drop of whiskey in the bottle because I didn’t polish it off before I passed out the previous night is a problem. Fact—I needed to be taught that. I learned waking up in unfamiliar places just to be told how I got there and then laughing about it because I think it’s hysterical is a problem. I learned when your idea of regulating your drinking means buying two small bottles instead of one big one is a problem. That was a good program, your honor, “thank you!”
“How long’s it been this time?” I continued, “this is the longest you’ve ever gone, isn’t it?” “It is,” I said, “I haven’t thought too much about it, I don’t know how long it’s been exactly but it’s been awhile.”
I guess it’s been about six or seven years since I popped any pills. That was the first problem I got control of, shortly after that was whiskey.
Those of you who have been following me for a minute know I grew up on dirt bikes and, with that life comes injuries, about two decades worth. With injuries comes surgeries and rehabilitation and all of the drugs you can eat... “legally!” Percocet, Norco, Hydrocodone, Lortab, etc. Pain killers in all shapes and colors.
After years of abuse and persistent doctor shopping in order to keep the medicine cabinet stocked with the appropriate narcotics required to wake up, stay awake, survive the day, fall asleep when the day’s over, stay asleep, just to wake back up again and repeat the steps, I decided I’d had enough—that was about seven years ago. I remember when I told my doctor I was done, “nah man, I’m good, thank you! You’ve been reliable and real good to me but I’m not going to eat pills anymore.” He told me I can’t quit. “You can’t just quit,” he said, “we’ll have to ween you off” he told me and wanted to prescribe an entirely new collection of transparent orange, plastic bottles with white, child-proof, twisty caps and blue warning labels.
I respectfully declined and assured him I’d be ok, “I’ll be alright, Doctor.” He insisted I wouldn’t be alright and that attempting to quit cold turkey and detoxing on my own would be a mistake, “the withdrawals can be dangerous!” I was made aware of all of the possible outcomes should I attempt to do this on my own including heart attack and death. Again, I assured Dr. Faruk, MD, I’d be ok, “I’ll be fine, Doc.” We shook hands, he told me good luck and don’t hesitate to call his office should I require assistance. I said whatever I said and I haven’t been prescribed anything since and, look at me now, typing this article like someone who’s not even dead yet.
“Check you out! Remember back when you wouldn’t do that?” “How could I forget?” I asked me. “The difference between checking me out and not me out is avoiding my reflection entirely.” “How long’s it been now?” The mirror asked, “seven years, eight years?” “Yeah, about eight years this time.”
I’ve been consistent at training and exercise for about eight years now, that was my first step toward recovery. It wasn’t long after that I stopped eating pills and within a few months of saying bye to those things is when I decided to leave the whiskey where it belongs—on the shelf.
Fact—I was tired of holding my breath to tie my boots! I told myself I was going to stop eating poison and do something about it for a couple of years before I finally made good on my wOrd. I’d been into exercising regularly, eating right, and staying in shape in the past, there were multiple years during my 20’s and 30’s where I’d go to the gym regularly before work but, what would happen is, I’d remain faithful to exercise and training and then injure myself again on a bike. After that is surgery and recovery time, unable to work, getting back on my feet becomes important, not the gym. It’s tough to get back into it once you’ve fallen out for some years—it takes about six weeks to get back into it.
Today I’m healthy. I’m 45 pounds lighter than I was back when I was sick. I’m 100% free from toxins provided by pharmaceutical giants and my neighborhood liquor giant. I don’t avoid mirrors anymore, I check it out sometimes, and it feels good to confidently say and know from deep inside my soul, “I’m in the best shape of my life.”
God, thanks, G! Without you I wouldn’t even have anyone to thank for the thumbs I just used to type this article.
