Then, now, and always an alcoholic

I wasn't always an alcoholic, but I always shall be.  Not everyone will be an alcoholic, but anyone can be. These statements I believe to be true.

It's been over five years now, since I had my last drink.  Time to remember, reflect, and share.

Some people I know were out of control with their drinking from day one.  Not me.  It was probably harder for me to admit I was an alcoholic because I had thirty years or so of normal drinking patterns that seemed like evidence to the contrary.  For most of my adult life I drank an occasional beer, mostly during the summer months, during football season, and with certain meals such as pizza.  There were some occasions where I drank heavily, such as at the pastor's conference.  But most the time I drank no more than a beer or two.  And only occasionally.

Then life happened.

First I was prescribed Ativan for depression, insomnia, and anxiety.  It is a drug that works on the same receptors in the brain as alcohol, with effects so similar that it is also used to manage alcohol withdrawal symptoms in treatment.  I was told point blank at the time that I had to quit drinking.  My psychiatrist put it this way:  "I can't effectively treat your depression if you continue taking a depressant (alcohol).  No problem.  I just didn't drink.

What the doctor didn't tell me is that long-term usage of Ativan can produce "tolerance, dependence, addiction, benzodiazepine withdrawal syndrome, cognitive impairments, etc., which is why it is generally not recommended for use treatment beyond two to four weeks."  However, it is often prescribed for long term use.

After a number of years, a change of employment, a new home, I felt great and decided to cease treatment for depression.  My doctor, Brad, recommended I reduce the dose of Ativan prior to ceasing completely, and also warned that some people develop a drinking problem after going off of Ativan.  I was unphased because I had never had a drinking problem, and was quite confident I never would have.

Prior to ceasing medication I had begun to drink moderately, as in 6 to 7 fluid ounces of Scotch per week.  A couple of Scotch doubles, usually on the night a friend came over for dessert.  In spite of my doctor's warning, that drinking became a nightly affair immediately upon quitting Ativan.  My financial records of purchases confirm that I was now drinking 6 to 7 fluid ounces a day, not a week.

This is what I believe happens in the development of alcoholism.

First of all, a normal person has an adverse reaction to alcohol as a toxin in their body.  That's why it's called 'intoxication'.  Some people such as my wife so dislike this feeling that they will not drink enough to even begin to feel the effect.  Many people like the feeling of early intoxication.  That' why they drink.

When a consistent pattern of drinking develops, the body adapts to the presence of alcohol in the system, called 'habituation', and no longer has as strong a reaction against the alcohol as before.  The drinker who once got a buzz with the first drink now must drink more to feel the same effect.  Which if you are drinking for the effect means you will drink more.

The next stage is that as one drinks more and more to achieve the effect of intoxication the body adapts to the presence of alcohol to the extent that it now has an adverse reaction to the lack of alcohol in the system, that is withdrawal symptoms, not to the presence of alcohol in the system.  During a particularly stressful time in my life I stated to a friend that "It takes two drinks for me to feel sober."  I thought it was a joke but it was actually true.  I had to drink to feel normal.  At that point I had become an alcoholic, beyond a doubt.

Though an alcoholic probably doesn't realize this.  Toward the end, I was concerned that my congregation might smell alcohol on my breath Sunday morning, so I quit drinking Saturday night.  I got the shakes Sunday mornings as a result, though I didn't understand it to have anything to do with my drinking.  I couldn't pour the wine from the pouring chalice.  I didn't know what was happening but blamed it on stress, or something.  Only after treatment did I recognize I was going through detoxification.

If an alcoholic could simply manage by maintaining a base level of alcohol in their system at all times they would.  Anything to avoid withdrawal.  But the problem is with the habituating properties of alcohol.  It takes more and more to achieve the same effect.  But there is only so much of this toxin that the body can tolerate-- before it simply shuts down.  That shut down comes first as 'passing out'.  And then, the body's systems get so depressed they shut down entirely--that's called dying, by the way.

My rock bottom came in part because a doctor had prescribed Ativan again for me.  Circumstances at work sent my into a rage one afternoon, and after consuming a fifth of Scotch that afternoon and evening, I still felt I needed something and so I took Ativan.  The combination of the two almost killed me.

Why does an alcoholic allow this to happen?  One of the reasons is that to the alcoholic it appears that they are in control.  I used alcohol to 'control' my moods, or so I thought.  This is one of the reasons people with mood disorders such as Bipolar Disorder often become addicted.  Alcohol gives them some control.  One drink, two drinks, three drinks, four, I knew what I was drinking for.  "I'm in control" means "I don't need help".  Do you have a drinking problem?  No, I have no problem drinking.

I avoided some of the pitfalls of drinking.  I sat out on my deck, drinking myself to sleep at night, but rarely drank out on the town, and did not drive drunk (well, not very often).  My heaviest consumption was when I was alone.  Most of the time I convinced myself that I was only having a couple of drinks, a nightcap, and that was not a problem.  At the end those couple of drinks averaged 9 to 10 fluid ounces a day of Scotch.  Bigger glasses, less ice, kept the 'drink' total at two.  The truth is that 9 to 10 fluid ounces is consider at the minimum, 7 drinks, some would consider it 10.  That sounds like heavy drinking.  And it was an average.

Now I'm free.  I've gone through detoxification, dealt with many of the issues that contributed to the drinking, and no longer experience cravings.  The smell of Scotch is repulsive to me, now.  I can be around people drinking wine or beer, just not Scotch.

I share my story hoping that it will not be your story.  Even a lifetime of drinking normally is no guarantee against developing alcoholism.  Some people are more prone than others, but it is possible, I am convinced, for anyone to become alcoholic.  No one is immune.  Especially vulnerable are those with other issues like bipolar disorder, depression, or other mental illnesses.  Genetics can also play a role.

I don't have a problem with  normal people drinking normally.  Some people drink for the taste, not the effect.  Some people drink occasionally, not consistently.  Some people will enjoy their last drink like they enjoyed their first.  But not all.  Remember that.

Forgetting Memories

One of the memories that stays with me is the comments made by my wife, Karla, following the birth of our first child.  It had been a difficult childbirth, for sure, complicated by preeclampsia.  When everything was said and done, her very serious comments were "Dave, we need to talk.  I can't do this again.  I mean it.  Only one child."  My response was that we'd wait more than a few hours before we take permanent action.  I believe God blocks the memory of mothers so that they will in fact consent to more than one pregnancy.  Otherwise, the human race might decline fifty percent with each passing generation.

Forgetting is sometimes essential to life.

It's been two weeks.  Two weeks ago you couldn't open a news page without seeing multiple stories on the church shooting in Texas.  I checked this morning.  Not one mention on CNN's home page.  One of the reasons we don't act in response to these mass murders is that we choose to forget them.  Life goes on.  To an extent, this is necessary.  It would be hard for us to function as a church if our members retained their memories of such tragedies.  They would become captive to their fears.  The new visitors would be looked at with suspicion.  Locked doors would become the norm. 

Sometimes we cannot allow ourselves to forget, lest life not  go on. 

I've enjoyed a number of years now of mood stability.  I still see my psychologist and psychiatrist regularly to help monitor my moods, and to maintain my medication regimen.  But on a day to day basis it is tempting to forget. 

Yesterday, as is typical on Saturdays, I napped most of the morning and even some in the afternoon.  With my current work schedule, leaving home at 4:30 am, getting home about 6 pm, with just enough time to eat and then head to bed, the weekends are makeup time.  I try to catch up on my sleep.

But I remember a time when being couch bound was not for the sake of making up on my sleep, but because of being in a deep depression and being incapable of generating enough energy to even get up and shower.  And then there were the manic times.  Generally, my manic phases were quite enjoyable.  The sky was the limit.  Unfortunately, they also came with a  cost.  The last major manic phase cost me about $60,000.  Now I have some great woodworking equipment.  Probably would have been wise to just have some 'good' woodworking equipment.  That pales in comparison to my senior housing manic phase.  Millions of dollars spent.  Not my money.  And we did get one project complete. 

I need to remember.  Bipolar people can ill afford to forget. 

The cardinal sin of being bipolar is to forget, to believe one is all better, and to cease all medication and treatment.  The result is not pretty.

It's not unlike an alcoholic that forgets what drinking really was like.  When an alcoholic relapses after years in recovery they discover that while they were sober, the disease continued to progress.  No amount of time cures alcoholism.  One doesn't get to go back to drinking the way one did early in one's life.  In fact the experience of relapse is worse than the original 'rock bottom'. 

That's my understanding of being bipolar.  You think your moods were unstable before being treated?  Well, you haven't seen anything yet.  Try going it alone, without treatment, and see just how high the manic phases are and low the depression can get.  Ceasing medication is the most sure fire ticket to hospitalization that there is. 

I appreciate my wife's help, here.  "Have you taken your pills?"  Thankfully, my psychiatric meds are all taken at bedtime, and without them I can't sleep, so I almost never miss a dose. 

Insurance companies can be interesting.  They like to question whether certain medications are really necessary.  I take eye drops for glaucoma, and will for the rest of my life.  "Is this really necessary?"  Well not if your willing to go blind.  Thankfully, they have never questioned my psychiatric meds.  Apparently they too remember.  The cost of hospitalization exceeds the cost of medication by a fair piece. 

Forgetting memories.  Sometimes it seems to be essential to life to let memories go and move on.  At other times it is necessary to cultivate those memories lest one repeat them.  Wisdom is knowing the difference.

Facing our Fears

 Fear is a funny thing.  Seldom are we afraid of that which threatens us the most.  Often we fear that which really is no threat at all.

I preached last Sunday about the Texas shooting.  Specifically, I see these too frequent instances of mass shootings as being just a tip of the iceberg.  Polarization, and the tendency to see others as an enemy, anger, and fear permeate our culture.  Certain individuals act on it, and the result is tragic.

Before I could even speak about it I was approached before worship about whether the doors should be locked during the service.  Security concerns.  When security trumps welcome the church has a problem.

Fear.  Fear of the outsider.  We cannot give into fear.

The truth:  The single greatest risk to one attending our church or any church is probably the drive in.  Much more likely to die in a motor vehicle accident than from anything else about church attendance.  This risk probably goes up astronomically when we attend Christmas Eve services, what with the tendency for people to drink and drive on holidays.

A second truth:  We fear the unknown, the stranger, when the threat is more often from those closest to us.  My understanding is that most of the time, gun violence occurs with people one knows, not total strangers.

And a third truth:  Domestic violence can touch the church.  The only situation where I can imagine posting a sentry at the church door is when there is a restraining order in place that affects our members.  When the church or its pastors support those seeking to escape domestic violence we may well become a target of that violence.

One of the things I've learned throughout this process of dealing with being bipolar is that emotions are not to be trusted any more than moods.  And fear is often the least trustworthy.  Perhaps our whole world needs a healthy dose of lithium or lamictal.

Life is going to happen.

We will not be able to anticipate most of the greatest challenges we will face in life.  The best we can hope for is the ability to deal with them when they present themselves.  I cannot begin to tell you how often I have imagined absolutely devastating consequences as a result of my being bipolar, only to discover they never materialized.  For example, I've gone bankrupt in my imagination many times since diagnosis.  Never happened.  Never missed  a payment.  Always had food on the table.

The lesson I've learned is that we need to go on with our lives.  Responsibly.  Do what we can do.  Take each day as a gift.  And not let fear deprive us of life.  Think about that.

The greatest harm that could come from the Texas shootings may not be the immediate victims of that shooting, but the repercussions throughout our culture.  I'm not minimizing the loss of life that occurred, or the incredible tragedy of that loss.  But if fear grips the rest of us we will have all become victims.  All of us. And that would be tragic.

Who's crazy?

Time and time again when our country faces the aftermath of another mass murder you hear choruses of people blaming mental illness for the shooting.  "We don't have a gun control issue, we have a mental illness issue."  OK, well either way, we have an issue.

I've heard it said by military folk that "if you believe military weapons are available to the general public, you don't have a clue what the military has for weapons."  That said, some very impressive stuff is available to the general public.  Consider for example this Barrett Barr M107A1 .50 BMG Centerfire Rifle.

I picked this out because its the most expensive semi automatic rifle Cabelas sells.  A fifty caliber bullet.  Easily a quarter mile range, probably a whole lot more.  A price tag of $12,000.  I have the feeling that one would want to make sure one's tree stand is solid before letting off a few rounds.  There are probably some people crazy enough to take this on a deer hunt.  But it's not really a hunting rifle.  Let's be honest about that.

Now, personally, I think anyone who buys such a rifle for hunting IS crazy.  But such weapons are not of the type responsible, and normal, hunters buy.

But if you want to sit back and take pot shots at a crowd of people from a thousand yards this is your gun.  The question is who would want to do that.

Well, apparently a certain number of people would.  If we define a person who is angry enough to kill as mentally ill, then I suppose we can say that we have a mental  illness problem.  But to blame that portion of the population that has a mental illness diagnosis for the mass murders that are taking place is misguided.  The vast majority of those with mental illness are not a threat to anyone except, in some instances, themselves.  

We have a mental illness problem.  Yes, we do.  People don't understand mental illness.  One issue is that people don't recognize the difference between a rage, and mental  illness.  When people fail to deal with their anger issues in a healthy manner they can spiral out of control into a rage, a violent, uncontrollable anger. Yet that is different than being bipolar, or depressed, or schizophrenic.  

The real issue we have regarding mental illness is the availability of mental health care and affordability of the same.  It can take months to set up an appointment with a psychiatrist, and a single visit can cost upwards of $500.  That's a challenge, especially if one does not have insurance that covers mental illness.

Should the mentally ill be allowed to purchase guns?  I can speak for myself.  I got rid of my guns under the counsel of my doctors.  "It has been clinically proven that one is more likely to die of a self inflicted gunshot wound if one actually has a gun."  It's just not a good combination to be depressed and own guns.  But I was never a threat to anyone else.

What I think is insane is allowing weapons such as the .50 caliber piece above to be so readily available.  Who needs such weapons?

Hunters do not.  Even those who want to have firearms for self defense do not.  I cannot imagine anyone being able to identify a 'threat' at a thousand yards and legitimately kill them in self defense.  And one hardly needs a fifty caliber rifle to defend one's self against an intruder in your home.  

If you're a drug lord in Juarez you may have need for one.  I wonder how much they spend at Cabelas?

There is a reason these are called assault rifles.  And not 'defense' rifles.  Or 'hunting' rifles.  Or even 'target' rifles.  It's because the only legitimate purpose for them is killing at a long range.  With overwhelming force.

Are the mentally ill buying such guns?  Well, there is an easy solution if that's the problem.  Require someone to submit to an mental health evaluation before allowing them to purchase such a weapon.  It won't work though, because we don't have enough psychiatrists and because the people buying these weapons are not mentally ill.  My guess is that aside from drug cartels, most of the people  buying assault weapons are merely gun enthusiasts.  They think its cool being able to blow up a watermelon at a thousand  yards.  

These same people, could they afford it, and were they available, might like to collect Abrams M1A2 tanks.

But back to the issue.  Who is really insane?  A bipolar person who is struggling to maintain a balance in their moods?  Or an entire culture that insists on making available weapons that have only one legitimate purpose, and that is killing at an incredible distance? 

Crazy world we live in.  You can buy some pretty incredible weapons online.  It's like making LSD available as an over the counter drug.  And people think I'm the crazy one.

Sacred Time. Sacred Space.

Sacred time.  Sacred Space.

Jacob declared of Bethel, where God renewed the promise he had made to Abraham:

"How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven."

Perhaps we don’t appreciate the sacred as much as we should.  Everything and everyplace is so ordinary to us. 

One of my favorite stories is about representatives of the Native American community that were constantly showing up at hearings and objecting to opening up more forest land with logging roads.

“This land is sacred to my people”, they would declare at each and every hearing.

“Is there any place that is not sacred to you and your people?” one logging company executive finally replied in exasperation.

“Now, Sir, you are finally beginning to understand my people”, was the response.

I’m thinking about the sacred these days. 

We have our sanctuaries.  And in time they become sacred to us.  The stairs at the entry are visibly worn from the flow of people in and out for generations.

When we traveled to Russia we were able to visit the Cathedral of St. Sophia in Novgorod which has been a place of worship throughout its 1,000 year history.  It is so ancient there are archeological digs within the sanctuary, revealing the original floor.

As is typical, the icons painted on the walls follow a progression from the earth below to the heavens above.  One cannot stand in such a place without having one’s head bend backward as your eyes are drawn up to the heavenly scenes above.

I think also of the little Egland Lutheran Church out on the prairie of NE South Dakota, near the farm of our family.

There, surrounding the church is the cemetery.  There we laid to rest one family member after another.

Grandma Louise played organ in that church for decades.  How many times “Holy, Holy, Holy” welcomed people to worship one can never know, but it’s as though the walls themselves could sing the song.

“This is the gate of heaven.”

My desk now sits in our living room, having been moved from its former place as we remodeled my office to make a bedroom for Dad.

And this morning, as I write, both Mom and Dad’s ashes are in the urn on my desk, waiting to be transported back to Kalispell, and then to the cemetery in Polson. 

I am anticipating moving my desk back to where it used to be, and reclaiming that room as my office.

And yet it has changed.

It has become a sacred space, for there, right where my desk will stand, my Father died. 

“This is the gate of heaven.”

There Dad came face to face with his Savior, and was drawn from this earth into the heavens above. 

And the Divine light will always cast a shadow on the walls.

Sacred Time.  Sacred Space.

The question was raised about whether we should scatter some of Mom and Dad’s ashes at their lake place in Elmo, MT.   I objected.

My concern is that the future of the lake place is still up in the air, and should we have to sell it, it will be much easier if it is not the place where our parent’s ashes are scattered.

Scattering the ashes creates a sacred space.

The irony is that my own home has become such a sacred space.

I anticipate the move back into that space in our home.

There I will study the word.  Sermons will be written.  And through the Word, Jesus’ face will be revealed.

There in that space that Dad saw Jesus face to face, I too will encounter my Savior.

There Angels will ascend and descend on the stairway to heaven, messengers speaking the Divine Word into our ordinary world.

That place where I have often wrestled with God through times of depression and despair will now be a sanctuary. 

No, I don’t plan on erecting an altar there.  There are other places for that.

But I will remember.

I will remember that for one brief but shining moment, it was there that my Father saw the face of God.

I find myself wondering about the future.

Will one day a bed be made there again, only this time for me as I take my final breaths on this earth?

Only time will tell.

For now the Sacred will be found in the ordinary.

A few feet away from that holy space where Dad died, is our dining table.

There we break bread together.

There we gather with family and friends.

There we teach our grandson to pray.

And there amid all that ordinary stuff, we encounter the hidden God.

And the angels sing “Holy, Holy, Holy!”