Day 365

Dear friends,

I am 1 year sober today.

1 year ago, on this day, I was in 4 WEST (the psych ward, to most of you) at Cooley Dickinson Hospital. Only 2 days removed from the bottle. A bottle that had landed me in the hospital 3 times within the course of the month. A bottle that had me checked in at 145 pounds. Had me shaking like a leaf (this continued for another 2 weeks). Had me crying. Had me admitting that I was trying to kill myself. Had me ready to die. As the woman I loved, and loved me equally, held my hand. Lost.

That's what this disease did to me. See, I didn't want to kill myself. But I had gone so far down the well, there seemed to be no turning back. I knew what the withdrawals were like. This wasn't my first rodeo. The searing chest pain, the sweats, the chills, the shakes that disallowed shaving or opening a can of beans, the nausea, the aches, the dizziness, the inability to sleep, the screaming tinnitus, the blasts of violent dots (stars in the dark), evil hallucinations out of a Timothy Leary study gone awry, the restless legs. Essentially, the pure and incessant horror.

It lead me to accept the fact that I was going to die. Because at that point, dying would've been such a huge relief. A relief not only to my own anguish, but a relief to those that I had dragged into the cellar with me (that's how I saw it). My soul mate, my parents and brother, my extended family and my friends (too numerous to name). I had lied, cheated, bullshited, and pillaged their compassion to its bitter end point. All so I could continue to pour Vodka in my mouth by the gallon. Alone. In bed. In and out of consciousness.

I knew I finally had to face myself. Purely. And unadulterated by the interests of anyone other than myself. I had to meditate on who I was. I also had to get combative, and angry, in order to dig to the bottom of me. Why I suffered. And how I could survive. Because the core truth was, I did not want to die. But this disease sure as fuck wanted me to. I broke my soul in half. Unsure of whether or not I could sew the seems back together. Regardless, there was no other way. I had to go all the way in. I had to.

My story is very long. With many turns and tides and shifts. I don't feel like it would be right of me to share it all right here, right now. 2 reasons for that. 1? I am in the process of writing a book about it. 2? I share the entire story these days to the rooms of AA that I frequent, and the detoxes, hospitals, and other similar facilities where I am asked to speak. And for now, I feel that full story is best served for those that I have direct contact with.

When I am asked to speak (and when I am speaking, and after I am finished and immersed in the people that are in the audience) I feel a fire in my soul, regarding what my path will be, that I only felt 1 other time in my life. Back when I was 17 or so and my band was asked to play a show. I feel that same desire, fire, passion, and joy. I NEVER thought that feeling would happen anywhere else in my life.

I no longer feel those things with music. I still love it. And it will always be a huge part of me. And I hope it is forever a major character in my life. But it never defined me. I never achieved any peace with it. And most days, I got just the opposite. Now I have found, after all these years, my true calling. To share my story of survival and hope with those afflicted with the same beast that I bear. If not to save, then to simply extend a hand with the message of “You never have to feel alone”.

Here's a short glimpse of the book I am trying to work through. It shares but a minimal fraction :

-------------From 2007 through 2011 I was married. Owned my own 2,200 square foot home. Had a beautiful dog. Had just wrapped up a very successful record store that I co-owned. Had a steady, and reliable job, as a public assistant (bartender). Toured the world as a guitar player. As far away as the southern most reaches of New Zealand to a 10 minute drive from the Arctic Circle in Sweden. And nearly everything in between. 19 countries. Hundreds of States/Cities/Provinces. Performed in theaters built for royalty that held an average of 1,000 people. Each night was sold out. I had people tugging at my shirtsleeves to get my autograph. A photo. Anything. People jumped with joy when I gave them a guitar pic.

I also drank, on and off (mostly on), after 7 years of abstinence.

In the March of 2012, I laid in the back of an ambulance.

I couldn't feel or move my arms and legs due to the onset of severe atrophy. I had been pissing in bottles. When I could reach the bottles. When I couldn't, the floor of my parent's house. Or in my pants. The only reason I wasn't shitting myself was I hadn't eaten anything in over 2 weeks. I was barely able to lift my arms to dial 911. I told the operator in a whisper (I had lost my voice due to complete dehydration, I hadn't drank any liquid other than vodka, rum, wine, mouthwash, vanilla extract, and cologne (yup, cologne) for over 2 weeks) that I couldn't get to the door. They would need to break it down. Miraculously, I was able to fall out of bed and drag my paralytic body to the front door when they arrived.

“Been on a bender, Schwabe?”

One of the EMTs knew me from High School. I tried to say “That's an understatement” but couldn't get the words out. As they wheeled me out, the EMT that didn't know me asked if I had my ID for registration purposes. I was barely able to tell them that it was in the ransacked, filthy, empty-bottle ridden bedroom. He went to retrieve it. Moments later he returned. Slightly more gray-faced than when he left.

He looked me dead in the eyes. I think they were the only words he could find.

“Holy. Shit.”

A short time later, in the ICU, I was shown my blood work. The doctor spoke evenly.

“Sir, when did you take your last drink?”

I believed that it was roughly 6 or so hours before this moment. So that's what I whispered.

“6 hours ago? Are you sure?”

“Give or take a half hour or so” I muttered.

“Sir. Your blood alcohol level is a .48”

He then asked me to sign the paperwork. I barely got my hand around the pen.

I was divorced. My dog had terminal cancer. I lost my house. My music job had come to an end and my regular work of nearly a decade followed suit. My whole family was about to live in Arizona. I spent every dime I made playing music. I spent my last 100 dollars on 10 gallons of Vodka. That I drank over the course of the previous 9 days. I weighed 140 pounds. I was living at my parents house. Scratch that. I was nearly dead at my parents house. And now I was covered in my own urine. And my beard caked with vomit. Hooked up to every tube in the book.

But this doctor just asked me for my autograph.

Much like those crazed fans did in Portugal a mere 9 months earlier.

And then?

Then, it got bad.-------------------------------------

There are too many people to thank for me being alive today. I would, however, be remiss without mentioning a key few.

The people of The Hope Center in Springfield, MA. They opened doors for me that I never knew existed in myself. Rob and Eric. Two of my favorite things on earth. We've been through the wars. If not for them, I am not entirely sure I'd be here today. My Aunt Allison. If there are angels, she is undeniably one of them. My parents and brother. They've stood by me through this nightmare, and now this dream, with the same vigor and peace throughout. AJ, Terry, and Lindsay. For lending their ears when I needed to speak, and their words when they knew I needed to listen. Chris Herren. His story inspired me through film. It continues to inspire me. Only now as a teammate, and friend.

Ada Langford. My soul mate. My everything. A pillar. You inspire me every single day. I love every single thing about you. Your compassion, strength, and love are unparalleled. A moment without you is a moment wasted.

To all of you that dropped by, or sent a message, or called, or even took a small moment to take another look at how serious this disease is, I thank you all. Boundlessly. Not a single thing went unnoticed or unappreciated.

Sure. There are still horrible days. Days that take strength. Life doesn't stop being miserable here and there. My dear Uncle passed away last month. I don't have a car, or much money at all. And I could continue this list, like any of us could. But I choose to take away its power. I refuse to focus on it. I acknowledge it and move on. For this world is, by and large, too beautiful of a place to relinquish to the demon dormant within me.

Today, I am engaged to the love of my life (we plan to marry this Fall, if we can hold out that long). I have a job, and a beautiful home. I weigh 185 pounds (a healthy weight for my height) and I don't shake. At my last check up my health was spot on, which is nothing short of miraculous. I am in the middle of writing the aforementioned book, and recording my 3rd solo record. I am making amazing connections in the sober world (they help me more than I can ever help them, and therein lies the endless pursuit), and aim to council my fellow addicts as a career. And for the first time, in 41 years, there is a permanent smile in my soul.

I am the first to admit that I have done shameful things. But in no way am I ashamed of who I am. This is my story, and I survived. I love myself today. And every single day, I am thankful for that. And every single day, I work to stay here. In this, the truest version of myself.

If you're out there, and you're lost, send me a private message and I will send you my phone number. No judgments, ever. I can't promise you but 1 thing. I promise you that I will listen to you for as long as you need.

All love and gratitude, always.

M