The Journey of an Incorrigible Alcoholic: The Paths I Chose and the Ones I Didn't
ADDICTION, DEPRESSION, SUICIDE, GRIEFBy Earl D. EricksoniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Earl D. Erickson
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-0-595-52583-6Chapter One
August 2, 1975: Tacoma, Washington. I knocked on my brother Donald's door. He was living in an attached bachelor apartment adjacent to a private home, and I expected him to be there because both of his cars were there. This was my second attempt to try to find him home this evening. Earlier, there was no answer. I figured he was taking a nap or had gone to bed early. This seemed very strange. I was stopping by to introduce him to Belinda, a girl I had recently met. It was Saturday night, and Belinda and I were on our first date. We had been partying all night long. We were both pretty straight on our first visit, but now we were stoned and drunk.
I knocked on the door a bit louder than before. Then all of a sudden, the door moved ajar. I swore the first time I knocked on his door it was secured. Becoming suspicious, I called out Donald's name, but there was no answer. I told Belinda to stay back, as I was about to enter.
It was very quiet inside; the room was completely dark, except for a stray light streaming through the thin curtain from an outside lamp. When my eyes adjusted, I could barely make out my brother's shadow on his bed. Okay, now I thought he was playing a joke on me. He was famous for that. I decided to tickle his feet. A strange sense came over me as I touched Donald's feet in the darkness. I wondered why his feet would be so cold and stiff on this very warm August night. After stumbling around for a few long seconds, I found the light switch on the wall by the door. I flipped the switch, brightening the small room and revealing a sight I will never forget the rest of my life.
The headboard and the walls surrounding Donald's bed were splattered with blood and brain matter. A small pool of blood had dried around his pillow, and it appeared to have dripped onto the carpet. There was a revolver clutched in his frozen hand.
Suddenly I felt gravely ill, shaken at the sight before me. I was frantic, obviously in a state of shock. My emotions snapped and I panicked. Still feeling high from smoking marijuana laced with angel dust, I completely freaked out.
I struggled to get the gun from my brother's hand. When I finally had the gun in my hand, I took it outside and shot it into the ground. It was the very first time I'd shot a real pistol. It never occurred to me why I had done this. I had no clue whatsoever. The reality of it all just wouldn't sink in. When I came to my senses, I knew my actions would look suspicious to the police, so I hid the gun under some leaves beneath a nearby hedgerow.
Belinda was freaking out by now, yelling, "What the hell are you doing?"
I didn't know what to say. I yelled back, "Call the cops-hurry!" I retrieved the gun from the hedge, put it on a patio table, and waited for the police to come. For some reason, I felt guilty. Too much was happening too fast. I was shaking so much I couldn't control myself.
I was beginning to wonder if somebody had shot Donald while he was sleeping, then staged a suicide. After all, the door was unlocked. If this was the case, I'd really messed up the police investigation that was about to unfold. I was hoping the police would believe me when I told them that I didn't shoot him, either on purpose or by accident.
Why were the police taking so long to get there? Belinda notified the property owner, who lived next door, and the woman mentioned that she'd heard what sounded like a gunshot a few minutes ago; that happened to be the shot I'd fired in the dead silence.
Now I wondered if the police were going to arrest me for something I never did. I knew that innocent people go to prison, too. Finally I could hear the sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer. I was shaking worse than ever. Should I run for my life? It was too late. The police were on the scene, and then the paramedics. They told us to stand back. I insisted that I didn't shoot my brother. I explained that I shot the gun outside to see if it was loaded. One officer was inside the apartment doing a preliminary investigation while the other officer was interviewing me.
I finished explaining my story to the officer. It went better than I'd thought it would. I must have convinced them, because the coroner later ruled the death as a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Donald had put his revolver in his mouth and then pulled the trigger. He had been dead for at least twenty-four hours when I found him. He left behind an unfinished suicide note. Another telltale sign was a stack of suicide-related books near his bedside.
My brother Allan arrived on the scene, and I told him what exactly had happened. I was unfit to drive my car, so Allan drove Belinda home. Then we had to notify my parents immediately. It wasn't going to be easy.
It was now Sunday, August 3, my father's seventy-second birthday. He had suffered a stroke a few years earlier, and his health was somewhat fragile. I thought the news would kill him. It was so horrible to have to explain it all to him. As I told him what happened, his face went pale in silence. I didn't know how to console him because I was still in shock over what I had gone through. I felt so much anger, and then sympathy, toward my dead brother. My emotions were confusing to sort out.
Later, there were times when I saw my father in his basement with tears streaming down his face as he was digging out pictures, letters, and keepsakes that reminded him so much of his first son, now dead at the young age of thirty-six. Fathers are not supposed to bury their sons. He tried desperately to fight back the tears that were ripping at his heart and soul. I'd never seen my father cry before. As a rule, he never showed his emotions. I felt pity and sadness for him. My mother took the news better than the rest of us.
My brother Mark stood visibly shaken with emotion soon after I informed Dad. He was estranged from Donald and had taken a beating from him only a few months prior to the suicide. He admitted that, just a few days before his death, Donald had telephoned him from a tavern and tried to apologize for his actions. Mark had told him to go to hell.
It began when Donald lost his patience with Mark one evening because Mark was drunk and acting stupid. Donald was tired of him telling stories behind his back. The conflict escalated into a beating in which Mark had his ribs bruised badly. He also received a black eye from that incident. They hadn't spoken since. Donald was an alcoholic. That, compounded with his recent drunken driving arrest, a divorce, and losing all custody rights of his son, sent him into a downward spiral. In his deepest depression, he knew killing himself would be the only way out.
I was walking around grief-stricken after the suicide. I was now dealing with two different kinds of grief. Both were very powerful, and I was not acquainted with this degree of pain and heartbreak. I hadn't gotten over the recent breakup of the five-year courtship and romance I'd had with a young woman named Renee. She'd left me less than three months before Donald's suicide, and I was still reveling in the pain of that ending when I discovered my brother's body. I was on the fast track to disaster.
I contacted Renee by telephone and asked her if she would go to the funeral with me for support. She agreed to go. At the funeral service, I lost it. I sobbed heavily when it was my turn to view Donald in the visiting room near the chapel. I kissed him on the cheek. His remains were cremated. I survived a very sad day.
Drinking and getting drunk was the only way I knew how to stuff my feelings and mask my pain. I asked Renee if she would go with me to have a drink after the funeral. She declined. I admit that wasn't the thing to ask Renee. I had a feeling I wouldn't see her again.
The spring and summer of 1975 took a major toll on me. I wasn't making it to work every day, and I was drinking heavily and carelessly. My mental and physical health was declining, too. I wanted to die, but I didn't want to do it myself. I just wished it and dreamed of it every day.
Belinda and I never dated again after that horrible, devastating night when we discovered my brother's suicide. She was nowhere in sight, and I couldn't blame her for not wanting to have anything to do with me. The first date was also the last. The trauma of that evening affected her as much as it did me.
She and her mother lived just a few doors down from me in an apartment complex in Purdy, but suddenly I wasn't seeing her around anymore. I never knew what happened to her, which was disappointing because I really wanted to get to know her. I was hoping to forget about Renee.
I'd first met Belinda one hot weekend afternoon in late July at my apartment complex. This very attractive girl introduced herself and asked if I had a beer and a cigarette. Of course I obliged.
She was about the same height as I was. She was trim and slim, and I could only imagine what she looked like underneath her tight jeans and blouse. Before long she was sitting on my lap, and that caused real sensational feelings. I couldn't believe how this tight little spinner and I just happened to connect so fast.
Belinda was about eighteen. At least I hoped she was. Before I met her, I used to hear her mother arguing with her a lot of the time. I thought nothing of it. That sort of thing just happens in an apartment complex.
Things were just getting fun and mischievous when her mother came down to bring her back home. Belinda's mother never trusted her. Maybe there was a reason for that. I hoped I would see her again, and maybe we could start up where we left off. After her mother left, Belinda whispered in my ear that she would be back and she promised she would do something nice for me. I could only imagine what that meant. She definitely raised my expectations.
The Friday after Belinda and I met was August 1. When I got off work I went home and took a shower and then walked across the parking lot to Ma's Place, a log cabin-style tavern that attracted a few "yard birds" from work. "Yard bird" was a term Donald and many others used to refer to a shipyard worker.
Ma's Place was another reason I liked living at the West Wynd Apartments. It was within throwing distance from my apartment. Donald and I hoisted quite a few brews there. It was so convenient; we could close the place down at 2:00 am and then stagger a few steps to my apartment to continue the after-hours party. Donald and I were just there a couple weekends before his death.
After having a couple beers that Friday night, I made my way home with a half case under my arm. I was hoping to see Belinda without having to go to her apartment. Her mother didn't trust us together, and I'm sure she had her reasons. Belinda was a wild child. A true, free-spirited young woman-just what I needed to get rid of the feelings I still had for Renee. Any distraction was welcome.
It was about 7:30 that evening when Belinda appeared at my door. My wishes were answered. We had maybe one beer and we were out the door. I didn't want her mother to ruin things by coming over and interfering with our plans of getting high and partying through the night. And it worked. Her mother wasn't in sight.
The first stop we made was Donald's place. I was proud to introduce him to Belinda. After all, she was my hot date-and Donald liked hot-looking gals as much as I did. But then we walked into my brother's tragedy.
That was the end of Belinda and me.
Not long before Thanksgiving Day, I met a woman who'd just moved into an apartment below mine. Her name was Diane. When I found out she had the same birthday (right down to the year) as my brother Allan, I wanted to make a date with her to go over to his place to spread the news. She agreed, and when we arrived, I asked her to show Allan her identification card. He was very surprised. We toasted with some wine and then went on our merry way.
When Diane and I returned to our apartment complex, we proceeded to drink more. Then I told her I was going to kill myself. She asked me to leave her apartment. She didn't want to hear this kind of talk. I left, slamming the door behind me, and went up to my place to try to put my words into action.
I actually went to the extreme of setting up a hangman's noose over the balcony of my apartment. Diane heard the noise I was making and came out to investigate. When she saw what I was up to, she called the sheriff. A short while later, when I was seconds away from thrusting my body off the balcony to hang myself, a deputy showed up to intervene and talk me out of my twisted ambition. He also talked me into voluntarily being admitted to Western State Mental Hospital, near Steilacoom, Washington. I was admitted to the hospital for seventy-two hours.
At the hospital, I woke up with a terrific hangover. The "white coat staff" administered a therapeutic medication called Thorazine to me. It made me paranoid, like the rest of the "loony clan" with whom I was now sharing space. I sat in the lobby with this silly robe on, watching groups of medicated patients. I swear they were all absolute nuts. I knew I didn't belong here. I insisted on my immediate release, but it wasn't going to happen until I fulfilled the seventy-two-hour observation period. I was stuck in this "nut farm" all Thanksgiving weekend. There was nothing but laughing, screaming, and stare-downs 24/7. I was actually at the point of joining the nut pack, living the movie One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest.
The following Monday, I was assessed and released on my own. In my pockets I had a bunch of antidepressants and a prescription for Thorazine, a drug that wiped me out. I felt like a zombie. I was mindless to the core.
I had a release to go back to work the following day, but I fell asleep while drilling a large hole on the deck of an aircraft carrier. The drill motor hogged and spun around, hitting me hard in the right leg. Then I was sent home to recuperate. I took the rest of the week off. I had to stop taking the Thorazine because it made me feel like a hunk of lead. I didn't like how I reacted to it. I slept like a brick all day and all of the night. The rest of the week I did nothing but drink beer and lounge on the couch. It beat the mental ward, that's for sure.
I was struggling through life without my big brother Donald. I really missed him a great deal. We both felt we were lonely hearts scorned by our lovers. We had that in common. I really enjoyed his company. He was fun to be around most of the time. But he was so depressed. He called me "Merry Sunshine," because I could bring him into a better mood. I was his calming effect. I only wished there were antidepressants that would have helped him rise above the doom and gloom. I was also deep in depression and drinking too much. I could have used a "Merry Sunshine" myself, but nobody like that was around to pick me up. My mind always seemed to be on Renee, wondering what she was doing 24/7. I still wouldn't allow myself to forget about her. It was driving me crazy.
Christmastime was near, and I had an idea about going to the record shop and buying this record album by Jefferson Starship. There was a love song on the album entitled "Miracles." I thought that maybe I could reach Renee through music. I was wasting my time though. She returned the album to me, and along with it was a box of love letters I had written to her during our five-year romance. She'd already jabbed a knife in my heart by leaving me; there was no need to twist the knife and cut my heart out. I didn't know what to do with the love letters. Through the years, I have saved every love letter she wrote to me. I still have them today. It took me years to get over Renee; sometimes I wonder if I ever really did. I think of all the good times and forget the bad times. She was a big part of the seventies I never forgot, but that was the worst decade in my life I wish I could forget. Our first three years were precious and priceless. We were so innocent and so much in love. Maybe it was all puppy love. Nevertheless, my heart always skipped a beat when I was with her.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Journey of an Incorrigible Alcoholic: The Paths I Chose and the Ones I Didn'tby Earl D. Erickson Copyright © 2010 by Earl D. Erickson. Excerpted by permission.
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