Replace Your Addiction
Never would I have thought to enter those doors yet in this moment my desperation for accountability came with a primal desire. Confused by the calling I leaned into my discomfort and acted.
They decided Dad should spend some time resting. Decades of bodily abuse as both an act of providing and a means to cope. Diagnoses and prescriptions as inconsistent as those providing the insights. He agreed, with our support, to be admitted at the Regina General Hospital. They would do what they do and he was simply to rest.
I was sympathetic to his hesitancy; leaving the farm, staying in the hospital. Living blocks away, I made it part of my routine to keep him company. On the days I was stretched thin I’d still run down to catch the tail end of visitation hours and wheel him out for a couple cigarettes.
“I don’t know why they won’t just let me go out alone, it’s ridiculous that you have to come down to accompany me all the time,” he’d vent.
“It’s liability, Dad. You take a spill and it’s their asses on the line.” He was becoming unstable on his feet. An old farmer shuffle with a slowed reaction. At times he couldn’t get ahead of his lean and momentum would cause a tumble.
He’d complain as he’d light another dart but he liked being pushed around in the wheelchair. He’d bullshit with the kids trying to get off meth or charm a young nurse taking a hit off her vape. A couple big native guys loved him. He’d dole out some smokes and they’d pledge their loyalty. “You got nothing to worry about in here, old-timer, we got ya.” Dad would grin, sheepish yet proud.
A family meeting was called after some observation, regulation of meds and other assessments. We all sat in a room with the occupational therapist, a couple nurses and the doctor assigned to Dad’s stay. After their rounds of analysis, I was left angered. Dad’s troubles were reduced to “set an alarm clock” and “try and meet up with some friends for coffee” while continuing to hammer the pharmaceuticals at him. I approached the elephant in the room, specifically with the usage of alcohol.
I stood on my soapbox.
“We have the same blood. I understand the addiction. I beat it. Dad, we can beat it.”
I was righteous and reactive. I lacked sensitivity. I saw my father’s hurt.
The more I spoke, the more I lied. I didn’t beat addiction. I just quit drinking.
I’d run off to get weed. I’d smoke in the mornings. I’d avoid my wife and son. I’d quit for a day and begin again the next, “hello, old friend. I hate you.”
It was abuse. And I was lecturing on alcohol.
I kissed Dad and left the hospital.
With the exception of the odd one-off, I haven’t ventured too far beyond caffeine, alcohol or THC in the realm of drug usage. Which isn’t to down-play their damaging effects but as attempted, all in moderation.
Alcohol usage ended unceremoniously. My wife got pregnant, we abstained together, I partook following my son’s birth and quit shortly after. Which isn’t to say it wasn’t welcomed. I collected my share of violent binges and painful consequences. Yet, with a tongue-in-cheek cheers of two sparkling waters on New Years’ Eve 2021, I cast the spell, “Alcohol-free until 2023,” and haven’t touched it since.
My apathy from THC is far more dangerous than any alcohol induced fury. The urge to use would slither in at the slightest thought of work or play having convinced myself that the experience would be bettered in an altered state. If successful, monotonous tasks such as book keeping, grant writing, show advancing, or instrument practicing would allow hours to pass in a repetitive task, separated from thought towards their completion. However, the majority of the time usage would lead to a lack of focus, distracted impulses, and conniving thoughts of how to sneak out for a last hit before my parenting shift kicked in. I made it a rule to not drive but everything else was fair game.
As I walked home from our family meeting, profoundly disappointed in myself, I was passed by a van with a dove on the window and the text “Susan Ulmer Addiction Services.” As it pulled into a parking stall ahead of me I approached the driver and broke down.
He listened, validated, and responded, “It sounds like you replaced your addiction to alcohol with marijuana. This is common. There are some choices you can make, Blake,” as he gave me his card, continuing, “we are here to be alongside you if you need that support.”
I thanked him, pulled myself together and returned to the street.
And stood still.
Replace your addiction…
I had walked past Complete MMA a hundred times, having done it again only moments ago. A training facility under the guidance of professor AJ Scales. Predominantly Brazilian Jiu Jitsu but offering a handful of other disciplines. Never would I have thought to enter those doors yet in this moment, my desperation for accountability came with a primal desire. Mixed martial arts? Beating the shit out of somebody in an Octagon? Getting into UFC?
None of this even remotely piqued my interest, yet, confused by the call I leaned into my discomfort and acted.
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