“You take the blue pill … the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes”
Matrix – the exact movie clip here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zE7PKRjrid4
You are not going to laugh at me in the end. Still, I may try to show you those events in a slightly humorous light, just to avoid the scaring effect, which would prevent you from reading the rest of my story. You should believe though, it was a frightening experience – one of the scariest moments of my life, which had a profound consequence on what happened to me next and where I am now.
Let’s start with the beginning though. I was still a fairly young person at the beginning of my 30-sties. Highly educated, and still even more highly thought about himself. Despite the lack of apparent attributes of success in life. Still no house at this point, no son. A mediocre job in Britain, which at the first sight looked like an achievement for a “commie from Eastern Europe”, but it really was an act of demotion considering the level of my education especially after having been in some more prestigious roles in my own country. No woman – I would sing “No cry”, but to be honest with you I cried at this point for one special English girl which I truly believed to be destined for me. She didn’t feel the same way, and I was getting desperate to have it changed. So … I was dating and charming a 19-year-old blonde German girl – just to manipulate the situation into an outcome favourable to me. Still quite handsome but with a tendency to get easily over-weight. Definitely not in my prime youth anymore, but as some tests showed a bit later – still fit enough to become an astronaut.
However, I had some hidden secret, which I usually kept to myself, and that was my drinking. Far too much of it, far too excessive and becoming more and more uncontrolled. I wouldn’t have a problem to say I was an alcoholic, but I still wouldn’t say I had completely lost it. Of course, at times things were getting out of hand but I blamed the unfortunate circumstances which were in my opinion extremely complicated to say the least. In another words: “If you had my problems, surely you would drink on them as well”. Oh yes, surely, I was “an alkie” but I was that clever one. Like Hemingway. He drank all his life, wrote a couple of books, got a Nobel Prize, earned some money, shagged 300 girls and only when he got old, he shot himself. Yes, that was a plan which would suit me. Somehow by the time I am now referring to, in my case, it didn’t work very well. Damn with the Nobel Prize – but where were those girls. Worse, by that time, I had come quite close to killing myself at least a couple of times and the picture of doing so was becoming more and more attractive in my thinking, every day.
On the other hand, I was not ready to admit surrender. I wasn’t drinking daily and constantly. Yet. I could stop for a period of time, and I could still motivate myself to do things. Yet. Prior to these events, in summer, I decided that I am deeply in love with that girl, so I worked out every day, had lost 15 kilos in 2 months and I wouldn’t drink that much. So I wasn’t that bad.
I was. I had already gone through years of decline and demoralization. Circa around the age of 21 I realized that my behaviour and most importantly my emotions are not normal. I had dropped engineering studies and took a course in “applied social science” – full master’s degree course in “The Institute of Social Prevention and Re-adaptation” of the best of universities in my country. And I was one of the best students there. Took me a bit longer to complete my studies as I was constantly working all the time and … partying heavily, but I did extremely well. Some of my essays there were acclaimed as “outstanding” by my professors, and I could definitely say I was getting some knowledge about human nature and particularly about its dark side. After all I was learning about myself. I was getting sure I’d be able to reform myself eventually.
Years went I couldn’t do that. With all that knowledge, books, essays and even growing understanding, I couldn’t handle what was happening in my own head. Of course, it still wasn’t constantly painful. There were better days but then they would be followed by inevitable crises which would justify the “fuck it” mode and bring me back to a bottle. And what was worse – drinking was becoming more and more of Russian roulette. Could be fairly manageable most of the times but it could go completely out of hand, putting me in dangerous situation or provoking me to do things I am still ashamed of, more than 20 years later. I could for example do a night of binging in my country’s capital (going there 70 miles on a hired taxi with some randomly chosen companions – me paying for all) in casinos and brothels, spending equivalent of 4 average monthly salaries at this time. That translates in today’s UK money to £10K. Quite recently, still back home I once ended up with my whole left forearm covered with “cigarette burns”. Nobody tortured me. I did them myself, sitting at a bar with another idiot of that same mindset and playing “a tough guy” game against him in front of a charming bar girl who were watching that with a growing horror in her eyes. I was working as a schoolteacher at this point, and it was a hot beginning of June. I had to wear long sleeve shirts all along the heat wave.
After some of such “experiences” referred me, myself, to see a therapist. We got on very well, very quickly with mutual understanding and rapport built almost instantly. After all I had a similar degree and knowledge he had. He would suggest I could do more – namely – go to rehab centre. But I just shrug my shoulders – what for. I wasn’t still that bad. So, after a while there came a day when I drank again. So, I discharged him from my case. Apparently, it wasn’t working, or more accurately he wasn’t good enough for me. In my opinion of course.
He planted some seeds though, because a year later I would see another professional person – this time I’d already been working in the UK. Technically speaking I had done “a geographical”. I changed a country, and all my social environment. It worked for a while, until I crashed again into heavy drinking and making a nuisance of myself. It was becoming much worse than before – but I blamed that English girl. She rejected me saying I was so “fragile” – not a word to say to a man from The East – so I had a good reason to drink on it. I also started experimenting with some other substances, altering my mind, be it legal or not quite legal, so I quickly put my brain into a state which really required some constant medication.
But I wasn’t that bad – I thought. I still had a job, a car. I was a good guy. In my opinion. Intelligent, good willing, still handsome… Well, I noticed, that people started avoiding me. There was one Scottish bloke at work, and I realized that anytime I’d come to a “fag shed” he would immediately extinguish his ciggy and leave. I confronted him about that, and he plainly said: “There is so much negativity in you that I don’t want to be in your presence if I don’t have to”. Similar feedback came from people who I shared the house with. They described me as an irrational, aggressive, vile and difficult person. I didn’t see that at all. Maybe sometimes. Yes, sometimes when I drank, things were getting out of hand, but otherwise … Now, I started to realise I wasn’t me at all, anymore.
Still, I wasn’t that bad. The first therapist I saw here, she said she could see a potential in me. I had “so much introspective knowledge” she said. Oh yes, I liked that word. I could be so deep in my introspections. She didn’t know that once at university I did a long work on so-called “modern culture factors amplifying suicidal ideations”. All about rock star icons, who killed themselves. The professor who marked that couldn’t believe the depth of the analysis. It was almost at the level of Jasper’s phenomenology of being. Well, I was writing about myself. Anyways, that therapist woman shocked me. When I asked her how we both would be proceeding into process of repairing my mind, she said – “you won’t – it does not work that way”. Basically, I was supposed to show up there, pay her a lot of money, and have no control over that process. She would be in a total control – not me. So, I dismissed her from my case.
The next professional I saw – was a middle aged, NHS provided, alcohol-service advisor. Nobody, I could really relate to (only some BA-3year-college degree from some local university), already quite demotivated, and totally English – meaning unable to relate in any form or extent to the greatness and depth of my intellect. But as things were getting really dark in my head and in my life, I saw him a couple of times. He tried to teach me controlled drinking as it was scheduled at this time as the first obligatory procedure in NHS textbooks – a ripple of a quite moronic research and a book published in 1990-ties at Harvard (a nonsense in my opinion and I still stand by it with all might of my academic knowledge and personal experience). It didn’t work this time as it never had before when I tried to apply it myself for many times in previous years. So, after a couple happy relapses from the scheduled drinks, he basically suggested he would contact me with some AA member. Now, I had of course heard before about Alcoholics Anonymous but my knowledge in this respect was pretty rudimental. After all what could I gained from those meetings. I could see I would be able to bring my knowledge, expertise and intellectual prowess to those unfortunates there, but to be honest with you at this point I had more problems with myself and didn’t have much time to reform other people.
Still, I went. Somebody’s called Tim, rang and I half-heartedly agreed to meet him in Hereford. Probably, just because I am a such people pleaser. Also, it might be that, because all other human interlocutors by then were completely sick with listening about my problems. I just felt a little bit lonely. Still, I didn’t want to hear what he wanted to say. He was a fairly young lad (my age roughly) and he tried to tell me his story. I wasn’t interested – why should I. He was English, he hadn’t done the University like I did. He was different. Or to say precisely. I felt different. And special
But he took me to a meeting – it was happening just an hour later. So, I went with him and … got flabbergast by the crowd which was there. 48 people in a small room. A variety of ages, sexes, social background etc. Not many rugged bums with red noses as I expected there to be. Later on, I would estimate there was a couple of hundred years of sobriety in this room. There were people there who hadn’t had a drop of alcohol for more than 30 years. Still, I didn’t know that. Anyway, I liked the atmosphere, I liked what was said. I even went back a few times in following weeks. However, I quickly realized that they had some kind of a programme and most of them followed it. And it had a religious hint in it, and it looked a bit like a sect with a secret agenda of brainwashing, especially that the first step of that programme clearly spoke of “being powerless”. Oh, I didn’t want to be lacking power. All my life I had grown believing that I need to build my own power, usually by acquiring still more and more knowledge. And they supposed to be suggesting that I should give it up and become trusting some “power greater than myself”. No, no, no … That surely was a cult. And I didn’t want to have anything to do with them. Plus, they were British, I was not. Plus, I wasn’t still that bad. Plus, I was a very special case. So, I dismissed them along with NHS alcohol service.
Don’t worry, we are coming now to the end, not of this story, but at least of this chapter. Soon after, in December I went to my country for some holiday. I went before Christmas to avoid high flight prices and to be able to earn more money back in time for the Festive. In effect, I did a full 10-day long binge. First time in my life I wouldn’t get sober, even for an hour. I was constantly topping up but as I had no work to do, and much money to spend, as the power of British Pound then still pretty much “ruled the waves”, I didn’t have to stop. And I loved it. It was a great time. I went to some parties, met a nice blonde girl. Got a date with her. We met again on Friday evening, had a bit of drinks but then she left, on some excuse. And I went on drinking as I met some “alcohol buddies” from old times. And then, they gave me something to smoke. I don’t even remember what it was.
Now a bit of explanation – it wasn’t the first time, but I’d never call myself “a druggie”. My use of various substances in the past would be quite occasional in contrast with my alcohol consumption. Still, I also had some bad experiences with opiate drugs and knew I didn’t enjoy them at all. This time though it was absolutely different. Instant, absolutely incontrollable wave of panic. Something people normally experience in life threatening situations. And it wouldn’t pass. Minute after minute I was losing the power to control myself. I run from the pub, run through the streets. Caught a taxi and then run away from it in a paranoid belief of the possibility to be kidnapped or murdered. Or worse that I would kill somebody in that frenzy state. I kept rampaging through the streets of my hometown like a lost baby deer frightened of any movement or being. The eeriest thing about it was that all the time I quite fully comprehended my state. I knew that this was just happening on the level of brain chemistry and there is no real danger around me, but I still couldn’t put myself together like many times in the past when I dealt with various fears and anxieties. And it lasted – the most difficult emotional experience of my life. Finally, I manage to get myself to A&E of a local hospital, but as I was behaving in the most abnormal ways, they called the psychiatric unit, and I was escorted to the ward without my consent. And there I really became a 100-kg-pile-of-fear. Crying, shouting, begging, threatening them. I nearly shitted myself. It was only thanks, to the fact, that one of the nurses happened to be my good friend’s wife and I had known her for years, that they manage to calm me down slightly and I avoided being put in a straight jacket.
And then came – like a knight on a white stud… wait a minute. Then came a doctor – in a white coat and extended his hand to me with two tablets. And I swear they were red and blue. Now for the readers from the new generation who are usually too ignorant to recognize cultural references from the times before Tic-Toc, there is a famous scene in a movie called Matrix when the main character Neo is offered such two pills by another hero called Morfeus. But he has to choose one. At this time, Matrix was still a big hit and both of us, instantly realised the shire surrealism of that moment. And we both smiled (which probably also help to level down my cortisol instantly), and he said: “Take both, in case it is not Matrix”. And I followed his advice and soon after I was in gentle embrace of an ancient god Morfeus, so to use a metaphor from antiquity. But when I woke up, quite rested and relaxed – probably high dose of diazepam was still in action, I was absolutely surprised to be informed that I am not allowed to leave that place. Not just that. It seemed like, nobody really treated me seriously there. I was now one of the patients of those institutions, and with my education, and professional background (I worked in similar place in UK) I knew what it meant. Technically I had no power of decision – they could easily section me into forced stay there, at least for a couple of days. And they did not listen to my arguments. They were not impressed by who I was and what I had to say. After all they were used to deal with various Napoleons, Caesars or even a James Bond.
I managed after a few hours to negotiate my escape, but only due to the fact that I had British medical insurance, and they simply weren’t sure who would pay for that hospitalization. So, I was let to go on the condition that my farther would take me and vouch for me and sign the realise papers. And he came, already 71-year-old, a tired broken man, with tears in his eyes. Then he drove me home, packed my bags, drove me to the airport. We didn’t speak much. He only said in the end – “Go away and never come back if you are going to behave like that. I don’t want to see you again like that. I’d rather not have a son”. The greatest act of fatherly love he had ever done to me. And he had done and suffered a lot before.
Yes, that’s where the narrative of this chapter ends. I would like to say I never drank after, but I had to calm my nerves the next day after my arrival back to UK. Still, I was profoundly moved, and things changed in my head. As if a computer screen finally showed a message “Game over, mate”. So, two days later, began my new life – life without alcohol and other illegal drugs which I used to alter my brain. This is already a very long story with many twists and experiences which I am eager to share with you, but it all will come in its right time.
Here, I just want to give you some final notes of what I think caused the significance of those events, and changed my thinking to that degree that I was granted “the gift of desperation” which produced the level of motivation necessary to do everything possible to get better.
- The fear – the shire experience of animalistic, bare and uncontrollable fear. And it came back again even without any substance put into my system. I had to learn to deal with it and I needed help from other people, from friends and from professionals. It took me roughly 3 years to stop having panic attacks although it was quite easy to learn to get through them without freaking out. And after a while they became less frequent and quite short. Just to highlight the level of the problem – for more than a year I slept with light on – just to avoid triggering them. I am fully aware that many alcoholics keep drinking just because of that fear. They had similar experience usually during withdrawal and that what keeps them coming back to the bottle to soothe their fear. Please, understand that sooner or later you have to face your demons. Just don’t do that alone.
- The hospital experience definitely produced a huge dent into my ego. I understood that as much as may perceive myself as rational and intelligent person if I behave like an idiot people will treat me as an idiot with all further consequence. I also became able to shut up and listen and be ready to suspend my control over my life and let other people to guide me through a process of difficult changes I had to make.
- Something happened that night also on spiritual level. There’s no point I will try to preach to you about this, but if you read my other writing, you may get glimpses of that. Still, what is happening in your soul, is in your soul. Each of us has our own path. I just hope you are on yours and you won’t try avoiding where it’s taking you.
The only bit of spiritual experience I would like to share with you is related to the blue and red tablet theme, I set as a light motif of that story. In the movie blue pill would offer you nemesis and the opportunity to go back to your old believes and old life. Red pill would take you down the “rabbit hole” of the truth which can be (in parts) brutal and uncomfortable to say the least. In fact (as much as one’s life story is a fact) there is no choice. You will learn the “meaning” of your life sooner or later. Running from it will only bring you more pain in the end. On the other hand, “Truth” doesn’t stop you from experiences “normal” life but, yes it changes it profoundly. Take both tablets.
And this is finally the end. I hope I didn’t bore you to death. I just want to help.