I went to eight schools before I went to college: one in Falls Church, Virginia; one in Metarie, Louisiana; three in Westminster, Maryland; two in Blacksburg, Virginia and one in Churchill, Pennsylvania. Every single time I went to a new school, I thought: This time it’s going to be different. And every time I went to a new school, it was exactly the same. I didn’t talk to anyone and, as such, I was lonely and friendless, until somehow a friend or two found me.
But when I went to college, something happened that had never happened before: I made a ton of friends. The first week before classes was filled with orientation events – games and shows and more games. I had never had so much fun in my life. I spent all day playing games with complete strangers, adrenaline and serotonin at an all time high. I talked to everybody. I talked to the guys, the girls and the authority figures. I talked to freshmen and upperclassmen. All day during the games, I talked.
At night, when I had a bit too much time on my hands, I drank – or rather, everyone drank. There were parties everywhere. And while I wasn’t quite old enough to drink legally until the second week of college, the bars served students without a second glance.
When I felt awkward during the day – which was often, since we couldn’t play games every second of every day – I simply ate. Keeping my mouth full was a way to feel less obligated to chit-chat. In the dining hall or in the dorm, I would sit with my new friends and we’d all talk … or rather, they would talk and I would listen. And with an unlimited cafeteria plan, I could pile up the crackers and cream cheese in front of me, or swirl around a mix of soft serve and Froot Loops. I gained a ton of weight and just kept eating.
I stayed busy constantly. For the first time in my life, I fell into a group of girls who actually included me in activities. I joined the newspaper staff and the tennis team, like I had in high school, but what I enjoyed most was sitting around with the women and just talking – and laughing. So. Much. Laughter!
I realize now that staying busy was a key for me – movement increased my ability to be a part of whatever was going on, and I was more willing to put myself into new situations than ever before. I desperately wanted what college offered: a seemingly safe environment where I could find myself – and be myself. And I definitely found that at Mount Union pouring myself 100% into everything I did.
Looking back, it’s amazing to me how many people I adored during my freshman year. I liked everybody. And I thought everybody liked me. In other words, I was accepting – and I was accepted. It’s a feeling I hadn’t had before college – and one I didn’t have again until I landed in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Of course, I learned in both places that I didn’t always like everyone, and not everyone liked me – but at least I felt positive, upbeat and warm toward the people I met. College was my first real step into society, into adulthood – and I learned more about people in those four years than I ever dreamed possible.
When I headed off to college, I was solely a drinker. My pill-popping days were behind me; I’d given up marijuana. I knew about harder drugs, but I drew a line in the sand at those because I didn’t want to stick a needle in my arm. Not only did I detest needles, but I assumed I would overdose and die on my very first try.
None of this stopped me from snorting something called “crank” with a 23-year-old named Terry who styled his hair like Rod Stewart. I loved Rod Stewart and therefore anything Terry did was okay with me.
I met Terry at the gas station where he worked. I showed up repeatedly, back in the days when gas station attendants pumped gas and I didn’t have to get out of my parents’ car. Sometimes I drove by and just ogled him from the road. Terry really did look like Rod Stewart from afar.
One day I got up the nerve to say, out loud: “I really just wanted to meet you.”
With no hesitation and a huge smile Terry said, “It’s nice to meet you!” Then he pumped my gas and invited me to a party at his house on Saturday.
I went to the party. In fact, I went out with Terry several times. He played Rod Stewart songs in his car – loud – as we drove around town. He didn’t make a complete stop at the stop signs in his neighborhood. Terry was wild. He gave me his AC/DC necklace, which I wore until my neck turned green. Our time together was magical.
I admit: Terry treated me much more like a younger sister than a girlfriend. And I treated him much more like Rod Stewart than a gas station attendant.
One day, at one of Terry’s many parties, someone had formed lines from powder on the kitchen table. I had no idea what it was or – when I saw what they were doing – why anyone would put something inside the nose. This seemed like a completely backwards idea.
But Terry was – did I mention – 23 years old, and that made him cool. So when he almost jokingly asked, “Want some?” I squeaked “okay” so I could be cool, too. And I learned how to shove white gravel up into my brain by way of my nasal passage.
This unpleasant sensation, he said, was called “snorting crank.” Until this day – 40 years later – I never even wondered what “crank” meant. The internet says it’s methamphetamine, but that can’t be right. Meth is horrifically addictive and I don’t remember having any mood-altering reaction at all. In fact, I hated the whole process. Maybe that’s because “crank” is made with battery acid and antifreeze.
Believing I was still cool a couple of years later, I crushed up No Doz caffeine tablets – which I am mortified to discover are still sold in stores today – and I snorted those, too. In fact, I taught other college students to snort No Doz. Gravel in the nose is still a bad idea.
My relationship with Terry was short-lived, given the chasm between 17 and 23, although I never returned Terry’s AC/DC necklace. In fact, even after he realized that he was lightyears ahead of me in maturity – though he never matured much past 23 in his lifetime – Terry pretended not to notice when I drove slowly by his gas station, or up the mountainside past his house on a one-lane road in the snow.
While I loved looking at him, I was relieved to be done pretending to be old enough. And I went back to only drinking for a long, long time.
My only ambition as a high school student was to drink as often and as much as possible … without getting in trouble. This meant that I needed to find a college far away from my parents where I could drink efficiently without worry.
But I was a wuss. I didn’t want to be too far away, in case I missed them. So I only looked at colleges within a two-hour radius of my Pittsburgh home.
Fortunately, back in the early eighties, the drinking age in some states was 18. I was 17 when I left for college, but legally, I would soon be allowed to buy beer in nearby Ohio. So when considering a college, finding one where the drinking age was 18 was my top priority.
Finding a college where drinking was acceptable on weekdays was a huge bonus. So when I discovered that Mount Union College (now Mount Union University) had parties on Tuesdays because there were no classes on Wednesdays and the drinking age was 18, I was almost sold.
Almost. When I learned that the school colors included my favorite color – purple – I knew Mount Union was my destiny.
Still, I needed to do an overnight stay to be sure. My parents drove me to Ohio and left me to spend the night on campus. My admissions representative, also the literal 1981 Homecoming Queen, hosted me. Until that point, the word “homecoming” had been reserved for popular kids only, and I was definitely not a popular kid. So I was more than a little intimidated when I learned I was spending the night with the reigning queen.
As luck would have it, Belinda offered to take me out drinking. I have no idea what we drank, where we drank, what we did, or who drank with us. I remember feeling like I was part of the crowd – something I never, ever felt before. The homecoming queen treated me like royalty, in a way I truly appreciated.
We drank and laughed and drank and laughed until I thought: Finally. I’ve found a place I belong.
And I had. For four years, I belonged at that college. But it was a loooong four years. My naive feeling of belonging evolved into an ignorant rebellion against authority – and everything I did revolved around drinking, both on and off campus.
Many, many stories would follow.
When I started telling my story via this blog, I didn’t realize how very many stories I had to tell. The next six years of my life stand out as the most impossible, terrifying, thrilling, saddest and sickest of my life.
Mom, Dad, if you want to stop reading the blog, now is the time. Nothing I did in college made my parents proud. And yet, this is the story I have to tell.
Between junior and senior years of high school, I went on a mission trip with the church youth group. We traveled to churches in the northeastern part of the United States and up into Canada – a spectacular experience that I loved so much, I sent my own children on mission trips years later.
At church, I felt “part of” the group. Unlike school, where everyone cliqued and clacked together, the church group was a mix of jocks, geeks and wallflowers. We all fit in and we had a great time together, prepping for the trip and playing games together.
Our youth director/phenom, Renny, gave me actual comfort when I wanted to know: “But how do you know there’s a God?” Renny said, “I just believe, and that’s how I know.” It took me decades to understand my own concept of faith, and that’s where my journey started.
The youth group tirelessly rehearsed, and then performed, a musical show for a variety of congregations. We sang an upbeat version of “Seek Ye First The Kingdom of God,” which actually made me feel like God was with me as I sang.
As was the case with many of my high school experiences, though, the mission trip memories that return to me mostly revolve around alcohol. I didn’t drink on the trip except during the three days we spent in Canada, where legally we were allowed to consume alcohol. This means that the other 17 days were blissfully alcohol-free. We sang in churches, fixed a roof, traveled on a bus and ate at Ponderosa buffets.
One night in Canada, though, a bunch of us went out for pizza. Someone bought a couple of pitchers of beer for the table – all high school kids. We passed around the pitchers and filled our mugs. After one beer, I was still shy enough that I didn’t want to ask for a refill, even though the pitchers were sitting partially full. I couldn’t reach them without making a scene and this group wasn’t about getting drunk. They just happened to drink beer with their pizza. (This concept never made sense to me; food always got in the way of my alcohol consumption.)
When it came time to leave and the group started walking out, I was astounded. Two pitchers still contained beer! What was wrong with these people? I looked at those pitchers like I was leaving a stray puppy on the table.
As everyone else walked toward the doors, I asked meekly, “What about the beer?”
A boy said, “Go ahead and drink it if you want.”
Finally! Permission to do what I wanted! I grabbed the nearest pitcher and drank from its side, guzzling the rest of the warm beer without another thought. Then I drank the beer from the other one, too.
A couple of kids laughed; they didn’t understand my need.
Over the next two days, I befriended Johanna, the coolest kid on any block. We found a store that sold beer until 3 a.m., then stayed up all night drinking, waiting for the 6 a.m. store opening to buy more – and guzzle it before the other kids woke. We played free music on the jukebox in the basement of our host church – Greeks Don’t Want No Freaks on forever repeat – and talked and laughed and thought life had never been better. I thought I had a new best friend.
After that trip, I never saw Johanna again. But I still remember that Canadian beer.
One of the coolest high school parties I ever attended was a sleepover bash. The cool kids, who all attended too, called it a “bash.” I’d never been to a bash, but I was darned excited to be invited.
There were no parents at this party; nobody was supervising. It was the kind of party you see in the movies, but I saw it from the inside. What I remember most: everyone was LOUD. The music was loud; the speakers were blaring in every room. All the cool kids called across the room to one another, cups raised in unison, grunting and bellowing and belching. In order to be heard, it was essential to shout.
I was a mouse. I did not shout. I mostly just watched. And I drank, of course. A lot.
At some point, it was time to go to sleep. I am pretty sure this part was female only, but I can’t be sure. We had sleeping bags, which we rolled out on the floor. The music went off, and my friend and I were rolled up in our bags, whispering to each other about how much fun we’d just had because we were suddenly so cool.
Then my friend whispered, “Waid – did you hear that? Did you see that?”
“What?” I asked. I saw nothing.
She said it again, louder, “Did you see that? I know you saw it that time!”
“I didn’t!” I said. “What did you see?”
“Like a guy or a troll or something…” she trailed off, realizing she didn’t know what she was saying. “I think I’m hallucinating.” Realizing this, she started to panic. “I must be hallucinating!”
My friend had taken a pill that I hadn’t taken, and for a minute we wondered if it was some kind of hallucinogenic. After about ten minutes of sheer terror, during which my friend’s hallucinations became even more realistic and frightening, she said, “Feel my forehead! Feel it! It’s burning up!”
Sure enough, my friend had a fever – a very, very high fever – and she was hallucinating. I didn’t know these symptoms could be related.
It’s a scary thing when you’re a kid – even though you think you’re all grown up – and your best friend is really, really sick but there are no real grown-ups around.
“Do you want me to call your mom?” I asked.
“No!” she nearly shrieked. “You can’t call my mom!”
“Right, okay…. Do you want to go to sleep?”
“Yeah, sleep, yeah. I will go to sleep.” She passed out the moment her head hit the pillow, right there on the floor.
She woke me up four times during the night, freaking out, still hallucinating. I had no idea how to help. I couldn’t do a single thing for her.
Morning came and she went home, crawled into bed, and eventually recovered. Miraculously, I didn’t catch whatever caused her fever. But I crawled into bed and slept for as long as I possibly could.
We didn’t go to any more sleepover bashes after that.
My high school graduation, like most, was a huge ceremony in the sun with happy teenagers throwing their caps in the air afterward. (My sons were not allowed to decorate or throw their caps, the logic of which completely eludes me.)
After graduation, I had the thrilling opportunity to drive my parents’ car to the graduation party to which I’d been invited. Given that I had only gone to my high school for two years because of all the moves, the fact that I’d been invited to any graduation party was huge excitement. But being able to drive … well, that was the best graduation present ever!
Except, in reality, it wasn’t.
I gathered up a ton of friends, who piled into our Datsun hatchback until they were sitting on laps and spilling over one another – and onto me as I drove. I played the music loud but everyone was talking, so no one really enjoyed my musical choices. With everyone on board though, we arrived safely, happily at the party. That’s when the problems started.
I was driving, which meant I couldn’t drink. Long before “designated drivers” became a trend, I promised my parents I wouldn’t touch a drop.
And I didn’t.
With all of my social anxieties still hugely intact, I walked around with my soda(s) while my friends drank champagne. When they moved onto other drinks, I ate cookies and chips. I wandered around standing near friends, but never really talking. I could hardly wait to leave.
And that’s when the other issues arose. Some of my friends wanted to go to another party. Some of my friends wanted to stay. I was the only one who wanted to go home – and I was driving everybody. I can’t recall how this problem was resolved; I am certain that some people were unhappy with whatever decision was made.
My best graduation present was a trip to Florida, which came with a purple duffle bag that lasted literally 30 years. My friend, Sherry, and I visited Magic Kingdom and I had the time of my life. Disney World was my kind of place, and I wanted to live on Space Mountain.
During that trip, I also went out with a bunch of Sherry’s friends. We piled into a car, just like my friends had done on graduation, and the driver – who didn’t care if he drank before driving – blasted through the farmlands at a full 100 miles per hour. He didn’t slow down for anything.
I remember thinking, I am going to die today. This is how I am going to die. I couldn’t say anything out loud; I was merely a passenger with no control over my impending death.
I think back on my ultra-safe driving decision from graduation day now with relief, even though the party was awkward and horrible. I’m glad I stayed sober. I’m glad the day wasn’t made worse because of alcohol. I’m glad I didn’t spend the day with my head in the toilet. I’m glad I didn’t drive 100 and I’m glad I didn’t kill any of my friends.
I think that is both a gift and a miracle.
I don’t remember where I was beforehand, the night that I came home and puked out my guts for hours. I only remember my mom holding my hair back out of my face, like she did when I was little.
But I was a teenager. We were alone in the bathroom: me with my head in the toilet, her overcome with exhaustion and worry, loving me anyway.
I remember wondering why she was being so nice to me; I was sure she couldn’t stand me. But she was actually sweet, talking to me between heaves. She wanted to understand what was going on with me. Now as a parent, I finally understand this. But then? I was completely confused.
“Why do you drink?” She really wanted to know. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
I didn’t understand “do this to yourself.” I hadn’t done anything to myself. The alcohol had done this to me. It wasn’t my fault! I was in heavy denial even then. Nothing was ever my fault.
But why did I drink? I had no doubt about that. Drinking was the only thing that gave me peace from the mess that was inside my head. It was the only way I could fit into a crowd of people. It took away the angst that occurred after every single word I spoke. Drinking was the one thing that allowed me – I thought – to be the person I’d always wanted to be.
But none of that had gelled in my brain yet. I was a kid and my entire goal in life was to feel good.
So I told my mom: “Because it’s fun!” Then I wretched again.
“You’re an alcoholic,” my mom replied. “I know you’re an alcoholic.”
She doesn’t remember saying this, but I remember.
I knew the word, but I didn’t really know what that meant. My mom wasn’t an alcoholic; my dad wasn’t an alcoholic. In fact, I didn’t know any alcoholics – not in my entire extended family or any of my friends’ families.
But my mom did. Her dad died of alcoholism. And even though she grew up with a mostly absent father, she recognized an alcoholic when she saw one.
She told me I was an alcoholic when I was 17 years old, vomiting in the safety of her arms, believing I was still okay. I didn’t understand and I didn’t believe.
I drank regularly until I was 25. By then I’d been threatened, terrified, attacked, assaulted, raped, nearly arrested multiple times and thrown out of more than one home. I’d sacrificed all of my dignity, morality and sanity in order to stay drunk. And that’s just the surface of the horror that was my life.
But I still didn’t understand alcoholism. As I drank, I believed that alcoholics were simply able to drink more than other people, and I definitely could do that. I sang loudly with my friends to the tune of Juke Box Hero: “… and be an AL-CO-HOLIC!” as loudly and proudly as I knew how to sing. I still didn’t get it.
But my mom knew. “Why do you drink?” she said.
“Because it’s fun!” I said, and wretched again.
Years ago, I read Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. It is one of my favorite books – a spectacularly written memoir of growing up in Irish poverty.
So when Frank’s little brother, Malachy, also wrote a memoir, I was intrigued. In Angela’s Ashes, little Malachy is portrayed as the “golden boy” of the family, so I was excited to hear his viewpoint. I found a copy of Malachy’s A Monk Swimming and started reading.
But the book Malachy wrote didn’t tell a sad story about a family growing up in poverty. Maybe by design since his book was written after Frank’s, Malachy told a different story entirely. He mentioned his unpleasant childhood, but he skipped right into the hilarity that he remembers from his young adulthood.
This disappointed me; I loved Frank’s book. But it also taught me a valuable lesson: perception is everything. Malachy didn’t grow up feeling destitute and sad like Frank did; he grew up happy and determined to get out of poverty. Malachy reflected – and probably lived – completely differently than Frank did.
It is interesting to me, because I relate better to Frank, that Malachy ended up becoming an alcoholic, while Frank did not.
I have two younger sisters and two parents, all of whom shared my life experience, none of whom are alcoholic. I was always substantially more sensitive to things that didn’t seem to devastate others: the deaths of the baby rabbits in the fields, the snowball that hit me in the breezeway between classes, the loneliness and despair and bullying in school.
My family didn’t do anything to “cause” this sensitivity in me; I was born with it. Like Frank, and nothing like Malachy, I attached myself to the sadness in life. I still do, although now I am more aware of good things and I try not to whine incessantly.
I am writing a blog about my life, and I am trying to tell the story the way I remember it. I’m a huge proponent of truth-telling; I abhor liars. It’s important to me to get everything right, but the way I remember it – from 40+ years ago – may not always be 100% accurate.
I do not have a photographic memory and obviously my perception plays into everything I write. I can, and will, only tell my story from my viewpoint. But this may cause some challenges.
For example, here’s a memory from my childhood, when I lived in New Orleans: my parents wouldn’t allow me to attend an Osmonds concert. The concert was the day after Thanksgiving, and we spent the holiday with family in Pittsburgh instead. I remember this as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
I developed a searing resentment about it, and 50 years later I finally discussed this injustice with my mom. Mom carefully but honestly explained that this never happened; she had facts to back up her words. There was no concert. In fact, we hadn’t even gone to Pittsburgh that year! Everything she said made perfect logical sense. Still, I remembered it so vividly!
So I did a thorough internet search, scouring online Osmond concert databases. And – no way! – my mom was right! I’d been angry for five decades over something that never even happened.
So as I delve deeper into the story of my alcoholism, I hope those of you who remember my story from a different viewpoint will forgive any discrepancies. I want to forge forward freely without worrying about historical inaccuracies, although I will never purposefully embellish.
This is my way of saying: I can only do the best I can do.
One night, my friend and I went to a party where we knew absolutely no one. I have no idea how we got there, but I was bored to tears until I met the guy with the red Jeep.
In my memory, he will always be “the guy with the red Jeep.” He had a Southern drawl, unkempt curls and a crooked smile and I have no idea what his name might have been. But he had a red Jeep Wrangler with a convertible roof and it was beautiful outside.
Sometime after the sun went down, the guy with the red Jeep said, “This party’s lame! Who wants to go for a ride?” And he looked right at me. So my friend and I hopped into the Jeep, along with a handful of strangers, and off we went. As we pulled out of the driveway I thought, Gee, I wonder how I’ll get home. Then I forgot about “home.”
We drove a ways, then careened off-road and drove down into the woods. Driving off-road meant we could all stand up in the Jeep, which we did – hanging onto the roll bar, hooting and hollering and bouncing way up into the air with every bump.
In the woods, there are a ton of bumps. We rode and we rode and we hooted and we hollered and we all had a great time. And then, quite suddenly, we drove into a muddy ditch and … the Jeep. Just. Stopped.
We all barreled out over the sides without opening any doors, laughing and cavorting and waving around what was left of our very spilled beers.
We all continued to laugh, until the guy with the red Jeep started to yell at us. It had occurred to him that he might not ever get the Jeep out of that ditch, and that we weren’t helping the issue. All the fun immediately drained from the evening as everyone started pushing and pulling and trying to figure out how to get the Jeep out of the ditch.
We got very muddy but it wouldn’t budge.
Someone must have taken Physics because he looked at the quicksand-textured ground and said, “If we could put something under the tires, they wouldn’t just spin around in the mud like that.” So we searched for big branches and eventually found one big enough to put under the tires for traction. The Jeep moved a little, then a little more, and with some more pushing the Jeep finally lurched from the ditch.
The ride back to the party was substantially less fun. There was no more hooting or hollering, and we all sat squashed together in the seats. When we got back, the guy with the red Jeep put the roof back on his very muddy vehicle, then he drove us home.
I was silent in the back seat, and very very cold. Even with the roof on and the heat blasting, there was no way to stop my shivering. The guy with the red Jeep let me wear his coat but I was freezing. Many years passed before I learned that withdrawal from alcohol causes the exact same kind of shaking.
It was almost dawn when I climbed into bed, finally, sincerely grateful to be alive.
After my junior year, drinking had become a semi-regular occurrence – but vacations at the beach were special. Like skating, beach days didn’t require drinking. I loved the sunshine and splashing around, trying to tame those ocean waves.
But when night rolled around, I got lonely – until the video game craze struck our little campground. All the teenagers gathered inside the arcade. I could show off my Space Invaders skills and I’d learned the patterns on Pac Man; I even discovered Gorf in that arcade.
It was there, 600 miles from home, where I met Brian, my high school sweetheart. A gorgeous blond football player, Brian lived just 20 minutes away from me … at home. We were incoming seniors during our beach romance, but we stayed together at home, too. I dated Brian for almost my entire senior year.
I say “almost” because we had glaring differences. Most notably, Brian didn’t drink like I did. Sure, he drank on occasion; what high school football player doesn’t attend raucous football parties? But Brian’s idea of drinking was to walk around holding a red cup in his hand, high-fiving the other players. My idea of drinking was to consume as many drinks as I possibly could until I could no longer physically grasp my own red cup.
Brian was not your typical high school jock, meaning he wasn’t anywhere near as obnoxious and chauvinistic as the stereotypes imply. In fact, Brian was a really, really nice guy. He came from a good family and he did good things. He treated me well all the time. And in return, I treated him like crap.
When we were at the movies, I felt proud and happy to be with him. When we went out to eat, even at Burger King, Brian shined. He was funny and sweet and I loved hanging out with him.
But when we went to parties – which we did often, between my friends and his – we argued incessantly. And by “we,” I mean “me.” When I drank, all of my doubts and insecurities raged. Mostly, I argued with Brian because he was a nice guy.
I didn’t want a nice guy. I wanted a cute football player, sure, but I wanted someone who would drink with me. I wanted someone who would do stupid stuff and get in trouble, like I did. I wanted a bad guy. And no matter how long I stayed with Brian, he never became a bad guy.
Eventually, we broke up. We didn’t see each other again for many years.
During our summer break from college, Brian and I dated again. By then I knew enough to appreciate a nice guy – but by then … my drinking had become impossible. This time while we were dating, I moved out of my house, yet Brian continued to call. My parents had to relay the message that he wanted to talk.
When I finally returned Brian’s call, he very carefully worded his concerns: “Have you thought about what your choices are doing to other people, to your parents?”
My high school sweetheart had grown and matured in beautiful ways, but I fumed when I heard the word “parents” come from his mouth.
“I don’t care what it’s doing to my parents!” I screamed. “This is about me and what I want!“
It’s been 40 years since I slammed down the phone on Brian. If I could see him just one more time, I would like to sincerely apologize for being such a flaming idiot during our entire relationship.
