Onsite (part three)

My head was spinning. I remember feeling sick.

At this point no one knew about my drug use. The word addiction had never even been suggested. My family did not know. My coworkers did not know. My Doctor, my Counselor, and my Psychiatrist did not know. I was still in denial, so in reality, I didn’t even know. How could this place have known?

Rusty tried to convince me that his story was true. He tried to assured me that he was not a spy – that he was not an undercover counselor working for Onsite. He said that he was there for his own problems. He swore that he didn’t have a clue who or what I was.

I still wasn’t totally convinced, but by now, I really had no choice. I spilled my guts. I told Rusty and Ralph my story - the whole story. They were both shocked. Not so much by my story, but by the fact that Rusty and I had just happened to come to Onsite the same week, and just happened to have been placed in the same room. What a coincidence!

Our amazement however was short lived. Rusty was, all of the sudden, very concerned.
“If even half of what you are telling me is true,” said Rusty, “Then you are in real trouble”.

“Yeah, thanks Sherlock” I said sarcastically, “I sort of figured that out”. I was thinking of the Nursing Board, my job, my wife, my family, my church and my reputation. Rusty was thinking about my health.

He wanted to know details like how much I had used, and how often I had used it. He wanted to know exactly when the last time had been. The significance of this line of questioning was at the moment lost on me, but I was, for some unknown reason, finally beginning to trust this guy – so I told him the truth.

He told me that I really didn’t need to be at Onsite. He tried to tell me how serious and painful drug withdrawals were. He said something about my needing a Detox center. He tried to tell me that I needed to be under a Doctor’s care. But in typical “Gary” fashion, I told him that I was fine. I assured him that I was not really addicted and that I could handle it.

He sadly and knowingly shook his head. “Yeah, you can probably handle it” he said, “but it is not going to be pretty.” Little did I know just how right this guy would turn out to be…

Onsite (part two) A Change in The Weather

The weather was about to change. Life as I knew it was about to change. You could feel it in the air.

More people began arriving for the one week session at Onsite. The first thing we got to do as a group was take a historical tour of the old mansion. It is called the Drouillard House and it has a fascinating history. (If you are into that sort of thing check it out at www.drouillardhouse.com )

While we were taking the tour a severe thunderstorm suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The thunder was deafening. The rain was intense. The walls of the old mansion were literally shaking. (Or, maybe it was just me) I remember wondering just how many of these Tennessee thunderstorms this old house had experienced and survived over the past 150 years. I wondered what the worst of those storms would have been like. Luckily, the storm disappeared about as quickly as it had arrived. I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to face one of the worst storms of my life – and it had nothing to do with the weather. I kept hoping that I would hold up half as well as that old house had.

The shuttle from the airport arrived shortly after that. I made my way back to my cabin to settle in and meet my roommate.

Ralph was a jolly fellow about my age. He was from Akron Ohio. He was obviously accustomed to the treatment routine. He quickly and confidently introduced himself and starting right in telling his life story. He told me the good, the bad, and the ugly, just like we were old friends. I liked Ralph. I could relate to most of what he was telling me. But if he thought I was going to tell him my struggles and my problem, and reveal my secrets, he was sadly mistaken. I was in no mood to talk to anyone - yet.

It was about then that another guy walked into the cabin. He obviously knew the treatment routine as well. He politely listened as Ralph finished his story, then looked at me as if to say, “your turn”.I suppose he could tell by the expression on my face and my tightly folded arms that I was not talking. He didn’t miss a beat. He quickly, confidently, and unashamedly launched into his story.

He said his name was Rusty. He said he was from West Virginia. I wasn’t buying it.

Something was terribly wrong with this guy’s story. I listened in horror as this ”Rusty” fellow started telling “my” story. He changed a few little details to make it believable, but it was obvious that I was being set up. This guy had been strategically placed into the bed right next to mine to tactfully twist a full confession out of me.

The number one rule at Onsite was, we were not, under any circumstances, allowed to tell anyone what we did for a living. Rusty never said what he did for a living. He didn’t have to. I had heard enough. I was steaming.

“I’m not that stupid” I said angrily. “I came here for help, and I don’t appreciate being lied to”.

Rusty and Ralph are now looking at me as though I had just grown a third eye.

I felt the walls shaking again. I was hoping that my voice wasn’t shaking too.

Perspective

Are you still with me?

I know what you are thinking. I know what I would have been thinking 2 years ago had I just been told that story. So What!? So, the names were the same - what is the big deal? You would really have to be stretching it to call that little detail a miracle. Well, it all has to do with perspective. Let me explain:

Most miracles are private events. Most are meant solely for the faith and benefit of the intimate few who are present at the time and open to the event. Most of Jesus’ miracles were done in private. He often told the people whom he healed to keep their mouths shut about it. (Which of course they couldn’t do)

John 9 has a wonderful example of how different people react in different ways to miracles. Jesus gives a man, who had been blind from birth, his sight. The man of course is thrilled. No one else seems very impressed. Most of the people think it is a trick. They justify this supernatural event, in their own minds, by saying that the man is really someone else who just happens to look like the blind guy. Even the man’s parents are not happy. The Pharisees, in typical fashion, are mad and start accusing the man of being healed by the devil. Jesus ends up saying that the people who witnessed the miracle, and denied it, were the ones who were really blind.

God, at any time, if he chose to, could simply pull back the edge of the sky, stick his head in, and yell; “Hey, Don’t make me come down there!” As far as I know he has never done anything quite that flashy. God works in mysterious ways – those ways are usually subtle. Elisha described it as a still, small voice. (I Kings 19:12)

Miracles therefore are easily missed. Our logical, natural brains have a tendency to rationalize and explain away anything supernatural. Your world has to be shaken a little before you can see the obvious. My world, at the time, was rocking.

So, I am sure that you are still thinking that the little name thingy was just a fluke, just chance, just a convenient coincidence. Well, had the name been Bill, George, Bob, John, Mark or Paul, I may concede that the chances were good - but Kendell?? Please!!

Besides, the story gets better – a lot better

Onsite (part one)

Onsite (Part One)

(NOTE: I do not have the right or the permission to share the parts of this story that are not my own. It is a story however that needs to be told. Parts of this story need to be shouted from the roof tops. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. If you were there, and you know these stories first hand, and you feel that I am over stepping my bounds, please tell me. I will gladly remove them)

Against their better judgment everyone somehow agreed to let me get into my truck and drive off alone. This is probably a raving tribute to the deep amount of BS that I was still able, despite my condition, to sling at will. They all had serious doubts as to whether I would show up at Onsite or not.

I had every intention of showing up. I simply had no intentions of staying. I already had my exit strategy mapped out. I was there to make a showing of good faith, to do my part, then leave and come up with my own way out of this mess. God or someone else was going to have to get my attention real quick.

He wasted no time.

When I arrived at Onsite, I was a few minutes early. So, I hid in my truck for awhile. My anxiety was at a critical level. It was hot and I was nervous. I remember sweating like a pig. I rolled the windows down and listened to the radio for awhile. I didn’t see a soul. The place looked deserted. When I could no longer sit still I finally got out of the truck and walked sheepishly up to the main building.

Two smiling ladies met me just inside the building. They sat behind a table with everyone’s name badge and cabin key all neatly arranged. I could tell by the table that they were expecting a lot more people. My badge and Key were first. I remember one of the ladies patting my hand as she handed me my cabin keys. “It will be alright.” She said softly. It wasn’t so much what she said; it was the look in her eyes when she said it.

I knew that look. I had used that look a million times over the years. I had often used it at the bedside of a dying patient to comfort and reassure the families. I had used it to calm patients who were heading into life or death surgeries. It was a look of caring, understanding and sympathy. It finally started to dawn on me what I must really look like at that moment.

I went and found my cabin. It was nice, rustic, clean, and cool. I found a water bottle with my name on it sitting by my bed. I saw from the other water bottle waiting in the room that my room mate (if I stayed) would be a guy named Ralph. There were three beds, but only two water bottles. I took this as a good sign.

I went outside and sat on the cabins covered porch and waited. There were old time rocking chairs. It was shaded and much cooler than I had remembered it being only 5 minutes ago. It was then that I witnessed my first of many “God Moments.”

He was the first person that I met at Onsite. He walked up onto the porch, smiled and introduced himself. His name was Linus. He was the kind of person that you just instantly like. He was handsome, confident, real, honest, and kind. We hit it off instantly. It was like I had known him for years. I wondered what would bring such an obviously good person to a place like this.

He explained without going into much detail that a very good friend of his had recently committed suicide. He said that he was just having a hard time dealing with his friend’s death and needed some time. I gave him my best look; I told him it would be OK. I was sincere.

Linus was assigned to the cabin right next to mine. He said he was going in to put his luggage away. I told him to check out the water bottles and see who his roommate would be. He smiled warmly, said he would, and then disappeared into his cabin.

The odds of what happened next simply can not be calculated. There is no such thing as chance. There are no coincidences. Ask anyone who knows this story first hand. There is simply no explanation.

Linus soon returned to the porch. But, something had obviously changed. Linus looked shaken and sick. I asked what was wrong. It took him a minute or two to answer.
He told me then that his dear friend had been named Kendell. He said that no one knew that. Linus had just learned that his new roommate, according to the water bottle just happened to be a guy named…. You guessed it… Kendell.

It was right then that I decided I had better stay awhile. That place was magic. No, that place was sacred.

Turning the Corner

My miraculous new found ability to finally seek and accept help was the first baby step on my long road home.

I had already been to Medical Doctors, Counselors and a Psychiatrist, all to no avail. It was time to call in the “Big Guns”.

Lynetta, Russ, and the church elders (shepherds, as we heathen like to call them) got busy. Phone calls were made, and my bags were packed. They were sending me away.

The “Big Guns” turned out to be a beautiful, quiet little “resort” hidden back in the rolling hills of Middle Tennessee, called OnSite http://www.onsiteworkshops.com/

Long ago, back in my saner days, I remember believing and teaching that there was no such thing as chance - that there were no coincidences. I remember believing that everything happened for a reason, and that someone very powerful was in charge. Turns out I was right. (Even a broken clock is right twice a day)

There is a scripture in the New Testament where Peter says something like; “Always be ready to give an answer to anyone who ask you about the hope that you have within you.” What he means is this: Always be ready and willing to share your “God Stories.”

The next part of my story is exactly that - a “God Story”. it is one of the many reasons I have for believing in and relying on God.

The next part is difficult for me to tell. Not because of the pain or the depression that came with it, but because the next part is different - the next part is, to me, sacred.

God in a Box

According to A.A. (and all the other 12 step groups) the second step of recovery is:
“We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”
This step is usually a huge sticking point with most addicts and alcoholics. It was for me.

Some doubt and reject the existence of a Higher Power. Some actually believe that a “Higher Power” is out there somewhere, but they seriously doubt his ability or his willingness to do anything to help them.

To others, this “Higher Power” idea sounds too much like “God”. And “God” automatically brings up painful memories of judgment, condemnation, and punishment. Most addicts do not need any help in the “judgment, condemnation, and punishment” department. We have those covered. No one could shame, condemn, or judge us any harsher than we do ourselves.

I have always believed in a “Higher Power”. I had no trouble at all admitting that my “Higher Power” was the God of the Bible. But, because of my ego, I had the tendency to keep my “God” in a very tight little box. The God of my understanding only worked within the confines of my ability to deserve and earn his approval and help. In other words, “God” only helped the good people – sinners need not apply.

I was an extremely blessed man. I gave the glory and the thanks to God. But in my warped little mind, I was blessed because I deserved it. I had earned it. This type of thinking is what we addicts loving refer to as “Sick”

Romans 9:16 It does not, therefore, depend on man's desire or effort, but on God's mercy.

Intervention (Part 2)

Ok, enough of the morbid depressing stuff. (Writing about it is almost as painful as living through it. Reading it must be no fun either) Let’s just say that things quickly went from bad to worse. Let’s just say that my life had become unmanageable, and that I found myself powerless. (Admitting this is the first step in the Alcoholic’s Anonymous’ 12 steps to recovery plan)

Lynetta knew that I had lost the power to help myself. She also knew that she could not help me alone. So she, through a series of events that were nothing short of miraculous, (I will get her to tell that story later) enlisted the help of many caring people.

One Wednesday evening she returned from church to find me sitting alone in the dark. She didn’t say much, she just turned on the lights and started to pick up and straighten up the house like she was expecting company. This did not strike me as odd, because she is constantly cleaning, and picking stuff up, and acting as if she is expecting company.

About five minutes later the doorbell rang and in walked Russ, our church minister, and 6 of the 8 church elders. I was busted. Lynetta had ratted me out.

They didn’t ask many questions. They simply said that they knew that I was struggling with life right now and asked if they could pray for me. I didn’t have the heart to tell them no. I didn’t have the strength to tell them that I had already tried that prayer thing and it didn’t work. Besides, God only helps the good people – the ones who deserve help. I deserved a lot of things – but help wasn’t one of them..

I never got off the couch. They gathered in all around me – close enough to put their hands on my shoulders. They prayed simply and quietly. They asked God to help me, and to heal me. Then they thanked him.

Simple - nothing miraculous – no bright lights - no angelic choirs singing – no Holy water being thrown – no demons screaming and flying from the room in fear - nothing at all to write home about, but that 2 minute prayer reduced me to a broken ball of sobbing mush.

Looking back now I can see that the only thing that really changed that night was my willingness to ask for and accept help. That was, in and of itself, a true miracle.

Intervention (part one)

I had stopped praying, but Lynetta hadn’t.

Lynetta and my adult children knew that my situation was desperate and out of control. But, they had no idea why.

Andrea had been through suicide prevention training at her school. She told me that I could be their poster child. Lynetta, Kari, and Andrea all sat me down and tried to talk to me. They tried to help me, but I wasn’t listening. By that time I was not capable of listening.

I wasn’t so much lying to them, as I was lying to myself. I knew that I was using alcohol and drugs, but it wasn’t that much. It was just temporary. It was just enough to cope with and survive my current psychological dilemma. If I ever found the right combination I would be just fine.

(The old guys at AA and NA always laugh at this part and say, “Denial is not a river in Egypt idiot.”)

One night, I just got up off the couch, got into my truck, and drove away. This was way out of character for me. I have been married for 34 years. I have never even considered it before. I had no idea where to go. I drove around crying, wondering what it would feel like to just drive into a tree.

My phone was ringing. I wouldn’t answer it.

Somehow I found myself at church. I had the keys and I knew how to cancel the alarm. I remember going into the auditorium and lying down in the back row of seats. This was my church. This church was a very familiar place for me. I had spent an untold amount of time here. Over the years I had poured much of my heart, soul and strength into this place, but now it just felt cold, dark, and empty.

I knew many people who had found healing and understanding in this place. I had seen God work in powerful ways in this place. But he wasn’t there that night. I tried to pray, but the chairs weren’t listening.

My phone was still ringing. I finally answered it. It of course was my very frightened wife. She thought I wasn’t answering because I had finally found the courage and the right tree.

I couldn’t stand the pain in her voice, so I went home.

The Addiction Monster (part 3)

Mental illness runs deep through the roots of my family tree. I was genetically predisposed and destined for madness. I invented all sorts of serious sounding psychological woes, all of which logically and neatly explained my behavior.

My family meanwhile was falling apart. My paranoia and my obsessions were growing pathological. My Jekyll and Hyde mood swings were common but unpredictable. I would rant and rave uncontrollably over nothing at all. Then, when something serious with Lynetta or the kids did occur, something that required any amount thought or attention at all, I would simply collapse into a sobbing ball. I would hide my bedroom for hours at a time. Toward the end I would hide there for days at a time.

Through even the worst of my madness I was still able to put on my happy face mask and go to work. My coworkers knew that I had changed, but they attributed it all to stress. They thought that my teenage children were driving me crazy. (That is what I had told them anyway) They had no idea.

I was still able to wear my church mask as well. It frustrated Lynetta to no end, how I could literally put her through a Saturday night of Hell, and then calmly and quietly walk into church Sunday morning and act as if everything was just fine. (That was a trick that I learned in my childhood)

I quit singing. I quit praying. I just wanted it over with.

At the time I thought that I was just too big of a whimp to pull the trigger. Not a literal trigger of course (I don’t own a gun). My trigger was much neater and less messy. My trigger was a 5cc syringe and a 25 gauge needle. The syringe was to be filled first with the good stuff, to take away my pain, then the bad stuff, to take away my life.

Looking back now I realize that God had not walked away from me at all. He had let the monster out of his cage. He did allow the monster to punish me, to hurt me, to teach me, to humble me, but he would not allow the monster to kill me. God remained right there beside me the whole time.

It reminds me of a Bible story I once read:
Job 2:6 The Lord said to Satan, “Very well, then, he is in your hands; but you must spare his life.”

The Addiction Monster (part two)

The first sign that the monster had been loosed was an overwhelming feeling of stress. This seemed odd. I had weathered an unbelievable amount of stress over the previous few years and had apparently handled it all just fine.

This overwhelming stress soon morphed itself into a mild but persistent depression. With my nursing and pharmacology knowledge, combined with my pride and larger than life ego, I decided that I could successfully self medicate my way through this little set back.

Despite my best efforts the mild depression soon transformed itself into a chronic very debilitating funk. 12 hour night shifts at the hospital were becoming unmanageable. I needed a little help with my self medicating. I soon had medical Doctors and Psychiatrist prescribing me safe and appropriate medication. The only real snag was in the fact that I was lying through my teeth to obtain the drugs I wanted.

My nursing and pharmacology knowledge served me well yet again when I proceeded to mix the medication in inappropriate combinations and doses. I soon learned that the medicine worked much faster, and lasted much longer, when mixed with alcohol.

Paranoia, obsession, and constant mood swings quickly followed. This of course called for stronger medication. I was growing desperate so I turned to a very familiar and readily available nursing tool - a 5cc syringe with a 25 gauge needle.

The one time quiet monster was now growling, spitting and screaming. His roar was deafening and terrifying. He was out of control and unstoppable. This monster wanted me dead. He would not rest until he succeeded.

I resisted at first, but in my heart I knew that I was powerless. My efforts were too little – too late. My strength soon gave out. I gave in and agreed that this monster really knew best. He had been right all along. It would be best for everyone.

The Addiction Monster (part one)

Addiction is a very hard monster to explain and understand. Most medical experts describe it as, or liken it to, an allergy. (Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book Page xxvi)

For example: If a wasp or a bee happens to sting my Daughter Jesi, she breaks out, swells all up, and starts to itch. So far, (thank the Lord) the stings have not affected her respiratory function. But the doctors say that repeated exposure could over time lead to serious respiratory reactions.

If a wasp or a bee stings me however, it really does nothing except piss me off. Different people react differently to the same things.

Jesi tries her best to avoid wasps and bees. Me on the other hand, and thousands more just like me, are oddly and compulsively drawn to the very thing that is trying to kill us.

Addiction is also described as a Spiritual malady – a Spiritual disease. (Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book Page 64) I think that this is one is a little closer to the truth.

Spiritually speaking, there is a monster that lives inside of me. It has been with me for as long as I can remember. When I was younger it tempted me and tested me. I failed miserably. But, for reasons that I have never quite understood, God choose to spare me from most of the consequences. In other words, I got away with it - a lot.

When I was about 30 years old God did something remarkable and unexpected, something that I could never have done for myself. He locked the monster away. He kept it locked up in a dark quiet room down deep in my soul for about 20 years. Over those years I had forgotten that the monster even existed. But he was still there – always there - waiting.

About two years ago God, thinking that it was time for me to finally grow up and get my head and my butt out of the sand, simply and quietly turned the key and unlocked the door of that dark room - then he walked away.

The monster didn't bust out all at once. He could now come and go at will. He only came out a little at first - then a little more. Over time he grew bolder and more aggressive.

It didn't take long to realize the real intentions of this old monster of mine. His job was simple - to kill me. He almost succeeded.