Predisposed Addiction

Addiction runs in my family like a relay race. Some could even speculate that it very well might be genetic.?

The baton gets handed off every generation so that someone down the line gets a crack at living under the weight of addiction. Thankfully more times than not, it’s all been alcohol related.?

Not that that is any better or any worse. It’s not like my family could dodge the bullet from this predisposition, which makes it all the more likely that it is hard-wired in our genome.?

Generationally, it goes back as far as anyone can remember. Most of the time now when we talk about some of the early architects of our bloodline, it gets glossed over in whispered tones.?

“He’s just like his grandfather on his daddy’s side? Didn’t Uncle Jim hit the bottle pretty hard when he was younger? His father drank a lot too, that good-for-nothing bum.”

I suffered the curse of our heritage just like everybody else who shares my DNA. And the funny thing is, it was never something that stuck out in our family.?

Drinking was just something everybody did. Beer with lunch. After dinner drinks. Barbecues with a couple of cold ones.?

I vaguely remember having my first taste of hops when my father let me take a sip of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. Little did either of us know, Pabst would be my go-to beer of choice when I was older.?

And that is usually how it starts. Casually. A beer here. A beer there. What’s a couple of beers after work? I deserve it since I slaved away at the foundry or the office.?

It didn’t matter what industry any of us worked in, a cold one helped us forget that we would have to do it all over again tomorrow.?

Cheers!?

At one point or another, that casualness turned into dependency.?

For my own meandering experience, weekend parties with my adolescent friends evolved into hanging out at the bars Friday through Sunday when I became of legal age.?

Then on, a bottle of something around the house in case some company stopped over.?

Eventually, that bottle would be emptied, along with a couple of cans of beer.?

Weekend drinking turned into casual weeknights until years had passed and it was an everyday occurrence. It just happened. No rhyme or reason. I didn’t consciously hunt it out.?

The habit of addiction naturally became a daily function of life. It just was something I did.?

The lawn had to be cut, crack open a beer. Dishes? Let me go buy a 12-pack first. Laundry and a frothy ice-cold one became a staple. I loved movie nights with a warm buzz.?

The shit thing was, people noticed it in passing. No one said much other than an observation here and there, but for the most part, it was a part of my identity.?

It was accepted as much as my fiery personality.?

Jason drank. Jason drank a lot.??

Sure I would get the subtle digs, or the morning after phone calls expecting an apology for being a complete jerk. It came with the territory.?

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realized that I had a problem. I was a functioning alcoholic.?

And boy could I function. Give me a beer, and I could clean gutters, fill a spreadsheet, and even talk to potential employers without batting an eye.?

It was an extension of who I was.?

If I have been building this up for some pivotal moment where I hit rock bottom and had one of those spiritual moments, I am sorry that I might have to disappoint you.

There was no intervention. There wasn’t an ultimatum from a loved one, or a job. I knew I was drinking a lot. And I knew that if I continued down this road, I would eventually crash.?

A few months before my journey of sobriety, I had to have blood work done. Just standard stuff and a routine check-up from my doctor. Easy peasy.?

That following Monday I got a call from the nurse. The doctor wanted to see me right away.?

Some of the tests came back, and they wanted to draw more blood. Nothing alarming, but serious enough that I needed to come in right away.?

What I neglected to tell the doctor, and you the reader, was that I fasted for two days before the test. On the night before, I gorged myself on anything that was put in front of me.?

I ate like a pig.?

Pizza. Cookies. Processed meats. Liverwurst on toast. And most importantly, a 12-pack of beer.?

My blood sugar levels were spiked when they first took the tests.?

When I showed back for my follow-up, the nurse explained as such to me, which is why they wanted to take more blood. This is when I told her what I had done.?

The look of annoyance and relief on her face said it all, but she still wanted to take my blood to make sure.?

My doctor came in a few minutes later to talk to me about my negligence to inform them, and my diet. She was not happy.?

When I tell her that I am drinking roughly a 12-pack a night, she doesn’t look all that alarmed but suggests I see a nutritional therapist to help me find a better diet.?

Tells me to slow down on my drinking and we sit and talk about books.?

Anyway. I go see a therapist. We talk about my diet. And then she asks me why I drink so much.?

I didn’t have an answer. She prods me for a little bit and inquires if I had any traumatic experiences in my life. To which I reply that all of life is traumatic.?

Take your pick.?

She asks me again why I drink. After a few minutes, I couldn’t answer. She pushes me a little more until I tell her I am bored.?

“I drink because I am bored. I drink because nothing is interesting and the only highlight to existing is to numb the fact that I am bored as shit.”

She prods some more.?

Here is where I diarrhea a diatribe of anxious energy as to why I am bored, why I am not interested, and why I don’t see the point.?

“And no, my father had nothing to do with it.”

She pauses, takes a moment to look at her notes, and asks me how much I exercise. To which I reply, that I walk more than my fair share.?

She also asks how much I read. I say not enough. She smirks and shakes her head.?

The therapist suggested I could do one of two things. I could come back for another visit, or I could start going to the gym. The choice was mine.?

I opted for the gym but promised that I would revisit in a month to talk about my progress. She filled out a card, made sure she had my personal contact information, and that was it.?

I didn’t go to the gym. And I didn’t go back to sit and talk about my feelings.?

Instead, I had a heart-to-heart with myself as I was puking my brains out a few days after my dog passed away. My body and brain were at odds with each other.?

A choice had to be made.?

I could either continue down this path, without my limited intellectual prowess and let my body wither under the poison of alcohol, or I could stop immediately and start engaging with the world again.?

I stopped drinking on a Friday.?

Addiction is a curse that hangs on my family like a dark cloud. It has claimed a lot of lives.?

Loved ones who decided for themselves that the only remedy for their affliction was to drink even more. Each of us has suffered at our own hands for far too long.?

This war is being played out in the hearts and minds of my DNA, and it appears to be a losing battle.?

Alcohol 1.

Family 0.?

My addiction to the drink isn’t remarkable by any means, neither is my sobriety. I was fortunate in my self-preservation to make the hard choice of being bored and sober.

Believe me, I am bored.?

There are a certain few that I wish could have the same Oprah Ah Ha moment as I did.?

What I realize is, that for them to have any chance at getting better, they are going to have to face a part of themselves that doesn’t make a lot of sense.?

For me, it was engaging. For everyone else, there is a battle they will have to fight alone.?

It’s not to say they don’t have an army of support, but for them to realize that change has to happen, has to be something they have to come to terms with alone.

I often wonder why I was able to shut myself off so completely. What was it about my addiction that seemed so relatively easy for me to let go of??

Why can’t some of the people I love do the same thing??

The race my family has to run is not without a finish line. As is anyone else who is suffering from addiction.?

I wish there were words of wisdom that I could share that would make it all the more easier.

What I walked away was this. We are all holding a gun in the war with ourselves. In the war against addiction.?

Sadly, most of the time, we are pointing the barrel at our own temple.??

Fly the flag of surrender. Give up the fight against something that is doing far more damage than an imagined bullet could ever do.

Look for your army of support. Find solace in family and friends.

And if you find yourself on the battlefield alone, just remember that you are still standing. You are still worth saving.?

Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!??

Because in the end, being bored and sober is a race worth winning.