Epiphany

I quit drinking on January 6, 1997.  I had a few drinks that night and took an overdose of lithium and ended up in a psych unit again.  It was in that unit I decided drinking while taking psychiatric medications was probably not the brightest of ideas I could have.  I went through a week of very intense outpatient therapy and resolved not to drink again.  A resolution I have begrudgingly kept.  I do miss a nice glass of Merlot or an icy cold beer on a summer day.  Part of the problem with being a gourmand is so many recipes call for wine.  There is alcohol free beers and wines and I use them in recipes.   My French onion soup just wouldn't be the same without some O'Doul's Amber.  But once again I digress.

When I first moved from a large house to my small condo I decided I could have a few beers a night. That morphed into a few Jack Daniel shots.  And that lapsed into me sitting in the dark, watching baseball and listening to Mozart's  Requiem and crying my eyes out.  I'd wake up at 3:00 a.m. And get ready for work and walk into work about 5:00 a.m.  That went on for six months and then that epiphany of the suicide attempt and I stopped drinking for good.  My dad was mystified as to why I was so depressed.  Well, thanks to my psychiatrist I was put on the right combination of medicine for me and by 2000 dad and I were on our way to being world travelers.  My therapy was going well and dad and I were going great guns.  The last trip we took to the Netherlands, Belgium and France.  I noticed that he wasn't doing too well in terms of his breathing.

Fast forward to October 2003 and I was having some health issues, not the least of which was kidney cancer.  And about the same time dad was diagnosed with a lung tumor.  He insisted I have my surgery first and he was actually there for me.  Stayed in my small condo and took care of me for almost two weeks until I went back to work.  He had some more tests and finally lung surgery in March the following year and by April 26th was dead.

I was in shock.  But I did not drink.  Some family came for the funeral: his brother and my cousins.  I have the guest book from the funeral but I remember it was sparsely attended.  Then came the ordeal of closing of the house in Detroit, which I did with a great deal of help from my posse.  I still did not drink.  Oh, I wanted to.  But I had this seems that if I drank I would die and then my mother would meet me wherever and ask me why I never visited her anymore.

And that will suffice until I tell you my story of running away from home at the age of twenty two.