I am an alcoholic.
I can say that now the same way I say I’m half-Egyptian or I’m half-Irish. It feels like a fun-fact about me, not a defining characteristic. Removing the stigma from terms like “alcoholic” or “addict” is an essential part of what Substance Abuse Treatment Programs attempt to do, because if a person is ashamed or embarrassed of what we now call Substance Abuse Disorder, they may try to deny or hide from it, rather than accept the diagnosis as just that and begin to treat it. So, as an alcoholic trying to recover, I was in treatment when COVID-19 came to New York.
Like many people suffering from substance abuse, I went into treatment having lost everything. I needed more than a fourteen-day stint in an inpatient rehab. I needed to recover my life.
So I went to a long-term residential treatment program in Midtown, Manhattan. This program would not only help me to recover from substance abuse, it would help me find a job, acquire housing, and make lasting connections with other sober people. Everything was going well, I had taken vocational courses, was ready to rejoin the workforce, and move on to a fulfilled life.
But then everything stopped. Not only did the outside world stop moving, but treatment stopped for the most part too. I was on the cusp of rejoining the world as a recovered, healthy contributor to society, and then I was suddenly left in a stagnant, unsubstantial rut.
Then, when the curve was at its peak in New York in the spring, COVID-19 found its way into the facility. The director of the program had no choice but to start sending groups of clients to quarantine in hotels.
When I first learned I would be going to a hotel to quarantine, I was excited, but also nervous. I was scared I would never make it back to the program. It’s interesting, how I can sometimes look to the future with a perspective that my actions are not my own. For a long time I disassociated my soul from my character. I allowed my impulsivity to pilot my actions while, internally, I just observed, as if none of it was in my control. So, when I feared how I would act at the hotel before I left, it was as though whatever I was going to do once I left the program was not my decision. I knew, of course, that this was delusional, but sometimes we are amazed by the delusions we entertain for far too long before we come back to reality.
The first day at the Hotel was undoubtedly the hardest. After about an hour, I settled into the realization that I had complete freedom. I could go out at any moment and do whatever I wanted.
What did I want? Did I want to meet a woman? Perhaps if things had been different I would have, but there were no women in the city I was on speaking terms with. Did I want to drink? I was terrified to drink. The trauma from my last relapse still stung.
I remembered the hospital and the bridge and drinking cheap malt liquor on the streets in the rain. I had a hotel room for two weeks though. At first, I thought I could get drunk safely. But then I remembered how I was unable to stop drinking in the past, including this most recent relapse. The only thing that could put a stop to it was an ambulance to the hospital. So I knew there would be no “getting away with it”. I would never be able to sober up in time to return to the program.
Still, the urges that first night were intense. It wasn’t until after the stores were all closed that I finally felt safe because I knew even if I decided to drink, I would have no way of getting alcohol. I took my sleeping medication early and slept in late.
When I woke the second day I was starving. The hotel staff had left a cold sandwich and a bag of chips in a white paper bag outside the door. I finished it quickly and was still hungry. I watched television all day. I kept the blinds open, took a shower, and put on fresh clothes. I only left the room to smoke a cigarette. The second day was easy and relaxing. I took twenty minutes after dinner to meditate. I turned off all my electronics and performed a mindfulness meditation. I read the first chapter of the AA text before bed. I decided I would read a chapter a day. I felt these two weeks would be very therapeutic for me and I was optimistic.
After a week, however, things were much bleaker. Depression has a way of feeding off isolation. It starts within you. People around you can keep it contained simply with their presence. But in a room alone, the sadness expands, fills all the corners, until it is the very air you feel against your skin, weighing you down.
I had not put on real clothes or showered for about three days. I smelled and I was unshaven. The blinds had been closed and I had not seen sunlight for five days. The boxes the food came in were littered across the carpet. I had just laid in bed for six days, watching movies on HBO, not texting or calling anyone, isolating more and more into the prison I allowed to be built around me.
The staff of the program called me and asked me if I was opening my blinds, doing stretches and breathing exercises, reading recovery material, etc. I answered the phone calls and lied. I knew I was in rough shape, but each time the program called to make sure I was okay, the voice of my depression decided for me that asking for help would only cause more problems. My parents, my sister, AJ, my friends all called me and I let them go to voicemail.
Nine days in, I knew I couldn’t keep going like this. I was starting to have dangerous thoughts. I imagined going to the roof of the building and jumping off, or disassembling a safety razor and cutting myself. This is where the darkness pulls me. So, I made a decision that was risky, but at the time it felt necessary. I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and put on clean clothes. I would go out for a walk. It wouldn’t be long, and I wouldn’t go far. I just needed to be around people. I was not sure what would happen. I had twenty dollars, and I honestly was not sure whether or not I would go to the liquor store. I pulled up the blinds and opened the window before I left. I collected the accumulated garbage to take down with me and left the room.
Outside it was warm and the streets were nearly empty. This was not the Manhattan I had fallen in love with. The liquor store across the street from the hotel was closed. I was grateful for this. I walked down 39th Street toward the library. I stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes and a cup of coffee. I walked to the park, sat on a bench, chain-smoked, and walked back. My problems were not solved just by going outside. I wanted to spend the rest of my money on cheap alcohol. I wanted to go back to the hotel and take all my clothes off and disappear again. But the air felt different out here. The smells of the world reminded me of my existence.
Seeing the homeless, barely surviving on abandoned streets, at the greatest risk for infection, put my hardship in perspective. I had my own hotel room. I was given food twice a day and had a shower and a wonderful bed and HBO.
It’s strange, though, how the pain is what we long for. As soon as I left the hotel room I just wanted to be back there, in bed, isolated and miserable. That’s the thing about depression. It feels warm and cozy as it drains all the joy and purpose out of your world. I stayed out for about an hour. I bought a pizza with the rest of my money, treating myself to a hot, fresh meal, and I returned to the hotel. I closed the window, but I left the blinds up as it started to get dark. I did this every day for the rest of my time at the hotel. I would take a shower, dress, collect my garbage, and go for a walk to Bryant park and back. It was my silent protest against my depression. It was all I could do to not be consumed by my own miserable attitude. My little walks kept me sane for the second week.
I didn’t do the things I said I would. I didn’t meditate or read a chapter a day from the Big Book. I didn’t exercise or talk to my family. I layed in bed and steeped in my sadness. I watched television until the words became a drone and I was anesthetized. The days felt like years but disappeared like seconds. However, I survived. I made it through without doing something dangerous, without getting drunk. It made me consider that living alone was perhaps not the safest thing for me yet. Maybe I needed more treatment.
If I had been in the hotel another week, I can’t speak to my sanity or sobriety. I may be telling a very different story. I know this: I was ecstatic to return to the program. Even now, four months after coming back, I have a gratitude for the program that did not exist before I went to the hotel. In solitude, I know I am my most daunting enemy. Despite my negative view at times, the community in the program is exactly what I need for my recovery right now.
Overdose deaths are skyrocketing. People in the grips of addiction are being overlooked right now. Everyone’s mental health is being tried. How do we avoid our own demons when we have to quarantine ourselves in isolation? As we start to return to a fully operational New York, we cannot forget about the people who did not make it through, not because they were infected with COVID-19, but because they could not receive the treatment they needed to survive addiction and mental health disorders.
I was one of the lucky ones.
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