The Courage to Surrender. John Hayes W.
years, I was a functional project manager in the high technology field, an involved father, and a husband whose family appeared to be enjoying the American Dream.
But beneath the façade, lay a secret world of alcohol and drugs. Throughout my life, I learned how to control my addictions like other successful baby boomer addicts who appeared normal to everyone. I convinced myself that nobody knew my secrets.
I experienced decades of my life with daily hangovers that left me mentally exhausted and physically sick. My ugly descent finally ended when death looked me square in the face. I surrendered that life for a miraculous recovery some 46 years after the first beer on the day I turned eight years old.
My memories lay scattered, but my story is real and lives in the families of millions who used drugs and drank with me as I traveled through the events of my time.
I left my small town with a vague idea of my parents’ expectations for the better life they assumed would result from a college education. The reality of my college years was a deferment from Vietnam, a love for beer, and a taste for marijuana.
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My small town was nestled in a valley that ran through the Adirondack Mountains. In winter, the mountains stayed frigid with deep snow that was groomed above the tree line for expert skiing, with more gradual slopes near the bottom for beginners. It wasn’t always that way, though, as there were winters without much natural snow which meant little to no skiing.
During the long winters while temperatures settled below freezing, part of the school’s football field was turned into a skating rink that doubled as a hangout for teens.
In summer, the green of the forest made a lush backdrop to the clear blue lakes used for camping, swimming, and diving for things that could be seen 20 feet below the surface.
The town prospered as the seasonal traffic drove through the valley with skiers in the winter, vacationers in the summer and leaf peepers in autumn when the foliage sparkled.
The railroading was the employer in town so the men played sports together, stayed friends for life and shared a camaraderie that permeated throughout the village, giving people a respect for each other and a sense of pride for their community. Generations of men and boys in the valley spent their entire lives working on the railroad.
I was born into a generation of millions, the largest population explosion the country had ever experienced. Consequently, I was part of what became known as the first wave of baby boomers.
My childhood was typical of the simple lifestyles that defined the ’50s, when everyone knew their place in the social order of things, from a kids’ point of view, life seemed close to perfect.
The summer meant riding bikes to the playground for choose-up games of baseball. At some point, I qualified for skins and shirts basketball games with the older guys. During those days, kids used their same bicycle for more than just one summer. A little paint, some new handle grips, or a new tire made a bike look different enough for another year.
When the weather turned bad, I went to the local theater on Saturday afternoons. For 25 cents, I watched two movies, government propaganda, cartoons, and serials of my fantasy heroes.
For another 20 cents, I would buy a bag of popcorn and a box of Juicy Fruit, both of which were good for throwing at the usher as he roamed the aisles, for some reason.
In retrospect, I never realized how lucky we were to have safe places where kids could gather for fun, without looking over their shoulder to see if trouble was brewing. We were carefree and insulated from real life without any idea of what we were missing – the good and the bad.
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At seven, I wasn’t eager to move away from the place where I grew up, but in a few months I enjoyed the roominess, a bigger yard, and a shorter walk to school. Two streets away, I met Sam, who became a lifelong friend, and it wasn’t long before we began to spend most of our free time together.
We were inseparable. There were some who even said that we began to look alike. Mom disliked the notion that any kid could be as good looking as me.
When we met, Sam’s beloved grandfather passed away, leaving his grandmother to live alone. Not long after, Sam moved in with his grandmother in order to keep her company and to avoid the explosive behavior of his alcoholic father.
It was in 1957, when Sam and I were in junior high school that I had my next experiences with drinking beer. Our usual Friday night drinking parties began when Sam would call me on Friday nights. We only had an operator to switch phone lines in those days, so without dialing functionality, he would tell the operator that he wanted “976” and she’d ring our phone. I’d be sitting on the sofa by the phone, waiting for his call.
“I stole a six pack of the old man’s beer and put it in the snow for after the basketball game!” he said, “Ask your Mom if you can sleep over tonight.”
We’d leave early for the gym so we could hide by a window to watch the cheerleaders undress, as they put on their uniforms.
Before the games ended, we slithered out the gym doors then sprinted to his grandmother’s place to dig out the beer, and de-ice the cans. In those days, he spent most of her time with hospice work. We learned early in our party escapades that glass bottles of beer would break when frozen. That night was a bummer.
With a “cold one,” we’d watch The Tonight Show or late-night dirty-wrestling. When we were drunk, we’d fall asleep on an oversized, very soft bed upstairs.
During the night, we would get up regularly to drain our thimble-sized bladders. I remember feeling sick and very tired on all those Saturday mornings. These were the first of many more to come.
We continued our drinking parties throughout the basketball season home games on Friday nights, but Sam went to the well too many times. One drunken night around midnight, Sam’s father walked into the living room and caught us red-handed.
The only part of the punishment that hurt was that we had to abandon the basketball parties.
Sam and I had secrets from everyone in town, but nothing was more significant than the 1965 holiday break from college when he brought pot home. He talked me into sharing a couple joints, as I was reluctant to smoke dope. By the time that break was over I was hooked on getting high.
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As caretaker of the family, Mom doted on me and then, later, on my brother. I believe she was trying to compensate for Dad’s apparent lack of interest.
Bonding with Mom early in my life, she sheltered me from facing all adversities, and I was able to avoid risks.
For reasons I can only guess at, my perceptions of adults included a twisted fear of danger that kept me frozen with anxiety. That fear hampered my discovery of new experiences that came with just being a kid.
My inbred lack of trust kept me suspicious of everyone. I couldn’t trust a girl friend’s loyalty or a buddy who occasionally behaved in ways that made me suspicious of his motive. Since I never let my guard down, I was lonely for years.
Early in life, I accepted the notion that appearances were more important than reality. Later in life, there were times that kind of thinking would cause me to hide my real feelings so that I would feel accepted.
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Dad’s approach to child rearing was based on his life experiences. He started to toughen me up early in life, teaching me the rites of passage for becoming a man while I was still learning how to write the alphabet.
One of my first lessons in his cruel approach to life occurred when Duffy, Mom’s cat, had a litter. I gazed at them. Their eyes closed as they nestled into their mom.
Suddenly, Dad grabbed each kitten and dropped it into a burlap bag that contained rocks. After all the kittens were bagged, he tied it.
“Take the bag to the car,” he said.
Once we got to the river outside of