Hi. I’m Nessa, and I’m an alcoholic. I have been sober for six years, four months and twelve days.
Here are just a few of the things I need to hand over to my Higher Power: At the top of my hit parade is imagining my Higher Power as my mother, Joyce Gereben, standing behind me looking over my shoulder, watching everything I do with disapproval. Hilarious, all things considered. My sponsor Marlon W. tells me that modeling God on a critical and/or absent parent is common to -people like us, although for most it’s their father. I can’t model God on my dad, because I hardly remember him. He left us when I was five or so.
Sorry, HP. I know you’re not actually Joyce Gereben.
First, a confession. When Officer Michaels opened the door to the boathouse, I had hoped John was actually inside with a gun, and the cop would have no choice but to shoot him in self--defense. Then all my problems would be solved. What kind of fucked--up human being wishes another one dead?
At the same time, an irrational, ridiculous fantasy erupted: that the real John, not crackhead John, was hiding in the boathouse with balloons and an I’m Sorry and I’m Done with Drugs Forever banner, and that I’d run into his arms and . . . I can’t pine away for something that doesn’t exist, that does real harm to my psyche, my spirit, my sanity. I have to go forward one day at a time, stay sober, and raise Daltrey.
Which I don’t know how to do without John. Parenting comes so naturally to him, where to me, it’s a struggle. I love that boy with all my heart, of course, but the only reason I have any idea what to do with him is because of John.
I wouldn’t have guessed this of him when we met, which was after I moved to Denver and got a job at Wax Trax, the record store. John didn’t seem like father material, not that I was looking for a baby daddy. He used to hang around the store, and he was this huge presence. He had these big beautiful brown eyes—-Daltrey’s eyes—-and longish hair. He was from Russell, Kansas, and had been a crack addict. But he was as addicted to Narcotics Anonymous as he’d been to crack, which should have been a red flag for me. Still I had the biggest crush on him right from the start. I’ve always ignored my instincts when I’m in love. That’s probably pretty common.
We’d been married less than two weeks the first time he relapsed. We’d had an argument, and he hadn’t come home from work. By two A.M., I was frantic, driving all over Denver through the night. I searched for him for five days until I got a call from Denver Health saying that John had been found naked in a park, high on crack. He was arrested and wound up in the psych unit. The doctor there explained that John was bipolar, a fact that John had never mentioned to me. The doctor said the stress of getting married might have triggered a manic episode, making him delusional. And then he’d gone looking for crack to take the high even higher.
After his stay in the hospital, John was medicated and contrite, and things settled down. John swore he was done with drugs—-the illegal kind—-for life. But then I got pregnant with Daltrey and we moved to Manhattan, Kansas, so John could take a job at the airport.
Then just days before my due date, John disappeared again. He was gone for nine days, only reappearing after he got out of jail for a DUI, when Daltrey was two days old. John had gone off his meds, he said, because he felt too flattened out to want to go on living.
After that episode, I felt differently about John, but I had no intention of leaving him because I knew what it was like to grow up without a dad, and it would probably be even tougher on a boy. So no matter what happened, I was determined to stick with it.
“You can’t only think about yourself anymore,” I told John. “You have a wife and child now. I’m sorry that the meds make you feel tired. But I can’t have you disappearing.”
He took his meds faithfully for three years, and I confess I was lulled into a false sense of security. Now I know better, and I can’t believe I let myself become so complacent. I guess I thought in a little town like this, drugs would be harder to find. But that’s stupid—-it’s a university town, so of course there are drugs.
The truth is, I thought having Daltrey and me would be enough to make him want to stay sober, but I’m pretty sure Marlon is right—-John couldn’t handle my success. Not that I actually blame my professional accomplishments for his relapse. If the radio gig and the blog had never happened, he still would have found an excuse to use.
Would I do it all again? Yes, I would, because I got Daltrey. I just wish John could remember what the Big Book says: “Time wasted in getting even can never be used in getting ahead.”
Chapter Four