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Meeting Tyler’s dad, John, an alcoholic, was a soul-softening experience.
Considering what he put his family through, I thought he was someone to despise. Instead, he was a tragic figure – someone who evoked sympathy.
Before our session, I had counseled Tyler and his mother on more than one occasion. Their painful stories centering on John’s heavy drinking spurred me to contact him. I hoped to encourage him to seek treatment.
In our initial session, I noticed his gaunt appearance and a greenish cast to his skin. He looked older than his years. His movements were labored, and it seemed taxing for him to collect his thoughts and gather the energy to speak.
I was seized by a wave of compassion while thinking: A jubilant spirit once inhabited that body. Now, all that remained was a gray and joyless shell of a man. How sad.
Alcohol was the culprit.
Alcoholism is considered a progressive disease; it worsens over time. In the early stages, the symptoms are largely undetected, according to James R. Milam and Katherine Ketcham, authors of “Under the Influence.”
They point out that the drinker is inclined to consume alcohol for its rewards, including the fact that it makes him or her “feel so good.”
However, “in the middle stages of the disease, craving becomes a need – the alcoholic needs to drink because his cells are physically dependent on alcohol.” In this stage, the alcoholic starts to rely on alcohol just to feel normal.
“During the late stages of alcoholism, the alcoholic’s mental and physical health are seriously deteriorated,” according to Milam and Ketcham. “Craving has gradually evolved into an overpowering obsession – the alcoholic craves alcohol because it is the most effective remedy for the pain. ...”
The pain, the authors and other addiction experts say, is the horrendous physiological and psychological distress of withdrawal – symptoms that alcoholics experience when they’re not drinking.
At this stage, alcoholics are powerless – without help – to control their drinking.
I suspected that John was in the later stages of his disease.
We began with some friendly small talk. After comfort was established, I initiated a more serious topic.
“John,” I said, “I would like to ask you about your drinking. I won’t be judgmental or critical and I won’t insist that you change.”
Eye contact with John had been sparse. Suddenly he was fully alert … and noticeably touched. A single tear said volumes.
“That will be fine,” he said. “What would you like to know?”
I told him I was curious about when and how his drinking started.
Like other teens who take up drinking, he did so to fit in and to “calm my nerves,” he said.
He was also influenced by his father’s drinking. It seemed normal – even expected.
“Why did you choose to come here today?” I inquired.
“Because I care about my family,” he said.
“What regrets do you carry around with you?” I asked.
His head dropped as he talked about the many lost opportunities and letting his family down. He seemed to be fighting back tears.
“What your family needs from you, so they can heal,” I said, “is to hear you express those heartfelt regrets. Tell them how you regret what your drinking has done to them.”
“I want to,” he said.
I asked softly, “John, tell me about your pain.”
He talked about the chronic pain he suffers from two car accidents.
“John, that isn’t the pain you’re trying to run away from,” I said. “What I’m asking about is the pain that goes very deep to your core.”
He broke into tears.
I waited. Then, placing my hand on his arm I said, “John, … your shame must be immense. No one can make you feel worse than you already do about yourself. Is that right?”
“Oh, yes,” he said.
“I would guess you’re grieving, too, … yes?”
“You got that right. I’m grieving the loss of my dignity and pride.”
That comment signaled that a self – once asleep – had awakened. It revealed that he cared, not only for his family but now, also for himself.
In that session, John’s intimate self-encounter opened the way for change. Now, with the help of licensed addiction specialists, John can start rebuilding his lost dignity and pride.
When our session was over, we shook hands.
“It was good meeting you, John,” I said.
With eyes filled with gratitude, he said: “Thank you for understanding me.”
