My first close friend in recovery died this week. People in the recovery community tell you that it happens quite a bit. People go back out and some of them don’t make it. Whatever the reason. It hurts to see her gone. I don’t know much about her death yet, other than she died alone in her home with her dog. She was only 41, like me. She easily could have had another 40 years of life. It seemed as if her physical health was fine. The trauma in her personal life was the paralyzing monster that led her to seek refuge and escape in alcohol.
I only know what she told me – she had a history of addiction in her family. There were major resentments stemming from her mother who traded addiction for a fanatical religious awakening which was imposed on her regardless of her will. She was in and out of an abusive – both physically and mentally – relationship with her romantic partner. Her father had some serious medical issues and died not long after I met her.
Those obstacles were challenging – they brought her to the edge of the mountain. The impetus that pushed her over the metaphorical cliff was the death of her infant daughter, Willa. She said she died of SIDS when she was just a few months old. My friend, who already struggled from alcohol abuse, ended up at Beauterre a few months after her death. She did a month in rehab, went home and promptly started drinking again. I met her shortly after that, during her second stay at Beauterre.
She was sitting in a large comfy chair in the waiting area/entrance of the facility when I randomly sat next to her one evening. We began to chat. I liked her immediately. She was a great listener who asked good questions and really cared about the answers – a rare trait. She was intelligent and had a sense of humor, icing on the cake. We loved to talk shit about the annoying 20-year-olds who were loud, disrespectful and didn’t really want to be sober. We had a pulse on the personalities of the addicts who inhabited the halls we shared. We loved to talk about writing – she had a passion for it, too.
It’s hard to explain how easy and quickly you connect with others in treatment. It doesn’t take long before you’re sharing the most intimate details of your life – struggles, toxic habits, patterns of use, relationships woes. At times you feel like someone who you’ve known for 2 days is a closer connection than friends or colleagues you’ve known for 20 years. You’re open, honest and vulnerable in a way you haven’t been with others in years. It feels liberating to meet others who have similarly become powerless to addiction.
I came to spend a lot of time with her. We usually had at least 1-2 meals together each day. We’d sip on coffee in the lounge together while I wrote most mornings and some afternoons. We went on long walks around campus most afternoons. I joined her and group of fellow patients on the third-floor lounge at Beauterre most evenings for an hour or two – often laughing, pretending as if the real world didn’t exists outside the safe confines of Beauterre.
I got out of inpatient treatment a few days before her, but we connected about a week later – when she got her cell phone back. She met me at an AA noon meeting with another recent Beauterre graduate. We continued to keep in touch. I believe she remained sober for about three months. I was nearly positive she relapsed when I woke up to several late-night missed calls and texts. You don’t make those type of calls and texts when you’re sober.
That morning, I called her after I dropped my kids off at school and daycare around 8:30 a.m. She had been up all night. She was crying. She was drunk. It was hard to understand her. The trauma was too much. She needed to drink. I listened. I told her the knowledge and progress she had gained wasn’t lost. She could get back on the wagon.
I didn’t see or talk to her much after that chat. I know she went back to Beauterre for another stay. She told me she was trying to tackle the underlying trauma from the death of her daughter with the support of several mental health professionals. The drunken phone calls and texts arrived every so often. I told her how much AA had helped me. She said she detested the program – it was written by men for men. And she wasn’t planning on surrendering to God, or any higher power, at any point soon. I told her she needed fellowship. She attended a few SMART recovery meetings. I even went to one with her. They didn’t seem to resonate.
She promised me she wasn’t suicidal one morning in a drunken haze. I believed her. Suspension of disbelief? Perhaps. I stopped proactively reaching out to her. She wasn’t sober. I was. I needed to put my health first.
Now she’s dead. There’s nothing I can do about it. I know it’s not my fault, nor that of the dozens of other people who tried to help her. Her passing still stings. I hope she’s at peace. I’m choosing to use her passing – and massive wave of lost potential – as fuel to keep myself sober. Aggressively tackling my mental health woes and maintaining sobriety have netted nothing but positive outcomes in life. The alternative isn’t always death. But it can be.
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