Kai Stevens
08-09-2006, 12:08 PM
Hello, I'm Kai, a grateful, dual recovering alcoholic!
Turns out, this disease is some kind of sick family tradition. I grew up in a very religous home. We went to church 'every time the doors were open'. Neither of my parents ever drank, that I know of, but now that I am on this side of the disease, I see what a hold it has had on my entire family, all of my life. My mother's father was an alcoholic, owned and ran bars. She never really said much more than that about her childhood, but if they gave out belts in alanon, she was about a 5th degree black belt by the time I was 10. Even at 10, my heart ached for her because she was just such a bitter, sad person.
My father came from a sternly religous family where discipline crossed over into abuse sometimes. Still to this day, I consider him to be one of the best hearted men I know. But, Daddy was violent, a real rage-aholic. It was all about maintaining the fear. When my sis and I were small, 'blowing up' was sufficient. But the older and bigger we got the more physical it became. I was a daddy's girl and he was my hero, and even my God, when he was not in his anger, hate, and rage. But when he was mad, he was my tormentor, my hostage taker, the dark and dangerous Higher Power that I feared.
My mother used to talk about how I was such a normal and seemingly balanced kid until I was about 9 or 10. I played with other kids, laughed, carried on, did well in school. But my body began to mature physically at around age 8. At age 11, my body measurements were 36x26x36. (That would be really cool today, but then, I was a tom-boy, trying to be the son my Daddy so badly wanted) I hated it, resented it, blamed God for it. By the time I was in the sixth grade, the sexual harrassment that I endured daily at school was turning into actual sexual abuse. Then at age 12, the illegal alien employed by my grandfather on our ranch, cornered me one afternoon by the feed shed. He grabbed me, groped me, stuck his tongue in my mouth (what the hell?!?). I got away from him, but made the mistake of telling my sis when I got back to the house. She insisted that if I didn't tell Daddy, she was going to. And of course, Daddy responded in just the way I expected. He WENT OFFFFFF!! He got his gun, loaded it, grabbed a box of shells and went on the hunt. Looking at it now, I think his reaction was more traumatic for me than the attack.
By mere coincidence, my clinical depression started to really kick in at about that same time. Doctors have told me it is a pueberty thing. The tension stayed high at home and I became suicidal. (I went on to live that way until I was 34, wanting nothing more each day than to just die.) My grades dropped, I withdrew from everyone and everything, the sexual abuse at school, and physical abuse at home, just got worse. My short term memory, ability to reason, desire to try, image of myself began to diminish rapidly. It would be 22 years before I learned the cause of this. I knew that there was something terribly wrong with me, but I didn't know what. As frustrating as this was to me, it was also frustrating to my parents. They watched me fading away with no idea why or what to do about it. So, they got angry.
When I was 16, I fell in love, the man of my dreams. He was 1 1/2 years younger than me. The abuse started almost immediately. Verbal and psychilogical at first. He would demean me, humiliate me in front of my friends, destroy my things. Then the summer before my senior year, he decided that he would no longer take no for an answer and forced me to have sex. I became pregnant immediately. My father had been a pastor for about 3 years at the time and this did not go over well at home. The physical and sexual abuse from the boyfriend continued throughout the pregnancy. I kept staying. The when our son was born, I decided that I was not going to let him treat my child that way and I broke it off.
At 19 I married the first unfortunate man to come along. Now, I had a hostage of my own. He would come home drunk and puke and pee in the bed, but I didn't drink, because I was better than him and I pointed that out to him regularly. We abused each other for four years. Then, with another son and a daughter on the way, I left him and went back to my parents.
I started to seek help for what I was sure was depression. I started taking Prozac and immediately became so happy and energetic and out of control that my parents, trying to force me into submission, took my children from me. I stopped taking my medication, the depression overtook me with brutal force and on my way home from my sons birthday party, I decided that I was going to take my life. Pills and alcohol would do it. Tequilla, yea, I had heard songs and stories about Tequilla, that would do. At 24, I went to a truck stop bathroom and started getting all dressed up and made up for my final event. I started on the Tequilla while I prepared. Needless to say, I got extremely drunk, never got to the pills, hooked up with a man that I still dearly love to this day.
After a brief stay at a psych ward and 3 or 4 visits with my new friend, I became pregnant again. Sept. 22, 1995 I gave birth to child #4, my third son. And on Sept. 23, his adopting parent came to the hospital and picked up their new son. Not once since that day have I doubted that it was the right and only thing I could do, but that didn't make it hurt any less.
My drinking career was in full swing. Got a DUI in 2003, lost my license for 6 months and had to get that breathing maching in my truck. I would take my children with me when I was going somewhere that I might drink so that they could blow in the machine for me. Started AA on Oct. 11, 2003. Ran back out because I couldn't make peace with God, but was back March 21,2004. I just didn't have anywhere else to go.
My first year of sobriety had to be the darkest year of my life. Without my shield of alcohol, I was at the full mercy of my depression. On February 14, 2005, I admitted myself to the mental hospital at my ropes end. That night I was told that the reason my manic depression was so unmanageable was because I was having Petit Mahl seizures, probably since pueberty, hundreds a day at the end. With seizure medication and a 'seizure-friendly' antidepressant, my life started a gradual but steady climb upward.
Today, I live in humble, grateful amazement. The very God that I had cursed and hated nearly all of my 34 years, the same God that I blamed for being so unfair to me, had actually been there the whole time, doing for me what I could not do for myself and what no human power could. Not giving up on me, carrying me in my darkest times. Today God is the very centerpiece of my life and it is the program of Alcoholics Anonymous and the people in this program who showed me that God does love and value me. Today, the word grateful just sounds like such a small word, but the is really no other word that comes close. I am alive today, inside and out, and I am loving it!!!
Turns out, this disease is some kind of sick family tradition. I grew up in a very religous home. We went to church 'every time the doors were open'. Neither of my parents ever drank, that I know of, but now that I am on this side of the disease, I see what a hold it has had on my entire family, all of my life. My mother's father was an alcoholic, owned and ran bars. She never really said much more than that about her childhood, but if they gave out belts in alanon, she was about a 5th degree black belt by the time I was 10. Even at 10, my heart ached for her because she was just such a bitter, sad person.
My father came from a sternly religous family where discipline crossed over into abuse sometimes. Still to this day, I consider him to be one of the best hearted men I know. But, Daddy was violent, a real rage-aholic. It was all about maintaining the fear. When my sis and I were small, 'blowing up' was sufficient. But the older and bigger we got the more physical it became. I was a daddy's girl and he was my hero, and even my God, when he was not in his anger, hate, and rage. But when he was mad, he was my tormentor, my hostage taker, the dark and dangerous Higher Power that I feared.
My mother used to talk about how I was such a normal and seemingly balanced kid until I was about 9 or 10. I played with other kids, laughed, carried on, did well in school. But my body began to mature physically at around age 8. At age 11, my body measurements were 36x26x36. (That would be really cool today, but then, I was a tom-boy, trying to be the son my Daddy so badly wanted) I hated it, resented it, blamed God for it. By the time I was in the sixth grade, the sexual harrassment that I endured daily at school was turning into actual sexual abuse. Then at age 12, the illegal alien employed by my grandfather on our ranch, cornered me one afternoon by the feed shed. He grabbed me, groped me, stuck his tongue in my mouth (what the hell?!?). I got away from him, but made the mistake of telling my sis when I got back to the house. She insisted that if I didn't tell Daddy, she was going to. And of course, Daddy responded in just the way I expected. He WENT OFFFFFF!! He got his gun, loaded it, grabbed a box of shells and went on the hunt. Looking at it now, I think his reaction was more traumatic for me than the attack.
By mere coincidence, my clinical depression started to really kick in at about that same time. Doctors have told me it is a pueberty thing. The tension stayed high at home and I became suicidal. (I went on to live that way until I was 34, wanting nothing more each day than to just die.) My grades dropped, I withdrew from everyone and everything, the sexual abuse at school, and physical abuse at home, just got worse. My short term memory, ability to reason, desire to try, image of myself began to diminish rapidly. It would be 22 years before I learned the cause of this. I knew that there was something terribly wrong with me, but I didn't know what. As frustrating as this was to me, it was also frustrating to my parents. They watched me fading away with no idea why or what to do about it. So, they got angry.
When I was 16, I fell in love, the man of my dreams. He was 1 1/2 years younger than me. The abuse started almost immediately. Verbal and psychilogical at first. He would demean me, humiliate me in front of my friends, destroy my things. Then the summer before my senior year, he decided that he would no longer take no for an answer and forced me to have sex. I became pregnant immediately. My father had been a pastor for about 3 years at the time and this did not go over well at home. The physical and sexual abuse from the boyfriend continued throughout the pregnancy. I kept staying. The when our son was born, I decided that I was not going to let him treat my child that way and I broke it off.
At 19 I married the first unfortunate man to come along. Now, I had a hostage of my own. He would come home drunk and puke and pee in the bed, but I didn't drink, because I was better than him and I pointed that out to him regularly. We abused each other for four years. Then, with another son and a daughter on the way, I left him and went back to my parents.
I started to seek help for what I was sure was depression. I started taking Prozac and immediately became so happy and energetic and out of control that my parents, trying to force me into submission, took my children from me. I stopped taking my medication, the depression overtook me with brutal force and on my way home from my sons birthday party, I decided that I was going to take my life. Pills and alcohol would do it. Tequilla, yea, I had heard songs and stories about Tequilla, that would do. At 24, I went to a truck stop bathroom and started getting all dressed up and made up for my final event. I started on the Tequilla while I prepared. Needless to say, I got extremely drunk, never got to the pills, hooked up with a man that I still dearly love to this day.
After a brief stay at a psych ward and 3 or 4 visits with my new friend, I became pregnant again. Sept. 22, 1995 I gave birth to child #4, my third son. And on Sept. 23, his adopting parent came to the hospital and picked up their new son. Not once since that day have I doubted that it was the right and only thing I could do, but that didn't make it hurt any less.
My drinking career was in full swing. Got a DUI in 2003, lost my license for 6 months and had to get that breathing maching in my truck. I would take my children with me when I was going somewhere that I might drink so that they could blow in the machine for me. Started AA on Oct. 11, 2003. Ran back out because I couldn't make peace with God, but was back March 21,2004. I just didn't have anywhere else to go.
My first year of sobriety had to be the darkest year of my life. Without my shield of alcohol, I was at the full mercy of my depression. On February 14, 2005, I admitted myself to the mental hospital at my ropes end. That night I was told that the reason my manic depression was so unmanageable was because I was having Petit Mahl seizures, probably since pueberty, hundreds a day at the end. With seizure medication and a 'seizure-friendly' antidepressant, my life started a gradual but steady climb upward.
Today, I live in humble, grateful amazement. The very God that I had cursed and hated nearly all of my 34 years, the same God that I blamed for being so unfair to me, had actually been there the whole time, doing for me what I could not do for myself and what no human power could. Not giving up on me, carrying me in my darkest times. Today God is the very centerpiece of my life and it is the program of Alcoholics Anonymous and the people in this program who showed me that God does love and value me. Today, the word grateful just sounds like such a small word, but the is really no other word that comes close. I am alive today, inside and out, and I am loving it!!!