A Harrowing Story of Addiction & Pestilence, by Edmund Kelly

The following is another guest post by a writer whose life has been touched  by addiction.  This one truly made my heart ache and marvel where Ed finds himself today.  Please give it a read:

Hi, my name is Ed and I’m an alcoholic. My story is a dark one. It’s not something I ever spoke about until recently. I have a lot of anger and hate buried deep inside which led me to become an alcoholic.

Here is my story:

I grew up poor in a small-town south of Boston. On the outside, we seemed your typical American family but on the inside, we were far from it. For the most part, my father was in and out of the house. My mother would only put up with his shit for so long before kicking him out again. I wasn’t privy to their conversations but I assume she would let him back in because he promised to change. I think she did it because she needed the money for food and bills. We’d go days living off peanut butter and jelly (I ate so much of it as a kid I refuse to eat it as an adult). Going out to dinner, which hardly ever occurred, amounted to us walking to McDonalds. It wasn’t easy for my mom having two mouths to feed and not having a car. She had to constantly ask for rides to work and the grocery store. Just last year I found out that the car she finally did get had been given to her by the owner of the company she worked for when he learned of her situation. 

Soon my father would be back to his old ways or she would catch him cheating again and he’d be out. I love my mom and she did the best she could for us. I will never blame her for what I endured at that man’s hands for she endured it too.

My father was a big man. He was 6’4” and 300lbs. He was an evil man and I lived in constant fear of him. He was both verbally and physically abusive and some of the abuse could be classified as torture. For no apparent reason he would physically torture my sister and I. One minute we’d be walking down the hall or sitting in a chair and he’d come up behind us and clamp his baseball gloved sized hands over our mouth and nose. He’d pull us tight into his body or the back of the chair so we couldn’t struggle free. I still remember the grimy taste of his fingers as I tried to bite my way free. He would hold us there until we became weak and almost passed out. He would drop us to the floor and step over us as we lay there gasping for air. I’d awake in the middle of the night to him smothering me with a pillow. I’d flail and try to turn my head, but again I was too weak to match his strength. He used to pick me up by my feet and dangle me there until the blood rushed to my head and my face turned purple. We had a wood burning stove that we used for heat in the winter and he’d have me chop and stack firewood until 10:00pm or 11:00pm at night. He would come into my room and if my house keys were not on my nightstand next to my bed he would ground me to my bed for a month. He’d yell that he’d teach me to never lose my keys again. This stemmed from the second grade when I accidentally threw my keys out with my brown paper lunch bag (yup, peanut butter and jelly). If I got in trouble at school or brought home a poor grade I would get the belt and be forced to sit on my bed for weeks at a time as punishment. I could only leave my bed to go to the bathroom, eat and to school. 

The worst for me though was when he would borrow a friend’s boat. We would go so far out that we couldn’t see land. Once far enough out he’d grab me and throw me overboard. He would then move the boat and tell me to swim before the sharks got me. As I’d get close to the boat he’d move it further away. This would go on until I became exhausted. He eventually would pull me back into the boat. The fear of being left behind still brings a lump to my throat. I still remember the waves crashing over my face and watching the boat move further and further away. Such a lonely feeling. Also, the fear of being eaten by a shark has stuck with me all these years and I still don’t go in the ocean. I even pull my feet up when watching TV and a shark comes on.

My sister, who is five years older, was stronger than me. She tried to runaway multiply times. Once she made it to Louisiana but my father found out where she was and went and brought her home. She reported him to her school and they notified someone who came to the house. I remember my father being furious and telling me not to say anything. Out of fear I lied to the people when they came and questioned me. Looking back, I wish I told the truth. 

When all of those horrible things were happening to me I just pushed it all down. I pushed and pushed and buried it deep. I never spoke much about what had happened to me. I kept it inside. It burned deep within me and I used it to push myself. I lived in constant fear of that man. I hated him and I dreamt daily about killing him, but I was to small and weak to do anything. The thought of watching him die kept me warm. 

Looking back, I remember riding the school bus and looking in other people’s windows of their houses as we drove by. I would imagine what it was like living in that house with different people. I’d imagine a fridge stocked full of food. I didn’t know if there was a pool out back but I’d imagine there was. I’d imagine living a normal life. I would sit on our couch and watch out the window as cars passed by and wonder where they were going. I’d imagine I was with them going on some journey to some place exciting. I’d imagine being anywhere to get away from where I was. I’ve always had an active imagination and my father would ask me what I was thinking about and I’d tell him. He would tell me that it was dumb or that I was stupid. I always wanted to do something with my imagination. I wanted to write books. 

Finally, after years of abuse and adultery my mother left my father for good and divorced him. Six years later he passed away. 

In my late teenage years, I found booze. I instantly fell in love. It was a way to shut my brain off. I was able to forget the horrible things that happened and I was finally able to sleep. Alcohol became my new best friend. 

I had always been labeled a good guy who did the right thing. But when I drank an evil came out of me. Everything I pushed down slowly started rising to the surface. The more I drank the more hatred was released. I had vowed to never be like my father but when I drank I became verbally abusive like him

I owe my wife for saving me. She put up with all my shit and stayed by my side. She was ready to leave if I didn’t get help. I had tried my hand at sobriety before and I went to AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) but I always found myself back to my worst best friend, the bottle. My wife had finally had enough and told me if I didn’t get help she and my daughter were gone. She didn’t want to live like that nor did she want our daughter exposed to it either. For the record, I never got violent. As my wife always said, I’d get “diarrhea of the mouth”. Whatever came out was usually hateful and hurtful. All that hatred I had suppressed would surface. I told her I would get help for her and my daughter. She told me not to bother unless I was doing it for myself. I let that settle in.

Everywhere I went there was a problem. I finally accepted that I was the problem and I needed to deal with it.

I made a few phone calls and after a short runaround I found a local treatment center. I enrolled into the Gosnold Addiction Treatment Center. I decided to go all in. I had a lengthy conversation with myself and committed to getting better for me. Once I was better, things would get better with everyone else. The next day I started the Gosnold Structured Outpatient Addiction Program (S.O.A.P.). It was through their training that I found ways to deal with my drinking and not just deal with it but to recognize triggers. When I had tried to blindly get sober it didn’t work. But now I had been provided the tools to not only get sober but stay sober. I also knew I needed counseling to deal with my past and they offered that too. Their counselors are trained in dealing with addicts, which is a plus, as they continue to help keep you sober while dealing with the underlying problem. I can’t say enough about the staff for all the things they did for me, most importantly for giving me my life back.

When I finally got sober my wife suggested I finally write that book I was always talking about. I told her my ideas and she encouraged me. I wasn’t used to that. I finally decided to go for it. I sat down and started to write the book I always wanted to write. I was raised Catholic and I've always been fascinated by stories of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and I knew someday I wanted to write a series about them. Looking back, I think I enjoyed those stories so much because the people in them were so much worse off than me. I could relate to living in Hell.

I sat down and started writing but it felt like I was missing something. I was trying to tell this story and using my story as the main character but again I was lying to myself. I had this drunk angry character but with no reason to be angry. I decided I would tell my story, my childhood and show why this character was so angry. So, I did and chapter 3 is my life in a nutshell. Even with telling my story it still felt like I was missing something.

Then one day sitting in my Sunday morning AA meeting it hit me. What if every character has some form of addiction to overcome as they try and survive the end of the world. At Gosnold and in the halls of AA I heard all about finding a higher power. For some it's God and for others it's whatever they deem important. For me, this is going to be one of my toughest struggles other than overcoming my addiction.

Now comes the tricky part. Finding a higher power. I was raised Catholic and I grew up believing in God. I started questioning my faith early on when I asked God for help dealing with my father and those prayers went unanswered. Later on in life I really started to question my faith when I started working as an E.M.T. in Boston. It was on the city streets that I saw the evils of the world perpetrated by people unto others. More times than not, drugs and alcohol were usually involved

For me, faith and trust are very similar. The one problem with both is that you are required to believe. Once that belief is gone, it is very hard to get it back.

So, I now had my story and the wheels in my head started spinning. I asked myself, since the main character is based off myself, what if the main character had lost his faith in God as well? Then I asked myself what if he was stuck with a character who had just found God? I quickly began writing. Trying to keep up with my own thoughts was tough. I couldn’t type fast enough. Character after character popped out at me. I found myself writing on everything. Return envelopes meant for bills, napkins, Post-its, birthday cards and basically anything that had an available space to write. The story poured out and within three months I finished the first draft.

I looked into publishing and self-publishing seemed the best for me. I jumped in with both feet and learned everything I could about the industry. Soon I had an editor and went through that whole process. Then I finally released my book first book, Addiction & Pestilence, in November of 2016.

The title Addiction & Pestilence is a literal title as each character has some form of addiction they must try and overcome while trying to survive the wrath of the first Horseman, who has brought a great pestilence (plague).
ADDICTION & PESTILENCE - $2.99 on Amazon

Addiction & Pestilence is the first book in my Slaying Dragons: A Journey Through Hell series. The term ‘Slaying Dragons’ has two meanings. In today’s time, it means to overcome an addiction to drugs and/or alcohol. It also means to defeat evil/devil which goes back to the beginning of the Catholic Church. Since the book deals with addiction and The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (Bible – Book of Revelation) the title only seemed fitting.

I basically have the whole series laid out in my head but I’m not sure how certain things will go for certain characters. I’m hoping through this journey into my life, this journey through Hell, that I can find what I’m looking for through writing. I guess writing is my way of trying to find my place in the world. A way to have peace in my own head.

I'm not sure what I'll find. I do know that I have to take this trip into the unknown to rediscover myself, to heal myself, to find myself. I also know that I started at rock bottom, so the only way left is up. I hope others will join me as I venture down this dark road in search of the light at the end of the tunnel.

-Ed

Remember, if you or a loved one have a problem with drugs or alcohol, there is no shame in asking for help. Addiction is a tough and lonely road, but it doesn’t have to be.

If you need help, please reach out.
National Helpline: SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services) 1-800-662-4357
To find an Alcoholics Anonymous near you please check: aa.org

Here's where you can find more about Ed and his work

Facebook: www.facebook.com/edmundkellyslayingdragons

Twitter: https://twitter.com/edkell99

Email: lovetowrite@edmundkelly.com

Website: www.edmundkelly.com

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15904397.Edmund_Kelly

THE TIGER IN THE LIFEBOAT, by Christa Carmen

I put out a call for guest blog posts, particularly from writers who may have been touched by addiction. Huge thanks to writer Christa Carmen who responded by sticking a knife in her heart and spilling it all over the page. Christa has stories splattered about the book world, and one has landed in Year's Best Hardcore Horror, Volume 2. She's been a tireless advocate for addiction awareness and treatment, and has written a truly touching and personal blog post. Check it out:


You’ll probably agree with me when I say that the word ‘epic’ is an overused one. ‘That was an epic party last night, man.’ ‘The cupcakes Betsie made for Jess’s party were epic!’ ‘Whoa, Claire just delivered the most epic of epic burns!’ Despite the propensity for ‘epic’ to be thrown around like a Frisbee at a frat house, I’ve never shied from attributing the term to certain works of fiction, or from feeling more connected to those works because of it.

When I was in middle school, I was always primed for the possibility of finding the next epic read. Stories and scenes that topped this list were the shipwreck at the start of Black Beauty, Where the Red Fern Grows, with its fulfillment of the heartbreaking but awe-inspiring Native American legend, any of the adventures of Pippi Longstocking, and pretty much all of Roald Dahl’s books, for their championing of the young protagonists over the villainous, ‘I’m right, you’re wrong, I’m big, your small’-spouting adults. Despite my love of reading, it never occurred to me to want to be a writer myself, and I continued on this blissful path of consuming books and reveling in epic stories until right around the time when eighth grade ended, and I sensed the move to high school looming on the horizon.


My first experience with alcohol gave new meaning to the word epic. Though it didn’t happen overnight, I began to alter my identity from ‘good student’ and ‘bookworm’ to include descriptors like ‘drinker’ and ‘party girl.’ I knew nothing of addiction, that, like a cucumber that becomes a pickle and can never go back to being a cucumber again, once the unsuspecting person crosses that line to becoming an alcoholic or drug addict, they can never go back to being a “normal” person again. Without even realizing I was addicted, addiction consumed my adolescence and early twenties until, while pursuing a Master’s Degree for Mental Health Counseling and undertaking an internship at a Massachusetts detox center, it occurred to me that there was another, better way of life. That nonstop drinking wasn’t as epic as I’d anticipated.

Getting sober is a uniquely terrifying experience; your personality and sense of humor, your hobbies, your purpose, and your reason for living are ripped away like a tablecloth from under a deceptively lavish dining room table. Only in this trick, the one doing the tablecloth pulling is exceedingly unskilled, a magic school dropout who brings the crystal water glasses, sterling flatware, and ceramic vases down with the linen. About six months after I stopped drinking, and the beast in my head that roared for more had quieted, I was able to hear something else. The voice was shaky and uncertain, but its message was clear enough: “Write something. Write anything. Take your mind off things. Tell a story.”

So I did. Or, I tried, anyway. Those attempts at short stories, the half-formed ideas for novels, were coming from a place too raw to produce anything more than narcissistic, woe-is-me drivel. Writing while newly sober is like going through your first break-up all over again; my work read like the screenplay for a particularly self-indulgent Lifetime movie, one that missed the mark on edgy by a margin one part Christina Ricci-as-Lizzie Borden and two parts teen pregnancy pact. My brain was too preoccupied with healing to connect the dots between the things I loved to read and what I was trying to write. That I struggled to make that connection, and subsequently abandoned the writing in the same way I had abandoned the counseling sessions and AA meetings, the sober friends and the commitment to self-care, is unfortunate. But that these abandonments led to the end of my sobriety is far from surprising. And so three years after I had ceased to be defined by drinking and using, I gave up on the search to be defined by anything else, and slipped back into the madness.

The disease of alcoholism and drug addiction is a progressive one; even in sobriety, it courses along beneath the surface, like a viscous, black river, ready to surge up and pull you back under. The search for a new epic drunk or high had begun, and being given a script for Vicodin by a well-meaning but clueless doctor did little to help matters. Relapsing after being sober for any significant period of time is like crossing into the dark part of a fairy tale, into the shadowy woods where witches in huts, brutal huntsmen, and evil fairies looking to strike dubious bargains lurk behind every copse of trees. You can see the castle off in the distance, and you know in your bones that you used to live there, used to be happily-ever-after, but you cannot for the life of you remember the way back.

And in my particular tale, I wasn’t meant to find the way out on my own. I required a veritable army of assistance, detox and rehab and outpatient therapy and medication-assisted treatment and oodles of support from family and friends. As if my fairy godmother and a helpful gang of woodland creatures come to warn me of my impending fate, should I not buckle down and get my shit together.

When I checked into my twelfth treatment center in four months, I had with me three things: a fair amount of sweatshirts (to stave off the chills), a small amount of hope, and a large amount of books. Books were the one constant at every one of the facilities I entered over those tumultuous four months. I read Anthony Kiedis’ Scar Tissue and Brain on Fire by Susannah Cahalan. I read And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini, and books by authors in recovery: Caroline Knapp and Augusten Burroughs and Nic Sheff.

And then I picked up Life of Pi, by Yann Martel. A hundred or so pages in, the realization that I was in the midst of an epic story hit me. From a purely narrative standpoint, the book is about a young Indian boy crossing the Pacific Ocean in a lifeboat with only a Bengal tiger for company. Thematically, it’s so much more than that. It’s about trying to survive against all odds, about finding meaning through uncertainty, and that if all of life is a story, why not choose yours? It struck me, then. Life of Pi was a perfect metaphor for addiction: navigating life while sharing space with an apex predator, where the only way to survive is to learn to live with the beast, to come to an understanding that allows the two of you to co-exist.

Two things occurred as a result of this realization, this acknowledgement that addiction was a part of me, as inherent to my being as my height or eye color, and would require constant vigilance to be maintained. First, the tiger’s roar began to subside, no longer menacing my every waking breath. And second, I came to an understanding that the stories I considered epic, the ones I’d grown up reading and longed to write? Those stories were attainable by listening to the voice that spoke in the wake of the tiger’s growl. Being addicted to opiates stripped me of almost everything, but I’ve chosen a new story. By sitting patiently with myself, with no expectations and no reservations, that was when the writing came pouring out like sand through a sieve.

Writing is my addiction now, but it’s more than that. It’s become the lifeboat itself, the buoy I grab for when life storms around me or my muscles grow weary from rowing. I get more enjoyment from coming up with a story idea or completing a new chapter than I ever did from a drink or a drug. Sometimes the tiger bellows and sharpens its nails on the wooden slats, growing strong as he paces in the sun and salt air. But he has no more real power over me. Maybe someday, if he’s lucky, I’ll tell tales of the time before he was confined to his side of the lifeboat. It’s the best he can hope for.

And I’m telling you, it would be one epic read.

Christa has a bachelor's degree from the University of Pennsylvania in English and psychology and a master's degree from Boston College in counseling psychology, and she is currently pursuing a master's in creative writing & literature from Harvard Extension School. Christa works for Pfizer in clinical trial packaging, and at a local hospital as a mental health clinician. When she's not writing, she is volunteering with one of several organizations that aim to maximize public awareness and seek solutions to the ever-growing opioid crisis in southern RI and southeastern CT. Christa has work forthcoming from Unnerving Magazine, Third Flatiron Publishing, Tales to Terrify, and Alban Lake Publishing, and you can visit her at her website at www.christacarmen.com.