I wake with a start. The rapid change in the equilibrium held by whatever watery substance that lives in my inner ear warns my body to ready itself. My eyes shoot open – I realize I’m in a car – so my next adrenaline-fueled action is brace myself for a crash. I look out onto the road to better prepare myself for impending doom. I realize the driver had taken the turn a little too quickly and… nothing. Everything’s fine. I glance at the clock. It’s 6:03 A.M.; we’ve been on the road for six hours.
"Where are we?” I ask sleepily. I really don’t care, I just hope such a mundane question will help balance the slight insanity that takes hold of one’s mind during fight or flight preparations.
“Columbus,” Jon replies.
“Oh.” Still a long way from Vermont, our final snowboarding destination. Satisfied that my life is not in danger, I am almost immediately asleep as Jon continues to drive.
Jon
Age: 20
Height: 5’6”
Weight: 147 lbs.
Relation to me: Best friend, reason I’m on trip, liaison to family
Favorite Quote: When talking about his aunt’s house (who happens to have a large doll collection), “If that house was ever possessed, there’d be a whole army of evil porcelain dolls waiting to kill people.”
>I’ve known Jon since we were in seventh grade (about 7 years now) and I’ve found him to be the quiet-but-never-shy type. I met him when he began playing in a friend of mine’s band. The band’s name was *ahem* Deth by Decibelz. A name apparently spawned by the misspelling craze of 80s metal (championed particularly by the i to y and s to z transitions, and the ever-daring umlauted e of Motley Crue). This is, of course, not to be confused with the clever pun craze initiated by the Beatles and the B-Sharps.# After a year, the name was mercifully changed to Hostile Aggression, due to popular demand.
I have many fond and fuzzy memories of the New Year’s Eve parties promoted by the band every year in Junior High and High School. The unfortunate mother sacrificing her house to our debauchery would attempt to placate us with civil foods such as dill dip and popcorn. These would invariably end up strewn about as 40-50 alcohol- and drug-addled teenage bodies head banged and moshed to the rhythmic assaults of Hostile Aggression. Jon, typically reserved, would let loose, flailing his long hair about and punching out nearly subsonic riffs on his 5-string bass. The music smacked of teenage, non-conformist angst, with songs life “Fed Up” and “Kill the Trend.” Everything highly identifiable to the subculture Jon and I belonged to from the ages of 12-16.
The last one I attended was at the age of 16. I spent most of the night breaking up fights. I was one of the few close friends of the band that wasn’t a hot head, so I took it on as my duty to calm everything down when things got out of hand. My friend Jay had been exchanging choice words with another fellow (I think his name was Shorty) all night long. I wandered outside to have a cigarette when I found the two of them outside with a crowd around them.
“Fuck you, man! I’m just trying to have a good time.”
“Bullshit you little pussy! You’re tryin to start shit,” Jay retorted.
“Let’s go then!”
With that Jay loosed a kick at Shorty’s stomach; it landed, but not with much force. Shorty grabbed Jay’s leg and, due to the combination of an ice-covered ground and an inebriated Jay, he slipped and landed hard on his back. Shorty’s friend next to me rushed to join in, but I stepped in front of him and pushed him into a nearby swinging chair. I kept some weight on him, just enough to keep him off balance.
“Why don’t you just go?” I yelled at him.
“We’re just tryin to have a good time man, c’mon.” He replied.
“Well its obviously too late for that! Just get the hell out of here.”
I let go of him and he stood up slowly and glanced at Shorty, who was being held back by another friend of mine.
“Just go!” I yelled again. And, for reasons that still escape me to this day, they left. I sighed a breath of relief as I stepped back inside.
“Man, I was about to kick his ass,” I heard Jay boast from outside. He didn’t even know that his head was bleeding yet. I shook my head. That was the last time I saw a lot of them. Shortly after that incident, I went to rehab and left that crowd behind me (more on that later).
Jon didn’t leave that group of friends until he went to Mizzou in the fall of 2000. His ACT scores were in the 30s, so he figured there was more waiting for him than perpetual parties and drunkenness. Jon and I bumped into each other on campus the first week of class and we quickly renewed our friendship.
A month ago he mentioned his yearly snowboarding trip to Vermont. I had just bought a new board that was begging to broken in, so I asked him if there was any extra room. I had an ulterior motive, though.
Last year, Jon and I both found out that he has clinical depression, after he failed all his classes first semester. He spent that first semester either in bed, playing video games, or out late at night drinking with his friends. This of course sounds like the typical college student: lazy and unfocused, typical. But it was his motives that made it atypical. All those sorts of things help one get out of him/herself. Jon didn’t have to focus on Jon. He could breathe. School, on the other hand, is challenging. It forces some amount of self-reflection and there is always a risk for failure, resulting in even worse self-evaluations.
Jon took a semester off and returned again this fall. The first semester went great, he was attending most of his classes, he wasn’t avoiding his friends, and he seemed to be doing very well overall. Once second semester rolled around, though, a lot of the same patterns started popping up. He wasn’t going to class regularly, he slept far too much, and he spent most of his days inside his dorm room. Eventually he was so far behind that he saw no other option than to withdraw, but I thought he was over reacting. My naively optimistic self thought all it would take is a trip to Vermont to cheer him up and re-instill a sense of hope in him. The only obstacle in my way: his parents.
Jon’s parents
Names: Bob and Margaret
Age: Bob: 64 Margaret: Won’t tell
Relation to me: Jon’s parents, temporary chauffeurs, self-appointed tour guides
Hobby: Listening to strange books on tape; including but not limited to: Lake Woebegone; Flesh and Blood
“Meeting” Jon’s parents was a little awkward, seeing as I had met them a number of times before, they just didn’t remember me. I walked in and gave Jon’s mother a hug as she said “Nice to meet you.” I could tell it made her uncomfortable, she thought a stranger had just hugged her. Jon’s dad gave me a strange look as I shook his hand. I started to explain, but I figured it would make things that much more uncomfortable when they realized their mistake. This encounter set the tone for most of the interactions between Jon’s parents and I on the trip; it always felt a bit awkward.
Its early afternoon and we’re driving through New York; we’re close to our first destination, Rochester. Jon’s aunt and uncle will be putting us up for a night to break up the trip a bit. As we pass through the dilapidated town of Sharon Springs, Jon’s dad feels the need to explain the depressing town’s history.
“See this town here?” he asks. I’m the only one awake, so I assume he’s talking to me.
“Yeah…”
“This is Sharon Springs. The unemployment rate here is about 75%. This used to be a Mohawk Carpet town.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to sound interested.
“You heard of Mohawk?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, they used to be big business around here. Right over there is the old factory.” He points out the window to a series of abandoned, 1-story warehouses. “Left almost the whole town outta work when it such down.”
“Wow, that sucks.” I shake my head as if disgusted.
“Course, this area’s not just known for its carpet, it produces a lot of hats and gloves as well.”
“Oh!” I say in feigned surprise. “So this is the hat/gloves/carpet belt they talk about.” I crack a cheesy grin.
With a straight face, he replies, “Might be.”
I suddenly feel like Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents, up against a dad wholly invulnerable to sarcasm and irony. Only, I’m not sleeping with Jon. I returned to my writing and the car ride remained mostly silent until arriving and Jack and Maureen’s house.
Jon’s Aunt and Uncle
Names: Jack and Maureen (Moe)
Ages: Like I’m going to ask?
Relation to me: Provided me temporary room and board, make really good chili
Favorite Quote: Jack proudly stated, “I’m the only one who knows how to flush here.” Mo, in reference to a particularly deviant member of the local high school basketball team: “I would’ve done more to that little bastard than just kick him off the team.”
Jack and Mo are conspicuously Irish. As I walk into their house, I am assaulted by an Irish drinking song blaring on the stereo and an Irish flag adorning the wall in the living room. Various trinkets and shamrocks are scattered on the walls and shelves, many with the ubiquitous “Kiss me, I’m Irish” slogan. Jon notices me inspecting the room.
“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. My aunt and uncle are really Irish.”
“Huh. I didn’t notice.”
After the typical introduction, we all head for the showers to freshen up after sixteen hours in the car. I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed a shower more. I spend a good half hour in it before I realize the others may want some hot water, too. I step out and am drying myself off when I hear Jon’s dad call “Who’s in the shower?”
“I am,” I yell downstairs.
“You need to keep the shower curtain closed.”
“Oh, I did.”
“No. It’s leaking into the kitchen.”
Great, I think, I’ve soaked their kitchen. Another parallel to Meet the Parents.
That night we ventured to downtown Rochester in hopes of eating at The Dinosaur, a biker bar supposedly serving the best barbeque in New England. The bar looks slightly anachronistic (the name fits, I suppose), an aged, one-story wooden structure amidst skyscrapers and high-rise apartments. It is small despite its popularity, so our estimated wait to be seated is two hours. Everyone grimaces, but Jack assures us that it is worth the wait. Jack orders a pitcher of beer and leads us outside to a large picnic table. We all have a seat and try to ignore our angry stomachs.
“How are you feeling, Mo, do you need anything?” Jack inquires.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sick?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Yep, I’m way sick.”
“She has cancer. She just received some treatment that is about as rough as the cancer. She probably shouldn’t be out tonight.”
“Oh, its not that bad,” she chides. “I’m fine, it’s been a few days. You shoulda seen me two days ago, I couldn’t even get out of bed.” She smiles, she’s genuinely amused. “The way I see it, I could either spend the rest of my life worried that I am sick or about getting sick, or I could just enjoy it, regardless of whether I’m sick or not.” She amazes me. How can she just shrug it off like that? She must be a strong person to take it in stride like that.
“Want some beer?” Jack asks as he hands Jon and I two glasses.
“Yeah, sure,” Jon says casually.
“No thanks.” I hand him back the glass.
“Its ok,” he replies, thinking I’m weary to drink because of my age.
“Brett doesn’t drink,” Jon explains.
“Yeah, I got that all out of my system in high school.” And in junior high… and in grade school, I think to myself.
“Ah, I see,” says Jack. He and Jon’s dad chuckle knowingly. Only, I don’t think they really know. I glance at Jon, asking him silently if they know everything. Its not that I’d be embarrassed if they knew, but my friends typically think it best to tell their parents after I’ve met them. I usually make a good impression that overrides my past behavior.
Webster defines an addict as one who “devotes or surrenders (oneself) to something habitually or compulsively.” Narcotics Anonymous (NA) defines an addict as a “man or woman whose life and thinking is centered on the using of drugs and the finding of means to get more.” I usually just point to myself.
I discovered that I am an addict when I found myself in a rehab center (my step sister saw my rampant drug use and alerted my parents). Actually, I realized it when I found myself in the second rehab center. The first place I went to didn’t really cater to my particular gnosis. It was called Two Rivers and it is located somewhere in the Kansas City area. It is a large building next to another hospital, but I only found myself on the ground floor, I’m not sure what the rest of it was used for.
The check-in process involved some exchange of insurance information and a lot of personal questions directed toward myself. I kept my composure as best I could and gave them all the answers I thought they wanted to hear. I kept hoping they would look over their info. And say, “Well Brett, it looks like you don’t have a problem after all. Just stay away from the acid and coke, ok?” Instead I heard, “Ok, looks good, ready to go?”
I was lead through an underground hall that connected to another branch of the building and was shown to my room. Very early that morning I woke to a knock on the door. I opened the door only to find a book on the floor with a note inside the cover. It read: “If you really want to do this, come talk with the nurse.” The book was titled “Staying Sober.” I went back to sleep.
I woke again to moderate pandemonium. I threw on some clothes and left my room. In the hall a kid, probably 10-11, was laying on the floor banging his head against the door. Somebody was screaming at an orderly from the room across the hall. I sat down on the coach, wondering why it was that I was here. My roommate was dragged out onto the coach next to me because he was so depressed he didn’t want to get up, even after being dragged by a large man named Todd.
Despite the peculiarity of it all, I did enjoy myself there. I spent most of the day putting puzzles together with other kids or wowing them with my Super Nintendo skills. Even though most of these kids got in a fight with each other everyday, they all seemed to like me. They were so taken by me that they voted me “Community President” the third day I was there. I was slightly taken aback; it was a bit surreal. I was reminded of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I guess I was their leader.
Sadly, the next day my dad informed me that his insurance would no longer cover my stay in Two Rivers; I wasn’t crazy enough. Unless I added a suicide attempt to my drug use, I had to go somewhere else. My dad gave me one day’s reprieve before I went to the state-funded rehab in town, the Alcohol and Chemical Treatment center (ACT).
That is where I actually learned about addiction. No more video games and puzzles; I was given workbooks and assignments each day, and the rules were far stricter. Next door was the juvenile detention center, the boogieman used as a threat to those who might misbehave. For any and all withdrawal symptoms, prescription candy was administered; typically Jolly Ranchers and Starburst. The staff believed that the sugar would help subdue the withdrawals. The headaches I started getting were so bad I sometimes began vomiting, but, hey, those Jolly Ranchers sure hit the spot.
Through all this (or perhaps the brainwashing worked) I realized where my life was headed. I was setting a dangerous pace, my drug use was not as bad as some, but what really matters is that I used like an addict. I binged; I did as much as I could as fast I could. I had frequent black outs, had stolen from my parents and friends, and I was no longer going to work. I finally made the decision to stop using. However, that wasn’t good enough. I was told I would have to go to NA meetings and leave my old friends. That’s quite a bit for a teenage boy to sacrifice, even if it is to save his life. But they said that was the only way, so I gave it a try. Three days out of the ACT I attended my first NA meeting.
Its 1 PM and we’re on the road again. Just four quick hours until we reach Okemo, Vermont, the ski resort we’re staying at. Jon’s mom spots a Friendly’s.
“Bob, pull over, it’s a Friendly’s!” He quickly obeys and in moments we are pulling into the parking lot.
Jon notices my puzzlement over her excitement. “Its like a Steak-n-Shake. They’re real big around here.”
“I see.”
We walk in and seat ourselves. In a few moments Kristen, our waitress, greets us. She takes our drink orders and trots off.
“I wouldn’t mind taking her boarding with us,” Jon says, smiling. Jon catches his dad with a grin on his face. “Dad, no.”
“What, I wasn’t going to say anything.” Bob says, feigning offense.
“Yeah right.”
When Kristen returns, I speak up rather than Bob. “Kristen,” I say. “What’re you doing tomorrow? Jon was wondering if you’d like to come snowboarding with us.” I’m such a dick.
Kristen giggles. It’s a series of high-pitched shrieks that seem barely able to escape her throat. “But I don’t know how.”
“Oh, well.” Jon and I chime in unison, doing our best to cut off the conversation before she finds anything else funny.
“Yeah…” She trails off as she walks back to the kitchen.
I look at Bob; Bob looks at me. We smile at each other because we’re both thinking the same thing. “Definitely not coming,” He says.
“Phew, look what you almost did.” Jon said as he gives me a light tap on the arm.
“I dunno, I thought she was cute,” Jon’s mom offers.
“Mom, did you hear that laugh?”
“Yeah, but… I dunno…” She trails off, too. Quite often she doesn’t bother to finish her thoughts, she just leaves them hanging heavily.
After eating we are back on the road, and arrive in Okemo in the evening. We acquaint ourselves with our condo and unpack the van. After unpacking, we resolve to get to sleep early. Tomorrow we snowboard.
Being There
>Although the mountains of Vermont aren’t nearly as large as those of the Rockies, I am impressed by the size of Okemo. Okemo has about 92 different runs, with about 82 of them open (amazing for spring time). It has two summits, the Southside summit and Solitude. Ironically, the Southside is less crowded. Even more amazing, Okemo has a full-service board park (brought to you by Mountain Dew: Do the Dew). The park has a number of kickers and jumps, an assortment of rails, some of which twist and turn for extra bruise-inducing fun, and a half-pipe; walls 17 feet high. I can’t wait to try it out, and I dread it all the same. It’s going to be a lot of fun, but its also going to hurt; falling is inevitable.
While Jon and Bob are gearing up, I take a couple minutes to wax and admire my board. It’s a 2001 Rippey model Burton. It has a Superfly II core, a sintered base, and a Lite Triax laminate. That all basically means: its fast, durable, and can flex without any worry of damage (which is good for those jumps that land more perpendicular than parallel with the snow). The edges of the board aren’t as sharp as some, which I like, it helps me land tricks without needing to be precise and make huge carves across the slopes (a thinner edge wouldn’t have enough grip).
I glance over at Jon’s board, living proof that gear isn’t everything. His board is a beat-up off brand that his parents bought 3 years ago at a rental shop sale here in Okemo. He hasn’t waxed it since he has owned it, and it shows in the chips and cuts that riddle the base. Nonetheless, I sometimes have trouble keeping up with him. He’s a former wakeboarding champion and his skill transfers well to snowboarding. If he had a rope in front of him he’d be at home.
Bob and I wait outside as Jon continues to gear up. He woke up late so he’s running a bit behind.
“Has he been taking his medication, as far as you know?” Bob asks.
>“That’s what he tells me, but I haven’t seen him much lately. I know he’s not taking the sleeping pills for his insomnia, though.”
Bob shakes his head. “Sometimes I just want to smack him,” I assume he is saying this out of concern. “He just needs to get some motivation.”
“Well, I understand where Jon is, its very hard to be motivated when you’re depressed, especially self-motivated. Its not just a matter of saying ‘I think I can, I think I can.’”
“I know, I just think he’s not trying very hard.”
With that, Jon steps outside with us and we march toward the lifts in silence.
As we head up the chairlift, Bob feels the need to point out every attractive female remotely near our age.
“There’s a nice Betty.”
“Hmmm… I think she looks a little young, sir.” I wonder if she even has a driver’s license.
“Yeah, Dad, chill. We’ll handle looking for ladies, ok?”
“Fine, fine…” He says. And then, “Hey, how bout that one?”
I shake my head.
After warming up on some intermediate slopes, Jon and I hit the first challenge of the day, a mogul run. Moguls are large bumps made with snow; some I’ve been on in Colorado are the size of a VW beetle. They are always fun, if you’re on skis. On a snowboard they’re just a work out. Jon and I spent about ten minutes whipping our boards back and forth between the pseudo-hills, both of us taking a dive every couple of minutes. But, it being our first day out, we’d both get right back up.
The mogul run led us winded into an all-terrain slope. All-terrain means: lots of jumps rails and other fun stuff to play on. Jon and I were taking turns leading into kickers and watching the other pull off a trick or bail. I stopped just short of the third ramp and sat on my knees to watch Jon. He came speeding towards me, made a quick detour to shred some powder into my face, and then zoomed off to the jump. He went up, tried to pull of a 360, looked down, began flailing his arms, and went down sideways. Luckily his board hit first, it absorbed a lot of the momentum. The rest was absorbed by Jon’s arm and face. Once I made sure he was ok, I proceeded to laugh at him as I went by.
My venture wasn’t much more successful. I found a nice rail at the end of the run and had my go at it. I made a S-turn just before the rail to slow down a bit and get better aim. I hit the ramp at a pretty good speed and jumped onto the rail. The sound a board makes when sliding down a rail is wonderful. The sound it makes as it slides off the side of the rail is terrible. I heard the latter. I could tell my aim was a bit off as I approached, but I thought I might be able to pull it off. I made the mistake of trying a 50-50 grind (meaning straight down the middle); aim is more important when doing those. I tried to brace myself as I fell; I shot my arm out to the pole and attempted to push my body away from it, but not successfully. My jaw came down just beside the pole, thankfully; otherwise I probably would’ve lost some teeth. Now it was Jon’s turn to laugh.
After that run we were both a little weary of the half pipe, but we talked each other into it. It was our first time in a half pipe. I would say it was quite a rush, but, in reality, I spent most the time sliding down its walls on my butt. I watched how the others dropped in from the top of a wall and emulated them, but every time I neared the crest I would choke and just sit down. Jon wasn’t enjoying himself at all, so we moved on.
That evening Jon’s parents went shopping to pick up some provisions. Jon and I sat at home, watching TV. I realize that now is a good time to figure out what’s up with Jon’s classes (he has told his parents, but he still doesn’t like talking about it around them lest the nagging resume).
“So what’s up with your classes, man? You still planning to withdraw?”
“Um, yeah. I kinda have to. I may not even be able to withdraw with passing grades.”
“Ouch,” I say. “Have you talked to your teachers?”
“Yeah, they said there’s nothing I can do,” he stated plainly.
“Hmmm…” I’m trying to think of another route for him, but you know its bad when the teachers lose hope. “Did you tell them you have depression?”
“No.”
“That may have helped. They probably think you’re just some punk who realized he was shooting for an F and decided to start trying.”
“Yeah, but, I dunno, man,” he says glumly. “Its too late.”
Apparently he’s already resolved to give up on it. If he has made up his mind that it’s too late, I know it would be futile to attempt to change his mind. Besides I’m not here to tell him what to do, I was just hoping to provide some support.
“Are you planning to come back next year?”
“I might, if they let me back. Otherwise I’ll go to SCCC (pronounced “scuh”) or something.”
“That’s cool.” I can see he is looking a bit distraught. “Hey, look. All you need is some faith. Just have faith that things will work, and they always do. Sometimes its rough, and sometimes it takes a while, but it will work out.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Jon’s parents return with bags and bags of groceries. We eat some dinner and afterward Jon and his family sit down to watch some TV. I attempt to make a dent in the book I’ve been reading, Don Quixote, but after an hour I join everyone on the couch. I end up sitting between Margaret on the couch and Bob, in the chair to my right. No too long after I here in my left ear:
“Butter Pecan?”
“Mom, let it go,” Jon replies, obviously bothered. Apparently this is the continuation o f a previous argument.
“I just can’t believe you got Butter Pecan!” I saw some Ben & Jerry’s while unloading groceries, this must be about that.
“We’ve got other kinds in there,” replies Bob sleepily.
“We’ve been together twenty and… twenty-nine and a half years. That’s longer than you lived with your mother. And you got your mother’s ice cream!” I put my arms on either side of my head, elbows out, staring straight at the TV. I’m trying not to look uncomfortable, but I can’t believe she’s pissed about this! “I’ve never once, not once, had Butter Pecan.”
“Well I’ll definitely eat it,” I say, hoping to ease the tension.
“Just drop it, Mom.”
And then silence. I guess she’s done. Ten seconds pass, I relax.
“What did I have at Friendly’s last night? For dessert,” She queries.
“Vanilla?” Jon guesses.
“No, it was chocolate,” I say trying to be helpful. I haven’t made the connection yet.
She puts her hand in front of me, signaling me to remain silent. “Bob…what did I have?”
“Chocolate ice cream,” he mutters.
“With…”
“What?”
“With almonds! Chocolate with almonds! Not pecans!” Wow. She is relentless. “I’ve never had Butter Pecan.”
“Maggie… let… it… go.” Bob says sternly, his anger obvious. Abruptly, the argument is over.
That night, as everyone else sleeps, I do a bit of writing and watch some more TV. I’ve been watching Copland, a movie in which Sylvester Stallone plays a slightly overweight, loserish man who settled on being sheriff of a New Jersey town after failing to make the police force in New York City. The town, though, is occupied almost entirely by NY cops who want to raise families outside the ugly city. I start identifying with Sly. I’m neither overweight, nor a sheriff (and I’ll simply sidestep the loserish attribute), but he sees all these bad things going on in the town yet does nothing about it. He feels it’s not his place. I feel like I’m somewhat in the same predicament. I want to tell Jon’s parents that no, he can’t simply be cured, no matter how hard he tries. And it’s not all his fault, some of its genetic, and some of its environmental. You need to realize that his condition affects the whole family and needs to be dealt with by the whole family, not just Jon. No matter how hard you try, you cannot force him to be catholic. If you set expectations, eventually he will fail to meet them. Stop bickering with him and between yourselves and just let him breathe.
But, like Sly, I say nothing. I smile, I nod, I say “Hey, maybe that’s not a good idea.” And they say, “I know what I’m doing,” and I go on about my business. Maybe if I Sly’s solution will give me some insight on the current situation.
Its 12:08 PM. I’m sitting in a chair reading Don Quixote, my knees tucked to my chest, and I’m having another craving. They have gotten much lighter and far less frequent, and typically with a quick prayer they will pass within two minutes. But I still get those heavy ones about once a week. The cravings that just won’t relinquish grasp, my brain refuses to let go, all my thoughts lead to associations which eventually lead back to memories of my using and fantasies of using. My body falls right in step, causing this strange anxiety that anchors itself in the pit of my stomach. For some reason this mere feeling makes me want to use, perhaps to simply ease it. It is as if my brain really wants some extra dopamine, so my body gives me an excuse to use. It’s an odd experience, really, my brain trying to kill me.
When I am having a lot of these stubborn cravings, it’s usually a clear sign that I am not working my NA program properly. It is a lot of work, about 4-5 hours of meetings each week, calls to my sponsor (a mentor, more or less), service work, and regular step work. The step work is the hardest; a lot of introspection and writings on painful topics. Nonetheless, I am prepared to take any measures to stay clean. I didn’t realize everything that entailed, however, until my fourth meeting.
“My name’s Bob, and I’m a dope fiend.”
The room answered back cheerfully:
“Hi Bob.”
“Hey Bob.”
“What’s up Bob?”
I remained silent.
“Today I wanna talk about the fourth step (we took a fearless and searching moral inventory of ourselves). This is my third time doing it and I’m finding that this time it’s a lot more about me than my drug use…”
Third time! I thought. How many times do you have to do these? I thought once through would be plenty. My thoughts wander.
“…And with that I’ll pass.”
“Thanks Bob.”
I pulled Bob aside after the meeting was over.
“I noticed you said this is your third time on the fourth step. How many times are we supposed to do the steps?”
Bob smiled; the same smile I would flash if I heard that question now. “Thing is, addiction is a disease. But it ain’t like a cold, it don’t go away. It’s like diabetes. You’re fine long as you get yer insulin, but cut that off an it comes back. Addiction’s the same way. The meeting and the twelve steps are our insulin. So a diabetic has take insulin forever, so we’re in this for life.”
I was appalled. Life? “But…” I gasped. “That’s not… I can’t do this for the rest of my life!”
“I know it’s hard to swallow, itsa lotta work. But all you need is some faith. Sometimes its best not to over think things and…”
Just Jump, I think. It’s that easy. But as I approach the killer jump that wasted Jon yesterday my argument feels less convincing. I make a quick S-turn to cut my speed a bit… keep my weight down… and a pop, just at the crest of the kicker; almost perfect. I pull off a tail grab just as I realize why Jon lost it yesterday. Just after the kicker there is a large, flat stretch before the slope pitches downhill (presumably so the drop is not too steep). The problem arises when would-be jumpers like myself slow down just before the jump: I can’t clear the plateau.
I come down hard with my weight still forward. This results in a stunning trick combo: 180 tail grab to face plant. By the time my face hits the ground, I’ve reached the downhill slope. My momentum carries me forward another 10 feet. The edge of my board behind me drags in the snow, making a snowball. It rolls onto my head once I stop sliding. Surprisingly, neither my pride nor myself is hurt. Is that all you got? Maybe I shouldn’t taunt the mountain, but I feel a new burst of confidence. I’m ready to take on the half pipe again.
As I shred my way over to the half pipe, I can’t help but think, Jon doesn’t know what he’s missing. That’s a stupid thought, of course. He knows what he’s missing. He couldn’t sleep at all last night and on top of it he thinks he is getting a sinus infection. He knows he’s missing a great day of boarding, but he would be miserable otherwise.
As I reach the board park, I notice a lot more people there than yesterday; and they’re good. A girl, she can’t be more than 14 years old, whizzes by, drops into the pipe, and proceeds to catch more air than I’ll hope to this entire trip. I wait a couple minutes until someone has a terrible run in front of me, then I drop in. This time it feels a bit more natural, I start to get used to the speed, my large parabolic path taking faster and faster each time. I finally reach the top of a wall and… I choke. I sit down and slide down seventeen feet on my butt. I recover quickly. Well, at least I’m getting there.
After several more runs I return to the rest of the mountain and have another go at some all-terrain slopes. I keep things aggressive, hitting every jump and rail possible, and I’m failing miserably at everyone. I’m just not there; I can’t feel the snow, my board doesn’t want to grip, and my timing is terrible. I head in before the lifts are closed, discouraged.
I’ve hit a fair share of stumbling blocks in my recovery. One tripped me up so badly I was unable to get back up for nearly a year. It was my first semester at Mizzou, fall 2000. My first week there I ran into some old friends of mine, one of them happened to be having a party. I didn’t have any other friends there yet, so I was happy to join them.
As soon as I walked in the door, I was craving. Beer and whiskey were flowing around the room, someone was smoking a joint in the garage, and there were a few people in a corner giving each other back massages (which meant they were probably on X). It was a ridiculous situation for me to put myself in, I hadn’t been to a meeting in over a week, I was out of touch with my sponsor, and worst of all, I started convincing myself that I was cured. It’s been a year and a half; I can drink just a little now. Besides, my problem was with drugs, not alcohol.
“Want a rum ‘n coke?” My friend asked.
“I don’t know... It’s been a while.” A conflict was raging inside my head. Eventually, my addiction won. “Sure.”
I didn’t drink much that night, slowly but surely, though, my drinking became more and more uncontrolled. Once it reached that point, I quickly returned to drugs. I continued further down the spiral. Every once in a while I would get a brief moment of clarity and try to quit again, but every attempt was half-hearted. I just wasn’t ready to quit. Then I hit bottom.
I had been up for the last two days with that same friend that threw a party the first week of school. He finally decided he should go to class, so I went home in hopes of getting some sleep. Once I stepped in my door, I felt utterly alone. I realized what I’d been doing to myself for the last 10 months. How could I have ended up back here? All the hard work of that year and a half of recovery was not only erased, but I was actually worse off than when I had gone to rehab. I broke down crying. I was finally sick and tired of being sick and tired. I called my dad and told him what had happened. I was afraid if I didn’t tell somebody now I might continue to keep it a secret; and then I’d be right back out there. After thoroughly distressing my dad, I took a shower and began the process of picking myself back up.
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I woke up early and shot out of bed. It’s day three, the last day. Today is the day to do everything I was too afraid or didn’t have time to do. The snow was perfect for boarding, slushy and a little heavy. That means great grip and soft landings. It also means fewer skiers. They have a hard time pushing the slush around; their legs are usually burnt out by 11:00.
Jon is still sick and Bob is a skier, so I find myself alone once again. I often am nervous about boarding alone; I have a fear of hurting myself badly on a jump and nobody finding me until its too late. But my failures of yesterday are behind me and I can feel already that it’s going to be a good day. It rained the night before and all the trees lining the trail are still iced over. The icy glaze covers there all there branches; causing the red bark to appear the rosy color of Zinfandel. I never actually thought I would find myself admiring the beauty of a tree, but they were gorgeous.
I decided to spend most of the day at the park since I had been neglecting that the most. I listened in on an instructor teaching some other boarders the mechanics of the half pipe and did my best to incorporate some of what he was saying. I continued practicing my arcing turns up and down the walls of the pipe until I felt comfortable with that. I finally resolved myself to go with a full speed run and try for some air. I dropped in from high on the side, about 13 feet up, and zoomed down at a speed that almost made me fall simply by reflex. I carved up the side, trying to keep my grip, and suddenly the half pipe wasn’t there any more.
It’s the strangest feeling, there’s no jump, no ollie, just my momentum carrying me up into the air until gravity kicks in again. The feeling was so new that I almost forgot I was going to land in a split second. I kicked my board around, but I over corrected. Instead of keeping my downhill angle, I ended up pointing my board straight down the pipe. I landed back in the pipe just fine, but my forward momentum didn’t jive with my board being more or less sideways. I had enough sense to tuck and roll a bit, but it’s a little more difficult to do that with fiberglass and plywood attached to my feet. I came out dazed, but unscathed.
Not sure whether I had improved or just cheated death, I decided I had learned enough about the half pipe in three days and returned to the all terrain runs. I bailed on a few jumps, but I had some great runs as well. On my third run I pulled off a tail grab, hit the next jump, nailed a mute grab, next jump, nose grab, and finished off the run with the longest rail I’ve completed (it was about 10 feet). I was having a great day, I was learning from my mistakes and I didn’t let any of my falls get to me. It was a perfect last day.
Driving Home
On the return trip, I had plenty of time to sum all the experiences of the last several days. I truly believe that every vacation has a theme or a moral to be taken home and applied to life. This time I learned a bit more about the how’s and why’s of falling and getting back up (brace yourself, analogy coming). In snowboarding, falling is inevitable, just like life. All I can do is learn how to fall right and how to get back up. A large focus of my recovery is learning that falling is never as bad if I have a soft spot waiting for me, a support network, some friends, some slushy snow. Sometimes a fall will hurt so badly that I think I’ll never be able to get back up, only to find that the quicker I get up the sooner I feel better.
Copyright Brett Martin