DENIAL IS THE DISEASE

          As far back as I can remember alcohol permeated my life. Although I didn’t know it at the time, it was the more important than family. My earliest memories were of this strange smelling substance that my family drank, talked about, and couldn’t seem to live without. I can picture myself as a toddler stumbling out to the unkempt living room early in the morning on weekends. With chubby little fingers I would lift the highball glasses strewn about the room to my lips. I would drink any sauce left from the night before. I thought the liquid tasted like medicine and found the pungent flavor alternately disgusting and exciting. After all, this is what my parents drank when they partied on Friday and Saturday evenings. I wasn’t allowed in the room, was put to bed quite early, but I could hear the whooping and hollering mixed with sounds from the record player. I always felt I was missing out on the fun and was trapped in my room for hours. Of course nothing was cleaned up or put away after a night of drinking so my brother and I had a blast playing games with melted ice and the heaps of cigarette butts left in the ashtrays. The bottles were usually empty but we managed to tilt them far enough over to taste the drippings. We thought this was entertaining. When it was pointed out to my mother by one of her friends that drinking the residue of mixed alcoholic cocktails might not be a good idea for her young children she replied, “There is nothing left in those glasses. It won’t hurt them.” DENIAL

          After my father’s death my mother was in a fog most of the time. Although I was only 9 years old I made excuses for her behavior and covered for her when any of my friend’s parents would inquire about her well being. She welcomed the advances of the new man in her life who eventually became my stepfather. Together they would drink a case of scotch every week to ten days. Their libations would be delivered to them personally by the local liquor store owner, even in a snow storm. He would trudge up the three flights of stairs to our apartment to make sure his best customers were satisfied. Although my mother never appeared drunk, (she had the constitution to maintain well,) my stepfather was on the floor often. Since he was a huge man, and couldn’t be picked up, we would just step over him. He would drive while under the influence and the two of them would force me to ride in the car to help with the directions. I protested, “I don’t want to drive with a drunk and be killed.” My mother’s answer was, “Get in. Don’t be so dramatic!” It was only when he ran over the maintenance man’s foot that my mother quit defending him vocally. DENIAL

          It was quite warm one summer night in Missouri where I grew up. It was the year of my 13th birthday. I was taking a cool bath while my mother and stepfather were sequestered in their bedroom. I remember I was singing in the tub which was unusual for me because I did not have a pleasing voice. I must have been in a good mood. The window was open wide and the curtains were blowing slightly from a breeze which was welcomed in the heat. I stood up in the tub to dry myself when I noticed a man’s arm coming through the bathroom window. I began screaming and dropped to the floor. I was petrified! I wrapped the towel around me and crawled to the door. With shaky hands I unlocked the lock and ran to my mother’s room. Banging on the door I yelled, “Someone is trying to break in our house. Help mother, help!” At first they didn’t answer. When I hysterically kept repeating myself she finally opened the door. I told her exactly what had happened and what I saw, over and over again, only to get blank stares from both of them. They didn’t believe me. They told me I was overreacting and needed to go to my room. I dejectedly hid under the covers in bed the rest of the night. The following morning the maintenance man knocked on our door and said that the screen from the bathroom window was found under the steps with a hole cut over the hook that held the screen in place. My mother hadn’t even noticed that the screen was missing. She never acknowledged that my fear was real. DENIAL

          It was the fall of 1970 when I first met Joey. I had only known him a few weeks when he paid a surprise visit to my classroom where I was teaching art in Lexington, Massachusetts. It was toward the end of the school day when I looked up at the door and saw a belligerent young man accompanied by his buddy, an older gentleman, who was three sheets to the wind. I panicked! What was I to do? This was a conservative community and I took my job quite seriously. The two of them sauntered into the room as if they were headed for a party. I walked over to them and as quickly as possible ushered them out into the hall. All the students were staring and watching the drama. It wasn’t easy. On the way out Joey slurred, “Hey, Ms. Kopit, we came to pick you up.” It had been snowing all day and when I looked outside it seemed as though my car was almost buried. I told the duo to go wait in Joey’s car until the last class was over. I saw the principal eyeing them suspiciously as they disappeared down the hall. The bell rang just as I returned to the classroom. No one was saying a word. The silence was deafening. All the students marched out quietly except one girl who lingered by my desk. “Is that your boyfriend Ms. Kopit?” She then added, “He is drunk.” “No he isn’t, “I said. “But, his friend is.” DENIAL

          The snowstorm outside was more like a blizzard. When I reached Joey’s car with the top down, (which I later found out was a stolen Triumph,) the two wacko’s were oblivious to the mound of snow covering their heads. I said, “You can’t go home in this convertible; you can drive with me in my VW Bug.” They peeled themselves from the open, snow covered, sports car and both got into my vehicle, with Joey diving for the driver’s seat. I asked him repeatedly to move. “Get out Joey, I will drive!” No matter how much I pleaded he wasn’t about to move. Finally I climbed in the back seat and prayed we would get to Boston from the burbs safely. That ride was one of the scariest of my life! I remember screaming no less than three times when Joey almost side-swiped a car, narrowly missed a center divider (I actually took the wheel and steered us to safety,) and I freaked as he skidded across the pavement when he was trying to land in Somerville, several miles from our destination. Instead of Boston, where I lived, we stopped at the Triangle, a corner that housed three separate taverns where the locals would play “Musical Bars” until closing. I was so glad to be alive I didn’t care where we were. The two of them vanished into one of the three saloons. I waited and waited, frozen to the bone. Instead of driving myself home, I went looking for the pair. They were happy to see me when I entered the smoke-filled space because they had run out of money. For the rest of the evening rounds of booze continued to be served and I was the one paying the tab. I didn’t even question it. I just did it! DENIAL

          In 1980, after my thoughts of suicide, see “Opportunity,” I was still hanging on to my unbalanced beliefs. Joey was gone most of the time and I spent several hours a day pacing in front of the large picture window in the front room of our house in San Francisco. I was waiting for him to come home. It was pathetic. I would count the cars that past and would jump up whenever I heard an approaching vehicle. One night I heard him walk slowly up the stairs and he entered in a daze. “I just totaled the Pinto,” he said. “What …where … how?” I was in shock. Rambling he stated, “I was driving down Delores Street and I hit a tree head-on.” I pleaded for more of an explanation. “Did you hit another car, or hurt anyone.” “No, and no one saw the accident.” I said, “No one saw the accident. Are you crazy? Delores Street is one of the biggest streets in the city. Where is the car now?” He hung his head and answered, “I managed to drive it a few blocks away where it died.” DENIAL

          It was this incident that drove me to the next insane act. After 10 years of marriage I tried to commit Joey to a hospital. I actually visited three emergency rooms that evening, hoping and praying someone could help me, help him. I’ll never forget one of the nurses dressed in starchy white. She told me that the hospital would only keep him for 72 hours and then he would be released. Actually, they all told me that but I didn’t believe them until I spoke with this nurse. I wanted some relief from the insanity I was living with him and I wanted it to be permanent, not for just three days. I remember I began spewing everything crazy he had done in a list that would have frightened the devil. I couldn’t stop; it was as if I had gone mad. The nurse turned to me and said, “Are you all right?” “Am I all right, am I all right? I am not the one getting drunk everyday, stealing, and crashing cars. What do you mean am I all right?” I was so angry with her! I had tried in every way to be a good person and a good wife and she was asking me, was I okay? DENIAL

          My dear friend and publicist, Rhonda Boudreaux, has her tale of denial. In her words here it is:

          When you think of it we are all in some sort of denial, either protecting a loved one or protecting ourselves from ourselves. My denial started at a very young age and went on for many years. I grew up with alcoholics: my father, grandfather, grandmother and just about every uncle and aunt on my mother’s side of the family. There was no family gathering that didn’t involve alcohol. The pattern was set early on for me. My father was a binge drinker; he would go for years without drinking and then some event, such as a divorce (he was married 9 times) or a big gambling lose would trigger a six month drunk. My father and mother were divorced when I was 18 months old. I didn’t see him as much as I wanted to, so it didn’t matter that my father was drunk more than not when I finally would see him. I felt sorry for him because he would cry a hurtful cry. In my mind I made excuses for his drinking. I was in denial before I was old enough to go to school.

          I started “real” drinking at age 17 after the birth of my first son. My then husband was in a band and I was allowed to go in the bars with him. I was actually drunk every weekend for about 5 years. Because I was a binge and weekend drinker, I was in total denial and truly believed my excuse to drink was validated by the abuse of my then husband. When my youngest son was born with a birth defect I hit autopilot and quit drinking for 6 years. During my divorce, after 18 years of abuse and 6 years of sobriety, I felt free again and hit the bars. Why not, my father drank to ease the pain? I didn’t have a problem with alcohol and could stop any time I wanted, I just didn’t want to, yet.

          When I was confronted about my drinking by loved ones and close friends, I was destroyed, not at the thought of being an alcoholic, but by their accusations. I really believed there wasn’t a problem. My reaction was shock, denial and indignation. I would have passed a lie detector test if I were asked if there was a drinking problem in my life. I honestly believed that it wasn’t true, and that I was being totally misunderstood.

          My mother told me I acted like my Aunt Barbara June, another alcoholic in my family. I think that was when it hit me. You would have to know my aunt but her alcoholic actions and the fact that no one could be around her because she was drunk all the time, opened not only my eyes but also my heart. I have not had a drink for many years but I miss the buzz from a couple of glasses of good wine. I still, to this day, tell myself that I can have just one glass; denial is always there in a smaller way. I know I can’t have just one glass of any alcohol. Admitting my denial is the hardest part of getting well.

          DENIAL IS THE DISEASE

          We, as a nation, are in denial about almost everything, not just about drugs and alcohol. When the truth is right in front of our face, we don’t believe it, we deny it. I believe it is a toxicity that affects the core of our universal mind. We are destroying ourselves and our planet because it has been too painful to accept what our souls know to be right. It is time now to stand up and be STRONG. We need to have the courage to accept the truth and the reality of what we are doing to ourselves and our mother earth.

          The United States has the highest growth rates of any industrialized country in the world. The U.S. population is growing by 3.2 million people each year. Since 1980, the U.S. has converted more than 10 million acres of forest to suburb, an area twice as large as Yellowstone, Everglades, Shenandoah, and Yosemite National Parks combined. Growing populations demand more food, goods, services and space. Our advertising industry with their glitzy and false ads, encourage us to acquire products we don’t need. The underlying message is that getting more, having more, and using more will produce happiness. The pressure is on to accumulate things no matter what the cost. And, the cost has been astronomical!

          Our natural resources are rapidly shrinking. The oil and gas we depend on is running out. At the same time our demand for energy has skyrocketed. On April 18, 1977, President Jimmy Carter gave an insightful televised speech to our country (“Jimmy Carter, The American Experience”) urging us to face the truth that, “Ours is the most wasteful nation on earth. We waste more energy than we import.” He began his speech by saying, “Tonight I want to have an unpleasant talk with you about a problem unprecedented in our history. With the exception of preventing war, this is the greatest challenge our country will face during our lifetimes. The energy crisis has not yet overwhelmed us, but it will if we do not act quickly. It is a problem we will not solve in the next few years, and it is likely to get progressively worse through the rest of this century. We must not be selfish or timid if we hope to have a decent world for our children and grandchildren. We simply must balance our demand for energy with our rapidly shrinking resources.”

          President Carter presented his energy plan to Congress. His communication drew a strong reaction from special interest groups, the Saudis and the oil industry, suggesting that there was no energy problem at all. He said, “We can be sure that all the special interest groups in the country will attack the part of the plan that affects them directly. They will say that sacrifice is fine, as long as other people do it, but that their sacrifice is unreasonable, or unfair, or harmful to the country. If they succeed, then the burden on the ordinary citizen, who is not organized into an interest group, would be crushing.” Today, 28 years later, we are living his predictions. We are in a mess. We have DENIED the truth.

          I urge each of you to read the brilliant work of Thom Hartmann, “Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight.” www.thomhartmann.com . I was so moved by this book that I purchased 10 of them and passed them on to my friends asking that they in turn pass the book on. Thom Hartmann is an author and an educator who comes from a place of love and peace while at the same time offers facts and figures we cannot DENY.

          Let’s start with ourselves. I am going to take off my rose colored glasses today. What about you?