Heredity: A Basic Overview because the Whole Story is Way too Long

When I was just a small kid, can’t even remember the age, I remember my Dad taking me to visit my Grandfather every once in a while. We would go to this place and there was a giant steel door with a doorbell set way up high. My Dad would lift me up so that I could ring the doorbell. Someone would come and open the giant steel door and let us in. I do not remember if we went to his room, but I do remember that we would go to the cafeteria and have chocolate ice cream sundaes. I do not remember any of the conversations. It was just another weekend afternoon that happened every so often. Sometimes my Grandfather would come and spend the night for Christmas. No big deal at the time.

When I was a few years older, my Dad took me to visit my Grandfather at a different place. It was smaller and had ladies dressed in white working there. There was a little counter where you could buy some stationary. We went a few times, but then at one point my Dad would not let me go to my Grandfather’s room. He told me that my Grandfather didn’t even recognize him anymore. Being so young, I did not fully understand this, but I remember it.

Soon after that, my Dad came into my bedroom and told me that my Grandfather had died. My Dad seemed pretty broken up about it, but I did not really have a concept of death, so I just acted sad too. They had my Grandfather’s funeral in a big Catholic church. I think it was Saint Casimir Church up in North Hammond. That place looked so huge and there were a lot of people there. I remember the Holy Water at the door and people were dipping their hands in it and doing the Cross gesture. I put my fingertips in the Holy Water and then just licked the water off from my fingers. I saw my two cousins, who were around my age, and saw that they were sad and I could see that they had been crying. I do not remember any more, but I am sure it was a long, long day for the family.

So, as I got older there were whispers, but really did not understand them for a long time.

To change the subject entirely, when I entered sixth grade, there were some boys that labeled me “fairy” and every day it was the same stupid bullshit. And the taunting continued for the next three years and continued to get worse. I just tried to ignore it the best that I could, but I truly was on my last nerve every day. If there was anxiety medication around at the time, I surely would have taken them.

In eighth grade, I broke the record for the schools 50-yard dash and was asked to join the track team. What? Me? So, I did. I was pretty good at the high jump too. It made me feel good after years of being picked on. Of course, the same stupid boys continued making jokes.

Towards eighth and ninth grade, I tried pot for the first time. Took a couple tries to get high, but I liked it. I also liked when my friends and I could find someone to get a few beers. Just kid’s stuff. It made me happy and made me forget, for a while, about the boys’ taunting me.

Then things got better in high school. The taunting decreased and I felt more at ease. I met my Bestie – not mentioning his name, but you all know who it is and I love him with all my heart - and he took me to a magical place where I was accepted. The Bars in Calumet City on State Line. I was 15 or 16 years old with a fake ID and for the first time in years I felt like I was not alone. I liked getting high and drinking. I did not go every weekend, but more likely than not. Some years of “dating” went by and then I met Dale. 

So, when I was around 22 years old, Dale and I moved in together. It truly was a good thing.

- Interlude – This is a basic explanation and does not represent the true nightmare of the whole experience. I caused so much damage to myself and the family and friends around me. I am truly sorry if any of you reading this was affected by my actions. -

Then, when I turned 27 years old, I crossed over a line. I do not know why it happened; it just did. I started drinking every day. No big deal. There were morale rules in place. A drink or two after work. Still going out on the weekends getting trashed. A few years went by and 1-2 drinks turned into 3-4 drinks. Then a little more and a few years later a little more.

Now it is 1998 and I started having theses really bad stomach pains. It was like someone stabbing you with a knife in the stomach. It turned out that drinking is not good for your pancreas. I had to have major, major surgery. A Whipple procedure. I guess it was a long operation because my Mom told me it was a 10-hour surgery. They had to jigsaw puzzle me back together with the parts that they had left over.

But was that bad enough to stop me from drinking? No. They had fixed me, right? It took a minute, but I was back to drinking daily and there were no rules. Earlier and earlier. I would roll out of bed telling myself that I would eat a good breakfast, but two shots of liquor make a good breakfast, right? Within a month or two I was drinking all day and night, maybe getting a few hours of sleep.

Six months down the line and the alcohol began to affect my liver. I was retaining water in my legs and feet. I was turning yellow. And I was TIRED. So tired.

One day, I’m running late for work – the new norm – and I’m running around in circles, crazy headed, in the living room not knowing which way to turn. The next thing I knew, God took a giant Whack-A Mole hammer and hit me on the head with it. I had that moment of clarity. It would not last too long. I woke up Dale and told him I was going to the hospital. Three days of detox and my doctor had me scheduled for a substance abuse evaluation. Made the smart choice, for once, and did inpatient. I found A.A. and held on as tightly as I could. This is when I decided to become an addictions counselor. I had to go through all that horrible alcohol mess to get me to where I was supposed to be going. Hard lesson learned.

I got an Associates in Applied Science for Mental Health/Addictions and was hired at the treatment center where I did my internship. This was my purpose in life.

This is where I really learned something.  From early on and through the sixties, they did not know what to do with alcoholics. They were just crazy. So, they locked them up in asylums and did with them whatever it was they did.

Lightbulb. The whispers became understood. My Grandfather was an alcoholic and they had him locked up in an asylum in Michigan City or Westville. That’s where my Dad was taking me to visit my Grandfather.

I learned another thing. Children can be genetically predisposed to alcoholism or addiction if their parents are alcoholics or addicts. Some people believe this, some people do not.

This apple did not fall far from the family tree. This apple rolled around a bit to re-adjust its position from the tree, but it is still not far from the tree. Let us see where this is leading me.