Me and Dad I

By Paul D Robertson

Charcoal on poor quality yellow paper

50x 35 cms

Though eventually and inevitably, I saved myself, it was my father who gave me enough chances, and finally, enough hope.

I had been drinking in an alcoholic manner for 8 years before the final time that wine ever passed my lips, and it had burned me down to the point where I was - well I was a shell of self-loathing, sickness and failure.

Initially and well before I was diagnosed (see the bipolar and Paul page), I had used alcohol to facilitate mania; as a catalyst, and I think I was typically hooked on inciting the high and of course the rush of alcohol itself.

Escapism is often good for people - it can give a sweet breath of change in a hard life and allow a martialing of strength to go on. I remember for me it was essential to my life, some false amelioration of the pain and self hatred, no matter what the loss, no matter the cost. I had to have it, I could not begin to imagine my life without it.

I would get drunk one night and then the next and by the third morning I would be manic - I would feel, well, blissful, powerful, full of strength. And I would stay drunk and high for a few days, slowly getting stranger and stranger and more mad until my body gave out and I would pass out. When I woke I would be ill. I went to hospital for a hangover once. They always seemed far worse than my fellow alcoholics, and the truth is that by the laws of bipolar they were - I was crashing from the manic high at the same time as coming down from the alcohol. I would of course get all the other stuff from delirium tremens too. The thought of it makes me shudder. So very sick all the time.

My family are immensely kind people, and as the rules of human feeling go, this makes them sensitive too. Everything that I was and did hurt them. My sister tried many times to rescue me - She invited me into her home while I was at my worst and I made her ill form the stress of it. It was an awful time. I could not stop, no matter what. And my father has taken me in and patched me up more times than I can remember.

For a while it was too much for him and he withdrew from my life. The worry was making him very physically sick - it was literally killing him. But he came back pretty soon.

I won't go into the gruesome horrors of it, well no more than I have already. It was a slow, humiliating and agonizing journey.

In the end I was living by myself, had lost my license, crashed my car, lost all my friends and there were not even any women left to take care of me and hold my hair out of the bucket. It had been years since mania had spun to the surface of my drinking - it didn't work anymore. The only thing drinking did was push me further and further and deeper into despair. Every time I went out something terrible would happen (I kept ending up in the lock up, mostly) so I had quit going out to drink and just sat at home. Somehow through the last two years I had passed the subjects I was doing at university, holding onto it with my fingernails. There, I was an object of ridicule, and I knew it. I had 2 hours of travel time each way on public transport to get there, but I went every day.

The last night was when I finally broke some of my own rules - I could not take the sickness for one more day - and drank in the morning. Even thinking about that night makes me shudder with shame. It was shame that ruled my life.

I got horribly drunk, though I can still remember most of it. I cut myself up pretty bad. One of my (very) few friends had to get his grandmother to drive him over to my house, and when he got there my dog was licking the blood from my chest. He called my father and left us together.

I was... I have no words for how ashamed I am of these actions. We had a huge screaming match and I made him watch while I cut my wrists. I came very close to hurting him physically.

Eventually I passed out, and the next day, once again, he took me to hospital to get stitched up. He took me through psyche services and I was finally able to see a psychiatrist who was a decent and responsible man. A psyche nurse by the name of Tom took the time to come and see me at my house and it was him who convinced me to go to AA. His was one of the acts of kindness that allowed me to save myself. He came and took me to AA meetings for months, outside work, on his own time. My father's partner moved out so that my father and I could live together while I tried to sober up one more time. One final time.

And I did it. I stayed sober . I have not had a drink since that day, 4 years and 7 months ago now. My life then seems like a nightmare and it is hard to believe that I was the boy covered in blood and vomit sleeping on the side of the road. But at one point that is exactly who I was.

I was praying that the bipolar was symptomatic of my drinking, and once I finally had the courage to stop, it would fade into the background and I would be like everyone else. This was, of course, not to be.

It was my father whose courage and belief in me made it possible for me to finally stop, and eventually through his strength and my own, I have found some respect for myself, too. His kindness and love saved my life, and I owe him a debt greater than I can express. I will always love him and I believe that he is one of the best people I have ever met.

This last one is after I fixed it up, and I like it much better. The colour is finally accurate as I got a significantly less totally shit camera.