My trip to Chicago was great. Once everyone departed the scene of the wedding, I had a free afternoon that was spent at the Art Institute and the American Writers Museum. The highlight of the Writer’s Museum was the typewriter display and it took me a few efforts to bang out the above gratitude list.1 It’s hard to imagine that I wrote all of those papers in college and law school on a typewriter. I’m actually pretty impressed with myself as I think about what it took to produce a 20 page typewritten document. Who would have thought swagger came from typewriting ability?
The real point of the afternoon was a visit to the Art Institute. I’ve spent a lot of time there over the years, but it had been a long time since my last visit. There was a fantastic, but too crowded Cezanne exhibit and all of the other great stuff that hangs there.2 I had been wandering around for a while and finally made my way down to a really fantastic part of the Art Institute, the Chagall Windows.
They used to be by the entrance back in the 1980’s, just after they were installed, but now they are in a quiet dark spot that is just perfect. It’s like a glowing, blue black hole, it inexorably draws you closer and at the same time blots everything out. There were other people standing and sitting in the area, but I didn’t even notice they were there. I’m not sure what it is about these windows, but I literally got goosebumps just sitting there.
So, I was bopping around Chicago yesterday and having a really lovely time. I think my writing process is a little unique as it involves walking around and listening to music and talking to myself and actually writing stuff in my head. At some point, I find my way to the keyboard or one of my one zillion notebooks and start writing it down before it makes that frustrating older brain transit to unretrievable thought-land. I was thinking a lot about that Sunday two years earlier when I moved to New York.
Two years and one month ago, a relationship that marked my bottom was ending. I was staying in a horribly decorated condo AirBnB by a golf course in West Palm Beach. I was in the middle of one of those horrible condo developments that sprawl out. I’m not sure why I had chosen this one but I needed a place to stay because I literally had no where to go. There was no one who wanted me. There was no longer a place I called home.
Here’s the first miracle. I met a new therapist and as the relationship was fast dissolving, she and my ex-wife were the only people talking to me as I tried to figure out what I was going to do. It turns out the new therapist knew a guy who had a sober house in New York and she put us in touch. People had “suggested” sober living to me many times before, but I always dismissed the idea out-of-hand. This time, desperately aware of the consequences of going out again, I said yes and booked a room.
I had gone to a treatment center in LA for a two-week touch up, largely on the strength of the reputation of the therapist who ran the place. It was small, only about 8 or 9 of us all living in house together and then riding a van for the day’s schedule of treatment activities. The place was run by a brilliant, incredibly sarcastic, psychiatrist who was a former addict as well. He made appearances once or twice a week and his thing was completely dissecting people in minutes—getting to the core issue with blinding speed and truly stunning accuracy. It was uncomfortable to watch, but amazing, at the same time.
My turn came one afternoon. Not surprisingly, I had garnered a reputation as kind of a wise-ass, as I often do and he wanted to make it clear that he was the top dog. He was. In about 2 minutes of questioning, he had me in tears, I’m not sure what he said or how he did it, but boom he got right to the core. He told me that my overnight assignment was to write a letter to my son. I went back to the house that evening and was excused from activities so I could write. I cranked out a long, long letter to my son that night, amid crying jags that just wouldn’t stop. I tried to explain how I’d gotten here, how I’d never meant to hurt him or his sister, that I was so sorry and that I wanted him to know that I had tried my best and had never quit trying. I wanted so desperately to find a way back and just hadn’t been able to. It had a very definite feel to it.
When the next morning came, I was just empty. I felt listless and sad and defeated. The letter I had written was just so sad. It recounted all of the failures and defeats, all of the lies and disappointments and hurt. And then there was nothing left to say, I thought. I wasn’t aware that the letter writing assignment also included reading it aloud to the group. I’m going to say that was cathartic for everyone and as I was trying to regain my composure and breathing to the sounds of sniffles all over the room, Dr. R cut through it all:
Dr. R: That was really beautiful. Is it a suicide note?
Me: Ummm, I don’t know. I’ve thought about it.
Dr. R: You know that doing that to your children would be the cherry on top. You’d destroy their lives if you did that.
Me: I know. That’s why I haven’t done it.
I was crying and thinking about how far away I had gotten and marveling at how I’d managed to get to a place where there was seemingly no way of getting back from. Dr. R was soliciting comments about my letter from other members of the group and he gave me a sharp look:
Dr. R: Do you see this? Do you hear what your friends are saying? You have something to offer. You could help a lot of people, so don’t be an asshole and kill yourself.
That got a laugh and we moved on. Afterwards, Dr. R came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I mean it, you have a gift and it would be a real shame to lose it.” He repeated himself, “so, stick around, don’t be an asshole and kill yourself.”
About a week later I was flying from LA to Palm Beach to collect my belongings and then making the trip to New York to move into a sober house. I had no idea what was going to happen. There were a string of catastrophes that had to be endured. I’d lost the keys to my car, so it had to be towed from the airport garage to the dealer. I dropped my phone and shattered the screen, limiting my phone use to about 2 minutes after each reboot. Plus it felt like my life had maybe already ended and I was just waiting to catch up.
I arrived at LGA around 10pm. It was the height of Covid and they still had people collecting forms at the airport from arriving travelers, it was a dismal, surreal, scene. I got my luggage, turned my phone on and kept it working just long enough to get an Uber and I was headed to the Upper East Side. The guy on night duty at the sober house was named Steven and he was an unusual fellow. Steven was a very outspoken, very religious, conspiracy-theory spouting, former addict and Marine. I had been told that Steven was expecting me at the house and that I should let him know when I was on the way. I texted and called a couple of times from the cab, but no response.
I got to the house and the cab driver helped me unload my stuff on sidewalk. I went up to the door and rang, Steven came to the door. I introduced myself, told him I was the new resident. Steven took a long appraising look at me and said, “Wait, who the f*** are you? I have no f****** idea what you’re talking about?” That was my welcome to New York.
I arrived again at LGA last night around 10pm. Let’s just say the mood was different. It’s been two years since that night and I’m still sober. I’m having breakfast with my son later this morning. I have a life and a purpose and people who love me. I wake up and the mornings are beginnings, not times to realize that I’ve come to the end of the line. Life is uncertain and I really have no idea where I’m headed. But for the first time in my life, and I can truly say that, for the first time in my life, I know things will be ok. Want to know how I know?
I play lots of stupid games by myself and one of them involves trying to be the first person from the subway to reach the surface or being the first one from the flight to get to baggage claim. I like to walk fast and dodging people on the concourse gives me the feel of those old OJ-Hertz commercials when he’d run through the airport. Maybe it’s a little obnoxious, but it’s mostly harmless and I think it’s great fun. Anyway, I had the music going and was really booking through the terminal. I was happy and excited. I got to the baggage carousel first and assumed a position right next to the ramp where the luggage would eventually come out. Things were good, I was good and then I looked down at my feet:
It’s good to be home. Happy Labor Day!
Thanks for Letting Me Share
I usually have a very strict no gratitude list in advance policy, however, this seemed like it warranted an exception.
I like to ask people if they could have any painting—which one would they choose? It’s a pretty hard question, but I might pick a Cezanne.
Wow! Wow! Wow! This is so good, Randall, and what will help someone else find their way out. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks for sharing this! What a great read. Chicago is one of my fave places and I cannot wait to go back in sobriety, you’ve inspired me today.