Hi, my name is Ed and I’m an alcoholic. My story is a dark one. It’s not something I ever spoke about until recently. I have a lot of anger and hate buried deep inside which led me to become an alcoholic.
Here is my story:
I grew up poor in a small town south of Boston. On the outside, we seemed your typical American family but on the inside, we were far from it. For the most part, my father was in and out of the house. My mother would only put up with his shit for so long before kicking him out again. I wasn’t privy to their conversations but I assume she would let him back in because he promised to change. I think she did it because she needed the money for food and bills. We’d go days living off peanut butter and jelly (I ate so much of it as a kid I refuse to eat it as an adult). Going out to dinner, which hardly ever occurred, amounted to us walking to McDonalds. It wasn’t easy for my mom having two mouths to feed and not having a car. She constantly had to ask for rides to work and the grocery store. Just last year I found out that the car she finally did get had been given to her by the owner of the company she worked for when he learned of her situation.
Soon my father would be back to his old ways or she would catch him cheating again and he’d be out. I love my mom and she did the best she could for us. I will never blame her for what I endured at that man’s hands, for she endured it too.
My father was a big man. He was 6’4” and 300lbs. He was an evil man and I lived in constant fear of him. He was both verbally and physically abusive and some of the abuse could be classified as torture. For no apparent reason he would physically torture my sister and me. One minute we’d be walking down the hall or sitting in a chair and he’d come up behind us and clamp his baseball gloved sized hands over our mouth and nose. He’d pull us tight into his body or the back of the chair so we couldn’t struggle free. I still remember the grimy taste of his fingers as I tried to bite my way free. He would hold us there until we became weak and almost passed out. He would drop us to the floor and step over us as we lay there gasping for air. I’d awake in the middle of the night to him smothering me with a pillow. I’d flail and try to turn my head, but again I was too weak to match his strength. He used to pick me up by my feet and dangle me there until the blood rushed to my head and my face turned purple. We had a wood burning stove that we used for heat in the winter and he’d have me chop and stack firewood until 10:00pm or 11:00pm at night. He would come into my room and if my house keys were not on my nightstand next to my bed he would ground me to my bed for a month. He’d yell that he’d teach me to never lose my keys again. This stemmed from the second grade when I accidentally threw my keys out with my brown paper lunch bag (yup, peanut butter and jelly). If I got in trouble at school or brought home a poor grade I would get the belt and be forced to sit on my bed for weeks at a time as punishment. I could only leave my bed to go to the bathroom, eat and to school. The worst for me though was when he would borrow a friend’s boat. We would go so far out that we couldn’t see land. Once far enough out he’d grab me and throw me overboard. He would then move the boat and tell me to swim before the sharks got me. As I’d get close to the boat he’d move it further away. This would go on until I became exhausted. He eventually would pull me back into the boat. The fear of being left behind still brings a lump to my throat. I still remember the waves crashing over my face and watching the boat move further and further away. Such a lonely feeling. Also, the fear of being eaten by a shark has stuck with me all these years and I still don’t go in the ocean. I even pull my feet up when watching TV and a shark comes on.
Looking back, I remember riding the school bus and looking in other people’s windows of their houses as we drove by. I would imagine what it was like living in that house with different people. I’d imagine a fridge stocked full of food. I didn’t know if there was a pool out back but I’d imagine there was. I’d imagine living a normal life. I would sit on our couch and watch out the window as cars passed by and wonder where they were going. I’d imagine I was with them going on some journey to some place exciting. I’d imagine being anywhere to get away from where I was. I’ve always had an active imagination and my father would ask me what I was thinking about and I’d tell him. He would tell me that it was dumb or that I was stupid. I always wanted to do something with my imagination. I wanted to write books.
Finally, after years of abuse and adultery my mother left my father for good and divorced him. Six years later he passed away.
In my late teenage years, I found booze. I instantly fell in love. It was a way to shut my brain off. I was able to forget the horrible things that happened and I was finally able to sleep. Alcohol became my new best friend.
I had always been labeled a good guy who did the right thing. But when I drank an evil came out of me. Everything I pushed down slowly started rising to the surface. The more I drank, the more hatred was released. I had vowed to never be like my father, but when I drank I became verbally abusive like him.
I owe my wife for saving me. She put up with all my shit and stayed by my side. She was ready to leave if I didn’t get help. I had tried my hand at sobriety before and I had gone to AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) but I always found myself back to my worst best friend, the bottle. My wife had finally had enough and told me if I didn’t get help she and my daughter were gone. She didn’t want to live like that nor did she want our daughter exposed to it either. For the record, I never got violent. As my wife always said, I’d get “diarrhea of the mouth”. Whatever came out was usually hateful and hurtful. All that hatred I had suppressed would surface. I told her I would get help for her and my daughter. She told me not to bother unless I was doing it for myself. I let that settle in. Everywhere I went there was a problem. I finally accepted that I was the problem and I needed to deal with it.
When I got sober, my wife suggested I finally write that book I was always talking about. I told her my ideas and she encouraged me. I wasn’t used to that. I finally decided to go for it. I sat down and started to write the book I always wanted to write. I was raised Catholic and I've always been fascinated by stories of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I knew someday I wanted to write a series about them. Looking back, I think I enjoyed those stories so much because the people in them were so much worse off than me. I could relate to living in Hell.
I sat down and started writing but it felt like I was missing something. I was trying to tell this story and using myself as the main character but again I was lying to myself. I had this drunk angry character but with no reason to be angry. I decided I would tell my story, my childhood and show why this character was so angry. So, I did and chapter 3 is my life in a nutshell. Even with telling my story it still felt like I was missing something.
Then one day sitting in my Sunday morning AA meeting it hit me. What if every character has some form of addiction to overcome as they try and survive the end of the world. At Gosnold and in the halls of AA I heard all about finding a higher power. For some it's God and for others it's whatever they deem important. For me, this is going to be one of my toughest struggles other than overcoming my addiction.
Now comes the tricky part. Finding a higher power. I was raised Catholic and I grew up believing in God. I started questioning my faith early on when I asked God for help dealing with my father and those prayers went unanswered. Later on in life I really started to question my faith when I started working as an E.M.T. in Boston. It was on the city streets that I saw the evils of the world perpetrated by people unto others. More times than not, drugs and alcohol were usually involved
For me, faith and trust are very similar. The one problem with both is that you are required to believe. Once that belief is gone, it is very hard to get it back.
I looked into publishing and self-publishing seemed the best for me. I jumped in with both feet and learned everything I could about the industry. Soon I had an editor and went through that whole process. Then I finally released my book first book, Addiction & Pestilence, in November of 2016.
I basically have the whole series laid out in my head but I’m not sure how certain things will go for certain characters. I’m hoping through this journey into my life, this journey through Hell, that I can find what I’m looking for through writing. I guess writing is my way of trying to find my place in the world. A way to have peace in my own head.
I'm not sure what I'll find. I do know that I have to take this trip into the unknown to rediscover myself, to heal myself, to find myself. I also know that I started at rock bottom, so the only way left is up. I hope others will join me as I venture down this dark road in search of the light at the end of the tunnel.
Remember, if you or a loved one have a problem with drugs or alcohol, there is no shame in asking for help. Addiction is a tough and lonely road, but it doesn’t have to be.
If you need help, please reach out.
National Helpline: SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services) 1-800-662-4357
To find an Alcoholics Anonymous near you please check: aa.org
To find out more about Ed Kelly or his work, please visit any of the links below:
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