This is a question I get asked the most from a loved one, a friend of an addict, or just someone who is outside looking in. “I mean it just does not make any sense. They have been clean for 5 years, they know how much they lost the last time, and the time before that. It’s like watching the same movie over and over and over. I don’t understand, THIS DOES NOT MAKE SENSE TO ME! There must be something that does not line up in the process of remembering, it is unbelievable.” This is what one thinks and sees when they watch someone relapse back into the abyss of their addiction, their lying, their excuses, their hate, their Mr. Hyde.

What exactly is one thinking?

This is the million-dollar question. Why would someone go back into their addiction when everything has been proven, they have recovered, and they have had a taste for the good life – a life that is without all the darkness that follows one who is addicted? Not only is this complicated, it is close to impossible to be able to help a person understand why someone after a good period of not using alcohol or drugs would return to a full-blown addiction. There are so many angles that can and do play into this mystery. Granted, I am not a medical professional or even a licensed clinical counselor, I am a drug-free addict who has been clean for going on 35 years, someone who relapsed over twenty-five times during that period and could go back to a full-blown addiction tomorrow. Taking that a step further, not only could I go back tomorrow, but I would enjoy it. That is where the sickness is in a recovering addict. “I would even enjoy it.” The very first thought that comes to my mind is the euphoria, the feeling so good about me, the sex, even the uncertainty or the thrill of dodging loved ones, the police, my job, my life. I know that sounds so backwards, but your mind is so powerful in the way it works. How one can have all the plus side feelings toward an addiction before one stops and really remembers the reality of the hurt not just to others, but also the hurt to oneself? Yes, we can see and feel the hurt we caused in others, yet when it comes to addiction others are not in the equation. This is where the relapse happens when you keep yourself from remembering reality, what really happened in all your previous drug or alcohol episodes, the aftermath. Your mind will automatically flash, you remember the enjoyment, the first high, the things you wish you did regularly and once high that you did with ease. It only takes hours or just a day, to be right back in one’s addiction at the same tolerance level as your last run that took years to achieve. Your tolerance level that took 5 years to reach in your original run (addiction) can and will be achieved by morning.

In a split second you’re blindsided, finding yourself in the wrong place with the wrong people or even that one situation where not even a seasoned recovering addict could resist, maybe an event or a life-changing situation has happened, a trigger, a death, a divorce, or even a raise at work. The truth behind most relapses is that they do not just happen overnight or on the spur of the moment. A relapse happens, days, even months prior to the initial act of getting high, or taking that drink. It is self-generated, like giving yourself a little push here, and another here, and in no time the ball starts to roll downhill. This is where “The Magic” happens, it is where your actions are not completely visible to yourself, like your self-conscience has been altered and you are only seeing part of the movie. You are doing things, even the smallest of things, that just two weeks ago you knew that just thinking about them was not good for you (red flags). “Oh, I can watch the game at the Sports Bar, that doesn’t mean I’m going to drink!” “Why not? I mean all my friends will be there.” You find yourself driving by your old connections house where just weeks ago you would drive ten extra miles to ensure you were never near that area or reaching out to an old friend who is still well in their addiction thinking you can help. Your whole way of thinking is being setup for the relapse that is coming. Things which were not even thinkable two weeks ago are now slowly becoming part of your daily walk. At first, you really do not see it in your mind, your addiction, your illness. It is taking over little by little, it is a process. You do things that you know you should not do, yes small things, one today, two tomorrow and the pattern is set. The one common factor at this stage is the lack of your ability to see what destruction, devastation, and damage will occur from your relapse, that doesn’t even factor in at this point. You cannot stop that ball from continuing to roll downhill and the ball gets heavier and heavier and well, you get the picture – it is not good! It is sad, incredibly sad! You are like a truck going downhill with little to no brakes at all, and the scariest, the saddest part is you are not the driver anymore. Just a month ago you would have had no problem at all separating facts and reality regarding your addiction. This is where the illness is identified in your having little to no control over the relapse which is going to happen. The mind is such a strong factor in everything we do, yes, I am 100% on board with addiction as an illness, there is science behind the genetics of there being addiction intertwined in one’s DNA. You can have diabetes; you can have addiction. It is not as simple as “Why can’t he just stop?” “JUST DON’T DO IT!”  With all of that proven and studied for years this is not what we are trying to bring to light. We just want to help everyone to better understand that by someone relapsing, returning to their addiction is not as simple as “well they have chosen that over me, over our children, over their job? What about the new house we just bought? I thought we were doing so good, this can’t be happening again!” It is so much deeper than that, it has little to nothing to do with the kids, the job, the house. What has happened is the addict with the desire to use or the person with the desire to drink, has answered the knock at the door and it is not a friend.

They say you cannot run from your problems, but changing my scenery was just one of those happenings that lined up well with the years to come. I call it “playing on different playgrounds,” not “running from my problems.” My mother was one of those people that, being her child, I really didn’t give much thought to her personality or what she laid down as beliefs, she was just mom, and I can tell you she was one tough bird.  Of course, at this point it had been 10 years’ time since I had even seen her let alone known much of anything about her since I left to go in the Army.  Let’s not forget that it was Dad as to where I laid my allegiance as I felt a responsibility to show him just how messed up he made me, especially after I reached the understanding that never, I mean NEVER was I going to shine in his eyes.

So going home to San Antonio was not hard to do on my part except parole.  Transferring parole from California to Texas normally would not be so doable, but I was from Texas, born in Texas, and one of my aliases was you guessed it “Tex.”  Parole is like the continuation of your prison sentence.  Let’s say the Honorable Judge Griffith sentenced me to 7 years in the California Department of corrections and Rehabilitation. Note that the “and Rehabilitation” was not part of the title when I was a tenant.  With 7 years to serve you were granted day-for-day while incarcerated, meaning that for every day you were behind bars they would knock off 2 days, so if you were behind bars for 2 years you get 4 years served.  Easy right?  Well not so fast.  Upon release (parole) if you were sentenced to 7 years and you were there for 2 years (and they gave you 2 years as served for a total of 4 years), they would still require you to complete 3 more years to fulfill the 7-year sentence.  Nobody was bitching, I was just happy to be out with little-to-no focus on the 3-year mountain ahead of me.

Let’s look at the stats.  72 out of every 100 parolees go back to prison within 3 years of receiving freedom.  Out of the 28 that show on paper to have completed parole well 5 die, 6 completely disappear, and 6 are sent to some type of state mental facility.  So, I don’t know if you are doing the math, but yes that’s 11 out of every 100 inmates paroled filtering back into society and well, either you are living next to one, possibly married to one, or working for one.  I think you get the picture.

A real quick note. Let’s just say I believe God has taken up my case.  Once back in San Antonio, I first report to parole which was at the least eye-opening.  See after meeting with the parole folks they made a statement not once, but a few times, even to the point I asked the officer to say it again – “Mr. Hyland once you complete 9 months with no problems, we will start your discharge papers which will take 30-90 days to complete. I was so confused!  I thought maybe my paperwork was wrong or something.  Well, I got to get this straight now, so I informed the parole officer that I still had 3 years left on my original sentence and wait for it, here it comes again, got to love Texas. “Well Mr. Hyland here in Texas we require 1 year without issues while on parole and we will discharge you with completing your whole sentence.”  So sentenced to 7 years, received 2 years credit for doing 2 years, and now I do 1 year on parole and get credit again for 2 more years!  Who says crime does not pay?  OK, OK, OK I am going to stop there.  If nothing else, prison taught me numbers very well.

Mom, well she has of course been divorced from Dad for 8 years at this point, and I too divorced him. She was now living with a gentleman named Mike and to this day 35 years later I still find it hard to make sense of the whole “Hey, this is Mike.  He’s my significant other.” I mean I knew, and he seemed harmless, but not only was he 20 years younger than Mom, he was also only 6 years older than I was.  But I must remember I’m a guest and one with few options.  Let’s not drag this on.  The objective here is to offer an outlook or insight into the many stages and turns that my life must take in the process of what I would call damaged goods to an acceptable contributor to society. I have really skipped the whole gay-spirited, drug-loving, commune-style living that was in full bloom on “The Streets of San Francisco,” but we go to keep some juicy stuff for the book. 

Living with Mike and Mom was ok. It sure was a fresh start. My hair was thick, my arms were healthy, my health was amazing, and I was free. Knowing I had to have some type of employment with a full-fledged recession going on and the Persian Gulf War on the horizon, it sounded pretty good when Mike suggested that I apply for work at Albertsons.  I remember asking Mike what it was I would be doing and with a simple, innocent look he said, “Well, I don’t know, I’m just a bag boy!”  Albertsons it was.  The next morning, I showed up and lo and behold after hearing I was on parole and fresh out of prison, the store director, with a touch of Irish sales swag, told me that if I would cut my hair and be at the store tomorrow morning at 8am, he would give me a shot.  Excited at first, graciously accepting the challenge, I went to find a barber.  Well, let’s just say there were probably 3 places to get my hair cut within a mile of Albertsons, but it took me over 2 hours to follow through.  I mean I had 3 amazing things going for me – I was free, I had a place to live, and my hair was amazing, gorgeous, beautiful, full, long and thick. I know what you’re thinking – but stop! I now have 3 amazing things going for me, I was free, I had a place to live, and I had employment.

To say I was ready for the type of life style I woke up to in Alexander, New York would be at best an understatement, but did I mention that I had been elevated to Rock Star status? Oh yeah, I was also humble. The Cavanaugh’s home was a lot like Wally’s and Beaver’s with a few differences. Mrs. Cavanaugh had a very stressful job at the prison and would have a few glasses of wine most evenings.  Once Mr. Cavanaugh got home, he had a ritual of visiting this old vintage refrigerator with a lever on the side that produced a fine ale and he would retire to HIS CHAIR and smoke these wonderful smelling cigars. Most evenings were spent talking about the bright future their son Marty had and a few life lessons to you know get me on a right track and all. I was now enrolled in the local high school or should I say the only school where I was expected to get involved, get good grades, and stay out of trouble not because that was a good plan but more along the lines of we didn’t want to tarnish the Cavanaugh’s image and their track record with Marty the Swim Team Champion. Don’t get me wrong, these folks were very good God-fearing people and had done well with life in general and they should have been proud of their only son Marty, who by the way had become my wing man. He had this ’68 convertible Ford Mustang and he knew everyone in town, especially the girls. The Cavanaugh’s thought what better plan for me than doing what Marty had done, you know Marching Band and of course swimming on the Swim Team, maybe even a run for a class officer next year.

I was all in, except not too far into this plan a few things just didn’t go as we had all pictured.

Swim Team. I just really didn’t even know how to swim very well. I mean I could keep myself from drowning and even get from one side of the pool to the other. Evidently what I had learned as a child was something close to what they called dog paddling. Practice, practice, practice most days in the morning before school and two hours after school every day except Saturday and Sunday. I really wasn’t having a lot of fun. I mean they would wrap an inner tube strip around my legs so all I could do was use my arms and not be able to kick. Then they gave me a float board where all I could do was kick to swim back and forth so many times I would puke. I wasn’t going to give up as failing wasn’t what Rock Stars did; I even started to get better, not good just better. Did I mention the girls would always come and watch the boys Varsity Swim Team practice? I mean there wasn’t anything else to do in town. I think they liked an underdog story and boy did I have one. It looked like I was never going to beat anyone in a swimming race, but there was this situation where one of the events was the mile swim and every team had to have at least two entries and you guessed it, I was the second entry. Come to find out the other team entry was good old Marty and well he was always going to win. That was a given. My job was to at least finish because if I could finish that would guarantee a point for our team. There were times where I would get lapped not once, not twice, but three times. If you could just picture it – all the other swimmers had finished the event and well, it would get very quiet in the stands, maybe even a few folks were holding their breath wondering if I was going to finish. It must have looked painful, but lo and behold I would finish and the crowd would jump and cheer. Ok maybe they felt sorry for me but I was having a good time and it was my job to get a point for the team and that I did every time. I even got better as the year went on. I still got lapped at least once, but that’s progress in my book.

Band. I mean I had never played an instrument in my life, but these folks had taught me to swim and I was sure they had a plan. Let’s face it, there weren’t too many kids to pick from so it seemed that everyone made the team. Drums, that’s what Rock Stars played, but it seemed the only real drum available was this thing they called “the Bass Drum.” I had a few not so choice names I preferred but I was now in the Band. Oh, and by the way this is the same band that played with the football team, I mean this couldn’t get any better right? Not so fast. There were a few hurdles I didn’t see coming. I mean I could hit this drum thing ok, but apparently there was a sheet with weird symbols that would tell me when to hit the drum and well I just couldn’t get that figured out. “Ok,” said the Band Director “let’s just feel the beat and we will come back to reading music later.” This worked pretty good in the band hall, I mean I was rocking it most of the time. Was I in for a treat though, because now they wanted to strap this heavy, big, round, uncomfortable drum into this backwards metal shoulder mount with a cinch around my waist.  I thought “This can’t be the best way to do this.” Wait for it, now we were supposed to march in rhythm, in step, doing some weird pattern and at the same time I was to feel the beat. Well I’m just not that guy who can walk, pat my stomach and chew gum at the same time. It was not going to happen. Sure enough, I told you they had a plan and plan they did. I was instructed to march with the band, but I was also instructed to never really hit the drum as we marched. You know just act like I was hitting the drum, they didn’t want to hear any sound. It appeared I was so bad at keeping step and rhythm at the same time I would knock the whole band out of step with my missing the right beat, and well they needed to have a Bass Drum in the marching band yet evidently it wasn’t so important to really hear the damn thing. All in al, I lettered in both Band and the Swim Team and really wasn’t doing too bad with the girls either.

After the last football game of the year, we went back to the Cavanaugh home.  It had begun to snow and snow was a big thing for me being from Texas, but not so much for them. Mrs. Cavanaugh sat me down and said “I have some news from your mom. It appears your brother Sean is very sick and they don’t think he’s going to live much longer and they felt you should know. I suddenly wanted to be alone, not wanting to process my emotions in front of them. I quickly went to my room. Sean and I were close, you know sort of partners in crime growing up. I knew he would die like my older brother Mike had at the age of 17 from Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy, but Sean was so much younger.

I had been in New York for almost 9 months at that time.  At 3am off I went with my back pack, walking in the snow down the rail road tracks, smoking one of Mr. Cavanaugh’s cigars. I figured that I had got myself here and I would get myself back to San Antonio the same way, but boy it sure was cold.