The Darkroom

​A look back at the people, patterns, and distortions that made a destructive life feel normal

When I first got serious about sobriety, I had a clear endgame: a normal life outside of AA. No meetings, no fellowship, no relationships defined by recovery. I’d maintain the basics - meditation, exercise, and the daily 10th Step.

I wanted to live like a man who's deathly allergic to shellfish; otherwise normal, but exceptionally careful in seafood restaurants.

I treated my early sobriety as a full time job. With no deadline to rush the process, I'd done a thorough job of understanding who I'd become, what had shaped that person, and how my behavior had affected the people who were in my pre-sobriety life.

I dealt with the outcomes and evolved into the sober guy I now inhabit. Then I simply closed that chapter and got on with my new life.

​Developing the Past

Now, I'm semi-retired, living in rural Thailand, writing about recovery on Substack, and revisiting those pre-sobriety days for the first time in decades.

It hasn’t been easy going back half a lifetime at 71. With no photos, digital records that only go back to 2010, and memory gaps from blackouts and defensive blocks, I had to work for it; grabbing a moment and sitting with it until it developed - like 35mm film in an old-school darkroom.

​It wasn’t always pleasant and that was the unexpected surprise of my introspective journey. Two things have stayed with me:

The first is the tragedy of 25 years of continuous self destruction through my ongoing abuse of substances to support my unwillingness to engage with life.

That was tragic and I found myself looking back at Old Steve with more compassion and empathy than I felt 3 decades ago. I don't see him as a victim, but the time wasted and opportunities missed touched me deeply. I needed to take a bit of time to process the grief and mourn the loss.

The second is the power of the people I surrounded myself with. It's insidious how a lifestyle that is so incredibly toxic can appear absolutely normal through the lens of the tribe you surround yourself with.

My first real date with my 2nd wife involved a half dose of blotter acid each before going to the drive-in in my MGB to see The Empire Strikes Back. A willing and enthusiastic participant, she came from a middle class family where cocktails were served before dinner. But no one would ever suggest that Kathy, her friends, and her family had substance abuse issues.

The recurring theme in my story, from my early teens through my late 30s, is how I managed to surround myself with people who made my consumption and behavior seem relatively normal. There was, however, a fundamental difference between me and the people in my life.

They weren't like that all day, every day.

They understood that there was an edge - a line you didn't cross, and that weekend partying needed to be tempered with moderation. They were relatively successful people who rarely, if ever, went over the edge.

We’d have epic dinner parties on the weekend that would involve loads of alcohol and drugs, and during the following week, my friends’ consumption would be comparably light. I'd knock it down a notch or two, but I'd keep going all week long.

Having said that, there was no way that I'd be able to get sober while surrounded by those people. Not long after coming back from Beach Hill, Paul Simon's Graceland tour hit town and one of my wife's friends bought a bunch of tickets. They threw a pre-show party with champagne, finger food and some soft drugs.

Why was I even there? I was only a couple of weeks out of rehab… I was doomed.

When I was about 5 or 6 years sober, my path would cross with those of old friends and it never worked out. They expected “Old Steve” and I'd become someone entirely different. It was beyond uncomfortable.

I heard a saying in AA: “Sick people attract sick people”. There's some truth in that. Maybe more than I wanted to admit.

Closing The Darkroom Door

Working through the process of standing in my imaginary dark room, developing the film of those memories from decades ago, a thought kept percolating up to my consciousness. Of the hundreds of friends, lovers and family members that I surrounded myself with for 25 years of alcohol and drug abuse, I alone crashed and burned.

How did they come out of those days relatively unscathed?

Maybe it was that small degree of moderation that separated us… I don't have the answer - that's just the way it was. I can't have any of them in my life today and I'm OK with that too.

As I leave my imaginary darkroom, turning off the red light and locking the door, I might briefly pause while walking away and subconsciously shudder at the weirdness of it all. The feeling will pass as quickly as it came.

That was then - this is now.

In sobriety, I've had friends and lovers who drank, but never to excess. They were the kind of people who would leave a drink half finished. Some of my stepkids occasionally got high. None of this ever bothered me. They were fundamentally good people, some of them occasionally imbibed and some didn't. They understood moderation.

There are hundreds of stories from what I call The Dark Period; the 25 years I spent drunk, buzzed or wasted. Some are sensational, others are like watching a train wreck in slow motion, but most of them are simply tragic. With the exception of the moments that were pivotal to my decline or recovery, I'm not inclined to write about them.

It's not about shame or guilt - I've made my amends - it's that I don't see the value in telling them. The stories are about as repetitive as Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. Same arc, same outcome, different circumstances. Let's use dynamite this time…

​So why go back there in the first place?

​Because I’ve been given something rare: over three decades of sobriety after a late-stage collapse. It felt right to give something back. Experience, strength and hope.

​I imagine that my time in the imaginary darkroom has come to an end. I’m ready to write about what came after - how I ended up on this patch of dirt on the edge of a palm forest in rural Thailand.

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As we become more comfortable with our new sober lives, we begin to expand by taking on new challenges and experiences with real purpose. The more we embrace personal and professional challenges, the more complex life becomes.

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