The Prison Book: Alcoholism/Addiction: a Life Sentence

By Tamara Segars Ott

Marley Thomson Marx is practically perfect. Her good looks parallel her above average intelligence and compassion. She has only one flaw: Marley is an alcoholic. Raised in Texas in an upper class, Christian family, Marley is afforded opportunities and advantages in life that most people only dream about. Yet, the darkness of addiction waits in the shadows.

As an adult, Marley succeeds in almost every endeavor she puts effort toward, but at the same time, she must struggle with the oppression of being drawn down by the force of her alcohol dependence. She accomplishes much, but some of her days are spent wondering what happened the night before thanks to alcohol-induced black outs.

A caring mother, loving wife, dedicated daughter, and true friend, middle-aged Marley is imprisoned by the horrific long-term results of her disease. She must now look back over the years and how her life has evolved and devolved. How did this nice girl end up in a place like this, not only in physical hell, but also facing a life-altering chronic condition? As an addict, will Marley ever be free, or will her constant struggle lead to nothing but failure and despair?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480855731

Tamara Segars Ott

Tamara Segars Ott was born and raised in Central Texas and helps others through volunteer work and teaching classes to aid those in her community. Tamara enjoys everything outdoors: hiking, skiing, horseback riding, swimming, and adores traveling. She holds a bachelors degree in business administration and is currently pursuing a masters in counseling psychology. She lives with her husband near Waco, Texas.

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THE PRISON BOOK

A Novel

ALCOHOLISM/ADDICTION:

A LIFE SENTENCE

TAMARA SEGARS OTT

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Copyright © 2017 Tamara Segars Ott.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-5572-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5571-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5573-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017919059

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/15/2017

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Prologue

Part I:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part II:

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Part III:

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Part IV:

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Epilogue

Dedication

For my husband Mark- the most wonderful person in the entire world. At least in my world—the one that matters. You are my favorite person, my rock, my lover and my very best friend. I have always known you are a precious gift to me, from God. Thank you for always believing in me, and never giving up on us. I love you, Baby.

For Mom and Dad. Thank you for your unconditional and everlasting love. You provided me with the best possible upbringing and opportunities a girl could ever ask for, and I thank you with all my heart. I love you both so much.

For my precious, precious sons. You’ll never how much I love and adore you.

For everyone who has suffered, is suffering, and will suffer from addiction in any way, shape or form. Stay strong, and get help, please. It won’t go away until you make up your mind to get rid of it. Resources for help include Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, AL Anon, your local community health center, and your state alcohol and drug abuse prevention coalitions.

For The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit.

…and for Bunnie Lou- God bless you, sweetheart.

EPIGRAPH

The Serenity Prayer

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as the pathway to peace.

Taking, as Christ did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it.

Trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to his will.

That I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him forever in the next.

Amen.

Don’t be drunk with wine, because that will ruin your life. Instead, be filled with the Holy Spirit… And give thanks for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Ephesians 5: 18&20 The Life Recovery Bible. New Living Translation. Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., 2013.

The trouble is with me, for I am all too human, a slave to sin. I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate. But if I know that what I am doing is wrong, this shows that I agree that the law is good. So, I am not the one doing wrong; it is sin living in me that does it. Romans 7: 14-17 LRB

What does God want from us? He has a specific purpose for each one; believing God is essential for lasting success. He may intend to use us to bring saving grace into the lives of others who suffer from the same affliction. Recovery is part of that purpose.

As we are freed from our dependencies, we are ensured a life of good and healthy living. Our failures and mistakes graciously disappear, often to be forgotten. Moving ourselves from slavery to freedom is assurance God has a better life in store for us. Obedience to Him along with consistent love and respect are essential for our progression in recovery. Our journey can go from worse, to wonderful.

I believe we are all here on this earth to help each other get from this life to the next- people needing people. Use your God-given gifts to help others; encourage, listen, and speak.

"Don’t let evil conquer you, but conquer evil by doing good." Romans 12:21 LRB

A final word: Be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power. Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all strategies of the devil. Ephesians 6: 10-11 LRB

I will strive to make every day better than the one before, therefore, the day I die will be the best day of my life. …Tamara S. Ott

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to the people at Archway Publishing.

INTRODUCTION

Marley Thomson Marx is an extraordinary person. Her amazingly striking good looks parallel her above-average intellect, and her compassionate, outgoing personality outweighs her appearance and IQ combined. Marley has one flaw- one enormous, deigning flaw of character -she is an addict; an alcoholic.

Raised in Texas in an upper-class, Christian family, Marley is afforded opportunities and advantages in life many people only dream about. She succeeds in almost every endeavor in which she puts forth even the smallest bit of effort, but at the same time struggles with the oppression of being drawn to the forces of alcohol addiction, and the evils therein.

A caring mother, loving wife, dedicated daughter and true friend, Marley, now middle-aged and imprisoned from the horrific results of her disease, looks back over the years and how her life has evolved. How did this nice girl end up in a place like this—not only this physical hell, but with the life-altering battles her chronic condition imposes?

The Prison Book’s Marley Marx tells her story. She describes her accomplishments and failures, as well as a variety of instances she can never explain due to alcohol-induced blackouts. Her multiple relationships over the years include five marriages and many other pertinent, and not-so-pertinent people in her life.

This is the story of Marley, her life sentence as an alcoholic/addict, and her struggles to be free.

PROLOGUE

THIRTY DAYS IN THE HOLE… Son of a Bitch! I can’t believe I’m here. My God, I absolutely cannot believe I’m here, in this pathetic, disgusting place!!! What have I done? Jesus, what have I done—to myself, my life, my family? Please Lord, let me wake up and this whole thing be a bad dream- a horrible, horrible nightmare. I don’t belong here. Dear God in heaven, I don’t belong here…in jail. Not in prison.

This wasn’t in my plan: it isn’t how my life is supposed to be! And certainly not what my parents wanted for me—their precious, beautiful, intelligent daughter—the one who always attended Catholic Mass. Not me! They raised me so much better than to be ending up here, in this dungeon, like a caged animal. Like a maniacal dolt separated from life, from the living. These people don’t know me. I’m a good person. I help people. I’ve never hurt anyone; well, not with malicious intent, anyway. And if I did ever hurt anyone, it was always myself, so who’s counting? Isn’t that what is supposed to separate the good people from the bad, the things we do—our intentions? The evil people are locked up; they’re the ones who are caged because they’re like wild tigers preying upon the needy, the helpless and the unfortunate. I’m not that way. That isn’t who I am. I help those less fortunate than me. I don’t belong here. This place is for criminals—crooks, thieves, and murderers. I don’t want to be here, sitting behind a steel door—a locked steel door. Between concrete floors and cinder-block walls, having to share a nasty toilet with women I’ve never even seen before, and certainly, by the looks of some of them and the way they’re speaking and acting, I would never associate with them in the world. Some of them so disgusting the filth oozes from their pores, their mouths, their decrepit thoughts. That’s who they are; not me. Trash of every race, color, and creed, and anything in between. Illegals and drug-fucking addicts, trailer scum—everywhere. And me. Even the guards are disgusting, and so fucking loud! God, make them stop yelling!

They treat me like I’m a serial killer, a murderer of mothers, or children. Handcuffs on my wrists, and shackles around my ankles, having to walk like an inchworm, the way they do in the horror movies and the crime shows I’ve seen on television. It’s all so degrading, so belittling. Waking next to a mafia princess—more of a bitch from the minimal conversation, or lack thereof I’ve had with her—a street whore, and a child rapist. Oh, and I can’t forget the couple of husband-killers across the hall. I guess they decided to kill their husband so they could be together. How disgusting. I’m not sure which is worse, killing your husband because he’s an asshole, or because you’ve turned gay and so’s your BFF. I’ve never had neighbors like these before, not where I come from. Not in my neighborhood; not in my lifetime. Oh, these poor people. They haven’t a clue, no idea about life and how it should be. And here I am. God help us all.

Shut up! Sit down! Don’t talk! Hands behind your back; don’t look!! I have more respect for a foam-spitting pit-bull than I do for these gawd-damned imbecilic jackasses for treating me this way. If they knew me, the way I am—my character—would they treat me this way? Would any of this even matter?

Why didn’t I stop? I sit here in these vile, filthy striped rags, surrounded by underachieving dolts; I’m so ashamed to be a part of this perdition. This existence isn’t me. I’m happier than this; my life is…supposed to be. I have so much to live for, and to be proud of, yet so many things I should have done differently…

PART I:

CHAPTER 1

SISSY AND I RUSHED ANXIOUSLY through the long hallway, the clattery of our go-go-boot clad feet being heard on the wooden paneled floor. My long wavy blond hair bouncing to the beat of my steps; Sissy’s dark shiny locks resting behind her shoulders. Mom kept the floors so clean; the two of us almost slipped into each other racing to see who would get to the 1960-something Rambler station wagon first. The area behind the backseat, cargo area I guess it was called, had an unattached carpet. Every time Mom turned a corner or drove over a bump in the road, we’d slide or go airborne. Can’t believe I was actually that small; everything was big. Life was big.

Last one to the car’s a rotten egg! Sissy always yelled, after she’d be ten paces ahead, toward wherever it was she was challenging me to go. Always ahead of me, wherever we went, whatever we did.

Don’t forget to tie your shoe! I’d stop mid-stream, look down at my dirty-white go-go-boots and realize there was nothing to tie. She’d continue on to win the race; go through the imaginary finish line, this particular time being the backseat of the Rambler. Sometimes it was a door. She got me again. Always did. Don’t all little sisters do what their big sisters tell them to do? Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?

Daddy had been waiting in the idling car for some time. He was always the first person in the car, last one out. Dads have it that way, you know. Always going first to get things rolling, or checking out a situation before calling to his troops it’s safe to proceed. They’re always the one to risk their life to save the wife, or drop the family off underneath the safety of a pavilion or porta cache’, then drive off into darkness and lightning, find some out of the way parking area to place the barge-on-wheels, and walk back to wherever the culmination of partygoers and strangers decide to gather. Usually it’s a place he doesn’t want to be, but when the event involves a kid or two of his, well, his attendance record tends to reflect perfection. Any aspect of tardiness can certainly be attributed to the current status and condition of the cement harbor. Anyway, he waits, often impatiently, to be further instructed as to what his next move will be. That direction always comes from the family head—Mom. At least that’s the unspoken saying in most houses. Goes like this, "If Mom’s happy, we’re all happy". Happens in the best of families!

The Rambler was the color of an elephant’s tusk, sort of ivory-looking. The more I think about it, the more I loved that car. It looked like a mutant pearl, fresh out of a clam’s shell—a prehistoric dinosaur-sized clam’s shell. At least that’s what I saw when I looked at it. Shiny and pretty like that, too. One day I opened the kitchen door to go outside and play, and the Rambler was gone. Some big gaudy Chevrolet station wagon had taken its place. Looked like a big blue tank. I was mortified, like I’d lost an attachment to myself or something. For a while, I mourned the passing of the Rambler—felt like a damn death to me.

Come on Anna Belle! We’re going to be late! Daddy yelled. I could see the corner of his eyes as he looked over his black-rimmed glasses—the same kind Gregory Peck wore—toward the house. He didn’t sound like he usually did in everyday talk. His mouth didn’t move much, as if his jaw was nailed shut, tight. As I look back over the years, seems when I’d hear Daddy say that, I’d usually say quietly, sometimes to myself "Come on Mom!! Let’s go!" Things were not going to get any better at this point.

Mama was in Bubba’s room, trying to finish dressing him. His new cowboy boots were obviously a struggle, what with his feet the way they were. He had to wear braces for a short while—his feet pointed in the opposite direction his legs directed them, kind of looked like ducks’ feet. Until he figured out we were going somewhere. Mom always had a time with Bubba’s shoes cause of his feet, or possibly because Bubba was a little shit, and she always struggled with whatever it was she had to do with him. He sure was a cute kid though, sort of looked like Donald Duck—had real cotton-like blond, almost white hair, and his little lips sort of protruded like a duck’s beak. Cutest thing you ever saw. Maybe that’s the reason Mama never could get him dressed and ready in a timely, calm fashion.

They came from PayLess, the boots did. Most of our shoes came from Payless; sometimes from Ward’s or Grant’s. Sissy always told nice old ladies her pretty smile came from Grants’. The only thing I remember getting from there was white cotton underwear. Granny panties I call them now. Still the same look, just bigger.

Bubba hated riding in the car. Absolutely loathed it! Once he figured out we were going somewhere in the car, he pitched a gawd-awful, ear-aching fit. As much as I loved to ride, he hated it, and I’ll be damned if he almost ruined my fun every time. As soon as the car started rolling, Bubba began to scream and cry out at the top of his lungs. Reminds me of when people get on a roller coaster for the first time. Once the ride starts, they shut their eyes and scream the entire time, until the ride comes to a complete stop. Sometimes Mama would threaten Bubba, and tell him that she was going to stop the car and let him out if he didn’t stop all that hollering.

Mom, aren’t you going to let him out? I’d holler at her over his yelling, reminding Mama of her threats as we were stopped at a red light. But she never did. Did she hear me? Was she ignoring my reminding plea? Probably not. Well, yeah, probably. Why she didn’t just reach over and slap the shit out of him is beyond my comprehension. The hollering stopped when the wheels did, every single time. I had to learn early on to tune out the noises which were making me anxious and uncomfortable. Didn’t know it at the time, but that’s what we do when we’re young; we learn to cope in the most primitive of ways. Whatever works. Guess that’s when I started riding in the back of the car, sliding around on the throw-rug in the cargo area. I suppose Bubba’s actions and crying wasn’t all for the bad after all.

~†~

The very moment we were in sight of all the beautiful, sparkling lights, my heart would race; pound so fast and hard like it was going to explode right through my chest. I felt as though my body was all giggly inside.

Wow! There it is! Look at all the lights! And the giggles would pour out of my mouth like milk pouring into my cereal bowl. The bright lights were of every color imaginable. There were colors I never saw before! Some were dancing up and down; others turning ‘round and ‘round. There were lights flickering off and on, and I was headed straight toward them.

The fair—my favorite time of year, well, besides my birthday. But Christmas was one of my favorite times, too. And I loved Halloween; dressing up in some cool costume then going door-to-door, trick-or-treating. There was always so much candy!! Easter was always such a pretty time. Mama and Daddy looked so glamorous, and I always got