Walking Out the Other Side: An Addict's Journey from Loneliness to Life

By Alan S Charles

“So many people share about seeing me go in and out of the program over the years, how heartbreaking it was, thinking I would die before I got well. They talk about how I am living proof no one is ever too far gone to get clean. The common theme is: if Alan can get sober, anyone can get sober.”

Walking Out the Other Side<

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walking Out the Other Side
• Release date: Oct 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996830621

Alan S Charles

Alan S. Charles has lived a remarkable, diverse, and full life. From playing professional baseball to being a professional harness racing driver and singing with Barry Manilow at Radio City Music Hall, he's rarely known a dull moment. After his playing career, Alan was a successful businessman, quarterbacking multi-million dollar sales campaigns. The world seemed to be at his fingertips, but eventually, the pain of his dysfunctional upbringing caught up with him. Seeking relief from his lifelong feelings of anxiety and loneliness, he became addicted to cocaine, which ultimately caused him to lose it all. Then, after years of being in and out of rehab and battling his inner demons, Alan got clean and sober. Today, he is the doting father of two daughters as he takes life one day at a time.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – The Basement

The first sign I had a problem was when the TV remote kept moving. Not that I couldn’t find it, not that I’d misplaced it—it moved. The cocaine stayed put, the tequila bottle didn’t budge, but the goddamn clicker was all over the place. I set it down on the coffee table in the living room and got up to go to the bathroom, and when I came back, it was gone. I went to the bathroom a lot. Besides the tequila, I drank orange juice and also water. I understood the importance of staying hydrated when on a run. The first time the remote moved, I thought it was just me. I may have been in denial about the drugs and alcohol, but this moving remote thing—man I was fucked up. I willingly admitted that much. The first time I found the remote on my nightstand in the bedroom and not on the coffee table, I chalked it up to being wasted. By the tenth time it happened, I knew it was something else. Like a message. Or a sign.

I’ve always been in touch with another world. Even as a kid, especially as a kid, I believed there was something else out there, some sort of a power. As a boy, I had to believe in something outside myself because my life was way too overwhelming and scary otherwise. So I believed in a power I could use to keep me safe—that would get me through anything. A power to get me through the loss of my father at nine, and the crazy dysfunctional family life he left behind. It helped me realize my dream of becoming a professional baseball player, and later, a professional harness racing driver. It helped me stand up to anything life threw at me.

After twenty-odd years of cocaine and drinking and sex and acting out and failed relationships, of watching my dreams come true and then fall apart, I no longer relied on the power. I didn’t rely on anything other than will. Which isn’t to say the power wasn’t still with me. I just wasn’t aware of it. This thing with the remote, maybe the power was trying to get my attention.

Whatever the forces at work, I wasn’t interested in playing their game. I just wanted to watch TV, and they weren’t going to let me—I said to myself, fuck it, and then yelled out loud: OK, you can do whatever you want with the clicker; I’m done; I’m pulling the plug on the TV.

I stood and scooted the faux wooden-veneered box to one side, and I yanked the power cord out of the wall.

I showed them.

* * *

When I was on a cocaine run—when I had been going at it for a couple of days, drinking and snorting and not sleeping or eating—I avoided leaving my place. For one, I didn’t want to see my landlord, Johnny. I rented the basement apartment from Johnny and his wife, Jeanette. He was a friend first and a landlord second; we’d known each other for a long time. He didn’t understand why I did so much blow, and I didn’t like him to see me too strung-out. So when I knew he wasn’t home, I went out to the store.

One afternoon, I decided to go to the deli across the street.

This was the winter of 2006, the sky overcast and the air sharp and crisp. I put one foot into the street and stopped, or rather something stopped me. I’d had a bunch of premonitions in my life that led me away from danger or toward success, but this wasn’t one of those, more like I just decided the effort wasn’t worth it for a Diet Dr. Pepper, to have to deal with the clerk and smile and chat with other customers, to look and act normal when I was clearly fucked up. Instead, I grabbed my mail from out of the box on the side of the house and did an about-face back down the short flight of stairs.

On the third step down, I froze. Paralyzed. I couldn’t get my leg to take the next step, and I watched myself in slow motion as the momentum carried me forward, first trying to get my leg to move, and then trying to get my arms out in front of me to break my fall. Neither command worked. I crashed face-first onto the cement landing at the bottom of the stairs. A minute later, my body finally started to move, but now I had no control over it. I shook and convulsed and couldn’t stop. It scared me shitless—not so much because I was going to die, but because I was going to die this way, of a self-induced drug overdose in a stairwell.

When I came to, I was on my side, and I felt blood dripping down my face. The mail—a bunch of advertising circulars and a bill or two—was on the ground. I lay there and stared at the mail for a while, afraid if I tried to move that my body wouldn’t work. Did I have stroke? Was it still happening? Part of me didn’t want to know. Finally, the thought that someone would find me there and want to help, or in some way intervene, motivated me to get up. I was somewhat surprised to be able to get on my hands and knees, and then pull myself up by the door handle and stumble inside. I lay on the couch, shaking with fear, wondering what had happened to me.

After a while, I dragged myself into the bathroom to take stock, and looked in the mirror. My face was all cut up and bloody. I wet a washcloth and cleaned myself up a little, and went back to lying on the couch. A half hour later, I felt well enough to treat myself to a line of coke, and then another. The run was back on.

Later that night, or maybe early the next morning, but well before dawn, I was fighting off sleep. I had been up for three days at this point, and I could barely keep my eyes open. But because of the incident in the stairwell, I was paranoid. Or more paranoid than my customary using-cocaine-24/7 paranoia. I was obsessed with the idea that if I went to sleep, I’d never wake up. Prompted by this frightening thought, I began jumping up and down, hoping the activity would jar me into some sort of wakefulness. All it did was make me more exhausted, and I collapsed back onto the couch. I slapped my face repeatedly; that worked for a little while, but I caught myself drifting off again. Drastic measures were needed, so I hit the back of my head against the wall behind the couch repeatedly, not too hard at first, and then with more force each time my eyes closed. The hard blows succeeded in keeping me awake, but they made me worry I might knock myself unconscious. Game over. I stopped, and immediately felt myself go under.

I was desperate. I considered a jolt of coffee, but I knew that wouldn’t be enough. Spotting a good-sized rock of coke on the table, I picked it up and popped it in my mouth and chewed. If you’ve never eaten cocaine, I don’t recommend it. It tastes terrible, and it didn’t fight off fatigue any better than snorting it. Finally, it occurred to me that I’d have to sleep, eventually; nothing I could do would ward it off forever. Which meant, according to my twisted brain, I was going to die. That made me very sad. I’d never get to see my two beautiful daughters, Sami and Jordyn, grow up. Sami and Jordyn! I had to call them! This was my last chance to speak to them. I got my phone to call Stacy, their mother. We had been separated for six months. I was pretty pissed at her because she’d recently gotten a restraining order against me and had me arrested to boot. Totally bullshit charges. Once, in the middle of a heated argument about child visitation, I had said I was going to kick her ass in court. She manipulated my words and told the police I had threatened to kick her ass, leaving out the in court part. The thing that made it even more infuriating was her and that asshole boyfriend of hers were probably a worse influence on my sweet girls than I ever was.

When I came to, the first thing I noticed was I was still alive. The second was Stacy’s number on the screen of my phone. I couldn’t tell whether my call had gone through or not. Oh my God, I hoped not. I did not want to have a conversation with her that began, Jesus, Alan, you called me at four o’clock in the morning, out of your fucking mind, ranting about how you were going to die and demanding to talk to the girls…. I wasn’t even supposed to call, for chrissake. But I was alive, that was for sure. I guessed I had better go to work.

* * *

When I wasn’t spending all of my free time locked in my basement apartment in Yonkers doing coke, I was locked in my office in mid-town Manhattan doing coke. I worked in sales for a huge media company that owned radio stations and lots of outdoor advertising—billboards and bus shelters and those huge banners you see on the sides of buildings. I sold outdoor advertising, mostly billboards. I was good at it. In fact, the company had flown my family and me to the world headquarters in Texas the year before to accept a sales award. Making a lot of money for your employer tends to cover a multitude of sins. My boss may have wondered what I did by myself locked in my office all day, but results were results. Until they weren’t.

On the days I made it to work, I arrived at my office around 6 a.m., so I arrived first and avoided talking to anyone, especially the president of the company, who usually got there early. As soon as I arrived, I locked my office door and did a line of coke. I might make a few sales calls, but mostly I did lines and looked at porn on my computer. Sometimes, if I’d had enough blow and didn’t feel like leaving, I stayed the night. Around 8p.m., after everyone left for home, I snuck out of my office to use the bathroom, since I hadn’t gone all day. Later, around midnight, I heard the cleaning lady knock. I handed her my trash can and let her empty it. Our little routine.

* * *

Very early in 2007, it became clear to me I couldn’t keep this up. I was constantly afraid of an OD or a heart attack. I missed work all the time, and I sensed my boss and coworkers were fed up with me. When I missed yet another day, I decided to ask for help. Again. To say I had been in rehab before would put it mildly. By this time in my using career, I’d already been to four inpatient and ten outpatient programs. I called my company’s help line and told them what was up. They were kind and polite and helpful and told me to speak with my HR rep the next day at work.

* * *

The following day, I went to see Joanne, the kindly older woman who walked me through the last rehab, and my face must have been hanging down to my ankles, or maybe the help line tipped her off, but she took one look at me and said, Oh, Alan, not again. Such sadness and disappointment in her voice. It was hard for me to bear. I told her I’d called the help line, and she said she would get the process started. She told me to go back to my office and wait, and she would let me know what the next step was.

Twenty minutes later, she came into my office and closed the door.

Alan, Hugh wants you to take a drug test.

The possibility never occurred to me. Hugh was my boss, the VP of Sales. I was dumbfounded.

Why would you need a drug test? I already told you and the help line I can’t stop doing cocaine!

He says it’s just a formality. That we can’t help you this time until we have proof you are using.

This was bullshit. If Joanne asked me to take the test, it might be just a formality. If Hugh asked, it’d be the first step in shit-canning my ass. Hugh had only been my boss for six months and had never been quick to see my virtues. He wasn’t there to see me get the Pinnacle Award, which I received for being one of the top ten sales people internationally. My old boss, Tim, loved me. He would have had me back in rehab in a second. This was bullshit.

I’m sorry, Alan, but you need to go now.

And if I refuse? I asked.

We’ll have no choice but to terminate you.

That’s what he wants, right? We both know Hugh wants the test so he can get rid of me.

As your HR representative, all I can tell you is taking this test is the first step in the process. The next steps will be determined by a variety of factors. One of those factors is your cooperation.

Level with me. I need to know what I’m facing here.

The lab is on East 35th Street. You can walk. Come by my office, and I’ll get you the address.

Those were the longest seven blocks of my life. My head was down against the cold wind, and I saw the dirty gray slush all over the sidewalk. My thoughts raced. I called the help line! How can they fuck me over like this when I’m asking for help?

At least the girl at the lab was nice. She didn’t think I needed a drug test at all.

The order is for a 10-panel urine screen and a blood test for pneumonia. Is that right? You don’t look like a candidate for urinalysis to me.

This didn’t surprise me. Fate always intervened in support of my addiction. I’d gotten off the hook so many times and in so many ways during my using career you’d think God himself wanted me high. The blood test for pneumonia was related to a doctor’s visit earlier in the winter. Why it was being requested now, I had no idea, but I wasn’t going to argue.

Should I just do the blood test? You can go back to your HR department and find out if the 10-panel order was a mistake. If it isn’t, come back tomorrow.

I had no idea of this woman’s motivation. Maybe she liked the way I looked and wanted to party with me. Maybe she seriously thought it was a mistake and didn’t want to run a test in error. Whatever her reason, she offered me the perfect opportunity to get off the hook. I could take the blood test, and by the time my job got the results three days later and found out no urinalysis was done, I’d be halfway to clean. I could claim ignorance and stall and maybe figure out a way to beat this thing.

Except I was tired. So fucking tired. I wanted to get help, wanted to quit, and now I was looking at more scams, more lies, and more running from my problems. I didn’t have the energy. Maybe I should take my lumps and hope for the best. Maybe this was a formality and HR set up another rehab for me. And if they hadn’t, and they were going to fire me, fuck it, I could go back to meetings and start working a program again. I’d been sober before, put a bunch of months together; I didn’t have to have rehab.

I told the girl the urinalysis wasn’t a mistake. She looked kind of disappointed. I think she did want to party with me after all.

* * *

I waited the three days for the test results to come through. Somehow, I had convinced myself my company was going to send me back to rehab, so I wasn’t too worried. I finally got a call from Joanne.

Alan, the urinalysis results showed you tested positive for cocaine. I’m afraid the company has no choice but to terminate your employment, effective immediately.

I was shocked. It was a rude awakening from the delusion and denial I had been trying to cultivate. I got a follow-up email from Hugh, my boss, the next day, confirming I was out of a job.

Despite my earlier good intentions, I didn’t go back to meetings. I still wasn’t done.

* * *

Even though I had lost my job, had a mini-stroke and fallen on my face, and believed I was at the very threshold of death’s door, my enthusiasm for cocaine remained strong.

So much so that, not long after I was terminated, one evening I found myself in a taxi on my way back to Yonkers from Washington Heights, where I had scored two eightballs from my dealer there. Let me note here that I have always enjoyed the thrill of the chase with drugs. For me, the high begins before the first line; it starts when you score and on the way to use. A lot of times, the high starts with the decision to cop some blow.

In the back of the cab, I felt the familiar pleasant anticipation of knowing I had a large amount of cocaine to do, but the good mood started to get mixed up with a less-familiar-but-quickly-becoming-more-so fear of dying. Before long, the excitement was gone and only the certainty of rapidly impending death remained. I felt my heart pounding. I became convinced I was having a heart attack. I was almost home, but I told the driver I was sick and to take me to the hospital. He dropped me off at Yonkers General.

I was still holding the cocaine, so I didn’t want to mention a possible drug overdose to the intake staff or doctors, lest they ask me any questions such as Do you have any illegal narcotics on you now? I figured if they were worth their salt, they’d determine on their own whether my condition was due to cocaine abuse, and, if so, we could deal with the seven grams of blow in my pocket then. I told them I was having heart palpitations and might be dehydrated. They ran a few tests, gave me some fluids, assured me I wasn’t going to die (at least not that night) and sent me home. Much relieved, I returned to my run.

* * *

A couple of days later, I was still at it. No sleep, very little food, but plenty of fluids, mostly tequila. Saturday, early in the afternoon, I first saw the ghosts. I discovered the ghosts by accident. I was messing around with my smartphone, and I noticed when I used the video record function, I saw ghosts in the shadows. As plain as day. And not just a couple of ghosts—a couple of dozen. I panned the camera around the apartment. They were everywhere. I could make out males and females. I wasn’t the least bit scared; I was excited. I felt like a paranormal investigator. And here I was with photographic proof! I moved throughout the apartment recording, and I found them in every room.

They weren’t talking; they were laughing. Giggling. As if they were playing hide and seek with me. If I looked away from the screen, they disappeared. When I looked through the camera again, there they were, all different sizes, the women with long hair. I even made out some facial features, a narrow face and high cheekbones and broad lips. I tried talking with them, asking them to hold still, to show themselves. I asked them to talk to me, promising I would keep it secret if they did. I just heard giggling in return. The stereo was on and music blaring. I danced to the music, hoping to convince them I was friendly and meant them no harm, in the hopes they would make themselves appear outside of the video screen. I asked them to dance with me. More giggles. Louder giggles.

This was too amazing not to share with someone. I heard Jeannette doing the wash in the laundry area next to my basement apartment. While I tried to avoid Johnny when I was wasted, I felt Jeanette was a little more tolerant of my idiosyncrasies, and I wasn’t so worried about talking to her while I was using. Besides, I was so wound up by the ghost thing that I didn’t feel wasted at all, just excited. I opened the door and stepped out of the apartment.

Hey, Jeanette, check this out; you are not going to believe this! I held up my phone.

She looked at me, her face a mixture of bemusement and concern.

Who are you talking to in there?

Ghosts, I said. And I got them on tape.

She came up next to me and looked at the phone while I pressed play. I waited for her to express her astonishment. Nothing.

Can’t you see them?

Can you see them?

Oh my God, they’re right there on the screen.

She looked at me sadly. You’ve been up too long. You need to get some sleep.

I was crushed, but I didn’t want her to know. Maybe you’re right.

I went back into the apartment. The ghosts were still there, just the same as before. Maybe Jeanette couldn’t see them because she didn’t believe in them. Well, I did. What’s more, I enjoyed their company. I filmed and danced and chased and talked with them for another hour or so, having the time of my life, thinking this was the coolest thing ever. But at some point, it turned sour. Their giggles turned into derisive laughter. It was starting to piss me off. What had begun as innocent play now seemed to be them fucking with me in what I took to be a very mean-spirited way. I got more and more upset. I began screaming at them, running from room to room, chasing them down, wanting badly to hurt them. Then everything went black.

* * *

I came to back in Yonkers General Hospital. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. My whole body felt like it had been pummeled with two-by-fours. The worst of the pain came from my mouth. I felt my tongue in there, swollen to the size of a yam. I was very thirsty, but I couldn’t imagine how I could drink anything with a tongue that size. Competing with the pain was the fear. I had no idea or recollection of what happened. I remembered chasing the ghosts, but nothing after. I lay there wretched, dreading what might be revealed to me.

After a while, I looked around the darkened room, trying to find any clue of what my being there meant. It was very quiet. The door to the room was open, and no one was passing by in the corridor. It must’ve been late at night. I tried to find out why my limbs didn’t work. I discovered the reason: I had been strapped to the bed. While better than being paralyzed, it was still a very bad sign. People are generally strapped to beds for two reasons: because they tried to hurt themselves, or they tried to hurt someone else. I prayed for the former and reasoned if I had hurt someone else, I would be handcuffed to the bed, not strapped.

After what seemed like hours, a nurse came in to check on me. She gave me a look of cold disdain that cut through the pain and fear and added shame to the collection.

So, you’re up.

I nodded.

She took the stethoscope from around her neck, lifted my gown, and checked my heart.

I don’t suppose you remember coming in here, do you?

I shook my head.

Well, you’re smart not to try to talk. You bit off part of your tongue. It must hurt.

I stared at her.

If you’re wondering, they told me it took twelve cops to bring you in. You’re kind of the big gossip on the nurses’ station.

She gave me that look again.

I have to say, I don’t particularly care for people who take so many drugs they go crazy. My job is hard enough as it is without the self-inflicted cases. Anyway, they brought you in bleeding and naked and hog-tied to a backboard. They said you broke every stick of furniture in the house. Hope it was your place. You must have done some of it with your head.

She snorted a laugh at her own joke. I stopped looking at her and starred at the ceiling.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I should’ve let you wonder. Stew in your own juices. You deserve worse. Especially since they’re not charging you with anything. You must know somebody important, or have a guardian angel or something. I’ll take off the restraints in the morning. Try to get some sleep.

* * *

She must have been right about me arriving naked, because an orderly later confirmed I had no possessions being held for me: no clothes, no wallet, no ID, no money. Miraculously, I had my phone. I guess Jeanette or Johnny gave it to the cops. Not so I could call them, though, apparently. As soon as I got up my courage, Johnny was the first person I called. To apologize, of course, but also to find out the extent of the damage I’d caused, and to make sure I still had a place to live. He refused to pick up or return my calls, and neither would Jeanette. On one hand that was OK, because with my tongue injured, I could barely speak, and from the little I could speak, people barely understood me. Hopefully, Johnny and Jeanette would come around in a day or two. We had known each other for twenty years. There was too much water under the bridge for them to give up on me now. The furniture and stuff I’d broken was mine, and I would pay them for any cleanup costs.

I no longer had health insurance, so I knew Yonkers General wouldn’t want to have me as a guest for too long. Sure enough, two days in and they told me I was going to be fine; there was no more they could do for me so I would be discharged. Which was OK, because while I was still in a lot of pain, I was bored and anxious to get back to my life, such as it was, to see what might be salvageable. Nobody had come to visit me; no one would take my calls. I had burned a lot of bridges this time.

I asked the nurse whether it was possible to get some clothes to go home in, since all I had on was the bare-ass hospital gown. She told me with some satisfaction that not only were no clothes available to me, but I couldn’t keep the gown either. Some kind soul finally consented to give me an old, thin hospital blanket, which I wrapped around myself like a toga. The administrator handling my discharge told me they arranged for the hospital van to take me home. I gathered up my cell phone and an orderly showed up with a wheelchair.

In the elevator on the way down, surrounded by doctors, hospital staff, and a few visitors, it was hard not to feel self-conscious about my ratty blanket, the visible bruises on my arms and legs, and my battered and swollen face. I didn’t look at all like I should be leaving the hospital; it looked like I had just gotten there.

Despite my makeshift appearance, no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me. As I was wheeled toward the main entrance, I could see through the glass doors that it was snowing. Since waking up in Yonkers General three days ago, I hadn’t thought too much about the future aside from getting out of here, but the snow made me think about my prospects in general. They did not seem good.

The orderly stopped pushing.

Here you go, man. The driver will be up in the van in a minute.

Are you kidding? I don’t have any shoes. You want me to wait outside?

Naw, it’s cool. You can wait in here. When he comes up, just go meet him out under the overhang. There’s no snow on the ground there.

I got out of the wheelchair, and he was gone. The driver pulled up a couple of minutes later. I was so dazed by my fucked-up situation that I didn’t notice how cold my feet were when I walked outside. In the van, it was warm and stuffy.

Where do you want me to take you?

I gave him Johnny’s address. I don’t know if anyone will be there. I don’t have my keys, and I can’t get them on the phone right now.

The driver seemed sympathetic, if a little world-weary. Well, let’s start there, and see what happens.

After a short drive to the house, the van pulled up in front, and I got out and walked to the front door and knocked. I waited. Now I felt the cold on my feet. No answer. I went around to the side of the house, down the stairs, and tried the door to my apartment. Locked. Then I looked at my car in the driveway. It was full of boxes and black trash bags, stuffed with my belongings. My stomach dropped. I don’t know why it surprised me Johnny kicked me out, but it did. It shocked the hell out of me, truth be told. I was so used to landing on my feet that landing on my ass really hurt.

I walked back to the van and motioned to the driver to roll down the window.

Hey, man, no one’s here. I can’t get in. You have to take me back to the hospital.

No can do. You’ve been discharged. Is there somewhere else you can go?

I can’t get a hold of anybody.

The driver looked at me blankly. I couldn’t tell whether he was deciding how to help, or just bored and waiting for me for to figure out my shitty options before he ditched me. I tried to press my case.

You can’t leave me like this. I don’t have any shoes.

He sighed deeply, staring straight ahead, the windshield fogging up from his breath. It wasn’t an exasperated sigh—more like a life sure can be hard for all of us but what can you do-type of sigh. He turned to face me.

Man, there’s nothing else I can do. I just got a call from the hospital; they need me to take another patient home. I have to go. I’m sorry.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I was too stunned to argue. He rolled up the window and drove off.

I walked back to my car, the snow crunching under my bare feet. The driver’s side door was open. I got in and tried to call Johnny. This time he picked up. I started in on an apology, but he cut me off.

Listen to me. I boxed up your stuff. What I couldn’t fit in your car, I put in our attic. I’ll be home in a little while to give you your car keys. You can get the other stuff later.

"Come on; I know I fucked up. I know I need help. I’m going to get help. But just let