Wayward And Home

"You don't know anything about yourself. You know that you're an alcoholic...but you don't even know who you are anymore."

This was said to me sometime past midnight on July 1st of this year. It was said by a person I loved dearly and who loved me in turn--a person who knew me in my best times (relatively speaking) and my worst times--a person who, ultimately, knew me.

She knew that whether the sun was shining or the sky was covered in clouds, I was an alcoholic. But believed, for a very long time, that I was trying to be something more. Something resembling the person she had fallen in love with: something alive.

But the truth is, I wasn't trying. I was living in my addiction, not living with it.

I was crying, hurting, begging and pleading--waiting and hoping for some change, some good to come out of the tears and the bottles. My inability to cope with my own life and pain had made me afraid of truly living and so I was staying alive the only way I knew how: with booze and self-deception and secrecy. I'd become stagnant, trapped in an abusive relationship with myself just as my mother had become trapped in one with my father, and no, I was not trying.

I can be honest with myself now, let out a slow breath, and admit that I wasn't. And, aside from my miseries and my drunkenness, I did not know who I was anymore.

I've always been drawn to the arts--I can remember, as far back as Elementary School, feeling a spark whenever I was pulling things out of the creative ether. And the best part of it was, the part that made and still makes it magical, is that I knew these things were coming from me. Not from the teachers, or the books, but from me--they came from inside of myself and that made them very special.

Now, granted, spending years writing (both music and prose) and performing have broadened my perspective on the topic: that some of this magic does come from the outside, that all artistic people absorb the work of others, the works that influence them, and then distill those influences through the prism of their own lives and experiences. But the final, potent part of the process is that act of distillation. Of interpreting and expressing these things in your way, a new way, and then putting them out there for the world. Sharing what others felt and thought before you by way of what you feel and think and then put down on a page or painting, or sculpture or song.

I enjoyed writing and storytelling from an early age, the act of creating make-believe that can be entertaining and meaningful or both, but music was something that I discovered a bit later on. It was during my early teen years, when the combustible components of an alcoholic mother and father were leading me towards the beginning of my own addiction, that I began to recognize the power of music. I was desperate for a voice at this time, a voice that could speak succinctly and be heard above the madness, with no room in between words for disagreement--I wanted to make a statement on things, and have it be known that there could be no swaying my sentiments. I needed a way to chisel my feelings into stone.

Music, to me, is very different from any other art form. I don't see it as something that should be open to interpretation or discussion, or something to be reshaped and given an identity by the minds of those hearing it. I feel this way because, within my own experiences as a musician, I don't believe that music is created with those intentions. Irregardless of how we interpret it, or what we think it means or makes us feel, that song is about something specific--thoughts, but most usually feelings, that someone is conveying to you with their voice and instrument. A song is not a painting of a field of flowers, where each one of us can find a different truth in every stroke of blue and red. A song is a letter: we can choose to interpret what that letter says however we like, but none of it changes what was said, or the intent behind it.

In that way, I view music as art...but not make-believe.

That distinction is why I began to adhere myself to music at the age of 16...as best a 16 year old novice can adhere themselves to anything they'd never done before.

As I began my own habit of drinking, I continued to write, to practice playing the guitar and the bass and the piano, to begin singing upstairs in my room when my father was either out of the house or passed out. And as I dedicated myself to these things, I found that there were people around me doing the same thing. Friends I'd known for a long time had been nurturing their own burgeoning talent, and now we had yet another ground to base our companionship on. And I met new people as well, people I could talk to about songs and stories with carefree, youthful passion.

For a time, I found a safe haven away from my problems at home. Whether it was playing music at a friend's house without fear of condemnation or judgement from my father, or staying up into the early hours of the morning on the phone, piecing together make-believe and my own feelings in the process, these places become sanctuaries for me. For the first time in my life, I began to feel secure, sure of something...and from that security, love began to grow. Love for myself, for what I was doing, as well as love for my friends: even romantic love slowly began to rise up from under the ravaged surface of my healing heart.

But there was a traitor in the midst, someone who could (and in time would) bring the whole works down: me. That traitor was the damaged part of myself: the part of me that had already let alcoholism in, given it permission to enter in the night like a vampire, and now could do little to persuade it into leaving.

Early on, my drinking never impaired my technical progress or the way that the act of artistic expression made me feel. But it was present. In my mind's eye, I can see it now, watching and leering, my custom-tailored addiction, setting up shop and waiting inside of me, nodding along with the music or smiling at the pages written, knowing that in time it would claim them and myself.

I believe this is the case with many alcoholics--that there was a time when we could "handle it," when it seemed to even invigorate us, but the nature of the disease of alcoholism promises us that those days will end. It promises us this very sincerely, but at that early time we are not as acquainted with its voice as we will later become, and we let the words fall on deaf ears. None of us set out in life to be drunks or addicts, and I believe that plays into why even when we are, without a shadow of a doubt we are to everyone around us and to the sanest part of our addled minds, we still find it hard to accept. I'm not an alcoholic, I'm Zane--I love stories and music, I watch westerns and read Stephen King, and I try to be a good person and friend to everyone I love.

There's a crucial point for alcoholics where this mantra of affirmation becomes an obvious plea of denial--it's a point that I know now, after getting sober, after talking and more importantly listening to my friends, that they were all aware of as it was happening. But what could be said? What could be done then, during a time when I would smile in the morning, and drink my beer, and go about my day and my duties with that same smile and a similar beer, move on into night and only then as the moon ran high, once I had my fill of whiskey and cheap wine, would the smile show its true sadness. Then came the rages, the tears, the insanity.

As the timetable behind that process sped up to the point I suffered through during these past two years prior to my getting sober, when I could and usually would be in a state of walking blackout as early as the afternoon, the urgency and alarm my friends felt for me picked up its pace to keep up with my own fevered self-destruction.

I can remember, and I use the term loosely here, a gig my band and I had about a year and a half ago. I drank the night before, during rehearsal the day of, I drank outside in the van when we got to the venue, I drank prior to the set and then immediately after the set. After that, I went to a bar.

I was driven home by a friend that night because I was so drunk the bar management had to kick me out. When I stumbled through the door and to my bed, crying and ashamed, I grabbed the phone and called the woman I loved. I had and still have no idea what time it was, other than knowing that our set had been at 8 pm and that I had spent a substantial amount of time drinking afterwards. Sobbing, I told her that I had fucked up again--that I didn't know why I felt the need to do this to myself, that I didn't know why I couldn't stop anymore. I can't remember much of what she said to me, but I can remember the sound of her voice: sad, hurt, afraid--there was still love there, but it was becoming all the more strained.

I can remember hearing and knowing that, too. Even then, it tore at my heart.

Since I've invested myself into my recovery with an honesty and effort I'd never mustered before in my life, I've kept my eyes, ears and mind open to those that I've met along this road. Invariably, every addict I meet has a life in them when sober, a strength of character that initially astonished me, and now only makes perfect sense. I haven't met a single alcoholic who can't speak passionately about the things they believe in and the things that make them right now and made them wrong then. Despite it being a form of slavery, being a drunk isn't about just punching in at 9 and leaving at 5--there's a twisted form of dedication at work in our minds, and one that usually, when we are sober, can be and has been demonstrated in more productive ways.

But whether we write or sing, dance or paint, our active addiction turns us against ourselves.

The feelings those who love an active addict go through are horrifying ones: as addicts we lose ourselves and all of the wonderful traits that make us who we are to our addiction. It's indescribably painful to watch someone you love go through this: to feel the desire to reach out to them, support them, confront them, but to also be unsure of how to go about it or what the addict's reaction may be. Using my own life as an example, I want to offer strength to anyone out there who may be waiting to have the talk that may save a friend's life.

Please, don't wait.

Your friend is still there, but they're deep inside of a mind that's grown dark and frightened. If your friend is like me, they will argue with you, attempt to bargain, to charm you, or will flat out disregard your concerns. They may say things that they'd never say in their right mind, condemn you for what they're perceiving as an attack, or cry and beg for forgiveness, making promises they desperately mean to keep in that moment but that will be recanted later when their thirsts run high.

All of those reactions are ones that I used myself, when I was in active addiction. And they may be reactions your loved ones use as well. But do it all the same, talk to them all the same--in doing so a seed may be planted. And from that seed, with time and effort, a tree strong enough to support themselves may grow. That seed we're talking about here is really hope after all, and a person with hope is a person capable of great strength and compassion.

In my experiences, and in the stories that have been shared with me by others in recovery, I can see a similar thread of hopeless self-destruction woven through the narrative. Addicts usually have good hearts, we would sacrifice life and limb for the ones we love, we usually try--desperately--to right the wrongs we've done. But, during our time of use, we have a deficiency when it comes to respecting ourselves. We don't know how to apply this same kind of mentality to our own well being--usually because we didn't learn how to do so as children, subsequently we ended up turning to our drug of choice as a replacement for growth and then, as adults, only half grew into ourselves.

Through our experiences in life, we've learned many things: some of them the defense mechanisms necessary for our surviving dysfunctional childhoods. These are things that are very hard to unlearn, but it is necessary to do so to grow into a person capable of self-love and self-respect.

I can remember many miserable conversations over many miserable months, when it had grown apparent to everyone who loved and cared for me that I was in a dire condition, where I would talk as though my life had ended and that my body was simply waiting to die so that it could catch up with the rest of me. I can remember telling people that loved me that I didn't write anymore, I didn't sing or play guitar--that those were childish, foolish things that I had no use for and that they did nothing for me.

Horrible shit to say to anyone who cares for you, certainly. Talk of throwing aside the things that always meant the most to you, the things that you loved doing, as if you were preparing yourself for suicide. But the most frightening thing is that it was all true. I had become so ensnared in my drinking, in wanting to stop but not being able to, and the misery and shame that the condition of late-stage alcoholism shackles to your heart that I could no longer take any enjoyment or fulfillment out of the things that once made me feel alive. If the rest of the band signed us up for a show (as I had absolutely no interest in doing so during those days), I would go and I would sing--I would also be drunk--but I would feel nothing for having done it. I could remember the mechanics of writing and, at times, I would even have ideas for stories that seemed pretty good. But when I would sit down, and try to breathe life into those situations and characters, my creative lungs no longer held enough air to propel the words across the screen.

And now...sobriety. And all the potential that goes along with it.

It was difficult for me at first, and still is at times, to step back into writing and music. In many ways, it's like pulling on a pair of shoes or pants that you're not certain will fit anymore. But I continue to try now, to make an effort and then allow myself to accept whatever feelings the act of creating stirs inside of me. Somethings had to change, some still do, and this concept was frightening and painful for me at the offset. Despite the fact that my drinking was only ever capable of taking away, it gave nothing back for all my years of misspent loyalty, the self-delusion that ran alongside it was comforting.

There are questions now, about whether or not I want to sing what I once sang, or write what I once wrote, but the answers that I'm learning to accept all speak in the same unanimous voice--those things can be whatever I want them to be, whatever I feel that I need. Whatever I feel that is meaningful to me now. What meant something then can mean something again, with a new insight and perspective, and those things that don't, I don't have to carry behind me if I don't wish to.

Besides being a form of expression, art is also a form of freedom. That's something that I can appreciate now and that has never meant more to me.

My name is Zane Neumann, I'm an alcoholic. I've also recorded albums in studios, played shows in front of rooms filled with strangers. I've written stories and smiled, because I enjoyed the act of bringing those characters to life more than I cared about whether or not someone else would appreciate what I was doing. And I'm able to realize now that all of those things can live together inside of me, and be all the richer for it.