I'm Mark and I'm an alcoholic. I haven't touched a drop of alcohol in over 15 years, but the sickness, the insanity, is still inside me. I know if I touch the stuff again, I'll be back down in the hole I was so long ago: alone, afraid, angry. One drink is too much, and a thousand is never enough.

Even before my late wife got cancer, I was a functioning alcoholic. No one knew that I drank before work, and that I was drunk at work. I could hide the slurring words, the unsteady gait. Even when I had too much and was showing signs, I would make excuses: I'm just over worked. I'm catching a stomach virus. Lying is just another part of the insanity. Even after Kathryn was diagnosed with cancer and my drinking got worse and worse, I still lied to myself. I'm stressed, and this is calming me down. I'm still functioning and this is helping me. The DT's would be too hard to go through for me to help her so I have to keep drinking. In lying to myself, it helped me lie to others, because if I believed it, then I could make others believe it, too.

Then she died. But before she died, one of the last requests she ever asked of me was, "Please, stop drinking." But in my grief, I found I could not. I couldn't even slow it down. What became a fifth a day became two times a day, three times a day… more and more and more until, until... Sigh Until Steve found me one night, passed out, barely breathing. I am a doctor; I should know better. My BAL was .420. At that time, more than 4 times over the legal limit. Steve, in a panic, dialed 911.

I got it lucky. I don't remember anything from that. Steve; however, had to face the possibility of losing both of his parents at a relativity young age. I don't remember being loaded into the ambulance. I don't remember the EMT's having to shock my heart back into rhythm. I don't remember having my stomach pumped. I don't remember anything from the time I picked up the first bottle to waking up in the hospital with the world's worst hangover.

I doremember Steve's eyes once I woke up. They were bright with shed and unshed tears. The expression on his face held a mixture of contempt, worry, fear, anger, and relief. My cheeks burned with shame as I looked into his eyes. I could finally see myself for what I was looking into his eyes. A very sick man. An alcoholic.

This was before the time of Amanda Bentley, Jack Steward, Norman Briggs, and Jesse Travis. I had no close friends to help me. Only a very confused son.

I took a deep breath as I looked into Steve's eyes. "I'm sorry," I whispered, knowing it wouldn't be nearly enough to help mend the wounds I caused. I tried to reach out for his hand only to find myself in restraints. "Why?" I asked, looking down at my hand.

"You were pretty combative once you woke up. This is for your own good," Steve said, choking on the words. As I hear him say them, I find the bile rising in my throat. I close my eyes, again with shame, and am surprised to feel a tear slip down my cheek. I feel Steve's hand brushing it away.

"I love you, Dad," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. I have seen him cry only once since childhood. That was when his mother died. I am seeing the second time. So much I want out of these damned restraints to hold him, and to have him hold me, but all I can do is look at him and hope that I can convey my love with my eyes.

"I love you, too, Son," I say.

I wrote this sort of as a "What If?". I will go on with other characters, exposing the dark secrets that each other know, but never talk about. I started with Mark because I myself am an alcoholic, and no matter what age, gender, race, creed, etc... the stories are the same... Different situations, different people, but the downfall, the progression, the lies, the "insanity"... it's all the same

Please Read and Review. I'm not that much of a review junkie, but I appreciate critiques: how I can make my stories better, if I've made any horrendous grammar or spelling mistakes, etc. Flames are good for one thing... S'mores!

Hessed ve Shalom!

CT