Leaving Salt Lake City

by Matthew Timion

  “The fifteen hundred wouldn’t make it worth it. I need to make this change for my family. I cannot afford to live like this any more.”

  My boss completely understood. Although Utah had horrible salaries, most of the companies were very family oriented. The predominance of Mormons made family-related issues paramount; employers would ask no questions. Family was always first.

  I started my new job. I was on the fifth floor of a building overlooking Sugar House Park. This was a stark change from my previous job where I had been in a closet-sized room with two other people. I needed the sunshine. I needed to see something beautiful every day. As the snow melted from the Utah mountains, it filled the lake at Sugar House Park. The lake started to overflow. My new coworkers and I made bets as to when the lake water would run into the street.

  We would occasionally eye a cute soccer mom jogging in the park during the middle of the day. I wondered how people were able to afford not working. How could the people jogging in the park have the luxury of such a life? It was like every day was a vacation to them. The last vacation I had had happened years ago. When I had had a vacation from Manny, it was overshadowed with court hearings and custody battles. I envied those people.

  In May of that year I decided to try something crazy. While I had been a Mormon missionary, I had lived in the Philippines and I loved the culture. Although I had not been to the Philippines in ten years, I still spoke the language and loved everything about the people, the language, the food, and the country. I thought perhaps my failed love life had more to do with dating the wrong kind of women. Maybe my heart was still back in the Philippines. Maybe what I needed was a Filipina wife. I, like every other desperate man in the world, signed up for a Filipino dating site. These women were in the Philippines. They all wanted American men. I suddenly knew what it was like to be an attractive woman on an American dating site.

  When logged in every day to this website I would receive chat request after chat request. I received over one hundred emails a day. Speaking their language made me even more interesting to them. I was a hit. I was popular. Unfortunately, I knew they wanted a green card more than me. I was a means to an end for them. I wasn’t the prize.

  I sat overlooking Sugar House Park as my phone vibrated with every email I received. The constant attention was too much. I had no idea what I was thinking. There was no way I was going to fly out to the Philippines to meet a woman I only knew online. There was no way I would be able to wait a year for a visa for them to come to America so we could get married without really knowing each other. I wanted someone to see me for who I was and what I had to offer. I didn’t need someone thousands of miles away with whom I might not be compatible. I canceled my subscription to the dating website.

  Father’s Day came up again. I had a card from my mother that year. Nothing from Courtney. That bridge was burned. Manny’s gift to me for Father’s Day was a rock. I’m glad I received something from him. I had no money to do anything special for my special day. I had a fifth of cheap vodka, a couch, and a television. I made the best out of my situation. When Manny was in bed I started drinking. For some odd reason I started watching the show Intervention all night. Intervention is a show where they follow around drug addicts, alcoholics, etc. and film their family staging an intervention so the addicts can get help.

  An episode came on featuring a father who was so against receiving help that he did everything he could to avoid receiving help. His children stood in front of him begging him to go into treatment. He left the room. His ex-wife followed him saying that if he did not seek help he would never see his children again. He kept walking. I was reminded of my own father, who was told by my mother to choose between his family and alcohol. “I’m a grown man, and no one can tell me what to do,” my father replied. Finally the family on this show wouldn’t give up on him. They raced to his house and threatened to get him committed to a mental institution if he did not go into treatment. He reluctantly agreed. He got treatment. A few weeks into living in a treatment facility, states away from his family, he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He flew home to receive cancer treatment and be with his kids. He died shortly thereafter.

  I was bawling. I didn’t want Manny to lose me. I was drinking more than I should have been back then. It was my way to cope. It was my escape. While Jessica’s claims of the level of my alcohol intake were not true, I could see that they were not healthy. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want Manny to have to experience what I did growing up. I stumbled into the kitchen and emptied out all of the alcohol I had. The kitchen smelled of vodka and wine. I emailed my friend Nadia, who had been sober for a few months. I asked to go to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with her. The change and introspection she gained in her life was inspiring. If only I could have some of that.

  I needed something to take the edge off though. I bought a pack of cigarettes the next day and smoked a few a day. It was just enough to get my nerves settled. It was enough to get me through the week until the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. At the very least it would be nice to be around people who were like my father. That was the least I could do.

  The next day I sat in my car in traffic. I was agitated by the stresses of life. I lit a cigarette. Little River Band was on the radio.

  Time for a cool change

  I know that it's time for a cool change

  And now that my life is so prearranged

  I know that it's time for a cool change

  It was time for a change. I had spent years letting life happen to me instead of taking charge. It was amazing how a song about heartbreak inspired me to get healthier. I took inspiration anywhere I could get it though, whether it was in a snowflake, a kitten, or a song by a guy whining about how he was perpetually alone. Come to think of it, I could have just as easily have written that song myself. I too, was perpetually alone.

  | FORTY NINE |

  And I’m an Alcoholic

  June 20, 2011

  We were in a basement of a bar in Magna, Utah. The street was run down. The buildings were run down. The entire town was run down. It was my first and only time visiting an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

  My friend Nadia sat next to me. This was her group. She knew them all by name, and they knew her. There were a number of memorized mantras recited. Everyone else seemed to know them except for me. I sat in silence. It was dark, and there were electric candles on each table. We went around the room, and everyone introduced themselves. An overweight man wearing a shirt that said, “Seven days without a meeting makes one weak” started. “Hi, I’m Dave, and I’m an alcoholic."

  “Hi Dave!” Everyone responded.

  “Hi, I’m Steve, and I’m an addict." How people described themselves identified their addiction. “Alcoholic” meant they were alcoholics. “Addicts” were drug addicts or perhaps alcoholics too. No one said, “I’m a chain smoker,” because they all were chain smokers.

  “Hi Steve!” I had heard about these meetings. My father had gone to meetings like these in order to try to maintain his unemployment checks, an unfortunate situation considering his work union required his attendance. After completion of the Alcoholics Anonymous program, my father’s union representative mysteriously lost all proof of my father’s compliance. My father gave up on life when his work union gave up on him. His work union was against him, just like the rest of the world. He slumbered into a life of two fifths of whiskey a day until he was finally found dead on his leather recliner at home.

  At this dark basement meeting I had with me my father’s “Big Blue Book,” the Alcoholic Anonymous bible. Was I an alcoholic? Was this meant for me? It was my turn to talk.

  “Hi, I’m Matt, and I’m an alcoholic." Nadia’s friends looked at her with a sense of glee. She had brought someone with her so open to admitting his or her addiction. Admitting you have a problem is the first step of recovery. It is also the hardest one for most people to do. I was just glad to have a friend to be with me while I was there. I doub
t I would have ever gone to that meeting without support.

  The topic of conversation that evening was “following the steps." The steps are the twelve steps of recovery. People were supposed to talk about how living the principles of Alcoholics Anonymous helped them. They were to talk about how doing so made their lives better. People went around the room, and they talked or passed. Almost everyone talked.

  A hardened man across from me told us about how he had done horrible things. Things he couldn’t even bring himself to name. One of the tenants of Alcoholics Anonymous is to give yourself up to a higher power. While most of the people around me were not religious they found a way to make the idea of a higher power work for them. A higher power didn’t need to be a god. The burly man across from me told us, “The judge looked at me and said that I was an animal and wanted to lock me away. He was right. And then the judge dismissed the charges. Whatever saved me that day is my higher power. I will never go back to jail again.”

  The man next to me talked about making amends for your prior mistakes. This man, who you would assume the worst of if you had ever met him in real life, was a leader in the community. “I have been making my list for years. I have forgotten so many things that I did while using. Some people remind me of stuff I did and I add it to the list. I will be able to reach out to those people eventually." I looked at him and knew that he was being honest.

  It was my turn. I talked about what brought me there. I talked about my father. I had no lesson to share about how living the steps of the group had helped me. I was just happy to be there, in the dank basement with a bathroom that I was afraid to step into. I was happy to be around people who didn’t need drugs or alcohol to be happy. Those people were my heroes.

  The violent ex-con had a moment where he changed his life. The man next to me also had a moment where he wanted to change. They had all hit rock bottom. My life felt like it was close to joining them at the edge of despair. If anything, I enjoyed being there with those people because I wished my father were in the room with us. I wished he had had the strength to stop. I realized my father had never had the personal conviction required. My father never stood a chance against life. He wasn’t meant for this century either. My father would have been happiest living in a cabin in the woods and fishing every day.

  The meeting ended and everyone said the serenity prayer.

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

  We walked outside and smoked. Everyone was smoking. “One vice for another,” I thought. Smoking only hurt the individual. At least no one was driving drunk or having sex with strangers because of his or her pack-a-day habit.

  Nadia came back to my place and we talked a bit. My house was in disarray mostly because I was about to refinish my hardwood floors. Not drinking made me awake more than I was used to. Not drinking kept my brain running at three in the morning. I had to find things to stay occupied.

  When I stopped drinking I noticed a difference in myself. I had more energy. I lost nearly 20 pounds in two months. My martial arts skills were increasing. I was no longer sluggish.

  In July I received a text message from Courtney.

  I understand the no contact thing, but what medication were you on to help with your stress? I am having a very difficult time here.

  I told her that Prozac worked wonders for me after my divorce. I told her to stay away from Paxil as it only made my anxiety worse. “By the way, I have not had a drink in over a month and have lost over 10 pounds." She used to comment on my drinking and my belly. I wanted her to know I was making my best effort to become a better person. She replied with, “great!” And that was it.

  That summer was a sober and productive one. I concluded that while my drinking had become more of a crutch that I was comfortable with, I was not a hard core alcoholic like my father or Jessica. My father used to bring a six pack of beer with him to work so that he could have a beer, or six, during the day. My drinking was mostly tied to my stress level. Since I was in my new job I finally had enough money to survive. I was almost caught up on my bills.

  My new boss pulled each of his new employees into a private meeting one at a time. “We don’t have the funds to pay for this pay cycle,” he said. “We’re working on acquiring new funds, but it might take a while. We’re offering to pay you with stock this time around." Everyone said yes except for myself and one other person. There was a company meeting a few days later explaining the situation. “We had an investor willing to pay ten million dollars to us, but he wanted too much ownership of the company. We’re looking for other investors." We were not going to be paid. I went home that night upset, but optimistic. I reverted back to the similar routine of applying for another job. It was late August of 2011. My gamble to make my life better was a losing bet. I was happy though that I had it in me to try.

  I called my previous job begging to come back. At first when I showed up to meet with my former boss, he didn’t recognize me. I was thirty pounds lighter than when he had last seen me three months before. They understandably hesitated about my return. They were afraid I would leave again if another higher paying job came up. I vowed my dedication to them. I pointed out that my friends had put themselves on the line to get me the opportunity. I couldn’t let them down. Low pay was better than no pay. Working for no pay was exactly the situation I was leaving. I couldn’t work for free. I had to support my Manny.

  September of 2011. I called my mother for our regular check in.

  “Yes Matt?" She sounded upset.

  “I was just calling to see how you were." I am the first to admit that I, a grown man, talk to my mother at least three times a week. We often call to talk about our days and nothing more.

  “Well.... shit... I wasn’t going to tell you this yet, but your grandma died.”

  My grandmother died. She had, by the force of sheer stubbornness, stayed alive longer than she should have. She was the woman who had had a quintuple bypass surgery and kept eating fast food. This was the woman whose idea of a home-cooked meal was cold beans and a tuna sandwich. She often called me “Little Miss Susie Homemaker” when I told her about the quilts I was making out of old t-shirts. I usually called her once a week just to touch base.

  I got in my car and drove towards the liquor store. I bought some tequila. My grandmother’s death was too much for me to handle. After Manny went to bed, I had two drinks and fell asleep. Maybe I didn’t need the crutch of alcohol, but sometimes it was helpful. I was back to making less money again, but this time I would try my hardest to keep stay on top of my finances. I would try my hardest to stay ahead. I would live a life that would make my grandmother proud.

  The school year had just begun. Manny was in third grade. He was happy and didn’t talk about his mom any more. There were no more outbursts. It had been a year since he had last seen her and the longer he went without her, the better his behavior became. Jessica’s lawyer had contacted my lawyer and had agreed to drop the case against me if I agreed to drop my counter motion for legal fees, which totaled to more than three thousand dollars. I declined the offer. Jessica went silent once again.

  | FIFTY |

  Perspective

  Fall 2011

  “I’ve been doing this for 25 years. I cannot give you a diagnosis because I’m not a doctor. What I can tell you is that I have seen kids like Manny over the years, and if they do not receive some sort of medication they will turn to drugs and alcohol.”

  Manny’s third grade teacher was a godsend. She had noticed Manny’s inability to focus and gave a recommendation. She spoke from decades of experience.

  We saw a doctor and Manny was prescribed with medication to help with his attention issues. Normally I thought medicines like Adderall and the like were overly prescribed. I thought symptoms like lack of focus were just kids being kids. If Manny shared my genetic makeup I would have easily said his issues were due to stubbornness and lazines
s, not biological in nature. Since the only thing I knew about Manny’s genetics was my short interaction with Ariel and Peter, I called Ariel’s new family. Ariel was on Adderall, and the new medication had caused a huge improvement in Ariel. The possibility of a biological cause for Manny’s behavior wasn’t a big surprise since Manny’s biological mother had tested positive for methamphetamines shortly after giving birth to him.

  The new medication started and his behavior and attention issues at school started to get better. Manny was no longer running around the house screaming. He didn’t sit on the floor during class and pick at the carpet. He was no longer obsessively picking his fingernails. He was focusing. Our routine was the same. I worked, he went to school, and I picked him up. We both continued martial arts and progressed towards getting our black belts. I loved attending having a regular activity with him, a real father and son activity.

  When I was six or seven years old there was a father and son picnic in our town. Actually, the place I grew up in was so small it was considered a “village." Everyone had a parent to go with, except for me. My mother and other mothers in the area knew I needed someone to fill the void. My father was passed out drunk or just had no real desire to be a part of the father and son activity. An old man came by our house and took me to the church where the picnic was to be held. I was thrilled that I had a father figure although it was only for one night. As a father myself, I refused to be an absentee father like my own father. As much as Manny hated martial arts at the moment, he would always be able to say his dad and he did something together.

  As a Mormon missionary I spent two years always with someone else by my side. The only “alone time” we had was in the bathroom, and that wasn’t always true. In the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, we all showered in a common room. We all stood around looking at the ceiling so we could not accidentally glance at another naked person’s body. After two years of constant interaction, coming home from my missionary experience was horrible. There was nothing but silence. There was no one else around. I was too acclimated to always having someone else by my side.