High in the branches of a maple tree, with my feet planted firmly on a large branch, I stand with my arms hugging a higher limb, looking out over the field of grass browning in the cool autumn air. The colorful red, brown, and gold leaves dance around me as the wind gently blows, bringing smells of dry decay to my nostrils as I draw a breath deep within my chest to catch every note dancing on the wind. The bark scratching the skin on my hands and arms feels drier and coarser than the summertime bark. The combination of wrestling leaves, breeze howling, and the call of crows is interrupted by my name being called, "John, what is the answer to question number three?"
My focus adjusts and a classroom comes into view once again. Desks in neat rows like cars in a traffic jam on the highway, flat walls at right angles adorned with posters highlighting sentence structure, defining prepositions, and literary quotes from supposedly great men. The air hits my nostrils again, now impregnated with that stale smell that has always made me tired, while 20+ other 17-year-olds stare at me along with a clearly frustrated Miss Der-Dolder, my high school English teacher. I must have been in the tree for several minutes because I am multiple pages behind and have no idea what the answer to number three is, not to mention the question.
As a wave of shame floods my system with the adrenaline of a cornered animal prodded by its captor, I quickly flip pages to where I see questions numbered and develop my witty response. The teacher scoffs and answers the question for me. Thankful that the pressure is off I look down at my open book and pretend to write, filled with both guilt and relief.
You see, high school English was the least interesting subject of many very uninteresting subjects in the mind of this very depressed 17-year-old male struggling with undiagnosed ADHD, who was failing school due to lack of attendance and the inability to pay attention in class.
I had been a passionate and innately curious kid. I taught myself martial arts from watching TV and practiced for hours on end. I took up archery, setting up targets in the wild Idaho land surrounding my house, and became a skilled bowman. In seventh grade, I mastered Dungeons and Dragons, studying the rule book like a research scientist. I was hungry for knowledge, but school deflated that desire.
One of the greatest tragedies of this time in my life is that I was actually very bright and knew that something was wrong, but my attempts to explain the void I felt to school counselors and teachers only resulted in them piling on more study halls and mandatory after school catch up work. I felt trapped and misunderstood.
I was soon suspended due to lack of attendance—an ironic punishment-- and though I attempted to finish 12th grade through night school and summer school, the lack of support at home and in school led me to give up, completely overwhelmed and ashamed.
In my childhood, we normally moved two to three times a year, which meant I normally attended up to three schools a year. It was normal for my sister and me to spend hours at night hanging out in the parking lot of the Cub tavern, forbidden to leave the car until my mother finally emerged. It was normal to have a whole new cast of characters being entertained in my home at 2:30 in the morning when the bars closed, and to be threatened with violence when we asked to have the music turned down so that we could sleep because we had school in the morning. I normally witnessed violence--physical, verbal, mental and emotional. I normally felt afraid to even say sorry for fear of being hurt. My parents pulled their first all-nighter, leaving my sister and me home alone, when I was 8 years old. Later, it became normal for my mother to disappear for days or sometimes weeks.
My normal was chaos.
By age 17, with all plans to finish high school abandoned, I sunk deeper into depression. The idea of working a job to survive drained the life out of me. Kitchen work and construction seemed the only entry-level jobs I could find, and both of those environments felt hostile and unappreciative, with an “I own you” mentality.
I had moved out of my family’s home just prior to being kicked out of school and moved in with a friend who was living in a destitute shack on his grandfather's property. The Shack was built in the 1930s and was cobbled together for a 5-ft blind woman out of an old pull trailer with a classic Mickey Mouse drop pin hitch. There was no foundation and the house had settled in a couple of places and rotted in even more. There was no floor left under the bathroom sink and a frog would often shower with me as I cleaned myself in a squatting position because it was so short. After a year, I finally gave in to the idea of drinking and smoking marijuana. At first, it was uncomfortable, and I felt out of sorts and even more disconnected from myself, but I remember the night everything clicked into place, and I felt powerful, acknowledged, and seen.
Five people stand in the kitchen with a single burner of the stove on high and two knives resting in the coils of the burner glowing red hot. My roommate and I had cleaned our paraphernalia-- mainly a single utensil we called the pounder, and 64 knife hits of resin lay before us. I have the steadiest hands and the most confidence, so I am designated as what we lovingly refer to as the blade master—or Master Hall--the one who administers the hit to each person, even though I am also absolutely intoxicated. As each person steps up and inhales the smoke from the carefully prepared hits, we bear-hug each other with lungs full of smoke to increase the effect. We laugh so hard. The camaraderie and acceptance, together with the mind-numbing effects of the drugs, allow me respite from my suffering.
Who would have thought that a childhood steeped in an environment of heavy substance use and chaos and no healthy skills would make me a perfect candidate for using mind-altering drugs as a coping mechanism? I found my peers through the party network. They had lived through similar experiences and knew what it felt like to fall through the cracks of society. They accepted me and acknowledged me. I felt valued and grew to value them as my people, my friends, and my family.
But I still felt uneasy and miserable inside, and I looked for ways to escape beyond recreational drug use. Always a seeker, I studied physical disciplines, mental disciplines, spiritual philosophies diving deep into meditation and mindfulness, which gave me a great deal of clarity.
I had a few stints of sobriety lasting years, but when bigger life challenges hit-- mostly consisting of romantic relationship difficulties--I quickly returned to substance use for relief. Alcohol became my drug of choice.
At age 45, I got four DUIs in a short period of time and was sentenced to two and a half years in prison. This is when I finally surrendered. I was just so tired of feeling ambivalent, untethered, and alone. I knew I needed to ask for help and within days of receiving my fourth DUI, I entered an outpatient rehab and made a commitment to get out of my own way.
It was then, during a therapy session, that I had a healing vision: I see my adult self walk into a dark room with no windows in an old Victorian house. I recognize a child sitting on the floor in front of me, curled up in a ball, knees held close to his chest. It is five-year-old me, scared and alone. As my adult self, I step to him, pick him up, and tell him that I love him. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a key. “This is the key that unlocks all the obstacles of the past,” I tell young John. “We will unlock them together.”
When I entered prison, I decided that this institution would be my Monastery and my University. Within the walls of my new high-security Retreat Center, I sought out any and all systems, books, and individuals who could give me answers to a lifetime of suffering and that is exactly what I found.
I met with mental health counselors and was finally diagnosed with ADHD, PTSD, and generalized anxiety disorder. I began to read and participate in groups with a true student mind while addressing my alcoholism through the AA community. Hearing the experiences of other people struggling with mental health and substance use disorder gave me a sense of belonging and hope. I worked the 12 steps with a sponsor and found great clarity and accountability in my story. This, in combination with reading and participating in groups about anxiety management, shame and self-esteem, codependency and healthy relationships, PTSD, and grief and loss gave me the coping skills that I had longed for my whole life.
Today I am more than five and a half years sober and work as a mental health group facilitator, a sponsor in the AA community, and as a peer support specialist. I have found purpose and passion in helping others understand and manage their mental health and substance use disorder. I have also changed my relationship with the past and the cards I was dealt in life. Where I once was a victim, I am now the hero of my story. Those pains that I suffered are experiences I get to share with others so that they can believe in the possibility of change. I can say with all sincerity that I would not trade my experiences for anyone else's. They have made me who I am today.
The curiosity, passion, and adventurous spirit of my boyhood have been re-awakened. Today, I focus my energies on being the best that I can be, and on helping others who are struggling. Although I still have hard days, I am stronger than I have ever been. I love myself. I trust myself. I am a receptive student of life.
About the Author
Born into the family disease of alcoholism, John Hall has been faced with generational disfunction and a lack of healthy coping skills. John struggled as a teen and young adult with depression and anxiety. His lack of knowledge about mental health led to it being untreated until his mid-40s, when John was sentenced to prison for DUIs, as he himself was self-medicating with alcohol. He used the two-and-a-half years he was incarcerated to study and better understand his own mental health and substance use disorder. Now, John helps others who are going through the journey as a peer support specialist, Nami group facilitator, prison mentor and public speaker. He believes that every moment is an opportunity to improve our lives and help one another.
