By Michael Pond, Maureen Palmer
Psychotherapist Michael Pond isn't any stranger to the devastating outcomes of alcoholism. He has helped countless numbers of individuals overcome their addictions, yet this information didn't hinder his personal near-demise. during this riveting memoir, he recounts how he misplaced his perform, his domestic, and his family—all due to his ingesting. After rankings of visits to the ER, a travel of hellish restoration houses, a stint in extensive deal with end-stage alcoholism, and reformatory, Pond devised his personal own plan for restoration. He met Maureen Palmer and jointly they investigated clinical possible choices to the inflexible abstinence doctrine driven through 12-Step programs.
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Additional info for Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Flawed Treatment System
Whenever we get rollin’ on the booze, Todd retreats to the basement. I swing open the front door to get a breath of the cool, crisp fall air. How long since Dana left? I have no idea. Several plates littered with shards of burnt toast and hardened egg yolk ring my bed. I need a drink. I slink down the stairs into Todd’s tiny windowless, airless bedroom. I tiptoe my way through piles of stale, dirty laundry. I leave the light off—don’t want to alert him to my presence. I hear him laugh at the TV.
And wait. It’s dark now and I worry about the kids. With a goodbye glance at the well-worn bar door, I trudge back to the cabin. The kids sit together at the kitchen table playing Snakes and Ladders. “Mike, we’re hungry,” says Loretta. ” I don’t answer. Instead, I wordlessly gut, clean and fry the perch. We devour them. They are delicious, even without butter. Satiated, now sleepy, I tuck the little girls into bed in one small room, then Roger and I take the small bed in the other. We’re just about asleep when I hear loud bangs.
My splitting head rests on my duffle bag. I fumble for my jacket. It’s gone. The beautiful black leather jacket I bought several winters ago when life was good is gone. One by one, pieces of the man I used to be keep disappearing. A bedraggled fellow with an overflowing shopping cart shuffles past. ” He nods at me. “Beat it,” I mutter as I uncoil my stiff and aching body, standing up to get my bearings. Where the hell am I? 604-298-3250. A surge of clarity rips through my foggy brain like a bullet.