Almost Paradise- Part V

California Dreaming

Post Introduction:

When I complete a Substack post, I go to my newsfeeds to search for the next topic of interest. As my readers and subscribers have come to expect, my topics vary widely from business and politics to religion and philosophy. If the topic captures my imagination enough to warrant 1500 words, I develop it into a future post. Recently, I stumbled upon an article talking about the "suicide belt" of the American Rocky Mountains. Specifically, the article described how suicide rates had quadrupled in America's mountain towns. My research on this topic led me to a recent documentary titled, The Paradise Paradox produced by Podium Pictures and Hall of Fame skier Bode Miller. It is available on Amazon Prime for a nominal fee.

As a lifelong, visitor to many of those resort towns in the "suicide belt" and a recovering alcoholic, I relate to the mental health struggles that many in America's resort towns experience. I feel compelled to share my recovery journey, not because it is ever pleasant recounting the low dark crevices of my past, but in the hopes that my story may help someone who is struggling with depression, anxiety or addiction find hope and recovery. My work on this topic will span multiple posts. If you connect with any part of my story, please sign up for a free or paid subscription. Moreover, if my story compels you into further action, consider donating to one of the mountain town organizations working to expand mental health services and stem the tide of suicides.

I suppose it is impossible for recovering alcoholics to avoid thinking about the "could've, would've, should've" scenarios that may have played out in their lives if the celestial stars had aligned differently. Addicts develop sophisticated excuse mechanisms that become so elaborate that we believe them ourselves. Upon sober reflection of our past lives, it is natural to ponder the "what if" scenarios of a non-addiction trajectory. If I would've stayed with that first girlfriend, would I have stayed sober? If I would've not sold my first restaurant, would I have grown that business to greater success? If I didn’t quit playing football my senior year of high school, would my life have taken a different path? That's what I mean by the "could've, would've, should've" questions. But going down that path for a recovering alcoholic, is a dangerous endeavor. Part of the healthy recovery is not regretting the past, nor wishing the shut the door on it. Healthy addiction recovery involves owning an alcoholic past, attempting to learn something from it, and sharing it in the belief that telling the story may help another who is still suffering find hope.

As for me, contemplating whether "a real woman could've stopped me from drinking," I plead "Arthur's" defense. "She'd have to be a real big woman."

But I, and all who stumble my path, will never know the answer to those types of questions. I do, however, know the answer to the question of what would happen if I found a willing accomplice. For that is where my story unfolded. It is when restless discontent met a California girl and combined that relationship with the three things I desired most in life, being anywhere but here, copious amounts of alcohol, and the affection of female companionship. I turned that trifecta into one adventurous and exhilarating yet totally delusional package. Because, after graduating from college, opening a successful restaurant, selling a successful restaurant, moving to the Twin Cities, buying a house, marrying a college sweetheart, working a corporate job, divorcing a college sweetheart, selling a house and quitting my corporate job, I met someone who's restless discontent, amorous drinking habits and affection for me exceeded even my own desires for those three debilitating traits. And she hailed from Montecito California as well as spent time at USC and the LA club scene. Restless discontent met co-dependent and she was a woman that embodied all the frivolous freedom that I thought I wanted and more importantly what I thought I deserved.

We met on a booze-soaked weekend and after a few weeks of dating, decided that the dumbest thing we could do was to take a booze-soaked road trip to Memphis Tennessee to visit Graceland. It was as stupid as it sounds but that excursion kicked off a 15 year period of my life that started with fun, sun and adventure and ended with Divine extraction from the blazing pits of hell. In these next sections of my multi-post series titled "Almost Paradise," I will discuss how that relationship, my stubborn will, and a series of bad choices turned out. I also came to learn, just as Arthur's prediction, that there was no woman, nor any other earthly force big enough to stop me from drinking.

Fresh off of the trip from Graceland, a few dollars in my pocket from the sale of the house, a brand-new drinking buddy and a desire to be anywhere but here, I took off for the southern climes of California. Finally, I was going to get my chance to hit the big city, the place where every fad in my country originates, I was going to the "City of Angels" and the Southern California coast. Me, successful restauranteur, wine, beer and scotch aficionado and now partnered with somebody who knew the ins and outs of California high society, I was going to take the Golden State by storm.

But the only storm that occurred upon my arrival in Santa Barbara, was a torrent of vodka that I had now learned could begin flowing after the first cup of coffee each morning. Real estate prices and entry into the restaurant business was far beyond my tiny checkbook balance and my pride would not allow me to begin at the bottom and work my way up. Besides, I had landed a companion from Montecito who had important connections, that, plus my delusional charm had to be worth something to someone.

Alas, after only a few months, I learned that in Southern California the only relationships that matter are ones of a quid pro quo nature. Relationships in "Tinsel Town" are transactional and fickle. No benevolence is offered to anyone, even the well-known or connected, unless that relationship can benefit the participant. Southern California is not friendly, inviting or forgiving. But it did represent reality, much better than my home state of Minnesota. In Minnesota, people are nice to your face but entirely ambivalent behind your back. California represented the reality in this world that most people do not give a shit about anybody else unless that individual can bring value to the relationship. It is cold, crass, but at least honest in that respect.

But for a young man rapidly developing a drinking problem, Southern California quickly lost its appeal and indeed, "all the leaves turned brown, and the skies grew gray." And with that, after about three months of kicking about Santa Barbara, I packed up a 10-year-old BMW with my new friend, all my worldly possessions and drove east leaving the congested streets of LA in my review mirror. Restless discontent had checked the box on SoCal and found it wanting. With no real plan in mind, I drove toward Phoenix Arizona on my tour across the Southwestern states seeking a place I could call home, a place that matched my identity and a place where I could start my dynasty.

In Los Angeles, every restaurant server has a script in their pocket just in case Steven Spielberg walks through their door. Few ever get discovered or see any stage of success. That type of delusional anxiety can lead to real pressure, bad choices and unsavory relationships. Whether one is on the mean streets of LA or heated cobble stones of Aspen, the anxiety that comes with competing with a flood of tourists escaping reality can be daunting. Especially since the locals in a ski town perform much better on the mountain stage then the well funded vacationers. As I traveled east on I-10 I was still a long way from home and even a longer distance from finding myself at peace.

Next stop on my journey is the capital city of "The Land of Enchantment."