One year ago today I reached what people sometimes refer to as “rock bottom.” It’s kind of hard to explain what that term means. The only real way to understand it is to actually have been there. Rock bottom can be applied to all kinds of different facets of the human condition, but my rock bottom came as the result of over one decade of addiction, culminating in raging alcoholism.

One year ago is when I took my last drink, or drinks if you will. The drinks included a mish-mash of King Cobra, Olde English and some Natural Ice. The quality of the beer I was drinking is directly proportional to the quality of my life at the time.

I was tired. I was, as they say, “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” The party had ended. In fact, the bar had closed nearly two years earlier and there I was, the broken down shell of a human waiting for something, anything, to happen.

My body hurt, I was mentally and emotionally wrecked. My liver was tender. My throat and stomach burned. I had constant hallucinations. If the stream of alcohol did not remain steady, I trembled. I hadn’t bathed in a while. I didn’t care.

The worst thing out of all of that is that I felt so alone. How had this happened so quickly? I was only 27. People don’t become broken like this until they are like 40 or 50, right? I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t know who to turn to. I had already gone through detox two times before. I wanted to kill myself, but I was scared to kill myself. I didn’t even know where to start…It was over. Game over.

Let me point one thing out. Alcoholism progresses differently in lots of people. Mine progressed VERY QUICKLY. I had been a long-time drug user and drinker. I’d always been able to maintain some semblance of normalcy, though. It really wasn’t until the last two years that things went so downhill. I don’t prosthelytize against drugs and alcohol. That is not my business. Some people can handle their shit. I can’t. I like it too much. That’s part of my genetic make-up, part of my biology, part of my psychology.

I ate, drank, fucked – wash, rinse, repeat. For years, it was a lot of fun - until the very end. I have a lot of fond memories of the times before the end. I would not want to change anything.

All I know is that on April 25, 2007, I had had enough. I wanted it to end. I didn’t care how it ended. Something just had to end.

I ended up in a hospital bed – again. I was shaking. I was sure I had lost my job, friends, fiancée. I didn’t even worry about dignity and sanity and hygiene. That shit had left me a long time ago. I was terrified. I had a BAC of 0.42 at the time of my admittance, and I was already withdrawing. Who the hell knows how high my BAC would be when I was drunk? I had a security guard outside of my room because I was on suicide watch.

One thing I will always be grateful for is when the no-shit, straight-shooting doctor came in, peeked at my chart and pretty much concluded I was hopeless. He said a simple detox would not work. I knew this. I had already tested that out – twice. Each time I got out of detox, the urge to drink became so overwhelming; I was drunk within days again. He told me I had to be detoxed and locked up. That was the first time I had any hope. That shred of hope stayed with me – thank God.

As I am writing this, I am one year sober. I am in the process of writing something about all of this. I want to share the nitty gritty. It’s a bit lengthy, and I’ll be posting it in segments. Maybe you’d like to read it.

Know for right now that I am more at peace than I have been at for a long time. When I was a kid, one of my favorite movies was My Science Project. I would watch this movie religiously. It was a time in my life when things were still new. People were still good. Life was beautiful. When I was in the rehab center, I was going through all the videos they had available for the crazies and addicts. One of them was a VHS copy of My Science Project. I remember watching it and getting an awesome feeling of nostalgia. For just a little while, I felt like a kid again. Life was fresh and new and beautiful again.

That’s it for right now. I have a new life. I have a great life. I’d like to keep it that way. To everyone who stuck through this with me. Thank you. I love you very much.

- David C. Garcia

Here’s another true story:

So I work with this guy named Ryan Little. He’s a talented musician, very smart. Mostly, he’s a really nice guy.

At least I thought he was.

Ryan has always looked down on some of my “personality flaws.” These flaws include my dislike for vegetarian ideals, my disdain for bleeding heart Americans’ negligence of our own nation in favor of starving Southeast Asians, blah, blah, blah, etc.

Aside from that, I’ve always felt like Ryan and I were pretty much equals. You know – on a human level.

I was wrong. Oh, I was so wrong.

A couple of days ago, Ryan announced that he would be interviewing a little band called Death Cab for Cutie and having the article published in our local paper. When I found out, I went and congratulated Ryan. This is how the conversation went.

“Hey Ryan, I heard you were going to interview Death Cab for Cutie. That’s really cool. I think you will do a damn good job. You are awesome.”

“…um. Thanks.”

“Well, cool, man. You have my support.”

“…”

Ryan looked like he wanted to vomit when I patted him on the shoulder and congratulated him one more time. I figured he must have eaten a bad vegetarian entrée of some sort, so I decided to leave him alone.

Over the next few days, Ryan ignored me when I spoke with him. I didn’t think much of this. I figured he had a lot on his mind, you know, with all the amazing interview questions he had for a major label Indy band. I didn’t take it to heart.

I saw Ryan in the hallway outside my office yesterday. I decided to chat it up with him.

“Hey Ryan. What’s up, champ?”

“Eye contact…”

“What? I…umm…”

“Don’t make eye contact with me. And since you are so below me, why don’t you polish my shoes – with your face. Maggot.”

So I polished Ryan’s shoes with my face. I figured he needed to look good for his interview. No problem.

Today is when I finally realized Ryan might be looking down on me. Ryan came into my office. I immediately bowed my head as to avoid eye contact. Not surprisingly, I had quickly grown fond of the taste of shoes, so I started salivating. As I gave Ryan a precision shoe job, mindful not to look at him, he let me know that I would need to leave my office tomorrow so that he could use my desk, phone and computer to do the interview.

“No problem Missah Ryan…Yo shoes lookin’ real nice Missah Ryan. Anything else I can do fo’ you Missah Ryan?” It was so weird. In Ryan’s presence I had been reduced to a 19th century shine boy.

“You missed a spot, Garcia. Now, make sure the office is nice and clean when I need it tomorrow….HEY! Eye contact!!!”

“Sorry Missah Ryan. No problem Missah Ryan…”

“Bye stupid.”

After cleaning up my office for Ryan, I sent my fiancée, Meggie, an e-mail:

From: David Garcia [mailto:dcgarcia@*********.com]

Sent: Wed 4/23/2008 3:22 PM

To: Cochran, Megan

Subject: RE: MEEEEEGGGGIE MEG!!!

Ryan is interviewing Death Cab for Cutie tomorrow.

From: Cochran, Megan [mailto:Megan.Cochran@*******.com]

Sent: Wednesday, April 23, 2008 3:34 PM

To: David Garcia

Subject: RE: MEEEEEGGGGIE MEG!!!

Holy Crap what?! I LOVE DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE!!!!! I WANT TO MEET THEM!!!!

This was followed up by another e-mail from Meggie asking for Ryan’s e-mail address.

EPILOGUE:

Meggie dumped me for Ryan. Ryan has moved into my apartment. I am homeless. Nobody likes me, and everyone loves Ryan. I shine shoes now…with my face.

- David C. Garcia

My fiancée, Meggie, is always cramping my style when it comes to my bodily hair growth.  She complains that I don’t cut my hair or shave often enough.  Listen, Meggie, if God did not want me to be hairy, he would have made me an Asian.  I have way more important things to do than to sit around all day shaving and getting my haircut.  For instance, what if there was a burning building with a whole bunch of crying kittens whose smiles cured AIDS and nobody except me was around to save them?  What would happen if I was standing around shaving my beard and cutting my hair?  Those kittens would burn alive in that building, and then everyone in Africa would die from AIDS.  Great, there are a whole bunch of crispy felines in a building and everyone in Africa just died of the HIV.  Now I’m an animal killer and a racist.  I tried explaining this to Meggie.  I pleaded with her – you know, for the kittens and for the Africans.  It didn’t work.  Then Meggie dropped some serious science on me.  She said she would not cook dinner for me anymore if I did not shave.  Boooya!  Meggie:1, David: 0.  Listen, I care just as much about kittens and AIDS in Africa as anyone, but I needs to eat.  Sorry kittens.  Sorry Africa.

So, I went and got my haircut.  Let me tell you, the $11.00 haircut at Great Clips truly exemplifies the company’s name.  My haircut was beautiful.  I went home and shaved, meticulously trimming every follicle to perfection.  Then I finished, looked in the mirror and…

Oh.

My.

God.

I AM SO FUCKING HANDSOME!!!!!

I checked the mirror to make sure that it was working right.  I mean, I know I am a stud, but this haircut and shave…  It was magical.  I was a goddamned Adonis.

I took about 20 minutes to try and get over myself, but it was impossible.  I finally came to grips with the fact that I might be the most gorgeous person in the world, left the bathroom and went to sit down and watch T.V.

That was a bad idea.  No matter what I did, I couldn’t focus on America’s Wildest Police Chases 32.  All I could focus on was my reflection in the T.V.  I started getting a bit of a chubby.  I thought to myself, “Holy crap.  I’m gay for myself.  This is unprecedented!”

Meggie walked into the apartment and found me licking the television.  She took one look at me, had an immediate girlgasm and passed out in her soaked jeans.

I went to sleep that night and dreamt of myself.

When I walked into the office the next day, my boss came up to me and told me to go home and change.  Apparently coming to work in boxer shorts and a wife-beater is unacceptable.  I came back to work, sat down at my desk and started doing my little job.  Throughout the say, I noticed more and more people passing by my office and taking a look at me.  Those prying eyes.  They could only be for one reason.  My coworkers had never cast a glimpse a pure beauty.  One of my coworkers told me that they had once had a religious experience and that it had been the most wondrous experience of their lives.  Then they took a look at me and decided they hated God for lying to them about true beauty.  Shortly after this, I grabbed a mop and cleaned up all the drool and other bodily fluids that had spilled along the entrance to my office.  I sat down and tried to gather my bearings.  Just as I was settled back in, my boss came in and found me in my underwear and wifebeater again.  I told him I had no idea how it happened.  He told me to go home.

Whatever, Jealous.

I’m thinking about taking some time off.  I need to go on a retreat or something.  I just got assaulted by a gang of Catholic schoolgirls outside and my voicemail is filled with messages from modeling agents who want to plaster my face all over magazines and billboards in Times Square.

God I am HAWT.

- David C. Garcia

I have been getting tattoos since I was a teenager in Venezuela.  The first one I got was some small little “tribal” tattoo on my upper left thigh.  The following year, I got a scorpion tattooed on my other upper leg.  Tribal tattoos and Scorpions are ridiculous, but they were awesome when I was a teenager.  I do not regret having them.

Anyways, I have been getting tattoos all over the place since then.  At this point, I have maybe 16 or 17.  I want more…and I am going to be getting more, hopefully soon.

A few months ago, Brandon and I bought some tattoo equipment from a guy I’m pretty close with in AA.  He had been tattooing people for years but had decided he was pretty much done with it.  He had had a good run but just wanted to put it down.  Incidentally, Brandon and I had been speaking about how awesome it would be for us to get some tattoo equipment.  The guy who was giving up tattooing came up to me and asked me if I was interested in purchasing some equipment from him.  He said he had about $5000 worth of equipment (two guns, an autoclave, shit loads of ink, the power source, medical-grade soap and sterilizing equipment, needles, etc.).  He offered to sell it to us for $1000 and that we could just get the money to him whenever.  Brandon and I jumped on it.

Now, neither of us have any experience with tattooing.  The extent of my artistic abilities is limited to drawings of tits and boners on office supplies and dispensing them to my coworkers.  Brandon, however, is an exceptional artist, so I figured, “What the fuck.”

About a week later after picking the equipment up and having the dude explain how all of it works, we sat down and go to practicing.  We had been advised to practice on grapefruits.  We went to the store, bought a bag of grapefruits and distilled water and sat down.  It was a lot of fun tattooing grapefruits, and after about an hour, we had a stockpile of grapefruits that looked like citrus Danny Trejo.

Once again, I decided, “What the fuck.”

I really wanted to see how Brandon would handle the tattoo gun on human flesh, and since he wouldn’t tattoo himself, I offered up my own skin.  I really wanted to make sure that Brandon could harness “the touch.”  That is, I wanted to make sure that he could at least run the needles so that they would not actually scar my skin.  I have a tattoo on my back that I got when I was 17, and the guy who did it did not have “the touch.”  The end product was a shitty design that eventually scarred over and made me think that the guy had actually chiseled the tattoo into my back.  “What the fuck?!”

Like all other tattoos I have gotten, I elected to go with what I wanted at the time.  I don’t have any tattoos that mean anything.  I don’t think I ever will.  My personality is so fractured and ever-shifting that there is not really much that “means a lot” or is “symbolic” to me.  So, what did I decide on?  I’m glad you asked.  I decided to get a sweet skull and anchor tattoo on my forearm – pirate style.

Brandon spent about an hour trying to configure the needles and the right angle to use the gun.  In the end, we settled on a simple outline that we would finish later:

I know.  It looks like my first jailhouse tattoo.  To be honest, the lighting wasn’t tight, and it is actually not bad for the first tattoo someone did after practicing on grapefruits for an hour.  I’m convinced it will actually be a pretty awesome tattoo once we do the shading and touch-ups.  Brandon is currently on the way back from Seattle after about two weeks of contemplating how he can adopt a more Dexter-like disaffected personality.  Hopefully we can get back on this tattoo soon.  I want to be an office pirate.

- David C. Garcia

One year ago, I was drunk each and every day; every minute of every hour of every day of every week.  If it was sunny, I drank.  If it was rainy I drank.  If I was in one of my rare good moods, I would drink.  Most of the time, I drank to escape my problems, many of which had been caused by drinking.

Your get the idea.

Now, as I approach one year of sobriety, a first in nearly 15 years, I have finally learned how to live life on life’s terms.

Yesterday was an all around shitty day.  It was a day that, one year ago, I would have taken and pickled.

I came into the office to finish my taxes.  Last year, after I got out of detox and rehab, I pilfered my 401(k) to pay off the massive amount of debt that I had constructed.  If my drinking was a god, then the debt that had built up was like the statue I had built paying homage to it.  I had been putting off doing my taxes because I figured I’d owe Uncle Sam a few hundred bucks, and I wanted to wait until the last minute to deal with it.

I sat down and accessed TurboTax, entered in my W-2 form and the three 1099-R forms.

FUCK UNCLE SAM!!

TurboTax has this cool feature that doesn’t just show you what you owe immediately.  Instead, it has a little number ticker that starts counting up the money you owe dollar-by-dollar once you hit submit.  When the ticker finally stopped, I probably should have shit myself, you know, to really illustrate my shock and disbelief.  TurboTax said I owed the IRS $3,990 in Federal and $550 in state taxes!  That’s just about enough to get Elliot Spitzer a blowjob and the hooker a cab ride home. I wasn’t mad.  I was just, well, shit-my-pants shocked.  That figure was not the taxes I had failed to pay on my 401(k).  I had done that when I took the money out in the first place.  That was just the penalty.

Like I said, one year ago, I drank on any occasion.  A kick in the nuts of this magnitude would likely have caused me to request a few days off so that I could really drink to it.

There was no drinking.  There was no resentment.  It sucks that I have to somehow give all of this money to the IRS, but what can I do about it?  I just have to deal with it.  This is what being a responsible, sober adult all is about.

I had called my dad when I saw the taxes I owed.  I wasn’t calling for money.  I was calling for advice.  That was a remarkable feeling – calling for financial advice, rather than financial assistance.  Again, drunk David would have tried to ask for money because he could not live up to his responsibilities.  Sober David just wanted to reach out for some help.

My Dad called me later on and we talked about how awesome taxes are.  I like talking with my Dad.  He is getting deployed to Iraq soon with a firm called MPRI, and I’m going to miss him.  My dad also told me that my brother’s dog, Godzilla, ran away earlier yesterday during a thunder storm. Godzilla was my dog as well and probably the sweetest dog in the world.  I really hope he comes back – not just because of how much of an awesome dog he is but because my brother really loves that dog.

That last paragraph has four reasons that would have led me to drink a year ago: taxes, my dad going to Iraq, Godzilla running away, and my brother being sad.  I didn’t drink though.  I had a good conversation with my dad, told him I loved him and then called my brother and told him I was sure everything would be fine.

Being sober and thinking like a sober adult may not be something that is such a big deal to most people.  For me, it is a big deal.

On April 25, 2008, I will have been sober for one year.  I’ll keep everyone updated.  I have some stuff I’d like to say.

- David C. Garcia