10 Days of Vince

Ten days in my life as I fight homelessness and addiction

All photos by Barbara Banks Photography

Friday

THE MEDICINE OF GRATITUDE

I was first diagnosed with depression when I was 13 years old. At that point in my life, I did have a lot of stuff going on in my life that truly was depressing. My doctors and I, throughout the years, could never quite figure out which came first—the drinking or the depression. It was a toss up.

Eventually, a doctor talked me into taking Zoloft. I couldn’t tell if it helped, so another doctor suggested and prescribed Celexa. Still no effect. Then I learned a trick about how to ease my depression.

When I was living in Wilmington, NC, I was sleeping rough and found myself feeling really down thinking stupid thoughts like, “I can’t take this pain anymore. Is life really worth living?” Like I said, stupid thoughts. Then one day, I was writing in my journal and decided to list the things I was grateful for. It was like a Gomer Pyle, Shazaam! moment. My feelings of despair, depression, and anxiety were gone.

I sort of perfected my gratitude list routine. Monday through Friday at approximately 8:30 am, I would walk over to a wooden bench across the street from the courthouse, plop down, pull out one of my journals and an ink pen, and look at the hundreds of people wrapped three sides around the courthouse waiting for the deputies to open the doors.

Sometimes, I would have trouble starting my gratitude list. I found that if I just wrote at the top of the page,“Thank heaven I have no business in that building today,” that sparked my list. I never knew if I was going to run out of ink or run out of paper. Neither ever happened, fortunately. But some days my list would go on for five pages or more. By the time all the people filed into the courthouse, I was finished writing and had my journal packed away. I was also smiling deep down inside.

My little gratitude list trick works better than pharmaceuticals and is a whole lot cheaper.

I hope this can benefit someone.

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Saturday

GUITARIST IN THE TREE

One evening, I was sitting at the park waiting to hear the sizzle as the sun sat on the water. I had fed the squirrels all my peanuts. I felt like making one last lap around the park before making my journey back to the spot where I rested.

I heard beautiful music coming from a guitar. As I walked,

I thought the player was a busker sitting on a bench playing for donations. I saw no one sitting on the benches. As I got closer and the music was louder, I tracked the location of the sound. A guy, Michael, was sitting on a branch of a live oak, just playing away. He had no cup for people to pitch money into. He didn’t care. He was just sitting on a branch of a tree enjoying playing music.

Of course, I approached him, then he climbed down, and we spoke for about 45 minutes. I told him I did some writ- ing for Speak Up and showed him some [writings] in my composition book. He took a picture of a page to send to friends, which I had no exception to. He is a waiter, I think, at a five-star restaurant at the foot of Main Street. We are companions now. He buys Speak Up from me. All this happiness was brought on by me striking up a conversation with the “Guitarist in the Tree.”

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Sunday

THE TRUTH HURTS

I was walking around this morning, hating life as usual as I always do at about 5am. At 5pm, things are always better. But as I was walking the streets, I jumped on a train of thought about loneliness in relation to my alcoholism. The train was the one I was supposed to be on. I got to thinking about when and where the intense drinking began.

I’ve been drinking since I was 13. It didn’t pose too many problems until about 1986. That was the year I found myself really lonely. It got bad really fast. I had just left California. I had to sell my boat hull cleaning contracts due to osteoarthritis in my back. I wasn’t able to clean 60 to 70 boat hulls in a week without being in extreme pain. My parents offered me the choice of going to the college of my choice if I returned to West Virginia for “a while.” So, I sold my boat, diving equipment, and basically everything of any worth. I did keep my Suzuki 250 dirt bike. I disassembled it enough so it would fit into the back of my ‘65 Baja Volkswagen, and I headed off to West Virginia.

Looking back, it was one of those coulda’, shoulda’, woulda’ situations. In Long Beach, California, I was in the proverbial frying pan. There was no way I was going to be able to afford rent without diving. So I took what appeared to be the high road...2,404 miles directly into the fire. Within 60 seconds of entering my parents’ house, I realized why I moved to California to begin with. My father was still drinking and my mother was taking Valium to put up with his drinking.

They were both loving parents and would do anything for me. But drugged parents are what they are. Turned out my “college of choice” ended up being one of two local colleges, both of which would require me to live in their house. My dream and presumption of going to Florida Institute of Technology to study marine biology was nixed. I had left a life, friends, and business in California. I was truly lonely.That’s when I got to the point of, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” Within weeks, I was shaking so bad I couldn’t hold a spoon steady enough to eat soup.

Now, getting back to my origin of story. When I get lonely, I call on the only “friend” I have—alcohol. He/ she is always there. One problem with that. The alcohol dulls the loneliness for awhile. But as I was still riding that train of thought, I realized the alcohol was not easing the loneliness but actually causing it. After all, who wants to be around a drunk? Only other drunks, until the money runs out. Then they don’t even want you around.

This morning’s train ride was sort of an epiphany. The truth sometimes hurts.

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Monday

SOBRIETY

I’ve been sober all day today.