The Social Capitalist. Josh Lannon

to maintain the addiction.

      I had skipped out on many of my responsibilities at home and at work, even avoiding work by frequently calling in sick or just disappearing altogether. I had lost a substantial amount of weight, since the only thing I seemed to be ingesting these days was alcohol; I was unable to hide my malnourishment. And Lisa and I were beginning to drift apart, because the only thing I seemed to care about anymore was my next run.

      The subject of my heavy drinking and partying had come up numerous times in our conversations, and I had committed, for Lisa, to attempting more restraint. It’s not like I’m an alcoholic, I thought. Alcoholics can’t stop drinking. If I really wanted to, I could stop for a week at a time; an alcoholic can’t do that. I just liked going out and partying, having fun with my friends. We were just doing shots, relieving the pressures of work and toasting good times. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

      So sure, I’d work to control the drinking, I said. I would just cut back on the number of drinks I had on a daily basis. I created workarounds, rules that would curb my behavior but still allow me to drink. They included rules like, “I’ll only drink after work,” or, my personal favorite, “I’ll only drink beer.” But as anyone whose life has been touched by addiction knows, that was pure delusion.

      On November 23, 2001, Lisa and I went out with our friends, Chris, a fellow police officer, and his wife, Jen, to dinner at the Tiller Man Restaurant. In preparation for this night out, I had avoided taking even so much as a sip of alcohol that whole week, and I was feeling it.

      “What do you think about having a drink with dinner?” I asked Lisa, nearly bursting out of my skin with anticipation.

      She debated for a few seconds, looking at me as if scanning to see if I was too anxious. I gave her my best poker face. She clearly wasn’t happy about it; her eyes plainly said “no,” but I’d put her on the spot and she couldn’t argue. She remained silent, faking a smile to me through clenched teeth.

      I kissed her on the cheek and quickly summoned a server to bring me a double Stoli and cranberry on the rocks.

      Three minutes later, feeling good and enjoying an evening out with friends, I thought nothing of ordering another round when our server reappeared to check on us. It didn’t even dawn on me what I’d done until I noticed Lisa glaring at me, her eyes full of disappointment. I’d put her in a frustrating situation – she couldn’t even say anything, for fear of embarrassing me in front of our friends. Instead, she withdrew more, already consumed with anger and dread over the inevitable binge of self-destruction that I had just set in motion. And because she was scheduled to work the night shift at the jail for the next three nights, this dinner had all the makings of the perfect storm.

       SIDEBAR:

       Setting boundaries and sticking

       to them is a key component in

       dealing with a loved one who is

       in an addiction cycle. I had set

       boundaries but wasn’t always

       good at sticking to them. I loved

       Josh and would ultimately let

       him have his way because I was

       afraid of what would happen

       if I didn’t.

      As the night wore on, my plan hatched. I pulled Chris aside to ask if he was up for a night out with me after dinner. He was. After we all said our goodbyes, Chris and I dropped our wives off at home. I gave Lisa a feeble excuse, something about “checking in on business,” which she saw through immediately but said nothing. I gave her a quick kiss goodbye, and assured her I’d be home soon, which we both knew was a lie.

      Lisa looked at me, clearly seething with anger at me and, perhaps, at her own complete lack of control of the situation. But that was also tempered with fear. She never knew anymore whether she’d be seeing me for the last time. All she could say was, “Okay. I love you, Josh.”

      I kissed her quickly, avoiding her eyes as I strapped on my Glock 45-caliber handgun and grabbed a wad of cash from our safe, and muttered, “Love you too.”

      I opened the door and heard, on my way out, “Be safe. Come home soon.” I left for The Library, a topless bar owned by my father, to meet Chris and get the party started.

      Lisa spent the next three days upset and increasingly resolute. This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d seen me pull this kind of stunt, disappearing for days, but this time, for some reason, it felt different. This time, she was convinced, would be the last. Because even if I made it home alive, Lisa was determined to end the madness. Her resolve grew stronger with every passing day: If I wouldn’t agree to get some professional help for my drinking, she was prepared to leave me.

       SIDEBAR:

       There wasn’t much I could say.

       I would be going to work soon

       and knew he would leave the

       house anyways. It was a cycle

       that happened over and over

       throughout the years to where

       we were just going through

       the motions. It was a no-win

       situation. I felt like I had lost a

       part of who I was during this

       time and I was done.

      Meanwhile, Chris didn’t stay at The Library with me but a couple of hours. Responsible to the core and loyal to my family, he was sure to ask me what my plans were – was I headed home, too? I told him I would be, just so that if Lisa asked him about me, he could report honestly that I’d been planning to return home soon. I knew that if Lisa really wanted to find me, she would. She was a natural detective, and she knew all my favorite haunts.

      I spent the next 24 hours hitting several casinos, eventually growing bored enough to call a few party friends and make a plan to meet up at Cheetahs, and then Crazy Horse 2, both strip clubs, both perfect places to disappear with my friends and drink. Now don’t get the wrong idea here, strip clubs aren’t that glamorous, and our wives had been there many times with us. I was buying, so it was a hard offer for my friends to refuse, and none did. By November 26 – day three of my run – I was a complete mess and it was finally time to crawl home.

      I had timed it just so that when I arrived in the middle of the night, Lisa would have left for work already, and she wouldn’t have to see me like this – beaten up, depressed, broke, and reeking of alcohol and strip clubs. I had convinced myself that carrying a handgun was a matter of necessity; it was essential, in my line of work, and in a city this tough, to protect myself. But if I’m being honest, I was terrified of the hallucinations that plagued me every time I drank or took drugs. They took the form of dark, haunting shadows moving around the room and around me, paralyzing me with fear. Wearing the gun gave me an irrational sense of comfort.

      But as I entered our home and crawled onto our couch, confronted with depression and loneliness as real as our furniture, as well as a troubled sense that I’d done irreparable damage to Lisa and our marriage, that gun gave me comfort in a new way. It offered a way out. I was my own enemy, I knew that, and here, face to face with my enemy and with no one to stop me, my way became clear. I had struggled for years with the temptation of suicide, and on this night, I thought, maybe the madness could finally end. I began to sob from utter despair, now believing there was nothing I could do to improve this situation but end