Atabrine, Whiskey Courage, Shrinks

Artistry by Sean Conroy oceaninashell.com

And then there was Atabrine, prescribed by one fucking shrink or another.

Shrinks, for me, were interchangeable with their demonic cures and their mind stretching reasons for everything that was happening. The Dow Jones Averages went down? There had to be a sub-conscious reason for the decline. My wife hated me? It was all my fault. A shrink’s mother’s milk was/is, GUILT. Yeah, in capital letters.

Getting me into a fucking shrink's office was my first ex-wife's primary mission in life. And like a dummy I was a shrink's mullet for 23 years, on and off. Mostly on. But it pleased the Princess.

Shrinks seldom cure problems. Covering them up with cockamamie reasons and 'cures' are their specialties. Smoking dope while watching porno movies was one shrink’s cure for our sex problems. That schmuck didn't understand that I hated smoking dope and my first ex-wife hated me. Particularly, inside of her.

Atabrine is just another demonic notion. It’s supposed to make you sick if you drink booze, wine, beer or anything with alcohol in it after you take one of the pills. And did those sons of bitches work? A thousand percent effective. Actually, after taking a pill and then drinking I thought that I was going to die and couldn't.

One time, after taking one of those asshole pills in the morning, I went to Denver to set myself up for a screwing by an oil mail named Bert Ladd who was my first motivator in becoming paranoid. After finishing my business with Bert (it was a turnaround flight day for me), I stopped at the Brown Palace and in my eagerness to feel like shit had a few belts.

Then sitting in First Class I ingested at least six of those little bottles on the two hour flight. As soon as I stepped off the airplane I knew that the Atabrine was doing its duty. I didn't have to think of committing suicide, I thought that I had already done it.

I sat down in a chair as soon as I deplaned. Some guy I knew and didn't like, came by took one look at me and suggested he call an ambulance. He said that I looked absolutely 'gray' and generally terrible. No way that I was going to please him and give my first ex-wife yet another reason to rail at me so I just sat there until I was able to walk, went to valet parking and proceeded to put everyone driving on Hwy 101 at risk. Fortunately, I got home safely, didn’t kill anyone en route and since my wife didn't care, she never asked how I felt or how my day went.

As long as I supported her I. Magnin habit and didn't bother her she was fine. I never took another Atabrine pill and it took a few more years for me to get my tired ass to AA.

My first ex-wife's father was a Romanian immigrant not a Romanian ignorant. His wife, my first ex-wife's mother, would complain that he didn't ever tell her what was going on. He got around that by consulting her about things that he really didn't want to do. Dora would always advise against doing whatever he suggested. (The negative gene that my first ex-wife inherited.) That device turned off the flowing of the tears of the 'you don't tell me what you're doing', faucet.

Once in a while he forgot to set her up, which always led to the 'you don't tell me what you're doing' tears and all. I seldom played that game. First, I did whatever I wanted to do then I told the Princess. Then indignation and tears flowed. Selling the Princess on every cockamamie notion that I had was more than I wanted to do particularly when it concerned the kids. Thank God that I had more good ideas than bum ideas. But I always did strive to be perfect like the Princess and my critics.

I was often operating on 'whiskey courage' which helped, like crazy. Yeah, Atabrine was the invention of the devil and perpetrated by an army of devils. But, with all its faults, it was another step towards AA. Atabrine, for me, was as useless as teats on a boar pig.

In the middle of my huge drinking problem, I decided to quit smoking. Smoking and drinking, but not fucking, are joined at the hip. Alcohol, erections and sex, unless you're 22, don’t work well together. Chesterfields were my self-destructive weapons. Between 4-5 packs a day, every day was my quota. Always living by the credo that 'moderation is fatal' (and plenty fucking boring) I was a real live chain smoker.

First I shipped the Princess's ass to the St.Helena Recovery Center in Napa Valley. The friend that recommended the place said that 'joint occupancy' by husband and wife would lead to murder of one or another. When the Princess came home (it was 7 days) full of virtue and self-righteousness (characteristics that my kids inherited) and giving me shit about my smoking, I went to St.Helena. The Seven Day Adventists who ran the place figured out how to make quitting smoking something less than a death defying experience and convert it into a life changing experience.

In turn, after I quit smoking and then drinking, I helped the Adventists set up their alcoholism program.

'Roses are red, violets are blue. If you drink or smoke too much, the St.Helena Recovery Center is the place for you.' ...And if you weigh too much as well.