Tim White - At the End of the Road: One Mans Journey from Chaos to Clarity

2012 by Timothy H. White

eISBN 978-0-9859177-1-5

LCCN 2012917630

Tim White Ministries, TimWhiteMinistries.com

Written with Kimberly M. Smith, KMSmithWrites.com

Excerpts from the book Alcoholics Anonymous appear on pages 62 and 63 of the fourth edition, copyright 2001 by Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc.

Excerpt from Narcotics Anonymous, We Do Recover, 1986 reprinted by permission of NA World Services, Inc. All rights reserved.

The Twelve Steps of Narcotics Anonymous (sixth edition) 2008 reprinted by permission of NA World Services, Inc. All rights reserved.

The Twelve Steps of NA reprinted for adaptation by permission of AA World Services, Inc.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher. All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

Jacksonville, FL

2012

When at the end of the road, we find that we can no longer function as a human being, either with or without drugs, we all face the same dilemma. What is there left to do? There seems to be this alternative: either go on as best we can to the bitter endsjails, institutions, or deathor find a new way to live. In years gone by, very few addicts ever had this last choice. Those who are addicted today are more fortunate. For the first time in mans entire history, a simple way has been proving itself in the lives of many addicts. It is available to us all. This is a simple, spiritualnot religiousprogram, known as Narcotics Anonymous.

From the NA White Booklet, Narcotics Anonymous

Authors Note

This is a work of nonfiction. While memory is a tricky thing, all events, experiences, actions, and their consequences have been faithfully retold herein as I have remembered them. Care has been taken to change the names and identifying characteristics of certain individuals.

Conversations presented in dialogue form have been recreated from my best recollection and are not intended as a word-for-word account of what was said but, rather, to communicate the general spirit of the conversation.

This work represents my personal truth and my struggle from a confused child to a man in recovery, a man experiencing clarity for the first time in his life. My hope is that my story may start others who are struggling in confusion and anger, locked in the stronghold of addiction, down the path of clarity and recovery. If my life is a testament to anything, it is that it is never too late.

Coauthors Note

From time to time, we are presented opportunities to make a differencethose occasions when the stars align, the Spirit of the Universe, which many of us choose to call God, and life circumstances come together to bless us with a chance to do good and powerful work. Such a moment came for me when I received an e-mail in late August of 2011 from Tim Whites brother Billy Boston. I will be eternally grateful to Billy for reaching out to me. The opportunity to help Tim share his story with the world has touched me in ways deeply personal and immensely enriching.

On December 22, 2002, my mother entered the home of my eldest brother, Curtis Wilson Smith, to find him deceased, surrounded by numerous consumed bottles of alcohol and a pill bottle of prescription drugs. He was forty-seven. An intense intellectual, creative writer and musician, and lover of animals, art, and nature, Curtis was loved and admired by many friends and our family. He was also, from an early age, an alcoholic and a troubled, complex man.

I lay this all on the line to make known to the readers of this memoir that addiction affects the lives of manyas it has my life and the lives of my family and friendsand that it is a powerful and cunning disease. Tims story is, in many ways, my brothers story. It is the story of the addict, in whatever forms his or her addiction rears its ugly head. In a broader sense, it is the story of all our loved ones who find themselves lost in their addictions. Gratefully, it is also a story of hope, recovery, healing, and love. It is a story of faith and forward motion.

I thank Tim White and his family for allowing me the true privilege to do this work. I have taken great care to remain faithful to Tims voice and the account of his journey. Through this process, Ive come to find the courage to face my own addiction with an eating disorder and to begin the work of recovery. Even before its publication, Tims story has touched lives and brought about positive results. May it continue to do so.

A familiar panic grabbed hold of me.

Even at six years old, I knew from his first beer that night what madness was to come. What had been the cause this time? The initiating incident, the erupting spark? Now, I couldnt say. I dont know if I even knew then. To be honest, it could have been anything. Like Daddys drinking and drugging, the madness was just there. Like everyday life, like a chronic sickness, like the air.

Even when things seemed calm, the madness was there. Always.

Daddy turned on a dime, a dime as thin as the ones Id bummed from the men in the bar next to Grandmas house. Not this house, the one I was in now at six years old, in a rough section of Jacksonville, Florida, referred to by the locals as Sin City. But the last house, downtown, off 8th Street, next to the bar where young and old men alike drank and tossed me dimes when Daddy took me in to visit his friend, the owner and bartender. Sometimes the men fought each other outside, along the brick wall that faced the house. I watched entertained by their drunken swings and punches, their occasional missed contacts that caused them to stumble or fall on the hard ground.

Those mens drunken antics could be funny, but nothing was entertaining about the madness or about Daddy that night as I tried to stay small, quiet, and out of his way, panicked about what might come next. Fear swelled in me as their shouts grew louder. Grandma, her friend Lester Case, who lived with us most of the time, Uncle David, and Daddythe whole lot of themthrew words and insults at one another like daggers, meant to strike deep.

I tried to stay away from them, but they moved around the house, following one another, continuing the chaos. Even covering my ears was no escape from the shouts and confusion.

Daddy was a mean drunk. Though I cant remember exactly what he said that night, it seemed to me that he was meaner than usualvicious and spiteful in his attacks. Unable to escape the madness inside the house, I bolted for the back door.

My mother, who lived with my four older half brothers on the other side of town, had taught me the thing to do when you needed help was get on your knees and ask God for it. Dressed in only my underwear, I ran for the back door, swinging it open with all the strength in my young body.

I dashed down the back steps. The damp grass felt cool under my bare feet. Halfway to the back fence, next to the home-rigged cement block swimming pool, I fell to my knees and turned my face to the night sky. All I could think was that I needed to pray. God would help me. I dont remember if I had full confidence in his help at that particular moment, but, for my part, I was going to do my best to ask in the most proper way my young brain could figure: on my knees and with an earnestness right up there with the preachers and the nicest of my Sunday school teachers.

Stars twinkled like tiny fires in the clear night sky. A warm breeze blew across my face. I clutched my hands in prayer as Id been taught, face to the starlit sky. Surely God would hear me, hear the sincerity in my voice, the need.