The pup tent we called home was small and tattered. The zipper on the front flap was broken and prevented us from being shielded from the outside elements. The upside was that we could sleep with our feet and legs stretched all the way out. Since the tent was small, we couldn’t straighten our legs with the door zipped so we usually ended up with cramps. Look on the bright side, right?
I lived here with my boyfriend for several months in the winter of 1982. The campsite was located in a wooded area next to a railroad track on the south side of a small town in Georgia. Because there were no roads leading to our home, the only way to get there was to start about a mile away and walk the tracks to a narrow path leading up a steep red clay hill to a clearing in the woods. It was important to time the walk so you wouldn’t be on the tracks at the same time as one of the trains that ran this route several times a day.
We had a portable radio tied to a tree and a small fire pit used mainly for cooking meat we had stolen from various family and friends. Every morning I would wake up alone in the tent sick and hungover. My boyfriend would get up before me and walk to his parents’ house to take any money or food he might find while they were at work. Most mornings I would stumble out of the tent with leaves in my hair, dirty clothes, and make my way down the railroad tracks. Before reaching my destination, I would have to pass a sawmill where there were usually 15-20 men working close to the tracks. As I walked past them, I could hear them shouting insults my way “Here comes that dirty homeless girl” and “Man, she looks rough”. I would try and block out the words and fight back the tears by counting steps and saying to myself “Keep walking, Carol Lind, you’ll be past them in 20 steps” or “Don’t look at them, don’t look at them”. During the day we would pick up aluminum cans and pray we would get enough money to buy two fifths of cheap wine and a pack of cigarettes. That was our job - all day every day. Then it was back to the tent and oblivion.
At the time, this abnormal life seemed as normal as if we lived in an apartment in town. There were a couple of occasions where we met some friends at a local dive bar called “The Hops” and asked if they wanted to come over and get high. After confirming they did, we would set out on foot assuring them it wasn’t far. Down the railroad tracks we would walk, then up a steep embankment to the logs around the fire pit next to the tent. Plopping down to enjoy the evening, our friends were left speechless. It never occurred to me this was odd. Later I spoke with someone who took that walk with us and he assured me he was baffled and horrified at the conditions in which we lived.
One of the strange things about alcoholism and addiction is the way that our absurd life feels normal. The book Alcoholics Anonymous states “Men and women drink essentially because they like the effects produced by alcohol. The sensation is so elusive that, while they admit it is injurious, they cannot after a time differentiate the true from the false. To them, their alcoholic life seems the only normal one” (The Doctor’s Opinion p. xxviii). How else could I casually invite friends over and never bat an eye that I was homeless?
There were many episodes of absurdity during my drinking days. It was virtually impossible for me to see it at the time. That’s one of the reasons it’s so hard to reason with someone once they have crossed over that line into alcoholism. Have you ever scratched your head and tried to understand how someone could keep hurting those around them?
Later that year, I was given the grace to do whatever was necessary to have a different life. All I wanted was someone to show me how to get through the day without a drink or a drug. Of course, what I found was better than anything I could’ve planned or imagined for myself. The life I live now is beyond my wildest dreams.
It was a long time before I was comfortable in a tent again. My husband at the time and I would take the kids camping along the banks of the Tallulah River in the mountains of North Georgia. We would spend a couple of weeks in the woods cooking over a fire and waking up with leaves in our hair. I had a sense of being home. Not homeless. Experiencing a connection to the outdoors, having an appreciation for simple things, and living a day at a time are things I learned during the lowest point in my life in a different tent with a different man. It wasn’t in vain.
Unfortunately, my partner in the 1982 tent didn’t find a solution to his alcoholism. In 2013 he passed away after many attempts to get sober. I pulled a chair next to his bed at the hospice facility where he spent his last days. Holding his hand, I was able to thank him for being such a special person and teaching me so much about nature, kindness, and humility. I let him know how much his life positively impacted others. Finally, I thanked him for my life and my sobriety because I believe with all of my heart that I would never have found sobriety if it hadn’t been for him and our experiences together.
Over the years, I’ve lost so many friends to addiction. A lot of those never found a home in recovery, while many of those found a home but were still homeless. All of them had a profound effect on my sobriety. Because someone’s life doesn’t look like we imagine for them doesn’t mean they aren’t carrying a message of hope and possibility. Sometimes, those voices are the loudest. God is good. Always.
@patricia.palmer1@gmail.com Thank you for the kind words!! Looking backwards, I can certainly see how bizarre my circumstances were. Not at the time. Thanks for supporting the blog!
One of the hallmarks of addiction (or living with an addict) is that the bizarre becomes increasingly normal. This is such a poignant post, Carol Lind. I am so happy you kept walking until you found recovery! You are such a beautiful person.