Great Falls (Mont.) Tribune, by Eric Newhouse

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

A brisk December breeze greeted people Friday, Dec. 11, as they left their homes and dashed for their cars. Shivering kids waited for the school buses. It was too chilly to pack a good snowball. Unseen to most was how alcohol was flowing through the community, affecting even those who hadn't touched a drop.

Liquor is a common commodity in Montana. Most people drink in moderation. Friends share a story over beer, and a bartender pockets tips that help pay for his college textbooks.

Some Montanans abstain. Others are addicted. Those who abuse alcohol often pay the price with their health, their finances, their families, their social lives and their jobs.

The flow of alcohol can be traced as it courses through everyday life on any given day. Following is a diary of that Friday in Great Falls.

5:30 A.M.

It's wakeup time at the Great Falls Rescue Mission, which has been called the final pit stop before the graveyard for those unable to handle their addictions.

"This is the last stop for most of these folks," says Glenn McCaffrey, director of the Rescue Mission. "They're almost literally one yard from hell."

He says about half abuse alcohol, half abuse drugs.

This morning, the Mission houses seven regulars working off their room and board and five other transients.

"Most of these people get government checks of some sort, and when those checks run out later in the month, we begin to see them in greater numbers," says McCaffrey.

Breakfast is at 6 a.m. Today it's grits and eggs, and clients are expected to help clean up the cafeteria and sweep out the dayroom before they head out.

"A few are actually looking for jobs," says McCaffrey, "but most of the professionals will be out collecting cans to get the money for alcohol or drugs.

"But we have a rule here - if you come in intoxicated, you forfeit your bed."

8 A.M.

By county ordinance, there can be no sale of alcohol between 2 a.m. and 8 a.m., so that's the earliest the bars can open. The old Maverick Bar in downtown Great Falls used to start its happy hour at 8 a.m. for the night shift workers and could be a rowdy place in the early morning hours.

Some bars still open at this hour, including the Lobby Bar, the Prospector casinos and the Half Time Sports Bar.

8:15 A.M.

Tom Jerome, a former ranch hand from Miles City, is sitting on a bench in the Rescue Mission, already drunk and waiting for coffee at 9 a.m. Considering the Mission's rules, how did he spend the night there?

"I didn't," he says. "I usually spend the nights out."

But the gray-tiled dayroom can be a dry place, so Jerome periodically slips out into the alley where he has a cache of beer waiting for him.

"I pick up cans," he says. "If I go all day, I usually can get around 30 pounds."

That's $7.50, and Jerome says he spends most of it on drinking beer with his friends.

"Tom is what I call a suicidal drinker," says McCaffrey. "He just drinks himself to death every day. I've watched him deteriorate over the past few years."

That's an unfortunate reality at the Mission, where success stories are rare and people are hitting bottom at a younger age.

"One thing that really worries me is that we're beginning to see a lot of 18- to 25-year-olds here now," says McCaffrey.

8:30 A.M.

Officer Mark Thatcher of the police department's DARE squad is standing before Mrs. Figarelle's class at Blessed Trinity Catholic School, preparing to talk about the evils of alcohol, drugs and gangs.

But first, he opens a box of questions from the 19 fifth-graders:

Do you ever arrest anyone who doesn't want to be arrested?

Most people don't want to be arrested, responds Thatcher, remembering in particular a 16-year-old drunk who wanted to avoid being charged with minor in possession.

"I put him up against the car to frisk him, but he took off and ran from me," he remembers. "I chased him and tackled him, but during the scuffle, he bit me on the inside of the leg.

"Another officer joined me at the scene and we subdued him and threw him is the back of a police car," says the officer. "Then he spit in my face and kicked out the rear window of my police car."

Do many people abuse drugs and alcohol?

"I know quite a few people who take drugs and a lot of people who drink too much," says Thatcher.

How about police officers?

"I don't know of anyone who takes drugs, but I do know of a few people who drink a little too much," he responds. "I don't think they're alcoholics, but they may let the stress of their jobs get to them a little too much."

9 A.M.

The workday has started in Great Falls. All told, about 35,000 people hold jobs in and around the city.

Some, suffering from hangovers or other alcohol-related problems, won't make it to work today. Statistics say fewer than one American in 10 has a drinking problem, and two-thirds of them hold jobs.

Employees dependent on substances like alcohol have two to three times the normal absenteeism rate, according to VRI, a company that contracts with businesses to provide counselors and programs to troubled employees.

9:15 A.M.

The Cascade County Tavern Association board of directors was to meet at the office of its executive director, John Hayes, on North Star Boulevard, but none of the board members show up.

Hayes has prepared a report, however, reporting that the association's major fund-raiser the week before had raised $12,000, most of which would go to support local charitable activities.

"We average 10 to 12 calls a week for donations," says Hayes. "Our board meets once a month to send checks to those we feel we should help.

"Our emphasis is on kids," he says. "For example, we usually help the St. Vincent DePaul Society with their annual outing that takes about 40 kids up to a camp near Monarch.

"That costs $1,500 to $2,000 each year, and we finance most of it," he adds. "They make the kids pay a buck apiece, and we make up the difference."

On this Friday, the tavern association received two requests for charitable donations, and it wrote checks for $250 to St. Vincent's and $400 to the food bank.

9:30 A.M.

Business is already booming at the Lobby Bar in downtown Great Falls.

Half a dozen folks are at the bar, a handful are gambling, and three people are locked in a serious discussion at a back table, with 12-ounce glasses of red beer in front of them.

"They're lined up at the door when I open at 8," says manager and former owner Tara Fatz.

"I have quite a few seniors who come in for coffee and some who come in to drink," she says. "We call it the `Soaps and Suds Hour' because we're all watching the big-screen TV."

Fatz is one of about 3,000 people employed by bars and restaurants in Great Falls. The annual payroll for these jobs? About $19 million.

10 A.M.

A dozen people meander into a meeting room on the second floor of Opportunities Inc. for their weekly Alcoholics Anonymous session.

There are 63 meetings in Great Falls each week. They open with members introducing themselves by first name and admitting their alcoholism. Then they go around the room, discussing current problems and the 12-step recovery program.

At this meeting, members are nervous at the presence of a reporter and ask him to leave.

10:30 A.M.

At Gateway Recovery Center, a distraught mother shows up, asking center director Rod Robinson for "help and hope" in treating her 15-year-old daughter, hooked on alcohol and marijuana.

A little while later, says Robinson, an alcoholism patient "just stopped in to say thank you" for helping him get his life and family back together again.

11A.M.

Municipal Court is just winding down in the basement of the Great Falls Civic Center.

"I'd guess that more than half of the caseload is alcohol-related," says Kory Larsen, an assistant city attorney.

Of the 31 appearances this morning, he says 18 obviously involved alcohol.

11:15 A.M.

Paul Horning, a bartender with the Half Time Sports Bar who teaches a course in responsible alcohol consumption, visits with Viki Gallagher, owner of the Frontier Bar. He's explaining the TIPS program under which bars can get a 15 percent break on their liability insurance.

"We're trying to promote responsible consumption of alcohol," says Horning, explaining that the classes cover how to deal with underage drinkers, fake ID cards and bar liability issues.

"One of the biggest problems our new bartenders have is how to tell someone they're cut off without creating a great big hassle," says Gallagher.

"It's never easy, and sometimes there will be hassles," Horning responds. "But we'll show your bartenders how to kill 'em with kindness, and we'll do some role-playing to help them learn. We'll also show you some ways to slow customers' drinking down."

He said that can include giving the customers water along with their drinks, giving them non-salty snacks, and not being too quick to see if they need another round.

Gallagher agrees to enroll half the Frontier Bar's alcohol servers in the program, which is locally underwritten by Devine Brothers Distributing and Anheuser-Busch.

11:45 A.M.

At Largent School, Tammera Nauts is compiling a list of school district students who have been charged with being minors in possession of alcohol.

Through the end of October, 619 students have been written up for MIPs, compared with 491 at that time a year before.

"At the rate we're going, we're projected to have 766 MIPs this year," says Nauts. "Last year, we had 593."

NOON

Jack King, proprietor of Bert & Ernie's Saloon and Eatery, is standing behind the bar, a glass of beer in each hand, pondering the question of how much alcohol his lunch crowd consumes.

"Give me a moment to think about that," he says and heads off to deliver the beers. When he returns, he has an exact count.

The restaurant has 45 tables, he says, and 40 are full. Only four of them have alcohol on the table, and retirees occupy two of those tables.

"People are drinking less, but that really doesn't affect us as much because this is a restaurant, not a bar," says King.

In the past, someone might have two drinks with lunch, he adds. "Now it's usually one."

1 P.M.

Two aides and one teacher are finishing feeding lunch to one student and beginning the afternoon special education class at Loy Elementary School.

The six students, ages 6 to 11, are severely and profoundly cognitively delayed, which is the new buzzword for mentally retarded.

One sits at a high chair, howling, another in an easy chair rocking, and the other four surround a teacher who is trying to help them pick out a picture of a tree in her textbook.

There are 1,327 special education students in Great Falls, with disabilities ranging from speech defects to severe retardation.

The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta has said that mothers' drinking during pregnancy is the leading cause of mental retardation. But only a few children in the school district have been formally diagnosed with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

"I suspect the problem is with the diagnosis," says Gail Cleveland, who is in charge of special education programs.

"It requires mothers to admit that they've been drinking during pregnancy," she explains. "So they deny it, and the physicians don't press the issue."

1:30 P.M.

At Benefis Healthcare, admissions records don't show the cases in which alcohol contributed to illnesses such as cirrhosis of the liver, heart problems, premature births or accidental injuries.

But the hospital does have a sophisticated program for treating alcoholism at its Addiction Medicine Center. A group session is winding up in a small conference room with a one-way-glass window that allows counselors to keep track of the half-dozen patients.

Benefis has a couple of padded rooms for patients seriously out of control, but today they're empty.

In fact, there's no one in the detoxification program or receiving inpatient care. Normally, there are three to five patients in detox and a couple more receiving inpatient treatment, says Dirk Gibson, the hospital's addictions abuse coordinator.

Nine patients are spending the day in the hospital for counseling, but go home at night, and an additional 44 adults and 15 adolescents are receiving outpatient treatment for alcoholism.

There are also 32 people ordered by the courts to attend DUI classes at the hospital.

"We aren't the only ones offering these classes," Gibson adds. "There are probably 60 people in DUI school at any given time in Great Falls."

Dr. Dan Nauts, the program's medical director, says Montana's per capita alcohol consumption isn't so high, but that it's more concentrated.

"We have a lot of heavy drinkers," he says. "The levels on the breathalyzers far exceed what I was used to in Washington."

His frustration is evident.

"If all these problems are so obvious, why haven't we done more to solve them?" he asks.

3 P.M.

As schools get out, the H.A.N.D.S. (Heroes and Neighbors Down at the Schools) programs get going across town.

More than 900 elementary school children are enrolled in the program, designed to give students a safe learning environment from the end of school until their parents get off work.

"We're trying to provide a program that's better for the child than going home or being out on the streets," says its director, Ann Hagen-Buss, as she sits at a table in the Riverview School on the city's northwest side and plays a game of sequential numbers with 6-year-old Andrew Carter.

Later, a group of fourth- and fifth-graders join Hagen-Buss at the table. Asked if they are aware of teen-age drinking, all nod.

"My sister's in 12th grade, and she smokes and drinks," says one of the students.

The Department of Public Health and Human Services reports that 65 percent of Montana's adolescents experiment with alcohol before they reach 14 and that high school students binge drink (have five or more drinks at a single sitting) at twice the rate of adults.

For that reason, Hagen-Buss wants to expand H.A.N.D.S. into the middle schools.

"This would be a place for them to hang out, use the libraries or the computer labs or the sports equipment, or just do some of the activities that interest them," she says.

"But if they just want to hang out and listen to music, that's better than being out on the streets."

4:30 P.M.

The Lobby Bar downtown is doing a thriving business by now, with drinkers shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar.

"We're just here to have a beer and gamble," says Loren Carrier, an out-of-work cook from Tacoma, Wash.

"I've only been here a month, but I hooked up with a woman who did me wrong, and I've been drinking for three weeks now," he says.

At a table near the front window, off-duty bouncer Trevor J. Pasha is drinking with a friend and discussing the bar scene they both know.

"I've seen some people get about 10 feet tall and belligerent when they drink," he says, "but other people kind of go into a coma and don't talk to anyone. Funny things get funnier and sad things get sadder.

"I've seen some bar fights, but not many injuries," he adds. "Most people are too drunk to do much damage to anyone. When you put those guys out, it's kind of like pouring out a kettle of chicken soup."

Up at the bar, Tara Fatz is preparing a tray of sandwiches and chicken wings to feed to anyone who's hungry. She figures it might slow the drinking down just a bit.

"I'm real proud that we've only had one DUI that I know in nine years of Friday nights," she says.

4:45 P.M.

With schools out, district administrators get some figures on drug and alcohol use in the schools.

There were 183 kids in group sessions, most of them for drug and alcohol dependency problems, and 84 more in individual counseling sessions.

Seven students were written up for illegal possession of alcohol on Friday, according to Tammera Nauts, and one was dismissed from school for using marijuana.

5:15 P.M.

Ellis and Ilse McLean are sitting at a table in Jaker's Restaurant, on 10th Ave. S., Montana's busiest street, finishing dinner on their 44th wedding anniversary.

"My husband doesn't drink anymore, but I'm having a glass of wine with my dinner," says Isle McLean with a captivating smile. "Two, in fact."

A native of Germany, she appreciates a good Riesling. And she has pronounced views on teaching young adults to drink responsibly.

"I think young people should learn to drink at home on special occasions," she says. "In Germany, we give children a little glass with water in it so they can join in the toasts. Later, we might add a little wine to their water.

"If children aren't allowed to have something, they automatically want it," she explains. "They should learn to drink responsibly at home."

5:40 P.M.

Police dispatchers receive a call about a party in a home in which the owners were out of town. Officer Patrick Brinkman is sent to the scene.

"One of the people said he had permission to be in the house, but we couldn't verify that so we asked them all to leave and we secured the house," says Brinkman. "They were all pretty intoxicated."

That's relatively common for night-shift cops.

"On this particular shift, I would estimate that 70 to 80 percent of our business is alcohol-related, whether it be family disturbances, DUIs or parties," says Officer Mike Stimac.

6:55 P.M.

A middle school student walking up 5th Street North with his friends is shot with a pellet gun by a passing motorist.

Minutes later, another man is wounded slightly a few blocks away, jumps in his own car, gives chase, and gets a license plate number.

When officers make an arrest, they find beer in the car, but no indication either the driver or the alleged shooter had been drinking it.

8 P.M.

During an intensive outpatient alcohol dependency session at Gateway Recovery Center, one of the 11 patients told the group that she finally felt safe and hopeful that her life could change for the better.

8:28 P.M.

Officers are called to 504 41/2 Ave. S.W., where they find William Patrick Bailey bleeding profusely from the head and left eye.

"He and his friend had been drinking all day, and then they got to arguing so I hid all the knives," says his girlfriend, Shawna Odegard. "But the other guy grabbed a carving fork and just kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing him in the head."

Stimac checks the home for the assailant, finds no one, and begins working on Bailey's wounds. Bailey, sitting beside a half-consumed 18-pack of beer, wants no help.

"I don't want to press no charges," he declares repeatedly. "I just want to kill that boy."

As medics try to persuade Bailey to go to the emergency room so that he doesn't lose sight in his punctured eye, suddenly another man staggers into the kitchen.

"It's him," screams Odegard. "He's the one who did it."

Stimac is on him like a flash, whirling him against the doorjamb, patting him down for weapons, and handcuffing him.

"Are you going to arrest me?" asks the suspect, 31-year-old James L. Roach. "I just flipped out. He made me do it."

Roach bursts into tears as he's led to a squad car for booking on an assault charge.

"This is one of these houses where we come a lot," says Stimac on the way to the hospital. "And it's always alcohol-related."

Later, it turns out Bailey is a false name, the stabbing victim is identified as William Patrick Bird.

9:50 P.M.

Two teen-agers at a C.M. Russell High School winter prom are charged with MIPs after one of them vomits on the dance floor and officers find an open 18-pack of beer in one of their vehicles.

10:15 P.M.

Two squad cars scramble to the 1st Avenue Bridge after a caller advises the dispatcher that he saw a woman being chased down the street in front of the Lido Bar. The caller says the woman was abducted and thrown in a blue and white pickup truck, which was heading for downtown Great Falls.

No truck matching that description crosses the bridge, and a bartender at the Lido says she knows nothing of an altercation outside the bar.

11 P.M.

Police dispatchers begin receiving calls that vandals have spray-painted homes, cars and property in a four-block area on the West Side.

More than 30 people are victimized by the vandalism. When an 18-year old man is later arrested, he tells police he was intoxicated when he went on the spray-painting spree.

11:10 P.M.

Officer Stimac is still mulling the parting words of a Benefis emergency room technician, who had been complaining about the lack of a drunk tank in the city. As a result, the ER technician said, many drunks who can't be discharged are left occupying hospital beds until they sober up enough to allow them to be released safely.

"A lot of the bigger cities have drunk tanks," says Stimac, turning his squad car off Fox Farm Road onto 10th Avenue South, "but does that condone a drunk's actions?

"There's no incentive to stay sober if you know you've got a warm place to stay for the night and maybe even breakfast when you sleep it off.

"But it is a problem," Stimac adds. "What are we supposed to do with a drunk who really just needs to sleep it off?"

11:15 P.M.

There's a call to a teen-age drinking party in Prospect Heights. Three officers arrive with their lights off and park their squad cars around the corner from the party.

As they walk down the dark street, two young men -- one with an open beer in his hand -- leave the house. One officer stays with them and the other two sprint for the house, where the kids are already spreading the alarm.

Officers suspect some of the teens -- and probably some of the beer -- escaped through a back door. Ultimately, there's not enough evidence to make any arrests.

11:45 P.M.

Four intoxicated males are reported fighting in an alley on the lower South Side, but they have left the scene by the time three squad cars get there.

11:55 P.M.

It's another call for a fork-stabbing at 504 4 1/2 Ave. S.W. Officer Stimac can't believe it, but he's rolling fast with lights flashing and siren sounding. There's an ambulance and EMT personnel in a fire truck right behind the squad car.

When he hits the scene, though, it's a different problem: two women brawling in the doorway of the house he had left just a couple hours earlier.

"She got mouthy with me, and I punched her," says one of the combatants.

The other woman asks an officer if he'll give her a lift to Cindy's Bar, just around the corner.

MIDNIGHT

Officer Stimac checks in briefly at the police station. In the first six hours of his shift, he has handled eight calls. All but one involved alcohol in some way.

"That's about the average I had anticipated," he says, "but the probability of alcohol-related calls increases as we get closer to closing time."

12:15 A.M.

Joe's Place on 9th Street across from Holiday Village Mall is tame by comparison. Several dozen people are drinking, chatting, gambling, but no one is out of control.

"It's been fairly quiet in here tonight," says bartender Tom Knutson.

12:30 A.M.

Just down the street a block, it's livelier at the Other Place. The music is a little louder and the crowd a little bigger. One patron with a point-and-shoot camera wanders through the bar, capturing the action.

"Hey, cut that out," snaps a guy in a baseball cap who has been hugging a woman by the bar. "Man, you're gonna get us both killed."

1:30 A.M.

The J-Bar-T is packed, and Alibi, a Billings band, is playing some old favorites.

The dance floor is full. One blonde is relatively formal in a low-cut, black velvet dress with a heavy silver necklace and high heels. Another is fashionably informal with her red vest unbuttoned to show her lacy black brassiere and the elaborate tattoos on her chest and shoulders.

Hot off the dance floor, a young man in a white cowboy hat stands beside a woman perched on a barstool. She glances around, then begins unbuttoning his denim shirt and nuzzling his chest. Embarrassed, he flushes and backs away.

Beside them, a middle-age man is asleep, the brim of his black cowboy hat just resting on the bar. Beside his head is his beer bottle.

"We're going to let him sleep until we close," says the barmaid, Laurene Lawson. "Then we'll escort him out of here, make sure he's OK and get him a cab if he needs one."

With that, the band winds it up for the evening and the lights come on.

"There's a point where you have to exercise self-control," says Page Lutes of Bozeman, looking down at the sleeper. "When you can't maintain control, you've lost it. And it takes a lot of control sometimes to maintain it."

Off the dance floor comes a younger couple. They begin to arouse the sleeper. Finally, they get him to his feet and begin to lead him out of the bar.

About halfway to the door, however, he lurches into a young woman and pinches her butt.

Without hesitation, she whirls him around, crouches down, and bites the label off the rear pocket of his jeans. Laughing, she stands with the label between her teeth.

Outside the bar, the sleeping drinker comes to life in the chilly night air. He's Knute from Jordan, he announces.

As the parking lot is beginning to clear, Knute is asked if he is going to be driving home.

"It's too far to drive home tonight," says the young lady who has been helping Knute out of the J-Bar-T. "So we'll take him to a motel tonight.

"And tomorrow," she adds, "we'll probably start all over again."

On Friday, Dec. 11, 1998:

City police handled 18 complaints involving alcohol, including five disturbances, four improper parties, four intoxicated individuals, three pellet gun shootings in which beer was found in the vehicle, one DUI and one MIP.

County police received three alcohol-related complaints, including two fights and one MIP.

Of 31 appearances before Municipal Court, 18 obviously involved alcohol, according to the city attorney's office.

Seven students were cited as minors in possession of alcohol. Another 267 students were being counseled for substance abuse problems, mostly relating to alcohol.

Benefis Healthcare's addiction medicine center had nine patients in daytime counseling for alcoholism, plus another 59 receiving outpatient care. There were also 32 drivers in the hospital's DUI program.

Fourteen people were receiving inpatient treatment for alcoholism at the Rocky Mountain Treatment Center, with another three receiving outpatient counseling.

At Gateway Recovery Center, 60 patients were receiving group or individual counseling for alcohol dependency, including nine from the Department of Corrections or its boot camp.

© 1999 Great Falls Tribune, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

Bill Broderson woke up in the Benefis Healthcare detox unit, watching a shadow on the wall that looked like a gorilla.

"It was a fat guy running around the ward naked in the middle of the night," he said. "So I got a nurse, and they locked him down."

Alcohol has turned Broderson's life into a real-life nightmare.

He's not alone.

More than 120,000 Montanans - about 15 percent of adult residents - range from problem drinkers to full-blown alcoholics, according to the state health department.

Some have managed to quit drinking, but about 75,000 remain in need of treatment, state health officials say. Many are closet drunks, who seem to function normally -- as did Anne, who led a double life in Great Falls for years.

The American Medical Association defines alcoholism as a chronic, progressive, apparently genetic disease. Untreated, it brings denial, fear, even death.

Alcoholics aren't the only ones affected. It's estimated that one alcoholic has a direct impact on the lives of at least four family members, friends and co-workers.

Tammera Nauts knows that cycle well. She's the addictions specialist for the Great Falls School District, and an alcoholic who lost her husband and nearly lost her daughter over her drinking.

Here are Bill, Anne and Tammera's stories.

Bill's story

Bill Broderson faces a life-or-death choice, if indeed he has a choice.

Broderson, 49, had lost 25 pounds and was down to 137 as he sat in detox last week. His hands were shaking, his liver was shot and his eyes were as round and glassy as a calf's.

"He is not trying to drink himself to death," said Dirk Gibson, the addictions program supervisor at Benefis Healthcare. "He just can't stop."

In fact, Broderson has been through the state's chemical dependency centers in Galen and Butte more than 50 times. He can't count the number of other 30-day treatment programs he has undergone.

Broderson has no job and no insurance. State law says no one can be denied treatment because of an inability to pay, so Benefis will write off the cost of his treatment, $400 to $500 a day.

His treatments at the Montana Chemical Dependency Center in Butte run $3,000 to $4,000 a visit. Most of that is paid from a state alcohol tax.

At 14, Broderson started drinking. He dropped out of school and spent as much time as he could on the golf course, a 12-pack tucked away in his cart.

"There was always alcohol in his home," said state Rep. Hal Harper, D-Helena, Broderson's best friend in junior high. "I think he just got sucked down the tube."

In his 20s, Broderson was having blackouts. "I woke up in Idaho once and had no idea in hell how I got there," he said.

Through the years, he has tried many times to quit drinking, he said.

Sober for a year once, he had been admitted to MSU-Northern's School of Nursing, had been given a grant to cover his tuition, and had worked a deal to paint rooms in exchange for food and lodging.

Then a friend invited him out, bought him a soft drink, but drank a beer in front of him.

"I thought if he could have a beer, I could have one, too," Broderson said. "But after one beer, I wanted another. In the course of a week, I had sold my Volvo, my fishing gear and most of my possessions."

He has since been living in downtown Great Falls, subsisting on food stamps and odd jobs.

A few weeks ago, he tried to commit suicide.

"I just gave up," he said. "I'm not contributing anything. I'm just taking up space."

Even as he sat in the hospital, Broderson was craving whiskey.

"I need a shot," he said softly. "There's a guy on my shoulder who keeps saying, `No,' but the guy in red on my other shoulder, he has a louder voice or something."

It's tragic, Harper says.

"If he could have gone down a different road, who knows what he could have done," Harper said of his childhood friend. "He was smart, popular with the girls because he was so cute. He could have done pretty much anything he put his mind to."

"But now, it's just amazing he's still alive."

Anne's story

Anne, a Great Falls grandmother, is a less visible alcoholic.

She was outgoing and efficient, unflappable in her handling of the public, the phones and her balky computer before she retired. She drank only in social situations -- and at home.

Now a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, Anne asked that her name not be used.

She, too, has a family history of alcoholism and a difficult childhood. Unlike Broderson, who is physically addicted to alcohol, Anne has been diagnosed as a psychological alcoholic who instead uses the drug to cover emotional pain.

An only child with an alcoholic father who ignored her and a mother who smothered her with attention, Anne "never felt like I fit in."

Drinking helped her feel like she belonged, but that feeling always dried up the next morning, when she dried out.

"A lot of alcoholics drink because they're lonely," Anne said. "I call it the `hole in the soul' disease, because there's a void in your life that you're always trying to fill."

Anne said she spent her life trying to please others but ignoring her own needs. "Neither my husband nor I ever knew who I was because I was changing so fast trying to become what I thought my husband wanted."

After three suicide attempts came a divorce. After two DUI tickets came a recovery program.

But even a psychological addiction is hard to kick.

"I spent a lot of my early recovery in pain," she said. "I'd want a drink so bad. I'd look at the clock and say, `God, let me stay sober for the next five minutes.' A lot of days, I got through five minutes at a time."

It was also important for her to examine the psychological roots of her illness.

"I spent a lot of time trying to peel away my excuses and my defenses," Anne said. "But when I finally got to the bottom, 98 percent of the time I realized that I was driven by fear that I was inadequate."

Tammera's story

Tammera Nauts began drinking in her early teens, when her family would party with friends after racing sailboats. She would sneak a beer or pour some liquor in a pop can.

"I always felt like I was a little different," she said. "I never fit in. But when I drank, it filled a void and made me feel like I was a part of the crowd."

Her first big drunk came when she was 14: "I drank eight shots of whiskey in half an hour, blacked out and was raped."

"I didn't tell anyone," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "There was the additional shame of having put myself in that position. I felt I was partly responsible for the rape.

In her later teens, she added marijuana and amphetamines to her binges before she turned her life around the first time.

"At 18, I got into Transcendental Meditation, became vegetarian, didn't drink or smoke, didn't even use sugar," she said. "It was the epitome of a lifestyle I wish I could get back to today."

Three years later, she got a job in a restaurant with a great wine cellar. She began drinking again, and became a heavy cocaine user.

She married at 20, became a mother at 21, went back to school and got a divorce.

"I knew there was something wrong -- I was spiritually bankrupt, my body was breaking down, and none of my relationships were working out -- but I never attributed it to alcohol," she said.

Then the alcoholic mother of an alcoholic friend killed herself.

That killed Nauts' denial.

"That was the first thing that really opened my eyes to the power of alcoholism," she said.

Discovery was painful.

"I began to realize that alcohol held my family together," Nauts said. "Our connection to each other was that we drank together."

Clean for 12 years, she is now a certified chemical dependency counselor, helping others avoid the problems she has experienced.

Nauts considers herself lucky to have survived alcoholism, but she has paid a price.

"I lost my husband and almost lost my daughter," she said.

Nauts says conquering her illness has been good for her.

"Knowing that I could survive something so devastating and that I chose life makes me feel like I can do anything I set my mind to and that I can create any kind of a life I want to," she said.

"It's very empowering, although I know there's a higher power who is lovingly supporting me," Nauts added. "I couldn't do this on my own -- I'm just not that powerful."

© 1999 Great Falls Tribune, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.

Babies born drunk: Maza Weya knows she won't live down the worst mistake of her life, but she is determined to shed light on the dangers of fetal alcohol syndrome

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

FORT BELKNAP -- "When they put my baby on my breast, I knew something was wrong, so I lifted my head to look at him," Maza Weya said of her newborn. 

"I could smell the alcohol on his breath," she said. "My baby was born drunk."

After years of drinking everything she could get her hands on, Maza Weya has managed to become sober.

Her son isn't so lucky.

Scarred in the womb by alcohol abuse, he suffered permanent brain damage and is abnormally small.

Fetal alcohol syndrome may affect three dozen babies in Montana each year -- at a lifetime cost estimated at $1.4 million each.

"Alcohol continues to be a bigger threat to larger numbers of children than any illicit drug known to man, including cocaine," said Ann Streissguth, of the University of Washington's fetal alcohol unit.

Treating and caring for the victims of fetal alcohol syndrome is estimated to cost more than $2.5 billion each year nationally.

"In the 10 years since the surgeon general recommended not drinking during pregnancy, there have been at least 70,000 children born in the United States with full FAS," she said.

Then there's a less severe form of the syndrome, fetal alcohol effects, which may affect twice as many babies.

Some doctors also believe drinking by pregnant mothers may be one cause of attention deficit disorder, which has been swelling special education classes.

Since 1979, the number of pregnant mothers who drink heavily has increased dramatically, according to the U.S. Department of Health.

Physical damage is possible for any child whose mother drinks during pregnancy, but counselors at the two treatment centers in Great Falls, Benefis Healthcare and the public school district have a patient load that's predominantly Native American.

"That's because Native (American) people are more comfortable with FAS and speaking about alcoholism, but when you leave the reservation, it's still taboo and there's a lot of denial," said Carlene Red Dog, former FAS coordinator on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation.

But the U.S. Department of Health says some populations are at greater risk for FAS. In fact, the department says the incidence of FAS among Native Americans is more than 30 times that for whites. That number varies greatly among Native American communities.

In bondage to alcohol

Alcohol had ruled the life of Maza Weya, an Assiniboine Indian whose name is translated "Iron Woman."

It started when she first drank herself into a blackout at 15.

"My twin brother excelled at everything," she said, "so I excelled at being an alcoholic."

Her drinking worsened after a marriage ended, and she left two children behind when she became infatuated with a man she met in treatment.

"I ended up by going back to his small community in North Dakota with him," she said. "He was from a prominent white family, and I was the only Indian in town.

"There, I became a raging, raving alcoholic."

She also became pregnant, and they fought and drank for eight months. Then he died in a car wreck.

She returned to Fort Belknap and, even after her son was born, didn't stop drinking.

In fact, she said, doctors recommended she drink two or three beers a day in order to have better breast milk -- and she took that as permission to keep drinking heavily.

"But I don't blame anyone for that recommendation," she said. "Doctors didn't know as much about the effects of alcohol then."

The final drink

After five months, her family intervened and took her baby to raise.

She kept drinking -- everything from whiskey to Lysol spray, she said -- and ended up on skid rows, in detox units and in jails.

She remembers spending nights in the old Weiss Hotel in downtown Great Falls and has a patched bed sheet to remind her of her fall from grace.

The end came when she received legal notification that her sister had adopted her son, and she hadn't been there for the adoption.

"My last drink wasn't a can of beer or a shot of whiskey or a glass of wine," she said. "I found a bottle of perfume, and I drank it."

Working through some 12-step sobriety programs, she began to turn her life around. She came back to the reservation to become a drug and alcohol coordinator in the school system and began to realize the damage she had done.

"My son is an exceptional person, but I noticed that in school he was just a little shadow against the wall," she said.

Finding a purpose

Her son stands 5 feet tall and weighs about 95 pounds.

"Finally, I had to tell him that I had been drinking most of the time I was carrying him and that it affected him," said Weya.

"And he asked why I didn't love him enough that I wouldn't drink while he was inside me. He asked why I had made him so small when he wanted to be tall and strong. He asked if I had given him up because he wasn't perfect, because he was damaged.

"We were both crying," she said, "but all I could do was sit there and take it."

Finally, she told her son that she had to give him up to save his life, a concept he still struggles with.

"I'm not proud of what I've done, but I'm not ashamed of it either," said Weya, now FAS coordinator for the reservation. "I think God put me in this role for a purpose."

These days, she is counseling women about the dangers of drinking while pregnant, using her own life story as an example. Because of the work being done at Fort Belknap, her office also has a grant from the University of New Mexico to study the problem on the reservation.

It's an uphill battle because it's a worsening problem -- and not just for Native Americans.

Pregnant binges

The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta estimates that 1,200 infants are born each year have FAS, which has been labeled the leading cause of mental retardation.

A recent study by University of Washington researchers found that 52 percent of the women surveyed had used alcohol at some time during their pregnancies, and 13 percent had consumed five or more drinks on one occasion -- a phenomenon known as binge drinking.

Studies indicate that greater damage is done to unborn children whose mothers have numerous drinks at one setting.

In a study of 114,000 women in 46 states, the Centers for Disease Control found four times as many pregnant binge drinkers in 1995 as it had found in 1991.

"Binge drinking is becoming a more popular pattern of alcohol use among pregnant women," it noted.

The study said the number of diagnosed fetal alcohol syndrome children was six times greater in 1993 than it had been in 1979. But officials note that there is better awareness now of FAS, which means better reporting.

Montana rates higher

The best estimate now is that one or two children per 1,000 births are afflicted with full fetal alcohol syndrome, while twice that many more have fetal alcohol effects.

The rates appear to be higher in Montana, said Cathy McCann, genetics counselor for Shodair Children's Hospital in Helena.

"I would bet that more than 50 percent of the patients that we see are for the evaluation of fetal alcohol," she said.

Although the state health department doesn't keep track of fetal alcohol conditions, McCann estimated the FAS rate at three children per thousand and said it probably affects 30 to 40 newborns a year in Montana.

Analyzing her own hospital's data over a four-year period, 1995 though 1998, she discovered 59 FAS diagnoses, 356 FAE diagnoses, and 324 cases in which fetal alcohol exposure was suspected but not proved.

"I think Montana is a little higher than the rest of the nation, but I would not attribute that to a higher proportion of Native Americans," she said. "I think drinking is a pastime that occurs in stressful, isolated situations.

"When you look at the fact that we are geographically and socially isolated, when you look at where we stand with wages and the numbers of second jobs, when you consider the relatively high cost of living compared to the salaries paid, I think all of these are stressors."

The egg lady

On the Fort Belknap Reservation, Weya works to lessen the damage of alcohol.

She's known as "the egg lady" because when she talks to school students, she pours grain alcohol on a raw egg at the beginning of her lecture. By the time she has finished, the egg is hardboiled.

"Fetal alcohol syndrome is 100 percent preventable," she tells them, "and it's 100 percent irreversible once you pour alcohol over the egg in your womb."

She works to keep pregnant women sober, and she works with the children who have been victimized by alcohol abuse.

In all of their faces, she sees her own son.

"I go to bed every night thinking about what I've done," she said, "and I'll go to my grave thinking about it."

© 1999 Great Falls Tribune, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.

Families share the problem

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

Mary Keeler's kids remember finding empty beer cans on the coffee table in the afternoon and trying to awaken their mother.

"She was sleeping a lot, and when I'd get home from school, I'd wake her up and ask what was for dinner," said her 12-year-old son Brian. "And she'd say, `What are you still doing here?' like it was still morning.

"I didn't know what was wrong with her," he added, "and it scared me."

Evan Ashby's son remembers being afraid to get in the truck with his father when his dad's speech was too slurred.

"I felt an incredible peace the day my husband lost his job," said Brenda Ashby. "I felt that the worst had finally happened and now all we could do was trust in God to take care of us."

Mary Keeler and Evan Ashby III are alcoholics, an illness shared by perhaps 15 percent of the adults in Montana, according to state health officials.

On average, an alcoholic directly affects the lives of four other family members, friends or co-workers, according to the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism. But it's the family that suffers most damage, says Rod Robinson, executive director of the Gateway Recovery Center in Great Falls.

Alcoholics focus on their drinking, often neglecting their families, he said. Most feel guilty about their behavior and take their anger at themselves out on their families through verbal, emotional or physical abuse.

They also neglect their family responsibilities, forcing spouses and children to take over some of their burdens. Experts say this leads to isolation, loneliness, insecurity and anger. Without treatment, the unhealthy family structure is likely to be passed on. Statistics show that children of alcoholics have a much greater likelihood of becoming alcoholics themselves.

Boredom and beer

Keeler's addiction to alcohol became serious when her kids went off to school and her husband, a long-haul trucker, was on the road.

"I was bored," she said. "I started with a little beer, but in the last couple of years, it got pretty heavy."

Housework was the first casualty. Dirty dishes littered the counters of her Sun Prairie Village home, and there were piles of dirty laundry.

"I remember once Brian asked me to wash his gym clothes, and I did," said Keeler. "But I didn't dry them. He didn't ask me to do that."

Both kids were concerned about the amount of beer their mom was drinking.

"We'd always take a cooler of beer on our trips and that scared me," said Brian.

"I think the times that scared me the most were when she'd get a six-pack of beer in town, put it in the back seat and drink it on the way home," said Stacy, 9.

"I was scared of accidents and of the cops finding out," she added.

But there were no accidents, not even a ticket.

Keeler's world changed three months ago in Rapid City, S.D., as she was on a trip back from delivering a trailer home with her husband, Doug.

They had gone out to dinner, had a few beers and gambled a little. Then she lost it.

"I started to have blackouts and hallucinations, to hear voices and see people who weren't there," she recalled.

"You were hollering and cussing at a candy truck," added her husband.

Doug Keeler knew his wife needed help, so he put her back in the truck and headed home fast.

"She was talking into a CD player that was turned off," he said. "She was talking to friends and people she knew through that turned-off CD player like it was a cell phone."

Doug Keeler checked his wife into the Benefis Healthcare Addiction Medicine Center, where doctors told him the hallucinations and delirium could have been fatal.

After 17 days of inpatient treatment, she was released for outpatient care.

Now the whole family is undergoing counseling and enrolled in various 12-step support groups to help heal the wounds of alcohol.

Back in the family

"I feel as though I've been given the opportunity to start life all over again," said Mary Keeler. "I have a new appreciation for all the things my family is doing now that I can participate in them sober."

Brian feels a burden has been lifted off of him because he isn't forced to do the housework his mother had been neglecting.

"Mom's been getting up in the morning, driving us to the bus stop, helping me with my homework and baking stuff with me," said Stacy. "And I'm not getting as angry as much with my mom."

"I'm looking forward to having a family life," said Doug Keeler. "I'm looking forward to going camping and having the while family with me, physically and emotionally."

Since alcoholism affects the whole family, the treatment must involve them too, experts say.

When the alcoholic ceases fulfilling his or her role in the family, others have to assume the burden, explained Sandra Schwartz, a Benefis family counselor.

"These are all mechanisms for people to cope with the fear, loneliness and shame that they feel," said Mary Ann DuBay, another Benefis family counselor.

"I think people begin to heal and break the cycle when they learn to value themselves," said Schwartz. "Alcoholism is very much a self-esteem issue."

Holding the line

But it's also a matter of personal discipline, as Evan "Skeet" Ashby III found after he left the Air Force.

During his college career at Virginia Military Institute and during his 17 years as a navigator aboard C-135 refueling planes, Ashby kept his drinking under control, most of the time, because his job demanded it.

Then in 1994, he retired from Malmstrom Air Force Base and joined CUC, fielding incoming emergency road service phone calls.

"Without that absolute commandment not to drink for 12 hours before reporting for (military) duty, I gradually began doing things I should not have done," said Ashby.

He didn't spend much time in bars, but he spent a lot of time at home with a big bottle of Scotch.

"His speech would get slurry and I didn't want to be around him," said his 11-year-old son Evan. "He scared me."

"He spent a lot of time in his room, reading books and watching movies," agreed 8-year-old daughter Blair.

Young Evan remembers getting a glider on his last birthday and asking his dad to help him put it together. "He told me, `Maybe someday, but not today.' "

That was frustrating to Brenda Ashby, who let her anger build until it exploded in angry confrontations.

That's a familiar dynamic for family counselors, who tend to see anger growing in those forced to assume some of an alcoholic's family functions.

Only the alcoholic can choose to stop drinking, and that's usually only when the pain of the consequences outweighs the pleasure of drinking.

Denial to recovery

Nothing worked to block Ashby's growing obsession with alcohol. By last year, he was downing about 3.5 liters -- or 120 shots -- of Scotch a week. That's about twice as much as he had been drinking during his Air Force days.

"One night, he had been drinking and his speech was slurred and he frightened me, so I went to hide under the kitchen table," said son Evan. "Then the phone rang. It was my mom, and I told her dad was scaring me.

"She told me if he wanted to drive me anywhere, don't go," he said. "Get out of the house and run to your friend's house."

The drunken nights became half-drunken, hung-over mornings, and on one of them, a few days before last Christmas, Ashby was sent home to sober up.

When he reported to work the next morning, he was fired.

"When we got home that afternoon, I found my husband three sheets to the wind, so I took my kids down to the basement and asked them if they noticed anything about their dad," said Brenda Ashby.

"I said dad looked really depressed and his speech was very slurred," said Evan.

So Brenda Ashby told the kids her husband had lost his job.

Then she took the remainder of the bottle of Scotch to a friend's house and asked her to pour it down a drain.

Finally she came home, gave her husband a mental health hotline number and told him he needed help.

"He made the call and asked for substance abuse," she said. "I was shocked -- but really happy."

"I'm an alcoholic"

One way that the Addiction Medicine Center at Benefis Healthcare breaks through this behavior is with family group sessions, in which people who have hidden their problems for years learn finally that they're not alone.

"Almost without exception, women in our recovery groups heave a sigh of relief when they discover they can talk about their problems, that they can be accepted, and that there's hope," said Schwartz. "They also have to learn to identify their feelings and express them in an appropriate, respectful, non-blaming way."

Treatment also gives children a safe haven in which to demonstrate their feelings.

"Kids are amazing," said DuBay. "We do family sculptures and they show us physically what their roles are. A lot of truth comes out because it's a safe environment for role-playing. Frequently, addicts will be surprised at how others see them."

Sometimes, children can help their parents quit drinking, but usually only with the help of a trained intervention specialists.

"Children have a wide emotional swing from fear to intense anger," said Robinson of the Gateway Recovery Center, "but there's not much ground in the middle.

"They're fearful their parents will go away and stay away," he said, "and they're angry and hurt because they think a parent's drinking is their fault and the fighting that results from it is also their fault.

"It's an angry swirl of emotion," said Robinson. "Left to their own resources, they feel very helpless, very hurt and angry."

Without outside help, he said, children of alcoholics either adopt enabling roles or fall into drinking themselves to punish themselves and others.

Al-Anon is another self-help group for the families of alcoholics, giving them a forum in which they may bounce their problems and frustrations and receive suggestions and understanding. There are several such groups meeting each week in Great Falls.

Once family members understand the roles they play, counselors say, they can choose healthier, more normal ways of getting their needs met.

DuBay said Benefis family counselors have had a 70 percent success rate over the past few years.

"There's such great hope if we can get families to treatment," said Schwartz. "Families have an innate longing for peace, serenity and healing, and we can help them achieve it here."

Rebuilding family bridges

Four months of sobriety and treatment are making a big difference for the Ashby family.

"It's been amazing," said Brenda Ashby. "I had forgotten the person I married, but that person is back now. His sense of humor has returned, and several of my friends have commented that they don't know my husband now."

Ashby is working again, manning a phone for the incoming service calls for National Electronic Warranties.

The kids said their dad's isolation is disappearing.

"Sometimes his voice gets louder and he starts to tickle us and stuff," said Blair.

"He's been roughhousing with us more after treatment," agreed Evan IV. "I think it's a sign that he's feeling better inside."

For Ashby, sobriety has meant reconnecting with himself, relearning self-discipline, honesty and religion in a wide-ranging series of family discussions.

"Alcoholic insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results," he said. "It's denying consequences and outcomes.

"It's not rational behavior, but I did it for years and years," he said. "And I used to get so angry with myself for doing the same stupid things over and over again."

Now the family talks about moral values over dinner or in the car on the way to church.

"The number of times I lied to myself and to others about my drinking is something I'm not proud of," Ashby said. "Sacrificing those moral values simply makes no sense to me now that I'm sober."

That's a painful admission to make publicly.

"This (interview) is for me, to get this off my chest," said Ashby. "And if someone else can learn from this, that's great. We have to share, to help others.

"Reaching out to help others helps me too," he said.

Teen drinking: Brush with death sobers one youth

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

Mike's life was turned around by a kegger that nearly snuffed it out at 16.

"I've been clean ever since," said the high school sophomore. "And I've been doing stuff with my family, stuff that we never used to do before.

"It's brought us a lot closer together," he said.

Keggers and house parties are a rite of spring for many Montana high school students. Proms and graduation ceremonies traditionally trigger illegal teen-age drinking.

It's particularly dangerous, experts say, because teens drink competitively, their bodies are unaccustomed to alcohol and their developing judgment easily can be clouded.

A handful of Montana teens die each spring in car wrecks after such parties.

But Mike's brush with death came during a kegger on a mountainside one chilly night late last March.

"Those kids were lucky," said Chouteau County Sheriff Doug Williams. "It was really close."

A friend, Tim, suggested a camping trip with five other friends, and alcohol was on the agenda. Most of the teens had been drinking together nearly every weekend for some time.

Tim brought a couple of coolers of beer. "I have no idea where it came from," said Mike, "but sometimes people buy it for you."

They began drinking about 5 p.m. as they set up their tents in the Highwood Mountains.

About four hours later, they were feeling no pain. Suddenly, seven carloads of partying seniors showed up, and the whole atmosphere changed.

"We had a fire about as big as a dining room table, and one kid had a set of 15-inch speakers on his car," Mike said.

"It got real loud, and there was plenty of beer," he added.

Some of the sophomores went back to their tents, but Mike and Tim stayed up to party with the seniors.

"I was trying to keep up with them," he said, "but I'd found a bottle of vodka beside the fire and I had switched to that."

Tim passed out about 11 p.m. and nearly fell in the fire. He was placed in his tent.

Shortly afterward, Mike blacked out.

The sheriff's department hit the party about half an hour later, tipped by a suspicious parent, and found two dozen drunken teens around a blazing fire. Snowdrifts were studded with chilling beer cans.

"Everybody ran and threw their beer cans away," Mike said.

"There were a couple of (marijuana) bongs there, and someone threw one in the back of the new truck I had just bought," he said, "so it got impounded."

That's what Mike was told, anyway. He doesn't actually remember anything of the bust. He was unconscious and nearly dead.

"The first teen I found was face down," Chouteau County Sheriff's Deputy John Oeleis said. "When I touched him, he was cold. I thought he might have been dead, but I finally got a very faint and rapid carotid pulse on him."

Oeleis rolled Mike over, found his face and mouth were filled with mud, and cleaned out his airways so that he could breath.

"I don't know how he was breathing," the deputy said.

While he was trying to bring Mike back to life, Oeleis heard a gurgling noise in a nearby tent and thought someone was choking.

"I had trouble getting in because the tent had partially collapsed and the second youth was lying against the door," Oeleis said. "He was lying on his back with a puddle of vomit on his face, partially held in by the fabric of the tent."

The deputy rolled Tim over and cleaned out his mouth so he could breath without choking.

"He was totally covered with vomit, and he was very cold because he was lying on the fabric floor of the tent, which was no warmer than the ground," Oeleis said.

Deputies called for the Mercy Flight chopper to air-evacuate the teens, but later sent them by ground ambulance to Benefis Healthcare.

"Medical personnel felt their chances of survival were not good," Oeleis said.

Five other teens were apprehended, but the rest splashed through the creek, ran up a hillside and escaped.

Williams said his deputies confiscated the liquor, then built up the fire and left. They were afraid the wet teens might freeze in the woods if officers remained on the scene.

"I woke up in the hospital and saw my parents," Mike said. "They were just glad I was alive."

Later, Mike's parents grounded him for six months after he got his truck back. He pleaded guilty to minor in possession of alcohol and possession of drug paraphernalia in Fort Benton, was fined $345 and ordered to receive alcohol counseling.

"I didn't think any of this could ever happen to me," he said. "Almost dying, getting my truck taken away, it just isn't worth it."

Drinking younger

"Kids are starting to drink in the fifth and sixth grades," said Candace Atwood, an addictions therapist for ChemCare Associates. "Most parents just dismiss it, thinking, `Yeah, we drank ,too, when we were kids.'

"But these are totally different times," she said. "They're starting so much earlier, and they're drinking so much more."

Atwood, who runs the county's MIP counseling program, said teens steal alcohol from their parents, shoplift it from stores, get it from older friends brothers or sisters, or pay transients to buy it for them.

"And there are tons and tons of fake IDs that kids make," she added. "These aren't just the problem kids, but the cream-of-the-crop kids."

Because their bodies are still developing, teens experience alcohol more severely than adults.

"They're drinking lots more than adults and their addiction rate is twice that of adults," Atwood said. "When they start drinking as teen-agers, it takes less time for them to become addicted than it does for adults."

Most teens drink

A new survey of 15,455 Montana eighth-, 10th-, and 12th-graders shows about one quarter of the students have never taken a drink, but nearly the same percentage admitted they have used alcohol on 40 or more occasions.

Half told researchers they would take a drink if offered, even though they know it's wrong.

And the vast majority doubt the police or their parents will catch them.

Fifty-nine percent said they took their first drink before they were 15.

That's a major concern, because the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism says kids who begin drinking before the age of 15 are four times more likely to become problem drinkers.

More than 40 percent of those who began drinking before 15 become alcohol dependent at some point in their lives, it said.

"My mom was an alcoholic, so I've been drinking as long as I can remember," said Allison Bayne, a 16-year-old sophomore at Great Falls High School who recently completed a treatment program at Benefis Healthcare.

In foster homes since she was 5, Bayne said she used drugs and alcohol as a way of escaping the pain.

"I'd find myself drifting apart from my foster family, not wanting to be a part, not focusing on my school work, just being selfish," she said.

Using booze for escape is pretty common, Bayne said.

"At my age, kids drink to get drunk," she said. "Society isn't exactly wholesome and homes aren't what they used to be, so a lot of kids drink to forget their problems and their pain.

"And a lot do it to get sex -- they say they slept with so-and-so, but that it's OK because they were drunk," she said.

"Being drunk can be an excuse to do all kinds of bad things."

Teens in court

Tuesday afternoon is MIP day in Municipal Court, and it transforms the Civic Center.

Teens sit on the steps outside waiting for their parents, or they crowd the courtroom in the basement waiting to appear before Judge Nancy Luth.

There were 696 MIP charges filed last year, up from 593 in 1997 and 582 in 1996.

"I got busted for drinking in a motel after the senior prom," Christina said. "I called my mom and asked her to come get me, but she said she couldn't because she'd been drinking, too."

It was Christina's third conviction for minor in possession of alcohol.

"I keep telling her she's got to learn to quit getting caught," her mom said. "When I was her age, I was a lot faster."

One recent Tuesday, about 30 kids and their parents packed the courtroom.

Most had been charged with minor in possession of tobacco, but at least five had been charged with alcohol possession.

One young teen's attorney had negotiated a plea bargain under which she would plead guilty to three MIPs over the past year and promise to remain in high school if prosecutors would drop three other outstanding MIPs.

"Six MIPs is uncommon, but it's not rare," said Tony Lucas, a city attorney.

Luth told the girl, Nicole, that she had a major problem.

"You need to take a hard look at your drinking," Luth said.

"When you are 16 years old and you blow a .206 into the machine (more than twice the legal intoxication limit), you need to get a grip on your life."

Nicole was fined $660, ordered to perform 40 hours of community service, and warned of the consequences of continued drinking when she turns 18 in another month.

"If you get another MIP, I guarantee you that you will go to jail," Luth said. "There will be no hesitation on the part of this court to send you there."

Luth is no shrinking violet and doesn't hesitate to challenge a defiant youth.

One teen, Jennifer, told Luth she had been caught drinking in a car after she had told her mother that she would be at a going-away party at which there would be no alcohol.

"You lied to your mother," said Luth, "and I think you owe her an apology."

Jennifer mumbled she was sorry without looking at her mother.

"I've got a 10-year-old son who can apologize more sincerely than that," snapped Luth. "Please tell your mother you've been irresponsible, you're sorry, and you won't do it again."

Jennifer did, but she left the courtroom with an angry flush to her cheeks.

"We see all kinds of kids in here," said Lucas after court. "Some are just kids who are doing kid stuff.

"But some are 16-year-olds who blow a .26," he added. "And that's usually a sign that they've been drinking a lot for a long time."

Facing jail at 18

When teen-agers turn 18, the laws change suddenly. Instead of a fine and community service, those convicted of MIPs face the possibility of jail time.

In Justice Court last week, Justice Mike Smartt was waiting to arraign 19-year-old Misty Brott, who had been charged with her eighth offense of minor in possession of alcohol.

"Is Misty Brott in incarceration awaiting arraignment," the judge asked a closed-circuit television monitoring the regional jail.

No answer. Then Brott's brother Dale, 21, clad in bright orange coveralls, told the judge he thought she had been transferred out.

"Is Misty Brott in this courtroom?" asked the judge.

No answer.

Later, Cascade County Attorney Brant Light said a warrant would be issued for Brott's arrest, but he said the justice system has been relatively successful.

"There are some towns around the state that don't do anything about kids who drink," said Light, "but we cite them, bring them in, fine them, require them to do community service, take their drivers' licenses away sometimes, and impose consequences on them.

"And we bring their parents in -- sometimes I would send an officer out to bring in parents who failed to appear -- and encourage them to take their own separate actions against their children.

"Most of those kids we only see once, so the system does work," he said.

"Of course, there are some multiple offenders, but I don't see how we could do any more under the current statutes."

© 1999 Great Falls Tribune, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.

Bane of the Blackfeet: Alcoholism runs rampant among Native Americans, and residents of Montana's most populous reservation are no exception. The reasons are debated, but the staggering cost is undeniable.

Blackfeet Law Enforcement patrolman Joely Heavy Runner gives a field sobriety test to a motorist. -- (Tribune photo by Larry Beckner)

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

BROWNING -- As the patrol car rounded the corner behind Ick's Bar, Lorinda Grant dropped the quart bottle of beer she had been swigging -- but it was too late.

"Don't fool with my nerves, Jay," Grant told the officer as he put her in the police car. "I'm scared to go to jail. I've been hitting it hard for a month now, and I'm gonna go bananas without another drink.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she demanded, hands shaking and tears running down her cheeks.

"I'm keeping you safe tonight so you'll be alive tomorrow," officer Jay Young Running Crane said.

As Grant was being booked for public intoxication at the Blackfeet tribal jail that Friday night, three others also were being jailed for alcohol-related offenses -- one for DUI, one for disorderly conduct and one for trespassing.

"If we didn't have such easy access to alcohol, there wouldn't be such problems," Young Running Crane said.

Native Americans in Montana -- most of whom live on one of seven Indian reservations -- comprise 7 percent of the state's population. But they suffer from alcoholism at a far greater rate than others.

While specific data isn't recorded for Montana, national statistics show that Native Americans have alcohol dependence rates three times higher than the national average.

Veterans Administration records show that 45 percent of the Indian vets were alcohol-dependent, twice the rate for non-Indian vets.

The Native American death rate for people ages 15-24 is 11.4 times higher than for other Americans, according to the federal Center for Substance Abuse Treatment.

"The excess death of younger people is attributed to higher rates for homicide, suicide, accidents and death attributable to alcoholism," said a report done in 1994 by the center.

The Indian Health Service says that 17 to 19 percent of all Indian deaths are alcohol-related, compared with 4.7 percent for the general population.

"Alcohol or other drug addiction is culminating in the destruction of Native American populations," the report concluded.

Life on the street

In Browning, the number of bars has actually diminished.

There's a motel bar on the east side of town and a state liquor store downtown. Two downtown bars lock their doors and admit only favored patrons, but sell beer and liquor to go.

About 50 regulars buy booze from the three downtown outlets and drink in the alleys or "the jungle," a vacant lot with brush and trees beside one of the bars.

"I'm on the streets because I can't find a job and I'm an alcoholic," said Eula Kicking Woman, who said she is a University of Montana graduate and once worked for the Urban League and the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

With a population of 1,170, according to the 1990 Census, Browning proper has about 50 street people who live on the bottle, officials say. Statistically, if Great Falls had a problem that severe, it would have more than 2,300 alcoholics on the street.

While most people on reservations live far more typical, sober lives, many acknowledge that the effects of booze have undermined their communities.

"Everyone on this reservation has been touched directly or indirectly by alcohol," said Herman Whitegrass, a chemical dependency counselor for the tribe. "In fact, most of us have relatives who are alcoholics, living on the street."

It's the alcoholics who provide most of the work for the reservation doctors, nurses, ambulance attendants, cops and jailers.

And it's their names that keep showing up on the police blotter.

"A lot of those people we've almost raised in this jail," Police Chief Fred Guardipee said. "Many of them spend the winter with us."

Aldon Potts comes quickly to the chief's mind.

"I don't believe Aldon has ever spent more than three consecutive days outside of our jail," Guardipee said. "And when he's here and sober, he just runs this place."

As it turned out, Potts had been released from jail just hours before with a 10-day sentence suspended on condition of good behavior.

By suppertime, he was in `the jungle" trying to get a drink and in Ick's package store, where the clerk refused to sell him liquor.

And a little before midnight, he was arrested again. After threatening to punch out the arresting officer and after pushing the jailer around, he was held overnight in the drunk tank.

"This jail is really just a revolving door for drunks," Young Running Crane said. "They get a bed and breakfast for a couple of days, then they either get a suspended sentence or they bond out for about $40.''

Medical reasons

Why is there so much drinking on the reservations?

Some doctors believe a predisposition to alcoholism is passed on genetically. One early study, for example, found that Indians have difficulty metabolizing alcohol.

However, that study was flawed, said Philip May, former chairman of the sociology department at the University of Montana and outgoing head of the University of New Mexico's Center on Alcoholism.

"All of the remaining studies of alcohol metabolism among Indians found Indians to metabolize alcohol as rapidly, or more rapidly, than matched controls who were non-Indian," May said.

Furthermore, Indians are uncomfortable with the medical model because it suggests alcoholism may be inevitable, said Dr. Kathleen Masis, behavioral health officer for the IHS in Billings.

"But being children of alcoholics predisposes people to alcoholism, whether or not it's inherited," she said. "Sons of alcoholics are four times more likely to become alcoholics themselves."

Cultural causes

Like many tribes, the Blackfeet never used drugs or alcohol, even during religious ceremonies, until white men introduced it in the mid 1800s, Whitegrass said.

"The fur trappers who introduced alcohol to the Indians were either alcoholics themselves or they used alcohol abusively," Masis said. "So Native American people learned to use alcohol to get drunk."

That attitude was reinforced by the Indian Prohibition Action of 1832, which prohibited the sale of alcohol to Indians. It was repealed in 1953.

Bootleggers abounded, and Indians learned to drink quickly, behavior that has been called the "gulping mechanism."

"They consumed alcohol quickly so that it would be in them, not in their possession where they could be caught with it," Masis said.

Contributing to the problem was the loss of the Indian way of life.

"Just look at the elimination of the buffalo, which destroyed their economic base -- and that's only 100 years ago," Masis said. "Then look at their lost language, the boarding school experience, and the other abuses ... ask yourself what whites would have done."

The prevalence also explains why traditional treatment hasn't done much good, she said.

"You can't just send everyone to treatment and expect them to come back and be sober when all their families, friends and social support systems are still using alcohol," Masis said.

Darrell Norman, owner of the Lodgepole Gallery in Browning, said his father drank to get drunk, a behavior he adopted.

"No one ever taught us to drink in moderation," he said. "We had no role models."

One bad New Year's Eve convinced him he must change, so he quit drinking for seven years, Norman said.

"Then my fiancée looked at me and asked what I was afraid of -- the substance or myself.

"Now I can enjoy a good glass of wine or a microbrew. But I have also learned there's a limit beyond which I cannot go."

Spiritual loss

Loss of the traditional Indian religion has led to a spiritual gap that some fill with alcohol.

"There's more young people on the streets than there were 10 or 15 years ago," said Clifford Calf Tail, one of the street people of Browning.

"But we need to be healed spiritually before we can be healed physically," he said.

Without a strong spiritual underpinning, Calf Tail said, Native Americans are powerless before the poverty, illness, premature death and abuse so common in the community.

Earl Old Person, chief of the Blackfeet Nation, has worried about the increase in alcoholism during his years of tribal leadership. He was a member of the tribal business council for about four decades and has been chief since 1978.

"Young people are seeking something," Old Person said. "A lot of them are doing traditional sweats to cleanse themselves and give themselves more strength. I think it's really helping our young people."

But the chief, now 70, said it has become harder for the elders to communicate with the young people.

"Some of our young people are afraid to talk to our elders, and some of our elders are afraid to talk to our young people because they are afraid they won't be accepted," he said.

"But when we keep these things to ourselves, it only hurts us."

Bleak economy

"There's no work around here," complained Garrett Many White Horses, a frequent resident of "the jungle."

"If I had a job, I'd get my wife back," he said. "That's why families break up."

Native Americans make up about 7 percent of the state's population, but Indian adults received 26 percent of the state's welfare checks two years ago when Montana began its push to get welfare recipients back onto the job.

As the welfare rolls were cut in half in the past few years, Native Americans found it no easier to get jobs. Today, they receive 42 percent of the adult welfare checks.

"We don't have jobs, and our people need work," Old Person said. "Fighting fires isn't pleasant, but our people do it to help their families.

"A lot of people think the Blackfeet Nation just wants handouts, but what we really want is jobs. Our people would work if it was there."

Search for solutions

Masis of the IHS also links unemployment and alcoholism.

"Someone who is employed, has a sober spouse and is supported by a strong social support system stands a better chance of success," she said. "In fact, employment is one of the best predictors of success in sobriety."

Young Running Crane sees some hope in the D.A.R.E. program, which is teaching students in Browning schools to avoid alcohol and drugs.

And he keeps a strict eye on his own teen-age daughter, monitoring her activities and friends as he cruises the streets in his patrol car.

Masis has seen a growing sobriety movement on the reservations.

"There's a lot of hope," she said. "I've heard that Native Americans are one of the fastest-growing segments of the American sobriety movement, which is one of the most powerful forces of our time."

On the Blackfeet Reservation, Whitegrass teamed up with June Tatsey, the tribe's medical director, and Gerald Cooper, a security officer for the Blackfeet Tribal Hospital, to raise public awareness of the danger of alcohol by creating a series of sobriety marches.

At the first march several years ago, Whitegrass remembers stopping at each street corner and blowing sweetgrass smoke to the four compass points, called smudging, to purify the streets.

"And I remember passing a big beer truck with the driver hiding his face in shame, so we smudged the beer truck, too," Cooper said.

Several hundred people joined them on that first march, and each has grown a little bigger since.

Out of the sobriety marches grew the idea of banning alcohol sales on the reservation during the North American Indian Days in mid-July.

"It was a gut-wrenching decision," said Tatsey, adding that she was terrified there would be a huge accident on the road to Cut Bank, a town off the reservation where the bars were still open.

Earlier this year, it became obvious that something had to be done.

"In seven weekends, we lost seven of our children, one each weekend," Cooper said.

Ultimately, the tribal council bought the notion and passed a resolution barring all sales of alcohol on the reservation July 8-12.

Later, Tatsey, Whitegrass and Cooper were relieved to find that crime and accident rates dropped dramatically during that period.

"We, as Indian people, have to solve our own problems," Tatsey said. "People have come to us with well-meaning solutions, but until we're willing to address our own problems, nothing will have changed."

Now, they're gearing up for a push to make the whole reservation dry -- permanently.

"We're all in the health-care field, and we're looking at the future of our Blackfeet people," Tatsey said. "At one time, we were a strong, healthy people. Now we need a positive environment for our children, so the Blackfeet Nation can be healthy again."

Whitegrass noted that well-meaning efforts like welfare actually have made things worse.

"Some people need the welfare system to get a step up, but other people get stuck in it," Whitegrass said. "I believe the welfare system has disabled us by enabling people to continue their destructive behaviors."

Change must come quickly, Cooper said.

"Are we going to walk into the new millennium with our heads held high, or are we going to stagger in drunk?" he asked. "It's our choice."

© 1999 Great Falls Tribune, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.

Crime: A glimpse into the corrections system reveals hidden, yet staggering, price society pays for addiction.

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

DEER LODGE -- Clive Kinlock is serving 70 years in prison for a violent crime fueled by alcohol.

That's an all-too-common problem here.

At the Montana State Prison, 85 percent of inmates are behind bars because of behavior caused by alcohol or drug abuse, according to chemical dependency counselors.

"I know a few people in here who say they don't have a drug or alcohol problem," inmate Marty Quick, said in a recent interview, "but I don't believe I know any that I actually believe."

It's a costly problem, more so than most taxpayers realize. The state spent $46.8 million last year locking away its adult criminals and another $1.5 million on prerelease centers and parole officers.

Those figures don't include expenses for county or city jails.

The U.S. prison population is on the rise - from 1980 to 1996 it tripled, in large part because of criminal activity spawned by drug and alcohol abuse, according to the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University.

Although illegal drugs share the blame, alcohol was the real culprit, center chairman Joseph A. Califano Jr. said.

"Contrary to conventional wisdom and popular myth, alcohol is more tightly linked with violent crime than crack, cocaine, heroin or any illegal drug," Califano said in a report last year.

Booze is why Kinlock is serving a 70-year sentence at the prison, a sprawling complex surrounded by guard towers and fences in the shadow of the Bitterroot Mountains.

A native of Jamaica, Kinlock was stationed at Malmstrom Air Force Base in Great Falls, but got kicked out of the service because of his violent behavior.

"I was blasted, and a couple of guys got in my face," he said quietly in a recent interview. "I dealt with it the best way that I could, which was physical violence."

As his military career was ending, Kinlock increasingly was unable to deal with the responsibilities of marriage and fatherhood.

"Marriage drove me to drink," he said. "Baby after baby caused me to run from responsibility. Drink caused me not to be the husband I could have been or the father I should have been.

"That was a simple lack of responsibility on my part."

In November 1991, as the bank was foreclosing on his Great Falls home, Kinlock spent the night drinking, then abducted the barmaid, raped her several times and slit her throat.

"When I woke up the next morning and realized what I had done, I wanted to turn myself in," he said. "Then the police took matters out of my hands and arrested me.

"I sobered up real quick then."

Expanding programs

Recognizing the need for treatment, the 1995 Montana Legislature expanded the prison's chemical dependency program and funded six counseling positions.

But even that wasn't enough. Waiting lists contained the names of 500 or 600 inmates seeking help, and Ken Ingle, supervisor of the Prison's Substance Abuse Program, was forced to concentrate on treating those closest to release.

With a 70-year sentence, Kinlock wasn't eligible for a treatment program -- but he wasn't about to be stopped by a mere policy.

"Clive was one of the meanest p--s in this institution," said Bill Martin, head counselor on the prison`s high-security side. "He did a lot of fighting in the yard, and he hurt a lot of people."

Kinlock's perspective changed, though, when his wife came to visit him in prison and he wasn't allowed to hold his newborn son.

"I realized then that I would never have a significant role in my son's life," Kinlock said. "So I decided to connect with my higher power to become a better person."

That wasn't easy to do, however.

"Clive was in communication with me for six months, persuading me to get him into the program," Martin said. "He was so persuasive that I finally let him in.

"I figured he'd probably break in about a month, but he took off, and now he's a real leader, a positive force in my groups."

Key is changed thinking

The substance-abuse program is designed to help chemically dependent offenders by breaking down their denial and leading them to voluntary self change.

At a recent group meeting, inmates talked about their problems. One convict discussed his anger when he got only beatings from an alcoholic father while his younger brothers got toys and new clothing.

"One day, my brother got a new jacket, and I was jealous," he said. "So I poured gasoline on it and set it on fire and told him to go jump in a mud puddle."

"You've had an awful childhood, and you've done some awful things yourself, but you can't go on being a victim and using that as an excuse to keep going down the same path," counselor Dan Oberweiser told the inmate.

Similarly, Oberweiser said many inmates use their drinking as an excuse to continue criminal behavior.

"We usually committed our crimes sober and then partied later," agreed another inmate. "But when I got caught, I'd tell them I was drunk and plead diminished capacity."

The groups spend a lot of time looking at a chart called "errors in thinking," a list of excuses people use for continuing criminal behavior: things like being a victim themselves, being irresponsible, having personal fears and a need to control events and people.

"For years, we used to turn loose clean and sober criminals," Oberweiser said. "Now we have found that we need to change their thinking.

"Many of them don't like themselves, and that's why they self-medicate" with drugs and alcohol.

Learning to live with self

For Kinlock, sobriety and treatment meant coming to terms with the consequences of his crimes.

"I began thinking about the pain I caused my own family, but also the pain I caused my victim and her family," he said. "That's when I knew I needed help."

Kinlock said he can make between $20 and $25 a month working for the prison's chemical dependency program. He has begun sending $10 a month to a battered women's shelter.

"That's my way of making amends," he said. "Before everything happened to me, I battered my own spouse.

"I'm not proud of it," he said slowly, "but I feel I'm one of the reasons those places came about, so I want to help. It's a way of healing, of learning to live with myself."

Kinlock is still married, but his wife and family live in Calgary and he sees them only about once a year.

He also expects to be deported to Jamaica when he finishes his sentence.

For now, however, he works as an inmate counselor with the chemical dependency program on the high-security side, which provides a huge challenge -- even behind bars.

"It's still about choice," Kinlock said. "It would still be real easy to go back into the unit and smoke a joint or drink some pruno," a prison-fermented liquor made of fruit and sugar-water.

Virtually everyone is prone to such temptations, Kinlock said.

"In this institution, I don't believe I've run into five people who didn't have a problem with alcohol or drugs in the commission of their crimes or in the aftermath," he said.

Inmates helping inmates

The prison's chemical dependency program has been successful because it is run primarily by inmates.

Kinlock counsels fellow inmates, and half a dozen others form an inmate advisory group to brief Ingle on their concerns and suggestions.

As inmate advisers sat around a table on recent afternoon, their enthusiasm was contagious.

The program "was the first time anyone had asked my opinion about anything," said Scott Rule, who heads the prison's inmate advisory council and who is serving a 20-year sentence, with five years suspended, on a 1990 incest conviction.

"It got inmates talking to other inmates," he said. "It allowed us to take responsibility for our own treatment."

That's not an easy process for anyone.

"You have to be committed to a turnaround," said Ed Cowan, serving a 30-year sentence, 20 years suspended, for molesting a child. "I've committed to changing my behavior, my feelings and some of my bad thoughts."

Rule said he entered prison the first time with a drinking problem, but he returned the second time with a sobriety problem.

"I couldn't live life sober," he said. "But now I'm learning to live my life sober. I'm doing the sweats (sweat lodges) and working with a priest who's a Zen Buddhist and encourages meditation."

To supplement the counseling, inmates have formed several Alcoholics Anonymous groups at which attendance is voluntary.

"It's the one thing I do for myself, and when I miss it, I feel like I've been cheated," said Quick, who is serving a 15-year sentence for intimidating a witness in an earlier drug case.

With those attitudes, the treatment programs have been successful.

Three years ago, the prison offered two recovery groups attended by about eight inmates each. Today, nearly 150 inmates are enrolled in the chemical dependency programs.

Three years ago, there were two Alcoholics Anonymous groups attended by three or four inmates. Today, there are five, attended voluntarily by about 100 inmates, Ingle said.

"Now I'm glad I'm in prison," said Derek Montoya, serving a 20-year sentence, 10 suspended, for sexual assault. "It has taught me a lesson: I don't ever want to be back here again.

"I'd be lying if I told you I'm never going to have a drink again, but as long as I hold onto the spirituality I learned here, I'll be OK."

Although there has been some improvement, the waiting list for alcohol and drug treatment at MSP is substantial.

Three years ago, as many as 600 inmates awaited treatment, and Ingle estimated he could treat only about 25 percent of the convicts who needed help before their release.

Last month, the waiting list was down to 345.

Ingle also did a followup check on inmates who had been through his program. One year after release, only 9 percent had been re-arrested and 1 percent had violated their parole.

By comparison, 48 percent of all prison inmates violate their parole or probation or commit a new crime within three years after their release, Department of Corrections spokesman Mike Cronin said.

It costs more than $20,700 to lock up one prisoner for a year, so it doesn't take long for the chemical dependency program to justify its $280,000 annual budget.

"If this program keeps 18 inmates out of prison for a year, it more than pays for itself," Ingle said.

While the program makes an impact, so does prison itself, Ingel said.

"You won't find an 80-acre patch of land anywhere in Montana that contains more human suffering than there is here," he said. "So if it's pain that turns people's lives around, it lives right here in MSP."

Incarceration in America

Prisons contain a population about equal to that of Houston, the nation's fourth- largest city. Twelve of the 50 states have populations smaller than the number of American prisoners.

If current trends continue, by the year 2000, the nation will break the $100 million-a-day barrier in spending to incarcerate individuals with serious drug and alcohol problems.

For every 100,000 people in Japan, 47 go to prison. In most European countries, fewer than 100 people out of the 100,000 are put behind bars. In the United States, as of 1996, 868 people out of every 100,000 people were sent to prison -- 8 of 10 of them for behavior blamed on drug and alcohol abuse.

THINKING ERRORS

Chemical dependency counselors at Montana State Prison are asking prisoners to look at their own attitudes, recognizing that the way inmates think about themselves influences their behavior. For their behavior to improve, inmates must change the way they think about themselves and their relationships to others.

These are the types of thinking habits and errors inmates are being asked to change:

Closed thinking

These people are not open to change, don't think critically and reveal little about themselves. They are good at pointing out the faults of others, and they often lie by omission.  

Victimstance

These people view themselves as victims, not victimizers. They blame others -- their family, childhood, social conditions, the past -- for their behavior.

Viewing self as "good people"

These people focus only on their own positive attributes, fail to acknowledge their own destructive behavior and build themselves up at the expense of others.

Lack of effort

Some people are unwilling to do anything that appears boring or disagreeable, and use the phrase "I can't," which really means "I won't."

Lack of responsible performance

These people see responsible living as unrewarding and unsatisfying, particularly if there's no immediate reward. They also lack a sense of obligation.

Lack of time perspective

These people don't learn from the past, and expect others to act immediately upon demand. They make decisions based on assumptions, not facts. 

Fear of fear

These people have irrational fears but refuse to admit them. They have a fundamental fear of injury or death and a profound fear of putdowns. They also feel worthless when held accountable.

Power thrust

These people have a compelling need to be in control of every situation, even if it requires manipulation and deceit. They refuse to be dependent unless they can take advantage of someone by being so.

Uniqueness

These people see themselves as different and better than others, but they expect others to do things they fail to do. They cut fear of failure with super-optimism, but quit at the first sign of failure. 

Ownership attitude

These people perceive people and things as objects to possess, but have no concept of the ownership rights of others. They use sex for power and control, not intimacy.

© 1999 Great Falls Tribune, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.

Cost to taxpayers

Alcoholism levies huge hidden cost

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

HELENA -- Alcohol costs state government -- and Montana taxpayers -- dearly.

Montana spends nearly $19 million a year to regulate the sale of booze and treat some of the obvious alcohol-related problems.

That's greater than the annual budget for the Montana Highway Patrol, which is about $16.6 million.

Since most alcoholics deny they have a problem, however, hidden costs drive the state's spending up significantly.

Hidden costs may total an additional $135 million, according to a   Tribune analysis. That's more than the state spends on the university system, about $120 million a year.

"I can't quarrel with your numbers," said Dave Lewis, director of the governor's budget office. "It's certainly eye-opening to see the amount of money that alcohol costs the state."

Foster care

Montana spends about $40 million on adoption assistance, foster care and assisted independent living programs.

Montana has 2,000 to 2,200 children in foster care on any given day, said Shirley Tiernan, chief of the health department's family services bureau.

"Alcohol use is a big factor in children being removed from their homes," said Tiernan. "Most of our foster care cases are related to alcohol."

Roughly three-quarters of the cases have underlying chemical dependency issues, estimated Chuck Hunter, head of the health department's Division of Child and Family Services.

That's a hidden cost of about $30 million, but even cutting that in half could be a cost of $15 million.

Known costs: None.

Hidden costs: $15 million.

Family violence

The state spends $703,000 to counsel children on domestic violence.

How much of that can be attributed to alcohol abuse?

"Most of our domestic abuse cases involve alcohol, either by one or both parties," said Great Falls Police Chief Bob Jones.

"Alcohol plays a great part," the chief added. "People get angry, don't try to defuse the situation, and that leads to assaults."

Last year, Montana instituted a Domestic Violence Program with a statewide budget of $652,000.

According to figures provided by the YWCA Mercy Home, domestic abuse costs Montana businesses more than $10 million a year in absenteeism and medical bills.

Again, Hunter estimated that about three-quarters of the domestic abuse cases have underlying chemical dependency causes.

Three-quarters of the costs of domestic abuse would be $8.5 million. To be conservative, cutting that figure in half would be $4.25 million.

Known costs: None.

Hidden costs: $4.25 million.

Counseling

Montana spends $260,000 a year on its Employee Assistance Program, which says that only 4 percent of the state workers report substance abuse problems.

That seems low in light of the fact that the health department estimates that 9 percent of the adults in the state need substance abuse treatment.

And Great Falls counselor Wava Goetz recently reviewed the 700 cases she has handled over the past five years and came to a startling discovery.

Two-thirds of her cases were alcohol-related.

Known costs: $260,000.

Hidden costs: None.

Welfare

There's also the welfare world.

The state spends $89 million in federal Medicaid funds, $52.4 million on food stamps, and $26.7 million on the FAIM (Families Achieving Independence in Montana) program.

It spends an additional $16 million on child-care funds to cushion the transition from welfare to entry-level job wages, plus $185,000 to stock the state food bank network.

State health department officials estimate that 25 percent to 50 percent of their clients are unable to hold jobs because of their alcohol abuse. The low end of that estimate would be $46 million.

Known costs: None.

Hidden costs: $46 million.

Mental illness

The state spends $84.4 million on treating mental illness. Much is not related to alcohol, but some is.

"There are clearly some people suffering from mental illness due to alcohol or drug use, either by themselves or by their parents," said Anderson.

"And it's often impossible to determine which is the primary problem," he added.

Anderson noted that 26 percent of the patients admitted to state mental hospitals have a dual diagnosis with a mental illness and chemical dependency. That percentage of the mental health budget would be $21.9 million, but halving that cost to be conservative would be about $11 million.

Known costs: unknown.

Hidden costs: $11 million.

Developmental disabilities

The state spends about $38 million to fund developmental disability centers in each county, as well as the Montana Developmental Center and Eastmont, but alcohol and drug abuse aren't a significant problem, said Joe Mathews, who heads the heath department's Disabilities Services Division.

"FAS/FAE patients are present, but not in a significant number," Mathews said.

Known costs: None.

Hidden costs: Low.

Voc rehab

Vocational rehabilitation serves about 7,000 Montanans a year, but only 150 of them last year had alcoholism as a primary diagnosis, said Mathews.

The department doesn't track those who have alcoholism as a contributing problem, he said.

"My guess is that a fairly substantial number of people we serve have a secondary diagnosis of alcoholism," he said.

"But that's strictly a professional guess," he added. "We don't track that and I don't have the data to back that up."

The vocational rehab program is budgeted to spend $14.9 million this year, and Mathews estimated that 25 percent to 30 percent of that could be attributed to alcohol abuse.

Known costs: None

Hidden costs: $3.7 million.

Special education

The state Office of Public Instruction spends $1.9 million a year on an alcohol- and drug-free educational program for students.

And it spends $33 million educating children with various disabilities, including fetal alcohol syndrome and fetal alcohol effect -- both of which are caused by mothers who drink while they are pregnant.

Only a small percentage of the students have FAS/FAE, but educators note that attention deficit disorder has the same symptoms as FAE, except that there's no proven cause.

Proving FAE "requires mothers to admit that they've been drinking during pregnancy," said Gail Cleveland, who's in charge of the Great Falls school district special education program. "So they deny it, and the physicians don't press the issue."

Education officials can't estimate what percentage of the special education budget may be attributable to alcohol abuse, but a conservative 10 percent would be about $3 million.

Known costs: $1.9 million.

Hidden costs: $3 million.

Justice Department

The state Department of Justice spends about $3 million each year on substance abuse programs, including the cost of the D.A.R.E. programs in public schools.

And it underwrites a DUI Task Force to the tune of about $250,000 a year.

In fiscal 1999, Montana Highway Patrol officers wrote 3,300 tickets for driving under the influence of alcohol, about 6.5 percent of the 50,400 tickets written that year.

And about 29 percent of the drivers involved in fatal auto collisions had been drinking, down from about 50 percent a decade ago, according Col. Craig Reap, former head of the highway patrol.

The highway patrol budget is about $16.6 million a year, so 6.5 percent if its budget -- $1.1 million -- could be considered a hidden cost.

Known costs: $3.25 million.

Hidden costs: $1.1 million.

Courts

State district courts cost taxpayers $3.4 million a year. It's impossible to break out what percentage of this is alcohol-related.

Known costs: None.

Hidden costs: Unknown.

Corrections

Since the Legislature made felonies of all DUI offenses after the third conviction, Montana spends more than $1 million a year locking away drunken drivers.

And a number of prisoners were released on probation or parole, but imprisoned again because their continued drinking violated the terms of their release. The Department of Corrections could not give a specific number because it does not track the reasons for parole or probation revocation.

The state spends $34,000 for a substance abuse program at Pine Hills, plus $265,000 more on a similar program at the Montana State Prison.

But that's only a drop in the bucket for the juvenile and adult justice programs, which total $64 million.

A health department study several years ago found that 60 percent of all prison inmates had a lifetime alcohol disorder, compared to about 9 percent of all Montanans.

But a prison study showed that 85 percent of its inmates had substance abuse problems, were imprisoned for crimes committed while they were drunk or high, or committed crimes to get the money to buy alcohol or drugs.

"I know a few people here who are not addicted to alcohol and drugs, but they are very rare cases," said inmate Randy Pretty Weasel, an alcoholic who is serving a 10-year assault sentence.

"They're a very small percentage of our prison inmates," added Pretty Weasel.

Taking the lower of the estimates, 60 percent of the Corrections Department $89 million budget could mean hidden costs of $53 million.

Known costs: $1.3 million.

Hidden costs: $53 million.

How big is the problem?

"We have no idea," said Roland Mena, who heads the state's chemical dependency program. "This is something that state government has never tried to determine.

"Your articles (in the Tribune) have served as a catalyst to force us to look at this problem in a new way."

THE COSTS

Following are conservative dollar estimates of the costs, both known and hidden, to Montana taxpayers of alcohol abuse.

Corrections

Known costs:

$1.3 million.

Hidden costs:

$53 million.  

Welfare

Known costs:

None.

Hidden costs:

$46 million. 

Foster care

Known costs:

None.

Hidden costs:

$15 million.

Treatment

Known costs:

$12.2 million.

Hidden costs:

$212,500

Mental Illness

Known costs:

unknown.

Hidden costs:

$11 million.

Special ed

Known costs:

$1.9 million.

Hidden costs:

$3 million.

Justice Department

Known costs:

$3.25 million.

Hidden costs: $1.1 million.

Family violence

Known costs:

None.

Hidden costs:

$4.25 million. 

Voc rehab 

Known costs:

None.

Hidden costs:

$3.7 million.

Counseling

Known costs:

$260,000.

Hidden costs:

None.

© 1999 Great Falls Tribune, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.

Treatment programs

Alcohol addiction confounds officials

By Eric Newhouse

Tribune Projects Editor

Montana spends some $8 million a year treating alcoholics, only to watch two out of three return to the bottle.

"It's heartbreaking to watch these people drink themselves to death," said Pete Townsend, emergency services manager for Opportunities Inc. "But a lot of people don't want to get any better."

There's plenty of booze -- and trouble caused by it -- in Montana. The state ranks ninth overall in the amount of alcohol consumed per person. And state officials estimate that more than 120,000 Montanans have serious drinking problems.

Consequently, treatment centers fill up quickly -- often with familiar faces.

In fiscal 1999, 4,450 Montanans were admitted to public and private state-approved inpatient programs for treatment of alcoholism. The majority -- 2,350 -- had been treated previously, 2,100 entered treatment for the first time.

The state continually spends more and more on the problem, the scope of which frustrates officials. Meanwhile, there are no new initiatives to dramatically change or expand treatment options in the state.

"I don't know how to do things differently," Gov. Marc Racicot said during an interview on the issue. "If I did, we'd do it."

Inpatient treatment

The state's main treatment center is Montana Chemical Dependency Center, which institutionalizes and treats about 900 patients a year.

The average cost of treatment is about $3,660, and the hospital is usually close to full with a waiting list 50 names long.

State officials believe the center's abstinence success rate is a little better than the national average because its program continually incorporates new strategies.

The center incorporates medical care, detoxification, counseling and intensive education in its regimen.

The result: "We've been seeing fewer readmissions these days and more first admissions," said Roland Mena of Helena, who heads the state's substance abuse unit.

There are some drugs, like Naltrexone, that seem to reduce the craving for alcohol, but MCDC generally doesn't use them.

"It's fairly expensive to use them," Mena said, "and there's some controversy over their effectiveness."

Instead, patients are encouraged to eat better, sleep better, talk with other patients and work out their problems with counselors before they go into an outpatient program.

Private treatment

Benefis Healthcare has one of eight private facilities in Montana offering inpatient treatment.

State figures show the average cost of private treatment is $8,250, while it's $9,750 for a 30-day stay at Benefis. Many insurance policies cover alcoholism treatment.

The private hospitals had a 42 percent occupancy rate during a three-month period earlier this year.

So far this year, Benefis has treated 110 patients in its detox unit, 74 in its inpatient program, 112 in its day therapy program and 256 who receive outpatient therapy.

At Benefis, the emphasis is on motivation.

"Without motivation, it doesn't matter what other resources you have," said Dirk Gibson, supervisor of the Addiction Treatment Center at Benefis. "Without motivation, you have nothing."

One way to do that is by stressing the pleasure alcoholics can find by changing their lifestyle.

Another is by stressing the pain they can avoid by quitting drinking.

A lot of people realize that on their own, said Dr. Dan Nauts, medical director of the Benefis Addiction Treatment Center.

"A majority of the people who quit abusing substances do it on their own without treatment," Nauts said. "Fifty percent of heroin addicts who stop using do so without treatment.

"Motivation is really the key," he added.

One critical aspect is an intensive assessment in which counselors carefully listen to a patient to understand individual concerns, Gibson said.

He cited the case of a retired military officer, intelligent and well read, who kept drinking himself into the hospital's detox center.

They worked to find a reason to keep the man from drinking, but couldn't. Even death wasn't a threat.

But when they told him he was likely to die in a nursing home, unable to control his movements or his bowels, that struck a nerve.

"He called me a month later and said, `I'm ready to make a change,'" Gibson said. "And he did."

Benefis doesn't keep track of its success rate, partly because it can't decide what to measure, Gibson said.

"We do ourselves a disservice if our only goal is abstinence," Nauts said. "We need to look at outcomes including health, healthy relationships, staying out of trouble, keeping a job."

Group therapy

Once counselors see the encouraging signs of reform, they send their clients to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, where people with the same problems offer support.

AA groups may include people who've been through treatment, or those working to overcome alcoholism on their own.

The program teaches addicts that they must turn their lives over to a higher power because alone they are powerless to deal with alcohol.

"AA has a tremendous track record," said Rod Robinson, director of Gateway Recover Center.

There are more than 89,000 AA groups meeting around the world, including 54 meetings per week in Great Falls alone.

A national membership survey found that the average member has been sober for five years. But that doesn't reflect the many who fell off the wagon.

AA members tend to men, with an average age of 42.

"We used to require all our patients attend AA, but now we only make those who fit the profile go to AA," Gibson said.

He said counselors will work to find alternative social support systems for teen-agers, Native Americans and women.

Abstinence is elusive

Statistics on even achieving abstinence aren't promising.

The National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism studied about 1,700 patients a few years ago. Of the patients institutionalized for treatment and receiving aftercare, only 44 percent managed to stay sober for three months.

And only 26 percent receiving outpatient treatment managed three months of sobriety.

"We can expect a good outcome in about 35 to 40 percent of the cases," said Dr. Richard K. Fuller, director of the NIAAA's division of clinical and prevention research.

"Alcoholism treatment helps a lot of people, but there's still a lot of room for improvement," Fuller said.

NIAAA's mission is to develop and test new alcoholism treatment to allow addicts a better change of recovery.

"We'd like to improve our outcomes from 35 percent to 50 percent -- or even better," he said.

However, Mena views relapse as merely part of the treatment process.

"Each time a person returns to treatment, we don't view it as failure," he said. "It's all part of a cumulative process of turning someone's life around."

© 1999 Great Falls Tribune, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.