- Alcohol
- Faith
My drinking career was not long, but the fall was fast, hard and deep and started long before I even had that first drink. Long before I began drinking, I had all the makings of an “alcoholic in training.” In fourth grade my grandmother died followed by my grandfather 18 months later. By seventh grade I had myself convinced that they were the only ones in my life who loved me, and I set my sights on joining them. In ninth grade I was an A/B honor roll student. On the outside and on paper I looked great, but this is when I truly began to perfect the art of isolating myself. By tenth grade I decided I no longer cared about anyone or anything, brought home failing grades, had my first suicide attempt and began drinking. When I talk about losing myself as a direct result of my drinking, this was definitely the beginning. Up until this point my drinking consisted of sips of what Dad had for family dinners. I always hated it, but Easter of tenth grade was a turning point for me. I not only accepted and drank my first glass of wine, but followed it up with another. I remember thinking, as I swallowed, “If I am ever going to do anything stupid with this stuff I need to acquire a taste for it!” If only I had known the path this would lead me down. The highlights of the rest of the year can be listed in more suicide attempts, more drinking and blaming it all on my parents. I decided that I would not be alive to drink legally at 21, so I should go ahead and enjoy myself now. I was a true closet drinker. I do not refer to the typical use of this phrase, where someone is trying to hide their drinking. My parents kept all their open bottles in the closet, so, when I wanted a drink, I would open the door, step in, partially close the door and pick my poison of the day. I was a binge drinker, but there were specific days of the week that I drank more than others. I had my favorite drinks, but on most nights it was a little of this and a little of that straight from the bottle. I started carrying some to school. I loved the fact that my reputation was so “goody-goody” that I never had to deal with locker searches the “bad kids” had to regularly deal with. During my senior year I spent a lot of time in the hallway at lunch listening to a younger friend telling me her story of addiction. I decided my drinking was becoming trouble, so I wrote a letter to a local group asking for help but never mailed it. Chris was definitely planting a seed and seeing that it got regular watering, but like every good support group member, she would not tell me that I was an alcoholic. When she told me I had to decide for myself, I heard, “You are not” and went back to the bottle. I hated school and couldn’t wait to get out. I decided that I was not going to go to college. My folks vetoed this plan, so I focused on going as far away as I could and not returning. My first semester of college was not bad, as the new place and new people provided the typical geographical cure. During the second semester I got a new roommate who always kept alcohol in her underwear drawer. Once again I could drink and not have to make much effort to get it, since it was always right there in the room. It was around this time that I was introduced to the college chaplain. My time with her is a different story, but for this story I’ll refer to her as my “black-belt supporter” who eventually wore me down and got me to meetings. After one particularly difficult school vacation I tried my best to avoid her. When we finally got together, she had no problem looking me straight in the eye and saying, among other things, “You are an alcoholic!” I can still hear it today, as if she is right next to me. I made the decision to stop drinking and start my recovery, but I did not go to any meetings until returning home for summer break. My first meeting was a huge anniversary meeting of what seemed like millions of people but was probably about 200. The friend who had spent so much time with me at lunch in high school was picking up her three-year chip. Because of her I could never use the excuse that I was “too young” to be an alcoholic. I continued to go to meetings throughout the summer I was still having trouble accepting my alcoholism. On day 110 a friend and I went away for the weekend. I can’t tell you much about the weekend, but I do know she came prepared with a full trunk. One weekend ended with us lying on the dock overlooking the lake pouring whatever it was into our mouths, because neither of us could lift the bottles any more. I am sure neither of us was in condition to drive home the next afternoon. After returning home and sharing with a few people, I was picked up for a meeting. When the leader asked if there was anyone new or coming back, it seemed like everyone who was in my “inner circle” at that time all turned and pointed at me. I said that I needed these last few days to convince myself I did belong in these rooms. However I continued to drink (in the closet) for about another week. I did not want a DUI, so I rode my bicycle to daytime meetings. My last meeting was three towns over. It took about 15-20 minutes to get there and almost 90 minutes to get home. I was hot, sweaty and stinking of booze. I was done. My last drunk was at the lake, but this was my last drink. I grew up with a family who loved me, but due to my disease I was incapable of seeing or feeling the love. I felt very unloved, unwanted, abused and lost. I felt that the impression we gave others was more important than what was really going on. My disease or behavior was never a topic of conversation, because it was not out in public where others could see. I only talked with my family about my support group attendance once. I told my parents I was going out to the diner with a specific friend, and I went to a meeting. Mom was waiting for me when I got home, as my friend had forgotten our “plans” and called. I admitted I was going to support group meetings. The reaction was controlled fury. I was told that if I wanted to see an alcoholic I should look at my sister (who, in my opinion, is not an alcoholic). Mom told me I could not be an alcoholic and proceeded to tell me why. All the comments seemed to somehow be saying, “What will others think if they see you?” I did not see any concern from her for my health or future. Two months later, as I was preparing to return to college, Mom and I were in the car running some errands. Before she started the car, she put her hands in her lap and looked at them. She asked me, “Is everything settled?” I knew she was asking me if I still felt as if I had to go to “those meetings.” I answered her honestly by saying yes, but my yes meant, “Yes, I am still going to those meetings.” It has never been discussed since. I returned to college with about 15 days sobriety. I was supposed to have my own room, but I arrived to school to find that I had been housed with a classmate who drank and partied. I don’t think we said more than 15 words to each other all semester. The only time we were in the room together was when we were sleeping. I started to go to meetings and worked on my sobriety. In January I got my single. I missed one class almost every week to go to my home group. I am not sure how I passed the class. I felt as if I was finally on my own. Over the summer I was still having doubts about my alcoholism. I wanted a definite yes or no answer, not an educated guess. I said a prayer one night asking for an absolute answer. I woke up later in a cold sweat. I had dreamed of a New York street which wasn’t surprising, since I had spent time there growing up. However the focus of the dream was a little hunchbacked, dirty lady with gray hair and an overflowing pushcart. I knew in my heart that, if I ever picked up another drink, this would be my future. When I went back to school for my senior year, meetings lost some of their priority. I was still a college student, and I wanted to socialize (not party). Soon it was obvious I was not getting to meetings, and my attitude was changing. I did not want to drink. My sobriety was too important for that. I was not suicidal, as that would affect my sobriety, but I was very angry and would think really bad things to anyone who just looked at me wrong. My black-belt supporter stepped in. She pointed out the error of my ways. I went back to meetings with the mentality of a newcomer. I had time, but I wanted to start fresh with a new sponsor and new step work. I got a little active and made some friends. I still did my fair share of whining. One night I was complaining about not having money for gas to get to meetings. When someone said I could call for a ride, I pointed out that dorm phones were payphones. I was handed a dollar. It wasn’t much, but I got the point. When I graduated, I was determined to stay where I was. I had an apartment lined up that was under renovation. My first three months out of school were spent living in the basement of my black-belt supporter. She tried very hard to stay out of my program, and I tried very hard to leave for work early and come home from meetings late, so I would not smell like cigarettes in her house. I am not sure either of us succeeded very well. Life moved on. I had a job, an apartment and moved a few times to various parts of town. I had a very active social life involving meetings and coffee. Those late nights at the diner drinking coffee were probably just an excuse to not go home to a quiet and empty house. I was never very comfortable with my own company. I would do whatever I could to avoid being alone with me. I worked the steps and got involved in service. I loved meeting all the people at conferences, and I finally got over my shy and quiet self when meeting people. I loved greeting and talking to people but always went home after with a feeling of loss, knowing the house would be so quiet. My commitment to service maintained my sobriety during another significant period of not going to meetings. I had gotten involved with someone who, after we moved in together, wound up returning to cocaine. This was followed by several months of verbal, emotional and physical abuse. I did not go to meetings, because I did not want to deal with what was going on. I had trouble moving on, as I was still in love with the man he was when we met. If only he would go back to meetings, I knew he would be that man again. I often blame my service projects for my sobriety, as I was not going to meetings, but I was driven to continue with my commitment. I did not drink, since I could not show up at events while drinking. Eventually the house our apartment was in was sold. I moved down the street, and I don’t know or care where he went. I started going back to meetings. Once again I felt like a newcomer, as I was returning after a huge mental bottom. I got involved in service but never to the same degree. I kept my service at the group level. I knew how important it was to my sobriety years earlier, so I never understood why I backed away from it. I was determined to work the steps and get a sponsor who would work my butt off I never felt successful with sponsors. I know now that many of the people I picked were only for convenience. My first sponsor was in name only, so when people at meetings asked if I had a sponsor I could honestly reply yes. No one ever followed up to ask if I ever used her. I knew I had major trust issues, although I couldn’t call them that until many years later. I really felt that I would never share everything in my fifth step. I often said it was my black-belt supporter’s fault that I couldn’t keep or relate to a sponsor. I was always comparing my sponsors to her, and no one could to get inside of me like she did. Maybe I was hoping to fail at this sponsor thing, so I never allowed anyone to get inside. Eventually I met my husband. Life was good. I went to meetings but not many, so we could have time together. I worked days, and he worked nights. He never quite understood why I went to meetings, but he never got in my way. He did attend a few conferences with me. After hearing a few speakers and reading the steps and traditions hanging on the wall he told me, “Now I understand why you do some of the things that you do!” We were married in 2001. In 2002 our son was born, and we got custody of my husband’s daughters. My meetings were down to one a week. Although my meetings were few, I felt centered with the role of mom and wife. I sponsored two ladies and talked to them and others on the phone. My husband continued to work nights, and I stopped working. I felt as if I had found my place in the world. In 2004 my husband was diagnosed with lung cancer. The chemo was awful, and the side effects were worse. My heart cried, when his time with the children was so limited because of his energy level and short temper. I continued to try to go to my one meeting a week, but his health took priority over that. I could not leave my son home with him. In 2006 his oldest daughter moved back in with her mom. Nothing was said to us, although they had been planning this for a while. He was crushed. When he died in 2007, she had barely talked to him since moving out. My heart still hurts knowing the decisions she made out of guilt over not seeing her father the last year of his life. When he moved into a local hospice, his younger daughter went back to her mother. My husband died six weeks later. My son lost his father and both sisters in the span of a year. I could not return to meetings after all my family and friends left. I did not want to deal with the care, hugs and compassion I knew I would get at meetings. I did not want to deal with the feelings. I can count on one hand the number of meetings I went to in the next five and a half years. My focus was on my son and raising him by myself. I had a few people I kept in touch with on the phone or on the computer, but I began to lose myself again. I was mom to my son, but I was not my own person. People began to tell me how great it was that he was involved in his activities, but they also pointed out that I never talked about me or things I did. God intervened. I received a phone call and was asked to help at a children’s social at church. I was not really interested, so I asked that she call someone else. She called back less than 30 minutes later unable to find anyone else. I arrived at the church later that week still not wanting to be there. I walked in the room and saw four adults and two kids. I could have gone home, but I did not want to neglect my responsibility in case other children came. There was a meeting across the hall that was just starting. This was not just any meeting. It a study group that had been my home group. I told the other adults there that I was going across the hall and to get me, if other kids arrived. The meeting was God inspired. As the book was passed around the room, I felt that I needed to read the earlier part of the chapter that had been read the previous week. As I read I felt a calm come over me that I had not felt in a long time. I read the story of a business man who was told to stop drinking, or he would lose everything. He took the doctor’s words to heart and stopped drinking and ended up being very successful. When he retired, he felt he had earned the right to stay home, relax and have a few drinks. Within four years he was dead. I felt a cold chill, as the words entered my heart. I knew, as I did with that dream in early sobriety, that God was talking directly to me. I knew that, as my son got older and no longer needed me as he did when very young, I was going to be at a crossroads in my life. I knew once my focus did not need to be on him, it would be too easy and natural to pick up that first drink. I also knew that if I did, alcoholism would not release me. I knew God was telling me that it was time to get my full focus off my son and to put it back on me and meetings. I have been regularly attending meetings since. I have been doing a lot of soul searching recently. Parts of my story that I swore I would never tell anyone are getting shared with close friends. I have surrounded myself with a strong group of cheerleaders who will encourage me with each step that I take but waste no time telling me if I am getting off track. I don’t know where this journey will take me. I know I will have to spend some time looking back over my past in order to move into the future. I am ready to move on.