- Alcohol
My name is Robert, and I’m an alcoholic in recovery. I’ve recovered from a seemingly hopeless state of body and mind. My date of sobriety is September 29, 1997, and my sponsor is Paul. I often say I was born in Ohio and raised in 12-step support groups. I know I belong in these groups because way too many coincidences tell me so. I don’t question them nor do I explore their validity. I just accept they exist. The word grateful does not begin to describe what I feel towards the 12-steps and every living and past soul that has gone through them so before I forget: thank you. Thank you for your time, your stories, your suggestions and your love.
I drank to get high, but I did not drink that often. However when I drank and reached my desired level of euphoria, I couldn’t stop. In high school dates consisted of cheap wine sipped through a straw from a fast-food cup. In college it was beers and shots with my fraternity brothers and little sisters. In between college years, I was a deckhand on an ore carrier. My roommate and I would acquire a case of beer, and within 24 hours the case was empty and going over the side with the rest of the boat trash. After I got married, drinking was a bit more social. If you drink, so will I. No matter where I was, I would always migrate to where the booze was.
When I married I knew I had responsibilities, and drinking took a backseat. At first I could go weeks and not even think of alcohol, or if I did my family or work was more important. Whenever I did drink, it was usually beer, but over time it became gin. When hangovers became a pain, I changed to my ultimate drug of choice: vodka.
Right before I stopped drinking, I was consuming at least 750ml of vodka a day. Top shelf was too high, too expensive and put me over the top too soon. My goal was a mellow happy medium that would last all day, and I found it for seven dollars at the local grocery store. The tricky part was hiding the vodka, finding money for it, making it last and remembering where I hid it. These tasks were a pain and consumed every waking, sweating moment of my life at the time.
They say we are the last to know, and I believe it. However inside and way down deep, I knew that what I was doing was wrong and not like me. I had a loving wife, two beautiful children, a job, two cars, a brand new home, apple trees in the backyard, a church to go to, neighbors to chat with, grass to cut, Sunday dinners to enjoy and memories to make, but the invisible pull of alcohol sucked me in. During the summer of 1993, drinking became an obsession. My drinking became 24/7. I lied, I stole and I cheated. I did things I never did before. I’m ashamed of what I did and own up to it now. I don’t like it, but it happened. I thought I was clever, but I was only fooling myself. I thought I was good at masking my drinking and fooling everyone when in reality I was the fool.
My in-laws lived with us for a while, and one time I snuck into the wet bar and stole some of my mother-in-law’s gin. When I opened the bottle, it smelled funny, but I drank it anyway. She had switched the gin for rubbing alcohol. I got my alcohol all right, just not the type I anticipated.
During the summer of 1996, the local police invited me to spend a weekend in jail to inspect the paint and try the food. I joke now, but it was no joke then. My wife and I were arguing in the garage, and our son called 911. She and I realized the consequences and shouted, “No!” but it was too late. The nice men came and took me away for the weekend.
My sister heard about the incident and sent me information about a treatment center near her. She had told her boss about what happened, and he shared what was going on in his life and that his daughter was in a treatment center. I entered the center for the first time on October 28th, 1996. I had no clue what to expect, but I went because I wanted my life back. I wanted to smell the spring rain, the summer grass after it was cut, the fall leaves and the clear winter air. I wanted to be in a place where there was no way for me to get my hands on alcohol. I did not know what I was going to eat, if I was going to eat or where I was going to sleep. I knew squat about the place and only hoped it would help. I stayed 30 days, but it took almost two weeks before I felt like I was waking up. That meant I lost two weeks of education and help.
After I went home, I put myself in a trigger situation and relapsed. My relapse lasted almost seven months and was worse than the previous four years. I did not know what I know now. Suggestions and advice went in one ear and out the other. The switch hadn’t been turned on yet, and I didn’t understand what I was supposed to do.
On September 28th, 1997, I returned to treatment and requested my old case manager. When I walked in the second time, he said to me, “You didn’t get it the first time did you?” I replied, “No Sir I did not, but I do now.” During the flight back to treatment, I had experienced what some call divine intervention. I suddenly knew it was over, and I sank in my seat on the plane saying, “Thank God it’s over.”
My treatment center was a remarkable place. I was able to walk to the beach and pray that the poison be sucked from my body by the sun. The beach and the water were my sanctuary, and we were allowed to walk down each night after dinner to watch the sun set. Each day I grew a little stronger mentally and physically. Each day I felt life again along with pain of what I had done to the ones I loved. Each day I grew just a little and was able to understand and deal with that pain. On October 28th, 1997, I left treatment for the second time. Before I left I stole one last time. I stole a saying that was left on a blackboard: “Look at life through the windshield, not the rear-view mirror.”
Once I returned home, I became convinced that 12-step support groups are where I belong. After treatment I went to a ton of meetings, helped at meetings, put my resume on the Internet and was a good boy. Things started to happen. My first job in sobriety took me to Alabama. My new apartment was 130A and I was 130 days sober. I stayed in Alabama for 6 months and went to a ton of meetings. After 6 months I moved to New York for a better job offer.
New York offered reminders of where I could be. Homeless people with their hands out and smelling of urine were everywhere, and they popped up when least expected. In New York and with a year or so of sobriety, I made the decision to turn my will and life over to the care of God as I understood Him. The only thing I understood was to keep going to meetings, and I understood and believed the people in the meetings.
I walked to most meetings, and I got lost a lot on the way. I would get upset and sad that I was lost, until I would remember what I heard in treatment. Chase the meetings like I chased the booze. It would make me walk faster and allowed me to hold my head up higher: “Get out of my way. I am on a mission. I need my medicine. I need my food!” Meetings fed me, and if I did not get to my meeting, I was a cranky, hungry and sober drunk. There was something about being in a meeting that I loved.
I was by myself in New York and Alabama, but I was never alone. In New York service work at real meetings became a staple for me. I had started some online service work in Alabama, but now it was time to put the big-boy pants on and join the real face-to-face group. My first service work commitment was to chair a noon meeting not too far from where I worked. My responsibility was to find a speaker with at least 90 days of sobriety to share for 20 minutes. I had hope, and I had a job. I had seen flowers given to women at meetings for their anniversaries, and I wanted to do something like that for the speakers I had to round up for my meeting. I ended up giving each speaker a plant. I wanted to give them something that would remind them where the plant came from and why and that if they stayed sober and grew in their recovery, they could help the plant grow too. I don’t know how many are still alive (plants and speakers), but the concept has helped me a lot.
After 9 months in New York, I moved to Boston for a better position. I was in awe of everything that was happening, and I knew just one thing, don’t drink! I was in Boston for 4.5 years. I attended courses on 12-step recovery. After the first course, I felt like a kid in a candy store. I wanted more, and I wanted to do it again. My first service work job in Boston was bringing cookies to meetings. I loved that job and brought only the best cookies. I was jokingly told that I did not need to buy cookies for the White House and to, “Just buy the $1.50 cookies, Robert, they’ll eat those too.” There was laughter, crying, happy times and sad times in Boston, and most importantly there was growth.
I was growing in recovery, and I was growing up inside. I was meeting Robert more often than planned, and Robert was learning how to live again in society. I received my third sign that I was where I was supposed to be, and I still get chills and sigh, smile, and say, “Thank you, God,” when I think of it.
After Boston I moved to a small town where if you sneezed at one end of the main street, someone at the other end would holler, “Bless you.” Every Friday night during my two-year employment, I would map out a Saturday morning meeting somewhere within a 90-mile radius that I had never been to. I wanted to get out and see things, and what better way to do it than planning my day around a meeting? It was fun and rewarding.
The company I worked for in Boston offered me a home office position, and I returned home. I was happy, my family was happy and our dog was happy. Within 72 hours of being back home, I contacted my old sponsor Paul, explained why I was home and asked if he would sponsor me. I was complete. I was doing what was suggested, and I was doing it because I did not want to do it alone.
At my second meeting back home, I mentioned that I sometimes felt uncomfortable standing, thanking the speaker and sharing how I identified with their lead. A friend leaned over, looked me straight in the eye and asked, “What are you, a spectator in your own recovery or a participant?” I mumbled a few swear words to him, and we both smiled. It was one of the most profound things I had heard in my recovery at that point. I sat back and couldn’t move. I stared at those that stood to thank the speaker and thought about what he just asked.
My sponsor Paul is a very simple man. We knew each other long before I came to 12-step meetings because we had worked in the same department. I never knew he was in recovery until I arrived. I am very grateful to know him, to be able to call on him and to share. I listen closely to what he says.
What do I do today? I pray, go to meetings and ask my Higher Power to help me avoid a drink and to not hurt anyone with my thoughts or words. I go to meetings early to say hello, shake hands and help if needed. I sign up to chair meetings, and I stay after to help clean up. I offer my phone number, and I offer to take people to meetings. I pass on my coins, a tradition that someone started for me when I was two-years sober in Boston. A friend gave me her seven-year coin and said, “Robert, when you get there, pass it on.” I do the same with my own coins. In 2012 I returned home from vacation and found an envelope with a 30-year coin. This is the latest sign that I am where I should be. My job is to pass this 30-year coin on when I get there.
My name is Robert, and I’m an alcoholic. Thanks for being here for me and all of us!