Chapter 9: The Keys Of The Kingdom
· · ·
This worldly lady helped to develop A.A. in Chicago and thus passed her keys
to many.
A LITTLE MORE than fifteen years ago, through a long and calamitous series
of shattering experiences, I found myself being helplessly propelled toward
total destruction. I was without power to change the course my life had
taken. How I had arrived at this tragic impasse, I could not have explained
to anyone. I was thirty-three years old and my life was spent. I was caught
in a cycle of alcohol and sedation that was proving inescapable, and
consciousness had become intolerable.
I was a product of the post-war prohibition era of the Roaring '20s. That
age of the flapper and the "It" girl, speakeasies and the hip flask, the
boyish bob and the drugstore cowboy, John Held Jr. and F. Scott Fitzgerald,
all generously sprinkled with a patent pseudo-sophistication. To be sure,
this had been a dizzy and confused interval, but most everyone else I knew
had emerged from it with both feet on the ground and a fair amount of adult
maturity.
Nor could I blame my dilemma on my childhood environment. I couldn't have
chosen more loving and conscientious parents. I was given every advantage in
a well-ordered home. I had the best schools, summer camps, resort vacations,
and travel. Every reasonable desire was possible of attainment for me. I was
strong and healthy and quite athletic.
I experienced some of the pleasure of social drinking when I was sixteen. I
definitely liked everything about alcohol---the taste, the effects; and I
realize now that a drink did something for me or to me that was different
from the way it affected others. It wasn't long before any party without
drinks was a dud for me.
I was married at twenty, had two children, and was divorced at twenty-three.
My broken home and broken heart fanned my smoldering self-pity into a
fair-sized bonfire, and this kept me well supplied with reasons for having
another drink, and then another.
At twenty-five I had developed an alcoholic problem. I began making the
rounds of the doctors in the hope that one of them might find some cure for
my accumulating ailments, preferably something that could be removed
surgically.
Of course the doctors found nothing. Just an unstable woman, undisciplined,
poorly adjusted, and filled with nameless fears. Most of them prescribed
sedatives and advised rest and moderation.
Between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, I tried everything. I moved a
thousand miles away from home to Chicago and a new environment. I studied
art; I desperately endeavored to create an interest in many things, in a new
place among new people. Nothing worked. My drinking habits increased in
spite of my struggle for control. I tried the beer diet, the wine diet,
timing, measuring, and spacing of drinks. I tried them mixed, unmixed,
drinking only when happy, only when depressed. And still, by the time I was
thirty years old, I was being pushed around by a compulsion to drink that
was completely beyond my control. I couldn't stop drinking. I would hang on
to sobriety for short intervals, but always there would come the tide of an
overpowering necessity to drink, and, as I was engulfed in it, I felt such a
sense of panic that I really believed I would die if I didn't get that drink
inside.
Needless to say, this was not pleasurable drinking. I had long since given
up any pretense of the social cocktail hour. This was drinking in sheer
desperation, alone and locked behind my own door. Alone in the relative
safety of my home because I knew I dare not risk the danger of blacking out
in some public place or at the wheel of a car. I could no longer gauge my
capacity, and it might be the second or the tenth drink that would erase my
consciousness.
The next three years saw me in sanitariums, once in a ten-day coma, from
which I very nearly did not recover, in and out of hospitals or confined at
home with day and night nurses. By now I wanted to die but had lost the
courage even to take my life. I was trapped, and for the life of me I did
not know how or why this had happened to me. And all the while my fear fed a
growing conviction that before long it would be necessary for me to be put
away in some institution. People didn't behave this way outside of an
asylum. I had heartsickness, shame, and fear bordering on panic, and no
complete escape any longer except in oblivion. Certainly, now, anyone would
have agreed that only a miracle could prevent my final breakdown. But how
does one get a prescription for a miracle?
For about one year prior to this time, there was one doctor who had
continued to struggle with me. He had tried everything from having me attend
daily mass at six a.m. to performing the most menial labor for his charity
patients. Why he bothered with me as long as he did I shall never know, for
he knew there was no answer for me in medicine, and he, like all doctors of
his day, had been taught that the alcoholic was incurable and should be
ignored. Doctors were advised to attend patients who could be benefited by
medicine. With the alcoholic, they could only give temporary relief and in
the last stages not even that. It was a waste of the doctors' time and the
patients' money. Nevertheless, there were a few doctors who saw alcoholism
as a disease and felt that the alcoholic was a victim of something over
which he had no control. They had a hunch that there must be an answer for
these apparently hopeless ones, somewhere. Fortunately for me, my doctor was
one of the enlightened.
And then, in the spring of 1939, a very remarkable book was rolled off a New
York press with the title Alcoholics Anonymous. However, due to financial
difficulties, the whole printing was, for a while, held up and the book
received no publicity nor, of course, was it available in the stores, even
if one knew it existed. But somehow my good doctor heard of this book, and
he also learned a little about the people responsible for its publication.
He sent to New York for a copy, and after reading it, he tucked it under his
arm and called on me. That call marked the turning point in my life.
Until now, I had never been told that I was an alcoholic. Few doctors will
tell a hopeless patient that there is no answer for him or for her. But this
day my doctor gave it to me straight and said, "People like you are pretty
well known to the medical profession. Every doctor gets his quota of
alcoholic patients. Some of us struggle with these people because we know
that they are really very sick, but we also know that, short of some
miracle, we are not going to help them except temporarily and that they will
inevitably get worse and worse until one of two things happens. Either they
die of acute alcoholism or they develop wet brains and have to be put away
permanently."
He further explained that alcohol was no respecter of sex or background but
that most of the alcoholics he had encountered had better-than-average minds
and abilities. He said the alcoholics seemed to possess a native acuteness
and usually excelled in their fields, regardless of environmental or
educational advantages.
"We watch the alcoholic performing in a position of responsibility, and we
know that because he is drinking heavily and daily, he has cut his
capacities by 50 percent, and still he seems able to do a satisfactory job.
And we wonder how much further this man could go if his alcoholic problem
could be removed and he could throw 100 percent of his abilities into
action.
"But, of course," he continued, "eventually the alcoholic loses all of his
capacities as his disease gets progressively worse, and this is a tragedy
that is painful to watch: the disintegration of a sound mind and body."
Then he told me there was a handful of people in Akron and New York who had
worked out a technique for arresting their alcoholism. He asked me to read
the book Alcoholics Anonymous, and then he wanted me to talk with a man who
was experiencing success with his own arrestment. This man could tell me
more. I stayed up all night reading that book. For me it was a wonderful
experience. It explained so much I had not understood about myself, and,
best of all, it promised recovery if I would do a few simple things and be
willing to have the desire to drink removed. Here was hope. Maybe I could
find my way out of this agonizing existence. Perhaps I could find freedom
and peace, and be able once again to call my soul my own.
The next day I received a visit from Mr. T., a recovered alcoholic. I don't
know what sort of person I was expecting, but I was very agreeably surprised
to find Mr. T. a poised, intelligent, well-groomed, and mannered gentleman.
I was immediately impressed with his graciousness and charm. He put me at
ease with his first few words. Looking at him, I found it hard to believe he
had ever been as I was then.
However, as he unfolded his story for me, I could not help but believe him.
In describing his suffering, his fears, his many years of groping for some
answer to that which always seemed to remain unanswerable, he could have
been describing me, and nothing short of experience and knowledge could have
afforded him that much insight! He had been dry for 2 1⁄2 years and had been
maintaining his contact with a group of recovered alcoholics in Akron.
Contact with this group was extremely important to him. He told me that
eventually he hoped such a group would develop in the Chicago area but that
so far this had not been started. He thought it would be helpful for me to
visit the Akron group and meet many like himself.
By this time, with the doctor's explanation, the revelations contained in
the book, and the hope-inspiring interview with Mr. T., I was ready and
willing to go to the ends of the earth, if that was what it took, for me to
find what these people had.
So I went to Akron, and also to Cleveland, and I met more recovered
alcoholics. I saw in these people a quality of peace and serenity that I
knew I must have for myself. Not only were they at peace with themselves,
but they were getting a kick out of life such as one seldom encounters,
except in the very young. They seemed to have all the ingredients for
successful living: philosophy, faith, a sense of humor (they could laugh at
themselves), clear-cut objectives, appreciation---and most especially
appreciation and sympathetic understanding for their fellow man.
Nothing in their lives took precedence over their response to a call for
help from some alcoholic in need. They would travel miles and stay up all
night with someone they had never laid eyes on before and think nothing of
it. Far from expecting praise for their deeds, they claimed the performance
a privilege and insisted that they invariably received more than they gave.
Extraordinary people!
I didn't dare hope I might find for myself all that these people had found,
but if I could acquire some small part of their intriguing quality of
living---and sobriety---that would be enough.
Shortly after I returned to Chicago, my doctor, encouraged by the results of
my contact with A.A., sent us two more of his alcoholic patients. By the
latter part of September 1939, we had a nucleus of six and held our first
official group meeting.
I had a tough pull back to normal good health. It had been so many years
since I had not relied on some artificial crutch, either alcohol or
sedatives. Letting go of everything at once was both painful and terrifying.
I could never have accomplished this alone. It took the help, understanding,
and wonderful companionship that was given so freely to me by my ex-alkie
friends---this and the program of recovery embodied in the Twelve Steps. In
learning to practice these steps in my daily living, I began to acquire
faith and a philosophy to live by. Whole new vistas were opened up for me,
new avenues of experience to be explored, and life began to take on color
and interest. In time, I found myself looking forward to each new day with
pleasurable anticipation.
A.A. is not a plan for recovery that can be finished and done with. It is a
way of life, and the challenge contained in its principles is great enough
to keep any human being striving for as long as he lives. We do not, cannot,
outgrow this plan. As arrested alcoholics, we must have a program for living
that allows for limitless expansion. Keeping one foot in front of the other
is essential for maintaining our arrestment. Others may idle in a
retrogressive groove without too much danger, but retrogression can spell
death for us. However, this isn't as rough as it sounds, as we do become
grateful for the necessity that makes us toe the line, and we find that we
are compensated for a consistent effort by the countless dividends we
receive.
A complete change takes place in our approach to life. Where we used to run
from responsibility, we find ourselves accepting it with gratitude that we
can successfully shoulder it. Instead of wanting to escape some perplexing
problem, we experience the thrill of challenge in the opportunity it affords
for another application of A.A. techniques, and we find ourselves tackling
it with surprising vigor.
The last fifteen years of my life have been rich and meaningful. I have had
my share of problems, heartaches, and disappointments because that is life,
but also I have known a great deal of joy and a peace that is the handmaiden
of an inner freedom. I have a wealth of friends and, with my A.A. friends,
an unusual quality of fellowship. For, to these people, I am truly related.
First, through mutual pain and despair, and later through mutual objectives
and newfound faith and hope. And, as the years go by, working together,
sharing our experiences with one another, and also sharing a mutual trust,
understanding, and love---without strings, without obligation---we acquire
relationships that are unique and priceless.
There is no more aloneness, with that awful ache, so deep in the heart of
every alcoholic that nothing, before, could ever reach it. That ache is gone
and never need return again.
Now there is a sense of belonging, of being wanted and needed and loved. In
return for a bottle and a hangover, we have been given the Keys of the
Kingdom.