Chapter 7: On The Move
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Working the A.A. program showed this alcoholic how to get from geographics
to gratitude.
I THOUGHT MY LIFE had come to an end when I arrived at my first meeting of
Alcoholics Anonymous at twenty-eight years old. I had been drinking since my
early teens, and to my way of thinking, booze had been the answer to my
problems, not the problem itself. Even I had to admit, though, that my life
had gotten pretty bad and my options were quickly running out. In a moment
of desperation, I agreed to go to one A.A. meeting.
It is easier to see now, as I look back on my drinking days, that from the
very beginning alcohol had been a part of nearly every disaster in my life.
As a very young boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, I had begun to steal
drinks when my parents were not looking, or my friends and I would convince
someone from the local high school to buy us some beer. Slowly, but very
steadily, my problems began to grow from there.
It started with simple episodes at school. My buddies and I would split a
six-pack over lunch and thought nobody would notice. It never occurred to me
that a thirteen-year-old could not easily hide the effects of even a single
beer. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen, things were getting far more
serious, and the consequences of my drinking were getting more costly in
every way---socially, morally, financially.
A turning point came when I was fifteen. My mom was in the middle of an ugly
divorce. Through nobody's fault but my own, I decided that I had the answer.
In a drunken brawl, having planned every step of my actions, I attempted to
kill my stepfather. I vaguely remember being dragged out of the house by the
police and came to, yet again, trying to answer for what I had done while
drunk. The results were that I was eventually given a choice by the judge:
Go to juvenile hall until I was twenty-five years old, or leave the state
until I was at least twenty-one. I did not want to go to juvenile hall, so I
did the math and decided the better part of valor was to get as far away
from there as I could.
Over the next thirteen years, until I graced the doors of A.A. for the first
time, life really never got any better. I did, however, learn the fine art
of geographics. From my home on the East Coast, I landed in Japan. Then I
moved back to the United States and to New England, then out to California,
where over the next six years I saw my alcoholism take me to new depths of
disgrace, embarrassment, and despair. As one of my early A.A. sponsors used
to say, I didn't hang out with lower companions---I had become one.
The specifics are pretty much the same as for most alcoholics. I went places
I used to swear I would never go. I did things I could not imagine myself
doing. I hung out with people that at one time I would cross the street to
avoid. There came a time when, looking into the mirror, I honestly did not
know just who was looking back at me. To say that I had arrived at a
"jumping-off point" is an understatement. Life just could not go on like
this much longer.
I began the process of speeding up the day when life would end. My doctor
has six or seven suicide attempts on my medical records. Most were pitiful
efforts to reach out for help, although I didn't see it at the time. My last
such attempt was very public and demonstrated that I had lost touch with
reality and with any sense of what my actions could do to others.
A friend took pity on me, I think, and invited me to his home for
Thanksgiving. His parents were in town from the East Coast, and he was
having a big party. There at the dinner table, I stood up and attempted
suicide in front of everyone. The memory of that has always stuck in my mind
as the definition of "pitiful, incomprehensible demoralization" that the Big
Book talks about. What is sadder is that my actions had made sense to me at
the time.
As a result of that episode, I ended up seeing a psychiatrist to find out
what was wrong with me. At our very first session she invited me to "tell me
about yourself." I proceeded to do so, only to be told to stop after I had
only spoken for five minutes or so. She explained that she really only had
two things to say to me: that she thought I hadn't told the truth since I
walked into the office, and that I was an alcoholic. (It took me a long time
to understand how a description of my life could make anyone think I was a
drunk.) The doctor said that if I was going to continue to see her, I had to
agree to do two things. First, she gave me a business card with a phone
number on it. She said the next time I tried to kill myself, I should call
that number first. Second, she was going to give me a book to read, and she
wanted me to read the first few hundred pages before our next meeting.
Before I left that day, she gave me a copy of the Big Book.
It took some time, but I eventually made it to my first meeting. I had gone
out on New Year's Eve. When I came to, I thought it was the next morning. As
I held my head steady, popped some aspirin, and tried to drink a cup of
coffee, I glanced at the front page of the newspaper. It was January 9, and
I had been in a blackout for over a week. After everything else that had
happened, that was terrifying enough to get me to my first meeting of
Alcoholics Anonymous.
When I drove up to that first meeting, though, I saw that the address I had
was actually a church. As a nice Jewish boy, I was not about to wander into
a church; I knew that I would not be welcome. I hid on the floorboards of
the car and peeked out the window, waiting for the drunks to walk by.
Everyone looked normal, so I figured I might be in the wrong place. I was
about to leave, but then I saw a drinking buddy of mine go by. I jumped out
of my car and greeted him. Funny thing, but it was his first meeting of
Alcoholics Anonymous also. What a coincidence! In we walked---into a world
that has turned everything in my life inside out.
I didn't like A.A. and the people in it for a long time. I didn't trust
anyone, and I got tired of sitting at meetings listening to other newcomers
as they began to talk of finding God, having their families return to them,
being treated with respect by society, and finding some peace of mind. It
never occurred to me that they had sponsors and were working the Twelve
Steps of recovery. I had what I now call "a sponsor of the month." I always
had a sponsor, but whenever one of them would "lovingly suggest" I do
something, I would fire them and move on to someone else. I remained angry,
bitter, and isolated, even though I was going to five or six A.A. meetings
per week and was not drinking. At seven months sober I was getting a little
bored with A.A. and began to wonder if this was all there was to life. The
concept of not drinking again seemed a little extreme, and I thought that
perhaps it would be different this time.
Then something happened that I now believe helped me to stay sober and find
my Higher Power. I woke up one morning and couldn't feel my legs. I could
still walk with a little difficulty, but it got worse as time passed.
Several months and lots of medical examinations, doctors, hospital visits,
and tests later, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. The path since
then has been quite a journey. I now either walk with crutches or use a
wheelchair. There have been lots of times I wanted and intended to drink
again. During my second year of sobriety, I slowly became angrier and
angrier. I was in what one of my sponsors now refers to as "the angry
years." I was one of those people we see at meetings and wonder how they
stay sober.
At my home group, members didn't give up on me; they loved me anyway. One
day the group's general service representative announced she was moving and
would have to give up her commitment, and they elected me to her job. They
explained to me that a serious, two-year service commitment was exactly what
I needed. I tried to explain that I was not eligible, but they told me to go
to the monthly general service business meeting and tell them my problems
with serving. Needless to say, they didn't allow me to quit either.
Along the way I learned, in spite of myself, that the best thing about A.A.
service jobs is that, for a period of time, I got out of myself. At some
point I began to shut my mouth and actually listen to what other people were
saying at meetings. After white-knuckling it for almost two years in A.A., I
finally broke down and saw that I could not stay sober all by myself, but I
was terrified of going back to drinking. After all my suicide attempts I had
no fear of dying, but I could not stand the idea that I would go back to
living that way again. I was at what the oldtimers and our literature refer
to as a "jumping-off point." I didn't know what to do.
One evening I did the unimaginable---at least for me. After picking up my
sponsor of the month to go to a meeting, I informed him that I was ready to
work the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. In most respects my life
began again that night. That man took me through the steps in a loving,
gentle way that for the remainder of my life I will be grateful for. He
taught me to look inward at my soul, to welcome a Higher Power into my life,
and to reach out to others. He taught me how to look into a mirror and to
like, and even respect, the man who looked back at me.
When I reached the Ninth Step, I began to hesitate in my enthusiasm. One
morning I woke up covered in sweat and could not get over a nightmare I
had---that this was my last day of sobriety. After calling friends and my
sponsor, I knew what had to be done. I spent the entire day, more than eight
or nine hours, going into people's offices and making my amends. Some were
thrilled to see me. One woman called the police. When they arrived, it
turned out the policeman was in A.A., and he convinced the woman not to
press charges. I even ran into someone who I had thought was dead, so I took
a "dead guy" to lunch and made my amends to him also. For the first time I
thought, and actually felt, as if I was a member of Alcoholics Anonymous,
with something to share at meetings.
When I was four years sober, I took a trip back to my home city, one of the
very few times since I had left so many years before under the threat of
jail time. I made amends to the man I had attempted to kill when I was
fifteen years old. I visited, and made amends to, several people who had sat
at that Thanksgiving dinner table and had watched me attempt suicide in
front of them. I came home exhausted but knew that I had somehow done the
right thing. It is probably no coincidence that the following year my old
friend invited me back for Thanksgiving dinner.
A.A., and the steps of recovery, have shown me how to look at events in a
different way. I can now understand how some things, which once seemed like
major disasters, turned out to be blessings. Certainly my alcoholism fits
that category. I am truly a grateful alcoholic today. I do not regret the
past nor wish to shut the door on it. Those events that once made me feel
ashamed and disgraced now allow me to share with others how to become a
useful member of the human race. My physical disability has not altered that
attitude; if anything, it has enhanced it. Long ago I learned that no matter
how uncomfortable I was physically, I felt better by getting out of myself
and helping someone else. It has also helped to learn how to laugh at myself
and to not take myself so seriously. I am aware that I am not the only
person on this earth with problems.
Through my experiences in general service, A.A. has shown me how widespread
and diverse the program is. I have traveled throughout the United States and
even went to Israel for several months a few years ago. While there, I
attended meetings and was the secretary to a meeting located in a bomb
shelter.
Like everyone else I have good days and bad days. Unlike my attitude while I
was still drinking, however, I rarely dread what is going to happen to me
today. I have even had the chance to see my father come into A.A. We have
been to numerous A.A. conventions together and have shared more with each
other in the past few years than we ever had before. I think we are both at
peace with our pasts and comfortable with the present.
In the past several years I have gone back to school and begun a new career.
As I roll around in my wheelchair, I am amazed when I realize that I
honestly cannot imagine life to be anything different than what it has
been---and that is just fine with me. The tools of sobriety and recovery in
A.A. are there for me to use in all aspects of my life, and all I ever need
is the willingness to do what is in front of me. I am grateful that a drunk
like me was fortunate enough to live until I arrived in Alcoholics
Anonymous.