Chapter 8: A Vision Of Recovery
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A feeble prayer forged a lasting connection with a Higher Power for this
Mic-Mac Indian.
I THOUGHT I WAS DIFFERENT because I'm an Indian." I heard that statement
from many Natives at my early A.A. meetings. I would only shrug and say to
myself: You think you're different, what about me? I'm a red-headed Indian.
I grew up on a reservation in Canada. As a young fellow, I was a proud
Mic-Mac Indian. My family had a reputation: They were hard drinkers, violent
and tough, and I was proud of this. I was told that my grandfather had been
the chief of our band, but he had to step down because he went to jail for
shooting a man. Jail was almost a badge of honor in my family, or so it
seemed to me. As a small boy, I remember standing on top of a case of beer
(there were always lots around the house), saying to myself: In a few years
I will be this tall.
There were times, though, when I witnessed my father's rages and I was full
of fear. I swore that I would not be like him, but I didn't see that alcohol
and the rages were related.
I always thought I was different. On many occasions I wished I had black
hair like my friends. Mic-Mac was the language in our home, but I would not
speak it. All my family spoke Mic-Mac, but when they spoke to me, I would
answer in English. I believed I couldn't speak Mic-Mac as well as my
parents, so I resolved not to speak it at all.
I was ten years old when I had my first drink of alcohol. On New Year's Eve
I stole two glasses of vodka from my parents. I can't say that it did what
it was supposed to do, for I got deathly sick, threw up, and had diarrhea.
The next day I was full of fear that my parents would find out. I learned my
lesson for a while.
A few years later, in junior high school, a few friends and I got a bottle
of rum from a bootlegger. I got really drunk, and it was great. I remember
having a feeling of complete freedom. I drank for the next fifteen years.
Drinking became a major part of my life and I thought it was normal. Then
came the violence, the fighting, the illegal acts, and the image of "the
tough guy." My family was proud of me, and some relatives would actually
encourage me.
I spent a number of years in and out of juvenile correctional facilities,
and after my eighteenth birthday, I began spending time in county jail. I
actually got a high when I came home, knowing that my friends and relatives
would respect me more because I had been in jail and was becoming a man.
While in a juvenile detention center about 500 miles from my home, I
received word that my mother was dying of cancer. I was able to get a pass
and return home to spend time with her. One evening my family asked me if I
would stay home with my mother and give her the medicine she was required to
take. I had already had a few drinks and was anxious to get out and party
with my friends, but I reluctantly agreed to stay. Self-pity set in, and all
I could think of was the good time I could have been having. I got very
impatient with my mother, and when she refused to take her medicine, I
almost forced it into her mouth; then I left to join my friends. The next
morning I woke up in county jail, about 100 miles from home. I had attempted
a break-and-enter, and was caught by the police.
That very evening, as I sat in jail, my mother died. I was allowed out for
the funeral, and I still recall how alone I felt, even when I was with my
family. I felt shame and remorse, and for years to come I believed I was
somehow responsible for my mother's death. This incident haunted me for
years. Alcohol would take it away for a while, but the remorse always
returned. I tried to comfort myself by saying that my lifestyle was a part
of my destiny just like many of my family members, but this did not remove
the remorse.
I can remember only one good thing that happened during this time. As my
mother lay dying, I talked to her in the Mic-Mac language. She seemed so
happy, and she told me that it sounded beautiful to hear me speaking
Mic-Mac. I cherish this memory.
I was to meet a young girl and have a son. Proud, I named him after myself,
and my drinking slowed down for a little while. One day I promised my son
that "tomorrow" I would take him to the movies. I really meant it from the
bottom of my heart, and I was looking forward to it. That night I took a
drink, and it led to many more. The next day I was hung-over, and even
though I had promised to go to the movies that afternoon, I took a drink to
fix myself up. That drink was followed by many more, and I justified them by
telling myself: My son is so young, he will never remember the movie. The
day after the promised movie I was guilty and remorseful, and felt I was
just no good. I faced my son, only to hear him talking excitedly about going
to a movie. I couldn't say anything, for the movie was no longer playing. I
left his mother to explain.
The next few years saw me living back in the old home with my father, as my
girl had left me, taking my son. My drinking escalated even more, as did the
guilt, remorse, and fear. I was hospitalized for dehydration, had a mild
stroke, spent a week in a psychiatric ward, and suffered a number of
alcoholic seizures. I lost the trust of my family and friends. They simply
could not rely on me for anything. I would stop for a while, but I always
drank again.
I can certainly identify with our co-founder Bill W. when he says on page 4
of the Big Book: "...the old fierce determination to win came back." I would
take a drink, and then I knew everything was going to be all right. I was
going to clean up my act; everything was going to change---you'll see. It
didn't; nothing changed. I tried so many ways of beating the game: I went to
church and took a pledge; I went to a Native sweat lodge; I would do
something so I would be put in jail; I vowed to stay away from hard liquor.
Nothing worked. Then came the pills to stop the shakes and get off the sauce
for a while.
One evening during a party at my home, an argument led to fighting, as
usual. One of my brothers stabbed me in the back with a knife, and I fell to
the floor unconscious. I came to in the hospital. They told me that one lung
had collapsed, and they had a drain in my lung that came out the side of my
body. The very next day some friends came to visit me, bringing a bottle of
liquor. I still had that pride. I was still the tough guy. I lay there in
bed with tubes draining my lung and smoked cigarettes and drank liquor.
Later, in A.A., I had the nerve to question Step Two and wonder why I had to
be "restored to sanity."
I can honestly say that nothing worked for me until I joined Alcoholics
Anonymous. Eventually I ended up in a treatment center, and after a
twenty-eight-day program, I began attending A.A. meetings on a regular
basis. The treatment center introduced me to the Big Book of Alcoholics
Anonymous, and I left there knowing that the only hope for me was the Twelve
Steps.
I was told that A.A. is a spiritual program and that I had better have a
Higher Power. I knew nothing of God or Higher Powers, and I began trying to
find one. At first I thought that since I was a Native, maybe I should
practice the Native traditional ways. Then I thought maybe I should go to
the church on the reservation. Then I believed that if I went to enough A.A.
meetings and just sat there, I would have a vision and achieve recovery. One
day a member asked me if I believed that there actually was a Higher Power.
I did believe there was a God of some sort or another. He told me that was
enough. He said with that belief and attending meetings, I would find a
Higher Power of my own understanding. Today I am thankful for that advice.
After three months in A.A., I returned home one evening after a meeting to
hear the music and laughter of a party next door. Some of my drinking
buddies were at that party, and I just knew I was going to end up there. I
did not want to drink, yet the party was like a magnet. I was full of fear
as I ran across the street to a pay telephone. I called my sponsor, but
there was no answer. Panic set in as I ran home. In the house I went into my
bedroom and sat on the side of the bed. I looked up and said these words:
"Well, Buddy, I guess there's just you and me." Believe it or not, it
worked; those simple words worked. Something happened: A little peace came
over me, anxiety left, and then I lay down and fell asleep. I slept well
that night, the first good sleep in a long time. That feeble request to God
worked. I was honest and really wanted God's help. From that day on, I knew
that I had found a Higher Power and that He would help me.
Over the next few months my life slowly began to change as I worked on Step
One of our recovery program. I listened to speakers and began a Big Book
study with an older member. In Mic-Mac folklore there are little people we
call Bugalademujs. They live in the mountains, but they often sneak into our
homes to play tricks on us, usually at night so we won't see them. When I
noticed that Chapter 4 of the Big Book, "We Agnostics," had appeared to
change, I told A.A. members that the Bugalademujs were fooling around with
my Big Book. You know what---they are still at it today.
I now understand that the spiritual malady should be my main concern and
that the more faith I have, the fewer problems I will have. Today I have
more faith than I ever had, and as my faith grows, my fears lessen.
For a guy who has spent years in jails, hospitals, psychiatric wards, a guy
who just could not stop drinking, there was only one answer---Alcoholics
Anonymous and the Twelve Steps. I was very fortunate that I was steered in
the right direction. A dramatic change has taken place in my life. Soon I
hope to celebrate my second anniversary of continuous sobriety. In two years
my whole life has changed. Today I sponsor others. I understand the word
compassion, and I feel it. I am working on Step Eight at the present time,
and I just know that more happiness is to come into my life as I "trudge the
Road of Happy Destiny."