I received my first chip last night. 24+ hours sober. And I’m very grateful that I had a safe place to go on a Saturday night. By the looks of the crowd, many people felt the same way.
I think yesterdays meetings went well. They kept me sober, anyway — and that’s the point, right? It made me realize several very important things:
1. I am not alone. Can’t tell you how many times I fought back the tears as I shook my head knowingly at the stories of others.
2. I am lucky. Many people had arrived at the meeting due to court and/or probation orders. This was a good thing — and a bad thing for me. I was a sneaky drunk, so I stayed out of trouble. However, sometimes people have to get into trouble in order to realize they need help. I am very lucky to have arrived at this point with a clean record — and on my own accord.
I was among the younger alcoholics. People were very friendly for the most part, and they were pretty candid about their issues. I think they avoid calling on new people for fear of scaring them away from returning to meetings. I don’t enjoy public speaking, but had I been called on to speak, I would have done it.
There’s something strangely liberating about being honest. It’s humiliating, but seems to release the pressure of holding a heinous secret. (What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Same applies to these Meetings.)
The hardest thing about telling my parents about my problem was having to explain how long I’ve had it. I was nine (9!) when I first began drinking. It never begins with rum shots… but rather fruity shit, like Purple Passion and butterscotch Schnapps. I don’t recall losing control until I was about 14. I always had a few bottles of MadDog in my closet… and kept a collection of those little “airplane bottles” that I stole from friends’ parents’ stashes.
The admission about myself wasn’t what bothered me. It was the guilt my folks felt compelled to feel afterwards. “Where did you get it? How did you get it? Where were we? How did we miss this?” My folks worked a lot. Not their fault. Lots of bills to pay. I was left to my own devices and made my own choices. Bad choices.
I had my first “I’m never drinking like that again” moment when I was 18. It was at a party. Earlier that day, I had been relieved of my duties as assistant manager at the local theater — for DRINKING ON THE JOB!! Bystanders told me I drank the following: 10 rum & cokes, 3 rum shots, and a fifth of butterscotch Schnapps. A couple of hours later, after having blacked out twice, I seriously thought I was going to die.
I had thrown up until there was nothing left to throw up. Then I puked blood. On the hood on my car where I wound up sleeping that night. Before I blacked out for the third time, I looked up at the stars and had a little talk with G_d. I said, “Dude, I’m too young to die. I’ll make you a deal. If I live to see tomorrow, I promise to NEVER drink like that again.” Sure as shit, I woke up the next day with my head on fire and puke-caked hair — but very much breathing and alive.
I wish I could say I kept my promise. But I didn’t.
One of the fellows at the meeting last night said something that made me want to both chuckle and cry. He explained that if he had any idea he was going to live that long, he’d have taken better care of his body.
I’ll be honest. I never thought I’d live to see 30. Yet, here I am… and time has not been as kind as it could have. I frequently get migraines and often wake up after a bender feeling like my kidneys have been kicked from the inside out. And the eyes… they hide nothing, do they?
Anyway, I’m still doing OK. It’s just past noon on Sunday. My day is going alright. I’m terrified of having a bad day and ruining it all. So far, so good. I may go ahead and try to catch the 4pm meeting. I’m fine now, but who knows what a few hours will bring. Better safe than sorry, eh?
