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SOUL SEARCHING

It was snowing very hard. The big snowflakes were all I could see through the bars at the Ossining Correctional Facility. I had been sentenced to 5 to 15 years. I was waiting to be sent up north to another maximum-security prison.

All my life I had tried to act like a tough guy. It kept me alive. But being around hardcore inmates, I knew I did not belong. I knew I had to survive. It would take plenty of pushups and potatoes. Years of alcohol and homelessness had taken their toll on me.

As I sat in my cell, I wondered what had gone wrong in my life. I did not know about alcoholism. But I knew deep in my heart that alcohol had caused most of my problems.

A guard came to my cell. “You have a visitor,” he said. Impossible. No one would travel up here in this weather. Especially, to see me! I had no self-worth, no self-esteem. But I would do anything to get out of my cell. So I did not argue with him.

I entered the visiting room. There I saw the look in my mother’s eyes. It was the same look I had seen hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. Yet, this time, I had no booze or drugs in me to ease the pain. I wanted to crawl underneath the nearest table. The only words I could say were, “Why did you have to travel in this blizzard? I can take care of myself!” I was still trying to prove how tough I was.

“I wanted to make sure you had cigarettes and coffee,” she said with the love of a mother. There and then I knew something had to change. If I did not care about myself, I had to stop hurting those who still cared about me. But I didn’t know how.

I was sent to Clinton Dannemora. There I got into more trouble trying to prove myself and survive. Eventually, I was transferred to a medium-security prison. A counselor named Bill L. took a liking to me. He was a friend of Bill W., and had been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous for 12 years. He read my rap sheet. He realized that I was an alcoholic who needed help. He did not inform me of my sickness. But he introduced me to A.A.’s program. He was very careful. I guess he did not want to scare me away.

I started working for him at the substance abuse program. But to do that, I had to agree to study for a G.E.D. He later convinced me to get into college. I was able to earn an associate’s degree and a Juvenile Justice Certificate. I felt that was quite an accomplishment. I had dropped out of school in the sixth grade. But now I was beginning to feel good about myself.

One day Bill L. called me into his office and asked me for a favor. He wanted to know if I could set up the meeting room for some outside A.A. speakers. They might include some female speakers. “Of course!” I said without a second thought.

As it turned out, there were no females! I was disappointed. But I stayed and listened anyway. It was to be the turning point in my life, and my attitude toward life. The speaker was from Brooklyn, an African-American male, middle aged. I also had grown up in Brooklyn. I’m Hispanic, and at the time I was in my late 20’s. But I was able to relate to the speaker’s every word. He described his alcoholism. He talked about his feelings of shame, guilt and loneliness. My God, I had felt these feelings all my life! But I could never describe them in this way. I could only act out through anger and rage. For the first time in my life, I understood my real problem. I felt a sense of hope.

I attended nearly every A.A. meeting from that day on. I was paroled at my first hearing--my first miracle. I was not expecting it because of my long rap sheet. I began making meetings right away on the outside. Through sponsoring others, I have learned the benefits of service in A.A. I have always wanted to become a substance abuse counselor. And through A.A., I have been able to achieve that goal.

But first and foremost, I am an alcoholic. I’m coming up on 16 years of sobriety. I am experiencing life beyond my wildest dreams. I could not have imagined the gifts I am receiving simply by staying sober. And by helping another sick and suffering alcoholic.

–Anonymous Male