Читать книгу Voices of Long-Term Sobriety - Группа авторов - Страница 14

January 2005

AT FORTY YEARS old, lying on the floor alone and hung over, I realized that the party was over. It had begun back when I joined the celebration of the end of World War II. After years of our servicemen and women being away, we lifted our glasses to their safe homecoming. But when most people had put their glasses down, mine was still high in the air. I loved dressing up, going to parties, clowning around, and dancing. The excitement never stopped.

As the party continued, my life grew emptier. I stuck to the ease of socializing that drinking alcohol gave me. However, as much as alcohol was giving me friends and good times, it also took away much in my life. It took away babies, first and second husbands, health, an eye and part of another eye. It took away friends as well, although I could always make new friends—drinking friends.

Prayers took the form of “gimmee”: Give me a better job, a better husband, more money. Thanking God for what I actually had never entered my mind. An unfulfilled, vacant feeling remained that led me to a bottle of gin every day. When this led to sadness, my intelligence told me to switch to scotch, then to black rum, straight alcohol, and, at times, all mixed in one big drink. Sometimes, for a few hours, the drinking would help me overcome my utter loneliness. But inevitably, the loneliness would return, along with guilt.

By the 1960s, I was ready to change my life. Unfortunately, AA was not well-publicized in Montreal at that time. I didn’t know where to go.

The world around me seemed to have turned black. My heart was heavy and my soul lost. People left me alone because I was unpredictable. I became depressed. I would invariably ask myself, How do I get out of this mess? I would then think, I’ve gone nowhere, done nothing. What I’ve done hasn’t worked. God doesn’t love me the way he loves other people.

At forty years old, I didn’t know who I was and I didn’t know what I felt. The year was 1966, and I spent most nights passed out on the floor of the basement room I had rented. After a particularly long session of boozing, limp and unable to go to work, I thought I was having DTs. A vision appeared as a moving picture over my entire living space. A woman in rags, bent over and worn out, begging with a cup, was sitting on the corner of Peel and St. Catherine Streets. Although hundreds of people were walking by, she was alone on that street. Nobody wanted to look at her. They turned their heads away. I don’t know what you’d call this picture, but I call it my spiritual experience.

The vision stayed with me for what seemed like twenty-four hours. I sensed that the woman in rags was me. The cup for money was the big thing in the picture. I knew that the money was for booze. I couldn’t breathe without drinking. Booze made me what I was.

Stunned by the clarity of this vision, I became instantly relieved, and I happily told myself that from this day onward I would never take another drink. I was not at all worried about how this was going to occur and, having no fear of any kind, the image of a new life unfolded before me. With this vision in mind, I proceeded to detox myself alone, a very dangerous procedure that could have caused a heart attack. For three days and three nights, I drank water, smoked cigarettes, sat at my kitchen table, and played solitaire. Well, I can’t say that I sat. I couldn’t stay in one position for long. I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t lie down.

The next day, fear set in. I thought, I’d better get out of here. Someone will bring me booze and I’ll want to drink. I decided to call an old friend who had deserted me during the past year when I drank constantly and was unpredictable, peeing in plants, removing my glass eye and placing it in drinks, stealing food, and sleeping in her bathtub. By the grace of God she was home, and after much pleading on my part she agreed to let me come to her home. She laid down some rules: I was to take a cab, I could not buy a bottle on the way, I could not swear, and I could not remove my eye.

When I got to her home, I found out that she had been in AA for a year. She was with two friends and they were all going to a meeting on the Kahnawake reservation.

At the meeting, I learned that I had an incurable disease and that the only way out was to surrender my entire life to a God of my understanding. They told me I could be a member by saying so—that’s all. I heard that I could recover from twenty-three years of daily drinking by becoming completely honest and that insanity would disappear if I asked God to take it away.

Those people were smart. They didn’t give me a Big Book or folders of literature. They gave me what I consider the single most important piece of literature: a meeting list. From then on I have always carried a meeting list and a quarter for a phone call because I don’t know when I am going to want another drink. I need a program of recovery. I’m crazy.

Look at what God did for me in 1966: I had no winter coat, no hat, no boots and one simple, black dress. The first month of my new life, I walked into a store and bought a three-piece ensemble: a coral sweater, a coral and white skirt, and a coral and white topcoat. The whole outfit was extremely fashionable and it cost me a total of $35. The memory lingers today, the excitement and gratitude of living in the real world with store clerks, cash on hand, and cash left over to buy food. No more filling up my handbag with food from the happy hour at bars.

In the early years of recovery, the word “soul” still left a blank. I was undecided on whether or not I had a soul. It seemed lost in an uncaring, unloving, and self-centered existence. My soul remained a mystery until my Higher Power settled inside me, appearing to me as a very real feeling of love and caring. Kindness slowly took precedence, and I became comfortable with the idea that I didn’t need a drink.

I am convinced that alcohol destroys us from the inside out: It so fills us with guilt and fear that no other feelings can be felt, not even the feeling of our souls.

Before recovery, I was mortified at the thought that people might discover I was not the self-assured woman I made myself out to be. If they knew about my weaknesses, they would have more reason to avoid me. Getting a sponsor drastically changed the necessity of maintaining this fragile self-image. Through uncovering and admitting my character defects, I realized that I was no different than the people I was so afraid of. I understood that we were all suffering and that I didn’t need to disguise my authentic self. Having an honest relationship with my sponsor allowed me an honest relationship with myself and others.

Growing up into a spiritually mature adult has been difficult at times. It has taught me that I will surely be able to grow into the person God wants me to be if I don’t take a drink. After a long time, I finally realized that I cannot totally rely on anybody except God. At the same time, I understand that I need the Fellowship. Attending meetings, I have been forced to find ways to change my behavior. For example, in my first years I was so sneaky and secretive that everything backfired. At a meeting, a member suggested that I write instead of thinking, and to share everything with the group. I didn’t know this was possible. I did it and the process made me authentic. It showed me how ridiculous I could be when I was on my own. I learned that if I had the capacity to be honest, I would get better.

Serenity and peace of mind are a direct result of accepting our lives as they are at this moment, and all the money in the world cannot purchase this kind of peace.

Eileen P.

Cornwall, Ontario