Читать книгу Young & Sober - Группа авторов - Страница 13

November 2008

It was August 1977. I was homeless and facing life in prison. With thirty-five cents in my pocket and nowhere to live, my options were very obvious: jail, the streets, or death. I was also suffering from liver disease.

I had just spent the night at my sister’s home in Queens, New York. My mom had snuck me in; I had been thrown out of a close friend’s house the night before; I’d fallen asleep with a cigarette and nearly burned his house down. He threw me out and asked that I not return.

In my semi-blackout, I made it to my sister’s house. I woke up at about six in the morning. I looked up at a figure in front of me and realized it was my sister. Before I could even think, she told me I would have to leave. “I don’t trust you, Richard,” she said. I was not welcome there anymore.

This was devastating. Where was I going to go? I had burned every bridge I had. I’d hurt all the people and friends who’d tried to help me.

In just a few minutes, I was walking out the door to my obscurity. I had no destination at all. I had a bag full of soiled clothes as dirty as the ones I was wearing. I weighed 135 pounds soaking wet.

Then my bottom came. I didn’t hear the storm door close behind me. I knew my mom was watching, and my heart was breaking more and more with each step I took from her. I didn’t want to look into her eyes. I didn’t have any more room for pain. I was dead inside, scared of everything. I turned and saw her looking, and we both cried. We knew this was not going to be easy for me.

I walked about a mile, to a luncheonette where the owner knew my sister. He saw that I was strung out, and he made me a milkshake. He also gave me a pack of cigarettes. I sat pondering what I was going to do with my life. I had no strength to go back to the old neighborhood, I was too ashamed to ask anyone for money to get a drink, and I didn’t want to, anyway.

It was humid, hot, and just downright ugly. I wanted to lie down and cry. I was alone and scared to death. How could this happen to a twenty-three-year-old boy? That’s right, I was still a boy. Alcoholism had been killing me since my birth. My older brother had gone to this place called AA. Maybe they can help me, I thought.

In a few minutes, I’d dropped a dime into a pay phone; I wound up in a meeting that afternoon. The miracles—too many to mention—began with that call. I was a rarity when I came into the rooms. I had a heroin addiction, and I was the youngest man in the group. Back then, they didn’t accept that easily, but no one judged me. I respected the Traditions, and they healed me back to life.

Within five years, I was free of all criminal charges. I have been sober twenty-five years. I have achieved more than I ever thought possible in my life.

RICHARD D.

LONG BEACH, NEW YORK