Funny thing about hitting bottom – when you’re down there, you’ve got two options: stay down or get up.
On this particular day, I chose to get up.
I was sitting in an AA meeting in Midtown Manhattan. A basement space with hard, florescent lighting and bad coffee. I’d been up and down with the idea of sobriety for a couple of months and wasn’t in a very good space on this day. It wasn’t denial. I was well aware that I drank differently than other people. And by differently, I mean more. And it wasn’t like ‘Otis the Drunk’ type drinking. For the most part, I managed my drinking well. I was once pulled over in Gainesville, Florida for making an illegal turn on an empty road. It was after midnight and I was leaving a club where I’d been drinking. When the officer pulled me over, she asked if I had any alcohol. I said no, of course, but she wasn’t satisfied so she asked me to take a field sobriety test. I obliged. And I passed. But she still wasn’t satisfied, so she employed a breathalyzer. I blew a .23. She slapped handcuffs on me and I spent a couple of days in jail. Anyway, that was years before sitting in this AA meeting in Manhattan trying to get a grasp of what it meant to be an alcoholic with suicidal thoughts. What it meant to deal with a serious problem. What it meant to surrender to God’s will and to stop battling myself.
I sat near the back of the room drinking black coffee from a styrofoam cup. Because it was a meeting in Manhattan, there were a couple of celebrities in attendance. For fifty minutes I listened to person after person talk about how grateful they were to be an alcoholic. And how their lives had changed so much for the better after they surrendered their will to a ‘Higher Power.’ I could barely contain my sarcasm and decided that what I wanted out of this meeting was an invitation to never return. I raised my hand.
The leader of the meeting pointed at me and smiled.
I stood up. “I’m Jim, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Jim,” the room sang.
I paused, looked down at the floor and then back up at the leader. “I’m an alcoholic, and I have to say that after hearing everyone speak today – I can’t help but think that everyone here is full of shit.”
Chairs squeaked on the floor. Eyebrows raised. People who weren’t looking at the back of the room when I was greeted, were definitely looking now. I continued, “I mean really. How can every one of you people be ‘so happy’ and ‘so grateful’ that you’re a fucking alcoholic. It’s a disease. It wants us dead. It’s an inescapable curse we’ve been stricken with. Happy? Right.”
I pointed at a person who’d shared earlier, “You know why I think you said you’re a ‘grateful recovering alcoholic?’” He shrugged. I pointed at someone else. “Because she did. You know why she did?” I pointed at someone else. “Because he did. This is all sick, man. Like some cult of wanting to ‘out-happy’ each other when the truth is we’re all fucking miserable and can barely get through each day without putting a bullet in our brains.”
I paused again. The room was deathly still. Every eye was upon me. “I am an alcoholic. I have no doubt about that. I haven’t had a drink in three days. I wanted to drink today, but ended up here instead. And after listening to all the bullshit in this room, I may never return. Because you’re all liars. It’s clear that it’s no different in here than it is out there.”
I sat down. “Thanks for letting me share.”
“Thanks for sharing.” The response back from the group wasn’t as tight and enthusiastic as when they greeted me. Many people continued to stare as the group leader did some final business before leading the group in the closing Serenity Prayer.
As chairs shuffled marking the end of the meeting, I walked straight to the door. I was sure I’d never return to this particular meeting and indeed had hoped that they’d ask me not to. If they’d only tell me to stay away, I’d be free to continue my path of self destruction without worrying whether there was any actual hope. I would be free to fade away.
But that’s not what happened.
As I made my way across the room toward the exit with my eyes to the floor, an older man stepped directly in front of me. I looked up. He smiled and said, “Thanks for sharing, Jim. Please – keep coming back.” Then he hugged me. I was thrown off. I mumbled something like “Sure thing,” half-heartedly returned his hug, and continued toward the exit when a woman embraced me, smiling. “Thank you so much for sharing. You have no idea how much you’ve helped me. Please keep coming back.” she said. After her there was another person. And another. By the time I reached the exit, every person in that room got to me, hugged me fiercely, and invited me to ‘keep coming back.’
My plan had backfired. I was in tears. Completely overwhelmed with gratitude for people I’d never seen before in my life who somehow saw something in me that was once in them–and who lifted me up away from myself and away from a drink to a place that was safe. Just for one day.
I went back to that meeting every day for a month, and never did pick up another drink.
August 3 marks twenty-eight years since my last drink, and even though I’m no longer involved with AA, I can honestly say that the people in those meetings in NYC saved my life. They taught me how to trust in the collective power of goodwill, in myself, and in God. I am indeed a grateful recovering alcoholic today. And I hope that gratitude continues for many more years. One day at a time.
***
jeremiah
Aug 2, 2012
Congrats Jim! That is huge and I personally know a few others people in my life I wish had the strength and desire to do it.
Keep kicking ass my friend.
Elliepie
Aug 2, 2012
Thank you. Love, love, love this.
Liz Karschner
Aug 2, 2012
I grew up with a recovering alcoholic and one of my earliest memories was playing with toys under the table during a meeting (I was 4 or 5). I remember listening to everyone’s stories, and granted at that age I didn’t understand them well, but as I grew older it started making sense. I saw a lot of my friends hit their teens and twenties and struggle with alcohol. I thank my mom every day, whether she knows it or not, for taking me to those meetings while I was growing up cause I can drink and then walk away. I have seen first hand what losing control can do to your life, your family, and everything around you and I never want to go down that road. Great story! Thanks for sharing such a personal experience.
Cynthia
Aug 2, 2012
Hi, Jim-
Thank you for sharing this powerful recovery experience. My question: why are you no longer involved in AA? You could help countless newcomers if you showed up and told your story from time to time!
Dennis Van Staalduinen
Aug 2, 2012
It’s funny you should post this today, because I just read another friend’s account of surviving his “rock bottom” moment – a suicide attempt 22 years ago today. And I thanked him for surviving and sent him this quote from John Donne:
“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were.”
Your stories are different – and mine is far different from either – but the ending is the same. And you’ve both made my day – and my life – better because you’re both there.
So here’s my hug Jim (hug), my thanks (thank you), and the hopelessly unoriginal message I’ll repeat because there’s nothing else to say.
(‘Keep coming back.’)
Nichole
Aug 2, 2012
Jim, I too thank you for sharing. Please keep coming back to share your experiences, insights, and nuggets of wisdom. And happy anniversary.
Stacey
Aug 2, 2012
Jim, what a powerful story. Thanks for sharing your experience, and congratulations on your 21-year accomplishment.
G-Dude
Aug 2, 2012
Thanks for sharing, Jim. It will be me who will be coming back now, though – to visit your blog. 🙂
– G
PS – I still think that a lot of what AA preaches is full of shit, but you can’t find better, more compassionate and sincere people anywhere else you go. Lots of Major Dudes in the room, at almost any meeting you attend.
Gabe
Aug 2, 2012
Jim
Powerful and moving.
Your story is imbued with the power of those hugs. What a gift your story and those hugs
Thanks for sharing
Gabe
Cheryl Smithem
Aug 3, 2012
Jim, you’re keeping it real one day at a time. Thank you for sharing your powerful story. And congrats on your anniversary.
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[…] Until I was 18, I never lived above Interstate 10. My idea of a New Yorker was everyone I’d seen on television. Guys like Archie Bunker, Oscar Madison, George Jefferson, and Louis De Palma. Angry old men who wore permanent scowls and who lived in a smog-filled city occupied by millions of other angry people. I was 25 when I first arrived New York via a Greyhound Bus from Houston. I landed in Port Authority back when it was still a pretty unpleasant place. The stench of urine was inescapable. The homeless were everywhere. And yet, I immediately felt at home. Not because of the desperation, but the exact opposite. There was something about the resilient energy of New Yorkers that resonated with me during a very desperate point in my life. Eventually, I got sober in New York. Thanks entirely to its people. […]
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[…] Until I was 18, I never lived above Interstate 10. My idea of a New Yorker was everyone I’d seen on television. Guys like Archie Bunker, Oscar Madison, George Jefferson, and Louis De Palma. Angry old men who wore permanent scowls and who lived in a smog-filled city occupied by millions of other angry people. I was 25 when I first arrived New York via a Greyhound Bus from Houston. I landed in Port Authority back when it was still a pretty unpleasant place. The stench of urine was inescapable. The homeless were everywhere. And yet, I immediately felt at home. Not because of the desperation, but the exact opposite. There was something about the resilient energy of New Yorkers that resonated with me during a very desperate point in my life. Eventually, I got sober in New York. Thanks entirely to its people. […]
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