— St. Catherine of Siena
Today is May 3, 2019. Twenty-seven years ago this day found me in deep despair, unsure of what was to become of me.
I had spent the previous two years attending meetings of a 12 Step Fellowship and nothing they said seemed to be working. I thought I was following directions. I was putting 'the plug in the jug'. I was trying not to drink alcohol or do any illegal drugs between meetings. I was trying and trying and trying and yet, I could never seem to put even 30 days of continuous sobriety together.
Once again, I was a failure.
You would think I would have been used to that by then. I had lost my husband and my child in 1987. I had given up my dreams of acting to drink and party. I had flunked out of Law School and lost jobs. I was not longer even remotely pretty. All I had become was one big failure.
There is a line of thought for people who have the disease of alcoholism that hitting bottom is necessary in order to recover. Others dispute this, saying that we just have to stop drinking and everything will be fine.
I have retired from this particular debate because I am not a scientist, a therapist or any kind of expert in the field of substance abuse. I have opinions - personally, I think a lot of people show up in the rooms of 12 Step programs that don't belong there - but my opinions don't really matter. Results do and all I can share with the world is the results that I have experienced. I cannot speak to your issues, your belief system or you declarations that 'alcoholism is not a disease'. Think whatever you want because, frankly, I don't care.
Here is what I know:
Discovering that a guy named Silkworth figured out, through observation, that some people have an abnormal reaction to alcohol is a watershed moment. To accept that I am one of those people is amazingly liberating. I am not ashamed of having an abnormal reaction to alcohol any more than I am ashamed of having an abnormal reaction to penicillin. It is not a moral issue. It does not reflect upon my character. It simply is and I am fine with having that information.
Having to accept that I have a mental illness that can cause me to perceive the world through a lens colored by extreme selfishness and anxiety was also liberation. Making the connection that alcohol relieves both those symptoms of my mental illness provided me with the 'ah ha' moment as to why, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I kept trying to be a 'social drinker'.
I compare it to burning my hand on a black glass top stove at the age of 12 - it hurt so much and caused such damage that I have never approached a black glass top stove without being wary (is it on? is it off). My response to getting hurt is a sane and understandable response. I don't want it to happen again.
But when it came to drinking alcohol I kept trying to find the right combination. Maybe mixed drinks. Maybe scotch on the rocks like Bette Davis drinks. Maybe if I add cocaine and switch to vodka. Maybe if I eat first. Over and over again I attempted to find the magic that would allow me to relieve those symptoms and still be able to drink, never being able to connect that the very substance that relieved those symptoms also produced a reaction in me that made stopping after one or two cocktails nigh on impossible.
May 3, 1992 was the last day I sat in a closet drinking and crying and wanting to die. A miracle happened on May 4, 1992 but on May 3rd I had no idea that miracle would take place.
St. Catherine of Siena says that nothing great is ever achieved without much enduring and I believe she is correct. Many people make the mistake of thinking staying sober does not require will power but it does - it requires discipline and the willingness to do the right thing when people around you tell you it is not necessary, that one won't hurt, that you are a fanatic and no fun any more, that your conception of God is awful and hurtful and full of hate. It means showing up when you do not want to leave the house. It means making faux pas in public and not running away when your head is screaming at you that you will never EVER be forgiven for the way you just tried to make a joke and it fell flat (or that making a dumb joke is something to be forgiven for in the first place).
Twenty-seven years ago I was in the depth of despair. I wanted to die. My dormant Catholic Faith kept me from ending my life. Those graces I had received, the prayers of a scared and faithful mother and (maybe) the plan of The Father for my life kept me alive for another 24 hours.
Long enough for the miracle of recovery to begin.
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