I was born into a large Irish Catholic family, The O’Neill Clan, as we referred to ourselves in the old world tradition, and we followed many of the same family rituals of those bygone days.  At that time there were about 100 or so “cousins”, whereas today we are more than 350 from four family branches that originated with my great-grandparents.  A migrant from Ireland, my great grandfather was a strapping, outgoing and talented teenage horse trainer (a horse whisperer as it is known) who settled in Cleveland, Ohio in 1885.  These were my roots.  This was my heritage. And this is my story…

I grew up in suburban neighborhoods and had a relatively comfortable upbringing.  My father was a hard working, self-made man from Rhode Island and relocated to the Midwest for his job selling wire and cable to industry.  He later was asked (in a way challenged) to join my mother’s family business by her brother, my uncle, and turn around a flailing subsidiary.  With his dutiful efforts and the era of the 60’s and 70’s growth, we were lucky to enjoy many luxuries. Although I never longed for material things, there was a brewing of mischief percolating inside of me just below the surface along with all the superficial trappings.

In my days of youth, I recall my parents entertaining my aunts and uncles of our large extended family quite regularly as they all were each other’s best friends, as well as family.  There often were three other couples to make for a gathering of eight or the perfect set for two tables to play Bridge.  All the adults it seemed played this sophisticated game of cards and enjoyed drinks and dinner throughout the evening events.  My siblings and I were usually called to duty on these nights whether it was to serve the meal or tend bar or clean the dishes afterwards.  At times, I would sneak a swig off a leftover cocktail for the opportunity to see what was so enjoyable about these fancy glasses and concoctions.  I was 10 at the time.  And so began the secrecy of an addiction in the making.

In those formative years I also had a number of run-ins with the nuns at the neighborhood parish parochial school.  Since I was one for fun and games, I found myself frequently visiting the Principal’s office and Sister Mary Black-Habit-and-Huge-Rosary-Beads would do her best to scare my pants off in an effort to change my behavior.  Well, I was a little tough guy and she couldn’t break me, not even when she would call my WWII Navy veteran father to punish me further.  What she did do, which later I came to realize had a profound effect on me, was to tell me that I was a “sinner” and I was going to “burn in hell”.  Being of sound conviction and a bit on the crazy side of rebellion, my mischievous nature took over as I then said to myself, “hey, they can’t stop me, so I may as well just go down in flames!”

Something I learned at an early age was that in order to measure up to guys in my crowd I had to create a persona of being cool.  This required developing a character that I would put on display for the public world.  Although my insides didn’t match up to the sound smart, be tough and act smooth portrayal which I had seduced myself to believe was required to exhibit, I found a comfortable act that convinced those around me that it was true enough. I was quite persuasive; another quality of my con artistry.  As an example, I had a passion for sports and I was pretty well gifted with natural talent.  My favorite sport was ice hockey, and as a youngster my father was my coach.  He expected a lot of me and I had to work harder than the other kids because he pushed me without playing favorites.  His intentions were always good and no doubt those lessons definitely made me stronger, plus it allowed me to advance multiple levels and play frequently with the older guys in games.  I carried myself with high regard, some would say cocky, and often to solidify my position I would go out on the ice and knock down the biggest guy on the opposing team.  That then proved I had the stuff alright!

Another memorable incident of my childhood when I was 12 was that my older cousin (he being 10 years my senior) lived right across the street in our quaint neighborhood community and he had a billiards table.  So, my best friend, who happened to be another cousin; we were two months apart in age, we lived two blocks apart as kids, we were in the same grade at Catholic school and our mother’s were sisters so this was my built-in pal, he and I would often, I mean almost daily, be down in our college cousin’s basement shooting pool while chiding each other in our pursuit to become the next Minnesota Fats.  In the corner of the room was an old Frigidaire refrigerator that looked like it was right out of Ozzie and Harriet’s 1950’s kitchen, and inside it was stock full of cold Budweiser beer.  I mean full!  So, what the heck, who would miss a can or a few?  My cousin and I would lift a brew, maybe two, every once in a while and sneak off to the woods down around the back of the private boys school at the end of the block.  My recollection is that the froth was foamy (after all we shook it up as we rode our bikes to our secret destination) and it had a bitterish taste.  But, who would admit that, not me, I was showing off how I could slurp up the swill like the older kids in the neighborhood gang (a term of identity not of actuality for we were in the ‘burbs after all!).  I would put on the comfortable façade of being cool and do my best James Dean to prove to the guys I was worthy.  Hey, I had my image to prove.

Through high school and college much of the excitement chasing continued and through those adventures I learned about the art of deception.  I fine tuned my ability to stretch the boundaries of nearly any activity and pretty soon I would be characterized as a rebel.  With my aim set on questioning authority and a moral compass that had tarnished early, I did some really stupid stuff but got away with much of it.  Whether it was coming home late for curfew, driving way too fast, petty stealing (stick around and maybe I’ll tell you the stories about when I was a golf caddie and rifled my customers bags!), lying to anyone as necessary, dating many women, “experimenting” with recreational drugs, corrupting others with my antics or even getting tossed in the county jail for the night.  No, these are not proud moments, but the truth is that I had started to drift towards a more reckless lifestyle.

It was in those teenage and twenty something development years that, although I was refining my public appearance, I began to form lifelong and real friendships.  Sure I put up a good front, but since my superficial personality was relatable I became close to a great group of people in a kindred spirit kind of way.  Being well groomed and actually respectable much of the time (no really, I was a charming chap) I earned a following and was pretty popular.  I had a side of me that was lighthearted and happy which I shared with the folks whom I dared to be myself, and that quality allowed me to become well-liked and a leader in a variety of social settings, sports teams and recreational events.  I was a character who could adapt to the surrounding situation and create good times with a bit of wit, ingenuity and playful camaraderie.  

After college I moved to the mountains of Colorado because an opportunity presented itself for me to join up with a handful of college buddies to relocate, rent a house and work in a ski town.  This was like my dream come true.  In my younger years, I actually joined the Scouts to enjoy the outdoors along with backpacking and camping which were activities I truly enjoyed.  During that time, one of the neighborhood guys, a friend of my older brother, taught me and some of the boys how to rock climb.  We literally started with climbing trees and using ropes, carabiners and pitons to then later on hit the road for the rock gorge about 45 minutes into the country to refine our techniques.  We also learned how to repel off a cliff--now that was really cool and something that was totally a thrill!

So, when the wild called, I packed up and headed west.  I found odd jobs to start and made enough to pay the rent through the summer months.  Eventually, as ski season approached, I was able to secure two jobs; one as a snow plow operator and the other was with the ski resort as a line worker in a restaurant at the base of the mountain.  The latter was key because, although it was part-time, it garnered me a free ski pass.  That was huge!  Being an avid and accomplished skier, my passion for adventure was on full display with my long boards (210’s, if that means anything to you) and the freedom to hit the slopes whenever I wasn’t at work.  This was the time of my life: plowing driveways and parking lots like I did in high school (I had my own business snow plowing for customers before and after school--I loved it), working part-time for a restaurant with free skiing and at least one meal a day, chasing pretty snow bunnies and drinking and snorting to my heart (and wallet’s) content.  My college buddies and I ran hard in those days, and it seemed like the fun and excitement never stopped.

When reality set in after a year and some months and the ski season being only a month away, I had to make the tough choice to move back home and get a “real” job.  My buddies had already decided to pull out and I couldn’t afford to sign another year long lease with no roommates.  So, the writing was on the wall and my dad’s insistence of me growing up would win out.  I packed up and headed east; back to the Midwest and the place of my family roots.  Before I began that cross-country trek, I put the word out that I was on my way back to the ‘hood with a new quest: to get a job, buy a house and find a wife.  And so I did.

I met my wife through a mutual friend as these things often go, and it turns out that we were running in parallel paths while growing up though she was two years younger.  I had dated one of her classmates back in high school and knew her a bit, but our circles didn’t really cross paths.  However, we had a lot of overlap as her friends were the younger siblings of my friends and we had very similar life experiences.  So, when we matched up it was pretty comfortable as she was refined, proper and polite and we quickly fell in love and were married.  My career was going through some turmoil at that time, and I literally asked her to marry me when I was “in between opportunities”.  Truth be told is that I went to work for a start-up company and after a year and a half the special Federal agent came knocking at the door to find out how all the money we (the company) borrowed had now disappeared.  They slapped me with the subpoena to appear for questioning because they had me marked as the perp, but the fact is the boss had swindled the dough and I was just caught up in the mix.  After my high priced attorney had a chance to speak with the US Attorney General, the evidence I presented added up in my favor and that then turned me into their star witness to go before the Grand Jury.  Figuratively speaking, I was their Ollie North of the Admiral Poindexter in the Iran Contra Scandal. This debacle ended rather uneventfully in the end as the boss fessed up only hours before my testimony and they hit him up for a huge fine and probation.

By this time I had found a new career and began as an Account Executive with a large, local and well respected commercial real estate brokerage firm.  I was under the tutelage of two senior partners and they taught me the business.  I was their gopher, but I learned a lot in a very short span.  Just under four years and I accumulated enough transaction credits to qualify to sit for the Broker exam.  I took the classes, prepped for the State exam and passed to then become a licensed Broker.  This would allow me to be my own boss should I ever wish to do so some day.  Instead, I was recruited to go to work for a mid-sized and growing Savings Bank as the VP of Commercial Real Estate Lending.  I would have the responsibility to create a new department and develop its growth for the company reporting to the CEO.  This was both incredibly good and intoxicatingly bad.  You see, my boss enjoyed drinking more than me and we spent plenty of after hours at the local bar where everybody knew our name.

Nine years into my marriage and I was quickly becoming a mess, especially in the latter couple years.  My episodes were not as drastic and as frequent early on in our wedded bliss, but there came a time when I crossed the line always in search of that elusive balanced buzz.  I was mostly a binge drinker and typically on weekends, so when the clock struck 5 (or sometimes 4 or even 3) on Friday: look out!  It would be a two - three day spree with intervals of lucid behavior to play golf, mow the lawn and take naps.  I was making my wife crazy with my pounding vodkas at whatever house or party we attended; fact was back then we were out every weekend with family (cousins!) or at some close friend’s house for dinner and a night of revelry.  Usually one of us guys lined up the mystical powder and several of my best buddies and I would take turns sneaking into the bathroom for a blow.  Most of the time the drugs ran out before we had had enough and that, at times, became another escapade of chasing down more.  (The explanation and sorted details that went into those excursions is much too long for this story, but suffice it to say that there was no stopping a mission once it was hatched!).  The short summary is that the insanity of the maneuvering of those episodes is impossible to forget.  Just crazy.

I was quickly deteriorating, but I didn’t even know it.  I often felt as if the world was doing me wrong and I wanted better.  This was all totally unfair and I was getting jipped!  I came from a highly successful family and the expectations of me and of myself were much higher than where I was and I deserved more!!  With my rate of disappointment on the rise so was my frustration and anger.  When I was hired to be the bank VP, it was promised that I would eventually advance to be the successor president.  Well, four years in and it was now high time to begin that transition, in my opinion.  That plan was not happening anywhere near as fast as I expected, and my ire was churning inside and it was spilling over into my home life while my drinking and drugging escalated along with my grumpy moods and erratic behavior.

Without a doubt the first two weekends of September 1995 were right up there at the top in my personal record book of lunacy.  The culmination of events was absolutely insanely epic.  The first scenario is that I had secured tickets to the Indians game versus arch rival Orioles and had my best friend from college (who was born and raised in Baltimore) in for the weekend festivities of the ball game and other sorted activities.  That Friday night for me is almost a blur with beers, vodka and plenty of marching powder consumed while watching the game from a dugout suite, upfront and personal.  Absolutely primo seating provided by the suite owner, my high brow buddy.  Sweeet!  The Tribe won the game and by doing so clinched the Central Division pennant for the first time ever and a trip to the postseason since forever, or so it seemed.  A first in my lifetime and something I had always dreamed about.  That evening was a crescendo of wild exuberance, drinking and the thrill of victory.  I partied all night long.  Heaven knows what time I got home, and had it not been for my buddy being affixed to my side when we arrived I would have been toasted by my wife.  Though it would have been well deserved for my lack of communication and inconsiderate selfishness once again.  Needless to say the next day was a little frosty, but golf and more partying on Saturday night were properly in order.  Later on Sunday, however, was not so comfortable as I was now defenseless without my friend to foil the wrath of my wife’s displeasure, justifiable for sure, but it was a rough reentry and led to a rather miserable week of me paying the price.

One critical background piece regarding my regular operating procedure which never occurred to me during my episodes is that when I would disappear from home for hours at a time; whether it be 2, 4, 12— who knows, but for certain my wife had no idea where I was.  I knew where I was: chasing the tiger!  It wasn’t until later that I learned this behavior caused her great harm and horror by my selfishness in leaving her alone with two young daughters in fear and total uncertainty of my relationship obligation or providing for our family as was my vowed commitment.  I kept her completely uninformed on my whereabouts and she had no idea if I was dead, alive, hospitalized, jailed or wherever...

And so it goes, the next weekend was literally a follow-up performance of the last with a night on the town with some good buddies and one childhood best friend (more on him later) on Saturday night following a golf outing that afternoon.  We did the usual bar hopping while I once again arrogantly ignored informing my wife of my intentions and the plans to follow.  My best friend had thought ahead so we were prepared with the supply that we needed for the usual extracurricular action.  The out of control behavior continued at our favorite watering hole until closing time and then moved to my wealthy pal’s house (the guy who owned the dugout suite, so there would be plenty of booze to carry on).  My buddy and I outlasted the others and the house owner resigned before we had crossed the finish line, as if there was such a thing--we would always keep going with no end in sight-- my planning never actually calculated the results other than to go higher and higher.  With my party pal now passed out I was on my own and it then occurred to me that I should sneak home.  When I arrived slightly before dawn, the garage entry door was locked.  Having faced this dilemma on previous occasions I grabbed my hide-a-key and got inside.  Then I slithered upstairs and found a quiet place in the guest bedroom to sleep it off.  Once again the next day was an unpleasant combination of my wife's despair and a hangover that had my head split in two; it was as if I had a hatchet squarely implanted in my frontal cortex.  Needless to say I had no explanation for my behavior which led to her displeasure, but it was my earned consequence for being completely irresponsible and absent too often from my family life.  I was really pressing the limits of my wife’s patience and nerves.  I felt like crap.  I did it again.  But why?  I was killing myself and destroying my marriage and beginning to damage my relationship with our little girls (ages 7 and 2).  I had no answer, but swearing off was the only tactic I could summon.  I had no idea if that would suffice because I had my own doubts as to whether or not I could actually keep that promise since I had broken it so many times before. 

I felt a hopelessness that was deep in my soul and I was now conceding to just give up.  I was on the edge of suicide in my thoughts and it was a frightening state of mind.  I saw my buddies doing the same things, but it never occurred to me that it was something I couldn’t control.  This depressed feeling was literally excruciating.  What had happened to me?  So much promise and so many opportunities.  I had become literally out of control and had no idea anymore how to rein it in.  It was as if I would get started and couldn’t stop.  

On the Wednesday evening during the last week of that month, my banker boss told me to meet him in the nearby village for breakfast at the diner at 7:30.  To prepare for this what seemed to be an important meeting, what did I do?  Get a good night’s rest?  Get all my books in order to answer any vital questions?  Stay late at the office to be sure all the boxes were checked?  Not a chance.  I went to see the man and got buzzed.  I woke up hungover and a bit jittery, but managed to pull myself together, shower, shave and don a clean suit.  As I was about to walk in the entry door my boss popped out in front of me on the main street sidewalk.  Uncomfortably close and face-to-face, he looked me square in the eye and growled, “I’m taking you to the Clinic for a drug test”.

My thoughts raced wildly!  My mind immediately scrambled through multiple scenarios: run, scream, hit him, make up excuses, lie-- I had no idea what to do, I mean this abrupt threat caught me so off guard I was panicked.  And, all of sudden, in what was literally an instant I looked back at him and plainly said, “okay”.  That’s it.  I nearly wilted.  But, just as swiftly, I had an amazing sensation like I’d never ever had before.  It was as if the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders.  I no longer had to live in this lie.  I had been deceiving my wife, my parents, my family, my boss, my friends, everybody for so long, but now it’s like the heavy yolk was removed at that very moment.  I turned and followed him to his car, opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

September 28, 1995.  We arrived at the world famous hospital and they whisked me into a doctor’s office where I was put through a battery of exams.  Not physically, but mentally.  Having majored with a BS in Psychology from college, I was fully aware of what was actually going on.  The doc was checking my metal capacity and soundness of mind.  Being the always cagy wise guy, I was manipulating him right back.  The Rorschach Inkblot Test was no match for my crafty, manipulative genius.  The creatures that he wanted me to identify were more like clouds and birds and visions of beauty.  But the second time through (because he knew I was playing him) when the last card presented, which was blank, rather than say “it’s blank” like I did sarcastically in round one, I said, “I see me, in the mirror and it’s ugly”.  I sealed my own fate.  A few minutes later the doctor was explaining to my boss that I was an alcoholic and needed treatment.  There is a little added side story here but simplify it to say that that night I went home and slept for about 12 hours, and on Friday the next afternoon I was checked into the hospital psych ward known as P47.  That would be my quarters for the next five days of dryout and in-patient therapy.

My counselor’s name was Rita.  She had treated several of my cousins in the past.  Remember, the large Irish Clan?  Well, we had plenty of drinkers on board.  Most of them drank scotch, but I liked vodka.  And plenty of it.  She had a sly, smirky sort of grin when we met as if to say I've seen your type before, but I knew better for she had never met the likes of me.  Between the time I had been confronted and was willing to go to the hospital and that Friday evening at the Unit, I had developed some doubts as to why I was there.  My thoughts started racing again and thinking of things like: What will my wife do? What will my dad say?  What will my friends think?  How will my employees react?  Will I lose my job?  What will happen next?  This line of reasoning was making me very uncomfortable and I had no answers.

The next morning was Saturday and we had a group session at 8 AM after breakfast.  One of my dear old girlfriends from high school (yes, we had dated in 10th grade and again after I returned from Colorado.  She has now long since died of an Oxycodone overdose.  Really sad.) was in my group, as well as, a NFL lineman who played for the Buffalo Bills in several Super Bowls--boy, did he have some stories and our journeys were very similar except for the obvious with me being a medium sized, white, hockey player.  We bonded quickly, but he was let loose the following Monday before we could really lay down ties.  In any case, the announcement was made that we would be departing for the AA meeting at Club 24 which is in Heights.  I had no idea what that meant, but I started to get quite agitated.  Once the group session ended, I sprang from my seat to use the pay phone in the hallway to call one of my older buddies who I knew had quit drinking but really didn’t know if he knew anything about AA.  Heck, I didn’t know anything about AA!  He said not to worry and that he’d meet me at the spot.

I paced up and down the street out front after the van dropped us off from our ride from the hospital.  My buddy arrived and we walked down to the local coffee shop at the end of the street to talk.  He was doing his best to reassure me that he would help me and for me to not panic.  (Yeah, easy for him to say).  The thing that hit me the most was when I told him this was all messed up because I’m the life of the party.  He looked at me and in a monotone voice said, “you’re not the life of the party”.  Talk about kicking a guy where it hurts.  What the…  That was totally brutal and it hit me really hard.  I mean, dude, we had some good times, right?  Little did I know he was helping me to get over myself.  I was clueless.  I was in a daze.

We went up the street to the clubhouse and entered the old stone building.  This was a relic from a bygone era, and the staircase was extremely wide, wooden and rickety.  Up near the top of the stairs, there were guys lined up alongside the wall shaking hands.  As I approached, each guy (like 10) put out their hand, gave me a firm shake and welcomed me.  I didn’t know them and they sure as heck didn’t know me.  I was a bit in awe as these not-so-well-dressed guys of the real ‘hood treated me like an old friend who had just come home.  The guy at the entry door said to me, “hey, you’re new”, and handed me five raffle tickets while he said, “on the house”.  What the…  We walked into the main room which was a large space and more than 100 people were seated in wooden folding chairs.  The hardwood floor creaked as we made our way in and to the left side, towards the back.  After all, there weren’t many seats available and I didn’t want to make the grand appearance that I usually made when entering a party for all to know I had arrived.  A guy saw that we were together so he moved over one seat to allow us to be together and we sat down.  I began casing the joint to see who was in attendance and eyeballed the exits just in case a gun fight should break out.  It was then that I had the sensation that someone from behind was leaning forward and I had that feeling that the guy in back of me had his head right up next to my ear.  I somewhat abruptly whirled around to see an older black man hunched forward as if he had something to say.  He looked at me, gently smiled and matter-of-factly said, “you’re new”.  What?  Is it tattooed on my forehead?  I mean how do these people know that?  (Later, it dawned on me that the reason they knew I was new is because they had never seen me before.  Ohhh. Look, I had no idea that these people go to these meetings like every week let alone every day.  I, after all, was a visitor.).  I nodded politely but didn’t acknowledge his accuracy, and he then in a soft voice said, “everything is gonna be oookay”.  The way he said it was so calm and soothing it gave me an instant sense of reassurance.  Honestly, I felt a connection to him immediately and he really put me at ease.  I turned back around in my seat as the meeting was just getting started.  I have no idea what happened next.  All I remember is that some guy was standing in front of this widely mixed group and telling his life’s story.  It made no lasting impact or permanence in my current state of mind at that time.  All I kept thinking about during that meeting and the many days well beyond was what Eugene had said to me, “everything is gonna be oookay”.

Sunday was pretty uneventful as the routine is usually toned down on the seventh day for more or less relaxation, and to give the nurses, orderlies and counselors a day off.  However, the next day as I sat in a small conference room, which was a bit crowded with the table encircled by the staff and seated in front of the world famous treatment doctor, I lashed out in anger.  “What the hell do you know about being an alcoholic?!”  Mind you at this point they had ID’d me as an alcoholic, I hadn’t actually admitted to any of that yet.  I was still getting a feel for the place and how I was going to maneuver my way out of this lock up.  Let’s just say that he did his best Marcus Welby and attempted to lower the temperature and my blood pressure.  I slumped down in my chair and stared at him blankly and let his drivel run through my ears.  He gave me a homework assignment which I did later that day and pretty much continued to resent him and all of his intellectual nonsense.  He, too, had treated my relatives, but he was more condescending and arrogant than tactful, in my opinion.  So, I did all I could to just get by with him.  Luckily, he turned me over to Rita for she knew how to handle a stubborn and belligerent case such as me.  

One at a time over the course of the first several days Rita arranged for five guys to come in for private talks in order to tell me their story.  What I heard blew me away.  I mean, really?  These guys were all telling my story, but, wait, I thought I was so unique or at least different in a way that my secrets had to be kept deep inside.  This was really weird for me.  Grown men, all of whom were at least a few years older than me, were talking about their exploits and whacked out lives.  They were sharing their feelings.  I thought to myself-- imagine if when I was captain of one of the many hockey teams over the years to be in the locker room talking about my feelings.  Are you kidding me?!  I had to be the leader, the jock.  Talk about my feelings?  Not a chance!  I’d be eaten alive.  The fact is that I never learned how to feel my feelings nor how to properly respond to them.  My methods were either to stuff them or hit somebody.

After day three and multiple group sessions, small meeting discussions, meetings brought into the hospital and run by “those” people, select drunkard movies and the famous Father Martin chalk talk video, I had that same incredible epiphany I had when confronted by my boss several days prior.  For a second time the doubt, despair and fear were lifted off of me and I was given new life.  The breath of a new awakening had filled my spirit.  I had a sixth sense that I was in the right place— “everything is gonna be oookay”.

As the story goes, I was released on that Tuesday afternoon and drove straight home.  However, only a few minutes out from my exit, my car phone rang.  I picked it up and heard, “hey man, where have you been”?  I panicked.  My heart palpitated.  It was the dealer and he was tracking me down.  I guess when you’re as regular as I’d been he wanted to make sure I was alive or at minimum he was calling to make a buck off me!  I said, “I can’t talk to you.  Don’t ever call me again”.  I slammed down the receiver.  I hung up the phone!  The sweat on my brow was a sure sign that my blood was hotly pouring through my veins and my head was about to explode.  Just then, the phone rang a second time, feeling enraged I grabbed the handle and was about to blow my top for him calling me back, when I heard immediately, “hey, dude, where have you been?”  It was my dear old childhood friend and party pal checking in since I was obviously absent from the past weekend’s activities.  “Oh, man, I’ll tell you where I’ve been.  I’ve been in the hospital for the past five days after being dragged in by my boss and tossed into the alcohol treatment unit.  As a matter of fact (knowing that he was as bad an act as me), you belong right here with me”.  Bam!  He hung up the phone!

Wow, what a spot.  First the drug dealer and then my best friend.  What next?  I was a bit oblivious the rest of the 20 minute drive home.  Upon arrival, my wife was very pleasant and said that my dad wanted to see me.  Apparently, there had been a lot of talk over the past several days between my boss, my wife and my dad.  They had some ideas on how this all was going to go and I was now instructed to report in for my assignment.  After all, my siblings and I had nicknamed our father The Commander, one, because he served in the Navy, and, two, because he definitely commanded your attention when he wanted it.  I got back in my car and drove over to my parents home.

I arrived in the usual 10 minutes that it took to get there from our house.  He was waiting for me, but I was not all to prepared for him.  I sat down in the family room across from him.  He asked me if I was okay, then he questioned, “what is going on?”.  I told him that I had been taken to treatment by my boss and that I have a problem with booze and drugs.  He had no idea or at least the extent of which I described briefly.  He said, “I don’t understand, but when you’ve had enough, why don’t you just stop?”  To which I replied simply, “that’s the thing, dad, I can’t.”  We talked for a short while longer and we came to an agreement that I ought to do whatever the doctors and counselors instructed.  He was a real gentleman, which he always was, but usually our interactions were about me getting caught being an idiot and he had to be the firm, strict dad.  This was different.  He was definitely calm and controlled.  He didn’t lose his temper and he offered to help.  He later gave me a sizable check to clear up my debts and I paid him back in less than a year.  He was my dad and I really appreciated him for his generosity now and more so for all that he had done for me throughout my life.  The fact is that he was my greatest advocate and supporter always.  Many times I just didn’t recognize it.  Even though he was tough on me when he coached me youth hockey, he knew I had the talent and he wanted me to use it.  Once again, he was showing that same support-- “you’ve got the smarts now get to work”.

And so I did.  I found a sponsor in the rooms, and he helped me “work” the Steps.  I continued in an aftercare group on a weekly basis with Rudy, my counselor at the hospital, who had collected a handful of guys gathered from other treatment groups to discuss recovery and share our stories.  We compared notes on what was working well and what was challenging.  We worked together as a group to support and guide one another.  After about a year, the group had lived its useful life and then came a day when we all moved on and went about our own business.

I stuck with the 12 step program, though I heard most of the other guys didn’t.  The sad reality is that something like less than 10% that come into the rooms actually stay.  I was one of the lucky ones.  My sponsor told me to go to 90 meetings in 90 days to begin my journey, and when I protested that meant a meeting every day he said, “well, you drank every day of the week”.  I worked with him and completed the Steps in about a year.  I went to at least five meetings a week for the first year, and sometimes seven or even more.  I was told to go to a meeting every day because I needed that many to find the one that would help me for that week.  A handful of my dad’s friends and contemporaries were in the meetings back then, and it was as if one at a time I would hear, “hey, your Bob’s son”.  Next thing I realized is that all of them took me under their wing to help guide me.  I literally had a half dozen 70 year old guys acting like my second dad.  It was extremely generous of them and mighty comforting to me.

My transformation began in that first moment where I was stunned and startled by my boss’ intervention and that instant the light of God shone into my soul.  The good news for me is that it happened again while in the hospital, as I described, and it stuck.  I am truly blessed.  I’ve been sober ever since.  One Day At A Time.  I never want to go back.  My life was a sickening roller coaster ride of the up and down from euphoria to anger and back again.  I had lost control and was helpless.  I was powerless and literally hopeless.  Several times I thought about killing myself but I was too chicken to carry it out.  My life was headed down hill and inside I was such a mess that I really didn’t care.  No doubt I would have been dead a long time ago but for the 12 Steps, the fellowship and, most importantly, the grace of God; to whom I have turned over my will and my life for His care.

Over my years of sobriety I have had the opportunity to work with many men, and some women though I immediately turn them over to another woman after we meet to set the plan in motion.  I have worked with a number of young men, as well, such as when a friend calls about their “troubled” boy.  I have never been anonymous though I don’t broadcast my sobriety, but all my friends know it and that’s just fine with me.  It has actually been a blessing to be the open door for friends to call when in need, especially with the issues they face with their teenage/twenty/thirty something year old sons.  I have also watched nine of my childhood friends die as a direct result of alcohol or drugs; all of them so far before their 55th birthday.  As for my best friend who called when I left the hospital; yes, he got sober five years after me, and he stayed in the program and sponsored guys for fifteen years, then he died of an overdose.  He let down his guard of daily sobriety and connection to a Higher Power.  That really hurt and I felt terrible that I didn’t see it coming.  He disguised it like we drunks and addicts always do.  These frightening losses are a stark reminder to me that the disease never quits.  It never goes away.  And so, I now know in my heart of hearts that “what we really have is a daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition”.

My motto today is Always Forward→  Every day I like to say I have a “daily do-over”, and that is a miracle.  I wake up every morning and thank God for my sobriety and the day ahead.  I pray for His guidance and ask Him to show me the way.  I say, “I can’t, You can, I will let You”.  Steps One, Two and Three-- first thing before I get out of bed.  That’s what I was told to do, and that’s what I have always done.  I use all 12 steps throughout the day, as that is what our instruction manual (as I refer to it) tells me to do.  “It works--it really does”.  I am living proof of that, and I am willing to testify to it anytime, anywhere.  I know that I have to do the work and I have to be committed, but it is by God’s grace in whom I put my faith that I have been saved from my old self and gifted a new life to love and share with all those around me.  I have many friends and supporters inside— and outside the rooms. The fact is that we’re all in this together.  I know I can’t do it alone.  Yeah I tried to change many times on my own before that fateful intervention, but it never worked.  My willpower was not strong enough and my desire was never honestly all in.  Once I had that spiritual experience, it gave me hope and a whole new beginning.  For that I am eternally grateful.

Hi.  My name is Michael, I’m an alcoholic.