The youngest of three boys, I was a defiant son, a precocious student and a talented athlete. I paid scant attention to the advice of well-meaning teachers, coaches, older brothers or even my own parents.

Once I learned to tie my own shoes and ice skates I pretty much stopped asking for help. Mom and Dad tried to be loving but they were clumsy parents. At the time I didn’t have the vocabulary to describe it as such but Dad’s codependency to Mom’s drug addiction rendered both of them unqualified to help me with much of anything. As I grew up, I lived a life of self sufficiency and stubborn independence, pretending at times I was an only child – or even an orphan – convinced that sheer determination, faked confidence and overall competence would cover for the insecurities and shame I had over my chaotic home life. By the time I discovered alcohol just before heading off to college, that survival mask had fused to my face. My act had become my reality.

Outwardly friendly and gregarious, I pretended to appreciate advice, but was inwardly dismissive of anyone who offered it. My whole party-hard-live fast-die young-leave-a-good-looking- corpse act teetered on a foundation of false pride, self sufficiency and independence, so my first reaction to anyone who had the temerity to make even modest critiques or suggestions and thus threaten my carefully constructed false persona, was to resent them, avoid them, or both.

Outwardly it worked. I was seen by most people to be successful and confident, with money in the bank, cars in the garage, a beautiful doting wife, cute babies and a glamorous lifestyle. But in my late 20’s-early 30s, alcohol was systematically dissolving the sinews of my character and the problems began to mount.

My flawless-appearing life was beginning to unravel.

In rare moments I admitted to myself that perhaps drinking may have contributed to my problems. But the way I saw it was that maybe sometimes I drank too much. Literally drank one or a couple of drinks more than I should have. By my assessment, it was the fourth bottle of wine that got me into trouble, or the fifteenth beer, or the sixth double scotch. There was an nth drink that caused my problems. If I could avoid getting to the nth drink, I reasoned, I would be fine. If I stopped before the nth, there would be no lies, no cheating, no gratuitous arguments, no screaming, no hangovers, no blackouts, no regrets, no shame. The idea of not drinking at all never occurred to me, nor in fact did it to my then-wife, who used to say, “You don’t have to quit! Just drink less. Like before, when you were fun.”

That false narrative was music to my ears! ‘Even she doesn’t want me to quit’, is all I heard.

But one day, for reasons I still don’t understand, I received the “gift of desperation” and checked myself into a treatment center. I was inwardly defeated, shattered and humiliated, fearful and confused. But outwardly I still displayed an attitude of “I got this”.

But I didn’t. I didn’t know diddly squat. I had no idea how to get sober or to stay sober. For the first time in my adult life I had to ask for help. I didn’t even know how to.

But you all did. Here are some of the many AA’s and friends I recall with deep gratitude for being there to, first, show me how to ask for help, and then to give me the help I needed, one day at a time:

Joey, my treatment center counsellor who had me figured out from the get go. She made me spend three weeks of the four week program on Step One, the only Step I can honestly say I have done to the best of my abilities every single day of my sobriety. And I will never forget her advice: “You can do whatever you want in life, as long as you keep your program of recovery at the center of that life. If your career, or hobbies, relationships, adventures, etc… become more important than AA, those are precisely the first things you will lose when you drink again.

My first sponsor J, who would later struggle in sobriety, who sat patiently over endless cups of bad coffee and listened to my Step Five without judgement, helped me map out my first round of amends, and later, when I was searching for work, unhappily single, and nearly bankrupt both financially and spiritually, let me stay in a back room of his house for eleven months, during which period I had nothing to do but work steps, read relevant books, go to meetings, make my remaining amends, spend time with newcomers and begin to turn the corner and start to experience the promises of recovery.

Kurt, my “sponsor of convenience” in a country where there were only three of us English speaking AAs. Outwardly, he and I were like chalk and cheese. He wore skinny leather rocker jeans, had spider tattoos on his knuckles, and sported a big silver skull and bones ring capable of breaking, well, skulls and bones. He used to take a drag from his cigarette, exhale dramatically and say, “You know, all YOU need to do to get this program is GET DUMB! Stop @#%- ing overthinking it!” He was right. AA’s suggested program of recovery is not complicated. But I needed his reminder, delivered with the subtlety of electroshock, of that fundamental point. (He remains a dear friend… we were on a Zoom meeting together recently, first time at a meeting together in ages).

Joan F, who sat with me near her fireplace and patiently listened to me read seventy four (sic) letters I had written but would not send to people I had been harboring resentments towards. She then prayed with me after each letter to have that particular resentment lifted. Then I crumbled up and chucked each letter into the fire. I don’t know how it worked but it did; each of those resentments, which like cigarette embers had been smoldering in my brain (for decades in some cases) faded and disappeared in subsequent weeks. I could not have done that alone. So many of my mental obsessions and other defects that had confounded me for years were no match for the loving presence, attention and counsel from another AA fellow. I can’t taste my tongue, I can’t see inside my eye. And my own brain cannot heal itself. With your help though as facilitators for God’s healing, my mental and emotional health has improved dramatically.

The guys in a men’s group I helped start, who listened to me talk for months about a relationship that had begun when I was drinking (and married) and which had run its course in early sobriety. They helped me get the conviction to end it, and – for the first time in my life- to do so honestly and properly and without making her feel at fault. Without those fellows to talk through both the reasons for that excruciating decision and the manner by which I would communicate it, I would have put my sobriety at risk. (God works in funny ways.. one of those very fellows married her a few months later, and they are happy together to this day. That I was and am genuinely happy for them is testament to the miraculous change in my personality that you all have helped me achieve).

My many AA sisters who taught me that women can and should be essential friends without the intent or expectation of romance; and all the AA members of different race, nationality, skin color, religious affiliation, cultural, gender or sexual orientation, who helped me understand that whoever we are and however we got into our addictions, we are all led out by adherence to the same program of recovery; and the old timers who were more tolerant of my bullshit than they needed to be when I was new; and the newbies who endure my ramblings now that I am old, and who give me the opportunity to pass on whatever I have learned from those who preceded me; and even those fellows I found to be annoying but who have nonetheless given me the “opportunity for growth”, some of whom subsequently even becoming dear friends.

Those who slipped or relapsed and had the courage to come back and share their experience, and in so doing reinforced my conviction that I did not myself need to go out there and do additional research on the nature of my illness.

Every AA who gave me a ride to or from a meeting, asked me out for a coffee, gave me their phone number, patted me on the back on the way in, or out, of a meeting, gave me a shoulder to lean on when I needed it or gave me the opportunity to be a source of strength and hope when they needed me.

My brother, who is a minister, and who encouraged me speak to God in my prayers as a friend. He said that if I believed that God is all knowing He in any case knows what is in my heart and that I need not worry about the structure, or formality, or the beauty of my prayer’s language; rather, he said, I should just focus on my truth of the moment, expressed however I want to. Thus paving the way for a much more real, relatable and fulfilling relationship with my Higher Power.

The Singapore fellow who stood in for my absent sponsor when I had to grind through Steps 4-8 in one desperate weekend not so long ago

The many sponsors, sponsees, brothers and sisters in the program, gong masters,

Buddhist monks, retreat counsellors, friends and others trudging along the path, who have inspired and guided my attempts to learn how to meditate.

Thousands of AAs, around the world, whose incredible shares keep me coming back to the meetings, helping me stay sober in the day, each day being another bead added to the beautiful tapestry that my sober life is. Honesty, drama, humor, intimacy. You share your lives, your fears, your hopes and dreams and, especially, your solutions, with me. AA meetings are the best show in town. Without you at the meetings, whether in person or virtual, I would be lost.

Clearly, without help, it would have been too much for me. I would not have been able to get sober or stay sober. But with your help, alcoholism has not been a constraint to living a happy, joyous and free life as a sober man for now for more than 30 years. Thank you for giving me that life!

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