You Can Get Off
at Any Floor
By:
Vicki M., Daphne, AL
At the age of 32, and after
14 years of marriage, I awakened one morning and found myself
divorced, alone, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I had
three out-of-control children and no way to support them. I had no
self-confidence or self-respect. And although I felt numb at the
time, I was consumed with fear and anger. Eight years later, I
walked into Alcoholics Anonymous--not because I was an alcoholic,
but because my life was totally unmanageable.
I
started drinking in high school. My boyfriend played in a band. I
was the "drummer's girl"-- the center of attention and
the envy of all the other girls who followed the band. When the
band played, I drank. When the band finished playing, I drank some
more. I prided myself on the fact that I could drink as much as or
more than all of them, even the older boys.
Just
out of high school, I met the man who would become the father of
my three children. He told me right up front, "No woman is
ever going to tell me what to do." His defiant need for
control was attractive to me; I interpreted it as strength. I
married him five months later. And before long, his control
consumed me.
I
became a prisoner within my own body. I gave up myself and learned
to be whoever he wanted me to be. He frightened me with his
manipulations--verbal abuse interspersed with well-timed,
deafening silence. I responded by taking on his thoughts and his
beliefs as my own. Soon, I could not differentiate between what
was true and what was false. I tuned into his feelings so
completely that my mind became one with his. I had no
"me."
At
that point in my life, alcohol was not an issue. Six packs of beer
sat in the refrigerator for months. I had traded one obsession for
another: My family, especially my husband, became my obsession. My
mind worked overtime making sure my husband was pleased. If he was
in a quiet mood, I ran around behind him asking, "What's the
matter? What did I do wrong?" I made certain the kids were
good and quiet. I made sure that everything was in order, in hopes
that "Daddy" would be in a good mood. If he was unhappy,
I felt responsible. If he was happy, so was I. When he smiled, I
knew that I must have done something right, and I felt deeply
relieved.
Then
I started hearing the rumors. He was having an affair with his
young secretary. I confronted him. He denied it. I knew in my
heart that he was lying, but I allowed denial to cushion my pain
until I could handle it.
Before
long, he told me that he wanted a divorce. I felt devastated. I
cried all the time. I lost weight. I didn’t want to live. To
cope with the pain, I started drinking again.
The
divorce turned into more of the same for me. Even then, I wanted
my husband to be happy. So I gave him everything except the
children. I kept nothing for myself. How symbolic! I put on a
brave front and told everyone that I was fine, and I drank more
heavily.
Things
didn't get better. I felt as though people were always watching
me. Then my oldest son began getting into trouble. Finally, I
decided to leave that part of my life behind, and I took the kids
and moved back to my old hometown, where I knew I would find love
and support.
My
children hated the move. My two oldest reacted by turning rude,
unruly, and ultimately unbearable. I lost all control over them.
To cope, I turned to what worked: I drank more. And I disappeared
emotionally.
When
I started dating again, I only dated men who drank like I did. And
of course, my drinking progressed to another level. I never
questioned this behavior; it seemed natural to me.
Then,
quite by accident, I started dating a man who did not abuse
alcohol. One day he said to me, "You sure drink a lot."
The comment surprised me because I had cut back on the amount I
was drinking, partly because he didn't drink the way my other men
friends did. But to accommodate his feelings and get his approval,
I changed my behavior. I didn't drink less; I just drank
differently. I downed five or six beers before he got to my house,
put the cans in a brown paper sack, and hid the sack in the
outside garbage can. Then I opened a beer right after he arrived
and drank four or five more while he was there. He never knew
about the other beers and so approved of my new drinking behavior.
I continued this routine for months.
Eventually,
my behavior started getting to me. I questioned why I felt like I
had to hide the empty beer cans and lie about my drinking. And I
heard a commercial that stuck in my head. It said, "If you
think you drink too much, you probably do."
Then
one day, again quite by accident, I was talking to a friend who I
knew was in Alcoholics Anonymous. I asked her if she thought I
drank too much. She said she couldn’t answer that question, but
she invited me to go to an AA meeting with her. I completely
surprised myself and agreed to go.
The
next day--June 15, 1989--I walked into my first AA meeting. I
listened while other people told their stories, and I heard the
differences between them and me. I had not gotten the DUI's. I had
not lost my children. I had not lost my job. I didn’t drink in
the morning. I didn’t even drink every day. I had not
experienced any of those things. And that confirmed it: I was not
an alcoholic. All I wanted was for my life to get better. When
given the chance to speak, I said, "My name is Vicki, and I
am not an alcoholic. I may drink too much, too often, and
for the wrong reasons, but I have all my teeth and I do not live
under the bridge."
At
the end of the meeting, the chairman offered a beginner's chip to
anyone who wanted one. My friend elbowed me, nodded her head
"Yes," and before I knew what was happening, the old
people pleaser--me--walked up and took a chip. That moment was the
beginning of my road to recovery. Without intending to, I
committed myself to stay sober "one day at a time."
After
the meeting, an older lady approached me and asked me if I really
wanted my life to get better? I said I did. She told about me the
Third Tradition--that the only requirement for membership in AA is
a desire to stop drinking. She said if I would attend 90 meetings
in 90 days, get a sponsor, read the Big Book, and call her every
day, she guaranteed that my life would get better. Again, my need
for approval saved my life. I agreed.
Not
only did I go to a meeting every day, I sometimes went to two or
three. I heard things I could relate to. My denial started
cracking. And on day 27, I finally said, "My name is Vicki,
and I'm an alcoholic." I didn’t really fully believe that
statement for another year, but I began acting as if I did. I
started doing the things that people suggested I do in order to
stay sober.
I
learned to listen to the similarities between them and me. I
looked at how I felt while drinking instead of just what I did
while drinking. I heard a man share his feelings of loneliness
while sitting in a jail cell, and I had a powerful moment of
clarity. I saw that even though I had never been to jail, I had
felt that same loneliness while sitting on my couch in my living
room. From that point forward, I knew that I belonged in this
strange group of people.
I
began to feel again and to share my feelings. And I learned that
they were just my feelings, neither right nor wrong. I regained
some of my self-esteem. I began to laugh. I began to have my own
opinions, even if they were different from the opinions of others.
As
sober days turned into sober weeks, and sober weeks turned into
sober months, my life just kept getting better. I felt blessed. I
had "accidentally" found a way of living that was
teaching me how to be me and how to like me. I was actually
walking out of and away from the prison that I had locked myself
into for so many years.
One
of the most important things I heard in AA was this: "The
elevator goes up and down, and you can get off at any floor with
your drinking; you do not have to hit the bottom floor and lose
everything before realizing that you are an alcoholic." More
than any other, that idea kept me coming back.
I
saw people come into AA and then go back out and drink some more.
When (and sometimes if) they made it back, I listened closely to
their tales of what had happened while they were drinking again.
One had an accident that killed someone. Others lost their
spouses, their kids, their homes, and their jobs. I did not want
those things to happen to me. So I made the decision to stop my
elevator, and I got off.
On
June 15, 2000, by the grace of God, I will be sober eleven years.
And at eleven years, I know who I am. I know what I feel. And I do
not need the approval of other people to feel good about myself. I
like who I am today. I feel proud of who I have become.
I
also know today that God is deep within me. God directs my
thinking. And God has given me the privilege of working with
newcomers in AA, which helps me maintain my sobriety. It helps me
focus on others instead of focusing on me. That is one of the keys
to my happiness because today I know that alcohol was never my
problem. I was always my problem.
I
had no idea what I was getting into when I agreed to go to that
first AA meeting on June 15, 1989. By all rights, I should not
have stayed. I'm so grateful that God kept me coming back to the
rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous long enough for the miracle to
happen to me. The fellowship and the 12 Steps of Alcoholics
Anonymous have taught me how to live life with peace and serenity.
That I once relied on alcohol for my serenity now seems ironic,
and even kind of funny.
Had
you asked to write down what I wanted out of life before I found
AA, I would have cut myself short, because my life today is better
than I could have imagined back then. My relationships with my
children, my parents, and my friends have been rebuilt with love,
trust, and respect. People ask me for my opinion today. And I
answer them--honestly and directly. That is far cry from who I
used to be.
Today
I can honestly say, "My name is Vicki, and I'm a grateful
alcoholic."
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