A Moment in the Dark - Grapevine #essentialsofrecovery

In a sea of empty beer cans, he had made his home a prison. What would it take to break free?

Smoke drifted through the stinking room as sunlight filtered through shut blinds. It was either morning or afternoon. The coffee table was covered with empty beer cans, ashes were everywhere, and nearby lay a stack of yellow tickets from my latest arrests. Add to the unanswered phone calls my overwhelming shame.

Ten years earlier it was a different story. Raised by a loving family, a voted class athlete, a student with top marks, an altar boy, called a “good kid” by adults, I knew right from wrong. I do not know why the path of addiction was set before me, only that it seemed predetermined, unavoidable. I tried so many times to veer from that path to no avail; I just had to walk it.

When I took my first drink of alcohol at 17, it was as if I’d found something that had been missing. The dull, unsettling uneasiness and low self-esteem that defined my adolescence evaporated and was replaced with a new freedom. I could suddenly talk to girls, attend parties and forget my feelings of being less than. I was able to forget about myself. Drinking suddenly became my solution for to how to deal with people. It became my savior, and I clung to its soaring promises as if being chased by something.

Calamity began soon enough. By 22, I had survived multiple car accidents, once narrowly avoiding a 60-foot ravine by striking a telephone pole. I had flunked out of three universities due to lack of attendance. My hands shook, I suffered night terrors and panic attacks, and I spent long hours in my car napping in fast-food parking lots, feeling nauseous from the greasy food and hiding from social interaction. The shame was so heavy. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn’t I stop? I must be a failure, I assumed. Self-pity kept pace.

With the support of my family, I put myself in rehab and there a seed was planted. I was introduced to AA, but no lasting sobriety sprung. I was still stumbling along with my own will. Instead of changing myself, I made a geographic change. I moved close to New York City, hoping for the excitement of bright lights and grand adventure. What came was something else: an ever-quickening downward spiral of self-destruction.

My life became this: I woke up at four o’clock in the afternoon, stumbled with baggy eyes to the bathroom and tried to brush the foul taste from my mouth while gagging on an empty stomach. Because I had lost my driving privileges, I walked four blocks to work the late shift. At midnight I walked home, stopping for beer on the way. Then I went home and watched movies alone until dawn and passed out. This went on for over a year. Rarely did I leave those four blocks, not once seeing the bright lights of New York City.

Some nights I walked to the neighborhood bar and tried to find the courage to have a conversation, make a new friend, but I could no longer get drunk enough. Relationships were out of the question. Such intimacy was impossible; I couldn’t even take my shirt off in front of a woman. And certainly, I thought, no one would be interested in speaking to someone like me. I had nothing to share with the world. My sole desire was for human connection, and yet it was my greatest fear. I was a scared little boy.

So I began inviting strangers into my home, convicts, homeless addicts, people I’d once have run from. Following these nights, in despair and remorse, I vowed never to do such things again. But within days, I’d be drunk and high and associating again with dangerous people. Many nights I wedged my couch against the front door in fear they might return and harm me. Twice, I woke from blackouts in the emergency room, having fallen face-first onto the pavement somewhere in the darkness. I lost hope of ever changing. No one knew my predicament because I was too ashamed to share with anyone. I had built my own prison. Then, one crisp, shining day in my 28th year, it all ended.

I can’t say why I had the strength that day and not on another of thousands of other days just like it. Though I had tried countless times to stop and suffered great harm, there was no big lesson learned. Looking back I wonder if a divine consciousness was not at play that day. I just simply gave up. My will fell to the floor and my ego was shattered. I’ve not had a drink since.

I became willing to go to any lengths to not pick up a drink, determined to be honest. It was challenging. I had the emotional maturity of a teenager. All my unresolved emotions came to the surface, so I felt naked and raw. My great fear of being seen by others left me shaking in social situations. I stared at my shoes and wore a ball cap to cover my eyes. It was hard to be vulnerable.

But AA saved my life. The people there welcomed me with unconditional love and showed me—through the examples of their own lives—that there was a better way. I met a man who became my sponsor, who took me under his care and mirrored my truths so I could see them. With his guidance, I dissected my life and saw how my actions turned the wheels of the actions of others. My fears were revealed to be falsehoods. I found forgiveness for others and myself through compassion and sincere empathy. I came to see tragedy and tribulation as an opportunity for personal growth. As the alchemists do, I began to turn mud into gold. My idea of love has been redefined. I have made lifelong friends. I’ve practiced giving to others and so many wonderful awakenings have come.

Two years after I got sober, I stood atop a 110-foot private ship and watched as we floated past islands off the coast of Croatia. As the Adriatic Sea glimmered blue and golden at sunset, I stood there and laughed to myself. Only two years earlier my life had consisted of four blocks and darkness. Now I had a passport and was seeing the world. Soon I’d move to London, and later, live a year in India. I was in a healthy, loving relationship. My brother had asked me to be his best man at his wedding. I could look people in the eye and tell my father I loved him. So many other rewards have come, too many to list—and they still come today. But beyond all that, standing on that top deck, it was the peace I felt within that most made me smile.

Today I’m grateful that my suffering made me a little wiser, kinder and more generous. Now when I’m in fear and feeling defeated, I attempt to do the next right thing, be vulnerable and speak from the heart. I am learning to accept my imperfections as perfect. I can smile and laugh, my eyes shine and I know my purpose. My eyes look inward and my stride is genuine.

As a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, let me whisper to you something that I now know is true—there is help and hope. There’s a place in you untouched, unravaged, unbroken. This life is beautiful and, lest you forget it, yours is beautiful too. You need not walk alone. Our best days wait unimagined by us. This is my story—up until now anyway!

—Joseph F., Cornwall-on-Hudson, N.Y.

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