point of view of content or style that might offend or alienate those who are not familiar with the program should be carefully eliminated. . . . Profanity, even when mild, rarely contributes as much as it detracts. It should be avoided." In a letter to a prospective contributor, Bill set forth the framework he was seeking: “We are looking for straight personal narratives which describe the drinking history, how the newcomer arrived in Alcoholics Anonymous, how A.A. affected him, and what A.A. has since accomplished for him."
But with all their faults of style, the differences between the stories we hear today and those written in 1939 are not important. These writers were alcoholics, and their experience rings true to any A.A. member of any time or place.
The Unbeliever
Dull . . . listless . . . semicomatose . . . I lay on my bed in a famous hospital for alcoholics. Death or worse had been my sentence.
What was the difference? What difference did anything make? Why think of these things which were gone—why worry about the results of my drunken escapades? What the hell were the odds if my wife had discovered the mistress situation? Two swell boys . . . sure . . . but what difference would a corpse or an asylum imprisoned father make to them? . . . thoughts stop whirling in my head . . . that’s the worst of this sobering-up process . . . the old think tank is geared in high-high . . . what do I mean high-high . . . where did that come from . . . oh yes, that first Cadillac I had, it had four speeds . . . had a high-high gear . . . insane asylum . . . how that bus could scamper . . . yes . . . even then liquor probably poisoned me. What had the little doctor said this morning . . . thoughts hesitate a moment . . . stop your mad turning . . . what was I thinking about . . . oh yes, the doctor.
This morning I reminded Doc this was my tenth visit. I had spent a couple of thousand dollars on these trips and those I had financed for the plastered play girls who also couldn’t sober up. Jackie was a honey until she got plastered and then she was a hellion. Wonder what gutter she’s in now. Where was I? Oh . . . I asked the doctor to tell me the truth. He owed it to me for the amount of money I had spent. He faltered. Said I’d been drunk, that’s all. God! Didn’t I know that?
But Doc, you’re evading. Tell me honestly what is the matter with me. I’ll be all right did you say? But Doc, you’ve said that before. You said once that if I stopped for a year I would be over the habit and would never drink again. I didn’t drink for over a year, but I did start to drink again.
Tell me what is the matter with me. I’m an alcoholic? Ha ha and ho ho! As if I didn’t know that! But aside from your fancy name for a plain drunk, tell me why I drink. You say a true alcoholic is something different from a plain drunk? What do you mean . . . let me have it cold . . . brief and with no trimmings.
An alcoholic is a person who has an allergy to alcohol? Is poisoned by it? One drink does something to the chemical make-up of the body? That drink affects the nerves and in a certain number of hours another drink is medically demanded? And so the vicious cycle is started? An ever smaller amount of time between drinks to stop those screaming, twitching, invisible wires called nerves?
I know that history Doc . . . how the spiral tightens . . . a drink . . . unconscious . . . awake . . . drink . . . unconscious . . . poured into the hospital . . . suffer the agonies of hell . . . the shakes . . . thoughts running wild . . . brain unleashed . . . engine without a governor. But hell Doc, I don’t want to drink! I’ve got one of the stubbornest will powers known in the business. I stick at things. I get them done. I’ve stuck on the wagon for months. And not been bothered by it . . . and then suddenly, incomprehensibly, an empty glass in my hand and another spiral started. How did the Doc explain that one?
He couldn’t. That was one of the mysteries of true alcoholism. A famous medical foundation had spent a fortune trying to segregate the reasons for the alcoholic as compared to the plain hard, heavy drinker. Had tried to find the cause. And all they had been able to determine as a fact was that the majority of the alcohol in every drink taken by the alcoholic went to the fluid in which the brain floated. Why a man ever started when he knew those things was one of the things that could not be fathomed. Only the damn fool public believed it a matter of weak will power. Fear . . . ostracism . . . loss of family . . . loss of position . . . the gutter . . . nothing stopped the alcoholic.
Doc! What do you mean—nothing! What! An incurable disease? Doc, you’re kidding me! You’re trying to scare me into stopping! What’s that you say? You wish you were? What are those tears in your eyes Doc? What’s that? Forty years you’ve spent at this alcoholic business and you have yet to see a true alcoholic cured? Your life defeated and wasted? Oh, come, come Doc . . . what would some of us do without you? If even only to sober up. But Doc . . . let’s have it. What is going to be my history from here on out? Some vital organ will stop or the mad house with a wet brain? How soon? Within two years? But, Doc, I’ve got to do something about it! I’ll see doctors . . . I’ll go to sanitariums. Surely the medical profession knows something about it. So little, you say? But why? Messy. Yes, I’ll admit there is nothing messier than an alcoholic drunk.
What’s that Doc? You know a couple of fellows that were steady customers here that haven’t been drunk for about ten months? You say they claim they are cured? And they make an avocation of passing it on to others? What have they got? You don’t know . . . and you don’t believe they are cured . . . well why tell me about it? A fine fellow you say, plenty of money, and you’re sure it isn’t a racket . . . just wants to be helpful . . . call him up for me will you, Doc?
How Doc had hated to tell me. Thoughts stop knocking at my door. Why can’t I get drunk like other people, get up next morning, toss my head a couple of time and go to work? Why do I have to shake so I can’t hold the razor? Why does every little muscle inside me have to feel like a crawling worm? Why do even my vocal chords quiver so words are gibberish until I’ve had a big drink? Poison! Of course! But how could anyone understand such a necessity for a drink that it has to be loaded with pepper to keep it from bouncing? Can any mortal understand such secret shame in having to have a drink as to make a person keep the bottles hidden all over the house. The morning drink . . . shame and necessity . . . weakness . . . remorse. But what do the family know about it? Little Doc was right, they know nothing. They just say “Be strong”—“Don’t take that drink”—“Suffer it through.”
What the hell do they know about suffering? Not sickness. Not a belly ache—oh yes, your guts get so sore that you cannot place your hands on them . . . oh sure, every time you go you twist and writhe in pain. What the hell does any non-alcoholic know about suffering? Thoughts . . . stop this mad merry-go-round. And worst of all, this mental suffering—the hating yourself—the feeling of absurd, irrational weakness—the unworthiness. Out that window! Use the gun in the drawer! What about poison? Go out in a garage and start the car. Yeah, that’s the way out . . . but then people’ll say “He was plastered.” I can’t leave that story behind. That’s worse than cowardly.
Isn’t there some one who understands? Thoughts . . . please, oh please, stop . . . I’m going nuts . . . or am I nuts now? Never . . . never again will I take another drink, not even a glass of beer . . . even that starts it. Never . . . never . . . never again . . . and yet I’ve said that a dozen times and inexplicably I’ve found an empty glass in my hand and the whole story repeated.
My Lord, the tragedy that sprang out of her eyes when I came home with a breath on me . . . and fear. The smiles wiped off the kids’ faces. Terror stalking through the house. Yes . . . that changed it from a home into a house. Not drunk yet, but they knew what was coming. Mr. Hyde was moving in.
And so I’m going to die. Or a wet brain. What was it that fellow said who was here this afternoon? Damn fool thought . . . get out of my mind. Now I know I’m going nuts. And science knows nothing about it. And psychiatrists. I’ve spent plenty on them. Thoughts, go away! No . . . I don’t
