Hi! My name's Steve, and I'm

[Prisoner_Number_Six]

an alcoholic.

There. I said it.

A simple enough statement, on the surface of things. Thankfully, most people will never need contemplate speaking the words. Many won't, but should. Believe me, I know just how hard it can be to say it-- it took me almost ten years of hardcore imbibing to come to the realization that the word "alcoholic" applied to me with a vengance...
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I began drinking just a couple months before high school graduation-- I got possession of a bottle of red wine (I don't remember where or how I got it). I had no idea what the effects would be, so I drank it a sip at a time. It gave me a bit of a buzz, but it didn't impress me, so I forgot about it. Until I got out of Air Force basic training, and discovered the military was willing to serve alcohol to 18 year olds on its bases (this was 1973). Based in San Angelo, going through weeks of boring tech training, there was really little to do in the evenings-- except go to the on-base enlisted men's club and drink. So I did.

I fell in love with a tasty little drink called a Sloe Gin Fizz. They made 'em tall, sweet, and cold, and I started downing 'em with a vengence. During the 13 weeks I stayed in southern Texas, I drank A LOT. Fortunately, since I was so young and healthy, I didn't suffer from hangovers. Not knowing you were supposed to be in recovery the next day, I instead went back for more. And more. And more.

Moving on to my time in England, I discovered other easily-procured delights-- Thai stick, blonde Lebanese hashish, hash brownies, duffs (half grass/half tobacco), and on and on. (I'll never forget the day the SPs did a sweep of the enlisted quarters. Me and another dude were in his room sampling some grass-- I had the baggie in my hand when they pounded on the door. I was so fried, I just stupidly sat there, so stoned I couldn't even move, with the baggie held behind my back. The flatfoot stood there staring right at me, telling us that although he didn't have a search warrant, he was gonna be back in ten minutes with one! After he about-faced and left, I swear the entire building cleared out in three minutes flat-- and I still couldn't walk down the hall!) Oh, yeah, and Rum and Coke! Yum!

It all caught up with me eventually, of course. After the military, I moved back home, and in my stupidity and unedjumucated state I went the factory worker route. Again, nothing to do with all my free time other than hang out and get drunk. Which I did. A LOT.

Skipping ahead a few years (much of the intervening time is a blur anyway), I found myself still working in a factory, still with a lot of time to kill, and with enough of a paycheck to drink myself into a stupor about three or four times a WEEK. As the alcohol took its toll on my body (especially my liver and brain), I discovered all the joys of day-after recovery sickness. Hangover, queasy stomach, the works. Only now it was serious, it was chronic, and was changing my personality and outlook. I'd become the drunk who was always calling in to work with stupid excuses. I was now drinking alone-- I hadn't had any real friends for quite a while. Who wants to hang with a power drunk? I was driving drunk-- there were more than a few times that by all rights I shouldn't have survived my little midnight journeys out into the country. Actually, by all rights, if busted, there were times I would have faced serious jail time. However, it never happened, by luck and by the grace of God.

I'd gotten to the point where I was going to the package store daily. I'd stopped drinking brand name stuff-- I'd switched to street-grade vino-- the powerful stuff they make specifically to sell cheaply to the hard-core street people. I was drinking it down, and it was well and truly stripping my gears.

I still remember the night I finally looked at myself and said the word. I was out, driving around town on my motorcycle, and carrying on a raging debate about if I should cash my paycheck and get drunk. NOT WOULD I get drunk, BUT "SHOULD I". I'd been drunk twice already that week, and I was riding around on two wheels, asking myself IF I SHOULD GO GET DRUNK.

I didn't. Instead, mentally shaken for the first time ever, I drove home, went into the bathroom, and took a good long look at myself in the mirror. What I saw staring back really, really frightened me. For the first time, I saw an alcoholic gazing out at me, and I couldn't make the damned image go away. I was sober, shaken up, and I had no one to turn to. It had been a long time since I'd let anyone get close enough to me to hang on to. I was alone.

Looking back, the thing that pissed me off most was the fact none of my coworkers at the factory ever made an attempt to help me. Not a single person had the class to walk up to me and tell me I was making a long-term ass of myself. NOT ONE.

They all though it was funny, you see. That, and if they had someone else to laugh at, someone worse off than them, they would be safe. Cool beans for them, but in the meantime I was drinking myself into an early grave, all alone. The bastards.

The "A" word slowly sank in. Over the following weeks, it never went away. I thought of it constantly. Of course, being the drunk I was, the anger and loneliness simply drove me back to the bottle. I still had the craving-- the NEED-- alcohol is, after all, extremely addicting-- But to my lasting amazement and joy, somehow the concept slowly cut through the haze, in a few more weeks and after a few more binges and crises, I became determined to put the bottle down and walk away from it.

And I did.

Cold turkey. No 12 Steps. No counselling sessions. No pats on the back from friends. (In fact, I did have an occasional drinking buddy who tried to get me to start drinking again. He thought I was more fun to be with when I was drunk!)

By the grace of God, and with a burst of willpower and a desire to be free that I couldn't call up again today if I tried, I put the bottle down and walked away. And I never picked it up again.

That was in May of 1982.
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Why am I boring you all with this sordid story? Because, frankly, I've seen more than a few posts on this board that give indication of men and women in trouble because of alcohol. It's easy for me to recognize it, you see, because I've been there. I've made all the excuses. I've told all the lies. I've walked the walk, and you can't hide from me. I'm an alcoholic.

I said before none of my friends lifted a finger to help me. And that pisses me off. After I sobered up-- after I detoxed enough to began picking up the pieces of my life, I swore that I'd never not help a friend if I saw they were in trouble. And I'm a man of my word.

I don't name names. I don't reference posts. I don't hint at anyone or anything. All I'm saying is, if you recognize even a LITTLE BIT of yourself in my story, then for the sake of you and all those around you, SEEK HELP.

No one drinks alone, even if they think they do. I did have friends in that factory, but because what I was doing to myself, I drove them away. I had a girlfriend I could easily have married, but the booze was stronger than my commitment, and I lost her. My health suffered, my work suffered, and those around me couldn't get near enough to me to get through to me. I think they gave up. (Yes, as I told the tale above, it sounded a bit different-- that was the booze talking! I was never really alone!)

I know there are others here willing to help. Any little thing you can do may be the deciding factor in the recovery of another person. A hug. A gentle hint at the right moment. An intervention. Anything.

As an alcolholic, I needed help and didn't get it. By all rights I shouldn't be here today. I will never know where I found the strength and will to walk away. I know exactly how rare a thing it is.

Most can't-- most won't try. Not on their own. Not by themselves. They need your help, and they need you friendship. And they need it NOW. How can you help the others? Just open your eyes, your heart, and your arms. Do it NOW.

Alcoholism is a devastating disease. It kills people. It destroys families. It causes pain, anger, fear, and nothing but trouble for everyone within the afflicted person's personal circle. And it's not only booze. It's pills, crack, junk-- there's an entire gamut of addictive nastiness out there. Can you honestly say that within your entire sphere of influence you don't know a single person who may have been in trouble at some point?

You do now.

My name's Steve, and I'm an alcoholic. Glad to meet you. What can I do to help?