Three Pages From the Big Book – Pages 4 – 6

150 150 Mark S
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We went to live with my wife’s parents.  I found a job; then lost it as the result of a brawl with a taxi driver.  Mercifully, no one could guess that I was to have no real employment for five years, or hardly draw a sober breath.  My wife began to work in a department store, coming home exhausted to find me drunk.  

    I became an unwelcome hanger-on at brokerage places.

    Liquor ceased to be a luxury; it became a necessity. “Bathtub” gin, two bottles a day, and often three, got to be routine.  Sometimes a small deal would net a few hundred dollars, and I would pay my bills at the bars and delicatessens.  This went on endlessly, and I began to waken very early in the morning shaking violently.  A tumbler full of gin followed by half a dozen bottles of beer would be required if I were to eat any breakfast.  Nevertheless, I still thought I could control the situation, and there were periods of sobriety which renewed my wife’s hope.

    Gradually things got worse.  The house was taken over by the mortgage holder, my mother-in-law died, my wife and father-in-law became ill.

    Then I got a promising business opportunity.  Stocks were at the low point of 1932, and I had somehow formed a group to buy.  I was to share generously in the profits.  Then I went on a prodigious bender, and that chance vanished.

    I woke up.  This had to be stopped.  I saw I could not take so much as one drink.  I was through forever.  Before then, I had written lots of sweet promises, but my wife happily observed that this time I meant business.  And so I did.

    Shortly afterward I came home drunk.  There had been no fight.  Where had been my high resolve?  I simply didn’t know.  It hadn’t even come to mind.  Someone had pushed a drink my way, and I had taken it.  Was I crazy?  I began to wonder, for such an appalling lack of perspective seemed near being just that.

    Renewing my resolve, I tried again.  Some time passed, and confidence began to be replaced by cock-sureness.  I could laugh at the gin mills.  Now I had what it takes!  One day I walked into a cafe to telephone.  In no time I was beating on the bar asking myself how it happened.  As the whisky rose to my head I told myself I would manage better next time, but I might as well get good and drunk then.  And I did.

    The remorse, horror and hopelessness of the next morning are unforgettable.  The courage to do battle was not there.  My brain raced uncontrollably and there was a terrible sense of impending calamity.  I hardly dared cross the street, lest I collapse and be run down by an early morning truck, for it was scarcely daylight.  An all night place supplied me with a dozen glasses of ale.  My writhing nerves were stilled at last.  A morning paper told me the market had gone to hell again.  Well, so had I.  The market would recover, but I wouldn’t.  That was a hard thought.  Should I kill myself?  No-not now.  Then a mental fog settled down.  Gin would fix that.  So two bottles, and-oblivion.

    The mind and body are marvelous mechanisms, for mine endured this agony two more years.  Sometimes I stole from my wife’s slender purse when the morning terror and madness were on me.  Again I swayed dizzily before an open window, or the medicine cabinet where there was poison, cursing myself for a weakling.  There were flights from city to country and back, as my wife and I sought escape.  Then came the night when the physical and mental torture was so hellish I feared I would burst through my window, sash and all.  Somehow I managed to drag my mattress to a lower floor, lest I suddenly leap.  A doctor came with a heavy sedative.  Next day found me drinking both gin and sedative.  This combination soon landed me on the rocks.  People feared for my sanity.  So did I.  I could eat little or nothing when drinking, and I was forty pounds under weight.

    My brother-in-law is a physician, and through his kindness and that of my mother I was placed in a nationally-known hospital for the mental and physical rehabilitation of alcoholics.  Under the so-called belladonna treatment my brain cleared.  Hydrotherapy and mild exercise helped much.  Best of all, I met a kind doctor who explained that though certainly selfish and foolish, I had been seriously ill, bodily and mentally.

    It relieved me somewhat to learn that in alcoholics the will is amazingly weakened when it comes to combating liquor, though it often remains strong in other respects.  My incredible behavior in the face of a desperate desire to stop was explained.  Understanding myself now, I fared forth in high hope.  For three for four months the goose hung high.  I went to town regularly and even made a little money.  Surely this was the answer-self-knowledge.

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