"I THINK I'M AN ALCOHOLIC"
When the flight attendants started taking drink orders I realized this was my first flight since I'd turned twenty-one. I could have whatever I wanted and no one could stop me.
"Scotch on the rocks," I told the woman who stopped at my seat. By the time we touched down to connect with a Denver flight I'd finished off three. I added several more empty bottles to my collection between LA and Denver and felt a lot higher than thirty thousand feet.
The plan called for me to meet an old college friend named Vicki in Denver, and we'd spend the night seeing the city. The next day I'd fly up to Wisconsin to visit my sister, where my folks were also going to be visiting for the weekend.
Fortunately I wasn't too drunk when we landed to recognize my name being paged. I found one of the white courtesy phones and called the main desk. The message was for me to call Vicki at one of the airline desks.
"Sorry," she said when I reached her, "It's only one o'clock here, and I can't get off this shift until three. Why don't you wait for me in the airport bar?"
By the time she found me, I was totally wasted. She drove me to her apartment where she changed for the evening, and we drove downtown looking for action. About the time we walked into the first bar, I'd begun to sober up again.
I have no idea how many bars we went to or how many people we danced with. When it came time to go home, neither of us was in any shape to drive. But I poured Vicki into the passenger seat and slipped behind the wheel.
"Which way?" I asked.
"Which way what?" Vicki responded.
"To home. How do we get home?"
Vicki sat up slowly and looked out the front windshield. "I thinksh that'sh the way," she slurred, pointing behind us.
"Okay," I responded, pulling out into the street and bouncing over the median as we made an illegal U-turn. Somehow we made it back to Vicki's place.
And somehow we got to the airport the next morning in time for me to catch my flight to Madison to meet my family. Nearly two years had passed since I'd seen any of them, and I was excited to tell them all about my job and John.
Mom and Dad hugged me the moment I came through the gate. But the warm greetings didn't disguise the disappointment in my mother's eyes as she realized how hung over I was. Even before she had a chance to say anything. I thought, Here we go again. Nothing between us has changed.
I talked most of the weekend — mostly to prevent my parents from lecturing me and to keep the conversation on "safe" subjects. I told every detail I could think of about my job and people I worked with, including Mrs. Felton. I proudly told my family I'd quit smoking, and I talked some about John. I wasn't totally candid about our relationship, of course, but I dropped a few hints that I was serious about him and that he was the one I wanted to marry.
I couldn't wait for the weekend to end so I could get on another plane and fly on to Chicago. My folks planned to drive and weren't going to be home before Tuesday. I'd be home alone with no one but my friends to worry about.
Practically the whole gang met me at the airport, and we headed off to Faces, our favorite community bar, to celebrate before I even had time to unpack my bags. I got so drunk I had everybody laughing and exclaiming how great it was to have me back. Time and again I heard one friend or another exclaim, "Same old Becky." It felt good to be accepted.
The surprise I got on Tuesday made me feel even better. Just as I walked out of the house to meet my friends, a familiar-looking pickup slowly into the drive. I looked twice and still didn't believe it.
"John!" I shouted as I went racing across the yard and threw my arms around the man I'd feared I'd never see again. After a long, passionate embrace, I finally let go and gasped, "What are you doing here?"
He grinned, "I was on my way to Canada. I looked at a map and realized Chicago is just down the lake from there."
"But wasn't it a little out of your way?" I said, laughing.
"Only a few hundred miles. And it was worth the drive just to see you again."
I hugged him again and tried to fight back the tears of happiness.
John only stayed a day, but he got to meet my folks and I had a chance to show him off to all my friends.
I felt wonderfully loved and reassured by his visit — to think he had driven so far knowing how much it would mean to me. So our Illinois good-bye left me feeling a lot more hopeful than the airport scene in California. He hadn't made any promises of a long-term commitment, but I took his visit as a positive sign. It gave me even more reason to renew my vow of love and faithfulness. I knew John was the man, the only man, for me.
Wednesday night I went out drinking once again. Thursday night I was invited to a big party.
One of my friends and I had finished off a fifth of vodka between us before seven o'clock. Then we talked everyone into heading down to Faces for more.
There I ran into George, an old party acquaintance from high school who'd gone to college at Illinois State University. We danced together for a while and had a few more drinks before someone suggested we all drive out to the local rock quarry and go skinny-dipping. I didn't feel like it, but if everyone else went, I figured I'd go along. Before we left, I ordered one more drink. And that was the last thing I remembered until... My head was pounding as I opened my eyes just enough to see the red numbers of a clock — 5:03! But it wasn't my clock.
A split second later I was fully awake. Where am I? I didn't recognize the room. I rolled over and froze when I felt someone else beside me. Who's that?
For an instant I didn't recognize him in the predawn darkness. Then I knew. George! But what am I doing with...
I suddenly felt nauseous. I frantically tried to remember how I had gotten there. What had happened the night before? What had I done? I racked my brain, but I remembered nothing.
My next thoughts were of John. I had promised him I would be loyal no matter what, and in less than two days since he left for Canada this happened! But exactly what did happen? I still couldn't remember a thing. To make matters worse I had no idea where I was, what street I was on, or even where I had left my car. I had to wait until my "friend" woke up to ask him for a ride home.
I rode the entire way in humiliated silence, desperately trying to recall something, anything, from the night before.
My embarrassment and the horrible, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach kept me from asking what had happened. I could only imagine. I asked myself over and over and over, How? How? How? There was only one possible explanation. I've lost total control of who I am.
I suddenly knew what my problem really was. There was no denying it.
I trudged up the front steps and slipped into the house. The big clock in the living room said it was a little after six. The next thing my bleary eyes focused on was my mother, lying on the couch, where she had obviously fallen asleep waiting for me to get home the night before. She stirred as I tried to gently close the front door. "Becky?" She sat up and looked right at me.
I expected her to interrogate me. To explode. To do something. But she just sat there. Maybe she could tell by looking at me that she didn't need to say anything. Nothing she could have said would have made me feel any worse, any lower, or any more ashamed.
Neither of us spoke as I walked over to an easy chair facing the couch and sat down. Finally, after another eternal silence, I blurted out the conclusion I'd come to in the car on the way home: "Oh, Mom I think I'm an alcoholic."
I had never said that before — never even thought it before that morning. But I knew it was true — and so did Mom.
We both began to cry, and I rushed across the room and fell into her arms.
I sobbed so uncontrollably I couldn't get any words out, but the thoughts tumbled over one another in my mind. What am I going to do? How could I let this happen? Why didn't I see it before? What happens next?
All I could do was cry and think, I'm only twenty-one years old! What have I done to myself? Finally I regained enough control to tell my mom I had to go to bed. There I curled up under the covers — wishing I never had to get up, wishing I'd never come home, wishing none of this had happened, wishing I were dead!
But I wasn't dead and it had happened. I had come home, and soon I would have to get up and go to the class reunion that night where all my friends expected me to be "the same old Becky." I would rather have been anyone else.
I stayed in bed most of the morning asking myself, What am I going to do now? When I finally got up, what I did was pretend. I decided I simply wouldn't drink that night. I'd just pretend nothing was wrong.
I wasn't easy. Driving to the reunion, Penny offered me a drink. When I declined, she asked, "Why not?"
"I just don't feel like drinking tonight."
She looked puzzled. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I insisted. But I could tell she didn't believe me.
I made it through the first couple of hours by moving around and greeting all the people I recognized, whether or not I could think of their names. But I desperately wanted a drink.
Finally, I slipped into the bathroom just off the dance hall, wanting to be alone for a moment as well as check my hair and my makeup. But I wasn't alone. There, looking in the mirror, was Penny.
"How's it going?" she asked.
"Perfect," I assured her.
She met my eyes in the mirror before she asked, "Are you really not gonna drink tonight?"
I shook my head. "No."
"But Becky," she said, her voice prodding as much as her words, "Why not? You're the life of the party when you do."
"I just can't, " I responded sadly, really wishing I could drink. I walked out of the women's room feeling terribly torn; I didn't want to have to explain my problems to my friends, but I so badly wanted someone to understand.
I did slip outside and smoked some dope so could be high and loose for the rest of the evening, but I didn't drink a drop, despite my friends' goading me to "go for it" and "get rowdy."
When my plane lifted off for California the next day, I had been dry for three days. Mom didn't want me to go, but I knew Mrs. Felton expected me on Monday morning and I couldn't let her down. I didn't want to add any more to my guilt.
As the plane winged westward I thought of the mess I'd made of my life and how I'd betrayed the man I loved. I tried to imagine how I would make my confession to John. I knew I'd have to tell him; I didn't want any secrets between us. But I didn't want to write him, and I couldn't call him in the Canadian wilderness.
I'll just have to wait until he gets back, I told myself. But I didn't think I could bear to live with the guilt for two whole months.
Pam had promised to meet my plane in Monterey, but she wasn't at the gate. I picked up my luggage but she wasn't in the baggage area either. I called our apartment. No answer. So I waited. After an hour I called Aunt Martha and Uncle Tim who came and drove me to my apartment.
No Pam. I had been a little irritated at first. Now I began to worry.
With my body still on Central time and my emotions frayed after three and a half days without a drink, I went to bed. I don't know what time it was when I heard the apartment door slam shut.
"Pam?" I called. And I heard her bump into something in the living room before she started down the hall. Finally her silhouette appeared in my doorway.
"Becky, you're home!" She sounded surprised. "I'm sorry, I forgot you were coming."
"Can you come in a minute? I need to talk."
Pam walked in and took a seat on the edge of my bed. "What's up, Beck?"
I took a deep breath. I had to tell someone. "Pam, I want you to know that I think I'm an alcoholic."
"No," she laughed.
"I think I am."
"You are not. You gotta be kidding!"
"I'm serious, Pam."
"No way are you an alcoholic. Why don't you just get some sleep? You'll feel better in the morning."
I couldn't sleep. I don't know what I'd expected. Concern? Support? All I'd gotten from Pam was denial. I knew I'd already had enough of that.
I didn't feel any better the next morning. My spirits and my body were dragging so bad that the first thing I did after dressing for work was to walk to visit my neighbor. Sam was everyone's favorite connection. "I need some speed," I told him. He sold the stuff in little bags with a hundred pills in them.
"Sorry, Beck," he said, "I'm fresh out."
"I've got to get some."
"Maybe I'll make a connection by the end of the week."
I didn't think I could survive straight till the end of the week. After a few more days of drinking only diet soft drinks, I felt as if my life was coming unglued. I cried uncontrollably. I sweated and itched. Sometimes I felt as if little ants were crawling around on my scalp.
I went back to Sam two days later, but he still didn't have anything. "And I don't even know when I'll be getting another supply," he informed me.
Pam invited me to go down to Morro Bay for the weekend to visit some friends. The first thing we did when we got there was to head out to a bar, where Pam ordered me a drink and insisted I have "just one." Next thing I knew it was morning, and I had the sickest hangover in history.
I let Pam know how angry I was, but what I didn't even try to communicate was my sad feeling of betrayal and the terrifying realization that I was all alone in my struggle.
For a while I kept going to parties, showing up carrying a six-pack of Dr. Pepper. The second I finished off the can in my hand, I'd pop open another. But having something to sip and something to do with my hands didn't do a thing to loosen me up. And my friends noticed. "You're taking this too seriously, Becky," they'd say. "You need to relax and not overdo this. Maybe cut back a little at a time."
They didn't understand. I couldn't cut back. If I drank at all, I drank until I got drunk. I soon avoided the pressure and my friends by staying home by myself. But that gave me more time than I wanted to think — about my problems, and about John. I spent hours writing and rewriting my confession to him before I'd tear up the paper in frustration and guilt. Perhaps my alcoholism explained why I did what I did, but it was no excuse.
One night, at home alone, I locked myself in my room without food or drink because I couldn't bring myself to open the refrigerator and see the half-empty bottle of wine I knew was there. Hunger finally forced me from my hideout and into the living room. I walked past Pam's old cat, sleeping on the corner of the sofa. The cat had recently contracted a bad case of fleas, and as I passed by, suddenly I thought I felt something jumping around my feet. In fact, I felt as if fleas were crawling and jumping all over me. I completely lost control and began to scream. Then I thought they were in my mind, just like crazy thoughts — jumping and twisting and tormenting me, until I fled crying back to my room, where I eventually regained my composure. But by then I felt certain I was going crazy.
One person who tried to help was my mom. Again and again she called, trying to convince me to go to Alcoholic's Anonymous or somewhere else for help. Finally after she called and begged for three days in a row, I promised her I'd give it a try. I checked a local paper and learned there was a local AA chapter especially for young people. So that's where I went.
Just getting out of the car seemed like the hardest thing I'd ever done. I had to force one foot ahead of the other as I walked up the sidewalk to a stone cottage overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
The session had already started when I slipped into the back of a rustic meeting room illuminated only by the light of the sunset outside and a blazing stack of logs in a stone fireplace. The smell of coffee and wood smoke gave the place a homey, peaceful air; it was a complete contrast to the stormy turmoil raging inside me.
Looking around curiously, I noted a number of young faces. Some looked familiar enough to make me wonder if I'd seen them, maybe even partied with them at one of the local night spots.
They seemed to be going around the room, taking turns talking, introducing themselves and telling a bit of their own stories. Each person, by way of introduction, would begin by giving his or her first name and saying, "I'm an alcoholic." This admission seemed to be a requirement of anyone who wished to talk.
As I listened to all the confessions, all the stories, tears ran down my face. Embarrassed, I tried to wipe them away, but no one seemed to notice.
Finally, after the woman next to me had introduced herself, I slowly rose to my feet and said, "I'm Becky, and I'm an alcoholic." I might have said more, but I was crying too hard — crying with shame and embarrassment for having to stand up in front of a group of complete strangers and admit what I had become. When I sat down again, someone else stood up and the attention shifted away from me.
Once the introductions were over, a middle-aged man stood up at the front of the room. Evidently a special speaker for the evening, he began by saying, "Hi, I'm Pete. And I've been an alcoholic for twenty years . . ."
"I've been an alcoholic for twenty years . . ." The rock walls echoed those words and sent them reverberating through my mind, again and again. Each time the words were amplified, louder and louder until I could hear nothing but those words. Twenty years? Twenty years. Twenty years! I can't do this, I can't come here for twenty years! I won't! I'd rather die!
The tears returned once more, but this time they were tears of hopelessness and despair. AA wasn't going to be the answer for me. I knew that.
I tried to slip out the back as soon as the meeting concluded, but a young man in his early twenties cut me off and introduced himself. His name was Bill. He told me he was a soldier stationed at Fort Ord and he was in an alcohol rehabilitation program at the base hospital. As part of his treatment they kept him in a locked ward every night and put him on a drug called antibuse. If he took so much as a sip of alcohol, its reaction with the drug would make him so violently sick he'd wish he could die.
I'm sure Bill just wanted to be friendly and encouraging, but he succeeded only in deepening my despair. If the only solutions to alcoholism are AA or antibuse, I thought, I wish I could die now.
In the desperate days following my visit to AA, something made me think of Ralph, the youth worker. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I went to see him at the church.
He didn't act at all surprised that I'd looked him up. When I told him I had a drinking problem, he told me I needed to take my troubles to God. He said Jesus wanted to be my friend if I'd let him, but I couldn't believe God or anyone else could love me the way I was. I had to change first — and I didn't know how to change.
When I left Ralph, I felt more depressed than ever. Not even God could help me.
As a last resort, I went to the last person in the world I wanted to know about my problem. I walked into Mrs. Felton's office, sat down in a chair in front of her desk, and began to cry. In between sobs I finally forced out the words: "I think I have a drinking problem."
She remained quiet for a few moments, never registering any surprise. "Are you getting some help, Becky?" she wanted to know.
I told her I had been talking to someone at church and had been to one AA meeting. She told me she thought those were good steps to take and she was glad I was trying to get help. She said she felt that was a good sign.
"Let me know if there's anything I can do to help," she added. I knew she meant it and was heartened by her nonjudgmental acceptance and support, but in that instant I also knew she didn't know how to help. Since I didn't have the foggiest idea what to ask of her, I walked out of her office, more disheartened than ever to realize I still needed help and there was nowhere else to turn.