Great Share –
June 5, 2020 – As I sat in those group sessions and listened to people talk about their experiences with alcohol, I felt a sense of panic at how much I related to their experiences. I had been fighting with a vague notion that something was wrong with me for a couple of years, but I never made the connection to alcohol until that week of confinement.
I went back to finish my senior year and plunged even further into my own addiction, perhaps trying to prove to myself that it was true, or perhaps knowing that it was just a matter of time before I needed to get the same kind of help my father did.
I’d never been sure. But less than a year later, after watching my father’s life completely transform, I woke up very early on a Sunday morning, opened my journal, and wrote down for the first time that I was an alcoholic and that I needed help.
There was a bit of irony to the way the rest of that day played out.
I was living in Seattle at the time, and I had a standing date to go watch the Seahawks games at my cousin’s house every Sunday. I went, knowing there was no way I was going to be able to say no to his usual offer of some good pot and a glass of scotch.
The irony was the first time I ever got drunk was at this same cousin’s wedding reception. That evening, still slightly buzzed, I went to my first meeting. It was the last time I ever did drugs of any kind, but I still had some drinking to do before I was able to quit entirely.
