Bill W’s sobriety date was December 11, 1934. One of the things I realized as I celebrated my three-year anniversary in October, was that the happy, joyous and free feelings associated with my liberation from alcohol were mixed in with some pretty shitty memories. While October 22, 2019 marks the beginning of my sobriety, the month before was a not a great one for TBD. The feelings of hopeless desperation that accompany the trip to the bottom are pretty hard to shake. I think Bill W had a pretty shitty November in 1934.
By November 1934, Bill W realized he was near the end, not of his drinking, of his life. Bill’s brother-in-law had graciously agreed to fund a stay for Bill at the Towns Hospital on Central Park West. Bill W. hadn’t left very many stones unturned in his quest for sobriety. Belladonna treatments, hydrotherapy, consultations with the pre-eminent psychiatrists of the time and stays at the premier alcoholism treatment centers of the time were all part of his resume, as was a nearly uninterrupted span of out-of-control drinking. None of these treatments worked for Bill W., but he gained valuable self-knowledge:
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 now explained. Understanding myself now, I fared forth in high hope.
Big Book, p. 7
Bill’s introduction to the disease model of alcoholism was critically important. Dr. Silkworth’s nascent understanding that alcoholism was some species of allergy is probably not far off. It was critically important because it suggested to Bill that the thing that was ruining his life could be treated. As long as alcoholism and addiction are viewed simply as failures of will power and evidence of poor character, then I’m not sure what the path forward is. There certainly is not a medical treatment for that.
After his stint in treatment, Bill “fared forth in high hope,” his “incredible behavior in the face of a desperate desire to stop was explained,” and he let himself hope “surely this was the answer—self-knowledge.”
But it was not, for the frightful day came when I drank once more. The curve of my declining moral and bodily health fell off like a ski-jump.”
Big Book, p. 7
Some of you know this and some of you don’t, but a relapse after rehab is about the most devastating thing there is. You’ve emerged from 28-30 days of treatment, you’ve learned so much about the disease, you’ve started to learn about yourself, you haven’t been drinking for a month, so you’re clear-eyed and able to see things, understand a little more about how you got here, you’ve spent a shit-ton of money and maybe had acupuncture or done yoga, maybe some art or equine therapy thrown in. You’ve heard lots of people give speeches and inspirational talks, you’ve met and connected with a lot of people who are struggling with the same issues and who speak the same language. They issue you a Soberlink breathalyzer and a weekly check-in with one of the counselors, a list of Alumni in your area and you’re off to go live your sober life.
There you are, back in the same place you left a month ago to go change your life. If you’re like me, you have a journal full of painful self-realizations and a stated, solemn desire to fix what was wrong inside, to make a new life that wouldn’t result in more pain for me and the people who loved me. And then I drank again. It’s way more devastating because I really should have known better, I did know better. I failed. It was my fault. I was taught everything I needed to know, had been outfitted with all sorts of new “recovery tools,” I could use to battle my emotional demons. I still drank and now I know, it must be my fault, that I must be someone who is not even capable of responding to the best treatment that money could buy.
I’m not aware of any treatment center that publishes their results. Another question, what is the science behind thinking that 30 days of the current treatment modalities is the right amount? I remember seeing a new therapist and going through my history of relapses, my failures at previous treatments, how I thought I was one of those people who would just never get it. She laughed and told me the average person takes something like 5 or 6 cracks at treatment before it works.
That would have been helpful information before I deemed myself an incorrigible alcoholic for not being able to stop drinking after 30 days in rehab. Here’s a big part of the problem, I think most of the treatment curriculum still focuses on self-knowledge.
They have you read Bill’s story, but no one ever explains how the treatment that Bill received at Towns Hospital, which wasn’t enough to keep him sober, is different from the treatment they are currently providing you.
I’ve been through “Consequences” sessions in rehab, where they play sad songs about broken people by REM and the Eagles and everyone shares about the devastation they caused. I’ve been sternly advised that before I drink, I should “play the tape forward.” Sometimes, I get the feeling that the people who design that curriculum didn’t make it through page seven of the Big Book. Now it’s Baclofen and Naltrexone instead of Belladonna, yoga and meditation instead of hydro-therapy. But the idea that teaching people about themselves and the consequences of their addiction is enough to keep people sober is a dangerous one.
Here’s the important point, self-knowledge is critical to the process of getting sober. But it is not enough. According to Bill W. and the Big Book, sobriety requires a spiritual experience, not a religious conversion, but a spiritual awakening. Continued sobriety is a function of widening and deepening that spiritual existence. I think the problem is that too many people see a stay at a treatment center like taking a car to the mechanic: They expect that something is going to get fixed, that the car is going to drive like new and not make those funny sounds anymore.
One of the things that helped me tremendously was a doctor in St. Paul, Minnesota, who sat down with me and explained that I had a chronic condition that was never going away. It was something I was going to have to manage for the rest of my life. He explained that maybe some people could return to drinking and that some people would never, ever be able to stop, but for someone like me, a “primary addict” according to Ruth Fox’s 1955 classification, it was a chronic condition that could be managed, but probably never “cured.” He emphasized that relapses were not utter failures, but the kind of thing that can happen with chronic conditions, especially those that are affected by stress.
I could do that. I was freed from the shame and humiliation that came from completing the assigned work at treatment centers and getting A’s and still continuing to drink. That’s why explaining the disease model of addiction is so important, because it gives alcoholics hope and purpose and frames the question in a way that it can be answered. It’s what tells alcoholics they are not just irredeemably broken toys.
So, Bill emerges from his stay at Towns Hospital, armed with important self-knowledge about his own makeup, the disease he is afflicted with and a re-kindled desire to get sober. Of course, he begins drinking again. Susan Cheever’s excellent biography, My Name is Bill, tells the story of Bill playing golf on Staten Island on Armistice Day (11-11). Bill had lunch with a new friend, initially declined a drink and then proceeded to lay out his entire theory of alcoholism to his brand new friend, the causes, the potential treatment, all of it. The completely non-ironic part of the story is that when the bartender then offered the men a free drink on account of it being Armistice Day, Bill W, being a veteran of the Great War, accepted and began drinking. Apparently, his companion was horrified. To me, that’s how you know Bill was a real alcoholic—who else would do that?
Bill describes that lunch this way:
Then came the insidious insanity of that first drink and on Armistice Day 1934, I was off again. Everyone became resigned to the certainty that I would have to be shut-up somewhere, or would stumble along to a miserable end. How dark it is before dawn.
Big Book, p. 8
I think I’ve said this nineteen times or so, Bill was a pretty smart guy, he was 100% aware that drinking was well on its way to actually killing him and that knowledge was not enough for Bill to stop drinking. This is the part that non-alcoholics simply don’t get: Why would you do something so incredibly self-destructive? That to me is the hallmark symptom of alcoholics and addicts—you know it’s killing you, destroying everything of value in your life and that knowledge is not enough to get you sober or keep you sober.
Near the end of that bleak November, I sat drinking in my kitchen. With a certain satisfaction I reflected there was enough gin concealed about the house to carry me through that night and the next day. My wife was at work. I wondered whether I dared hide a full bottle of gin near the head of our bed. I would need it before daylight.
Big Book, p. 8
As I approached the nadir of my drinking career, I had to manage withdrawal symptoms that set in about 4 hours after I stopped drinking. I was a maintenance drinker—meaning I was mostly drunk all day long, every day. I’d often head home around 10pm, put on “Law and Order,” and kind of collapse/pass out. When I awoke after 4 or 5 hours of not drinking, I was in complete withdrawal. The sheets and pillows and my pjs were literally drenched in sweat, my hands shook so badly it was hard to brush my teeth, I was dizzy and wobbled around the house, I couldn’t focus, withdrawal-fueled anxiety sent horrifying thoughts and feelings zipping through my head at light speed. It was complete chaos in there. I couldn’t listen to music, I couldn’t read, at that point, all I could really do was drink. That’s pretty much where Bill was, too. The comment about needing that bottle of gin before morning tells the whole story.
My musing was interrupted by the telephone. The cheery voice of an old school friend asked if he might come over. He was sober.
Big Book, pp. 8-9
The old school friend was Ebby Thacher, long-time friend of Bill’s (pun intended)—they had been running buddies and their drinking sounds pretty spectacular—they actually chartered a plane at one point! Bill was very surprised to hear from Ebby, particularly a sober Ebby. I don’t know if Bill swore a lot or not, I feel a certain kinship with Bill and that last sentence, the bombshell that had just come over the telephone wire, I think it would hit me this way: He was sober? Fucking Ebby Thacher is sober? WTF? He was a way worse alcoholic and he’s sober? I think it’s funny that Bill put that in italics in the Big Book:
He was sober.
This thought did not linger too long with Bill. Being the terminal OG Alcoholic that he was, he saw the bright side of newly-sober Ebby’s visit:
Of course he would have dinner, and then I could drink openly with him. Unmindful of his welfare, I thought only of recapturing the spirit of other days. There was that time we had chartered an airplane to complete a jag! His coming was an oasis in this dreary desert of futility. The very thing—an oasis. Drinkers are like that.
Big Book, p. 9
Yes, indeed, drinkers are like that. Set against the backdrop of impending doom and futility, the only thing that mattered to Bill about this dinner was the opportunity to drink. Drinking does confer a certain single-mindedness if you work at it a little. According to Susan Cheever, Bill retrieved the bottle of gin hidden in the toilet tank at 182 Clinton Street in Brooklyn and awaited the knock on the door.
The door opened and he stood there, fresh-skinned and glowing. There was something about his eyes. He was inexplicably different. What had happened?
Big Book, p. 9
Anyone who has gotten sober for a little bit knows all about this. It doesn’t take too much before the color comes back to cheeks, sparkle comes back to eyes, life comes back. These little facts, the observations of a practiced alcoholic, are what convey the depths of Bill’s illness. Hearing the thoughts of a doomed man confronting someone claiming to be saved is pretty fascinating. Of course, the first thing a true alcoholic will do when confronted with someone doing better, particularly someone who has some success with the whole drinking thing, is to find a way to bring Mr. High-Faluting Sober Guy down to our level.
I pushed a drink across the table. He refused it. Disappointed but curious, I wondered what had gotten into the fellow. He wasn’t himself.
Big Book, p. 9
First, that is a total dick move. Bill poured Ebby a drink and pushed it across the table at him. That’s kind of an aggressive way to treat someone who asked if they could come over and tell you how they got sober. It’s a good reminder that we alcoholics do kind of run on rage and anger and resentment. Bill was pissed when Ebby arrived. Ebby, the completely incorrigible alcoholic, had somehow gotten sober and Bill, the suave, charming, super-smart guy who had been trying so hard and failing at every turn, was not. So Bill had tried to even the playing field, to ruin Ebby’s fragile sobriety.
He looked straight at me. Simply, but smilingly, he said, “I’ve got religion.” I was aghast. So that was it—last summer an alcoholic crackpot; now, I suspected, a little-cracked about religion. He had that starry-eyed look. Yes, the old boy was on fire all right. But bless his heart, let him rant! Besides, my gin would last longer than his preaching.
Big Book, p. 9
Again, Bill tries to find a way to dismiss what Ebby is saying but is finding it more and more difficult to dismiss what he is seeing.
But he did no ranting. In a matter of fact way he told how two men had appeared in court persuading the judge to suspend his commitment. They had told of a simple religious idea and a practical program of action. That was two months ago and the result was self-evident. It worked!
Big Book, p. 9
Bill continues on, noting that they talked for hours, and he begins to synthesize his feelings about religion, spirituality and his own addiction. He remembers attending revival meetings with his grandfather, he remembers rejecting religion, he remembers realizing he was an alcoholic that day at Winchester Cathedral during World War I. Bill muses:
I had always believed in a Power greater than myself. I had often pondered these things. I was not an atheist…Despite contrary indications, I had little doubt that a mighty purpose and rhythm underlay all. How could there be so much of precise and immutuable law, and no intelligence. I simply had to believe in a Spirit of the Universe, who had neither time nor limitation. But that was as far as I had gone.
Big Book, p. 10
This is the beginning of Bill’s conception of his Higher Power: A great spirit that animated the universe, not a Christian God or anything connected to any organized religion. Bill explicitly rejects organized religion on the next page and simultaneously realizes God had done for Ebby, what he could not do for himself.
His human will had failed. Doctors had pronounced him incurable. Society was about to lock him up. Like myself, he had admitted complete defeat.
Big Book, p. 11
And this fucking guy got sober:
Had this power originated in him? Obviously it had not. There had been no more power in him than there was in me at that minute; and this was none at all.
Big Book, p. 11
So, it can’t be that Ebby managed this on his own. There’s no question he’s sober, just look at him. He’s not hysterical or ranting, he’s describing a miracle in very quotidian fashion.
I saw that my friend was much more than inwardly reorganized. He was on a different footing. His roots grasped a new soil.
Big Book, p. 12
Bill continued drinking after his dinner with Ebby, but the seed was now firmly planted. Between Bill’s realizations about his addiction, his budding theory of alcoholism and the physical appearance of the formerly alcoholic apparition at his doorstep, well, Bill knew something was up. Lois, his wife, recognized that even though he was still drinking, something had changed in Bill.
Susan Cheever relates that a few days after the fateful dinner, Bill wandered down to the mission where Ebby was staying on East 23rd Street, had a few drinks on his way and then spent the evening talking with Ebby and some friends. At some point, Bill drunkenly shared that he had seen the light and given his life to God.
Bill kept drinking a few more days and then checked himself into Towns hospital again, but this time for the last time. Of course, he showed up drunk with just a few cents in his pocket. After a few days of detox and another visit from Ebby, Bill realized he was at the bottom and prayed his last prayer as an agnostic, “If there be a God, let him show himself!” and had his moment of realization:
Suddenly, my room blazed with an indescribably white light. I was seized with an ecstasy beyond description. Every joy I had known was pale by description…I stood upon a summit where a great wind blew. A wind, not of air, but of spirit. In great, clean strength, it blew right through me. Then came that blazing thought, ‘you are a free man.’
Bill W, p. 94
The whole story is crazy, right? It gets crazier. Bill W, still wearing whatever convalescent gear they provided at Towns Hospital, went to see Dr. Silkworth and told him he had figured out alcoholism and wanted to start working with the other patients. The astonishing thing? Dr. Silkworth said “Yes.” Dr Silkworth described it this way:
Many years ago, one of the leading contributors to this book came under our care in this hospital and while here, he acquired some ideas which he put into practical application at once. Later he requested the privilege of being allowed to tell his story to the other patients here and with some misgivings, we consented.
Big Book, p. xxvii
Haha, “some misgivings,” I’ll bet! Bill W was a lost cause, a chronic relapser who kept telling everyone he really, really wanted to change, but just kept drinking. The kind of drinker who lays out his theory of alcoholism to a brand new friend, AT A BAR, and then punctuates his presentation with a drink. And then he wasn’t. The change wasn’t to his circumstances, his finances, his relationships with other people; the change was to his heart. The miracle was that he finally found courage; that is, the ability to put his heart at the center of his life.
Bill started working with other alcoholics, and while the message didn’t always take root in the new subjects, Bill discovered he was staying sober. That’s the miracle of AA: Helping other alcoholics is the key to our own recovery. How Bill found that thread in the darkest days of his drinking is amazing, but the real miracle came when he began authentically sharing his story with other alcoholics. It was impossible to ignore the truth of Bill’s sudden awakening, even a jaded doctor who knew that most of his patients were goners, saw that things had changed in Bill and let him try. That’s how it started, and that’s still how it works.
I believe the foundation of Bill’s sobriety was actually laid while he was still drinking. While he was in the middle of a relapse. If Bill’s prior attempts at stopping drinking had been successful, if he had been able to just decide one day “enough is enough” and stick to it, well, there probably wouldn’t be a Big Book and there certainly would have been no dinner with Ebby. Bill’s recovery story, the one that has helped save the lives of millions of alcoholics and addicts, including this one’s, wouldn’t have occurred without his relapse.
Those scattered mustard seeds don’t grab hold and grow crazily overnight. It takes time and usually requires that the seeds land somewhere that has already been slightly prepared, softened up by living the despair of the end stages of alcoholism. I think there are very few neat, tidy landings for most alcoholics. We come in hot and pretty messy and there are more than a few wave-offs and come-around-agains. Bill’s recovery wasn’t marked by certitude or proclamations about never drinking again. It was borne of defeat, humiliation and shame, it was borne of constant failures and the consequent despair. It was borne of relapses. The fact is, relapse was part of my recovery and I think it was part of Bill’s, too.
That’s how I got sober. My recovery was built upon the lessons I learned from my many relapses and the desperate sense that life could not continue on this basis—a feeling generated by my horrific relapses. Alcoholics like me, and I think like Bill, drink because we have to, not because we choose to or prefer to. Relapses are not indications of a lack of desire or motivation or evidence of some kind of character stain, but coming back from one is pretty significant evidence of the strength of our desire. Bill’s relapses, and the realizations they drove, were an essential part of Bill’s recovery. They were an essential part of mine and that’s why I still carry them with me. My relapses help light the path of my recovery. Sharing those stories helps keep me sober and you never know, they might help someone else, too.
Bill got sober after finally being able to really hear the story of another alcoholic’s spiritual transformation—not as the consequence of some treatment or a lecture by a doctor. Bill got sober when he found the willingness to suspend his own disbelief and discontinue his own effort to write the narrative of his choice. Bill got sober when he found the willingness to open up and begin to believe in the possibility that there could be a Higher Power, some force in the Universe, that could help transform his life, help him get sober. Bill stayed sober by sharing his story authentically with other alcoholics and living these newly discovered principles in all of his affairs.
By being willing to believe that there just might be a power greater than himself that might possess the power to restore him to sanity. That’s all it took to make a new beginning. I was like Bill. I tried everything I could for ten years to stop drinking and nothing worked. I got sober when I read the Big Book and finally grasped the very, very simple key to changing my life:
It was only a matter of being willing to believe in a power greater than myself. Nothing more was required of me to make my beginning.
Big Book, p. 12
Thanks for Letting Me Share
Breakfast with an Alcoholic: Episode 26