My lawyer could see my sorry state of mind. He told my sisters. When I was set free on bond, a sister was there. She made sure I did not harm myself. I went to New York City to live with her. She has the same problem with alcohol that I do. At that time, neither of us would admit it. We began to have violent fights. Soon, I was ready to move out. Even if it meant going back to jail.
Instead, I found my own apartment. Living alone was a gift from God. I was still drinking. But without extra stress, I drank a lot less. I spent the next few months thinking about myself. I wondered why I was where I was. I had always been active in my community. I had been respected. Then I had met a man, a heavy drinker. I started really hitting the booze. I blamed everything on that unhappy affair.
I went back to Florida in July. I began working on my case with my lawyer. The man I had lived with was dead. I was in serious trouble.
My lawyer sent me to an analyst. The first time I saw my shrink, he told me that I was an alcoholic. I went home and drank to that. Another time, I told the shrink how the man had abused me. He said, “No man could have done all those things to you. You let him do them.”
Everywhere I turned, I was losing my excuses. I had to face the fact: I alone was responsible. That was hard. Every time I left my shrink, I had another drink.
Why should I quit drinking? I would darn sure have to quit when I was in prison. So why fight it now? Every time I got smashed, I wanted to down a bottle of sleeping pills. But I would remember the last time I overdosed: The tears running down my son’s face. And how my daughter went to live with her father. She was tired of the misery at home.
My shrink was patient. He was always there for me. I think I quit drinking to make him feel better. I quit three months before my trial. I found that I could face my nightmare sober. It was still horrible. But at least I could manage the urge to kill myself.
Then I began to wonder: Could I face a normal life without drinking? What would I do at a party? All my friends drank. Well, most. I had several friends who were in A.A. I was living at the beach at this time. Everyone there was in a party mood. I started drinking tonic and lime without the booze. No one minded at all! I still had a nice time. I still had friends.
In fact, I had support from my drinking friends. My friends who didn’t drink also helped me. They all cared. I began to trust my friends. I began to lean on them. It was the first time in my life. And not one turned a cold shoulder.
I began to have long talks with my A.A. friends. They were there for me 24 hours a day. Finally, one of them talked me into going to a meeting. I really went to get her off my back. Again, I was surprised at the warmth and care I found there. Some of them knew I was waiting to go on trial for murder. But they still showed they cared.
I began to find out important things: All my life, I was the one who had pushed people away. I had lied to myself and everyone else. I learned that people really did like me. They weren’t all after something. Now I had nothing to give but myself.
I was tried and convicted of manslaughter. I went to prison. I’m still there now. I was feeling a lot of fear, guilt, and no hope. Then I joined the prison A.A. group. I found moral support from the visiting speakers. But I still didn’t believe them when they said, “Things will get better. Turn your troubles over to God.”
How could God help me where I was? He wasn’t going to get me out of prison. He would not hush the 80 women in this dorm so I could sleep at night. Or keep them from stealing and swearing and fighting. God may be everywhere, but I surely did not see Him in here!
Then I began to give in to my situation. I kept going to A.A. and to church. I was hoping for something—not really sure what. Then I did begin to feel a little better. I began to smile from time to time. I even began to feel kinder toward the awful animals in here. Then I found out something amazing: These “animals” had names—and feelings—and fears—just like me! I began to comfort some of them. I began to advise them. And I forgot about myself for a while. Helping them helped me.
One day, I needed to write a letter. I said that I was almost out of paper. Suddenly, I had enough paper to write a book! Three or four inmates came to me. They gave me sheets of paper from their own supply. I had been blind. I had not seen my friends. They had been there knocking at the door. And I had been afraid to answer. At last, I opened the door.
Things are looking up now. My friends in here comfort me. My friends from the outside do what they can, too. I am learning to live as A.A. suggests. I live in the Twelve Steps. It makes life better for me. And for those who live with me.
I am growing in ways I needed to grow. When I leave this place, I will be strong enough to survive. Thanks to God, A.A., church, a loving family, and my friends. I am going to make it now—one day at a time.
–H.P., Florida
NO LONGER A PHONY
Two words kept jumping out at me from Chapter Five in the Big Book: “rigorous honesty.” Chapter Five speaks of honesty three times on the first page. But why is “rigorous” thrown in?
After I got in A.A., I kept trying to work the program. I tried working that Fourth Step. At last I understood: To succeed in this program, I had to be honest with myself. Without honesty, I can’t work the Steps. I can’t work the program. I can’t stay sober.
To show how this has affected my life, I’d like to share an experience. It’s about my time with other inmates in A.A. And others who are thinking about joining a group. In prison, we have an unwritten code. It constantly affects our everyday decisions. Every day, a person faces a choice: Will I be honest or not?
I work here as a draftsman. I help prepare plans for constructing buildings. I have access to art supplies. I needed to find some means of support. I decided to design and sell greeting cards. It was a “hobby” for profit.
What better position could I be in? I could buy a few low-cost supplies. We have to, if we want to do art work in the cell. I could take the other supplies while I was on the job. I did a good job for them all day, five days a week. So why shouldn’t I “borrow” a few supplies?
At about the same time, I got “political” in the A.A. program here. (I was phony as a three-dollar bill at this point.) I hustled enough support and votes to win the secretary’s spot. I was a big shot in one of the largest A.A. groups in the Texas Department of Corrections.
Then the monkey wrench got thrown into the old machine. I decided to start reading the books about the program. I did it because I didn’t want to be embarrassed. I was afraid someone might ask me questions I could not answer.
Well, most of you A.A.s know the rest of the story—I got hooked on the program! And the battle with my conscience began.
I fought with my inner self day and night. Here I stood on Sundays, in front of more than 200 inmates. I would tell them that A.A. was an honest program. But I couldn’t get honest with myself.
I can’t put my finger on exactly when it hit me. But it did. I unloaded every piece of stolen goods I had in my house (my cell). We talk about getting rid of that heavy load we carry on our shoulders. Well, I did. I became 10,000 pounds lighter at the moment of truth.
I wanted to go out and tell the world all about it. I went to three or four of my close friends in the A.A. program. I told them about what had happened and how great it felt. No one in prison accepts things at face value. They thought this was a phase I was going through. Knowing what a phony I had been, I sure couldn’t blame them.
I don’t know if this was my spiritual awakening. But I do know my life has changed for the better. I am more pleased with myself and others. I work the program with more “rigorous honesty” than ever before. In closing, I want to say this to any newcomers to prison A.A. programs: The meat of the program is the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book. Pick this book up and read it from cover to cover. You’ll be glad you did.
–Stan,