The month of March has become a reformative one for me. It was 40 years ago, in March of 1986, that my healing journey began.
It started with a moment I couldn’t shake.
One morning I woke up, looked in the mirror, and saw my father staring back at me. I never wanted to become him, and that image haunted me.
Not enough at first to change anything. But the seed had been planted.
A few mornings later, there he was again. Same look. Same judgment.
I remember thinking, maybe quitting drinking would be a good idea.
And then, that night, I got drunk again.
Facing the truth about my drinking
The next morning, pounding on my bedroom door jolted me awake.
“We need to talk about your drinking. Now. Downstairs.”
I dragged myself out of bed and went to face the music. According to my roommate, I’d come home for the umpteenth time at an ungodly hour, waking her and her boyfriend. She’d had enough. I needed help.
I had known her for ten years. We had history. And for the first time ever… I agreed. I pulled out the phone book and called the Addiction Research Foundation, now part of CAMH.
They put me on a waiting list.
That was enough to calm things down at home.
I worked afternoons, 11–7, at the Shell station on Avenue Road and Haddington, so I got ready and went to work.
When I got there, I announced to my coworkers that I was going to deal with my drinking problem.
I think they gave me a standing ovation. My drinking was… well, let’s just say it had a reputation.
But there was a gap. I was waiting for a program and didn’t know what to do in the meantime.
One of them suggested AA. I immediately shot it down.
Nope. No way.
My dad and uncle had already warned me, “It’s just a bunch of bible thumpers.”
But I wanted help and once my mind was in that mindset I needed it. This was new to me, wanting help.
So I figured… it couldn’t hurt to check it out.
I called. There was a meeting that night not far from work.
First Shaky Steps of a Healing Journey
After my shift, I headed to a church at Avenue Road and Lawrence. I was shaking. Part nerves. Mostly because I hadn’t had a drink all day.
I walked down the steps into the church basement. I could hear the clanking of cups and voices of varying degrees. The first thing I saw was a placard above the door that said, “You are No Longer Alone.” Then through the smoky haze I saw other placards. “Let Go and Let God”, “Keep Coming Back” and “But for the Grace of God”.
All the God stuff had my hackles up, but I was there so I might as well stay.
Then something unexpected happened.
One of my regular customers from the gas station recognized me and came over.
“I’m glad you made it.”
He poured me a coffee. My hands were shaking too much to do it myself. Even sitting down, he had to steady the cup and saucer for me.
I looked around.
At the front of the room were more bumper sticker slogans and what looked like an altar. A cloth with the group name: Pathfinders. A familiar looking symbol, a triangle inside a circle. Two framed photos of older men.
Then the meeting started.
Up she walked to the front, flowing cafghan and all. In my head I immediately labelled her the high priestess.
There was a prayer… something about serenity… and I thought, okay, here we go.
Then someone stood up and started reading from chapter five of “The Big Book”, “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path…”
I paused. That wasn’t from the Bible I kinda remembered. In my head I started to mentally count off the bible chapters I knew. Genesis, Exodus, Matthew, Mark, Luke?
I tried to follow along but got lost somewhere around “…mentally incapable of being honest…”
Then people started sharing. Stories of drinking. Of trying. Of failing. Of finding something different.
It sounded… good. But I was mostly in my own head, trying to make sense of everything I was hearing.
After the meeting, people hung around talking, smoking and drinking that awful coffee.
One of the guys beside me gave me simple advice:
“Don’t take the first drink. Go to meetings.”
It sounded almost too simple.
I knew it took me more than one drink to get drunk.
Still, I went home with a stack of literature and a head full of noise.
The next day, I decided to try his plan.
I skipped my usual three beers just to steady my hands enough to brush my teeth.
That night, I found another meeting. Then another. And another.
Every night for a week.
Then St. Patrick’s Day hit.
I’m part Irish. Actually Irish. Not just on March 17 Irish. How could I not drink?
So I bought a six-pack. Cracked one open. Guzzled it.
Then I sat there, staring at the empty bottle.
Ha. Those AA guys were wrong.
The first drink doesn’t get you drunk.
Feeling pretty proud of myself, I finished the six-pack and headed to the pub, still convinced I was in control.
Sometime later, sitting alone in that smoky bar, I was at least ten beers in.
That’s when it hit me.
If I hadn’t taken the first drink… I wouldn’t be sitting here, losing count.
The next day, I tried again.
Don’t take the first drink. Go to meetings.
I went every night. Twice on Sundays. And I started stringing together days.
One day at a time.
I held on like that until August. But that’s a story for another post.
That’s how it began.
In the next post, I’ll share what life looks like today.
