[MajestyJo]

Mine wasn't vocalized but internalized. It was do or die. I chose life. I reached out and asked for help August 8, started getting support from the social worker at the Y.W.C.A. who got me into a recovery house. A friend went back to Hawaii to live and we went out for a steak dinner, and I had a glass of wine, my last drink on the 20th. I felt like the 8th was the day I should celebrate, but chose August 21, 1991, because I had that one drink. The pills I was on, my doctor was my supplier, took a while to come off them because of side affects. I had to go to the drug store daily, to pick up my meds. I no longer abused them or me. I didn't go into the treatment center until November 2, 1991.

I was very angry, resentful, and just plain mad at they system. I knew if I went downtown, I would drink. I went into KFC, inhaled a piece of chicken, chips and coleslaw, wrapped up the other piece and headed for the bus. Two things happened, I didn't drink (later went to the recovery house, called my sponsor, and went to a meeting that night.) and I didn't eat that second piece of chicken.