I could stop drinking quite well. The physical effects would intensify-- shakiness, lack of appetite,
malaise-- and then typically some embarrassing event in a blackout would be the tipping point.
The pain of drinking would exceed the pain of not drinking, and I would resolve to quit. And I would.
Yes, stopping was relatively easy. It was the staying stopped that I had trouble with. Just don't take the
first drink, right? Seemed easy enough.
After all, I'm sober, I'm off the bender. I am in control of my motor functions,
which are required to drive to the bar or liquor store. I have absolute knowledge and understanding
that the first drink will send me off again. I'm armed with information and support.
And yet, I found myself drunk again. Every mother-lovin' time.
What I've come to understand-- having had an experience with the 12 steps and some sort of
internal rearrangement of ideas that allows me to look back with a different perspective-- is that the resolve
that I believed was so critical to my recovery, was in fact, part of my alcoholism.
Hell, it wasn't part-- it was the soul of my alcoholism. It would allow me to believe most anything,
to find inspiration in the most trite cliches, as long as I didn't do one thing: give up completely.
Surrender is alcoholism's kryptonite. The disease knows that complete and utter surrender is a precursor
to finding a power that will bring about its demise. I know it sounds a little like "good vs. evil,"
but screw it-- this is precisely what we're dealing with. "Drinking problem" doesn't even scratch the surface.
The disease, it waits.
It was when I understood that I was absolutely going to drink again-- when I understood that I was insane,
that my promises, determination and plans were nothing more than cover fire for my alcoholism--
it was then that I surrendered. My ability to manufacture hope died.
I had no idea at the time that I'd reached the jumping off point. I was never more ready to recover. (JW)
