No Choice

After swallowing a full prescription of Valium and drinking a fifth of scotch, I passed out. When I woke up a few hours later, I felt like the all time loser. I couldn't even fucking kill myself successfully. So you see, I didn't go to AA because I was looking for a new social life.

October 30, 1973 was the last time I ingested any alcohol or mind altering drug. AA was an unbelievable and great life changing experience. But I've never subscribed to the AA mantra that my worst day sober was better than my best day drunk. I had some fabulous times while in the bag. Sadly I don't remember all of them. But when it takes two shaking hands to bring one scotch over ice to your mouth, you know you have a problem, and I had a big one.

I had tried AA several times, but after a few meetings I would just blow it off. You would have thought that being forced to take a cab in S.F. to find my car because I was half gone when I parked it would have been enough to convince me that booze and me weren't even kissin' cousins. A typical drive back to Portola Valley would start at Ruggiero's on Pine Street at 4:00 PM (didn't want to hit the traffic was my excuse) where I’d knocked back more than a few pops. Then it was to the garage with a quick stop at another bar. Once in the car, I’d stop on the Embarcadero to pick up a pint to nip on while on my way home. But before actually hitting the freeway, I stopped at a bar frequented by merchant seaman (I walked in with my Brook's Brother's suit and everyone looked at me like I was a bull with a bastard calf). Finally, I’d drive home to face the Formidable Princess. Now, that really wasn't like spending a day at the beach.

This time, however, I knew it was different because I concluded that I had no choice. I hit rock bottom.