The story speaks for itself.

The day I finally “turned myself in” for alcohol abuse after months of fighting with myself, I was very scared;  I had no idea what to expect when I arrived at the facility.  I only recall being told that I should not go cold turkey, endangering my life in the process.

            I took my seat and tried to comfort myself that if others could “do it” then so could I.  Shortly, an attendant walked up to me, handed me a pen and some papers attached to a clipboard.  “Fill these out and when done give them back me,” she had said.  First line of the form:  Your Name.  I started to write my name and was shaking so badly that I could not do so.  Then, I tried to print my name; that didn’t work either.  I was still trying to remain as calm as possible and took some time to look over the rest of the form.  Date of birth, place of birth, weight, height, reason for being there, etc.  I tried to answer the second question which was my address.  Shaking so badly, I could not write or print the answer.  Chagrinned and upset, I went looking for the attendant and told her I just could not complete the form and asked if she would help.  I told her why I was having problems.

            Thank God, she came to my aid and completed the forms then set them aside to ask me for personal things:  Did I drink all day?  Did I only drink at home—by myself?  Did I think I was abusing alcohol?  “No,” I said, “although I must be since the tests I’ve had to take would seem to indicate I’m an alcoholic.”  She asked me to take a seat at a table in the lobby and a nurse appeared from somewhere to take my blood pressure.  It was 180/100 and the nurse seemed distressed; I was also because my BP had never been that high.  She asked me to sit still and she would return in fifteen minutes to take my BP once again.  Before leaving, she told me the reason they did not want me to go cold turkey on the drinking because they feared my BP would shoot sky high and I might suffer cardiac arrest or some other life threatening occurrence.  She returned exactly fifteen minutes after leaving and this time my BP was 120/80.  She seemed satisfied with the results and walked me to another building where I as invited to join the rest of a group of people who were listening to one of the counselors.

            I introduced myself by name only and asked if she could tell me why my blood alcohol level was .198 when breathalized after only having one drink that morning before driving to my appointment at the eye doctor.  She had already told the class that the liver processes one ounce of alcohol per hour and according to my counting my alcohol blood level—when checked—should have been no more than .02.  I had had four drinks the night before, slept for eight hours and yet here I sat listening to a counselor tell about just how bad it is to be an alcoholic.  After talking some more about my so called plight, she asked me if had ever thought that my liver had finally had enough and was telling me it could not process any more.

            Being a preacher’s kid, I found it quite difficult to make the next statement, but I’m glad I did.  I said, “Okay.  I’m an alcoholic,” and she welcomed me to the group.  That was 4½ years ago and I still take things day by day.

© 2007 George E Thompson