...and I Am an Alcoholic

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       My name is Scott Zachary, and I am an alcoholic.

       For seven years and twenty-four days, I haven’t awoken to wonder how embarrassed I’m going to be when I find out what stupid, despicable things I did the night before, that is, if I would find out. I haven’t had to wonder who that woman was that I had inseminated. I haven’t had to wake up and realize that I had committed crimes for which I’d have to lie my way out of, that is, if I could remember doing them. And I do have the unconditional peace that I envied in that Nepalese porter, cherry-topped with a truly fulfilling life, a life that never would have transpired with the alcoholic nipple at my lips. I’ll apprise you in the following revelations.

       My alcoholic disease should’ve been apparent to all when I was two years old. My father had set his double highball on the coffee table within reach of my toddler hands. My mother told me that I chugalugged the whole drink. They had to walk me around for hours until the alcohol was out of my system—my first drunk. My mother further told me that they had to be vigilant about where they set their drinks after that because I wanted more.

       I don’t remember that incident, but I do remember some of the details of my next slobbering, drunken spree. On Christmas Eve following my 11^th birthday, several of us boys agreed to help clean a beer joint in the little town of Shadeville where I lived. I can still remember the decorative rows of bottles behind the bar enticing me. I don’t recall how I got started sampling the contents. I do remember putting the metallic tubes into my mouth and tipping up the bottles. And I distinctly remember the warm, cozy feeling I got early on. Every time I passed by those bottles to empty the trash, I guzzled from a different one to escalate that glowing, secure feeling. I didn’t just want more—I needed as much as I could swill!

       That’s all I can remember. The rest of the story was parceled to me bit by discomforting bit over the following weeks and months. I was told that the other boys made some coffee to try to sober me up. They said I put the scalding coffee to my lips and spilled much of it down my face and neck and torso as I gulped. I don’t remember feeling any pain, but I do remember the huge, nasty scab extending from my nose to my waist. I became so violent that the boys locked me in a car behind the bar. I smashed the windshield out with my fist. I don’t remember that, either, but I do remember my hand aching terribly for weeks afterward. And I scarcely remember having made a complete drunken ass of myself the next morning when I didn’t get the Christmas presents that I wanted and expected.

       Anyone with a smidgen of good sense would have avoided alcohol at all costs after that experience. But no, not me—not this alcoholic. I got drunk at nearly every opportunity after that until I was 53 years old.

       There was the time that Billy Bob borrowed my truck to go buy some cigarettes. He crashed that same pickup truck in a ditch along the road—or so I told the county sheriff because my blood-alcohol level was still way too high to admit that it was me who wrecked the truck. I have no idea how I kept a straight face when the sheriff asked me what Billy Bob’s full name was and I replied, “I’m guessing ‘Billy Bob’ is short for ‘William Robert’ and I think he said his last name was ‘Farmer.’  ”

       Talk about luck; a fellow stopped right after I had wrecked my truck that time and gave me a ride. He asked me if I had any beer. I told him he could have all the beer he could find in my truck if he cleared out all the empties, too. He removed all evidence of my misdeed.

       Let’s take another journey down Insanity Lane. I hooked up with two Taiwanese gals who were attending the local college. After swigging a dozen or more pitchers of beer while dancing at a nightclub, I agreed to follow them back to their dorm. En route, the girls got stopped at a police checkpoint. We waved at each other as I drove past. A cop waved at me to stop and asked me if I knew the girls. I said “no” and dismissed him by rolling up my window and proceeding to make an immediate right turn into the neighborhoods. I could see the cop in my rear-view mirror trotting to his cruiser. I floored that same pickup truck, veering left and right and left and right, zigzagging around the corners on two wheels.

       Crazy enough? Not for me. I stopped at a convenience store and got directions to a local bail bondsman. His office/home was located within sight of the police station. I gave the bail bondsman enough cash to bail the two girls out of jail. When he returned from getting them released, he exhorted, “You need to get lost—quick! The police are looking all over town for a pickup truck like yours.”

       I holed up in a nearby hotel until the hornets’ nest settled down.

       Lucky? I don’t think so. My quick and clever conniving merely enabled me to continue toying with disaster for many more years.

       To cap off this abbreviated drunk log, I should fully stoke the embers of my alcoholic insanity with the following: While I was on delayed enlistment to enter the Air Force, several of us boys got drunk and wielded butcher knives and meat cleavers to rip off the Mafia for ten pounds of pot. My cut gave me a little spending money until I started Basic Training.

       I attended my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in 1990, a requirement of my first DUI conviction. Being handcuffed and sleeping on the cold concrete floor of a jail cell for a night instilled enough fear in me to keep me sober for a good while. But I still hadn’t hit enough of a bottom to convince me to follow all of the recommendations of AA. It took another nineteen years for me to surrender completely. During the two decades that I sampled AA, I learned what it took for other alcoholics to stay sober. I just wasn’t willing to go to that extent. With my half measures, I managed to obtain varying lengths of sobriety, from a few hours to several months. I even celebrated six months of sobriety one time by getting drunk! A crotchety woman once claimed that I didn’t have enough willpower to quit drinking. How dare she? It took enormous willpower to continue drinking through all of those disasters!

       Then, on the 28^th of September 2009—my life in utter shambles—I finally surrendered unconditionally. Willpower is not the key—surrender is. I went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in Owensboro, Kentucky, got a sponsor, and I did everything my sponsor told me to do—EVERYTHING. I attended at least one AA meeting every day for six months. I thoroughly worked the 12-step program with my terrific sponsor, Jerry N. I obeyed Jerry’s rule that I call him every day. I helped other alcoholics get sober and stay sober. I forgave all of my bushwhackers. I made amends where practical. I volunteered extensively to help others in the community and around the world. I began to live in a way that tipped the scale of my net worth as a human being in a positive direction. I thank God and Alcoholics Anonymous for that.

       Besides my sponsor extraordinaire, there’s been one person who has consistently encouraged, inspired, and supported me in my sobriety: my wonderful, angelic wife, Bobbie (Honey Bunny). In all my years of attending AA meetings, I’ve seen few non-alcoholic people actively support other recovering alcoholics. Except for the mother of a young man in Cannelton some years ago, I don’t recall ever seeing a spouse, a friend, or a family member attend a recovering alcoholic’s anniversary-chip presentation. That’s sad. Bobbie has always supported me, even when I was briefly dating another recovering alcoholic.

       During AA meetings, a designated person hands out monthly tokens (chips) to congratulate recovering alcoholics after each month of their first year of sobriety, and after that, they hand out chips for yearly anniversaries (often called birthdays). I’ve had eighteen AA chips presented to me, and Bobbie was there to support and congratulate me at nearly every one of them. After receiving my first yearly anniversary token, I told her that I would miss receiving an AA chip every month. Bobbie has filled that gap by giving me a birthday card to salute my recovery every month for the past 72 months. What a gal!!!

       I always feared that my life would lose its exciting pizazz if I gave up drinking alcohol. I’m glad to say, though, that my life has become even more exciting, and in better ways.

       During the past seven-plus years of sobriety...

o I ran a dozen half-marathons, four of them official races—that’s exciting.

o I jumped out of an airplane at 10,000 feet three times—that’s exciting!

o I attended EMT school in the evenings, graduated top of the class, and helped patients while riding around in the back of an ambulance all over Louisville, Kentucky—that’s exciting!!

o I traveled to Nicaragua and Honduras on eight Christian medical missions, helping provide prescription eyeglasses and readers to thousands of poor people—that’s exciting!!!

o I taught myself Spanish and led people to accept Jesus Christ as their Savior in their language—THAT’S EXCITING!!!

       It is beyond the reach of probability that I would’ve experienced all of these truly exciting things had it not been for my decimation and rebirth through AA and You, Lord. Thank you, Father!!!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       I’ve occasionally asked myself during the process of writing this autobiography, “At which point should I end this book about my life?” I suppose here and now—October 22, 2016—is as good as any. Honey Bunny and I are celebrating our second second anniversary this week while staying at the Millennium Broadway Hotel overlooking New York City’s Times Square. We’re keeping room service hopping, and we’re venturing out after sunset to enjoy the Broadway shows, the dazzling lights, and the circus of street life. The night before last, we enjoyed the Broadway musical Wicked, which gave us a delightfully new viewpoint into The Wizard of Oz. We attended the Jeff Dunham ventriloquism show last night at Carnegie Hall. He’s ten times funnier in person, and if you don’t believe me, “I keel you!”

       Looking back more than seven years ago into that deep, dark hell-hole, I never could’ve imagined that my life would become so grand, that I’d be scanning limitless possibilities for the next cherry—the next sparkle, and without guilt.

       Where to now? Another Broadway show might illuminate my path. Perhaps Dr. Wizzle or the Lord will give me some pointers on which direction to go from here. In any case, my life keeps getting better and better. I am sure that it will continue to do so—as long as I trust in the Lord, stay focused on the silver linings, and don’t drink.

       So you see.