Bill's Story

War fever ran high in the New England town to which we new, young officers from Platts- burg were assigned, and we were flattered when the first citizens took us to their homes, making us feel heroic. Here was love, applause, war; moments sub-lime with intervals hilarious. I was part of life at last, and in the midst of the excitement I discovered liquor. I forgot the strong warnings and the prejudices of my people concerning drink. In time we sailed for “Over There.’’ I was very lonely and again turned to alcohol. We landed in England. I visited Winchester Cathe- dral. Much moved, I wandered outside. My attention was caught by a doggerel on an old tombstone: “Here lies a Hampshire Grenadier Who caught his death Drinking cold small beer. A good soldier is ne’er forgot Whether he dieth by musket Or by pot.” Ominous warning—which I failed to heed. Twenty-two, and a veteran of foreign wars, I went home at last. I fancied myself a leader, for had not the men of my battery given me a special token of appre- ciation? My talent for leadership, I imagined, would place me at the head of vast enterprises which I would manage with the utmost assurance. I took a night law course, and obtained employment as investigator for a surety company. The drive for success was on. I’d prove to the world I was impor-tant. My work took me about Wall Street and little by little I became interested in the market. Many people lost money—but some became very rich. Why not I?I studied economics and business as well as law. Po- tential alcoholic that I was, I nearly failed my law course. At one of the finals I was too drunk to think or write. Though my drinking was not yet continuous, it disturbed my wife. We had long talks when I wouldstill her forebodings by telling her that men of genius conceived their best projects when drunk; that the most majestic constructions of philosophic thought were so derived. By the time I had completed the course, I knew the law was not for me. The inviting maelstrom of Wall Street had me in its grip. Business and financial leaders were my heroes. Out of this alloy of drink and speculation, I commenced to forge the weapon that one day would turn in its flight like a boomerang and all but cut me to ribbons. Living modestly, my wife and I saved $ 1,000. It went into certain securities, then cheap and rather unpopular. I rightly imagined that they would some day have a great rise. I failed to persuade my broker friends to send me out looking over factories and managements, but my wife and I decided to go anyway. I had developed a theory thatmost people lost money in stocks through ignorance of markets. I discovered many more reasons later on. We gave up our positions and off we roared on a motorcycle, the sidecar stuffed with tent, blankets, achange of clothes, and three huge volumes of a finan- cial reference service. Our friends thought a lunacy commission should be appointed. Perhaps they were right. I had had some success at speculation, so wehad a little money, but we once worked on a farm for a month to avoid drawing on our small capital. That was the last honest manual labor on my part for many a day. We covered the whole eastern United States in a year. At the end of it, my reports to Wall Street procured me a position there and the use of a large ex-pense account. The exercise of an option brought inmore money, leaving us with a profit of several thou-sand dollars for that year. For the next few years fortune threw money and ap- plause my way. I had arrived. My judgment and ideas were followed by many to the tune of paper mil-lions. The great boom of the late twenties was seeth-ing and swelling. Drink was taking an important and exhilarating part in my life. There was loud talk in the jazz places uptown. Everyone spent in thousands and chattered in millions. Scoffers could scoff and be damned. I made a host of fair-weather friends. My drinking assumed more serious proportions, con- tinuing all day and almost every night. The remon-strances of my friends terminated in a row and I became a lone wolf. There were many unhappy scenes in our sumptuous apartment. There had been no real infidelity, for loyalty to my wife, helped at times by extreme drunkenness, kept me out of those scrapes. In 1929 I contracted golf fever. We went at once to the country, my wife to applaud while I started outto over take Walter Hagen. Liquor caught up with me much faster than I came up behind Walter. I beganto be jittery in the morning. Golf permitted drinkingBILL’S STORY 3 every day and every night. It was fun to carom around the exclusive course which had inspired such awe in me as a lad. I acquired the impeccable coat of tan one sees upon the well-to-do. The local banker watched me whirl fat checks in and out of his till with amused skepticism. Abruptly in October 1929 hell broke loose on the New York stock exchange. After one of those days of inferno, I wobbled from a hotel bar to a brokerage office. It was eight o’clock—five hours after the market closed. The ticker still clattered. I was staring at an inch of the tape which bor ethe inscription XYZ- 32. It had been 52that morning. I was finished and so were many friends. The papers reported men jumping to death from the towers of High Finance. That dis- gusted me. I would not jump. I went back to the bar . My friends had dropped several million since teno’clock—so what? Tomorrow was another day. As I drank, the old fierce determination to win came back. Next morning I telephoned a friend in Montreal. He had plenty of money left and thought I had better go to Canada. By the following spring we wer eliving in our accustomed style. I felt like Napoleon returning from Elba. No St. Helena for me! But drinking caught up with me again and my generous friend had to letme go. This time we stayed broke. Wewent to live with my wife’ sparents. I found a job; then lost it as the result of a brawl with a taxi driver .Mercifully, no one could guess that I was to have no real employment for five years, or hardly drawasober breath. My wife began to work in a depart- ment stor e, coming home exhausted to find me drunk. I became an unwelcome hanger-on at brokerage places. Liquor ceased to be a luxury; it became a necessity. “Bathtub’’ gin, two bottles a day, and often three, gotto be routine. Sometimes a small deal would net a fewhundr ed dollars, and I would pay my bills at the bars and delicatessens. This went on endlessly, and I began to waken very early in the morning shaking violently. Atumbler full of gin followed by half a dozen bottles of beer would be required if I were to eat any break-fast. Nevertheless, I still thought I could control thesituation, and there were periods of sobriety whichrenewed my wife’s hope. Gradually things got worse. The house was taken over by the mortgage holder, my mother-in-law died, my wife and father-in-law became ill. Then I got a promising business opportunity. Stocks were at the low point of 1932 ,and I had somehow formed a group to buy .Iwas to shar egener ously in the profits. Then I went on a prodigious bender, and that chance vanished. Iwoke up. This had to be stopped. I saw I could not take so much as one drink. I was through forever. Before then, I had written lots of sweet promises, butmy wife happily observed that this time I meant busi-ness. And so I did. Shor tly after ward I came home drunk. There had been no fight. Wher ehad been my high resolve? I simply didn’t know. It hadn’t even come to mind. Someone had pushed a drink my way, and I had takenit. W as I crazy? I began to wonder ,for such an ap- palling lack of perspective seemed near being just that. Renewing my resolve, I tried again. Some timeBILL’S STORY 5 passed, and confidence began to be replaced by cock- sureness. I could laugh at the gin mills. Now I hadwhat it takes! One day I walked into a cafe to tele-phone. In no time I was beating on the bar asking my-self how it happened. As the whisky rose to my headI told myself I would manage better next time, but Imight as well get good and drunk then. And I did. The remorse, horror and hopelessness of the next morning are unforgettable. The courage to do battlewas not there. My brain raced uncontrollably andthere was a terrible sense of impending calamity. Ihardly dared cross the street, lest I collapse and be rundown by an early mor ning truck, for it was scarcely daylight. An all night place supplied me with a dozenglasses of ale. My writhing nerves were stilled at last. Amorning paper told me the market had gone to hell again. Well, so had I. The market would recover, but I wouldn’ t. That was a har dthought. Should I kill myself? No—not now. Then a mental fog settleddown. Gin would fix that. So two bottles, and— oblivion. The mind and body ar emarvelous mechanisms, for mine endur ed this agony two more years. Sometimes Istole from my wife’ sslender purse when the mor ning terror and madness were on me. Again I swayed diz-zily before an open window, or the medicine cabinetwher etherewas poison, cursing myself for a weakling. There were flights from city to country and back, asmy wife and I sought escape. Then came the nightwhen the physical and mental tor turewas so hellish I feared I would burst through my window, sash andall. Somehow I managed to drag my mattress to alower floor, lest I suddenly leap. A doctor came with a heavy sedative. Next day found me drinking both gin and sedative. This combination soon landed meon the rocks. People feared for my sanity. So did I.I could eat little or nothing when drinking, and I wasforty pounds under weight. Mybrother-in-law is a physician, and through his kindness and that of my mother I was placed in a na- tionally-known hospital for the mental and physical rehabilitation of alcoholics. Under the so-called bella-donna treatment my brain cleared. Hydrotherapy andmild exercise helped much. Best of all, I met a kinddoctor who explained that though certainly selfish andfoolish, I had been seriously ill, bodily and mentally. It relieved me somewhat to learn that in alcoholics the will is amazingly weakened when it comes to com-bating liquor, though it often remains strong in other respects. My incredible behavior in the face of adesperate desire to stop was explained. Understand-ing myself now ,Ifared for thin high hope. For three or four months the goose hung high. I went to town regularly and even made a little money .Surely this was the answer—self-knowledge. But it was not, for the frightful day came when I drank once more. The curve of my declining moral and bodily health fell off like a ski-jump. After a time I returned to the hospital. This was the finish, the curtain, it seemed to me. My wearyand despairing wife was infor med that it would all end with hear tfailur e during delirium tremens, or I would develop a wetbrain, perhaps within a year. She would soon have togive me over to the under taker or the asylum. They did not need to tell me. I knew, and almost welcomed the idea. It was a devastating blow to myBILL’S STORY 7 pride. I, who had thought so well of myself and my abilities, of my capacity to surmount obstacles, wascornered at last. Now I was to plunge into the dark, joining that endless procession of sots who had goneon before. I thought of my poor wife. There had beenmuch happiness after all. What would I not give tomake amends. But that was over now. No words can tell of the loneliness and despair I found in that bitter morass of self-pity. Quicksand stretched around me in all directions. I had met mymatch. I had been overwhelmed. Alcohol was mymaster. Trembling, I stepped from the hospital a broken man. Fear sobered me for a bit. Then came the insidi-ous insanity of that first drink, and on Armistice Day 1934 ,Iwas off again. Everyone became resigned to the certainty that I would have to be shut up some- wher e, or would stumble along to a miserable end. How dark it is before the dawn! In reality that wasthe beginning of my last debauch. I was soon to becatapulted into what I like to call the fourth dimension of existence. I was to know happiness, peace, and usefulness, in a way of life that is incr edibly more wonder ful as time passes. Near the end of that bleak November, I sat drinking in my kitchen. With a certain satisfaction I reflected there was enough gin concealed about the house to carry me through that night and the next day. Mywife was at work. I wondered whether I dared hide afull bottle of gin near the head of our bed. I wouldneed it before daylight. My musing was interrupted by the telephone. The cheery voice of an old school friend asked if he might come over. He was sober. It was years since I could re- member his coming to New York in that condition. Iwas amazed. Rumor had it that he had been commit-ted for alcoholic insanity. I wondered how he had es-caped. Of course he would have dinner, and then Icould drink openly with him. Unmindful of his welfare, I thought only of recapturing the spirit of other days. There was that time we had chartered an air-plane to complete a jag! His coming was an oasis inthis dreary desert of futility. The very thing—an oasis!Drinkers are like that. The door opened and he stood there, fresh-skinned and glowing. There was something about his eyes. Hewas inexplicably different. What had happened? Ipushed a drink across the table. He refused it. Disappointed but curious, I wondered what had gotinto the fellow. He wasn’t himself. “Come, what’s all this about?’’ I queried. He looked straight at me. Simply ,but smilingly ,he said, “I’ve got religion.’’ Iwas aghast. So that was it—last summer an alcoholic crackpot; now, I suspected, a little cracked about religion. He had that starry-eyed look. Yes, the oldboy was on fire all right. But bless his heart, let himrant! Besides, my gin would last longer than hispreaching. But he did no ranting. In a matter of fact way he told how two men had appear ed in cour t, persuading the judge to suspend his commitment. They had toldof a simple religious idea and a practical program ofaction. That was two months ago and the result was self-evident. It worked! He had come to pass his experience along to me—ifBILL’S STORY 9 Icared to have it. I was shocked, but interested. Cer- tainly I was interested. I had to be, for I was hopeless. He talked for hours. Childhood memories rose be- fore me. I could almost hear the sound of the preach-er’s voice as I sat, on still Sundays, way over there on the hillside; there was that proffered temperance pledge I never signed; my grandfather’s good natured contempt of some church folk and their doings; his insistence that the spheres really had their music; buthis denial of the preacher’s right to tell him how hemust listen; his fearlessness as he spoke of these thingsjust before he died; these recollections welled up fromthe past. They made me swallow har d. That war-time day in old Winchester Cathedral came back again. Ihad always believed in a Power greater than my- self. I had often ponder ed these things. I was not an atheist. Few people really ar e, for that means blind faith in the strange proposition that this universe orig-inated in a cipher and aimlessly rushes nowhere. My intellectual heroes, the chemists, the astronomers, even the evolutionists, suggested vast laws and for ces at work. Despite contrar yindications, I had little doubt that a mighty purpose and r hythm underlay all. How could there be so much of precise and immutable law, and no intelligence? I simply had to believe in a Spiritof the Universe, who knew neither time nor limitation. But that was as far as I had gone. With ministers, and the world’s religions, I parted right ther e. When they talked of a God personal to me, who was love, superhuman strength and direction, I became irritated and my mind snapped shut against such a theory. To Christ I conceded the certainty of a great man, not too closely followed by those who claimed Him. His moral teaching—most excellent. For myself, I had adopted those parts which seemed convenient and not too difficult; the rest I disregarded. The wars which had been fought, the burnings and chicanery that religious dispute had facilitated, made me sick. I honestly doubted whether, on balance, the religions of mankind had done any good. Judging from what I had seen in Europe and since, the power of God in human affairs was negligible, the Brother- hood of Man a grim jest. If there was a Devil, he seemed the Boss Universal, and he certainly had me. But my friend sat before me, and he made the point- blank declaration that God had done for him what he could not do for himself. His human will had failed. Doctors had pronounced him incurable. Society was about to lock him up. Like myself, he had admitted complete defeat. Then he had, in ef fect, been raised from the dead, suddenly taken from the scrap heap to alevel of life better than the best he had ever known! Had this power originated in him? Obviously it had not. There had been no more power in him than there was in me at that minute; and this was none at all. That floored me. It began to look as though reli- gious people were right after all. Here was something at work in a human hear twhich had done the impossible. My ideas about miracles wer edrastically revised right then. Never mind the musty past; her esat a miracle directly across the kitchen table. He shouted great tidings. Isaw that my friend was much more than inwardlyBILL’S STORY 11 reorganized. He was on a different footing. His roots grasped a new soil. Despite the living example of my friend there re- mained in me the vestiges of my old prejudice. The word God still aroused a certain antipathy. When the thought was expressed that there might be a God per-sonal to me this feeling was intensified. I didn’t like the idea. I could go for such conceptions as Creative Intelligence, Universal Mind or Spirit of Nature but Iresisted the thought of a Czar of the Heavens, however loving His sway might be. I have since talked with scores of men who felt the same way. My friend suggested what then seemed a novel idea. He said, “Why don’t you choose your own conception of God?’’ That statement hit me hard. It melted the icy intel- lectual mountain in whose shadow I had lived andshiver ed many years. I stood in the sunlight at last. It was only a matter of being willing to believe in a Power greater than myself. Nothing more was requiredof me to make my beginning. Isaw that growth could startfrom that point. Upon a foundation of complete willingness I might build what I saw in my friend. Would I have it? Of course I would! Thus was I convinced that God is concerned with us humans when we want Him enough. At long last Isaw, Ifelt, I believed. Scales of pride and prejudice fell from my eyes. A new world came into view. The real significance of my experience in the Cathe- dral burst upon me. For a brief moment, I had neededand wanted God. There had been a humble willing-ness to have Him with me—and He came. But soon the sense of His presence had been blotted out by1 worldly clamors, mostly those within myself. And so it had been ever since. How blind I had been. At the hospital I was separated from alcohol for the last time. Treatment seemed wise, for I showed signsof delirium tremens. There I humbly offered myself to God, as I then understood Him, to do with me as He would. I placed myself unreservedly under His care and direction. Iadmitted for the first time that of myself I was noth-ing; that without Him I was lost. I ruthlessly faced mysins and became willing to have my new-found Friendtake them away, root and branch. I have not had adrink since. My schoolmate visited me, and I fully acquainted him with my problems and deficiencies. We made alist of people I had hurt or toward whom I felt resent-ment. I expressed my entire willingness to approach these individuals, admitting my wrong. Never was Itobe critical of them. I was to right all such matters to the utmost of my ability. Iwas to test my thinking by the new God-consciousness within. Common sense would thus become un-common sense. I was to sit quietly when in doubt, asking only for direction and strength to meet myproblems as He would have me. Never was I to prayfor myself, except as my requests bor eon my usefulness to others. Then only might I expect to receive. But that would be in great measur e. My friend promised when these things were done I would enter upon a new relationship with my Creator; that I would have the elements of a way of livingwhich answered all my problems. Belief in the powerof God, plus enough willingness, honesty and humilityBILL’S STORY 13 to establish and maintain the new order of things, were the essential requirements. Simple, but not easy; a price had to be paid. It meant destruction of self-centeredness. I must turnin all things to the Father of Light who presides overus all. These were revolutionary and drastic proposals, but the moment I fully accepted them, the effect was elec-tric. There was a sense of victory, followed by such apeace and serenity as I had never known. There wasutter confidence. I felt lifted up, as though the greatclean wind of a mountain top blew through andthrough. God comes to most men gradually, but His impact on me was sudden and profound. For a moment I was alarmed, and called my friend, the doctor, to ask if I were still sane. He listened inwonder as I talked. Finally he shook his head saying, “Something has happened to you I don’t understand. But you hadbetter hang on to it. Anything is better than the wayyou were.” The good doctor now sees many men who have such experiences. He knows that they ar ereal. While I lay in the hospital the thought came that there were thousands of hopeless alcoholics who might be glad to have what had been so freely given me. Perhaps I could help some of them. They in turnmight work with others. My friend had emphasized the absolute necessity of demonstrating these principles in all my affairs. Par-ticularly was it imperative to work with others as hehad worked with me. Faith without works was dead, he said. And how appallingly true for the alcoholic!For if an alcoholic failed to perfect and enlarge his1 spiritual life through work and self-sacrifice for others, hecould not survive the certain trials and low spots ahead. If he did not work, he would surely drinkagain, and if he drank, he would surely die. Then faithwould be dead indeed. With us it is just like that. My wife and I abandoned ourselves with enthusiasm to the idea of helping other alcoholics to a solution of their problems. It was fortunate, for my old busi-ness associates remained skeptical for a year and ahalf, during which I found little work. I was not toowell at the time, and was plagued by waves of self-pity and resentment. This sometimes nearly drove meback to drink, but I soon found that when all other measures failed, work with another alcoholic wouldsave the day. Many times I have gone to my old hos-pital in despair. On talking to a man there, I would beamazingly lifted up and set on my feet. It is a designfor living that works in rough going. Wecommenced to make many fast friends and a fel- lowship has grown up among us of which it is a won-derful thing to feel a part. The joy of living we really have, even under pressure and difficulty. I have seenhundreds of families set their feet in the path thatreally goes somewhere; have seen the most impossible domestic situations righted; feuds and bitterness of allsorts wiped out. I have seen men come out of asylums and resume a vital place in the lives of their families and communities. Business and pr ofessional men have regained their standing. There is scarcely any form oftrouble and misery which has not been overcome among us. In one wester ncity and its envir ons there are one thousand of us and our families. We meet fre-quently so that newcomers may find the fellowshipBILL’S STORY 15 they seek. At these informal gatherings one may often see from 50to 200persons. We are growing in num- bers and power. * An alcoholic in his cups is an unlovely creature. Our struggles with them are variously strenuous, comic, and tragic. One poor chap committed suicidein my home. He could not, or would not, see our wayof life. There is, however, a vast amount of fun about it all. Isuppose some would be shocked at our seeming worldliness and levity. But just underneath there isdeadly earnestness. Faith has to work twenty-fourhours a day in and through us, or we perish. Most of us feel we need look no further for Utopia. We have it with us right here and now. Each day myfriend’s simple talk in our kitchen multiplies itself inawidening circle of peace on earth and good will to men. Bill W ., co-founder of A.A., died January 24, 1971 .1 *In 2006 ,A.A. is composed of over 106,000 groups.