1984, My Life Course Rerouted

In the cold winter months of 1984, the streets of Chicago were blanketed in snow and darkness, mirroring my life. At just 22 years old, I was already worn down by the weight of my existence. Each day started with a joint in hand, followed swiftly by a beer and/or a vodka on the rocks with a twist of lemon. The late morning haze would bleed into a desperate chase for my drug of choice, cocaine. My days blurred together in a haze of highs and lows, punctuated only by my job at Berlin, where I worked for tips only and drowned my sorrows in the pulsating beats and flashing lights.

All my relationships were on the rocks, one of many casualties of my chaotic lifestyle. Unemployable in any stable job, I felt trapped in a cycle I couldn't break. The nights at Smartbar and other bars in the Chicago area, offered a temporary escape but left me emptier than before. As I was 86, from many establishments, also known as being barred from entering, once the "Elvis Lip’ appeared, a fight would soon follow. An awful side effect, from mixing alcohol and cocaine. It was during one of these endless, dark souls of the night, that I decided to see a counselor, hoping for some semblance of clarity.

In a small, dimly lit office, I met Dr. Carolyn, a kind-eyed woman with a gentle demeanor. I hesitated, but for the first time in my life, I opened up completely. I verbally vomited my life story, growing up with drug-dependent parents who willingly shared their stash with their young child.  I confessed to waking up with a joint in hand, the beer that followed, and the relentless pursuit of cocaine that defined my days. I confessed how my life had become a string of fleeting highs, each one leaving me further adrift.

Dr. Carolyn listened patiently, her eyes never leaving me. When I finally paused, exhausted from the torrent of my confession, Dr. Carolyn asked me softly, "Teresa, have you ever been sober?" The question was foreign, almost nonsensical. "Sober?" I echoed, genuinely perplexed.

Dr. Carolyn picked up a dictionary from her desk and read aloud, "Sober: not affected by alcohol or drugs; clear-headed."

I stared at her, the concept alien and bewildering. "Why would anyone want to live like that?" I asked, as my voice tinged with incredulity.

Dr. Carolyn leaned forward her voice gentle but firm. "Teresa, sobriety isn't just about abstaining from substances. It's about clarity, about truly living in the present. I want you to attend a meeting. There's a place where people understand what you're going through.”

I was skeptical but desperate. So, I agreed to try, though I had no idea how this small suggestion would impact my entire life.  I called my friend, Terry F. who had recommended Dr. Carolyn, but he was sick and unable to accompany me. "You need to learn to attend meetings alone," he told me, his voice weak over the phone. "Start now. Go to the Mustard Seed on Huron in Chicago. Look for a man named Jimmy H. He's like the Grandmaster Flash, rhyming all he says.

Nervously, I made my way to the Mustard Seed. Up a flight of stairs, filled with smiling faces, drinking coffee, smoking, I entered the meeting room. The walls stained in yellow from the nicotine was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. Two women approached to ask if I was new.  They sat me in the front row, got me a cup of coffee and a meeting directory.  As it was time for the meeting to start, they took their seat next to me. Jimmy H., a charismatic figure spoke in rhymes that danced through the air. He captivated the room, his words captured my heart, resonating with a truth I had never known. Before the break, they asked if there were any newcomers, I raised my hand, stood up and fought the avalanche of tears, admitting for the first time in my life, that I am an alcoholic.  

After the meeting, I felt something stir within. It wasn't hope, not yet, but a flicker of possibility. Those two women, Elizabeth and Alex, phoned me daily, my first 90 days, encouraging me to simply, “keep coming back”, so I continued to attend meetings, finding solace in the shared stories and the rhythm of this new life.   

By night, I bartended at Berlin, the same pulsing beats and flashing lights, but my days were now filled with the steady cadence of sobriety meetings. Slowly, the haze that had clouded my mind began to lift. I found myself, bit by bit, discovering a life I had never known. I met a person I never knew; me. 

Stuck sober in the relentless winter of Chicago on February 12, 1984, I started to see glimpses of a future as my life unfolded a day at a time. This design for living can be filled with growing pains, contrary behavior, hard lessons learned for pain is the great motivator and ultimately divine, but first I have to learn how to stand out of my own way. 

Thank you for my life.  It’s a life worth living!

Page 276, Alcoholics Anonymous (Fourth Edition)

 “A complete change takes place in our approach to life. Where we used to run from responsibility, we find ourselves accepting it with gratitude that we can successfully shoulder it. Instead of wanting to escape some perplexing problem, we experience the thrill of challenge in the opportunity it affords for another application of A.A. techniques, and we find ourselves tackling it with surprising vigor.

 The last fifteen years of my life have been rich and meaningful. I have had my share of problems, heartaches, and disappointments because that is life, but also, I have known a great deal of joy and a peace that is the handmaiden of an inner freedom. I have a wealth of friends and, with my A.A. friends, an unusual quality of fellowship. For, to these people, I am truly related. First, through mutual pain and despair, and later through mutual objectives and newfound faith and hope. And, as the years go by, working together, sharing our experiences with one another, and also sharing a mutual trust, understanding, and love—without strings, without obligation—we acquire relationships that are unique and priceless.

 There is no more aloneness, with that awful ache, so deep in the heart of every alcoholic, that nothing, before, could ever reach it. That ache is gone and never need return again. 

Now there’s a sense of belonging, of being wanted and needed and loved. In return for a bottle and a hangover, we have been given the keys of the kingdom.

Excerpt From Alcoholics Anonymous

AA World Services, Inc.

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