TODAY I am remembering. Remembering a girl of 25 who was buried not so long ago. This remembering is a form of insurance for me, insurance for more days like today. I don’t want to forget the conflict, the frightening struggle she and I had. I don’t want to forget how often she won. I do not resent her, and I do not fear her any longer, for now she will have to fight both God and me. And God never loses.
I want to remember the day she acknowledged with quiet despondency that she was hopelessly addicted to alcohol, that it was no mere beverage, but the food and drug of her soul. And with that acknowledgment began the fear of source of supply far more than the fear of inevitable consequences. Intellectually she knew the outcome–emotionally she could not see far enough ahead to care. And a drink always pushed the care aside temporarily.
I want to remember the nights I talked to her–talked, threatened, pleaded, ridiculed and condemned her. How often we tried to get together to whip this thing! I told her no one else drank as she did, that she had everything she wanted, so why didn’t she stop? I watched her try to pray, saw her fumbling to remember the words of the De Profundis: “Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O Lord.” And then we would resolve that tomorrow would be different–we would start with a clean slate.
But tomorrow was no different. She arose full of determination, but ridden by fears of almost certain defeat. There was grit, but small hope. And before long, our time-worn game of duplicity was being played. We fenced with one another, and her strokes became more and more forceful until she won. And with her victory, again I had to sit as an onlooker, with pity but no strength to help in my heart, and watch this awful thing she was doing to herself. I watched her as she slipped beyond my reach, into the never-ending flight, chasing an ideal, and not knowing what she wanted or why, but wanting it desperately. I watched her as she rode the highway of phantasy:–she was a great writer; she called her book The Battle of The Bottle, but the first line of her message for posterity was never written. She was a great pianist, but her genius was thwarted by the affliction she bore. She was the personification of the perfect wife, and would be the perfect mother, too, if only given a child to prove it. She was a well-balanced, cultured, charming young woman, an inspiration to all who knew her. She was artistic, creative, enthusiastic, bountiful and compassionate–oh, infinitely compassionate. But misunderstood, and alone. So alone. I followed in her shadow and thought, like Miniver Cheevy, she too was:
. . .”born too late,Scratched her head and kept on thinking,She, too, coughed, and called it Fate,And kept on drinking.”
I watched her slide from the phantasy of the perfect to the figure of the down-trodden reformer. Why must there be wars? Why were children starving? Who were the fools who ran things and how did they get there? And why didn’t they have the intelligence of a chicken? A chicken for President! No–she was losing her grip. That wasn’t sensible–she’d have to pull herself together. Do the housework, that was it. No–better read something first–elevate the mind. Too much superficiality in the world today. Not enough people read Shakespeare and the Bible. Why, did you know if you really knew Shakespeare and the Bible, you need never know another thing. Those two books had everything–all wisdom, all knowledge. She’d read the Book of Job. She was like Job herself–everything was wrong.
And then I watched the indignation at life come upon her. The world was run by ignoramuses. She knew! She had worked at a war plant! And oh, the waste! She’d call the President. She dialed the White House. National 1414. He was busy. He couldn’t talk to her. Some democracy!
And then the remorse and self-pity. I watched as she vaguely recognized her condition. Here she was, drunk, and only this morning she had been so full of determination to do better. She had tried–oh, yes, she had tried. In fact, all her life she had strived to be a real person. Lots of people floated along never giving a thought to the meaning of Life, but as far back as she could remember, she had consciously worked on herself. She had worked harder than most, she had read more, she had studied, everything from Greek to millinery. She had known what she wanted and had bent all energies and capacities to get it, whatever it was. Oh, the cruelty of it all! What a dastardly trick Fate had played on her. She was of no use to herself or anyone else. And for a few minutes she got a morbid pleasure from these thoughts. How tragic! But sort of pathetically, beautifully tragic! Here she was, so young, so gifted, and the world would never benefit because of her cursed malady.
And then I watched the fear set in. At first, a mild rage at the unfairness of it all. But later, I saw her wracked in stark fear and hopelessness. She was frantic with fright–fright for her sanity, fright for her life. What was to become of her? I was as one on the outside, a spectator to this horrible transformation, and was helpless. She watched the door, furtively, anxiously, knowing it to be locked, yet afraid. She dared not look out the window for fear of vague faces. She dared not answer the telephone for fear of unknown voices. She could not read. She could not sleep. She could not pray. And she heard music–a fragment of a haunting theme, repeated and repeated, ending each time in a discord. And then oblivion.
No, I do not want to forget that girl. I want to remember that she is only one drink away. I don’t want to forget what time was to her. She suffered through yesterday a thousand times in her remorse. She feared tomorrow with terror, and hoped by some means she could escape it. Today never existed for her. I am glad she is dead.
And who has taken the place of that girl? Quite a different person altogether. I find I am a simple person–no thwarted genius after all. That great American novel will have to be written by someone else. I find, after sober practice, that the concert stage can do without this average parlor pianist. I find that being a perfect wife requires some exertion other than dreams. I find that today builds into tomorrow. I find that we don’t just “get somewhere”–we go there, one day at a time. I find it a luxurious sensation to be sane.
And what is time to me now? It is a most precious asset. I have the luxury of being able to cherish the memory of yesterday, to live today with serenity, to wait for tomorrow. I find great contentment in just knowing where I was and where I am. And I am grateful; grateful for the existence of Alcoholics Anonymous, grateful to my God for leading me to the doors of A.A. and to Himself grateful for hope. I am grateful for this minute. My eternity may be in it.