The first time I drank, I got drunk. I was 15 and at a party with friends from school. I still remember the open case of Molson Export in front of me. I don’t remember where I was, who I was with, what the occasion was, or the season of the year. All I remember is me with a platoon of cold stubby brown soldiers nestled in the beer case in front of me. I don’t even remember the specific effect the alcohol had on me; all I know is that once it hit, I wanted more of it.

I have written about the development of my self-concept, who I thought I was and how I felt about myself. Well, the effect of alcohol lifted from me all my self-doubt, anxiety, fear, shyness, and uniqueness—all the characteristics that kept me feeling like an outcast on the fringes of socitey and distant from those around me. The magical transformative power I found in alcohol destroyed my feeling of alienation. But it was a temporary fix. I drank until I got sick, which effectively removed me from those around me. On the day after, it all came crashing back on me—my hangover withdrawal amplified all of the unwanted feelings that alcohol temporarily erased. So it should come as no surprise that I obsessed over that sweet release, to find it once again. Alcohol got its hooks into me from very start.

Parties and gatherings of friends didn’t happen every weekend, but when they did, I made sure to seek out that liquid escape from the turmoil of self. My drinking always seemed to outpace that of my peers, and over time I developed increased tolerance. I found that the feeling of release was neither as sharp nor immediate—it seemed to be getting elusive too. Sometimes I didn’t feel its intensity and at other times I did but it didn’t last very long. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the beginning of my chase for that ideal feeling, a doomed-to-fail attempt to recapture that first high. All subsequent moments with alcohol were an unconscious pursuit of an ideal, a state of bliss which I embellished and glorified in my imagination. Eventually, I believe the chase turned into a kind of resignation—I drank to just forget, to seek oblivion.

I had become a junior alcoholic in my teens. I didn’t drink daily, but I often lost control when I did. I heard from more than one close friend that I changed when I drank, like I had become a different person. A person that made them feel very uncomfortable to be around. This had hurt me to hear, and, for the first time, I attempted to control my rate of consumption when I drank. This proved to be mildly successful. But when I couldn’t control it, I went too far. Often, when I passed what I thought to be my self-imposed limit, I would withdraw from those around me and walk for miles before returning to the gathering a bit more sober.

This pattern of trying to control my drinking continued well into adulthood. I have heard stories of alcoholics who, every time they took that first drink, would drink until they passed-out or blacked-out. I wasn’t one of those types. At least they knew for sure what would happen. For me, I had no idea of, after the first drink, whether or not I would lose control. It was a toss of the dice, a spin of the wheel. There was a chance I’d abide by my promise to myself to keep it in check, and there was a chance I’d end up in trouble. And I could never predict in advance which outcome would come to fruition.

There was one trend, however, that seemed to occur more frequently as my drinking progressed: if there was specific occasion or reason for me to not get drunk, there was a greater chance that I would. If I did manage to stay sober for that person or event, I would be miserable, restless, and pining over the moment when I could extricate myself from that dry situation and find myself a stool at the nearest pub. And if it was a late night, I’d always have a supply waiting for me at home.

I can say such things now about my drinking pattern because recovery demands that a person examine how they ended up where they did. At the time, however, I was in denial. Well, mostly. I knew on some level where I was headed with alcohol. A small part of me wistfully dreamed of being in treatment one day, forced to put all the toxicity and insanity behind me. I’d thought even find community and connection in that place. As I approached hitting bottom, that voice grew stronger.

But hitting bottom was not to come for another 15 years. I was 23, and I had just ended a marriage to my high school sweetheart. We agreed it was for the best, and we called it a mutual decision, but I know that I pushed it to the brink. I was increasingly spending time with people from work at the bars and pubs on evenings and sometimes on weekends. I thrived on attention from other women, and I shamelessly flirted with anyone who would smile at me and give me their time. I allowed myself to develop affection for a much older co-worker whose marriage was also at the breaking point. It did not take long for me to leave my wife, move back to my parents’ house, then rent a house with my new girlfriend. We stayed together for a couple of years then split up while continuing to live in the house together. More turmoil, more drinking, more consequences. I met someone else. At a bar. Drinking with other co-workers. I left the house, returned to live, again, with my folks, and developed a relationship with my new love. This lasted until my future second wife arrived at my workplace.

I found a better job at another firm, and there was a going-away party at a tavern in my honour. This new arrival and I hit it off over drinks and closed the tavern that night. I felt like we were a perfect match. She could keep up with my drinking, we loved the same music, and playing the same sport, and so on and so forth. Did I mention she also loved to drink alcohol? In short order, we become inseparable, I ended my current relationship and moved in with her a month later. One month after that, I proposed to her and she accepted. It was great at first, even amazing, until my alcoholic behaviour rocked the boat. A year later, I ran from the marriage and into the arms of a co-worker at my new place of work. I moved back to my parents’ house, again.

During this period, my mother was dying of lung cancer. I was not yet 30 years old. I worked very long hours, often under the influence. I moved out into an apartment close to work, and the bars, and worked and drank and drank and worked. I received a call from the hospital while I was playing pool at the bar near work. My brother-in-law said that my mother had passed. A couple of friends from the bar drove me to the hospital and dropped me off. I joined my family smelling of booze.

The following seven years were a blur. Relationship after relationship. One with a young woman I met at a bar who lied about her age when we met. Did I avoid her after I found out? Nope. It was legal but very inappropriate, and certainly grist for the mill of my drinking. I fell in love so easily and fell out of love just as fast. I know now that love is not the most apt choice of word, even though I thought so at the time. Infatuation is a more suitable term. I found in ‘falling in love’ the same magical transformation that I chased in alcohol. I know today that it was just another addiction that had taken hold of me.

I left my career and hopped on a train to travel across the country. I met some young folks on the train and drank with them and played euchre from Ontario to B.C.. I wanted to start over in Vancouver, but I didn’t have a plan. I spent what was left of my money drinking and needed to wire my father for the funds to come home.

I trained to become a Reiki practitioner, rented a studio and set it up for my practice, but I had no customer base, no connections, and no marketing plan. The studio sat vacant for a month as I drank at the pub next door. I eventually returned to my previous employer to do contract work. I spent my money on rent, booze, and pub food.

In the summer of 2001, I was going to move to Nova Scotia to be with a recent divorcee I met one night in a bar when she was visiting Ottawa. We kept in touch after we met and, of course, I fell in love again. But something in me seemed to have snapped. I suddenly realized that I had lost the chase—that elusive release from drinking was completely and utterly beyond reach. The drug didn’t work anymore. I was drinking to stop drinking—yes, that makes no sense, but I hoped that maybe one more drink would stop the cravings.

I realized that I didn’t enjoy alcohol one bit and I hadn’t for a long time. I also believed that I had arrived at such a dark place with my drinking that I was going to either end my life or I’d put myself in fatal trouble within a matter of weeks.

I called the local mental health hospital and begged for admission into their day program. I got on a list and I started attending recovery groups. After not too long, I got into the day program, and soon I spent my 38^th birthday in a medical detox and went through a 28-day treatment program. After finishing, I went to about 150 meetings in 90 days. I joined a recovery group, and started working the recovery program with my sponsor. I backed out of the plan to move to Nova Scotia. That relationship ended, and I began a relationship with sobriety.

I was on the road to recovery.