Big Book Audiobook
Big Book Audiobook - Personal Stories 1
Big Book Audiobook · 17:09
Big Book Audiobook - Personal Stories 1 is a recovery audio transcript in the Big Book Audiobook series from Big Book Audiobook. This 17:09 talk is searchable with synced captions and centers on Alcoholism, Big Book, Sobriety, Spirituality, Meetings.
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From the personal stories, Dr. Bob's Nightmare, a co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous.
The birth of our society dates from his first day of permanent sobriety, June 10, 1935.
To 1950, the year of his death, he carried the AA message to more than 5,000 alcoholic
men and women, and to all these he gave his medical services without thought of charge.
In this prodigy of service, he was well assisted by Sister Ignatia at St. Thomas Hospital in Akron,
Ohio, one of the greatest friends our fellowship will ever know. I was born in a small New England
village of about 7,000 souls. The general moral standard was, as I recall it, far but average.
No beer or liquor was sold in the neighborhood except at the state liquor agency, where perhaps
one might procure a pint if he could convince the agent that he really needed it. Without this
proof, the expectant purchaser would be forced to depart empty-handed with none of what I later
came to believe was the great panacea for all human ills. Men who had liquor shipped in from
Boston or New York by express were looked upon with great distrust and disfavor by most of the
good townspeople. The town was well supplied with churches and schools in which I pursued
my early educational activities. My father was a professional man of recognized ability,
and both my father and mother were most active in church affairs. Both father and mother were
considerably above the average in intelligence. Unfortunately for me, I was the only child,
which perhaps engendered the selfishness which played such an important part in bringing on
my alcoholism. From childhood through high school, I was more or less forced to go to
church, Sunday school, and evening service, Monday night Christian endeavor, and sometimes
to Wednesday evening prayer meeting. This had the effect of making me resolve that when I was free
from parental domination, I would never again darken the doors of a church. This resolution
I kept steadfastly for the next 40 years, except when circumstances made it seem unwise
to absent myself. After high school came four years in one of the best colleges in the
country, where drinking seemed to be a major extracurricular activity. Almost everyone seemed
to do it. I did it more and more, and had lots of fun without much grief, either physical or
financial. I seemed to be able to snap back the next morning better than most of my fellow
drinkers, who were cursed, or perhaps blessed, with a great deal of morning after nausea.
Never once in my life have I had a headache, which, in fact, leads me to believe that I was
an alcoholic almost from the start. My whole life seemed to be centered around doing what
I wanted to do, without regard for the rights, wishes, or privileges of anyone else, a state
of mind which became more and more predominant as the years passed. I was graduated summa cum
laude in the eyes of the drinking fraternity, but not in the eyes of the dean. The next
three years I spent in Boston, Chicago, and Montreal in the employ of a large manufacturing
concern, selling railway supplies, gas engines of all sorts, and many other items of heavy
hardware. During these years, I drank as much as my purse permitted, still without
paying too great a penalty, although I was beginning to have morning jitters at times.
I lost only a half day's work during these three years. My next move was to take up
the study of medicine, entering one of the largest universities in the country. There,
I took up the business of drinking with much greater earnestness than I had previously shown.
On account of my enormous capacity for beer, I was elected to membership in one of the
drinking societies, and soon became one of the leading spirits. Many mornings I have
gone to classes, and even though fully prepared, would turn and walk back to the
fraternity house because of my jitters, not daring to enter the classroom for fear of
making a scene, should I be called on for recitation. This went from bad to
worse, until sophomore spring, when, after a prolonged period of drinking, I made up
my mind that I could not complete my course. So, I packed my grip and went
south to spend a month on a large farm owned by a friend of mine. When I got the
fog out of my brain, I decided that quitting school was very foolish, and that
I had better return and continue my work. When I reached school, I discovered the
faculty had other ideas on the subject. After much argument, they allowed me to
return and take my exams, all of which I had passed creditably. But they were
much disgusted, and told me they would attempt to struggle along without my
presence. After many painful discussions, they finally gave me my credits, and I
migrated to another of the leading universities of the country, and entered as
a junior that fall. There, my drinking became so much worse that the boys in the
fraternity house where I lived, felt forced to send for my father, who made a
long journey in the vain endeavor to get me straightened around. This had
little effect, however, for I kept on drinking, and used a great deal more
hard-licker than in former years. Coming up to final exams, I went on a
particularly strenuous spree. When I went in to write the examinations, my hand
trembled so I could not hold a pencil. I passed in at least three absolutely
blank books. I was, of course, soon on the carpet, and the upshot was that I had
to go back for two more quarters, and remain absolutely dry if I wish to
graduate. This I did, and proved myself satisfactory to the faculty, both in
deportment and scholastically. I conducted myself so creditably that I was able to
secure a much coveted internship in a western city, where I spent two years.
During those two years, I was kept so busy that I hardly left the hospital at
all. Consequently, I could not get into any trouble. When those two years were up,
I opened an office downtown. I had some money, all the time in the world, and
considerable stomach trouble. I soon discovered that a couple of drinks would
alleviate my gastric distress, at least for a few hours at a time, so it was not
at all difficult for me to return to my former excessive indulgence. By this time,
I was beginning to pay very dearly physically, and in hope of relief,
voluntarily incarcerated myself at least a dozen times in one of the local
sanitariums. I was between cilla and caribdis now, because if I did not
drink, my stomach tortured me, and if I did, my nerves did the same thing.
After three years of this, I wound up in the local hospital where they attempted
to help me, but I would get my friends to smuggle me a quart, or I would steal the
alcohol about the building, so that I got rapidly worse. Finally, my father had to
send a doctor out from my hometown, who managed to get me back there in some
way, and I was in bed about two months before I could venture out of the house.
I stayed about town a couple of months more, and then returned to resume my
practice. I think I must have been thoroughly scared by what had happened, or
by the doctor, or probably both, so that I did not touch a drink again until the
country went dry. With the passing of the 18th Amendment, I felt quite safe. I knew
everyone would buy a few bottles or cases of liquor as their exchequers
permitted, and that it would soon be gone. Therefore, it would make no great
difference even if I should do some drinking. At that time, I was not aware
of the almost unlimited supply the government made it possible for us
doctors to obtain. Neither had I any knowledge of the bootlegger who soon
appeared on the horizon. I drank with moderation at first, but it took me only
a relatively short time to drift back into the old habits which had wound up
so disastrously before. During the next few years, I developed two distinct phobias.
One was the fear of not sleeping, and the other was the fear of running out of
means. I knew that if I did not stay sober enough to earn money, I would run out
of liquor. Most of the time, therefore, I did not take the morning drink, which I
crave so badly, but instead would fill upon large doses of sedatives to quiet the
jitters, which distressed me terribly. Occasionally, I would yield to the
morning craving, but if I did, it would be only a few hours before I would be
quite unfit for work. This would lessen my chances of smuggling some home that
evening, which in turn would mean a night of futile tossing around in bed,
followed by a morning of unbearable jitters. During the subsequent 15 years, I
had since enough never to go to the hospital if I had been drinking, and very
seldom did I receive patience. I would sometimes hide out in one of the clubs
of which I was a member, and had the habit at times of registering at a
hotel under a fictitious name. But my friends usually found me, and I would go
home if they promised that I should not be scolded. If my wife was planning to go
out in the afternoon, I would get a large supply of liquor, and smuggle it home, and
hide it in the cold bin, the clothes chute, over door jams, over beams in the
cellar, and in cracks in the cellar tile. I also made use of old trunks and
chests, the old can container, and even the ash container. The water tank on
the toilet I never used, because that looked too easy. I found out later that
my wife inspected it frequently. I used to put eight or twelve ounce bottles of
alcohol in a furline glove, and toss it onto the back airing porch, when winter
days got dark enough. My bootlegger had hidden alcohol at the back steps, where I
could get it at my convenience. Sometimes I would bring it in my pockets, but they
were inspected, and that became too risky. I used also to put it up in
four ounce bottles, and stick several in my stocking tops. This worked nicely
until my wife and I went to see Wallace Berry and Tugboat Annie, after which the
pant leg and stocking racket were out. I will not take space to relate all my
hospitals or sanitarium experiences. During all this time we became more or
less ostracized by our friends. We could not be invited out, because I would
surely get tight, and my wife dared not invite people in for the same reason. My
phobia for sleeplessness demanded that I get drunk every night, but in order to
get more liquor for the next night, I had to stay sober during the day, at least
up to four o'clock. This routine went on with few interruptions for 17 years. It
was really a horrible nightmare, disearning money, getting liquor, smuggling
at home, getting drunk, morning jitters, taking large doses of sedatives to make
it possible for me to earn more money, and so on ad nauseam. I used to
promise my wife, my friends, and my children that I would drink no more.
Promises which seldom kept me sober even through the day, though I was very
sincere when I made them. For the benefit of those experimentally inclined,
I should mention the so-called beer experiment. When beer first came back, I
thought that I was safe. I could drink all I wanted of that. It was harmless.
Nobody ever got drunk on beer, so I filled a cellar full with the
permission of my good wife. It was not long before I was drinking at least a
case and a half a day. I put on 30 pounds of weight in about two months, looked
like a pig, and was uncomfortable from shortness of breath. It then occurred to
me that after one was all smelled up with beer, nobody could tell what had
been drunk. So I began to fortify my beer with straight alcohol. Of course,
the result was very bad in that end of the beer experiment. About the time
of the beer experiment, I was thrown in with a crowd of people who attracted
me because of their seeming poise, health, and happiness. They spoke with
great freedom from embarrassment, which I could never do, and they seemed
very much at ease on all occasions and appeared very healthy. More than
these attributes, they seemed to be happy. I was self-conscious and ill
at ease most of the time. My health was at the breaking point, and I
was thoroughly miserable. I sensed they had something I did not have,
from which I might readily profit. I learned that it was something of a
spiritual nature, which did not appeal to me very much, but I thought it
could do no harm. I gave the matter much time and study for the next
two and a half years, but still got tight every night nevertheless. I
read everything I could find and talked to everyone who I thought knew
anything about it. My wife became deeply interested, and it was her
interest that sustained mine, though I at no time sensed that it
might be an answer to my liquor problem. How my wife kept her faith
and courage during all those years I'll never know, but she did. If she
had not, I know I would have been dead a long time
ago. For some reason, we alcoholics seem to have the gift of picking out the
world's finest women. Why they should be subjected to the
tortures we inflict upon them, I cannot explain.
About this time, a lady called up my wife one Saturday afternoon,
saying she wanted me to come over that evening to meet a friend of hers who
might help me. It was a day before Mother's Day,
and I had come home plastered, carrying a big potted plant which I set down on the
table, and forthwith went upstairs and passed out.
The next day she called again, wishing to be polite, though I felt very badly. I
said, let's make the call, and extracted from
my wife a promise that we would not stay over 15 minutes.
We entered her house at exactly five o'clock, and it was 11 15 when we left.
I had a couple of shorter talks with this man afterward, and stopped drinking
abruptly. This dry spell lasted for about three
weeks. Then I went to Atlantic City to attend several days meeting of a national
society of which I was a member. I drank all the scotch they had on the train,
and bought several ports on my way to the hotel. This was on Sunday.
I got tight that night, stayed sober Monday till after the dinner,
and then proceeded to get tight again. I drank all I dared in the bar,
and then went to my room to finish the job. Tuesday I started in the
morning, getting well organized by noon. I did not want to disgrace myself,
so I then checked out. I bought some more liquor on the way to the depot.
I had to wait some time for the train. I remember nothing from then on until I
woke up at a friend's house in a town near home.
These good people notified my wife, who sent my newly made friend over to get
me. He came and got me home into bed, gave
me a few drinks that night, and one bottle of beer the next morning.
That was June 10, 1935, and that was my last drink.
As I write, nearly six years have passed. The question which might naturally come
into your mind would be, what did the man do or say that was
different from what others had done or said? It must be remembered that I had
read a great deal and talked to everyone who knew or
thought they knew anything about the subject of alcoholism.
But this was a man who had experienced many years of frightful drinking,
who had had most all the drunkard's experiences known to man,
but who had been cured by the very means I had been trying to employ.
That is to say, the spiritual approach. He gave me information about the subject
of alcoholism, which was undoubtedly helpful. Of far more importance was the
fact that he was the first living human with whom I had ever talked who
knew what he was talking about in regard to alcoholism from actual
experience. In other words, he talked my language.
He knew all the answers, and certainly not because he had picked them up in his
reading. It is a most wonderful blessing to be
relieved of the terrible curse with which I was afflicted.
My health is good, and I have regained my self-respect and the respect of my
colleagues. My home life is ideal, and my
business is as good as can be expected in these uncertain times.
I spend a great deal of time passing on what I learn to others who want and
need it badly. I do it for four reasons. One, sense of duty.
Two, it is a pleasure. Three, because in so doing, I am paying my debt to the man
who took time to pass it on to me. Four, because every time I do it, I take
out a little more insurance for myself against a possible slip. Unlike most of
our crowd, I did not get over my craving for
liquor much during the first two and one-half years of abstinence.
It was almost always with me, but at no time have I been anywhere near
yielding. I used to get terribly upset when I saw my
friends drink and knew I could not, but I schooled myself to believe that
though I once had the same privilege, I had abused it so
frightfully that it was withdrawn. So it doesn't behoove me to squawk
about it, for after all, nobody ever had to throw me down and
pour liquor down my throat. If you think you are an atheist,
an agnostic, a skeptic, or have any form of intellectual pride
which keeps you from accepting what is in this book,
I feel sorry for you. If you still think you are strong enough to beat the game
alone, that is your affair. But if you really
and truly want to quit drinking liquor for good and all
and sincerely feel that you must have some help,
we know that we have an answer for you. It never fails
if you go about it with one half the zeal you've been in the habit of showing
when you were getting another drink. Your Heavenly Father will never let you down.