I Couldn’t Not Drink

I squinted and used a hand to block the sunlight that streamed through the window.

The light hurt my eyes. With every heartbeat, a hammer smashed into my skull. I didn’t know where I was. I was lying on a bare mattress on the floor of a small room. The room was empty except for the mattress and an office chair in a corner.

I felt around on the floor next to the mattress and found what I hoped was there. The bottle of cheap whiskey had a few inches left in it. I needed both shaking hands to lift the bottle to my mouth. I took a long drink, laid my head back, and closed my eyes. The pounding pain in my head subsided, and I passed out again.

Sometime later, something startled me, and I snapped awake. It was bright in the room, brighter than it had been before. My wife Joanna was standing at the open door. Relief flooded me. I held out my arms like a frightened child reaching for his mother. I wanted her to come and hold me and explain what was happening. I wanted her to tell me everything would be okay. I wanted her to tell me that she loved me.

She looked down at me, her nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed. Her expression of disappointment mixed with disgust had become familiar. I was not surprised by the look. Disappointment and disgust were what I had felt about myself for a long time.

I didn’t know how long I’d been there. I must have stunk of dried sweat and stale alcohol. Joanna kept her distance and shook her head at my outstretched arms. “I brought you some things,” she said and nodded at the floor beside the mattress. I noticed a red insulated lunch box. It was open, and I saw two bottles of water, an orange and an apple. The bottle was gone.

“Have you eaten anything?” she asked.

I shook my head no. But I didn’t know if that was true or not. I couldn’t remember much about the last few days. At some point, I had gotten myself the whiskey. Maybe I had gotten something to eat. I couldn’t remember. “What day is it?” I asked.

We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. “I’m leaving,” she said. With that, she turned and walked away.

I lay on the mattress and tried to remember what had happened.

I didn’t want to drink. I hated that I drank. I hated myself because I drank. Everyone wanted me to stop, but I couldn’t. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just stop, but I couldn’t. I heard from my wife and people at church that I was selfish. I loved alcohol more than I loved God. I loved alcohol more than I loved my wife, more than I loved my kids. I loved alcohol more than I loved my church and my calling as a pastor. My drinking proved that I was a corrupt and wicked person. Some told me they doubted that I was really a Christian.

People at AA told me my problem was that I wasn’t serious about wanting sobriety. “AA is a simple program that works if you work it,” they said. Since I kept drinking, the reason had to be that I wasn’t sincere about working the program. I was a fraud and a failure.

All I knew was that I was depressed, discouraged, and defeated.

I sincerely did want to not drink. I had already suffered many bitter consequences from drinking. My wife was not speaking to me. I rarely saw my children. I had lost my job. My ministerial credentials had been suspended. My senior pastor, elders, and most of my church friends were not speaking to me.

But I couldn’t not drink. By this point, my mental, spiritual, and volitional reserves were so depleted that what was left was no match for my cravings. It wasn’t that I wanted to drink; I didn’t. I had to drink.

It would be another seven years before I was set free from alcoholic cravings. Seven years until I experienced love and acceptance from a flesh and blood person who made it possible for me to be filled with the love and acceptance of God. Once I was filled with God’s love, all the other cravings disappeared.

Adapted from Grace in the Morning: A former pastor’s memoir of overcoming childhood trauma and addiction, available from Amazon.