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Derek's jealous of my hair. I'm thinking he talked to my wife before that because I'm sure she loaded him up on some of that stuff.

Well, hi. I'm Brian. I'm an alcoholic and as a direct respiring to practice the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, I have not had a drink since March 6th of 1993. And I'm telling you that is a miracle. And it's all due to God and Alcoholics Anonymous. Good sponsorship. My mom loves Alcoholics Anonymous. She loves that you brought her son home and so does my dad. Rest his soul. So I'm really grateful to be here.

I'm a lot nervous and there's a lot of my heroes sitting in this room. Last time I was at FOTS was 12 years ago. We were spying to start Neph up in Maine. We took everything, brought it up there. And we were also pregnant with my daughter who's here with me. I want to say you guys are amazing. I mean, I can't even begin to tell you how grateful and honored I am that you asked me to speak and that then you would invite my wife, which allowed us to fly our kids in with us and be able to spend the weekend with our family here. It means a real lot to me. I mean, it's I can't even tell you.

And I'm hoping—well, I know God's going to speak through me. We did some prayer and meditation in the morning downstairs, and I know I need to get out of the way. I come here to bear witness, and I'm telling you, I am so blessed. I have such a blessed life. And I'm looking in the room, I mean Mickey and Marie, and then I'm looking at Mary Ther Maine. She's beside my wife, she knows me the longest. And she just came up to me and said, you know, I've never heard your story. And I'm like, well, because we're just friends, you know, I'm sure she's heard pieces of it. And Tom, Ananita, Tony. So and I did have a guy come up and say, you need to give a shout out to me. His name is Jeff from Arizona. So, a real knucklehead.

That's my shout out. I'm stalling. So if you come up and thank me or say anything nice to me after, if you're either just inclined to and your sponsor demands it of you, I want you to know, and I know you already know this, but I want you to know that this is a gift from God. Anything that has been given to me has been through God. So you're not thanking me, you're thanking God. And I know you know that, but I need you to know that I know that. I truly know that.

Anytime I put self-will into my recovery, it has gone amuck. So anything good is through the blessings of God. So I just want to say that on the flip side, if you're out there on the patio and you're going like, "Wow, what was that? That sounds like a bad case of untreated alcoholism." If you do that, all right, you're judging God and we don't do that in AA. Okay. So I'm officially off the hook.

I came to Alcoholics Anonymous in 1992 and I didn't come a willing participant. My probation officer sent me to you. I had just gotten done spending six years in a federal penitentiary and I was in an IOP—it wasn't IOP. It was intensive outpatient to me. And part of that was I was supposed to go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and I was going to this program on Monday, Wednesday and Friday night, 6:00 to 9:00 p.m. And it was my first introduction to the possibility that I may have a problem with drugs or alcohol.

I was a master at hiding my alcoholism behind my drug addiction, which really, really stymied my recovery. But so I would go to these things and I realized I had to have a sheet signed and I realized really early that if you—nobody's in charge in AA. So I would just sign the sheets, you know. And when I end up violating and going back to prison, my probation officer asked me, he said, "So what meeting you go on Wednesday nights?" And I was slick enough to always have my meeting list with me. He called me on the phone. I was checking in and I whipped it out and I said, "Oh, I go to the Wednesday night." He goes, "Oh, when's the last time you were there?" And I looked at where I'd signed it and I gave him the day. He says, "That's weird. That meeting has been closed for 6 months."

My delusional thinking around my alcoholism—I was never in denial. I mean, there's that's never been a vocabulary for me because denying means I know something and I'm just denying it. I was delusional. I really could not see the truth. I just couldn't see it. I didn't want to be an alcoholic. I was too young to be an alcoholic. I was too short to be an alcoholic. I could just invent all kinds of reasons, you know? I have crooked eyes. You can't be an alcoholic if you have crooked eyes. I don't know. I just invent stuff.

I did not want to because alcohol was the only thing that made me feel okay about me. It was great hearing John on Thursday and hearing Aaron. I mean, Aaron—he is an alcoholic. I mean, he really described alcoholism really well and alcohol did for me what it did. And it worked every time. It just linked everything up and the idea that I would give that up was just like not even on the table.

I grew up in California. I grew up in a town called Stockton and there's nothing really. I mean, there was trauma in there, but that's not why I'm alcoholic. Okay, but there was stuff. My mom was the alcoholic in the house. The only thing about that that's interesting that I brought into recovery was the dialogue between my mom and my father. Because my mom would come home—I was a latchkey kid in the 70s. So my mom would come home and she would cook us food and then she'd say, "I'm going to the bar with the girls. I'll be back in an hour." And my dad would have an argument and say, "You're not going to be back in an hour. You're never back in an hour." And there'd be a big fight going on.

And as a young kid, I would listen and it would kind of scare me. It was always like so I'd always back up a little bit and then my mom would go and then about an hour later, two hours later, three hours later, my dad would get in the car and go get her and drag her out of the bar and then they would have a fight. And the only thing I would hear through the wall was my mom didn't love us. My mom was weak. She had no willpower. And so I brought that dialogue of my dad's opinion of my mom's alcoholism into recovery.

And I resented my mom immensely. I disrespected my mother. I resented my mom. I didn't want nothing to do with her. I thought she was weak. She had no moral fiber. And what I learned when I started to go through the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous—and it pained me—was that my mom was as powerless as I was. And that she believed every time. She believed it in her heart and in her soul that it would be different when she went to that bar. And I judged her and I punished her for that.

My dad died a year ago. Even to his death he did not understand alcoholism even though I tried. I tried to explain it to him so many times. And finally, I don't know. Ken—I remember Kenny. Ken W is my sponsor. I don't know if you know him from Silverton and Tucson. And Kenny would tell me things like, you know, you need to just let your dad think you got willpower. Like why? I kept trying to convince him it was God, you know. He believed you guys gave me a lot of willpower. He was so happy for the willpower you gave your son, his son. And even to his dying day he believed that. And you know what? He doesn't have to understand it. He just doesn't.

And so nothing really happened except that I was a guy who never fit in. And I always blamed it on being short. I always blamed—I was always the smallest in my class. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. Stockton, California is not a place you want to be from. I guarantee you that. And I was always scrappy. I was one of those scrappy kids. And I would fight at the drop of a hat. I never wanted to fight. I wasn't a fighter, right? I mean, I'm cursed really. I wasn't a fighter and I'm not a lover. I mean, what am I, you know? It's so not fair, right?

But I would always—I remember my brother when I was a young kid. He would put boxing gloves on me in the summertime and he would rope off the grass and he would have me fight neighborhood kids. He was four years older than me. He would always whisper in my ear like, "Don't cry and don't leave. If you cry or you leave, I'm going to kick your butt." He didn't say it like that. He said more things. And so if you would beat me down, I would just chase you outside and jump on your back. I'm the type of guy who would bite you in the ear, you know, and grab on your leg.

And I brought that fight into my recovery. The idea of surrender is just foreign to me. I ran away from home at the age of 12, stole a boat. My brother was 16. We got—they hedbar, they came and got us. My first introduction to the juvenile facility, you know, I didn't go in, but it was just introduction to this is where you're headed.

My parents, at the age of 14, did my first geographical for me. My brother—my oldest brother who I ran away with—they kicked him out and he went to go live with someone else. And at 14 I was an only child. My dad worked at IBM and they got an opportunity to move to Tucson and they took it. And I know today, even they even told me, they wanted to get me out of Stockton. They thought that was the problem. Where I live is never the problem. Who I am is always the problem.

And so my parents did a geographical. I moved to Tucson. And I remember as a 14-year-old kid thinking, that's it. I'm gonna start new. I'm going to start fresh. New friends. I'm not going to do anything. And within six months, I was doing the same old thing.

My mom was an alcoholic. And so if I went to keg parties during high school, I was given the green light to stay there and sleep in my car. And I think that's beautiful. My mom—she'd rather have me passed out in my car parked on the side of the road than driving home drunk. And so I drank. And I drank alcoholically pretty much from the beginning, though I could not see the signpost.

I graduated from high school in 1980. I moved out and I moved in with four guys. It was when Aaron was talking—I'm like that was my story. I mean, there were four of us but we were all alcoholics and we destroyed that house. And I got kicked out 6 months later and that became this whole three-year run. And I was a daily drinker for three years. And I was a daily drinker because you know what? I worked hard and I deserved to drink.

But I would say things like, I had a buddy named Steve who would drink in the morning and I would always look at Steve and I'd say, "Yeah, if I ever get like Steve, I may look at my drinking, but I'm smoking enough weed in the morning to [affect] a baby giraffe, but I'm not like—I'm not drinking in the morning." So I'm thinking I don't have a problem. But around 2 or 3:00 in the afternoon, that's all I can think about.

In fact, on the way to the liquor store from the job site, just knowing I was going to go to the liquor store, just knowing it, I would get a sense of relief just on the idea that I'm heading there. And the closer I got to the liquor store, the better I felt. Now, I couldn't identify that as alcoholism, but I can tell you that's alcoholism. I mean, just knowing it, drive up to the drive-through liquor store, two 16-ounce Buds in a bag, and then a six-pack, which was ludicrous because I always went back or I went out that night.

Then I started doing a lot of outside substances, you know. I did a lot of outside stuff and started dealing drugs. I became a drug dealer and I was addicted to the drugs I was dealing, which is not a recipe for success. It's just destined for failure. And I'm really good at telling people what they want to hear. So I started burning drug dealers all over Tucson.

I'd go to like five different guys and say, "Look, I know you just gave me an ounce, but I got some more coming. I fronted this out." And I would play this game. And I did that for about a year and a half. And I started, you know, at the age of 21, I was really tired of playing this game. I was constantly in motion.

And I got to a place one night and if you looked at my life from the outside, you would have thought it was okay. I mean, I had a fiancée. I had a Pinto. I mean, it didn't work, but I had it. I lived in a house, you know, I was dealing drugs. I thought I was somebody. I'd go to the bars, you know, and I would go to the bars down at the University of Arizona and I would burn frat boys, you know, I would sell them stuff that wasn't real. And I was playing games and I was getting out of control, but inside I was dying. I would look in the mirror and just know I was a fraud. Just know it. I'm a fraud. I don't know what's going on. And I was getting so desperate.

And I'm not a depressed guy. I'm not one of those guys who's ever really gone into a depression. I've never been a guy who's—I mean, maybe when I was 13 or 14 when I would listen to songs like Seasons in the Sun or some crazy song, maybe for a little bit, but I'm not full of angst. I've never been that way. I've always been kind of positive. I've always liked that my glass is always full. And even when I don't even have a glass, my glass is full. Even when there's not even anything near a glass around me, my glass is full. I've always been able to be positive. But this night was different and I got really depressed and I was going to check out. I was really just going to check out and I took my roommate's car and I just cut off a piece of hose and I went out to die.

And I think about this and I talk about this because, you know, at the age of 21—like people come in Alcoholics Anonymous. I'm so young today and it's such a gift. Because at the age of 21 I was done. Like I was done. I was drinking daily. I could not control the amount of alcohol I drink. I would start drinking and I'd say I'm only going to go to, you know, the Wildcat House for an hour and I would be there till shutdown. I'd be passing out all over the place. I was a train wreck and I was done.

This night I went out to the desert and I started pumping fumes into my car. And, you know, like my kids are here. If you see me with my kids, like I'm so blessed. I didn't have my daughter wasn't born till I was 40 years old. Like I never thought that was on the card. I didn't think it was on the table. And I'm thinking how close I would be to miss it all if I'd gone through what I was going to go through that night.

And I was writing letters. And I hadn't had a selfless action or really a selfless thought in at least two or three years. And I started to write a letter to my mom. And this is—I mean, God spoke to me this night. It was really clear. Like you can't do this to your mother. My mother had buried my brother Chucky. He died in 1967 of leukemia. He was two years older than me. And I watched what that death did to my family. I watched how my mom buried her pain in a bottle and my dad buried his pain in work. And I watched how that just ripped us apart and how painful that was. And I kind of knew it, but I knew it really that night. I can't have my mom find me in a car.

And so I came out of the car. I just unplugged it and I walked. And I still, you know, I remember like it was out in the desert—if you know, this is Tucson, out in the desert. And it was like November, so it gets really cold. And I walked all night trying to figure out what I could do to fix my problem.

And if you're going to fix a problem, you got to know what the real problem is. And see, I'm really notorious at not really knowing what the real problem is. And the real problem that I could see was I just didn't have enough money. It wasn't that I was drinking every day. It wasn't that I was robbing drug dealers. It wasn't that I owed tens of thousands of dollars to people. It wasn't any of that. It was I just didn't have enough money.

If I could just get money—and I was making seven bucks an hour painting houses. I knew that. I mean, I did the math. That ain't going to work. And so I drove into town and I robbed the bank. And it was plain as that. I didn't have a plan. It's not like I, you know, love watching cop and robber shows where they plan everything. That wasn't my gig. I had my roommate's car for one, and I had no gun. I had a note. I had a pen.

And I did park about a block away. And this is how it went. I was 5 foot one, about 90 lbs. That's real—about what I weighed, maybe 95 on a good day. I was really kind of strung out. And I walked into the bank and I wrote a note. And the note said I have a gun because I didn't want to cause a commotion. So I waited in line because I think, you know, like you should just wait in line if you're going to rob a bank. I mean, I don't want anyone knowing I'm robbing it because I think that the lady behind the counter could have definitely tackled me and beat me to a pulp, right?

And I said this: "I have a gun. I have a gun. Give me $50 or I'll kill you." That's what I said. Whatever. And it was kind of like, you know, walking up and like handing her like, "Hey, lady, down here." And so she gave me $50. She slid a $50 bill and then I ran.

And I remember having this freeze. We looked at each other and I'm sure her eyes were like, "You're an idiot." And I ran and I got to my roommate's car and I drove to 7-Eleven. I got a 12-pack of Budweiser and I just—I remember drinking two or three four real quick. I mean, just drinking. And then I realized I got to do something different. So I went all the way across town and I robbed another bank an hour later.

And when I got arrested, the FBI told me, they said, "You know, we were doing a bank robbery seminar at that bank when we got the call for the first one you did. We got out, we closed shop, we went across town. As we're driving across town, you drove and must have crossed paths and robbed the bank we were doing that seminar at." They were really worried. They had like some mastermind, you know. I'm sure until they read the note and they're like, "Okay, come on."

And then I went to work the next day. You know, I remember. I went to work and this guy, Dave, who I was working with—he was an engineering student at University of Arizona and he really smart guy. He dropped out and I had brought him right into all the mix of my madness. I mean, I was doing everything with him. And I destroyed this guy's life. If for a second I don't think that I have power over other people in the sense of—he got sucked right into my madness and I destroyed this man's life.

And he asked me the next day, he said, they saw it on the news, you know, "17-year-old robs bank." That's what they called me. They said I was 17. I was insulted. I was 21. Are you kidding me? I couldn't grow facial hair. I mean, I probably looked 17. So he asked me. But I played it off. And I'm like the actor, man. I'm so jackal and I'm so different, you know. Like, nobody believed it. Nobody.

And then about 6 months later, I just take my boss's van and drive into town and rob another bank during lunch hour. And I really believe in my mind that this is just never going to end. Like whatever, you just need money, just go get it. How cool is that? You know, like you just go get money, they'll just give it to you. I mean, they don't even ask. They just all you got to do is say you got a gun. Like boom. And they like, "Okay."

And I'm completely clueless that I was really making the FBI pretty angry. And anyway, to make a really lame story, right? I mean, come on. $50. And I got arrested. I got arrested two weeks later.

And here's what happened. This type of guy—just a description of the guys I run with. When I came home after the second bank robbery—about two weeks after this, the third bank robbery. And this again, this is 6 months later. So I got three bank robberies in six months. My picture comes out in the paper. It wasn't me. It wasn't my name. It was just a picture like "88 crime: If you know this guy, he's wanted for three bank robberies."

And my roommates in their pot-smoking haze had clipped it out and put it on the refrigerator. I'm assuming they did that before they started smoking weed that night, but whatever. They clipped it out and I came home from work. I did what I did. I brought my booze. I put it in the refrigerator and that picture was there and my knee started to buckle and I composed myself really good. And I just ripped it out. I said, "What's up? What's up with that?" And they're like, "Dude, man, some dude's running around town robbing banks looks just like you." And I'm like, "All right."

And so I didn't do anything. I didn't run. I didn't go on the run. Didn't go to Mexico. I'm in Tucson. I'm like really close. I could have. I just didn't think. Inability to really see the truth. I was just so blind. I was so crazy. I can't even believe today when I tell this story how really insane my life was.

And then I got arrested two weeks later and my dad bailed me out. My mom and dad bailed me out. They got me a lawyer and the lawyer told me the truth. I was going to go to prison for 10 years.

And two weeks before I went to trial for that bank robbery, I robbed another bank. I told you I'm not a quitter. I mean, when you're 21 and you think you're going to jail for 10 years, 30 is like ancient. I know there's a bunch of young guys here. 30 is like old. Like that. You don't even think you're going to live past 30 the way I was running my life. So I was just like, yeah, you know what? Who cares? Three in the bucket. Might as well just do one more. What's the use?

And that was a—I can't even tell you. I didn't have enough time to tell you how bad it was. I mean, I did a really good makeup job and I got a dye pack and it blew up in the parking lot. It was a nightmare, bankruptcy. But I got away with it on a Friday because I know I'm going to party all weekend. I know I'm going to get through the weekend before they look at the tapes and do anything. I know that. And Monday they arrested me and I went to prison.

And I did nothing in prison. I did nothing to better my life. I didn't go to NA. I didn't go to CA. I didn't go to therapy. I didn't do anything in prison but learn how to make wine and make connections all across. You know, federal prison is like notorious for making connections around the world. And so I just didn't do anything but play the game.

And some of that was to save my life. When you're 5 foot one and you weigh 95 lbs and you're going into a federal penitentiary, like you learn to get along and you learn to play the game. Anybody watch Game of Thrones? It's my new favorite show. Like I was totally playing the Game of Thrones way back before they even invented it, man. I was like—I wasn't like Tyrion. I wasn't that small. But I still learned. I have no idea where that came from. I didn't—I prayed. So don't even judge me. I am so off the hook.

So nothing. I get out and I think I'm 28 years old. I think I'm just going to start my life over. And I would do nothing. There was no such thing. Tom Paul told me this. He goes, "There's no such thing as a gate conversion. There's no such thing as guys going to, you know, like not drinking or not partying for 8, 5 years, you know, 10 years, whatever."

But truthfully, I wasn't even sober. I was barely sober when I left. This idea that I'll change my life. And I got out and they told me the conditions. Here's the conditions you have to stay on parole. And I violated them all because I'm not alcoholic, so I'm going to drink. I won't do drugs, but I won't drink. But when I start drinking, I'm a blackout drinker, man. I don't know what happens when I drink. I go places. I wake up in places. I don't know.

So I went back to prison for a year. And the only difference between this and the last one—so after seven years in prison, the only thing that happened was my mom. And this is why I love Alanon. My mom was in a bowling league. My mom never really entered Alanon. But I'm telling you right now, a lady in Alanon who was on my mom's bowling league told my mom the truth. She made my mom's business her business. She told my mom the truth and she said, "You are killing your boy. Stop saving him."

I never know who this woman is, but this woman saved my life because my mom wrote me a letter and said, "You cannot come home. I love you too much to watch you die in my house."

And when I made amends to my mom, I went into resentment inventory hating my mom. Woman. How dare her not pick me up? I'm 20. I'm 28 years old. How dare her not save me? Right. I went in inventory that way. Came out owing her a huge amount of amends. When I saw my mistakes, how I realized that I made my mom do that. When I saw the truth and I made amends to my mom—and I remember telling her. And this is what she told me. And to this day it's still—when we say we're not regret the past, I got to tell you I'm not there yet with this because I still regret making my mom do this. I still have regret around this.

My mom told me—I made amends to my mom and I was like four or five months sober. And she—I asked her if there was, you know, I told her what I was going to do and blah, and I did the whole amends the way Kenneth told me to. And then I said, is there anything you want to share? And she said, yeah, I got lots to share. And I sat down and my mom's a talker. And she during this process told me, she said, "You know, it was harder to write that letter to you than it was to bury your brother Chucky."

And that's not dramatic for my mom. That's like legit, in-your-face truth. Like that's the truth. And I couldn't get it. I couldn't understand. Four months sobriety. I could not wrap my head around that. And I asked her, I said, "What do you mean? Like I don't get that." She said, "Brian, when Chucky had cancer, when he got leukemia, we gave him to the doctors and said, you know, fix our boy. Like please fix our boy. But with you, with you, I'd put the letter in the mailbox and then I'd go pull it back. I'd put the mail in and it wasn't until your father put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'Let him go.'"

And the lie I brought in Alcoholics Anonymous for a while initially was, you know, why don't you just get off my back and leave me alone so I'm not hurting anybody but myself. And so I ended up at this New Beginnings treatment center in downtown Tucson and I'm not alcoholic. And I got to be there for four months and they tell me I can't drink and I can't use drugs. And I said, "So I cannot drink for four months. I cannot do drugs. I have $60 to my name. I'm 29 years old, but I'm not alcoholic. I have $60 in my name. That's it. I got no bank account. I got the clothes on my back. I'm homeless, living downtown on Oracle and Grant, right next to the Noel Motel, quality neighborhood. That's not where I planned on being. I grew up with a pretty decent home. Always had things. Now I got nothing."

The first day out, I walk out and I end up in a liquor store. The first day I got to go look for a job from 8:00 to 5:00. I find myself in a liquor store and it's not even really a thought. I mean, sure, there's a little bit of rationalization going in there like, I don't have to be back till 5:00. I haven't had real alcohol in a year. Who are they to say I can't drink? I'm not alcoholic. Of course I can drink. Got a bottle of vodka and went across to the park with all the other winners and started talking about how wrong society was. Took a few shots and it was magical. The angst and the just the uncomfortableness, the restless, irritable and discontent that was just reaping through my veins. It all went away. It was like the fear of what am I going to do?

Once I start drinking, all that fear goes away. Man, I'm like, I got the world. Even though I'm homeless, I got nothing going on. Once I put some booze in me, man, I'm the master of my universe and I'm all good. And I drank a few drinks and I shut it down. I did that for three days. And the fourth day, I didn't want to come back on property without booze because I was thinking about alcohol all night. Like, why didn't I bring some back?

Fourth day, I brought it back. I got drunk, went to bed at midnight. They breathalyzed me at 1:00. My probation officer came on Monday and instead of sending me to prison, he told me something that was magical. And even to the even to the day, the last day I talked to him, I was about six years sober because I'd call him every year on my anniversary and say, "Hey, Tim." Because he told me something.

He said, "I want to sit you down." I remember he called my name over the PA. They said, "Brian Purgos," to the front office. I brought my little commas, you know, my cosmetic, you know, shampoo and toothpaste. I don't want to go powder. And I have my little bag here. And he says, "What's that?" And I said, "Well, you're going to lock me up. I, you know, this is my stuff."

He goes, "Uh, why don't you sit down? I want to talk to you."

I said, "Okay."

He says, "Look, I've been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous for 7 years, and I'm going to tell you something. I don't even know why I'm doing this. I'm going to give you a break. Like, sending you back to prison for another 8 months is not going to fix you. You keep thinking you're a drug addict, and you may be, but you, my friend, are an alcoholic. And I'm going to recommend to the parole commission that you go to AA. And you have to go every day you're here. And if you miss one meeting, if you get one write-up at this halfway house, if you don't do what they ask you to do, I will violate you. And I don't even know why I'm giving you this break, but I'm going to do it. And I don't even know if the parole commission is going to be okay with it, but I'm going to do it."

And I started to go to Alcoholics Anonymous. I started to go to this place called the Northwest Alano Club in Tucson,