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Join me if you would in welcoming tonight's speaker, Dave.

Hi everybody. I'm Dave and I'm an alcoholic.

I want to thank Brent for asking me to come speak and thanks for the introduction. Happy St. Patty's Day.

A friend of mine told me a few years ago that she said St. Patty's Day was the reason for Alcoholics Anonymous or something like that. I don't know. Brian gave me a call last night to remind me that I was supposed to come and speak tonight, and I knew it. So I've known for a few days and for a while—probably about a month ago he asked me to come and speak. But I really don't have a clue what we're going to do tonight. I mean, I really don't. Wait a second. God will arrive and we'll see where we go from there.

I would like to welcome everybody that's new. My sobriety date is September 6th of 1992. I mention that because I heard this woman speak one time and she said that her sponsor told her that if she didn't have a sobriety date, then she didn't have a sobriety date and that she needed to get one. For some reason that just kind of gelled with me. My sobriety date is really the most important day of my life. It's a day that my life actually changed.

I remember one year my actual birthday is in May—a couple months down the road, May 15th. If anybody wants to get me anything for my birthday, put that in your calendar. My mother called me up a few years ago on my birthday, and I was just full of self the day that she called me. It was my birthday. She says, "Happy birthday." I just said, "It's not that big of a deal, Mom. My sobriety day is a big day for me." Thank God for our tenth step and we can clean that stuff up because it was really a big day for my mother. So I had to go back and say, "Thanks for calling me. It was a big day." So anyways, my sobriety day in this room—please don't tell my mom—is the biggest thing of my life.

When I first came into Alcoholics Anonymous, when I first decided to do it AA's way, I went to those ninety meetings in ninety days. I heard about it and came to a lot of meetings. After I started coming around here and joined a home group, after about ninety days my group would ask me to maybe chair a meeting or my group would go out and speak at different meetings. I'd get up at a podium and tell my story or chair a meeting. Back in '92 what I was hearing a lot of is dysfunctional families in the halls of Alcoholics Anonymous. So I used to start my talk with, "I came from a dysfunctional family," and that's what I thought it took to qualify to be an alcoholic in Alcoholics Anonymous. I'm not going to talk about my dysfunctional family tonight because it has absolutely nothing to do with my alcoholism.

I have one brother and two sisters, and when they drink they can control their drinking, but when I drink I can't stop. I have this phenomenon of craving that takes over once I give into it. We have the same mother, the same father, same biological everything, same opportunities, same everything. Yet when they drink they can control it. So this thing about alcoholism skipping generations and all this other stuff—I don't know. That's not my experience. My experience is when I drink I can't stop. And that's really the bottom line.

I will tell you a little bit about my family, though. On my father's side, I've got a cousin that's on the FBI's ten most wanted list. My grandfather—when my dad was born back in the '30s, the doctor used to come to the house and deliver the babies. My grandfather stole the doctor's car and went down to the bar when my dad was being born. So that's my people on that side of the family.

On my mom's side, they're like military—retired military guys and businessmen and stuff like that. So those are kind of like who my people are.

When I was five years old, my dad was taken out of our house in handcuffs. I remember seeing that. Later on, my father was a football coach for Thornton Academy. He was a school teacher. He would make these arrangements with me to come pick me up and take me for the weekend, but he wouldn't show up. When my dad was taken out of the house in handcuffs that night, it was really late. I understand now that it was when the bars were closed—my dad had showed back up home.

Growing up in the '60s without your dad was just really tough. Single parent home. I was a kid that used to have to bring two lunch monies to school in case somebody beat me up for the first one, I could still have some. I was afraid of everything. My mom told me, "Don't fight anybody," and all this other stuff. That was a great excuse for me because I was just afraid. So I put it all on my mother—the reason why I wasn't a fighter.

When I was about twelve years old, my dad was diagnosed with cancer and was given about six months to live. He lingered on for six years and suffered for a long time. When I was around fourteen years old, about two years into his cancer, he told me that he never wanted to talk to me for the rest of his life. I made a couple of attempts to go see him over the next couple of years before he died, and he wouldn't talk to me. Finally on his deathbed he asked to see me. He asked to see me on a Wednesday, and we got a call Tuesday night that he passed away. So we never got to clean that up.

I always went there to see my dad with the intention of him having to apologize to me. Granted, I needed to apologize to him too, but he owed me an apology. So we never cleared that up. That kept me drunk for a long time. I tell the story, and every time I get to the part about him dying on Tuesday night, I break down in tears. I just hadn't resolved any of that. Thank God for Alcoholics Anonymous.

There were all sorts of things going on when I was around fourteen years old. I discovered alcohol. I mean, discovered it alcoholically. My best friend's sister was eighteen years old. Back in Maine for a short period of time, the legal drinking age was eighteen. Greg, my best friend, and I went fifty-fifty on a six-pack of Appalachian Real Draft. I drank four of them and Greg drank two. But we split the cost right down the middle. I always drank that way. I always drank more than my share.

There's a Chinese proverb that goes, "The man takes a drink, the drink takes a drink, and then the drink takes a man." The man started taking a drink when I was like nine or ten with my cousins. But then the drink started taking a drink when I was with Greg. I couldn't really stop drinking. If there was more alcohol there, I would have drank it. I couldn't stop.

Then the drink started taking a man because in my ninth grade in school I quit school. The drink started taking things from me. It took my education, it took all my ambitions and aspirations.

When I quit school there were all sorts of things going on in my house. My dad was dying. My mom at this point had started drinking. She was like a falling down drunk. She used to drink in the high school dugouts and it was very embarrassing. My friends would make fun of her and I'd make fun of her as well. And I had a sister that was pregnant. There were all sorts of things just going on.

When I drank, it would take all that stuff away. So I quit school. Then around nineteen years old—I got to tell you, after I quit school I always had some sort of job somewhere. I'm a check writer. I would open up these starter checks and I'd never get past the starter checks before I'd be bouncing them all over.

So the law was all on me. I wasn't a hardened criminal yet, but the law was there. I remember having a couple of visits from the local police department with some checks in hand. I was getting in a lot of trouble that way. My problems kept piling up.

Between the local law enforcement and my mom, they thought that it would be a good idea that I join the United States Army and defend our country. So I did that.

But I want to back up just a little bit because this is a big part of my story. At around sixteen years old, after I started drinking, I was out partying all night and my mom would be passed out. She'd tell me that I needed to get in at a decent hour. One particular morning I stumbled in at five in the morning. I had met a girl about a week before that at Beachridge Speedway. Me and my best friend were out chasing girls that night. It was Memorial Day Classics. Summer had just started and they were camping from Rhode Island in the parking lot with their parents. Me and my friend were out to the races looking for girls and stuff.

After the races were over, we went parking in the parking lot. The reason I tell you this is because I'm the marrying kind. You show me a little bit of attention and we're going to get married. Marie from Rhode Island showed me a little bit of attention. We swore we'd be in touch, exchanged telephone numbers and addresses. It was a summer love.

About a week later, I was out partying, obsessing about Marie. I got in at around five in the morning, rolled into my mother's driveway, and she met me right at the end of the driveway. She said, "I told you if you can't get in this house at a decent hour, then you need to get out." So I told her exactly what I thought. I took all of my money—all thirty-seven cents—and I hitched to Rhode Island and wound up on Marie's doorstep the following morning.

That was May, beginning part of June of 1976. I was sixteen years old. I never once called home until Christmas. My grandmother and my family didn't know if I was dead or alive. The story I told everybody was that my mother kicked me out. People put me up and Marie's sister/mother put me up. I lived with them and my drinking really escalated and so did my drug use.

Christmas of that year I called home and they allowed me to come back home. They were thrilled that I was still alive.

Fast forwarding into the military, I joined the military a few years later after bouncing checks and doing all this other stuff. My problems piled up for me in the military too. Every time I'd get in trouble, alcohol was involved with it somehow.

I had this bright idea one day. I was coming home on military leave. They give you thirty days a year for vacation. They call it leave. I'd take these leaves and come home and hook up with the girl that I went to senior prom with. It was actually her senior prom because I never graduated. Debbie had credentials. She was a member of the South Portland Ladies Auxiliary of the VFW and also the South Portland Eagles. I'll tell you, you could drink cheap at those places. I was a military guy and I was used to not paying a lot of money for booze.

I had two older sisters. They all had children and families. They were getting on with their life. I was in the military. I had this bright idea that I needed to get married and have a family. That's as much thought as went into that.

I made Debbie an offer that she couldn't refuse. Picture this, especially ladies in the room. I'm sitting at the South Portland Eagles. There's six-foot, eight-foot folding tables with a citronella candle right in the middle of each one, burning. It's got indoor outdoor carpeting on the floor and your feet are sticking to it. The whole place smells like booze. There's some cheesy country western band in the background. I asked Debbie to be my bride. I'll tell you, what woman wouldn't say yes?

We got married about a year later. I got out of the military and joined Debbie back home. We started living together and after I got home out of the military, that lasted for about three months. Then we filed for divorce. I didn't have a clue. I didn't know how to communicate. I married my drinking buddy and I don't know if she's alcoholic or not. I really don't know.

I don't know if my dad was. I hear something said in the halls: "If it walks like a duck, barks like a duck, it's a duck." But the book is really clear. It says we never diagnose anybody as alcoholic. It's up to their own selves to make that decision. Good thing because I was really the last to know that I was an alcoholic.

So I married my drinking buddy and we divorced about three months after we started living together. By this time I'm working in the car business, wearing a suit and tie to work every day. I had another bright idea.

After I got divorced, I felt like a complete failure. So I started isolating. I remember if anybody's familiar with where Jolly John's is in Saco—across the street there's a tattoo parlor. Next time you're in the neighborhood, just look at that tattoo parlor. Down where that tattoo parlor is, used to be a fish market. The fish market sold booze. Above that, it's a cape—a small Cape Cod house. Above that fish market are two rooms plus a bathroom in between both of them. I rented that. That was my apartment. I worked at one of the car dealerships right across the street.

I had this big dartboard in my living room and every Wednesday night we played darts. The fish market had the coldest beer in town and I had credit with the fish market. I'd charge up my paycheck and pay them every week. So here I am isolating in that small apartment. One of my friends comes over and says, "Come on, Dave. Let's go out. You've been cooped up here for a while." I just didn't want to do anything. I felt like a failure. My marriage had failed and all of a sudden I was drinking and I was perfectly content playing darts and just getting wasted. He says, "Come on, Dave. It's ladies night down at Soho. Let's go."

So I went down to Soho that night and I met the girl of my dreams—Sue, or hostage number two. A couple months later we were engaged to be married. Sue didn't drink as much as Debbie did. Sue actually told me that I was an alcoholic. She told my sister I was an alcoholic. She told my family that I was an alcoholic. They confronted me and I said, "I'm not. I drink a lot but I can stop anytime I want. I just don't want to stop. I just like to party. What's wrong with that?"

Sue gave me an ultimatum. She said, "It's either me or the parties." I said, "See you later." It was that cut and dry. The book says, "The alcoholic is like a tornado that rips through the lives of others." That's exactly what I did. I look back on that today. Sue was a really good girl. Who knows where my life would be if I wasn't crippled with this alcoholism. But we do what we do to get to where we go.

Looking back on that—just how important alcohol was over another human being—that's pathetic. The book also talks about "pitiful incomprehensible demoralization." That's totally pitiful.

So my life is kind of caving in on me. My sister just bought a house and had a basement. I had another great idea. They could probably use some help financially, so I'll move out of my fish market apartment and just pay them fifty bucks a week to live there in their basement. That sounded like a good idea to everybody. So I moved into their basement.

I was making back then about fifty thousand a year and that was back in '92. That wasn't bad money back then. My agreed rent was fifty dollars a week and what that would cover is all my food, my laundry, and all that. So I'm living in the basement and by this time my license had been suspended. I was in the car business, driving this brand new twenty-thousand-dollar car with no driver's license. I was one of the managers where I worked.

I remember the owner of the car dealership came in on his day off, just out of the blue. I was complaining about something because I was always complaining about something. He came into my office and I started complaining. He says, "Listen, I don't have any problem with that. But I do have a problem with you and your drinking. If you don't do something about it, you're gonna lose your job."

It was like he hit me like a Joe Louis punch. So I referred to the only thing I knew and I started crying, which always worked in the past, especially when I tell the story about my dad dying. I was pretty shaken up. Peter gave me the rest of the day off. I took my car—he didn't know I was driving without a license—over to the fish market, charged up a twelve-pack of beer, and went down to the bar where my brother was.

He brought his drugs and I brought my booze. For some reason I said—he asked me a question. He says, "Dave, how long has it been since you haven't drank?" It was like a little light that came on. I said, "Geez, I don't know, Andy. I think I might be an alcoholic." And it was like this major revelation.

I felt like I needed to tell the world. I called my boss and he says, "Well, look, Bob—I think I'm an alcoholic and I'm even willing to try AA." He says, "Okay, Dave. Well, today's the first day of the rest of your life. Come on in tomorrow morning and we'll talk awkwardly with you. I'm really proud of you."

So I get there and then they decided they're going to send me to Mercy Hospital rehab. One of the guys that worked for me in the car dealership had just gotten out of the rehab. He says, "Don't worry about it. When you get back, your job's safe." Well, I didn't want to go to any rehab. I mean, I wasn't as bad as Keith was. I wore a suit and tie to work every day.

So I go into rehab wearing the suit and tie that I passed out in the night before. I flattened it out a little bit, got it all straightened out, and walked into Mercy Hospital rehab. They asked me a bunch of questions and it was the first time ever I was honest about it. I mean, I had interventions along the way, but this time I answered them as honestly as I could. They asked me if I sweat while I slept. They asked me if I ever blacked out. They asked if I had thoughts of suicide or homicide or any of that. They asked me all these questions and I was honest with them.

Then they said to me, "Well, they got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is I've got a disease. It's called alcoholism. But the good news is you can recover from it. All you're going to have to do is check in here for twenty-eight days." This is when they did twenty-eight-day programs. We're going to introduce some therapy and we're going to introduce you to the people of AA. When we get out of here, all you got to do is follow up with your aftercare and follow the lead of people in Alcoholics Anonymous and you will recover from this disease.

They said, "And another thing—you're going to need a change of clothes because suit and tie is not the proper attire." So they were kind of onto me right away.

I stayed for the twenty-eight days. When I went into the rehab they gave everybody a soft-covered big book donated to the rehab by Alcoholics Anonymous. Some group in AA donated some big books. They gave me this big book and everyone in my class—I like to call it my class because I never graduated anything—everyone had one of these big books. Everyone signed it like a yearbook. It felt like a yearbook, for God's sake.

I like to say that I was smarter than the average bear because I could talk this talk. I was quick. There had been some guys at that rehab that had been there a few times. A couple of them put in my book, "If there's anybody going to get it, it's got to be you, Dave. See you in the halls." I thought that the school in 1992 was voting me most likely to succeed.

When I was in the rehab, they gave me a piece of paper called an "aftercare recovery plan." I had to make this out. I had to put the meetings down that I was going to go to and I had to put the name down of my sponsor—a temporary sponsor. I was always like the easiest, softer kind of guy. So I got Keith, the guy that worked for me at the car dealership, to be my temporary sponsor. I heard people talking about their sponsors at the meetings. Some guys would say their sponsor told them to do this and they told him to do that. Nobody was going to tell me to do anything. If Keith did, I'd fire him at work. Lack of power was not my dilemma.

So Keith's name went down on the list. I had all these meetings and I thought, well, I can do these. But when I got out of that rehab, I had a job waiting for me. It was a pretty important job. I was indispensable. So I go to a few meetings, but I didn't have a driver's license either, so I go to a few meetings and all of a sudden I just stopped going.

Me and the other four managers were heading out to a business trip to Denver, Colorado about a few months after I got out of rehab. While I was out, we were all having lunch together talking about the trip. John was my best friend and one of my coworkers. Him and I were going on team one, and Peter and Joe were going on team two. We were going to learn about a new computer software system and all this other stuff at the car dealership.

We're all having lunch and John, my best friend, says to Peter and Joe, "You guys are going to have a blast when you get out to Denver. We were talking about the nightlife and everything else." John says, "But he says, you guys are going to have a good time, but I'm going with the ex over here. I can see it now. We're going to be drinking coffee at the bar. No part of me trying to pay for those coffees with his poker chips that he's getting."

Well, I don't know about you, but I drank because I needed to fit in because I was afraid of everything. Here I was, my very best friend in the world wasn't accepting me because I was sober.

So I get out to Denver, Colorado, and John says, "Dave, you're all the way out here in Denver. No one's going to be driving. All you got to do, Dave, is control your drinking. Put sodas between your drinks."

I like to say that every man has a belief, and I believe my friend John was right. I'll take a long-neck Budweiser. I took a sip, then another one, and then that one was gone. I was thirsty, man. I ordered a Diet Pepsi because I wanted to keep my figure. Then I ordered another long-neck Budweiser and then to hell with a Diet Pepsi.

That was on September 5th of 1992. I don't remember much of that night. I usually black out when I drink. This particular night I have some periods of gray, which I kind of wished I would have blacked out because that night I did end up in the hotel lounge singing a little karaoke—a bad rendition of "Mac the Knife." I really do wish I'd blacked out for that. I'm sure that the rest of the bar does too.

But some of the stuff we do is quite hilarious really. Some of it's really pretty sad and pathetic. But like Bill said, I read somewhere God teach us that let us laugh, but never let us forget that we once cried.

The real main reason why I'm here is what happened on September 6th of 1992.

September 6th of 1992, I passed out the night before. I never went to sleep when I drank. I always passed out. I passed out in my clothes in the Denver Hyatt, wet the bed, and came to the next morning. I was laying in my bed. Nobody else was in my room. I was still fully clothed and wet.

My life kind of flashed before my eyes like the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. My life kind of flashed before my eyes and this thought came to me: "You tried to control your drinking last night and you couldn't stop. People that are your age have homes, cars, families, educations. You have none of that. You're such a loser."

I guess at that point I got the second part of the first step because I measured manageability by possessions and accomplishments and stuff. But it takes what it takes. Today I measure it differently. But my life was a mess. I was thirty-two years old. I was living in my sister's basement. Half the time I wouldn't pay her the rent. The only money that I had to my name was the money that they sent me to Denver with so I could eat on.

The next thought that came to my mind is: "You tried to control your drinking last night and you couldn't stop."

The part in the book, in the chapter "More About Alcoholism," says, "We learned that we had to fully concede to our innermost self that we're alcoholics. This is the first step of recovery." So I got to tell you, even though Sue had told my family and my sister confronted me, everybody had confronted me, even the people in rehab told me I was an alcoholic, even when they said "You got alcoholism"—it wasn't until I fully conceded to my innermost self that I was an alcoholic. That's when my first step of recovery started to happen.

You know something that was really amazing? I was the very last to know.

So here I am, laying in my bed, feeling totally stripped. "What am I going to do from here?" I admit defeat, really. Well, the book says we have two alternatives: we can either "blot it out to the bitter eye and to the best of our ability" or "the other is to accept spiritual help."

What happened for me is I made my way to the bathroom. When I drank I puke. I'm a puker. Here I am puking at the toilet. Every time I get in a scrape with the law, especially bouncing those checks and driving offenses and all this other stuff, I'd always say, "God, get me out of this one and I'll never do it again."

But here I am puking my guts out. That's not the prayer I said that morning. I said, "God, please help me. I can't do this anymore."

It was at that point, from that day up until now, I have not had the desire, the compulsion, or anything to drink. I was just talking to Ben before the meeting, and there's a couple other people that know me really well in here. I've been going through a really rough winter this winter—very tough. But I'll tell you one thing, the insanity of alcohol has not returned. I do not have a thought of a drink. Is God great or what?

Something about "knock and the door shall open." I heard that in a song somewhere. "Knock on the door shall open. Seek and you shall find." So I knocked and I haven't had the desire or the compulsion to drink.

The next thing that happened is I made my way on the airplane that morning and flew back to Maine. I made a decision on that airplane and it's kind of apropos, I guess, kind of really neat. It was kind of overcast coming out of Denver, but as we got above the clouds, the sun was beating inside the cabin of the plane. I made this decision that I do what AA's way is.

When I touched down in Portland, I wound up in my basement suite at my sister's house. I got some numbers from Alcoholics Anonymous. I started calling people. I got a sponsor. I jumped right into the middle of AA. I joined three groups. I became this and that and everything else in AA. You guys just love me. You are my family. I've been looking for you for a long time. You welcome me. I used to hear things at these meetings. It was just so nice to hear. "Keep coming till you want to come" is what I hear stuff like that.

For the first two years of sobriety that stuff really worked. I was a GSR. I was a treasurer of a group. My ego would arrive twenty minutes before I get here. It's like too much cologne on you, you know, Dave.

But you love me nonetheless. I'm sure you were talking about me behind my back because we're not perfect. We do that in here. But anyways, you love me nonetheless. That's exactly what we do here.

At two years sober, though, the Fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous—don't drink, go to meetings, and ask for help—nearly killed me because the Fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous, as powerful as it is, isn't enough to keep me sober or to keep me sane. In a lot of the meetings that we go to, we hear "how it works," and at the very end, somebody had told me, "Don't forget your ABCs. A—that we're alcoholic and we cannot manage our own lives. B—that probably no human power can relieve our alcoholism. C—that God could and would if he were sought."

So that doesn't say I even have to find God. I just have to seek God and my alcoholism is going to be relieved. How do I seek God? That's something I learned. I seek God through work and self-sacrifice for others, through being of service to other people. It's amazing.

So here I am at two years sober. The thought of a drink has left me. But I'm still the same. Some of the things we say around here: "You sober up a horse thief. What do you got? You got a sober horse thief."

Well, here I am, right? I'm still a check writer. A check writer. What do you got? I'm a check writer. So my financial life was still very unmanageable. I was nuts. I heard an acronym in here: "Nuts"—Not Using The Steps. The problem was that I'd hang out with people that really didn't do the steps. We did a lot of talking about it, but we didn't really do them.

So at two years, here I am, Mr. "I'm bouncing checks all over town. I'm stealing from my group's treasuries." I'm a treasurer of two groups and I'm looking for love in all the wrong places. I'll close that in a general way. You guys can read between the lines on that one.

The thought of a drink wasn't even there, but suicide was looking really good. I was looking at myself in the mirror and I saw the biggest phony looking back at me. So my solution was a gun to my head. I went to go see my sponsor. I always had sponsors that were into therapy and all the cycle stuff—psychology. I went to go talk to him. He says, "I don't know what to tell you, Dave. But here's the number of my therapist."

So he sends me to go see his therapist, and this guy's an AA himself. We start talking about things. I'm being honest with this guy. I'm pretty shaken up. I couldn't even work. I was right in the middle of my alcoholism. He says, "Listen, how many meetings are you going to?"

Now I was going to at least one, sometimes two, sometimes three meetings a day. I love it. I'm doing all that stuff. When I wasn't in here, I was still bouncing checks and looking for love in all the wrong places and stealing from my group's treasury. I don't know where I had time for all that stuff, but I was here a lot.

Anyways, he says, "How many meetings are you going to?" I said, "Well, you know, I'm going to one, sometimes two, sometimes three." He says, "Well, you need to get a life." He says, "You need to back off of those." He says, "You know what else you need to do, Dave? You need to nurture that inner child."

I'll tell you the last thing my inner child needed was nurture. It needed an ass-whoopin' is what it needed. He says, "You need to do things that are good for you." Well, I've been stealing and doing all that other stuff. I was nurturing, you know. I was just a spoiled brat is all I really was. That was all fear-based. After I got to the bottom of it, I know where that was all about. But knowing and doing are two different things too.

So anyways, he says, "Back off those meetings. I need to see you twice a week. And can I have your insurance card?" So I went to go see him twice a week, but I continue to go to meetings.

Finally I heard something that saved my life. I heard this woman speak at the main area around at Sugarloaf every year. There's like a thousand people there. This woman by the name of Mary spoke about the big book, she spoke about God, she talked about the steps, and she talked about things I really wasn't hearing in the halls. Not really, you know, not the way that she was. She laid the kit of spiritual tools at my feet for my inspection is really what she did. She saved my life. It wasn't really her. It was God working through her and I know that today. But she was the instrument and she had something that I wanted. She sponsored me for a short period of time. Then she introduced me to this man that I am forever grateful for. His name is Don Pritz and he died a few years ago.

This man showed me precisely how to recover from alcoholism. He took me through the twelve steps from the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous. He showed me how to write inventory. He showed me precisely how to recover.

So anyways, I started to write inventory and when it was done I flew back out and read my fifth step to him. We went right through and I started to talk about things like my resentment inventory.

I want to share a couple things real quick out of my inventory. Like resentment—I had this major resentment towards my