Four years sober: Alcoholics Anonymous helps but it’s not the only weapon a recovering drunk has in the armoury

Demons & angels

From a deep inner darkness I emerged to find myself lying on my back on a pavement, bewildered and lost. The street was silent, iced in deep-winter frost, the night hazed in the orange light of the early hours. I had no idea how I had ended up here, or where I was.

Staring into the black hole of my memory, I faintly recalled sitting in a pub near Victoria station slamming down umpteen pints of Guinness and large Jameson chasers. Now here I lay. I made it on to my hands and knees, blinked at the world around me, and shuddered with relief when I realised I was a mile down the road from home.

Somehow, I had managed to cross a vast swathe of London. For all I knew, I had tripped through a rift in the fabric of space and time, but it seems more likely that, guided by the mystical forces that frequently watch over drunks, I traversed a couple of lines on the Underground, missed my suburban stop and got out at the next one down the line before falling to the pavement, where I had lain for an unknown period. This is speculation, though, because those few hours of my life are a void.

Some of that mile home I crawled on my hands and knees, some I stumbled sideways, hands scrabbling at walls, lampposts and hedges for support. I may have shed a tear or two – frozen to the bone and feeling broken, I wasn’t sure I’d make it home. I was relieved enough when I finally lurched through my front door to take a large whiskey before dropping back into that deep inner darkness.

This is not the beginning of a drunkalogue. It is a tale of sobriety.

That night was just one blackout among many over 35-odd years of remorseless drinking, but it was my last; my last blackout but not my last drink, because I carried on for another month or so.

Towards the end of those final weeks, I played the cruel trick – not for the first time – of passing out so deeply one evening that my wife and son, unable to detect any obvious signs of life in me in the morning, were considering whether to dial the dreaded three digits when my eyes flickered open and I blinked back from the abyss. This was not precisely a blackout, but it felt like something worse – like a premonition, as if the Reaper had breathed dank breath on to the back of my neck.

I had been warned and I knew, with a sense of certainty I had never experienced before, that it was time either to pay attention or prepare for the end.

And so to my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It felt like a desperate measure but also inevitable. I had known for many years that I had a problem, (more…)

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Squire Patton Boggs censors the internet (and why, sadly, I am complying)

I was asked yesterday by a representative of the global law firm Squire Patton Boggs to take down a heartfelt blog post I had made here about the suicide of a young mother.

It was an accurate and compassionate account of the evidence presented at the public inquest into her death, so I had written nothing actionable; but while no threats were made in the lawyer’s “not for publication” email, his takedown request was delivered in the faintly intimidating, if pompous, language these guys are paid vast sums to use.

If I had written my article in the course of my day job, with the back-up of a newspaper duty lawyer, I would probably have politely and confidently declined to comply.

Here, however, I am a mere independent blogger, and have decided to do as the lawyer requested. In essence, he is helping the dead woman’s husband to protect her children from finding out how she died – throwing herself in front of a tube train – until they are old enough to understand.

It is a doomed quest: her story is all over the internet, and will remain there, in much less sensitive language than I used, published legitimately by mainstream media organisations exercising their right to do so (they will, no doubt, have ignored any request like the one I received, but presumably the lawyer knew this and didn’t waste his energy on them).

While the woman’s children will undoubtedly stumble into the details of her tragic end sooner rather than later, I appreciate the father’s intentions, and if the token gesture of removing my post – coincidentally, the most-read ever on this barely read blog – helps in some small way, I am happy to make it.

The journalist in me is pissed off, on principle, at being censored by a corporate legal giant – talk about using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. However, this is not the right issue to get on my high horse about.

The reason I was moved to write about this case was the revelation that an examination of the woman’s phone showed that in the days before she died, she had conducted Google searches for Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in London. I did the very same thing myself just over two-and-a-half years ago.

Fortunately, my searches led me to the rooms of AA and I have been sober ever since, a day at a time. It breaks my heart that this woman – like many other people every day – did not live long enough to face the demon in the bottle. Her death is a poignant reminder that alcoholism is a disease that kills.