Fourth Step Done in an Hour, Fifth Step Full of Lies — My Sponsor Said Start Over From Scratch – Don P.

Somebody just mentioned that I hadn't told a joke yet. That must be a yes. All right, to hell with you. Just had a thought here. Dorothy mentioned that Reed's going to be 12 years old come Wednesday, and I think we ought to say happy birthday to Reed. And I just got one more to tell you about before we do that, though, because there's a fellow here in the audience named Gene C. He's going to have 32 years of sobriety come Tuesday. How about that? A few years ago I was talking with an old-timer who I was really impressed with, who really had something that I wanted. And I went up to him and I said, Bob, what do I got to do to get what you have? And he says, well, as I see it, you've got to work this program just as hard as you can, every day, one day at a time. For about 18 and a half years. I'm in a place now, and I don't know how to explain it. I get the chance to introduce my best friend. And it's kind of been a strange relationship between Donna and I. We literally met each other in a car one time going to Montreux. And from that, many, many things have happened. I watched each other flop around in this program. Folsom, pretty. Damn fool stunts. We've pulled a couple of pretty good ones. And we'll let him tell you about those. But his name is Don. Than you would rather be than me. And that's just exactly the opposite of what I used to feel like. But that's what you've given me. Before I started to drink, I felt weird. I'm not the only one. Strange and weird. I can best describe it like I was three feet tall with a wart on the end of my nose. And that's how I lived. I didn't know who I was. I didn't have much care. I just knew I was frightened all the time, because it seemed to me that what I was had nothing to do with anything else that was going around. The people I grew up with, the guys I grew up with said, you're not supposed to be afraid. And I was afraid of everything. And I was afraid of things that I couldn't even put a name on. I just knew that something was about to happen, and it was going to be a disaster when it did. I tried to learn to live out of books and movies and off of the ideas that you threw at me. I've tried to steal life most of my life. I learned early how to be a phony. If I was with Al, I'd learn very quickly what he wanted me to be, and that's what I'd be. And I'd get with Julie, and I'd learn what she wanted me to be, and that's what I'd be. And I'd get with Rich, and I'd learn what he wanted me to be, and that's what I'd be. And then the disaster struck. We'd get in a group like this. All three of them were there, and I didn't know who the hell to be. So I began to avoid groups, and that meant anything more than one or two people. My first drunk, I was 11. We got into some German-made homebrew, and I got deathly sick, and that's how I drank. I drank alcoholically, I believe, from the very beginning, because I drank out of control. And that, I understand, since I came to Alcoholics Anonymous, is the simple definition of alcoholism. We are men and women who have lost the ability to control our drinking. And I don't know why. I don't know why. I was out of control from the beginning. When I was 15 years old, we got a quart of whiskey and went out in the country to get drunk. And I did it. I tried to drink every drop of it, and I nearly died that night from alcoholic poisoning. But a fantastic thing happened to me. Between having the first drink and nearly dying, I became six-foot tall, beautiful to look at, articulate. Everything was fine. I was fine. Everything that I had ever, ever, ever wanted to be, I was that night, somewhere between the first drink and nearly dying. And that's how I drank. Now, as a result of that, I didn't drink whiskey for four years. But I quickly learned what wouldn't kill me, and I drank for effect. There's no great Freudian reason why I drank alcohol. I drank for the effect. It either made me feel like something I wasn't, or it helped me to stop feeling something that I was. Ugly and weird. When I drank vodka, I was mean and tough, and when I drank rum, I was the world's greatest lover. That's important when you're... I lived in fantasy land. When I drank vodka, I got beat up a lot. When I drank rum, I was so sloppy, the girls wouldn't have anything to do with me. But that was their loss, not mine. When I drank wine, I was one of the world's foremost poets. I drank for the effect produced by alcohol, because I couldn't find that effect within been myself. Those people who take from the outside and put it inside to try to make everything okay. And it worked for a while. My favorite sport in high school, I went out for sports. I weighed 133 pounds and drank a lot. My favorite sport was to get in an old 38 Ford a friend of mine had, and we'd drive up and down Colfax looking for girls and drinking 3-2 beer. And I remember the night we found some. God, what a disaster. Back in those days, you couldn't buy the books that told you what to do after you found them. I got drunk. There was nothing else to do. I got drunk. It felt strange and weird. High school in the latter part of my senior year, to save America, I don't know about the rest of the alcoholics in this room, but if you'd have asked me, I never did anything for any shabby reason. It was always some glorious reason. And I left high school, joined the Navy to save America and be a hero. I figured if I could be a hero, then I'd be a hero. Then you'd all love me. You see, I had a desperate need to be loved by everybody that ever walked, because I didn't know anything else. And I kept trying. I believed in the Boy Scout code. I really did. I couldn't live it. In my desperate need to be loved, I helped old ladies across the street and didn't even ask them if they wanted to go. Again, I can say I'm not the only one. I learned how to drink like a pro in the Navy. And the first real disaster of my alcoholism hit me there. Alcohol by itself stopped working. I was drinking. It no longer produced the effects that were necessary for me to maintain my daily life. And I got very frightened. And when I was 19, I was in my first federal penitentiary as a direct result of my alcoholism. I drank my way into my first penitentiary at 19, because one of the symptoms of my disease, my alcoholism, when I get drunk, I get lost and I can't find my way home. And at that time, I lived on a ship. And I went on an overnight liberty, and 13 days later when I got back, they had moved my home all the way to Japan. After a short period in a federal penitentiary in a Marine brig where I learned how to hate, I was returned to Colorado to try to make a life. And at 19, I figured my life's all over. Not only was I a bum and been kicked out of the Navy and been imprisoned, but booze didn't work for me anymore. And I still had to drink it. I still had to drink it. I still had to try to find some kind of life. I still had some kind of thing in there. Well, in three months, we all decided I was sick. You see, throughout my life, if you came to me and said I was anything, you were right. And they said I was sick. And if I didn't get treatment, I'd get kicked out of my house. And I said, you are right. And they took me to a doctor. And in those days, as sometimes happens today, they were trying to cure what's wrong with me chemically, with new chemicals. They gave me some new stuff called speed. And I was home free. I found something else that worked. I was 95 feet tall and the fastest man in town. And being no dummy, I volunteered for every drug research program that was going on in this area. What kind of symptoms they wanted, and they got their symptoms, and I got my stuff. And I learned what did what. And it made it possible for me to drink successfully. And I did it successfully again, meaning for me that I had the feeling of being in control. When Alcoholics Anonymous came to me and talked to me about how my life was unmanageable, a light went on. I have known that as long as I've lived, that I had no power and I could not manage things. And that kept me in a state of total terror because I knew that. I couldn't face it, but I knew it. Things didn't get any better. They really didn't. I've walked a lot of strange paths in my alcoholism. I've been a police officer. I lost that because I was taken suddenly drunk in a patrol car and got caught. I was an insurance agent. Man, was I good. I really was. If I could get the speed into me in the morning, I could sell the hell out of the insurance until 9 o'clock, and then I could take some wine and cut the rough edges and get half a night's sleep and hit it again. But I couldn't manage my accounts. And in eight months, I was about to join the police. I was about to join the millionaire's club, and I was also about to go to prison because my books wouldn't balance. It had not occurred to me yet that what money was coming through my hands wasn't necessarily mine. So I took my last paycheck, balanced the books, and went back to Kansas City for a better job. Better job. Got married, had two children. A lot of funny disasters took place, and I just kept running, frightened and scared. I learned better how to lie. I was adding more and more chemicals because there was no place that I went that I didn't have a little bottle of pills in my pocket and access to some kind of alcohol, depending on what I was going to need it for. And it just kept running downhill. And finally, my wife left and left me with two little boys and a gut full of terror because I knew right then and there I didn't know how to live. And I had the feeling by now that nobody gave a damn whether I lived or died. Alcoholism is a disastrous thing because it leaves us isolated. We start alone and then drink our way into isolation. And that's how I felt. I can remember vividly standing on the street outside my dad's house with a C-bag and two suitcases and two kids headed somewhere knowing that nobody gave a damn whether we lived or died. And that was the truth that day. Then it started to get bad. Found this country back and forth, looking for the action. If I was in Denver, the action was in San Francisco. By the time I got there, it had moved to Cincinnati. Trying to find the truth. Trying to find the truth. Trying to find the truth. Trying to find the truth. Trying to find the truth. Trying to find the truth. Trying to find the truth. truth and strangely enough i have always known that the truth was a spiritual answer for me but i tried to steal it like a thief in the night i tried to steal it i tried to steal it from you from churches from lsd from meeting peyote to the indians and i promise you i had some spiritual experiences it'll last nothing lasted nothing really made any sense and i knew i was scared and i just kept running in 1966 the day after my son's birthday the federal government came along and took me off to the federal penitentiary in texas for smuggling marijuana into this country now i didn't do that because i'm a big-time gangster i did that because i needed to supply my own habit and was given an opportunity to do so and did so i at this time was willing to go to any lengths to get what i needed i used my kids to get it across because that was the easiest way for some ungodly reason that i don't know they were still with me dragging on so i ended up down there in 1966 and picked up some brand new attitudes first of all you had made me a criminal and you all hated me and i knew it the paper they gave me said the people of the united states versus don prince that's good enough for me that's a cure for paranoia i knew you were out to get me the denver court sent down a summons that i had to appear up hearing to take my children away from me and with good clear concise alcoholic thinking i got angry about that didn't they who the hell are they to take my kids away from me don't they know what a good father i am i took a guy in the cell with me to remind me of where i was and why i was there but those kids were the only link i had to anything real and sane and the thought of losing them just about drove me nuts there was nothing else for me well i spent six months sober and played some games and came out the other day and this was not the end of my life i walked out the fairway in the morning and then i rushed to the police station and i went on a little walk with my to be a gangster, a big-time gangster this time. I was going to make it. I made it to Albuquerque and got stoned. The idea of trying to do anything without some chemical assist was more than I could handle. It took me three days to get back to Denver. I missed my little boy's birthday, stayed completely stoned for six weeks, and ended up in a padded cell in the Boulder County Jail. Now, if you haven't done that yet, don't bother. There may be one or two of you still in this room who think you need to learn about jail and padded cells. Let me quick tell you what it's all about so you don't have to mess around. Jail's neat. You lie to me for ten minutes while I listen, and I lie to you for ten minutes while you listen, and we both go take a nap. And that's it. They take care of the rest of it. They feed you. They clothe you. They don't talk to you much, but that's okay. You don't have much to say either. That padded cell scared the hell out of me. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I started out a little bit scared. I morning and ended up in jail in a padded cell. I don't remember it. I had a blackout. I don't remember it. That scared me. My kids were with me and I tried to go straight. For four months I tried to go straight. I got two jobs and moved in with a Boy Scout troop leader. That makes sense to me. I'm going to learn how to live. I might as well learn from somebody who knows how and he supposedly did. Wait, what are four months? He didn't understand me and I sure as hell didn't understand him. And I learned one of the things that you taught me firsthand. One of anything drives me stark raving mad. One drink, one pill, one of anything. Because I had no intentions of going back on that road. I was on probation and didn't want to go back. My probation officer had been just about as patient as he was going to be. But I took one Dexamil tablet to keep awake for a second shift. And if you haven't tried this, please listen. I took that just to stay awake. By morning I had broken into the house of the girl who gave me the tablet and got her bottle and had it refilled for myself in the morning. Wrote some prescriptions of my own. Bought some wine mine inhalers and some wine and went stark raving mad. Because everything that was missing during that four months all of a sudden was there again. The magic was back. I knew I was crazy and I just didn't give a damn. I felt something anyway and I hadn't been able to feel during that four months. I didn't know what I was doing. I knew I was gonna be dead. I had been treated like a misdemeanor. I knew I was a еssencer. I knew I was a sicker. I knew I was sicker than it was ever going to be. But I knew it was gonna be my last, my last chance. Well, the upshot of that brings me to the only important thing I had to say to you. December 26th of 1967, Denver police took me away. Christmas day, I had taken a massive overdose of drugs and laid down to die. Because I reached the point that I pray every alcoholic in this room reached, or will reach shortly. I got a look at me with no excuses. No I got a look at me with no excuses, no cover-up. I looked around the basement apartment we were living in, and I realized that I was living in a junkie pad. And the only Christmas presents we had that day, I had gotten on credit because my welfare check hadn't shown up yet. I weighed 133 pounds and had not been able to get out of bed for a week until my connection got there to give me a fix, and then the only reason I got up was to get out and score again. I had prided myself on never messing with younger kids. My connection was 16 years old, and I had turned him on, and I was using him for that purpose. And I saw all that. I saw my kids had wrapped up everything in the house small enough to wrap up in paper towels so I would have a decent Christmas. And I just couldn't stand me another minute. My alcoholism had finally taken me to a place where I couldn't stand living that way one more, one more day. And the only solution I had, because there was no hope available, was to die. It didn't work. I had never been good at much anything that I did. But I gave up. I quit. I reached a point where I could quit. In the morning they took me away, and in the five months I laid out in the county jail, some funny things happened. I didn't know how to pray, and I didn't know what to pray to, but I wanted to do it differently. That's all I know. I said a prayer, help. And I can remember we talked to each other about what we were going to do when we got out. You know, what are you going to do? We're going to go to the mountains and get smashed. We earned that. I needed $100 to make bail and couldn't make it. And the day of my trial I learned about power. I didn't know it then, but the loving God entered my life. The power of the federal government, and the power of the government of the state of Colorado, and the power of the government of the city of Denver, all three decided that I was going to go to a hospital. If I'd plead guilty to one charge, they'd drop the other eight, and I'd go to a hospital. Man, that sounded good to me. Now that's a lot of power. If you've ever had any dealings with any one of those, you know, that's power. I plead guilty. They did exactly what they said. They turned me back to the federal authorities to take me to a hospital. And my probation officer, God bless him, said no. He said, the man's a psychopath. There's nothing we can do to help him. Just get him off the street. So I was taken to summer camp down in Canyon City. My fantasy said, God, I hope it is. I kicked and screamed all the way, you can't do this to me. I was supposed to go to a hospital. God knew that's exactly where I had to be. I believe that anyone who comes to Alcoholics Anonymous, comes to exactly the right place, to hear exactly what they have to hear that first time, they will only listen. Anyone who's reached the place where they can come to us, is in the right place, at the right meeting, with the right people. And I sure as hell was. If I'd have made that hospital, I'd have probably found another book. Another psychiatrist I could count. My last psychiatrist in three weeks was smoking pot and dropping speed and said, that's something. My first 30 days in Canyon City, we're in an isolation unit, because you have to learn how to live in that community, or you'll die quick when you hit the yard. Part of the indoctrination was a visit from Alcoholics Anonymous. Three people with numbers on their chest. I'll never forget that. They called us down and said, you will listen. And I was at that beautiful point of zero, where I really would. Whatever was said, I would listen. And the first guy got up and he said, my name's Doc and I'm an alcoholic and a drug addict. And that means that I'm powerless over these things and all the other circumstances in my life. My life has become unmanageable. And if any of you smart bastards think you can still manage your lives, look at the reward the state just gave you for the neat job you've been doing. If it would have come out of a burning bush, it wouldn't have hurt, done me any better. I heard the truth. Then Doc said the one thing that has meant more to me than anything else. You don't ever have to hurt like that again. You don't ever have to take another step. You don't ever have to take another drink or another pill ever again. Because there is a way out. There really is a way out. And I didn't know that. Nobody had ever told me that before. We may be the only ones in the whole world that know that. And it's our responsibility, I think, to make sure that the next alcoholic hears it. Because I didn't know that. What I knew was that, yes, I did. I had to drink. And I had to take those damn pills. Well, Doc said I didn't. He said there were certain things we could do. And I spent the next five weeks in the 12-step study school. Because to be a member of Alcoholics Anonymous down there, you had to do that. And am I grateful for that. I had to give up my movies to be a member of AA. Now, you may not think that's important. But that's it. Movies, the big yard, or boys. And that's your choices on Saturday afternoon in Canyon City. I wanted what they had. These three guys had something. I could see it in their eyes and in the way they carried themselves. And in the words I heard. I'm a great believer in sponsorship. When I first came to you people, I couldn't read that thing. The words in there didn't make any sense to me. They were contrary to my whole life experience. And I didn't know what the hell they were talking about. But I had the kind of sponsors who said, now for five weeks, you be quiet. You don't know anything or you wouldn't be here. So you be quiet. And they shared with us what they were. I'm glad I didn't have to identify with how they drank. Except in bits and pieces. My sponsors talked to me of confusion, and pain, and fear, and doubt, and anger, and all of the things that got them so much in a turmoil they had to take some alcohol into their systems to quiet that raging down. And somehow it would miss and they'd get off and go again. My first sponsor was doing a natural life sentence for a murder he'd committed in the middle of a holdup. And the man that was talking to me could not have done that. I had never committed a murder in the middle of a holdup. But he talked to me about confusion, and fear, that got him drunk and put a gun in his hand. He went out and did that. One of my other sponsors was a stick-up man. I hadn't done that, but Roy talked about the same thing. About waking up scared and having to drink so that it wouldn't happen. And then getting too drunk and going out and taking something away from somebody. Well, they also talked to me the next day on that Sunday about coming to believe that there was a power greater than myself that could restore me to sanity. I had no problem with the idea of me being insane. I had deliberately driven myself insane. Consciously and deliberately, every day for three years. When I realized I couldn't be normal, I decided to be super freak. So I knew I was insane. But they were talking about a power greater than myself that could restore me to sanity. And one of them mentioned the word restore as being very important. He said, maybe you weren't always stark raving mad. Maybe there was a time when you were a small child that you weren't crazy. And then he began to talk to me about being reborn. I didn't understand what the hell he was talking about. But I listened because he obviously had that. And we talked about powers greater than myself for a few minutes. And there were a lot of them. And he was talking about God. And I had no problem with believing in God. I believed there was a God. He created the heaven and the earth in six days. And on the seventh, he rested. But for me, he was still resting. There was nothing going on. They talked to me about a God who loved me enough to come to me when I was unlovable. And nothing. And bring some hope into my life. And that's exactly what happened at a time when I was nothing. I didn't have to earn sobriety. God loved me enough to send them to me. And that's the truth. I made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God. Sat back and waited for my flashlight. And when it didn't come, it scared me and made me angry. I'm an alcoholic. If it doesn't go boom, it doesn't exist. Well, I picked up one of the basics that I learned in this program. I ran quickly to my sponsor and complained about the treatment I was getting. He said, Don, be glad you didn't get a flash of lightning. Flashes of lightning have nearly killed you all your life. And he began to talk to me about a God who was so loving and so gentle that he knew that I probably couldn't stand one more shock. And who would gently reveal himself to me as I revealed my will. As I revealed myself to me. And I asked him, What do I have to do then? If this is real, what do I have to do next? And he gave me a pencil and a piece of paper and a big book and said, Go take an inventory. And about an hour later, I was through. And I ran off and took a fifth step with a fellow who spent two hours justifying my behavior to him. And I had a spiritual awakening. I became aware that I was lying. Because that isn't what was supposed to happen. Whatever I had put down there was baloney. And my first sponsor wouldn't listen to it. He said, You probably wrote that trying to impress me and it was a bunch of garbage. Oh, he made me mad. When I came away from that fifth step experience, I knew that I'd better get serious. And I went back and I started over again from the beginning. And I followed the directions in the book. And to the very best of my ability, I took a look at me. And resentments and the fears. What a trip the fears were. I've walked around with fears that didn't have a name all my life. And all of a sudden, I've got a long list of things. There's names on my fears now. And I was afraid of everything. I was afraid of being alone. I was afraid of being with people. I was afraid of winning and of losing and of dogs and of cats and of me and of love and of hate. If it existed, I was afraid of it. And I was messed up sexually. Oh, God, was I messed up. And I did the best I could to clean that up, too. And looked at some of the relationships in my life. And it became apparent to me that nobody gave a damn whether I lived or died because I personally had seen to that. I had driven people from me with a vengeance. Because they couldn't make me well. So I drove them away. I burned up people in weeks. My father set me free in the jail by bringing my shoes out and the message, Please don't contact us again. We can't stand to watch you die. That was the last human being that I could lean on. But anyway, I took this back. And they had told me at the very beginning of this fourth and fifth step process, Tell it to somebody who isn't going to be overly affected. So I picked a guy who'd been in the program the same length of time I had because I knew there was nothing I could say to him that would mess him up any worse than he was. He was a basket case just like me. And Jim and I sat up there in the school and we talked most of the afternoon as I poured this stuff out. And when I'd run dry, Jim would say, Just enough to get me going again. And I came away from that experience not with a flash of lightning but with the knowledge that once in my life I had completed something. I had done something and I'd done it to the very best of my ability and right and wrong had nothing to do with it. But I was on the road. And I knew it. And I had seen all the ugly stuff in me and it wasn't all that ugly. It was just kind of shabby. And I went back to my cell and I looked it over and I knew all that. I'd done the best I could and there was a lifetime of work to come. But it was okay. It was enough. And I became willing to have God remove all of these defects of character. All of them. They told me at the beginning, I'm going to break up all of your old ideas. For good reason. My sponsor says your best thinking puts you in the penitentiary. Nothing works. I asked God to remove all of these defects of character. And because I knew there was a bunch left I asked Him, please don't let the ones I hadn't found yet kill me before I get to them. Because by now I knew this was a life and death matter. He hasn't. And I'll guarantee you I'm still finding them. I became free. Locked up for the night in the Colorado State Penitentiary. At the eighth step, my sponsor suggested to me that I take the list of people and because I had a wild imagination anyhow, picture these people. And picture me. He pointed out that I didn't even know how I'd really harmed him. I sure as hell didn't know how I was going to be able to make amends to him. That the key to this entire thing was my willingness to do whatever was necessary to balance the books. So he had me picture in my mind each person. Me, eyeball to eyeball with them, willing to do whatever had to be done to square it. And as I began going over the list and doing that, a feeling came over me. It was like this is all I can tell you. I was being lifted. Oh, I got excited. And it's a good thing they had me locked up because if I'd have run around trying to make direct amends, I'd have made a mess of it. I was just filled with what could be described as evangelical fury. I had to write some letters to some people. They wouldn't let in to see me. Little stuff like a bill for a dollar and a half. I had to write the guy a letter and said, I owe you this. I'm making six dollars a month. Will you accept 40 or 50 cents? I was also guided very carefully in those I could write letters to, those I had to wait to see until I got out, and those whom I could never see and what I could do about that. And then the adventure began. This program worked behind those walls. It worked very nicely. I began to grow a little bit. And then the day for my parole came, and I got a little bit nervous. I knew it would work behind the walls, but I didn't know if it would work out here. If you ever get a chance to go to Canyon to an AA meeting, please do. Go down there and tell the people in that group that it will work out here. That's very important. I asked Reed how I was going to be accepted. He says, why don't you come and find out? And then he made me a promise. He said, if you'll come to York Street your first night out, you'll probably not have to go back, and one of us will be there to meet you. You know who was at the top of the stairs. Reed was. He and Dottie had been at the top of those stairs several times in my life when I needed them. You people of Denver Alcoholics Anonymous are the most fortunate people in the world. I've been a lot of places, and there is no better AA than you have right here. And it's good somewhere, but no better than here. You took me when I couldn't have a car and carried me around and about to meetings all over the place to make sure I heard everything I needed to hear. You extended the hand of genuine friendship and love to me. You've given me that gift. You put me in touch with the steps. The basic principles, the spiritual principles of this fantastic program. You've made it possible for me on any given day to have contact with somebody who does care whether I live or die. A short while back, I had some problems in my life. And I was hurtin'. And Ralph called up and invited me to go to Australia. Then he got serious and reminded me that I had a host of friends and a God who loves me. When I can't even think about powerlessness, you remind me that I have a host of friends and a God who loves me. And that if I will just give it over to him, it'll be okay. And you helped me to practice that. My home group is a step study group. A step working group today. And I think that's neat. Somehow or another, when I work the steps by myself, of course they work. But in working them with a group, I see things that I haven't seen before. If you haven't done that, try it someday. That's worth doing. If you haven't worked the steps yet, and you're more than three weeks sober and haven't started, find you a hard-nosed sponsor quick. You might not make it to your fourth week unless you get started. That's a fact. We deal with that every day. Thank God I had the kind of sponsors who didn't tell me, Don, as soon as you're comfortable, we'll get going on the steps. They told me with no uncertain terms, Don, if you're ever going to be comfortable, we're going to get going on these steps. A short while back, my son got in some trouble. And through the evening and through the visit to the police department, he and I kind of got together a little bit. We hadn't always been together. And I asked him, How come you did that? And he said, Dad, I got tired of feeling like I was the only one that felt rotten. And I knew all about that. You people had taught me about that feeling. And I knew about that. And I knew that there was nothing I could do but just love him and be with him and let him know that he wasn't rotten. You see, we alcoholics know about confusion. All people know about confusion. But I know about feeling rotten and thinking I'm the only one that does. He doesn't feel rotten today. We just had a fantastic week, he and I. I'm still learning about Don. And you know, I kind of like him today. There's some funny, weird things still going on in my head. But that means I don't have to go to the movies too often. I can have more fun sitting in my rocking chair. I can have more fun sitting in my rocking chair than most movies. I am willing today to go anywhere and do anything that I think God wants me to do. I continue to take inventory because I like what happens to me when I clear the sludge out of the way. I won't tell you about that. I suggest you try it yourself and have some fun. I can't live today with any mistake I've made because I don't sleep good if I do. And I love to sleep. For 14 years I didn't sleep. And that's one of the gifts that God gave me. I sleep good now. And my dreams are even fun. And most of them are in Technicolor. Prayer and meditation is a necessary part of my daily diet. I am convinced that if I don't talk to God first in the morning and start moving out, I may miss a connection somewhere. I don't want to do that. I really don't. So we have a good time in the morning. There's nothing fancy about the way I pray. Some days He's Lord. Some days He's boss. Some days He's sir. It depends on how I'm feeling. I don't believe God cares what you call Him as long as you do. A while back a friend of mine was calling him Ralph and then said he stopped one day because he was afraid that's who would show up. Through you I have learned to love God. Because I see His Spirit in every single one of you. That was the light I saw in the eyes of those people that first day. The Spirit of the living God. He's not dead to me. I think he knows that the alcoholic has had just about all the burning bushes and voices out of clouds that he can stand. I know I have. And if a voice comes out of there that you listen, I'm not going to. But what I pray for help. It has never been more than 24 hours and generally shorter times than that that one of you comes to me and says exactly what I need to hear to get me on. And it's usually something like let go. I remember one summer spring came, my first summer out and I looked around and you all were in love and I didn't have anybody. And I got pitiful over that. I went to a dear friend of ours, Shelly and asked her how come everybody's got somebody but me. And she gave me that spiritual answer, oh crap. And we talked about why I didn't have anybody. I had a flat top, a snap good little green clothes and a pot belly. And I was not putting out the kind of vibrations that were going to attract anybody. Prayer is the time I spend talking with my God. And I don't have to yell because he lives inside me. As he lives inside you. Meditation is that time in which I try to steal my mind to a place where I can listen to him. One of the voices of God for me is absolute silence. For years my mind raced and was filled with vagrant thoughts and a merry-go-round of jumbled things. And today in meditation it's quiet. I found some papers the other day that I was reading. I wrote in the middle of my madness. There were 57 sheets of paper that had the word quiet written on them in varying sizes. And I was living by myself in a basement with two kids. The noise was in here. Today it gets quiet. And sometimes in that quiet something comes and I'm going to do something. Sometimes right after that quiet the phone rings and somebody will say will you do this. And I go. I go. Because I know whatever is on the other end has got to be neat. Everything he has given me since I came to you has been neat. Including some pain. I have learned that pain really is the touchstone of spiritual growth. I've also learned don't wallow in it. It's a touchstone. Don't wallow in it. Say and do something about it. My daily routine calls for a telephone call to any number of people. Particularly to Gary. He's always on the other end of that line and somehow or another that keeps things going. Whether we're in good shape or bad. See another thing that caught me is when you feel good for God's sake get out there and tell somebody about it. They may not know it's possible to feel good. So I do that. I believe that part of my sickness was rooted in the fact that I would not let you touch me. And I would not touch you with my mind, my heart or my body. Well you have turned me into a touch person. And if you doubt that you get close to me. You taught me that if I need something that I must first give it away. And I need all the petting I can get. So I pet a lot. I love you people. And I can't tell you how much. I belong to you. Anything you ask I'll do it. As long as it clears my bullshit sifter. No one in Alcoholics Anonymous has ever lied to me. And I know some who've tried. But by the time it goes through the sifter I've found whatever truth's in it. So it's not a lie anymore. You can't cheat me anymore. You may not have to have more affairs when I've got principals too. I don't always do that too good. I was reminded a while back if you're going to practice the principals at home you have to be there once in a while. I practice them at my job and that gets funny. They tried to... to put on paper what it is we do where I work. And I said be sure to get in two hours of prayer and meditation in my job description. And they all laughed. Three of them have come to AA meetings with me now. They want to find out what it is we're doing over here. Because I sit quietly at my desk until the phone rings or until an idea comes and then something happens. And I think that's super neat. God works in mysterious and fantastic ways. If I had tried to plan my life I couldn't have brought it to this point. Eight years ago I was locked up in the Colorado State Penitentiary with no idea of who I was or where I was going. Monday morning I go to work in the Reformatory. I have my own office. I was up there last week and got nervous as hell when I came to a gated open. I'm not used to that. It didn't shake me down. I just kind of wandered around in a place wondering what in the hell am I doing here. I'm going there because one morning in prayer and meditation I said, what do you want me to do today, sir? And the next person I talked to said I want you to go over to the University of the Reformatory where you go. And that's where we went. And I don't have the biggest idea of what I'm doing. I really don't. But I know this. He'll show me. On any given day that I walk into those walls and ask him what do you want me to do today he'll show me. I'm on close now. I could spend another two or three hours telling you why I love you and what has happened in my life. But I'm on close now. I'm going to try not to cry. Sharon, it's time to go to the potty. I'm going to tell that damn story. A few years ago at a conference down in Texas a fellow who has now died of cancer gave me this story so I can give it to you. It'll tell you just exactly what I've been trying to say. My life at that time was like a great huge lake and I had swum halfway across this lake with my anvil in my hand and I'd gone as far as I could go and I was drowning. I was just treading water and the water was to here and I couldn't even call out for help. I knew I was going to drown. And I was looking around on the bank and over on this bank were some fine people who were singing and clapping their hands and there were lights glowing and things were happening over there and one of them saw me and hollered out to me hang on young fella we'll say our next prayer for you and you'll be alright. And they did. And things were still going good over there but my anvil just kept getting heavier and heavier. And I looked up on this bank and there were some people in business suits with briefcases obviously knowing exactly where they were going and one of them hollered out to me hey, hang on for a minute we're on our way to a legislative session and we're going to pass a law that makes swimming illegal and then you'll have to come out. And my anvil just kept getting heavier. And over here on this bank were some fellows with some sextants and some slides and paper and all. And one of them saw me and hollered out hey you, hang on a minute we're getting ready to build a bridge across this lake and when we get it done we'll just reach down and pull you out. But hold on because first we have to make a feasibility study to see who's going to use it and we've got a union strike to settle and my anvil just kept getting heavier. But off in a quiet place there were some people having a barbecue dinner. They had funky signs hanging on the trees easy does it, twelve steps and all that. And a few of them were walking along the beach and one of them saw me and he hollered out hey you, drop your anvil. That was the strangest thing I'd ever heard. That's the only one I had. I'd had it all my life and if I let that one go I'd be without. And he knew what I was thinking he said listen if you don't want to drown just drop that anvil. I'll tell you what I was just about where you were a few months back with a GMC truck transmission. And I'll promise you something if you'll drop that anvil it'll go right straight to the bottom of this lake. And if you ever have to have it again you can always swim back out here and swim to the bottom and get it and you can have my transmission too. But if you don't want to drown drop your anvil. Well I dropped it. All of a sudden I wasn't drowning anymore all I did was drop it. All of the people there came down to the beach. And one fellow said now young man reach out with your right hand and grab a handful of water and pull it behind you. And I did that. And when I had done that one okay someone else said now reach out with your left hand and get a handful of water and pull that behind you. And I began to move toward the beach. And one kind lady said now honey kick your right leg up and down slowly easy does it. Now kick your left leg up and down. And doing exactly what they said to do I made it to the beach. Well they wrapped me in blankets and fed me and taught me how to walk the beach. And I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for having your barbeque here tonight so I don't have to go back out and get that damn damn water. I think he's going to make it. A few years ago I attended a meeting in Charleston, South Carolina. As I walked out of that meeting there was a sign hanging over the door. And that sign says please be careful what you say and do when you leave here because you may be the only big book some folks are going to see. Let's stand and say the Lord's Prayer. Reed would you lead us?