Mike, an Atlanta native with a December 13, 2010 sobriety date, tells his five-year story at the Monday Night Blue Chip Speaker Meeting. Born in 1964, he was yanked from Atlanta to a Griffin, Georgia dairy farm at six years old by a rageaholic father. Football, straight S's on report cards (he was mad he didn't get S-plus), and a habit of praying to dodge the bus driver's paddlings were early signs the alcoholic mentality was already installed. First drink at 14 — pony beers, fighting in the shrubs, waking up with candle wax in his mouth, thinking he needed to quit smoking candles. Pill alcohol, herbal alcohol, it was all alcohol, chasing the ease and comfort of that first night.
He escaped the farm for the University of Georgia, did a Spanish 103 presentation with a briefcase of tequila and three shots in two minutes for an A, and went to work for Vanity Fair — he called the Victoria's Secret people the Nazis making panties. Geographical cures via transfers every 18 months hid the disease through multiple wives. A botched 2000 back surgery opened the door to chronic pain management; a 2004 epidural that punctured his spinal cord opened it wider. By December 2010 he had two warrants in two counties, four lawyers, a head wound from seizing into his keyboard on benzo withdrawal, burns from making what he calls blackened dope fiend instead of blackened chicken, and a choice one night in camouflage in his own yard between the ambulance on the left and the cop car on the right.
He took the ambulance. Peachford detox, residential rehab, PHP, a sponsor half his age who told him call guys, read at meetings, set up chairs. Honesty from 4:00 to 4:15 every day, building from there. A 90-day chip didn't impress the probation officer who had two deputies waiting; Mike did his fourth step in Merriweather County Jail out of a big book pulled from a little net bag of donated paperbacks. One white chip cost more than his UGA education. A pro-twelve-step judge in Cobb County cut a year sentence to ten days because of what he'd already done in recovery.
The rehab owner hired him. At 14 months he went to Sweetwater 420, clean, and found the energy ten times better than anything drunk or high. At two years Peachford handed him a key — a dope fiend with a key, he says — and two or three times a week he sits on the unit carrying the message. A three-year back surgery installed a spinal cord stimulator; he took the narcotics exactly as prescribed with his sponsor holding the pills, threw away the last dozen, and went right back in. He puts on his God before his pants. He made step 10 amends to Chauncey for six weeks about the wake-up noise — Chauncey never changed, Mike did.
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