Barbara, sober since August 16, 1992, shares her story at a Christmas 2004 meeting at the West Portland Group. Born in 1964 in Northern California, she grew up the granddaughter of a working Hollywood actor (the ranger on Lassie) who died from alcoholism, and the daughter of a father who openly admits he's alcoholic but keeps drinking. From a very young age, she was conscious of the chink of ice in her father's crystal glass moving through the house, and once hid his drink in the cookie jar on top of the refrigerator — after which, whenever he misplaced a drink, he came after her. She grew up feeling apart from, not good enough, and debilitated by shyness, throwing a conniption fit at age five when her mother suggested she walk across a playground to introduce herself to another little girl.
At 16, at a wedding reception, someone put a pint of beer in front of her and the room changed. She found the thing that smoothed every sharp edge and made her feel part of the universe — the same relief her still-drinking father describes. She drank through high school, through a bachelor's in elementary education she didn't want, got kicked out of an exchange program in Delaware for chasing states where she could drink underage, and did a geographic to Southern California. There she lived with a long-haired music-industry boyfriend named Sean in Hollywood, worked for a patent attorney in Westwood, got picked out of lineups at the Stock Exchange club, bought a crystal at the mall and soaked it in sea salt by her bed, and rocked back and forth at 11:30 at night wondering what was wrong with her.
A college friend — a handsome party animal who had gotten sober in AA — called her, told her she deserved to be happy, and she moved to Oregon to marry him on August 16, 1992, telling him, 'You don't drink, I won't drink.' Within weeks, cops were pounding on the door over thrown objects and screamed profanities. One night at 2:30 a.m. he asked her what she'd do if she could drink; she described going to Santa Fe for a double shot of Korbel gold with a beer back, then the Mission Theater for a pitcher of dark beer. When he asked what her father would do, she gave the identical answer and had a moment of clarity. She thinks of her Aunt Sherry, who died on New Year's Eve when a drunk driver pulled away from an RV with her sweater caught in the stairs and the back tires crushed her skull — belongings in a cardboard box, three kids, no one claimed her.
She called the AA hotline, told an elderly man she just wanted to drink, and went to her first meeting the next day wearing a Gap fleece jacket folded inside out at the base of the couch so people could see she was doing okay. She compares alcoholism to cancer and AIDS wards: tell any dying patient that reading a book, doing steps, getting a sponsor, and finding a higher power will lift what ails them and they'd jump at it — tell an alcoholic the same and she'll say she needs to think about it. She worked the steps in order with someone who had done them before her, took actions she didn't believe in because they worked for others, had a psychic change, and now the girl in the mirror is okay.
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