Tinsley, sober since May 3, 1999, tells his story at his home group, the NAVA Club in Atlanta. Born at Piedmont Hospital in 1957 to Emory students, he grew up silver-spoon — prep school coat-and-tie with short pants (his friend called it his Angus Young period), straight-A student, glee club president. At 15 someone handed him a malt liquor at a party and he had arrived. He remembers that first beer with perfect clarity; he can't remember his first Coca-Cola. Alcohol became the solution to feeling different, then a friend, then a constant companion, then a ruler, then a tyrant.
He honed his drinking at Emory Oxford, tapping kegs out of his 1974 Dodge creeper van, noticing his friends would quit at 2 a.m. and go to Waffle House — unthinkable to him. He rode The Beatles on Ed Sullivan into the music business, buying the lie that Hendrix and Hemingway needed the bottle to be great. The consequences came: perforated ulcer, no insurance, parents flying out to get him, divorce, lost gigs. Everybody was mad at him, including the dope man, who told him to go to AA. He drifted in and out of this very room from 1990 to 1999 — an ocean of half measures — even buying a breathalyzer so he could drive home drunk. It said he was drunk every night.
He came back in May 1999 in tears with the gift of desperation. A man hung around after a meeting and talked to him from experience instead of lecturing. His sponsor gave him five things: meetings, a sponsor of his own gender, the twelve steps in order, learn to pray, work with others. The sentence that saved him was in the 12 and 12 on Step 2 — you can make AA itself your higher power. Sixty people with a plan to stay sober is a higher power of one.
He walks the steps plainly: 1-2-3 got him sober, 4-9 is the quality of his sobriety, 10-11-12 keeps him sober. He has never relapsed while holding a service position. AA delivers everything alcohol promised and failed to deliver — the ease, the comfort, the laughter. When he complained meetings were boring, someone said, AA's not boring. You are. The biggest miracle is not that he doesn't drink — it's that he doesn't want to.
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