Take the Last Twenty-Four Hours and Ask What You’d Do Different — My First Fourth Step – Ed H.

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About This Speaker Tape

Ed H. grew up in Chelmsford, Massachusetts in the 1940s and 50s with a father he never saw take a drink and a mother who was a raging alcoholic — he hated being around her and hid out at his dad's clothing store. He was a decent student at Boston College, got hired by Arthur Andersen in New York City in 1961, and discovered happy hour two weeks in. It was love at first sight — the camaraderie, the BS, reminiscing about the future and embellishing achievements. His career climbed: New York, then Puerto Rico where he had a live-in maid and gardener and a home that later became a consulate, then a transfer to Atlanta and a house in Sandy Springs.

The wheels came off. Nine DUIs between 1973 and 1983. Real estate jobs that stalled. A marriage that failed when he moved out into one of his own Marietta apartments. By the end he was drinking between the box spring and mattress just to get vertical, too drunk to make a phone call by 10 a.m., and writing "deceased" on IRS notices. The moment that broke him: sitting in an office warehouse on Jimmy Carter Boulevard on a Friday afternoon, watching his girlfriend's son unload his golf clothes, bowling ball, and executive chair onto the front lawn — "my mother says she never wants to see you again." He slept in an empty warehouse bay that night with a Mustang, $200, and a car the police were trying to repossess.

Labor Day 1991 he called a buddy, stalled three hours, and finally made it to his first meeting at the 81-11 club — blown about 2.3 and missing the chip ceremony entirely. He stumbled into NABBA next, intimidated by Larry K., Tim B. and Harry the Hobo, and started stacking meetings. His sponsor told him he had too little dry time for the steps and handed him a simpler assignment: every day, review the last 24 hours and ask what you would do differently. That became his introduction to inventory.

Recovery was slow — he calls it being "mocus," moving slowly out of focus. He worked Color Tile warehouses in 120-degree trailers at 52 years old. He walked into the IRS with all his back taxes; they cut $125,000 in penalties to $75,000 just because he showed up. He eventually became CFO of a real-estate and nursing home company, signing $35 million wires while remembering the warehouse address he never put on his resume. He remarried, lost his second wife, reconnected with his daughters, and chaired the AA hotline for eight years. His ex-wife has dementia now and doesn't recognize him — his daughter joked that meant he could skip the amends. Today he goes to four or five meetings a week not out of fear but to see the good things happen.

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