Thirty Years

Today marks thirty years since I quit drinking. In a world of complexity and confusion, the fact that I once was an alcoholic and I am now sober is the single simple fact in my life.

Simple because there are no questions, doubts, worries about this reality. Simple because it is black and white, no if, ands, or buts. Simple because it is life or death for me.

When I was 15 years old, I started to drink. And from the second time I drank, it was to get drunk. I was a very bitter, confused young man, having very recently discovered that while I grew up knowing that I was an adopted child, my parents had always told me that they knew nothing at all about my life before they adopted me, it was all a lie.

My parents had always known that my name was Martin James Weed, a fact that I discovered by sneaking around in their private papers. Confronting them with this, they admitted that, yes, they did know a few things. But the conventional wisdom was to hide these things from me for my own good.

When I laid out my many, many questions, they said that, no, we don’t know this or that or the other thing. It wasn’t unreasonable, I didn’t think, to reject that. My belief was that they were lying before and they were lying still.

From that time on, I trusted no one. I believed nothing. I chose to be alone, to live alone, to drink alone. It worked for me; it suited me; it hurt no one. I adopted as my gospel the words of a Simon and Garfunkel song:

I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty, that none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.

I am shielded in my armor, hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.

Frankly, I enjoyed my life. People never questioned me when I wanted to be alone, and very few people wanted to be a friend. I carried that life into a Bible College, from which I was expelled for drinking; I lived that life in the U.S. Navy, from which I was discharged for alcoholism, and I lived it still as I earned a A.A. in Culinary Arts at a tech school.

And I lived the life of a very active alcoholic when I met, fell in love with, and married Kathy. For seven years, everything went well, in my opinion. We had a son, and Kathy was pregnant again. After seven years of marriage, I had everything going my way.

Then I hit a rough stretch. Not the first time, I told Kathy, probably not the last time. But it would all work out—it always did.

I was fired from my job, we were evicted from the house we were renting, our car was repossessed, all within a few unpleasant days. But better days were coming, I promised Kathy.

It was at that moment that I began to understand true love. Kathy gathered around her the strength of her family, my family, our church, and most vitally, her own amazing strength to do what was right for her and for our family.

Holding our son, with her brother, sister, and brother-in-law around her, Kathy explained calmly and slowly what was going to happen.

“Danny and I are going to stay at my parent’s house [they were vacationing in Mexico]; Dick is going to drive me there. Bert will drive you to your parent’s house. They will drive you to the bus station on Tuesday. The pastor has a ticket for you to an alcohol rehab in New Jersey.

“The program lasts for 90 days. If you complete the program, come to Vermont and we will talk. If you leave early—it is over. I love you, and I want us to be a family. But you can never drink again. Do you understand?”

That is what I mean by simple. I won’t say that the 90 days passed easily or quickly. But I completed the program, we are now a family of five—and today marks thirty years since my life became simple.

I’m not claiming that everything is been perfect, ideal, or even good. Nothing in life is “heaven on earth;” hard times come and go—and too often linger far too long.

But this one thing I know: my life is simply entwined with Kathy, and nothing is so valuable or tempting that I will risk losing her love or my life. It really is that simple.