On February 15, 1976, I drove my red Toyota ten miles west from my Toms River, New Jersey, home to a small church meeting in Whiting. I’d not had a drink for twenty-four hours. My head was pounding. I shook and shivered and sweated. I sat down but had one foot out the door.
Toms River shoulders the Atlantic Ocean. Most of life there happens near the ocean, its inlets, and brackish rivers. Whiting, known for the now-closed Nature’s Rest Nudist Colony, sits on unceded Leni Lenape land at the northern edge of New Jersey’s Pine Barrens. It’s a defunct railroad town surrounded by scrub pines, that dreary little tree that never grows more than eighteen feet because of the sandy soil. No one goes there.
I drove to Whiting to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous because I wanted to be anonymous and not run into anyone I knew. I had an overwhelming urge to announce out loud to strangers that I was going to kill myself with vodka.
An active adult community, Crestwood Village, had risen up near Whiting. The eight men and women at the AA meeting were over fifty years old, which was a turn-off for me at twenty-nine. But I was banging on the bottom and had nothing to lose. I thought I’d spill the beans there and bug out for the liquor store on my way home.
The group of eight centered the AA meeting around me and how I could stay sober. They figured out a schedule of who could follow me home that night and stay with me for the next few days. Each day, a different soul appeared on my doorstep to feed me, talk to me, answer the dreaded phone, and connect me to an AA group in my neighborhood. Their messages were the same: you’re sick, we were sick, too. Drink water. Eat chocolate. Go to AA. They trusted me with shocking truths about their lives before sobriety.
They traveled well beyond their small community in the Pine Barrens and re-arranged their comfortable lives to help a suffering alcoholic. The obsession to relieve my misery with booze lifted after about seven days. Each of them called every day for a month.
I never drank again. After a few months, I sold my house, gave away the dog, left an estranged husband, packed up my son and houseplants, and drove to Chicago.
I was a dead soul before I met that group of kind and loving saints in New Jersey’s outback. Every minute of every day, I thought only of drinking and not drinking.
In the forty-eight years since, I’ve met many people who have asked for help. I share the same love that was offered to me that first week. In very few cases, people have stayed sober themselves. Most have disappeared, died, or gotten pissed off and moved on.
Love saved me. That’s all I can wish for others.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
.
WOW, you and your writing are powerful❣️‼️❣️
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Indeed. You are loved!
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Thank you, Regan. What a beautiful and fitting Valentine’s reflection.
Simon
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And you, my dear friend of 36 years, were one of those who saved me! God Bless…..I love you!
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Sent from my iPhone(312)787-3534 cell
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It’s a powerful story Regan. I’m glad you lived it and told it. I’m reminded of the song that I only ever heard Arlo Guthrie sing, but just learned was written by John Denver. “The Garden Song” – “inch by inch, row by row, gonna make this garden grow.” And so you have.
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Well done. Congrats on your anniversary. Quitting alcohol was the hardest thing I ever did. I just quit caffeine. Can’t believe how easy that was.
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I really love good coffee.
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Regan, I loved this! I love your description of the town and the old people at your first meeting (and now we’re those old people) I was remembering when we first moved to New Buffalo and there were no meetings. So Marjorie started one and there were five of us at first. Marjorie, Ivan, Dennis and me and an old farmer named EJ. What a blessing. For some reason, possibly because your writing is so good, I remember what you’ve written years later!
Warmly, Connie
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I remember that. Moving to NB seemed so mature to me. I see Julie almost every week. I always think she’s you.
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Happy Valentine’s Day to you Regan. When I remember the years I knew you, I never realized what you were going through. It saddens me to think I was so involved with myself, that I never noticed the state you were in. I am so happy that you finally got help and saved your future. God bless you.
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Somehow, you summoned the courage to take that first step. You must have loved yourself enough. You deserve some of the credit.
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That’s love in action! I appreciate the clarity and concision of your writing, Regan!
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It was divine love and grace. Amen
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