I Finally Knew the Answer.
I’ve heard a lot of miraculous stories during my 30+ years of sobriety, but I am the only one I know who, upon realizing that alcohol was my problem, got a literal shooting star.
I believe, to the innermost core of my being, that God sent that star. The timing wasn’t “interesting;” it was perfect. I had the revelation, and there was the star.
Suddenly I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt: alcohol was my problem. Years of denial were broken in that moment, and any doubt I ever had about the existence of God disappeared in that moment, too.
I had three days sober.
I would like to say that I literally dropped to my knees and worshipped the Good Lord Almighty like I have never worshipped before, but that’s not exactly what happened.
I stood there with my mouth hanging open, a cigarette dangling by my side, and stared at the dark space where that spectacular star had briefly lit the night sky.
And then I started to smile.
Then I started to cry.
The tears rolled down my face faster than I could feel them, but I kept staring at the space where the star had been. Somehow I expected another one to fly by.
I said it aloud again: “You can’t find happiness at the bottom of the bottle.” Nothing happened in the sky the second time, or the third, or the fourth.
I stabbed my cigarette into my makeshift ashtray and joyously cried, “You can’t find happiness in a cigarette, either!” I watched to see if that was also a shooting-star-worthy sentiment, but it was not.
I kept hoping that there was a fireworks-style showing of stars taking place just for me, somewhere in England at 3:00 in the morning, but a second star did not come.
I stared at the sky anyway, willing it to happen, doubting my own eyes even as I could never doubt again.
I stood for a long time staring, crying, laughing, crying, laughing. I stared at the sky until my neck hurt and I could no longer stare.
I’d just uncovered the key to the universe, and my discovery had been verified by the universe itself.
I had no idea what to do with myself.
So I walked into our little house in Bletchley, sat down, and cried some more. I cried blubbery sad tears interrupted by fits of giggly, choking laughter, feeling both incredibly small and incredibly special.
I finally knew the answer: I would stop drinking, and find happiness another way.
Since it was 8 a.m. in America and none of us had adjusted to European time yet, my mom randomly awoke. She wandered through the dark living room and found me giggle-sobbing on the couch.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I looked up, my face drenched with tears. “I’ve never been more okay in my life,” I said.
I told my mother what had happened, how it happened: the whole story. I told her about my revelation about alcohol, about happiness, about God.
Mom didn’t doubt my miracle for a second.
“Oh, Kirsten,” she said, and held out her arms. We held each other in that room for a long, long time, both of us crying.
Both of us knowing.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you,” I said.
Love was everywhere that night.