We Had a Holiday Party.
Missing Bonnie’s wedding was a necessary step. And by Christmas, sobriety had buoyed me. The Carnegie had been not only supportive, but incredibly fun. The longer I stayed, the more my colleagues liked me. And the more they liked me, the more I liked them.
We had a holiday party that inspired me to write an article for the AA Grapevine back in 1990 – which was published in the magazine, back when magazines were still published. It was an exciting moment for me.
The story described just how completely and utterly addicted I still was – in spite of my clean time. It is reprinted here, in its entirety and complete with typos, below.
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A Deadly Disguise
by Kristen M. – Swissvale, Pennsylvania
the holiday cookies looked so innocent
I’ve been a secretary with the same company for almost a year, which is an amazing feat for me. As a drunk, I was only able to keep jobs for two or three weeks at a time. I consider myself fortunate to still have this one, since I’ve been sober only about 100 days.
With this job came my first attempts to socialize without alcohol. Being painfully shy, I departed from most office gatherings within ten minutes. I’m not sure what I was more afraid of: “accidentally” having a beer with my co-workers or keeping a conversation going. Christmas season brought party after party, complete with plenty of bottled holiday cheer. I skipped most of the get-togethers, but I didn’t want to be excluded completely. I made my appearance, ducked away from the booze, and swelled with pride as I scurried out the door.
During work one day, someone brought Christmas cookies – a wide variety of them. I grabbed several and popped a round, chocolate one into my mouth. “This is great,” I thought as I bit deeply into it. The taste was sweet, sour, wicked, and fantastic.
Rum. Not a murmur of rum, but a good deal (proportionately), enough to make the bit burn down my throat. I winced momentarily, recognizing with horror the oh-so-familiar taste. Then I raced back to the cookie plate and, like a squirrel storing nuts, picked out all the round, chocolate ones I could find. I ate every single rum ball.
I thought I felt rum swimming in my brain. I certainly wanted to feel some effect; why else would I eat all of them? Maybe what I felt was a psychological high. Whatever kind of high it was, it wasn’t high enough.
For a long while I wondered if I should change my sobriety date. I considered “lunching” at the bar across the street. If I was going to change my sobriety date, I wanted to do it right. How would this sound in my lead: “After three-and-a-half months of sobriety, I ate a handful of rum balls – and that was my last drunk.” How embarrassing.
I shouldn’t have eaten the first one, but it was an accident. I’d never seen a rum ball before; I didn’t recognize its hidden power. Once I tasted alcohol, the thoughts that flew through my head: Stay away from that plate; get them before anyone else does; get out of the room; have one more. But one more was not enough.
Maybe this is what Alcoholics Anonymous means by “powerless:” the complete and total inability to control oneself when alcohol is nearby, even minuscule portions of alcohol. To think: I avoided all those office parties where alcohol was served, then I tried to get drunk on cookies.
If that isn’t powerlessness, I don’t know what is.
