I thought this worthy of it's own thread spinning off from Larry's.  I've often found it difficult to put into words what early sobriety was like for me.  I often say that I didn't have a sudden spiritual experience a la Bill W., but the more I think about it and try to express what happened to me - well, maybe I did.  Just took me 20+ more years to realize it.  Anyway, here's the story:

When I was a kid, I read a lot of biographies.  I read fiction too, but I was fascinated by history and real people.  When I look back on it now, I was looking to find myself in these famous people, those who had books written about them.  I read biographies of courageous people, smart people, strong people, fun people, and evil people.

I read about George Washington.  I related to his desire for freedom.  But I was not George Washington.  I probably couldn't have even served as a soldier in his army.

I read about Thomas Edison, because I liked to tinker.  Edison invented many things that I enjoyed and was fascinated with.  I wanted to invent things too.  I once built a contraption my brother only recently reminded me about and I laughed my ass off to think about it.  The sick thing is, a few changes and... it could have worked!  But Thomas Edison invented things people would buy, he was disciplined, a businessman.  I was not Thomas Edison.

I read about Babe Ruth, because I loved baseball.  I related to his passion for the game, which I also played myself.  I related to his zest for life, his love of fun and good times.  But I was not an athlete.  I was not Babe Ruth.

I read about Henry Ford, because I liked cars.  Ford made cars practical and affordable for the middle class.  My mom drove a Ford.  But Henry Ford was a businessman.  I was not Henry Ford.

I read about Adolf Hitler.  I wanted to learn why a man could become so evil, cause so much death and misery.  If there was ever an example of self will run riot, Hitler is it.  Although I often thought of myself as "bad" - since I seemed to constantly get into trouble, I knew I was not Adolf Hitler (whew!!)

Artists, writers, musicians... I studied them and their passion for their work, as well as their willingness to live in poverty because their work was more important than material wealth.  I did have creative desires and passions, but they always slipped through my fingers.  And I didn't want to be poor.

In these great people, I found a lot to admire, sometimes to despise.  I saw little bits of things that were part of me, but there was no *life* path I could aspire to. 

Then I read a mini-biography called "Bill's Story".  Bill was a war veteran, I was not.  Bill was a stock broker that at least at one time had been wealthy.  I was not.  Bill was a salesman, a go-getter, social animal.  I was not.  Bill was from New York.  I was not.  Bill was from a completely different generation than me.  I didn't aspire to Bill's path to drink all of this away and end up in a hospital for hopeless drunks. 

But yet... the missing piece, the one aspect that I failed to consider or even acknowledge in all those years trying to find myself, was my feelings.  I was a storyteller - I'd tell you the facts (embellished or otherwise), what I said, what everybody said and did.  But I didn't tell the feelings.  It was as if they didn't exist when I re-told of some adventure.  I said I thought this, I said this, I did this... but I never said "and I was scared shitless in total panic through most of it"!

I learned to cover fear with anger when I was very young.  I never, ever wanted to be a bad person - but I subconsciouly chose to be an asshole, because it was better than being a weak little crybaby.  I blustered my way through pretty much everything, and I had enough skill to pull it off much of the time.  Alcohol numbed the fear, and for the first time in my life I felt I could act normal and feel normal even if just for a few hours.  Wow...  there it all was, in Bill's story.

I think after reading Bill's story, and turning too How It Works and the steps, I read step one as "I admit I'm a weak little crybaby".  Now this is where my higher power comes into play:  for some reason, at that moment in my life, I wasn't angry at the thought of being a weak little crybaby.  I'm talking just a couple weeks sober here... I tried to explain it to my wife at the time, and she looked at me like I'd just landed from Pluto.  I remember sitting on the bed, pulling on my big toe... like a baby would do, exploring his body, and I felt this overwhelming joy that - in spite of my years of drinking, in spite of my self-propelled anger, in spite of everything I had done to eradicate him from my life, the little baby was alive and well.  And ready to learn.  And that was ok with me.  My sense of wonder returned; it was ok to not know the answers... alcohol had been the answer to everything, and it was an unsatisfying answer because it stopped the questions.

I found out I could be what I really am - what babies turn into.  A growing boy.

Barisax