FREEDOM FROM BONDAGE - One Day At A Time In A.A.

CHILDHOOD & YOUTH

 

Aristotle said, “Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man.”

 

When I was gathering up the fears and resentments of my past for my fourth step for the first time, my sponsor suggested I start chronologically—from my earliest childhood memories. Try as I might, I could remember almost nothing before age nine or ten.

 

This seemed abnormal, but I assumed my memory lapse was due to my constant drinking which somehow erased those early childhood recollections. When I asked a physician addiction specialist his opinion, he said my memory loss was not due to alcohol since alcohol doesn’t erase long term memory. He said I had suppressed those early memories, probably due to some type of childhood trauma. I was shocked.

 

My childhood memories were unpleasant, but I never thought my childhood was “that bad.” I had food on the table, a roof over my head, clothes on my back and received an exceptional education at a local private boy’s school.

 

Little was required of me growing up other than to do my school work, obey orders, keep my mouth shut, never complain and be thankful I had it so good. The only other activity which was required of me was regular attendance at church.

 

I would never describe my parents as religious since they used the church essentially to enlarge their social and business connections, which I understood. What I did not understand was why I had to participate, especially since I never believed in God.

 

I did not hide my atheism, and could relate to Dr. Bob’s church experience. Like Dr. Bob, I kept my pledge to never darken the door of a church after I left home, other than for weddings and funerals.

 

From childhood through high school I was more or less forced to go to church, Sunday School and evening service, Monday night Christian Endeavor and sometimes to Wednesday evening prayer meeting. This had the effect of making me resolve that when I was free from parental domination, I would never again darken the doors of a church. This resolution I kept steadfastly for the next forty years, except when circumstances made it seem unwise to absent myself. [Big Book, Dr. Bob’s Nightmare, p.172]

 

My father was an adulterous alcohol who rarely stayed at home, which was fine with me because his drunken rages were terrifying. My mother was mean, miserable and bitter over her afflicted lot in life, and grew more bitter as she grew older. I remember she was a “slapper” when she was angry with me; she had the fastest right hand in the state and could knock you in the head before you saw it coming.

 

I felt no intimacy with any family member, and we did not discuss the emotional struggles of our lives because to do so would be a sign of weakness. No personal information from my parent’s childhoods was shared with me, other than where they had lived and what jobs they held during their adulthood.

 

One result of my childhood upbringing was that I had no male role models. None of my family openly expressed love or demonstrated a love of their spouse in public or at family functions that I saw. I had no idea what a stable, loving relationship looked like, or how to have one as I grew older.

 

I never blamed my parents or family for my alcoholic lot in life. It was the random combination of genetics and environment that produced the person I was, and it was A.A. that released the person I always wanted to be.

 

When I first read the Big Book, I noted that Bill W. mentions his own childhood only once, which was in “Bill’s Story” on page ten, when his friend Ebby Thacher visited him: “Childhood memories rose before me. I could almost hear the sound of the preacher’s voice as I sat, on still Sundays, way over there on the hillside.”

 

I thought it odd that Bill would omit discussion of his formative years growing up, which had shaped his adulthood and his alcoholism. Few of Wilson’s personal writings included anything about his early childhood, although some of his biographies did.

 

During my teenage years all I wanted was to complete my high school education so I could get away from my parent’s daily torment. Once out of the house I felt enormous relief, and deeply appreciated my parents partially supporting me during the additional ten years of education required for me to become a physician.

 

During my early days I was taught the value of work, and always had some type of paying job since age fourteen, including when I was in school. I was a conscientious worker and earned my pay, but still had difficulty fitting in with my fellow workers, who came from a wide variety of backgrounds. I went along to get along, which included joining them to chug three beers on our half-hour lunch breaks and, depending on the job, taking nips from a hip flask during bathroom breaks.

 

Looking back, I never felt I had much love or emotional support from my parents growing up, or any of my family, except for my maternal grandfather Archibald. He went completely blind from untreated glaucoma shortly after I was born, and although he never saw me, we would spend hours at his home in Dayton, Ohio talking about what it had been like for him growing up in the early 1900s, when he worked as a deputy sheriff in Arkansas and once encountered Bonnie and Clyde of the infamous Barrow gang after they robbed the local bank.

 

Because he was blind, he would test his grandchildren’s honesty by pulling out his wallet and giving them a twenty dollar bill after telling them he was giving them a five dollar bill. Those that corrected his mistake were honest; those that didn’t were not, and he remembered. His wife Dorothy, my maternal grandmother, died when I was in my early teens, and I don’t remember much about her because she hardly ever said a word.

 

My father’s parents, Bill and Mary, lived in Stamford, Connecticut, and both of them ignored me. Mary was an closet alcoholic, and Bill worked in New York City, commuting to Manhattan every day at dawn and returning well after dark. I felt they tolerated my visits, and that was the best they could manage.

 

My mother’s three sisters Ruth, Delma and Trudy, and their husbands had no interest in me. I assumed those compliant Catholics were overwhelmed taking care of the fifteen children they had birthed between them.

 

My mother and her sisters constantly fought among themselves, and we only visited one of my aunts regularly because of their bad blood. The reasons for their life-long animosity were never revealed.

 

After my mother remarried I met my step-father’s parents, Harry and Helen, who lived a few miles from us. Grandfather Harry was a kind man, and taught me how to shoot pool and develop my own black and white film in his basement darkroom. His wife was a wonderful cook, and I looked forward to her delicious home cooked meals. Our relationships were cordial, but never close.

 

Most of my friends growing up were adults, and I enjoyed spending time with them because they treated me as an adult. All of the folks below are now dead, but each of them made me feel warm and welcome, and taught me about living life on life’s terms. For that I remain eternally grateful.

 

1) Clara & Laura Mae, who were two elderly African-American cleaning ladies who taught me about morals, ethics, doing the next right thing, and loving our fellows.

 

2) Mrs. Duffy, who took care of me when I was dropped off at her house for day care while my divorced mother went to work. She treated me like a favorite child, and made the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I’ve ever had.

 

3) Jimmy, our local mailman, who would let me and my boxer dog Warwick ride with him in his mail truck as he made neighborhood deliveries.

 

4) Pat Moore, my best friend who was often teased for his cleft lip, and with whom we would play weekend marathon Monopoly game tournaments.

 

5) Robbie Becker, my next door best friend and neighborhood playmate while I was in Stamford, Connecticut where I would visit my grandparents during the summers. We spent hours at the local swimming pool and exploring the vacant fields at the end of our street.

 

6) Dr. Owen Ogden, my Pediatrician who encouraged me to attend medical school and let me spend my Saturdays in his office reading his medical books.

 

7) Louise Reynolds Belmont, a gorgeous woman and friend of my mother. We spent many long weekends with her and her alcoholic husband Paul playing bridge, poker and other games.

 

8) Uncle Norman Wright and his French-Canadian partner Milton Carpentier; both interior designers, musicians, and gourmet cooks. They were the nicest and funniest two people I had ever met, and made the best dry martinis in the city.

 

9) The Episcopal Reverends Stephen Davenport and Pittman McGehee, who took the time to speak with me multiple times on various spiritual and religious matters.

 

10) Mr. Albert Sbordone, who read, wrote and spoke seven languages, including Greek and Latin, and was a literary scholar. He was the best high school teacher I ever had.

 

11) Dr. John Bell, a down-to-earth, commonsense psychiatrist who assured me I wasn’t crazy and let me go on rounds with him at the local mental hospital since I was planning to become a physician.

 

Fate and fortune smiled on me after I got older, providing a few lifelong...