Many times during those hectic years of black moods and sleepless nights, I was tempted to buy booze for my troubled hubby to ease some of his stress. But knowing it was a downhill road, I resisted. He said the reason I didnt need alcohol was because I was born drunk. That was meant as a compliment, of course. He often described me as a “free spirit,” something he very much admired and desired. Nothing but alcohol had ever given him that feeling of freedom. One weekend Harry came home from his job at Texline with a bottle of Jack Daniels stashed in his bag. He was at the end of his rope, and this was the knot he had tied to hang onto. “I dont have to beg a doctor for this,” he said. For awhile he felt great. In time, as any serious drinker knows, he needed more and more alcohol to maintain his new “norm.” He hated himself for being so weak, but could not see any way out except suicide. Harry discovered a lump in his breast, and thought it was cancer, of course. I went with him to yet another doctor, who felt of the lump and asked, “How much have you been drinking?” “Not much,” was the sheepish reply. “A quart a day,” I said. This doctor thought the lump was caused by the effect of alcohol on the liver, and was definitely having no part in treating an alcoholic. He recommended the Outreach Center and AA. Harry was shocked that anyone would think he was an alcoholic. He went to work every day, and even besotted, he could do his job better than anyone else around. He was a loving husband and father, was wonderful to my parents, looked after his widowed mother, tried his best to serve God and man. But he finally had to admit he really was an alcoholic. He tried AA, spent two rounds of counseling in a state hospital, but still when the black moods hit, he went back to the bottle.
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