This is part of the scene of my last drunk. It is my grandmother’s house, and my uncle lives there now. My uncle didn’t live there 27 years ago when I kept my grandmother up all night with hysterical ranting and crying. He kept his business there, though, so he arrived in the morning. I don’t know what my grandmother told him was wrong with me. I don’t know if she knew. I begged them both not to tell my mother what I’d done, and I don’t know if they ever did tell her or not.
If you had asked me that day, I really had no idea or feeling that this would be the last time I drank. In fact I was on my way to admitting and understanding that I could not stop. Which enabled me to stop.
My family is streaming with alcoholics. I don’t know why, but I’m always reluctant to say anything helpful to anyone in my family. I guess that early on we are told that we can’t really help family members, but I think that’s harder rule in my head than it needs to be. The uncle who was at the scene of my crime has a drinking problem. I’m on the edge of reminding him what I was like and telling him what happened that enabled me to refer to that night as my last drunk.