Utah Bar Journal

I am also an alcoholic. I cannot recount my career as an alcoholic with the same precise detail with which I can retrace my rise as a prosecutor; I did not maintain a resume of my drinking. I can say with confidence, however, that my drinking progressed apace with my profession, and eventually overtook it. My alcoholism took most of those two decades to progress to the point where I forfeited friends, fitness, and health. I allowed it to rob me of the respect of colleagues, judges, and adversaries. Even as it threatened my career, my relationship with my family and my very life, I surrendered to its ever-tightening grip.

After the inevitable (and lengthy) period of time during which I proclaimed and I believed that I could quit anytime I wanted, I came to realize that I could never quit. The progression of my struggle can be seen today on my bookshelf: How to Quit Drinking Without AA; The Truth About Addiction and Recovery; and Chicken Soup for the Alcoholic Soul. (OK, I made that last one up.) At the constant entreaties of family, friends, and the rarely-consulted medical professionals, I entered and completed a local outpatient treatment program. I stayed sober for over a year.

I used that year to convince myself that I wasn’t truly alcoholic, I merely had transitory issues that were exacerbated by alcohol. I began drinking again, cautiously and “responsibly” and thereby confirmed my self-diagnosis. As the disease again progressed, it overcame me like the recurrence of a cancer, and the inevitable despair was overwhelming.

Alcoholism is a disease of deception. We alcoholics will lie to anyone to protect our addiction. We lie to family members, friends, lovers, doctors, colleagues, and bosses. We lie even when we know the truth is evident. We lie to ourselves. Ironically, we lie to ourselves first, and we are the last to disbelieve our own lies. And I continued to lie to myself even when I no longer believed my own lies.

Notably absent from the history thus far is any mention of involvement in Alcoholics Anonymous. I was, of course, aware of AA. One could not grow up in the United States in the latter half of the Twentieth Century without having some rudimentary knowledge and preconceived impression of the mother of all Twelve Step programs.

Unfortunately, my impressions of AA were formed by mass media parody (even the cartoon feature Finding Nemo had an obligatory AA scene), and by the perceptions of my family and peers, primarily my mother. Mom considered “alcoholics” to be men and women of weak moral character and lack of self-control who could not handle their liquor. Never mind that Mom herself struggled with the ravages of alcohol addiction for much of her adult life; she wasn’t about to acknowledge that: (a) she had a problem with alcohol, or (b) she could control that problem by engaging in a fellowship with others of similar constitution.

Thus, my image of AA and its participants was that of a group of dirty, poorly educated, unemployed, and largely unintelligent men and women. The kind that would approach me on the street to beg for spare change, or that I would see in the courtroom dealing with the aftermath of their uncontrollable addiction. On the occasions when it occurred to me that I may benefit from such an organization, I quickly discounted it as a last refuge for the truly stricken.

Furthermore, I had what I considered to be a rock-solid defense against the pressure to try AA, an excuse that I not only took to heart, but which I could use to defuse the urgent pleading of loved ones to give it a try. I was, after all, a prosecutor; the public front man for the entire system of criminal justice, the last in a long line of law enforcement professionals responsible for keeping the world safe from, well, people like me.

I argued, effectively, that I could not trust the concept of anonymity. Would not a charged offender, learning of my identity and my disease, be tempted to blackmail me, or to expose me as a hypocrite? Would not the judges before whom I appeared find my credibility wanting when I urged a stiff sentence for a drunk driver or a drug offender? Would I not become the laughing stock of the court, the defense bar, and my colleagues in my own office? I was not about to find out. So I struggled, and drank, and continued to make promises to myself and others, promises I knew as I made them I could not keep. I could stock a liquor store if I possessed every “last bottle” I ever purchased.

As often happens in the life of an alcoholic, the things that I feared would result from participation in AA came anyway as a result of my lifestyle. I found myself ineffective in court, especially in the mornings. I felt the sting of hypocrisy when a judge would ask a defendant, prior to accepting guilty plea, whether he had consumed alcohol in the last 24 hours. I began to take the path of least resistance on cases, compromising them in order to keep the flow moving with a minimum of effort. Rumors started and persisted. In the cruel irony that faces many alcoholics, I was the last to know that everyone, to one extent or another, already “knew.” Still, I protected my addiction with every tool I had available.

When things came to a head, they came quickly. I was finally confronted directly about my drinking by a supervisor. I told another of those lies we both knew was untrue. I was confronted at home, and lied again. The result there was different than it had been on previous occasions, and an ultimatum was set down: stop drinking or move out.

It is said that the last thing an alcoholic man will sacrifice is his job, and the last thing an alcoholic woman will try to hold on to is her family. I suddenly found myself faced with the loss of both. I knew that I literally stood at a crossroads of life, and that the wrong choice would lead to divorce, professional ruin and eventually, death. Yet I had absolutely no hope, no belief that I could quit. Every attempt I had made was met with sickness, intense craving, and a feeling of impending doom. It was as though I were being asked never to draw another breath of air.

In my desperation, however, I made a phone call to a man whose number a friend had given me. This man was a tangential part of my life long ago, and I had no idea he knew of my predicament, or that he was in either a position or a mind set to help. I will never forget the call; I sat in the parking lot of my office during a hellacious thunderstorm, and we must have talked for an hour. This man, whom I barely knew and who was a very busy professional, seemed to have all the time in the world for me. And in that hour, the only thing I remember hearing was this: “If you want to learn more about your alcoholism, talk to a psychiatrist. If you want to quit drinking, go to AA.”

I agreed to meet him the next day at an AA meeting that took place near my office. When I arrived, I was filled with apprehension, but with a strange sense of resolve that I hadn’t felt before. I had no real confidence that AA would work, but nothing else I tried had worked either. It was counter-intuitive to me to believe that merely by talking about this problem with other drunks I would somehow be relieved of my obsession to drink. As I sat and watched the other participants, I was surprised by their affect, their appearance, and their openness. When they spoke, I was impressed with their articulation, their intelligence, and their insight. When the time came, and I announced myself as a newly self-declared alcoholic, I was greeted with a genuine welcome. After the meeting I was presented with meeting schedules, phone numbers, offers of help, and a copy of the Alcoholics Anonymous “Big Book.”

That day was over two years ago now. I still attend that meeting, as well as others, every week. On that day, I would have told you I couldn’t quit drinking for two days, let alone two years. But the message that I received was simple: I didn’t have to quit for two days, I only had to commit not to drink that day. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about what to do then.

“One day at a time” seems trite and overused, but it is the mantra by which alcoholics like me stay sober. A rather infamous law professor, known by many who will read this, was fond of saying, “By the inch it’s a cinch, by the yard it’s hard.” That is no truer anywhere than it is in the life of an alcoholic or addict. Life becomes much more manageable when it is broken down into little bits. If a day seems too much, an hour or even a minute at a time will do.

As for my fears of being exposed, amazing things have happened. I went to my supervisors and told them what I was doing and why. I reasoned that I could immunize myself from threats of blackmail if I exposed the very trait I feared would be disclosed. I was met with unanimous relief and genuine caring. I spoke to judges, who congratulated me on my decision and offered their support. I told friends and colleagues, who were likewise committed to helping me succeed. You see, all of them already knew or suspected I was an alcoholic, and they were hoping that I would come to the realization and seek the support I needed.

The other fears, of encountering defendants at meetings, have also fallen by the wayside. Many of the participants in AA come to their first meetings as a condition of probation. The lucky ones stay after it is no longer required. Many of those who attend the meetings I frequent are aware of my profession, and I have encountered persons I have prosecuted in the past. I have held hands and recited the “Serenity Prayer” with people who have gone to prison for crimes I have prosecuted. Yet not once, in over two years, has any of them sought my advice on legal matters, asked me to intervene in a case, or suggested I was hypocritical for carrying out my profession as a declared alcoholic.

It has not always been easy, and at times it has been very painful. A sober look backward at the carnage left in my wake yields many unwelcome sights. The loss of friends and the respect of family and others have been slow to return. I have made great inroads of reconciliation in many relationships, but I mourn the loss of others. The process of seeking out those I have harmed and making amends, a necessary step in recovery, is difficult and uncomfortable. There are those, few though they may be, who relish in my struggles. I simply cannot afford to concern myself with how others view me, or what judgments they may make.

I realize that by writing this, I invite further exposure. When I began in AA, I assumed the purpose of anonymity was to protect the individual from disclosure. The roots of anonymity, however, lie in the organization’s desire to protect itself from unnecessary scrutiny which comes when a highly-publicized participant “relapses” or abandons the AA principle. It is for that reason, not for protection of my own identity, that I write this under a pseudonym.

I spent many unnecessary years suffering as a practicing alcoholic because this message didn’t find its way to me sooner, and because I feared to seek it out. It is easy for me to fantasize about what would have come of my life had I not found it when I did. If this thesis finds its way into the hands and heart of one person, be he or she a lawyer, prosecutor, judge or layperson, and it leads them to seek the peace I have found, it will be worth all of the exposure I risk here. The Twelfth Step of Alcoholics Anonymous explains why: “Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”