At AA, Survivors Tell of Lives Lost--and Won

"My name is Frank and I'm an alcoholic."

The group, in a conference room at Ventura County Medical Center, responds as Alcoholics Anonymous groups have since 1935--in unison:

"Hi, Frank."

A couple of women look like real estate agents on caravan, well-dressed and stylishly coiffed. A silent, disheveled man leans back in his chair, his hair leaping out like Einstein's. A guy in his 20s stares hard into his coffee. There are older men with comfortable paunches and rutted faces, baseball caps and gray beards. A few couples chat with each other easily, friends and fellow sufferers who have been attending these meetings for years.

The two dozen people here are as democratically selected as a jury pool, randomly chosen to harbor a twisted gene, a speck of DNA bearing an ugly, unbelievable message: You're not a social drinker, you're not a heavy drinker, you're not someone who drinks for the lovely taste of the booze.

Frank clears his throat and starts his story--just one more in a room filled with tales to be told over and over. Alcoholism is a disease, but it's a saga too, with a million dismal and well-known plot twists: shattered marriages, ruined careers, lost days and nights, death.

"It's been a couple of months since I've come to a meeting," Frank says. "I was feeling pretty good. I thought maybe I don't need meetings. Maybe I can do this on my own. But then along come the holidays. Damn Christmas! Damn New Year's! Well, I made it through--but without drinking or smiling."

The others nod. They have been there. Blacked out? Been there. Lost a job? Been there. Vomited, convulsed, hallucinated? Been there. The detox unit, the rehab center, the bottom of the bottle? Been there. Popped for DUI? Oh, yes.

Before the meeting, a lady expressed sympathy for Robert Bradley, who in these parts is alcoholism's latest celebrity casualty.

"He must be in such pain," she said. "It's tragic."

*

Nobody would disagree. Until recently the presiding judge of Ventura County Superior Court, Bradley has been arrested on suspicion of drunk driving twice in a month. Rehab didn't do the trick. His job is on the line, his reputation is sinking, his life is in disarray. The folks in this room know all about it: Been there.

One after the other, those who wish to speak, do. Some offer harsh maxims for the benefit both of shaky newcomers and smug veterans. "For me, there's only two choices," a burly man says: "Sober or dead."