My Separate Reality

   At that time, it was not uncommon for me to arrange to be in one of my favorite advertising clients offices around four o’clock on a Friday, drinking scotch on the rocks in Andy’s real estate office, high above the Atlantic City Boardwalk. Andy was a good twenty years older than I was at the time (this was 1984 or 5) and I marveled at how rich and successful he was and still able to belt down scotch like a  perfect gentleman.   


    I imagined that I would one day be able to be successful, like him, and to be able to drink successfully, like him, but I was chasing the illusion of all alcoholics that somehow, someday, my drinking could be, would be, better and different. This was before several relapses　finally taught me, that for an alcoholic like me, I could never drink successfully, and that, no matter what else happened, or how long I went without a drink, it would always and could only, end worse.


    The best I could do was to imagine that my drinking would be manageable.


from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Chapter 77)