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6.14 x 9.21 Paperback |
ISBN: 9781432723170 |
$16.95 |
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Genre: |
SELF-HELP / Substance Abuse & Addictions / Drug Dependence |
Publication: |
Feb 27, 2009 |
Pages: |
307 |
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This book is written not only to give hope and inspiration to the alcoholic, but also for the people who suffer from the alcoholics actions. For every alcoholic there are many more who suffer from that person’s malady. The suffering may come in the form of abuse, neglect, mental anguish, abandonment or dereliction; this suffering affects a variety of people; from ones marriage partner, to children, loved ones, relatives, friends, superiors and subordinates. . Through these pages perhaps those who are suffering, and those who fall victim to the alcoholic’s actions may some how gain some insight and understanding to some of that persons problems; some reasoning for their behavior and for both to realize that there is hope for even what may seem to be the most hopeless case. This is not to excuse or rationalize the drinker’s actions, but to help loved ones and others to understand and perhaps offer solutions and even forgiveness instead of making judgments on them
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A Walk In The Park
After I had been sober for over thirty years, one bright warm sunny day here in Northern California I was taking my ritual hour-long walk through one of our many large parks. I came upon a poor soul who looked as though he was going through what I had for so many years. He was unkempt and looking like death warmed up, dressed in heavy dirty clothing that is the kind of attire the poor homeless people wear to make it through the cold nights. As I watched him sitting on a park bench that had several empty beer cans strewn around it, he had his head bowed, holding it between his trembling hands. As I approached him, he raised his blood-shot eyes. I could see the emptiness in his eyes and could empathize so much with him that I just felt I had to offer some kind of help. I asked if he was all right and he just shook his head saying nothing. I walked closer to him and he seemed to shy away from me without getting up from the park bench. I asked if there was anything I could do for him, and he said, “I doubt it.” I reached into my billfold and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to him. I said I hoped it would help him in some way, and I did not care how he used it. As I put my hand on his trembling shoulder, he looked unbelievingly up at me and tears welled up in his eyes. He said, “Mr., you don’t have to do this.” I said, “I know that,” and started to walk away. Then something came over me, a feeling that I had felt some thirty years before, and I knew that I had to do more; I turned back to him and said, “Yes, I do have to do this; please allow me to explain.” I told him I was a recovering alcoholic and had been right where he was now many times before, for many years. Perhaps not in a park, but I knew what he was going through and this was just a very small token as a payment that I felt I owed to him and others who suffered as he was now and as I had for so long. I began to explain to him how my life had been spared. Without preaching or lecturing to him, I attempted to show him that all was not lost, that there was life and hope for him, that he too could again enjoy a life that he must dream of as I had. I was here to give living proof that it was possible to live again no matter how hopeless it now seemed.
By the time I left, we had both shed a tear together and he thanked me. I had a few copies of the first book I had written, A Long Hard Ride, in my car in the parking lot nearby. It is an autobiography of my life story, about the demons I had fought for so many years and how through the miracle of faith I had survived and was living a comfortable sober and successful life. I went to the car and brought a copy to him and signed it for him. We shook hands and hugged before we parted, and as I continued my walk it gave me a warm feeling. I thought to myself, as I have so many times before, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
I did not see him in the park with the other poor souls for the next week or more. I finally approached one of the guys who was a regular in the park and asked about Doug. The man told me he was in our local hospital suffering from an old leg injury. I went to see him during visiting hours, and he was very pleased to see me. He told me he had read my book and was turning his life around. He said he was going to South Carolina to go to work for his brother-in-law. He thanked me and again we hugged and shook hands. I have not seen him since, but his friends from the park tell me he is doing well and that he is working now and not drinking. I feel good and yet humbled about events of that morning.
Analogy of an Alcoholic
The description of an alcoholic is not as many people imagine it being; they are not all like the poor souls who can be found hanging around the bus depot, train stations or sleeping in alleys, in the streets and parks, or as for myself, stumbling and conniving my way through a military career. People suffering from this disease come from all walks of life; they can be anyone from the handyman, plumber, electrician or mail carrier to respected pillars of the community. They may be priests, doctors, nurses, lawyers, CEOs or military commanders and NCOs who can appear normal to the unknowing public and even loved ones, all of whom may be in denial as much as the abuser. They may appear normal and able to function in their daily routine while keeping their drinking secrets hidden. This disease has no respect for rank, social status, race, gender or even age. Many of these people are in such denial they cannot accept the possibility that they even have a problem. Their peers and loved ones in many cases cover up for them through fear, love, loyalty or embarrassment.
Only when the alcoholic admits to him- or herself that alcohol or drugs is affecting their lives, homes and/or their work and they are willing to unconditionally surrender themselves and seek or accept help will there be any chance of peace of mind to ease the torment and finally some peace of mind for their loved ones and friends. Only they can make that decision for themselves, unselfishly and only for themselves and not for loved ones, friends, superiors or through fear of retribution. Regardless of pressure put upon them by threats of punishment or promises of rewards, no one can force another person to stop drinking if that person is truly an alcoholic and is not ready to stop on his own.
This disease effects and consumes the entire person: physically, mentally, psychologically and spiritually. The most important and significant characteristics of this disease are that it is primary, progressive, chronic and fatal. However, the advance of alcoholism can be stopped and the abuser can recover; they cannot be cured but can recover. There are not only thousands but also probably millions of abusers around the world who have recovered from this terrible disease and, like myself, live happy successful lives. Many of us are living proof of the success of such programs and are able to assist many who are still suffering to recover their lives and in many occasions their loved ones; this is to prove and demonstrate that there can be life after alcoholism or drugs, it does not have to be unconquerable.
I must also say that not all drunks are alcoholics; there are people who just seem to choose to drink excessively, perhaps out of boredom, to amuse themselves or others, maybe to cover up a low self-esteem giving them a false sense of security. And let’s face it, there are people who are just mean spirited and alcohol makes them feel in control. They are often the abusive type of people, ones who will beat their partners and children and show no concern for their subordinates and colleagues or respect to superiors. Many of these people can change and often do after so many years of the abuse of alcohol. They can remain sober and free of drink for long periods; these people can become social drinkers. People like myself and millions of others like me cannot, and it is difficult for the average person to tell the difference. I fortunately have never tested myself to see if I could drink socially, mainly because I have seen first hand what can happen to people who made the decision to “test the waters.”
School was a Torment, Not an Education
I had started cutting classes almost as soon as I started the fifth grade and even before when I was in the fourth grade. My brother Ross had not been doing much better in school, and one of my aunts (Mom’s sister) who lived on a farm that bred and raised thoroughbred racehorses asked Mom about Ross leaving school to work for the lady who owned the farm. Ross was 14 at the time. Mom asked the authorities for permission to allow him to leave school to help with the family income. By this time, my oldest brother Sam had enlisted in the Army Air Corps and we were getting an allotment from him. The county officials saw a way out of the measly check they had been sending Mom, so they gave permission for Ross to work on the farm. In return, she would forfeit the county check. This left me totally alone, as my other brother Simon had left school earlier, two months before graduation, due to a falling out with one of his teachers. He was working now and living away from home. Marie had graduated and was attending a college in Delaware on a scholarship. This left only my baby sister who was now in one of the small two-room schools I had attended.
Ross soon moved from the farm to our local racetrack where the horses he had been caring for were now stabled. The track was just outside of the town of Bel Air, Maryland, about ten miles from our house. When I played hooky from school, I would hitchhike into Bel Air to hang out in the local bowling alley/poolroom/bar, known to the locals as “The Rat Hole.” I would spend the day and much of the night playing pool, bowling or setting up pins in the bowling alley (this was before automatic pin setters) to earn money to play pool with or give to one of the older guys to buy beer or wine for us. The people in the poolroom never gave a thought to us being underage. After all, this is the way the most of them were brought up. Since the racetrack was so near to town, it was a handy place to spend the night many times, where again I had access to plenty of booze from Ross and his stable mates. I soon found the companionship I had been searching for and a group of people who was willing to take me in. I felt I belonged and I liked the feeling. My mother did not approve of me hanging around the pool hall or the racetrack; but really, there was little or nothing she could do other than plead with me to straighten up. Of course, I did not see anything wrong with my lifestyle.
Soon the inevitable happened. The authorities caught up with me, or more to the point, the officials came to the house one day to see my mother when I was playing hooky. They threatened to put me in a juvenile home. Mom and I had to go to court where a judge gave me the option of attending school regularly or be placed in a home for juvenile delinquents. Of course I agreed to go to school knowing full well I had no intention of doing so.
I continued on my destructive path of hanging out in The Rat Hole drinking, smoking and gambling. I was running with my cousins, the gang from the racetrack and guys from The Rat Hole, but I felt I belonged. Even though I knew in my heart what I was doing was against all I had been taught and knew my destructive actions were breaking my dear mother’s heart, I somehow blanked out the reality of it all, ignoring my upbringing and my conscience. I can accept now the fact that alcohol had taken control of my life, and I would not learn until many years later why I had lost that control.
I knew the law would soon catch up with me and although I covered my fear with booze, I knew it was a matter of time. With the help of my brother Ross I managed to get a job on the racetrack and early one morning in the fall when I should have been going to school as I promised my mother I would, I climbed up into a horse van with four horses that took us to Baltimore to catch a train to Florida for the winter meeting and even though I took a bottle of whiskey with me on the train and my best friend,who was my brother Ross, and two other guys from our stable was in the horse car with me, I felt so lonesome and lost in the dark that night, the whiskey and and my companions were just covering my true feelings. So ended my life as a child that most children know it; I grew into a man that night on the train.
My brother was grooming a big horse named "Our Dandy" at the time; he had been grooming him for over two years and said he was very gentle. I asked if he would persuade Fred to let me take him out for a workout the next morning. Fred agreed and Ross put me up on my first horse. I felt more proud of myself than anything I had ever done. I felt like my idol Eddy Arcaro (leading rider at the time and the only rider to win the triple crown twice--the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness and the Belmont stakes 1941-1948). Fred told me to just take him to the track and let him have his head, not to try anything fancy or try to impress anyone. He had one of the more experienced riders ride behind me to make sure I did not do anything stupid or to put the horse in danger. Well, old Dandy seemed to understand me and gave me a great ride. I completed the course then slowly galloped him back to the barn. I gave him the best wash down and rubdown he had ever had, then I gladly walked him out to cool him down. I put him in his stall and gave him a good dinner. As I started to walk away from his stall, I hesitated for a moment. I looked back at him in his stall with the sun shinning on his freshly washed light-brown coat and thought, “What a beautiful animal.” As I proudly watched him enjoy his oats, I thought to myself, “Dick, you have truly become a race tracker,” and I knew in my heart what my future was going to be. I was going to become a great jockey and ride with such men as Eddie Arcaro and Johnny Longden. My chest was bursting out of my shirt.
When I got to our room, Ross was changing to go into town. He looked at me and said, “What are you grinning about?” I told him how I felt about taking my first horse out and of my decision to become a famous jockey. He laughed and said, “You have a long way to go fellow, but good luck.”
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About Richard R. Simmons
Richard was born in Maryland, left school at thirteen, joined the racetrack and became a jockey at fifteen; drinking heavily from the age of eleven becoming addicted by the age of sixteen. Richard left his life at the racetrack when the Korean war broke out he joined the USAF to avoid being drafted in the Army, He spent the next twenty-three years drinking heavy and further damaging his and his family's life. Eventually he became sober six months before retirement from the USAF, He subsequently takes employment with the USPS and after twenty years and several positions in management he retired again. He now enjoys thirty-five years of sobriety and travels extensively with his wife Joyce after fifty-five years of marriage. He now shares his life stories with hopes of helping other addicts and their victims.
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