Page 419 - The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous

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408 ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS
I remember very well saying, “There’s only one
person in the world whose guts I hate worse than
yours, and those are my own.” She cried a bit and went
to bed; that was the only answer to problems that she
had left. I cried a bit and then mixed myself another
drink. (Today, we don’t have to live like that any
more.)
Max hadn’t gotten that way because I didn’t care.
Indeed, it seemed that I cared too much. I had sent
her to four consecutive psychiatrists, and not one of
them had gotten me sober. I also sent my kids to psy-
chiatrists. I remember, one time, even the dog had a
psychiatric diagnosis. I yelled at Max, “What do you
mean, ‘The dog just needs more love’? You tell that
dumb cat-and-dog doctor he’s not a Beverly Hills psy-
chiatrist. All I want to know is, why does that dog wet
in my lap every time I hold him?” (That dog hasn’t
wet my pants once since I joined A.A., and neither
have I!)
The harder I worked with Max, the sicker she got.
So, when it ended up at a psycho ward, I wasn’t all
that surprised. But then, when that steel door slammed
shut, and she was the one that went home, I truly
was amazed.
I had begun to drink in the early years of pharmacy
school, in order to get to sleep. After going to school
all day, working in the family drugstore all evening,
and then studying until one or two in the morning, I
would not be able to sleep soundly, with everything I
had been studying going round in my head. I would
be half asleep and half awake, and in the morning I
would be both tired and stupid. Then I found the solu-