Three hours.
That's all it took for a friend to go from sober to jail.
Three hours -- from the first sip of a hard lemonade to a car in a ditch surrounded by cops with the smell of vomit in the air. Three damn hours to despair, bewilderment and a freezing jail cell.
My disease just loves to slap me in the face sometimes. And that's what it was when my friend shared the story with me shortly after picking up another beginner's chip at our home group. I read the police report. Parts of it were funny in that sick, only an alcoholic understands, way. It wasn't funny, but it was funny because otherwise I'd cry.
There was no "reason" for it. An early dinner on a quick day trip and the thought "one lemonade would taste good." Complacency. A spiritual journey that had become more rote than meaningful. My friend's words, not mine. No defense against the first drink.
My friend had a little more time in the program than I. Fortunate to be alive to come back my friend is facing more wreckage to clear, family relationships to try to mend again, a professional rating at risk, jail. Three hours. It could have been me. It could have been you.
I have purposely avoided the pronouns that would identify my friend even by gender. It doesn't matter. It could have been me. It could have been you.
I thanked my friend for helping me stay sober one more day and that night I thanked my God for another day. I hope you will do the same.
It could be me. It could be you.
