Free The Harder They Fall by Gary Stromberg Page A

face and said, “But now that I know you’re an alcoholic, you’re one of us. Welcome to the club, brother.” And he gave me a hug.
    I started crying like a baby. The tears kept coming. I felt, wow, this guy was one of my worst critics. He did everything he could to defeat me in the election and here he’s welcoming me to the club. He’s my friend and he gave me a hug! … And the more I opened to people, the more I was embraced.
    By and large, people gave me support and encouragement through the rough time, after my problem was exposed. I think of a couple in Plymouth [Minnesota], very devout churchgoers who were active in the Republican Party. When I saw them, I felt so bad because I cared about them and I’d fallen from their standards. I felt they would be judgmental and withdraw their support. But this couple surprised me when they too surrounded me with a big hug. They had struggled with substance abuse also. These people were right off caring about me as an individual and encouraging my recovery. It’s been a whole new world, the life of recovery. No more doublespeak in any area of life. A feeling of being real with everybody.
    Now I feel that my political persona and private persona are one and the same. What a great feeling it is! I don’t have to be somebody else when I go out to give a speech or when I meet constituents or speak to a campaign rally. I see many of my colleagues who are kind of split personalities. They are one person privately and another on the stump. Because honesty is a cornerstone of recovery, my life has become a lot easier and more fun, a lot healthier. I don’t have to pretend. I quit pretending on July 31, 1981. I quit worrying about the ramifications of what I said. I just try to be honest and open. I try to apply the principles of recovery to all aspects of my life. I’ve not been perfect, but I feel as though every day I make progress.
    I force myself every single morning of my life, when I first wake upand get down on my knees, to remember exactly what it was like in that jail cell. I can tell you where the plaster was chipped and where the drainpipe was that I knelt by and where the bars were to the outside. I can still picture that jail cell vividly. I can draw it for you exactly as it was. I never want to forget that turning point, that epiphany in my life. That’s how I stay sober. It took me twelve years to get to the admission of my disease, and it was crucial for me. The first step was 90 percent of the battle. Because I didn’t want to be an alcoholic. I was taught and wanted to be as nearly perfect as I could be—in school, sports, politics. I didn’t want my flaws known. The recovering enabled me to feel human and to recognize that nobody’s perfect, no relationship is perfect. Everyone has flaws. Everyone is dealt problems. My life’s not perfect; I have problems every single day, but it’s how I deal with them that counts. Any problem would only be exacerbated, would only get worse, were I to revert to drinking. And of course I’m absolutely convinced that if I hadn’t had that experience with those police officers and that jail cell that I’d be dead now because I was drinking such large quantities. I’ve learned about the disease the more I’ve gotten into it, not only from my own recovery standpoint but also from the standpoint of a policymaker trying to provide the same access to treatment to the 26 million Americans out there who still suffer the ravages of this disease.
    My counselor at Saint Mary’s Rehabilitation Center said the first day of treatment, August 2, 1981, “Jim, the only time you’re going to be a
recovered
alcoholic is when they put you in your casket, when they put you underground. Because you’re never out of the woods. Nobody’s safe from relapse. We’re recovering one day at a time.” I was disappointed at the time I heard that because I wanted to call myself a recovered alcoholic. You know, I’m fixed. I’ve got