Six weeks from today I will be forty-seven years old. Forty-seven. I can
remember when twenty-five seemed ancient, when I didn't think I'd make it to
thirty, when I thought that forty would be a real accomplishment, and as it
turns out, it was.

I started drinking the summer that I was thirteen. I had my first drunk with a
bunch of people I barely knew, teenagers much older than I. We sat at a campsite
in the woods and drank beer and disgusting Boone's Farm wine, and I learned, too
early, how to French kiss. Too early because I wasn't in control of myself and
didn't have a clue what I was doing. I had only stopped playing with my beloved
Barbies the year before. Our family doctor had just told my mother that I was
"thirteen going on twenty-five." If any of those kids that I was with had known
how old I really was, they probably would have soiled themselves.

Pity. I liked being drunk immediately. I didn't throw up, didn't get a headache
the next day -- perhaps if I had, I never would have gone any farther. Perhaps
if I had been caught by my parents and punished, I would have thought twice. But
I was able to get away with it again and again and again. And there began a saga
that lasted for the next twenty-seven years.

I missed a lot -- some have told me that I wasted a lot -- having kids, which I
had wanted to do, but thankfully had enough brains not to do, making love for
the first time with someone that I truly cared about -- instead I had a horrible
experience with some frat boy after a wild night of partying. I gave up friends,
and chances at jobs, and going to nursing school because alcohol was more
important to me. For so many years I settled, because I didn't want to give up
my sacred booze. Amazing that during the midst of this I found a man who still
loves and cares about me, and has been with me through the worst times of my
life. But that was nothing more than sheer luck.

I reflect, often, on what could have been. Oh, yes, it's water under the bridge
and all that, but I can't help but wonder what I would have been had I not
slugged down that first warm beer sitting under that tree with those older kids.
Was it their fault? No, not at all. Even at thirteen, I knew that I shouldn't
have been doing what I was doing. My instantaneous addiction to alcohol often
frightened me in my later teenage years. When I got older, I became very
frightened of what my drinking was doing to me, but even that fear didn't make
me stop. It wasn't until my drinking almost killed me that I finally realized
that I was commiting slow, passive suicide. And had been for a long, long time.

So, in six weeks I'll be forty-seven years old. Forty-seven and six years sober.
Sometimes I feel like a six year old, seeing things in clear, fine detail for
the first time. I've regained my self-esteem and my passion for living. Does it
make up for what I've lost or given away? I don't know. Does it matter? I'm not
sure. Am I glad that I'm still here? Yes.

Yesterday, on my way to work, I saw something that amazed me and sort of jarred
me into this train of thought. I was driving toward Niagara Falls. On that road
I can see the column of mist rising from the cataract. The sun was behind the
mist, and the whole mist cloud was a huge, vertical rainbow. It was so
awe-inspiring that people were slowing down on the expressway to gaze at it. My
first thought was, "I'm lucky that I'm still here to see this." No matter what
the future holds, or what the past contains, I'm here today. Today. What a sweet
word.

S.J. Gibbons
November 9, 2004