No Salesman Will Come To Your Door

Every so often at my home group when desire chips are offered, people attempt to "sell" a newcomer on getting one ("go ahead!", "they're free!", "don't you want one?"). The culprits are always the pink-clouders with a few weeks or months and are now out to sober up the world.

But the world at large does not want to get sober. The latest estimate of the adult population in my little city is 100,000. If ten percent of the U.S. population is estimated to be alcoholic, that's 10,000 of us in this city alone (and if you ever get a chance to read our city's police blotters, you'll probably agree that's a reasonable estimate). I've never seen more than 50 people in a meeting around here.

Alcohol was everything to me. I wouldn't have actually said that out loud, even to myself, but it was. Nothing got between me and my drink, whether I had to hide it, lie about it or steal it. But I would have indignantly told you I was i no way an alcoholic.

Step One says that we admitted that we have a problem. Webster's defines "admitting" as "confessing". My confession came from hitting bottom - that point where life itself showed me that I had a problem, and I had to agree.

One of the great mysteries of life for me is why some people admit this earlier in life than others. Why did I come in after a few fender-benders and get this, while we have folks court-ordered to attend who are right back out the minute the last line of their form is signed?

The closest I've come to an answer to this riddle lies in "How It Works": I get this when I am capable of rigorous honesty. Until that day, you could keep your chip.