Alcoholic Anonymous

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Stress is never easy to deal with, and few of us can cope alone. We need help and should not be afraid or embarrassed to ask for it;ironically, when we most need help the human ego so  fears rejection that it will often go for self-destruct.

There are no quick fixes, and drug abuse of any kind is never the answer. 

Too many people are far too complacent about their daily alcohol intake. I am not unsympathetic. Even so, alcoholics, like all drug addicts ruin not only their own lives but effectively take family and friends more than part of the way with them.

Why do people become addicts.More often than not it is the old cause-and-effect syndrome. Discover why, and there is a chance the addict may yet be saved from the worst.

The modern world is fast and furious. Not everyone can keep up. We need to understand once and for all that there is no shame in asking for help. Some fool once commented to me that asking for help is a coward's way; on the contrary, it is heroic.

Oh, and never think for one minute that alcohol is not a drug.

Alcoholics Anonymous is an international organization that can help alcoholics help themselves. Here in the UK, call 0800 9177 650 (for free) or email: help@aamail.org NOW. If you think or know you have a serious drink problem, taking this small first step is a giant leap towards getting your life back.

ALCOHOLIC ANONYMOUS 

Like a fish out of water gasping for air,

clinging on for dear life to a cheap

can of beer, almost past caring any more,

glad to let myself fall though unwilling

to take you with me (you deserve better)

flailing, half-dead, but left to my own

meagre devices. May survive or may not,

each to our own choices, whether it be

win, lose, drift along woebegone, food

for fishes or some poor fisherman casting

a line from posterity’s shelf, shades

of myself before I went looking for more

(in a can of beer) bored with the sheer

predictability of family, job, hooks reeling

me into a limbo now serving me up

on a plate of a street where friends seem

to have forgotten who I am so I don’t

try to catch their eyes any more, doesn’t

come as any surprise any more, don’t

even want to think beyond the next drink ,

avoid local bars in case someone sees

(Just one more, bartender, PLEASE…)

Floating face down in a sea of algae,

not a smile to cling to, no hint of caring

in dead eyes staring straight ahead,

waves of indifference crashing on me,

putting me down, hauling me up, only

to toss me back with all the contempt

of a fisherman for minnows competing

for Angler of the Year, a title bringing

fame and beer (for years) at the local pub

where I used to drink my fill; too often

some would say - and how I find myself

here, as good as dead in the water

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem appears in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; 2nd ed. in preparation.]