All Is Grace_ A Ragamuffin Memoir - Brennan Manning [27]
And then there were the students not just struggling but failing to the degree that their entire career plans were at risk and they might not graduate on time, if at all. They were disappointing the ones closest to them, but more importantly they were diminishing themselves and were often too stubborn to ask for help. It wasn’t that way for me in the beginning at Broward, but I got there soon. Beyond the required duties on campus, I had a lot of time on my hands and I didn’t have any chicken coops to build or shrimp nets to mend or houses to paint. There was just me and something that had soothed my insecurities in the past: alcohol. We often go back to what we know, and that’s not always a good thing.
In that year and a half or so in Fort Lauderdale, I started drinking again. Now, it wasn’t that I had ever really stopped drinking; having a few beers with friends or wine with meals was commonplace for me. But what resumed in Florida was reminiscent of when my habit began as a sixteen-year-old boy, back when my nickname was Funnel. You’re probably still wondering why or how this could happen. The Trappist monk Thomas Keating once said, “The cross Jesus asked you to carry is yourself. It’s all the pain inflicted on you in your past and all the pain you’ve inflicted on others.” I believe that’s true. My cross suddenly became too heavy, and I couldn’t carry it. I just couldn’t.
Although I have always given the appearance of speaking openly about my alcoholism, rest assured it has always been only what I wanted the listener or reader to know, nothing more. I will never be able to tell all in regard to that part of my story. But I do want to try to represent some of it here if possible, maybe as a backdrop. It feels like a weak attempt, but maybe it indicates the thick darkness that was always behind any light in my life. I thought about creating a chart where I indicated how much I drank during that cross-heavy season, but that felt cold and clinical. Besides, real life’s not a chart but a story. So here’s a story that I believe tells you what you need to know.
After a year and a half at Broward, my drinking was out of control. I had started my time there by drinking Sundays through Wednesdays, a schedule that gave me plenty of time to be sober by the weekend. I was frequently invited to speak in churches on the weekends, and I never wanted to disgrace the ministry by showing up intoxicated. No, the utter hypocrisy of that is not lost on me.
As time went on, my boundaries loosened and alcohol spilled over into every day of the week. And in 1975, at the age of forty-one, I found myself a patient at Hazelden, a rehab center in Center City, Minnesota. I cannot remember all the details of how and why I got there, but I do remember something about once I got there.
I told this story in my book The Ragamuffin Gospel. It is about a man named Max—one in our group of twenty-five chemically dependent men—and our counselor, a senior member of the Hazelden staff named Sean Murphy-O’Connor. A part of the official recovery process was that each man had to take his turn in the hot seat, being the focus of intense questioning by O’Connor and the other members of the group. Although necessary to get at the root of the individual’s problem, this experience was incredibly painful for everyone.
O’Connor ruthlessly questioned Max about his drinking habits and how he rationalized his behavior. Eventually, Max finally became worn down and admitted that he hid bottles of vodka and gin in everything from nightstands to medicine cabinets to suitcases. Max followed his admission by stating the Bible verse about specks in your brother’s eyes and