Clapton_ The Autobiography - Eric Clapton [94]
Pattie had been particularly scared, because I was prone to walk out of the house in the middle of the night, with no clothes on, and try to get into the car and drive off. She was at her wit’s end when they found me in the cellar, and I was laughing and crying at the same time. It was ghastly, and I remember seeing the fear in the eyes of the people who were looking at me. Pattie was understandably furious. She took me upstairs and put me to bed. “You’re staying here till everyone’s gone,” she told me. “We’re going to enjoy Christmas without you,” and she left the room, locking the door behind her. She was very clever and very wise, and she kept me in the room, feeding me just enough food and alcohol to keep me sedated. I was so confused about what had taken place, and so ashamed of the damage I had done, that I didn’t put up any fight whatsoever. I knew she was right and that I had to lie low and just do as I was ordered for a little while.
If that weren’t bad enough, my real rock bottom took place a few days later, after the guests had all left. Early in the morning, wearing my new thermal underwear, I crept out of the house to go fishing. I drove down to the river Wey to try out the water near one of the locks. I had some brand-new equipment—two Hardy carp rods and a couple of Garcia reels—and I set up to fish for pike. I’m a country boy, and I’ve always thought of myself as a reasonably good fisherman, but on the opposite bank were a couple of professional carp fishermen with a tent, and everything beautifully laid out. They had probably been there a day or two, and they were watching me. I was drunk and had just about managed to get all my gear set up when I lost my balance and fell over onto one of the rods, breaking it clean off at the handle. The other fishermen witnessed this scene, and I saw them look away in embarrassment.
That was it for me. The last vestige of my self-respect had been ripped away. In my mind being a good fisherman was the one place where I still had some self-esteem. I packed everything up again, put it in the back of the car, and drove home. I picked up the phone and called Roger. When he answered, I just said to him, “You’re right. I’m in trouble. I need help,” and right away I remember having this incredible feeling of relief, mixed with terror, because I’d finally admitted to someone what I had been denying to myself for so long.
I called Roger rather than Pattie on that fateful day because he had become the most important person in my life. More than anybody, he was the one who had seen me in all my different conditions and who had also pronounced, with absolute certainty, what no one else had had the nerve to tell me, that I was an alcoholic. He had obviously been researching the subject for some time because he had already booked me into Hazelden, which was then said to be the best treatment center for alcoholics in the world. I had no idea where it was and didn’t really care. My only stipulation was that I didn’t want to know when I was going until the last moment.
On the day we left, a cold January morning in 1982, Roger picked me up from Hurtwood and took me to Gatwick Airport. I was a bag of nerves. He flew with me on a Northwest Orient flight to Minneapolis–St. Paul, the scene of my ulcer treatment only six months previously. On the flight over I drank the plane dry, so terrified was I that I might never be able to drink again. This is the most common fear of alcoholics. In the lowest moments of my life, the only reason I didn’t commit suicide was that I knew I wouldn’t be able to drink anymore if I was dead. It was the only thing I thought was worth living for, and the idea that people were about to try and remove me from alcohol was so terrible that I drank and drank and drank, and they had to practically carry me into the clinic.
Hazelden turned out to be