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I explained to Dr. Pursch that since I returned from the moon, I had felt taken advantage of, exploited as people wanted to use my fame for their own purposes.

From then on, any time that I felt the “system” was taking unfair advantage of me and my fame–whether by individuals, companies, organizations, or the military—to deal with those growing resentments, I turned increasingly to alcohol. The demons in my mind tossed up questions such as, What did I get for serving my country all these years? I’m being relegated to playing the hero, and everyone wants a piece of me. But will they listen to my ideas? Will they value what I can offer for the future? Then, to keep my life afloat, I would often speak at their conventions and sign autographs, for very little if any honorarium. I felt totally degraded as a person.

I recognized the inherent inconsistency; I didn’t want to feel that way, yet in all honesty I did. I knew that such thoughts were “unacceptable” to the public, to my family, and to myself, and I had a sensitive conscience, so there was no better remedy for putting my conscience to sleep for a while than with alcohol.

I confessed to the psychiatrist that since I had retired, I sensed no purpose and no structure to my life. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Pursch listened intently, but he continued to emphasize that my top priority was to get sober and stay that way.

One day early on in our treatment program, I asked the psychiatrist straight out, “Can alcoholics ever drink again?” I was hoping that he would respond positively, that yes, once a person went through treatment, he or she could handle alcohol. Pursch didn’t bite, but he did surprise me.

“Of course an alcoholic can drink again. They do it all the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some alcoholics can drink again, but you, Buzz Aldrin, cannot drink again without getting into problems.”

“Well, I don’t lose control of my ability to function every time I drink.”

“Maybe not, but you have become an unpredictable drinker, Buzz. Some people may have a drink and walk away from the bar. You have a hard time taking one drink without taking four or five more.”

I met with Dr. Pursch for about an hour every week, then eventually once every couple of months. We talked about everything from my strict upbringing, always trying to please my father, to being the second man out of the lunar module after Neil Armstrong, and always being known as the second man to walk on the moon, and continually being reminded of that fact. At the conclusion of each meeting, Dr. Pursch asked, “Now, how would you summarize what we have talked about and what you need to do? Once you are out the door, you’re on your own.”

At one point I had a bit of a falling-out with him. I wanted him to meet more frequently with me, to treat me in a psychoanalytic way, and to prescribe some medication for me. Pursch refused. “You will not get well that way,” he said bluntly.

I could feel my hackles rising. “May I remind you, Captain, that I am a retired Air Force colonel, and that I am entitled to this care?”

“Yes, I understand that you are retired military, and you are indeed entitled to treatment. And that means you receive the treatment I am prescribing for you, and my prescription for you right now is not pills or psychoanalysis. Right now you need to get sober.”

I rose to leave, and walked briskly toward the door, but before I reached it, I stopped and snapped at him, “I won’t be coming back. Furthermore, I assure you that I will have no trouble finding another psychiatrist in Los Angeles to treat me.”

Dr. Pursch held his ground. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble at all finding someone who will give you what you want. All you have to do is tell them who you are.”

I left Dr. Pursch and found Dr. Sturdevant, and began going to him for treatment. Pursch was right; I could find treatment with pills and psychoanalysis, but that did not help me. I could handle the depression, but I needed someone to confront me and to help keep me accountable about the drinking.