We died of pneumonia, in furnished rooms where they found us three days later when
somebody complained about the smell.
We died against bridge abutments and nobody knew at the time if it was suicide or
something worse. We probably didn't know either except in the sense that it was always
suicide.
We died in hospitals, our stomachs huge and distended and there was nothing they could do.
We died in police cells, never knowing whether we were guilty or not. We hung ourselves with
our braces. We slashed our wrists so the life blood flooded away from us to give us peace at
last.
We went to priests, they gave us pledges and they told us to pray, they told us to go and sin
no more ,
We tried, we cried and we died.
We died of overdoses, we died in bed, and we died in straightjackets while suffering the
DT's seeing creeping, slithering, shuffling things jumping out of the walls playing that awful
music that went on and on.
We went to doctors and they gave us stuff that would make us sick when we drank on the
principle it was so crazy, it just might work. In despair with how to deal with us they just shook
their heads and told us to not to drink so much, "try to have just a couple of beers" they might
have said. Just give it a real try they would say.
And we tried, and still we died.
And do you know what the worst thing was? The worst thing was that nobody ever believed
how hard we tried.
We drowned in our own vomit, or choked on it, our broken jaws wired shut.
We died playing Russian Roulette and people thought we'd lost but we knew better.
We died under the hooves of horses, under the wheels of vehicles, under the knives and
boots of our fellow drunks.
We died in shame. And you know what was even worse? Even worse was that we couldn't
believe it ourselves, that we had tried, we figured, we just thought we had tried, and we died
believing that we didn't know what it meant to try.
Yes, we did try, and still we died.
When we were desperate, or hopeful, or deluded enough to go for help, we went to people
with letters after their names and prayed that they might have read the right books, that had
the right words in them. so they could tell us what to do.
Never suspecting the terrifying truth that the right words, as simple as they were, had not
been written yet. They were to come.
We died with a shotgun in our mouth with the back of our head blown away, or jumping off a
bridge because we couldn't take any more.
We died under the Expressway with our hands tied behind us, with a bullet in the back of the
head, because this time, the people that we disappointed were the WRONG PEOPLE.
We died in convulsions with wet brains. We died incontinent and in disgrace, abandoned. If
we were women we died degraded, because women have so much more to live up to. We so
often died alone with nobody around at all..
And although we tried ,we still died, and nobody cried.
And the very worst thing was that for every one of us that died, there was another thousand
just like us who wished that they could die but had to continue in a living hell. We went to
sleep praying we would not have to wake up because what we were enduring was
intolerable and we knew in our hearts that it wasn't ever going to change.
We died of one last cigarette, the comfort of it glowing in the dark. We passed out, the bed
caught fire and we suffocated before our body burned. They said "he never felt a thing, maybe
it was the best thing for him really".
Except sometimes we took our family with us.
Still we tried and still we died.
Then, one day in a hospital room in New York City, one of us had what the book calls a
spiritual experience, and he said to himself " this is it! I've got it, and I've got to share it". And
so he began trying to give it away but we couldn't hear it.
The man in New York was so sure he had it, he tried to love us into sobriety, but that didn't
work. Love confuses drunks.
And he tried and he tried and still we died.
There were times we got his hopes up and then we broke his heart, because you see, that's
what we do. The tragedy was, that every time we thought we thought that nothing could get
worse, it did get worse.
The miracle happened in June of 1935. It wasn't in Rome or Jerusalem or Mecca or Amritsar
or even Dublin or Boston. It was in Akron Ohio when the man said, "I have to find a drunk
because I need him as much as he needs me.
And so it happened that after thousands of years of people trying and dying alone a solution
to our problem was conceived.
Now we don't go to men of the cloth, to doctors, psychiatrists and people with letters after
their names, we come to people who have been there. We come to each other and we try.
And now, if we want to arrest this disease, we can. And we don't need to cry and we don't
have to die.
The script above was inspired by the poem 'Drunks,' by Jack McCarthy.
The original poem is copied below by kind permission of "Jack Mc of Smokey Point, WA),
DRUNKS
for my father, and the people who almost saved his life
We died of pneumonia in furnished rooms
where they found us three days later
when somebody complained about the smell
we died against bridge abutments
and nobody knew if it was suicide
and we probably didn't know either
except in the sense that it was always suicide
we died in hospitals
our stomachs huge, distended
and there was nothing they could do
we died in cells
never knowing whether we were guilty or not.
We went to priests
they gave us pledges
they told us to pray
they told us to go and sin no more, but go
we tried and we died
we died of overdoses
we died in bed (but usually not the Big Bed)
we died in straitjackets
in the DTs seeing God knows what
creeping skittering slithering
shuffling things
And you know what the worst thing was?
The worst thing was that
nobody ever believed how hard we tried
We went to doctors and they gave us stuff to take
that would make us sick when we drank
on the principle of so crazy, it just might work, I guess
or maybe they just shook their heads
and sent us places like Dropkick Murphy's
and when we got out we were hooked on paraldehyde
or maybe we lied to the doctors
and they told us not to drink so much
just drink like me
and we tried
and we died
we drowned in our own vomit
or choked on it
our broken jaws wired shut
we died playing Russian roulette
and people thought we'd lost
but we knew better
we died under the hoofs of horses
under the wheels of vehicles
under the knives and bootheels of our brother drunks
we died in shame
And you know what was even worse?
was that we couldn't believe it ourselves
that we had tried
we figured we just thought we tried
and we died believing that we hadn't tried
believing that we didn't know what it meant to try
When we were desperate enough
or hopeful or deluded or embattled enough to go for help
we went to people with letters after their names
and prayed that they might have read the right books
that had the right words in them
never suspecting the terrifying truth
that the right words, as simple as they were
had not been written yet
We died falling off girders on high buildings
because of course ironworkers drink
of course they do
we died with a shotgun in our mouth
or jumping off a bridge
and everybody knew it was suicide
we died under the Southeast Expressway
with our hands tied behind us
and a bullet in the back of our head
because this time the people that we disappointed
were the wrong people
we died in convulsions, or of "insult to the brain"
we died incontinent, and in disgrace, abandoned
if we were women, we died degraded,
because women have so much more to live up to
we tried and we died and nobody cried
And the very worst thing
was that for every one of us that died
there were another hundred of us, or another thousand
who wished that we could die
who went to sleep praying we would not have to wake up
because what we were enduring was intolerable
and we knew in our hearts
it wasn't ever gonna change
One day in a hospital room in New York City
one of us had what the books call
a transforming spiritual experience
and he said to himself
I've got it
(no you haven't you've only got part of it)
and I have to share it
(now you've ALMOST got it)
and he kept trying to give it away
but we couldn't hear it
the transmission line wasn't open yet
we tried to hear it
we tried and we died
we died of one last cigarette
the comfort of its glowing in the dark
we passed out and the bed caught fire
they said we suffocated before our body burned
they said we never felt a thing
that was the best way maybe that we died
except sometimes we took our family with us
And the man in New York was so sure he had it
he tried to love us into sobriety
but that didn't work either, love confuses drunks
and he tried and still we died
one after another we got his hopes up
and we broke his heart
because that's what we do
And the worst thing was that every time
we thought we knew what the worst thing was
something happened that was worse
Until a day came in a hotel lobby
and it wasn't in Rome, or Jerusalem, or Mecca
or even Dublin, or South Boston
it was in Akron, Ohio, for Christ's sake
a day came when the man said I have to find a drunk
because I need him as much as he needs me
(NOW
you've got it)
and the transmission line
after all those years
was open
the transmission line was open
And now we don't go to priests
and we don't go to doctors
and people with letters after their names
we come to people who have been there
we come to each other
and we try
and we don't have to die
—Jack McCarthy
