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Authors: Gary Stromberg
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worried that, being a politician, he might be cautious about sharing his private thoughts.
When talking to another alcoholic about alcoholism, I am almost always struck with how personal and familiar the conversation seems. Talking with Jim was no exception. He was very relaxed and easily recounted his story. I think he felt the same way toward me. We know who each other is and the bonding is rapid.
When he ended our talk, Jim told me he would do “anything” to help me with this book. I knew he meant it.
As far as I’m concerned, I waive my anonymity about my alcoholism. Actually the press breached my anonymity for me on July 31, 1981, when I woke up in a jail cell in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, under arrest after my last alcoholic blackout, for disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, and failure to vacate the premises.
I happened to be at the time a young state senator. I had just finished the first year of my first term in the Minnesota state senate. And I went to South Dakota with some Viking football players to roast a former Viking named Neil Graff, who backed up Fran Tarkington as a quarterback for a number of years, to raise money for youth sports in Sioux Falls. I was doing a favor for a supporter who had campaigned for me and was a good friend. We went down to speak and attend a fund-raising dinner.
As was customary for me in those days when I went out of town, when I thought I was safe, I would drink—abuse alcohol—as I did for twelve long painful years. And that particular night was my last alcoholic blackout: I haven’t had one for the last twenty-two years, three months, and thirteen days since I got sober. Because I was a public figure in Minnesota, the press breached any anonymity I had. And that was very liberating for me—very freeing actually. At the time when it happened, I wanted to be dead and was sure my political career was over. You know, who’s going to vote for a drunk who embarrasses himself and his family and friends and constituents as I did. But instead, it was just the beginning of a whole new way of living. A life of sobriety and a healthy, productive life-style, which I had never known before. A life of honesty, where I am the same person publicly as I am privately. That arrest became the greatest thing that ever happened to me, the greatest moment of my life. It was a blessing, and I believe it was God’s way of showing me that I was an alcoholic and that I did need help.
For twelve years, my family and those who loved me had suggested, based on incident after incident, whether it was a DWI, ending up in detox, or embarrassing friends and family at social functions, that I look at my alcoholism. I had two great uncles who had died of alcoholism: one on my mother’s side, one on my father’s side, both men I respected. One was a doctor, the other a very successful business person. One uncle died on skid row after losing everything, and the other uncle died in a state mental institution.
These were my images of alcoholism, and the last thing I ever wanted to be was an alcoholic. And for twelve years, I was a practicing alcoholic. So you see why it was a blessing that the good Lord brought me to my knees in that jail cell on July 31, 1981. For the first time, I admitted mypowerlessness over alcohol. My life had obviously become unmanageable. I couldn’t see it until that day in my jail cell. Because I had tried to quit. I had quit for eleven months once. Lied my way through an outpatient and nighttime treatment program. This time was different. In that jail cell, I felt physically lighter. I felt a connection to my Higher Power that I had never felt before.
I always thought spiritual awakenings were fabrications of evangelical spin masters. But I realized that day I was having a spiritual awakening. I had been a crisis Christian all those years I was drinking, and my spiritual life had gone to hell in a hand basket. All I was doing was politics, and then on the side on
When talking to another alcoholic about alcoholism, I am almost always struck with how personal and familiar the conversation seems. Talking with Jim was no exception. He was very relaxed and easily recounted his story. I think he felt the same way toward me. We know who each other is and the bonding is rapid.
When he ended our talk, Jim told me he would do “anything” to help me with this book. I knew he meant it.
As far as I’m concerned, I waive my anonymity about my alcoholism. Actually the press breached my anonymity for me on July 31, 1981, when I woke up in a jail cell in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, under arrest after my last alcoholic blackout, for disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, and failure to vacate the premises.
I happened to be at the time a young state senator. I had just finished the first year of my first term in the Minnesota state senate. And I went to South Dakota with some Viking football players to roast a former Viking named Neil Graff, who backed up Fran Tarkington as a quarterback for a number of years, to raise money for youth sports in Sioux Falls. I was doing a favor for a supporter who had campaigned for me and was a good friend. We went down to speak and attend a fund-raising dinner.
As was customary for me in those days when I went out of town, when I thought I was safe, I would drink—abuse alcohol—as I did for twelve long painful years. And that particular night was my last alcoholic blackout: I haven’t had one for the last twenty-two years, three months, and thirteen days since I got sober. Because I was a public figure in Minnesota, the press breached any anonymity I had. And that was very liberating for me—very freeing actually. At the time when it happened, I wanted to be dead and was sure my political career was over. You know, who’s going to vote for a drunk who embarrasses himself and his family and friends and constituents as I did. But instead, it was just the beginning of a whole new way of living. A life of sobriety and a healthy, productive life-style, which I had never known before. A life of honesty, where I am the same person publicly as I am privately. That arrest became the greatest thing that ever happened to me, the greatest moment of my life. It was a blessing, and I believe it was God’s way of showing me that I was an alcoholic and that I did need help.
For twelve years, my family and those who loved me had suggested, based on incident after incident, whether it was a DWI, ending up in detox, or embarrassing friends and family at social functions, that I look at my alcoholism. I had two great uncles who had died of alcoholism: one on my mother’s side, one on my father’s side, both men I respected. One was a doctor, the other a very successful business person. One uncle died on skid row after losing everything, and the other uncle died in a state mental institution.
These were my images of alcoholism, and the last thing I ever wanted to be was an alcoholic. And for twelve years, I was a practicing alcoholic. So you see why it was a blessing that the good Lord brought me to my knees in that jail cell on July 31, 1981. For the first time, I admitted mypowerlessness over alcohol. My life had obviously become unmanageable. I couldn’t see it until that day in my jail cell. Because I had tried to quit. I had quit for eleven months once. Lied my way through an outpatient and nighttime treatment program. This time was different. In that jail cell, I felt physically lighter. I felt a connection to my Higher Power that I had never felt before.
I always thought spiritual awakenings were fabrications of evangelical spin masters. But I realized that day I was having a spiritual awakening. I had been a crisis Christian all those years I was drinking, and my spiritual life had gone to hell in a hand basket. All I was doing was politics, and then on the side on
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