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In my previous TCL articles about alcoholism, I’ve related some of my own experiences in and out of recovery hoping that others in our profession who are struggling with addiction will learn that help is available. If they can identify in some way with my experience, perhaps they will feel encouraged to reach out before their lives and the lives of those around them are shattered.
Many in the field of recovery acknowledge that desperation is one of the main catalysts for people to seek help. People in crisis need to “hit bottom” before they will take the required steps to stop drinking. But there are many ways to define hitting bottom. I believe that many of us feel emotionally despairing long before we encounter financial difficulties or run into problems with family and friends.
In the next several issues, I’m going to profile other recovering alcoholics and addicts in the legal profession. I hope that these stories will strike a chord in those who may be in trouble but haven’t yet made the decision to reach out.
Bruce M. is a successful lawyer practicing criminal law in South Carolina. He is active in recovery circles and spends a great deal of time helping others. But it hasn’t always been this way.
Like many of us, Bruce started to drink at an early age. He found that alcohol dramatically relieved his feelings of “aloneness.” As he recalls, “In high school, I would walk down the crowded hallways full of seemingly happy and enthusiastic people, and yet feel apart from it all.” But alcohol changed all that. “With a few drinks, I felt comfortable around people; with a few more, I was one of the boys.” Alcohol “fixed” everything.
Over time, this antidote for feelings of alienation became a way of life. In college during the 1960s, Bruce gravitated to those whose motto wasn’t “Work hard, play hard,” but rather “Play hard, work less.” Besides drinking beer and liquor, he began experimenting with mind-altering chemicals.
After college, Bruce completed law school, passed the Bar and started to practice law in South Carolina. But he continued to drink, and eventually found himself involved in a marijuana importing enterprise. Though a peripheral player, Bruce didn’t escape the consequences when the scheme unraveled; before he knew it, he faced a five-year federal prison sentence. He was allowed to “resign” from the practice of law but only under the stipulation that his law license would not be reinstated. His “pirate” days were over and so was his career, as far as he could tell.
But redemption and recovery can be found in the most unlikely places. In prison, Bruce and a fellow inmate, whom he would come to call his resident psychologist, became good friends. With nothing else to do, they would walk and talk for hours around a circular path. One day, his friend said, “Bruce, your problem is simple, though the solution isn’t. You’re an alcoholic.” He then suggested that Bruce stop by the regular Friday night meeting.
“I thought my cell mate was crazy,” Bruce recalls, “but I had little else to do, so one Friday night I decided to go. I was so concerned that other inmates might learn that I was an alcoholic, I snuck into my first meeting through a squeaky screen door in the back.” Today, he has a new perspective on his actions that night: “There I was, a convicted felon in federal prison, and my primary worry was keeping my alcohol problem a secret. There was definitely something wrong with that picture.”
Yet Bruce’s fears were not unusual. He, like many, thought of “alcoholics” as desperate, homeless people. Even though he was in prison, he still had a roof over his head. For many alcoholics, the willingness to acknowledge who they are is the crucial first step—and the most difficult.
Bruce doesn’t recall the details of his first meeting, but he remembers being affected by hearing the stories of others who had recovered. Although the details were very different, he was struck by the similarities: everyone, it seemed, described that feeling of aloneness that Bruce had felt so keenly, and everyone believed that alcohol was the perfect cure. “I learned that I was not at all unique,” Bruce said, “and it was an important discovery. Listening to those recovering inmates gave me back hope and fellowship, two things I thought I’d lost forever.” For the next two years, Bruce attended meetings every Friday night, eventually entering through the front door, until he was released. In the 22 years since that first meeting, Bruce has not had a drink or drug.
But all was not rosy. When Bruce was released, he took a series of simple jobs in an attempt to rebuild his life. Eventually, he worked in a treatment facility in Charleston. He didn’t earn much, but he enjoyed working with others, and most importantly, he stayed sober.
“One day, a friend asked me if I was ever going to practice law again,” Bruce recalls. “I told him that I’d lost my license and that the South Carolina Supreme Court had never reinstated anyone in my situation.” But that question inspired Bruce to see if there just might be some way to return to the profession he loved. Seventeen years after receiving his first license to practice law, he sought a second chance.
To his surprise, Bruce learned that he could at least petition for reinstatement, though few believed his chances were very good. First, he would need to pass the Bar exam again. Second, he would need to appear before the Character and Fitness Committee. If they approved, he had to appear before the South Carolina Supreme Court. Bruce asked the Clerk of the Supreme Court what happen at that last stage. “I don’t know,” said the Clerk, “we’ve never done it before.”
After passing the South Carolina Bar Exam, Bruce received a call from the Court asking him to appear before the justices at 2 pm on a Friday afternoon. “I showed up with my sponsor and the two of us waited outside those tall doors until the Clerk came out and told us to come in,” Bruce said, remembering that he asked the Clerk what he should do once inside. “I don’t know,” the Clerk replied, “this is brand new to us too.”
“We’ve never done this before,” said the Chief Justice, after all seven Justices filed into the courtroom, “so why don’t you just start by telling us about yourself.” For the next two hours, Bruce talked about his alcohol and drug use, his experiences in prison and his first encounters with others who started him on the road to recovery. Finally, he talked about his current life and the work he was doing to help others. The justices asked Bruce what he would do if he was permitted to return to the practice of law. “I would start all over again,” he said, “and become a Public Defender, which is what I did right after law school.” When Bruce was done, the justices thanked him and he got up and left.
Three weeks later, Bruce received a call from the Clerk: good news—his license was reinstated. “Those words meant more than I can describe,” Bruce recalled. “I had been the kind of guy who never appreciated something until I lost it, particularly my law license.”
As promised, Bruce joined the Public Defender’s Office. Today Bruce is a successful criminal law solo practitioner and is active in his local recovery group. He is grateful for his second chance to be a member of the profession he loves.
