Decoding the Big Book - Bill's Story

about one's drinking. He started with a chapter presenting the first one hundreds understanding of alcoholism and wrote an outline for both the problem and the solution for recovery. He used himself as the true story of the alcoholic and the steps he took to recover. Bill Wilson had to work on this story a lot. We don't know why, but he rejected his first pass of this chapter. Bill's second attempt ran on 12,000 words and was not even completed. the third

attempted. Bi story was written with some help from Hank Parkhurst, as were some of the other chapters. Bill would arrive in the morning at the office for Hank Parker's company, Honor Dealers in Newark, New Jersey. Bill would come in with his yellow legal pads and everything scratched out and stand behind Hank's secretary, Ruth Hock. Bill would then start talking from his notes, and Ruth would type everything out. Ruth Hawke later said that the whole book was written in this way.

Bill dictating and Ruth typing. Bill didn't like her to write out shorthand because he wanted to see the text immediately. Hank Parkhurst was present this time and likely weighed in with his feedback. We don't know for certain, but we do know Hank had strong opinions on the book and it would be hard for him not to provide input as Bill was dictating. bill walks through the progression of his story. A veteran of World War One, a night school lawyer, stock speculator discussing his

ambition. The phrase in there, quote, I have arrived, end quote, to get the alcoholic to identify. He goes from success to heavy drinking to unwelcome hanger on. Bill has the opportunity for redemption and he screws it up with his drinking.These are all the things still sick and suffering. Alcoholics can deafen Alley relate to. Bill's alcoholism progresses. Lois has to work because Bill is unable to hold down a job. He's in and out of the hospital. Now, Bill is at a point where he has to

drink. It becomes a necessity. He needs to drink to function. And even with a desire to stop, he can't.

The turning point in Bill's story is his meeting with his old friend. This man is Ebby Thatcher. Ebby is the man who came to Bill's home and, to Bill's astonishment, refused a drink. Ebby was sober and got religion. Bill was mortified by this, and the two go back and forth. Here is how Joe and Charlie, in their big book study groups discuss the episode. In their big book comes a live presentation.

me that other kind of stuff. And Abby's trying to put it on all day. And they're arguing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I guess Abe finally, finally got tired of this deal. Let's look at the next statement very carefully. If you'll notice, and since it's in squiggly writing, my friend suggested what then seemed a novel idea. He said, Well, why don't you choose your own conception of God? In other words, he said, Well, what are we going about? Wh difference does it make what

we call it? Why don't you choose your own conception of God?

with his stories. He did a little myth making when you listen to Bill write or speak, it's likely not the unvarnished truth. Here's Bill Sheinberg from his YouTube channel, discussing the differences from how Bill saw it and how he remembered it.

Hall. They're both out, but everybody finally gets together and then Bill, Abby and Lois, and the woman who is running for the top floor of their brownstone from upstairs, they all have dinner together. And after dinner in a forum, move upstairs to the living room. Now, Lois, at this point, prompts scene. She should. W, let's hear about yourself. What's going on with you now? I'm presuming this is something of a setup. I presume she could talk to Abby on the phone when he called and

found out what was going on. So now she's very happy for him to come over and try and deliver some message about how to stop drinking to her husband. Let me talk to her about the Oxford Group. Until one day he says he couldn't shut him up. He was just going go and going, talking to these three people. At the end of that, Bill walks over to the subway, still hears the message, but he keeps drinking.

So Joe, the only real consistency here we have in these stories, correspondence of fact, is that, number one, he calls under very and Bill hears the message, but he keeps drinking. All of which is true. Let me tell that messy version of his story on several different occasions. And he always acknowledged that the story you read in the book is a

little different. And he once glibly explained those differences by noting that after all, he happened to be sober that night, Bill also was drunk, and he pointed out that there were some of those details about that talk that Bill doesn't remember. But in the end, Aaron said it doesn't make any difference because the idea is there and the idea happened to get into Bill's hair.

From Bill's perspective, the most important thing to convey was there was a solution and it was possible to live a sober life. so he bent the truth. To that end, Bill was also concerned about his own ego, which was pretty significant So if he could share credit with others, he felt he was pushing down his own ego. from Bill's perspective, the most important thing to convey was that there was a solution and it was possible to live a sober life. So bent the truth to that end.

Bill's story about meeting Ebby Thatcher in the Why don't you choose your own conception of God is an aha moment to a lot of alcoholics. The idea that you have to believe in God to get sober can be a turnoff to a lot of people considering recovery and is often a non-starter. The 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are the core message and this flexibility in relation to a

belief in God. The idea that you can choose your own conception if Bill were to give the notion of first century Christianity as the one true path to a higher power that was required before the rest of the steps, there are a lot of people considering in recovery that would never have moved farther. We don't know how the phrase quote God as I understood him, end quote, started. Bill claimed it was an essential part of his sobriety message provided by Ebbe Thatcher in November and

December 1934. Ebby said the formulation had been given to him by members of the Oxford groups when he was approached in July 1934 after his arrest for public intoxication in Vermont. He said in 1955 that the members of the Oxford groups told him, Why don't you try turning your life over to God as you understand him? Abbey added that this was one of the principles of the Oxford groups in 1958.

Abbey said the Oxford Group people were the ones who originated the phrase believe in a god or higher power as you understand him. This is problematic because the Oxford groups never talked about God in that way, though it does sound like how Alcoholics Anonymous sounded. Later on, Written reports of the Oxford Group espoused views that Jesus Christ was the source of all goodness and salvation. It's possible Abbey heard the view of a conception of God from your understanding from the men who

picked them up.You might have heard this idea of a higher power of his own choosing, however it happened. Bill wrote down the phrase, and it forever became part of his vocabulary as we walk through the rest of the chapter. Bill has his last stay at town's hospital, sees the white light. And Bill, very quickly, without saying, it goes through the 12 steps and that's how he's able to stay sober. It's so easy to take for granted the ease of finding a 12 step meeting or recovery of your

choosing. Where I live in Connecticut, I can find multiple meetings on any day, at any given time.

I was very lonely and again turned to alcohol. landed in England. I visited Winchester Cathedral. Mu moved. I wandered outside. My attention was caught by a doggerel on an old tombstone. Here lies a Hampshire grenadier who caught his death drinking called small beer. A good soldier is never forgot whether he died by musket or by pot. An ominous warning which I failed to heed. 22 and a veteran of foreign wars. I went home at last. I fancied myself a leader.

Had not the men of my battery given me a special token of appreciation. My talent for leadership, I imagined, would place me at the head of vast enterprises, whic I would manage with utmost assurance.I took a knight law course and obtained employment as investigator for a surety company. The drive for success was on. I proved to the world I was important. My work took me to Wall Street, and little by little I became interested in the market. Many people lost money. Some became

very rich. Why not? I. I studied economics and business as well as law, but central alcoholic than I was. I nearly failed my law course at one of the finals. I was too drunk to think or write, though my drinking was not yet continuous. It disturbed my wife. We had long talks when I would still her forebodings by telling her that men of genius conceive their best projects when drunk at the most majestic constructions of philosophic

thought were so derived.By the time I had completed the course, I knew the law was not for me. the inviting maelstrom of Wall Street had me in its grip. Business and financial leaders were my heroes out of this alloy of drink and speculation. I commenced to forge the weapon that one day would turn in its flight like a boomerang and all but cut me to ribbons living modestly. My wife and I saved $1,000. It went into certain securities. The cheap and rather

unpopular. I rightly imagined that they would someday have a great rise. I failed to persuade my broker friends to send me out looking over factories and managements. But my wife and I decided to go anyway. I developed a theory that most people lost money in stocks through ignorance of markets. I

discovered many more reasons. L on, we gave up our positions and off we roared on a motorcycle, the sidecar stuffed with tents, blankets, a change of clothes, and three huge volumes of financial reference services. Our friends thought a lunacy commission should be appointed. Perhaps they were right. I had had some success at speculation, so we had a little money. But we once worked on a farm for a month to avoid drawing on our small capital. Tha was the last honest manual labour on my part.

For many a day, We covered the whole eastern United States in a year. At the end of it, my reports to Wall Street procured me a position there and the use of a large expense account. The exercise of an option brought in more money, leaving us with a profit of several thousand dollars a year. For the next few years, Fortune threw money in applause my way. I had arrived. My judgment and ideas were followed by many to the tune of paper millions. The great boom of the late twenties was

seething and swelling. Drink was taking an important and exhilarating part of my life. There was loud talk in the jazz places uptown. Everybody spent in thousands and chattered in millions. Sc could scoff and he be damned. I made a host of fairweather friends. My drinking assumed serious proportions. Continuing all day. And almost all night. The remonstrance of my friends terminated in a row. And I became a lone wolf. There were many unhappy scenes in our

sumptuous apartment. There had been no real infidelity for loyalty to my wife. Helped at times by extreme drunkenness. Kept me out of those scrapes. In 1929, I contracted golf fever. We went at once to the country. my wife to applaud as I started out to overtake Walter Hagen. Liquor caught up with me much faster. Then I came up behind Walter. I began to be jittery in the morning. Golf, permitted drinking. Every day and every

night. It was fun to carom around the exclusive course which had inspired such on me as a lad. I acquired the Impeccable Code of ten one Seize upon the Well-to-do. The local banker watched me whirl fat checks in and out of his till with amused skepticism. Abruptly, in October 1929, hell broke loose on the New York Stock Exchange. After one of those days of Inferno, I wobbled from a hotel bar to a

As I drank, the old fierce determination to win came back. The next morning I telephoned a friend in Montreal. had plenty of money left and thought, I better go to Canada. By the following spring, we were living in our accustomed style. I felt like Napoleon returning from Elba. No Saint Helena for me. But drinking caught up with me again, and my generous friend had to let me go. This time we stayed broke. We went to live

with my wife's parents. I found a job and lost it as a result of a brawl with a taxi driver. Mercifully, no one could guess that I was to have no real employment for five years or hardly draw a sober breath. My wife began to work in a department store. Coming home exhausted to find me drunk, I became an unwelcome hanger on at brokerage places. Liquor ceased to be a luxury. It became a necessity. Bathtub gin. Two bottles a day and often three

got to be routine. Sometime a small deal would net a few hundred dollars, and I would pay my bills at the bars and delicatessens. This went on endlessly. And I began to wake in very early in the morning, shaking violently. A tumbler of gin, followed by half a dozen bottles of beer, would be required if I were to eat breakfast. Nevertheless, I still thought I could control the situation, and there were periods of sobriety which renewed my wife's hope.

Gradually, things got worse. The house was taken over by the mortgage holder. My mother in law died. My wife and father in law became ill. Then I got a promising business opportunity. Stocks were at the low point of 1932, and I had somehow formed a group to buy. I was to share generously in the profits. Then I went on a prodigious bender, and that chance vanished. I woke up. This had to be stopped. I saw I could not take so much as one drink. I was through for

ever. Before then, I had written a lot of sweet promises, but my wife happily observed that this time I meant business. And so I did. Shortly afterward, I came home drunk. There had been no fight or had been my high resolve. I simply didn't know. It hadn't even come to mind. Someone had pushed a drink my way and I had taken it. That crazy. I began to wonder for such an appalling lack of perspective seemed to be near. Just that renewing my resolved.

I tried again sometime passed and confidence began to be replaced by cocksure goodness. I could laugh at the gin mills. Now I have what it takes. One day I walked into a café to telephone and no time I was beating on the bar, asking myself how it happened. As the whiskey rose to my head, I told myself I would manage better next time, but I might as well get good and drunk then. And so I did. The remorse, horror and hopelessness of the next morning were unforgettable. The courage

to do battle was not there. My brain raced uncontrollably and there was a terrible sense of impending calamity. I hardly dared cross the street lest I collapse and be run down by an early morning truck, for it was scarcely daylight. And all night place supplied me with a dozen glasses of ale. my writhing nerves were stilled at last. A morning paper told me the market had gone to hell again. Well, so would I. A market would recover. But I wouldn't. And that was a hard thought. Should I kill

myself? No, not now. Then a mental fog settled down. Gin would fix that. So two bottles and oblivion. The mind and body are marvelous mechanisms for mine. Endured this agony for two more years. Sometimes I stole my wife's slender purse. When the morning terror and madness were on me, Again, I swayed busily before an open window or the medicine cabinet where there was poison, cursing myself for a weakling. There were flights from city to country and back. As my wife and I sought escape.

Then came the night when the physical and mental torture was so hellish, I feared I would burst through my window, sash and all. Somehow I managed to drag my mattress to the lower floor lest I suddenly leap. A doctor came with a heavy sedative. Next day found me drinking both gin and sedative. This combination soon landed me on the rocks. People feared for my sanity. So did I. I could eat little or nothing when drinking.

And I was £40 underweight. My brother in law is a physician, and through his kindness and that of my mother, I was placed in a nationally known hospital for the mental and physical rehabilitation of alcoholics under the so-called Belladonna treatment. My brain cleared. Hy and mild exercise helped much. Best of all. I met a kind doctor who explained that, though certainly selfish and foolish. I had been seriously ill, bodil

and mentally. It relieved me somewhat to learn that in alcoholics the will is amazingly weakened when it comes to combating liquor, though it often remains strong in other respects. My incredible behavior in the face of a desire to stop was explained. Understanding myself now. I fared fourth in high hope. For three or four months, the goose hung high. I went to town regularly and made a little money. Surely this was the answer. Self-knowledge. But

it was not. For the frightful day came when I drank once more. The curve of my declining moral and bodily health fell off like a ski jump. After a time I returned to the hospital. This was the finish. The curtain, it seemed to me. My weary and despairing wife was informed that would all end with heart failure during delirium tremens. Or I would develop a wet brain. Perhaps within a year. She would soon have to give me over to the undertaker or the asylum. They did not need to tell me. I knew

and almost welcomed the idea. It was a devastating blow to my pride. I, who had thought so well of myself and my abilities, of my capacity to surmount obstacles, was cornered at last.Now I was to plunge into the dark, joining that endless procession of sorts who had gone on before. I thought of my poor wife. There had been much happiness after all. What I would not give to make amends. But that was over

now. No words could tell of the loneliness and despair I found in that bitter morass of self-pity quicksand stretched around me in all directions. I had met my match. I was overwhelmed. Alcohol was my master. Trembling, I stepped from a hospital. A broken man. Fear sobered me for a bit. Then came the insidious insanity of that first drink. On an Armistice Day 1934, it was off again. Everyone became resigned to the certainty that I would have to be shut up somewhere or would stumble along to a

miserable end. How dark it is before the dawn. In reality, that was the beginning of my last book. I was soon to be catapulted into what I like to call the fourth dimension of existence. I was to know happiness, peace and usefulness in a way of life that has increased. Be more wonderful as time passes. Near the end of that bleak November, I sat drinking in my kitchen with a certain satisfaction. I reflected. There was enough gin concealed about the house to

carry me through that night. And the next day my wife was at work. wonder whether I dared hide a full bottle of gin near the head of our bed. I would need it before daylight. My musing was interrupted by the telephone.

The cheery voice of an old friend asked if he might come over. He was sober. It was years since I could remember his coming to New York in that condition. I was amazed. Rumor had it he had been committed for alcoholic insanity. I wonder how he had escaped. Of course he would have dinner and then I could drink openly with him. unmindful of his welfare. I thought only of recapturing the spirit of other days. There was that time we had chartered an

airplane to complete a JAG. His coming was an oasis in this dreary desert of futility, the very thing an oasis. Drinkers are like that. The door opened and he stood there, fresh skinned and glowing. There was something about his eyes. He was inexplicably different. What did happen? I pushed a drink across the table. He refused it. Disappointed, but curious. I wondered what had gotten into the fellow. Wasn't himself. What's this all about? I queried.

He looked straight at me simply, but smilingly, He said, I've got religion. I was aghast. that was it. Last summer, an alcoholic crackpot. Now, I suspected a little cracks about religion. He had that starry eyed look. Yes. The old boy was on fire. All right. Bless his heart. Let him rant. Besides my gin would last longer than his preaching. But he did. No ranting In a matter of fact way. He told how two men had appeared in court, persuaded the judge to suspend his

commitment. They told him of a simple religious idea and a practical programme of action that was two months ago, and the result was self-evident. It worked. He had come to pass his experience along to me. If I cared to have him, I was shocked, but interested. Certainly it was interesting. I had to be for I was hopeless. He talked for hours. Childhood memories rose before me. I could almost hear the sound of the preacher's voice. As I sat on still Sundays, way over there on the hillside.

There was that proffered temperance pledge I never signed. my grandfather's good natured contempt of some church folk and their doings. His insistence that the spheres really had their music. But his denial of the preacher's right to tell him how he must listen. His fearlessness as he spoke of these things just before he died. These recollections welled up from the past. They made me swallow hard. wartime day in old Winchester Cathedral came back. I had always believed in a power

greater than myself. I had often pondered these things. I was not an atheist. Few people really are for that means blind faith in the strange proposition of this universe originated in a cipher and aimlessly rushes nowhere. My intellectual heroes, the chemists, the astronomers, even the evolutionists suggested vast laws and forces at work. Despite contrary indications, I had little doubt that a mighty purpose and rhythm underlay all. How could there be so much precise and immutable law and no

intelligence? I simply had to believe in a spirit of the universe. Who knew neither time nor limitations. But that is as far as I had gone with ministers and the world's religions. I partied right there when they talked of a God personal to me who was love, superhuman strength. When they talked of a God personal to me, who was love, superhuman strength and direction, I became irritated with my mind snapped shut against such a theory. to Christ.

I conceded the certainty of a great man, not too closely followed by those who claimed him. My moral teaching most excellent for myself. I had adopted those parts which seemed convenient and not too difficult. The rest I disregarded The wars which had been fought. The burnings and chicanery that religious dispute had facilitated made me sick. I honestly doubted whether on balance the religions of mankind

had done any good. Judging from what I had seen in Europe, in sense, the power of God in human affairs was negligible. the brotherhood of man. A grim jest if there was a devil. He seemed the boss universal, and he certainly had me. But my friend sat before me and he made the point blank declaration that God had done for him what he could not do himself. His human will had failed. Doctors had pronounced him incurable. Society about to lock him up. Like myself, he had admitted

complete defeat. Then he had, in effect, been raised from the dead. Suddenly taken from the scrap heap to a level of life. Better than the best he had ever known. Had this power originated in him? Obviously it had not. There had been no more power in him than there was in me at that moment. This was none at all. That floored me. It began to look as though religious people were right after all. Here was something at work in a human heart which had done the

impossible. my ideas about miracles were drastically revised right then. Never mind the musty past here. Set a miracle directly across the kitchen table. He shouted great tidings. I saw that my friend was much more than inwardly reorganized. He was on a different footing. His roots grasped a new soil. Despite the living example of my friend, there remained in me the vestiges of my old prejudice.

The word God still aroused a certain antipathy when the thought was expressed that there might be a God personal to me. This feeling was intensified. I didn't like the idea I could go for such conceptions as creative intelligence, universal mind or spirit of nature. But I resisted the thought of a czar of the heavens, h loving his sway might be. I have since talked with scores of men who felt the same way. My friend suggested what then? Seemed a novel idea. He said, Why don't you choose your

own conception of God? That statement hit me hard. It melted the icy intellectual mountain and whose shadow I had lived in shivered in many years. I stood in the sunlight at last. It was only a matter of being willing to believe in a power greater than myself. Nothing more was required of me to make my beginning. I saw that growth could start at that point. Upon a foundation of complete willingness, I might build what I saw in my friend. Would I have

it? Of course I would. Thus, I was convinced that God was concerned with us humans when we want Him enough. long last I saw, I felt I believed. Skills of pride and prejudice fell from my eyes. A new world came into view. The real significance of my experience in the cathedral burst upon me. For a brief moment, I needed and wanted God. There had been a humble willingness to have him with me, and he came. But soon the sense of his presence had been blotted out by worldly clamors, mostly

those within myself. And so it had been ever since. How blind I had been. At the hospital, I was separated from alcohol for the

last time. Treatment seemed wise for I showed signs of delirium tremens. There I humbly offered myself to God as I then understood him to do with him as he would. I placed myself unreservedly under his care and direction. I admitted for the first time that of myself. I was nothing, that without him I was lost. I ruthlessly faced my sins and became willing to have my newfound friend take them away.

Root and branch. I have not had a drink since my schoolmate visited me and I fully acquainted him with my problems and deficiencies. We made a list of people I had hurt. Toward whom I felt resentment. I expressed my entire willingness to approach these individuals, admitti my wrong. Never was I to be critical of them. I was to write all such matters to the utmost of my ability. I was to test my thinking by the new God. Consciousness within common sense with thus become uncommon

sense. I was to sit quietly when in doubt, asking only for direction and strength to meet my problems, as he would have me. never was I to pray for myself, except as my requests for on usefulness to others. Then only might I expect to receive, but that would be in great measure. My friend promised when these things were done, I would enter upon a new relationship with my Creator that I would have the elements of a way of living which answered all my problems.

Belief in a power of God plus enough willingness, honesty and humility to establish and maintain the new order of things were essential requirements. Simple, but not easy. A price had to be paid. It meant destruction of self-centeredness. I must turn in all things to the father of light who presides over all of us. These were revolutionary and drastic proposals. But the moment I fully accepted them, th effect

was electric. There was a sense of victory followed by such a peace and serenity as I had ever known. There was utter confidence I felt lifted up as though the great clean wind of a mountaintop blew through and through. God comes to most men gradually. But his impact on me was sudden and profound. For a moment, I was alarmed and called my friend the doctor, to ask if I were still sane. He listened in wonder as I talked. Finally,

he shook his head, saying, Something's happened to you. I don't understand, but you better hang on to it. Anything is better than the way you were. The good doctor now sees many men who have such experiences. He knows that they are real. While I lay in the hospital, the thought came that there were thousands of hopeless alcoholics who might be glad to have what had been given so freely to me. Perhaps I could help some of them. They, in turn, might work

with others. My friend had emphasized the absolute necessity of demonstrating these principles in all my affairs. Particularly, it was imperative to work with others as he had worked with me. Faith without works was dead, he said. And how appallingly true for the alcoholic, for if the alcoholic failed to protect and enlarge his spiritual life through work and self sacrifice for others, he could not survive the certain trials and low spots ahead. if he did not work, he would surely

drink again. And if he drank, he surely would die. Then faith would be dead. Indeed. Wit us it is just like that. My wife and I abandon ourselves with enthusiasm to the idea of helping other alcoholics to a solution of their problems. It was fortunate for my old business associates remain skeptical for a year and a half, during which I found little work. I was not too well at the time and plagued by waves of self-pity and resentment. the sometimes nearly drove me back

to drink. But I soon found that when all other measures failed, wor with another alcoholic would save the day. Many times I have gone to my old hospital in despair. Talking to a man there, I would be amazingly lifted up and set on my feet. It is a design for living that works in rough going. We commenced to make many fast friends and a fellowship has grown among us, which is a wonderful thing to feel a part of the joy of living. We really have even under

pressure and difficulty. I have seen hundreds of families set their feet in the path that really goes somewhere. I have seen the most impassable domestic situations, righted feuds in bitterness of all sorts, wiped out. I have seen men come out of asylums and resume a vital place in the lives of their families and communities. Business and professional men have regained their standing.

There is scarcely any form of trouble and misery which has not been overcome among us in one western city and its environs. There are 1000 of us in our families. We meet frequently so that the newcomer may find the fellowship they seek these informal gatherings, one may see from 50 to 200 persons. We are growing in numbers, in power. an alcoholic in his cups is an unlovely creature. Our struggles with them are variously strenuous as comic and tragic. One poor chap committed suicide

in my home. He cannot or would not see our way of life. There is, however, a vast amount of fun about it all. I suppose some would be shocked by our seeming, worldliness and levity, but just underneath there is deadly earnestness. Faith has to work 4 hours a day in and through us, or we perish. Most feel we need to look no farther for utopia. We have it with us right here and now. each day my friends simple talk in our kitchen multiplies itself in a widening circle of peace on earth and

goodwill to men. Bill W, co-founder of AA, died January 24, 1971.

Decoding the Big book is a special, limited series of the Sober Friends podcast. It's produced, engineered, written and narrated by me. AJ Source material for Decoding the Big book is from Writing The Big Book by William Shaver will include a link to this highly recommended book in the show notes. Additional sourcing comes from William Shea Briggs YouTube Channel and the Joe and Charlie Big book study groups.