Don’t skip this part because you’re not an alcoholic. When people hear the phrase “One day at a time,” they often connect that with alcoholism. If you’re not an alcoholic, you may think the phrase doesn’t apply to you. That’s a mistake. One day at a time is an incredibly useful tool for any kind of change you’re trying to make. It’s also a guiding principle in maintaining serenity in our lives.

Like most of us, I’ve heard “One day at a time” all my life. I knew the concept, but didn’t really fully understand its power until six months after my last drink of alcohol and three months after my last cigarette. It happened when I was stuck in line one morning at the Athens-Clarke County dump.

My pickup truck was loaded with junk and I thought I’d left for the dump early enough to beat the crowd. Apparently, a whole bunch of people thought the same thing. While I sat in line and waited for each vehicle in front of me to be weighed and to pay, I put a CD in the player. It was full of MP3 music files I’d downloaded from Napster before we figured out it was bad to steal music. The CD is pretty much a “best of” for my entire life.

And on it came.

“I like mine with lettuce and tomato.”

Jimmy Buffet.

“Heinz 57 and French fried potatoes.”

Eyes closed, I was there – riding across the Marshes of Glynn.

“Big kosher pickle and cold draft beer.”

Minutes from the Island and the beach.

“Well good God almighty which way do I steer . . .”

Twelve road beers from Athens. Minutes from screwdrivers in the morning while preparing breakfast, scotch on the rocks with a splash of water while lounging at the pool, white Russians on the balcony overlooking the ocean all night long.

“. . .for my cheeseburger in paradise.”

Paradise was the beach for me. I could drink openly at the beach. It was vacation. It was the beach. It was OK to drink a lot of alcohol at the beach. . . in full public view. I didn’t have to monitor my drinking. I loved it! As usual, I was never obviously drunk, but stayed gloriously buzzed beginning with the breakfast preparation. Then out to the ocean to swim away the foggy head. Midmorning drinks around the pool after that, followed by lunch. An afternoon nap chased away the booze. Another round of drinks at the pool before a late afternoon session of riding the ocean waves, sobering up again in the process. Then, off to dinner. After a walk along the beach, I was on the balcony with the white Russians until after midnight.

And, I’d do it all over again the next day. Day after the day. Man, I loved the beach.

All that flashed before me as I sat in my truck in line at the dump, tapping my feet to the beat. A massive sense of loss enveloped me. Emptiness. Depression. I could never go to the beach again. How could I? Beach times were the best times of my life and were filled with the incredibly pleasant effects of alcohol without consequences. Now, I could never drink alcohol again and that would make the beach an awful, miserable place to be.

I hit the replay button and “Cheeseburger” started again. It just wasn’t right. I wasn’t ready to give up on my favorite place yet – the place full of sensuous memories from when Pat and I had first met and lay all evening long in the sand, munching. The place that created the family lore of vacations for my children. Now, I can’t go there again. The thought of being at the beach without alcohol was too painful. It would be horrible. I would be miserable.

Great God Almighty, which way do I steer?

I can’t give up the beach.

Got to figure out a way.

That’s when I developed my annual relapse and retreatment plan. Each summer, I’ll go to the beach and drink alcohol just like I always did. When I come home, I’ll go back to the treatment center. Problem is, that’ll cost lots of money. My insurance is limited to three treatment sessions, so I’ll have to pay it myself after the second relapse. OK, fine. I’ll just add the cost of treatment to the cost of the vacation. What’s another three thousand dollars so I can enjoy the beach again?
Yes, that was my plan.

I felt better.

Then I thought about Billy. An alcoholic I knew who had had gotten drunk again. He had been among the alcoholics who seemed to have a rock solid recovery program. He was an inspiration. Then, one day he drank. Shortly after that, he died. He was 32.

The problem with my plan is that it depended on my being certain I would be able to recapture the willingness to do what it would take to quit again. During my short time in sobriety, I’d heard story after story of people who’d relapsed and never made it back, just like Billy.

I thought about those two weeks when I was detoxing. Sitting on that bench on my patio. Drinking Ensure. The nausea, pain, and agony. The trips to the emergency room. The cirrhosis scare. I never, ever, wanted to go through that again. My annual treatment plan quickly lost its luster.

Back to depression and despair.

A horn blew. I startled and glanced in the mirror. The guy behind me waved his hands. My eyes focused ahead. The vehicles in front of me had moved forward several car lengths. I put my truck in gear and caught up.

I looked around. I didn’t see any sand. I didn’t see any pool. I didn’t see any ocean.

What I saw, and smelled, was the Athens-Clarke County dump. I wasn’t at the beach. I was at the Athens Clarke County dump. There has never been anything about the Athens-Clarke county dump that even remotely made me want to drink alcohol.

I remembered “one day at a time.” Someday I might go to the beach. When I get there, I’ll decide if I’m going to drink alcohol. Meantime, I won’t drink alcohol today. I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.

It was magical. I relaxed. I enjoyed the music. I enjoyed the day.

Since that time, I discovered that living one day at a time makes everything easier, not just staying sober. “One day at a time” is another way of suggesting we live in the “now.” Robert Hastings wrote that regret of the past and fear of the future are the twin thieves of the present. If I live in the present, take things one day at a time, I significantly enhance my chance of successfully changing my life in all ways.

It took six months to lose the weight necessary to have cholesterol levels that allowed me to avoid medication. Absent “one day at a time,” discouragement would have been a daily experience. It wasn’t. When I craved a hunk of French bread, slathered with butter, and became depressed when I realized I could never eat French bread whenever I wanted again, I’d think, “Listen up, Ed – Don’t eat French bread today. That’s all. Worry about tomorrow when it comes.”
When I want a cigarette really badly, maybe I can have one . . . tomorrow. But, I’ll not have one this minute, this hour, or this day. And, I’ll do that one minute, one hour, and one day at a time.

I run each day for a total of 32 miles a week. Sometimes I’ll find myself struggling on a long downhill run. The downhill part should be easier. When that happens, I invariably realize that I’m spending what should be the easier downhill time thinking about the god-awful hill that I’ll have to climb that’s just ahead. Instead of that steep hill being hard for the one minute it takes to go up it, I make it hard for the entire run by living it in the future. When I remember one day at a time – one moment at a time – the easier part gets easier again. I look around, breathe easy, focus on where I am now, and relax. The downhill part becomes easier again. I’ll deal with the hard uphill part when I get to it.

Works with everything – job, family, health – everything. Whenever I’m all nutty about the future, I remember, this isn’t the beach. It’s the dump.

I’ll worry about the beach tomorrow.