by Andrew B . Delaney , Esq .
Confessions of a Teenage Drunk
“ My name is Andy and I ’ m an alcoholic .” So goes the introduction at most Alcoholics Anonymous meetings , and while I don ’ t attend meetings regularly any more , I certainly know the drill . I ’ ve struggled with drinking since I was fifteen years old . It almost cost me my legal career before it even started .
Now why would I want to tell the whole world — or at least the entire Vermont bar — that ? Truth is , I don ’ t . It ’ s not exactly something I ’ m proud of . I wish I could drink like a normal person . Now that I can afford to buy the fancy liquor , it ’ d be nice to have a nice single-malt scotch once in a while or some good Irish whiskey . It ’ d be nice to enjoy a glass of wine with dinner or a “ real ” beer after mowing the lawn . And if I were a different person , I could do that .
But I ’ m me . And after multiple knocks on the head , I ’ ve finally concluded that I ’ m one of those people that can ’ t drink alcohol . I suspect that if you ’ re taking the time to read this , maybe there ’ s something in you — or someone you know — that worries you a little bit . So , if one person reads this and it ’ s a wake-up call . . . if it helps one person out there realize that he or she isn ’ t the only one out there with an alcohol problem , then it ’ s worth a little embarrassment to me . Or maybe my motives aren ’ t that pure . Maybe I just like talking about myself . I am a lawyer , after all .
You don ’ t need a screwed-up childhood to become a drunk . I grew up in Torrington , Connecticut at the end of a dead-end street right next to the Naugatuck River . There was a big mulberry tree at the end of our road ( a road which also served as our driveway ). In 1985 , during Hurricane Gloria , I hid in a poorly built tree fort I ’ d made out of cabinet doors my dad had brought home from a job . My parents were understandably upset . After reading a book about Denmark , I built my little brother wooden shoes — hammering them together around his feet . I hadn ’ t thought about how he might get out of them . After reading a book about the Wright brothers , my brother and I built an airplane . We never did manage to make it fly . My bottom front teeth are chipped because — at age seven or eight — I thought I would catch a Frisbee in my mouth like a show dog .
I found a heroin needle on the street when I was about ten and brought it home . Shortly thereafter , my parents announced that we ’ d be moving to Vermont .
In the early 1990s , I split my time between Vermont and Connecticut . My grandparents live in a quiet suburban neighborhood in northwestern Connecticut . There are farms and streams and woods nearby . The air — despite being only a few miles outside of the city — has an earthy quality about it . Elm , maple , and hemlock trees line the streets . My mother and baby sister , my aunt — and sometimes my father and little brother — live in a large three-story home on the corner of two quiet , country roads with my grandparents .
It ’ s a pleasant existence . I can do chores if I need money . I happen to be the favorite grandson , so if I ask grandma for some money , it ’ s not even necessary to do those chores . My two-and-a-half-years-younger little brother and I have taken over the third floor of the house . We have all the amenities we could ask for . There ’ s a barn of sorts in the field across the street that my grandparents own . We ’ ve run an extension cord across the road — actually tacked it to telephone poles , which I ’ m sure violates some code somewhere — so we have power and a sort-of apartment-slash-clubhouse setup in the upstairs of the barn .
Vermont is a bit different . Dad has decided to get back to the land , so we have seventeen acres in Tunbridge . There ’ s no electricity or running water — dad jokes : “ We do have running water . You run down to the stream and get it .” We live in a camp and it ’ s usually just me and dad or just dad and my brother during the Vermont times . But despite the lack of amenities , Vermont is pleasant too . I read a lot and walk through the woods . I don ’ t enjoy nature quite as much as my brother but I appreciate it well enough . I often wish there was more to do in Vermont but it ’ s not unbearable — I ’ ve been able to escape in books since I first learned to read .
Both my brother and I are homeschooled . Both our parents have a bit of a hippie streak and are intelligent . We do not lack for education though we sometimes wish we did . My life is pleasant . I don ’ t have childhood trauma . My parents are not abusive . They show me they love me . I ’ m fortunate . There ’ s nothing particularly wrong with me . And yet , I ’ m about to become a drunk .
I explain this because I know that alcoholism is not picky . It doesn ’ t discriminate . You don ’ t have to be predisposed to it or have some hole that needs to be filled with booze . Nothing suggests that I ’ m on my way to a decade and change of struggles with substance abuse .
In Connecticut , my cousin lives across the street , one lot up from the barn . He ’ s recently graduated from college . He works for a bank and has friends over regularly . They watch ballgames and drink beer . Sometimes I hang out with them and they ’ ll let me have a beer , but never more than one . But there ’ s a cooler of beer that pretty
24 THE VERMONT BAR JOURNAL • WINTER 2016-17 www . vtbar . org