The Harder They Fall (8 page)

I called my predecessor and mentor, congressman [Bill] Frenzel, who held this office for twenty years before my election in 1990. I wanted Frenzel to hear it from me. I had so much respect for him. It was a hard phone call to make, but in typical Frenzel fashion, he said, “Well, the mark of a strong person is what he or she does when they’re down on the mat. You’re down on the mat now; let’s see what you do. Your future’s up to you. I’m not going to write you off yet.”

That gave me a lot of incentive. Other friends helped me, made arrangements for me to go to treatment at Saint Mary’s Rehabilitation Center in Minneapolis—it’s now called Fairview Recovery Services—on the west bank of the University of Minnesota. And from that day forward, every day got better. August 1, I came home from South Dakota, and August 2, I was admitted to treatment. Spent the next twenty-eight days in treatment … I’m grateful to say, thanks to the grace of God and the
fellowship of other recovering people, and family and friends who’ve loved me, that I’ve been able to stay sober since. Every day I wake up and get down on my knees before I do anything, before I go to the bathroom, I thank God for waking up sober.

I recently lost my mother. For nine very tough years, she had Alzheimer’s. Very early in the disease, my mother told one of her doctors who told me at the funeral that “Whatever my son, Jim, might have accomplished, the thing I’m most proud about him is his recovery, that he’s been able to recover from alcoholism.” Nobody could have given me a bigger, more appreciated gift than to tell me that. My mother respected and appreciated my recovery. I know I hurt her, my father, sister, and significant others a lot when I was drinking—caused them embarrassment, shame, and worry. Pain that while I was drinking I wasn’t aware I was causing my family and parents. No. I was in stubborn and intractable denial, because of the images that I had as a young boy about alcoholics. I didn’t want to be like my two uncles, who died tragic deaths from this fatal disease. I didn’t feel guilty at the time, or think of myself as an alcoholic. My self-image was of someone who worked hard and played hard.

Eventually though the consequences became greater. It wasn’t just headaches and stupid drunken behavior. It was a DWI. It was embarrassing a friend at his wedding. It was embarrassing my own sister at her wedding. It was ending up in a jail cell. The consequences started coming after I moved back to Minnesota in 1978. I’d lived in Washington from 1970 to 1978—went to law school here, practiced law, and taught as an adjunct professor at American University. Taught five years, starting at Montgomery College and then at American University. From 1979, drinking wasn’t fun anymore. I was worried more about the consequences than I was carried along by the fun. And the consequences became more significant.

I never intended to drink to blackout proportions. Sometimes I’d succeed in my resolve: “I’m going out tonight. I’m only going to have two beers.” And I only had two beers. But then the fifth or sixth time I was only going to have two beers and woke up not knowing where I was the next morning. It was unpredictable behavior. Part of that was the excitement and contagion that some alcoholics feel, but any excitement was more than
offset by anxiety, fear, worry. Going out to my car the next morning, checking my bumpers for blood and dents. This is how crazy my alcoholism got. Especially given the Minnesota roads in the winter, I consciously feared that I would end up in a car accident, killing myself and others. In fact that’s the first thing I asked the jailer when I woke up in that cell. I said, very respectfully, “Would you please answer three questions? Was I driving a car last night?” He said no. “I didn’t kill anybody? Or hurt anybody in any other way?” And he said, “No. No, you didn’t hurt anybody.” I was greatly relieved because of the insanity of this disease, which I’ve learned about in recovery. The disease is a form of insanity, and the more it progresses the more insane a person becomes, and certainly my drinking was insane.

That night in jail was really the night I was led out of the wilderness. I was literally brought down to my knees that next morning. I knelt down in the corner in that jail on that cement floor and folded my hands and sought my Higher Power. I totally admitted my powerlessness over alcohol. I said, “Oh Lord, I know now what I am. Please help me. Wherever you lead I’ll go. If it’s treatment, resigning my state senate seat, doing something else with my life, whatever.” I quit trying to control things and let it happen. I had advisors telling me when I returned to Minnesota the following day—I’ll never forget the buzzwords were “unfortunate misunderstanding”—just tell the press and your constituents that it was an unfortunate misunderstanding between you and the Sioux Falls police. After my experience that morning in jail and turning it over, I said, “No. No. No more. I can’t. That’s … No. This time I’m going to tell the truth about my drinking. I’m going to let it all hang out, be totally honest, and let the chips fall where they may. I can’t deal with this any other way. I can’t continue with it anymore.”

I knew I needed help and wanted my alcoholism to stop. I knew I couldn’t do it alone. I needed treatment. So instead of hypocrisy, I told my story. About twelve years of abusing alcohol. What happened in Sioux Falls. That I really didn’t remember the details—I was blacked out as I commonly experienced it in those days. Being in a disco with loud music and drinking, and that’s the last I remembered except flashes in the hotel lobby across the street—the hotel where we were staying, and the security guard
who came by and asked if I was a guest. I said, “No, I’m not.” Well I was. Apparently I didn’t have a key. I have no independent recollection of the rest of this, no firsthand knowledge. This is what I was told by the authorities, that the guard said I had to leave. I was sitting in a roped-off area which was a coffee shop during the day and in the evening, because it was two o’clock in the morning, and I refused to leave. “Are you staying here?” he said, and I said, “No, and it’s none of your blankedy-blank business. Leave me alone. I’m not moving.” The guard called another security guard, and when I wouldn’t budge, they called the police. Then I again refused to leave and was charged on three counts. I was on probation for a year with the condition that if I didn’t get into any further trouble, the charges would be dropped. There was never a formal adjudication. The plea was as a first-time offender. And going into treatment was not a condition. I didn’t need a judge to tell me I needed it.

Treatment was a scary proposition, going into the unknown, the uncertain, not knowing what to expect. Every day, though, improved over the previous. I learned about my disease; things like the pattern of it started making sense. It seemed that I personified the disease concept. Speakers and small groups during the treatment reinforced my understanding and provided tools for recovery. I made a commitment during my stay that I would put recovery first for the rest of my life, as long as the good Lord gave me on this earth. And I’ve been able to maintain that—one day at a time.

The more truthful I became with people, the more they embraced me. The more honest and open I was, the more people responded. The first week I got out of treatment, I went to my American Legion post for a luncheon meeting and saw a gentleman who frequented it but was no friend of mine. In fact, he did everything to foil me. I had just won the election that previous November and finished my first year of my first term. It was a hotly contested campaign. I beat a popular Democratic incumbent, strongly supported by this gentleman. Even though we were both members of the legion post, he hated my guts! He came up to me and said, “You know,
Ramstad”—and I figured he was on the verge of asking me to resign my state senate seat or something negative, something involved in politics and very critical given what had just happened. But he said, “You know, Ramstad, I always thought you had three strikes against you. First of all you’re a damn lawyer, and I hate lawyers. Secondly you’re a damn politician, and I hate politicians. Thirdly you’re a damn Republican lawyer, and there’s nothing worse.” And then he reached up his big arms. (His forearms were as big as tree stumps. Was he going to hit me or what?) And he got this big smile on his face and said, “But now that I know you’re an alcoholic, you’re one of us. Welcome to the club, brother.” And he gave me a hug.

I started crying like a baby. The tears kept coming. I felt, wow, this guy was one of my worst critics. He did everything he could to defeat me in the election and here he’s welcoming me to the club. He’s my friend and he gave me a hug! … And the more I opened to people, the more I was embraced.

By and large, people gave me support and encouragement through the rough time, after my problem was exposed. I think of a couple in Plymouth [Minnesota], very devout churchgoers who were active in the Republican Party. When I saw them, I felt so bad because I cared about them and I’d fallen from their standards. I felt they would be judgmental and withdraw their support. But this couple surprised me when they too surrounded me with a big hug. They had struggled with substance abuse also. These people were right off caring about me as an individual and encouraging my recovery. It’s been a whole new world, the life of recovery. No more doublespeak in any area of life. A feeling of being real with everybody.

Now I feel that my political persona and private persona are one and the same. What a great feeling it is! I don’t have to be somebody else when I go out to give a speech or when I meet constituents or speak to a campaign rally. I see many of my colleagues who are kind of split personalities. They are one person privately and another on the stump. Because honesty is a cornerstone of recovery, my life has become a lot easier and more fun, a lot healthier. I don’t have to pretend. I quit pretending on July 31, 1981. I quit worrying about the ramifications of what I said. I just try to be honest and open. I try to apply the principles of recovery to all aspects of my life. I’ve not been perfect, but I feel as though every day I make progress.

I force myself every single morning of my life, when I first wake up
and get down on my knees, to remember exactly what it was like in that jail cell. I can tell you where the plaster was chipped and where the drainpipe was that I knelt by and where the bars were to the outside. I can still picture that jail cell vividly. I can draw it for you exactly as it was. I never want to forget that turning point, that epiphany in my life. That’s how I stay sober. It took me twelve years to get to the admission of my disease, and it was crucial for me. The first step was 90 percent of the battle. Because I didn’t want to be an alcoholic. I was taught and wanted to be as nearly perfect as I could be—in school, sports, politics. I didn’t want my flaws known. The recovering enabled me to feel human and to recognize that nobody’s perfect, no relationship is perfect. Everyone has flaws. Everyone is dealt problems. My life’s not perfect; I have problems every single day, but it’s how I deal with them that counts. Any problem would only be exacerbated, would only get worse, were I to revert to drinking. And of course I’m absolutely convinced that if I hadn’t had that experience with those police officers and that jail cell that I’d be dead now because I was drinking such large quantities. I’ve learned about the disease the more I’ve gotten into it, not only from my own recovery standpoint but also from the standpoint of a policymaker trying to provide the same access to treatment to the 26 million Americans out there who still suffer the ravages of this disease.

My counselor at Saint Mary’s Rehabilitation Center said the first day of treatment, August 2, 1981, “Jim, the only time you’re going to be a
recovered
alcoholic is when they put you in your casket, when they put you underground. Because you’re never out of the woods. Nobody’s safe from relapse. We’re recovering one day at a time.” I was disappointed at the time I heard that because I wanted to call myself a recovered alcoholic. You know, I’m fixed. I’ve got the
Good Housekeeping
seal of approval that I’m well and can now be normal. I’m not normal, I’m an alcoholic. And I’ve got to deal with my alcoholism every single day of my life so I don’t take that next drink.

Whether you’re a successful writer, great athlete, or wonderful First Lady—I think of Mrs. Ford in the photograph on the wall there with her husband, who have become dear friends of mine—this is an equal opportunity
disease. It doesn’t matter your socioeconomic status or your position. We’re all in this together. I like all my groups, but my favorite meets at the House of Charity in Minneapolis. About half the members are in the long-term treatment center there for indigent people, most of whom are off the street. A lot come from other cities. That’s really their last chance between this world and the grave. I’ve made many friends over the years going to that Thursday night group with those men who are really down on their luck. But there for the grace of God go I.

I can’t think of any group I frequent where there haven’t been relapses, and that’s important to see. One of my groups had a guy with forty-two years of sobriety who got in a big fight with his wife and went out and was dead in three months. Because of the progressive nature of the disease, that could be me. So my point is that addiction is an equal opportunity disease, and I just love the people in recovery. I’m just so grateful for every one of them because they help me stay sober. They’re the most wonderful people in the world. I just wish this place, I wish Congress could become like a recovery group where people say what they mean and mean what they say. You know this would be a lot better institution. We could make a lot better public policy, a lot better laws, if it weren’t about spin but about honesty. If it were a requirement that Congress adopt a program of recovery—like the Twelve Steps—we would all benefit. Certainly the American people would benefit.

Nobody can really measure the indirect cost of alcoholism. All the absenteeism in the workplace, the lost productivity and injuries, and of course the 100,000 people who died from alcohol and addiction last year. That doesn’t measure how many lives failed and how many people died of liver failure because of alcohol, or how many died of heart disease. That’s just those that we know the direct cause was chemical addiction. Eighty-two percent of people in our jails, according to a Columbia University study, are there because of drugs and/or alcohol. So I just wish this place would turn into a big recovery group. Then I know we could get a good treatment parity bill passed. But all we can do is carry the message in our lives. I feel very blessed and fortunate to be a recovering alcoholic. There is no way I could be anything else—a good uncle, son, or partner for
Kathryn, a good friend, let alone a member of Congress if I hadn’t been able to treat my alcoholism. That’s who I am fundamentally. It’s so basic. I’m first and foremost a grateful recovering alcoholic.