A book written by people like you
Early in 1939 Marty M. was thirty-four, and she had been a charity patient at Blythewood, a private sanitarium in Greenwich, Connecticut, since the summer before. Her psychiatrist, Dr. Harry Tiebout, had told her she could never drink again. She didn’t believe him. On passes into New York she still came back drunk now and then, and she had learned to hide it. When word came that he wanted to see her at his house, where he was sick in bed, she was sure she was about to be sent away.
Instead she found him propped up on pillows, delighted, with a document lying on the coverlet: “a thick 8½-by-11-inch multilith document with red cardboard covers held together with cord.” It was one of the four hundred loan copies of the book the sober alcoholics of New York and Akron were about to publish. “This is the prepublication manuscript of a book written by people like you,” he told her. On the first page were two words: Alcoholics Anonymous.
For years doctors had called her people like you. Now her illness had a name. “I love the word alcoholic!” Then she hit the capital G’s, four or five to a page. She thought the writing was poor, and the book was all about men; its one story by a woman didn’t speak to her. She threw the manuscript out the window and went off to get drunk. For the next six weeks she read a page or two a day, just enough to argue with Tiebout.
The turn came on a winter day, after a furious row with the sanitarium’s business manager. Up in her attic room under the eaves, she saw red, and planned to buy whiskey, come back and wreck the place. The book was lying open on her bed. One line stood out, as she remembered it: “We cannot live with anger.” The next thing she knew, she was on her knees beside the bed, and the rage was gone. She ran down to Tiebout’s office, afraid she had lost her mind. “I believe you’ve had an authentic spiritual experience,” he told her. She went back up and read the book through “in one gulp.”
On Tuesday, April 11, 1939, the date her biographers give, she took the five o’clock train to New York. After dinner on Sutton Place with an AA member and his wife, she rode the subway to Brooklyn, to the brownstone at 182 Clinton Street where Bill W., one of AA’s two founders, lived with his wife Lois. Some forty people were packed into the rooms downstairs. She ran upstairs and threw herself, crying, on the coats piled on the bed. Lois came up after her: “We’re waiting for you below, and we want you.”
About twenty-five of them were alcoholics, all men. She found herself talking to them as she had never talked to anyone. Afterward she went upstairs with Bill and some of the men and talked about resentments until three in the morning. She said she had never had one, and they laughed. She spent the night at her sister’s apartment in the city, and in the morning a fellow patient at Blythewood, Grennie, telephoned to ask how it had gone. “Grennie, there’s just one thing I can say. We are not alone any more.”