White Chip Wonder

Estimated read time: 12 min

White Chip wonder right here, need my autograph?

If you are an alcoholic like me, you have often heard the phrase “relapse is part of recovery.” This is absolutely true for most of us.  We realize we have a problem, try to fix it by pure willpower alone, and fail. Then start the cycle again.

Friends of mine who were court or spouse-ordered into treatment often make a half-hearted attempt at abstinence. Then, when some of the pressure is off, quickly dive back into the bottle. Years later, they come back.

For a few, the second and more serious attempts to get clean is enough.  Of course there are those who begin their stories with. “On my third trip to rehab after four stints in jail…”

There are others who battle and struggle for years trying “controlled drinking” or “weekend using” until they are either out of options and still alive, or succumb to their illness.

But, there are those rare individuals, almost mythical in nature, and perhaps the unicorns of recovery. These “lucky” souls who crawl into treatment or the rooms of AA or NA and pick up their first and last white chip are few and far between.

Statistically, they represent about one percent of those who make it to long-term recovery. Perhaps you have met one of these rare creatures before they skittered away into the night. If not, you have now. I am one of those few. And, at times, it seems like a big deal.

Not the type of big deal where you get recognized at a recovery roundup or get a special version of the Big Book. It’s not one of those deals where you get a free cup of coffee—well because everyone does. But it is kind of like seeing an albino squirrel. You think, “Hmmm. That’s interesting.” Then you go on with your day.

Being one of very few, I know of only four others, who “got it right” the first time does cast a bit of light or shadow depending on the occasion. If you are an alcoholic like me, being in an enviable or vulnerable position can lead to a great deal of confusion.

Am I special?  Do I know something the rest don’t? Shouldn’t I have some status? Yeah, you can physically see that pride creeping in.

But then there is the flipside…

Do I even belong around these people? Am I really one of them? Will I ever truly know what “real addiction” is? Maybe, just maybe, I don’t truly have this disease. What if I, and I alone, can control it?

If either of those lists of questions made sense to you or got the chipmunks in your skull racing around—congratulations, you are literally as sick as I am.

If I start thinking I am special or unique in my struggle with addiction, I am headed down a slippery slope into a valley of hurt. Still, in early recovery I couldn’t help but play on the edge of the slope, wondering how my seemingly modest drinking career earned me a seat at the table.

From the start, I was hesitant to declare my drinking days done. A very good friend of mine, whom I met in rehab, was encouraging other “guests” to “pick up a white chip” at the off premises AA meeting we were attending on my second day there.  In fairness, he was less encouraging others and more so asking if they would be picking up said chip, too.

In my memory, I was the only one who flatly said no.

First off, if you have read my blog post, “Don’t Fear the “G” Word,” you will know I had no clue what a “white chip” was or why I would get one, especially if you have to walk to the front of a room in front of a large group of people. I was in no way ready to be indoctrinated by these other alcoholics.

More than that, I was absolutely sure I would be drinking again in a few days so what was the point in lying to all these nice people. (I was still under the assumption that I would be discovered as not being a real alcoholic, and be allowed to leave in 3 days max. And it happened about 40 days after those first three. The leaving part, that is. Apparently, I was by all measures an alcoholic.).

I persisted in not claiming my white chip for at least one more week, before I decided that maybe I was sorta, kinda, possibly a type of alcoholic, and to the cheers of what seemed like thousands of well-wishers, received a mundane, plastic, white poker chip that had “AA” in gold lettering in the middle.

Oddly enough, I don’t really remember thinking this is the last time I will ever drink when I picked up the chip. But, that sucker is magic.

Throughout my first months back in the real world, I kept the chip in my pocket. Everywhere I went, I could reach in my pocket and feel the reminder that I had made a promise. I made a promise to my friend who was now 3,000 miles away. I made a promise to others who were in treatment with me and relapsed as quickly as they packed their bags.

Despite all of the promises I had made and broken throughout my life, I was intent on keeping this one. And, I kept rubbing the chip for luck at convenience stores, grocery stores, restaurants, and even sometimes late at night when the thought occurred that taking a drink might help me sleep. Having that chip seemed to make everything that would normally make me want to drink, a waste of time and energy.

Still, as precious as that chip was, I tried to get rid of it. Fortunately, the chip, like a diehard in AA, just kept coming back.

One time I gave the chip to a person chairing at my home group one night, when he joked with me if I was ready to get honest while handing out white chips to anyone who needed one. My home group’s chips are silver-colored, shiny metal and looked cool, so I offered to trade.  At the next meeting I attended, I saw my old white chip sitting on the table right where the person chairing had left it. I crept over quietly and picked it up when no one was looking.

The new metal one just didn’t feel right.

A month or two later, I was talking with another white-chip wonder who was beginning to question whether she was really an alcoholic. She pointed out that she never had a DUI and she often didn’t drink for a day or two. All were thoughts I had run through my head now and again. But, I remembered someone reminding me that alcoholism is progressive and that I just hadn’t had some of the experiences YET, but they were sure to happen if I kept drinking.

I shared what I had been told, and later in the meeting she shared that in speaking with someone she realized she might be a YET alcoholic in some respects, and she could be comfortable with that. My head inflated so large I had a hard time walking out of the door after the meeting.

Two days later, it was deflated, thankfully, by an old-timer who mentioned that he was never going to be a white-chip wonder because he had to push things to the edge. To me, it sounded like my one white chip proved I was wimpy. I gave up too easy.

Maybe, I just picked up the chip because I wanted to belong somewhere I didn’t. If I was really a true alcoholic, where was my struggle to stay sober.  I just gave up on the first day of medically-necessary detox. What kind of crap is that?

After that meeting I left my well-worn white chip at the house for the first time. I just kind of tossed it on the dresser intent on forgetting about it.

Around about the same time, several people, who had entered the rooms in about the same time as me, began to relapse. They came to meetings, one-by-one, sharing what went wrong, and were welcomed back with the saying, “relapse is a part of recovery.” Somehow they seemed even more in the club. I felt left behind and shunned. (You know because everything is about me).

Relapse hadn’t been a part of my recovery, so I figured I must be doing something wrong or I needed to try out drinking again just to make sure I was in the right place. There had to be something I was missing.

Fortunately, before I acted on this thought, I shared this idea with my temporary sponsor and for the first time I was told exactly and explicitly, “Hell, no!” And, I didn’t entertain the idea seriously again. I even put my old white chip back in my pocket after it fell off the dresser while I was emptying my pockets one day.

As I kept staying sober and kept collecting chips, others I gained, disappeared never to return, but not my white chip. It showed up right back in my hand or in my pocket no matter where I sat it down. And, I continued, at times quietly questioning why I deserved sobriety, getting through each day without a drink.

Finally, I was sitting outside on a porch before a meeting, white chip in pocket, listening to a few people talk about their relapses and how they hoped it was far behind them. One of them mentioned that I didn’t know anything about that because I was a “white-chip wonder.” I kind of shook my head as the realization hit that I was not lucky enough to be that special. Then I said aloud, “My relapses took place before I picked this up.” I showed them the white chip I carried. Knowing me, it was probably for dramatic effect, but the realization was true.

Before I entered treatment, there were multiple times that I had sworn off drinking, and really meant it, only to find myself half-way through a bottle of wine on the way to the liquor store. I would tell myself, “I’m not drinking today,” and pull in the first convenience store on the way home from work and walk out with a 12-pack of beer and forget to buy gas that had prompted my stop. I battled, and battled ME, and lost worse every time.

Each time I thought I had my drinking under control, I would go on a spree in which all I could do was drink. I couldn’t do anything without a drink in the morning and would not stop until I fell asleep or passed out at night. I would spend a full-week drunk as soon as school let out for summer (I was a high school teacher). Reel myself together, only to get blasted right before school started again.

If I tried to have just a few (I was not foolish enough to think I would only drink one), I would drink more than I had the last time I lost control, drink longer, react less thoughtfully, and fail to really accomplish anything other than getting drunk. It was a constant state of madness. I honestly believed that each time it would be different. Yet, I digress.

With my constantly reappearing white chip, all of that battle had changed.  I had the mental struggle, but I never took the first drink so the rest didn’t take place. So I held on to that chip like a badge of honor. I rubbed the gold lettering off, but that chip was my lucky charm that started my journey in sobriety and it stayed with me through changes in places I lived, changes in jobs, and the ups and downs that come with life.

After nearly four years of sobriety, I gave my well-worn, tried-and-true, white chip to someone else who was struggling to get sober. I don’t know if that person understood at the time how much the chip meant to me, but I hoped it would work for them as it had for me. Since that person has had the chip, we have both stayed sober.

As a rational human being, I know that our sobriety has nothing to do with a chip. I also know now that relapse doesn’t have to be a part of recovery, and that all alcoholics have struggles in early sobriety.

But, that chip was important to me as a reminder of people who first believed I could stay sober until I believed the same. And, for reasons I can’t fully explain, that chip provided comfort and hope when I needed it most. No matter where I had stored or where more likely where I left it on accident, on days that I got shaky that chip appeared. And on the day I realized I needed to share my first chip with someone it appeared again as if summoned by magic.

So, yes, I’m a white-chip wonder, and today I’m proud to be one.

I also know where my first white chip is should I need it as a reminder of those early days when all I could do was NOT drink. And, I have not forgotten how important a simple piece of plastic can be in those early days that include a whirlwind of emotion, ego inflation and deflation, and at times a white-knuckled struggle.

But, I would not trade picking those days where I picked up that chip and put it in my pocket each morning for all of the ones before when I could not stop picking up the first drink.

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Not a “White Chip Wonder”? Don’t worry, most of us aren’t, and there is no shame in that. Check out Nancy Carr’s story, “Why I Didn’t Get Sober Until my Second DUI” on her blog “Last Call”