CHAPTER 1
Hell
January 18, 2004
I finished working the lunch shift and proceeded in my usual manner. First stop, purchase two sixteen-ounce beers to consume on the drive home. Next two stops, buy the night's supply of my salvation. In my drug-addled mind I thought if I bought my daily required dose all at one place, then they would think I was an alcoholic. So I made multiple stops to procure what I needed to make it through the night. This became one of the markers of the insanity to which I had descended.
Upon arriving at home I retrieved the mail, which contained an official letter from the Davidson County Circuit Courts addressed to me. I had developed the habit of never opening my mail, however, this letter looked ominous, and for once common sense prevailed and I opened it. It read, "Mr. Dieringer, you are due in court on January 20 at 9a.m. where your probation will be revoked and you will be sentenced to eleven months and twenty-nine days in jail."
January 20, 2004
Honorable Judge Mondelli: "Mr. Dieringer, I'm giving you the option of eleven months twenty-nine days in jail, or treatment." Me: "I choose treatment."
My thought as I stood in baffled shock in front of the judge was, how had my once so promising life come to this? My life of incredible accomplishment had disintegrated into a desolate wasteland to the point of near death. Over the preceding twenty-seven years I continued to accept lower lows, and descended into the abysmal state I called life. I finally found myself in a corner I could see no way out of. The legal system finally had my attention. God finally had my attention. I could not accept the newest bottom being offered me, yet I had little choice but to accept.
The offer and acceptance of treatment brought with it no comfort. Due to the fact I had attempted very sincerely, to get sober on several occasions in the last decade and never succeeding with more than twenty-one days, I was convinced I could never be sober.
Even crying out to God in all earnestness had not worked. So in my mind treatment was nothing more than a delaying tactic. I knew I would eventually find myself in front of a judge again and this time no option would be given.
During the twenty-seven years of active addiction I was arrested three times for DUI, remarkable because I was eligible for incarceration on most nights during that time.
On those occasions, the few hours I spent behind bars drove me insane. I knew exactly how a caged animal felt. The concept of this being my reality for a year was terrifying, yet I knew this was what the future held for me. As I drove home that day completely shaken to the core with fright as to where my life was going on an increasingly steep and slippery descent into hell, I never once thought of God. Never once thought of praying.
Without any conscious thought, upon walking into my house I just stopped, and started saying over and over, for how long I have no idea, "I quit ... I quit ... I can't do this ..." When, all of a sudden I had goose bumps from head to toe, and a peace came over me I had never known. There are no words I know of to adequately describe this event, as in my head I heard the words, "It's okay, it's going to be alright – It's okay, it's going to be alright." I knew in my current state this voice could not be my own. Afterward, as I sat on my couch in peaceful silence, I knew Jesus to be the source of those words. To my amazement, I have been sober since that day and have had no desire to be anything other than sober. This, to me, a third-stage alcoholic, is absolute proof I Am loved beyond measure. In this I know I Am not unique. All of God's creations are loved beyond measure.
CHAPTER 2
Tailspin
At the age of seven I and my family flew from Chicago to San Diego to spend Christmas with my father who was in the Navy, and stationed there. I remember on takeoff being nervous but once we were at cruising altitude I fell in love with the experience. From that moment on my sole intention was to become an airline pilot.
At the age of twelve, after discovering KISS I decided I was going to be a rock star but in the end I only took up the destructive life-style of many artists.
In high school, I briefly thought I would follow in the footsteps of my uncle, a truck driver. He was my hero and the closest thing to a father I knew. My parents divorced soon after my father retired from the Navy and we lost all communication with him.
However being an airline pilot was always there. I soaked up everything on the subject. I even at one time could recite the pre-flight checklist for a Boeing 747. At the age of sixteen I began taking flying lessons.
I had been informed that the only way to my chosen career was to go through the military. If I could afford to pay for the flight hours necessary to become eligible for consideration then I didn't need a job in the first place. Irrelevant in the end, I discovered this information to be inaccurate twenty-five years too late. At the time it played a crucial part in the course of my life.
At the age of fifteen I became very ill due to a ruptured appendix. My appendix being not where it was supposed to be, I was misdiagnosed. I spent the next three months in the hospital, undergoing eight surgeries, leaving me with seven huge scars on my abdomen and back and losing forty pounds. Years later it was revealed to me I was not expected to live. I'm so glad they forgot to inform me of this at the time. It's amazing what you can do when you don't know you can't do it.
After graduating high school in 1977, I found myself at the military entrance examining station in Chicago. The first half of the day I spent completing the aptitude test. I scored the highest out of 550 applicants. When I learned this I wondered about the state of our military. I'm not that smart. With my father's service in the military, coupled with my test score I was automatically eligible for acceptance to any military college. The second half of the twelve hour ordeal was spent, clad only in underwear going through a barrage of medical testing.
Eventually I found myself at the end of the line, where a doctor, holding a clipboard took one look at my stomach and declared me PMR: Permanent Medical Reject. My world was in that instant swiped out from under me. I was in shock.
According to the surgeon who saved my life, I had no disabilities. I returned three times to Chicago fighting to overturn this death sentence, all to no avail. My rudder had been cut off. I had no clue as to what to do now. This was a body blow that took more than a quarter of a century for me to recover from.
I formed a great and vast pool of self-pity which turned into a life driving blinding anger. I blamed God for allowing me to get sick. I blamed the doctor who misdiagnosed me. I blamed my mother for not taking me to the hospital sooner. Eventually, I blamed all of you for not joining in my pity party. Life had become a cruel joke.
CHAPTER 3
Welcome to My Nightmare
Soon after being rejected by the military I moved to Denver in a customized van, very special to me. Before the move, my best friend Don and I put many miles on this vehicle as we drove all across the countryside, nightly drinking beer and smoking pot.
Upon first sight of the Rocky Mountains, I fell in love and knew I had found the...
