text: I got away with murder. Well, not actual murder but I had bad thoughts since early childhood. Fratricide, for starters. I was three when my youngest brother was born. That meant I’d get less of my parents’ affection so I picked up a hammer and headed for his crib with evil intent. Mother grabbed me as I was climbing into the crib, weapon in my hand. Three or four years later I broke into my middle brother’s grammar school classroom and trashed it. No one ever knew this - until now. Nor did anyone know that I would steal coins from the Coke machine at church. Until now. I had every ADHD symptom; I was a handful. On the other hand, I was precocious and often showed flashes of brilliance. Eventually I was taken to a shrink. I remember nothing of that visit other than taking a few tests. I can speculate what my parents were told: “John is a very active child and in many ways he’ll be a challenge. He is deeply attached to you, to a pathological extent. That’s immaturity. He’ll grow out of it. In the meantime, he will have excellent coping skills due to his intelligence. He has huge willpower and with that intelligence, he’ll be a high achiever but also difficult at times. And congratulations to the two of you: Your child is an actual genius.” I can imagine smiles on Mother’s and Dad’s faces and I can imagine Dad’s asking if my IQ was tested and then giving out a low whistle when he heard the number. Sometime years later I found out what my IQ was. I let out a bold whistle. Put it this way: Per Google, it was the same as Stephen Hawking’s. That meant I was a rara avis and I liked that. I was still doing bad things: Using a BB gun to shoot out streetlights and execute songbirds. I started drinking beer at fourteen or fifteen. Drunkenness came early. Despite that problem I matriculated at an elite school, then got an MBA and embarked on a hugely successful career. I learned that co-workers nicknamed me “Boy Wonder.” This all seemed so natural to me but I blew it. In my mid-thirties I was before the Directors of a large bank, presenting a plan to build a new headquarters building. Stage fright slammed me. Instant panic attack. Instantly mute. My boss saw what was happening to me and took over. I should have been embarrassed, but instead I was filled with tremendous anxiety. In the back of my mind was fear of another panic attack. That fear became part of me, maybe it defined me. Imagine a double attack of claustrophobia and stage fright. My panic attacks began episodically, but worsened and never left. A doctor gave me Valium. Wow! Anxiety faded; calm appeared. After three months or so, the doc would not give me a refill. Anxiety returned and I could not fight the panic. For some reason I don’t remember, one day I gulped a shot of vodka. Then another and the panic abated. Being a certified genius, I had an idea: Use alcohol preventively, proactively. Keep panic at bay. It worked! Soon a single shot was not enough; I needed more. I needed a drink when I woke up. I needed a drink to get through the day. I needed a drink to sleep. I was a mess. Somehow my willpower and intelligence got me through the workday. This went on for months. One morning as I stumbled to the garage I had a realization. Two of them, actually: One, I was an alcoholic. Two, I didn’t give a damn. Depression had shown up with its dark cloak. I did not realize that the alcohol was not fully metabolizing, but building up in my system. I learned that one April. My long-suffering wife found me comatose on the living room floor. An ambulance arrived and I was strapped onto a gurney and taken to the hospital. I started coming to after three days, but I was incoherent and my thoughts were muddled. It was alcohol poisoning, at a probably fatal level. That’s at a blood alcohol level of .40 or higher. My BAL was higher, significantly higher, than that. I later learned that my parents were told three times that I was dying. One time I felt a coldness low down in the back of my skull. I was certain that it was death, creeping up my brainstem. Thankfully, it wasn’t death and after eight days in the ICU, I was released into a treatment center, where I was ushered into a locked room with a bed, lavatory and toilet. For the better part of a week this was my jail cell as I went through the DTs. The experience was dreadful. When the worst was over, I was taken for an interview with the head of the treatment center. “Tell me about yourself,” said the guy, all smiles. Feeling a bit better, I took on a chipper attitude and told my tale. The man was not impressed and challenged me, “You’re just another drunk.” He was probably right but at this point my emotions were raw and too sensitive for his dose of tough love. The next day I found an unlocked door and escaped. Somehow, I ended up at home but I was shaken and willing to do anything to avoid not just my recent hospital - treatment center ordeal, but drinking at all. I checked myself into a new treatment center and its folks were compassionate and kind. After a friendly interview I was shown my room. It was nice and I sat on the bed, thinking. Soon tears streamed down my face. These were not tears of pain or hurt, but of gratitude. After 28 days there and some months of group therapy, I was a different and better person. I resumed my life and my career, to include daily AA meetings. *** I’ve always loved music - pop, rock, soul and then “dance music” which I listen to today. Basically, it’s pop songs with a strong bass line. I’d explain it to people: It’s a chick singer, a black rapper and a German DJ with an electronic keyboard. A 1999 song tugged at my soul, then and now. It’s “Pray for Redemption” by a German group named Culture Beat. The primary lyric is “I need to pray for redemption and start all over again. The tears wash away my sorrow and shame.” I love the song but have never able to define “redemption.” I’ve puzzled that for years and sometimes my eyes water as I listen to the words. My wife and I enjoy travel and Vienna is our favorite destination. It’s quite amazing. Among its riches are many spectacular churches, some dating to the 13 th century. Our favorite was Peterskirche, a Baroque masterpiece. We’d sit near the front and take in the spectacle: altars, apses, transepts, narthex and so on. There was gilt everywhere and it awed me. On our last trip we visited the church as a mass was beginning. As a lapsed Presbyterian some of the ritual was beyond my understanding. We sat quietly and soon a male choir marched in, its members clad in white robes with red trim. Soon I was embraced by the choir’s dulcet chants. A spirit touched me. Its caress left me weak and wondrous. In the year since, that caress occasionally appears and when it does, I automatically think of redemption. I need it and want it but I’m a coward and keep my sins to myself. AA’s “twelve steps” provide a path to redemption: Make a moral inventory of ourselves and admit our sins to God and another person. Another avenue would be to make a confession to a Catholic priest. I know doing either of those could bring me peace and redemption and gain me forgiveness. I’m stuck, though, and lack the courage or energy to trod those paths. Rather than fret over this shortcoming, I simply try to be a good, moral, empathetic person. Writing this narrative has helped.