So you buy a beer, a single, on the way home from work, along with a pack of Trident. Again, the world doesn’t stop; nothing horrible happens. In fact, you feel better. Later that night, you tell everybody you’re going to the convenience store for a pack of cigarettes—nothing unusual if you’ve been, as I was, a pack-a-day smoker since college. While you’re there, if you’re me, you also buy a six-pack.
That lasts two days. Then you think: If I drink three of those big bottles of Chimay, an ale brewed by Trappist monks in Belgium that’s 12 percent alcohol, I’ll get a better buzz for about the same amount of liquid.
But that’s a lot of fluid to put down and you still don’t really like beer, no matter what kind of monk brews it. Why not just pick up a half-pint of vodka? A few shots would give you a lot more bang for the buck. Actually, a pint would make even more sense. And, if you’re me, you take that a step further: Why not a bottle?
And there you are, drinking a bottle of Smirnoff Red every night while sitting in your garage with two coats on because it’s so damn cold, watching Game of Thrones or Battlestar Galactica or whatever else you can stream on your laptop, making sure before nodding off that you stash the bottle where it won’t be found.
The next day, you don’t get up for work. You sleep in until nine. Everybody wants to know what’s wrong. If you’re like me, you act put out: “What do you mean, what’s wrong? Everything’s fine.”
When you do show up for work, you don’t go to the meeting that you’re already late for. Feeling bad about that, you head to a bar.
Ad infinitum.
It only gets worse. There’s now another set of stresses because you’re hiding the obvious. You’re not abusive; you’re not stumbling around; you’re not driving the kids while you’ve been drinking. The worst is your wife finding that empty bottle you hid in the trash. But that old sense of impending doom is back, hovering over your head like a black cloud. Everybody sees it. The people around you—family, friends, coworkers—aren’t sure what to do. They’re seven years removed from the last time this happened. They’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to deal with it.
They’re scared.
You’re scared.
And it goes on like that until you admit to yourself you need help.
Which, finally, I did.
When I relapsed that time, Beau expressed neither shock nor dismay. He viewed it like he always viewed it: as part of the process. He assured me, “We’ll work it out. Let’s get back on the horse. Whatever you need me to do.” He was a fierce disciple of the Biden Rule: if you have to ask for help, it’s too late. He’d remind me that he was just a phone call away—and then he would call me first.
Beau was always supportive, never judgmental. He never asked what most people ask: Why? I can’t overstate how helpful that was. It’s an impossible question for an addict to answer. I could point to traumas, family history, genetics, the intersection of bad luck and the wrong circumstances. But I don’t know the answer.
Beau understood that intuitively. He refused to believe that addiction was something I chose, believing instead that it chose me. It was something he thought he could help me fix, and he did.
My drinking couldn’t have been easy for him. Only now do I realize the distance it put between us. There were all those times I was alone with it, didn’t let him in. I’m sure it was confusing. But Beau handled it in his special way, always putting the onus on the alcoholism instead of on me.
After my relapse in 2010, we talked about what I should do next. I suggested returning to Crossroads. Beau thought about that for a second, said, “Okay,” then booked the ticket, drove me to the airport, and walked me all the way to the security gate. When I returned, he picked me up at the airport and stayed at my house overnight.
Beau was part of every decision I made about getting sober. He was a constant, but he wasn’t claustrophobic. He made my recovery almost as much a part of his daily routine as I did. He developed personal relationships with Jack and Josh and Ron and everyone I was close to in AA and stayed in regular contact with them—not to keep tabs on me but because he knew they were an important part of my life. He went to AA meetings with me while we were on vacation, just so we could spend more time together. He planned ultraphysical excursions for the two of us: adventure racing, mountain biking, kayaking, rappelling down hundred-foot-high arches in Utah. His purpose wasn’t solely to have a good time. He knew I needed something to keep me motivated in my recovery.
He engrossed himself in all the things I became obsessive about. He took yoga classes with me even though he hated yoga. He asked me about books I was reading on addiction and recovery outside of the AA literature. He wanted to know how I thought the twelve steps could be applied to everyday life…
Wish you could’ve known Beau.
CHAPTER FIVE
FALLING
The first weeks after Beau’s burial had the veneer of peace and purpose.
I was committed to the idea of building on my brother’s legacy. I sat down with Aunt Val, Hallie, and Patty Lewis, who worked closely with Beau as a deputy attorney general, and together we started the Beau Biden Foundation for the Protection of Children. The nonprofit was an outgrowth of Beau’s work fighting child abuse as attorney general and now has programs in twenty states. I continued my work on various boards and memberships, including World Food Program USA (which lobbied the government for funding for the UN’s World Food Programme, winner of the
