Mr. SponsorPants

give/get

At a meeting recently I heard someone talk about going abroad -- they're visiting a country famous for its culture of carousing.  The person sharing has about six months sober again -- I don't say "again" with any snark, I just mean that they've been around AA's message for a while, longer than their six month clean-and-sober time.

As they talked about their trip, they described meetings in this country (they'd been there before).  "Low bottom people" and "very depressing" -- they "don't get a lot out of them." 

I listened, keeping my face impassive (though I caught myself shaking my head a little in dismay, and stopped it immediately).  Man, they just don't get it  I thought.

What about going to those meetings and seeing what you can give?  Seeing if you can take some of the positivity that you feel in your home meetings and share it with those people?

What about not approaching the whole thing as an opportunity to get but rather a chance to give?  Because, as it says in about a million places in the AA literature, when we give, that's when we get.

I don't blame them, exactly.  Alcoholics are by nature selfish people -- and I see myself in that statement, rest assured.  It was AA that changed how I view things, overall, seeing almost every experience as a way to be of service -- from crap jobs to bus rides to waiting rooms to supermarket lines.  When I approach those things as someone willing to be of service to the people around me, then suddenly the jobs aren't crap and the rides and waits and lines aren't so bad.

I'm not sure exactly when this change occurred in me, but it feels like I've been given the key to true happiness.  No one can do it perfectly of course, but my experience is, the more I live this principle the more joy I feel.

True for me then true for anyone...

we smelled him before we saw him

The walk to my regular Tuesday night meeting was especially pleasant -- the weather's finally turning here, so it was cool -- not quite as brisk as I like it, but moving in the right direction.

En route I passed a teenage boy and his mother arguing in Sign Language.  I am pleased to report that it looked to me like it is possible to infuse Sign with the same dripping sarcasm which is the hallmark of teenagers arguing with their parents all over the world.

Stopped to buy a bottle of water at the little convenience store across from where the meeting is, and at the counter, cheerfully laid out in a neat picnic basket, apples and bananas were for sale -- I indulged the impulse and grabbed a banana.

One of my sponsees was on deck with his greeting commitment, and we hadn't had the chance to catch up lately so I popped the top on my water and sat down to chat.  A few of the other greeters began to assemble -- it's a very social meeting.  Merrily carrying on we didn't really look up when we heard the door open -- so we smelled him before we saw him.

If I had to guess, Bush might have been president the last time this gentleman had a shower.

And I mean George H. W., not Dubya. 

There is a point when the grime and sweat and filth coalesce into a kind of shellac, stiffening t-shirts as if they've been starched and making simple sweat jackets as thick as leather.  Iron grey hair under a dull grey film stuffed under a dark grey cap.  Six good teeth (that I could see -- the two canines and a row of four in front on the bottom).

He walked in and hovered a few feet in front of my sponsee and I.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the other greeters do a slow fade back into the room.  I can't fault them for it, they were new and, not to put too fine a point on it, smelly homeless people can be scary, if nothing in your life has prepared you for doing anything but walking past them and not seeing them.

I smiled and said "Hello."

"Is there an AA meeting here?"  he asked.

"Yes.  Welcome."  I said.

AA, and the countless examples of those who've come before me have taught me how to treat everyone with dignity.  I looked him in the eye, asked his name, called him by it.  I told the part of my brain freaking out about the smell to just shut up, and I consciously spoke to him without using any kind of "special" tone of voice -- neither solicitous nor dismissive.  Just talked. 

He was maybe 70% lucid and 30% out-to-lunch, but he had been to AA before and was sober tonight.

I offered him my banana but he opted instead for what looked like a quarter of a Ritz cracker he pulled out of one jacket pocket.

We chatted for quite a while.  My sponsee gamely hung in there and contributed a bit to the conversation.  Rick, for that was the homeless guy's name, eventually headed in to get a cup of coffee.

"Wow," my sponsee said, "you are good."

(I wasn't going to type that, for fear it would seem self-aggrandizing, but... that's what he said.)

"Nah," I said.  I don't remember now what I might have added, because more people came in and there were hellos all around and then it was time for the meeting.

If I had traveled another path in my life, I might actually be that homeless man -- I know that in my heart.

But it wasn't some "It's a Wonderful Life" mirror-based "what if" thing happening for me.

It was the knowledge of friends I've made along the way, and some of the sponsees I have today, who I know at one time were just like Rick -- ripe and filthy and maybe more than half crazy.  And I know those men today and I see they are miracles -- clean and good and strong spirits dedicated to a principled life.

And I think about how somewhere, years ago, they walked into an AA meeting and people made them welcome -- maybe didn't give them a hug, that's a hard thing to do in a case like that -- but a smile and a cup of coffee and a sincere "Hello, you are welcome here..." is often as good if not better.  And from that welcome they began a path that made them the men they are today; sober and healthy and helping others to be.

It is a strangely humbling and joyous thing sometimes to be a part of something with such a miraculous potential to change and save lives.

To be a part of AA.

To be the face at the door, the open smile -- it is a privilege and a responsibility.

And I am grateful to my marrow for it.

Connecting a few dots with a chronic relapser...

He came up to me after the meeting, as we were all folding up the metal chairs and placing them on the racks in the back of the room.  After the usual pleasantries he got down to it.

"I have a resentment against this meeting."  He said.

"Okay."  I said.  I have a very small service commitment at the meeting, but I knew that's not why he was telling me this.  He stood there, waiting for me to ask about his resentment, but I am way too wily an old fox to be suckered in that easily.  The silence played out and I looked at him with what I hoped was an expression of pleasant patience (but for all I know made me look like I had gas.)

"Do you want to know what my resentment is?"  He finally asked.

"Well," I said, "Alcoholics Anonymous suggests you write your resentments out in an inventory."

That certainly wasn't the answer he was looking for.  And that wasn't why he was telling me this.

"Yeah, but my resentment is..." and he went on to tell me his resentment anyway.

"Okay," I said, "AA suggests that you write your resentment out in an inventory, then you can take a look at your part in it before doing anything about it."

"But I'm telling you my resentment." 

"Yes, I know.  But what AA suggests you do is write out your resentment in an inventory."

"But I'm telling you so that you can..." and he outlined the course of action he wanted me to do about his resentment.  For that was why he was telling me about his resentment.

"Have you ever done a four column inventory?"  I asked 

"Yes, yes ... " he waived his hand dismissively.  "But I'm telling you about it."

"Yes.  I know. I'm standing right here."  This dry jibe sailed right over his head, so focused on delegating his resentment and what he wanted done about it over to me.  "But what AA suggests you do is write your resentments out in a four column inventory, to get clarity on the who and the what -- and then you can look at your part in it."  And then you can see that it's you who has to do something about it, I added to myself.

This wasn't going the way he wanted at all, and his frustration began to rise, masked by a gigantic smile worthy of any glad-handing politico on the campaign trail.

I won't detail the rest of our circular conversation, but it will surprise no one reading this that I am not going to be doing anything about his resentment, and it is a sucker bet to think he went off to write out a mini-inventory and actually possibly learn something about what was running him in this.

But here's the thing.  This gentleman is a semi-regular at one of the meetings I think of as my Home Group (to the new kids, your "Home Group" is a casual designation one makes about a meeting, equal parts affection and commitment.  I, greedy so-and-so that I am, have decided that I can have as many Home Groups as I want, so I have three.  I am, after all, the man who, when a child, was told the expression "You can't have your cake and eat it too" responded with a tart, "Well then, bake two cakes."  But as usual, I digress.)

And this gentleman has been coming to AA for many years now, and is, yet again, in his "first" thirty days or so.  He has a very difficult time with relapse.

All the way home from the meeting my mind has been turning the conversation he and I had over and over, worrying at it like you do with your tongue when you have that bit of food stuck between your teeth.  There was something there that I wasn't seeing ...

And it hit me, not moments ago, in one of those grand, cliche, light bulb inspirations:  The dismissive hand wave when I asked him about having written an inventory before.  I am not going so far as to say that he did not actually ever write one, but the way the suggestion was treated, it struck me just now that he doesn't see any value in it.  That is to say, he doesn't believe it will actually accomplish anything worthwhile -- he doesn't believe writing an inventory will work.

And maybe that's a key element in his relapse cycle ... because believing that the Steps, suggestions though they are, can help you, while not required, is perhaps the essence of the Second Step.

If Step One, to paraphrase very broadly, is "Drinking has me beaten, and it has ruined/is ruining my life" then Step Two could be, at heart, "But I believe that doing these Steps, trying what AA suggests, will help me."  (And then of course Step Three, to complete my paraphrase trifecta, would be something like "So I have decided to do them.")

I think the 12 Steps can work if you don't believe in them at first, but eventually...  you come to believe, yes?

So ... and I'm connecting these dots almost as I type this ... maybe for some people who are deeply chronic relapsers, part of why they cannot stay sober is not that they are stuck at the First Step, but that they are somehow stuck, through a kind of lack of belief in the process, at the Second.

Hmmm...

Of course, if you're brand brand new to AA, I know in my heart that the process will work for you whether you believe or not -- that is to say, don't worry about understanding the process or let some intangible belief criteria stand in the way of actually doing the Steps.  This is more about those tragic and challenging people who blessedly (and often very bravely) keep coming back but are unable to stay sober.

IF I am right in this instance, now the question becomes ... do I invite him out for coffee and share this line of thought with him in an effort to be helpful, or do I just sit back and see if the Universe offers me a cue.

Hmmm...

The Pitcher Plant

I was fifteen years, three hundred and sixty-four days sober.  It was probably about 9:00pm, and I was standing on the sidewalk in front of a dive bar.

Now, in my experience of bars (which, if I do say so myself, is vast indeed) this was the "just right" kind of dive bar.  Cheap, strong drinks.  Couple of pool tables (probably missing a ball or two, but it didn't matter, they were just there to lean against, mostly).  Rough crowd, but not in the sense of how they came at you.  No, this rough was the result of how life had come at them -- just right for not feeling judged and secretly considering myself a wee bit superior; in essence, perfect drinking companions.  People went to this bar for the sole purpose of getting drunk.  Even if they told themselves they were there to get laid, I'm pretty sure that was merely a plausible excuse -- a smoke screen to preserve some final shred of denial.  In a bar like this, cruising was just what you did to pass the time between drinks and smokes -- for all the scenes in films and on television of drunks staring with maudlin intensity into their drink, let me tell you, that gets boring pretty fast -- so a little sloppy footsie was merely cheap entertainment.  The agenda was drink and the objective was drunk.

I was pretty sure, standing there on the sidewalk, that it was a bad idea for me to go into that bar, but why exactly it was a bad idea seemed a little ... distant ... right then.

If I had to guess, the way I felt right at that moment is probably the last thing a little bug feels before it slides down into a pitcher plant, and discovers at the bottom that the sides are too slippery to get back up.  Apt, huh.

As I type these words I have been sober for 7834 days.  So many of them have been full of joy and gratitude and fellowship that I am often dazzled and humbled by the embarrassment of blessings I feel I've experienced... and the stories of those days I am always happy to share.

But tonight, after talking on the phone with a good, old friend, far away, who is heartbroken over the relapse of a longtime sponsee who had had many years sober, ("I thought he was okay! He was okay! We had just talked and everything was normal and now..."  And now he's in the hospital.  Sometimes it feels like I type "in the hospital" a lot on this blog.  Don't know why that should surprise me, now that I think of it.  After all, at heart this is a blog about a terminal illness) I can't help but think back to that night, the evening of my sixteenth sober anniversary.

God, that sounds so dramatic.  I'm sorry, I wish there was a way to describe these experiences accurately without sliding into what I fear sometimes are overwrought prose, but... I think milestones, like anniversaries of any sort, bring to the fore things which are unavoidably dramatic in their way; comparisons, reflections... and, beyond the "milestone effect," I suppose a life and death struggle is always going to be dramatic.

Which, for those of you reading this who may be less familiar with the threat of relapse, the challenge of long term sobriety, and how alcoholism is like being afflicted with spiritual termites, forever working under the surface to eat away at your foundation, is what I was engaged in, standing on that sidewalk on the eve of my sober anniversary:  A life and death struggle.

But the most terrifying part of the story (for me anyway) is that although I was indeed fighting for my life, at the time I wasn't entirely convinced of that fact.  Which is, at the risk of piling melodrama upon drama, how it gets you I believe.

That night, what I was actually thinking about, standing on the sidewalk, considering the door of the dive, was my name badge.

At the time I was just a little over 40, and I had the kind of a job in which you wear a name badge.  Now, it is a saying I've heard around the rooms that there is absolutely nothing wrong with good honest work for good honest pay.  This is certainly a beautiful and true spiritual axiom, shot through as it is with a kind of puritan work ethos which always makes me want to both salute the flag and iron a shirt, but it in my observation it is said more often by people with big jobs and larger salaries than it is by those with smaller jobs and humbler salaries.

And earlier that week I had sat in a meeting and heard a lot of men who I happened to know drove very expensive cars and lived in rather grand homes, pat themselves on the back and heartily congratulate each other for their rigorous honesty, as evidenced by how they always returned the extra if a cashier gave them the wrong change.  Both as I sat in that meeting and listened, and then later, standing in front of the dive (and even now, for that matter) I didn't want to take anything away from those men, many of whom I held in great high regard.  But in the meeting I couldn't help but feel a slow sour roll in my belly, as I considered that it is one thing to return the change when it is a solely spiritual exercise, good and right though that is, and quite another to return the change when it is the equivalent of the rest of what you have in your pocket.  In theory, of course, on a spiritual plane these acts have the same beautiful value.  Sadly, however, I do not live on the spiritual plane, I am stuck here on the physical one, with the rest of the name badge wearers.

So there I was, later that same week, and I had been walking along, quite possibly muttering to myself, when I came upon the dive bar.  I was feeling jealous, and ashamed of feeling jealous.  I was feeling resentful, and I was judging myself for feeling resentful.  I sternly accused myself of being self obsessed, and then grieved my all consuming ego, and the never ending tug of war it engages me in.  In a handful of hours I was going to be 16 years clean and sober. Whoopee.  And where had it gotten me?  I was over 40, 16 years sober, and wore a name badge at work for God's sake!

STOP.  Right there, for those of you that missed it?  That's not me talking anymore.  That question is the moment in the story when the killer enters the room.  "And where had it gotten me?"  That's alcoholism, talking to me with my own voice, pitch perfect in its impersonation and unerring in its aim for the jugular.

Snap your fingers, because just like that, the mental fog rolled in, and against that backdrop, with wicked craft, alcoholism rearranged the pictures of my life into a mosaic both pathetic and cruel.  The conclusion I reached (and I remember this part clearly enough to give me the shivers now) was that AA had become kind of a joke, and that it didn't work for me anymore.  Sly, huh?  Not, "AA doesn't work" -- no, it was "AA doesn't work for you anymore."  Lost in that fog, my life of gratitude and service became an exercise in futility.  Suddenly, the only logical conclusion -- against a resume which included too many name-badge jobs in the past several years, and what that night seemed like a wheel-spinning life of trying to give back "what had so freely been given to me" -- was that I had been duped, or was stupid, or was too stupid to see I'd been duped.  And now it was too late and I was all used up -- and while maybe AA was great in general, it "didn't work for me anymore."

So there I stood, more sad than self-pitying I believe, though to read it now you may not agree, teetering on the edge of the pitcher plant.

It is often said that there will come a time in the sober path of each recovering alcoholic where all that stands between you and a drink is your relationship with your Higher Power.

Unfortunately, standing on that sidewalk, I did not believe in my Higher Power. 

Turns out I didn't have to believe for Something to throw me a rope.  Because although my alcoholism had performed its dark magic, and suddenly every good thing in my life had no value, the very next thought I had was about some of the men I sponsored at the time (and some of whom I sponsor still).  I didn't believe AA worked for me anymore -- but I did believe it worked for them.  I believed wholeheartedly what I told them about sobriety, what we read together in the book "Alcoholics Anonymous" (AA's Big Book), the transformative process of the 12 Steps -- I believed all of that was Right for them, and would help them, and would ultimately save their lives in ways they couldn't imagine.

Thus, while I couldn't see any point to staying sober for me, I could see it for them.  And I knew that if I drank, which, if I went into that bar that night I most certainly would, then it would put the lie to every true thing about recovery I had told them.  And although I was in the depths of despair, consumed with sadness and jealousy and resentment and self pity, I just couldn't do that to them.  Even though (on that night) I didn't think I was worth saving anymore, I believed my sponsees deserved their chance at saving themselves.

So I didn't go in.

In that moment when we each stand on the edge of the pitcher plant, I think there's always a rope.  Today I do not believe that God picks and chooses who gets thrown a lifeline and who does not.  The problem, perhaps, is that we cannot see it when we most need to -- so what is it that clears our vision in that terrible alcoholic darkness?  For me it was my connection to the men I sponsored.  God works through other people, and it was from the threads of all my sponsee relationships, which grew from being of service, as AA taught me, that a lifeline was fashioned and my life was saved that night.

Too dramatic a turn of phrase?  If you think that, all I can say is, buddy, you've never seen me drink, and you've never seen what happens when an alcoholic with long term sobriety picks up again.  And God willing, one day at a time, if I stay connected to the people in AA, you never will.

I went home that night, and called my friend, the one who had called me tonight, heartbroken about his sponsee.

And by the time I got home, the fog had started to lift, and just talking to him dispelled the last of it.  I didn't even really get into what had happened earlier that evening.  I just basked in the camaraderie of an old sober friend, who spoke the same language and fought the same fight and had his own scars to prove it.

Things don't look too good right now for his sponsee.  But what I know is that from working with him, my friend will have his own rope, his own lifeline, when he needs it, there on the edge of the pitcher plant.

Stay close, and do not spurn these relationships which AA offers, as odd and clumsy as they first appear.  In my experience God works through these connections with other people -- so you better give Him something to work with.

the waiting room

I'd been here before, but they'd lost my file, and I had to redo a bunch of paperwork.  "Okay," I said, "sorry I didn't have my little id number thing with me."

My appointment had been for 5:30pm. 

I got to see someone at 6:30, and then was asked to wait for the blood work stuff to be done.  Another full hour later I was still sitting there.

I had pulled out my new Kindle, which, if you are unfamiliar, is like an electronic book, and I had been reading on it for a while.  One of the other people waiting asked me about it. I showed it to him, and we chatted. In the back of my mind I thought he looked nervous -- it was the kind of waiting room in which people might have good reason to be nervous -- so I cracked wise a little while I was showing it to him -- actually got a good laugh out of him.  To do that, to even think of doing that, is purely a function of my time in Alcoholics Anonymous.  I was raised to be a nice person of course, good manners, all my please-and-thank-you's in place; but to consider a stranger's feelings in that way?  I am the man A.A. made me, and that's part of the deal.  I like that about AA, and I like that about me.  Perhaps I gave him a moment's respite from whatever he was worried about, sitting, waiting, sitting, waiting, as we all were.  I hope so.  Thinking of doing that for him spared me from thinking in circles about me, and that, of course, is the point.

A sudden flurry of activity among the staff -- the computers were down!  While I wouldn't say panic ensued, everyone's afternoon got a lot more stressful.

I sat, pretended to read, said the 3rd Step prayer over and over in my mind for a bit.

Some of the people who worked there had little to do till the computer issue was resolved -- they had noticed my Kindle as well (no, this is not a product endorsement) and came over to see it, so I chatted them up, and drew the Worried Guy back into the conversation -- 6000+ meetings under my belt, I can smell when someone is falling down the hole inside, things getting darker and darker as the light recedes.  In my experience, get 'em talking -- it was as natural as could be to loop him into Kindle Talk 2.  One of the workers who'd come over was the young girl who had handled some of my paperwork.  She'd been so earnest, took her job so seriously; I complimented her on it.  She seemed pleased and surprised that someone would notice, or say something.  At least, that's how it looked to me.

The appointments progressed, the office limping along on a strictly paper system.

Now picture one of those clever editing tricks with time lapse photography -- the room slowly emptied, until it was only three of us left.  One rough looking kid at the far end of the waiting area, who appeared, to my eye, like he was furiously debating with himself whether he should stay or go, and a fellow who'd been sitting across from me almost the whole time, working through the stacks of magazines with rapid turns of the page, looking at the pictures in the ads, not reading anything.

I was tired of reading myself -- a rare enough occurrence -- and just sat, staring into space.

"You're so patient."  Magazine Guy said.

Startled, I focused on him.  "I am?"

"Yes.  I've been watching you -- I know you, right?  You go to..." he named an AA meeting I go to fairly often, though it's not one on my never-miss list.

"Oh, yeah."  I didn't recognize him at all.  If you'd asked me who, in the waiting room, might also go to meetings I'd have picked either Rough Kid at the far end of the room or my Paperwork Girl. 

"You're waiting so patiently."

I shrugged.  What do you say across an empty waiting room to that?  My shrug was all the comment I had, really:  How does it help anything if I melt down?  The computers aren't working, the staff is doing their best, I would prefer things to move more quickly but ... I said all that in my shrug.

"You're waiting patiently too."  I said to Magazine Guy.

"No, inside I'm... seething.  Seething!" 

"Good word." I smiled.

"Yeah, I don't go to that meeting anymore really."

Ah, I thought, here it comes.

"I got a job and now, you know, my schedule ... I don't go as often as I should."

I nodded and smiled.  "I understand." I said.  "It can be hard."

Twenty-something years ago he'd have gotten my cheerleader:  "But AA's great!"
Fifteen or so years ago he'd have gotten my cop: "You're asking for trouble, kid!"
Ten years ago he'd have gotten my snobby guru: "Many people drift, but that is no surprise, alcoholics are inherently selfish people."
Five years ago he'd have gotten my counselor:  "What's behind that, do you think?"
Today he gets ... what, my grandpa? <sigh> Today (if I don't sponsor you) you get: "That's nice, dear."

(Now I trust God to orchestrate who encounters whom in the grand 12th Step dance.  If you need a cheerleader, or a cop, or whatever, you'll probably trip over one.  Then, doing something with what they offer is up to you.)

"You go a lot."  Magazine guy said.  Neutral, no accusation, no condescension.  Once I might have searched his tone for either, whether it was there or not.

"Yes." I said.  Another shrug.  "It keeps me even."  (You know my next line, don't you.  Sometimes they're so obvious I have to laugh at the Universe's heavy, heavy hand.  But I'm not supposed to judge the lines, I'm just supposed to say 'em when they come up.)  "It keeps me from" I smiled, to take any sting out of it "seething inside."

He nodded.  They called his name.  He went in.  The receptionist looked at me. I looked back at her, evenly.  She smiled and said, "You have a nice way about you."

Not every story has a miracle, but this one does.  You know what I said?

"Thank you."

I didn't deny it, or joke it away, or minimize it, or any of a hundred other deflections I would have used along the way, when I was the cheerleader or the cop or (God forgive me) the guru.  Just, "Thank you."

That's a miracle.

________________________________________________________________

Think of this as an epilogue.
There is no miracle in this part.  Just a mirror.

When I walked out the door I reflected on how I move through the world today, and felt that same sense of gratitude and harmony I always do when I realize, "Huh, who is that guy?  Oh, wow, yeah, it's me."

After I left I thought I deserved a treat for ... oh, it doesn't matter, I always think I deserve a treat.  My treat button has been deftly re-wired by some Divine Electrician, though, and what would have once been some kind of unhealthy, self-destructive sugar binge (being "bad" as "reward") is very different today -- a true state of Grace -- and I enjoyed a beautiful night's walk to the grocery store to get what a whole lotta people would not have labeled as "treat" but fit me just fine.

And there, in line to buy my treat, I saw myself in the mirror:

She was imperious.
She was greatly displeased to have her desires unmet.
She was about sixteen months old.

The checker in her line had, with the mother's assent, taken the product the child was holding, sitting in the kiddie seat part of the shopping cart, to scan.  The bar code wasn't scanning easily -- perhaps nibbled upon by sixteen month old nibbling apparatus, who's to say -- but the scan snafu was making the ring-up process take a few extra minutes for this item.

"Bah!"  Said the child, gesturing with the kind of regal bearing that is the provenance of toddlers and Roman Emperors.  (Clearly "bah" was sixteen month old for: "I command you to give me that thing which I want.")

Swipe scan swipe scan.  The register made the sad beep, not the happy chirp.  Swipe scan swipe.  Beep beep beep.

"BAH!"  Now the face began to color.  Two red spots appeared, and the eyes narrowed.  Thunderclouds gathered.

"BAH!!!" And the tantrum began.  I'll give her credit, there was tremendous focus.  She was not screaming wildly, she knew what she wanted and was utterly convinced, in that primal way, if she made a forceful enough demand, her will would make it so, and she could have what she wanted.

All I could think the whole time was how, far into adulthood, she was me.   I was an example of profound arrested development.  Alcoholism (as has been observed by many far sharper than I) had frozen my maturation --my operating strategy, my coping mechanisms, my ability to face reality, my sense of scale ... were all working at about that little girl's level.  She was absolutely a mirror for who I was.  Under "the lash of alcoholism" (as the Big Book puts it) I aged chronologically, but I failed to mature emotionally --  I hid it behind a flurry of words and a veritable kabuki theater of passive/aggressive behavior, but I was, functionally, exactly like that little child in Gimme Mode.

Yet, as I saw so clearly not minutes ago, in the waiting room, that's not who I am today.

And that's not a function of time.  Nor is it a function solely of time without alcohol or drugs -- dry time doesn't create that kind of change.  That's a function of working the 12 Steps to create a spiritual transformation, or, as the Big Book puts it, "a vital spiritual experience."  I like who and how I am today.  I appreciate and enjoy who and how I am today.  That is a direct result of Alcoholics Anonymous -- I make that statement solely as an acknowledgment to myself, not to convince anyone else.

(And if you're a regular Mr. SponsorPants reader you know my next line here, too).

And it's available to anyone who wants it -- anyone at all who comes to Alcoholics Anonymous -- if they're willing to do the work.

Cheers!

.

An amazing resource

THIS is an amazing resource.

Many thanks to those who put it together.

makes me look like a total slacker

RING

RING

RING

Hi, this is Mr. SponsorPants at [MY PHONE NUMBER].  Thanks for calling.  Please leave a message with your number and I'll call you back.  [BEEEEEP].

Hey Mr. SponsorPants, it's [HIS NAME] I met you at [AA CONVENTION] with [CRAZY OLD AA GUY I AM VERY FOND OF].  I have some speaker dates available -- and they're, ah, they're short speaker, it's a 15 minute pitch, um, I don't have any more main speaker -- which is a 25 minute pitch -- for the rest of this year, but ah, I have some open dates for January and February of next year as well, so I am booking for that for those two months in addition to the main short speaker positions on the calendar this year.  All my main speakers are booked.  For this year.  So, I would love to hear you, if you think that the 25 minute pitch is probably better than the 15, by all means lets book something for January or February.  It's never too early to book, especially a speaker of, ah, your caliber.  So, my phone number is xxx-xxx-xxxx, call back at your earliest convenience, I'll be up till xx:xx.

This was delivered rapid fire, and I listened to it three times when it was first left on my voice mail so I could wrap my head around it, and then a bunch of times just now to transcribe it accurately.

Some thoughts:

1.  My goodness!  I think we can all learn a thing or two from this message when it comes to leaving complete information.  I aspire to such cogent communication!

2.  Never too late to book ... January or February?!?  It's June!  Early June, no less.  My God, six months from now I could be in prison (Yikes! Felons!) or Paris (Yikes! French people!)*   I'm all for being organized I guess (well, I mean it sounds good in theory) but that's a whole lotta one-days-at-a-time in advance.  Seriously, I'm just ... wow.  Man, I take my AA commitments really seriously, but this guy makes me look like a total slacker!

3.  My ... "caliber."  Please.  There is no such thing as anyone's "caliber" when it comes to speaking in AA meetings.  Yes, some of us are more glib than others, but that has nothing to do with honesty and experience, and those are what transmits the healing message of Alcoholics Anonymous.  I appreciate the kind words, and I don't want to overlay a value system he may not have onto his message -- clearly he's a terrific, courteous communicator -- but to recap what I've said before, a speaker is like the guy transporting the organ donation.  He is only important insofar as the job he is doing, he is not important in and of himself.

4.  Being rigorously honest with you (and good lord, why stop now), there was a time in my sobriety when I would have pretended not to care about being a short or a long speaker, but secretly I would have cared very much, and would have put all my subterfuge and wiles toward the task of appearing like I did not care, but actually making sure I was the entre' and not the appetizer.  Today, truly, I don't care.  I'm happy to help.  I know now that all service commitments are created equal -- and as there is no way of knowing how or what you may say or do might resonate with someone struggling, then it doesn't matter if you're the clean up guy, or the speaker, or just a person who is able to offer a sincere "hello, how are you?"  It's not my business to shine, it's my business to help.  As I heard when I first came into Alcoholics Anonymous, we come here thinking we're stars, but the longer we stay we realize how wonderful it is just to be part of the chorus.  (That was from an old AA broad -- her own description -- who got sober in Las Vegas before she moved to where I was living at the time.  Kids, you have not seen someone take a sobriety birthday cake till you have seen this woman take a birthday cake.  Once a year she would give us the full showgirl treatment:  Grand gestures, statuesque walk, both high beams on, well, high.  As she took her cake she would say, "Through the grace of God," and one arm would rise and stay aloft, pointing heavenward, "and rooms like these," and the other arm would move in a smooth arc to encompass the room, and remain held out to the side, "and people like you," she would coo, while both arms came together in front of her and then spread wide, so sinuous and beautiful it was like two swans making out.  She held the pose, one knee cocked slightly in, both arms out to the side, shoulders back, head tall, chin slightly raised, wearing a smile that had probably dazzled a dozen mobsters in her day.  Oh, it was so, so excellent.  If I had drank and lived I would probably have come back to the meeting every year just to see her take a cake.  Swear to God.)

Eventually after a bit of telephone tag the World's Most Motivated AA Secretary and I did indeed speak on the phone.  There was some back and forth, since, honestly, pretty much just tell me when you need me and I'll be there.  They got me early in this thing, and I think "never say no to an AA request" is probably encoded on my DNA now.

Frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

And oh, yeah:  Fifteen minutes in October.

Cheers!

*I kid.

 

The Scariest Sponsee on Earth -- Or -- The Only Valid Reason To Let Go of ("Fire") a Sponsee

Physically he was all angles and long lines.
Square head, sharp cheekbones and what would have once been called a lantern jaw.
Shoulders so wide it looked as though he might have to turn sideways to get through a door.  But lean.  And tall.  On a good self esteem day when I stand up straight I'm over six feet, and he had a good bit on me.  From across a room you might have thought, "Hmmm, leading man type."  Up close though, he read as ... off.  That ineffable something that the animal part of us picks up on -- that instinct that says, in short, "Uh oh.  Careful here."

He materialized in one of my meetings, vibrating like a tuning fork.  I had never seen him before.  Nothing about the meeting itself stands out in my mind, and I recall very clearly that I just sat -- didn't read anything, share, speak... nothing.  Put a dollar in the basket when it went around, listened, that was it -- no different than the 30 or so other alcoholics in the room, really.  But after the meeting, he walked right over to me.  "Hello. Will you sponsor me?"

"What? I ... Uh, yeah, we can talk about -- I mean, yes.  Sure.  Sure, right, absolutely.  Yes."  I was a little flustered, but I got my feet under me and landed squarely on "Never say no to an AA request," even if I didn't quite "stick the landing" as the gymnasts put it.  To be fair, I was more used to "how are you" as the follow up to "hello."  Plus, he was really in my space.  Almost nose-to-nose.  I have a big personal space -- I like everyone to be no closer than about a hoop-skirt's distance away from me on all sides at all times (I've not taken to wearing one to enforce this, yet.  Don't think it hasn't occurred to me though -- probably serve to keep people at a distance a lot farther than a hoop-skirt's width, now that I think of it -- and cut down on the sponsor requests too.  Hmmm...)  So the sudden literal in-my-face also rattled me some.  But the reason you say something a zillion times is so that when you're thrown you don't screw your line up, and I'd been well trained in "Never say no to an AA request" by years of meetings, several terrific sponsors and countless repetitions to my own sponsees up till then.  So I stumbled for a moment, but I did not falter.

"Why don't we go out for coffee and talk?"  I suggested.  "What's your name?"

He told me.  I introduced myself and we shook.  He had a hand like a shovel with fingers.

"I don't have any money for coffee."

"My treat, no problem."  I picked someplace close that I was familiar with.  Off the beaten path and no table service, so we could sit for as long as we needed and not take up anyone's station.

Thus began my sponsorial relationship with The Scariest Sponsee on Earth.

We walked to the cafe, and I made with the small talk to get us there.  Long before I'd learned the secret to small talk, and so we had a pleasant enough stroll, though I did the majority of the talking, and eventually I found myself sitting at a table with what could only be described as a somewhat intimidating almost-stranger.

I got a muffin so that if he hadn't eaten he could have something to eat (I couldn't get a read if he currently was homeless or not -- he was clean, and the clothes fit and matched, but as I said in the beginning, there was something "off").  I put the muffin between us on the table.  "Help yourself." I offered.  I remember this very clearly:  He looked at the muffin for a minute.  Then he looked at me, and I got the distinct impression he was evaluating the sincerity of the offer.  He made up his mind.  "Thank you." he said, and picked up the muffin and put it whole into his jacket pocket.

Blackout alcoholics -- and I am most definitely one -- "come to" in some strange places and in the middle of some strange scenes.  In my case I might "come to" in the middle of a conversation, or an execution, boarding a plane, or assisting an exorcism -- in fact I'd already "come to" in the middle of a terrible beating, singing on a stage and having sex with, um, several very unlikely candidates for such an activity -- not all at the same time of course -- but when you're my kind of drinker you just never know where you'll wind up, so I had mastered the lack-of-reaction as a survival skill, till you could figure out what was going on.  In the grand alcoholic scheme his muffin pocketing wasn't that bizarre, anyway, so my only response was to say, "Napkin?" and offer him one from the pile I'd grabbed when I got the muffin.  "Thank you." He took one, and placed it in the muffin pocket.

"If you don't mind my asking, why did you ask me to sponsor you?"

"I knew you'd say yes."

"Have we met at a meeting, or, I mean, I'm sorry, I can be terrible with names and stuff sometimes..."  I knew I'd remember if I met him, but I was trying to make sense of this.

"No."

"Then how..."

He shrugged, and looked at me. "Just knew."

I'm not trying to make him sound simple or the exchange spooky -- it's how I remember it.  And him.

We talked some more, I suggested that we start going through the book "Alcoholics Anonymous" together and he was very eager to start.  Turned out he'd been sober once before.

"Oh? When?"

"A while ago."

"Oh.  What, um ... how did you relapse?"

"I want to get to the 4th Step fast."

"Well, okay, it's actually in Chapter Five -- you probably knew that and we can..."

"There are some people I hate" he leaned in very close across the small table -- not big with physical boundaries, this guy, "I HATE them and I want to work on that."

"Uh ... okay.  Well, the 4th Step will..."

"What time is it?  I have a curfew.  I have to go."  And up and out he went, like a shot.  I had to chase him down.

"Wait! Do you want to exchange phone numbers or ..."

"What's your number?"

"Do you want to write it down?"

"What is it?  I'll remember."

I told him.  He did.

He called a lot.  Sometimes he called and didn't say anything -- took me a couple of those to figure out it was him though.  (This was long before Caller ID or Cell Phones, kids).  I'd listen to the silence on the line and I'd ask,  "Scary?  Is that you?"  Nothing.  I have no idea what prompted me to do it, but I started to fill the silence with encouraging words.  Not big soliloquies or anything ("Really, Mr. SponsorPants?"  I hear you ask.  "Are you sure about that? 'Cause I would have thought, you..."  "In the back there! Quiet you!  Usher, check their ticket please.  Usher!")   I would just say things like "Scary, it's all okay.  It's going to be okay.  You're going to be allright.  Easy does it, Scary.  Just remember, easy does it."

But that first night, after going out to coffee with him, I called my sponsor and started laying the groundwork for getting out of this.  (I prefer a hasty retreat, followed either by excuses or recriminations, but I'm perfectly capable of playing the long game if I have to.)

"Not too sure about this one."  I said.  "Might be more than I can, you know, handle."

"That's okay, Mr. SponsorPants," my wise Sponsor said.  "God gives us what we need, and just last night, if I recall, you said 'I'll do anything' -- and here's your anything."

"Right.  Right -- I'm just not sure I'm the right sponsor for him ... " After receiving miracles I have been known to try and weasel out of whatever I'd promised God, too.

"Oh, Mr. SponsorPants, there's really only one valid reason you ever let go of a sponsee," my sponsor chuckled, all warm and knowing, like I was in on this great jolly secret with him.

"Oooh, yeah.  Right.  Right."  I said, playing along.  Bluffing.  Had no idea what he meant.  What this 'one reason' might be.

Scary Sponsee and I met once or twice a week.  I always arranged to meet him at the same cafe, I never offered to have him over to my apartment -- what can I say?  He scared me.  He never made mention of it, and it didn't seem to phase him at all.  And strangely, I never mentioned the silent phone calls.

I learned his story.  It humbled and frightened me and shook my newly refound faith in God.  He was raised by animals, is the most I will say about it.  Strangely (to me at the time) though, he held no anger towards his family.

That night I called my sponsor, "You know, he has all this stuff in his childhood and I don't -- I mean, not like that -- he should have a sponsor who ... "

"Oh, Mr. SponsorPants," came the now irritating chuckle.  "You know having a similar childhood isn't that important in the grand scheme -- it might be helpful, but there's really only one valid reason to stop working with a sponsee."

"Right. Right. Of course."  When I start a bluff I see it all the way through.

Scary Sponsee was not good with boundaries.  Or impulse control.  Or people.  Once, while we were working on his much-anticipated 4th Step, while talking about one of the people he HATED he picked up his pencil and shouted, "I want to ... to... to stab him in the eye!"  And plunged the pencil forward, stopping an inch or so in front of my face.  God was right there, since I didn't flinch or move -- and let me tell you, that was DEFINITELY God working, that's not my typical reaction to something like that, I assure you.  I just drank my coffee and he lowered the pencil and I said, "Scary, that's not good.  When you do things like that it frightens people."  "Did I scare you?"  "Yes."  "I'm sorry."  "It's okay."

Over the years I have discovered that often, when you sponsor people, you grow to care for them very much -- to love them, in a way -- and I'm afraid Scary Sponsee was no exception.  Even as he indeed frightened and intimidated me, even as I was trying to find a "legitimate" AA reason to stop meeting with him, I grew to care very much about this broken-winged bird.  (Though he was more ostrich than sparrow, as that imagery tends to go.)

He'd been homeless twice ("I haven't been homeless, not really" I told my sponsor "But that's not the reason to stop working with someone, Mr. SponsorPants, is it?"  "Oh, right -- no, no, it's not.")

Scary had worked himself all the way up from a childhood that gave him nothing -- nothing -- to a real career, then lost it all to drinking and drugging, and wound up living in the park.  Got sober, and rebuilt his life -- relapsed, and wound up back in the park.  I was sponsoring him on his second trip back in and up from the depths.  Sadly, during his relapse he had clearly done something to his brain.  I had nothing to compare it to, but he was legitimately not quite "right."

"He's a really, really low bottom, and not right in the head and..." I told my sponsor, "maybe I ... "

"There's only one real reason..."

"Right."

And all this time, I was getting the silent phone calls, and I kept whispering encouragement into the quiet on the line.  "Scary, it's all okay.  It's going to be okay.  You're going to be allright.  Easy does it, Scary.  Just remember, easy does it."  I've never -- until writing about it right now -- told anyone that part before -- even my sponsor, when I was madly trying to find a way to get out of working with the Scary Sponsee.  For some reason I kept it to myself, and so it became this strange, sacred, precious, intimate thing, these calls in which I was moved to try and pour all the love and support I had gotten from AA over the years into this blank, silent line.

And then one day, he didn't show up, and the calls stopped.  I went to the cafe at our regular time for several weeks afterwards, just in case, but he ghosted.  AA is strange, (in a lot of ways, actually) in that you can develop intense, powerful, intimate connections with people and share deep, personal information with each other -- but have no real connection outside of that, and depending on how you bond, no way to reach someone if they ghost.  We'd been meeting for almost ten months, and had made it through the 11th Step, and ... he was gone.

You get closure in stories -- in life sometimes all you get is the dot dot dot . . .

Finally I cracked, and after resigning myself to the fact that I was unlikely to hear from him again, I broke down and asked my sponsor what the "real reason" was that would have made it okay for me to stop meeting with The Scary Sponsee.

"Oh, Mr. SponsorPants,"  he clucked his tongue, "let me ask you something.  Do you need to have similar backgrounds, or the same using patterns, or have had the same problems and hardships to sponsor someone?"

Trick question, I'm good at spotting those, "Oh no." I said, even though that was a nice summary of all the reasons I'd tried to get out of sponsoring Scary.

"And do you think you should stop sponsoring someone if they don't do what you suggest, or you don't like them, or they frighten you, or they're not the kind of person you'd hang out with?"

I was uncomfortable with the potential inference there, but I was on a roll with the first question, and I'm enough of an ass kisser sometimes to want my pat on the head.  "Oh no."

"And let me ask you, do you think, over the course of the ten months, that you helped The Scary Sponsee?  And did you feel differently too?"

"Yes.  Yes, but ..."

He waited, and I folded my hand and showed my cards.

"But what is it?  What is the reason you think is the only valid reason to stop sponsoring someone?"

"All that other stuff is window dressing people use as excuses, Mr. SponsorPants.  The only real, valid reason to stop working with someone is if you honestly, deep down, don't believe you can be of any help to them.  That you cannot in any way help them get and stay sober.  That's the only valid reason."

"But..."

"No.  I'm sorry, the 'But What About' Window is closed today."  He said, not unkindly, and ended the call.

----------

If you are new to AA, please believe this, and if you are not new, and are afraid to ask for help, always remember:  We are happy to help you, and I believe our help is valuable because it will really work -- but you owe us nothing -- nothing -- for that help, because we are infinitely healed in ways we ourselves don't always know in the act of helping you.

So by all means, please, let us in, and let us help.

----------

One last thing, in an already perhaps too long post -- but I have to share this with you:

Not long ago, last year, I had a very scary day.  It was unexpected, and it was medical, and I was scared in a way I hadn't been for a long, long time.  For some reason I flashed back 12 years ago to The Scary Sponsee, and those silent phone calls.  And in the midst of my fear, I opened my cell phone, and I said into the silence of the unconnected cell, "Mr. SponsorPants, it's all okay.  It's going to be okay.  You're going to be allright.  Easy does it, Mr. SponsorPants.  Just remember, easy does it."

And I thought about Scary, and how far he'd come, and I wondered what happened to him, and I wished him well with all my heart.  I was full of gratitude for the 10 months I'd had the privilege of knowing him and working the Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous with him.  And as I thought of all that I knew that no matter the outcome, it was going to be okay.  I was going to be allright.  And I felt so, so much better.

Service is magic -- a damn near perfect day.

9am -- AA meeting.  At meeting give a sponsee her 11 year chip.  Also catch up with different sponsee on work issue that had been plaguing them all week.

10am -- Go out after meeting to celebrate 11 year anniversary with sponsee and friends.

11am -- Speak with another sponsee about issue with their sponsee letting them go.

12am -- Talk on the phone with a sponsee about the difference between making a move and pulling a geographic (in short, I believe that if you're moving to start or stop doing something you don't need to move to start or stop doing, then maybe you're pulling a geographic -- but maybe not.  In some of his best writing,  Emmet Fox  discusses the Divine Discontent a creature may feel when a healthy change needs to happen, using the caterpillar/butterfly example, and it's worth considering that some moves are perhaps Inspired.  We look at it from that angle as well.  Finally I ask, "Ultimately, are you moving towards something or away from it?"  The sponsee answers with the most honest response there can be to something like that, which is, "I'm not sure, let me think about that.")

1pm -- Meet AA friend for coffee.  Other AA friend joins us.  Several AA peeps wander by and stop to say hello.  The conversation is tough, as I share about my friend  who seems to have lost his brave fight to get his health back, and is likely not long for this world.  Hard, sad, tough stuff.

2pm -- Email sponsee from 11am to respond to questions and discuss issue further.  After clicking "send," begin to wonder if I really answered their question or was of any help at all -- have an "ah ha!" moment and tell "wondering" voice in my head: "I know you, you're just all my self-doubt in disguise.  Get out of here! Beat it! Piss off!"  Self-Doubt Voice squeals in shock at being recognized and scampers back down to the dark cellar in my head where he usually hides out.  Hopefully warns the other denizens of that region that I'm on my game today, so don't bother pulling any crap.

3pm -- Go to market before it closes early (need DVD watching snacks) and run into another sponsee who's ultra busy with grad school and work stuff -- get caught up and check in on how he's balancing meetings with other responsibilities.  Then run into AA friend who is not sure if he should splurge on the chocolate chip cookies.  I am the wrong man to ask whether or not to buy cookies.  I encourage the cookie slip -- he leaves happy and proceeds, I'm sure, into a sugar coma of bliss.  On the way out of the market run into a newcomer from one of my regular meetings (6 months sober) who is just coming to work there -- have the chance to tell him how great I think he's doing and how much I enjoy listening to him share at our regular meeting, and give him some back slaps for beating his brutal relapse cycle by hitting the 6 month mark.  On the way out the door laugh to myself that today it seems like I live on Magic Planet AA.  All I need is for little animated birds to come and carry my groceries home for me (Except the snacks.  I'll carry those, thank you -- no one gets between me and the snackage.)

4pm -- Run into an AA friend on way home from market.  No animated birds, though.

4:15pm -- Run into two other AA friends while still on way home from market.  Go to a lot of meetings, you get to know a lot of people.

5pm -- Check messages, three voice mails from different sponsees, start returning calls.  Have great conversations with all three about how they're keeping some sober plates spinning.

6pm -- Little Voice tells me to go to the 6pm meeting near my house, even though I'd hit a meeting earlier.  Went and heard something I definitely needed to hear.  Rare for me to hit 2 meetings in one day -- very rare -- but I've learned its a lot easier to listen to the intuition than not to, and then sit around thinking, "I wonder what I'm missing by not having listened to my intuition?"

7pm -- Got home, got message from sponsee about the passing of a parent.  This relationship, while clean and amended, had been difficult.  Call them back to talk about how they're doing and discuss how to best be of service to surviving parent at funeral next week.

8pm -- Do some writing.

9pm -- Phone rings -- it's a sponsee who's re-entering the dating arena, and we talk about a few questions from the Sexual Ideal part of his 4th/5th Step -- it becomes a very interesting discussion about finding the turning point where healthy daydreams and hopes become future tripping and projection, and excitment and interest become obsession.  (My guess is that if you find when Fear enters the picture you find that turning point.)  We agree there are no clear-cut easy answers on that front.

10pm -- Phone rings -- a sponsee checking in -- hadn't had the chance to catch up, we spend 20 funny minutes getting up to speed, and he is awash with gratitude for the simple joys his life if full of today, from good health to an actual (growing) savings account.

10:30pm -- the 9pm sponsee calls back with a "further development" on the dating scene.  We talk more about how this is hard for all of us, and basically how we're pretty much all scared 12 year olds inside when it comes to this stuff.

11pm -- Realize I never got to the DVD and snacks.  And further realize I actually couldn't care less, am suffused with joy from this kind of day.  If happiness is predicated on feeling useful, if a man's wealth is measured by the people in his life, then I am the happiest, wealthiest man you may ever meet.

This kind of day is not about me being busy or special -- it that's what you see when you read this then either you are missing the point or I am not explaining it clearly enough, and I apologize.  This kind of damn near perfect day is a thing of joy -- but this joy comes not from feeling like I'm anything special, not from feeling like I've got to do these things -- but rather seeing that I get to do these things.

Logic tells me that to feel like I'm getting "more" in life I need to take more, get more, have more.  Logic is wrong.  If I reverse the flow, if I give, then I get more.  In fact, the more I give, the more more I get.

But practically speaking, how do you give?  How do you have this for yourself, in your own recovery?  Simple -- you need only remember to open -- open your hand, open your ears, open your mouth and open your heart -- which, again practically speaking, means welcome people, listen  and share -- the heart part will take care of itself.  Even if right now, as you read this, you feel too tired to try, too damaged to help, too frozen to feel -- that's some of those voices from the cellar in your head selling you fears and lies as truth.  Don't listen.  Don't listen -- you'll miss out on a life filled with days like this.  Days of gratitude and joy -- even through the tough stuff -- days of gratitude and joy.

___________________________________________________________________________

photo by the amazing Jill Greenberg in her book "Monkey Portraits"

 

 

 

The ultimate half measure.

"Half measures availed us nothing." -- "Alcoholics Anonymous" (AA's Big Book) Chapter 5 'How It Works' -- pg. 59

I'm not the first person to observe that this hardly seems fair.  Half measures really should avail us at least half.

The sentiment above is located in The Big Book just prior to the first time the 12 Steps are introduced to the reader.  The point being that trying to get sober is an all-or-nothing proposition.

Elsewhere in the literature is what is called the "AA Preamble" -- in my town it is always printed on the first page of the Meeting Directory.  It is a pair of brief paragraphs that give a concise description of what Alcoholics Anonymous is ("... a fellowship of men and women who share ... that they may solve their common problem ... and help others ... ) and what it is not (" ... there are no dues or fees ... not allied with any ... organization or institution ... does not ... engage ... in any controversy ...) and concludes with what is for many AA's the sum total of who we are and what we're about:

"Our primary purpose is to stay sober and help other alcoholics achieve sobriety."

I heard a speaker today identify brilliantly that if all you're doing is staying sober -- if you're not in some way also helping another alcoholic achieve sobriety -- then you are indulging in the ultimate half measure.

And I would like to go on to add that, if you are, eventually it will indeed avail you nothing.