Mr. SponsorPants

Questions via Email: 3 Part Disease?

 

 

Dear Mr. SP,

I'm new. I hear all the time that it's a 3 part disease but I'm not sure I know what that means. Please don't tell me to look in the Big Book.  Can you please just tell me?

 

Wondering

 

Dear Wondering,

You know, I sponsored someone once who just couldn't understand the Big Book.  It's not that they weren't smart, nor did they lack for willingness.  It's just that they weren't much of a reader, English was their least favorite subject in school (actually, I think school was their least favorite subject in school) and then to top it all off the book "Alcoholics Anonymous" (the aforementioned "Big Book") was written in 1938/9, so it's full of early 20th Century slang (like "... the goose hung high..." and "... lest I burst through my window, sash and all..." and "the remonstrances of my friends terminated in a row, and I became a lone wolf."  That last one, by the way, is important if you're new and beginning to identify with some of what you hear in meetings...)  They wanted to read the book, but they needed me to sort of translate it for them.  As intelligent as the were -- and they were -- they couldn't take that writing in with any real comprehension themselves.

All of which is to say that, in my humble opinion there are two kinds of people who have a problem with the Big Book:  The Wont's -- who have issues with sloth, willingness and rebellion (hello... er... almost everybody) and the Cant's (hello... er... almost everybody else). 

So today I'll think of you in the Can't camp and I won't parse out a clever, snarky little anecdote which ultimately scolds you and then tells you to go to the Big Book...

...

...

...

>>>Mr. SponsorPants makes Herculean effort to restrain himself<<<

...

...

...

...(dear God, I think I just pulled something)...

since that's probably not very helpful to you (but damned fun to write, I must confess).

 

In an effort to not drown you in words and information I'll try to keep this bare bones.  I'll just give you what I understand this 3 Part business to mean:

 

Alcoholism is a three-fold disease:  Body, mind and spirit.  Physical, mental and spiritual is how it is also often spoken about.

When an alcoholic ingests alcohol, there is a physically rooted craving for more which is triggered. That's the "body" part of the disease.  Today's medical technology can map brain activity and give a diagnosis around addiction which talks about "serotonin production" and "serotonin uptake" and some other cool stuff, but for you and me, the word "craving" can serve as a perfectly accurate label for the hard science.  And just to be clear, a "craving" is not just a fancy way of saying "I want" -- we're not talking about the desire to keep your buzz going once you start drinking.  We're talking about a literally physically driven reaction to the alcohol separate from the high and different from just the generally lowered inhibitions alcohol engenders.  The difference between a desire and a craving is like the difference between a wave and a tsunami.  There are some similarities, but one of them is always going to be irresistible.

And no matter how horrible the consequences of their drinking becomes, an alcoholic is not able to use the idea, or the memory, or the thought of those consequences to influence our decision making enough to prevent us from eventually picking up a drink all over again -- and then triggering that physically rooted craving.  On the most basic level that's the mental part of the disease.

The spiritual part of the disease refers to the staggering level of self-involvement (bordering on narcissism) that most alcoholics have.  Life is not all about us; life is all about us. Every relationship and event is viewed through a backwards and distorted lens -- like how in ancient times people thought the Sun revolved around the Earth, alcoholics believe everything revolves in some way around us.

Thus it is the one-two punch from the self-centeredness of the spiritual aspect and the (sometimes-but-not-always-willful) blind spot of the mental element which keeps most alcoholics on a cycle of drinking which, in both my observation and personal experience, never seems to lead to a healthy, happy, fulfilling life.

 

That help?

 

Cheers!

Mr. SponsorPants

 

And so we come to the end of my first month on this very challenging job...

 

And so we come to the end of my first month on this very challenging job...

A lot of overtime today.  An extra early start and, considering when we started, quite a late finish:  7:00am to 7:00pm.  Some work more, many work less, that's what it was today.  Not a complaint, merely a description.  Context, if you will.

And from today I have this little nugget to share with you:

 

7:15am:  I sit in the office with my boss, going over administrative things, reviewing what she's shown me for the past month.  I think to myself, "She thinks I'm stupid.  I look so stupid to her.  She must think I'm stupid."  Over and over, almost like a drumbeat.  On the heels of those thoughts come: "I am not learning this quickly enough.  This is a terrible situation.  I'm just not cut out for this."

10:15am:  On to different tasks, now I think:  "She really got saddled with me.  She doesn't like me.  She probably is sick of me.  I'm not working out here, and she feels stuck with me."

Kids, really, that is literally what I was thinking, so much so that I had to work hard to both listen to her and pay attention to what I was doing.

One of the things that has come up over the past thirty or so days is that she may go to a different location and, if I work out, I would take over the one we're at now.

At noon she looks at me and says, "Oh Mr. SponsorPants, when we're not working together," (alluding to the idea that she will go to another location) "can we still hang out and text and email and stuff?"

Yeah. I know.

Then, at the end of a long day, we sat down to kick around the past month: "Well, given your experience, we figured you'd be at par on some things, but you're really progressing much faster than we thought or expected on everything else.  There's really nothing negative to say..."

 

Yeah, ok, let's just break that down, shall we?

In my head I'm convinced -- convinced, mind you -- that A) My boss thinks I'm stupid, B) My boss doesn't like me, and C) I'm not "working out" at the job.

The reality seems to be that A) I'm progressing faster than expected, B) my boss enjoys our working relationship to such a degree that it prompts an unsolicited request to keep in close contact should we not be at the same location, and C) there is literally "nothing negative to say."

 

Sometimes there's just no getting around this fact:

 

I.  Am.  Crazy.

 

Is it any wonder that the book Alcoholics Anonymous (AA's Big Book) states, and underscores in a dozen places, "Therefore, the main problem of the alcoholic centers in his mind, rather than in his body." (Big Book, pg. 23).

Now, at that point in the text what the book is specifically talking about is the "curious mental blank spot" which clouds the memory of an alcoholic who may have had terrible consequences to their drinking but can still find a way to give themselves permission to pick up a drink (thereby activating the "allergy of the body" which is the physical component of the disease, the terrible, biologically rooted drive to drink uncontrollably once one has started).

But the larger point in AA literature, and certainly what (somewhat embarrassingly) applies to me here, is that our perception of ourselves and our relationship with others and with reality as a whole can be seriously skewed to the negative; and that can become fodder for the slide into self destruction.  The thinking I had today is one example of the kind of raw material alcoholism uses to create that curious mental blank spot.

Alcoholics don't "own" skewed or negative or self-obsessive thinking -- plenty of people struggle with that -- it's foolish and grandiose of us to invest in a belief which makes us "special" by being so damaged in this way.

But what we do own is that, without a spiritual connection, it is this warped version of reality we create which is a key trigger to how our alcoholism helps us give ourselves permission to pick up that first drink.

I am sick (sick!) of this toxic, self-obsessed, merry-go-round in my head which fatigue and fear seem to fuel... but today at least I can sit through it, not act on it, and be present for when reality proves quite a bit brighter than the darkness of my thoughts.

I can sit through it because of the relationships I have in AA, and because of the spiritual connection I feel which, although I snarl and twist and whine like a wild dog on a leash, intervenes on my behalf in strange, often subtle, but very tangible ways.

Thank you -- literally the you that are reading this right now, since, through the extended 12 Step family I believe we are truly all connected, all part of this giant lifeboat, no one of us more important than another, but all of us needed, all of us special -- and thank God.

I've spent enough time cursing the Divine lately -- though I like to think I've owned my process (mostly) as I've gone through it -- that it was important to me to put some gratitude in writing again.

Today I am grateful -- certainly for the work, but more so for the awareness and the recovery I have as I sit tight and come out the other side of those dark mental tunnels which seem so real when you're in them, but always just turn out to be addiction messing with my mind, one more time.

But I make it through -- we make it through.

You're doing it again, Mr. SponsorPants

 

I had gotten an ear full earlier that night from some of the girls at work about a particular customer.  Difficult, obsessive, aggressive, never tips; comes in once or twice a day, and sometimes pesters the girls on their breaks, (though none of them seemed especially phased by that part). It was more just a general grousing session about someone who, while they may be a perfect child of god, behaves like an ass.

Walking home tonight, footsore, my mind wandering, I recalled their description of this individual, and began to imagine scenarios in which I had to deal with him; how rude he would be and what I would say in response.  "He'll say _______ and then I'll smile and come back with ___________, or he'll say __________, and I will tell him that it is not in our job description to tolerate rude or abusive language, but then he'll ... and I'll..."  Each round of the imagined exchange escalating in verbiage and intensity.

To my great credit, this only lasted for a couple of blocks before I realized what I was doing and started laughing at myself:  "You're doing it again, Mr. SponsorPants.  You are having an argument in your mind with someone who isn't here -- but even better, this time you're having an argument in your mind with a man you haven't even met yet!" my better self mock-scolded.

I said a little prayer, in time with my tired footsteps, asking God to heal this warped mechanism within my mind, to help me cease this mental shadowboxing in which I create resentment filled situations out of thin air, with people who aren't present, or haven't said those things, or sometimes I don't even know.

Maybe it was Divine Intervention, maybe it was fatigue coupled with the absurdity of what I had been thinking, but I had a fit of the giggles which, like fizzy bubbles, cleared my mind and set my thoughts on a much nicer plane.

 

Time and again I experience this Truth:

Prayer does not change the world.

Prayer changes me.

(If not permanently, then at least as often as needed!)

 

10 Things I Did Not Say At Lunch

I am, of course, incredibly moved and grateful for the outpouring of support and overwhelming number of comments yesterday.  Thank you all so much; words fail me.  (Mark the date!  That sure as hell doesn't happen often.  Or often enough, a few friends might say.)

My deepest thanks.

________________________________________

 

Today I had lunch with the Big Boss.  The one who, as detailed in yesterday's post, made some comments to my boss about my weight.

Irony alert!

(I have come to believe that I've been blessed with a prodigious sense of humor just so that God could share all these little jokes with me.)

When I realized that we would be eating together, my mind, as you can imagine, began spitting out suggestions as to what I might say.  But I have learned (the hard way) the value of AA's wise, wise admonishment:  Restraint of pen and tongue.

Thus, what follows is a list of

10 Things I Did Not Say At Lunch With the Big Boss

10.  Hey, this isn't what I ordered!  Where's my cheesecake and pizza?

9.  You know, before I started working here I was going to go on a diet, but now that I can eat for free, and the food's so good, I think I'm going to be packing on the pounds!

8.  You know what would make this salad better?  A stick of butter.

7.  Damn it, I asked them to put some melted cheese on my melted cheese!

6.  I'm on kind of a health kick.  Only brown sugar for me.

5.  You know what would make these phony bacon bits better?  A stick of butter!

4.  Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the Dress Code.  How do you feel about Caftans?

3.  I'm going to be working as a Santa next Xmas, so I'm on a strict diet.  I only have to gain another 75 lbs. to reach my goal weight!

2.  I'm going to be entering an eat-a-thon next week to raise money for an organization called The Fat Liberation Front.  Can I count on you for a donation?

1. Oh my gosh!  I think I felt the baby kick!

 

To be honest, we had a very pleasant lunch.

Here's why:

I got to work early, and sat down at the Starbucks across the street, and wrote out an inventory of my resentments and fears about the job in general, and the whole "have they talked to you about your weight" thing in particular.

And, as is always, always the case, even though I think I'm so smart and so very clever, things came out the end of the pen that I could not see by thinking (or blogging) about it alone.

I got clarity.  The fact of the matter is, this man may (or may not) have had the concern my boss assumed he did.  It's all hearsay and her interpretation of events. I wasn't there -- Big Boss might have been trying to tell her something completely different from her interpretation.  He might actually have been trying to show her, by mentioning it, that they're not as appearance driven as she has accused them of being in the past.

And/or, Big Boss is trying to do his job to the best of his ability.  I have no idea what pressures he is under.  IF what he said meant what my boss thought, while it is about me, it's not about me.  He's just a guy trying to make rent like anybody else.

I might feel a little differently about what kind of image I wanted my company to project if it were my money at stake. 

Blah blah blah, I went on for some time on the inventory.

The point I want to make is that I sat down and wrote out the four column inventory structure for my resentments, and then also wrote about my fears, and I felt about a hundred thousand percent better by the end of it.  I gained perspective, and I was free from the angry red fog I'd stumbled into.  (Well, red and purple, maybe.  Resentment and victim by turns.)

So I could have a nice business lunch and not seethe inside, nor did I have to address something which didn't need to be addressed -- at least not then and not there, if ever.

I could turn my attention from my own wounded pride and look at work in the manner which has always served me best and eventually led to my most happy job experiences:  As a way to be of service.

Writing out an inventory doesn't necessarily change a bad comment or a bad day -- what it does is change how I view them. 

I was able to sit across from this man and see him as a really hard working guy who wants to get it right, who is trying to help this little company pop, and saw in me something that he thought was worth hiring -- yet left to my own devices, what I want to do is walk around boo-hooing over a second hand report of a comment which, if you look at the words that were said ("He's a big guy, but he carries his weight well."), is actually a compliment!

Look, I'm not trying to minimize how hard that all was, what a wrenching and brutal day it became -- especially with that final K.O. punch.  But the hard truth is that what made it such a difficult day was, at heart, my worries about what other people think of me, my feelings of entitlement, and my ego.  The Unholy Trinity of Career Unhappiness.

After lunch -- which was delicious, I'm certainly not working for a company that doesn't have a shot -- I got back to work and was actually grateful to be cleaning the refrigerator again.

It gave me a chance to stick my head inside it so no one could see me get all emotional as I thought about how lucky I am -- not just to have the job -- but to have the tools AA taught me.

What a weepy old thing I've become.

Cheers!

 

  

"so... have they talked to you about your weight?"

 

If profanity offends you then do not read this blog post.

 

I am 6'3" tall.  I weigh 270lbs., give or take.  Most of it is not muscle.  My waist size right now is 44".

I'm a big guy -- I believe the word, without euphemism (stocky, bearish, barrel chested, thick in the middle, etc.) is fat.  Although I don't have the self loathing that I used to in this arena -- and I've been up and down in my weight over the years (basically I've owned Gap khakis in pretty much every damn size they sell them in) -- I'm not quite as happy at this number (pretty much the biggest I've been) and wouldn't mind being a little bit trimmer.  No big dramatic change, just down a notch or two.

To give you some perspective on how that translates in the real world, I can fit into an airline seat -- unless they shrank 'em yet again -- albeit uncomfortably (and since in that context I can be a little self conscious about my size I'll probably cede the armrest to you).  I don't need a seat belt extender, but I sure as hell have to take a deep breath to fasten the damn thing.

You'll need some of that information in a little bit.

 

A new year and a new direction.  For the past two years I've been writing pretty much full time, and that sedentary occupation, coupled with a profound dislike of the gym, fed the weight gain.  I'm actually a pretty healthful eater, it's that I don't move much is more the issue.   But the full time writing, drawing on a little savings for a time, was a chance to live a dream -- and this blog was the kickoff for a new level of discipline in that regard.  At one point I even thought that this blog might be a book, "Mr. SponsorPants: 12 Step Experience for AA's and Friends."  What the hell, somebody's gotta give Chuck C. and "A New Pair of Glasses" a run for their money, right?  It would be anonymous, like the blog, so I'm covered ethically -- and I'd hoped -- as I always have with the blog -- that this writing in book form might get into the hands of people who needed help but aren't busy poking around the web for recovery blogs. As I've responded to some of you in your kind emails, I'm always humbled and grateful that anything here might be helpful to anyone "out there."  And as my first sponsor told me a long time ago, "God hit you with the talking stick -- it's one of the ways you're supposed to be of service."  I never questioned him on it, I just took that in and tried to apply it appropriately over the years.  So when the inspiration for this blog came to me (as an unwelcome answer to a panicked prayer) I thought back on what he'd said, and took comfort from it.

I'll keep blogging -- as I write this right now I don't know if there's ever going to be a book -- but with the financial resources dwindling it was time to get a "regular" job again.  And I have to tell you, I dragged my feet on that score and cut it a bit too fine.  It got scary.  It's a tough job market, I live in a very "young" city, and I'm nearly fifty -- and as regular readers may have gleaned from other posts here, I've had a more bohemian, checkered, service-industry type job path over the years:  Sales Trainer, Book Store Manager... even (briefly) radio talk show host (although the show was broadcast from a tower which had about as much wattage as your average blow dryer.  Still, it was a paying gig for a time).  And, as with any working adult who is not on one specific career track, I've knocked on some doors which didn't open, but would have been (I thought) a great fit for me.  AA has taught me to look at those things as "God's will" -- that is, I will be given a chance to be of service someplace else, that wasn't the spot meant for me.  Often that's expressed, in AA terms, as "we do the footwork, and then we turn the result over to God."  So in terms of work, I do the footwork -- make sure the resume is smart and right, press the shirt, put on jacket and tie, give the best interview I can, write the thank-you-for-the-interview letter, and then whatever happens... whether I get the job or not, is the result, is the part I leave in God's hands  Okay, I can live with that philosophy -- and have, with varying degrees of comfort, over the past almost 23 years sober.

But as I said, the money was running out, I'd procrastinated (my ancient enemy, my boon companion) and the heat was on.  No, let me put it this way:  The heat was ON.

So I prayed for help, and as is often the case with me, two things happened:

1. God, or HP, or The Great Kazoo, seemed to orchestrate some kind of cosmic shift on my behalf, and I got help.

2.  I didn't like the help I got.

But although I moaned and wept, I did my part of the equation; I did the footwork, and the result was that I got a job which is really an excellent opportunity.

Except I had to shave my beard off and go into the food industry -- an industry I was happy to patronize, but had no desire to participate in.

Back to the service industry we go.  Secretly I seethed at God.  I wanted something a lot more fabulous, a lot more interesting, a lot less labor intensive.  I wanted something sexy, like the kind of job you give to quirky movie characters.  I didn't want to be a fucking restaurant manager!  Never mind it's a great company and the potential is huge -- I don't want to have to shave to fit their stupid dress code.  I'm artistic!  I'm erudite!  I'm special!  "Why can't you send me something like that, God?" I screamed in my head.  And to be clear, I screamed it a lot.

God's only answer was in the form of an email from my new employers, inviting me to join them for my first day of work Monday, January 3, 2011, at 10:00am for orientation and to start my training.

"You suck, God."  I whispered to myself.

"This will be great for you, and is just what you need, and will be fun and exciting and an amazing..." some healthy part of me, pushed to the back of my head and buried beneath layers of ego and fear and entitlement (like when you put too many blankets on the bed and you wake up in the middle of the night all sweaty) asserted -- or tried to.

"Shut the hell up, healthy part." I snarled.  I was too busy feeling wronged by God to listen to anything healthy.  I shared about this with some of my AA peeps, and with my sponsor, to varying degrees of sympathy or dismissiveness. 

So I showed up for my new job/opportunity/life yesterday.

The first day was easy.  Just talking and paperwork, although there was a lot of both.

Today?  Today was hard.

Early in the day I looked around at my co-workers, bright-eyed, trim young things, most in their early 20's, smart and sharp and having done the job for a while, really on their game.  I felt alternately like a whale out of water, clumsy and not in my element, or like some decrepit loser, projecting onto their smiling faces questions about how I wound up here with them.

I recognized it as fear and ego and self pity, and went in the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and prayed.

A quarter of the way through the day I was juggling trays of food and doing all that restaurant work which looks easy but isn't (I am here to tell you - it isn't.)  Without my beard I look very, very different -- people literally don't recognize me.  Several AA's I know -- not well, to be fair, but we know each other -- came in to eat.  They did not see the face of their sober acquaintance in the face of the man trying not to drop their soup in their lap, and I didn't break cover.  It was hard though, not to wonder about the decisions I've made in life which brought me there.  That's one of the things about sobriety -- after you work through your self pity and delusion and entitlement and put a muzzle on your ego, you are left with nothing but the sober view of taking responsibility for your part in things.  I hate that.

Half way through the day my co-workers were talking about the guy who does my job at another location.  I was just standing nearby, not really part of the conversation.  My new boss was talking about showing this guy the paperwork and how to do certain parts of the job.  "First pass, he got it all right away.  All the ordering, everything."  "Wow." another coworker said.  "Yes.  When he first came in I joked with the Big Boss that I couldn't hire someone that good looking, it would be distracting..."  "He used to model, you know."  Other coworker added.  "He did? Doesn't surprise me."  My boss opined.  "Yeah, back in Brazil, where he's from.  Swimsuits or fitness or something."  "Really?"  "Yeah."  "Oh, that explains the language thing."  "What language thing?"  "Well, a lot of people are fluent in english and spanish, but he's fluent in portuguese, too."  I excused myself and went to the bathroom.  "Really, God?"  I asked.  "The guy I'm potentially being compared to is a tri-lingual, Brazillian swimsuit model?  For real?  Are you shitting me?" 

Apparently, and for the record, God is not shitting me.

This incarnation of great DNA, high intellect and stupendous job performance will be working alongside me next week.  As in, right alongside me.

Joy.

Three-quarters of the way through the day I was head and shoulders inside a refrigerator, scrubbing with real enthusiasm in an effort to show I was worth their investment.  I pulled my head out and looked around the restaurant.  We're located downstairs from a popular, expensive health club.  It appeared as though the three o'clock spin class had come downstairs to enjoy a salad together and talk about all the money they had in the bank and all the great sex they were having.  Okay, okay, I didn't know that's what they were saying, but that's what I believed for a minute, standing there, sweaty, my lower back singing, dirty rag in hand.  I thought about what AA says about humility, and being a worker among workers.  "Fuck that," I thought. "I want to be them."  I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and thought about how I always want the result without the process.  I want the body without going to the gym.  I want savings without being frugal.  While that's maybe being a little bit hard on myself, it's also not too far off the mark.  I said a prayer, which started with, "Fuck you, God" but ended with "help and thank you and help -- no really, help."

At the end of the day I sat in the tiny office with my new boss, almost knee-to-knee.  I like this gal.  She's smart and an excellent manager and quirky and funny and very professional.  I can see why the people at the top of this new company picked her to run this restaurant for them.  She's training me to do her job at a new location, and if I can learn it fast enough and well enough, it's a great chance with a smart little company poised to really expand.  Every time I think/type/say that a little voice in my head mutters about being too old or that I had to shave my beard or not wanting to work in this industry.  I tell the voice to shut up now, or I shout "God! God! God!" in my head over and over.  Till it goes away.  I suppose there's nothing very spiritual about that -- you could "shout" any word in your head to try and redirect your thinking, but that one works for me.

I was working hard to listen to her, pay attention, learn more, while also trying to show I was paying attention and trying to learn.

She squinted and looked into space for a minute, then sucked air in between her teeth.  "Gosh, I really don't want to have this part of the conversation."

I waited.

"So... have they talked to you about your weight?"

I smiled brightly and cocked my head to the side, like the little dog in the RCA Victor ads.  "My... weight?"  I asked.  Smiling brightly and cocking my head is some kind of thing I do when I'm not sure I understood what someone just said, and what I think they said is too much to take in.

"Yes... your weight.  You know, part of what this company is about is wholesome food.  A healthy appearance."

I kept smiling.

"And, you know, when Big Boss was talking to me about you, he said, 'You know him, he's a customer.  He's... he's a big guy, but...' and then he paused, 'he carries his weight well.'"

"Well," smile smile smile, "actually no, he didn't mention it.  And it's not like I wore a girdle to the interview.  I could have, but I wouldn't bring up my need to wear ladies undergarments at work until after a few months had gone by..."  smiling smiling smiling, head cocked to such a degree I might have cracked a vertebrae.

"I told him that I would lose huge, huge respect for this company if we let a valuable, talented candidate get away because of an issue like that..."

Basically, she's cool and she was just trying to let me know that it's a small company and the big bosses are obsessive about... every aspect.  She shared how they gave her a hard time about her hair and make-up once -- in an effort to show that her opinion was that they were a little off-base.

I took a deep breath.  "Well, I guess on the one hand, I believe a company has the right to brand themselves a certain way.  You don't have a lot of three hundred pound people selling Diet Coke or working at the front desk of a health club... but..." I shrugged "I am how I am.  I'm bigger than I like right now, but... gosh, I guess I don't know what else to say."  My smile seemed to have puttered out.

"I just thought you should know that there's not one thing they don't have meetings about or discuss."

People are sitting around an office somewhere, talking about my weight?  I thought.   This thought was immediately followed by two, simultaneous reactions:

1. Fuck them.

2. Cool! People are talking about me!

 

At the end of a hard day, the very, very last thing I needed was to hear... that.

 

It was a long walk home.  For the first several blocks I thought about how what had happened, when I got sober at 24, was that I had fallen in with a cult.  AA was a cult, and if I hadn't been so busy trying to be a worker among workers and sponsoring and stuff, I'd have maybe made different decisions in my life.  Yeah, fuck AA.  And fuck my sponsor, too.  And fuck all my sponsees, I'm sick of hearing their shit.

A few blocks later I passed a guy in a doorway.  He had one leg, and it's cold here now.  A lot of people think some homeless people are faking, but I don't know you can fake a missing leg, or shivering.  I fished in my pocket and gave him a dollar which, frankly, I could ill afford to give away right now.

A block past him I thought what a rotten, miserable world it is.  I thought about the AA guy I used to sponsor who hung himself a couple of weeks ago.  I thought about one of the other guys I sponsor who just relapsed, and while he's back and sober right now just has a helluva time of it.  I thought about me, fat and nearly fifty, cleaning refrigerators, and what a freakish loser I must look like to all those kids at the restaurant.  What a shitty world.  "Guess I should have made better decisions... most of 'em didn't look so bad at the time..." I thought to myself.

And then I thought -- as I often seem to at points like that, when circumstances around me and my own sadness and regret and self pity (three different emotions, by the way) lead me to conclude that this miserable ball of mud hanging in the dark is doomed -- and that we deserve that doom -- about Marian Fisher.

Marian Fisher was one of the Amish girls shot in that little schoolhouse in 2006 when that crazed gunman went in and took a class hostage.  For some reason, whenever I think about that horrific tragedy, I don't think about the gunman, and what he did, so much as I think about Marian, and what she did instead.  By all accounts from the survivors, when it became clear that this madman was going to murder, Marian, little 13 year old Marian Fisher, stepped forward, and said, "Shoot me first, and leave these little ones be."  Now, she'd never seen "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or read a "Wonder Woman" comic book -- she was Amish, for God's sake.  She was motivated purely by her faith, and her own, innate, selfless goodness.  Whenever I think of her I shame myself for thinking that a world in which such a spirit could exist is doomed, or deserves its doom.

I was exhausted and overwrought and must have been a sorry sight, walking along the city street with tears on my cheeks, thinking about my sad, bratty temper tantrums against that poor guy with one leg or Marian Fisher.

It's not a device, this thinking of her, which I choose to use when I'm at my lowest ebb.  Thinking about her just comes to me -- ever since I read that story almost five years ago.

This will be hard and, frankly, I'm not sure I'll be able to do it.  Yeah, yeah, all I have to do is try my best, but what I'd really rather do is call my new boss and say I have a family emergency or a dire illness or got a better offer and I have to quit... I don't want to go back there and think about a CEO talking about whether I'm too fat, or what the adorable 24 year old girl standing next to me at the food window is thinking about how a man twice her age came to be standing there next to her.

I don't want to go to AA I don't want to be of service I want to tell everything and all of it to fuck off.

____________________

Just in case you think God doesn't have a sense of humor, the sponsee who relapsed and is back just called me as I typed that, and I spent a half hour on the phone talking to him about how we can shore up his Program while we find an in-patient recovery situation for him.

You think you're so funny, God.

________________

So these next few months are going to be hard.  A whole new round of ego smashing.  Brutal mirrors to see how I try to avoid taking responsibility for things.  Resentment and entitlement will probably be cropping up a lot.

Oh, yeah, and then there's the genius Brazillian swimsuit model I'll get to work alongside.  You will, I hope, understand if I say I am not looking forward to the inevitable, literally side-by-side comparison.

I talked to my sponsor tonight, and most of what he said was crap (sorry, but that's how I felt), but he said one thing that really helped, which was that I'm willing and I'm showing up and praying and I'm not self-destructing one day at a time, and that's a Big Win -- and I've been a sponsor myself long enough to know that when someone's in the shits, if you can at least find one thing to say which is helpful to them, then you did your job, and if the rest doesn't resonate, that's how it goes sometimes.

I wish I had a better example of recovery to share in this venue now.  Which may sound like a self-serving, passive/aggressive type thing to say, but no, I really mean it.  I wish I was... not so childish, not so prone to these storms of self pity today.  Against the greater scheme of things I should just be damn grateful to have a job and that should be that.

But sometimes we carry the mess, and sometimes we carry the message, and sometimes doing the former is doing the latter.

I have to iron my shirt before I go to bed, so all I can leave you with is this:

The world is not only not doomed, it has enough light in it for one overweight, out of shape, freaked out, entitled alcoholic to use what AA has taught him to keep showing up and ignore his head, and say yes to a great opportunity even though half the time he's an ungrateful brat -- and if there's enough light for that to happen, if AA can help a wretched mess like me get through the day... then there is absolutely nothing facing any alcoholic which we can't get through for just that day.

Odds are, one of you out there reading this is as much of a freaked out self entitled ungrateful brat as I am, as overwhelmed and overwrought by what you have to face as I. 

So here's the deal:

You don't lie, and bail, or drink or use or kill yourself -- just get through the day with as much dignity and grace as you can muster -- and I'll do the same.

And together we'll manage to log one more sober 24 hours, and maybe a little more recovery in spite of ourselves.

Deal?

Ok.

Meet you back here tomorrow.

 

 

1333 Words: A letter from my alcoholism.

Dear Readers,

Finally!  A chance to clear my good name!

I've been patiently waiting for an opportunity just such as this to speak to you myself, after all of Mr. SponsorPants egregious mis-characterizations regarding my motives and nature.  (Don't worry, on my account, however.  I have always been quite content to patiently wait for the perfect opportunity to step forward.  A keen sense of timing is one of my most defining and endearing qualities!)

Oh, I am sorry.  No doubt some find this tone, well... if not foppish, then certainly off-putting.  Please, allow me to start over.

 

Hey you guys!

How's it going?  Good I hope.  Listen, I feel like Mr. SP has really done a number on me here on the blog, and it's totally unfair.  I mean, come on, we just want to have a good time, right?  No harm in that, right?  Puh-leeze, with the way the world is, we freakin' deserve a good time, am I right?  Of course I'm right!  It's pretty easy to misunderstand what I'm talkin' about, what with all those creepy AA sheep constantly bleating about how sick they are, and surrender and whatever and all that other bullshit.  And then it's all "God this" and "Higher Power that"... oh my God!  Lame.  No, worse than lame.  Pathetic, right?  Is there anything more boring than some uptight freak telling you how being good is good for you?  What, do they think you're like, 12 or something?  Do they even know everything you've done -- or, I mean, are going to do? Jesus!  They need to chill out.  If they lightened up some maybe they wouldn't be such boring, unhappy losers -- can you really take their advice on freakin' anything?  Nuh uh.  I'm thinkin' no freakin' way.    

 

Perhaps too casual?  I'm merely trying to determine the best possible way to make myself understood -- I can do whatever voice I need to "get through to you" as they say.  Finding just the right note to sound so that you'll really hear me is another genuine talent of mine!  I love it actually, because when I find that voice which commands your full attention I can free you from a lot of other, pesky distractions, so you can focus on you.  I want our communication to be effortless -- there's absolutely no reason why one should have to stop and think to hear me -- or have any trouble embracing the idea that what I endeavor to do is help.  In fact, in my humble estimation, "stopping to think" is very highly overrated!  All of that insipid "calm deliberation" -- truly, must one constantly stop to think before speaking or acting?  Where's your confidence?  Your enthusiasm for life?  Your joie de vivre?  My God, your passion!  Perhaps the actual problem is that you stop to think too much!  Have you considered that?  Look at yourself.  No, really, take a good long look at yourself.  Ignore the petty little things in the world around you, and focus solely on You.  Clearly, you're meant for great things.  You deserve great things.  Anyone who doesn't see your intelligence, your sensitivity, your expertise, is... well, obviously they're an imbecile.  In fact, anyone who is fool enough not to check with you on -- well, anything -- is just asking for it.  You know what that is when they do that?  It's a snub!  That's what it is!  You don't have to take that!

 

Dis!  Totally dissing me.  Unless... whoah.  Did you screw up?  Did you do something wrong?  Is that why that time that... damn!  You probably totally screwed everything up!  Again!  Were you supposed to... No!  Wait!  Maybe you weren't supposed to...   Okay, okay!  Don't panic!  Don't panic!  You know how to handle this.  Just play it cool.  Put your Game Face on.  Pretend you totally know what you're doing.  Because if you don't then they'll know you screwed up, or they'll know you don't know or... they'll just... you know.  That's another way I can help, it's like I've got your back, right?  When you might get in trouble or something, I can totally coach you through how to bluff your way out of it -- or to just cut and run.  That's always, always an option.  Every man for himself, right?  There's a reason that's a saying, right?  Right.  

 

Oh my yes, that's good advice, that is.  One should never show oneself to be -- how shall I put this delicately? -- a screw up.  Ask for help?  Why, isn't that akin to hanging a sign around one's neck which says "Helpless Loser, please take advantage of me!"  It is!  And you and I both know it.  Of course, I suppose if you want, you could always ask for help from your "Higher Power."  Oh!  One moment, let me collect myself, I always get such a chuckle out of that.  Yes, by all means, kneel down and talk to the air.  Hee!  Oh, that's rich.  (But seriously now, I want you to know, I think that looks adorable.  When you're six, that is.)  Isn't all that Higher Power Hocus Pocus just a little... well... pathetic?  Perhaps not.  I don't mean to offend.  One might make a case that all that HP malarkey will eventually make you feel better.  A little better.  After a while... if only you could do something which would make you feel a LOT better.  Instantly!  Now, what might that be... it's on the tip of my tongue, just give me a moment...

 

Prayer is lame.  Meditation looks boring.  Hard or stupid and totally boring. 

 

Oh dear, I've completely gotten away from my original point.  What was it again?  Ah yes, helping you understand that there's no "boogie man" in your head.  I'm not the voice of some malevolent force, I'm your common sense!  I'm here to help you clear the AA fog!  All this overblown, hyperbolic, hysterical business about me is... well, it's just nonsense.  We can both agree that the AA rhetoric is pretty much over the top, can't we?  (And let's face it, a little cultish, yes?  Gives me the willies, that's what it does.)  You know, I wager if one were to step back from it a bit, why, it would be seen in an entirely different light.  Far be it from me to cast aspersions, but it seems like a tremendous drag on time and personal resources.  (All this service business, for example.  That's not how the world works, and we both know it.  No one is looking out for you except you, so you better put yourself on the top of your list.  What about your needs, your desires, what you deserve, what you want, hmmm?)    Perhaps if I might suggest a break from meetings, to reassess...  oh dear.  I think our host is returning.

 

Gotta jet.  Keep it on the DL we can catch up again easy.  Remember: Nice guys finish last, and nobody likes to hang with people who don't know how to party.  Later! 

 

Do keep in mind what I've said.  And by all means, do not worry -- I'll make certain we have a chance to chat again.  (In fact -- and don't tell on me now -- but I'm sure some of you have already seen me giving a friendly wink or a sly hello from between the lines in some of Mr. SP's writing, regardless of topic.  Easy enough to do, of course.  Not hard to catch his ear.  He secretly thinks pretty well of himself you know.  You're familiar with the phrase "Crocodile Tears," alluding to insincerity and an agenda when one demonstrates sorrow?  We need to coin a phrase for SponsorPants.  He's got Crocodile Humility, that one does.  Oh, it's true.  I've seen the underbelly of the Beast!  Ego's alive and well in him, I assure you.)  In any event, never fear, I'm not really leaving, just, to use the vernacular, "laying low" for a bit.  One way or another, I guarantee you'll hear from me again soon.

As he's so fond of saying...

Cheers!

 

 

Evil Old Cat: 1990 to 2010 R.I.P.

Actually, her name was Lilly, and she exited my life today much as she arrived:  Solely on her terms.

20 plus years ago I already had a cat, a friendly fellow named Baxter only about a year old at the time.  Even tempered and affectionate, he would willingly break cat protocol and come when I called (if I offered a treat as a result of this good behavior, I learned there and then that the difference between a reward and a bribe is sometimes... well... whisker thin.)

I was a couple of years sober, and as many young newcomers do, I'd been whining to my sponsor about wanting a Relationship.  "A Relationship?!?" he said, his voice an insulting mix of doubt, alarm and scorn, "Fine.  Why don't you start with a pet."  Thus, Baxter.

The first year I had Baxter I was waiting tables at a little diner down the road from where I lived.  It was an idyllic time, and I had just enough sobriety then to appreciate that fact.  Meetings, work, home to read a good book with a friendly cat on my lap -- after eight solid years of blackout drinking and brutal hangovers, young as I was that fit just fine. 

But then I got a new job, which entailed much longer hours and a terrible commute.  The interview process alone scared the schnitzel out of me, but by now in AA I had at least learned to stop reflexively saying "no" to everything -- which, if you're not careful, becomes a non-verbal "yes" to many things.  And so, one not-saying-no thing led to another, and (fools that they were) they decided to "give me a chance." 

"Won't Baxter be lonely, with you away so much now?" a friend of mine in the Program asked me.  (So often an innocent question from an alcoholic masks some self-serving agenda.  Ah, dear Alanons, my heart breaks for you sometimes... but then I go back to thinking about myself, as that is the nature of the Beast.) 

In this case, the self-serving agenda was the placement of a kitten; one of a litter who'd been born to a ridiculously inbred Siamese who narrowly lost out on being a show-quality cat because of some arcane pedigree standard, and thus her fate was to wind up living with my best-of-intentions alcoholic friend and his dizzying parade of alcoholic boyfriends.  As an "almost" show cat there had been some scheme in the background involving breeding kittens to sell, so she'd never been fixed.  The ongoing drama of serial relationships in the house made for lax supervision, so when the mood hit her, she slipped out and made the acquaintance of a...er... *cough* traveling man.

One short cat-pregnancy later:  A litter of strapping healthy kittens, the very image of what vets call "hybrid vigor." 

And last of the bunch, very last, the runt of the litter:  My Lilly. 

(You know, I don't think she ever forgave the Universe for that early kittenhood betrayal.)

Soon after, (the bare minimum of the appropriate time) my friend showed up on my doorstep, so cheerful and perky he made Mr. Rogers look like the Unabomber.  (Heed me well:  A perky alcoholic is a con in the making.)  "Hi!  I know you were worried about Baxter getting lonely with your new job, so... here you go!"  He thrust an over-sized shoebox with air holes cut into the top at me and ran down the walk, jumped into his car and peeled out.

I looked at Baxter and shrugged, set the box on the floor and opened it... from inside exploded a tiny blur of fur, streaking across the floor and darting under the laundry hamper.  Baxter, intrigued but un-alarmed, strolled over and peered under the hamper, then, deciding that a smell check was in order, began to poke his nose under as well.  Several things happened at once:  A sound like a tea kettle trying to cuss filled the room and Baxter got a swat on said smeller prompting him to jump back and look at me as if to ask, "Why is the dust bunny screaming?"

Enter Lilly.

Tiny.  Outraged.  Gorgeous.

Eventually Baxter and Lilly reached the civil detente of two cats living together who, while not truly bonded, appreciated the warmth of snuggling with a fellow napper, and the tit-for-tat of occasional cross grooming.  Baxter remained a mellow and friendly fellow till the end.

And Lilly never lost her edge.  (Or her figure, for that matter.)

She was loud.  She'd gotten that from her Siamese mother.  Louder as the years went along.  Her default was set at "Suspicious: DEFCON 3," and she was deeply committed to the twin feline modalities of remaining aloof and disdainful.

But late at night, after she did her tiny banshee impersonation, as I sat and wrote she would worm her way onto the chair with me, then move up and either sit on my shoulder like a parrot, her tail across the back of my neck for balance (so petite, she was) or would splay herself across my chest, head and paws over my shoulder, the rest of her trailing down across my heart like an occasionally purring fur corsage.

And in cold weather she would burrow under the covers, demanding in her best tea kettle impersonation that I roll onto my side so she could curl up inside my arms, pressing herself against my heart.

That's the way they get to you, you know.

Maybe two weeks ago I realized with a shock that she'd gone completely blind.  And this last week the decline has -- had -- been steady.

As she got worse I could feel all the most dysfunctional parts inside of me wheeze into action:  The denial, the procrastination, the avoidance... these are parts of the human experience, I know.  And sometimes I think that alcoholics romanticize our disease and our dysfunction to a somewhat ridiculous degree.  Are we using it as an excuse?  An identity?  A con (for ourselves or others)... ?  I think that's an essay for another time.

But I can tell you that because I wanted to do right by Lilly at her end, I became acutely aware of these mechanisms chugging away inside me, how they thwarted clear thinking and, most alarming of all, how very deeply rooted they seem to be -- it was like I had to keep snapping out of it.  The image came to me of the exhausted driver, nodding behind the wheel and then jerking their head upright in alarm -- that's what it felt like sometimes, as the mental fog of my dysfunction kept trying to uncoil its tendrils across my thinking.

That insight alone is worth further reflection and hard work.  And self examination, both in talking with people and in writing, inventory-wise and here on the blog.

But I won't have a scornful little cat laying across my heart as I do, and as is often the way, even when you feel love, the true depth of our connections in life are sometimes only revealed after they have moved on.

Make no mistake, she was a real pain in the ass.

I'm going to miss her so much.

one night this past week

One night just this past week, the desire to drink caught me like a riptide.  It spun me around and swept me along as surely as the real thing can sweep you out to sea.

It was an innocent moment that triggered it, really.  I happened to catch a whiff of scotch on someone's breath -- the details aren't important, except for the fact that they were a particular kind of person -- well heeled, moneyed, high style -- I don't mean I was downwind from a guy who was sleeping in a doorway.  They were the kind of person where a whiff of scotch makes you think of expensive hotels and haute cuisine.  Which is of course part of how alcoholism's magic mirror works.  When the desire floods me I don't see myself sitting at the bar at 6:00am with the shakes and a hacking cough and a swollen liver (where I have actually been).  I envision hotel suites and some guy from room service in one of those military-type uniforms showing me the champagne chilling in the ice bucket before opening the curtains to show me the view.

When the strong desire to drink hits I don't see a real memory of what it's actually like when I drink, I see a fantasy that has never, ever been.

Needless to say, I was caught off guard by the intensity of this.

And this desire, this reaction, was not really a mental one, that is, I did not in that moment think, "Oh, a drink, yes, I'd like that very much."

This reaction was visceral.  My mouth filled with saliva and I experienced an honest-to-god physical craving.

And I was not even a scotch drinker.

(Unless all you had in the house was scotch.  Then I was a scotch drinker.)

For all the talk of inventories and awakenings, self examination and self enlightenment, this addiction thing is as real and as rooted in the body as any other sequence in my DNA.

I work hard to keep spiritually fit, thus this profound reminder of the power of alcoholism was more in the way of a reality check -- like when you are watching a nature show and the cuddly animal suddenly turns and eviscerates their prey with a ruthless, brutal and primal efficiency.

Maybe those words should go alongside "cunning, baffling and powerful," which AA uses to describe alcoholism ...

Ruthless, brutal and primal.  In the moment that's what it felt like.

If you're a real addict, and still building a foundation in recovery, still working through the 12 Steps, still finding your way, please remember, the stakes are the highest they can be:  Your life.

It can wash over you in a moment, and without a solid foundation it can bloody well wash you right away.

Stay close.

And if you read this and laugh, or find it dramatic or hyperbolic, I completely understand how you might.

And I envy you.

It must be a nice thing to go through life without having a part of you which is trying to kill you. 

... ,Alfie?

It was pretty easy to find the cafeteria, actually.  It was a small private hospital, well laid out and well maintained.  Plenty of signage, even if the woman at the information desk -- she looked like a volunteer, complete with courtesy-clerk smile and pastel cardigan draped over her shoulders -- hadn't been kind enough to direct me towards the elevators and point out the signs along the walls.

I wondered if she knew asking for the cafeteria meant I was going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

It was my very first.

At this hour, shortly before seven o'clock at night, the hospital didn't feel very busy.  There was neither hustle nor bustle in any of the halls I walked down, following the signs marked with helpful arrows pointing straight, left or right, next to the word "Cafeteria."  Many corridors were empty, others had but one lone orderly pushing a cart, or a nurse carrying a little tray covered with paper cups.  It was 1986, long before America was a country that thought of itself as under siege, and I don't think I saw one security guard from Entrance to Exit.

I was wearing dress shoes, and mine were the only footsteps I could hear as I navigated the fluorescent and linoleum labyrinth -- click click click click.  Having absolutely no idea what to expect I'd dressed up to go to the meeting.  The clothes, from smart white cap to ridiculous, pale yellow pants (which kind of poofed at the thigh and tapered to fit snugly at the ankle -- think MC Hammer as lion tamer, designed by Chiquita Banana -- hey! 1986, remember?) were all stolen from the store where I worked.  In the mirror at the store I thought the hat made me look sophisticated, but now, walking along -- click click click click -- I felt self conscious and unsure.  Couldn't blame the hat entirely for that -- self conscious and unsure were my default settings then.

I rounded a corner, took one more elevator down, and there was the door to the cafeteria.  It would make for a heartwarming moment in the story (and a tidy bit of foreshadowing) to say that, as I put my hand on the knob, I could hear jolly laughter and the pleasant murmur of fellowship coming through the door; but that sucker was solid, gunmetal gray and fire door thick, with one narrow window above the doorknob, lines of wire in a diamond pattern reinforcing the glass.  People could have been screaming "Oh my God! Zombies! Run! Run!" on the other side of the door for all I could hear.

Turning the knob and walking through that door would be one of the bravest moments of my short and incredibly drunken life up to that point.  Some may read that and doubt, ascribing such an assessment to hyperbole, an obvious bias, or my occasional penchant for colorful phrasing (which is, in itself, a colorful phrase, so count that your moment of zen, if you like).  But this AA story is not about courage -- that's not what it's all about.  When I speak at AA meetings (and I say this often) I am very careful not to take the language of recovery I use to describe how I am today and artificially superimpose it over how I was then.  I don't need recovery terminology to describe how, with my hand on the doorknob, I felt very frightened and completely lost -- like a small child in a dark wood in a tale by the Brothers Grimm.  But I was not a child, as most people would reckon it.  I was 24 years old.  My liver was distended. (My Driver's License read twenty-four but my liver panel said eighty-four.)  I was beginning to have audio hallucinations -- they occurred often enough to frighten me, usually after a good 12 hour stretch of solid drinking -- but infrequently enough (the hallucinations, not the 12 hour stretches of drinking) for me to realize I was starting to hear things.  At that point I hadn't gone to the bathroom normally for months.  When I did, mostly it was blood.  My hands shook and ... I did NOT want to open that door.  I don't even recall a conscious reason why, except for the first time in years I hadn't had a drink in maybe two days, (the migraines didn't start till a day or so later) and I knew I was going to, if I didn't go through that door -- I knew I couldn't drink, I knew I shouldn't drink and yet I could just not fathom not drinking -- or not drinking for much longer.

On the way to the hospital I had passed a 7-11, and it was an honest-to-God, parting-of-the-Red-Seas-miracle that I hadn't pulled in and bought some malt liquor, as I had so many, many nights there before.  I even lifted my foot off the accelerator for a moment, slowing down and thinking maybe I would go in and get some cigarettes -- and in only the haziest way did I suspect that this was a very bad idea.  My foot drifted back down to the gas pedal, and the moment passed.  Some miracles are tiny moments:  The deciding not to stop, the turning of a corner rather than going straight, choosing aisle 7 instead of aisle 8 -- tiny moments, but no less powerful, lifesaving or Divine for their quick tick of the clock.  But this AA story is not about miracles.  That's not what it's all about.

I turned the knob and went in.  The main area of the cafeteria was empty save for a few folks in scrubs.  The meeting was held in the area to the left, marked "Smoking."  Yes, the meeting was held in the Smoking Section of the Hospital Cafeteria.  Talk about a different era -- if the years didn't weigh on me much before, the certainly do a bit more after typing that sentence.  ("Mr. SponsorPants?  Sure, I know him.  He got sober sometime during the Pliocene Era, right?  I heard they used stone arrowheads for Welcome Chips, and the service commitments were tending the fire and standing at the mouth of the cave to greet newcomers.")  But this AA story is not about how long ago I went to my first AA meeting, or how long I've been sober.  That's not what it's all about -- and dear God, if it ever is, then I'm in a lot of trouble.  (It'll be "Abandon Blog!  Head for the lifeboats he's going down!").

Maybe 25 people.  Probably two-thirds men, one-third women.  People my age and people with gray hair.  Some smiles, some "Welcomes."   Someone gestured to an empty seat next to them and I sat, my face frozen in Polite Smile Number 5.  We were seated in a circle around a bunch of tables that had been shoved together in the center of the room.  Big Books (and ashtrays!) were spaced evenly around the table, with enough for most people to have their own, or comfortably share with a neighbor.

I sat there, and all I could think was, "I'm the only one wearing a hat!  No one else is wearing a hat!  Maybe I should take my hat off!  I can't take my hat off, then I'll have hat hair!"  (I was young.  I was so terrified I didn't even know how terrified I was.  I was detoxing.  Be kind.)  I remember very clearly deciding not to help myself to a cup of coffee because I knew my hands would shake too much when I held the cup -- or tried to hold it, I guess.  It was a book study (hence the Big Books).  I had no idea what that meant.  People were nice and all, but I had carefully timed it so that I walked in just before the meeting started, so if it had even occurred to me to ask what a book study was I didn't have the chance.

The meeting was up to Chapter 2, 'There is a Solution.'  I was zoning in and out, careful to look like I was listening, trying not to make eye contact, obsessing about my stupid hat, waiting for someone to light up a cigarette so I could too.  They were in the part of the book which describes how the main problem of the alcoholic is in the mind, rather than the body, and talking about what an alcoholic might say when you ask him "... why he started on that last bender..." 

I will never forget this:

It was a woman named Muriel reading at that point.  She had salt-and-pepper hair, and a kind face, I thought.  No makeup, but she had smiled at me when I sat down and it made her look very pretty.  She read:

"Once in a while he may tell the truth.  And the truth, strange to say, is usually that he has no more idea why he took that first drink than you have." 

I imagine that all the air left my lungs in a whoosh, because it felt as though an invisible spear had just hurtled through the center of my chest.  The reading went on.

"Some drinkers have excuses with which they are satisfied part of the time.  But in their hearts they really do not know why they do it.  Once this malady has a real hold they are a baffled lot.  There is the obsession that somehow, someday they will beat the game.  But they often suspect they are down for the count."

"That.  Is.  Me."  The thought rang in my head like a bell.

(I suppose for the less poetic readers I'm willing to acknowledge that the ringing could have been the onset of another audio hallucination.  I was pretty fried.)

But for the first time since I had started drinking alcoholically (which was pretty much from the first time I picked up a drink) I heard something which spoke to what it felt like at my very core -- and before that very moment, I couldn't even have described this truth.  I heard and identified with something on a deep level that all the loving, tearful speeches from family, the disgusted confrontations with friends, the angry notes from roommates, the shocked comments from neighbors, the grim speeches from employers, had never been able to reach before. 

As the meeting went on I heard people, who suddenly seemed like me, talking with real candor about thoughts and feelings like mine, which, until they shared it, I hadn't even been able to identify, let alone put a name to and say out loud.  I heard people describe wanting to drink like I wanted to drink, and drinking like I drank.  I head them share about what they did not to drink (and not to go crazy from wanting to), and how the wanting left -- or was leaving -- and about what they had found in AA.  They all spoke for themselves and about themselves.  No one lectured, or pointed a finger, or made a sales pitch.  I remember marveling at how they seemed calm and kind and wise.   

After the meeting a few people spoke with me.  (Somehow they could tell I was new!  Imagine!)  I don't know what they said, but I remember how I felt -- it flirts with melodrama to put it this way, but it seemed like I hadn't felt it in a really long time:  Hope.  Not the "Gosh! Things are gonna be great now!" Heidi-on-the-mountain-with-a-goat sunny zippy kind of hope.

The kind that is just a little speck of light in a dark so pitch that you might not even have realized how far and how deep and how black it had become.

And believe me, when it's black like that, a speck is a beacon.

Lots of people up to that point had wanted to help me.  On a deep level I knew I needed help -- though I wasn't sure what it might be or how I might find it.  I only came to the damn meeting because my family had done their half-assed version of an intervention (I call it half-assed because I knew, in the predatory, shark-like way which all alcoholics have, that there was still some rope left.  Inside me was love for them, and deep, deep shame, but also, inside me was the shark.)  Thus with motives mixed, as much to keep working the rope as to try to get a help I couldn't even picture, I went to the AA meeting. 

And what I found in that Alcoholics Anonymous meeting is what AA is at its very heart.

And that's what this AA story is all about.

The great discovery made between a failed stockbroker and a washed up surgeon that when one alcoholic, without any motive but to help, shares their own experience, strength and hope with another, that the listener might hear something in a way they've never heard before, and the drunk sharing is themselves profoundly helped and healed.

For free, without being subjected to anyone else's criteria or having to make a reservation, I walked into an AA meeting and that is what I found.  No rules, no hoops, no deposit, no proof of citizenship or insurance required.  No one cared if I was rich or poor, Republican or Democrat, owner or renter, Catholic or Protestant, Jewish or Muslim,  gay or straight, vegetarian or carnivore.  All they cared about was helping me with my drinking problem, if I wanted their help.  They didn't even care about my ridiculous pale yellow lion tamer pants.  (1986!  1986!  Okay?  Jeeze.) 

All the sturm und drang about statistics and labels and philosophies and agendas really, ultimately doesn't matter when you're a drunk hanging on by a thread, about 12 hours from your last drink and potentially five minutes from your next.  In that moment all the abstracts are just that:  Abstracts.

Populated by often deeply flawed, well intentioned people, working through their own dysfunctions and issues even as they try to carry AA's message of recovery to each other and to newcomers, every AA meeting is the opportunity for someone to experience what happened to me all those years ago.

The 12 Traditions anchor the whole dizzy, dyspeptic mess from aligning itself with causes or issues or movements or corporate sponsors.  What other people or organizations outside of AA do with what AA offers strangely, ultimately doesn't matter either when you're that desperate drunk, needing some help -- any help -- walking through the door of the meeting.

The night I walked into an AA meeting I was a hair's breadth from drinking again, and young as I was, the way I drank I was going to wind up back in that hospital's basement ... but down the hall and in a room with much better air conditioning.  (Ironically probably no smoking section in there.)

What's it all about? 

It's about what happens in an AA meeting which can save a life.

I know, and I believe in it, because what happened in that first meeting I went to saved mine. 

There is always more work to do.

I had a whole different post planned to write.

And I would rather have done that -- answered a question via email -- than talk about the rude insight I had just a little while ago.  But much like the Princess and the Pea, as I sat at my computer, fingers on the keyboard, no matter how I tried I just couldn't get comfortable.  That little pea of truth, as unattractive as it was and uncomfortable as it felt, wanted out.  I think to have written an answer to a question tonight would have been hiding behind dispensing my experience as a balm to my ego.

This is a bit of a leap, but it's got the same flavor to it as the reasoning above:  When I speak at meetings, I usually don't say how much time I have sober.  Now, there is nothing wrong with saying how much time you have, and certainly I'm blessed to live in a place where many people with a good amount of time participate in meetings regularly, so it's not as though I'm always the biggest dog in the room every time I speak (though sometimes I am -- which really means nothing in and of itself too, as you know -- just context).  But I've noticed that, when I have the impulse to roll out the number of years, it's because I'm uncomfortable in the moment.  In other words, my impulse does not come from a place of service, it comes from a place of fear.  And ego.  I'm trying to compensate for some perceived lack, some imagined slight, some projected judgment from someone(s) in the room by saying something like, "in my XX years sober... ."  To do it like that would be an attempt to add gravity to my persona, to artificially pump myself up with an allusion to a false hierarchy.  Not only would that would be wrong, it would undermine any sense of authenticity I have in myself.

For a long time in sobriety it does not matter why you do something, it matters much more what you do.  But eventually that changes -- and by that I do NOT mean that the why becomes more important than the what -- only that the why gets important in its own way, too.

Writing an Email Questions post right now would have been the same as rolling out my time sober at a meeting -- I'd have been doing it out of ego, as a way to compensate, not out of service and a desire to help.  And try as I might, I just couldn't sit on that pea.

I was talking to a friend on the phone this evening -- we've known each other for many years, and he is sober a long time.

The conversation meandered some, as we hadn't caught up in a while.  He mentioned a big meeting he used to go to, which prompted me to say, "Oh, I'm going to be speaking there this Monday."  I went on to add how it was the first time I'd ever been asked to speak at a meeting via FaceBook, and how odd and funny that somehow felt.

So naturally then we chatted about FaceBook and speaking at meetings.  Over the years he has heard my tired story many, many times.

On the topic of FB, I said, "I've seen some people put up little notices on their profiles, saying things like 'Hey, I'm speaking at such-and-such meeting, and it would be great if people showed up to support me.'  I just don't get that.  What the hell, right?" 

"Well, you know," he said, "it's different for them than for you now."

"Yeah, but ... I don't get that.  I mean..." I went on to rehash what I'd just said.  Making a little speech about it I fear.

The conversation moved on, we talked about lots of other things, had some laughs, and committed to doing a better job of keeping up and maybe going to a meeting together and grabbing a bite some time soon.

After the call ended, I had that feeling I've come to know so well.  That little *ping* on my recovery radar, which usually precedes a few butterflies as I connect some dots to form a picture I'd rather not look at.

I suddenly had an uncomfortably clear memory of my making that same little speech about asking people to "come and support you when you're speaking at a meeting" more than once -- and how it was colored with varying degrees of superiority and disdain.  I could see myself clearly, in fact, doing that with a few sponsees.

I realized that when I was making that observation it wasn't about "not getting it" at all.  It was a subtle trumpeting about how I was so above that.  It was really about my telling people that I was so different, so evolved, so much better than that behavior.  Making sure I looked like a tough cookie, so experienced, yet so humble.  (I would give a lot not to have typed that.  But it's the truth.)

It was pure ego on my part.

It was the worst kind of grandstanding -- a speech about other people's behavior as a gambit to underscore something "special" about myself.

As crude in its way as asking people, "Does this shirt make me look fat?" knowing perfectly well it doesn't, but only so that people will tell you how thin you look.  (A metaphor in my case, believe me).

There is always more to learn about how to be more truthful with myself and more authentic with others.

There is always more to see when it comes to the threads of ego which are woven throughout some exchanges I have, and the subtle posturing I am capable of.

There is always more work to do.