Empty
On The Inside - pp. 512-521
She
grew up around A.A. and had all the answers--except when it came to her
own
life.
I
spent my life "acting
as if"--either acting as if I knew (I didn't ask teachers questions in
school;
they might find out I didn't know the answer) or acting as if I didn't
care.
I always felt as though everyone else had been given the
directions
to life and I had been somewhere else when God was handing them out.
To
me, you either knew how to do something or you didn't. You could
play
the piano, or you couldn't. You were a good ballplayer, or you
weren't.
I don't know
where I learned
the attitude that it wasn't all right not to know, but it was certainly
in
my life, and it almost killed me. The concept of set a goal, work
for
the goal, achieve the goal was foreign to me. You either "had it"
or
you didn't, and if you didn't, you couldn't let on--you might look bad.
I
never once stopped to consider that others might really have to work
hard
for what they had. Gradually my attitude translated into contempt
for
those who did know--leave it to an alcoholic to look down on someone
who
is successful!
My father
joined Alcoholics
Anonymous when I was seven. Many of my childhood Friday nights
were
spent at open A.A. meetings because we couldn't afford a babysitter (I
was
the kid sitting over in the corner with a book). What effect did
it
have? I knew that being an alcoholic meant you couldn't drink any
more
and that you had to go to A.A. As my drinking career began, I was
always
careful not to utter the "A" word in connection with my name. At
my
house I would have been handed a meeting schedule. Besides, I
knew
that A.A. was all old guys that drank coffee, smoked, and ate donuts--I
had
been there. (Looking back, I'm sure most of those "old guys" were
barely
thirty.) So no A.A. for me. That would mean not drinking.
And
when I drank, life changed.
I
was fifteen the
first time I got drunk. I can tell you where I was, who I was
with, what I was wearing. It was an important day for me.
Within a year I was a poster child for adolescent treatment of
alcoholism. My grades plunged, my friends changed, I wrecked a
car, my appearance went downhill, I was suspended from school.
(When I first got sober, I wondered why my parents never checked me
into treatment. Then I remembered that didn't have adolescent
treatment centers when I was a teen. As a matter of fact, I still
have ceramics Dad made me in the psychiatric ward, because when he was
drinking, they didn't have treatment centers.) I was always ready
with a promise to do better, to try harder, to apply myself, to live up
to my potential. Potential--now there is the curse of every
budding alcoholic.
I managed to
graduate
somehow and went on to college, when I promptly flunked out. I
couldn't make it to class. Hindsight has shown me two reasons for
this. First, if someone else had a free period, I tagged along
with them. I thought that I had to be with my friends all the
time. I was afraid that if they spent any time without me, they
night begin to wonder, Why do I hang out with her anyway? They
might realize that had a better time without me. And then they
might tell other people, who would tell other people, and I'd be alone.
Second, social
conversation was a skill that I never acquired. When I met
someone, I felt totally inadequate. To me, when I said "Hi, my
name is ______," there followed a deafening silence, as if they were
thinking, So? How did people have conversations anyway? How
did they meet and then begin to talk as if they had known each other
for years? For me it was one more thing that it wasn't all right
not to know. So I kept drinking. When I drank, it didn't
matter.
It's important
to
interject here that I loved to drink. Drinking put me into the
middle of life. I was a social drinker--drinking made me
extremely social. I didn't particularly like drinking with other
women; I drank with the big boys. I always had a tremendous
capacity for alcohol, and I learned to shoot an excellent game of pool,
which made me quite popular in the local tavern scene. At one
point I even had my own motorcycle. When I read "Bill's Story" in
the Big Book and he said, "I had arrived," I knew what he meant.
For
fourteen years my
drinking took me places I never meant to go. First I moved south,
since I knew the town I grew up in was my problem. (I once heard
a guy remark in a meeting that there are three or four states that
should just post signs on their borders: "This state doesn't work
either!") I did the things women do. My first marriage was
really a one-night stand that lasted five years--I certainly couldn't
admit that I had made a mistake. We had two children and I wanted
out, but to leave would have meant taking responsibility. I just
drank until he threw me out. Then it was his fault the marriage
failed.
At one point
before
moving home, I lost a job that meant a lot to me, as the direct result
of my drinking. For the first time, I went to a meeting of
Alcoholics Anonymous and said, "I am an alcoholic." When I had
gone to meetings with my dad I always just said, "I'm with him."
I called my father and told him I went to a meeting. Within a
week he mailed me a box containing the book Alcoholics Anonymous, a
tape of his A.A. talk, a couple of meditation books, a copy of Twelve
Steps and Twelve Traditions, and a few other odds and ends. I
think he had been saving up for the day I was willing.
So,
divorced, I moved
back home. Within a year I was under arrest for child
endangerment. I had left my sleeping children home alone and gone
to drink. They were removed from my custody and placed with my
mother. Then started my rounds of the treatment centers. I
could talk a good game. After all, I had grown up with A.A.
I was the one the counselors asked to talk to other women who were
reluctant to leave their kids long enough to go into treatment. I
could give the whole speech: "We can't be good mothers if we're
not sober." The problem was, inside, I was relieved that my kids
had to live with my mom. It was too hard ot be a parent.
But I couldn't tell people that--they might think I was a bad mom.
And I was a bad
mom. I was a terrible mom. No, I didn't beat them, and of
course I told them I loved them. But the message my kids got from
me was "Yes, I love you; now go away." They had to be practically
invisible in their own home. I had absolutely nothing to give
them emotionally. All they wanted was my love and attention, and
alcoholism robbed me of the ability to give it. I was empty on
the inside.
While I was in
treatment, my dad died, and I inherited almost enough money to kill
myself. I got to drink the way I wanted for 2 1/2 years.
I'm sure I got here faster because of it.
Near the end, I was living in an attic apartment; the money was long
gone. It was November, cold and gray. When I woke up at
5:30, it was gray outside. Was it 5:30 a.m. or 5:30 p.m.? I
couldn't tell. I looked out the window, watching people.
Were they going to work? Or coming home? I went back to
sleep. When I woke again, it would either be light or dark.
Opening my eyes, after what seemed like hours, it was only 5:54.
And gray. I was twenty-eight years old.
I finally for
on my
knees and asked God for help. I couldn't go on the way I was
living. I had been in the apartment since August and hadn't
bothered to unpack. I wasn't bathing. I couldn't answer my
phone. I couldn't show up on weekends to visit my kids. So
I prayed. Something made me go dig through a box, and I found the
Big Book my father had sent me years earlier (I always tell new people
to buy the hardcover version--for some reason they are harder to throw
away.) I read "Bill's Story" again. This time it made
sense. This time I could identify. I slept, holding the
book like a teddy bear. I woke up feeling rested for the first
time in months. And I didn't want to drink.
I would love to
tell
you that I have been sober ever since, but that is not the case.
I didn't want to drink that day, but I took no action to insure against
it. You see, I believe that we get more than one "moment of
grace" from God--but it is up to us to seize the moment by taking
action. But I heeded the voice that said, "You may as well
drink. You know you're going to."
For the next
few days
every time I went to my favorite watering hole, I was surrounded by
people talking about sobering up. My bartender wanted to quit
drinking. The guy I was shooting pool with talked about going
back to A.A. Someone next to me at the bar was talking about
being at the local clubhouse for A.A.'s. I did stop drinking
(sort of) for a few months but eventually went on the bender that would
end it all.
By the end of
two
weeks of drinking, nobody was speaking to me, so I headed south, where
I was sure they all missed me. There was no homecoming
parade. People barely remembered me, and by the end of a week, I
was out of money. I couldn't even book a plane ticket home.
I had less than one dollar, and I had one of those hangovers. I knew if I
tried to sit in the airport bar long enough for someone to buy me a
drink, it would be obvious that was my intent, and my pride couldn't
bear the thought of being asked to leave. I briefly considered
mugging a little old lady and stealing her purse, but I knew I would
end up picking on the one who was still in shape.
If there had
been one
more dollar, I might not be sober today. Once I was drinking, I
always had a plan, but that day, by the grace of God, I was out of
plans. I didn't have one single better idea. I called Mom,
told her where I was, and asked her to fly me home. She later
told me she almost didn't do it, but she was afraid they'd never see me
again.
She deposited
me at
the local detox center, where she told me I could go in or not but that
she was done with me. I was on my own. Detox gave me the
same message. I thought they should send me on to a treatment
center--thirty days of hot meals and rest was sounding pretty good to
me--but they told me I already knew everything treatment was going to
teach me, that I should go do it and save the bed for someone who
needed it. I have been sober ever since. I was finally
accountable for my own recovery. I was responsible for taking the
action. One of my favorite games had always been making it
someone else's job to see that I got my work done. That game was
over.
I had never
expected
to live to see thirty. Suddenly I was 29 1/2 and showing no signs
of dying anytime soon. I knew in my heart that I would live
whether I drank or not, and that no matter how bad it was, it could
always get worse. Some people get sober because they're afraid to
die. I knew I would live, and that was far more terrifying.
I had surrendered.
The first night
of
detox I went to a meeting, and the woman speaking commented that
alcoholism had taken her to the point where she didn't want to work and
didn't want to care for her daughter, she just wanted to drink. I
couldn't believe it! That was me! She became my first
sponsor, and I came back.
The second
night I
sat in what I now call the "new guy chair"--second row, against the
wall (if you sit in back they know you're new, and if you sit in front
you might have to talk to someone). When it came time to hold
hands and pray at the end of the meeting, I had no hand to hold on one
side. I remember thinking "I will never fit in here" and hanging
my head. I felt my hand being taken--someone in front of me had
taken the time to be sure that the circle was complete. To this
day I don't know who it was, but that person is the reason I came back
the next night--that person saved my life. And I kept coming back.
The local
clubhouse
had a noon Big Book meeting every day, and I went, every day. Not
to get sober, mind you, and certainly not to learn about what was in
the book. Here was my thinking: I knew you were supposed to
read your Big Book every day, and they went around the room reading an
entire chapter, so that should count, right? This also took up
nearly thirty minutes, so it was less likely that I would get called on
to talk. And the meeting was at noon, which left my nights
free. I figured out all of that with my keen alcoholic mind!
Luckily, I
forgot
that God is in charge of results. I was finally taking action,
and my motives didn't matter. I thought I'd go through the Big
Book once, then "graduate" to discussion meetings, but there was a lot
of laughter in that room, so I kept going. I was not one of those
people who walked into meetings and said, "Thank God, I'm home."
I did not particularly want what they had; I just didn't want what I
had anymore--that was the humble beginning I needed.
The convenience
of
the noon meeting meant that I went to two meetings every day; I had
nothing else to do at night. I began to notice people there with
several years of sobriety--my own laziness had thrown me in with some
of the most active people in Alcoholics Anonymous. What I found
out was that people who attend Big Book meetings on a regular basis
tend to read the book and do what it says.
When I was two
weeks
sober, a man's nine-year-old daughter was killed by a drunk driver, and
three days later he was at a meeting saying he had to believe it wasn't
for nothing. That maybe one alcoholic would get sober because of
it. As I left that day, I found myself wondering what would have
happened if that had been my kids, or me? What would they
remember about me? A feeling came over me (I know now it was
gratitude), and I realized that I could call my children right then and
tell them I loved them. That I could show up when I said I
would. That my word could be worth something to them. That
even though I might always just be "mom who comes over on the
weekends," I could be a good weekend mom. I had a chance to move
forward with them, forging a relationship built on a foundation of God
and Alcoholics Anonymous, rather than always trying to make up for the
past. One year later I was able to share with that man that maybe
it hadn't been for nothing, because my life changed that day.
By the time a
month
passed, my feet were firmly planted in Alcoholics Anonymous. And
I kept coming back. I cannot begin to list all the wonderful
things that have happened in my years here. My kids were four and
six when I got sober, and they have "grown up" in A.A. I brought
them to open meetings, and the people there gave them what I couldn't
in the early days--love and attention. Gradually they became part
of my life again, and today I have custody of my children.
I remarried in
Alcoholics Anonymous, to a man who believes in A.A. the way I do.
(I knew we were off to a good start when he didn't get angry that I
stood him up to go on a Twelfth Step call.) We agreed to never be
higher than third on each other's list, with God always first and
Alcoholics Anonymous second. He is my partner and my best
friend. We both sponsor several people, and our house is filled
with love and laughter. Our telephone never stops ringing.
We share the joy of a common solution.
We have had
some
tough times. Our son is the third generation of A.A.'s in my
family. After a suicide attempt at age fourteen, we found out he
too was an alcoholic. After his one year in A.A., it's hard to
tell what will happen, but we trust Alcoholics Anonymous, even on the
days we don't trust our son. Our daughter is a beautiful,
confident teenager who has found her path to God without having to
drink. She is the product of the love and faith of Alcoholics
Anonymous.
I still have a
sponsor and a home group today. I am a member of Alcoholics
Anonymous in good standing. I learned how to be a good A.A.
member by watching good A.A. members and doing what they do. I
learned how to have a good marriage by watching people with good
marriages and doing what they do. I learned how to be a parent by
watching good parents and doing what they do. And I finally have
the freedom of believing that it is all right not to know.