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Of all of my friends, I’ve been close with Carla the shortest amount of time. We ran in completely different circles in school, and really the only time we ever crossed paths was during the occasional fitting when Vic and I were helping with costuming for their productions. She went to college out of state, I stayed local. But in the last several years, as Alex fell into domesticated life, traveling with Nolan and Haley and their baseball family, Carla has helped me pick up the pieces of my broken life. She saw me at rock bottom, at a time when my friends and family had no idea how to help me, and didn’t judge, didn’t make me feel like an addict. She was my friend, and sobriety just compounded that.
Needless to say, I trusted her opinion. It wasn’t colored by seeing first hand what Andy, what Mickey, had done day-to-day, like Alex or Penny.
“I think you’re being appropriately cautious,” she says without hesitation, and then continues. “How long has it been since someone has been to the apartment?”
I pause. Dylan. Since Dylan. She doesn’t wait for my answer, because she knows it.
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t invite him over,” I half-argue, but she rolls her eyes, popping on her oversized sunglasses and opening her front door.
“You didn’t kick him out, either.” Ok. She has a point. “P, clearly you don’t think he’s the devil incarnate, or he wouldn’t have been as hot and bothered as he was last night.” I see her eyebrows raise behind her glasses, and she gives a sly smile. “From my forty-thousand-foot view, it looks like he’s changed too, for the better.”
“I think he has,” I reply with a shrug, and then look up at the bright, cloudless sky. “I guess we’ll see.”
“Don’t overthink it.” She smacks my side, between my hip and my butt, and I flinch away. “Go to your meeting, tell Lisa I said hi.” And with that, she slides into her car, leaving me contemplating that still-thrumming buzz all over my body that I’ve felt since Fitz laced his hands in my hair.
Therearealotof misconceptions about alcoholics.
We drink because we’re weak.
We’re weak because we’re lesser.
We’re lesser because we all come from low income, tortured households with battered childhoods and addictions passed down from our parents.
My mother may have her single glass of red wine before bed every night, but that does not, an alcoholic, make.
Probably one of the worst preconceived notions is what meetings are like. There’s no forced share, no making people stand to talk about their demons. No one forces you to find a sponsor, to find your higher power, whatever that may be. It’s your choice.
My choice, walking into my first meeting years ago, was one of the best things I could have done for myself.
And sure, the coffee sucks. The walls of my home group are littered with motivational posters like a middle school guidance office. The chairs are worse for wear and the carpet is stained from years of use. But it became my safe space outside of my home, to share my feelings and my wrongs with people who have been through similar struggles.
No judgment. Just a group of drunks who’ve done the same stupid shit you have, some worse, sharing their strength and providing their guidance.
Which is why, the second I step foot inside, immediate relief washes over me.
I spot Lisa across the room, talking to a group of older women, and beeline to her, pausing to say hello to a few friends along the way.
Lisa, my sponsor, is only a few years older than me - but sometimes, it feels like she could be my mom’s age, with all her wisdom. That’s what ten+ years of sobriety will do for you. When I met her at only my second meeting, Carla had introduced us, suggesting that we go for coffee, and in the first ten minutes she dropped an F bomb and the fact that she was drowning it in a long list of fantasy novels to read. It was pretty easy to do anything she said after that, including working the steps.
“Hey, girl,” she says when she notices me approaching, reaching out and giving my arm a gentle squeeze. The women with her, Diane and Sophie, I notice, give wide smiles. “How are you feeling?” She touches the side of my head lightly.
“Doing better,” I answer, my hand meeting hers and then giving it a squeeze. “Glad to be back in person.” I haven’t been to an in-person meeting since the Wednesday before, which for me, was weird, as I usually try to attend at least three a week on the light side. When things get busy, I can substitute in-person for virtual, but it’s not the same. I feel recharged every time I leave a meeting here, my social battery full and ready to rock and roll.
“We missed you,” Diane adds, and then squeezes my arm too. “That video just killed me.”
I cringe. A video of my untimely fate at the game has been making the rounds on the internet - luckily, my avoidance of social media left me somewhat in the dark to the commentary, but I’d received a couple of emails to my business account, the one tied with my commissions, after someone did some next-level research.
I made it to the meeting just in time - behind the ladies, Greg, who’s chairing, steps up to the podium at the front of the room, and we find seats in the first couple of rows.
Greg welcomes everyone, and asks for a moment of silence followed by the serenity prayer. I use the moment to look around the room - spotting some familiar faces, as well as a few new ones. I make it a point to go speak to one of the girls in the back row, who looks nervous as hell.
“God,” Greg starts, and we follow along.
“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
This was the easiest prayer for me to get behind - after years spent trying to fit the mold of a good Catholic girl, something really even my parents never expected of me. A big part of working the steps is accepting a higher power - whatever that power is to you - and how it can work in your life.
