Ellyn Oaksmith's Blog - Posts Tagged "aa"
Preview of Divine Moves -- Coming December 1st on Amazon.com
St. John Vianney’s lobby, like every other church she’d ever visited outside of Vegas, gave Faye the creeps. Vegas chapels were cheery places, draped with fairy lights and dusty silk flowers. Drunken couples could dash in at any moment, say their nuptials and embark on any kind of relationship they deemed appropriate. A church like this demanded something: sobriety, children, and tasteful eyeliner.
Faye wasn’t looking for a middle class life, just an AA meeting. And that first step, walking into an unknown church, was always hard. All those statues staring down, judging.
“Yooo-hoo, right over here!” someone called from the dark.
Faye delved further into the narthex. It opened into a tiny chapel on the left, the main nave dead ahead and a large multi-purpose room to the right. This was reserved for Boy Scouts, bingo and, three times a week, alcoholics who wished, mostly, to remain anonymous.
“Keep going!” The disembodied voice yelled. Faye could smell coffee, a hallmark of AA meetings, who frequently shifted their allegiance from booze to cigarettes and coffee.
She was a bit late, but nobody cared. Seated in hard grey folding chairs, 34 of the 36 people had announced their names, followed by the ubiquitous, “And I’m an addict.”
The uniform proclamation always made Faye feel like blurting, “and I’m an Orangutan,” or something outrageous, to get a laugh. She never did, mostly because the one thing she’d learned above all at AA was that she shouldn’t seek attention. She wasn’t extra special or extra anything. She was just another addict.
The meeting was on the large end of the AA spectrum. As in Vegas they were all ages, shapes and sizes. Unlike Vegas, they were better groomed, with corporate logos stitched into their jackets: Microsoft, Boeing, Nintendo, AT&T. Designer purses squatted like small, obedient dogs beside women in tasteful make-up and burnished leather boots. Even the twenty-somethings wore nicer jeans and gold, instead of silver nose rings. There was an absence of tattoos, which Faye found refreshing.
Despite a nagging worry that this was a better class of drunk than Vegas, Faye found a seat in the back. A few men covertly admired her legs. Faye found it comforting.
A silver-haired man with broad shoulders spoke. “My name is Victor and I’m an alcoholic. I’m happy to say that my twelfth anniversary of sobriety was Sunday.”
“Right on Victor!” “Go Victor.” “Congratulations!” Some people clapped.
Victor smiled. “I celebrated with Italian food.” He patted his stomach. That was another escape for some addicts: food.
Faye found herself wondering if he was single. She wished she’d worn her other wig, or even bought a new one for the occasion. She’d mentally rehearsed her spiel so that when her turn arrived, she didn’t sound stupid. “My name is Faye. I’ve been sober almost five years. I’m up here visiting my daughter and grandchildren. I’m hoping to move here and start a new business.” She didn’t mention Vegas. She didn’t say new life. Everyone was here to start a new life.
Victor, arm slung over his chair, smiled kindly. Along with a few other people, he said “welcome” with such genuine warmth that Faye felt tears leaking from her eyes, threatening the nine coats of carefully applied mascara. She thought about telling these nice people that she’d opened Meryl’s liquor cabinet a few times, even smelled the bourbon once, as if she could get drunk from the fumes. That she lovingly touched the labels and thought that there was something truly beautiful in the carefully designed bottles and labels. Something solid and classic that for her was a sure fire invitation to death. Booze bottles were pretty. Something only an addict would think.
Only another addict would understand that sometimes, when she woke up in Meryl’s bonus room, she felt the booze singing her name in the sweetest, most seductive tones. Like James Earl Jones broadcasting from inside a bottle of Grey Goose. She’d dig her nails into her palms, talk to Jesus, sometimes just zone out on bad TV to get her mind off the shallow promise of oblivion. If that didn’t work she smoked, exhaling out the window so she didn’t have to go downstairs, closer to the liquor.
The later it grew, the harder it was shutting her mind against the past. The image of her dad, at the worn linoleum kitchen table in the tired old farmhouse kitchen, reappeared no matter how hard she fought.
The trick was feeling God in her tired body. Sometimes there was only shit, particularly at a certain hour, waiting for sunrise. Finding God in all the shit was the real trick of sobriety.
Faye let the meeting go on without her, deciding not to talk. It made her feel stronger, knowing that others on this very hill fought the same battle daily. They were stronger together.
She didn’t need to talk. Just being here tonight was enough. She’d found her new meeting.
One day at a time.
Faye wasn’t looking for a middle class life, just an AA meeting. And that first step, walking into an unknown church, was always hard. All those statues staring down, judging.
“Yooo-hoo, right over here!” someone called from the dark.
Faye delved further into the narthex. It opened into a tiny chapel on the left, the main nave dead ahead and a large multi-purpose room to the right. This was reserved for Boy Scouts, bingo and, three times a week, alcoholics who wished, mostly, to remain anonymous.
“Keep going!” The disembodied voice yelled. Faye could smell coffee, a hallmark of AA meetings, who frequently shifted their allegiance from booze to cigarettes and coffee.
She was a bit late, but nobody cared. Seated in hard grey folding chairs, 34 of the 36 people had announced their names, followed by the ubiquitous, “And I’m an addict.”
The uniform proclamation always made Faye feel like blurting, “and I’m an Orangutan,” or something outrageous, to get a laugh. She never did, mostly because the one thing she’d learned above all at AA was that she shouldn’t seek attention. She wasn’t extra special or extra anything. She was just another addict.
The meeting was on the large end of the AA spectrum. As in Vegas they were all ages, shapes and sizes. Unlike Vegas, they were better groomed, with corporate logos stitched into their jackets: Microsoft, Boeing, Nintendo, AT&T. Designer purses squatted like small, obedient dogs beside women in tasteful make-up and burnished leather boots. Even the twenty-somethings wore nicer jeans and gold, instead of silver nose rings. There was an absence of tattoos, which Faye found refreshing.
Despite a nagging worry that this was a better class of drunk than Vegas, Faye found a seat in the back. A few men covertly admired her legs. Faye found it comforting.
A silver-haired man with broad shoulders spoke. “My name is Victor and I’m an alcoholic. I’m happy to say that my twelfth anniversary of sobriety was Sunday.”
“Right on Victor!” “Go Victor.” “Congratulations!” Some people clapped.
Victor smiled. “I celebrated with Italian food.” He patted his stomach. That was another escape for some addicts: food.
Faye found herself wondering if he was single. She wished she’d worn her other wig, or even bought a new one for the occasion. She’d mentally rehearsed her spiel so that when her turn arrived, she didn’t sound stupid. “My name is Faye. I’ve been sober almost five years. I’m up here visiting my daughter and grandchildren. I’m hoping to move here and start a new business.” She didn’t mention Vegas. She didn’t say new life. Everyone was here to start a new life.
Victor, arm slung over his chair, smiled kindly. Along with a few other people, he said “welcome” with such genuine warmth that Faye felt tears leaking from her eyes, threatening the nine coats of carefully applied mascara. She thought about telling these nice people that she’d opened Meryl’s liquor cabinet a few times, even smelled the bourbon once, as if she could get drunk from the fumes. That she lovingly touched the labels and thought that there was something truly beautiful in the carefully designed bottles and labels. Something solid and classic that for her was a sure fire invitation to death. Booze bottles were pretty. Something only an addict would think.
Only another addict would understand that sometimes, when she woke up in Meryl’s bonus room, she felt the booze singing her name in the sweetest, most seductive tones. Like James Earl Jones broadcasting from inside a bottle of Grey Goose. She’d dig her nails into her palms, talk to Jesus, sometimes just zone out on bad TV to get her mind off the shallow promise of oblivion. If that didn’t work she smoked, exhaling out the window so she didn’t have to go downstairs, closer to the liquor.
The later it grew, the harder it was shutting her mind against the past. The image of her dad, at the worn linoleum kitchen table in the tired old farmhouse kitchen, reappeared no matter how hard she fought.
The trick was feeling God in her tired body. Sometimes there was only shit, particularly at a certain hour, waiting for sunrise. Finding God in all the shit was the real trick of sobriety.
Faye let the meeting go on without her, deciding not to talk. It made her feel stronger, knowing that others on this very hill fought the same battle daily. They were stronger together.
She didn’t need to talk. Just being here tonight was enough. She’d found her new meeting.
One day at a time.
