Tag Archives: personal

An Al-Anon Meeting

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At the beginning of the week I consulted the Al-Anon meeting calendar, and honed in on the Friday 7:30 p.m. meeting. For years I’ve struggled with the concept of attending Al-Anon because I felt I did not belong there. After all, I have not spoken to my alcohol dependent father for 5 years, and before that it had been 3 years, and before that it had been at least 20 years. I had read a cursory amount of Al-Anon material years ago that led me to the assessment that because I was not an “enabler,” and since I was now “detached” I did not need Al-Anon. I believed Al-Anon was for those still entangled with the alcoholic, still trying to get them to stop drinking, and lost in the vortex of covering up for the loved one. Al-Anon was for everyone else but me.

The other part of the puzzle that kept me from entering those Al-Anon doors was my own problem with alcohol. The thought of sitting with people who suffered because of a loved one’s battle with alcohol made me feel like an interloper hiding their true identity as an alcoholic.

Lately, I’ve been ruminating about my father, missing him as if he left yesterday. It’s as if mourning his loss many years ago had been arrested, and now, after all this time, the loss was finally being felt.

I pulled up to the church, and waited in the car until the last minute. I encountered a woman in a lovely dark green wrap dress wearing cross trainers who whispered, “Welcome” as she held the door open for me. I asked her, “Is this the Al-Anon meeting?” She nodded and showed me to a seat. There was a long rectangular desk in the middle of the room with 13 of us gathered around it. The group ranged in ages across the spectrum, easily from twenties to seventies. I immediately felt comfortable with the orderly fashion in which the meeting was being run. It felt like a well-oiled machine, yet one that could take new and broken parts like me.

They went through the typical motions of reading the 12 steps, and there was a preamble that was read (of which I cannot recall much of the contents because I was anxious at the mere fact of being in attendance). They asked if this was anyone’s first Al-Anon meeting, and I raised my hand and introduced myself. I was immediately given a Newcomer packet of pamphlets with a local meeting schedule. And then people shared, and it was so different from AA in that there was accepted silence between shares. If no one wanted to share, or if there was a large pause before the next person shared, the pause just hung there like the damp air after rain. There was no cajoling, or putting people on the spot to share. I immediately relaxed when I saw this was the group format. I’ve always appreciated people who are comfortable with silence, and feel no need to just “fill the gap.”

During one of the silences I found myself thinking about some of the AA and Al-Anon differences. During the introduction that was read the reader mentioned that a person should try Al-Anon for 6-8 meetings in order to see if the program works for them. I also recall hearing the reader say that people could attend regularly or infrequently. She also said something to the effect of “take what works, and leave the rest.” I was aghast at hearing this because it’s so different from the way AA is presented in “How It Works,” a chapter from The Big Book, which is typically read in an abbreviated form at the start of most AA meetings.

“Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our directions. Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves. They are such unfortunates. They are not at fault; they seem to have been born that way. They are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a way of life which demands rigorous honesty. Their chances are less than average. There are those, too, who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest.”

I finally have a window into beginning to understand my issues with AA. It starts with that first sentence, “Rarely have we seen a person fail …” That sentence conveys an immediate arrogance that has always set me on edge, though I was never conscious of it until I found myself comparing the differences between the two groups. That first paragraph in “How It Works” conveys to the listener/reader that AA is the only program that works for sobriety. And if you do not recover it is because you did not fully give yourself over to AA. I’ve always felt that the second sentence of “How It Works” is overly simplistic and presumptuous. Here’s the response I’ve always wanted to write to the first paragraph of “How It Works”:

“I have not followed all of your directions. I tried, but some of them asked me to check my brain at the door, and I could not do that. I could not completely give myself over to this program. However, I am in long-term recovery, and I plan on staying that way for the rest of my life. If you were a fly on the wall of my life you would see that I demand rigorous honesty of myself. I may be mistaken about a number of issues in my life, but it’s because I’m still working through deep-seated issues. I may be afraid of my past, but I will face it, and do whatever it takes to get out of this ditch. But I cannot give in to the AA group think. Perhaps my chances are less than average. That’s okay. I’m familiar with being an underdog. Tell me something new, we all know I suffer from “grave emotional and mental disorders.” Who the hell doesn’t? But I will continue to recover because I don’t give up.”

Since I did not feel the pressure to share I felt comfortable sharing. In AA I’ve been known to go for long stretches of meetings before I share because of the feeling of expectation. I’ve never liked feeling like I’m expected to do something. I can be as stubborn as a rat terrier going after his prey. But remove the expectation, and I’m likely to get there on my own. I talked about my missing my father, and feeling like I did not belong in the meeting since I was no longer entangled with him. I started crying at the mention of missing the good parts of him. I wrapped up my share quickly for fear of turning into a spectacle. Then an older gentleman got up and brought me a box of tissues.

I’ll keep coming back.

The best mistake

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That infamous craigslist personal ad I placed is still the best mistake of my life. It is the only way I would have ever met you. That craigslist ad from a different time in my life that still, to this day, mortifies me …

“First, no mamma’s boys need apply. Please … if you have to retrieve your balls from your mother’s purse, I don’t want to hear from you. Cut the cord before you contact me, otherwise I will cut the cord on you.”

I can’t bear to recall any more of that ad because it’s rather embarrassing to even read it now. You said to me in that first email that I sounded angry, but you liked my writing, and you were intrigued, and if it didn’t work out you just gave up a couple of hours for the effort.

I will always remember that it was a Tuesday that we met because I watched Veronica Mars with my friend Anita that night right before I met you at 10 pm. There was a special feeling in the air that night in anticipation of meeting you. I talked to Anita about how you sounded different in a good and special way. I liked the fact that you were upfront about my ad being “a little out there.” I liked that you didn’t completely like the ad, but you liked my writing. Anita even hugged me and wished me luck before I left her place. I always remember when Anita hugs me because she is not a huggy person.

It was an unusually warm March evening that night, a little over seven years ago. In my unwise optimism I had banished my coat to the backseat of my car. I was wearing open-toed pumps, and an almost fuchsia fitted pink shirt with a brown A-line skirt. It was a cute outfit worn far too soon with the end of winter still at our heels.

And you, all 5 foot 5 inches of you strolling into the TGI Friday’s like you own the place. I immediately liked that about you, that your height had no impact on your self-confidence. Once I had you sitting across from me I didn’t know what to talk about because I am terrible at small talk. I’m great with deep conversation, but cocktail party pleasantries are not my domain. I looked at you, and became instantly shy, and speechless. You said, “You know, I think I understand the issue. Tell me if I am incorrect. I get the idea that you are one of those people that does not do well with small talk. You would rather get right to the point of what you want to talk about, right? You want to skip asking me about the drive over, or the weather, or what kind of music I like … does this sound right to you?”

I was stunned, and impressed. I still could not speak.

You continued, “It’s okay. Start where you like. I don’t need small talk.”

And so I did. We talked about the friends in our lives that meant the most to us, we talked about our families, and our past relationships. This was all well before my fall with alcohol, before the discovery of PTSD and DID. Just a mere seven years ago the most I had to reveal on a date was that I had a 10 year relationship with a woman, and I had been married at the age of 18. We talked until they closed the place at 2 a.m. We shared a passionate kiss at my car that would have gone on longer had it not been for the bitter cold wind that was all around us. You said to me, “Are you okay with a kiss on the first date?” I answered you by kissing you until I felt like I was going to turn into a popsicle in that parking lot. You had let me borrow your jacket, but I was still under dressed for the weather that had abruptly changed on us.

You were straight forward with every request in our relationship. Even the first night we spent together, you called me while I was finishing my shift at my second job, and said to me, “I know it may be too soon. We haven’t even been on a second date, but I really want to be with you tonight.” And so it was. And just a month later you asked me to move into your apartment. We waited two months before we told your parents.

Early on in our relationship you expressed concern with me walking to the bathroom in the dark without my glasses in your apartment. I said to you that it was no big deal. I travel for business, and adjust to walking in the dark in hotel rooms all the time. One particular night I woke up in your place to use the bathroom, and I saw a small amount of light coming from the bathroom. You heard me saunter over to the bathroom, and called out, “Baby, don’t worry about it. The night light is only pennies a day. I did the math.”

Later, the next day, I found out that you keep track of how much it costs to run just about every appliance in your apartment. Some people might find that weird. I found it quirky, and endearing. I naturally gravitate towards messy and disorganized. I liked that you were so organized that some people might argue that you qualify for a treatment program. I found your fastidious ways with organization indicative of someone thoughtful, and careful. I had never known anyone like you. In my family, no one was organized or careful or meticulous. Every time you pulled out some intricate list that would make a normal person’s head spin I was intrigued.

And then we hit that point of trudging through mud in our relationship. The differences between us became obstacles instead of points of interest or discovery. The differences piled between us until I could no longer see the person I fell in love with. I just saw differences that made me want to lose my mind. You had a rigidity that was unrelenting.

We went to a board game convention in New England one winter, and you were aghast when I told you that I was not going to play in the Power Grid Finals Match in spite of having won a spot to play. I said to you that it was not worth it as there was a misogynistic guy I was not interested in spending 3 plus hours with while I played this game, it was simply not worth my time. I said to you that I was leaving with Anita, and we were going home. In front of all our friends you said that you were disappointed in me. It was a game, for crying out loud. I wanted to scream to the top of my lungs for your lack of perspective.

And then when you were ready to take the next step with me you simply said on the couch one day as we were sitting in our sweats, “So, now’s a good time to talk about engagement.” I was stunned. Was this a proposal? It actually sounded like an assumption. And then came the arguments about family planning. I have Kallmann’s Syndrome, which can be passed from mother to child. There were many risks involved with the option of having me try to get pregnant. You insisted that any child you have must be biological. You also made it clear that it was preferred if the child was a boy. And, you said that you could not raise a special needs child. But given my genetic makeup there was a decent chance I could produce a child with special needs.

The differences between us became an impasse. I was alone in my worries about all the possibilities with conceiving a child. I could not be with you anymore at that point. I felt like the man who had loved me without question was lost in a sea of trying to place the right order for a child. It broke my heart to leave you as I had been convinced that we would wind up together. I constantly saw our future flash before my eyes: you with your crazy lists trying to do home improvements, and me baking in the kitchen making a mess while you clean up as I go because you can’t stand that I wait until I’m done to clean up. I would always over plan special dinners with your parents, and you would make your crazy lists to show me that I overshot the runway with my plans. You were always right.

But it was not to be. I had to leave, and leaving you was and is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I never thought I would get to the point that our differences were untenable. I had believed I was a good match for your ways because I gave you a wide berth with your fastidious ways of organization. I just let you do what you do, and every now and then I would say to you “enough.”

I often ask myself if the biggest mistake of my life was leaving you. It’s a difficult question to answer, but I always land in the place of “it had to happen.” After I left you I descended further into the black hole of alcohol dependence, and experienced a terrible assault when that happened. We had not spoken for a few months at that point, yet you came to me, and asked me to call the police. I could not at that point. I said to you that I needed you to sit on my bed, and hold my hand so that I could sleep. And you did, you held my hand, and slipped out the door when you thought I was asleep. It had been an awfully long time of trying to find sleep, and I finally pretended to fall asleep so that you could get some sleep.

If I had not left you I may not have learned of my PTSD or DID. Or maybe I would have learned it with you and it would have torn us apart to the point that we could not even be friends. I try to tell myself that having it happen the way it happened ensured that we would remain friends.

And we’ve remained friends all these years. In those years we’ve had our hardships and disagreements, largely from things you’ve said that have pissed me off beyond measure. Like the time you said to me without preamble that you were worried that I was becoming obese with my weight gain; or the time you called my sister and told her I wasn’t doing well while I was visiting her in Texas.

No one infuriates me more than you do in my life. Yet, in the deepest part of me, I love you. All this time I took that to mean that you’re special to me, always will be, and it’s as simple as that.

But, it’s not that simple. A few days ago you asked me to move in with you as your room mate. You are buying a house, and you would like a room mate so that you can buy the big house you want, so you say.

I teared up when you asked me. I love that you thought of me. You know that I do well when I live with people. You even said that I could have a dog. It’s so tempting, and I know that so much of it would be great if we lived together.

But I know that part of me that still loves you is patched up, and buried in the basement of my soul. If I lived with you, no matter what platonic promises we make to each other, that part of me would be unearthed, and it would start to yearn for you. Let’s not have the best mistake and the worst mistake in the same relationship.

Sunday

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I’m at the CVS pharmacy where I’ve just placed my prescription refill order. While I wait I start browsing the magazines in the news stand. I lightly touch the magazines with the grand food recipes that are beyond my capability at this point: simple spring salads, easter ham, easy spring slow cooker suppers. Yes, these are easy recipes, recipes for the masses. All I can do is look at them longingly and dream of a day when I will be able to do something simple like throw a few ingredients into a slow cooker for dinner. Before you even get to the point of putting ingredients into a slow cooker you have to have the wherewithal to plan for that, make a list, get yourself to a grocery store, shop, and then come home and put all of those ingredients away.

That same morning I woke up with a splitting headache, and the floaty feeling that glues me to my bed. I roll out to go to the bathroom, and nearly trip over my own legs because I am so wobbly from the floatiness. I tell myself, “It’s Sunday. Don’t lose the day. Get dressed now. Go to the diner. Now. Do it now.” But no, the floatiness takes over, the world fades out, and I fall back into bed again. Somehow I find my phone on the nightstand with one hand by just feeling around for it. I call Doc, get his voicemail and leave a message. After some period of time I can’t quantify, I go in the closet to get some clothes. I find some clothes, and then fall into bed again from the exhaustion and floatiness. I now have clothes. I just have to get out of my pajamas and put them on. The phone rings. It’s Doc. We do the Emotional Freedom Technique together on the phone. I tap the appropriate points on my head, face, hands, and torso while I repeat after him, “Even though, even though I am scared and I don’t know why, I deeply, and completely love and accept myself.” We go through this again and again and again. Finally, I am able to stand without feeling wobbly. I am able to get out of my pajamas, put my clothes on, and gather my things to go to the diner for breakfast. I woke up at 9:05 a.m. It is now 11:15 a.m.

I head to the Okayish, Yet Preferred Diner. There was another diner I used to patronize on Sunday, the High Quality, Yet Gruff Diner. At High Quality they do things like make a Spinach Chicken Kabob Salad with dried cranberries, walnuts, blue cheese, grape tomatoes, and homemade greek dressing. Then there’s the crazily awesome homemade macaroni and cheese where they make their own superb cheese sauce, and it shows. However, at High Quality they do not treat you well if you are a solo diner. Even with empty booths in the diner they will insist you eat at the counter. But at the counter, people line up to pay their bill or pick up their takeout. Inevitably, I have people leaning over me as they wait for their takeout orders. I start to feel floaty when this happens. Having people in my personal space makes me shaky.

At Okayish you have to know what NOT to order. Here’s an easy rule. Never order soup there. I think they come prefab from some company. I once ordered Manhattan Clam Chowder that just seemed off. I ate so little of it they took it off my bill. One other time I thought I would try soup again, and I ordered Matzo Ball Soup. It was a vessel of liquid salt with a tint of yellow and a mediocre Matzo ball in the middle. So, yes, no soup. While we are on the Never Evers, never order any pastries here. I think they keep them in the pastry case to the point that they may be ready for shellacking for permanent keep. And don’t dream of the Buffalo Chicken sandwich. It’s just two frozen chicken fingers fried with some buffalo sauce inside a hamburger bun with a sprinkle of blue cheese. They do better with things they actually cook and prepare themselves, such as omelets, pancakes or waffles. They even know how to make excellent home fries, potatoes perfectly cooked, nicely seasoned with salt and pepper and crispiness here and there throughout.

But, the people who work at Okayish are some of the nicest around. Every time I eat someplace with better food I miss these guys. Just a few weeks ago, I was reading McCarthy’s Bar: A Journey of Discovery in Ireland while dining at Okayish when I started laughing right out loud as I was reading the book. The waitstaff wanted to know what I was reading. One waitress said to me, “I want to laugh too! What book is that?” On a recent Sunday the only available table was a small table wedged between two large tables. It was not an ideal place to be seated. The owner said, “I’m sorry, honey. It’s all I have.” I said that I was just glad to be seated. Then a booth cleared up after I placed my order, and they immediately moved me into the booth. I didn’t even ask to be moved. My favorite waiter, Chris, will tease me if I miss a Sunday, and he’ll say, “Cheating on us with another diner, are you?” One of these days I might be bold enough to say, “I got crazy and actually wanted some great diner food, but I always miss you guys.”

But, that was the morning. The diner outing is past, and now I loiter in the pharmacy wanting a reason to stay longer. I wander the aisles, but I have no need for anything else no matter how hard I look. I’ve already opened every greeting card that plays sound just to have something to do, and for the faint chance that Hoops & Yoyo would cheer me up. There is no need for anything else in this store. The prescription is ready. It’s time to go home.