Tuesday, December 29th, 2009: The First Meeting, Part Two
Meeting One; Part Two
So, where were we? It has been awhile, hasn’t it? We had Birdie, The Minister, Oz, and Yellow. The thing is, I’ve gotten rather behind on my entries already, and thoughts are scrambling in my mind like so many schoolchildren trying to get out for recess. Thus, I will only give note to those that are particularly well behaved, to those particularly worth giving a nod of attention.
The remainder of the meeting went as follows: we began. I failed to speak; I failed to give more than my name, to give more than casual conversation; I failed to repeat the most tedious of mantras, “Hello, my name is Megan. I am an alcoholic and addict.” This is accepted, and seems almost commonplace. Perhaps the only person I have truly let down is myself. Although, I am here. I did not arrive late, nor intend to follow through on my plans to leave early, a tactic many newcomers employ according to the AA forums online. AA; that’s Alcoholics Anonymous, if you haven’t guessed, if you haven’t been following, if you are a stranger.
Birdie speaks, The Minister speaks, Oz and Yellow speak. They all have, despite differences in background and demeanor insurmountable on the surface, equally tragic stories. It matters not who had the abusive parents, who began their flirtation with addiction with methamphetamine, who had relapsed, and who had remained sober for decades; the simple fact was this: they were all undeniably brilliant human beings, and a part of that brilliance had been dulled by a weakness.
Oz is the last to speak. Her exhaustion breaks into tears. While the others shared their stories with a wry, black humor that suggested years of both triumph and defeat, it is clear that she is experiencing her first true relapse. She has a daughter. She has a partner. She was happy and sober for eight years. And now this. And she doesn’t understand. And she doesn’t know how to tell her lover that she walks an additional block to send the mail, because the mailbox one block away is directly in front of the bar, and she can pop in and pour two glasses of wine down her parched throat before she returns home. Wine is her “thing,” so to speak, and recently it takes no more than an ill-timed red light to make her turn to her addiction.
Oz is the last to speak, and then enters Martin. I call him Martin because his name is something like Dean. I don’t quite remember his exact title, but I suppose that is best for the sake of his identity. He says nothing. I say nothing. I suspect, however, that his reasons differ greatly from mine. He is, after all, an hour behind schedule.
But, to the point. I wanted to speak on honesty. There are those, said, preached, The Minister, that are constitutionally unable to be honest with themselves.
Immediately I, in defense of this claim, reassure myself that, being here in the first place, there must be a part of myself that is honest. Constitutionally honest, if you will. And yet. And yet, these people he speaks of, these people he has seen fail to achieve sobriety, are those that came to this meeting in the first place. Is an acknowledgement prompted by a friend, family member, or lover less legitimate than one prompted by one’s own conscious? If this is the case, I am without hope. I have attempted to attend meetings before, either without success or without content.
