The chair was hard, thick plastic with metal legs and reminded me of the chairs from Sunday School, but it felt sturdier than me. My waist was expanding from my newfound pregnancy making clothes from a few months ago uncomfortable, so my clothing was loose. The room was filled with smoke and mainly men, but once they realized I was pregnant, some would slip outside to smoke and come back in afterwards.
I sat there and sobbed after every person shared what drinking was like for them and what it’s like sober. Every story was a page from my book as if they’d been watching me for the past 20 years and taking notes of my shameful antics. My heart was filled with so much remorse that my body shook frantically with every sob and I was puzzled as to why this grungy room full of strangers felt more like home than my house.
There was a box of tissues in every corner of the room and the men took turns passing me one tissue at a time until someone finally handed me the whole box. My eyes ached, my lips were puffy, and all of the makeup had washed from my face. I couldn’t speak and honestly didn’t need to because they were saying it for me, so I just sat with my head down, wiping away tears in an old clubhouse of Alcoholics Anonymous.
That was in November of 1998 and at the end of each meeting they’d tell me to ‘keep coming back’ but never said for how long. One day at a time, turned into weeks, months, years and then decades, so I thought surely it was time to graduate from the program. When Covid hit all of the local meetings shutdown, including the one near my home, but online meetings rapidly took their place.
I’ve been thinking a lot about past selves and how who we’ve been contributes to who we are today. The quote at the top of my blogsite says, “I hope when you come home to yourself there are flowers lining the front porch that were left by all your previous selves.” The last two years, I’ve only attended a handful of meetings, but this week I’ve logged into at least one online meeting every day.
I want to ensure my front porch is covered in flowers left by the sober me.
Inbarbsworld 
Leave a reply to annemariedemyen Cancel reply