"Hope Arrived" (published in AA Grapevine)

I'm excited to report an excerpt from my memoir has been published in AA Grapevine's January issue.

When I retrieved my mail a couple of weeks ago, I saw a manila envelope addressed to me among the realtor flyers and holiday cards. I noted the return address as AA Grapevine and smiled. I knew what this was because it had happened to me once before, years ago. This was a complimentary copy of Grapevine’s January issue. (I’m a subscriber, so they didn’t need to send me a comp copy!) 

If you read my post a couple of weeks ago called “Spinning the Wheel of Humanity,” you know that Grapevine is AA’s International Journal, a monthly magazine of sober stories. For some reason, Grapevine doesn’t email you to tell you your piece has been accepted. Instead they just send you a comp copy. A while ago, I submitted a story about my first AA meeting. Actually, I totally forgot I submitted it until I saw the manila envelope.

It seems fitting to share the story about my first-ever AA meeting today because tomorrow, January 8, I will have 14 years of sobriety. Woot woot! It’s important for me to remember what it was like when I first surrendered to this disease and walked into the rooms of AA. I never want to feel that shame, that remorse, that hopelessness again. The woman who surrounded me after that meeting told me I didn’t have to, that there was a solution.

I present the published essay below without further discussion. I don’t think Grapevine will mind me posting it here. AA encourages us to share our experience, strength, and hope. (You may have heard this story before because I recorded myself reading it out loud at a Project Write Now event.)

PS - If you’re interested in subscribing to AA Grapevine but are worried about anonymity, please know the monthly magazine comes in an unmarked sleeve.

Earlier in the day, Chris cleared the snow off the minivan. He still takes care of me, even though he is so angry that he won’t even look at me.

As I reverse out of the driveway, I note how nice our newly renovated Cape Cod-style house looks with a fresh coat of snow in the yard, a new roof and dormers, and the Christmas tree twinkling in the living room window. From the outside things look cozy and sweet. You’d never guess that inside a family is falling apart.

It’s 6:45 p.m. when the minivan’s tires crunch on the snowy church parking lot. I’m early as usual. My knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. I stretch out my fingers and rub them on my jeans. My skin is so dry I’m tempted to lick my palms. I rummage in my purse for hand cream, but there is none there. Normal 38-year-old women carry hand cream in their purses, but not disorganized mess-ups like me.

To kill five minutes I call Kelly to confirm that she and Scott are coming for dinner tomorrow. We usually spend New Year’s Eve at Kelly’s ski house in Vermont, but no one, especially me and Chris, can make that happen this year.

“I’m about to go into my first AA meeting,” I report to Kelly. “I’m proud of you,” she replies. My face flushes with shame. Proud? The other day, after I vowed I’d never drink again, I retrieved a half-empty bottle of vodka from the garbage can. There’s nothing to be proud of here. I mumble thanks and say goodbye.

I hear the click-clack of high-heeled boots on pavement and glance in the rearview mirror. A blonde-haired woman walks in a fast clip toward the church. She’s wearing a long, puffy black jacket and carrying a huge orange Coach bag. I bet she has hand cream in her purse. Could she be going to the AA meeting? I exit my car and follow behind her, giving her a large lead so she won’t be tempted to turn and talk to me.

We go into the church through a back door, down the stairs, around several corners. As if I’m tethered to this woman by an invisible rope, she pulls me into a room. Old, dusty couches and ripped armchairs line the walls. A few women are seated, chitchatting. I make a beeline to a chair flanked by empty seats. When I’m settled, I look up and across from me is the Orange Coach Bag woman. She smiles at me while eating a cookie. I avert my eyes.

The room quickly fills up and now there are no empty seats. At exactly 7 p.m., a woman starts to speak. “Welcome to the Thursday night Women’s Step Meeting. Let’s begin by saying the Serenity prayer.” My hands are clenched again, and I stare down at them while the other women pray in unison. I mumble along, pretending I know the words.

After the prayer, the leader reads a list of things I don’t understand. It’s like she’s speaking a different language. I’m also confused by the room’s upbeat vibe. Why are these women so cheerful if they can no longer drink?

The leader says, “We’ll start by introducing ourselves.” I knew this part was coming, from movies and TV shows. Maybe from one Al-Anon meeting I attended as a teen. My heart pounds and I can feel my armpits dampen. Like the second hand on a clock, the introductions tick toward me. “Mary, Alcoholic.” Tick. Three away. “Hi, I’m Jane, I’m an alcoholic.” Tick. Two away. “Susan, Alcoholic.” Tick.

I’m next. Then something surprising happens. The words float easily out of my mouth. “I’m Liz and I’m an alcoholic,” I say. Unlike last week’s admission to Chris when I told him about sneaking vodka during the day, I don’t immediately want to take the words back. I lean back into the worn couch and look up for the first time.

After the introductions, the leader says they are discussing Step One. How are they only on Step One? They go around the room again, each woman sharing. Most of what they say is foreign to me, but every so often a snippet makes sense. One woman talks about how she would tell her husband she was going to the pharmacy but instead she’d go to the liquor store and drink in the parking lot. I can relate. Another woman said she had trouble admitting she had a drinking problem because she managed to go to work every day, albeit hungover and miserable. I can relate. Terror grips me when I realize that once again, it will be my turn to speak.

A middle-aged woman sitting next to Orange Coach Bag woman talks about how she was so happy to be at a meeting. Again, I’m confused. Happy to be at an AA meeting? Happy that you can no longer drink? How can that be?

She says she needed to escape after being stuck in the house with her husband and kids for the holidays and the snowstorm. She ends with, “I’m so grateful to be a sober mom today.” The phrase “sober mom” echoes in my head. Something about these two words strung together cracks me open. Tears stream down my face. I try to control them because now it’s my turn to speak. In a shaky voice, I manage to say something about this being my first meeting. I can’t stop drinking. My life is falling apart. My husband and I might be separating. I can’t say anything else because now I’m sobbing. My body shakes. Tears and snot drip down my face.

A woman hands me a tissue and another pats my back. This makes me cry harder. The next thing I know, we’re standing, everyone holds hands and says the Lord’s Prayer. I find it odd to say such a Christian prayer, but I’m grateful that I know this one. The meeting is over.

I wipe my face with the tissue and collect myself. Putting my head down, I bolt for the door, but my exit is blocked by a semicircle of women. Each one smiles and says, “Welcome.” One hugs me. They ask for my number and punch it into their phones. Orange Coach Bag woman says, “You never have to feel this way again.”

I walk outside and inhale the cold crisp air. The clouds are gone and a thick crescent moon hovers in the night sky. Nothing has changed, but everything feels different. I couldn’t name what I was feeling at the time. It would be months before I could identify feelings again. But when I look back on it now, I know what I was feeling in that moment. It was hope.

Walking back to the car, I repeat a new mantra in my head “Sober mom ... sober mom …. ”

Disclaimer: To err is human. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I employ Grammarly, but mistakes happen. In this world of AI, they're my way of keeping things delightfully human.