Part Two: Alcoholics Not-So-Anonymous: A Sneak Peek Inside My First AA Meeting

Note: This is Part 2 of 2 in a series. Part one was first published this Sunday, here.

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My palms were dripping in sweat. My chest constricted, and my breath became shallow. Admitting that I am an alcoholic behind the shield of the Internet is one thing, but standing up in a packed, low ceiling room of 60 people and saying “I’m Karen, and I’m an alcoholic”, is very different. I understand now why AA is all about saying your name and that you are an alcoholic. It’s damn hard. It’s so difficult to say, because it makes you vulnerable. It makes you identify with your addiction, and claim it. It blows away the denial in a split second.

The speaker called for all the newcomers, with under 30 days of sobriety to stand up. I felt like if I didn’t stand up, I would be lying. I already felt incredibly transparent and see though, so I figured that I didn’t have any choice except to stand up. A rush of courage surged through me. That courage began to diminish as I saw 18 other people stand up with me. It felt good to not be the only newbie, but now I had to wait for everyone else to say their names as I shifted my weight nervously, from foot to foot, awaiting my turn.

Each person said their name, and then “I’m an alcoholic”. The room shouted their name right after, in an all too peppy tone, and then clapped a steady rhythm of two loud, thunderous claps. As each person said their name, and then sat down, the words “I’m a..” began to disappear from the phrasing, and people just said their name, followed by their disease… which was all alcoholism.

The longest thirty seconds of my life passed by, and I said my name, the world alcoholic, and then I got to sit down. Each person’s words echoed in my head. I had no choice but to say it when the leader at the front of the room locked eyes with me, signaling that it was my turn to speak. Somewhere I found the strength to say my name, and the words alcoholic. I felt like a pathological liar for a moment. Layers upon layers of denial, which are essential for any addict to continue to be active in their addiction, were still not fully dissolved from my psyche. Part of me didn’t believe the words, as they came out of my mouth, and part of me had never heard anything so honest before. A woman with kind eyes turned around as I sat down, smiled the most loving smile at me and then said welcome. The guys next to me turned and said welcome. Mr. Fidgety next to me asked me how long I had. I laughed and said, “One day”. I didn’t want my arrogant attitude to be apparent, but it was the only defense mechanism that I had left.

Two older men went on to speak for 15 and 30 minutes each. They were in their 60′s at least and I couldn’t relate to the Vietnam analogies, and I worried more about bumping elbows with the strangers next to me. I tried to focus on their words, but the mumbling cadence of the first speaker made him almost impossible to understand. My mind raced, and tried to grab hold of any sentence that I could take with me. Anything that I could remember, and take home with me as a cure-all. Part of me still held the childish belief that someone else out there could help fix me. But the real me inside, buried beneath the scars of years of addiction, knew the difficult truth that only I had that power.

The speakers concluded, and we clapped. Mr. Fidgety said to me that the last speaker was one of the most famous AA speakers in the country. That may have been one of the reasons that this meeting was so packed, I thought. But I didn’t feel any awe at his celebrity status, because I wasn’t really part of their cult, yet. Pride held me back. I was grateful that I didn’t recognize him, and that he didn’t mean anything to me because that fact kept me from being one of “them”. But at the same time I felt incredibly grateful to be in a room of people that “get” me, without speaking a word.

Ceremonies continued. They went through “birthdays”, or AA sobriety date anniversaries. About ten different people got up individually, as the speaker announced how many years they had. One, one, three, seven, seventeen. They embraced their friends and loved ones that quickly switched places behind the same cake and re-lit candle. The lights were turned out with each candle that was lit, and the person arose from the crowd and blew out their candle as we clapped at their life changing victory. And all I could think of was the Mythbusters episode I saw about how much bacteria collects from saliva being blown over a cake, as someone blows out birthday candles. And this was ten fucking people blowing out a candle on the same damn cake. Ewww.

The meeting concluded, and we began to shuffle out slowly, as if going though the narrow isles impatiently stuck when trying to get off a plane. I silently hoped that this would be like my battle with depression…I would fight and fight and fight, and I would eventually win. I found my brother and began following his comforting presence out to the parking lot. He asked me what I thought, and I don’t even remember what I said. It was all too much. It was an adrenaline rush of fear that carried me through most of it. I felt relieved to be in the cool night air, free from an over-crowded room of so many people that were just as flawed as me.

One small victory was under my belt. It was an almost unbelievable accomplishment that had concluded. But I silently felt the weight on my shoulders that my fight had only just began.