story. The full version. The bit about blackouts, and strange women, and how he had alienated everyone around him. The bit about all his friends trying to talk to him about his drinking and how worried they were, and his absolute refusal to listen. How he jumped on the defensive, cut them off, filled with shame at what he was doing.
He talked about the chaos of his life, the self-centeredness, how every time he’d decide to stop drinking, which he decided on practically a daily basis, so fed up with waking up feeling like shit every single morning, his vow would be broken by the evening.
He talked about sitting with friends, in bars, naturally, nursing a tonic water, and he couldn’t hear any conversation, couldn’t join in, couldn’t do anything other than plan how to get away so he could carry on drinking in the privacy of his own home, so no one else would know.
He talked about all of this cheerfully, with no remorse, no shame, and I had no idea how, because every time he said something, all I could think was, oh my God, this is me. This is my story, and how is it he gets to talk about it like this, as if it is the most natural, acceptable thing in the world, when all I want to do is dig a hole in the ground and disappear?
He talked about getting into Alcoholics Anonymous. He talked about letting go of ego, turning things over to a Higher Power. He talked about letting go of control, of learning humility, of learning to accept life on life’s terms, and I started to seriously regret getting in the car with him, knowing that it was too damn late to make my excuses and leave.
So here I am. In this hall, where everyone is hugging everyone else, and although I don’t know anyone here, and in fact am terrified I might run into someone I know, they do seem like a friendly bunch.
Jason left me on a chair to go and talk to one of his sponsees, whatever that might mean, and so far three people have come over and introduced themselves to me with big smiles, which is completely weird, but rather nice.
“I’m Jeff,” says a big guy, sitting next to me with a cup of coffee in one hand and a paper plate in the other, filled with cinnamon buns from the trestle table. “Want some?” He proffers the plate as I shake my head.
“I’m Cat. Hi.”
“First time?”
I nod. “I’m a little nervous. Not sure I belong here.”
“None of us are sure we belong here when we first get here. Don’t worry, you don’t have to say anything. You can just listen. You’re not going to relate to all of it, but they say take what you like and leave the rest.”
“Okay,” I say, as Jason walks over and sits down, and everyone in the room takes their seats.
* * *
He said I didn’t have to speak. They all chant a preamble, something about the only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking, and AA is not allied with any sect or anything, although frankly, there is definitely something eerily cultlike about the smiling people in this room, and how their primary purpose is to stay sober, or something like that.
Then comes announcements, and apparently there’s a new speaker meeting, whatever that is, in Queens Park that needs some help, then anniversaries. Two men and one woman stand up and proudly announce, in turn, ninety days sober, two years sober, and then nine years sober. Huge applause, and hugs all round, then a few words from the person leading the meeting.
And then, oh God! Are there any newcomers? There is a silence as I look at the floor because I do not want to say anything, I’m only here because Jason said I didn’t have to say anything, but I make the fatal mistake of looking up and pretty much every single person in that meeting is looking at me with an encouraging smile, and oh shit, now I have to say something.
“Hi,” I say, my voice shaking with nerves. “This is my first meeting.”
“What’s your name?” a couple of people say.
“Sorry. Cat. I’m Cat.” I think about every film I’ve ever seen that features a 12-step meeting and how they always introduce themselves by saying, “I’m Cat, alcoholic.” Or, “I’m Cat, a recovering alcoholic.” Or, “I’m Cat, a grateful recovering alcoholic.” But I can’t.