My First 12-Step Meeting

I wish I could say my first meeting was magical and I lived happily after right away.  Parts of it were magical, because I discovered for the first time how many of us (addicts) there are from all walks of life.  That stuck with me.  Unfortunately, the time period around my first meeting was exceptionally dark and I wasn’t strong enough to fight it alone.  My ex-husband and I had finally split up, having moved from New York, to California, then to Seattle, in an attempt to outrun our issues.   Unfortunately, when your issues are inside, they come right along.   I was living on my own in a luxury apartment in Seattle.  I had attempted a romantic relationship with a coworker that ended abruptly and painfully when he discovered my luxury exterior was just a façade for a dumpster fire.  I was alone, heartbroken and about to lose my job.  (Knowing what I know now, HR had already made the decision to fire me, they were just getting the paperwork in order.)   Apparently, when HR asks you if you need help with anything, they expect full disclosure.  But I was still in denial mode.  I still stubbornly thought I could pull my life out of the free fall that it had entered.   

I was absolutely miserable and completely terrified to be on my own, so when a coworker suggested I go to a meeting with him, I went.  It was completely overwhelming.  It was one of the extra-large meetings (75-100 people), which I liked for the anonymity it provided.  I remember looking around at everyone and marveling at how many different kinds of people there were there.  There were people in suits, slacks, uniforms, and scrubs coming from work.  There were teenagers looking pissed as hell.  The people with some sobriety were cheerfully chatting and laughing with each other.  There was one super charismatic guy with dreads down to his knees that was telling animated stories to those around him.    There were people who were homeless.   And there I was, absolutely terrified. So I just sat and listened. 

There were so many stories that sounded like mine.  For the first time, I learned that there were people who think like I do.  Who are as sensitive as I am.  Who drink as much as I do.  Who are trying to keep it together, some succeeding and some failing like I was.   So many people stuck in their own poor decisions and drinking to numb the misery.   It was the kind of meeting where the chairperson picks people at random to share. (The chairperson is the one who volunteers to run the meeting that week. Most meetings ask for volunteers with at least a few months of sobriety to chair the meeting and keep things on track.)  Most meetings let you volunteer if you want to share, but at this meeting it was the chairperson’s choice.  And he picked me.   If I thought I was terrified before, I hadn’t seen anything yet.  I started trembling.   I knew from listening to the other people share that “sharing” meant you tell everyone why you are at the meeting, and why you think you might have a problem with alcohol.  To my terrified credit, I told them.  I told them everything - something I had never done before.  I started crying and talking uncontrollably.  I finally admitted that I drank at work.  I admitted I stole alcohol when I was a guest in someone’s house.  I admitted that I drank every morning at 6am sharp (when you can buy alcohol in Seattle) and that I get horribly sick if I don’t.  I talked about going to the ER several times and then having to make up excuses for why I was there.   When I finished, everyone was quiet for a bit.  I then had a group of about 15-20 women crowd around me, insisting that I’m in the right place and things will get better.  I got all their phone numbers, took all of their literature, and listened to some of their stories as well.  It felt wonderful to hear that these women had once been as desperate as I am, but they somehow got themselves out.  For the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of hope.  I had discovered a lot of tools, in the form of recovery ideas and a highly accepting group of people, but I didn’t exactly know how to use them.  But worst of all, I thought I could rehabilitate my broken life and then go on living it the same way I had.  I didn’t realize at that time that real recovery means changing your entire way of thinking and behaving.