Today marked a significant milestone in my life. While it wasn’t a monumental climb or a dramatic event, something truly transformative happened in Burlington, Vermont—I attended my first Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting.
For the past six months of my sobriety, I had resisted the idea of attending a meeting for numerous reasons. I told myself that it wasn’t for me, that I wouldn’t enjoy it, and that I was just someone who had chosen to stop drinking. I believed I was strong enough to navigate this journey alone. The rationalizations I constructed were endless, reminiscent of the long stretches of the equator, measuring nearly 25,000 miles.
This morning, I encountered individuals who have triumphed over their own struggles and now embrace a more authentic existence. I must admit that my hesitation to attend this particular meeting, which was highly recommended by a friend, stemmed from its early 8 a.m. start time. Typically, I am still in my pajamas, sipping coffee at that hour due to my Hashimoto’s disease. Yet, today, I managed to rise at 7 a.m.
In a strange turn of events, I even found myself cleaning the bathrooms while my coffee brewed. With my mind still hazy from sleep, I was unable to concoct excuses to turn back, nor could I use my thyroid condition as a valid reason to retreat to bed.
As I listened to the shared experiences during the hour-long meeting—filled with genuine camaraderie but devoid of pressure—I reflected on how alcohol breeds dishonesty. I can now acknowledge that I used my writing as a pretext to drink and, conversely, drinking as an excuse to write. I would often tell myself, “I think I’ll start writing early tonight!”
Now, six months into my recovery, I find that I appreciate the writing process far more, and the results of my efforts are significantly better. Let me also dispel another myth: life without hangovers is not devoid of challenges. It is indeed hard, but I’ve discovered that I can confront adversities with clarity and openness.
During the meeting, I uttered the words I had previously vowed never to say: “Hello, my name is Sarah, and I am an alcoholic.” Surprisingly, it was more challenging to suppress those words than to allow them to flow freely.
I was captivated by the stories of struggle and humor shared within the group. The phrase “a comedy of terrors” echoed in my mind as I listened intently, recognizing that I am, without a doubt, one of them. By the end of the meeting, I was handed a blue chip commemorating my six months of sobriety. Once, I had dismissed those tokens as trivial; however, I clutched that precious piece like it was the Holy Grail on my journey home.
Later that day, I shared my experience with my 11-year-old son. He was curious and pleased to hear about my meeting. Then, he revealed the difficult truth of how my relationship with wine had made him feel less valued. Hearing that hurt deeply, but because my love for him spans the vastness of the universe, I am committed to confronting this reality.
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In conclusion, my journey into sobriety has led me to recognize the importance of connection, honesty, and confronting the truths I once avoided.