I’m scared. I’m scared that A.A. and the fellowship of alcoholics is disappearing.
In most meetings I feel like the oddball who has alcoholism. There is one last place, one slimming group of drunks where I feel a part still, somewhat; but that is fading. I’m helpless but to watch as they tug at each other and one by one drop out, and as they do the specter of the ‘others’ crowds into the little space we had carved out. That cozy little nook where alcoholics could be alcoholics, confide their ups and downs, and try feebly to reach out to others who might be like us.
I just want to wring their necks when they tell me ‘alcohol is just another drug,’ or that it doesn’t matter what the problem is – we all have the same solution so ‘stay in the solution.’ I don’t want to hear Anne Landers advice, I don’t want to be in N.A., and I don’t want to be part of some amalgamation of 12-step programs. I would – sure! – if anybody understood my alcoholism; but they don’t! I asked one guy over coffee in the easy company of drunks to tell me about his drinking and he charged me with putting him on A.A. trial. And I suppose in a way he was, but the inside out of the event wasn’t him being on trial; but him not being alcoholic at all so fuck – my bad for bringing it up.
Oh my God. ‘They’ keep growing in numbers as they make A.A. what they want it to be, which is, to my understanding, not much at all what it is supposed to be. Long ago I noticed the street drunks, the real low bottoms, had quietly stopped coming. Now our higher bottoms are proving to be no match for the tide either as it endlessly rolls in from treatment centers, halfway houses, courts and jailhouses. They come with prepared statements that our guys can’t rebut on the fly, they come with ‘knowledge’ that we have no chance of arguing, they come in groups, and they come with agendas.
I don’t know if they scared our anxiety-ridden fellows or if they perhaps pulled on a heartstring that caused a rift that grew into an argument. I don’t know if our own sacrificed their convictions for a friend or loved one they really wanted to help – but never could have – or for no more than a piece of ass or the lofty hope of love ever after. I don’t know why we started to tear at ourselves but we did, we have, and we continue to. Subtle forms of character assassination, unwavering pride and an apparently complete unwillingness to forgive have eaten away at the fabric of our group. Most of the newer ones and even one with 18 years have returned to drinking. And even this ominous warning has not been cause to rally and support – no, we have failed. Failed A.A. Failed each other. Failed ourselves.
I can’t tell you how dismayed I am that it has come to this. After all these years and all that we’ve been through to see it fall apart in whispers around corners and under the radar of truth. What happened to practicing principles? Was it all talk? Did anybody learn anything? Does anybody believe in anything but themselves?!
Well yes, I do. I emphatically do. And I have an odd sense that somehow even this nightmare will be justified in some greater purpose. But it does not appear that the purpose will have something to do with the longevity of A.A. No, A.A. appears to be disappearing in this city. I hope I’m wrong.
So here I’ll expose myself. I’ll tell you my story. I’ll tell you what happened. I’ll tell you what makes me believe that Bill and Bob deliberately created A.A. and not N.A. even though drugs were part of their history. I’ll tell you about my trials and experiences, darkness and light, mistakes, sins, glorious stories of men and women I watched rejoin the world around them, my emptiness, my hopes, my amazement and wonder, my spiritual growth and occasional decline, my questions, my loves… and so much more. And as I go perhaps some will come along and together we’ll find our way sober.
