Don't Go Alone
In the Beginning
Here I am, 140 days into my sobriety -- a little over four months. I’ve got a sponsor and we’ve worked the first three Steps. This isn’t saying much, because Steps 1-3 can be done by just thinking and talking --no writing yet, because that doesn’t come until Step 4.
Ever since early June and Father’s Day, I’ve had limited contact with my soon-to-be ex-wife and my stepsons, which is actually a good thing, according to my sponsor, though in the back of my mind, there’s still a chance we will get back together.
Facts suggest otherwise, of course, but since my thinking is still delusional, facts are not something I’m paying much attention to.
For instance, when I moved out of the house and got my own place, nine months earlier, I decided to be faithful to my wife. And so, when I’m about 60 days sober, I let her know this, hoping she’ll respond in kind. Instead, I hear only crickets. And she eventually says, “Well, I guess you can read between the lines here.” Damn. Like a lot of bad news, I didn’t see that coming and it hurts like hell.
Eventually, she confides that she’s got an out-of-town “friend,” someone she knows from work, but in another city. When I moved out is when they first hooked up. We live in Florida; the boyfriend lives in L.A. and for some reason, that very fact seems to make it feel even worse.
Then, it turns out that over the July 4th holiday coming up, the boyfriend is going to fly to Florida to spend the weekend with her. Furious, I let her know that is the final straw. I need to come to the house and get the rest of my stuff out of there, now. I can’t stand the thought of her and the “boyfriend” listening to my stereo, especially the fine stereo speakers I installed in the bedroom.
At this point, I call my sponsor Art to tell him about my plans and he nods quietly, as he usually does and says only, “How about if I come with you?”
I’m thinking this is a nice gesture but I’m 37 and Art’s in his 60’s so he’s really not going to be a lot of help carrying things. I’m not really going to be moving any heavy furniture either. So, I tell Art that I’ve got this, but thanks all the same.
Art’s not backing down, however. “I’d really like to go with you,” he says, so we agree that I’ll pick him up on my way out to the house on Saturday morning.
I’m guessing Art probably doesn’t have much of a social calendar at his age, so if he wants to spend the morning driving out and back with me – sure, why not?
Knock, Knock
And that’s pretty much how it goes on Saturday morning. I pick Art up and we drive the 30 minutes or so from downtown St. Pete out to North Redington Beach, my former residence. We get out and walk up the drive and I knock hesitantly on the front door – of “my” house – and wait for my wife to open it.
It occurs to me that I don’t really look the way I did when I moved out nine months earlier. I’ve lost weight since I stopped drinking and a lot of the bloating has gone away.
But I also decided to shave off the mustache I had since high school, when I first started drinking. I’m not sure why, but I think I was tired of looking at that same wretched drunk face in the mirror and ditching the mustache was a simple way to remind myself I’d decided to make a change.
So, when my wife opens the front door, she is momentarily surprised but manages to contain it with a frown. It’s not like she’s glad to see me. I introduce Art as my sponsor and they say hello to each other as we step through the door into the living room.
This is when I see my 10-year-old stepson Jeff and he sees me. And then, he bursts into tears.
I’ve been his stepfather ever since I first met him at the age of 3 so we have a seven-year history. And with just one look, Jeff realizes that for better or worse, the man he knew is gone and not coming back. And that’s why he starts crying.
And the pain on his face just crushes me. So, in a heartbeat, my shock and surprise turns into a searing anger directed at his mother. This is all her fault, right?
After all, I’m the one who wanted to get back together. She’s the one who got a boyfriend. Right?
I give her my most disgusted look and I’m about to let her know what I really think of her but then, I feel a hand on my shoulder so I turn around.
“Let’s just get your stuff and go,” Art says quietly but firmly. We lock eyes for a long minute and then I realize, once again, he’s right. Nothing good will come of escalating this the way I want to.
Instead, I squat down and give Jeff a hug. “I’m sorry, buddy,” I say. “I’m sorry and I know it hurts right now but it’s going to be okay, believe me,” and then I stand up and Art and I start carrying out the boxes of my stuff which she’s thoughtfully lined up outside the bedroom.
On the drive home, Art and I are silent for a while, so I get a chance to think about what just happened. And what could have happened, instead.
I am abashed to realize that Art’s offer to come along with me had nothing to do with his social calendar. And also, just how close things came to spiraling out of control, the way it does so police get called and then you get to read about it all, the next day in the papers.
I look over at Art sitting quietly in the passenger seat and let him know I am grateful he took the time to make this trip with me. “No problem,” he says simply, not for the first time -- or the last. “As a recovering alcoholic,” he says, “there are places you should never go alone. Too dangerous,” he says, and he smiles at me.
Other Dangerous Places
The longer I’m sober, the more of those “dangerous places” I find out about. But it’s something I never forget. Years later, just after I celebrate 11 years of sobriety, the boss calls me into his office and tells me I’m being cut loose after six years of working there. I’m a manager and it comes completely out of the blue.
No problems with my performance, they’re just downsizing. And I even get a severance check, a first for me. Still, standard protocol calls for walking me out of my office and the front door immediately. When I ask about how I should collect all my personal stuff, like the books in my office bookcase, my boss says he’ll be working late so I can come back after 5:30, after everyone’s gone.
But it's 10 in the morning and I’m stunned, sitting in the parking lot and wondering what to do now? I’ve learned to call my sponsor first, so that’s what I do and he answers. Don’t call your wife who’s at work, he says, it will just upset her. You can tell her in person tonight when you both get home.
What do I do until then? I ask. He says I should come on over to his house and we’ll drive to the beach and get something to eat or maybe go to a lunchtime meeting. So, that’s what we do.
But that still gives me a lot of time to think and frankly, I’m pissed. And feeling betrayed, resentful and more than a little fearful, if I’m being honest. Getting escorted out the front door still feels like failure, not matter how polite they try to be. So, when the afternoon rolls around and it’s getting closer to 5 o’ clock, I’m getting edgy about going back there to get my stuff. I’m not sure I trust myself to keep my mouth shut because – how dare they?
Now What?
But I’ve learned that I don’t have to go there alone. So, I call Dave S., one of the men I sponsor, and ask if he has time to go back there with me? Of course, he says, so I pick him up and back we go.
I’m hoping the office will be empty by the time we get there. Before they let me go, I was running the in-house ad agency: about 20 writers, artists and production people. I’m not sure why, but I’m feeling humiliated and I hope none of them will see me like this. So, I keep my head down in the hopes of making a quick entrance and exit. Dave and I start filling our boxes with books.
But just then, one of the artists knocks nervously on my office door and sticks his head in. “Hey, sorry for interrupting,” he says. “But I just wanted to let you know you were a great boss and frankly, this sucks. We’re really going to miss you.”
It really helps to hear that but I don’t know what to say, so I just stand up and shake his hand. “Thank you for hanging around to say that,” I tell him. “I really appreciate it.” And before I can turn back to my books, another one of my people steps in and she give me a hug. “Let us know where you wind up,” she says and steps away, starting to cry.
Next thing I know, pretty much the whole bunch is coming in one-by-one to say goodbye to me. They heard I was coming back after 5:30 and they all hung around to say something face-to-face. Not exactly standard protocol but a lot more rewarding.
When we get back to the car with our boxes of books, my sponsee Dave looks over at me and gives me a big grin. “I’m really glad I was there to see that,” he says. “Thanks for asking me to come with you.”
We're Never Really Alone
So, that’s how it works. On page 68 of our book, it says, “We ask Him to remove our fear and direct our attention to all He would have us be. At once, we commence to outgrow fear.” The demonstration of that becomes a fact when I take action on it, when I act “as if” it’s already happened. And the easiest way to do that is to call up someone else in recovery and ask them to go or be with me.
It may be a 12-Step call. Or a social occasion where booze is being served. Or a difficult amends that needs to be made. Or just that feeling in the pit of my stomach.
For years, I thought I needed to fly solo through these and other dangerous places. Or I thought it was better if I took care of business alone: that is, without a witness. But what happened is, I got drunk.
Thanks to Art and the other men who supported me – in the early days if my sobriety and ever since -- somehow I’ve been staying sober. And I’ve never needed to go into a dangerous place alone.
--- Michael Powers
