Today I decided to go to an Al-Anon meeting—my first. Al-Anon is a meeting for the families of alcoholics: mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, partners. I didn’t know how go about it, so I called the number on the Al-Anon website, looking for a meeting. I got a recording—one of those computer voices saying nothing but “Leave a number.” I hung up. I persevered, though, and managed to find a meeting within twenty miles of my place. I went—past the farmstands (now closed), dodging the dry old leaves rolling out into the street in packs, like tiny people running from a fire.
I’d tried to go a meeting when I was a teenager, but couldn’t: that is, I went once, and found it unbearable—I was young and hip and full of promise, and the people there were old and looked like they’d spent a lifetime being beaten with baseball bats.
Today, I sat among them, and, it’s still true, they all looked pretty much like a bunch of old potato sacks, though this time I saw that some of them were sane and kind. After one meeting, I couldn’t tell you what they do there, but I tell you what: they all really feel helped by Al-Anon. One woman, whose mother had been an alcoholic, said it was like her spirit had been in a box when she was a kid, and now it wasn’t. Another woman told how she’d taken her two teenaged children and moved them into a hotel three nights before, to get away from her husband, who was abusive when he was drunk, and was always drunk. She said that her seventeen-year-old son was proud of her. I think we were all proud of her.
I came home and started to read through the literature, which sure does talk a lot about God (the “higher power” is a big part of the program). I don’t believe in God, at all. I know I can make my way to the higher-power thing, but, sitting on my couch with all the literature, I was thrown back into being an arrogant and angry teenager.
In any case, I started to waiver about the whole enterprise, when my phone rang. It was a woman on the other end, who said, “Did someone there call XXX-XXXX this morning?” She gave a number, and I figured it must have been that Al-Anon number I’d called. I said, “Are you calling from Al-Anon?” And she said, relieved, “Yes, sorry—you can’t say that, because sometimes you don’t know….” I knew what she meant. I tried to get off the phone. I felt like I was talking to someone who was trying to sell me more channels, before she’d even asked if I had a television (or a bank account with any money in it). I said, “Yeah, I found a meeting. Thanks.” She said, “Was it your first?” And I said, “Yes, it was,” and she said, “Good girl. Keep coming back.” And I felt… I felt… I felt… so praised by those words: Good girl. For the child or wife of an alcoholic, both of which I have been, “Good girl” means a lot.
Good for you, Trish. Unless you decide you don’t want to go back, then that’s good for you too. Whatever works. xo
What do they say? It works if you work it? I’m going back. Thanks, Paulie, for the support (and the xo’s).
If nothing else, you get coffee and cookies. xxoo
ya don’t sweat the god stuff too much. you can sub in buddha or guru or whatever you like, no problema