For me, part of the quiet “fun” of attending an AA meeting is finding it. There’s a real speakeasy quality to them that appeals to the secret-keeping alcoholic in me. No signs, flashing lights or cartoon arrows. I’ve been to meetings tucked away in hotel rooms, detox centers, VFW meeting halls, the conference room above a grocery store and countless church basements. They’re as hidden as they are meaningful to me.
But as much as I enjoy discovering where AA meetings actually are, I’ve learned to be careful about discovering too much about my fellow alcoholics’ lives. I wrestle with whether to keep my fellows at arm’s-length or let them in. It’s a genuinely slippery slope, especially when the very reason you’re sitting in that room is to help the people around you as much as you’re trying to help yourself.
In my very first few AA meetings, I had a hard time wrapping my brain around it all: the routines, the lingo and the subtle differences between meetings. Even the cheerfulness of everyone baffled me. I just didn’t get it. I mean, wasn’t everyone supposed to be as goddamn miserable and shaky as I was? Turns out, most people in recovery aren’t. They’re not Patch Adams, but they’re not all swirling half-empty coffee cups in despair, either. I discovered that my alcoholism was a lot like the Upside Down from Stranger Things—a shadow version of the real world. The real world was brighter and way harsher. Still, sitting down in room after room after room, I’d nod “hello” and maybe shake the occasional hand. I’d then check my phone and nervously glance at the clock. Let’s get on with it, I’d think, like I was waiting for a movie to start.
In those first meetings, though, all I was really trying to do was figure out how to be a smarter drinker or how not to be like These People. This was where the misfit toys ended up. Whenever someone sitting close to me would start talking, I’d actually shrink back a little bit, like I was afraid of catching whatever sober germs they had. I wasn’t even sure I was an alcoholic. I was just a tourist, trying to get a brief lay of the land and make a good show to my family that I was trying to not be a complete fucking disaster anymore.
But I kept coming back. I knew the beats of everyone’s stories a little too well—I knew exactly where their dark narratives were headed. I understood the guy in the trucker cap who talked about going to the airport because their bar opened at 7 am. I got the bookish woman who said she’d throw her grocery store receipt out before her husband could see just how much extra beer she’d bought. I even related to the spindly line cook who used to tuck a pint of whiskey in his pants as he worked the grill.
It didn’t take me long to get hooked on the stories in the rooms. I also zeroed in on the good meetings quickly. The best ones have a lived-in warmth to them: easy smiles and a shorthand between the old-timers who have known one another for years. Still, I wasn’t comfortable. I’m an anxious person to begin with (enter alcohol, stage right) and I’m not exactly the world’s best small-talk artist. So, for me, showing up 13 seconds before a meeting starts and leaving two seconds after one ends is just about perfect. For a while, I tried to casually 007 my way into the rooms: arrive without incident, remain invisible for the hour then vanish without a trace. I stole whatever sober secrets I needed and no one was the wiser. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep that up. After a while—especially when you start attending the same meeting over and over again for several months—you can’t help but get to know the people around you. It’s like sort of half-watching a TV show for an entire season—you’re going to learn about the characters and their backstories without trying, even if you’re reading a magazine the whole time. Same with AA meetings. I discovered that Trucker Cap, Bookish Library Lady and Line Cook all have names. What’s more is that they eventually learned mine when I finally started opening up.
I stopped racing in and out of the rooms. I began showing up early and I lingered a bit afterward. I volunteered to scrub the coffee pot. I congratulated people on their anniversaries. I shook hands and I gave hugs. I even drove strangers home from meetings when they needed a ride. Then, thanks to Facebook, I started to get friend request after friend request from people in the rooms. And that’s when I suddenly realized their lives, like mine, existed well beyond the walls of the rooms we share. It was like invisible ink emerging under a black light. Still, I accepted every single one of them. And every time, I went down the rabbit hole of their lives, spinning through their photo galleries and status updates. I got a weird jolt discovering that they had families, friends, favorite movies, and opinions unrelated to alcohol. (Chillingly, some of the people I identified with most in the rooms turned out to be Jimmy Buffett followers which, to this Radiohead fan, was a bridge too far.) Eventually, I stopped accepting every one that came along. I couldn’t let everyone in. Whatever visceral thrill I got from learning people’s last names or seeing them in real-world situations evaporated pretty damn quick. I had to start giving friend requests serious thought, like I was co-signing a loan or something.
When you connect with people outside of the AA rooms, you’re opening yourself up in a far different way than simply sharing your stories. You’re opening yourself up to hurt and disappointment as much as you are love and belonging. And that’s terrifying—especially to people like me who’ve spent the better part of their adult lives hiding from anything that resembles an actual connection. For me, I have to be careful about who I share my life with. Just because we have addiction in common doesn’t mean we’re perfectly matched puzzle pieces. I’ve experienced both sides of the coin. I’ve forged deep, lasting friendships where we both shake our heads in “I’m so happy we met” awe, and I’ve also found myself in situations where I’m like a cat tossed into a bathtub. I can’t get out fast enough. For all the times I wondered how the hell I’d ended up where I was, I’ve also had plenty of other occasions where I’ve been happy to lend a hand, say, when someone from the rooms needs help moving from one apartment to another. Sometimes, there’s no greater reward than coming through for someone who understands how difficult it is for people like us to come through for other people.
Still, I tend to prefer the vellum of anonymity—the fogged glass that shows movement and life, but no actual details. Maybe it’s because the details of my own life remain unclear and are, after all this time, still coming into focus. More often than not, I realize I’m as much a stranger to myself as the people sitting around me. Perhaps the person I need to connect most with, is me.
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