This post was originally published on April 17, 2015.
Good old Liz Taylor. The velvet-eyed beauty, God rest her soul, was married eight times to seven husbands, including Richard Burton, whom she divorced, later remarried and divorced again.
When asked why she married so many times, Elizabeth Taylor said, “I don’t know, honey. It sure beats the hell out of me.”
Yeah, well, I have had about nine sponsors, including one that I “divorced” and remarried.
Like Taylor and her menagerie of ex-husbands, I don’t know why I have had so many sponsors. Maybe I truly sense red flags or maybe it’s because, as I recently discovered in therapy, I am terrified of commitment. Hell, I move on a bi-annual basis and the longest I was ever married (to my son’s father) was two-and-a-half years (although we had lived together for three years prior).
My first sponsor, let’s call her Dakota, looked like a cross between Tina Turner and a Southern Baptist church goer. When we met, she clutched a white leather-covered gold-trimmed Big Book to her breast as if it was a Bible. We’d do step work over cheap coffee and fried zucchini on the patio at Carl’s Jr. But here is where things got a little weird: Instead of my steps, we did her steps. And she read the preface, all the Forewords in the fourth edition, “The Doctor’s Opinion” and “Bill’s Story” to me as if I was on my deathbed and she was administering the last rites. She talked endlessly about her powerlessness over alcohol, her Higher Power and her unmanageable life. All I could do was listen and choke on the tasteless zucchini.
But the worst part to all of this?
She always “forgot” to bring her Newports so instead she helped herself by smoking my Capri 120’s. People pleaser that I was, I just said nothing. But inside I stewed as I watched her help herself to my precious, expensive cigarettes. I ended up with resentments more bitter than old coffee grounds.
So off I went in search of a sponsor like the Buddhist monk Xuanzang (who travelled for 17 years to get to India from China).
Sponsor #2 Doris told me that when she first got sober, she scratched out the word God from the Big Book and replaced it with Goddess. That seemed like a lot of work but hell, she had 30 years of sobriety! Dakota had had only four years. With Doris, I was convinced that I had hit the sponsor jackpot.
When Doris and I discussed my concept of a Higher Power, I mumbled something about being a pagan and that maybe I should light some black candles in front of my statues of Athena, Artemis and Aphrodite, smudge my room with sage and chant to the great Earth Mother, “So mote it be!” In short, I was trying to impress her with my hutzpah of Wiccan witchcraft. The truth was that those statues were packed in a box somewhere because I hadn’t done the pagan thing since I had lived in New York.
For the hallowed fifth step, we met inside her cluttered Palmdale apartment filled with boxes full of books, plastic bins crammed with clothing, two annoying Jack terriers and approximately 20 Coach bags. I never saw Doris carry a wallet let alone a bag so it amazed me to see those purses, satchels and totes strewn all over her apartment.
She sat on her bed. I sat on the floor and I read my 15-page typed fourth step inventory aloud in a monotone voice like an automated attendant. Then I stopped and said, “Uhm. Am I doing this right?” No reply. I looked up.
She had fallen asleep. Worse, she was snoring with the terriers nestled by her.
At that moment, I wanted to grab one of those Coach bags and whack her across the head.
After she regained consciousness, we came to the mutual agreement of postponing my inventory for another week. Of course, during that time I found another sponsor.
Dorothy, sponsor #3, had over 22 years of sobriety, a thick Australian accent, and a history of working with sponsees much like a factory worker abused his employees during the Industrial Revolution.
Her favorite motto was “Action, action and action!” Much like a Department of Social Services worker, she had designated telephone hours for each of her sponsees. My phone hours were from 7 to 8 am Mondays through Fridays. Like an idiot, I had told her that my circadian sleep rhythms were out of whack and I couldn’t get up in the morning but all she said was, “The early bird catches the worm, Sevasti.”
The concept of having to call Dorothy between 7 and 8 am on weekdays filled my soul with more dread than getting an MRI. I was convinced that if the morning sun greeted me, I would burn alive like a vampire.
But I tried. I really tried. The first day when I called her, right at 7:55 am, she dictated a grocery list of things for me to do to get my life back on track. She also advised me to go to meetings on a daily basis, not to date during the first year and never to hug men at meetings (shake their hands instead). I was also supposed to call two women in AA every day. Except for going to meetings, I didn’t bother with the rest of her suggestions.
Sevasti’s List of Things to Do, Per Dorothy
1. Find homes for most of my dogs, only keeping one or maybe two. She’d remind me that I couldn’t afford to take care of myself, let alone a bunch of dogs. DO NOT RESCUE! Look the other way when I see a stray. Call sponsor if urge to save dog prevails, but only between 7 and 8 am weekdays, of course.
2. Stand in front of PetSmart or WalMart on weekends and give dogs away to anyone who will take them. (Though I think that’s illegal?)
3. Go to at least 10 places a day and apply for jobs. Go door to door. Speak to the manager at every job site and tell him or her that I will work for minimum wage. Downplay education level. Tell manager I will scrub toilets, if need be.
4. Go to WalMart. They hire anyone.
5. Forget writing the Great American novel. Focus on WalMart.
And so I went to WalMart but they told me to apply online. So I did. A few days later, I went back and asked an associate to page the manager. After 15 minutes, a manager shuffled over. I greeted her like a used car salesman and shook her hand warmly. She wasn’t too happy about that. I told her that I had applied online for a job at WalMart and I was following up, really needed a job and would scrub toilets if need be. She said they weren’t hiring.
I called Dorothy even though it was about 3 pm. My God, if WalMart hired anyone, why didn’t they want me? What was wrong with me? I told her that I was depressed because I could not even get a job at freaking WalMart. She responded that I had to get into “action!” I repeated, “I am depressed. Maybe I need help.”
She said that Lowe’s was hiring. I hung up and called my shrink.
After that, I went on my search again, worked with several more sponsors and finally completed the steps. Today I am working with Natasha whom I had “divorced” a year ago, because originally when we got together to do step work in her house, her girlfriend walked into the kitchen to heat up a pepperoni pizza Hot Pocket and I was convinced that she was eavesdropping. I asked Natasha if she would work with me again, and perhaps we could meet at Starbucks for more privacy? I didn’t think she would say yes, but she did. She had always been there for me. It just took me about three-and-a-half years to see that.
I meet with Natasha every other Monday at 3:30 pm at Starbucks. I show up on time, Big Book, pen, paper, and Capri 120’s all fitting snugly in a large Coach bag that I picked up at Goodwill a month ago. And honestly, if she wanted a cigarette, it would be all good; she just happens not to smoke.
Photo courtesy of 20th Century Fox (eBay item photo front photo back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (resized and cropped)
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