A beginner's guide to AA.

I can't imagine going to AA.

Perhaps that's confusing, given that I do go to AA.

Let's ignore all of the pervasive anti-AA sentiment for a moment (I'll deal with that later) and go forth with the knowledge that people who drank obsessively and compulsively to the great detriment of their lives have found a way to be sober, happy and engaged through this free, readily available and inviting program.

This is an indisputable fact for me. I've met them. Heard their life stories. Heard where drinking brought them. Heard what they believe AA did for them.

For the many that congregate in church basements collecting chips and announcing their alcoholism, AA helped save their lives.

As far as I'm concerned, anyone that wants to sit on the outside pointing out the flaws of such a free and vital service must not know someone who has reclaimed their lives from it.

See, I think alcoholism and addiction are tricky things. There's no singular answer that can apply to all people who deal with substance abuse. Is it genetic? Societal? A mental disease? Some combination? There's no medical test that can tell you if you're an addict. Do you go out drinking and partying every night because you want to? Or because you have to? Or somewhere in between?

What's the answer for when, for whatever reason, you reach a point when you want to stop but find you can't? Is it CAMH-style controlled abuse? Therapy, psychiatry, mood stabilizers? A mere matter of will power?

AA suggests it's a spiritual malady. Well, it's a three part affliction: physical, mental and spiritual. In rehab, these three states were described by the Three-Headed Dragon. The first head of the dragon is physical. Addiction is a chronic illness requiring a lifetime of attention. The second head is psychological. Addiction is a disorder with mental, emotional, and behavioral components. And the third head of the dragon is spiritual. Addiction is an existential state, experienced in isolation from others.



The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous suggests we drink because of inherent nihilism:

"We were having trouble with personal relationships, we couldn't control our emotional natures, we were a prey to misery and depression, we couldn't make a living, we had a feeling of uselessness, we were full of fear, we were unhappy, we couldn't seem to be of real help to other people - was not a basic solution of these bedevilment's more important than whether we should see newsreels of lunar flight?"

Carl Jung said:

"His craving for alcohol was the equivalent, on a low level, of the spiritual thirst of our
being for wholeness, expressed in medieval language: the union with God."

Maybe our first drink was out of curiosity, then we drank for sociability, but at some point, the alcoholic who could benefit from AA drank because they had to in order to make it through the day. Without our drink or our drug, we became overwhelmed with the existential rumblings that roll ceaselessly through our heads.


Knowing we need to stop is one thing. It's as Mark Twain quipped about tobacco, quitting is easy, he'd done it a dozen times. Getting an addict to stop without a strong support system in place will leave them in a very bad place. The addict has developed a strong belief system that their substance(s) of choice are inherently good, helping them to escape their mental and emotional traumas. Sitting around uselessly, attention wandering and goal-directed action waning in early recovery allows the mind to become distinctly pessimistic, a state that psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi says might actually be evolutionarily adaptive.

“The mind turns to negative possibilities as a compass needle turns to the magnetic pole, because this is the best way, on the average, to anticipate dangerous situations.” In the case of recovering addicts, this anticipation of dangerous situations is known as craving. The next step is often drug-seeking behavior, followed by relapse. Initially, our return to the substance is because we know it is our out, our brain has aligned it with being 'good', it will remove the existential danger.

When someone wants to rid themselves of their substance obsession, there is a distinct part of them that is aware of the fact that they are looking to rid themselves of the sole emotional and spiritual crutch that has gotten them through life for however many years.

To us, alcohol and drugs are not the problem, they are the solution.

So: It's not as easy as saying "Stop drinking," or "Stop using," and I wholeheartedly encourage all forms of help: counseling, therapy, support groups, etc. But in most places, on most days, an AA meeting is going on somewhere that is ready and willing to accept you and support you.

But back to how I opened this post.

Going to AA is terrifying. I was in a rehab facility which basically functioned as 24/7 AA and I was able to go in a large group of my peers to my first meeting, I cannot imagine taking that first step on my own. Many people talk about how they were in and out of the rooms at first, some for years before committing to the program. Others are quick to label it a cult, to mock it's workings, to not accept a single aspect of it.

So here's what I suggest to anyone who thinks they have a problem and wants to seek out help:



1. Find a meeting. I use www.aatoronto.org for my area, but www.aacanada.com/cdnmeetings.html will cover the entirety of Canada.

2. Be willing to check out several different meetings. Some I find that I don't relate to at all, others make me feel right at home. People have told me that any meeting is a good meeting, but I tend to disagree and have found meetings where I feel more accepted and those are the ones that tend to bring me back.

3. Once you find a meeting you like, make it your Home Group. It doesn't matter if you didn't quite understand what was said, or if parts made you uncomfortable, when the meeting is over, talk to someone that looks like they're comfortable in the room about making it your Home Group. Generally you can ask for a phone list and you'll feel more a part of the proceedings, plus it's a minor commitment that you're making to come back.
There's no use in toe-testing the waters, the more of an outsider you make yourself feel, the more likely you'll feel like an outsider. Y'know? It'll make it that much easier for you to just stop showing up.

4. Get a sponsor. At most meetings there will be a point where potential sponsors are asked to raise their hands. Take note of these people. Talk to one after a meeting. It's a minor commitment, no contracts are signed, you can even let them know you're looking for a temporary sponsor, which is very common in AA. Simply going to meetings won't wash sober living over you, it's about facing your own habits, your own thinking and doing the step-work and for that you need a sponsor.

5. Save your criticisms. Get involved. Talk. People at AA are very warm and open and happy to extend a hand and give a phone number. Sitting in the back and judging every person in the room will not help you.


I have done all of these things. I went so far outside of my old ways of dealing with situations like this and I truly believe that it helped me out greatly.

You have to want it though.

And as scary as AA and recovery might be, it's nothing compared to a continued cycle of abuse or white-knuckled sobriety where you're constantly just resisting the urge to go back to your old problem-solver.

My Kodak moment.

He was a paramedic, a body guard, an alcoholic, a crack head. At first, all you noticed was the bulbous growth clinging to the side of his face, impossible not to stare except for the fact that you were afraid of him; cropped hair cut, wild eyes, heavy jaw, flared nostrils. I saw the roughly hewn scar carved across his cheek, but that was only imagined flair, a self perceived missing detail in his otherwise caricature countenance. Mike wore a massive gold ring on the index finger of his right hand that he would grip and rotate slightly in either direction when he paused. He rarely paused. For such a large man, Mike seemed to be made up of pure kinetic energy, walking with exaggerated bravado, gesturing with such sudden viciousness that it only seemed to be a matter of time before he flipped a table, lifted someone off the floor by their collar and said, through gritted teeth, "What're you looking at?"

Mike was one of the counselors I had in rehab.

Once, while trying to make a point about how old friends might not accept the changes that we've made, he leapt off from the counter he had briefly perched himself on and flung an accusatory finger at one of the guys in the house.

"You fucking pussy!" he yelled, suddenly incensed.

This apparent role play was lost on the majority of the now shocked group. The stunned silence of the unfortunate 'pussy' made Mike realise that, once again, he may have gone too far. His rage melted at once into a placid tenderness that seemed out of place.

Mike was really a sweetheart.

He apologized profusely.

Mike called us all 'brother', told us that he loved us, showed us pictures of his dog. He talked about how lucky he was that he got to take his nephew out for ice cream. How much pride he took in knowing that his nephew could count on him. How, after just over a year sober, he had gone to a comedy show, put down his Diet Coke and when he picked it back up, took a shocking gulp of Guiness. He had run to the bathroom after spitting it back into the glass, cupped handful after handful of water into his mouth, panicked. He left immediately, called his sponsor tearfully from the alleyway, wondering if he had just completely fucked up his sobriety. Moral of Mike's story: never put your drink down.

Mike had more than a few friends in the comedy circuit it seemed, taking a counselor's cue from the idea of bits and routines. One of Mike's bits was the Rolodex of Bullshit. When an addict wants to get out of something or to avoid something, they seem to have an endless source of excuses, just flipping through the Rolodex, flinging them out at people until something stuck. Another was White Knuckling It, how addicts lived sobriety day to day, or hour to hour, or, in his case, minute to minute at first. He'd really get into his characters, animated, playful and over the top.

The bit that affected me the most was the Kodak Moment.

According to Mike, the addict's Kodak Moment is that snapshot from our memory that reminds us of why we choose to be different people today. In ten years time, you have your house, your job, your family, your life. You no longer remember why you needed to stop drinking or using. You won't be able to feel the same things you felt when you dragged your leaden feet up the steps to a rehab facility.

Mike encouraged us to think of a moment, a point that hurt or scared us so much that we would never do anything to go back to it. To attach so much fear to that moment that any time we were presented with an opportunity to go back to our old lives, we could pull the Kodak Moment from our pocket, give it a quick glance and make the right choice.

I thought I knew mine.

As Mike went around the room, holding his imagined camera aloft, shooting the moments from the men in the room, I pictured mine.

"What's your Kodak moment, brother?" click! A man talks about being strapped to a bed, tubes coming out of his naked body, swearing death on the men left to guard him.

I'm thinking about being alone in my bedroom. It's a few weeks before I ask for help. I'm unemployed, filled with self loathing, it's late afternoon and I've just finally gotten out of bed.

"How about you, brother?" click! A man talks about a suicide attempt.

I'm thinking about how I stared at myself in the mirror. The garbage pails, bags and buckets that were partially filled with my vomit hidden from view. The reflection showed the clothes, food scraps and garbage littering my floor. The bed was completely stripped, also on the ground, the slats of wood that once held it up leaning on the wall, covered with the blood spatters of bed bugs that still infested my surroundings.

Click! Another story.

I'm holding two pills in my hand. I'd smoked the remains of a joint before hauling myself upright. The smell of cat piss hangs heavy in the air. I'm muttering under my breath. "fuck, fuck, fuck." I shouldn't take the pills. But then I watch myself do it anyway.

"Hey, brother," Mike steps in front of me. "What's your Kodak moment?"

Click.

I immediately tell him about the day before I entered rehab. I'd been sober for 72 hours. I'm lying in bed. My mom enters the room holding my niece in her arms. My mom is a false ray of sunshine, everything's fine, my niece is uncertain, seven months old. My Kodak moment is seeing my mom trying so hard to deal with something she doesn't understand because she loves me. It's seeing my niece explode into tears. It's me telling them to just get out, not feeling a thing.

"Don't forget that, brother."

I make myself cry just typing it out now.



I won't forget that moment, because I know my niece won't remember it. I don't want to scare my mom into uncertain cheerleading. I don't want to not feel anything.

Five months sober as of today, brother.

Rehabbed.

Well, you'll be happy to know that I'm done. Totally rehabbed. Ready to hit the town in sublime sober style; I'm cured like a ham, friends... so now what?

Okay, to clarify:

I first went into rehab back in October. My sober date is October 8th, 2010, a Friday. I spent my first sober night at a friend's birthday party; she, along with a few others had taken the MDMA I provided them with, I spent the night refusing offers of drinks and explaining my reasons why to people I haven't seen since then. The place I went to was called Renescent, a 12-step recovery treatment centre located just north of The Madison at Spadina and Bloor. They require 72 hours of sobriety before acceptance, during which I sweated, swore, slept and played one fairly ill advised show.

I was driven to the Punanai House on the 11th by my parents, our small talk revolving around what I'd forgotten to pack and whether or not my dad was going to get a ticket for parking on the street. At the bottom of the stairs, I hastily explained I needed to smoke one more cigarette which made my mom hustle upwind to avoid the stench and gave my dad the opportunity to point out how I might as well give that up too.

We entered the house and stood around awkwardly while being eyed by a roomful of relatively haggard looking men. Following the lead of a Native man named Kevin who had as many teeth in his mouth as not, I received a welcoming committee of handshakes from those that didn't opt to shuffle out back to smoke.

Finally, Larry, the counselor who would later become my arch nemesis before settling into simply a mild annoyance, took us into a back room for my official reception.

My parents were heartily amused at his innate ability to poke fun at everything I said or thought. My dad called me an alien, Larry called me "princess". Everyone laughed at my anti capitalist nihilism.

My parents were given their leave and I was allowed to walk them out. We all hugged, I thanked them, they expressed their positive affirmations that I was in good hands and then they were gone and I was left to smoke a solitary cigarette on the front steps. Until Larry poked his head outside saying, "Hey, we can't have the inmates loitering out here! You're committed now, butt out and get in here." He said the words "inmates" and "committed" with an italicized mockery. He then brought me back to the boardroom to insult my leather jacket, question my sexuality and tell me how much fun I was in for.

This marked the beginning of the inpatient treatment portion of my rehab. Three weeks in house, leaving only to go to AA, CA or NA meetings, ten minutes a day to get a coffee so long as you let a counselor know you're leaving and you have a "buddy". It was a long three weeks.

After completing the three-week in house portion of treatment, I immediately began the five-week, twice a week aftercare sessions: three hours on Tuesday and Wednesday plus a required minimum of two AA meetings a week. After that I began my ten-week aftercare of Wednesdays for three hours plus a required minimum of three AA meetings.

In that time I found a sponsor, started therapy and began making changes in my life.

With three sessions to go in the final part of the third phase of rehab, I started working full time and wasn't able to make it for the Wednesday meeting. I was told there was nothing they could do, shoulder shrug, I guess you're done.


                                             *****************

I'm in contact with my sponsor, I plan on making it to an AA meeting this week, I still go to therapy, but, I have to tell you, I'm not really sure what else I need to do. I work, I'm saving money, I'm thinking about my future and what I want it to look like but sometimes I just get down.

I feel removed, sad, confused.

Not all the time. Just, right now, on a Saturday night when I'm home alone and I start to think about the point to everything I'm doing. Not doing. Wish I was doing. Wish I could've done differently.

And when I feel this way, I just let myself feel it. I take a deep breath (several) and just keep going.

What else is there when going back means nothing and going forward is so unclear? Right now it's just a sad and lonely Saturday night. I guess that's okay.