Estimated read time: 16 min
Flipping the Script
Often times in the rooms, I hear people talking about their “problems of providence.” This is about to be one of those gold-plated first-world problems, just as a heads up.
If you happened to have read my post “High Functioning at Rock Bottom,” you know that my recovery journey started in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous a few short months after my 20th birthday.
My first meeting, was on a chilly night in late October, not so much different than the weather outside right now as I am writing this today. I can remember that first meeting clearly, from the time I woke up that morning, to the moment I fell asleep that night.
After much internal debate about whether or not I would even attend a meeting that night, I put on my big-girl panties, and drove to the meeting address that showed up on the website. I pulled up to this dinky little Baptist church; it had a little front porch with a glowing yellow light.
It was not on the nicest part of town, in fact, it was just around the corner from several trap houses on that side of town. The parking lot, if one could call it that, was more or less a section of cracked and faded asphalt just far enough off the actual road that cars could stack in next to each other. There were plenty of cars there on that particular evening. The porch was empty though, everyone was inside.
Keep in mind, at this time, I wasn’t sure that I was truly an alcoholic. Sure, I knew that I drank… a lot and probably too often, even for someone my age, but an alcoholic? Ehh I wasn’t convinced.
I had a lot of “evidence” to back up my skepticism. My thought was that perhaps my “borderline” excessive drinking was a phase. I mean everyone drinks too much in college, right? Maybe, I was just depressed. It’s normal to drink like this when you’re depressed right? I was too young to have an actual drinking problem. Surely there’s no such thing as a young alcoholic, right? Mostly convinced that my thoughts were rational and justified, but deep down I had some doubts.
My thought process was: “I’ll give it a shot, and see what happens.” I was thoroughly convinced that once I walked into the room one of two things would happen. A) I would be laughed out of the room and my suspicions about being a young alcoholic would be confirmed. Or B) I would be chastised and lectured about how Alcoholics Anonymous is a serious place for serious people and it was insensitive for me to show up as a joke when there are people out there who really need help.
Out in the parking lot, I took a few moments to mentally and emotionally prepare for either one of those possibilities, gulped down the last of my Mad-Dog-filled Gatorade bottle, grabbed a full one and stepped out of my car.
The room was filled with bright lights compared to the empty darkness I had just left from outside (I have come to appreciate the symbolism of this realization). The room was large and open, with four long tables surrounded by metal chairs. There were a few outdated couches that looked straight out of the 1970s with their burnt orange and booger green upholstery.
It took me a moment to notice the people as my eyes adjusted. There were about 8 people in total, the meeting had already started. I was late apparently, and disturbing whatever conversation had been going on. There was an older white lady seated at the head of the table, and older black man seated in one of the back corners, a couple that looked to be in their 60’s on one of the couches, and a thin man in his 70’s seated at the corner of the table in front of them.
The chairperson briefly glanced up from what she was looking at, one of the older men offered a kind smile as he motioned for me to sit down, and I felt a tingling numbness come over me. I took a few steps and sat as far away from everyone as I possibly could. I said nothing, and I waited for the lecture to begin. It didn’t come.
I was not thrown out that night, or the next night for that matter. They didn’t ask me to leave, tell me I was too young to be an alcoholic, or convince me that I didn’t belong. I showed up the next night too. This time there were even fewer people in attendance, and I swear to god this group was older than the night before! I came back though, and I kept coming back. This group of grandmas and grandpas became the closest things to friends I’d had in a long.
As I became a familiar face at the meetings I tried to get more involved and socialize with others who were in attendance. I got a few phone numbers and started showing up early and staying late. I started to laugh a little, talk more, and the insecurity about my age began to wane. The only thing that wasn’t improving was my drinking…
After two months of attending A.A., I wasn’t drinking any less than I was the first day I walked into the rooms of this 12-step fellowship. As was suggested to me, I was attending two meetings a day, reaching out to my new friends in the program, and reading the Big Book like my life depended on it. I even went so far as to get a sponsor and began my first attempt at working the steps. I was pretty confused by it all, but if I had learned anything thus far, it was that these things would help me get sober. So why was I still drinking then?
I was baffled, miserable, and confused, and somehow, I felt more hopeless than before. We have a saying in the rooms, “there’s nothing worse than a head full of A.A. and a belly full of booze.” I can promise you, there has never been a more honest truth than that.
See, I was still starting off my commute to work with a bottle of wine each morning. I would arrive at the dairy farm I worked at with three 32oz bottles of Gatorade, each filled with a different flavor of MD 20/20. By 12 pm all three bottles would be empty, and I would leave work to head to the noon meeting.
Following the noon meeting, I would stop by my favorite corner store, and restock my supply by purchasing 6 bottles of Mad Dog. I’d refill three of my Gatorade bottles, stash the rest, and head to class. After a few hours worth of classes, I’d be back in my dorm room, refill my Gatorade bottles and get to work on my assignments. Then it was time to shower and head to an evening meeting, where I would nervously chug my bottles before walking into the meeting.
…
Looking back I can clearly see the insanity of it all. The constant trips to the quickie store, the compulsive drinking from sunrise to sunset, the madness of cleverly disguising Gatorade colored cheap wine into the appropriately labeled bottle to coordinate colors with flavors. It was insanity, and I was sure that everyone in the rooms knew about my whole scheme.
As it turns out, no one knew at all. To this day I don’t know if I was just that good at hiding it, or if due to my age I was so unassuming and “innocent” seeming that everyone just assumed that I was in fact sober.
The truth of the matter is that I couldn’t get sober. Eventually, the longer I hung around the more a select few members of the group started to realize the extent of my struggle. There were causal conversations hinting at having a “desire to stop drinking”, wanting sobriety bad enough, and the occasional hint that sometimes a stint in rehab is needed.
Long story short… the 12 –steps aren’t a detox program, and that is exactly what I needed. I was so physically addicted. My body was chemically dependent on alcohol to function at even the most basic level. I was at a literal physical jumping-off point. My body couldn’t live without alcohol, but at the very same time, alcohol was the very thing that was killing me. So, off to rehab, I went in December of 2018.
I arrived at the treatment center late one evening, just a few days after my final exams from the fall semester. By the time the nursing and clinical staff finished my intake assessments and escorted me to the detox unit all the other patients were fast asleep. I was nervous, scared, and very drunk.
My first few days in treatment were very much a blur. For the first 48 hours, I was barely able to get out of bed and get myself to the bathroom. What I do recall clearly, was my first venture from the safety and seclusion of my room.
Words cannot express the complex combination of emotions I experienced as I made my way to the end of the hall to the day room. As I rounded the corner I was greeted by a small group of women watching a Christmas movie. They were very kind, welcoming, and seemed to be genuinely happy to see me out and about.
Glad to be able to actually get out of bed and walk around a little, I sat down with them. In no time at all, attention quickly turned from the move they were watching, as we began talking and getting to know each other.
To no one’s surprise, it was quickly established that I was the youngest person on the unit. Most of the other women were in their 40’s and 50’s. Then there was me, “the baby”, the “young one”, the “child” of the group, to name a few of the nicknames I conveniently picked up during my time in treatment.
For the most part, the names were used with good intent, kindness, and even at times used as a term of endearment. Other times however, such nicknames were used to insult, chastise, and invalidate my experiences in active addiction and my pursuit for recovery. The names, no matter the intent, bothered me.
These names bothered me because I was already fighting so hard to ignore the voice in my head telling me these ladies were right. That they were justified, and rational in their allegations. That because of my age, I wasn’t an alcoholic. I was too young to be an alcoholic. There’s no way I would stay sober from such a young age. The voice in my head was wrong, and so were they.
I continued with my treatment plan, finished detox, and was coming up on my graduation from the 30+ day program. Towards the end of my 30 days (which was actually 42 days) there were still a lot of fears and unanswered questions about what would come next for this young alcoholic.
When I entered treatment, I was a 20-year-old college student, with stable housing and a job. Now, I was homeless, unemployed, and a college dropout. My housing was linked to the school. I was paying for school with the income I made at my job… Where would I go next? Where would I live? Did I need a longer-term treatment program? How would I pay my bills?
As my discharge date grew nearer I continued to search for apartments, for a job, for other treatment programs, homeless shelters… ANYTHING! I had no answers and no solutions. The only thing I knew with absolute certainty is that I did not want to drink, today.
On the day of my discharge, I still didn’t have a place to live, I had a total of $200 to my name, and no job to return to (I was relieved of my position at work while in treatment). I had a whole bunch of problems, not many solutions, but a steady resolve to return to the meetings that started me off on this journey.
Not sure of what else to do, I attended the noon meeting that same day, and then made my way over to the city park to wait for the evening meeting at my home group. I probably smoked a whole pack of cigarettes waiting for 6pm to roll around. I was nervous but excited to see everyone from my group. When I showed up to the meeting all of my people were there. Everyone said hey and told me how happy there were to see me back. Some knew where I had been others assumed that I had been back out on a binge, but everyone was nice and welcoming just like I had remembered.
After the meeting, that nervousness and anxiety came creeping up yet again. Where was I going to sleep? What was I going to do next? “Would I be living out of my car again? “For how long?” Then a member from my group, one of the last ones left in the parking lot after the meeting asked if I had anywhere to stay that night. I was honest and told him I did not. He said he had a key to our meeting building and asked if I would be comfortable sleeping there for a night or two until I could figure out something more permanent.
It was a cold January night and I had nowhere else to go. 4 walls, a roof, and a couch to sleep on that wouldn’t intrude on someone else’s home wife and family sounded perfect to me. So, I spent my first two nights out of treatment sleeping on the burnt orange and booger green couches where my sobriety journey first began.
After those first two nights, people began to ask where I was living now that I was no longer in school. I don’t believe they were suspicious of me using our home group as a temporary shelter, but let’s be honest, where is a newly sober young alcoholic staying when she has no family in the area? The thin man in his 70s, from my very first meeting, approached me after a meeting one night. Very directly, very firmly, he placed his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and asked if I needed a place to stay for a while.
This man is perhaps the only reason I am still sober today. I moved into his home that very next morning. He became my mentor, my confidant, and best friend. His name is one I’ve mentioned often in many of my posts (see: “The Pink Cloud & Early Sobriety“), Irvin. I lived with Irvin for several months after I left treatment. He became closer than family, and to this day I still have a hard time finding the right words to say since his passing.
Nevertheless, if you remember Irvin from other posts, you know that he was well past retirement age, and yes, you’re remembering correctly, I said he was my best friend. I am a young alcoholic with an old soul remember?
Yes, a 70-year-old man was my best friend. That statement often elicits a good eyebrow raise or two, and several follow-up questions, many of which I have asked myself over the years, and I have yet to find a good enough answer to satisfy your curiosity or mine for that matter.
The best I can come up with is that I find it very difficult to relate to people my own age. Whether this feeling of being isolated and disconnected from my peers comes from the trauma of living in an abusive household throughout my childhood, early signs of alcoholism, or symptoms of a totally unconnected mental health diagnosis, I’ll never know. You’d be better off finding that answer in Stan’s post, “Which Came First, the Chicken or the Egg?”
My only friends, my only connections, or social outings were 12-step meetings. I loved my meetings, don’t get me wrong, but even there, I didn’t quite fit in. Everyone there was actually… old. They were all older than me by 20+ years, and they had, for all intents and purposes, just recently gotten sober. So, they had no idea what it was like to be a young alcoholic in my position.
As young and new in sobriety, as I might have been, all of you people in the rooms very quickly instilled in me a lesson that I hope never to forget. That is, in sobriety, we live in the solution and not the problem. With that being said, I got to work looking for a young person meeting in the area. I thought surely, I’m not the only young person who has hit rock bottom and is trying to get sober. Lo’ and behold I found one! Although it was almost 2 hours away, I was hopeful and determined. I thought maybe there were other young alcoholics out there, and maybe, just maybe… they were also young alcoholics with an old soul like me!
Yeah. Turns out, not so much. I made the commute to this town two hours away to attend this young person’s A.A. meeting, upon my arrival, I spotted two men smoking outside the building. Immediately, I knew I was in the right place!
I walked up and turns out these two men were well… let’s just say, not young. Ready to make some new sober friends, I introduced myself, lit a cigarette of my own, and waited for the meeting. About 10 more people showed up as it got closer to the meeting time. As each car rolled in my excitement spiked, only to be a little disappointed by the appearance of canes, a walker, or the greying hair on the heads of the new arrivals. This was not going to be a young person’s meeting, It was supposed to be, but alas I guess there were not enough young alcoholics ready to get sober. I was once again amongst “the olds”
Don’t get me wrong, I respect, appreciate, and love the olds, but every once in a while, I miss the idea of having someone closer to my age. Someone that perhaps was a little more relatable. Someone who hadn’t already lived a whole lifetime in comparison. Every now and again, I wish I could meet someone like me… ya know?
If you’re like me (I know there are more of us out there), you get it. It’s not a complaint so much as it is a yearning for a deeper connection with someone who knows exactly what it’s like. Someone who can understand how insulting it can be to be told “how lucky we are” to have gotten sober so young. Worse yet, how we are lucky that out lives didn’t have to “fall apart” before making the decision to get sober (once again… homeless unemployed, college dropout on the brink of death). Oh yeah, my life was totally together.
Most alcoholics I know found sobriety much later in life. They get to tell stories of the glory days, the bridges they burned, the marriages they ruined, the parties, the close calls, egrets, the lives they lived. We, as young and sober alcoholics get to avoid all those missteps. In their view, we’re supposed to learn from their experiences and be grateful that we didn’t have to go through them ourselves.
Again, I know that’s what everyone would wish for if they could go back and do it all again. I know that; I’ve heard it plenty of times. I’m not saying getting sober late in life is easier or better. I’m not even saying getting sober young is harder. All I’m saying is, being an old soul trapped in a young alcoholic is for the birds.
So, if you’re out there, my fellow young and sober alcoholics, I’m here with you. I’m here to say it does get easier, it is worth it, and you’re not alone. It’s not an easy path, nor is it as well-blazed as getting sober in a mid-life crisis, but there is a path.
After all, if you’re anything like me, you didn’t really enjoy the bar scene in active addiction anyway. You probably weren’t sober enough to care or even know who was sleeping with whom. Maybe just maybe, if you really are like me, you’ll realize this sober life, despite how young we are, is exactly the life you were dreaming of when you were in active addiction anyway. We can get sober. We do get sober, and it’s not as bad as you might think.
To go back and read Part I of this series click here.
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