Emotional Sobriety II. Группа авторов

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СКАЧАТЬ something I had to apply. I also attended many meetings. I have to be honest and say I did think about drinking, but thank God I did not drink. I put myself through the meat grinder on this emotional binge—self-condemnation, doubts, etc.—but I think it was for a reason. I think I have greater understanding for someone going through these things, and I also learned to love the person who has been slipping around and coming back. Have I ever experienced such humility and willingness as that poor soul? I am feeling much better now, and I thank God for AA and my good friends. I have learned how to accept their help.

      J.P.K.

      Queens, New York

Chair Master

      October 1997

      Those first few weeks in AA, Frank had begun to drive me nuts. He couldn't resist. At the end of every meeting, as soon as I left the table and headed toward the door, he would yell across the room, “Hey, Bruce!” I would stop, turn, and wait for it. Grinning ear to ear, he would give me the wink and pointed finger and say, “Be good to yourself!” I would nod and mumble, “Sure, Frank, sure,” and go to the car.

      Driving, I would begin the internal dialogue: What the heck does that mean? Be good to myself? I was good to myself—that's what got me into church basements trying not to drink a day at a time, trying to understand the meaning of AA, trying to relate to guys like Frank. I'd been too good to myself—rewarding myself with booze, giving myself a break with booze, cozying into the bottle in the basement—and look where it got me. I figured I needed to do the opposite of being good to myself. I need to get tough with myself: stop this stuff that I obviously couldn't handle. How did Frank get sober and stay sober all these years, if that's his philosophy, and why the devil is he singling me out with that dopey farewell after every meeting?

      But I liked Frank. There was something about him. He was a rugged, confident, good-looking guy in his forties, with a toughness about him, a directness in his approach to the AA program. He had years of sobriety and when he talked, gesturing in a relaxed way, he reminded the group frequently that his father was Italian and his father always said don't worry about it, it will always work out, and he would add, “And it all will, a day at a time, if I don't take a drink and give it a chance.” When Frank talked, the others around the table smiled and nodded and gave him respect. I did too—and he seemed to like me and listened to me when I talked. Then he gave that parting shot as I was leaving!

      I'm a doer. Always was. I was brought up that way. My mother told me, “You're the best, you can do anything anybody else can, set your goal, follow your star.” My dad said, “Don't be lazy; get to work; I've got a job for you.”

      I was a doer when drinking, too. I drank through college and finished with honors (never mind the hospitalization for ulcers senior year and the medical caution about drinking). I drank through a marriage and held it together for sixteen years (it wasn't the drinking that caused the divorce, it was that incompatibility thing). I drank through three good jobs and always moved up, got promotions, made more money. (Okay, maybe the problem I had with those martinis in the last job was beginning to show a little, but I was never arrested, was I?)

      Sobering up in the group with Frank and the others, I was still a doer. I ran at AA like I was running to the arms of my mother, eager to show that I was the best, ready for the compliment. I got to the church early, set up the chairs, learned (from an old guy named John) the special technique of making coffee in not one but two big pots (I'll make the best coffee, they'll taste the improvement), and on my six-month anniversary I was asked to be Friday night program chairman. Terrific, I thought, they recognize my leadership ability. I'll do the best job yet.

      And I did. The Friday night programs got more interesting. I found different ways to bring everybody out, get them to speak. I passed around the “Twelve and Twelve,” got people to read in turn. The group hadn't done that before. They thought it was neat. I photocopied sections of the Big Book and the Hazelden guide to get folks into the Fourth and Fifth Steps. People were responding. I felt good, proud even.

      Frank kept saying, “Hey, Bruce, be good to yourself!” And I kept trying not to be annoyed. But now there was a slightly sterner tone in Frank's voice. The smile was there, but he was serious.

      After I'd been sober in the group for a year, I had moved from coffee maker to chairperson to program chairperson to chairperson of the group. I didn't know that groups had chairpeople. I had been to some that didn't, but mine did and when I found out there was a leadership ladder, I was in my element. Set your goal, son. I did, in AA as out there, and here I was, at the top of this group. And I was secretly memorizing not only all the Steps but chapter five in the Big Book and key passages from the “Twelve and Twelve.” I wondered if anybody had ever been able to recite, in perfect order, the names of the people whose stories were in the Big Book. That would be impressive! I resolved to do it.

      Then it began to hit the fan. One Friday night an older woman named Maude couldn't read the photocopied sheet I had handed out because she had left her glasses home, and before I could show my flexibility and initiative by switching to another format or reading it for her, the next guy said, “Why don't we forget this reading stuff and just talk about it?” And before I could smile and accept this, the next guy and the one across the table were shoving their sheets into the middle of the table and growling a little. Shambles. And then John said that the woman who was making the coffee had quit showing up and what was I going to do about it. And a week after that, a small delegation, all old-timers, pulled me aside after the meeting and said (I forget the exact words, because I was so steamed): “Too much is changing. People aren't used to it. Maybe it's time for you to give somebody else a turn.”

      Two hours later, Frank found me. Corner table, neighborhood bar. Drinking soda. Thinking. Tired. Thinking. Lonely. Thinking. Angry. I told him, as he settled into the other chair, a little smile on his face, a nonchalant order to the waitress for “what he's having,” that I was totally demoralized.

      “What do you think the problem is?”

      “I don't know. I was trying my best. I thought I was doing a good job, but Tom and Suzy said—”

      He raised his hands. “Whoa. Tell me that part about trying your best.”

      “Just that. I tried damned hard to give something to the group, to make it better, if I could.”

      “You think that could be the problem?”

      “I upset the group by really getting involved?”

      “Right now I don't care about the group. I'm looking at you.”

      “You see a guy that's about ready to give up.”

      Frank took a leisurely drink of his soda and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked me in the eye and I looked away, down into the glass in front of me. But I was all ears. Frank was talking: “You know what being good to yourself means? In your case, I think it means don't try so hard. Getting sober is not some contest you have to win. You're not being good to yourself by putting yourself into a stressful situation. And AA sure is not the place for stress. It's just the opposite.”

      It's been more than twenty years since I left that bar with Frank, and my understanding of AA and what it means to me has grown from that moment. “Easy Does It” is not something that comes naturally to me. But within AA, it has come to make sense. Since that shaky beginning and the talk that night with Frank, I've found my place in the Fellowship. It is not up front, trying to be in charge. I try to contribute when it's my turn; I lead a meeting when asked; if chairs need setting up, I do it for fun and not as Chair Master. Relaxing СКАЧАТЬ