The Best Coffee is Found at AA Meetings
Another day, another hangover. I wake up in a foggy haze and try to play the game where I recollect my memories from the night prior. Luckily, my alter ego from last night provided a
glass of water for me to swallow down the cotton mouth. As I begin to formulate the plan of how to navigate the day, I realize I am late for work. It is only Tuesday. There’s no way that I can get caught drinking again at work. My bosses/supervisors/co-workers already identified it’s a problem. I was told the next time, they would be sending me to rehab. The great part about being active duty military is the free healthcare, but the worst is that we are government property, and they make sure their assets are well taken care of. Technically, I’m destroying government property every time I slowly poison myself.
My recruiter always talked about traveling the world and seeing foreign lands. What he failed to mention was that the majority of those port visits would consist of being inside dodgy nightclubs and bars. After weeks out to sea, my shipmates and I couldn’t wait to hear, “Liberty call! Liberty call!” as soon as we would moor into a berth. We’d check the watch bill to make sure who has to stay behind with the ship, change into civies, and find our first beer. I was hardly one of the worst. I knew a few people who would have to hide small liquor bottles in their lockers to sip on underway, to stop the shakes from withdrawals.
On this particular day, it’s either come to work late and get in trouble or try to go to the military-run drug and alcohol meeting across base. The rule is: they make us take a breathalyzer test when we walk in. I’ll take my chances; it’s the best choice I have. In the shower, I wonder how long I can keep this up. I’m exhausted. Exhausted by lies I keep making to hide this habit, exhausted by the sleep I never get, exhausted by the pain in my right side. It’s probably my liver telling me she’s tired too. I’m making sure to use the alcohol-free mouthwash and reach every
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crevice of my mouth, hoping to remove all the evidence. It’s time to throw on my uniform and make the drive, praying the whole way I get away with it just one more time.
I park my car and walk into the building. I am a familiar face. The nurses know me. I’ve been coming to these meetings for a few weeks now. I’m a good participant. I engage in
conversation during group meetings. I do the inner work. I am trying my best. Truly, I’m a great pretender. The official term is “Functional Alcoholic.” Today is different though. At check-in I smile and I am confident I made the right choice. The nurse hands me the breathalyzer. I blow. 1…2…3… analyzing… 0.83%. I let out a sigh of relief. I have no idea what happens next.
Somehow I’ve always gotten away with it, but for the first time I’m exposed. I’m no longer alone. I’m scared, of course, but it’s no longer up to me how to proceed. A few moments pass by and a female psychiatrist walks in. She greets me by name and escorts me to her office. Before her are two stacks of paper: on the left are discharge papers to start the process of removing me from the service, on the right are papers to begin the process of inpatient rehab in a town an hour away.
There are fears, concerns, hesitations, and excuses, but ultimately I’ve been given a choice. My will is growing weary. This habit is all consuming. Every day, all day I think about drinking. I’ve
been doing this for years now, asking, begging, pleading for a break and failing to find a way, failing to know an answer. This is my answer–dressed as a threat.
I’m not ready to let the Navy go just yet. I am allowing myself this chance. Celebrities go to rehab, maybe this can be a luxurious respite. My entire chain of command comes filing into
the waiting room. They had spent that morning back at our work center. They were in the middle of turning over responsibilities to my new supervisor and had to leave to address this. Would they have even noticed I was late? What a wonderful first impression. He’ll be the one to drive my cigarette smoke saturated car back to my house. I will be taking a ride back home with two other superiors, packing a duffel bag and coordinate accommodations at
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the local kennel for my dog to stay. As I pack, I am fully aware of the half bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the refrigerator that will be here when I return.
We head to drop off my dog and then begin the ride to Wilmington Treatment Facility, for a month-long stay. I sit in the back, silent. Should I have finished that bottle in the fridge? The two people up front carry on with their casual conversation about alternative routes to the city.
I’ve never explored the area, being too invested in getting home as soon as work was over. I
could plot all the liquor stores within a thirty-minute radius though. Always switching between each location, hoping to conceal the sheer quantity of alcohol I wasbuying. Always having a meek smile and ready response for the cashier asking some invasive question or making an awkward comment. How appropriate would it be to ask to pull over so I can have a drink before we arrive at our destination? Do people usually show up sober?
We pull up to the empty parking lot. It’s too late now. I think I saw a CVS two blocks away. We walk in together, my head hanging low. The receiving nurse welcomes me. I wave goodbye to the only people I know. Stranded. No car. Just a suitcase and the hope one day they’ll be back to retrieve me.
Three days of detox, one week in the big house, and the rest spent in same-sex sober living homes offsite. My days are filled, packed with attending group sessions with other
patients, some here voluntarily and others court ordered. I’m making friends and feeling seen. I’m the youngest alcoholic. Most people my age are here for pills or heroin; most with my addiction are in their late fifties and older. I smoke tons of cigarettes in between breaks and have the most
random moments of clarity. Sometimes my emotions come flooding in; I feel like I’m drowning, struggling to catch my breath. The food is ok. It’s nothing to write home about. I do get to call
my family in California in the evenings to catch up. It’s the first time I’ve called them sober since they can remember.
After dinner every night, we are invited to attend the 7 PM AA meeting at the big house.
Until then, I had never heard people speak about sobriety with so much love and gratitude.
Different people would share testimonials as they clutched their coffee mugs. These meetings were open to anyone, but usually attended by former rehab patients who lived out in the community. These people were here of their own volition– to sit and share. I always wondered if they would spike their drinks. Why would anyone choose, willingly, to stop drinking? Why would anyone be happy about it?
After graduating thirty-five days later, the first place I stopped was the kennel to pick up my pet and then the gas station next door for two bottles of wine. It took me several times to finally grasp the concept of surrender, and within the next few years I would start and stop again. On November 29, 2020, I had my last drink. I proudly can say my cup is now filled to the brim with love and gratitude. I’m not the perfect alcoholic. I attend meetings when I can; I give myself
grace to work the steps my own way. For my past, I am thankful, for without it I could not be who I am today. For my future, I am excited for what will be. For my present, I love most of all for it is mine.