Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
The coffee was dark and bitter. I drank it without cream or sugar, straight black as it was intended. The heat and the bite took me back to a better place, one where I stood on my own two feet and didn’t have to ask for help. I finished up and left a big tip. My first stop was going to be the twelve-step meeting. I had to show my face again if I was going to stay clean. It would be painful, but people there knew exactly where I was coming from, and they wouldn’t judge.
I knew where and when it was, my old Monday afternoon meeting at St. Mary’s. I took my place in the ring of chairs in the church basement, saying hello to all my old friends.
“So you’re back?” said the guy who had rented his garage to me six years ago.
“Yeah,” I said, “Right outta Westview.”
They all nodded knowingly. Westview was one of the few treatment centers around, and their graduates were frequent attendees of the recovery meetings. Some of the people in the room had been sober for twenty years, some only five. Some, like me, were newly sober, and we were the people given a chance to speak first. I said my piece about how I was reconnecting in hopes of a better life, and they all smiled.
“I gotta go have a talk with my buddy Mike,” I said, reluctant to let the spotlight go. “I gotta tell him I can’t come to his cookout because that’s a trigger for me.”
The room made empathetic sounds.
“It’s just gonna be hard because he’s my best friend. He’s seen me at my worst, when I was kicked out, hungover, high as fuck—he’s been there. And now I gotta tell him that his barbeques are triggering?” I sighed.
No one gave me any advice; twelve-step programs don’t work that way. But I felt a little bit better having given voice to the problem. Now I just had to actually have the conversation. I stuck around after the meeting to shoot the breeze with some old friends. A few of the guys I remembered from my first time through the program were still there. They all said they were glad to see me back, and I had no reason to doubt them. Sober networks can be incredible incubators of friendship. It was like I went from being alone to being a part of a community in one hour. With a solid support network in place, I drove to my final stop: Mike’s house.
Iknocked on the door after splashing through a zillion muddy puddles that covered Mike’s driveway like a minefield. Mike answered, and I stepped inside, streaming water onto their linoleum floor.
“It’s really coming down out there,” he said, handing me a dish towel.
I dried my face and my hands, pulling my shoes off and leaving them by the door. “Yeah, my first day of freedom.”
“Really?” He seemed surprised. “You just got out?”
“Earlier today, yeah,” I said.
“Have a seat.” Mike gestured to the sofa.
“Where are Tammy and Elizabeth?” I asked.
“It’s bath time,” he said. “They’ll be out all clean and dressed in pajamas soon.”
I nodded, seizing my opportunity. “Listen, Mike. There’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“Yeah?” He took a seat on the recliner that was obviously his, right beside the television.
I sat down on the couch facing him. There was no easy way to say it, so I just put it out there. “I can’t come to your cookout. I hope you can understand.” His face fell, and I hurried on to get to the meat of the argument. “It’s just that I feel like I’m not up to par with you guys. I mean, you’re all functioning adults, and the cookouts just remind me of the differences between us. It makes me want to drink.”
Mike opened his mouth to complain but closed it again. “I never thought about it from that angle. Just so you know, none of the rest of us think of you that way.”
“I know,” I said. “And it’s not forever. Just until I can build up a little sobriety.”
“Okay,” Mike sighed. “Will you at least join us for dinner?”
“Sure, thanks.” I smiled.
Elizabeth came bounding down the hallway, her hair damp and combed. “Porter!” she cried, leaping onto my lap.
I laughed, nuzzling her nose. Tammy emerged from the bathroom and stopped when she saw me. Her sour expression softened, and I could see I had elevated myself a notch in her estimation.
“Porter.” She smiled. “It’s good to see you.”
We sat down to eat, the four of us, a child’s menu of mac and cheese and corn on the cob. It was delicious. After weeks of bland food, the powdered cheese hit the spot, and the corn was fresh and sweet. I had weathered my first day of freedom, and it hadn’t been all bad. I would show Nurse Gina I didn’t need her support to stay clean.