When I was very young in AA, I was at a meeting with my sponsor and an inspiring speaker finished telling his story of experience, strength, and hope through recovery in AA. He went back to sit in the corner with his cronies and they slapped him on the back and laughed together. I leaned over to Sharon and whispered, “I want to be an old-timer like them…” And Sharon said, “Don’t drink and don’t die…”

And here I am, on April 10, 2022, an old-timer celebrating 37 years of continuous sobriety—one day at a time—because, by the Grace of God and the Fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous, I have not had a drink and I am still alive.

In those early days I remember a speaker saying, “My washing machine came with an instruction manual but I didn’t—I had no direction or directions until the Program and Fellowship of AA came into my life.” I thought, “That’s cute,” and wondered, “but that’s not me. What about my Church? What about the Bible and the Ten Commandments? What about my parents and the Protestant Work Ethic they instilled in me? Why didn’t all that keep me sober? Why didn’t that make my behavior match my values? I compromised my beliefs and my ethical system—it’s not that I didn’t have any. Why did I ignore the directions I had been given?”

Why? Because of the disease of addiction. That’s why hearing that I was a Beloved Child of God didn’t penetrate my heart or mind. I did not become an alcoholic when I picked up the first drink or when I put down the last one. I was born an alcoholic. I always knew I was different…special, actually. The rules didn’t apply to me.

Early into sobriety, I drew a picture of myself where my  cartoon head was covered not with curly hair but with Spoolie-like “caring deflectors.” Deep inside my alcoholic brain I had a fundamental belief that I was not the same as others: I was not worthy, nothing I did or said really mattered. Or maybe my fundamental belief was that I was better and didn’t need the structure and guidance that others needed since I already understood everything. Whichever, whatever, I was—worse or better than others—I could not hear what anyone who offered guidance or kindness was saying.

About four months before I stopped drinking, I had fired yet another therapist. I had been through a series of counselors, going to them for explanations and answers and not listening to a thing they said or observed, quitting when they got to close to my desperate inner self. But I was so sad. I was convinced that no one understood what I was going through and that I would always be alone.

After I left that therapist’s office that day, I went to pick up my mail. I clearly recall  standing on the steps of that post office and looking up to the sky, up to Heaven, and saying—out loud is what my memory tells me—“God, I can’t keep doing this. Please, God, send me…a group that I can’t bulls**t.”

And God did.

Step by step, day by day, over the next few months I was led closer and closer to the doors of The Rooms. Finally, I entered. I walked in and was greeted—more than that—I was welcomed. I heard people saying things that I had been thinking. I heard stories of loneliness and confusion and errors and betrayals—and redemption and forgiveness and rebirth.

I did not get “cured” that day I put down the drink. I didn’t become all better when I found a sponsor or did 90 in 90 or when I worked the steps. What I got is the chance to learn…to listen, to identify, to improve my behavior and my understanding. Every single time I go to a 12-step meeting, I learn something new. Every single speaker teaches me something I need to know so that more and more, I behave as would a Beloved Child of God.

I am alone no more. Isolation has ended.