by Barb Rogers
The following day, sheets of paper in hand, I went to Jack's house to complete my fifth step. I did it. I admitted to God and another human being the exact nature of my wrongs. At home, I began making out the list of persons I'd harmed. Although I was willing to make amends to them, many were dead, and others had been out of my life for years and I had no way of knowing how to contact them. The following weeks were spent visiting cemeteries, writing letters and burning them, praying for the ability to make amends, and actually making the amends I could. Each day, I returned to my knees and turned everything over to a God of my understanding. The last thing I turned over was Tom and my feelings for him. Shortly thereafter, he stopped calling. I knew it was finally over and I could get on with my life.
——
About seven months later, the phone rang. It was Tom. He said he hadn't had a drink in six months and would I have a cup of coffee with him. Stunned, I agreed, but as soon as I hung up the telephone I felt the fear creep in. What did he want? What would he say? How would I feel? Was this another ploy on his part to get me back and then start drinking again? How would I know what to do? I sunk to my knees and said, “God, I need your help. Please, give me a sign.”
——
My heart pounding, nausea threatening, like a teenager on her first date, I pulled clothes off hangers, trying on one thing after another. I wanted to look good, but not too obvious. I finally settled on a blue chambray shirt and jeans. Hands shaking, I arranged my hair and applied a little makeup. I'd noticed I didn't have to wear nearly as much since I quit drinking. Ready, I stood at the window, watching for Tom's El Camino, smoking one cigarette after another. When he pulled up, I said, “Oh, God, please keep me from doing something stupid.”
I fought the urge to run outside and jump in the car. I waited until he got out and knocked on my door and hoped I seemed calm and unaffected when I opened it. “Are you ready?” he said. “Let me grab my purse,” I responded. I didn't carry a purse for years while I was drinking because I often got so drunk I lost it. I grabbed up the denim bag and followed him to the car. We made small talk on the few miles to Mt. Zion, a small town nearby. I talked about Helen, my work, and Angel. He talked about mutual friends from years ago that I hadn't stayed in touch with.
The restaurant was one of those self-serve places where customers go to the counter, order, pay for their food and drink, and then, when a number is called out, pick up the food. We ordered. Tom pulled out his billfold to pay. It caught my eye. It was the leather billfold Jon made for him when he was in Cub Scouts many years ago. He opened it, and I saw a picture of Jon inside. At that moment I knew the truth. I'd been given my sign.
14
The Retreat
I'M ALONE IN TOM'S HOUSE. Fear grips me. What am I doing? What makes me think I can do this? I don't know what I'm supposed to do with myself. It's the first time in my life, since I was a kid, that I don't have to work. It only took a half hour to clean the house after Tom left this morning. It's only a few years old—Tom and some friends got drunk and burned the original house down over the Fourth of July four years earlier. I light a cigarette, step out on the upstairs deck off the master bedroom, and gaze at the picturesque lake. It's beautiful here—so what is wrong with me?
It's hard to fathom that soon I will be living in this house as Tom's wife, that I no longer have to worry about scraping together enough money to pay the rent, keep my old car running, figure out how to eat and feed the dog, or find out where my next smoke will come from. The only time I've ever been in houses this nice was to clean them. All my life, I wondered how others got to live in nice places, what they did if they didn't have to struggle for every penny, why life was so unfair—and here I am.
From the back of the house, I can see the A-frame across the cove where Tom, Jon, and I lived together for two years after I got out of the nuthouse. It was about half the size of this house and not nearly so grand, but a safe haven for Jon and I while we were trying to escape an ex-husband who was stalking me. Jon loved it there. He had his own bedroom upstairs, a lake for swimming just outside the door, decent clothes to wear to school, and he absolutely adored Tom.
I, on the other hand, had a big problem. I was in therapy, going to college, and trying to stay sober. Tom continued to drink. It was a disaster. Because I hadn't had any schooling since the eighth grade and I'd had so much shock therapy that my memory was shot, school was a daily struggle. At times I couldn't remember how to spell the simplest words or connect meanings with words. I carried a dictionary with me to classes every day.
While Tom was out running the bars, coming home drunk and sick from days of drinking and not eating, I was trying to work through my demons with a psychologist. I always thought it odd that I couldn't actually remember growing up … birthdays, special holidays, people, or exact circumstances. I could recall being very small, but after that there was a huge gap. It was like one day I was 5 years old and the next 15, with only sporadic memories in between. The therapist suggested hypnosis.
——
I shake my head. This is not a time I want to revisit. I have got to stop thinking about the past, what was done to me. I resolved what I could when I did my fourth and fifth steps, and past events can no longer hurt me or affect my life if I don't let them. It's time to live in the moment and move forward. Soon I'll be attending a spiritual retreat with my lady sponsor, Skippe, and a couple of other AA members. That should be fun. I don't think Tom understands my need to go, but he seems to accept that it's what I want to do. I told him when I agreed to marry him that my AA has to come first—because unless I'm sober, nothing else works in my life. We'll be married in less than a month, so I have time to make sure he meant what he said when he told me it wouldn't be an issue.
Early Friday morning, I jump in Skippe's car, excited about the new experience ahead. I've never been to a retreat, but I've attended many AA functions and always enjoy them. Something happens when I'm around other AA members. I can let my guard down, enjoy a comfort I've never known before, not even in the bar. There is an instant bond among these people, because we are all struggling together for the same thing—to live our lives sober.
My excitement wanes as Skippe and I pull into the parking lot in front of a rather austere brick building in Quincy, Illinois. I try to shake off an odd feeling of doom that settles in my heart, but it is only reinforced when we are shown to our cells. In the small windowless room with two cots and two small dressers, I realize this is not what I imagined it was going to be. I want to go home. If I had my own car, I would leave right now.
The shrill ring of a bell startles me. I run out into the hallway and right into Skippe. She says, “It's time for the orientation meeting.” I follow her, and others, into a large room fitted out with rows of metal folding chairs. As the group of about fifty settles into chairs, mine in the farthest corner of the back of the room, a priest steps up to a podium. I know he's supposed to be in recovery from addiction, but he's still a priest. I've never met a priest. I wonder: if this spiritual stuff really works, and he's supposed to be some minion of God, how in the world did he become addicted to booze? Maybe he drank too much of the sacramental wine, I think, and chuckle at my cleverness.
I've been around AA long enough to know it's not religious, but somehow in this building, half-listening to this priest drone on about what to expect over the next few days, the mood feels religious. I don't need this crap. My life is good. I'm doing fine. I bet the priest can't imagine all that I've overcome. I don't believe there's anything he can tell me that I don't already know. Shit, I could probably tell him a few things. This whole thing is stupid. Two and half days left—a piece of cake. I'll never do this again.
Why is everyone staring at me? The woman next to me whispers, “We are counting off. You're number 5.” I say my number, and the count continues until everyone has a number. A bell rings. I follow the other number fives into a smaller room near the front of the building. I might have to be there, but
I don't have to participate. They can't make me talk. I bet I could share some of my story and really blow their little minds.
A tall, thin woman with a bush of red curly hair says, “I'd like to discuss character defects.” I slump in my chair, arms crossed over my chest. That's one thing I don't have to talk about. I didn't have to work the defects steps because once I got sober, I quit doing those things. I don't cheat, lie, steal, or abuse others anymore. I never did understand the purpose of steps 6 and 7. How could addicts continue to behave the same way after the addiction is removed? I'll listen, but I'm not going to participate.
Halfway through the meeting, a heavyset man with dark-rimmed glasses, wearing black slacks and a yellow shirt, enters through the front door and takes an empty seat across from me. He stares at me. I shift in my chair, find myself gripping the edges of the metal seat with my hands. Who is this guy? Why is he here? Is he here to see me? When the bell rings, indicating it's time to return to the main room, I stay in my chair. So does he. We gaze at each other for a moment before he gets up and moves to the chair next to me. Confused, I smile nervously.
He wraps my small hand in his large, beefy one, and says, “I'm Brother John.”
“Barb,” I stutter.
“What are you doing here?” he says.
“I … uh … came with my sponsor.”
He smiles, still holding my hand. I pull it away, instantly feeling bereft at the loss of contact with the warm secure hold he had on me. What am I doing? Why don't I get up and leave? “What are you doing here?” he repeats.
I can't hold back the tears streaming down my face. “I don't know.”
“What happened to you, my dear?”
Between sobs, I blurt out my story, ending with, “… and my kids are all dead, I've been divorced five times, and I'm supposed to get married again, and I don't know what I'm doing, or if I can do it.”
Brother John puts his arm around me and pulls me to him. I weep into his shirt like someone close to me has just died. He says, “I think you need to spend some time with Father Ted. You need to talk to him one on one.”
I don't like Father Ted. I don't want to spend time with him. I want to stay here, enveloped in Brother John's embrace, safe and secure. But I nod. “I'll talk to him about you,” Brother John says. “Now go and get some rest.”
In my cell, I can't get the strange encounter from my mind. I'm not sure what happened. More tears come. I don't know why. I sleep undisturbed until the supper bell rings. At one of the long tables, I pick at my food, unable to taste it, to enjoy the homemade soup and hot bread, shutting out the noises of others around the table. I want to go back to bed, to pull the covers up to my neck, and to sleep until it's time to go home. I want to go home. I don't belong here.
The following morning, I see that a note has been slipped under the door. I have an appointment with Father Ted after the morning get-together. All through breakfast and the morning meeting, I debate about going. For some reason, I trust Brother John, a virtual stranger whom I know nothing about. I'll go. If I don't like it, I can leave. I'm not a prisoner here. In fact, I don't know why I'm still here—except that I have no way to leave.
After a couple of deep breaths, I knock on Father Ted's office door. He bids me enter and motions to a chair across from him. “John said he thought you needed someone to talk to,” he says. “Do you?”
“Actually, I'm feeling a lot better today. Sometimes things get overwhelming, and I'm not sure what to do.”
“What kind of things are overwhelming you?”
When he hears my story, he'll be amazed that I lived through it, that I am sober and moving on with my life. I pour out my childhood trauma, the tragedies that plagued my life for so many years, how I reacted to all those things, and how well I'm doing since I got in AA. “I think I've resolved everything pretty good, except for the deaths of my children, and I'm a bit anxious about getting married. You know, divorce never seemed like a bad thing before I sobered up, but now …”
He's thoughtful before he says, “Let's talk about your children.”
“I had a baby when I was 15. He was healthy. Then, I had a baby girl when I was 17. She was premature, and so little. I thought she wouldn't die, but she did. I watched her struggle for every breath she took. I prayed every day all day, but she died. I had a baby boy when I was 19. The same thing happened. Right after that my mom, who was an alcoholic and hooked on prescription drugs, committed suicide. I lost a child when I was in my twenties, and then they did an emergency hysterectomy so there would be no more children. But I had my first son, Jon. When he was 15, he was killed. It was hard enough when the other kids died—at least I had him. I carry the pain of his death with me every day. Sometimes it washes over me like a giant wave, nearly consuming me. I don't think I will ever be able to let go of the pain or the guilt.”
Father Ted sits quietly as I ramble on about what a bad mother and wife I've been; how I didn't take care of myself when pregnant; how I raised Jon to be like me, a runner, an addict; how I taught him it was he and I against an unfair world. When I pause to take a breath, Ted says, “Hell no, Barb, you can't let go of that pain. If you do, you'll never have a reason left to drink, to self-destruct again.”
What? Who the hell does he think he is? No one speaks to me this way. I don't think this guy is a real priest. Can priests say “hell”? I stand, glare at him, and slam out the door. I don't have to put up with this shit.
In my cell, I pace back and forth. I hate this room. I hate rooms without windows. They remind me of the basement of our old house. Things happened to me there. Bad things. I've got to get out of here. Outside, I take in great gulps of fresh air and begin walking, with no idea of where I'm headed. As my mind questions everything, I walk faster until I find myself outside a bar. I can hear music, the people laughing and talking, and remember what it was like to find oblivion in those places. The priest's words come back to haunt me. I'm going back there. I'm going to confront him.
This time, I walk through the door without knocking. “How could you say that to me?” I blurt out, and before he can answer, I say, “You have no idea what my life's been like, what I've lived through. I needed your help, and you judged me.”
He sits in silence until I finish my tirade, then says, “Barbara, anything that causes you that much pain, that you hang on to that hard, you're getting something out of it. If you ever want to find real peace, you have to figure out what it is.”
The words sink in, calming my rage. I drop into a chair. “What do you mean?” I mutter. “I don't want to hurt anymore, but how do I stop it?”
Two hours later, I leave the office, return to my cell, lie down on the cot, and consider what the priest shared with me. Is he right? Could it all be that simple? He said that God wants me to be happy and to have everything I want in life as long as I don't forget where I got it. He said that when I go to God and sincerely ask for forgiveness, but then refuse to forgive myself, I have set myself above God—that when God forgives me, it's like he buries it and it's forgotten, but I keep digging it up and messing in it. He said that if I ever let go of the pain of my mistakes and my losses, I will never have an excuse left to drink, drug, or anything else self-destructive. Apparently, according to him, my defects of character are anything that keeps me from the peace, serenity, and happiness that this God wants for me.
I spoke with Father Ted about my fears about getting married for the sixth time. He informed me that it was time to let go of the past—because I couldn't go back and change it, but I could learn from it. This time, he told me, when you stand in front of the minister with your husband-to-be and you say those vows, you need to hear what you're saying and mean it. He said until I could do that, and not see marriage as a temporary situation, I should remain single.
I told him I wasn't sure I knew how to be a good wife. He laughed and said there was no manual for that, but the best advice he could give me was to mind my own business, to leave God and others, inc
luding my husband, to theirs. He said that no matter what I think, what I say, what I do, or how much I worry, other people make their own choices, and they aren't always about me. If I want to be free to choose, I must give that right to others without harsh judgment and criticism. If I truly believed in a God, it's time to understand that as much as I think I am where I am for a reason, others are where they are for a reason, too, and I'm not on a need-to-know basis.
In the backseat of the car on the way home, I close my eyes and think of all I was told. For the first time in years, I feel like I've finally buried my children and let go of my anger toward my mother for leaving me the way she did. I know it's time to take a hard look at the sixth and seventh steps and the character defects that continue to hold me back.
A line in the big book enters my mind. It tells me that in order to know peace, I must stop fighting everything and everyone. I know that includes myself. What a concept.
15
The Dream
WHEN I THINK LIFE CAN'T GET ANY BETTER, IT DOES. The past two years—being married to Tom, the love of my life, living in a beautiful home on a lake, not having to work for a living, or worry about paying bills—have been glorious. I'm having a real life, and I stand in awe of it on a daily basis.
It's time for me to do more. I've had my education all these years and have never done anything with it. Today, Tom is taking me for a job interview with a judge to become a parole officer. Excited, I dress in my best black pantsuit with a white blouse, take time with my makeup, don understated jewelry, and we're on our way. I can picture myself doing this job, helping people who are trying to make their way in the world after paying their debt to society. They aren't that much different from me. The big difference is that they got caught.