We parked in front of a squat, unattractive brick building on the edge of the city and walked through a cloud of cigarette smoke that seemed like it might linger forever. Inside, a dimly lit room offered a circle of grey metal folding chairs and a collection of individuals who looked like they had seen better days. We made our way to the back, where a massive urn of coffee stood; I was there with my boss, Ted, who had arms like tree trunks and conversational skills to match. He filled a paper cup with coffee that could probably strip paint and muttered, "You’ll find bad coffee and stale cigarette smoke at any respectable meeting." I was 17 and had just walked into my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
Back then, I was a machinist's apprentice working for Ted, who was definitely an alcoholic. Together, we fixed plastic bag-making machines for the plastic bag industry, but the only thing I seemed to be any good at was sweeping the floors. Ted started his morning with a giant Dunkin Donuts coffee, which quickly morphed into vodka by mid-morning. Ted seemed more like the type to freeze to death passed out in a snowbank than someone who would go to AA. But here we were.
I felt scared and out of place. Maybe it was the bad lighting or the fact that these people looked like they got their clothes from a lost-and-found box at the YMCA. They started going around the circle, introducing themselves as alcoholics. When it came to me, I said, "My name is Eben, this is my first meeting, I am just observing."
I didn't say I was an alcoholic because I didn't think I was. Or maybe I wasn't. I don't know how these things work. Around this time, my dad found bottles of hard alcohol in my closet and made me pour them down the sink. And I remember asking older guys in front of 7-11 to buy me beer until one of them threatened to arrest me, claiming he was an off-duty cop.
So yeah, looking back, I was probably did have a problem. But as the son of an alcoholic, it didn't seem like it. My father's routine involved drinking a six-pack, going to the bar "just to put my name in for the lobster raffle," and drinking another six-pack back home. It seemed like a pretty reasonable thing to me. And we did eat a lot of lobster, which was nice.
Fast forward to yesterday, when my friend in San Francisco invited me to a Zoom meeting of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. I didn't introduce myself. I didn't tell them how many days sober I was (whatever that means). And I didn't hear any wild stories about blowing paychecks on cocaine and hookers, which was kind of what I was hoping for. Instead, it was just a bunch of guys being honest and accountable to each other about their struggles with pornography, sexting, and staying faithful. Riveting stuff.
Near the end of the meeting, this guy put his hand up to talk. He looked normal. His problems sounded so mundane that I wondered why he was even there. His life sounded like mine, and I wasn't rushing to join any groups to talk about it.
Then, something slowly started to come into focus. Maybe I do have a problem. My twenties would have been drastically different if I'd kept going to AA. At the very least, I wouldn't have been on crutches for a week after a bouncer threw me down a flight of stairs onto a cobblestone street for sneaking drinks behind the bar. Maybe this is one of those times where it's crazy not to feel crazy in this crazy world, or however that saying goes. Maybe I will go back. Maybe I have a problem even if I can't quite define it. There's probably something to be said about being 39 and single and dismissing these men's stories as trivial. Thinking they should just suck it up isn't the healthiest mindset.
I cringe at the idea of pathologizing myself and labeling myself as some addict, and I really don't see myself as having a problem. It's not like I am into some bizarre fetish. But maybe I have something to learn, at least reflect on. It wouldn't hurt to be curious about what these meetings offer.
So, I guess what I'm saying is maybe I'll go to another meeting.