I listen as a past wife of an alcoholic shares how she still struggles with trying to control everything, a habit bred through how she tried to manage her husband’s addiction. I can’t help but nod along, thinking of how I do the same, of how I have this inner voice telling me if I don’t do it, no one else will.
Then there’s a brother of an alcoholic, sharing how his sister has hurt him and his wife, how they’ve enabled her for so long they don’t know how to begin to draw boundaries and stop trying to control the situation.
And again, I find myself thinking back to my marriage, to how I bailed Josh out of every bad situation he found himself in, how I took over paying our bills and budgeting our money because I knew he’d blow it on alcohol if I let him, how I covered for him with David and with anyone who ever asked me about my bruises.
The knot grows thicker.
But it’s when the daughter of an alcoholic shares her story that I can’t contain the emotion any longer, silent tears running down my cheeks as she recalls the yelling and anger of her childhood, how it wasn’t strange to find her mother lying in her own vomit, how even though her mother is recovered and still a part of her life now, she has difficult feelings around the relationship.
I think of David.
I think of all we put him through, of how I played just as much of a role as Josh. I think of the fighting he endured, the abuse, the horrible things he had to witness.
“Amanda,” Sue says, snapping my attention back to the room. “Would you like to share what has you emotional?”
I blow out a breath on a laugh, wiping my face. “Many things,” I whisper.
Sue nods in understanding, along with the rest of the room, but no one speaks. No one tries to guess what I’m feeling or finish the thought for me. They just wait patiently, creating space.
“Your story hit me hard, Candra,” I tell the young lady who just shared her story about her mother.
She smiles softly, and I shake my head.
“I’m sorry if I don’t do this right,” I say. “This is my first meeting.”
“There’s no wrong or right way,” Sue assures me.
After a moment, I swallow and continue. “I married an alcoholic. Or, well,” I amend. “I married my high school sweetheart, who turned into an alcoholic somewhere along the way. I’m not even sure I remember when it happened,” I confess with a frown. “All I know is that one day, I woke up and found myself in a relationship where being screamed at, beat on, and blamed for everything was my normal, where pretending I was fine for my son was a daily routine, where I was constantly researching how to fix a situation I couldn’t believe I was even in at all.”
The room fills with noises of understanding, eyebrows shooting up like they know the tale all too well.
“It took me too long to realize I was in a situation I had no power over. At least — I had no power over him,” I clarify. “But, after my son left, the reasons to stay dwindled more and more. First, I stayed because David was coming home for weekends and holidays during college. Then, I stayed because David moved back home with us for a while. But when he met his wife, I knew he wouldn’t need me anymore — not in the same way, at least.” Sadness washes over me. “I realized staying together for him didn’t really make sense anymore.” I pause. “Perhaps it never did.”
Again, no one says a word. They just nod and let me continue.
“It’s been almost two years now since I decided I was done, since I asked for a divorce and decided to take my life into my own hands.” I swallow. “And I should be happy, I think. I should be proud that I took that step. But honestly, I feel more lost than ever.”
The room is silent, but buzzing with an energy I can’t explain.
“I left him,” I whisper. “I left the situation, and yet still, it lingers. He still has power over me. He still has the ability to make me angry, to make me resent him, to make me feel powerless to ever get away from him. He’s the one who provided for us financially, who forbid me from ever going to school or having a job. And now, I’m forty-seven, trying to figure out how to stand on my own, and I just feel like…” I press my lips together, hands coming out to illustrate. “Like his big fat boot is right here on my neck, pressing down, cutting off oxygen just enough to make it impossible to move forward, but leaving enough where I’m still here, still living in the pain.”
Brows furrow, heads bobbing as if everyone here knows exactly what I mean. And perhaps they do.
Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable, so safe, even though I’ve only just met them.
Because I know they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t go through what I did — or something similar.
“I just want to be free,” I whisper. “Of him, of the chains alcoholism put on my life, of the way I’ve been warped into thinking and acting.” I swallow as the thought of Greg bubbles to the surface. “I want to believe I deserve to be happy, and I don’t want to be afraid of going after what actually can make me that way.”
I blow out a breath, wiping my tears again.
“Thank you for letting me share.”
A synchrony of thank you for sharing finds me, and I smile, sniffing as someone hands me a tissue.
“This is a journey, Amanda,” Sue says. “We practice the same twelve steps an alcoholic does, and our focus is not on what they did to us, but rather what we did, what we can do, moving forward.”
I frown, but nod, already feeling lighter just from having shared a part of my story.
“We’re so glad to have you here, and thank you for sharing,” she says. Then, someone else raises their hand, and the attention of the room is steered in another direction.
As the meeting goes on, I feel lighter and lighter. At the end, Sue introduces me to a few of the members, and each of them shares how they know exactly how I’m feeling, how they’re happy I’m here, how they can’t wait to grow with me. I get a little more information on the twelve steps and the fellowship as a whole, and then I’m out the door.
Walking to my car, I can’t fully comprehend what it is I’m feeling. Nothing really happened. Nothing was fixed. No one handed me a secret recipe to figuring it all out. No one told me I was right, and Josh was wrong, and everything is going to be okay now that I’ve come here.
But something happened.
I spoke about it. I acknowledged it. I admitted that it happened.
And I recognize I played a part in it, too.
I stop walking with the realization, pressing a hand to my chest. My next breath is stiff and shallow.
Why does it somehow feel good to admit that?
It’s like taking back the reins of my life somehow, like I’d been just riding along this whole time and now I’m in the driver’s seat.
What happens next is up to me.
And it’s not defined by what happened in the past.
“You’re more than what he made you believe you are.”
Greg’s words flash in my memory, and I cover my mouth, eyes glossing again at how I hadn’t even realized how much I needed to hear them.
I also know I wouldn’t be here, walking out of my first Al-Anon meeting, if it weren’t for him.
He came into my life so unexpectedly, a ghost from my past I never thought I’d see again. But he didn’t just flit in and then leave again. He rushed in, passionate and insistent, and he flipped my life upside down. He challenged me to step outside of my comfort zone. He made me believe in myself again — or maybe for the first time. He made me live.