It’s antithetical to my very being, but I do recognize that people need it.
The meeting room is toasty warm, and Harlow and I remove our coats to hang on hooks along the wall. A table’s been set up with coffee, tea, and cookies. I grab a cup of water while Harlow makes herself Earl Grey. The introductions begin, and to my surprise, while I am indeed offered condolences as I meet members, they are unobtrusive and politely understated. It’s almost as if they know to treat me with kid gloves.
I’m sure they’re also following the creed that Harlow told me about, that no one is required to engage.
After a few minutes of socializing, an older man who looks to be in his mid-sixties with longish hair and a graying beard asks people to take seats. Metal folding chairs are placed in a circle with one in the middle. We sit, and by my count, there are seventeen people in attendance.
The older man moves to the center chair. “Welcome, everyone. My name is John, and I’m an alcoholic. I’m also your chairperson for the evening, and this is an open meeting.”
Everybody in the group, including Harlow, sitting to my right, says, “Hi, John.”
“I’ll start off by reading our preamble,” he says, then pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket. It’s a short statement about the mission of Alcoholics Anonymous. When he’s done, he bows his head and says, “Now, let us recite the Serenity Prayer.”
Everyone bows their heads, and Harlow holds out her hand to me. I take it automatically and glance to my left. A burly guy sits on that side, holding out his hand expectantly. I take it and bow my head. John starts the prayer, and everyone joins in.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
At the end of the prayer, I release the man’s hand but don’t voluntarily let go of Harlow’s until she tugs it free. Make of it what you will, but it felt good with her palm pressed against mine.
John opens the floor to anyone who wants to give testimony about their journey.
A young man in his early twenties across the circle from me says, “Hi. My name is Alan, and I’m an alcoholic.”
The group resoundingly greets him. “Hi, Alan.”
I listen with almost morbid curiosity to Alan’s story. It’s not so different from my own in that he had parents who were unsupportive, and he started drinking first as a means of rebellion, then as a means of avoidance.
A woman goes next and talks about her alcohol dependency, which started when she was only fourteen. That blows my mind.
Two more people volunteer their stories, each one different, yet they all have the same common thread. They want to be free of this hold that alcohol has over them, and while they work hard to battle, they all live under the knowledge that sobriety is fragile.
To my right, Harlow lifts her hand, and when John nods at her, she says, “Hi. My name is Harlow, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Harlow,” I say with the rest of the group. She glances at me and smiles.
“I’ve had a good week. Work has been good, and while I had one stressful case that tested the limits of my patience, not once have I wanted a drink.”
There are murmurs of praise throughout the group.
“As you know, it was a rough few weeks prior to that with the death of my friend Brooks.”
I’m not surprised she mentioned my brother’s name, but with it comes a jolt of awareness that my brother’s problems were very real and known by some of the people in this room. A few nod their heads in empathy.
“I’m processing. It’s getting easier to accept he’s gone. I know there were several days when I wanted nothing more than to rip into a bottle of vodka, which was my drink of choice. I even went on a walk one day with the intention of buying a bottle, but when I got to the store, I kept on walking. I kept on walking because I knew Brooks was watching over me. I knew how much he battled for his sobriety, and I knew he would walk past that store too. I also knew Brooks would never want me to crumble over my grief for him. He would have been so disappointed. Probably would’ve haunted me.”
A rumble of laughter echoes through the room, and I can’t help but smile.
“I just want everyone to know that it’s okay to have those weak moments. I know I will have more in my lifetime. But I also know that I have the strength to overcome them. Everyone in this room has the strength to overcome. And if you find yourself in a weak moment and you feel like you need just that bit of a bolster—like the way I felt when I walked by that liquor store and I knew Brooks was up above, supporting me—I’m here for you. AA is here for you. There’s always a meeting within reach where our community can help you.”
Harlow sits down, and the woman on her other side puts an arm around her shoulders and draws her in for a quick hug.
Harlow glances at me, and I say, “That was amazing.”
After Harlow’s testimony, three more people offer their stories. One is a young woman whose husband is an alcoholic and used to attend AA regularly but has fallen off the wagon. She’s here to support the others and to be supported in return. I don’t know this lady, but the fact that she feels like an island because her husband is drinking again and won’t get help makes me want to seek out the motherfucker and beat some sense into him.
Within the space of about an hour, listening to a handful of people battle this addiction, my eyes have been opened to a world I frankly never knew existed.
For the first time in a very long time, I have a deep, burning admiration for my brother for taking the steps to get help and for working hard to stay sober.
When everyone is done sharing, a contribution basket is passed around. “AA is self-supported by its members,” Harlow murmurs as she drops a twenty in the basket. I whip out my wallet and grab the same, offering it to the till.
John closes with some information on upcoming meetings and seminars, then finishes up with the Lord’s Prayer. We make quick goodbyes, although Harlow told me that she often stays to socialize and meet new people. I think for tonight, though, she knew that might be hard on me.
Harlow and I walk back to our building, and I ask her questions about Brooks that start percolating while I process the meeting.
Did he stay sober the entire time?
How did his drinking affect him?
What did he like to drink?
Did it affect his playing?
Did people on the team know?
Did my father know?
As with many things in my brother’s life, his alcoholism was a secret to most people. No one in the family knew about it, and only his coach on the team.
And Harlow, of course, who attended every meeting with him. She said sometimes they would only go to a meeting once a week. In the off-season, sometimes they would go every day.
“There were times when your brother would have a really bad day. He was seeing a guy once, and he really cared for him. The guy broke it off because Brooks wouldn’t come out of the closet, and that was the closest I’d ever seen your brother to breaking down and drinking. We stayed up all night talking, and we went to a meeting early the next day. He fought that battle and won, knowing the war would never be over. Your brother was one of the strongest men I’ve ever known.”
Her words cause me both happiness and sadness at the same time. These glimpses of my brother make me proud of how he handled things with limited support, but I ache knowing he had to face these things with only Harlow by his side.