Ya Wanna Get High?
My life outside of work consisted of only one commitment: I was supposed to go to an AA meeting every day. There were plenty of meetings in my area, one every night – sometimes more than one – all within 15 minutes of my apartment.
I would get home from work around 6:00, eat some pasta with Prego or Ragu (depending on what was on sale) and then head out for an evening meeting. I arrived a bit late every night, and left a bit early, because I didn’t really enjoy talking to people. I had no idea that the key to recovery is, actually, getting to know the people in the meetings and talking with them about my day. (Yes, it’s really that simple.)
I was depressed because I no longer had Don or Keisha or any of the other people with whom I connected in rehab. I was as angry at Gregg for the phone bill as I would have been if he’d cut my eyes out instead of just having phone sex. My emotions were dramatic and raw and vacillating but when I went into a meeting and sat down, I felt peaceful. I was distracted enough by people’s stories that I didn’t feel that rawness for a little while.
One gorgeous spring day, I walked to the 7-11 for cigarettes. As I was strolling barefoot in my cutoff jean shorts across the parking lot, a guy in a car slowed to a stop in front of me. His window already down, he leaned out and called, “Hey!”
He was handsome: sweetly smiling, his bleached-blond hair draped over sparkling brown eyes.
Without any courage from alcohol, I was not only shy but confused. Why is he talking to me?
“Hey,” I squeaked as a form of reply.
He continued to smile, his bright eyes scanning my whole body. “Ya wanna get high?”
The question existentially knocked me over. I wanted to go with this boy in the worst way. But did I want to get high? Did I?
Oh my god! I thought. I don’t actually want to get high! The thought of deadening my emotions on this beautiful spring day was abhorrent.
So, for the first time in my life, I looked at a beautiful young man and I said something I’d never said before.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” he said, and drove off as casually as if he’d just asked for the time of day.
I told that story at a meeting, and it felt good. I felt good. Things were good. I was nervous and socially awkward and confused about a whole lot of normal adult things, but overall: I was good.
It wasn’t long before people started to announce social events – things I could do on the weekends without alcohol. I went to an AA roller skating event where I met a guy with one arm. I called him “Larry With One Arm” because he had that low raspy voice and looked old and scraggly.
But Vince was not like Larry at all. Vince was brilliant and philosophical and taught me all the things I should have been learning in AA with my sponsor.
I’d chosen my sponsor because she frequently said “fuck.” I never called her. So Vince was a godsend for my mental health.
Then I went to a 4th of July AA picnic, which was a huge step for me. I wanted to make friends.
At the picnic, I saw a guy who walked exactly, identically, like The One from college.
I instantly fell in love.