Powerless Over Alcohol

In many Al-Anon groups, it’s customary to dedicate one meeting a month to step study. Generally, in January, we study Step 1. So I don’t want to let January go by without some discussion of how Step 1 worked in my life.

Step 1 says “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable.”

In Al-Anon, we work the same steps as those in AA and, at first, that confused me. I didn’t come to Al-Anon because I had a drinking problem. So how could I be powerless over alcohol?

I’ve heard some people they think of it as being powerless over the effects alcohol has on their loved ones. Others mentally substitute “alcoholic” for “alcohol.” That worked for me. By the time I came in, I knew I was powerless over the alcoholic.

Because I had grown up in an alcoholic home, I had seen what substance abuse looks like up close, and I was determined to save my daughter.

At the height of my insanity, here are some of the things I did to keep her straight.

Wherever my daughter went, I was close by. If she went to a movie, I drove her there and sat at a nearby coffee house where I could see her go in and watch to make sure she didn’t come out early.

Once, when my daughter asked to go to the bowling alley, I sat in the parking lot and watched the doors (for hours!) to be sure she didn’t leave without my permission.

As a journalist, I had a voice-activated tape recorder hooked up to the phone. A few times, I turned it on when my daughter was on the phone so I could listen through the headphones and find out what she was up to so I could try to stop it.

If I could have put an alarm on her bedroom window, I would have. But I didn’t have the money. So there were many nights I lay awake at night because I thought my daughter might try to climb out her window, even though we lived in a second-floor apartment.

When her attendance and grades tanked, I asked my daughter’s teachers to e-mail me every day with her attendance and homework assignments. When my daughter wanted to do something after school and said she had finished her homework, which she always did, I made her show me the assignments.

I didn’t go anywhere because I was afraid of what my daughter might do if I was not home.

Once, when she was still in high school, my daughter started hanging out at a boy’s apartment who was over 18. I suspected they were having sex. I knew they were smoking pot. I tried to get the boy evicted using the apartment complex’s zero-tolerance crime policy.

Her father and I checked my daughter into a drug rehab program against her will.

I subjected her to psychological testing, counseling, psychiatrists, psychiatric meds and hospitalizations.

I couldn’t distinguish small crimes and misdemeanors. If my daughter failed to check in with me after school, I went looking for her, getting madder and madder with every step until I had worked myself into a fury. Her failure to check in with me after school was a serious to me as running away.

Once, I was having coffee with a friend outside the movie theater. When the movie let out and I didn’t see my daughter, I got increasingly frantic. My friend was struggling at the time with a daughter who had a drug problem, yet she looked at me with alarm. Her look said, “You’re getting a little crazy.”

I saw her look, but instead of thinking “Maybe I’m acting a little crazy,” I thought, “You just don’t understand.”

Do I need to tell you that none of these things worked? Do I need to say that our home became a battleground? Do I need to tell you our relationship was—to put it kindly—strained?

I was determined that when I looked back I would at least be able to say I did everything I could. Yet all my efforts only alienated my daughter from me and left me feeling beaten, demoralized and exhausted.

When my daughter was 16 or so, she went to live with her father in another state because I'd tried everything I could think of and didn’t know what else to do. While she was there, she had been checked into a mental hospital (the choice being that or jail). She refused to talk to me on the phone except to say that if I came out to see her, she’d refuse to see me and make me sorry I came.

Even after all of this, I didn’t go to Al-Anon.

By the time I found Al-Anon, my daughter was grown and living in another state. Our relationship didn’t feel confrontational by then. Instead, I had been flying out from time to time, despite my daughter’s insistence that this was not necessary, to “help” with whatever difficulty she was having. I hired lawyers and counselors who told me I was doing the right thing. It felt good to be on her side for a change. She seemed to appreciate my help.

My daughter eventually found her way to a fellowship, which delighted me. Of course, when I came out, I tried to take over her program. I dragged her around to a meeting a day. I bought her books. I suggested who should be her sponsor.

She accepted my “help” with grace, asked the appointed one to be her sponsor, then, after I left, she never attended another meeting again. From home, I carried around a meeting schedule so I could “helpfully” suggest what meetings she might try that day. It still pains me to wonder what would have happened had I not been so “helpful.”

It was my daughter’s sponsor who gently suggested I try Al-Anon. “You can work your own program,” she said. “You won’t have to go to your daughter’s meetings.”

Wise woman.

I got off the plane and got myself to a meeting the next day.

At that point, I was willing to concede I was powerless. But was my life unmanageable? I couldn’t see it. From all outward appearances, I had it all together.

I still couldn’t see my part. Or why jumping on a plane at the slightest provocation and obsessing about my alcoholic from thousands of miles away, to the point that I couldn’t enjoy my own very good life, was unmanageable.

But I could admit that when my daughter was in school and living with me, I was trying to control (That I didn't think I was still trying to control shows how little self-awareness I had.) and my life was unmanageable. It was a start. Al-Anon is a gentle program, and awareness comes as we are ready.

My sponsor tells me that the first step is the only one we have to do perfectly. The rest we just practice.

I’d like to say I did it perfectly. That the clouds parted and I was bathed in white light and became the perfect mother and always knew the right thing to do.

But I can tell you it didn’t happen that way. I’m still learning about things I’m powerless over. And some days, I feel like I’ve never been to a meeting. Only now, whenever I start to feel my head go into its familiar spin, I know I’m probably trying to control something I am powerless over. Once I realize that, I can let go.

I can work Step 1 as many times as I need to.

In working the steps I have, of course, made amends to my daughter for my part. She was unbelievably gracious.

When she came to visit me over the holidays, she told me I inspired her, and that I was therapeutic to be around. That's amazing.

One of my favorite Al-Anon tools reminds me: Just for Today, I will have a program. I may not follow it exactly, but I will have it.

Peeling the Onion

Insights come when I least expect them. I have Mary Karr to thank for this one.

In her memoir “Lit,” about her battle with alcoholism, she describes working on her forth step, though she doesn’t call it that.

She described it as “listing stuff I feel most crappy about—every single grudge and humiliation. Her sponsor directs her to make three columns, with the “crappy thing” on the left, the way it hurt her in the middle, and her part on the right.

In the case of being sexually assaulted as a girl, she says: “My part has been burying or ignoring the awful event in a way that restabs the wound.”

I had something similar on my eighth step. Mine were repeated sexual assaults that took place over the course of a year or so. But I couldn’t see that I had a part.

I was 9, I said. My assailant was an authority figure whom I had been taught to obey. He was bigger than I. He was scary.

If my sponsor saw it differently, she kept it to herself. But then she’s always been wise enough to know that I would only understand things as I became ready.

I didn’t bury what happened to me. I wore it like a badge and used it as justification for bad behavior for many years. And I picked it raw.

That was my part.

That’s the wonder of this program. You’re never done. There are always new insights to be gained. It’s what my sponsor calls peeling the onion.

Every time you work the steps, with each meeting, each reading, you get closer to the core.

I’ve always thought that was an apt metaphor because the process sometimes makes your eyes water.

Try This at Home

After my daughter went home, my sponsor and I talked briefly about what had happened on the way home from the airport.

It was like holding up a mirror, she said. It allowed you to see your part.

Which was true. There's no denying that my daughter's behavior changed, once mine did.

Our conversation reminded me of a tool my sponsor shared at a meeting once.

She said to take a piece of paper and fold it in half. On one side, write down something the alcoholic did that caused you to react in some way.

On the other side of the paper, write what you did in response.

Keep going with the chain of events, listing what the alcoholic did on the left and what you did because of it on the right.

When you're all done, tear the sheet in half and throw away the left side.

Everything on the right side of the page is what you're left with. That's your part.

Another way I like to think of it is that everything on the right side of the paper is "my side of the street." I want to do my best to keep it clean. If I've got a bunch of stuff on my side, I need to clean up my mess. I've got some amends to make.

Prison Bound?

I have spent a frustrating day and a half negotiating what I have come to affectionately call the volunteer prevention system at a nearby state women's prison.

There is an Al-Anon program operating in the prison and a handful of Al-Anon volunteers attend meetings there. It's both a way to carry the message and to be of service. I've been thinking about it for a while now, and after an impassioned plea for more volunteers at a recent meeting, I decided to make the commitment.

It sounded easy enough. Attend one meeting a month on a regular meeting night. It would just be a longer drive. There would be a background check, an orientation. No problem, right?

After an initial screening interview, I was told to expect an invitation from the chaplain to orientation.

I got the call on Christmas Eve. Before I would be invited to orientation, there was the matter of a little paperwork. He'd e-mail it to me that day.

The paperwork included a 50-page training manual, with something like 15 pages of exercises to be completed. An 8-page background questionnaire. A volunteer application, which, frustratingly, asked many of the same questions that were on the background questionnaire.

The cover letter came with bolded and underlined admonishments such as:

* All forms must be completed in black ink and returned to me no later than January 11, 2010.

* When you make copies of the background questionnaire (Form 602-1), only duplex (double-sided) will be accepted.

* On the Volunteer Application (Form 204-4), if you do not indicate why you want to volunteer or what training and experience qualifies you to present services, your application will not be processed.

*Unless you return this book by the close of business January 11, 2010, you will not be invited to attend orientation.

The exercises in the training manual must be completed, it said. "Please write in a legible manner, as I have to grade each book."

The 8-page background questionnaire wanted me to list

* the dates of all my parking tickets and the disposition. (Seriously, who can answer that question?)

* Scars and identifying marks (So they could ID my body?)

* Every school I attended beginning with high school, with dates and addresses.

* My personal references (three people who have known me well for five years or more) must include addresses in addition to at least one phone number!

The exercises included scenarios that would undoubtedly be useful at an Al-Anon meeting such as: "You direct inmate Collins to clean up an area. He ignores your directions. You tell him again to get the job done. Inmate Collins tell you to clean up the *&#@* mess yourself. What would you do?"

In all, I'm mailing 25 pages of materials today, so that I may be invited to orientation. (Which, by the way was rescheduled from two months ago.)

I had to laugh, really. Getting upset would serve no purpose other than to make myself unhappy.

I had to admit that I was powerless over the state prison system.

I had to remind myself that I needed to be willing to go to any lengths for my recovery.

I had to remind myself that I was not doing this for the people who run the prison, but to be of service to the women who might benefit from this program.

When I had finished, I was reviewing my paperwork and the cover letter to be sure 1) I had not left any blanks (which could result in my application being delayed or rejected) and 2) that I had included everything asked of me.

I had to call the prison coordinator when I saw that I had failed to copy my background questionnaire in duplex. Would this be grounds for immediate rejection of my application? It was getting late, it had to be in the mail the next day to make the deadline. My willingness was waning.

She put me in touch with another woman who was doing her own application. She hadn't done that either, and hers was already in the mail. I decided that if they would reject me for this infraction, at least I wouldn't be alone.

That's the best part of this program. I never have to do it alone.

Came to Believe

I've been reading "Lit" by Mary Karr, about her descent into alcoholism and the break up of her marriage. Karr wrote the classic memoir "The Liar's Club." "Lit" is her third memoir. So she's no novice to the genre. But I read that it took her something like four years and three tries to get this one right.

I find myself drawn to memoirs of addiction. With each one, I gain a little more understanding, a little more compassion. It's a popular genre, too. It's interesting to me that no one writes memoirs about Al-Anonism. Why is that?

Anyway, being something of a student of the genre, it strikes me that the biggest obstacle to recovery initially is the inability to believe in a higher power.

I was fortunate that I had a God when I became a member of Al-Anon for real. But it wasn't always that way.

As a very young child living in the home of my devoutly Roman Catholic grandmother, I believed in a God. That God was loving and resided in picture books and in my grandmother's Bible, which was illustrated with gorgeous reproductions of famous Renaissance paintings. But my mother didn't attend church and after I went to live with her, I gradually lost faith.

It wasn't that I didn't want to believe. I did.

I envied people with faith. They seemed happier, more at peace somehow. But I didn't know how to do it.

I tried to intellectualize my way to a belief in God. In college, I took a survey class of Western Philosophy. It seemed that proving God's existence was priority number one among the philosophers I was studying. I read with intensity, looking for the proof that would allow me to finally believe. But faith always eluded me. There was always some leap of faith I couldn't follow. Rene Descartes, for example, went from "I think therefore I am" to therefore there must be a God.

I just couldn't make the leap.

Then one day, I found myself in the fallout from another failed relationship. I was miserable. I knew something was broken, but I didn't know what. All I knew was that all my relationships turned to dust. I couldn't find any pattern in the men I had been seeing, so I could only conclude it was me. I made up my mind to figure out what was plaguing me and fix it.

Ironically, this was also the first time I attended Al-Anon at the suggestion of a friend. With my upbringing, I certainly felt like I qualified to be there. But at the time I wasn't living with an alcoholic, so I felt like I was cheating to be there. I didn't think my problem had anything to do with the family disease of alcoholism (how little I knew!), so I didn't get a sponsor or work the steps. After a few meetings, I quit going.

But a friend invited me to church. For some reason, I went.

I don't remember a thing about the service, except that I felt foolish because I couldn't stop crying. I started crying at the first note of the first song and struggled to regain my composure as people filed out around me at the end of the service.

I had no idea what was happening. I only knew something was. Until I figured it out, I had to stick around. I kept coming back, as we say in the program. All I knew was that I felt good in church. And eventually--and I mean years--I realized I did believe.

I believe so completely that I often forget that there are many people in the rooms of AA and Al-Anon who are still struggling with the idea.

Here are some suggestions I've heard in the rooms:

Your higher power can be anything. It just needs to be a power greater than yourself.

For many people, that higher power is the program itself. That would have worked for me. I can't deny the mysterious power the program has or how it seems to work so well for so many without anyone being in charge.

Some people have "fired" the God of their former understanding. This was often a mean and punishing God or a neglectful God. One technique I've heard is to write down all the characteristics of your ideal God and "hire" that God.

In "Lit," a speaker at a meeting tells Mary: "Faith is not a feeling. It's a set of actions."

The line reminds me of a time in my own early recovery when my husband and I were on vacation and I was worried that I would not be able to attend a meeting. We were staying at a resort in a remote part of Costa Rica. As fate, or God, would have it, I signed up for Yoga. I was the only student.

What seems obvious to me now, though I didn't realize it at the time, was that my Yoga instructor was in program, and he talked program to me every day. "It doesn't matter what you practice," he said. "It only matters that you practice."

In "Lit," the speaker tells Mary: "Pray every day for 90 days and see if your life doesn't get better." Even if you think you are praying to the air. "Call it a scientific experiment... You can make up your own concept of what to revere. Like Nature..."

Another AA member tells her: "Get on your knees and find some quiet space inside yourself... Let go. Surrender, Dorothy, the witch wrote in the sky. Surrender, Mary.... Yield up what scares you. Yield up what makes you want to scream and cry. Enter into that quiet. It's a cathedral. It's an empty football stadium with all the lights on."

She did, and her life did get better. Like so many others before her.

I don't know how electricity works. But I know I flip a switch and there is light. I don't know how prayer works. I just know it does.

More on all that

I'm happy to say my husband, my daughter and I got back to town yesterday with a minimum of bloodshed.

Actually, despite the initial shaky moment of my last post, I had a great visit with my daughter. We got to spend some good mother and daughter time. We hiked together, saw a chick flick, talked. She told me yesterday that she found me "inspiring" and that it was "therapeutic" to be around me.

Wow.

I had a request to clarify something in my last post. Madison wondered how talking with my sponsor caused me to behave differently. I’m grateful for the question, because it made me think about what had actually happened.

First, I have to say that one of the principles of Al-Anon is to keep the focus on me and not on the alcoholic. So in this blog, I’ve resolved not to talk about things any one else has done, only things I have done and thought. So forgive me if I sometimes sound kind of vague on the particulars.

Still, I think I can convey the gist of what happened without getting into specifics.

When I picked up my daughter from the airport, she told me there was something urgent she needed to take care of. It couldn’t wait.

“The committee” in my head reacted in the old way. Here are some of the things that started swirling around in my head:

It’s New Year’s Eve and we’ve got company arriving in two hours and I’ve got things I need to do to prepare for company.
She knew that.
Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. Everything is closed. And we’re supposed to be going out of town to a place where these is no prospect of dealing with this problem.
She knew that, too.
Why didn’t she take care of this before she got here?
She expects me to pay for this, and it’s going to be expensive. Is that why she waited?
She's 26. Why does she still expect me to take care of things for her?
She did this the last time she came, too.
Why does she back me into a corner like this? Why do I always end up feeling like I have to do things I don’t want to do?
I had such hopes for a nice visit. Why does there always have to be crisis?

I didn’t say all of these things, but with every new thought, I got myself more and more worked up.

I asked her why she didn’t get this taken care of before she came. It was past 7 on New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow was a holiday. What did she expect me to do about it?

This only prompted a list of reasons she couldn't deal with it before (committee says: "Really? You're serious?") and more adamant insistence that this was a dire problem and had to be handled immediately.

Eventually, we came to an impasse and spent the rest of the ride home in stony silence.

This was old behavior. Mine and hers.

When I called my sponsor, she asked some questions to assess the situation. She also asked me if I wanted to pay for this. I said no.

She told me that it was reasonable to give my daughter a ride to take care of this problem, since she was staying with me and didn’t have a car.

I reminded her of my company. Did she think this was an emergency?

No. She didn’t. But if my daughter did, I could offer to give her a ride, then pick her up when she was finished.

I shouldn’t feel responsible to pay, because the nature of the crisis was the result of a choice my daughter had made. It was the consequence of her actions.

As far as the timing and my daughter’s particular circumstances, there was only one option before Monday, and it would cost my daughter not inconsiderable money. They could send her a bill. She could choose to do that, or to wait until Monday when there was a less expensive option. It was an option I hadn’t thought of, and it sounded like a good one, one that would address some of the reasons my daughter told me she couldn't take care of this before.

My sponsor reminded me to breathe. She told me she loved me. She said to call again if I needed to.

Just talking it over, I felt better. I felt clear about what was reasonable for me to do or not to do.

I came out and found my daughter.

I told her I had talked to my sponsor and she had offered some good ideas. I told her if she felt this needed to be taken care of now, there was only one option. I’d be glad to drive her there and she could call me to pick her up when she was ready. I said that there was another option, which would cost her less money, if she thought she could wait until Monday. I told her to give it some thought and tell me what she wanted to do.

She responded very well. She said she only brought it up so I would understand why she was irritable. She came downstairs and helped me set up for our company, and behaved delightfully for the rest of the night.

My own irritation and anxiety evaporated and I was able to enjoy her company.

The next morning, she told me she wanted to get the problem taken care of. So I gave her a ride. There was no tension. She thanked me, gave me a hug. I gave her change for the pay phone so she could call when she was ready.

I went home and spent a lovely morning catching up on blogs, reading the paper, exercising. When I picked up my daughter, she had a whole new set of concerns. I was able to listen with love and not offer any solutions.

What would have happened if my sponsor didn’t pick up the phone? Today, I would have called someone else. I could have called another Al-Anon sister. I could have called my sponsor's sponsor. I could have called anyone on the phone list at any of the meetings I attend.

Had I not called anyone, I can’t say for sure what I would have done, of course, but I can tell you what has happened in the past. I would have grudgingly taken her on her errand. I would have waited with her for the hours that it took, martyr like. I would have paid for it, and resented it. Probably, I would have nursed the grudge for a while, making it difficult to enjoy my daughter during the short time we had together.

In the past, my daughter has not responded lovingly to this behavior from me. Things got tense. We’d be short with each other and/or chillingly polite. I would be glad to see her go. We’d give each other stiff hugs at the airport curb.

As it was, we were able to spend an enjoyable visit. I was glad I could be there to offer support and encouragement. I was glad I could give her a hug.

At the time, it felt like magic. Now that I break it down I can see that my reaction just didn't make sense. It was based on a whole senario I concocted in my head, rather than the reality of the situation. It wasn't rational. It wasn't sane. (After all, I was listening to "voices.")

Feelings are not facts.

My sponsor just pulled me back to reality.

As Tammy said in her comment, it reminded me that I can't do this alone.

I heard a speaker say once "My mind is like a bad neighborhood. It's nowhere I want to be for very long."

I knew exactly what she was talking about.

New Day, New Year

This morning's reading in "One Day at a Time," an Al-Anon book of daily readings, really spoke to me. It said:

"This year is a book of clean blank pages on which I will write a record of my experiences and my growth through the daily use of the Al-Anon idea.... If I allow myself to be influenced by what the alcoholic says and does, it will make blots and smears on the pages of my year. This I will try to avoid at all costs.

Today's Reminder: I can live my life only one day at a time. Perhaps my confusion and despair are so great that I will have to take it one hour at a time, or one minute at a time, reminding myself constantly that I have authority over no life but my own.

'Realizing that nothing can hurt me while I lean upon my Higher Power, I ask to be guided through the hours and minutes of each day. Let me remind myself to bring every problem to Him for I know He will show me the way I must go.'"



I picked up my daughter (aka my qualifier) from the airport last night. I was on the phone with my sponsor within the half-hour. I might have called sooner--like within the first five minutes--except my daughter and I were in the car together. As soon as I got us to the house, I went in search of a private spot to make the call.

So today, the idea of clean fresh pages seemed particularly appealing to me. I need to remind myself that I need not be influenced by what my alcoholic says or does. I want to remember to stop when doubtful or agitated and ask my higher power for the next right thought or action.

But having a good sponsor really helps me to sort out what the next right thought or action is.

I have to confess that my problem was partly one of expectations. Expectations of what this visit would be like. That she might be different and at least I would be. I had envisioned us coming together cumbaya like, holding hands and singing songs.

What was I thinking?

This disease is cunning, baffling and powerful, and it's been doing push ups in the back of my head just waiting for an opportunity. It nearly threw me. But I picked up the phone and my sponsor answered, and in about five minutes I was back on the beam.

That five minute conversation changed everything. Don't ask me how. It's a mystery to me. But I came out of the room and had a very different conversation with my daughter. She behaved differently when I behaved differently. It's a little spooky really, how well the tools of this program work when you use them.

I can only say that my sponsor helped me sort out what was reasonable, what was my part, what wasn't. She makes it sound so easy, so reasonable, I always hang up the phone wondering why I couldn't figure that out myself. It was so obvious.

And, always, after I talk to my sponsor, I feel calm, my problems right sized.

So today on my gratitude list, item number one is that I have a wise sponsor. That she picked up the phone. That she gave me the guidance that I needed, so that today might, indeed, be a clean page. Fresh, with no mistakes in it.

Later today, my husband, my daughter and I will leave town for a few days. There is no internet service, so I won't be posting. But there is cellphone service. I have my sponsor's number on speed dial. Two more things to be grateful for.

Wishing you a year full of things to be grateful for.