Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [45]
I think she’s spectacular. I think I’m pathetic and shallow. If I were her, I would be at Old Town right now, I am absolutely certain. I would be so drunk, I wouldn’t even know I was there.
“But today, I have ninety days. Maybe tomorrow I will have ninety-one, maybe the day after—ninety-two, I don’t know. I’m already living off borrowed time. But you know what? I’m sober today and I would rather have today, this one day sober than a whole lot of days drunk.”
The room applauds. Applause is a constant thing in AA. It’s how we buy drinks for each other.
She smiles, her eyes moist. After she’s finished, people raise their hands and she calls on them.
Somebody says, “Nan, your story really made me grateful for my own sobriety. I have fifteen years, one day at a time, and, well, I think you are so brave.”
Nan smiles. Calls on someone else: me.
“Hi, Nan,” I begin. “I just got back from rehab and it’s weird. It’s like, I’m, uh.” I can’t think of what to say. As soon as I opened my mouth to express my thoughts, my thoughts dissolved. “I mean, you know. I guess I just feel raw and like all opened up. I was thinking as you were speaking, you know. That if I were you, I’d already be drunk. I don’t have your courage. Or your appreciation for life, I guess is what I mean. I mean, I’m really feeling good about being sober and everything. But I don’t know if I could deal if, you know, something bad happened.”
Nan asks, “How many days did you say you have?”
“Thirty.”
“Congratulations, that is so fucking great. But I can tell you that at thirty days, I was a mess. At sixty days, I was getting better. And today, I really have this sense of sobriety. I really would rather be here, at Perry Street, than out there.” She motions with her head to the outside. “Thirty days ago, if I heard my story, I’d feel the same way you do. Keep coming back.”
I want whatever it is that she has. Looking around at the faces in the room, I notice a certain amount of peace. These people don’t look strung out. They don’t look desperate. Nobody has tremors that I can see.
We join hands and repeat the Sinead O’Connor serenity prayer. Followed by a chant: “Keep coming back it works if you work it so work it you’re worth it.”
My feeling at the end is that AA is utterly amazing. Complete strangers getting together in rooms at all hours and saying things that are so personal, so incredibly intimate. This is the kind of stuff that happens in a relationship after a few months. But people here open up right away, with everyone. It’s like some sort of love affair, stripped of the courtship phase. I feel bathed in safety. I feel like I have this secret place I can go and say anything in the world, about anything I feel, and it’s okay. And this makes me feel grateful to be an alcoholic. And this is a very odd feeling. This is like what my friend, Suzanne, says about childbirth—that it husks the soul.
Back home, I sit on the sofa of my newly clean apartment. I’m still blown away by the mess I encountered. Like stepping right back into my old life. How could I have lived like that? How could I have not seen it? The problem is, I’m a slob to begin with. So when you combine alcohol with a slob, you just end up with something that would appall any self-respecting heroin-addicted vagrant.
The next day, I go to the gym. It’s been over a month since I’ve worked out and I’m depressed to see that instead of being able to do curls with the forty-five pound weights, I struggle with the twenties. This shouldn