Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [95]
Then there was the dessert dilemma. Was there real Amaretto in the Amaretto Cheesecake or was that flavoring? Could I order the bread pudding with the rum sauce on the side? What about the rum balls? I wasn’t going to a meeting to confess I backslid with three dozen rum balls and two bread puddings. As an active alcoholic I knew one drink was too many and a thousand weren’t enough. I didn’t care if the cook simply opened a bottle of Kahlua near the cheesecake so it would capture its aroma, I refused to eat it. Several servers reassured me about one dessert or another, “Don’t worry, the alcohol burns off.” Then what was the point? “The flaming dessert makes a wonderful presentation,” one waiter explained. Wasn’t it enough that my fireplace flamed? Hadn’t one of those caused extensive damage to a French Quarter restaurant?
Carl's approach at restaurants required more diplomacy, “She's a recovering alcoholic. Is there any alcohol in that?” I’d asked him if, for the next few months, he minded replacing “a recovering alcoholic” with “pregnant” as the results would be the same.
Without alcohol, I was at the mercy of my feelings. After years of being numbed, they were coming after me with a vengeance. I empathized with Superman who had to struggle to control his super powers and not drill laser holes through unsuspecting people. Bushels and barrels of feelings demanded my attention. I flailed in them. Struggled to find balance.
Before my AA meeting yesterday, I had looked for a book I needed to return to Molly. I found it in my dresser between my socks and scarves—no clarity there—and when I picked it up, there was a photo of Alyssa. She wore a smocked Feldman dress, the cloud blue one, with lace around the neckline. Her fine, silky hair was too thin to hold her monogrammed silver barrette. It had landed just above her right eyebrow. One white crocheted bootie covered one foot. Her other foot was bare. I held the photo in one hand, the book in the other. I turned from one side to the other, holding her picture out like something passed between runners in a relay. If I could find someone to give it to, the feelings would go with it. Six weeks ago I would have carried her picture into the dining room, placed it on the table, and returned with a bottle of something. The blessing that day was that I had a place to take my body filled with the jagged bits of broken glass: The Program.
In some ways, I was an alien who’d landed with the wrong operating instructions. Someone added the words “without alcohol” to what had been familiar, and I didn’t know the protocol. How does one celebrate without alcohol? How does one attend a party without alcohol? What do people talk about without alcohol? What do people drink at parties without alcohol? What do people remember the next day about the night before without alcohol? How do people act silly, sing, dance, and, most importantly, make love without alcohol?
Step Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
Maybe that was it. One day at a time. One step at a time.
I came home from my lunch with Rebecca with hope, challenges, and information. She said sober thinking takes time. “In the beginning of my sobriety, I just kept repeating to myself all those, what I thought at the time, were hokey AA-isms: One day at a time. Live and let live. Let go and let God. Easy Does It. There but for the grace of God. And the Serenity Prayer. I wrote them on index cards and taped them on my bathroom mirror, refrigerator, computer monitor, telephone. If my kids would have let me, I would have taped one on each of their foreheads. Take baby steps. AA isn’t a program anyone finishes, so there's really no point in rushing.”
She challenged me to find a church, a place to worship, where I could fellowship with other believers and find ways to serve the Lord. “I don’t know what religion you were or are. It