the road home

I came to in the car. Unsure of how I got there or what time it was, I looked towards my husband. His face said it all. The rage, the disappointment, the tears. My head splitting, my cracked lips crusted together with the dried sugar of wine. I ran my tongue over my teeth, a viscous film coating them making my already tender stomach roll. 

Shifting my gritty eyes and oily face towards him, I managed to croak, “What time is it?”

“1PM. It’s 1 fucking o’clock in the afternoon,” he didn’t even make a motion to look at me. As if meeting eyes would shatter any final vestiges of our marriage. His silence said it all. It filled the car like peanut butter - a thick, sticky presence that stifled any attempt at conversation. 

I leaned back, my throbbing head pressed against the hot window. What the fuck have I done? The weight of regret and shame settled heavily upon me as I grappled with the consequences of my actions.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Hi, my name is Bea, and I am an alcoholic.”

“Hi Bea,” a room of two dozen recovering alcoholics utter in unison. Cups of stale coffee and small paper napkins full of cookies and donuts are passed around. See, here’s the thing about early recovery nobody really tells you- in order to give up one addiction, another takes form. In our case, caffeine and sugar seem to be the most commonly embraced replacements in AA. 

“Uh…so, this is my first share, I really don’t know where to start”, my eyes tearing up, a knot formed in my throat, “But, um, so 22 days ago, I decided having a few beers on my commute to work would be a good idea. Then, uhm, I went out and got a 4 pack of those little wines from the closest drugstore. You know? The ones that come in those paper holders. I think it was 8AM at that point? So, after drinking those in my office from my coffee mug, I DoorDashed a box of wine,” I look down at my hands, wringing them together, sweat pooling in the crevices of my palms. Fuck me, I think.

“So I keep drinking,” I continue. “My husband was bringing me lunch at work that day,” squeezing my burning eyes as if trying to shut out the memory, tears are starting to fall. “He’s just too good. I really don’t deserve him,” I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand. “Anyways, when he got there he could tell I had been drinking. I don’t remember any of this, so I’m telling this from his view. Uh, yeah so he ended up walking me out and taking me home. I don’t remember leaving work. I don’t remember what I said to my co-workers or where I put that wine. The next day I went into work and the box of wine was gone, so was the mug I was drinking from. I just really hope that I threw them away in the blackout. I really don’t know.” I can’t stop the tears now. I rub my forehead as an attempt to focus and a middle-aged woman from the front row stands and comes beside me, handing me a tissue. She wraps her frail arm around my back, giving my shoulder a squeeze. My shame and fear and embarrassment wholly taking over now. 

“Uh yeah, so I don’t know how, but I still have a job, my husband has been really supportive and I feel better than I have in years. I guess I just wanted to finally be honest about why I’m here,” a heavy silence falls over the room and I stumble over the last sentence. “So, um, yeah, thanks.” 

I finish up, taking a seat, sinking as far down into the chair as physically possible. I picture myself being swallowed up by the cold plastic and vanishing into oblivion. That would probably be easier than sitting through the rest of this meeting. My eyes are still stinging with tears when the elderly man beside me turns and admits, “In my first share, I stopped half-way through. I couldn’t get through it without falling apart. That was 17 years ago. Keep showing up.” He pats my shoulder and turns back towards the front. A warm kernel of hope blooms in my chest.

When the last speaker was finished and the announcements were concluded, we quietly picked up our chairs, stacking them neatly at the back of the room. Being an introvert, I quickly sneak out of the room without speaking to anyone. I have been approached a few times before in meetings, everyone in here is friendly and just wants to help, but I am too awkward to exchange numbers with those willing.

As I sat in my boiling car, the AC struggling against the relentless heat outside, I reflected on the raw honesty I had just shared in the meeting. The warmth of support from strangers was both comforting and overwhelming. The air conditioner whirred louder, drowning out my thoughts as I turned on my favorite sober podcast. The drive home felt like a journey through my past mistakes and newfound resolve, the familiar landmarks triggering memories of temptation and struggle. Passing The Pub, The ABC Store, Walmart, each place held memories of past failed cravings I had to resist.

The internal battle raged on: How did I let it get this bad? What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I just be normal? Amidst the self-criticism, a glimmer of gratitude emerged. I was grateful for the chance to change, to reclaim my life from addiction. This time, though, felt different; it had to be different.

Pulling into the driveway, exhaustion mixed with relief flooded my senses. There, standing outside, was my husband, holding the one thing that filled my heart with hope and purpose—our son. His small hand waved enthusiastically as he saw me, a smile spreading across his face that mirrored my own. In that moment, surrounded by their unwavering love, I knew I wasn't alone in this journey of recovery.