Coming Home…

Seventeen years ago I began my journey into a world filled with haze. Haze and hate. Haze and hate and drugs. It was at that time some son-of-a-bitch decided I had something he wanted and he was going to take it from me. And he did just that. Just as I was supposed to be living footloose and fancy free experiencing life as a teenager, some asshole barged into my life and stole my innocence. I was devastated, and I didn't know what to do.
I was desperate to find something that would ease the pain. I contemplated suicide, but I couldn't bear to hurt my parents like that. That's when I found drugs. First, I found alcohol; I quickly moved on to the hard stuff: street drugs. They all work some, but only one really killed the pain. Finally! I had found something to make it all go away. And off I was into a drug-induced haze.
Fourteen years later I was still lost in that world. But this time I was nearing 30. I was penniless, homeless, unemployed and unemployable. I had lost everything that was important to me. I had no friends, and my family had distanced themselves from me. I was alone, and I was a junkie.
After reaching my lowest low, my “bottom,” I knew something needed to change. That is when I crawled through the doors of my first Narcotics Anonymous meeting. I approached the doors of the church, hesitated, then entered. Everyone inside looked to see who had entered. Here was a group of people I had never before seen. These strangers were welcoming; they invited me to sit and offered me a hot, overly strong, cup of coffee. These people were smiling, laughing even, and they seemed genuinely happy. They asked my name and introduced themselves to me. It was then that a feeling washed over me that I hadn't felt in a long, long time. I couldn't place the feeling just yet, but I knew I liked it.
At seven o'clock sharp the meeting began with a moment of silence and something called the “Serenity Prayer.” Each member of the group then introduced him or her self with their first name only followed by “And I'm an addict.” Then it was my turn. I said, “My name is Willow,” I whispered when I added, “And I'm an addict.” The group responded in unison, “Hi, Willow. Welcome.” Some added “We're glad you're here.” Again, that good feeling washed over me. I almost knew what it was, but I still couldn't name it.
Since it was my first meeting, it was suggested that I just sit and listen. So I did. These strangers read from cards that were placed around the table. There were things like “Who is an Addict?” and “Why are we Here?” The group would spurt out words and phrases that were alien to me. Words like “Gratitude,” “Recovery,” and “Higher Power” saturated their conversations. I was sure they were from another planet, but I stayed.
I sat and listened to what these people had to share with me. I listened to a woman who shared that she had lost her kids to the system, but she kept using anyway. A man spoke of how he started using drugs while he was in Vietnam and had continued for nearly 30 years. There was a man on parole with seven years clean, a wife and three teenage kids at home. And a young girl, barely 16, shared that her mom had caught her smoking pot and was making her come. I had nothing in common with any of these people. Not so far that I could tell. But at the end of the meeting I was told to “Keep coming back.” So, I did. At this point I was very close to putting a name to the feeling I was experiencing but I just couldn't reach it.
One week later I returned to that same church at the same time, and the same group of people was there. Many of the members even remembered my name. Again, they welcomed me and offered me a seat and a cup of coffee. At this meeting I was asked if I wanted to share anything. I decided I would try to share, but just a little. As I shared some of my history I noticed something strange. There were people all around me who were nodding their heads in understanding. They seemed to genuinely know what I was going through. The next thing I knew, I had blabbed my entire life story to a bunch of people I had only met once. And they had let me. I knew I found where I belonged. That 'was it! The feeling I could not name was no longer a mystery to me. I had finally come “home.
I decided to try my luck at a meeting in another town. Although there were differences between the meeting facilities, the overall “feeling” of them was the same. Both groups also had the same quirky rituals. Every meeting started with the same prayer. Somewhere in the middle of the meeting a basket was passed around, and people put money in it. Not everyone did it. But most of them did, and it was always one dollar each. Then there was the hand-holding or group hug at the end where we all stood and said another prayer. But every meeting, every one, ended with the group saying, “Keep coming back, it works!” I was starting to like these strange people.
Within weeks I was attending meetings in both towns. I had found a sponsor within this group of aliens, her name was Beth. Beth had been “clean” for a number of years, and she began walking with me through the 12-steps of the program. She held my hand while I cried and helped me work through the pain of the attack, and all of the other pains I had tried to cover for so many years with drugs. Beth was patient, kind, and comforted me when I needed it. But as my sponsor, she was also stern when necessary. Over time, my sponsor and I became very close. She was my confidante, my shoulder to cry on, and my anchor. She kept me coming back when the times seemed too tough.
After about six months, I was regularly attending three to five meetings a week. I'd figured out what that basket passing thing was all about. The “7th Tradition” of Narcotics Anonymous states that every group is self-supporting, and we did not accept outside donations. The pages that we read at every meeting are from the Narcotics Anonymous Basic Text, a sort of “handbook” for N.A. We read them at every meeting, every time, every where, without exception. Every group said the “Serenity Prayer” before beginning a meeting. But most importantly, every member was silent while another was sharing. Many of the group members did not feel comfortable sharing our stories outside the walls of those meetings; the silence was a sign of respect.
I once heard someone say, “The doors to these rooms swing three ways: in, out, and in again.” I now know what she meant. Throughout my time in these rooms, I have seen many members come and go. Some have even come back. Many have not. When a member of our fellowship goes back out, they are never alone. We keep that person in our hearts and prayers, holding onto a glimmer of hope that we will see them come back in again.
For those who stay, there are rites and ceremonies in which group partakes. A “milestone” in a member's recovery is marked with a celebration, and he or she is given a token to commemorate his or her journey. Key tags or “chips” are given to those who make it their first nine months. A medallion, or coin, is presented to members who make it a year and each year after. These gifts are given with love and usually by a sponsor, someone who has guided this person through their recovery and with whom an unbreakable bond has been formed. I received my one-year medallion in the very same room I had crawled into that first night. That same welcoming group of people was there, most of them at least. Some were not.
It's been nearly three years since I crawled up the stairs to my first meeting, but I remember it better than I remember yesterday. I still see the smiles on the faces of these strange, alien people. I can hear the welcoming tone in the voices of those members. I smell the overly strong coffee and feel the cold draft from the door every time it opened and another member entered the church. I still hear the stories of hope and strength.
Although I'm no longer in that town, I still feel like I come home every time I walk into an N.A. meeting. The only difference is that now I'm on the other side of the table. That smile, story and overly strong coffee are my contributions to the group. I sit and listen, just as I did then, to the stories that are shared. Today I no longer whisper when it's my turn to speak. Hi. My name is Willow, and I am an addict.