Stories Within the Prayer

W

hen I turn 30 God will bring me to my knees. The closest thing I’ve felt to heaven is the sound the cap seal makes when you crack open a fresh bottle of Gordon’s. The snap and peel jolts me back to a moment where pain translates to creativity. The rest of the night will be filled with words of truth, clouded by whispers of regret.

I often choose to ignore this.

The thing about entering recovery at 23 is that silence can be too loud to handle. What once was a welcomed slice of solitude becomes a dreaded enemy; someone I’m in an endless lose-lose battle with, holding my sanity by a silver chain around my neck as an advertisement for weakness. I’m learning what it means to grow up for the second time. Research says that your frontal lobe doesn’t fully develop until the age of 25, but I can feel the way mine has been split in half, rolled over backwards, and sewn back together.

Before the first meeting I went to, I circled the block of East Van that surrounds Britannia Community Center, chain-smoking and fidgeting with the loose thread on my denim shorts. The ache in my liver and head-pulsing from a lingering hangover echoed my doctor’s scolding words of my “absolute need to get sober!” I had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but I was longing for, searching for, something—I just didn’t quite know what. Two years of nightly blackouts, thousands of dollars spent at BC Liquor and now a fatty liver, I was ready to give into the unsolicited advice I’d received from doctor, after nurse, after psychiatrist, on how to “fix” my so-called “alcohol abuse disorder” so that I could go on to live out my 20s in a healthy way.

When I finally forced my body to move through the door and into the meeting room, I took a seat on a folding chair and waited. People of all ages trickled in, greeting each other, embracing, and exchanging warm smiles, in a style that could only be described as transcending the concept of age. When it comes to AA, it seems as though the concept of age gets ditched at the door. Within the 12-step discussion circle, time can only be found through measurements of sobriety chips, a symbolic representation of finding praise within the discomfort.

In that chilled room tucked away behind the walls of the Britannia Ice Rink, I mastered the art of storytelling. As I grew more familiar with the faces around the circle each week, I could see each crease and wrinkle writing out history throughout months, years, decades. A story that was told through the unspoken language that only an addict could understand. The sound of isolation within a community has never been louder.

The narrative of AA had been spun in such a way that made it seem like attending would resemble the feeling of “home” I had been so hungry for as of late. With addiction can come shame, and with shame comes isolation, until I spiral and my emotions circle back to cynicism and rage. I didn’t want to feel shame or guilt that I needed to down at least one mickey a night, to resemble a feeling of normalcy that should come naturally. When you dig too deep, eventually you meet the bottom of the Earth—and the forgiveness is hard to come by.

Week after week, I watched group members collect their chips; one year, six months, three months, 24 hours, an endless supply of multi-coloured plastic pieces that allowed people to hold resilience in the palm of their hand. I longed for shame to bring me as much comfort and hope as I watched it bring those around me.

When you dig too deep, eventually you meet the bottom of the Earth—and the forgiveness is hard to come by.

Throughout the months I was attending AA, two things became rapidly clear; the first being that time does not heal all wounds. The second being that the internalized stigma that accompanies addiction is a critical part of hooking members into returning the next week. Being trans and an alcoholic can age someone five years in the span of five months and with that, I could see a door to a new closet opening, forcing my way back inside a secret I thought I had finally left behind.

I’m someone who thrives on structure and consistency; AA and I had that in common. From the initial rounds of intros, to giving out sobriety chips, to wrapping up by reciting the serenity prayer in unison, the meetings were laid out in a simple, fool-proof formula. I enjoyed the predictability of it all, that I knew what to expect, even if what I learned to anticipate was feelings of shame.

As we went around the circle, sharing about the lowest points in our lives and how alcohol was responsible, I swallowed the words that threatened to bubble out of my mouth about navigating PTSD, living in isolation, and what it means to recover as the world burns around us. I’d think about the times I’d drink to escape the noise of everyday life that is heightened when you live with a brain that has been has been trying to hurt you for the entirety of your life; I’d imagine the bleakness that follows so many people throughout their lives, and how a desire to escape is one of the most humanistic responses; I’d picture my friends and family members, both past and present, who had found healing from their pain by way of indulging in substance use. I’d think about how, as we held hands, closed our eyes, and recited the serenity prayer, the world outside that room moved on. I wondered what would happen if I interrupted the prayer, stood up on my folding chair, and demanded someone inform me of how our problems were all the fault of alcoholism, and not a life that had been toying with us since we were all born?

Addiction and healing are not mutually exclusive concepts. As we move through a world that continues to burn, I hope the hands I held in that room learn to be gentle with themselves. I hope we learn to respect coping at the end of the world.