Yoga Cocaine

Chapter 3

3

When my shift ends, I hurry home to shower, eat, stare at my kitchen wall, and try not to obsess about how pissed I am with myself that, once again, I forfeited my sobriety or that, in spite of my self-recrimination, I’m still longing to get high. I wait until the last possible second before heading out the door.

At 6:59, I walk into the Church of the Nazarene and slide into the empty chair beside my sponsor. I’ve calculated my arrival like I calculate so many things in life. 6:59 is the perfect time to get to a seven o’clock meeting. This way, I don’t have to make conversation, which I’d have to do if I were early, and I don’t draw attention to myself by being late.

The only thing I can’t seem to calculate is what will happen if I take a drink, or succumb to an urge to use. Every time I pick up, I think, This time will be different. This time will be worth it.

April squeezes my knee.

The Chestnut Hill Friday Night Women’s Meeting used to be her home group back when she was single and lived seventeen miles away, in South Philadelphia, but drove here every week to escape the possible shame of someone from her neighborhood recognizing her.

I don’t care about that. I live three miles down the road in Mt. Airy and I’m pretty sure everyone in my neighborhood knows I’m an addict. I just don’t want them to know what a failure I am at trying to quit.

The meeting leader reads the traditions. When she gets to “The only requirement for AA membership is the desire to stop drinking,” it’s all I can do to keep myself from running out. As much as I want to want to stop—and to be rid of the consequences—the truth is, I don’t. In fact, I’d give anything for an ice cold beer right now.

“The floor is now for sharing.” I raise my hand at the same time as some perky, pink-cloud divorcee. The meeting leader calls on her.

“Hi. I’m Amber, and I’m an alcoholic. I’m so grateful right now, because…”

What follows is a stream of verbal diarrhea about kids and playdates and feeling present and living life on life’s terms and how even her ex-husband has come to respect her. Bo-ring. The next sharer is much better. She talks about how life still blows, but how it blows less now that she’s not doing blow. Her irreverence makes me laugh, which is good because I have trouble concentrating—even here, amidst who are supposed to be “my people.”

I wish I had the capacity to be mindful off the mat, but, most of the time, I can’t even be mindful on it. Still, I do my best to tune in. These women seem to have figured out how to enjoy life enough not to want to go through it numb. My only hope is to learn from their experiences.

Next to me, my sponsor’s right hand rises while her left remains neatly in her lap, its pinky-adjacent finger adorned with the spectacular platinum and diamond noose of commitment.

April met and married Howie after she got sober. He only knows her as dependable.

“Hi, I’m April and I’m and addict and alcoholic.”

“Hi, April.”

“I’m grateful to be here tonight—grateful to be sober, period. A decade and a half ago, I was having s*x with men for c***k and about to be evicted from yet another apartment. Now, I’ve got almost fifteen years sober.”

The women clap and cheer, lavishing their approval on someone who no longer needs it because she has the confidence that comes from nearly 5,475 accumulated drink-less, drugless days.

“My life today isn’t what I’d ever have imagined. The highs aren’t as high, but they’re sustainable. And, as for the lows, my worst day sober is a million times better than my best day using.”

When it’s my turn to share, I stumble through my introduction. “I’m Jess-Jesse-Jessica. I’m an alcoholic and an addict.”

The room erupts in a chorus of “Hi Jessica!”s

I don’t know why they’re so chipper. It’s not like I’ve got anything profound to say. Everyone in this church basement has more abstinence, and more wisdom, than I ever will.

“I’m in a f****d up place,” I admit. “I’ll get a few days, or a week. Then, I find myself picking up again. I want to have hit bottom. I mean, I’ve lost my family, friends, jobs, money, and self-respect, and, most days, I wake up and wish I hadn’t, but, even though I hate the person drugs and alcohol have turned me into, I can’t tell you I won’t drink tomorrow.”

Several heads nod. A few of the old-timers murmur that I should “keep coming back.”

“Sorry to be a downer,” I tell the room. “Thanks for letting me share.”

And then it happens. That familiar sensation washes over me. That sensation I get during every AA meeting, and at the end of every yoga class.

It feels like Shavasana. It feels like home.