Stars Above

Thanksgiving Night, 1986. I pulled my Dodge Colt outside the low white Alcoholics Anonymous clubhouse, cracked the windows and gave my two-year-old English setter, Grey, a pat on the head.  "Be good, girl. I'll be back in an hour and a half."

Grey was my "sobriety dog." Not that I'd been sober the whole time I'd had her, but the need to keep her fed, walked and happy was one of the few things—maybe the only thing—keeping me alive. I was 26 and at the tail end of 10 disastrous years of drinking. I'd had my first drink, young—15, to be exact—and from the very start I was a blackout drinker. The older I got, the more frequent—and the more terrible—the blackouts got. Not that I was an alcoholic. I wasn't even 30! Alcoholics were old men in trench coats, people who drank all day long. I could go for a week, even a month, without a drink.

But not without a price. The more sober I was, the more depressed I got. I'd drive over bridges and think about pulling the wheel hard to the right. It got bad at this time of year too. The dark moods were more intense—blacker—with the holiday season. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I just knew that if I didn't find my way soon, I'd be beyond help, or dead.

So this Thanksgiving I'd decided to skip seeing my relatives. They'd ask too many questions, make me feel bad about where my life was going…or not going. Who needed that? I couldn't be alone, though. Much as I loved Grey, a Thanksgiving with only her would leave me so down I'd have no choice but to drink. So here I was—taking a still-warm pumpkin pie out of my trunk and getting ready to have my holiday meal with a bunch of drunks.

I'd been to a couple of AA meetings before, more out of curiosity than conviction. But I'd never been to one on Thanksgiving. An "eatin'  meetin'" was how it was billed. How much more pathetic could you get? Above blazed the stars, but all I felt was darkness. I walked through the door hoping to go unnoticed. No such luck. "That's a nice-looking pie!"  Wayne, a burly man I recognized from other meetings, practically bellowed. "Let's find a place for it on the dessert table."

Wayne guided me over and I wedged my contribution in among the other pies, cakes and cookies. Now that my arms were free, Wayne wrapped his own around me in a big bear hug. "Glad you made it," he said.

How on earth did he know how hard it was for me to make it there? I teared up. I must really be losing it. "Thanks," I managed to say. "I'm happy to be here."