Blog

I wasn't thrilled with Alcoholics Anonymous. Growing up, my mother identified one person as being in AA, a certain Princeton person, and attributed his mediocre piano playing and boring conversation to his membership in that club. I had never been a group person, and when it seemed like I was accepted into any clique or inner circle, I immediately threw myself back out. This was partly my father's fault, for despite his popularity and professional success, he would frequently suggest he put on this Irish "serf" cap and go and grovel on the wide, verdant lawns of the Princeton rich. I certainly didn't believe in God, and while there was talk of a non-god "higher power," God was woven into much of the literature. It wasn't just a matter of belief but sheer hatred. God had killed my sister and best friend. God had made my father drink and get violent. God did nothing about violence, racism, child abuse, and poverty. I regarded God as a thing that caused wars and perpetuated patriarchal tyranny. I was very angry, but my former method of dealing with rage, drinking until blackout, was no longer available.

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There is more. There is always more, but I wanted to pause to be present in my current existence, happily married, sober forty years this December (higher power willing), living in northern Michigan and aging, not something I expected when I was so lost in addiction, regret, despair, and grief. Nothing has come easily including a happy marriage, losing my parents, finally reconciling with and loving my surviving older sister. My son went through a terrible self-destructive phase in high school and early college when I decided he was following in my footsteps, but with the irony that I had been a perfect mother and I was sober. Well, I wasn’t a perfect mother and my sobriety had little to do with the choices he made. When it was time to talk, to forgive, to accept, and to listen, I was there. He is safe, he is happy, he loves someone, and is loved in return.

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A paid messenger served the Order of Protection on the Sicilian. On the subway one morning I saw an ad for Jacoby and Myers offering seventy-five dollar divorces. When one of the partners died, The New York Times included this in her obituary: “Recognizing that the rich can afford lawyers and that the poor have access to free assistance programs, Jacoby and Meyers focused on serving average people who could often not afford to hire a lawyer at prevailing rates.”

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