Michele Filgate writes, "Our mothers are our first homes...Where we fit." The first place I felt at home was in the rooms of AA. At 16 years old I started to attend Al Anon meetings. As a part of that program, my sponsor asked me to sit in at open AA meetings once a week. Though I forget the reasoning she had, I came to enjoy 6:00pm on Saturday nights. That dark, hot basement felt like home. The people I heard speak had me laughing and crying in turn. I finally felt like a fit in. And then, I didn't.
I worked the steps until I returned back to a blistering Boston and went with my rapist to my first Boston AA meeting. It was large, hot, and all I remember is a man covered in tattoos knitting throughout the entirety of the hour. I was hooked.
Until, I wasn't.
I found AA to be an incredibly beautiful experience, but also one that made me feel like a liar, a ghost, a fake, and ultimately questioning round and a round again, should I be here? Was I an alcoholic?
Fast forward, to now. I am sufficiently stuffed with knowledge: past (I come from three generations of drinkers), a present (returning to my sober blog, living inside the grey, and thus embracing the more comfortable space for me of grey area drinking), and the future (hopefully clear, always full of questions). I know my journey is not for everyone. I know my story is unique to me. But that, after all, is exactly how it should be. I am not a round peg in a square hole, I am entirely my own shape and size, a big, queer, sober (right now), body. I ask questions. I teach myself from readings, conversations, engaging in discussion. I go to therapy. I use my hands to make art, pet my dog, hold my almost-wife's hand. I choose sobriety more than I don't because it's where I find the most freedom.