Taking a break from short stories to bring some found material to the blog. This one’s from October, a while ago.

My sponsor is making me share at every meeting. He tells me usually he’s forced to silence his sponsees, tell them don’t speak, just listen for a month or two. But I’m resistant to sharing, to vulnerability and not making sense. Yesterday I was called upon to share, my first ever share; it didn’t go well. I began to speak, off topic, a vomit of observations and AA speak, trusting I would find a way to mold the gallons I’d just retched into something bite-sized, actionable, on-topic. It didn’t work. Halfway through what felt like a dry heave, I said, I have to pass. I was surprised at the volume of the general sigh “thanks, Todd” that followed. Everyone seemed relieved for me. Now I’m sure everyone was embarrassed for me, that no one will forget my gross attempt to make sense, that everyone in that room thinks I’m stupid and went home after the meeting to have a laugh with their significant other about the idiot who tried to say something out loud.

What’s worse, they also pity me.

I dreamed last night that Martin Amis gave me a handjob. The shame from the handjob matched exactly what I’d felt in the meeting. Please God, let no one have seen, let everyone forget, let me not have cum all over the place. Please let me be able to read my favorite author again without reliving this bizarre incident.

But I’ve probably ruined AA forever by having spoken clumsily.

I have a tendency to catastrophize.

I look up to the people in these rooms. I was sure when I attended my first meeting I’d find everyone mopey or cloying, puddles of sentimentality and Big Book truisms. One day at a time. Let go, let God. I wouldn’t make it except that I pray every day. Before AA I hated God. Etc. Etc. While I still hear these sopping eye-rolls, I’ve discovered I avidly respect everyone in the rooms. The dinosaurs who’ve been sober since the invention of the printing press. The busy chairpeople who have two hard-earned years and five sponsees who look up to them and love them the way puppies do. The two-monthers who just got their kids back. The moms, the fucking moms who have to bring their family with them. Even those who speak and don’t make any fucking sense whatsoever, I respect.

I have a year and I look around the rooms to find only elders, assuming everyone with five months or twenty days is lying to me about their small number of days. Smaller than my days. You must have more than you advertise! Look at you! You speak gospel, revolution, Writer’s Almanac, Marcus Aurelius. 

I see all of you, and want you to be my friend. But I’m sure I’m unlovable. I’ve shattered whatever once looked appealing about me. I’m too broken to touch, so get the broom and dustpan and garbage. Maybe wear gloves.

But maybe friendship isn’t the point. 

Just staying sober is the point.

Could that be all?

I have to speak at every meeting. That’s what my sponsor says. What could go wrong? Everything. For instance, Martin Amis could be in the crowd and I might sound like a moron in front of the man whose prose once saved my life.

I’ll be bringing more short reads to the blog as I unearth them researching a character.