Remember...

When I was 7 years old, my mother pulled me from bed one morning before the sun rose to listen to the broadcast of John Glenn's earth orbit. "You'll remember this," she said. I mostly remember the strangeness of being out of bed with the television on so early, but she was right. I do remember. I remember the day that President Kennedy was killed, and seeing Ruby shoot Oswald on TV. I remember the shock of Martin Luther King's assassination, and shaking Robert Kennedy's hand the week before he was gunned down. There was a lot to remember in the 60's & 70's. I vividly remember an awareness that those were not normal times; that the social order was shifting and I was witness to it. I also remember Pearl Harbor, and D-Day, and the Depression of the 1930's, because my mother remembered, and passed her internalized patriotism and frugality on to me. I remember. (Note that I started this entry last week, before learning of Glenn's illness. Rest in peace, Astronaut Glenn)

In addition to life and historical events, most recovering people remember their first drink. Mine was in 1968, the week of my graduation from 8th grade. I'd always thought that it was at a particular friend's home, and that I wrote in my lock & key diary that I wish there'd been more. Memory seems to have fooled me, for in a recent re-reading, I discovered that the party was at another fellow's house, and that there was beer left over to be saved for later. That was very likely the first and last time I saved anything for later...

I was not a blackout drinker. I have many, many memories of momentous as well as crummy little evenings and weekends, and months. We in recovery often mine those memories for clues as to why we did what we did when we did it. The explanation, "because you're an alcoholic" never seemed quite enough. Surely I could unlock the secrets of my insanity with just one more inventory. Maybe not. Maybe I'm just an alcoholic, with events pushed in motion by my less-than-coherent choices.

I did hear someone say early on, "If you can't remember your last drink, maybe you haven't had it yet." Oh I do remember, with more clarity than I'd like. It was New Year's Eve, because I'd insisted on "just one more!" I sat by myself in front of the fireplace, drinking Moet & Chandon champagne from the bottle while my junkie boyfriend nodded out in the bathroom. So much for that final good time. I remember how the top deck of the Fremont Bridge looked covered in snow as we started the trek to Seaside at 9pm on Jan 2nd. I remember sitting in the car on the side of the road shooting up, knowing somewhere deep inside that it was the last time. And I remember pulling up to Serenity by the Sea. windows fogged with cigarette smoke and steam from coffee cups as several peers did paperwork at the dining room table.

What I remember all this time later is how empty I felt in those last few years before sobriety, and how amazing it was to step over that line into recovery. My memories today, like many of yours must be, are related to early and long lasting friendships, all the 1st's (1st sober date, 1st sober kiss, 1st sober dance, 1st sober Christmas, 1st job, etc, etc etc), special groups and groups of people; that time a bunch of us went to Hawaii... and Spain... and onward.

December seems made for memory, with the coming of the new year, both 2017, and, for me, another sober anniversary. The AA book cautions us against indulging in "morbid reflection," but I find that it is important to remember both how lonely I was, and the joys of the early days. I enjoy a good, simple life today, and lest I forget, it could've turned out a whole lot differently.

There was an AA member named Patrick at the coast, who used to sing "Oh Thank You God" to the tune of "Oh Christmas Tree."  I still sing that song. Thank you, God, for all of the memories and for right here, right now.