The AA ballad of Hugo Schwyzer

My enduring silence on this past summer's Hugo Schwyzer debacle, has been wholly deliberate. For those who need the background, check it out HERE, HERE and HERE. (Warnings out the wazoo, as we say here in the South.)





One of those primary "recovery rules" is that you do not judge another addict, or doubt that they are sober.

Just look at the fallout here when I (correctly) called the cause of Brittany Murphy's death before it was official. I was considered ableist and out of line. (And when I was proven right, none of these people apologized to me either.) I learned from that, and decided I would be more circumspect the next time.

And so initially, I did not plan on saying anything at all about Hugo's now-famous, bizarre meltdown. But since then, folks have pointedly asked me for my opinion, since I mentioned him in my post about my own AA anniversary... and so I have now decided to comment at length.

~*~

At some point, I think after I read the famous jizz piece, I decided feminist-professor Hugo was using and/or drinking again.

The problem was (see Brittany Murphy, Michael Jackson, et al), these were undoubtedly perfectly-legal, professionally-vetted, prescribed meds that he had started abusing again... and this is one reason hard-core Alcoholics Anonymous people like my sponsor were so categorically anti-drug. Prescription drugs are still drugs. Of course there are always "good reasons" for them; I got a million Rxs in my life, with no trouble. Had good reasons for them all. Primary among these reasons: I was an addict, I wanted them, and I knew how to get them.

The onslaught of anti-depressants, sleeping aids and anti-anxiety meds for recovering addicts/alcoholics, has been an unmitigated disaster. Its also an old feud within AA and NA (Narcotics Anonymous), as well as within other recovery circles. The concept is that people were "self-medicating" with alcohol (and so what else is new) and so they just needed the "correct" meds and ... then they somehow magically won't want those naughty "bad" drugs anymore. This is self-serving, narcissistic, addict-apologist bullshit. Always has been. Thing is, those of us who clung to this uncool, supposedly-outmoded view (that it's bullshit), invariably lost the war. Drugs flooded into recovery circles like the proverbial tidal wave. (NOTE: I have been alcohol-free for 32 years, and I refer to the advent of Prozac and similar drugs in the early 90s.)

At one point, I refused to sponsor people who were using prescription drugs to 'cushion their fall' into reality. And I learned (to my alarm) that I could spot them fairly easily. They didn't LEARN anything. They retained many/most of their negative personality-issues and character defects. They didn't "work on themselves"--and I think it's because, frankly, they didn't feel enough pain to find it necessary to change. Pain is instructional. Depression is instructional. Guilt and shame are instructional. When you do not allow yourself to FEEL these emotions/states of mind (self-medicating, the reason you drank in the first place), you do not learn the REASONS for them, which are usually: personality disorders, erroneous views of reality, childhood traumas left to fester and infect the psyche, self-esteem in the toilet, PTSD run amok, a puritanical/punitive world-view, etc. Drugs are a band-aid solution. As soon as I would get close to any of these issues in a sponsoree, they would have a meltdown (much like Hugo's!) and then go robotic; that particular, tell-tale type of robotic-reaction that is made possible by the psychological BUFFER OF CHEMICALS that is DRUGS.

No work could get done.

"I think I have PTSD," says the recovering person.

"Let's work on it," I'd say.

(((HYSTERIA))) followed by the robotic, predictably drugged-up countenance.

Like clockwork.

I would finally cut them loose, and I'd say, get another sponsor or come back to me when you cut out the drugs. I don't care if Sigmund fucking Freud himself gave them to you, NO. I will not work with people who are buffering the world with drugs. WON'T DO IT. And most of these people would hang around awhile, then leave. This has become known as the "revolving door of recovery"--because it just happens over and over and these people never learn to DO WITHOUT SUBSTANCES. TOTALLY.

At this point, readers are thinking/saying, "You are not a professional! Danger, Will Robinson, danger!" And they are right. I am not. That is how AA works, and how it worked for me. I do not go to professionals, I do not BELIEVE in bullshit elitist, over-educated professionals, who have over-prescribed drugs to the point that we now have multiple-epidemics of junkies on the level we have never before had in history. PROFESSIONALS ARE PART OF THE FUCKING PROBLEM. I believe in peers, I believe in equality, I believe in people who have been through what I have been through, I believe in the power of regular human beings connecting with each other. That is what worked for me, and I still believe in it. Professionals pretty much destroyed AA, as did the courts forcing people to attend meetings after being arrested for drunken driving or drug possession (in direct violation of the 11th Tradition, which originally stated that AA membership should be based on "attraction rather than promotion"). The overarching resentment of these court-ordered maybe-alcoholics just smoldered, and their anger was palpable in many meetings, destroying the cozy family-atmosphere we once enjoyed. Meanwhile, the professionals brought in all kinds of psychobabble and Dr Feelgood jargon, correcting the scruffy street-people and (ever so politely!) reinterpreting their experience for them with big words and medical concepts, alienating them even further.

As I said, unmitigated disaster.

In short, old style AA might have helped Hugo. The moment I learned he was still "on meds" (which I'm sure were duly prescribed by one of the all-holy and infallible professionals) --I knew the implosion was just a matter of time. I just waited for it, wincing, because I figured it would be a flame-out of Biblical proportions. (I have also been waiting for something like this from Glenn Beck, and he has disappointed me so far, unless he has been able to keep it out of the media.) I have seen countless of these in AA. It usually manifests in these kinds of people (Hugo and Glenn Beck), who make "recovery" part of their identity. It's okay to do this for awhile, even necessary at first. (e.g. I once saw myself as party animal, so it was necessary at first to see myself as recovery animal; I had to put something IN ITS PLACE as a substitution.) But eventually, the idea should be that we MOVE ON. (I have not been to an AA meeting in about a dozen years now.) After a decent length of time has passed, we should even be able to figure out if indeed a certain drug might be helpful and/or good for us. I am old, and my joints are falling apart; there ARE good drugs, and I fully understand that now. Similarly, a toke at the bluegrass concert, did not hurt me. I have learned the MIDDLE PATH at long last, but only because I made learning that a priority. I did not want to be dependent on AA (or drugs) my whole life. I know the important thing: my drug of choice, alcohol, and highly addictive drugs (Valium, sleeping pills, Oxys, opiates, meth, questionable "appetite suppressants" such as the now-disgraced Preludin, which I ate like candy) are totally off limits for me. I avoid them like the plague. I do not take any psych meds daily, since I believe they interfere with my judgement and make it more likely that I will forget this personal boundary and break this rule. I have managed to maintain my sobriety, although sometimes tenuous, through remembering my triggers: bad temper, familial stress (and attendant co-dependency; trying to run other people's lives to my specifications), feelings of inadequacy, hypochondria... and more importantly, I know where all of these traits came from and how they originated in my life (meaning: I no longer hate myself for them).

I DID THE WORK, SO I KNOW THESE THINGS.

Hugo didn't. So he doesn't.

One of his triggers: WOMEN. He should have been forbidden from any and all relationships for a period of time, until his sponsor told him it was safe, and then the sponsor should have properly vetted the relationship. No sex; celibacy until you figure out what sex is doing to your life and why you compulsively seek it out. (This is true for MEN AND WOMEN regarding what is called "sex addiction" --which often goes hand-in-hand with other addictions, just as co-dependency and eating disorders do.) I know, this sounds cultish, but THAT IS WHAT I MEAN: Hugo went to the new, improved (snark), Rxs-for-everybody AA, not the cold-showers-and-root-canal version I went to in 1982. When I entered AA, NOT cooperating was really not an option if you wanted to hang around for an extended length of time. The Alcoholics Anonymous I went to was categorical: No serious decisions for a year. This rule includes jobs (if you are employed, do not change jobs or quit your job; if unemployed, try to stretch this out as long as you can), relationships (no changing them, no divorces, no "falling in love", no fucking around), and living arrangements, unless you are in an emergency situation (and many addicts are). Every stress-making decision was talked over carefully first, in meetings or with your sponsor. Everything you did and thought was thoroughly interrogated and examined, first by yourself, and if you still weren't sure, you brought it to "group conscience." [When I was faced with attending my grandmother's wake in Indiana, after only six slim months of sobriety, I fully realized this would be a rowdy and hyper-emotional occasion in MY hard-drinking family. The group counseled me, en masse, do not stay with a family member, stay in a motel instead. Wow, I said, isn't that RUDE? Someone replied, "Is getting howling drunk and fucking everything up rude?" Hmm, good point. I stayed in the motel. I managed. It was okay. I got through it, and the group's collective wisdom was the reason why.]

It was a hard-ass approach, but it is the one I think is necessary, because ADDICTS LIE TO THEMSELVES EVEN MORE THAN THEY DO TO EVERYONE ELSE.

And that way of life now seems extinct. I mourn its loss. It might have saved Hugo.

This is why I did not initially comment on Hugo's flame-out, because I knew I would have to say all of this. I think recovery itself FAILED HUGO, because it got soft.

In fact, let me be clear: the new and improved (snark again) recovery was TAILOR MADE for attention-whores like him. He then could use the fact of recovery to become a star and pump up his self-importance and toxic ego even more. For some of us, particularly down here in the working classes, addiction and alcoholism are still stigmatized; even admitting it is in your past, is still stigmatized. I often do not tell people, unless they finally ask me if there is a reason I never drink.

We don't have "stars" in the working classes (who do not eventually become recovery professionals themselves)... you have to be an academic or writer or media-figure to be a "recovery star"--and Hugo was. He used this fact about himself to boost his star-appeal, which tells me that he still hadn't worked on one of his major personality defects: attention-whoredom.

This has been difficult to write. In AA circles, what I have just done is called "taking Hugo's inventory" and is considered really bad form. I apologize, but felt it was necessary after I was asked the 6th or 7th time, and by people I deeply respect. I "defended" Hugo the last time (actually I just said he needed to be able to write honestly about what had happened--although interestingly, I don't). After his most recent flip-out, a couple of people got nasty with me and asked me if I had rescinded that post. No, I haven't--but then, I was writing it about someone I thought was actually recovering. (Notably: I had not seen the infamous jizz piece at that time.)

I would issue a warning, just in general: If you see people leave AA and then take up with some hard-core religion? Warning. DANGER. This person needs rules and boundaries, and they feel they are not getting them. So, they/we go where there are rules, lots and lots of rules. I did, my sponsor did, Glenn Beck did, and I notice, Hugo did. It is NEVER a good sign. It can work for some of us, as a sort of "transition out" of AA, a halfway-house into the regular world. But for others, it just means CARTE BLANCHE and gives them a whole new playground to play in. Aha, they think, I just needed GOD! I was never an alcoholic, I just needed JEEZUS! (And since we know that now, why not have a drink to celebrate?)

Watch out. As the Grateful Dead song said, trouble ahead, trouble behind. Hugo easily found the trouble, and took a nice long bath in it.

If AA had stayed true to itself, the revolving door of recovery would not exist, and the revolving door into the Church/Synagogue/Mosque/Ashram wouldn't either. As it is, we have all been betrayed, and Big Pharm bears a lot of the blame. But we have also lost our way, we have also declined the rougher, more unpleasant aspects of recovery, such as taking a big, bold look at ourselves as we really and truly are, putting all those pesky psychic-dramas under the microscope for close inspection. We have not wanted to look at the damage we have done--at least I never did. This means people like Hugo can write dramatic accounts of almost-murder/suicides and make them sound like Movies-of-the-Week, instead of the horrific, desperate acts they actually are (if his dramatic tale is true at all, of course. I have come to doubt it, or at least, wonder what parts of the story were edited/left out/trumped up, etc.)

I hope this is a satisfactory reply to the people who have asked me to comment on Hugo. I did not mean it to be so long... but then again, that is why I didn't want to write about him in the first place. I do see Hugo as a casualty of his own hubris... but the difference is, in the old days, he couldn't have used recovery as an excuse to GET WORSE. And now, it seems to be a rather common phenomenon.

I weep for those of us who will never recover. I hope Hugo can. But first, he needs to shut up, and for a good long time, too. Attention is his enemy. Although for some, it is a balm, since they were often totally ignored and relegated to the back of the room. That's the thing: One size does not fit all.

And once upon a time, AA knew that and counseled us accordingly.

I miss those days.

Venerable Matt Talbot

Venerable Matt Talbot, traditional holy card.






In the Catholic calendar, today is the Feast Day of Matt Talbot. He has not been fully canonized yet, but is currently in the first stage, which gives him the title of "Venerable"; he needs to progress through the second stage (and the title of "Blessed") before he is a saint.

My late, great Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor, Kathy Anthony, supervised the detox unit at the old Talbot Hall in Columbus, Ohio, which is now part of the Ohio State University Medical Center, but was at that time part of the St Anthony Hospital complex on the east side. At Talbot Hall, she made me stand up at an actual podium and give my AA "testimony" to about 300 people. It was the first time I had ever done it, and I was scared shitless. I remember looking at the painting of Matt Talbot hanging in the entrance hall, and asking him for a boost. I can even recall reaching out and touching the picture, whispering, "If you're listening, how about an infusion of grace?"

He got me through it, and I owe him. In fact, after the first few sentences, I relaxed completely and it was not unlike a regular conversation... or like blogging. :)

After he is properly canonized, Matt Talbot will likely be designated patron saint of alcoholics.

~*~

Nezua freaked me right out, offering a story that the mainstream media has all but ignored.

I am as angry about the national-media blackout, as I am about the story itself, which is horrifying enough.

Nezua writes:

I’M VERY SORRY TO SAY that Brisenia Flores and her father Raul are dead. That’s Brisenia on the left. The Flores familia was sleeping when anti-immigrant crusaders busted down their door and invaded their home, ICE-style, before shooting the father and daughter to death.

And did you hear about little Brisenia?

Me neither, and I am a major newshound.

According to The Arizona Daily Star:

Three people, including the leader of a border watch group and an officer within that group, were arrested in connection with a May 30 home invasion that left a father and his daughter dead and the mother wounded, authorities said.

One of those arrested, Shawna Forde, is the leader of Minutemen American Defense, a group out of Washington state that conducts operations along the U.S.-Mexican border in Arizona. The group is not related to either the Minuteman Civil Defense Corps founded by Chris Simcox, or the Minuteman Project founded by Jim Gilchrist.
Authorities also arrested Jason Eugene Bush, 34, who serves as operations director for the Washington group, and Albert Robert Gaxiola, 42, in connection with the shooting deaths of Raul Flores, 29, and his 9-year-old daughter, Brisenia Flores, said Pima County Sheriff Clarence Dupnik.

The three are charged with two counts of first-degree murder, one count of first degree burglary, and one count of aggravated assault.

Several men and a woman claiming to be police officers forced their way into the home in the middle of the night May 30 and killed the pair. The girl's mother was wounded, and investigators believe she returned fire, injuring Bush, Dupnik said.

Dupnik painted a grim picture of the tragedy during a press conference Friday at the Sheriff's Department headquarters.

Raul Flores was a suspected drug dealer, and the three suspects targeted the house with the intention of stealing money and drugs, he said.

Bush was the suspected shooter, Dupnik said.

They did not plan to leave any survivors, he said. "The plan was to kill everyone. To kill a 9-year-old because she might be a potential witness is one of the most despicable acts I've heard of."

The next time you see Lou Dobbs or one of those talking-head-hacks babbling about the Minutemen "protecting" our borders, just remember this story, okay?

Sure they are.

~*~

Aunt B reports on the exploits of Harass II the wonder dog, who actually had the power to convict people.

From The Agitator:

Incredible story from Orlando, where police and prosecutors were apparently convicting people of violent crimes based almost exclusively on the “testimony” of a police dog whose handler claimed has extraordinary powers.

Last weekend, we looked at the case of Bill Dillon, the Brevard County resident imprisoned for 27 years before DNA tests set him free…

At least two other men suffered the same fate — and another shared link: a dog.

Not just any dog. A wonder dog helped convict all three men: a German shepherd named Harass II, who wowed juries with his amazing ability to place suspects at the scenes of crimes.

Harass could supposedly do things no other dog could: tracking scents months later and even across water, according to his handler, John Preston.

Judges and juries apparently bought this crap for years. It finally came to an end when Judge Gilbert Goshorn ordered the dog to perform a basic tracking test after Preston claimed the dog had alerted to a suspect’s scent at a crime scene six months after the murder. The dog failed.

So far, three people have been cleared after collectively spending more than 50 years in prison, all of whom were convicted primarily due to the dog’s alerts, despite other evidence exculpating them. Florida criminal justice activists say there may be as 60 more people wrongly convicted thanks to Preston and his dog.

Yet Florida officials don’t seem to care, and have no plans to proactively look for other people who may have been wrongly imprisoned.

In a statement, [Florida State's Attorney] Wolfinger’s office said it didn’t have a list of the cases in which Preston testified — nor even the records that would allow the office to compile such a list.

Essentially, Wolfinger contends it’s up to defendants to raise questions about these decades-old cases.

What can you say to a story like this?

I am as speechless as Aunt B.

Only 9 more shopping days till Christmas...

A rather Christmassy look for Dead Air! (It's supposed to sparkle!)

~*~


I guess I don't mind telling yall, yesterday's entry was the hardest one I've ever had to write. I even have a hard time reading it back. It took me all weekend.

I had just learned Kathy was in the ICU, when I learned of the death of my friend Sue Urbas via Christmas card, and felt the scary onslaught of the Pale Horse, which I described back on December 5th.

Aye, it's been a rough week.

I realize one of the unpleasant parts of aging is that you are LEFT BEHIND (deliberate joke)... and maybe that's why that concept is so frightening? What a terrifying thing to tell the children, that everyone you love will leave you and you will be left behind. Meditating on this awhile, I've decided it's a form of child abuse.

It's bad enough that this will happen to you anyway, if you live long enough.

I knew I had to tell the truth in my obit of Kathy; ironically, she is the one who taught me how to do that.

~*~

Sue Urbas and I were not good friends, but were in the same social circle at one time. She was probably the most tireless activist I have ever known. She was the person we all compare ourselves to, the one who didn't compromise her hard-core values with cable TV or mass-market googaws for her house. She was employed by the old Northend Recycling Center, which was located in the old Northwood Community Center in Columbus, Ohio. (Someday, that place deserves it's own post, if I could find some decent photos. Certainly, I never thought to take any. The story of how an old elementary school turned into a hippie-haven is an amazing tale all its own.) Sue was one of the managers of this building, as was a guy who was an extra in the movie Brubaker, filmed in Ohio. (I can never remember his name, but whenever I see the movie replayed on American Movie Classics, I always wait for him to pop up in the shot with Robert Redford: There he is! I knew that guy!) The community center burned down, not surprisingly, apparently due to arson. The spiffy, shiny community center that was erected in it's place is a bureaucratic replica, populated (of course) by various bureaucrats.

One thing I noticed about the above-linked obituary of Sue, is no mention of her radical feminism. I grow extremely weary of the much-repeated stereotype of second-wave feminists, that we were all middle-class, shrinking violets engaged in endless tea-and-sympathy consciousness-raising and theory-reading, listening to Meg Christian records. Sue was nothing like that at all (which is possibly why no one thought to mention her feminism in the obituary?)... An organizer of Women Against Rape, she also managed one of the first homeless shelters in Central Ohio; she worked her ass off for unjustly-charged, poor black male defendants. She helped organize the series of punk concerts called "NOWHERE" (as in, Nowhere 79, Nowhere 80). One of these included the late Ronald Koal, a memorable local star of the time. She was also instrumental in organizing the yearly COMFEST, from the time of it's inception.

Left: Shirtless Eric Moore channels Ted Nugent, as he poses in a 70s photo with his band The Godz. (He was wearing shiny long black leather coats long before Neo and Trinity, too.)


I recall Sue was once closely associated with local scary heavy-metal dude Eric Moore, one of those weird friendships nobody could quite figure out. But I thought it was great. It just added to the Sue-legend, just like her friendships with the rough-and-tumble ex-convicts she was always helping to get released on parole.

Thus, she was not a typical radical feminist, by any means. (Are any of us, really? Or is that a stereotype that finally needs to be put aside, at long last?)

Rest in peace, Sue. We will miss you.

~*~

After five weeks, I am finally back to work with my big boot/leg-cast thingie... it is humongous, awkward and gets caught on everything. I am somewhat amazed at how everyone thinks it's okay to joke about it and call me gimpy and suchlike. Is this what disabled people have to put up with, or are people more circumspect if they know it is a permanent vs temporary disability? Is the whole "joke" in calling me "gimpy"--the fact that I am really not gimpy--so it's okay to joke about it? I have shushed at least two people (who I am not willing to argue with at length), telling them someone else might hear them. I am trying to give them the message that it isn't cool to say that, but one person just replied, "OOOooops! You're right!" and covered his mouth. Then he whispered it to me the rest of the fucking day. (Now, I ask you, is that funny or what?)

Last week, I was slowly (and rather painfully) hobbling over to an empty checkout line to pay for something at a local establishment, when a very fit, younger woman galloped in front of me, so she could be first. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I did not cuss her out, but unbelievably, she kept looking at me and half-smiling, apologetically, obviously hoping I wasn't offended by her abject rudeness. (Yes, bitch, I am plenty offended, now just pay for your shit and get out of the way, please.)

I am sure that kind of thing happens to disabled people all the time. So, I have to admit, it's been a learning experience...not necessarily the good kind.

~*~

Why hasn't Politico covered the arson at Wasilla Bible Church, Sarah Palin's church? Why did I have to read about that in my local paper, but haven't heard it covered extensively in the news? (And as you all know, I am newshound extraordinaire.)

Accelerant poured around Sarah Palin’s church before fire, ATF says

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS • December 15, 2008

ANCHORAGE, Alaska -- An accelerant was poured around the exterior of Gov. Sarah Palin’s church before fire heavily damaged the building, federal investigators said Monday.

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives said the accelerant was poured at several locations around the church, including entrances.

Lab tests will determine the type of substance involved. Possibilities include gasoline, kerosene, diesel fuel or even lamp oil, Agent Nick Starcevic said.

The blaze was set Friday night at the main entrance of the Wasilla Bible Church while a small group, including two children, were inside. No one was injured. Fire authorities were called to the scene at 9:40 p.m., unusually early for many arson fires, Starcevic said.

“It’s kind of odd to do in the evening hours,” he said. “I can tell you that most of the arson fires I’ve worked on are late nighttime, usually when no one is there.”

Palin, the former Republican vice presidential candidate, was not at the church at the time of the fire but visited Saturday. Her spokesman, Bill McAllister, said Monday that Palin knew about the accelerants Saturday morning before a statement she authorized was released that day.

During her visit at the church, Palin told an assistant pastor she was sorry if the fire was connected to the “undeserved negative attention” the church has received since she became the vice presidential candidate Aug. 29, McAllister said.

Wasilla Deputy Police Chief Greg Wood said authorities had no immediate suspects or motive.

Okay, look, assholes: I don't like Sarah Palin either, as a random search of this blog makes very clear. But if you have issues with Palin, what you do, is DEMONSTRATE in FULL VIEW of EVERYONE at one of her rallies. You do not creep around like a comic-book villain under the safety of darkness and burn a fucking church down with people in it.

Whoever did this, you are a swine and a coward. You deserve to be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

~*~

And how is everyone else's week going?

Kathleene Anthony 1944-2008

My AA sponsor always signed her cards, letters and emails "Yo AA Momma"--and yes, she certainly was.

~*~


I don't remember the month, but I do remember the year, 1982. In the basement of an old building on East Broad Street in Columbus, Ohio, I was becoming increasingly restless with what I regarded as the just-so stories of Alcoholics Anonymous. The sloganeering, the shallow analysis of the psyche, the borderline-Calvinist zeal of some members, was wearing on me. I needed more, and I was getting argumentative about it.

Left to my own devices, I wouldn't have lasted out the year.

She was sitting across from me. Next to her, a very well-behaved child, about 7 or 8, was coloring and drawing quietly with crayons. Every now and then, the child would hear something and her eyes would widen. She would look at her mother, as if to say WOW! Her mother looked back, silently reinforcing, don't say anything, we'll talk later. (This exchange reminded me of my relationship with my own mother, wherein I was allowed to hear adults talk, only if I promised to be quiet.)

I remember she was quite large, even then, and was wearing green.

I don't remember exactly what she said, but the subject was gender differences in recovery, and a lot of sexist bullshit was floating around the room. I was greatly annoyed by what I was hearing and there was an accompanying tension at the base of my neck, giving me a roaring headache.

And then she introduced herself: "I'm Kathy, and I'm an alcoholic," she said, and explained, simply and thoroughly: Men in recovery talk about what they did, while drinking. ("Yeah man, we was hanging off the freeway overpass!") Women talk about how they felt. ("I cried every night!") The task in recovery is therefore: to get men to talk about their feelings, and to get women to talk about actual behaviors and how that effected the people around us.

Otherwise, she concluded, nothing has really changed, and we are not taking full responsibility. There can be no recovery.

Listening to her, I had one overriding thought: Oh dear God, who IS this person?

I knew she must be some kind of recovery professional, and might not be interested in sponsoring me. (People don't necessarily want to continue their jobs after they come home at night!) But I knew from listening to her, that she was a feminist. And ohhh my, how I needed her.

I had long ached to talk about the relationship of addiction and recovery to feminism; I needed a working-class, intelligent feminist who read books and was in recovery, and here she was, sitting right in front of me.

I was afraid, asking her, that she would say no. I could also tell, as she gave me her phone number, that she had given it to a lot of people... people who had attended one or two AA meetings and disappeared. She seemed accustomed to the request, and gave me her stock definition of "sponsor": one who takes an active interest in recovery. She didn't like the authoritarian, male-modeled sponsorships that AA then specialized in. She thought sponsorship should ideally be between peers and friends. I nodded as she gave me the spiel, inwardly thrilled that she had said yes.

I kept hearing we were supposed to call our sponsors every day, check in with them constantly like parole officers. Did she think that was necessary?

Could I call her every day? Would that be okay?

Bemused, she said yes, I could call her every day if I needed to do that. I could tell she didn't expect any such calls. (Later, she said I looked like an agitated hippie planning to go score some coke that very night... or worse.) Obviously, she'd seen my kind before.

But I did. In fact, I called her almost every day for the next five years.

~*~

What can I say about her? That she saved my life? That would be correct.

I find it impossible to list everything she did for me, but I can mention the highlights: giving me a baby shower; coming to collect me (and my child) after a devastating domestic dispute; supporting me through two divorces; being the local contact-person for my aged grandmother who had Alzheimer's disease; assigning me the daunting task of speaking for AA in various detox units she worked in (to build my confidence, she said); taking me to a country-and-western show in an RV park in Delaware, Ohio; declaring me "Support Womyn #1" during her oldest daughter's wedding... and just so much more.

At one point in my sobriety, she informed me that I needed to attend all-women's meetings, to bond with other women. Women in predominantly-male AA groups were prone to care-taking and attention-getting, and do not adequately work on themselves, she announced. (Once I began this habit, I attended mostly women's AA meetings from that point on, and made wonderful, lifelong friends. Some of the best advice I ever received.)

She was always taking in stray homeless people from AA, and her couch was a well-known Central Ohio AA pit-stop. She was the head of several detox units, and was also a psych nurse at the Columbus State Hospital.

In later years, as her health worsened and her fibromyalgia and arthritis brought constant pain, Kathy's personality underwent an almost radical change. She became nearly reclusive, and although her tremendous kindness remained, she was the victim of random street crime and learned to be suspicious. (I stopped sending any kind of gift card to her in the mail, since these would likely be intercepted before she could get to them--stolen right out of her mailbox.) She felt very vulnerable, and her vulnerability sometimes made her angry. People were not as kind to her, in her time of need, as she had been to others, and I think she found this confusing, frightening and unfair. It seemed to her that the world was going to hell in a handbasket, and in accordance with this conviction, she converted to a fundamentalist sect. And I found it more and more difficult to talk to her, so we communicated far easier online, where one can pick and choose which comments we will directly respond to. As time slipped by, she seemed more and more confused, and I knew that she was on some pretty heavy pain medication. Some conversations, she would just talk about how manageable the pain had been that week, and little else.

When my mother died, I brought Kathy some stuff from my mother's house. Practical items, cups and saucers, a can opener, some computer paper. And then I hauled out a painting by my mother. She told me she didn't want it.

A flash of the old Kathy, suddenly, as she said, "I wouldn't have had so much work to do with you, hon, if she had just done her job a little better," and then she lightly chuckled. "Not that I minded that, but I sure don't want any painting of hers," and I felt that I'd been slapped. This was the feisty Kathy who charted my Fourth Step with me, who could always tell when I was fibbing, and who resolutely forced me to tell the truth at all times.

I must have had that dumbfounded look on my face, because she added, "None of that is your fault, dear, it's between your mother and me," and lightly chuckled again.

And then, the old, shrewd Kathy seemed to slip back behind a cloud. She huddled beneath a large blanket, clearly very ill, as I kissed her goodbye.

May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs come to welcome you and take you to the holy city, the new and eternal Jerusalem. And may Jesus and Mary welcome your troubled, tired soul into heaven, dear friend.