BIRDS WHO HAVE LOST THEIR WINGS

The day is February 16th, 2018. It’s a special day for a middle aged woman. She gets to give a big ole’ speech on her past and present life, how she changed, and how she did it. All around this woman remains filled seats with warm bodies, of which contain ears open and eyes ready to see.

Illuminating in a little black dress, the echo of light, delicate footsteps made its way around the room, as eyes followed her grace to the very front of it. The room fell silent . She opened her mouth to speak.

“Grateful to be here, grateful to be s—

“WHO ARE YOU!” yelled the whole room in an echoing unison. She forgot to introduce herself; it’s the first thing you do before you speak at these kind of things. Clearing her throat, she restarted.

“Hey everyone. My name is Susan, and I’m an Alcoholic.”

“Hi Susan!”

“Grateful to be here, grateful to be sober.” A slight pause permeated the room.

“Home,” she continued, “was once something I described as a beautiful house in Dana Point, but my definition of home is different now.”   It was I, newly twenty years old, anxiously, yet carefully listening to her every word.


Eyes wider than an owls’ night gaze, she continued to speak with words that I remember to this day; words that stuck with me through teeth clenching struggle, piercing, heart-wrenching pain, but delightfully beautiful moments as well; words that taught me what the term “home” really means and
how it is supposed to feel.

I walked into my first meeting of AA at 19 years old, on November 12th, 2017. Which leaves me with exactly 445 days of sobriety. The day I walked into those rooms was the day I left my old life behind me. What was my old life, exactly, you ask? It was a cycle of dark, demon- like depression; screaming thoughts telling me I’ll never be good enough for anyone. It was meaningless, drunk sex, and eternal loneliness. It was the pure, gut twisting feeling of  being trapped in the thoughts of a zombie girl who was alive, but didn't really live. Most of all, this old life was a place where I
had no home, because I had thrown away the one that I had. I wanted so deeply to know what it was
like again.

Bailey and I hideously, yet shamelessly shouted, “PSYCHO, GROUPIE, COCAINE, CRAZY! Psycho groupie cocaine crazy psycho groupie coke makes you high makes you hide makes you really want to go, stop!”

(SOAD Psycho) in her old, white, Jeep Liberty, cruising 65 in a 45.

Slightly ironic, as we are on our way to an AA meeting. We reminisced about the days we would put coke into our noses and drink ourselves into oblivion. We knew the song didn't describe who we were anymore, and that’s why it remained one of our favorite songs by System of a Down. Driving to meetings, for us, was like a kid on their way to Disneyland; overly pumped and excited.


“Scrrrrrrrr!” Baileys Jeep screeched into a tight parking spot in front of our weekly Friday night meeting.

“You ready to go?” Bailey asked.

Without hesitation I replied with “Duhhhhh dude. Lets get our seats!”

Simultaneously making our way through the the front doors, grinning greeters shook our hands welcoming us to the meeting. Taking a seat, we were about to get the meeting going. blah blah, blah blah blah blah. The beginning of the meeting is always boring. Time for break.

“Ding Ding Ding!”

Okay, break’s over, gotta go back. It’s time for the main speaker. Sitting legs crossed, I prepared myself for a speech a woman was about to give about how Alcoholics Anonymous changed her life and how she remained sober to this day.

She started off with forgetting to introduce herself so we all had to remind her to say who she was.

“Hey everyone. MY name is Susan, and I’m an Alcoholic.” “Hi Susan!” Replied the entire room.

Susan spoke words deeper than the trenches of the ocean. Words filled with bright light and beauty.

They were words of a woman who knows where her home resides, and that was right here with all of
us.

“AA is my home now,” flowed out of her mouth like it was a statement not a soul could question.

This resonated within me stronger than any phrase in my 21 years of living. What became of me was a great appreciation for the people around me, and the stunning character of each individual in the room had filled my void of home. I gazed around admiring every person who filled the space around me. Sometimes i think, Man, what do I even have in common with these people, and then i remember we are all birds who have lost their wings, and are relearning to fly. We all pick
up the wreckage of our past, and remember why we are here. In this program, we find purpose, face our fears, and finally find a place to call home.  We are each others’ family.

Home, I thought, was a place I would come to lay my head after a blackout.  I thought it was a nice, fancy house with a family full of shit eating grins and two dogs. I thought it was a place rather than a feeling. I now know that home, for me, is the feeling of complete and utter acceptance. Home to me now is the feeling I get when I’m in these rooms. It’s the warmth in my heart when I look around and realize that everyone around me struggles in the same way I do.

It’s the adrenaline pumping through my veins when I get up to the podium to share my story of how I was able to get sober and stay sober.  Home, to me, is Alcoholics Anonymous and the way it makes me feel,  just like it is for Susan.