Photo by Yuri Figueiredo on Unsplash
I was shy, scared and forty when I walked into my first AA meeting in search of a safety net. Suffice it to say I did not jump in with both feet. Everything frightened me…people, spiders, Arby’s hamburgers. Yet I persisted with the program that first year, invisible by design. I strategically snuck in late and early out of the hushed rooms. People came to know that the corner chair in the last row was for me. I understood the assignment, as it were, and the fact we got karmic points for participation. Yet I maintained a stone-like detachment, never sharing my experiences, much less my emotions. Not surprisingly, no one threw me that net. Change came for me nonetheless, like it comes for everyone who goes to AA meetings long enough. Wendy, my soon-to-be best friend, made eye-contact while I was studiously avoiding eye contact but also leaning in ever so slightly to convey engagement with the raw, gut-wrenching material. Her spidey-sense registered how frightened and lonely I was. "Hi," she started, "any interest in blowing this pop-stand in favor of a small, women-only meeting at my friend's apartment in West Hollywood?" Sounds terrifying, I thought. "Sure," I said. We drove together the following Wednesday. And every Wednesday thereafter for ten years. The elderly woman who whipped open the door was reminiscent of my mother. The occasion felt formal as evidenced by my stiff spine and quivering upper lip. I resisted the urge to salute our host. “I am Eleanor,” she said, below piercing blue eyes and a shock of gray, majestic waves. Very put together. "Char," I murmured. When she hugged me hello, my carefully-constructed exoskeleton evaporated. I would follow this woman anywhere. Her apartment was nondescript. The people therein were not. Wednesdays became a ritual, a new addiction. I held on for dear life. Eleanor embraced me physically, emotionally and spiritually, unlike a certain mother of mine. I couldn’t wait for Wednesday nights to roll around, so I could get my hugs. I became a first-rate hugger thanks to her. Periodically, she would send me actual letters in the mail (handwritten—on stationary!) telling me how much she loved me. It occurred to me while ripping one open: This is how people love. One of my many fond memories of Eleanor was the fact that despite her world-class hugging, she was no gourmand. Thus, we ate at a nearby restaurant together before each Wednesday meeting. Eleanor love her condiments, drenching her food without exception. When she died, I stopped eating all sauces in solidarity. I didn't want to feel the nagging, stabbing sense of loss each time I indulged in Sriracha. Hindsight is great because you get a new lens. I now understand that Eleanor was my surrogate mother, gifting me two things I never had in my family of origin: belonging and a voice. In my first family, I was the little girl with the big bow in my hair who didn’t know how to open her mouth (having not been encouraged to do so). In my chosen family, I could say it loud and clear and be loved unconditionally. I have Wendy to thank for the introduction to Eleanor, and Eleanor to thank for instilling me with the knowledge that I'm worthy of hugs, love, redemption...and extra sauce.
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January 2025
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