After three-and-a-half years of back-to-back abstinence, I figured I had arrived. Five sponsees, leadership roles in my area intergroup, service positions at committed meetings, a general willingness to share pretty much everything with my sponsor—I was willing, able, and pink-clouding like mad. I’d learned how to enjoy family gatherings, cope responsibly at work, become financially responsible, and was even starting to explore the treasures on a dating website. These, I thought, were the promises of the program I’d been told to expect.
I’d started dating a delightful man who was easy, intelligent, active, and funny. He was long-separated from his wife, still close with his college-aged daughter, and respectful of them both. No debts, financially prudent, and socially conscious—all the boxes were ticked.
His sailing buddy had invited us both to the family Seder. We’d been told to expect an eclectic gathering of old family friends, union activists, a civil rights lawyer, a mother and daughter who were running the Boston Marathon, a Peruvian professor, and even some Catholics. The musicians among us were invited to bring along any instrument we played, to take part in the musical interludes that were a feature of their celebration.
We also could bring any special dish for the meal following the celebration. I knew there would be abstinent food I could eat and chose to bring fruit to add to the bounty. As far as I knew, I was prepared. I even had an outfit I felt attractive in.
Having attended Seders in the past, I asked a Jewish friend in Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous (FA) how to navigate the ceremony. Specifically, what I should do when they started with the bitter herbs and an unleavened flour product, a feature of the tradition in which everyone was expected to participate. She advised me either to simply pass the dishes along (which as a non-Jew might be fine) or take a small sampling of each and place it on my plate without eating it.
Arriving at my boyfriend’s, being introduced as his girlfriend, warmed by all the nods and smiles, I thought I was in for a happy evening. We found two seats around the extended table, covered with a heavy, white tablecloth. But the moment the conversations began, my insides started to roil. He was asked about his sailing adventure between Tortola and Miami. The Peruvian spoke five languages. The Boston Marathon daughter had beaten her time from the previous year. One of the Catholics had studied the Torah. The NAACP member was still fighting the fight. Our host’s son and daughter both sang beautifully. And I was a middle-aged lady, who didn’t know the tunes and couldn’t pronounce the words.
By the time the herb came around, with the saltwater in which to dip it, my head was reeling with insecurity and confusion. Desperately, I wanted to be as unique and interesting as all these intriguing people around me; at the very least, I didn’t want to be different. So, I took my sprig and dipped dutifully, thinking I would then place it delicately on my plate. Only there were no plates yet. Only the thick linen tablecloth, ironed and elegant.
That’s when the scene slowed inside my head. Forget it, I thought defensively. This is hardly food; it’s religion. I nibbled it up. Anyway, there are vegetables coming in the dinner to follow; I’m just eating early. The next pass was a bitter herb, equally distasteful, as was the point. Now a “sinner,” I chewed that down too. More vegetables. I couldn’t pretend that the unleavened flour product was a vegetable and, by then, I was too much in turmoil to rationalize. I broke off a teeny piece and flattened it on my tongue. Oddly, my nerves reacted wildly to the new element, not having had any flour for all those years. Instantly, I wanted all the wafers on the platter, even as it rounded the table and sat across from me.
I didn’t eat any more. I ate an abstinent dinner, but for the remaining minutes of the evening, what felt like thousands of them, I was quiet, irritated, moody, and critical. The host was a buffoon, his family stupid, and their religious rituals simplistic and self-aggrandizing. When asked if we could provide someone a lift home, I resented the person who asked and was furious at my boyfriend for graciously offering.
It was only the next morning, when I woke up, that the full weight of what I’d done landed. I’d turned my back on all those days of abstinence, my sponsor, my fellowship, and my credibility with my boyfriend. I had to let go of my sponsees, leave my AWOL, step down from service positions, and explain to anyone who asked why I’d broken.
It was stunning, having to face the fact that fear, doubt, and insecurity don’t evaporate.
Now, in my fifteenth year of FA and abstinent since that memorable April night, I don’t ever think I’ve arrived. Every day is a day in which I can choose, with the help of a Higher Power, what actions I can take. I’m an addict in recovery, and that is miracle enough.