Sunday night is NOT alright with me. It seems to be the eve of the binge. Normal people have a cuppa and a booka and I shove pounds of this and that down my gob.
Last night was the final showdown with my sponsor. I told her, without cushion, that I will not be giving up my sobriety date. We had gone to a back room in the church where the meetings are held, to “have a heavy”, which is my term for “engaging in a serious conversation.” I was desperate to clear this up; to see if she would lecture, or let me go. I was afraid that I would have to hide from her at meetings, lest she inwardly think, “there goes that fraud, that fast-shuffling flim-flam who thinks she can just stand up there and speak and share as if she really is a sober person.”
She began by saying, ” I absolutely do NOT agree with your decision and I…” when some clueless lady came barelling in, cookies in hand, and sat right next to us, munching away, even though there was no meeting for a half an hour. I felt like someone had said, ” I’m sorry to inform you, ma’am, but the murder of your husband was committed by..” and then some broad comes and plops.
So we made our way into the hall and she said to me,”I do not support your decision, but you will ultimately do what you need to do. We are here to keep each other sober. In fact, I don’t always agree with my sponsor either.” I stammered in a whisper, “D-does this m-mean you’ll still work with me?”
“Of course!” she enthused. I nearly fainted with relief. I felt like I had gotten the president’s stamp of approval on my continuous day-count. It really was a wonderful moment; one which swept away the gnawing worm in my insides which had been nibbling for weeks.
Then I went home and binged on my daughter’s disgusting, pink pumpkin cake with the red saccharine-sweet gel, sloppilly and lovingly laid down by little fingers.
Sunday night. Whaddya gonna do?