No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others. Fifth Promise of Alcoholics Anonymous, chapter 6, the Big Book
My Home group, Way of Life, meets Saturday morning at 10:30.
I’d been hearing about how great that meeting was, and how I should check it out, but I always seemed to be busy.
Finally, I checked it out and found it was everything it was cracked up to be.
Every meeting has its own temperament, peculiarities, traditions, and its own vibe.
This unknown quantity turned out to be a happy fit.
I quickly adopted it as my own. 
Saturday mornings of Coco Puffs and cartoons were now a thing of the past.
One Saturday morning several years go, I was busy with my morning routine, and it occurred to me that I had no appointments or prior commitments that day.
I was wide open.
That meeting would cut into my otherwise perfect day.
I usually arrive a little before ten (I always get to meetings early, it’s part of my pathology), and although it ends promptly at 11:30, I don’t get out of there until at least noon, hanging around to socialize.
I was seriously toying with the idea of blowing off the meeting (which is unlike me, because I look forward to it all week).
Finally, the healthy part of my brain (the minority) told me to stop being an idiot and move my ass.
There are certain times in my life I consider to be the most dire and dangerous:
No, it wasn’t when I was working on an aircraft carrier flight deck;
It wasn’t when I was taking skydiving lessons, either;
and it wasn’t when I was on the US Acapulco Cliff Diving Team…
Give me a break.
I never did any of that stuff. My life isn’t that sexy.
No, the most dangerous periods of my life have been
when I stopped going to meetings.
A relationship, a new job, the noble quest for the almighty buck…
I can sell myself a bogus bill of goods any ol’ day of the week..
Wanna know how you stop going to meetings? A day at a time.
But I digress. . .
As usual, I arrived early for the Way of Life meeting, grabbed my seat, and marked my spot.
I’m a territorial creature of habit.
I show up early and urinate around my chair.
The real estate around me fills up pretty quickly (I sit at the cool kid’s table).
At that point I was still alone, relaxing with my coffee, listening to the conversations around me, and watching people mill around.
Suddenly, a woman came in and walked past the coffee line. I noticed her because she was unfamiliar.
As fate would have it, she bee lined over and sat right behind me.
It’s always good to be the first to say hello, so I turned around to introduce myself, “Hi! My name is…are you okay?” Something was obviously bothering her.
She then said something Interesting, “I need to speak with an old timer.”
I don’t proactively promote myself, so I didn’t announce, “That’s me! I’m the dude. Whatever you need to know, you came to the right place!”
That’s self-aggrandizing and lame.
I just looked at her,”…Okay.”
She leaned back, cocked her head and squinted at me, “How much time do you have?”
I shrugged and scratched my neck, “Thirty-two years.”
She mulled that over. Evidently, I passed muster.
She started relating her dilemma, and her pent-up emotions tumbled out.
As I listened, I couldn’t help but think, “No wonder she’s in such a world of hurt.”
Her name was Karen, and she was a casualty of the Opioid Crisis.
Months ago, and in good faith, her doctor prescribed Xanex to alleviate anxiety.
It never bodes well when a highly addictive substance is made available to someone with addictive tendencies.
Suffice to say, the Xanex quickly took over, and became an out-and-out addiction. She ended up losing everything, and was now existing in a state of fear, shame, anger and self-loathing.
I have an old friend, Chris S.
He’s a low keyed, Harley-riding dude. He and his wife Pam have been friends of mine for a long time. We no longer travel in the same circles, and rarely see each other any more.
Anyway,
Chris had eight years, served as president of the YANA Foundation, and always struck me as a solid citizen. Nothing ever seemed to phase, or piss him off.
Unbeknownst to everyone, Chris developed a Percocet addiction. One day he stunned us by turning himself in. He stood up, admitted his problem, and picked up a white chip.
That kind of integrity deserves and demands respect.
In my view, his stock as a going human concern went way up.
The only shame in messing up is the failure to use that experience to help other people.
Everything happens for a reason.
Not long after Chris picked up his white chip, I underwent quintuple bypass surgery.
During my hospital stay, I developed a fondness for Percocet.
They gave it to me in the name of pain management, and I took it in the name of being a good patient.
When I was being discharged, the doctor asked if I needed another Percocet prescription.
Once upon a time, I’d have been all over that like trailer trash on Velveeta.
Instead, I thought of Chris.
I now knew well enough that a seemingly benign presription can lead to other, much more devastating things. . . 
I thanked the doctor and told him I’d just enjoy my remaining pills, and get some Advil if I needed any help.
The next time I saw Chris, I told him about it, and thanked him.
Whether he meant to or not, he forever altered the trajectory of my sobriety, and my life. He spared me untold suffering and loss.
As far as I’m concerned, guys like him fell on the grenade for the rest of us.
But I digress. . .
Karen finished her story and looked at me expectantly.
Personally, I don’t like to dispense advice from on high, like I’m some kind of enlightened guru.
I prefer to allow people to find their own answer.
When people are in a dilemma we have a tendency to fog in, seal off, and shut down.
The simplest decisions become a crippling dilemma. That certainly happens to me, especially when I’m HALTing out.
To that end, I started telling her a story.
It was actually a thinly veiled version of her story, but put it in the perspective that it was happening to me. Since she didn’t have a horse in my race, she could easily see my answer.
The whole point was that she’d connect the dots and figure out her solution.
It’s much more empowering.
In my story I was addicted to Vicodin (it would have been too obvious if it was Xanex).
When I finally finished my sad and desperate story, I was kind of expecting gushing gratitude.
Instead, she gave me a pained look, and shook her head, “You’re supposed to be an old timer. Why am I squandering my time talking to the likes of you?…you’re a mess! “
I groaned, “You missed the point…Okay, let me put it another way.
I have a friend who went through very much like what you’re experiencing. He helped me, and I know he’d be glad to talk to you.”
I then told her it was Chris.
She did a double take, “I know him! He’s a friend of mine!”
“You want his number?”
She pulled out her cell and excitedly scrolled through her contacts. She found it and triumphantly held up her phone, “I have it right here!”
I gave her a look that said, ‘What the hell are you waiting for?’
Evidently, she fulfilled her mission, and wasn’t going to stick around for the meeting.
She abruptly got up, slung her purse over her shoulder, and looked down at me.
She smiled for the first time. “I’m so glad I met you.”
And with that, she turned and strode out the door. I haven’t seen her since.
HERE’S THE TAKEAWAY:
That never would have happened if I was at home on the couch.
Attending meetings isn’t just about my journey: It’s about the people I encounter enroute.
