Let's Not be Friends

Millions of people across America are friends of Bill.

“Friends of Bill” are members of Alcoholics Anonymous, Bill being Bill Wilson (co-founder of A.A.). When in a public place if a member sees someone they recognize from an A.A. meeting, they can simply inquire, “Are you a friend of Bill?” and the vow of anonymity is kept in place.

Sunday, March 25, in a large church in Ogden, I didn’t necessarily become a friend of Bill, more like an acquaintance. I attended my first (and last) A.A. meeting, wanting to understand more about those seeking help to fight their addiction.

As I took a seat in silence, I made sure to take a place near people but not too near. Not wanting to be caught as the “outsider” I tried to fit in. Unexpectedly, I did fit in, appearance wise. Much to my surprise men in business suits, women in colorful sundresses, and a few seemingly harmless elders surrounded me. If not for the A.A. poster with the “Serenity Prayer” on it in the front of the room, I could have been at a PTA meeting.

A woman stood up in front of the minuscule audience and gave a welcome. She invited anyone to come up and share whatever was in his or her heart. I began feeling comfortable in my surroundings. I thought to myself: This isn’t so bad; these people are just like me, with a slight problem. I’ll be fine.

Roughly two minutes later, my thoughts were altered.

A woman in a cute Lily Pulitzer sundress somberly walked to the front of the room. She looked about thirty-six, and as she passed I let my mind wander . . . was she married? Did she have children? Has she had an addiction long? Does anyone know she is suffering? When does she . . .

Her lip-glossed mouth began to move and interrupted my thoughts; “I lied to my five-year-old daughter yesterday, again.” I was pulled in.

The beautiful woman explained that how instead of going to her daughter’s recreation soccer game, she stayed home, complaining of a headache. She then downed twelve airplane bottles of Smirnoff vodka and called it a day. She stood vulnerable, full of guilt, and hysterically crying. Pleading with God, the audience, anyone who would listen, for help. She began to walk back to her chair, and then turned, adding, “My Ella scored the winning goal for the Bandits at her game. She apologized to ME for not scoring when I was there to see it. She was sad that she had fun while I sick at home.” And with another burst of hysteria, she slumped into her chair.

I felt my face getting hot, salty tears walked down my sun burnt cheeks. I wanted to embrace the Lily dress woman, help her through her pain. I expected someone beside her to rub her shoulders and tell her it was okay, but as I looked around at the other A.A. members I saw only nodding. Emotionless nodding.

They had all seen this before. This was nothing new to them. It was life.

I immediately felt as if I had a sign taped to my back reading: FAKER. I didn’t have any right being there, casually listening to that woman's painful story. I couldn’t possibly begin comprehend their sadness, nor did I want to. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t sit there and pretend to be hurting, while these people’s hearts were actually being ripped to shreds. I had to leave.

So as I sat in my car trying to calm down I made a decision: Mr. Bill Wilson, I realize your program may help people, but as for me, I cannot, will not, and do not want to be a friend of yours.