Grapevine Story

So we (the Grapevine Committee) took 5 back to back meetings to the Men's Healing Place this past Saturday. And as a member of that committee, I had to pick a story out of the magazine to read.  I choose one that I could relate to.  We then opened up the floor for people to share their feelings and comments on.  Turns out I picked a great story. 

TATTOO

       When I came into the halls of AA, I was broken ---- mentally, physically, and spiritually.  I, too, was full of shame and it was a barrier to connecting with others.  I was a teenage runaway at thirteen, and I survived hand-to-mouth for many years, doing whatever it took to survive on the streets.  It was a time of hard drinking and drugging.  I loved no one and no one loved me.  Every day that I was alive was an unanswered death wish.  God and religion were some of the reasons I left home.  I had parents who preached virtue while they tortured their children.  There was no God to save me, although I prayed every night with a rosary pressed into my hand.

       My tattoos were badges of honor with the hooligans I hung out with.  Whenever we survived a particular event, like a thievery or a street trauma, we were honored with a tattoo.  They aren't the pretty little things women have today, but the old jailhouse-ink type, where the needle is wrapped in thread and everything from India ink to mascara is used.  I have tattoos up both legs, from ankle to thigh, and several on my arms and back.

      It was a long road to happy, joyous, and free.  Because of my visible past, my shame was overwhelming.  Women in the halls didn't approach me --- I was in-your-face unapproachable.  I thought I was having a brilliant rebellion, and these people had no idea where a low-bottom woman drunk could go.  If they did, there was judgment (without mercy) that went with that knowledge.  But most of that judgment came from myself.  I compared stories and didn't identify.  Apparently, women had not been to the places I had been and then come into the halls.  I was unique.

      I kept going to meetings, even when I didn't understand why.  I just knew that I didn't want to drink, and that the people in the halls said they weren't drinking.

      The first time I heard Joe talk about being homeless and in psych wards, I began to identify.  It was my first moment of grace.  I was not unique.  I began to listen to the men, since they were comrades from the streets.  Although I didn't get a formal sponsor, I managed to get some advisers around me.  Of course, they were male, but they shared the same kind of experiences that I'd had, and I was sure that I didn't cross any personal boundaries.

      Today, I am fifty years old and twelve years sober.  My tattoos are still a constant reminder of where I came from, and they bring me honor in a different way: They are the reason why some people immediately feel comfortable around me.  They know that I didn't learn all that I know in a book. 

      I went to college and graduated cum laude with a bachelor's degree in psychology.  I share the message and do Twelfth Step work with homeless people and sex workers who are alcoholic and addicted.  When I come back in from the streets, after sharing my experience, strength, and hope, I say, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

      Today, I love my life and myself.  I have thrown myself into the middle of the herd with service work.  I know and respect many people in recovery.  I sponsor women from the street, and I often tell my story to help lift the shame from others.  I found a God of my understanding in my Native American grandmother's story of the Butterfly Nation.  I got my last tattoo professionally done.  It's a butterfly, of course. 

                      

                                                                                             Cindy C.

                                                                                             Manchester, New Hampshire

 A Native American Legend

 A man found a cocoon of a butterfly. One day, a small opening appeared, and he sat and watched the butterfly as it struggled for several hours to force its body through the little hole.  Then, it seemed to stop making an progress.  It appeared that it had gotten as far as it could.

       The man decided to help the butterfly, so he snipped off the remaining bit of cocoon.  The butterfly then emerged easily, but it had a swollen body and small, shriveled wings.  

       The man continued to watch the butterfly.  He expected, at any moment, the wings to expand and support the body, which would contract in time.  Neither happened!  In fact, the butterfly spent its whole life crawling around with a swollen body and shriveled wings.  It was never able to fly.  What the man, in kindness and haste, did not understand was the the restricting cocoon and the struggle required to get through the tiny opening was the creator's way of forcing fluid from the body of the butterfly into its wings, so that it would be ready for flight once it achieved freedom.

       Sometimes struggles are exactly what we need in our life.  If our creator had allowed us to go through life without struggles, it would cripple us.  We would not be as strong as we could have been.

       And ---- we would never fly.