If I Die Before I Wake by Barb Rogers

want to revisit. I have got to stop thinking about the past, what was done to me. I resolved what I could when I did my fourth and fifth steps, and past events can no longer hurt me or affect my life if I don't let them. It's time to live in the moment and move forward. Soon I'll be attending a spiritual retreat with my lady sponsor, Skippe, and a couple of other AA members. That should be fun. I don't think Tom understands my need to go, but he seems to accept that it's what I want to do. I told him when I agreed to marry him that my AA has to come first—because unless I'm sober, nothing else works in my life. We'll be married in less than a month, so I have time to make sure he meant what he said when he told me it wouldn't be an issue.
    Early Friday morning, I jump in Skippe's car, excited about the new experience ahead. I've never been to a retreat, but I've attended many AA functions and always enjoy them. Something happens when I'm around other AA members. I can let my guard down, enjoy a comfort I've never known before, not even in the bar. There is an instant bond among these people, because we are all struggling together for the same thing—to live our lives sober.
    My excitement wanes as Skippe and I pull into the parking lot in front of a rather austere brick building in Quincy, Illinois. I try to shake off an odd feeling of doom that settles in my heart, but it is only reinforced when we are shown to our cells. In the small windowless room with two cots and two small dressers, I realize this is not what I imagined it was going to be. I want to go home. If I had my own car, I would leave right now.
    The shrill ring of a bell startles me. I run out into the hallway and right into Skippe. She says, “It's time for the orientation meeting.” I follow her, and others, into a large room fitted out with rows of metal folding chairs. As the group of about fifty settles into chairs, mine in the farthest corner of the back of the room, a priest steps up to a podium. I know he's supposed to be in recovery from addiction, but he's still a priest. I've never met a priest. I wonder: if this spiritual stuff really works, and he's supposed to be some minion of God, how in the world did he become addicted to booze? Maybe he drank too much of the sacramental wine, I think, and chuckle at my cleverness.
    I've been around AA long enough to know it's not religious, but somehow in this building, half-listening to this priest drone on about what to expect over the next few days, the mood feels religious. I don't need this crap. My life is good. I'm doing fine. I bet the priest can't imagine all that I've overcome. I don't believe there's anything he can tell me that I don't already know. Shit, I could probably tell him a few things. This whole thing is stupid. Two and half days left—a piece of cake. I'll never do this again.
    Why is everyone staring at me? The woman next to me whispers, “We are counting off. You're number 5.” I say my number, and the count continues until everyone has a number. A bell rings. I follow the other number fives into a smaller room near the front of the building. I might have to be there, but I don't have to participate. They can't make me talk. I bet I could share some of my story and really blow their little minds.
    A tall, thin woman with a bush of red curly hair says, “I'd like to discuss character defects.” I slump in my chair, arms crossed over my chest. That's one thing I don't have to talk about. I didn't have to work the defects steps because once I got sober, I quit doing those things. I don't cheat, lie, steal, or abuse others anymore. I never did understand the purpose of steps 6 and 7. How could addicts continue to behave the same way after the addiction is removed? I'll listen, but I'm not going to participate.
    Halfway through the meeting, a heavyset man with dark-rimmed glasses, wearing black slacks and a yellow shirt, enters through the front door and takes an empty seat across