"nestique" <delecta@earthlink.net> wrote in message
newsan.2004.04.24.18.13.55.208478@earthlink.net. ..

Although my sponsor once told me, "Jerome, Sobriety is an adventure of
self-discovery," for my first ten years I lived in a state bordering
on
despair. I inhabited a world absolutely devoid of love, pursued by
the
relentless fear of creditors, police officers, landlords, demanding
relatives, contagious homeless people, rabid pitbulls,
disease-carrying
mosquitos. Without alcohol to still my troubled mind I was in a
constant
state of turbulent anxiety. I didn't even have the sense to direct my
anxiety toward things to come. For instance, I worried retroactively
about what it would have felt like if, during a childhood fishing
trip, I
had gotten a large brass hook embedded in my cheek, or how things
would
have ended up for me if I had been born with only two fingers on each
hand; and how about if those two fingers each had five joints, with
long
curling nails sprouting out at each joint? And what if I were in a
terrible, spine-crushing car accident and left paralyzed, incontinent,
penniless, speechless and utterly alone. Who would care for me if
that
happened? Would you?

During those grim years, anonymity -- "the spiritual foundation of all
of
our traditions" -- was the bedrock of my sobriety. I introduced
myself as
"Jerome" at meetings, cautiously omitting my last name. Not even
sharing
my last initial, for god's sake. After a while I became concerned
that
using only my first name did not provide sufficient anonymity; while
Los
Angeles is a large city, Jerome is a fairly uncommon name, and with
the
widespread availability of sophisticated internet search tools, I felt
certain that determined A.A.'s -- or non-A.A.'s infiltrating
meetings --
could ascertain all of the facts about my identity based solely on my
first name. So I started attending meetings in another part of
town --
Santa Monica, near the beach -- and introduced myself as "Tom."

Then someone from one of the meetings where I had introduced myself as
"Jerome" showed up. I wasn't absolutely sure it was the same
person -- I
stared at him for the entire meeting trying to tell, observing his
behavior, straining to hear the characteristics of voice, even asking
a
couple of people if they knew his name, while simultaneously trying to
be
invisible to him. Although I never conclusively figured out if it was
the
same guy, I didn't want to take a chance being exposed as a liar, so I
switched to meetings near the San Gabriel mountains, far inland.
There I
renamed myself "Larry," but pronounced it quietly enough that most
people
weren't sure whether I said "Larry" or "Harry." A few people thought
I
was "Barry." That suited me just fine.

Then, you know, the absurdity of the notion of visually-rich anonymity
hit
me. Signing a letter to a newspaper "Anonymous" makes you truly
anonymous, but how can you be really "anonymous" if you're standing
right
in front of someone? Put aside the question of how you can be
"anonymous"
if you're exposing highly personal information about yourself; what
sort
of anonymity can you maintain towards someone you are physically
present
with? Changing my name wasn't enough; people who had seen me in
meetings
and heard me share would still be able to recognize me on the street.
Anonymity in the limited sense of namelessness -- which is what the
word
"anonymity" breaks down to etymologically, right? "no name"? -- was
almost meaningless, given the context of A.A., which openly
acknowledged
the social stigma of alcoholism. If I wanted true anonymity, I needed
to
do more than just change my name.

I began wearing disguises at meetings. Some were simple; I donned
clothes
that really aren't my style at all, like corduroys, polo shirts, and
red
leather loafers with tassles. At other meetings I wore white t-shirts
with overalls and construction boots. At a meeting closer to home, I
wore
only tight-fitting, glossy athletic shorts and rubbery tank-tops; I
rode
to that meeting on a bicycle, which terrified me to death, and
introduced
myself as "Ephraim." Eventually I started wearing a variety wigs, and
at
one meeting I would conceal my arm inside my jacket, making it look
like I
was an amputee. I attended the Downey Tuesday night speaker meeting
in
drag, dressed as a Lesbian, and pretended to be too angry to speak
with
anyone.

Yet even this form of anonymity was surface-level and seemed
inadequate.
To the extent that I shared openly and honestly, I was sacrificing my
emotional anonymity, and committing myself to a very distinctly real
and
identifiable personhood. What difference does it make if someone
cannot
match up your physical image with the content of your sharing? I
mean,
anonymity is supposed to be the "spiritual foundation of all our
traditions," not their "physical foundation." Recognizing the
spiritual
core of the concept of anonymity required me to modify my
participation at
meetings dramatically. I began sharing about things that did not
really
happen to me, but which I invented, or heard other people share about
and
then revised. I feigned character traits totally unlike my own.
Everything true and real about me I left at the door; the person that
walked into meetings was a fabrication.

Finally, I felt I had ascended to near-perfect, unassailable
anonymity.

And the spiritual achievement must have radiated from me like angelic
light, because newcomers flocked to me for guidance. I had not
sponsored
anyone in eight years of active involvement in the A.A. fellowship,
and
yet now, people began asking me to sponsor them constantly. Never one
to
turn down an A.A. request, I always agreed. I freely distributed fake
telephone numbers, and made arrangements to meet people at coffee
shops
that did not really exist. To avoid being confronted by people I had
misled, the next time I attended their meeting I'd wear some other
disguise, give a different pseudonym, and -- if asked to share -- I
would
gush out some entirely new pathetic autobiographical drivel. Without
fail, I would be applauded for my openness and sincerity. Probably
the
only person in Los Angeles who had attained bona fide anonymity, I had
become a priceles asset to local A.A.

On several occasions I forgot who I was "supposed to be." These
contradictions were hardly damaging, however; gross mistakes were
interpreted by other A.A. members as confusion or mental trauma
stemming
from a recent "relapse"; and any concern with my weird contradictions
was
immediately washed away in a wave of pity. And what did I care,
admitting
to relapse despite my continued sobriety? It's not like anyone
actually
knew my sobriety date; and who was going to stop me from taking a cake
as
"Joe" when it was "Paul" or "Jeff" who had fallen off the wagon?

Anonymity was, I found, a truly marvelous spiritual experience. I
finally
understood what Bill was babbling about; I was transformed at depth,
several times a week, and I found reverting to my former "self"
entirely
unnecessary. My anonymous transformations were every bit as vivid and
psychologically rich as my previous identity; I wrote Fourth Step
inventories for some of my more interesting transmutations, made
amends to
people who had never met me before and who were quite surpised by some
of
the things I had done to them, and for a few months I rented a second
apartment as "Lee R.," the building contractor whose wallet I found in
the
glove box of the Ford Explorer whose keys I found reserving a seat at
the
San Pedro Beginning's Luck meeting the night I had to leave early.

The Women of the Fellowship found my anonymity particularly
enthralling;
many of them responded with profound generosity to my extraordinary
emotional sincerity. Jane T. was entranced -- and found herself
anonymously impregnated -- by "Frank J.," a trial lawyer from Long
Beach.
Emily B. took a trip to Las Vegas with "Edgar G.," a studio executive
who
gambled away most of her money then drove home alone.

And then, around the time that I celebrated my two-year anniversary as
"Dr. Pat O'C." from Beverly Hills, around the time that I took a
ninety-day chip as "John" the auto mechanic from West Covina, around
the
time that I did a Fifth Step as "Tom" the psychology graduate student
from
La Puente, and at the exact moment that I relapsed on marijuana and
tequila as "Joe" the marine biologist from San Pedro, I had a moment
of
clarity. It struck me like a thunderbolt: my participation at
meetings
was . . . false. It was all a Bunch of Lies.

And more importantly, I realized at that moment that contemporary
American
society generally understands and accepts that alcoholism is a
disease.
That people do not have a choice as to whether or not they are
alcoholic.
Thus the archaic social stigma -- which anonymity was designed to
protect
us against -- has largely washed away. Furthermore, it occurred to me
that honesty is important for recovering alcoholics; indeed, it is
crucial
to developing a conscious relationship with a Higher Power.

But true honesty denotes forthrightness; non-concealment. The
deliberate
omission of relevant information is just as dishonest as a false
statement. Not only is anonymity obsolete, it is injurious to my
relationship with my Higher Power and harmful to my relationship with
the
Fellowship in that it separates me from real, direct contact with
others.
I realized that in order to mature spiritually, I had to shed this
mask of
anonymity. Shed it completely. Being anonymous means being
uncommitted.

So I shared at meetings with desperate candor. I exposed myself for
the
wretched liar and the cheat I had been. Some people did not believe
my
confessions, and accused me of only pretending to pretend to be other
people whom they had personally met and known for real. "No, no --
that
was me, I was in disguise," I said. But they did not believe me. "I
Just
talked with Edgar G. last night, you liar," one woman said. In fact
Edgar
G. was my fabrication, yet somehow this was being challenged.

I did not care. I was set free by the Truth. Immune to judgment, I
was
Jerome MacGill, age 35, of 3480 De Lune Avenue in Los Angeles,
California,
90030. Jerome the Virgo with blond hair, standing 5'11", weighing 165
pounds. Jerome who was maxed out on seven credit cards, including a
Sears
card, and who cried when, at the age of nineteen, his cat, Thrifty,
choked
to death. Jerome with a birth mark on his armpit that might one day
mutate into a fatal cancerous growth; Jerome who was never courageous
enough to get into a bar fight, but who once vandalized the tombstone
of
his own grandfather, Max, who used to whip him with his belt; Jerome
the
liar, the former fraud, the guy who read movie reviews so that he
could
talk about movies, but who never bothered to watch them; Jerome who
loved
it when girls hit him; Jerome who gulped tuna fish right out of the
can;
Jerome whose telephone service was terminated for nonpayment, but who
celebrated the isolation of not having a phone; Jerome who stole his
neighbor's newspaper at least twice a week; who wanted so much to do
good,
but was too lazy to figure out how; Jerome to whom the heroic
opportunity
never came. SSN 015-11-0491. DOB 10-24-67. Jerome MacGill.

And I found that when I finally opened up in A.A. -- opened wider than
anyone, until there was no part of me left closed off from sight -- I
was
rejected. I was dejected. Ignored, deplored and discarded, by
everyone
in A.A.

Everyone.

I realized that it is not for me that I am supposed to maintain my
anonymity; it is for you. Anonymity doesn't exist to protect me from
judgment; that's an excuse. Anonymity allows you to avoid getting too
close to me; anonymity gives us a zone of comfort, a much-needed safe
distance from the mangled, grotesque, hapless citizens of A.A. It's
not
them -- the non-members -- anonymity protects us from, or their cold
condemnation. It's us -- the other members -- who, despite our
rhetoric
of love and acceptance, we'd do damn near anything to avoid, including
engaging in repeated acts of self-deception.

The truth, ladies and gentlemen, is that anonymity, the spiritual
foundation of all of our traditions, is nothing but glorified
cowardice.


Yours In Truth,


Jerome MacGill
3480 De Lune Avenue
Los Angeles, California, 90030