Raising My Hand

My local FA meeting rarely had more than five of us, which meant providing service was inevitable. As a newbie and someone who struggled to acquire 90 days of abstinence right from the get-go, I had a long stretch of time where all I could contribute was reading portions of the meeting format. At first, I only volunteered to read the tools because they were short and less intimidating than the other sections, but with time, I raised my hand for longer portions, too. 

Encouraging fellows would complement my eagerness for recovery. Using humor as a mask, a coping skill I often used, I jokingly labeled  meeting days as “squat days,” referring to that fact that my rear barely hit the chair before I was up again to read. At 350 pounds, I assure you I never had a real “squat day” in my life. Truth be told, I just wanted to speed through the format and get to what I deemed the “good part” of the meeting; where others shared what was going on between their ears and how they had struggled mentally, the way I was, but weren’t struggling anymore. 

Of course, I realized I wasn’t the only overweight person in the world, but I honestly felt very alone with the fact that I had such an intense desire to change, yet was completely powerless to make progress. Prior to FA, I would chalk that up to laziness, being a failure, and other self-hating, self-defeating terms. I honestly thought other people chose to just surrender and enjoy being “fat and happy,” while I was the only one fat and suicidally miserable about it.  

A few months into my latest attempt at back-to-back abstinence, I knew I was in for a particularly stressful workday. I was so preoccupied with worry about leading a work meeting that I butchered my breakfast and had to start over. I didn’t need the added fear and uncertainty of whether I had weighed my breakfast correctly hanging over me. 

The work meeting went better than expected, but I still felt lingering stress afterward. As I pulled into a parking spot back at my building, I envisioned the row of vending machines I had to pass to get to my office and thought, We make a call in times of stress. So, I stayed in my car a little longer and made an outreach call. I wasn’t necessarily drawn to the vending machines; I just knew I was too hyped up at that moment and needed a buffer before walking past them. 

As I approached my desk after successfully ignoring the vending machines, my boss came into my office and declared “Girl, I don’t know what you have been up to but keep it up. You blew the socks off that meeting.”  I hadn’t directly worked under this individual since before FA, and in past annual evaluations, the only performance expectation she remarked on was to improve my public speaking abilities. Now, she was giving me compliments on my work. 

As I reflected, I realized that it wasn’t the size of my body that made the difference in my confidence. Although I was down several pounds by this time, I was not at goal weight. Appearance alone wasn’t the root cause of my success. Then it dawned on me. By this time in recovery, I had read every piece of that meeting format ad nauseum. I had stumbled over the tongue-twister portion of Tradition Six, “…lest problems of money, property, and prestige divert us from our primary purpose.” I had butchered the word “anonymity” in many different ways, at many different times. But each time I made a mistake at the front of the room, no one made it a big deal or criticized me. My fellows had made standing in front of the room, regardless of my size, a safe thing to do. 

Over time, I ended up traveling and visiting much bigger meetings with more eyes focused on me and a large enough space to require a microphone, and today I feel more comfortable presenting to a group, whether it be in FA or work-related. Yes, being at the front of a large conference room in a size 6 is easier than doing anything in a size 36, but that is not the sole reason I am more confident with public speaking. Through FA meetings, I learned that comfort comes from practice, whether that willingness to practice is built on a true desire to do service or just impatience with the meeting format. 

Now, with over 10 years of recovery, I force myself to pause before I raise my hand to give those with less than 90 days of continuous abstinence a chance to read and those with 90 days of abstinence a chance to share. I encourage newcomers to raise their hands at every opportunity, throw themselves into that small service, and trust the process.

It was never on my bucket list to do anything that required public speaking, but I received a hidden, unexpected, and unintended bonus in the tenth promise read at each meeting. “Fear of people … will leave us.” Fear is not entirely gone and not in every situation, but it is better. When I started, I was doing a small service for my meeting, but it turned out I was doing a huge service for my recovery.