I sometimes wonder if all introverts struggle as much as I did when I first came into the program. I’ll never know, because we don’t talk to each other. Or anyone else, if we can help it, unless we have no other options. Preferable options include death, dismemberment, and being bitten repeatedly by poisonous snakes, or maybe rabid skunks. Talking is hard.

Some program tools are great for solo use: CAL, slogans, journaling, prayer, meditation. No problem there; that was my zone. I was an expert at DIY “self-improvement,” even though it never seemed to work. That stuff, I could do.

Others require more than one participant, unless you’re quite odd: sharing at meetings, making program calls, and sponsorship. All had their horrors when I first entered the rooms. I thought I could just listen and they’d tell me how to fix my alcoholics. Then I could read all the books, get my checkmarks, graduate, and go on with my life, ideally without having to say anything to anyone.

All that was spoiled when someone said (or maybe read) at a meeting: “I didn’t get sick by myself, and I can’t get well by myself.”

Wait, you mean I have to talk to people? I have to talk to people? I have to talk to people?

Not funny, HP

Fortunately, I was really freaking desperate. Desperate enough to try anything. Even something as horrible as talking to people. (Ask me how fortunate I felt at the time.) It truly was a gift, though, because if the universe had not conspired to back me into that corner, my character defects would’ve kept me a spectator.

Pro tip: Spectators do not get better.

I’d heard enough of my story in others’ shares to realize that these people had something I needed. They had all my same problems, but somehow they were okay. They laughed, a lot. They had perspective. They weren’t miserable, whiny victims, like me.

I thought they were crazy, but their kind of crazy looked way better than mine. I was willing to do whatever it took to get there. Even if that involved (gulp!) talking.

And then I got a sponsor

The monster that lives under my bed is fear of rejection. Asking someone to sponsor me was the bravest thing I’d ever done up to that point. But by then I knew how crazy I was, and I had a sliver of hope that I could somehow learn to be a little less crazy. I was also–did I already mention this?–really freaking desperate.

So anyway, I did the impossible thing and asked, and she said yes. (I think I would have withered and died on the spot if she hadn’t.) I now had a sponsor. A wonderful, wise, experienced, caring and funny sponsor whom I was deathly afraid to actually talk to.

And then… radio silence

The progression I went through in learning to contact my sponsor looked something like this:

Event: *happens*

Me: *takes out phone*

Level –17: Think about texting my sponsor for 5 weeks, shrivel up in terror, make a list of all the reasons why I’m a loser who deserves rejection, beat myself up for being a coward, cry, no actual contact

Level –9: Think about it for 4 weeks, type and retype text 25 times, cry in fetal position on the floor, pray, no actual contact

Level 0: Think about it for 3 weeks, type and retype text 20 times, cry on the floor, pray, maybe actually press Send

Level 1: Text 2 weeks after crisis: This happened, but I’m fine now, thanks, just letting you know. (Plus the usual praying and crying routine)

Level 2: Text 3 days after crisis: This happened, but I think I’m okay now. (Slightly less praying and crying; maybe even remain vertical while crying)

Level 3: Text a few hours after crisis: This happened, can we maybe talk sometime when you’re not busy, if I’m not too much of an existential burden? (Ditto)

Level 4: Text right after crisis: This just happened and I think I might have feelings, do you have a few minutes maybe? (Still some tears and Serenity Prayers)

Level 5: Text during crisis: Hi, got a minute? (Ditto)

I wish I was exaggerating.

Getting to Level 5 took about two and a half years. And that’s just texting; I still can’t call. She calls me when she gets the “Hi, got a minute?” text. I love her for this, more than I can say. Someday I’ll have to grow up and make the call. I just hope it’s not anytime in the next 20 years or so. It’s going to take me awhile.

Out of the shell

What saved me, finally, was doing the second bravest thing of my life: asking my sponsor if we could schedule a regular time to talk. Having that conversation appointment made me feel a little less like a huge imposition. Even so, I never slept well the night before. I’d spend the hours beforehand with my insides in a wad of anxiety, as if I were headed to the dentist, or maybe the guillotine. Did I mention that she’s wonderful, wise, experienced, caring and funny?

Introversion is not a character defect, but it does make some things really hard. Learning to share with my sponsor would’ve been hard even if I was relatively okay. I was not okay. I was miles and miles from okay. I didn’t realize how damaged I was until I started to heal. Picking up that 1000-lb. phone is never going to be easy. The alternative is letting this disease destroy the rest of my life. So it’s time to practice doing some hard things.

There’s so much else tangled up in learning how to talk: learning how to tell the truth, learning to show up as myself, learning to take off the mask. Each of those is its own process–its own messy, scary, un-beautiful process. I’m glad I don’t have to do it alone.

Keep coming back!