If the Fourth Step is the exploration of an abandoned house, I have come to think of the Fifth Step as raising the blinds and throwing open the windows. The house has air and sunlight now, and it’s no longer haunted. When people come to the door, I can welcome them without shame, and I can even invite them in. Some rooms are private of course, but none are secret, and I live in all of them.
Cheryl M.
New York, New York
Condemned to Live an
Underground Life
JULY 1976
The group was a medium-sized one in a residential suburb of a large Western city. It was the weekly speaker meeting, and I was introduced as “one of our younger members from the __ Group.”
I stood up, identified myself as an alcoholic, and launched into the story of what I used to be like, what happened, and what I’m like now. Well, almost. For there is a vital part of my story that I could not and would not tell those fine people.
“I am an alcoholic, and I am a practicing homosexual. I don’t look it; I don’t mince when I walk or wear outlandish clothes; I don’t go around the room after the meeting soliciting good-looking male AAs. But the fact remains, I am a practicing homosexual.” I’ve often speculated on the reactions of those people had I made that statement and told them the parts of my past and present that I left out or glossed over in my pitch.
For that matter, what would your reaction be?
Throughout the darkest depths of my drinking, I tried desperately to come to terms with the fact that I was a homosexual, a member of a minority group looked upon by great segments of society as “revolting,” “disgusting,” “unnatural,” “queer.” I lived in a triple world: the facade of a normal man; the self-abasement of alcoholic drinking; the secret knowledge of my homosexuality.
Toward the end, quantities of booze would wash away the barriers between the worlds, and I would go on a wild, alcoholic trip, motivated by my desire to be with others like me. It always ended in disaster. One trip ended in my discharge from the service as “undesirable”; another caused untold embarrassment and heartache for my family and the firm that then employed me.
No matter how hard I tried, I sank deeper and deeper into the guilt-filled whirlpool of alcohol and sexual desire. Then, one day, alcohol became the most important thing. I was drinking to be drinking, not to numb the inhibitions of social behavior so I could be what I really wanted to be. My homosexual companions and friends rejected me as an untrustworthy drunk who might give away their own secret. Several of them tried to protect me from what seemed to be eventual self-destruction. This time, I rejected them—the very people I wanted to be with. I was really all alone.
I had tried AA several times, each time for a different physical or material reason. When sober in those periods, I put on a bright mask of confidence, but I lived in fear and frustration. I got nowhere with AA. I couldn’t be totally honest with myself or anyone else. I was a homosexual. So I found myself utterly alone in the world, a lousy “drunken queer.”
But something changed. I wanted to get sober, because I wanted to be sober more than I wanted to drink. I went to the AA office and club in a daze, hoping that somehow, somewhere, I could get sober and stay sober. For the very first time, I asked my Higher Power to help me get sober and stay sober.
But the specter of my homosexuality was still there. “Sure, you’re sober in AA again. That’s nothing new,” I said to myself. Then came the burning question: “But how are you going to accept the fact that you’re a homosexual and, as such, must always be condemned to living an underground life, even with your AA comrades?”
At first, I concentrated strictly on staying sober and attending meetings. I said nothing to anyone about my “other” life. I asked the Higher Power each day to show me the way to a solution. About a month or two after I came on the program, I met another homosexual, a man much older in years and sobriety than I. One Sunday afternoon, we drove out of town to an institution to see an AA inmate. Without actually realizing I was doing it, I told this man my real story and told him how desperate I was to stay sober and be able to make a life for myself. I was breathless with apprehension and fear, but I had to tell it.
When I finished, he glanced at me with a smile on his face and said, “Welcome to AA.” He told me then several things I’ll never forget. The first was that it was possible to stay sober and live the life of a homosexual. There were others in the AA program; I would meet them in time. He said to me, “You didn’t ask to be a homosexual, but you are. Short of long, difficult, and expensive psychiatric treatment, there is little chance that you can change your sexual life and desires, even if you wanted to. Your Higher Power knows what you are, and so do I. Your job now is to learn to live with your homosexuality, to make the best of a difficult bargain.”
What a great day! I had a glimmer of hope for the first time in many years. Here was someone who understood my life, someone who knew exactly how I felt. It was as if a whole new life had begun. I knew it was possible to be myself and stay sober!
That was over ten years ago, and I wish I could honestly report that life has been smooth and calm since then. But, of course, that isn’t true. It took months of difficult inventory-taking and many wild, emotional discussions to accept the fact that I was a homosexual. It took a couple of years of fearful experimentation to discover that I could lead—for me—a normal life. What is normal for me sexually is totally repugnant to the majority of people. But I have to live basically for me if I am to continue to stay sober and work this program. There have been many periods of terrible doubt and darkness, periods when I’ve sincerely questioned whether I could continue to lead the kind of life I lead.
But my Higher Power and the truth and wisdom of the AA way of life have given me the means to continue to grow as a person and a useful, sober member of society. I do my share of Twelfth Step work, with both heterosexual and homosexual people. I don’t force my homosexuality on them. My interest is in their drinking problem. The Higher Power has enabled me to be, for me, extremely objective when working with a newcomer. I have hundreds of heterosexual friends in AA and many, many homosexual ones. Many, of both kinds, have no idea that I am a homosexual. Others know, understand, and aren’t interested in my friendship for its sexual aspects.
In writing this, I am thinking that somewhere among the readership of this magazine there are other persons like me, as I once was—shakily sober, but still living in guilt and the indescribable fear that their homosexuality will prove to be an insurmountable obstacle in the path of sobriety and happiness. Have hope, my unknown friends! You can be happy and live a useful life. Two suggestions I might make: (1) Remember you’re an alcoholic first and a homosexual second, and (2) ask your Higher Power for guidance and help. It’s there, and it’ll come to you if you sincerely want it!
B. L.
Manhattan, New York
I Have Found Myself
AUGUST 1982 (From Dear Grapevine)
Thank you very much for the April Grapevine article “In Diversity Is Strength.”