‘Hang together or die alone’: AA members cope with quarantine

For recovering alcoholics, isolation could foment a different disease.|

Anonymity is the cornerstone of Alcoholics Anonymous, and in deference to that, the Index-Tribune has identified its sources in this story by initials only.

With too little to do and too many hours do it, Bay Area residents are drinking more alcohol than usual. Forty-two percent more, according to data from BACtrack, a San Francisco company that makes breathalizers for smart phones.

For the average QuaranTina or Tom — 'normals,' as they're known in the parlance of Alcoholics Anonymous — the urge to overuse alcohol while sheltering in place allows for a less-than-ideal release of pressure. It is perhaps not the best plan for coping with stress, but — for most people — arguably not the very worst, either.

But for alcoholics fighting to maintain sobriety, indulging that same urge could be deadly. As alcohol-dependent people in recovery commonly say: One drink is too many, and a thousand not enough.

COVID-19 is raising the stakes on sobriety, as if staying sober in wine country wasn't hard enough. The face-to-face meetings many alcoholics depend on for support have been prohibited by social distancing protocols and the county's shelter-in-place ordinance.

In the first weeks of the shutdown, one local group attempted to carry on its mutual support by meeting outdoors in a public park. On March 18, a sign posted outside a meeting room behind the Sonoma Community Center informed visitors that twice-daily gatherings would be held at Depot Park.

But as the coronavirus gained traction that plan shifted quickly, with virtual meetings organized in place of group gatherings. 'We are here to help you,' a new, second sign read, typed in bold font, all caps. 'You are not alone.'

V.M., sober nearly six years, knows that being alone is anathema to sobriety, with retreat the single most common trigger for relapse. The forced isolation required for the pandemic's containment is an existential threat to the sobriety of countless thousands. 'Alcoholism is a disease of isolation,' V.M. said. 'We hear the word 'isolation' and it's a red flag.'

Fairly rapidly, V.M.'s sober community transitioned to Zoom, the videoconferencing app made ubiquitous by COVID-19. 'I've been in Hawaii on Zoom. I've been in Europe on Zoom. The whole alcoholic worldwide family is mobilizing,' V.M. said.

But within a week, internet trolls were crashing the platform, posting cruel encouragements to drink. 'Alcohol is sooooo good!' one bomber wrote.

Alcoholics Anonymous and other treatment programs have long welcomed people at any stage of recovery, but now the open-door policy was allowing bad actors to access its 'rooms.'

'A week in we started getting Zoombombed. It's traumatizing to see this stuff on the screen. Porn in your face. Racist stuff in your face. Cussing, the N-word… not good,' V.M. said.

But one of the fundamental tenants of recovery maintains that all people are welcome, whether they are yet sober or not. 'Our first thought is always of the newcomer,' V.M. said. 'What about the person who's trying to get sober today?'

With 22 years of sobriety under his belt, and a box full of AA recovery chips in a desk drawer, D.H. hasn't been too rattled by suspension of his program's face-to-face meetings. 'I'm triggered by all of this,' D.H. admitted, 'but I'm fine. In fact, I kind of thrive on catastrophe. I'm better in a crisis than I am in everyday life.'

D.H. told the Index-Tribune that his main reason for drinking back in the day was for the camaraderie and social connection he found at the pub. The give-and-get of bar culture was stimulating. But sobriety saved his marriage and, perhaps, even his life, and he's learned different ways to socialize now. The culture of support found at his meetings fill the need D.H. has for kinship. 'I always say AA is a bar without alcohol,' he said. From D.H.'s point of view, the program's transition to Zoom has been generally effective, and he has attended meetings once a week since the lockdown began. But he worries for associates with more tenuous sobriety that the lack of in-person meetings might undermine their intentions.

'I'm in a bunch of Facebook groups and I'm watching people struggle,' D.H. said. 'You gotta call somebody when feeling anxious, and keep turning your will and life over to the care of God.'

For V.M., maintaining relationships even in the midst of pandemic is a stark choice between life and death. 'I wake up every morning and I'm an alcoholic. It's a disease that needs to be treated on a daily basis,' V.M. said. 'The disease doesn't take a break. The disease does pushups. The opposite of addiction is not sobriety or abstinence. The opposite of addiction is connection.'

V.M. is attending several Zoom meetings everyday, convinced that her community — and a higher power — keeps her protected. Like everyone else whose routines have been upended by the coronavirus, the sober community is finding its way through.

For V.M., there is simply no choice. 'It's hang together or die alone.'

Contact Kate at kate.williams@sonomanews.com.

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