Chapter 10 The Co-Dep Group
The Co-Dep Group
Sam’s codependency support group was, like every other recovery meeting she’d been to, in a basement. This one was in a church,
in a room they shared with a Sunday school, so the walls were covered with drawings of lambs, loaves and fishes, and Jesus.
One December afternoon, they’d come in to find the invisible children had been extra busy: From the ceiling dangled dozens
of tinfoil stars. It also meant the chairs were tiny, so the group members sat with their knees scrunched up by their chins
or directly on the Noah’s Ark—patterned carpet. KK, their sunny, septuagenarian group leader, said the tiny chairs were a
reminder to be humble before one’s Higher Power and also to laugh at oneself. Today, after another terrible day of writing,
of procrastinating by trying to find the Rabbit on the internet and coming up blank, Sam needed both.
It was a small meeting, since it was six o’clock on a summer Friday: just KK, Sam, Drishti, Linda, and a newcomer who looked
like Red-Haired Barbie, with such a tiny waist it seemed possible she’d had ribs removed. She frowned at the tiny chairs as
if she were being punked.
“Is for midgets?” she said, in an accent Sam thought was Russian.
“No,” said Sam, “they’re for us. But you can sit on the floor, or there’s a beanbag you can drag over.”
The Russian’s brow furrowed further over the word beanbag. “I take floor,” she said, and folded herself gracefully down.
“Welcome, and let’s get started,” said KK.
She passed the basket, and when it returned to her, she took the stopwatch out of it, the old-fashioned silver kind with a fob on top, and led them in the serenity prayer.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to
know the difference.
“I am told this is not religious group,” the Russian whispered. “I do not believe.”
“You don’t have to,” said Sam, and KK, overhearing, added, “Your Higher Power can be God, or Goddess, or Nature, or Source,
or nothing—whatever you hold it to be.”
The Russian didn’t appear persuaded. Sam smiled at her. She remembered how it had felt to attend her first meeting, in the
Berkshires; how the moment she’d opened her mouth to introduce herself, she’d started to sob from the sheer relief of being
in a room full of people who all knew what she was going through, of not having to pretend everything was okay when it wasn’t.
How she’d known she was in the right place when a dozen hands reached toward her with tissues. There was no better place to
have a meltdown than in a meeting of recovering codependents.
KK smiled around the circle. “I’ll start. I’m KK, and I’m a codependent.”
“Hi, KK,” they all said obediently, except the Russian, who leaned toward Sam and said, “What is codependent?”
“It’s someone who’s focused more on other people and their problems than her own life.”
“But hotline lady tells me this is meeting for women with drunk husbands.”
“Yes and no,” said Sam. “Many of us start coming because we live with addicts, but we stay to focus on ourselves.”
The Russian sat back, mystified. Sam felt for her. She remembered, too, how skewed the equation had seemed when she’d gone
to that first meeting, wanting to know what to do about Hank going completely off the rails, only to be told, Nothing.
You can’t do anything about him. What about you?
What are you going to do about your own life?
What do you want? Sam snapped, What do you mean?
How can I do anyfuckingthing about that while I’m living with this man?
I don’t care about my own life! Then she’d put her hand over her mouth when she realized what she’d said.
“I’m really worried about my stepdaughter,” KK was saying. “She was doing so well until she moved back in with her boyfriend,
and now we’re afraid she’s using again. I’d love to go over there and beat the stuffing out of that little S.O.B., let me
tell you. Anyway—”
“Why do you not do this,” the Russian interrupted.
“No cross-talk,” Linda said tiredly.
“She means no commenting on what other people are saying,” Sam translated.
“But why not get daughter from boyfriend’s house, have husband beat him up, teach him little lesson,” suggested the Russian.
“Then no more problem.”
KK smiled beatifically. “It wouldn’t change anything. She’d just go back for more.”
“It would be enabling,” Drishti added.
“What is that?” asked the Russian.
“It means doing for somebody else what she should do for herself,” KK said. “We can’t control persons, places, or things.
Today I’m grateful for what I can control, for you girls, and for my rooftop herb garden. Thank you.”
She handed the watch to Linda.
“I’m Linda,” said Linda, “and today I’m batshit because my Sully’s arraignment is tomorrow, and this judge is known to be
extra harsh on dealing, and Sully’s not a juvie anymore so he’s probably gonna go up the river and I’m going out of my frigging
mind. Thanks.”
She handed the watch to Drishti.
“I’m Drishti,” said Drishti, “yeah, that’s my real name, it means the fixed spot you look at to keep yourself balanced during
yoga. I’m a Sicilian from Charlestown, but in case you couldn’t tell, my ma was a hippie. I’m good today, just maintaining,
so I’ll pass.” She handed the stopwatch to Sam.
“I’m Sam,” said Sam, “and I’m here today because I met a man . . .”
Despite the no cross-talk rule, KK winked, Linda genuflected, and Drishti smirked.
“Great job not talking, guys,” said Sam. “Chef’s kiss. Anyway, I met this amazing man—”
Drishti pretended to cough. “Dickmatized,” she said into her cupped hands.
“Hey,” Sam said, and elbowed her. Drishti raised her palms: Sorry, sorry.
“But even though a certain sponsor should be quiet, she’s not wrong,” said Sam. “I do tend to get dickmatized. That means,” she said to the Russian, “when you’re in the early
stages of a relationship, in the sex and love haze, and you can’t see anything wrong.”
The Russian nodded somberly. “I, too, have been dickmatized.”
“Happens to the best of us,” said Sam. “But I’ve always been ashamed of it, how easily I get tractor-beamed in by some guy
and don’t see red flags. Or I see them and overlook them. It’s classic Unreliable Narrator.”
This was the only literary term Sam had taught her group that stuck because it was so useful. It meant selective perception
of one’s own life. Of course, everyone was a U.N., because people could see things only from their own points of view. But
in Sam’s case, whole chapters had been blanked out, memories missing until somebody said, Hey, remember that time when . . . ? And then she did. It was the psyche’s response to trauma, Sam knew. Mostly she was used to it; it was just a minor annoyance.
But it also made her susceptible to bad decisions, which was why Drishti and the group were so helpful.
“I’m the girl in the movie who you’d be yelling at, Don’t open that door! and I do it anyway,” she finished. “So this time, I’m trying to be honest and accountable, open yet grounded. That’s why
I’m here. Thank you.”
She handed the stopwatch to the Russian as KK silent-clapped and Drishti gave Sam the I’m watching you forked fingers. Sam gave it back. The Russian sat holding the stopwatch, thinking, then clicked the fob.
“Okay,” she announced. “I am Svetlana, and I need to know how to keep focus on self while living with husband who I think is just nice man when we meet on internet but now is wet-brain alcoholic. He is crazy, even the doctor says this. For instance, last night he comes in the kitchen and he says, Svetlana, make me eggs, and he is so drunk and wearing only socks, like Christmas cartoon man, how do you call him, the Grinch. And I say, It is one in the a.m., I am getting warm milk, I am not making eggs, and he says, If you do not make eggs I will call government to deport you and also I will beat you, and I tell him, If you beat me, I will use this frying pan and make eggs with your alcoholic wet brain, and do you know what he does? His eyes roll up in his head and he passes out, BOOM! on the floor. I want to go to my sister, but she is telling me he is my husband and I should lie in my bed. Thank you. You are very nice women.”
She handed the stopwatch to KK and looked at her expectantly.
“Well!” said KK after a pause. “Thank you, Svetlana. If you want to chat, I have some hotline and counselor numbers I can
give you. Everyone else, good shares.”
While they were laboriously getting up from the tiny seats, Drishti said to Sam, “Wanna grab a beer?”
“Sure,” said Sam. One of her favorite things about group was the drinking afterward. The first time she’d attended this meeting,
newly divorced and parched from years of abstinence around Hank, she’d asked, Does anyone want to go get a cocktail? There had been a terrible needle-scratch silence while Sam wondered if she’d committed the world’s biggest faux pas—and then
a dark-haired woman so weirdly gorgeous Sam couldn’t believe she was an actual person as opposed to a movie star playing a
nurse had said, Hell yes, I do! That was Drishti.
“You’re buying, right?” said Sam.
“Hell no, sponsor never buys,” said Drishti. “But I’ll be a cheap date, since my ballgown’s in the shop,” and she gestured
to her Crocs and scrubs.
“Favorite place?” said Sam.
“Yup,” said Drishti. “LFG.”