Anonymity vs. Secrecy

When I first moved to my small woods town, one of the first things I did was connect with the local fire department. I wanted to arrange a CPR/AED training for the church where I had just started working, and I figured this was as good a place as any to get things started. Over the course of some introductions, I met a guy who was doing emergency management work. I appreciated his wisdom and the care he showed for the younger firefighters and paramedics with whom he served. “Oh, also,” he confided one day, with no hint of shame, “I’m one of the local leaders of AA. If you ever run into anyone who’s struggling with alcohol, feel free to send them my way.”

He mentioned this to me, one “community leader” sort of person to another, and I was grateful. This man is someone I admire, and there was a shred of my spirit back in those days that longed to confess, me. Could you maybe also help…me.

I saw him several times in the months that followed our initial introduction, but it would be over a year before I saw him in the rooms. No questions asked. Just a hug, a genuine smile, and a “good to see you. Glad you’re here.”

For several reasons lately I have found myself contemplating the distinctions between “anonymity” and “secrecy” when it comes to recovery. I have been thinking of this man in particular, because something about his own honestly was a source of great strength for me, even before I had set about to get my own shit together. I was comforted by his openness. I was encouraged when we were in emergency services meetings together. I knew that he knew about something I also wanted to know about. I knew that he knew about things I regretted having to know about. We didn’t chat about more than the business at hand, but just knowing that we shared something — even something that I could not yet articulate — helped me. This quiet coherence nudged me toward a brighter, braver path.

Alcoholics Anonymous is served well by the anonymity assumed within the fabric of the program. It is a great gift to just show up and be. “The only requirement for AA membership is the desire to stop drinking.” There are no other prerequisites. There is nothing to prove or earn or achieve. Naturally as people grow more comfortable with one another, more things are shared. In a rural place like where I attend meetings, the reality is that everyone functionally knows one another. But there is a precious intimacy that is protected and cared for. People spend time with one another outside of meetings, and they enjoy a common purpose and freedom. Visitors who attend annually when they vacation in the area tell us that there is something special about the community up here. I don’t know enough to speak to this, except to say that I believe it’s true.

Something I am in the midst of right now is an odd constellation of realities. On the one hand, I feel a freedom and a sense of wholeness and integrity and personal solidity that I have never known before. My world is larger, a bit overwhelming, but ripe with possibility. I find myself repeating the words of Psalm 18:20: “He brought me out into an open place. He rescued me because he delighted in me.”

I am in the open place.

On the other hand, I am beginning to feel as if I am keeping a secret. My family certainly know what I’m up to these days, but there is a degree of professional distance and decorum and (quite frankly) fear that keeps me from sharing most of these things. Even this odd little newsletter read by about eleven of you is technically anonymous — for good reasons, but perhaps for less good ones too. It is hard to say.

No one owes anyone the details of something so private, so personal, and, indeed, so sacred. In fact, my recovery community is so profoundly precious to me, a large part of me wants to hold it close and protect it and not dare let anyone come in who might say something negative or threaten my little sanctuary.

But I keep thinking about the man from the emergency services department. I keep thinking about the steadying, hopeful effect he has had on me simply by being present. Could I someday be this for someone else? Could I someday move with quiet confidence through the world, secure in my own humanity and unashamed of the courage I have been graceful enough to summon?

There is also the part of me that is waiting for the great reveal. There will be a person who talks to a person who saw me coming out of the Monday night meeting and there will be Questions. I don’t want anyone to think that I am hiding something because I’m ashamed. I don’t want anyone to think I have some dark secret. I have been wondering if I should get out ahead of it — drop some reflections on mid-stakes alcoholism nonchalantly into conversation as if I am giving up sugar or joining the historical society. I know my friends in the program would tell me that I am thinking too much about what other people think, and they are not mistaken.

When I pray about this, I am met with God’s gentle insistence that today’s troubles are great enough for today. Do the work. Celebrate the brightness. Care for people well and continue to live in wholeness and integrity. The rest will come, and I will be more than prepared to meet it.

In the meantime, do not behold me.

But also do.

Please look at this, because it is extraordinary.