I screamed at the doctor that I wanted an abortion. Unsurprised by my sudden outburst, the doctor asked if I'd ever had one. When I told him I had, he asked how many. I had to sit for a moment and think about it before responding I believed it to have been three or four, but I couldn't remember. I quickly explained that I was drunk and loaded most of the time. Unimpressed by my newfound sobriety, he refused to give me an abortion stating that three was the limit. He made it clear that whether I'd had three or four, I was at the limit. I jumped up and left. I didn't need him. Now that I knew what the limit was, I knew the lie I'd have to tell.

That night during my daily check in I told V. As usual, she didn't pass judgment or belittle me. Instead, she told me that because it was my life and my body, the decision was mine. I pondered over it all night, but no matter how I looked at it, I knew what I had to do.

Several days later, I sat in a nearby clinic filling out paperwork. When they questioned me about how many abortions I'd already had, I lied and said two. The following day, I had the abortion, although it wasn't as easy as it had been before; I didn't have any drugs or alcohol to numb the guilt and shame. But I never regretted my decision. I knew I was in no way ready to be a mother, and no baby of mine was going into the same system that helped fuck me up. Besides, I had to focus on me. I had to focus on recovery. But, I promised myself that that would be the last abortion I would ever have.

It was yet another promise I would keep.

- After the abortion, I continued my efforts at living sober, though there was a lot to learn. V never made me feel bad about the way I was feeling-whatever I happened to be feeling. And, being clean and sober opened my mind and body up to a never-ending wave of emotions and feelings that felt new. I'd spent so much time numbing myself from feeling anything that I'd forgotten how raw emotions can be. The first-and the worst-was fear. When I left the hospital, I was consumed with it. Without the false courage of alcohol and dope, I realized I was afraid of everything-afraid to be outside, afraid of other people, hell, I was afraid of myself. V suggested I practice turning my fears over to my Higher Power.

I responded that the problem was that I'd been by myself for so long, I didn't trust God or anyone else.

She gave me a coy smile. She never tried to force me to do or think anything; she just gave those strong suggestions. This time, she "suggested" that I try and get to know a God "of my own understanding"-whoever that may be. She suggested I take it slow so I wouldn't get overwhelmed. She promised that, as I stayed clean and worked with the 12-step program, I'd develop, enhance, and amplify my own concept in, and relationship with, a Higher Power. I smiled and said I'd try. And I did.

- For the next year and a half, I received roses from Brett on a regular basis. No special occasion was needed-the card would read "Just because." It got so that, after a while, the deliveryman wouldn't even have to say my name. As soon as the receptionist saw him coming, she'd be calling me on the phone informing me that another bouquet was up front.

Brett was the first gentleman I'd ever had in my life. Not only did he send me roses, but he was the first man, besides my daddy, to open the car door for me. At first, I wasn't used to it.

"Will you just wait!" he'd holler as I hopped out of the car before he could get around to my side to let me out.

"You move too damn slow!" I was so impatient. It was ironic that, although I'd quit using speed, I still moved like I did.

"Cup, why don't you just let someone be good to you?" V fussed one night when I complained about Brett getting angry that I wouldn't wait for him to let me out of the car. "You're fighting it because you feel like you don't deserve it. But you do! Let someone love you!"

I promised her I'd try. And slowly, I did. Within a couple of months, Brett didn't have to sprint around to my side of the car; I'd patiently wait on him. In fact, I began to expect it. But he never seemed to mind. He never allowed me to touch a door-any door.

Besides being the first man to treat me like a lady, Brett was around to share many of the countless firsts I experienced clean and sober. He was with me the first time I saw a movie sober. It was the first time I wasn't screaming at the screen in a drunken rage. We attended our first dance together, and he helped me get over the nervousness of dancing sober-which I hadn't done since I was eleven years old. Shit, the drugs and booze always told me I danced like Debbie Allen. However, having learned about how ridiculously silly I behaved when I was drunk, I now realize that I probably danced more like Woody Allen. Still, I danced anyway, and for the first time, I didn't get put out of the establishment.

Learning to have fun without a drink or drug wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. In fact, being sober allowed the fun to last longer because I wasn't getting into fights or getting thrown out. More important, the next day I could remember the good time I had.

Brett was also with me when I took my first HIV test. I'd told V about my suicide plan. Of course she was shocked, but not surprised. She said she understood the desperation that addiction could put a person in. Nevertheless, she said I'd have to go get tested.

I didn't want to get tested. What if my suicide plan had been successful? Now that I was clean and sober, had a good man, a great job, and was just beginning to learn to truly enjoy life, I no longer wanted to die. But V said recovery also entailed responsibility, and getting tested was the responsible thing to do. Brett, being the ever-supportive man he was, agreed to get tested with me. Though I appreciated his support, he wasn't aware of how different and scary the process was for me. He didn't know that I'd tried to get AIDS. I couldn't tell him that. I didn't know how. Luckily, V said it wasn't important that he know. What was important was my HIV status. So Brett and I tramped down to the health clinic and got tested.

Two weeks later, Brett and I both learned we were negative. I wish I could tell you the scariness of the whole ordeal made me immediately start using condoms. I wish I could, but I can't.

Still, I got tested every six months for the next several years and each time the result was negative. It would be years later, when a close friend contracted the disease, before I really and truly woke up and started practicing safe sex.

- After my relapse, one of the main things I was afraid of was having to go through the DTs again. Luckily, I didn't. Still, the relapse provided several blessings in disguise. First, it forced me to admit that I was an alcoholic. You see, when I initially got sober, my mind continually tried to convince me (and often still does) that I wasn't an alcoholic. Just like it did the night of my relapse, my mind insists that although my problems with drugs are clear, I really have no issue with alcohol. Whenever that fallacy emerges, I just reflect back on my relapse and any doubt as to my inability to drink like a normal person quickly goes out the window.

Another unexpected blessing is that I was scared something awful. For the first few months after my relapse, I only allowed myself to go to work and meetings for fear that if I dared venture anywhere else, my feet would head straight to the dope man or liquor store.

Although I never again got the compulsion to drink or use, I frequently got the desire to do so. Keeping at the forefront of my mind the promise I made to God (and myself) to never come to again, I'd fight these desires in myriad ways: from praying to crying, to picking up the phone calling person after person in recovery until the desire passed, to literally sitting on my hands to keep them from shaking with the anticipation of getting high. Sometimes I'd sit for hours rocking back and forth, sobbing and crying, my whole body shaking, my clothes soaked with sweat as I pleaded over and over and over, "Please don't let me get loaded. Please don't let me get loaded."

But fear will only work for so long, and I couldn't stay hidden from the world forever. So, as the fear began to dissipate, I got busy. I chased recovery like I chased booze and drugs. I put everything I had into it. It was difficult because it took dedication and commitment-two traits I knew about, but didn't realize I had. Everything I'd done in my life up until that point had taken dedication and commitment. It took dedication and commitment to learn to be a Gangsta. Before joining the gang, I knew nothing about gangs; hell, I'd never even heard of them. Now, I'm an "OG." Dedication and commitment are what it took to get money to find drugs, cop them (all the while dodging the police), and keep a decent supply of them. I did whatever it took to stay high. So I took that same energy and focused it on recovery. V started me on working the 12 steps (up until this point, all I'd done was attend meetings and started building a support group, but hadn't begun working my way through the steps). I continued to stay sober and continued to recover in 12-step programs.

Unfortunately, Brett didn't have the same commitment to recovery that he had to chivalry. Three months after getting out of Mesa Vista, he got loaded. He'd said he was on his way home from work when his mind gently suggested he cop a twenty-dollar rock. He briefly thought about calling someone and gave an even briefer thought to going to a meeting. His mind again suggested, more strongly this time, that he cop a little something. Before he knew it, he'd convinced himself that since he'd been clean for over three months, he could handle one lil twenty-dollar rock. He copped that twenty-dollars' worth and didn't stop smoking until all of his money was gone.

I wasn't shocked when I learned that Brett had relapsed. Hell, I'd recently done it myself. So I tried to offer him as much understanding and support as I could. Most of my recovery friends said I should've dumped him because he would only bring me down. But I ignored their advice and decided to stick by him. And why not? I figured since we were both trying to recover, we could do it together. Unfortunately, I hadn't yet realized that recovery isn't for people who need it; it's for those who want it. And Brett didn't want it-at least not badly enough. He still had one reservation, or rather a misconception: he believed that, since he'd never been fired and was able to keep a job-a good job-he wasn't really an addict. So, although he was able to get clean, this one lil reservation prevented him from staying clean. He never got more than four or five months before relapsing.

I refused to allow Brett's troubles with staying clean to interfere with my commitment to the same. I followed the suggestions I'd previously refused: I changed the places where I hung out. I didn't go to any more nightclubs or bars. I changed the people I hung out with, including Rose. She didn't get angry about it, though. Instead, she said she understood and actually agreed with my decision.

"Girl, it's obvious you can bullshit me," she replied when I explained that we wouldn't be hangin' anymore. "I don't know nothin' 'bout them 12-step programs. Do what you need to do to get better. Because you was fucked up!"

We both cracked up because not only was it was funny, it was very true. I also cut Tommy loose. Surprisingly, he didn't put up much of a fight. He said he realized it was truly over the night I'd met Brett. He said he'd noticed the way I looked at Brett. When I asked him in what way was that, he replied, "In a way that you haven't looked at me in years." He was silent for a moment and then admitted that it was really more than Brett. He said I was changing-and he didn't like it. I asked him how had I changed, and he replied that he preferred the loaded Cup. She was more exciting and lively. He also said that he didn't agree with 12-step programs; he disliked them, and anyone who went to them. He refused to explain why.

Actually, I found his dislike for the new-and-sober Cup to be a relief. It meant that I wouldn't have to do any fussin' or fightin' to call it quits. We ended the conversation agreeing to part as friends, with Tommy taking responsibility for getting a divorce.

I had no emotion one way or the other about the end of my tumultuous relationship with Tommy. I just saw it as another chapter in my life coming to an end, while so many new ones were beginning.

Recovery was a continuum of lessons. First, I started working on my trust issues. V constantly reminded me that neither she nor anyone else could keep me clean and sober. She also reminded me that neither she nor anyone else could get me loaded or drunk. To stay clean and sober, I'd need a Higher Power, who I'd started to regularly call God. I don't know why. I just did.

V said I had to learn how to trust God with everything. Trusting Him to keep me sober came much easier than I thought, since my trust (in that area) grew with each passing day that I didn't drink or use. No, I had no problems trusting God to help me stay clean. The problem I had was trusting Him with every other area of my life. However, before I could trust God, V said that I'd have to stop being mad at him, and a good starting place would be forgiving Him for taking my mother. This one was especially hard for me. I had routinely blamed everything that ever happened to me on God-starting with my mother's death. Had she not died, Larry and I wouldn't have been given to the sperm donor.

Speaking of Larry, my mind interrupted itself, I wonder how he's doing and where he's doing it?

I didn't allow myself to linger on Larry too long. I hardly ever thought about him. It'd been years since we'd talked and even longer since we'd seen each other. "Out of sight, out of mind" was still my motto. So my mind continued with why God was to blame for my life.

If Momma hadn't died, we wouldn't have gone to Lancaster. If I'd never gone to Lancaster, there would never have been a Pete or a Candy. If no Candy, there would have been no booze, drugs, "business partners," or anything else. Besides, not only did God take my mother, but he allowed me to be the one to find her. What kind of God lets an eleven-year-old child find her mother's dead body? And this is the same God I was expected to trust?

V reminded me that the God "of my understanding" did not have to be the hell-and-brimstone God that I'd heard about and often had in mind when thinking about my mother. More important, she encouraged me not to focus on what I perceived to be negative about God but instead focus on the positive. She instructed me to write down some of the surprising outcomes of various events during my hellacious life.

When I first began writing, I didn't see anything "positive" about God-that is, until I really began to take stock of my past. It didn't take long to acknowledge that there was no way that, as an eleven-, twelve-, or thirteen-year-old girl, I could have hitchhiked up and down the California highways, at all hours of the day and night, getting into anyone's car with nothing but a butter knife in my sock, and never have gotten raped, beaten, or even killed. Looking back on it, I realized that someone or something had to be watching over me. I thought about the numerous gang fights I'd been in; yet I'd never suffered any serious injuries. I thought about the many homies I'd lost to gang violence and drive-by shootings. I thought about the night I'd gotten shot. I should have been dead, or at least paralyzed; yet, I'd walked out of the hospital, despite the doctor's doubts.

Over the next several days, I thoroughly cataloged every horrendous event of my life. When I finished, tears fell as I admitted to myself that something had to have been protecting me.

"But why?" I asked V when I went over to her place to tell her I'd finally finished writing. "Why did God let me go through all that shit?" The anger I thought I had previously squashed began to rise up again.

For a few moments V said nothing. Finally, she did speak.

"I don't know why things happen. I don't know why some are taken, yet others live."

She paused again, as if continuing to think. We were sitting in her living room. Her sixteen-year-old daughter was in her room doing homework. Soft jazz was playing on the stereo. I looked at V. She was so beautiful: her long black hair lay beautifully around her shoulders; her long manicured nails and light blue silk pajamas exemplified her femininity.

"But, how about this," she said softly. "Instead of asking why you had to do it, how about just thanking Him for safely bringing you through it."

As usual, she floored me. Not only about what she'd said, but about how right she was. I promised her I would follow her suggestion. And I meant it.

Slowly, I did become grateful for the things I'd survived, though the gratitude didn't come overnight. My relationship with God was like everything else I'd encountered, learned, or experienced sober-I had to work at it. But slowly, my hatred for Him began to lessen.

I also had to learn that, in trusting God, I didn't have to fight and struggle against anything or anyone. Fighting and struggling was all I knew. As a child in the streets, I had to fight to keep my shoes, struggle to hustle food and shelter, struggle to keep out of foster homes, fight to keep someone from stealing my jacket. With the Gangstas, I'd had to fight to become one of them, fight for their respect, fight for rank, struggle to stay out of jail, struggle not to get killed. As a dope fiend and drunk, the fights and struggles were endless. Even in my marriage I'd had to fight. I was always fighting.

But no more. V reminded me that if God had something for me, no one could take it-it was mine. And she was right. I don't know the exact moment when my relationship with God changed; when my hatred turned to love and I began to trust Him completely, with no animosity, malice, fear, doubt, or resentment. What I do know is that the more I worked on it, the better I got.

Next, according to V, I had to learn to be all right with me, starting with doing a probingly thorough moral inventory of myself.

"I ain't got no damn morals," I snapped when she told me what we'd work on next. I was becoming agitated with the recovery process. It seemed like there was always something to do, some type of work. I just wanted to be sober, sit on my ass, and watch TV. I didn't want to have to work at anything anymore. But V reminded me that I hadn't become an addict overnight. In fact, none of my negative behaviors, conduct, or traits were learned overnight. I'd worked at them.

"Practice makes perfect," she said. "So be careful what you practice."

Another profound, but true, statement. Through the years, I'd practiced trickin', drinking, using, stealing, cheating, robbing, and a host of other negative behaviors till I'd perfected them. In fact, I'd never practiced anything positive, except going to work, and even that was practiced while drunk or loaded.

"Damn, you're smart," I said with awe as I realized how right she was. "You're fuckin' amazing!"

"It's not me," she immediately corrected me. "Never put me on a pedestal, Cup. Remember, I'm a drunk just like you; I sit in meetings next to you. Most of the things I say come from divine direction: prior to every conversation we have, I pray and ask God to let me carry His message, not mine."

She added that the other suggestions were given to her by other women in recovery, one of whom was an old-timer named Chaney. It was the first of many times that V would remind me that she was human and equal to, not better than, me or anyone else.

She went on to say that that once I'd completed the twelfth step, I would have a responsibility to pass it on.

"But, you can't give away something you haven't got." She warned, "So you'd better get busy."

And I did. I began to "practice" changing all of my negatives into positives. I practiced being honest. I practiced being kind. I practiced liking others. I practiced liking myself-which was the hardest of all, since it meant looking at my character defects and being okay with myself anyway. I had to learn to accept life just the way it was. Since I was a little girl, I'd justified everything with a bunch of ifs: if I were light-skinned, I'd be pretty; if I had long hair, someone would love me; if I had had a mother, I'd have been all right. I had to let go of the ifs.

I also had to learn to love and accept myself-just the way I was. I'd spent so many years beating myself up for the way I looked. I hated my skin color. I hated my crooked teeth. I hated the noticeably huge gap I had in the middle of my mouth. I hated my flat chest. I hated my two-toned big lips. I hated everything about myself. And I didn't want to be me; I always wanted to be someone else. When I was little, I wanted to be Marcia Brady. Then I wanted to be Jayne Kennedy, a beautiful black woman with light skin and long beautiful hair. She was the first black female sports commentator and all the men thought she was gorgeous. I wanted someone to think I was gorgeous.

I went from wanting to be Jayne to wanting to be V. V was pretty and sober and smart. She was everything I wanted to be: she had beautiful light brown skin and long, flowing black hair; she had over five years of being sober; she was attending community college; worked at a job she loved; had a great apartment with nice furniture and all of the amenities; and she had a beautiful teenage daughter and a younger sister who she'd raised as her own daughter, both of whom loved her dearly. Yup, V had it going on.

Then I went from wanting to be V to wanting to be Monique, V's only child. I envied Monique because she had something I never would have-a mother; a mother who loved her like only a mother could. I would have killed to be Monique.

When I revealed these things to V, she smiled, and reminded me that I could never be Marcia Brady, Jayne Kennedy, her, Monique, or anyone else. I was stuck with Cup.

"But," she added quickly, "you have to realize that Cup is enough." She said that the next step of recovery would be learning and believing that I was good enough, period.

We were sitting in my small living room when we began my process of obtaining self-acceptance, self-love, and self-esteem. V announced that we were going to write positive statements about me on Post-its. When I responded that I couldn't think of a single positive thing to say about myself, she asked me what I would want someone else to tell me.

"I'd want them to tell me I was pretty."

She wrote, "Cup, you are pretty" on a Post-it.

"And I'd want them to tell me they liked me just the way I am."

She wrote that on another Post-it. We continued this process, always beginning the sentence with my name. V said this practice would make it clear to me who the message was for. When I couldn't think of anything else positive I'd want someone to say about me, or to me, she did. She wrote, "Cup, you're perfect. Love, God." And she wrote, "Cup, you're beautiful. Love, V." "Cup, you have a beautiful smile."

Now, she was writing feverishly. "Cup, you're a great person." "Cup, you deserve happiness." "Cup, you have beautiful skin." "Cup, you have pretty feet."

Seeing her acknowledging all of these wonderful things about me made me want to join in again. Tearing off one Post-it after another, we continued to write. Soon, I was racing to think of things and characteristics we liked about me (actually, V thought of things she liked; I thought of things I wished I liked).

When we could think of no more sayings, we'd gone through two pads of Post-its. We then began sticking them all over my apartment. No space was safe. They completely covered the kitchen cabinets, stove, and fridge. They stretched across every wall in every room. They were on the TV, dresser, doors, light fixtures, bathroom mirror, and medicine cabinet. V even stuck one on the back of the toilet. When I gasped, she replied: "You can still sing a positive self-song when you're sitting on the throne!" We both cracked up laughing and continued sticking.

When we were finally done, the place was covered in Post-its. Not only did I think they made my tacky little apartment look even tackier, I thought it was a stupid idea. I couldn't see how reading those little yellow pieces of paper would change anything. When I shared my doubts with V, she explained.

"We've got to change the tapes," she said.

"What tapes? I ain't got no tapes! Hell, I ain't even got no records!"

"Not those kinds of tapes, Cup. I'm talking about the tapes in your head. I'm talking about all of those negative messages about yourself that you and others have been telling you all of your life. These lil Post-its are going to begin the process of positive reinforcement. Now, don't get me wrong; it's not the cure-all. You're going to have to do a lot more work on yourself to love yourself. But it's a start. And, you'll never achieve anything if you never start."

And a great start it was. Those damn things were everywhere I looked. I couldn't get a cup of coffee, take a shower, brush my teeth, take a piss without seeing something nice being said about me. No matter what I did or where I looked, I was constantly reminded that I was enough, that I was okay just the way I was, and that I was lovedand had pretty feet. Slowly, very slowly, I began to believe it.

Then, I began to go through black magazines and cut out pictures of black women with dark or brown skin: Oprah, Alfre Woodard, Cicely Tyson, Tina Turner. These women had been around for years, I always threw their images aside. It wasn't until I began to post them all over my house that I realized that black really was beautiful. I couldn't remember who had convinced me that brown or dark skin was ugly-or why. It was a lie. Black women come in all shades-and all shades were beautiful-including mine.

Another process in building my self-esteem was learning to be nice.

"If you want self-esteem," V said, "do esteemable acts."

This was easier said than done because I'd always seen being nice as being a sucker, a mark, a punk; and I was nobody's punk. But again, V reminded me that my belief system was all fucked up. It was time to develop a new one. So, I practiced saying "excuse me" when I stepped on someone's toe (I used to say, "Bitch, you see my foot there!"). And I practiced not going off when someone stepped on my toe (before, if you stepped on my toe, I'd cut cha). I practiced saying "thank you" and "please." When I complained to V that I felt dumb because these things seemed like stuff I should have learned when I was a child, she snapped that I hadn't been a "child" since I was eleven years old. On top of that, she reminded me that I'd learned how to live in a different kind of school: I had been learning in "street"-rooms, while other children were learning in classrooms.

"Besides, whether you used to do it is irrelevant," she said. "What's important is that you're doing it now." She gave me a big hug and sternly instructed me to never beat myself up for trying to better myself.

It was then that I realized why God had chosen V to be the one to mold me and teach me. She had the challenging task of changing someone who society would argue was unchangeable. Of loving someone who society would say was unlovable. And she was entrusted with the arduous task of teaching someone who society was convinced couldn't learn a damned thing.

- V and I were sitting around having our weekly one-on-one chat in her living room when she told me that God puts people into our lives for a reason, but that everyone who came into our lives wasn't meant to stay. At the mention of this, I told V my greatest fear: that eventually, everyone I loved-Daddy, Jr., Ken, and even she-would either hurt me or leave me.

Upon hearing this, V looked up at me in surprise. I admitted other secret worries: I'd actually been waiting for Ken to announce he'd decided to fire me after all, and for her to announce she didn't want to be my sponsor anymore.

"Cup, why would you think that?" she asked. "Ken has shown you nothing but love, encouragement, and support. Every time I talk to you, all you talk about is 'Ken this and Ken that.' Do you honestly think that now, after all he's gone through with you, he'd fire you?"

I nodded.

"And why would you think I wouldn't want to be your friend anymore?"

I explained to her that sooner or later (probably a lot sooner than later), I'd do something to piss her off and she'd leave. She sat silently for a moment with her head cupped in her hands, her shoulders hunched in deep thought.

"Have you ever grieved your mother?" she asked as she straightened up suddenly.

Her question caught me totally by surprise. Here we were talking about me getting fired or losing a friend, and she was asking if I'd grieved my mother.

But once I thought about it, I realized it was actually a good question.

Grieve Momma? No one had ever asked me that before. Had I?

I told her that I honestly didn't know. So she made me tell her about the days and events surrounding Momma's death. For the first time since I was eleven years old, I told the truth. I took my time and told her all about those horrible days. By the time I'd finished talking, I was crying. At first, I tried to stifle the tears, trying to look hard. But V held me in her arms, stroked my hair, and let me cry; encouraged me to cry.

"You've been holding this pain and hurt inside for all these years. It's okay to cry, Cup. It's healthy to cry."

And cry I did. I cried as I reflected back on Momma's body sprawled across the bed. Bawled as I remembered her body landing on top of mine as I tried to lift her head so I could see her face. I sobbed as I remembered sitting with her head in my lap singing our song. By the time my flashback got to the part where I was being snatched away from Daddy and Jr., I'd begun to wail. V never said a word and never tried to hush my tears. Instead, she continued to hold me and let me cry. For hours I cried as I relived the atrocities that I'd drunk and used to forget or pretend never happened: the abuse in Lancaster, the rapes by Pete, my first night out with Candy. Everything.

Finally exhausted from "mourning," I fell asleep. V was concerned that the grieving process may have been too much for me. She thought I might wake up and, still distraught, have a desire to drink or use. Determined to be there for me if that happened, she sat with me all night. I slept through the night.

The next day, V warned me that that was not the last time I would grieve or feel the pain of my past. But she told me to never again suppress my feelings-happy or sad. Whenever I felt the need to scream or cry or was experiencing any emotion about events, conduct, and experiences in my past, I was to let them out. Suppressing them, ignoring them, or pretending they didn't exist would cause me to get drunk. That day I learned that feelings-even negative ones-were good. You see, for so long I used and drank to escape negative feelings. I hated feeling sad, scared, or any negative feeling. But in recovery I learned that that's where the healing is-in allowing myself to feel.

And feel I did. Whenever a memory would come up, I'd just start bawling, regardless of where I was. The first time it happened at work Ken, as usual, was concerned. But once I explained to him what was going on, he told me that, from then on if I needed to cry, or just wanted to go someplace quiet, I could use his office.

The practice of "feeling," i.e., of being able to mourn my past and grieve my mother, allowed me to free my mind of a negative self-image, and instead, to start the process of building a positive self-regard. I realized that, although I'd been through some bad things, and had even done some bad things, I was not a bad person. Before long, I even began to like what I saw when I looked in the mirror-even my body, which had changed completely. As I stayed clean and began to eat regularly, I continued to put on weight. That weight, for some odd reason, distributed itself in the most perfect of places. What were once long, scrawny poles were developing into elongated, shapely legs. The bony body that, a short time ago, looked like a twig was turning in a voluptuously sexy physique. The cynical, withdrawn, irate person who had entered rehab was turning into an optimist, of all things.

Not only was I learning to like and accept myself, but I was also learning about myself. I learned that I was a loner. I didn't really like a lot of people around me. The more and more I got to know myself, and the more I practiced liking myself, I learned that I actually enjoyed my own company. I'm not sure why I became loud, obnoxious, and violent when I was drunk or loaded. But the real me was not any of those things. I wasn't a gangbanger or a fighter. I discovered that the real Cup was quiet, friendly, and often shy.

I also discovered that I loved being sexy. I don't know why. It had nothing to do with sex. I just loved my new, curvaceous body. I wore clothes that revealed my body so that others would be able to appreciate it too. The women in the meetings hated the way I dressed and regularly complained about it; often telling V that she should talk to me about my attire. V refused, telling them that that part of me would grow and change in time. The most important thing was that I remembered not to drink or use no matter what. She told them that she didn't care how I talked (I still frequently cussed) or how I dressed because she knew that if I stayed sober long enough, I would have the chance to work on everything else. Then she'd give them a sly grin and remind them that most of them hadn't walked through the doors of recovery looking or acting like "ladies" either. And that since they'd had time and opportunity to learn and develop appropriateness in behavior, speech, and dress, they should allow me to do the same.