However, that's not what she'd say to me. Gently and lovingly, she'd tell me that I didn't have to be half-naked to be sexy because sexiness was a feeling-an internal feeling. She promised that if I continued to work on myself, better myself, and get to know and respect myself, I'd understand what she meant. When that happened, I'd change my attire because I'd want to-not because folks were hollerin' at me to put on some clothes.

She was right. About a year and a half later, I threw away all of my daisy dukes, tube tops, miniskirts, and "short-shorts" (but I kept my stiletto high heels-I had a limit, you know). I'd realized I was sexy, not because of what I wore, but just because of who I was and how I carried myself. I called my new style "sexy with attitude and a lil hood." I still wore short dresses and skirts with my stilettos to allow appreciation of my thick, curvaceous legs, which I'd learned to love instead of loathe. I wore lip liner to accentuate my full lips, which I'd learned to appreciate. And I changed my hair to a curly style instead of the "Buckwheat" look.

And you know what? V was right. The more I worked on fixing up my inside, the better I became at improving the outside. All of my hard work at loving myself, accepting myself, and loving others was slowly paying off. It wasn't until I had five years sober that I could look in the mirror and truly like-no, love-what I saw.

- I had been sober about a year when Jr. called to say that Connie had called him, asking for my phone number. Jr. wouldn't give her my number, but told her he'd call me and give me hers. Although it had been over ten years since I'd left Lancaster, just the mention of her name brought back fear and intimidation; the frightened little girl I used to be immediately returned. I called Venita in a panic. She calmed me down and suggested that I call Connie. She reminded me that, now that I was clean and sober, I no longer had to fear anything or run from anyone. She also suggested that getting some things off my chest might help me release my resentments against Connie and her mom. V hadn't steered me wrong yet. So nervously I agreed. I said a prayer and dialed the number.

Right off the bat, Connie was pleasant, though at first she kept calling me La'Vette. I firmly instructed her that she was to call me Cupcake. She ignored me. After she'd said La'Vette for the fourth time, I warned her that if she said it once more, I'd hang up. She seemed surprised at my terseness, but didn't use La'Vette again. She casually began informing me of what she'd been doing since I left: her mother died several years before. Connie had then sold the house in Lancaster, gotten married, and moved to the East Coast.

I wasn't really paying attention to her chatter. One question kept running through my mind. Why are you calling me?

Then, without warning, she changed topics and began telling me that she was trying to track down some of the former foster kids, but no one seemed to want to talk to her and-get this-for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why. That was the opportunity I was waiting for.

"Because of the fucked-up things y'all did!"

There was a momentary silence, then she quietly asked what I was talking about. I gladly told her. I talked about the beatings at the hands of her mother.

"Well, I never got beat," she indignantly retorted.

Ignoring her, I continued by talking about often having to go without food.

"I was never hungry," she snapped.

I was losing my cool and decided it was time to cuss her out. Then it suddenly hit me: she didn't experience any of those things. Her memories were of her childhood, and hers was a damned good one. She never went hungry and was never beaten.

Having come to the realization that our memories were different, I figured I'd might get through to her better if I changed the subject to an event that involved her: the lock and chain around the fridge, to which she had one of the two keys.

"But you guys were stealing food," she said defensively.

Bitch! I started to scream, but then again, it hit me. She was able to defend her mother's behavior because she truly believed her mother's sick rationale for it. Obviously, she continued to hold on to those beliefs. Still, I couldn't let her ignorance make the behavior acceptable.

"We were stealing food because we were hungry!" I snapped. No one said anything for a few moments.

As I sat fuming, I realized that no matter how I tried, I wasn't going to change Connie's memories nor her rationalizations. But that didn't mean I couldn't release the anger I'd been holding in for years. So, without raising my voice and using minimal cusswords, I told her how fucked up her mother had made my life; how I'd used drugs, alcohol, crime, and men to hide the pain; and how, through recovery, I'd finally learned to deal with my past. I told her that I forgave her and her mother.

"Forgive us for what?"

Ugghh! She truly didn't get it, and I didn't have the energy, desire, or interest to try to make her understand.

"You know what?" I replied nonchalantly. "It's not even important anymore. What is important is that you know that I never want to speak to you again."

I hung up and immediately dialed Venita. Through tears of joy and relief I told her what had happened. Then I called Daddy and Jr. and repeated the story to them. We all agreed that that chapter of my life could finally be closed.

- My first couple of years of recovery were a whirlwind of feelings, lessons, learning to take direction and follow instructions, and revelations. It felt like I was on a never-ending roller coaster. And like any roller coaster, sometimes the ride was full of fun-filled glee and elation, other times it was frightening and scary. Regardless of the type of emotional or physical feeling the ride gave me, I refused to get off. I didn't drink or use.

Recovery wasn't easy. It meant changing everything about myself. It meant learning how to live life without a drink or a drug; learning to be responsible and accountable for my actions, my conduct-behavior and language. It also meant changing my actions, behavior, and vernacular. It meant getting rid of my pride and ego, admitting that I needed help, having the willingness to ask for help, and being willing to accept it. It required being honest about what was really going on with me, and being willing to trust someone else-especially God. It consisted of discovering my true self, as well as acknowledging my true feelings and allowing myself to feel them, not stuff them back inside or ignore them. It meant appreciating my limitations, accepting my inadequacies, understanding my shortcomings, and being able to do the same with others. It required working through, and then discarding, resentments and fears. The longer I stayed sober, the more I recovered. And the more I recovered, the more I grew mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and physically.

Now, don't get the wrong idea. Recovery wasn't all bad. Quite the contrary, it was (and is) all good. I was no longer running from emotions, people, or myself. Hell, I was no longer running from life. I was dealing with it. Each day sober, each obstacle overcome, only strengthened my relationship with God. As a result of recovery, working on myself and accepting life's lessons, I was getting healthier mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually; my thinking was changing; my behavior was changing; my life was changing.

Of course, all of this changing and growing didn't happen overnight, though it happened so fast that oftentimes it seems like it did. But the people in my corner would often remind me that it didn't make sense to rush because there's no finish line in the race to change (or improve) your life. So I moved slowly, but steadily. I purposefully took my time, realizing that the old cliche is right: it's the journey-not the destination-that's important.

- During my first two years of recovery, I continued seeing Brett. We even got engaged. But it wasn't long before the relationship began to go downhill. He was never violent. Never raised his voice to me, and continued to treat me like a queen-when he was around. The disease of addiction began to take over his life again. He was getting high more and more often, and the repercussions were blatantly apparent. What started out as a beautifully perfect match was turning into ugly opposites. I was going to meetings; he was going to the crack house. I diligently worked the 12 steps; he kept getting loaded. I worked on staying out of fights; he worked on staying out of jail. I was persistent about bettering myself; he was seeking self-destruction.

Still, I tried to be there for him, tried to understand his disease while I worked diligently to keep mine under arrest. Holding on to him was difficult, especially since he was the only person in my life who was still using. The danger was that he posed a serious risk of relapse for me. I couldn't afford to be in a bad space one day, and then have him come over with a pipe and rock in his pocket. In a weakened state, I might get loaded. I was going to have to make a difficult choice: it was going to have to be my love for Brett or my love for myself.

Late one night, he showed up at my house beaten up, loaded, and broke. He was banging on the door, asking me to let him in. I looked through my peephole, saw him there: skinny as a pole, eyes so big they looked like they would pop out of his head at any moment, lips scabbed and ashy, clothes dirty and unkempt, hair uncombed, pipe still in his hand. I knew then and there that I'd have to make a decision.

As he stood outside my door, knocking, pounding, begging to be let in, I contemplated my options: loving him enough to stick by him or loving myself more by protecting my own sobriety. It was a difficult decision. First of all, I was afraid of being alone. I'd always been told that "half a man was better than no man at all." And I'd never been without a man. And Brett was a good man, the best man I'd ever had-at least he was when he was clean. Problem was, he was hardly ever clean. When loaded, he was just like any other nigga in the crack house: pitiful, distrustful, financially unstable, and emotionally, physically, and mentally, unavailable. Since I'd become sober, I'd experienced more and more moments of clarity. Standing there trying to decide what to do, I had another one.

What do you mean half a man is better than no man at all? Gurl, half a man IS no man at all.

To make matters worse, because he was regularly smoking up all his money, he no longer sent flowers and we never went anywhere or did anything that cost money, unless I paid. At first, I couldn't believe how something that was once so beautiful had turned into something so awful. But then I remembered the disease we had. Addiction is like a bull in a china factory-it destroys everything in its path. I would not allow this bull to destroy me.

Standing in front of my door, with tears streaming down my face, I made a choice. Sobbing as I talked through the door, I told Brett that I couldn't take his relapses anymore. More important, I couldn't, and wouldn't, take the chance of losing the clean time I'd worked so hard for. So I couldn't be with him unless he committed himself to treatment that night and got serious about getting himself together. He listened intently as I informed him that if he wanted to be with me, he'd have to not only get clean, but stay clean cuz I wasn't fuckin' with no more dope fiends, drugs, criminals, or anyone else indulging in self-destructive, illegal, or unhealthy behavior. And I meant it. The ball was now in his court. It was his turn to make a choice: get clean and keep me, or stay loaded and lose me.

Brett said nothing for a moment, as if contemplating his choice. Then, quietly, he sighed, "Okay, Cup," and walked away from my door.

- I figured his "okay," meant that he'd chosen me. So I was surprised when days had passed and I hadn't heard from him. He wasn't at any of the meetings we normally attended, and none of his friends had seen him or heard from him. He just disappeared.

I sat around waiting, and expecting him to call and apologize; to tell me he'd been in treatment and wasn't able to make phone calls. I just knew he'd call to say he'd gotten himself together so we could get back together.

Two weeks later, I was still waiting for his call. It never came. At first, I didn't realize he was really gone. I refused to believe that he'd actually chosen dope over me-until I called the number for where he worked. His supervisor informed me that two weeks before (the day after I'd given him the ultimatum), Brett walked in and suddenly quit. He didn't say why and he didn't say where he was going. Still refusing to believe he'd chosen dope, I called his roommate who informed me that, two weeks before, Brett came home in the middle of the afternoon (the same day he'd quit), packed his stuff, and "up and left." I hung up the phone with tears in my eyes.

I'd forgotten how baffling and powerful the disease of addiction was.

The heartache hurt. This was the first time I had to experience a broken heart without anything to anesthetize the pain. I had to feel and deal with that pain sober, but not alone. My faith, which was growing more and more each day, sustained me and gave me hope. But God works through people, and the people in my support group helped me get through it.

V pointed out the positive. I didn't see anything positive coming out of the situation-until she told me how she saw it. There were several lessons to be learned. First, I was being forced to learn how to be alone. Also, losing Brett helped me trust God even more. Oh, I was learning to trust Him in other areas of my life; I just hadn't trusted Him when it came to my love life. Now, I'd have to trust and believe that, when the time was right, the right man would come along.

Finally, besides the lessons in losing Brett, there had been one in having him: he taught me to accept kindness, that I did deserve to be treated like a lady, and to set a new standard of how I should, and would, be treated. I was finally loving myself enough to protect me; to stand up for what I did and didn't want-in spite of the fear of being alone.

As usual, Daddy and Jr. rallied around me, giving me encouragement, support, and a shoulder to cry on. Despite my pain, they, too, were glad that Brett had decided to leave. They later told me that several times they'd sat and discussed their concern that my being with a man who got loaded would cause me to do the same. They regularly gave me pep talks by reminding me that the right man would come along when the time was right.

And of course there were my "mommas." Almost overnight, I'd gone from having no mother to having three. Shortly after getting sober, a new secretary, Gail, came to work at the firm. Standing about five foot four, in her early fifties, Gail was strikingly beautiful. (Daddy would see her and say, "That Gail is one good-lookin' chick!") She wore extremely nice clothes; I mean the woman stayed sharp. But it wasn't her clothes that made me want to get to know her-it was her personality. Even though she worked for an attorney who was known to be difficult (he'd gone through four or five secretaries that year), Gail had the happiest disposition I'd ever seen. No matter how difficult things became for her at work, she still treated everyone as if they had signs on their chests that said "Make me feel special." And that's exactly how she made me feel. I later learned that, shortly after Gail began working at the firm, she'd befriended Maria-the lady who'd given me the dishes. Maria had shared with Gail my difficulties with drugs and alcohol.

Both women took to me immediately; though at first, the feelings weren't mutual. I was distrustful of them. I thought Maria was nuts, and Gail . . . well, she just seemed too "together," too sophisticated and prosperous to want to be friends with someone like me. But somehow (I don't know when or how), the two women had gotten it into their heads that they'd been placed in my life by God, so they wouldn't take no for an answer. Though they were never pushy, they were damned persistent. Finally, I relented and allowed them in. I've never regretted it.

Together, Maria and Gail sort of took me on as their daughter, though I felt closer to Gail because, although she had two boys, she didn't have a daughter; Maria did. I called them Mom #1 and Mom #2. These women regularly gave me words of advice as I dealt with the many crises and dilemmas I encountered sober, including the anguish and sorrow I felt about the breakup with Brett. They'd each been married twenty-plus years and so freely shared words of wisdom. No matter what I was going through, one of them always had a story from her own past that helped me see things in a different light. I grew to love our little chat sessions because they never fussed at me, judged me, or laughed at me. So I regularly sought out their advice and words of wisdom on how to deal with my crushed heart. Like the rest of my family, they encouraged me to stay sober, keep taking care of myself, and God would send the right man when it was time.

"Well, I hope He hurries up!" I snapped in irritation. I truly believed that I needed a man to be okay. What I didn't know was that this experience was the start of yet another lesson: like V said, the only time a woman is ready for a man is when she doesn't need one. Still I stayed sober and continued working on myself and loving myself, finally realizing that I was okay-with or without a man.

My third "momma" was a black woman named Chaney Allen. Chaney was the older black woman who'd sat next to me the second day I was at the Alano Club looking for V. She was the one who asked me if I was looking for a seat and then pulled me out of the way of approaching foot traffic. Chaney was the first black woman to write an autobiography on alcoholism. She was also one of the cofounders of the Southeast Alano Club, the place where I'd first seen V. From the day I met V there, I attended meetings at the club regularly and soon became a member.

At first, I was intimidated by Chaney because of her long-term sobriety. At the time, she had had twenty-plus years and was one of the most well-known and respected "old-timers." I figured someone with that much sobriety wouldn't want to be bothered with a struggling newcomer like me. But when I told this to Chaney, she said it was just the opposite. She said that the newcomers kept her sober because they reminded her that alcoholism was still destroying lives.

Almost immediately, Momma Chaney and I took to each other. I loved talking with her because she was a vessel of knowledge, wisdom, and insight. She would rip you apart with tough love, but she had the unique gift of being able to put you back together again before the conversation ended. She gave me her insight on my breakup with Brett. She assured me that God had something better if I just waited. She also promised it would be worth the wait. She called me almost daily and made me pick her up and take her to meetings. She was determined to make sure this setback didn't derail me.

With the addition of the three mothers, my "family" had grown quite a bit since I first entered Mesa Vista. I was grateful for the mismatched group that had been placed in my life. Among Daddy, Jr., V, my three moms, and Ken, someone was always reminding me that nothing was worth drinking over, that things would get better, and that I had to deal with whatever emotion I was going through-not hide it, ignore it, or try to go around, over, or under it. I was surrounded by encouragement. So although I thought about drinking, I didn't. Hell, there were even times when I wanted to drink, but I didn't. Instead, I prayed, leaned on my support group, cried, cussed, and "felt." Oftentimes, I'd literally sit on my hands and wait for the urge or pain or fear to pass. I did everything but drink or use. And my family was right. I did get through it-clean and sober.

The more I analyzed the cluster that had become my family, the more obvious it was that only God could have put this divergent group together and make it work. We were of varying ages and races. We had wildly different cultural, social, and economic backgrounds. We had different life experiences. Hell, we even had differing spiritual and religious beliefs. In short, we were people who naturally would not mix, but somehow our oddly shaped individual pieces fit into an unusual puzzle-perfectly.

50.

OKAY, I'VE GOT two years clean and sober. I've ended my engagement to the best man I'd ever had. I'm twenty-seven years old and I don't drink, drug, fight, or party (though I was still prone to telling someone off). My life had changed drastically. I was staying clean and I was staying sober. And, I was learning that the qualities I sought to achieve and perfect-recovery, self-esteem, responsibility, love for others, etc.-would be a lifelong journey. When it came to me, there would always be something for me to work on, something to fix, something to improve on, something to change. So I continued the process of learning to love and accept my body just the way God made it. I continually tried to be respectful and most times played nice with others. I continued learning to be open and honest with my feelings, as well as learning to trust and depend on others. Most important, I continued to build, fortify, and strengthen my relationship with, and my trust in, my Higher Power, who I called "God."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah.

Suddenly, all of the "spirituality," "growing," "learning," and "feeling" became B-O-R-I-N-G. Angry, restless, and discontent, I gave V a piece of my mind about it.

She didn't snap back. Instead, she sat silently for a few moments. As usual, her response floored me.

"What is a dream you had that drugs, alcohol, and the streets stole from you?" she asked.

Dreams? I didn't have any-at least none that I could think of. She instructed me to think about it for a few days and get back to her.

A couple of days later, I sat contemplating her question. As I looked back over my life, I became more and more frustrated by the realization of not having any dreams. Still, I searched, though I had to go wwwaaayyy back to before Momma died. But, suddenly, an answer came to me. Once I mentally locked on to it, memories came flooding back.

I was about five or six years old when I began to question Daddy about Santa Claus. I was always an inquisitive child, always asking tons of questions-questions that wouldn't cease until I got what I perceived to be a satisfactory answer.

"Where does he live?" I'd asked Daddy innocently as my big brown eyes stared into his.

"At the North Pole," he said, returning his attention to the television, believing that to be the end of the conversation. It wasn't.

"Have you ever been there?"

"No."

"Do you know anyone that's ever been there?"

Daddy let out a big sigh and began fidgeting.

"Well?" I didn't wait for an answer. "If you never been there and you don't know no one else dat's been there, how you know it's there?"

He tried to think of some response, but couldn't. I later learned that he didn't want to lie to me, but at the same time, didn't want to ruin the childhood experience of "Santa." He mumbled something about having to take care of something and quickly walked away, believing for sure that this time the conversation was over. It was, but for only a little while.

A couple of days later, I was back in front of him.

"Who else lives there?"

"Where?" he asked as he took a sip of his coffee. He'd forgotten about our previous conversation, so my question caught him completely off guard.

"At the North Pole."

"Aw, shit," he grumbled, realizing that I hadn't let it go. "Umm, ummm, Santa's family," he replied as he attempted to shoo me away. I wouldn't move. I had questions and was determined to get answers. So I took a deep breath and started firing.

"Who's in his family? How many kids he got? How old are the kids? What do they do there? Do they make toys too or just boss everybody else around? What his wife look like? Why he only come out at Christmas? How he know where we live at? How he get in when we don't have no chimney? How come, when he breaks in, he don't get shot?" This last question bothered me the most, especially since it was common knowledge that most people in the hood kept some type of "protection" in their homes. Anyone caught coming through a window or down a chimney would've got a bullet in the ass. What made Santa so damn special?

Daddy was bewildered at the quickness with which I threw out questions. While he sat dumbfounded and dazed, I continued, though my posture had changed from innocent to feisty: I had my hand on my hip and a stern look on my face as I sassily brandished my forefinger in the air.

"And how you know it's Santa and not just some white man dressed in a red suit so he can rob folks at Christmastime? Is Santa white? All the pictures of him is white. They ain't got no black or Mexican Santas? Is there more than one? What's wrong with his belly? Why don't he shave?"

Daddy was quickly losing it. He was irritated and annoyed by my badgering. Still, he tried to hold out by mumbling half-audible responses. But I was throwing too many questions too fast; he didn't have time to make up answers. Realizing that I wasn't giving up and sticking to his belief in not lying to children, he finally relented.

"There IS no Santa Claus, okay?" he yelled, visibly frustrated. "I'M Santa Claus! Your mother and me! We go get the presents, hide them, and when you go to sleep Christmas Eve, we wrap them and put them under the tree!" He slumped against the back of his chair, exasperated. He looked at me despairingly, hoping his answer not only would satisfy me, but would shut me up as well.

I paused for a moment, analyzing this new information.

"Then why didn't you just say so!" I shrieked as I walked away, satisfied with the truth.

From that moment forward, Daddy told me I should be a lawyer. He said only lawyers could ask questions without ceasing and only lawyers cared about the answers. And, I wanted to make my daddy proud. So I had dreamed of one day being a lawyer.

Then Momma died, I was dropped into hell, and forgot about the dream. Until now.

I rushed to the phone, called V, and shared the "Santa" story with her.

"I dreamed of being a lawyer," I said, excited to remember that I had once had a dream. "That's the one that was stolen from me!"

"Steal it back," she said firmly.

"Steal it back?"

"Yes. Steal it back," she repeated, more firmly than before.

"How in the hell am I supposed-" Before I could finish, she cut me off. Now she was irritated. "How do people become lawyers, Cup? They go to school! Take your ass to school!"

She had to be kidding. I was a trash-can junkie, a pass-out drunk, a callous Gangsta, liar, thief, hustler, and a ho. People like me didn't become lawyers.

V refused to listen to my excuses. "You can do anything you want to, Cup. You can be anything you want to be. If you're willing to do the foot work."

I hated it when she came out with those profound statements. They were always right and usually what I needed to hear. But I hated them nonetheless.

Of course, I went to everyone in the family and asked their opinion, though I was apprehensive about telling Ken. My resume, the one on which he based his decision to hire me, said I had a high-school diploma or G.E.D. (I'd lied so much and to so many people, I couldn't remember which lie I'd put on the resume I'd given him.) Going to him now would require telling the truth.

"Unless, I don't tell him I don't have a G.E.D.," I said quietly as I sat trying to figure out how to get around telling the truth.

The Voice piped up. Cup, we're living honest lives now, remember? You're going to have to just trust that whatever happens, God will sustain you.

Is God gon' give me another job? I thought irritably. But I only had to think about it a moment longer before I realized that I'd done enough lying in my life. Hell, I'd lied just about all my life: told lies, spread lies, lived lies. It was time for me to learn to tell the truth.

The next day, I said a little prayer and then walked into Ken's office.

As usual, my fears were for nothing. Ken was completely supportive, although at first he was surprised that I didn't have a high-school diploma or G.E.D.