BOUNDLESS (Mama's Story) by Lexie Ray Page A

troubles in it. If I had a good day, I celebrated my successes in it. And if I had a mediocre day, I broke up the mediocrity with a few drinks.
    Why would I forsake my friend? Nothing too terrible had happened, had it?
    Still, watching the meeting progress was something of an eye opener. These women were letting it all hang out—every ugly detail. I felt like there was a lot of over-sharing going on, but perhaps that was the whole point. Get it all out there. Lay it all out on the table for everyone to see. Don’t worry about judgment, because everyone in this room has been there, right where you are, struggling to stay afloat in a terrible situation.
    Maybe that was the secret behind this. It wasn’t a constant punishment, the wounds reopened every time you shared. The wounds were bandaged even tighter, new skin growing over them, becoming less painful and less noticeable every time they shared their story. Every time they shared, they cried out for help, and every time, there was a roomful of people ready to haul them up to the surface for air.
    If what everyone was saying was true, more and more participants were learning how to tread water on their own, stay on the surface without sinking below it, drowning. They were all swimming in this together, trying to get past what had held them captive for so long.
    “We have time for just one more share,” Karla said. “Remember, if you didn’t get a chance to share during this time, share with your sponsor or someone else in the group after this meeting is over. Marlee. Please come on up.”
    Marlee rose gracefully from my side and made her way to the front of the room. As she passed the rows of inmates, some of them reached out and touched her hand or her arm, seeming to either pass strength on to her or borrow her strength for themselves. I wondered how many times Marlee had shared her story up at the podium, torn herself open, showed everyone her guts, and stuffed them back inside her body. How many more times would she do it? Would she ever stop?
    “My name’s Marlee, and I’m an alcoholic,” she said, smiling grimly.
    “Hi, Marlee.”
    “I was sixteen years old when I went on a date with a boy I really liked,” she said. “I was nervous. I’d been on dates before, but none of them seemed to matter up until now. This one mattered. It mattered more than anything else.
    “When he offered me alcohol to help take the edge off, to help me find my courage to kiss him, I took it,” she continued. “I’d never had a drink before, but I’d do anything to make this boy like me. He was older than I was, and I didn’t want to be the laughingstock of the school if anyone found out that I’d chickened out of making it with him. He was gorgeous—every girl wanted him. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the entire county.
    “I kissed him first. The alcohol went right to my head. I wanted him, even if I didn’t understand what that meant then. I was a virgin. The most I’d ever done was kiss an awkward boy good night on my front porch. When he touched me, it felt wrong and right, all wrapped into one. I wanted him and I didn’t want to want him. The booze didn’t help my confusion. It just made things easier to plunge into.
    “When he took our clothes off, I was too drunk to help. I’d been sucking down the booze out of nervousness, and I was very far gone. Still, I realized that this was the real deal, especially as he pushed his boner into my hip. That was enough of a shock for me to tell him no, that I didn’t want to sleep with him, reputation be damned. I wanted to go home, to sleep it off, to talk to my girlfriends the next day about it. I just wanted him to leave me alone. I was uncomfortable and shy and just not ready for all of this.
    “I might’ve not been ready, but he was. Turns out he’d been planning this, and looking forward to it. I’d tumbled right into his trap, drinking more than enough for him to easily control me, practically giving