I’m going to be 25 tomorrow. I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. I guess I don’t feel anything, at the moment. For months I’ve half looked forward to this birthday, half dreaded it, as I know it will be weird not drinking. I’m not nearly as bothered about not drinking as I would have been a few months ago, but I’m slightly worried about simply feeling bored. I won’t be bored on Friday because I am, of course, going out for my big birthday meal with 15 people, but tomorrow is actually my birthday and there’s every chance I’ll feel a distinct lack of excitement during the day, as I have done all week. Tomorrow’s going to be yet another day off from University, meaning I should be studying hard but probably won’t; all week I’ve felt very lethargic about life in general and tomorrow probably won’t be any different; and after the celebrations are over on Friday, I’ll be back at home with nothing much to do or look forward to. It’s not that I’m never going to have a life again – I’ve done some pretty wonderful socializing during sobriety – but in the main, life can just be bloody boring sometimes.

 I knew I was getting dangerously bored this evening so I decided to go to a meeting that I don’t normally go to. I imagine I’ll do the same tomorrow night. The meeting I attended tonight was a step 11 meeting, where they meditate for ten minutes at the start, followed by normal round robin sharing for an hour. I’d hoped that the act of going out and facing a meeting would take me out of my increasing sense of discontent; that is what meetings are for, they’re there to take us out of ourselves, our illness. Because I don’t know this Wednesday meeting particularly well any more, I’m afraid that arriving there didn’t instantly put me at ease. I saw a couple of people I only vaguely knew, and the spot where I’d chosen to sit was miles away from the rest of the group. During the ten minutes’ meditation I could clearly hear my stomach rumbling, even though I’d eaten just beforehand. I was sure others would hear it too, which made me embarrassed. And unfortunately the chair I’d sat on creaked loudly every time I moved, so I desperately tried to keep still, which made me more uncomfortable and prone to even more shifting about.

 Lots of the sharing resonated with me, as usual. All through the hour, though, I got the distinct feeling that the meeting wasn’t agreeing with me. I used to like it a lot, but now I think I may have to find somewhere else to go on Wednesdays. I know others in the fellowship who don’t like that meeting. I wouldn’t say I disliked it, but I think the uncomfortable chairs, and the fact that everyone can hear your tummy rumbling during the ten minutes’ silence because it’s such a small room, make me not want to go again. I’m not too worried about what I’ll do on Wednesdays from now on; if I find a better meeting, great; if I don’t, I don’t.

 What does bother me a little is that when I feel uncomfortable in a meeting like that, the discomfort always carries through to the rest of the evening, long after I’ve gone home. On the bus from Central London I felt ill at ease during the entire journey. It was very busy and people kept standing right next to me, leaving only centimetres between us; I kept wanting to push them away. I don’t like having strangers in my personal space at all. I was in fact quite angry when I finally got off the bus. Realising that I was letting myself plummet into the black hole of resentment, I tried to comfort myself with the thought that I would be back home soon, in the warmth where I’d have plenty of space to spread myself out. Right now I feel a bit better than I did on the bus – there’s no one here apart from me and my mum, and my personal space won’t be invaded again tonight. But after a generally uneasy day I don’t think I’m going to go to bed later feeling especially happy.

 I sort of began to realise today that my relationship with my sponsor isn’t what it ought to be. We spoke earlier on the phone for the first time in three days – this lack of contact had been as much my fault as his - and it wasn’t the bouncy, buzzy conversation that I’d been used to in the past. It was kind of just a quick exchange of formalities: ‘hi, how are you?’ ‘I’m fine.’ ‘That’s great.’ ‘Bye.’

 It wasn’t that bad – but I’m extremely sensitive to these things, and I can see it getting to that stage quickly, if things carry on this way. I don’t feel like I’ve got to know my sponsor any better in the past six weeks than I did when I first met him. He doesn’t give a lot of himself away in our conversations; I’d never consider him a friend. In a way my first sponsor, who I idolized, could be like that at times as well. Whenever I asked him how his day was he’d invariably say something like ‘fine’, then I’d find out from someone else that he’d been crying on the bus, and various other worrying things. So I can’t exactly complain that my second sponsor is doing the same. At least he answers the phone most of the time; at least he wants to do the rest of the steps with me. Am I being selfish, expecting my sponsors to be my friends as well? Is it not meant to be that kind of relationship? I really don’t know.

 I can’t help worrying about this because I’ve always known that sponsorship is a big deal, and I want it to be right. If the worst comes to the worst and I end up having to find a new sponsor, I’ll do it no problem, but I have to say the thought makes me want to groan. Just like the thought of all the other work I still have to do.