In 2016 it was about a year into my sobriety, give or take a few sleepless nights, when I first encountered Dayna Keyes. I had begun to resent my weekly meetings and home group. I was tired of feeling obliged to go and tired of the same old people saying the same old things. Was this it? Was this my life? In reality it was not these kind, well meaning people with lots of good sobriety but my own unwillingness to grow and change. This stubborn alcoholic wouldn’t figure that out for a while. Still, a change needed to be made. So I decided I would quit going. I would sleep in and enjoy my leisurely coffee late into Sunday morning. Besides, the problem was “them” not me. I just needed a break.
When I told my sponsor I was doing this he looked over his glasses at me and paused just a little longer than I would have liked,
“That’s fine, John but maybe try going to a different meeting.”
I was too busy thinking about how dull and stupid and boring my life was going to become that this had not occurred to me. This would however require more strangers in more community centers with their welcoming demeanors and kind words. Ugh, this was just the kind of thing I was trying to avoid. I was barely comfortable with the stranger I knew. Meetings are like bars. It is nice to be a regular somewhere but every one eventually gets tired of the “usual” and needs to mix it up. When I was drinking I was in plenty of shitty bars I would never go to again. Most of the meetings I had been to had simply been people trying to make a tough time a little better and maybe help someone else out. If I could drink Rumplemintz in a coke bar I could certainly find my way to a church to listen to a little sober talk.
I listened to old men in auditoriums shed tears over regained relationships with their children and heard ex-convicts in rehab centers discuss their time in prison for vehicular manslaughter. This was a very intense way to relieve my boredom in sobriety. There are a great many powerful stories of the severity of alcoholism and its wreaking havoc in people’s lives but that doesn’t always make them relatable. I had always felt disconnected and here was yet another place I did not fully fit in and would never belong.
It was a late summer day in Sonoma, CA. Despite the gorgeous weather and the day off from work I felt listless. In the old days this would be my cue to reach for a drink. In these strange new days I had learned to look up a meeting so that’s what I did. This particular meeting was in the back of a church (surprise). It was either Our Lady of Perpetual Drudgery or The First Methodist Episcopal Trinity of Nazarene, I can’t recall. For a godless drunk like me it’s more about the coffee and the folding chair than anything else. I follow the directions on my phone and pull into the parking lot. The car next to me has a window sticker that tells me I’m in the right place. An equilateral triangle circumscribed by a circle. Quality symbolism is important in any good cult. Simple but effective. Mine is no exception. I had been to dozens of these meetings and still I was trepidatious. What if I don’t know anyone? What if I DO? The level of anxiety in trying to find some relief is exhausting. Still, I see the sandwich board and head in the direction of the arrow. I hear laughter and make my way down the outdoor corridor and in to what feels like a mid sized dancehall. Rows of folding chairs in a U-shape face a folding table not on but up near the stage. I imagine this room is mostly used for bingo and cake walks. Either of these would be preferable to this lackadaisical attempt to rewire my brain so that it doesn’t always feel like it is out to get me. There are a few smiles and nods in my direction as I get my little paper cup of coffee and find a seat… away from people. The meeting is just about to start. I find it best not to come too early as to avoid socializing with these happy weirdos. The preamble is given about who we are and what we do and folks begin to stand up to give various announcements.
I think to myself, “My name is John and I want to go home.”
Meetings in these days were very difficult. Head down I stare into my black coffee looking for answers when I hear her voice.
“My name is Dayna and I’m an alcoholic.” It is enthusiastic and upbeat with a slight rasp that implies the experience needed to be here. It catches my ear and I look up. She looks is like every girl I had a crush on in high school: Light blue eyes and bright red lips jump out from her pale face framed by jet black bangs. She is wearing a Dead Kennedys t-shirt, black jeans and low top converse to match. She asks if anyone is willing to share their phone number and possibly sponsor new comers. I did not give my phone number or speak with her that day but it was refreshing. Most of the meeting I had been to up until this point were populated by folks in their 60’s and 70’s. These people were filled with decades of that good sobriety and vast amounts of wisdom that had been wholly important to my recovery up to this point but the question of relatability remained. Sometimes all it takes is a gravelly throated girl in a punk rock t-shirt. As the saying goes: find someone who has what you want and ask them how they got it. Dayna was cool, brash and excited about sobriety. I wanted that. I would later come to find out she was a radio DJ. Something I had wanted since I was fourteen. Another striking similarity.
The first time I spoke to Dayna in depth was on my podcast A is for Alcoholic. The second time was on her’s Radio Rehab. Our two conversations were filled with booze, drugs, cats, famous fathers, anonymous alcoholics and a lot of laughter. She was honest and funny, oh so funny. Conversations between alcoholics are an odd thing. They are these raw and deeply personal talks about severe pain and excessive suffering but there is a huge amount of humor and joy too. Maybe making fun of the tragedy brings relief because the pain and suffering need not continue. Perhaps realizing just how frighteningly close to death we actually were is so shockingly absurd that laughter is the only appropriate response. Whatever the case I felt that joy from Dayna whether it was in a meeting or on a microphone.
I do not know how Dayna died nor do I think it is particularly important. I do not write this with some lesson in mind. So much of life is coincidence, chance and accident. Very little of it stands to reason when so much of it falls apart. Dayna’s life albeit briefly, profoundly crossed with mine in a way I won’t soon forget. I will continue to remember the rock ’n’ roll DJ who inspired me and made me laugh. Thank you Dayna.