In my homegroup, one of our opening readings is a list of Common Dangers--situations which might lead someone in Recovery back to using. A lot of these are common sense, such as being around people who are using, or spending time at the places where you used to get loaded. Some are less intuitive, like suddenly having a large influx of money, or boredom. I like to joke that the former of those two is a problem I would love to have; the latter is one I struggle with a lot.
As a practicing addict, I was definitely one of those who lived the fantasy of functionality. I may not have had a career, but I usually had a job. I even managed to stay employed through my detox period, something I know is not exactly common and that I probably don't give myself enogh credit for. We addicts are notorious for being hard on ourselves, and it has always been my feeling that my working through detox isn't that big of a deal because the skill level required to do my job is so far beneath what I'm capable of. Maybe one day I'll be able to look at it differently.
I'm currently working the same job I had while going through detox. My situation there is the same one many other Americans are in right now: wages are stagnant, and opportunities for moving up are non-existent. I'm grateful to have a job--especially in today's economy. Still, it is nothing like what I was raised to believe would happen. Growing up, I was taught that if I went to college, then I would receive a good-paying job for my reward. That when I began working, I would start out at the bottom and could gradually work my way up. Both of those promises have been proved false, and sometimes I feel angry, that I was lied to, and frustrated that so many others of my generation are in the same boat. We did our part; we lived our lives as we were taught to. We sacrificed, we worked hard, and our reward has turned out to be not the so-called American Dream, but nothing more than to keep on being stuck in the situations we are stuck in.
Recovery has helped me to deal with some of these issues. I know now that nowhere is it written that life has to be the way I think it should. I know also that indulging in negativity--like complaing excessively about things I can't control--is not the way. It is not accepting life on life's terms. Negativity damages my spirit and it spreads like a virus, infecting the others around me. It's easy to be grateful for what I have when I look around and see so many others who are less fortunate, but at times it feels a bit like being grateful for having crumbs to eat instead of starving to death. I take some consolation also at the fact that not being negative does not necessarily mean being positive instead; I can be grateful I have a job and still hate the fact that it bores me to tears.
Moving beyond my period of detox, I began to see just how far beneath my skill level the job I was working really was. I felt very much like my brain came back online. For so long, I'd thought all I had for gray matter was a four-cylinder engine. As the haze cleared, I rediscovered the V8 I'd been given by my Higher Power, and I remembered also how one of the reasons I'd started using was to dumb myself down. Waking up from the slumber of active addiction, I found myself working a job that didn't challenge me, that didn't interest me, in a work environment full of people who were nothing like me. All these things are still true today.
Many people hate their jobs. I'm not sure how the Normies deal with this. Truth be told, I'm not really sure how other addicts deal with it. I know that some handle it by working harder and looking for new challenges where they are, while others do what they can to work towards something different such as going back to school. I am taking the baby steps towards that second option, but the first is actually a danger for me. Maintaining healthy boundaries is important. I am currently doing a job by myself that was previously done by three employees. For me to take on even more duties (without an increase in pay) would be letting my employer take advantage of me. The fact that I knew nothing about how to do my current job when first I started and now do it better than anyone ever has also helps me to stay strong on this issue.
I'm loathe to admit it, but a large part of my energy regarding my job is spent in my head. I have all kinds of imaginary conversations with my various bosses. Usually these are confrontational. I know that it's just me trying to find a way to express my anger at my situation, and I'm grateful for my Recovery and how it helps me to keep those thoughts to myself and not act out on them. I pray a lot. When I catch myself getting angry and caught up in those imaginary dialogues, I force myself to be honest and talk with my Higher Power about what is real--whether it's that I'm tired, or just the same old anger and frustration. Almost always, the root of it all is that I am simply bored.
If I turn the wheel and change my perspective, I can see how my frustrations with work lead to positive things. Because my job is what it is, I am taking action to improve myself by going back to school and pursuing a career in something that does interest me. If things weren't as bad, I'd have no incentive to do that. The negativity that my job brings out in me gives me lots of opportunities to practice working my program. And the program only works if you work it.
My Recovery teaches me that I am worthwhile, that I am more valuable than the slave I sometimes feel like. I am a person, not the cog in a machine I am regarded as. This is validation that I give myself, that all us addicts need to give ourselves. We do what we have to to get through. The Program teaches us strength and courage. We can make the change for something better if we choose to. The grace of a loving Higher Power will always give us what we need.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
"My Story - Intro"
(This blog is first in a four-part series, "My Story")
INTRO
I'm a marijuana addict; my name is Zach.
Pot isn't the only drug in my story. There are others, including alcohol, but pot was my main drug, my drug of choice. I spent the bulk of my nine year using career high, usually all day long. In all that time, I was never able to quit. I could put a few days together. One time I made it to two weeks. Today, I am clean and sober, thanks to the program. Relapse is not a part of my story.
Let me break this down succinctly: I've been in jail; I've been institutionalized; I have been abused and I have been an abuser. I don't really enjoy telling war stories. The only thing that the tale of the time I stumbled on the Mexican mafia's pot farms proves is that I should be dead. Most of my time high was spent by myself, alone and isolated. I hid from life because I didn't know how to handle it. I hid from myself because I didn't know how to handle me.
I still suffer from the disease of addiction. It is an incurable, fatal illness that I will die from if I don't remain vigilant in working my program. I have three suicide attempts in my history which I survived thanks to the grace of my higher power. I believe this disease develops through excessive use. I also believe that people can be born with it. I am one of the latter. When I look back on my life, my thoughts and my behaviors before I started using, I see the disease all too clearly. It was like a predator waiting for prey to walk into its trap. It is my belief that I was always going to end up addicted to something. It was just a matter of time and to what.
Some people believe predisposition to addiction is genetic. I don't know about all that, and I have no interest in a nature versus nurture debate. I heard someone say once that nature loads the gun and nurture pulls the trigger. Fair enough. In the end, though, what matters most is that I am an addict. I will always be an addict. It is what I am.
Thankfully, it is not who I am.
INTRO
I'm a marijuana addict; my name is Zach.
Pot isn't the only drug in my story. There are others, including alcohol, but pot was my main drug, my drug of choice. I spent the bulk of my nine year using career high, usually all day long. In all that time, I was never able to quit. I could put a few days together. One time I made it to two weeks. Today, I am clean and sober, thanks to the program. Relapse is not a part of my story.
Let me break this down succinctly: I've been in jail; I've been institutionalized; I have been abused and I have been an abuser. I don't really enjoy telling war stories. The only thing that the tale of the time I stumbled on the Mexican mafia's pot farms proves is that I should be dead. Most of my time high was spent by myself, alone and isolated. I hid from life because I didn't know how to handle it. I hid from myself because I didn't know how to handle me.
I still suffer from the disease of addiction. It is an incurable, fatal illness that I will die from if I don't remain vigilant in working my program. I have three suicide attempts in my history which I survived thanks to the grace of my higher power. I believe this disease develops through excessive use. I also believe that people can be born with it. I am one of the latter. When I look back on my life, my thoughts and my behaviors before I started using, I see the disease all too clearly. It was like a predator waiting for prey to walk into its trap. It is my belief that I was always going to end up addicted to something. It was just a matter of time and to what.
Some people believe predisposition to addiction is genetic. I don't know about all that, and I have no interest in a nature versus nurture debate. I heard someone say once that nature loads the gun and nurture pulls the trigger. Fair enough. In the end, though, what matters most is that I am an addict. I will always be an addict. It is what I am.
Thankfully, it is not who I am.
"What It Was Like"
(This blog is second in a four-part series, "My Story")
WHAT IT WAS LIKE
I grew up in a religious household. Every Sunday my dad dragged the family to church where we all pretended to be the happy, perfect family we weren't. Alcohol was essentially forbidden in the house and I learned that anyone who drank was an alcoholic and a horrible human being. Drugs weren't mentioned at all, and through that silence I learned to think of them as an unmentionable sin. I also learned to be very judgmental towards people who drank or did drugs.
My family doesn't really talk much. When they do talk, everything said is phrased very carefully in order to avoid offending or upsetting anyone. My parents (mom especially) tried their best to 'protect' me from what they saw as a big, scary world. As a result, I grew up extremely sheltered and naive. My parents didn't have any friends, so it didn't occur to me that it was unusual that I didn't have any either. If I'd had friends, maybe I might have learned earlier that, the way things were in my home, it wasn't like that for everyone.
Technically, I was allowed to spend time with other boys, but none ever knocked on my parents' door asking if I could come out to play. When I got a bicycle, I was only allowed to ride it up and down the street where I lived so that mom could always see where I was. Both my parents worked. When I was five, they enrolled me and my sister in a day care. It wasn't specifically just for girls, but there weren't any other boys there. Years later, I asked my parents what possessed them to think it was okay for me to be in an all-girls day care. They told me, with stunned looks on their faces, that it never occurred to them that there was anything wrong with that. It's not a stretch to say that I learned how to be a girl, not how to be a boy.
My father, even though he was around, was what therapists refer to as "emotionally unavailable". The only involvement he really had in my upbringing was to spank me every once in awhile. The irony is that I was an exceptionally well-behaved child who never got into trouble. When I was punished, it was for doing things that weren't wrong, but that I did because I was a child. I learned that I wasn't allowed to just be a kid. I learned that a father is someone who ignored me, who told me to be quiet, who punished me for being who I am. He would tell me he loved me, but words without action ring hollow, and I was able to tell the difference even if I didn't understand it.
I learned to depend on my mother for the love and support I needed. This wasn't exactly a good thing. Mom worried constantly about every little thing and the less control she had over something, the more she worried about it. She kept me at arm's length, constantly questioning, nagging, and nitpicking. The psycho-babble term for this is "enmeshment". Think of it like codependence on steroids. In my baby books, she wrote that at age two she had 'difficulty making me mind.' I guess no one ever explained to her that two-year-olds are just like that. It was at that early age I learned that the only way I'd receive love was if I was a perfect, good little boy. I learned this lesson well.
If you asked them, I don't doubt my parents would claim that they loved me unconditionally. I knew the truth: I wasn't allowed to be myself. Who I was, just as I was, wasn't good enough. I had to be perfect according to their definition of what that meant. Psychologists call what I experienced as a child emotional abuse--neglect and abandonment. I sometimes wish that I had been physically or sexually abused; it would be a lot easier to get my head around. It would be something tangible for me to grab on to, as opposed to the consistent nothing I did get from my parents which was, after all, normal to me.
One thing Recovery has done for me is I don't blame my parents anymore. They're human beings who did the best they could with the limited tools they had. They've lived most of their lives out of fear. By their example, I also learned to live in fear. I learned to cover everything up with a fake happy smile. I learned that the way to handle life was by pretending everything's wonderful. One of the things that ultimately led me to using was my inability to continue that charade.
School was a terror. You'd never know it to look at me; I perfected the art of acting happy early on, though I do wonder if my teachers ever asked themselves why I broke down in tears so often. I used to think that it just took me a long time to learn not to cry. Now I understand that the loneliness and pain I refused to let myself feel was constantly bubbling over, triggered by and bleeding through with every new hurtful incident. To call me sensitive would be the understatement of the year. As a bright child, I discovered that doing well in school only lead to more bullying, not less. I learned to skate through, that with practically no effort I could do well enough that my teachers never hassled me and the bullies picked on me a bit less. Occasionally, my parents would wonder why I wasn't living up to my potential. My skills at changing who I was for other people were growing by leaps and bounds.
Eventually, that skill progressed to such a degree that it became a matter of pride. I learned to shape myself into whoever I was with wanted me to be. I learned to say what I thought others wanted to hear. I learned to speak words that would cause them to say what I wanted to hear. Conversation became like a game to me, one I thought of myself as being very good at. But it didn't win me friends. No one respected or admired me. Because I had been socialized as a girl, the other boys did what boys do: they tried to turn me into a man by inflicting pain and suffering. Acceptance and inclusion were foreign concepts to me--nothing more than big words in the dictionary.
I endured an utter lack of affirmation for the real me. Any time I showed my true self, I was punished for it. Any time I tried to act from the place of who I really was, my attempts went nowhere. Standing up for myself only made things worse, so I learned not to. I developed what is referred to as "learned helplessness". Consider it a permanent case of the Fuck-It's.
WHAT IT WAS LIKE
I grew up in a religious household. Every Sunday my dad dragged the family to church where we all pretended to be the happy, perfect family we weren't. Alcohol was essentially forbidden in the house and I learned that anyone who drank was an alcoholic and a horrible human being. Drugs weren't mentioned at all, and through that silence I learned to think of them as an unmentionable sin. I also learned to be very judgmental towards people who drank or did drugs.
My family doesn't really talk much. When they do talk, everything said is phrased very carefully in order to avoid offending or upsetting anyone. My parents (mom especially) tried their best to 'protect' me from what they saw as a big, scary world. As a result, I grew up extremely sheltered and naive. My parents didn't have any friends, so it didn't occur to me that it was unusual that I didn't have any either. If I'd had friends, maybe I might have learned earlier that, the way things were in my home, it wasn't like that for everyone.
Technically, I was allowed to spend time with other boys, but none ever knocked on my parents' door asking if I could come out to play. When I got a bicycle, I was only allowed to ride it up and down the street where I lived so that mom could always see where I was. Both my parents worked. When I was five, they enrolled me and my sister in a day care. It wasn't specifically just for girls, but there weren't any other boys there. Years later, I asked my parents what possessed them to think it was okay for me to be in an all-girls day care. They told me, with stunned looks on their faces, that it never occurred to them that there was anything wrong with that. It's not a stretch to say that I learned how to be a girl, not how to be a boy.
My father, even though he was around, was what therapists refer to as "emotionally unavailable". The only involvement he really had in my upbringing was to spank me every once in awhile. The irony is that I was an exceptionally well-behaved child who never got into trouble. When I was punished, it was for doing things that weren't wrong, but that I did because I was a child. I learned that I wasn't allowed to just be a kid. I learned that a father is someone who ignored me, who told me to be quiet, who punished me for being who I am. He would tell me he loved me, but words without action ring hollow, and I was able to tell the difference even if I didn't understand it.
I learned to depend on my mother for the love and support I needed. This wasn't exactly a good thing. Mom worried constantly about every little thing and the less control she had over something, the more she worried about it. She kept me at arm's length, constantly questioning, nagging, and nitpicking. The psycho-babble term for this is "enmeshment". Think of it like codependence on steroids. In my baby books, she wrote that at age two she had 'difficulty making me mind.' I guess no one ever explained to her that two-year-olds are just like that. It was at that early age I learned that the only way I'd receive love was if I was a perfect, good little boy. I learned this lesson well.
If you asked them, I don't doubt my parents would claim that they loved me unconditionally. I knew the truth: I wasn't allowed to be myself. Who I was, just as I was, wasn't good enough. I had to be perfect according to their definition of what that meant. Psychologists call what I experienced as a child emotional abuse--neglect and abandonment. I sometimes wish that I had been physically or sexually abused; it would be a lot easier to get my head around. It would be something tangible for me to grab on to, as opposed to the consistent nothing I did get from my parents which was, after all, normal to me.
One thing Recovery has done for me is I don't blame my parents anymore. They're human beings who did the best they could with the limited tools they had. They've lived most of their lives out of fear. By their example, I also learned to live in fear. I learned to cover everything up with a fake happy smile. I learned that the way to handle life was by pretending everything's wonderful. One of the things that ultimately led me to using was my inability to continue that charade.
School was a terror. You'd never know it to look at me; I perfected the art of acting happy early on, though I do wonder if my teachers ever asked themselves why I broke down in tears so often. I used to think that it just took me a long time to learn not to cry. Now I understand that the loneliness and pain I refused to let myself feel was constantly bubbling over, triggered by and bleeding through with every new hurtful incident. To call me sensitive would be the understatement of the year. As a bright child, I discovered that doing well in school only lead to more bullying, not less. I learned to skate through, that with practically no effort I could do well enough that my teachers never hassled me and the bullies picked on me a bit less. Occasionally, my parents would wonder why I wasn't living up to my potential. My skills at changing who I was for other people were growing by leaps and bounds.
Eventually, that skill progressed to such a degree that it became a matter of pride. I learned to shape myself into whoever I was with wanted me to be. I learned to say what I thought others wanted to hear. I learned to speak words that would cause them to say what I wanted to hear. Conversation became like a game to me, one I thought of myself as being very good at. But it didn't win me friends. No one respected or admired me. Because I had been socialized as a girl, the other boys did what boys do: they tried to turn me into a man by inflicting pain and suffering. Acceptance and inclusion were foreign concepts to me--nothing more than big words in the dictionary.
I endured an utter lack of affirmation for the real me. Any time I showed my true self, I was punished for it. Any time I tried to act from the place of who I really was, my attempts went nowhere. Standing up for myself only made things worse, so I learned not to. I developed what is referred to as "learned helplessness". Consider it a permanent case of the Fuck-It's.
"What Happened"
(This blog is third in a four-part series, "My Story")
WHAT HAPPENED
Relationships were my first fix. I discovered that I could use the turmoil of teenage love to shape my emotions. Suddenly I had reasons for all the feelings I felt. If things were good, I had a reason for my manic highs. If things were bad, I had an explanation for my sorrowful lows. I learned that I could use the girls I dated as a way to make myself feel better. Because I was so good at being what others wanted me to be, I was an attentive boyfriend, and I had an odd talent for picking the girls that thought no one would want to be with them. This was, of course, projection: the truth of it was that I thought no one would ever want to be with me.
My world centered around whoever I was involved with. My self-esteem was tied entirely to how good a job I did at making my girlfriend happy. I was only a good person if I was perfect at being whatever she needed me to be. At the same time, I was judgmental and egotistical. I would throw my girlfriends' flaws back in their faces. I'd throw temper tantrums when they didn't do what I thought they should, or say the things I expected them to say. And it was always their fault for not living up to my expectations. It was always their fault for being who they were, not who I thought they should be.
I thought that it was my job to change them. I thought that by simply being with me and following my example (the way they should), my girlfriends would be magically transformed into the beautiful people I knew they could be. It took Recovery for me to understand how dishonest this was: I didn't date them for who they were, but for an imaginary idea I had dreamed up in my head. And for sex. I didn't accept or love them for who they really were; I didn't know how to. All I could see was what I had created in my head. I would become bitter, spiteful, and resentful when they failed to be who I thought they were. And all the while I secretly hated myself for not being perfect at who I thought they wanted me to be. I was a failure for not being able to make my relationships work. I was a failure for not being perfect.
My other relationships were much the same way. The few friendships I had didn't last and I could never understand why no one respected me, even though I did everything I could to turn myself into who they wanted me to be. No one called me. The times I called others, I felt like a horrible burden for bothering them. Most of the time, I didn't even have anything to say. I didn't know what I wanted; I couldn't tell you how I really felt. I'd learned that I wasn't allowed to want things, and my true feelings were either buried or hopelessly amplified out of proportion. I had no sense of self, only an empty hole in the center of my being.
I'd made two suicide attempts by this point. I'd been married and divorced. I'd been in a mental institution and in jail. I withdrew from college before I could flunk out--or before they could kick me out. My parents had had almost nothing to offer me through any of it, aside from my mother's frantic hysteria at what the world had done to her baby and my father's wisdom that life was 'basically unfair'. To this day, we've never really had a conversation about any of it. In time, I got back on my feet and went back to school. That was when I finally found marijuana.
I use that word because it felt like something I'd been waiting my whole life for. I was a daily toker virtually from the word 'go'. I'd struggled with insomnia as long as I remembered; now I could get to sleep at night. I had friends now, I was included. I never would have believed you if you'd told me they only cared about my pot and not about me personally.
More than anything, I'd found a way to quiet my chattering brain. All the crazy thoughts, all the obsessions, the never-ending cacophony in my head would cease when I was high. My constant frustration at life never going my way disappeared. After a year or so, I resigned myself to the idea that life was never going to go the way I wanted, so I decided that I'd simply smoke my pot. It was, after all, the only thing I'd ever found that brought me happiness. That was my definition of happiness, being numb.
The years began to pass. I graduated college by the skin of my teeth. I almost missed the ceremony because I'd helped bail my roommate out of jail the night before. I never got fired from a job, but that was because I never took one that drug tested. I was too lazy to go to the trouble of faking my way through one, and too afraid of what would happen if I failed it. The jobs I took were far beneath my skill level and abilities. I resented having to work at all. The only thing I wanted was to smoke my pot.
Eventually, one of my connections got me a job working for a record company. As a kid, that had been a dream job to me. The thing I really loved about it, though, was smoking on the long drive in, smoking on my morning break, smoking and drinking at lunch, smoking in the afternoon, and smoking on the commute home. Each day, by the time I made it back to my apartment, I had nothing left for my girlfriend. My first Friday there, I passed out after a company lunch and woke up at 9:30 pm with my face in a toilet. It never even occurred to me that I might have a problem.
Over the next few years, my relationship deteriorated and my employment stagnated. I never progressed at my job and had no ambition to do so. I had an affair, then patched things up. We got married, looking very happy on the surface, but underneath that veneer it was as bad as it had ever been. I took a job in town, thinking that would give us time to work on our marriage, but all it really did was give us more time for fighting. Her denial was as strong as mine and never once did she suggest that I quit the weed. Once in awhile she would say she didn’t like that I was ‘dependent’ on it. We finally split, and I was glad to see her go.
With my wife gone, I was ecstatic. I had the place to myself and was free to come and go as I pleased without having to endure her constant nagging and nitpicking. But I discovered that I had the same problems I always had: I hated life. I hated the world I lived in. I hated that nothing ever went my way. The rare times I had tried to quit smoking, that was what always came back to me as the reason why I smoked—I couldn’t handle life without it. The thing I couldn’t admit, that was still buried in my subconscious, was that I hated myself, too.
Without my wife’s income, I was forced to downgrade my living situation. There was never enough money. I was constantly scraping by, constantly overdrawing my bank account. But if I found myself with a little extra, I didn’t use it to buy gas or groceries. The herb was my escape, but it no longer kept me from being miserable. The only thing it did was help pass the time until the next event came along that I had to deal with. I didn’t care if my refrigerator was empty or my car in disrepair, so long as I had my pot. It was the only thing that mattered to me. I’d cut off all communication with my parents. The only people I spent any time with were my connection or the smoking buddy I’d go in on a sack with.
The reality of my situation began to penetrate the thick fog surrounding my brain. I’d look around at my apartment, full of decades old hand-me-down furniture, and wonder why my place still looked like that of first-year college student. My work situation turned out to be yet another dead end with no opportunities for advancement. After a bad experience with another substance, I realized that I wanted to quit. Not just what I had tried, but everything. Especially the pot. To my subdued surprise, I discovered that I couldn’t. If I had it, I smoked it. Period. If I didn’t buy any, I’d end up smoking what my friends had. If that failed, I’d scrape resin. If I didn’t have any, I’d find someone who did.
It was a friend of mine who told me about the rooms of Marijuana Anonymous. His wife had done an Intervention on him. When he told me the story, I wasn’t amazed so much by how he had been able to successfully quit, but by the fact that he was choosing to remain sober. I thought to myself, “that must be how you do it.” I smoked my last bowl on Sunday—thinking the whole time about how I didn’t want to—and tried the next day to make it to a meeting. I couldn’t find it. The day after, I tried again and succeeded. And so began my Recovery.
WHAT HAPPENED
Relationships were my first fix. I discovered that I could use the turmoil of teenage love to shape my emotions. Suddenly I had reasons for all the feelings I felt. If things were good, I had a reason for my manic highs. If things were bad, I had an explanation for my sorrowful lows. I learned that I could use the girls I dated as a way to make myself feel better. Because I was so good at being what others wanted me to be, I was an attentive boyfriend, and I had an odd talent for picking the girls that thought no one would want to be with them. This was, of course, projection: the truth of it was that I thought no one would ever want to be with me.
My world centered around whoever I was involved with. My self-esteem was tied entirely to how good a job I did at making my girlfriend happy. I was only a good person if I was perfect at being whatever she needed me to be. At the same time, I was judgmental and egotistical. I would throw my girlfriends' flaws back in their faces. I'd throw temper tantrums when they didn't do what I thought they should, or say the things I expected them to say. And it was always their fault for not living up to my expectations. It was always their fault for being who they were, not who I thought they should be.
I thought that it was my job to change them. I thought that by simply being with me and following my example (the way they should), my girlfriends would be magically transformed into the beautiful people I knew they could be. It took Recovery for me to understand how dishonest this was: I didn't date them for who they were, but for an imaginary idea I had dreamed up in my head. And for sex. I didn't accept or love them for who they really were; I didn't know how to. All I could see was what I had created in my head. I would become bitter, spiteful, and resentful when they failed to be who I thought they were. And all the while I secretly hated myself for not being perfect at who I thought they wanted me to be. I was a failure for not being able to make my relationships work. I was a failure for not being perfect.
My other relationships were much the same way. The few friendships I had didn't last and I could never understand why no one respected me, even though I did everything I could to turn myself into who they wanted me to be. No one called me. The times I called others, I felt like a horrible burden for bothering them. Most of the time, I didn't even have anything to say. I didn't know what I wanted; I couldn't tell you how I really felt. I'd learned that I wasn't allowed to want things, and my true feelings were either buried or hopelessly amplified out of proportion. I had no sense of self, only an empty hole in the center of my being.
I'd made two suicide attempts by this point. I'd been married and divorced. I'd been in a mental institution and in jail. I withdrew from college before I could flunk out--or before they could kick me out. My parents had had almost nothing to offer me through any of it, aside from my mother's frantic hysteria at what the world had done to her baby and my father's wisdom that life was 'basically unfair'. To this day, we've never really had a conversation about any of it. In time, I got back on my feet and went back to school. That was when I finally found marijuana.
I use that word because it felt like something I'd been waiting my whole life for. I was a daily toker virtually from the word 'go'. I'd struggled with insomnia as long as I remembered; now I could get to sleep at night. I had friends now, I was included. I never would have believed you if you'd told me they only cared about my pot and not about me personally.
More than anything, I'd found a way to quiet my chattering brain. All the crazy thoughts, all the obsessions, the never-ending cacophony in my head would cease when I was high. My constant frustration at life never going my way disappeared. After a year or so, I resigned myself to the idea that life was never going to go the way I wanted, so I decided that I'd simply smoke my pot. It was, after all, the only thing I'd ever found that brought me happiness. That was my definition of happiness, being numb.
The years began to pass. I graduated college by the skin of my teeth. I almost missed the ceremony because I'd helped bail my roommate out of jail the night before. I never got fired from a job, but that was because I never took one that drug tested. I was too lazy to go to the trouble of faking my way through one, and too afraid of what would happen if I failed it. The jobs I took were far beneath my skill level and abilities. I resented having to work at all. The only thing I wanted was to smoke my pot.
Eventually, one of my connections got me a job working for a record company. As a kid, that had been a dream job to me. The thing I really loved about it, though, was smoking on the long drive in, smoking on my morning break, smoking and drinking at lunch, smoking in the afternoon, and smoking on the commute home. Each day, by the time I made it back to my apartment, I had nothing left for my girlfriend. My first Friday there, I passed out after a company lunch and woke up at 9:30 pm with my face in a toilet. It never even occurred to me that I might have a problem.
Over the next few years, my relationship deteriorated and my employment stagnated. I never progressed at my job and had no ambition to do so. I had an affair, then patched things up. We got married, looking very happy on the surface, but underneath that veneer it was as bad as it had ever been. I took a job in town, thinking that would give us time to work on our marriage, but all it really did was give us more time for fighting. Her denial was as strong as mine and never once did she suggest that I quit the weed. Once in awhile she would say she didn’t like that I was ‘dependent’ on it. We finally split, and I was glad to see her go.
With my wife gone, I was ecstatic. I had the place to myself and was free to come and go as I pleased without having to endure her constant nagging and nitpicking. But I discovered that I had the same problems I always had: I hated life. I hated the world I lived in. I hated that nothing ever went my way. The rare times I had tried to quit smoking, that was what always came back to me as the reason why I smoked—I couldn’t handle life without it. The thing I couldn’t admit, that was still buried in my subconscious, was that I hated myself, too.
Without my wife’s income, I was forced to downgrade my living situation. There was never enough money. I was constantly scraping by, constantly overdrawing my bank account. But if I found myself with a little extra, I didn’t use it to buy gas or groceries. The herb was my escape, but it no longer kept me from being miserable. The only thing it did was help pass the time until the next event came along that I had to deal with. I didn’t care if my refrigerator was empty or my car in disrepair, so long as I had my pot. It was the only thing that mattered to me. I’d cut off all communication with my parents. The only people I spent any time with were my connection or the smoking buddy I’d go in on a sack with.
The reality of my situation began to penetrate the thick fog surrounding my brain. I’d look around at my apartment, full of decades old hand-me-down furniture, and wonder why my place still looked like that of first-year college student. My work situation turned out to be yet another dead end with no opportunities for advancement. After a bad experience with another substance, I realized that I wanted to quit. Not just what I had tried, but everything. Especially the pot. To my subdued surprise, I discovered that I couldn’t. If I had it, I smoked it. Period. If I didn’t buy any, I’d end up smoking what my friends had. If that failed, I’d scrape resin. If I didn’t have any, I’d find someone who did.
It was a friend of mine who told me about the rooms of Marijuana Anonymous. His wife had done an Intervention on him. When he told me the story, I wasn’t amazed so much by how he had been able to successfully quit, but by the fact that he was choosing to remain sober. I thought to myself, “that must be how you do it.” I smoked my last bowl on Sunday—thinking the whole time about how I didn’t want to—and tried the next day to make it to a meeting. I couldn’t find it. The day after, I tried again and succeeded. And so began my Recovery.
"What It's Like Now"
(This blog is fourth in a four-part series, "My Story")
WHAT IT’S LIKE NOW
Recovery for me has been a process of learning a new way of living. I've had to unlearn most of what I learned growing up. It isn't easy to let go of those things. I didn't learn those things by chance. I learned them and practiced them in order to survive. It was what I had to do. One of the things that makes Recovery so difficult is that the program asks us to abandon all the thinking and behavioral patterns that kept us alive. But we have to abandon them because they no longer work—if they ever really did; because if we keep on in the same way, we will die anyway.
From my very first meeting of Marijuana Anonymous, I knew I was in the right place. I was surrounded by people like me. I could hear it in their stories, in their jokes. They welcomed me with open arms and gave me a slew of suggestions to follow to help me stay quit. I did my best to go to 90 meetings in 90 days. When there weren’t MA meetings to go to, I attended other fellowships and was surprised to hear how much their stories reminded me of mine, too. It was probably the first time in my life that I felt a part of something. It was definitely the first time I ever felt included, or that I belonged. To this day, when I feel myself going through hard times, one of the best things for me to do is to get myself to a meeting.
I got a sponsor and started working the steps right away. When we had finished the third step, he told me there was nothing more he could do for me. I got a different sponsor who could take me through all twelve. Having a sponsor gave me someone I could call when times were tough, and there were plenty of those. Working the steps helped me to see the patterns in my life, how the disease had affected everything about it. More than anything, the steps gave me a new way to live. They gave me a set of tools to help me deal with things I’d never been able to before, especially myself. The gears of my life slowly came to a stop and began turning in a different direction.
It was suggested that I get into service and I did so. At first, I made coffee and handed out birthday chips. As I accumulated time, I took Meeting Secretary positions, then a Group Treasurer position. I have held one service position or another virtually my entire Recovery and intend to continue doing so. It was how I starting learning to be responsible, and it puts me in a position of visibility to newcomers. I chair speaker meetings and carry the message as best I can that there is a reason for hope, that people can change, and that life really can be different. When the time came, I started sponsoring others.
I’ve learned to experience my emotions, not repress them. I’ve learned how to deal with them appropriately, as an adult not a willful child. Each day, I get better and better at accepting the things I can’t change and at taking action on the things I can. I now live life on life’s terms and I know, without a doubt, that there is nothing so wonderful that getting loaded won’t ruin it and nothing so terrible that getting loaded will make it better.
There have been so many benefits of the program, I couldn’t list them all. It was through sharing at meetings that I learned to speak in my own voice, not just say what I was expected to or what others wanted to hear. I’ve gained a freedom I never thought I’d feel by accepting that I am not perfect and not going to be. Being imperfect is what makes me human. I’ve learned to accept others for who they are and not expect them to be perfect either. Most importantly, I am learning better each day how to love and accept myself for who I am, as I am. I know, now, that I am enough.
I’ve learned also that I must remain vigilant in working my program. If I don’t, old patterns of thinking and behavior return and my life begins heading back toward what it used to be. I must be active in my Recovery, and the best way I’ve found to do that is by helping others. As the saying goes, I only keep what I have by giving it away. I share at meetings. I use the phone. I write this blog.
Life isn’t easy. It’s full of ups and downs, good times and bad. I do my best to be honest with my sponsees about this. Recovery, learning a new way to live, takes time—and time takes time. The difference today is now I get to live my life. I get to be present for it and deal with it with the best of myself, not the worst. I know that, when things are bad, the way through is not to wallow in self-pity and isolation, but to pray and seek support from my friends in the program. We help each other.
I have a new definition for happiness now. Happiness is the freedom of a new way of life. It is the relief of knowing that I don’t ever have to use again. It is the joy of being able to experience the full range of what it means to be human.
WHAT IT’S LIKE NOW
Recovery for me has been a process of learning a new way of living. I've had to unlearn most of what I learned growing up. It isn't easy to let go of those things. I didn't learn those things by chance. I learned them and practiced them in order to survive. It was what I had to do. One of the things that makes Recovery so difficult is that the program asks us to abandon all the thinking and behavioral patterns that kept us alive. But we have to abandon them because they no longer work—if they ever really did; because if we keep on in the same way, we will die anyway.
From my very first meeting of Marijuana Anonymous, I knew I was in the right place. I was surrounded by people like me. I could hear it in their stories, in their jokes. They welcomed me with open arms and gave me a slew of suggestions to follow to help me stay quit. I did my best to go to 90 meetings in 90 days. When there weren’t MA meetings to go to, I attended other fellowships and was surprised to hear how much their stories reminded me of mine, too. It was probably the first time in my life that I felt a part of something. It was definitely the first time I ever felt included, or that I belonged. To this day, when I feel myself going through hard times, one of the best things for me to do is to get myself to a meeting.
I got a sponsor and started working the steps right away. When we had finished the third step, he told me there was nothing more he could do for me. I got a different sponsor who could take me through all twelve. Having a sponsor gave me someone I could call when times were tough, and there were plenty of those. Working the steps helped me to see the patterns in my life, how the disease had affected everything about it. More than anything, the steps gave me a new way to live. They gave me a set of tools to help me deal with things I’d never been able to before, especially myself. The gears of my life slowly came to a stop and began turning in a different direction.
It was suggested that I get into service and I did so. At first, I made coffee and handed out birthday chips. As I accumulated time, I took Meeting Secretary positions, then a Group Treasurer position. I have held one service position or another virtually my entire Recovery and intend to continue doing so. It was how I starting learning to be responsible, and it puts me in a position of visibility to newcomers. I chair speaker meetings and carry the message as best I can that there is a reason for hope, that people can change, and that life really can be different. When the time came, I started sponsoring others.
I’ve learned to experience my emotions, not repress them. I’ve learned how to deal with them appropriately, as an adult not a willful child. Each day, I get better and better at accepting the things I can’t change and at taking action on the things I can. I now live life on life’s terms and I know, without a doubt, that there is nothing so wonderful that getting loaded won’t ruin it and nothing so terrible that getting loaded will make it better.
There have been so many benefits of the program, I couldn’t list them all. It was through sharing at meetings that I learned to speak in my own voice, not just say what I was expected to or what others wanted to hear. I’ve gained a freedom I never thought I’d feel by accepting that I am not perfect and not going to be. Being imperfect is what makes me human. I’ve learned to accept others for who they are and not expect them to be perfect either. Most importantly, I am learning better each day how to love and accept myself for who I am, as I am. I know, now, that I am enough.
I’ve learned also that I must remain vigilant in working my program. If I don’t, old patterns of thinking and behavior return and my life begins heading back toward what it used to be. I must be active in my Recovery, and the best way I’ve found to do that is by helping others. As the saying goes, I only keep what I have by giving it away. I share at meetings. I use the phone. I write this blog.
Life isn’t easy. It’s full of ups and downs, good times and bad. I do my best to be honest with my sponsees about this. Recovery, learning a new way to live, takes time—and time takes time. The difference today is now I get to live my life. I get to be present for it and deal with it with the best of myself, not the worst. I know that, when things are bad, the way through is not to wallow in self-pity and isolation, but to pray and seek support from my friends in the program. We help each other.
I have a new definition for happiness now. Happiness is the freedom of a new way of life. It is the relief of knowing that I don’t ever have to use again. It is the joy of being able to experience the full range of what it means to be human.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
"I Know Too Much Now"
I've heard it shared a number of times at meetings by people as they accumulate more clean time that they 'can't relapse' because they 'know too much now'. On my more bitter days, I try not to smirk as I think ruefully how that hasn't stopped anyone before. They don't say relapse is a part of Recovery for no reason. When I'm in a better place, though, I understand exactly what they're talking about.
Hard times are part of life. When we get clean, life doesn’t become all wine and roses. Life is tough, sometimes rough, and occasionally so hard we haven’t the faintest idea how we’ll get through it. Thoughts of getting loading can float into my mind as casually as wondering what I'm going to have for dinner. It happens when things are good, too, but for me it’s mostly when things are hard.
The promises from the Big Book tell us that fear of financial insecurity will leave us. I can agree that the fear has left me, but that doesn’t mean I like being broke. The same is true for loneliness; I have friends, and I’m okay being without a girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish for more friends and a partner to share my life with.
When I think about 'going back out' (as we say) it’s a multi-layered thought now. It’s not linear; I don’t think, “Man, I want to get high/drunk!” and then chide myself because it will result in disaster. A lot of people do what they call ‘playing it through’ where they imagine getting loaded, then continue on with the fantasy to all the chaos that inevitably follows. I don’t ever quite get to that point. When thoughts of using crop up in my mind, they are always accompanied by a deeper layer—the knowledge that all I’m really wanting is to escape.
Escape was my main reason for using. I used to escape from thoughts I didn’t want to have, from situations I didn’t want to deal with, from emotions I didn’t know how to handle. If life threw something at me that I couldn’t or wouldn’t accept, I got loaded so that I didn’t have to. I was like a two-year-old stamping his foot, arms crossed, shouting ‘no’. Ironically, the only action I knew how to take was inaction. Before I got into Recovery, I had never learned how to deal with anything, really. The only tool in my toolbox was denial.
The knowledge I have gained from my Recovery is that I can handle whatever life throws at me, even if I don’t want to and even if it doesn’t seem like it. Bad times pass. Good times, too, for that matter. I’m a person of action now, and I take action when the situation calls for it. I have a whole new set of tools, thanks to the program. I don’t always like using them, but I know now that problems don’t go away when I run from them. Feelings don’t go away when I use to escape from them. Life doesn’t stop happening just because I’m loaded.
The ‘too much’ that I know now is that escaping through getting loaded isn’t really an escape at all. No matter what I fix with, it doesn’t change anything in reality. It will all still be there, waiting for me when I come down. And the chaos that would result from my getting loaded would only add to whatever it is I’m [not] dealing with. That’s why I don’t pick up, because I know too well that it does nothing for me. And I haven’t forgotten that the drugs and booze stopped working for me a long time ago.
It’s why I got clean in the first place.
Hard times are part of life. When we get clean, life doesn’t become all wine and roses. Life is tough, sometimes rough, and occasionally so hard we haven’t the faintest idea how we’ll get through it. Thoughts of getting loading can float into my mind as casually as wondering what I'm going to have for dinner. It happens when things are good, too, but for me it’s mostly when things are hard.
The promises from the Big Book tell us that fear of financial insecurity will leave us. I can agree that the fear has left me, but that doesn’t mean I like being broke. The same is true for loneliness; I have friends, and I’m okay being without a girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish for more friends and a partner to share my life with.
When I think about 'going back out' (as we say) it’s a multi-layered thought now. It’s not linear; I don’t think, “Man, I want to get high/drunk!” and then chide myself because it will result in disaster. A lot of people do what they call ‘playing it through’ where they imagine getting loaded, then continue on with the fantasy to all the chaos that inevitably follows. I don’t ever quite get to that point. When thoughts of using crop up in my mind, they are always accompanied by a deeper layer—the knowledge that all I’m really wanting is to escape.
Escape was my main reason for using. I used to escape from thoughts I didn’t want to have, from situations I didn’t want to deal with, from emotions I didn’t know how to handle. If life threw something at me that I couldn’t or wouldn’t accept, I got loaded so that I didn’t have to. I was like a two-year-old stamping his foot, arms crossed, shouting ‘no’. Ironically, the only action I knew how to take was inaction. Before I got into Recovery, I had never learned how to deal with anything, really. The only tool in my toolbox was denial.
The knowledge I have gained from my Recovery is that I can handle whatever life throws at me, even if I don’t want to and even if it doesn’t seem like it. Bad times pass. Good times, too, for that matter. I’m a person of action now, and I take action when the situation calls for it. I have a whole new set of tools, thanks to the program. I don’t always like using them, but I know now that problems don’t go away when I run from them. Feelings don’t go away when I use to escape from them. Life doesn’t stop happening just because I’m loaded.
The ‘too much’ that I know now is that escaping through getting loaded isn’t really an escape at all. No matter what I fix with, it doesn’t change anything in reality. It will all still be there, waiting for me when I come down. And the chaos that would result from my getting loaded would only add to whatever it is I’m [not] dealing with. That’s why I don’t pick up, because I know too well that it does nothing for me. And I haven’t forgotten that the drugs and booze stopped working for me a long time ago.
It’s why I got clean in the first place.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
"Thinking Outside the Self"
I was listening to a radio program the other night, one of those mostly-boring speaker droning on to a quiet audience types of things. But the subject was the history of how cultures have approached the spiritual. The speaker talked (in a very English accent) about the use of reason versus the use of faith. One thing she mentioned was how reason and faith used to walk hand in hand, that you didn't have one without the other, and that it's only within the past couple centuries that we've separated the two.
Another thing she talked about was how the idea of approaching spiritual texts and myths in general with the question of whether or not they're "true" is putting the cart before the horse. Spiritual guidance is something you live by; you have faith, do the action, then see its effects in your life. The action comes first; the "truth" of it becomes apparent after. I think just about anyone who has been through the 12-steps of Recovery will agree that our spiritual program definitely works like that. If you spend your energy trying to figure the program out, you won't get anywhere. If instead you just take it on faith and work the steps, you'll see the truth of them as their effects show in your life.
We didn't think our way into becomming addicts; we can't think our way out of it.
Another guest started talking about how self-centered we are these days. There's so much emphasis on self-improvement, self-discovery, and of course looking out for #1 is a huge part of our culture here in America. His point, though, was that any time we put someone besides ourselves first, that is a huge paradigm shift. Yes, thinking of others first, instead of yourself, is a revolutionary, radical concept.
In my active addiction, I always put myself first. I was raised in a religious household, so I had been taught to think of others, to sacrifice myself for others. I knew how to give the appearance of putting others first, but the times that I did, I did it out of selfish motivation. I didn't help others because I cared about them, I did it because I didn't want to listen to them whine about their problems. If I saw someone in pain, I tried to alleviate that pain not because I wanted them to suffer less, but because I didn't know how to and couldn't deal with emotions. I focused on other people's problems, trying to fix them and change them, because if I did that then I didn't have to deal with my own issues.
My helping others was an escape from myself. I didn't know how to deal with me, so I used other people in order to avoid doing so. I know other addicts have different experiences when it comes to selfishness, and these are just some examples of mine. I also know these kinds of issues are something many addicts struggle with in their Recovery. It's one of the reasons a lot of us end up in the rooms of Codependents Anonymous, Al-Anon, and Nar-Anon, in addition to attending our regular fellowships.
The chaos of our old lives was the result of self-will run riot. More often than not, we addicts come in to the rooms as deeply insecure, raging egomaniacs. The 12 Steps teach us how to live a spiritual life. As the literature says, we don't learn to think less of ourselves, we learn how to think of ourselves less. It is said that this is a selfish program, a statement that is sometimes misinterpreted. What we learn is a different kind of selfishness: we learn that it's okay to take care of ourselves. We learn how to be good to ourselves, to treat ourselves well. We learn to love ourselves. Only after we can do that, can we honestly and truly love others.
The whole point of the spiritual is to step outside of ourselves. Living a spiritual life means we remove ourselves from the center of the universe and instead assume our proper place in it--as one of many; a small piece of a much larger whole. The speaker on the radio made the point that being compassionate is the easiest way to do this. When we practice compassion, we try to see things from another's perspective. It gets us outside of ourselves and we begin thinking of others.
Compassion. Compassion towards others. Compassion towards ourselves. These are the cornerstones of the spiritual life.
Another thing she talked about was how the idea of approaching spiritual texts and myths in general with the question of whether or not they're "true" is putting the cart before the horse. Spiritual guidance is something you live by; you have faith, do the action, then see its effects in your life. The action comes first; the "truth" of it becomes apparent after. I think just about anyone who has been through the 12-steps of Recovery will agree that our spiritual program definitely works like that. If you spend your energy trying to figure the program out, you won't get anywhere. If instead you just take it on faith and work the steps, you'll see the truth of them as their effects show in your life.
We didn't think our way into becomming addicts; we can't think our way out of it.
Another guest started talking about how self-centered we are these days. There's so much emphasis on self-improvement, self-discovery, and of course looking out for #1 is a huge part of our culture here in America. His point, though, was that any time we put someone besides ourselves first, that is a huge paradigm shift. Yes, thinking of others first, instead of yourself, is a revolutionary, radical concept.
In my active addiction, I always put myself first. I was raised in a religious household, so I had been taught to think of others, to sacrifice myself for others. I knew how to give the appearance of putting others first, but the times that I did, I did it out of selfish motivation. I didn't help others because I cared about them, I did it because I didn't want to listen to them whine about their problems. If I saw someone in pain, I tried to alleviate that pain not because I wanted them to suffer less, but because I didn't know how to and couldn't deal with emotions. I focused on other people's problems, trying to fix them and change them, because if I did that then I didn't have to deal with my own issues.
My helping others was an escape from myself. I didn't know how to deal with me, so I used other people in order to avoid doing so. I know other addicts have different experiences when it comes to selfishness, and these are just some examples of mine. I also know these kinds of issues are something many addicts struggle with in their Recovery. It's one of the reasons a lot of us end up in the rooms of Codependents Anonymous, Al-Anon, and Nar-Anon, in addition to attending our regular fellowships.
The chaos of our old lives was the result of self-will run riot. More often than not, we addicts come in to the rooms as deeply insecure, raging egomaniacs. The 12 Steps teach us how to live a spiritual life. As the literature says, we don't learn to think less of ourselves, we learn how to think of ourselves less. It is said that this is a selfish program, a statement that is sometimes misinterpreted. What we learn is a different kind of selfishness: we learn that it's okay to take care of ourselves. We learn how to be good to ourselves, to treat ourselves well. We learn to love ourselves. Only after we can do that, can we honestly and truly love others.
The whole point of the spiritual is to step outside of ourselves. Living a spiritual life means we remove ourselves from the center of the universe and instead assume our proper place in it--as one of many; a small piece of a much larger whole. The speaker on the radio made the point that being compassionate is the easiest way to do this. When we practice compassion, we try to see things from another's perspective. It gets us outside of ourselves and we begin thinking of others.
Compassion. Compassion towards others. Compassion towards ourselves. These are the cornerstones of the spiritual life.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
"Crazy Thoughts"
I'm not sure how I feel about the word 'crazy'. I've used it. I've said it many times to describe myself. I've definitely used it to describe others and their chaotic lives. Still, there's something about the word itself that doesn't sit right with me. Maybe it's my growing serenity chaffing against the attempt to think of myself or others as less-than. Or it could be the way our society uses this word as a label, then discounts those it's applied to. Or maybe it has something to do with the old saying of how a crazy person never sees themselves as crazy; if you think you are, you probably aren't.
I much prefer the program phrase of 'sick and insane'. That describes my disease with a lot more accuracy,
In the AA big book, there's a great story, a parable really, about a man who can't stop himself from running out in front of fire engines. He does it again and again, eventually landing himself in the hospital. After he has healed from his injuries, he pledges from the bottom of his heart never to do it again. Then, when released, he immediately steps in front of the first fire engine he comes across. I know of no better metaphor for the sick insanity of this disease we suffer from.
Sick and insane doesn't just apply to the compulsion to use, though. It is our very thinking that has been twisted. It can be hard to recognize those thoughts, and difficult to separate them out. Learning to not act on them, learning to not obsess on them or let them control us, takes time and practice. For me, the more I care about something or someone, the more vulnerable I am to this part of my disease. And my god, the thoughts I have are about as sick and insane as they come.
My best friend can tell you about the time I thought he was a government plant, set up to monitor my movements and activities. After all, how could anyone get along with and have so much in common with me unless they were the product of psychological study and deliberate deception? When I was going through my last divorce, I was convinced that my soon-to-be ex-wife was in a threeway relationship with my sister and her boyfriend. I remember dating a new girl once and being certain she was secretly a sex slave for some college fraternity. These are some of the more extreme examples, but there are plenty of mundane ones, too: my boss is plotting a way to fire me; my ex is banging a friend on the sly, etc. When I'm in a good mental place, I can laugh at these thoughts; when I'm not, they ARE my reality.
Having some clean time and some Recovery under my belt, I'm able to deconstruct these obsessions. My best friend being a Fed is really about my own lack of self-confidence and how I feel that I could never really have that much in common with someone--that no one would ever want to be friends with me. The thing with my ex-wife and sister is the manifestation of the betrayal I felt at my family's siding with her during our divorce. Plots by the boss are actually my own fears of losing my job in these unstable economic times, combined with how I don't fit in with my coworkers. The thoughts of lovers running around behind my back are fears of betrayal coupled with my hatred of secrets, all stemming from growing up in a family of emotionally unavailable people who always talked around everything and never directly about anything--especially if it was something important.
Like other addicts, I have far more experience suppressing my feelings than actually dealing with them.
I'm learning, though, how to deal with my emotions. I'm learning how to deal with obsessive thoughts, as sick and insane as they are. Talking about them helps. Hearing about others' struggle with similar issues helps me to not feel so alone. A hearty laugh from my sponsor helps me to remember that I am still an addict, no matter how caught up in the insanity I may get. The difference is that today I don't have to let these thoughts rule me. Today I have a solution. Today I have a clear head and the blessing of my Recovery to carry me through.
The AA big book has some great suggestions, too, on how to handle things. Given that the majority of the people in my life now are other addicts, it's not just my own sick insanity that I have to deal with. When confronted with another's disease I've found it very helpful to remember: we are ill. Others are to be treated as you would a close relative who is dying. Remember that they are suffering from a disease, that they are sick and insane, and that without help and love and support, they will die. Compassion is the key--towards others and the self. We are, all of us, a bunch of sick people.
God knows I am.
I much prefer the program phrase of 'sick and insane'. That describes my disease with a lot more accuracy,
In the AA big book, there's a great story, a parable really, about a man who can't stop himself from running out in front of fire engines. He does it again and again, eventually landing himself in the hospital. After he has healed from his injuries, he pledges from the bottom of his heart never to do it again. Then, when released, he immediately steps in front of the first fire engine he comes across. I know of no better metaphor for the sick insanity of this disease we suffer from.
Sick and insane doesn't just apply to the compulsion to use, though. It is our very thinking that has been twisted. It can be hard to recognize those thoughts, and difficult to separate them out. Learning to not act on them, learning to not obsess on them or let them control us, takes time and practice. For me, the more I care about something or someone, the more vulnerable I am to this part of my disease. And my god, the thoughts I have are about as sick and insane as they come.
My best friend can tell you about the time I thought he was a government plant, set up to monitor my movements and activities. After all, how could anyone get along with and have so much in common with me unless they were the product of psychological study and deliberate deception? When I was going through my last divorce, I was convinced that my soon-to-be ex-wife was in a threeway relationship with my sister and her boyfriend. I remember dating a new girl once and being certain she was secretly a sex slave for some college fraternity. These are some of the more extreme examples, but there are plenty of mundane ones, too: my boss is plotting a way to fire me; my ex is banging a friend on the sly, etc. When I'm in a good mental place, I can laugh at these thoughts; when I'm not, they ARE my reality.
Having some clean time and some Recovery under my belt, I'm able to deconstruct these obsessions. My best friend being a Fed is really about my own lack of self-confidence and how I feel that I could never really have that much in common with someone--that no one would ever want to be friends with me. The thing with my ex-wife and sister is the manifestation of the betrayal I felt at my family's siding with her during our divorce. Plots by the boss are actually my own fears of losing my job in these unstable economic times, combined with how I don't fit in with my coworkers. The thoughts of lovers running around behind my back are fears of betrayal coupled with my hatred of secrets, all stemming from growing up in a family of emotionally unavailable people who always talked around everything and never directly about anything--especially if it was something important.
Like other addicts, I have far more experience suppressing my feelings than actually dealing with them.
I'm learning, though, how to deal with my emotions. I'm learning how to deal with obsessive thoughts, as sick and insane as they are. Talking about them helps. Hearing about others' struggle with similar issues helps me to not feel so alone. A hearty laugh from my sponsor helps me to remember that I am still an addict, no matter how caught up in the insanity I may get. The difference is that today I don't have to let these thoughts rule me. Today I have a solution. Today I have a clear head and the blessing of my Recovery to carry me through.
The AA big book has some great suggestions, too, on how to handle things. Given that the majority of the people in my life now are other addicts, it's not just my own sick insanity that I have to deal with. When confronted with another's disease I've found it very helpful to remember: we are ill. Others are to be treated as you would a close relative who is dying. Remember that they are suffering from a disease, that they are sick and insane, and that without help and love and support, they will die. Compassion is the key--towards others and the self. We are, all of us, a bunch of sick people.
God knows I am.
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