Sometimes there is nothing more difficult than continuing on in spite of everything being more or less okay. Most of us have times in our Recovery when there is no drama to focus on, there are no crises to deal with, no celebrations to be had. Life, through some seemingly bizarre set of circumstances, becomes calm and uneventful for a while.
Right now, there are a number of folks reading this and laughing. I understand how that feels. I remember a time when it seemed there would never be an end to the ups and downs. Even after I had gotten clean and sober, the chaos and insanity of my old life persisted. Through working my steps, by working my program, things changed. I began to experience those minutes, hours, then days of serenity. Gradually, and with time, the ups and downs became the exception rather than the rule. I had a whole new challenge in front of me: how to live when life wasn’t crazy.
The ups and downs of our old life can be like an addiction all on its own. We get so used to the insanity that we feel like we don’t know how to live without it. Some people get into Recovery and continue on with the drama and trauma. They find all sorts of ways to ensure that it continues, usually without even realizing they are doing so. Some fall into traps of severe codependence, involving themselves in others’ lives and issues unnecessarily. Some get involved in chaotic relationships. Sometimes we continue on with the chaos and insanity simply because it’s all we’ve ever known, or because we don’t feel as though we’re really alive without it.
Letting go of the chaos and insanity, allowing ourselves to have those moments of serenity isn’t automatic. Sometimes we’ll reach a ‘bottom’ with it. We’ll throw up our hands or hang our head in despair, and decide deep within our being that we just don’t want to do it like that anymore, or can’t. We decide to find another way. Getting used to that other way, like other aspects of our Recovery, takes time and practice.
There have been times for me when the peace was too much to take, and I found ways to bring chaos back into my life. It’s not something I regret, but these days I definitely have more interest in letting go of the chaos, allowing it to pass out of my life. There are risks there. Part of my disease is a need to self-sabotage. One of the common dangers I am vulnerable to is boredom. But with time and practice, I have learned to accept that sometimes life really is okay; the even keel isn’t such a bad thing. And the more I experience it, the more I prefer it to the insanity. The more I allow it to happen, the more practiced I get at doing so.
The spiritual principle that jumps out at me during these times is that of Perseverance, the principle behind the tenth step. It can mean soldiering on when times are tough, or that when good things are happening in our lives we allow them to happen, or simply being content in our times of peace and serenity. If there isn’t much happening in our lives at a particular moment, our job is to accept the reality of what is. It’s called dealing with life on life’s terms, even if life’s terms happen to be that not much is going on.
If our lives are crazy, we can accept it and handle it accordingly. If things are peaceful and uneventful, we can accept that, too. We don’t have to move backwards, back towards insanity. We can take a moment to be thankful for what is, what life and our higher power has given us, even if it happens to be a bit ‘blah’. For myself, I’ll take blah over chaos and insanity any day. After all, this too shall pass. And when I think back on those dark days when I never thought I would have times of peace and serenity, I am filled with gratitude.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
“A Spiritual Message”
The twelfth step talks about carrying the message to others. It’s about being of service, and there are many ways to be. We can hold service positions. We can sponsor others, pass on the knowledge that was passed on to us. Even just showing up at a meeting is being of service. If we share, we can help others by letting them know how we’ve dealt with one of life’s trials (or triumphs) without being loaded. Even if we say nothing, just our presence is enough. There would be no meetings if no one showed up.
I’ve heard some people talk about the message as “The Message of (insert fellowship name)”. There’s nothing wrong with that. I prefer to use my own words, and to be a little more specific. To me, the message is that there is another way to live besides being loaded. Even more specifically, that there is hope. A big part of the program is learning to simplify, and that’s the best way I know how to simplify the message: that there is hope. Hope for a life without the stuff, hope for real happiness, hope for true freedom. Not just freedom from active addiction, but the freedom to be who we really are as we have been created.
There are people who disagree with me. Some in Recovery are absolutely adamant that the program promises nothing more than the freedom from active addiction. While this is true, I have always taken it a step further, because for me freedom from active addiction has meant the freedom to be the real me. It’s meant the freedom to be the best of myself. It has meant the chance to work on issues that have plagued me for as long as I can remember, long before I ever first picked up. More than anything, it has meant the opportunity to learn how to truly love myself and let myself be loved.
We don’t have to take advantage of this opportunity. Nowhere is it written that, in Recovery, we must learn how to love ourselves. Nowhere is it written we have to be the best of ourselves, and it is certainly not promised anywhere that this is what will happen. It’s up to us. Like so much of the program, it is in our hands whether we take advantage of these opportunities.
I’ve known more than a few people who get into Recovery and become stuck. They live clean and sober, true, but the old behaviors still tend to rule their lives. They still take advantage of others, or they’ll still let others take advantage of them. They seem to remain permanently unhappy. There are some patterns there. If someone doesn’t work their steps, or if they are convinced that they can’t change or refuse to, then they tend to end up in the stuck place. My program says that others are free to work their program their own way, so I do my best to let them. I still feel for them, though. It’s the same kind of sympathy that I feel for those who are still dealing with active addiction.
I suppose it all comes down to that spiritual principle of Willingness. You have to be willing to let the program change your life. It only works if you work it, we say. Recovery is not for those who need it but those who want it, we say.
The twelve steps are not the only way to live clean and sober, just one way. I have found that, for me, they work in powerful and amazing ways. They have given me a way to live free from active addiction. They have given me a way to deal with myself and with life that works. Today, they are my guide for dealing with reality. They help me to live in reality, a way to face what is. They are not a be-all, end-all, they are a guide. They are not rules, but suggestions. They are a set of tools that works.
This is my message: there is a reason to hope. The steps really do work if you work them. The principles of the program are spiritual in nature, and you don’t even have to be an addict to let them work in your life. Being honest with yourself and others is a path to surrender and acceptance of the real, of what is. Having hope that there is a power greater than yourself which loves and cares for you, living with the faith that it will love and care for you if you allow it to, brings about a peace within. Having the courage to face life instead of running from it builds inner strength. Integrity, willingness, and humility help us to remember we are part of a larger whole. Love and justice are guides to treating the others in the world and in our lives with the dignity and respect we all are deserving of. Perseverance is how we make it through when life confronts us with its inevitable struggles. Being aware is how we stay connected to the spiritual. Being of service is how we get outside ourselves and help others.
The choice is ours. We can tear others down, we can tear ourselves down. We can continue to be stuck living for ourselves if we chose to. Or we can chose to lift others up, to lift ourselves up. We can help others and let ourselves be helped. It’s up to us.
I’ve heard some people talk about the message as “The Message of (insert fellowship name)”. There’s nothing wrong with that. I prefer to use my own words, and to be a little more specific. To me, the message is that there is another way to live besides being loaded. Even more specifically, that there is hope. A big part of the program is learning to simplify, and that’s the best way I know how to simplify the message: that there is hope. Hope for a life without the stuff, hope for real happiness, hope for true freedom. Not just freedom from active addiction, but the freedom to be who we really are as we have been created.
There are people who disagree with me. Some in Recovery are absolutely adamant that the program promises nothing more than the freedom from active addiction. While this is true, I have always taken it a step further, because for me freedom from active addiction has meant the freedom to be the real me. It’s meant the freedom to be the best of myself. It has meant the chance to work on issues that have plagued me for as long as I can remember, long before I ever first picked up. More than anything, it has meant the opportunity to learn how to truly love myself and let myself be loved.
We don’t have to take advantage of this opportunity. Nowhere is it written that, in Recovery, we must learn how to love ourselves. Nowhere is it written we have to be the best of ourselves, and it is certainly not promised anywhere that this is what will happen. It’s up to us. Like so much of the program, it is in our hands whether we take advantage of these opportunities.
I’ve known more than a few people who get into Recovery and become stuck. They live clean and sober, true, but the old behaviors still tend to rule their lives. They still take advantage of others, or they’ll still let others take advantage of them. They seem to remain permanently unhappy. There are some patterns there. If someone doesn’t work their steps, or if they are convinced that they can’t change or refuse to, then they tend to end up in the stuck place. My program says that others are free to work their program their own way, so I do my best to let them. I still feel for them, though. It’s the same kind of sympathy that I feel for those who are still dealing with active addiction.
I suppose it all comes down to that spiritual principle of Willingness. You have to be willing to let the program change your life. It only works if you work it, we say. Recovery is not for those who need it but those who want it, we say.
The twelve steps are not the only way to live clean and sober, just one way. I have found that, for me, they work in powerful and amazing ways. They have given me a way to live free from active addiction. They have given me a way to deal with myself and with life that works. Today, they are my guide for dealing with reality. They help me to live in reality, a way to face what is. They are not a be-all, end-all, they are a guide. They are not rules, but suggestions. They are a set of tools that works.
This is my message: there is a reason to hope. The steps really do work if you work them. The principles of the program are spiritual in nature, and you don’t even have to be an addict to let them work in your life. Being honest with yourself and others is a path to surrender and acceptance of the real, of what is. Having hope that there is a power greater than yourself which loves and cares for you, living with the faith that it will love and care for you if you allow it to, brings about a peace within. Having the courage to face life instead of running from it builds inner strength. Integrity, willingness, and humility help us to remember we are part of a larger whole. Love and justice are guides to treating the others in the world and in our lives with the dignity and respect we all are deserving of. Perseverance is how we make it through when life confronts us with its inevitable struggles. Being aware is how we stay connected to the spiritual. Being of service is how we get outside ourselves and help others.
The choice is ours. We can tear others down, we can tear ourselves down. We can continue to be stuck living for ourselves if we chose to. Or we can chose to lift others up, to lift ourselves up. We can help others and let ourselves be helped. It’s up to us.
Friday, December 18, 2009
“Uncle Steve Watches A Lot Of TV”
Ah, the chattering brain. I can’t claim to love it. Some days I downright hate it. Thoughts of imaginary conversations, endless postulates of ‘what-if?’, circle around and around, driving me to distraction and madness. Maybe I’m overstating things, but not by much.
Spending time in my imagination instead of in reality goes back as far as I can remember. As a kid, I was picked on a lot. My way of dealing with bullies was to go into my imagination where I had superpowers that would allow me to defeat them or escape from them. Probably one of the reasons I don’t remember being at home is because, when there, I was living in worlds I’d created in my head instead.
I had plenty of fear when I was a kid, too. Fear of other people, fear of what they might say to me or do to me if I said or did the wrong thing. I developed a habit early on of practicing my conversations ahead of time. When I got older and started becoming interested in girls, this tendency amplified. Dramatically. If I say this, then she’ll say this, then I can say this. Or what if she says this? Well then, I’ll say this and this and in case she says this then I’ll… and on and on and on.
A real turning point happened a few months after I got clean. I was seeing a therapist at the time, and I told him about a grand realization I’d just had: that in all those imaginary conversations, the person I was talking to was imaginary. As in, not real. As in, I was really only talking to myself, hearing the other person say what I wanted to hear them say. He did me one better and told me that I wasn’t real in them either. In those imaginary conversations, I was saying what I wanted to hear myself say, being an idealized version of myself and not the real me.
Thanks to my Recovery, I’ve had the opportunity to see how these habits aren’t necessary any more. I’ve had the chance to realize that they aren’t all that helpful, and that sometimes they are in fact a huge hindrance. In time, I came to see how all these imaginary conversations and scenarios were part and parcel of my disease. They all stem from my inability to accept the things I can’t change, manifested as attempts to control.
When we try to control the uncontrollable, our lives become unmanageable.
Letting go of this habit is not something that happened overnight. In fact, it is still something I struggle with, just not nearly as much as I used to. When I first started working on it, I tried to do so with an iron grip. Whenever I noticed I was having an imaginary conversation, I came down on myself, chided myself, told myself not to do it. I’d deliberately think of something else, or run a favorite song through my head.
As time has passed, I’ve learned to be more loving towards myself. Nowadays, when I hear the imaginary thoughts, I work a mini- first step. Sometimes it’s as simple as, “Yep, I’m still an addict.” Sometimes, when the thoughts are persistent and don’t fall away, I take the time to do a little inventory. I check in with myself. I try to feel everything that I’m feeling. I examine my fears, knowing that much of my attempts to control stem from that. I push through the imaginary stuff and get to the real. Saying a little prayer never hurts, either.
I’m working, too, on learning to love this part of myself. Lately, I’ve been doing it in metaphor, which seems to help with the more difficult aspects of my disease. Instead of coming down on myself, or thinking ‘there I go again’ with the imaginary thoughts, I think of it as good ol’ Uncle Steve watching TV.
The shows aren’t real (even if they’re reality-based), the commercials are downright annoying, and sometimes he has the volume up way too loud. Like some people who take their TV shows way too seriously, he gets caught up in the drama, the characters and the possibilities, wondering what’s going to happen next and unable to turn away from the screen for fear of missing some crucial happening. But none of it is real. Sometimes I want to watch what he’s watching, too, but then I remind myself that it’s ‘only a TV show’ and more often than not I am content to just let him watch it.
I’m not sure if my over-active imagination counts as an actual character defect but, if it is, then using it in this way, thinking of my addict self as Uncle Steve, is using that defect as a positive trait. It’s a way of embracing that part of myself, accepting it, while at the same time not allowing it to rule me or run my life.
I don’t mind that Uncle Steve watches a lot of TV. I’d much prefer him do that than tear up the house in a drunken stupor, or—worse—go outside and mess up the neighborhood. Uncle Steve tearing up the house? That’s me back in active-addict mode. Uncle Steve messing up the neighborhood? That’s addict-Zach creating chaos in the lives of others. So, yes, it is just fine with me if Uncle Steve watches TV all day long. Even if the volume is too loud sometimes.
Spending time in my imagination instead of in reality goes back as far as I can remember. As a kid, I was picked on a lot. My way of dealing with bullies was to go into my imagination where I had superpowers that would allow me to defeat them or escape from them. Probably one of the reasons I don’t remember being at home is because, when there, I was living in worlds I’d created in my head instead.
I had plenty of fear when I was a kid, too. Fear of other people, fear of what they might say to me or do to me if I said or did the wrong thing. I developed a habit early on of practicing my conversations ahead of time. When I got older and started becoming interested in girls, this tendency amplified. Dramatically. If I say this, then she’ll say this, then I can say this. Or what if she says this? Well then, I’ll say this and this and in case she says this then I’ll… and on and on and on.
A real turning point happened a few months after I got clean. I was seeing a therapist at the time, and I told him about a grand realization I’d just had: that in all those imaginary conversations, the person I was talking to was imaginary. As in, not real. As in, I was really only talking to myself, hearing the other person say what I wanted to hear them say. He did me one better and told me that I wasn’t real in them either. In those imaginary conversations, I was saying what I wanted to hear myself say, being an idealized version of myself and not the real me.
Thanks to my Recovery, I’ve had the opportunity to see how these habits aren’t necessary any more. I’ve had the chance to realize that they aren’t all that helpful, and that sometimes they are in fact a huge hindrance. In time, I came to see how all these imaginary conversations and scenarios were part and parcel of my disease. They all stem from my inability to accept the things I can’t change, manifested as attempts to control.
When we try to control the uncontrollable, our lives become unmanageable.
Letting go of this habit is not something that happened overnight. In fact, it is still something I struggle with, just not nearly as much as I used to. When I first started working on it, I tried to do so with an iron grip. Whenever I noticed I was having an imaginary conversation, I came down on myself, chided myself, told myself not to do it. I’d deliberately think of something else, or run a favorite song through my head.
As time has passed, I’ve learned to be more loving towards myself. Nowadays, when I hear the imaginary thoughts, I work a mini- first step. Sometimes it’s as simple as, “Yep, I’m still an addict.” Sometimes, when the thoughts are persistent and don’t fall away, I take the time to do a little inventory. I check in with myself. I try to feel everything that I’m feeling. I examine my fears, knowing that much of my attempts to control stem from that. I push through the imaginary stuff and get to the real. Saying a little prayer never hurts, either.
I’m working, too, on learning to love this part of myself. Lately, I’ve been doing it in metaphor, which seems to help with the more difficult aspects of my disease. Instead of coming down on myself, or thinking ‘there I go again’ with the imaginary thoughts, I think of it as good ol’ Uncle Steve watching TV.
The shows aren’t real (even if they’re reality-based), the commercials are downright annoying, and sometimes he has the volume up way too loud. Like some people who take their TV shows way too seriously, he gets caught up in the drama, the characters and the possibilities, wondering what’s going to happen next and unable to turn away from the screen for fear of missing some crucial happening. But none of it is real. Sometimes I want to watch what he’s watching, too, but then I remind myself that it’s ‘only a TV show’ and more often than not I am content to just let him watch it.
I’m not sure if my over-active imagination counts as an actual character defect but, if it is, then using it in this way, thinking of my addict self as Uncle Steve, is using that defect as a positive trait. It’s a way of embracing that part of myself, accepting it, while at the same time not allowing it to rule me or run my life.
I don’t mind that Uncle Steve watches a lot of TV. I’d much prefer him do that than tear up the house in a drunken stupor, or—worse—go outside and mess up the neighborhood. Uncle Steve tearing up the house? That’s me back in active-addict mode. Uncle Steve messing up the neighborhood? That’s addict-Zach creating chaos in the lives of others. So, yes, it is just fine with me if Uncle Steve watches TV all day long. Even if the volume is too loud sometimes.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
“A New Kind Of Friendship”
In my active addiction, I was a big isolator. A lot of my time spent loaded was by myself, and it was time that I guarded jealously. I hated the world and couldn’t wait to get away from it. Responsibilities were something to do as quickly as possible with the minimum amount of effort—if I did them at all. Do the bare minimum, then go get loaded and retreat from the world. It hated me, after all. Or so my thinking was at the time.
I never had many friends. Some people, when loaded, become social butterflies. Not me. I was never one of those who loved to get loaded then find my new best friend. I never had more than a handful of people I spent time with, and that number had dwindled down to practically zero by the end of my using career. At the end, I had only two people I ever saw who I would even consider calling my friends: my main using buddy, who I’d usually go in on a bag with, and the dealer.
When I first started using, and for a while after, it was a kind of gateway to friendships for me. I’d already been a loner, always feeling that no one would ever want to talk to me or find me interesting. It’s a little difficult to describe, though. Hanging out, getting loaded with others, I felt more included than I had before, but I still felt that I didn’t belong. I still felt like others were always looking down on me, that I wasn’t good enough. In the program, we talk about feeling ‘less-than’ and I definitely did. Even when I splurged and shared my stash, I could never shake the feeling that I still wasn’t fully welcomed. I wasn’t ‘a part of’.
Other people had always let me down, so it didn’t occur to me that there was anything unusual about my using friends letting me down. That was the concept of friendship that I had: people who let you down. When I was loaded, I could convince myself that they really cared for me. I was very good at justification, making up excuses for them for why they were never there for me. And, after all, I didn’t think I was worth being there for anyway.
Looking back on those ‘friends’, I see now how little I had in common with them. Every once in awhile I’ll run into an old using buddy. We’ll talk, and the feeling is reaffirmed for me: they were people I hung out with to get loaded or be loaded around. There were no other reasons. I may not have thought so at the time, but looking back it is abundantly clear to me. They were addicts as well. When we are in the grips of active addiction, we aren’t capable of genuinely caring about others. When our connection to the spiritual is being blocked because we’re loaded or consumed with trying to become so, we are locked inside ourselves and the only thing we can conceive of or care about is us.
We’ll love you until you learn to love yourself.
For myself, I had no concept of what a real friendship was like. I had never experienced it, never known what it was like to be truly accepted for who I am just as I am. I had never felt that kind of love. I didn’t get it from others growing up; I didn’t get it from my family. It wasn’t until I found my way into the rooms that I began to learn about what real friendship could be.
Now I have people in my life that I know genuinely care about me, and I about them. They are people who I share common interests with, who we enjoy doing things together or talking about subjects that matter to us. The people close to me are close because we have a love for each other that is not based on being loaded. When I ask them about what’s going on in their lives, it’s because I actually want to know. How they are doing with work, family, their relationships, matter to me. Subjects for discussion are talked about because they interest us, not as small-talk leading to who makes the call to the dealer.
Early on in my Recovery, I received some very good advice: that I get to be choosey about who I spend my time with. For the first time, I began to act on the belief that I deserved to have people in my life who are good for me, and that I didn’t have to keep others in my life who weren’t. After so many years of feeling less-than, after always taking what little scraps of so-called friendship I could find, this advice was difficult to follow at first. But as I built more and more actual friendships, the false ones became easier to let fall away. As I began caring about myself, accepting that I was worth having people in my life who truly cared about me, it became easier to let go of those who didn’t.
Change your people, places, and things.
This is one of the big suggestions that so many newcomers have a hard time with. On the face of it, changing the people we spend time with makes sense for one very simple reason: don’t hang out with the people you used to get loaded with and your chances of not getting loaded go up astronomically. In reality, this suggestion is about getting yourself away from people who are incapable of caring about you. They may think they do, but it’s because they don’t have any concept of what it is like to genuinely care about someone else. We may think they care about us, but it’s because our ideas of what it means to care about someone else have been twisted by our disease. More often than not, we don’t feel we deserve to have people in our lives who care about us. How could we? We don’t know how to care about ourselves.
When we feel our selves are worthless, that we don’t deserve to be treated with love, dignity, and respect, we attract others into our lives who fail to treat us with love, dignity, and respect. When we don’t love ourselves, when we feel that we deserve to be treated badly, we attract people into our lives who treat us badly. Giving up this feeling of worthlessness is one of the greater challenges of Recovery. For many of us, we have spent our entire lives thinking of ourselves this way. It was definitely like that for me.
Meeting people in the program who loved me was the beginning. At first it didn’t make sense, and like so many others, I had difficulty accepting that love. In time, and with practice, I learned how to love myself. I’m still learning. I hope I never stop. And I have people in my life now who I can genuinely call friends to thank for it.
I never had many friends. Some people, when loaded, become social butterflies. Not me. I was never one of those who loved to get loaded then find my new best friend. I never had more than a handful of people I spent time with, and that number had dwindled down to practically zero by the end of my using career. At the end, I had only two people I ever saw who I would even consider calling my friends: my main using buddy, who I’d usually go in on a bag with, and the dealer.
When I first started using, and for a while after, it was a kind of gateway to friendships for me. I’d already been a loner, always feeling that no one would ever want to talk to me or find me interesting. It’s a little difficult to describe, though. Hanging out, getting loaded with others, I felt more included than I had before, but I still felt that I didn’t belong. I still felt like others were always looking down on me, that I wasn’t good enough. In the program, we talk about feeling ‘less-than’ and I definitely did. Even when I splurged and shared my stash, I could never shake the feeling that I still wasn’t fully welcomed. I wasn’t ‘a part of’.
Other people had always let me down, so it didn’t occur to me that there was anything unusual about my using friends letting me down. That was the concept of friendship that I had: people who let you down. When I was loaded, I could convince myself that they really cared for me. I was very good at justification, making up excuses for them for why they were never there for me. And, after all, I didn’t think I was worth being there for anyway.
Looking back on those ‘friends’, I see now how little I had in common with them. Every once in awhile I’ll run into an old using buddy. We’ll talk, and the feeling is reaffirmed for me: they were people I hung out with to get loaded or be loaded around. There were no other reasons. I may not have thought so at the time, but looking back it is abundantly clear to me. They were addicts as well. When we are in the grips of active addiction, we aren’t capable of genuinely caring about others. When our connection to the spiritual is being blocked because we’re loaded or consumed with trying to become so, we are locked inside ourselves and the only thing we can conceive of or care about is us.
We’ll love you until you learn to love yourself.
For myself, I had no concept of what a real friendship was like. I had never experienced it, never known what it was like to be truly accepted for who I am just as I am. I had never felt that kind of love. I didn’t get it from others growing up; I didn’t get it from my family. It wasn’t until I found my way into the rooms that I began to learn about what real friendship could be.
Now I have people in my life that I know genuinely care about me, and I about them. They are people who I share common interests with, who we enjoy doing things together or talking about subjects that matter to us. The people close to me are close because we have a love for each other that is not based on being loaded. When I ask them about what’s going on in their lives, it’s because I actually want to know. How they are doing with work, family, their relationships, matter to me. Subjects for discussion are talked about because they interest us, not as small-talk leading to who makes the call to the dealer.
Early on in my Recovery, I received some very good advice: that I get to be choosey about who I spend my time with. For the first time, I began to act on the belief that I deserved to have people in my life who are good for me, and that I didn’t have to keep others in my life who weren’t. After so many years of feeling less-than, after always taking what little scraps of so-called friendship I could find, this advice was difficult to follow at first. But as I built more and more actual friendships, the false ones became easier to let fall away. As I began caring about myself, accepting that I was worth having people in my life who truly cared about me, it became easier to let go of those who didn’t.
Change your people, places, and things.
This is one of the big suggestions that so many newcomers have a hard time with. On the face of it, changing the people we spend time with makes sense for one very simple reason: don’t hang out with the people you used to get loaded with and your chances of not getting loaded go up astronomically. In reality, this suggestion is about getting yourself away from people who are incapable of caring about you. They may think they do, but it’s because they don’t have any concept of what it is like to genuinely care about someone else. We may think they care about us, but it’s because our ideas of what it means to care about someone else have been twisted by our disease. More often than not, we don’t feel we deserve to have people in our lives who care about us. How could we? We don’t know how to care about ourselves.
When we feel our selves are worthless, that we don’t deserve to be treated with love, dignity, and respect, we attract others into our lives who fail to treat us with love, dignity, and respect. When we don’t love ourselves, when we feel that we deserve to be treated badly, we attract people into our lives who treat us badly. Giving up this feeling of worthlessness is one of the greater challenges of Recovery. For many of us, we have spent our entire lives thinking of ourselves this way. It was definitely like that for me.
Meeting people in the program who loved me was the beginning. At first it didn’t make sense, and like so many others, I had difficulty accepting that love. In time, and with practice, I learned how to love myself. I’m still learning. I hope I never stop. And I have people in my life now who I can genuinely call friends to thank for it.
Friday, December 11, 2009
“The Way Through”
There’s good days and there’s bad days. Bad days can be anything from a series of bad news or events that never seems to end, to purely internal feelings of aggravation, frustration, sorrow, loneliness, or despair. Remembering that all things pass and acting ‘as-if’ are invaluable tools in times like these. Some days I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball, hide under the covers, and stay there. A dark winter with a cold spell that seems to last forever can be death to even my best moods.
I force myself to go in to work, even if I’m hating my job, and I act as-if I’m grateful. I try to remember there are many less fortunate than me, people who are out of work; people who are without homes or shelter, who are out on the streets in the bitter cold. It’s hard to remember these things when I’m stuck inside myself, but acting as-if can lead me to a place where remembering how fortunate I am defeats the defeatist attitude. Acting as-if I’m grateful I have a job can lead to my actually being grateful I do.
Here in America, we have a cultural thing that is really frustrating to me sometimes. Particularly around the holidays, the Christmas season, the need to be happy is almost militantly enforced. It seems as though cheerful music flows out of every speaker system. Wearing a frown becomes something of a sin. Even at other times during the year, there is something culturally improper about being unhappy. It almost feels like we aren’t allowed to be unhappy. Those who are less fortunate are all too ready to point out to the miserable how they should be grateful for their privilege. Those who are better at the always-be-happy skill are quick to tell those who aren’t displaying the mandatory smile that whatever the problem is, it isn’t so bad—and they offer this advice without so much as asking what the non-smile wearer is upset about or having a hard time with.
It almost feels as though, for an entire month, we aren’t allowed to express the full range of human emotion. To me, the greatest irony is that so many people are miserable during the holidays. Many people are poor and, as such, are seen as less-than because they don’t (re: can’t) participate in the consumer frenzy. Many do not get along with their families; holiday get-togethers are torture as they struggle to maintain composure and get along with people they can’t stand or have nothing in common with. Many have no family, or none they can spend time with. Many have no significant other in their life to snuggle up with in front of the proverbial fire.
And all the while, those of us who choose not to display the requisite happy mask are looked down on with disdain, pity, or outright hostility because we aren’t playing along. To those who are genuinely happy during the holidays, you have my blessings. I’m honestly happy for you that your lives are so wonderful. You are the fortunate few, and I’m glad you can enjoy your joy. To those who aren’t so lucky and choose to fake their way through, pretending everything is wonderful when it isn’t, I have nothing to say except that denial doesn’t work for me anymore.
I’m a big believer in feeling my feelings. If I’m unhappy, I am allowed to feel that. This doesn’t mean I get to spread my misery around—far from it. The importance of acting as-if is never greater than when I’m in a bad mood. But for me, pretending to be happy when I’m not is not the way through. Denial of what I’m feeling only serves to make me even more miserable because it comes with the flavor of I’m not allowed to feel how I feel, that my feelings aren’t valid. They are. It’s a fine line to walk, between feeling what I’m feeling and not allowing others to tell me how I should feel, while ensuring that I don’t spread my dark mood to others who aren’t experiencing one. After all, if no one has the right to make me happy, I certainly don’t have the right to make others miserable.
The holidays really tap my spiritual energy. Most of us have dysfunctional families, and mine is no exception, but it is not my place to pass judgment. No matter how chaotic or insane, my job is to accept them for who they are. I don’t have to try to change them or even spend energy wishing they were different. They are who they are and are allowed to be so. Maybe they aren’t who I’d prefer, maybe my relationship with them isn’t what I wish it could be, but any focus besides acceptance is a form of denial.
I want very much to launch into a tirade about all the things wrong with them, but I know that is not the way. Their problems are their own. They get to have them. They get to deal with them if they so choose. For someone raised in an extremely codependent household, this can be very hard for me to do. I was raised to solve others’ problems. It is a relief and a blessing to know that I don’t have to do that anymore, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t take work to remember. At least I’m spending my energy towards the goal of acceptance instead of feeding in to an emotionally unhealthy task—particularly because it’s futile. Striving for acceptance keeps me away from the feelings which would inevitably come after I failed to succeed at something I can’t succeed at.
For those of you who are lonely this time of year, I send this out: you are loved. Whether we are close, haven’t seen each other in years, or even if we have never met, I love you for who you are, just as you are.
I force myself to go in to work, even if I’m hating my job, and I act as-if I’m grateful. I try to remember there are many less fortunate than me, people who are out of work; people who are without homes or shelter, who are out on the streets in the bitter cold. It’s hard to remember these things when I’m stuck inside myself, but acting as-if can lead me to a place where remembering how fortunate I am defeats the defeatist attitude. Acting as-if I’m grateful I have a job can lead to my actually being grateful I do.
Here in America, we have a cultural thing that is really frustrating to me sometimes. Particularly around the holidays, the Christmas season, the need to be happy is almost militantly enforced. It seems as though cheerful music flows out of every speaker system. Wearing a frown becomes something of a sin. Even at other times during the year, there is something culturally improper about being unhappy. It almost feels like we aren’t allowed to be unhappy. Those who are less fortunate are all too ready to point out to the miserable how they should be grateful for their privilege. Those who are better at the always-be-happy skill are quick to tell those who aren’t displaying the mandatory smile that whatever the problem is, it isn’t so bad—and they offer this advice without so much as asking what the non-smile wearer is upset about or having a hard time with.
It almost feels as though, for an entire month, we aren’t allowed to express the full range of human emotion. To me, the greatest irony is that so many people are miserable during the holidays. Many people are poor and, as such, are seen as less-than because they don’t (re: can’t) participate in the consumer frenzy. Many do not get along with their families; holiday get-togethers are torture as they struggle to maintain composure and get along with people they can’t stand or have nothing in common with. Many have no family, or none they can spend time with. Many have no significant other in their life to snuggle up with in front of the proverbial fire.
And all the while, those of us who choose not to display the requisite happy mask are looked down on with disdain, pity, or outright hostility because we aren’t playing along. To those who are genuinely happy during the holidays, you have my blessings. I’m honestly happy for you that your lives are so wonderful. You are the fortunate few, and I’m glad you can enjoy your joy. To those who aren’t so lucky and choose to fake their way through, pretending everything is wonderful when it isn’t, I have nothing to say except that denial doesn’t work for me anymore.
I’m a big believer in feeling my feelings. If I’m unhappy, I am allowed to feel that. This doesn’t mean I get to spread my misery around—far from it. The importance of acting as-if is never greater than when I’m in a bad mood. But for me, pretending to be happy when I’m not is not the way through. Denial of what I’m feeling only serves to make me even more miserable because it comes with the flavor of I’m not allowed to feel how I feel, that my feelings aren’t valid. They are. It’s a fine line to walk, between feeling what I’m feeling and not allowing others to tell me how I should feel, while ensuring that I don’t spread my dark mood to others who aren’t experiencing one. After all, if no one has the right to make me happy, I certainly don’t have the right to make others miserable.
The holidays really tap my spiritual energy. Most of us have dysfunctional families, and mine is no exception, but it is not my place to pass judgment. No matter how chaotic or insane, my job is to accept them for who they are. I don’t have to try to change them or even spend energy wishing they were different. They are who they are and are allowed to be so. Maybe they aren’t who I’d prefer, maybe my relationship with them isn’t what I wish it could be, but any focus besides acceptance is a form of denial.
I want very much to launch into a tirade about all the things wrong with them, but I know that is not the way. Their problems are their own. They get to have them. They get to deal with them if they so choose. For someone raised in an extremely codependent household, this can be very hard for me to do. I was raised to solve others’ problems. It is a relief and a blessing to know that I don’t have to do that anymore, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t take work to remember. At least I’m spending my energy towards the goal of acceptance instead of feeding in to an emotionally unhealthy task—particularly because it’s futile. Striving for acceptance keeps me away from the feelings which would inevitably come after I failed to succeed at something I can’t succeed at.
For those of you who are lonely this time of year, I send this out: you are loved. Whether we are close, haven’t seen each other in years, or even if we have never met, I love you for who you are, just as you are.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
“Negative Egotism”
Some people have difficulty recognizing when their Higher Power is working in their life. This is not a problem I share. I may have difficulty accepting what I am being told, I may have difficulty recognizing or understanding the lesson, but it is usually quite clear to me when that force is at work. It’s a kind of synergy, a string of coincidences that add up very clearly to something more at play. Perhaps I’m struggling with a particular issue and the Just For Today reading just happens to be on that exact subject. And then I go to a meeting and the topic happens to also be on it. Outside, someone will talk about or ask me about, again, this same thing.
There is an ebb and a flow to it; sometimes there is more of this synergy happening than others. Lately, there has been quite a bit. With the guidance of my sponsor, I have been re-working Step 6. At my regular step-study meeting this week, we read and discussed Step 6. I get the ‘Just For Today’ through my email and today’s just happened to be titled ‘Calling a defect a defect’. It is helpful to know that the power greater than myself is there and wants me to succeed. That doesn’t make it easy, but it does make it easier.
One character defect I struggle with in particular is egotism. Not thinking I’m the greatest, but thinking I’m the worst—negative egotism. I can be exceedingly hard on myself. My instincts seem permanently wired to look for the worst of myself, to the point that it becomes impossible to see any of my good qualities. I get lost in the things I’ve done wrong and can lose all sight of anything I might have done right. This is still egotism, in that I am focusing on me.
The way I was raised, I learned that being proud of my accomplishments, my achievements, my good qualities, was sinful—the sin of pride. This knowledge is something that is taking me a while to unlearn. I try to remember that true humility includes being honest with myself about not just my flaws, but my strengths as well. It is hard to shake that feeling, though, that I am a bad person if I feel good about myself.
I have an especially hard time giving myself a break. I learned to be a perfectionist, was raised by parents who were constantly struggling to be ‘perfect’. I think my father considers his perfectionism one of his best qualities. He doesn’t see it as a detriment. To him, it is an asset. I’m going to try to be spiritual here and venture a guess that, maybe because he works so hard to be perfect, because he holds that bar so high for himself, that he is more successful in his endeavors. He sets a hard, harsh course, one he knows he will never achieve, in an attempt to get as close to that high standard as possible. Maybe it works for him. Maybe, for him, it is a good thing. On the other hand, the man does practice his signature.
For me, one of the greatest benefits of Recovery has been learning to accept that I am not perfect. That doesn’t mean it isn’t something I still struggle with. That instinct, those tendencies, still play out in my life. And there are still plenty of times where I fall short of some unreasonable bar that I hadn’t even realized I’d set for myself. For me, when this happens, I immediately come down on myself. I’ll launch a tirade of insults, tell myself I’m worthless, that I’m nothing, that I’ll never succeed, etc. And all of this because I didn’t achieve something I’m not capable of achieving. I beat myself up for failing at something I wasn’t capable of succeeding at.
It is as though I have the idea stuck in my head that I should be able to fly. I jump from the ground, don’t fly, and curse myself for it. So I find something to jump off of. I fall, and again curse myself. Thinking that I am the failure, I find a taller building, and again fail. Knowing the problem is with me, but completely misunderstanding what the problem is, I find taller and taller buildings to jump off, hurting myself more and more with each fall to the ground. Eventually, I am in enough pain from my failures that I am forced to admit I can’t fly after all. Recovery has helped me to accept I can't fly, but there always seems to be that nagging voice telling me I should be able to.
(As a short aside, this is the perfect example for why I have found it useful to eliminate the word ‘should’ from my vocabulary—it forces me to focus on what is, not what might or could be.)
Being hard on myself, being unable to recognize my good qualities and be grateful and properly proud of them, is only one of my character defects. Thank God for the program and the 12-steps. It gives me the chance to work on this issue. Being sober gives me the opportunity to be who I truly am, as I have been created. Working my program helps me to be a better me. Listening to the voice of my Higher Power working in my life helps me to stay focused and let’s me know that God really does want me to be not what my disease tries to make me into, but who I really am.
There is an ebb and a flow to it; sometimes there is more of this synergy happening than others. Lately, there has been quite a bit. With the guidance of my sponsor, I have been re-working Step 6. At my regular step-study meeting this week, we read and discussed Step 6. I get the ‘Just For Today’ through my email and today’s just happened to be titled ‘Calling a defect a defect’. It is helpful to know that the power greater than myself is there and wants me to succeed. That doesn’t make it easy, but it does make it easier.
One character defect I struggle with in particular is egotism. Not thinking I’m the greatest, but thinking I’m the worst—negative egotism. I can be exceedingly hard on myself. My instincts seem permanently wired to look for the worst of myself, to the point that it becomes impossible to see any of my good qualities. I get lost in the things I’ve done wrong and can lose all sight of anything I might have done right. This is still egotism, in that I am focusing on me.
The way I was raised, I learned that being proud of my accomplishments, my achievements, my good qualities, was sinful—the sin of pride. This knowledge is something that is taking me a while to unlearn. I try to remember that true humility includes being honest with myself about not just my flaws, but my strengths as well. It is hard to shake that feeling, though, that I am a bad person if I feel good about myself.
I have an especially hard time giving myself a break. I learned to be a perfectionist, was raised by parents who were constantly struggling to be ‘perfect’. I think my father considers his perfectionism one of his best qualities. He doesn’t see it as a detriment. To him, it is an asset. I’m going to try to be spiritual here and venture a guess that, maybe because he works so hard to be perfect, because he holds that bar so high for himself, that he is more successful in his endeavors. He sets a hard, harsh course, one he knows he will never achieve, in an attempt to get as close to that high standard as possible. Maybe it works for him. Maybe, for him, it is a good thing. On the other hand, the man does practice his signature.
For me, one of the greatest benefits of Recovery has been learning to accept that I am not perfect. That doesn’t mean it isn’t something I still struggle with. That instinct, those tendencies, still play out in my life. And there are still plenty of times where I fall short of some unreasonable bar that I hadn’t even realized I’d set for myself. For me, when this happens, I immediately come down on myself. I’ll launch a tirade of insults, tell myself I’m worthless, that I’m nothing, that I’ll never succeed, etc. And all of this because I didn’t achieve something I’m not capable of achieving. I beat myself up for failing at something I wasn’t capable of succeeding at.
It is as though I have the idea stuck in my head that I should be able to fly. I jump from the ground, don’t fly, and curse myself for it. So I find something to jump off of. I fall, and again curse myself. Thinking that I am the failure, I find a taller building, and again fail. Knowing the problem is with me, but completely misunderstanding what the problem is, I find taller and taller buildings to jump off, hurting myself more and more with each fall to the ground. Eventually, I am in enough pain from my failures that I am forced to admit I can’t fly after all. Recovery has helped me to accept I can't fly, but there always seems to be that nagging voice telling me I should be able to.
(As a short aside, this is the perfect example for why I have found it useful to eliminate the word ‘should’ from my vocabulary—it forces me to focus on what is, not what might or could be.)
Being hard on myself, being unable to recognize my good qualities and be grateful and properly proud of them, is only one of my character defects. Thank God for the program and the 12-steps. It gives me the chance to work on this issue. Being sober gives me the opportunity to be who I truly am, as I have been created. Working my program helps me to be a better me. Listening to the voice of my Higher Power working in my life helps me to stay focused and let’s me know that God really does want me to be not what my disease tries to make me into, but who I really am.
Friday, December 4, 2009
“One Moment of Many”
Something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately is the idea of having a life in addition to my Recovery. Not outside of, in addition to. Recovery is my foundation, and it is important, but so is living. The program gives me a way to live, but simply existing in the rooms is not living. Meetings are important; working my steps are important; prayer and working with others, all important as well. But they are not ends unto themselves. They are means unto a very specific end: the ability to live my life. Not too long ago, I read a ‘Just For Today’ that discussed letting go of ones progress in Recovery.
Letting go is probably one of the scariest things anyone can do. It certainly is for me. The idea of letting go of my progress in Recovery? Terrifying. All kinds of questions come up. What if I relapse? What if I cause more chaos? What if I revert to old behaviors and begin hurting those I love all over again? After spending so much time and energy trying to repair damage from the past, the last thing I want to do is start creating more wreckage.
The JFT says letting go is an act of Faith, and they’re right. It’s a powerful, enormous act of faith. It’s having faith in God to take care of me and give me what I need, be that opportunities, choices, or presence of mind. But it’s also an act of faith in myself: that I can trust myself and my healthy instincts; that I will continue to learn and to grow, and that I don’t have to force it. I can have faith that things will happen naturally, as they are supposed to; as God intends them to.
It isn’t easy, but it is simple.
Another thing I’ve been thinking a lot on lately is the topic of abuse. A great many of us who find our way into the rooms of Recovery have suffered some form of abuse in our past. I don’t know if there are any official statistics out there, but I’d guess the percentage to be pretty high. It’s one of the miracles of the rooms that we can be around others who have endured similar pain. Sharing about this issue in particular with someone else who has experienced it can be a life-changing experience. For the first time, we can begin to feel that we are not alone in our suffering.
My journey in understanding the abuse I suffered is an ongoing one. Sometimes I devote more attention to it than others. I’ve done a lot of research over the years. I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was about 16 years old. The fact that I have yet to find peace on the subject tells me that there is still more work to do.
Given all the psychological and psychiatric professionals I’ve been to over the years, it’s frustrating to me that I don’t have more resolved feelings about this issue. The only things I know for certain are what *didn’t* happen to me. I wasn’t ever beaten. I wasn’t molested. No one in my family ever called me a worthless sack of shit. And yet… I have to admit that I don’t really know these things for sure. I have large gaps in my memories. I don’t really remember my childhood. Part of that is undoubtedly because I wasn’t allowed to have one. I remember thinking at a young age that my dad didn’t know how to let kids be kids. But I can’t recall any examples of how I learned this.
I don’t have any memories of being at home, playing, being a kid. The few things I remember are things I did and was punished for: the time when I was about five or six that I got caught peeing in the backyard; my various attempts at pyromania. I try to come up with some more examples and can’t seem to. I think back on the times I was spanked and have difficulty referring to it as abuse. I know people who got themselves a whoopin’, and what I went through was definitely not a whoopin’. The only thing traumatic about it was the way my mom would be constantly screaming at my dad to stop. Having just written that, it occurs to me that I might be minimizing. Sill, when I think of what others have endured, it really doesn’t strike me as all that bad.
I recently found a website, mainly geared towards therapists, which has some thorough and detailed information regarding signs of abuse. The things listed really give me pause to stop and re-evaluate my opinion of my past. Lack of confidence; low self esteem; strong feelings of inadequacy; inability to trust; problem relationships; sexual dysfunction; food / drug / alcohol abuse; low or over emotional control; panic attacks; phobias; illness; self-harm; sleep disturbances; flashbacks; inability to touch or be touched; depression; suicide attempts; high / low risk-taking; security seeking; alienation from body; aversion to making noise; memory blanks. My personal list checks off 16 of those 22.
Maybe I’m overindulging, here. Maybe my need to be critical of myself and desire to control are over-reaching. It could just be that my childhood sucked and that there isn’t any deeper an explanation. It could be that what I most need to do is simply let go and have faith that everything is okay. There’s nothing wrong with being grateful for where I am now. Trying to force the issue is an attempt at control. Trusting God to reveal new information to me when I’m ready for it is an act of faith. At least I have my Recovery; at least I have a clear head now and the courage to examine these issues should I so choose.
Letting go; it’s the ultimate act of faith.
Penny Parks Foundation - Abuse Information
Letting go is probably one of the scariest things anyone can do. It certainly is for me. The idea of letting go of my progress in Recovery? Terrifying. All kinds of questions come up. What if I relapse? What if I cause more chaos? What if I revert to old behaviors and begin hurting those I love all over again? After spending so much time and energy trying to repair damage from the past, the last thing I want to do is start creating more wreckage.
The JFT says letting go is an act of Faith, and they’re right. It’s a powerful, enormous act of faith. It’s having faith in God to take care of me and give me what I need, be that opportunities, choices, or presence of mind. But it’s also an act of faith in myself: that I can trust myself and my healthy instincts; that I will continue to learn and to grow, and that I don’t have to force it. I can have faith that things will happen naturally, as they are supposed to; as God intends them to.
It isn’t easy, but it is simple.
Another thing I’ve been thinking a lot on lately is the topic of abuse. A great many of us who find our way into the rooms of Recovery have suffered some form of abuse in our past. I don’t know if there are any official statistics out there, but I’d guess the percentage to be pretty high. It’s one of the miracles of the rooms that we can be around others who have endured similar pain. Sharing about this issue in particular with someone else who has experienced it can be a life-changing experience. For the first time, we can begin to feel that we are not alone in our suffering.
My journey in understanding the abuse I suffered is an ongoing one. Sometimes I devote more attention to it than others. I’ve done a lot of research over the years. I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was about 16 years old. The fact that I have yet to find peace on the subject tells me that there is still more work to do.
Given all the psychological and psychiatric professionals I’ve been to over the years, it’s frustrating to me that I don’t have more resolved feelings about this issue. The only things I know for certain are what *didn’t* happen to me. I wasn’t ever beaten. I wasn’t molested. No one in my family ever called me a worthless sack of shit. And yet… I have to admit that I don’t really know these things for sure. I have large gaps in my memories. I don’t really remember my childhood. Part of that is undoubtedly because I wasn’t allowed to have one. I remember thinking at a young age that my dad didn’t know how to let kids be kids. But I can’t recall any examples of how I learned this.
I don’t have any memories of being at home, playing, being a kid. The few things I remember are things I did and was punished for: the time when I was about five or six that I got caught peeing in the backyard; my various attempts at pyromania. I try to come up with some more examples and can’t seem to. I think back on the times I was spanked and have difficulty referring to it as abuse. I know people who got themselves a whoopin’, and what I went through was definitely not a whoopin’. The only thing traumatic about it was the way my mom would be constantly screaming at my dad to stop. Having just written that, it occurs to me that I might be minimizing. Sill, when I think of what others have endured, it really doesn’t strike me as all that bad.
I recently found a website, mainly geared towards therapists, which has some thorough and detailed information regarding signs of abuse. The things listed really give me pause to stop and re-evaluate my opinion of my past. Lack of confidence; low self esteem; strong feelings of inadequacy; inability to trust; problem relationships; sexual dysfunction; food / drug / alcohol abuse; low or over emotional control; panic attacks; phobias; illness; self-harm; sleep disturbances; flashbacks; inability to touch or be touched; depression; suicide attempts; high / low risk-taking; security seeking; alienation from body; aversion to making noise; memory blanks. My personal list checks off 16 of those 22.
Maybe I’m overindulging, here. Maybe my need to be critical of myself and desire to control are over-reaching. It could just be that my childhood sucked and that there isn’t any deeper an explanation. It could be that what I most need to do is simply let go and have faith that everything is okay. There’s nothing wrong with being grateful for where I am now. Trying to force the issue is an attempt at control. Trusting God to reveal new information to me when I’m ready for it is an act of faith. At least I have my Recovery; at least I have a clear head now and the courage to examine these issues should I so choose.
Letting go; it’s the ultimate act of faith.
Penny Parks Foundation - Abuse Information
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
"Healthy Romantic Relationships Is Not One of the Promises"
I love The Promises. They are dog-eared in my copy of the AA Big Book and are definitely one of the more frequent passages I turn to. I'll never forget hearing them for the first time. Very new to sobriety and recovery, my reaction was a firm 'yeah, right!' It was inconceivable to me at that time that I could Recover from my addiction, let alone experience any of the things listed out. How one's perspective can change.
As I have gained time and worked my program, I have indeed been 'amazed half-way through'. I have found a new sense of freedom. I have come to know peace--something I never in a million years thought I could find. The passing of living in fear and of financial insecurity are nothing to be sneezed at, either. Nowadays, when I hear The Promises read at meetings, it brings a smile to my face. I confess, I mentally put a checkmark next to each. I am filled with gratitide and a joyful amazement. I never would have thought it possible, but they really do come true.
However, there are many things that aren't included in that list.
They do not say that our familial relations will be repaired. They do not say we will achieve reconciliation with the loved ones we have harmed. They don't say we will be rich. They don't say we will have healthy relationships, not with people of either sex or our significant others. They most certainly don't say, "all your dreams will come true."
I've heard it shared in meetings a couple of times that the only thing the program really promises is freedom from active addiction. Period. That's what it's for; that's what the twelve-steps do: they show us one way to live without getting loaded. And the Big Book is very clear on this point. If you can find another way to live without getting loaded besides the program, then more power to you. I think that perspective is a bit harsh, and can be discouraging to newcomers, but the point is a very valid one. The things missing from the list are not missing by accident.
My romantic relationships have almost always been chaotic and disastrous. Even in Recovery, they continue to be. I have friends who waited a long time before attempting to date again, much longer than the suggested time of one year. Many in Recovery refer to romantic relationships as 'the last frontier'. This tongue-in-cheek comment is usually grumbled. It is one of the more unfortunate truths of Recovery. Most of us, myself included, do our best to remember that romantic relationships are difficult for everyone, but that can be small comfort. I've heard more than one old timer say that when they feel attracted to someone they just met, they run the other direction as fast as they can.
I battle loneliness. I battle feelings of failure. These two join together and create a terrifying force when I attempt a relationship. Or to date someone. Or to even just give a woman a call. The addict side of my brain feasts on my insecurities. You could say it's Uncle Steve's favorite dish. There are many ways my disease tries to tear me down. Fighting against it on this issue often seems impossible. Sometimes I can overcome it. Sometimes not. Even if I do prevail, it is an exhausting struggle. I try to remember that, were it not for my Recovery, I would not have a clear enough head to even try.
I do know that I have no more desire to cause chaos in my life or others'. I have put girlfriends and wives through Hell. Even in Recovery, I have still caused far more chaos in women's lives than I would prefer. I remind myself that the goal is progress, not perfection. A big part of what my Recovery has done is to give me the option to stop causing others pain and to stop hurting myself. I may end up like those old timers who run the other way, but I hope not. Like so much else, I can do my part and the rest is up to God.
As I have gained time and worked my program, I have indeed been 'amazed half-way through'. I have found a new sense of freedom. I have come to know peace--something I never in a million years thought I could find. The passing of living in fear and of financial insecurity are nothing to be sneezed at, either. Nowadays, when I hear The Promises read at meetings, it brings a smile to my face. I confess, I mentally put a checkmark next to each. I am filled with gratitide and a joyful amazement. I never would have thought it possible, but they really do come true.
However, there are many things that aren't included in that list.
They do not say that our familial relations will be repaired. They do not say we will achieve reconciliation with the loved ones we have harmed. They don't say we will be rich. They don't say we will have healthy relationships, not with people of either sex or our significant others. They most certainly don't say, "all your dreams will come true."
I've heard it shared in meetings a couple of times that the only thing the program really promises is freedom from active addiction. Period. That's what it's for; that's what the twelve-steps do: they show us one way to live without getting loaded. And the Big Book is very clear on this point. If you can find another way to live without getting loaded besides the program, then more power to you. I think that perspective is a bit harsh, and can be discouraging to newcomers, but the point is a very valid one. The things missing from the list are not missing by accident.
My romantic relationships have almost always been chaotic and disastrous. Even in Recovery, they continue to be. I have friends who waited a long time before attempting to date again, much longer than the suggested time of one year. Many in Recovery refer to romantic relationships as 'the last frontier'. This tongue-in-cheek comment is usually grumbled. It is one of the more unfortunate truths of Recovery. Most of us, myself included, do our best to remember that romantic relationships are difficult for everyone, but that can be small comfort. I've heard more than one old timer say that when they feel attracted to someone they just met, they run the other direction as fast as they can.
I battle loneliness. I battle feelings of failure. These two join together and create a terrifying force when I attempt a relationship. Or to date someone. Or to even just give a woman a call. The addict side of my brain feasts on my insecurities. You could say it's Uncle Steve's favorite dish. There are many ways my disease tries to tear me down. Fighting against it on this issue often seems impossible. Sometimes I can overcome it. Sometimes not. Even if I do prevail, it is an exhausting struggle. I try to remember that, were it not for my Recovery, I would not have a clear enough head to even try.
I do know that I have no more desire to cause chaos in my life or others'. I have put girlfriends and wives through Hell. Even in Recovery, I have still caused far more chaos in women's lives than I would prefer. I remind myself that the goal is progress, not perfection. A big part of what my Recovery has done is to give me the option to stop causing others pain and to stop hurting myself. I may end up like those old timers who run the other way, but I hope not. Like so much else, I can do my part and the rest is up to God.
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