"Life Happens"

It's said, time and time again, that just because you get sober, your life doesn't get instantly better. Recovery isn't a magical button that you push that resets everything to a setting labeled 'perfect'. Instead, what we get is something we don't have when we're in the grips of our disease: we get the chance to live our lives, to be fully present, counted and accountable, without the crippling influence of active addiction.

Being stuck in my disease means being stuck inside myself. I can be in denial about reality just as easily as I was about my addiction. When something happens that I don't want, that I don't like, my first instinct is to hide away in my head inside my own privately-defined world, where things happen according to what I say and what I want. In my head, I control reality, and do I ever get cranky when the world outside intrudes.

Fortunately, I'm getting better and better at not retreating inside myself. Something else that's fortunate is knowing that I don't have to like what's going on all the time--either with life or with me. Acceptance does not imply approval. If it did, then the act of accepting our disease wouldn't lead to any action. We'd simply say, "welp, I'm an addict; how about that?" And nothing would change. No, acceptance means being one with the real, living in what is, taking life on life's terms instead of trying to force reality to be what we wish it were.

When I'm accepting of what is, then I can deal with it. When I stop trying to control reality, it becomes manageable again. It's the fear that I won't be able to handle life that leads me to my attempts to control. With the tools of the program, and my continued practice in using them, that fear has been dissipating. The main key seems to be acceptance. If I can know what it is, then I can find the strength and courage to walk through whatever life is throwing at me and know that I will get through it. The walking through it gives me yet more experience and confidence in myself and in living the program. The more I work it, the more I am reminded that it works.

The opposite is true, too. When I give in to the fear, I don't conquer it; I stay afraid. When I choose to stay stuck inside myself, that's exactly where I stay. Feeling sorry for myself doesn't improve my self-esteem, it worsens it. Refusing to deal with my problems doesn't make them go away, it causes them to get worse. I get to choose the path, now, and whichever direction I choose to walk, the path carries me along. Healthy actions can lead to more healthy actions--if I allow them to. Unhealthy choices lead to more of the same--again, if that's what I let happen.

Recovery has given me a choice on how I deal with life. I can choose now to take care of myself, do what I need to do to stay spiritually fit. I can choose now to accept what's real. I didn't have that choice when I spent every waking hour loaded. Recovery has given me a set of tools on how to do that. With practice, I'm getting better each day at using them. And every day, each day, one day at a time, I get to make that choice on whether or not I want to stay sober and continue on the spiritual path.

It's not a path where the destination is perfection; it's a path where the journey is what's important and the scenery along the way is nothing more special, or precious, that reality itself.

“Birthdays”

Today is not my birthday. Not sobriety, not bellybutton, no, today is just another day for me. But it is that time of the month where a lot of birthday meetings are happening. I went to one on Wednesday, a young people’s. Tonight, I’ll be going to two others. Some meetings celebrate birthdays every week.

I imagine newcomers might get a little confused by the whole birthday concept. When I was new, I remember needing it explained to me exactly what a ‘bellybutton’ birthday is. I was told it’s the day you were born, as opposed to your sobriety anniversary, which is what we celebrate in meetings.

The young people’s meeting was very cool. A lot of people came forward to receive their chips. Each of them was asked the question of how they did it. I found myself smiling as the same answers were given over and over again. “I went to meetings.” “ I got a sponsor and worked the steps.” “I was of service.”

These are, of course, the cornerstones of the program, the suggestions that are passed down from one addict/alcoholic to another, just as they were passed down to them. They are passed because we have found that they work. To someone new, who can’t imagine getting thirty days clean and sober let alone five years or more, these statements are invaluable.

The big book of AA is careful to mention that we don’t have ‘the way’, only ‘a way’. My sponsor cautions me about this when dealing with newcomers. He reminds me not to tell them that the program is the one and only true answer. I do know people who suffer from this disease who have found other ways. For some, they achieve peace through intensive religious study. I’ve even heard a story about someone who uses exercise to find his serenity. If that is your path, then follow it. For myself and countless others, we have found that the Program is what works where nothing else does.

Sobriety milestones aren’t celebrated at incidental times, either. 30 days, 60 days, 90 days, six months, a year, eighteen months, and each year thereafter, these are not arbitrary. Many of us in Recovery are familiar with the birthday dip. For whatever reason, the level of insanity seems to find a resurgence at these times. Cravings can be particularly bad. Around the time of my one-year anniversary, I was absolutely miserable. An old-timer friend of mine is quick to let others know that she still gets squirrelly around her birthday, even after decades of being in the program.

The chips and keychains we receive are symbolic rewards of our struggle. It’s a struggle that we take largely out of view of the larger society. No one outside the rooms cares if we have 30 days or thirty years. But the program is not easy. Staying clean and sober is not easy. Sometimes, it’s really fuckin’ hard. In fact, it just might be the most difficult thing people like us ever do.

For those of us with this disease, continuing to stay clean and sober is a miraculous achievement. Birthday nights recognize the struggle, be it for someone finally putting together their first 30 days, or an old-timer who is still working the program after decades.

If you’re celebrating a birthday this month, go to a meeting. Stand up and claim your time. Show others that the Program works.

“Judgmental”

I had a therapist once who liked to insist that we control our feelings. He would say that our feelings are a conscious action, that we choose how we feel about the things that happen to us. I’m not sure I exactly agree with him on that. Something else he would talk about was passing judgment on our emotions. He’d talk about emotions as being neither good nor bad, that it’s what we do with them that can be good or bad, healthy or unhealthy, etc. That concept, I can definitely get behind.

One time I shared in a meeting about how I was working on trying to be less judgmental. I actually got a call from someone later that night telling me that I was one of the most accepting people he knew. It warmed my heart to hear, and helped me to see that what I was actually being judgmental about was myself.

Being hard on myself, being judgmental towards me, has proved to be one of my more difficult challenges in Recovery. It’s not a struggle that people can see, it’s something that takes place on the inside, in that obsessive mind of mine. Thank God that not only am I not perfect, but that I can never be. Letting go of my perfectionism is an ongoing process, but the fact that I’m able to do it as well as I can now is a blessing. So is the chance to keep on working at it and improving.

I still have that knee-jerk response, though, to judge. I tend to be of the mind that how we feel is how we feel--it’s not good or bad, it just is. The choice is mine: I can come down on myself for feeling a certain way, or I can stay in the real and just accept it. But passing judgment isn't just about feelings, is it?

Something I’ve learned through my Recovery is this little gem: the more judgmental I am towards myself, the more I tend to be judgmental towards others. And I’m not talking about just outward judgments, the comments that make it out of my lips and the actions I take with my feet and hands. No, I mean the more sinister kind, the mental moments where I pass snap judgments about the people and things that I have no control over and that aren’t any of my business.

It’s a pretty standard piece of wisdom that if there’s something about another person you don’t like, what you really don’t like is the part of yourself that is like that. The fourth and tenth steps are great tools for dealing with these issues; they call on us to look at ourselves with a cold eye, to read about ourselves in our own handwriting.

I try not to play the ‘what-if’ game, but sometimes it’s helpful for setting a course for myself towards where I want to be. Take step six, for example: what if all my character defects were removed? What would my life be like without them? The same works for me when thinking about my general spiritual health. What if I were completely and totally spiritually fit?

If that were the case, then it seems to me that my emotions would pass in front of me like scenery. I would see my anger, my frustrations, my sadness, joy and elation, and think, “hmm… interesting.” I would still have my feelings, I would feel them, but would do so without any kind of judgment about them. The same would be true for the events of my life and all my experiences in it. Being centered, calm, and serene isn’t a daydream, either. It just so happens to be one of the main goals of this spiritual program of Recovery.

I’m going to have judgmental moments. But if I continue to work on myself, to set the course for the spiritual path, they become less and less as time goes on. When I unconditionally love myself, then I will truly be able to unconditionally love others. When I am able to look at myself without judgment, I will no longer feel the need to pass judgment on others.

"Serenity In The Moment"

I have to admit, this technological internet-age that we're living in is pretty cool sometimes. I'm standing in line, at this very moment, at the Hall of Justice in San Francisco. Even though I now have current tags on my car, I still have to show them proof and pay a small fine. Yet, how do I use this time? Not to get pissed off at the system, not to be resentful that I had to drive down to SF, but to take some time and blog. It's a 180 degree shift in attitude from before I started my Recovery. Instead of raging, now I accept what is and I find a way to help others.

The strength Recovery has given me is amazing. Sacramento down to San Francisco isn't a short trip--about two hours. And that particular drive is one of my 'people, places, and things'. In my active addiction, I carpooled from Sac to Berkeley every day and we smoked constantly, both on the trip down and the trip back. It was the only thing that made it doable. It was a while after I got clean before I braved the trip again. But even that first time was amazing. I watched the sun set behind the mountains at Vacaville and it was gorgeous. I remember thinking what an awesome thing that natural beauty could be every bit as beautiful when I was sober as when I was loaded. It was a surprise and a relief, too.

I've made the trip many times since then, and it's still a long drive. It felt a bit longer today, mostly because I knew I was going down to deal with that fix-it ticket. But I have my music, and I have some speaker CDs to listen to as well. I have so much more patience now than I used to. being able to make this trip and stand in line at the SF DoJ and not be livid about it is a blessing. Being relieved of my anger issues is an even bigger benefit than being relieved of the obsession to get loaded.

The gifts of Recovery don't stop giving. As long as I continue to do my part, to work the program, I keep on reaping the benefits of that hard work. The obsession to use/drink has been lifted, but so have other obsessions, and still others are lifting. I don't rage anymore. I get angry, sure, who doesn't? But even the times that I do are becoming more infrequent as I learn better boundaries, become more at peace with myself, and get more practiced in acceptance. It does take work. I didn't get to where I am by accident. I choose to walk this path, I choose to live the spiritual life to the best of my abilities. It's hard sometimes, to be sure, but the gifts and blessings are worth it.

The idea that I would have to go down to San Francisco and stand in line for hours would have brought a whole slew of bitter comments from the old me. I would have taken out a huge loan from the resentment bank, and probably thrown a temper tantrum like the little two-year-old I was inside. Today, all I did was take care of what needed taken care of and didn't even feel the need to complain. I'll even take a moment to stop off in Berkeley and enjoy a nice day with a view of the bay.

I can just imagine the old me trying to fathom this new perspective that I'm in these days. He'd probably call me crazy. Well, sorry old Zach, but I'm afraid you've got it backwards.

“Loneliness & Isolation Walk Hand In Hand”

One of the biggest Catch 22s of my disease is loneliness. I feel lonely, which leads me to feeling worthless. Then I end up isolating because I feel so worthless. Viola, the perfect self-reinforcing circle! Only in the insanity of this disease would isolating be a justification for being lonely. So sick. And yet not nearly as sick as everything that goes with it: I stay isolated and lonely because it’s what I know. I may not like it, I may even hate it, but because it’s familiar and what I’m used to, I stay in it.

Because, you know, if I actually get out there and meet people, well then I’d have to talk to them!

I am writing this with more than a hint of humor at myself, because it really is ridiculous when you’re able to step back and look at it. I’m not always able to do that. Sometimes I sit in that pile of shit for days--lonely, hurt, feeling less-than worthless, and wonder why it doesn’t get better. Sometimes I pray for God to make it better. But my higher power isn’t codependent the way my family of origin is. He’s not going to do things for me that I can and need to do for myself. He’s not going to baby me. He knows that’s not what’s best for me. God gives me only what I need, not what I want. Sometimes the two coincide, but I still have to do my part, regardless.

In prayer one night, I was thinking about how when I’m stuck I don’t just come out of it automatically. They say ‘this, too, shall pass’ which is true, but it only truly passes when I do my part to get out of it. When I’m lonely, I’m stuck inside myself. It might feel like I’m the only person in the world, that no one understands or loves me, but I know that isn’t true. All I have to do to remember is pick up the phone. Or, better yet, go to a meeting.

Meetings are still my best cure for the times I’m feeling isolated or when I’m self-absorbed. I can call my sponsor, yes, or I can call my other friends in the program, but the best tool I have for this part of my disease is to get out and go to a meeting. Once there, I’m surrounded by others just like me. I get to listen to their stories and stop focusing on my own head for a while. I get to get out of myself. When I do that, I feel better. It’s an equation you can put down in writing. Self-absorbed Zach = pity party; Zach being of service and helping others = spiritually fit and, therefore, serene.

Just as math doesn’t come easy for some, this equation isn’t always easy for me either. I can be stuck for a long time before I’ll see it. It can take me a long time to admit that I need help, and even longer to ask for the help I need. In the end, though, the solution is always the same: if I’m stuck in me, I need to get out of myself. The best way to do that, for me, is still to take myself to a meeting.

I went to four yesterday, in case you were wondering, and today I feel fantastic.

"The Big Lie"

I was at a speaker meeting today and the chair talked about how her disease lies to her. I almost cheered. First off, because she was chairing an AA meeting and talked about 'other' forms of alcohol--the powder kind, the kind you smoke (cocaine & marijuana) and did so in a manner respectful to the meeting. But more than that because she talked about the disease. This was a woman who really gets it, who understands that the substance abuse aspect of our lives is in some ways only the smallest part of the problem. That we drink and/or use are symptoms of the disease, not the disease itself.

The speaker talked about the committee in her head, all those unhealthy voices that can lead us astray. She talked, too, about how her disease lies to her. When I was called on to share, I picked up on that thread. My disease lies to me, too. All. The. Time. It tells me that I'm worthless. It tells me that I don't belong. It tells me that I'm not an addict/alcoholic. Never mind that when I drank, I drank to get drunk--or, "alcoholically" as we say. Never mind that I spent the better part of nine years almost constantly stoned. It tells me that I've gotten enough sobriety time under my belt that I've proved I don't really have a problem and that I don't need a sponsor or to go to meetings or to work the steps. It tells me that I don't need help, that what I need is to man up and take care of things myself. And, by the way, if I don't or can't, I'm a sack of shit.

That's probably the biggest lie that my disease tells me, is that I can do it myself. Sometimes I think I should write a little note and carry it around with me: if you're thinking you can do it alone, that's the best indicator that you can't.

I remember having a dream right after I started my Recovery. I was in a house filled with people. I knew, somehow, that all these people were me. That is to say, they were physical manifestations of all the different voices in my head--on my committee. At the time, I was keeping a dream journal and doing a lot of research on dream analysis. I still keep that as a hobby, by the way. One of the more interesting aspects of dream analysis is the idea that anytime you dream about a house, the house represents your self. It was a great day for me when I dreamed about leaving behind an old, decrepit mansion and setting out in search of a new place to call home, but I digress.

A lot of people relate to this concept of the committee in their head, the voices that lie to us. Something I've found very cool about Recovery is not that the committee has gone away (it hasn't, though the voices are a little quieter these days), but that there are new voices in it. I now hear a voice inside myself that counters those that spout failure. When one voice inside tells me I can't, another pipes up and tells me I can. When I'm feeling defeated, one of those new voices will tell me that I can succeed. When the old guard on the committee says I'm fine and don't need to worry so much about working the program, to back off and put my feet up, someone else up there takes them aside and says, "there, there, now, why don't you just sit down and be quiet for awhile."

My disease still tells me lies, but I can recognize them as such now. The committee is still there, but they don't run things anymore. There are new voices, healthy ones, that balance out and help me to not be the self-centered destructive force I used to be. It's a blessing. And a relief, too, because just as I don't have to get loaded anymore, I don't have to do that anymore either.

“No One Trusts An Honest Man”

I don’t remember a lot of my childhood. Mostly what I remember is being picked on. I don’t think I ever actually got beat up, just taunted, called names, that sort of thing. I wasn’t a masculine child. I didn’t play sports, didn’t really compete with the other boys at all. For a number of years, my only friends were the girls who took pity on me. That all changed when puberty struck. But even to this day, I tend to have far more close relationships with women than with other men.

Growing up, other boys… well, they didn’t baffle me. If anything, I was appalled by how they treated each other. It still makes me sad to think about how awful boys can be to one another. I’ve done my share of research, taken a few classes, and I understand now (albeit mostly on an intellectual level) how this is part and parcel of male culture. To say it like that probably underlines the point best of how little I actually understand it, though. The Program teaches us to make it simple. How can I simplify this thought?

Boys beat the shit out of each other. I hate that. Men compete with other men by tearing them down. You prove your manliness by your ability to take whatever shit gets dumped on you and not flinch. For the record, I hate that, too.

I was raised almost exclusively around girls. I didn’t learn competition growing up; I learned collaboration. My default way of dealing with a situation is to think about how we can work together. I must admit, though, that my maleness can show through here, as I often try to be the one to take charge and make that collaboration happen. One might even suggest that being the alpha male in a situation comes most naturally to me because of the very fact that I was the only male around growing up.

Sometimes I get hung up on the way men relate to men, and yet am still very much one myself.

I came into the rooms not trusting men. Men had always been the ones who betrayed me, who talked shit to me, told me I was worthless. They called me fag and worse. I didn’t really understand how men related to each other as men. To a certain extent, I still don’t. I know there are things about me that make me ‘different’ than other men. I was once told by a friend that I have more emotional depth than every other man she knew, combined. I’m pretty sure it was a compliment.

The truth of the matter was, I was scared of men. Terrified. And also, terrified of my own maleness. My dad and I never had any father/son chats that I can recall. We didn’t talk about sports. We didn’t talk about women. With no male friends, I was left pretty much to my own devices in figuring out this powerful sexuality that courses through my veins. Even now, in the back of my mind, there always seems to be this little thought of, “what the shit is this?” and “what if I let it get out of control??” Even now, I’m still a little afraid of it. It’s something I keep working on.

Working the Program has helped a lot with these issues. I’ve learned to let go of men in my life who aren’t trustworthy, and I’ve learned to open up and trust other men, bit by bit. It still isn’t easy. Introducing myself to other men at a meeting, getting a phone number, calling them on the phone, it’s still pretty damn hard. My insecurity and lack of self-love show up here, as I think about whether I will be judged and wonder what I could possibly say that is interesting. This, too, is something I keep working on.

Recovery has given me the opportunity to learn, both about men and about myself as a man. Like so many other things, I am still learning. But I can see the progress clear as day. I can sit, now, in an NA men’s meeting and know that I belong there. I might freak out about it on the inside, but I can sit and share and know that I am a part of that community and that I do belong there. Sometimes I can even enjoy a little competition. And when insults fly and the ego-bashing gets out of hand, I can know that it’s just part of what is--a part of what I am. Ultimately, what Recovery has blessed me with isn’t my acceptance of other men, it’s the acceptance of myself as a man.

“The Fine Line of Compassion”

Sometimes, it seems to me that the real miracle of the program is that anyone gets helped at all. I think about how it’s true, there is no better help for someone suffering from this disease than someone else who has been through it and has found the way out. Then I think about how we are all self-centered egotists doing our best to not be what we are, to not give in to the warped instincts our disease has wrought. I’ve been to plenty of meetings where it truly felt like the blind leading the blind.

Add to that how so many of us deal with codependence issues. We have what could be described as a compulsion to help others. Partially, it’s because we see suffering and are sympathetic, having been there ourselves. Sometimes, it’s because we have control issues and want to do anything we can to make things better. I’ve known people who have driven themselves right back to insanity by taking on too much service. I’ve known others who have helped the wrong person and ended up in real danger.

It can be confusing. Step Twelve is all about being of service, about helping others. But how can you help someone who doesn’t want to be helped? You can’t. Recovery is for people who want it, not people who need it. If all someone does is shows up to meetings, then that’s all the help they want. When someone starts making calls, looking for a sponsor, then there is more willingness there. They’re ready to work the steps. I can’t make anyone else work their steps--and I certainly can’t work the steps for them. Some sage advice I was once given: don’t waste your time trying to help someone who isn’t ready; find someone who is.

Willingness can come and go, too. I struggled through working my steps--especially the first time. Steps four and eight I remember being particularly difficult. Having a good sponsor helps the process a lot. Even with a good sponsor, though, there are plenty of times where you might not want to hear what they’re saying. God knows I have those moments. There are times, too when sponsors are wrong. It doesn’t mean someone is a bad sponsor, or a bad sponsee, just that we’re all human beings. We all have failings; none of us are perfect. There are going to be rough patches because that is just part of living life. If Recovery were easy, everyone would do it.

One of the best parts of the sponsor/sponsee relationship can be the support each gives the other. A sponsee can find the courage to open up to someone safe who knows exactly what they’re talking about. A sponsor can get the satisfaction of giving back what was so freely given to them. Usually there is an empathy there, and (ideally) a sense of compassion. Compassion can take many forms, though, and not all of them look like compassion at first. Sometimes that ‘tough love’ comes into play, and that can be difficult to understand. I shared in a meeting over the weekend about how much I appreciate that my sponsor never hesitates to beat me over the head with something I don’t want to look at. And when I’m in denial, I depend on my friends in the program to call me on my shit because I can’t see it--I’m busy being stuck in it.

Some sponsors are harsh. They don’t take any lip, to use an old phrase. “Be of service--go make coffee,” and if the sponsee protests, they say, “do it or go get loaded.” Because that’s really what it comes down to in this program: we’re either moving toward our next drink or fix, or moving away from it. All the middle crap can be cut out very neatly. Either work the program, or go back out there and die. It really is that simple. It might not always seem like it, but it is. The NA literature is very specific about this. Our disease, if untreated, always leads to the same three places: jails, institutions, or death. You can find it in the Big Book of AA as well. For so many people, this is the crux of hitting bottom: they realize that if they keep going on in the same way, they will die; and then they realize they don’t really want to die after all. The Program offers us a solution that works.

I’m usually not that harsh with my sponsees. I do my best to have as much compassion for what they’re going through as possible. But I know, too, if I see them balking or engaging in old behaviors, it’s my job as a sponsor to hold that mirror up and show them what’s happening.

It’s a fine line to walk, acknowledging the validity of what someone might be feeling, while giving them large doses of truth to swallow. Many of us have heard the complaint, “the Program doesn’t work,” to which we muttered under our breath the reply, “that’s because you don’t work it.” Sometimes, being there means talking about your own experiences of how you’ve been through something similar and felt exactly the same way. Sometimes, being compassionate means pointing out how someone isn’t following suggestions--even if the pointing out seems harsh. Sometimes, it’s both.

“Be, Change, Seek, etc.”

I’m a big fan of Mahatma Ghandi. For those who aren’t familiar with the man, I encourage you to look him up. He’s one of the best (if not the best) most recent examples of the power of change through non-violent means. He recently came up in the class I’m taking. The teacher was doing a lecture on social psychology and Ghandi was her main example of someone who was able to affect massive social change even though he was only one man. The point the teacher made was to never underestimate the importance of one person. Just one person can change the world. Ghandi is only one example. Think also of the Rev Dr Martin Luther King, Jr. Or Jesus. Or Buddha.

One saying of Ghandi’s that is often quoted is, “Be the change you seek.” This message, in different words, arrived in my email inbox as today’s ‘Just For Today’ and I smiled when I read it. The prayer was, “I will enhance peace in the world by living, speaking, and acting peacefully in my own life.”

The spiritual principles we learn in Recovery are not new ideas.

Recovery teaches us the power of letting go. We learn to accept our powerlessness over people, places, and things. We learn to stop trying to control the things we can’t control, such as other people. The Co-Dependents Anonymous fellowship addresses this issue directly in their version of the twelve steps. Their Step One is “We admitted we were powerless over others - that our lives had become unmanageable.” We can’t make other people behave the way we might wish them to—the only thing we can control is how we ourselves behave.

It’s up to us how we conduct ourselves in the world—no one else. I could sit here and blame my ex-wife ‘til the cows came home, saying that she was the one who provoked me and got me so angry. But the fact of the matter is that I was the one who smashed my fist through walls; she didn’t make me do it. She isn’t responsible for what I did—I am. And thank God I don’t have to do that anymore, by the way.

The way we share in meetings follows this idea of personal responsibility, too. We try not so much to talk to newcomers directly, but indirectly. We talk about our lives, the things we feel, what our thoughts are, and what we’ve been through. We share these and how we’ve learned to deal with them through working the Program instead of through the insanity of our disease.

When we share our experience, strength, and hope with newcomers, their ears perk up. They see themselves in our stories. They hear their feelings shared by others. It can be downright scary, too. I once heard someone talk about how the first speaker he really related to was a woman. This woman, who he was sure couldn’t possibly know anything about him, started talking about his feelings as if she were reading them out of his mind. One of my favorite compliments I've received after chairing a meeting was when someone told me they really liked what I had to say, but would I mind if next time I told my own story instead of his?

When I came into the rooms, I was lonelier than I could ever have described. Sometimes it was so painful that I kept it buried far enough down that I even fooled myself into thinking it wasn’t there. When I heard people share about the things I had done, the things I had gone through, I began to think (probably for the first time in my life) that I wasn’t alone.

This might be one of the best gifts we can give a newcomer—the knowledge that they aren’t alone. It can be a tough thing to learn. At first, I wasn’t really interested in being part of a big circle. Even today, I still have issues socializing at times. But as I’ve gotten more clean time and I’ve gotten more practice working the program, I’ve learned to depend less and less on my own insane thinking and more and more on the words and advice of others. It’s an honor and a privildege to continue that cycle and pass on what I have learned.

Before, I was alone. Now I am just a link in a chain, part of something much bigger than myself. The way I maintain my position in that chain is by being the change I’d like to see done in the world. I can’t make others more peaceful, but I can make myself peaceful. I can't make anyone else work the program, but I can be a living example of how the program works.

“Sometimes We Even Surprise Ourselves”

Last night I was at one of my regular coffee shops, doing some journaling. I’m working through Step Six and the last time I had done this, I took the time to do a written sixth step and had really been impressed by how much it had done for me, doing it that way. On this current set of twelve, the work has been just as enlightening. Some people really slouch the sixth and seventh steps, but I’ve found that doing written versions, giving them a thorough go, is good for my Recovery.

When I’d first started writing, there was no one around. Bit by bit, the patio started to fill up. First, a couple who were a little talky, but sat far enough away that it didn’t matter. Then another couple sat down. The man from the talky couple asked the newcomers if they could wait to smoke, since they were about to leave. The comment barely registered with me, but I did note that I wasn’t smoking myself—very unusual. I almost always have a cigarette in my hand when I’m journaling.

The talky couple did leave after a couple minutes, and another sat down. I didn’t pay them much attention, as with the others, and the fact that it was a gay couple registered as a detail along the lines of what color someone’s hair or eyes are. The fact that they were loud, however, stood out. Not even the both of them so much, as just one of the guys.

Have you ever met someone and in the space of five minutes, they’ve given you their entire life’s story—including how they were molested as a child, owe money to their Uncle, and hate the ex who left them years earlier? ‘Too much information’ we say. That was exactly what was taking place at the table next to me, and the guy doing the talking was doing it loud enough that everyone around could hear. I found out all about his sordid childhood, his friends that ‘forced him’ to get into drugs, and even learned the password to his Blackberry. He said it five times to his date so that he could remember it and later look through all the personal information he had stored. “Just don’t use any of it against me,” he said.

So next to me I have this crazy conversation going, and I’m busy trying to work on character defects. In a way, what better motivator could there be, though? The temptation was loud, almost unbearably so, to focus on someone else’s defects. The thoughts were there, at the gate, waiting to be let out. “Will you please shut the hell up and let me write in peace?” “Stop being such a victim.” None of them escaped, and I did my best to focus on my work.

After a bit, I went inside to get my coffee warmed up. Standing at the counter, I heard an “excuse me.” I turned. It was the loud guy from outside and I took a look at him. He was short, young. Even there, standing (too close) next to me, his insecurity bled from his pores. I felt the tiniest hint of compassion. I, too, have been on a first date and felt the fear of saying the wrong thing, wanting everything to go perfectly.

“Um, so, I’m trying to impress my new boyfriend. I was wondering, like, if the next time I swear, could you just turn to me and tell me to shut up and watch my language?”

I’m not kidding, that’s really what he said to me.

Now, I'm not positive what old Zach would have said to this guy. I might have just shrugged him off with a simple 'no'. I might have laughed in his face. I might have given him a lecture on being manipulative. I might have told him off and said there are other people in the world besides your self-centered ass. What I actually said surprised the hell out of me.

Before I even knew it, I was telling him that he was okay, that I thought he was handling himself just fine, and not to worry so much. I encouraged him, just as I might encourage a close friend in the same situation. I told him that the setup wasn't necessary and that it sounded like he had everything under control, just as it was. He went back outside, as did I once my coffee had been topped off.

Back at my table, I continued my step work. The conversation didn't get any quieter, and the guy continued on in the same way as before. I did my best not to listen to the long diatribe of how glad he was to have his new boyfriend in his life and how he wanted to open up to him and tell him all about his mental disorder and how he has so few good people in his life.

I suppose the ultimate spiritual being would be filled with compassion for him. I'm just someone working to become more spiritual. Progress, not perfection, we say. I didn't have to work to let go of the conversation next to me, though, it happened naturally. Their issues are their issues. It's not really any of my business, and that was truly how I felt. No anger, no resentment, no nothing really. Just the slightest distraction that was easily filtered out, like a tv show in the background.

Everyone in this life is on their own journey. We come from all places and only God knows where we're going. Every once in a while, I get to see my progress as I walk the path. Being able to let go of other people's stuff is a skill I have learned. Having boundaries is another. These are things I once never thought myself capable of. To possess them today and to still be practicing them, working to better myself, is a gift, a blessing, and a miracle.

"The Question"

The question from the speaker was this: "How did you know you were done?"

How did I know I was done? Well, in the interests of rigorous honesty, I'm not sure that I did know I was done. When I first came into the rooms, there was so much that I didn't know. I didn't know how to handle life. I didn't know how to handle emotions. I didn't know how to deal with other people. For the most part, I couldn't really tell you what I was thinking and feeling. And that last one wasn't so much because of the fog of detox as it was that I had so little experience dealing with myself honestly that I didn't really know how to do that either.

During my 90 in 90, I heard a lot of people talk about hitting bottom. The feelings they described, the thoughts they had, so much of it was intimately familiar to my ears. It was what I had experienced throughout my entire life. I didn't have a moment where I looked up to the heavens and prayed to God for release from the pain; I did that all the time--and had been since long before I ever first picked up. I don't have three suicide attempts as part of my story because I thought it was a fun recreational activity.

What I knew when I came into the rooms was that I wanted to stop and could not. I couldn't say 'no'. I don't remember ever saying 'no'. Some alcoholics talk about having the thought that they could have 'just one' and it would turn into many more. Sometimes I'll be asked if I ever feel like just having a beer, or just getting loaded once--for old times' sake or some such shit, I guess. I don't have that desire. I'm not interested in just having a beer. The thought doesn't fit in my brain.

If I'm going to drink, I'm going to have a shot and a beer, and then another couple beers, and then probably some more shots because that's more what I'm interested in. I'm not interested in sharing a quick bowl with someone; I'd rather roll up a fat joint, smoke until I'm too stoned to walk or see straight and hell no I ain't gonna share with anyone! These thoughts, by the way, are my instant reminder that I am still an addict.

Some people talk about the first step as admitting to yourself that you were out of ideas. You didn't have any more plans. Everything you came up with hadn't worked, so you might as well try the 12-step way (which just so happens to work). It wasn't like that for me. I never had any ideas. The only idea I ever had was that since life was always gonna be fucking with me, I'd just be loaded all the time because that was the only way I even come close to handling it. This idea, of course, didn't work.

Did I know I was done? Not really. What I knew was that my life wasn't going anywhere. Actually, even that isn't true. What I'd admitted to myself was that my life never had gone anywhere. I knew from the few times I'd been dry, that I hated life. I knew that I hated other people, hated the world I lived in, and hated myself. I knew a little tiny bit about 12-step programs, enough to have admitted to myself that doing one might be good for me. But the thing that got me into the rooms was standing around an apartment full of fifty-year-old hand-me-down furniture and thinking life wasn't supposed to be like this. It was crushing, really. I was a smart guy, who a lot of people throughout his life had loved. So why in the hell did my life look like nothing?

My experience in Recovery suggests that I am done; relapse is not a part of my story. I feel now, today, that I am done. Any desire I might have to go back to the way things were is outweighed by how much I have gained since getting sober. My recovery is the foundation upon which I have built my new life. It ain't all wine and roses, but it is more than I have ever had.

One thing I have learned that I hope I don't ever forget, is that I am only one drink or one hit away from losing it all. That might sound overly dramatic to some. Some might even argue that if I relapse, then all I have to do is swallow my pride and reset my date. Well I say fuck that. That idea is so insane I don't even know where to begin. To some it might even sound reasonable, but it depends on a whole lot of 'ifs': if I make it back to the rooms; if I don't stay 'out there'; if I don't die. Personally, I'd like to keep my number of suicide attempts at just three, thank you very much.

The time I have put together--the length of my sobriety--means more to me than I can ever express. It is the most significant accomplishment of my entire life. Period. Nothing else would be possible without it. What got me into the rooms is important, yes, but what's more important is why I stay.

Today, regardless of what life throws at me, I know that I don't have to drink or use. No. Matter. What. Every new challenge I get through, without doing either of those, doesn't decrease the importance of my Recovery, it amplifies it. It magnifies it. It becomes even more important to me.

This is how I know I'm done, today: I still want to be sober--today. I still want Recovery--today.