I struggle a lot with loneliness. It gets real frustrating, continuing to struggle with this same problem. The oddest part is how it does go away at times. But during those times, I don't sit and think about how nice it is to not be lonely. It's as if the entire concept vanishes and I forget the painful stab. When it returns, as it inevitably does, it can feel like having to learn how to deal with it all over again.
When I'm in that bad place, my perceptions are off. I hear laughter and am bitterly jealous of the one laughing. I see a couple holding hands and dwell on my own long list of failed relationships. On the blackest days I wish catastrophe upon them. My self-pity infects me. It turns everything light to dark.
A pity-party is a party of one.
The worst part about this state of mind is how it feeds on itself. Negative thoughts lead only to more negative thoughts. When others try to help me, and I'm unable to let them, I become bitter and resentful. I push them away, thinking something wrong with them for caring about me. The disease is sinister. When we don't care about ourselves, it is nearly impossible to conceive of others caring about us.
We do get stuck. The feeling is as familiar to me as breathing. I think of myself as worthless. I hate myself for so many things that no list could contain them all. Most often they are things I am not: I am not attractive; I am not rich and successful; I am not lovable because of my multitude of flaws. I forget--so easily--that I don't have to do anything or be anything other than who I am as I am.
This is something (I presume) normies know without question. For me, though, growing up I learned the opposite: that I must change myself, that I must be someone else in order to be lovable. This common thread cuts across almost all of us with the disease. How and why we learned it varies; for me, it was childhood abuse in the form of emotional abandonment. And even now, in Recovery, as I struggle to unlearn what I have learned, this spectre haunts me.
A part of me will always be on gaurd, waiting for the other shoe to drop--as though I'm half-expecting the bullies from elementary school to leap out and persecute me once more for being 'different'. Or it's interacting with my parents, telling them some exciting aspect of my program only to have them listen politely and then change the subject. Just once I wish they'd show curiosity about the things in my life of importance, or listen without responding like they're humoring me.
I am enough.
I remind myself that the bullies are long gone. I counsel myself that my family is who they are and it's wasted energy to expect any different. It helps sometimes, but mostly the only thing that truly helps is time. 'This too shall pass' remains one of the most powerful pieces of advice I've ever heard. I try to have faith that the funk won't last. It never does.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
“Jails, Institutions, and Death”
I like to go to a lot of different meetings. I have my homegroup, where I’m in service, and I almost never miss those meetings, but I really enjoy attending meetings that I’m not a regular at. When I feel myself dipping, having a hard time, one of the things I’ve discovered that works really well for me is to go to a meeting I’ve never been to before. It doesn’t matter if it’s AA or NA, I can hear my story told. I learned early on to listen for the similarities, not the differences.
Historically, there has been a lot of grief between the two fellowships. This is something of a tragedy, in my opinion. The disease is the same, even if the manifestations are different. We are all there to help those who still suffer, after all. We only keep what we have by giving it away. My sponsor has often suggested that, when I’m feeling low, one of the best things to do is to reach out to a newcomer. The need to help those who still suffer is one of the cornerstones of the program. Most meetings take a moment of silence at some point, usually at the end, to remember those who do.
I can understand the need for multiple fellowships. The experience of addiction manifesting itself as alcoholism is best related to by another alcoholic. The same applies for a meth addict, or a pothead. What sometimes gets to me is the idea that, because someone is ‘only’ an alcoholic, they can’t help someone who is a drug addict. Or maybe they think that they don’t have to. Too often, it seems to me like an excuse to act (or fail to act) out of fear. The sociologists call this a fear of the Other—someone who is ‘different’ than ourselves. For those of us with this disease of addiction, though, we are all far more alike than different.
Whether someone is a recovering alcoholic or drug addict doesn’t matter nearly as much in the long run. Without the program, the disease leads to the same places. Both alcoholics and addicts end up in jail. The AA Big Book is full of stories of institutionalizations. Whether you’re an alcoholic or an addict, the disease will kill you if you don’t maintain sobriety and work a program of Recovery. I’ve heard it said that we have about the same chances as someone diagnosed with cancer.
NA meetings seem to focus a little more on the nearness and reality of death that this disease brings. Spend enough time in NA meetings, and you will experience it for yourself; someone close to you will die. It is a harsh, harsh truth, but a truth nonetheless. It has happened to me.
For a long time, I was lucky. I was in Recovery for over a year before someone close to me died from this disease. I knew of people who had died. When I was in high school, my grandfather died from it, but at that time I knew so little about the disease, I didn’t fully understand what had happened. Also, my family is one of secrets, where very little is talked about that isn’t superficial.
I had attended enough meetings, though, to know that death would touch me at some point. I remember sharing in a meeting about this. I said that I knew it would happen, that someone close to me—someone I loved—would die from this disease. It scared me to realize that, and I said so. Two weeks later, it happened.
We had a newcomer at my homegroup. After he’d been coming around for a little bit, he asked me to sponsor him. I sensed in him a strong willingness; he seemed done. He had seen his share of insanity and was truly ready to learn a new way of life. I gladly agreed to sponsor him. He was my first sponsee.
I told him to call me everyday. He did, and I got to know him a little. He was an artist and a student. He hung out with the group after meetings. A sort of quiet guy, but he didn’t stay on the edges; he contributed to the conversation and was even able to be of help to some others in the group. We didn’t talk much when we talked on the phone, but I didn’t think much of it since using the phone is one of the hardest things for those of us in Recovery to learn how to do. I took the fact that he called me at all as a good sign. I took him to a candlelight meeting and he really seemed to relate to the speaker. I was hopeful for him.
Unfortunately, I’m not a mind reader. Six days after he asked me to be his sponsor, I got a call letting me know he had committed suicide. My only wish is that he had called me first, so that I might have had the chance to help him.
My higher power is a strong force in my life. Sometimes, I almost wish it weren’t so. My sponsor tells me that, when things like this happen, it shows the faith my higher power has in me to handle them. For my part, I felt a whole lot of not much. He was close to me, but also very new in my life. If anything, I felt guilty that I didn’t know him well enough to properly grieve his loss. My disease sure noticed the shock, though. Old behaviors showed up in force. Old patterns of thinking took back over. It took work to get through, work that I am still doing.
Knowing the disease kills doesn’t stop the feelings of loss when someone dies from it. It prepared me, but only partially. There are a lot of things in life that don’t make sense, and learning to let go and accept them anyway is a huge part of Recovery. I talked with his mother about his history. Like myself (and so many of us), he had been in jail. He had been institutionalized. I have no explanation as to why I survived my suicide attempts and he did not. Sometimes there are no answers.
Before he died, he gave me one of his paintings. It had hung in his last art show. It hangs now in my living room, a testament not to the disease that kills, but to a man I wish I had had the chance to know better.
Historically, there has been a lot of grief between the two fellowships. This is something of a tragedy, in my opinion. The disease is the same, even if the manifestations are different. We are all there to help those who still suffer, after all. We only keep what we have by giving it away. My sponsor has often suggested that, when I’m feeling low, one of the best things to do is to reach out to a newcomer. The need to help those who still suffer is one of the cornerstones of the program. Most meetings take a moment of silence at some point, usually at the end, to remember those who do.
I can understand the need for multiple fellowships. The experience of addiction manifesting itself as alcoholism is best related to by another alcoholic. The same applies for a meth addict, or a pothead. What sometimes gets to me is the idea that, because someone is ‘only’ an alcoholic, they can’t help someone who is a drug addict. Or maybe they think that they don’t have to. Too often, it seems to me like an excuse to act (or fail to act) out of fear. The sociologists call this a fear of the Other—someone who is ‘different’ than ourselves. For those of us with this disease of addiction, though, we are all far more alike than different.
Whether someone is a recovering alcoholic or drug addict doesn’t matter nearly as much in the long run. Without the program, the disease leads to the same places. Both alcoholics and addicts end up in jail. The AA Big Book is full of stories of institutionalizations. Whether you’re an alcoholic or an addict, the disease will kill you if you don’t maintain sobriety and work a program of Recovery. I’ve heard it said that we have about the same chances as someone diagnosed with cancer.
NA meetings seem to focus a little more on the nearness and reality of death that this disease brings. Spend enough time in NA meetings, and you will experience it for yourself; someone close to you will die. It is a harsh, harsh truth, but a truth nonetheless. It has happened to me.
For a long time, I was lucky. I was in Recovery for over a year before someone close to me died from this disease. I knew of people who had died. When I was in high school, my grandfather died from it, but at that time I knew so little about the disease, I didn’t fully understand what had happened. Also, my family is one of secrets, where very little is talked about that isn’t superficial.
I had attended enough meetings, though, to know that death would touch me at some point. I remember sharing in a meeting about this. I said that I knew it would happen, that someone close to me—someone I loved—would die from this disease. It scared me to realize that, and I said so. Two weeks later, it happened.
We had a newcomer at my homegroup. After he’d been coming around for a little bit, he asked me to sponsor him. I sensed in him a strong willingness; he seemed done. He had seen his share of insanity and was truly ready to learn a new way of life. I gladly agreed to sponsor him. He was my first sponsee.
I told him to call me everyday. He did, and I got to know him a little. He was an artist and a student. He hung out with the group after meetings. A sort of quiet guy, but he didn’t stay on the edges; he contributed to the conversation and was even able to be of help to some others in the group. We didn’t talk much when we talked on the phone, but I didn’t think much of it since using the phone is one of the hardest things for those of us in Recovery to learn how to do. I took the fact that he called me at all as a good sign. I took him to a candlelight meeting and he really seemed to relate to the speaker. I was hopeful for him.
Unfortunately, I’m not a mind reader. Six days after he asked me to be his sponsor, I got a call letting me know he had committed suicide. My only wish is that he had called me first, so that I might have had the chance to help him.
My higher power is a strong force in my life. Sometimes, I almost wish it weren’t so. My sponsor tells me that, when things like this happen, it shows the faith my higher power has in me to handle them. For my part, I felt a whole lot of not much. He was close to me, but also very new in my life. If anything, I felt guilty that I didn’t know him well enough to properly grieve his loss. My disease sure noticed the shock, though. Old behaviors showed up in force. Old patterns of thinking took back over. It took work to get through, work that I am still doing.
Knowing the disease kills doesn’t stop the feelings of loss when someone dies from it. It prepared me, but only partially. There are a lot of things in life that don’t make sense, and learning to let go and accept them anyway is a huge part of Recovery. I talked with his mother about his history. Like myself (and so many of us), he had been in jail. He had been institutionalized. I have no explanation as to why I survived my suicide attempts and he did not. Sometimes there are no answers.
Before he died, he gave me one of his paintings. It had hung in his last art show. It hangs now in my living room, a testament not to the disease that kills, but to a man I wish I had had the chance to know better.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
“The Importance of Acting As-If”
I’ve heard a number of times now about the ‘sophomore slump’; that the second year of Recovery is often harder than the first. The pace of change slows down, there’s less direct work to do, and the program you work becomes more maintenance-based. Life settles down a bit. The emotional rollercoaster that is early Recovery evens out into a more ‘normal’ human experience.
As my life has evened out, I've found that normalcy can be real hard to deal with. Even though I hated the insanity and chaos of my previous life, it was familiar to me. It was what I knew. There was a comfort in that familiarity, as sick and twisted as that may sound. Having to live a life where everything is more or less okay is a challenge. Refraining from sabotaging myself is not easy sometimes. Being able to relax and enjoy when things are good can be downright difficult.
Good feelings are as hard to deal with as bad ones.
Maybe even more so. I don’t have nearly as much experience dealing with good feelings as I do the bad ones. I think that’s true for most of us. Until we begin Recovering, our lives are filled with strife and sorrow. When we get clean and start working a program, our lives begin to change. After accumulating some clean time, the chaos and insanity begin to fall away and we are faced with a new challenge: living a ‘normal’ life.
I use the quotes there because, for addicts like myself, life will never truly be what the Normies consider normal. I am still an addict, I always will be. Hell, I even try to avoid buying sweets because I swear I can fix on anything. You should see how fast I go through a box of donuts. I have to admit, though, that’s a much better problem to have to deal with than wandering around downtown at some absurd hour of the night asking complete strangers where the party’s at.
And this is really what I’m trying to get at: life HAS settled down for me. I’ve learned volumes since I began my Recovery. The desire to use has been lifted. The promises are coming true for me. I no longer find myself drawn to drama, am instead repulsed by it. I have learned to let others have their chaos and insanity, to help when asked, and otherwise leave it be. Personal boundaries are no longer the great mystery they once were.
We will intuitively know how to handle situations that used to baffle us.
When I call my sponsor these days, the bulk of the issues in my life are things that so-called normal people deal with: a job that I hate, parents who don’t love me the way I wish they would, relationship issues, etc. His most frequent response is to laugh and tell me that there are countless others out there who would kill to have my problems instead of their own. It’s been a good reminder that I need to continue practicing that spiritual principle of Humility.
I have been through the hell of active addiction and lived to tell about it. That makes me one of the lucky ones. I am active in my Recovery. I do my best to work a strong program. It doesn’t mean life without the stuff is less difficult, merely less insane. A number of folks get clean and don’t go to the place where I am now at. They remain hooked into drama. They find other ways to fix. They stay insane.
My disease still tells me that every little thing that goes wrong is a crisis of epic proportions. My desire for a fix is always looking for a way to escape from whatever I might be going through, good or bad. I once heard an old-timer share about wanting to have ‘arrived’ at a place where everything’s fine and how hard it can be to deal with the fact she will never reach it. This woman had over twenty years clean time.
We act ‘as-if’.
The idea of acting ‘as-if’ is one I still struggle with. Somehow it doesn’t seem to fit in with the whole ‘rigorous honesty’ aspect of the program. The literature tells us it’s invaluable. My sponsor says the importance of acting as-if can not be overstated. Maybe it’s the way we addicts make up that last bit of distance between ourselves and the Normies.
An example that comes easy is how each morning when I get into work (at the job I hate), my brain immediately launches into a near-constant stream of conversations with my superiors. I get accused of being lazy, of being at fault for things I'm not, of being told how I’ll never succeed or be successful. This is, of course, my disease at its worst. In truth, I am almost never told anything of the kind; I don’t need anyone else to tear me down—I do it all by myself. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.
Another frequent thought is that I’ll never find someone to share my life with. I have felt deep love, both for and from another. Yet even in the past when I have had a woman in my life, my brain didn’t cease it’s cacophony. Being without one, Uncle Steve’s tirade can rise to a fever pitch. Ironically enough, it’s always the same old chorus: that there is something inherently wrong with me, that even if I miraculously do find someone who wants to be with me (and that is good for me), that I will sabotage it as I have so many other relationships in the past. My disease tells me I’m utterly incapable of sustaining a healthy romantic relationship.
Acting ‘as-if’ is how we circumvent this insanity. Even though I have Uncle Steve telling me I’m worthless at my job, I act as if I’m not—because it isn’t true. When my disease tells me I’ll always be alone and deserve to be, I act as if that isn’t the case—because it isn’t true. It’s not about being dishonest, it’s about not letting the disease control my thinking. It’s about not letting the disease drag me down. It’s about not listening to the sinister side of the evil which resides permanently in my brain. Of course it never sleeps. Of course my disease never relents. It. Wants. Me. Dead.
Acting ‘as-if’ keeps me alive.
As my life has evened out, I've found that normalcy can be real hard to deal with. Even though I hated the insanity and chaos of my previous life, it was familiar to me. It was what I knew. There was a comfort in that familiarity, as sick and twisted as that may sound. Having to live a life where everything is more or less okay is a challenge. Refraining from sabotaging myself is not easy sometimes. Being able to relax and enjoy when things are good can be downright difficult.
Good feelings are as hard to deal with as bad ones.
Maybe even more so. I don’t have nearly as much experience dealing with good feelings as I do the bad ones. I think that’s true for most of us. Until we begin Recovering, our lives are filled with strife and sorrow. When we get clean and start working a program, our lives begin to change. After accumulating some clean time, the chaos and insanity begin to fall away and we are faced with a new challenge: living a ‘normal’ life.
I use the quotes there because, for addicts like myself, life will never truly be what the Normies consider normal. I am still an addict, I always will be. Hell, I even try to avoid buying sweets because I swear I can fix on anything. You should see how fast I go through a box of donuts. I have to admit, though, that’s a much better problem to have to deal with than wandering around downtown at some absurd hour of the night asking complete strangers where the party’s at.
And this is really what I’m trying to get at: life HAS settled down for me. I’ve learned volumes since I began my Recovery. The desire to use has been lifted. The promises are coming true for me. I no longer find myself drawn to drama, am instead repulsed by it. I have learned to let others have their chaos and insanity, to help when asked, and otherwise leave it be. Personal boundaries are no longer the great mystery they once were.
We will intuitively know how to handle situations that used to baffle us.
When I call my sponsor these days, the bulk of the issues in my life are things that so-called normal people deal with: a job that I hate, parents who don’t love me the way I wish they would, relationship issues, etc. His most frequent response is to laugh and tell me that there are countless others out there who would kill to have my problems instead of their own. It’s been a good reminder that I need to continue practicing that spiritual principle of Humility.
I have been through the hell of active addiction and lived to tell about it. That makes me one of the lucky ones. I am active in my Recovery. I do my best to work a strong program. It doesn’t mean life without the stuff is less difficult, merely less insane. A number of folks get clean and don’t go to the place where I am now at. They remain hooked into drama. They find other ways to fix. They stay insane.
My disease still tells me that every little thing that goes wrong is a crisis of epic proportions. My desire for a fix is always looking for a way to escape from whatever I might be going through, good or bad. I once heard an old-timer share about wanting to have ‘arrived’ at a place where everything’s fine and how hard it can be to deal with the fact she will never reach it. This woman had over twenty years clean time.
We act ‘as-if’.
The idea of acting ‘as-if’ is one I still struggle with. Somehow it doesn’t seem to fit in with the whole ‘rigorous honesty’ aspect of the program. The literature tells us it’s invaluable. My sponsor says the importance of acting as-if can not be overstated. Maybe it’s the way we addicts make up that last bit of distance between ourselves and the Normies.
An example that comes easy is how each morning when I get into work (at the job I hate), my brain immediately launches into a near-constant stream of conversations with my superiors. I get accused of being lazy, of being at fault for things I'm not, of being told how I’ll never succeed or be successful. This is, of course, my disease at its worst. In truth, I am almost never told anything of the kind; I don’t need anyone else to tear me down—I do it all by myself. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.
Another frequent thought is that I’ll never find someone to share my life with. I have felt deep love, both for and from another. Yet even in the past when I have had a woman in my life, my brain didn’t cease it’s cacophony. Being without one, Uncle Steve’s tirade can rise to a fever pitch. Ironically enough, it’s always the same old chorus: that there is something inherently wrong with me, that even if I miraculously do find someone who wants to be with me (and that is good for me), that I will sabotage it as I have so many other relationships in the past. My disease tells me I’m utterly incapable of sustaining a healthy romantic relationship.
Acting ‘as-if’ is how we circumvent this insanity. Even though I have Uncle Steve telling me I’m worthless at my job, I act as if I’m not—because it isn’t true. When my disease tells me I’ll always be alone and deserve to be, I act as if that isn’t the case—because it isn’t true. It’s not about being dishonest, it’s about not letting the disease control my thinking. It’s about not letting the disease drag me down. It’s about not listening to the sinister side of the evil which resides permanently in my brain. Of course it never sleeps. Of course my disease never relents. It. Wants. Me. Dead.
Acting ‘as-if’ keeps me alive.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
“The God Thing”
There are so many amazing benefits of the Program, I’m almost hesitant to single one out. If I were to, though, I’d have to say the concept of a God of your own understanding has to be one of the best. A lot of people come into the rooms feeling that God abandoned them, or that religion is a load of crap, or some variation of the theme that the power greater than us is nonexistent or at best irrelevant. It’s my experience that nothing could be further from the truth.
I’ve heard people say from time to time they don’t believe in God. I look at them, smile a little, and ask them to tell me about this God they don’t believe in. They say he’s judgmental. They say he only cares about certain people and not others. They say he’s vengeful. They say he’s indifferent. When I hear these comments and others like them, I chuckle and say, “Yeah, I don’t believe in that God either.”
It can be tough to believe in a higher power that is loving and compassionate. Most of us, when we come into the rooms, have virtually no concept of what those things are. If we do, our concepts have been twisted by the sick insanity of the disease. We think love is the drunk father who shouts at us and punishes us for things which aren’t our fault and that we had no part in. We think love is the abusive partner who beats us or berates us, always apologizing later. We think compassion is the mother who worries constantly, catastrophizing about things she has no control over while telling us our own concerns are unimportant. Learning about real love and true compassion takes time.
And time takes time.
This is a spiritual program. The disease of addiction is a spiritual malady. It’s a disease of the mind, body, AND spirit. Our mind tells us that we need something external to be okay, to belong, to be worthy of love and acceptance; our bodies tell us we will die without it. It is our spirit, though, that withers beneath it all. When we use, we cut ourselves off from the spiritual. It might not seem like it. Altered states can seem very spiritual. I’ve spent many hours thinking I was having a spiritual experience. I look back on those times, now, and I’m pretty sure I was just high.
The true genius of the program, though, is that it encourages us to find a God of our own understanding. This makes perfect sense to me. We are all individuals. Each of us has our own unique perspective on life and the world we live in—why should our understanding of the power greater than us not be every bit as unique as we are?
Many in the program use the rooms and the people in the program as their higher power. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. We share our deepest selves in those meetings and receive love from the others in them. We experience the healing that comes from revealing who we are and having it affirmed, not shit on. When we are low, we can go to a meeting and feel better. When we are teetering on the edge, itching for a fix, we can call others and ask their help. More often than not, the person we reach out to is there for us in a way that is above and beyond anything we could have expected.
Go to meetings, get a sponsor, and get a God. If you don’t have one, you can borrow mine.
The God of my own understanding is beyond my understanding. I believe in an infinite God. Like the Gnostic Christians of the first and second centuries, I believe that God is not something external and separate, but something internal that is in us and in everything around us. The native Americans believe that everything has a spirit. These two concepts are far more similar than disparate. The God I believe in is all-encompassing, that is to say, that God is everything and everything is part of God. I even harbor a minor resentment about the use of the ‘G’ word because to use any one name or concept to describe my higher power is to put limits on something which I feel has none.
More than anything, though, I know that I am not God and that I cannot truly know for certain what God thinks, feels, wants, or doesn’t want. I know that, while I might have the occasional glimpse or flash of understanding, more often than not I am truly in the dark when it comes to the greater plan. I am okay with that. There have been far too many times in my life where I was certain about something and it turned out I was wrong. I am perfectly okay with not being one hundred percent certain on this issue. It is my personal opinion that this is what true faith is—acceptance in the absence of certainty.
It is not crucial to say ‘yes’; it is, however, important to stop saying ‘no’.
How do you let God work in your life? How do you learn about what that higher power is like for you? Like so much else in the program, the answer is simple: you ask. If you feel silly praying, start your prayers by honestly admitting that is how you feel. If you want to know what God is like, ask to be shown. If you are unwilling to learn, ask for the willingness to be willing. Start with the acknowledgement that you don’t—and can’t—know everything. It has been my experience and the experience of countless others that the more willing you are to let your higher power work in your life, the more it will.
I was at a meeting once and heard someone share about how they were afraid of a particular thing happening. They mentioned how, before they came into the program, they might have prayed to God that this thing didn’t happen. Now, they pray that if this thing did happen that God would give them the strength to get through it. That is the program at work. You don’t ask God to do what you want, you allow God to work in you, through you, and in your life. You live one day at a time with the faith that, while sometimes you might not get what you want, you will always get what you need.
I’ve heard people say from time to time they don’t believe in God. I look at them, smile a little, and ask them to tell me about this God they don’t believe in. They say he’s judgmental. They say he only cares about certain people and not others. They say he’s vengeful. They say he’s indifferent. When I hear these comments and others like them, I chuckle and say, “Yeah, I don’t believe in that God either.”
It can be tough to believe in a higher power that is loving and compassionate. Most of us, when we come into the rooms, have virtually no concept of what those things are. If we do, our concepts have been twisted by the sick insanity of the disease. We think love is the drunk father who shouts at us and punishes us for things which aren’t our fault and that we had no part in. We think love is the abusive partner who beats us or berates us, always apologizing later. We think compassion is the mother who worries constantly, catastrophizing about things she has no control over while telling us our own concerns are unimportant. Learning about real love and true compassion takes time.
And time takes time.
This is a spiritual program. The disease of addiction is a spiritual malady. It’s a disease of the mind, body, AND spirit. Our mind tells us that we need something external to be okay, to belong, to be worthy of love and acceptance; our bodies tell us we will die without it. It is our spirit, though, that withers beneath it all. When we use, we cut ourselves off from the spiritual. It might not seem like it. Altered states can seem very spiritual. I’ve spent many hours thinking I was having a spiritual experience. I look back on those times, now, and I’m pretty sure I was just high.
The true genius of the program, though, is that it encourages us to find a God of our own understanding. This makes perfect sense to me. We are all individuals. Each of us has our own unique perspective on life and the world we live in—why should our understanding of the power greater than us not be every bit as unique as we are?
Many in the program use the rooms and the people in the program as their higher power. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. We share our deepest selves in those meetings and receive love from the others in them. We experience the healing that comes from revealing who we are and having it affirmed, not shit on. When we are low, we can go to a meeting and feel better. When we are teetering on the edge, itching for a fix, we can call others and ask their help. More often than not, the person we reach out to is there for us in a way that is above and beyond anything we could have expected.
Go to meetings, get a sponsor, and get a God. If you don’t have one, you can borrow mine.
The God of my own understanding is beyond my understanding. I believe in an infinite God. Like the Gnostic Christians of the first and second centuries, I believe that God is not something external and separate, but something internal that is in us and in everything around us. The native Americans believe that everything has a spirit. These two concepts are far more similar than disparate. The God I believe in is all-encompassing, that is to say, that God is everything and everything is part of God. I even harbor a minor resentment about the use of the ‘G’ word because to use any one name or concept to describe my higher power is to put limits on something which I feel has none.
More than anything, though, I know that I am not God and that I cannot truly know for certain what God thinks, feels, wants, or doesn’t want. I know that, while I might have the occasional glimpse or flash of understanding, more often than not I am truly in the dark when it comes to the greater plan. I am okay with that. There have been far too many times in my life where I was certain about something and it turned out I was wrong. I am perfectly okay with not being one hundred percent certain on this issue. It is my personal opinion that this is what true faith is—acceptance in the absence of certainty.
It is not crucial to say ‘yes’; it is, however, important to stop saying ‘no’.
How do you let God work in your life? How do you learn about what that higher power is like for you? Like so much else in the program, the answer is simple: you ask. If you feel silly praying, start your prayers by honestly admitting that is how you feel. If you want to know what God is like, ask to be shown. If you are unwilling to learn, ask for the willingness to be willing. Start with the acknowledgement that you don’t—and can’t—know everything. It has been my experience and the experience of countless others that the more willing you are to let your higher power work in your life, the more it will.
I was at a meeting once and heard someone share about how they were afraid of a particular thing happening. They mentioned how, before they came into the program, they might have prayed to God that this thing didn’t happen. Now, they pray that if this thing did happen that God would give them the strength to get through it. That is the program at work. You don’t ask God to do what you want, you allow God to work in you, through you, and in your life. You live one day at a time with the faith that, while sometimes you might not get what you want, you will always get what you need.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
"I don’t have to relapse to prove I’m an addict"
My sponsor has me reading a book on the early history of Alcoholics Anonymous, “Dr. Bob and the Good Old-Timers”. It’s an interesting read, and I enjoy seeing how so much of the program didn’t come about by accident. The creation of the twelve steps happened over time as the founders and early participants learned by doing, often by trial and error. There are plenty of great tidbits in there that help to connect the dots and give a ‘why’ to so many things that those of us in the program today take for granted.
One of the stories is about how there would be bottles of liquor on display at early meetings. Bill W was of the opinion that recovering alcoholics needed to be able to be around alcohol, to resist the temptation. One of the amazing things I’ve discovered about the program is that it is because we help each other to achieve our common goal—to stay clean—that we all have a much better chance of success at it.
I can understand Bill W’s point, though. Today, alcohol is legal and prevalent. You can’t walk down the street without seeing a billboard advertising booze. Everything from the hardest whiskey to the low-calorie lite beers are on display, right in our faces. TV is constantly bombarding us with the message that drinking is okay, fun, and guaranteed to get you laid. I myself am of the opinion that professional sporting events are nothing more than over-glamorized beer ads.
For those of us whose issue was illegal substances, the situation is only slightly different. It may be that marijuana isn’t legal, isn’t advertised on tv and radio, but that doesn’t make it any less present in our culture. Meth is at the top of the list for expanding use, and oxycontin keeps threatening to take over vicodin as the most abused prescription drug. We live in a drug culture—period. Drugs are everywhere. The encouragement to use is inherent in our society which tells us not to delve into our feelings. Instead we are to take happy pills and forget all about our troubles.
Alcohol wasn’t my drug of choice, but it seems to be the one I have the most issue with these days precisely because it is so in our faces. It’s not just advertising. Most people drink. Many who do drink to excess. Over the weekend, I had an issue with my neighbors. They had taken over the courtyard outside our apartments and were having a good-ol’ time. They weren’t especially loud, but they were definitely drunk. I wasn’t tempted to join them in a drink, but I did feel a bit left out about not partying with them. It got to the point that I felt the need to leave my home. So I did. I took myself to a meeting.
At this meeting were two old-timers, neither of whom had relapse as a part of their story, and that was something I’d been needing desperately to hear. Relapse is not a part of my story either. There are many who say that relapse is a normal part of Recovery, and it can be, but it doesn’t have to be. I’ve been judged by those who have relapsed who look at me with disdain because I haven’t. I’ve been told by addicts I’ve just met that I will relapse at some point—it’s only a matter of time. I’ve even heard that the fact that I haven’t relapsed proves I’m not a real addict.
Bullshit.
The fact that I walked into the rooms of my own accord does not mean I am any less of an addict than those who are there by court order. The fact that I have not yet relapsed does not mean I am destined to do so. It certainly does not make me ‘better’ or ‘worse’ than those who have. My story is simply different.
I have paid the price of admission; I have endured the pain. The last time I chaired a meeting, I started very simply: “I have been in jail. I have been institutionalized. I have been an abuser and I have been abused.” I do not have to go back out and have one last run to prove to myself or anyone else that I am an addict.
I don’t ever have to use again.
Something one of the old-timers said was that he was an alcoholic because he said so. I have heard a number of newcomers struggle with feelings that they weren’t ‘as bad’ as other addicts. The best advice on this remains exactly what the old-timer said: you’re the one who knows if you have the disease or not. No one else can tell you how ‘bad’ the pain you’ve been through in your life has been. No one else can know what you’re thinking, or how you’re feeling.
There are those who feel alcoholism is different than drug addiction, but to me it is all different manifestations of the same disease. I see it like cancer: lung cancer is different from prostate cancer, but it’s all still cancer. I self-identify as an alcoholic when I go to AA meetings and have no problem doing so. Alcohol may not have been my drug of choice, but I have parts of my story that will make any alcoholic nod and say, “he’s one of us.”
I still feel those flickers of not belonging. I see the fools outside my pad drinking and feel not a part of even though I don’t want to drink. I go to meetings and feel not a part of because I haven’t relapsed. At the meeting I went to over the weekend, someone spoke very specifically to this point in a way that cuts right to the heart of this disease.
At the heart of it, most of us feel that we are inherently unlovable.
As I heard on a speaker disc once: you’ve got this disease because at some point in your life, you bought into the idea that you are not enough. Somewhere along the line, you became convinced that who you are, just as you are, isn’t good enough. This is why the phrase, “I am enough” persists. It is a common thread, something that anyone who attends enough meetings will hear eventually. I have spent entire meditations on just those three words: I. Am. Enough.
The program gives us tools, a new way to deal with ourselves and the world we live in. It gives us the chance to learn that we ARE enough. I remember so clearly the day I clued in to how I truly did not love myself—that I in fact hated myself. I had about six months of recovery under my belt and discovered this deep, hidden kernel. I spent hours on the phone that night. Looking back on it now, I consider it one of the best moments of my recovery because, after that realization, it became something I could work on. The veil of denial was lifted, and I at last, for the first time in my life, was able to start learning how to love myself.
We’ll love you until you learn to love yourself.
I don’t have to relapse to be worthy of the love of others in the program. My story is what it is. I didn’t set out to specifically not relapse; it’s not something I did, it’s something that happened to me. I work my program one day at a time. I don’t ever say, “I will never use again.” Instead, I tell myself, “just for today, I don’t have to use.”
One of the stories is about how there would be bottles of liquor on display at early meetings. Bill W was of the opinion that recovering alcoholics needed to be able to be around alcohol, to resist the temptation. One of the amazing things I’ve discovered about the program is that it is because we help each other to achieve our common goal—to stay clean—that we all have a much better chance of success at it.
I can understand Bill W’s point, though. Today, alcohol is legal and prevalent. You can’t walk down the street without seeing a billboard advertising booze. Everything from the hardest whiskey to the low-calorie lite beers are on display, right in our faces. TV is constantly bombarding us with the message that drinking is okay, fun, and guaranteed to get you laid. I myself am of the opinion that professional sporting events are nothing more than over-glamorized beer ads.
For those of us whose issue was illegal substances, the situation is only slightly different. It may be that marijuana isn’t legal, isn’t advertised on tv and radio, but that doesn’t make it any less present in our culture. Meth is at the top of the list for expanding use, and oxycontin keeps threatening to take over vicodin as the most abused prescription drug. We live in a drug culture—period. Drugs are everywhere. The encouragement to use is inherent in our society which tells us not to delve into our feelings. Instead we are to take happy pills and forget all about our troubles.
Alcohol wasn’t my drug of choice, but it seems to be the one I have the most issue with these days precisely because it is so in our faces. It’s not just advertising. Most people drink. Many who do drink to excess. Over the weekend, I had an issue with my neighbors. They had taken over the courtyard outside our apartments and were having a good-ol’ time. They weren’t especially loud, but they were definitely drunk. I wasn’t tempted to join them in a drink, but I did feel a bit left out about not partying with them. It got to the point that I felt the need to leave my home. So I did. I took myself to a meeting.
At this meeting were two old-timers, neither of whom had relapse as a part of their story, and that was something I’d been needing desperately to hear. Relapse is not a part of my story either. There are many who say that relapse is a normal part of Recovery, and it can be, but it doesn’t have to be. I’ve been judged by those who have relapsed who look at me with disdain because I haven’t. I’ve been told by addicts I’ve just met that I will relapse at some point—it’s only a matter of time. I’ve even heard that the fact that I haven’t relapsed proves I’m not a real addict.
Bullshit.
The fact that I walked into the rooms of my own accord does not mean I am any less of an addict than those who are there by court order. The fact that I have not yet relapsed does not mean I am destined to do so. It certainly does not make me ‘better’ or ‘worse’ than those who have. My story is simply different.
I have paid the price of admission; I have endured the pain. The last time I chaired a meeting, I started very simply: “I have been in jail. I have been institutionalized. I have been an abuser and I have been abused.” I do not have to go back out and have one last run to prove to myself or anyone else that I am an addict.
I don’t ever have to use again.
Something one of the old-timers said was that he was an alcoholic because he said so. I have heard a number of newcomers struggle with feelings that they weren’t ‘as bad’ as other addicts. The best advice on this remains exactly what the old-timer said: you’re the one who knows if you have the disease or not. No one else can tell you how ‘bad’ the pain you’ve been through in your life has been. No one else can know what you’re thinking, or how you’re feeling.
There are those who feel alcoholism is different than drug addiction, but to me it is all different manifestations of the same disease. I see it like cancer: lung cancer is different from prostate cancer, but it’s all still cancer. I self-identify as an alcoholic when I go to AA meetings and have no problem doing so. Alcohol may not have been my drug of choice, but I have parts of my story that will make any alcoholic nod and say, “he’s one of us.”
I still feel those flickers of not belonging. I see the fools outside my pad drinking and feel not a part of even though I don’t want to drink. I go to meetings and feel not a part of because I haven’t relapsed. At the meeting I went to over the weekend, someone spoke very specifically to this point in a way that cuts right to the heart of this disease.
At the heart of it, most of us feel that we are inherently unlovable.
As I heard on a speaker disc once: you’ve got this disease because at some point in your life, you bought into the idea that you are not enough. Somewhere along the line, you became convinced that who you are, just as you are, isn’t good enough. This is why the phrase, “I am enough” persists. It is a common thread, something that anyone who attends enough meetings will hear eventually. I have spent entire meditations on just those three words: I. Am. Enough.
The program gives us tools, a new way to deal with ourselves and the world we live in. It gives us the chance to learn that we ARE enough. I remember so clearly the day I clued in to how I truly did not love myself—that I in fact hated myself. I had about six months of recovery under my belt and discovered this deep, hidden kernel. I spent hours on the phone that night. Looking back on it now, I consider it one of the best moments of my recovery because, after that realization, it became something I could work on. The veil of denial was lifted, and I at last, for the first time in my life, was able to start learning how to love myself.
We’ll love you until you learn to love yourself.
I don’t have to relapse to be worthy of the love of others in the program. My story is what it is. I didn’t set out to specifically not relapse; it’s not something I did, it’s something that happened to me. I work my program one day at a time. I don’t ever say, “I will never use again.” Instead, I tell myself, “just for today, I don’t have to use.”
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