(This blog is second in a multi-part series, “Thoughts On The Steps”. This series is not a guide on how to work steps; steps can only be worked under the guidance of a sponsor. The twelve-step program is a spiritual program; it teaches us how to live a spiritual life. Working each of the steps gives us the chance to practice a spiritual principle. Whatever your particular fellowship, the Steps are the same, as are the spiritual principles behind them. These are my thoughts on the steps and on those principles.)
Step Two: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
There’s an unspoken assumption being made in this step that we did something in Step One--admitted we were insane. After all, why would we need to be restored to sanity if we weren’t? This is a bit of a touchy subject. The word ‘insane’ conjures up images of stark-raving lunatics, psychotic killers, and emotionally unstable parents who murder their children in their sleep. I myself tend to think of Glenn Close in ‘Fatal Attraction’.
Mental instability is not the kind of insanity we’re talking about, here. Think of that as ‘Insanity’ with a capital ‘I’. For us, the insanity (with a lower-case ‘i’) is more a realization that the way we have been living is insane. Our thinking, the ways we behave, this is where our insanity lay. And we know, deep inside, that we can’t go on doing life the same way we have been. Something’s gotta give. We have to change, find a way to do things differently. We can’t go on the way we have been going.
If we’ve honestly admitted to ourselves that we can’t control other people, places and things, then isn’t it insane to continue to try to do so? If we’ve admitted we’re powerless over our problem (whatever the problem), that we can’t solve it ourselves, then don’t we need a solution that comes from outside ourselves?
There’s a bit of humility needed to take this step. Just as in the first step, we have to make some serious admissions. We don’t have all the answers. The way we do life, in general, doesn’t work. That can mean trying to do life by being loaded all the time; it can mean trying to do life by manipulating others, or circumstances. Maybe it means we’ve exhausted ourselves from constant worry. Maybe we’ve been crushed by the realization that we aren’t all-powerful, that no matter what we do, we can’t make the world be the way we think it should.
Whatever the reasons behind it, we come to a point where we admit that the answers aren’t going to come from inside us. Our own power is not enough to deal with life. We don’t have the resources within to cope. We need a power greater than ourselves alone. That means we turn to the spiritual. Call it God, call it Great Spirit, call it what you will. It is that force that is not of the body or the mind. It is the spiritual energy that exists beyond us mere mortals.
This step talks about coming to believe. That describes a process. We come to believe in the spiritual. Then we come to believe that that force--whatever you choose to call it--can be helpful to us. We come to believe that there is another way, that there is help, that there is an answer to our struggle. When we do, we find Hope.
Hope can come to us many different ways. For some, the realization occurs within; they find Hope for themselves that their lives can get better. For others, they see how relying on the power of the spiritual has changed people’s lives and they come to believe it can work for them as well. Each person’s path is unique.
There is a difference between Hope and just wishing for something. I’ve heard it described that a wish is for something that may or may not be possible; Hope is for something that definitely is. There is an aspect to Hope that wishing doesn’t have--an element of belief. If you Hope something is true, then you have a belief (however small) that it is possible.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
“Step One: Honesty”
(This blog is first in a multi-part series, “Thoughts On The Steps”. This series is not a guide on how to work steps; steps can only be worked under the guidance of a sponsor. The twelve-step program is a spiritual program; it teaches us how to live a spiritual life. Working each of the steps gives us the chance to practice a spiritual principle. Whatever your particular fellowship, the Steps are the same, as are the spiritual principles behind them. These are my thoughts on the steps and on those principles.)
Step 1: We admitted that we were powerless--that our lives had become unmanageable.
I have deliberately omitted the word ‘alcohol’ or ‘addiction’ from this step to show something very powerful: except for that one word (and it is different in fellowships other than AA and NA), this step is EXACTLY the same, no matter what fellowship you attend. It is also the only step that contains that ‘one word’, whatever the word is. To me, the point isn’t the word I’ve left out here, it’s all the other words that I’ve left in.
Those of us with the Disease of addiction (or alcoholism, for you old-school folks out there) are control freaks. Anybody who says different is fooling themselves. We try to control ourselves, our thoughts, our emotions. We try to control other people--make them do what we want, think and act the way we think they should. We try to control circumstances, events. On and on and on. Why is this? Because we are unable to accept things as they really are. It’s called denial.
This is the beginning of the spiritual program: learning to accept what is. We practice living in the real, instead of in whatever fantasy we have created in our minds about the way things are supposed to be. We stop focusing on how things should be, the way people ought to act, how we wished we felt. We start focusing instead on how things really are. How do we really feel? What is actually happening? In order to do this, we must practice Honesty.
It is our attempts to control that lead us to create unmanageability in our lives. All our attempts to manipulate other people, situations, circumstances and events--that is what is meant by ‘unmanageable’. It’s all the lengths we go to in order to try and force reality to conform to our ideas about how things are supposed to be. Those of us in Recovery from addiction can find plenty of examples in our lives of this; all we have to do is look at the crazy lengths we went to to get loaded, to cover up that we were loaded, or to try and not get loaded.
The larger point here, though, is that we are powerless over much more than our own addictions. We are powerless over other people, places and things. As a wise man once said, “you want to know what you DO have power over? Just look in the mirror, pal. ‘Cause that’s IT.”
We have power over ourselves. We have power over the actions we take, the words we choose to speak. We have power over our own choices. Not to use a blatantly obvious example, here, but we can choose to accept our Disease, choose to ask for help, and choose to begin living differently. Or we can choose to go on the same old way until we die.
When we work the first step--especially for the first time--we admit to ourselves that we are powerless over our addiction, whether that be alcohol and/or drugs. We practice the principle of Honesty by admitting to ourselves a very harsh truth. Once we have done that, we are free to continue moving forward.
This practice of honest admission, of acceptance, becomes a tool for us in our daily lives. It helps us to deal with ourselves and the world around us. We can continue trying to control the things we can’t, leading to insane unmanageability, or we can let go, accept what is, and change the thing we can--ourselves. It’s why the Serenity prayer is such a big deal to 12-step folks.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Acceptance of what is--that’s how we begin to change our lives. We stop trying to change the things we can’t, stop driving ourselves crazy trying to do an impossible task, and start changing the things we can. Honesty, the spiritual principle behind the first step, is the tool we use to accomplish this task.
Trying to make reality resemble our own designs? That's the Disease. We aren't masters of the universe. We don't get to decide what should or shouldn't be. The spiritual path is one of acceptance, of seeing the world as it really is and not as we would have it be.
Step 1: We admitted that we were powerless--that our lives had become unmanageable.
I have deliberately omitted the word ‘alcohol’ or ‘addiction’ from this step to show something very powerful: except for that one word (and it is different in fellowships other than AA and NA), this step is EXACTLY the same, no matter what fellowship you attend. It is also the only step that contains that ‘one word’, whatever the word is. To me, the point isn’t the word I’ve left out here, it’s all the other words that I’ve left in.
Those of us with the Disease of addiction (or alcoholism, for you old-school folks out there) are control freaks. Anybody who says different is fooling themselves. We try to control ourselves, our thoughts, our emotions. We try to control other people--make them do what we want, think and act the way we think they should. We try to control circumstances, events. On and on and on. Why is this? Because we are unable to accept things as they really are. It’s called denial.
This is the beginning of the spiritual program: learning to accept what is. We practice living in the real, instead of in whatever fantasy we have created in our minds about the way things are supposed to be. We stop focusing on how things should be, the way people ought to act, how we wished we felt. We start focusing instead on how things really are. How do we really feel? What is actually happening? In order to do this, we must practice Honesty.
It is our attempts to control that lead us to create unmanageability in our lives. All our attempts to manipulate other people, situations, circumstances and events--that is what is meant by ‘unmanageable’. It’s all the lengths we go to in order to try and force reality to conform to our ideas about how things are supposed to be. Those of us in Recovery from addiction can find plenty of examples in our lives of this; all we have to do is look at the crazy lengths we went to to get loaded, to cover up that we were loaded, or to try and not get loaded.
The larger point here, though, is that we are powerless over much more than our own addictions. We are powerless over other people, places and things. As a wise man once said, “you want to know what you DO have power over? Just look in the mirror, pal. ‘Cause that’s IT.”
We have power over ourselves. We have power over the actions we take, the words we choose to speak. We have power over our own choices. Not to use a blatantly obvious example, here, but we can choose to accept our Disease, choose to ask for help, and choose to begin living differently. Or we can choose to go on the same old way until we die.
When we work the first step--especially for the first time--we admit to ourselves that we are powerless over our addiction, whether that be alcohol and/or drugs. We practice the principle of Honesty by admitting to ourselves a very harsh truth. Once we have done that, we are free to continue moving forward.
This practice of honest admission, of acceptance, becomes a tool for us in our daily lives. It helps us to deal with ourselves and the world around us. We can continue trying to control the things we can’t, leading to insane unmanageability, or we can let go, accept what is, and change the thing we can--ourselves. It’s why the Serenity prayer is such a big deal to 12-step folks.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Acceptance of what is--that’s how we begin to change our lives. We stop trying to change the things we can’t, stop driving ourselves crazy trying to do an impossible task, and start changing the things we can. Honesty, the spiritual principle behind the first step, is the tool we use to accomplish this task.
Trying to make reality resemble our own designs? That's the Disease. We aren't masters of the universe. We don't get to decide what should or shouldn't be. The spiritual path is one of acceptance, of seeing the world as it really is and not as we would have it be.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
"Sink Balls"
When I was younger, I played a lot of pool. I shot in a league, played in a couple tournaments. It was fun and I enjoyed it a lot. I was better than your average player, and right about the time I started to really get good, I stopped playing. I couldn't tell you why. Last fall, I was thinking about the need to have more hobbies, more things that I enjoyed doing. I remember liking pool, so I hauled out my cues and started shooting again.
It wasn't quite like riding a bicycle, but it did come back to me pretty quickly. And I discovered that, just as before, it was something I had a lot of fun doing. I remembered some advice I've heard, about if you want to get better at something you need to practice. I'd read a book by one of the top pool players who put it like this: just sink balls. So I made myself a deal--play at least once every week, then at the start of this year play a tournament.
I go mostly once a week, sometimes twice, and shoot for a couple hours. I've been doing that every week for a few months now. Last night, I went to the pool hall where I shoot and played in their 9-ball tournament. It was a B-grade tournament, and I'd known that; it made me nervous. I'd only played in C-level tournaments before. But I'd promised myself I would play in a tournament. That was the goal.
When I practice, I pay pretty close attention to how well I'm doing. There's bad days, good days, as with anything. It's been cool to track my progress and see my game improve. I keep a tab of how long my longest shooting run is and how many times I hit that. My current record is ten in a row. The more common runs are five, six in a row. But I'm always shooting by myself and had no idea how I would do in a competition.
When the day came--yesterday--to shoot in the tournament, I'll admit I was really nervous. I didn't really know if I was good enough to play in a 'B' tournament. And there were a few moments there where I thought seriously of chickening out, putting off the tournament play for another month. I happened to talk with a friend of mine who encouraged me to play it anyway. The point wasn't to win, but to go in there and do my best. Because that was the goal I'd set for myself.
I didn't win. I didn't even make it past the first round. But I played well. I brought a good game, had some dumb luck. And I got to see what level the other players were at and discovered that I fit right in. I am a B-level player, which is good knowledge to have. But the real victory, for me, is the fact that I achieved my goal. I set a goal for myself, a goal of self-improvement and a test for it. When the time came, even though I got nervous, I followed through. There really aren't words for me to express how huge that is.
In my active addiction, the word 'goal' didn't have much meaning. I'd say that I never achieved many of my goals, but the more accurate truth is that I didn't even bother to set goals because I knew I wouldn't achieve them. Not so much because I didn't have faith in myself (which was true), but more because I was flat out lazy. And there was a lot of that Learned Helplessness in there, too. The times that I had tried, I didn't succeed, so I learned not to try.
Recovery has done many things for me. It's given me courage, strength, and confidence in myself. It's helped me to find faith in myself. Faith to set goals, and the courage to meet them. Some might argue that paying five bucks to enter a pool tournament doesn't take much courage. And I'll give you that; forking over five dollars isn't hard. But being dedicated in my practicing, making sure I get out there week after week? Takes some work. Overcoming nervousness and internal fears? Takes more. Not listening to the voice inside that never stops telling me I'm not worth spit and how DARE I have a high enough opinion of myself that I think I'm worthy of entering a tournament? Takes a LOT of work.
I'm not going to stop shooting pool. I love it. I have a great time shooting. And this isn't going to be my last tournament, either. I won two games last night; without that dumb luck, I would have won more. I played at their level, and I deserved to be there. As the saying goes, "next time, those mf's are goin DOWN!"
It wasn't quite like riding a bicycle, but it did come back to me pretty quickly. And I discovered that, just as before, it was something I had a lot of fun doing. I remembered some advice I've heard, about if you want to get better at something you need to practice. I'd read a book by one of the top pool players who put it like this: just sink balls. So I made myself a deal--play at least once every week, then at the start of this year play a tournament.
I go mostly once a week, sometimes twice, and shoot for a couple hours. I've been doing that every week for a few months now. Last night, I went to the pool hall where I shoot and played in their 9-ball tournament. It was a B-grade tournament, and I'd known that; it made me nervous. I'd only played in C-level tournaments before. But I'd promised myself I would play in a tournament. That was the goal.
When I practice, I pay pretty close attention to how well I'm doing. There's bad days, good days, as with anything. It's been cool to track my progress and see my game improve. I keep a tab of how long my longest shooting run is and how many times I hit that. My current record is ten in a row. The more common runs are five, six in a row. But I'm always shooting by myself and had no idea how I would do in a competition.
When the day came--yesterday--to shoot in the tournament, I'll admit I was really nervous. I didn't really know if I was good enough to play in a 'B' tournament. And there were a few moments there where I thought seriously of chickening out, putting off the tournament play for another month. I happened to talk with a friend of mine who encouraged me to play it anyway. The point wasn't to win, but to go in there and do my best. Because that was the goal I'd set for myself.
I didn't win. I didn't even make it past the first round. But I played well. I brought a good game, had some dumb luck. And I got to see what level the other players were at and discovered that I fit right in. I am a B-level player, which is good knowledge to have. But the real victory, for me, is the fact that I achieved my goal. I set a goal for myself, a goal of self-improvement and a test for it. When the time came, even though I got nervous, I followed through. There really aren't words for me to express how huge that is.
In my active addiction, the word 'goal' didn't have much meaning. I'd say that I never achieved many of my goals, but the more accurate truth is that I didn't even bother to set goals because I knew I wouldn't achieve them. Not so much because I didn't have faith in myself (which was true), but more because I was flat out lazy. And there was a lot of that Learned Helplessness in there, too. The times that I had tried, I didn't succeed, so I learned not to try.
Recovery has done many things for me. It's given me courage, strength, and confidence in myself. It's helped me to find faith in myself. Faith to set goals, and the courage to meet them. Some might argue that paying five bucks to enter a pool tournament doesn't take much courage. And I'll give you that; forking over five dollars isn't hard. But being dedicated in my practicing, making sure I get out there week after week? Takes some work. Overcoming nervousness and internal fears? Takes more. Not listening to the voice inside that never stops telling me I'm not worth spit and how DARE I have a high enough opinion of myself that I think I'm worthy of entering a tournament? Takes a LOT of work.
I'm not going to stop shooting pool. I love it. I have a great time shooting. And this isn't going to be my last tournament, either. I won two games last night; without that dumb luck, I would have won more. I played at their level, and I deserved to be there. As the saying goes, "next time, those mf's are goin DOWN!"
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
“God Will Save Me”
I was bumming around the internet today and found a good essay on atheism/agnosticism as a path to God. The author didn’t say anyone who walks this path ultimately finds God, just that there are some who do. They begin with no belief, then come to believe. There are more than a few 12-steppers out there who know exactly what I’m talking about.
The author repeated an old story that I like a lot, about a man who becomes trapped in a flood. He decides to make this his chance test whether God really does exist or not. He prays, deeply, and asks God to come and save him.
As the rain pours down, he hears a warning on the radio that everyone needs to get to higher ground. But he ignores it, thinking God will save him. A firefighter comes to his door, telling him he needs to evacuate, but the man declines, telling the firefighter that God will save him. The waters rise and the man climbs higher in his house, up to the second floor. Before long, the Coast Guard comes by in a boat, but the man declines to get in. He tells the serviceman that God will save him. Finally, the floodwaters force him to the roof. A helicopter comes by to save any last survivors. But once again, the man shouts at the top of his lungs, refusing help, that he is waiting for God to save him.
The rising waters envelop him and the man drowns. He wakes up in Heaven, face to face with the almighty. He stutters at first, then says to God, “why didn’t you save me?” To which God replies, “Are you fucking kidding?! I warned you on the radio. I sent a fireman. I sent the Coast Guard. I sent a goddamned helicopter, for crise sakes!”
Yeah, okay, I added the profanity, just cause I think the story’s funnier that way.
Seriously, though, I like this story because it is such a great example of the way so many misunderstand how the spiritual works in our lives. It also highlights a very important principle: we need to do our part. When we do our part, and let our higher power take care of the rest, amazing things happen.
I’ve known people in Recovery who were adamant about their atheism. And it’s true that you don’t have to achieve any kind of special ‘God-consciousness’ for the Program to work for you. But of those who I have seen have success in the program, they tend—far more often than not—to be connected with the spiritual. People who learn to rely on a higher power working in their lives have much greater success far quicker than those who don’t. Those who work on having conscious contact with their higher power, their lives go better. It’s just one of those things.
We do have to do our part. We can’t sit there in our homes thinking ‘God will save us’ from our disease. We have to take action, do what we can do. God finds those who seek, not those who sit around on their asses.
The author repeated an old story that I like a lot, about a man who becomes trapped in a flood. He decides to make this his chance test whether God really does exist or not. He prays, deeply, and asks God to come and save him.
As the rain pours down, he hears a warning on the radio that everyone needs to get to higher ground. But he ignores it, thinking God will save him. A firefighter comes to his door, telling him he needs to evacuate, but the man declines, telling the firefighter that God will save him. The waters rise and the man climbs higher in his house, up to the second floor. Before long, the Coast Guard comes by in a boat, but the man declines to get in. He tells the serviceman that God will save him. Finally, the floodwaters force him to the roof. A helicopter comes by to save any last survivors. But once again, the man shouts at the top of his lungs, refusing help, that he is waiting for God to save him.
The rising waters envelop him and the man drowns. He wakes up in Heaven, face to face with the almighty. He stutters at first, then says to God, “why didn’t you save me?” To which God replies, “Are you fucking kidding?! I warned you on the radio. I sent a fireman. I sent the Coast Guard. I sent a goddamned helicopter, for crise sakes!”
Yeah, okay, I added the profanity, just cause I think the story’s funnier that way.
Seriously, though, I like this story because it is such a great example of the way so many misunderstand how the spiritual works in our lives. It also highlights a very important principle: we need to do our part. When we do our part, and let our higher power take care of the rest, amazing things happen.
I’ve known people in Recovery who were adamant about their atheism. And it’s true that you don’t have to achieve any kind of special ‘God-consciousness’ for the Program to work for you. But of those who I have seen have success in the program, they tend—far more often than not—to be connected with the spiritual. People who learn to rely on a higher power working in their lives have much greater success far quicker than those who don’t. Those who work on having conscious contact with their higher power, their lives go better. It’s just one of those things.
We do have to do our part. We can’t sit there in our homes thinking ‘God will save us’ from our disease. We have to take action, do what we can do. God finds those who seek, not those who sit around on their asses.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
"Permission To Be Selfish"
So... is 12-steps a selfish program or a program where we learn to be less selfish? Both. Stay with me on this.
My Social Psychology class is right after my Statistics class and it is full. Full, as in, not enough chairs to go around, people stitting in the aisles, standing against the walls. It'll thin out as the semester goes on, but for now there's always a rush to find a seat. Today, I found myself standing until someone pointed out a chair with a backpack in it across the room. I walked over and moved the backpack. A woman in the chair next to me tried to stop me, tell me that someone was already sitting there--a girl (a comment to which my Issues of Diverse Populations professor would have replied, 'what difference does that make?'). I just said, "yeah--me," and sat down. The girl whose backpack it was ended up being late back to class, but was in time to hear the professor remind everyone that the class is crowded and that just putting your backpack in a chair doesn't necessarily save you a seat.
As all this was going on, in my mind I thought of something I'd been working on with my therapist--being more selfish. We talked about it in general, but also specifically in areas like relationships. If you settle, all you get is what you settle for. Or, as a friend of mine likes to say, "settle for the best." Maybe it would have been more 'gentlemanly' of me to allow the girl her seat. Or maybe she and I both have the same worth and value as individual people, and I was there and she wasn't.
Those of us (like myself) who have issues with codependence have a hard time being selfish. It's more commonly phrased like this: we have difficulty or don't know how to say, "No." It's probably the one thing I spent more time on than any other in my therapy sessions. For me, this issue really comes to the forefront when I'm in a romantic relationship. And I get why, too. It's a fear thing. Fear of rejection, fear of loss. It's heavy, emotionally, because it triggers all those experiences from childhood of not getting the love I needed from family, friends, etc. Something my therapist said to me is that I'll know I'm making progress when I hear someone else (specifically, someone else who suffers from these codependence issues) tell me I'm being selfish.
It took me a while to get my head wrapped around this idea, but it has started happening. The key for my understanding this good kind of selfishness has been the idea of being selfish enough to work the 12-step program. To decide, within myself, that I am worth it. I am not a waste of skin, I am a human being and my life has value. I am worth getting better, being happy and healthy. I do deserve for good things to happen to me and to have good people in my life. It's about believing in myself. It's also about deciding I'm important and that I matter.
There is a lot of Helping that goes on in the 12-step rooms. Taking service positions is a way to help ensure the meetings continue so that those who still suffer have a place to go. The Twelfth step itself--sponsorship--is about guiding someone new through the steps. But all of those things are not means unto themselves, they are means to an end. We help others with a very specific purpose--it helps us to stay sober. We have to decide that our sobriety, our Recovery, is worth it enough to us to do the things suggested to us. We have to decide that we are worth it.
The 12 steps are full of self-examining tools. I think it might even be the original self-help program. Focusing on others helps to take us out of ourselves, to get us out of a rut, or off the pity-pot. But we can end up focusing too much attention on others and neglecting our own spiritual health. We learn to take care of ourselves so that we can be available to truly be of service to others. If we spend all our thoughts and emotions on helping other people, so much so that we become ill or hurt or even relapse, what good have we really done? How can we take someone to the hospital if we're already there, checked into the Intensive Care Unit? How can we help someone to back away from their suicide plans if we've landed ourselves in our own padded cell?
The program is both a selfish and a selfless one. We learn to take care of ourselves so that we can be available to help others. We learn to love ourselves so that we can truly love others. We help other addicts to stay sober because it helps us to stay sober.
Be selfish.
My Social Psychology class is right after my Statistics class and it is full. Full, as in, not enough chairs to go around, people stitting in the aisles, standing against the walls. It'll thin out as the semester goes on, but for now there's always a rush to find a seat. Today, I found myself standing until someone pointed out a chair with a backpack in it across the room. I walked over and moved the backpack. A woman in the chair next to me tried to stop me, tell me that someone was already sitting there--a girl (a comment to which my Issues of Diverse Populations professor would have replied, 'what difference does that make?'). I just said, "yeah--me," and sat down. The girl whose backpack it was ended up being late back to class, but was in time to hear the professor remind everyone that the class is crowded and that just putting your backpack in a chair doesn't necessarily save you a seat.
As all this was going on, in my mind I thought of something I'd been working on with my therapist--being more selfish. We talked about it in general, but also specifically in areas like relationships. If you settle, all you get is what you settle for. Or, as a friend of mine likes to say, "settle for the best." Maybe it would have been more 'gentlemanly' of me to allow the girl her seat. Or maybe she and I both have the same worth and value as individual people, and I was there and she wasn't.
Those of us (like myself) who have issues with codependence have a hard time being selfish. It's more commonly phrased like this: we have difficulty or don't know how to say, "No." It's probably the one thing I spent more time on than any other in my therapy sessions. For me, this issue really comes to the forefront when I'm in a romantic relationship. And I get why, too. It's a fear thing. Fear of rejection, fear of loss. It's heavy, emotionally, because it triggers all those experiences from childhood of not getting the love I needed from family, friends, etc. Something my therapist said to me is that I'll know I'm making progress when I hear someone else (specifically, someone else who suffers from these codependence issues) tell me I'm being selfish.
It took me a while to get my head wrapped around this idea, but it has started happening. The key for my understanding this good kind of selfishness has been the idea of being selfish enough to work the 12-step program. To decide, within myself, that I am worth it. I am not a waste of skin, I am a human being and my life has value. I am worth getting better, being happy and healthy. I do deserve for good things to happen to me and to have good people in my life. It's about believing in myself. It's also about deciding I'm important and that I matter.
There is a lot of Helping that goes on in the 12-step rooms. Taking service positions is a way to help ensure the meetings continue so that those who still suffer have a place to go. The Twelfth step itself--sponsorship--is about guiding someone new through the steps. But all of those things are not means unto themselves, they are means to an end. We help others with a very specific purpose--it helps us to stay sober. We have to decide that our sobriety, our Recovery, is worth it enough to us to do the things suggested to us. We have to decide that we are worth it.
The 12 steps are full of self-examining tools. I think it might even be the original self-help program. Focusing on others helps to take us out of ourselves, to get us out of a rut, or off the pity-pot. But we can end up focusing too much attention on others and neglecting our own spiritual health. We learn to take care of ourselves so that we can be available to truly be of service to others. If we spend all our thoughts and emotions on helping other people, so much so that we become ill or hurt or even relapse, what good have we really done? How can we take someone to the hospital if we're already there, checked into the Intensive Care Unit? How can we help someone to back away from their suicide plans if we've landed ourselves in our own padded cell?
The program is both a selfish and a selfless one. We learn to take care of ourselves so that we can be available to help others. We learn to love ourselves so that we can truly love others. We help other addicts to stay sober because it helps us to stay sober.
Be selfish.
Monday, January 24, 2011
"Relapse Is A Part Of Recovery"
You don't have to be coming around to 12-step rooms long before you hear that relapse is a part of Recovery. I tend to add a little mental note that it doesn't have to be. I have an old-timer friend who thinks it best if this particular slogan isn't broadcast too loudly because it's almost like giving newcomers an excuse to go back out and get loaded. I've heard it said, too, that you can't truly relapse if you haven't worked all the steps. I'm not sure I buy that.
My personal experience is that, no, relapse does not have to be a part of Recovery. I've been in plenty of meetings across the different fellowships where members have talked about how relapse isn't a part of their story. It's not part of mine either, but I don't talk very often about that. For starters, it could become part of my story at any point. For another, just because I haven't relapsed doesn't mean I'm better than anyone else in the program. It doesn't mean I'm less of an addict, or ordained by God, or anything else. It just is.
I have the disease. I'm always going to have it; I am never cured. What I get is a daily reprieve, based solely on how much I work to maintain my spiritual condition. Each day, I get exactly as much Recovery as I need to get through without getting loaded. I work the program one day at a time, staying in the moment as best I can. But I still have the disease, which means (among other things) that I am not supposed to be clean and sober. Everything we know about addiction tells us that addicts can't stop themselves from getting loaded--it's the definition of being addicted. We can't just stop. We can't 'just say no'.
Relapse IS a part of Recovery for many of us. And when we do relapse, it is so tempting to just give up, to say 'fuck it' and to hell with it all. Finding the courage to walk back into the rooms after a relapse is one of the most difficult things in the world. When we do, though, we aren't shunned. No one looks down their noses. We receive the same loving support we got when we first stepped in. A fellow member of my homegroup likes to say that we don't shoot our wounded. When someone relapses and then comes back to meetings, it's a miracle in and of itself because so many don't make it back. Their disease takes over. They fall back into the old patterns with a vengeance. And then they die.
If you've relapsed, it doesn't mean the program can't work for you, it just means that you're still an addict or alcoholic. No more, no less. You're supposed to get loaded. So the disease won for a day? So what? It doesn't mean you can't win today, or tomorrow or the day after that. Relapse doesn't have to be part of Recovery, but it is for a lot of us. We're human beings, perfectly imperfect.
In Recovery, every day is a new day.
My personal experience is that, no, relapse does not have to be a part of Recovery. I've been in plenty of meetings across the different fellowships where members have talked about how relapse isn't a part of their story. It's not part of mine either, but I don't talk very often about that. For starters, it could become part of my story at any point. For another, just because I haven't relapsed doesn't mean I'm better than anyone else in the program. It doesn't mean I'm less of an addict, or ordained by God, or anything else. It just is.
I have the disease. I'm always going to have it; I am never cured. What I get is a daily reprieve, based solely on how much I work to maintain my spiritual condition. Each day, I get exactly as much Recovery as I need to get through without getting loaded. I work the program one day at a time, staying in the moment as best I can. But I still have the disease, which means (among other things) that I am not supposed to be clean and sober. Everything we know about addiction tells us that addicts can't stop themselves from getting loaded--it's the definition of being addicted. We can't just stop. We can't 'just say no'.
Relapse IS a part of Recovery for many of us. And when we do relapse, it is so tempting to just give up, to say 'fuck it' and to hell with it all. Finding the courage to walk back into the rooms after a relapse is one of the most difficult things in the world. When we do, though, we aren't shunned. No one looks down their noses. We receive the same loving support we got when we first stepped in. A fellow member of my homegroup likes to say that we don't shoot our wounded. When someone relapses and then comes back to meetings, it's a miracle in and of itself because so many don't make it back. Their disease takes over. They fall back into the old patterns with a vengeance. And then they die.
If you've relapsed, it doesn't mean the program can't work for you, it just means that you're still an addict or alcoholic. No more, no less. You're supposed to get loaded. So the disease won for a day? So what? It doesn't mean you can't win today, or tomorrow or the day after that. Relapse doesn't have to be part of Recovery, but it is for a lot of us. We're human beings, perfectly imperfect.
In Recovery, every day is a new day.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
"Life Isn't Always Exciting"
I'm having a cup of joe at my favorite coffee shop, sitting outside on the patio, and listening to my brain. I'm listening to the world around me, too. It's a Sunday afternoon. Traffic on the street is light. The occasional cyclist flows by. Music drifts out from the open door of the cafe.
I've had several conversations lately with friends and family about how things are going. I keep coming up with the same answer, that things are mostly just fine. I could find reasons to complain--still being out of work, missing an ex, or the fear that I might not ever find a woman to be with for the long-term. There are good things, too. I'm pleased with my recent redecorating of my bedroom, I continue to get better at shooting pool, and I am excited about the music projects I'm working on with other artists.
All those things feel like mere blips on the radar, occasional spikes in an overall even line. One thing about doing the work to create a calm life for myself is that life is now calm. It sounds a little silly, doesn't it? I worked so hard to reduce and remove chaos from my life, but I'm still not used to a life without drama. I am grateful for my new life, for the lack of insanity, but there's still this holdover that somehow I'm not living life to the fullest if things aren't bonkers. Thankfully, I can recognize that as the disease speaking to me, never ceasing in its constant quest to take me out of the moment and make me focus not on what is but what isn't.
It's so easy to forget that life is good. I know some people in Recovery become totally filled with an amazing sense of peace and contentment. I do feel that way at times, but there are also lots of times where I'm sitting in the middle; things are neither good nor bad, they just are. I can look at the whole of my life, focus on the bad or the good, but overall there is a balance. A metaphor comes to my mind--a balanced see-saw doesn't rock.
My Recovery is a powerful force in my mind, though. It kicks in automatically when situations call for it, definitely, but it also shows up in other less urgent moments. When I think about being lonely, that I'll never find a woman to share my life with, it asks me questions back: "is that really so bad? Do you really need a woman in your life in order to be happy?" And I know the answer is 'no'. I think about this desire I have to do something great with my life, and my Recovery plays back a whole list of great things I have already done, people whose lives I have touched. And I know that my time here on the planet hasn't been wasted.
Even right now, in this moment. I was feeling a little down about how even, perhaps boring, life often can be, and what happens? A blog comes out of me and I feel better. Recovery has created in me a force for feeling better. Call it God whispering in my heart, call it the improving skill of practicing the spiritual life, call it nothing more than improved self-esteem. It is all of those things, and more. It is self-love, continuing to grow and well up within me. My skill at recognizing when I am not centered, and then centering myself, gets better and better as time continues to pass.
I think I'll go home and mix.
I've had several conversations lately with friends and family about how things are going. I keep coming up with the same answer, that things are mostly just fine. I could find reasons to complain--still being out of work, missing an ex, or the fear that I might not ever find a woman to be with for the long-term. There are good things, too. I'm pleased with my recent redecorating of my bedroom, I continue to get better at shooting pool, and I am excited about the music projects I'm working on with other artists.
All those things feel like mere blips on the radar, occasional spikes in an overall even line. One thing about doing the work to create a calm life for myself is that life is now calm. It sounds a little silly, doesn't it? I worked so hard to reduce and remove chaos from my life, but I'm still not used to a life without drama. I am grateful for my new life, for the lack of insanity, but there's still this holdover that somehow I'm not living life to the fullest if things aren't bonkers. Thankfully, I can recognize that as the disease speaking to me, never ceasing in its constant quest to take me out of the moment and make me focus not on what is but what isn't.
It's so easy to forget that life is good. I know some people in Recovery become totally filled with an amazing sense of peace and contentment. I do feel that way at times, but there are also lots of times where I'm sitting in the middle; things are neither good nor bad, they just are. I can look at the whole of my life, focus on the bad or the good, but overall there is a balance. A metaphor comes to my mind--a balanced see-saw doesn't rock.
My Recovery is a powerful force in my mind, though. It kicks in automatically when situations call for it, definitely, but it also shows up in other less urgent moments. When I think about being lonely, that I'll never find a woman to share my life with, it asks me questions back: "is that really so bad? Do you really need a woman in your life in order to be happy?" And I know the answer is 'no'. I think about this desire I have to do something great with my life, and my Recovery plays back a whole list of great things I have already done, people whose lives I have touched. And I know that my time here on the planet hasn't been wasted.
Even right now, in this moment. I was feeling a little down about how even, perhaps boring, life often can be, and what happens? A blog comes out of me and I feel better. Recovery has created in me a force for feeling better. Call it God whispering in my heart, call it the improving skill of practicing the spiritual life, call it nothing more than improved self-esteem. It is all of those things, and more. It is self-love, continuing to grow and well up within me. My skill at recognizing when I am not centered, and then centering myself, gets better and better as time continues to pass.
I think I'll go home and mix.
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