A few hours from now, I will sit in front of an AA meeting and tell my story for the first time. It's a speaker meeting, and I'm the invited speaker.
When I accepted the invitation a few weeks ago, I wasn't worried, and I'm still not. The day I can't talk about myself for just short of an hour is the day someone won't let me. I'm not bringing notes or an outline or a prepared speech. The format is simple. Tell them what it was like, what happened, and what it's like now.
The purpose is simpler still. I share my experience, strength and hope with others and trust that my higher power will direct my words to the person(s) who needs to hear it most. It is the essence of the AA experience. I consider it a privilege to be asked to speak, and also a duty to accept. Telling my story is a service, and service work keeps me sober and helps others to stay sober as well.
Truthfully, I have thought a little bit about what I'm going to say. I don't think I would be human if I didn't. But most of what comes to me is the idea that my story is evolving, that it will never be the same from one moment to the next. So the talk I give this evening will just be a snapshot of the scenery as I trudge the road of happy destiny. That's how it should be, and how I want it to be. Standing still in sobriety makes me a target for my disease. It wants me stalled, or comfortable, or self-satisfied. That makes me vulnerable to the limitless resources it can throw at me to shake my confidence. The last thing I should do is believe that I've beat this thing. And the first thing I try to do is gather my tribe, my tools, and my leader around me. I never try to do this alone, or unarmed.
Today I took a sobriety call from someone who has not yet managed to string together 24 hours of sobriety. Those calls take me back to the very basics, the minute by minute struggle to stay with the program until the obsession to drink is lifted. I had to remember what my first days were like, and doing so reminds me that it could be me in that position. I asked her if she'd eaten. Hungry, angry, lonely, tired. Hungry is first. It is as ground level as remembering to eat something when you're strung out. Not surprisingly, she hadn't. We forget to eat when the alcohol is fooling us with empty calories.
I also heard today from someone who has over twenty years of sobriety. She said that there are times when she has to remember that her disease is alive and well, just waiting for the chance to come back and take over its host once again. Alcoholism is a parasite. Unchecked, it will rage on, growing stronger and more virulent until it kills me, then it will move on to the next victim, maybe my child, or my neighbor, or my brother. But it will not rest, for that is how it lives.
So I can't rest either. I have to live and grow in the program, and live and grow in the world. My story must evolve, the layers of the onion ever peeling as I achieve new understanding of myself, my disease, and my life. I spend one hour of the day in a meeting. That leaves 23 more that need to be filled with living life.
Today I choose to spend as much of that time as possible in the present, whether I am preparing for the future, repairing the past to the best of my ability, or in the process of doing something new, or something old, but being in the now, whatever that may be. The program teaches me to focus on doing the next right thing.
The exciting part is that I often don't know what that thing is until it arrives. So, tonight will be instructive, and not just for those who want to hear my story. Because I haven't heard it yet either. Wish me luck.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Good Child
My sponsor often tells me that everyone works the program of AA in their own way. That doesn't mean they don't work the 12 steps, go to meetings or stay away from a drink one day at a time. Those are the guidelines we all follow that lead to our success as sober, recovering alcoholics. It means that we all approach the basic program from our own individual perspectives. My story is slightly different than the stories of members to my left and to my right. It might be more similar to your story and it might be less. What unites us are the similarities. The differences are necessary, however, because no story is entirely unique. My particular story might resonate with another member enough to help them come to grips with their alcoholism. Yours might with the next person.
I was the good child growing up. Or, as my shrink would call it, the "hero" child. I grew up in an alcoholic home that was part of a larger alcoholic family in a larger alcoholic culture that was the norm of my parents and their friends in the 60s. Drinking was a big part of their life and, not knowing any differently, I never thought to question it. Grownups got drunk, either occasionally or frequently, and that was just the way it was. I didn't know any grownups who didn't.
Because I was a child, when there were problems in the home, I assumed that I was at least partly to blame. So, I strove to be as good as I could be in the hopes that my goodness would solve the problems. I got straight A's in school, I generally obeyed the rules, was nice to other children, respectful and helpful to adults. If I failed on occasion to live up to those self-created ideals, I was harsh with myself because I knew right from wrong and wrong was bad. The wrongs were magnified far beyond their actual maleficence, and the rights were diminished because to be good was to be what I was supposed to be. It wasn't something special.
As I grew older and was better able to discern cause and effect, I began to see that people other than me were sometimes to blame for problems. But the conditioning of my early years allowed me to harbor a secret belief that it was still all my fault. So, when it clearly wasn't, I'd get unreasonably angry about the faults of others because they were really mine. On and on, for years upon year, this psychology grew and festered and twisted and branched out, with me at the center, always responsible, ultimately, always to blame, no matter what. No matter how hard I tried to straighten out my world, it never did, because I wasn't in control of other people. So I was just harder and harder on myself, often to the point that I didn't even realize I was being so.
Up until my thirties, I didn't drink much. I had periods of my life when I would occasionally abuse alcohol, but I wasn't a daily, weekly, or even monthly drinker until I was about thirty-five. I didn't go on binges, I didn't black out, and I didn't crave alcohol. But about the time my children were nearly grown and my second husband was dying, I started to give up. The years of mental abuse I'd heaped on myself had taken its toll and I began to drink more and more. By the time my husband died, I was drinking nearly every day.
I didn't think anything of it at the time. If you'd been going through what I was going through, you'd drink, too, I thought. And once I'd done my grieving and straightened out my life, things would go back to normal and I wouldn't drink so much. After all, I was the exception to the family rule. I'd seen all my siblings go through various forms of addiction, and I was the one who'd gotten away. I'd gotten a free pass from alcoholism. I was immune.
For fifteen years I drank alcoholically on the premise of that immunity. I would quit someday, when this happened or that happened, or I finally did this or that. On the rare occasion that it came to my attention that I really might be an alcoholic, I waved away the thought, because I was immune. I could quit when I wanted, and often did for a day or a week or two. See? I just didn't want to quit, because I liked drinking. It's what I did, and eventually, it was who I was.
What I didn't know was what an alcoholic actually was. But when I got serious about getting sober and started really listening to other alcoholics and reading the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and identifying with it, I eventually realized that I was not the exception. I was just as much of an alcoholic as those who'd been drinking their whole lives. I count myself lucky that it kicked in late, and that I got out relatively early. But that doesn't make me different. That just makes me lucky.
I'm still the good child. I want to do the right thing, and the program of AA helps me to do the right thing more easily and successfully. The difference is that now I do it knowing that I am not all-powerful and I can only do as much as I can and that is enough. Sometimes I will fail to do the right thing, and that's ok, too. It doesn't make me a bad person. It makes me a human person. The gift comes in that I'm not being utterly horrible to myself anymore. The bonus is that the gift multiplies in that it makes me better towards others. And we all win.
I was the good child growing up. Or, as my shrink would call it, the "hero" child. I grew up in an alcoholic home that was part of a larger alcoholic family in a larger alcoholic culture that was the norm of my parents and their friends in the 60s. Drinking was a big part of their life and, not knowing any differently, I never thought to question it. Grownups got drunk, either occasionally or frequently, and that was just the way it was. I didn't know any grownups who didn't.
Because I was a child, when there were problems in the home, I assumed that I was at least partly to blame. So, I strove to be as good as I could be in the hopes that my goodness would solve the problems. I got straight A's in school, I generally obeyed the rules, was nice to other children, respectful and helpful to adults. If I failed on occasion to live up to those self-created ideals, I was harsh with myself because I knew right from wrong and wrong was bad. The wrongs were magnified far beyond their actual maleficence, and the rights were diminished because to be good was to be what I was supposed to be. It wasn't something special.
As I grew older and was better able to discern cause and effect, I began to see that people other than me were sometimes to blame for problems. But the conditioning of my early years allowed me to harbor a secret belief that it was still all my fault. So, when it clearly wasn't, I'd get unreasonably angry about the faults of others because they were really mine. On and on, for years upon year, this psychology grew and festered and twisted and branched out, with me at the center, always responsible, ultimately, always to blame, no matter what. No matter how hard I tried to straighten out my world, it never did, because I wasn't in control of other people. So I was just harder and harder on myself, often to the point that I didn't even realize I was being so.
Up until my thirties, I didn't drink much. I had periods of my life when I would occasionally abuse alcohol, but I wasn't a daily, weekly, or even monthly drinker until I was about thirty-five. I didn't go on binges, I didn't black out, and I didn't crave alcohol. But about the time my children were nearly grown and my second husband was dying, I started to give up. The years of mental abuse I'd heaped on myself had taken its toll and I began to drink more and more. By the time my husband died, I was drinking nearly every day.
I didn't think anything of it at the time. If you'd been going through what I was going through, you'd drink, too, I thought. And once I'd done my grieving and straightened out my life, things would go back to normal and I wouldn't drink so much. After all, I was the exception to the family rule. I'd seen all my siblings go through various forms of addiction, and I was the one who'd gotten away. I'd gotten a free pass from alcoholism. I was immune.
For fifteen years I drank alcoholically on the premise of that immunity. I would quit someday, when this happened or that happened, or I finally did this or that. On the rare occasion that it came to my attention that I really might be an alcoholic, I waved away the thought, because I was immune. I could quit when I wanted, and often did for a day or a week or two. See? I just didn't want to quit, because I liked drinking. It's what I did, and eventually, it was who I was.
What I didn't know was what an alcoholic actually was. But when I got serious about getting sober and started really listening to other alcoholics and reading the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and identifying with it, I eventually realized that I was not the exception. I was just as much of an alcoholic as those who'd been drinking their whole lives. I count myself lucky that it kicked in late, and that I got out relatively early. But that doesn't make me different. That just makes me lucky.
I'm still the good child. I want to do the right thing, and the program of AA helps me to do the right thing more easily and successfully. The difference is that now I do it knowing that I am not all-powerful and I can only do as much as I can and that is enough. Sometimes I will fail to do the right thing, and that's ok, too. It doesn't make me a bad person. It makes me a human person. The gift comes in that I'm not being utterly horrible to myself anymore. The bonus is that the gift multiplies in that it makes me better towards others. And we all win.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Another Trip Around the Sun
Tomorrow I will pick up my first anniversary chip as a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. It has now been over a year since I quit drinking, but I count from the day I picked up my white chip(the 24-hour chip), October 6, 2009. Until then, I hadn't yet committed to maintaining my sobriety, one day at a time.
If you had told me a year ago that I would be writing these words, I wouldn't have thought it possible. A year ago I was in serious hot water with the law, depressed, scared, and wondering how the hell my life had taken such a dark and dangerous turn. I certainly couldn't see going a year without a drink. It was all I knew after fifteen years of heavy drinking.
But here I am, and day after day for this entire year I have started and ended my day sober, hundreds of times. Hundreds. The biggest miracle is not that I have managed, with the help of the AA program, to stop drinking. It's that I've proven to myself, and others in my life, that people can change. I haven't just changed my drinking habits, I've changed my thinking. Those changes have and continue to change my life.
I had a conversation with a friend this morning. She was feeling bothered about a situation where she knew another alcoholic who was pretending she was still sober when my friend had seen her out drinking. Early on in my sobriety, that would have bothered me, too. I would have felt righteously indignant that there I was, genuinely sober, and this other person was faking it and getting pats on the back and congratulations she didn't deserve. Because I was still invested in the rat race, in being better than other people, instead of realizing our shared humanity. Now I feel sad for the woman who is pretending, because I remember what it feels like to hide your drinking. It's a dark and lonely place.
Yesterday I had a small panic attack. Someone once said that if you think you're enlightened, spend some time with your parents. My mother called with this plan she's hatching and wants my help with. When my mother gets something in her head, you can't get it out with a jackhammer. She wants to arrange for my brother, his wife, and his four boisterous children to join the rest of the family here at my house on Thanksgiving. At the time, I could only think of the expense, the inconvenience, and the stress. It was only later that I thought of the fact that my 79 year old mother might possibly want to get all her children, grandchildren, and her first great-grandchild together for what could be the last time.
I have changed. Now I try to think things through instead of simply reacting. I think of others, and not just from the perspective of how I want them to behave or how I want things to work out. Before AA, the entire world revolved around me and my whim of the moment. Now I realize that not only am I not the queen of the world, but that most of the world doesn't often think of me. And when they do, it probably isn't what I think they think, good or bad. Either way, that's none of my business.
In fact, the new me has a new perspective on the whole concept of good and bad. Things are not inherently good or bad. They just are. It's my take on the situation that creates the goodness or badness of it. My take is flawed, limited by my experience, my capacity to see the relevant factors, and to evaluate those things. Who am I, really, to judge? I can only do what I perceive to be the next most right thing I know to do. I must leave the outcomes to the universe, where all the factors are known and accounted for.
Yes, this change in me is the biggest miracle and greatest blessing of my sobriety. Practicing the principles in all my affairs lets me be in the world, and not of it. It lets me live my life, one day at a time, hundreds of times. Best of all, it makes me happy to do so.
So, here's to another trip around the sun. Let's do it all again tomorrow, shall we?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Anything but God
There was a new guy in my step meeting this morning. We were covering Step Eleven when it came his turn to read. He introduced himself as being brand new to AA, then proceeded to read a few paragraphs. Meanwhile, in the row ahead of him, I was suddenly time-traveling back to ten months ago when I was in the same meeting, covering the same step.
For those who don't know it, the eleventh step reads simply, "sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, praying only for knowledge of God's will for us and the power to carry that out." There's a reason it's the eleventh step and not one of the earlier ones. It's pretty heavy stuff for a newcomer, especially if that newcomer isn't particularly religious, or even anti-religious. If you read the material we cover in the step meeting, the 12 Steps and 12 Traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous, it is heavier still, rife with the religious overtones often used to convey important concepts in the time of Bill W(1930s).
Five years ago, when I tried AA for the first time, I let God drive me out of the rooms. You see, when I was a teenager, my older brother found Jesus. When he does something, there is no such thing as restraint or moderation. So he began a mission to "save" me, even though I was already a professed born-again Christian at the time. What he succeeded in doing was driving me away from Christianity altogether. By the time I was a full-blown alcoholic, there was no way I was going to try anything that mentioned God as much as it is mentioned in AA, God of my understanding or not. The courts had a different idea, however, and I was forced to give it a shot.
Because of my early experiences, I almost literally couldn't hear anything anyone in AA was saying except "God". And that was not for me. I now know that that was what my disease used to keep me drinking. If it hadn't been God that made me quit AA, it would have been something else, because I purely wasn't ready to quit drinking.
This time I was ready. In fact, I decided that I was going to get sober in spite of God. I was going to prove that a die-hard agnostic could get sober without any spiritual beliefs whatsoever. So, I did what they told me to do, and I just said the prayers, not investing any particular meaning in them, and I made contact with my "higher power"(which really wasn't anything at all). They told me that the only thing I needed to know about God was that I wasn't it. That much I could accept, and I went with it.
Funny thing is, stuff started happening. Skeptical, scientific-minded person that I am, I wrote it off as coincidence, but I kept doing what they told me to do. I thanked my "higher power" when I went to bed at night, and I asked for guidance in the morning. Coincidence upon coincidence piled up. I met people when I needed to, I heard things I needed to hear at the exact moment I needed to hear them, I found the perfect piece of writing to fit my phase of development, the person I'd been praying for got sober, and on and on and on.
For skeptical, scientific types like myself, there comes a point when we can no longer write off as coincidental things which happen reliably. Repeatability is one of the maxims of good science and this stuff was happening to me all the time. Early on, one of my new friends in program told me that I was more spiritual than I could ever imagine, and, if I was a scientist, I should prove it to myself. I did, and I did.
I can no longer say truthfully that I have no belief in a higher power. When I let my higher power be in charge of my outcomes, I get way better results than when I try to direct my own life. I also have scads less stress and confusion about what I'm supposed to be doing.
This past weekend I was on an AA retreat and had repeatedly interesting conversations about the nature of spirituality with a like-minded fellow. I knew I was going to blog when I got home, but I hadn't decided on a topic. Then I went to the meeting this morning and got my little flashback. I had things to say in the meeting, but others were more ready to share, so I listened. When the meeting ended, I proceeded on to do my errands for the day, still pondering a blog topic while driving. Until it hit me. Sometimes I'm stubbornly obtuse. But my higher power didn't have to do anything too terribly drastic to get some blog space.
I still don't call my higher power God. To me, the word is too limiting, and liable to evoke preconceived notions in others. But I certainly have one. And I have a lot of contact with it, conscious and not-so-conscious. We're also developing a pretty good relationship, as long as I let it take the lead. At least it didn't have to break my arm this time.
For those who don't know it, the eleventh step reads simply, "sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, praying only for knowledge of God's will for us and the power to carry that out." There's a reason it's the eleventh step and not one of the earlier ones. It's pretty heavy stuff for a newcomer, especially if that newcomer isn't particularly religious, or even anti-religious. If you read the material we cover in the step meeting, the 12 Steps and 12 Traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous, it is heavier still, rife with the religious overtones often used to convey important concepts in the time of Bill W(1930s).
Five years ago, when I tried AA for the first time, I let God drive me out of the rooms. You see, when I was a teenager, my older brother found Jesus. When he does something, there is no such thing as restraint or moderation. So he began a mission to "save" me, even though I was already a professed born-again Christian at the time. What he succeeded in doing was driving me away from Christianity altogether. By the time I was a full-blown alcoholic, there was no way I was going to try anything that mentioned God as much as it is mentioned in AA, God of my understanding or not. The courts had a different idea, however, and I was forced to give it a shot.
Because of my early experiences, I almost literally couldn't hear anything anyone in AA was saying except "God". And that was not for me. I now know that that was what my disease used to keep me drinking. If it hadn't been God that made me quit AA, it would have been something else, because I purely wasn't ready to quit drinking.
This time I was ready. In fact, I decided that I was going to get sober in spite of God. I was going to prove that a die-hard agnostic could get sober without any spiritual beliefs whatsoever. So, I did what they told me to do, and I just said the prayers, not investing any particular meaning in them, and I made contact with my "higher power"(which really wasn't anything at all). They told me that the only thing I needed to know about God was that I wasn't it. That much I could accept, and I went with it.
Funny thing is, stuff started happening. Skeptical, scientific-minded person that I am, I wrote it off as coincidence, but I kept doing what they told me to do. I thanked my "higher power" when I went to bed at night, and I asked for guidance in the morning. Coincidence upon coincidence piled up. I met people when I needed to, I heard things I needed to hear at the exact moment I needed to hear them, I found the perfect piece of writing to fit my phase of development, the person I'd been praying for got sober, and on and on and on.
For skeptical, scientific types like myself, there comes a point when we can no longer write off as coincidental things which happen reliably. Repeatability is one of the maxims of good science and this stuff was happening to me all the time. Early on, one of my new friends in program told me that I was more spiritual than I could ever imagine, and, if I was a scientist, I should prove it to myself. I did, and I did.
I can no longer say truthfully that I have no belief in a higher power. When I let my higher power be in charge of my outcomes, I get way better results than when I try to direct my own life. I also have scads less stress and confusion about what I'm supposed to be doing.
This past weekend I was on an AA retreat and had repeatedly interesting conversations about the nature of spirituality with a like-minded fellow. I knew I was going to blog when I got home, but I hadn't decided on a topic. Then I went to the meeting this morning and got my little flashback. I had things to say in the meeting, but others were more ready to share, so I listened. When the meeting ended, I proceeded on to do my errands for the day, still pondering a blog topic while driving. Until it hit me. Sometimes I'm stubbornly obtuse. But my higher power didn't have to do anything too terribly drastic to get some blog space.
I still don't call my higher power God. To me, the word is too limiting, and liable to evoke preconceived notions in others. But I certainly have one. And I have a lot of contact with it, conscious and not-so-conscious. We're also developing a pretty good relationship, as long as I let it take the lead. At least it didn't have to break my arm this time.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
When enough is enough
Those who are not alcoholics often have a hard time understanding how the mind of an alcoholic works. It seems perfectly obvious to them that alcohol is a problem for the problem drinker and they just cannot get why the alcoholic can't see it. It's easy to understand this disconnect. Trying to explain alcoholism to a non-alcoholic is like trying to explain full-spectrum color sight to the color-blind.
My husband is color blind. He tells me that the grass we both see looks orange to him. How can it look orange? It's green. They are two completely different colors to my eyes. Living in a primarily orange world seems like science fiction to me. To him, it's all he's ever known. While he theoretically understands that I see something else, he's never seen the color green, so he can't even imagine what I see. I, on the other hand, have seen orange, so I can at least try to visualize it.
Similarly, I try to explain what alcohol does to me to someone without alcoholism, but they have to take my word for what I tell them. They've never felt it for themselves. I can picture life without this problem because I didn't always drink. It seems foreign to me now, because my disease is progressive and I can't go back to what I was before. It can only get worse.
Before I joined AA, there was a hole in my psyche. I tried to fill it with alcohol. I poured as much alcohol into it as my physical body could stand, but the hole was never filled. A normal person might have given up and tried something else. But my disease just tells me that I must not have drunk enough. I wanted to drink it all, every last drop of alcohol that ever was. There were times, when I was very drunk, that I would realize that there would always be more alcohol than I could ever consume, and I'd say that I had to quit. But the next day would come and there would be more alcohol, and well, I'm just not a quitter, you know?
When I first quit, I wasn't quitting for good. I didn't want to quit. But I did want to try to quit, and give it an honest try. I was willing. Something was wrong with me, and I wanted to know what it was so that I could fix it and go back to drinking, only like other people did. I could not wrap my mind around a future without alcohol in it.
For me, because I was trying hard to learn what AA was teaching me, and I was trying hard to be honest with myself for the first time in my life, it wasn't long before the sad fact that I was powerless over alcohol dawned on me. It was the lowest point in my life. There was something I could not do that most other people could. And I had to surrender to that idea, or die in denial.
The good news is that, once I really did face up to my alcoholism, life got better. For me, it got better very fast. What a relief to know that it was beyond my control. There was truly nothing I could do about it. At all. If I was going to live, I was going to have to stop trying to quit and let someone/something else do it for me.
At the time, I didn't realize how brave it was of me to literally put my fate in the hands of something I didn't understand and didn't even know if it existed. But I was scared and I did it anyway, so it was a brave act. I did know that other people had done it, people just like me, so I knew it worked, somehow, and it might work for me, too. I took my mustard seed of faith and rode it for all it was worth.
Today, I have a better understanding of the ego, and in particular, the alcoholic ego that is always with me but is not "me". I am not my disease anymore than I am my finger. It is part of the makeup of my psyche and my physiology, and if the real me, the sober me, does not pay attention and let this thing that works work, I can be lost again, very quickly.
So, I have to stay in the now. I can look at the past for instruction, and I can look to the future as a rough guide, but I have to live my life in this very moment. It's all I have, and it's a tremendous gift to be able to do this. If I don't, I will die. But as long as I do, I'm living a life that is greater than I ever could have imagined. I live in a world where enough is enough, no matter what it is, because I know for a certainty that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
My husband is color blind. He tells me that the grass we both see looks orange to him. How can it look orange? It's green. They are two completely different colors to my eyes. Living in a primarily orange world seems like science fiction to me. To him, it's all he's ever known. While he theoretically understands that I see something else, he's never seen the color green, so he can't even imagine what I see. I, on the other hand, have seen orange, so I can at least try to visualize it.
Similarly, I try to explain what alcohol does to me to someone without alcoholism, but they have to take my word for what I tell them. They've never felt it for themselves. I can picture life without this problem because I didn't always drink. It seems foreign to me now, because my disease is progressive and I can't go back to what I was before. It can only get worse.
Before I joined AA, there was a hole in my psyche. I tried to fill it with alcohol. I poured as much alcohol into it as my physical body could stand, but the hole was never filled. A normal person might have given up and tried something else. But my disease just tells me that I must not have drunk enough. I wanted to drink it all, every last drop of alcohol that ever was. There were times, when I was very drunk, that I would realize that there would always be more alcohol than I could ever consume, and I'd say that I had to quit. But the next day would come and there would be more alcohol, and well, I'm just not a quitter, you know?
When I first quit, I wasn't quitting for good. I didn't want to quit. But I did want to try to quit, and give it an honest try. I was willing. Something was wrong with me, and I wanted to know what it was so that I could fix it and go back to drinking, only like other people did. I could not wrap my mind around a future without alcohol in it.
For me, because I was trying hard to learn what AA was teaching me, and I was trying hard to be honest with myself for the first time in my life, it wasn't long before the sad fact that I was powerless over alcohol dawned on me. It was the lowest point in my life. There was something I could not do that most other people could. And I had to surrender to that idea, or die in denial.
The good news is that, once I really did face up to my alcoholism, life got better. For me, it got better very fast. What a relief to know that it was beyond my control. There was truly nothing I could do about it. At all. If I was going to live, I was going to have to stop trying to quit and let someone/something else do it for me.
At the time, I didn't realize how brave it was of me to literally put my fate in the hands of something I didn't understand and didn't even know if it existed. But I was scared and I did it anyway, so it was a brave act. I did know that other people had done it, people just like me, so I knew it worked, somehow, and it might work for me, too. I took my mustard seed of faith and rode it for all it was worth.
Today, I have a better understanding of the ego, and in particular, the alcoholic ego that is always with me but is not "me". I am not my disease anymore than I am my finger. It is part of the makeup of my psyche and my physiology, and if the real me, the sober me, does not pay attention and let this thing that works work, I can be lost again, very quickly.
So, I have to stay in the now. I can look at the past for instruction, and I can look to the future as a rough guide, but I have to live my life in this very moment. It's all I have, and it's a tremendous gift to be able to do this. If I don't, I will die. But as long as I do, I'm living a life that is greater than I ever could have imagined. I live in a world where enough is enough, no matter what it is, because I know for a certainty that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Tolerance, understanding and love are the watchwords
All of us saw, for example, that we lacked honesty and tolerance, that we were beset at times by attacks of self-pity or delusions of personal grandeur.
--12&12, pg. 58, Chapter Five
Before I entered the rooms of AA, I considered myself to be a fairly tolerant person. I thought, compared to many others I'd read about or observed, that I was open-minded, generally kind, and understanding. But was I really?
The kicker of the above thought was "compared to many others". When I started trying to be truly honest with myself, as is prescribed in the program, I realized that how I rated myself was just that, a rating. On a scale of one hundred, I might be, oh, an 82 on the tolerance scale. The problem was that, instead of holding myself to the highest standard possible, regardless of the ideas and actions of others, I was excusing myself by giving myself a B in the tolerance division.
I discovered that it's easy to be tolerant when I'm in agreement with someone, or when they aren't presenting me with personal difficulties. But personal difficulties are just that--personal. When I have a problem with a person or a situation, it's MY problem, not theirs. And it's up to me to come up with a solution if I'm going to live in anything like a state of serenity.
The longer I'm sober, the more depth this challenge takes on. If I'm truly honest with myself, there's a lot of intolerance in me. I'm intolerant of what I believe to be rampant ignorance, or political adversity, or even my next-door neighbor's lawn fetish. I catch resentments wherever I go, for being cut off in traffic, having a rude guest at work, or an unruly child in my field of vision. I even take on resentments for situations that don't even affect me, such as book-burnings, unfair treatment of a friend, or a downturn in the labor stats.
I'm taught in AA that it is progress we seek, not perfection. I take this suggestion because I'm human and I'll never be perfect, so I must accept this thing I cannot change. However, with progress as my goal, I also have to find the courage to change the things I can. If I'm rigorously honest, I think I can do better than 82% tolerant.
What that means for me is taking a closer look at the things I don't currently tolerate. It doesn't mean I have to like those things, or even necessarily agree with them. It does mean I have to reach for greater understanding and sympathy, if not empathy.
I like to say we're all human beings walking around in our own skins. Sometimes it's hard to remember that everyone I meet has their own internal dialogue, full of self, thoughts, feelings, ideas and misapprehensions, just like me. We don't all have access to all the data, ever. That's what our Higher Power is for. If I were in charge of outcomes, this would be one messed up world, because I don't have all the facts.
So my goal for today, and it is always "today", is to find the courage to be tolerant when it isn't quite so easy. Let's call it my 83% solution.
Peace...it's not just a noun.
Monday, August 16, 2010
My higher power got me arrested and broke my arm. Now he wants me to be a Cowboys fan.
I shit you not. An old hymn says "God works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform." Well, my higher power's name isn't "God", it's Harold. (Our Father, who art in heaven, Harold be thy name.) And Harold is nothing if not mysterious. But he loves me, and he has some pretty weird ways to show it.
Harold wanted me to get sober. But I'm stubborn, and Harold knows that, so he had to get creative(which he is, naturally, quite good at). Harold also knows I'm a "fixer", so when one of my friends was in trouble, he got her to ask me out for a drink to talk about it. I didn't usually go out to drink because I didn't want to drink and drive. But I have a hard time saying no to a friend in need, and back then, when it was coupled with drinking, there was no way I could say no.
We drank, we talked, she went home with her designated driver, and I got behind the wheel of my truck. Harold then put my neighbor, a local police officer, behind me on my way home. And Harold got me arrested for drinking and driving. Coincidence? I think not. It was the only way he could get my attention, and by Harold, he got it. Within two weeks' time, my stubborn butt was in an AA meeting and I was on my way.
Now, you'd think that, having gotten me sober and completely committed to my recovery, Harold would be satisfied with that. But no. Harold wanted to make sure I got to a meeting every day, so he broke my arm. You see, Harold knows I don't like to exercise. So, when he saw my plan to ride a bicycle to my AA meetings every day, he laughed. He knew full well that it would be hard enough to get me there every day without me relying on bicycle power and good weather. Plus, I was working, so I probably wasn't going to give my full attention to my sobriety. So, he broke my arm. Yup, he put me on that hill going too fast on a bicycle I'd barely ridden and let me ride myself right into a ditch. Voila, instant two month vacation with nothing to do but go to meetings.
Again, you'd think Harold would be satisfied. But Harold didn't just want me to get sober, he wanted the friend I went to help that day to get sober, too. And he wants me to be a Cowboys fan. Why? Well, there are millions of people who will tell you that Harold is a Cowboys fan. And so is my friend.
So, this week, my friend decided to try to get sober and she called me. I gave her what encouragement I could, and she checked into a hospital. All this week we've been talking, and I've promised to help her in any way I can. All this week in meetings I've been talking about my friend and asking for help in order to better help her. And all week people have been asking me if I have a sponsor.
Until today, I was between sponsors. Today my friend is getting out of the hospital. And today, of all days, the one woman I really thought would be a good sponsor for me showed up at a meeting with *her* sponsor, who lives in Texas. And the woman I wanted as my sponsor told me that she came to the meeting today because she wanted to see me and introduce me to her sponsor. So, I asked her, and now she's my sponsor.
My sponsor is from Texas, and she is a lifelong Cowboys fan. Her sponsor is not only a Cowboys fan, but, without breaking her anonymity, she knows the head football coach of the Dallas Cowboys extremely well. Now, I don't know how many of these sorts of coincidences have to happen for it to stop being mere coincidence, but for me, it's not this many. My sponsor, my grandsponsor, and my newly sober friend are all Cowboys fans, and I'm without a team. Harold clearly wants my friend to get sober and me to have a sponsor. And he wants it to happen with the Cowboys. So, go Cowboys! And go Harold! You're an amazing guy.
Harold wanted me to get sober. But I'm stubborn, and Harold knows that, so he had to get creative(which he is, naturally, quite good at). Harold also knows I'm a "fixer", so when one of my friends was in trouble, he got her to ask me out for a drink to talk about it. I didn't usually go out to drink because I didn't want to drink and drive. But I have a hard time saying no to a friend in need, and back then, when it was coupled with drinking, there was no way I could say no.
We drank, we talked, she went home with her designated driver, and I got behind the wheel of my truck. Harold then put my neighbor, a local police officer, behind me on my way home. And Harold got me arrested for drinking and driving. Coincidence? I think not. It was the only way he could get my attention, and by Harold, he got it. Within two weeks' time, my stubborn butt was in an AA meeting and I was on my way.
Now, you'd think that, having gotten me sober and completely committed to my recovery, Harold would be satisfied with that. But no. Harold wanted to make sure I got to a meeting every day, so he broke my arm. You see, Harold knows I don't like to exercise. So, when he saw my plan to ride a bicycle to my AA meetings every day, he laughed. He knew full well that it would be hard enough to get me there every day without me relying on bicycle power and good weather. Plus, I was working, so I probably wasn't going to give my full attention to my sobriety. So, he broke my arm. Yup, he put me on that hill going too fast on a bicycle I'd barely ridden and let me ride myself right into a ditch. Voila, instant two month vacation with nothing to do but go to meetings.
Again, you'd think Harold would be satisfied. But Harold didn't just want me to get sober, he wanted the friend I went to help that day to get sober, too. And he wants me to be a Cowboys fan. Why? Well, there are millions of people who will tell you that Harold is a Cowboys fan. And so is my friend.
So, this week, my friend decided to try to get sober and she called me. I gave her what encouragement I could, and she checked into a hospital. All this week we've been talking, and I've promised to help her in any way I can. All this week in meetings I've been talking about my friend and asking for help in order to better help her. And all week people have been asking me if I have a sponsor.
Until today, I was between sponsors. Today my friend is getting out of the hospital. And today, of all days, the one woman I really thought would be a good sponsor for me showed up at a meeting with *her* sponsor, who lives in Texas. And the woman I wanted as my sponsor told me that she came to the meeting today because she wanted to see me and introduce me to her sponsor. So, I asked her, and now she's my sponsor.
My sponsor is from Texas, and she is a lifelong Cowboys fan. Her sponsor is not only a Cowboys fan, but, without breaking her anonymity, she knows the head football coach of the Dallas Cowboys extremely well. Now, I don't know how many of these sorts of coincidences have to happen for it to stop being mere coincidence, but for me, it's not this many. My sponsor, my grandsponsor, and my newly sober friend are all Cowboys fans, and I'm without a team. Harold clearly wants my friend to get sober and me to have a sponsor. And he wants it to happen with the Cowboys. So, go Cowboys! And go Harold! You're an amazing guy.
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