From other parts of the blogging world...

A redeemed drunkard, with vivid memory of past hopeless struggles and new sense of power through Christ, was replying to the charge that “his religion was a delusion.”

He said: “Thank God for the delusion; it has put clothes on my children and shoes on their feet and bread in their mouths. It has made a man of me and it has put joy and peace in my home, which had been a hell. If this is a delusion, may God send it to the slaves of drink everywhere, for their slavery is an awful reality.”

—	E. Y. Mullins (via northodoxy)  and deepinhistory

More on getting small

During his October 30, 2010 address, the Pope answered a question from a member of the audience: What does it mean to love completely?  How can we learn to love?  His response, via Irregular Theology:

It is very important, fundamental, I would say, to learn to love, to really love, to learn the art of true love! ... (I)f you only look at yourself, you never grow up! You grow up when you no longer let the mirror be the only truth of yourselves but when you let your friends tell you the truth. You will grow up if you are able to make your life a gift to others, not to seek yourselves, but to give yourselves to others: this is the school of love. 

When I was drinking, the egomaniac with a self-esteem problem was essentially an adolescent, although that does a disservice to many adolescents.  My mirror was essentially inside my head.  I wasn't honest enough -- with myself or anybody else -- to acknowledge that the yardstick by which I measured situations was me and whether something would affect what I wanted to do (mostly drink).

The Pope's direction parallels what a newcomer will hear in an 12 step meeting: Go to meetings and be with other addicts.  Get a service position.  Get involved because you need to be available to others and less reliant on yourself.

While a 12 step program isn't necessary, this attitude is essential.  It is the school of love -- love of family, mature and healthy love of yourself, and a love that the Church calls caritas.

Thoughts from IAD

Early in John's Gospel, we read John the Baptist saying, "I must decrease that He might increase."  Once again, John makes it plain that he is so dedicated to living out his vocation that he is willing to disappear in the process.  In sobriety, many try to follow a path that is similar in intent, if not degree.  Sobriety becomes their vocation.

I don't intend to argue about their objective.  I think that a vocation, be it making clear a way for the Lord or pursuing sobriety for its own sake, demands the same process: "I must decrease..."

One of the most striking things I ever heard in an AA meeting was one speaker's self-description: an egomaniac with an inferiority complex.  Amen.  John the Baptist's plan clearly addresses the first, but it also addresses the second in unanticipated ways.  Reducing the sway of my ego increased my capacity to receive help, to grow up a little, to receive love.  Even if these gifts are truly underserved--and they are--the quaking fear that I would be discovered as an impostor began to fade.

This isn't a path I would have chosen for myself, but it seems to be working.  It's a simple way, small.  An earlier post pointed to the path I try to take:

Here's your life. Do the work. Let it take you where it takes you. Just remain in my love.

Beyond that, experience tells me that the old way just allowed me to make a mess of me.

A Psalm for Those Seeking Recovery

From today's Office of Readings.

More on leaping

This time from Auden, courtesy of Wesley Hill and Curlew River:

“When the ground crumbles under their feet, [people] *have* to leap even into uncertainty if they are to avoid certain destruction.”

Evidently, Auden was describing his conversion, or return to the Anglican church in broader context, claiming that many find themselves in similar conditions "...in all states of life." This certainly describes the circumstances surrounding my step away from alcohol.  As a friend of mine says during his shares at an AA meeting: "Thank God for the gift of desperation."

Scary John the Baptist

It seems strange to have found my way back to the Catholic Church by reading what is to be found in the blogosphere.  Nonetheless, bloggers played a significant role in my finding my way.  Asking for prayers, for explanations, I wrote more than a couple (suggesting serious boundary issues on my part), and they couldn't have been more supportive.

Recently, one of them re-posted an old entry that I really enjoyed the first time I read it.  She had attended a Mass on an Advent Sunday.  During Advent, we read Isaiah, we hear of Mary, of Elizabeth and Zechariah, and of John the Baptist.  On this particular Sunday, Matthew's Gospel was read, creating the context for a homily that the priest began by saying "Scary John the Baptist."  When I was a kid, I was fascinated by John the Baptist.  I was ready to dive in.

John the Baptist is scary.  In his homily, the priest went through a list of reasons why he is a frightening character.  He calls people out, no matter their station.  It's not our weak "speaking truth to power".  He mocks--denies--their power.  He is almost feral.  We only have to give the quickest thought to how we'd react if we encountered him today.  He would be institutionalized in short order.

Sunday, we heard another account of John the Baptist's efforts, this time, from John's Gospel.  We heard of the priests and Levites going out from Jerusalem ("Go!  We don't want him here!") to ask John the Baptist who on earth he is.  In response to their questions, he tells them that he's not the Christ; he's not Elijah or the Prophet.  In frustration, they ask, "What can you say for yourself?"  He answers:

"I am the voice of one crying out in the desert, make straight the way of the Lord, as Isaiah the prophet said."

Our homilist pointed out that this is the answer of one who completely and totally identifies with his vocation, with why he was born, why he was put on this earth.

My reaction: this is why John the Baptist is terrifying.  All the other stuff--the wildness, the unvarnished speech, the diet of honey and locusts--they're the outward signs of someone who is willing to do whatever it takes to live out who he truly is, to do what he was born to do.  But the real cause of fear is that he completely disappeared into his vocation.

While it's conceivable that there are people walking the planet to day who are called to such a dramatic vocation, I don't think I'm one of them.  I could be very wrong, but I doubt that there are many.  After all, Christ said that no man was greater than John the Baptist. Nonetheless, I have absolutely no doubt that millions of us are scared to death by the prospect of truly taking on the tasks that are before us, of becoming who we truly are.

Becoming who we truly are is the path to freedom, but it most certainly is not free.  What am I going to have to give up to start down this path, much less get close to the destination?  What happens to me?  Loneliness?  Poverty?  Derision?  Rejection? All of this and more looms large in my mind as I try to peek past the gate and see down that road.  I'm not seeing any glimpse of anything good, of anything I want to hold on to as much as I want to hold on to what I already have.  In the absence of faith, fear takes hold.

Walking away from this path isn't free, either.  I drank out of shame.  I used alcohol and people to dull the pain of living a life I knew was sorely misdirected.  I drank to kill the little voice telling me that there is a better part, and it's intended for me.  Of course, it's no coincidence that John the Baptist was ultimately put to death.

If you've been following the blog, you know that the point here is to share the experience, strength, and hope that has come my way since I got sober; hopefully, others will share, as well.  In any event, this story probably doesn't make it any easier to think about taking the first step away from addiction.  That first step looks looks to be enormous.  The costs loom large and the returns uncertain.  In the coming days, I'll be writing about how I found that recovery is a good time to think small.  There's a reason why AA suggests that we take one day at a time.

Lauds and Vespers

In addition to this ill-tended project, I'm posting snippets from the Divine Office here.  It won't be limited to the Office, and recovery won't be the focus.  Even so, if you're curious about prayers that are recited constantly by millions around the world, I hope you'll find something interesting there.

Forgive us our debts

Early in my sobriety, I would go to meetings and hear people say they were grateful that they were alcoholic.  I was always stunned to to hear anyone say such a thing.  I mean, did they have no friends, no family when they were drinking?  Nobody to hurt?  The blast crater that resulted from my drinking took people out thousands of miles away.  Marriage?  Vaporized.  Family?  Kids?  I brought only pain and embarrassment.  I've been known to say many things, but I couldn't imagine expressing gratitude for my alcoholism.

Really, I couldn't see how anybody could forgive me, as much as for my constant, profoundly self-centered, short-sighted behavior as the drinking.  More than that, my behavior would continue to cause pain for decades.    Savings swallowed--literally--by debt, my ex-wife would have limited financial flexibility.  She doesn't have the husband she wanted and deserves, and she doesn't have lots of kids who would have had a wonderful mother.  My daughter?  Well, shouldn't her dad be someone she can rely on at home?  I couldn't see why I should expect forgiveness from anybody who was left in the wake of my drinking days.  I couldn't begin to forgive myself.

When I was feeling particularly weighed down, struggling with forgiveness, my counselor referred to the wording of the Lord's Prayer in the King James Version of the Bible.  Jesus instructs us to ask, "...forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors."  The implication of asking for the forgiveness of debt is that my debt is something that I cannot repay.  I am acknowledging the magnitude of what I owe; nonetheless, I am asking that the slate be wiped clean because I can never make it right.  Properly motivated, asking for forgiveness in this sense is an act of humility and surrender; it is an acknowledgment of one's brokenness.

It is in this light that I can begin to see what the mystifyingly grateful ex- drunks were trying to say.  They're close, but a fellow ex-barfly gets it precisely right:

More and more, I also see my greatest gift is to have been brought to my knees by alcoholism. Because before you are brought to your knees, you tend to think you are going to be able to manage and control by virtue of intellect backed by will power. You see other people fall and you think, That won't happen to me because I know how to manage and control. But we are not in control. 





It's not alcoholism that's the gift; it's the surrender that the alcoholism yielded and God's response to humble surrender.

I may never be able to make amends. I can't forgive the overblown jerk who drank away his savings, his wife's dreams, who thought he could control it all. I can forgive the broken man on his knees.

The best laid plans

... didn't work quite like I had anticipated.  So, I'll be writing with a little different emphasis than was  originally planned.  The down side: you'll be reading about what occurs to me.  The up side: you should have more to take issue with!  I am expecting you to challenge, amplify, point in different directions.

More to come...

Gimme three steps...

There was an anonymous comment on the last post that asks, if I summarize correctly, if commitment is a critical factor in mountaineering or  in overcoming an addiction, what role does it play with respect to love.  If the topic is romantic love, those who know me would vigorously advise me to ask to take my leave with a head start and a promise never to return.  This would be wise counsel.  So, when I'm talking about love, make no mistake, I'm not talking about romance.  Of course, that's not all there is to love.

Sobriety is a gift.  It's not a gift that is like love; it is a manifestation of love.  I think it's rare that anybody gets sober by themselves.  Certainly, I think the core of getting sober is contained in the first three steps of the twelve-step programs:

• Step 1 - We admitted we were powerless over our addiction - that our lives had become unmanageable
• Step 2 - Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity
• Step 3 - Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God

Early in my sobriety, when I was looking at these steps, I was mystified.  Step 1 was easy enough; it was irrefutable.  I had no problem believing that God could retrieve me from the life I had led. I wondered about the third step.  What does that look like?  Ultimately, they seemed to be platitudes, mere assertions.

One Friday afternoon, I went to a meeting.  The leaders discussed the first three steps as newcomers to the program often hear them:

1. I can't.
2. He can.
3. I think I'll let Him.

I had heard these over and over again, but they had no power for me until it flashed on me that there was something that ties these together, underlies them all, gives them strength:

He wants to.

And that is love.

Scottish Mountaineering

Yesterday, I came across a familiar passage from a sixty-year-old book.  The 1951 book, The Scottish Himalayan Expedition, was written by W.H. Murray.  I have seen the passage before, although I'm not quite sure when.  I was happy to read it again.  Murray was writing about mountaineering, but I think he found a truth with far broader reach:

... but when I said that nothing had been done I erred in one important matter. We had definitely committed ourselves and were halfway out of our ruts. We had put down our passage money— booked a sailing to Bombay. This may sound too simple, but is great in consequence. Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.

Maybe such insight is available only after the fact.  I don't think it's necessarily so.  After all, Murray's autobiography was entitled The Evidence of Things Not Seen--which is how St. Paul defined that quality that allows you to leap from Point A.

Around the web

Things were a little crazy at the old homestead last week.  So, rather than actually write something myself, I'll apply my favorite lesson from grad school: "Creativity is nice; plagiarism is faster."  In this instance, I'd only like to take credit for what follows.  I promise I'll cite the work of others...

First, I'll be setting a reminder in Outlook for August 31, Overdose Awareness Day.  I didn't know about this one until after the fact.  Now, I have a year to think about a proper observance next year.   Thanks, Eve, for putting that one up.

The first link takes you to a web site that wasn't around when I was trying to start getting sober.  It looks like the fix is a good place to look around, especially the fix 411, which contains a host of resources to assist those trying to get sober, who are living sober, or who are just interested in addiction.

The other post is one that I really liked.  The post wasn't intended as advice, but it contains a simple suggestion that I should contemplate every day, words that come from someone I recognize:

Here's your life. Do the work. Let it take you where it takes you. Just remain in my love.

The story that surrounds this passage is not even close to the point of this particular exercise in blogging. Even so, these words encourage me on difficult days, on painful days, on days when I'm plotting my escape from all of this, whatever "this" may be.

Purpose, not panic

Well, it's a little breezy outside, and the rain has started to fall.  It looks like the next 24 hours in and around Our Nation's Capital will be a little difficult--for some more than others.  For many, the storm itself will be the overture for many days without power, cable, broadband, and, perhaps, water.

I don't expect the storm to offer much more than some discomfort for me.  I don't have to worry about trees crushing my house, although my loved ones here are another story.  Flooding isn't a concern, here.  I should have adequate supplies of food and water.

I'm not looking forward to what's to come.  I enjoy my creature comforts.  I like keeping track of what's happening on line.  I like to cook, because I love to eat.  I may be biased, but I am happy to have cable.

On the other side of the coin, power outages offer silence, a marked reduction in the number of distractions, and the opportunity to have my waking hours revert to a more natural cycle, if only for a few days.  As a friend remarked, "If you can't get to a retreat, the retreat is coming to you."

Mostly, my reaction to the coming storm is one of gratitude.  Over the next several days, I may be looking for ice.  I may run out of water.  I may need to extend a hand to others.  The contents of my fridge may spoil.  I don't know what I may have to deal with, but I do know that I won't be searching for an open liquor store.  That gives me the opportunity to manage the rest with equanimity and maybe even some competence.

So, with gratitude, it's back to work.

Something to hold on to

Once again, my friend, Colin, writes about the Old Testament, and I start thinking about the New.  This time, Colin discusses the covenant between God and the Israelites.  He goes on to describe his journey from the very start of his sobriety as living out a covenant--to follow where God leads.

Some time before I was willing to act to free myself from my problem, I returned to the Church.  During my return to the faith, I became attracted to the Liturgy of the Hours, also known as The Divine Office.  Devised as a means of "praying without ceasing", the Office is a prescribed set of Psalms and canticles from the Old and New Testament to be prayed by the ordained and members of religious orders.  The lay are encouraged to join these prayers in private recitation or as a group.

In three of the hours, morning prayer, evening prayer (or Vespers), and night prayer (Compline), we pray excerpts from Luke's Gospel.  In the morning, we encounter Zechariah's reaction to the birth of his son, John the Baptist.  In the evening, we hear Mary's Magnificat: "Magnificat anima mei Dominum...My soul magnifies the Lord..."  Finally, before we retire, we recall Simeon's reaction to the presentation of the infant Jesus in the Temple.

Each of the canticles from Luke is an expression of joy as  Zechariah, Mary, and Simeon understand that God has fulfilled his covenant with Israel with the birth of Christ.  Each of the passages are beautiful, moving.

During the very dark days, between my return to Catholicism and my halting steps toward sobriety, Zechariah's reaction to the birth of John the Baptist led me to believe that my situation was not hopeless, that there was the prospect of being renewed.  You can find it in Luke, Chapter 1, verses 78-79:

In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace. 

Finally...

After too many words and too much time, I thought I'd get to the point.  I found that, when I finally surrendered, when I decided that I needed to take action despite my fears, my fears were unfounded.  At every tenuous foothold, there was a net of supporters to catch me if I fell.  If I were despondent about my divorce, I heard encouragement.  When I reached out to help others in the same boat, I gained strength.

This didn't happen because I'm special, or bright, or through any virtue of my own.  It happened because I let go; I admitted that I need others to help me through a problem I could not solve.  Much to my surprise, the world did not come to an end.

There was--and there still is--a lot of solitary work to do.  Even so, working toward a solution involves much more than I can do by myself.

Walk on the Water

One of my favorite passages from the Old Testament was the first reading at Mass last Sunday, the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time.  Elijah doesn't find God in fire or earthquake, but in a small, still voice, a light breeze.  My friend Colin discussed it in his blog last week.  Evidently, Colin's post got the attention of Pope Benedict, who discussed the passage in his General Audience on August 10.

As beautiful as that is, the Gospel from that Mass got my attention.  The story from Matthew is familiar.  After feeding the crowd, Jesus goes off to pray by himself; the disciples get in a boat and head toward the opposite shore.  During the night, while their boat is tossed by the waves, the disciples see Jesus walking on the sea itself.  The disciples are terrified, but Jesus tells them, " Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid."  Peter asks Jesus to command him to come to Jesus on the water.  Jesus does so; Peter gets out of the boat and begins to walk on the surface of the water.  When Peter becomes fearful, he begins to sink, and he cries out for help.  Jesus saves Peter, asking him, "Why did you doubt?"

The message is a clear display of the power of faith--and of fear.  Those of us in recovery can find solace and admonition without any heavy interpretation.

As I listened to the reading at Mass, I was struck by a thought.  In Jungian dream analysis, bodies of water symbolize the unconscious.  Note: I am not a Jungian analyst by any stretch.  A little reading and hanging out with knowledgable people may go a long way in getting me into real trouble here.  Nonetheless, the interpretation works for me.  Christ is totally and completely Himself, not the product of an interior struggle with original sin and its concomitant wounds as we are,  and finds no trouble mastering the unconscious.  Peter can likewise stride the unconscious and all that it holds--monsters and overpowering tumult--until he becomes afraid, loses faith.

The monsters that lurk beneath the surface of my waters are no doubt very different from your monsters. Alcohol allowed me to express my brokenness with frightening efficiency.  The pain from my wounds, if not their sources, became starkly evident.  Matthew's Gospel doesn't tell me that these monsters--my wounds and my pain--go away if approached with faith and fearlessness.  It tells me that I can, if I rely fearlessly on Christ, approach Him as He calls me--that, like Him, I can be truly myself, who I am meant to be, regardless of the monsters that lie under the surface.

Day One - continued

I was scared to death when I sat among all of those strangers and admitted that I needed help.  It was an incomprehensible situation for so many reasons.  Following through on a decision to stop drinking was strange enough.  Admitting weakness and defeat was something I had never seen as a possibility.  The end of the futility was just as hard to imagine.

We began with would become a nightly ritual: rounds.  I listened to my "classmates" describe how they had been feeling over the last 24 hours--cravings? thoughts of using?  Some of them blew into a breathalyzer; all of them took antabuse in front of the group.  Each introduced themselves and their drug of choice.  Most were alcoholics, but there were heroin addicts, potheads, and abusers of painkillers, as well.

I felt uneasy and completely isolated--for about five minutes.  I recognized one of the guys in the group; we would sometimes drink in the same bar.  He was a clinic "veteran": he had been in intensive out-patient rehab for about a month, and he had almost completed that first course of treatment.  During rounds and in the next phase, he showed me the ropes, often with wit and levity.  During the first break, I met many of the others in the group.  Without asking them for help, they offered advice and support.

It didn't take long before friendships were formed.  In group therapy, we supported each other through divorces and relapses, through hard times at work, through bereavement and mourning.  We celebrated anniversaries.  We insisted on honesty and responsibility; we called you out if you weren't doing the work and accepted no excuses for not addressing your issues.

While many of us became friends over the next several weeks, the doctors at the clinic introduced me to an old friend that I had completely forgotten about--sleep.  Months before, when I quit cold turkey, I didn't sleep for weeks.  I never slept well when I was drinking.  At the clinic, the MD gave me some librium, which I took for two nights.  Since then, sleep and I have been like long-separated, reunited best friends.  After years apart, we are still catching up.

I had feared admitting my weakness.  I feared how my life would change if I stopped drinking.  Admitting my weakness and my fears allowed me to see that there were a host of people in the very same place as me, willing to help and, at the same time, hoping for a hand.  I had believed my drinking to be a private problem; I had come to see the solution was, in part, a social one.

Okay, I'll Go First

This project is ostensibly intended to offer stories from people who have confronted their condition and began to build a new life.  So, let's get started.

At the end of 2006, I stopped drinking after having thoroughly embarrassed myself and my wife in front of all of her family.  Again.  My drunken rages had become a largely nightly event.  With this one, I knew I had to stop drinking.  I staked our marriage on staying away from booze, and my drinking came skidding to an uneasy halt.  

I thought it was a simple matter of will; failure would be a incontrovertible sign of weakness.  I would push through the struggles.

Until I didn't.  A little over a month later, the smallest slight, cultivated for days, gave me all the excuse I needed to start drinking again.  It wasn't long before the raging spectacles became routine once again, and my wife invited me to find a new place to live.

Even before I was asked to leave, I verged on despair.  I knew that I had lost my wife, and I could hardly imagine the damage I had visited upon my kids.  I hated myself, and I felt such shame about my drinking.  Naturally, my reaction was to anesthetize myself with more booze.  During the day, I tried to find some handle to help me break the cycle, but I couldn't see one.  I believed that my only choices were in-patient rehab, AA, or to keep drinking.  None of these choices had any appeal.  I leveled with a friend of mine who had dealt with similar issues, and she put me in touch with a young Catholic man who had overcome his addiction.  I confided in a few others, but I still found virtually nothing to lean on.  

Having nowhere else to go, I turned to prayer.  I asked friends to pray that I might find a way.  I prayed for reassurance that I would be loved once I admitted that I had failed, that I was weak, that I couldn't quit on my own. Having reached the edge, I needed desperately to know that there was something waiting for me when I landed.

I remained on the edge, waiting and drinking, for about a month.  One morning, my friend called to tell me about a news story about AA meetings in my area that had been taken over by a cult.  Needless to say, my interest was piqued, and I immediately found the story online.  The story had a lurid storyline, and I had no clue how the bizarre story might help--until I saw a sidebar story containing an interview with an area counselor.  

I have virtually no memory of what he said; I didn't read it closely.  Instead, I looked for information about his employer, Kolmac Clinic.  What I found was a clinic that specialized in outpatient detox and rehab.  I called the clinic immediately and set an appointment for an evaluation.

Getting to the clinic wasn't such a big step.  Answering the interview questions honestly was bigger; I had never admitted to anyone how much I was really drinking.  At the end of the evaluation, I was confronted with a question that absolutely terrified me: "We can get you in here tonight.  What do you say?"

I went to a nearby park where it occurred to me that I had had my last drink.  Stunned, I walked to a nearby chapel and prayed for help, for strength.  Then, I went back to the clinic where I sat down and introduced myself to the strangers around me, "I'm Don, and I'm an alcoholic."

Community -- Updated

So, I launched this blog, and I promptly left for two weeks of business travel.  The days and the evenings were packed.  I can't complain.  Compared to the heat and humidity here in the DC area, Minneapolis and LA were fine destinations.

Of course, you may wonder why I would begin any endeavor and walk away, my answer is simple and two-fold.  My perfectionism and my procrastination are two of my biggest character flaws.  I wanted to just start writing, even if the writing's not my best or particularly timely.  These will take care of themselves.

In any event, between Minneapolis and LA, I was able to get to Denver for Phoenix Multisport's annual fundraising gala.  The gala was held at Phoenix's new facility in downtown Denver, close to Champa and Park Avenue.  Phoenix has made huge strides to get the facility together.  Ben showed me around the place last October.  "Potential" best described the place then.  Now, it's a building that houses weight training, boxing, and yoga.  There's a coffee bar for socials.  The facilities are superb.

Of course, by themselves, facilities don't help people stay sober.  The men and women of Phoenix have created an amazing community of people dedicated to supporting one and other in sobriety.  They stay busy with a host of activities.  You don't have to be an athlete to participate; you just have to be 48 hours sober.  Of course, if you are an athlete, they may sponsor your participation in serious sporting events.

Phoenix hosted 250 team members, volunteers, and friends last Saturday--completely sold out.  The room was full of wonderful people, from all walks of life.  You could find guys with neck tattoos; you could find men and women in uniform, decorated for their valor and service to country.  There was a lot of emotion on display: sadness for those who still suffer, maybe just a little pride for how far so many have come.  Most of all there was a lot of joy and warmth and love.  It was a privilege to attend.

When I was drinking, I had only a passing familiarity with joy that grew more distant with every day of drinking.  I had no idea how to react to the love that was offered to me.  Every drink simply put me farther away from the work that I needed to do.  Only by leaving behind the alienation that my addiction fed and getting the work underway could I begin to understand what I saw and felt last Saturday night.  I had to take that first giant step.

If you're in Denver, Boulder, or Colorado Springs, see what Phoenix Multisport has going on.  Check out their calendar.  Get to a social.

UPDATE: Saturday, I came across this passage from Ezekiel--Chapter 36, for those who want to follow along:

I will give you a new heart,
and place a new spirit within you,
taking from your bodies your stony hearts
and giving you natural hearts.

That's what I'm talking about.

Where we're heading

Against the fear of taking the initial steps away from a life of addiction, we place the hope of a better life.  It's not enough to merely break free from the addiction.  A life without addiction is good, but we want to replace addiction with something good, something positive, even something beautiful.

While I'm not going to tell you that AA is the only way to recovery, AA was an important factor in my early recovery.  In particular, there is a passage in the Big Book that was extremely encouraging.  The passage is known as "The Promises".  As I progressed in my recovery, I saw that it was absolutely true.  If you do the work of recovery--spiritual, emotional, and physical work--you too will see that these promises come true:

"If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are half way through. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others. That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear. We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows. Self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change. Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us. We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us. We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.  Are these extravagant promises? We think not. They are being fulfilled among us—sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them."  (The Big Book, pages 83-84)

This spring, I heard a gentle reminder of these promises at Mass one Sunday morning.  The second reading that morning was from Paul's Letter to the Romans.  Its expression of the joy with which we can deal with our infirmities is breathtaking:

"...we even boast of our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, and endurance, proven character, and proven character, hope, and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us."

Hope, forged by endurance, does not disappoint.

Anonymity

...is a time-honored facet of recovery programs.  I completely respect the desire of any and all who wish to remain anonymous as they struggle with addiction, as they help friends or family with addiction-related problems, etc.  So, I was chagrined to find that your humble administrator had failed to enable the posting of comments from anonymous sources.  Chalk it up to operator error.

So, I'm sorry that my error served as to inhibit comments.  It has been remedied.  Thanks, Julie!

Getting Started

In August 2010, a friend asked me a pointed question.  We were a little more than a week into an 11-day backpacking expedition.  I had hurt my knee, and, that particular day, the trip was no fun at all.  In my self-pity, I asserted that hiking out with the bad knee was the hardest thing I had ever done.  My friend's question: "What about getting sober?"

Self-pity deflated, I knew that getting sober should be the toughest thing I had done.  I wanted it to be right.  It was really close.  It wasn't quite.  And I began to think.

Ten months later, in a very quiet moment, the right answer made its appearance.  The hardest thing I had ever done was to begin the process: to go from knowledge--from understanding that I had to stop drinking-- to execution.

Of course, what was holding me back was knowing that getting sober meant that everything would change, and I had absolutely no idea what that meant.  I could imagine what an alcohol-free life would look like.  I saw no friends.  I saw loneliness.  Mostly, I saw a huge emptiness and felt the fear.


Honestly, the web was no help.  I saw lots of links to AA-influenced sites, but they offered little insight as to how someone like me could manage, let alone thrive, in the early struggle to stay sober.  I found nothing that would give me any idea of what I could expect to feel, to experience.


So, I'm trying to fill a void here, a perceived need.  But just like getting sober, I'm not going to be doing this alone.  I'll describe my experiences, and I'll be posting the stories of others, as well.  There will be posts from ex-drunks, addicts, people with sex addiction issues.  


The stories will reflect the perspectives of those from different faiths, as well.  In my experience, faith has a critical factor in my recovery.  I am a Catholic, and that should be clear in some of my posts.  Even so, I recognize that your mileage may vary.  I hope to post stories from people with widely varying perspectives.


Nonetheless, I believe that faith, expressed as it may be, is the key.  A writer, an "ex-drunk" as she describes herself, recently posted on her blog something she had overheard: "Faith isn't leaping from Point A to Point B. It's leaping from Point A."


Amen.