... when I noted the similarities between conversion and recovery, I didn't discuss one of the biggest differences between the two. While conversion and recovery may both produce all kinds of healing - emotional, spiritual - physical healing is an integral part of recovery from addiction.
When I stopped drinking, my body changed and changed again in ways that I never would have imagined. Some of the changes were by design, as I knew intuitively that gaining strength was essential to my recovery. Some of the changes were the natural result of reducing my daily calorie intake by the hundreds or, maybe even a thousand, and the stress of divorce and all that entails. I lost 30 pounds that needed to be lost and gained 20 that I could use. It was great to be 50 and to require new clothes because the shoulders of my suits were too small and the waist of my slacks were too large!
As edifying as these changes were, they paled in importance to the healing of my brain. These changes were mystifyingly difficult to manage. If you stop cold turkey, you feel the brunt of withdrawal: the sleeplessness, the thickheadedness, worst of all, anhedonia, the complete inability to feel any sort of happiness or joy. As bad as it is for alcoholics, oxycontin addicts seem to have a long and especially difficult period of anhedonia.
Having gone cold turkey once, I knew I needed help, not only in the form of counseling, but in the form of detox. It was a real blessing. Sleep came right away, my blood pressure didn't spike as it did before, and the sense of joylessness was markedly reduced.
Not long after I started rehab, I noticed something else. During rehab and meetings, I heard over and over: no relationships for a year. I didn't have to worry about that, but I was puzzled. Why? I'm not drinking any more. Doesn't that mean I'm more capable to make decisions like these?
The answer is no, and I discovered why as I looked for a place to live. After fits and starts, I found a place that I knew was right for me. Spacious, airy, and bright, it was perfect -- until I went back to sign the lease. The complex, so appealing on first sight, was dingy the second time around, worn and ill-kept. It looked as though somebody -- residents? management? -- didn't care much about the place. The interior was nice, and I had made a commitment, so the lease was signed. I learned that any judgment based on my perception stood on the shakiest of ground. Well, any judgment at all was pretty unreliable, for that matter. So it remained for a number of months.
For me and some of my rehab cohort, that number was six. For those of us who were close, we all agreed that, six months in to recovery, it was like the world around us had suddenly become clearer. We knew that the healing had been taking place over time, imperceptibly, but at six months it became so apparent, it was as though some sort of quantum leap had taken place.
Those first six months were hard -- very hard. I had to find a new way to live, new ways to recreate, new friends. Even though the last thing I wanted to do was spend my time in rehab or in meetings, the experiences were critical. In a lot of respects, rehab and the people I went through rehab with were invaluable. I found a good AA meeting where I learned that men don't have to get drunk to have fun. Over time, with work, alone and with others, The Promises that I discussed last night had become credible.
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