I’m grateful for a sunny cold morning. I’m grateful for good hotel coffee. I’m grateful for plain old happiness. I’m grateful for a chance to see my daughter. I’m grateful for where I am and grateful for how I got here. I’m grateful to be sober today.
song of the week:
I was trying to figure out the song of the week and realized that we haven’t had any Foo Fighters songs! What? How could that be? Well, that’s no longer true and the song might even be tangentially connected to today’s essay.
Again, the new gig has me on the road and I’m speeding northbound on my beloved Acela as I write this. I’ve racked up a lot of Amtrak miles and have completed what I call the Acela trifecta: Living in Washington, DC, Philadelphia and New York.1
I was speaking with a very wise sponsee recently, who politely listened to my ramblings about feeling discombobulated, uncomfortable, even downright hinky, and then asked how my Program was. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think there are a couple of reasons I feel a little overwhelmed, and definitely off-kilter. It’s times like these that going to meetings, adding more oomph to my Program becomes really important.2 One of the other great lessons I’ve learned is the importance of observing emotions and feelings as they pass.
And that last part is critical, those feelings do pass. All of them do. They may seem interminable, it might seem like there is no hope of the fog ever lifting, or of those pesky feelings of fear or loss or emptiness ever departing. But they do, in much the same manner as the happy ones. Realizing that things really were transitory allowed me to begin observing, rather than “fixing,” and by fixing, I mean obliterating with the emotional equivalent of napalm. In the absence of napalm., sauvignon blanc will do nicely.
The danger here is that the new living patterns have resurrected some of the old ghosts from the days of the galloping alcoholic, where I mediated and manipulated the events and persons of the day by drinking prodigiously. We’ve all seen this happen, someone with a lot of sobriety skids out, hits the wall and is suddenly drinking again. I don’t want that to be me, I don’t think I’m terribly close to anything like that, but the last two months have reminded me that we alcoholics and addicts tend to be very, very sensitive people and vigilance is the price of liberty. I think that sensitivity is part of the reason we end up this way.
I’ve worked very hard in sobriety to build a routine that helps square my principles and intentions with the activities of my day-to-day life—and that most definitely includes writing this newsletter. It’s been a bit of a struggle trying to accommodate the new rhythms and patterns, the new way of living that is engulfing me. I make that sound like a bad thing, it’s anything but. It’s the outside world inviting me to play, forcing me out of my cocoon.
I remarked to the very wise sponsee, during our conversation, that I had built a very cozy and somewhat impermeable cocoon. For someone with some avoidant behaviors in the quiver of personal nonsense, the well-appointed, snack-laden cocoon is a fantastic thing. And here’s the thing, that cocooning thing can serve a purpose. That safe cocoon, where I only admitted a few carefully vetted people, helped me make peace with my most significant and effective antagonist: Myself.
My years of trying to get sober were often thwarted by my inability to be alone with myself, my inability to face myself and my inability to be honest with myself. Lying about one’s sobriety to others and yourself is not an effective way to get or remain sober. The pandemic and the cocoon that I spun (with a little help) made it possible to face myself and, more importantly, make peace with myself. Actually, maybe the cocoon forced me to come to terms with myself.
It worked. I started trying to get sober when I was 50, I’m now 61. I have not 52 days, nor 52 weeks of sobriety; I have 52 months of sobriety. That is a miracle. The other miracle, the cocoon, well, it worked so well, it’s hard to leave. But it’s time to leave. Not the newsletter, the cocoon. The new gig and some other developments have kind of forced my hand and there is nothing but good at the bottom of this new milkshake. I suddenly have a pretty big task in front of me and a fair amount of pressure (the heaviest, of course self-imposed). But, most importantly, I am presented with an opportunity to go and live life. And, the very wise sponsee was exactly correct, it was time to bulk up the Program a bit—it actually feels pretty good to be doing it.
What does “bulking up” mean? A few more meetings, maybe a new in-person, regular meeting? I may have picked up a new sponsee, the timing seems strangely propitious and somewhat perfect. The chance to read the Big Book and go through the Steps again is always a remarkable journey. And like always, the things and people I need have a way of showing up at the right time, all it takes is for me to believe it’s the right time, too, and then open the door.
When my kids were little, the thing I loved the most was reading to them at night. Of course, I had my favorite books and the favorite of the favorite was and is, “Where the Wild Things Are.” You remember this, it tells the story of a boy who leave home in search of adventure, he lands on a strange island with fantastical creatures and a wild rumpus ensues
But the time comes when Max has to leave, it’s time to go home and face the life he left behind, better yet, live the life he left behind,
“So he gave up being king of where the wild things are.”
The monsters (of course, figments of Max’s imagination and childhood) bewail his departure and cried:
“please don’t go, We’ll eat you up, we love you so.” But Max said, “No.” The Wild Things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws but Max stepped into his private boat and waved goodbye.”
I’m sorry to confuse all of the metaphors, what with the cocoons and the island of the wild rumpus and the sailing to home and the big beautiful world. I’ve started realizing how much of what I thought and believed, particularly about myself, just isn’t true anymore and maybe wasn’t ever. I’m not an irreparably damged wild thing, I’m not consigned to a life of less than, I’m not marked by the scarlet “A” of alcoholism. I have a vibrant, meaningful, beautiful life staring me in the face and wondering when I’m going to wake up and get to living it.
The place that seemed so foreign, so far away for all of those years, the place it was seemingly impossible to get to, well, it turns out that’s home. It’s not a place on a map or even a state of mind; it’s a place in my heart and it goes where I go, whether it’s a trip across years of open sea or the Acela to Boston. The Program of Alcoholics Anonymous and all of the beautiful alcoholics and addicts who’ve crossed my path, gave me a map to find that place, but it seemed completely redundant, unnecessary and kind of stupid. It took me way too long to figure out it was the only map I ever needed; the one that shows the path back to myself, the life I was meant to lead and the person I was meant to be.
It turns out, that means leaving the cocoon.
Happy Friday.
yes, I know that it also stops in Providence and Baltimore and Wilmington, too, but that’s a very different trifecta.
“Times Like These” is a great song, too.
Great take on “life” after drinking. I can relate. You inspire people with your journey. Thank you. 😎
Sounds like you are ready to enjoy the next adventure, and to take it as it comes! This is the miracle of the program- alittle healthy fear, not overwhelming, new service opportunities, a right sized ego, and acceptance of this path for you - best wishes friend!