March 18, 2006

What has it meant for me, this recovery journey?

Seven and a half years ago, when I was consuming four liters of wine a night,
still working, still keeping my obligations -- the quintessential "functional
alcoholic" I was truly miserable. Not a bad person, mind you, still very
compassionate and kind when it came to other people and their problems, but
quite oblivious to my own.

When the time came to stop, when my body said "enough," my mind didn't really
want to follow at first. Why? Because I had built myself a wall against reality,
a mechanism for numbing myself, a suit of armor against pain. That suit of armor
had to rust and fall away from me, or death would have come quickly. So often,
my mind would scream to have separation from inevitable feelings that being in
reality brings: day to day hurts, frustrations, longings, things that people who
aren't addicted to substances cope with on a daily basis and survive.

Did this make me weak, or a bad person, or unable to live in the real world? No,
it meant merely that I had not developed the tools I needed to cope in healthy
ways. That I had learned how to get numb and survive by not feeling. Feeling
wasn't pleasant. Feeling could mean disappointment and sadness and grief.
Emotionally, I had never learned to deal with pain on its own, stark terms.

I learned, though. At first, I learned out of necessity, because the drunken
armor was no longer an option. Gradually, necessity turned to adjustment,
adjustment to acceptance and acceptance to a level of comfort with things
painful and sad.

I cried a great deal. I grieved this "friend" of mine, alcohol, who'd shielded
me from so much, or so I thought. I longed for its warmth and comfort at first.
But I came to realize, after quite some time, that it was no friend at all, or
only a very superficial, false one, that would not only harm me, but kill me in
the long run.

The grieving was a natural part of the letting go of the suit of armor. It was a
natural course of accepting life. It subsided, and after awhile was no more than
a memory of growth. Painful growth, but growth nonetheless.

I now know, after seven and a half years without my armor, without my friend
alcohol, how to survive life and enjoy it. How to deal with things that are
frightening and painful and unpleasant. How to accept that which I cannot
control.

When my father died on April 19, 2005, I thought I would lose my mind with
grief. I didn't think I could live through losing him without numbing myself to
what was the worst emotional pain I have ever endured. But I did. And I know
that he would have been proud of me for standing up to reality and saying "no"
to numbness. I know that he was smiling from wherever he is now, and saying,
"Susan, you did well."

I have done well. All of us can do well. It takes time, patience, and support.

Susan