Two Years

As of this weekend, it's been two years since I've had any alcohol. Actually, I've gone longer than this in the past and don't want to make a fuss. But it's a big enough deal that the date has stayed in my memory, and seeing May 18 roll around again has me in a reflective mood.

Two years ago was a dark time. Nine months before, the bottom had dropped out, and I did what people instinctively do when they're falling: throw their arms wide to grab onto anything that might help them stay upright. One of the first things I did was give up all alcohol, because even in the chaos of those days a few things were clear:

• I had a history of using it as a tool to get through this or that difficult time. It was becoming more and more of a habit.
• If there was ever going to be a time when I could go back to drinking with happy, social moderation, this was not it.
• To drink—a depressant—on top of depression was clearly a Very Bad Idea.

Sobriety was just the start. I also volunteered, went to church, exercised, took classes, went to various support groups … threw myself into getting out, feeling better, learning and growing from the challenges…

Oh shut up.

Still, nine months out, I felt like shit. So one day I shrugged and bought a bottle of scotch. Why not? If staying sober wasn't helping, then maybe alcohol hadn't been hurting after all. Clever logic, right?

I have friends who can tell a similar story, and this is the part where they say, "Then I drank for ten more years." Apparently my level of pain tolerance (or addiction, or whatever) was nowhere near that high. I drank for two more months, and that was plenty. At least I hope it was enough, because I never want to go back there again. When I need a reminder, I tell myself, There's nothing in my life so bad that taking a drink now couldn't make it worse.

How bad was that time? Sorry, I have no exciting stories to tell about run-ins with the police. What it was instead was just the bleakest, emptiest monotony. I went to work, I did what needed to be done, but the best part of my day was the unconscious part. That's how it feels when you've given up.

The unconsciousness and numbness really were a relief. There was one evening when I wrote a letter to my ex. I'll never forget writing the word "heartbroken" … then pausing, and realizing that what I actually felt at that moment was … nothing at all. Perfectly numb. A miracle—I'll drink to that!

But the numbness didn't last. Getting and staying there meant passing through waves of raging bitterness—which were totally out of character, by the way. I'm the kind of person people describe with words like "gentle" and "so calm!" Still, two years ago, there I was sitting in a park on a lovely spring day, watching smiling families as they walked by hand in hand. And oh, how I hated them all. In my memory of that day, my vision was even shaded red by the miasma of hate.

That same weekend, I came across this paragraph in the book Alcoholics Anonymous: "It is plain that a life which includes deep resentment leads only to futility and unhappiness. To the precise extent that we permit these, do we squander the hours that might have been worth while..." To put it another way, holding resentments is like taking poison and waiting for someone else to die.

The word that stuck in my mind, and echoed there for weeks, was the single word "futility." This path that I was on? It was the definition of futility. Luckily, the unexpected fall had been so abrupt and steep that I could feel the drop and catch glimpses of what lay ahead. Long story short, I was able to throw my arms out and catch my balance again.

This time I did a few things differently. I tried to stop comparing my insides to other people's outsides (those "perfect" families in the park), and spent more time around others who'd been through really painful things and were willing to talk about it. Lo and behold, we've almost ALL been through really painful things. I could let the pain harden my heart with bitterness or try to let it soften my heart with compassion.

Finally, I let myself grieve. What with one thing and another, I had pretty much tried to skip that part. Ironically, I'd been afraid that grief (rather than "I'm over it" denial) was the force that might drive me to drink. In fact, as intense as the grief felt with all the band-aids finally ripped off, I was afraid that it would KILL me.

It didn't, of course. Two years later, I'm still here, dealing with circumstances that look pretty much the same. I can feel stuck and impatient, wanting to get somewhere better faster, wanting to turn away from the realities that are here. But turning away from the pain also means turning away from the love and longing at the source of the pain. Then I think of how things might look now if I'd continued down that bitter, escapist path, instead of facing the wave with my wits mostly intact.

Motherhood would be off the table completely—I would know better than to try taking care of someone else, and wouldn't have the mental focus to navigate all those steps and decisions anyway. My health would probably be damaged. Many good people would not be here in my life.

However down I still get now and then, the main thing I'm feeling today is grateful for the people who've been with me through this time, even the ones who are still strangers, who will never know how much they've helped just by offering a map for others to follow. Wherever it leads must be better than the dead-end path that I was on. Remembering the nihilism of those days, I picture the ancient maps that showed the sea full of serpents ("Danger! This way there be Monsters!") with the edge of the world beyond.

Back in my initial hurry-and-get-over-it phase, I kept a bulletin board in my bedroom. It was full of inspirational quotes, lists of things to do, and so on—all good stuff, just way too much of it. Today, there's a single piece of paper posted in the middle of that big, blank space:

Choices

They're two lines, which start out almost parallel and slowly diverge. They're a reminder to do the right thing in this moment, and to trust that those little actions add up, even if the big picture won't become clear until much later on.

I'll end with a quote from Parker Palmer on his own struggle with depression:

I had missed the deep meaning of a biblical teaching that I had always regarded as a no-brainer: "I set before you life or death, blessing or curse. Therefore, choose life" (Deuteronomy 30:19). Why, I wondered, would God waste precious breath on saying something so obvious? I had failed to understand the perverse comfort we sometimes get from choosing death in life, exempting ourselves from the challenge of using our gifts, or living our lives in authentic relationship with others.

I was finally able to say yes to life, a choice for which I am grateful beyond measure, though how I found that yes remains a mystery to me.

It remains mostly a mystery to me, too, with the path becoming clear only one step at a time. So I'd better keep walking.