If I Don't Practice a Program, Am I Still in Recovery?

I’m a fairly confident woman. I’m pretty enough. I’m well educated. I have the tangible things that others long for, a husband, children, a little bit of money. I’m a Christian woman. I try to do the right things in life. I credit Jesus Christ with my recovery, if I can call it that. The one area of uncertainty in my life is my recovery. I’m not in recovery; not in the traditional sense at least.

About two years ago I was absolutely drowning in Vodka. A handle a day isn’t really something the human body agrees with. My liver was enlarged and failing. My marriage was crumbling. My children were very young and becoming emotionally hardened with each passing minute. My looks had long ago left me. My spirit was crushed. I was an empty vessel. But let’s throw it back to 2002 first.

They say alcohol addiction is a progressive disease; no truer words were ever spoken. My drinking started off “normal” enough; I attempted to limit my binge drinking to only on the weekends. Funny thing about alcoholics, the term “weekend” tends to include Thursdays and always Sunday. Needless to say, the containment didn’t really stick. Before I knew it I was a regular at every bar in town and frequently blacking out. I was a party girl; I could drink almost anyone under the table. That was a badge I wore with delight. I enjoyed the scene with no hesitation. Late nights, loud music, cigarette smoke, and drinks. Always drinks. I was in my early 20’s, the time in a woman’s life when she begins to really individualize. I wore little clothes, I did big things and I drank… a lot.  I was not in school; I was a cocktail waitress as a trendy destination restaurant. I blew through my cash as fast as I could make it. I was a spirited, unapologetic, loudmouth, gorgeous, alcoholic. Unbeknownst to myself, I had set in motion my alcohol addiction. It was fast and it was furious.

Late nights, loud music, cigarette smoke, and drinks. Always drinks. I was in my early 20’s, the time in a woman’s life when she begins to really individualize. I wore little clothes, I did big things and I drank… a lot.  I was not in school; I was a cocktail waitress at a trendy destination restaurant. I blew through my cash as fast as I could make it. I was a spirited, unapologetic, loudmouth, gorgeous, alcoholic. Unbeknownst to myself, I had set in motion my alcohol addiction. It was fast and it was furious.

As the story goes, I drank my way through some years. I achieved some things. Eleven years ago I got married to a kickass man. But, generally speaking when one spouse drinks the other is often right behind. My husband is not an alcoholic but he definitely took a few for the team. Great memories were made. The kind of memories you look back on and you can literally feel a warm feeling in your heart for just a second. It’s almost like a flashback to when you’re a little kid, laying in the sun.

The sky was so blue, the clouds an electric white and the warmth of the sun spread through your whole being. We were falling in love, and falling apart simultaneously. Passionate love was made. Grand fights were had. In the midst of the madness, three perfect children were born.

Two years ago there was an incident. Isn’t there always an incident?

When you are in your addiction there is this resounding feeling of inadequacy and immense guilt that even the sunniest days cannot lift off your soul. It’s like there is a lump in your throat and you can’t quite catch your breath. One stiff drink seems to wash the lump down and all the sudden the airway is clear and you can breathe again. Well this day, April 15, 2014 I had fucked up bad. Immense guilt would be an understatement for this day. I hurt someone.

I woke up the next day. My head was throbbing; the beat of my broken heart was pulsing through my temples. I was clad in my vomit stained tie-dyed shirt I had worn the day before. There was dried blood under my fingernails and black mascara smeared down my ugly face. I looked like a monster. I felt even worse. I was hunched over the bathroom sink, unable to fully stand. My head was swirling with dizziness and bleak remembrances of yesterday. Nauseous, dirty, and alone I stood, a pillar of shame. In one horrible glimpse, I recalled what had happened. It was not a nightmare. It was real. I had hurt her.

I went to rehab that day. Rehab is a strange, carpeted, jungle. Only the strong survive, but that’s the catch. Everyone is broken. I don’t have a keen memory of that night or the following days. I had not eaten that day. Extreme hangovers coupled with resounding disappointment tends to curb your appetite. I was angry, ecstatic, scared, devastated and my heart was still broken. They walked me down the long hallway to my room. I started smoking that day.

Raw, real, and uncut are just a few words to describe rehab. It’s a bizarre thing for me though. I look back on my 29-day stint with fond memories and a sense of peace. So many tears and so much deep, real laughter. Addiction steals your joy. The only joy you may have is chemical induced and fake/altered joy. I laid on my plastic covered, twin bed laughing so hard tears were pouring down my face. In THAT moment, in THAT place, on THAT day, God changed my path.

Chanel was her name, my roommate. Looking back, she wasn’t even all that funny; but that night we laughed and celebrated life from deep within our broken souls. It was nice. She was discharged the next day.

I made the choice in rehab not to have visitors. I was only 30 minutes from my home, but I felt I needed the space to breathe and focus. I never wanted to see my kids, partly because I knew that seeing them would make it harder to stay, partly because I had heard there were dirty needles hidden in the sand of the volleyball court. I stayed out of the sand. Rehab is no place for children anyway.

The fourth day I was there I helped save an eighteen-year-old girl’s life. She was dying of a heroin overdose. I had never seen heroin in my 33 years on this Earth. I also steered clear of the bush where folks were rumored to have sex. By my second week there I was voted the Mayor. The Mayor of Crazy Town.

After 29 days in the joint, I was sprung. My counselor insisted I was ready to fly! I was, once again terrified. What if the life I had in my now foggy, yet sober head was not the life I had in actuality? What if my husband was awful and I drank until I blacked out for four years because he was the monster? What if my kids were not in fact respectable, cool little humans? I wept the day I went home.

It’s a weird, dreamlike state returning from rehab. I was grateful for all the help that allowed my family to function without me there. Yet, there was a hint of jealousy and distaste. In my case, my best friend stepped in. That’s annoying. She was picking my kids up after school, doing homework, making them dinner. She had dressed them on Easter Sunday and braided their hair. Again, grateful yet not really. Someone doing my job and doing it better than my disease allowed me to do it. One day, shortly after I got home she said to me, “since you don’t drink anymore do you want to start smoking pot.” We are no longer friends. Not only because of that incident but her inability to realize the importance of what I had just been through haunted me.

What I had just been through. I remember standing on the basketball courts in the yard of the treatment center. I had my earbuds in. It was a beautiful sunny day; April in Texas. I was kicking a rock around, obviously I couldn’t play volleyball, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. This is really happening. Holy shit. All I could ask myself was how did I get here. The physical dependency of alcohol addiction brought me to my knees. I remember feeling such a great loss in that moment. That was the time in my recovery that I was on Step 7.

When I first got home I went to meetings. I have three chips that I hold dear to my heart. I carry them around in my wallet as a constant reminder that I am not above this thing. I went to my one-year reunion at the treatment center. It was amazing. Unforgettable. I got on stage and told my story. Recovery is such a venerable yet empowering aspect to one’s identity. That day a wonderfully, broken, single mom asked me to be her sponsor. I declined. I have never had a sponsor, clearly I could not be hers. I like to personify alcoholism as a hungry lion, lying in wait. Just when you think it may be asleep; it will rip your head off. I chose not to drink. I make that choice every day. Some days are harder than others but each day the decision becomes less of a decision and more of a lifestyle.

I have never had a sponsor, clearly I could not be hers. I like to personify alcoholism as a hungry lion, lying in wait. Just when you think it may be asleep; it will rip your head off. I chose not to drink. I make that choice every day. Some days are harder than others but each day the decision becomes less of a decision and more of a lifestyle.

Recovery is a system. It is a well-oiled machine and in order to be successful you must fully engage in certain aspects of traditional recovery; at least that’s what I was told.  You must be working the steps; you are to find a sponsor; the sponsor is your lifeline. You must attend as many meetings as you possibly can, come hell or high water. They have online meetings, if you must. 90 meetings in 90 days they instructed. You must read the literature. The literature is in fact particularly useful, I do appreciate The Big Book. I was told during my hot seat that my “liability” was my disdain for AA meetings. I was told, my lack of enthusiasm towards the meetings would unavoidably cause my relapse.

I often feel transparent and uneasy when asked about drinking. I am not ashamed nor am I embarrassed about my “recovery.” I’m just left unsure about what it is I am doing. Today, I am sober for 604 days (I have a counter on my phone, it is not something I keep up with.) I am absolutely proud and humbled by each passing day. I appreciate the process of AA and respect the hell out of it. It is proven to work. But what if you don’t go? And you don’t “work the steps?” What if you don’t do any of the strategies early recovery enforces? Are you still in recovery? I’m always left wondering, since I don’t practice any sort of “recovery” am I still in recovery?

I feel transparent because the alcoholic within me always feels insecure. The shame of the lies and the vodka streaming through my veins are never an afterthought. The rippling heat and the pulsating temples of the alcohol never cease to exist. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am no longer hiding anything. I must remind myself that my wounds are healing. I must remind myself to look them in the eyes. I have earned it.

I don’t subscribe to AA. Although, I credit step number 7. Number 7, without a doubt, saved my life. “Humbly ask God to remove our shortcomings.” I asked him to remove my obsession, as just for today he did.

LaMinda