It’s late. This time of day has recently become ‘outside my
comfort zone’ and it’s also a time when I don’t normally write (my girlfriend
says that 9pm is only late for old people) , but I had to open up the laptop
because I have a feeling of jubilation that I need to share.
For years now I’ve been writing out my story, both from my
past and as it becomes my present. For years I have been going to meetings and
sharing little bits of my life with friends and strangers, but I’ve never had
the opportunity to sit down in front of a group and lay it all out there in one
shot. Tonight I had that chance.
A couple weeks back I was invited by a fellow in recovery to
bring a meeting into a treatment center and share my experience, strength, and
hope with some people new to recovery. Tonight I went with three other men to a
facility and got to tell my story without the aid of a computer screen or rehearsal,
and I got to hear the stories of the other guys with me.
It all took place in a cafeteria in front of what I
estimated to be 70 guys, some of whom had only a few days of sobriety behind
them, and some of them likely in their first attempt and changing their lives. The
time came and all became quiet. I spoke for 15 minutes on my life: what was it like, what happened, and what is it like now.
Gratitude in action. This is a phrase that I refer to often
in my life because it means a lot to me. What it boils down to is that I am so
grateful for the life that I have and live now—because it used to be a pile of shit
and I couldn’t function or take care of my basic hygiene and I couldn’t control
how much of any intoxicating substance I ingested—that I have to share with
others how I got out of it all. The saying goes, “We can only keep what we have
by freely giving it away.” Well we can’t just say that we have to live it. I
want others that are suffering to know there is hope; I want them to see
somebody who has hurt, who has been down in the depths of depravity, now living
a functional life full of fun, love, and sanity. I want them to know there are
people here to help. And it’s important that I tell them how I got to where I
am, which includes a lot of painful memories.
These 70 gentlemen were all much closer to the pain than I
am, and sometimes it helps me to see where I was just a few years ago. It works
for me, too, this gratitude thing. It’s funny, one of the guys that came with
to speak, I had never met, but he had been through the C.I.P. program that I
went through in prison. So had a number of the guys that were in the crowd, I
had even been in Moose Lake with one of them.
This whole thing, it’s just so much bigger and more powerful
than I am. Some of these guys had only days without a drink or a drug, but for
an hour, we all sat around in a room and shared together a bond that cannot be
found anywhere other than in the rooms of A.A. 70 men so unique and socially diverse
that you would never see them conversing in a normal setting unless they were
family. We all have something in common just as influential as a familial bond:
pain. We have been through the wringer, and we want something better.
It’s sad to know that all of them will not succeed, but some
of them will. And that is why I do this. I didn’t write this post to tell you
what a great job I did telling my story, or that I saved the lives of
struggling addicts. I wrote this post for
the struggling addict. I know you’re out there, and I want you to know that
we are here for you. I am here, and I have been there. You do not have to walk
alone.
