It’s Monday October 8, 2018. There are about 5 minutes left
in the day that marks yet another 24 hours that I focused on just the 24 in
front of me. I woke up with just this day, and I’ll soon go to sleep with just
this day. God willing, I’ll do it again tomorrow.
I’ve been doing this — living one day at a time — for 11 years. Yep, today I celebrate 11 years of sobriety.
When I woke up early in the morning October 8, 2007 I literally felt like the world, or at least my part in it, was ending. I was lost. Anxious. Afraid. I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t smell. Couldn’t taste. Mostly, I couldn’t feel any of the bliss that we’re all born with that I somehow had lost. I didn’t realize it, but years of consuming alcohol had taken its toll on my mind, my body and my soul. Something had to give. So I did.
I surrendered on that day 11 years ago. I was finished running. I was finished fighting. Finished hiding. And I was willing to do whatever it took to get well. So I embarked on a journey unlike any other I had taken to that point. I got sober. In the first year the days seemed to take months. I often simply tried to focus on just making it from one hour to the next. Sometimes one minute to the next.
I wish I could tell you this 11th year has been a cakewalk. It hasn’t. It, much like year one, has come with some serious ups-and-downs. Highs-and-lows. Life on life’s terms, as they say in recovery rooms. But through it all, through the first year and the years in between and through this 11th year, I’ve managed to stay afloat and to continue down a path of faith. Faith that I am OK. That things are OK. And that my God has it all under control. The surrender I make today has much more understanding behind it than the surrender I made 11 years ago. I've grown. It’s called Hope.
My journey has taught me to appreciate all that life offers every day. The smiles of my children, the bumblebees in the flowers, the drops of dew on the end of a pine needle. It might sound hokey, but it’s true. Awareness is an amazing thing. Simple and profound.
This journey taught me to laugh more freely. Not just a token laugh. This is heartfelt laughter. Laughter that sounds like gratitude and feels like heaven. And, my journey has taught me how to cry more freely. I never realized that all emotions shape us. Sure, we all love to laugh. But, are we also willing to be sad? Before I got sober, I ran from my sadness. It didn’t feel normal to be sad. It didn’t seem right. But it is right. It’s pure. And it’s necessary. Feeling it can and does promote healing.
I’ve been doing this — living one day at a time — for 11 years. Yep, today I celebrate 11 years of sobriety.
When I woke up early in the morning October 8, 2007 I literally felt like the world, or at least my part in it, was ending. I was lost. Anxious. Afraid. I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t smell. Couldn’t taste. Mostly, I couldn’t feel any of the bliss that we’re all born with that I somehow had lost. I didn’t realize it, but years of consuming alcohol had taken its toll on my mind, my body and my soul. Something had to give. So I did.
I surrendered on that day 11 years ago. I was finished running. I was finished fighting. Finished hiding. And I was willing to do whatever it took to get well. So I embarked on a journey unlike any other I had taken to that point. I got sober. In the first year the days seemed to take months. I often simply tried to focus on just making it from one hour to the next. Sometimes one minute to the next.
I wish I could tell you this 11th year has been a cakewalk. It hasn’t. It, much like year one, has come with some serious ups-and-downs. Highs-and-lows. Life on life’s terms, as they say in recovery rooms. But through it all, through the first year and the years in between and through this 11th year, I’ve managed to stay afloat and to continue down a path of faith. Faith that I am OK. That things are OK. And that my God has it all under control. The surrender I make today has much more understanding behind it than the surrender I made 11 years ago. I've grown. It’s called Hope.
My journey has taught me to appreciate all that life offers every day. The smiles of my children, the bumblebees in the flowers, the drops of dew on the end of a pine needle. It might sound hokey, but it’s true. Awareness is an amazing thing. Simple and profound.
This journey taught me to laugh more freely. Not just a token laugh. This is heartfelt laughter. Laughter that sounds like gratitude and feels like heaven. And, my journey has taught me how to cry more freely. I never realized that all emotions shape us. Sure, we all love to laugh. But, are we also willing to be sad? Before I got sober, I ran from my sadness. It didn’t feel normal to be sad. It didn’t seem right. But it is right. It’s pure. And it’s necessary. Feeling it can and does promote healing.
Resist, and it
persists.
My sobriety really isn’t about drinking or not drinking. Sure, I can’t — and honestly have no desire — to drink. The juice quit working its magic long ago for me. The obsession to drink was removed from me the day I stopped, and I’m beyond grateful for that. What this is about is vulnerability. A re-entry into life. An end to the emotional hideout. A step toward the unfamiliar. A gigantic leap.
In recovery, we often discuss “surrender” and “letting go.” That doesn’t mean I throw my hands up in the air and give up. To the contrary, it means I throw my hands up in the air and ask my higher power, my God, to point me in the right direction. Vulnerability. It means I throw my hands up toward the sky and ask my God to fill that void in my heart. Vulnerability. It means I’m willing to give up my power in return for a greater power granted to me by my God. Vulnerability. There’s real strength in vulnerability. Give it a shot sometime.
I recently attended Recoveryfest 2018, an all-day concert event where nearly 10,000 people gathered to enjoy music, friendship, hope and recovery. The popular rapper Macklemore performed, as did the fast-rising group Fitz and the Tantrums. Macklemore spoke repeatedly and passionately about recovery being the most beautiful element of his life. Michael Fitzpatrick, lead singer of Fitz and the Tantrums, actually broke down and cried on stage while he was talking about his 17 years of sobriety. He was overcome with gratitude.
My sobriety really isn’t about drinking or not drinking. Sure, I can’t — and honestly have no desire — to drink. The juice quit working its magic long ago for me. The obsession to drink was removed from me the day I stopped, and I’m beyond grateful for that. What this is about is vulnerability. A re-entry into life. An end to the emotional hideout. A step toward the unfamiliar. A gigantic leap.
In recovery, we often discuss “surrender” and “letting go.” That doesn’t mean I throw my hands up in the air and give up. To the contrary, it means I throw my hands up in the air and ask my higher power, my God, to point me in the right direction. Vulnerability. It means I throw my hands up toward the sky and ask my God to fill that void in my heart. Vulnerability. It means I’m willing to give up my power in return for a greater power granted to me by my God. Vulnerability. There’s real strength in vulnerability. Give it a shot sometime.
I recently attended Recoveryfest 2018, an all-day concert event where nearly 10,000 people gathered to enjoy music, friendship, hope and recovery. The popular rapper Macklemore performed, as did the fast-rising group Fitz and the Tantrums. Macklemore spoke repeatedly and passionately about recovery being the most beautiful element of his life. Michael Fitzpatrick, lead singer of Fitz and the Tantrums, actually broke down and cried on stage while he was talking about his 17 years of sobriety. He was overcome with gratitude.
These were goose-bump moments for me. These men, these musicians have “made it.” They have money, fame, prestige … so much of what mainstream society seems to cherish. But, both of these sober men let themselves be completely vulnerable on stage in front of the massive crowd on a beautiful night in Rhode Island. They wore their emotions on their sleeves ... and on their hearts, proclaiming sobriety as the most beautiful gift they’ve received.
You see, the disease of alcoholism is chronic, progressive, and fatal if you don’t treat it. If you don’t treat it, it will kill you. I celebrate my 11 years today with gratitude and cheer. But I also celebrate it with a heart that is heavy in the loss of three friends who died from this disease this past year. These were good humans just trying to be, and for one reason or another that just wasn’t possible for them. The disease reached the fatal stage for Don, Melissa and David, all gone far too soon.
The Spirituality of Imperfection, a book written by Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketchum, reminds me of my limitations as a human trying to be, and as a person in recovery. It reminds me that I’m not absolute. I don’t have all the answers. I am fallible. It is these such things that point to my imperfections. And it is those imperfections that provided me with a glimpse of my spirituality.
Remember my comments above about vulnerability and how there
is great strength in it? When I become vulnerable I become open to a spirituality that
cannot be defined, explained, or captured in a bottle. It can only be
experienced. That spirituality is the cornerstone of my life. And it is so
strong. It has great strength.
The Spirituality of Imperfection explains addiction as an anxious determination to take control, to be in charge. That in itself reveals the failure of spirituality. I tried to fix what I thought was wrong with me. I tried to take control of the hole in my heart. I tried to find some magic in a bottle. And the hole in my heart remained an open wound.
But there never was anything wrong with me. I simply had a void in my life, and that void was spirituality. When I stopped drinking, when I let go, when I became vulnerable, the hole in my heart filled. My God would have it no other way.
This is my journey. This is my pilgrimage. It’s not a straight shot from one place to the other. There aren’t many clear roads void of obstacles. There aren’t any flat soft paths covered with rose petals. A pilgrimage isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be. The discomfort is burned into it. Therein lie the stories.
The Spirituality of Imperfection explains addiction as an anxious determination to take control, to be in charge. That in itself reveals the failure of spirituality. I tried to fix what I thought was wrong with me. I tried to take control of the hole in my heart. I tried to find some magic in a bottle. And the hole in my heart remained an open wound.
But there never was anything wrong with me. I simply had a void in my life, and that void was spirituality. When I stopped drinking, when I let go, when I became vulnerable, the hole in my heart filled. My God would have it no other way.
This is my journey. This is my pilgrimage. It’s not a straight shot from one place to the other. There aren’t many clear roads void of obstacles. There aren’t any flat soft paths covered with rose petals. A pilgrimage isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be. The discomfort is burned into it. Therein lie the stories.
And it is through storytelling, and story listening, that we
really begin to find ourselves. We find our souls. We find that lost bliss. We
belong to each other.
I could have simply told you that today I celebrated 11 years of sobriety. But, that doesn’t do justice to the pilgrimage that was, is and always will be for me. Where's the adventure? I need to tell my story to you. I need to hear your stories, too. For it is then and only then that we can at last burst from the seams of our souls, exhale and shout, “This is who I am!”
If only for one day. One effin’ day at a time, baby.
I could have simply told you that today I celebrated 11 years of sobriety. But, that doesn’t do justice to the pilgrimage that was, is and always will be for me. Where's the adventure? I need to tell my story to you. I need to hear your stories, too. For it is then and only then that we can at last burst from the seams of our souls, exhale and shout, “This is who I am!”
If only for one day. One effin’ day at a time, baby.
