When I’ve sat down to write recently, I feel like I have been more reflective about this journey of sobriety than overly passionate or inspirational about any one part of it. Passionate and honest were necessities when I started writing about addiction and sobriety, but I’m not sure it was ever my goal to be inspirational. I’m self-aware enough, however, to realize that to some people who read my blog, I may very well be. The cool thing about that – and the reason I knew it shouldn’t really be a goal – is that I may never know who those people are that I might have inspired. I just hope they come out of it sober or improved in some way.
That simple reflection is part of what led me to think back to the past twenty-one months and notice that there have been a couple of pretty definitive stages, plus one that I believe to exist, I just haven’t experienced it yet. And the reason I believe that third stage exists is because I’ve dreamed of it throughout the first two stages. Hell, I dreamed of it when I was an active addict, too. It exists. I know it does. And I really feel like I’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt when I get there, if I ever do. It feels just that elusive to me. And I’m really, really ready for that switch to flip because I’ve dreamed of it for so damn long.
So here are the three main sobriety stages. As I see it, anyway.
Stage 1: Depression, Apathy, Survival
Yeah, that’s three distinct dispositions in one stage, but so what. They all go together, mostly at the same time and mostly every day. For me, this was the entire first year. It lessened a little as the year wore on, but all of these emotions resided within me for easily the first year, almost like they were waiting on me to get that one year chip to say, “Well damn, I guess I can actually do this.”
Year one was almost universal depression for me, and it wasn’t always the depression of sadness for losing my two best friends, alcohol and Kodiak. The depression took MANY forms; guilt and regret, boredom, a family who didn’t yet trust me, work that was often unfulfilling, an unsure future, an ignorance for how to achieve a rediscovery of self (or self-worth, for that matter.) I was thinking clearly for the first time in two decades, and that clarity of thought painted a vastly different picture than the one I painted in my head for twenty years. My thoughts now convinced me that the last twenty years of my life f**king sucked. They were a complete waste. And the blame was completely mine. That’s a daily recipe for depression.
What came from that was apathy. But it was a weird, clear-headed apathy that felt very, very selfish. I didn’t care about work because I was too busy being depressed about my wasted twenty years. I didn’t do all I should have done with or for my family because I was too busy being depressed about my wasted two decades. It was just a selfish depression that created in me an apathy towards anything that was not an involuntary sanctum of self-absorbed indifference.
So this depression that accepted, bred, and nurtured the apathy somehow cultivated the only conviction that was actually necessary those first twelve months: survival. It was the only rational thing that made sense that first year. The only way to survive it was to not drink. It really didn’t matter that I was depressed or apathetic; it mattered that I was on the path to survival. And the only path that led there was as dry as a desert stream. There was really no choice but to take depression and apathy on that survival stroll with me.
I’ll be honest, at the end of twelve months, it actually FELT like the end of a stage. It was a milestone that a LOT of drunks never achieve. A lot of men and women die before they ever reach it. Case in point, in my first fifteen months at AA, we lost two people from my homegroup to suicide. If you had seen both of them at a meeting of thirty people and had to guess which ones would end their own lives, you would NOT have chosen them. If you had gotten to know them a little bit like I did, you REALLY wouldn’t have chosen them to be the suicidal ones. Alcoholism does not care who you are. It will screw holes through your mind until you think death is the only way to make it stop.
And I made it to a year sober. It felt like the end of something and the beginning of something else. Now I know what that “thing” was. And is. And it is very much like a prison of the mind.
Stage 2: Learning to Live Again
This one could hypothetically last the rest of my life. I hope it doesn’t, but it could. For my entire adult life up until May 28, 2017, my days and nights revolved around a dependency to both alcohol and tobacco. And when I say revolved, I mean that for twenty years I was unable to go thirty minutes without thinking about them or partaking in them. No matter what I was doing, who I was with, or what was happening in my life, addiction RULED my conscious mind. Hell, it ruled my unconscious mind, too. Probably moreso.
Learning how to live as an adult without them has been hard. No real elaboration or embellishment necessary for that statement. It’s just been hard. I may sound like a bit of a pansy in saying that, but it’s easily been the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to overcome in my life.
The list of things I did not have as a thirty-nine year old man was staggering. I didn’t have hobbies, I didn’t have many friends, I had no other passions, I had no successes, I had no self-esteem, I didn’t understand how to attain or maintain self-control, I didn’t have positive mental health, I had no real concept of what my career meant past the next day, I didn’t know how to NOT be selfish. I had a wife and two kids, sure, but I didn’t truly understand what that meant. All I knew was that it meant I was damn lucky to still have them.
But to me, I had no identity, and I think that has been the toughest part of this transition for me. I truly have no idea who I am. I’m a lot of little things, but I always had this ridiculous dream as a kid that I would achieve greatness. I’m sure all kids do, but I was sure of it. I was going to be a professional baseball player, and then a professional golfer, and then a professional singer, and then a famous writer.
There have been little dreams of greatness sprinkled in there, too, but the one thing I can defend with all of these aspirations is that dreams are a damn good thing to have, so I don’t regret them. Even though I had no ordinary dreams like, “I’m going to be the best banker I can be,” I’m still okay with the grandiose dreams. That’s just who I have always been. And even when I was drinking, and even if true greatness was never achieved, I oddly had self-confidence where I lacked self-esteem. Because of this, I knew I would at least be above average in any damn thing I did.
But am I? I don’t know the answer to that. I truly don’t know who I am or what I’m truly good at.
Am I a good teacher? Yes. Am I a great one? No.
Am I a good writer? Yes. Am I a great one? No.
Am I a good husband? Yes. Am I a great one? No.
Am I a good father? Yes. Am I a great one? No.
Am I… Shit. That’s really the entire list? That’s it? That’s all I am?
I gave up all the stupid childhood dreams long ago. I’ve aged out of most of them. They’re probably one reason I started drinking when I did. It was that first realization that “Damn, maybe I’m not going to be a professional golfer,” or “Damn, I really thought I had a chance to get published. What now?” I just drank away my sorrows and my failures. But for some reason, I never let go of this ridiculous thought that I would achieve greatness. To me, that’s just part of my human condition, and I’m actually pretty thankful that it still exists in me. I even wonder if that ambition hasn’t been the main ingredient in my survival fuel these past twenty-one months.
I knew I had to force myself to maintain that dream or I would die a drunk. I knew I had to eventually find that greatness, or else I would be left without a true identity. I guess it comes from this unreasonably positive mindset that says, “Why live if you can’t dream? Why do something at all if you don’t give it everything you’ve got? Why exist if you can’t catch a glimpse of badassery?” And when I couldn’t answer those questions, I drank. Now I can’t answer the questions OR drink.
But that’s where I sit at this stage of “Learning to Live Again.” I have no idea who I am. I have no idea what I can throw myself into. Don’t really know what my dreams are. Don’t know if I’ve ever actually glimpsed badassery. I simply have no idea what replaces addiction and becomes that “thing” that’s been hoarding my greatness and refusing to let me see it.
Because of that, it creates this odd daily existence that can only be analogized by a grown man treading water day in and day out with no sight of land. Even stranger in that analogy is that I know I’m not going to drown, I just have no idea in what direction I would like to paddle. It’s very much like prison. I’m just treading water waiting for my release date.
I just want nothing more than to swing that heavy ass door wide open and paddle with every ounce of my energy. But to where in the hell would I paddle?
Stage 3: A Love Affair With Life
It’s out there. I know it is. I see people all the time who walk through life with a confidence, passion, energy, self-esteem, and unbridled joy that I envy with all the tiny fibers of my inadequate being. I know it’s possible. It’s possible even for a recovering drunk, right?
There’s another word that belongs here, too. Contentment. That, to me, is greater than unyielding confidence, oozing passion, boundless energy, unbreakable self-esteem, and enough joy to fill entire stadiums. In my opinion, if a man can achieve contentment, all of those other things are just there. No effort is required to achieve them. They’re just so abundant and immutable that they become unnoticeable to those who likewise have achieved contentment.
For people like me, however, we notice ALL the characteristics of a man who has achieved contentment. We envy it. We envy the whole damn package. He could drive a thirty year old pickup truck with no doors, be eaten up with Hepatitis, and spend his days trying to peddle watermelons on a country corner making four dollars a day, but if he is content with his life, he has achieved his greatness. That’s enviable to me.
The thing I’ve noticed with these people, however, is that they still have dreams. Achieving contentment doesn’t mean that they’ve quit wanting to better themselves or their situation in life. It means that if they died tomorrow, the coroner would pull back the sheet and find a man who died smiling.
When I was an active alcoholic, I had this irrational thought that I was the only one in the world that walked through life unsure of their place. I existed in the world doing everything in my power to hide the insecurities. Now that I’m sober, I wonder how many people who were never addicts can relate to that. Is a supreme joy for life really, really rare? I’m beginning to think it is. Are people who lack insecurities as mythical as unicorns? I think so. But that belief just makes me want it even more. I want to be that unique. I want to be that joyous and content. I want to make truths out of those myths.
So how do I fall in love with myself and my place in this world? How do I shed the fear that tags along with insecurity? Where does this supreme confidence and self-esteem and contentment exist now? How in the hell does a man fall in love with life?
A lot of people would read that paragraph and tell me that the answer to all my queries is Jesus. That answer is fine for a lot of people, but it’s never been attainable for me. I can pray and ask him to help me figure it out, but ultimately, I am a control freak and cannot put my pursuit of happiness in the hands of an intangible belief. I mean, I’ll try again. I’ve tried it several hundred times already. But if I’m honest, I’m not counting on his help. And even if the help did come from him, I wouldn’t recognize it as such.
What’s weird is that I no longer have any reason to not love my life. I love my wife, I love my kids, I love my job, I love my house, I love food, I hate the stupid Honda Accord I’ve been driving since I had to trade my beautiful F-150 in on a minivan because a truck made no sense with three damn kids. But that’s literally the only thing in my life that I truly hate. A damn car.
I’ve struggled lately with those basic enjoyments of life like food and family, mainly because I struggle with helping raise a baby. I can handle these vibrant little humans when they get a little older; I mean, my thirteen year old and two year old are quite often the main reason I smile and laugh, but life with a baby these past six weeks has magnified the fact that I don’t really love life. I mean, I don’t hate it. I’m not suicidal. I’m not even sad or depressed for the most part.
I’m just treading water. I don’t know what my passions are. I don’t know what my goals are. I can’t even find a single dream and say, “Let’s attack that one first. We need a success.” I can’t find an answer for how to love life or how to find contentment in it or how to give my insecurities a great big f**k you salute. I’m just treading water.
But you know what? I’ll sit here and tread water for forty more damn years if it means I’m still sober. That sounds absolutely awful, but the alternative to treading water would be death for me if I went back. Treading water is better than death. But I’ll never be happy treading water. Ever. I can’t see land in any direction, but I’m getting pretty close to where I just take off swimming and hope for the best.
I just need to YOLO this sumbitch and take some chances. And when I find my big boy underwear and figure out what the hell kind of chances I want to take, I’m going to do just that!!
Told you this learning to live again shit was hard.
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