Sympathy for the Devil
I am an addict, so I know that there is no “easy way out.” Of anything. There is a path of least resistance, but that path will have consequences a few miles down and they’ll be sitting there waiting to collect from you like some kind of mea culpa toll booth. Addicts know all about the phantom “easy way out.” What is addiction if not a blood contract with God for remarkable solace now, that you’ll have to go through Hell to get out of later (if you make it out at all)?
I am one of the lucky few that managed to escape. Last year was one of those time periods that I look back on and think, “how could I possibly have survived that?” For those of you that aren’t familiar with vacationing in Hell, let me tell you, it’s no picnic. If you just rolled your eyes at me for calling early sobriety “Hell,” shame on you. You know nothing about addiction and very little about Hell.
If I understood the Bible and Dante correctly, then I know I’m right about this: Hell is walking, without weaponry and without armor, into a cave that is simultaneously freezing cold and unbearably hot. One by one, from behind each stalagmite, emerge your most ominous fears, your most painful memories, your deepest hurts in ghoul form, and insidious demons from lore and the ancient world. In order to pass through to the other side, you must stare each one down and say, “you don’t own me.” Not just once. You must declare it to each entity, over and over, until your hands no longer shake, your voice no longer crackles, and you know without a doubt that the piece of you that they had stolen has returned to its place in your soul.
Next time you want to judge someone who is struggling with addiction, remember what it is that they have to endure in order to quit. Say a prayer if that’s how you like to handle things. Dispense some grace, regardless.
I want to be clear that this is not one of those “woe is me,” moments. I don’t allow those from addicts. You drank your woes away, now you just need to buckle down and deal with your shit. I can dispense aforementioned grace all day, but I have no grace for those “I’m sober, you’re welcome” kinds of addicts. They may be sober right now, but they won’t be sober for long. They are just pregaming their next bender with that all-encompassing attitude that the world still owes them something.
Yes, I complain about addicts as much as I defend them. Just because I know their plight doesn’t mean they don’t annoy the fuck out of me. The “still struggling” vs. “figured it out” ratio in the addict community is way off-balance. I can empathize with someone who shows up drunk to an AA meeting and still be irritated when they complain-babble endlessly and nonsensically, like they took a shot of verbal ipecac.
You might be thinking, “gee, Kara… you’ve only been sober for 14 months. Do you really have all the answers?” No. No, I do not. All I know is that my method of “sober” works well, and at my lowest lows, I don’t want to drink. I may buy an entire frozen key lime pie and an auxiliary can of whipped cream for me, myself, and I… but I don’t drink.
Not only do I not have all the answers, I am suddenly inundated with a surplus of questions. Big questions. Open-ended, existential questions, like “now what?” I was an alcoholic goblin—true. I got sober—cool. I had a drive, I had a directive, I had a goal, I met those things, I have a new life… but to what point and purpose? I’m not being rhetorical, I literally don’t know what to do next.
It seems counterproductive, but there is a great high that comes with sobriety; an adrenaline rush from the constant self-motivation of, “you can do it! You are doing it! You did it!” Like every high, it wears off. Unlike every high, you can’t just walk down the street to the sketchy ally behind the BP and buy more self-assurance.
Look, I get it. The way I was living was not sustainable. I’m not talking about being in active addiction, I’m talking about how I was living right after that. Going to bed at 3am, waking up at 5am, running 5 miles in the morning, walking another 5 miles at night, consuming only black coffee and maybe a cup of almond milk a day. I was reading and studying like a fiend, I was catching at least 2 meetings a day, and in my “spare time” I was cultivating the beginnings of this here blog. I was a machine.
But now I’m tired. I’m bored. I’m on forced hiatus from school, also known as “summer break.” I have zero drive and zero goals—why? Because those things came from within. I keep going to the well, but there isn’t any water there. I’m driving my advisor insane, because I keep trying to initiate projects and he has to politely tell me to, “chill the fuck out.” I may have ruined a relationship/friendship because I wanted more responsibility and reach than they were capable of giving me, and I could not seem to, as my advisor said, “chill the fuck out.”
I learned how to navigate class IV rapids, got used to the treachery, got cocky about my triangulating skills, and became a chest-pounding gorilla that yells, “bring it on!” Now my skinny ass is firmly planted on this blow-up innertube, drifting down a lazy river, as if this kiddie-ride is going to satiate me somehow.
Anyone who has been an addict knows that the sober highs are high, and the sober lows are really fucking low. I was prepared for that. I embraced that, actually. I was so tired of numbing myself with booze, that I was excited to feel again, even if what I felt was immense hurt. Few things in life are as poignant as driving around at night and hearing a song that corresponds to your emaciated soul. It hurts so goddamn good… like biting down on a mouth sore.
Why am I so afraid to feel nothing? I happily and eagerly forced myself to feel nothing for three years when I was living in a bottle like a tiny ship in an old white man’s office. Is that why I hate this so much? Because the numbness I feel from having no current directive reminds me of the numbness I felt from being drunk all the time? Am I worried that not having much around to care about will lead me back to not caring about much? I’d like to think that would be impossible, but I also used to believe that it was impossible for an aware daughter and granddaughter of alcoholics to become an alcoholic—yet, here I sit, writing my alcoholic blog, worrying my alcoholic worries, and sleeping my alcoholic sleep.
As I get progressively more stir crazy, I have to remember my worst days. These are not my worst days. Perhaps I need a checklist to remind myself that what is happening (or not happening) in my life right now is just, well, life. Have you ruined anyone’s life lately? No. Have you ruined your own life lately? No. Do you remember everything that you say and/or do? Yes. Have you recently considered suicide to be the only way to change your current situation? No. Can you picture a bright future, even if the specifics are blurry? Yes. Congratulations, you’re a human being. Take a nap, watch some “90 Day Fiancé,” and wait patiently for bigger things to transpire.
You would think that someone who just boasted a tour of duty in Hell would be fine with a period of idleness. I suppose I just thought that things would be different on the other side of Perdition. I didn’t think anything would be handed to me, but I thought that, in terms of effort vs. reward, I would have a lot of mountains to climb that were mine to choose. Now I just feel like an asshole, standing at sea level wearing a parka, hiking boots, a furry hat, and an oxygen tank, ready to ascend epic peaks that are closed for the season. I’m disappointed and I’m sweating in this ensemble.
I know that I didn’t make it through Hell for nothing, even if it feels that way at the moment. In my effort to take on the big challenges, I bunny-hopped over some of the smaller efforts that need to be made. There is an endless list of things I can do during the slack tides of life. For starters, I can help others navigate the realms of the Underworld, so that they can have the luxury of being sober and bored as Hell.
