The World According to Chuck

I met a woman the other night who had been in treatment with me. Small world, although a very specific one in this case, I guess. And not all that amazing; somebody knows somebody else, we go to meetings, we’re in the same region, and so on. Not even close to a miracle, and we would know.

We barely remembered each other, since it was pretty rigidly segregated by sex, but I recognized her and she actually recalled John, from his trip up for Family Weekend. And during our conversation, she mentioned that everyone she knew from that place has relapsed.

This wasn’t much of a surprise, either. It is by far the saddest aspect of addiction and recovery, the horrible odds. Very few longitudinal studies have been done so any numbers you might hear are suspect, but they’re probably pretty dismal.

And so we can toss around the word “miracle” just for that reason alone and feel justified; the odds were against us, and yet here we are.

There’s a randomness to recovery, too, that’s a little intimidating. We spin our stories casually, go through the way it was and what happened and what it’s like now in a couple of minutes, hitting the high and low points, talking about rock bottom and moments of clarity; this is part of the liturgy of 12-step meetings.

And it’s all true, or as true as it can be, but the possibilities are daunting, at least to me. Moments can be pretty flimsy, and sometimes it all feels like chance and luck.

In my story, when I tell it, there’s always the part about the broken glass. It’s my personal metaphor of convenience, how in the last six months I stopped throwing out the empties. They multiplied, spilled over off my desk and onto the floor, and eventually I had to be careful walking in the room. Still, I cut my feet sometimes.

It’s a good story. My life had become unmanageable.

Two years ago, on August 24, 2006, I left home, went across the mountains to eastern Washington for three weeks, and I haven’t had a drink since. It doesn’t occur to me to do that, drink, but I’m aware that it could, so I do some stuff. I talk. I move. I think, meditate, walk, share, read, pray, laugh, reflect. I keep busy, and I’m scared of nothing.

Seriously.

What I have are synonyms of fear. It’s hard to explain. I feel anxiety, and nervousness, and worry and concern. I imagine all sorts of bad things, just like you do, from time to time. I just don’t feel fear. Not the way I used to, and it’s really just an attitude adjustment. What’s the worst that can happen? we say, and some of us can say it easily, because we know the answer. Been there, done that.

I doubt there’s anyone who knows me well who wouldn’t tell you I’m a pretty different person, two years out. I act differently, I look different, I do different things. I’m happy. I’m calmer. I’m more at peace, I love more deeply, I care more passionately, I feel more intensely, I hope more fervently and I am more cynical in a million different ways, because I know the odds now.

I see the glass, in other words, not as half full or half empty, but as half broken. There’s danger there but also possibilities. Some things can be fixed, there is a solution, but life is complicated and I have, ultimately, control only of myself. I’m doing the best I can, too.

That makes me a realist, I guess, but mostly I’m just grateful for the grace I see every day, including those who are still suffering. I can’t help but see them. They fight compulsions of all kinds, and it shows if you know what to look for. Too talkative, too quiet, too nervous, too calm. They pace outside bars, they eat while they walk, they scratch lottery tickets before they get out the door, and they remind me of me.

I wish them the best but I know the worst that can happen, and mostly I just watch them, and if I catch them walking oddly through the world, limping, lurching and stumbling, sometimes I wonder if it’s only because their feet are bleeding.