Good ol' Karl

I sauntered into my weekly recovery meeting last night and sat down next to a scruffy, bearded guy wearing a ball cap.  When the meeting concluded, he turned to me and offered his hand.  It was then I realized that he was a former sponsee of mine... we'll call him "Karl."  I hadn't recognized him.  He had dropped off the face of the planet.  It was good to see him.  After the meeting was over, we stood around and chatted for awhile.

The last time I saw Karl was about six months back.  He had checked into the local Salvation Army rehab and asked me to be his sponsor.  While walking him through the steps, two things became clear:  1. Karl was walking the sobriety path more for his wife and children than himself.  This is a dangerous road for anybody, since you MUST tackle sobriety for yourself, first and foremost, or you will likely fail.  2. Karl was a runner.  That is, when the going got tough, Karl got going.  And before his time was up in rehab, run he did.  One day, Karl was just gone.  No phone call, no note... just gone.

No skin off my nose, happens all the time.  I went about my business, giving only the occasional and brief pause to wonder on Karl's whereabouts.  Sufficed to say, I didn't lose any sleep over it.

Last night, during our conversation, Karl relayed to me what I had already known... he had relapsed.  Bad.  He stopped going to meetings, which led to using, which led to problems at home and in his marriage.  What does Karl do when things get tough?  Yep, he runs.

Karl found himself sequestered in a flea-bag motel room, tweaking hard on meth and binging on Internet pornography.  Just prior to running out of money, sleepless nights and a speed-soaked brain had given way to hallucinations by way of "the people in the trees."  He landed on the street, sleeping in the backseat of his '97 Honda Accord, where he currently resides.

"I can't believe my life has come to this," he said, on the verge of tears.  "This is not me.  It's not who I am." I suggested he consider checking himself back into rehab, which was met with a decisive, "Never!"

I followed up with a simple question; one which I have asked so many people so many times before, "To what lengths are you willing to go to get your life back?"

His answer:  "I don't know, but not that."

I was done.  There was nothing left to say.  So sad.  Karl had lost everything: loving wife, beautiful children, job, house, everything.  He was willing to go to any lengths to get high, but not to get his life back.  That's not stupidity, folks.  That's insanity.

There but for the Grace of God...