It took me awhile to admit I had a problem, even after I walked into the rooms of Recovery. Seems kinda counter-intuitive, seeing as how I was standing in the middle of an AA meeting of my own volition. Nonetheless, the entirety of my early sobriety was spent in the practice of convincing myself I WASN'T an alcoholic. Naturally, I had to spend time with the drunks in order to prove I wasn't one of them.
So, I sat in the back of the hall, in what was affectionately labeled "death row" by the regulars, and cradled my gavel. Throngs of low-lifes and losers paraded past the podium, expounding on tales of addiction and woe. They spoke of black-outs and benders, bankruptcy and rock-bottom. Some recalled their inability to sleep through the night without frequent visits to the liquor cabinet, others chimed sad recollections of hidden bottles scattered like so many Easter-eggs around the house. I narrowed my eyes, graciously withholding judgement. Each pathetic story confirmed I was nothing like them.
My experiences were at the opposite end of the spectrum from these people and I excelled at locating the differences. I never once blacked out (I remembered every pathetic moment) and didn't experience the sporadic runs of drunkenness known as "benders" (I was drunk all the time). I didn't drink every day (only every night) and didn't have to wake-up at 3am for a drink (because I didn't pass out until 4am). These people needed a drink as soon as their feet hit the ground in the morning, which didn't apply to me (because I was still severely poisoned from the night before) and I certainly didn't hide full bottles of booze around my house (only empty ones). Clearly, I was NOT an alcoholic!
I expertly identified ALL of the differences between myself and "those people." My biggest problem was that I did not acknowledge any of the similarities. My early sobriety became greatly hindered by my inability to recognize how much I had in common with the people who were most like me. These marvelous, miraculous souls stood before me as mirrors, reflecting my own characteristics back at me, polished. I didn't like what I saw.
It's easy to look past our brothers and sisters who struggle with addiction because we can't see around the differences. We have nothing in common with them, right? Truth is, 90% of the population struggles with some kind of debilitating disorder. It may not be drugs or alcohol, but it's something. Sex, food, rage, depression, Netflix binge-fests of The Walking Dead... we all have a purge-valve we use to silence the voices and turn down the volume of our pain. The question becomes, "How is it affecting our lives?" and, "Do we recognize it as a problem?" If we do, the 12 Steps will help, no matter the condition.
My poison was alcohol. I drank myself into a coma every night because I was afraid of facing the noise inside my head. Had I looked for the similarities in my story as compared to my brothers and sisters in Recovery, rather than the differences, I'd have saved myself months of grief.
Are you so different from that homeless guy holding a "will work for food" sign at the bottom of the freeway off-ramp? He's not stupid, he's not lazy, he's not evil... he's sick. Sometimes he's an addict, sometimes he's mentally ill, usually both. Remember, most of us are just one paycheck away from standing next to him.
Musings on Recovery and God
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Monday, March 23, 2015
Me, Myself, & I
Heroism is good, cowardice is bad. Philanthropy is good, thievery is bad. Honesty is good, lying is bad. Virtue is good, infidelity is bad. Charity is good, greed is bad. Self-sacrifice is good, murder is bad. No one educates us on these facts, they come tattooed to the very fabric of our DNA as we slide from the womb.
What's the difference between a hero and coward, philanthropist and thief, honest man and liar? One puts his own self-interests and desires first, the other puts his interests and desires last. One is selfish, the other selfless. Can you guess which is which?
To be fair, we can hardly blame the cowardly, thieving, liar for his lowly behavior. After all, our base nature encourages self preservation. We naturally push aside the needs of others in order to satisfy our own desires in the pursuit of self-preservation. Natural selection, survival of the fittest, thinning the herd, weeding out the weak and stupid... nature, baby! "No one's gonna look out for me, so I gotta get mine! Look out for #1!" has become the battle-cry of the civilized western mind.
Most people are able to disguise these behaviors and coalesce into the status-quo, as their behaviors blend with the acceptable expectations of society as a whole. Unfortunately for us addicts, our selfish desires fall well beyond the lines of decent standards set forth by the global community. Were that our addictions were for money, power, or fame we'd be fine. Instead, we crave an escape via chemical means, dropping us into the lower echelons of common culture. Granted, we apply the self-same defense mechanisms to survive, but it matters little. We're just the lowly "drunks & junkies" they step over on their way into the liquor store.
Now, if you were to ask us our opinion of ourselves, that's quite a different story! We're legends in our own minds, prophets unappreciated in our own villages, rebels without applause. We're geniuses! We've got everything figured out. Sure, we may be a bit selfish at times, but we know what's best for us. Our survival instincts have kept us alive so far, so we must be doing something right. Step aside and don't tell us how to live our lives!
Here's the rub: It's our best practices, best thought processes and decision making skills that landed us where we are today - wrecked and broken. Right or wrong, our selfish behaviors have offended those around us and separated us from society. Our stubborn pride has made us blind to the fact that we have been pushed out of the herd. And guess what... Those outside the herd are the first to be picked off by predators. Our survival instincts, to which we give so much credit, have put us directly in the path of predation. While treading hard toward self-preservation, we have inadvertently set ourselves up for extinction.
Do we want to survive? Our survival instincts, though proven successful in the past, have become a detriment. We must humble ourselves and admit that our thought processes require change. Most important, we must admit that we can't do it alone, we need others.
Get in the middle of the herd or get picked off at the edges.
What's the difference between a hero and coward, philanthropist and thief, honest man and liar? One puts his own self-interests and desires first, the other puts his interests and desires last. One is selfish, the other selfless. Can you guess which is which?
To be fair, we can hardly blame the cowardly, thieving, liar for his lowly behavior. After all, our base nature encourages self preservation. We naturally push aside the needs of others in order to satisfy our own desires in the pursuit of self-preservation. Natural selection, survival of the fittest, thinning the herd, weeding out the weak and stupid... nature, baby! "No one's gonna look out for me, so I gotta get mine! Look out for #1!" has become the battle-cry of the civilized western mind.
Most people are able to disguise these behaviors and coalesce into the status-quo, as their behaviors blend with the acceptable expectations of society as a whole. Unfortunately for us addicts, our selfish desires fall well beyond the lines of decent standards set forth by the global community. Were that our addictions were for money, power, or fame we'd be fine. Instead, we crave an escape via chemical means, dropping us into the lower echelons of common culture. Granted, we apply the self-same defense mechanisms to survive, but it matters little. We're just the lowly "drunks & junkies" they step over on their way into the liquor store.
Now, if you were to ask us our opinion of ourselves, that's quite a different story! We're legends in our own minds, prophets unappreciated in our own villages, rebels without applause. We're geniuses! We've got everything figured out. Sure, we may be a bit selfish at times, but we know what's best for us. Our survival instincts have kept us alive so far, so we must be doing something right. Step aside and don't tell us how to live our lives!
Here's the rub: It's our best practices, best thought processes and decision making skills that landed us where we are today - wrecked and broken. Right or wrong, our selfish behaviors have offended those around us and separated us from society. Our stubborn pride has made us blind to the fact that we have been pushed out of the herd. And guess what... Those outside the herd are the first to be picked off by predators. Our survival instincts, to which we give so much credit, have put us directly in the path of predation. While treading hard toward self-preservation, we have inadvertently set ourselves up for extinction.
Do we want to survive? Our survival instincts, though proven successful in the past, have become a detriment. We must humble ourselves and admit that our thought processes require change. Most important, we must admit that we can't do it alone, we need others.
Get in the middle of the herd or get picked off at the edges.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
3 String Dave
A few months into my sobriety, a newcomer named David staggered into our hall. He carried around an old beat-up guitar that was missing half its strings, which earned him the moniker "3-String Dave." This kid suffered from a head-first swan dive into rock-bottom. Every inch of 3-String's persona screamed for sobriety.
One problem: David didn't know he had a problem (or more accurately, didn't want to admit it).
One night, David made a statement which was to later become my favorite "newcomer mantra." He turned to me and said, "I'm not an alcoholic. Why just the other night, I went into a bar and sat down for a drink. I told myself I would only have ONE beer and that's what I did. I had one beer and left."
I thought about this for a moment, then asked, "Why'd you leave?" David was clearly perplexed by this enquiry, so I expounded, "Why didn't you stick around, nibble on some pretzels, and watch the game?"
"Oh no," he responded. "I just wanted to prove I wasn't an alcoholic, that I could stop after one. I had one and got out of there."
I laughed, "You realize that's not normal, right? Did you have to put limits on how many cups of coffee you drank tonight? Of course not. You're not addicted to coffee."
He puffed up a bit, “I'm not addicted to beer, either. I can drink all night without a problem. It's not until the end of the night that things get out of control. It's those last couple of drinks that always do me in.”
That's like saying, "I jumped of the cliff and and fell the first ninety feet without a problem … it was that last ten feet that did all the damage." Once we commit to the first few feet, there's no going back. The first foot of free-fall, the point at which we make the decision to jump, is the one that kills us. The moment we step off the clifff, we relinquish control to gravity. Until we realize our inevitable demise lay at the beginning of the journey, rather than the end, we're doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over and over and over and over again, as David did so many times.
So it is with our disease; it's the first drink that wrecks our night, not the last. The moment we touch the alcohol to our lips, we've just stepped off the cliff. There's no going back. The battle is lost.
In my disease, like David, I was able to “control” my drinking or I was able to “enjoy” my drinking, but I was not able to “control and enjoy” simultaneously. If you have to think about controling and enjoying while drinking then you’re failing at both.
Normies don't think about how many drinks they have at a bar. They don't have to make a deal with themselves to walk away after one or two drinks, they just do it. Everyone else is an alcoholic.
One problem: David didn't know he had a problem (or more accurately, didn't want to admit it).
One night, David made a statement which was to later become my favorite "newcomer mantra." He turned to me and said, "I'm not an alcoholic. Why just the other night, I went into a bar and sat down for a drink. I told myself I would only have ONE beer and that's what I did. I had one beer and left."
I thought about this for a moment, then asked, "Why'd you leave?" David was clearly perplexed by this enquiry, so I expounded, "Why didn't you stick around, nibble on some pretzels, and watch the game?"
"Oh no," he responded. "I just wanted to prove I wasn't an alcoholic, that I could stop after one. I had one and got out of there."
I laughed, "You realize that's not normal, right? Did you have to put limits on how many cups of coffee you drank tonight? Of course not. You're not addicted to coffee."
He puffed up a bit, “I'm not addicted to beer, either. I can drink all night without a problem. It's not until the end of the night that things get out of control. It's those last couple of drinks that always do me in.”
That's like saying, "I jumped of the cliff and and fell the first ninety feet without a problem … it was that last ten feet that did all the damage." Once we commit to the first few feet, there's no going back. The first foot of free-fall, the point at which we make the decision to jump, is the one that kills us. The moment we step off the clifff, we relinquish control to gravity. Until we realize our inevitable demise lay at the beginning of the journey, rather than the end, we're doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over and over and over and over again, as David did so many times.
So it is with our disease; it's the first drink that wrecks our night, not the last. The moment we touch the alcohol to our lips, we've just stepped off the cliff. There's no going back. The battle is lost.
In my disease, like David, I was able to “control” my drinking or I was able to “enjoy” my drinking, but I was not able to “control and enjoy” simultaneously. If you have to think about controling and enjoying while drinking then you’re failing at both.
Normies don't think about how many drinks they have at a bar. They don't have to make a deal with themselves to walk away after one or two drinks, they just do it. Everyone else is an alcoholic.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Dream
I had a horrible dream last night...
I was alone, utterly alone. Don't get me wrong, there were people around, but I was too ashamed to honestly communicate with them. Every time I opened my mouth, lies bubbled out. The guilt, self-loathing and deprecation consumed me. Surely, they all saw through the deception that thinly veiled the monster before them. How could they not?
I was despicable. The idea of looking another human being in the eye made my skin crawl; nails on a chalkboard. The mistaken glance of my own reflection in a storefront window summoned the reflex aversion of my eyes, down and away. Every mirror in my home stood as a towel-covered reminder of my own despicability.
What happened to me? I remembered a time, long before, of freedom and light, with days full of color and nights filled with peace. When slumber meant, "going to sleep" at night and "waking up" in the morning, rather than, "passing out" and "coming to." When had that innocence of childhood departed? I couldn't remember it leaving. Yet, here I stood, a shell of my former self; physically, emotionally, and spiritually bankrupt. Muddled in weakness.
I hated myself. I hated each lying, loathing, fraudulent, pathetic, conniving, cowardly, disgusting inch of my singular form. My every waking moment spent fighting 'gainst the overwhelming instinct to crawl into a dark place and forfeit my own vile existence.
I was utterly alone. Entangled in a mire of despair. Sad. Dying.
When I woke up, I realized it wasn't a dream at all... It was my life 11 years ago.
I was alone, utterly alone. Don't get me wrong, there were people around, but I was too ashamed to honestly communicate with them. Every time I opened my mouth, lies bubbled out. The guilt, self-loathing and deprecation consumed me. Surely, they all saw through the deception that thinly veiled the monster before them. How could they not?
I was despicable. The idea of looking another human being in the eye made my skin crawl; nails on a chalkboard. The mistaken glance of my own reflection in a storefront window summoned the reflex aversion of my eyes, down and away. Every mirror in my home stood as a towel-covered reminder of my own despicability.
What happened to me? I remembered a time, long before, of freedom and light, with days full of color and nights filled with peace. When slumber meant, "going to sleep" at night and "waking up" in the morning, rather than, "passing out" and "coming to." When had that innocence of childhood departed? I couldn't remember it leaving. Yet, here I stood, a shell of my former self; physically, emotionally, and spiritually bankrupt. Muddled in weakness.
I hated myself. I hated each lying, loathing, fraudulent, pathetic, conniving, cowardly, disgusting inch of my singular form. My every waking moment spent fighting 'gainst the overwhelming instinct to crawl into a dark place and forfeit my own vile existence.
I was utterly alone. Entangled in a mire of despair. Sad. Dying.
When I woke up, I realized it wasn't a dream at all... It was my life 11 years ago.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Dear Sponsee
Dear Sponsee,
Before we begin this journey, there are a few things we need to get straight...
My job as your sponsor is three-fold: 1. To walk you through the steps. 2. To show you how I stayed sober. 3. To answer any questions you may have along the way. That's it.
I'm not your parole officer and I'm not your mother. In other words, I'm not here to keep tabs on you and make sure you're doing the work, that's up to you. And I'm not here to coddle you and hold your hand because 'sobriety is too hard and people are mean' (waaaaah!). This road ain't easy and nobody's going to carry you. My job is to tell you the truth about sobriety and that's what I'll do. If you're looking for an easier, softer way, check with your momma. Who knows, she may be taking on new sponsees at the moment.
To what lengths are you willing to go to stay sober? Your answer should be 'Any Lengths.' If it's not, you're probably not done yet. There's likely more drinking and using in your near future. Best to head back out, get a bit more bloodied up, and come back when you're able to honestly answer that question in the affirmative. It will NOT work otherwise.
If you don't find me compliant, if I'm not 'nice enough' for you, if I don't stand idly by and condone your faulty decisions to your satisfaction; too bad. Find another sponsor.
If you decide to relapse, guess what? Not my problem. It has nothing to do with me. Your sustained sobriety is your responsibility. The 'blame game' bears no weight in the rooms of recovery. If you decide to fall off the wagon, that's on you, alone.
I'll let you in on a little secret... your successful sobriety is not my top priority. MY successful sobriety is my top priority. I want you to succeed. But if you don't (and the odds say you won't), I'll experience a (very) brief moment of disapointment on your behalf, after which I'll go home, climb into bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and sleep like a baby.
To allow you to dictate how our relationship progresses would be a great diservice to your sobriety. So far, your BEST decision making has landed you where you are today. You don't know everything. If you did, you wouldn't need me. So take the cotton out of your ears and put it in your mouth. Sit down, shut up, and listen.
It's time to put on your big-boy pants and get to work.
Sincerely,
Your Sponsor
Before we begin this journey, there are a few things we need to get straight...
My job as your sponsor is three-fold: 1. To walk you through the steps. 2. To show you how I stayed sober. 3. To answer any questions you may have along the way. That's it.
I'm not your parole officer and I'm not your mother. In other words, I'm not here to keep tabs on you and make sure you're doing the work, that's up to you. And I'm not here to coddle you and hold your hand because 'sobriety is too hard and people are mean' (waaaaah!). This road ain't easy and nobody's going to carry you. My job is to tell you the truth about sobriety and that's what I'll do. If you're looking for an easier, softer way, check with your momma. Who knows, she may be taking on new sponsees at the moment.
To what lengths are you willing to go to stay sober? Your answer should be 'Any Lengths.' If it's not, you're probably not done yet. There's likely more drinking and using in your near future. Best to head back out, get a bit more bloodied up, and come back when you're able to honestly answer that question in the affirmative. It will NOT work otherwise.
If you don't find me compliant, if I'm not 'nice enough' for you, if I don't stand idly by and condone your faulty decisions to your satisfaction; too bad. Find another sponsor.
If you decide to relapse, guess what? Not my problem. It has nothing to do with me. Your sustained sobriety is your responsibility. The 'blame game' bears no weight in the rooms of recovery. If you decide to fall off the wagon, that's on you, alone.
I'll let you in on a little secret... your successful sobriety is not my top priority. MY successful sobriety is my top priority. I want you to succeed. But if you don't (and the odds say you won't), I'll experience a (very) brief moment of disapointment on your behalf, after which I'll go home, climb into bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and sleep like a baby.
To allow you to dictate how our relationship progresses would be a great diservice to your sobriety. So far, your BEST decision making has landed you where you are today. You don't know everything. If you did, you wouldn't need me. So take the cotton out of your ears and put it in your mouth. Sit down, shut up, and listen.
It's time to put on your big-boy pants and get to work.
Sincerely,
Your Sponsor
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Landing the Big One
I'm not much of a fisherman. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy casting a line every now and then as much as the next guy. But all in all, I find the whole exercise a bit droll. Fishing requires far more patience than I possess (I guess I'm too A.D.D.). My brother, on the other hand, is an absolute fanatic. He LOVES fishing. To be clear, when I say "fishing" I don't mean snagging a few perch off the end of a pier - I mean FISHING. We're talking about wrestling 700-1200 lb monsters from the deep blue over the course of several hours. Man-style.
When asked why he loves it so much, my brother will attempt to outline the indescribable thrill of the fight. He'll explain how bobbing around in the ocean all day, suffering hours of mind-numbing tedium, pays off the instant your reel screams to life. Man against nature. Hunter against prey.
I can relate on a whole other level. I experienced this same thrill when recently contacted by an old acquaintance from high school. Quite out of the blue, this guy (who I haven't talked to in 25 years) sent me a FB message asking if we could talk. Intrigued, I naturally picked up the phone and dialed. It wasn't long into our conversation that my old classmate, who we'll call "Fred,"admitted to reading my blog (the same one you're presently skimming) and admitted he may have a problem with alcohol.
ZZZIIIING!!! The 12-step fishing reel screamed to life - I had a live one on the line! I pulled out all the stops and tried everything in my Recovery tackle box attempting to land him into the AA boat. I explained the misery of my life as an alcoholic and let him identify with his own experiences. He'd fight and thrash, then I'd let him run on the line. Just when he thought he'd gotten away, I yanked on the pole and started reeling - I outlined my many, MANY regretful nights of drinking, but nary a single regretful day of sobriety. It was a magnificent fight!
Eventually the line snapped and he got away. But that's okay, he still has my hook in his mouth. :)
When asked why he loves it so much, my brother will attempt to outline the indescribable thrill of the fight. He'll explain how bobbing around in the ocean all day, suffering hours of mind-numbing tedium, pays off the instant your reel screams to life. Man against nature. Hunter against prey.
I can relate on a whole other level. I experienced this same thrill when recently contacted by an old acquaintance from high school. Quite out of the blue, this guy (who I haven't talked to in 25 years) sent me a FB message asking if we could talk. Intrigued, I naturally picked up the phone and dialed. It wasn't long into our conversation that my old classmate, who we'll call "Fred,"admitted to reading my blog (the same one you're presently skimming) and admitted he may have a problem with alcohol.
ZZZIIIING!!! The 12-step fishing reel screamed to life - I had a live one on the line! I pulled out all the stops and tried everything in my Recovery tackle box attempting to land him into the AA boat. I explained the misery of my life as an alcoholic and let him identify with his own experiences. He'd fight and thrash, then I'd let him run on the line. Just when he thought he'd gotten away, I yanked on the pole and started reeling - I outlined my many, MANY regretful nights of drinking, but nary a single regretful day of sobriety. It was a magnificent fight!
Eventually the line snapped and he got away. But that's okay, he still has my hook in his mouth. :)
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Only the Good...
Years ago, I worked as Executive Director for one of the largest educational theater companies in California. At any given time, we had multiple performances in production, ranging from San Diego to Sacramento, as well as repertory companies and an international touring group. In as such, I did a lot of traveling.
It was during one such production in San Diego (I believe it was "Annie") that I met a young group of actors who held a tight bond of friendship both on and off stage. One night, after rehearsal, this group of kids invited me to go for a midnight swim up at the local reservoir. Of course, I asked if this activity was illegal, which garnered a speedy "YES" in response. Without hesitation, I agreed to participate.
We arrived under the cloak of night, parked our cars on a secluded dirt road, and humped up the hill to the edge of the reservoir. Straining to see through the darkness, I could make out what looked like a guard tower jutting out of the water, about 100 yards from the shore, with power lines webbing out in all directions. My guides informed me that said tower was to be our ultimate destination.
We stripped to our shorts and dove in. Upon reaching the tower, we climbed up a ladder to a walkway which circled the circumference of the structure. Mike, a tall, dark, good looking kid, put his hand on the rail and walked me through the process. "Here's the deal," he explained. "Climb up on the rail and use the wall to balance yourself. When you're ready to jump, go for it. Just one word of warning..." His tone dropped to serious levels as he pointed to an overhead wire, "Whatever you do, DO NOT touch that wire. It's live. You'll be dead in an instant."
"Good to know," I replied. I climbed as instructed (avoiding the wire, of course) and leapt out into space, performing what can only be described as a "magnificent swan dive." As I surfaced, the kids atop the tower were going nuts, not because my dive was so impressive, but because my foot came about an inch from grazing the live-wire.
"Oh man, dude!" Mike exclaimed. "I told you to watch out for that wire! You almost got fried!"
We all shared a laugh then continued our illegal water-romp well into the warm summer evening.
A few months later I received the unfortunate news that Mike had passed away. The circumstances of his death turned out to be a bit disturbing: The group had returned to their favorite swim-hole for yet another midnight excursion. Mike climbed atop the rail and steadied himself. Just as prepped to jump, he lost his balance. Instinctively, Mike reached up and grabbed the nearest stationary object to steady himself. Unfortunately, the object he happened to grab was the live-wire.
Mike fell limp into the water below, not breathing and no pulse. The others jumped in after him and performed CPR until the paramedics arrived. Alas, there was nothing to be done. Mike was gone. The news of Mike's passing took the wind out of me. He managed to do the very thing he warned me against and lost his life for it. A tragic loss.
Sobriety is a minefield. As newcomers, we rely on those who have gone before us to point out the hazards and keep us away from relapse. All too often, those same people, who know the hazards, wind up inadvertantly stepping into lethal territoty themselves with disasterous consequences. I have seen brothers and sisters with nearly 20 years of sobriety fall into relapse time and time again.
So often we recognize the wrong road, the path not to take. We even warn others away, utilizing our own experiences. Yet time and time again, we reach up and grab that live wire, even though we know it will bring about certain demise.
Somehow, over the past 10 years, I have managed to steer many people away from that wire and avoided grabbing it myself. Many have heeded the warning, many have not.
Every time one of them falls, I hang my head and utter, "There but for the grace of God..."
It was during one such production in San Diego (I believe it was "Annie") that I met a young group of actors who held a tight bond of friendship both on and off stage. One night, after rehearsal, this group of kids invited me to go for a midnight swim up at the local reservoir. Of course, I asked if this activity was illegal, which garnered a speedy "YES" in response. Without hesitation, I agreed to participate.
We arrived under the cloak of night, parked our cars on a secluded dirt road, and humped up the hill to the edge of the reservoir. Straining to see through the darkness, I could make out what looked like a guard tower jutting out of the water, about 100 yards from the shore, with power lines webbing out in all directions. My guides informed me that said tower was to be our ultimate destination.
We stripped to our shorts and dove in. Upon reaching the tower, we climbed up a ladder to a walkway which circled the circumference of the structure. Mike, a tall, dark, good looking kid, put his hand on the rail and walked me through the process. "Here's the deal," he explained. "Climb up on the rail and use the wall to balance yourself. When you're ready to jump, go for it. Just one word of warning..." His tone dropped to serious levels as he pointed to an overhead wire, "Whatever you do, DO NOT touch that wire. It's live. You'll be dead in an instant."
"Good to know," I replied. I climbed as instructed (avoiding the wire, of course) and leapt out into space, performing what can only be described as a "magnificent swan dive." As I surfaced, the kids atop the tower were going nuts, not because my dive was so impressive, but because my foot came about an inch from grazing the live-wire.
"Oh man, dude!" Mike exclaimed. "I told you to watch out for that wire! You almost got fried!"
We all shared a laugh then continued our illegal water-romp well into the warm summer evening.
A few months later I received the unfortunate news that Mike had passed away. The circumstances of his death turned out to be a bit disturbing: The group had returned to their favorite swim-hole for yet another midnight excursion. Mike climbed atop the rail and steadied himself. Just as prepped to jump, he lost his balance. Instinctively, Mike reached up and grabbed the nearest stationary object to steady himself. Unfortunately, the object he happened to grab was the live-wire.
Mike fell limp into the water below, not breathing and no pulse. The others jumped in after him and performed CPR until the paramedics arrived. Alas, there was nothing to be done. Mike was gone. The news of Mike's passing took the wind out of me. He managed to do the very thing he warned me against and lost his life for it. A tragic loss.
Sobriety is a minefield. As newcomers, we rely on those who have gone before us to point out the hazards and keep us away from relapse. All too often, those same people, who know the hazards, wind up inadvertantly stepping into lethal territoty themselves with disasterous consequences. I have seen brothers and sisters with nearly 20 years of sobriety fall into relapse time and time again.
So often we recognize the wrong road, the path not to take. We even warn others away, utilizing our own experiences. Yet time and time again, we reach up and grab that live wire, even though we know it will bring about certain demise.
Somehow, over the past 10 years, I have managed to steer many people away from that wire and avoided grabbing it myself. Many have heeded the warning, many have not.
Every time one of them falls, I hang my head and utter, "There but for the grace of God..."
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