2008 is a year I don’t particularly look back on with fondness, though it elicits some pride due to trudging through a difficult year and coming out clean on the other side. I hit nineteen years of sobriety that year, a sobriety age when newcomers and the world in general tend to associate with maturity, assuredness, and “having one’s shit together.” It was that year when I sunk into the abyss of the lowest, darkest, deepest, most frightening depression of my life. Not only did it totally revamp any preconceived notions of number of years of sobriety having to do withanything, I literally feared for my life.
When I was 4 years sober my mom passed away, two years after my dad died. I’ve often tried to describe the feeling of holy terror at my mom’s passing (Oh my God – – I’m all out of parents!) and have repeatedly come up short, content with the knowing that maybe it’s just not something I’ve ever meant to verbalize. It was fifteen years til I found an equal emotional quagmire. Some of the words and phrases I’ve used to try and describe ’08 are “rootless,” “suspended in mid-air,” “totally unconnected,” and “too numb and devoid of life to even be afraid.” Again, I’m sorely missing the mark. I do remember that it was after a break-up (I was averaging about one per year at that point), I was 51 years old and about to be unemployed, had zero funds to fall back on, and was facing the prospect of being homeless and alone forever. I do recall picking up the phone and contacting First Call For Help, and having a remarkably casual conversation. I had been on anti-depressants for some time until a few years before then, so that was our opening topic after discussing my immediate safety. Then I made the Freudian slip that may have saved my life: when asked if I had any suicidal thoughts, I immediately blurted out “well, sure.” As soon as I said it, I regretted it. I was informed that I was to either check myself into a “safehouse” for the weekend or the woman on the other end of the line was going to have me committed. I opted for door number one. So much for my weekend plans.
I remember checking into the Hewitt House and immediately feeling that sense of “quiet desperation” I’d heard about so often but rarely associated with myself. I was about to spend a very bland weekend with staff trained to do little else but do room checks and occasionally talk to those completing their stay in hopes of venting I guess, or whatever else was on their mind. I found out very early on that nobody was really qualified for the in-depth attention and talk that I felt like I needed. So I rode out the weekend of heavy carbs (I swear I tore the place apart forany food that wasn’t a plain bagel) and sugar, and on my last day decided to do some journaling. Three months later I had what I was told might make a decent textbook on depression for the University of Minnesota Nursing School, something I’ve yet to pursue even though I still have my completed manuscript. The point is, I literally wrote myself out of a place so dark I only allow myself to think of it fleetingly, as though to remind myself of how grateful I’m not there any more. While I was spending my imposed weekend at the safehouse, matters were compounded by my now ex-friend deciding it would be a good time to hit on the woman I was breaking up with. I just couldn’t win. Still, I gritted my teeth and wrote even more, praying, meditating, doinganything to at least feel some sort of semblance of life within me. I’m reminded of the scene in the movie “Cool Hand Luke” when Paul Newman’s character is demanding any kind of sign that God exists: “Love me! Hate me! Just let me know you’re there, Old Man!” I know the feeling. It was several months and some tweaking of medication plus a few meetings with a very caring psychiatrist before I began to crawl above ground zero. Typically, it’s not long after a difficult phase when I’m able to identify feelings of gratitude for having gone through it. This time around, it was at least a year. I never want to go back there again.
I know people in recovery who have been sober for months or just a few years who can put a person with double-digit years to shame with their charisma, maturity, and how deep their affect is upon walking into a room. I’ve seen that same person walk into the same room years later displaying only a shell of their former self. It’s those who truly decide to find their depth who hasten their entry and departure from these dark places. Others have the same places visited upon them against their own will, or possibly, as in the case of a few I know, resist any kind of personal growth with all of their might. It can be an exhausting proposition either way. What I’m driving at today is that although it’s but a shadow of that terrible few months I experienced, I’ve flirted with a similar lingering mood several times this year, including right now. (compounding matters is the fact that I ran 20 miles yesterday: my brain is functioning on minimal fuel) Such are the rhythms of Life through a resistant ego sometimes. I know my Real Self will prevail as it always does, and I get to once again witness the miracle of passing through into a wonderful Light, whatever form it may take, what I have difficulty with still is kicking back and allowing it to happen. It’s only when I drop my oars and let the current take me downstream that joy begins to make it’s reappearance. My workplace is in a flux and a very dark, gossipy, backstabby phase is coming to a close after a long, long, eight months. It’s amazing the impact just one or two people can have on an entire workplace with their hostile energy. It was only when I quit fighting against what was going on, or quit going upstream that my energy became to start feeling normal again. The dichotomy at hand is that I control my own emotions and destiny and even how much a dark environment affects me, versus an insidious behavior that permeates every molecule of an otherwise happy workplace full of quiet, unassuming souls. I also forget sometimes that I’m not Superman, that I’m not evolved to the degree that Jesus or the Buddha might be, and these outer conditions will have their day until then.
It is with great relief and I’m honoring my intuition today and writing out my blues. An end is in sight with my writing playing the final drumbeat. Some people meditate, some drink, some play music, some dance. I prefer a blend of all of the above, minus alcohol. Within my mind is a Universe vast beyond belief, and with all of it’s trappings and joys, potential addictions and images beautiful and repulsive, it holds the key to what I sometimes look for outside of myself for far too long. I just want to be happy. I just want to write and impact the lives of others. I want to play music and make people’s hearts warm and make them laugh. I want that warmth to be reflected back to me as my own. I want to take my final steps outside of this blasted rut. I want to walk up to you, shake your hand or give you a hug, and tell you how good it is to see you and really mean it. Just like everybody else, I want what liquor, drugs, shopping binges, non-stop sex, and fast cars supposedly bring about: I just want to feel good. I want my rut to turn into a “groove.” These last few months are a very practical reminder that I won’t jump for joy 24/7 for days on end. Contrary to some of the spirituality for sale books on countless store shelves, that’s ok! Sometimes there are days, weeks, even months of “rut.” When they’re done, the good times are that much easier to appreciate. For one saddled with a lifetime of dysthymia, it’s when what was once perceived as a metal ring around the neck gives way to the image of a caterpillar’s end of the world dually symbolizing the butterfly’s birth. It’s only in this moment that my in-breath can allow angels to reign over me emotionally, It’s only in this moment that I can allow myself to move downstream naturally. Softly into the groove. All is well. I’ll let nobody tell me otherwise.
Peace
Read Michael’s other posts at magicianstouch.net