The Faces of Recovery

"Whom you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here."

That's the opening admonition of every 12-step meeting I've ever attended, and I have no intention of violating that vital rule. That said, I am going to relate an incident which greatly encouraged me and I hope will put smiles on many a worrying face.

Last night I dragged myself out of my comfort zone and went to an Al Anon meeting. That's a bit of an overstatement, as I've gratefully attended many a recovery meeting on and off for nearly 40 years. It's OK to out myself, as I have very few secrets where my recovery past is concerned, so for the record, I'm a veteran of several such programs, and have found them to be literally lifesaving in the mental health department. But by "comfort zone" in this instance, I simply mean I was nice and comfy, relaxing in my room after a busy day, but decided at the last minute to un-comfort my cozy self and take care of my head (which tends to take on a life of its own when I'm worried about someone or something, as I was yesterday).

As happens often when I divest myself of "snuggy-ness" and do the right thing, I found myself richly rewarded.

This particular meeting is always well attended, and last night was no exception. Arriving a few minutes late (my usual MO), I found there was nary a chair to be had. Lots of cushion-y furniture is arranged in a circle in the main part of the room, and there are always a few folding chairs set up around the perimeter. Latecomers like me end up in those less desirable seats, but there wasn't even one of those to be found.

 I did, however, notice one chair in the outer circle with a bunch of junk on it - nothing like a coat or purse, which would have indicated someone was sitting there, or of course, I wouldn't have moved it. This meeting, like most 12-step meetings I'm aware of, took place in a room rented from a church. The items I'm referring to were "office-y" things from the church that had somehow ended up on the seat of this chair.

Here's where the miracle started to happen. A young man a few seats down, not realizing I had found a place to sit, stood up and offered me his chair! I quickly indicated that I had solved my dilemma, but thanked him profusely in whispered tones for his kindness.

Then miracle number two kicked in. Another young fellow had snagged himself a primo seat on the couch in the inner circle. I don't even know how he realized what I was struggling with, since theoretically, his eyes would have been on the speaker as opposed to something going on behind him. Nevertheless, he gallantly stood up and insisted I take his seat.

Let me insert here that I've been so conditioned by the supposed equalization of women (which, admittedly, has resulted in a much greater leveling of the playing field vocationally and economically, but has also yielded the unfortunate side effect of many niceties "gentlemen" used to perform for "ladies" going by the wayside) that both these acts of chivalry somewhat threw me. In the first case, the young man didn't need to follow through on his offer, as I had located a chair. In the second instance, I was being offered a more comfortable spot in the inner circle. This meant, because of the way the meeting typically runs, I would get a chance to "share" (i.e., say a few words about how I related to the topic of the meeting) before he would, and if time ran out, he might not have the chance to speak at all. Sharing is an important part of recovery, as it forces attendees out of their comfort zones and hopefully steers them towards healthier thinking.

So, you see, this guy wasn't just giving up a soft seat; he was potentially forfeiting his chance to grow a little bit in his recovery.

I had to make a split-second decision. Would I accept this young man's act of chivalry, or simply indicate that I would be fine in the austere chair I had cleared? I must admit, vanity played a small part in all this mental wrestling. Was he making the offer to a woman, or to an older woman? In other words, was his gallantry due to my sex or my age? The former, I found lovely. The latter, although still chivalrous, might suggest I was over the hill!

Laying those concerns aside, I accepted his gracious offer. I later reciprocated when, as I had predicted, the opportunity arose for me to share. I relinquished the privilege, offering it instead to my Sir Galahad, and publicly acknowledged both young men, who had truly proven themselves gentlemen.

I find this anecdote encouraging on many levels. Apparently, our society isn't as far-gone as many believe. There may be hope for us yet.

But wait. It gets better.

It turns out both the gentlemen to whom I've referred are in recovery for substance abuse. In fact, they were part of a group of recovering addicts who attended the Al Anon meeting for reasons of their own. Without divulging any of their stories, let me just say that all expressed gratitude for the warm welcome they received from a group they knew was formed in response to the antics of addicts.

In a time when so many are losing their lives to the opioid crisis and other forms of behavioral enslavement, it touched my heart deeply to witness such tender concern and humility on the part of those struggling with addiction. In short, it gives me great hope.

It also reinforces my resolve to pray for folks who are fighting a monkey on their backs. Statistically, the guys I saw last night run a high risk of relapsing. It behooves me to intercede for them and their loved ones, just as I appeal to the Almighty for those in my own life for whom this is a mortal battle.

There but for the grace of God go I.

"Seeing then that we have a great High Priest who has passed

 through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." 

~ Hebrews 4:14-16 ~

Kicking the Comfort Zone to the Curb

God took me out of my comfort zone this week.

I fell in the parking lot of my workplace the other day, bringing many an extra pound down on the right side of my body.

Ouch.

My ribs have been screaming for mercy ever since. I've been handling the problem appropriately - making phone calls and appointments, caring for myself with the help of loving family, but the long and the short of it is, I ended up in the ER yesterday.

Lest my reader is wondering, I don't do the ER.

Oh, I do it for other people - I'm very good at that.

Why not? I've had tons of practice, what with caring for sick parents, injured children, nervous friends. I'm great at advocating, advising, encouraging, and generally lending support.

See, I'm a person who helps others, NOT a person others help.

Oh, I've needed help over the years when life got messy.

And I've hated every minute of it.

I hated the situation that put me in a position of needing help, whether it was illness, incapacity, life drama - you name it.

And I hated needing help.

I figured out why yesterday.

Pride. Pure and simple.

There's a lot of talk going on these days about identity, and I find much of it ridiculous and even dangerous. But that's for another article.

Then again, maybe it's not.

Without taking this post in a completely different direction, let me just say, for the record, that self-perception can be misleading at best and devastating at worst.

For example, if I'm human but see myself as a gorilla, I put myself at an extreme disadvantage by seeking medical care from a vet as opposed to an MD.

But back to the main topic. The bottom line is, we all identify some way. We see ourselves in a certain light.

I like to see myself as someone who has overcome many obstacles, continues to overcome new ones, and generally makes her way in the world.

I've written extensively about the love and help from family and friends that picked me up when I couldn't do so for myself, and the voices that spoke truth and hope to me at the darkest times of my life. These interventions were nothing short of divine, the hands and mouthpieces of God, as it were. I'm not forgetting that for one moment.

Nevertheless, in day to day life, I enjoy getting things done. Tackling tasks and ticking them off my to-do list.

It kind of puts a crimp in that when you have to think before breaths and movements, taking into consideration in advance the best and least painful position to accomplish the aforesaid.

So, when I found myself in the ER, I felt vulnerable. Oh, and silly.

Because, as I said, I don't do the ER. At least, not for myself.

Things that helped?

Patient and caring medical staff who assured me I had reason to be there, despite my apologetic attitude (after all, I wasn't bleeding to death or even unconscious).

Several unlooked for blessings. My right hand, which is also my dominant hand, took part of the blow, but is functioning just fine. Likewise, my right knee and hip, for which I sought treatment through an arthritis doctor and physical therapy a few short years ago, show no signs of acting up. And, in testimony to God's infinite sense of humor and penchant for the absurd (think sacrificing His perfect Son for a horribly imperfect world), a heel spur on my right foot, which has been plaguing me for months, feels remarkably better!

Not least, a tattoo on the arm of a technician which spoke to my embarrassed heart. Again, for the record, I don't like tattoos (sorry, sons), finding them generally unappealing and altogether frivolous and unnecessary in a nation where people are going to bed hungry (not to mention the fact that God forbids them). That said, this one hit the proverbial spot.

It read simply, You are loved. You are worthy. You are enough.

A cross bracketed the whole phrase.

Resisting the urge to question the theology of the sentiment (if we were worthy and enough, why would the Son of God have had to die excruciatingly at the hands of brutal men?), I have to say it was just what I needed.

Fast forward to today. Notwithstanding an arm angry from a tetanus shot and pride wounded by fingers poking around my flabby midsection, I choose to hold my head high, realizing it's a head, however unworthy, that the Son of God died for.

Despite all the mental torture I put myself through about my situation being less deserving of treatment than that of the poor baby wailing down the hall from me, I have to say God came through. He gave me presence of mind to ask the right questions, seek clarification, and leave with the materials needed for a follow-up appointment next week.

He even saw to it that the hospital validated the parking.

Talk about being enough.

"For God gave us a spirit not of fear 

but of power and love and self-control."

~ 2 Timothy 1:7