Columns 1-100 — BENJAMIN LERNER

1

It was a hot and muggy day in the mountains, and I had my bags packed and ready to go. The cab was on its way. The train tickets were booked. I had successfully manipulated my family into sending me hundreds of dollars to pay for the trip home.

I was two weeks sober at an inpatient rehab center and had fallen head over heels in love with a girl I had met there. We were involved in a rehab romance together.

Unfortunately, a rumor had been started about me that made her not want to talk to me anymore.

After finding out that one of the kids whom I considered to be a friend had spread the rumor (out of spite and jealousy), I decided to do what I did best: leave.

Leave the treatment center before I had to deal with any complicated feelings or confront any problems head-on.

Leave, because I wasn’t capable of dealing with any emotional stress when I was doing drugs and alcohol - let alone when I was sober.

Against all of the advice of the counselors and treatment staff, I remained stubbornly determined to leave. I was charting a full speed ahead course towards my inevitable relapse and self-destruction.

Underneath all of the layers of smirking late-adolescent bravado, I was scared, weary, and on the verge of a mental breakdown. I was heartbroken and confused, grasping at straws for any type of emotional or physical distraction to fill the emptiness I felt growing inside of myself.

As I sat in the treatment center office and waited for them to call the cab, I thought about all of the times in my life that I had been in the same situation: lying to myself - and manipulating everyone around me to justify abandoning my commitments.

The clock ticked. The counselor looked straight at me with the same skeptical half-lidded-eyed-look that countless other treatment counselors had given me before. I saw my reflection in a small glass mirror on the desk. As I looked at myself, I saw a vision. Actually, I saw two separate and distinct possible visions for my future – each based on whether I decided to leave or decided to stay. One was alive and sober, and one was dying from addiction.

I realized then and there that it was going to be harder for me to run from my problems than to confront them head on.

I told the counselor to cancel the cab, I grabbed my bags, and I walked back to my room, knowing that whatever petty drama I would have to confront was not worth the price I would pay down the line for leaving rehab.

That was the most important day of my life. It was the day I made the decision to stand and face my fears and not run from them. From that moment on, I made the decision to work every day to confront all of my problems with honesty and patience, and I have lived by a simple philosophy which has kept me clean and sober through the darkest times:

2

As the wind blew through the window of the treatment center van and the dated Billy Joel playlist cranked through the tinny speakers, my mind raced with anticipation. I was on my way back home to Washington, D.C. from treatment, one month sober.

After dropping other patients off at various points in Pennsylvania and Maryland, we arrived at the sober-living house in the D.C. suburbs. I was greeted by a ragtag crew of smiling addicts of all different backgrounds and personality types, who were eager to give me the grand tour, show me whose food not to touch in the refrigerator, and how to use the key code on the lock.

I had barely had the chance to adjust and unpack when my phone rang. It was my mom. She had pulled up out front of the sober house in her red VW Beetle and ran up to greet me with a big hug and tearful eyes. We got in the car and headed straight for the city. As we caught up, I could tell that she was both skeptical and hopeful about my sobriety. She was in recovery, 5 years sober herself, and she was the reason that I was able to make it into treatment. While I was gone, she discovered a cache of drug paraphernalia in my room. It was the first time she had come face-to- face with the true magnitude and scope of my addiction - and it rattled her to the core.

As we drove around, the conversation alternated between small talk and heavy discussion about my future - and the expectations that her and the rest of the family would have of me. In the past, they had unintentionally enabled me and my manipulative and fraudulent tactics. But my honesty and openness to share the places to which my addiction had taken me in the days before I left treatment made that no longer possible. They made it clear that they were going to help me pay for my sober housing - and little else. I was expected to get a job and attend continuing care rehab sessions and sobriety fellowship meetings.

I was taken aback by the intensity and determination that I saw in the eyes of the woman who had enabled my addiction for so long, but I absorbed the passion behind her determination and made it my own. I knew that there was a long road ahead of me to gain back my family’s trust. I understood that I would have to prove my worth and learn how to build a life from nothing.

I was ready to really recover from addiction in the truest sense of the word.

I was ready to recover my life. I was ready to recover my dignity and sense of purpose. I was ready to recover my confidence and my sense of self.

I was frightened by how new and different everything was. I wasn’t quite sure where to start, but it’s been said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step - and I was eager to put my best foot forward.

Always remember:

3

The summer rain poured down as lightning crackled in the distance, blinding me as I stepped out from underneath the subway train entrance awning. It was 8:35 in the morning, and I was late for my continuing care treatment therapy session. I sprinted through the suburban streets, tripping over curbs and splashing my dirty sneakers through fast-forming puddles, as I wheezed and coughed.

My years of smoking cigarettes and various other substances had caught up with me. I was only 24, but I had earned the lungs of a seasoned Appalachian coal miner. I paused quickly underneath a terraced scaffold by the treatment center entrance for temporary refuge from the rain, wrung out my t-shirt and shorts, and squeaked up the linoleum staircase to the entrance of the rehab therapy room.

I immediately plopped myself down on one of the corduroy couches that lined the room, which was lit with dim florescent bulbs and had informational addiction science posters lining the walls. The counselors gave me an all-knowing nod of silent acknowledgement as I sheepishly made eye contact with them, then immediately turned my gaze away to focus on my phone screen as I put it on mute. As the counselors made the rounds around the room, checking-in with all the other patients, my mind drifted to insecurities I had about my living and employment situation.

I was fixated on forward motion. My addiction had switched from short term instant gratification (from liquor and drugs) to a longerterm slow-release gratification that could only come from accomplishing goals I set for myself. I was still in the mental place where I got high off of the natural chemical serenity and newfound freedom of life in sobriety, but the insidious tentacles of self-doubt were starting to creep in through the cracks in the castle of my mind. My existential crisis was interrupted as I was snapped back into reality by the counselor’s question:

“Benjamin, how was your weekend?”

I could only tell them the truth, which was that at the time I felt powerless and stuck in place, but still hopeful and optimistic.

I didn’t really know how to cope or escape the stress of the world around me without getting high - and there were certainly a lot of challenges to deal with early on in recovery.

I was a little confused and lost, but far from discouraged.

The puddles I had sprinted through that morning to attend my meeting at the treatment center served as a perfect metaphor for my attitude towards recovery at the time: Sometimes you have to make it through the storm (wheezing and coughing) before you are rewarded with another sunny day.

Always remember:

4

The bus door gave a tired and squeaky mechanical sigh as it violently jerked open and I stepped down onto the street, joining a briskly-walking crowd. The smoggy and overcast sky cast unflattering grey shadows on the faces of passers-by, who were talking loudly on their phones while taking dramatically exaggerated sips from their overpriced and trendy coffees. I crossed the street and slowed my pace as I neared the entrance of a stately and posh-looking French restaurant on the corner. Featured dishes were written in gold leaf lettering on the windows, which were framed by dark polished wood underneath a blood red awning. I was nervous and apprehensive with an unwieldy overload of adrenaline coursing through my veins. There was no turning back now.

I had been unsuccessfully searching for a job for weeks now, and I was quickly losing patience and hope. The novelty of my freedom from chemical dependency had all but completely faded, replaced with doubts, frustration, and nagging insecurities. I walked through the heavily weighted door and approached the host at the counter. He was busy talking on the phone, and greeted me with a sideways glance, smugly raising one eyebrow while he slowly turned away. He was wearing a well-tailored grey vest and was clean cut with angry eyes and an intimidatingly-pronounced brow line. I attempted to get his attention after he got off the phone, and without even looking up from the computer monitor at the host stand, he abruptly cut me off.

“Just a moment.”

My heart sank. I looked around and saw the impeccably groomed waiters and support staff deftly maneuvering through the rows of tables in the restaurant. I felt out of place with my patchy beard and tangly long hair. I was experiencing a hormonal resurgence after detoxing off of opiates, and going through a second adolescence of sorts. My skin was pockmarked, scarred, and oily, with cystic blemishes and blotches.

I hated looking at myself in the mirror - and hated being looked at by other people even more.

As the host finally turned and faced me, I could barely make eye contact with him as I timidly struggled to articulate my intentions of applying for a job there as a busboy. He gave me a sly smirk, an application, and a pen, and told me the manager would be out shortly to see me.

I was a visibly scared and fidgety mess as I sat there filling out the form. My shaking hand scribbled barely-legible letters on the corporate restaurant documentation. I glanced sideways at the front door as the manager approached me, and I felt the same fear that I did when I was considering leaving rehab. I didn’t want to experience any more rejection or letdown than I already had. As we walked to the back room to talk, I was surprised when my panic and tension gave way to an anxious yet lucid serenity. I decided that no matter what happened with the interview, no one could take my sobriety away from me. I understood that the ultimate power of recovery didn’t lie in success or failure, but in my newfound ability to show up and see things through - regardless of the outcome.

Always remember:

5

The harsh sound of wooden chairs scratching over tile floor rang out through the empty and spacious back room as I sat down at the table. Draped in white linen, with shiny wine glasses and silverware, the table had corporate promotional placards strategically propped up between the salt and pepper shakers.

As I sat across the table from the restaurant manager - who was interviewing me - I was antsy and stressed, but I managed to keep my cool. I calmed my fluttering heart rate by focusing my nervous energy outward, and I amused myself by attempting to examine and scrutinize him in the same way that he was examining and scrutinizing me.

I was diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome as a young child, and dealing with social interactions was a skill that I never came by naturally. I compensated for my inability to genuinely understand and appreciate the subtleties of everyday human interaction by learning to consciously deconstruct and analyze the behavior of all of my classmates at school. I learned to selectively imitate the customs of my peers and apply them in circumstances where it benefited me.

I sat there – at that table – plotting how to put these tactics to use now in this interview.

I studied the entertaining social nuances of the character who sat before me. He was a large man with a deep gravelly voice who used hand gestures when he talked and did not mince words. His eyes were wide and open, and his face and body language were expressive and animated as he interrogated me.

“Why do you want to work here?”

I froze. I struggled to decide how to apply my social interaction formula to best answer his question. After taking a few seconds to pause and reflect, I decided that I didn’t have to maneuver or manipulate or pretend. I took a breath, looked him in the eyes, and spoke from the heart.

“I came back home from school to save up some money, take care of my mental health, and learn what it means to work an honest job. I might not have much experience, but I can promise you this: I will show up earlier than everyone else, leave later than everyone else, and work harder than I ever have before in my life.”

The interview concluded shortly after with a firm handshake and clipped goodbye, and he told me to call back and inquire about the position in a few days.

As I walked out of the restaurant, I felt a sense of optimistic accomplishment. I still didn’t know if I was going to get the job, but I finally knew what it felt like to look a stranger in the eyes and tell them the truth. I had spent so long learning to emulate other people’s mannerisms, I had almost forgotten who I was underneath it all.

Sobriety had given me back the ability to be myself again and to live honestly.

Always remember:

6

The air outside was hot and humid as I paced around the outside tables of the restaurant. I had gotten a job as a busboy at a posh suburban bistro, and it was my first week at work. I was dressed in a black tie and white shirt, which was stained with french fry grease and béarnaise sauce. My face was oily and broken out. I had scars all over my arms from years of drug use. I hated the way I looked. I was afraid to make eye contact with anyone, because I was ashamed of my complexion. I was afraid to roll my sleeves up, because I didn’t want anyone to see my arms.

While I frantically paced around - pouring water and cleaning up tables – occasionally, I would make eye contact with customers. As they sipped their drinks and nibbled their appetizers, they seemed to greet me with skeptical, impatient and condescending sneers. My blood started to boil.

I was a seething crockpot of anger and envy. I was ready to explode, but I somehow managed to hold it together. Unfortunately, I started to sweat so much that plates started falling out of my now slippery and shaking hands. That was it. The last straw. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was too hot not to roll up my sleeves.

I rolled them up past my elbows, exposing my scars. I walked inside to get a loaf of bread from the kitchen. A server I worked with walked by. She glanced down - and paused. She leaned in and asked me with a quizzically-concerned and semi-disgusted look:

“What’s up with those scars?”

I froze.

I didn’t know what to tell her. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to tell the truth. I was ashamed of my past. I was so self-conscious about how I looked that I was afraid to make eye contact with her.

Suddenly, a spark of bravery! I didn’t want to hide anymore.

I looked her in the eye and told her the truth:

“I’m a recovering addict. These scars are from using drugs, but I don’t get high anymore. I’m working hard to stay clean.”

I was afraid that she would judge me or react negatively, but she didn’t. Instead, she responded with words of encouragement:

“Good for you, Kid. Keep it up.”

It was a beautiful moment. I didn’t have to lie anymore.

It was at that point I decided that I needed to be honest about my recovery, regardless of the situation. I couldn’t change the past, but I wasn’t going to let fear and shame dictate my future.

Always remember:

7

The uncomfortable folding chair in the main room of the clubhouse squeaked as I fidgeted back and forth, playing with the stuffing that was poking out of the holes of the seat. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in early fall, and I was restless and anxious as I struggled to stay focused at the sobriety fellowship meeting. I was mentally and spiritually exhausted from the long hours that I was working at my busboy job. I just wanted to go home, watch some TV, and detach from all of the stress and uncertainty of life in early recovery.

Shortly after starting at my new job, I had moved out of the sober house I was staying at (due to a rule structure that prevented working late-night hours). I was back at home living with my mother. She was also in recovery and had suggested that it was time for me to look for a sponsor to help me with my sobriety program. As I stared out of the window of the clubhouse, I saw young professionals walking towards the train. I could see the buckles on their shoes glistening as they briskly carved a path through pedestrian traffic. I was jealous of them and their social standing. I started to feel a sense of lowly unworthiness. I could sense that these thoughts were dangerous. I could slowly feel myself slipping back into my old patterns of destructive ideation, but I didn’t know how to change my thinking.

Suddenly, a cheery voice in the meeting cut through the thick fog of my pessimistic internal monologue and brought me back into reality. I looked over at the man who was speaking and started to study him. He was bearded with a baseball cap and had a self-aware optimism in his aura and voice that intrigued me. He was unpretentious and honest, and the last words that he spoke caught me off guard:

“Early on in my recovery, I used to work at an art gallery as a security patrolman. I got so resentful of the people who went there and how they treated me. They acted so entitled. I started to get angrier every day, so I talked to my sponsor about it. He asked me “why do they get to decide the way you feel? They might be rich, but you have a gift in recovery that is greater than anything they possess. You have serenity. And no one can take that serenity from you. You can only give it away as a gift.”

I was stunned. I had never met this man, but I knew that he understood my struggle. When the meeting ended, I walked up to him and nervously extended my hand. We started talking, and before I could even work up the courage to ask, he looked me straight in my eyes and asked if I needed a sponsor. I said, “Yes” immediately. We exchanged numbers and set up a time to meet in person later in the week. As I made my way down the stairs of the clubhouse, I felt my sense of gratitude returning. Some days are easier than others in recovery, but as long as we are willing to ask for help (and accept the help that is offered to us), we never have to face any of life’s challenges by ourselves.

Always Remember:

8

The freshly fallen leaves crunched underneath my weathered and beaten work shoes as I awkwardly maneuvered a bag of clothes and a futon mattress down a stone stairwell behind a brick house. It was a crisp November evening. I stumbled down the chipped and worn concrete steps. My months of hard work at my busboy job had paid off, and I was finally starting to reap the material benefits of my new sober lifestyle. I had saved up my tips and wages for months and had put them towards the security deposit for a basement apartment in a quiet suburban neighborhood. I couldn’t believe that it was finally time to move in!

I was euphorically energized from the power I felt from my newfound fiscal independence. My hands shook with nervous anticipation. I couldn’t wait to savor the natural high that came from spending the first night in my own apartment that I paid for with the fruits of my labor.

I made it to the door and put my bag of clothes down. I started fumbling through the key ring (that was attached to my wallet by a metal chain) with one hand, while balancing the rolled-up mattress on my opposite shoulder. I tried to turn the key in the lock to the left, but the door still wouldn’t open no matter how hard I pushed. I tried again. Nothing. Frustrated, I threw the mattress to the side in a fit of cathartic rage and slumped down dejectedly on the stairs.

In a matter of seconds, my optimistic bravado had shifted to miserable despair. Without the aid of any drugs or alcohol, I was riding on a rickety and perilous emotional rollercoaster of my own creation. I became aware of the cold and damp sensation of my pants getting wet from the soggy pile of leaves beneath me. I cursed my fate as I contemplated my predicament. I was so close to accomplishing my seemingly simple dreams, but it seemed that the cruel hand of fate itself was holding the door closed from the other side.

I suddenly remembered what a friend from my sobriety fellowship had told me:

“When things are good for a while, we forget what struggle is - and the smallest setbacks can become our worst nightmares. When things get difficult for a while, we forget the good days, and the smallest victory can seem like the triumph of a lifetime. In active addiction, we get used to the exhilarating thrill ride of unmanageable chaos that defines our lives. But in recovery, we learn to live in the middle. No matter what happens, we still get to keep our sanity if we make an effort to approach things sanely and objectively. By doing this, we can remain grateful - regardless of the outcome.”

I realized then and there that it was not only desperate sadness that had the potential to make me blind to obvious solutions, but ecstatic euphoria as well. I realized that in my haste to open the door and begin this new chapter in my life, I had only tried to turn the key to the left - and not to the right.

“No…it couldn’t be that simple,” I thought to myself, as I dusted myself off and put the key in the lock and turned. With a soft click, the door creaked open, and I flipped the light switch and dumped my bags and mattress down on the carpeted floors.

As I looked around the spare suburban basement with its plywood shelves and cobwebbed corners, I felt a sense of calm and peace wash over me. I wasn’t just proud of my new place to live, I was grateful to be able to face every big and small challenge that it took to get me there with objective serenity.

Always Remember:

9

The dim and artificial light emanating from my computer screen cast gloomy shadows through my dark apartment as I faded in and out of consciousness.

It was a cold and moonless November night. I had been alone in bed for the past few days, sweating and coughing in my sheets while I deliriously struggled to cope with reality. It was the first time that I had gotten sick in recovery, and I was starting to lose hope.

Emotional pain and physical discomfort were two things I had run from my entire life. Before getting sober, I had managed to temporarily subdue the relentless waves of external sensory onslaught through the use of deadly, habit-forming chemicals. If there was a thought, emotion, or physical feeling that I didn’t like, I could shove it under the rug by self-medicating.

With my past means of chemical escape unavailable, I began regressing and reverting to my old habits of mental self-torture and pessimistic overthinking. In my compromised state, each negative thought that raced through my overheated and overworked brain seemed to confirm my foreshadowing visions of a bleak and grim future. It was a self-fulfilling cycle of doom and sadness that seemed impossible to break free from.

As I feverishly squirmed on my mattress in my apartment, I cried out in the darkness. I cursed the circumstances that brought me to this point - and doubted that my symptoms would ever subside.

In the depths of my despair, I remembered an inspirational poster that said “This Too Shall Pass.” I had seen it on the wall of one of the therapy rooms in the inpatient rehab center I got clean at when I was going through withdrawal. I remembered how I felt back then - and how I never thought it was going to get any better.

It was at that moment that I realized the difference between being sick in recovery and active addiction:

At the end of my addiction, my entire life was centered around a never-ending quest to escape physical and emotional discomfort. Unless I was heavily medicated with addictive and dangerous chemicals, pain and sickness became my default state of being. My life was a continuous search for the brief feeling of “wellness” that came from ingesting my drug of choice. It came at the expense of my health, my finances, and my relationships with my family and friends.

Truthfully, I was “sick” most the time when I was an active addict. I was trapped in a cycle where my temporary chemical “cure” was the very same poison that was making me unwell.

I realized – while sick with the flu - that I had been granted a new way of life in recovery. My baseline state in sobriety was level, serene, and stable. I no longer had to wake up most days trying to figure out who I had to manipulate or how much money I had to spend to make it through the day without feeling “sick” from withdrawal.

I might have been incapacitated with an agonizingly unpleasant cold, but it put a smile on my face to know that I would be able to return to the steady and level reality that I had found in recovery. After overcoming the temporary hardship of the sickness, I would have the strength and resolve to keep going in sobriety.

Getting sick is never enjoyable, but in recovery, we are given the tools to make it through whatever challenges life puts in our path. We can use the lessons that we learn from those challenges to become stronger in the process.

Always Remember:

10

My sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel of my mother’s cherry red sedan as the torrential rain pounded the windshield. The car headlights cast grim shadows behind the bare and leafless trees lining the dimly lit parkway as I turned onto a suburban side street, pulling over to park beside a cobblestone walkway that was all but submerged in a river of cold November rain.

Stepping out of the car, I held my coat over my head as a makeshift umbrella, and clumsily skittered down a stone lined path towards the entrance to a late-night eatery where I had agreed to meet my friends. It was the first time that I had seen any of my high school classmates since I had gotten sober, and I was shaking with apprehensive excitement as I burst through the door.

As I shook off the rain, I nervously glanced at my phone as I scanned the restaurant for familiar faces. Before I had a chance to get my bearings, I heard a booming voice greet me with a nickname that I hadn’t heard in years. I had barely turned my head to face the origin of the sound when one of my old school pals lifted me off the ground with a powerful bear hug and spun me around while I anxiously laughed until he put me down.

Dizzy and disoriented from the forceful, but friendly gesture, I high-fived my enthusiastically convivial friend and maneuvered my way through the rows of tables and chairs towards the rest of the group, who were congregated around a massive plate of pretzels and bratwurst. As I drew closer, I realized that there were also several pitchers of beer lining the table, some of which were already empty.

In my state of lucid and sober awareness, I realized that all of my friends were noticeably intoxicated. My heart sank. I felt like I didn’t fit in. It took me by surprise when one of the more evidently inebriated members of the group raised his glass in a toast:

“To our good friend’s newfound sobriety! We’re all super proud and happy for you!”

As they clinked glasses, I munched on the remaining pretzels on the plate and tried my best to fight my impulse to laugh at their tragically ironic celebratory toast. I couldn’t get over the fact that they were celebrating my sobriety by drinking. The ensuing post-toast conversation was lively and nostalgic, albeit boisterous and meandering. Within half an hour of sitting down, my friends finished their pitchers and pretzels and settled their tab. They put their coats on and called a car to pick them up. They offered me a ride with them as they made their way to their next late night hangout.

“You’re welcome to join if you want! Everyone’s going to be there.”

As I stood there with my coat in my hand, I weighed the options and considered the consequences of the decision that faced me. If I said “no”, I was scared that my friends would think lesser of me for the social limitations of my newfound path of sobriety. If I said “yes”, I would be forced to deal with even more triggering situations - and silly, overblown, long-winded, drunken conversations.

As I walked out with them and they piled in the car, I waved goodbye. I turned and walked back to my car.

“I’m going to head home. Got work in the morning. I’ll see you guys later.”

I could hear a few disappointed groans and muffled scoffs at my expense through the cab window, but as I made my way up the street, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to face one of my friends, who stuck out his hand as he looked me square in the eye.

“It was great to see you man. Good for you for looking out for yourself. I’m happy you’re doing well. I’ll see you soon, OK?”

As he doubled back and hopped in the overcrowded cab to go to the next party, I felt a sense of secure satisfaction. I opened the car door and put the key in the gas to head home. I couldn’t make everyone happy, but I knew that I had made the right decision.

Not everyone is understanding of the challenges that we face in recovery, but true friends are the ones who make an effort to be there for us - even when we put sobriety first.

Always Remember:d

11

The mechanized wheels of the automatic sliding door wearily squeaked as I walked into the 24-hour supermarket. It was after midnight, and the only discernible sound echoing through the normally bustling produce section was the piercing crackle of the smooth-jazz background music playing through the tinny and outdated speaker system. I pulled my wallet out of the shallow and loose front pocket of my sweatpants, and began thumbing through the underwhelming assortment of crumpled bills inside. Overstaffing problems and slow business at my busboy job had resulted in significant shift cuts, which had left me nearly broke at a time when I was still adjusting to my newfound financial responsibilities.

It had been almost a week since my last day at work, and this supermarket trip was the first time that I had left my house in three days. I usually took the bus into town every day for my sobriety fellowship meetings, but my lack of dispensable transportation money had left me essentially shipwrecked at home. At first, I felt claustrophobically trapped by unfair conditions that were beyond my control. I believed I was entirely undeserving of my circumstances, and I began wallowing in a murky sea of self-pity and isolation.

With no reason to get up in the morning for work and no money in the bank, I felt helpless and lost. I started to take an attitude of passive-aggressive rebellion in retaliation against the unfortunate events that I believed were part of a bigger divine conspiracy that was responsible for my monetary quandary. I regressed into old destructive coping habits. I stopped shaving, overslept, and ignored calls from my concerned friends and family. It wasn’t until I woke up to a bleak and wintry sunset after sleeping through another seemingly pointless day that I realized that I was working against my own interests. I might have been stuck in a less-than-ideal financial position. I might not have had the power to go where I wanted to go, eat what I wanted to eat, or even work when I wanted to work. I did, however, have a clear and unclouded mind and the ability to make the best of the situation in front of me.

As I stood in front of a comically-oversized heap of radishes, I contemplated my predicament as I attempted to decide on the best combination of ingredients for a cheap and satisfying meal. I was still frustrated by my budgetary limitations, but I began to take pride in my ability to face newfound challenges. I started to make a competitive game with myself out of how much money I could save, which put a sly smile on my face as I walked up to the cashier counter in the front of the store. As I walked back to my apartment with my hard-earned provisions, I felt a surge of optimistic pride as the cold wind hit my face. I didn’t know when things would go back to normal, but I was grateful to be able to face whatever challenges remained ahead with lucid awareness.

In recovery, we give up the ability to chemically change consciousness for a new way of life – one in which we are given the chance to learn to accept things that we can’t change while working to change the things that we can. As a recovering addict, I never like to admit powerlessness, but I have come to accept such inevitable situations and to see them as opportunities for growth. By recognizing the power that I have in sobriety to change my own attitude and perspective, I have been able to find the strength to overcome the problems that I face on a daily basis.

Always Remember:

12

It was time for me to get dressed and take the train to meet a friend I knew from my sobriety fellowship. I had just celebrated 6 months of continuous sobriety, and we were scheduled to meet to discuss a personal spiritual inventory that I had stayed up almost all night to write.

A couple of weeks earlier, in a late-night phone conversation, my friend told me that I had gotten to the point in my recovery where it was time to take a good look at myself and the reasons behind my thoughts and actions. He told me to write out all of my character defects, regrets, and resentments in chronological order, along with any role that I played in any situations in my life that had resulted in a negative outcome.

I was in a stable yet stagnant place in my recovery, and although I was apprehensive of what confronting the darker parts of myself might bring, I was hoping that it would give me the closure that I needed to continue moving forward. As I made my way to the train station, I fumbled through the crumpled papers I had written my inventory on. As I skimmed through the smudged and nearly illegible handwriting, I started to feel overwhelmed with shame.

My list was only a few pages long, but every line I read conjured a vivid and visceral recollection of a despicable act I had committed in the course of my addiction that made me cringe with guilt. As the train pulled into the station and I made my way past the crowds of commuters and up the escalator to meet my friend at the clubhouse, I started to have second thoughts.

I saw my friend sitting inside the main room of the clubhouse, which was empty and silent in the mid-day lull between sobriety fellowship meetings. As I anxiously clutched the papers in my hand, I remembered a comforting proverb that a rehab counselor had told me about facing fears in recovery through personal inventory:

“Coming to terms with ourselves on an emotional and spiritual level is a lot like spring cleaning. When you’re looking at the whole house and all of the dust and cobwebs that have built up over the long and dark winter, it might seem impossible to clean all at once. It might even seem scary, depending on how much fear you attach to things you’re afraid are still hiding in the corners. If you just focus on working on one thing at a time though, eventually you’ll get to the point where you’ll surprise yourself with how much you’ve already done. By the time you’re finished, you might just realize that the hardest thing about cleaning house was convincing yourself that you could do it in the first place.”

As I walked through the doorway and greeted my friend, I knew it was time to face myself. I was still scared of learning the truth for the reasons behind my character defects, but I was proud to be willing to take the risk to make a better life for myself in recovery.

Always Remember:

13

I turned and faced my friend in the clubhouse sunroom. The heavy silence was broken by the haunting hiss of the steam from the rusty radiator. The winter sun peaked over the roofs of the downtown buildings outside and streamed through the foggy windows, casting shadows on the off-white walls.

My friend and I had met up to read through my personal inventory. During a previous sobriety fellowship meeting, he had insisted that acknowledging my past mistakes was crucial to my continued success in recovery.

I pulled a crumpled paper out of my pocket. I was nervous and shaky as I unfolded it and began to read my long list of transgressions.

My friend sat across from me with open arms and relaxed posture. He projected an aura of silent and confident tranquility, as he listened intently, hunched forward in his chair.

My voice began to waver and crack. I began fidgeting and stuttering as I tightly gripped the edges of the crinkled paper in my sweaty fingers. The critical and angry voices inside my head started to whisper all at once, creating a cacophonous symphony of agonizing self-conscious doubt. The metal chairs beside me started to hum and rattle from the force of my leg jiggling up and down.

Suddenly, my friend placed his hand on my shoulder and told me to stop reading. I stared at the ground for as long as I could to avoid eye contact.

I slowly craned my neck up as my heart raced with edgy anticipation. When our eyes finally met, he paused and took a deep breath before speaking.

“What are you afraid of?”

The words cut through me. It was as if he could sense my fear. I knew exactly what he meant. I tried to play off my nervous energy as restless boredom, but it fell flat. Defenseless, I started to crumble and break. Tears fell down my face as the fog of tension temporarily lifted.

I decided to let everything go, and I spoke uninhibited truth as my mental barriers fell by the wayside.

“I’m afraid that it’s too late for me. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to make up for what I did wrong in the past. I’m afraid that I’m a terrible person who doesn’t deserve happiness. I’m afraid that I’ll never know what it means to be free from the prison of my own expectations of myself.”

Suddenly, my tears stopped flowing. I felt lighter.

Silence. Not just a silence in the room all around me, but a silence inside me, as well.

I looked at my friend and saw no judgement or anger in his eyes. Only acceptance. He smiled as he looked back at me and softly spoke.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore. It’s one thing to write down all the things that you did wrong and everyone you hurt during the course of your addiction - and share that with another person. It’s another thing entirely to be honest with that person about the underlying fears behind your actions. Those fears don’t have to control you anymore.”

As we sat there and I cracked self-deprecating jokes and read through the last of my inventory list, I felt a wave of newfound serenity and weightless bliss wash over me. I didn’t initially understand why I felt that way, but I finally put it all together as I was riding the escalator down to the subway station.

When we make decisions out of fear and confusion, we hurt ourselves and the people that we love in the process. As long as we go out of our way to try to shut the door on the past and hide the truth, the resulting baggage will continue to cloud our vision of the present and future. When we decide to be honest with ourselves and others about our actions and the motivations behind them, we can make peace with our former selves by confronting the roots of our fears and move forward in our journey of recovery.

Always Remember:

14

The edges of the newly polished knives gleamed in the light from the overhead fixture as I laid them out on the table. After aligning the silverware in parallel lines with the napkins and bread plates, I paused to admire my work - and experienced a fleeting moment of meditative self-satisfaction.

It had been eight months since I had gotten sober - and almost six months since I started my job as a busboy at a bustling suburban French bistro. As I leaned against the wall and looked over the tables in the main banquet hall, I was overcome with confident gratitude. It might have only been a small, ten table section in a corporate chain steakhouse, but it was my section. I was proud to be a worker among workers, and I felt a sense of energized purpose.

Suddenly, my phone started buzzing in my pocket. I quietly shuffled to the back of the restaurant and swiped upward on the touch screen to accept the call without even looking at the number. I answered in a hushed tone as I squeezed past my busy co-workers in the service station. It was my father. His voice sounded weak and weary. We exchanged brief pleasantries as I walked out to the loading dock, where I was free to talk on the phone.

As I navigated the labyrinth of stacked tables and chairs in the back hallway, my heart sank when he told me the reason that he had called.

“I just got out of the hospital. I had a heart attack. I’m going back in for surgery as soon as they can schedule it. I just wanted to call to tell you that I love you, Son.”

I put the phone on speaker mode and muted myself as he continued to speak. My knees buckled as my heart rate quickened. As I gasped for air and began to cry, a server who was out back smoking a cigarette took notice and made his way towards me. He put his hand on my shoulder as I attempted to put on an optimistically stoic vocal performance for my father as I finished the call.

After the server overheard the end of the conversation, he went inside briefly and returned to the loading dock with the shift manager, who told me to take the night off and come back when I felt ready to work.

As I took off my apron and grabbed my bag, I felt powerless and overwhelmed. My father was sick and fighting for his life in a different city. I was afraid that I would never get to see him in person again. As a gust of evening wind hit my tear-stained face, I reflected on the quick and sudden turn of events.

It seemed that only moments before the call I was on top of the world and master of my domain, holding court over my spotless silverware and perfectly symmetrical table setups. In a matter of minutes, all of the positive momentum I had established had seemingly ground to a screeching halt. It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“In times of hardship, we are given the chance to apply lessons of gratitude and positivity that we learn in easier times. If we accept the challenges that we face everyday living life on life’s terms, we can use them as opportunities for spiritual growth. We might not always be able to change the outcome, but as long as we put one foot in front of the other, we can stay on the right path.”

I took a deep breath as I walked up to the bus stop and gathered my bearings. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew that as long as I stayed clean, I would be able to be there for my family when it mattered most, regardless of the distance.

Always Remember:

15

The airplane bustled with frantic energy as I unclicked my seatbelt and rose from my seat. I crouched - contorted underneath the overhead luggage rack - and took a deep breath, pensively exhaling as I contemplated my predicament.

I had just emerged from a long nap at the end of my connecting flight to San Francisco. As I drowsily gathered my belongings and walked towards the gangway, I looked down at my phone and saw a text from my father:

“We’re parked in Garage G. Call when you land. See you soon.”

I had taken the week off from work to take a last minute trip to see him before he went in for emergency heart surgery. It was the first time I had been back in California since I had gotten sober. I had only been there for a few minutes, and tantalizing feelings of euphoric recall were already starting to bubble up from the depths of my subconscious.

Every step through the airport terminal brought on visceral recollections of an airport bar that I had gotten drunk at - or public bathrooms that I had used drugs in. The mechanical whir of the pedestrian conveyor sang a dissonant siren song, conjuring dark visions of my addicted past. It called to mind memories of when I would return from cross-country flights in the midst of unbearable withdrawal. I remembered the hopeless impatience that I used to feel when I was in the throes of detoxification.

Suddenly, I tripped over my shoelace, which had snapped off in the metal teeth at the end of the conveyor belt. I caught my balance after a few shaky and off-kilter steps and sat down on a bench by the escalator to the parking garage. My world started spinning. I didn’t know if I had the courage to walk out and face my father.

How could I pretend to be strong for the man whom I had always regarded as a near-invincible protector? Excerpts of past conversations that he and I had over greasy-spoon brunches in the midst of my active addiction started to play in my mind’s eye. I remembered the looks of desperate concern he would give me when he dropped me off at my apartment building afterwards. He would always tell me, “Be good to yourself!” as I stepped out of the car. I would sprint down the block to go buy my next fix with his words still ringing in my head.

But now, I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted him to know that I was finally sober and employed and trying to get it right for once in my life.

That’s when I understood that it wasn’t about me. It was bigger than my feelings of terror and uncertainty. This was my chance to cast my fear aside, so I could be there for one of the few people who was there for me when everyone else had given up. As I looked up from the ground, I caught a glimpse of my blurry reflection in the shimmering metal side paneling of an airport escalator. I locked eyes with myself and realized that I wasn’t embarrassed of the person that I saw looking back.

As I swung my bag over my shoulder and walked up the escalator toward the garage, I realized how lucky I was. Recovery had given me the opportunity to show up when it mattered most. As long as I remained grateful for my sobriety - and remained present in the moment - I would be able to act with the grace and serenity necessary to help my father through his time of need.

Always Remember:

16

The air was thick with fog as I emerged from the downtown train station. I zipped up my jacket and shivered as the wind whistled in my ears, drowning out the plaintive wails of nearby buskers as change rattled in their plastic cups. I was back in San Francisco for the first time since I had gotten sober. I was back in California to visit my father, who was recuperating from emergency heart surgery at home. After we shared an early lunch together, I had ventured beyond the quiet seclusion of his hilltop neighborhood to attend a sobriety fellowship meeting.

After hurriedly shimmying through a narrow turnstile, I joined a sea of fast-walking pedestrians on a crowded city sidewalk. I quickened my pace and made a competitive game with myself out of how swiftly and gracefully I could weave through the eclectic crowd of billionaire tech entrepreneurs and underpaid retail workers.

The shimmering storefronts of the opulent downtown shopping district transitioned into the grimy facades of dilapidated single-room- occupancy hotels and pawn shops. They emanated a dark and hopeless energy that I was all too familiar with. When I turned the corner onto the street that led to the meeting, I realized that my path was taking me very close to the intersection where I had frequently bought drugs during the worst part of my addiction. As I walked past the poorly-stocked convenience stores where the owners used to know me by name, the air was thick with stale cigarette smoke and the smell of old garbage.

The street was lined with the gaunt faces of desperate addicts who were gloomily slumped on the sidewalk as they vacantly stared into oblivion. Shifty-eyed dealers paced the corners, scouring the streets for potential clients while watching intently for unmarked patrol cars. As I approached the curb and waited for the light to change a block away from the corner that had once controlled my life and robbed me of my self-respect, I paused to reflect on the weight of the decision I was confronted with. If I turned left, I could walk back to the corner and resume the terrifying rollercoaster ride of my old life in active addiction. If I turned right, I could go to the meeting and continue on the new path of serenity and stability that I had found in recovery.

The ghosts of my addicted past squirmed in withered agony in the darkness of my subconscious. I ground my teeth together as the hypnotizing whispers of my overactive mind swelled to a discordant crescendo. I felt so ashamed of who I used to be. I couldn’t believe that I had once spent so much time and money in this grim and desolate place.

It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“We might not be able to change the past, but it doesn’t have to dictate our future. If we can learn to come to terms with who we once were, we can use our experiences to benefit others. We can show that no matter how much we have lost due to our addictions, it is always possible to find a better way of life through the power of recovery.”

I turned right and walked up the block towards the meeting, looking over my shoulder one last time at the corner as it faded away into the distance. I walked through the door of the clubhouse, sat down in a circle of plastic chairs, turned off my cellphone, and closed my eyes. I enjoyed a moment of silent meditation as a pensive smile spread across my face. Recovery had given me the chance to come to terms with my past - and the freedom to decide my future.

Always Remember:

17

Red and white cherry blossom petals shimmered in the afternoon sunlight as they gently descended from the branches of the trees lining the bustling promenade. It was springtime in the suburbs of Washington, DC, and there was a feeling of lively optimism in the air. I had spent my last paycheck on a brand-new suit and was headed towards the restaurant I worked at to apply for a promotion. My recently acquired springtime finery had given me a newfound sense of courage and power.

I was nine months sober, and I was finally starting to notice changes in my physical appearance. The oily and inflamed blemishes on my face that came as a result of my chemical transition in early recovery had calmed and subsided. My formerly scrawny frame had filled out to the point that my ribcage no longer created awkward angular shadows underneath my baggy work shirts. As I caught my reflection in a storefront window and adjusted my blazer and belt buckle before walking into the restaurant, I felt a euphoric rush of confidence.

I burst through the door and swaggered past the hostesses and waiters on my way towards the manager’s office. With a jubilant grin on my face, I knocked on the office door. I was greeted by the restaurant’s general manager, who told me to meet him at a table in the banquet room.

He was a well-groomed and understated man, who was fastidious in his operational oversight. After studying the menu for months, I was hopeful that he would take notice of my hard work and promote me from busboy to server. I dreamed of trading in my dirty apron for a vest and tie. I saw the status that came with the promotion as a priceless trophy that was essential in my quest for self-acceptance.

As we sat down at the table and began to talk, my energized vigor was met with anticlimactic indifference. I was expecting a cinematically victorious resolution, but our conversation was short and ambiguous. When I asked him if he would consider me for a promotion, he gave an amused and beleaguered chuckle as he rose from his seat and patted me on the back.

“We’ll see,” he said. “It all depends.”

As he thanked me for my time and shook my hand, my hopeful bravado faded to insecure self-doubt. As I walked out onto the street, I saw a child crying to his mother while holding a popped balloon. As much as I empathized with the child, I empathized with the balloon even more.

I felt deflated and worthless. It seemed that all of my work had been in vain.

It was then that I remembered what a good friend from my sobriety fellowship had told me when he was experiencing a similar moment of desperate uncertainty:

“Powerful moments of growth and clarity are frequently preceded by equally profound moments of powerlessness and confusion. The accompanying feelings of frustration are often a blessing in disguise. We might not be able to change the outcome of every situation, but by channeling those feelings of passionate energy into self-improvement, we can use our challenges as tools to help us move forward in our journey of sobriety.”

I looked across the street and spotted the mother of the child who popped his balloon directing his attention towards the colorful flowers that lined the walkway. I saw the frown on his face give way to a joyous peaceful smile, and my feelings of disappointment were instantly overcome by a warm wave of gratitude and serenity. As I walked through the maze of flowering trees that had come back to life on that warm spring day, I realized how lucky I was to have experienced a similar reawakening in recovery.

Always Remember:

18

The pale and muted light from the cloudy springtime sunrise cast flickering shadows through the restaurant foyer as I opened the front door. I walked through the rows of tables in the front dining hall. It was eerily silent. The normal sounds of clinking wine glasses and festive conversations that echoed through the bustling bistro were replaced with the weary and faint mechanical groan of the industrial air conditioner. As I approached the door to the private banquet room, I paused in front of an ornamental mirror. I had recently received a promotion at my restaurant job, and it was my first day of training for the new position.

I started to apprehensively scrutinize my appearance as I gazed into my reflection. The critical animosity I directed towards myself had twisted my face into a pained and desperate expression. I obsessively fiddled with my belt and necktie as a surging torrent of anxious thought bubbled underneath the surface of my conscious mind. I felt like a raging geyser primed to explode, but there was no turning back now.

I opened the door and proceeded towards an ornately decorated table that was covered in piles of employment contracts and thick informational binders. It was an intimidating spectacle of corporate ceremony that stood in stark contrast to the seedy and sordid aesthetic of my former addicted lifestyle. I was almost ten months sober, and the degree of separation between my current and past realities was starting to become increasingly surreal with every passing day. As I flipped through the workbook of fancy dish descriptions, my heart started to flutter as flashes of harrowing recollection danced in my mind’s eye.

My dissociative daydreams were a gloomy and dismal slideshow of dark rooms strewn with paraphernalia and the nightmarishly distorted faces of old friends and underworld associates. I grimaced as I recalled the bleak uncertainty of the mornings that I woke up penniless and afraid and the disapproving looks people would give me when I drunkenly staggered home in my dirty and tattered clothes. As I emerged from my vividly desolate fantasy, I began to feel overwhelmed and out of place in my current surrounding. How could I learn to navigate this alien world of formality and responsibility? How could I reconcile my past misdeeds and learn to trust myself? I buried my face in my cufflinked sleeves as I cursed my past and abandoned all hope for the future.

It was then that I remembered that I had felt the exact same way when I first decided to become clean and sober.

I allowed myself to journey back in time and relive every instance in which I was forced to confront my feelings of fear and uncertainty head on. I looked back on all the times I had experienced overwhelming pangs of doubt and panic. I then recalled the liberating feeling of surrender and acceptance that allowed me to move past the self-destructive patterns that were holding me back during the course of my active addiction.

I understood that in the same way I had made the decision to renounce my chemical dependency back then, it was now time for me to relinquish my addiction to obsessive thought and self-centered fear.

As the other servers filed into the banquet room and took their seats for the training class, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. I braced myself for the challenges that were yet to come. I knew that as long as I remained willing to confront my fears, I would be able to move past my self-imposed limitations and continue on the energizing and fulfilling path that I had found in recovery.

Always Remember:

19

The cool light of the flickering streetlamp cast long flowing shadows behind a group of defeatedly slumped adolescents walking past my car window. As my eyes anxiously darted between my phone screen and my rearview mirror, I twisted my fingers in nervous anticipation.

I was ten months sober, and I was about to go on my first date since I had left treatment.

I felt a faint vibration in my hand and looked down to see my phone illuminated by a new message notification. I took a deep breath before shakily swiping my thumb across the lock screen. I read the message:

“Hey! I’ll be out in 5 minutes. Sorry I’m late.”

My facial muscles tightened. My heart quickened its pace as a torrential overload of adrenaline coursed through my veins. I painstakingly studied my face and body language in the mirror. I attempted to rehearse an expression and posture that would project an aura of effortless confidence to my date. (My goal was to passably mask my feelings of insecure vulnerability with a paper-thin varnish of egotistical bluster).

Needless to say, I fell far short of my objective. My pessimistic defense mechanisms armed themselves for battle as I attempted to wrestle my persistently nagging doubts into submission.

A comprehensive slideshow of the rash decisions I had made in the earliest stages of my recovery played in my mind’s eye. I recalled the cringingly awkward moment when I had confessed my love to a former rehab romance over a long-distance phone conversation. My declaration of love had been met with silent indifference. I subsequently drowned my sorrows in an ocean of self-pity and vengeful tears.

After a two-month period of indulgent mourning, I had gotten to the point where I could no longer dwell on the feelings of unrequited love that I still harbored for her.

Thanks to a recent moment of spontaneous bravery, I had transformed a fleeting flirtatious connection into a promising amorous opportunity through sheer force of will.

As I sat in front of the gloomy concrete dormitory building in the university parking lot waiting for my date, I failed to muster even a hint of the same courageous and charming energy I had brought to our initial conversation. I started to feel increasingly unattractive and worthless with every passing minute. Every time I glanced in the mirror it seemed that a new blemish appeared on my face. Every miniscule fold and shadow on my shirt looked like an unseemly and greasy stain to me. I hid my head in my hands and considered turning my phone off and driving away into the night.

I didn’t want to face myself, let alone anyone else.

It was then that I remembered what a good friend in my sobriety fellowship once told me:

“In recovery, we are given the opportunity to find new meaning by detaching from all self-imposed expectations of ourselves and others. By accepting ourselves as we are, we can learn to accept others as well. If we can forgive ourselves for our past mistakes, we can clear the wreckage of the past and open ourselves up to everything the future has to offer.”

The hazy fog of my self-centered fear gave way to a warm wave of serenity and acceptance as I stepped out of the car for a breath of fresh air. I didn’t know where the night was going to take me, but I was finally ready to embrace the liberatingly beautiful uncertainty that came from living life on life’s terms.

Always Remember:

20

A solitary bead of anxious sweat hung precariously on the edge of my eyebrow ridge as I haphazardly maneuvered through a group of closely-huddled, restaurant servers. Fully engrossed in their preparatory busywork, the buttons on their neatly-ironed vests glistened in the refracted light of the metallic countertop. The sounds of sizzling pans and clattering plates blended with the frustrated exclamations of the overwhelmed kitchen staff. I was eleven months sober, and it was my first closing service shift at my restaurant job after my recent promotion.

It was a Friday night in late spring, and the restaurant was booked to capacity. I had barely made it through the first hour of the shift, but my five-table section was already more than halfway full. As I made my way towards a newly-seated table, I forced the edges of my weary face into a saccharine grin and greeted them with a carefully-rehearsed promotional monologue. After rattling off a series of featured specialty dishes, I continued onward to adjacent tables to take their food orders. I then swiftly tiptoed to a nearby server terminal to submit my order, craning my neck as I surveyed the remaining tables I passed by in my section for any perceivable signs of displeasure or impatience.

My heart pounded as I feverishly tapped on the menu items on the screen. My sweat-soaked hands fumbled through my notebook of illegible order slips as I struggled to maintain my bearings. I was immersed in a chaotic one-man dance performance where I was forced to play the role of both performer and choreographer. As I stood in the dimly-lit, service vestibule, I started to slip into the hazy mists of self-doubt and overanalytical neurosis.

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the chiseled and gaunt visage of a wiry food runner. He pointed across the room as he spoke to me in a condescending tone dripping in disappointment and frustration.

“That big table over there says you messed up their order. They’re missing a side of spinach and potatoes.”

My heart sank. I felt my cheeks redden with embarrassment as I froze in place. My mental structures of self-esteem and newfound purpose started to crumble as I braced myself for my seemingly inevitable confrontation with an angry customer.

It was then that I remembered the words of a good friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“In recovery, we gain strength by coming face-to-face with our weaknesses. We can only move past our mistakes once we become ready to acknowledge them. If we are willing to forgive ourselves and accept our imperfections, we can begin to see them as the opportunities for growth that they really are.”

As I begrudgingly approached the table, I meekly apologized for my oversights and offered to cover the cost of the forgotten side dishes. I was expecting a frightening and hostile encounter, but I was met instead with cheerful indifference.

“Don’t worry, Kid! Mistakes happen. Just bring the food out as soon as it’s ready. Everything else is great!”

As I briskly turned towards the kitchen, the fearful tension in my shoulders quickly disappeared. I straightened my posture and took a deep breath of silent gratitude. I knew that as long as I remained willing to own up to my mistakes, I could continue to move forward in my journey of sobriety.

Always Remember:

21

The dwindling solstice sunset cast flickering shadows on the cracked and timeworn facade of the marble fountain that stood in the middle of the downtown traffic circle. The air was heavy and humid as I maneuvered through a concentric maze of grass fields and park benches toward a crowded crosswalk. It was a beautiful summer evening, and I was headed to a sobriety fellowship meeting to celebrate the one-year anniversary of my recovery.

The smell of fresh cut grass and steaming asphalt conjured vivid memories of the swampy afternoon a year prior when I had left for treatment. I passed by a bustling coffeeshop and caught a fleeting glimpse of my reflection in the pollen-dusted glass. As I continued onward towards the clubhouse, it hit me that I barely recognized the person whose image I saw cast back in the storefront window. I felt a strange sense of dissociative ambiguity as I paused at a streetlight.

I experienced a rushing burst of dysphoric and bleak nostalgia as I stood there, held captive in the throes of my desolate reflections. I recalled the warm summer nights I spent driving around searching for a dark and dismal alleyway where I could chemically numb myself in isolated secrecy. The same city streets that now guided me towards a celebration of my newfound freedom once served as the pathway that led me towards miserable iniquity and narcotic bondage. I looked down at the pavement and saw a half-smoked cigarette lying in the gutter. The ember was still burning.

Although it had been months since my last cigarette, a stubborn remnant of my former self’s reflexively self-ruinous tendencies whispered a fiendish song of seduction in my mind’s ear. It commanded me with all of its strength to grab the cigarette in a brazen act of calamitous rebellion. Standing outside of the clubhouse, my lip trembled as I weighed the options ahead of me. I could walk up the stairs and join the celebratory gathering being held in honor of my sobriety milestone, or I could resume my slow and steady spiral descent into addictive madness.

It was then that I remembered what a friend in my sobriety fellowship once told me:

“Sometimes when we are given the chance to move past the character defects that once held us back in active addiction, we may find ourselves unable to accept positive change. We may believe ourselves to be undeserving of happiness. We may be afraid of anything beyond the miserable familiarity of our old harmful patterns. While it is certainly hard to put in the soul-searching work necessary to maintain forward motion in recovery on a daily basis, it is equally difficult to decide to forgive ourselves for our past actions and move on. If we can learn to pardon ourselves for our former wrongdoings, we can embrace the gift of the serenity and happiness that comes from living life on life’s terms.”

I bid my final farewell to the smoldering cigarette in the concrete crack and turned to walk up the clubhouse stairs. The crippling fear and self-doubt that I felt out on the street was replaced with a strong feeling of composed and content lucid awareness as I greeted my family and friends and made my way into the meeting hall.

I knew that it was up to me to make a daily concerted effort to detach from the heavy burden of my self-centered fear. As I sat down in my favorite squeaky plastic chair to start the meeting, I allowed myself to break free from the shackles of anxious doubt. It was a wonderful feeling.

Always Remember:

22

The headlights of passing cars streamed past the edges of the curtains, illuminating the cracks in the walls which stretched from the floor to the ceiling. As I studied the networks of intricately woven ellipses and helical patterns in the peeling paint, my girlfriend lay fast asleep beside me. She was curled up in a fetal position as her breath blew a strand of her hair up and down in front of her face in a hypnotizing two-step dance.

I flicked on a dim lamp and waded through the sea of clothes and books that were amassed on the carpeted floor. I was 13 months sober, and it was my first night sleeping over at her house. I stumbled through a narrow hallway and tripped over a trash bag that was awkwardly positioned in the middle of the corridor. As I pulled the bag towards the kitchen, I was taken aback by the hauntingly familiar sound; the clamorous rattle of a bag full of empty bottles. It made my heart sink.

Although I knew that my girlfriend was far from sober, I had never seen any true evidence of alcoholism up to this point. She had always been fully supportive of my recovery, and her dalliances with the collegiate party scene had done nothing to numb her quick-witted sense of humor and remarkable intellect.

As I emptied the contents of the bag into the kitchen trashcan, an avalanche of empty vodka bottles thunderously tumbled down with a discordant and percussive clang. I looked down at the layered jumble of liquor containers and let out a heavy sigh. I leaned against the wall and slumped down to the ground as I buried my head in my hands.

Although I was far from certain that my girlfriend was an alcoholic, I had been confronted with strong evidence that her use pattern was well beyond that of a casual drinker. I started to look back on the progression of my own chemical dependency, and I attempted to identify the critical flashpoint where my substance use pattern became uncontrollable. Instead of enlightenment, I felt guilt and powerlessness.

I imagined my family and friends feeling the same way as they witnessed my slow and steady descent into alcoholism and addiction. I clenched my fists and jaw in a fit of helpless frustration. How could I help the person I loved find the serenity and peace it took me so long to find? How could I save her from the pain and anguish I was once forced to go through as a result of my addiction and alcoholism?

It was then that I remembered that no one could convince me to change through words alone. The desire to get clean and sober had to come from something bigger.

Though the words and wisdom of countless loved ones and confidantes might have had a fleeting emotional impact, it did little to change the course of my addictive trajectory.

Internal desire combined with motivation through the example of others. That was the key for me.

By seeing that joyful and sustainable recovery was possible in others, I began to develop a belief that it was possible for myself as well.

As much as I wanted to wake my girlfriend from her tipsy slumber to deliver a fiery and impassioned sermon about the virtues of sobriety and temperance, I decided to let her sleep as I got dressed and ready for work. I knew that as long as I kept my side of the street clean, I could pave a way for others to join me on the same path when they were ready to leave their own baggage in the past.

Always Remember:

23

My stomach grumbled with desperate anticipation as I plunked down on the brightly colored plastic chair in the back section of the neighborhood deli. I took the first deliciously satisfying bite of my sandwich and paused in a moment of glorious triumph.

My savory respite was interrupted by the soft vibration of a phone in my pocket. My body clenched with rigid apprehension when I saw my father’s name on the screen. He had texted me earlier that day to tell me that we needed to talk, but had been ominously vague concerning the details of the conversation. I braced myself for the worst as I shakily cradled the phone against my ear.

As we exchanged pleasantries between nibbles of my sandwich, I could tell that he was building up to a momentous proclamation. During one exceptionally long pause, I worked up the courage to ask him why he had called.

“I called to let you know I’m proud of you, Son. Watching you take control of your life and finances in recovery has brought me new hope for your future. I also called to tell you that I’ve decided to give you my house up in the woods in Vermont. I was afraid I was going to have to sell it, but you’ve proven that you’re up to the task of taking care of it.”

As the sounds of his words in my ears blurred together in a slow-motion echo, nostalgic flashes of bright summer mornings and snowy winter nights zoomed through my mind. It had been over seven years since I had last seen that beautiful house on the mountainside. With every year that passed in my active addiction, I felt like I was slipping further away from my secret dream of escaping the city to go live up there.

We set a tentative date to meet there and sign off on the property deed transfer. I hung up the phone and – overwhelmed - a surge of tears swelled in my eyes.

I couldn’t believe it. I was frightened beyond belief. I could barely manage to make it through a shift at my job without losing my pens or notepad. How could I rise to the logistical challenge of home-ownership when I was barely 15 months sober?

It was then that I came to understand the importance and significance of the tried-and-true maxim from my sobriety fellowship:

“One Day at a Time”

When I first heard that expression early on in my recovery, I didn’t know what to make of it. I couldn’t comprehend how I could stay sober for the rest of my life simply by living in the present. As I stared down at the remaining half of my sandwich, I contemplated its symbolic significance.

As hungry as I was, I knew that trying to eat my sandwich all in one bite would be a poor choice. Not only would it make me sick to my stomach, but I would be unable to properly savor every tasty moment.

I decided to apply the same logic to my life in recovery.

As much as I wanted to rush to take on every aspect of home-ownership at once, I understood that I could only learn to address each of the individual elements properly if I took my time to learn about them piece by piece. By practicing mindful awareness, I could both alleviate the burden of my future fears and enjoy every moment of the challenges that came my way.

Always Remember:

24

The resonant hum of car wheels on weathered rural asphalt blended with the scratchy crackle of radio feedback as my father aimlessly fiddled with the audio selector knob. He turned to me with a sly smirk and let out a weary chuckle as he mulled over his predicament:

“You know we’re getting close to Sandgate when the radio stops working.”

His well-timed moment of dry humor cut through the emotional tension that had been steadily building since he picked me up from the bus station several hours earlier. I was 16 months sober, and I was headed to Vermont with my father for the first time in nearly a decade to learn how to take care of the house that he was passing on to me.

As the imposingly grand slopes of the Green Mountains grew closer on the horizon, I rolled the windows down to take a deep breath and savor the moment. The antiseptic and artificial scent of the freshly detailed rental car was quickly dispersed by a crisp and spirited wind.

It carried a strong scent of pine and grass that conjured deep seeded memories of days my father and I had spent together in Vermont during my early childhood. The curves and the corners of the road that had taken my father and I across the Vermont border all those years ago were still familiar. Every meandering bend was seared in my mind as if it was written by the hand of a master mapmaker.

I closed my eyes as the gentle drone of a roadside river flooded my eardrums and reflected on what had happened since I last left Vermont. The serpentine turns of the dark country road that lay before me took on new significance in context with the torturous twists my life had undergone in the depths of my active addiction.

The peaceful whistling winds that rustled the tall trees lining the road were a far cry from the violent bayside gusts that blew on the corners where I once bought my drugs in San Francisco. My mind became overtaken with doubt and anxiety as memories of my addicted past flashed through my mind at a disturbingly erratic pace. I started to feel out of place and undeserving of the serenity and gratitude that I was feeling. I didn’t know if I could ever truly forgive myself for my past and allow myself to enjoy my present surroundings.

It was then that I remembered what a wise friend in my sobriety fellowship once told me:

“No matter how far we travel in our recovery, we will never truly escape ourselves or who we are. No physical distance can ever completely separate us from our past, but the path that we take through our journey of sobriety is just as important as the final destination itself. As long as we remember to take the lessons of self-acceptance that we learn in recovery and apply them to our lives, we can turn even the most desperate places into hopeful sanctuaries. Geographical location doesn’t determine serenity. True peace comes from within.”

Looking out at the starlit night through the peaks of the mountains surrounding the road, I realized that I wasn’t just grateful to be in the beautiful place that held so many childhood memories, I was thankful to be sober and able to truly enjoy every moment that I spent there. As we passed the state border and drew closer to the house, I felt a sense of inner peace I had never felt before in my life. Recovery had given me the ability to realize that as long as I stayed sober, I could feel at home wherever I chose to go.

Always Remember:

25

The warm glow from the vintage lamp reflected off the timeworn lacquer surface of the dining room table where me and my father were eating together. As the rich aroma of sautéed onions and broiled chicken mingled with the immutable scent of weathered cedarwood and old musty books, I took a brief moment to admire the lustrous sheen of the hardwood floors beneath me.

I was 16 months sober, and I was up in Vermont for the first time in nearly a decade to learn how to take care of the house my father was giving to me. We had spent the entire day sweeping and mopping the house from top to bottom, and our work had visibly paid off.

After hours of dedicated labor, the clusters of dust and cobwebs that lined the corners had been entirely eradicated. It felt oddly fitting that my father and I spent our time together in Vermont working to clean up the place where we had once spent so many summers and winters together. T

he cleansing of the house served as a perfect metaphor for the work that we were doing to mend our relationship. Sweeping years of dust and dirt out of gloomy and mysterious corners, we brought new life and potential to the long-forgotten recesses of the homestead that stood as a monument to our familial bond and emotional connection.

As we finished our meal, I saw my father pensively swishing the last dregs of red wine around in his glass as he studied me. There was a glint of pride in his eyes that I had never seen before. As I grabbed our plates and water glasses and took them to the sink, he sat there in stunned amazement as I cleaned the kitchen. I put the last plate on the rack to dry and turned to face him. He smiled as he took his last sip and started to speak:

“You did some good work today. I’ve never seen you work that hard in your life. It’s like you’re a completely different person. I have to admit it; I was terrified that you would never make it out of the dark place that those drugs took you to. Seeing you here now, I’m just so glad that you’ve learned to harness your willpower.”

I looked back at him, smiled, and turned to grab a dish rag and wipe the last droplets of water off of the counter. After finishing, I sat down in the chair across from him, relaxed my posture, and took a long and meditative pause before I replied:

“Thanks, Dad. That means a lot. If I’m being completely honest though, willpower had nothing to do with it. The only reason why I’m still alive today is because I became humbled enough by my experiences in addiction to admit that I was powerless over my natural self-destructive tendencies. I think the ultimate act of will was really forcing myself to understand that my willpower alone would never be sufficient to conquer my addiction. My desire to keep working to make my life better had to come from a place of surrender and acceptance.”

As he sat there in his chair and absorbed my proclamation, the look of utter bewilderment on his face slowly transformed into a serene and reflective gaze. Though my father was not in recovery, I knew that he now understood one of the most valuable lessons I had learned in sobriety:

We can only gain strength if we admit the true extent of our vulnerability and are willing to work towards change.

Always Remember:

26

The metallic jangle of my keyring echoed noisily through the train station stairwell, and my wallet chain turbulently jostled outside of my pants pocket. My palms were sweaty – and just as I reached the top of the station mezzanine, I dropped my phone down on the concrete platform. I turned abruptly to retrace my steps and pick it up. I crouched down to find the glass screen broken into a spiderweb of shards.

There was no time to mourn the loss. I was 17 months sober, and I was running late to an interview for a promotion at my job.

As I sprinted towards the back entrance of the restaurant, I took my vest out of my backpack and buttoned it up mid-stride as mystified onlookers furrowed their brows and smugly smirked at me. I rushed through the back entrance and walked past my co-workers, dreading the inevitable confrontation that lay ahead of me.

Two of the restaurant’s long-established bartenders had recently quit their positions for new work opportunities in different cities. Although the weekend bartender positions that they had left vacant were profitable and exciting, the hectic and stressful nature of the job was an intimidating deterrent for many of the veteran servers on staff. Due to this confluence of unforeseen factors, the general manager had scheduled an interview with me after exhausting all of his other available options.

I was noticeably nervous as I approached the table where my manager was sitting. My feeble attempts to make pleasant small talk with him were briskly interrupted by his practical and taciturn proclamation:

“I hear you’re interested in bartending. I like your work ethic, but I have my doubts. I hear that you’re a recovering addict. I have a good friend who struggles with addiction. I’ve seen what it does to people. You’re going to be in charge of the highest volume area in the restaurant and the cash drawer. It’s a lot of pressure. Are you sure you’ll be up to it if I decide to give you the chance?”

My expression went blank. I winced as I recalled the numerous irresponsible transgressions and oversights from the years I spent as an active addict. My lip quivered as I struggled to find the strength to speak. How could I convince others to believe in me when I barely believed in myself?

It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“When we start a new life in recovery, we expect that the people in our lives will accept us for who we are. The truth is that just as our own experiences with addiction can hold us back from accepting ourselves and achieving our true potential, the personal experiences of others can manifest into stigma and fear that is equally limiting for them. As long as we remain honest and open about our past, we can learn to forgive others by forgiving ourselves.”

I looked my boss in the eye and smiled as I opened my mouth to speak:

“I can understand your feelings of doubt, but I know I’m ready. I can’t promise you perfection, but I can promise you honesty. I might be a work in progress, but true progression only comes through hard work.”

As I shook his hand and walked towards the service station to get ready for my shift, I was overtaken by a surge of liberating serenity. I knew that I could stay on the right path as long as I kept my side of the street clean.

Always Remember:

27

The sound of festive and fast-paced Latin dance music blared out of the windows of passing cars as I walked towards the burrito shop where I was meeting my friend for dinner. I hadn’t seen him since before I had gotten sober, and I didn’t know what to expect. I opened the door of the cramped and busy eatery and found him slumped in a dimly-lit corner.

I plunked down in the chair across from him and energetically reached out my hand to greet him. My gregarious enthusiasm was met with a vacant half-lidded stare and a reluctant nod of passive acknowledgment. As we engaged in clipped exchanges of sarcastic quips and reminiscent banter, he attempted to mask his weary desperation with self-deprecating humor.

His wry and pessimistic jokes brought to mind memories of the late nights we once spent driving around town together in the tireless pursuit of narcotic mollification. In the early stages of my addiction, I had seen him as a stoic and trustworthy accomplice on my delinquent adventures. He had avoided consequences for his addictive behavior by maintaining a clean-cut image that was in line with his elevated social reputation. It was clear that years of active addiction had robbed him of his ability to sustain his elaborate charade.

His tangled hair cascaded over his clammy and pale skin. His shirt sleeves were riddled with cigarette burn holes. Suddenly, a look of remorseful guilt flashed across his face. He put down his fork after finishing his meal and spoke to me with an air of self-effacing despondence:

“It’s great to see you, Man. I’m proud of you for getting sober. I’m going to be honest with you. I’m still struggling. I don’t really know what to do. I feel like my life isn’t going anywhere.”

I struggled to find the right words to say to him as we paid our checks and walked out of the restaurant towards his car to continue our conversation. When I opened the door of his minivan, the air was heavy with stale smoke and the seats were strewn with fast food wrappers. I brushed them aside as he put the key in the ignition and lit a cigarette. He proceeded to lament his desperate predicament as he drove me home.

As he pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex and slowed to a stop, an overhanging streetlamp cast a ray of light on a translucent box of paraphernalia that he had stashed in between the seats. Our eyes met in an uncomfortable moment of silent understanding. I opened the car door and stepped out, and then turned and leaned my head through the open window to offer a final word:

“It’s never too late to get a second chance. You should come with me to a meeting sometime.”

His eyebrows tensed as he closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

“Yeah, Man,” he grumbled. “Maybe sometime soon.”

As I walked towards my apartment, I contemplated the differences between the paths our lives had taken. Part of me felt frustrated that I had failed to convince my friend to get sober, but I took comfort in remembering the words I had heard early in my recovery at a sobriety fellowship meeting:

“You can’t force anyone to walk through the same door that you have, but you can certainly keep the door open and greet people with a helping hand once they become ready to walk through themselves.”

Always Remember:

28

The crunchy sound of dry grass and loose pebbles beneath my feet mixed with the raucous cries of nearby schoolchildren as I turned down the narrow brick alleyway. I had half an hour left before I was scheduled to lead a meeting at a nearby rehab center, and I was shaking with nervous anticipation. The treatment center I was scheduled to speak at was a stone’s throw away from many of the bustling intersections I had frequented during the peak of my active addiction.

As I paced down the narrow corridor, every step I took triggered vivid recollections of my past mistakes. I had wasted countless nights parked in that very alleyway lost in a drug-induced catatonic stupor. I felt a sense of wary hesitation as I neared a familiar curve in the meandering backstreet, but I pressed onward towards my inevitable destination. I knew that I had to confront the ghosts of my past before I could truly bring a resonant message of hope to a group of still suffering addicts.

I came upon the same grimy and secluded corner that I had repeatedly visited during the apex of my addictive downward spiral. Rough and scraggly ivy vines were now twisted in a similarly bleak and constrictive spiral around a tilted electric pole. The passage of time had made my former refuge of iniquity barely recognizable, but the indentations of my tire tracks in the soft and uneven ground were still plainly visible. I crouched down in front of a rusty chain link fence and scooped up a fistful of dirt in my hand. I couldn’t believe that I was back where I thought I would never return.

I clenched my fists and grit my teeth as I stared down at the barren ground that stood beneath me. I started to feel frozen in place, trapped in a maze of broken and uneven concrete slabs. The network of semi-detached houses that lined the alley seemed to merge together and spin in a furious whirlwind of hallucinatory mayhem. I gripped the clod of dirt even tighter in my hand as my mind raced with doubt and uncertainty. How could I help others struggling with their recovery when I was still coming to terms with my own addiction? How could I teach others to let go of the destructive behaviors that were holding them back when I couldn’t even seem to let go of my own insecurities?

Suddenly - a flash of clarity! I loosened my grip as the wind quickened. I watched the fine grains of silt blow away in the breeze. I smiled and chuckled as I gazed downward at my empty hand. I realized that I was just as capable of letting go of the nervous doubts in my mind as I was of letting go of the dirt in my hand. I dusted off my hands as I rose and allowed my mind to free itself of all of its burdensome misgivings.

As I turned back onto the street and walked towards the treatment center, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Sometimes when we insist on holding onto the past, we become unable to experience the future. By tightly closing our hands and minds in order to preserve our grip on our past perceptions and beliefs, we fail to remain open to the many gifts that we can experience in recovery. While it certainly takes strength to clench one’s fist and refuse to let go, it takes even more strength to loosen our grip and open up our hands and hearts to receive the gifts that the future has to offer.”

Always Remember:

29

As I bent down and heaved a jumbled stack of silverware and plates into a grubby plastic bin, I felt one of my clip-on suspenders detach from the back of my belt with a resounding snap. There was no time to reattach it. I was halfway through my first bartender training shift, and I was already exhausted and befuddled beyond belief.

The tragic irony of my predicament made me chuckle with nervous amusement as I skittishly shuffled from table to table. I was 19 months sober, and my newfound occupation required me to hold court over a room full of impatient and resentful functional drinkers. The overcrowded bar was feverishly hectic. I was comically disheveled. My shirt was half untucked and covered in garlic cream sauce. My bowtie was skewed to the side at a diagonal angle that made it look like a pinwheel stuck halfway through its rotation.

I studied my co-worker’s effortlessly graceful movements as she frantically wrote down carry out orders with one hand while swiping credit cards with another. She was a sharp and confident woman with piercing eyes and a high ponytail that rapidly swished back and forth like the tail of a galloping horse as she moved through the restaurant. I shakily reached for a bottle of water and searched the countertop for a bar snack menu to bring to a newly arrived table. As I walked past my co-worker behind the bar, she grabbed my arm and issued a curt proclamation dripping in frenzied animosity:

“You need to start moving faster. People are starting to complain.”

My worst fears had been realized. After finally getting promoted to a position that would allow me to easily pay my bills and rent, I had been called out on my incompetence on my very first day of training. I attempted to gather my thoughts and remember the daily specials as I walked to greet a table full of rambunctiously eager customers. I quickened my pace to a speedy trot as I weaved through a dense gauntlet of chairs, clumsily bumping into tables as I struggled to maintain my bearings.

I was stuck in a cyclical conundrum: Every careless and awkward mistake made me want to move faster, but I became sloppier with each increasingly accelerated movement. I felt like I was trapped on a runaway hamster wheel. I was spinning out of control and running in place at the same time.

It was then that I remembered one of my favorite sayings from my sobriety fellowship:

“Easy Does It.”

Though I had seen that phrase on posters lining the rooms of my fellowship clubhouse on several occasions, I had never truly understood its meaning until now.

I realized that I was making my situation more stressful than it needed to be by overanalyzing every minor mistake that I made and taking myself too seriously. I understood that if I continued to try to do everything at once that I wouldn’t be able to do anything at all.

The anxious tension in my shoulders dissipated as I smiled and took a deep breath. I slowed my pace and allowed myself to experience the moment and detach from my stress and anxiety. Recovery had given me the opportunity to pause and reflect and gain perspective so that I could succeed in my daily life. Sometimes taking it easy can help us make it through our hardest days.

Always Remember:

30

My forehead was tense and sweaty as I crunched upward towards the ceiling, twisting my elbows towards my knees while my hands clutched the back of my neck. I grimaced with pained exhaustion as I forced myself to power through the sharp electric ache that was coursing through my body. “Just one more,” I thought. The feverish burn in my cramped muscles calmed to a subdued simmer as I fell to the floor with a pronounced thud.

I was over a year sober, and the calming endorphins from my late-night workout provided a much-needed respite after a long and tiring workday. The euphoric release triggered by my vigorous routine allowed me to temporarily supersede my mind’s inclination towards frantic overthinking. Even still, I would usually procrastinate between sets due to my inherent lack of discipline. I struggled to find the motivation to begin my next round of exercise.

Suddenly, the phone rang. It was my ex-girlfriend. It had been months since we had separated due to irreconcilable differences. Her voice was warbly and slurred as she struggled to articulate full coherent sentences. My heart palpitated as the lilting upswing of her vocal cadence conjured vivid memories of the times we spent together.

During the course of our short-lived romantic entanglement, she would often call on me to rescue her and her friends from their late-night party adventures. Over time, I became resentful of her drunken behavior. I cringed and sighed when she finally revealed the reason for her call:

“I know it’s been a while, but I miss you and I have no way to get home. Can you come get me? I want to see you.”

I squirmed on the ground as I attempted to make sense of my feelings. I knew that I needed to stop enabling her unsustainable behavior, but I felt magnetically attracted to her chaotic dysfunction. I felt a spontaneous burst of energy and sprang up onto my feet. I ran towards the closet to fetch my coat so I could call a cab to go pick her up. Upon reaching the closet, I abruptly froze in place. I became aware of the fact that the energy and motivation that had eluded me when I was attempting to continue my workout had instantly materialized when I had been roped into my ex-girlfriend’s perilous escapades. It was then that I remembered the wise words a treatment counselor had once told me:

“If we can learn to apply ten percent of the energy that we once applied to destructive behavior patterns in our active addictions towards positive changes in recovery, we will recognize that the only thing that ever held us back in the past was our unwillingness to use the energy that we already had at our disposal.”

I knew that it was time to admit that my codependent relationship with my ex-girlfriend was becoming just as destructive as my past addiction to substances. I took a deep breath and then addressed her with pained hesitance:

“I’m sorry. I have work in the morning. You should call a cab and spend the night at your friend’s house. Take care of yourself. I miss you too, but I have to put myself first.”

I hung up the phone and felt a seething burn in the pit of my stomach similar to the burn I had just felt when I was exercising on the ground. I knew that it would be harder to summon the courage and motivation to continue on the right path than it would be to continue on the wrong one, but I remembered the words that had kept me going through the hardest times:

31

Blinding flashes from the headlights of passing cars streamed through the windows of the commuter bus as it hurtled down the moonlit road. The seats were packed with workworn passengers, who were drifting in and out of consciousness as the bus maneuvered through the potholed streets. I was over one year sober, and I was headed home after the concluding night of an exhausting 10-day work marathon.

I felt a sharp cramp in my calf as the bus descended down a steeply-inclined suburban parkway. I reflexively kicked my foot forward, stretching my legs underneath the seat in front of me in an attempt to relieve my pain. I suddenly heard a series of faint plinks and rattles echo over the mechanical murmur of the bus engine. I shifted my gaze downward to look for the source of the sounds and saw that I had knocked over my backpack. I froze in horror as I watched an avalanche of pens, coins, and server pads roll out of my bag towards the front of the bus.

I sprang to my feet and frantically leapt over the sleeping passenger beside me. As I dove down onto my stomach and scrambled to grab my quickly-moving possessions off of the ground, the noisy clang of my belt buckle against the serrated metal floor shattered the quiet and peaceful atmosphere inside of the bus cabin.

The irritated grumbles of newly-woken commuters formed a hushed and raspy chorus. It felt like the laser-like heat from their angry gazes was burning holes through my back. I rose from the floor, clutching a heap of crumpled papers and writing utensils in my sweat-soaked hands as I defeatedly shimmied back into my seat. I hunched over my backpack and stuffed my disorganized pile of work implements into the top compartment.

I remembered the countless instances when my careless mistakes had incurred the wrath of similar crowds of strangers during the course of my active addiction. I couldn’t believe that I had made the same type of clumsy error in recovery. I didn’t know if I could face the consequences of my mishap with a clear and uninhibited mind. I struggled to move past my incapacitating feelings of self-doubt as the bus neared its final stop.

It was then that I realized that the act of picking my scattered possessions off of the ground was a perfect metaphor for the arc of redemption that I had experienced in recovery. Before I began my journey of sobriety, my powerlessness over my reflexive impulses towards chemical self-destruction created significant havoc in the lives of those around me.

Although clumsy slips undoubtedly happen in both active addiction and recovery, sobriety had given me the opportunity to take responsibility for both my present and past mistakes in a way that I never could when I was actively using drugs. As I made my way off of the bus, I felt a grounding sense of tranquil awareness as I looked towards the night sky. I might not have been able to go back in time and change the past, but I could make a better future for myself – and others - by taking responsibility for my actions and working to make amends for the consequences of my mistakes.

Always Remember:

32

Cascading streams of scalding water rushed down my neck as I pressed my hands against the tiled shower wall. I was over a year sober, and I had just returned home after the concluding shift of an exceptionally draining workweek.

My blissfully regenerative interlude was unexpectedly interrupted when I felt the water emanating from the showerhead start to cool and lose its intensity. I knew that I was running out of time. I took a deep breath and closed the spigot as I braced myself for the coming cold.

I grabbed the last remaining towel that was hanging on the curtain rod as I stepped out and walked towards the mirror. As the warm clouds of steam were scattered by a frigid gust of air from an overhead fan, I shivered underneath and watched the fog on the mirror gradually recede into the corners.

I turned on the faucet and began my nightly routine, huddling for warmth as I shakily squeezed the last bit of toothpaste out of an empty tube that lay at the edge of the sink counter. I was dreading the inevitable journey that lay ahead of me. It was only twenty paces from my bathroom to my bed, but I was consumed with worry and apprehension.

I slowed the pace of my brushstrokes in attempted procrastination. I tried to mastermind a solution to my chilly dilemma. I shut off the overhead fan and began to pace around the cramped and misty bathroom.

It was then that I realized that my inability to face trivial discomfort in this moment was a perfect metaphor for my continual unwillingness to confront the most difficult challenges that I was facing in recovery.

In my active addiction, I resorted to increasingly ridiculous and time-consuming tactics in my attempts to continue my unmanageable lifestyle. This was not dissimilar to my foolish attempt at holding onto the fleeting warmth and comfort that I felt in the shower.

I turned the handle and kicked the door open, smiling and quivering as I bolted down the hallway. As I reached the bed, I felt a strong sense of freedom and purpose wash over me as I slid under the covers. By leaving the captive confinement of my old ways behind, I had discovered a new reality that I never dreamed possible.

Recovery had given me the ability to rise to the occasion and conquer my fear of confrontation, and my reward for my efforts was a sturdy and reliable foundation for a new way of life that was even more comforting and welcoming than a warm bed on a cold night.

Always Remember:

33

Off-kilter strobe lights cast flickering shadows on the grimy and timeworn walls of the underground concert hall. I frantically paced back and forth, scanning the close-packed crowd for signs of familiar faces. I was 18 months sober, and I was meeting a group of my former high school classmates for an impromptu reunion at a lively dance music show.

I felt a forceful tug on my arm as I neared the front of the venue. I turned around to find my childhood friend looking back at me with a jolly and carefree smile. As we maneuvered through the crowd to meet each other, I noticed several additional schoolyard acquaintances wandering toward us. They were all holding plastic cups containing fizzy neon-colored alcoholic beverages. It suddenly dawned on me that I was the only sober person there. I hopelessly attempted to start conversations with them by screaming over the deafening music. They seemed so relaxed and untroubled, as they tipsily swayed to the rhythmic pulse of the pounding bassline.

The effortless fluidity of their movements awakened visceral memories of painfully awkward moments from my childhood. Before I began my descent into addiction, my debilitating insecurities caused me to freeze and tense up in routine social situations. At the peak stages of my alcohol and drug use, the short-lived escape that addictive substances provided me from my inhibitions allowed me to temporarily sidestep my self-conscious shyness. As I stood in the middle of a throng of drunk and friendly revelers, I started to regress back into the inhibitory behavioral patterns that haunted my early years.

My facial muscles tightened and my jaw clenched. I stared down at my feet and folded my arms. It felt like I was trapped in a claustrophobic prison of energized anxiety. Even in the middle of a group of lifelong friends, I still felt lonely and disconnected. My mind raced as I began to deconstruct and analyze my self-judgmental tendencies. I squeezed my fists together until the muscles in my hands began to cramp, hoping to cut through my mental and emotional tension with cathartic physical release. It was then that I remembered the wise words of an inpatient treatment counselor who had helped me through my hardest days:

“It’s a common misconception that addicts are unable to maintain sobriety due to a lack of intelligence. In reality, many addicts find their inability to quiet their restless minds to be the very reason that they continue to unsustainably self-medicate. I’ve seen some of the smartest people I’ve ever known lose their way in recovery due to their insistence on making things complicated. Sometimes the most challenging thing for an addict to do is to learn how to keep it simple. If we can learn to relinquish control over our mind’s naturally-overthinking tendencies, we can discover one of the ultimate ironies of recovery: By surrendering the intellectual fight against our lower urges, we reclaim the incredible clarity and power that comes from accepting life on life’s terms.”

I understood that I didn’t need to chemically escape in order to give myself permission to keep things simple. I decided that it was time to make peace with my self-conscious fear. Instead of attempting to do battle with my nagging insecurities, I allowed myself to embrace them and confront them. I closed my eyes and let go of all of the physical and mental tension I held inside myself as I swayed back and forth with the music. Recovery had allowed me to move past my fears in a way I never dreamed possible. Sometimes the most complex problems can be solved using the simplest concepts.

Always Remember:

34

Gentle currents of cool, dry air streamed down from an overhead vent as I lay awake on a thin futon mattress. I was 19 months sober, and I was spending the night in the guest room of my mother’s house. I was lightheaded and dehydrated. My lips were cracked and chapped. I needed a glass of water to quench my thirst.

I removed the thick, plush down comforter that was draped around my shoulders, but I couldn’t seem to cast off the anxiety that was keeping me awake that night. I winced and shivered as my feet hit the cold, wooden floor. As I stumbled toward the kitchen, I became temporarily blinded by a flash of light from an unidentified source.

I turned my head to the side and saw a single glimmering beam reflecting off of the shiny ivory keys of a nearby piano. I walked towards it curiously and took a deep breath as I lost myself in a haze of introspective nostalgia.

I remembered my first piano lessons as a young child and the transcendental gratification that I felt when I initially discovered the cathartic power of music. The euphoric recollection of past artistic breakthroughs brought on deep feelings of conflicted apprehension. During the course of my active addiction, I drifted from my disciplined piano studies in an attempt to rebel from my family’s structured expectations. Although the hedonistic and boastful songs that I penned during the worst days of my addiction earned me the respect of my musical peers, my artistic development came at the expense of my sobriety and sanity.

I sat down at the piano, and I reflected on the awesome power of creative passion – both destructive and positive. As my hands nervously hovered over the keys, the discordantly juxtaposed memories of life-changing artistic triumphs and devastating disappointments flashed in my mind’s eye. Even though I was finally happy and stable in sobriety, it still felt like something was missing in my life. I longed to express myself creatively, but I didn’t know if I was strong enough to move past some of the still-lingering triggers that I associated with music. How could I channel the positive lessons I had learned from my journey of recovery into my preferred artistic medium without returning to my old habits? How could I forge a new path forward without encountering the pitfalls of damaging mental associations?

It was then that I remembered a saying that was written on a sign I had seen at a local sobriety fellowship meeting:

“We will neither regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.”

I understood that I didn’t need to feel ashamed of the missteps I had made during my addicted past – artistic or otherwise. I decided then and there that I needed to use my passion for music to tell the story of my recovery. I closed my eyes as I pressed down on the keys and felt a bolt of electricity rush through my bones as the sound of music filled the room. My hands trembled. I held back tears of joy as I struggled to organize my artistic ideas. I knew I had a long way to go before I fully rediscovered my creative voice, but I was ready for the journey that lay ahead. It was an awkward, messy and imperfect beginning, but I felt more connected to my personal truth than I ever had before in my life.

Always Remember:

35

The restaurant bar was silent and empty after the final group of affluent diners said their last goodbyes and sauntered merrily towards the door. It was five minutes before closing time. The coast seemed to be clear. I turned eagerly towards the service station to begin my nightly cleanup ritual. I began polishing the rows of grimy bottles behind the bar with a rough and worn dish towel. Suddenly, I heard the door swing open. My heart sank. It was a gigantic group of chatty customers.

I wrenched my face into a forced smile as I passed out food menus and recited my peppy corporate speech to them. As I begrudgingly scooped ice into water glasses and passed out plates and napkins, I saw my co-worker emerge from the back of the restaurant after returning from his break. I could tell that he was deeply intoxicated from his crazed and dissociated stare. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder in a gesture of tipsy camaraderie, then pointed at the new customers as he slurred a crude and boisterous exclamation:

“New friends! Welcome to my house. Come in and stay a while.”

I knew that there was nothing I could do to stop him from making a fool of himself. In the course of my active addiction, I had often embarked on ill-fated journeys of narcotic exploration. I would leave epic trails of destruction in the lives of my family and friends with my clumsy and boorish actions. I cringed in agony as I watched my co-worker’s drunken attempts at sociable humor being met with awkward chuckles and sideways glances.

Part of me wanted to scold him for his selfish ineptitude. Another part of me wanted to intervene and attempt to save him from the catastrophe that would inevitably come as a result of his stupefied antics. I turned away and clasped my head in my hands as I struggled to accept my reality. It seemed like I had barely just liberated myself from the grips of chemical dependency. How could I help my co-worker navigate the dark days of his addiction to discover a better way of life? I felt like I owed it to him to do something.

It was then that I remembered the wise words of a treatment center counselor who had warned me about this type of situation while I was in rehab:

“Many recovering addicts and alcoholics fall into the trap of trying to save their friends and loved ones from the same consequences that they have experienced in the past. By doing so, we run the risk of becoming a captive prisoner in their destructive cycles. The best way to inspire people to turn their lives around is to continue progressing on your own path. You can’t show someone the way when they’re still able to drag you backwards.”

My tense posture loosened and relaxed as I allowed myself to detach from the uncomfortably awkward social situation in front of me. I understood that it was not my responsibility to save my co-worker from his mistakes. I could only hope that one day he would be ready to begin his own journey in recovery. As the restaurant manager took in the graceless spectacle from across the room with a furrowed brow and folded arms, I decided that the only mess that was worth trying to clean up that night was the pile of dirty glassware in front of me. Recovery had given me a chance to take responsibility for my own actions – and the clarity to understand that I was not responsible for the actions of others.

Always remember:

36

Muddy and sonorous bass notes bellowed through my headphones as I briskly swaggered across a flat, open field in a public park. It was my first day off from work in over a week, and I was happy to celebrate a brief moment of carefree freedom. I paused at the edge of the park and planted myself firmly down on a rickety bench. Suddenly, I felt a buzz in my pocket. I reached my hand down to grab my phone and saw a text notification from my friend from work. He was on his way downtown to meet me near the park at a sobriety fellowship meeting.

It had been over a year since I had openly admitted the truth about my addicted past to all of my co-workers. In the months that followed my workplace confession, a small number of my colleagues had approached me with occasional questions about their own substance use patterns. One friend, in particular, had expressed deep concern on multiple occasions. At the end of one exceptionally busy night, he discreetly approached me and told me that he was afraid to get sober and didn’t know where to turn for help.

The ensuing conversation resulted in a firm agreement to attend a sobriety fellowship meeting together. As I felt my phone buzz a second time, I felt empowered and hopeful as I readied myself to walk towards the fellowship clubhouse. I was so excited to be able to bring a friend in need to a meeting with me. My feeling of optimistic eagerness was swiftly truncated when I read the vague and brief message on the screen:

“Can’t make it. Sorry, Man. Something came up.”

My heart started to palpitate with sorrowful anxiety as I slumped forward in my seat and stared at the ground beneath me. The cracks and fissures in the dry earth were a flawless representation of my internal emotional landscape. My fragile ego was fractured and broken. I didn’t know what to think.

I started to remember the countless times that I had sent equally terse and indistinct reply texts during the course of my active addiction. I would always feel a deep sense of guilt and shame after turning down invitations from similarly eager and confident sober people at the last minute. It was hard to believe that the roles were now reversed. I felt like the weight of the world was resting on my shoulders. I couldn’t understand why he had chosen not to go. It felt like I was entirely to blame.

It was then that I understood that my decision to accept the help I knew I needed for my addiction had to come from my own intrinsic desire for change. Although it pained me to know that my friend was not ready to begin his journey of recovery, I understood that it wasn’t my fault. As I walked towards the meeting, I sent a friendly text reply back to him:

“No worries. I’m happy to take you another time if you change your mind. Let me know if you ever need someone to talk to.”

I felt a hopeful smile spread across my face.

I knew that as long as I continued to reach out and offer help to those in need - and not allow myself to be discouraged or rattled by the immediate results - I could continue to work towards making a difference in the lives of others also struggling with addiction.

Always Remember:

37

The air was heavy with the smells of freshly poured asphalt and roasted peanuts as I burst through the exit doors of the train station. Flashing lights from skyscraper buildings and computerized billboards temporarily blinded me as I attempted to hail a cab with one hand while holding onto my bags with the other. The sensory overload was staggering. I closed my eyes and held my breath while I attempted to center myself in the midst of the chaos.

Suddenly, I was interrupted from my meditative pause by the sharp and brassy honk of a cab driver who had pulled up in front of me. I threw my bags in the trunk of his cab and told him to head uptown. As I sat down on the crinkled and cracked faux-leather seats in the back of his sedan, I turned on an overhead light and began to critically examine myself in a dingy and fogged-up passenger mirror. I was over a year sober, and I was on my way to pay a visit to my grandmother in the city.

As I fumbled with my collar and attempted to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress shirt, vague and fuzzy memories of childhood family gatherings flashed on a faraway projector screen in the theatre of my subconscious. I remembered the smells of my grandmothers cooking and the warm and serene smile that she greeted me with whenever I ran towards her to give her a hug. In the days before my addiction, she had always seen me as a sweet but disorganized boy who never quite managed to find his way.

As I progressed further and further down the path of chemical self-destruction, the smiles she used to greet me with in my early childhood became replaced with worried and anxious grimaces. I knew that the depths of the despair my disease had brought me to had taken a heavy toll on her emotional well-being.

I was determined to show her that the meek, fragile, and scared little boy who she had formerly known had morphed into a strong and self-sufficient man in recovery. I took a hearty swig of cranberry juice from a plastic bottle I had kept in my bag - and felt my heart skip when the cab slammed on the brakes. The entire bottle of cranberry juice had spilled all over my white shirt!

I was so embarrassed. I had tried so hard to look nice for my grandmother in an effort to prove that I was finally capable of taking care of myself. I didn’t want her to have to worry about me anymore. As I sat in the cab outside of the entrance to her apartment building, I pinched the bridge of my nose and held back tears as I struggled to come to terms with my predicament.

It was then that I understood that it didn’t matter whether or not I showed up in a clean white shirt. It mattered that I was showing up sober – and able to deal with all of the challenges that came my way with a clear and level head. As I began to clean the seats of the cab with a paper towel and gather my things to walk towards my grandmother’s apartment, I felt a hopeful smile spread across my face.

I knew that as long as I greeted my grandmother with the same warm and open smile that she had once met me with so long ago, it didn’t matter if my clothes were dirty. Recovery had given me the gift of a clean conscience – and that’s something no spilled bottle of cranberry juice could ever tarnish.

Always remember:

38

Pale fluorescent overhead lights cast unflattering shadows on the faces of passing shoppers as the rusty squeaks of shopping cart wheels echoed through the aisles of the grocery store. I frantically weaved through the produce section, grabbing armfuls of lettuce boxes with reckless abandon. I was over a year and a half sober, and it was my first day off from work in over two weeks.

I felt a mischievous smile creep across my face as I jumped onto the back of my cart when it was moving at full speed through the wide and empty dairy aisle. I grabbed the rails and rode it like a skateboard past elaborately stacked rows of fine cheeses and salted butters. As the cart slowed to a stop, I paused to relish a fleeting moment of cathartic joy. It might have just been another typical Tuesday in a suburban shopping center, but I felt like I was on top of the world.

My boisterous exuberance was further boosted by a newfound sense of financial empowerment. I had recently been approved for a credit card for the first time in my life. Though it came with a low purchase limit and a high interest rate, I took the credit card approval as a material representation of the trust I had regained through my months of hard work as a sober taxpaying citizen. As I made my way towards the checkout register, I pompously poked my chest out as I felt a euphoric swell of pride spread from my core to my fingertips. After triumphantly dumping boatloads of delicious groceries on the conveyor belt, I pulled my shiny new credit card out of my wallet and swiped it through the machine.

I had already started to help bagging the groceries when I felt a tap on my shoulder from the cashier. She turned to me with an uneasy look on her face and spoke with an apprehensively nervous tone:

“Sir, your card didn’t go through. Do you have an alternate form of payment?”

I froze. It felt like the floor was caving in underneath me. I turned to see the same shoppers I had ecstatically whooshed past in my energized and gleeful trance now staring at me with scornful and impatient eyes. I couldn’t believe that I had allowed myself to become so egotistical. With over a year and a half sober, I was still wrestling with the same destructive and arrogant tendencies that had plagued me during the course of my active addiction. I felt so ashamed. I didn’t know if I was strong enough to humble myself down and accept my material limitations.

It was then that I realized that it didn’t matter if my card went through or not. It only mattered that I had the emotional strength to move forward regardless of the outcome. I took a deep breath and pulled my card out of my pocket. As I studied it closely, I saw that there was a transparent sticker over the payment chip. I couldn’t believe I had overlooked such an obvious impediment. I pulled the sticker off, stuck the card in the machine again, and then waited for the moment of truth.

As the transaction successfully processed and the receipt printed, I came to a simple and profound realization: No matter how far or how fast my recovery allowed me to progress in the material world, I could only reap the full benefits of my sobriety by turning inward, slowing down, and reflecting on the things that truly mattered.

Always remember:

39

The mouthwatering scent of spiced meat and steamed rice filled the air as I made my way toward the front of my favorite fast-casual eatery. I was over a year sober, and I was hungry and exhausted after a long work shift. As I approached the cashier to place my order, I felt a faint pulse in my front pocket. It was a message from a former friend that I had met during the worst part of my active addiction.

For the past few weeks, he had been demanding money from me using a series of finely-tuned manipulative tactics. Against my better judgment, I had caved-in to his initial requests. Although he had promised to immediately pay me back, he had entirely failed to fulfill his obligation. My originally sympathetic attitude towards him had quickly turned into one of spiteful exasperation. I knew I had to speak my mind and truncate our dysfunctional interaction before it destroyed me.

I braced myself for the inevitable backlash as I typed out furious proclamations of moral superiority. It felt like I was raining down flaming arrows of indignant self-righteousness on him with every message I sent. His replies were disarmingly passive. He insisted on his sobriety, and doubled-down on his past promises of repayment. When I took a brief pause from my one-sided spiritual crusade, I looked up from my phone and saw a cook in the back of the restaurant who had a pained expression on his face.

He was standing in front of an oven in the kitchen that refused to completely shut. As I watched him repeatedly attempt to slam the door closed, it was clear that he was becoming increasingly frustrated. When all seemed lost, he threw his hands up in the air, kicking the surrounding walls as he cursed his predicament. After a brief meltdown, he took a brief meditative pause before he calmly approached the oven once more. He slid a pair of colorful oven mitts onto his hands, and adjusted a pan on the rack inside the oven with deliberate precision. As he gingerly grasped the oven handles and pressed inward, he was finally rewarded when it closed with a soft and gratifying click.

It was then that I realized that attempting to angrily convince my chemically-dependent acquaintance to admit his wrongdoing was every bit as futile as trying to shove a jammed oven door shut. Much like the cook in the kitchen had to slow down and make a level-headed adjustment to address the source of his problem, it was now up to me to take a deep breath and make a much-needed spiritual adjustment within myself.

I understood that although there was nothing I could gain from my anger and frustration, there was an opportunity to learn from my past mistakes. I opened up my phone and sent my friend the following message:

“I really don’t think I can help you anymore. I’m not going to send you any more money. If you need help reaching out to people to find a way to get into treatment, I’ll be there for you. Take care of yourself.”

As a torrent of insincere apologies streamed into my message inbox, I set my phone aside and hit the mute button while I enjoyed a satisfying meal. Recovery had given me the power to forgive myself and others for our past mistakes – and the strength to change my behavior and break the destructive cycle I was trapped in.

Always remember

40

I dug my heels into the polyester carpet as I lifted myself off of the couch in the group therapy room. I was over a year sober, and it was my last day of continuing care treatment at the outpatient rehab center.

It was hard for me to believe that my time there was coming to an end. As I made my way around the room to say my final goodbyes to my fellow group members, I thought back on the times that we had spent together. Although our social interactions were limited to our weekly treatment sessions, I had developed a deep sense of emotional attachment to each and every one of them.

As I walked out of the dimly-lit lobby, I started to feel a nagging sense of doubtful hesitancy. I didn’t know if I was ready for the newfound freedom that lay ahead of me. I had become accustomed to the soothing cathartic release that came from confessing my wrongdoings and trepidations in a safe and receptive support group. I started to feel naked and afraid as I stood in the corridor outside of the treatment center. I didn’t know if I could trust my instincts and overcome my insecurities to guide myself towards the next right action.

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a kind-eyed counselor from the rehab center. She held up my knitted cap as she smiled and spoke to me in a lilting and therapeutic cadence.

“Glad I was able to find you! Looks like your hat didn’t want to leave quite yet. We’re going to miss you.”

I froze in place as I half-grumbled an embarrassed “thank you.” I wanted to let them know how grateful I was for everything that they had done for me, but I couldn’t find the words to express myself. I felt like I needed to pay them back for saving my life, but I didn’t know how. It was then that I remembered one of the most powerful truths that I had become aware of during the course of my recovery:

“The value of one addict helping another is without parallel.”

I realized that the reason that I didn’t want to leave treatment was that I knew how important it was to remain connected with other addicts. By sharing our truths, challenges, and triumphs with one another, we were also able to share our collective strength in recovery. I understood that the best way to thank the treatment counselors for saving my life was to help them make a difference in the lives of other addicts. I felt a spark of courage as I raised my chin to look the counselor directly in the eye, and spoke with a newly instilled sense of confident fortitude:

“If I recall correctly, you once told me that you have a program here where people who graduate from long-term treatment can come back to lead therapy groups by working as a peer counselor. This place has been really crucial to me in helping me maintain my recovery. I hope you’ll consider hiring me for the position.”

As I shook my counselor’s hand and made plans to come in for an interview, a calming feeling of safety and serenity coursed through my nerves. Recovery had not only helped me find a new way of life – it had given me the opportunity to help others find their way as well.

Always remember:

41

My hands were clammy with sweat as I made my way down a long and narrow hallway towards the entrance of the group therapy classroom. It was the first day of my new part-time job as a peer counselor at a local outpatient treatment center, and I was feeling incredibly skittish and nervous.

I collapsed into a soft pleather chair, and began to reminisce about the times I had spent there as a patient. As I stared at the burgundy couches lining the walls of the all-too-familiar room, I tumbled headfirst into a murky labyrinth of surreal dissociation. I was only a few feet from the seats where I had spent a good chunk of my early recovery, but I felt like I was a million miles away from the ghost of my former self.

As I watched a group of giggling and chattering patients return from their smoke breaks, I felt a deep sense of fraternal kinship with them. Every sight and sound brought back vivid memories of my past treatment sessions. I became acutely aware of the facial expressions and mannerisms of the group members who were seated around me. Some were squirming in their seats with pained grimaces on their faces. It was clear that they were still stuck in the grips of horrifying chemical withdrawal. Others were twisted and hunched as they attempted to send a last text or take a last forbidden bite of their meals. It seemed like it was only yesterday that I had been sitting in the exact same seats while I furtively nibbled on my secret snacks.

My nostalgic contemplations were cut short by a piercing shout from the back of the room:

“Hey! I remember you. We were here in treatment a few years ago together. It’s great to see you doing well. I’ve got a favor to ask you as a friend: can you sign my treatment attendance slip for me and let me go home early? I’ve got some stuff I need to take care of.”

I resentfully grit my teeth as I attempted to summon the necessary patience to respond to his tactless request. I dreaded the impending confrontation. I didn’t want to come off as overly authoritative, but I didn’t want to seem like a pushover either. As my former acquaintance confidently strode up to the front of the room with his signature slip in his hand, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Recovery is not a popularity contest. You don’t have to make everyone happy. If you can help another addict stay sober – and by doing so, help yourself stay sober in the process – you have done more than enough.”

I took a deep breath, calmed my nerves, then looked him directly in his eyes and said the following:

“I’m not going to sign your slip. If you want to leave, I can’t stop you. I think you should stay, though. I’m going to tell the story of how I got to where I am, and maybe we can catch up here in group. I’d love to hear what’s going on with you, as well. I like to think that amazing things can happen when addicts speak openly and honestly with each other.”

As my friend defeatedly shuffled his way back to his seat, I felt the tension ease within my shoulders as I began the therapy session. Recovery had given me the opportunity to be of service to my fellow addicts in need – and the bravery to advocate for myself with clarity and restraint.

Always remember:

42

Brassy, Big Band music blared out of the overhead speakers scattered throughout the crowded urban eatery.

I was over a year sober and had taken the night off to treat my friends to a celebratory meal. I poured myself a tall glass of mineral water and reached down to grab a piece of lemon off of a large plate of sliced citrus. As I methodically squeezed the fruit over my water glass, I felt a gratifying twinge of euphoric fulfillment while watching the juice proliferate throughout the glass below a thin layer of frothy bubbles.

Although I had been sober for nearly two years, I still remained enraptured in the constant pursuit of restorative rituals. Rather than punish myself for my compulsively ceremonial tendencies, I had allowed myself to take advantage of the brief flashes of bliss that I found in my daily routines. As I stared across the table at my friends, they were fixated on their own ritualistic beverage preparations.

After stirring and swishing his drink with theatrical pomp and vigor, a friend seated directly across from me cleared his throat and raised his glass. I braced myself for the tipsy toast that immediately followed:

“Cheers to you, Man. We can’t believe that you really got sober. It’s sad that you can’t enjoy a real drink with us like the old days, but we know that it’s for the best. You were really a mess back then. You’re doing so much better now than anyone ever believed you could.”

As he finished his toast and the main course hit the table, I paused to reflect on his words while I indignantly chewed on the side of my cheek. As I dug into my oversized portion of rich and decadent food, I realized that it served as a perfect metaphor for my emotional state: I felt sliced and mangled by my friend’s condescending and backhanded proclamation - and wholly submerged in a saucy mélange of raging insecurity that was artfully-peppered with bitter resentments.

I couldn’t believe that he had the nerve to chide me for my past shortcomings when he had spilled wine all over his shirt and was starting to slur his words right in front of me!

I began to smile with ravenous glee as I concocted a series of witty and scathing comebacks. I was so excited to prove him wrong while holding my sobriety over his head like a ten-ton anvil. As my tongue twisted within my mouth like a spring-loaded coil ready to catapult a self-righteous verbal barrage, I remembered the wise words of a good friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“At times, people will test the strength of our recovery when we least expect it. They will punish us with their actions and words for no discernible reason. Sometimes they won’t even realize that they’re doing it. Although it may feel good at times to push back against our detractors, we must remain conscious of the following fact: we didn’t get sober to prove other people wrong, or to be able to lord our recovery over them. We did it to be able to find freedom in our own lives while working towards self-actualization and acceptance.”

I took a deep breath, relaxed my iron-fisted grip around my fork and knife, and allowed myself to let go of all the anger I was holding onto. It felt good to know that I didn’t have to respond. Recovery hadn’t just given me the power to choose water over wine – it had also given me the power to choose serenity and forgiveness over rage and resentment.

Always remember

43

Wispy clouds crested over faraway hills as the commuter bus lurched its way down a crowded road. I was nearly two years sober, and I was on my way to work a busy Saturday night shift at my bartending job.

As I gazed out of the foggy windows, I saw a blinding streak of light illuminate the evening sky. The sharp and resounding crackle of the lightning was immediately followed by the percussive pounding of raindrops on the metal roof. I grumbled resentfully as I pondered my fate. I was dressed in a freshly-pressed work uniform, and I had no rain jacket to keep myself dry.

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was a friend who lived down the road from the house that my father had given me in Southern Vermont. His voice was heavy with pessimistic dread as he revealed his reason for calling:

“It breaks my heart to tell you, but you need to get up here. We had an incredible storm last night. A huge tree just fell across your road. It took out your power wires and knocked down a couple of other trees in its path. I tried to check on your house to see if it was alright, but the pathway was completely blocked.”

Time seemed to stand still as his words blended into warm mush in my ears. I couldn’t believe my misfortune. I had worked countless hours at my service job in order to be able to afford the taxes and upkeep for my Vermont house. Due to natural forces that were beyond my control, it seemed that all of my efforts had been instantly rendered null and void.

I ended the call with a heartfelt promise to my neighbor to make my way up to Vermont as soon as possible. Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to come to terms with my new reality.

As the bus pulled up to the station, I looked out of my window and saw a stream of rainwater rapidly rushing into a dark and murky storm drain. With every silent tear that fell down the side of my face, it felt like my dream of one day living in Vermont was slipping further away into a similarly uncertain void.

I felt so afraid and powerless. I didn’t want to leave my seat on the bus, and I didn’t want to confront my daunting homeownership troubles either. I had experienced the same paralyzing fear immediately before I made the decision to get sober and clean.

I knew it was time to make an important decision about how I wanted to live my life.

I walked towards the bus doorway, but I hesitated at the last step, and I weighed my options.

If I stayed on the bus, I would remain trapped in a familiar loop of self-destructive fear. If I walked out into the unknown, I would have to face necessary discomfort, but ultimately would be able to continue on my path of positive self-actualization.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and launched myself out into the rain. I didn’t know what would happen if I showed up to work in soaked and dirty clothes. I didn’t know if I would be able to fix my house in Vermont. All I knew was that recovery had given me the courage to soldier through any storm that came my way – and the ability to face all of life’s challenges with determination and clarity.

Always remember:

44

Tall reeds poked over the edges of the rusty guard rails lining the exurban highway as I made a sharp right onto a potholed exit ramp. I was nearly two years sober, and I was on my way to rescue my perpetually embattled friend from a family conflict. After turning onto a quiet side street, I pulled into a short and steep concrete driveway outside of a small brick house.

My friend swaggered out of the doorway, plunked his heavy bag down in the back of my car, and slammed the door shut with theatrical bluster. As we made our way back towards the highway, he rested his head on his hand as he began to recount the chain of events that had forced him to leave his family home.

Over the course of our ride back to my apartment, his stories of glamorous debauchery and artistic letdown gave way to vague philosophical ramblings. When he opened up his jacket to fetch his pack of cigarettes, I caught a brief glimpse of a small metallic flask. Though the monogram text on the flask was faded and scratched beyond recognition, its furtively-concealed placement served as a crystal-clear indication of the fragile state of my friend’s mental health.

As he continued to wax poetic, I lost myself in memories of our shared experiences. In years past, he and I had spent a considerable amount of time together working as independent artists in the same local music scene. As my debilitating use pattern took me further from my creative aspirations, he had gone on to find considerable success. I felt a prickly jab of jealous anger perforate the surface of my subconscious as I recalled how hard it was to watch him move forward in our shared artistic passion.

As we slowed to a stop in front of my apartment complex, he revealed his true intentions for calling me:

“Hey man, I hate to ask, but I really don’t have a place to stay. Is there any way I could crash at your apartment tonight?”

I paused to consider his request. The tables were now turned in my favor. It was the perfect opportunity to cut him down to size and compensate for my past insecurities. My lip trembled as I fantasized about creative ways to lord my sobriety and fiscal stability over him. Suddenly, my shoulders relaxed. My lip stopped trembling. I knew that I didn’t have to give into my lesser urges.

I understood that my decision to prioritize my sobriety over everything else – including music – had allowed me to find stable employment and develop valuable community connections in early recovery. I knew it was time to apply the lessons of acceptance and detachment that I had learned from my sobriety fellowship towards my interaction with my friend. I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye, and spoke with confidence and clarity:

“You can sleep on the couch, but I’d really appreciate it if you don’t drink in my house. I’m living a little differently now, and I need you to respect that. Let’s listen to some music and catch up. I’d love to hear what you’ve been working on lately.”

My friend nodded in silent accord as he tucked his flask in the pocket of his suitcase. As we walked toward the house, it felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. Recovery had given me the courage to detach from the baggage of my past – and the ability to help others work towards a better future.

Always remember:

45

Powerful hip-hop basslines reverberated through my headphones as I briskly paced through my mother’s apartment. I had stopped by to pay her a brief visit before my work shift, but she had left earlier than originally planned to fulfill a social obligation. As I walked through the empty rooms, the warm and ambient jazz samples of the rap beat conjured lucid recollections of my adolescent years.

As a passionate musician, my artistic identity had always been split between the starkly contrasting worlds of hip-hop and classical piano. Though my parents had always encouraged my creative development, I had felt considerable pressure to live up to their expectations. When I began to enter local piano competitions, I sought fleeting relief from my stress and anxiety through compulsive self-medication.

As my addiction and alcoholism worsened, I drifted away from the reactionary limitations of classical piano and embraced the open fluidity of hip-hop. It didn’t just give me a chance to combine my natural love of words and music – it allowed me to showcase my abilities in an exciting and contemporary format.

Although I had found artistic fulfillment in both of my chosen outlets of expression, I had always regretted the fact that I had never been able to combine my two musical passions into a unified vision. In the darkest depths of my active addiction, I was barely able to perform a coherent rap verse in front of a live audience or stumble through a demanding performance piano piece – much less synthesize the two separate art forms into an innovative hybrid.

My nostalgic fog lifted as I came across a shiny and sturdy upright piano that stood in a secluded corner of my mother’s house. I sat down and began to play along to the hip-hop song that I was listening to. I felt a giddy smile spread across my face as I began to recite the song’s verses over the piano chords. I realized that I was doing what I had once believed to be impossible: I was playing piano while rapping at the same time.

I took the headphones out of my ears and attempted to create an original song by combining my improvised piano line with a rap verse that I had written during the course of my active addiction. My heart sank when I came to the realization that I no longer felt comfortable performing the hedonistically-charged lyrics I had written during a period of intense narcotic dependency. I jumped up from the piano and shook my fists at the ceiling. I had finally managed to merge the two sides of my musical identity, but I still found it incredibly difficult to reconcile the differences between my past and present realities.

Suddenly, I experienced a transcendental moment of clearheaded awareness. I recognized that I needed to find peace with my former self in order to be able to tell the story that I wanted to tell. I remembered the three invaluable principles of recovery that were written on the walls of my sobriety fellowship meetings:

“Honesty, Open-mindedness, and Willingness.”

As I took a deep breath and sat back down at the piano, I understood that I had nothing left to fear. I knew that I would be able to properly actualize my vision as long as I remained open-minded with my musical approach, honest about my story, and willing to work harder than I ever had before. Recovery had not only given me the ability to combine my two musical passions – it had given me the courage to find my true creative voice.

Always remember:

46

Cool gusts of wind rushed across my face as I rolled down the passenger side window of my friend’s car. As we sped past seemingly endless rows of downtown storefronts, I began to nervously tap my fingers on the passenger side mirror. I was nearly two years sober, and I was headed to an impromptu gathering at the house of one of my former schoolmates.

After parking on a secluded side street, my friend took the keys out of the ignition and shoved his door open with exuberant panache. I hesitantly followed behind him as we walked towards the front door of a tall and modern townhome. I reached out to ring the doorbell, and my stomach began to churn with queasy excitement. When the door finally opened, we were led through a labyrinth of dimly lit rooms that were strewn with overloaded ashtrays and empty bottles. As we walked out of the back door onto an open patio, the host of the party took me aside and spoke to me in a hushed and concerned tone:

“It’s good to see you! I’ve heard that you’re sober now. I’ve got some sparkling water in case you’re thirsty. Let me know if you need anything.”

Although his considerate words brought a hopeful smile to my face, there was little he could do to alleviate my anxiety. I felt my facial muscles tighten with nervous tension as I moved through the party. The conversations that I attempted to join were all chock full of anecdotal recollections of collegiate social events and corporate retreats.

As a recovering addict and college dropout, it was hard not to feel out of place. In my fragile state, every lighthearted quip and funny story felt like a passive-aggressive insult that was intentionally directed at me. Suddenly, I heard the question that I had been dreading all night:

“So, what have you been up to recently?”

I looked back at my former classmate and studied his neatly combed hair and his shiny wristwatch. Feelings of anger and resentment welled up inside of me as I watched him smugly sip his fancy drink in his polished leather shoes. It felt like I was a losing contestant on my own imaginary game show. As the watchful eyes of the people around me glowed with the intensity of a thousand suns, my raging insecurities cut through my tenuous and feeble social defense mechanisms like a hot razorblade through a stick of butter.

It was then that I realized that no one else at the party was judging me nearly as harshly as I was. I understood that the only thing that was holding me back from happiness and self-acceptance was my own need to live up to the impossible standards that I had set for myself. I knew that it was finally time to break free from the mental cage that I had pointlessly trapped myself in.

I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye, and told him the truth:

“I’ve been working hard to get my life back together over the past few years ever since I got sober. I’m working in the service industry - and also at an addiction treatment center. It’s not always easy, but I’m learning to take things one day at a time.”

The group’s response surprised me. They expressed their support and the conversation quickly moved on to other subjects.

I felt my muscles relax as I allowed myself to abandon all of my harmful patterns of self-judgment. Recovery had given me the courage to overcome my insecurities – and the clarity to understand the difference between perception and reality.

Always remember:

47

Muffled conversations blended into an indecipherable racket as I sat at the front of the treatment center therapy room. I was nearly two year sober, and I was eager to begin my therapy session.

It had been several months since I had started my part-time job as a patient advocate at the outpatient treatment center, and I was slowly beginning to feel comfortable in my new role. As the patients filed in and took their seats, I quieted the room with a short series of resounding claps. When the room was suitably silent, I introduced the group to the speaker that I had brought with me to share his message of recovery.

As he began to speak, I closed my eyes and allowed his words to take me on a vivid journey. He spoke with candor and humility about his decision to abandon a profitable and promising career to pursue his recovery. At the conclusion of his speech, he revealed that he had gained more in the process than he ever dreamed possible.

I pondered the significance of his wise and heartfelt proclamation as I opened the discussion to the patients in the therapy group. Some spoke on the similarities between his experiences and their own. Others shared about their personal struggles with acceptance and surrender. After a particularly heartfelt confession, the group fell silent as they paused to meditate and reflect. Without warning, the peaceful energy in the room was abruptly shattered by a skeptical scoff from a young treatment patient.

He was a clean-cut and boyish-looking man whose lanky frame was covered in bright and showy clothes. As he leaned back in his chair and spun his monogrammed keychain around his long and bony fingers, he launched into an energized verbal attack:

“That’s great that you got sober after you quit your job, but I don’t want to give up my career. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. Not to be disrespectful, but I don’t really think it’s worth it to give up drugs and drinking if it means my life is going to have to be as boring as yours.”

I felt my blood begin to boil as I watched a smug and entitled smirk spread across his face. I couldn’t believe he had the audacity to insult my guest. I clenched my fist and bit my tongue as I attempted to hold back a scathing retort. It was then that I understood that it was not my responsibility to prove him wrong.

My bitter indignation gave way to empathy and understanding. I allowed my insecurities to dissipate as I realized that I had experienced similar doubts at the beginning of my journey of recovery. I took a deep breath and smiled as I looked out at the group and spoke from the heart without hesitation:

“From my own experience, I can say that my life has been anything but boring since I’ve gotten clean. I might have had to temporarily hold off on a few opportunities in the beginning, but I’ve been able to pursue many new and exciting opportunities. There’s no limit to what you can accomplish once you decide to get sober, but you have to put your recovery first.”

As I watched the skeptical grimace on the young patient’s face slowly change into a relaxed and pensive gaze, I realized that I wasn’t the only one that had experienced a transformative moment that day. By detaching from my own self-centered fears and insecurities, I had been able to help another addict find the courage to take the first steps towards recovery.

Always remember:

48

The crackling sound of gravel underneath my car wheels harmoniously blended with the chattering of faraway birds as I rolled my windows down and took a deep breath of fresh mountain air. I was nearly two years sober, and I was headed back to my house in Vermont for the first time in nine months.

I had taken the week off from my bartending job down in the city to assess the damage that had been caused by a recent thunderstorm. As I approached the winding dirt road that lead up to my home, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.

My mind began to project vivid childhood memories onto the curves and slopes of the meandering path. In the years before my active addiction, my father had made a valiant effort to build up my mental and physical strength during our trips to Vermont together. Although I had consistently risen to meet the majority of the challenges that he had tasked me with – such as hauling sleds full of kindling and lumber up an icy hillside – his critical admonitions throughout the course of my addicted adolescence made it clear that I had failed to develop into the stoic and resourceful young man that I knew he wanted me to be.

My wistful recollections were cut short when I came upon a massive tree that had fallen at the top of the road. My eyes widened as I took in the devastating spectacle that lay in front of me. Mangled electrical wires hung from the side of my house. Multiple uprooted saplings lay strewn throughout the surrounding forest. It looked like a spilled box of matches. I stepped out of the car and felt my legs crumple, as I fell to the ground and began to cry. I was incapacitated by overwhelming feelings of desperation. I began to question why I had ever agreed to take on the responsibility of owning the property. I felt like I hadn’t just let myself down. I let my father down, as well.

I grabbed fistfuls of grass and tore them out of the soil in a futile attempt to calm myself down through cathartic physical release. Suddenly, I realized that I was at the exact same spot where I had once experienced similar feelings of doubt and despair nearly two decades earlier.

I closed my eyes and transported myself back to a cold and snowy day when I was only ten years old. I recalled the shame that gripped me after I let go of a sled full of firewood, and the fear that overpowered me as I watched it coast back down the snowy hill and crash into a tree.

As I snapped back to reality, I understood that the internal voice that had motivated me to grab that sled and keep walking up the mountain all those years ago was the same voice that had compelled me to begin my journey of recovery. It was time to apply that same spirit of strength and determination towards the situation I was currently facing.

I picked myself up, grabbed my bags, and began to walk towards the house. I knew that there were many challenges ahead, but I was ready to confront them all with patience and resolve. Recovery had given me the ability to recognize my own strength – and the courage to face my fears.

Always remember:

49

Strong winds whistled through the mountain forest as I waded through a weedy thicket. I was nearly two years sober, and I was back in Vermont to attend to the damage that had been inflicted on my property by a severe thunderstorm.

As I emerged from a narrow labyrinth of mangled evergreens with my hands full of broken twigs and branches, I saw my neighbor standing on my front porch as he closely examined the blade chain of an enormous chainsaw. In a fortunate turn of events, he had generously agreed to help me clear one of the trees that was blocking my road.

After dropping the severed branches next to a haphazardly-stacked pile of firewood, I walked towards the porch and sat down on the steps to take a brief rest. I had only been sitting down for a few seconds when I heard the faint click of the blades locking back onto the saw. My neighbor had a glimmer of childlike glee in his eyes as he looked down at his newly lubricated machine. He turned to face me, and spoke in a cautiously optimistic tone:

“What do you say? Let’s get out there and see if we can’t make some magic happen. You take the little saw. I’ll take the big one.”

I grabbed his smaller electric saw from off of the porch steps and followed closely behind him as he walked towards the massive tree that had fallen across my road. I began to cautiously cut some small branches off of the tree and carry them up to my newly-made brush pile. I was far from a natural woodsman, but every branch that I successfully trimmed gave me deep feelings of cathartic gratification. After the road was nearly clear, my neighbor paused and turned to me as he stretched out his hands.

“Your turn to try the big saw. Think you can handle it?”

I froze. I felt like I was carrying my family’s legacy on my shoulders. As I looked back at the house that my father had once built with his bare hands, I was overcome with intense feelings of determination and purpose. I nodded and smiled as I grabbed the saw with hopeful fervor. I lowered it down towards the massive tree trunk, and felt the vibrations from the blades reverberate through my bones. It was an ecstatic feast for the senses.

Suddenly, I felt a forceful mechanical jerk. My worst fears had been realized. The blade was caught in the trunk of the tree. I pressed downward with all my might, but it still didn’t budge. My face reddened with embarrassment as I broke out in a nervous sweat. I buried by face in my sawdust-caked hands as I contemplated my predicament. Finally, I admitted defeat. I called out to my neighbor for help. As he approached me, he offered a piece of sage advice:

“Sometimes when we get stuck in a tough situation, the best thing to do is to take a step back and start over. Have you tried pulling the saw out instead of trying to keep pushing it down?”

I took a deep breath and gripped the handles of the saw as I gingerly attempted to free it from the awkwardly-angled groove. Sure enough, the blade emerged with minimal resistance. As I lined the saw up to begin a new cut, I reflected on my neighbor’s wise words. Recovery had given me the ability to ask for help when I needed it most – and the patience to greet life’s challenges with understanding and flexibility.

Always remember:

50

Twangy and rustic folk music echoed through my house as I danced down the stairs with triumphant exuberance. Today was the day. It was the second anniversary of my sobriety, and I was headed into town to celebrate at a local recovery fellowship meeting.

My annual milestone had auspiciously fallen at the end of a week-long stay at my mountain home in Southern Vermont. I had spent the past few days clearing the wreckage of a catastrophic thunderstorm, and my work had finally paid off. It gave me great pride to look out of my window and see that the road outside was no longer cluttered with fallen trees and electrical wires. I turned off my stereo, stepped out onto my porch, and paused to savor a moment of triumphant bliss.

My self-affirming introspection was cut short when I looked down at my watch. I was already late for the meeting! I jumped into my rental car, turned the key, and watched clods of loose dirt fly off the ground as my tires spun out of their muddy resting places. As I zoomed down the gravelly and rocky road, I felt a jolting thud as I hit a large bump in the surface. I slowed my pace as I cautiously proceeded down the hill, and calmed my rattled nerves as I turned onto a winding rural parkway.

Suddenly, I heard a deafening mechanical groan. My car sputtered to a stop on the side of the road as steam began to rise from the hood. I kicked open the door and ran outside to assess the damage and discovered a long and thick trail of engine oil that stretched behind my car as far as the eye could see. My worst fears were confirmed when I looked underneath and saw a gaping hole that was spurting out black and murky liquid. A sharp rock in my road had punctured the bottom of the engine.

I screamed out in desperation as I looked down at my black and greasy hands. In a matter of moments, my feelings of triumph and fulfillment had been instantly annihilated by what seemed like an unfairly-dealt twist of fate. I tensed my fists with anger and frustration. My phone had no service. I was miles from the nearest gas station. I felt so helpless and alone. It was then that I came to an ironic realization: In my rush to celebrate the second anniversary of my sobriety, I had forgotten the wise words that I had heard from a rehab counselor during my first day of treatment:

“In active addiction, we search for the fastest and easiest way to skip all of the lessons that our lives are trying to teach us. We put ourselves in danger and sell ourselves short in pursuit of instant gratification. In recovery, we find that by slowing down and accepting our limitations, we can gradually begin to regain our sanity and serenity. It’s not always easy living life on life’s terms and dealing with challenges, but if you can learn to breathe and take things one moment at a time, you will discover that oftentimes the largest obstacle that’s hindering your progress is your own impatience.”

I felt the weight of the world roll off my back as I relaxed my hands, turned away from the car, and began to walk up the mountainous road towards the gas station. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew that as long as I remained sober, grateful, and grounded, I would have the ability to work towards a better tomorrow.

Always remember:

51

Blinding sunlight beat down from the sky as I brushed matted strands of hair away from my sweat-soaked forehead. I was two years sober, and I was walking by myself on the side of a rural highway in Southern Vermont.

I clutched my useless cell phone in my hands as I hopelessly stared down at the screen and cursed my lack of service. I knew the winding and hilly country roads well enough to know that I had several miles remaining until I reached the general store. My rental car had broken down near my house in Sandgate, and I was determined to make it to the store before the rental agency closed for the night. I needed to use their phone to call for a replacement vehicle.

I grit my teeth as I began to make a long and comprehensive mental list of all of my unfairly dealt inconveniences and setbacks. I couldn’t believe that I was beginning my third year in recovery this way. In my weary and worn state, I began to deliriously reminiscence about the childhood summers that I spent with my father in Vermont.

I recalled his valiant attempts to teach me how to change the oil in his stick-shift pickup, and the confident expression he wore on his face while he was twisting his trusty wrench underneath the hood. I felt like I had completely failed to live up to the standards that he had set for me all those years ago. I felt my skin bristle with doubt and shame. My nostalgic reflections shifted to memories from my active addiction. I thought back on the last time that I had walked down the street for miles with sweat on my brow, blisters on my feet, and uncertainty in my heart.

Suddenly, it dawned on me: the only time that I had ever felt this powerless and broken before was when I was a rock-bottom addict scrounging for pennies in the gutter.

My knees buckled. I shuffled to the side of the road with my head gloomily slumped forward in defeat. With no knowledge of the future, and no control over the present, it felt like I was still trapped in the past. I didn’t know how to summon the strength to keep walking. I wanted to give up on my recovery, give up on my goal of fixing up my father’s house in Vermont, and give up on all of my dreams.

It was then that I realized that in my desperation to fix my immediate problems, I had completely lost sight of the long-term goals that I was truly working towards in recovery. I understood that in my quest to achieve temporary freedom and control over the outcome of my immediate struggle, I had neglected to recognize the timeless spiritual freedom that was well within my grasp.

I might not have had a working car, a phone, or a perfect plan, but I was free. That was more than enough.

As I straightened my posture and looked out at the gorgeous mountain valley in front of me, I saw a long, beautiful, and uncertain road lying directly ahead. I didn’t know where the road was leading. I didn’t know how I was going to make it to where I was going. All I knew was that recovery had given me the strength to keep walking, and the clarity to finally understand that the journey itself was even better than the final destination.

Always remember:

52

The chrome tailpipes of passing trucks glistened in the sunlight as I trudged along the rural highway. I was two years sober, and after walking for miles, I had finally reached the general store on Route 313 in West Arlington.

I wearily stumbled through the front door and heard the jangle of a metal cowbell that was hung over the entrance as it slammed behind me. I grabbed two bottles of water out of a frosty refrigerator and made my way towards the cashier’s desk. I twisted the top off of a water bottle and began to rapidly guzzle it down as I wiped the sweat from my brow with my shirt collar. Satisfied, I crumpled the empty bottle of water in my hand, and reached for my wallet as the store clerk softly chuckled under her breath.

“That’ll be all today?”

I placed my card on the counter, closed my eyes, and gathered my bearings as I prepared myself to reveal my demoralizing confession:

“Sadly, no. My car broke down a couple of miles down the road, and I don’t have any phone service here. Is there any way I could use your phone to call the car rental company?”

The clerk’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as she realized the scope of my predicament.

“You can use the phone, but it might be a while before they get here. The phone is over in the deli section. Why don’t you sit down, have a sandwich, and make yourself at home while you wait?”

As I headed towards the back of the store, I came upon a group of locals that were congregated around a small round table. I placed an order for a sandwich at the deli counter and nervously tapped my foot on the ground as I attempted to come to terms with the lingering burden of my nagging anxieties. In my younger years, I had always struggled with self-confidence in social situations. During my period of active addiction, I had managed to temporarily numb my anxious tension by self-medicating with harmful substances. I was gradually learning to rein in my raging doubts and fears in recovery, but it was a slow and incremental process that required copious amounts of faith and trust.

I saw the phone sitting in the middle of the table, surrounded by the cheerful group of strangers that sat before me. I was terrified to approach them and ask if I could use it. I felt like an unwelcome intruder. Our clothes and mannerisms were nothing alike, and I was afraid that I would be judged by them due to our differences.

Suddenly, I came to the realization that I had felt the exact same way when I had stood outside of the entrance of my first sobriety fellowship meeting.

I knew then and there that regardless of the outcome, I was better off confronting my fears.

I took a deep breath, moved towards the table, and approached the group. After asking if I could join them, they greeted me with friendly enthusiasm. As I waited on hold with the car rental company, I told the honest story of my automotive crisis to the people around the table. At first, they responded with lighthearted jeers, but their good-natured jokes eventually gave way to helpful advice and deeper conversations. By the time the replacement car finally arrived outside, I had developed a strong sense of connection with my newfound friends. Recovery had given me the ability to accept myself for who I was and the courage to move past my self-imposed limitations.

Always remember:

53

Hot and humid air whistled through the leaves of gently swaying magnolia branches as I approached the entrance to my basement apartment. I was two years sober, and I had just returned to the city after spending a week in Vermont. I burst through the door, dropped my bags on the ground, and flopped backwards onto my futon mattress. I had one last night off before I had to go back to work, and I wanted to savor every minute.

I opened up my laptop computer and began to excitedly scroll through a list of local restaurants that offered online food delivery. My gluttonous fantasies were sharply interrupted by the piercing melody of my cell phone ringtone. I reached down into my pocket and swiped my fingers across the screen to accept the call.

My casual and relaxed greeting was met with the startling sounds of rapid panting and high-pitched sobs. My heart sank when I realized that it was my mother at the other end of the line. I attempted to calm her down as she incoherently sputtered-out fragmented sentences. After a prolonged exhale, she slowed her speech to the point that I could understand:

“I need you to come over and help me. I cut my hand in the kitchen. I think I need to go to the hospital, but I don’t want to go in an ambulance. I’m so scared right now. I have no one else I can call. Where are you?”

I closed my computer, sprang out of my seat, and sprinted out the door towards the road as I attempted to assuage my mother’s fears. I hailed a cab, jumped into the back, and gave the driver directions to my mother’s apartment. As we barreled down the crowded city avenue, I could sense her panicked tone gradually beginning to brighten. When I was minutes away, she interrupted my barrage of diagnostic questions with an apologetic interjection:

“Everything’s okay now. The bleeding has stopped. I put a bandage on it. Thanks for talking me through it. I’m not going to go to the hospital.”

I heaved an exasperated sigh as I slumped back into my seat. I couldn’t believe that I had put my self-indulgent feast on hold for a trivial medical problem. I began to concoct a spiteful and selfish monologue in my head. In a matter of seconds, my feelings towards my mother had shifted from sympathetic and caring to hostile and ungrateful. I struggled to hold back my frustration, as I wrestled with my angry and impatient thoughts.

It was then that I realized that in my haste to condemn my mother’s understandable overreaction, I had overlooked the most important aspect of the entire situation: she was calling me in her moment of need to ask for help – and not the other way around.

I began to recall the countless times that she had been there for me during the worst days of my active addiction. Although it might have been nice to enjoy a quiet and reflective night of television and movies by myself, the feeling that I got from being able to help someone who had helped me so much in the past was ten times better than any takeout platter or comedy special.

As the taxi pulled up in front of her apartment building, I smiled as I reflected on my new reality. Recovery had allowed me to regain the trust of my family and had given me the ability to be there for them when it mattered most.

Always remember:

54

The artificial light from my laptop screen cast crooked shadows on the walls of my pitch-dark apartment. I was two years sober, and my first assignment for my online college class was due the next day.

I was exhausted from a long bartending shift. As I scrolled through a dry and dense online textbook reading, my eyelids felt like hundred-pound barbells. I pitched back and forth on my lumpy reading pillow, while I attempted to come up with a preliminary outline for my essay assignment. It was impossible find a comfortable position.

After taking a brief motivational exercise break, I returned to my studies with a newfound sense of purpose. My hands moved with superhuman speed as I seamlessly switched back and forth between my essay and the reading. I smirked with pompous delight as I realized that I was almost finished with my assignment. As I neared the conclusion of the essay, I clapped my hands together and let out a hearty cheer in celebration of my academic triumph. Suddenly, a flashing message appeared in the bottom right corner of the screen:

“Battery at 1%. Please plug in your computer now to avoid shutdown.”

I jumped out of my bed and began to run around the room, flicking light switches and rummaging through my closet in a haphazard attempt to find my computer charger. In the midst of my frantic scrambling, I stubbed my toe on a sharp corner and tripped and fell headfirst onto the floor. I screamed out in agony as I watched the screen of my computer go dark across the room. I knew that I hadn’t properly saved the document that I had written my essay on. All of my hard work had been in vain. In a matter of seconds, my feelings of confidence and invincibility had been replaced with feelings of impotence and shame.

As I defeatedly slumped forward on the carpet, I could feel myself sinking into a deep chasm of pitiful despair. I had enrolled in college classes to work towards my dream of becoming a certified clinical addiction counselor, but it felt like my aspirations were further away than ever before. I didn’t know if I could summon the humility to retrace my steps and start my tedious assignment all over again.

It was then that I realized that the only things that were preventing me from successfully completing my assignment were my own fear and impatience. Although I was over two years sober, I understood that the same self-destructive impulses that controlled my life during my years of active addiction were continuing to hold me back in recovery. I knew that it was up to me to make a decision to live my life in a different way.

Instead of staring at the clock and lamenting my tragic predicament like I wanted to, I took a deep breath, plugged my computer back in, turned it on, and allowed myself to complete the assignment at a much slower pace than before. My relaxed and methodical approach might not have provided the same euphoric rush as I had experienced earlier during my post-workout typing binge, but it gave me a sustainable sense of serenity that was infinitely more rewarding. Recovery had given me the ability to move past my impulsive habits and the clarity to understand that there was a better way to live.

Always remember:

55

The calls of faraway seagulls blended with the sounds of crashing waves as I stepped outside onto a moonlit balcony. I was two years sober, and I had taken the weekend off from work to go to the beach with my mother for her birthday. Despite my best efforts, I hadn’t been able to find the time to properly wrap her gifts.

Earlier in the evening, I had stashed her presents (along with a roll of festive wrapping paper) outside of the small beach house where we were staying. I had planned to avoid my mother’s detection by wrapping her gifts outside in the middle of the night. With the coast clear, I grabbed the gifts and paper from behind a tall and leafy potted plant on the balcony. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I didn’t have any tape to finish wrapping her presents. I grumbled under my breath as I came to the realization that I was going to have to sneak through the house to fetch it from my bag.

I gingerly pushed the sliding door leftward and stealthily slithered through a narrow sliver of space in the doorway. My heart raced as I tiptoed through the hallway past my mother’s room. I felt a victorious surge of pride as I grabbed my backpack off of the kitchen counter and pulled a roll of tape out of the front pocket. I had barely turned around to walk back towards the balcony when I heard a deafening crash. As I swiveled my head over my shoulder, I saw that my laptop and books had fallen out of my backpack on to the hard tile floor.

As I heard my mother wake up from her restful slumber in the other room, I winced and grit my teeth while cowering in the corridor at the front of the house. I didn’t want to admit to her that I hadn’t properly prepared for her birthday.

Memories from my addicted past flashed within my mind as I waited in the narrow hallway. I recalled the overpowering fright and shame that I felt when I used to crawl into my mother’s room to steal from her during the worst days of my active addiction. I couldn’t believe that I was I still experiencing those same feelings of fear and guilt when I was over two years sober.

It was then that I realized that I didn’t have to hide anymore. I understood that the only reason that I had resorted to such sneaky and manipulative tactics was that I didn’t want to be honest with my mother and admit to her that I had forgotten to wrap her gifts. When she finally emerged from her room, I sheepishly confronted her in the hall.

“Hey mom. I’m sorry I woke you. I had to grab some tape from my bag to wrap your presents outside. I wanted to make sure that they were wrapped before your birthday in the morning.”

I was expecting my mother to be resentful and hurt that I had waited until the last minute to wrap her presents, but instead, she simply smiled, yawned, and said, “That’s so sweet of you! Don’t worry about it. I’m just happy that we’re here together on my birthday. I’m really sleepy. I’m going to go back to bed.”

As I made my way back outside to finish wrapping my mother’s gifts, I reflected on the power of truthful communication. Recovery had allowed me to give the gift of my honesty to the people I cared about most – and that was ten times better than anything I could wrap up in paper.

Always remember:

56

Low-hanging strings of ornamental lights gently swayed in the cool evening breeze as I weaved between rows of closely-spaced outdoor tables. I was two years sober, and I was halfway through a busy Friday night shift at my restaurant service job. I had just taken orders from four separate parties, and I needed to make sure that I sent them into the kitchen perfectly.

I approached the service terminal and began rapidly entering my orders into the system with confident finesse. After sending the last order through, I took a reflective pause to enjoy a sip of ice-cold water and survey the scene around me. It was a harmonious symphony of gastronomic efficiency, and I was the overseeing maestro. I was proud to be able to hold court over my small culinary kingdom. For one priceless moment, everything seemed like it was under control.

Without warning, I was jolted from my self-satisfied musings by a raucous disturbance. I hastily shuffled towards the source of the sound to find two customers at the edge of the patio engaged in a heated confrontation. I slowed my pace as I watched them hurl malicious insults and point their fingers at one another. Their slurred speech made it clear that they were both exceptionally intoxicated. Without warning, one of them turned to face me, grabbed my arm, and began to angrily bark condescending commands at me.

“Took you long enough! These people are talking too loudly, and they are ruining our evening. One of them just insulted my wife. Kick them out before I tell your manager and have them fire you for allowing this to happen!”

I had barely opened my mouth to speak when the opposing party interjected with an equally intimidating verbal threat. As voices and tensions escalated, I looked around my outdoor section with terror. I felt a pit form in my stomach as the judgmental and impatient eyes of nearby onlookers cut through my fragile pokerfaced façade. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. No matter whose side I took, I was in danger of losing my job. I struggled to maintain my composure as I weighed my options. It was then that I remembered the wise words of a treatment counselor from a rehab center that I had attended years before:

“Sometimes, even in recovery, we will encounter social problems that force us to make difficult decisions. As addicts, we’re always going to have the impulse to please everyone around us and the desire to remain in complete control of every situation. It’s important to remember that we didn’t get sober to rule over the world - or any part of it. We got sober to reclaim control of our own lives. As long as we are able realize that it’s not our responsibility to make anyone else happy, we can detach from the outcome of any treacherous situation by focusing on keeping our own side of the street clean.”

While the tipsy and irate businessmen continued to scream at one another, I turned around swiftly, took a deep breath, and allowed the melodramatic scene to play out without me. By relinquishing my need to control the outcome of the argument, I had regained full control of my own happiness and sanity. As I walked towards the manager’s office in the back of the restaurant, I realized that I finally understood the true power of detachment. Recovery had given me the ability to disengage from conflicts that did not concern me and the wisdom to understand that I was fully entitled to do so.

Always remember:

57

The fading evening sun cast sharp-cornered shadows on the walls of the auto showroom as the sounds of ringing telephones and clicking keyboards swelled to a grating climax. I was two years sober, and after months of hard work, I had finally saved up enough money to afford the down payment on a brand-new car.

It had been hours since I had test-driven the truck that I wanted to purchase, and I had barely moved past the first stages of credit certification for my auto loan. I studied the clean-cut salesman who was sitting across from me as he filled out a seemingly endless series of bureaucratic forms. His cool and collected manner stood in stark contrast with my anxious and fidgety deportment. After a long period of reflective examination, he shuffled the papers into a neat stack and rose from his desk with a toothy and confident smile.

“I’ve got to take these over to the financial department, but I’ll be back in a few minutes. We should be able to get this approved momentarily.”

With every passing moment, I became increasingly antsy and impatient. I closed my eyes and took a series of deep breaths as I attempted to calm my restless mind. My reflective meditation was interrupted when the salesman returned with an upbeat announcement. After he told me that the loan was in its final stages of approval, I felt my body begin to tingle with excitement.

My mind drifted into fantastical realms as I imagined coasting down the highway in my shiny new vehicle. Suddenly, the salesman’s phone rang. My heart sank as I watched a concerned frown creep across his face. After hanging up the phone, he pensively folded his hands on the desk as he began to speak. His somber and apologetic tone confirmed my worst fears: the loan had not been approved.

I dramatically exhaled as I struggled to accept my financial limitations. I had worked overtime every week for several months to be able to afford the down payment for my dream car, but my efforts had all been in vain. I was still stubbornly clinging to my self-imposed standards of material worth. I felt like I deserved the car that I wanted, and I was unwilling to compromise.

It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“As recovering addicts, we will always have the tendency to attach emotion to outcome. The problem is that when we do that, the euphoric rush that accompanies our personal triumphs becomes an addiction in itself. It’s never easy to accept that there are things that we can’t control, but as long as we are able to detach from our need for external gratification, we can find happiness and peace regardless of the situation.”

I sat back in my chair and smiled as I pondered my revelation. I asked the salesman for a list of potential vehicles, found one with a price that matched my budget and applied for a loan. After a brief and suspenseful interlude, the loan cleared, and the final paperwork printed without a hitch. As I signed on the dotted line, I reveled in the happiness I had experienced by allowing myself to relinquish my need for control. Recovery had given me the serenity to accept the things I could not change, the courage to change the things I could, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Always remember:

58

Pale moonlight reflected off of freshly laid asphalt as I made my way towards the entrance of my mother’s apartment building. I was two years sober, and I had just picked up some ingredients for a homemade dinner that we were about to cook together.

After walking through a series of colorful hallways, I came upon my mother’s doorstep. I slid my key into the lock, turned the knob, and pushed the door open with my hip as I awkwardly shuffled through. As I began to unpack my groceries, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I reached down to pick up the call. It was my neighbor who lived just down the mountain from my house in Vermont. There was palpable tension in his voice as he spoke in a hushed and anxious tone.

“I’m sorry to bother you at dinnertime, but there’s a man parked in our driveway. He told me that he’s a friend of your father’s, and he’s insisting that I let him into your house. He’s beginning to frighten my family. Can you please talk to him?”

After I nervously murmured an affirmative reply, I heard the mysterious man begin to speak on the other end of the line. He recounted a series of tangential stories with a raspy and lilting cadence that I recognized all too well. It was the voice of a manipulative addict that was down on his luck. As he spoke, I began to recall the tales that my father had once told me about a charismatic former friend who had stolen some tools from his wood shed in Vermont. I knew that the tragic figure from my father’s stories was the man that I was now speaking with.

As the conversation progressed, he became increasingly hostile as he sensed my reluctance and apprehension. He began to insult my father and demanded that I provide monetary compensation for their past financial disagreements. I grit my teeth and tensed my lips as I prepared to unleash a legendary tongue lashing on this hapless traveler. It was then that I realized that one of the most important things that separated me from my former addicted self was my ability to control my emotions. I knew that as long as I could summon the strength to respond to his desperate outburst with understanding and patience, I had nothing to fear. I didn’t need to give in to his requests, but I didn’t need to punish him either. I cleared my throat and braced myself for the ensuing confrontation as I began to speak.

“I’m sorry to hear that you’ve fallen on hard times, but I can’t help you. I’m a recovering addict who barely has enough money to pay his bills. If you want some help, I’m happy to make a call to a local treatment center or shelter in the area for you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

I expected a rancorous and angry response, but instead, I was greeted with deference and humility. He sheepishly retracted his former comments and offered kind parting words as he congratulated me on my recovery. It was clear that although he still resented the fact that I wasn’t going to let him into my house, he understood that I sympathized with his struggle. As I hung up the phone and wished him the best of luck, I reflected on the power of disciplined compassion. Recovery had given me the courage to uphold my moral convictions - and the awareness and understanding necessary to connect with a still-suffering addict on a level that he understood.

Always remember:

59

Dark and dirty water loudly sloshed around in a plastic bucket as I trudged up a steep set of cellar stairs. I was two years sober, and I had taken a week off from work to visit my house in Vermont for my birthday. After reaching the top of the staircase, I opened a sliding door, walked through it, and stepped out into a spacious and starlit backyard clearing. I came upon a terraced precipice at the edge of my yard and dumped the bucket into a rocky trench that ran down the side of a tree-lined hill.

As I walked back towards my house, I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time. It was 11:30 PM. In the midst of my labors, I had almost forgotten that I was about to turn 27 at midnight. Although I had never intended to spend my birthday lugging buckets of water out of my basement due to a broken sump pump, I was still proud of the progress that I had made in my cleanup efforts.

After returning to the house, I headed towards the kitchen and turned on the sink to wash some dirt off of my hands. Suddenly, I heard a faint sound of gushing water emanating from my basement. I sprinted back down the cellar stairs and screamed out in humiliated anger as I watched the water level begin to rise once again. I had forgotten to close off a valve for my house’s main drainage pipe. All of the water that had just flowed through the upstairs sink was now pouring out onto the basement floor.

I shut off the drainage valve as I muttered spiteful curses under my breath. I was too tired to even consider carrying the water out of my basement with a bucket again. With all other options exhausted, I walked towards the sump pump in the corner and began to inspect it. I couldn’t believe that all of my hard work had been instantly nullified due to my own impatience and incompetence. I felt like giving up.

It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Sometimes when things don’t pan out the way that we want them to, we let our fear and resentments incapacitate us to the point that we fail to recognize simple solutions that are right in front of us. As addicts, we’re always going to have a tendency to make things harder for ourselves than they have to be. When we allow ourselves to take a step back and let go of our emotional baggage, we find that we can solve our problems in ways that we didn’t even imagine were possible.”

I stepped away from the sump pump, took a deep breath, and quieted my mind. It suddenly occurred to me that although I had studied the pump from every angle at its base, I had never once thought of looking up towards the ceiling. I glanced upward, and saw that a power cord that was hanging from the rafters had been disconnected from a socket in the ceiling beams. I plugged the cord in, and the pump roared back to life. Instantaneously, all of the water was drawn up through a pipe, and my basement was dry, once again.

As I looked down at my phone, I saw that the clock had struck midnight. I felt a satisfied smile creep across my face as I shut the basement lights off and walked upstairs. Recovery had given me the gifts of patience, serenity, and objective detachment – and that was better than any other birthday present that I could have asked for.

Always remember:

60

Flickering flames danced behind the tempered glass windows of my wood stove as I reclined in a warm and comfortable armchair. I was two years sober, and I had taken a week-long break from work to visit my house in Vermont. It was my last night in Sandgate before I had to return to the city, and I was determined to savor every last moment of rustic relaxation.

As I rose from my chair to feed some more firewood into the stove, I heard the faint crackling sound of car wheels on a gravel road. I walked outside onto my front porch as the sound intensified and watched as an unfamiliar vehicle pulled up into my driveway. I was overcome with emotion and astonishment when I recognized my longtime family friend from down the road in the driver’s seat. It had been years since I had last seen him, but his unanticipated visit was a welcome incursion on my solitary and reflective evening.

After we exchanged pleasantries on the front porch, he and his girlfriend filed into my house and sat down on a timeworn couch. As we ate crackers and cheese in front of the fire, we traded nostalgic recollections of shared childhood memories. The conversation took an unexpected turn when my friend inquired about my recent lifestyle changes and creative projects:

“My father told me that he spoke to yours recently. He said that you’ve been sober for a few years. He also said that you’ve spent the better part of the last decade making hip-hop music. Have you still been writing and recording since you got clean?”

I was afraid to tell my friend the truth, which is that I was still in the process of rebuilding my artistic identity. In my active addiction, I had recorded hip-hop music that glorified the use of drugs for years using traditional rap beats. After relinquishing the addictive substances that had held me back from true self-actualization, I had decided to take a different direction.

I had been working on a new project that combined my love for classical piano with my passion for hip-hop for the past several months, but it was still in its nascent stages. Although I was eager to share it with the world, a part of me was still incredibly hesitant to take that risk. Suddenly, I felt a spark of bravery. Without saying a word, I walked towards the dusty piano that sat in the middle of my living room, sat down, and began to play one of my newest songs. I closed my eyes and let go of all of my fear as I hammered on the keys while belting out rhythmic poetry. After the last chord rang out, I turned around and saw my friend sitting in surprised silence. I was afraid that he was going to greet my passionate performance with laughter and judgment. Instead, he responded with heartfelt enthusiasm.

“That was incredible. I’ve never heard anything like it. I don’t know what your schedule is like tomorrow before you leave, but I have a friend that just opened a recording studio. I really think the two of you should meet. I’ll give him a call tomorrow to set it up.”

I said goodbye to my friend and watched him drive back down the hill into the dark night as the fire dwindled down to its last embers. As I sat back down in my armchair, I reflected on the transformative power of personal integrity. Recovery had given me the ability to bring my artistic vision to life in ways I had never dreamed possible - and the courage to share it with others.

Always remember:

61

Tiny droplets of frozen rain bounced off of my windshield as I turned into a small hardware store parking lot. I was two years sober, and it was the last day of my week-long vacation in Vermont. I had spent a large portion of the week cleaning up a mess that had been caused by faulty plumbing in my basement, and I was intent on fixing the leaky pipe before I returned to the city.

As I walked up to the storefront entrance, I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time. I had a long drive ahead of me, but I wanted to push back my departure for as long as possible. Over the past several days, my friend had set tentative plans in motion to connect me with a music producer who owned a nearby studio. I was still hopeful that I would be able to show him my music before I left, but my optimism was fading faster with every passing minute.

I paced through the aisles of the quiet and rustic shop as I feebly attempted to make sense of the endless rows of pipe joints and brass fittings. A perceptive attendant soon took notice of my doe-eyed stare. After she approached me to offer her help, I provided her with some illegible pipe measurements that were scrawled on a crumpled piece of paper. She raised her eyebrow with a weary sigh, then gave a tight-lipped smile as she turned to face me and spoke:

“I think we’re all out of that size right now. We can order that type of pipe joint for you, but it’ll probably take a couple of weeks to get here.”

I nodded meekly and thanked her for her time as I began to defeatedly shuffle back towards my car. After slamming the car door shut, I shivered in my seat as the icy rain intensified outside. I looked down at my phone once again to check for missed calls from the music producer. As I stared at a blank screen, I felt myself sinking into a deep pit of despondence. I was unwilling to accept the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to fix my pipe or go to the studio. I shook my fist at the rainy sky as I stubbornly languished in my cold and lonely car.

It was then that I realized that my angry gesticulations served as a perfect metaphor for my inability to surrender control. I might not have been able to immediately change the weather – or any other outside circumstances – but I could certainly change my attitude and perspective. I took a deep breath, turned the key in the ignition, and headed down the road towards the highway. I knew that no matter how long it took me to reach my goals, I wouldn’t accomplish them any faster by holding on to anger and resentment.

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. I pulled over onto the side of the road to answer the call and heard an enthusiastic voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi! I hear that you’ve got some music that you’ve been working on. I’d love to hear it! Why don’t you meet me at the hardware store? You can follow me to the recording studio from there.”

As I turned around to head back towards the parking lot, my hands tingled with nervous anticipation. I didn’t know where life was going to take me next. All I knew was that the journey was just important as the destination – and I was grateful to be going along for the ride.

Always remember:

62

Booming bass lines blasted through my car speakers as I hurtled down a cold, frosty and damp interstate highway. I was two years sober, and I was headed back to the city after a week-long vacation in Vermont. As I rhythmically tapped on my steering wheel, my veins were surging with adrenaline. I had just performed some of my songs for a music producer who owned a studio in East Arlington, and we had set a tentative date to record them several weeks down the line.

I was overcome with a volatile combination of divergent feelings as I contemplated my future creative commitments. In the earliest days of my recovery, I had intentionally distanced myself from my musical passions in order to fully focus on sobriety. After achieving a semblance of practical stability in my life over the course of several sober years, I had reached a state of emotional security that I had never thought possible in my active addiction.

Instead of running from my subconscious turmoil and medicating my chronic anxiety with illicit chemicals, I was now channeling my pain and angst into self-expressive art. Although it was certainly affirming and validating that my autobiographical songs had attracted the attention of an enthusiastic collaborator, I was still apprehensive about my decision to return to my chosen creative field. I didn’t know if I had the strength to stay away from destructive temptations. In the past, my artistic endeavors had placed me in a series of triggering situations. Faced with the pressure of live performance and the stress of late-night studio sessions, I began to self-medicate with harmful narcotic substances. Although the drugs initially helped to calm my nerves, they eventually chipped away at my creative drive and self-confidence to the point that I could no longer function as an artist.

As my thoughts continued to drift into the depths of pessimistic uncertainty, the wheels of my car began to drift in a similarly uncontrolled fashion. My gloomy musings were truncated by the grating sound of a rumble strip underneath my wheels. As I swerved back onto the road, I felt my car start to waver out of control as I passed over a slippery and uneven patch of asphalt. My heart raced as I attempted to straighten out my car. As I veered towards a steel guard rail, I gripped the steering wheel tightly and grimaced as I braced myself for impact. It was at that very split second that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“As addicts, we’re always going to have a tendency to allow our worrying minds to spiral out of control. When we lose ourselves in negative thoughts about the future, we start a journey down a slippery and uncertain slope. In recovery, we are taught that the past has already happened, and the future is out of our control. Remaining in the present isn’t always easy, but if we can learn to live in the moment and relinquish control of the future, we find that it becomes easier to stay on a positive path forward.”

I loosened my grip on the steering wheel, and watched in awe as the car instantly straightened itself out. I had always wondered why driving instructors told me to not steer against the direction a car was moving in (when it slipped on the ice), but as I contemplated the power of detachment, it finally became crystal clear. Regardless of whether you’re driving down an icy road or walking down the path of life in recovery, it’s always best to take things slow, stay in the moment, and go with the flow.

Always remember:

63

Sweat dripped down my brow as I clumsily shimmied between stacks of boxes in a cramped and narrow walk-in refrigerator. I was two years sober, and I was struggling to maintain my serenity during an unbelievably busy Saturday night bartending shift. I had been sent on an emergency mission to refill a syrup container by my two coworkers, who were up front dealing with an unrelenting onslaught of tipsy and impatient customers.

I had just returned to the city from a week-long vacation in Vermont, and I was finding it incredibly difficult to reacclimate to my surroundings. After scanning the cluttered shelves for several minutes, I came across a giant unmarked vat that was full of an unidentified transparent liquid. I heaved the gargantuan vessel over the side of the shelf, set it on the floor, and ripped off the plastic covering. I unscrewed the top of the syrup bottle and placed it in-between my feet, then lifted the large rectangular container over it and tilted it diagonally.

As the mysterious solution began to pour out, I heaved a sigh of relief as the saccharine smell of house-made syrup filled the air. At the very least, I had managed to find the correct ingredient. After filling the syrup bottle to the brim, I put the lid back on it, placed the colossal vat back on the shelf, and bolted out of the refrigerator towards the front of the restaurant.

While sprinting through the kitchen, I passed by a line of shocked and amused cooks, who greeted me with a colorful gauntlet of exclamatory insults. I grimaced with sullen despair as I dusted off my shirt and readjusted my belt. I had been sober for several years, but I was still desperate for the approval of everyone around me. In my insecure and anxious state, it seemed like every table that I passed on my way back to the bar was glaring at me with disapproving and judgmental eyes.

After reaching the front, I waved the syrup bottle triumphantly in front of my co-workers. I expected my efforts to be greeted with gratitude and validation. Instead, I was greeted with sarcastic hostility. My coworker sneered and tilted his head as he grabbed the bottle out of my hand, then proceeded to bark commands at me in an angry and disrespectful tone:

“I guess you’re still on vacation, huh? Make yourself useful and clear some plates off of our tables. Some of us actually came here to work tonight.”

I could smell the gin on his breath as he passed me. I felt my blood begin to boil as I stewed in my seething rage. I couldn’t believe that my coworker had the audacity to question my competence while he was drinking on the job. I grit my teeth as I fought the urge to scream an impassioned and self-righteous speech across the restaurant at the top of my lungs. It was then that I realized that in my constant attempts to seek out validation in others, I had robbed myself of my ability to create my own innate sense of worthiness. I unclenched my jaw, took a deep breath, and gave my irritated and frenzied coworker a beaming smile as he passed me.

As I walked around the tables picking up plates and refilling water glasses, I reflected on the power of self-awareness. Recovery had given me the freedom to detach from my need for approval and the clarity to understand that I was responsible for my own happiness.

Always remember:

64

My shoulders were tight and tense as I hovered my sweaty hands over the glistening ivory keys of a concert grand piano. I was two years sober, and I had just driven back to Southern Vermont to record my music at a professional studio for the very first time.

For several weeks, I had spent nearly every minute of my free time rehearsing the lyrics and chord progressions of the two piano-rap songs that I was scheduled to record. Although I had managed to master my rap verses and piano parts, I was still incredibly intimidated by the prospect of recording in front of an accomplished producer and Grammy® Winning engineer.

As I sat at the piano, the clear glass walls that surrounded me in the “live room” of the recording studio served as a perfect metaphor for my emotionally vulnerable state. I felt as if my mind had been placed on a pedestal in a transparent box, and my fears and insecurities were on display for everyone to see.

Suddenly, my anxious contemplations were interrupted by the producer’s voice in my headphones. His tone was cheerful and relaxed as he spoke through the studio’s communication system.

“Hi! We’re all set to go. Let’s start things off with the main piano track for the first song. Does that sound good to you?”

I gave a meek and timorous affirmative reply as I shuffled in my seat. My heart pounded in my chest as I heard the click of the metronome in my headset. As I began playing the introductory arpeggio for the first song, I grimaced with shame as I stumbled through a series of off-key notes. As I progressed through the song, my playing began to improve. I felt a rush of gratification as my hands relaxed and I powered through to the end. After the last chord rang out, I turned to face the producer through the connecting glass window between the “live room” and the “control room,” I twiddled my thumbs nervously as he began to speak:

“That was great, but I think you can do a better take. Let’s try it again from the top, okay?”

My heart sank. I had gone out of my way to prepare myself for my first professional music engagement, but it felt like my efforts had all fallen flat. I nodded my head in silent acknowledgment as I turned to face the piano, then grit my teeth as I wrestled with my doubts and reservations. I didn’t think I had the strength to overcome my lack of confidence.

As the producer and engineer prepared a new audio track for me to record on, I looked out of the studio window onto a nearby stream, and saw a large rock standing in the midst of the water. As wind flowed through the branches of overhead trees and the river rapidly coursed around the rock, it remained unmoved and undisturbed by the world around it. It was then that I realized that my stream of conscious thought was like a fast and powerful river. I could either let my thoughts carry me away from reality or ground myself firmly in tranquility and self-awareness. As I placed my hands down on the keys to get ready for the second take, I was overtaken by a sense of newfound self-assurance. Recovery had given me the courage to confront the source of my emotional unease and the serenity to rise above the tumultuous currents of my subconscious.

Always remember:

65

Powerful squalls of December wind whooshed through the doorway of my basement apartment as I restlessly squirmed underneath a thick pile of blankets. I was two years sober, and I was vainly attempting to get some sleep before my morning work shift.

Upon returning to the city from a trip to Vermont several days earlier, I had discovered that my miniature refrigerator was leaking water onto my carpeted floor. Over the course of the following week, the leaked water had created a pungent and moldy stench. Due to a momentary lapse in judgment, I had decided to employ a desperate measure to combat the unwanted aroma. After pouring an entire cup of undiluted bleach onto the affected patch of carpet, I had created yet another unforeseen problem: the acrid vapors from the bleach had proliferated every corner of my apartment, forcing me to prop my door open for ventilation purposes.

Suddenly, I heard my phone ring. It was my friend from treatment. I fluttered my eyelids and yawned as I slid my fingers across the screen to accept the call. From the moment that I picked up the phone, it was clear that he was struggling with his sobriety. When I steered the conversation towards the topic of recovery with a sequence of vague and non-judgmental questions, I could hear the desperation in his voice as he spoke with unflinching candor:

“To be honest, I’m getting high right now while we’re talking. I haven’t started using my drug of choice again, but I haven’t been sober for almost six months. I’m really trying as hard as I can to get my life back together, but I honestly don’t see the point some days. It seems like you’ve got everything figured out, man. I’m really happy for you, but I don’t know if I can do this.”

My heart sank as I pondered the gravity of his words. I felt like I needed to conjure a motivational sermon out of thin air to inspire him to make a positive change in his life. It was then that I realized that my predicament with the moldy carpet and the bleach served as a perfect analogy for the downfalls of chemical escapism: by attempting to solve a complex personal issue with a destructive instant solution, I had only made my problems worse. Instead of resorting to canned and cliché platitudes, I decided to speak from the heart and let my friend know that I understood his pain.

“Thanks for the kind words, but the truth is that the only thing I really have figured out is that I don’t have all of the answers. I might have a few years sober and clean, but the only reason I’m able to keep what I have is because I force myself to remember what it felt like when I was using on a daily basis. All I can tell you is that the solution to your problems isn’t going to come in a bottle or a bag. It’s not going to be instant. It might even be messy and difficult, but once you get through it, you’ll be grateful you did, and you’ll also be able to move forward with your life in ways you never thought possible.”

After my friend and I concluded our conversation, I watched the sun rise through the frosty windows of my apartment as I began to get dressed for work. I didn’t know if I had managed to convince my friend to make a change, but I did know that I had done my best to help another struggling addict in need, and that was more than enough.

Always remember:

66

My keys jingled noisily in my hand as I despondently stumbled through the front door of my apartment. I was two years sober, and I had just returned home from a disappointing movie date.

I kicked my shoes off, threw my clothes down on the floor, then crashed down onto my futon mattress face-first with the force of a ten-ton boulder. I turned on my side and buried my face in a fluffy pillow as I struggled to come to terms with my failed amorous conquest. I had gotten to a point in my recovery where miracles that I never dreamed possible were occurring on a daily basis. I had a job, a car, and an apartment. I had just completed my first successful professional music engagement at a recording studio in Southern Vermont. Still, even with all of the newfound stability and prosperity that my life in recovery had brought me, I found myself feeling unfulfilled, empty, and impatient for more.

I opened the laptop computer that was lying next to me on my bed, then logged into my social media profile in an attempt to escape my gloomy boredom. I then began to catatonically scroll through a series of posed group pictures. Suddenly, I came across a jarring message that stood out from the slideshow of smiling snapshots. It was the name of a friend that I had met during inpatient treatment, preceded by the most powerful acronym in the English language: “R.I.P.”

I froze, paralyzed in a state of dissociative melancholy. It was the very same friend that I had been talking to over the phone three days earlier. In our previous conversation, he had expressed a burning desire to get clean and sober again. An overwhelming frenzy of powerful contradictory emotions began to rush through my mind. I couldn’t believe that he was dead.

In my state of disorganized mental chaos, I felt as if I was entirely responsible for my friend’s untimely demise. My words had failed to persuade him to return to the life he had found in recovery. I began to recall evenings that we spent together in sobriety, both in and out of treatment. All of my memories of the days that we spent joking and playing music together seemed to evaporate into nothingness like a mirage. I struggled to hold myself together as my thoughts drifted into destructive and nihilist fantasies. I felt like I was on the verge of collapse.

It was then that I remembered the words of a wise friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“When we put together a couple of years of continuous sobriety, we start to reap the benefits of our new way of life. Although it is no doubt a wonderful thing to experience that type of positive transformation, we must never allow our good fortune to make us complacent. It is crucial that we never forget that the ultimate gift that sobriety brings to our lives is the promise of life itself. Every day alive in recovery is precious. We owe it to every single addict who has lost their life to this disease to live every day of our lives in the solution. In order to do that, we must dedicate ourselves to helping every addict who still can’t help themselves.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes, grabbed my phone, and proceeded to dial the number of a newcomer from my recovery fellowship to check in with them. Even though I knew that I couldn’t bring my friend back, I was ready to do everything it took to honor his memory – and help other still-suffering addicts find recovery in any way that I could.

Always remember:

67

Somber and reflective music reverberated through my headphones as I stared down at my feet in an immobilized trance. I was two years sober, and I had just lost my friend to a fatal overdose a few days earlier.

Although I had spent the better part of the past week reaching out to other members of my sobriety fellowship for help and advice, our lengthy conversations had failed to entirely relieve me of my sadness and heartache. In an attempt to ward off my intense feelings of loneliness, I had opted to spend the night at my mother’s apartment. It was now after midnight, and she had been asleep for several hours. I was alone with my thoughts again, and I had no one to talk to.

I rapidly skipped between different tracks on my phone’s playlist, searching for a perfect musical masterpiece that would bring me the closure and peace that I needed. Despite my best efforts, I found that I was still unable to find a song that could calm my turbulent thoughts. My contemplative browsing was cut short when I came to a startling realization: I had only one week remaining before my next professional recording session in Southern Vermont, and I still hadn’t made any progress on the piano-rap composition that I had been working on.

I rose to my feet, walked over to the piano that stood in the center of the room, and began to write. As I haphazardly chipped away at the second verse of a song about personal growth and self-acceptance, I found that I was incapable of stringing together a single coherent rhyme scheme. I wanted to write a song with an inspirational and hopeful

message, but my disconsolate mood was making it nearly impossible for me to actualize my artistic vision.

As I sat in front of the piano with my pencil in my hand, it felt like a massive and unwieldy barbell that was impossible to lift. A cold wave of pessimistic gloom coursed through my body as I struggled to break through my writer’s block. I was trapped in a creative prison of my own making. As much as I wanted to break free, I was inadvertently building another iron bar on the deadlocked door of my mental cage with each self-deprecating idea that I allowed to fester.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that in my haste to finish the song that I had already started, I had neglected to realize the obvious truth in front of me: I didn’t have to force myself to write anything to create a good song. I only had to write down the way that I felt at that moment and speak my mind with complete honesty.

At the peak of my active addiction, I had allowed my fears and insecurities to prevent me from expressing my truth. I would always put on a happy face in times of trouble and hold back from sharing how I actually felt. It didn’t just end up having a negative effect on my music – it also had a negative effect on all of my personal relationships. As I sat in front of the piano, I knew that it was time for me to be authentic in all aspects of my life, both artistic and otherwise. I began to feverishly scribble heartfelt lyrics to a new song on the piece of paper that I held in my hand, and felt tears of cathartic joy run down my face as I channeled my passion and pain into my writing. Recovery had given me the courage to be truthful about my feelings, and the ability to express them through my chosen artistic medium.

Always remember:

Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

68

Cold winds buffeted the folds of my baggy winter jacket as I stepped out of the back door of my basement apartment. I was two years sober, and I was on my way to meet a fellow recovering addict at a sobriety fellowship event downtown.

After spending over a week mourning the loss of my late friend who had passed away from an overdose, I had embarked on an ambitious campaign of sober networking. I had spent nearly every free moment during the previous week in packed rooms with other recovering addicts, where I had re-established my connection to my recovery program in new and rewarding ways.

As I walked towards the train station, I felt a soft buzz in my pocket. I reached down to grab my phone and felt my heart sink as I read a heavy and dispiriting message from the friend that I was supposed to meet.

“Hey. I’m sorry to let you down, but I have to cancel our plans. My father just died of a heart attack. I’m going home to visit him. I’ll let you know when I’m back in town.”

As I read those words, I was overtaken with a sudden urge to put my sobriety program into action. My friend was a longtime confidant of mine who had helped me to navigate my life’s problems with his wise insights since the earliest days of my recovery. I thought it only fair to return the favor when he needed it most, so I typed a long and heartfelt text message to him expressing my condolences and offering him my support. As I hit the “send” button and stepped through the sliding doors of the train car, I felt a deep sense of fulfillment.

When I finally arrived at the downtown station near the recovery clubhouse after a long and jerky train ride, I felt a rapid series of vibrating jolts in my pocket as my phone regained its service. After reaching down to grab it, I was taken aback when I saw a series of hostile messages on the screen. My friend that I had just texted was extremely offended that I had offered my help, and summed up his feelings with a terse and confrontational statement:

“I don’t need your support. You’re the one who comes to me for advice. I don’t come to you. You should work on your own program and learn to mind your business.”

I was crushed and deflated by his words. I began to overanalyze our past conversations in an effort to understand why he was upset with me. His wise words had always served as a strong anchor for my recovery program, and I was now drifting in a murky sea of self-doubt.

Suddenly, I experienced a blinding epiphany: even though the same person who had helped to teach me vital lessons in early recovery was now attacking me, I had done absolutely nothing to deserve it. I didn’t have to go out of my way to try to win back his approval. I just had to apply the same principles of serenity, detachment, and compassion that he had once taught me towards our current interaction.

I turned off my phone and took a deep breath as I walked into the sobriety fellowship clubhouse. I knew that I didn’t have to harbor feelings of fear or resentment towards my friend. Recovery had given me the clarity to understand the difference between people and principles, and the patience to forgive others for their faults and misdeeds.

Always remember:

69

The straps from my heavy backpack dug into my shoulder blades as I trudged up a steep set of painted wooden stairs. After reaching the top of the stairwell, I stepped through the doorway of a cozy apartment and dropped my bags onto the floor. I was two years sober, and I had just completed the long drive back to Vermont from the city for the third time in two months.

Although I had barely slept the night before, my mind was racing with anxious thoughts. I had an early morning recording session the next day, but I was finding it nearly impossible to detach from my worries and immerse myself in my artistic endeavors. I had come to a point in my recovery where I was beginning to feel trapped in my routines. The initial novelty of my service industry job had started to wear thin, and I was frustrated by the structured limitations of my part-time peer counselor position. It felt like I was treading water in a placid and murky lake. I was maintaining my balance, but I wasn’t moving forward with my life in any perceptible way.

Suddenly, my pensive musings were interrupted when my phone rang. It was the music producer who owned the recording studio. After we exchanged a few lighthearted jokes, he offered to meet with me face-to-face at his office up the road to brief me on the schedule for the next day.

After arriving at his office, I plopped myself down in a comfortable leather armchair. As we sat across from one another, our conversation gradually drifted away from practical matters. When he inquired about my state of mind, I told him the honest truth: I was feeling mired, jaded, and powerless, and I was also afraid that I would never be able to find true happiness and gratification in my life. After listening intently, he responded to my heartfelt confession with a thoughtful and unexpected answer:

“It’s not always easy to find the balance between personal fulfillment and practicality. Life gets in the way of our goals and dreams sometimes, but life also occasionally presents us with opportunities to use our gifts in ways we never dreamed possible. I want to propose something to you: I’ve really enjoyed our collaboration in the studio, and I want to invite you to join us here full-time as our first composer-in-residence. I know that you want to help recovering addicts change their lives for the better. Let me ask you this: Do you think you can reach more people through your music - or by working with them one-on-one as a counselor?”

My eyes widened as I allowed his words to fully sink in. I knew that I wanted to move up to Vermont and follow my dreams, but I also knew that I needed to put my recovery first. After a brief meditative pause, I responded to his offer with heartfelt sincerity:

“I’m in. I’m incredibly honored that you would offer me this opportunity. Let’s figure out a plan that allows me to maintain a connection with my recovery fellowship. I want to pursue every possible opportunity to spread a message of recovery through my music, but that message isn’t going to resonate if I don’t keep up my sobriety program.”

As we amicably concluded our conversation and made plans to discuss further details at a later date, I was overcome with happiness and gratitude. Recovery had given me the chance to follow my passions in ways I never dreamed of, and the clarity to understand that it was possible to do so in a responsible and accountable way.

Always remember:

70

The smell of sizzling onions and roasted potatoes wafted through the air as I laid out silverware and napkins on my mother’s dining room table. I grit my teeth and grimaced as I contemplated the confrontational conversation that lay ahead. I was two years sober, and I was about to tell her that I was moving to Vermont.

It had only been a week since I had made the decision to relocate, but I had already put several transitional plans in motion. I had given my six weeks’ notice at my restaurant job and given my landlord my last rent check, but I still hadn’t quite summoned the courage to let my mother know that I was planning on permanently departing from the city.

Throughout the course of my life, she had always served as a nurturing and grounding figure who had helped me safely weather the most severe of my emotional storms. She had also played a vital role in my journey of sobriety. At a critical juncture when I was finally ready to enter treatment, she had offered her unwavering support when everyone else had given up on me. I wanted to repay her for her generosity and kindness by being there for her and being a good son, but I knew that I had to follow my passions in order to maintain my forward motion in recovery.

As she walked towards the table with a heaping bowl of savory comfort food, I twiddled my thumbs nervously as I struggled to find a tactful way to break the news to her. After ladling some of her homemade stew onto my plate, I uttered a terse and unprompted proclamation:

“There’s something I need to tell you. I’m moving to Vermont soon to work on my music. I know it’s sudden, but you need to understand that this is what I have to do to stay sober.”

I watched her face fall as she gripped her fork with feverish intensity. She proceeded to air a series of worrisome grievances with my plan. I responded by attempting to sway her opinion with a series of half-baked rationalizations. After my rhetorical skills failed to yield a conversational victory, I left the table in a fit of impetuous rage. I plopped myself down on her couch and stared into space as I wrestled with my thoughts. I was falling deeper into a dark pit of remorseful self-doubt with every passing moment.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that my addictive nature was preventing me from seeing things objectively. By attempting to prove to my mother that I was justified in my desire to leave, I had failed to treat her with the same kindness with which she had always treated me. I closed my eyes, took a brief meditative pause and gathered my thoughts before I turned to face her and spoke once more:

“Why don’t you come up with me when I move up and see the place where I’m going to be working? It’s absolutely beautiful up there. I want you to feel like you’re a part of my life.”

As our conversation resumed, I saw a smile gradually start to creep across my mother’s face as we began to discuss plans for our upcoming trip to Vermont. I knew that no matter how much physical distance was between us, we would always remain close as long as I was willing to treat her in a considerate and loving way. Recovery had given me the ability to detach from my need to always be right and the clarity to understand that compromise was possible.

Always remember:

71

The sounds of pulsating synthesizers rattled my eardrums as I sat in front of a massive computer monitor and keyboard. I was two years sober, and I was sitting next to the longtime creative partner of one of my favorite musical artists.

Several weeks before I was scheduled to move to Southern Vermont to pursue music professionally, I had been presented with the opportunity to meet face-to-face with several legendary hip-hop musicians to discuss potential collaborations. I twisted nervously in a swivel chair as I attempted to maintain my composure. It was almost midnight, and a rapper that I had idolized for years was scheduled to show up at the studio at any minute to work with me.

In the worst days of my active addiction, I had always dreamed of being where I was now. Only weeks after I had solidified my business partnership with a well-respected producer in Vermont, we had already started to pursue exciting new opportunities. It felt like I was within inches of achieving my artistic dreams. As a dark and moody instrumental rocketed through the speakers, I furiously scribbled lyrics on a piece of crinkly paper. I wanted to be overprepared for the arrival of one of the icons who had inspired my musical development.

My lyrical exercises were brusquely interrupted by the high-pitched chirp of a cell phone ringtone. When the creative partner of the rapper I was scheduled to work with picked up the call, my mind began to race with eager anticipation. Suddenly, I noticed the expression on his face begin to change as they spoke over the phone. After hanging up, he shook his head as he turned back towards the computer screen. It was then that I knew that my worst fears had come true: the rapper wasn’t going to make it to the recording session.

I felt a lump in my throat begin to form as I hung my head and gazed down at my lyric sheet. I couldn’t believe that all of my efforts had been in vain. Sensing my disappointment, the rapper’s creative partner turned to me with a relaxed and compassionate look on his face. He then leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat, and began to speak with solemn sincerity.

“I’m going to tell you a story that not too many people know. When my musical partner was negotiating with different labels, there was one collective that he wanted to sign with more than anyone else. That collective offered him a deal, but it got thrown out at the last minute. It was one of the most creatively frustrating experiences of his life, but he took the pain from the letdown and channeled it into his music. The project that he made after he lost that deal ended up being the project that caught the attention of the label he did sign to, which brought him to where he’s at now. I know that you’ve been through a lot as a recovering addict. He’s sober too, so he knows how hard it is to deal with disappointment. Still, always remember that sometimes our biggest letdowns can lead to our biggest successes.”

As he turned back towards the monitor to play another instrumental, I put my pen back to the paper as I felt a newfound feeling of strength and inspiration overtake my body. I might not have had the chance to work with one of my favorite musicians that night, but I did have the chance to re-learn a valuable lesson about the power of perseverance in recovery that had served me well since my earliest sober days:

Always remember:

72

Raspy whispers and nervous chuckles reverberated throughout a wide and open room as I watched the last members of my addiction therapy group walk out through a dimly-lit doorway. I was two years sober, and my final evening session as a peer counselor had just come to an anti-climactic conclusion. I was due to move up to Vermont in less than two weeks to pursue a newfound career opportunity, and I had bittersweet feelings about permanently leaving the treatment center that had helped me find a new life in recovery.

I had been coming to the room that I was standing in at least once a week for the past two and a half years. As I pensively dragged my feet over the coarse carpet, I felt overwhelmed with feelings of wistful nostalgia. I sat down on a plastic chair in the corner of the room, closed my eyes and reflected on the integral role that the treatment center had played in my journey of sobriety. As my mentally-projected visions started to take form, a rapid succession of vivid images flashed behind my closed eyelids, bringing to mind the earliest days after I returned home from rehab.

I recalled coming to the treatment center after my first job interview, my first sobriety fellowship meeting and my first romantic letdown in recovery. At every crucial juncture, the counselors and therapy group members had provided the nurturing stability that was necessary for me to maintain positive growth in my life. My thoughts began to drift forward in time to the day that I graduated the long-term treatment program. They then leapt ahead to the moment that I first agreed to return to the treatment center as a peer counselor to lead therapy groups of my own. I opened my eyes and took a deep breath as I reoriented myself with my current surroundings. My ruminations were interrupted when I heard the sound of footsteps walking through the door, accompanied by a calm and soothing voice:

“Hard to believe it, right? Your last day here as a peer counselor. How does it feel?”

Her therapeutic and gentle tone provided some much-needed relief from my frantically-racing thoughts. I curled the corners of my mouth into a wan smile as I struggled to sum up my emotional state. In the conversation that followed, I could only tell her the truth: I was excited to pursue the opportunities that I had been offered, but I was still apprehensive about losing the support network that had given me the strength to succeed in recovery for so long.

As I rose from the plastic chair and we walked out of the room together, she handed me a business card and left me with the following words.

“One of the things that recovery has taught me is that serenity and sobriety is a state of mind - and not a place. We might have helped you get to where you are, but it was you who put in the work. No one could make you do that. We’re always here if you need us, but it’s time for you to go and experience what life has to offer.”

After waving goodbye, I walked down the stairs and held my head high as I stepped out onto the street. I knew that it was now up to me to use the lessons I had learned from my time at the treatment center to stay sober one day at a time, and I was excited for the challenges that lay ahead.

Always remember:

73

Frigid bursts of wind gusted through my hair as I walked down a dark and snowy street. I was two years sober, and I had just finished a five-hour recording session at a music studio in Southern Vermont. Although I was beyond exhausted, I was grinning from ear to ear. After weeks of suspense, I had finally gotten the news I had been waiting for: my artist residency had been officially authorized and funded! I was due to move up to East Arlington full-time in less than three weeks, and I was feeling a mix of nervous apprehension and rapturous delight.

Suddenly, I felt my phone begin to vibrate in my jacket pocket. I reached down to pick up the call. It was the producer who owned the studio. His tone was lively and buoyant as we began to discuss my lodging arrangements.

“I’ve actually set up a permanent apartment for you in another space. It’s going to be where you live when you begin your artist residency. Let me know how you like it! I think you’ll find that it’s got a nice atmosphere that’s very conducive to creativity.”

After I was given directions to my new home, I hung up the phone and proceeded across the street towards an understated residential building. I walked through the entrance and made my way to the top of a narrow wooden staircase. Upon reaching the second floor, I punched a numerical sequence into the mechanized handle of a key-coded doorway. I opened the unlocked door and walked into a wide and spacious studio apartment with a large wooden table in the middle. I was immediately taken aback by the striking level of aesthetic cohesion in the room. The table was flanked by two rows of handsome black wooden chairs, and the walls were lined with retro-chic posters and modern art lithographs.

As I looked around at the well-appointed apartment that I was standing in, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of dissociative discordance. As swiftly flashing pictures of the bleak and desolate spaces that I had inhabited during the course of my active addiction danced inside of my head, I struggled to reconcile my current reality with my former experiences. I began to project my destructive insecurities into fully-formed visions of future failures. I felt frozen in place by my self-doubt. I didn’t know if I was capable of living up to expectations.

At the lowest point of my desperate musings, my eyes drifted towards a particularly striking print that was framed on the wall. It was “Freedom from Fear” from Norman Rockwell’s iconic Four Freedoms illustration series. As I looked at the courageous and confident posture of the man in the portrait, I realized that recovery had given me the power to rise above my fears by confronting the causes of my anxiety at their roots. When I took a moment to breathe and think about the things that were causing me to feel stressed, it occurred to me that I had another studio session in the morning that I had yet to properly prepare for.

Instead of obsessing about my incompetence and lamenting my lack of preparation, I took my computer out of my bag, set it down on the table, and began to type out some new lyrics. As I felt my crippling anxieties begin to evaporate, I knew that I had nothing to fear but fear itself.

Always remember:

74

The smell of toasted bread and well-seasoned fish filled the air as I ran the ragged edges of a terry cloth dish towel over a granite countertop. I was two years sober, and I was finishing up my last day of work at the restaurant that had given me my first job in recovery. I was gearing up to move to Vermont in less than a week, and I was excited to start a new chapter in my life.

Although my final scheduled shift had occurred several nights earlier, I had taken it upon myself to thoroughly clean the bar as a parting gesture of gratitude. After catching a glimpse of my reflection on the shiny surface of a metal sink, I stopped in my tracks and paused as I contemplated the drastic transformation that I had gone through during the course of my time at the restaurant. I had walked in the doors of the ritzy suburban bistro several years prior in a state of insecure confusion. I had only been out of inpatient treatment for two months, and I was still struggling to find purpose and meaning in sobriety.

At a critical point in my recovery, the owners and managers had given me a chance to make an honest living for myself when no one else would. I felt thankful tears begin to well in my eyes as my mind drifted into morbid fantasies of what would have happened if they hadn’t given me the job.

Suddenly, my irrational reflections were interrupted. A bottle of wine rolled over the counter and broke open on the ground behind the bar. I frantically scrambled to contain the spill as it spread across the freshly-cleaned floor. Sadly, the damage was already done. Feelings of pained frustration began to froth and bubble in the depths of my subconscious as I grudgingly began to lift up the plastic bar mats and scrub underneath. In a matter of minutes, my gratitude and serenity had metamorphosed into resentful anger. As I continued to clean, I moved past the bar mats and continued to scrub beneath the sinks and ice wells to make sure I had fully eradicated the wine stains.

As my rage-filled cleaning binge came to a close, I felt my elbow hit against an unknown object as I repositioned myself under the counter. I shimmied back into the light and turned around to see what the item was. My eyes widened as I realized that it was my wallet and keys, which were trapped under a carton crate in a poorly-lit corner.

I never would have known that I had lost my wallet if the bottle hadn’t dropped - and I hadn’t been forced to clean the floor, including the dark corner.

In a moment of blinding clarity, I understood that the wallet in the darkness served as a metaphor for the way that the challenges I had faced in recovery had brought me to greater levels of self-knowledge. I realized that every single difficult circumstance that I had encountered in sobriety had forced me to fearlessly search through the dark corners of my subconscious to find the root causes of my emotional issues. Although I was very happy that I had found my wallet, the bigger reward was knowing that the floors of the restaurant that had helped me get my life back were now every bit as clean as my conscience.

Recovery had given me the patience to take my personal setbacks in stride, and the courage to confront my innermost fears.

Always remember:

75

Wet snow splashed off of the sides of my screeching tires as I barreled down a dark and empty highway. I was two years sober, and I was driving up to Vermont from the city to start my new life as the resident artist at a recording studio in East Arlington.

My mother was fast asleep in the passenger seat beside me. I brought her along for the trip, in an effort to assuage her fears that our relationship would be compromised by my move.

I turned my windshield wipers up to the maximum setting as a gust of icy wind cast a thick shroud of snowflakes directly in front of me. Suddenly, my mother was jolted awake when my tire ran over a rumble strip. I mumbled a nervous apology as she regained her consciousness, then began to speak in a hushed tone as I pulled onto a slippery exit ramp.

“Welcome to Vermont. We’re almost there.”

After making my way down a winding back road, I parked in front of the studio. It was lit up like a Christmas tree in the winter night. I could see my producer and two audio engineers bustling around inside through the foggy and frosty windowpanes. I put the car in park, laced up my boots and stepped out into the cold and peaceful Vermont air.

I helped my mother into her room and transported the bags from the trunk of the car into the two adjacent apartments that my mother and I were staying in. Before I knew it, my producer exited the studio and approached my car. He gave me a big hug, then stepped back and spread his arms as he took in the picturesque and snowy scene around him.

“Welcome to Vermont! I’m excited to get to work on the song that we talked about tonight. Make sure your mother gets a chance to rest her voice before we start recording. I’m excited to hear her sing!”

A cold shiver of guilty fear swept through my body as my producer turned his back and walked towards the studio. In the process of packing my car and getting ready to move, I had completely forgotten that the other reason I had brought my mother up to Vermont with me was to have her sing a song I had written for my album. We hadn’t rehearsed the song in over four days, and I was feeling incredibly nervous and unprepared. As I walked towards my apartment with the last of my bags, I felt the same feelings of shame and anxiety that used to plague me in the darkest days of my active addiction overtake my mind.

I had finally taken the first concrete steps towards making my artistic dreams come true, but I didn’t know how to let go of my fear.

After reveling in my self-imposed misery for several seconds, I felt my heart rate begin to calm as I realized that I didn’t have to be afraid of the fear that I felt. Instead of chastising myself for my shortcomings and dreading the future, I decided to remain grounded in the present. Instead of letting my fear control me, I decided to use my tension and unease as the fuel to power my positive ambitions.

I took a brief moment to regain my bearings, and then walked over to my mother’s guest room to summon her to the studio. As I paused outside of her room before knocking, I took a deep breath as I reminded myself of the mantra that had carried me through all of the challenges I had faced thus far in my recovery:

76

Vermont.

Thick clouds of dust spread through the cold and calm winter air as I unfurled a small carpet and slapped it repeatedly against a metal rail outside of my apartment building. I was two years sober, and I had just moved to Southern Vermont to pursue a new career opportunity as the resident artist and composer at a music studio in East Arlington. I was spent and exhausted after a long day of recording sessions and creative consultations, and I was looking forward to winding down and watching one of my favorite shows.

After carrying the carpet back into my apartment and placing it on the ground, I took a moment to acclimate to my new surroundings. As I pensively paced through the room, I began to hear a high-pitched ringing in my ears. After struggling to identify the source of the discordant din for several minutes, I came to a humbling realization: it was the sound of complete silence. I had spent the past several years of my life in a densely-populated city, and I had become desensitized to high levels of background noise to the point that I was uncomfortable and antsy without the sounds of passing cars and honking horns.

I heaved a heavy sigh of relief as my propane heater came to life with a low and eerie hum. The mechanical whir was a welcome distraction from my rapidly accelerating train of thought. Although I was incredibly grateful to be working as a paid musician for the first time in my life, I was still grappling with doubts regarding my ability to perform under pressure and adapt to my new environment. I had come farther than I had ever thought possible in my recovery, but I was still scared of failing and disappointing myself.

Suddenly, I began to feel my stomach rumble. I looked down at my phone to check the time and saw that it was almost midnight! In my haste to prepare for my recording session, I had forgotten to take a trip to the grocery store. Unfazed, I clicked on a food delivery application on my phone and began to search for a local restaurant that could deliver a nourishing meal to my doorstep. My heart sank when I read the following message on the screen:

“There are no restaurants offering delivery in your area.”

I began to tense up and panic as I ran to my refrigerator in search of a snack that could tide me over through the night. The empty shelves I found inside served as a perfect metaphor for my emotionally drained mental state. I had made every effort to prepare myself for my transition from urban to rural life, but I had fallen short. I hung my head in shame as I pondered my fate. I didn’t know if I was strong enough to adjust to my new reality.

It was then that I experienced a life-changing epiphany:

Every problem that I was presented with was actually an opportunity for growth. Instead of allowing myself to wallow in my hunger and melancholy, I opened up my phone and began to search for a nearby grocery store. After finding one miles and miles away, I laced up my boots, zipped up my coat, and headed out into the snowy unknown. I was tired, frightened, and out of my element, but I was far from broken.

Recovery had taught me that growth never came without significant adjustment, and I was excited to enjoy every awkward and challenging moment of my transition into the next phase of my life.

Always remember:

77

Throngs of cheery revelers swayed in unison as festive jam-band music blasted through powerful speakers. I was two years sober, and I had recently moved to southern Vermont to start my new job at a music studio in East Arlington. After spending the whole day recording songs with the producer that I was working with, he had tasked me with manning the door at a live performance event.

I was weary and drained from a long day’s work, but I was nevertheless grateful to be enjoying some live music. As the flashing stage lights cast soft shadows on the ceiling and walls, I felt as if I had been transported from my former urban reality into a phantasmagorical rustic dreamscape. I found my eyes wandering between intricate networks of hand-hewn beams, which were perfectly complemented by fine artworks and dark-toned leather couches.

As the front doors closed and the concert kicked into high gear, I began to slip in a state of natural euphoria. I had always felt anxious and closed-off in social situations, but I allowed myself to let my guard down as vibrations from the thumping bassline reverberated through my body. For a brief and beautiful moment, my awestruck elation blended seamlessly with the sharp sense of awareness that I had honed in recovery. I was simultaneously present and detached, and I knew that it was possible to be happy, sober, and free.

Suddenly, my temporary state of transcendental enlightenment was abruptly cut off when I noticed a scent that I was all too familiar with. A tipsy concertgoer had spilled his drink on me, and my upper sleeve had become partially drenched with liquor. As the smell of smoky tequila permeated my nostrils, I felt my deepest addictive tendencies reawakening. I wasn’t prepared to deal with such temptations in my vulnerable, tired, and compromised state. I clenched my fists as my eyes shifted towards the bar. My mind began to tie itself in knots in a fugue of panicked frenzy. I didn’t know what to do.

I knew that I was putting my sobriety in danger if I stayed there, but I didn’t want to let my boss down and admit that I didn’t feel comfortable working at the concert. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. I could either try to save face, grit my teeth, and risk a relapse, or I could speak my mind and face the consequences that came with my honest admissions.

It was then that I realized that the only things that were holding me back from true peace and serenity were my own insecurities. I had allowed my delusional thinking to overtake my sense of self, and only the truth could set me free.

I hung my head sheepishly as I walked up to my boss and told him that I needed to leave. A look of pained concern came across his face as he motioned towards the door with his hands and began to speak:

“Go home. Your sobriety is much more important than this concert. Thank you for all you did today. We need to you to stay clean another day so you can keep doing what you’re doing here.”

As I said goodbye to my boss and walked out of the door towards my apartment, I knew that I had made the right decision. Recovery had given me the strength to resist destructive temptation, and the courage to advocate for myself in the times that it mattered most.

Always remember:

78

Hazy clouds drifted through the gray winter sky as I yawned, stretched, and rose from my bed. I was two years sober, and I had just woken up from a restful night’s sleep. As I began my daily preparations, I watched in silent awe as a solitary ray of sunlight poked through the clouds and illuminated a row of snowcapped trees on a rocky hillside.

Staring at the expanding beam of light, I found myself contemplating its symbolic significance in relation to my life’s trajectory. Although my mind had initially been clouded with doubts regarding my ability to adjust to the challenges of life in southern Vermont, the proverbial horizon of my mental sky was becoming clearer with every passing day. As the sun began to stream in through my windows, I felt an exhilarating rush of optimistic clarity. I was basking in the warmth of fulfillment and self-actualization, and I was grateful to be alive in recovery.

Suddenly, my buoyant reflections were cut off when I heard a high-pitched cell phone ringtone emanating from the pocket of my jeans. It was a former girlfriend of mine from back in the city, who also happened to be a recovering addict. Although we had split on amicable terms due to my move, I nevertheless felt remorseful that I had ended our relationship before I had gotten the chance to truly get to know her. After a series of dry quips and self-deprecating jokes, she revealed the reason for her call. Her voice was hoarse and crackly as she began to speak:

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself up there. I’m really happy that you’re doing what you love. To be honest, I really haven’t been doing that well. I relapsed last week, and I had to leave the recovery house that I was staying at. I feel so ashamed of myself. I don’t know how to start over. You’re the first person I’ve told outside of my family. What do you think I should do?”

My heart raced at a whirlwind pace. In my shocked and compromised state, I felt like I was directly responsible for her relapse due to our recent breakup. The sky outside began to turn dark again as clouds of fretful trepidation simultaneously re-formed in the stratosphere of my subconscious. In a matter of moments, my confident jubilance had been replaced with paralyzing feelings of guilty gloom. I felt like I was trapped in the darkness in more ways than one, and I didn’t know if the sun would ever start shining again.

It was then that I understood that in the process of chasing after both literal and metaphorical sunlight, I had neglected to realize that the brilliant light of serenity and acceptance would continue to shine on me as long as I practiced the principles that I had learned in recovery. I also knew that I could only stay in the light if I was willing to help others who were deeper in the darkness than I was. It was time to put my program of recovery into action. I took a deep breath, picked the phone back up, and spoke the following words:

“I won’t pretend to understand everything that you’re going through, but I do know one thing: the skies might seem gray now, but it won’t last forever. The darkest nights can give way to the brightest mornings, but you have to be willing to walk towards the light.”

Always remember:

79

Vapor clouds steamed out of the sides of a shiny steel dishwashing machine as I weaved through a tightly-packed kitchen. I was two years sober, and it was my first day of training at my new restaurant server job. Although I hadn’t originally intended to work as a server after moving to Vermont to start my artist residency, I was nonetheless grateful to have found a secondary source of income.

I had spent the last several years working at a restaurant down in the city, and I had heartily enjoyed my time in the service industry. The months that I spent climbing up the ranks from busboy to bartender had taught me crucial lessons about the value of teamwork and unity in my early days of recovery. There was an unbreakable bond that restaurant workers shared. We experienced triumphant victories and crushing losses together, and we collectively reveled in the undeniable sense of ecstatic fulfillment that came from completing a successful night of service.

As I paced past rows of perfectly-folded napkins and handwoven bread baskets, I took a moment to study the seasoned servers around me. They were coasting through the kitchen pantry with smooth and graceful movements. It was a flawlessly-coordinated culinary ballet. Standing in the middle of the hallway, I felt like I was a loose and misaligned cog in a well-oiled Swiss clock. My crisis of confidence was interrupted when a tray of empty butter containers got slammed down on the counter in front of me. A fast-talking server then swiftly handed

me five massive sticks of butter. She continued walking as she spoke in a vexed and harried tone:

“The kitchen mixer is in the back. Make yourself useful and churn the butter. Service starts in five minutes.”

I froze like a deer in high-beam headlights. I had no idea where the kitchen mixer was even located, let alone how to use it to churn butter correctly. After clumsily stumbling through the kitchen for several minutes, I came across an intimidating silver machine. Sweat dripped down my face as I feebly attempted to move its mixing bowl into the correct position. I was afraid that I would make a mistake, but I was more afraid to ask for help. I flipped a switch in an act of blind faith. Within moments, the machine kicked into gear with an intimidating roar. Large chunks of butter began to ricochet outside of the bowl, forming a wide and messy circle of destruction on the counter. I had unintentionally selected the fastest setting on the mixer, and I didn’t know how to turn it off. Without warning, an experienced server swooped in and unplugged the machine. I hung my head in shame as I prepared for the tongue lashing of the century. Instead, the server who had rescued me addressed me with compassion and patience.

“Don’t worry. Butter is just butter. The mixer isn’t broken. The important thing is that you’re okay. You should have said something earlier. We’re here to help you learn how to do things the right way! You don’t have to do this all alone.”

As the older server began to show me the correct way to use the mixer, I realized that the worst mistake that I had made that day was refusing to ask for help. As long as I was willing to swallow my pride and turn to others in times of need, I would never have to suffer through my problems alone and afraid.

Always remember:

80

Sleet and rain ricocheted off of the edges of my windshield as I turned into the massive parking lot of a Southern Vermont shopping center. I was two years sober, and I was on my way to the store to buy myself some groceries.

It had been over a month since I had moved up from the city, and I had finally started to adjust to the pace of rural life. I stepped outside, closed my car door, and shivered, as I felt a frosty gust of wind hit the back of my neck. I walked towards my trunk, opened the hatch, and began rummaging through it, determined to find a comfortable scarf, hat and gloves that would make my walk across the parking lot more pleasant.

After discovering a secret cache of winter accessories underneath a crumpled shopping bag, I tied my scarf around my neck and pulled the edges of a wool hat down around my ears. As I made my way towards the store, the happy faces of shoppers pushing their carts to their cars seemed to all greet me with welcoming smiles. Even though I was hundreds of miles from home, I felt like I was swaddled in an impenetrable blanket of self-sufficient emotional security.

Suddenly, I was roused from my positive reflections when I heard the sounds of raucous banter from across the parking lot. A group of young men were all congregated around a large pickup truck. It was a cold and damp day, but they were all dressed in shorts and t-shirts. I looked down at my gloves and scarf with shame and embarrassment. As their laughter continued to reverberate at an increasing volume, I became increasingly self-conscious and insecure. In a matter of seconds, my feelings of comfort and emotional safety had been shattered into tiny pieces. I felt like an outsider who didn’t belong.

In the years before my active addiction, I had always struggled with social anxiety. Even though I was now several years sober, I found myself trapped in the same pattern of anxious thought. As I passed by the group of merry strangers, every one of their lighthearted jeers and exclamations seemed like a cruel and judgmental joke that was aimed directly at me. I closed my eyes and ground my teeth as I struggled to find the strength to keep walking. I wanted to untie my scarf, turn around, and hide in a private hovel of self-hatred and shame.

It was then that I realized that the only person who was actually being judgmental and cruel in that moment was me.

In my overwhelmed and frantic state, I was being unfairly judgmental of the people in the parking lot who were simply enjoying a moment of carefree socialization. I was also being cruel to myself by allowing my senseless and unfounded fears to bubble and fester to an unmanageable and painful point. I knew that before I could learn to accept other people and face them without fear, I had to learn to accept myself as I was. I readjusted my scarf, took a deep breath, and walked past the group of happy-go-lucky locals with a confident spring in my step. I knew that no matter what surprises the weather brought, I could always find warm refuge within myself. I just had to remember that true comfort didn’t come from the clothes I wore on my back. It came from the inner peace and serenity that I had earned by living life on life’s terms one day at a time.

Always remember:

81

The harsh sounds of scribbling pens and clattering plates rattled my eardrums as I paced back and forth behind a polished, wooden counter. I was two years sober, and I had just finished my first shift as a bartender at an upscale inn in southern Vermont.

As I bent down to pick up the plastic mats that lined the floors behind the bar, I felt a deep and dull ache in my overworked calves. I heaved a plaintive sigh as I trudged past a row of exhausted servers, who were busy completing their financial paperwork, as they exchanged wry quips with one another. After stumbling through a creaky swinging door, I plopped the mats down on the floor and walked towards the kitchen closet to grab a mop and bucket.

Upon returning to the tavern, I came across the manager of the inn. She walked up to me, dropped a set of keys in my hand, and spoke with authoritative gravitas as she stared directly into my eyes:

“Here are the keys to the inn. It’s up to you to close the place. I’m sure the head bartender taught you what lights to shut off and what doors to lock. You did a good job tonight. Make sure that you double-check everything before you go. We’re counting on you!”

As I held the keys in my hand and watched her walk through the doorway, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I felt a surge of pride course through my body as I wrung out my mop and began to swish it across the surface of the floors. I had never been entrusted with the keys to a business before in my life, and it was immensely satisfying to know that the time I had spent in recovery had allowed me to earn the good faith of my fellow workers.

As the rest of the servers gradually trickled out of the inn, a peaceful silence began to fall over the room. After swabbing the last droplets of water off of the floor, I dusted myself off and commenced with my nightly closing routine. I swaggered through the halls in a state of childlike glee, flicking off the lamps with theatrical flair. For a brief and shining moment, I was master of my domain, and I was floating high on a cloud of confident exuberance.

My triumphant parade was cut short when I came across the first door that I needed to lock. I reached my hands into my front pockets, and the keys were nowhere to be found. As I frantically retraced my steps, I felt tears well up in my eyes as my mind conjured nightmarish visions of future angry lectures from my bosses. I held my face in my hands as I slumped against the wall. I had finally been entrusted with an important responsibility, but I had completely failed to uphold my promise to my co-workers.

It was then that I understood that the ultimate gift of recovery wasn’t the approval of my peers. It was the ability to deal with unfavorable circumstances with serenity and clarity. As I took a deep breath and regained my sense of inner calm, it occurred to me that I hadn’t taken the time to look in my back pockets.

I reached behind me and pulled the keys out, then took a moment to reflect on the lesson that the situation had taught me. I understood that the ultimate keys to maintaining my sense of self-worth were patience and self-awareness, and I knew that those qualities would open more doors for me than any shiny keyring ever could.

Always remember:

82

Cool air streamed through my car windows as I turned onto a narrow and crowded bridge. I was two years sober, and I was on my way to pick up a friend from a nearby bus station. After sleeping on the streets for several months, he had reached out to me over social media to ask if he could stay at my house in Sandgate for a few weeks. He had always treated me with compassion throughout the course of our friendship, so I felt it only fair to repay his kindness.

I saw him standing on an uneven concrete curb as I pulled into the bus depot. I parked my car, walked towards him and greeted him with an outstretched hand. As we drove north towards Vermont, we traded stories of times past while hip-hop music blared through my car speakers. Our lives had taken very different paths, but it felt good to reconnect with an old friend and share some moments of carefree laughter.

Several miles from the Vermont border, I pulled into a gas station to re-fuel my car. My friend stepped out from the passenger seat as I placed the pump nozzle into the fuel tank. He then walked towards me as he began to speak:

“It’s too bad that you don’t have enough self-control to be able to drink anymore. I get that you’re sober now, but can you buy me some beer? I don’t have that much money, but I’m going to clean your house while I’m staying up there. You can consider this part of my payment for those services.”

I grit my teeth with hateful resentment as I stewed over his audacious request. I couldn’t believe that he had the nerve to insult my sobriety after I had offered him a free place to stay.

As I readied a vengeful tirade, I watched him pull a half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear. He then grabbed a nearly-empty lighter out of his pocket and flicked it several times to no avail. As he held his unlit cigarette in his hand, I saw a look of dissatisfaction and unease in his eyes that I recognized all too well. It was the look of a man who was broken, lost and searching for meaning. I felt my facial muscles relax as I remembered how it felt to be desperate and penniless with nowhere to turn. Although it might have felt good to channel my anger and frustration into a scathing retort, I knew that every unkind word I directed at him would only exacerbate his hopelessness and pain. I took a deep breath, looked directly at him and spoke with confidence and restraint.

“I’m not going to buy you beer, but I have some groceries at my studio apartment in Arlington that you can take with you up to my house on the mountain. I know it might seem hard to believe, but I’m happy to be sober. If you ever want to stop drinking, I’ll gladly help you.”

My friend nodded understanding, then shuffled back towards his seat as I closed up the gas cap and pulled my receipt out of the machine. As we resumed our journey, I watched the Southern Vermont mountains draw closer on the horizon while I pondered the true meaning of the word “compassion.” I was happy that I had managed to treat my friend fairly and decently without enabling his addiction, and I was grateful that recovery had given me the chance to be there for him in his time of need.

Always remember:

83

Harsh and energetic rock music blasted through the stereo in the main room of my mountain house, as I rustled through the contents of a weathered plastic toolbox. I was two years sober, and I had been attempting to fix a clogged sink for the past several hours. After a prolonged period of procrastination, I grabbed the largest monkey wrench that I could find and headed back towards the bathroom. I had no plumbing knowledge to speak of, but I remained obstinately determined in my efforts to solve the problem.

As I lay down underneath the sink, my eyes drifted towards my father’s old first aid box in the back of the cabinet. Memories of years past danced through my mind as I struggled to situate myself in a comfortable position. I recalled the trips my father and I had once taken to the house when I was a young child. During the time we spent together, he had attempted to teach me valuable lessons about self-reliance and perseverance. As my addiction began to worsen in the later years of my adolescence, he would often reference our past trips to the Sandgate woods with a hint of wistful dissatisfaction in his voice. Looking back, it was clear that he was disappointed that he had been unable to teach me the discipline necessary to control my chemical compulsions.

Although I had managed to eventually earn my father’s acceptance as a result of my lifestyle changes in recovery, I still felt that I was entirely unprepared to take on the responsibility of looking after the house that he had given me. With every unsuccessful twist of my wrench, it felt like I was moving further away from living up to his expectations. After half an hour of continuous slogging, my shirt was soggy from sweat and my hands were starting to blister and bleed from the friction.

I slammed the wrench down on the ground in a fit of bitter exasperation and reached towards the first aid kit to grab a bandage for my inflamed fingers. After opening the top of the box, my heart skipped a beat when I saw what was inside of it. Several bottles of my father’s old prescription pain medication lay next to a box of bandages and a roll of gauze. I froze in a state of dissociative shock as my hands began to tremble. In my emotionally-vulnerable and compromised state, it felt like the entire universe was conspiring against me. My breathing pattern became rapid and erratic as I struggled to maintain my composure. I was trapped and isolated in a bottomless pit of self-pity and uncertainty. I didn’t know what to do.

It was then that I realized that the unbudgeable sink pipe served as a perfect metaphor for my inability to move past my own trauma and insecurities. I understood that there was no wrench in my toolbox that could easily unscrew the rusty pipe joint, and there was no pill that could instantly heal the root of my emotional pain. After a brief moment of reflective contemplation, I put the wrench down, dusted myself off, and threw the pills in the trash. In my eagerness to prove to myself that I was worthy of my father’s approval, I had overlooked one of the most important lessons that I had learned in recovery: no matter how much discipline and determination you possess, true growth is only possible through surrender and self-acceptance.

Always remember:

84

The sounds of shuffling feet and clicking heels blended with the faint murmurs of whispered conversations, as I walked through the doorways of a large banquet room. I was two years sober, and I had just arrived at a packed and lively benefit concert in Southern Vermont. It was the first time that my boss from the music studio in East Arlington had brought me along with him to a high-profile gathering, and I was nervous beyond belief.

It had been almost four months since I had moved to Vermont to pursue my artistic aspirations, and I was still adjusting to the pace of my hectic routine. I spent my mornings working with a producer and engineer on my fledgling music project, and my evenings consisted of long service work shifts, in which I bartended and waited tables at a nearby inn.

It was a surreal and mind-bending experience that required me to flawlessly balance creative expression with measured practicality, but I was well-suited to the task. As the son of divorced parents, I had always managed to toe the line between two divergent ideologies. Over the years, I had learned to mimic speech patterns and social mannerisms in order to adapt to a variety of delicate situations.

As I shimmied through rows of rustic wicker chairs, I studied the comportment and patois of the people around me in an effort to formulate my conversational approach. I took a deep breath and sharpened my focus as I came across a table with my name spelled out on an ornate paper placard. I knew that it was time to put on a show and prove my worth to my newfound acquaintances at the party.

Over the course of the next half hour, I played the role of ringleader in an elaborate circus of small talk and loquacious self-indulgence at my table. I could feel my ego swelling. I fell back into my chair and savored a moment of silent triumph. I had managed to use my manipulative skills to my advantage, once again. Suddenly, my egotistical musings were cut short when one of my tablemates asked an unprompted and innocent question:

“Pardon me, Young Man, would you like some wine?”

I froze up like a fossilized specimen. I was surrounded by smiling and well-dressed people in a beautiful restaurant, but I still felt lost, lonely and frightened. I was desperate for approval, and I was afraid to humble myself down and admit to my limitations. It was then that I realized that I didn’t have to posture or pretend anymore. In attempting to copy the characteristics of the people around me to gain their acceptance, I had lost my true sense of self in the process. I knew that it was time to let my guard down and speak from the heart.

“No, thank you. I’m going to stick with water. To be honest, I’m actually an addict and alcoholic in recovery. I’ve been clean for several years now. I’m far from perfect today, but I’m doing everything that I can to live a different way than I used to in the past.”

I was expecting the people around the table to react with disgust or contempt. Instead, they greeted me with expressions and remarks that were even more positive and encouraging than before. As the conversation continued, I knew that I didn’t have to go out of my way to prove anything to anyone anymore. As long as I was willing to detach from my ego and insecurities and tell the unvarnished truth, my recovery would speak louder than any words ever could.

Always remember:

85

Rickety floorboards groaned underneath my feet as I quickly shuffled towards the doorway of a rustic and cramped studio apartment. I was three years sober, and I had just been broken up with by a girl who I had been seeing on and off for the past several months.

I struggled to hold back tears as I made my way down the staircase outside of her apartment. After bursting through a heavy wooden door onto a sunlit and empty street, I kicked up clouds of dust as I sprinted towards my car. I plopped down in the seat, turned the key in the ignition, and turned up the radio as loud as possible. I didn’t want anyone to hear me cry.

I buried my face in my sleeve and began to softly sob as a vivid slideshow of our shared memories flickered in my mind’s eye. Although our relationship had started off as little more than a casual romantic fling, it had gradually metamorphosed into an intense and powerful emotional connection. She was the first true friend I had made outside of my work circle after I had moved to Vermont, and I was heartbroken that she had chosen to sever her ties with me.

Although we were starkly different in terms of our interests and lifestyle choices, we had found common ground through our shared struggles with mental health. The comfort and support that we had provided each other had allowed us to effectively navigate crucial periods of transition in both of our lives. Unfortunately, we had become mutually codependent in the process. In the weeks leading up to our breakup, the coping mechanisms that we had developed as a result of our past traumatic experiences had manifested through a series of erratic behaviors. I would overcompensate due to my fear of rejection, and she would dissociate from reality and close herself off to avoid getting hurt.

As I sat in the car and reflected on our relationship, feelings of resentment and anger started to spark and smolder inside of me. I was hungry for closure and absolution. I felt like she owed me an explanation for her sudden decision to stop seeing me. A scornful frown spread across my face as I began to overanalyze her self-destructive habits in an attempt to rationalize my own behavior. In my vulnerable and shaky state, I felt that my several years of sobriety had given me the license to lash out at her and criticize her faults. I grabbed my phone and began typing out a fierce and self-righteous tirade, sneering with feverish intensity as my thumbs clumsily hammered out impassioned messages on the screen.

As I hovered my finger over the “send” button, I winced with self-hatred as I contemplated my next move. I knew that I was wrong for taking out my frustrations through a mean-spirited message, but I was blinded by feelings of emptiness and inadequacy. I didn’t know if I could continue to live without her validation and approval. It was then that I realized that I was equally powerless over my codependent tendencies as I once was over my addiction to drugs and alcohol. She didn’t owe me anything, but I owed it to both her and myself to put the principles of forgiveness and understanding into action.

I deleted the message, powered off my phone, and took a deep breath as I released my parking brake and drove away from her apartment building. Recovery had given me the courage to move forward after heartbreak, and the clarity to recognize my own shortcomings.

Always remember:

86

The high-pitched clicking sounds of an overworked printer rattled my eardrums as I paced around a small and well-decorated office. I was two years sober, and I was anxious and apprehensive about an upcoming musical performance.

As I frantically attempted to organize piles of rapidly-printing manuscript sheets into neat and orderly piles, I struggled to maintain my serenity and focus. My cousins had offered me the opportunity to perform with them at an upcoming benefit concert, and I had immediately agreed to their request without fully considering the scope of the work that was required. They had initially promised that the jazz charts that they were sending me were both simple and intuitive, but a cursory glance had revealed that the pieces were far more difficult than I had anticipated.

As the mechanical whirs of the printer came to a stop, I looked down at the intricate musical notation and complex jazz scales on the pages with nervous dread. I had studied classical piano for over a decade in my younger years, but I had never learned how to play jazz. As I carried the piles of paper up to the second floor of the music studio where I rehearsed in East Arlington, I was overcome with feelings of resentment and inadequacy. Two of the three cousins that I would be playing with at the concert were conservatory-trained musicians. The prospect of performing with them was reawakening memories of numerous opportunities that I had squandered due to my past substance use.

In the darkest days of my active addiction, my worsening chemical dependency had forced me to withdraw from a highly-ranked conservatory program. In the years that followed, the consequences of my addiction had taken me further away from my musical aspirations than I had ever dreamed possible. Although I had managed to reclaim my sense of creative direction in recovery and secure an artist residency at a beautiful studio in Southern Vermont, I still felt like I was underqualified to perform with my cousins.

As I sat down at the piano and began to play, I became increasingly frustrated by my inability to correctly interpret the charts. The clunky and discordant sounds of wrong notes and faulty rhythms served as unwelcome reminders of my incomplete musical education.

After an exceptionally clumsy attempt, I tossed the manuscript papers onto the ground and beat my fists against the piano bench in a fit of childish rage. I wanted to prove to my cousins and family that I was worthy of their approval, but I didn’t know if I had the skills and patience necessary to perfectly learn the pieces. It was then that I remembered what a friend from my recovery fellowship had told me when I was faced with a similar predicament in the past:

“Don’t compare your inside feelings to other people’s outside appearances. Nobody is perfect. We don’t have to try to be better than anyone else or live up to their standards. As long as we are willing to detach from our fear, put our best foot forward and try to do the next right thing, we can rest easy knowing that we have managed to live another day in the solution.”

After taking a moment to regain my composure, I picked up the crumpled manuscript sheets and sat back down on the bench. I had managed to tip my mental scales of reflexive self-judgment in the direction of acceptance and understanding, and I was finally ready to approach the daunting musical scales in front of me with clarity and patience.

Always remember:

87

Tall blades of grass wavered in the spring breeze as I walked across an open field towards a rustic country inn. I was two years sober, and I was on my way to meet with a local public servant to discuss potential recovery advocacy collaborations. After crossing a quiet and narrow side street, I scaled a short set of marble stairs that led to a small porch. I sat down on a bench, grabbed my phone out of my pocket, and sent a message to my boss to let him know that I had arrived. I was nervous and apprehensive, but I was nevertheless excited for the meeting.

In the months after my move to Vermont, I had managed to forge connections with a small number of influential people through my professional network. I was excited to use my music and writing as a platform to advocate for recovery, but I still felt that I was underqualified to speak as an ambassador for the sobriety community.

After losing myself in a fog of anxious contemplation for several minutes, I was roused from my catatonia by the sound of a closing car door. My boss stepped out of his car and approached me with a beaming smile. As we walked into the foyer of the inn together, the proprietor welcomed us with an enthusiastic greeting. We exchanged lighthearted pleasantries as she led us back to a well-appointed living room with plush chairs and lacquered wooden tables. My boss and I then sat down in two opposite chairs, trading humorous stories as we waited for the public servant to arrive.

Several minutes later, she walked through the doorway. My comportment was timorous and reserved as I shook her hand with a sheepish grin. As I sat back down, I felt my feet beginning to tremulously shake in my shoes. After speaking about the local substance use treatment programs and restorative justice initiatives for several minutes, the public servant looked me in the eye and asked me an unexpected question:

“What do you think is the best way to reach people with substance use disorder who are still struggling?”

In the several seconds of silence that followed, my brain lit up in a firestorm of overanalytical neurosis. I wanted to offer an insightful response that would leave a lasting impression and keep the conversation moving forward in a constructive direction. I grit my teeth as I attempted to conjure an eloquent string of perfectly chosen words. I was finally in a position to make a real difference, but I was trapped in a state of self-conscious doubt. It was then that I realized that I didn’t have to try to impress anyone. I just had to tell the truth. I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and looked directly at her as I proceeded to speak.

“When I was still actively using, the most helpful thing that anyone ever did was to connect me with other people in recovery who understood what I was going through. Even when I wasn’t entirely ready to change, their advice and acceptance helped me to realize that I wasn’t alone.”

I was expecting my words to be greeted with skepticism and indifference. Instead, she responded with eager interest and offered keen insight about the healing power of local recovery fellowships. As the conversation continued, I understood that I didn’t have to have a fancy degree or an impressive resumé to make a positive impact. Recovery had given me the ability to speak for those who could not speak for themselves - and the courage to advocate for what I believed in.

Always remember:

88

Wispy clouds hovered over a lush green hillside as I walked through rows of marble tombstones in a picturesque rural cemetery. It was a gorgeous southern Vermont summer afternoon, and I had just celebrated three years of continuous sobriety.

After making arrangements with my boss and co-workers, I had taken the night off to make a pilgrimage to the gravesite of the founder of my recovery fellowship. As I made my way past ornately-decorated mausoleums, I drifted off into solemn reflections as I thought back on the friends who had passed away over the course of the past several years. Memories of the smiling faces of lost friends that I had met at treatment centers in times past flashed underneath my eyelids every time I blinked. I started to feel a sense of guilt as I felt the gloriously warm sun beat down on my forehead. I was alive, employed, sober and happy, but I still felt like I was undeserving of the freedom and serenity I had found in recovery. I couldn’t make sense of the fact that I was alive and able to experience such a spectacular day when so many of my friends were gone.

Thirty minutes into my trek through the cemetery, I came across the tombstone of the man who had created the recovery fellowship that had saved countless lives, including my own. I knelt down, folded my hands, and bowed my head in a moment of silent prayer. Tears welled up in my eyes as I ran my fingers over the grass. I was overwhelmed with simultaneous feelings of gratitude and desperation. I knew that were it not for a mixture of determination, surrender, luck, and fortunate happenstance, I would most likely have ended up under the ground in a similar cemetery due to the consequences of my addiction.

At the climax of my cathartic emotional moment, the scattered clouds gathered overhead and blocked out the sun. The timely moment of desolate darkness served as a perfect metaphor for my spiritual state. I was surrounded by beauty and grace, but I still felt held back by my feelings of self-condemnation. My recovery had taken me to places that I had never thought possible in my life and career, but the human cost of the addiction epidemic was weighing on my conscience like a twenty-ton boulder. My hands began to tremble as I struggled to maintain my bearings. I didn’t know if I had the strength to get back on my feet and walk away from the tombstone, let alone continue to work towards my life goals.

It was then that the words of a friend who had once guided me through the earliest days of my recovery began to echo through my mind with the resonance of a stadium speaker:

“Recovery doesn’t just give us the ability to reclaim our sense of self and live in a better way. It also gives us the chance to speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves. If you ever find yourself doubting that you have the strength to keep going, just remember that you aren’t just staying sober for yourself – you’re doing it to honor the memory of every fallen friend who never got the chance to find the same grace and fulfillment that you did in sobriety.”

After taking a deep and restorative breath, I rose to my feet as the sun began to peek through the overhead clouds once again. Recovery had given me the chance to live life in the solution, and I knew that I owed it to every one of my lost friends to channel my pain and passion into my recovery advocacy work.

Always remember:

89

Dry leaves and pine needles crackled under my car wheels as I turned up a winding dirt driveway. I was three years sober, and I was on my way to witness the damage that had been done to the road leading up to my house in Sandgate. After several days of continuous rain, a sizable portion of the road had been completely washed out.

I slowed my speed as I came across a rocky chasm in the middle of the road. Half a dozen large boulders were strewn across a watery creek bed that lay underneath a misaligned drainage pipe. I stared down at the rushing waters with solemn sadness. It had been a year and a half since my father had given me the keys to the house on the mountainside, but my plans to move up there had already been derailed several times by a series of unfortunate natural disasters.

I leaned up against my car and kicked up clods of dirt in a fit of frustration. I didn’t know if I had the patience to solve the problem that was immediately in front of me, let alone continue to fix up the house that I was now in charge of maintaining. I was roused from my gloom by the sound of footsteps approaching from behind my car. It was my neighbor from further down the mountain. Twigs crunched under his boots as he walked towards me and began to speak.

“Looks like mother nature had a bit of a temper tantrum, doesn’t it? I was up late last night digging trenches out here trying to redirect the water, but it still broke through.”

I gave a weary chuckle in response as he knelt down by the edge of the road and looked down at the damage below. I felt guilty that I hadn’t been able to be there to help him at the time it mattered most. I was already overwhelmed with my full-time service job and artistic residency, and my jam-packed schedule had left little time to tend to the road. In addition, it had been over a week since I had been to a sobriety fellowship meeting. The time I had spent away from my recovery net- work had left me feeling just as washed out as the road in front of me, but I was too proud to ask for help. After conversing with my neighbor for several minutes, I asked him if he could put me in contact with someone who could fix the road, and offered to pay him extra for the time he had spent digging the trenches. He rose to his feet, turned to me, and looked me directly in the eye as he gave his response.

“I know that this must be hard for you. I can tell that you’re stressed out, and I can see it in your eyes that you’re tired. I’m going to split the cost of the repairs three ways with you and another person who owns the land surrounding this road. Life gets hard sometimes, but the only way we’re going to get through it is if we stick together and help each other out through the toughest days.”

I thanked my neighbor for his generous support as he turned to walk back up the hill, then took a moment to reflect on the wisdom behind his words. He might not have been a member of my sobriety fellowship, but he still fully understood a crucial truth that had saved my life many times over the course of my recovery: it’s always better to ask for help than to try to do everything by yourself.

Always remember:

90

The evening sun cast vibrant pastel shades on the edges of faraway mountains as I reclined in a folding chair near the banks of a meandering stream. I was three years sober, and I had taken the weekend off from work to perform at a benefit concert with my cousins in Upstate New York. I was slated to go onstage and perform in less than half an hour, and I was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety.

I took a last sip from my glass of water, then rose from the lawn chair and walked towards the stage. As I approached the keyboard, I pulled a stack of crumpled manuscript papers out of a plastic tote bag. After adequately situating myself, I stared off into the distance and tried to calm my raging brain with a series of deep and meditative breaths.

In the midst of my contemplative reflections, I saw my cousins stand- ing at an outdoor bar several hundred feet away. Although I could barely make out their facial expressions, it was clear from their body language that they were not nearly as anxious as I was. After getting their drinks from the bar, they walked towards me and invited me to join them out in the field behind the stage. As we stood around and talked before the show, we exchanged sarcastic jokes while discussing the jazz charts that we were about to play. Occasionally, one of my cousins would reference a crucial music theory lesson that they had learned during the years that they had spent at a high-level conservatory program. Even though we were all performing at the same event, I still felt out of place and inadequate. During the worst years of my active addiction, I had dropped out of the collegiate conservatory program that I had been admitted into, and opted instead to throw away my opportunities in pursuit of destructive chemical oblivion. Although I was several years sober and employed at a well-respected music studio, the consequences of my decision still continued to haunt me.

As a large crowd began to gather in front of the stage, my heart palpitated as we took our positions and prepared to play. I didn’t know if I had the skills to perform at the same level as my well-educated cousins, and I didn’t think I had the strength to handle the crushing disappointment that would inevitably follow an unsuccessful performance. It was then that I remembered the wise words that a member of my sobriety fellowship had once told me when I was faced with a similar predicament in the early days of my recovery.

“We don’t get sober because everything always works out in our favor when we do. We don’t get sober because everyone automatically respects us when we do. We get sober because recovery gives us the tools to handle victory and disappointment equally well, and we stay sober because living in the solution allows us to gain back the respect that we lost over the years that we were actively using.”

I felt my fingers begin to untense as my cousin began to play the opening bassline of a fast-paced jazz standard. I allowed myself to let go of all of my reservations as I played the first chords of my part. I understood that I had a long way to go before I was entirely ready to let go of my resentments and insecurities, but the time I had spent in recovery had given me the discipline to show up when it mattered most, and the courage to face my fears regardless of the outcome.

Always remember:

91

The sky was foggy and grey as I walked through the front door of a charming cottage in East Arlington. I was three years sober, and I was about to watch the rough cut of my debut animated music video for the very first time.

After stepping through the doorway, I was greeted by the producer who had worked on the song with me. He gave me a big congratulatory hug, then led me through a carpeted living room to a cozy office in the back of the house. The walls of the office were covered in vivid sketches of Halloween monsters and children’s book characters, and the shelves were cluttered with movie memorabilia.

The artist who owned the house was seated at a small desk in the middle of the room. As I sat down next to the artist and my producer in front of a shiny laptop computer, I was overcome with emotion. The song that my producer had chosen for the music video told the story of my recovery, as well as the consequences that I faced as a result of my addiction. I had been working with him on my debut album for several months, and I was eager to see my music come to life through a visual medium.

In the opening moments of the video, I saw a cloaked grim reaper perched at a piano in the middle of a cemetery. As the video continued to play, I watched the story of my addiction and recovery unfold in spellbound silence. As the video reached its climactic conclusion, the grim reaper at the piano took off its hood, revealing a face that was identical to mine. At the end of the video, my producer turned to me and spoke with a calm and reassuring voice.

“This was a very special project, and we think this video is going to really resonate with people. What do you think?”

I held back tears as I struggled to articulate my feelings of gratitude and amazement. I was overjoyed that my producer and the artist had managed to perfectly capture the story of my journey of recovery, but I still felt that I was undeserving of the opportunity. I was also scared that other people who saw the video wouldn’t be willing to accept me for who I was due to the stigma surrounding substance use.

It was then that I realized this important lesson: the fact that my producer and this artist had chosen to work on this video with me was proof positive that I had nothing to be afraid of. If they were willing to take the risk of showcasing my story, I had to be willing to take the risk of putting it out there for the public to see. I stood up, looked them both in the eye, and spoke the following words:

“A lot of people talk about how much courage it takes for recovering addicts to tell their stories, but not enough gets said about people who listen to our stories with an open mind. Every time someone gives an addict in recovery the chance to speak honestly about their experiences, it plays an important part in reducing the stigma surrounding addic- tion. I’m grateful beyond words for the work that you both did, and I hope that everyone who sees this video and hears my message can find it in their hearts to understand that every addict has the chance to turn their life around in recovery.”

Always remember:

92

Sunlight reflected off of polished mahogany boards as I sat in the empty dining room of an elegant country restaurant. I was three years sober, and I was scheduled to meet with the owners of the fine dining establishment I had been working at for several months.

In the weeks leading up to our meeting, I had cut back on shifts at the peak of the Fall tourist season due to a series of artistic commitments.

After sitting in silence for several minutes, I heard the faint and creaking sound of a turning doorknob. The owners walked into the room, followed closely by the restaurant’s head bartender. They were friendly, as always, but I knew all too well where the conversation was leading. After a long moment of silence, one of the two owners spoke the words I had been dreading to hear:

“It’s been great having you work here, and we really appreciate everything you’ve done for us! Still, we’re going to have to hire a new bartender and reduce your service shifts down to two a week. We know that you’ve been busy with your musical projects - and we completely support that. We are very happy for you! Still, we have to make sure that the restaurant is properly staffed for the holiday season.”

I gave a forced smile and nodded my head as I pondered the weight of their words. As the conversation concluded, I shook the hands of the bartender and owners, then walked out to my car in a dissociative haze. I opened the car door and slumped in the seat, clutching my keys tightly in my hand as I struggled to maintain my sanity. My fear of financial ruin had left me paralyzed in a state of pessimistic frenzy. I had left the comfort and familiarity of my hometown behind to pursue my artistic career in Vermont, but the growing success of my creative venture had made it nearly impossible to find a second job that could accommodate my schedule. At the apex of my fearful hysteria, I looked down and saw the following message from my producer:

“I have exciting news! I just spoke with the Aspen Institute. You’re going to be performing for an important crowd of influencers as the guest speaker at their next Public Health Grand Rounds event in Washington, DC. You’re going to get to tell the story of your addiction and recovery through your music and words. Come by whenever you can so we can talk about rehearsal and planning. We have the chance to make an incredible difference together with this event.”

My hands began to tremble as I read the last words of his message. I couldn’t believe that I had been offered such an incredible opportunity. I was nervous beyond belief about my upcoming performance, terrified about the uncertain state of my financial future, and unsure of whether I was ready to communicate my message of hope and recovery to such an important audience. It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Recovery is, in itself, a leap of faith. We make the decision to leave our old ways behind to pursue a new life of freedom and personal fulfillment. Change is often accompanied by fear, and fear can come in many forms. It can come in the form of fear of financial insecurity, fear of failure, fear of inadequacy, or fear of rejection. As long as we remain grounded in the moment and open to embracing its potential, our fears no longer have the power to hold us back in recovery.”

Always remember:

93

The air was cool and crisp as I walked out of the lobby of a posh urban hotel in Washington, DC. I was three years sober, and I was about to perform a set of songs that told the story of my addiction and recovery for an audience of politicians, doctors, and healthcare industry magnates at The Aspen Institute. Although I was making a valiant effort to remain calm and focused, the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of my hometown were stirring up recollections of my addicted past. As I weaved through the crowded downtown sidewalks, every building and storefront held memories of the hedonistic and destructive debauchery that had defined my life for so many years.

After walking for several blocks, I found myself staring directly at a seemingly nondescript apartment complex. My heart skipped a beat when I realized that I was passing one of the places where I had bought and used drugs many times at the apex of my active addiction. As I watched someone walk through the front entrance, the familiar creak and click of the door sent electric shockwaves through my body. The unexpected sensory triggers reawakened my addictive tendencies with overwhelming intensity. I felt myself losing my sense of mental balance, as I straddled the wide and treacherous gap between my present and past realities.

I was roused from my desperate reflections by a brisk gust of November wind. After regaining my composure, I stopped in my tracks and took a moment to study my surroundings. I found myself standing on a curved sidewalk at the edge of a bustling downtown roundabout. Several wide and open avenues branched off from the center of the circle, each leading to a different destination.

If I walked down one road, it would lead me directly to an open-air drug market, where I could restart the deadly behavior pattern that had nearly cost me my life.

If I walked down another, I could run back to the safety of my warm hotel room.

The third option was to take the road that led to the performance venue, where I could move forward with my life in recovery.

My head started to spin as I watched swiftly-moving processions of fancy cars zoom around the circle and veer off onto different paths. I didn’t know if I had the strength to keep moving in the right direction, much less broadcast a message of hope and recovery to an audience of influential changemakers.

It was then that I remembered the words that a wise member of my sobriety fellowship had once told me when I was faced with a similar predicament in the earliest days of my recovery:

“When we first get sober, we make every effort to distance ourselves from the harmful patterns that, in the past, held us back. As we regain our strength through sobriety, we often find ourselves in situations that put us face-to-face with our most powerful fears once again. When we face those pivotal moments, we are given the opportunity to draw on the wisdom that we have gained through our time in recovery. As long as we remain grounded in the solution, we have nothing to fear. Just because our lives come full circle, it doesn’t mean that we have to get trapped in the same dangerous and toxic cycles.”

I turned away from the apartment building, took a deep breath, and took the first steps toward the road that led to the performance venue. As I walked away from the circle, I understood that my past addictive tendencies no longer had the power to hold me back. Recovery had given me the courage to keep walking in the right direction and the clarity to understand that I didn’t have to give in to my lesser urges.

Always remember:

94

The sounds of whispered conversations and shuffling feet blended into a bewildering commotion as I watched groups of talkative and well-dressed attendees file into neatly-ordered rows of plastic chairs. I was three years sober, and I was moments away from beginning the second of my two separate speaking engagements at the Aspen Institute.

My public performances had always been preceded by a painful period of neurotic anxiety. In recovery, I had learned how to harness my fear and tension to create a state of intense and focused hyper-awareness. This inventive coping mechanism had allowed me to move forward with my life in ways that I had never believed possible, but it came with a noticeable downside: every high-pressure performance was a delicate and dangerous feat of emotional acrobatics. I constantly teetered on the edge of mental collapse, held back by nothing more than a tenuous tightrope of willpower and grit. Moments before my performance was scheduled to commence, I felt a faint buzz emanating from my pocket. I reached down to pick up my phone and saw a brief and devastating message from a girl I had been dating for several weeks.

“Hey. I’ve taken some time to think about whether or not I want to keep seeing you, and I’ve made my decision. I really like you, but I have too much going on in my life right now to get involved in a serious relationship. I wish you nothing but the best.”

I felt the metaphorical cord that was holding me back from the dark abyss of emotional instability instantly snap under the additional weight of my romantic letdown. In my compromised and fragile state, my fear and anxiety were too powerful to effectively channel into my performance. I knew that I could no longer repress and redirect my feelings, but I didn’t know how to face and accept them. It was then that I remembered the wise words that a friend from my sobriety fellowship had once told me when I was facing a similar situation early on in my recovery:

“When we make the decision to abandon our old ways and find a new way of life in sobriety, we often find it difficult to abandon our other destructive behavior patterns, as well. As crazy as it sounds, some of us are just as addicted to the pain and chaos of life in active addiction as we are to our substances of choice. When we come to realize that it is possible to live without that chaos, we find that we are able to experience true serenity by living life on life’s terms. If we can leave our character defects and damaging behaviors behind, it opens up a new world of promise, serenity, and fulfillment. We just have to become willing to let go.”

As the event’s facilitator took the stage, I experienced a blinding epiphany. I realized that I wasn’t just addicted to drugs – I was also addicted to unsustainable coping mechanisms. I had gotten to a point where I was no longer shackled by my chemical dependency, but it was time for my healing to take on a new dimension. I understood that just as I was responsible for my chemical abstinence, I was also responsible for my emotional stability. As I cleared my throat and began to speak, I felt my anxiety begin to evaporate as I looked out toward the audience and confronted my fears. Recovery hadn’t just given me the strength to stay away from addictive and damaging substances – it had also given me the strength to stay away from chaotic and destructive coping mechanisms.

Always remember:

95

The smell of heavily-seasoned lentils permeated the air as I walked into a bright and open dining room. I was three years sober, and I was out in San Francisco visiting my family for my birthday weekend. My father had organized a small party in honor of my arrival, and guests were just beginning to trickle in through the front door. Their affect was friendly and jovial as the dinner commenced, but I still felt somewhat out of place. I was the only person at the table drinking water instead of wine. I was also the only person at the table without a fancy job or college degree.

As the conversation progressed, the topic shifted from geopolitical affairs to local social issues. One of the guests at the party became noticeably incensed, while discussing the escalating addiction and homelessness crisis. They spoke in a harsh and disgusted tone as they aired their grievances:

“The city needs to do something about the drug addiction and poverty problem! I can’t even walk to work downtown anymore without stepping over a homeless addict. We should be ashamed of ourselves for allowing those dirty and sick people to live and sleep there. They need to be moved out of our sight to a place where they belong.”

After listening to their proclamation, I became increasingly resentful with every passing second. I wanted to put them in their place and let them know that one of the “dirty and sick” addicts who once walked the same streets was sitting right in front of them. I pondered my next move as I stirred my fork through my plate of stew. I was consumed by a potent mixture of anger and self-hatred. I didn’t know what to do. It was then that I realized that using the party guest’s ignorant statement as an excuse to vent my frustrations would only serve as the catalyst for a destructive cycle of argumentative rage. I hadn’t gotten sober to start new negative cycles – I had gotten sober to learn how to heal and prevent them. I cleared my throat, looked the person across the table directly in the eyes, and spoke from the heart.

“As an addict in long-term recovery, I agree that something does need to be done. Those people don’t just need to be moved, though. They need to be given access to treatment, access to job programs, and access to sober housing. I’ve learned in recovery that pushing a problem out of your sight doesn’t solve it – it only makes it worse. I’ve also seen a lot of people get sober who many described as ‘hopeless,’ including myself. The people who helped me get clean treated me with incredible kindness and acceptance, and that really helped me overcome my addiction.”

After listening to my response, a look of dumbfounded astonishment came across the face of the guest across the table. It was clear they had never expected to be at the same party as a recovering addict, and it was also clear that they had learned something new about the power of compassion.

After the main course was finished, my father brought me a slice of birthday cake from the kitchen. As I blew out the candles and dug into the first satisfying bite, the only thing sweeter than the frosty icing was the feeling of knowing that I had managed to speak my mind without resorting to anger. Recovery had given me the courage to advocate for the causes I believed in - and the strength and clarity to resist my rageful impulses.

96

Floorboards creaked underneath my feet as I stumbled toward my kitchen in a groggy daze. I was three years sober, and I had recently returned from a trip to the west coast. I had stayed up all night before my early morning cross-country flight, and the turbulence and noise had made it impossible for me to sleep through it. I was drained and debilitated, but there would be no rest for the weary. I needed to power through my jetlagged exhaustion in order to properly readjust to my native time zone.

I struggled to keep my eyes open as I pulled back the door of my refrigerator. As I scanned the shelves, I was greeted by a dismal display of overripe fruit and withered vegetables. I slammed the door shut in an irritated huff, muttering curses under my breath as I wrestled with my infuriating predicament. I was too tired to drive to the grocery store for more food, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to stay awake if I didn’t get anything to eat.

I grit my teeth as I simmered in a mental marinade of wrathful dissatisfaction. I was hungry, angry, lonely, and tired, and my pessimistic thinking was making the situation even worse. As I plopped down in a plush and wobbly armchair, I slowed my breathing as I attempted to make peace with my dilemma. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to calm my anxious thoughts and overlook my physical and emotional discomfort.

My dark deliberations were interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringtone. It was my friend from my sobriety fellowship. His cheery and upbeat vocal presence stood in stark contrast with my brusque and curmudgeonly demeanor. After unsuccessfully attempting to make small talk with me for several minutes, he offered an unprompted invitation:

“You don’t sound like you’re doing too well. Why don’t you come with me to a sobriety fellowship event? I can pick you up from your apartment, and we can go get some food afterwards. Does that sound good to you?”

In my enervated state, I misinterpreted his friendly offer as a condescending and judgmental attack on my recovery. My mind began to twist and contort his words to align them with my own bitter worldview at the moment. I couldn’t believe that he had the nerve to tell me that I didn’t sound like I was doing well! As I readied an explosive cascade of blistering retorts, I jumped to my feet and started to angrily pace around the room. After opening my mouth to unleash my tirade, I tripped over my shoelaces and fell forward before I had the chance to utter my first insult. As I slowly rose to my feet in a state of painful dysphoria, I came to a startling realization: Tripping over my shoelaces served as a perfect metaphor for how my lack of self-awareness was destroying the sense of balance and harmony that I had achieved in recovery.

I had become so oblivious to the emotional effect of my hunger and loneliness that I had nearly sabotaged a perfect opportunity to enjoy some delicious food with a good friend. It was time to move past my pride, get out of my own way, and detach from my destructive impulses. After dusting myself off, I got back on the phone with my friend and told him that I would meet him outside of my apartment shortly. Although my hunger, anger, loneliness, and exhaustion would prove only temporary, they had still taught me a timeless lesson about the importance of self-awareness and optimistic thinking in recovery.

Always remember:

97

The robust smell of garlic mashed potatoes lingered in the air as a strong gust of wind rattled the eaves of my apartment in East Arlington. I was three years sober, and I was enjoying a quiet evening at home. It had been three weeks since I had completed my first live performance as a musician in recovery, and I had started to settle back into my daily routine.

Although I was grateful for my artistic victory, it had come with a noticeable drawback: due to the increasing frequency of my creative commitments, the owners of the restaurant I worked at had been forced to cut my shifts in half. I had adjusted to my recently-imposed financial limitations with a mixture of willpower and frugal ingenuity, but it was clear that I had to find a new source of income in the near future.

As I sprinkled a pinch of rock salt onto a plate of lightly-spiced root vegetables, I felt a sublime and liberating sense of cool-headed contentment. After living in Southern Vermont for almost a year, I had fully acclimated to the pace of rural life. I had also learned to masterfully maintain the balance between my service job and my arts residency fellowship. The stress and unease that formerly dominated my mental landscape had been replaced by lucid confidence. It was a feeling of comfortable tranquility that I relished with great enthusiasm.

Suddenly, I heard my phone ring. It was the music producer who oversaw my artistic residency. I casually twirled my fork in the air as we proceeded to trade sardonic and lighthearted witticisms in-between bites of my meal. I was expecting the conversation to drift towards the musical project that we were working on together, but my initial thoughts were instantly invalidated when he revealed the surprising reason for his call.

“I know that you’ve been worried about not having the money to pay your bills, because your work at the recording studio has been interfering with your day job. I think I’ve come up with an inventive solution. I’ve read your social media posts where you talk about your journey of recovery. It’s clear that you have a real passion for writing. I own several magazines, and I want you to come work for me as a staff writer. Is that something that would interest you?”

I dropped my fork down onto the plate as I pondered his enticing, yet intimidating offer. I didn’t know if it was a good idea to change careers when I had only recently adapted to my newfound circumstances. I was ecstatic that I had been offered an exciting new job, but I didn’t want to endanger my recovery and sacrifice my serenity. I held my breath in stony silence as I grappled with the important decision that I had been presented with. I didn’t know what to do. It was then that I recalled the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Recovery is all about learning to be comfortable with discomfort. If we refuse promising opportunities due to fear of failure, we will find ourselves repeatedly stuck in stagnant and disappointing cycles. As long as we remain willing to take things one day at a time, we can move past the temporary awkwardness that accompanies significant positive changes with strength and courage.”

After a drawn-out pause, I made the decision to accept my producer’s job offer. I had no experience as a professional writer. I didn’t know how I was going to make it work. All I knew was that I was grateful to be sober, ready to face my fears, and excited to move past my comfort zone.

Always remember:

98

The sounds of shuffling feet and hissing milk steamers rattled my eardrums as I walked through the front entrance of a crowded coffeehouse. I was three years sober, and I had just gotten a new job as a writer for a magazine. I was scheduled to meet with a local filmmaker to interview him about his newest project, and I had arrived half an hour ahead of schedule.

After ordering a sandwich from a cheery barista at the service counter, I sat down in a leather-bound chair next to a small wooden table. I took my computer out of my bag and set it on my lap while I attempted to gather my thoughts. I had less than thirty minutes to get myself ready for my interview, and I was noticeably nervous.

After spending hours exhaustively researching the filmmaker’s past projects, I had concocted a series of detailed questions to ask him. As I read through them one by one on my computer screen, a sense of calm confidence gradually spread throughout my body. I was an inexperienced journalist, but I knew that I had done a good job of preparing for my first article.

My self-affirming internal monologue was cut short when I noticed a warning notification in the top-right corner of my computer screen. My battery was running low, and I had ten minutes until my computer shut off completely.

My heart sank as I looked around the room and saw that all of the electrical sockets were occupied by the phone chargers of other coffee shop customers. The filmmaker was due to arrive in fifteen minutes, and I knew that I would not be able to read from the list of questions that I had prepared.

My brain began to short circuit as a slideshow of pessimistic worst-case scenarios flashed in my mind’s eye. In a matter of seconds, I had plunged from a lofty summit of egotistic optimism into a dark abyss of doubt and self-hatred. I hadn’t even started my interview, but I already felt like I was doomed to fail. It seemed as if all of my hard work had been in vain. I didn’t know what to do. It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“When we first find ourselves in early recovery, one of the hardest things to do is reach out for help and ask other people questions about how to stay sober. We are so afraid of looking like we’re uninformed or ignorant that we shut ourselves off completely from the incredible wisdom that other people can offer. We often find ourselves doing the same thing in our personal and professional lives, as well. As recovering addicts, we suffer from the simultaneous curses of pride and insecurity. After spending time in recovery, we gradually learn that there’s nothing wrong with asking questions and admitting when we don’t know what we’re talking about. By approaching life with a grounded sense of humble curiosity, we find we can learn more about ourselves and others than we ever thought possible.”

As I watched the filmmaker walk into the coffeehouse, I took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to detach from my need to impress other people. I didn’t need a fancy list of questions, and I didn’t need to go out of my way to seem like I knew everything. All I needed to do was keep an open mind, stay present in the moment, and remain aware of the fact that I could learn more from others than I could from myself.

Always remember:

99

Shimmering light reflected off an icy road as I drove through a scenic mountain valley. I was three years sober, and I was on my way back from an interview for an article that I was writing for a local publication. It had been just under a month since I had started my new job as a maga- zine journalist, and I was riding high on a wave of euphoric confidence.

After parking my car and stepping out onto a patch of freshly-plowed asphalt, I experienced a moment of dissociative shock when I looked down at my newly-purchased dress shoes. At the apex of my active addiction, I had often made trips to drug-infested corners in a pair of dingy and disheveled sneakers. It had been several years since I had last visited those troubled streets, but I was still coming to terms with my newfound reality. I zipped up my jacket and began walking towards my apartment at a brisk pace. I had several more articles to complete before my upcoming deadline, and I had no time to waste.

I walked through my doorway, sat down at my kitchen table, and opened up the audio recording application on my smartphone. In the midst of scrolling through my archive of recorded interviews, I made a startling discovery: I had failed to successfully capture the interview that I had conducted several hours earlier. I pounded my fists on the table and rose to my feet, cursing my fate as I stomped around the room. After kicking the edge of my refrigerator in a fit of rage, I noticed several large scuff marks on the surface of my brand-new shoes. My heart sank when I realized that I could no longer hide behind a flimsy façade of superficial egotism. I might have had fancy clothes and a fancy job, but I was every bit as fearful and insecure as I was when I was a desperate and unemployed addict. I was scared to admit that I had made a mistake, and I was equally afraid to tell the person whom I had interviewed that I needed to speak with them again. I didn’t know what to do.

It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Before I found recovery, I lived my life in a state of constant fear. I was afraid of learning who I truly was, and I was also afraid of being judged by others for my imperfections. Over the course of the time that I’ve spent in recovery, I’ve learned that other people don’t think about me nearly as much as I’d like to think that they do. Although it’s always nice to be the center of attention, it’s even better to realize that much of our fear comes from a place of self-centered anxiety. When we make an effort to apply principles of recovery to everyday situations, we can remove ourselves from the equation and remain grounded in the moment. By looking at things from an objective perspective, we can then arrive at the realization that there is nothing to fear but fear itself.”

After taking a deep breath and calming my frenzied thoughts, I sat back down at the table and began to write an apologetic text message to the person I had interviewed. I didn’t know if they would be open to scheduling another interview, and I didn’t know what I would do if they rejected my request. All I knew was that I was better equipped to deal with whatever consequences awaited me with an uncluttered and sober mind, and that I was no longer afraid of my fear.

Always remember:

100

Gently falling snowflakes danced outside of my window as I wandered toward my kitchen table in a pair of comfortable slippers. I was three years sober, and I had just met my first official deadline as a professional journalist.

As I approached the table, I felt my cell phone vibrating in the pocket of my pants. It was the producer who had overseen my arts residency, who also served as the editor and publisher of the magazines that I wrote for. I was expecting him to provide me with editorial suggestions for the articles I had written.

Instead, he presented me with a life-changing opportunity:

“I just received the last of the articles that you wrote for the magazine, and they are wonderful. You really have a knack for capturing the personal stories of the people you’ve interviewed.

You and I have been working on a musical project that tells the story of your journey of sobriety for over a year now. I think it’s time to for you to share your experiences in recovery in a different way. The substance use epidemic has touched many people in our community, and you have an opportunity to help people collectively heal through your writing. Would you be interested in writing a weekly recovery column for the Vermont News Guide?”

I felt a wave of electric energy pulse through my body as I pondered his offer. From my earliest days in recovery, I had always hoped that I would be presented with the opportunity to tell my story through a public platform. Still, I was afraid that people wouldn’t be willing to listen to a recovering addict with an open mind.

“I’m open to doing it,” I whispered nervously, “I just don’t know if people are going to be able to accept me for who I am.”

After a long moment of silence, my producer replied in a calm and reassuring tone:

“It’s never easy to take a stand for what you believe in, especially when it makes you vulnerable to criticism. As the Vermont News Guide’s publisher, I’ll also be taking a risk by printing this column. I want us to make that leap of faith together, because I think people are ready to hear your story – and know that they are not alone.”

After agreeing to his offer, I hung up the phone and opened up a blank document on my computer screen. As my fingers rested on the keyboard, I remembered the crucial moment when I had first made the decision to face my fears and live life on life’s terms in recovery. I took a deep breath, gathered my thoughts, and proceeded to type out the following words:

A Message of Gratitude

Dear Vermont News Guide Readers,

This week marks the hundredth installment in Benjamin Lerner’s weekly CLEAN Column.

Benjamin and I are incredibly grateful that we have been able to share the story of his recovery with you for almost 2 years now, and we are also thankful for the support, acceptance, and encouragement that we have received from the community along the way.

It takes a lot of courage for a recovering addict to get clean and sober.

It also takes a lot of courage for people who do not suffer from substance use disorder to listen to stories of hope and recovery with open minds and open hearts.

The amount of positive and meaningful feedback that we have received in the last 2 years is astonishing – and we are beyond grateful.

That said, this epidemic is far from over.

To anyone who is still out there struggling, just know that recovery is possible, you are never alone, and you still have the chance to make a positive change in your life.

-Dr. Joshua Sherman