CLEAN Column 2022 — BENJAMIN LERNER

101

Muddy water splashed on my shoes as I stepped over the roots of a tall maple tree. I was three years sober, and I was on my way to meet my friend for a celebratory dinner. It had been two weeks since my inaugural recovery column had been published in the Vermont News Guide, and one week since my debut album had been released. I met my friend at the entrance, and we were then led to an ornately-decorated table near a roaring fireplace.

As I stuffed my face with bread, I made a feeble effort to hide my feelings of victorious glee beneath a transparent guise of contrived modesty. The time I had spent in recovery had brought me to a place where my creative efforts were finally being recognized. Ironically, my mind had irrationally twisted the initial success I had found with my humble and honest recovery journals to the point that I no longer possessed any semblance of humility or self-awareness.

After placing my order, I leaned back in my chair and swished my sparkling water around in my glass with pompous verve. When the main course arrived, I let out a boorish cackle as I raised a ceremonial toast to the power of recovery. I was stone cold sober, but my mannerisms were reminiscent of a belligerent drunk that was about to get kicked out of a neighborhood bar.

After our server removed our plates, I reached into my pocket to grab my credit card and settle the bill. I then made a startling discovery: my wallet was nowhere to be found. In the throes of my euphoric ego trip, I had forgotten to bring it with me to the restaurant. I stared down at the table as overpowering feelings of shame dragged me down into a murky trench of insecurity and despair. I could barely look my friend in the eye, let alone ask him to fork over his hard-earned gains for the pricey and indulgent dinner that I had offered to pay for.

It was then that I realized that even though I was three years sober, I still had to deal with the unresolved resentments and doubts that continued to haunt me. I was starved for attention, desperate for approval, and longing for connection and emotional validation. I could try to run away from my problems by projecting a false image of imperious self-assurance, but I would inevitably return to the same place I found myself at the end of a long and destructive drug bender. Egocentricity and denial had become my new drugs of choice, and it was time to begin a long and scary detox process with an honest admission to my friend:

“I can’t find my wallet,” I said with a plaintive sigh, “I’ll stop at the cash machine and pay you back as soon as I get home.”

My friend raised his eyebrows, folded his arms and smiled as he looked back at me and spoke:

“I’m happy to split the bill with you, but I always see you carrying around a chain wallet that’s attached to your keys. Why don’t you go look in your car? You might find it there.”

I walked out onto the street towards my car, opened the door, turned on the light, and scanned the seats for my wallet and keys. When I finally found them, they were sitting underneath the glovebox next to a recovery fellowship textbook that I hadn’t opened for several months. The location of the wallet served as a perfect metaphor for a priceless lesson I had learned several times in sobriety: sometimes you have to go back to your roots to continue to grow.

Always remember:

102

Frosty vapor clouds formed in front of my face as I let out a long and pensive exhale. I was three years sober, and the power had just gone out at my apartment in the middle of a frigid winter night. It had only been several hours since my heater had shut off, but the air was already freezing cold. As I curled up in my bed underneath a massive pile of blankets, I attempted to calm my racing thoughts. I had an article due to my editor the following morning, and the power outage was making it impossible for me to access the resources that I needed to finish writing it.

I restlessly shifted my legs beneath a thick comforter as I scrolled through a series of inane social media posts on my smartphone. I watched in fearful silence as the battery slowly drained down to single-digit percentages, dreading the darkness, boredom and silence which would follow its inevitable shutoff. Although I hadn’t ingested any chemical stimulants for several years, a mixture of anxiety and neurotic overthinking had rocketed me into a frenzied state of overwrought hypnosis. I sat up in my bed and began to rock back and forth in a fetal position as I savored my last moments of mindless procrastinatory indulgence. At the humorous climax of one of my favorite online comedy videos, my phone’s screen went black.

As I sat in complete darkness, it felt like I was locked in a sensory deprivation chamber. The silence was deafening, and it seemed as if the pitch-black room I found myself in was slowly closing in on me. I curled my legs underneath the folds of my baggy fleece sweater, rubbing my toes with my hands to keep them warm. I began to wallow in a rising sea of self-pity as I lamented my predicament. Pessimistic thoughts of future worst-case scenarios echoed through my mind in the form of nagging and incessant questions: “What if the power doesn’t come back on in the morning? What if I can’t finish my article and I get fired from my job?”

Suddenly, a distinctly different question overpowered all of the others: “What if the only thing that’s truly holding you back is your own hesitancy and fear?”

It had never occurred to me that the temporarily inconvenient situation I found myself in could actually serve as an opportunity for positive growth – if I used it in the right way. Instead of cursing the limitations of my circumstance, I began to clear my mind and focus my thoughts towards future constructive actions. In my lucid and calm state, I was able to mentally prepare myself for the article that I had to finish and properly organize the outline of its conclusion in my head. After reviewing the obstacles that lay before me in a rational and com- posed manner for several minutes, I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, and made a conscious effort to remain in harmonious balance with the world around me. Several minutes later, the lights flickered back on, and the gears inside my heater began to churn.

I got out of bed and plugged in my computer, then retrieved my quilts and pillows from my bed and brought them to the chair at my work desk. As I prepared to brew a refreshing cup of hot chocolate and finish my article, I reflected on the power of patience and self-aware- ness. Recovery had given me the power to resist the darkness and walk towards the light, and allowed me to tap into a state of calm and energized clarity that was stronger than any electrical current.

Always remember:

103

Dim light emanated from my computer screen as I scrolled through a series of unsettling online news articles. I was three years sober, and I was struggling to come to terms with a situation that was far beyond my control. It had only been a few weeks since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, but emergency lockdowns were already starting to take effect all across the nation. My creative projects had been put on hold, my upcoming live shows had all been cancelled, and I was feeling restless, irritable, and discontent. It had been several days since I had seen another human being face-to-face, and I was beginning to regress into patterns of self-destructive isolation. I was starved for human contact, but I didn’t want to run the risk of reaching out to someone else and dragging them down with me.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I languished in my self-imposed prison of negative fixation. I began to think back on the worst period of my active addiction, when I had been held back by a similar sense of helplessness and fear. After making the decision to seek out a better way of life in recovery, I had spent several years working to reclaim my sanity and sense of self-esteem. I was finally in a place where I was sober, stable, and self-sufficient, but it seemed like my progress was all slipping away in front of my eyes. I felt powerless and desperate. I didn’t know what to do.

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was the producer who ran the music studio that I worked at. I hadn’t picked up a phone call in several days, but something deep inside me told me to answer it. After a brief exchange of casual pleasantries, he asked me a question that I was terrified to respond to:

“How are you doing?”

I wanted to put on a front and tell him that everything was alright, but I didn’t have the strength. I knew that denying the truth would only take me further away from the solution that I had found in recovery. I cleared my throat, dried my tears, and proceeded to speak from the heart.”

“To be honest, I’ve really been struggling. I’ve worked so hard to get sober, but I don’t know if I have the strength to deal with all of this uncertainty and keep going.”

After a brief moment of silence, my producer responded with the following words:

“When I first met you, you told me how all of your toughest challenges had served as powerful lessons. I know that this is a scary and uncertain time, but you’ve dealt with overwhelming change before. You know what it’s like to feel scared, alone, and helpless in active addiction, so you are one of few people who truly understands how to move past the feelings of desperation that everyone is collectively experiencing now. I don’t just think that you can make it through this – I think that you’re in a perfect position to help other people, as well.”

After thanking my producer for his words of encouragement and hanging up the phone, I began to reflect on the power of faith and surrender. I was powerless over the pandemic in the same way that I once was powerless over my addiction, but the time I had spent in recovery had taught me that true strength came from acceptance. By accepting the things that I could not change, I was able to draw on an untapped reservoir of courage to change the things that I could. I was grateful to be alive, grateful to be sober, and ready to face the future and all of its challenges.

Always remember:

104

The sky was overcast and grey as I drove past a row of elegantly-designed clapboard houses. I was three years sober, and I was on my way to the grocery store for the first time in several weeks. It had been nearly a month since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was still struggling to adjust to the nature of my new reality.

I pulled into a packed parking lot and turned my car off, then took a moment to breathe and gather my thoughts. As I looked down at my center console, I saw an unopened box of disposable masks. Although I was grateful that I had planned ahead and bought the masks several weeks earlier, the box nevertheless served as a harsh and unwanted reminder of the rapidly-changing world that I was living in.

Outside of my window, groups of shoppers were quickly shuffling toward the entrance of the supermarket with worried looks in their eyes. The rest of their faces were hidden behind masks, which was incredibly intimidating to me. I had been diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome as a young child, and I had never been good at reading the emotions on other people’s faces. The social anxiety caused by my functional autism had served as one of the main catalysts for my descent into substance addiction. It had also made it difficult for me to transition into a sober lifestyle.

After detoxing from the destructive chemicals that had enabled me to live my life in a state of catatonic apathy, I had been forced to find ways to confront the daily pressures of existence in recovery. I had spent the past several years developing coping mechanisms, which had allowed me to effectively interpret social signals and facial expressions that I had never intuitively understood. Unfortunately, all of the progress that I had made had been instantly negated by the swiftly-implemented mask mandates. I was deathly afraid to venture out into the mysterious and uncertain world that lay beyond my car doors, but I had no other choice. My refrigerator was empty, and all of the local restaurants had been shut down.

I opened the box of masks and ran the fastening loops behind my ears as I readied myself for my journey into the grocery store. As I reached for the door handle, I felt my hand begin to shake. In my fragile state, my mind had begun to conjure vivid fantasies of potential social misunderstandings that I would face inside of the supermarket. While engrossed in my anxious ruminations, I saw two people engaging in a lighthearted conversation outside of my car. They were six feet apart and wearing masks, but they had still managed to share a blissful moment of personal connection. I felt my anxiety begin to dissolve as I came to the following realization: I was still the same person under- neath the mask, and I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. Even though everyone was wearing masks, life was still happening as it always had. The only person who was truly holding me back was myself, and it was up to me to use the lessons I had learned in recovery to adapt to my surroundings.

As I opened my car door and joined the procession of masked customers who were walking into the store, I made a conscious effort to detach from my feelings of self-centered fear. Recovery had given me the courage to move past my comfort zone, and the clarity to under- stand that it was possible to remain grateful in any circumstance.

Always remember:

105

My shopping cart rattled and shook as I pushed it through a busy parking lot. I was three years sober, and I was excited to get home and cook a tasty meal. I opened the trunk of my car, set my grocery bags down on top of a quilted tarp, and took a moment to pause and enjoy a peaceful moment of measured meditation. It had been a long and difficult day, but I had managed to navigate its challenges without resorting to impatience or anger.

After taking a deep breath and reclaiming my serenity, I sat down in the front seat of my car and turned the key in the ignition. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I cranked the volume up on my car stereo and began to sing along to my favorite song at the top of my lungs. Over the course of my journey of recovery, I had learned to savor every small daily victory with unabashed enthusiasm. By allowing myself to indulge in shameless feats of cathartic self-expression, I was able to find happiness and fulfillment when my schedule was overwhelmingly packed.

My impromptu musical celebration was cut short when I noticed a stationary car directly ahead of me. I pumped the brakes, turned the music down, and felt my spirits begin to sink as I slowed to a stop. After noticing that the traffic jam ahead of me was exceptionally long, I began to feel incredibly anxious. In a matter of moments, my joyful feelings of freedom and childlike glee had melted into a pungent stew of rancorous resentment. I had made every effort to apply principles of acceptance and detachment throughout the day, but my patience was beginning to wear thin. As the clock ticked and my car engine hummed dissonantly in the background, I attempted to slow my mind by focusing on my breathing. Suddenly, I heard an excruciating high-pitched honk from the car behind me. My blood began to boil like an overheated kettle. In my compromised state, I felt that I was no longer capable of remaining calm. I raised my hand above my head as I prepared to emphatically slam it down on the car horn. I wanted to put the driver of the car behind me in their place and let them know who was boss. As I placed my palm on the steering wheel, I remembered the words of a wise friend from my recovery fellowship:

“In the midst of active addiction, there is no limit to the emotional despair that we can experience as a result of our selfishness and ingratitude. We get so wrapped up in our substance use pattern that any minor inconvenience can send us rocketing off of the rails. In recovery, we find that the opposite is true – there is no limit to how much gratitude we can bring to our everyday affairs. As long as we remain grounded in gratitude, no one can take our serenity away from us in sobriety. We can only give it away to them through acts of selfless kindness.”

After realizing the futility of my frustration and rage, I loosened my grip on the steering wheel and turned the music back up. I realized that regardless of what obstacles lay in my way, it was up to me to remain grateful and happy. Recovery had allowed me to move forward in my pursuit of self-awareness and personal growth – and there was no traffic jam in the world that could hold me back.

Always remember:

106

Energizing music blasted out of my computer speakers as I ran hot water over a dingy scrub brush. I was three years sober, and I was cleaning my apartment from top to bottom. After spending several hours sweeping dust out of narrow nooks and crannies, I had moved on to the herculean task of scouring my kitchen appliances.

I let out an irritated sigh as I opened the door of my microwave. Its dirty walls served as a perfect metaphor for my mental state. It had been over a month since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, and my self-isolating behavior had resulted in an internal explosion of emotional distress. Due to the fact that I had been unable to attend any in-person sobriety fellowship meetings, the darkest corners of my sub- conscious mind had become caked in impenetrable layers of depression and resentment. As I stared at the equally dense layers of grease inside of my microwave, I was overcome by a surge of hesitant fear. I was feeling run down and depleted, and I didn’t know if I had the necessary patience and discipline to complete my arduous chore.

After a painful moment of hesitant procrastination, I pressed the bristles of the brush onto the side of the microwave and began scrubbing with all my might. Although I managed to eliminate the majority of the stains with a few minutes of concentrated effort, there were still several hard-to-reach crevices that seemed impossible to clean. No matter how hard I pushed or how fast I moved my hands, the stubborn discolorations remained unchanged. Undeterred, I began rocketing my elbow back and forth with frantic passion. My hands cramped up as an electric shock of pain ran through my fingers. As I watched the brush drop down onto the ground, it felt like my ego was shattering into a thousand pieces. I was exasperated and hopeless, and I felt like I was entirely alone.

Suddenly, I heard my phone ring. It was my friend from my recovery fellowship. I put the phone to my ear as I slumped down on the floor next to my kitchen counter. His affect was jolly and exuberant as he fruitlessly attempted to make friendly small talk with me. In the middle of one of his humorous stories, I interrupted him with an angry and self-important message:

“I can’t talk right now. I have to keep cleaning my house. You’re distracting me, and it’s not helping.”

An awkward silence followed my terse and indignant proclamation. After a long and pensive exhale, my friend replied in an incredibly wise and compassionate fashion.

“From the tone of your voice, it sounds like you’re taking much better care of your personal belongings than you are of yourself. I was calling up to invite you to an online sobriety fellowship meeting, and I really hope you join me. It’s much more important to clean house in a metaphorical manner by reaching out and asking for help than it is to obsess about household chores.”

His words hit me with the force of a cataclysmic meteor. I had been living in a prison of self-imposed misery for so long that I had lost sight of what was really important. I put the brush on the counter, wiped down the microwave, closed its door, and walked over to my table to join the online meeting. By applying the principles of open-mindedness and acceptance, I had managed to overcome my obsessive anxiety and make a newfound commitment to self-betterment.

Always remember:

107

The sky was a gorgeous shade of cerulean blue as I drove down a wide and open highway. I was three years sober, and I was grateful to be enjoying a beautiful and sunny day. It was late in the winter season, and the ice was beginning to slowly melt off of the edges of the road. The hopeful patches of grass that had emerged from the receding snow served as a flawless symbolic manifestation of my spiritual state. It had been nearly two months since the beginning of the COVID-19 pan- demic, but I was beginning to adjust to the newfound challenges that I was facing.

After a satisfying morning of hard work and reflective meditation, I had taken an hour-long break from my journalistic duties. I was headed to my favorite restaurant to pick up a glorious and decadent meal to take home. Life was far from perfect, but I was nevertheless thankful to be alive, sober, and clean. I put my blinker on and coasted to the left as the road narrowed down from two lanes to one. Suddenly, I saw a large car approaching from behind me in my rearview mirror. Although I was driving at a reasonably fast pace, it continued to bear down on me at a barreling clip. As the car inched towards my bumper, I felt like I was being pressured to drive faster. I wanted to placate the driver behind me, and I was fearful that I would be forced to deal with an unpleasant and rageful confrontation if I didn’t speed up. After weighing my options for several seconds, I reluctantly decided to press down on the gas pedal. As my rate of speed increased, the driver behind me continued to move closer to my car. No matter how much I accelerated, it seemed that they were unsatisfied with my driving.

As I rocketed around a treacherous turn, I saw the car behind me begin to recklessly swerve. The car’s driver was barely dodging oncoming traffic while attempting to overtake me. I quickly became consumed with fiery wrath. I felt I was entitled to teach the irresponsible driver a lesson. I pressed down on the brake and began driving below the speed limit to spite them. I was determined to exercise whatever temporary power I had in any way possible. At the height of my passive-aggressive tantrum, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“In the earliest days of our recovery, we were constantly in danger of sabotaging our progress by returning to using drugs and drinking. After overcoming our chemical obsession, we often find that the biggest hindrance to our progress isn’t the people around us or the frustrating situations that we encounter – it’s ourselves. If we hold tight to our need for power with the same selfish pride with which we once held on to our need to drink and use, we run the risk of sacrificing everything that we have worked so hard for. Sometimes it’s easier just to get out of your own way and let things go.”

After realizing that it wasn’t up to me to change the behavior of the driver behind me, I felt a sublime sense of liberating euphoria. I quickly pulled over to the side of the road, and watched the car speed off into the distance as it continued on its merry way. Recovery had given me the ability to detach from my addiction to power and control – and the strength to remain grounded in my principles without sacrificing my safety or my sanity.

Always remember:

108

The sound of clattering pots and pans echoed through my apartment as I scrubbed down my cookware in a metal sink. I was three years sober, and I had just finished eating a superbly satisfying dinner. After rinsing down the edges of the last remaining frying pan, I sat down in a comfortable armchair and looked outside my window. The sun was setting over the edges of a faraway mountain, and it was a beautiful sight to behold.

As I reclined in my seat, I made a conscious effort to relish all of the fleeting joy that the breathtaking vista could provide me. It had been several months since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was living a relatively isolated existence. I was grateful to be alive and sober, but my cloistered lifestyle was beginning to have a negative effect on my mental health. It had been months since I had gone on a date, seen one of my friends outside of my work circle in person, or seen any of my family members. I was desperate to connect with other people, but it seemed that everyone else was equally as fearful and withdrawn as I was.

Suddenly, I heard my phone ring. It was my mother, who lived hundreds of miles away from Vermont. Her voice was shaky and weak as she spoke the following words:

“It’s so wonderful to be able to talk to you. It’s been very difficult for me to be all alone and so far away from you. I want to come up and visit you, but I don’t know how to safely travel to where you are. I’m afraid to take any form of public transportation, and I’m not good at driving on highways. I don’t know what to do, and I’m beginning to lose hope.”

Overwhelming feelings of heartache and guilt rushed through my body with the intensity of a nuclear explosion. It had been a little over a year since I had left my hometown to move to Southern Vermont, and my relocation had significantly impacted my mother’s life. She was eight years sober herself, and she had served as a vital source of emotional support in the earliest days of my recovery. I felt like I was falling short in my duties as a son. I wanted to pay her back for her years of love and encouragement, but I didn’t know how to assuage her fears and console her from so far away. It was then that I remembered the words of a wise friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“When I was still actively drinking and using drugs, I felt lonely, even when I was in the middle of a room full of other people. It was hard for me to connect with anyone in a sincere and meaningful way. As a result, a noticeable distance began to grow between me and the people I cared about. In recovery, I’ve found that I feel closer to other people than ever before. Even if I only get to occasionally talk to them over the phone, I’m still able to be more helpful and considerate than I ever was in active addiction. Recovery gives us the ability to form unbreakable bonds over large distances – and to be there for others when it matters most.”

After taking a pause to gather my thoughts, I decided that no barrier of physical distance was going to prevent me from connecting with my loved ones. I invited my mother to join me at an online sobriety fellowship meeting, and I told her that no matter how far away she was, she would always be close to my heart.

Always remember::

109

Floorboards creaked and rattled underneath my muddy boots as I stumbled through a dark hallway. I was three years sober, and I was clumsily attempting to move a large and unwieldy chest of drawers through a narrow door frame. My mother had rented a small house down the street from my apartment in East Arlington, and she was due to arrive from the city at any moment. Although she had origi- nally leased the cottage with the intention of visiting me sporadically throughout the course of the spring and summer season, the rapid onset of the COVID-19 pandemic had caused her to hastily reassess her living situation.

My mother was also a recovering alcoholic, and she had been unable to attend any in-person sobriety fellowship meetings in the months that followed the nationwide shutdowns. After the two of us shared a series of emotional phone calls, we made the collective decision that it was better for her to move to Vermont full-time so that she could live closer to me. I was incredibly excited to see my mother in person, but I was ashamed that my efforts to prepare for her move-in date had been relatively fruitless.

After awkwardly shimmying her wooden bureau through the door- way, I heaved a victorious sigh as I set it down next to a bare mattress and an unrolled rug. My short-lived triumphant celebration was inter- rupted when I felt a vibration from inside of my jacket pocket. It was a text message from my mother. She was less than five minutes away. I started to panic as I surveyed the untidy scene that lay before me. The floors were strewn with packing tape and bubble wrap, the bed was still not made, and there were cardboard boxes everywhere. I had done everything that I could to get her house ready, but I had fallen short of my goals. I was overwhelmed with feelings of shame and misery. I didn’t know what to do. It was then that I remembered the wise words of my friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“When I first got sober, I traded in my old chemical addictions for a different type of dependency. I got addicted to self-betterment, positive progression, and the payoff that comes from hard work. My compulsive need for success and validation helped me get my life back on track, but it also came at a price: if I did anything wrong or failed to live up to my own unrealistic expectations, I became incredibly impatient with myself. I began to develop feelings of self-hatred that were every bit as destructive and unmanageable as the substances that once consumed me. As I’ve continued to progress in my recovery, I’ve learned that I don’t have to do everything perfectly. As long as I remain grateful and treat others with kindness every day, I’ve already won. No situational outcome can ever take that feeling away from me.”

After pausing to reflect, I slowed my breath and allowed myself to accept my shortcomings. Although I had failed to accomplish many of the goals that I had set for myself, I had still managed to perform a good deed for someone that I cared about. As I watched my mother’s taxi pull up in front of the house, I felt my insecurity and anxiety melt away. Recovery had given me the ability to detach from my need for perfection, and the clarity to understand that happiness didn’t always have to be situationally dependent. Even though some of my mother’s furniture still hadn’t been moved into the correct place, I knew that my life was still moving in the right direction in recovery.

Always remember:

110

Thick clouds of automotive exhaust lingered in the air as I stood out- side of a small wooden cottage. I was three years sober, and my mother had just arrived in southern Vermont. As I watched her step out of a taxicab, I was overwhelmed with feelings of joy and relief. It had been several months since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, and it was the first time that I had seen her in person since the national shutdowns had taken effect.

The majority of my mother’s face was covered in a cloth mask, but I could still see her eyes light up as she stepped out of the cab and walked towards me. She gave me a warm hug, then began giddily chattering with superabundant zeal. I grabbed her bags from the trunk of the car, thanked the cab driver, and followed her through the front door of the house. After setting her bags on the ground, she unpacked her coffee machine and brewed a fresh cup for herself. We then sat down at opposite ends of a long table in the dining room. Once seated, she removed her mask and looked at me with a seemingly hopeful smile. As our conversation continued, I saw her beaming grin slowly transform into a crestfallen and melancholy expression. Although she was making a valiant effort to conceal her true feelings, it was clear that the social isolation she had been forced to endure during the pandemic had significantly impacted her morale. Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke in a sorrowful tone:

“I’m so happy to see you, but I’m very frightened about what’s going on in the world right now. It feels like everything is upside-down. I’m hundreds of miles away from my home, my friends, and my recovery fellowship. I don’t know what to do.”

Her impassioned words caused vivid visual recollections to flash in my mind’s eye. My mother had gotten sober five years before I did, and she had served as an invaluable source of support in the earliest days of my recovery. I knew that it was now up to me to be there for her in her time of need. I cleared my throat and replied to her wistful proclamation in a soft and soothing voice:

“I don’t know if you remember this, Mom, but when I first got back from the inpatient treatment center, I was trapped in a similarly insecure and fearful mental state. My entire world had changed overnight, and none of my friends wanted anything to do with me. I was living in a recovery house with people I didn’t know, and I didn’t think I’d be able to adjust to my newfound situation. I’ll never forget what you told me on the day that I called you up and said that I felt homesick and wanted to leave the recovery house. You told me, ‘Home is where you make it. As long as you stay grounded in the solution, you never have to feel afraid. Recovery gives us the chance to feel at home no matter where we go, but it’s up to us to clean house emotionally on a daily basis by maintaining a strong sobriety program.’”

My mother’s lips curled back upward as she pulled a sobriety fellowship textbook out of her handbag. After opening up the weathered tome to a bookmarked page, she made a brilliant suggestion:

“Why don’t we have our own sobriety fellowship meeting right here – just the two of us?”

I felt my spirits rise as I responded with emphatic elation:

“I’d love nothing more than that, Mom. Welcome home.”

Always remember

111

Dim lights cast spindly shadows on the walls as I stood at the corner of my kitchen counter. I was three years sober, and I was getting ready to prepare a stir-fry dinner. After dropping several handfuls of diced vege- tables onto the surface of a hot frying pan, I turned the flame down to a simmer. I then walked away from the kitchen into my bedroom, where I sat down and turned on my television. After flipping through the channels for several minutes, I randomly stumbled upon a primetime news program. The reporter had a troubled expression on his face as he read back a series of frightening statistics. It had been several months since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, and the news regarding the exponentially-growing case numbers seemed to be getting worse every day.

While listening to the reporter’s worrisome proclamations, I quickly became overwhelmed with feelings of dread and apprehension. It had been months since I had last attended an in-person sobriety fellowship meeting, and I was gradually beginning to regress into irrational pat- terns of thought. I was a prisoner in my own self-imposed fortress of psychosomatic torture, and my mind felt like a burning house that was impossible to escape.

I was awakened from my pessimistic daydreams by the unmistakable scent of acrid smoke. For a split second, it seemed like my apocalyptic and infernal hallucinations had manifested in the real world. I rose from my bed and sprinted towards the kitchen. Once there, I discovered the source of the smell: I had left my stir-fry dinner cooking for nearly half an hour without stirring it! I swiftly turned the flame off underneath the pan, grabbed a glass of water and dumped it over the burnt vegetables. Clouds of pungent steam immediately rose up from the stove, which caused me to hack and wheeze as I collapsed against the kitchen counter. It felt like the whole world was crumbling around me. I didn’t know what to do.

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

“During the worst part of my active addiction, I would use anything as an excuse to justify drinking or using drugs. Every time I had a difficult day or saw a depressing news story, I would run to my dealer or run to the liquor store. I didn’t want to deal with the truth, but I didn’t know how to accept unsettling events without self-medicating. In recovery, I’ve learned that the easiest way to accept hard truths is by staying grounded in the moment. I might not be able to solve all of the world’s problems, but it’s not up to me to keep the whole world from burning down. Before I can rescue anyone else from the fire, I have to make sure that my own house stays standing.”

As the smoke from the burnt vegetables began to clear, the proverbial haze inside my mind began to similarly dissipate. I had been so distracted by the tragic nature of the events that were unfolding on a global scale that I had forgotten to tend to the tasks that were right in front of me. I might have been relatively powerless over the world beyond my kitchen, but I did have to power to apply the lessons of acceptance and surrender that I had learned in sobriety. Recovery had given me the courage to confront reality head-on, the clarity to accept my limitations, and the humility necessary to remain grounded in the here and now.

Always remember:

112

My forehead burned with fiery tension as I stared at a luminous computer screen. I was three years sober, and I was in the midst of reading a short and harsh email containing feedback from a music review website. It had been two months since I had released my debut album, and profound feelings of artistic insecurity were beginning to consume me. In the advent of the album’s release, I had sent one of my music videos to over a dozen online music journalism platforms. Although many had responded with positive enthusiasm, several others had greeted my creative offering with a mixture of indifference and skepticism.

My stomach lurched uncomfortably as I scrutinized the text of an exceptionally cold, terse, and impersonal reply message:

“This is not what we’re looking for.”

The gruff and brusque tone of the note brought up memories of past instances where my heart had been broken by creative and romantic rejection. At the height of my active addiction, I had attempted to escape the pain of abandonment and letdown by turning to harmful chemicals. In recovery, I had been forced to face feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness head-on without the aid of mind-numbing drugs. As a result, I had developed behavior patterns that had allowed me to cope with unexpected disappointment. I was making a valiant effort to take the criticism in stride, but the trusted tools and tactics I had turned to in the past were proving largely ineffective. I was stuck in an unbearable state of self-imposed fright and restlessness. I didn’t want to risk being rejected again, but I didn’t know if I was capable of handling criticism.

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

“In the earliest days of my recovery, it was incredibly difficult for me to ask people for anything. I was afraid to apply for a job, hesitant to initiate friendships or romantic relationships, and terrified of any situation where I could get rejected. Ultimately, I was only able to accept criticism and rejection after I became comfortable in my own skin. That sense of emotional freedom came when I discovered that my true worth had nothing to do with what other people thought of me – it had to do with how I saw myself. Recovery is a constant process of growth and self-betterment, but that process only works if you honestly believe that you’re worthy of positive change. I try not to let rejection get to me anymore. I just use it as fuel to further my program of positive action.”

After taking a moment to directly confront my feelings of doubt and insecurity, I felt a glorious feeling of instant emotional relief. I clicked out of the webpage that held the critical message, took a deep breath, and began filling out an online submission form for another music website. Recovery had given me the ability to confront and embrace rejection – and the courage to continue pursuing my creative aspirations.

Always remember:

113

Shivers reverberated through my body as I stepped out of my shower onto a cold tile floor. I was three years sober, and I was getting ready for an important first date. I grabbed a towel off of a nearby rack, walked up to a foggy mirror, and began examining my reflection. After scanning my face for blemishes and discolorations, I reached for a bottle of topical skincare solution. It was the first of many steps in my intricate grooming routine, which always provided me with a temporary sense of comfort and security.

During the worst part of my active addiction, I was constantly overwhelmed by potent surges of self-hatred and shame. I felt like a subhuman monster whenever I looked at my bony chest and oily skin. I detested the way that my sternum poked out at an asymmetrical angle, and I abhorred my facial blemishes even more vehemently. In the years that followed my decision to get sober and clean, my emaciated frame had filled out and my skin had started to clear. Although my physical transformation had allowed me to reach new levels of confidence, I still felt like I was ugly and flawed.

In a tragic twist of fate, I was beginning to use my fitness and hygiene practices in a compulsive and ritualistic manner. I didn’t want to admit it, but the behavioral pattern closely mirrored my past addiction to harmful substances. As I slathered high-strength acne medicine across my face, I began to feel restless, irritable, and discontent. I dropped to the ground and began doing push-ups until I could barely breathe. My ego and insecurities were engaged in an all-out battle, and I was caught up in the crossfire with no way out.

Suddenly, I felt my eyes begin to burn with the intensity of an exploding star. The sweat that had been generated by my vainglorious exercises had dripped down from my forehead, carrying an excessive amount of chemical ointment onto my eyelashes and eyelids. I rose to my feet and screamed out in agony as I attempted to wash the skin cream off of my face. In a matter of seconds, I had literally become blinded by my impatient pursuit of superficial perfection. I felt lost and disillusioned as I submerged my face in my bathroom sink. I didn’t know what to do.

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

“One of the best things about sobriety is that it allows us to regain control of our lives. Sadly, that newfound sense of control can some- times lead to the development of unhealthy and obsessive behaviors. If we are dealing with unresolved feelings of inadequacy, we may go to extensive lengths to groom ourselves and reshape ourselves in a way that makes us feel more desirable. Though self-care is certainly important, that search for external validation can rob us of our sanity if we’re not careful. I’ve found that when I can detach from my reflexive need to prove myself to others, I’m able to return to one of the core truths that I’ve learned in recovery: I’m good enough just the way I am – and I don’t need anyone else’s approval to feel worthy of inner peace and happiness.”

After resurfacing and taking a deep breath, I understood that I didn’t need to look perfect or impress my date. I just needed to be honest, open, humble, and willing to accept my flaws. Recovery had given me the ability to move past my self-centered tendencies – and the clarity to understand that true strength comes from vulnerability.

Always remember:

114

Colorful flower bushes rustled in the spring breeze as I walked past a babbling stream. I was three years sober, and I was enjoying a long, adventurous hike. It had been several months since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, and the restrictions had started to loosen in rural Vermont. The reopening of local shops had coincided with the arrival of warm and sunny weather. This happy confluence of factors had set the stage perfectly for an important social engagement. I was on the first romantic date that I had been on in several months, and my companion was several hundred feet ahead of me. Although she was over a foot shorter than I was, she was also a much faster hiker.

Admittedly, part of my reason for walking so slowly behind her had nothing to do with my athletic ability. Although we had exchanged smiles and pleasantries during our outdoor lunch several hours earlier, I had not yet revealed the full extent of my past battle with addiction. I had managed to forge a fairly deep connection with her in the weeks before our initial meeting with dozens of humorous and flirty text messages. I knew that I owed it to her to be honest, but I was afraid that she would reject me if I told the truth.

As we approached a small wooden bridge, she slowed her pace and looked back at me with a bright smile. Her eyes lit up as she shouted an excited proclamation across the trail path:

“This is the best part! It’s my favorite stretch of the trail.”

I finally caught up with her after crossing the bridge, and we resumed our conversation and synchronized our walking pace. As we strolled side-by-side underneath the swaying branches of birch and maple saplings, the sounds of chirring insects created a hypnotic springtide overture. Suddenly, she paused in front of an exceptionally massive tree and knelt down on a dry patch of leaves. She ran her hands over the tree’s roots as a pensive look came across her face. After emitting a melancholy sigh, she spoke in a soft and reflective voice:

“Before we spend any more time together, I want you to know that I read one of your sobriety columns in the local paper before we went on this date. I didn’t want to say anything at first, because I didn’t want you to judge me, but I’ve dealt with some mental health and substance use issues of my own. I’m still early in the process of working through my issues, but I’m here for you if you want to talk about anything that you’re dealing with.”

Her words hit me with the force of a high-speed hurricane. I had been on dates with other people in recovery before, but I had never met anyone who had been as open about their past as she was. It was both liberating and disarming to hear someone else speak on the struggles that they were going through, but I was overjoyed that my fears about her rejecting me for my past were unfounded. I knelt down on the patch of leaves with her and smiled as I watched her pick small spring flowers out of the grass.

“The same goes for me” I said. “I’m here for you, too.”

As we made our way towards the end of the trail, I could feel myself gradually beginning to let down my self-protective emotional shield. I didn’t know what the future was going to hold for our relationship, but I did know that I had finally met someone who fully understood the beauty of truth.

Always remember:

115

Resonant and evocative chords rang out as I pressed down on the keys of a concert grand piano. I was three years sober, and I was attempting to complete a seemingly insurmountable musical challenge. My producer had tasked me with finishing a complex jazz chart for an album that he was working on. The assignment was well beyond the scope of my artistic expertise, and I was beginning to feel disappointed and pessimistic.

I felt my eyelids begin to droop as an incomplete demo recording of the song blared through my headphones. It was after midnight, and I had been chipping away at the musical chart for hours. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to break free from the proverbial quicksand of self-doubt. As I sat in front of the piano, recollections of scenes from my addicted past brought on crushing feelings of insecurity and inadequacy.

At the apex of my addiction, I had dropped out of a collegiate conservatory program to drink and use drugs. Although the progress I had made in recovery had enabled me to find work as a professional musician, I was beginning to think that I was incapable of completing the task I had been presented with. As I listened to an exceptionally intricate series of chords and notes, I struggled to wrap my mind around it. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t seem to grasp the structure of the song. Frustrated, I tossed my headphones to the side and rose to my feet. I then proceeded to stomp around the piano like a spoiled toddler. I didn’t know if I had the strength and skills necessary to overcome the obstacle that I was facing.

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

“In the earliest stage of my journey of recovery, I wasted several years trying to prove how strong and smart I was to everyone around me. Along the way, I lost sight of my true personal worth. I experienced frequent crises of faith, and I lived with the weight of the world on my shoulders. One day, I saw two phrases written on the walls of my sobriety clubhouse: ‘Keep it simple,’ and ‘Attitude of Gratitude.’ When the meaning of those words finally sank in, I came to understand the following truth: sometimes when we don’t know what to do, the answer is right in front of us. We can get through anything if we remain gratefully grounded in a simple daily program of recovery, but we have to get out of our own way first.”

After taking a moment to pause and reflect, a proverbial lightbulb flashed in my mind. Instead of trying to decipher all of the notes of the chords that I was listening to at once, I picked them out one by one. Within a matter of minutes, I had finished the demanding chart. My musical triumph served as an apt metaphor for the power of recovery. Although victory sometimes seemed impossible on my path toward sustainable sobriety, I understood that it was up to me to keep things simple and remain grateful. As long as I was willing to take things one day at a time – and one note at a time – I would always be able to effortlessly orchestrate a beautiful symphony of peace and serenity in my life.

Always remember:

116

Birds chirped outside of my window, as I stared at my computer screen. I was three years sober, and I was attempting to craft the opening paragraph of a challenging article that was due the next day. As I brainstormed potential ideas for the first sentence, my front door swung open. My girlfriend had arrived at my apartment, and I had not managed to complete my task before our date. She walked up to my desk and greeted me with a beaming smile.

“I’m so excited to spend tonight with you,” she said. “I’m going to go do my makeup and then we can leave.”

I nodded my head in silent accord, then watched her walk toward my bathroom with a heavy heart. I didn’t want to tell her that I wasn’t ready to go to dinner. Throughout the course of my journey of recovery, it had always been hard for me to set healthy boundaries. I didn’t know how to say “no” to anyone.

I began furiously typing out clunky and slipshod sentences in an effort to quickly complete my assignment. Minutes later, my girlfriend re-emerged from the bathroom. I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders as she motioned for me to join her by the doorway. I didn’t want to deflate her happy mood, but I knew that I had to rewrite the article to make it better. My heart began to palpitate as I struggled to find the right combination of words. Suddenly, I remembered what a wise friend from my sobriety fellowship had once told me:

“In the earliest days of my recovery, I went out of my way to try to make people happy. I overextended myself at work, and I moved mountains for my family members, friends and loved ones. Although I garnered the favor of everyone around me, I ended up burning out and gravely endangering my sobriety. I learned that it was vitally important to strike a good balance between selfless action and self-care. That began with staying grounded in the principles of honesty and acceptance. Over time, I learned that I didn’t have to be a faultless superhero – I just had to be willing to tell the truth and admit that I wasn’t perfect.”

After taking a deep breath, I realized that there was only one solution: a reasonable compromise. I looked my girlfriend straight in the eyes and told her the truth.

“I’m very excited to go to dinner, but I have some work that I have to get done. How about this: let’s go get something to eat and enjoy our night out. When we get back, I’ll take an hour to finish my work. If you’re willing to wait for me, we can watch our favorite show after I’m done. I want to enjoy every moment with you, but I don’t want to let my anxiety ruin our date.”

My girlfriend looked back at me with understanding eyes, then responded with an upbeat tone:

“That sounds great! I have to do some homework for my college class, anyway. We can do our work together before we watch the show.”

As we walked toward her car together, I took a moment to reflect on the healing power of truth. Recovery had given me the courage and clarity necessary to maintain a healthy and honest relationship, and I was grateful to be living life in the solution.

Always remember:

117

My shoulders were tense as I craned my neck over a wireless router in the corner of my bedroom. It was late at night, and I was struggling to remain calm and serene. I was three years sober, and my computer had just lost its connection with the internet. My service had cut out halfway through a gripping episode of my favorite online television show, and I was incredibly upset.

After walking back towards my computer, I attempted to harness all of my technological wisdom to solve the problem. I clicked on my inter- net connection window repeatedly in an effort to diagnose and correct the issue, but I was only met by more confusion. After recalibrating my system settings several times, a cryptic and disappointing message flashed on my computer screen:

“Unable to establish a successful connection.”

I slammed my laptop down onto my bed as I bellowed a series of hoarse exclamations. I was trapped in a proverbial chasm of impatience and ingratitude, but I didn’t know how to dig myself out of it. At the apex of my irate tantrum, I remembered how I felt during the worst days of my active addiction. I had spent many days stuck in an equally confounding state of selfish anger while I waited for my drug dealer to call me back. Although a mindless television show was not nearly as destructive as a deadly substance, I was still being held hostage by a similar pattern of compulsive reliance. Even though I was several years sober and clean, I had become dependent upon an external solution to solve my internal problems. I suddenly realized that my lack of connec- tion to the internet was not the most pressing issue – it was my lack of connection to my own emotional reality.

Moments after my blinding epiphany, I left my computer behind and unfurled a blanket on my kitchen floor. I sat down, took a deep breath, and began consciously reconnecting with my innermost thoughts. As I commenced with a series of mindfulness exercises, I felt the stress of the day begin to instantly melt away. My runaway train of thought had slowed its breakneck pace, and I was coasting toward a final destination of peaceful surrender. After reviewing the underlying causes of my emotional dysfunction one by one, I realized that they all stemmed from my need to control the world around me. At the end of my brief meditation, I rose from the floor and walked toward my refrigerator to grab a tasty snack. As I opened the freezer door, I heard the sounds of dramatic music and angry conversations blaring out of my computer speakers. My favorite show had come back on, and its main characters were engaged in a heated exchange. Although I was happy that my computer had reconnected to the internet, it didn’t really matter to me anymore. By drawing on the lessons I had learned in recovery, I was able to reconnect with myself – and no faulty piece of technology could take that away from me.

Always remember:

118

Fiery twinges of pain shot through my forehead as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror. I was three years sober, and I was dealing with a terrible sinus headache. As the shrill crow of a nearby rooster reverber- ated through my apartment, it exponentially magnified my discomfort. The sound also served as an unwanted reminder of my upcoming professional commitment. It was early in the morning, and I had five minutes to compose myself before I left for an important work trip. A tour of an award-winning independent business had been arranged for me by my magazine editor, and there was no way to reschedule it.

I was overtired, underprepared, and overwhelmed with apprehen- sion. I had intended to spend the previous evening compiling a series of well-researched questions for the interview, but my pain had prevented me from completing the task. Upon waking, I had unsuccessfully attempted to relieve my persistent agony with a hot cup of herbal tea and a series of breathing exercises. With all of my options exhausted, I knew that I would have to power through and face the challenges that lay ahead. As I walked toward the pressed shirt and pants that I had laid out the night before, I found myself dragging my feet. I was afraid that I would be unable to perform effectively in my compromised state, but it was too late to turn back.

I buttoned up my shirt, put on my pants, tied my shoes, and walked through my doorway onto a sunlit street. After fumbling for my fob in a state of groggy confusion, I opened my car door and put the key in the ignition. As my engine came to life, I was incapacitated by an exception- ally excruciating jolt of agony. I dug my knuckles into the side of my face and closed my eyes in an effort to detach from my suffering. I was sec- onds away from giving up and retreating back into my apartment when I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“In active addiction, we turned to substances to numb our emotional pain and physical pain. Although it is a natural human impulse to try to escape painful experiences, sobriety gives us the chance to confront our pain and learn from it. By accepting small everyday nuisances (and not letting them hold us back), we get to reclaim our lives one day at a time. If we greet minor hardships with a perspective of gratitude, we can turn our weakness into strength and build our confidence. We then find that we can gain more from our most difficult days in sobriety than we ever did from our easiest days when we were using.”

As I opened my eyes, I looked out of my windshield with a newfound appreciation for my pain. It had given me the chance to prove that I was capable of turning a negative situation into a positive one. I took a hearty swig from my bottle of water, cranked up the music on my car speakers, and pulled out of the parking lot with an optimistic smile. Recovery had given me the ability to turn a setback into an opportunity for growth, and I was grateful to be alive and sober.

Always remember:

119

The rustling sounds of tree branches outside of my window tickled my eardrums, as I woke from a restful slumber. I was three years sober, and it was a beautiful, sunny spring day in Southern Vermont. I walked toward the kitchen and saw my girlfriend drying off a massive salad bowl. She placed the bowl down on a wooden dish rack, and she greeted me with a warm embrace. When her arms relaxed their grip, I grabbed a dish and joined her in her housecleaning efforts. It had been several weeks since she had moved into my apartment, and I was gradually adjusting to the rhythm of our new living arrangement.

I was grateful that I had been able to balance my work assignments with my romantic relationship and my recovery program, but I was still plagued by doubtful ruminations. I improved my interpersonal skills over the years I had spent in recovery, but I had never shared my space with another person. Although our interactions had been mostly harmonious, I was still afraid that I would not be able to handle a confrontational situation with a person who I was living with.

As I handed off the final dish, my worst fears were realized when it fell to the ground and shattered. I had failed to notice that my girlfriend had been busy drying off another plate, and it was clear from the angry look on her face that I had made a grave mistake.

Over the following several minutes, an argument ensued that caused us both to become trapped in a state of frenzied irritation. She insulted my inability to properly communicate during household chores, and I countered with a series of self-defensive exclamations that were deeply-rooted in insecurity and fear. As the argument escalated, feelings of anger and frustration welled up inside of me that were hard to contain. After a particularly heated series of exchanges, I stormed out of the room. As I sat on the bed in a pensive funk, I realized that there was only one way to move past the argument and find a peaceful solution: I had to admit my faults and come to terms with my weaknesses.

After taking a moment to reflect, I understood that I had been too proud to admit my mistake, because I didn’t want my girlfriend to think that I wasn’t perfect. I knew that it was time to take responsibility for my side of the issue.

I walked out of the bedroom, approached her in the kitchen, cleared my throat, and spoke from the heart.

“I’m sorry that I got angry at you for pointing out my flaws. The truth is… I’m scared that I’m not ready to live with someone. I still have a lot of growing to do, but I want to make this work. Is there any way that we can sit down and talk about this?

I expected her to greet my admission in a standoffish and indignant manner, but she didn’t. She walked towards me, gave me a big hug, and began crying on my shoulder. She then told me that she had also been unwilling to admit her faults, because she felt the same fears that I did.

As we stood in the kitchen and cried together, I felt a sense of closeness with my partner that I had never felt with anyone before. I might not have been able to put our broken dish back together, but I was able to help mend our relationship by drawing on the lessons that I had learned in recovery.

Always remember:

120

Cool air streamed through my open car windows as I barreled down a wide, rural highway. I was three years sober, and I was on my way to interview the owner of a small independent business for a work assignment. As I drew closer to a cluster of grand and imposing mountains, I began to feel my stomach growl and grumble. I had left my house several hours earlier without preparing a meal for myself, and my hunger was becoming too strong to ignore.

After making a sharp turn onto a hilly country road, I found myself in a gorgeous small town that I had never visited before. As I proceed- ed through a serpentine labyrinth of narrow streets, I came across an inviting and picturesque organic market. Although its hand-carved wooden sign and rustic décor were certainly visually appealing, what truly caught my eye was the handwritten note on the door that bore the following words:

“We are back open for business. Come on in!”

The COVID-19 pandemic was still raging at full force, but small shops and restaurants had begun to slowly reopen all across the state. I pulled over on the side of the street, put my car in park, grabbed my mask, and walked through the doorway. Upon entering the foyer, my senses were overpowered by the heavenly aroma of freshly-prepared comfort food. Even though the bottom half of my face was entirely covered, the scent of baked cheese and spiced vegetables had triggered a firestorm of olfactory anticipation. As I walked toward a refrigerator in their deli section, the walls were lined with an appealing assortment of gourmet pre-made meals. I had stumbled upon a spectacular treasure trove of farm-fresh food, and I was incredibly excited for the feast that was yet to come.

I pranced around the store like a merry bard in the court of a medieval king, filling my cart to the brim with piles of natural snacks and meal platters. As I triumphantly neared the cash register, I reached for my wallet and came to a startling realization: I had left my credit card at home, and I didn’t have nearly enough cash to pay for my food. My heart sank as I began to make the shameful walk back towards the refrigerators to return my merchandise. I was famished beyond belief, and feelings of anger and ingratitude were beginning to tear at the fabric of my sanity. I didn’t want to have to choose what dish I wanted to eat – I wanted to have them all.

At the apex of my resentful crisis, I realized that my greed and impatience was threatening my serenity and my sobriety. I thought back on the days when I had first gotten sober, when the emotional and physical wounds of my addiction were still healing. In those days, I was grateful for every day that I was alive, regardless of how much cash I had in my pocket. I didn’t need a full cart of expensive groceries to be happy back then. All I needed was the freedom that came from another day sober and clean.

After admitting to myself that I had lost sight of what was truly important, I humbled myself down to the point I was ready to accept and enjoy life on life’s terms. I put the pricey platters back on the shelves, grabbed the least expensive sandwich out of the cart, and walked back to the counter with a sincere smile on my face. I might not have been able to afford the food that I wanted, but I was able to reclaim my gratitude – and that was truly priceless.

Always remember:

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The blade of my stainless steel knife rattled the edges of my wooden cutting board as I chopped up a fresh cucumber. I was three years sober, and I was getting ready to participate in an online sobriety fellowship event. It was a beautiful spring evening, but I had spent all day slogging through a series of difficult work assignments at home. I was lonely, emotionally drained, and in dire need of human contact.

As a result of the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, I had been unable to meet with any members of my recovery circle in person on a regular basis. Thankfully, a longtime friend had invited me to attend a recovery meeting that was being hosted through a videoconferencing application. Due to the fact that the meeting was comprised of a group of complete strangers, I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect.

After looking down at my computer screen to check the time, I realized that the event was about to start. I clicked on the link that my friend had sent me, placed my plate of cucumber slices down on my kitchen table, and took a moment to compose myself. As the video-conferencing application opened, an intimidating array of unfamiliar faces materialized on my computer screen. As I took a massive bite of a large and crunchy slice, I was startled by the piercing and high-pitched interjection of an unfamiliar recovering addict:

“Welcome, newcomer! I don’t think I’ve ever met you before. By the way, are you eating unpeeled cucumber slices? That has to be the strangest snack that I’ve ever seen in my life.”

I was caught off guard by his unprompted question, and I began to feel a deep sense of unbelonging. It had been almost a week since I had last made contact with anyone from my recovery circle, and my prolonged period of solitude had rendered me completely incapable of reading social cues. In the heat of the moment, I had misinterpreted his playful teasing as judgmental condescension. As I struggled to summon the courage to respond, I considered the possibility of logging out of the meeting. I didn’t want to risk being humiliated by a group of strangers. It was then that I realized that I was not doing myself any favors by focusing on the negative and stressful aspects of the situation that I was presented with. Although I had been forced to deal with a poten- tially-awkward social dynamic, I decided to see it as an opportunity to grow on a personal level and move past my comfort zone. I might not have been in the same room as the other people at the meeting, but I still had the ability to connect with them through honest self-expression. I unmuted my microphone, detached from my resentments, and spoke from the heart:

“It’s great to meet you, too! I don’t go to online meetings that often, so I’m a little bit nervous. I chopped up these cucumber slices so that I could enjoy them as a ‘serenity snack.’ I find a lot of satisfaction in the crunch, and it helps me decompress and move past my social anxiety. I highly recommend it!”

I was expecting my response to be greeted with intense mockery or skepticism. Instead, the host of the meeting offered me kind words of encouragement. I felt the weight of my self-imposed isolation fall off my shoulders as I savored another cucumber slice. Recovery had given me the ability to move past my fear and make profound connections with others, regardless of their geographic locations or personal preferences.

© Old Mill Road Media, May 23, 2022. All Rights Reserved.

122

Sweat poured down from my brow as I twisted my torso back and forth to the rhythm of the music in my headphones. I was three years sober, and I was nearing the end of a physically-demanding workout. Throughout the course of my recovery, I had developed a compre- hensive daily fitness regimen that consisted of a series of challenging exercises. It gave me great satisfaction to see my hard work pay off through positive changes in my physical appearance, but it came at a cost. Although I had managed to bring my physical fitness to a level that I never thought possible, I had neglected to focus the same amount of attention on my emotional health.

After finishing a series of specialized exercises, I walked into the bathroom and paused in front of the mirror. As I stared at my reflec- tion, I began compulsively scrutinizing my flaws. I had been working out for several hours, but I still found myself obsessively searching for physical imperfections. I was trapped in a destructive pattern of reflex- ive self-judgment, but I had no idea how to escape it. My addiction had transferred from drugs and alcohol to exercise, and I was beginning to experience the consequences of my unsustainable behavior pattern.

Suddenly, I heard my phone ring. I stepped away from the mirror, reached down into my pocket, and answered the call. It was a friend from my recovery circle who I had not spoken with in several weeks. After regaling me with humorous stories for several minutes, he revealed his reason for calling.

“I reached out to you an hour ago to invite you to an online sobriety fellowship meeting, but you never responded to my text. Is everything OK with you?”

My mind raced at the speed of a supersonic jet as I struggled to come up with an excuse for not replying to his message. After a few seconds of awkward silence, I decided that I owed it to myself to tell him the truth:

“To be honest, I’m having a really difficult time. I’ve been working out all day, and I’m starting to obsess about my appearance in an unhealthy way. What do you think I should do?”

I was afraid that my friend would judge me for my insanity. Instead, he offered some priceless words of encouragement and advice.

“I’ve been there before. It took a long time before I realized that no one else was judging me as harshly as I was. We all have a tendency to be our own harshest critics, but I’ve found that getting back to the basics helps me get out of my own head. Why don’t you take a break from your workout and come to the online sobriety fellowship meeting? Exercise is great, but you need to take care of your emotional fitness first.”

After promising to show up for the meeting, I hung up the call and went back to the bathroom to wash off my face. As I stood in front of the mirror, I made a conscious effort not to judge myself on what I saw in my reflection. By drawing upon the strength of my sobriety commu- nity, I was able to detach from my self-centered fear and take the first step toward developing a healthier way of thinking. Recovery had given me a feeling of fulfillment that was better than any workout – and I was grateful that my friend had helped me remove the metaphorical weight of the world from my shoulders.

Always remember:

123

The sounds of cascading piano flourishes and syncopated basslines overwhelmed my senses as I stood in front of a massive set of speakers. I was three years sober, and I was in the middle of a long and intense recording session at a music studio in East Arlington. I had been called in to serve as a consultant for a high-profile project that my producer was working on, and I was struggling to resolve a challenging musical puzzle. He had hired a talented musician to record an additional part for a song, but the melody line the musician had come up with did not perfectly complement the underlying harmony. As I listened to the song play, the cognitive engine within my mind kicked into overdrive. I had always prided myself on my ability to quickly analyze music, and I had been given a perfect opportunity to showcase my skills.

As the song came to a conclusion, I decided upon two alternate options for the melody line that would work within the constraints of its chord structure. I presented my producer and the engineer with the musical sequences, then sat down on the couch with a beaming smile on my face. I had managed to effectively navigate a high-pressure situation, and I was excited to hear the fruits of my labors come to life on the recording. After my producer presented my suggestions to the musician, he recorded them both in a disciplined and efficient manner. I could hear that the notes I had chosen were mathematically correct, but I could tell that my producer was still unsatisfied with the new recordings. Following a brief moment of silence, my producer spoke to the musician through the studio intercom in a calm and collected voice:

“That sounds better, but it’s still missing something. Let’s try some- thing different. Can you play something modern and jazzy? I want to create a unique feel with this song.”

As I listened to his words, incapacitating feelings of disappointment and inadequacy began to drag me down into a pessimistic funk. In a matter of minutes, my prideful musings had been replaced by doubt- ful ruminations. I wanted to prove my worth and convince everyone else around me that I was right, but I knew that the limitations of my musical skill set would prevent me from doing so. I felt crushed and worthless. I didn’t know what to do. It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship.

“After spending a long time in recovery, many of us are able to devel- op mental tools that allow us to accomplish things we never thought possible. Although the clear and sharp perception that we reclaim in sobriety is a priceless gift, we shouldn’t let our newfound power turn into egotism or stubbornness. The truth is, we can learn a lot more by staying humble and open-minded than we can from remaining stuck in our ways. Sometimes it’s best to just take a step back, enjoy the ride, and admit that we are not the ultimate authority in all matters. By surren- dering our willpower, we are able to remain grounded in our sobriety program and take things one day at a time.”

After freeing myself from my need to prove my intellectual superiori- ty to the people around me, I relaxed my posture and watched the scene unfold with a newfound sense of patient humility. Recovery had given me the ability to detach from my egocentric fears, learn from others, and remain grateful and present in the moment.

Always remember:

124

Colorful napkins flew off of a wooden table and danced in the breeze as my friend carried a large and ornately-decorated cake towards me. It was a windy and cloudless June afternoon, and I was celebrating the fourth anniversary of my sobriety. As I watched him balance the cake on a thin and flimsy decorative platter, I was astounded by his grace and dexterity. I had never been good at achieving balance in a literal or metaphorical sense, and my inability to smoothly juggle my work life, social commitments, and self-care regimen had taken a significant toll on my sanity during my first several years in recovery.

After spending the next several hours at the party, I left my friend’s backyard with a plate full of leftover cake and a feeling of gleeful euphoria. I looked up towards the sunny sky as I walked back to my apartment, and I was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude and serenity that no substance had ever given me. I was on top of the world, and I thought there was nothing that could bring me back to earth.

Suddenly, my phone rang. My heart sank when I read the number on the screen and looked at the time. I had forgotten all about the online sobriety fellowship meeting that I was scheduled to attend with my mother, and she had called me several times while I was at the party. I picked up the call as I walked through the doorway of my apartment, then stumbled and dropped the cake onto the stairs. As I listened to her voice waver and crackle at the other end of the line, it became clear that she was deeply hurt by my forgetful and inconsiderate behavior. The fallen piece of cake served as a perfect metaphor for my inability to effectively balance my social life and my family obligations, and I had no one to blame but myself.

As I awkwardly attempted to wipe the cake and frosting off of the ground, it felt like I was cleaning up the wreckage of my thoughtless actions. I didn’t know how to make things right with my mother, and I was consumed by self-centered fear and shameful guilt. It was then that I realized that the best way to pay her back for her kindness and help was to take responsibility for my mistakes. I couldn’t turn back time and stop the cake from falling off the plate, and I couldn’t undo what I had done to my mother either. I could, however, clean up the cake one piece at a time and attempt to rebuild my relationship with her in a similar manner.

As I cleaned up the last crumb of cake, I put the paper plate in the trash and spoke the following words to my mother in an apologetic and humble tone:

“I’m so sorry that I forgot about the meeting. I’m not the best at balancing the different sides of life, but that’s no excuse. There’s another online meeting later tonight. Why don’t I come over, and we can join it together? I want to make things right.”

My mother graciously agreed to my request, and her voice perked up and slowly began to regain its normal cheery and optimistic tone. As I walked out of my apartment and headed out to meet her at her house, I took a moment to reflect on the importance of accountability and honesty. Recovery had given me the ability to own up to my mistakes and work towards making amends – and the feeling of living life in the solution was even sweeter than a scrumptious dessert.

Always remember:

125

My palms were sweaty as my hands rested on my computer keyboard. I was four years sober, and I was attempting to finish writing a song that I had been working on for several weeks. I had stayed up all night, but I still hadn’t made any discernible progress. I was unproductive and indecisive, held back by a textbook case of writer’s block.

As feelings of doubt and unease took hold of my fragile psyche, I began to nostalgically recall the period of creative freedom that I had experienced in the earliest days of my recovery. At the time, I was still unemployed and living at a recovery house. Although I was constantly plagued with fear, loneliness, and uncertain thoughts regarding my future, I was able to effectively channel my angst and insecurity into my songwriting. As my recovery continued to progress, I reached new levels of emotional security and self-esteem by working a full-time job and rebuilding connections with my family and loved ones. Although I was grateful for the stability that my sober lifestyle had given me, I was convinced that the peace and fulfillment I had found in recovery had completely dulled my artistic edge.

After snapping out of my dreamlike and reflective state, I turned my attention back toward my computer screen. As I continued to chip away at the verse, I found myself beginning to resort to cliché metaphors and lyrical devices that glorified my experiences in active addiction. Ironically, by trying to recapture my artistic authenticity, I was actually veering further away from my true creative identity. I wanted to write a song that reflected my feelings in a powerful way, but I didn’t know how to rekindle the same fiery passion that once fueled my artistry without betraying the principles that guided my recovery.

It was then that I remembered the wise words of a fellow sober musician:

“When I put together a few years of continuous sobriety, I found it incredibly difficult to replicate the same creative process that I used in early recovery and active addiction. I second-guessed myself at every turn, because I didn’t think that my music would resonate with people who were still stuck in the same destructive cycle that nearly claimed my life. After taking some time to reflect, I realized that I hadn’t lost my creative powers or artistic voice – I just hadn’t discovered that it was possible to use the lessons that I had learned in recovery as the inspiration for even better music. If we become willing to detach from our fear of change and approach our creative endeavors with a clear and open mind, we have the chance to grow on both a personal and artistic level. We just have to trust ourselves, step out of our comfort zones, and embrace our new creative identities. Sobriety isn’t the cause of artistic stagnation. It’s the cure for it.”

As his words reverberated clearly in my mind, I understood that it was time for me to take the first steps towards true artistic progression. I let go of all of my preconceived notions of what I wanted the song to be, let down my guard, and let my emotions flow freely through my fingers onto the page. By tapping into the experience, strength and hope that had been passed onto me by other sober creatives, I was able to stay true to myself and move past my self-imposed limitations.

Always remember:

126

My shoulders and hands were painfully tense as I sat in front of a large grand piano. I was four years sober, and I was in the middle of a fast-paced and lively recording session at a music studio in East Arlington. I had been called in to play piano parts for multiple songs that a studio client had written, and I was struggling to maintain my composure. I had spent several hours creating a series of detailed musical reference sheets, but I still felt vastly underprepared.

After adjusting a pair of padded headphones around my ears, I leaned towards the piano and waited for the familiar click of the metronome to count me in. I was in the process of laying down a foundational piano track for a catchy and upbeat tune, and I was finding it difficult to get in the groove and loosen up. I had managed to master the basic melody and chord structure of the song, but my playing style was still stiff and rigid.

As a classically-trained pianist, I had prided myself on my ability to learn complicated piano pieces and play them in a mathematical- ly-precise matter in my younger years. After foregoing my artistic aspirations in the worst days of my active addiction, I had managed to slowly rebuild my musical skills in recovery. The work that I put into my creative re-education served as a concrete manifestation of my commitment to sobriety, and it allowed me to reach new levels of artistic confidence. Although I was very proud of my newly-regained focus and dexterity, I found myself trapped in an ironic predicament:

the disciplined and robotic playing style that I had perfected in sobriety was poorly suited to the task that I was faced with. Controlled hands and consistent rhythm would not suffice. I had to learn how to relax without the aid of any addictive chemicals.

As I prepared for another round of recording, I thought back on all of the instances where I had been held back by crippling mental and physical tension. I had been plagued by anxiety for my entire life, which was amplified whenever I encountered high-pressure situations. I closed my eyes and ground my teeth as I attempted to escape my mental prison of edginess and apprehension. I didn’t know if I was capable of letting go of my worries and living in the moment.

It was then that I remembered the priceless words of a dear friend from my recovery fellowship:

“When I was early on in my journey of sobriety, I held myself to high standards of discipline. Initially, my high-strung mentality helped me make significant strides in recovery. As time passed, it began to have a somewhat detrimental effect. I was unable to greet my life’s challenges in a flexible manner. Eventually, I realized that in order to stay sober, I had to allow myself to relax and learn to go with the flow. Recovery teaches us that it’s important to live life on life’s terms. Sometimes that means buckling down and putting your nose to the grindstone – and sometimes it means getting over yourself and loosening up.”

After taking a moment to shake out my arms and clear my mind, I leaned into the piano and let my hands move freely across the keys in a way that I never had before. Recovery had given me the ability to move past my unsustainable behavioral patterns, and given me a feeling of freedom that I had never experienced in active addiction.

Always remember:

127

Peppers and onions crackled in a cast iron pan as I darted back and forth with energetic intensity. I was four years sober, and I was putting the finishing touches on a flavorful three-course meal. My girlfriend was scheduled to arrive home from work at any moment, and I was looking forward to surprising her with some gourmet food. I had gone to extensive lengths to procure her favorite vegetables and sauces from the grocery store, and I had made every effort to season and prepare the dishes in a way that was appealing to her. I lit some scented candles, turned on a musical playlist with her favorite songs, and dimmed the lights to create a romantic atmosphere. I was determined to provide her with a soothing and enjoyable experience that would help relieve her stress and anxiety.

As I placed the silverware and napkins on the table, I saw her car pull up outside of my apartment. I threw the last dirty pan in the sink, washed the grease off of my hands, and skittered down the stairs towards the doorway. I walked towards her car as she stepped out of the driver’s seat, gave her a big hug, and offered to carry her bags inside for her. As we walked back to my apartment, it was overwhelmingly evident that she was exhausted beyond belief. She had a crestfallen look on her face, and my awkward attempts at cheery small talk were met with placid indifference. Upon entering the apartment, she dropped her purse on the ground, kicked her shoes off, and collapsed into a padded armchair. She heaved a heavy sigh as she closed her eyes, then turned to me, and spoke the following words in a weary monotone:

“It was really nice of you to make me dinner, but to be honest, I’m not in the mood for it. I ate a hamburger at work already, and I just want to go to sleep. Can you put the food in a plastic container so that we can eat it tomorrow? I’m going to go take a shower and get ready for bed.”

I forced the corners of my mouth into an insincere smile as my ego deflated like a ruptured balloon. As I began clearing the table, I became instantly consumed by overpowering feelings of frustration. I didn’t want to accept that my efforts had been in vain.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that although I had gone to extensive lengths to cook an extravagant meal for my girlfriend, I had failed to truly take her feelings into account while preparing it. She had spent the whole day catering to guests at the restaurant where she worked. I knew how emotionally draining it was to work in the service industry from my own personal experience.

I realized that the best way that I could reward her for her hard work was by casting my ego aside and agreeing to her request without scorn or resentment. Although I might have originally wanted to express my love for her through my culinary creation, I still had a chance to make her day better by providing her with the care and comfort that she truly needed. I turned off the hot water, gave her a kiss on the cheek, grabbed her favorite warm plush bathrobe, and hung it on the hook for when she finished her shower. Recovery had given me the ability to detach from my need for validation and approval – and the opportunity to be of service to the people I loved.

Always remember:

128

The summer sun beat down from the sky as I coasted down a winding country road. I was four years sober, and I was on my way to conduct a high-profile magazine interview. I had scheduled a meeting with the president of a prestigious historical society, and I was looking forward to meeting him and learning some valuable new facts.

After rounding a treacherous hairpin turn, I arrived in front of a magnificent cluster of structures. They looked like they were pulled straight from the pages of a classic American novel. As I stepped out of my car and walked towards the front entrance of a beautiful Federalist- era cottage, I was overcome with feelings of awe and intimidation. After ringing the doorbell and waiting for several minutes, I was greeted by a well-groomed man with a deep and powerful voice. He led me through an intricate network of hallways that were lined with sepia-toned photographs of illustrious political luminaries.

Upon reaching the end of a narrow corridor, he invited me into a small room that was outfitted with antique lamps and mahogany furniture. I reached down into my bag to pull out my computer, then felt my heart skip a beat as I opened the screen. My battery was completely drained, and I had forgotten to bring my charge cord with me. I hadn’t written any of my questions down on paper, and I had no idea how I was going to proceed with the interview. I hung my head in shame as the president of the historical society calmly drummed his fingers on the hand-carved edges of his desk. I was terrified to tell him about my predicament. I didn’t want to seem incompetent and risk losing the opportunity to interview him, but I knew that I had exhausted all of my other options. It was then that I remembered the words that were written on the wall of a sobriety fellowship clubhouse that I had frequented in early recovery:

“The truth shall set you free.”

I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and uttered the following words in a meek and apologetic tone:

“I’m so sorry to tell you this, but I don’t have any of the questions that I wrote down for our interview. My computer’s battery is dead and I left my charge cord at home. I sent the questions to myself via e-mail, but I don’t have cellular service here and I can’t access them on my phone. I’ll understand if you need to reschedule the interview. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

After a brief moment of silence, the man behind the desk raised his eyebrow, smiled, and replied in a compassionate and understanding voice.

“Not to worry! If you can access your e-mail on my computer, I’m happy to print them out. Let’s work together to solve this issue. I respect your honesty – and I’m happy to help.”

I heaved a heavy sigh of relief as we walked down the hall to a corner office that was equipped with a large desktop computer. I logged into my e-mail account, printed out my questions, and began the interview with a newfound sense of confidence and self-esteem. Recovery had given me the courage to tell the truth in a high-pressure situation, and I was grateful to be living life in the solution.

Always remember:

129

The summer sun beat down from the sky as I coasted down a winding country road. I was four years sober, and I was on my way to conduct a high-profile magazine interview. I had scheduled a meeting with the president of a prestigious historical society, and I was looking forward to meeting him and learning some valuable new facts.

After rounding a treacherous hairpin turn, I arrived in front of a magnificent cluster of structures. They looked like they were pulled straight from the pages of a classic American novel. As I stepped out of my car and walked towards the front entrance of a beautiful Federalist- era cottage, I was overcome with feelings of awe and intimidation. After ringing the doorbell and waiting for several minutes, I was greeted by a well-groomed man with a deep and powerful voice. He led me through an intricate network of hallways that were lined with sepia-toned pho- tographs of illustrious political luminaries.

Upon reaching the end of a narrow corridor, he invited me into a small room that was outfitted with antique lamps and mahogany fur- niture. I reached down into my bag to pull out my computer, then felt my heart skip a beat as I opened the screen. My battery was completely drained, and I had forgotten to bring my charge cord with me. I hadn’t written any of my questions down on paper, and I had no idea how I was going to proceed with the interview. I hung my head in shame as the president of the historical society calmly drummed his fingers on the hand-carved edges of his desk. I was terrified to tell him about my predicament. I didn’t want to seem incompetent and risk losing the opportunity to interview him, but I knew that I had exhausted all of my other options. It was then that I remembered the words that were writ- ten on the wall of a sobriety fellowship clubhouse that I had frequented in early recovery:

“The truth shall set you free.”

I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and uttered the following words in a meek and apologetic tone:

“I’m so sorry to tell you this, but I don’t have any of the questions that I wrote down for our interview. My computer’s battery is dead and I left my charge cord at home. I sent the questions to myself via e-mail, but I don’t have cellular service here and I can’t access them on my phone. I’ll understand if you need to reschedule the interview. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

After a brief moment of silence, the man behind the desk raised his eyebrow, smiled, and replied in a compassionate and understanding voice.

“Not to worry! If you can access your e-mail on my computer, I’m happy to print them out. Let’s work together to solve this issue. I respect your honesty – and I’m happy to help.”

I heaved a heavy sigh of relief as we walked down the hall to a corner office that was equipped with a large desktop computer. I logged into my e-mail account, printed out my questions, and began the interview with a newfound sense of confidence and self-esteem. Recovery had given me the courage to tell the truth in a high-pressure situation, and I was grateful to be living life in the solution.

Always remember:

130

Popcorn kernels rustled inside of a hot paper bag as I carried them from my microwave to my kitchen table. I was four years sober, and I was celebrating the completion of a long workday with a savory snack. I opened up my computer, queued up one of my favorite shows, leaned back in my chair, and propped my feet up on a nearby stool. As I tossed pieces of popcorn up into the air and caught them in my mouth, I was overcome with feelings of gratitude and serenity. My mind was clear of doubt and distraction, and I was ready to kick back and enjoy a night of carefree frivolity.

As the dramatic opening theme song of the show played through my computer speakers, I noticed a small window pop up near the bottom of the screen. An old friend had reached out to me, and I was delighted to hear from him. He had been battling with debilitating mental health issues for the past several years. Despite his ongoing struggles, he had always been there for me when I needed someone to talk to.

After opening the chat window, I was greeted by several insulting and accusatory messages. Flabbergasted, I asked him why he had chosen to address me in such a hostile fashion. He then promptly greeted my inquiry with a series of additional expletive-laden remarks. As his personal attacks continued to amplify in severity, my initial feelings of disbelief began to morph into anger and frustration. I slammed my hands down onto the keyboard and began to type furiously, holding back tears as I conjured an equally spiteful succession of snappy comebacks.

I didn’t know why my friend had decided to assault me with an unprovoked barrage of aggressive snubs, but I was nevertheless determined to put him in his place.

As I hovered my finger over the “send” button, I decided to visit his social media profile in an effort to understand what could have motivated his malicious behavior. When I saw a recently-posted photograph at the top of his profile page, it was immediately apparent that his mental health had taken a turn for the worse. His face was gaunt and haggard, his clothes were dirty, and there were baggy circles underneath his eyes. Underneath the photograph, I saw a series of indecipherable and delusional rants. They were written in the same angry and frenzied tone as the messages that he was sending me. My exasperation and bitterness instantly dissipated, replaced by feelings of sympathy and understand- ing. As someone who had once found myself in a similar place of misery and dysphoria at the apex of my active addiction, I knew how difficult it was to break the type of destructive and self-isolating pattern that he was caught in. I took a deep breath, paused for a moment of silent contemplation, and sent him the following message:

“I can tell that you’re going through some hard times, and I know what that’s like. Still, your words have really hurt me, and I can’t talk to you again until you apologize to me. I’ll always consider you a friend, and I hope that you can get the help that you need.”

As I closed the chat window and began watching my show, I dried my teary eyes and made a conscious effort to forgive my former friend for his tragic mistakes. Recovery had given me the ability to move past my feelings of resentment, and the wisdom to know when it was time to let go.

Always remember:

131

My shoulders were stiff and tense as I hunched over a pile of bills and papers on my work desk. I was four years sober, and I was completely overwhelmed with professional projects, social commitments, and family obligations. As I scrolled through a series of urgent text messages in my phone, my heart began to pound with the intensity of a symphonic drumline. I had a list of missed calls that was longer than the stretch of country road outside of my apartment in East Arlington, and my mind was racing at the speed of the cars that were whooshing past my window.

I began responding to the missed messages and calls in a stiff and robotic fashion, crafting replies that possessed none of the warmth and deference that my co-workers and family members had grown accustomed to. I was hungry, anxious, lonely, and tired, and I had neglected to take care of my basic human needs. As a result, my anxiety and fear had rendered me completely incapable of engaging in positive human interactions.

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was a friend from my sobriety fellowship. I felt a guilty shiver radiate through my body as I watched his number flash across the screen. I had promised to meet him at a sobriety fellowship meeting, and I had completely forgotten about our plans. The meeting was starting in less than half an hour, and I was still in the pro- cess of drafting a dense and detailed e-mail to one of my work contacts. I answered the call with a harsh and aggressive monotone that was reminiscent of a drill sergeant from a second-rate Hollywood action movie.

After noticing my edgy demeanor, my friend gently inquired about my mental state with a thoughtful and kind question:

“You sound like you’re having a difficult day. Is everything alright?”

Although my first instinct was to lie and tell him that everything was fine, I had spent enough time in recovery to know that would only make things worse. I felt equally as worn down and desperate as I did during the worst days of my active addiction. My life had reached a point of complete unmanageability, and I knew that something had to change. I let a stream of cathartic tears fall from my eyes as I listed my grievances and worries to my compassionate friend. After spilling my soul for several minutes and clearing my conscience, I fell silent as I awaited his reply. Several seconds later, I heard a soft, pensive sigh through my phone speakers. It was followed by some of the most wise and insightful advice that I had received in a long time.

“You’re definitely under a lot of pressure, but it sounds like you’re put- ting more pressure on yourself than anyone else is. Why don’t you leave your phone and computer at home, come to the sobriety fellowship meeting, and come with me to get something to eat afterwards. Your family and co-workers will be grateful that you took the time to take care of yourself, and you’ll be better equipped to deal with all of your obligations.”

After realizing that I had worked myself up unnecessarily by men- tally magnifying the external pressure that I was faced with, I closed my computer and took a moment to meditate and decompress. With my mind at ease, I grabbed my coat from a nearby hanger and walked outside towards my car to drive to the sobriety fellowship meeting. Recovery had given me the ability to take care of myself and balance my life in a rational and responsible fashion. I was no longer overwhelmed with worry and doubt – I was overwhelmed with gratitude.

Always remember:

132

The soothing smell of floral-scented summer wind hung in the air as I hunched over my dining room table. I took a generous sip from my water glass, then heaved a pensive sigh as I scanned a series of wordy paragraphs on my computer screen. I was four years sober, and I was proofreading an article that I had to submit to my editor the following morning.

As I pored over the final sentence of the article’s detailed and dense conclusion, the following thought popped into my head:

“Why do I always have to write in such a vague and drawn-out manner? Why can’t I ever get straight to the point without going off on indulgent, rambling tangents?”

My introspective analysis was cut short when my girlfriend walked through the front door of my apartment. I closed my computer, rose to greet her, and walked towards her with outstretched arms. She had just come back from a long work shift, and I could tell that she was completely exhausted. As I drew closer to her, I noticed that tears were streaming down her cheeks. She collapsed in a chair and began sobbing with passionate intensity. When I asked her what was wrong, she sheepishly turned away from me. I kept peppering her with invasive questions about her mental state, and she deflected my inquiries with a series of intricate and circuitous stories. Although each seemingly-unrelated, confessional monologue brought me closer to grasping the challenges that she was going through, I still felt like I didn’t completely understand the primary reasons for her distress. As she continued to peel back the metaphorical onion of her emotional identity, it was clear that many layers remained before her inner core was exposed.

I began to feel frustrated, inadequate, and helpless as I sat in front of her and stared into her despondent and watery eyes. Although I was the only person in our household that was writing an article, it was clear that she was also having a difficult time expressing herself in an efficient and transparent manner. I was at the verge of abandoning hope and taking out my exasperation on my hapless romantic partner, but I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Although we all want to be immediately rocketed into a new dimension of freedom and joy when we start our new life in recovery, we must remember that everyone’s journey of self-discovery is different. Some people are able to directly confront their underlying trauma or mental health issues very quickly. Others take a less direct and linear path towards understanding their truth. The same principle applies to the way that we communicate with others. Some people cut to the chase in an abrupt and organized fashion. Others may take a more serpentine and subtle route with their conversational approach. Regardless of how we arrive at the destination of truth and self-actualization, we must be kind to ourselves and others throughout the duration of the process. As long as we’re willing to be honest and do the necessary work, it doesn’t matter how long it takes or how the work gets done.”

After taking a moment to reflect, I realized that I didn’t need to judge myself for my dense and tangential writing style, and I didn’t need to judge my girlfriend for speaking in a cryptic and roundabout way, either. Recovery had allowed me to understand that the truth is often complicated, and I was grateful to be able to take on the challenges of my life and my writing career one day – and one word – at a time.

Always remember:

133

The evening sun illuminated the crests of faraway mountains as I walked towards the door of a small apartment building. I was four years sober, and I was looking forward to participating in a lively recording session. A talented young rapper had invited me to listen in on a record- ing session at his home studio and offer my feedback. Although his lyrical style was vastly different from mine, I was nevertheless excited to lend an ear and provide whatever creative insight I could.

Upon entering his apartment, I saw several musicians congregated in the hallway with smiles on their faces. As I stretched out my hand to introduce myself, I heard one of my favorite Hip-Hop beats playing in the background. It brought back memories of the unforgettable nights I had spent making music with my friends in my early adolescence. It was a point in my life where I felt like anything was possible. Sadly, it was also the point at which I began using drugs and drinking alcohol. As my addiction continued to escalate, I drifted further and further away from my musical aspirations. After getting sober and clean, I was able to find the freedom that I had formerly sought in addictive chemicals by reinventing myself on a personal and artistic level. Instead of writing raps that glorified drug use, I made music that celebrated recovery and self-actualization. By doing so, I was able to take control of my creative destiny in a way that I never thought possible while I was getting high.

As the instrumentals continued to play, my nose picked up a scent that was all too familiar. It was the smell of liquor and beer, which conjured memories of a distinctly more destructive and hedonistic nature. I was instantly gripped by strong, visceral cravings. Although I had become accustomed to being around alcohol during the years I had spent as a sober bartender, this situation was different. It wasn’t the presence of alcohol or drugs that was triggering my cravings – it was the cultural association. I had built a new life for myself as a sober rapper, but there was a part of me that still believed that my creative persona was inextricably tied to my past substance use. I didn’t want to leave the session, but I knew that I had to get out of there in order to prevent a relapse. Suddenly, I remembered the closing line of a song by my favorite sober rapper, which reaffirmed my commitment to my lifestyle change in an incredibly resonant way:

“I used to dream of living, now I’m living my dreams. No matter what it takes, my goal is to stay clean.”

After taking a moment to pause, breathe, and reflect, I realized that I didn’t love Hip-Hop because Hip-Hop culture embraced hedo- nism. I loved Hip-Hop because Hip-Hop culture embraced truth and self-knowledge, and my truth was that I needed to stay sober in order to stay alive. I said goodbye to the rapper and his crew, left the apartment, and walked towards my car. I put my key in the ignition, queued up an inspiring recovery rap playlist, and felt my spirits begin to lift as I drove to a meeting. I was grateful to be living in the solution, and I was ready to do whatever it took to stay clean one day at a time.

Always remember:

134

The smell of freshly-baked bread lingered in the air as I sat in a com- fortable booth at one of my favorite local eateries. I was four years sober, and savoring a delicious lunchtime meal with a sober friend. It had been several months since we had last seen each other in person, and we were thoroughly enjoying our conversation. After laughing and sharing sto- ries for over an hour, the topic began to gradually shift from reminiscent banter to more divisive issues. Although my friend and I shared a bond that was close to unbreakable, we had vastly different perspectives in regards to world affairs.

After taking a large bite of his hamburger, he began to voice his opinion on an issue that we plainly disagreed on in a domineering and declarative fashion. I looked back at him with a vacant, half-lidded stare as I listened to his impassioned and long-winded speech. My hope was that he would gradually become disinterested in the issue and move onto other things. Unfortunately, that was not the case. As his tirade continued, I began to sense sharp feelings of frustration and resentment tearing at the seams of my psyche. It wasn’t that I was angry at him for having a different opinion than I did – I just didn’t know how to be honest with him about my feelings without provoking an argument. Without warning, my friend concluded his rant with an exceptionally boorish and provocative statement:

“I don’t understand how anyone can see the issue any differently! If anyone does, they’re completely incapable of reason.”

His words hit me with a burning intensity that was ten times spicier than the chili pepper sauce on my sandwich. I felt an overwhelming desire to reply to his condescending proposition with an equally vitri- olic response. I had held my tongue for far too long, and I thought that I needed to be heard. As I readied an impassioned and fiery monologue, I remembered the words of a wise member of my sobriety fellowship:

“Early on in my recovery, I learned the importance of separating outside issues from my interactions with sober peers. Over time, I grad- ually began to integrate that philosophy into my personal relationships, as well. On rare occasions, I encountered situations where a significant difference in morals and beliefs made it impossible for me to remain friends with someone. More often than not, however, the arguments that stemmed from our differences in opinion were exacerbated by our mutual need to prove that we were right. Ultimately, I learned to exercise restraint of pen and tongue when dealing with my friends and loved ones. As a result, I have been able to build and maintain deeper friendships than ever before.”

After a long moment of silence, I took a deep breath, gathered my bearings, and told my friend that I disagreed with him in a calm and serene manner. I was expecting him to react harshly and aggressively. Instead, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, took another bite, and moved onto a less divisive topic. As I sat with him and we finished our meals, I realized that admitting to him that we disagreed on key issues hadn’t weakened our friendship – it had actually strengthened it. Recovery had given me the courage to speak my mind, and the ability to peacefully reconcile my ideological differences with other people. I was grateful to be alive, grateful to be sober, and grateful to be able to face life one day – and one conversation – at a time.

Always remember:

135

The folds of my bathrobe gently brushed against the sides of my shins as I rose from a comfortable armchair. I was four years sober, and I was enjoying an evening of well-deserved rest and relaxation. I poured a cool glass of filtered water, heated up some delicious leftovers, opened up the window to let in the summer breeze, and put on a plush pair of padded slippers. The stage was set for a lavish and carefree evening, and there was nothing that could hold me back from my mindless pursuits – or so I thought.

After returning to my chair, I heard the high-pitched chime of my cell phone ringtone emanating from the pocket of my bathrobe. It was a friend from my hometown. I had not heard from him in over a year. He was the first person that I had ever mentored as a sober peer, and we had attended many sobriety fellowship meetings together. I picked up the call and began speaking with him in a casual and friendly manner. As our conversation progressed, I began to sense that his voice had a monotonous and pessimistic quality that was all too familiar. It was the sound of someone who was experiencing a crisis of faith in recovery.

Following several minutes of superficial small talk, I posed a some- what bold and direct question:

“Is everything okay? You sound like you have something on your mind that you want to tell me.”

After a long silence, he responded with a somber and pained con- fession:

“To be honest, I’m not doing that well. I relapsed last week, but I’m too ashamed to log in to my normal online meeting and admit that I had a slip. I wasn’t even going to call you, because you’re so far away now. I don’t think that you can really help me. I’m scared to reach out to my network and take the first steps towards getting sober again. What do you think I should do?”

I was overcome with guilt as I listened to his words. I felt like I had failed him on multiple levels, but I didn’t know if it was possible to con- nect with him on a deep level over such a great physical distance. As I felt myself beginning to dive headfirst into a murky morass of self-pity and hopelessness, I remembered that some of the most powerful con- versations I ever had with my sober mentors were conducted over the phone. I might not have been able to be there for my friend in person, but I knew that I was willing to go to any possible length to help him. I cleared my throat, gathered my bearings, and responded with an opti- mistic proposition:

“We might not be in the same town or the same state, but that doesn’t matter. I’m here for you regardless of the distance. Let’s log in to the same online sobriety fellowship meeting, and let’s make a promise to each other to introduce ourselves to at least one other person and get their phone number. No matter how far apart we are, you can rest assured that I’ve always got your back.”

I could hear a noticeable upswing in my friend’s vocal tone as we con- cluded our conversation. I opened up my computer, joined the online meeting, and felt my spirits rise as I saw his face pop up in the corner of my video conferencing application. Recovery had given me the ability to help a friend in his time of need, and my experience had proven that seeds of hope could travel over vast distances.

Always remember:

136

Chocolate chip cookie crumbs cascaded down the front of my shirt as I sat in the middle of a bustling laundromat. After taking one last satisfying bite, I brushed the remaining pieces off of my lap, rose from my chair, and walked towards the washing machine with a massive bin of clothes. I was four years sober, and I had taken the afternoon off from work to catch up on some household chores.

I had sorted my clothes into multiple different piles, each of which required its own specialty detergent and wash cycle. In order to properly handle the task at hand, I had brought two different types of detergent and a bottle of bleach with me. The first load of laundry was now complete, and I was ready to transfer the freshly-laundered clothing to the dryer on the other side of the room. After throwing the soggy clothes into a squeaky metal cart, I wheeled them over to the dryer, selected my cycle, paid the fee, and turned on the machine. I then doubled back towards the washing machine and began loading several armfuls of colorful clothes into it, including my favorite pair of blue jeans and an auburn-colored vintage sweater.

When the machine was full, I straightened my back and reached up over the top to grab what I believed to be a bottle of all-natural detergent. I was tired and spent from an eventful week of work, and my foggy mental state had rendered me dull and imperceptive. I unscrewed the top of the bottle, poured the liquid into the detergent hatch, closed the door on the machine, and pressed the “start” button. As the washer began to hum and churn, I looked down at the bottle in my hand and came to a devastating realization: In a moment of oblivious idiocy, I had unknowingly poured a full cup of bleach into the machine. I bent down and attempted to pry the door open so I could pull my clothes out, but it was too late. The cycle had already begun, and there was nothing that I could do to unlock the door.

I slumped down in front of the machine, pounded my fists on the ground, and began muttering angry exclamations under my breath. I had ruined dozens of my favorite shirts, sweaters and pants beyond the point of rescue, and I was feeling ungrateful, irritable, and discontent. As I stewed in my rancorous funk, I considered grabbing the heaviest object that I could find and smashing the glass door of the washing machine. I didn’t know if I was capable of accepting my mistake and taking responsibility for it, let alone remaining serene, grounded, and grateful.

At the apex of my tantrum, I experienced a humbling moment of clarity when I thought back on the worst days of my active addiction. At the lowest point of my rock-bottom stage, I would wear the same shirt and pants for weeks on end because I couldn’t afford laundry detergent. Back then, I was dirty, disheveled, and hopeless, and I felt like I had nothing to live for. Life was much better now, but it was up to me to realize how lucky I was to be alive and sober – even when things weren’t going my way. After taking a brief pause to breathe and collect my thoughts, I looked toward the washing machine with a newfound sense of gratitude. I might not have cleaned my clothes in the right way, but recovery had given me the clean clothes on my back, a clean conscience, and a proverbial laundry list of good things in my life to be thankful for.

Always remember:

137

Colorful birds swooped through the branches of nearby trees as I walked towards the entrance of a narrow, winding trail. I was four years sober, and I was about to begin a long hike in the woods with my girlfriend. I took a small knapsack off of my back, unzipped its largest compartment, and began rummaging through it. I had packed several bottles of water, a light waterproof windbreaker, a first aid kit, and a large bag of trail mix, but I still felt like I had forgotten something important.

After walking up a rocky hillside for several miles, we arrived in a woodland clearing where the trail split into three separate paths. Although each path led to a breathtaking mountain vista, my girlfriend had already selected the route that we were set to take. She had gone to extreme lengths to prepare for our journey, and had plotted out our course with permanent marker on a trail map that she had given me before we left.

As we paused in front of the trail fork, I glanced over at my girlfriend and saw her looking back at me with a skeptical scowl. After a brief silence, she posed a question in an anxious and harried tone:

“Did you remember to bring the trail map?”

I felt a pit begin to form in my stomach as I remembered that I had forgotten the map at home. I turned away from my girlfriend and placed my bag on the ground without responding to her question. I then began methodically sifting through its contents in an effort to buy myself more time. As she walked towards me, I was overcome by visceral flash- backs from the years that I had spent in active addiction. In those days, I would steal drugs and alcohol from my acquaintances while they were sleeping. After they woke, I would lie to them and pretend that I knew nothing about what happened. I would even offer to help them search for the lost narcotics that I had already consumed. Although I had been in recovery for several years, I knew that it was wrong to return to my old deceptive tactics and lie to my girlfriend about the trail map through a manipulative ruse. The fact that I was sober did not justify my dishonest actions – and it was time to tell her the truth.

I hung my head in shame as I set down the bag and turned to her, then addressed her in a meek and apologetic tone:

“I’m so sorry to tell you this, but I left the map at home on the kitchen table. I should have just been honest with you and told you that I forgot it, but you went above and beyond to make sure we had a good time and I didn’t want to ruin your day. I hope you can forgive me for my lies and forgetful ways. I want to make things right.”

After heaving an exasperated sigh, my girlfriend took a deep breath, reached out her hand, and lifted me up from the ground. Instead of berating me for leaving the map at home, she responded to my guilty admission with the following wise words:

“I am a bit upset that you left the map at home, but it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you decided to tell me the truth. As long as we’re honest with each other, any path that we take together is going to bring us to a beautiful place.”

Always remember:

138

The smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafted through the air as I sat in the spacious study of a prominent business owner. I was four years sober, and I had just finished a high-profile interview for a magazine article. After the conclusion of our interview, he had invited me to stay a little longer and share a plate of homemade scones with him. As I reached for a pastry that had been presented to me on a priceless antique plate, I took a moment to revel in the rarefied ambience of my surroundings.

The ornately-decorated bookcases and marble fireplace that stood before me were a far cry from the dilapidated hallways where I had spent the worst days of my active addiction. It had been less than a decade since I had left my misery behind to find a free and joyous new way of life in recovery. My hard work had resulted in a change of life- style that I had never dreamed possible. Still, I found myself continually haunted by paralyzing feelings of doubt and insecurity.

As my host regaled me with humorous stories of his earlier years, his affect was jovial and gregarious. Although I was grateful that he had invited me to share a snack with him, I was nevertheless careful in my conversational approach. I was afraid to fully let my guard down and enjoy the moment, because I was nervous that my checkered past would be revealed through the way that I spoke and carried myself.

Without warning, he confronted me with an unexpected question that sent shivers down my spine:

“You’re awfully young to be working in a journalism job like this. Where did you go to college?”

I had gone to every length to hide the truth of my past life, but it was clear that my well-maintained façade was beginning to crumble. My hands trembled as I pondered my next move. For a brief moment, I considered lying by omission and mentioning the university that I had dropped out of. I didn’t want to lose the respect of the esteemed profes- sional who had granted me the privilege of interviewing him. Suddenly, I remembered a moment several years earlier when I was working my first job in early recovery. I had only been there for a few weeks when someone asked me about the scars on my arms. I had made the deci- sion to be honest on that day, and even though the present situation was different, I was gripped with the exact same feeling of fear. I knew that no matter how far I ventured in my professional career, I would only be able to maintain my sobriety if I adhered to the same principles of integrity and vulnerability that had guided me at the earliest stages of my recovery. I looked him straight in the eye, admitted that I had never graduated from college, and waited for his reply as a cold silence fell over the room. When I thought all was lost, he smiled warmly and offered the following words:

“I admire your honesty. It’s a quality that will serve you well both in your personal and professional life. We all take different paths to get to where we’re going, but it’s clear that you’re passionate about what you do. I’m glad to see your hard work has paid off.”

As our conversation resumed, I took another hearty bite from my scone and felt the weight of the world drop from my shoulders. Recovery had given me the ability to remain honest in a high-pressure situation, and the truth had set me free from the burden of self-centered fe r once again.

Always remember:

139

Scattered droplets of summer rain drizzled down from the night sky as I walked towards the entrance of a neighborhood pizzeria. I was four years sober, and I was on my way to pick up a hearty and filling dinner. After wading through a dense crowd, I found myself at the end of a long line near the cash register. The restaurant was due to close in ten minutes, and I was incredibly grateful that I had placed my order in advance. As the line continued to shorten, I reveled in the ambrosial scent of warm bread and garlic seasoning. It had been several weeks since I had treated myself to an extravagant meal of this caliber, and I was excited beyond words to bring my food back home.

Upon reaching the front of the line, I paid my bill and walked out of the restaurant with a gigantic pizza box. As I got in my car and closed the door behind me, my body was rocked by a noticeable surge of anticipatory euphoria. I proceeded to drive home at a speedy clip, leaning into turns with the reckless swagger of a seasoned airshow pilot. I parked in front of my apartment building, grabbed the pizza, and sprinted across the parking lot and up the stairs. After fumbling for my keys and barreling through the doorway, I clumsily slammed the box onto my kitchen table. When I opened up the box and looked down at my pizza, my enthusiastic glee instantly transformed into dysphoric malaise. The pizza shop had used the wrong toppings to make my order, and it was far too late to call them up and ask them to make a new one.

Upon realizing that the restaurant had already closed for the night, I hung my head in sorrow. I was incapacitated by seething resentments that burned even hotter than the still-bubbling cheese on my incorrectly-executed pizza. I felt like I had been unduly wronged and robbed of my happiness. I reached in my pocket and grabbed my phone with the belligerent zest of an infuriated madman. I was gearing up to call the restaurant and unleash an unwarranted tirade on their hard-working staff, but I held back at the last moment after experiencing a staggering epiphany: Although I had not used or bought any illicit substances in several years, I was conducting myself in a manner that eerily resembled how I acted when my drug dealer didn’t pick up my calls. I might have been in long-term recovery, but my addictive, self-soothing tendencies had continued to manifest through my lingering habitual compulsions. I had come far enough in my recovery to know that chemical abstinence alone was not enough anymore – I had to make a conscious effort to work on my emotional sobriety, as well. I sat down at the table, took a deep, calming breath, and paused for a moment of silent reflection. Suddenly, I remembered the wise words that a sober friend had once told me when I was confronted with a similarly frustrating situation in the past:

“Life in recovery is only possible if we understand that there are some things that we can change and some things that we can’t. We will only find serenity and peace if we can find the wisdom to know the difference between them.”

I cleared my head of my anxious and resentful thoughts, reached down for a slice of pizza, and took a bite. I might not have gotten to control the outcome of my night – or even the toppings on my pizza – but I still had a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and more than enough to be grateful for.

140

The bright red brake lights of faraway cars flickered in the distance as I sped down a wide highway. I was four years sober, and I had driven several hours to visit my favorite specialty grocery store across the state border. As I veered onto a curvy and steep exit ramp, I noticed a sizable traffic jam directly ahead.

I slowed my speed, rolled my window down, and relaxed my posture as I surveyed the mundane, suburban scene that was unfolding around me. Rows of posh chain boutiques and polished sedans conjured memories of my childhood years, when I spent countless hours riding through similar neighborhoods in my hometown. It was a staid and sterile cultural milieu that I had gone to great lengths to distance myself from, but it was too late to turn back now. I comforted myself by remembering that I would soon be returning to my new home and life in the peaceful and verdant hills of southern Vermont.

Suddenly, I heard a familiar sound that brought on an entirely different kind of sensory recall. It was the thumping bassline of one of the songs that I had routinely listened to during the worst days of my active addiction. I turned my head towards the source of the music, and saw a young man in a weathered and rusty truck. He had a haircut that was nearly identical to mine, and he was dressed in clothes that were eerily similar to my own. As he pulled up beside me, I smelled the unmistakable odor of drugs and alcohol emanating from his vehicle. My mind instantly went into a reflexive state of stunned and paranoid shock. I had moved hundreds of miles away for a chance at a new start, but the unfavorable memories of my addicted past had proven impossible to escape. I rolled my window up and took a deep breath as I felt intense cravings begin to overtake my body. My shoulders were tense and my teeth were clenched as I waited for the traffic light to turn green. I had come further in my journey of recovery than I had ever thought possible, but my sanity and serenity was being critically threatened by an onslaught of triggering sights, sounds, and smells.

At the peak of my neurotic breakdown, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“When I was in my early recovery, I went to extreme lengths to distance myself from situations that would potentially compromise my sobriety. It was a sound tactic that prevented me from relapsing at my most vulnerable stage, but I eventually found that it was impossible to completely shield myself from triggering environments and situations. Eventually, I made a decision that I would no longer let my fear control me. I chose to neither regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it. I don’t run from my demons anymore – I confront them head on while remaining firmly grounded in the basic principles of my recovery program.”

As the cars in front of me began to lurch forward, I watched the man who reminded me of my former self peel off at a breakneck speed. I put my foot on the gas pedal, turned my head towards the road in front of me, and proceeded to drive to my destination with a calm and unclouded mind. Recovery had given me the ability to stay focused on my own lane in more ways than one, and I was grateful to still be charting a course on the metaphorical road of self-improvement and sustained recovery.

Always remember:

141

I tightened the waist sash of my plush, monogrammed bathrobe. I was four years sober, and I was enjoying a weekend getaway at a beautiful resort hotel in Northern Vermont. I had booked a room there in order to complete a work assignment for my journalism job, and I was savor- ing every moment of the experience.

Suddenly, my indulgent relaxation was interrupted by the faint, faraway chime of my cell phone’s alarm clock. My mind kicked into a state of frantic overdrive as I rushed into the bedroom to turn it off. I had completely lost track of time, and I had less than five minutes to prepare for my interview with the manager of the hotel. I slipped out of my bathrobe, picked out some clothes, got dressed, grabbed my keys, and briskly stepped out into the hallway.

As I wandered through a labyrinthian system of spacious corridors, I found it difficult to maintain my composure and remain humble. I felt a dangerous, corrosive rush of self-satisfaction course through my body as I rounded the corner and entered the hotel’s foyer. There were no addictive chemicals in my system, but I was flying high on a deadly mental cocktail of egotism and reckless arrogance.

After meeting the hotel manager in front of a well-equipped fitness center, I accompanied him on a guided tour of the grounds, improvising questions about the history of the property as he rattled off a series of detailed specifications. When the interview concluded, he led me to the entrance of an inviting and cozy on-site restaurant, and ushered me through the doorway as he said the following words:

“I hope you enjoy your dinner! I am happy to recommend a good a glass of wine to pair with your meal if you would like.”

I froze, paralyzed by the immense weight of imagined social pressure. I had not anticipated that I would be offered alcohol in a professional setting, and I was feeling frightened and uneasy. As I stood there in silence, I realized that I had been presented with two unfavorable options: I could either hide the fact that I was an addict in recovery through lying by omission, or I could risk losing the respect of the person I had just met by telling him the truth about my past. Although I had let my ego get the best of me and let my guard down, I knew that it was still possible to protect my recovery and do the right thing. I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye, and responded in a calm, coolheaded fashion.

“That’s very generous, but I am actually a person in long-term recovery from alcoholism and addiction. I’ll have to pass on the wine recommendation, but I’ll gladly take some advice on what you think is the best entrée on the menu!”

I was expecting the hotel manager to scoff or scowl disapprovingly. Instead, he smiled brightly as he pointed to a framed menu at the front of the restaurant, and he recommended several dishes before leaving to resume his duties. After arriving at my table, I took a sip from my glass of water and allowed my insecurities to melt away like the warm butter on my freshly-baked bread roll. The lessons I had learned in sobriety had enabled me to successfully navigate a difficult social situation, and I was grateful that I had managed to detach from my ego and self-cen- te ed fear once again.

Always remember:

142

The heavenly aroma of freshly-baked bread tickled my nostrils as I passed by a long shelf of artisan chocolate bars. I was four years sober, and I was picking up some tasty snacks with my girlfriend at the grocery store. It had been several weeks since we had last been on a romantic dinner date, but our conflicting work schedules had rendered it nearly impossible for us to spend any evenings together. In an effort to mitigate this unfortunate reality, I had offered to treat her to a picnic lunch at a nearby park before she left for her afternoon shift. She had agreed to my proposition, but I was nevertheless still worried that she was upset with me.

As we wandered through the aisles of the grocery store, I felt my anxiety and insecurities dragging me down into a dark trench of self-pitying doubt. Throughout my journey of recovery, I had struggled to overcome my people-pleasing tendencies and detach from my fear of inadequacy. I wanted my friends and loved ones to approve of me so much that I went to extreme lengths to secure their validation. In the process, I usually developed resentments, and my clumsy attempts to win their approval often ended with disastrous results.

After filling our cart with cheese, crackers, and several bottles of overpriced, flavored seltzer water, we arrived at a crowded deli counter at the back of the store. My girlfriend’s eyes lit up with a gleeful glimmer as we joined a line of customers who were waiting to place their orders.

When we finally made it to the front of the line, we were greeted with a disappointing surprise: The attending sales associate had briskly turned away from us, and had placed a placard on top of the display case that was emblazoned with the following message:

“The deli counter is closed for our staff lunch break.”

With no obvious indication of a concrete return time, it was clear that my plans for a romantic picnic had fallen flat. I looked towards my girlfriend, and our eyes met as the corners of her mouth drooped into a deflated frown. I felt the insidious claws of shame beginning to tear at my weakened psyche. As she stared at me with a melancholy expression, my self-hatred began to rapidly transform into impulsive rage. I squeezed my fingers around the shopping cart handle, struggling to maintain my composure as I held back a snappy, defensive remark. Suddenly, I realized that I was the only person who could break the debilitating emotional cycle that I was trapped in. It was time to make a conscious effort to rid myself of my remaining character defects. I swallowed my pride, put my fears to the side, and spoke from the heart.

“I’m so sorry that the sandwich shop is closed. I feel like I’ve let you down in so many ways lately. To be honest, I have a tendency of promis- ing people more than I can deliver because I want them to love me and approve of me. I hope you can forgive me and that I can take you out for a nice dinner when we both have the time.”

I winced and shuddered as I waited for her to storm off in an angry, contemptuous huff. Instead, she reached down into a nearby display case and pulled out two pre-made sandwiches. Afterwards, she reached out to grab my hand, gave me a bright smile, and thanked me for my honesty. My willingness to admit my lingering character defects had not ruined my relationship with my girlfriend – it had actually brought us closer together than ever before.

Always remember:

143

Unrelenting waves of anxiety flooded my mind as I stared down at an unbearably-bright computer screen. I was four years sober, and I was reviewing the outline of a speech that I had prepared for a regional recovery advocacy event. I was slated to perform and speak for an audience of hundreds of high school students the following evening, and I was wracked with doubt and insecurity. My apartment was empty and silent, save for the nearly imperceptible hum of the radiator and refrigerator motor. I had cancelled all of my social obligations in order to ensure that I had enough time to fully perfect my presentation, but I still felt that I had fallen short in my efforts.

I had given speeches at several treatment centers and high-profile nonprofit institutions in the past, and I was no stranger to stage fright. Still, this event was a completely different prospect, largely due to reasons of a deeply personal nature. I had never addressed a crowd of adolescents who were the same age as I was when I began using harmful substances, and I didn’t know how to convey my message without coming off as hyperbolic or condescending. As I scanned the pages of my speech outline, I thought back on the days when I had attended similar school-sponsored drug awareness events. At the time, I was a fearful and emotionally scarred young man, and I was unknowingly beginning my slow descent into unhinged hedonism. I had put up an impenetrable wall to shield myself from the advice of people that I believed were attempting to infringe on my inborn right to chemical self-destruction. There was nothing that anyone could say or do to change my mind – or so I thought.

As I remembered what it felt like to be trapped in that obstinate mindset, I felt myself overcome by a sense of absolute powerlessness. I didn’t know if it was possible to summon the words that could help to change the lives of potential future addicts. I turned away from my computer, heaved a deep sigh, slumped down into my chair, and wallowed in a self-pitying funk.

In the midst of my hopeless brooding, I remembered a speech that was far different from the fire-and-brimstone anti-drug speeches that I had begrudgingly attended in the earliest years of my active addiction. It was a speech that had been given by a recovering addict at the treatment center where I had spent my first days in recovery. The speaker brought no prepared monologues, nor empty platitudes or canned maxims. Instead, he opened his heart and shared the truth of his journey in vivid and nuanced detail. There was a relaxed, grateful presence in his voice that cut through all of my pain and self-centered fear. It let me know that it was possible to let go of my old ways and that I had nothing to be ashamed of. His words also gave me the courage to overlook my lingering delusions and begin walking on the path of self-actualization in recovery.

After reflecting on the power of that speaker’s fearless and authentic honesty, I deleted every word of my outline, closed my computer, and walked towards my car to drive to a sobriety fellowship meeting. I finally understood that I didn’t have to use any fancy rhetorical devices to get my point across to a young, impressionable audience. I just had to tell my own truth and remain grounded in the original philosophy that had guided me since the first day I spent sober and clean:

Always remember:

144

The craggy cliffs of an abandoned marble quarry glinted in the autumn sunset as I sped past them on a rural highway. I was four years sober, and I was on my way to visit the restaurant that my girlfriend worked at. I had purchased a teddy bear and flower bouquet from a small shop in a nearby town, and I was excited to surprise her with an impromptu gift.

I pulled up in front of the restaurant, parked my car, and walked towards the front door, brandishing my flowers and stuffed bear with ceremonious zeal. As I neared the entrance to the service station, I saw my girlfriend standing in front of a tray of freshly-prepared food. I interrupted her steely-eyed concentration with a gentle nudge on her shoulder, then presented the gifts with a poorly-timed romantic interjection:

“Surprise! I got these for you today because I know that you’ve had a tough work week.”

I was expecting her to greet my affectionate presentation with doe- eyed bewilderment and gratuitous applause. Instead, she curled the corners of her lips into an expression that was halfway in between a smile and a grimace. She then grabbed the flowers and teddy bear out of my hands, briskly stashed them on a nearby countertop, hoisted the platter of food above her head, and walked out of the service alleyway. Before proceeding through the doorway to the dining room, she left me with the following remark:

“I appreciate you getting these for me, but this isn’t the right time for you to be visiting. It’s the busiest part of the shift, and I need to go take care of my tables.”

As the folds of her apron disappeared around the corner, I heard her co-workers begin to softly chuckle and scoff at me. I felt my face redden with embarrassment as I meekly shuffled out of the service station and walked back towards my car. By the time I opened the drivers-side door, my humiliation had morphed into anger and resentment. I couldn’t believe that my girlfriend had the nerve to criticize me for bringing her a gift at the wrong time. Before sticking the key in the ignition, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and began typing out an angry and self-righteous text message to her. As I hovered my thumb above the “send” button, I took a moment to breathe meditatively and ground myself in the present. It was a technique that I had developed over the years I had spent in recovery, and it allowed me to break through the toxic mental fog I was trapped in. After several deep breaths, I arrived at the following conclusion: Although my original intentions were good, I had failed to realize that I was upset with my girlfriend for somewhat selfish reasons. I hadn’t just brought her the gift because I wanted to make her happy – I was also motivated by my nagging thirst for external validation. I deleted the vitriolic words on the screen, and sent her the following message instead:

“I’m sorry if I came to bring you the gift at the wrong time. I want to do whatever I can to support you, but sometimes that means detaching from my need to constantly win your affection and looking at situations objectively.”

As I pulled away from the restaurant, I rolled the window down and let the fall breeze blow away my lingering doubts and fears. Recovery had given me the gifts of self-awareness and restraint – and those gifts would make a greater difference in the lives of my loved ones than any store-bought present ever could.

Always remember:

145

The sounds of squeaking brakes and idling engines tickled my ear- drums as I stood in a crowded parking lot outside of a small gas station. I was four years sober, and I was cleaning out my car for the first time in several weeks.

I knelt down on the pavement, craning my neck as I reached my hand underneath the passenger side chair. Following a brief period of laborious squirming, I pulled out several empty water bottles, a golf ball-sized clump of crinkled receipts, and an empty bag of spicy corn chips. After scanning the remaining nooks and crannies for additional items, I rose to my feet, walked to a nearby trashcan, and dumped all of my unwanted refuse.

Once the task was complete, I trotted back to my car with a beaming smile on my face. I had never been a meticulous or tidy person, but the time I had spent in recovery had taught me the value of order and discipline. I found it immensely fulfilling to clear out the clutter in my car, and it allowed me to break through my anxiety and remain present in the moment. It also served as a powerful reminder of the fact that I had overcome the squalor of my active addiction. After pausing and gathering my bearings, I drove across the parking lot towards a large, coin-operated vacuum cleaner. It was now time to begin the more detailed and satisfying phase of the cleaning process.

As my car screeched to a halt in front of the vacuum hose holster, I

looked down at my center console. Upon inspecting its contents, I felt my smile droop down into a frowny scowl. The vacuum cleaner cost fifty cents, and I had no loose change in my car. I pulled out my wallet and began rifling through its folds in search of money that I could exchange for quarters inside of the gas station. When I saw that it was empty, I was rocked by a surge of fretful panic. I jumped out of the driver’s seat and bolted towards the entrance to the gas station. Against all odds, I remained stubbornly determined to finish cleaning my car.

I burst through the doorway and slipped past a group of customers who were standing in line at the cash register, brandishing my debit card with the aggressive bravado of a medieval knight. As I approached the cash machine, I encountered another disappointing surprise: the ATM was out of order, and my options were now completely exhausted. I belt- ed out a guttural growl as feelings of impatience and frustration clouded my mind. I was angry and dissatisfied, and the metaphorical claws of resentment were beginning to violently scratch away any remaining traces of serenity.

Before descending into an inescapable crevasse of self-pity, I experi- enced a humbling epiphany: I was acting in a manner that eerily resem- bled the way that I conducted myself as an actively using addict. In the worst days of my addiction, I had scrounged for change and money and searched for ATM machines in a similarly irritable and discontented state. Although it had been several years since I had last ingested a mind-altering chemical, I had nevertheless allowed a different type of compulsion to rob me of my inner peace and mental stability. I put my wallet back in my pocket, took a deep breath, and decided to go to a sobriety fellowship meeting instead of vainly attempting to clean my car. My vehicle might not have been as clean as I wanted it to be, but I had nevertheless managed to keep my conscience clean by remaining firmly grounded in the principles that I had learned in recovery.

Always remember:

146

The hinges of my dresser drawer squeaked like an angry mouse as I rifled through layers of neatly-folded clothes. I was four years sober, and I was frantically searching for my favorite dress shirt. I wanted to wear it to a community event that I was slated to speak at the following day, but I had no idea where I had left it. I had been looking for it for more than half an hour, and my patience was beginning to wear thin.

As I emptied out the contents of my bureau and closet onto the ground, I peered down at the mangled pastiche of slacks, socks, and shirts that were lining my floor. Their asymmetrically-creased folds and wrinkled cuffs served as a projected embodiment of my mental state, which was equally disarrayed and disorderly. It had been almost a week since I had last attended a sobriety fellowship meeting, and my toxic character defects were bubbling to the surface like odious gases in a stagnant swamp.

Although my executive function skills had improved considerably over the course of my recovery, I still found it incredibly difficult to keep track of my things. As a result of my continual struggles with spatial awareness and organization, I had developed a simple and effective clothing sorting system. Every shirt, jacket, and pair of pants that I owned was neatly stored in a small wooden bureau, which was positioned directly behind a massive hamper that held my dirty clothes.

In an effort to combat my carefree and apathetic inclinations, I also made a point of laundering and folding all of my clothes on the exact same day every week. It was an effective system that had served me well, but it came with a massive drawback: if I didn’t follow my process to the letter and I strayed from my normal routine, I would often lose my clothes without noticing until later. This, in turn, would then also cause me to lose my serenity and my sanity. I reflected on this ironic conun- drum as I ran my hands through the final pile of unchecked clothes, then tossed them to the side as I heaved a defeated sigh.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that although I had turned my apartment upside down in search of my shirt, I hadn’t searched within myself for the true source of my anxiety and anger. I also hadn’t taken the time to ground myself in gratitude and mindfulness. In the process of attempt- ing to maintain a sense of order and control on a material level, I had neglected to direct the same amount of attention towards preserving my mental health. As a result, my agitated and impulsive mindset had rendered me completely incapable of approaching my problem from a practical and objective perspective.

After taking a moment to center myself in the present, I was able to see the situation more clearly. With my mind uncluttered, I realized that it was possible that I had left my shirt in the washing machine. I made my way towards the laundry room, I opened the door to the dryer and found my shirt clinging to the side of the tumbler. As I reached in to grab its sleeve, I took a moment to reflect on the power of self-awareness and acceptance. I was grateful to have found my shirt, but I was happier to have reclaimed my inner peace.

Always remember:

147

My elbow rested on the windowsill as I surveyed the picturesque scene outside of my apartment. A crescent moon was poking through the grey clouds, shining down on a nearby mountainside and its surrounding forests. When the clouds rejoined and blocked the last sliver of moonlight, I was surrounded by darkness – both literally and metaphorically. I was four years sober, and I was marooned in a melancholy mental space that was proving difficult to escape.

It was only 7 pm, but it might as well have been midnight. Several days had passed since the clocks had moved back an hour, signaling the beginning of the gradual transition from fall to winter. Although I had always considered myself somewhat of a night owl, the early darkening of the sky and the colder temperatures were having a noticeable effect on my happiness and serenity. It was difficult for me to concentrate on my work, and my sluggish irritability was beginning to take a toll on my relationships with my friends and loved ones.

I looked down at my phone and saw that I had four unread text messages from my girlfriend and five missed calls from my mother. I had neglected to respond to their persistent correspondence due to lingering feelings of gloom and self-doubt. My sadness was like a proverbial avalanche, gathering momentum and force as it blanketed my mind in a thick layer of woeful apathy.

Suddenly, I heard my phone ring. It was my friend from my sobriety fellowship. I pushed the phone away in an effort to further isolate myself. Although I was not emotionally aware enough to admit it at the time, I was intentionally leaning into my negative feelings and escaping into pessimistic thinking. I was too proud to accept help from anyone who was willing to rescue me from my loneliness and despair. After listening to my phone ring and vibrate for over a minute, the room fell eerily silent. I had managed to avoid human interaction for an entire day, but my decision to ignore the call came with an unintended consequence. My detachment quickly turned into guilt, and my loneliness transformed into fear. I finally became aware that I was putting my recovery in danger, and I knew that it was time to act.

After snapping out of my sorrowful haze, I reached for my phone and called my friend back. Sadly, he had already turned off his phone. The normal sobriety fellowship meeting that we routinely attended together was about to start in less than ten minutes, and I was afraid that I had already ruined my chances at reestablishing a connection with my recovery circle. I slumped down against the cold, hard wall, languishing in my self-imposed solitude. I didn’t know if I had the strength to overcome my self-destructive impulses and move past my anxiety. At the apex of my existential crisis, I remembered the powerful words of another sober friend:

“Life can bring us to some dark places. We might not always find help in our times of greatest need – especially if we push people away because of fear. Still, the light of hope is always present in recovery. We just have to be willing to look within ourselves and find it.”

I sprung to my feet and flipped on the nearest light switch, then grabbed my coat and raced towards my car to drive to a sobriety fellowship meeting. I might not have been able to bring the moonlight back to the night sky or stem the tide of seasonal change. I could, however, choose to brighten up my own life one day at a time by embracing the spirit of fellowship, connection, and recovery.

Always remember:

148

Slow and reflective music echoed through the halls of my apartment as I anxiously paced around my kitchen. I was four years sober, and I had spent hours preparing an elaborate meal. Although I was grateful that my girlfriend and two of my friends had agreed to join me for dinner, my mood was nevertheless pensive and dolorous. It was Thanksgiving Day, and my family members had chosen to suspend their yearly gathering as a precautionary safety measure.

Eight months had passed since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was still struggling to adjust to the new reality. Local businesses and sobriety fellowship meetings had gradually started to reopen their doors to the public, but many of my closest friends and family members remained hesitant to travel over large distances. It was the first Thanksgiving that I had spent without my family in several years, and I was beginning to succumb to feelings of sadness and self-pity.

As I chopped up a large pile of potatoes and carrots, memories of past Holiday gatherings in recovery and active addiction flashed through my mind. In the final days before I got sober and clean, the Holiday season was a time of sorrow and secrecy. I was too ashamed to attend family gatherings, so I would scuttle away from social commitments in pursuit of destructive narcotic oblivion. After renouncing my chemical dependency and starting a new life in recovery, I had gradually reclaimed my seat at the Thanksgiving table in a literal and figurative sense. Sadly, events that were far beyond my control had rendered me incapable of strengthening my recently re-established family connections. It had been several years since I had last ingested a mind-altering substance, but I was confronted with a sense of isolation and gloom that closely mirrored the darkest days of my active addiction.

After placing the potatoes and vegetables in a large pot, I paused before igniting the flame under the saucepan that held the main course. I didn’t see the point of cooking a festive dinner when my family was so far away. At the climax of my emotional crisis, I remembered the words of a wise friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Although it is sometimes difficult to accept the truth, we have to be willing to face the fact that we cannot always control who we share our holidays with. It takes some of us years to earn back the trust of our families after we get sober. Some of us have lost countless friends and loved ones to addiction or other illnesses. Regardless, we must remain grounded in the solution. Even when great emotional or physical distance separates us from our families, we can still be thankful for the things that we do have. Whether we are eating a holiday meal by ourselves or enjoying a tasty dinner in a room full of friends or family members, the principle of gratitude should always have a seat at our table.”

After taking a moment to pause, breathe, and reflect, I realized that I was doing myself more harm than good by focusing on the people that weren’t joining me for dinner. I picked up my phone, sent a series of Holiday messages to all of my faraway family members and friends, and began preparing the final dishes for my Thanksgiving spread. I might not have been able to control exactly who I spent the holidays with, but I was still thankful to be alive, sober, and present in the moment.

Always remember:

149

Water splashed off of my elbows as I awkwardly swung my arms in a circular motion. I was four years sober, and I had spent the last 20 minutes attempting to clear a stubborn clog from the drain.

Although I had long suspected that the drain was getting backed up, I had failed to heed the warning signs when the water slowed down. Throughout the course of my journey of recovery, my apathetic tendencies had brought about a variety of unfavorable circumstances. I would often postpone daily tasks and chores, writing them off as mundane and menial nuisances that could only serve to distract me from my larger commitments. Usually, karmic providence would cause the results of my inattentive indifference to come full circle at humorously inconvenient times – and this fateful afternoon was no exception.

My girlfriend was scheduled to meet me at our home in less than 15 minutes. She had picked up food for us at a local restaurant, and I’d made a valiant attempt to wash off the remaining dirty plates in our sink before she arrived. Sadly, my decision to clean up our kitchen at the last minute had resulted in a tragically comical outcome: the kitchen counter was even dirtier than before, my shirt sleeves were soaked, and the sink had transformed from an empty basin with several dirty dishes to a frothy cauldron of soap and grease.

In my haste, I plunged the drain auger further into the pipe, lodging it in a narrow crevice. No matter how hard I pulled, the tool remained stuck. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was a text from my girlfriend that read, “I’m downstairs!”

I froze in place, panic sloshing through my mind like the water in my overcrowded sink. I began furiously ruminating about the grimy state of the kitchen, trapped in a state of fretful dissociation. At the culmination of my household catastrophe, I experienced a startling epiphany: while attempting to deal with the real-world consequences of my negligent apathy, I had become marooned in an even more sloppy and ineffectual mental state than before.

Although my tendency to procrastinate may have partially stemmed from laziness, it was primarily rooted in a character defect that had plagued me since the worst days of my addiction: I was too wrapped up in my own nonsense to notice anything out of my immediate sphere of concentration. For as long as I could remember, I had focused my attention and effort like a hypersonic laser beam, honing in on certain tasks and habits with obsessive zeal. As an actively using addict, this translated into a chemical compulsion with disastrous results. In recovery, it manifested in the way that I routinely shirked responsibilities and indulged myself in neurotic self-analysis. I knew that ignoring my girlfriend’s text message and hiding the situation from her was equally as problematic as ignoring a clogged sink. One way or another, the rippling shockwaves of my actions would eventually rear their heads – and I would be forced to face the truth.

After taking a deep breath, I walked down to meet my girlfriend and shyly apologized for keeping her waiting. When I told her about my hideous domestic debacle, she started laughing and offered the following comment:

“I’m just glad that we’re both sober and clean and that we get to eat a delicious dinner together. To be honest, though, I’m even more grateful that it’s your turn to do the dishes!”

Always remember:

150

The robust aroma of vanilla extract hung in the air as I whisked a thick concoction of sugar, cream, eggs, flour, and spices in a large mixing bowl. I turned down the festive holiday music that was playing out of a nearby speaker, closed my eyes, and made an effort to block out every noticeable distraction. I was four years sober, and I was attempting to make a complex holiday dessert for the first time without any help. I had absolutely no baking experience, and my lack of training had landed me in a tragically-humorous predicament.

After calming my nerves and opening my eyes, I looked down at a crumpled piece of paper at the edge of the table. I was searching for an obvious indication of what to do next, but I was unable to clearly focus. Although I had attempted to power through the baking process with a printed recipe from a popular cooking website, it had proven to be an insufficient source of guidance. My mind was clouded with a haze of insecurity that was even thicker than the clods of wet flour on my fingertips. I had lost my place in the order of instructions, and I was charting a surefire course towards confectionery disaster.

As I looked down at the viscous and inconsistent mixture below me, I thought back on all of the times that I had foolishly attempted to take matters into my own hands during my active addiction. In those days, I would often become overpowered by feverish impulses, which would cause me to embark on dangerous escapades without any proper planning. I sought out hedonistic oblivion regardless of the consequences, and my poorly-conceived strategies would often result in terrifying consequences. It had been almost half a decade since I had last ingested a mind-altering substance, but an identical pattern of irresponsible and stubborn conduct had nevertheless emerged in long-term recovery. I had taken on an ill-fated challenge that was proving to be entirely impractical, but I remained stubbornly determined to finish the task.

Suddenly, my dark and somber reflections were cut short by a frightening crash. I looked down at the table and was greeted by a disappointing sight: I had unintentionally smashed the handle of the whisk into the side of my thin glass mixing bowl. A large chunk of glass had broken off into splinters, which were now scattered inside of the cake mix. My kitchen was a mess, my haphazardly-made cake was now completely inedible, and my plans had completely fallen through. I banged my fists down on the table in frustration, tossed my apron to the side, and collapsed into a nearby chair. I was saddled with a feeling of dire distress, which conjured memories of the days when my ruinous schemes were unsuccessful in active addiction. I was broken down and despondent, and I didn’t know what to do.

At the height of my emotional crisis, I experienced a blinding epiphany: By applying the same principles of resourceful humility that had allowed me to move past my addiction and start a new life in recovery, I could salvage the cake while preserving my serenity. First, I reached down into the depths of my subconscious, and I found the courage to accept the things that were beyond my control. After that, I reached into my refrigerator to grab a box of easy-to-bake cake mix. Much like my lifesaving program of recovery, it was a simple solution that had been right in front of me the whole time. I just had to be willing to learn from my mistakes and take the first steps towards simpler, more sustainable choices.

Always remember:

151

Colorful baubles glistened underneath twinkling lights as I paced through the aisles of a spacious department store. I was four years sober, and I was doing some last-minute holiday shopping. After making my way past endless rows of perfume bottles and designer handbags, I came upon a shelf that was replete with comfortable cashmere sweaters. There was no time for dawdling or distractions. I needed to find a gift that was in line with my girlfriend’s sartorial preferences.

I rifled through several racks, pulling sweaters off of the hangers in an attempt to find the right size. After repeating the process with several different types of outerwear garments, I came upon a gray cardigan that was tasteful, stylish, and soft to the touch. As I knelt down to tie my shoe, I felt a grateful smile begin to spread across my face. I had found something that I knew my girlfriend was going to love, and I was excited to take it home with me.

Upon rising from my crouched position, I was greeted by an unfortunate surprise: A swiftly-moving shopper had quietly snuck up in front of me while I was tying my shoelaces. He was holding the cardigan in his hand, and there was nothing that I could do to stop him. I watched in silent horror as he picked it up, examined it, and placed it down into his cart. It was the only piece of clothing in that specific style, size, and color in the store, and I was terrified by the prospect of returning home empty-handed.

As I rose to my feet, I watched the unassuming shopper turn to inspect the rack directly behind him. His shopping cart was completely vulnerable, and I felt the urge to grab the prized clothing item and run away with it. Although I knew that I was wrong for even thinking of snatching the cardigan, my resentments and fears were beginning to overpower my sanity and judgment. As I inched towards the cart, it felt like my moral compass was melting in a fiery maelstrom of egotistical delusion. I thought I was entitled to claim what was rightfully mine.

Suddenly, I came to a startling and humbling realization: a single inconvenient moment had reawakened and magnified all of the vestigial character defects from my active addiction. It had been years since I had last used a mind-altering substance, but I had reverted to thinking in the same way as I did in the worst days of my chemically-induced misery. The circumstances were different, but my mental state was equally as desperate as when I crawled across my mother’s floor and stole money out of her purse to buy drugs. Although I was wracked with guilt, the time I had spent in recovery had given me the ability to recognize the error of my ways. I turned away from the cart, chose a different sweater, and heaved a sigh of relief. I might not have gotten the item I wanted, but I had managed to preserve my sobriety for another day.

As I began to walk to the checkout line, I came upon the rack that once held the cardigan that I desired, and I saw that something miraculous had happened. The customer who had snuck up and taken the sweater had returned it back to its original place! Tears welled up in my eyes as I grabbed the cardigan and held it closely to my chest. I had originally come to the store to buy a present for my girlfriend, but I had left with two gifts that were even more priceless: a grateful heart and a clean conscience.

Always remember:

152

The winter wind whistled like a faraway train as I slowly trudged across an icy road. I was four years sober, and I was getting ready to shovel my car out of the snow. It was the third December that I had spent as a full-time resident of Vermont, and I had finally adjusted to the rhythm and pace of the colder months. Although I had once dreaded the grueling process of brushing off my car and scraping its windows, the passage of time had changed my perspective. I found that it was immensely satisfying to see my car gradually emerge from a frigid, opaque blanket of snow. Watching its wheels and frame break free from their icy prison served as a beautiful metaphor for the hard-fought freedom I had found in recovery. I took pride in stepping up to the challenge, and I welcomed the opportunity to reaffirm my program of spiritual discipline – or so I thought.

As the pile of shoveled snow by the side of my car grew larger, my body temperature rose and my heart rate increased. I took off my scarf and hat and placed them in my pockets, warmed and energized by a surge of natural euphoria. After powering through an exceptionally-tricky patch of ice, I removed my gloves, plugged my headphones into my ears, and turned on my favorite song. I had carved an effective path to the road, and my windows were completely clear of ice.

I began dancing victoriously, pumping my fists in the air like a cocky athlete who had just scored a championship touchdown. Without warning, my egotistical celebration was cut short by an unpleasant surprise. A massive plow truck had pulled up behind my car and pushed a heaving truckload of snow in front of its rear bumper. As it backed away, I felt my jovial elation instantly transform into rancorous resentment. My hard work had been almost entirely erased by a cruel twist of fate, and I didn’t think I was capable of handling the letdown.

I tossed my shovel into the pile of snow and kicked up clouds of loose powder, whispering ungrateful utterances in a harsh, bitter tone. I was deflated and despondent, and I was trapped in a mental state that closely resembled how I felt in the throes of chemical detox. I had fallen from the lofty clouds of boastful delusion, and had been metaphorically impaled by a sharp spike of inconvenient truth. Suddenly, I recalled the blunt, candid advice that a dear friend had given me in the earliest days of my recovery:

“We don’t stay sober by celebrating when things go smoothly. We stay in the solution by recognizing setbacks as a chance to implement the lifesaving principles of acceptance and accountability. One way or another, we pick up our metaphoric shovels every day that we show up and greet life on life’s terms in sobriety. It’s up to us to decide whether we want to dig deeper in a hole of destructive thinking – or dig ourselves out of a pit of darkness by staying grounded in gratitude.”

After pausing to reflect on the power of grateful surrender, I wiped the sweat off my brow, took a deep breath, and began shoveling the snow with a newfound sense of purpose. It wasn’t easy to detach from my anger and pride, but I was nevertheless grateful to be alive and sober. Recovery had given me the ability to pick the shovel back up when it mattered most, and it was time to start digging.

Always remember:

153

Piercing moonlight reflected off of the icy asphalt as I zoomed down a narrow highway. I was four years sober, and I was on my way to the fine dining restaurant where my girlfriend worked. It was the fourth New Year’s Eve that I had spent in recovery, and I wanted to celebrate in a romantic and memorable fashion.

After pulling over and parking my car in front of the restaurant, I stepped out into a strong, frigid wind. I adjusted my blazer, smoothed the wrinkles out of my shirt, and bent down to tie my shoes on the shim- mering marble sidewalk. After rising to my feet, I combed the remaining knots out of my hair, pulled a cloth face mask out of my pocket, and fastened its loops around my ears. The COVID-19 pandemic was raging at full force, and masks were still mandatory at all restaurants. Regardless, I needed to make a lasting impression with my entrance. I had dusted off my favorite formal outfit for the occasion, and I was determined to make my girlfriend feel special – even though she was spending her New Year’s Eve at work.

Upon walking through the front entrance of the restaurant, I was immediately overcome by an onslaught of sensory stimuli. The shuffling sounds of pacing servers and hosts blended with the cacophonous din of jolly, bombastic conversations. I shimmied through a packed dining room and emerged in a dimly-lit and intimate tavern. I sat down, ordered a sparkling water, and asked the bartender where my girlfriend was.

“I haven’t seen her recently,” he responded.“She’s been keeping me busy with drink orders all night for her tables. You might have to wait a while before you get to see her, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”

I gave a meager chuckle, placed an order for my favorite entrée, and attempted to mask my insecurities and anxiety with a forced smile and cheery banter. I twiddled my fingers on the edge of the dark wood coun- tertop as I scanned the room. I could barely see the faces of the masked servers who were squeezing between the crowded tables, and I didn’t want to embarrass my girlfriend by screaming her name in a loud, gauche fashion. After neurotically overthinking for over an hour, I found myself trapped in a state of fearful resentment. I had journeyed out into the cold night to surprise my girlfriend with a tastefully-timed workplace visit, but I was unable to find her in the crowded tavern. I was surrounded by tipsy revelers who were sporting gaudy regalia and imbibing pricey alcoholic beverages, and I felt like I was completely out of place and unwanted. As I began to descend into the depths of woeful despondence, I remembered a choice quote from a friend from my recovery fellowship:

“Sobriety doesn’t prevent us from encountering frustrating or disorienting situations – but it does give us the chance to navigate them with perspective and clarity. When things are chaotic and out of control, I like to remember what I’m grateful for. Times change and years pass by, but recovery always helps us stay grounded in the moment and its positive potential.”

As the room erupted into a raucous New Year’s Eve countdown, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and whispered a grateful prayer for the fact that I was entering the new year alive and sober. When my meditation was complete, I felt a telltale tap on my shoulder. My girlfriend had finally found me in the first seconds of the new year – and I was ready to embrace her with the gratitude and love that she truly deserved.

Always remember:

154

My shoulders were tense and sore as I shuffled through a thick stack of papers on my work desk. I was four years sober, and I was attempting to organize my professional correspondence in an efficient and practical manner. It was a cold and dry January afternoon, and the romance and cheer of the Holiday season had all but completely faded. I was overtired, uninspired, and stumbling through a proverbial thicket of self-defeating malaise.

Although I was grateful to be working full-time as a writer and journalist, the COVID-19 pandemic had forced me to take some time away from my primary musical passion. The temporary closure of live performance venues had made it nearly impossible to perform my debut album, and I wasn’t ready to record my second project. I found myself at a precarious artistic crossroads: I had finally carved a unique niche for myself as a sober writer and musician, but I wasn’t sure how to spread my message without a venue to perform in. It was a confounding and frustrating predicament, and I was beginning to lose my faith in my creative future.

In the midst of my pessimistic ruminations, I heard my phone ring. It was the producer who I collaborated with on my first musical project. After trading blithe witticisms for several minutes, he presented me with an unexpected proposition:

“I know that you’ve been looking for a creative outlet lately. It hasn’t been easy for anyone to navigate the pandemic, and musicians are certainly no exception. Still, I have an opportunity for us to work together on something that combines your enthusiasm for music and recovery advocacy in a different way. It’s something that you haven’t done before, but I think it’s time for us to take another leap of faith and try something new. I’ve spoken with the Operations Manager over at 102.7 WEQX in Manchester, and he’s open to speaking with you about hosting a radio show. You could play music by sober artists and tie it into your own story of recovery. Is that something that would interest you?”

Upon hearing his words, I felt my stomach begin to churn with anx- ious anticipation. I had overcome my fear of telling my story through music and words, but I was nevertheless reluctant to share the intimate details of my addiction with a live radio audience. I felt a shiver rush through my spine as I greeted his inquiry with the following response:

“I’m certainly open to it, but I do have some doubts. What if the people who listen to the radio station don’t want to hear a recovering addict talk about what they’ve been through?”

My producer answered in a calm and soothing tone:

“The conversation around recovery is changing – and you have a chance to take it even further with this radio show. I believe that you can do this, and I’ll be there to help you every step of the way.”

After a brief meditative pause, I agreed to the initial interview with the radio station, hung up the call, and took a deep, refreshing breath. I opened up my computer, sent off one last work correspondence email, and began compiling a list of potential songs to use for the show. I didn’t know what the future held, but I was ready to commit to the new opportunity with the same vigorous fervor that I applied to my program of recovery on a daily basis.

Always remember:

155

The high-pitched voices of hammy and overdramatic actors blared out of my television speakers as I reclined in bed with a bowl of buttery popcorn. I was four years sober, and I was enjoying a restful night at home with my girlfriend. It had been several weeks since we had spent an entire evening together, and I was struggling to re-establish our strained romantic connection.

Given the fact that we were both people in long-term recovery with full-time jobs, our relationship was a delicate balancing act. Keeping up with our sobriety fellowships, meeting our work commitments, and maintaining our self-care regimens required time and concerted effort – and it wasn’t always easy to muster the strength for anything else. Oftentimes, we would both be so drained from our daily routines that we would find it nearly impossible to connect with one another. As a result, a perpetually widening chasm of emotional detachment had formed between us. Neither of us wanted to end our relationship, but it was evident that we were both caught in cycles of self-isolating behavior.

As I looked across the bed at my girlfriend, I felt like I was staring at a faraway ship that was disappearing over the edge of the horizon. She was scrolling through an endless rotation of humorous and distracting social media posts on her phone, and I didn’t want to interrupt her. She was happily ensconced in a kingdom of cheery digital escapism, and she seemed to have little interest in connecting with me in the real world. Feeling defeated, I turned up the volume on the television. I then attempted to block out my feelings of lovesick desperation by losing myself in my own alternate reality. Sadly, the convoluted plot twists of my favorite detective show couldn’t trick me into forgetting about my problems. My loneliness was beginning to turn into anger and resentment, and I felt trapped in a situation that I could no longer control.

I hadn’t said a word to my girlfriend in several hours, but it felt like we were engaged in a silent argument. I was caught up in feverish, egocentric delusions, and I was beginning to believe that she was intentionally shutting me out. At the height of my internal crisis, I considered hurling the bowl of popcorn against the wall, grabbing my slippers, and storm- ing out of the room in an angry huff. I didn’t have the courage to speak my mind, and I was too proud to tell her that I was afraid of losing her.

Suddenly, I realized that the same feelings of fear and uncertainty that had plagued me during my active addiction were continuing to wreak havoc on my life in recovery. My delusional, self-destructive pride and ego had held me back from seeking help for my substance use issues for years – and had also made it difficult for me to maintain relationships with my friends and loved ones.

It had been nearly half a decade since I had last ingested an addictive substance, but my character defects were still threatening my sanity and sobriety. If I ever wanted to be free, I needed to break through my self-imposed prison of stubbornness and egotism. I reached out across the bed, grabbed my girlfriend’s hand, and asked her how her day was. I was expecting her to react in a cold and indifferent manner. Instead, she put down her phone, smiled, and moved closer towards me. Recovery had given me the courage to confront my fear of rejection, and I was grateful to be able to work towards improving my communication skills one day at a time.

Always remember:

156

My hands were cramped and my eyelids were heavy as I hunched over my computer keyboard. I was four years sober, and I was unsuc- cessfully attempting to write my weekly CLEAN column. I had typed out dozens of different opening paragraphs, but I couldn’t seem to choose a good topic to write about. I was no stranger to writer’s block – it was a condition with which I was all too familiar. Still, the specific nature of my creative impediment was proving exceptionally difficult to pinpoint.

In the past, feelings of mental exhaustion had frequently derailed my artistic efforts. At other times, I found it difficult to write about a lesson I had learned in recovery due to external distractions, such as love, personal passions, or my mental health issues. As I sat in front of my computer, it dawned on me that none of those conditions applied to the situation at hand. I had slept well, my social obligations had been met, my personal relationships were going well, and I was not struggling to find professional fulfillment. Nevertheless, the intense synaptic fire that normally raged within the proverbial furnace of my mind had been extinguished by an all-consuming deluge of tranquil indifference. After pontificating in vain for an extended period of time, I finally isolated the cause of my creative dilemma: I had reached a point in my recovery where I was no longer anxious or overwhelmed – and my happiness and serenity was wreaking havoc on my artistic process.

In an ironic twist of fate, my inexplicable feelings of inner peace had brought the gears of my verbal apparatus to a screeching halt. I didn’t know how to write without being mired in a state of frenzied neurosis – or so I thought. As I twiddled my thumbs on the keyboard, I felt myself slipping into numb and detached apathy. I had completely resigned myself to a fate of artistic obsolescence when a catalytic spark flashed in the engine of my creative psyche. I suddenly remembered a past con- versation with a sober musician from my recovery fellowship. When I asked him about how he overcame his identity crisis in the years after his lifestyle change, he replied with the following words:

“Life goes on beyond the chaos of addiction, but stability and peace do not provide an excuse for creative laziness. As long as you remember where you came from, you’ll be able to find meaning in all of life’s small miracles and setbacks – however mundane they may seem.”

After playing the musician’s wise statement back in my mind’s eye, I realized that his artistic observations served as a perfect manifestation of the principles of acceptance and surrender. I had to accept that I was an addict in order to move forward in recovery, and I had to accept my writer’s block in order to grow artistically. It would require humility and patience to move forward in a new stage of my life, but I was ready to channel all of my passion into adapting to my newfound challenges – and I was ready to take life one word, one column, and one day at a time.

Always remember:

157

My thumbs shuffled faster than a poker dealer as I scrolled through an endless queue of online videos. I was four years sober, and I was trapped in a vacuum of mindless distraction. I had work assignments due and unfinished domestic chores that I needed to complete, but I found myself unable to put my phone down and engage with the real world.

As I plowed through a series of short, inane, and humorous clips, I felt my attention span begin to dissolve and shorten at an exponential rate. I had been emotionally paralyzed by an onslaught of external stimuli, and I was becoming increasingly unaware of my own feelings and needs. Suddenly, I heard the beeping chime of my smoke detector. In the process of overindulging on virtual entertainment, I had forgotten to check on the real food that I was sautéing in my kitchen. I ran to the stove, turned off the burner, and reached down to move the pan to a cooler surface. I picked up its handle and felt a painful burn in my palm. Ironically, the hand that I had been using to scroll through the videos on my phone had been instantly incapacitated as a result of my careless apathy.

I reeled in agony as I paid the cost for my inattention and irresponsibility. To make matters worse, I couldn’t find the first aid kit, and I was completely out of adhesive bandages. With nothing to cover up the blisters that I wanted to hide from the world, I was forced to let them heal out in the open. When I looked down at my burnt hand, I realized that my mental state was also in need of healing. I picked up the phone, exited the video application, called up a friend from my recovery fellowship, and told him what had happened. I was expecting harsh judgment, but he greeted my reluctant admission with the following wise words:

“As a recovering addict, it’s always going to be hard for me to prioritize slow, sustainable growth over instant gratification. I haven’t had a drink or used drugs in years, but I still find myself looking for an external solution to my internal problems. When I find myself escaping into the virtual world too much, I find that the principles of gratitude and acceptance help me stay grounded in my program of recovery. It’s hard to completely abstain from technology and social media in today’s modern world, but it is possible to disconnect from compulsive patterns of ritualistic escapism. After you call me, why don’t you put down your phone, finish cooking your meal, and go for a walk outside. You might find that feeding your body and spirit with good food and time outdoors is even more fulfilling than feeding your daydreams with online videos.”

After hanging up the call, I turned off my phone, put together a simple meal, and took a moment to pause, realign, and reflect. I opened a window, took a deep breath of winter air, and reacclimated to the world outside of myself and my phone. Recovery had given me the ability to detach from my compulsive habits, and had brought me back to the things that matter most.

Always remember:

158

Fluffy snowflakes fell through the branches of tall maple trees as I stumbled through a hilly glade. I was four years sober, and I was lost in a mountainous forest on a cold winter afternoon. The sun was beginning to set, and I was struggling to re-orient myself within a complex hiking trail system. My girlfriend and I had arrived at the trailhead several hours earlier with high hopes for a fulfilling afternoon of outdoor recreation. We had thoroughly enjoyed our trip to the summit, but the journey back to our car had proven to be a disastrous failure on my end.

She was a spry young woman who was passionate about distance running and cardiovascular fitness. Sadly, the damage I had done to my lungs during the course of my addiction had resulted in a noticeable difference in our athletic abilities. No matter how hard I tried to keep up, I still felt like I was holding her back. After an exhausting hilltop ascent, I decided to take an easier path back to the parking lot. It was a slow and gradual downhill trail with minimal signage, and it was much less demanding than the well-marked path that my girlfriend preferred. After parting ways with her at the trail fork, I wandered down a poorly-maintained, treelined trail for nearly half an hour before completely losing my sense of direction. The trail became increasingly narrow with every passing step, and the quickening snowfall made it nearly impossible to see where I was going. Ultimately, I reached a point where I could no longer differentiate the trail from the surrounding forest. The wind was howling, the sky was darkening, and I was running out of options. I had to think and act fast to make it back to the car safely.

As I leaned on the trunk of a skinny birch tree, I was overpowered by immobilizing pangs of desperation and gloom. It seemed like I had nowhere to turn, and I had no idea how to escape my pressing predicament. When all seemed lost, I recalled the words of a wise friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“When we face difficult times in recovery, it can feel like we’re lost in the woods. It can be hard to overcome feelings of hopelessness and desperation, but if we’re able to humble ourselves down and get back to the basic principles of recovery, we will be able to safely return to our positive path of self-improvement. It’s never easy to find our way back on track, but it is possible as long as we keep things simple.”

Suddenly, it occurred to me that the situation in front of me bore striking similarity to several hardships that I had faced in my early recovery. Back then, I had chosen to take what I perceived to be the easier path, and ventured out on my own against the advice of my recovery peers and loved ones into uncertain territory. In both cases, I ended up paying the price for my headstrong ineptitude. After becoming aware of my past mistakes, I was then ready to apply the lessons I had learned towards my navigational quandary. Instead of trying to power through to the other side, I accepted that I was going nowhere in my approach. I detached from my pride, turned around, and walked back to the trail fork. I then began the arduous trek down the more difficult trail, know- ing that even though it required more effort, it would lead me where I needed to go.

Always remember:

159

Howling winter winds buffeted the folds of my overcoat as I walked across a slushy and crowded street. I was four years sober, and I was doing some last-minute Valentine’s Day shopping for my girlfriend. I had managed to save up some extra money from my last several paychecks, and I wanted to surprise and astonish her with an over-the-top romantic tribute. I walked into a posh, yet understated jewelry store, kicked the excess snow off of my feet, and removed my cap and scarf. After browsing the aisles for several minutes, I came across a silver bracelet with a curved band and angular engravings, which perfectly matched my girlfriend’s aesthetic preferences.

When a curious salesperson noticed me standing in front of the jewelry case, he smoothly pulled a key out of his pocket, unlocked its doors, and slid the bracelet off of its mount with the slick finesse of a seasoned cat burglar. I told him that I wanted to take it home with me, and he swiftly led me to a cash register to check me out. I was surfing on a proverbial wave of jubilant gratitude, but my celebratory glee was cut short when I saw the salesman’s face shift from a tight-lipped grin into a nervous grimace. He heaved a heavy sigh, paused for several seconds, then issued the following dire proclamation:

“Unfortunately, sir, this bracelet has already been reserved through an online purchase – it just hasn’t been shipped out to the customer that bought it yet. We kept it in the display case because we’re getting another shipment in several weeks. Sadly, we won’t have another bracelet exactly like this one in time for Valentine’s Day. I am so sorry for the confusion, but I am happy to show you another similar piece if you like.”

I grit my teeth as I prepared to unleash a vitriolic tirade towards the hapless clerk. I wasn’t just upset that I couldn’t purchase the gift – I was angry that he had built up my hopes and dreams only to shatter them at the last minute. I was fuming with entitlement and animosity, and I didn’t know how to de-escalate my anger and remain calm. Thankfully, I remembered the wise and pacifying words of a friend from my recovery fellowship, which had helped me years earlier when I was presented with an equally-frustrating situation:

“Love has many meanings, both in life and recovery. It can mean romantic or familial love, such as the love we have for our children, parents, or life partners. It can also take the form of love for our friends, love for our program of recovery, and love for the beautiful new life that we have found in sobriety. Still, in order for us to love ourselves and others, we have to be able to practice the principle of forgiveness. We have to forgive ourselves for how we fell short in active addiction, and we have to forgive others for how they fall short, as well. No one is perfect, but true love means integrating compassion and acceptance into our lives whenever possible.”

After grounding myself with a deep breath and a moment of silent meditation, I told the clerk that I understood the situation and that I would be happy to pick out another bracelet. After making my choice, I paid at the counter, walked out of the store, and headed home with a grateful heart and a clear conscience. Recovery hadn’t just given me the ability to express my love for my girlfriend with a nice gift – it had also allowed me to reaffirm my love for myself and my program of recovery by practicing the principles of forgiveness and acceptance.

Always remember:

160

Melted snow slid down the inside of my boots as I trudged through a remote mountainside clearing. I was four years sober, and I was headed to my house in Sandgate to inspect its grounds for the first time in several months. I had spent the past two years living in a cozy and comfortable apartment in East Arlington, but it was time for my girlfriend and I to move into a larger space that could accommodate our future plans.

My house on the mountain in Sandgate held a special place in my heart, but it was situated in an exceptionally impractical location. It had been built by my father and his friends nearly half a century earlier, and it stood at the top of an old, steep logging road that was impossible to plow during the winter. The phone line had been disconnected for over a decade, the chimney needed to be swept, and the kitchen stove was broken beyond repair. There was much to be done before we moved in, and I had come to assess the damage and make a decision about whether or not it was possible to move forward with our plans.

After arriving at the front porch, I fumbled for my keys, slid them in the lock, and pried open the squeaky front door. Upon entering, I was greeted by the familiar scent of firewood and old books. It was a smell that I equated with boyhood nostalgia and shared memories with my father, who was now living thousands of miles away. Although the physical distance between us was greater than ever, I had rebuilt a strong emotional connection with him over the course of my recovery. As a result, the home that he had passed onto me in the Sandgate woods had become an emblematic manifestation of our trusting bond. Still, I found it somewhat intimidating to wander through the halls of the house that my father had faithfully bestowed upon me. With every step I took, I felt bogged down by the weight of his expectations. To make matters worse, my stress and insecurity had been magnified by similar feelings regarding my girlfriend. She had trusted me with finding a safe place for us to live, and I didn’t want to let either of them down.

As I stood in the center of the living room and surveyed the scene around me, I felt a chill rise up my spine that was even colder than the air whispering through the house’s drafty eaves. It was a tempestuous blizzard of panicked apprehension, which rocketed my adrenaline to even higher levels than the day I walked into rehab. Much like back then, there was an overwhelming amount of work ahead of me, and I was afraid of the possibility of failing and disappointing the people I loved most. At the height of my pessimistic crisis, I remembered an incredibly important truth: the reason that I was able to find long-term success in recovery was that I didn’t get sober for anyone else but myself. I understood that if I took the same approach with restoring my father’s house, every setback would only serve as an opportunity for growth, and I could move forward with my life without fear of what others thought. After regaining my bearings, I grounded myself in gratitude with a moment of silent meditation. I walked towards the entrance, shut the door, and proceeded to walk back down the mountain with a smile on my face and newfound courage in my heart. I was ready to start a new stage in my life, and I was grateful for the lessons I had learned in recovery.

Always remember:

161

My muscles were tight and tense as I hoisted a massive container of ceramic kitchenware above my shoulders. I was four years sober, and I was planning an upcoming move to my house on the mountain in Sandgate with my girlfriend. The front room of our apartment had been converted into a preliminary staging area, and our plan was beginning to take shape. Her organizational skills had always been vastly superior to mine, and she had sorted all of her clothes and belongings into neat and orderly piles. Although I wouldn’t readily admit it, I was somewhat intimidated by her masterful executive function. I was nervous to begin the process of rummaging through the disorganized drawers of my dresser, let alone declutter the closet space where I had haphazardly tossed my unwanted excess belongings.

After taking a much-needed break from our hectic housework itinerary, I was approached by my girlfriend. She plunked an overstuffed duffel bag down on the ground, took a deep breath, and offered the following proclamation in an upbeat tone:

“No time like the present to get started on our packing! I ran out of space in our little corner by the window. Do you think that there’s any space for me to put this bag in the closet?”

Her words shot an icy wave of dread through my body and soul. The closet was the last remaining bastion of my undomesticated, childish irresponsibility. I had managed to live with my girlfriend for almost a year without showing it to her, and I was afraid that she would judge me for the piles of rubbish that lay within. I responded to her innocent question in a vocal tone that was more defensive than a world-class soccer goalie:

“There’s no room in the closet. Just put it in another room. I’ve got to organize the closet before we put anything in there.”

Unfortunately, my efforts to dispel my girlfriend’s enthusiasm for efficient preparation were to no avail. She quickly volunteered her services to help me clean out the closet. Upon hearing her request, I clenched my fists tighter than a vice grip and stormed off into the corner. She was visibly confused as she followed closely behind, and she grabbed my shoulder with affectionate curiosity as I stewed in my ponderous gloom. When she asked me what was wrong, I took a long pause before answering. I was caught in a predicament that I had not experienced since the final days of my active addiction. Back then, I had stashed my drug paraphernalia in a similar closet, far out of the sight of my concerned family members. Although there were no drugs in the closet in our apartment, it still held a secret that I did not want exposed. I knew that it was time to come clean to my girlfriend, become fully honest, and begin cleaning house on a literal and metaphoric level. I told her that I was nervous about showing her the closet, pulled open the door, turned towards her, and hung my head in shame. I was expecting her to bully and lambast me for the disgraceful mess inside. Instead, she laughed heartily, handed me a trash bag, and spoke the following words:

“You were right! You’ve definitely got a lot of work to do on cleaning out the closet, but I’m glad to help you through it. Just take it like your recovery – slow, steady, and one thing at a time.”

Always remember:

162

The sounds of faraway cars skirting down slushy roads woke me from a peaceful afternoon nap. I was four years sober, and I was enjoying a day off from work. I looked out the window and took in the gloomy sights of melting snow and foggy clouds. It was a cold dreary day, but I nevertheless found myself in a sunny mood. I had managed to secure an early dinner reservation at my favorite restaurant, and I was preparing to get dressed and meet my girlfriend there. I looked down at my cell phone to see if I had any missed calls, and I made an alarming discovery: I had overslept by several hours, and I only had 45 minutes remaining before our suppertime engagement.

Following a brief period of slothful procrastination, I proceeded to ruffle through my dresser with frantic flourish. I tossed various garments onto the ground, flapping my arms and twisting my torso like a showboating matador. Upon discovering a timeworn vintage shirt, I paired it with my favorite pair of khakis and some comfortable and understated dress shoes. Sartorial splendor was not in the cards for the evening – the only thing that mattered was making it to the popular bistro on time.

I tied my shoes, put on my coat, and sprinted down the stairs towards my car with a victorious grin on my face. Even with the odds stacked against me, I had managed to pull off my last-minute dinner preparations – or so I thought. I approached the driver’s-side door, grabbed its handle, realized that it was locked, and reached down to grab my wallet. After searching my pockets for several minutes, I arrived at a startling realization: my wallet was nowhere to be found, and I was running out of time.

As my frenzied mental state continued to escalate, I looked down at my phone and saw an anxiety-provoking text from my girlfriend:

“I made it to the restaurant a little early. See you soon!”

I grimaced and seethed as I struggled to reorient myself within a whirlwind of self-inflicted emotional turmoil. My eyes scanned the ground for my wallet as I backtracked towards the house, inching up the stairs and examining every crevice in the hallway of my apartment building. I burst through the door of my apartment and my panic accelerated faster than a magnetically-levitated bullet train. The wallet was nowhere on my nightstand, the kitchen table, or any of its other standard hiding spots. I slammed my fist against the kitchen shelving and cursed my fate. I had worked myself up into a dysphoric funk, and I didn’t know how to extricate myself from it. At the peak of my despair, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery fellowship: “Whenever we are confronted with chaotic situations in recovery, our problems often originate from debacles of our own making. If we go back to the root of an issue and clean up our side of the street, we will be able to travel freely on the road towards positive progress.”

After pondering the weight of his words, I realized that I hadn’t just lost my wallet – I had also lost my sanity, serenity, and sense of logical proportion in the process of preparing for dinner. I began picking up the clothes that I had tossed away carelessly, and I found my wallet underneath a small pile of shirts that I had strewn across the floor. Recovery had given me the ability to clean up the wreckage I had caused in my own life – and had allowed me to confront the true underlying causes of my personal struggles.

Always remember:

163

The grating whir of my smoothie blender battered my eardrums as I fastened the top button of my favorite dress shirt. I was four years sober, and I was on my way to a high-profile interview. The producer who oversaw my musical projects had been contacted by a charismatic local news anchor. The anchorman had approached him about doing a news story centered around his music studio and our recovery-centric collaborative musical project. After months of delays due to the COVID- 19 pandemic, the big day had finally come.

I had woken up before sunrise in order to give myself some time to prepare, and I had pulled out all of the stops. After shampooing and conditioning my hair and making several adjustments to my outfit and accessories, I was still feeling unprepared and anxious. I wanted to make a good impression, but it felt like I was carrying a two-ton boulder of shame.

I was no stranger to public speaking, but the knots in my stomach were proving exceptionally difficult to unravel. I had condensed the story of my recovery into a short, succinct, viewer-friendly summary, but I was still nervous that the message of hope would not strike a chord with the anchorman. Nevertheless, I powered through my fear, grabbed my dress shoes, and walked out of my apartment. Upon arriving at the studio, I saw the news film crew setting up fancy camera equipment next to a concert grand piano. My producer greeted me with a kind smile and ushered me towards the piano bench. We exchanged light-hearted jokes as an audio technician handed me a small microphone. I attached it to my top collar and listened intently as my producer answered an important call. The anchorman had just arrived at the studio, and there was no turning back now.

I took a deep breath, gathered my thoughts, and soothed my frazzled nerves by repeating a series of meditative mantras. Following a moment of introspective self-soothing, the anchorman walked into the room and approached me. I rose from my seat, looked him in the eye, and shook his hand. I was noticeably shaking as I uttered a timid and reserved greeting. I was expecting him to launch into a series of skeptical, investigative and judgmental questions. Instead, he smiled and offered the following words:

“Congratulations on your recovery! I’m looking forward to learning more about your story, your music, and the work that you’re doing here at the studio with your producer. Thank you for speaking openly about addiction and recovery. It’s an important issue that needs to be addressed.”

As he stepped back and began preparing to shoot my segment of the news story, I felt the weight of the world melt away. Tears of joy began to well up in my eyes as I sat back down in front of the piano. There was much more work to be done in terms of eradicating the stigma towards addiction, but hearing a public media figure speak those kind words had shattered my fears and given me new levels of faith about the future of recovery advocacy.

Always remember:

164

The wind was cold and strong as I trudged down a sidewalk that was covered in slushy snow. I was four years sober, and I was on my way to an important work engagement. Although I was dressed up in fancy and colorful clothes, my mental and physical state was not in line with my outward presentation. I had been attempting to get over a bad cold for the past week, but my efforts had proven to be completely futile. I was well past the contagious stage and my symptoms had mostly abated, but I was still feeling sluggish, drained, and defeated.

My mind was slow and foggy as I opened the door of a ritzy, farm-to-table café. I had scheduled a meeting with the head chef several weeks earlier, and I had prepared a series of questions to ask him for a magazine article that I was writing. In a less compromised state, this type of interview was not a daunting task. It would normally be a pleasant and easy affair that would require little to no exertion. Sadly, while ensconced in the depths of my groggy funk, I found myself unable to enter the inquisitive headspace that was conducive to my journalistic process. My protective veneer of genteel professionality had been completely eroded by physical and emotional exhaustion. I was defenseless against my own pessimism, and I didn’t know how to summon the courage and fortitude to face the challenge in front of me.

After speaking briefly with an employee at the front of the restaurant, I was ushered towards a large, comfortable booth in a quiet back room. It was a Tuesday afternoon in the off-season, and the restaurant was nearly empty. Although a quiet setting would have normally worked to my advantage, today was different. I was disappointed that I could not use the noise of clanking plates and shuffling servers as a much-needed source of distraction. As I waited for the chef to arrive at the table, I began to feel inadequate and nervous. I was afraid to let him see the true nature of my infirmity. I wanted to come off as elite and impervious, so I puffed out my chest, straightened my back, and forced a smile onto my face. I was determined to put on the performance of a lifetime, regardless of whatever integrity I lost in the process. Still, a pestering thought lingered in the back of my mind, vocalized by the incessant nagging of my sober conscience:

“Lying to yourself and others and putting up a front is exactly what you did in active addiction. Do yourself a favor and drop the manipulative façade. Stop fighting reality and embrace it!”

After surrendering to the fact that there was nothing that I could do to change the outcome of my interview, I felt a calming wave of serenity wash over my body. It was a potent infusion of vitality and awareness that was better than any over-the-counter cold medicine – and the truth of recovery had set me free and brought me back to life.

Always remember:

165

Fluffy blankets draped across my girlfriend’s shoulders as she scrolled through a series of adorable dog photos on her computer. I was four years sober, and I was enjoying a night of contemplative relaxation at home after a long day of housework. We had been preparing for the final stages of our move from my apartment in East Arlington to my mountain house in Sandgate all day, and we were both completely exhausted.

In addition to an extensive assortment of large-scale packing projects, my girlfriend had added an unexpected twist to our plans: She had reached out to several breeders and rescue facilities in surrounding states and had made inquiries about purchasing a dog for us to raise together. The extra space at my mountain house and the surrounding woods would allow us to bring the puppy home to a safe environment, and my girlfriend had sprung at the chance to welcome a furry friend into our life.

Although I was no stranger to canine companionship, I had never taken care of a pet larger than a hermit crab during the course of my recovery. My last experience living with a dog had been during the final stages of my active addiction. While staying at my mother’s house, I would watch her energetic lapdog scurry through the living room with feverish intensity. With several years of recovery under my belt, I had gotten to a point that I was finally capable of taking care of myself and my basic needs. I had also become slightly less clumsy in regards to how I handled interactions with my girlfriend, family, friends, and co-workers. Still, I found the prospect of caring for another living being daunting.

Due to my fear and anxiety, I held back from engaging with my girlfriend while she scrolled through the online photo galleries. When she asked me about what puppy appealed to me the most, I would emit a series of passive-aggressive, monosyllabic grunts. After attempting unsuccessfully to involve me in her search, her mood shifted from happy-go-lucky to closed-off and guarded. She turned away from me and shifted in the bed, hiding the computer screen as she continued to scan the pages for a perfect pet. Although our bed was relatively small, it felt like a deep and unfathomable chasm had formed between us. My fear of acquiescing to my romantic partner’s plea for a fuzzy pal had rendered me incapable of connecting with her. I didn’t want the closeness of our bond to permanently diminish, but I was also afraid of admitting that I was scared of the responsibility that came with owning a dog.

After stewing in a rancorous funk for several minutes, I came to a startling realization: I wasn’t putting up a psychological barrier because I didn’t want to have a dog – I wanted to bring a pup home to my house just as much as my girlfriend did. After several minutes of concentrated introspection, I understood that I was denying myself the chance to begin a new chapter in my life, because I was afraid of the unknown. I had experienced similar feelings in the final months before I got sober. I had managed to power through them to find a new life in recovery – but only after admitting that I was nervous about the change to another member of my recovery fellowship. I tapped my girlfriend on the shoulder, took a deep breath, and told her the truth:

“I’m afraid that our whole life will change when we adopt this dog,” I said. “It’s a lot of responsibility.” After hearing my words, she relaxed her posture, took my hand, and smiled.“I’m scared of taking on the work that comes with it, too,” she responded, “but recovery is all about embracing the challenges and uncertainty that comes with every new adventure.”

Always remember:

166

My feet pounded the floorboards with frantic intensity as I ran towards the door of my apartment. I was four years sober, and I was late for an important work meeting. I bolted down the stairs and out of the front entrance, sweating with panic as I fumbled for my car keys in my overstuffed pants. I had stayed up all night working on an overdue assignment, and my life was every bit as messy and crowded as my pockets. I was stressed out and running on fumes, but it was too late to turn back now.

Upon arriving at the driver’s side door of my car, I began to sense that things were a bit out of order. The door handle still remained locked after I clicked my key fob several times. Undeterred, I unlocked the door manually. After sliding into the car seat and sticking my key into the ignition, I heard a sputtering electric rattle. I had left my headlights on overnight, and my car was completely dead.

I slammed my fist down on the steering wheel, jumped out of my car, and began to stomp around the parking lot like a disgruntled toddler. My hands were shaking with worrisome regret as I reached for my cell phone. I knew I had to call the person that I was meeting with and let them know that I couldn’t make it. As my finger hovered over the “call” button, a thunderbolt of desperate anguish crackled through my mind.

I didn’t want to disappoint them by cancelling our meeting. I was afraid of looking weak and unprepared, and I wanted to curl up into a fetal ball and disappear down a black hole. At the brink of a melodramatic disaster, I realized that I was exhibiting behaviors that were strikingly similar to the way I conducted myself in active addiction.

Before I found recovery, I would use chemicals to detach from reality when I encountered any difficult situation. It had been nearly half a decade since an addictive substance had entered my system, but I was still using self-destructive escapism to cope with the things that I could not change. I might not have been able to magically jumpstart my car – but I could jumpstart my recovery and emotional sobriety by reaching out to the person that I was afraid of letting down. I picked up my phone, wrote out an apologetic text message, and hit the “send” button. After doing so, I felt an immense emotional weight removed from my conscience.

As I turned to walk back from my apartment, I heard a voice yell my name from a passing car. It was my friend from the neighborhood, who had seen me pacing around angrily in the parking lot. After asking me if everything was alright, I told him that I needed to jumpstart my car. He parked his car next to mine, popped the trunk on his hood, and brought my car and my spirits back to life within five minutes.

After waving goodbye to my courteous and heroic friend, I hit the road with a renewed lease on life and a new respect for the power of integrity. Recovery had given me the ability to confront my character defects and face my fears – and I was grateful to be alive, sober, and living in the solution.

Always remember:

167

My breath was shallow and ragged as I sprinted down a bustling side- walk. I was four years sober, and I was on my way to meet a friend from my recovery fellowship at a local café. After arriving at the front door of my favorite casual eatery. I dusted myself off, gathered my bearings, and stepped through the entrance. I had not met with my friend in several weeks, and I was slightly nervous about our meeting. My inability to properly maintain my work-life balance had taken me away from my normal schedule of sobriety fellowship meetings. I was grateful that my friend had called me up and invited me to lunch, but I was still feeling a bit ashamed of my recent absence.

After scanning the room for several seconds, I saw my friend hunched over a large coffee mug in a cozy corner booth. I walked up to the table, sat down, and proceeded to make idle small talk with him for several minutes. He was an outspoken and charismatic man who was equally as passionate about recovery as I was. Although we did not see eye to eye about everything, I nevertheless admired him and respected him. I could always count on him to be honest with me. He took a pensive sip from his mug, cracked a wry joke, and then let a moment of awkward silence hang in the air like a leaf suspended in the autumn wind. Without warning, he changed his posture, leaned towards me, and posed a question in an interrogative tone:

“When are you going to start coming back around more and putting some real effort into your recovery? You’re not working on yourself and it shows. You don’t look good at all.”

His words stung like the tip of a hot knife, and I was instantly inca- pacitated by a potent combination of fear and rage. I couldn’t believe he had the audacity to call me out in such a tactless way. His unprompted, personal criticisms dug directly into the core of my vulnerable psyche. Insecurities and resentments coalesced into a dark and murky fog of repressed pain, which fueled a violent thunderstorm of internal turmoil. I was ready to strike back with electric force at the slightest provocation, and I was gearing up to unleash a series of merciless retorts.

Moments before my impassioned tirade left my lips, I realized some- thing that I didn’t want to admit: I wasn’t angry at my friend because he said something that wasn’t true – I was upset because he had deliv- ered the truth in a completely tactless manner. It was now up to me to de-escalate the situation by remaining grounded in the principles of acceptance and forgiveness. I took a deep breath, grounded myself in gratitude, and responded to my friend in a measured fashion:

“You’re absolutely right. I need to come back around. I feel bad about not getting to more sobriety fellowship events. Still, I’m a little hurt that you chose to tell me in this way. Neither of us are perfect – and we both need to work on our respective programs of recovery. I’m glad you spoke your mind and brought me back into the fold. Let’s just do our best to lift each other up with our words and actions. I think it’s possible to hold each other accountable with kindness.”

I was expecting my friend to greet my response with anger. Instead, he raised his coffee cup in a toast of sober solidarity. Recovery had given me the ability to safeguard both my integrity and my self-esteem, and I was grateful for the balance that sobriety had brought to my life.

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168

walls as I reclined on a timeworn couch. I was four years sober, and I had just moved up to my mountain house in Sandgate with my girlfriend. My father had built the home with his bare hands nearly half a century earlier. All of his friends told him that he was crazy for picking such a remote location, but he still managed to complete the task against all odds.

The house was situated at the end of a steep dirt road that was surrounded by tall birch and ash trees. It was impossible to drive to the top of the road in the winter, and the phone lines had been disconnected for nearly a decade. He had given his treasured homestead to me as a gift that symbolized the trust that we had rebuilt over the course of my recovery. It had always been a dream of mine to live up there, but I never thought that it would be possible to do so in active addiction. As I looked around the house, I felt a conflicted mixture of derealization and gratitude. The isolation and misery of my addicted past seemed to be nothing more than a distant memory, and the future was looking brighter than ever.

After a brief period of reflective silence, my girlfriend rose to her feet and walked towards the kitchen. It was a frosty evening in early spring, and the pipes were still frozen. Given the fact that it was not yet safe to turn on the water pump, I had invested in several massive packages of bottled water. She grabbed a bottle of spring water, opened it up, and poured its contents into a cast-iron teapot. After watching her attempt to light the stovetop several times, I came to a harsh realization: the propane tank was entirely empty, and it would be impossible to refill it until the residual ice on the road had completely melted. I could see from the look on my girlfriend’s face that she was disappointed. Enjoying a cup of hot tea was one of her favorite nighttime rituals, and I wanted to make her feel at home in the house that we were now sharing together.

Feelings of inadequacy began to slowly pierce through the brittle bedrock of my conscious mind and burn my psyche like volcanic magma. Beneath my superficial veneer of pride and gratitude, I was grappling with a difficult case of impostor syndrome. I had come further in my recovery than I ever imagined possible, but I was still afraid of letting everyone around me down. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had to let go of the things I couldn’t change and focus on fixing the things that I could. Although the stove was temporarily out of order, the old microwave oven hidden in a kitchen cabinet was still fully functional. I walked towards the cabinet, pulled out the microwave, dusted it off, and poured the water from the kettle into a mug. After warming it up for my girlfriend, I took a deep breath, grounded myself in gratitude, and felt a smile creep across my face. I had managed to navigate a difficult situation by applying the tried-and-true principle of acceptance, and I was grateful to be alive and sober in a beautiful place.

Always remember:

169

Sunlight glinted off of dewy grass as I sped down a rural back road. I was four years sober, and I was starting a long drive back to Vermont with a new pal in tow. My girlfriend and I had just picked up an adorable Golden Retriever puppy from a midwestern dog breeder, and we were ecstatic to bring him home. He had fluffy fur, sharp teeth, and a playful, affectionate personality. When he nuzzled his nose against my hand, it conjured fond memories from my childhood. It had been years since I had lived with a dog in my house, and it was the first time that I had ever adopted a pet in recovery. I was incredibly nervous to be responsible for another living being, but there was no turning back now.

We had journeyed to a remote corner of Indiana to pick him up, and we had driven overnight to complete the trip. The COVID-19 pandemic was still raging at full force, and highway rest stops had not reopened in many states. As a result, my girlfriend and I were both hungry and exhausted. Although we were grateful for our furry friend, our patience for one another was wearing thin. The navigational application on my cell phone was taking me in circuitous loops and constantly rerouting due to poor service. It was proving nearly impossible to find the entrance ramp to the highway that would take us home, and I was quickly running out of fuel.

As our disagreement escalated, my girlfriend and I exchanged scathing quips while the car rocketed around a series of serpentine turns. When all seemed lost, I found a small gas station at the side of a county road. I was still angry at my girlfriend as I walked toward the gas pump, but I didn’t know how to escape my flustered and grumpy mindset. I had barely begun refueling when I heard the passenger-side door pop open. My girlfriend emerged with our puppy in her arms and a concerned look on her face. After she informed me that she thought our dog was choking, she proceeded to pat him on the back with vigorous force. Following several failed attempts, he began breathing normally once more. We heaved a collective sigh of relief, slumped down against the car together, and held each other and our puppy in a weary, yet grateful embrace.

As my girlfriend and I made amends for our arguments and leashed up our dog to take him on a walk, I realized that the shocking incident had brought us closer together. Although it was certainly scary to see our puppy choking, it realigned our perspectives and priorities and allowed us to see outside of ourselves. Much like the trials and tribulations of recovery, adopting a dog brought a new dimension of responsibility to our lives. We had survived our first test as the owners of our new dog, and it had taught us valuable lessons about the power of accountability and gratitude.

Always remember:

170

Soft folk music played through my stereo speakers as I ran a mop across the floorboards in my living room. I was four years sober, and I was doing some long-overdue spring cleaning. It was a cool and crisp evening, and I had recently moved into the house that my father had given me on a remote hillside in Sandgate.

The home was heated by a woodstove in the center of the parlor, which was connected to the main chimney by a curved, metal pipe. Earlier in the afternoon, I had enlisted the services of a local tradesperson to clean the chimney and re-seal the stovepipe. After replacing the main connecting pipe and securing it with fireproof sealant, they had given me instructions to test it out with a roaring fire. I had lit the fire half an hour before I started cleaning my floors, and it was crackling at full capacity inside of the stove. Although I wouldn’t readily admit it, I was overwhelmed by the steep learning curve that came with owning a house in the middle of the woods. I thought that I was beginning to slowly adjust to the challenges and improve my problem-solving skills, but I was sadly mistaken.

While mopping out the last dingy corner of the living room, I began to feel lightheaded and dizzy. The disoriented nausea quickly escalated into a pounding headache, and when I sat down in a nearby armchair, I soon became aware of the cause. As I looked towards the chimney, I saw the fireproof sealant oozing, bubbling, and emitting a colorless, odorless gas. The chimney had been fireproofed incorrectly with a toxic, artificial material, and I was beginning to feel the effects of the hazardous fumes.

I sprinted towards the windows and opened them up one by one, wrapping my shirt around my mouth and nose while emitting a series of raspy coughs. With airflow restored, I now faced a second dilemma: the fire was still raging at full speed, and I had no way to quickly extinguish it. I paced back and forth and panicked as I weighed my options. I felt like I was destined to fail regardless of whatever path I chose, and I was also afraid that I had let down my stoic, woodsman father as an incompetent homeowner. When all seemed lost, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery fellowship:

“Sometimes, even in recovery, our minds become consumed with the toxic flames of anxiety, rage, and insecurity. When such firestorms strike, we are often overcome with seemingly insurmountable anxiety. Although we may think that tearing our hair out and screaming like a banshee may be the best course of action in the moment, that usually just ends up fanning the emotional flames. The best thing to do is to cut off our issues at their source by detaching from our egotism, taking a step back, and letting the fire fizzle out naturally and run its course. That way, we can control the damage and not burn our bridges with the people who we love.”

I felt the weight of the world drop from my shoulders as I realized that his wise statement applied to the situation that I was facing both literally and metaphorically. I had let the flames from my stove stir up deadlier flames of panic and anger within myself, and it was time to cool down in every sense of the phrase. I cut off the oxygen intake on the stove, stepped outside, and took a deep, meditative breath. Recovery had given me the ability to extinguish the fires both inside of myself and around me, and I was grateful to be living life in the solution.

Always remember:

171

Heavy rain pounded the roof and windows as I paced around my living room. I was four years sober, and I was preparing to embark on a perilous journey. Southern Vermont had become inundated with flash floods as the result of a severe thunderstorm, and the road leading up to my house had been completely washed out. In addition, the power and phone lines had been knocked out by high-velocity winds, and I had no idea when the storm was going to calm down.

My girlfriend had gotten in contact with me half an hour earlier while my phone line was still intact. She told me that large sections of many roads had been closed off by maintenance crews due to rising water levels. We had made plans to meet at the closest point that was accessible by car, but I was worried that we would not be able to correctly align our rendezvous due to poor cellular service. Nevertheless, I grabbed a trusty pair of wading boots, filled a bag with essential items, put on a thick windbreaker, and headed out with my three-month-old Golden Retriever puppy.

The culverts on the sides of my road were surging with brackish water, which cascaded down the hillside with fearsome intensity. Halfway down the mountain, I came across a widening crevasse in the middle of the road, which had become impossible to pass by car. I picked my dog off of the ground, waded through the rushing waters, and teetered back and forth while attempting to maintain my balance.

After stumbling for several seconds while dangerously close to the edge, I regained my footing and continued to make my way down the road.

I wandered for several miles before making it down to a paved, rural highway. The storm was raging at full force, and the banks of a nearby river were overflowing and spilling onto the road. Suddenly, the flash-light on my cell phone shut off when the battery went dead. The whole world turned pitch black, and I began to panic and second guess my sense of direction. I was trapped in a cataclysmic deluge with nowhere to turn, and I was beginning to lose hope.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that as an addict in long-term recovery, I had already proved myself capable of moving forward in situations where I was absolutely powerless. Back then, I was carried by the currents of chemical dependency and swayed by the stormy winds of compulsive self-destruction. I had progressed further than I ever thought possible in my journey of recovery, but there were still things that I remained incapable of changing in the world around me. Still, even though I couldn’t change the way the floodwaters were rushing and the wind was blowing, I could certainly reorient the bearing of my internal compass by chartering a metaphoric course towards gratitude and acceptance. I took a deep breath, gathered my thoughts, and trudged forward with confident purpose. The world was just as dark and uncertain as it was when I was navigating the treacherous, murky landscape of life in early recovery, but I knew that as long as I carried the light of hopeful faith within myself, I had nothing to fear.

Suddenly, the darkness was pierced by a light of a literal nature. My girlfriend had managed to make it to our meeting point, and my nerve-racking adventure had come to an end. As we drove away together, I reflected on the power of faith and persistence. Recovery had given me the ability to weather any storm, and I was grateful to be standing on solid ground in more ways than one.

Always remember:

172

The sounds of shuffling feet and muffled chatter echoed through the front room of a crowded eatery as I stepped through the entrance. I was four years sober, and I was looking forward to meeting my mother for lunch. She had traveled to Vermont to visit me several days earlier, but my busy work schedule had prevented me from spending any time with her. In light of that unfortunate situation, I had set aside an entire after- noon with her for the specific purpose of enjoying a fun, impromptu expedition. I made a conscious effort to finish all of my overdue work assignments before driving to the café, and we had arranged to drive to a small art gallery in a nearby town after finishing our meal.

After scanning the room for several minutes, I saw her sitting down at a small table in a quiet corner and walked towards her. She greeted me with a big hug and smile, and we exchanged cheery pleasantries for several minutes before walking towards the counter. As we approached the front of the line, I felt my phone begin to buzz in my pocket. I intentionally ignored it, left it alone, and placed the order for my smoothie and sandwich. I wanted to make sure that I gave my mother my full and undivided attention.

Several minutes passed before the annoying vibrations in my pocket commenced once more. I reached down to grab my phone out of my pocket, and my jaw dropped when I saw a series of disconcerting words flash across the screen. It was a text message from a business owner that I was scheduled to interview in a completely different town. I was due to meet with him in less than an hour, and I faced a difficult and unpleasant decision: If I chose to cancel my plans with my mother, I risked hurting her feelings. If I shirked my professional responsibilities, I was putting the future of my career in danger. No matter what, I would inevitably end up disappointing someone. It was a fearsome reality that I thought I could not bear to confront. Unbearable feelings of guilt began to trickle through the cracks of my fragile consciousness like water in a leaky basement. I was trapped in a prison of foolish pride and insecurity, and I didn’t know how to move past my fear.

At the apex of my personal crisis, I realized that the only way I could preserve my sanity and sobriety was by telling my mother the truth. I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, looked directly at her, and spoke from the heart:

“I hate to tell you this, mom, but I really messed up. I scheduled an interview for this afternoon weeks before I made these plans with you. I completely forgot about it, and I hope you can forgive me. It’s in a completely different town, and I won’t have time to make it there if we go on our trip across the state that we planned. What do you think we should do?”

Following my pained admission, my mother made a brilliant sug- gestion:

“Why don’t you just drop me off in the center of the town where you’re doing the interview and meet me near there when you’re done? I’m sure I can find something fun to do there while you’re busy!”

Her gentle, kind, and understanding words brought a grateful smile to my face, and they also reaffirmed a lesson that I had learned several times before in recovery:“When all else fails, the truth shall set you free.”

Always remember:

173

Small twigs and pebbles ricocheted off my boots as I trudged up a steep mountainside. I was four years sober, and I was enjoying a walk out in the woods with my trusted canine companion. I had spent the past several hours training him to stay by my side, and we were headed to a secluded mountain spring on our first long excursion together. I had recently moved into the house that my father built on a remote mountainside in Sandgate, and I found great joy in visiting the same remote hills and creeks that conjured vivid memories from my child- hood.

In the years before my active addiction, my father would guide me through the Southern Vermont woods with a cool and disciplined bearing. If I wandered too far from the path or got lost in the trees, he would call out to me in a stern and authoritative voice. Sadly, the corrective techniques that he applied during our walks through the Vermont countryside were entirely ineffective in curbing the addictive impulses that I struggled with later on. Although his efforts failed to prevent me from acting out through self-destructive behavior, the seeds of responsible thought that he planted in my mind directly influenced my eventual decision to get sober.

As I watched my young and impulsive puppy wander through the trees, it felt like my life had come full circle. I was sober, clean, and I had arrived at a place where I was no longer consumed by thoughts of how I disappointed my father during my adolescence. After crossing over a rapidly-rushing creek, I turned back to see if my dog was behind me. My heart skipped a beat when I came to a chilling realization: he was nowhere to be found, and we were close to a mile from my house.

I sprinted towards the top of a rocky hillside, turning every few seconds to scan my surroundings. After nearly half an hour of searching, I began to panic and doubt myself. I couldn’t believe that I had managed to lose track of my dog, and I felt like I had failed as his owner and caretaker. Suddenly, it occurred to me that my predicament was eerily similar to what my father dealt with when I was actively addicted. I had been tasked with caring for a creature that was entirely incapable of reason, and it was up to me to make sure that he remained on the right path.

Much like my father, my techniques of training and discipline had fallen short, and I thought that my dog was in danger of becoming lost forever. At the climax of my emotional crisis, I realized that I had been presented with an opportunity to apply the knowledge I had gained in recovery. If I remained serene and calm, trusted that my dog would find his way home, and retraced my steps, I would be able to face whatever reality awaited me with a clear mind and a clean conscience.

I walked back towards my house with purpose and clarity, pausing every few minutes to call out my dog’s name. When I arrived at the mouth of my driveway, I found my dog chewing on a stick next to a tall pile of firewood. As I heaved a grateful sigh, I reflected on a core truth of recovery: though we can never force any person – or dog – to walk a safe and straight path, we can teach them how to find their way home when they get literally or metaphorically lost in the woods.

Always remember:

174

My mind was racing like a runaway train as I stared down at my cluttered work desk. I was four years sober, and I was attempting to complete a series of demanding professional assignments for my journalism job. I had been unproductive for several days due to a mixture of anxiety and procrastination. As a result, I had taken it upon myself to accomplish everything that I had failed to finish over the past week. It had been six hours since I commenced my typographical marathon, but I had failed to make any significant headway. Every time I put a word down on the page, I became consumed by doubt and frustration.

I had experienced similar difficulties before, but this was different. It was an inescapable feeling of inner fatigue, which was tied to a cause far deeper than the specific demands of my job. The spiritual, mental, and emotional fuel that had propelled me forward in my early recovery had been seemingly exhausted – and I had no idea how to reclaim my passion for my work and everyday life.

As I slumped further down into my chair, I felt myself drifting into a state of gloomy detachment. I pulled my phone out and began regress- ing into idle pursuits, which ranged from entertaining online videos to inane social media conversations. It had been almost half a decade since I had imbibed a mind-altering substance, but I was still searching for an external solution for my internal problems. The reward circuits inside of my brain were crying out for any form of instant gratification. Although I had hoped that mindless scrolling on internet applications and lackadaisical daydreaming would sate my thirst for personal fulfillment, they only magnified my frustration. At my lowest point, I considered giving up and abandoning hope. When all seemed lost, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery fellowship:

“At certain points in our recovery, we may feel like a car with a drained battery. We become stationary, incapacitated, and unable to move forward in our personal and professional lives. Although our first impulse may be to return to destructive behavior patterns to find motivation, it is possible to activate a different form of energy while staying sober. Sometimes when a car’s battery is drained, all it needs is a little push to jumpstart the engine. When we push through our doubt and our procrastination, we may discover that the internal spark that we thought was missing has been within us the whole time. From there, anything is possible once momentum is re-established. Ironically, the same hard work that we once dreaded can actually serve as the catalyzing force that keeps our metaphoric engines running.”

After realizing that I held the power to motivate myself in recovery, I took a moment to breathe and reflect, grounded myself in gratitude, and began powering through my mental and emotional roadblocks. Although the first several minutes were incredibly tiresome and awkward, the process gradually became easier with every passing second. Eventually, I experienced an electric breakthrough that conjured a newfound sense of energized freedom. I was no longer bound or constrained by my insecurities. Recovery had given me the ability to jump-start my mind and liberate myself from a pessimistic cycle of self-doubt, and I was grateful to be pushing myself forward in my professional and personal life.

Always remember:

175

Potent pangs of anxiety and doubt surged through my mind as I stared into my rearview mirror. I was four years sober, and I was waiting for an internet service technician to show up at the mouth of my driveway in Sandgate. The private road to my house was half-a-mile long, and it was severely worn down and in dire need of repair. I had to get a new wire strung over that distance in order for my internet to correctly function, but many potential obstacles lay ahead.

Over the past several days, I had spent hours negotiating with a team of customer service representatives from the internet company. They had reluctantly informed me that due to the complicated nature of my living situation, an additional team of technicians was required to complete the task. Over four hours had passed since they were scheduled to arrive, and I was beginning to lose hope that they would make good on their promise to appear.

As I sat in the driver’s seat and twiddled my thumbs, I began to drift into pessimistic daydreams. At first, I considered what would happen if the internet remained shut off for an indefinite period of time. After dwelling on all of the things that could possibly go wrong, I let out an audible chortle when I came to a tragic realization: due to the poor cell phone reception near my house, there was no way that they could possibly contact me to let me know if they were not coming. A cruel twist of fate had rendered me entirely incapable of communicating with the only people that could fix the issue.

As the clock ticked, it felt like every passing moment was bringing me closer to an inevitable crisis. It wasn’t just that I was powerless over the outcome of the situation – I truly believed that I was also powerless over my negative thoughts. When the spring sun began to set over a nearby mountain ridge, I heaved an irritated sigh and furrowed my brow. It was clear that the technicians were not going to show up until the next day, and my desperation and anxiety had shifted into anger and frustration.

Thankfully, before my sanity completely unraveled, I experienced a powerful moment of clarity. I understood that my behavior bore a striking resemblance to the way that I conducted myself in active addiction. I had been sober and clean for several years, but I was acting every bit as impetuous and entitled as I had while waiting for my drug dealer in the throes of withdrawal. Though I could not completely ignore or erase my feelings of exasperation, recovery had given me the power to walk away from the situation and move on with my day – and that was something that was even more priceless than a reliable internet connection. I knew that as long as I stayed connected to the principles that had helped to keep me grounded in my recovery, I could maintain my gratitude and composure even in the face of extreme frustration and inconvenience.

Always remember:

176

My car’s engine roared with fierce intensity as I coasted over the uppermost crest of my steep mountainside driveway. I was four years sober, and I had just finished a productive afternoon of work. I had conducted the last interview that I needed to complete before an approaching magazine deadline, and my girlfriend and I had dinner reservations at our favorite local restaurant. As I walked towards my house, it felt like I was floating in a state of chemically-abstinent euphoria. I was excited to put on a fancy outfit and treat myself to a delicious meal, and I thought that there was nothing that could bring me down.

Upon entering the house, I noticed that something was slightly off. My puppy, Winston, was nowhere to be found. He was only four months old, but we had already developed a strong mutual bond. Whenever I entered the house, he would normally bound across the room to greet me. The room was eerily silent, and there were no clues that gave any evidence of his whereabouts. Suddenly, I came to a disheartening realization: the clothing bin that I had strategically placed in front of the stairs in order to prevent my dog from going upstairs into my bedroom had been pushed to the side. Although I was glad that his location was no longer a mystery, I was nervous to see the damage that he had wreaked on my sleeping quarters.

When I walked through the doorway of the bedroom, I saw that my worst nightmare had come true. My favorite pair of shoes had been chewed and mangled beyond repair. I felt my blood begin to boil as I looked down at my dog with an angry frown on my face. He gazed back at me with a toothy smile, emitted a playful bark, spat out the piece of shoe that he was chewing on, and trotted towards me. At first, I hesitated to reach down and pet him. I had bought that pair of shoes with money I earned at my first job in early recovery, and they held significant sentimental value. They weren’t just my favorite pair of sneakers – they symbolized a critical period in my life and sobriety. I was disappointed beyond belief, and I didn’t know if I was capable of forgiving him for destroying my prized sentimental objects. Suddenly, I realized that I was presented with an opportunity to put two incredibly important principles into action: forgiveness and determination.

The shoes served as a token of the professional trust I had earned through hard work and discipline in recovery. Nevertheless, I was only able to buy them because the people who hired me for my first sober job gave me a chance to redeem myself. I made several mistakes in my first weeks working there, but my co-workers were kind enough to show me the right way to do things. Instead of punishing me, they saw my mistakes as an opportunity to teach me. I understood that I had the chance to do the same thing with my dog, but I could only turn pain into positivity if I let go of my anger and resentment. After taking a deep breath, I took the torn-up shoes away from Winston and led him to the crate with a stern, yet gentle command and warning. Recovery had given me the ability to change disappointment and destruction into constructive growth, and I was grateful to be alive, sober, and living in the solution.

Always remember:

177

The morning light felt harsh on my face as I walked out of the front door of my apartment. It was the fifth anniversary of my sobriety, and I was groggy and drained. I had spent the night packing for a last-minute trip to my hometown with my girlfriend. The evening had been marred by sporadic arguments, which had stemmed from our mutual hesitation to address our underlying issues. Although I had been entirely chemically abstinent for the past half decade, I had been burning the candle at both ends. I had overextended myself in my professional and artistic pursuits while attempting to balance my love life with my recovery fellowship events - and the results were catastrophic.

After hauling the final bag towards our car and dropping it in the trunk, I plunked down in the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. I looked over at my girlfriend and saw her scrolling through her phone with a sour and pessimistic look on her face. It brought to mind memories of the afternoon when I had left for inpatient treatment. I still remembered the similarly weary expression that my mother had worn on her face while awaiting my departure. In both cases, I had looked over at someone I loved with no idea of how to mend the broken bridges and start anew. I knew that the course of my journey ahead would be determined by my willingness to take ownership of my problems and the role I played in them. My unsustainable chemical self-destruction

was a distant memory, yet my self-flagellating patterns of stoic isolation and egotistic pride had brought me to a place of equally torturous mental discomfort.

Suddenly, I experienced a blinding epiphany: I had surrendered countless times before in recovery, but it was time to surrender yet again. On the fifth anniversary of my sobriety, I accepted that it was up to me to begin the journey of self-improvement on a new level. I reached out to my girlfriend across the front seat, grabbed her hand, and spoke a heartfelt apology. I told her I was sorry for being distant, and that I wanted to work with her on our relationship like I was working on my recovery. I told her that I was still plagued with anxiety, doubt, and guilt about my past, and I concluded by saying that I wanted to heal myself and get better. I expected her to greet my admission with stern indifference. Instead, she responded with sincere gratitude and reciprocation. I understood that our interaction had much deeper significance than a superficial lovers’ quarrel in context with my recovery milestone. A core truth of recovery had been reaffirmed by our exchange, which was perfectly articulated by the words of a wise friend from my sobriety fellowship:

“Connection is the opposite of addiction. When we open ourselves to others and bare our personal truths, it bears priceless fruit that grows from our innermost seeds of hope that we have neglected to nurture for so long.”

As I pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the road with a clear mind and conscience, I knew that I still had many proverbial miles to trudge on the path of happy destiny. Still, I had taken one of many crucial steps toward true emotional recovery, and I was grateful to be sober, alive, and able to start a new chapter in my personal development.

Always remember:

178

The air was humid and heavy as I shuffled around the side of my house towards the backyard. I was five years sober, and I was mowing my lawn for the first time in several months. I plugged the battery into the front of my electric mower, pressed the activator button, and pushed forward as I surveyed the scene. The weeds and grass in the yard had grown to unmanageable heights, which served as a perfect metaphor for the state of my recovery program. I had been overwhelmed with work and other domestic chores for the past several days, and I had not left my house in over a week.

My scraggly beard and wrinkly clothes had become equally as unkempt as my lawn, and I was trapped in a state of detached apathy. I justified my lapse in self-maintenance with a series of weak excuses, such as the stress that came from owning a house in the middle of the woods. Still, I knew that there was a concerning pattern that needed to be addressed before it led to a full-blown mental health crisis. Suddenly, I was jolted from my morose musings by a startling sound. My lawn-mower blade had gotten caught in a treacherous patch of tangled undergrowth, and the machine had been temporarily incapacitated.

After turning the lawnmower on its side, I came to a disheartening realization: the grass and weeds were so tightly intertwined that it was impossible to pull them all off at once. I jumped to my feet and began

kicking clods of loose dirt against the side of my house in a frenzied rage. I had become entangled in a web of resentments that was every bit as impenetrable as the bunches of grass wrapped around my lawn-mower blade. At the apex of my breakdown, I felt my phone buzz in the pocket of my grass-stained pants. It was a friend from my recovery fellowship. He saw through my flimsy veneer of dismissive small talk from the moment that I picked up his call, and he pierced the fog of my anxiety with a blunt and direct proclamation:

“You sound like you’re caught in the weeds in more ways than one. I haven’t seen you recently, and I’ve been worried about you. Why don’t you meet me for dinner, and we can talk about what’s going on in your life one bit at a time. It might seem overwhelming, but if we take it piece by piece, you might be surprised with how easy it is to let go of your resentments.”

In the wake of his bold and revelatory statement, I made plans to meet with him several hours later. After hanging up the call, it occurred to me that I had been handling my emotional and mechanical problems in the wrong way. I didn’t have to solve all of my personal issues all at once to maintain my progress in recovery, and I didn’t have to try to pull all of the grass off of the lawnmower blade in one fistful either. I walked back to the lawnmower with a more humble and balanced perspective, and I proceeded to take the grass and weeds off the blade one by one.

After several minutes of hard work, the blade was entirely clear of debris, and I was able to resume mowing the lawn with a grateful heart. Recovery had given me the ability to clear up the external and internal messes in my life – and had reaffirmed my faith that the grass was always greener in sobriety.

Always remember:

179

The house was deathly silent as I sat in my favorite armchair with a large plate of cheese and crackers. I was five years sober, and I was making every effort to relax and unwind. Although I was free from responsibility of any kind, my mind was still racing like a runaway tractor trailer. The mellow folk music that normally calmed me down felt like rusty nails on my eardrums as it played through my stereo. The warm and muted light from a nearby lamp pierced my pupils like razor-sharp daggers. I had tried nearly everything in my extensive repertoire of self-care techniques to alleviate my brittle oversensitivity, but they had all completely failed.

In my agitated state, I began to drift into somber recollections of my final days in active addiction. During the worst episodes of opioid and alcohol withdrawal, I was constantly overwhelmed by sensory overload and stress. My life was devoid of obligation, but the boredom and lack of structure worked against my hedonistic and escapist interests. On the days when the deadly chemicals that I was dependent upon were unavailable, my restlessness and apathy gave way to panicked discord. Looking back, I realized that the lack of stimulation didn’t calm me down – it actually elevated my anxiety to unimaginable heights. It had been years since I had last ingested a mind-altering substance, yet I was confronted with the same dilemma: how could I let go of my worries and make peace with the world around me?

I rose from the armchair and began twiddling my thumbs and pacing

back and forth while contemplating my next move. Moving towards the kitchen, I grabbed a package of sugary treats from the refrigerator and chomped down on them with the forceful gnash of a starved alligator. I flicked on my television and selected an episode of my favorite show from the on-demand menu, hopelessly searching for anything to distract me from my apprehensive ennui. After watching for several minutes with an escalating sugar headache, I came to a desperate conclusion: all of my attempts to find gratification through external sources had fallen short. I slumped down in a hardback chair at my dining room table and held my head in my hands. I thought I was incapable of finding the peace I sought while maintaining my sobriety.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had been approaching the situation from a completely misguided perspective. In my detached and troubled state, I had disregarded the key words of advice that had been given to me by a dear friend in my early recovery:

“As counterintuitive as it may seem, drugs and all other forms of external validation and gratification are not the primary issue for many of us. The real problem is often the underlying issues that we try to medicate and eradicate with them. If we want to find happiness and fulfillment in recovery, we cannot look outside of ourselves. We must look within if we truly desire to let go and unlock the serenity that we rightly deserve.”

After remembering his wise statement, I realized all of the potential outlets for fun and engaging recreation in my house did not hold the secret to lasting tranquility. I put the cookies back in the refrigerator, shut off the television, closed my eyes, meditated on the power of gratitude, and felt myself truly let go of my need to escape my frantic thoughts. Sobriety had given me the power to be comfortable within my own skin – and the ability to recognize that real peace could only come from within.

Always remember:

180

Pangs of pain rattled through my body as I rose from the ground in a state of startled confusion. I was five years sober, and I had just fallen down and slammed my right elbow on a rough, concrete surface in a public park. Tears ran down my face while I attempted to gather my bearings. I couldn’t move my arm more than an inch without experiencing intolerable agony. I hobbled back to my car, unlocked the door, and flopped down onto my seat like a clumsy walrus. I was all alone with no one to ask for help, and I didn’t know where to turn.

Over the course of my recovery, I had never been placed in a situation where I was forced to deal with any extreme medical emergencies. I had been sick with fevers and colds several times, but this injury commanded urgent and rapid intervention of a different magnitude. I reached my left hand over my body, turned the ignition, and veered off onto a winding back road. The nearest hospital was twenty miles away, and I was trapped in a state of frightened shock. When I reached down to grab my phone, my worrisome quandary was amplified by an additional mitigating factor: the battery was completely drained, I had left my charge cord at home, and I knew that I would not be able to get in contact with my friends, family, or any emergency services.

After merging onto an elevated highway, I turned the radio on in an effort to drown out my pain with soothing music. Although the local

radio station was playing one of my favorite songs, the distraction did little to calm my nerves. My heart palpitated as the dull ache slowly transformed into an electric firestorm. My windshield was clouded by dense summertime fog, and the high beams of passing cars were making it nearly impossible to see the road. As I pondered my fate, I felt like I was completely powerless in every sense. I had lost control of my body due to my accident, and my emotions were becoming wilder and more unhinged by the minute. At the apex of my desperate crisis, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery fellowship:

“Recovery does not guarantee that we will not face harsh and troubling circumstances, but it does help us cope with the challenges presented on our worst days. In times of hardship, we can lean into gratitude when we need it most and find solace in the progress that we have already made. True emotional and spiritual growth doesn’t come from easy and fortunate circumstances. We learn many of life’s most valuable lessons during times of stress and uncertainty. As long as we remain grounded, sober, and thankful, we can navigate the most treacherous passages of our journey of recovery. When we’re broken, lost, and beaten down, gratitude can serve as the beacon of metaphoric light that illuminates the darkest parts of ourselves and carries us through.”

I took a deep breath, focused my vision on the center lines on the road, and continued to drive towards the hospital with a renewed sense of faith and orderly direction. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew that staying clean would help me tackle whatever troublesome obstacles came my way. Recovery had given me the ability to build myself back up when I was literally and metaphorically broken, and I was grateful to be alive, sober and living in the solution.

Always remember:

181

The sky was grey and hazy as I stumbled towards the doors of a regional hospital. I was five years sober, and I was paralyzed by overwhelming waves of pain, fear, and anxiety. I had fallen and smashed my elbow on a concrete surface several hours earlier, and I had made the decision to seek medical assistance. I didn’t know if I had broken my arm or not at the time, but I was unable to move it without experiencing excruciating agony. I had never dealt with such terrible discomfort in recovery, and I was afraid of what the future held for my sobriety and personal wellness.

After filling out a long and complicated form at the intake desk, I was called back into a small medical office. Inside, a caring and kind nurse wrote down additional information as I described the sequence of events that had led to my hospital visit. She took my blood pressure and made note of several other vital signs, then proceeded to ask the question I had been dreading all along:

“How would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?”

I remained stonily silent for several seconds as my mind began to race like a supercharged muscle car. I had been confronted with a difficult situation where I had to choose my response very carefully. If I underplayed the extent of my pain, it was possible that I would not receive the level of care that I needed for my injury. If I told the truth

about how I was feeling, I ran the risk of prompting further questions about narcotic pain medicines that could jeopardize my sobriety. I was afraid to be honest about the fact that I was an addict in recovery from opioid addiction. I didn’t want to be judged for my past, and I was worried that I would be viewed as a person who was exaggerating my pain in an effort to procure narcotics. At the apex of my personal crisis, I realized that I only had one option if I wanted to preserve my recovery: I had to tell the truth. I grit my teeth, took a deep breath, and spoke from the heart.

“To be honest, my pain is absolutely horrible. Still, I want to make a point of saying right away that I don’t want any narcotic pain medication. I’m a recovering addict, and although I fully support the use of those medications by people who need them and take them responsibly, that is something that I know I cannot do safely. Thank you for asking me about my pain. It means a lot that you want to help manage my symptoms, but I have to put my recovery first and be honest about what’s at stake.”

I was expecting the nurse to grimace judgmentally or react negatively to my admission. Instead, she responded with considerate and supportive words:

“I’m so glad you told me. I completely understand, and we will make sure to not give you any pain medication throughout this process. Congratulations on getting sober!”

As we completed the intake and walked towards the emergency room, a feeling of calming relief washed over me that was more powerful and potent than any addictive substance. Recovery had given me the ability to tell the truth when it mattered most, and I was grateful to be able to rise above my fear and stay sober for another day.

Always remember:

182

My mind raced at the speed of sound as I reclined on a threadbare bench next to a foggy window. I was five years sober, and I had been temporarily incapacitated by an unfortunate injury. I had broken my arm several days earlier as the result of carelessly falling down onto a concrete surface, and it was difficult to accept my newfound limitations.

I walked towards the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, and I encountered an unforeseen issue when I opened the refrigerator door. The pack of water bottles was still wrapped in plastic, and I knew that I would be unable to open it without assistance. My girlfriend was working a Saturday night shift at her busy and draining restaurant job, and it was up to me to fend for myself for the next few hours. I grumbled an ungrateful, resentful utterance as I closed the door of the refrigerator, then proceeded to stomp with impetuous rage as I made my way back to the bench. I collapsed in a sorrowful heap, and I began drawing out shapes and circles in the condensation on the windowpanes with my forefinger. The dreary, drizzling weather outside stood in perfect parallel synchrony with my mental state. I was lost in an apathetic haze, and it felt like I was staring out into the fabled expanses of biblical purgatory. It wasn’t just that my arm was broken and beyond immediate repair – there was something that seemed broken and shattered within my psyche, as well.

At the height of my anxious, self-pitying crisis, I got a call from a good friend from my recovery circle. He asked me how my arm was feeling, and I answered in a tactless and blunt manner that shed light on my equally fragile mental state. Undeterred by my aggressive and terse revelations, he proceeded to speak with clear and compassionate honesty. While doing so, he reminded me of a timeless and powerful principle that had played a pivotal role in my early recovery:

“You seem to be focused on everything that’s unfixable in your life right now. Although I can definitely understand that, I think you might find more freedom and happiness by working on the things that you can change. I’ve had many points in my recovery where I have lost complete control of multiple aspects of my life. Still, even on those challenging days where I felt powerless and alone, I managed to muster new levels of strength by realizing that sobriety had given me the chance to do something I never dreamed possible in active addiction: it gave me the chance to see my temporary weaknesses and situational shortcomings as opportunities to grow stronger in other areas. Why don’t you come down and meet me for dinner? We can talk about some of the emotional issues that you haven’t addressed recently, and we can work on fixing them. If we tackle this tough time together, you might find that you can heal other aspects of yourself while your arm heals, and you can come back stronger than ever.”

After listening to his wise words, I agreed to meet him and hung up the call. As I made my way towards my car, I felt a calming rush of serenity and acceptance wash over me. By reaching out to a friend from my recovery circle for guidance, I had gained back all the power that I thought I had lost. My arm might have still been broken, but I was grateful to be working towards mending myself and rebuilding my strength in more ways than one.

Always remember:

183

The babbling waters of a nearby brook glistened in the summer sunlight as I buttoned up my freshly-starched dress shirt. I was five years sober, and I was preparing to be interviewed by a prestigious regional publication. They had traveled for hours to visit the studio where I had recorded the first album that spoke on my journey of addiction and recovery, and I was beginning to feel restless and apprehensive. I had become accustomed to media appearances over the course of my recovery advocacy campaign, but I was faced with a set of unique challenges in this instance.

My producer and I had set an entire day aside to speak with the reporter about the story behind the studio and play some of the music from my album. I was excited beyond belief to show them the songs that I had written about my journey of sobriety. Still, I was afraid that an unforeseen circumstance had rendered me incapable of properly performing the material from my autobiographical project. I had broken my arm several weeks earlier, and I had not fully healed from my injuries. My life had finally brought me to a place where people were willing to listen to my message of recovery, but I was bogged down in the murky mire of insecurity and doubt.

After walking through the doors of the music studio, my producer greeted me with a big hug and warm smile. He asked me if I was ready for the interview, and I did my best to put on a stoic and calm façade.

Over the following several minutes, he began to look increasingly concerned as his attempts to engage in cheery small talk fell flat. When the reporter was less than five minutes away, he turned to me and asked me if everything was alright. Although I wanted to mask my fears with false bravery, the time I had spent in recovery had taught me that it was better to trust others and be vulnerable. I confessed that I was frightened of putting on a disappointing performance due to my injuries, and he greeted my pained admission with a wise and timely response:

“When we first started working on this album, you told me a story of the first time that you walked into a restaurant and asked for a job. At the time, you thought that you were entirely unprepared, incapable, and incompetent, but you still summoned the courage to step through the door and put yourself out there. I can tell you’re nervous, but you have nothing to be afraid of. In the same way you walked into that restaurant in early recovery, you’ve already done the most difficult and important thing you could do today, regardless of your injuries: you showed up. That speaks volumes about your recovery – and it also shows your continual willingness to accept and confront your challenges. I’ll be here for support if you need it. Just have fun and tell your story and the rest will fall into place.”

As I stood in the studio hallway and processed the sage and compassionate words that he had just spoken, I felt the inner tension evaporate like morning mist on a sunlit sea. My producer was not in recovery, but he did understand a foundational tenet of sober living: no matter what obstacles lie in the way of our self-actualization, the best thing that we can do is suit up, show up, stand tall, and greet the day with an open mind and a grateful heart.

Always remember:

184

The sun beat down with brilliant intensity as I trudged through a hot and dusty parking lot. I was five years sober, and I was on my way to an atypical and unorthodox professional engagement. I had been tasked with interviewing a group of disc golf players for a magazine article, and I was underprepared to say the least. I had never been an athletically-inclined person, and I did not own a single pair of gym shorts or tennis shoes. As a result, I had come to the park dressed in jeans and hiking boots, and I felt incredibly self-conscious.

I walked down towards the area where I was scheduled to meet with the recreational club, searching for a familiar face in a sea of tall maple trees. After awkwardly leaning against a chain-link fence for several minutes, I was roused from my anxious ruminations by a cheery greeting. It was the president of the disc golf club, and he was in decidedly rare form. There was a confident swagger in his gait and his voice, which stood in stark contrast to my worried and closed-off comportment. He reached out his hand, passed me a stack of discs, and told me to follow behind him as we walked towards the first leg of the course. I had never played a game of disc golf before in my life, and I was dreading the inevitable moment where I would be required to showcase my inadequate skills.

As I watched the captain of the disc golf team swing his arm in a fluid and effortless motion, it conjured painful recollections of the years I had spent in active addiction. Back then, I had watched other carefree, young people tossing frisbees and discs in the same parks where I had bought and used my substances of choice. I had harbored strong resentments towards them for several reasons: Firstly, I had always shied away from team sports due to my introverted tendencies as a young man. Secondly, I believed the damage that I had inflicted on my body through decades of chemical escapism was completely irreversible. Over the course of my recovery, I had managed to improve my physique through a series of rigorous calisthenic routines, but it had done little to improve my personal confidence. I was uncoordinated, inexperienced, and completely out of my element, but there was no turning back now. I cocked my arm back and flung the disc forward, emitting a graceless grunt as I watched it fall far short of its intended target. As I hung my head in shame, I thought of all of the times I had disappointed countless other people, both in active addiction and recovery. At the lowest point of my personal crisis, the disc golf captain offered some kind words:

“I can tell you’re nervous, but there’s no need to be. When I came to my first disc golf game a few years ago, I was a whole lot worse than you are. Why don’t you just relax and have some fun? No one here is judging you. We just want you to have a good time and experience the true magic of the sport: enjoying a few laughs with some new and old friends on a beautiful day.”

After listening to his wise proclamation, I realized that although he was not sober, he had nevertheless reminded me of a key truth that I had learned in recovery: the power of friendship, fellowship, trust, and shared experience can bring people together regardless of the differences that set us apart.

Always remember:

185

The evening light cast faint glimmers on the surfaces of freshly-polished tables as I walked through the entrance of a lively restaurant. I was five years sober, and I had just arrived at a catered event that was sponsored by a local business chamber. As I made my way towards a spacious patio, I was overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of tipsy revelry. It was clear that social drinking was a primary pillar of the event, and I knew that I had to stay focused on my recovery. I had made an appearance in order to follow up with several people that I had been unable to arrange interviews with. I knew that I would have to stay if I wanted to successfully meet my journalistic deadline, so I adjusted my level of self-awareness in line with the situational challenges.

In the earliest stages of my recovery, it had been difficult for me to be around people who were socially drinking. Over the years that followed, a long stint in the service industry as a sober bartender had fully desensitized me to it. It no longer bothered me, and I had learned how to gracefully refuse drinks in dozens of situations. Still, I had found that when I refused a drink, people would sometimes begin to act self-consciously. It was almost as if they thought I was judging them for drink- ing just because I didn’t. As a result, I had chosen to not disclose the fact that I was sober in several instances where there was a professional interest at play. I had found that it did not work in my favor to engender a perception of self-righteousness – especially when networking with journalistic collaborators at events such as these. To that end, I walked towards the bar and ordered a seltzer water in an attempt to avoid questions about why I wasn’t drinking. Afterwards, I proceeded to mingle with several recognizable faces in the crowd.

I sat down at table with them, and the ensuing conversations were productive and fruitful. I confirmed dates for several interviews, and I made friends with a couple of newly-arrived Vermont residents. As minutes blended into hours, I drank the rest of my seltzer water and forgot that my empty glass was sitting on the table. At the moment that I completely let my guard down, I heard the question that I had been dreading all along:

“Do you want a drink?”

I froze in a state of paralyzed shock as I attempted to conjure a correctly-phrased, tactful response. After staring at the ground for several seconds, I grit my teeth as I wrestled with my dilemma. I didn’t want to alienate my newfound colleagues, but I didn’t know of any way that I could avoid a relapse without acknowledging my recovery. At my moment of doubt, words failed me, and I decided to tell the truth. I had to stick to my guns and do what I had to do to stay sober, regardless of the consequences.

“No thanks, I’m in recovery. I have nothing against you enjoying a drink, though. I hope you enjoy it!”

I was expecting the people around the table to act standoffish in response to my admission. Instead, they congratulated me and asked me if I wanted a refill for my sparkling water. I nodded, smiled, and heaved a sigh of relief. I had managed to stay sober, power through my insecurities and doubts, and remain grounded in the principles of my recovery. In the process, I had come to understand that I was capable of navigating any professional challenge that came my way. As long as I remained honest, I had nothing to fear.

Always remember:

186

Clouds of dust rose from the ground as my car raced up a narrow dirt road. I was five years sober, and I was headed home after a long day of work. After rounding the final turn before the straightaway that led to my house, I noticed something peculiar at the top of the hill: my neighbor’s car was parked next to his mailbox, and his engine was still running. I hit the brakes and honked my horn in an effort to get his attention, but his car remained stationary. Before I had the opportunity to drive around him and proceed up the hill, his car began inching backwards towards mine.

At first, I thought that he was merely backing up into his driveway and didn’t see me behind him. I put my car in reverse and began slowly driving down the hill. When both of our cars had passed his driveway and his car had failed to reduce in speed, I knew that something was wrong. My suspicions were confirmed when his car began fishtailing in front of me at an increasingly erratic rate. We were both driving in reverse towards a steep cliff, and I knew that I had to act quickly before something terrible happened.

After making a split-second decision, I realized that there was no way that I could escape my predicament without colliding with his car, falling off the cliff, or backing my car into a drainage ditch. I chose the latter option, and cut my wheel to the side. I felt the back bumper of my car crunch against a pile of large rocks, and his back tail light hit my front bumper less than a second later. In the moments immediately following the crash, his car slid into the other ditch and came to a stop.

When the dust cleared, both of our cars were stranded in ditches on opposite ends of the road. Following the accident, he emerged from his car. Neither of us were injured, but I was rattled to say the least. I walked towards him and demanded an explanation. After profusely apologizing, he told me that he had fallen asleep at the wheel while picking up his mail from his mailbox. Apparently, he had failed to put his car in park while fetching it. Although I could tell that he was not drunk or otherwise inebriated, I was still incredibly resentful. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery fellowship:

“Recovery teaches us that even when we are confronted with unfair circumstances, the best thing that we can do is remain centered and work towards a reasonable solution. We don’t have to let people walk all over us, but the best outcomes happen when we maintain our serenity in the most difficult times.”

After taking a moment to breathe and relax, I unclenched my fists and addressed my neighbor in a calm, clear voice. Within minutes, we worked out a solution through which he would pay for every necessary automotive repair. He called a tow truck to take my car to the shop, and he gave me the keys to his other car to drive home. As I pulled out of his driveway and proceeded towards my house, I took a moment to reflect on the power of acceptance and gratitude. I might not have had my car, but I still had my life and my sobriety – and that was something truly worth being thankful for.

Always remember:

187

The cool summer breeze ruffled the folds of my shirt as I sat outside on my porch listening to the chirring insects. I was five years sober, and I had stayed up all night finishing an assignment. It was just another ordinary August morning, but it held special significance in my heart. It had been eleven years to the day since I had recorded a song with an artist who had achieved worldwide acclaim for his music – and it had been almost three years since the same talented, young musician had passed away due to his struggle with addiction.

As I looked out at the vast expanse of beautiful land before me, I recalled the night that I had driven several hundred miles to record a song with him. It was a time before the hedonistic depravity of my addiction had fully engulfed my life and soul in metaphoric darkness, and I looked back on those days with simultaneous feelings of nostalgia and guilt. Over the years that immediately followed our collaboration, the artist whom I had worked with had embarked on a journey that led him to fame and fortune. We had only met once more after our recording session, but he treated me with kindness, humility, and integrity on that day. Although he had never managed to find peace and stability in recovery, he nevertheless served as a beacon of hope and inspiration, which helped to propel me through the worst days of my active addiction.

On the evenings that I would spend isolated in a state of agonizing withdrawal, I would put on one of his old songs and reminisce about the time in my life that our paths crossed, when I believed that everything was possible. When I finally got sober, his music served as a motivational soundtrack for the first months of my early recovery. On the night that I learned he had passed away, I’d already built a firmly-established sobriety program, but it still rattled me to the core. It also served as the spark that rekindled the flame of artistic drive within me. I knew that I owed it to every person who had traveled the same journey of addiction, living or not, to tell my story through music and words. Several years after his untimely passing, I had gone on to release my own album, reintegrated music into my life in a new context, and made peace with my past. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sorrow and regret that the artist whom I had worked with and countless other lost friends were not able to experience the same serenity and freedom that I had found in recovery.

After wading through a proverbial sea of self-inflicted shame for several minutes, I came to the following conclusion: I had to let go of my guilt, and I had to recognize that the only way to move forward and truly honor the legacy of my late friends and past artistic collaborators was by living every day to the fullest in recovery. I shed a silent tear as the sun rose above the crest of the mountains, reached for my computer, and cued up the song that we recorded together. Instead of looking back on the memories of my addicted youth with shame, regret, or conflicted anger, I took a deep breath and reflected on how grateful I was to have spent time with such amazing people. Nothing could take away the pain of their passing, but I knew that every day I spent sober and clean could serve as a meaningful tribute to their lives and memories.

Always remember:

188

My neck was tense and my forehead was pounding as I stepped into the shower. I was five years sober, and I was getting ready for bed after a difficult day. As the result of my own hubris and anger, I had become extremely distant from my girlfriend. I had projected my insecurities onto her in an effort to detach from my issues, and a horrendous argument had ensued. Instead of reaching out to my sober friends for guidance, I had remained obstinate and turned a blind eye to my emotional well-being. In the end, the consequences of my actions came back to haunt me. I normally felt cleansed and refreshed when I stepped out of the shower, but I was unable to wash off the dirt of the day in more ways than one.

The staircase that led up to the bedroom where my girlfriend was waiting for me seemed as treacherous as the icy slopes of a Himalayan peak. I was trapped in a torturous circle of egotism and self-hatred, and I didn’t know how to extricate myself. The inner voice of grandiose arrogance beckoned me to storm up the stairs, confront her, and continue my belligerent tirade. The childish, timid and insecure side of my fractured identity told me that I was unworthy of even showing my face in the same room as her. The diametrically-opposed fringes of my consciousness continued to squabble as I sat at the bottom of my staircase. I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders as I contemplated my next move. Suddenly, the words of a wise friend from my recovery circle pierced through my thick mental fog:

“It is impossible to be at peace with anyone or anything else when we are at war with ourselves.”

After remembering his sagacious statement, it occurred to me that extreme emotionality would only hold me back from achieving a romantic truce. I had to find a happy medium in my own mind before I could restore the balance of our relationship. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and began to systematically deconstruct my imbalanced thoughts one by one. After taking personal accountability for my misdeeds and forgiving myself for my improper behavior, I walked up the stairs and apologized to my disconsolate girlfriend. I concluded by expressing remorse for my childish and arrogant actions, and stared down at the floor as I waited for her response. Although it was clear that she was still hurt, she reacted in a surprisingly calm manner, and she offered a wise and enlightened response:

“We’re all battling with ourselves in some way, and I know you’ve been having a difficult time lately. I’ve overreacted many times in the past, so I want you to know I forgive you – even though you did say some things that were painful to hear. Thank you for apologizing. Let’s try to treat each other better moving forward.”

After sliding into bed, I turned on our favorite show. I felt my eyelids getting heavy as the sky grew darker, and I didn’t know how to end the night on a happy note. In the final moments before I fell asleep, I reached out my hand, my girlfriend reached out hers, and we experienced a beautiful moment of reaffirming connection. There was a lot of work that remained to be done, but I had managed to take the first steps towards a better tomorrow. I had admitted my faults, come to terms with my underlying issues, and re-cemented the foundation of my recovery.

Always remember:

189

The sun was high in the summer sky as I walked towards the front entrance of a local grocery store. I was five years sober, and I was gathering supplies for a delicious, home-cooked meal. My girlfriend had given me the recipe for a tasty, yet complicated pasta dish. I had been tasked with procuring all of the obscure ingredients required to make it, and I didn’t want to come back empty-handed.

While wandering through the aisles and picking up an eclectic assortment of vegetables, cheeses, and other food products, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I reached down to pick up the call and saw an unexpected name flash across the screen. It was a friend that I had known during the worst stages of my active addiction. I answered his call as I walked past a shelf that was stocked with dozens of different varieties of pasta sauce. I had been given explicit instructions that only one specific, rare type of sauce would suffice, but I couldn’t seem to find it. Although I attempted to greet my estranged friend’s outreach efforts with a series of warm niceties, he cut through my small talk with a hurried and troubled proclamation:

“I’ve hit a new low in my addiction. I don’t know what to do. Can you help me?”

Over the following several minutes, I made every effort to steer him in the right direction as I searched for my girlfriend’s favorite pasta sauce. I offered him some advice, I congratulated him on his decision to seek treatment for his addiction, and I presented him with several different treatment options and paths of recovery. As the conversation unfolded, he began to list off a series of complicated mitigating factors, which pertained to his personal life, his legal challenges, and his mental health issues. He thanked me for my advice, but he nevertheless insisted that none of my suggested paths could fully address the concerns and reservations that were holding him back.

As I stood there in the middle of the aisle, it felt like I was trying to find a missing ingredient in more ways than one. I couldn’t find the perfect words or ideally-suited path of addiction treatment to help my friend, and I couldn’t find the right sauce for my girlfriend’s signature pasta dish. At the moment where I felt like I had failed on all levels, I came to the following realization: I didn’t have to be mad that the store didn’t have the right pasta sauce, and I didn’t have to hate myself for not having the perfect answer for my friend, either. In both cases, specialized intervention was required beyond my immediate capability – and that was nothing to be ashamed of.

I walked towards the front of the store, purchased the items that were available there, and set a new course for a specialty food shop that was well-known for its wide range of sauces. Afterwards, I concluded my conversation with my friend, and I offered to text him the number of an acquaintance that had more experience with the issues that he was struggling with. It felt good to know that even though I wasn’t able to help him, I was still able to point him in the right direction – and I was headed down a promising path of self-awareness in my own life, too. Recovery had given me the ability to recognize when I didn’t have all of the necessary ingredients in every sense. As a result, I had found the patience and clarity that I needed in order to seek effective solutions for myself and the people that I cared about.

Always remember:

190

My shoulders were tense and rigid as I chaotically paced around my bedroom. I was five years sober, and I was attempting to finish folding and sorting a massive pile of recently-laundered clothes. Due to the fact that my washing machine was broken, I had spent the entire day at the local laundromat. I was falling behind on my professional obligations, I was emotionally drained, and I was struggling to swim through a proverbial tsunami of unanswered text messages and emails.

I was due to head down to New York City to record a video with one of my musical idols in several weeks, and I had recently announced it online through social media. Although I was grateful beyond belief for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and the encouraging words of my creative peers, I had not found the time to adequately prepare. As a result, the daily household tasks that were normally easy and manageable had become increasingly stressful. It felt like I was drowning in a metaphoric ocean of turbulent and doubtful thought. Sadly, my stubbornness and pride prevented me from reaching out and asking for help. No matter how overwhelmed I was, I remained determined to stoically power through.

My heart began to beat at an accelerated rate as I alternated between sending clipped text message replies and folding shirts into haphazard piles. I gradually slid into a dissociative fog, and I ended up paying a steep price for my cumbersome apathy. I stumbled into a large pile of freshly folded pants and shirts, tripped, fell, and kicked them across the room. After rising from the ground and dusting myself off, I came to a tragic realization: the only thing that was messier than the room I was standing in was my life itself. I collapsed into a rickety armchair next to my dresser and began pitching back and forth like a spoiled toddler. Creating order out of the chaos seemed entirely impossible, and I didn’t know if I was capable of completing the long list of chores and commitments that lay ahead. At the apex of my tantrum, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery circle:

“In recovery, we are taught to take our days one day at a time. Looking at the bigger picture can certainly help us put things into context, but it can also overwhelm us when we are feeling vulnerable and overworked. Sometimes when we are cleaning house – both literally and metaphorically – we have to sweep the unwanted elements out one corner at a time. We might not be able to do everything all at once, but we can certainly take a step back, detach from our fears, and remain grateful for the lessons that our challenges can teach us.”

After reframing my thought process through a lens of gratitude and acceptance, I started to understand that every piece of unfolded clothing and missed correspondence held the potential for self-renewal. It wasn’t a dolorous chore to clean my life and house up – it was a blessing in disguise. I slowed my pace, calmed my mind, and took the time to savor every orderly movement as a meditative exercise. I had a lot of work to do before my house was clean and the balance of my life was restored, but I was no longer held back by the burdensome weight of self-centered fear and anxiety.

Always remember:

191

The sounds of honking taxis and chattering street vendors rattled my eardrums as I stepped out of a crowded subway station. I was five years sober, and I was on my way to perform for one of my musical idols. I had entered an online contest for independent artists during the worst months of the COVID-19 pandemic on a whimsical lark, and I had subsequently been selected as one of the five winners. After a year and a half of waiting, I had been called down to New York City for a high-profile recording session. I was excited, terrified, and incredibly apprehensive, but I knew that there was no turning back now. It was time to face the music in every sense.

After walking down several blocks in a bustling, industrial Brooklyn neighborhood, I arrived in front of a brightly-lit studio. Several weary-eyed cameramen were setting up equipment outside, and the other artists who had been selected were congregated on a stoop next to the entrance. I did my best to make small talk with them while we waited for the legendary DJ who was overseeing the contest to arrive. He was an established tastemaker who had made a name for himself by shaping the career trajectories of countless multi-platinum artists. I was honored to be chosen out of the thousands of people who had submitted musical entries for the contest. Nevertheless, I still felt out of place, uncomfortable, and frightened. I thought that I didn’t deserve the opportunity, and I was nervous beyond belief.

As minutes turned into hours, I loosened up a bit and began talking about music and sharing stories with the other contestants. When the DJ finally pulled up in a brand new, custom muscle car, I felt my heart bouncing through my chest. I was afraid that I was going to be so starstruck that I wouldn’t be able to perform properly. At the height of my anxious crisis, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery circle:

“One of the best things about recovery is that it serves as an equalizer that brings people together. Regardless of any external factors such as fame, wealth, or influence, we are all treated with the same respect when we step into a room full of other addicts and alcoholics. When we apply the same principles of equality and mutual respect towards our interactions with our relatives, friends, and complete strangers, we can look them in the eye without fear. As long as we remain rooted in the truth of our recovery, we can stay true to ourselves, speak with honesty, openness, and confidence, and conquer any obstacles that stand in our path.” After taking a deep breath, I walked towards the man who had inspired my creative journey more than he could ever know, shook his hand, looked him in the eye, and told him that it was an honor to be selected for the contest. He smiled, cracked a wry, sarcastic joke, and ushered us into the studio to record our verses. Recovery had given me the courage to show up with an open mind and an open heart, and I was grateful to be living one day – and one song – at a time.

Always remember:

192

Murky raindrops pelted the sidewalk as I walked towards the entrance of an understated New York City hotel with my girlfriend. I was five years sober, and I had just recorded a videotaped musical performance that was overseen by one of my artistic idols. It was a strange feeling to know that I had crossed one of my lifelong dreams off of the list, and I was still struggling to come to terms with it. The overwhelming sense of starstruck anticipation that I had felt before the performance had been replaced by a lingering question: “What’s next?” Recovery had brought me to a place in my creative career that I never dreamed possible in active addiction. I was a fully employed journalist and homeowner. I had mended bridges with my family and friends, and I had built a wonderful life for myself. It was almost as if there were no more challenges left to conquer – or so I thought. After entering the hotel room, my girlfriend dropped her handbag on the ground and walked towards the bathroom to take a shower. Apart from the fact that we were on vacation in New York City, it seemed like a normal, laid-back night in every sense. That all changed when she spoke the following words:

“Can you go to the store and buy me a pregnancy test?”

I froze, awestruck and paralyzed in a manner that far exceeded anything that I had experienced during my recent musical adventure. After agreeing to her request, I sprinted to a nearby supermarket and purchased two tests with the speed of a rabid cheetah. I returned to the hotel room with my clothes soaked from the rain, dropped the tests outside of the bathroom door, and sat down on the bed with my heart beating out of my chest. Ten minutes later, my girlfriend emerged with a nervous smile on her face. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered. “I took two tests and they’re both positive. Are we going to be able to make this work?”

I felt a stream of adrenaline rush through my body with an intensity that was ten times stronger than any chemical high. I was grateful that I was about to be a father, but I was also incredibly nervous. I could barely manage my own life and recovery, and I had no idea how to prepare myself for taking care of another tiny, vulnerable human being. Pangs of jubilation and doubt clashed like the winds of dueling cyclones within my tortured psyche. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but I was afraid that I wasn’t ready. It was then that I remembered a phrase that was every bit as impactful and life-changing as the words that my girlfriend has just uttered:

“No matter how high the stakes, you need to always tell the truth.”

It was a lesson that had always held immense significance in my journey of recovery – and this moment was no exception. I knew that I owed her honesty above anything else. I walked towards her, cleared my throat, and replied with the following heartfelt admission:

“I don’t know the first thing about fatherhood, but I do know this: I am frightened, overjoyed, and everything in between, and I will put every last ounce of my strength, love, and passion into raising this child with you.”

I was expecting her to respond with anger or uncertainty. Instead, she ran towards me and we met in a warm embrace. Recovery had allowed me to confront my fears and accept the dawn of a new chapter in my life with an open mind, and I was excited to face every challenge that lay ahead on my parenting journey.

Always remember:

193

The sky was foggy and grey as I sped down a rural highway. I was five years sober, and I was on my way to the laundromat with several large bins of dirty clothes. Although the hampers were chock full of shirts, socks, and pants, the overflow of garments in the backseat of my car paled in comparison to the overwhelming torrent of doubtful apprehension that was rushing through my mind. I had just learned that my girlfriend was pregnant several days earlier, and I knew that I would have to tell my friends and family sooner or later. After pulling over on the side of the road, I sighed heavily as I hovered my fingers over my phone screen. I was about to call my father and tell him the news, and I was incredibly nervous.

I had always looked to him as a source of disciplinary guidance over the course of my childhood, and I still felt guilty about disappointing him during my active addiction. Lessons that he had attempted to teach me during the rock bottom stages of my substance use journey echoed in my head as I dialed out his number. I recalled the way that he spoke in a stern and forceful voice when he took me out to lunch back then. He would gesture with his fork and knife like a professor in a college auditorium, spelling out the virtuous powers of determination and executive function. Unfortunately, it fell on deaf ears.

On most of those occasions, I could barely manage to stomach a plate of eggs and toast while fighting through withdrawal - let alone digest the gravity of his words. Over the years that followed, I regained his trust through a combination of hard work, vulnerability, accountability, and fearless candor. Still, I was afraid that he would take the opportunity to lecture me in a similarly didactic fashion. I was already stuck in a neurotic trance, and I didn’t want to exacerbate my anxious overthinking.

After stalling with small talk for several minutes, I took a deep breath, calmed my nerves, and revealed the reason for my call:

“You’re not going to believe this, but you’re about to be a grandfather! My girlfriend is pregnant, and we’re excited to welcome the newest addition to our family.”

The several seconds of silence that followed seemed to stretch out into an infinite void. I winced, pinched my temple, and pondered the impact of my decision. I wanted to hang up the call and run away from my responsibilities in every sense. At the height of my existential crisis, a miracle happened: he responded in a way that contradicted all of my preconceived notions.

“That’s amazing! I’m excited to meet my grandchild soon, and I’ll have to plan a trip out there to meet your girlfriend as soon as possible.”

As the conversation proceeded, he began reflecting on memories that vastly differed from the ones that my mind had conjured earlier on. He spoke on the absolute joy he had experienced holding me in his arms in the delivery room, and he maintained a buoyant and optimistic tone that soothed my frazzled nerves. Ironically, his change in comportment taught me a much more valuable lesson than his impassioned lunchtime sermons ever did when I was in active addiction: in order to move forward in life and recovery, we can no longer be held captive by the past actions of ourselves and others.

Always remember:

194

Clouds of dust danced in the muted fall sunlight as I swept out a cobwebbed corner. I was five years sober, and I was cleaning out my house with my girlfriend. We had recently learned that we were expecting our first child, and had embarked on a comprehensive home improvement campaign to make the house safe for a baby. After overcoming several unforeseen obstacles, we had reached a point where almost all of the rooms were ready. Nevertheless, my girlfriend remained anxious and concerned. I had attempted to assuage her fears, but I could tell that her stress was still weighing her down.

In the process of moving a freshly-cleaned day bed back to its original position, I pushed its back edge against a small table. As a direct result, a glass vase fell off the table and smashed into hundreds of small pieces on the ground. My girlfriend was busy tidying up another room on the upper floor of the house, but she called down to me when she heard the noise.

“What was that?”

I paused, surveyed the scene, and pondered the impact of my response. If I lied and told her that everything was fine, I would regress into the same deceitful behavior patterns that once held me back in active addiction. If I told her the truth, I ran the risk of exacerbating her anxiety. I chose the latter path, told her that I had broken the vase, and braced myself for the ensuing confrontation.

Following my pained admission, my girlfriend stormed down the stairs. It was clear that my awkward mistake had deeply upset her. She began lecturing me on the fact that a broken glass vase would be incredibly hazardous to a new baby, and she listed off the myriad ways that I had fallen short as a partner during the cleaning process. As she rattled off dozens of instances where I had compromised the efficacy of our domestic projects, I began to feel resentful and angry. I was frustrated about the issues that had been caused by my organizational deficiencies and lack of spatial awareness. My girlfriend’s stern proclamations brought me back to the earliest days of my recovery, when I was forced to listen to the grievances of my friends and loved ones. It was a painful way to come to terms with the lingering cost of my past actions, and it was a process that I did not want to repeat. As I readied a poisonous string of defensive and deflective insults, I came to a powerful realization: I had to admit my mistakes so that I could clear the wreckage of the past – both literally and metaphorically. I took a deep breath, detached myself from my insecurities, and offered the following response to my girlfriend’s inquiries:

“I’m so sorry I broke the vase, and I apologize for not being a better partner for these household tasks. The truth is that I’m incredibly nervous about the future too, and it’s uncomfortable for me to deal with those feelings. I think that we can work through this together. As long as we keep communicating openly, we can make sure both our house and our relationship are in good shape for when the baby comes.”

I was expecting my girlfriend to greet my words with snide condescension. Instead, she walked towards me, embraced me, and told me that I was doing a good job. After spending several minutes discussing potential solutions, we grabbed our brooms and dustpans and continued to clean the house. Recovery had given me the ability to see past my negative emotional disturbances – and I was grateful to be moving forward and mending what was broken.

Always remember:

195

Trees rustled in the evening breeze as I dug my head into a soft pillow. I was five years sober, and I was inexplicably trapped in a state of dazed and lethargic malaise. There was no apparent reason for my stagnant depression. I had slept and eaten well for the past several days, and I had taken time to reach out to several people from my recovery circle. All of the proverbial cards in my life’s deck were in order, but I still felt like I was lost in the shuffle. My restless nerves and procrastinatory hesitation were locked in an immovable stalemate on the metaphoric battlefields of my mind.

After languishing in sedentary isolation, I reached over to my bedside table, grabbed my smartphone, and began scrolling through a series of amusing online videos. Sadly, the faint glimpses of ephemeral glee I found through my temporary distraction soon gave way to even stronger pangs of emotional fatigue. I put the phone down, turned my head upward, and began staring at the woodgrain lines on the eave boards in my ceiling. If I couldn’t find order or motivation in my life, I could at least attempt to find beautiful symmetry in the inanimate objects around me.

Suddenly, in the midst of my ruminations, I experienced a timely epiphany: I might have been stuck in a lackadaisical and tortured state, but all was not lost. Although I felt almost as hopeless as I once did while going through withdrawal in active addiction, recovery had given me the ability to move past the hindrance of my mental cage without the aid of any destructive substance. Blessed with the clarity of a sober mind, I was able to deconstruct the underlying issues that were holding me back from being productive and present. After closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and cut through the metaphoric layer cake of conscious thought. With the innermost core of my subconscious exposed, I came face to face with the hidden source of incapacitating insecurity: I was afraid that I wasn’t moving forward fast enough in my life and career. As a result, I had begun to intentionally self-sabotage by holding myself hostage in my bedroom. It was time for me to cast off the chains of emotional bondage and move forward with my life, my recovery, and the hard work that had gotten me this far.

Although it felt like there was a thousand-pound anvil weighing me down to the bed, I summoned all of my mental fortitude and leapt from underneath the blanket. I felt an invigorating, natural rush when my feet hit the cold floor, and I started walking towards my dresser with a newfound sense of purpose and self-actualized strength. After putting on my socks and shoes and donning a light overcoat, I got in my car, called up one of my sober friends, and drove towards town to meet them. There was a lot of work that remained on my journey of recovery and self-discovery – and I was determined to never be held back by hidden doubts that I was afraid to confront.

Always remember:

196

The air was frigid and damp as I reclined in a comfortable armchair in front of my wood stove. I was five years sober, and I was dealing with a mysterious combination of pain and fatigue. My head was pounding, my skin was clammy, and I was completely immobilized by discomfort. It was a crisp fall evening, I had a tall pile of wood by the stove, and the fire was already going strong. Still, I found it nearly impossible to rise from the chair and lob an occasional log onto the embers. An inexplicable malaise was holding me back from achieving command of my executive function, and it was accompanied by a thick haze of paralyzing fear. Although I was curious about what was making me sick, there was a part of me that was afraid of facing the issue at its source. Given the fact that the nasal congestion and digestive upset that normally accompanied my colds or bouts of influenza was markedly absent, I knew that I was dealing with something different. Nevertheless, I remained staunchly determined to avoid medical intervention at all costs.

Suddenly, my lower calf lit up with an electric spark of unbearable pain. I sprang to my feet, reached down, and groggily pulled up my pant leg. When I looked down at my lower shin, it became immediately apparent that I had been bitten by a tick several days earlier without knowing. There was a large, inflamed, circular rash staring back at me, and I could no longer deny the source of my illness. I knew that I had to go to the hospital before my fever and infection escalated any further, but I was still apprehensive and reluctant. As an addict in recovery, admitting powerlessness and defeat and confronting my fears were two things that were incredibly difficult. Before getting sober, I suffered in silence and shut my loved ones and family members out for years while I struggled in the grips of chemical dependency. It had been half a decade since I had last ingested a mind-altering substance, but my isolating and overly-stoic tendencies were still threatening my health and personal stability. Much like in active addiction, I had too much pride to ask for help, and I was headed towards imminent disaster. At the apex of my medical crisis, I remembered the wise words of my sober friend:

“Just because we get sober doesn’t mean that we’re not capable of becoming sick anymore. Sickness can manifest on multiple levels: physical, emotional, and even spiritual, regardless of whether or not we are drinking and using. Still, recovery gives us the ability to deal with that sickness head-on instead of running from it. Whether we are dealing with a relapse, an infection, or any other affliction beyond our control, we can only heal once we admit that we need help and ask for it. There is no shame in being sick, but refusing care for addiction – or any other disease – can be a tragic and costly mistake.”

After remembering my friend’s sagacious statement, I turned down the stove, grabbed my coat, and walked towards my car to drive to the hospital. I was physically sicker than I had been in a long time, but the lessons I had learned in recovery had reoriented me towards the path of healing. We are only as sick as our reservations, resentments, and secrets – and I was determined to move forward to a healthier tomorrow in every sense.

Always remember:

197

Faint and scattered sunbeams poked through the faraway clouds as I drove through a rocky Vermont valley. I was five years sober, and I was on my way to a recovery event for the first time in several weeks. I had been so caught up with work and family commitments that I had failed to uphold the fellowship aspect of my sobriety program. I felt guilty and apprehensive as I rested my hands on the steering wheel and watched the trees pass by on the highway. I was getting closer to the place where I normally met up with my sober friends, and I didn’t know how they were going to react after my prolonged absence.

As I pulled into the packed gravel parking lot, I saw dozens of recovering addicts walking towards the entrance of the sobriety clubhouse. I was hoping for a small crowd of strangers, but I had been greeted by a thick horde of familiar faces. Although I had not relapsed and was in a good place in my sobriety, I was afraid that they were still going to judge me for my decision to skip several weeks of recovery events. As someone who had been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome at a young age, I had always struggled to hold my own in certain high-pressure and uncomfortable social situations. It felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on my shoulders, and I didn’t know how to escape my self-made fortress of shame.

In the midst of my anxious ruminations, I heard a loud tap sound on my window. After turning my head towards the source of the sound, I saw the happy face of one of the people who had made the largest impact on my recovery. Ever since I moved to Vermont, he had always been there for me when I needed someone to talk to. Even still, doubt and worry clouded my mind as I opened my door to greet him. After a firm handshake and hug, we began trading pleasantries as we walked towards the entrance together. Eventually, he asked the question that I had been dreading all along:

“So where have you been?”

At first, I felt a pang of resentment echo through my body like a resonant cymbal in a symphony hall. I bit the side of my cheek and attempted to maintain my cool as I wrestled with my dueling pride and insecurity. I was upset with myself for my lack of attendance, and I was also angry at my friend for bringing it up. I twisted my face into a tight scowl as I attempted to conjure a witty and scathing retort, but I thought better of it at the last minute. Instead of putting my guard up and using sarcasm as a cheap defense mechanism, I chose to tell the truth and own up to my imperfections.

“I’ve been busy with work and getting ready for my new baby. It feels like it’s been even longer than it has, but I’m grateful to be back here today.”

I was expecting my friend to respond with judgmental condescension. Instead, he expressed empathetic support and welcomed me back with enthusiasm. As we passed through the doorway and took our seats, it felt like I was entering a new phase of my recovery. I was thankful to have found a place that welcomed me when I came back after an extended absence, and also for the encouraging connections I had formed in my recovery circle.

Always remember:

198

Piercing sunlight streamed through the windows of my mother’s guestroom as I rose to my feet and grabbed some comfortable socks. I was five years sober, and I had just awakened on my thirtieth birthday. After putting on the rest of my clothes, walking downstairs, and joining my mother and girlfriend on the couch, I was greeted with big hugs and generous presents. I was overjoyed to be spending my birthday in my hometown with the people I loved, but I was saddled with potent and confusing emotions.

I forced a fake smile onto my face as I wrestled with simultaneous feelings of joy and disbelief. Many things were weighing heavily on my mind, but I didn’t want to cause a scene. I opened up the presents, savored a tasty slice of cake, and stepped outside to take my dog on a walk around the block. Alone and unbothered, I took a deep breath and attempted to ground myself in my current reality. I was a fully-grown man in long term recovery with an expectant girlfriend, and I didn’t know if I was truly capable of handling it.

In the worst days of my active addiction, I never thought that I would live past the age of 25. Employment, happiness, fulfillment, romantic relationships, and rebuilding trust with my family seemed like an even more distant dream. Recovery had brought me to a point in my life that I once believed was impossible, but I had failed to properly adjust. I had been chemically abstinent for half a decade, but the ghosts of my addicted past were raging at full force. There was still a masochistic, doubtful part of me that craved the miserable chaos of active addiction. I was afraid that I was going to let everyone down, and I didn’t know how to move forward.

At the apex of my personal crisis, I looked towards the street and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window of a nearby car. It conjured memories of a powerful moment that I had experienced at a treatment center five years earlier. At a point when I had made up my mind to leave and go back to using drugs, I saw my reflection in a mirror on the desk and decided to stay. Though the stakes were certainly different back then, I knew that the moment I was facing was equally important. It was time for me to confront what had been holding me back from success and self-actualization.

As I gazed at the glass, I was overcome with the same feelings of fiery motivation that had launched me from the depths of addiction into a new life of hope and recovery. I saw my former self, my current self, and a vision for my future self as a happy and present father in his thirties. I pushed my fear to the side, and realized that I was similarly capable of bringing that dream into existence. All I had to do was show up for my commitments, remain humble and focused, and channel the same determination and self-awareness that had allowed me to recover from my addiction.

After completing the walk, I burst through the door, hugged my girlfriend and mother, and re-emerged from my pessimistic ruminations with a sincere smile on my face. My life was just beginning, my work was just starting, and I was looking forward to applying the principles of recovery towards every challenge that awaited me. I understood that the flame of inspiration would continue to burn just as brightly if I never lost sight of the following lesson, which had powered me through the toughest days of my recovery:

Always remember:

199

Perspiration streamed down my brow as I rose from the ground in a breathless haze. I was five years sober, and I was attempting to complete my first full physical workout in almost a year. I had broken my arm five months earlier, and it had healed to the point that I was able to put weight on it. Although I was grateful to be exercising again, I was becoming incredibly frustrated. I walked towards the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and grimaced at my skinny arms and sunken chest. I was disappointed in the way I looked, which paled in comparison to my former physique.

Instead of walking back towards the center of my bedroom floor and completing my workout, I stumbled towards the couch, flopped down onto the cushions, and began to neurotically ruminate. My mental state was far weaker than my physical state, but I was trapped in a maze of self-centered emotional detachment. I was so preoccupied with my superficial appearance that I had failed to address a series of primitive underlying insecurities, which were threatening the foundational pillars of my recovery and serenity. Most notably, I was afraid that I would be unable to reclaim the state of physical fitness that I had achieved several years earlier.

I had detoxed from all addictive chemicals at the age of 24, and my transition into sober life closely aligned with my natural peak of physical capabilities. As a result, my emotional and spiritual recovery had become inextricably tied to my physical recovery. When I felt the burdensome weight of situational stress weighing down on me, I would turn to exercise as a healthy ritual. On days when I was unable to meet with members of my recovery circle, it served as a temporary distraction from my paralyzing self-doubt. It also gave me great pleasure to see the progress I had made in my physical fitness journey, which closely mirrored the upward trajectory of my newly-sober life. At the age of 30, I had run into an unexpected roadblock: my body was becoming slightly less flexible and strong with every passing day – and my negative mental and behavioral patterns were becoming increasingly crystallized, as well.

As I sank further into the couch, it felt like I was slipping deeper into a state of self-indulgent apathy. At the point where I felt like completely abandoning my passion for exercise, I experienced a powerful epiphany: the fact that my arms were physically weaker was a blessing in disguise – and it served as an opportunity to strengthen my mental discipline and recovery.

Instead of cursing the fact that I could no longer effortlessly crank out dozens of push-ups and sit-ups, I honed in and focused on doing fewer repetitions with perfect form. I made every movement a conscious meditation where my mind and body were connected. Instead of trying to escape my stress through exercise in the same way that I once did with drugs and alcohol, I confronted my underlying issues and understood that they were not going to go away. The exercises were not a distraction from my mental and spiritual challenges; they were a reaffirmation of the fact that I was capable of confronting any obstacle and working through it with methodical purpose.

After finishing my final set, I hopped in the shower with a feeling of triumphant gratitude. I might not have been in the best physical shape in my life, but I had taken the first steps towards building a stronger mind, a more grateful spirit, and a more resilient program of recovery.

Always remember:

200

Screeching train brakes woke me from a restful slumber as I pulled into downtown New York City with my pregnant girlfriend. I was five years sober, and I was on my way to introduce her to my cousins, aunts, and uncles for the first time. It was two days before Thanksgiving, and the station was buzzing with activity. Our travel plans had been mired in logistical problems from the onset of our departure. The train had encountered mechanical problems on the way down to the city, which had delayed our arrival by over an hour. As a result, my girlfriend was exhausted and agitated, and was doing everything she could to power through. She was a stoic and strong woman, but she was battling morning sickness and other situational complications as a result of her early pregnancy.

I stepped down onto the station platform and hoisted our duffel bags above my shoulders with energetic bravado. I was determined to make sure that my girlfriend’s experience was as seamless as possible, but the limitation of my power and influence was becoming increasingly apparent. After emerging from a thick crowd in the heart of the station, we found ourselves at the back of a long taxicab queue. It was cold and windy outside, but there was very little I could do to shield my girlfriend from the frigid temperature. I offered her my hat, scarf, and coat, but she forcefully declined my offerings with a forced smile. When we finally made it into the cab, it seemed like our fortune had taken a turn for the better. My girlfriend’s affect began to loosen, and I saw shades of color and warmth return to her face. Suddenly, I heard my phone buzz in my pocket. It was my mother. After picking up the call, I felt my heart skip a beat when she informed me of another roadblock in our travel plan:

“There’s a problem with the hotel reservation. The room won’t be ready for another two hours.”

I hung up the call and simmered in neurotic agony as we pulled in front of the hotel reception lobby. I was afraid to tell my beleaguered girlfriend the truth, because I didn’t want to let her down any more than I already had. Throughout the course of my recovery, I had always struggled to accept the things I could not change. Although I had given up the right to alter my consciousness chemically, I was nevertheless frustrated by my inability to change the outcomes of unfavorable situations. At the apex of my crisis, I remembered the wise instruction of a friend from my recovery circle:

“Anyone can be honest when things are going well, but we truly grow in our recovery when we become willing to tell the truth when the chips are down. It doesn’t just help us maintain our sanity and sobriety – it also helps us earn the trust of the people we love most, and it allows us to adapt to any challenge with flexibility and gratitude.”

Instead of lying to my girlfriend, I told her the truth about the delayed reservation. I was expecting her to become rancorous and irritated. Instead, she shrugged, smiled, and told me that she was grateful to have arrived at the hotel safely. As I walked towards the lobby to greet my mother, I took a moment to reflect on the power of integrity and clarity. Recovery had given me the ability to navigate a difficult journey in more ways than one – and I was grateful to have arrived at a better place in my life in every sense.

Always remember:

201

The tantalizing aroma of festive delicacies wafted through my grandmother’s apartment as I stepped into her kitchen. I was five years sober, and I had brought my girlfriend to visit my family for Thanksgiving. Cousins, aunts, and uncles exchanged tipsy banter as I slid past them to find my place in the food line. I grabbed a plate, poured myself a glass of sparkling, non-alcoholic apple cider, and headed back towards the dining room table. My girlfriend had already found a seat next to my grandmother, who was busy asking her thoughtful questions about her college classes.

Although I was overjoyed that my girlfriend was getting to know my family, I was grappling with my repressed emotional issues that had come back to haunt me. On the surface, I was steely and confident, alternating between braggadocious rants about my journalism work and my creative endeavors. Beneath my flimsy façade, I was incredibly insecure about my position in the family hierarchy. It had been years since I had last come to Thanksgiving under the influence of addictive inebriants, but I was nevertheless weighed down by extreme guilt.

Every time I walked back to the kitchen to fill my plate with more potatoes or stuffing, I was overcome by visceral recollections of my past. Every corner of my grandmother’s apartment held countless memories, ranging from joyful childhood evenings to the darkest days of my life. At the apex of my chemical dependency, I would sneak away from festive gatherings to drink or use drugs in the bathroom. I would emerge in a stupefied haze, masking my inebriation with a combination of sarcastic bravado and belligerent egotism. Although I was sober and clean, I was still holding on to my doubt and misery with the unbreakable grip of a seasoned Olympic gymnast. I wanted to drop my guard and relinquish control of the situation, but I didn’t think I was capable. At the height of my personal crisis, I remembered the wise words of a good friend from my recovery circle:

“When we make a certain amount of progress in our recovery, we can become complacent about our character defects. We might believe that we are incapable of moving past them. We may even fall victim to the illusion that they are foundational pillars of our identity. Over time, we learn that the same coping mechanisms that we used as crutches in active addiction and early recovery are not helpful anymore. We are then confronted with an important decision: Are we truly ready to rid ourselves of the emotional baggage? If we take the time to breathe, pause, and think it through, we arrive at the following conclusion: Our darkest fears, insecurities, flaws, and the crude defensive tactics that they fuel no longer serve us. We can then happily welcome the warm light of family and fellowship with open arms, and we can find a new freedom that we never knew existed before.”

After catching my breath and calming my heart rate, I let go of my fears, opened up my heart, and took a moment to survey the scene around me. My family and friends were smiling, my delusions were unfounded, and life was good. I still had a lot of work to do in my sobriety, but I was thankful to be able to be present, grounded, and aware of the gifts that I had been given as a result of my recovery program.

Always remember:

202

Powdery snow fell gently from the sky as I trudged up a steep hill. I was five years sober, and I was returning home after visiting my family. My house was located at the top of a long and treacherous mountain driveway. The road was rough, rocky, and uneven, and my home was only accessible on foot during the wintertime.

I had made the foolish decision of parking my car at the top of the hill before leaving Vermont for my Thanksgiving trip. In my absence, a sudden, massive snowstorm had trapped it there for the foreseeable future. My girlfriend was several months pregnant, and she was working at a restaurant that was located over thirty miles away. We had taken her car down to a nearby train station before traveling onward to see my family, which had saved it from being swallowed by the storm. Although I was grateful that my girlfriend had access to reliable transportation, I was nevertheless frustrated about my predicament. I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone else, and I couldn’t accept the reality that I had been presented with.

Upon reaching the house, I grabbed a shovel and began digging my car out of the snow with rigorous tenacity. The road was almost half a mile long, and it was impossible to carve a safe path by hand. Still, I remained stubbornly determined to free my car against all odds. My girlfriend had dropped me off at the bottom of the mountain before her work shift, and I had promised her that my car would be freed from the snow upon her return.

After grunting and heaving for thirty minutes, I came to a disappointing realization: the sun was beginning to set, and I had only cleared fifty feet of snow from the road. I quickened my pace and pressed forward, feeling my heart race with rabid intensity. After a brutish and awkward shovel lunge, I lost my balance and fell face first into a ditch. I spat out a mixture of snow and dirt and proceeded to angrily kick the boulders lining the culvert. Exhausted, I plopped down on a treelined snowbank, cast my shovel to the side, and marinated in a potent haze of self-hatred and situational anxiety.

Looking outward at the vast expanses of snowcapped trees, I felt like an insect in the grasp of a hungry bird. I was powerless against the strength of nature, and I was forced to reckon with my inability to control the world around me. Suddenly, it occurred to me that even though my car was trapped in the snow, I didn’t have to be held prisoner by my anxiety and fear.

I realized that in surrendering to the forces beyond my control, I could find freedom in serenity and acceptance. In my haste to free my car from the snow and drive down the hill, I had foregone the privilege of luxuriating in the natural splendor that was all around me. I carried the shovel back to the porch, sat down on the back steps, and took in the awe-inspiring beauty of a pastel-shaded Vermont winter sunset. As I watched the light slowly dim, I felt my feelings of anger and frustration fade away. I might not have been able to dig my car out of the snow, but I had managed to dig myself out of a bottomless pit of resentment and anxiety. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but recovery had given me the ability to accept the things I could not change.

Always remember:

203

The sounds of muffled conversations faded into nothingness as I stepped outside into the cold winter night. I was five years sober, and I was trapped in a state of self-inflicted isolation. I had just attended a recovery event for the first time in several weeks. Although I had been sitting in a crowded room full of other recovering addicts for the past hour, I still felt like I was entirely alone.

Long before the most miserable and lonely days of my active addiction, I had always been somewhat of a lone wolf. Although my Autism Spectrum diagnosis and the social complications that came with it served as a convenient excuse, the true cause was much deeper. At my innermost core, I had been plagued by feelings of hopeless unbelonging for my entire life. I had spent years building back bridges of trust with my family and friends in recovery, but a familiar sense of crippling alienation was beginning to rear its ugly head once again. There was no discernible reason for my sudden reclusion. My regression was unprompted by any pivotal event. Still, the insidious tentacles of doubt and fear were beginning to wreak havoc within the deepest cellars of my subconscious foundation. I knew that I had to act quickly before risking a relapse, but I didn’t know how.

After waddling back to my car at a downtrodden and lackadaisical pace, I plunked down in my seat and began scrolling through my phone. I was due to return at my house to enjoy a home-cooked meal with my girlfriend, but I was afraid to even show my face there. I drowned my sorrows in a mind-numbing cascade of online videos, hoping to silence my dark and destructive inner voices. I had a great life, half a decade in recovery, a good job, wonderful friends, and supportive loved ones, but none of that could erase my anxiety and low self-esteem. I had been cast away on a metaphoric island of cloistered seclusion by my own tempestuous mental maelstrom – and it was only a matter of time before the storm washed me away from the shoreline of stability and sobriety. Suddenly, I came across a blinding light of truth in the course of my social media scrolling. It was something I had never seen before: a viral video made by another person in recovery. In the earliest days of my sobriety, the stigma surrounding addiction was considerably stronger – especially on the internet. I had never expected to find a message of recovery being spread by a content creator with a large following, and it conjured strong feelings of warmth and hope. An inspirational soundtrack played behind a montage of photographs, which portrayed a complete stranger’s transition from addiction to recovery. At the end of the video, a text banner flashed across the screen with the following message:

“You deserve to be sober. You deserve to be happy. Reach out for help. You are not alone.”

I felt tears begin to well up in my eyes as I closed the social media application and flicked through the contact list in my phone. I texted a friend from my recovery fellowship who I looked up to, asked them if they would be willing to meet with me and help me through my crisis, and took a long and deep breath. I had a lot of work to do, but I was grateful to be alive and sober. In my time of greatest need, the message of recovery had found me, and it had inspired me to do what was necessary to stay alive and clean.

Always remember:

204

Papers rustled on a lacquered desk as I sat in a hospital waiting room. I was five years sober, and my girlfriend and I had just checked in at her first ultrasound appointment. She was seated next to me, and it was clear that she was both excited and nervous. Her baby bump had started to show, and I was beginning to accept that I was about to be a father very soon.

I held her hand tightly as the clerk finalized the paperwork, then rose to my feet and followed an attendant down a long hallway. I smiled brightly in an effort to reassure her, but I was beginning to feel equally anxious. In my active addiction, I never imagined I would live past the age of 25. Back then, the idea of finding a life partner and raising children as a gainfully employed, 30-year-old father was a laughable prospect at best. Yet there I stood, with my heart beating at a rapid pace. I was trapped in a pensive haze as we walked through the door of a spacious medical office.

After entering the room, she handed me her bag, slipped off her shoes, and climbed up onto the ultrasound bench. The attending technician was kind and bubbly. Her upbeat affect had a calming effect on my frazzled nerves. It was a welcome distraction from my fears and insecurities. I sat down in a padded chair, clutching my girlfriend’s backpack strap with the grip strength of a seasoned angler.

As the technician readied the ultrasound equipment, I closed my eyes, paused, and reflected. It was an incredibly important moment, and I was overwhelmed and apprehensive. I wanted to be there for my girlfriend, but I was beginning to mentally dissociate. It was a coping mechanism that I had developed over the course of my recovery, which helped me deal with stress and sensory overload. Whenever I encountered hectic or emotionally-charged situations, I would create an emotional barrier between myself and the world around me. It had greatly aided me during my years in the service industry, when I was forced to deftly maneuver through tight spaces while being inundated with visual and auditory stimuli. Sadly, in this case, my self-preserving detachment was far from advantageous. It was hindering my ability to connect with my girlfriend in her time of need, and I didn’t know how to maintain my serenity while remaining grounded in the moment.

Suddenly, I came to an enlightening realization: The most significant periods of growth in my recovery all occurred when I forced myself to be fully aware and engaged – even when things were difficult to process. Mindful awareness had allowed me to confront the tendencies that fueled my chemical escapism. It had also helped me address the character defects that prevented me from moving forward in my life.

I knew that in order to be equally successful in my journey of fatherhood, I would have to remain both physically and emotionally present. It wasn’t going to be easy to move past my reflexively indifferent tendencies, but I owed it to my girlfriend, my unborn child, and myself. I knew I had to start making the change then and there, so I unclenched my fist, inhaled deeply, and looked towards my girlfriend with attentive focus and clarity. As I watched the pictures of my unborn son flash across the display monitor, I felt grateful and proud to be alive and sober. Recovery had given me the ability to be present when it mattered most.

Always remember:

205

The sounds of honking horns and revving engines echoed through the streets as I pulled into a crowded parking lot. I was five years sober, and I had just arrived at the front of a bustling department store. I was on my way to do some last-minute Holiday shopping, and tensions were running high. I grabbed my wallet and keys, zipped up my coat, and walked past dozens of savvy retail warriors. It was clear from the frustrated looks on their faces that I was in for a stressful experience, but there was no turning back now. I had already secured Holiday gifts for my closest family members, but there were still a number of items that needed to be purchased. After walking through the door, I grabbed a cart and ran through a preliminary checklist in my head. I had an hour of free time to shop for the remaining gifts, and I intended to make it count.

Inside of the store, the cheery and lively Holiday music blended harmoniously with the sounds of beeping scanners, rustling pocketbooks, and shuffling feet. Many of the shelves had been thoroughly ransacked, but I didn’t let that deter me. I tossed knickknacks and kitschy home décor products into my cart with reckless abandon. It was a glorious festival of convenient efficiency, and I was riding high on a wave of situational euphoria. After a rapid sequence of impulsive gift selections, I saw a massive rack of cozy wool socks. They were embroidered with fun and fanciful designs, each of which was perfectly-suited to a different family member. Suddenly, I saw another customer advancing towards the sock display. He grabbed two dozen pairs of socks with blistering speed, leaving the shelves barren as he cast them into his cart. My heart sank as he tore down the aisle, and my gleeful elation gave way to anger and resentment.

After wallowing in my misery for several minutes, it occurred to me that the situation that I was faced with bore striking similarity to a problem I had encountered in active addiction. At the apex of my chemical dependency, I would feel similarly disappointed when my dealer or the liquor store ran out of my preferred poison. Although I had been chemically abstinent for half a decade, the same feelings of powerless desperation had been conjured by my Holiday misadventure. I leaned against my cart and bowed my head, struggling to make peace with my trivial predicament. While teetering on the brink of insanity, I arrived at an enlightening conclusion: I didn’t have to let the socks control me like my substance of choice did in the past. Following a brief pause, I gathered my bearings, turned my cart down another aisle, and found another pile of discounted Holiday socks next to a stack of festive sweaters. They had similar prints to the socks that I had seen at the opposite end of the store, and they were even cheaper and more colorful.

As I reached down to grab the socks, I smiled and reflected on the power of detachment and acceptance. The true value of recovery could not be measured by material means – and no gift was as priceless as my sobriety and serenity.

Always remember:

206

Glasses clinked and plates rattled as I walked through a crowded, lively restaurant. I was five years sober, and I was on my way to enjoy a hearty and filling New Year’s Eve dinner. I had just arrived at the elegant country inn where my girlfriend worked, but I didn’t know how she was going to react when she saw me. We had just finished a horrid argument several hours earlier, which was deeply-anchored in our mutual fear of the future. She was three-and-a-half months pregnant, and we were both working long hours to save up money for our first baby. As a result of the hectic pressures of the Holiday season, we were plagued by exhaustion and emptiness. Our bank accounts were slowly climbing, but we were more spiritually and emotionally bankrupt than ever before.

After sitting down at a small table in a romantically-lit tavern, I began perusing the menu. In the process of selecting a suitable appetizer, I was interrupted by one of my girlfriend’s co-workers. She welcomed me to the restaurant, but her nervous smile concealed a sad truth: my girlfriend was still upset with me, and I was in for a rocky New Year’s Eve. After placing my order, I looked around the room and took in the crowd of tipsy revelers. Their cheerful conversations stood in stark contrast with my introverted, gloomy bearing. As I spread a small sliver of butter across the surface of a warm and crisp bread roll, I could feel my patience growing equally thin. I took the first bite and watched my girlfriend walk across the tavern. She intentionally avoided eye contact with me, staring forward with the dogged determination of an Olympic marathoner.

As the clock continued to tick towards the inevitable midnight celebration, I savored a tasty, yet lonesome meal before settling my check and walking outside. I felt hopeless and distressed as I wandered towards my car, but I didn’t know how to approach my girlfriend and mend our relationship. I drove off into the darkness, cranked the radio up, and pressed my foot down on the pedal. I was miserable, irritable, and discontent, and it seemed like my life was skirting off the road at an even faster speed than my vehicle. Suddenly, I experienced a blinding realization: it had been over half a decade since I had clumsily chugged a glass of New Year’s Eve champagne, but I was still behaving like an incorrigible drunkard. I was literally and metaphorically speeding towards ruin in a resentful daze – and I knew that it was time to turn my life around in every sense. I reversed my course several miles before reaching my house, took a deep breath, and remembered the wise words a friend had told me on my first sober New Year’s Eve:

“Don’t go into the New Year angry about what happened or what you couldn’t control. Celebrate your life and sobriety by focusing on turning inward, fixing yourself, and connecting with the people you love with patience and compassion.”

I drove back to the inn at a slow and measured pace, parked my car, and walked into the restaurant with my head held high. I approached my girlfriend in a corridor, asked her forgiveness, and held her hand while staring into her eyes. As the clock struck midnight, her gaze softened, and we confronted our past, present, and future with a healing kiss and embrace. The New Year would hold challenges beyond anything we had experienced before in our lives, but I was grateful to be moving forward while holding firm to the principles of recovery. Always remember:

207

Fluffy snowflakes drifted down from the evening sky as I drove up a steep gravel road. I was five years sober, and I was on my way home after a challenging day at work. I had driven back and forth across the state to conduct several interviews for my journalism job, and I was absolutely exhausted. A thin layer of snow was beginning to pile up on the ground, and my girlfriend had called me several hours earlier and urged me to park my car at the bottom of the hill. We were living on a remote mountain that was only accessible through a bumpy and ungraded dirt road. Although I knew that I was taking a risk by driving up to the top, a mixture of laziness and egotism compelled me to disregard my rational fear. It had been over half a decade since I had gotten sober, but I was still addicted to taking reckless risks.

After turning onto my long and poorly-maintained driveway, I coast- ed down a twisty hill before beginning the treacherous ascent towards my house. My car was trusty and roadworthy, but I could feel its wheels beginning to slip on the slushy ice. Still, I pressed onward, and I felt my heart begin to palpitate as adrenaline coursed through my veins. It brought to mind memories from the worst days of my active addiction, when I would nervously race through the street in pursuit of narcotic escape. I was seeking out a different type of instant gratification on the road towards my house, but I was nevertheless charting an irreversible path towards self-destruction.

As I neared the final summit, I floored the pedal and grit my teeth with eager anticipation. When my front two wheels crested over the top, I thought that I had safely reached my house. Sadly, I was sorely mistaken. My wheels gave out, and my car began barreling down the hill in reverse. I slammed down on the brakes and pulled back the parking brake to no avail, and I began to seize up in horror as I watched my car draw closer to a steep, rocky ravine through the rearview mirror. I held my breath, braced for impact, and thought about everything that I would lose in the potentially-deadly crash: my pregnant girlfriend, my future son, my family, my friends, and the connections I had made in recovery. After making peace with my predicament, I let go of the wheel and closed my eyes. Seconds later, my car came to a screeching stop at the edge of the cliff. I sat in the drivers’ seat for several seconds in traumatized disbelief, then experienced a blinding moment of clarity when I remembered the wise words of my sober friend:

“Unmanageability and recklessness come in many forms. Just because we get sober doesn’t necessarily mean that our judgment and reason is infallible. If we allow our impatience to consume us, we risk crashing and burning in more ways than one. Gratitude and awareness are the keys to balancing courage and restraint. When we move through life with conscientious purpose, we can bravely meet life’s challenges without foolishly throwing away the gifts of recovery.”

After grabbing my bag, dusting myself off, and shutting my car door, I trudged up the hill in a disoriented haze. My foolish actions had taught me an important lesson, and I knew that I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to keep my life and my sobriety. Recovery had given me a chance to learn from my mistakes, and I had survived a frightening encounter with the consequences of my thoughtless impatience.

Always remember:

208

The winter wind howled outside of my window as I stumbled through a pitch-black room. I was five years sober, and I had just woken up in the middle of the night. A snowstorm had descended on Southern Vermont several hours earlier, and it had disabled power systems throughout the region. I tread carefully as I made my way down the stairs towards the kitchen, fumbled blindly through the cabinets, and grabbed a small, weak flashlight. After turning it on, I began searching for candles and matches. I was attempting to stay calm and focused, but the blackout could not have come at a worse time.

I had recently made critical revisions to several articles for my journalism job, and they were due for submission in several hours. I was stranded at the top of a steep and snowy road with no viable internet connection, no cell phone service, and no way of checking to see what efforts had been made to restore the electrical grid. I had done all the necessary work to meet my deadline, but a series of unfortunate events had rendered me incapable of following through when it mattered most.

I threw a log in my wood stove and watched as it became engulfed by whispering tongues of red flame. When the house began to warm up, I commenced a series of mundane, preparatory tasks. I bagged up all of the perishable food in my refrigerator and placed it outside on my icy porch. I was determined to minimize the damage from the storm, but there was nothing I could do to keep my mind at ease. The snow was still pouring down from the sky, and the winds seemed to be strengthening at an exponential pace.

My thoughts became increasingly frenzied and pessimistic, escalating a pace that closely mirrored the gusty blizzard. It brought to mind memories of the worst days of my active addiction, when I felt equally trapped and hopeless on a daily basis. Back then, it didn’t take a winter superstorm to ruin my plans for the day. The absence of a destructive substance conjured epic mental tempests that dwarfed the mightiest squalls. Nevertheless, when my girlfriend walked down the stairs and joined me in the living room, I found myself regressing into a similar state of desperate impatience. Her attempts to make conversation with me were met with terse, monosyllabic grunts of acknowledgment. When she asked me what was wrong, I dismissed her inquiries and turned further inward. The storm hadn’t just cut me off from my professional network; it had destroyed my ability to connect with the people I had cared about most. Suddenly, I remembered the words of a friend from my sobriety fellowship.

“When the world seems the most cold and frightful, we will only find inner peace if we are willing to stoke the flames of hope and gratitude. That starts by remembering that we are lucky to be alive, regardless of the outcome of any present situation. We work towards the solution by accepting reality as it is.”

After taking a moment to pause and reflect, I apologized to my girlfriend for my distant affect and revealed the reason for my distress. She offered calming words of heartfelt reassurance, which reminded me of a core truth of recovery: we may not be able to immediately alter the world around us or stop the snow on a winter morning – but we can weather the storm within by finding shelter in the proverbial stronghold of acceptance.

Always remember:

209

The sound of a whistling teakettle pierced my eardrums as I hurriedly skittered into my kitchen. I was five years sober, and my morning was off to a hectic start. I had awakened at the crack of dawn to embark on a spirited adventure across the state for my journalism job, but my preparations had been marred by a series of disorganized and untimely mistakes. My shirt was untucked, my socks were backwards, and I was trapped between alternating spikes of jovial optimism and anxious discord.

After pouring a cup of tea and snatching several pieces of slightly-burnt bread out of the toaster, I grabbed a plate, picked up my bag, and skipped towards my front door. Along the way, I tripped over a dog toy that had been left on the ground, spilled the tea, dropped the plate, and slammed my face onto the ground. I rose up slowly, regaining my bearings as I struggled to come to terms with my present situation. My shirt was drenched in honey chamomile, my floor was littered with ceramic shards, and I had less than five minutes before I was due to depart.

After realizing the depth of my predicament, I was unable to control my anger and resentment. I kicked the plate fragments across the room while screaming out in unbridled anguish. After stomping around for several seconds, my reckless frustration added insult to injury in a literal sense. I stubbed my toe on the edge of a wooden chair leg, which sent me rocketing into stratospheric levels of physical and emotional pain. I collapsed down on the ground and banged my fists, screaming with the rage of a rancorous toddler. I was considering abandoning my plans, cancelling the meeting, and putting my professional life in jeopardy for the sake of my ungrateful impatience. At the apex of my indulgent tantrum, I remembered the wise words of a sober friend that had guided me in the earliest days of my recovery:

“Just because we have a bad moment or a bad day doesn’t mean that our life is completely ruined or that we have to give up. In active addiction, we allowed temporary setbacks and the absence of instant gratification to control us. In recovery, we slowly regain our ability to move forward and persevere regardless of what challenges we encounter. Still, we can only make progress in our lives and our journeys of emotional self-actualization if we make a conscious decision to remain grateful in the wake of painful setbacks. If we allow our challenges to serve as humbling lessons, we can charter a course for a better life where our worst foibles can become our best teachers.”

In the wake of my introspective vision, I realized that I had the power to choose serenity over exasperation and hope over fury. I swept up the shards, wiped up the tea, walked upstairs, changed my shirt, took a deep breath, and readied myself to restart my day. I opened the front door, looked towards the sky, and smiled at the grey clouds that stood over the distant horizon. The sun might not have been shining as brightly as it could have been, but recovery had given me the ability to embrace the light within during my darkest moments.

Always remember:

210

The waxing moon cast pale light through the branches of tall trees as I trudged up a snowy mountainside. I was five years sober, and I was walking up to my house on a steep hill in Sandgate with my girlfriend. She was six months pregnant with our first child, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that our home was not suitable for the baby that we were expecting.

My girlfriend was a strong and courageous woman who was born and raised in Vermont, and she went above and beyond to demonstrate her resilience in all circumstances. I had asked her several weeks earlier if she wanted to move to a safer house, but she had insisted that she was still capable of walking up to our remote homestead in the ice and snow. I was beginning to realize that our living situation was completely unsustainable, but I was hesitant to move forward with the necessary steps to relocate our family. I had always been plagued by people-pleasing tendencies, which made it difficult to confront the people that I loved. Still, on that clear and frosty night, the stars aligned in a manner that forced me to face my anxiety head-on.

As we neared the top of the hill, my worst fears were realized in a jarring and stressful series of events: my girlfriend lost her balance, fell down onto her back, and dragged us both down into the snow. My heart raced like a supersonic jet as I scrambled to help her up. After rising to her feet, she dusted herself off, regained her bearings, and shoved my hand away when I tried to comfort her. I followed her into the house while bracing myself for the inevitable confrontation that lay ahead. It was time for me to speak my mind and take the necessary steps to protect my family, but I was feeling frightened and insecure. I didn’t know if I had the mental fortitude necessary to air my concerns in a way that would clearly resonate. It was then that I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery circle:

“Whenever we are faced with the burdensome task of attempting to change someone’s mind – especially someone who is set in their ways – we must first ask ourselves if we are willing to abandon our own stubborn pride in the process of doing so. Whether we are trying to help someone who is struggling with addiction realize that they need to get sober or help a loved one escape an unsafe situation, we can only transmit a clear message if we remain grounded in humility and accep- tance. If we speak with the same spirit of compassionate awareness that reached us when we were at our lowest point in active addiction, we can build a firm foundation of mutual respect and understanding. From there, all things are possible.”

I walked towards my girlfriend, looked her straight in the eye, and told her that we needed to move to a safer place for the sake of our unborn child. I was expecting her to greet my proclamation with stern indignance. Instead, she embraced me, agreed to my plan, and heaved a cathartic sigh of relief. There were many tough decisions that remained to be made before the baby came, but I had finally found common ground with her on a critically-important issue. Recovery had given me the ability to overcome my fears and speak with confidence, and I was grateful to be working towards stability and security one day at a time.

Always remember:

211

Salt crunched under my boots as I lugged a massive suitcase up the stairs of my mother’s front porch. I was five years sober, and I was faced with a humbling predicament that was testing the limits of my optimism and patience: a series of logistical complications at my remote mountain cabin had forced me to move into my mother’s house with my pregnant girlfriend. She had generously offered us refuge at her house in Arlington while we figured out the next steps for our permanent living situation. It had been four years since I had last depended on my family for a place to live, and I was wracked with feelings of shame, guilt, and absolute powerlessness.

After bringing the final suitcase inside, I walked into the downstairs bedroom. I found my girlfriend lying on a futon mattress with a disconsolate look on her face. She was nearly seven months pregnant, and it was clear that she was worried about what the future held. After an awkward silence, she posed a question that cut straight through the cheery and upbeat façade that I was attempting to uphold.

“How are we going to figure this out?”

Although I quickly reassured her that I was in the process of pursuing several suitable housing options, my words did little to lift her spirits. After bringing her a snack and filling her water bottle, I took our dog out to the yard to clear my head. Less than three months remained before the expected arrival of our first child, and I was overwhelmed with insecurity and fear. I had reached out to the owners of several properties and apartments, but each potential lead presented several challenges: one apartment did not allow large dogs, another was too far away from our jobs, and the last one was being held in contingency for a potential sale. The housing market was in a phase of high demand, and I was beginning to lose hope that it would be possible to find a safe place to land with our new baby. I plopped down on an icy patch of ground while my dog sniffed the roots of a nearby tree. It felt like the weight of the world rested on my shoulders.

As I wallowed in sullen despair, my doubts were pierced by a proverbial sunbeam of inspiration: I remembered that my boss had told me about a small townhouse that he owned, which was potentially available for rental pending the departure of its current tenants. I had held back from directly asking him about it, because I didn’t want to bother him and risk the prospect of rejection. I also knew it would be occupied until a month before my baby’s due date, which presented several key risks. Still, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery circle, which spurred me onward as I grabbed my phone to make the call:

“If we hold back from reaching out to friends in our greatest times of need in life and recovery, we don’t rob ourselves of the opportunity to work towards solutions – we rob our friends of the opportunity to find fulfillment and purpose in helping us, as well.”

I picked up the phone, called my boss, asked him about the apartment, and felt a massive burst of relief course through my spine when he told me that it was still available. As we laid plans for my tentative move-in, I reflected on the power of vulnerability and transparency. The future might have still been uncertain, but as long as I remained grounded in the lifesaving principles of honesty and openness, I had nothing to fear but my own hesitancy and inaction.

Always remember:

212

The sound of clattering forks and knives echoed through a large dining room as I dug into a bowl of spicy pasta. I was five years sober, and I was enjoying dinner with a friend from my recovery circle for the first time in several months. I had been so busy preparing for the expected birth of my son that I had neglected to maintain my positive social connections. It felt great to see my friend face-to-face and catch up with him, but I was still fighting feelings of guilt and self-centered fear.

Whenever I had resentments or thoughts of returning to destructive patterns, I turned to him for guidance and support. Sadly, the stressful instability that I had experienced after temporarily moving back into my mother’s house had made me ashamed to reach out. I had managed to extricate myself from my anxious state and pick up the phone, and I was grateful to be reconnected with him in my time of need. As we savored our entrees, my friend dropped wise gems about dealing with personal issues in recovery. His affect was cool, calm, and serene, and I felt validated and reassured by his words. Suddenly, the conversation shifted its tone without warning when he asked the following question: “I hear you’re living at your mom’s house again. Do you really think that you’re ready to raise your kid if you can’t even figure out a decent living situation?”

I felt a shiver of electric anger pulse through my spine. I had already arranged to move into an apartment of my own, and the move-in date was scheduled for several weeks down the line. Nevertheless, I was taken aback by what I perceived as a tactless affront to my capabilities as an expectant father. I grit my teeth and clenched my fist underneath the table as I readied a scathing retort. Before unleashing my impulsive tirade, I remembered the wise words of another close friend who had guided me in early recovery:

“Whenever someone poses a question that offends us, the question that we must ask ourselves is why we feel so disturbed by their inquiry. If we look within, we can usually address the root of the insecurities and fears that they have triggered. We can then detach from the illusion of victorious anger – and we can maintain our emotional sobriety regardless of what anyone says.”

After taking a deep breath and clearing my throat, I smiled at my friend and responded in a reserved and even tone:

“I already have an apartment lined up that I’m getting ready to move into next month. I have a lot of doubts and fears about my abilities as a father, but I’m doing my best to address those problems by working on my character defects and asking the advice of trusted friends like you. It really hurt to hear you say that you think I’m not ready, but I want to learn everything I can. Do you have any advice for how to stay sane as a sober parent?”

After taking in my response, my friend’s face lit up with happiness and surprise. After apologizing for his insensitive question, he continued to speak freely and share his experience, strength, and hope. I heaved a sigh of relief as I scanned the sugary selections on the dessert menu. I had managed to maintain the health of my social connections while standing up for myself and speaking my mind at our dinner. As a result, I didn’t just walk away with a clean plate and full stomach - I left the restaurant with a clean slate and a full, grateful heart.

Always remember:

213

The teakettle whistled at a piercing volume as I stumbled erratically through my kitchen. I was five years sober, and my life was out of balance in every sense. I was attempting to prepare a homemade breakfast, but things were not going as I had originally planned. The eggs were improperly scrambled, the toast was overdone, and my mental landscape was in a similar state of disarray. I had been up all night working on professional assignments, and I had woken up at the crack of dawn for an early ultrasound appointment. My first child was due to arrive in three months, and I was struggling to maintain my sanity and gratitude while meeting my obligations. It conjured memories of the chaos that I experienced during active addiction, where my days were plagued by constant uncertainty and instability. My life was headed in a beautiful direction, but it was proving difficult to maintain my bearing as I navigated the proverbial path forward.

After getting dressed and grabbing her bag, my girlfriend joined me at the table and ate her subpar breakfast with a kind smile. I apologized for the burnt toast and the messy kitchen, and she told me that she was grateful for my efforts. I felt a strong feeling of relief as I took the dishes to the sink and we readied ourselves for the drive to the hospital. My day had started off on shaky ground, but it seemed like things were beginning to stabilize.

Suddenly, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I cringed in horror as I

read out the notification on my screen. It was a reminder for an online meeting that I had completely forgotten about, which was scheduled to take place less than half an hour after the ultrasound appointment began. I paused on the front steps as my girlfriend continued walking towards the car. I had failed to schedule my work commitments in an organized manner, and I had put myself in a delicate and uncomfortable situation: if I cancelled the work commitment, I put myself at risk of not meeting my journalistic deadline. If I told my girlfriend that I could not go to the ultrasound appointment with her, I would be forced to abandon the mother of my child during a precious moment.

My heart thumped like a bass drum as I opened up the driver’s seat door. When I sat down, my girlfriend could tell that I was out of sorts. When she asked me what was wrong, I attempted to stall and lie by omission, but my ruse fell flat. Confronted with an uncomfortable truth, I remembered the wise words of a friend who had guided me through the toughest stages of early recovery:

“We can’t please everybody or do everything right, but if we tell the truth, we just might keep our sanity and our sobriety intact while we figure out the best course of action.”

I took a deep breath, told my girlfriend what had happened, and she laughed loudly before responding to my heartfelt admission:

“I don’t even have an ultrasound appointment today – it’s just a routine checkup with the midwives. Go and do your interview! Just don’t forget to write down the date of the actual ultrasound so you can come. Don’t stress out. It’s all going to be OK.”

After kissing me on the cheek, opening the passenger-side door, and walking towards her car, my girlfriend waved to me as I walked back into my house to prepare for my interview. I had a lot to learn in terms of balancing my life and schedule, but I knew that I could stay on the right track as long as I remained honest.

Always remember:

214

Faint shadows danced across the eaves of my mother’s attic as I rose from my bed in a dissociated haze. I was five years sober, and I was preparing myself for a demanding workday. I walked over to a nearby clothing rack, grabbed a button-down shirt, and proceeded to rifle through an overstuffed plastic bin for suitable socks and pants. My life and mind were in complete shambles, but there was no time to dwell on the disorganized clutter. Recovery had brought about professional and personal opportunities that I never could have dreamed of in active addiction, and it was time for me to fulfill my obligations.

Although I was ashamed that a series of logistical challenges had forced me to temporarily move back into my mother’s cottage, I was grateful that she had given me and my girlfriend a safe and comfortable place to stay. I was also looking forward to moving into a new apartment in several weeks. As our residential transition drew nearer, my girlfriend and I were anticipating a far more significant change: Our first baby was due in two months, and the pressure was beginning to mount in ways that I did not think I was capable of handling. I was facing a series of impending deadlines for my journalistic assignments, and I was struggling to maintain my balance as I navigated my daily routines.

I waddled into the kitchen at a plodding pace, clicked on my phone, and scrolled through a series of urgent messages from people I had interviewed for my magazine stories. Each and every one of them demanded timely responses, which required clarity, executive function,

and decisive action. Sadly, I was stuck in a cycle of procrastinatory pessimism. As I hovered my fingers over the keypad and attempted to begin my professional outreach, I felt weighed down by self-imposed guilt and insecurity. It was a destructive loop that proved difficult to escape, but I was determined to break through the mental chains that were holding me back from self-actualization. After brewing a fresh pot of tea, I began rattling off short and effective messages with the speed of a seasoned stenographer. In the middle of my swashbuckling journalistic campaign, my girlfriend called down to me from the attic:

“Can you take a break from work? I need you to help me down the stairs!”

I slammed my phone down, grit my teeth, and clenched my fists. I should have been gratefully willing to help her cope with the physical limitations imposed by her late-stage pregnancy, but my stress and fear had manifested in selfish egotism and impatience. I grumbled incoherently as I stomped towards the stairs. My mind had been consumed by a firestorm of self-righteous frustration, and I was preparing to transfer my emotional instability onto her through a resentful, condescending monologue. On the verge of yelling at my undeserving girlfriend, I paused on the bottom step of the staircase. I took a deep breath, gathered my bearings, and came to the following realization:

I might have been carrying the proverbial weight of our financial future, but she was carrying the literal weight of our expected child. If I wanted to stay sane and sober, I had to support her and understand that we were now carrying our burdens together as life partners.

After taking a moment to relax my mind and body, I headed up the stairs, helped her out of bed, and took her hand as we walked down together. By taking a step back from the stress of everyday obligations, I had also taken a bigger step towards emotional accountability and sustainable recovery.

Always remember:

215

The sun was warm and bright in the afternoon sky as I walked through the doors of a picturesque townhouse in East Arlington. I was five years sober, and I was grateful to be moving into a new home with my girlfriend. Our first child was due to arrive in less than two weeks, and I had spent the whole day transporting dozens of awkward boxes and suitcases. As I opened up the trunk of my car, I let out a weary chuckle as several bags fell down onto the ground. My car and my mind were both a jumbled mess, but I was determined to maintain my good humor and cheery bearing.

After hauling the last of the bags through the front doorway, I collapsed onto the couch next to my girlfriend. She was staring down at her cell phone with a pained look on her face. I attempted to catch her attention several times with witty banter and positive affirmations, but my efforts were in vain. As I sat on the couch twiddling my thumbs, I began to feel underappreciated. I was drenched in sweat from a long day of physical labor, and I had gone above and beyond to manage the financial and logistical elements of our housing transition. Nevertheless, there was a feeling of anxious energy that was growing between us, which was beginning to translate into palpable emotional friction. I rose from the couch and walked towards the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and I was surprised when I heard my girlfriend pipe up with the following question:

“You’re not even going to try to talk to me?”

I put the glass down on the counter, clenched my jaw, and felt my body shake with resentful frustration. I couldn’t believe that she had the audacity to question my motives as a partner – especially after my attempts to connect with her had fallen flat. I stood in the kitchen in stony silence, contemplating my next move as I gnashed my teeth like a rabid donkey. I felt misunderstood, powerless, and small, and I didn’t know if I had the strength to be present and considerate.

Suddenly, I came to a humbling realization: she was probably feeling the exact same way as I was, but it was up to me to bridge the gap and keep us united as parents and life partners. I knew then and there that I was faced with the final test that preceded my journey of fatherhood: I couldn’t disregard my feelings and repress them, but I had to confront them and comfort myself while simultaneously remaining compassionate and deferential. At my moment of doubt, I remembered the wise words of a friend from my recovery fellowship:

“Kindness to others is the ultimate form of kindness to self, and vice-versa. If we can treat others as we want to be treated in our times of need, we will build a life that is every bit as beautiful as we deserve – even on our most difficult days.”

I took a deep breath, walked out of the kitchen, and gave my girlfriend a hug and understanding smile. I knew that I would never understand what it felt like to carry a baby, but I did understand the importance of carrying my responsibilities with gratitude and patience.

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