It is June 25, 2008. Ten years ago this Friday, on June 27, 1998, I took my last drink of alcohol and my last illicit drug. Ten years ago this Friday, I tried to take my life by turning on the gas in my apartment building and blowing out the pilot lights; I very nearly took quite a few people with me. Ten years ago this Friday, I came to what we in recovery call a “bottom.”
The gas did not kill me; sheriff’s deputies kicked in the door and pulled me to safety before any serious harm could be done. After a few hours in ICU getting my stomach pumped (for the umpteenth time), I was dispatched to a locked psychiatric ward. I date my sobriety from the day I was released from the hospital: July 1, 1998. The drugs I took on the night of the 27th took several days to leave my system, and so I wasn’t clear-headed until the 1st.
It scarcely seems possible that I have been clean and sober for a decade. I have written often on this blog about what I was like “before” and “after”. And of course, my story is a common one. There are plenty of “once was lost, now am found” narratives out there; the very root of autobiography in the Western world is the trope of conversion and transformation. The familiarity of the story doesn’t make it any less interesting to those caught up in it, of course, and it doesn’t mean that the story isn’t worth telling over and over again. After all, the primary purpose of relating these stories is not to gratify the ego but instead to remind others that recovery is possible, miracles do happen, change is real.
When people ask me what helped me get and stay sober, what helped me in my recovery from diagnosed mental illness, what helped me give up the “deathstyle” I lived for so long, I cite three things. The three-legged stool of my recovery: intense psychotherapy; rigorous participation in a Twelve-Step program, and a rediscovered faith in Christ. That doesn’t mean that everyone who seeks recovery must have each of these components, but they were, each in their own way, indispensable to the transformation that happened in my life in the summer of 1998 and beyond. I am not sure I would be where I am today had I not had each of those tools at my disposal, had I not had my nightly meetings, my thrice-weekly sessions with Dr. Levine, and a growing sense of God’s plan for my life.
And of course, I had something else: a fierce desire to live. I’ve lost friends and lovers to the “disease” of addiction, to mental illness, who didn’t have that same willingness to do absolutely anything to get better. And this morning, that’s what I’m contemplating: why it is that some of us are blessed with that will, that hunger, that longing to survive while others are not. Ten years after my last drink, ten years after my last illicit drug, I still have no idea why some “get it” and others don’t. Was it luck? Was it “divine election”, as my Calvinist friends might say? Was it sheer stubborness on my part? Was it privilege, the sort that pays for psychiatric care three times a week? Was it a constellation of all of these?
I don’t know. What I do know is that June 1998 saw me very close to ending my life and taking others with me. What I do know is that something happened, something marvelous and soul-stirring and, so far, apparently permanent. And I am grateful beyond words that it did happen as it did. Let me embrace the cliche: every day is indeed a gift, because I willingly forfeited my life a decade ago and received it back, undeserved and unexpected. And Christ almighty, I try to remember to be worthy of that gift I was given.