I was talking with an old friend of mine recently, a fellow with whom I got sober many years ago. He and I both have double-digit years clean from drugs and alcohol. We spoke of how far we’d come, and shared memories of the “bad old days”. There’s an old maxim (perhaps from Cicero) about the delight one takes in remembering past sufferings, and addicts who have a long time clean and sober live the adage more fully than most. We’re not wistful for a painful past, mind you, merely keenly aware of how far it is that we’ve come. The swapping of old “war stories” serves to remind us of the miracle of recovery.
In the first few years of transformation after hitting rock bottom in 1998, I considered it a miracle that I was even alive and well, not in prison or confined to some other sort of institution. That I had kept my teaching job and even acquired tenure while leading such a dishonest and self-destructive existence seemed evidence of a huge portion of unmerited grace. I was overwhelmed by gratitude, and in case I got complacent or self-congratulatory, was surrounded by friends and family who reminded me of my past at every opportunity. As a result, I set modest goals for myself: keep my job, stay sober, “suit up and show up” for life. Eventually, the goals expanded to include the pursuit of an enduring and successful marriage. And in time, the goal grew further: to bring a child into this world. Everything I’ve wanted has come, though not without prayer and effort and disappointment along the way. For someone with my track record, with my history of mental illness and addiction, these are extraordinary blessings — and it would be unmitigated gall to ask for anything more.
But I also recognize that contentment is close cousin to complacency, and complacency doesn’t serve me (or most other addicts) well. I’ve got a job I love which provides income and fulfillment (a combination that eludes many). I’ve got a marriage and a healthy child and a community of friends. My extended family loves me and trusts me, and I them. But particularly since HCRS was born, I’ve felt within me this gnawing sense that there is more to be done, that I am in danger of not fully living up to my potential. It isn’t just about making more money, though that is perhaps part of it — it’s about the danger of not achieving all it is that I’m called to be. The as-yet unwritten books are clamoring to be composed, the more public life that I’ve alternately shunned and longed for urges me to think beyond the rhythms of the academic calendar and domestic duty, to put myself “out there” in new ways.
This growing ambition contends with another voice in my head. This voice reminds me, over and over again, of my troubled past. It doesn’t shame me; rather, it warns me not to overreach, not to push too hard, not to want too much. It asks: Where is your gratitude for all that you’ve accomplished? Where is your humility? Isn’t it enough to be healthy, employed at a job you still love, needed by family, adored by the miracle that is your daughter? It asks: What sort of hubris is it that says “I still want more”?
I don’t ever want to lose sight of how far it is I’ve come. Most people who’ve been handed the diagnoses I’ve been handed, who’ve struggled with the addictions I’ve struggled with, are not as blessed. Some of my old friends are dead; others are still in the grip of a disease that will not let them go. But I do not honor them by adopting a false modesty, a distorted humility. There is more to be done, much more to be done, and I am aware as I’ve never been before of the tragedy of unmet potential. I’m choosing now to push for “more” in every sense, even as I give fervent thanks for how far I’ve come. Gratitude is good, but not when it becomes an excuse to ignore the hunger to push on, to go further. For me, the hunger is to reach a wider audience and to be ever more creative in finding ways to do so. And I’m determined to silence the voice that says an addict like me has no right to ask for more.
I got sick (that is, misdiagnosed with a fatal cancer, and subsequently found out about some significant but relatively mild brain damage I’d acquired over the course of my illness) nearly two years ago and have fought my way back to feeling sort of ambitious – trying to get back on the career path I was considering abandoning, and planning on trying to conceive soon. I was ambivalent about having kids for a very long time, but when I was going to die, I decided it wouldn’t be right to just die and leave my husband with nothing – and somehow a child would help to alleviate that mistake. I also just want to have a child, it turns out. I hit a self-esteem rock-bottom in winter/spring of 09, and am incredibly proud of where I’ve gotten from there. I don’t exactly feel happier than I ever have, but I feel like I have a more-authentic self-esteem than I ever have.
I’ve also been worrying about the sense of complacency that I’ve been noticing – just because the Worst Thing I Could Imagine happened to me, it doesn’t mean I’m safe. But I do know now that I can do hard things, so I’m going to work that to its full potential. If I really had a gigantic brain tumor, I would have had an undignified and miserable road to dementia and death ahead of me, and very little of what I wanted out of life done and behind me.
What really clinches the faith in myself I’ve acquired is that NO ONE had any idea what was going to happen to me or what to do about it if something else did, but I still figured out a way to pick myself back up. For a while, I would say things about how I wish I really did have cancer and die, because other people have some experience with that kind of thing, and could have some idea of what I was going through.
I still have not been able to get in contact with anyone who’s had a somewhat similar experience to mine, and this is the first time I’ve ever had the teenaged feeling of “Nobody understands me!” My husband is very supportive, but he is having a completely different experience than I am, so there’s only so much he can understand. This recovery has been a lot longer than most anyone predicted it would be (I had to take my time to get to know the ins and outs of my condition, and practice at being a Patient). I’m not even remotely glad I had this experience, but can recognize that some good things have come from it, and I’ll take what I can get.
Please forgive this self-centered rant – I think it’s relevant, and writing it has been really cathartic. It’s so great to have some feeling of identity with a sort of rebirth narrative.
But I do know now that I can do hard things, so I’m going to work that to its full potential
Thanks, Sara. I won’t pretend to know what you’ve gone through, but I do understand the sense of being reborn, of having been given another chance — and the fear of wasting it.
Hi Hugo,
Been reading you for years with the very very occasional random post. It’s funny that this language resonates with me now. I have 14 days sober and am in loads of meetings at the moment. It is indeed a grace that I haven’t lost more than I have.
Keep giving back, you have a lot of good and insightful things to say. I don’t always agree with you but I do understand your logic and respect your opinions.
Who knows if that voice can ever be silenced? But it is important to keep working toward it. Progress, not perfection, right?
I found your blog today and am reading way past my bedtime because I’m all but hooked.
We have much in common actually (I’m 42 yrs old, 12+ years sober) and I also am consumed with this need to fulfill my potential, despite the subtle message that sometimes hovers around recovery circles – as if success, abundance and personal fulfillment cannot possibly coexist with a life of acceptance, gratitude and humility.
Not only do we owe it to ourselves, but we owe it to everyone else in recovery who may be so full of self-doubt and shame they’re afraid to “put themselves out there” until inspired by someone who does.
Casey, thanks so much, I appreciate our common journey immensely, and am grateful that you’re writing yourself. I’ve been checking our your blog as well, and look forward to chatting more.
One day at a time and all that…