dalin
10-08-2008, 12:43 AM
SHARING
My life, my responsibility
I always wanted someone to take care of me. That was a reasonable expectation when I was growing up, but as I began to get close to adulthood, I started looking for ways to avoid taking responsibility for my own life.
Looking back, it’s hard to understand what I was so terrified of. I was pretty smart, had decent grades, and had parents with enough money to finance a college education, all expenses paid. However, I also had a drug problem, and a violent antipathy to the whole idea of self-support (though I wasn’t to hear it phrased that way till I came to NA).
I dropped out of high school with an almost perfect academic record and ran away from home. I had run away a few times before and knew I would be found if I went to any of my friends or even stayed in town. So I ran far away and joined other runaways on the streets of Hollywood. Though I couldn’t face the idea of going to college, I had no fear of going into rooms with strangers who were much stronger than me, and I had no fear of injecting directly into my bloodstream something that I got from someone I had never seen before. I didn’t mind finding myself a place to sleep at night, even if it was behind a bush in a park. I didn’t mind finding myself a meal, even if I had to steal it or pay for it by degrading myself.
I didn’t want any conventional commitments or responsibilities, yet all the ways I sought to avoid those things ended up requiring more than just getting a job and taking care of myself would have.
This is demonstrated by the ludicrous idea I had at one point. I decided that if I had a baby, I would qualify for welfare. No commitment or responsibility there. Oh no, none at all.
Of course, I had a rude awakening. It was the precursor to a spiritual awakening, but I didn’t know that then. I took my son home from the hospital, and I found myself living in the kind of hell only another addict knows about. There’s nothing quite like being poor, strung out, and simultaneously angry at and guilty about the presence of an innocent baby. My life was a nightmare of scrambling all day to get $25 together, giving my poor baby the minimum attention required to sustain life, feeling sick, feeling guilty, and trying to hide it all from my parents (who graciously took me in despite the fact that my life was an affront to everything they believed in).
I got clean when my son was nine months old. The obsession to use was lifted and it has never come back. I got clean and stayed clean, but it took a long, long time for me to even begin to understand how to apply the principle of self-support to my life.
I went to a recovery house and got a job. Neither of these things was very difficult. I didn’t much like the rules of the recovery house, but cleaning the bathtub at the specified time rather than at my own convenience was a small price to pay for having a roof over my head and a supportive environment for my early recovery. Even the crummy job I had wasn’t a real heavy responsibility. I showed up. I worked at a mindless task. I went home. Once a week they paid me (about as much as I had been getting from the government once a month).
So I had grasped the necessity of being self-supporting in the obvious ways. However, the more subtle ways of supporting myself were simply beyond my understanding. I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was doing—or not doing. If I had been, I might have made different choices.
As it was, I was twenty-five and didn’t know who I was. I knew instinctively that it would take a lot of work to find out. I had a toddler to care for. I was too old (I thought) to go back to school. I looked for differences between my situation and others’. I made excuses to avoid taking responsibility for my own life. They had money; I didn’t. They had husbands or boyfriends sharing household responsibilities; I didn’t. They had careers; I didn’t. I felt so out of it when I tried to join a group of women after a meeting. One would talk about the difficulty of dealing with some hideous office politics and her demon of a boss, nonchalantly referring to her overwhelming (to me) duties. Another would talk about a game she had created to keep her kids busy while she studied. Another would break in, bursting with energy, and ask us all to sign up for an H&I commitment at the women’s county jail. How did people learn to do all this? I thought to myself. I believed I had no more in common with these women than I had with another species. I couldn’t see myself ever becoming anything like them. They didn’t even realize how impressive they were. It was just too much.
So I went looking for an easier way. I found a sponsor who seemed like she was very strong. I thought she might be willing to do more than sponsor me—for instance, make decisions about work, friends, and child-rearing for me. I also found a boyfriend who was willing to dictate the areas she didn’t concern herself with, i.e., my weight, my eating habits.
As it turned out, my sponsor was only willing to help me work the steps so I could find my own answers. So I stopped calling her. I turned my will and my life over to the care of my boyfriend. I didn’t have to make friends; he had enough for both of us. I didn’t have to find a home group I liked; I just joined his. I didn’t have to decide what I liked and didn’t like; I just adopted as my likes and dislikes whatever his were. I had a vague sense that I was missing the point of recovery, but I was still too lost in the murk of my self-obsession and fear to do anything about it.
If you’re waiting for me to tell you I just woke up one day, magically transformed into a productive member of society, sorry to disappoint. Nothing happens like that in recovery.
Instead, things just got better little by little. I gained a little confidence and self-respect by showing up at work every day, applying for a better job when the opportunity came along, getting the job, and giving notice to my old employer. I realized that I could become like those women who had so intimidated me when I was new in recovery. I would take a lot of hard work, and perhaps that wasn’t truly for me, but it was a possibility. Just realizing that was amazing.
I learned a lot about being self-supporting from sponsoring other women. When they chose destructive relationships to avoid taking responsibility for their own lives, I could spot it, and I could share with them because it was my experience.
Living life on life’s terms, day after day, through years of recovery, taught me that in the final analysis, my recovery is my responsibility. And taking responsibility ultimately has wonderful rewards.
For instance, if I need to talk to my sponsor, it’s my job to keep calling her until I’ve reached her. I’ve never understood why people get into a huff when their sponsor doesn’t call them back in a certain time frame. I’d rather not have my recovery hinge on the functioning of my sponsor’s answering machine or the reliability of her kids. I’ll take that responsibility as part of being self-supporting.
If I need more money, it’s my job to cut back on spending or find a way of earning more. If I take money from my parents, my self-esteem goes down, and I find myself tangled in all the strings that were attached to the money, anyway.
I’m a long way from being self-supporting in every area of my life, but I’m much better than I used to be. What I’ve given up in “freebies” from other people, I’ve gained in self-respect.
Barbara G, California
My life, my responsibility
I always wanted someone to take care of me. That was a reasonable expectation when I was growing up, but as I began to get close to adulthood, I started looking for ways to avoid taking responsibility for my own life.
Looking back, it’s hard to understand what I was so terrified of. I was pretty smart, had decent grades, and had parents with enough money to finance a college education, all expenses paid. However, I also had a drug problem, and a violent antipathy to the whole idea of self-support (though I wasn’t to hear it phrased that way till I came to NA).
I dropped out of high school with an almost perfect academic record and ran away from home. I had run away a few times before and knew I would be found if I went to any of my friends or even stayed in town. So I ran far away and joined other runaways on the streets of Hollywood. Though I couldn’t face the idea of going to college, I had no fear of going into rooms with strangers who were much stronger than me, and I had no fear of injecting directly into my bloodstream something that I got from someone I had never seen before. I didn’t mind finding myself a place to sleep at night, even if it was behind a bush in a park. I didn’t mind finding myself a meal, even if I had to steal it or pay for it by degrading myself.
I didn’t want any conventional commitments or responsibilities, yet all the ways I sought to avoid those things ended up requiring more than just getting a job and taking care of myself would have.
This is demonstrated by the ludicrous idea I had at one point. I decided that if I had a baby, I would qualify for welfare. No commitment or responsibility there. Oh no, none at all.
Of course, I had a rude awakening. It was the precursor to a spiritual awakening, but I didn’t know that then. I took my son home from the hospital, and I found myself living in the kind of hell only another addict knows about. There’s nothing quite like being poor, strung out, and simultaneously angry at and guilty about the presence of an innocent baby. My life was a nightmare of scrambling all day to get $25 together, giving my poor baby the minimum attention required to sustain life, feeling sick, feeling guilty, and trying to hide it all from my parents (who graciously took me in despite the fact that my life was an affront to everything they believed in).
I got clean when my son was nine months old. The obsession to use was lifted and it has never come back. I got clean and stayed clean, but it took a long, long time for me to even begin to understand how to apply the principle of self-support to my life.
I went to a recovery house and got a job. Neither of these things was very difficult. I didn’t much like the rules of the recovery house, but cleaning the bathtub at the specified time rather than at my own convenience was a small price to pay for having a roof over my head and a supportive environment for my early recovery. Even the crummy job I had wasn’t a real heavy responsibility. I showed up. I worked at a mindless task. I went home. Once a week they paid me (about as much as I had been getting from the government once a month).
So I had grasped the necessity of being self-supporting in the obvious ways. However, the more subtle ways of supporting myself were simply beyond my understanding. I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was doing—or not doing. If I had been, I might have made different choices.
As it was, I was twenty-five and didn’t know who I was. I knew instinctively that it would take a lot of work to find out. I had a toddler to care for. I was too old (I thought) to go back to school. I looked for differences between my situation and others’. I made excuses to avoid taking responsibility for my own life. They had money; I didn’t. They had husbands or boyfriends sharing household responsibilities; I didn’t. They had careers; I didn’t. I felt so out of it when I tried to join a group of women after a meeting. One would talk about the difficulty of dealing with some hideous office politics and her demon of a boss, nonchalantly referring to her overwhelming (to me) duties. Another would talk about a game she had created to keep her kids busy while she studied. Another would break in, bursting with energy, and ask us all to sign up for an H&I commitment at the women’s county jail. How did people learn to do all this? I thought to myself. I believed I had no more in common with these women than I had with another species. I couldn’t see myself ever becoming anything like them. They didn’t even realize how impressive they were. It was just too much.
So I went looking for an easier way. I found a sponsor who seemed like she was very strong. I thought she might be willing to do more than sponsor me—for instance, make decisions about work, friends, and child-rearing for me. I also found a boyfriend who was willing to dictate the areas she didn’t concern herself with, i.e., my weight, my eating habits.
As it turned out, my sponsor was only willing to help me work the steps so I could find my own answers. So I stopped calling her. I turned my will and my life over to the care of my boyfriend. I didn’t have to make friends; he had enough for both of us. I didn’t have to find a home group I liked; I just joined his. I didn’t have to decide what I liked and didn’t like; I just adopted as my likes and dislikes whatever his were. I had a vague sense that I was missing the point of recovery, but I was still too lost in the murk of my self-obsession and fear to do anything about it.
If you’re waiting for me to tell you I just woke up one day, magically transformed into a productive member of society, sorry to disappoint. Nothing happens like that in recovery.
Instead, things just got better little by little. I gained a little confidence and self-respect by showing up at work every day, applying for a better job when the opportunity came along, getting the job, and giving notice to my old employer. I realized that I could become like those women who had so intimidated me when I was new in recovery. I would take a lot of hard work, and perhaps that wasn’t truly for me, but it was a possibility. Just realizing that was amazing.
I learned a lot about being self-supporting from sponsoring other women. When they chose destructive relationships to avoid taking responsibility for their own lives, I could spot it, and I could share with them because it was my experience.
Living life on life’s terms, day after day, through years of recovery, taught me that in the final analysis, my recovery is my responsibility. And taking responsibility ultimately has wonderful rewards.
For instance, if I need to talk to my sponsor, it’s my job to keep calling her until I’ve reached her. I’ve never understood why people get into a huff when their sponsor doesn’t call them back in a certain time frame. I’d rather not have my recovery hinge on the functioning of my sponsor’s answering machine or the reliability of her kids. I’ll take that responsibility as part of being self-supporting.
If I need more money, it’s my job to cut back on spending or find a way of earning more. If I take money from my parents, my self-esteem goes down, and I find myself tangled in all the strings that were attached to the money, anyway.
I’m a long way from being self-supporting in every area of my life, but I’m much better than I used to be. What I’ve given up in “freebies” from other people, I’ve gained in self-respect.
Barbara G, California