shydawg
08-24-2009, 06:28 PM
Another Chance to Live**
*In the life of every addict there are crossroads: times when we could stop using and take responsibility for our lives, if we make the choice. I went through the crossroads one day in the bus station toilets, and chose the wrong path. I think I was supposed to die, but by the grace of God, I was given another chance. I have been clean for sixteen years. I got clean when I was twenty-two, so I have lived most of my adult life as an NA member here in Australia. I have a full, rich life, thanks to the program of Narcotics Anonymous. As an adolescent, I was governed by the compulsion to take drugs. The results were trouble, violence, prison, and poor health. My using was punctuated by legally required visits to counselors, probation officers, psychologists, etc. Rarely could I hear what these people were saying—or hear anything above the rumbling din of self and the desire for drugs. I was so focused on getting what I thought I needed that I ignored most of the moral boundaries most people take for granted. I stole, lied, cheated, scammed, robbed; in the end, I was exactly what the Basic Text says: “reduced to the animal level.” I hunted the streets like a wolf, looking for money and drugs. Deep inside I still had a conscience, but I couldn’t access it; I couldn’t afford to. It was buried under a pile of emotional rubble. The task of cleaning up all that rubbish was too great. There were too many things to deal with to live a normal life. My life became a misery of unresolved responsibilities. I believe every human’s real job is looking after themselves, and I couldn’t seem to do that. Eating, sleeping, drinking water, exercising, staying warm or clean seemed irrelevant and virtually impossible. The result was a vicious cycle of hunger, poor hygiene, and bad health. Between the layers of self, these inabilities hid a particular emotional pain that I carried. I couldn’t feel it or articulate it properly until I got clean. I don’t know whether I brought this pain from childhood or whether it came into the world with me, but I still carry it. It’s not always present, but it arises from time to time as I move through these layers. If I get rejected, left out, treated as second best, or am not wanted in some way, the pain can become acute. I used to medicate this pain with drugs. For a long time they made me feel better, but in the end the drugs became their own particular pain. They drove me to the edge of sanity, to the brink of death, and now I no longer see myself as having that option. For me, using drugs is suicide. When I was twenty years old, I spent time in a maximum-security prison for burglary. In there I saw some of the most brutal human behaviors that I have ever witnessed. After two excruciating years, I was released, with an absolute commitment to stop using. I lasted for one hour before I was stoned on about four different drugs and went into a blackout. My life spiraled out of control for the next few months. My powerlessness was evident, unmanageability undeniable. I* * woke up from a blackout with blood on me that wasn’t mine; I had a pocket full of money and no recollection. I was frightened about what I was becoming. One night I was trying to sleep through withdrawals. I had taken some heavy tranquilizers, but they hadn’t worked properly. I was in a stupor of frustration and futility. The pain of my whole wretched life was caving in on me. I worked myself into a weeping, cursing, violent rage, smashing the room, scratching and punching at my own face. My housemate was terrified and called my parole officer. The following day, an intervention was done by my parole officer, a counselor, and my mother. They told me they were going to send me back to prison unless I went to NA and did ninety meetings in ninety days. I said I would do whatever they wanted. They told me that wasn’t good enough: I had to make choices for myself, because recovery couldn’t occur until I really wanted to change. I was caught in a limbo of conflicting desires. Of course I wanted to change, but I couldn’t; I wanted to use, but I couldn’t. I felt there was nothing left to do, so I decided to kill myself. I left the intervention that day filled with a sense of absolute doom and desolation. I did a robbery, bought as many drugs as I could, and overdosed in the bus station toilets. I wanted to die because there didn’t seem to be an alternative to the misery that my life had become. I went through the crossroads that day and chose the wrong path—but by the grace of God, I was given a second chance. I woke up a couple of hours later, crumpled on the floor of the toilet, completely defeated, my life a shambles. I walked, trudged, not knowing what to do or where to go. In that state of blind desperation, the winds of chance blew me into a detox center across the highway. They took pity on me and admitted me, even though I wasn’t the required forty-eight hours clean. I lay naked, curled up on the bed, sobbing that night, feeling a particular sense of freedom, because deep inside I think I knew it was over. I had surrendered. I just didn’t really know what that meant yet. At that detox they took people to meetings daily. I struggled through those painful first few days, but on a Wednesday night, at a meeting in a homeless center, I heard and felt the NA message for the first time. I didn’t have to use drugs anymore; there was a way out. I was inspired by the other people who were clearly junkies but didn’t seem to be using. They made me believe there was a chance for me to really stop and have a go at life. I feel sad now, writing this; I am much more emotionally in touch with my old mad life now than I ever was back then. I couldn’t imagine how life would play out. I just saw a black hole of the unknown, but I had decided, just for the novelty, to give it a go for a couple of days and see how long I could last. I lasted forty-nine days. Then I relapsed, and the compulsion to take drugs was back on me like a ferocious animal. My life spiraled immediately out of control again, and I realized that the previous forty-nine days had been the most trouble-free in the last ten years. The relapse lasted for about two months before another detox and the death of another friend through overdose. I have been clean now since the 25th of January 1989, and my clean time is my treasure. I protect it with my life, because it is my life. I have gone on to do many of the things that it seems to me a person should do. I own a house and a business. I went back to school and got an education. All the normal social and material assets have returned. But more than any of that, I have loved—at times deeply. I feel things—I feel everything! I guess I had always been scared of that, but it is amazing to feel, * brilliant and frightening, sad and awesome all at once. I am excited to be alive. I am excited about what is to come. I still suffer with existential angst from time to time, and wonder what we are all doing here on this planet, but I have decided on a purpose, and that makes it easier for me: I care about people getting clean. I have dedicated myself to NA and to serving others. I attend meetings regularly. I participate in the local area and the region. I sponsor people, and I have an NA sponsor. I live the steps to the best of my ability, and I am trying to become the best person I can be. I believe that by living like this we give others permission to do the same. NA gave me the key to another life and this is it: “We keep what we have by giving it away.”
~ Anonymous~
*In the life of every addict there are crossroads: times when we could stop using and take responsibility for our lives, if we make the choice. I went through the crossroads one day in the bus station toilets, and chose the wrong path. I think I was supposed to die, but by the grace of God, I was given another chance. I have been clean for sixteen years. I got clean when I was twenty-two, so I have lived most of my adult life as an NA member here in Australia. I have a full, rich life, thanks to the program of Narcotics Anonymous. As an adolescent, I was governed by the compulsion to take drugs. The results were trouble, violence, prison, and poor health. My using was punctuated by legally required visits to counselors, probation officers, psychologists, etc. Rarely could I hear what these people were saying—or hear anything above the rumbling din of self and the desire for drugs. I was so focused on getting what I thought I needed that I ignored most of the moral boundaries most people take for granted. I stole, lied, cheated, scammed, robbed; in the end, I was exactly what the Basic Text says: “reduced to the animal level.” I hunted the streets like a wolf, looking for money and drugs. Deep inside I still had a conscience, but I couldn’t access it; I couldn’t afford to. It was buried under a pile of emotional rubble. The task of cleaning up all that rubbish was too great. There were too many things to deal with to live a normal life. My life became a misery of unresolved responsibilities. I believe every human’s real job is looking after themselves, and I couldn’t seem to do that. Eating, sleeping, drinking water, exercising, staying warm or clean seemed irrelevant and virtually impossible. The result was a vicious cycle of hunger, poor hygiene, and bad health. Between the layers of self, these inabilities hid a particular emotional pain that I carried. I couldn’t feel it or articulate it properly until I got clean. I don’t know whether I brought this pain from childhood or whether it came into the world with me, but I still carry it. It’s not always present, but it arises from time to time as I move through these layers. If I get rejected, left out, treated as second best, or am not wanted in some way, the pain can become acute. I used to medicate this pain with drugs. For a long time they made me feel better, but in the end the drugs became their own particular pain. They drove me to the edge of sanity, to the brink of death, and now I no longer see myself as having that option. For me, using drugs is suicide. When I was twenty years old, I spent time in a maximum-security prison for burglary. In there I saw some of the most brutal human behaviors that I have ever witnessed. After two excruciating years, I was released, with an absolute commitment to stop using. I lasted for one hour before I was stoned on about four different drugs and went into a blackout. My life spiraled out of control for the next few months. My powerlessness was evident, unmanageability undeniable. I* * woke up from a blackout with blood on me that wasn’t mine; I had a pocket full of money and no recollection. I was frightened about what I was becoming. One night I was trying to sleep through withdrawals. I had taken some heavy tranquilizers, but they hadn’t worked properly. I was in a stupor of frustration and futility. The pain of my whole wretched life was caving in on me. I worked myself into a weeping, cursing, violent rage, smashing the room, scratching and punching at my own face. My housemate was terrified and called my parole officer. The following day, an intervention was done by my parole officer, a counselor, and my mother. They told me they were going to send me back to prison unless I went to NA and did ninety meetings in ninety days. I said I would do whatever they wanted. They told me that wasn’t good enough: I had to make choices for myself, because recovery couldn’t occur until I really wanted to change. I was caught in a limbo of conflicting desires. Of course I wanted to change, but I couldn’t; I wanted to use, but I couldn’t. I felt there was nothing left to do, so I decided to kill myself. I left the intervention that day filled with a sense of absolute doom and desolation. I did a robbery, bought as many drugs as I could, and overdosed in the bus station toilets. I wanted to die because there didn’t seem to be an alternative to the misery that my life had become. I went through the crossroads that day and chose the wrong path—but by the grace of God, I was given a second chance. I woke up a couple of hours later, crumpled on the floor of the toilet, completely defeated, my life a shambles. I walked, trudged, not knowing what to do or where to go. In that state of blind desperation, the winds of chance blew me into a detox center across the highway. They took pity on me and admitted me, even though I wasn’t the required forty-eight hours clean. I lay naked, curled up on the bed, sobbing that night, feeling a particular sense of freedom, because deep inside I think I knew it was over. I had surrendered. I just didn’t really know what that meant yet. At that detox they took people to meetings daily. I struggled through those painful first few days, but on a Wednesday night, at a meeting in a homeless center, I heard and felt the NA message for the first time. I didn’t have to use drugs anymore; there was a way out. I was inspired by the other people who were clearly junkies but didn’t seem to be using. They made me believe there was a chance for me to really stop and have a go at life. I feel sad now, writing this; I am much more emotionally in touch with my old mad life now than I ever was back then. I couldn’t imagine how life would play out. I just saw a black hole of the unknown, but I had decided, just for the novelty, to give it a go for a couple of days and see how long I could last. I lasted forty-nine days. Then I relapsed, and the compulsion to take drugs was back on me like a ferocious animal. My life spiraled immediately out of control again, and I realized that the previous forty-nine days had been the most trouble-free in the last ten years. The relapse lasted for about two months before another detox and the death of another friend through overdose. I have been clean now since the 25th of January 1989, and my clean time is my treasure. I protect it with my life, because it is my life. I have gone on to do many of the things that it seems to me a person should do. I own a house and a business. I went back to school and got an education. All the normal social and material assets have returned. But more than any of that, I have loved—at times deeply. I feel things—I feel everything! I guess I had always been scared of that, but it is amazing to feel, * brilliant and frightening, sad and awesome all at once. I am excited to be alive. I am excited about what is to come. I still suffer with existential angst from time to time, and wonder what we are all doing here on this planet, but I have decided on a purpose, and that makes it easier for me: I care about people getting clean. I have dedicated myself to NA and to serving others. I attend meetings regularly. I participate in the local area and the region. I sponsor people, and I have an NA sponsor. I live the steps to the best of my ability, and I am trying to become the best person I can be. I believe that by living like this we give others permission to do the same. NA gave me the key to another life and this is it: “We keep what we have by giving it away.”
~ Anonymous~