No matter how solid my recovery is, shiz is gonna test it.
Like, for instance, this week when I lost my shih-tzu.
(Not literally, but because: old).
And what’s a recovering addict’s answer to that? How do I stay both sober and sane? What do I do to not slowly slide back down the spiral like a smack addled toddler descending a chemical playground slide? Well, as illustrated in an earlier article, there are the serious things. I can recall the good times. I can help out others in my life. I can cry when I need to. Write, like I am now, to let it out creatively. Make sure to take care of my brain and body (yoga, running, and nature). And I can let others be a supportive shoulder. (Instead’ve isolating, as I tend to do). But you know what? It’s… exhausting. Don’t get me wrong. I feel far more accomplished by the day’s end than if I’d languished in bed, hugging the last toy my dog slept on. But, still.
There’s no joy in any of the things I used to do.
(Like running.
Not, ya know, sitting dejectedly under a tree while ticks rain on my cranium.
Which is what I end up doing most’ve the time now.)
Why?
Is it subconsciously intentional? Is my brain telling me not to enjoy anything or else I’m mourning poorly? Could’ve fooled me with my attempts to engage the barista at the coffee shop I don’t wanna be at. Could’ve fooled me, as I put on workout music in an in-vain effort to pump myself up for a run I’m reluctant to do. Could’ve fooled me as I sit to write when I feel anything but creative. I’m legit trying here. So, what’s missing?
I got my answer when I allowed myself to finally do something today.
Laugh.
Yes, joy – however fleeting – is what’s been missing this week. And this is why, I think, a lot of addicts end up returning to using. Here, we’ve worked so hard to make yoga or mediation or exercise or whatever pleasure provide us with safe, intrinsic endorphins. We’ve worked so hard to supplant our synthetic, former highs with more organic ones. But what happens when the joy’s suddenly sucked out of them by the grief demon? Where can we find it?
Today, as I sat in my car after a run I’d been putting off all day, I found it here:
And, of course, here:
And especially here:
(You’ll hafta click that one to enjoy.)
I say “especially” on that last one because I haven’t been “treating” myself to comic calories this week. At all. And what I love especially about Chris C. and the F-bomb riddled guided meditations alike, is that they typically both have a message that resonates… but without being too serious about it. That same theme’s actually what brought me to recovery. Russell Brand’s capacity to laugh at the madness of a serious thing like addiction made it easier for me to address it head on. The nice thing about life-applicable laugh-snacks like these (versus sitcom comedy) is that I don’t feel like I’m escaping my sad feelings when I enjoy them. It’s relatable. Yet it’s also funny. So, when the chuckles subside, I don’t feel that disconnected emptiness of reality closing in.
You know, it’s tough to take advice from anyone when you’re grieving.
They mean well, but what I wish they knew is this:
Even just functioning – what’s generally second nature – now becomes a list of tasks. You have to actively make yourself do the stupidly smallest of things – like brushing your teeth or taking a shower – all against the resistance of the emotional mud you’re trudging through. Those have suddenly become daunting things on the to-do list that formerly featured more important things like paying bills or running errands. And, as said above, they’re exhausting.
So, hearing another “what you need to do” just takes one from bereavement to belligerent.
Now, that high pixelated poem-graphic (sorry bout it) sounds kinda dickish. I concede that. Especially when your friends are just trying their best to feign compassion for five minutes so they can get back to their life’s good vibe (whose buzz your bad mood’s harshing) without feeling guilty for ignoring your pain. But it’s true. That said, I realize I can’t change how other people comfort me. I should just be glad they’re trying. They’re not mind readers. Much like compliments, I should accept condolences for their intention – not the specific nature of them.
Which is why I kept the eyerolling solely internal those first fifty times I heard “Remember the good times – Minnie wouldn’t want you to be sad!” I know people were trying to help. But I’d be lying if I said my first thought wasn’t, “Um… She’s a dog. My dog. You dunno that bish. You ain’t know the eff she wants” But then, last night, after the eleventyhundredth time hearing it, suddenly my mind opened a little. (Probably because the person who was saying it to me seemed more genuine than 90% of the people who’d come before him.) And I realized something. I knew that bish. I knew her really, really well. We had a telepathic level connection. And while they didn’t know her, I know – from experience – that Minnie really wouldn’t want me to be to be sad, panicked, or Hulked out.
And I know why.
See, all of those emotions were the moods that used to directly precede using (which only amplified those moods) years ago. They meant Jekyll was about to go Hyde, so she’d go hide. The guilt of my angry yelling or neglect inasmuch as other dogs spent more time rump huffing furry strangers at the park than sat in an apartment, will always haunt me. Yeah, I had back problems. But so do a lot’ve folk. I could’ve done far, far better. And, even though I spent years spoiling her rotten to make it up to her long after addiction, she’d still scoot the moment my voice raised in anger. She’d still let out a heavy sigh and look up at me the second stress rose up in my chest. She knew when I was panicking – and would pant, pace, and get equally aggravated right along with me. Minnie’d match my moods. Always. In fact, sometimes she’d do me better than me.
(Not Minnie.
But an epic reminder of what a perfect reflection her moods always were of my own.)
Even after I’d been clean for years, she wouldn’t come to cuddle next to me unless I was calm or happy. So, when I felt that silly twinge of guilt today – giggling at a simultaneously ridiculous and brilliant video – I paused. And I remembered how her little tail wagged like a breeze blown palm made of glee filled silk when I myself was happy.
And I kept on laughing.
This doesn’t mean the end of tears. I’ll still cry. Get angry. Probably throw some fine china at the kitchen wall again. Yes, I’ll still take time. But what I won’t do is feel bad about indulging those fleeting moments of fun when they come to me like my former fur baby bringing me a bone to throw. Because I – any of us addicts – need that to keep going and remain sober and functional. We require our days to be punctuated with some sense of spiritual well being. Something to take the edge off the existential gravity of reality. Some sort’ve natural Valium to keep us from considering letting the chemical enemy back into our lives. Today, I found that in these silly videos. Tomorrow, it might be playful banter with my barista.
(Or a dad-joke level too-soon dumb pun someone says.)
The point? It could be anything. And all I know’s I’m gonna try to be open to it.
Not just because it’s what Minnie’d want.
But because this pain’s got me entertaining things I never said I would again.
And I owe it to my loyal, forgiving companion to never revert.