staying clean

Grief in recovery: how my dying dog gave me “paws” for thought

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In early recovery, I was doing really, really well.

One meeting, I shared this.

Right afterward, a well-weathered woman called Christina came up to me.

And she said:

“Yeah… Things get good. Then they get really good. And then they get REAL.”

I nodded in acknowledgment. But, internally, at the time, this comment vexed me. And I wasn’t entirely sure why. Was it because she’d cruelly punted me from my pink fluffy cloud? Was it because she was right and I didn’t want to admit it? Or was it because she was wrong? It’d take me a while (nearly three years) to realize which it was. But today, I realize it was the latter of those three. Because right now, I’m writing beside my dog and best friend, Minnie. She’s laying on her death bed. And, as kidney failure takes over her frail little body – I feel anything but that fluffy pink cloud, watching her cuddle her fluffy pink poodle with her last few, precious shreds of life.

Yet, despite my darkly clouded current logic, I’m clean.

And that means I get to have those moments of clarity I rarely had during chemical dependency.

Like the following fact:

Yes, this is “real”. But so is the compendium of wonderful memories we made together. Brisk autumn jaunts in the park. Summertime snacks in the sand. Thunderstorm snuggles and walks on the dock. The way she’d air-swim if I just held her over the bathtub before a wash. The way she’d calm down two minutes into me meditating – and how she’d match my energy. How we’d howl-sing together if an ambulance drove by. The day she learned to high five. How she’d come running with her bone when I got home from work – the best gift a best friend could offer her guardian after a long day. Yes, it’s all really, really painful. My heart feels like it’s in the same state as her kidneys. But it’s no more real than the decade of my life she elevated with her presence. That was real too. The only thing is – it doesn’t help me deal with the horrendous “real” I feel now.

So, how do I manage that?

It’s times like this I reach for this book a member once gave me in a meeting.

Although the title sounds kinda boring (“Living Clean”), it’s become a bit of a scripture to keep me off the scripts that led me into the rooms in the first place. The wording is perfect. The topics cover all the little life-nuances that annoy us enough to want to use. And the advice is less direct and more anecdotal – referencing how other members stayed sober through the painful parts of reality.


(I’d advise you buy this book.
Especially if you can’t don’t frequent meetings as much as you should. Like myself.)

And what was the main takeaway that I got?

To honor this horrible feeling I’m having.

It sounds counter-intuitive to an addict, but if I need to cry, throw things, or write (like I’m doing right now) – that has to happen. Not to the point of self indulgence – but like any other release. We release physical pain with massages and stretching. We release sexual tension through intimacy with a lover. We release any variation of emotions via creativity. Likewise, pain demands to be felt. Acknowledged. Released. Back when my other family dog, Chloe, died, I was too numb on valium and painkillers to feel it. In fact, that day I took far more than my prescribed dose to avoid genuine sentiments of loss. And you know what happened, years later, when I finally quit?

It all waited for me. Like a prisoner, it’d been working out during its sentence, awaiting its release. And when it came for me, I felt.it.all. Not just the back pain, but each thing I’d dusted under my mental rug was ejected from every crevice of my emotional landscape. And it came for me. Big time. Chloe’s loss. How I’d not been as supportive as I should have been for my mom’s hard times, my sister’s hard times. How I’d not been stable enough to celebrate the news I had a niece on the way. And you want to know what’s worse than reliving those moments and the pain you missed out on? The guilt for not having felt it in the first place. Because you bet your azz it hurt those around you to see a glassy eyed, sociopathic mannequin standing where their loved one used to be.

But, a good friend of mind reiterates a quote often:

“The best apology is changed behavior.”

Of course I wanted to use the moment I heard about Minnie’s terminal condition. But, as I’d continue to read in “living clean”, there are alternatives to feeling numb, isolated, and going through this alone. If you’re lucky enough to have family like I do, you can take advantage of that. My prior M.O. was always to shut others out. Go through it solo. But something happens when you let loved ones in. It’s the same thing that happens when you walk into a meeting for your first time and decide to put your pain on the table. Because suffering shared – whatever it is – is suffering halved. Everyone suffers. But by recruiting your connections, sharing averts despairing. It’s a way to relate, connect, and hijack your internal pharmacy of its connection chemicals. I can’t lengthen Minnie’s life. But I can strengthen the bonds of the lives that are still in mine – by inviting them into this process of letting go.

I can’t imagine moving past this. Yet, I know I will.

And, as I do, things will continue to get “real”.

Christina had that right.

But what she had wrong was that real is somehow separate from “good”. And, when I review my early recovery, I already know this. I say I was doing really, really good in early recovery – and I was. That was real. But you know what else was happening? I was going through some other “real” stuff. Valium detox was horrifying. My back and neck pain woke me every couple hours in the night. Back to back attacks of kidney stones assaulted me – all through which… I remained clean. So why was I doing so well? I wasn’t on some deluded cloud vessel headed for a reality iceberg, like Christina was suggesting. No. Rather, I’d been offered, early on, all the weaponry I needed to employ against the enemy – against my default reaction to unfortunate events. To take it exactly as it is, react accordingly, but issue no more emotionally than that. And, in the interim? Allow loved ones and connections to be a part of it with you. Because it serves them as well.

See, the nature of reality – real reality – is devoid of the qualities we ascribe to it. There is no good and bad without our opinions painted over the thing in question. From great to emotionally eviscerating – we get to decide how we respond to it. This is what the serenity prayer teaches us. Can I change that my furry best friend is leaving me? No. Can I choose to make her final time here comfortable? To let my loved ones in – instead of shutting them out, as I tend to do? Can I choose to honor my feelings of hurt this time – versus employing my former forte: anesthetizing any kind of pain? Yes. To all of those. Because numbing discomfort now, only ensures it’ll be both waiting for me later – and amplified. I may only have a two and a half years behind my black keytag, but the key, I believe is to straddle a realistic version of a pink poodle cloud – as well the inevitable thunder filled cumulonimbus one that’s on its heels.

And finding that balance is to live with serenity.

That’s dealing with the “real”.

“How long does recovery take?”

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“So… how long does it take to recover from addiction?”

I heard this question the other day and my mind automatically went to this interview Russell Brand did with Oprah. Homie’s been clean for about 11 or 12 years now. And when Oprah asks him when the last time was that he wanted to use, he says, “Right before I came in here!”

It’s a beautiful, albeit vague, answer to the question being asked.

(Along with the rest of the interview, which I can’t find online. But click the pic below for a snippet.)

What it demonstrates, in all its honesty, is that thing no one likes to hear:

There’s no ending point in addiction recovery.

From here on out, it’s management. Why? Because you’ve kicked a habit with deep emotional and chemical ties. It’s changed your brain. That habit’s in there for life. But before that makes you anxious and afraid, hear me out. Because, while that sounds gloomy ‘n pessimistic, it’s actually not. People overcome bad habits all the time. It’s just that not all of them admit they’re addicted to something. Addicted to junk food. Addicted to filmed fornication. Addicted to eating chalk. (Hey, that’s a real thing – I saw it on “My Strange Addiction.”) And how about those people you know who can’t quit eating the artery clogging slop or popping prescription meds – even though it’s all killing them? The people who tell themselves it’s okay ’cause it’s “legal”. In a way, if you’re in recovery, the only difference between you and a good percentage of the population is that 1.) Your addiction may have been illegal, and 2.) You’re actually acknowledging – and trying to fix – it.

Which is fantastic because – once you acknowledge it – you understand why managing this intrinsic madness is so crucial. The thing is, the turmoil soil from which your fixation flowered in the first place… is still there once you rip the rotten plant from the roots. It must be dealt with. For months, years, or however long – you’ve stamped in the habit of feeding that pain euphoria. Even if you never go back to drugs, this proclivity (which remains) can ruin your life in a host of other ways. We tend to avoid unpleasantness of reality by seeking out pleasant avoidance activities. In my early clean time, I remember binges on food, movies, and self abuse in all forms serving as a fantastic way to circumvent the shame I felt about not doing all the tasks I couldn’t handle. Or was too afraid to. If I couldn’t write enough articles or felt too anxious to attend a meeting, feeding into cyclic fixations mitigated my guilt about it. Recovery programs – good ones – point out this avoidance. They help us laugh at the absurdity of it. Then, they help us break down that snowball of daunting to-do’s we’ve been putting off so that we can tackle ’em.

One day at a time.

In other words, the potential to relapse is always there. It’s a habit stamped into to your brain, so recovery’s forever. But it does get easier. If you diligently manage it. How? Well, by keeping around a clan of fellow recoverers who’ve been at it for a while. (Even if you don’t show up every damned day to a meeting, having a textable network proves super helpful – for both you and your buddies.) And by stamping in some new habits – healthy replacement routines. And that’s where some hope comes in for those wanting a specific timeline. While there’s no finish line, there is this thing called neuroplasticity. Something that takes roughly 30 to 90 days. (Which’s why you see those tags awarded for those first crucial few months.) It’s this thing where your brain forms new networks as you practice new habits. Whether you’re playing the piano or studying “How To Handle Reality For Dummies” (which, I bet is an actual book), it’s been proven:

Anything you take time doing, your brain’s indelibly inking in as a habit.

So, it would make good sense that supplanting your old routine of freebasing for free therapy (with people who give a shiz and aren’t just getting paid to help you) would be an excellent way to avoid recidivism. As mentioned – it usually take 30 to 90 days to stop feeling like a foreign chore that’s painful and vexing and up for discussion. Three months in, if you’ve stuck it out (“it” being your new routine of “how to human properly”, built in recovery), then it becomes a bit more organic feeling. Something you just do. A new facet of your personality.

And why do you hafta keep doing it? Much like that Scientific American study showed with rats – if you turn off a newly acquired habit, former ones resume. This is why you’ll hear some’ve the more gossipy members throw shade at other members’ behavior, saying stuff like “My sponsee’s doing everything wrong except relapsing on crack…” ’cause, shizzy as it is to ridicule others when you should focus on yourself, we all know there’s a lot more to recovery than getting clean. Eliminating the drug’s just the first step. Fertilizing the soil for a new ‘n improved orchard of self actualization is the rest.

Thus, while this is for life – that only has to be a bad thing if you choose to view it that way. Maybe you’re the only addict you know outside of the rooms of recovery. And that makes you feel a bit lonely. But lemme ask you this. How many “normal” people do you know who’ve got a bad back or bum knee or the like from something dumb they did skiing or skateboarding or whatever? Something they have to do exercises for every day to manage the pain? This is no different. You had a genetic tendency (arguably) toward addiction. You picked up a substance. It led to addiction. That’s just a fact – part of your reality now – just like your buddy’s bad back he’s gotta wake up early and stretch every A.M. Whether or not you brought it on yourself’s irrelevant. The point is, it’s here now. And when you think of it as just another malady you manage to make your make your days easier – then it’s also easier to handle tackling another day. And that’s all you need to do. Focus on your new habit for the next 24 hours. And, while you do, remember that the fact that it’s not shameful doesn’t mean you have to talk about it outside the rooms. I mean, would you carp about your hemorrhoids to randos? Constipation? A yeast infection? No. Some things we wait to share with the right audience.

And I’d highly (unhighly, rather) suggest finding that audience ASAP. Because they’re the ones who are gonna help you get on recovery road and see you through. It’s far easier to not let those lonelier, more isolating aspects of addiction consume you and drive you into relapse if you have other people by your side, telling you they’ve gone through the same. That they have a day by day handle on it. And that their ongoing shame sagas are every bit as comically preposterous as yours.

There’s a connection in that camaraderie which little else can fulfill.

So, how long’s recovery take?

It takes today, friend.

Now come back and ask me again tomorrow, if you forget.

“Surrender” to what? And why?

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Surrender was something I heard early on when I attended program meetings.

I didn’t understand. It was one of those terminologies that made the program sound more like a cult than anything else. The second I heard it, I started to wonder if those warnings not to hang around these folk might’ve been right. Who was I surrendering my power to? The people at the meeting? That dude twitching and drooling next to me from years of chemically induced neurological damage? Wait – was there some L Ron Hubbardian weirdo sitting at HQ somewhere with Orwellian cameras capturing us all so that the evidence could be held against us at some point? Well, we can never be sure. But it does sound like a lot of effort for a bunch of ex-junkbags just trying their hardest to clean up their lives.

Plus, most cult leaders are too narcissistic to remain “anonymous”.

Besides that – what I am sure of is that I totally misunderstood this term in those early days.

And apparently I’m not alone there. It would take me a while to realize what the true concept of surrender meant. And while I still clearly need daily reminders, the best explanache I can offer is this: surrender is not about surrendering to people; it’s about surrendering to reality …exactly as it is. That may sound obvious, but how many times have your actions shown that you clearly were adhering to some contrary belief? How often have you resisted reality by compulsively using consciousness-alterers instead of taking a breakup head on? Or a job loss? Or the fact that you woke up alive again? I know that sure as shiz was the case for me. Even now I start thinking about my current addiction – running – whenever life starts heaving circumstantial feces at me rapid-fire style. “Where’s the nearest running trail? Jeeves! Ready my kicks! I need a fix!” (That should be a bumper sticker. Or a graphic tee. Moving on.)

Obviously, that doesn’t mean that if the zombie apocalypse hits, you sit on your thumb and do nothing.

Otherwise, it’ll be the only part left of you once the undead get you in their clutches. What it does mean is that – when things are going badly – you recognize the nature of it fully versus resisting reality as it unfolds by crying, wasting all of your bullets on one cadaver ambulating toward you, or polishing off your group’s snack supply because: comfort eating. These are all emotionally reactive responses that get you nowhere. When you surrender to the concept of “Corpses now roam the globe. That’s a thing now,” then you can collect yourself. And collect the facts. And prioritize your problems in order of importance for addressing so that you and your tribe can survive.

On a comparatively smaller scale, that might start with “I didn’t get a raise. That’s a fact.” And, instead of getting angry at the person you pays you the money you use to support yourself and letting it manifest as passive aggression, you can stop and internally come to the inquiry this entire article’s about. The crucial question that’s the whole point of surrendering to reality:

“What’s the solution, here?”

If you’re angry enough at your boss for not giving you a raise, is the solution to keep staying in a toxic work environment? Or is it to do the temporarily inconvenient thing of seeking new employment? Going to a few interviews? Maybe finding a new career path that doesn’t make you have to hypnotize yourself (either literally like Office Space dude or with drugs like you or me used to) into caring less.

Surrendering – to reality – is the only way that creative solutions can come to you. And creative solutions are vital in actually resolving the issue you wanna resist in the first place. Wallowing is not a solution. Taking out anger on others is not a solution (though, to my shame, I am a sucker for spontaneously catapulting a casserole dish every now ‘n then). And, obviously, taking drugs to numb cold circumstances is not a solution. These are all definitely signs you’re not accepting actuality. That you’re not surrendering to what’s real. Once you come to terms what is actually happening, then you can effing fix it, instead of getting effed up on a fix. If nada else, remember that today. The reality is that you ‘n me aren’t able to use drugs or firewater successfully – assuming you’re an addict, too. We must accept the fact that we’re among the 10% of people who can’t have a leisurely drink because of where it leads. When we truly accept that (and our brain stops holding us hostage and shutting down because it doesn’t want to believe this information that doesn’t jibe with egg nog holidays and selfies taken in the Bahamas with fruit cocktails in hand) once that happens, then the answers to the underlying issues happening in reality (making us wanna use in the first place) can arise.

So, what’s the solution?

It’s not easy, but it is simple. We need first surrender to the fact that we cannot use.

That means, when the craving demon screams from the cellar below, our higher selves interrupt them:


“Dude… you’re the one offering me pills ‘n stuff. Hypocrite.”

Seriously, though: “Not an option” single-handedly got me through those preliminary detox cravings and withdrawal symptoms. And I can’t help but believe it might work for you too. Not because I told you to. Not because someone in a meeting told you to. But because all of us have taken a look at our lives and know where the alternative to addressing reality leads. After that, there’s a new solution for every barrier dumped in front’a me each day. And none of them can be addressed without addressing the one just mentioned – about staying clean. (Otherwise your problem-priority list on the kitchen fridge’ll always only be 1.) Get turnt 2.) Get more 3.) Repeat. As your house and life melt around you like a Salvador Dali piece). So, for me, it’s meant that at the foundation of my life, I stay clean one day at a time, keep around a tribe of like-minded sickos dedicated to their recovery, and help other people if they ask for it. That way, they can receive the same insight that was gifted me. And pass it on. ’cause surrendering isn’t giving up anything of worth. It’s only giving up the internal inferno that’s only ever let you down.

So, lemme ask you, friend: what’re you resisting today? What’s the reality of the sitch?

More importantly, what’s the solution?

I got clean. Isn’t that enough? Why do I hafta do service?

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“Why do I have to do service? I got clean. Isn’t that enough?”

This quote comes from an internal monologue that was rolling in my brain a couple years ago when I was first trying to straighten out my life. While I knew better than to ask it out loud, I was fortunate enough that more authentic folk in the meetings I attended didn’t. They did ask. And did get answers. While the replies were numerous, the one that stuck with me most was this one:

“We keep what we have only by giving it away”.

I think it socked me deep in the ventral viscera for a couple reasons: 1.) Because I’m selfish, and the first half of that stipulation involves the safety of my recovery. And 2.) Because deep down, I knew it was true – even though it made zero sense at the time. So, I started to serve within the program. And then – outside of the rooms.

But I feel like I’ve been losing sight lately. Meetings have been far and few between and I can’t remember the last addict I helped. In fact, I find myself even losing touch with the dark side of addiction. Failing to relate. Like when I recently asked someone I know and love – still in active addiction – how they planned to spend their Saturday. Their reply?

“Watching T.V. from 1 P.M. until sleep,” they said, casually.

Immediately I went silent (and simultaneously into judgment mode). From one until bed, I was going to work, run, paddleboard, get groceries, clean, read, run errands, and run again. I loved this person and wanted more for them. I was angry. How could you just stay in bed and watch mindless shows and drink all day? When it’s summer? And gorgeous out? How utterly disgusti-… Wait. Wait. Wait an effing second… That’s when I remembered something that made me go nauseous (and probably look like the equivalent of a computer freezing up with the blue screen of death):

This was exactly what I used to do in my downtime bordering being a functional junkie.

Granted, I had back problems. Still do. But instead of getting off my ass and handling them head on back then, I refused. I “deserved” torpor back then, I reasoned, because I didn’t ask for back pain. And, if I didn’t ask for reality’s worst, then I didn’t have to handle it (#logic). I deserved to stay sedentary, surf the net, and design a faux life online instead of living out an authentic one with flesh n’ blood folk. The matrix is a lot more appealing (and a bit more like Wonderland) once you’ve crushed and insufflated both’a Morpheus’ pills simultaneously (plus the ones he probably had hidden in his pocket which you stole off’a him). From the reality T.V. shows to a me shaped dorsal groove in the mattress – I’d done the same damned thing – except more isolated. And it was quite some time before that changed for me.

How’d that ever happen?

Because someone else was doing a service for those like me.

It started with (and was later continued by) Russell Brand – who’d done a documentary on addiction and recovery.

That film changed something in me.

Like, you know how in those thriller films, a breeze will come through the window during a séance, and some unlit candle will suddenly light up? It was kinda like that. And it was scary – the prospect of ever quitting – of ever leaving my chemical cradle. But the compassion and solution seeking mindset I saw – all coming from someone who’d gone through where I was – gave me this sort of hope. Hope not just that I could change my sitch – but that maybe it’d be worth it. He’d made it – not just through addiction – but made it, made it. It made me think of others who’d done the same. People I actually knew – like the amazing Kyle Krieger. So, maybe I needed the help of others. But I was afraid to ask. Addiction can be pretty embarrassing to share when you’re a hubristic bish like me. So, I started with something more basic: the physical pain. And, after doing water therapy and trolling for good therapists at the P.T. clinic for several months, I found this amazing shaman level doctor with mystical tentacle hands. I stuck with him. And, slowly, I noted a thoroughgoing improvement as he taught me how to play marriage counselor between my mind and body – which had gone all War of The Roses on each other many moons ago. It helped. A lot.

So much so that I actually left home one night. I left my laptop with my fake life installed on it. I left my television. I left my whole alter reality and reality shows in that dingy apartment for actual reality – to go see Mr. Brand himself perform stand up, live in D.C. And when I was told I’d get to meet him backstage, I did something totally out of character for me. I skipped my nerve-calming dose of Valium, in hopes of harnessing some clarity – so as to recall every passing moment of such a phenomenal experience later.

After we hugged, he looked in my eyes – and read me like a book.

“Are you going to meetings?” he inquired.

I wasn’t. I said so.

After a long conversation, he left his email on one of the pages in the center of my (his, really) “Booky Wook” along with his hairstylist’s email. And, to my surprise, when I emailed him a couple days later… he replied. Aside from his encouraging words, he had something of even more value to offer: good, clear direction on where to go, who to see, and exactly how to help myself… by getting help from others going through various stages of the same thing. The amazing thing? When I got to my first meeting, I noticed something fascinating. There were far more people than not who’d had years upon years of “clean time”. That means they’d kicked their habit, gotten glittery gigs in the city, and still showed up at 7:30 on a Tuesday evening in their perfume and Prada to tell newcomers how much better it can get. If they just keep coming back. And they always came back, the old timers. Even when they probably just wanted to be home, decompressing, and recharging for tomorrow. And, to my shame, that’s where I’ve been for a bit now – doing that selfish latter thing. I think Russell said a quote about that once – “Pull the ladder up Jack, ‘cause I’m fine.” I hear it, sardonically, in my head now and then (louder than the usual miscellaneous voices we won’t discuss). I really need to show up and drop down that ladder to eff-knows-who. ‘cause there’s something kinda lonely about a self-serving lifestyle. (Plus it makes me lose my empathy superpowers that help me make people like me better. #validationseeker) Granted, I’ve gotten into a service profession – and I love it – but none of the service I’m doing now would’ve been possible without the program that laid that foundation. I owe it at least a modicum of my aid.

If nothing else than by just sharing my journey from insanity to… managed insanity.


“…Thank you for sharing…”

But, you know, if meetings aren’t your thing – maybe that’s now how you even got clean – this still applies to all of us. Service is crucial. I can’t even call any service I do “selfless”. Because – through the filter of my eyes – every old man I help with his groceries or little old lady in a motorcart reaching for pancake mix on the shelf inevitably comes with a twinkling video game karma coin atop their cranium. Each good deed is a seed that blossoms into an intrinsic winning tree. Finally, I’m relieved, briefly. Relieved from the shame flavored interrogation light I swing onto myself. Relieved from the nagging sense of purposelessness. And relieved that at least someone today seemed to like me. If only ‘cause I did something nice for them. Might sound egoic, that last thing, but when I compare all the superficial shiz I used to do to get people to like me… I feel like this thing’s maybe better. Especially since it’s a symbiotic relache – between you and whatever unfortunate bastard needs your assistance today.

Yes, service is about more than showing up early to a step group to make coffee.

(Or the second service of not finishing it before everyone arrives. Because: addict.)

As much as I personally need to work on that, I also need to remember that it’s what you do outside of any kinda support group, too. Service is the little stuff. Asking a tourist family if they’d like you to take their picture for them. Sharing a meal with that homeless lady who ironically sets up shop outside a shop called Home Depot. Showing up to your family’s home when vibes are low – to try and raise them (though you might wanna make sure you’re in a jolly enough mood to not just get sucked down yourself). Because, while we may have learned some of our bad thought-habits from our fam, we can appreciate how we collectively can rise above them. Versus, ya know, remain arseholes and point fingers for the rest of our lives. Personally, I feel like it’s my task to at least try to light the way to others still suffering in darkness. Empower them. Remind them how they can start telling themselves a better life-tale. After all, that’s what was done for me – when someone rich, famous, and all-loved descended from his pedestal to aid a polluted, pain stricken, pill popper like me. He puts service into his work. Likewise, for all of us, service is about how we are in our professional lives. It’s why I’ve opted to work in the health care field – in physical therapy – healing people. I could be earning more doing something like working in a lab. (And, honestly, in any job – you can adhere to service-mindedness by how much you’re helping others in those seemingly meaningless day-to-day kindness acts.) But the good doctor who did a spirit and spine renovation on me made me certain I have to pass that gift along to other poor suffering saps like myself.

And, finally, yes: going back to meetings – just even being there to speak – is service and a half. It’s important to be there, at least occasionally. One, because it reminds me of where I came from. The fact that I’ve started judging other addicts recently is a sign I’m forgetting what active addiction was like. And forgetting what active addiction is like means I’m but a couple steps away from sending out gold bordered, calligraphy adorned invitations for my relapse party. Contrarily, being around others like me – acknowledging addiction out loud – reminds me to relate and be humble enough to know where I might return if I’m not cautious.


(Good intent, but I say: don’t judge unless you’re using other flaws to judge yourself.
Which you don’t do with clean fingers – but ones that’re dirty from the work of service.)

And what do others get from it when you or I return to help?

We can offer a palm to someone sick and tired of being sick and tired. Someone sitting around, numbing their feels and watching D list celebrities live their lives on T.V. versus living their own. Just like it was done for me a couple years ago…. when I was doing exactly that. I may not be able to change the beautiful person I mentioned at the start of this article. (Not by dragging them to meetings, anyway.) But maybe – just maybe – if I return to meetings to help others, something will change in me all over again. ‘cause that’s what service is really about. Recalling the idols and resources that once saved you, coming back, and being that resource for someone new. We never know who we’re helping. But we’re all 100% capable of embodying that same role of a positive life-changer. So, maybe I can level up. Be a better example than I’m being now. And maybe it’ll light that wick-like switch in my loved one the way Mr. Brand (who’s never stopped attending meetings since he began) did to mine.

As mine dims, I wonder:

Maybe giving what’s left of it away is the only way to keep it at all.