The Last Addiction

by Sharon A Hersh

  I thought I had my bags perfectly stacked; it’s like trusting the baggage cart of rules. Eugene Peterson’s translation in The Message poignantly points to the foolishness of using legalism and religious rule-keeping to manage our lives:

  We know very well that we are not set right with God by rule-keeping …. How do we know? We tried it—and we had the best system of rules the world has ever seen! … What actually took place is this: I tried keeping rules and working my head off to please God, and it didn’t work …. Legalism is helpless …. For if any kind of rule-keeping had power to create life in us, we would certainly have gotten it by this time.6

  If addiction and legalism can’t carry the weight of our bags, there is one more luggage carrier that we seem to always fall back on: We can do it ourselves. This is the last addiction. Recently I met with an adolescent counseling client who was struggling at home and school, but having a hard time asking for help. One day, we actually packed real bags to represent all the bags that she was carrying; soon she had a big pile of suitcases and purses. I asked her how she thought she could manage all those bags. She thought for a while and said, “It would be hard, but I can carry them myself.”

  We loaded them up in the car and drove to Denver International Airport. We entered on the terminal level, and she managed to arrange all the bags so that she could carry them herself. With a little mischief in my voice, I said, “Okay, now let’s go down the escalator.” The fear in her eyes told me that she got it. She said, “I’m afraid I might break something.”

  My teenage client learned more quickly than most of us. We keep trying to manage our bags, but we can’t do this by ourselves.

  The Second Gift of Surrender Is Knowing That We Need Others

  We can’t need others (I mean really need them) and we can’t give to others (I mean really bear their burdens and troublesome moral faults) unless we know that we are all broken. As we’ve looked at ourselves and our emotional baggage, did you notice how often the idea of something getting broken came up? All those bags break our backs, they break our hearts, and they break our spirits.

  It is puzzling to me that the music, art, and books we like most are often direct expressions of human brokenness. The greatest human creativity testifies to our human weakness. Yet our response to our personal brokenness is that we need to hide it, keep it at arm’s length, numb it with addiction, cover it up with self-righteousness, and certainly not burden anyone else with it.

  Without surrender, we get caught in an impasse between high arrogance and low self-esteem, neither of which can work. High arrogance makes us believe that we can handle things, that others can’t be trusted, and even that we do a better job of managing our lives than God does. Low self-esteem leads us to believe that we must handle things, because we’d be a burden to others or become unlovable if we revealed all of our baggage, and that even God eventually gets tired of our constant neediness.

  Right before I left for Cambodia in 2005, I met with a client who comes from one of the wealthiest families in our community. We were talking about Christmas and my upcoming time in Cambodia. I asked her to describe the Christmas that she anticipated. It was filled with china, crystal, and extravagant gifts with beautiful wrappings. But she also told me that she was not speaking to her brother, her father wasn’t speaking to her, and her mother would be very angry if any of the children spilled anything on the tablecloth. Her immediate family were actually practicing eating on a tablecloth at home, so that her children would not spoil the holiday festivities.

  This woman had a lot of bags. But that wasn’t the saddest part of the story. Certainly, the lovely gift bags were outweighed by the heavy bags of her broken family life. But the greatest tragedy to me was that she was trying to carry them all alone.

  It was my trip to Cambodia that taught me another lesson about baggage, this time about the alternative of bearing one another’s burdens. On that trip, we spent Christmas Eve in an orphanage in Anlong Veng. It was a hard day for me, hearing the stories of orphaned children. In their desperation to be loved, they clung to our legs and clamored for our attention. I wondered how I could simply get in the car and leave. We noticed that the children had painfully dry skin with many insect bites, because they had no screens on their windows. I ran for my suitcase to get my big bottle of Aveeno lotion. We began to rub the lotion on the children’s arms and legs. My heart broke wide open as I watched the little boys rub lotion on their faces and run to the one mirror on the wall to look at themselves. They laughed with joy at their holiday treat. And then one of the children took the bottle, and they started rubbing lotion on one another’s arms and legs. As they shared one another’s burdens in the midst of their brokenness, I remembered the poorest family I knew—back in Denver, Colorado— who would be carrying all their bags that Christmas Day, beautiful designer bags, by themselves.

  This is why I like Alcoholics Anonymous. We don’t pretend we’re not broken. We laugh and cry at our stories of human failures and foibles. I have a friend who attends meetings with me sometimes. She is not an alcoholic, but she often laments, “I wish I was an alcoholic or that there was some meeting for people whose lives have fallen apart without alcohol as their main problem.” Somehow these meetings capture the mystery of our lives together; we help each other carry our bags.

  Knowing ourselves—really knowing ourselves—and knowing that we need others are not the only gifts of surrender. Sometimes we can’t see ourselves clearly, no matter how hard we try or how much psychoanalysis we pay for. Sometimes the human pyramid of support collapses, and things get even messier. People betray us, forget us, and let us down. Luggage is all over the place, like those airports with the four hundred thousand lost bags in December 2006.

  The Final Gift of Surrender Is Knowing That We Need More

  The Old Testament describes one more baggage carrier that goes beyond our human capacity:

  There was nothing attractive about him,

  nothing to cause us to take a second look.

  He was looked down on and passed over,

  a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand.

  One look at him and people turned away.

  We looked down on him, thought he was scum.

  But the fact is, it was our PAINS he carried—

  our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.

  We thought he brought it on himself,

  that God was punishing him for his own failures.

  But it was our SINS that did that to him,

  that ripped and tore and crushed him—our sins!

  He took the punishment, and that made us whole.

  Through his bruises we get healed.

  We’re all like sheep who’ve wandered off and gotten lost.

  We’ve all done our own thing, gone our own way.

  And GOD has piled all our [bags, every one of them],

  on him, on him.7

  Christian biblical scholars believe that the prophet Isaiah was speaking of Jesus, the Son of God, coming to bear the weight of the world and bring healing. Other Old Testament scriptures prophesy of a sinless One who is coming to die and be resurrected for the sake of loving us. A recovering alcoholic, author Brennan Manning wrote of the difference this One might make: “If darkest night is upon you …, know that the risen Jesus is wild about you, even if you can’t feel it. Listen beneath your pain for the voice of Abba God: ‘Make ready for my Christ whose smile, like lightning, sets free the song of everlasting glory that now sleeps in your paper flesh like dynamite.’”8

  Believer or unbeliever, perhaps you doubt that such a One can really make a difference, especially when it comes to addiction. After all, today He cannot be touched, seen, or heard from in the flesh, and it is in our flesh that we experience the cravings, withdrawal, pleasure, and pain of addiction. But I am coming to believe that I need something that is not of my flesh to save me. When it comes to sa
lvation from real-life struggles, Saint Gregory of Nyssa expressed the need for spiritual over material, for mystery over science: “Concepts create idols; only wonder comprehends anything. People kill one another over idols. Wonder makes us fall to our knees.’”9

  Shortly after college I lived in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. It was the home of a Moravian village that held a sunrise service every Easter. I didn’t go to their service for the first two years I lived there. It seemed too early to get up, and I harbored some concerns that the Moravians might be a cult. The third year, I finally went to see what all the hoopla was about. The whole town seemed to arrive in the field outside the village in the pitch black of early, early morning. Everyone was completely silent. And then at the first hint of sunrise, there was a majestic trumpet fanfare. I was not prepared for the echo that came next, as all the people turned to one another and repeated, “He is risen. He is risen. He is risen.”

  I recall vividly how tears streamed from my eyes at this surprise announcement of old news repeated anew. I remember thinking, What if it’s true?

  What if it’s true? Then maybe we—headstrong, willful, heart-wrung, helpless addicts—maybe we can surrender.

  The God of curved space, the dry God, is not

  going to help us, but the son whose blood

  splattered the hem of his mother’s robe.

  —JANE KENYON,

  Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter10

  5

  MY STORY: WINE AND OTHER SPIRITS

  Making one’s own wounds a source of healing, therefore, does not call for a sharing of superficial personal pains but for a constant willingness to see ones own pain and suffering as rising from the depth of the human condition which all men share.

  —HENRI NOUWEN, The Wounded Healer1

  American culture abounds with confessional books, and I agree with those who criticize this glut of memoirs. It is easy to scorn people who go on Dr. Phil and spill shameful secrets, their own and those of their families, for millions of Americans to observe and for Dr. Phil to fix in just a few minutes. Why then, for what purpose, will I show myself and my long, terrible struggle with addiction? I want to expose my own addiction, not to revel in its dramatic qualities, but to tell you this: the door to redemption opens when we know that we all suffer from the same condition. At some core level we know that the boundaries between human beings are fluid. When I tell my story, I tell your story. This is why we read memoirs. Although I am a counselor and teacher who specializes in addiction, the border separating the healer from the burring is blurry. When I weep for an alcoholic of the hopeless variety, I weep for me as well. I experience intimacy. I experience love. And that is why I tell my own story to you.

  This chapter looks at the process of transformation in my own life and the role that addiction has played in that process. Yes, I am claiming that addiction actually contributes to transformation. I believe transformation is the means to reveal and to heal addiction. There is no doubt in my mind—whether it be the alcoholic who leaves a thirty-day treatment program and drives directly to the liquor store, or the overeater who weighs in at Weight Watchers and stops at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home— addiction is a wound. No one would choose the realities of addiction. It is a wound that has its roots in biology (genetics), environment, and use or behavior, but it is a wound.

  And wounds are where Love gets in, and Love is the messenger of redemption.

  The reality of addiction in our culture is evidenced by the number of books that come off the press every year on this subject. The difficulty of finding “the answer” to this agonizing problem is further shown by the statistics and stories of addicts that do not seem to be diminished by all of these books. Here are just a few of the books on my bookcase right now:

  Under the Influence

  The Weight-Loss Diaries

  Diary of a Shopaholic

  Sober and Staying That Way

  The Language of Letting Go

  When Food Is Foe

  When Food Is Love

  Don’t Call It Love

  Drinking: A Love Story

  Love Is a Choice

  The titles alone could fill this book. My bookcases reveal my own longing for a healing balm for this sometimes hideous and sometimes hidden wound of addiction. Anyone who knows me can attest to my earnest desire to solve my problems. My friends and family have watched me in the humiliation of detox and the hope of some new holistic program that infuses the brain with nutrients and amino acids. I have not ignored my wounds, but neither have I found the magic salve that works overnight, money back guaranteed.

  As an addict and a woman who loves many addicts, I know that when we approach this subject, we are constantly in the tension of reformation versus transformation. Practically, we want the first. Spiritually, we long for the second. Just yesterday in my counseling office, I met with a woman whose experience reveals this tension. I have been seeing her for almost a year about her drinking—because her husband was worried about it. It took a few months for her to acknowledge that she is an alcoholic. Then it took a few more months of acknowledging the problems that alcohol was causing in her life for her to begin to try different means of addressing her problem. She finally settled on a combination of medication (Antabuse and antidepressants) and occasional meetings at a Twelve Step support group. Yesterday she reached across to give me a high-five.

  She said, “I did it. I’ve gone thirty days without drinking!” She was in the midst of reformation; her behaviors were changing. And then she sighed.

  “What’s the sigh about?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t feel like anything in my life has really changed. I mean, my husband is happier, and I feel a little better physically, but I still feel restless and unhappy,” she explained. She was thirsting for transformation. As is often the case, her reformed behaviors had now opened up a space in her soul, to wonder about More.

  I have learned that transformation is a journey that has many steps. In this chapter, in the context of telling my own story, we are going to look at some of those necessary steps. Each one answers one of the debilitating beliefs in the life of an addict, which we examined in chapter 1: I am Crazy, I am Alone, I am Unforgivable, and I am Hopeless. As I share my own experiences of addiction and redemption, you will note that progress for me has not been linear, not perfect. It has been a halting few steps forward and a few steps back. I am on a journey toward greater self-awareness and the redeeming truth that my wounds are where Love gets in. It’s a journey that I wouldn’t trade for all the world.

  UNDERSTANDING IN THE MIDST OF CRAZINESS

  Understanding answers the addicts fear, “I am crazy.” There are two components to understanding that make it complete. First, we must face reality. For family members this can be frustrating, because reality seems all too obvious to us. Part of the insidious nature of addiction is that it hides itself from the very person who needs healing. Second, we must receive compassion. Reality without compassion will only result in self-contempt, which will continue to fuel addiction. Compassion without reality will result in self-delusion, which will fuel denial.

  Facing Reality

  Addiction and delusion go hand in hand. In order to explain the craziness of addictive behaviors, reality must be faced squarely. It is a mystery to me how this occurs. It might surprise you to hear that I don’t believe consequences make us face reality. In fact, one of the most baffling components of an addiction is why someone would continue to do the same things in the face of such dire consequences. We often talk about people “hitting bottom” and finally acknowledging their addiction. We addicts know that there is no bottom. In spite of previous consequences, we can always risk or justify one more go at our addiction.

  When I first acknowledged my alcoholism, I hadn’t experienced a lot of consequences. I w
as mostly afraid of what might be happening to me as I watched my intake of alcohol increase and began to experience some physical symptoms of tolerance and withdrawal. My underlying addiction to “doing it all right,” which included approval seeking, looking good, and a fear of rejection, was not even on my radar. In response to my failure when it came to drinking, my other addiction went into high gear. All of my energy was turned outward in my need to appear perfect, or least pretty good. Inside I felt increasingly isolated, alienated, and alone. Even though I wasn’t drinking, I felt as if I were living a double life. My outside didn’t match my inside, and I was afraid that no one could see the inside and remain in relationship with me.

  It’s your life that must change, not

  your skin …. What counts is your life.

  —THE GOSPEL OF LUKE2

  When I relapsed shortly after my marriage broke apart, it became increasingly difficult for me to hide everything that was inside. The relapse revealed to others and to me that I didn’t have it all together. Slowly, I began to face reality:

  I am an alcoholic.

  I can’t rely on alcohol to numb or soothe my pain.

  I can’t escape my life.

  I am not perfect.

  I can’t change the past.