The Last Addiction

by Sharon A Hersh

  The path from addiction to healing is like a marathon in many ways. I have discovered that markers of progress on the healing path from addiction are means of encouragement as well. They have kept me going, reminding me that healing is not often instantaneous. Unlike the marathon, the healing path from addiction is not always linear. It often includes coming back for help and hope, as much a part of the miracle as any one moment of release.

  SUFFERING

  We are more likely to despair in suffering than to see it as a sign that we are on the path of healing. Many addicts in recovery make the mistake of thinking that once they drop their addictions, suffering will drop from their radar screens as well. But suffering is part of the human condition, and we cannot expect to be exempt. Most of the craziness in addiction—relapses, frenetic activity to try to save ourselves, and rage and shock at the addicts we love—comes when we run away from pain. The only thing worse than feeling pain is not feeling pain, because attempts to numb or escape pain will often lead to addictive behaviors.

  We have to accept suffering, but that is not the whole story. In facing the darkness that is a part of addiction, we need to believe in the Light more than we believe in darkness. We must believe in redemption as much as we believe in the pain and heartache. Easy to say, but how do we do this? We look for redemption everywhere. Writer and recovering alcoholic Anne Lamott is brilliant at finding redemption in the midst of suffering. She calls these signs “ribbons of grace.” She wrote, “Being human can be so dispiriting. It is a real stretch for me a lot of the time. I put my nose to a crack in the wall so I [can] smell the pine.”6

  The healing path has markers where sufferers can put their noses to a crack in the wall to smell grace. Sometimes that grace comes in the scent of pine or lilacs in the spring, or it may be in the laugh of a child or the melody of an old hymn. Recently my brother Jay ran the Boston Marathon (he’s a far more serious runner than I am). The suffering and redemption that he found on the path were more glorious than crossing the finish line. In an e-mail to me, he described the last mile of the race:

  And now, Heartbreak Hill. The center of Boston lore. Validation that if you repeat something long enough—say for 111 years—it becomes accepted as truth. Then a four-hundred-foot rise in elevation becomes “the challenge of a lifetime.” On this 111th running, there was wind, 25-mph headwinds and dark, brooding skies. All the elements to depress the spirit. Questioning the hype again—suddenly, the wheelchair. His head hangs to the side. A small drool leaves his mouth. He has turned the chair backwards as he nears the crest of the Hill to avoid the risk of rolling back down. Fighting the wind, inching backwards. Lifeless legs. Indomitable spirit. Now, I feel the heartache. Often asked by others and honestly, by myself, why do you do THIS? Shouldn’t you be doing something—anything else? But there on the outskirts of Boston, I cried out to God—mindful of the unbelievable blessing of an able body. Why run? How could I not accept God’s gift.

  A crack in the wall—Jay noticed someone else’s story and got a whiff of someone else’s courage to get “revenge” against Heartbreak Hill: redemption in the midst of suffering.

  I found a crack in the wall myself one day while I was in Israel. We visited Yad Vashem, Israel’s unforgettable memorial to the six million Jews killed in the Holocaust. The memorial includes many buildings and open spaces, with tributes to the children of the Holocaust, to the families of this terrible time in history, and to the helpers of the victims. I spent the entire time in just one exhibit entitled “Spots of Light: To Be a Woman in the Holocaust.” The title reminded me of Lamott’s idea of ribbons of grace. This exhibit simply featured a film with different women talking about what had helped them survive in the prison camps. The film was breathtaking in its beauty and simplicity and heartstopping as its narrators told their stories of unthinkable suffering. I took notes on the film as quickly as I could on the back of my museum map. I could not catch the names of the women speaking, but their words caught me. One woman summed up her time of torture so powerfully that I dropped my pen and paper to the floor. Her words still replay in my mind: “We all wanted revenge, and we learned that the best revenge against suffering was to try to develop a spiritual life.”7

  Tears streamed down my face at their courage. In the face of unspeakable suffering, these women looked for something More. We know that we are on the healing path, not when suffering stops, but when in the midst of suffering, we seek those things that cannot be seen. Paul says it this way in the New Testament: “So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace …. There’s far more here than meets the eye. The things we see now are here today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can’t see now will last forever.”8

  HUMILITY

  Humility is another important sign on the road to healing. Humility affects our manner of being in the world rather than our manner of doing. A gentle presence with ourselves and others is the evidence of humility. Humility frees us from embarrassment about ourselves or our loved ones and keeps us open to the healing path, in whatever form it might take. I learned my own need for humility in my failures in recovery. I hid my relapse from others for the reason often quoted in Alcoholics Anonymous meetings: “You don’t want to relapse, because then you have to go to the back of the line.” Right, I didn’t want to go to the back of the line, and I certainly didn’t want anyone to tell me that I had to go there. I had stepped off the path, not because of my relapse, but because of my pride. I was unwilling to believe that my relapse needed to happen because I still had a lot to learn. Humility allows us to hear that every relapse or struggle is an opportunity to learn something, and then humility leads us to what we need to learn, even from the back of the line.

  Humility is a deep knowing in my soul that I can’t do it. It is the final answer to the last addiction. One of my favorite lines in Wilder’s play about the pool of Bethesda comes near the end. The Newcomer confesses that he needs to be healed, even though he looks whole.

  The Angel simply replies, “I know.”

  Humility allows us to confess what God already knows and to hear His deep compassion and desire to be present in our struggles, not necessarily over them, or distant from them. No—He is in us.

  As I have confessed, one of my addictions is workaholism. I often find myself pushing the needle to Full even though I am clearly on Empty. The result is an exhaustion that can lead to despair. A few weeks ago I woke up in this reality once again. I felt inadequate for the day ahead. Shame slithered in, reminding me of all my failures, and I started the day crying. Like the “mistaken invalid” by the side of the pool, I didn’t think I could get up, and I was exhausted by being in this place for so many years.

  Was that humility? No, not yet.

  I have learned that humility becomes shame when we speak into the dark. Merely voicing our fears, failures, and distress will trap us on a dark merry-go-round that leaves us dizzy. But humility keeps us on the healing path when we speak into the light—or to the Light, the Light of the world. So I cried out, “Jesus, I don’t have anything to offer to those who will come to see me today.”

  I heard Him—in my spirit—say, “I know, but I will sit in the chair with you while you work.”

  Then I said, “And, Jesus, I’m lonely.”

  And He said, “I know. I’ll be lonely with you.”

  And then I said, “And, Jesus, I looked at my bank account last night, and I’m afraid about the future.”

  And He said, “I know. I am your future. “

  And then I said my deepest truth in that moment: “And, Jesus, … I don’t trust You.”

  He said, “I know.”

  You are on the healing path when humility does not demand that God or others fix you. Instead, humility nudges you to invite the Divine Presence or the prese
nce of others into the midst of your struggles.

  OTHER-CENTEREDNESS

  Beyond humility, a significant marker on the healing journey, stands the encouraging sign of focus on others. Humility allows us to invite the presence of others into our pain, and out of that comfort flows the desire to be with others in their pain. The final step of the twelve for Alcoholics Anonymous goes like this: “Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics.” Note that it doesn’t say, “Having recovered completely … ” The invitation to help others along the healing path is extended to those who are also on the path, not those who have reached some destination. Francis MacNutt, known for his teaching about healing prayer, wrote about the powerful connection between the hurting and the healer, emphasizing the spiritual principle that when we open ourselves to pain, we become part of the medicine that heals the world. MacNutt points to the experience of Michael Gaydos, “who received healing of his own impaired eyesight and became effective in healing prayer for those with a similar affliction.” MacNutt wrote, “His experience leads us to an interesting conclusion: people who have been healed of a particular ailment seem to have a special gift from that point on in ministering to people with the same problem. Perhaps it is because they now have greater faith in the area in which they themselves have directly experienced God’s power “9 I think a further explanation is that the more we have suffered, the deeper our compassion runs for others who suffer. That compassion is felt, is active in our presence with them.

  When I have the privilege to be with another addict, I experience redemption myself: release from the torture of wanting to quit drinking (or working or people pleasing); of quitting and of not being able to quit; from the merry-go-round obsession and compulsion that at times leaves me as paralyzed as the man with the thirty-eight-year miracle; from the terror of a bondage greater than myself; from the nagging sense of hypocrisy when my outside world does not match my inner world; from the guilt, shame, loneliness, and agonizing fear that I’ve lost the love of others or of God. Released. Redeemed.

  There is a risk here, in seeking healing community or offering it, a risk of getting trapped again in the last addiction. When we believe that a “healer” has to know our pain by experience, we are vulnerable to making that person our savior or to believing that we are the savior of others. We will inevitably be disappointed by placing our faith in human healers. Disillusionment with ourselves or others can detour us from the healing path, unless we remember that there is really only one Healer—Jesus. Other-centeredness does not reveal itself only in our care for others, but also in our clinging to the One who is the most Other—the Redeemer, Jesus the Healer, embodied Love of God, who became our sin, woundedness, and confusion on the cross, to heal us. “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”10 As Jesus’s wounds heal us, our wounds allow us to be a healing presence in the lives of others and to believe that it is only by His wounds that we are healed.11

  In his play, Thornton Wilder presents the healing of the second man, who shows signs of that healing in his care for others. First, the Newcomer complains about his healing, “I am doubly fearful that there remains a flaw in my heart. Must I drag [this] … all my days more bowed than my neighbor?” Oh, I myself have asked the same question when I have been angry and impatient about my own healing. The Angel’s answer reminds me of what the healing path looks like:

  Without your wound where would your power be? It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve. 12

  SELF-CARE

  We won’t stay on the path, or be able to tell that we are on it, unless we take care of ourselves. There is no all-purpose formula for self-care, however; what is nurturing and restorative for one person may not be helpful for another. For instance, Charles Dickens wrote that he walked an hour for every hour that he spent writing. I don’t have enough hours in my day to follow his path, but his method does offer important guidance. Because most addicts spend many hours in introspection, we also need many hours filled with tactile pleasures like yoga, swimming, or painting.

  We must care for our brains as well, since addiction often diseases the brain. Such care may mean taking an antidepressant, so that the brain can begin to circulate the natural feel-good, energizing, and relaxing chemicals that have been shut down by the addictive behaviors. It also includes what may seem like mundane living to an addict who is used to chaos—simply choosing foods with good nutrients, getting good sleep, meditating, and enjoying conversation with friends. Because the healing path often seems to take us two steps forward and then three steps back, we need to see a finished product now and then. I like to mow the lawn!

  Bear in mind that we don’t take care of ourselves to save ourselves. That’s the last addiction. I worked with a woman who spent more time and money on self-care than most of us have: Twelve Step meetings, the acupuncturist, the chiropractor, the massage therapist, the psychiatrist, the talk therapist (me), the nutritionist, the spiritual director, and the manicurist. But she remained stuck in her addiction.

  One day I said to her, “What if you stopped running from expert to expert, stayed home (or went to some quiet space), and remained quiet?” She replied immediately, “That scares the heck out of me.”

  “Why?” I asked. (I knew the answer though, because I too have been afraid to be with just myself)

  “I’m afraid of what I’ll remember, see, and hear,” she finally answered. Her answer hints at significant stories, but it is vague. She had learned to be evasive with herself and others, and as a result, she did not find true intimacy in all of the relationships she sought and was even willing to pay for.

  Addiction opens the door for us to see ourselves at our worst, so your approach to self-care depends on what you believe about sin. If you believe that sin is disgusting and reveals what is shameful and intolerable, then your self-care will be about hiding and covering up. On the other hand, if you believe that sin and the wounds it leaves are where Love gets in, then self-care can be about being merciful to yourself

  Augustine wrote, “Even from my sins, God has drawn good.” If we see our addictions as the only forces that will make us acknowledge our need for God and others, then we can construct a program of self-care that springs from tenderness, rather than self-hatred.

  The healing path is marked by people who care for themselves diligently and with compassion, because we know that One has cared for us, right in the middle of knowing everything about us. Australian theologian Kevin O’Shea wrote, “One rejoices in being unafraid to be open to the healing presence, no matter what one might be or what one might have done.”!13 This openness that is essential to healing can develop only as we believe that our sin does not need to drive us from God, that when it is confessed and offered to Him for forgiveness and grace, our sin can actually draw us to God. Julian of Norwich wrote of the wonder of bringing sin from the darkness into the Light: “God also showed me that sin is not shameful to man, but his glory … for … the badge of sin is changed into glory.“14 We need grace to believe that our sin can reveal our need of God, and needing Him is what He longs for us to experience. When we truly interiorize the grace and redemption of God, we become less defensive, more tender, and more free to take care of ourselves.

  Anthony De Mello wrote that repentance reaches fullness when we are brought to gratitude for our sins.15 Gratitude for my sins must include gratitude for a Love so deep that it compelled Christ to bear my sins to set me free! Gratitude for an addiction that stopped me, overwhelmed me, and humbled me becomes the means by which I can truly care for myself.

  HOPE

  Sometimes it’s hard to see signs of hope when it c
omes to addiction. The statistics on rates of addiction, both in onset and recidivism, are over-whelming, and most stories tell of relapse and out-of-control and unthinkable behavior What hope did the man have when he kept coming to the healing pool in Bethesda for thirty-eight years? I don’t think he expected to encounter The Miracle. He had probably just heard stories of others who had stepped into the water and found healing. He kept coming, but ultimately it wasn’t the water that healed him. It was Jesus. I think this paradox offers us the true way to understand hope.

  I don’t want anyone who reads this book to think I’ve given up on small hopes. I am not against Twelve Step groups. I attend as often as I can, and I probably need to attend more often, to be with others who remind me of the truths about addiction and redemption. I’m not against medication: I’ve taken antidepressants and antianxiety drugs. When my clients resisted such medications, I used to say, “What’s the big deal? It is a supplement for a deficiency in brain chemistry. It’s just like taking a vitamin.” After I needed to get my own prescription, though, I stopped saying that. I found that it’s humbling to go to a doctor and confess your unpredictable moods, paralyzing anxiety, and deep, deep sadness. I once even half-jokingly asked my psychiatrist if he could put my prescription in another name and I’d just pay out of pocket. When I handed in my prescription at the pharmacy, the clerk explained that it would be a few minutes; if I wanted to shop for a while, she would call my name over the loudspeaker when my prescription was filled. I imagined hearing “Sharon Hersh, your Prozac is ready” ringing through the aisles of the Target superstore. I told the pharmacy tech I would be happy to wait—right there, at the desk—so nobody would even speak my name. So I sympathize with the sting of using medication, even though I also endorse its value.