Your Future Self Will Thank You

by Drew Dyck

  That was another reason to start running—doctor’s orders. I was excited. I was finally going to be that guy, the active, in-shape, tear-up-the-tarmac guy. But these romantic notions evaporated when I actually started running. Truthfully “running” is a generous term for what I was doing. It was more like plodding punctuated by stints of walking.

  One of my favorite movies is Chariots of Fire. It’s the classic film about the famous Christian Olympic runner Eric Liddell who refused to compete on Sundays. The movie opens with a famous scene of Liddell and his Olympic teammates running in slow motion on the beach. At one point Liddell explains his passion for running: “God made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.”

  I had Liddell’s iconic words in mind when I went out for my first jog. But instead of flying over a track to the theme song from Chariots of Fire, I found myself shuffling around my block to the sound of my own wheezing. The only similarity to the movie: I too was moving in slow motion. When I came home, I complained to my wife: “God made me slow. And when I run, I feel His displeasure.”

  I went for my runs in the evening, right after work. But after about a week, they dropped in frequency. I was mentally exhausted from the day. Plus I felt a little guilty about leaving my wife with the kids for another half hour when she’d already been watching them all day. It was just the excuse I didn’t need. Pretty soon I wasn’t running at all. If I’m ever going to get in shape, I may need to try something else.

  Chapter 9

  Learning from Addicts

  What Rehab Programs Reveal about Self-Control

  “The devil always gives you the best stuff up front.”

  —BILL RUSSELL

  I’m sitting in Bijou Café in downtown Portland with Bill Russell, the executive director of the Union Gospel Mission, a ministry that feeds the homeless and helps addicts turn their lives around. He utters the words above at the end of a monologue about the ravages of addiction.

  “The best high you’ll ever get is your first one, when the dopamine receptors in your brain are fresh,” Russell tells me. “From there, it’s all downhill. You take more and more drugs chasing that first high.”

  Once you’re hooked, the game changes, he explains. Suddenly, it’s not just about getting high. It’s about avoiding pain. Stop using and you get “dope sick,” street slang for the powerful withdrawal symptoms addicts experience when they stop using drugs. Being dope sick feels like getting the flu, but worse. “You get achy bones, zero energy, intestines are all roughed up, you’re throwing up out of both ends,” is how one opioid addict described it.1 And those are just the physical symptoms. According to DetoxToRehab.com, “The psychological effects of experiencing dope sickness may be so intense the person may consider suicide.”2

  Somehow, I’d never considered this side of addiction. I’ve always seen addicts as hopeless pleasure-chasers, but it would be more accurate to see them as pain-escapers. They’re often driven to drugs to numb emotional or physical pain—and they keep going to avoid getting sick. That desperation leads to reckless behavior. “Once your money is gone, you’ll break into houses, cars, anything to keep from getting sick,” Russell says. Meanwhile, the drugs are damaging your brain, eroding your ability to make rational decisions. “That’s why they’ll shoot someone over $20 and not even bother to cover their tracks.”

  THE STAKES

  As Russell described the grim reality of addiction, I felt a little guilty about the purpose of our conversation. After all, I wasn’t there to help addicts; I wanted to know how addicts could help me. I had a hunch their journeys could teach me something about the nature of self-control. By definition, addiction involves an “inability to consistently abstain” due to “impairment in behavioral control.”3 Addicts are people whose self-control has been obliterated—and getting it back is vital. For some of us, self-control is about being more productive or losing an annoying habit. But for addicts, the stakes couldn’t be higher. Self-control is a matter of life and death.

  Six months prior to our conversation, Russell brought four men from the mission to our church to lead worship. They were part of a recovery program called LifeChange. They were talented musicians and spoke passionately about their love for Jesus. But when I showed up for my lunch with Russell I learned there was news about Jeremy, the quiet young man who played bass guitar for the group. One day Jeremy had gone for his daily jog and failed to return. He had spotted an orange syringe cap beside a curb; the kind heroin addicts discard after shooting up. What most people wouldn’t have even noticed was a powerful trigger for Jeremy, and he relapsed. A few days later he overdosed and died.

  I had met Jeremy only briefly. My wife and I shook his hand after the service, and thanked him for leading worship. Now I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I remembered him in front of our congregation, playing guitar. I pictured him out for that fateful jog, filled with hope for the future. I thought of the growing number of addicts on the streets of Portland. Their journeys had started with a moment of chemically induced euphoria but had left them cold and sick and enslaved. Russell was right. The devil gives his best stuff up front.

  Yet there’s hope. Addictions can be conquered. Addicts can turn their lives around. For every tragic story like Jeremy’s there’s another of healing and freedom. I was curious. How do those recoveries happen? What does it take to wrestle the demons of dependency into submission? How can you build self-control from the ground up? And what can the rest of us learn from those who do?

  ADDICTS ‘R’ US

  The first lesson I’ve learned—and it’s an uncomfortable one—is that I have more in common with addicts than I’d care to admit.

  When I was twelve, my father planted an inner-city church with a soup kitchen. Because of this ministry to the homeless, it wasn’t uncommon for people to show up at our church high or reeking of booze. We were often treated to slurred testimonies from addicts in the thick of the battle. “Jush a little under the weather tonight folks, but God is sho good.”

  One time my dad was preaching and made the mistake of posing a rhetorical question, “What would Jesus say to us today?” In the silence that followed, one of the soup kitchen regulars decided to hazard a guess. “I dunno,” he blurted out. “Probably tell me to quit drinking and get a job!”

  As a teenager, I regarded these addicts with a mixture of pity and, if I’m honest, amusement. Even as an adult I consigned their struggles to a category far removed from “normal,” respectable people like me. It never occurred to me that I might have something in common with them.

  In recent years, that illusion has crumbled. In this book, I’ve written about my brothers quite a bit. In the introduction, you met Darren. He’s the one whose heart attack forced me to think seriously about my physical health and whose penetrating question alerted me to my lack of spiritual growth. In chapter 4 you met Dan. He was the perfect one, the spiritual prodigy whose early demonstrations of self-control made me wonder if there was hope for me. You may have wondered, How many brothers does this guy have? One more, as it turns out—my oldest brother, Dave.

  As I’ve written this book, I’ve gone back and forth on whether to include Dave’s story. It’s not an easy one. In fact, it has rocked our family to its core. Dave is an addict. Even writing those words feels strange to me. At thirty years old, Dave’s life was enviable. He was a financial consultant who earned a multiple six-figure salary. He was married with two kids. Everything seemed to be going great. But secret addictions were chipping away at the edifice of his life. Eventually it all came crashing down, costing Dave his marriage and career. He became estranged from his kids. He did a yearlong stint in rehab—then relapsed.

  About a year ago, Dave’s ex-wife was driving when she spotted a man in a hospital gown sitting at a bus stop. She looked closer and realized it was Dave. He’d overdosed and almost died, he told her, but had no memory of how he’d landed at the bus stop. After this brush with death, Dave vowed to change, but his resolution didn�
��t last long. He continued doing drugs and started stealing cars to support his habit. Recently Dave was arrested after leading police on a high-speed chase in a stolen car. He is currently serving a four-year prison sentence.

  I’m saddened each time I think about Dave’s dramatic descent. How did he wind up in such a sad state? We pleaded with him to change, directed him to rehab, and staged an intervention. But was there more we could have done to help him? Will landing in jail finally give him the wakeup call he needs?

  Dave’s plight also causes me to look inward. What if I’m not so different from my brother? I used to think of addicts as “out there”—the beer-soaked guy on the side of the road begging for change or the sweaty stockbroker snorting cocaine off his desk. But now that addiction has hit close to home, I see things differently. The same destructive impulses that destroyed Dave’s life are present in me. The difference between us is a matter of degrees, not kind. The science writer, David DiSalvo, looks at addiction from a neurological level and concludes, “What’s alarming is that anyone’s brain can theoretically become addicted to a substance or behavior, given enough exposure. And once that happens, the addiction pathways are open to accommodate additional compulsive behaviors.”4 Addicts are not an isolated subset of the population. We all have the potential for addiction.

  Even if we never engage in the activities that land us in jail, the Bible tells us that all sin has an addictive quality. “Everyone who sins is a slave to sin,” Jesus said (John 8:34). That means we have more in common with addicts than we might think. And it means we need to take the same steps addicts in recovery take if we hope to get free.

  NO SMALL SINS

  Dave’s problems seemed to come out of the blue, but in truth there were worrying behaviors that stretched back to childhood. He had a habit of borrowing people’s possessions and failing to return them. (I can’t tell you how many bikes he lost.) When he was thirteen years old, he took a summer job in a convenience store where he was exposed to pornography, and created a habit that plagued him as an adult. Dave wasn’t outwardly rebellious. He was compliant and easygoing. When my parents assigned my brothers and me household chores, we’d drag our feet and argue. Dave, on the other hand, would happily comply with their commands—but never actually obey. He had a way of sidestepping responsibilities with little concern for the inevitable consequences.

  None of these behaviors seemed too alarming. After all, it’s not uncommon for teenagers to dodge responsibilities or peek at dirty magazines. Yet for Dave, these actions became the first stop on a long road that would end in destruction. The little sins went unchecked until they grew into more serious habits. As I watched my brother’s life become a waking nightmare I couldn’t help think of these words, written nearly two thousand years ago: “After desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death” (James 1:15). The nun Elizabeth Scalia puts it this way: “The habit of sin is what is formed by permitting these ‘little sins,’ and the reason they ‘mean a lot’ is because once they become ingrained within us, they shape who we are: mentally, spiritually, and even physically.”5

  James described sin as a progression. At first, giving into temptation seems harmless. It doesn’t even seem to impact your life. The problem is that sin doesn’t stop there. Sin doesn’t start big and scary. It’s like a lion cub; at first it’s cute and cuddly. But keep it around and feed it and one day it will overpower you. Sin grows, and when it is “full-grown” it destroys everything and everyone around you.

  I imagine that if you dig into the history of most addicts, you’d find a similar story. They didn’t wake up one morning and decide to be addicted to drugs or alcohol. Instead they fed certain vices and behaviors until they lost control. I realize that addiction is a complex issue, involving genetic and environmental causes. Yet sin plays a role too. I know it did with my brother.

  Addicts show us the hard bottom of sin’s slippery slope. In the beginning, sin seems like no big deal, a naughty habit or innocent indulgence perhaps. But that’s never where it stops. The secret to self-control (as if there’s just one) is to control yourself while you still can. “Be killing sin or it will be killing you,” theologian John Owen wrote. To keep sin from devouring you, kill it early.

  ADMITTING DEFEAT

  Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), the popular international recovery program, has helped millions of people get sober. Initially limited to helping alcoholics, the program’s famous 12 Steps have been used to help people find freedom from a wide range of addictive behaviors, including drugs, gambling, and eating disorders.

  To a lot of psychologists, the program’s success is a bit of a mystery. Bill Wilson, a drunken stock speculator with no training in science or psychology, started AA in the 1930s. Over the years, the steps haven’t changed to incorporate new findings about the biological and genetic roots of addiction. And yet it works. What’s the secret? One clue can be found in the program’s very first step: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.”6

  It’s a strange starting point, isn’t it? To declare you are “powerless” and that your life is “unmanageable”? Wouldn’t articulating such helplessness just fuel poor behavior?

  If the 12 Steps were written today, I doubt they would start with such a grim confession. Given our love affair with self-esteem and empowerment, we’d likely opt for some inspiring affirmation of our inner strength. “We admitted we had power over alcohol—and we have everything we needed to manage our lives.” That would be a more positive and pleasant starting point. But it wouldn’t be as effective. Bill Wilson wrote, “The principle that we shall find no enduring strength until we first admit complete defeat is the main taproot from which our whole Society (AA) has sprung and flowered.”7 Or as another recovering addict wrote, “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”

  A willingness to admit defeat permeates the entire program. From depending on a higher power to conducting a “fearless moral inventory” of your life to “humbly” seeking the forgiveness, to “making amends,” weakness is everywhere. Even the famous AA introduction, uttered in countless gymnasiums and church basements around the world, involves confessing your flaws. “Hi, my name is _____, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  In other words, this is who I am: weak, broken, in need of help.

  It’s no coincidence that AA has its roots in the Christian faith. Wilson’s journey toward sobriety was initiated by a dramatic encounter with God, and he patterned the entire program on biblical precepts (he chose the 12 Steps because there were twelve apostles). The insistence on confessing our flaws and feebleness is thoroughly biblical. Repeatedly, Scripture commends confessing our sins to God and each other and even boasting in our weakness (2 Cor. 11:30). When we do, we make the same startling realization millions of addicts have discovered. Instead of being overcome by temptation, we find our behavior improving as we become wary of our sinful tendencies and open to divine strengthening. Paradoxically, admitting your lack of self-control is the first step to improving it.

  START WITH STRUCTURE

  At the Union Gospel Mission in Portland, the LifeChange program Bill Russell runs is highly structured. Participants wake up early (4:30 a.m. for one group, 5:30 a.m. for the other), then shower, dress, and eat. At 7:00 a.m. they have study hall and leadership training. Self-evaluations and chapel follow at 8:00 a.m. Then the workday starts. That’s right. Forget the Hollywood rehab cliché about addicts lounging in a luxury spa. Participants of LifeChange work a full day at the mission, 9–5.

  The schedule is rigorous by design. It teaches participants structure, routine. And it virtually eliminates any possibility of relapse. Initially they’re not even permitted to go outside the building on their own. Although the schedule is demanding, it doesn’t take a lot of self-control. Program participants don’t have to motivate themselves; they just obey. This too is by design. Russell explains that the energy they wou
ld normally spend navigating the complex tasks of adult life (earning money, securing housing, buying and cooking food) can be directed to Bible study, recovery groups, assigned labor, mental-health counseling, and group activities. This allows each resident to settle into a low-pressure, low-anxiety life. All of their energy, Bill says, is directed toward spiritual formation and developing self-control.

  After a few months in the system, the residents feel good about themselves. They’re clean, deepening their spiritual lives, and sticking to a new schedule. The program doesn’t last forever, of course. And that’s when the real test comes. Russell says that one of the problems is participants tend to “confuse system-control and self-control.” Some mistake success in the program for victory over their vices. But the program is an artificial environment. Eventually they’ll have to return to the real world, with all the old stresses and temptations. For them to stay clean on the outside, Russell says, “external system-control needs to give way to internal self-control.”

  Still, the time spent in a regulated, stress-free environment is an indispensable step toward recovery. When system-control is in place, personal routines emerge and replace the chaos of addiction. Residents get the experience of being part of a team and doing productive work. “They begin to think clearly and assemble a new fresh worldview,” Bill says.

  What can the rest of us learn from a program like LifeChange? One lesson that jumps out at me is that conquering addictive behaviors requires drastic measures. No, we can’t all check into a recovery program for a year. But sometimes getting the upper hand on a besetting sin requires eliminating temptation entirely for a period. By doing so, we clear our heads and allow new patterns of behaviors to emerge.