The Newcomer Who Wasn’t There
When a new client first walks through the doors of CORE, most believe they already know what their problem is: they drink or drug too much. Fix that, they figure, and everything else will fall into place. It sounds simple enough. We’ve heard countless newcomers say it almost word for word: “If I just stop using, I’ll be fine.” Their families often think the same thing.
Happily, many of these individuals do recover. They come to understand their disease—its symptoms, causes, and conditions—and they learn how to overcome it. They stay at CORE until the time is right to move on. Applying what they have learned, they go on to live productive, purposeful lives. They give back, help others, and often become civic-minded members of their communities.
But others take a different path. They pledge abstinence, swearing off the bottle or the pills, believing that if they can just stay sober, the cure will be complete. They attend classes, find jobs, and notice they are avoiding substances. With each day going according to plan, their confidence grows. Yet with that confidence comes something else: a quiet conviction that they no longer need the structure or accountability of a recovery program. The classes start to feel stale. Even the program, which they never truly began in the first place, starts to feel unnecessary.
After all, they tell themselves, they are working and earning money. They are paying bills, showing up, and doing what other adults do. Who has time for someone looking over their shoulder under those circumstances? They have learned their lesson, they say. They will not make that mistake again. Some convince themselves that if they do drink or use again, they will certainly know when to stop. So they leave, despite all advice to the contrary.
What happens next is predictable. And never good. Around CORE, we do not need a full hand to count the success stories that begin this way. It’s never positive. Never. Not ever. And sometimes, it’s tragic.
The newcomer who arrives convinced that their only problem is drinking or drugging is vexing for several reasons, not least because they often seem like friendly, well-intentioned people. But something is plainly missing. There is a disconnect between their expectations and the true gravity of their illness. The usual spark of awareness, the willingness to go deeper and address their real problem, seems totally absent. It is almost as if the person wasn’t there. The wherewithal necessary to tackle the reasons for their substance use is nowhere to be found.
By itself, abstinence without more turns out to be an empty promise. The Twelve Steps are not a program by which we finally attain abstinence. They are a plan for living happy, joyous, and free of drugs and alcohol now that we’re abstinent. It’s an important difference. In other words, quitting doesn’t make us recovered; it’s having recovered that makes certain we’ve quit.
Viewing abstinence as recovery is like judging the act of waking up in the morning as having had a successful day. Our substance use happened because we were unable to live life on life’s terms. Quit or not, the world isn’t going to change for us, and there is no way around this. Sooner or later, every addict and alcoholic who would recover has to change themselves. They have to alter the way they view and relate to themselves, others, and the world around them.
Importantly, our character defects inevitably step into the spotlight once we’ve quit. It turns out that our true malady is maladjustment to life itself, the inability to live at peace with ourselves and others. Without working the Twelve Step program and incorporating its lessons into our daily existence, the selfish, self-centered person we have always been will become glaringly obvious. The perfect life we imagined would follow abstinence won’t be found anywhere.
So we begin clashing with people. We start doing nearly anything to get our own way. We chase love or sex without regard for the damage it causes. We bend the truth in business or relationships if it suits our purposes. We make half-hearted attempts to justify the wreckage we cause, or we ignore it. At the core, our lives are still being run by the same self-will that fueled our addictions in the first place.
And it is not just the big-ticket items of our day that get poisoned. When we are running self-centered, the turmoil never stops. When our contentment depends on getting what we want, when we want it, every minute of the day becomes another opportunity for disappointment and agitation. Someone empties the coffee pot before we get to it – resentment. A meeting runs long – frustration. A supervisor points out a mistake – fear and dishonesty rise up as we rush to defend ourselves. A family member or friend interrupts our comfortable evening at home – inconsideration flares.
Little things pile up, and before long our negative attitude is dragging us through the mud yet again. By bedtime, we are restless, irritable, and discontent, even though we stayed “sober.” Our sobriety at that point may not feel any better than active addiction. It may even feel worse, but either way, at this point it’s pick your poison. Deep down, we may know the terrible things that could happen – will happen – if we use again, but we lie to ourselves, make excuses, and eventually justify falling off the wagon. When the inevitable consequences arrive, we shrug and say, “What difference does it make? Everything’s a mess anyway.”
The hard truth is that addicts and alcoholics are not just nothing while running in our addictions; we are also nothing in our abstinence unless something deeper changes within us.
The Big Book captures this dilemma with piercing clarity. On page 61, it sketches several characters: a retired businessman who sits in the Florida sunshine griping about the sad state of the nation; a minister who sighs over the sins of the century; politicians and reformers convinced that utopia is just around the corner if everyone else would only behave; and even an outlaw safecracker who blames society for his downfall.
What do these people have in common? They are locked into their own narrow, self-centered point of view, believing that the world and everyone else is the problem, and that everyone else must change for them to be at peace.
Here’s the rub: this will never, ever happen. If we’re going to find peace, someone obviously has to change, but it won’t be everybody else. And the Big Book gets down to brass tacks and logically drives this point home:
“Selfishness—self-centeredness. That, we think, is the root of our troubles.”
And this is our malady, it turns out. Not the bottle, not the needle, but our self-centered lives. The upshot is that unless the abstinent newcomer changes his relationship with others and the world around him, he is doomed to frustration, misery, and an eventual return to substance use.
The necessary change happens by working the Twelve Step program of recovery, which produces a dramatic change in our attitude and outlook on life!
Imagine going through an entire day, only this time with a completely different, genuine spirit of consideration toward others. Instead of snapping, “Can’t I just get a break?” when interrupted at home, what if we pause to appreciate our family member or friend and engage them with warmth? Instead of creating disappointment and distance, we would be building closeness and joy.
Or consider the meeting that runs long. Instead of reacting with frustration, what if we responded with patience and sympathetic understanding, helping to resolve the issue? Our value in the workplace might rise, not fall, and our relationships with coworkers may even deepen.
Even something as small as an empty coffee pot could look different. Instead of muttering resentfully, what if we made another pot, with the quiet thought of helping someone else start their day a little easier?
These are not big, dramatic gestures. They are little things. But when these and countless other moments are strung together over the course of a day, they amount to everything. When the minutes of our lives are filled with self-centered reactions, the whole of life becomes sour. If we orient these same minutes toward others and doing God’s will, the whole becomes peaceful, connected, and very much worthwhile.
That’s the real miracle of recovery. The Twelve Steps lead us on a journey of self-discovery and self-surrender. They ask us to admit what we have been, to face what we are, to make amends for what we have done, and to pursue daily the guidance of our better angels. Through this process, we don’t just quit drinking or using. We not only become new people, but so does the world – in our eyes.
So the next time a newcomer says all they need to do is quit, we may smile “at such a sally,” as the Big Book describes, but we also need to convey the truth. Quitting is a great beginning, but it’s just the start, and hopefully one of many real and positive changes in their life. The real journey is not removing substances from life. It’s about discovering the person apart from drugs and alcohol who, with God’s help, they’re meant to be.