Stepping Up (part 1)

There comes a point in recovery which many alcoholics and addicts dread. Dread is probably not a harsh enough term. Loath? Despise? Fear...yea, fear. They are absolutely petrified. That Amityville-Horror moment is when you have to face up to the facts, all the facts. I think every 12 step program contains at least one of these "monsters." Facing the facts, which translates into, coming to terms with yourself and your past, is such a scary - yet profound - undertaking that many never do complete the task.

You can use any metaphor you'd like to describe the experience of thoroughly taking your emotional, mental, and spiritual inventory, but none of them ring with excitement. The most oft used metaphor is probably "cleaning house," which isn't too dark. Here are a few more descriptive ones I'd use to talk about the process. It's like: "crawling through the drainage sludge of life," or "being tossed into the cesspool of your history, naked, in the middle of the night with no moon, on a feed lot, next to a chemical plant." Or maybe this extended picture will help.

Have you ever stood on the bank of a creek, pondering "the jump," and thought, "Oh, that's not far...just a few feet and the receiving bank looks inviting enough. It's smooth and that dark brown earth right there [and you innocently point to a spot on the opposite side] looks solid." Ever thought that? In hope you leap. As graceful as the proverbial gazelle (at least that's the picture in your head) you clear the stream, but as your lead foot touches down on the pebbled crust of the aimed-for-bank, your foot does not find terra firma. That moment of winged weightlessness, fit to be immortalized on the heavenly roof of the Sistine Chapel, turns into the equivalent of a dumpster dive. Instead of hard packed earth you plunge savagely into slimy brown guck - and your momentum and weight inevitably sinks your entire shoe in, past the shoe top. Wetness seeps into your footwear, and still it moves, up past the ankle (and the sock will never be the same). Still descending past the calf, and you feel the slop and cold chasing up your leg and finally, thank the Lord, finally, the plummeting halts. One leg ensconced almost to the knee and the other, hitched up around your mid-section, like you're a contortionist. Your trying not to make the same mistake with both feet, but still the trailing leg is slapping and wallowing in the churned goo. (Am I the only one that has had this happen?)

What now? You have to get out. Picking a new spot a few feet in front of you, you grimely - but resolutely - set out. Yet, moving in the slimy sediment is tough going. The "clean" leg is reluctantly sacrificed and down it goes...almost with a hiss as the ground seems satisfied to be ingesting your appendage. You lean hard and pull the lead leg up...ssssluuuuuurrrrr-POP! It comes free, but you're minus a shoe. It is agonizingly slow wading through crap. That is what it is! That was/is what coming face to face with myself was/is like for me. There is no secret why some people run away from the task in frenzied terror.

If you've never done a searching and fearless moral inventory - let me heartily recommend it. It's like an enema for the conscious. If I've made it sound difficult, good. It is. Yet, the payoff isn't in wallowing in crud. That's not why you do it. The highlight of becoming whole isn't when you're the most broken, or the delight of getting well doesn't come when you're the sickest.

For me to be a better person, it was suggested that I gaze into the mirror of time and see ALL that was reflected. So, I looked and I sank. And it was hard - still is in some ways. I don't want to "glory" in the gunk, but it is something I had to go through in order to come out on the other bank. You go through it to come out of it. It is the coming out on the other side that I really want to share. And I will, in part 2.