Emotional Sobriety - Группа авторов

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down everything from his ex-boss and the Army to the church, academia, the government — and AA.

      But when I close my lips to vicious talk, the old me gets tired of waiting around for someone to commiserate with him. When I say only positive things, the old me disappears. He flips his cigarette into the gutter, turns up the collar of his jacket, and walks away. He just doesn't want to hear it.

      John Y.

      Russell, Pennsylvania

      March 1997

      I WAS ONE OF THOSE AA newcomers who chafed at the "God parts" of the Twelve Steps. I thought it was beneath my dignity to believe in God. As a budding alcoholic in my early twenties, I had become infatuated with existentialism, a philosophy that contemplates the role of the individual standing alone in an absurd world. Existentialism seemed to dignify my feelings of isolation and uniqueness and to impart a kind of tragic poignancy to the drunken impulsiveness I liked to think of as acts of free choice. When I entered Alcoholics Anonymous, I desperately wanted to stop drinking and to turn my life around, but I was pretty sure I didn't need the help of "God."

      However, even during my first days in AA, I was wary of poking holes in the program, lest the whole fabric rip apart. I suspected that if I were to allow myself to make even one exception for myself — such as determining that I would ignore the God Steps — I might open myself to a justification to drink. Therefore, I determined to find a way to live with the whole AA program, including God.

      But what did Step Three mean? "Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him." How on earth did a person make such a decision? Turning my will and life over sounded like an enormously complicated procedure. And even if I could figure out how it was done, what would become of me if I complied? I worried that by following God's will, I'd end up doing something brave and self-sacrificing — and utterly repellent.

      The "Twelve and Twelve" said that the only thing required to take Step Three was "a key called willingness." I thought I was willing. Imagining myself holding this elusive "key," I waited for transformation and felt nothing. The book also compared one's awareness of a higher power to electricity flowing, hidden and potent, through the circuits of a house. But I was unable either to feel the movement of this force or to find the switch that would activate it in my life.

      The key finally turned, the electricity finally surged, in a way so quiet and simple I could never have consciously willed it.

      At the time I got sober, I had been living with a man for several years. Our relationship had been in trouble for quite a while, and my new sobriety only aggravated our problems, for he felt threatened by my growing reliance on AA, and I was uncomfortable with his continued drinking. I would wake in the middle of the night and discover that he had not come home, and I would fly into a two-pronged panic that he had died in a terrible accident or that he was with someone else. I lay in bed with my eyes wide open, my heart racing until I heard his key in the lock.

      One night began typically. I woke, realized he was not home, and felt the fear surface. Then something altogether different happened. I understood that I did not have to follow that route. Without even thinking about what I was doing, I said, not exactly to "God" but definitely not just to myself, "Whatever happens, let me accept it." Instantly a wave of calm washed over me. The panic evaporated. I knew from the core of my being that, because I was sober and was not going to drink over this situation, I was fine. I trusted — something. I fell asleep.

      That was sixteen years ago. When I woke up the next morning, I knew I had taken Step Three at last and I was filled with joy. Step Three has continued to manifest in my life in ways that are ever more surprising and profound, for, as the "Twelve and Twelve" promises, "Once we have placed the key of willingness in the lock" and experienced that first opening of the door, "we find that we can always open it some more." Shortly after "turning it over" that night, I broke up with the man I was living with. A few years later I married a man I met in AA. I have stayed sober and continue to go to meetings.

      And, interestingly enough, following a spiritual path has become increasingly essential to me. Contrary to my fear that taking Step Three would condemn me to a life of brave self-sacrifice, I find instead that it frees me to think and act as my truest self. My work, which is writing and leading wilderness trips, helps people explore the connection between nature and spirituality. In following this path, my own journey has flowed along several tributaries. Ultimately, however, the entire process comes down to Step Three: I stay sober and turn my will and life over to the care of God as I understand this wise and radiant entity which is manifested in my own soul.

      There is an update to this story. One defect of character I battled for years was a bitter jealousy of other writers whom I perceived to be more successful than I. I had worked hard to let go of this chronic ache, but it continued to be easily provoked. A few weeks ago, I did a guided imagery session in which I saw the black, bitter bile of professional jealousy being removed from me by a kindly monkey, who placed it in the earth, where it dissolved and became harmless. A couple of days later my young stepson called to say that his first book had been accepted for publication. I waited for the grip of jealousy, but, astonishingly, felt nothing but happiness for his success.

      The next day I reflected on this phenomenon as I drove along the highway in my car. I was thinking about how inner change seems to come only when we are truly ready for it. And then I heard, very clearly, a voice: Are you finally ready to let go and live your destiny?

      An old, lingering part of me — that couldn't pass up an opportunity to bargain for what I want — rose up and I thought: Maybe if I say yes, I'll become a famous author.

      Yes, I said to the voice.

      No, it said. Are you ready to let go and give your life to God?

      As often as my Higher Power had addressed itself to me directly in my years of sobriety, it had never before referred to itself as God. Certainly I had never called it that. The fact that it now did so shook me mightily. How could I argue?

      Yes, I said simply. I'm ready.

      I felt then a remarkable sensation. It was as if my entire body was being emptied of what it no longer needed and was instantly filled with something else. The sensation was of light and energy, a kind of tingling current moving through me.

      Here was yet further evidence that AA's miracles can always deepen and crystallize if I don't drink, practice the Steps, and trust the process. As long as I am willing to do what I am called to do in any given moment and to abandon the effort to control the results of my actions, then I am following the path that my Higher Power — call it God, Good Orderly Direction, the soul, the life force, or anything else — has set out for me.

      Trebbe J.

      Thompson, Pennsylvania

      March 2001

      IT WAS THE SUMMER OF 1999, and in order to cover the costs of the October wedding my fiancée and I had planned, I was working as a maitre d', babysitting boozehounds in a fancy gin joint. The money was more than fair, but I hated the job.

      I was in my sixth year of sobriety. I knew all about the "actor" noted in the Big Book and his desire to control the elements of production, I was familiar with the key of willingness, and I was aware of the nature of a determined and persistent trial. In my opinion, I had pinned the Third Step to the mat. Still, I suffered tremendous anxiety when I wondered how we were going to pay for our wedding, how I could stomach another night at that job, and how we were going to manage after we got married.

      Deep in the throes of this apprehension, a friend who's well-placed in the corporate world offered me four free tickets to an afternoon Yankees game. They were playing my favorite team, the Tigers, and the seats were right behind their dugout, behind third base. It was just the break I needed and I gladly took the tickets. But consternation came on the heels of my acceptance.

      None of my buddies could take an afternoon to loll at the ballpark with me. I was stuck with three great tickets, and I didn't know what to do with them.

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