NINE
Mirror, Mirror on the Wall
CHAPTER TEN
We Keep Saying Thanks: Service and Gratitude
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Way We Do Recovery Changes
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Scary Reality of Relapse and the Rewards of Revitalizing Recovery
Introduction
Then the near-magical thing happens. Long-term recovery begins to take hold. Slowly, especially for women, there is a sensation of coming out of the woods. It’s a sense that we absolutely have changed, that there is some stability in our lives, and that we are truly new people. Of course we are not “fixed” and we’re never “cured,” but in double-digit recovery, another kind of life begins. And it remains, even after ten or fifteen or more years, to be about “progress, not perfection.”
After ten years of meetings and working the Twelve Steps, recovery often shifts into a different pace and schedule. This can be baffling to people in other stages of recovery and it can be troubling to those who are at that ten-plus place: What does it mean that I go to fewer meetings? Why am I spending more time on other projects, people, and other kinds of personal development? What does it mean to be a recovering woman in double-digit recovery?
There are larger numbers of us in recovery. And a surprising number of us have been around for more than ten years, but we don’t always speak up about what happens. I have come to believe that we need to share our perspective.
The number of women who began to attend various twelve-step programs in the 1980s created a significant demographic bump. Those women are reaching key milestones now. Today, women are coming into twelve-step programs in ever growing numbers. The National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependencies (NCADD) estimates that women make up more than 35 percent of the Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) membership and more than 45 percent of Narcotics Anonymous (NA) membership. In Overeaters Anonymous (OA) and Al-Anon and Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACOA) that number is closer to 75 percent. There are larger numbers of us in recovery. And a surprising number of us have been around for more than ten years, but we don’t always speak up about what happens. I have come to believe that we need to share our perspective.
At the five-year mark we start to get a sense of what is truly ours and what belongs to other people, or to the past. We begin to have new habits, new skills, and new friends. Working the steps and learning from others takes us through layers of self-examination. We begin to grow up.
Our spiritual growth starts to dovetail with our psychological work. We begin to look at our careers, our relationships, and our spirituality. We find spiritual practices that work for us. In years seven to nine we “dig deep or die” and recommit to our recovery. At ten years we have rich lives, and we work to balance our life in “the rooms” with the rest of our life.
We are coming out of the woods.
So why make a point of the ten-year mark in recovery? Why a special book for women who’ve been recovering for ten or more years? Because while the basics remain the same, some issues are different after you have been in recovery for a while. Most women with long-term recovery have a sense of this. There are situations we mention or describe in the rooms and the details we share only with recovering friends. And we have good friends. One of the striking phenomena about later recovery is that we even have friends who are not in recovery—and who don’t need to be.
Yes, we still struggle, and no, we’re not perfect by a long shot. If we’re lucky and we have a sense of humor—that grows over time, too—we’ve given up any hope of perfection and we’ve come to have a comfortable relationship with our flaws and with ourselves.
What most of us have learned is that the Twelve Steps and a recovery program are part of a good life, but that even recovery does not protect us from illness, job troubles, problems with our kids or family, and experiencing all types of losses. We, like everyone else, will get to experience plenty of “life on life’s terms.”
RECOVERY IS A SUBTLE GAME
My favorite bumper sticker has always been, “I didn’t quit, I surrendered,” and I love sayings like, “Give time time,” and “Trust the process.” But now, with nearly thirty years in twelve-step recovery, I feel a kind of nostalgia that time has indeed passed and that the doors that opened so generously years ago to welcome me into a twelve-step fellowship now open again and deliver me—drug-free, sane, and still healing—back into the world. It’s like riding in one of those elevators with doors that open on either end. You get in, and it goes up or down, but you have to turn around and face the other way to get out. That is what it feels like to be a woman in recovery coming out of the woods.
Long-term recovery has a kind of ease and grace to it. That is what the newcomers are seeing when they “want what you have.”
Of course this doesn’t mean we graduate. Nor do we leave recovery. But it’s different. Long-term recovery has a kind of ease and grace to it. That is what the newcomers are seeing when they “want what you have.” Not that there aren’t days that I hurt like hell, or act like a brat, or suffer with emotional pain. The difference is that on those days—like the day my brother died or when I learned that my husband was seriously ill—even then, as I was lying on the floor and crying, there was a part of me that could watch myself do that and say, “Go ahead, cry; you will be okay.”
That’s another plus of long-term recovery: I no longer automatically assume when something bad happens that I did something wrong or that I am being punished.
Years ago, before I came into the rooms of recovery, when something bad happened it was likely that it did have to do with something I’d done. I drank to excess, lied about it, made crummy decisions, and drank more to tolerate the shame and guilt. I swung back and forth between compulsive work and sloth, tried bulimia and compulsive eating, got into financial trouble, and made a mess of most relationships.
I remember going to see a therapist in those painful days before my recovery began. She listened to me pour out my pain, asked a few questions,
