Surely he had nothing to go on, no plan to follow. I began to doubt again, to wonder whether I even had enough inherent worthiness to warrant this miraculous process.
Then I began to realize, through other people's loving messages, that no one is entirely self-made. A woman in my Step group expressed it this way: “Who we are is God's gift to us. Who we become is our gift to God.” It began to dawn on me that recovery is something like the restoration of a very old painting, covered over by layers and layers of darkening, distorted varnish. This process of restoration is so precious in God's eyes and is undertaken with such infinite care that not all of the underlying pattern can be revealed at one time. What is uncovered, bit by bit and layer by slow, careful layer, are the things which are necessary and appropriate for me to know about myself right now.
Moreover, no painting paints itself; we are masterworks, all lovingly created by God's hands. Whether our colors are vivid or subtle, whether the design is boldly abstract or serenely pastoral is not our choice. Ours is only to accept this work of art as given—to strive to reveal our true colors and the beauty of our true design in everything we say and think and do.
I do not begin to understand the miracle of this restoration in my own life. I only know that it is happening, and that it is not a mistake. A sense of my own worthiness is restored only very slowly; it is as if God knows I must be responsible for past damage and be more careful in the future if I am able to feel truly worthy. Though God loves me unconditionally, I will have to live my own faith, cherish each day of my recovery, and practice unconditional love to the best of my limited ability before I can wholeheartedly love myself.
The process is slow and often painful, and sometimes I feel I have barely begun. But when frustration or impatience overtake me, or when ego threatens to override all the progress I have made, I try to remember that God is the master painter—the spirit which inspired the works of Michelangelo, Renoir and Van Gogh—the loving force which is even at this moment restoring the damaged painting of my life to its original luster and irreplaceable design.
Who better to carry out this loving and painstaking restoration than the master himself?
Margaret G.
Port Coquitlam, British Columbia
Beyond Sanity
February 1999
“There are those, too, who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest.” That quote from the Big Book describes me. I have a mental disorder—severe clinical and chronic depression—but I am in recovery. The program works.
When I first came into the Fellowship, I was in a depressive state, and a few days later was hospitalized for the fifth time. In the hospital, I learned about the illness of alcoholism: the mental obsession and the physical compulsion. When I was released from the hospital a month later, I began attending AA meetings in earnest.
At first, staying sober was not as difficult as I had envisioned. The physical compulsion had left me while I was in the hospital, and though I was left with an occasional thought or desire for a drink, there was nothing upon which I had to act. Within a short time, I began to notice some benefits of sobriety that were special to me and became self-reinforcing. Without ingesting alcohol, which was a depressant, my depression finally had a chance to improve. It wasn't over yet, but through the grace of God, I could see change. More than that, sobriety seemed to coincide with freedom from the hospital. I had stopped attempting suicide (something I'd only done while drinking). And now, thirty-seven months into sobriety, I haven't been back in the hospital.
Taking the First Step was easy. Hospitalizations and drunk driving citations had clearly made my life unmanageable, and I knew I was powerless: that the first drink would get me drunk.
It was the Second Step that I eyed with intense interest: “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” Did that mean that my Higher Power would eradicate my mental illness? That is what I believed and prayed for. If the God of my understanding could offer me recovery from alcoholism, could he not offer me recovery from this other illness as well?
As I continued to attend AA meetings and listen carefully, I heard experiences with the Second Step that didn't quite apply to me. One common definition of insanity was "doing the same thing (i.e., drinking) over and over, expecting different results.” That definition fit me as far as my alcoholism went, but was too narrow to help with my mental illness. I resigned myself to a continuing mental illness.
However, I also continued my journey with the Steps. Doing each to the best of my ability, with painstaking care, I completed all twelve, until in the end I found a new definition of sanity. It was bigger than any definition I had heard concerning Step Two, but it was also bigger and better than my wildest imaginings. This sanity offered serenity, a feeling of wellness or well-being, possession of a center of balance from which to operate, and a feeling that my place in this world was just right. The sanity I've received through work on the Steps is far more than I could have hoped for.
Now I'm not only a recovering alcoholic but have truly been "restored to sanity,” and am forever grateful.
Doreen C.
Bowie, Maryland
Two Ounces a Day
July 1993
After a little sobriety, some of the craziness of the drinking days gets to be funny. It feels good to laugh about it, but it's bittersweet humor with an edge of pathos and lunacy not far below the surface. When someone bristles at the word "insanity” in Step Two, I remember that I did, too—and I think of this episode.
A few months before I stopped drinking I took my first physical in years. I took a bunch of tests, and my liver put some bad numbers on the board.
Did I drink? the doctor asked.
“Some,” I said.
He said he wanted me to limit myself to two ounces a day, or risk serious damage to my liver. “Would that be a problem?”
“No problem,” I said.
I didn't want to blow out my liver, but I didn't want to give up martinis, either. So I tiptoed up to the edge of the limit the doctor had set: Each day I took my bottle of gin and my measuring cup and poured precisely two ounces for my single, skimpy martini. I felt deprived, of course, but kept it up for a week.
Then I got to thinking. The doctor said two ounces of alcohol, and this gin was only eighty proof—just forty percent alcohol—so I was shortchanging myself. I did the math. To get two ounces of real alcohol, I'd have to drink five ounces of gin!
So I measured out that more generous serving for another week or so, but still felt cramped. I was a busy guy, after all, and didn't have time to fool with measuring cups. What the doctor really meant, I decided, was to limit myself to two drinks a day. So I forgot about the measuring cup and made myself two martinis a day—in a glass the size of a goldfish bowl.
Of course, even that discipline soon was abandoned.
My mental gyrations made perfect sense at the time, but a little sobriety made me see the bizarre episode for what it was: A doctor told me I faced serious health problems because I was drinking too much, and I responded by playing games.
If he had told me that chocolate bars were causing a life-threatening problem, I wouldn't merely have cut back; I would have quit, that day, because chocolate bars weren't that important
