Category: From AA Agnostica

In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Twenty-One.
The first of seven consecutive book reviews.
Originally posted in December 2012.

One of the questions is “Why a culture-based lifestyle that creates addiction?”

Review by Roger C.

Nothing sways them from their habit, not illness, not the sacrifice of all earthly goods, not the crushing of their dignity, not the fear of dying, the drive is that relentless. (p. 28)

Dr. Gabor Maté derives the title of his book In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction from the Buddhist mandala, the Wheel of Life, which revolves through six realms, one of which is that of hungry ghosts. “This is the domain of addiction,” he writes, “where we constantly seek something outside ourselves to curb an insatiable yearning for relief or fulfilment. The aching emptiness is perpetual…” (p. 1)

Dr. Maté knows of what he speaks. At the time of writing the book, he was the staff physician for the Portland Hotel Society, which provides housing and medical care to addicts in Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside.

The book is a massive and ambitious undertaking. It runs to some 450 pages and is broken down into seven parts.

There are many solid reasons to read, and recommend, this book. I will discuss just a few that especially helped me to better understand the affliction of alcoholism and addiction.

Part I of the book is called Hellbound Train. It is ninety pages long. Reading it is a bit like relocating: all of sudden the reader finds herself on East Hastings Street in downtown Vancouver, loitering with those bereft of a home, family or a reason to live, other than drugs. Reader beware: Maté will take you along to the funeral of a (former) heroin addict and patient, Sharon. That chapter is called “The Lethal Hold of Drugs.”

Make no mistake, there are no recoveries portrayed in this book. Not one. Maté is dealing with addiction in its late stages. The Portland Hotel Society operates Insite, the only supervised injection site in North America. In 2009, the site recorded 276,178 visits (an average of 702 visits per day) by 5,447 unique users. (Wikipedia)

Dr. Gabor Maté

Dr. Gabor Maté

It is rare that the plight of addicts is portrayed as poignantly, and as honestly, as it is by Maté. In his review of the book, Bill White (author of Slaying the Dragon: The History of Addiction Treatment and Recovery in America) writes: “In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts achieves many things, but its greatest emotional impact is as an ethnographic study of urban addiction.” It is a motley crew that is portrayed here, and that with great empathy and compassion. I read this section partly in shock and partly with a sense of gratitude and relief that I had survived my own “close encounter with addiction” and had, somehow, gotten off the hellbound train.

Maté goes somewhere few in the field of recovery dare to tread, and that is a discussion of the various ways in which society exacerbates the problem of addiction.

For Maté, social defects are perhaps more important to understanding alcoholism and addiction than “character defects.”

Part VI of his book is called Imagining a Humane Reality: Beyond the War on Drugs. In a chapter entitled “Dislocation and the Social Roots of Addiction,” Maté identifies “dislocation” as a primary social factor leading to a dependence on drugs and alcohol. He bases his argument in part on the works of Bruce Alexander, author of The Globalization of Addiction, and Robert Dupont, the first director of the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA) and the author of The Selfish Brain: Learning From Addiction. Both argue that in premodern times alcohol abuse was rare and it was only with the coming of the industrial age and the dominance of the free market system from 1800 onwards that alcoholism “became a raging epidemic.” Maté writes:

With the rise of industrial societies came dislocation; the destruction of traditional relationships, extended family, clan, tribe and village. Vast economic and social changes tore asunder the ties that formerly connected people to those closest to them and to their communities. (p. 261)

Although all individuals are prone to addictions enabled in this manner, Maté suggests that nowhere are the destructive results of the market approach to human interaction more graphically illustrated than in its impact on aboriginal cultures around the world, including in Canada. The rate of death due to alcohol abuse is 43.7 per 100,000 among Aboriginal peoples, nearly twice that of the general population (23.6 per 100,000) and the death rate due to illicit drugs is approximately three times higher than the rate of the general population in Canada. (Addictive Behaviours Among Aboriginal People in Canada, p. 25) “In the case of drug addiction, the sins of entire societies are visited unevenly on minority populations” who are especially vulnerable to the dislocation that is its result, Maté writes. (p. 261)

He is especially critical of the so-called “War on Drugs.” He calls for a “rational and humane” approach to drug users and the decriminalization (not legalization) of substance dependence. Maté writes that the war on drugs unnecessarily creates criminals and, inadvertently, greater addiction. “Recall that uncertainty, isolation, loss of control and conflict are the major triggers for stress and that stress is the most predictable factor in maintaining addiction and triggering relapse. These are also precisely the conditions that the demonization of addiction and the War on Drugs (deliberately!) impose on hardcore substance users.” (p. 300) He calls for the creation of an “island of relief” for addicts and in one of the more challenging statements in the book, he suggests that it is not the role of society to change addicts, but rather to change itself: “If we are to help addicts, we must strive to change not them but their environments.” (p. 299)

Dislocation – of some sort – is considered a precursor to addiction by Maté. In French we have an expression, “Il n’est pas dans son assiette.” The literal translation is, “He is not in his plate.” The French better captures the experience of dislocation. (Bruce Alexander also calls it “anomie,” “identity diffusion,” “alienation” and, again in French, “désarrois.”) Unless the feeling of dislocaton goes away on its own or is dealt with and corrected, trouble is on the way.

Perhaps the most popular sentence in the whole book, certainly the one most often quoted by reviewers, is a short one: “The question is never ‘Why the addiction?’ but ‘Why the pain?’” (p. 34)

Consistent with the notion of dislocation as its precursor, Maté argues that addiction invariably has its origins in childhood trauma.

In The Realm Of Hungry GhostsMaté briefly outlines several of the traits that make an individual prone to addiction. These include poor self-regulation (the ability to maintain emotional balance and stability), a lack of differentiation and self-identity (the capacity to hold onto a healthy sense of self, especially while interacting with others), impaired impulse control (“A salient trait of the addiction-prone personality is a poor hold over sudden feelings, urges and desires”) and a sense of deficient emptiness (the addict believes that he is “not enough”). (pp. 226-228, 335)

All of these traits inherent in the addictive process are developed, or not, in Maté’s view, as a result of early childhood neglect or trauma. Of course, “not all addictions are rooted in abuse or trauma,” Maté acknowledges, “but I do believe they can all be traced to painful experience. A hurt is at the centre of all addictive behaviours.” (p. 36)

To illustrate his point(s), Maté tells the story of a Toronto police officer, Paul Gillespie, who rescued children after scanning graphic Internet videos of them being raped and molested. He couldn’t, even in retirement, get over the sounds of their crying and the sight of their “dead eyes.” If he hadn’t retired, Maté writes, he might have seen them years later, no longer “heartbreakingly sweet,” instead now hungry ghosts with ravaged faces, thieves, drug pushers and shoplifters sick, dying, addicted. But the irony and the insanity hardly stop there: detective Gillespie’s drug squad colleagues, foot soldiers in the war on drugs, will be frisking them, arresting them again and again, putting them in jail, these “criminals” now, grown up haunted victims victimized yet again. (pp. 267-268)

When I first started reading In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts I couldn’t help but share my admiration of the book at AA meetings I attended.

After one meeting, Naomi came over to me and said, “It is a great book. Can you guess what part I liked the most?”

I confessed that I couldn’t. It’s that kind of book. There are lots of different parts, with different appeal to different people.

“The part about the brain,” she said.

Maté’s book has two sections devoted to the brain. I glanced through them but I have to confess that the neurophysiology of addiction is not my strong suit. When I read about dopamine I turn into a dope, no doubt a result of my own deficient brain chemistry. I sort of understand that body and mind are connected but, to be honest, when I die I think it will be like a house burning down. Everything inside will go with it but less because of connection and more as a result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nevertheless… I understand that these parts of the book are very well researched and presented. Maté certainly acknowledges the interaction between brain and behaviour and their complicity in producing addiction but argues that behaviour has more impact on the brain than the brain has on behaviour. The two sections on the brain are Part III: A Different State of the Brain and Part IV: How the Addicted Brain Develops and they cover some eighty pages.

At the beginning of this review I noted that there are no stories of recovery in this book.

That is true. But Maté’s main goal in writing the book has everything to do with recovery. To begin with, recovery will always be next to impossible unless addiction is understood. This book is a treasure trove of wisdom about the nature and origins of alcoholism and addiction.

Maté is not interested in blaming “genes, parents, God, the weather” for addiction, as one reviewer put it. But he does want to assign responsibility where it belongs and change what can be changed. “It makes sense to focus on what we can immediately affect: how children are raised, what social support parenting receives, how we handle adolescent drug users, and we treat addicted adults.” (p. 203) For 12-Steppers in recovery, it is also perhaps worth pointing out that Maté shares his understanding of the 12 Steps in Appendix IV of the book.

“I cannot begin to tally how many revelatory, shocking and reassuring words, lines, paragraphs and whole pages I have highlighted in this astonishing book.” (Susan Musgrave, author and poet) Gabor Maté’s book, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction, originally published in 2008, is an important work in the modern history of addiction treatment and recovery.

Dr. Maté’s interpretations of each of the 12 Steps are in Appendix IV of In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts. They are also included in The Little Book and can also be found in the menu on AA Agnostica: Step Interpretations.

For more information about Dr. Maté you can visit his website here: Dr. Gabor Maté.

He is also going to publish another book in September 2022. It is called The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness & Healing in a Toxic Culture. Is our culture now “toxic” with a false understanding of “normal”? This will no doubt be an engaging and fascinating book.

For a PDF of this article, click here: In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts.

The post In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts first appeared on AA Agnostica.

In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Twenty-One.
The first of seven consecutive book reviews.
Originally posted in December 2012.

One of the questions is “Why a culture-based lifestyle that creates addiction?”

Review by Roger C.

Nothing sways them from their habit, not illness, not the sacrifice of all earthly goods, not the crushing of their dignity, not the fear of dying, the drive is that relentless. (p. 28)

Dr. Gabor Maté derives the title of his book In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction from the Buddhist mandala, the Wheel of Life, which revolves through six realms, one of which is that of hungry ghosts. “This is the domain of addiction,” he writes, “where we constantly seek something outside ourselves to curb an insatiable yearning for relief or fulfilment. The aching emptiness is perpetual…” (p. 1)

Dr. Maté knows of what he speaks. At the time of writing the book, he was the staff physician for the Portland Hotel Society, which provides housing and medical care to addicts in Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside.

The book is a massive and ambitious undertaking. It runs to some 450 pages and is broken down into seven parts.

There are many solid reasons to read, and recommend, this book. I will discuss just a few that especially helped me to better understand the affliction of alcoholism and addiction.

Part I of the book is called Hellbound Train. It is ninety pages long. Reading it is a bit like relocating: all of sudden the reader finds herself on East Hastings Street in downtown Vancouver, loitering with those bereft of a home, family or a reason to live, other than drugs. Reader beware: Maté will take you along to the funeral of a (former) heroin addict and patient, Sharon. That chapter is called “The Lethal Hold of Drugs.”

Make no mistake, there are no recoveries portrayed in this book. Not one. Maté is dealing with addiction in its late stages. The Portland Hotel Society operates Insite, the only supervised injection site in North America. In 2009, the site recorded 276,178 visits (an average of 702 visits per day) by 5,447 unique users. (Wikipedia)

Dr. Gabor Maté

Dr. Gabor Maté

It is rare that the plight of addicts is portrayed as poignantly, and as honestly, as it is by Maté. In his review of the book, Bill White (author of Slaying the Dragon: The History of Addiction Treatment and Recovery in America) writes: “In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts achieves many things, but its greatest emotional impact is as an ethnographic study of urban addiction.” It is a motley crew that is portrayed here, and that with great empathy and compassion. I read this section partly in shock and partly with a sense of gratitude and relief that I had survived my own “close encounter with addiction” and had, somehow, gotten off the hellbound train.

Maté goes somewhere few in the field of recovery dare to tread, and that is a discussion of the various ways in which society exacerbates the problem of addiction.

For Maté, social defects are perhaps more important to understanding alcoholism and addiction than “character defects.”

Part VI of his book is called Imagining a Humane Reality: Beyond the War on Drugs. In a chapter entitled “Dislocation and the Social Roots of Addiction,” Maté identifies “dislocation” as a primary social factor leading to a dependence on drugs and alcohol. He bases his argument in part on the works of Bruce Alexander, author of The Globalization of Addiction, and Robert Dupont, the first director of the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA) and the author of The Selfish Brain: Learning From Addiction. Both argue that in premodern times alcohol abuse was rare and it was only with the coming of the industrial age and the dominance of the free market system from 1800 onwards that alcoholism “became a raging epidemic.” Maté writes:

With the rise of industrial societies came dislocation; the destruction of traditional relationships, extended family, clan, tribe and village. Vast economic and social changes tore asunder the ties that formerly connected people to those closest to them and to their communities. (p. 261)

Although all individuals are prone to addictions enabled in this manner, Maté suggests that nowhere are the destructive results of the market approach to human interaction more graphically illustrated than in its impact on aboriginal cultures around the world, including in Canada. The rate of death due to alcohol abuse is 43.7 per 100,000 among Aboriginal peoples, nearly twice that of the general population (23.6 per 100,000) and the death rate due to illicit drugs is approximately three times higher than the rate of the general population in Canada. (Addictive Behaviours Among Aboriginal People in Canada, p. 25) “In the case of drug addiction, the sins of entire societies are visited unevenly on minority populations” who are especially vulnerable to the dislocation that is its result, Maté writes. (p. 261)

He is especially critical of the so-called “War on Drugs.” He calls for a “rational and humane” approach to drug users and the decriminalization (not legalization) of substance dependence. Maté writes that the war on drugs unnecessarily creates criminals and, inadvertently, greater addiction. “Recall that uncertainty, isolation, loss of control and conflict are the major triggers for stress and that stress is the most predictable factor in maintaining addiction and triggering relapse. These are also precisely the conditions that the demonization of addiction and the War on Drugs (deliberately!) impose on hardcore substance users.” (p. 300) He calls for the creation of an “island of relief” for addicts and in one of the more challenging statements in the book, he suggests that it is not the role of society to change addicts, but rather to change itself: “If we are to help addicts, we must strive to change not them but their environments.” (p. 299)

Dislocation – of some sort – is considered a precursor to addiction by Maté. In French we have an expression, “Il n’est pas dans son assiette.” The literal translation is, “He is not in his plate.” The French better captures the experience of dislocation. (Bruce Alexander also calls it “anomie,” “identity diffusion,” “alienation” and, again in French, “désarrois.”) Unless the feeling of dislocaton goes away on its own or is dealt with and corrected, trouble is on the way.

Perhaps the most popular sentence in the whole book, certainly the one most often quoted by reviewers, is a short one: “The question is never ‘Why the addiction?’ but ‘Why the pain?’” (p. 34)

Consistent with the notion of dislocation as its precursor, Maté argues that addiction invariably has its origins in childhood trauma.

In The Realm Of Hungry GhostsMaté briefly outlines several of the traits that make an individual prone to addiction. These include poor self-regulation (the ability to maintain emotional balance and stability), a lack of differentiation and self-identity (the capacity to hold onto a healthy sense of self, especially while interacting with others), impaired impulse control (“A salient trait of the addiction-prone personality is a poor hold over sudden feelings, urges and desires”) and a sense of deficient emptiness (the addict believes that he is “not enough”). (pp. 226-228, 335)

All of these traits inherent in the addictive process are developed, or not, in Maté’s view, as a result of early childhood neglect or trauma. Of course, “not all addictions are rooted in abuse or trauma,” Maté acknowledges, “but I do believe they can all be traced to painful experience. A hurt is at the centre of all addictive behaviours.” (p. 36)

To illustrate his point(s), Maté tells the story of a Toronto police officer, Paul Gillespie, who rescued children after scanning graphic Internet videos of them being raped and molested. He couldn’t, even in retirement, get over the sounds of their crying and the sight of their “dead eyes.” If he hadn’t retired, Maté writes, he might have seen them years later, no longer “heartbreakingly sweet,” instead now hungry ghosts with ravaged faces, thieves, drug pushers and shoplifters sick, dying, addicted. But the irony and the insanity hardly stop there: detective Gillespie’s drug squad colleagues, foot soldiers in the war on drugs, will be frisking them, arresting them again and again, putting them in jail, these “criminals” now, grown up haunted victims victimized yet again. (pp. 267-268)

When I first started reading In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts I couldn’t help but share my admiration of the book at AA meetings I attended.

After one meeting, Naomi came over to me and said, “It is a great book. Can you guess what part I liked the most?”

I confessed that I couldn’t. It’s that kind of book. There are lots of different parts, with different appeal to different people.

“The part about the brain,” she said.

Maté’s book has two sections devoted to the brain. I glanced through them but I have to confess that the neurophysiology of addiction is not my strong suit. When I read about dopamine I turn into a dope, no doubt a result of my own deficient brain chemistry. I sort of understand that body and mind are connected but, to be honest, when I die I think it will be like a house burning down. Everything inside will go with it but less because of connection and more as a result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nevertheless… I understand that these parts of the book are very well researched and presented. Maté certainly acknowledges the interaction between brain and behaviour and their complicity in producing addiction but argues that behaviour has more impact on the brain than the brain has on behaviour. The two sections on the brain are Part III: A Different State of the Brain and Part IV: How the Addicted Brain Develops and they cover some eighty pages.

At the beginning of this review I noted that there are no stories of recovery in this book.

That is true. But Maté’s main goal in writing the book has everything to do with recovery. To begin with, recovery will always be next to impossible unless addiction is understood. This book is a treasure trove of wisdom about the nature and origins of alcoholism and addiction.

Maté is not interested in blaming “genes, parents, God, the weather” for addiction, as one reviewer put it. But he does want to assign responsibility where it belongs and change what can be changed. “It makes sense to focus on what we can immediately affect: how children are raised, what social support parenting receives, how we handle adolescent drug users, and we treat addicted adults.” (p. 203) For 12-Steppers in recovery, it is also perhaps worth pointing out that Maté shares his understanding of the 12 Steps in Appendix IV of the book.

“I cannot begin to tally how many revelatory, shocking and reassuring words, lines, paragraphs and whole pages I have highlighted in this astonishing book.” (Susan Musgrave, author and poet) Gabor Maté’s book, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction, originally published in 2008, is an important work in the modern history of addiction treatment and recovery.

Dr. Maté’s interpretations of each of the 12 Steps are in Appendix IV of In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts. They are also included in The Little Book and can also be found in the menu on AA Agnostica: Step Interpretations.

For more information about Dr. Maté you can visit his website here: Dr. Gabor Maté.

He is also going to publish another book in September 2022. It is called The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness & Healing in a Toxic Culture. Is our culture now “toxic” with a false understanding of “normal”? This will no doubt be an engaging and fascinating book.

For a PDF of this article, click here: In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts.

The post In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts first appeared on AA Agnostica.

The Practical Tool of Meditation

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Twenty.
Originally posted in April 2016.

Meditation makes a difference in my day-to-day life in long term recovery.

By Thomas B.

I had my first meditation experience early in my second year of recovery, shortly after I received my one-year medallion at the original Manhattan Group in New York City in November of 1973. It was in the Unity Center auditorium, which in the 70s was a popular gathering place for many New York City area alcoholics.

What follows is an account I recently wrote about this “white-light” experience. Though vastly different, it rivals in intensity the one reported by co-founder Bill Wilson:

It’s a sunny, late Wednesday morning. I’m walking to Unity Center in the old Abbey Victoria Hotel in Midtown from my office on E. 38th Street just off Madison Avenue. I’m on my way to attend a first meditation experience. I’m most ambivalent as I walk on this crisp, bright, late fall day in mid-November of 1973. I’m in a most discordant state of mind, rather of a dither really. Several days ago, I discovered my second wife having an affair. I immediately moved out of our Gramercy Park apartment and am temporarily living in my office. A couple of weeks ago, I celebrated my first year anniversary of being sober by the grace of Alcoholics Anonymous.

The closer I get to Unity Center, the more ambivalent I become: “This is stupid. This is dumb. What good will meditation do? I want my wife back. I want to kill, or at least seriously injure, her lover, Tom.”

I’m forlorn, I’m heartbroken, I’m raging. As I approach the entrance to Unity on W. 51st Street, I’m seized by rebellion, “Screw this. I’m outta here.”

Just then, the wife of a friend of mine in recovery, Nancy, greets me enthusiastically. She’s most grateful to be sharing the Unity experience with someone else in recovery. Docilely, I follow her up the steps and into the large auditorium. Nancy joins some friends, and I sit by myself in the middle of an empty row of seats. The houselights dim, and a magenta spotlight illuminates the face and upper torso of Justin Morely, who will lead the guided meditation.

After several bars of soft, lilting music, Justin begins to speak in a rich baritone voice. Gently, he suggests that we quiet our minds and focus upon our breaths — to breathe deeply in, and then to deeply breathe out.

It’s difficult sitting still. It feels like bugs are crawling all over me. I have to stifle a tickle in my throat, so it doesn’t explode into a cough. My legs begin to ache; carefully I shift them, most self-conscious about disturbing others nearby.

My mind races with obsessive thoughts, multitudinous variations on the theme, “This is so stupid!” It takes every ounce of will-power to resist the frantic urge to run out of the auditorium screaming at the top of my lungs, “I gotta get outta this place!”

Despite my scattered consciousness, I slowly calm down. Imperceptibly at first, but surely gathering fullness deep within me, I become aware that in the darkness behind my closed eyelids a cascade of streaming galaxies flow in all directions.

I’m mesmerized by this infinity of light, a seemingly endless Niagara Falls of streaming light, within me.

Suddenly a huge, dark door superimposes itself over the streaming galaxies, which I can still see cascading in all directions behind the door. I don’t hear a voice, nor read any words, but solemnly, deep within me, this thought is imprinted:

‘To join this infinity of light, all you have to do is open the door.’

Slowly, with tears of gratitude flowing down my face, I watch my hand steadily reach up and open the door.

It’s forty-three years later. I’m still sober. I live a contented and successful life with a fourth wife, Jill. Though in the late autumn of my life, I am most grateful still to be able to recall with clarity this first meditation experience.

Now, wouldn’t it be reasonable, even likely, that after having experienced such a powerful first experience in meditation, one would become a devotee of a daily meditation practice? Well, perhaps it would be reasonable to presume this, but it’s not what happened.

Like most everything else in my process of long term recovery the only two practices I have consistently done 100% of the time: 1) not pick up the first drink, and 2) go to lots of meetings. I thereby experience HOPE — Hearing Other Peoples’ Experiences about how they stay sober a day at a time.

Getting sober in Manhattan during the 70s and continuing recovery throughout the 80s and 90s in the suburbs of New York City, I was exposed to a plethora of New Age, non-traditional spiritual practices, including a number of different approaches to meditation. In addition, I practiced yoga, Tai Chi and became an avid – perhaps obsessive even – long-distance runner.

In my professional work as a therapist, specializing in the treatment of addictions and PTSD, I sometimes led workshops on the benefits of meditation. As well, I recommended it strongly to most therapy clients with whom I worked.

Insight TimerHowever, my personal practice of meditation, whether zazen, or counting breaths, or repeating a mantra or mindfulness, etc. for most of my long term recovery has been sporadic at best. I’ve mostly been a do-as-I-say kind of a guy, rather than a-leading-by-example sort of chap.

However, in July of 2014, my friend Roger C., suggested I try the meditation app, Insight Timer, which has scores of guided meditations from meditators – some famous, most not – from around the world.

I downloaded it onto my iPhone, and ever since I’ve been religiously using it.

As of today, January 29, 2016, I have had a total of 828 sessions on 499 days – today marks the 275th consecutive day – with at least one session, which constitutes 89% of the days since I started using Insight Timer in July of 2014, for a total of 203 total hours of meditation. I’ve more consistently meditated morning and evening than previously I ever have.

I’ve always been a classical Type A personality, an obsessively compulsive overachiever, both at work and at play. In an article on AA Beyond Belief, “Resentment, Rage and Recovery”, I described myself as sometimes being “constitutionally incapable of pausing when agitated.” Seething resentment, a short-temper and virulent impatience have sometimes caused me to experience debilitating difficulties sober, even with decades in recovery.

Has meditation made a difference in my day-to-day life in long term recovery? In a word, Y E S.

I can definitely discern that I am much more calm and less reactive than I’ve previously been in recovery. I am enabled not only to pause when agitated, but also to be able to do so readily applying Rule 62 to myself as well as to any situation about which I’ve become impatient or out of sorts. A noticeable benefit is that I’m enabled to do so within a relatively short while after becoming aware I am agitated.

Since regularly meditating, it’s been much easier than previously to live with the sometimes scattered, pressured and over-achieving noise in my head. I can step back and assert to myself a couple of dictums most conducive to serenity, or as Bill Wilson described it, emotional sobriety: 1) How important is it? and 2) Would I rather be right or happy?

Let me give you a concrete example of how I experienced a somewhat dire situation differently than normally I would have before regularly meditating. Not only was I enabled to appropriately deal with the situation, but I was able to do so with grace, dignity and good humor.

On a vacation with my wife to New York City several months ago, I was hospitalized for a week with severe congestive heart failure. I spent a number of hours while restless, unable to sleep during the long nights, listening and doing marathon sessions of guided meditations from Insight Timer. I was pleased to experience doing meditations were as restful as actually sleeping.

I attribute my increased ability to not only survive this life-threatening situation, but also to do so with a modicum of calmness, good humor and kindness towards the hospital staff, my devoted wife, and even myself during this stressful period to the regular and consistent daily meditation practice that I’ve finally engaged in for the past year-and-a-half.

I am immensely grateful that I finally allowed myself to experience regular and consistent meditation, which neuroscience has determined increasingly the past several decades to be extremely beneficial to one’s quality of life.

The quality of my recovery has immeasurably improved since I made the practice of meditation a regular part of my life.

Thomas B. has been sober since October 14, 1972. In these 49 years of sobriety, being active in AA service work has been an integral part of his recovery. He has written 21 articles on AA Agnostica and eleven on AA Beyond Belief. With his former wife Jill, he worked diligently to expand the secular movement within Oregon AA, establishing secular meetings in both Portland and Seaside.

Retired from a 30 year career in addiction treatment in New York, Thomas currently lives in Tucson, AZ, where his son, also clean & sober, lives. He still attends 3-5 AA meetings each week. Thank you for all that you have done for Secular AA, Thomas.

Thomas has written a total of 21 articles published on AA Agnostica:

He has also shared a total of nine articles on AA Beyond Belief:

For a PDF of this article, click here: The Practical Tool of Meditation.

 

The post The Practical Tool of Meditation first appeared on AA Agnostica.

The Practical Tool of Meditation

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Twenty.
Originally posted in April 2016.

Meditation makes a difference in my day-to-day life in long term recovery.

By Thomas B.

I had my first meditation experience early in my second year of recovery, shortly after I received my one-year medallion at the original Manhattan Group in New York City in November of 1973. It was in the Unity Center auditorium, which in the 70s was a popular gathering place for many New York City area alcoholics.

What follows is an account I recently wrote about this “white-light” experience. Though vastly different, it rivals in intensity the one reported by co-founder Bill Wilson:

It’s a sunny, late Wednesday morning. I’m walking to Unity Center in the old Abbey Victoria Hotel in Midtown from my office on E. 38th Street just off Madison Avenue. I’m on my way to attend a first meditation experience. I’m most ambivalent as I walk on this crisp, bright, late fall day in mid-November of 1973. I’m in a most discordant state of mind, rather of a dither really. Several days ago, I discovered my second wife having an affair. I immediately moved out of our Gramercy Park apartment and am temporarily living in my office. A couple of weeks ago, I celebrated my first year anniversary of being sober by the grace of Alcoholics Anonymous.

The closer I get to Unity Center, the more ambivalent I become: “This is stupid. This is dumb. What good will meditation do? I want my wife back. I want to kill, or at least seriously injure, her lover, Tom.”

I’m forlorn, I’m heartbroken, I’m raging. As I approach the entrance to Unity on W. 51st Street, I’m seized by rebellion, “Screw this. I’m outta here.”

Just then, the wife of a friend of mine in recovery, Nancy, greets me enthusiastically. She’s most grateful to be sharing the Unity experience with someone else in recovery. Docilely, I follow her up the steps and into the large auditorium. Nancy joins some friends, and I sit by myself in the middle of an empty row of seats. The houselights dim, and a magenta spotlight illuminates the face and upper torso of Justin Morely, who will lead the guided meditation.

After several bars of soft, lilting music, Justin begins to speak in a rich baritone voice. Gently, he suggests that we quiet our minds and focus upon our breaths — to breathe deeply in, and then to deeply breathe out.

It’s difficult sitting still. It feels like bugs are crawling all over me. I have to stifle a tickle in my throat, so it doesn’t explode into a cough. My legs begin to ache; carefully I shift them, most self-conscious about disturbing others nearby.

My mind races with obsessive thoughts, multitudinous variations on the theme, “This is so stupid!” It takes every ounce of will-power to resist the frantic urge to run out of the auditorium screaming at the top of my lungs, “I gotta get outta this place!”

Despite my scattered consciousness, I slowly calm down. Imperceptibly at first, but surely gathering fullness deep within me, I become aware that in the darkness behind my closed eyelids a cascade of streaming galaxies flow in all directions.

I’m mesmerized by this infinity of light, a seemingly endless Niagara Falls of streaming light, within me.

Suddenly a huge, dark door superimposes itself over the streaming galaxies, which I can still see cascading in all directions behind the door. I don’t hear a voice, nor read any words, but solemnly, deep within me, this thought is imprinted:

‘To join this infinity of light, all you have to do is open the door.’

Slowly, with tears of gratitude flowing down my face, I watch my hand steadily reach up and open the door.

It’s forty-three years later. I’m still sober. I live a contented and successful life with a fourth wife, Jill. Though in the late autumn of my life, I am most grateful still to be able to recall with clarity this first meditation experience.

Now, wouldn’t it be reasonable, even likely, that after having experienced such a powerful first experience in meditation, one would become a devotee of a daily meditation practice? Well, perhaps it would be reasonable to presume this, but it’s not what happened.

Like most everything else in my process of long term recovery the only two practices I have consistently done 100% of the time: 1) not pick up the first drink, and 2) go to lots of meetings. I thereby experience HOPE — Hearing Other Peoples’ Experiences about how they stay sober a day at a time.

Getting sober in Manhattan during the 70s and continuing recovery throughout the 80s and 90s in the suburbs of New York City, I was exposed to a plethora of New Age, non-traditional spiritual practices, including a number of different approaches to meditation. In addition, I practiced yoga, Tai Chi and became an avid – perhaps obsessive even – long-distance runner.

In my professional work as a therapist, specializing in the treatment of addictions and PTSD, I sometimes led workshops on the benefits of meditation. As well, I recommended it strongly to most therapy clients with whom I worked.

Insight TimerHowever, my personal practice of meditation, whether zazen, or counting breaths, or repeating a mantra or mindfulness, etc. for most of my long term recovery has been sporadic at best. I’ve mostly been a do-as-I-say kind of a guy, rather than a-leading-by-example sort of chap.

However, in July of 2014, my friend Roger C., suggested I try the meditation app, Insight Timer, which has scores of guided meditations from meditators – some famous, most not – from around the world.

I downloaded it onto my iPhone, and ever since I’ve been religiously using it.

As of today, January 29, 2016, I have had a total of 828 sessions on 499 days – today marks the 275th consecutive day – with at least one session, which constitutes 89% of the days since I started using Insight Timer in July of 2014, for a total of 203 total hours of meditation. I’ve more consistently meditated morning and evening than previously I ever have.

I’ve always been a classical Type A personality, an obsessively compulsive overachiever, both at work and at play. In an article on AA Beyond Belief, “Resentment, Rage and Recovery”, I described myself as sometimes being “constitutionally incapable of pausing when agitated.” Seething resentment, a short-temper and virulent impatience have sometimes caused me to experience debilitating difficulties sober, even with decades in recovery.

Has meditation made a difference in my day-to-day life in long term recovery? In a word, Y E S.

I can definitely discern that I am much more calm and less reactive than I’ve previously been in recovery. I am enabled not only to pause when agitated, but also to be able to do so readily applying Rule 62 to myself as well as to any situation about which I’ve become impatient or out of sorts. A noticeable benefit is that I’m enabled to do so within a relatively short while after becoming aware I am agitated.

Since regularly meditating, it’s been much easier than previously to live with the sometimes scattered, pressured and over-achieving noise in my head. I can step back and assert to myself a couple of dictums most conducive to serenity, or as Bill Wilson described it, emotional sobriety: 1) How important is it? and 2) Would I rather be right or happy?

Let me give you a concrete example of how I experienced a somewhat dire situation differently than normally I would have before regularly meditating. Not only was I enabled to appropriately deal with the situation, but I was able to do so with grace, dignity and good humor.

On a vacation with my wife to New York City several months ago, I was hospitalized for a week with severe congestive heart failure. I spent a number of hours while restless, unable to sleep during the long nights, listening and doing marathon sessions of guided meditations from Insight Timer. I was pleased to experience doing meditations were as restful as actually sleeping.

I attribute my increased ability to not only survive this life-threatening situation, but also to do so with a modicum of calmness, good humor and kindness towards the hospital staff, my devoted wife, and even myself during this stressful period to the regular and consistent daily meditation practice that I’ve finally engaged in for the past year-and-a-half.

I am immensely grateful that I finally allowed myself to experience regular and consistent meditation, which neuroscience has determined increasingly the past several decades to be extremely beneficial to one’s quality of life.

The quality of my recovery has immeasurably improved since I made the practice of meditation a regular part of my life.

Thomas B. has been sober since October 14, 1972. In these 49 years of sobriety, being active in AA service work has been an integral part of his recovery. He has written 21 articles on AA Agnostica and eleven on AA Beyond Belief. With his former wife Jill, he worked diligently to expand the secular movement within Oregon AA, establishing secular meetings in both Portland and Seaside.

Retired from a 30 year career in addiction treatment in New York, Thomas currently lives in Tucson, AZ, where his son, also clean & sober, lives. He still attends 3-5 AA meetings each week. Thank you for all that you have done for Secular AA, Thomas.

Thomas has written a total of 21 articles published on AA Agnostica:

He has also shared a total of nine articles on AA Beyond Belief:

For a PDF of this article, click here: The Practical Tool of Meditation.

 

The post The Practical Tool of Meditation first appeared on AA Agnostica.

The Therapeutic Value of the Group

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Nineteen.
Originally posted in March 2016.

What do we get from attending AA meetings?
How about valuables such as hope and social skills?

By Steve K.

The Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) group is a fundamental ‘mechanism of change’ in terms of recovery from alcoholism. The group provides its members with a supportive social network that promotes sobriety.

Participation in the group offers several therapeutic benefits which facilitate and support change for the individual. These therapeutic gains are as follows:

Hope

The group provides the inspiration of hope that there is a solution to a seemingly hopeless condition of mind, body and soul. AA groups generate optimism and confidence that change is possible. The group is a vehicle for positive psychology.

When I arrived at my first AA meeting I was full of despair and shame and felt completely trapped in my addiction to alcohol. The group gave me some hope that long term sobriety was possible through the example of others.

Identification

A fundamental therapeutic benefit obtained from the groups is identification with others who have experienced similar difficulties. This helps group members increase their self-awareness and lessens feelings of isolation, shame and guilt, which promotes self-acceptance.

Identification and sharing (self-disclosure) with others, along with inventory work, has greatly increased my self-awareness and self-acceptance over the years, which in turn allows for greater honesty, authenticity and humility.

Information and Wisdom

The AA group shares information and wisdom in relation to recovery from addiction and living life alcohol free and in emotional balance.

The group offers strategies for dealing with cravings and handling life’s problems and promotes wise philosophy such as: acceptance of things outside of one’s control, the importance of self-examination and self-responsibility, the concept of keeping focus in the present day; and detachment from other people’s behaviour. These are wise concepts that can be traced back to ancient Greek philosophy. AA’s serenity prayer is Stoic philosophy in a nutshell.

Altruism

A key ethical principle of AA groups is the practice of altruism, as expressed in Step Twelve and Tradition Five – ‘carrying a message of recovery to the still suffering alcoholic’. This practice helps group members develop this important virtue and encourages its application in other areas of life.

Participating in the group and absorbing the principle of helping others ‘without expectation of reward’, and the attitude of contributing to the group purpose or greater good (principle of service), inspired me to volunteer in my local community for good causes that benefit others outside of the AA group.

This service work, both inside and outside of the group, promotes one’s self-esteem and provides meaning and purpose in recovery. As someone who came into AA with very damaged self-esteem and had little sense of meaning in his life, feeling able to help others and developing a sense of purpose was very important to my recovery process.

The group, through its communication of the Steps and Traditions, also promotes the practice of other moral virtues such as, honesty, humility, willingness, courage, compassion and integrity.

Social Skills

Being a member of an AA group encourages the development of social skills. Groups provide the opportunity to be with, listen to, and talk with others; to test out and develop interpersonal skills such as self-disclosure, and by offering emotional support to others. Groups also provide the opportunity to observe healthy pro social behaviour in others, eg, service to and respect for other group members.

When I first started attending AA meetings, after years of relying upon alcohol and other drugs in order to socially connect with people, I had quite poor social skills. I was anxious in social situations and had no self-confidence. I didn’t really know how to approach people or start simple conversations and would stand around waiting for people to approach me, feeling very awkward. If someone didn’t start talking to me at the end of the meeting I would leave abruptly, feeling rejected and inadequate.

Over the years of attending AA meetings, I have had the opportunity to practice my social skills with others; learning how to approach people, say hello, and offer my hand in friendship.

I’ve learnt to ask how people are feeling and to listen to their responses, offering appropriate emotional support when needed. I have learnt to communicate my own feelings honestly, and to reach out for support from other group members. I’ve also learnt to engage in friendly banter and develop sober friendships.

These social communication skills may be taken for granted by some, but I had been abusing alcohol and drugs since my early teens, had very poor self-esteem, and had not developed these skills naturally during my active addiction years.

Becoming a member of an AA group also promotes a feeling of belonging, which is important for self-esteem and emotional health as humans are social beings and need social attachments. These groups and their social nature are a great antidote to the social isolation often created by alcoholism and other addictions.

Catharsis

The sharing of experience, strength and hope in AA meetings can provide an opportunity for catharsis. The group offers a space to vent and explore feelings while being listened to by others. This group format is particularly important for individuals who have a history of social isolation and are used to shutting off emotions through alcohol and other drug misuse.

In general, group members are listened to with respect, understanding and compassion while sharing in meetings, and this process facilitates improvements in self-awareness and self-acceptance; particularly when combined with supportive feedback from others at the end of the meeting.

During the earlier stages of my own recovery, I found being able to share my feelings honestly and openly within the AA group, both during the meetings and afterwards with group members, essential in my efforts to remain sober.

As someone who suffers with co-occurring disorders which impact upon my emotional well-being, I needed to communicate my distress to others as a form of release and as a coping strategy; a way of reaching out for support from other group members. Sharing my suffering within the AA group, and the support I received, enabled me not to take that first drink or another drug to cope instead.

I now find it very satisfying to be able to emotionally support other group members, particularly those in early recovery or those suffering from co-occurring illnesses.

Steve has been a member of AA for some 30 years and lives in Cheshire, England. He would describe himself as a humanist/agnostic. He has a background in advice and counseling work, mainly in the areas of mental health and social welfare law.

Steve has his own recovery website and you can connect to it here: 12-Step Philosophy. He has also written a book that is available free of charge as a PDF: The 12 Step Philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous: An Interpretation.

Six articles written by Steve have been posted on AA Agnostica over the years. Here they are:

The Role of Choice in Addiction and Recovery (June 9, 2019)

The Opposite of Addiction – Connection (March 17, 2019)

The Therapeutic Value of the Group (March 31, 2016)

A Personal Inventory (January 7, 2016)

A 12 Step Agnostic (September 9, 2015)

Practising Virtue and 12 Step Recovery (November 23, 2014)

Steve also did a podcast with John Sheldon which is available on the Beyond Belief Sobriety website: Episode 58: The 12 Step Philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous: An Interpretation by Steve K. (May 28, 2017).

The post The Therapeutic Value of the Group first appeared on AA Agnostica.

The Therapeutic Value of the Group

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Nineteen.
Originally posted in March 2016.

What do we get from attending AA meetings?
How about valuables such as hope and social skills?

By Steve K.

The Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) group is a fundamental ‘mechanism of change’ in terms of recovery from alcoholism. The group provides its members with a supportive social network that promotes sobriety.

Participation in the group offers several therapeutic benefits which facilitate and support change for the individual. These therapeutic gains are as follows:

Hope

The group provides the inspiration of hope that there is a solution to a seemingly hopeless condition of mind, body and soul. AA groups generate optimism and confidence that change is possible. The group is a vehicle for positive psychology.

When I arrived at my first AA meeting I was full of despair and shame and felt completely trapped in my addiction to alcohol. The group gave me some hope that long term sobriety was possible through the example of others.

Identification

A fundamental therapeutic benefit obtained from the groups is identification with others who have experienced similar difficulties. This helps group members increase their self-awareness and lessens feelings of isolation, shame and guilt, which promotes self-acceptance.

Identification and sharing (self-disclosure) with others, along with inventory work, has greatly increased my self-awareness and self-acceptance over the years, which in turn allows for greater honesty, authenticity and humility.

Information and Wisdom

The AA group shares information and wisdom in relation to recovery from addiction and living life alcohol free and in emotional balance.

The group offers strategies for dealing with cravings and handling life’s problems and promotes wise philosophy such as: acceptance of things outside of one’s control, the importance of self-examination and self-responsibility, the concept of keeping focus in the present day; and detachment from other people’s behaviour. These are wise concepts that can be traced back to ancient Greek philosophy. AA’s serenity prayer is Stoic philosophy in a nutshell.

Altruism

A key ethical principle of AA groups is the practice of altruism, as expressed in Step Twelve and Tradition Five – ‘carrying a message of recovery to the still suffering alcoholic’. This practice helps group members develop this important virtue and encourages its application in other areas of life.

Participating in the group and absorbing the principle of helping others ‘without expectation of reward’, and the attitude of contributing to the group purpose or greater good (principle of service), inspired me to volunteer in my local community for good causes that benefit others outside of the AA group.

This service work, both inside and outside of the group, promotes one’s self-esteem and provides meaning and purpose in recovery. As someone who came into AA with very damaged self-esteem and had little sense of meaning in his life, feeling able to help others and developing a sense of purpose was very important to my recovery process.

The group, through its communication of the Steps and Traditions, also promotes the practice of other moral virtues such as, honesty, humility, willingness, courage, compassion and integrity.

Social Skills

Being a member of an AA group encourages the development of social skills. Groups provide the opportunity to be with, listen to, and talk with others; to test out and develop interpersonal skills such as self-disclosure, and by offering emotional support to others. Groups also provide the opportunity to observe healthy pro social behaviour in others, eg, service to and respect for other group members.

When I first started attending AA meetings, after years of relying upon alcohol and other drugs in order to socially connect with people, I had quite poor social skills. I was anxious in social situations and had no self-confidence. I didn’t really know how to approach people or start simple conversations and would stand around waiting for people to approach me, feeling very awkward. If someone didn’t start talking to me at the end of the meeting I would leave abruptly, feeling rejected and inadequate.

Over the years of attending AA meetings, I have had the opportunity to practice my social skills with others; learning how to approach people, say hello, and offer my hand in friendship.

I’ve learnt to ask how people are feeling and to listen to their responses, offering appropriate emotional support when needed. I have learnt to communicate my own feelings honestly, and to reach out for support from other group members. I’ve also learnt to engage in friendly banter and develop sober friendships.

These social communication skills may be taken for granted by some, but I had been abusing alcohol and drugs since my early teens, had very poor self-esteem, and had not developed these skills naturally during my active addiction years.

Becoming a member of an AA group also promotes a feeling of belonging, which is important for self-esteem and emotional health as humans are social beings and need social attachments. These groups and their social nature are a great antidote to the social isolation often created by alcoholism and other addictions.

Catharsis

The sharing of experience, strength and hope in AA meetings can provide an opportunity for catharsis. The group offers a space to vent and explore feelings while being listened to by others. This group format is particularly important for individuals who have a history of social isolation and are used to shutting off emotions through alcohol and other drug misuse.

In general, group members are listened to with respect, understanding and compassion while sharing in meetings, and this process facilitates improvements in self-awareness and self-acceptance; particularly when combined with supportive feedback from others at the end of the meeting.

During the earlier stages of my own recovery, I found being able to share my feelings honestly and openly within the AA group, both during the meetings and afterwards with group members, essential in my efforts to remain sober.

As someone who suffers with co-occurring disorders which impact upon my emotional well-being, I needed to communicate my distress to others as a form of release and as a coping strategy; a way of reaching out for support from other group members. Sharing my suffering within the AA group, and the support I received, enabled me not to take that first drink or another drug to cope instead.

I now find it very satisfying to be able to emotionally support other group members, particularly those in early recovery or those suffering from co-occurring illnesses.

Steve has been a member of AA for some 30 years and lives in Cheshire, England. He would describe himself as a humanist/agnostic. He has a background in advice and counseling work, mainly in the areas of mental health and social welfare law.

Steve has his own recovery website and you can connect to it here: 12-Step Philosophy. He has also written a book that is available free of charge as a PDF: The 12 Step Philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous: An Interpretation.

Six articles written by Steve have been posted on AA Agnostica over the years. Here they are:

The Role of Choice in Addiction and Recovery (June 9, 2019)

The Opposite of Addiction – Connection (March 17, 2019)

The Therapeutic Value of the Group (March 31, 2016)

A Personal Inventory (January 7, 2016)

A 12 Step Agnostic (September 9, 2015)

Practising Virtue and 12 Step Recovery (November 23, 2014)

Steve also did a podcast with John Sheldon which is available on the Beyond Belief Sobriety website: Episode 58: The 12 Step Philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous: An Interpretation by Steve K. (May 28, 2017).

The post The Therapeutic Value of the Group first appeared on AA Agnostica.

He’s a Real Tool

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Eighteen.
Originally posted in February 2016.

“I am not my addiction. I can give it funny names, question it, challenge it, and choose to defeat it.”

By Joanne O.

I call him “Alkie, Alkie Cravens”. I invented him.

And you might say he invented the alcoholic me. He is a cartoon character that I created to personify the physical cravings, automatic thoughts, habits, self-defeating behaviors, and character defects that we eventually come to recognize as our alcoholic thinking. In practical application, summarizing all of that insight into the reasons we drink was just too unwieldy, when confronted by the pressing challenges of life.

So I just call him “Alkie, Alkie Cravens”. He’s that little voice in your head that always leads you astray. He says things like “See, your (insert appropriate authority figure) was right. You can’t do it. You tried, you failed, Big Surprise. You might as well have a drink; it will take the pressure off.” What he doesn’t say is that HE is the one applying the pressure, pulling your strings, and pushing your buttons. He knows them all very well, he was already lurking when they were installed.

Go ahead, name your Bad Self. So that you can begin to separate your better self, and your future, from it. So that you can change, and grow, and finally quit.

The first step is awareness, just listening to the manipulative justifications and convoluted rationalizations that he hopes to slip past you without question. “Of course you’ll go to the bar, it’s two hours until your flight takes off.” He is completely in charge of Auto-Pilot. Hit pause momentarily to remember what happens when you sit at the bar, and review all of the reasons you want to stay sober. I start simply, “No, I don’t drink anymore.” He loves a challenge. “You don’t have to order a drink to have the shrimp, but after being singled out by the baggage screener like that, who could blame you?” Now it is time for a firm affirmation. “I don’t even want a drink. I’m going to the food court. I am just hungry.” He may insist. Then tell him where to get off. That you are not going to be manipulated by a sleazy little jerk like him anymore. That is usually all that is required.

If he is still persistent I sometimes literally flick him off my shoulder. I usually use my middle finger, but that’s just because I am kind of immature for a 61 year old woman.

Alkie is absolutely obsessed, since his only purpose in life is to drive us to drink, his very survival depends on it. He is cunning, baffling, and loves it when people say he is powerful.

I visualize him sitting on my shoulder, whispering his manipulations, “You can’t just ignore that trigger! It’s your trigger after all!!!” in my ear. Such a Drama Queen, there is no such thing as a little problem to Mr. Cravens. No, every problem is huge and justifies a drink immediately.

He is as well versed as we are (since he lives in our heads) about our own reservations about aspects of the program. “They don’t know what they are talking about. Just plain bad advice. Just read that chapter To Wives yet again. Remember how much that archaic nonsense helped when we were married to Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde?” He knows exactly how to pick away at our resolve and undermine the support systems for our sobriety.

And don’t even get him going on the God stuff. He knows the oppressive religiosity kept me out of the rooms for over 20 years. And out of many meetings to this day.

He is still working on his B.S. in irrelevant babble after all. When he gets especially pushy, I imagine I am Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver, “You talkin’ to me, Alkie?” Okay, so 61 with less than a year of sobriety. Maturity will come with ongoing sobriety, from what I have observed in the rooms.

At first, he was loud, obnoxious, pulling my strings, and playing my cravings with glee. Once he’s been recognized as the nemesis he is, confronted and shut down regularly, he becomes more subdued for a while. I believe that has to do with abstinence, with not stimulating the neuropathways to the receptor sites in our brains that create our very real physical cravings. Or maybe he just gives up after a while.

But he is always lurking, waiting for an unguarded moment or an overwhelming fear, waiting to rush in to comfort us, offer some familiar numbness, some temporary oblivion to make everything OK. “Relaxxx… you deserve it after what you just went through.” He tempts, and entices, cajoles and ruminates on the injustices of our little world ad nauseum. He never forgets an insult, or a slight. But when it comes to taking responsibility, he has total amnesia.

In a meeting recently, a young woman tearfully confessed to relapsing yet again. She collapsed in tears of shame, guilt, and contrition. She said “I hate myself”. Don’t hate yourself. Hate that little voice in your head that won that round. Shame and guilt are just more material for Alkie’s routine. It happened, deal with it. Use it, don’t waste it. Learn from it, so he won’t get the best of the better you again.

So I shared next. What I learned from my last relapse. What my little nemesis was whispering in my ear right before that. Playing on my frustrations and insecurities. “Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me…” What I wish I had said and done to shut him up, instead of drinking. We can ruminate for hours about some petty conversation at work. So go ahead and pick this imaginary conversation apart to really learn from it. So that he doesn’t trick us with the same rationalizations ever again.

When I confessed my LAST relapse at my home group, they clapped for my return. I understand that ritual, but Alkie was so thrilled that he preened for the ladies and took a bow. He thought they were acknowledging his triumph. I told you he’s a real tool. After a couple more weeks of confession and counting days, I announced that I would not be announcing my relapse anymore because I don’t believe in positive reinforcement for negative behavior. Or in giving the little jerk the satisfaction of acknowledging his momentary victory over my better self ever again.

I am not my addiction. I can give it funny names, question it, challenge it, and choose to defeat it. Just because Alkie tells me to do something stupid doesn’t mean I have to act on it. Now I recognize his subtle hiss and flick him off, tell him off, or question his faulty premise. Every time I say no to his cunning, baffling B.S., it strengthens my resolve and clarifies my commitment to my sobriety. By personifying my cravings and alcoholic thinking I was able to enlist my innate stubbornness to challenge the automatic loop that always ended, eventually, with a hangover. Now, there is something really satisfying about flicking him off my shoulder, and right out of my head.

Pass it on…. He’ll hate that!

For a PDF of this article, click here: He’s a Real Tool.

 

The post He’s a Real Tool first appeared on AA Agnostica.

He’s a Real Tool

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Eighteen.
Originally posted in February 2016.

“I am not my addiction. I can give it funny names, question it, challenge it, and choose to defeat it.”

By Joanne O.

I call him “Alkie, Alkie Cravens”. I invented him.

And you might say he invented the alcoholic me. He is a cartoon character that I created to personify the physical cravings, automatic thoughts, habits, self-defeating behaviors, and character defects that we eventually come to recognize as our alcoholic thinking. In practical application, summarizing all of that insight into the reasons we drink was just too unwieldy, when confronted by the pressing challenges of life.

So I just call him “Alkie, Alkie Cravens”. He’s that little voice in your head that always leads you astray. He says things like “See, your (insert appropriate authority figure) was right. You can’t do it. You tried, you failed, Big Surprise. You might as well have a drink; it will take the pressure off.” What he doesn’t say is that HE is the one applying the pressure, pulling your strings, and pushing your buttons. He knows them all very well, he was already lurking when they were installed.

Go ahead, name your Bad Self. So that you can begin to separate your better self, and your future, from it. So that you can change, and grow, and finally quit.

The first step is awareness, just listening to the manipulative justifications and convoluted rationalizations that he hopes to slip past you without question. “Of course you’ll go to the bar, it’s two hours until your flight takes off.” He is completely in charge of Auto-Pilot. Hit pause momentarily to remember what happens when you sit at the bar, and review all of the reasons you want to stay sober. I start simply, “No, I don’t drink anymore.” He loves a challenge. “You don’t have to order a drink to have the shrimp, but after being singled out by the baggage screener like that, who could blame you?” Now it is time for a firm affirmation. “I don’t even want a drink. I’m going to the food court. I am just hungry.” He may insist. Then tell him where to get off. That you are not going to be manipulated by a sleazy little jerk like him anymore. That is usually all that is required.

If he is still persistent I sometimes literally flick him off my shoulder. I usually use my middle finger, but that’s just because I am kind of immature for a 61 year old woman.

Alkie is absolutely obsessed, since his only purpose in life is to drive us to drink, his very survival depends on it. He is cunning, baffling, and loves it when people say he is powerful.

I visualize him sitting on my shoulder, whispering his manipulations, “You can’t just ignore that trigger! It’s your trigger after all!!!” in my ear. Such a Drama Queen, there is no such thing as a little problem to Mr. Cravens. No, every problem is huge and justifies a drink immediately.

He is as well versed as we are (since he lives in our heads) about our own reservations about aspects of the program. “They don’t know what they are talking about. Just plain bad advice. Just read that chapter To Wives yet again. Remember how much that archaic nonsense helped when we were married to Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde?” He knows exactly how to pick away at our resolve and undermine the support systems for our sobriety.

And don’t even get him going on the God stuff. He knows the oppressive religiosity kept me out of the rooms for over 20 years. And out of many meetings to this day.

He is still working on his B.S. in irrelevant babble after all. When he gets especially pushy, I imagine I am Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver, “You talkin’ to me, Alkie?” Okay, so 61 with less than a year of sobriety. Maturity will come with ongoing sobriety, from what I have observed in the rooms.

At first, he was loud, obnoxious, pulling my strings, and playing my cravings with glee. Once he’s been recognized as the nemesis he is, confronted and shut down regularly, he becomes more subdued for a while. I believe that has to do with abstinence, with not stimulating the neuropathways to the receptor sites in our brains that create our very real physical cravings. Or maybe he just gives up after a while.

But he is always lurking, waiting for an unguarded moment or an overwhelming fear, waiting to rush in to comfort us, offer some familiar numbness, some temporary oblivion to make everything OK. “Relaxxx… you deserve it after what you just went through.” He tempts, and entices, cajoles and ruminates on the injustices of our little world ad nauseum. He never forgets an insult, or a slight. But when it comes to taking responsibility, he has total amnesia.

In a meeting recently, a young woman tearfully confessed to relapsing yet again. She collapsed in tears of shame, guilt, and contrition. She said “I hate myself”. Don’t hate yourself. Hate that little voice in your head that won that round. Shame and guilt are just more material for Alkie’s routine. It happened, deal with it. Use it, don’t waste it. Learn from it, so he won’t get the best of the better you again.

So I shared next. What I learned from my last relapse. What my little nemesis was whispering in my ear right before that. Playing on my frustrations and insecurities. “Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me…” What I wish I had said and done to shut him up, instead of drinking. We can ruminate for hours about some petty conversation at work. So go ahead and pick this imaginary conversation apart to really learn from it. So that he doesn’t trick us with the same rationalizations ever again.

When I confessed my LAST relapse at my home group, they clapped for my return. I understand that ritual, but Alkie was so thrilled that he preened for the ladies and took a bow. He thought they were acknowledging his triumph. I told you he’s a real tool. After a couple more weeks of confession and counting days, I announced that I would not be announcing my relapse anymore because I don’t believe in positive reinforcement for negative behavior. Or in giving the little jerk the satisfaction of acknowledging his momentary victory over my better self ever again.

I am not my addiction. I can give it funny names, question it, challenge it, and choose to defeat it. Just because Alkie tells me to do something stupid doesn’t mean I have to act on it. Now I recognize his subtle hiss and flick him off, tell him off, or question his faulty premise. Every time I say no to his cunning, baffling B.S., it strengthens my resolve and clarifies my commitment to my sobriety. By personifying my cravings and alcoholic thinking I was able to enlist my innate stubbornness to challenge the automatic loop that always ended, eventually, with a hangover. Now, there is something really satisfying about flicking him off my shoulder, and right out of my head.

Pass it on…. He’ll hate that!

For a PDF of this article, click here: He’s a Real Tool.

 

The post He’s a Real Tool first appeared on AA Agnostica.

The Power of Our Stories

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Seventeen.
Originally posted in February 2016.

Humans have told stories since they learned to talk. For aeons, stories were the history, the law, the hope and the education of all societies.

So it is in AA.

By Chris G.

When I first came to AA, I had no story.

Oh, there were lots of stories I could tell: drunken episodes, all the problems the world had given me, all my troubles. But no story that was mine, no coherent line through my life. Nothing of a direction, no beginning, middle and ending, happy or otherwise. All I had was a confused mess of vignettes, smothered in anger, loneliness, and self-pity.

I didn’t come to AA through any rehab or referral. When I got so bad that I couldn’t stand it anymore, I just called the number in the phone book – phone book! does that date me, or what – and went to the first meeting they offered. So I went in with almost no expectations, just some vague knowledge from the newspapers that AA was the place to stop drinking.

Someone greeted me, offered a cup of coffee, said some nice things, and guided me to a seat, up near the front. When the meeting started, I was completely lost. Preamble, steps, traditions and whatever else they read: I could parse none of it. A basket appeared in my lap; I think I put a dollar in it.

Then someone went to the front, said he was an alcoholic, and started talking.

My ears woke up before my brain did. Somewhere in the first few minutes of the guy’s talk, my ears grabbed my brain, shook it hard, and said “Pay attention! Listen to this.” I had no idea what he started with, but suddenly I was paying attention. This stranger was telling me about just what I was feeling like, inside. For the first time in my life, another drunk was getting through to me. I’ve no idea, now, what he said, at that first meeting, but as I think on it I do remember very vividly how I felt. Something inside me melted, or snapped, of both, and I started crying like a baby. He was funny, too, and I remember laughing through the tears, the whole room laughing, and it just seemed impossible but wonderful.

After he was done, my friendly greeter pushed me up front to get a shiny aluminium coin, and someone said the inevitable “suck on this, and when it melts you can have a drink”. Corny, but it made me feel good. He sold me a Big Book on the way out, too – slick salesman.

When I got home, I proudly showed my wife the coin, told her about this amazing guy who told his story about getting out from under the bottle, and said to her, “you know, I think this might work.” It did. Twice.

Fast forward a number of years, some of them black with drink; I was not a first time learner in spite of that hopeful start.

I was on business in the Midwest, and dropped in on a meeting in a small farm town, a one-shot visit. They hardly ever got visitors there, so they asked me to share a little of who I was, at introduction time. So I gave a little ten-minute spiel on how I got there that night – initial sobriety, the relapse, how I got back, current struggles, how I was working on my sobriety right then, how good it was … and looked across the room to see a guy all puddled up and wiping his eyes.

Flashback! Suddenly I was back at my first ever meeting, melting inside. Only now I had a story to share.

I talked to that fellow a bit after the meeting; it was his second meeting. He said, “you were telling my story”. He couldn’t get over it. Somebody just like him, only sober, employed, successful – showing up out of the blue on a cold night in that tiny town in a fancy car – and he knew I’d been where he was then. We were miles apart by the usual social measures of education, dialect, occupation, dress, you name it, but that little story made us like brothers that night. He said I gave him more hope than he had had in years … and what he gave me was priceless: the feeling of joy of helping another drunk, that most powerful of all medicines for our disease. The story, you see, was progressing.

Humans have told stories since they learned to talk. For aeons, stories were the history, the law, the hope and the education of all societies. They are so deep in our social consciousness, we respond to them still with our full attention. They have the power to move us emotionally like no other medium. Certain themes have gone on for so long that, for example, a hero’s quest is instantly recognizable: we anticipate the challenge, the obstacles, the pitfalls, the betrayals, the struggles, and the final success. We come to want to be the hero, to act as the hero.

So it is in AA. A drunk can immediately empathize with the story of another drunk’s struggles; no other message can get through to him so easily and quickly. And as the AA Success theme becomes familiar, the newer member can relate to the “hero”, the more successfully sober story-teller, and he can imagine himself following in those footsteps, and it gives him hope and courage and energy to go on for one more day. The narrative gets in his mind, he wants to act it out, become a hero, become the sober one.

Powerful medicine, indeed. And true medicine, for as we change our behaviour … emulating a hero, for example … we now know that we are actually changing our brains, reprogramming the grey matter at the cellular level, down where our addiction lives, deep in our internal reward system.

So when you are new in AA, listen to the stories. Try to live up to the ones that especially strike you. And then when you have some success, tell your story to others. This is one of the many things you can do to help beat your addiction … and not the smallest. And all those tears? That is catharsis. That is your brain changing, repairing itself.

My story keeps changing, and I keep telling it, knowing that it will resonate with someone, sometime. All our stories do. So as your story develops, start telling it, watch it grow, and keep telling it.

And, of course, listen to others’ stories, too.

Chris was a somehow functioning drunk for 30-odd years. This allowed him to fit right in to the corporate sociopathy in positions of senior management at several companies. He regrets the damage done to society while gaining various accolades in the mindless race to shareholder happiness. He has been sober 11 years, and after coming out as an AA Atheist 7 years ago, is continuing to enjoy the expanded horizons of secular sobriety. The “land of 10,000 things” has mostly receded into the past, and he just wants to quietly enjoy retirement, helping out where he can.

Over the years Chris has written a total of nine articles posted on AA Agnostica. Seven of them have been book reviews. Here they are, with links to each and every one of them:

For a PDF of this article, click here: The Power of Our Stories.

The post The Power of Our Stories first appeared on AA Agnostica.

The Power of Our Stories

Fifty Chosen Articles:
Number Seventeen.
Originally posted in February 2016.

Humans have told stories since they learned to talk. For aeons, stories were the history, the law, the hope and the education of all societies.

So it is in AA.

By Chris G.

When I first came to AA, I had no story.

Oh, there were lots of stories I could tell: drunken episodes, all the problems the world had given me, all my troubles. But no story that was mine, no coherent line through my life. Nothing of a direction, no beginning, middle and ending, happy or otherwise. All I had was a confused mess of vignettes, smothered in anger, loneliness, and self-pity.

I didn’t come to AA through any rehab or referral. When I got so bad that I couldn’t stand it anymore, I just called the number in the phone book – phone book! does that date me, or what – and went to the first meeting they offered. So I went in with almost no expectations, just some vague knowledge from the newspapers that AA was the place to stop drinking.

Someone greeted me, offered a cup of coffee, said some nice things, and guided me to a seat, up near the front. When the meeting started, I was completely lost. Preamble, steps, traditions and whatever else they read: I could parse none of it. A basket appeared in my lap; I think I put a dollar in it.

Then someone went to the front, said he was an alcoholic, and started talking.

My ears woke up before my brain did. Somewhere in the first few minutes of the guy’s talk, my ears grabbed my brain, shook it hard, and said “Pay attention! Listen to this.” I had no idea what he started with, but suddenly I was paying attention. This stranger was telling me about just what I was feeling like, inside. For the first time in my life, another drunk was getting through to me. I’ve no idea, now, what he said, at that first meeting, but as I think on it I do remember very vividly how I felt. Something inside me melted, or snapped, of both, and I started crying like a baby. He was funny, too, and I remember laughing through the tears, the whole room laughing, and it just seemed impossible but wonderful.

After he was done, my friendly greeter pushed me up front to get a shiny aluminium coin, and someone said the inevitable “suck on this, and when it melts you can have a drink”. Corny, but it made me feel good. He sold me a Big Book on the way out, too – slick salesman.

When I got home, I proudly showed my wife the coin, told her about this amazing guy who told his story about getting out from under the bottle, and said to her, “you know, I think this might work.” It did. Twice.

Fast forward a number of years, some of them black with drink; I was not a first time learner in spite of that hopeful start.

I was on business in the Midwest, and dropped in on a meeting in a small farm town, a one-shot visit. They hardly ever got visitors there, so they asked me to share a little of who I was, at introduction time. So I gave a little ten-minute spiel on how I got there that night – initial sobriety, the relapse, how I got back, current struggles, how I was working on my sobriety right then, how good it was … and looked across the room to see a guy all puddled up and wiping his eyes.

Flashback! Suddenly I was back at my first ever meeting, melting inside. Only now I had a story to share.

I talked to that fellow a bit after the meeting; it was his second meeting. He said, “you were telling my story”. He couldn’t get over it. Somebody just like him, only sober, employed, successful – showing up out of the blue on a cold night in that tiny town in a fancy car – and he knew I’d been where he was then. We were miles apart by the usual social measures of education, dialect, occupation, dress, you name it, but that little story made us like brothers that night. He said I gave him more hope than he had had in years … and what he gave me was priceless: the feeling of joy of helping another drunk, that most powerful of all medicines for our disease. The story, you see, was progressing.

Humans have told stories since they learned to talk. For aeons, stories were the history, the law, the hope and the education of all societies. They are so deep in our social consciousness, we respond to them still with our full attention. They have the power to move us emotionally like no other medium. Certain themes have gone on for so long that, for example, a hero’s quest is instantly recognizable: we anticipate the challenge, the obstacles, the pitfalls, the betrayals, the struggles, and the final success. We come to want to be the hero, to act as the hero.

So it is in AA. A drunk can immediately empathize with the story of another drunk’s struggles; no other message can get through to him so easily and quickly. And as the AA Success theme becomes familiar, the newer member can relate to the “hero”, the more successfully sober story-teller, and he can imagine himself following in those footsteps, and it gives him hope and courage and energy to go on for one more day. The narrative gets in his mind, he wants to act it out, become a hero, become the sober one.

Powerful medicine, indeed. And true medicine, for as we change our behaviour … emulating a hero, for example … we now know that we are actually changing our brains, reprogramming the grey matter at the cellular level, down where our addiction lives, deep in our internal reward system.

So when you are new in AA, listen to the stories. Try to live up to the ones that especially strike you. And then when you have some success, tell your story to others. This is one of the many things you can do to help beat your addiction … and not the smallest. And all those tears? That is catharsis. That is your brain changing, repairing itself.

My story keeps changing, and I keep telling it, knowing that it will resonate with someone, sometime. All our stories do. So as your story develops, start telling it, watch it grow, and keep telling it.

And, of course, listen to others’ stories, too.

Chris was a somehow functioning drunk for 30-odd years. This allowed him to fit right in to the corporate sociopathy in positions of senior management at several companies. He regrets the damage done to society while gaining various accolades in the mindless race to shareholder happiness. He has been sober 11 years, and after coming out as an AA Atheist 7 years ago, is continuing to enjoy the expanded horizons of secular sobriety. The “land of 10,000 things” has mostly receded into the past, and he just wants to quietly enjoy retirement, helping out where he can.

Over the years Chris has written a total of nine articles posted on AA Agnostica. Seven of them have been book reviews. Here they are, with links to each and every one of them:

For a PDF of this article, click here: The Power of Our Stories.

The post The Power of Our Stories first appeared on AA Agnostica.