It Was Me Who Reached Out for You

Art by Magaly Ohika

Art by Magaly Ohika, used by permission

Recently I heard from a couple readers who know they’re addicts or alcoholics, but just can’t find the willingness to reach for help. Their emails came with heartbreaking confessions. One began, “I’m drinking as I write this…”

I’ve so been there: you know you have a problem, you’re desperate to quit, you might even see the end coming, but you’re not quite ready to give up and reach for help.

It’s such a miserable place. In recovery we say, “It takes what it takes.” But we also say, “You reach the bottom when you quit digging.”

Another common thread in the emails I’ve been getting is fear of embarrassment or rejection. I so get that, too. It was a huge part of the reason I spent so many years begging God for a huge  private miracle. I wanted him to zap me from heaven and declare in a booming voice, Your faith has made you well, Heather! Go your way and drink no more.

Or better yet, “Go your way and drink no more… than two glasses a night.”  :)

 The point is, I wanted my miracle my way.

I see a little of myself in the woman in the gospel story who’d been bleeding for twelve years. She thinks—correctly, it turns out—that if she can just reach out and touch Jesus’ garment, she’ll be healed. And no one will know.

But Jesus did know. He turns around and asks, “Who touched me?”

His disciples give him a funny look. “Uh, gee. We’re, uh, walking through a crowd?”

But Jesus persists. “I felt power flow from me,” he says.

Trembling with fear, the woman steps forward to confess that she’s the one who reached for him.

I’m pretty sure Jesus already knew this. And I wonder if he didn’t also know that naming her need in public was somehow a necessary part of her healing.

I was sober for a couple years before I understood that God’s power to heal and help me had been there all along. I simply couldn’t receive the miracle because I wanted it on my own terms—in a way that would spare my pride.

And what if God had chosen to deliver me my way? It would have been wonderful. I could have returned to my old life, relieved and grateful. Whew! That ‘being a drunk’ thing was awful! I’m so glad I’m past that now! 

But God would have gotten no credit. And I would never have gotten into recovery, or written about it, or fell in love with the wonderful sober friends I had over for dinner last Tuesday night. I would never have come to understand how good it is to have to rely on God utterly, and on a daily basis.

Today, I’m so grateful that God in his kindness waited for me to say yes to healing on his terms and in his way. And the miracle is still going on. I experience it every time I grasp again for the dusting of grace that lies heavy on God’s cloak.

Every morning, I hear Jesus ask, “Who touched me?”

And every morning, I get to answer, “Me, Lord. It was me who reached out for you.”

I’d love to hear from you today. Have you ever begged God for a miracle on your own terms and gotten one on his?

P.S. This morning, Rachel Held Evans posted my response to the Q & A from her readers (smart people, by the way). I’ll hope you’ll come check it out–and ask me more questions about my answers :)

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Follow Me…

momastery-1359497036_600Today I hope you’ll follow me over to Momastery where I am guest posting on Glennon’s Melton’s blog. If you’re not familiar with Glennon, you’ve been missing out on one of the funniest, bravest, most amazing women on the internet. Her own book, Carry On Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed, debuted on the New York Times bestseller list at #4 last month. And here she is already sharing her platform with me. I’m so honored.

Also, Glennon will be giving away 50 copies of Sober Mercies courtesy of Jericho. See ya there, friends.

The Mothers On My Mind

Art by Duma

Art by Duma

I wanted to write a sweet post for Mother’s Day. I adore my own mother and would love to tell the world why. If you ask me, there’s no greater proof of God’s kindness and goodness on earth than a mother’s love.

But I went to a woman’s recovery meeting this morning. And so the mothers on my mind today are the ones who won’t be celebrating or celebrated. The ones who know better than to hope for a big hug or coveted phone call, much less breakfast in bed.

I’m talking about moms who are estranged from one or more of their kids. Some, through their own bad choices—which doesn’t lessen the pain, by the way. And others who, through no fault of their own, have had children ripped from their arms by the tsunami of addiction.

Last night Dave and I stumbled upon the movie, Traffic. We had seen it in theaters way back, but when I noticed the date—’99—I realized it would seem mostly new to me, since I was still drinking then.

I knew the movie was about drug trafficking. But I was still caught off guard by the brutal but oh-so-true depiction of the insanity and ironies of addiction: politicians fighting the war on drugs while swilling drinks; drug-lords gunning each other down over money; rich kids overdosing because even with money and privilege, life can seem meaningless.

It was impossible for me to watch this movie without thinking, What on earth?! What is wrong with us? Why aren’t we all more alarmed? 

And then, in today’s Huffington Post I read about a new report from the World Health Organization warning that alcohol kills more people every year than AIDS, tuberculosis or violence. If alcoholism or addiction looked like a bird-flu epidemic or jihadists, we’d call out the National Guard. We’d declare a state of emergency. We wouldn’t think of carrying on business as usual.

But instead we sort of yawn and say, “Kids will be kids,” or, “Damn junkies.”

At one point in the movie, the new American drug czar—played to perfection by Michael Douglas—asks an official of the Mexican government, “What about treatment?”

“Treatment?” the guy says. “Addicts treat themselves. They overdose, and then there’s one less of them.”

Sounds cold-hearted, yet it reflects a commonly held view. As soon as a human being becomes a junkie, his value plummets.

Unless that junkie is your child.

Unless that alcoholic is your mother, spouse, or best friend.

So yes, these are the mothers most on my mind today. The moms estranged from their kids, maybe for forever. And the moms whose babies are out there somewhere, but nowhere really.

Are you one? On Mother’s Day, while the world celebrates the awesomeness of moms—as we should—I just wanted to say that I’m thinking of you, and so are many others. You matter. You and your child are of infinite worth and beauty. And God has not forgotten you.

Dave Speaks (a Q & A with my husband)

Dave

I can’t tell you how excited I am to have a guest post today by my husband Dave. On Monday, I asked you to submit any questions for him you might have regarding our journey through my alcoholism and recovery. You sent great questions! Some of them we combined or edited for clarity. I didn’t edit a word of his answers, though. He’s pretty darn honest here, so my hat is off to him.

In Sober Mercies, Heather refers to “dumb drunk Heather fights,” which sometimes led to physical attacks by her and often ended with her sleeping in the guest room. What was that like for you?

I hated the craziness and the violence. It tore me up inside—still does when I think about it. I didn’t grow up in a family where people threw hateful words around, much less fists and boots. Heather grew up clawing to get what she needed, though. That was her way, and sometimes alcohol made her go there.

In the craziest times, I would stare into the horror of what had become of us and see no way out. I didn’t want to be married to her anymore. But I didn’t want to start over again either (I’d already been a loser in marriage once).

But when the smoke cleared, I would look across the room and see Heather Babe—not a monster. I really loved her. I’ve always been grateful that the affection didn’t run out before the sobriety arrived! I know some aren’t so blessed.

 Did you know that Heather was an alcoholic?

 I thought so, but I didn’t know. Of course, I didn’t realize how much she was putting away either. I would try to change her drinking habits by changing mine, including abstaining entirely for spells. That didn’t work. She just got hostile and I got more resentful.

 Why do you think you didn’t catch on that she was drinking in secret?

She was a pretty good sneak. Most addicts are, I guess. Also, I didn’t ever venture into her closet, which is where she kept her stash. Still don’t go in there, by the way. She’s not a neatnik—just sayin’.

During those years, we drank together, and I often drank too much. That didn’t help me know what was actually going on. And then there were the maintenance prescriptions that had been affecting Heather in one way or another since we met. When she got loony later in the evening, I blamed the meds.

 How did you manage not to follow the same path as Heather?

I shared her life but, I don’t share her genes. In a way, I’m living proof that alcoholism has a huge physiological dimension. Heather has as much willpower as me; she’s as moral and as spiritual—not that we can really measure those things. Clearly, her body just reacts differently to alcohol.

Relapse is a common story in recovery. Have you ever worried that Heather would go back to her drinking? How would you handle that?

We’ve been there, thanks to the Minneapolis airport. That and the aftermath were hell. I didn’t know what would happen next. I was angry and afraid. I will be eternally grateful that she so quickly chose to start over again.

I don’t know what I’d do if she went out again. I don’t like to think about it. Everyone who’s married to an addict must worry about it sometimes. Honestly, I’m afraid to say anything that would appear to give her permission to do that again. But of course, I can’t control her decision. It’s hers to make. My job is to stay clean and sane in my own areas of blindness and weakness. There are so many.

Day to day, though, I have a huge amount of trust in Heather. Her commitment to sobriety and spiritual health inspires me. I want to be like her when I grow up.

My husband is addicted to alcohol and drugs, and I don’t know how to help him. He has failed so many times. What have you done to help Heather in her recovery? Is there one thing she would say has been most important to her?

 I’m really sorry for about your situation. You must often feel helpless and afraid. I went through many years trying to figure out what to do to help Heather. Whatever I did try—talking to her, trying to delete alcohol from our lives entirely, suggesting counseling—didn’t work. I didn’t try an intervention, and maybe I should have, although I doubt she would have quit until she was good and ready.

The day she told me sobbing that she needed to get help, I knew she was serious. After that, I did everything I could to get her into rehab before she changed her mind.

Since she’s been in recovery, she has said that my going to recovery meetings with her has been the single most helpful thing. On average, I probably go once every two weeks. She goes much more often, of course. But going together gives us a shared life and language, and many shared friends. And, hey, it feels like love to her.

 How has being a part of Heather’s program of recovery affected you personally or spiritually?

 We’re growing together—emotionally, spiritually, in our relationship—in ways that were probably impossible before. I mean, we were so much more stuck than we knew! ‘Course, we’re still freaks, but now at least we have a safe relationship. We have a home that isn’t hiding anything. We have seen miracles in our family. We’ve gotten our life back.

Every day is a gift, and I am filled with gratitude. 

Finally, what advice would you give a spouse whose partner has an obvious problem with alcohol, drugs or addictive behavior of any kind?

Any of us can stand outside of that kind of situation and have the “right” opinions. But truly, there’s no way for us to know what’s really happening in that person’s world. When the one we love is addicted, our choices—and especially our perceived choices—get all tangled up in love, shame, resentment, self-judgment, duty, habit and just what comes easier on any given day.

Everybody’s story is different, but here’s what I wish I had done differently:

1] I wish I had taken the step myself to name and own the problem. I needed to fully face what was happening, and my part in it—whatever that was. I had things I was hiding too, things that needed more truth-telling. Like shame over how much alcohol had us in its grip, and my part in letting that happen. Like fear of what would become of us as a couple if we actually took the alcohol skeleton out of the closet.

2] I wish I had gotten help for myself. I needed to say, “I have a problem that requires outside help,” and then act on the admission. I need to regularly drive off to counseling or Al-Anon—and she needed to see me doing it. It would have been a confrontation of sorts with our reality. She would have been outraged and disdainful, I’m guessing. And I doubt she would have changed any of her choices, but at least we wouldn’t have been tacitly lying about the hell we were in. And more to the point—I would have been working on understanding my part in the craziness.

One thing I know now, looking back, is that there is a way out. Sounds so obvious, but I didn’t believe that for years, and I know Heather didn’t either. So many don’t really believe change is possible—for others maybe, but not for them. But change is possible. And God will do for us what we cannot do for ourselves—we just have to let him. With humility and courage and a good dose of desperation, we can find the door.  As Heather and I have discovered, that door opens to a recovery community that welcomes fellow desperadoes with open arms, shows us a proven path to living differently, and is willing to walk with us on it.

P.S. I’m doing book promotion stuff all day and so address any comments or questions to Dave and he will reply. 

Why I Wrote This Book

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Since tomorrow is the official release of my memoir, I want to talk today about why I wrote it. I mean, does the world really need another recovery memoir? What’s so special about my story? And anyway, why would I want to share such embarrassing stuff with the world?

These are all questions I’ve asked myself.

It’s true that recovery memoirs abound these days. Harrowing tales of a good person’s descent into the mortifying abyss of addiction. The story usually climaxes when the author reaches her lowest point—she loses her relationships, career, dignity or health. Or all of the above. Finally, she seeks outside help.

And then the story is over.

Early in my drinking days, these stories assured me that I hadn’t fallen nearly so low as the author. Whew!  I still had plenty of time left to drink before I hit that kind of bottom! The story’s tragic end—the author having to quit—inspired me to try even harder to manage my own drinking so I’d never have to. :)

As my dependency worsened, I finished these memoirs with a strange mix of hope and dread. Hope, because it was clear that the author had found a way out of her nightmare.  But dread, too, because of the deafening silence in most memoirs about what happened next.

I needed to know, what did happen next? What happens after you quit the drug or the drink or whatever it was you were addicted to? How could a life devoid of one’s favorite and most necessary thing be anything but miserable?

I needed to read a recovery memoir that was actually about recovery. I was desperate to hear a newly sober person talk about joy. And if possible, to hear from a Christian who had succumbed to addiction, quit, and come out the other side without losing God in the process.

At the time, I couldn’t find that book.

Perhaps this, more than any other reason I have for writing my story, is the one that matters most: I believe there’s someone like me out there searching for a story like mine.

A lot of someones, actually. It’s precisely because my story isn’t special or my experience unique that it matters. Given that one in ten people over age 12 is classified with drug dependence or addiction, I’m convinced that churches today are filled with folks who suffer in silence, many of whom are too ashamed to admit the truth or reach for professional help.

So yes, I’m willing to risk a little public embarrassment. To the same degree I once felt compelled by shame to keep my alcoholism a secret, today I feel compelled by gratitude to bring it into the light. But in case that sounds noble, you should know that it’s also a bit selfish. Being open about my recovery helps me stay sober.

And yet, while alcoholism was the catalyst for my journey, any painful event that brings us to the end of ourselves can spark the kind of spiritual crisis I’ve written about. For others it might be a divorce, financial ruin, a painful loss or a daunting physical challenge.

That’s why I think my story isn’t just for addicts, but for any person who has ever doubted the sincerity of his or her own faith, who has ever felt scalded by secret shame, who has ever repeatedly betrayed God and those they love…and can’t seem to change.

Most of all, I want Sober Mercies to speak to those who want to start over but are losing hope that such a thing is even possible. I want to tell you what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like now.

Because what it’s like now is pretty amazing.

P.S. On Thursday, I’m featuring a guest post by–drum roll, please–my husband, Dave.  It will be a Q. and A. about his experience of my addiction and his role in my journey to healing.  If you have questions you’d like to ask him, please email them to me at Heather@Soberboots.com.

P.S.S.  If you want to spread to the word about my book, this is a great article by my amazing agent about how to help an author.

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