This weekend I had the opportunity to attend a special women’s recovery event. Part of me didn’t want to show up–what else is new? I always want to wait until I can present the best version of myself. I want to wait until some magical moment of good health and behavior arrives and appear then, proclaiming “Look, I’m here, this is me! None of those other things are me!”
But I’d been invited, specifically, by a friend who knew I had no money for a ticket and offered me a place at her table anyway. It meant a lot to me, and I was determined not to flake out. So I showed up as I am, carrying the extra weight from my latest bout of self-destruction and the extra weepiness from my latest bout of depression. I did a load of laundry, and washed my hair. I couldn’t wear my jeans comfortably, but at least the yoga pants I did wear were clean.
Hearing women chat about their lives and the people they know, I felt the usual welcome shifts in perspective. My own problems felt a bit less overwhelming as I listened to those of others, and I had the usual–yet somehow always surprising–revelations about how little these women care about my own standards for myself.
Yes, I’d been struggling with food and money and depression. I wasn’t the only one. Others had been struggling with relationships, or battling cigarettes, or had new and serious health problems. There was just one battle we were all still winning at the moment: being drug addicts who were not using drugs.
On my keychain, I carry the medallion I got on my four-year anniversary of getting clean from drugs. If I stay the course, I’ll get a five-year one next May. Lately, it’s been harder and harder to take any joy in these things because I am so aware of the insanity I’m experiencing around food.
I’m well aware that in a different fellowship I’d just be considered in relapse, period. Periodically failing with the food would mean I’m no longer clean and shouldn’t be counting any anniversaries. I don’t choose to go by these rules for a few reasons, the most important one being that it’s nearly killed me in the past by creating a “might as well” attitude and encouraging me to use drugs again. Now, I choose to keep my anniversary, despite the eating-related insanity I have experienced off and on in the last four years. I choose to believe that staying off of drugs matters enough to be acknowledged.
That being said, it’s important for me to admit to myself when I’m in relapse mode. Insane behavior with food is diagnostic for me, and it’s not very compatible with the values of recovery. If I’m binge eating to punish myself or drown my anxiety, I’m probably not using a lot of spiritual tools at the moment. So even as I hold on to my accomplishment of staying clean, I need the humility of admitting that my life is in relapse mode lately. That I need help, need to put my program first more often, need to admit I don’t know what I’m doing.
It’s said that abstinence does not equal recovery. I, like any addict, can be free of my best-known demon but making myself insane with another behavior. Looking around that room at the tables of women, I knew that each of us fell somewhere in the gray zone between living in our disease and living fully in recovery.
Am I still in recovery? Are you? Where is the line?
I can’t tell you the answer, but I can tell you about the moment I let go of the question for the rest of the day.
“Have you seen ******** lately?” a woman asked.
“She went out,” another woman answered sadly.
Out. It’s what we call it when a person disappears. Stops answering their phone. Eventually, maybe, someone hears something. Friends might try to track them down, but there’s often not much that can be done until the time is right. We wait, and pray we will see them again.
I felt the usual wave of sadness, the woman’s face vivid in my mind. I looked around the room and wished she were here with us instead of where she was.