Page 43 of All the Way to the River

Oh yes, and there was one other thing.

There was a very smart thing that I did during that time.

I went to a twelve-step meeting.

Actually, I went to several twelve-step meetings. I checked out the fellowship for people whose lives are being negatively impacted by other people’s addictions, and I also attended some recovery meetings for sex and love addiction.

I hated both of them, instantly.

I hated the support meeting for the family and friends of addicts because it didn’t make any sense to me.

I went there expecting to hear people share really useful advice about how to get other people clean and sober.

But the people in the room were just talking about themselves —about their own issues of anxiety, codependency, and overcontrol.

“I have to keep the focus on myself,” I heard several folks say—and that just felt insane to me, given the fact that every single person in that room seemed to be dealing with a loved one who was a deranged drinker or drug fiend of some kind or another.

How could anyone keep the focus on themselves when they were surrounded by the chaos of other people’s addictions?

Why weren’t they focused instead upon making those drunks and drug addicts stop what they were doing ?

“I just need to keep looking at my own role in the insanity of my life,” I heard someone else say in that room.

Again—this made zero sense to me.

But the people in that room were kind to me, which was nice. And after the meeting, I told one old dude that I’d recently staged an intervention for my partner and it had been a total disaster, and that now she hated my guts.

He said, “Tough shit, honey—nobody ever liked their intervention. Just keep coming back.”

That gave me my first laugh in weeks.

Then there was the twelve-step meeting for sex and love addicts.

I hated that one even more.

I hated it because all the people in that room seemed to have super messed-up histories with romantic dysfunction and sexual degradation—and who wants to hear about that? These people were obviously really sick, and I felt sorry for them.

I also hated that, at the beginning of each meeting, they read from a pamphlet listing the characteristics of sex and love addiction, and I identified so strongly with each and every item on the list that it made me feel exposed—as if I myself were the subject of an intervention.

In fact, that list of behaviors described me so perfectly that it could have been my own unauthorized biography, and that just felt rude .

So I hated going to the meetings, and I found them confronting and confusing, but I kept coming back—at least for a little while.

And despite my blinding, deafening rage, the voices of the people in the rooms were starting to infiltrate my consciousness.

Telling me that I could not control or cure anyone but myself, and to keep the focus on healing my own wounds.

Suggesting that perhaps I might consider giving the world back to God, and stop trying to manage it all.

Teaching me that pouring myself into someone is not necessarily “romantic”—and just might be toxic for all parties concerned.

Assuring me that I was not the highest power in the universe, and asking me to stop forcing my will upon others.

Inviting me to pray for guidance. Daring me to surrender.

Reminding me of the word humility . Inviting me to look at my own role in the unmanageability of my own life.

Advising that I learn how to take care of myself, rather than obsessing over others, rescuing them, or blaming anyone else for my own disordered internal state.

Asking me, “Are you still waiting for someone else to change so you can be okay?” Telling me to allow people the dignity of living out their lives on their own terms—even if their personal choices led to their pain or early death.

Introducing the phrase “Keep your eyes on your own work” as a gentle way of saying, “Mind your own damn business.” Suggesting to me that I just might be a hopeless love addict and control freak who, left unsupervised, had been known to smoke people like crack and then blame them for getting me high—and perhaps there was nothing “selfless” or “loving” about that.

Some of this I heard through my own internal madness, and some of it I even started to understand.

I always sat near the door so I could make a clean getaway at the end of the proceedings, without making eye contact with anyone.

Never spoke, never shared, never raised my hand.

Never took a phone number when it was offered, never asked anyone for help.

Never picked up any literature, never asked for a sponsor.

Judged everyone I saw and heard, and prayed nobody would recognize me.

Still, I kept coming back.

I listened hard, and I took furious, scribbled notes.

Drip by drip, one word at a time, one meeting at a time, God was dropping clues of awakening into my ears, into my brain, into the chambers of my heart, into the pages of my journal.

I wasn’t quite ready for it yet, but nevertheless it was happening.

Because that’s how things always seem to go here in Earth School: Just when you aren’t ready for change, the changes begin.