My therapist is truly gifted at what she does. She has drawn me out and gotten me to admit things I promised myself never to talk about with anyone—best friend, doctor, lover—it made no difference. She has coached me through insurmountable heartbreak. And, no exaggeration, she has gotten me to ugly cry.
At first glance, you might think, “So what? That’s what a therapist is supposed to do,” but in my case it’s a bit different. Early trauma has disconnected me from whatever you call that mechanism that causes humans to cry. What she accomplished was nothing short of miraculous.
Biblically so.
I did not cry at my dad’s wake. Nor did I cry seven years later when my mother unexpectedly joined him in her own premature death. I did not cry when I departed from her bedside vigil in Florida after my older brother told me that the family held counsel and decided I’d be left out of any division of whatever meager estate she possessed (I believe the exact quote was “there was no need for me to wait for anything because they were shaw my mother would’ve wanted it that way.”)
But those were the packets of mild sauce at the taco stand of my life.
When my first child’s mother took our daughter and went to live with her family 3 hours away? That was a crying event, but I had no reaction.. When this same woman went to a rehab and fell in love with a guy 12 years younger? Painful, but still very dry. When she moved her rehab romance in to play house and pretend he was my child’s father? No tears–maybe more drug use and assorted self-destructive behaviors, but no tears.
When I found out my 3 year old daughter was instructed to call this person dad and me, Billy? Now there, I would’ve given anything to cry. I tried staring into bright lights, cutting onions, and even imagining my ex and Studley McStudnose wrapped in heated passion. Still, nothing.
But there we were, in her office last December, talking about this and that and before I realized what was happening, the floodgates cracked right open.
So you can imagine that there exists a degree of loyalty in our relationship that’s pretty intense. At least that’s the way I saw it when she broached the idea of my popping my head into an NA meeting sometime in the next week.
I have such an incredible love/hate connection with 12 step recovery. On the positive side, it was how I was able to drag myself out of hell and create a life for myself that I never dreamed I would possess. I was able to start a family with two more daughters (who, by the way, call me daddy,) learn to drive a truck and make more money than I ever wished for, become a published author—realistically, the list of all I’ve accomplished since I started my journey in 2010 is far too extensive to list.
And that book that I mentioned writing? Well, it was there where I wrote that NA and AA can really only work if a person wants to be free of their addictions with the same enthusiasm they had for pursuing their first love. It needs to border on an obsessive desire because it requires that much energy.
I still know this to be true. Nobody stops drinking or using because it seems like it might be a good idea. And while many have argued the point that a person needs to hit rock bottom before they can start their ascent into a better place, it can’t be disputed that it does help. It runs on the same principle as people who try to break into show business with “something to fall back on.” They aren’t usually as successful as those who have no cushion. If you have something to fall back on, chances are you’re going to fall back.
And that’s where my fear lives. To say that there are things about NA that I disagree with, doesn’t even scratch the surface. There are things that make me truly angry, things I believe to be ridiculous and certain traditions that nauseate the hell out of me. I will never see how a person raising their hand and calling themselves an addict day after day for years can be helpful. That shit drives me crazy. I can’t see how “we are all the same” can be a good thing.
I have experienced, first hand, how taking responsibility–and by extension–blame for everything in one’s life can lead to the creation of an untenable dynamic in a romantic relationship. I mean, this sort of philosophy can work with a little wisdom and nuance, but not everybody is going to be in possession of those things. Most especially not people in early recovery.
Be that as it may, there does exist that intense loyalty to my therapist and, chances are, if she suggested I become a volunteer fireman, I probably would. So I will pop in, complete with open mind and open heart and see if this is what I need right now.
There’s only one reason I wind up in the same jackpot every time I stop paying attention. The pages and pages of unresolved trauma and sadness that live underneath the obligatory smile and the Wellbutrin in the dusty history book of my life. And if a meeting is the only place I can go to find a more realistic way to address that sadness, then, like everything else in this world, I’ll have to just accept that it, too, is not perfect.
WOW Billy, thank you for this. The title scared me, a little.
Perfect read with my after gym coffee. ❤️