afternoon reflections

“It is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as it always does of our conduct.” Jane Austen, Persuasion

The idea of suffering being multiplied by solitude is not new. And the idea of human behavior running amuck when left to its own devices isn’t new either. And neither idea is specific to people suffering from addiction. Us people, we’re pack animals, whether we like it or not. We all need support, and censure, to be our better selves.

I was at a speaker meeting of a 12-step group last night where the speaker described how it was important to share about her particular faith when sharing her experience, strength and hope. Everyone seemed comfortable with it (at least, there wasn’t that weird collective tension that sometimes percolates when people stop sharing in a general way).

But it made me think about the singleness of purpose statement common in many 12-step programs: Each group has but one primary purpose—to carry its message to the [insert malady context here] who still suffers. At least in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, it doesn’t say exactly what the message is. And, the way it is written, it appears to be each group’s message, not the message of Alcoholics Anonymous or whatever.

It got me to thinking—what is my home group’s message? I know we don’t have a defined message, but to the newcomers who come to our group, what message do we give them? There is no telling what they might walk away with, but what do we believe, and how can we be of service to that person who walks in the door feeling alone, to prevent him or her from walking out feeling the same way?

Does sharing beyond a general way engage or distance the newcomer? Is it realistic to expect newcomers to hear similarities rather than differences? How many people in early recovery want to identify with the insanity they sometimes hear shared in meetings? Or the God that many blamed for their problems in the first place (I know I did). Who knows. I have no suggestions, I’m just typing out loud.

Hearing the stories of others still makes me feel “other than” sometimes, especially sitting in meetings with young alcoholics (some of whom cannot even legally drink yet) who are in the rooms primarily as a result of DUIs and/or family pressure. I tend to identify more with people who have none of their real teeth left and/or may be or have been homeless.

I think hopelessness grows complex and more nuanced as it ages, feeding on the perceived injustice of experience. Juliet may have felt utterly alone, but hers was an almost sweet, newborn hopelessness compared with King Lear’s. The thing they share in common—their soliloquies—are perhaps the best examples of why people who are suffering should never be alone with their own thoughts. It is in dialogue that we learn our suffering is not unique. Juliet and King Lear may have suffered tragedy in equal amounts, but the nature of the suffering was different.

So, too, is the suffering of many of us in the rooms. But the point is, we have all suffered, and we don’t have to do it anymore, and if we do suffer, we don’t have to do it alone.

Whatever hateful and hurtful things we do to ourselves, doing them alone doesn’t just make them more practical or possible, for me, solitude also added to my shame. I never wanted to do a bump at the Thanksgiving dinner table with my family, but I also didn’t want to shoot up alone in my closet. The former was too depraved, the latter was just too sad—so, I settled for a happy medium, with just enough depravity and just enough sadness.

Until that wasn’t enough. Until nothing was enough. And now I have us, and we are enough. The idea that we have a singleness of purpose is sort of silly in a practical way, but conceptually it gives us something to work with, a base to gain our footing, propulsion for forward momentum. It gives us something to believe in. We believe in us, and we are not alone.