Circling Back
Saturday I went to my first Al Anon meeting in about three years. It came to me with a sharp clarity more than a week ago that I needed to go back, but I didn't know how it would feel. I wasn't sure what the sensations of stepping back into that skin would be.
For those who don't know, Al Anon is a Twelve Step program not for alcoholics but for friends and family of alcoholics--for those who have been affected by someone else's drinking. I suppose it might seem odd to some that people who *aren't* drinking would need their own program. For a long time, I didn't see the need myself. Of course, I recognized the difficulty of growing up in an alcoholic household, but I always figured that once I left home, I could put that past behind me. No alcoholic to deal with, no problem. It took me nearly 20 years to figure out it didn't work that way, at least not for me. Actually, it took me much less time to figure it out; it simply took me that long to decide to do something about it.
There are so many ways to think about how addiction works. Some people talk in terms of will power. Others consider addiction a moral failure, a sign of sin. For still others, it's about chemical imbalances and brain function or genetic predispositions. But my struggle with addiction has come down to facing relationships: of addict to substance, of addicts to other addicts, to family and friends, to themselves. For long stretches I've let myself pretend that this struggle came from other people not doing what they should do.
I know now that that's my addiction: trying to get people around me to do what I think they should so that I don't have to listen to the chaos and fear that constantly roar inside my head. The byproduct of my childhood spent living with an alcoholic is this scurrying anxiety just under the calm most people see. That's the deepest relationship at the root my wrestling with addiction. There is this stuff inside of me--or sometimes the feeling that there's nothing inside of me--which I have tried to relate to by ignoring it or by making everyone and everything "out there" in the world okay, orderly, pleasant and smiling. And when I can't put the world around me at ease, I become even more frightened because it makes the tumultuous world inside of me even more restless, more insistent.
I've known all this for years now; I learned it meeting by meeting during the five years I attended Al Anon regularly. But I had to be reminded of it, and that happened a few weeks ago during a dispute I kept having with my wife, trying to get her to deal with a problem in the way *I* thought she should deal with it. And when, in frustration and exasperation, I said I wouldn't bring it up again, that she'd have to deal with the issue herself, I experienced an unexpected relief and a realization that that's exactly what she *should* be doing, and that I should keep my mouth shut unless she asked for my help.
It was, in a way, like coming home--so familiar even though most of the faces were different. The meeting I used to attend had moved to another location, but I found it on a list at the Al Anon website. It was the stereotypical small church, multipurpose room with linoleum tile, low tables and chairs for children, and art projects on the walls. I recognized the expressions of fatigue, of anxiety, and also of relaxation and even happiness too. I recognized the chairs arranged in a circle with all of us facing one another, the brochures and literature spread out for people to take. Again, I joined the circle.
For those who don't know, Al Anon is a Twelve Step program not for alcoholics but for friends and family of alcoholics--for those who have been affected by someone else's drinking. I suppose it might seem odd to some that people who *aren't* drinking would need their own program. For a long time, I didn't see the need myself. Of course, I recognized the difficulty of growing up in an alcoholic household, but I always figured that once I left home, I could put that past behind me. No alcoholic to deal with, no problem. It took me nearly 20 years to figure out it didn't work that way, at least not for me. Actually, it took me much less time to figure it out; it simply took me that long to decide to do something about it.
There are so many ways to think about how addiction works. Some people talk in terms of will power. Others consider addiction a moral failure, a sign of sin. For still others, it's about chemical imbalances and brain function or genetic predispositions. But my struggle with addiction has come down to facing relationships: of addict to substance, of addicts to other addicts, to family and friends, to themselves. For long stretches I've let myself pretend that this struggle came from other people not doing what they should do.
I know now that that's my addiction: trying to get people around me to do what I think they should so that I don't have to listen to the chaos and fear that constantly roar inside my head. The byproduct of my childhood spent living with an alcoholic is this scurrying anxiety just under the calm most people see. That's the deepest relationship at the root my wrestling with addiction. There is this stuff inside of me--or sometimes the feeling that there's nothing inside of me--which I have tried to relate to by ignoring it or by making everyone and everything "out there" in the world okay, orderly, pleasant and smiling. And when I can't put the world around me at ease, I become even more frightened because it makes the tumultuous world inside of me even more restless, more insistent.
I've known all this for years now; I learned it meeting by meeting during the five years I attended Al Anon regularly. But I had to be reminded of it, and that happened a few weeks ago during a dispute I kept having with my wife, trying to get her to deal with a problem in the way *I* thought she should deal with it. And when, in frustration and exasperation, I said I wouldn't bring it up again, that she'd have to deal with the issue herself, I experienced an unexpected relief and a realization that that's exactly what she *should* be doing, and that I should keep my mouth shut unless she asked for my help.
It was, in a way, like coming home--so familiar even though most of the faces were different. The meeting I used to attend had moved to another location, but I found it on a list at the Al Anon website. It was the stereotypical small church, multipurpose room with linoleum tile, low tables and chairs for children, and art projects on the walls. I recognized the expressions of fatigue, of anxiety, and also of relaxation and even happiness too. I recognized the chairs arranged in a circle with all of us facing one another, the brochures and literature spread out for people to take. Again, I joined the circle.
posted by A Pilgrim at 12:42 PM
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