Hope

Hope is not believing you can

change things: hope is believing that

what we do makes a difference.

Vaclav Havel

Such a subtle distinction.  One is grounded in an external belief, and the other – grounded in belief, something deeply internal.

I know there are people who read this who have been severely hurt, beaten, traumatized by addiction – more specifically by someone who is or has been active in addiction.  It’s a desperately isolating experience, one that many people suffer alone, or largely in silence, as much like an iceberg, what can be outwardly seen is only the tip of it all.  Addiction leaves scars.  Deep scars.  Not only on those who are in the ripple zone, but also for those who have been the center of it.  I have been both.

Substance use disorders manifest much like other chronic disorders.  The manifestation is part genetics, part lifestyle, much of the insidiousness of it happening under the cloak of the unseen.  Outward symptoms are brushed off as something not patterned, all the while the brain is setting behavioral priorities deep in the unconscious, so that the reality remains in a place of blindness, many times both for the person experiencing it, and for those witnessing it.  Like diabetes, heart disease, asthma, it develops steam, until a crisis brings to the forefront a reality seemingly unforeseen.  There are a variety of patterns that emerge from this point on, resulting in a variety of outcomes. 

My truth? I have been the stone creating the ripple, having been in active addiction, and have been in the wake of another’s addiction.  I have experienced much direct and vicarious trauma as a result – things I would never choose to experience of my own accord.  People I love (and loved) deeply also experienced the trauma – both direct and vicarious – of my addiction, something I would never have done to them consciously or intentionally. In fact, the shame of both truths left me locked in the darkness of addiction, running from the reality of the pain of it all.  At least until nothing – not the substance, not the behavior, not the other addictions – could black it out anymore.  In the end, they amplified it all, leaving me feeling like it was completely out of my mind.  It is not a reality I would wish on anyone. 

But I am not here to do an autopsy on addiction, mine or anyone else’s.

I am here to talk about hope. For me, hope came with recovery.  I didn’t find recovery because I had hope. Recovery was a result of complete and utter brokenness. I don’t know why I saw this truth at the time I did, but in July of 1998, I stood looking at myself in a mirror, and the whole truth came crashing down on me.  As I looked myself in the eyes for the first time in who knows how long, the weight of reality settled in on me, and so did a resignation to any belief that the way I was living was in any way working.  This realization brought a brief moment of peace, a welcome respite from the constant barrage of emotion and whirling thoughts that had come to dominate my brain.  In that moment of peace, my head quieted long enough to allow the whispers of my heart, which had long wanted something different.  I realize now that the years of outbursts of rage were just that – my heart working to be louder than my head.  Of course, this continues to be an ongoing battle.  Staying grounded in my “why” helps that process stay balanced.  In the end, hope came, and remains, in every person, circumstance, and moment that kept me grounded in doing good, rather than being good. 

Let’s face it, I am obstinate, hard-headed, and have too much energy.  I don’t do good at being good.  But doing good is something I can wrap my head (and my heart) around.  It’s something I can carry into my daily dealings, even when I am not necessarily acting the way others would want me to (…reference my statement about being obstinate, hard-headed and having way too much energy).

In recovery, the experiences that once sent me burrowing in shame now have purpose.  Beyond that, they actually have meaning.  They are not just a memory, an experience, but also something living, tangible – that someone can grab a hold of, dissect, and learn from.  In the process, it takes on a new form for me.  When brought to light, the memories of my past not only unlock present truths for others, but they also provide answers to the current riddles of my life.  The hurt and pain of the past is a binding element to me, something that is transformational in a new and present moment, no matter how many times I have been over it in the past.  Further, viewing it through hindsight with others has also given me insight into those who have been on the journey all along with me.  As I reflect on it, I realize even more deeply how truly miraculous it is, and continues to be.

But back to this concept of doing good….versus being good…or hope of change…versus hope of making a difference…

Macro work is hard.  Government work is even harder. It’s a lot of work, and rarely is there an immediate reward.  It’s like turning the Titanic, but in sands that are constantly shifting due to any number of outward variables.  I’m learning more and more that it takes patience, a long-view, and tenacity.  Only one of those three is a working part of my skill set, and it can equally be seen as a strength and a deficit. J 

As a result, my hope absolutely cannot be grounded in a belief that I can create change at this level.  First, it’s a moving target (see my statement about trying to turn the Titanic, for reference).  I have waffled back and forth with understanding this in my time at my current job, and still often confuse the two intents.  I am learning that my perspective of my work is usually a good indicator of what camp I am sitting in at any given time.  Sometimes I fall to the delusion that I can change, well…anything.  I laugh out loud as I sit here, as I wrote this last statement.  The irony of having said and prayed the Serenity Prayer thousands of times in my lifetime, and I sometimes (ok…many times) still live with the delusion that I can change anything.  That belief externalizes my locus of control, making the change the agent rather than me the change agent.  One is grounded in an external expectation and reward, and the other, an internal drive. 

Hope, as a driving force, is also subject to the shifting sands of time and circumstance.  Hope as a byproduct of a personal truth, a belief?  That is unshakable. 

I am not the same person I was when I was in active addiction.  I am also not the person who existed before addiction took me.  I am beyond anything I could have ever been had addiction not been manifested in my life.  So, yes, I have been locked in the darkness of shame, remorse, pain…and I brought others into this space along the way.  As I grow and change, I better understand the true magnitude of these experiences, on me and on others. 

A gift of this journey is that more deeply understanding this truth allows for deeper compassion for both people in the darkness of addiction, and for the loved ones who are in the ripple zone along with them.  It also lends to a greater desire to work daily to removing the deeply ingrained barriers that reinforce the shame and stigma of both addiction and recovery, for both the individuals affected, their loved ones, and their communities.  I pray that one day we see more and more of these barriers removed, but am realistic that this happens in a two steps forward, one step back fashion.  As a result, as I work at a systems level, one powerful truth is consistently reinforced: the very essence of recovery is found on a personal, not a systems level.  The power of recovery is found one-on-one, whether that be one person to one person, one family to one family, or one community to one community.   As a result, my experience makes a difference, in the very fact that transformation is a real and tangible experience in my life, and sharing this with others can be transformative for them.  Even more amazingly, this sharing continues to drive transformation in my life. 

That day in July 1998, when I found myself looking at myself in the eye, the weight of crushing defeat gave way to a glimmer of something I did not then recognize.  Looking back, it was a catalyst moment, an experience I still feel as though I am standing there, as I write these words.  Standing there, accurately surveying the reality of my life and self, what I experienced was a glimmer of belief that there had to be something better.  And when I reached out to find something to confirm this for me, I found it, in another who had been there, too.

As a result, my hope is not grounded in the belief that I can change anyone or anything.  One of the crushing realities of recovery, and of life in general, is that I have no power in this realm.  However, when I view my world through hindsight, there emerges a stark contrast of what I thought my experiences were in the moment they occurred, and what they are to me today. As my experiences change shape and meaning, freedom from what was emerges.  As such, something that once caused me deep pain and shame, now transformed, offers hope.  That hope may never have the power to change one thing.  But each experience of transformation can create a spark of hope in another, which then serves as the start of another ripple.  These sparks of hope, individually and collectively, make a tangible difference –  one person, one family, one community at a time.