Byline: Keith Howard

No matter what kind of recovery meeting you go to, the narratives are likely to follow a predictable path. It’s not a bad path—in fact, it’s really good—but it is well worn by every other recovery story you’ve heard before.

Alcohol and drugs may at some point have been razors for me, although I couldn’t remember that time.  I’d misused and abused powders and liquids and pills and herbal supplements  long enough that I had transformed them into a Sawzall, a reciprocating saw.  For those not familiar with reciprocating saws, here’s an apt description from handyman.com.

If I had to place money on either a horse race or on picking winners from early recovery, I’d be a better bettor at Pimlico or Churchill Downs than at a church basement or outdoor All-Recovery meeting. At the track, at least I’d have luck on my side—along with a little bit of information about the horses’ previous record. In early recovery, where most folks look like they’re way below down on their luck, appearances can be are deceiving.

I’ve been down many times in my life, looking up at people in the power structure, whether case managers, or food pantry workers or just someone to bum enough money for smokes off of. That stinks. They didn’t seem fully human to me when I gazed up the nostrils of privilege or stared hopefully at the chin of pride and arrogance. At least, that’s how people above me always appeared, no matter what they did to try to establish “rapport,” which all too often just made me more suspicious of them. 

I am one of the last people you should listen to on issues of spirituality. After all, when I first got into recovery, my higher power (Higher Power for those of you for whom higher power is a substitute word for God) was an imaginary number—i is the symbol for the square root of -1, a value that does not exist for square roots must be positive. Although imaginary, i is indispensable in solving some quadratic equations. If math problems can be solved with a nonexistent value, then it was good enough to help me solve the problem of my life. If nothing else, it placed something outside my will, ego and appetite at the center of the universe.

I don’t believe these things because I’m an optimist. I don’t believe them because of a book I read or a movie I watched. My belief doesn’t come from tapping my heels three times and making wishes.

Employees of Hope are no better or of higher status than anyone who comes to us for support. We are comrades and allies and friends and companions with no special gifts or skills. Every person at Hope is in recovery from drug or alcohol abuse, eating disorders or other addictive behaviors. 

Theories offer only a half-constructed bridge to reality. Put another way, I’d rather learn about combat from real soldiers who have fought in real wars than from military theorists. Give me Norman Mailer, James Jones or Tobias Wolff over von Clausewitz, B.H. Liddell Hart or even Lao Tzu. The man who has been to war knows combat in his bones and heart; the theorist only in his mind.

Recovery is about way more than not drinking. It’s about redux—a return to health after a period of sickness. Sometimes, though, we get so used to being diseased that health feels unhealthy, particularly when that disease has provided our best friend, our constant companion, our soulmate—meth, dope, coke, booze. Like a starving man with a meal of diseased meat, we know we must consume even as that consumption slowly kills us.

I write this Friday morning. Last night, Lucy, my dog whom many of you knew, died after being hit by a car. From everything I could tell, she died instantly at impact, a blessing I suppose. Becca, my oldest daughter, found Lucy’s corpse at the bottom of our driveway. I was sitting on our porch. Becca’s shrieks called me.

There is one proven solution for quitting drug and alcohol use. It is 100 percent effective, with no relapse or reoccurrence worries at all. This solution guarantees the drinker or drugger will never, ever use again. Not only that, it is easily available to all who use, and for many is the ultimate goal of addiction—even if the drug or alcohol user isn’t ever consciously aiming toward it. This solution has no side effects for the user and requires nothing—no change in attitude nor behavior—it is completely effective…

For most of us at Hope, abstinence and time were never enough. Like sponges left to dry under a sink for days, weeks, months, even years, something inside us always yearned to get just another taste, whether of dope or booze or meth or whatever. In fact, for people like me, abstinence without a program of recovery was worse than any drug or alcohol issues—or at least life was less livable. Between the ages of, let us say, 12 and 47, I had two periods where I was denied access to drugs or alcohol for an extended period of time. At the end of each of those times, I was actively suicidal. Really. 

September is National Recovery Month, whatever meaning that may have. It’s also, National Yoga Month, National Honey Month and National Prostate Health Month.  Once you’ve relaxed, sweetened-up and prepared for a prodding, think about those around you who have escaped the need for escape, who have managed to live life without chemical assistance and who have transformed their lives from quiet desperation to quieter inspiration. And know, really and for true, that if you need help in that transformation, people like me and everyone else at Hope for New Hampshire Recovery are there for you.

I know a number of folks may have had reoccurrences (relapses) during this time. Please, please, please don’t let this keep you from coming. You’re in recovery when you say you are, and letting shame or remorse keep you from doing something healthy is doubly, triply, quadruply self-defeating.

Over the course of the past eight days, someone has broken five different windows at Hope. Someone threw one rock through one window last Monday evening. Someone (or someones) threw three rocks through three windows last Thursday night. Someone threw a rock through a window last night. Three nights. Five windows. No explanation. No rhyme. No reason.

When Lucy and I found each other, she was about three or five — who can tell, really? — and still had a lot of puppy in her. For instance, she had some very strong ideas about where various animals belonged in the universe. When she saw a bird on the ground, a squirrel out of a tree or a woodchuck above the earth, Lucy would make damn sure they got back to their rightful habitats.