. . . .35,040 hours. . . .
. . . .1,460 days. . . .
. . . .208 weeks. . . .
. . . .48 months. . . .
. . . .4 years. . . .
. . . .Today. . . .
Do you remember your baptism?
Yes. It was
July 4th, 2007 sometime between 8pm and 10pm. My head was lying on
the floor of a house while my body laid limp hanging off of a chair. There were
witnesses to this sacrament, this unwanted rite of passage. I faintly remember the water being turned into
Vodka like at the wedding at Canaan. My face kissed the train station floor as
if I was at the feet of Jesus. Again my body hanging out of a car like my back
was too frail to support me. Shattered glass surrounded me. The back windshield
damaged thanks to yours truly. Like a child being handed over from their
parents to the pastor, I was transported from one group of friends to another.
The only candle being lit was the flame of an addict that I did not know lived
inside of me at the time. I was fifteen when my soul was promised to the Unholy
of Spirits. My first blackout.
I wish I
had known that blackouts were a sign of alcohol abuse or that alcoholism was
hereditary. Maybe then I would have lived with more caution, or maybe I just
like to think that. The reality is neither of those facts crossed my mind for
five years. My drinking was justified and normalized by American culture. I was
(am) also hard headed and unable to see the facts. The same year my life was
given over to the bottle, I met my mentor and her wife. They were both sober.
My mentor unapologetically shared stories of her drinking and how much sweeter
sobriety had been. Those words did not mean much to me then. Teenagers can’t be
addicts.
Wrong.
The
following year I met one of my best friends, the daughter of two sober addicts.
Ironically enough, she and I ended up making a lot of poor decisions together
contrary to her parents’ lifestyle. Again,
it was normal as many of our peers at the time were doing the same. We went to
a school where prescription pills flew through the hallways. Students came back
from the weekend with stories of driving across Long Island for Speedballs and
cocaine. By the end of the year, I learned of more and more of our peers going
into outpatient rehab. Others continued to live with no recollection of what
happened the week before. High school was literally a blur. A few months into my
friendship with my best friend, she too began her steps to recovery.
I think I
tried to ask for help a few times. I knew something was wrong especially after
losing my brother in ninth grade. The truth is you cannot help an addict until
they are ready to help themselves. The chances are I probably wanted to be
ready but there was always the second guessing. My life is not in shambles like
“real addict,” at least that is what
I thought then. I was not regularly popping pills or doing hard drugs. Our
culture stigmatizes addicts, portraying them as constantly strung out and essentially
the scum of the earth. In reality, yes we do some really scummy things. Addicts
are manipulative, liars, self-serving, and non- committal. Sometimes we can
even be abusive. We place our high above the needs of others and our own self-care.
I of course did not know this nor was I able to see the signs in my own life.
Between struggling with what I later learned was anxiety and depression, my
usage was to cope with my mental health.
Plot twist, alcohol is a depressant. I was doing more harm
than help.
Do you remember your baptism?
Yes. It was
September 30th, 2012 sometime between 3am and 4am. The head of my car
smothered the back of an SUV as my body sat back in the seat. There were
witnesses to this sacrament, this unwarranted come to Jesus moment. I faintly
remember the spiritual presence of the Samaritan woman as I asked for another
drink only there had been no well to drawn from. I spat on my wrists trying to
drunkenly remove hand cuffs as if my saliva could wash away this sin. Eyes shut
only to open again behind bars. I made three phone calls; my sister, my
supervisor, and my pastor in that order. Like a child being handed over from
their parents to the pastor, I was transported from a holding cell to jail. Fluorescent
lights mirrored the baptismal candle, reminding me as I walked down the halls
and into locked rooms, “you don’t belong here. You belong to God.” I was twenty
when I gave my soul over to the Most High.
My last blackout.
I had
finally hit rock bottom. I was a college senior sitting in jail with two other
DWI’s, an assault, prostitution charge, an armed robbery, and a few repeat
offenders. For five years I believed I was not like any of these women. I came
from a stable two parent household in the suburbs. I was in school with dreams of being a pastor.
My future did not include being in jail (not that anyone genuinely dreams of
being in jail). Within twenty four hours my entire understanding of myself changed
entirely. There was a time when I did not see any correlation between addict
behavior and me. As I looked around me and saw who I was housed with I realized
I was the epitome of addict behavior. I am an addict.
Help.
The same
evening I had finally developed the courage to call my mother. I was certain I
had already buried her with this accident. My stupidity was everything she
feared as a parent. As we rode home, I texted my mentor and my best friend’s
parents asking for help. The next afternoon I went to my first meeting. I was
scared. I was in pain. The only thing I could think of was how I could never be
a pastor if I kept drinking. At this rate seminary would never accept me, candidacy
would never entrance me, and everyone who had invested in me for the past how
many years would be disappointed. People believed in me when I clearly did not
believe in myself. There was so much
shame that sat on my shoulders. Between the stress and incredibly uncomfortable
moments of peer pressure, the first four weeks were a blur. I finally allowed letting
go and give up all power I was still trying to maintain. October 25th
I concentrated on my steps to recovery.
I think
about all of the ugly I committed while I was still drunk as well as the ugly
committed to me. Sometimes I reflect on how misguided I was when there were clear
signs that I should have stopped sooner. Like other drunks, I had lost friends
and relationships due to the drink. I put myself and the lives of other in
danger as well. Unfortunately when you live inside a bottle, your vision is
impaired.
I lived like
a Genie that cannot grant her own wishes.
Do you remember your baptism?
Yes. I
remember it every day. There is nothing I rather remember then the day I
finally and truly gave myself over to God. I am here today because of my baptism. I am
here today because of my sobriety. To me it is one in the same. My sobriety is
as pure to me as the water sprinkled on us over the fountain as an infant. It
is a reminder that I cannot live this life without the intervention of my
higher power. It is only when I am sober that I can be mindful of my wrong
doings and my flaws. Through sobriety I can fully experience the grace of God.
In 2012 I was an absent minded fool with a bottle in my hand. When I put the
bottle down, life was able to happen more fruitfully. By 2013 I faithfully
graduated college, began taking classes at seminary, and was accepted into an
MBA program. The following year I completed that MBA and managed to travel to
Europe and Hawaii before the end of the year. In 2015 I was trusted to work in
a hospital in Atlanta, received endorsement from candidacy, traveled to El
Salvador, and got a job in Philadelphia. This past year I developed and
coordinated the Substance Abuse program for a local charter school, traveled to
Peru, Venezuela, and Colombia, and moved to Argentina. This would not nor could
not have ever happened otherwise. I am not perfect at twenty four and I
am present.
I highlight
this story today as I celebrate four years of sobriety. Let it be a reminder
that we are damaged people, all of us. We come with a history. Some history is darker
than others. Some of us wear our suffering on our sleeves while others prefer
to contain it. The sick and suffering are clergy as well as lay people. Our
title does not make us special or exempt from the way of the world. We too live
here in the flesh. It is also my hopes that in sharing, this encourages conversations
to be had with our young people. What do we know about addiction and how are we
messaging it to others? Are we guilty of shaming addicts rather than offering
resources for them when they choose to get help? Often Millennials are
criticized for documenting our every movement. We share too much apparently.
Our entire lives our available for people to see. Some things should be kept to
yourself.
Yes and no.
If my
mentor never told me her story, I would have never known to reach out to her
five years later. If I did not see my peers share their progress in sobriety, I
probably would have felt even more alone in my own journey. Sometimes there are
these incredibly personal articles that are shared that I have watched give
life to people all over again. On the opposite end, when I see the lives and
decisions of some of my peers on social media, I am reminded of why I cannot
live that life anymore. They can go to Miami and come back with memories or
spend an afternoon at Oktoberfest and leave. Those are things I could not do if
I were still drinking. Their reality is my reality check. Maybe someone reading this needed their
reality checked. I hope it helped.
#SoberMissionaryReclaimed
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