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some things are hard to remember
Among the dozens of drunks we’ve met in the short duration of our ministry, only a few have told us that they hate it and hope to stop living in that pattern. Among those, only one has shown serious effort in that direction, that we’ve seen. Len has reached out to us in his efforts, and we’ve tried to be there so that he doesn’t have to make that effort without friends. Oh he has friends aplenty, but all his other friends are caught up in the slow-motion fountain of alcohol that has been Len’s daily life for years.
Living without those friends turned out to be harder than Len thought. Living in a sobriety house was sure nice for its amenities—bed, shower, roof, internet—but it meant that Len had to be around people he didn’t know, people who seemed to only be interested in hassling him to comply with the AA program. Len said he didn’t get anything out of the 12-step meetings. People in those meetings kept saying that AA had made the difference, but Len couldn’t hear anything about how it made that difference.
And, anyway, the difference between drunk and sober wasn’t something he entirely liked. Not only was he no longer not getting the continual stream of personal contact that he had around the park, not only was he no longer taking part in a party every day, he had lots of time to think. His mind was clear. He could remember things better. Len didn’t like that, actually. And instead of sleeping when he passed out from downing too many Sidewalk Slams, he slept sober. So he would dream, and his dreams were bad.
Len won’t tell us what he doesn’t want to remember. He won’t tell us what wakes him up, screaming, in the middle of the night. But he has admitted that his tough-guy act is, well, an act. He’s had the presence of mind to tell us that the hard thing he hasn’t been able to do, so far, is face himself.
Today Len walked away from the sobriety shelter that had given him his first shot at “home” under a roof in I don’t know how many years. Angela and I had braced for the likelihood of this, but it was still hard to watch. He’d been there less than two weeks. He’d overcome several tough days. He didn’t overcome today.
Len chose to leave. He chose to drink and get stoned. He told us he’s torn between what he thinks is best and what he feels he wants. He told us today he decided to get drunk, but tomorrow will be different. I am sad when I think of what tomorrow will likely be for Len, but I also hold out hope. I don’t exactly hope that Len will turn away from intoxication. Instead, I hope Len will give up on evasion. If he keeps trying to stop drinking because he’s trying to evade its terrible effects, the results won’t be pretty.
Can he turn away from evasiveness? Can I? Can you? I hear the message of Jesus as this: It is possible for every heart to change in this way, the power to create such a change is divine, and the opportunity is always immediately present.
Posted by Tracy under stories
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
3 Comments
I’m so glad you told this story, Tracy. I am happy to get to see it through your eyes.
I wish there were some way I could communicate to him what I’ve learned: that painful feelings won’t actually kill him, that he’s really a worthwhile person despite his past and the stories he tells himself, that he’s loved, fully and completely, for who he really is.
But I can’t seem to give him that. I guess we just keep loving him, letting the power of love work through us for whatever transformation is possible.
Good for you for sitting with your friend. Many times, we expect people to move forward, but our job isn’t to move them forward. It is only to love them. Wherever they are. And not with an agenda.
Len is lucky to know you.
Sad story. I think your friends in the park may get quicker and better recovery from alcoholism and PTSD if you try Emotional Freedom Techniques with them. Please check this out:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=6887426238803490578