STEP EIGHT
“We made a list of all people we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.”
[Spiritual principle(s) associated with this step: Forgivenss, humility, honesty, willingness, self-awareness, love]
One of the hardest things to do is to admit when I am wrong. I don’t think I’m unique in this. I tend to justify my actions just as much as the next person. Even when I know I’m in the wrong, when I’ve done something to hurt someone else, when I’ve made a mistake, even then I don’t want to admit it to anyone. It is hard enough to admit it to myself. But, alas, if I carry that around with me – the knowledge and awareness that I am in the wrong, that I’ve knowingly hurt someone – and don’t do anything to correct or amend it, then it is going to eat away at me.
The first “eighth step list” I ever made was the longest eighth step list I’ve ever made. Since then, they are much shorter. Lately I’ve tried to keep it very unlist-like… the only way I know to do this is to become willing to make the necessary amends as soon as I’m aware that I’ve hurt someone in some way. But that first list I made, it was a doozy. I had to reach all the way back into my past and list everyone I’d ever hurt in my entire life. Think about that for a moment.
In the third grade I called Coach Kraft, “Coach Crap.” I got in trouble for it at home and at school, so shouldn’t that give it a pass and keep it off my list? Well, no… the step doesn’t say to make a list of all people we had harmed, excluding the times we got caught and punished. So yeah, Coach Kraft was first on my list.
In the fifth grade, we [me and other neighborhood kids] used to tell this little kid, Dennis, who was 5 or 6 at the time and had just been adopted by his foster parents, that he was adopted (which he obviously knew) and didn’t have “real parents” because he came from another planet, another galaxy, from a place called Zotz. There were these little candies called Zotz, you may recall, and we bought them all the time and told them that these were imported from his planet. He would go home and tell his parents what we were telling him, his parents would talk to me about it when they saw me and ask me not to tell him these things, and I’d get caught up in the crowd mentality and do it again and again. Not only did this hurt Dennis, but also his parents. I have no idea where Dennis is or where his parents are. Since I don’t know where they are, do they have to go on my list? Yes, this step is not about the actual amends making process, only about making the list.
In the eighth grade, I punched that black girl, Wendy, in the stomach. She called me some derogatory name based on the differences in our races, then she pushed me down the stairs. I was already on crutches after leg ligament surgery, so I couldn’t really defend myself, but as she came down the stairs after me, I took my crutch and jammed it into her stomach as hard as I could. She puked all over the stairwell. I know it hurt her pretty bad. But, see, she pushed me first. She hurt me first. Doesn’t that keep her off my list? Nope, it doesn’t. No matter what she did or didn’t do, I did not have to jam my crutch into her abdomen. That was a choice I made, a choice to hurt another person. So Wendy went on that first list.
In high school and college... well, let's just say the amends I owe to some of those people during that time in my life are extensive. I'll leave it at that for now.
After I got married and my finances were combined with my husbands, I became a master manipulator of money and a fine finagler of finances. I could hide large withdrawals and juggle accounts so well that unless you knew what you were looking for, it would look like all the bills were being paid and there was money to spare. Forget that I was spending way too much on drugs (in secret, of course)… somehow I always made the evidence of these expenditures disappear on paper. In effect, I was stealing from my husband and my family. Because it was partly my money, didn’t that make it okay? Wouldn’t that keep him off the list? No, it was still stealing. He didn’t know what I was doing. He thought we were financially okay. He really didn’t discover how not okay we were until the separation and divorce.
As I said, the list was very long. Many people that needed to be on my list were obvious. Some I'd committed crimes against, stolen from them, lied to them, manipulated them. I’d felt guilty about the harm I’d caused them for years. Others didn’t have a clue I’d harmed them in any way. They still had to go onto my list. And still others, like those few examples listed above, belonged on my list even though I tried to justify keeping them off the list.
Once the list was made, it took some time for the second part of this step to come to fruition. I had to become willing to make amends. This step doesn’t tell me to go ahead and make the amends. It tells me to become willing to do so. It sounds easier than it is. Willingness is not my strong suit. It took a while, but one day, as I looked over the list, I realized I truly was willing and ready to make amends to these people on my list. The list had been complete for a couple of months, I’d been reading over it regularly, and with that came first the feelings of denial, then guilt, and finally a recognition that making amends to these people would lift something from me that was weighing me down. I wanted that weight gone. I became willing to make the amends.
And with that willingness, even before the action of the ninth step when the actual amends begin, I felt a relief.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
4.13.2008
4.08.2008
An Ugly, Ugly Night
I came home from a meeting last night and it was about 9:00 when I got home. As I came in the door, my 16 year old daughter, purse on her shoulder and keys in her hand, was heading out the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I've got to go to the other house. Dad's still there. Every time I talk to him he says he's coming home, but then he never does. I went over there earlier to get some money and I think he was on drugs. I think he's using again. Now he turned his phone off and won't answer. We have to go see if he's okay!"
Her dad moved back in with me this past November. He stopped using six months ago and we decided to make a go of it again, eight years after the divorce. Nine years ago, I moved out. I had one year clean and sober and he continued to use drugs. I was determined not to relapse back into active addiction this time around. I had been through treatment three times (over a 7 year period) and every time I ended up using again. It wasn't his fault, but living with someone in active addiction while trying to stay clean is very difficult. I obviously found it more than difficult; I found it impossible. I walked away from a 16 year marriage nine years ago.
Yesterday he said he was going to spend the day working on the house we're trying to sell. It is the first house we ever bought together. It is the house I walked away from when I walked away from the marriage. It is the house he has been living in since the divorce. It is the house we've been working on, getting it ready to sell, so that we can buy a new house together, start fresh. It is the house my daughter and I found him in last night when he didn't come home.
She was right. He was using and had apparently been doing so all day long. I won't go into details, but what we walked in was not a pretty sight. It was all so ugly. What a horrible, ugly night last night.
My daughter drove my car home. I drove his truck home, with him geeking in the passenger seat, apologizing, begging for forgiveness. I remained silent. I couldn't speak. What am I going to do, that's the only thought I could form, what the hell am I going to do?
I woke up this morning with the same thought. It was getting redundant. I decided to pass it on to him.
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know, I just don't know."
"You need to figure it out."
"Please don't throw me out."
"I can't live like this. You have to do something. You need help."
"You can help me. You've been helping me."
"No, I told you before, I am not your savior. I cannot save you. I'm doing good to save myself. I can't save you, too. You must do it. I had to do it. No one did it for me. No one made me go to treatment. No one made me go to meetings. No one makes me go to meetings now. No one can save me but me. No one can save you but you. It's really that simple. Stop complicating it. Just get help."
"I hate those meetings. I will lose my job if I go into treatment. I can do this. I can stop. I've been clean for 6 months. I've been doing it. I can do this."
"Not here you can't. If you're going to continue doing this on your own, like you've tried over and over again for all these years, only to end up right where you are at this moment, you can't do it here. You can stay here if you do something different, if you decide to seek some help somewhere, if you go to meetings and get into recovery. You've been abstinent, but you haven't been in recovery. You could probably stay clean and abstinent for another several months... but then what? Then what? I'll tell you what. It's easy to predict the what. What will happen is what is happening right now. You'll use again because you can't help it. You'll use again because you have nothing to put in its place. You'll use again because it's the only thing you know to do. You'll use again because you're an addict. You'll use again because you'll need it again. I know. I know. "
"So what do I do?"
"Go to a meeting at 12:00 today. Go again at 7:00 tonight. Talk. Find someone after the meeting to talk to. Ask for some help. Get a sponsor. Or go to treatment. Call a treatment center. I called one last night, you refused to go. I can't make you. This is on you, now. I can't do it for you, I'm sorry. "
Then I got in my car and came to work. It was the hardest thing to do, to leave him standing there, to leave him in his pain, to leave him to decide.
But it is all I know to do.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
"Where are you going?"
"I've got to go to the other house. Dad's still there. Every time I talk to him he says he's coming home, but then he never does. I went over there earlier to get some money and I think he was on drugs. I think he's using again. Now he turned his phone off and won't answer. We have to go see if he's okay!"
Her dad moved back in with me this past November. He stopped using six months ago and we decided to make a go of it again, eight years after the divorce. Nine years ago, I moved out. I had one year clean and sober and he continued to use drugs. I was determined not to relapse back into active addiction this time around. I had been through treatment three times (over a 7 year period) and every time I ended up using again. It wasn't his fault, but living with someone in active addiction while trying to stay clean is very difficult. I obviously found it more than difficult; I found it impossible. I walked away from a 16 year marriage nine years ago.
Yesterday he said he was going to spend the day working on the house we're trying to sell. It is the first house we ever bought together. It is the house I walked away from when I walked away from the marriage. It is the house he has been living in since the divorce. It is the house we've been working on, getting it ready to sell, so that we can buy a new house together, start fresh. It is the house my daughter and I found him in last night when he didn't come home.
She was right. He was using and had apparently been doing so all day long. I won't go into details, but what we walked in was not a pretty sight. It was all so ugly. What a horrible, ugly night last night.
My daughter drove my car home. I drove his truck home, with him geeking in the passenger seat, apologizing, begging for forgiveness. I remained silent. I couldn't speak. What am I going to do, that's the only thought I could form, what the hell am I going to do?
I woke up this morning with the same thought. It was getting redundant. I decided to pass it on to him.
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know, I just don't know."
"You need to figure it out."
"Please don't throw me out."
"I can't live like this. You have to do something. You need help."
"You can help me. You've been helping me."
"No, I told you before, I am not your savior. I cannot save you. I'm doing good to save myself. I can't save you, too. You must do it. I had to do it. No one did it for me. No one made me go to treatment. No one made me go to meetings. No one makes me go to meetings now. No one can save me but me. No one can save you but you. It's really that simple. Stop complicating it. Just get help."
"I hate those meetings. I will lose my job if I go into treatment. I can do this. I can stop. I've been clean for 6 months. I've been doing it. I can do this."
"Not here you can't. If you're going to continue doing this on your own, like you've tried over and over again for all these years, only to end up right where you are at this moment, you can't do it here. You can stay here if you do something different, if you decide to seek some help somewhere, if you go to meetings and get into recovery. You've been abstinent, but you haven't been in recovery. You could probably stay clean and abstinent for another several months... but then what? Then what? I'll tell you what. It's easy to predict the what. What will happen is what is happening right now. You'll use again because you can't help it. You'll use again because you have nothing to put in its place. You'll use again because it's the only thing you know to do. You'll use again because you're an addict. You'll use again because you'll need it again. I know. I know. "
"So what do I do?"
"Go to a meeting at 12:00 today. Go again at 7:00 tonight. Talk. Find someone after the meeting to talk to. Ask for some help. Get a sponsor. Or go to treatment. Call a treatment center. I called one last night, you refused to go. I can't make you. This is on you, now. I can't do it for you, I'm sorry. "
Then I got in my car and came to work. It was the hardest thing to do, to leave him standing there, to leave him in his pain, to leave him to decide.
But it is all I know to do.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
4.05.2008
I Ain't No Savior
I struggled to come up from the depths of my slumber. Still asleep, yet I knew I was being observed. Finally, I was conscious enough to have my brain signal my eyes to open. He was laying on his side there beside me, propped on the palm of his hand, looking at me.
“What? What’s wrong? What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just looking at you. You breathe so well, as perfect as anyone I’ve ever seen or heard breathing.”
“Okay. That’s a very random thing to say to someone. No one’s ever said that to me before. Thank you? (I think).”
“No, seriously. You take deep breaths in through your nose and then you exhale through your mouth. It is all very steady and perfect. It’s quiet, no wheezing, nothing to break the rhythm except an occasional sigh..”
Now I was getting a little weirded out.
It had been over eight years since I last had this man in my bed. Now this. Maybe I was dreaming, still asleep, just dreaming I had woken up.
He spoke again. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I can’t sleep. I just can’t sleep. I’m all messed up from the hospital routine. Eleven days of nurses and respitory techs and doctors waking me up at all hours… I just can’t seem to sleep.”
Then he started crying. I was married to this man for 16 years. I was there with him when he buried his mother, his father, his brother. I was there when he shipped out to the Persian Gulf, and again when he returned. I was there for the birth of his children, for hospitalizations of his children. I was there as he dug graves for our family pets over the years. I was there. I had never seen him cry.
Except one other time. He cried when I told him I was leaving him almost nine years ago.
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“You saved my life. You saved me. I would have died in that house, all alone, but you came and called the ambulance and came to the hospital every day, and you saved me. I would have left the hospital this morning and gone back to that lonely house and kept right on doing what I have been doing for all these years, and it would have killed me. But here I am, with you again, where I have always wanted to be. You saved me.”
How does one respond to something like that?
Part of me feels guilty. I didn’t save you: I almost destroyed you. I am not a hero; I am a traitor. If I hadn’t left you, would you have gone so far down the suicidal path you wandered so aimlessly all these eight years? If I had been whole, if I had been well, if I had been faithful, if I had been loyal, if I had stood by you as you stood by me, would you have come so close, would you have gone so far, would you have come face to face with death eleven days ago?
Part of me feels justified. I had to leave. I had to save my own life. I had to reclaim my sanity. I had to get better. There was so much healing to be done, and I had to do it alone. There was really no other way. I never stopped loving you, but I could not die for you.
Part of me feels angry. You could have had me back years ago. You made choices that made it impossible for me to return before now. You loved the drug more than you loved me, more than your children, more than life itself.
Part of me feels empathy. I know you loved the drug more than you loved me, for I once loved it more than I loved you. I know, I understand, I’ve been right where you are this moment.
Part of me feels grateful. Having you here makes me feel whole again. I want to wake up every day with you nearby. I missed you when we were apart. I longed to feel complete. My home felt empty. My home, now our home…once again.
How does one respond to something like that?
“I haven’t saved you. I just love you. I can’t save you. You must do that – all I can do is love you.”
“No, you saved me. You're my savior. Your love has always saved me.”
How does one respond to something like that?
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
“What? What’s wrong? What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just looking at you. You breathe so well, as perfect as anyone I’ve ever seen or heard breathing.”
“Okay. That’s a very random thing to say to someone. No one’s ever said that to me before. Thank you? (I think).”
“No, seriously. You take deep breaths in through your nose and then you exhale through your mouth. It is all very steady and perfect. It’s quiet, no wheezing, nothing to break the rhythm except an occasional sigh..”
Now I was getting a little weirded out.
It had been over eight years since I last had this man in my bed. Now this. Maybe I was dreaming, still asleep, just dreaming I had woken up.
He spoke again. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I can’t sleep. I just can’t sleep. I’m all messed up from the hospital routine. Eleven days of nurses and respitory techs and doctors waking me up at all hours… I just can’t seem to sleep.”
Then he started crying. I was married to this man for 16 years. I was there with him when he buried his mother, his father, his brother. I was there when he shipped out to the Persian Gulf, and again when he returned. I was there for the birth of his children, for hospitalizations of his children. I was there as he dug graves for our family pets over the years. I was there. I had never seen him cry.
Except one other time. He cried when I told him I was leaving him almost nine years ago.
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“You saved my life. You saved me. I would have died in that house, all alone, but you came and called the ambulance and came to the hospital every day, and you saved me. I would have left the hospital this morning and gone back to that lonely house and kept right on doing what I have been doing for all these years, and it would have killed me. But here I am, with you again, where I have always wanted to be. You saved me.”
How does one respond to something like that?
Part of me feels guilty. I didn’t save you: I almost destroyed you. I am not a hero; I am a traitor. If I hadn’t left you, would you have gone so far down the suicidal path you wandered so aimlessly all these eight years? If I had been whole, if I had been well, if I had been faithful, if I had been loyal, if I had stood by you as you stood by me, would you have come so close, would you have gone so far, would you have come face to face with death eleven days ago?
Part of me feels justified. I had to leave. I had to save my own life. I had to reclaim my sanity. I had to get better. There was so much healing to be done, and I had to do it alone. There was really no other way. I never stopped loving you, but I could not die for you.
Part of me feels angry. You could have had me back years ago. You made choices that made it impossible for me to return before now. You loved the drug more than you loved me, more than your children, more than life itself.
Part of me feels empathy. I know you loved the drug more than you loved me, for I once loved it more than I loved you. I know, I understand, I’ve been right where you are this moment.
Part of me feels grateful. Having you here makes me feel whole again. I want to wake up every day with you nearby. I missed you when we were apart. I longed to feel complete. My home felt empty. My home, now our home…once again.
How does one respond to something like that?
“I haven’t saved you. I just love you. I can’t save you. You must do that – all I can do is love you.”
“No, you saved me. You're my savior. Your love has always saved me.”
How does one respond to something like that?
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
Paranoia Will Destroia
I'm surprised I haven't been busted, raped, ambushed or murdered in the last ten years.
I don't remember the last time I even worried about being busted, raped, ambushed or murdered. I used to worry about it a lot. Every day. All day long. For real. I'm not kidding.
Every time I had dope in the house or in my car or on my person, I'd worry about getting busted. That translates into 24/7 because I always had dope in my house, in my car, or on my person. Except when I was searching for it. I rarely ran out, though. On the rare occasions when I did run out, my obsession with getting busted quickly morphed into an obsession to re-stock. Drug-seeking was my career for a long time.
I worried a lot about being raped. I went into a lot of rough neighborhoods to find my drugs of choice. I didn't like going there, but I really had no alternative. Sometimes I found myself in houses or apartments with 7 or 8 men I didn't know. I was the only woman there. Everyone was fucked up. It is hard enough to predict another person's behavior when the other person is straight. Predicting behavior when one's mind is altered in countless ways is next to impossible. Sometimes I had to drive through 'projects' and 'the hood' to score. A few times I had men who I thought wanted to sell me dope actually wanting something very different. One time I ended up in an abandoned house getting high with two men I sometimes bought cocaine from in Jacksonville, Florida who thought I wanted more than their dope. I didn't. They didn't believe me. I ended up leaving my car parked in front of that house and running through the backyards of that neighborhood, lost, scared, wondering if they were chasing me. I thought I heard them chasing me, but I never saw them. It was dark. I found my way back to a main road and eventually made it home. A day or two later, with two friends, I felt safe enough to retrieve my car. I never saw those men again. The experience, though, kept my fear of being raped in the obsessive state.
I also feared being ambushed, and ultimately murdered. Every time I left my house, I took precautions. I put toys and other objects in front of closet doors so that I'd know if anyone waited in the closets of my home when I returned. I put little objects next to the window locks so I'd know if anyone opened a window to break into my home while I was gone. I always figured someone would. I put little slips of paper between the door and the door jamb so when I opened the door, it would flutter out. If it didn't, if it had already fallen out, that meant someone had entered before me, that meant someone was waiting inside to ambush and probably murder me.
One time I took all these precautions - I put toys in front of the closet doors, tiny objects on all the windows, a torn slip of paper between the door and the door jamb - and I went to a friend's apartment in another building. I stayed there for a couple of hours and then returned to my own apartment building. I opened the door and the little torn slip of paper floated to the ground. Good. I quickly went to all the bedrooms and checked under the beds. No one there. Good. I checked all the windows and all the objects were still there. Sigh. Good. I went to the kitchen, feeling safe, feeling relieved to know that tonight was not the night I'd be ambushed and murdered. When I entered the kitchen, I stopped cold. The toy I had placed in front of the pantry door was not there. That could only mean one thing: Someone was in the pantry waiting to ambush and murder me. I panicked. I turned and ran through the living room and out the front door. I ran all the way back to my friend's apartment. I arrived out of breath, my heart pounding out of my chest. Scott answered the door.
"What's wrong, Maze?"
"Someone is in my house. Someone is trying to kill me."
I told Scott about the slips of paper wedged in the door jambs, about the tiny objects on the windows, about the toys strategically placed in front of all the interior doors of the apartment. Then I told him about the missing toy in front of the pantry door. I expected compassion, some empathy, shared fear and panic. Instead, Scott laughed. Amy told him, "Go back to her apartment with her and check it out, Scott." So we walked back to my apartment together. The front door was wide open.
"See? Someone is in there!" This is what I told Scott.
He said, "Did you close the door when you tore out of here to come back to my place?"
"I think I did. Surely I would have. I don't remember."
Scott laughed again. I told him it wasn't funny.
"I know it's not really funny, Maze. I just keep thinking about you putting toys and shit in front of all the doors and on all the windows. I never imagined you were so paranoid. You hide it well."
We checked out the entire house. Nobody lurked under the beds, in the closets, behind the shower curtain or even in the kitchen pantry. Scott stayed with me for a little while, told me I might want to lay off the speed and the cocaine when I was going to be home alone. I told him the drugs had nothing to do with it. It was a feeling I had, a gut-feeling, a knowing... I just knew that someday I'd be ambushed and murdered and I wanted to know when it was coming. Hell, I wanted to avoid it for as long as I could. Scott just shook his head and hugged me as he left.
I locked the door behind him.
Then I checked all the windows and made sure the little items were set for the night. I locked my bedroom door, put the knife under my pillow, the baseball bat next to the bed, and the cordless phone under the covers with me and settled in for a peaceful night's sleep.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
I don't remember the last time I even worried about being busted, raped, ambushed or murdered. I used to worry about it a lot. Every day. All day long. For real. I'm not kidding.
Every time I had dope in the house or in my car or on my person, I'd worry about getting busted. That translates into 24/7 because I always had dope in my house, in my car, or on my person. Except when I was searching for it. I rarely ran out, though. On the rare occasions when I did run out, my obsession with getting busted quickly morphed into an obsession to re-stock. Drug-seeking was my career for a long time.
I worried a lot about being raped. I went into a lot of rough neighborhoods to find my drugs of choice. I didn't like going there, but I really had no alternative. Sometimes I found myself in houses or apartments with 7 or 8 men I didn't know. I was the only woman there. Everyone was fucked up. It is hard enough to predict another person's behavior when the other person is straight. Predicting behavior when one's mind is altered in countless ways is next to impossible. Sometimes I had to drive through 'projects' and 'the hood' to score. A few times I had men who I thought wanted to sell me dope actually wanting something very different. One time I ended up in an abandoned house getting high with two men I sometimes bought cocaine from in Jacksonville, Florida who thought I wanted more than their dope. I didn't. They didn't believe me. I ended up leaving my car parked in front of that house and running through the backyards of that neighborhood, lost, scared, wondering if they were chasing me. I thought I heard them chasing me, but I never saw them. It was dark. I found my way back to a main road and eventually made it home. A day or two later, with two friends, I felt safe enough to retrieve my car. I never saw those men again. The experience, though, kept my fear of being raped in the obsessive state.
I also feared being ambushed, and ultimately murdered. Every time I left my house, I took precautions. I put toys and other objects in front of closet doors so that I'd know if anyone waited in the closets of my home when I returned. I put little objects next to the window locks so I'd know if anyone opened a window to break into my home while I was gone. I always figured someone would. I put little slips of paper between the door and the door jamb so when I opened the door, it would flutter out. If it didn't, if it had already fallen out, that meant someone had entered before me, that meant someone was waiting inside to ambush and probably murder me.
One time I took all these precautions - I put toys in front of the closet doors, tiny objects on all the windows, a torn slip of paper between the door and the door jamb - and I went to a friend's apartment in another building. I stayed there for a couple of hours and then returned to my own apartment building. I opened the door and the little torn slip of paper floated to the ground. Good. I quickly went to all the bedrooms and checked under the beds. No one there. Good. I checked all the windows and all the objects were still there. Sigh. Good. I went to the kitchen, feeling safe, feeling relieved to know that tonight was not the night I'd be ambushed and murdered. When I entered the kitchen, I stopped cold. The toy I had placed in front of the pantry door was not there. That could only mean one thing: Someone was in the pantry waiting to ambush and murder me. I panicked. I turned and ran through the living room and out the front door. I ran all the way back to my friend's apartment. I arrived out of breath, my heart pounding out of my chest. Scott answered the door.
"What's wrong, Maze?"
"Someone is in my house. Someone is trying to kill me."
I told Scott about the slips of paper wedged in the door jambs, about the tiny objects on the windows, about the toys strategically placed in front of all the interior doors of the apartment. Then I told him about the missing toy in front of the pantry door. I expected compassion, some empathy, shared fear and panic. Instead, Scott laughed. Amy told him, "Go back to her apartment with her and check it out, Scott." So we walked back to my apartment together. The front door was wide open.
"See? Someone is in there!" This is what I told Scott.
He said, "Did you close the door when you tore out of here to come back to my place?"
"I think I did. Surely I would have. I don't remember."
Scott laughed again. I told him it wasn't funny.
"I know it's not really funny, Maze. I just keep thinking about you putting toys and shit in front of all the doors and on all the windows. I never imagined you were so paranoid. You hide it well."
We checked out the entire house. Nobody lurked under the beds, in the closets, behind the shower curtain or even in the kitchen pantry. Scott stayed with me for a little while, told me I might want to lay off the speed and the cocaine when I was going to be home alone. I told him the drugs had nothing to do with it. It was a feeling I had, a gut-feeling, a knowing... I just knew that someday I'd be ambushed and murdered and I wanted to know when it was coming. Hell, I wanted to avoid it for as long as I could. Scott just shook his head and hugged me as he left.
I locked the door behind him.
Then I checked all the windows and made sure the little items were set for the night. I locked my bedroom door, put the knife under my pillow, the baseball bat next to the bed, and the cordless phone under the covers with me and settled in for a peaceful night's sleep.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
4.04.2008
Step Seven: Abstract & Poetic
STEP SEVEN
"We humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings."
[Spiritual principle associated with this step: Humility]
When I reached this step, step seven, I felt blocked. Stumped. Dead in the water. When Bill Wilson, one of the founding members of AA and author of most of the big blue book of Alcoholics Anonymous, came up with this step, I’m pretty sure he was referring to “God” when he instructs us to ask “Him” to remove our shortcomings.
Me and my unbelieving self had a problem.
My concept of a higher power, at this point, was still, shall we say, vaguely-defined. Going back to step three, where I “turned my will and my life over to the care of god as I understood him,” helped. Ah yes, the indescribable Tao. Perhaps, even without a personified concept of god I could still take this step. Granted, it would be more abstract than the way others I talked to had taken it, but that felt okay.
The dilemma: How does one ask a non-personified concept for anything?
I didn’t have the answer. Someone suggested I pull out the Tao Te Ching again and see what I could find. It was the perfect suggestion and the beginning of a poetic love affair that continues still.
Instead of just reading other’s translations of the Tao Te Ching, I began writing my own poetic interpretation, and in doing so, I found I was somehow working step seven, somehow “asking god,” making a request of the universe, calling on the Tao.
Some snippets of my own interpretations of the Tao Te Ching that ultimately became my seventh step:
When I am still,
And empty—
That is when I hear.
When I run,
Or grip, relentless
To my fear,
I only hear an echo
Of the faintest echo…
And yet,
Without those vibrations
Upon my ear,
For what would I listen,
Or hope to ever hear?
___
For there’d be no light, if not for the darkness,
If not for the shadow of grief.
For there’d be no healing, if not for the pain,
If not for the wounds of grief.
For there’d be no music, if not for the silence,
If not for the stillness of grief.
For there’d be no joy, if not for the sadness,
If not for the despair of grief.
The negative creates the positive,
For without the good, there’d be no bad.
The right defines the wrong,
For without laws, there’d be no freedom.
The high relies on the low,
For with nowhere to start, there’d be nowhere to go.
___
If I give to you now
That which I need,
(That which you don’t)
What will I have to offer
When you do?
All I can give,
And all I hope for,
Is silence,
A breath of understanding.
I cannot
I will not
Compete
With the whisper within you.
I only wish to hear it,
To really, truly hear it.
And to let you know that I do.
If we come,
Naked, and
Without,
We can begin here,
Right here,
In ignorance.
No baggage.
No weapons.
No need.
It is better that I not lead,
Or be led by you.
___
Be the womb.
Be the water.
Be the giver of life.
When the current changes,
Do not swim.
When the tide is high,
Ride the waves.
When the rapids loom,
Do not paddle.
When the tide slips away,
Drift in the surf.
Follow the flow,
Be that water,
And flow where others
Cannot go.
___
This, by no means, explains the entirety of step seven. I had many shortcomings then. I have many shortcomings now, still. When I can live by my own interpretation of the Tao, when I can practice these things, this is my way of “asking 'Him' [it] to remove all of my shortcomings.” It is not a one-time prayer to some god (or God) somewhere out there to remove my tendencies to manipulate and control, to take away my demanding nature or unrealistic expectations. No, for me, it is living every day and every moment of my life doing my best to practice the spiritual principles that are ever-changing and ever-deepening.
If your soul is centered in the Source,
It gives freely,
Without demand or expectation,
Without control or manipulation,
And it will be a light to all those
Who search for light,
And all those who
See their own shadows.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
"We humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings."
[Spiritual principle associated with this step: Humility]
When I reached this step, step seven, I felt blocked. Stumped. Dead in the water. When Bill Wilson, one of the founding members of AA and author of most of the big blue book of Alcoholics Anonymous, came up with this step, I’m pretty sure he was referring to “God” when he instructs us to ask “Him” to remove our shortcomings.
Me and my unbelieving self had a problem.
My concept of a higher power, at this point, was still, shall we say, vaguely-defined. Going back to step three, where I “turned my will and my life over to the care of god as I understood him,” helped. Ah yes, the indescribable Tao. Perhaps, even without a personified concept of god I could still take this step. Granted, it would be more abstract than the way others I talked to had taken it, but that felt okay.
The dilemma: How does one ask a non-personified concept for anything?
I didn’t have the answer. Someone suggested I pull out the Tao Te Ching again and see what I could find. It was the perfect suggestion and the beginning of a poetic love affair that continues still.
Instead of just reading other’s translations of the Tao Te Ching, I began writing my own poetic interpretation, and in doing so, I found I was somehow working step seven, somehow “asking god,” making a request of the universe, calling on the Tao.
Some snippets of my own interpretations of the Tao Te Ching that ultimately became my seventh step:
When I am still,
And empty—
That is when I hear.
When I run,
Or grip, relentless
To my fear,
I only hear an echo
Of the faintest echo…
And yet,
Without those vibrations
Upon my ear,
For what would I listen,
Or hope to ever hear?
___
For there’d be no light, if not for the darkness,
If not for the shadow of grief.
For there’d be no healing, if not for the pain,
If not for the wounds of grief.
For there’d be no music, if not for the silence,
If not for the stillness of grief.
For there’d be no joy, if not for the sadness,
If not for the despair of grief.
The negative creates the positive,
For without the good, there’d be no bad.
The right defines the wrong,
For without laws, there’d be no freedom.
The high relies on the low,
For with nowhere to start, there’d be nowhere to go.
___
If I give to you now
That which I need,
(That which you don’t)
What will I have to offer
When you do?
All I can give,
And all I hope for,
Is silence,
A breath of understanding.
I cannot
I will not
Compete
With the whisper within you.
I only wish to hear it,
To really, truly hear it.
And to let you know that I do.
If we come,
Naked, and
Without,
We can begin here,
Right here,
In ignorance.
No baggage.
No weapons.
No need.
It is better that I not lead,
Or be led by you.
___
Be the womb.
Be the water.
Be the giver of life.
When the current changes,
Do not swim.
When the tide is high,
Ride the waves.
When the rapids loom,
Do not paddle.
When the tide slips away,
Drift in the surf.
Follow the flow,
Be that water,
And flow where others
Cannot go.
___
This, by no means, explains the entirety of step seven. I had many shortcomings then. I have many shortcomings now, still. When I can live by my own interpretation of the Tao, when I can practice these things, this is my way of “asking 'Him' [it] to remove all of my shortcomings.” It is not a one-time prayer to some god (or God) somewhere out there to remove my tendencies to manipulate and control, to take away my demanding nature or unrealistic expectations. No, for me, it is living every day and every moment of my life doing my best to practice the spiritual principles that are ever-changing and ever-deepening.
If your soul is centered in the Source,
It gives freely,
Without demand or expectation,
Without control or manipulation,
And it will be a light to all those
Who search for light,
And all those who
See their own shadows.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
4.02.2008
The Big Lie
The Big Lie
I thought it made me stronger.
I thought it made me happier.
I thought it made me better.
I thought I found the answer.
I thought I found freedom.
I thought I found myself.
I thought I should stop.
I thought I would stop.
I thought I could stop.
It became my everything.
It became my reason.
It became my life.
It became my enemy.
It became my prison.
It became my grave.
__________
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
4.01.2008
Step Six: Authenticity
STEP SIX
"We became entirely ready to have god remove all these defects of character."
[Spiritual principle associated with this step: Willingness]
All these defects of character? All what defects of character?
The first time I worked step six it was about letting go of all the coping mechanisms I had always used, but no longer needed. These coping mechanisms got in the way of living life fully and authentically. Over time, they became my defects of character. There were many, but I’ll cover three here that severely limited my ability to truly be who I was meant to be, who I could have been, without these defects of character.
Character Defect #1: It may sound strange to say that suicidal ideation is a coping mechanism, but it was one of my big ones. When things felt as if they were spiraling out of control, thoughts of suicide were usually my first line of defense. Planning my death was comforting to me. In my mind, it was my escape route, the way out of anything and everything. Without it, my only choice was to face the things in my life that were too emotionally overwhelming to face.
I learned this coping mechanism when I was a teenager, I think. When I got caught doing something wrong - which I often did - I'd threaten suicide. Everyone would freak out. I'd be sent to see school counselors, youth ministers, and eventually psychologists. The focus became on my emotional turmoil, rather than my crime or misbehavior. After a while, as I grew older and became more and more entrenched in the culture and lifestyle of addiction, suicidal ideation was no longer simply to get out of trouble with my parents, the law and school officials, but it became a viable option to get out of my own emotional self imprisonment, mental anguish, and spiritual bankruptcy.
Character Defect #2: Another coping mechanism I used long after I needed it was a kind of disassociation. Disassociation is often used by people who have been sexually abused as children, especially when the abuse is chronic and on-going. I learned to ‘go away,’ as I remember calling it at age 11. After the first few incidents I discovered I could do something unexplainable with my mind – even though my body was in that dimly lit, dirty garage apartment of my abuser, in my mind I could go far, far away to lighter, cleaner places. I remember the first time I did it. I was staring at a rusty, dirty sink across the room, and the colors of the rust and grime reminded me of a sunset, for some strange reason. Suddenly I was on Treasure Island Beach, riding the waves on my red and blue raft after a hurricane. The waves were huge and they’d throw me off the raft and the currents would suck me under, but I’d always pop back up from the surf and there my mother would be, searching for me from the shoreline, making sure I re-emerged from the six foot waves. Later, once I mastered those waves, I went onto other places, places I’d been before and places I wished to someday visit.
Character Defect #3: A negative self-image is a hard thing to shake. When I was a teenager, I took beautiful photographs. I loved to take photographs of everything I encountered. I rarely shared them with others. When someone happened to see my work, they’d tell me I should pursue a career in photography, they’d ask for prints of my work. I rarely complied. I believed they were ‘just saying that,’ for whatever reason. In college, I wrote for the college newspaper and was chosen to be the Editor-in-Chief my sophomore year. I was amazed that anyone thought my writing and editing skills were worthy. I won awards for writing and editing on the regional level, as well as the state level. I was always amazed and wondered how this could be. I graduated college, the first in my family to ever do so, but minimized that accomplishment and chalked it up to luck of the draw. I sabotaged many jobs during my life because I didn’t feel as if I deserved the prestige or the titles given to me. I stopped taking pictures and writing somewhere along the way. I never felt good enough, no matter what other people said about me, no matter how many times I changed careers (quite effortlessly, I might add), and no matter what my accomplishments were. Quite simply, I never believed in myself.
Suicidal ideation, disassociation, and my negative self-image were just three of my character defects I had to address head-on in step six. At the point I first worked this step, I was still having some trouble with the whole ‘god thing’ and wasn’t sure how to “become entirely ready to allow god to remove these defects of character,” so I sought help from others, from friends, a sponsor, a therapist. I discovered that “allowing god” for me meant opening myself up to others and asking for help. It meant allowing others to help me identify the self-defeating behaviors and beliefs I had been clinging to for so long, and then allowing them to help me discard these defects of character.
The result of working the sixth step?
Knowing I no longer needed a permanent escape route from life.
Knowing I could be fully present for my life and not disassociate at will.
Knowing I have talent and skills and they are worthy enough for others to gaze upon and appreciate.
The real result?
Authenticity.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
"We became entirely ready to have god remove all these defects of character."
[Spiritual principle associated with this step: Willingness]
All these defects of character? All what defects of character?
The first time I worked step six it was about letting go of all the coping mechanisms I had always used, but no longer needed. These coping mechanisms got in the way of living life fully and authentically. Over time, they became my defects of character. There were many, but I’ll cover three here that severely limited my ability to truly be who I was meant to be, who I could have been, without these defects of character.
Character Defect #1: It may sound strange to say that suicidal ideation is a coping mechanism, but it was one of my big ones. When things felt as if they were spiraling out of control, thoughts of suicide were usually my first line of defense. Planning my death was comforting to me. In my mind, it was my escape route, the way out of anything and everything. Without it, my only choice was to face the things in my life that were too emotionally overwhelming to face.
I learned this coping mechanism when I was a teenager, I think. When I got caught doing something wrong - which I often did - I'd threaten suicide. Everyone would freak out. I'd be sent to see school counselors, youth ministers, and eventually psychologists. The focus became on my emotional turmoil, rather than my crime or misbehavior. After a while, as I grew older and became more and more entrenched in the culture and lifestyle of addiction, suicidal ideation was no longer simply to get out of trouble with my parents, the law and school officials, but it became a viable option to get out of my own emotional self imprisonment, mental anguish, and spiritual bankruptcy.
Character Defect #2: Another coping mechanism I used long after I needed it was a kind of disassociation. Disassociation is often used by people who have been sexually abused as children, especially when the abuse is chronic and on-going. I learned to ‘go away,’ as I remember calling it at age 11. After the first few incidents I discovered I could do something unexplainable with my mind – even though my body was in that dimly lit, dirty garage apartment of my abuser, in my mind I could go far, far away to lighter, cleaner places. I remember the first time I did it. I was staring at a rusty, dirty sink across the room, and the colors of the rust and grime reminded me of a sunset, for some strange reason. Suddenly I was on Treasure Island Beach, riding the waves on my red and blue raft after a hurricane. The waves were huge and they’d throw me off the raft and the currents would suck me under, but I’d always pop back up from the surf and there my mother would be, searching for me from the shoreline, making sure I re-emerged from the six foot waves. Later, once I mastered those waves, I went onto other places, places I’d been before and places I wished to someday visit.
Character Defect #3: A negative self-image is a hard thing to shake. When I was a teenager, I took beautiful photographs. I loved to take photographs of everything I encountered. I rarely shared them with others. When someone happened to see my work, they’d tell me I should pursue a career in photography, they’d ask for prints of my work. I rarely complied. I believed they were ‘just saying that,’ for whatever reason. In college, I wrote for the college newspaper and was chosen to be the Editor-in-Chief my sophomore year. I was amazed that anyone thought my writing and editing skills were worthy. I won awards for writing and editing on the regional level, as well as the state level. I was always amazed and wondered how this could be. I graduated college, the first in my family to ever do so, but minimized that accomplishment and chalked it up to luck of the draw. I sabotaged many jobs during my life because I didn’t feel as if I deserved the prestige or the titles given to me. I stopped taking pictures and writing somewhere along the way. I never felt good enough, no matter what other people said about me, no matter how many times I changed careers (quite effortlessly, I might add), and no matter what my accomplishments were. Quite simply, I never believed in myself.
Suicidal ideation, disassociation, and my negative self-image were just three of my character defects I had to address head-on in step six. At the point I first worked this step, I was still having some trouble with the whole ‘god thing’ and wasn’t sure how to “become entirely ready to allow god to remove these defects of character,” so I sought help from others, from friends, a sponsor, a therapist. I discovered that “allowing god” for me meant opening myself up to others and asking for help. It meant allowing others to help me identify the self-defeating behaviors and beliefs I had been clinging to for so long, and then allowing them to help me discard these defects of character.
The result of working the sixth step?
Knowing I no longer needed a permanent escape route from life.
Knowing I could be fully present for my life and not disassociate at will.
Knowing I have talent and skills and they are worthy enough for others to gaze upon and appreciate.
The real result?
Authenticity.
I’m Maze. I’m an addict.
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