Most likely because I had lots of practice, I became pretty good at stopping using. The pain and embarrassment would typically reach a level that negated the benefits of continued using, so I would dig deep and summon the willpower to stop. The act was usually accompanied by dramatic promises of some sort; maybe a vow to eat better, take vitamins or join a gym. There had to be some new wrinkle to convince myself I wasn't simply repeating the madness of the last time. Some of these "cures" took on a pathetic, gimmicky quality: I can remember one time thinking that a new breakfast cereal or tattoo might just be all that stood between me and a lifetime of sobriety.
Yeah, stopping was no picnic, but it was relatively easy compared to "staying stopped." That part of the deal-- the ongoing sobriety--always proved tricky for me. Astonishingly, even the grandest plans to mold a new sober existence sometimes lasted only a day or two. Or I'd make it a week, pronounce myself not an addict or alcoholic, and celebrate by using and drinking alcoholicly for a couple weeks.
When I stop using, the first part of me that gets well is my body. No spiritual program of recovery is required for my organs and systems to return to normal function. They simply need the absence of drugs and time. It's painful to get through, but usually a few days/weeks of shaking and sweating is enough to get you feeling reasonably normal again.
So the body is restored painfully but quickly(in the scheme of things). The appetite returns. We begin to feel normal (ok, less abnormal). And it's at this point, just as we're physically out of the woods and feeling human again, that the battle shifts from stopping to "staying stopped." Our momentum is no longer fueled by physical pain or our embarassment over that late night facebook post. So our resolve gets revised.
Geez. Maybe I overreacted a bit. I mean, sheesh, it's not like I murdered anyone!
It's not that we forget what happened, we just remember it differently. This is addict/alcoholic thinking-- a subtle rewriting of history with the edges softened just enough to permit us to use again. It's also Grade-A, un-cut insanity, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels normal. You see, an insane mind cannot identify an insane thought.
Abstinence treats the physical aspect of addiction-- after a period of time, we no longer suffer from the CONSTANT irresistable urge and craving. We feel well. We go to NA/AA meetings and share just how much better things have become--and they have: we've stopped wetting our bed, can form basic sentences, and we're remembering our conscious moments. Life is almost normal.
So normal, in fact, that we believe we can use/drink like normal people.
Addiction is so cunning that it is willing to starve for a period of time to convince us we're OK. It patiently waits for our momentum to die. And rather than re-emerge in a fantastic flurry, it quietly creates a mental blank spot where we are unable to summon the memory of our experience. I always fell for it quietly.
"Staying stopped" is not about abstinence. It's about understanding the futility of abstinence alone, of recognizing the Groundhog Day life we're leading. We stay stopped when we recognize the futility of our will, and become willing to do whatever is required to be relieved of the madness. When we are restored to sanity through working the steps, we are no longer prey to strange mental blank spots. We are aware and present. We'll always be addicts and alcoholic, but we have recovered from the inability to distinguish the true from the false.
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