Addiction is an awful thing. I know this statement isn't particularly
earth shattering or profound, but when you're 50 years old, trapped inside
a prison of your own making, it's not so simple. I was born in
1952, this makes me a full-fledged, in-all-the-way, child
of the sixties and all its trappings: music, drugs, concerts, living every
day as if that day were all that mattered. In retrospect, even from the
vantage point of someone twelve years into recovery, I most likely
wouldn't change a thing about those early years. It was romantic and
exciting, seemingly filled with endless possibilities, while of course
steering clear of those horrifying adult words like responsibility
and maturity.
What happens though when that child of the sixties rockets
forward into the nineties but maintains that same teenage maturity
level. It doesn't seem to work so well when you smash against the
limits and constraints of the real adult world.
I will not be going into a year-by-year drug- or drunkalog: the end
result is what's important, and the end result is that at 51 years old,
what started out as fun and exciting, ended miserably with my daily
drinking and drugging, mostly alone, nothing social or romantic about it.
On the outside, everything seemed normal because the insidious
nature of an opiate addiction is that it can be hidden, it is secret.
As long as the addict can feed a daily habit, he or she can go about
the business of life as if everything is fine, when it is anything
but.
So at 51, in an effort to save my life, I found myself at a lovely little
resort area called Silver Hills in New Caanan, Connecticut, supposedly the
rehab to the stars.Trust me, no one I met in the K house detox
unit was tabloid material.
Miserable with the pain of withdrawal, coupled with a sense that my
life as I knew it was over, I stumbled down to what was called the “med
room”. I sat patiently while the rehab residents got their vital
signs taken and were administered whatever meds they needed to help
with the process.
Out of the corner of my eye, on an old beat-up end table, I saw a small
CD player with a bunch of CD's scattered around. I wandered
over and asked politely if it would be okay to play some music. I
started shuffling through the CD's to see what might be listenable. The
Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Montavani, Peggy Lee (not so bad but not what I
was looking for)… but then, lo and behold, Johnny Cash, the album American IV with producer Rick Rubin. I was not familiar with the record. I put
it in, and settled back on the sofa… to this:
WHEN THE MAN COMES AROUND-JOHNNY CASH
Johnny, who had gone through his own addiction nightmare, seemed
to be talking directly to me. That's how I felt as I sat back, closed my
eyes, and let the music take me over. And then amazingly the second song
on the album:
"I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real.”
And there, in that little room, Johnny spoke to me again.
The realization that for the past two years I had completely ignored
something which had been an integral part of my life since I was 10
washed over me. For the next few days these two songs served to
remind me that I had done damage to my soul, I had physically and
metaphorically dug myself into a dark and dangerous hole. Listening to
these songs over and over each day were my first few wobbly steps back
into the light.
The album, of course, has other great songs, but I played those two
songs in a loop, until eventually a lynch mob of angry addicts formed
and told me to knock it off.
After six days in rehab, I was released back into the real world.
Between the acute care lock-up and the rehab I had been sober for a
grand total of nine days, which wasn't encouraging because I had gone
through the pain of withdrawal several times over the past few years,
and always fell right back into old habits as soon as I would start to
feel better. But this time, I had two things to lean on, the 12-step
program, introduced to me in rehab, and music, which amazingly enough,
had to be re-introduced to me.
And so, with a singleness of purpose I started going to meetings, at
least one a day, sometimes multiples a day, for the next three years,
and when I wasn't going to meetings, I was listening to music. In 2003
Napster was still alive and I must have downloaded 2000 songs in
the next few weeks, when I wasn't downloading, I was burning CD's,
giving them titles, rating them, giving them to friends. In short, I was
like a musical mad scientist.
And slowly, the little pieces of my soul that addiction had chipped
away, much like Andy Dufrense systematically chipping his way out of
prison in The Shawshank Redemption (the difference
being I was chipping my way into a prison), slowly began to fall back
into place, a little at a time.
And now, when I listen to music, or go to a concert, I am present and
open and able to fully appreciate every nuance -- and amazingly,
sobriety is fun and romantic and exciting. Like Brandi Carlile
says;
"you can dance in a hurricane, but only if you’re standing in the eye.”
"you can dance in a hurricane, but only if you’re standing in the eye.”
"It really breaks my heart, to see a dear old friend, go down to that
worn out place again.”
So now 12 years later, music, as well as all the other things that matter to me are back in my life, and I still attend 12-step meetings on a regular basis.
It's a tricky situation given the fact that “God” and a belief in such
plays a huge role in the 12 steps, and that dynamic doesn't really work
for me. But I am a very spiritual person with a strong belief in the
power gained from one person helping another on their respective roads
to sobriety. The power isn't necessarily a higher power. It's more an
earthly power, and it's felt every time I sit in a meeting surrounded by
people who, whether they like you or not, want you to succeed. That's a
dynamic that doesn't exist in many other facets of society.
So although the power isn't higher, step two of the 12 steps reads:
“came to believe that a power greater than yourself can restore you
to sanity.” Well, for me in many ways, that power was, and still
is, music.
So back to Brandi. Besides “The Eye,” she has also written one
of the greatest songs ever about addiction:
The person that let music, as well as everything else important,
slip from his life -- well, that wasn't me.
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