Chasing the Moon

Would you rather be right, or would you rather be kind?   I was asked this recently, by a close trusted friend.

Most of us would choose kind, I think.   Or we would say we'd choose kind, because it seems the more noble choice.   But in the world of recovery, kindness only gets you so far.   Kindness, in fact, can be deadly.

I struggle with the hard truths.   I prefer a softer, gentler approach; I want to be someone's soft landing.   It's ironic in many respects, because what got me sober wasn't a kinder, gentler touch.    It was being told the cold, hard truth, over and over.   And it wasn't until I had no other way to go that I finally agreed to give sober a try.

Ideally, kind and right aren't mutually exclusive.    This trusted friend of mine has a way of delivering hard truths in a non-threatening but decidedly firm manner.    The thing is, though, that I'm open to hearing those truths, so the message doesn't need to be delivered with a sledgehammer.

When someone is fighting for their life, kindness can get in the way.   Addiction is a life and death struggle.   Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but eventually.    Because here is a cold, hard truth:   if you are an active alcoholic the elevator only goes one way.   Down.   

At some point all the hand-holding, "yay team!" words of encouragement, heartfelt hugs and long conversations don't work.    At some point I have to stop and say,   "Look.   You're in a fight for your life here.  If you don't stop, you are going to die." 

But if someone doesn't believe it, or doesn't care, words don't matter.   Ask anyone who has ever begged an alcoholic to stop drinking.   

The most common barrier is getting someone to admit they are an alcoholic.   The A word.   I tried everything I could think of to avoid that diagnosis, because alcoholics can't drink.    To someone who doesn't want to stop drinking, who believes with all their heart they can control it, the A word is terrifying.   

I learned in recovery that I'm not supposed to call another person an alcoholic, because it's an inside job;  only that person can know if they are an alcoholic or not.   And that's true, to a large degree.   I have spoken with people near death who don't believe they are alcoholics, and it isn't up to me to tell them they are.   Because it won't matter at all until they believe it themselves.

But that doesn't mean I have to cover up the truth.  Forget semantics, forget the A word.  

Here is another truth:  if alcohol is slowly taking over your life, one day you will get sober or it will destroy you.    

If you find yourself opening your mouth to protest - offer reasons why you aren't that bad, how you can control it, give examples of ways you're functioning normally - pay attention.   Social drinkers don't need to put all those rules around their drinking.

All the flowery speech and hand-holding isn't going to save you.   You're going to have to figure out if you want to save yourself, first.

Some days it feels very hopeless.   Watching someone fight hard to hang onto their sickness, thinking it is the only thing holding them together, is very painful.    Some days it feels like I'm just chasing the moon.   It's easy to be hopeful - maybe it's a little closer now?   But, of course, nobody catches the moon.   Nobody has that kind of power, no matter how much they wish they did.   

Sometimes being there to grab an out-stretched hand or offer words of encouragement is the exact wrong thing to do.    Sometimes the outstretched hand has to reach out and discover nobody is there. 

I'd like to believe I can catch the moon.   I'd like to believe the power of love is enough to get someone sober.  

It isn't.   What gets people sober is the power of the truth.