Recovery Isn’t About Feeling Good All the Time
Guest post by Lindsey Goodrow
I’m writing in my local coffee shop, enjoying an iced matcha with a hint of honey. It’s sweet but not overly so. I paired it with a slice of chocolate banana bread, which is definitely sweet, perhaps too sweet. But that’s okay. There was a time when the only sweetness I indulged in was wine, bottles upon bottles of it. Red, white, rosé, orange, mulled, sparkling. I drank so much wine that the thought of dessert or pastries never even crossed my mind. My only craving was for alcohol. And after enough of it was in my system, I would pick up a bag. But that’s a fading memory.
Now, I savor my sweet treats and feel grateful that they are my only sugary desire.
The funny thing is, when I come to this coffee shop, I’m only a few houses down from my dealer, who I haven’t picked up from in a year and a half. The closeness, when I think too much about it, feels dangerous and, to be honest, thrilling. I could walk over, knock on his door, and be warmly welcomed inside. In less than five minutes, I could throw my recovery and my life away. It would be so easy to disappear again.
But I’ve learned that easy isn’t always good, and disappearing isn’t the answer, even though the thought occasionally crosses my mind.
Recovery, I’m beginning to understand, isn’t about feeling good all the time; it’s about learning to exist with pain without letting it consume you. You don’t need to force those tempting thoughts away; you can allow them to exist without self-sabotaging. The way out of a trap like craving is awareness. It’s studying it, sitting with discomfort instead of numbing it, and befriending the parts of yourself you were once ashamed of.
When I sense the undercurrent of craving, I think back to something I once heard in a meditation class. My teacher told the class that using alcohol or drugs is like taking an elevator to the peak of a mountain. Sure, you get there quickly, and you catch a glimpse of breathtaking, ecstasy-inducing, heart-pounding beauty. As you gaze at the world around you, you briefly feel at one with the universe. But then the elevator doors shut, and just as fast as you soared up the mountain, you plummet down. Not only is the moment fleeting, but by taking a shortcut, you miss out on the lessons learned, the strength gained, and the confidence built had you taken the longer route: actually climbing.
Life in recovery is about climbing the mountain.
Alan Watts once said that meditation is like making music or dancing. The point isn’t to get to the end as fast as possible.The same, I say, is true for recovery.
Recovery isn’t about chasing a constant state of feeling good or being the best, ideal version of yourself. That is the illusion that using and getting high gave us: that the high place was the only place worth being. It’s about shifting how you perceive yourself and the world. Each day of sobriety is another opportunity to learn how to sit with yourself and feel your feelings after years of avoiding feeling anything at all, reminding you that you are a human being in a human body.
The goal isn’t happiness all the time — it’s wholeness.
Early sobriety often feels to me like trying to grab hold of fog; just when I think I have clarity, it slips away from me. But every iteration of myself has been necessary and has brought me to this moment, even the messy ones, those who have slipped, cried, screamed, and made mistakes. The versions of me who have tried and failed.
The urge to return to that familiar cycle is always lurking in the depths of my being. I could easily slip back into a pattern I know all too well. But this is the hard part: the phase that leads to transformation. This is the climb.
When I finish writing this, I’ll walk to my car, parked just a few houses down from my dealer. I can see his front yard from there — gated, with weeds growing out of dry dirt patches. I could rap on the screen door, hear him greet me cordially, surprised but overjoyed that I’m back. He’d invite me in for what he calls a “ceremonial.” A free line, or two, or three, depending on how engaging the conversation is. I’d leave with half a bag in my pocket, my eyes unable to adjust to the daylight. I’d drive off in a panic, my hands sweating profusely and my heart racing. I’d blast electronic music because, for some reason, anxiety-inducing music sounds best while high. I’d park somewhere quiet, continuing the cycle — doing key bumps, hiding from the people who care about me, losing myself further. That’s when the shame would envelop me. I would have thrown it all away, and the only thing left would be to pick up some wine, something not too sweet, but enough to make my stomach turn. My body, my heart, everything crushed.
My brain tells me that would be the easy thing to do. If it didn’t make me so sad, I’d laugh at the ludicrousness. I will remind myself, again and again, that voice is wrong — and I am stronger than that pull.
By choosing, every day, not to drink or use, I am healing parts of myself I once ignored. Addiction is like living with open wounds, bleeding out; recovery is about bandaging them up. The pain is still there, but I’m healing. I’m becoming whole. I’m learning how to live again.
How about you?
We’d love for you to share in the comments:
- What helps you keep climbing the mountain of recovery, even when the path feels steep?
- In what ways has sobriety brought you closer to feeling whole?
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Lindsey Goodrow, a gay and sober essayist from Southern California, explores the addictive aspects of the human experience. Her work has appeared in The Gay and Lesbian Review and Dream Boy Book Club. Her second prose chapbook, Love You More Than Wine, is out with Bottlecap Press. For more about her work, follow her on social media @lingod.
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