When I talk to families they usually hope or pray that something happens to their loved one to “wake them up” and convince them to change. Sometimes this “something” is in the form of a person who can inspire their kid, like a therapist, a boss, a significant other, a recovering addict or at least someone who turned their lives around. In other cases, it’s usually after some major crisis happens, like a DUI, or an arrest, loss of a marriage or a job and the families says to me “Maybe this is the bottom for them. Maybe now they’ll change.”
And when they are talking to me with a glimmer of hope I know that they’re loved one probably won’t change as a result of the inspirational speech or the “major crisis” that just hit them. I don’t usually tell the families this, because even if I did they probably wouldn’t believe me. But, I’ve had a conversation along those lines probably a thousand times. Maybe once did I ever see a “major blow” compel an addict to change for long. I hate even mentioning the “maybe once” because a family often grabs onto that thought, believing “well, my son/daughter is different. They’ll be the one.”
Now, I’m not saying that addicts don’t change as a result of negative consequences or someone helping them. Actually they do and quite frequently. It’s just in the scenario above, it usually doesn’t work out. The family is actually looking at the dynamics of change in the wrong way. Basically, the problem when a family thinks along these lines is that they are thinking that a singular major event might occur that spurs someone into permanent change. Although that can and does happen, in most cases of addiction, it doesn’t.
I’m going to show you an example of how family can often help to rob someone of the willingness necessary to recovery. How someone was just a “sandwich away from reaching the bottom”.
He was a sandwich away…
My family had kicked me out days before and I’m getting sick and tired of living this way. They’ve given me an ultimatum: Give us a call when you are truly willing to commit to a six-month stay at a halfway house.
At first, walking out the door, I was a combination of relieved (“at least they’ll quit giving me crap all the time”) and pissed off (“how dare they talk to me that way and try and force me to do something that I don’t want to do”). I was going to show them by staying clean and sober on my own without their help. I didn’t need them, I didn’t need another recovery program, I didn’t need anything.
So, before I committed to proving that I can stay clean and sober on my own, I call up a friend of mine to score some dope for the last time. My intentions are pretty clear. I had a bit of money in my pocket and I was only going to spend half of it on drugs, party it up for one last time, and then make my commitment to staying clean. After that, I’d plan my next move. Of course, I don’t really reflect on the fact that almost everytime I’ve promised myself to only spend half my money on drugs and save the rest, has resulted in blowing everything followed by regret.
Six days later I was out of options. When you have some money and some drugs, it’s pretty easy to find someplace to go. You probably wouldn’t believe how many strangers houses I was able to crash at with just a pocket full of dope. Dude, you can stay here as long as you want. And then, days later, the money and drugs disappear and my new found friend begins to get a little uncomfortable. I know that I said you could crash, but you’re going to have to move on, my man.
So, here I was again, for the hundredth time in my life. No money, no job, no drugs, nowhere to go, no options. Whereas yesterday I had an attitude of “Oh well, everything will work out.”, right now…not so much. Anxiety and discomfort begin to rapidly hit me as the consequences of my choices have begun to hit me. Walking the streets trying to figure out what to do next, I can literally begin to feel my soul want to scream out in frustration. Just one more hit and the anxiety will go away, but I can’t beg, borrow or hustle anything. Even the dope man doesn’t have much sympathy. Sorry, bro, but I got to have cash.
If I have anything of value I can try and trade it for drugs, but the exchange rate in the drug world pretty much sucks. If you have food stamps, you can trade them for fifty cents on the dollar. Material items usually go for about ten percent of their cost. In other words, that shiny new laptop you just bought for a thousand dollars yesterday? Worth about a hundred dollars today on the streets. You could try the pawn shops, but they aren’t much better. If you have a car, you can rent it out to the drug dealers, but the rates are usually less than fifty dollars a day. And if you do that, it means you don’t have a car for the next day or days. Walking around after having just smoked up fifty bucks worth of dope gives you a lot of time to kick yourself in the ass. You idiot! Now you don’t have a car, drugs left, or anywhere to go for another…23 hours and 15 minutes.
So, after a day or so of this, I finally start to feel the consequences of my addiction in a major way. I start to question my life and my decisions. I hate myself and don’t want to keep living this way. I’m so sick and tired of getting good things such as jobs, girlfriends, places to stay…only to see them go away in a puff of drug smoke. I’m starting to think about what my family has said about the halfway house. Six months isn’t really that long, is it? Maybe if I stayed there that long I wouldn’t keep putting myself here. Anything is better than where I’m at right now.
I call my family and tell them I’d like to talk. Right now my anxiety and discomfort is at about a 9 out of 10 in the “screwed up your life and are willing to commit to recovery” scale. Because I don’t have a car, they have to come pick me up. An hour or so later, I see my stepdad pull up. He doesn’t say anything and I get into the car.
Sitting in the car, my anxiety drops to about a 7…
We don’t talk on the ride back home. There’s really nothing much to say. Just a long drive there. Pulling up, I walk into my family’s house. I haven’t showered in a few days, haven’t eaten in just as long. I’m dirty and I’m pretty sure that I don’t exactly smell all that great. I’m tired from lack of sleep and exhausted from walking around. I’m pretty much ready to surrender to anything.
Sitting in the living room, my mother looks at me expectantly. I feel so bad that I ask her “before we talk, can I jump in shower real quick? I feel disgusting.” She pauses for a long time before answering. “Fine, but we are going to talk about treatment when you get out!” I jump up from the couch and head into the shower. Turning it on, the steam begins to build and I peel my disgusting clothes off. Stepping into the shower, the warm water pours over me. I begin to feel a lot better.
Standing in the shower, my anxiety drops to a 5…
After the shower, my mother is puttering around in the kitchen. I walk in, not perfect, but a heck of a lot better than 20 minutes ago. She sits down at the kitchen table and says “Let’s talk.” Looking at her, I look back at the fridge. “Can I have a sandwich and a glass of milk while we talk? I haven’t eaten in a few days” while giving her my best “I haven’t eaten in a few days” look that no mom has any real defense against. Another pause. “Fine”.
So we sit down and begin to talk about treatment and the six month stay at the halfway house.
And with each bite, my anxiety drops even more…
And the person who sat on the street corner two hours ago is gone, replaced with a cleaner, less willing, less hungry version. The guy on the corner fully felt his consequences and was ready for anything. This guy…a bit less willing, a bit less uncomfortable. His consequences are mostly gone.
“You know mom, what if I commit to 90 days instead of 6 month?”
And what wouldn’t have been a negotiation or an argument hours before becomes a dance. A dance between a successful treatment plan and a comfortable one. Long term vs short term. Hard vs easier. And because mom so desperately wants me to surrender to something, she’s willing to bend. 90 days is better than nothing. Maybe this time it will work.
And our wayward friend, David?
I believe that he was a sandwich and a shower away from really surrendering.
There is a difference between reaching the bottom….and feeling the bottom.