Limitations

I grab my phone, my coat and my keys out of the locker that visitors are required to use when visiting the psychiatric ward. I return my visitor’s badge and thank God that I am one of the lucky ones who can leave. On the elevator, I weep. I cry for the young woman in so much pain. I cry over my own limitations.

Could someone else have convinced her to stay? I notice that even as I am making a 12-step call, my own thoughts and feelings are rooted in a desire to control another. I am experienced enough to stop from doing so, but working a vigorous program requires that I am honest with myself: I wanted to do otherwise. My compulsion is to fix, solve, help, and resolve things. My principles require that I remain watchful of my own ego and the blind desires that pull me away from my principles and toward pride.

I return her mother’s frantic texts and offer no false hope but hope nonetheless. It is hard. I want the culmination of this work to result in something tangible and satisfying. I want to achieve goals, celebrate successes and reduce suffering - both mine and others. I want things to work out RIGHT.

This is not the way. There is no perfection in recovery. There is no final destination. There is no brass ring or grand prize. Instead, there is humility as we practice and notice our temptations to return to the unreal fantasy world that our dependencies promised but failed to deliver on.

I am aware that sleep may not visit me tonight. I may feel a bit blue tomorrow. But I will also go to a meeting, practice my daily examen, clean up the messes I made from the day before, trust in the God of my understanding to make all things right if I surrender to his will.

This is all normal and part of the 12-step process.