Hoping Against Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

What does it mean to hope against hope? I remember hearing the phrase many times in the room of recovery. It’s weird the things I can remember from those early days, the days when I would drink just to be able to make it through a meeting without going into violent withdrawals. They say that a belly full of booze and a head full of A.A. can destroy a person, and honestly, that’s not so far from the truth. How can you hold onto hope when everything you’re trying to do isn’t working?

There was a miserable 3-month period between my first A.A. meeting and my first 24 hours sober. I was a college student at the time, in theory, the world was my oyster. In reality, my life was in shambles. I had tried everything I could possibly think of to get my life back on track. To my chagrin, none of it worked.

Looking back, I can honestly say that I was constantly cycling through all 5 stages of grief in rapid succession.

Denial: Surely there was no way that I could be an alcoholic. I was too young, too high functioning. Not me, no way…

Anger: Poor ME… what the hell did I do to deserve such a shitty lot in life? I’m so sick of this shit, why me?

Bargaining: Okay, so what if I am an alcoholic? I got myself into this mess, surely, I can figure a way out of it myself right…

Depression: Why bother with any of it? I’m such a piece of shit, I deserve this. Maybe this is for the best… maybe I’ll just die and get it over with.

Acceptance: I am an alcoholic… it’s my fate to be alone, miserable, and drunk forever…

That’s the bullshit I fed myself, for months, while drowning myself in booze. I would hop, skip, and jump around to different stages, because who said they have to go in order anyway right? Despite my best efforts, I was feeling all of the feelings, and none of them were good. Self-loathing, depression, anxiety, fear, anger, self-pity, guilt, shame, you name it, all the headliners were there. All of them, except hope of course.

Finally, as a last-ditch effort, I decided to give A.A. the “ol’ college try”. I didn’t hate the meetings, so I kept going. Eventually, some of things people said started to make sense to me. As it turned out, I had quite a bit in common with the people in the rooms. I learned to identify and not compare. After a week or so of two meetings a day, I began to follow some of their suggestions. Arriving early, I would chat with others on the porch, and stay late to help clean up and talk some more. I acquired a sponsor and soon began working on the steps. Convinced, I was “doing the damn thing”, I saw a flicker of hope…

It wasn’t long before it felt like my tiny little flicker of hope was snuffed out by hurricane-level, gale-force winds. After everything I was doing, the meetings, the steps, the sponsor, the networking… sobriety wasn’t happening for me.

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

In my mind, the prospect of any chance at recovery was waning. It crossed my mind that maybe I was constitutionally incapable of doing what it takes to get sober. I was once again at the stage of faux acceptance, sure that I was going to die as miserable and drunk as I was when I walked through the doors of A.A. This was my fate.

I continued to go to meetings, but not with any real hope that much good would come of it. Honestly, I was actually hoping that if A.A. wasn’t going to help me get sober, it could at least teach me how to be slightly less miserable while waiting for death (dramatic, I know).

Suddenly, there was something within me that shifted drastically. It’s like I was going through all the stages of grief again but in reverse. I refused to believe that a slow alcoholic death was my destiny, and I was determined that there had to be another way. Rather than depressed, I was desperate for another chance, and willing to do whatever it would take to get to where I wanted to be.

I can’t tell you exactly what happened, where I was standing, or why it happened when it did. What I can remember is that all the wisdom, experience, and strength I had been absorbing in each of the meetings had come to a head. I was suddenly and inexplicably filled with so many different emotions, the most powerful of all was hope.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

That’s the thing about hope, it doesn’t ask us to know or be sure of anything. It can be lost, shaded, stifled, and damaged. More importantly, hope can be restored, emboldened, and revived. Hope, as fickle as she can be at times, simply asks us to believe in the mere possibility of the unexpected…

Here’s to hoping against hope, and clinging to the slightest of chances that despite all evidence to the contrary, you too, will find your way.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Poem By: Emily Dickinson