How To Get Rich in Recovery

We all know a person who literally knows something about everything. Not the nice man or woman who shares some advice or idea only when asked. No, that other dude who always seems to be waiting for a chance to butt into a conversation and expound upon your stupidity while imparting “real” knowledge. The woman who misses most of the conversation, but explains what you should know about the one irrelevant part she heard. You know, that guy who begins his sentence with a gruff, “In my day…” Recovery is full, and I mean running-over-the-edge-of-the-tub-and-down-the-hallway full, with these types of people. It may grate on your last nerve, but when it comes to these know-it-alls, listen and get rich in recovery.

When I was in early recovery, I had a hard time concentrating in meetings. My stint in active addiction had fried my attention span and hard-wired my brain to seek the joy of chaos. I loved shares from others that included a healthy chunk of drinking stories with a minor piece of recovery. Sharing the sickness and not the solution was what I was all about. I was recovery poor. But, the problem, as I saw it, began and ended with these old, fuddy-duddies who kept giving “boring” speeches about how they successfully stayed sober.

I didn’t want to hear about living in a halfway house, learning from others, and rebuilding a now boring life. That’s rich recovery talk. Give me more of those stories that included hanging off the edge of a water tower half-naked, or being thrown out of a bar before ordering the first drink. I wanted to know about the time a person bought a sixth quart of liquor because he forgot the hiding places of the first five. Those were funny and I could understand them. I shared those types of stories when it was my turn. Did I tell you about the time I stole a steamroller at 2 a.m.? That was all I had to talk about, and all I wanted to hear. Lots of active addiction, and nearly zero recovery.

While most of the know-it-alls patiently listened to my arrogant, exhaustive recounts of why my life being in disarray was not my fault. I slowly began to get the feeling they had heard it all before. Then, I occasionally caught snippets of conversation between a few of these old-timers discussing newcomers like me.

“That’s one of the reasons in my home group; you had to wait at least 6 months before sharing at an open meeting. You don’t know anything.”

“That was about the worst drunk-a-log I have heard in years. I am amazed they claim to be sober.”

“I remember those days. Time takes time.”

“He is right where he is supposed to be. Glad I’m not there, though.”

Without a doubt in my mind, and with absolutely no evidence, I decided they were talking about ME. I mean, whom else could they possibly be discussing in a meeting of 15 people? I was embarrassed, angry, ashamed, confused, hurt, and ready to reach into a big box of “f—k its.” My recovery bank account was dangerously overdrawn.

I decided that if they didn’t want to hear what I had to say at a meeting, then I wouldn’t say anything at all. Hell, I might just quit going to the stupid meetings altogether. Who needed these people anyway! I was on a rant of epic proportions, but only in my mind. The truth, though I hated to admit it, was that I needed them. I needed the support and a safe space to ask questions and hear answers.

Still, back then, my mind was made up. I wasn’t saying a word, not a peep; I didn’t even plan to breathe hard. Well, I had to say a word and a peep. At the first meeting when I had sworn myself to silence, I was called on to share.

“I’m just here to listen,” I said stoically. Secretly, I was gleeful. I was getting back at them for talking bad about me behind my back and talking far enough away that I wasn’t 100 percent sure what they were discussing. How rude! They were going to pay with my silence.

Oddly, despite being “here to listen” through those first three or four meetings after I had sworn an oath of silent revenge, I heard nothing. I was lost in thought about how the other members must be wondering what was wrong, and if he or she had caused me to take a vow of semi-silence. After meetings, I tried to stay stoically silent as well, but I broke my vow during discussions of college basketball.

Slowly, my pouty demeanor seemed too heavy to continue to carry into meetings. As I left the emotionless outer shell out of the meetings, I began to listen, fully, to some of the fuddy-duddies and some of the newcomers. I mean really listen closely, leaning forward in my chair and applying what they said to my own situation.

This one particular old-timer, who would always say that he came to a meeting because he would rather be sober than drunk today, no longer seemed to talk in never ending circles. At one meeting, he said that when he first got sober he had to practice sitting still in a chair for 30 seconds at a time. Then, he managed to stay still for a minute one day and realized that he was proud of himself for the first time in years.

Just by listening to the guy, I realized that I had not been proud of anything I had done in years. All of my ideas of how I controlled my drinking, acted as a good parent and employee, and took care of basic responsibilities were based on memories a decade old. The last years of my drinking, and the first months in sobriety, were a rollercoaster ride leading to nowhere. I had no real purpose. I had to start making small changes and remember that small amounts of progress had value.

Another guy at a different meeting shared that despite his time in sobriety, his father would not allow him to spend the night. He said that they had watched an NBA playoff game together, and after the game, they had spent a couple of more hours talking. His father looked at the clock and noticed it was 2:30 a.m. The guy’s father gave his son a hug and walked him to the door to say good night.

“We have come a long way, and I know my dad loves me. Still, after five years clean and sober, he doesn’t trust me to stay in his home. I did that to him. All I can do, now, is continue to stay sober.”

At the time, I remember how lucky I felt. All of my family seemed unharmed from my years of drinking. The truth is that it took time to break down the façade my loved ones showed me. By listening in meetings, I knew a “discovery” of the harm I caused was coming.

In my life today, there is a significant relationship barrier with one of my two sons. He has not talked to me for four months, though we used to talk every other weekend at least. In my situation, the damage I caused didn’t erupt all at once. It has shown up in smaller jolts through the years. By listening to others in meetings, I was better prepared for this reality. I had built up my recovery bank account so that the emotional spending didn’t leave me bankrupt. I also understand I only control my part of any relationship. The best thing I can do to heal emotional scars from my past is to stay sober and remain open to change as healing continues.

When I took the cotton out of my ears and put it in my mouth, not everything I heard made sense. One old-timer spent three minutes talking about almost shooting a neighbor during an angry dispute when she was drunk one night. Instead of a warning of the dangers of losing your temper while drunk, she gave a very different moral to the story. She still carried a gun, and now that she is sober, she wouldn’t miss.

I once would have loved the story. Before I started paying attention, the thrill of possible gun-play in active addiction would have kept me interested. When I was recovery poor, that was the only part of the story I would have heard.

Instead, I learned that seemingly nice old ladies could be packing pistols as well as Marlboros. I am not sure how that will help me in build my recovery bank account, but I have kept that mental note.

Another old-timer told a story about his sponsor picking him up and taking him to meetings, even though he was unable to stop drinking and using drugs. The old-timer recounted that his sponsor kept pushing him, and he was 19 years sober today.

I am a so-called white-chip wonder. I didn’t relapse or need someone carrying me to a meeting. Still, it did remind me of the importance of never giving up on a person struggling with addiction.

After about three weeks, I decided to break my self-imposed silence. I figured that the old fuddy-duddies had learned their lesson. They needed me to be at meetings to liven things up. (Honestly, my solo pity party had gotten old. How can people feel sorry for me, if they don’t even know they should?)

I don’t remember what I said at the meeting when I broke my silence. I do remember that people had quit asking me if I had anything to say so I just put in my two cents during a break in conversation.  No one even seemed to notice that I was speaking again. I was just another alcoholic attending a meeting. No more. No less. The first realization I had was that maybe, just maybe, meetings weren’t all about me.

I became grateful for the pride that forced me into silence even though my behavior was that of child who didn’t get his way. During that time, I learned how to listen at meetings instead of waiting for my turn to speak. The distinction is important. At that point, in my recovery, I needed to soak in all that I could learn. I needed to make deposits in my recovery account instead of spending wildly. I don’t think every newcomer should sit in silence, but I needed that. Until I stopped talking, I couldn’t listen. Once I started listening, I could do more than just parrot what I others wanted to hear. I could share something of myself and how my recovery works.

To this day, I don’t know if any of the bits of conversation I overheard were about me. I am grateful I heard them, and more grateful that I sat still and silent long enough to realize the old fuddy-duddies were not boring. They were sharing a part of their unvarnished lives to help others and me fill a recovery bank account that would lead to long-term recovery. Because of them, I have the chance to help others, today. And, if I’m lucky, one day someone may think of me as a recovery-rich, old, boring fuddy-duddy who simply comes to meetings to help others.