The Only Way Out is Through
I was always quick to claim a coincidence. I’d tell my sponsor about each instance, which happened often during early recovery. I’d roll my eyes dramatically at the overused expression, “Everything happens for a reason” especially when it meant going through pain.
It was the weirdest thing; I hadn’t written anything for over 3 years and out of no where, my sister sent me a notebook in the mail.
She nodded along, smiling in her lovable-all-knowing-but-never-smug way. She would say nothing and she waited, for as long as it took. I wanted so badly to skip to the easy part. Bypass all the hard stuff, the darkness that comes with addiction.
The only way out is through.
I know now that things don’t happen by chance, but rather these are “God Shots”—something that is inexplicably profound in timing and occurrence. Smaller than miracles, but too weighty to be ignored. A God Shot can be a single thing, or it can be multiple pieces that all need to discovered, understood, and then pieced together like a puzzle. The story of this God Shot, is the latter.
It was not an accident, in January of 2020, I made a sweeping declaration that this would be the year, I’d declare myself a “writer”. While I was unsure of what exactly this would entail, I knew it was what I wanted and so I would go after it, with my whole heart, like I do for all things that matter. This meant laying out vulnerabilities and sharing pieces of myself as a way of connecting with the outside world. Being a Highly Sensitive Person (also called an “Empath”) in 2020, is like being dropped into a sea of human suffering, while we powerlessly serve as an emotional sponge. Soaking up sorrow, stopping only to absorb more feelings along the way.
Being an Empath is relentless. The only way I found to turn it off, was with alcohol. I would drink at a situation, at an uncomfortable feeling, or almost always, at a person who caused me pain. I needed a numbness to quiet the storm in my head. But this wasn’t the solution; because even the good stuff was muted and everything bleed together--like what happens when I leave my daughters alone with an entire 24-pack of Play-Doh.
Brené Brown says, “The only unique contribution we will make in this world, will be born of our creativity.”
For so long, I had nothing to contribute; alcohol molded all the colors together to create an unimaginative gray blob. I romanticized Poe, Raymond Carver, and Elizabeth Bishop, tortured writers who found inspiration within a bottle. But drinking stifled my creativity.
Seeking inspiration during the pandemic, I purchase a painting from an artist I admire. We met in the hallways of our daughters’ preschool last year when she said, “Oh hey, you are Wit and Spit Up”, likely the closest I will ever come to feeling like a celebrity. I did some light internet stalking and discovered she was, Emily Dilbeck, an undeniably gifted abstract artist. We spoke online and I even interviewed her for reference when I decided a main character in my first fiction novel will be an artist.
After careful consideration, I purchased one of her paintings titled “Encompass”. It has an ethereal quality, that’s both whimsical, yet profound. I chose this particular painting despite a dark speck in the center, that has spent its existence on my wall, mocking me. There are several other spots, but I remained focused on this one. I almost messaged Emily a dozen times to ask about it, but that wouldn’t have helped me.
In sobriety, I don’t have the luxury of harmless thoughts. My survival hangs in the balance and these past five months, I’ve had to limit my access to the toxic turmoil, as much as I possibly can. So much of it cuts so deeply, my exposure makes me no good to anyone.
But my anguish over other people’s anguish, doesn’t actually help anyone.
Worry and sorrow feel purposeful, but don’t accomplish anything.
Upon recognizing this, I finally understood that piece of the painting and why it haunted me; something I couldn’t understand until it was earned. I saw the speck as the way out, the main escape, and it was all I could see. While that speck holds value, all of the loveliness and depth of the painting surrounds it. I was so distracted by the exit, when I am meant to appreciate the beauty inside.
The only way out is through.
All of this led me to where I needed to end up. My God Shot. I am recording this year, documenting, and finding ways to create words from all these feelings that help to explain the inexplicable parts of ourselves; the inexplicable pain of this time. Something that can only occur because I chose sobriety. Maybe someone finds a connection to something I’ve written, a link that helps us relate, or better yet, helps us heal. Now more than ever, we are meant to encompass each other in creativity, with writing as my contribution, and my only way out of the dark.
