"If a mere code of morals or a better philosophy of life were sufficient to overcome alcoholism, many of us would have recovered long ago. But we found that such codes and philosophies did not save us, no matter how much we tried." (44:4, 'Alcoholics Anonymous')
Check. The AA programme as a code of morals plus a better philosophy of life did not work for me. I could not apply it without power.
"They often forget father was beyond human aid." (128:2)
Check. So you give me the AA programme as a code of morals plus a better philosophy of life AND you give me a hundred forms of human support, help, friendship, companionship, counselling, advice, encouragement, and general hand-holding, and I am STILL screwed. Royally. Utterly. Irredeemably. Even with all this help, I still drank periodically. And, once I was bafflingly graced with sobriety, I was still miserable and still acting out in all sorts of other ways.
"Is he not a victim of the delusion that he can wrest satisfaction and happiness out of this world if he only manages well?" (61:1)
Check. So, you give me the AA programme as a code of morals plus a better philosophy of life AND all of the human help (see above) AND, through some cosmic fluke, I manage to manage well, and I get all my ducks in a row. Trouble is, I can get all my ducks in a row, but I cannot force them to quack. Right job, right boyfriend, right house, right holiday, right social circle, right pension scheme, right everything. Am I happy? Am I satisfied? No, siree. Still whistling in the dark. Sharing at meetings at how wonderful the programme is and how grateful I am because of all of the gifts of sobriety and wondering when I am going to stop waking up at 5.00 a.m. with panic attacks, when the acting out in other addictions is going to stop, and when my head will finally let my feet rest.
"Lack of power, that was our dilemma." (45:1)
Check. Oh, boy, check.
You cannot tell me how to live and expect me to be able to do it, any more than I can fly because I understand aerodynamics.
You give me human help, but human help does not give me a reliable source of power, and, sooner or later, I wear it out, suck it dry, and discover myself as bereft as before.
You give me the 'tools' to manage my life and, with years of painful, strenuous effort, I do a passable impression of someone manageable, yet nothing has changed inside, and I am just as uncomfortable.
Nope, I do not have a choice about how to live, how to think, or how to act, without power from somewhere.
The gifts of sobriety, without power, are ashes in my mouth.
In the past, I have felt a little bit cowed at AA meetings where other people act their way into right thinking, have the power to bring about a change in their mentality through the application of sound principles, willpower, and human help, and are filled with gratitude at their lives, merely because they are sober and things have come together.
You see, I tried to copy this approach, and I failed and failed badly.
I see things differently now: different types of folks get to come to AA. This is right and good. And the various types of help for various types of alcoholic are all here, on tap. I am glad that everyone is here. But I need to know what type of alcoholic I am and what the true nature of my problem is.
The type of alcoholic I am appears cursed with a lack of power, although it is not a curse—it is a total blessing.
Why? I have been forced to jettison a thousand attachments and dependencies. I have been forced to find God within and without and within you and without you. I have been forced, at spiritual gunpoint, to ask God to turn me outwards to my fellows, to forgive them, to stop fearing them, and to clear the decks with them.
The life I led before, in the first few years of my sobriety, was by no means a bad one.
But I would not exchange its best moments for the worst I have now.
I totally identify with Fred's story (pp. 39–43) in this regard.
What I have been given today by God is indescribably wonderful. But I shall have a go at describing it. I have been largely detached from my circumstances, and have the presence of God available to me, every day. I can be at peace, alone, for hours, without being troubled by what arises in my consciousness. I feel connection with people who are not present, and with people who have died. I am never alone, even, and especially when I am alone.
My discontentment and my powerlessness to do anything about that discontentment are the greatest gifts I have received since being separated from alcohol in 1993, and it is that for which I am truly grateful.