'Rigorous honesty'

It takes some getting used to.

If I could distill what I’ve learned from recovery so far into a single lesson, it would be this: I’m learning to be honest. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? But believe me, when you’ve been deceiving people for so long — I’m talking most of my adult life — it isn’t easy to suddenly start practicing ‘rigorous honesty.’ That’s what they call it at 'Alcoholics Anonymous.’ It’s defined as “raw, gut-level honesty… a much different level of honesty than you would expect from regular people.”

We were all probably born that way. Then, little by little, the world taught us to swallow our thoughts, hold back on blunt observation, and do whatever it takes to seem like one of those ‘regular people’ you see on TV. But when you develop a drug habit, it’s a whole new level of dishonesty. There was a time when every fibre of my being was bent towards acquiring my next crack hit. It didn’t just own my every waking thought. I dreamed about scoring dope too. Sometimes, I’d even wake up in a fury because my dream dealer sold me garbage dream dope.

So, like every addict, I wasn’t just lying for myself any more. There were no more easy lies that could spring me from dinner plans with the family or a weekend getaway or whatever. I had to lie on behalf of my habit.

Where was I going at 4 am on a Tuesday night? Well, the dog really had to pee. Why were my fingertips black and burnt? Cigarettes. Just cigarettes.

I fielded more questions from the rest of my family: Why so tired? Skinny? Cranky?

Lie. Lie. Lie.

So, what happens when we don’t have to lie on behalf of our habit any more? Well, for me, it was exhilarating . But not having a head-full of stratagems and ready-made lies took a little getting used to. What would I do with all that extra processing power? I could go back to reading again. It seemed like forever since I committed to a book. Also, I kept waking up, late at night, to scribble newly minted ideas on the notepad I kept beside my bed. It was like my brain was making up for decades of lost ideas.

Heck, I could even write a blog about recovery.

I don’t know if I’m living according to AA’s definition of ‘rigorous honesty’. It seems like that kind of approach to life could come off as a bit obnoxious to regular people. In fact, honesty was something I had to ease myself into.

When I spoke to my former partner in the early days of recovery, I tried to avoid making a full confession. It seemed neither of us were ready. So our phone conversations circled around the obvious, occasionally dipping a toe in the waters. I’d make small admissions: Yes, I was spending our money on drugs. No, the dog didn’t actually need a walk at 4 am. Even those bits of truth felt good. So good, in fact, I ventured more truths. We both seemed to appreciate it. Honesty felt like a great unburdening.

That’s one of the things I appreciate about recovery meetings. It’s almost like there’s a metal detector at the door. It disarms everyone. No pretensions. No artifice. No attitudes. When we cross that threshold, we speak plainly.

Besides lightening my load, this kind of honesty has another very tangible benefit. It changes people’s hearts. In early recovery — when I wasn’t quite ready to be disarmed — I was annoyed when I overheard family members talking about me.

One morning, for example, I woke up groggy and greenish and stood at the top of the stairs. My mom was on the phone with some distant aunt, talking, of course, about me. Honestly, the conversation was all about my progress.

“That’s not her business,” I told my mom later. “Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘circling the wagons’? That’s what families do when one of their own is in trouble.”

“It’s MY recovery,” I continued, like the cranky addict I used to be. “I paid for it. And I paid a lot for it.”

I figured, for what it was worth, relations with that aunt would never be the same. From then on, whenever she asked how I was doing, it wouldn’t matter if I had taken up needlepoint or crochet. She didn’t care about that. She’d only want to know if I was back on the pipe.

Sure enough, a short time after that phone call, the aunt paid us a visit. Snooping old thing!

But here’s where things really took a turn. You see, I never had much of a relationship with the lady — mostly vague memories from childhood.

When she came to the house, I sat beside her on the couch. And guess what we talked about: My drug-addled former life. And the life I was living now. I didn’t hold back. It all came pouring out in one great torrent of truth.

And boy, did we ever bond. She didn’t understand the first thing about crack culture. The slippery people and the slippery things they did for drugs couldn’t have been more foreign to her. But she strived to understand. Her eyes shone with compassion.

And damn, did I ever love that woman.

I exposed my innermost flank to her — and how did she respond? With a tidal wave of love.

Admittedly, I went a little wild with honesty after that. Maybe it was a little obnoxious. But it felt so good.

“What are you up to these days?” an old acquaintance from high school, whose name I couldn’t remember asked.

“I’m in recovery,” I blurted out. “I’m an addict!”

And just like that, all pretensions disappeared. The guy whose name I never remembered — and probably victimized a little in high school — became kind.

Honestly, this new policy seems to work on everyone. Of course, I know someone will eventually respond to my confessions with cold derision.

But in that case, I’ll have gained an insight into that person’s heart too. It wouldn’t be a good heart. Or my kind of heart, at least.

So, now you’re going to point out the obvious: If I’m so fully subscribed to honesty, what am I doing writing under a pseudonym? It’s true. I’m not the ghost of 19th Century author Thomas De Quincy.

The honest answer is that I’m not ready for that reveal yet. That’s a big honesty. I’m essentially putting myself out there to the world. And hoping that truth will transform hearts on a massive scale. I’m not ready for that kind of naked leap. But I will be. Because I think when I do, maybe — just maybe — the love and compassion such a confession elicits won’t just raise me up. Maybe it will transform so many hearts that every addict will feel the compassion.

So stay tuned. One of these days, when I’m ready, you will know me.