The Ugly Truth about Lying and Addiction

Being honest, open, and willing are vital concepts to "HOW" many good roads to recovery are paved. Right?

I can't fix what I don't acknowledge is broken. So why did it take me so long to clench the concept that addicts don't necessarily get along well with the truth? Denial and a good old-fashioned white lie mixed well during cocktail hour, as well as tonic water and a hypodermic needle. Deceit was the bloodline that kept my disease flowing. Learning to be forthright and sincere was a rough lesson. More challenging than learning to walk upright without some chemicals in my system.

One of the nurses at my detox said to me, "The truth will set you free." What she neglected to explain was that it would hurt like a bitch and feel relatively foreign as it floundered off my lips. It felt just downright uncomfortable, to be candid, like driving on the wrong side of the road. Growing up as the baby of my family, I witnessed my older siblings getting in trouble for telling the truth. Massaging the truth allowed my addiction and casual relationship with reality to thrive. The longer I am sober, the more I understand how full of shit I have become.

Robin Williams said, "Reality is simply a crutch for people who can't handle drug addiction." That is quite the statement coming from an addict. Especially from a delicate, brilliantly talented soul who fooled us all at the end of his life.

I become devastated when I hear the news of a fellow addict passing away. Why does it take horrible time stamps in history to listen to the truth?! It hurts! Why does it take a drastic event for me to take extreme measures?

Death evokes anger at this disease and a long line of questions about why we can't be honest with one another. When I was using, the number of lies I generated was directly proportional to how alive and hungry my disease was; dishonesty was another drug. It was a murmur from the bottom of my deceitful heart. The worst was the domino effect of my dishonesty.

The reality was never my friend. So I avoided it at any cost.

As I entered my second tour of duty in recovery, I was told to find a sponsor, mentor, or spiritual advisor. Someone whom I could be honest, an equal regardless of what was going on in my life.

I knew I had to find someone I could be brutally honest with, no matter how scared I was of being judged. But, to divulge my authentic self, I first needed to look inward. So the truth will set this addict free, huh? Freedom? Freedom from what? My addiction, my physical cravings? Release from the way drugs and alcohol had dictated my every move?

I knew in my early 20s that alcohol was my first love. When I was in my early 20s, I knew alcohol was my master. I remember getting up in the middle of the night to take a few shots from a vodka bottle I had hidden in my closet. I was living alone and hiding bottles from myself!

My emotions and behaviors became robotic. Like an episode of The Walking Dead, I was a zombie. I was being lulled by a lament. I knew I was no longer drinking because I wanted to; I was drinking because I needed to.

Hindsight is exceptionally humbling. Looking back at my history, I can see several times when my addiction took over more and more areas of my life.

First, many would ask me, "Are you ok?" "Oh yeah, I'm good; everything is under control," LOL. But nothing was under control. Eventually, my addiction owned everything. It had its claws and paw prints on every aspect of my life. Someone asked me the other day what was the longest relationship I had ever been in, and my answer was "the sick, love-hate relationship I had with drugs and alcohol." Boy, I was committed! It kicked my ass every night, and I still woke up each morning and sang, "Yes, sir. I would like another!"

I needed to become the grandest liar in the land to keep this abusive relationship alive. I had crowned myself the master of disaster. I was always letting others know how I had been wronged or cheated. I never pondered my own truth or part in anything. I needed to keep my life so compartmentalized. It was essential that no one really know how sick I was or how far down I would bend and beg for my addiction. I couldn't lower my standards quick enough to actually match my behavior. This is why I would wake up feeling vile and sadly thank my Higher Power for blackouts. I was like a drone seeking death. I ran head first towards any wall built on chaos. I was equally addicted to avoidance.

I was caught drunk in the girl's locker room before field hockey practice as a teenager.

My parents took me to see a shrink. He suggested that I attend an AA meeting. So, I avoided him like the plague.

I was constantly dodging questions from family and friends. Every day felt like a series of awful job interviews. I was making shit up and selling myself to people I didn't even like, constantly stuck, frozen in fear. A procrastinating perfectionist. If I couldn't do it right away, my way, with a 100% guarantee of accuracy (and return of my energies), I wasn't doing it at all. I wasted all the faith-based resources I had generated and bet the house on my drinking and drugging.

No wonder I trusted no one; I was praying and begging with the wrong deity! A lower power, my addiction.

One would think my world would have opened up wide when I got sober, but it didn't. Not initially. Why? Because I was still imprisoned. Not by a bottle of booze or pills this time. But caught, trapped like a caged animal, by my own addictive thinking and behavior. When I first entered a halfway house after detox, I used to complain about all the rules. The counselors and program were very strict. This wasn't a country club-type rehab with a flat-screen TV on the walls or day trips to the beach.

Instead, this place dictated where you worked, how you spent your money, your free time, and even when you were allowed to use the bathroom. And I fought this process. I thought, "You're a grown woman; how did you mismanage yourself into such an institution"? Then, one day, I was walking down the street and heard a large bang. I turned around to realize it was the sound of my head popping out of my ass. I realized I had spent decades being told by my addiction who to love and where to work, live and play. I had thrown all my passion, blood, sweat, and tears down the wrong chute. And when I finally began to chisel away at my sobriety, I was clueless about managing my emotions or life. I was like a baby dropped in the forest. A boatload of debt to clear up, a huge ego to wrestle with, and a bad case of "why me?"

I remember my sponsor asking me, "Jeannette, how free do you want to be today"? A silly question posed to an addict like me who spent 30 years in her own unique version of hell. Of course, I wanted to be happy, joyous, and free! Bring it on! But this would require work. "I wish you a long, slow, and painful recovery," claimed my sponsor. Cheerful right? This is from a woman who has over 30 years of sobriety and is the closest version to a female Buddha I have ever encountered. It made sense to me, though. I didn't read the "promises" on that window shade backdrop and thought, "Ok, if I take these steps, make amends, and stay sober, I will acquire a better job, cuter boyfriend, and larger bank account."

I dropped the expectations of what I thought being sober would mean. Being in recovery was now about being able to process any emotions properly. I wanted to experience laughter through tears. I didn't want to be reactive like Pavlov's dogs. Being sober is finding my genuine trembling voice. It's about learning to take a compliment or follow through on a commitment.

I'll admit I can have difficulty distinguishing between being honest with people and sounding good. When I was a kid, there was a tree house I used to run away to when my parents were fighting. I used to wonder why no one would come looking for me. Or if they did come looking for me, I would beg them to leave me alone. I was so unsettled. "What is it, Jeannette? What's finally going to make you happy and content"? Queried my folks. God's honest truth is that I didn't know. My arrested development was so intense I was an old soul running around with an animal-like, addictive nature. Perhaps that's why people-pleasing is so common among addicts.

Denial and dishonesty were two huge muscle groups that I exercised daily. Why identify a problem or honestly tackle it when I have the option of pulling the covers over my head and hiding in shame? "Name it, and you can tame it" was certainly not on my list of things to do. I needed a drug-sniffing dog to run through my house and another to sniff my soul to identify all the bullshit I was slinging. I've heard a hundred times, "we are only as sick as our secrets." I see now that silence equals death. My disease loves when I isolate.

The recovery movement 'must come out of the closet, up from church basements, and onto our front porches. I have difficulty telling the truth or even recognizing it when I'm staring it in the face. It's like a long-lost relative that looks familiar but feels uncomfortable to talk to or entertain. I couldn't even tell you what time it was when I first got sober. If you asked me, I would respond, "what time would you like it to be"?

Finding a voice of truth and hope in recovery is so essential. Years ago, I used to read the line in the Big Book that states, "some of us are constitutionally incapable of being honest with ourselves," and think of this as an alibi if I failed. I would think that maybe I was just one of those folks, a drunk who would die covered in a cloak of shame and lies. But now I try to slowly but surely nuzzle up to the truth. Waft the scent of it like I did a fine wine or scotch. I enlist the help of my friends, sponsor, and teenage daughter to tell me the truth about how badly I'm lying to myself and others. The sooner I accept my reality, the quicker the lies in my life fade away. My truth is that I am a mother. I am a daughter and a sister. I am a friend and writer.

I am an addict who's completely incomplete, continuously inhaling this new language of recovery – one breath at a time.