Yoga and the Twelve-Step Path. Kyczy Hawk
had dropped out of high school, I continued my drug and alcohol use. I did so until I moved to Colorado, but not before getting pregnant. I was sure having a baby would give me structure and purpose. I moved away with the love of my life, hoping that the opportunities near Boulder would keep me straight and allow for us to create a “normal” life. However, “wherever you go—there you are.” I was still a depressed, insecure, frightened, dependent girl. I was leaning on him to give me security and focus. I had no real employment skills; I was still a mess. I went back to doing what I knew how to do: the good girl in me did volunteer work at the elementary school, and the addict side worked in the local bar at night.
Pregnancy made me nauseated, and for those months I was unable to drink. I was not a sane person. Being young, with raging hormones, large with child, jealous of all women, and alone in an unknown state, I was unkind and possessive, frightened, and demanding of all. As soon as my daughter was born, I was drinking again. Working in the bar made drinking affordable, and I drank for entertainment, for distraction, and as an excuse for all the hell we put each other through. The relationship with “him” broke up, drama ensued, and another baby was conceived. And “he” was gone.
I returned to school, and this time the pregnancy could tolerate drinking, so I was drunk most of the time. I worked in a bar, tended to my child, went to school, and studied. For five long months, I exhausted my body and mind with this cycle of school, motherhood, and my barmaid job on the weekends. I again came to the edge of insanity, and this time tipped right over. I created a drama to reunite myself and my children with their father (unsuccessfully); I successfully finished my semester at university and moved back to California. I had enlisted the help of friends to bring me back. One woman flew out and drove us back to the Bay Area, while another housed and comforted me until I could find my own place. With public assistance I was able to rent a place with roommates and enroll in college again.
So the good girl wanted to become a good mother and a good student, and to be employable. The bad one found intravenous (IV) drugs. I remained enrolled in school, gave birth to my second child, and had addicts and dealers in the house. I was part of the parent-participation nursery school my daughter attended, was a board member of a local nonprofit, attended single mothers’ group meetings, and went to college. I also drank like a fish and used drugs. The three of us—my two children and I—were incredibly fortunate not to have been harmed by others as the result of my lifestyle. Drugs, including alcohol, were now a requirement for daily living. Friends were betrayed and lost forever; my family was disappointed time and time again by broken promises and unreliable agreements. Even doing jobs like house painting for cash seemed beyond my ability. Once again I rushed through school to be certain I could finish—without a job skill but with a diploma. Relationships with family, friends, and roommates were trashed, and eventually falling in love and moving in with a dealer seemed like a reasonable solution to my using needs.
I was able to keep a receptionist job after college graduation. It was not quite the career I imagined after having earned a BA degree, but I was ill-suited for anything else. I did quit IV drugs, but was now a round-the-clock drinker. My daily cutoff was five a.m.; I had to be at work at eight, and it took three hours for my breath to clear. I worked eight hours a day, picked the children up from preschool, stopped at a small corner market for a quart of rum, and went home to hole up, pretend to be a mom, put the kids to bed, and drink through the night. I did this for several years, breaking down my body, puffing up with the high sugar content of the alcohol, and living on poor food and little sleep. I ended up breaking all promises to my kids about trips to the zoo, the beach, or the park, or even just going outdoors. I even lost track of whether I had fed them at night. I would frequently dress them in dirty clothes, as I often couldn’t stop drinking to retrieve the laundry from the laundromat until after it had closed. I became so worn down and paranoid that I could no longer make decisions at a store, make change, or answer the door or phone at home. Work became increasingly challenging, and I was an emotional wreck.
One night I sat on the edge of the bed—no special night or unusual event—when I thought, “I cannot go on, I cannot do this anymore.” I was unclear in my mind as to whether “this” referred to taking care of the kids and going to work or to drinking and using. I felt strongly that I could not do both, and if I chose to continue to drink and use, my kids would go, the job would go, and my actual SELF would go—my authentic, genuine, inside soul/self would drift away. I would walk out the door and not return—go into the arms of whoever could or would keep me high. I felt as if I could actually see my core being as a mist floating in front of my eyes; the choice between dissipating or integrating was as fragile as my next breath.
Finally I moved to the phone to call a friend who, as rumor had it, was in recovery. She answered her phone and eagerly agreed to meet me and take me to a meeting the next day. I had my last drink that night, but drugs did not leave me that easily. While I abstained from alcohol for nearly three months, I knew I had to move away from my dealer boyfriend. So I moved to San Jose, hoping that a new town would separate me from my obsessions. My need for him was all balled up with my need for drugs, and I was unable to keep them separate for quite some time. I finally broke up with him, cutting myself off from the supply, and really entered recovery. I had not been honest in my twelve-step meetings about the drug use, so I had not sought support. I slipped one final time, drinking a pint of cough syrup. That was twenty-five years ago. So, though I stepped into the rooms on July 5, 1983, my recovery anniversary is actually April 29, 1985.
During the past two-plus decades I have raised my family, found a career, and seen my parents through their final illnesses and my brother through a life-changing accident. I have made friends with my family and family out of my friends. The road to emotional and spiritual health was not smooth. It was necessary for me to get professional counseling, something I would utilize on occasion for most of my life. I was so shaky in my first recovery meetings that I cannot tell you much about them. Some people can remember with enviable clarity their first meeting, their first work with a sponsor. That was not to be the case for me. I was a mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual wreck.
I had continued to attend meetings almost daily and to work with (and withhold the truth from) my sponsor this whole time. It wasn’t until I was ready to establish a “new” recovery date by going out and getting loaded that I realized the danger of keeping my secret. I finally told the truth about my using at a meeting. This I did not do all on my own. My Higher Power had intervened. I heard a woman share who had done the same thing: she had continued to use drugs as she continued to attend twelve-step recovery meetings. I felt nothing but compassion for her; I did not feel pity, and I did not sit in judgment or scorn her. And as I listened and looked around the room, I saw the same emotions on everybody’s face: compassion, concern, and care. I stood up with what we call “a burning desire” to share and told everyone my story of self-betrayal. And they loved me, too. Eventually I went to all of my regular meetings, changing my recovery date out loud and feeling humility with that action of amends.
Now I could dig into my steps for a second time with renewed honesty and more self-awareness. While I had made sincere amends the first time through the steps of the program, addressing all the issues and events I could remember at that time, I had a new appreciation for who I had been and who I wanted to be. That gave me a finer comb with which to remove the tangles of my past. It was as if a veil had been lifted between my inner self and others: I could listen with my whole heart and respond honestly from the totality of my being. It also gave me a new place of authenticity to be a sponsor to others. I could “give so freely that which had been given to me”—acceptance and empathy.
With the madness of having lived the “lie of deception” in my early recovery, I truly found the unmanageability of my disease. I realized that I would have to include and rely on a power greater than myself for resolution and guidance, that I could become whole and find my genuine authentic self, and that there were still moral wrong turns to evaluate and evacuate. I needed to know what my spiritual road was and how to proceed. This is an ongoing search, and I am patient. I tried organized religion, I tried me-ism, and I tried “him” again—making my partner my deity. This also does not work, and is an unfair burden on a partner and an unrealistic source of inspiration and approval. In my journey I have discovered that the real source of inspiration and approval comes from inside, and is based on my spiritual