The End of the Line
There I was, sitting on the Red Line at 4:00 am in January and out of drugs. The rank smell of beer permeated the air. But, I was too miserable to notice.
“I blew everything I had on that God-forsaken stuff,” the thought settled in and smothered me with dejection. “Another vicious trap I created for myself. What do I do now; gnaw my foot off to get out? I can't even afford a rat-infested hotel. I have nothing left in me.”
I neared the end of the Red Line; I knew that I would have to board the train going the other way. This was the only way that I could stay warm and get any sleep. I had reached the end of the line no matter how I looked at it.
I heard this faint whisper and it wasn't from the drugs. “What's it going to be Joseph; Life or Death? You chose me and I chose you. My arms are still reaching out.” What was I going to do? I had been to treatment and I thought I had done all the right things. I thought I was following God.
I started working in a restaurant again and that was when it all fell apart. I knew I wasn't strong enough to put myself in a situation where I could drink. Yet, in my pride, I chose to take the job anyway. That's where the problem lay. There is no “I” in ”Jesus.” Was I going to relapse repeatedly just to fade into statistical anonymity?
A few days later, God gave me the courage and humility to call my grandparents and my mother. We worked something out to where I could stay with them for a few months. I was finally turning my life around. I had saved enough money to get my own place. A year and a half later, I started attending Bethel College. I was fortunate.
The Steps of Reality
What is it that changed? What steps have I taken in order to move forward? When I was in jail, I realized that I needed help. This is the first step in any struggle. We have to understand that we cannot do anything on our own. If we think that we can then we are only fooling ourselves. I didn't know where to turn or who to turn to but I did know that I needed more help than I could ever provide for myself. I found a place that would take people with no home or money in the heart of Greek town in Chicago. I learned about twelve-step programs and the physiological issues that come up in withdrawal.
Even after this, I chose to start the vicious cycle of addiction again. It is true that my grandparents helped me out but that wasn't what saved me. I still had not found a substantial twelve-step program that wouldn't get offended at the name of Jesus. I'm sure there are some out there. I just couldn't find one in my area, until I discovered Celebrate Recovery.
I have stumbled on the way. But, the difference is that I get back up and I don't quit. The first step in any struggle is recognizing the struggle. I did that when I was in jail. It took me more time to come to the realization that I could not do this on my own. Whenever I think that I can do this on my own, pride rears it's ugly head and I travel down the same old road, seeing my old self at every turn. How did I come to this point?
Hands Off
In jail, I recognized that I had a problem and saw that I needed help. However, I didn't actually accept it. The breaking point for me occurred in a train, on a cold dark morning when I looked around and saw that there was no one around. It was when my family and friends decided that they could not help me in any way. I was living with my father at the time and he actually saved my life. By doing the hardest thing that any father or mother could do, he saved my life. He kicked me out. He could not help me until he came to this difficult realization on his own. I still had a long way to go. I made foolish mistakes. I thought that I could handle things that I could not handle. Yet, no one was willing to hold my hand anymore. By not participating with me in my attempt at a slow suicide, they saved my life. Later, there was mercy provided. But this had only occurred after I had played the part of the prodigal son, lying in my own dirty dwelling.
