Six months after I quit drinking, I was still in a fog. with the air so thick around me I had to consciously will myself forward in order to move through the day. I was coming off tranquilizers as well as alcohol and, even though I knew how much I had ingested of each, I was still surprised by how affected my body was. I was so on edge I had to put a towel under the phone because even with the ringer turned low it still made me jump. My reading lamp was much too bright, but that didn't matter because I couldn't concentrate enough to read anyway. I lay on my bed most of the time, sending a constant stream of cigarette smoke up to the ceiling, blaming myself because I couldn't rouse myself to move, much less act. And I blamed myself, not for the past - I couldn't even begin to face that - but for not using this strange time to ponder Life's Significant Issues or come up with an interesting idea to explore. I couldn't take it in - that my drinking and using had actually done real physical things to me - and that stopping had only revealed the actual state of things. Surely, I hadn't really drunk and used that much?
One day, bored with counting up all the times
The Beatles mention the sun in their songs, which I assumed was because they were from a cold damp climate, and unable to work up an intense fantasy like the one in which I was the only person in the world who could save Marlon Brando, I was on my bed idly counting the ridges in the cottage cheese ceiling. My mind was blank, but not quiet; I could feel thoughts colliding below the surface as anxiety drove them forward. Then, something emerged: "The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want." It was the beginning of the 23rd Psalm. Why has that come into my mind, I wondered. I'm not religious. I have no use for the concept of God. Nonetheless, I tried to remember what came next - something about still waters and green pastures. I got up and opened my paperback Bible, which anyone who claims to be familiar with the western tradition ought to have. Like Shakespeare.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths
of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou
art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort
me. Thou preparest a table before me in the
presence of my enemies; thou anointest my head
with oil; my cup runeth over. Surely goodness
and mercy shall follow me all the days of my
life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
forever.
I brought the book back to the bed and read the words slowly. Then I said them out loud, and read them again. Suddenly, I heard the voice of the poet who had written these lines, who is thought to be King David; I heard him, the man, clearly across the centuries. He was longing to feel safe and protected from want and danger and evil,; he wanted not to fear death. I felt how writing those words helped him lessen his fear and existential dread. He and his poem were very alive, and I found myself trying to imagine what it would be like to be starving and come to green pastures, or be thirsty and find still waters. I tried to imagine there actually was something in the world that could restore me to equilibrium.
Most of all, I felt David's yearning, and suddenly I felt the yearning in me. I had never allowed myself to feel it because to feel it was to be vulnerable, which for me had always meant weak; I was a well-defended fortress and the smallest chink in the fortifications would send everything crashing down. But now, here on my bed and the sheets I hadn't changed in weeks, my yearning for something to help me wasn't threatening. In fact, I felt my reaching out as an expansion, a golden ribbon flowing out of me to connect me to the world. For the first time, I understood it was part of the human condition. For the first time, I knew it was all right to recognize this part of me. For the first time, I wasn't afraid to allow myself to be human.
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