Through the window, on the empty trees, I saw the first buds of spring. A pervasive dampness that recalled the winter. Here, caught between two seasons, I reflected on what I had just been through and what I would have to brave tomorrow. In my case, both directions were bound by a single bridge. Addiction.

The semantics of recovery

Two months in rehab. “Treatment” is the appropriate word but in my experience is too vague a term. When you tell someone you’ve been “in treatment,” their faces curiously crinkle as they try to decipher its meaning. It could be treatment for cancer; some mental health sabbatical; physical rehabilitation after an accident. Over the years I’ve found they’re all similar in a way. Terrible storms we must sail through to find some new salvation on a sunnier shore. And, also in my experience, not everyone makes it to that new shore.

“Rehab” is a word people understand. It instantly conjures the notion of a facility housing junkies, athletes, and rock stars — all of which my rehab had seen more than a few. Picture a hotel room and you can imagine the space where I was standing, looking out that window at the tranquil forest they’d grown to hide us from the world. But unlike a hotel room, no one else was coming to clean up our mess. 

We had to make our own beds correctly every morning, right down to the number of inches a blanket could hang above the floor. If we did it incorrectly, we’d get feedback. Ah yes, the feedback. A hallmark of recovery from addiction. Feedback on our attitude, our behaviour, our adherence to all the basic rules and schedules; all symbols of our serenity. Even feedback on our souls. Everything was meant to fashion us into somebody new. And I’d never been more frightened in my life.  

Sometimes the scariest thing about a new beginning is letting your old self go.

Letting go of the old you

Sometimes the scariest thing about a new beginning is letting your old self go. Who am I now? is a daunting question. One we must revisit throughout our lives. Otherwise, we cling to old identities even if they no longer serve us. Our past selves, our younger selves—they’ve been the only constants. As everything around us changes and ages, as the familiar spaces we knew are torn down or renovated, our identity can feel like the only thing we have control over. My identity was as an addict and alcoholic and, with fitting irony, it was one I had no control over at all. 

For years I drank and used drugs every day. I put whisky in my coffee so frequently for so long that for years after, years sober, the sip of coffee still carried a memory of that bite. It was a destructive identity. I bore the Midas touch of disappointment. Everything and everyone I touched turned to dread as I sank to the bottom of an ocean so deep and so dark that not even I could hear the screaming. They were the wails of the true self I had drowned in this false sense of identity. I’m deeply grateful he was not lost forever. 

Sounds like hope

I remember going to my counsellor one day early in my treatment and she asked the loaded question, “How are you feeling?” 

I couldn’t come up with an answer. I didn’t feel anything. Not numbness. Just nothingness. She told me that addicts abandon their emotional development from the day they start using. We’re unable to cope with our own emotions—good or bad. When we achieve something, we celebrate by using drugs and alcohol instead of feeling. When we’re upset, we hide it by using drugs and alcohol instead of feeling. A trademark of the ailment is an unwillingness to feel anything at all. 

She told me, “Your heart is a block of ice. You’ve finally taken it out of the deep freeze. Now it just needs time to thaw.” 

I was terrified of not knowing who I was anymore, and caught in this chasmal transition between seasons. As terrible as my old self was, at least I knew him.

As the glacial shield around my heart melted, mirrored by the winter on the ground outside my window, the first feeling that emerged was fear. I was plagued by the question: 

Who am I now? 

Who am I now? 

Who am I? 

‍Who am I? 

I was terrified of not knowing who I was anymore, and caught in this chasmal transition between seasons. As terrible as my old self was, at least I knew him.

The counsellors in rehab always talked about “turning ourselves over.” Accepting a higher power and turning ourselves over to that spiritual ooze. They told us our higher power could be anything as long as it was something greater than ourselves. Truth be told, I never pinpointed what mine was. 

But one day, as my heart warmed up in the penultimate days of winter, I felt something new. Something bigger than myself. I felt the question change. I felt the fear of not knowing who I was anymore become the excitement of discovering who I wanted to be. Perhaps not so coincidentally, that morning in one of our exercises, we had to list things we wanted to do in the future after treatment. My page of entries was suddenly brimming with languages I wanted to learn, places I wanted to travel, instruments I wanted to play, and new dreams I wanted to realise. My counsellor was always cautious not to give me too much praise. 

All she said was, “Sounds like hope.” 

Our new selves

Hope. That’s what I was feeling looking out my window that day. Hope is the rainfall of self-discovery. It washes away the old remnants of who we were and nourishes the seeds of who we’ll become. In the years since that day, I’ve rediscovered myself again and again. As a father watching my children grow. As a writer who doesn’t need drugs to feel inspired (like I’d heard Bob Dylan told The Beatles). As a lover of the simple suburbs and their tree-lined streets beside my minivan. I discovered I love grapefruit. I discovered new hobbies. New dreams. New ways to express my affection. New associations for the things that once harboured echoes of darker days — like the taste of coffee.

This time of life we’re in, I often feel like it’s an ongoing process of coming to terms with all the things we’re losing—including our ideas of who we are.

A promise for the future

This time of life we’re in, I often feel like it’s an ongoing process of coming to terms with all the things we’re losing—including our ideas of who we are. For some, it’s triggered by something like overcoming addiction. For others, maybe it is a cancer diagnosis. Or navigating the wreckage of our parents’ estate. Perhaps it’s a relationship that has seen its day in the sun. But one thing they all have in common is not knowing who we are in the wake of that tectonic shift, which can fill us with fear.

But I promise you, if you pull your heart out of whatever armour you’ve made to protect it and let the freeze of that winter fade, the fear of not knowing who you are anymore will give way to something far more powerful. 

Now you get to discover who you want to be next. And the songbirds of your new spring on the other side of that window—will all begin to sound like hope.