During a meeting, a fellow stood and shared an analogy. He said that the first few months of Program were like learning to drive a car. He said that there seemed so much to it that you thought you’d never figure it all out. He thought that it was similar to all the bells and whistles and numerous windows and mirrors you had to keep track of while learning to drive. Eventually, like driving a car, he said, there would be parts of the program that became second nature to you.
On my drive home, I was reflecting about how that was the stupidest analogy ever! In my job, I drive a lot and far distances, so if anyone “knows” about driving, it is me. But the analogy sparked my remembering when I was 15 and learning how to drive. Taking instructions from a parent is torture to any teenager, but I suffered through it because, in the end, that little plastic card was going to give me something I hadn’t had before—freedom. I remember the optimism of my teenage brain, thinking that with driving came the freedom of going places and doing things I hadn’t been able to do yet. The task of learning to drive—being nervous when cars came barreling by, having to park between cones over and over again, learning the coordination of clutch-shift-gas on steep hills—was infantile compared to the hope I felt about my future then.
A small voice, not of my own, popped into my head and asked, “Isn’t that what this program promises? Hope and Freedom?” So continuing my drive home and my reflection, I considered the car analogy in more detail.
When learning to drive, did I not have a parent sitting in the front seat with me at all times passing on experience, knowledge, and stories about situations they had found themselves in? I did not always like what they were saying, but I was smart enough to know they had what I wanted, and I was willing to do just about anything to get that card.
Now I have a sponsor who I talk with each and every day. She shares her experience, knowledge, and wisdom with me unconditionally. I do not always like the suggestions, but I am smart enough to know she has what I want and I am just desperate enough to do what she says.
My parents only had manual cars, and I remember having to watch the dials to know when the car needed to be shifted. Now I can just feel when it’s time to shift gears. This reminded me of programming my calendar to remind me to make three outreach calls a day. Now I am learning that when a thought that is not beneficial to me, especially if it’s about food, pops into my head, it is time to shift gears and make a call.
Now that I have been driving for 20 years, driving really is second nature to me. I listen to music, make calls (hands free, of course), and pass things back and forth to kids in the back seat, all with comfort and confidence, as I cruise down the highway. But there are days when road conditions warrant additional attention, slowing down, and being attentive and focused. Abstinence is like that for me. Some days I eat my weighed and measured meals with pride and confidence and cannot believe a day went by when I didn’t think of flour/sugar products. Other days, food thoughts come and go. Some days I feel longing and disappointment that I can’t eat like others and it takes a lot more time and focus to get through my day abstinently.
And, thinking over the last 20 years of driving, I must admit my driving record is not pure. I’ve had accidents and speeding tickets. Never once did I throw my hands up and vow never to drive again, that it was just too hard. This reminded me of my breaks. How quick I was to blame the program for being too strict, and felt ready to find an easier, softer path. But instead, I got back in the “driver’s seat” and continued to try, because I could already see that, like driving, this program really did bring me the hope of freedom—freedom from depression, freedom to do new things that my addiction isolated me from, and the freedom to be happy in my own skin.
Finally, I realized that I had never thought about driving for just a set time or until I got to a set destination. It’s ridiculous to think I would only drive until I reached the mall and then I would be done driving forever. It was this reflection that, for me, moved me from dieting to recovery. Dieting meant to get to a set number on the scale and then stop. That was my plan for this program. However, I’m still here because recovery means getting to enjoy where I am at and look forward to where I am headed.
Learning to cook vegetables, to weigh and measure my meals, talk to strangers, and be open and honest are all part of the curriculum for recovery. Graduating from my barrier of fear, doubt, and insecurity makes it all worth it. Just for today, I look forward to driving down the road of recovery, wherever it may lead me.