One Page at a Time

"Journalling," he said, as he slapped a little black book down in front of me, "Add this to the tools in your arsenal." We'd been given a lot of tools in rehab, but I wasn't clear on how to use them. First, there was prayer - I wasn't sure I believed in it. Next came meditation - my thoughts were panicked and racing. Asking me to sit still and stop thinking was surely an impossible punishment. Another was exercise - every inch of my body ached from withdrawal. I couldn't even fathom joining those fun-loving cross-fit freaks. "You're going to journal each morning and each night." and with that, group therapy was dismissed.

That night after paying lip service to God through the regurgitation of an incomplete prayer, I took out my journal. I think it's worth mentioning that although I wasn't convinced of their efficacy, I was willing to try some of the aforementioned tools out of sheer desperation. Discomfort is an excellent motivator. I started by writing my name and number on the inside cover.

Conner Sheal 359-878-3237

This was a habit I had picked up from my mother. When I was 11 she neatly wrote my full name in permanent marker on every single pencil crayon in my 120 colour set.

Unsure where to go from here, I started by describing the events of my day. I touched on my distaste for some of my fellow rehabbers. I listed my criticisms of the treatment methods. In short, this little book seemed like an ideal place to express all the negativity I had spent years repressing.

In the morning I rose and used my journal to write a gratitude list. Renewing the habit of putting pen to paper felt foreign. It reminded me of being back in grade school and while I had matured in years, my penmanship most certainly had not. My hand couldn't keep up with my thoughts but I felt an inexplicable appreciation for being forced to slow down. Perhaps that's what they were getting at with the suggestion to meditate?

As the weeks carried on with group therapy, 12 step meetings, and a blur of other planned activities, I found myself gravitating more and more to that small black notebook. I had spent years numbing, avoiding, and denying my feelings. Now, a few days sober, I didn't know how to identify them but writing gave me room to explore them in private.

Sometimes I'd write something, and by the time the ink hit the page, I'd realize it wasn't true. It wasn't how I truly felt or what I genuinely thought. It was just my initial reaction or impulse. Sometimes it was cathartic to let myself be mean and express unpleasant experiences without hurting anyone. Giving space to my experiences through words and reflection was safe from judgment. Processing events in my little black book meant I wouldn't have to stay stuck in them. I soon discovered that sometimes the only way out is through!

My avoidant lifestyle was starting to change. As I developed self-awareness, I began to challenge thoughts that didn't serve me. If I felt really scared I'd turn to my book and make a whole list of best-case scenarios. Giving my fears alternative possibilities and perspective calmed my nerves and helped me recognize that not every thought I have is worth believing. Replacing fear with hope was a much more enjoyable way to live.

One of my recurring fears was how I would manage when I left treatment. Would I stay sober? Was I willing to do the work it would take for me to continue on my journey to wellness? As the time to leave approached, I turned once again to my pen.

Creating a plan I outlined specific tasks to complete to set myself up for success. I described in detail what habits I needed to maintain, listed all the people in my support system, and compiled resources for professional help. I created short-term and long-term goals. At first, they seemed silly and grandiose. Who was I, to dream big? Could I even visualize these great expectations? Achievement felt so far off and overwhelming. So I started breaking things down into small, actionable steps, and instead of worrying about the grand scheme, I just did the next small action.

Before I knew it I was out on my own. I found a modest room for rent and while I wanted to avoid the mess of unpacking, I embraced my motto to take one step at a time. A few hours later, I was fully unpacked and laughing. This would have taken me a week if I had done it with a glass of wine in hand. Had I been overcomplicating things all this time? Was life going to be smooth sailing now that I was sober?

I was getting ahead of myself. I needed work but returning to bartending was not an option. With no formal education or complimentary references, I was starting from scratch. I wanted to find work that I could feel good about. I wanted to help others while still being able to take care of myself.

I enrolled in career counselling, attended resume & interview workshops. I networked and applied for jobs with intense focus. I combed through job description after job description continually disheartened by the news that I didn't fit the minimum criteria. Six months later I had moved beyond discouraged and onto clinically depressed.

Since my work life wasn't falling into place I shifted my focus to personal growth. Every day I would do one thing that scared me and document it in my journal. Sometimes it would be as simple as asking for an extra side of ketchup (yes, that incited a very real fear of being overly demanding) and others it would be something that felt astronomical (like the time I asked out the handsome pharmacist who politely said I'm flattered but...) This act of walking through fear daily built up my resiliency and helped me outgrow limiting beliefs. Things I once feared were becoming easy and I no longer gave them pause. With this in mind, I decided it was time to face a big one.

I hadn't been on an airplane since I flew fully loaded to rehab. In my younger years, I had caught a flight that lost control briefly and felt like it was plummeting to the earth…thus I was terrified of planes. So with my heart pounding and sweaty palms, I traded my credit card information for a flight to L.A. I told myself that I would sleep on it and worst-case scenario I could request a refund in the morning. I was surprised to find I slept like a baby that night.

I headed to the airport with the electricity of anticipation coursing through me. At my gate, there was only a bar, so I grabbed a stool and ordered a chamomile tea for my nerves. Taking out my journal I began to make a list of why my thoughts of the plane crashing were irrational:

• Planes experience far fewer fatal accidents than cars
• If the plane does crash, It will be an instant, painless death
• Turbulence is just a speed bump in the sky
• Those slide things that they use to evacuate look like fun

Just then my flight was called. I didn't want to board the plane. I knew that once I got on it, I'd be trapped for the duration of the flight. I told myself that meant that all I had to do was get on it. I took one last sip of tea and pretended to feel the calming effects of Chamomile. On the plane, I focused on my breathing. Full belly inhales & slow controlled exhales. I'd read that an elongated exhale would activate my parasympathetic nervous system and trick my body into relaxing. Yet another thing that I didn't know would work but I was willing to give it a try.

I focused unflinchingly on the safety demonstration and read my accompanying pamphlet. With liftoff survived I was allowed to pull out my tray table to return to my journalling, but my book was nowhere to be found. I'd left it at the bar. I envisioned some drunk reading all about my struggles with alcoholism while enjoying their whiskey.

The fear of an impending plane crash was instantly replaced with the humiliation of having my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings shared with the world. The innumerable scenarios played out in my imagination.

Then I realized, the world wasn't dying to read my diary. I was not famous. I didn't even stand out in a crowd. I was just one of many people trudging the road of life with a few human hardships along the way. By the time I had reached this conclusion, we had started our descent.

I can't say whether the fear of dying in a plane crash is any more or less real than the fear of humiliation, because the experience of either felt the same for me. That being said I felt grateful to be back on terra firma and that my lost journal had distracted me from my fear of crashing during the flight.

In California, I bought myself a fancy new journal with an embossed cover and felt-tip pen. That was my reward for facing my flight fears. My first solo vacation gave me time to explore getting to know myself. As I enjoyed the silence, I realized how much I had changed.

At month's end when my credit card bill arrived, I felt like I'd punched myself in the gut. My trip was another expense I didn't have the money to cover. While I was still proud of making headway in my fear of flying, I felt shame for my ongoing unemployment and financial lack. Just then the phone rang.

"Hi, is this Conner?" a voice said from the other end. Certain it was a telemarketer, I paused.

"Uh…..yes, how can I help you?" I instantly regretted saying.

"I found, what I think is your book in the airport." A heat of embarrassment flushed through my whole body and I felt a sense of impending doom. "I apologize for the intrusion and the sensitivity of the matter, but I read your book." Everything went black.

The person spoke for about 20 minutes. They gave details and made references to things I didn't understand and in the end, I gave them my email address. I was frozen in disbelieve. This stranger has just offered me $20,000 to buy the rights to my "story."

I didn't fully comprehend what that meant and I worried it sounded too good to be true but I was in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth. So later that week I signed a contract and cashed the cheque. This couldn't be happening. I burst into tears of gratitude.

At one point in time, the idea of my story being seen & heard was my biggest fear, but things change. Each time I walked through fear, it became a little less intimidating because I knew I had felt this and survived before. I wasn't seeking out fear, but I had learned to appreciate its necessity. It was necessary in life for growth and I had to move through it one page at a time if I wanted to keep writing my story.