You Don’t Have the Power.

You don’t have the power to stop someone from drinking… You don’t have the power to cause someone to drink.

How many times have I heard that sentiment in a 12-step room? Too many to count. How many times has my unconscious mind tried to deceivingly grasp onto power by using the ‘for the good of others’ card instead of trusting God’s providence? Too many to count.

It wasn’t until I accepted the fact that I could not make my loved ones not drink that I quit trying to make them not drink. Then, I had to release the idea (accept) the notion that it was still my job to steer my loved ones in the right direction; that my failure to tell them not to drink would actually encourage them to drink. I had to trust God with their journey before changes began to take place.

This journey is not for the faint of heart. As a young woman, I picked up Abandonment to the Divine Providence by Jean-Pierre de Caussade. I was almost afraid to read its contents. I could not imagine the kind of radical trust that he suggested within those pages. Still, I read it. Perhaps it was a seed planted; a roadmap for my future.

My radical trust didn’t come all at once. It took time to realize where my power comes from. From time to time, I have to go back and remind myself, ‘I can’t, God can & I’ll let him.’ Then I may sit with fear for a bit. But it gets easier. I can’t make anyone not drink. I can’t make anyone drink. I believe this idea is universal. I started allowing it to seep into every aspect of my life.

I worked retail during the holidays for a few years. One year, there was an angry young man working alongside of me. He cussed incessantly. I think he actually challenged himself to see how many times he could work the ‘F-word’ into a sentence. And, he was lazy.

Many employees were irritated by him. I was too. But, for whatever reason, I realized that I was powerless over this young man and his anger and laziness. I remember saying a little prayer about it and getting the feeling that God was asking me to get off my high horse and step down into the world that he was inhabiting to love him right there.

I remember thinking, Okay Lord, I’ll do it. But I cannot imagine what difference it will make. Once the decision was made, I prepared myself to not react. I did this by imagining how Jesus would respond if he was here in the backroom with us.

So as the young man that I will call Ryan cussed, threw things and sluffed his work, I kept working. I didn’t respond. I didn’t complain to others and I did not contribute to their complaints. After a couple of weeks, Ryan approached me. “Do you not believe in cussing?” I looked at him curious. “Why do you care?”

I think my question threw him off balance. “I don’t really care. I just wondered if it’s a religious thing.” I thought about it for a moment. “I had a very religious mother and father who grew up in poverty. My mother’s warnings about cussing weren’t the reason that I don’t cuss. It was because my dad wanted more for himself and he felt that swearing was lazy. I guess that is why I don’t swear much”

I noticed that he calmed his swearing a bit–at least around me. Once I noticed this, I realized that it was a little sign of respect; an opening was created. The next time he threw something, I went over to him and said, “Ryan, what is the matter? How can I help?”

I don’t remember his response. I do remember that the offer tamped his anger down. He allowed me to help him. I remember thinking, Lord, you were right. I only need to love him. Moving forward, I responded to his frustrations with an offer of help. Let me be really clear–it went against every natural feeling that I had. On my own, I am not that good. This was a little experiment that I did, testing the effects of God’s power–move over Thomas, I need to touch the wounds too…

Ryan changed over the course of our brief work period. Eventually, I could get onto him when he didn’t do his work well. Because there were deposits of love first, he was able to hear me. He was able to separate his work from his self-worth.

Over time, he started calling me ‘Miss Jean.’ He’d catch me on a high ladder and scold me. “I’ll get that for you.” He’d say. On the last day of work, he opened the door for me when I left and hugged me. I was elated. I couldn’t change him. But God’s love, freely given to me, if shared, could (CCC 221).

I’ve been rewatching The West Wing, written by Aaron Sorkin. There is an episode where a character named Josh experiences PTSD after being shot. This episode focused on the mechanics of trauma by sharing a counseling session that Josh had with a trauma expert after he explodes in anger to the President.

The counselor accompanied him through the memories from that day. Beginning to end, he helped Josh notice what he’d done and why. He helped him face the memories (the shooting) that he couldn’t seem to turn off. When Josh was finally able to understand what the trigger was that caused him to put his hand through a window and then later scream at the President, the counselor told him that he was on the road to healing.

Josh asked why. I couldn’t wait to hear the answer myself. “Because with trauma, 2 + 2 = A sack of potatoes.” In other words, it doesn’t make sense to anyone but the traumatized person. Our reactions–our unconscious methods of protecting ourselves may not be rational. They probably don’t make sense.

This analogy helped me to realize that in reality, I probably don’t cuss much because my grandfather was an alcoholic. You see my dad avoided everything that reminded him of his father’s alcoholism. That is why I can be a workaholic. That is why I study things well beyond my need to study them. These are all little sneaky attempts at power to control the situation. The good news for me is that my trauma responses are seen as a positive by society.

But what about the girl who was sexually abused by a male family member. What happens when she starts dressing like a boy? What happens when she unconsciously begins to do anything she can to not be pretty–to not entice the perpetrator?

How does the world misinterpret her trauma response? Will they be able to reach her by telling her that she was born a girl and she should dress accordingly?

I think we are confused about the problem. Booze and drugs aren’t the problem. They are the symptom. Just like the ‘war on drugs’ lacked all understanding of the nature of addiction, so many things that the world sees as bad or wrong, lack the proper information needed to judge them.

The problem is too big for us. It is an arbitrary sack of potatoes. The good news is this: We can’t change them. But God’s love, freely given to us, if shared, CAN.