Like alcoholism itself, recovery and sobriety are progressive.  As one follows a program of recovery (in my case, the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous is the program that guides my way), one changes, and everything else changes too.  We don't become better because life gets better; life gets better because we get better.

Fear of relapse, more than any other single force, kept me attending meetings during the first year; however, as I followed the famous AA edict of "taking it one day at a time," fear diminished, and hope took its place.  I didn't undergo any sudden spiritual conversion; I remained an agnostic whose "Higher Power" consisted of the collective wisdom of the groups.  (To a large degree, that is still the case.)

Frequently, during those early years, I had misgivings that I was not progressing fast enough.  I had a feeling that, having put alcohol aside, I should be happier, better, maybe even perfect, even though I knew rationally that I was happier and better and that no human being could be perfect.  I still reacted inappropriately in many situations, often overreacting, and I still evinced intolerance, impatience, and an inability to accept circumstances that I could not change.

I was encouraged, however, by people around me, some of whom had long-term sobriety.  Some said, "You are where you're supposed to be."  Others just smiled at my belly-aching and said, "Keep on coming."  They promised me that, if I stuck with the program, things would get better beyond my wildest dreams.  I did not believe them, but it certainly was something worth trying to make happen.

Externally, little changed.  I remained living in the same house with the same wife and daughter (and, at that time, a very difficult and negative mother, whose husband, my father, had died of complications from alcoholism).  I continued to work at the same job, where I was known as the resident grouch.  Some days went smoothly; others were turbulent.  As it always had, life had its ups and downs, and I no longer had the crutch of alcohol to temporarily carry me across rough terrain.  I spent most of my time at meetings grumbling, and, with the nonjudgmental air that characterizes every AA meeting, my AA peers let me do it.  They had a knack for showing that they understood without allowing me to wallow in self-pity.

Internally, a very gradual transformation was taking place – nothing as dramatic as the change from drunkenness to sobriety but something that was ultimately far more important to my well-being.  Indeed, without these other changes, I was merely "dry" and not truly sober.  As someone in a meeting said, "I didn't get sober to be miserable." Nor, I realized, would I reap the many promises of sobriety without doing some work on myself – psychologically, emotionally, and spiritually.

I wish I could say that my negative characteristics (my formidable "index of maladjustments") went away altogether.  They didn't, and they very likely won't.  But, as another man in the program says of himself, these traits have "lost their voltage."  For example, about the only emotion I ever displayed was anger, which often manifested itself in uncontrollable rage.  Even when it did not express itself in an outburst, I could nurse an angry feeling for days or weeks.  Gradually, those feelings diminished in intensity and duration. I still get "ticked off," but I don't "explode."

Something else happened, too. My tolerance for my own misbehavior became lower.  When I lapsed into thoughtless behavior, doing or saying something that was cruel or stupid or inconsiderate, I felt awful about it.  I didn't like myself when I acted that way.  So I learned not only to apologize and make amends but also to act in such a way that I wouldn't need to regret and apologize for bad behavior.  Simultaneously, my definition of "bad behavior," especially regarding my own actions, became narrower.

One result of this change was that I became more comfortable in my own skin.  Prior to this, I think that the only confidence I experienced was the temporary kind that comes with receiving ego-feeding accolades for some accomplishment.  When the applause faded, I was left with my own insecurities.  Now I found that I could feel good about myself just by doing the next right thing.  It didn't need to be grandiose; it was enough, at day's end, to say, "You did some good things today."  Sometimes all I did was stay sober for one more day, but that was enough.

The spiritual component of recovery was the greatest challenge for me.  It troubled me immensely because, concerning religion, I had a chip on my shoulder the size of a house, and I equated spirituality and religion.  The folks I met in AA, especially those with the kind of sobriety I wanted, emphasized spirituality and spiritual growth, and some spoke in terms of religion.  My apparent lack of "spirituality" therefore made me uneasy.  I wasn't sure I could develop the kind of spiritual foundation that many said was the cornerstone of sobriety.

Since I somehow thought that spirituality meant having the answers to theological and metaphysical questions, I spent a lot of time analyzing – and analysis led me in circles.  I could certainly identify with the person who said, "Analysis leads to paralysis."  Gradually, though, I developed, by practicing the principles of the program, a sense of the spiritual side of life.  It was incredibly hard to define, it defied rational analysis, and it was not anything that I associated with traditional religion.  I can describe it crudely only as "something that grew in my gut."  Vague as it was, impossible as it may have been to articulate, it was very real and very important.

I was the kind of person who imagined that I could think my way through anything.  Intelligence (smarts) ranked very high in my scale of values.  Now, I realize that "smart doesn't count for much."  Being "smart" hadn't prevented me from becoming a drunk; in some ways, it was probably a liability.  I still value intelligence and knowledge, but I have come to accept their limitations.

I don't know how the program of recovery that I follow works. I can explain some of the tools I use, but, apart from that, I cannot begin to explain how something so deceptively simple has enabled me to remain sober for nearly 24 years when, for at least that long, nothing could stop the progression of alcoholism.  The explanation is so far beyond my understanding that I no longer try to analyze it.  Why bother?  I am at peace with myself nearly all the time.  I almost instinctively know how to deal with situations that heretofore would have driven me to the edge of insanity or into the bottle.  I am comfortable with other people and with myself.  I am content nearly all of the time, happy most of the time.  I have some regrets about the past and some concerns about the future, but I do not dwell on them.  The past is history, the future is mostly beyond my control, and the present is – well – it's pretty damned good.

They said that my life would change beyond my wildest dreams.  It has.