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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781932690675 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Loving Healing Press |
| Publication date: | 07/16/2008 |
| Series: | Spiritual Dimensions |
| Edition description: | Revised ed. |
| Pages: | 248 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.14(w) x 9.21(h) x 0.52(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
It was the damnedest thing that they thought I'd fall for it. A video camera in plain sight, in one corner of my room, pointing right in on everything I'd be doing for the next twenty-eight days. Not likely. I couldn't figure out why they wouldn't bother hiding the thing. Even a hanging plant in front of it might have kept me from noticing it for an hour or two. But they didn't even try, and that was their real weakness as far as I was concerned. Here they were, helping some of the most messed-up people you can imagine, people addicted to just about anything, and they thought if they had cameras watching these people get dressed, watching them sleep, that they would just reveal everything about themselves in an instant?
Some experts. I started to wonder why I'd paid good money to be here. But there it is — we all want to fit in. I had many friends graduate from this utopian little institute, and they all swore it changed their lives. They all used "Avalon talk" as I called it — the catchphrases and jargon used in this Avalon Center. Tiring as it was to listen to their new language, they were my friends, and it was even more of a challenge to be outside the group in that way. So, I decided to call some of my own challenges "addictions" and to make a trip here. Twenty-eight days of dealing with real addicts; then I could graduate and get back on the inside track with my friends.
I pulled a chair out from the small desk and turned it to face the camera, then sat and reclined myself a bit against its stiff back. I folded my arms across my chest and looked with a cold grit at the camera. I probably looked the way my own kids did when they decided to pull the rebel thing. It's not that I was overly confrontational, but a camera was a statement, and I would make one right back. I stared it down, just hoping someone was watching me live. I wanted my eyes to tell the story — you might have me stuck here, you might control a lot of what I do, and I might even tell you a thing or two about myself, but you're not invading my privacy. There was a me I would share; there was a me I would not.
After a three-minute stare down, I got up from my seat and rummaged through my suitcase, pulling out a white washcloth. That would do the trick. I walked to the camera and flipped the cloth up over the thing, covering its lens. I brushed my hands against each other in a mocking way. Done and done, I thought.
The camera wasn't the only reason I felt this place was like a prison. For starters, you weren't allowed to bring books, magazines, tapes, a radio. No incoming phone calls either. They pretty much had your input covered. From then on, you'd get input from them or from your own brain, and that was about it. And just like in prison, everything I'd need for those twenty-eight days, I had to bring with me — clothes, toiletries, extra money. Well, they did offer things like massages, so cash wasn't a bad idea. But isn't that a little like pleasantries to keep shackled people happy? Amazing that I'd heard nothing but good things about the place from my friends. Most of these points I knew ahead of time, but the camera had put me on edge. Maybe the big joke among graduates was to get other people to attend so they'd experience a month of prison too, sort of a hazing ceremony to get back inside with your friends. Looking at my surroundings, that didn't seem out of the question.
The place was called "Avalon" with good reason. Well, it wasn't as glorious as the island from the Arthurian legends, where magic was said to reside and where Arthur himself was supposedly healed of a mortal wound. But the place was on an island, relatively hidden from the world, connected to the mainland only by a long and narrow bridge. Maybe half a mile from the center, there was a very small resort community, with a resident population of five hundred year-round, and twice that in the summertime. It wasn't what you'd call a booming tourist destination, but it had its visitors. A road circling the island connected the community, the Center, and the substantial woods covering the area.
Those woods and this room seemed the only real havens, now that the camera was out of the loop, where I would have some time to myself. The rest of Avalon was made up of common rooms where groups would gather either for recreation or for talking sessions led by the staff. Those were the sessions, I'd been told, when people learned what it meant to open themselves up in front of a bunch of other addicts. And if scrutiny from other addicts wasn't bad enough, that's when the staff would direct you to confront all your issues. I wasn't one to avoid issues, but there are two facts about that. First, you don't deal with that stuff in front of other people. On that point I was sure. The last thing people need on their path to healing is to have a bunch of others judging them. Second, I had some disappointments about my life so far. But I doubted that any of my challenges really counted as issues, not things that had to be "fixed" by a professional. Pain about some choices I'd made? Yes. A bit of insecurity about who I was? Yes. I wanted to spend time thinking about these and setting new goals. Surely new goals would help point to the "real me," as my friends now put it. But I just couldn't see how these could be "fixed" with therapy. After all, a little pain and a little insecurity didn't make me broken.
I sighed a deep sigh. Like it or not, I was here now, and I had paid to be here. Twenty-eight days. I had better settle in as best I could, so I started to unpack. As I opened my few drawers and started setting in my clothes, I thought about the airport where I'd arrived. At a small bar near the luggage, I had met many of my fellow "addicts" as we waited for our ride to the Center, and I watched in disbelief as many of them chugged down drinks. I said a silent prayer of thanks that, if I had to be surrounded by addicts, at least I wasn't really one myself. I felt sorry for them, but I was grateful not to be among their ranks.
There were kids here in their twenties, and elders in their seventies — people up and down the scale who had seen something wrong with life and wanted it fixed. There was something positive about that, and as much as I pitied most of them, I also had a small sense of hope. As I finished unpacking my clothes, I smiled with that in mind.
And then I looked up to see a woman staring into my room from the bathroom, toothbrush held in her mouth. I sighed again. Forty-eight years old and I was sharing a bathroom with a perfect stranger who seemed interested in spying on me. I say "spying" because she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the washcloth over the camera. I pretended not to notice what she was looking at. She walked back to spit out some toothpaste. When I knew she was finished, I went in to introduce myself. "Irene Watson," I said, hand out for her to shake.
She took my hand but looked sort of absently past my shoulder. "What's that rag doing up there?"
I shrugged. "A little privacy never bothered anyone, don't you think?"
She blinked, then looked at me maybe for the first time. "Sure." She wandered back to her bedroom, and I didn't learn till later that her name was Gabby, Gabriella in fact. A native Puerto Rican living now in Connecticut, she went by Gabby, and later, I decided it was a good name for her.
Yes, things were off to a terrific start. My best course of action was becoming clearer all the time. Give them some things about me to play with, to feel that they could fix. Show how happy I was to have my problems resolved, and what a different person I could be at graduation. That way I wouldn't be opening up to people like Gabby, or to people who would put cameras in my room. And along the way, I could make use of the retreat — open up, perhaps, and spend time in personal reflection. Then at graduation, maybe I really would be different. They could let me go, believing they'd made a difference, and I would leave, knowing I had made a difference on my own.
But that's not how it worked at all.
CHAPTER 2
That evening, things began with a storm. Not the weather kind, but of the speech variety. Gilles was the director of Avalon, and he was there to make sure we understood his message clearly. "It's not that you chose it, and it's not that you want it. Fact is, I can't see any healthy person wishing it on anyone else. And here you are, clinging to it because that is your view of life."
Gilles paced back and forth at the front of the room, animated and obviously a zealot on the topic. He must have been in recovery himself. "You see, it doesn't really matter why you're here, or why you're here, or why you're here," he said, dangling a long finger out toward members of the crowd before him. "Because what you think of as your problem is just a symptom. That's all. The problem, my friends, is why you face these symptoms."
I started to snicker in my seat, but a look from one of the counselors standing along the wall silenced me. I couldn't help it if I started thinking of Gilles as a preacher, and I sure as heck couldn't help what I remembered of churches and sermons. But I gritted my teeth and kept quiet while he continued.
"I've got a little story for you, guys." He stroked his chin a minute, as if he'd never told the story before and had to find just the right words for it. But I knew it was well-rehearsed. "I've struggled through addictions myself, and I'm not even going to tell you what kinds. And you know why now, don't you? Because the kinds don't matter. The question is, why was I dealing with them?"
He paused dramatically, looking across us all. It was like those awkward moments in school when a teacher asks a question so stupid that no one wants to answer, but the teacher is looking for someone to answer anyway. Luckily none of us had to raise a hand. Gilles spelled it out. Literally. "P.A.I.N. That's right, pain, my friends. It's something everyone suffers in one form or another. And I'm here to tell you something right now, something that had better make you realize you're not alone in the world. If everyone suffers pain, then we all suffer addictions of one kind or another. Anyone who hasn't dealt with it and says he doesn't have an addiction is either lying or deceived. And sometimes, I admit, addictions aren't very obvious. But we all have forms of escape. We all have forms of getting away from whatever causes us pain. And that's what we have among this group, is it not? Forms of escape that can be overcome by simply dealing with that pain."
I loved that he said, "Is it not?" It made him sound even more like some evangelical preacher on TV, and I got a kick out of that. Sure, for a forty-eight year old, I had a pretty immature sense of humor. But then again, I liked being so easily amused.
Gilles stopped pacing, stepped up a little closer to us, and lowered his voice. "But that's the challenge now, isn't it?" The atmosphere became intimate. "We've got to find that pain, find out why there is this deep need, this longing, to slip into addiction. What is your experience? Why does addiction bring you so much relief, even pleasure? These," his voice broke just a little. Oh, he was good, "these are private questions, aren't they? Questions you could never answer out loud. Questions that shouldn't even be asked!"
He glanced around. I think he was waiting for us to nod our heads when obviously we were supposed to shake them. I imagined myself standing up in a drama and calling out, "Questions we've got to ask, Brother! I see the light now, and I'm ready to tell it all to you. Let me face my fears, Brother! Let me ease the pain." I had to bite my tongue hard enough that it hurt, just to keep from laughing again. Yeah, I was easily amused.
"Co-dependence," he said after his very long pause. "Do you do whatever it takes to please those around you, even to the point of ignoring your own needs? Or does your spouse do this to keep you happy, to help smooth over the fact of your addiction? I know because I have been there. I could look directly in the eye of every person in this room and ask, 'Who in your life is co-dependent?' And you would have an answer for me. Maybe it is you, maybe it is your friends and family in response to you.
"If someone gives up his or her own needs always to satisfy the needs of others, this is co-dependence. And I'm not talking about giving up the things you want. I'm talking about what you need for your own wellbeing. Give that up because of someone else, everyone else, anyone else, there is co-dependence. It walks hand-in-hand with addiction because addictions need to be smoothed over, yes.
"But you guys —" One last dramatic pause. "Guys, codependence is an addiction as well. It results from pain, as does any addiction. And so again I say to you, we have to release that pain. That is what these twenty-eight days are for. But that cannot happen without you, without you understanding that the only way to let go is to know what you must let go. The only way to be free is to know what you must escape.
"The people around you, they are in pain as you are. They are here to find freedom as you are. There is no reason to judge, and no reason to feel you are being judged. We'll speak frankly in our sessions here, because we're here to find the truth, to find the real you that is buried beneath the pain. I speak from experience here. You will never feel a greater release, a greater uplifting, than when you find and let go of that pain. Let's work together to achieve exactly that."
As he concluded his words, there was a hesitant applause among the crowd — maybe because they weren't sure whether they were supposed to clap in this setting. I know why I didn't clap myself. I didn't clap because something he said was true, and because after snickering about the preacher-man-addict, I wasn't laughing at the end.
I knew what co-dependence was. I had sort of diagnosed myself with it from time to time when I was frustrated and feeling buried by other people's needs. But I'd never really taken it too seriously, and I'd never thought of it as an addiction.
But why did I act that way? Was there really some pain involved that drove this in me? And most important of all, would I ever consider talking about pain with a group of perfect strangers? Even now I doubted it, but for the first time, that door of possibility opened up just a crack.
As I pondered all this, I watched as a counselor walked up to Gilles and pulled him to one side, whispering some matter or another to the director. Then Gilles turned to us with a serious expression on his face, with an obvious and deep concern. "I've just received some rather disappointing news, friends. But I guess it underlines my message. Here, where we need an atmosphere of real openness, someone is paranoid that we're watching you with cameras. I tell you now, it would be totally against the law for us to do so. I hope you will reconsider where you are, and what we're here for."
And with that, my door of possibility slammed shut. No way was I telling them a thing. And no way I was taking that washcloth off the camera.
CHAPTER 3
That intro speech by Mr. Numero Uno of Avalon was enough to tell me that away from the center was the place to be. Anywhere, as long as it was away. So, early the next morning with the air still crisp, I set out around the lake, and if I somehow missed a session, well ... that's how it would be. I would just play dumb.
September in Quebec, the leaves are brilliant, and in this setting they were probably every color that leaves will turn. Walking beneath the trees under those warming, almost flaming hues would've set me at complete ease; would've made me feel like I was sitting next to a cozy fire in my home. Except for my lack of company.
I am normally all for being alone. For time to think on things. Time to breathe, relax, and not have to be anything but what I feel inside. But in this new environment, part of me wanted to have someone along, probably so I'd know I had one person to turn to during those twenty-eight days. I knew from bitter experience that cliques formed early, and if you didn't find your way into one, you were out for as long as things went on. So far from home, I didn't think that would feel very good. So I had asked a few of the guys that morning to walk with me. Yeah, the guys. Women were out because I also knew from experience that women were damn hard to trust. But going to breakfast appealed more to the guys, so I was left to walk on my own.
I quickly learned that, for a first day anyway, this time alone couldn't have been more critical. I had been wrestling with things — nothing that had to do with Avalon really, but things that needed sorting out in my life. And as I'd wrestled, at home, increasingly in the last few years, and during the trip here, countless images and ideas flashed through my mind about what was out of place and why it was out of place. It struck me that you couldn't really find a solution to your problems until you knew both of those points, and yet I'd never really been able to pin them down.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Sitting Swing"
by .
Copyright © 2009 Irene Watson.
Excerpted by permission of Loving Healing Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgments,
Foreword,
Editorial Foreword,
Part I: The Center,
Part II: My Past,
Part III: My Work at Avalon,
Part IV: The Miracle of Avalon,
Afterword,
Study Guide,
Appendix A: Suggested Additional Reading,
Appendix B: Additional Resources,
About the Author,