Wager, Anyone?

I'm on and off the pain meds. Luckily, they're again entrusted to a friend so that I take them as prescribed. In my possession, they're absolutely diabolical. I watch my hand go up to my mouth with yet another pill as if I'm not in control of my own body parts. I suppose I'm not.

Yesterday, I attempted to completely go without pain meds, as I did most of the day before. When the pain went through the roof, I called my sponsor, Mary, which I don't often do. In pain, I tend to isolate as my emotions are so overwhelming that I assume they will overwhelm others. I cry so hard that I'm barely coherent. But I called, telling her that the reason I haven't been able to write down my perception of my Higher Power (an assignment she had given me) is that I feel there isn't one for me.

The funny thing about recovery is that at meetings, I'm often listening to people talk about how wonderful their lives have become with sobriety and this newfound relationship with their God. What's difficult is that I know exactly what they're talking about, as I had this exact relationship with my creator before this disaster set in. I prayed for my divine purpose (as opposed to what I thought I should be doing with my life), I surrendered vexing problems, my ego was far less involved in my life than it had been, and I was of service to my community.

All of these things are in the "promises" of the rooms. And I agree, when you live your life that way, it gets better. For the 18 months before my hemmorhage, I was happier than I'd ever been, and my life, although not perfect, seemed on a continued upward path towards betterment. I suppose I had some kind of hubris that with God as my co-pilot, what could go wrong? Really wrong?

Well, what went wrong far exceeded anything I could have ever imagined, and despite prayers and pleadings and countless affirmations, nothing changed. The pain was all-consuming and untreatable. I had to live with it 24/7. I went to bed with it and woke up with it.

And my spirituality ended up in the toilet, along with the question, "How could any loving creator create such potential for this type of suffering?" My answer was one of two things: Either there wasn't a God, or if he does exist, he certainly ain't loving.

So when I now hear all my recovery pals talk about their union with this great spirit, I think them delusional. They say they found God when they hit their bottom, thinking they'll never find themselves there again, or if they DO find themselves there again, it will be because of something THEY have done, like picking up. They often say of their darkest days, "God didn't leave me; I left God." They think God will never leave them now if they continue "to do the next right thing."

Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?