In the back of my head, of course, I
was thinking that, although I can't control these things, there are things
within my control that I can use to adapt. Bad weather? I can get an umbrella.
Genetic predisposition to heart disease? Change my diet. Time? Oil of Olay still
has a strong presence on the health and beauty aisle.
The bottom line, for me, isn't what I can't
control; it's what I can. This is the problem that I often have in meetings and
step work. There seems to be so much emphasis on figuring out what I can't do.
There's a push to humble the addict. That push is inspired by an assumption
that every addict has some sort of god complex. No, this isn't just a defensive
reaction to the Program. In almost every, individual meeting I've attended,
someone feels the need to point out that "as addicts/alcoholics," we
"want to control everything". The Big Book even begins the chapter on
surrender by comparing the alcoholic to an actor who wants to run the entire
show.
The Serenity Prayer, which I take very
seriously, prompts us to accept what we cannot change, to change what we can,
and to learn the difference between the two. Over and over again, I hear people
omit the second part. Or, worse, to insinuate that the deeper meaning is that
there is nothing that we can change. (This gets into the idea of one’s “Higher
Power,” which is a whole topic unto itself, so bear with me.)
I suppose that I do possess a need to
be in control, to fix what can be fixed. I come from a family of perfectionists.
That seems to be a very au courant claim to make in therapy, but, in my
case, it's true. My mother and I only recently resolved my issue with feeling
that nothing I ever did was good enough. She was always prompting me to do
better. "A B+? Why not an A?" Once, I proudly announced that I'd
written a highly lauded acceptance speech for a friend who'd successfully run
for Math Club president, and she asked, "Why didn't you run?"
This was her way of getting me to fulfill my potential. I internalized that voice,
and it dictates most of what I do and how I relate to tasks and to others -- to
the world, as a whole.
I want to be my best, and I want the
best for others. Why shouldn't I strive for that? And that's where the Serenity
Prayer comes into play. No, I cannot change the world (cue Mom: “Why not?”), but I can do my
part. I can be the best that I can be and hope that that ripples outward. I can
say, "This is how I react to too many shots, and this is how I can prevent
that reaction."
I choose to focus, not on what I can't
control, but on what I can. I may not be able to control the weather, but I can
certainly make sure that I’m outfitted properly. I am not
powerless.
