A Willingness to Love the Worst Parts of You

Another recovery month. 8th Step Willingness. New TSB pod. A freaky poem. Smart dead guys on death and humility.

The Small Bow is funded entirely through paying subscribers. We use your money to help pay for all our freelancers and Edith’s illustrations. September is the start of Recovery Month. Before we begin the usual Sunday issue, let’s talk about that.

I’ll tell you straight up it’s tough for me to be earnest about something like Recovery Month, but I’m gonna give it a whirl. Because I believe it’s meant to celebrate aliveness. Recovery is not only a willingness for some of us to stay above the dirt, but a genuine commitment to be a better version of a human while we’re here.

The list of ways to die from This Disease – which I was reluctant to call it that for most of my life, but I think it’s important to do so now – are innumerable: Heart explosions, liver rot, misadventure (as the Brits call it), hypoxeia, drunk driving, falling off a deck, jumping off a bridge, all sorts of cancers and cavernous sadness. Death is defied, until it’s not – and it’s on the loose out there right now.

So my one request for everyone reading this newsletter today is just to connect with the living and remember the recovering. Say thank you and I love you and I’m so glad you’re still here. Some days that’s all it takes. believe it’s meant to celebrate aliveness. If you love The Small Bow, a good way to celebrate is to send someone a TSB Gift Subscription. Or, you can just tell someone who is struggling they mean something to you.

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I was the lead speaker at my Friday morning men's ACA meeting. It was a 20-minute share on the 8th Step, talking about the list of people I had harmed and the willingness to make amends to them all. I think too many people believe this idea that every amends has to be a formal face-to-face process that is only successful if the person you had harmed offers a hug, forgives you, and allows you to walk the earth without the nagging fear that somewhere, someone on this planet wishes you were dead—or at the very least, tormented and miserable and broke. If that were the case — would you still be willing to make an amends to that person? I've had this happen a few times during this Step that I'll put someone I'm willing to make amends to but then have to rethink it. "Well, they kind of owe me an amends first …"

I opted not to overprepare the night before—I'd let go, let God, like a real pro.

The part I spoke the most about was driving out to Topanga Canyon with my then-sponsor, Cameron. To close the Step, he had me stand in the ocean and read a letter I wrote to myself. If I wasn't willing to make amends to myself, then how could I ever do it for other people?

It was one of the more uncomfortable parts of my recovery work, but it got done. Below is the remixed essay about my 8th Step Topanga Canyon adventure.

I've also included the letter I wrote to myself then and a new one I wrote last night. It's embarrassing work, but whatever, healing is hard. This is how we live now, etc.

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LUCKY DOG

Originally published June 22, 2022

My Al-Anon sponsor, Cameron, is keen on the willingness part of the 8th Step. Right off the bat, he needs me to understand that I acquire no reward or pardon by just barging ahead and making Zoom calls to everyone I've hurt or infuriated.

"The only thing you have to be today is willing to amend."

It's taken three years of working together to get to this Step in Al-Anon. I completed it in AA, but Al-Anon's step work has a different vibe–it's more nurturing and intense. The book we use is called “Paths to Recovery,” which comes with a dozen or more questions to answer after reading through the Step. The last time I completed a step Cameron and I went to the beach to turn it over. It was Santa Monica beach for Step 7, but for Step 8, we headed to Topanga, a beach littered with rocks and an ocean full of sideswiping waves. He told me I needed to bring my Step 8 answers, the list of those I was willing to make amends to, my swimsuit, and, most importantly, a letter written to myself–both my younger self and who I believe the worst version of myself is. Because the first person I should be willing to make amends to is me. 

He’d drive us out and I'd pay for lunch. 

I could never wrap my brain around this concept. I don't know about you, but I still have many days when I wake up and remember another mortifying memory from my past and that knocks me back to some feeble, terrified place. And some of these memories are not that distant– I’ve blown up one or two friendships every year for the past six years I’ve been sober. My friend list gets shorter while the list of people I've harmed grows longer.

And I get it. Even on happy occasions, I still have discomforting energy. Some days I believe I can see it, like a halo of ugly yellow dust. 

This is frustrating because I'm still a much better dude than I was a decade ago. But that doesn't mean I'm no longer a bad memory for many people. 

For that, I can't forgive myself. 

But am I willing to? 

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The Thursday before I was supposed to finish Step 8, a van hit a dog on the street outside our house. 

We were seated at the dining room table, laptops opened, in the early afternoon when we heard slammed-on brakes followed by a yowling. We got up from the table and saw a white transport van stopped in the street. I walked outside, and a kid, probably about 14, kneeled near the curb, holding what appeared to be a young black and white Border Collie. Blood came from the dog's mouth; its hind legs were crumpled. It was gasping between yowls. A woman who I assumed was the boy's mother, was speaking to someone on her phone in Spanish. After a short time she hung up and put her forearm on her head, laid down on the grass, and began to cry.