Right where I'm supposed to be...

Treatment was a positive experience for me. Oh sure, there were moments of "what am I doing here?" but overall, I was mesmerized by the mere fact that I was living with all these people, and they were drug free. I was not a joiner - I'd never even been a Camp Fire Girl, and had a very small world of boyfriend and one or two close friends. There were other people around, but I was most comfortable with me, myself, and I. I might've told you at the time that I didn't like people. The truth is that I was afraid. And here I was, with thirty of them - laughing, crying, hearing stories that made me cringe, kneeling beside a guy as he had a withdrawal seizure right there in the living room.

There were many meaningful events during my 28 day stay, but one incident stands out as shaping my future. One of our group members was a Viet Nam vet who was wound tight with grief and guilt over his experiences in the war. One afternoon in group, near the end of his stay, he broke, sobbing out the terrible things he'd participated in that he'd kept secret, and drank over, all the years since. Every person in that group was right there with him, holding space as he felt the pain and released it. As he wound down, I thought, "I want to be a part of this."

I didn't have to work for the first months following treatment, for which I'll be forever grateful. When I did get a job at an insurance company at the end of that first year, I felt shell-shocked myself. It had been a while since I'd had an office job, but it was more that I felt like an alien with the other clerical gals who talked about dates and dresses, or what they were going to feed the kids for dinner. In the desperation and drama of early recovery, I cried to myself one afternoon, "Don't you people know where I've been?" Of course they didn't. But I knew then that I needed to work with people who would understand, and who might benefit from my experience in the trenches of addiction.

Last week I was at a continuing education training at the Peace-Health hospital in Vancouver, WA, which used to be St. Joseph's, or "St. Jo's."  I started my career in treatment there, in a year long training program that was a combination of classes and work experience. At the end of that year, I was hired on to work with the adolescents - a conglomeration of Native American kids from the Chemawa Boarding School and western reservations, white rural kids from the small communities surrounding Vancouver, and the occasional well-to-do youngster from Lake O, a tony suburb, where parents often insisted "we don't have a problem here." Whether running on the beach with kids who'd never seen the ocean, or holding a teenager as she cried for her lost childhood, I knew I was where I was supposed to be.

That was 28 years and four employers ago. My work is most definitely a calling, something I had to do. I've never had delusions of wanting to save the world. What I wanted was to be part of the awakening process. It is a beautiful thing to witness. But, it was a stretch. I almost backed down because public speaking was involved. Lecture? Teach? Not me. I am definitely not the same woman who sat outside the community college and cried because I didn't know where to go. Recovery has been a series of stretches, of stepping to the very edge of my comfort zone and then, just beyond, step by step.

Today, my career is winding down - not over, but the striving is done and I've got one eye on retirement. Is there a second act ahead? Who knows. I don't harbor many "I wish I'd...." in relation to work. I have been very fortunate.

I know several people with long term recovery who've switched direction in recent years, finally becoming their own boss, or traveling, or all the many avenues our dreams take us. My dreams in those early days weren't very big, but they were huge compared with what I thought myself capable of. What's next? More will definitely be revealed.  Happy trails, friends.