Shame No More

I felt so much shame when I first came to CMA. So much shame that it was killing me. Literally. Fueled by my addiction, shame was the negative tape loop going round and round in my head, requiring ever larger amounts of speed to quiet.

I was ashamed of being a drug addict. Especially a meth addict. (Coke was so much more glamorous.) I was especially ashamed that I was an IV user. Good little boys don't shoot up. I was ashamed to have contracted HIV; I was high when it happened. I had withdrawn from my family and friends during my addiction, and caused them no account of pain and worry. I was in debt. Bankrupt. But too high to even show up for the court proceedings that would allow me to start fresh. I was ashamed that I'd let clients down, disappearing for months, doing questionable work, and just being unprofessional. And I relapsed. Repeatedly. My last run began while I was the secretary of not one but two CMA meetings. I just stopped showing up for my commitments.

My addiction can help explain all of these shameful actions, but it can't excuse them. So how can I heal? How can I feel worthy? The 12 steps and a good therapist have taught me that I must first and foremost forgive myself and then strive to earn forgiveness from those I have harmed. I will always have HIV and it will, to some extent be part of me for the rest of my life. I can best deal with that reality by leading a healthy lifestyle and remaining sober. I must be honest and open and reveal my deepest secrets to remain free of self-hatred. And most importantly, I must seek to maintain a spiritual connection, a faith that I am loved and worthy of being loved.

By surrendering completely, practicing acceptance and gratitude in everything I do, I will live each sober day in the hope of making the world a slightly better place for me and every being I encounter (that’s a nod to my priceless dog.)

So now when those shameful feelings come and I feel that tightening in my heart, and the voice in my head wants me to believe that I am damaged goods, that I am the bad things I have done...I simply take a deep breath and repeat to myself: "You have a disease, Richard. You did the best you could. I love you and I forgive you."

Richard H.