When I was getting sober, I spent some time around some ridiculously solid guys. Guys who had been sober 20, 30, 40 years. Even 50 years. Guys who had worked the 12 Steps down to the letter, and who deserved their sobriety and their happiness. Earned it.
Imagine being completely sober for 50 years. No alcohol, no drugs, no prescription pain medication, no artificial limbic rewards. Just you and the very real pain of Life As It Is.
Got your wisdom teeth removed? Well that sucks. Take some ibuprofen, sit on the couch for a few days and scream about it if you have to. But don’t take any Percocet.
Had your heart broken? Well, that sucks. Call somebody, do something, digest the pain in real time. But don’t drink.
Somebody close to you died? Well, that’s awful. But still, find a way to not drink about it. Lest you go with them.
One of the most beautiful things about these old-timers in AA is that they thoroughly and deeply believed in tough love. They believed in living life on life’s terms, not their own. And they believed in describing to me precisely what life’s terms are. Mostly, pain and unfairness. Mostly, me not getting what I thought I wanted but finding a way to be happy and grateful anyway.
They were beautiful people. Because they were unapologetically honest while also being unconditionally loving and supportive. It was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen — for somebody to get that balance right.
Furthermore, it was easy to follow their lead because there was no mistaking what their aims were. You could tell exactly what they stood for and why they were doing what they were doing. In my eyes, these guys were Spartans and they were at war with self-delusion and dishonesty.
Here I was in meetings with fully grown men, who wore shitty old jeans and flannel, and were the toughest but also the most vulnerable people I’d ever met. They’d give me a hug if I needed one, they’d listen to me talk about my feelings (and they’d talk about theirs), and then if I did something stupid, they’d yell at me like a father and tell me to stop being a dumbass. They found a balance between being tough and being forgiving. Being hard-asses and being patient. I have spent 10 years of my life trying to replicate that. Because it was the realest and most useful thing in the world.
There’s something to be said about Alcoholics Anonymous. It produces the kind of honesty that the entire world needs. Not a compulsive need to be mean, like some kind of spoiled 17-year-old girl from a rich neighborhood. And not an angry sort of honesty that you get from a bully or a narcissist. Just… a strict and remorseless observance of reality. An unrelenting observance of the principles of the program. The kind of honesty that says “look man, the steps are literally written on the wall. If you don’t like those steps, the problem isn’t the steps. The problem is you. It’s that those steps make you uncomfortable, because you’re still holding onto control where you have none.”
They were honest simply because being honest worked, and they had seen it work for decades.
If a newcomer was talking too much at a meeting, they’d pull the newcomer aside and say “it’s time for you to shut the fuck up. You clearly have no idea what you’re talking about, so just listen. For, like, the next 12 months.”
If a sponsor’s new sponsee was making excuses for why he couldn’t complete his Fourth Step inventory, and his sponsor happened to be one of these guys, he’d say “look man, you need to shut the fuck up. What I hear coming out of your mouth is ‘No thank you, I don’t want to be sober, I’d like to keep working my way towards death please.’ And that’s dumb. Sit down with me and do your steps.”
If one of these guys caught you trying to flirt (and sleep) with some new girl in the program, they would talk to you after the meeting and tell you “you need to shut the fuck up. You are here to get sober, and so is she. Stop being selfish.”
And none of it ever felt mean. It felt useful. It felt loving. Because they were simply telling you how it has to be if you want what they have. Sobriety. Self-awareness. Self-respect.
And when you stopped being selfish and delusional, they’d be the first ones to tell you how you did good work and that they’re proud of you. And then they’d give you more responsibility because now you were ready for it. Or they’d encourage you to keep going.
The tough love I got from people like this is the only reason I’m not dead right now.
There is nothing on Earth more useful than when someone is honest with you. This is why I’m a writer, and this is why I write about the things I write about. I don’t have any desire to analyze current events and talk about data. I don’t have any interest in blogging about topical things that will be irrelevant next week. I want to give to people what my sponsor and the other old-timers gave me: timeless, useful lessons for living a good life. For shutting up and getting out of my own way.
But tough love is hard, because you have to be sure that the person actually wants your input. That they actually want the help or the feedback. Otherwise you’re pissing into the wind. If the person doesn’t want you to be tough on them, you’re just being mean and accomplishing nothing. This has taken me a long, long time to figure out.
I have a tendency to be hard on people, because that’s what I believe in. Because that’s what gave me my life back. My natural underlying assumption is that everyone wants what I want: self-improvement, relentless self-awareness, and an ability to take one’s own inventory. An ability to see both oneself as he is and life as it is.
But… some people really don’t want that. Some people are perfectly content in their delusions and their pain. And yes, I know that sounds harsh, but it is what it is. A lot of people just don’t want the truth. Maybe not yet, maybe not ever. Which is why a lot of people think I’m cold or judgmental. Because I go around trying to help people “get sober,” even though they’re not trying to get sober.
Over the last several days I wrote a huge, long Square Man piece that was really ambitious and, I thought, interesting. So I showed it to my boss for some feedback (he’s also my friend and number one person I trust for editing). And, if I’m being honest, I was looking forward to him saying that It’s So Good and Man I Can’t Believe You Wrote This. I wanted a pat on the back. Just like some young, punk-assed scrub in Alcoholics Anonymous, I was sure of myself. I wanted to get my gold star for what I had done.
And guess what he said? “I don’t really like it, man.” And he proceeded to explain why everything I wrote just didn’t work and sounded dumb and I was trying too hard to make a point that I shouldn’t have been making.
And it hurted. It definitely did not feel good to hear that something I spent my last few nights putting together, and put emotion into, doesn’t even work.
But I took a couple minutes and thought about the notes that he’d written on my piece. And I realized he was right. What I wrote just doesn’t work. I was trying too hard to make a big, broad point, and in service to that point I was putting together ideas that just don’t go together and don’t produce a good story. It just wasn’t a good piece.
So I did what had to be done. I threw it out. It wasn’t good and I’m not publishing it.
I know it’s absolutely tearing you up inside to not know what it was about. But, that’s the privilege of being a writer. I get to know what my shittiest work was, and you don’t.
Hopefully.
And so I had to work three times as hard to write (and edit, and voice) a piece for this week, a new one, in 24 hours. It sucked. But it had to be done.
And now I can put forth something that hopefully works a little better. This piece is a complete re-write of a small part of that one. And I am much happier with it, because it actually accomplishes what it’s trying to accomplish. All I’m trying to do with this piece is tell you a good story (or two) and pin a lesson on it.
We need people around us who are willing to be tough on us. Every young man, every young woman, every fully-grown adult with a mortgage and real problems. Every chess player, every writer. You need people around you who are willing to just tell you the truth as it is. And your end of the deal is, you need to be emotionally able to handle it.
If you get yourself to a place where you can emotionally handle it, tough love is profoundly useful. It gets you information about yourself, and your work, and life, fast, with no distractions and no bullshit. When you don’t have to dance around your own emotions, or somebody else’s, it becomes a lot easier to simply focus on what needs to be done.
If I’m not open to tough love, I’m just making it harder for people to give me information. I’m making it so that people get punished for being honest with me. That seems like not a good long-term strategy.
And then, guess what happens. I continue to do stupid things. Because I didn’t allow anybody to tell me not to. I publish bad work, I hang onto bad relationships, I drink, I die.
And I don’t believe that hard truth should be reserved for “dire” situations. Because, as far as I’m concerned, every day is a dire situation. Every day is a day when something in me must be worked on.
You show me a man who wakes up perfect, and I’ll gladly agree that he has no work to do.
Drink some water and be really mean to someone,
JDR
“Don't be upset about the results you didn't get, from the work you didn't do.” - Unknown
If you’d like to keep reading, check out one of my favorite Square Man pieces: The Natural Consequences of Everything.
This is a really great piece. I bet your boss likes it.