How Addiction Hijacked My Brain Even Though I Am the Sober One

In meetings they say, “ You spot it, you got it.”

I was half paying attention. I knew I needed gas so I drove on automatic pilot to the grocery store I regularly frequent to use up the gas points I had accumulated.

Pump #1 was open and as I turned the wheel hard and pulled in front of the pump, I heard the car behind me lay on the horn. I had no visceral response to it, turned the car off, and stepped out of the car. A tall, athletic woman proceeded to enlighten me.

“ You cut me off ! What the hell is wrong with you? I was here first and you pulled in front of me. Move! Now!” Her face grew bright red as she unloaded on me. Spittle came out of her mouth as she stared at me.

I started to shake a little but decided I wasn’t going anywhere, I wasn’t going to engage her and I was just going to get my gas and get out of there. She revved her engine a time or two then whipped her car around to the other side of the pump and began to fill her vehicle as she continued to scream at me. Cars lined up behind us. Drivers opened doors and windows watching the blow up.

“This is the rudest place I have ever lived. At the very least you should apologize to me.” She continued but I don’t remember much of what she said after that point. Insert your favorite expletives tied together by some ranting. I kept my eyes fixed on the the numbers spinning round.

My mind and heart were elsewhere. Minutes before the exchange, I learned a loved one relapsed and relapsed hard. I was feeling drained, empty, hopeless. The merry go round of addiction continued.

“Lady, you need bigger problems,” I said.

I walked over to remove the pump handle from my tank, and unfortunately, I forgot to disengage the flow before pulling it out. Gas sprayed all over my car and my feet. She howled with laughter.

“Serves you right,” she yelled. “Karma’s a bitch! Ha ha ha ha.”

“See you at the gym,” I responded. Somewhere in me, I remembered seeing her at one of my exercise classes or in the gym locker room. It surprised me to remember that.

“I certainly hope not!” she responded and sped away.

The exchange stayed with me and nagged me. I don’t know if I cut her off, nor did I care much. When a family deals with chronic addiction, numbness can ensue. Not much else matters and life seems to often move in slow motion. Fight, flight, freeze. This was freeze. Knowing how much my loved one was suffering, and knowing how little I could do to alter his path, were overwhelming me.

Still, I couldn’t get this woman out of my head. I knew we would bump into each other again and I was rehearsing the dirty looks I decided I would give her.

​One day later, I headed to the gym. As I shut the car off, I decided to pray a little then go inside to my class. It was a rough prayer at best.

“Look, God, I am really not sure how to handle this. How about a little help here.” And I stepped out of the car.

Typically, mornings are crowded at the gym. Seniors, young moms, and a few teens mill in and out of different areas. This morning, though, the lobby was empty. Even the desk was empty.

Sure enough, I walk in and she is walking out. There is no one else in the lobby.

I walk over to her and softly say, “Can I talk to you?”

“Oh my God, of course it’s you.” She looks at me with disgust.

“I’m not really sure what happened in front of that gas pump but I want you to know that if I cut you off, it was unintentional. Likely, I did. I’m sorry that I wasn’t paying attention. I was struggling. A close relative is very ill….I’m afraid he is dying….” the tears start flowing down my cheeks. This I did not expect.

The woman, whose name I don’t even know at this point, suddenly pulls me to her chest and holds me. It is a long, full embrace. I am significantly smaller than she, and I allow her to hold me.

“I’m sorry, too. I should have kept my mouth shut and moved on. I hate conflicts and I created one. I… get it.. I understand what you are feeling. I really do. I have stage IV uterine cancer and I’m dying.”

I remind myself to breathe and listen. Just listen.

“I take massive amounts of steroids with one of my chemo treatments and can’t control my temper. My life coach tells me to go home and scream in my closet when this happens. Yesterday, instead of doing that, my rage came flying at you.. If anyone was out of line, it was me. I’m very sorry.”

She hugs me again and pats my back. I tell her I hope she continues to get healthy and to take good care of herself. I can barely speak.

“Thank you for speaking to me. This really helped me.”

“Me, too.” I croak out. “My name is Michele.”

“Mary Ann.”

“I hope I see you again.” she says and walks out.

“Me, too.” I say as the shaking stops. I breathe deeply as I feel a peace that comes only from forgiveness.​

As I drove away, I realized that Mary Ann kick started my own recovery, one in which I began to keep the focus on myself, especially in times of crisis.

Owning our part in a conflict is the salt in any recipe. It is the agent of change. Without it, a recipe is flat and empty. I know this. Skip the salt in any recipe. Likely you will have a chocolate cookie that isn’t very chocolatey, a pasta dish that is missing something, a very flat pancake.

I hate owning my stuff. It is uncomfortable and risky. It takes vulnerability to own our part in a conflict and a good deal of courage. We risk rejection, judgment, and criticism. But the gains can be immense and the risk is worth it. Owning our stuff can open the door to healing and transformation. It can lighten our load. Though much is often out of my control, this is something I can control. just for today, for this much I am grateful.