Navigating Recovery: 12 -Steps Simplified A No Bullshit Guide to 12-Step Success and Thriving in Recovery

Navigating Recovery: 12-Steps Simplified

A No Bullshit Guide to 12- Step Success and Thriving in Recovery

Michael G.

Copyright © 2024 Michael G.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Disclaimer: The Ugly Truth

Alright, pay attention because I'm not repeating myself. All names in this book? Changed. And not just to protect the innocent, but also to cover the guilty, the clueless, and anyone else who might get their knickers in a twist over being mentioned. If you think you recognize yourself, Uncle Larry, or Aunt Sally’s third husband in these pages, that's your problem, not mine. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Let’s get one thing straight: This book isn’t the holy scripture of recovery, and it sure as hell isn’t a replacement for real medical or psychiatric help. I’m not a doctor, therapist, or you’re your emotional support animal. Everything in here is a suggestion—take it, leave it, or wipe your ass with it, I don’t give a shit. The opinions are mine, and mine alone, not some 12-step group’s, so don’t you dare walk into your next meeting waving this around like it’s the gospel. It’s not.

And while we’re being brutally honest, I can’t promise you jack. There’s no guarantee you’ll succeed, thrive, or even survive in recovery just because you read this. Results will vary depending on your interpretation of this information and, more importantly, how willing you are to actually do your part. The only thing I can promise is that this book is for educational and entertainment purposes only—if you were expecting miracles, you’re in the wrong damn place. If you’re still a hot mess after reading this, well, tough luck.So, if you’re ready to dive into a no-bullshit, no-holds-barred guide to making the 12 steps work for you, then go ahead. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Printed in the United States of America.

For more information, or to book an event, contact :

(Michael G. at Ucanbesober@gmail.com)

First  Edition:  Sept 2024

DEDICATION

To everyone who's ever been decent enough to show me kindness—yeah, you rare unicorns still walking this earth, thanks for not being complete jerks.

To all of you out there still stuck in the never-ending hamster wheel of booze, drugs, or whatever self-destructive habit has its claws in you—I see you. You’re not alone in this freak show.

To the recovery warriors who came before me and paved this twisted, potholed road with their sweat, tears, and coffee-stained Big Books—because without you, I'd still be a hot mess (or maybe just more of one).

To my pillar, my rock, the only person on this planet with enough patience to deal with my nonsense—Jenn Rosner. Let’s be honest, without you, this book wouldn’t exist. I’d still be curled up in the fetal position, wondering if I'm ever gonna get my act together. And to Jenn’s entire family thank you for your endless love and support and for making Jenn the badass she is, for that, I'm eternally grateful.

Finally, to Tali Silon and Jay Gore—two friends who never bailed, no matter how much of a train wreck I was (or still am). You’ve been the realest ones, and that’s saying something in a world full of phonies. thank you for always being genuine, even when genuine means calling me out on my BS.

You all deserve medals

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Conclusion

Meeting Tips and 12-Step Program Etiquette

Common 12 -Step Prayers

Glossary

Addiction and Mental Health Resources

Recommended Resources

Preface

Why You Should Listen to Me: My Raw, Gritty Journey

Welcome to Navigating Recovery: The 12 Steps Simplified, A No BS Guide To 12-Step Success and Thriving in Recovery, or, as I like to call it, your crash course in dodging life's bullets sober. So, here's the unglamorous scoop on the early days of my sobriety journey, delivered with the kind of charm you'd expect from a recovering addict who thought a good time involved bending reality until it snapped like a cheap rubber band. From a professional party animal to a stone-cold sober counselor, my life has been a series of trainwrecks and shitstorms (sometimes even a trainwreck IN a shitstorm). I'm now a somewhat functioning adult with a penchant for helping others navigate this rollercoaster called sobriety. Now, be warned, if you're expecting a warm, fuzzy journey through my escapades of enlightenment, you might want to brace yourself — this isn't your grandma's self-help book. This is a gritty, not-so-pretty detail of wrestling with demons (both metaphorical and those that seem alarmingly real), finding community in a crowd of fellow strugglers, and learning to laugh without a liquor-induced haze.

As I introduce you to the 12 steps from the harrowing lows to the unexpected highs of recovery, we will delve into stories that might make you cringe, nod in recognition, or even laugh out loud (because, sometimes, if you don't laugh, you'll definitely cry). Through it all, I aim to arm you with the insights and tools that helped me navigate my mess and might help you through yours.

Get ready to roll up your sleeves. Recovery is no walk in the park—it's more like a hike through a bewildering forest at night, but with this guidebook by your side, even the most lost can find their way by dawn.

◆◆◆

About the Author

Let me introduce myself. I'm Michael G, and I am both an alcoholic and a drug enthusiast; oh yeah, I am a foodie, too (I've gained and lost over 100 lbs several times). First, my credentials: I'm a seasoned veteran in the war against personal demons, with a PhD in poor life choices. Growing up, I was the living embodiment of a misfit: always the wrong word at the wrong time, feeling like I was living in the margins of someone else's textbook, the odd one out, never quite nailing the whole human thing. Booze and drugs didn't just help me cope—they turned me from the family's black sheep into the cool, mysterious, dark-wool kind of guy. If that dark wool was often found passed out in unusual places. I took my first swig at 9, bogarted my first joint by 11, and proceeded to live my life better through modern chemistry, using all the usual substances I could get my hands on. By the time I hit my mid to late teens (the timeline's a little fuzzy), drugs and alcohol weren't just a pastime; they were my favorite pastime, and by 18, I was a full-time employee with a burgeoning full-time addiction. It all seemed manageable; after all, I was having a good time—until it wasn't. Things escalated from weekend warrior antics to a nearly everyday habit. In my skewed view, I had dropped out of school, worked full-time, and did just fine. But my childhood buddy Sloppy Joe? Not so much. He had become undependable and unreliable, sleeping in and skipping school. In my not-so-humble opinion, he was the one who needed help. My initial plan? Use the meetings as a decoy for moderation. You know, sprinkle a little sobriety on weekdays. It was a brilliant strategy if you ignored all facts, logic, and basic understanding of alcoholism and addiction.

So, in 1986, armed with the best intentions (and a fair bit of denial), I dragged him to his first 12-step meeting. I thought a little weekly meeting action would straighten us out enough to keep the weekend party alive. We actually thought sobriety could be a part-time job. Walking into my first 12-step meeting was a bit like accidentally crashing a bizarre family reunion, the kind that is a cross between a circus and a freakshow, and not one of those fun circuses with clowns and acrobats. No, this was more the kind where you knew the family had some skeletons; still, you didn't expect them to be sitting next to you, smoking a cigarette and nodding about incarceration and institutions, and you're just there hoping the punch isn't spiked. There we were, on a chilly autumn evening, stepping into the community center nestled unassumingly between the heartbeat of commerce and the silence of a dark library. The building looked as plain as day from the outside, but inside, it pulsed with raw energy that both invited and terrified me.

As the door closed behind me, sealing off the refuge of the cool night air, I was enveloped in a soft glow of yellow light. It felt like stepping into a spotlight on a stage where everyone was both audience and actor. Rows of simple chairs filled the room, each occupied by an eclectic character that carried a story worth telling.

At first glance, it felt like a unified community bonded by shared battles. But as the meeting began, my initial impression crumbled; I felt like an alien who had wandered into a gathering where everyone else shared a secret code.

The meeting unfolded with introductions, each sharing snippets of their journeys through struggle and victory. When my turn arrived, I could barely manage to squeak out my name through my all-too-visible discomfort. The room responded with polite nods—a gesture warm enough to thaw a sliver of ice but distant enough to remind me of my outsider status. As I listened to the harrowing tales of battles with demons, both literal and metaphorical, I couldn't help but feel ridiculously ordinary. The overwhelming sense that I was a mere tourist in a land of seasoned warriors took hold, making the room spin slightly.

The speaker that night—a man whose rugged face told tales of hard-won battles with every crease—said something that hit me harder than any hangover. He said, If you like to drink and do drugs the way WE like to drink and do drugs, what you have to look forward to are jails, mental institutions, or death. It was a real Hallmark moment, just not the kind that ends up on a greeting card.

After the meeting, as everyone started dissipating into clusters of comfort and conversation, one kind soul lingered back, perhaps sensing my unease. So, what did you think? they asked, with a tone that suggested they genuinely cared about the answer. Before I could edit my thoughts, I blurted out, I don't belong here. All of these people should be incarcerated or institutionalized. Who in their right mind would look to all these Sick people for help to get well? The words hung awkwardly between us, stark in their raw honesty. The gentle smile that met my confession could have melted glaciers. Keep an open mind, they counseled, attend a few more meetings, and maybe start looking for the similarities, not the differences. You might be surprised by what you find." Their reassurance was a balm, soothing the sting of my self-imposed alienation.

I heard some truths that night—hard truths about where this merry-go-round of booze and highs ends. It wasn't pretty. Between the dire warnings and an attractive, busty redhead, I felt something click. I decided to return the next day, but unfortunately, my friend didn't. I heard sometime later that he had run off to join the military.

As the weeks passed, each meeting chipped away at my skepticism and sense of being an imposter. A phrase from another member eventually struck a deep chord: We didn't come here because we are bad people trying to get good; we came because we are sick, and we want to get well. It was simple yet profound—a mantra that began to dissolve the fortress I had built around myself.

I picked up a sponsor because, apparently, that's what you do if you want to avoid becoming a cautionary tale. He told me to buy a big book and call him. I did half of that. It turns out I'm great at collecting phone numbers and terrible at reading manuals on how not to wreck my life.

Meetings became my new normal. Each session was a blend of hugs I didn't want and stories that made me wonder if my life was a screenplay written by a drunk writer. I heard tales of loss, redemption, and sometimes, even humor. Here, people spoke a language that was both jarring and refreshing, entirely unlike the facade I had been maintaining in my everyday life.

This raw and blunt honesty was the reason I was able to accumulate 53 days sober before I fell off the wagon; I got back on track for another 33 days before the next slip-up. Each relapse was a mix of shame and stubborn resolve. An old-timer at one meeting didn't mince words with me: You're nothing more than a newcomer puke. I've spilled more than you drank. Take the cotton out of your ears and put it in your mouth. You have nothing to say we want to hear. Harsh, yes, but it was the slap I needed. His words kept me from relapsing again—not out of wisdom, but sheer spite.

Slowly, the meetings began to feel less like visiting a zoo of human eccentricities, where the mix of attendees was as varied as their stories. There was the first-timer, nervously twitching at every word, the seasoned old-timer with years of sobriety under his belt, and every stage in between. Each story echoed parts of my own hidden truths—the parts I had buried under years of substance use. Among these unlikely teachers, I began to see reflections of myself and glimmers of the person I could become. The realization dawned on me that the path to recovery wasn't paved with sanity; it was littered with the beautifully broken pieces of real people embracing their imperfections. The bizarre, the mundane, the chaotic, and the orderly—all merged into a symphony of recovery that played a tune I needed to hear.

The unexpected, genuine connections I began to forge weren't the polished, perfect friendships you see on TV. These were gritty, real, and raw—like sandpaper friendships that smoothed out my rough edges.

The journey, however, wasn't so smooth. Nine months in, I was a cocktail of emotions—homicidal one minute, suicidal the next, and I even got into a fistfight at a sober dance. I was so miserable that I prayed to die daily because I was too afraid to actually pull the trigger of the loaded gun that I had to my head, so instead, I just wished I would get hit by a truck while riding on my motorcycle…be careful what you wish for folks. The only thing keeping me going was the desire not to let that old Son of a Bitch who yelled at me when I was new have the satisfaction of being right. This was the reason I made it to one year of sobriety. Then, just when I thought I was on a pink cloud, a truck decided to test that theory by crossing my path while I was on my motorcycle.Picture this: I'm cruising along on my motorcycle, minding my own business, when out of nowhere, a truck skipped a stop sign and made a left turn in front of me. I was driving an excess of 50 mph, and I was not wearing a helmet. Both the truck and motorcycle were totaled; and like some twisted magic trick, I disappeared into a coma for six days. During that week, I died twice and had an actual out-of-body experience (that's a story for another time).  My family was left in a state of limbo, not knowing if I'd wake up and, if I did, whether I'd be paralyzed, brain damaged or reduced to a vegetative state.

The general medical consensus? I was a goner. They didn't expect me to walk again or even be able to make change for a dollar. Adding insult to injury, a well-meaning but misinformed doctor mistook me for another patient and told my brother that I had died drunk while driving my motorcycle. My brother, always my defender, set them straight. That's impossible, he said. He doesn't drink. The hospital became a revolving door of well-wishers from the 12-step community—people I barely knew were suddenly part of my recovery tableau, offering words of encouragement and more flowers than a funeral parlor. One night, I overheard hospital staff complaining, Who the fuck is this guy? We've been bombarded with flowers, visitors, and phone calls all day and night. Is he some celebrity or something? I then realized the impact of the community I had so reluctantly joined. They showed up, no questions asked, a testament to the 'we keep what we have by giving it away' ethos of the program.

The doctors were baffled that I hadn't died according to plan, and they were running out of explanations. I spent a month at UCLA Hospital before being transferred to Cedars-Sinai for physical therapy. When it came time for my discharge, a nurse, who must have thought she was auditioning for a role in a particularly annoying TV drama, kept asking me the same repetitive questions. I shot her daggers with my eyes and finally snapped, Why do you keep asking me these stupid questions?

She gave me a look that could freeze lava and said, I'm trying to check you out, and I don't think you understand the seriousness of the trauma and injuries you've sustained. You collided with a truck head-on at over 50 mph without a helmet, totaling both vehicles. People fall off motorcycles in their driveway at 10 mph, hit their heads, and end up paralyzed. When your head hits something, it stops, but your brain doesn't. It keeps slamming back and forth against your skull. The only thing protecting your brain is a jelly-like substance. Your brain gets bruised, and people get brain damage. You're still the talk of the hospital. There is no medical explanation for how you survived. This is why I'm asking you these questions.I guess I was still a medical marvel, and just like that, I realized I had cheated death yet again.

Discharged from the hospital with a body held together by more metal than flesh, I faced another daunting task—rehabilitation (Not the substance kind, this time). Physical rehab, coupled with the humbling process of being in a wheelchair for six months, then learning to walk, to climb stairs, and yes, even to dress myself again. Through it, the 12-step slogans I had once rolled my eyes at began to take on new meaning. One day at a time wasn't just about staying sober; it was about taking each painful step as it came.  I finally understood the importance of reading and doing step work. It gave me the choice to actually live instead of just exist.

Back home, adjusting to life and the newfound celebrity of being a