The Great Escape

I had a completely different blog post in mind for today.  But I woke up this morning with a song going through my head, and try though I might to silence it, I keep hearing it.  The song, sung by Pink Floyd, is called “Comfortably Numb.”  Here’s part of the lyrics (written by Roger Waters):

“There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb.”

I have a long history with this song.  When I was deep in my addiction and heard it for the first time, it gave me an odd sense of belonging—it made me feel like others craved the same numbness and oblivion that I did.  Then when I first got clean, I hated the song because part of me undeniably still craved that and couldn’t have it.  Now, the song just makes me sad because of those memories—and because I know so many people who are still trying their hardest to manage their lives while trying to escape life’s pain.

On a day when I was still very sick from addiction, I picked up my Bible, closed my eyes, and let it fall open—a common practice for me in those days, as I wasn’t coherent enough to choose a verse any other way.  This was the first verse I saw:  “Such a person feeds on ashes; a deluded heart misleads him; he cannot save himself, or say, ‘Is not this thing in my right hand a lie?’” (Isaiah 44:20)  That verse slapped me right in the face—because even as I was reading it, I was holding fentanyl.  In my right hand.  I read and reread that verse, then decided I didn’t really like it.  So I closed my Bible and let it fall open again.  And this verse, that I had marked several times in the past, was the verse I turned to:  “For I am the LORD your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, ‘Do not fear; I will help you.'” (Isaiah 41:13)

It was a moment of clarity that I hadn’t had in years.  I was going to have to make a decision—I couldn’t have both oblivion AND God.  I was going to have to let go of what I was grasping so tightly in my right hand in order to let Him take hold of that same hand.  I wish I could say I chose Him right then, but I didn’t. Looking back on that moment, however, I know it was the beginning of the end of my substance abuse.  God planted a seed in my heart that wouldn’t go away, no matter what I did to numb myself to it and try to escape it.  That was the moment where something deep inside of me—something I had tried my hardest to stifle—began crying out for life.

I used to tell myself that I needed the escape of oblivion because I wasn’t like everyone else: I felt things too deeply.  The darkness in the world hurt me.  I needed something, anything to cope with that and my physical pain.  In recovery I found out that I wasn’t unique in my craving for oblivion.  Everybody I met in recovery was there for the same reason I was—they had wanted an escape from reality.  They made some bad choices in finding that escape.  And now here we all were, finding our way back to life.  Not a life lived with one foot in reality and one foot itching to escape—we all wanted to be fully alive for maybe the first time in our lives.

God never meant for us to live in a state of numbness. The abundant life He promised us cannot be experienced in oblivion.   We were meant to feel—all of it.  Sadness and pain teach us to seek comfort from the only One who can really give it.  Passion and joy remind us to look up with gratitude and marvel at our Creator.

Standing here now, on the other side, I can still see the ghost of myself that wanted to be numb to life.  And tonight, I’m in pain.  I’m sad.  So that ghost’s siren song is particularly loud right now as it beckons to me: “You don’t have to feel pain or sadness, Renee.  You don’t have to feel anything.  Remember?”  Yes, I remember.   I also remember that when the numbness wears off, the pain of life has to be faced again anyway.  I remember that the sharp edges of pain are dulled, but the surges of joy—those wonderful flashes of happiness—lose their beauty, too.  I remember all of that.  Which is why I choose to feel this pain and listen to a louder voice, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2  Cor. 12:9)  Ever since I let go of the lies in my right hand and chose to grasp God’s hand instead, His grace has not failed me.  Not one time.  There is no greater grace.  No greater strength.  No greater love.  And no greater escape than the comfort of His arms.