Читать книгу Life on the Rocks - Peg O'Connor - Страница 12
ОглавлениеHOW IS ADDICTION LIKE LIVING IN A CAVE?
PHILOSOPHY HAS ALWAYS BEEN ABOUT THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE, BUT one with the higher or loftier goal of living a good and just life. This pursuit has involved examining the nature of just about everything. Socrates, one of the first Greek philosophers, who appears as a character in the Dialogues of Plato (his student), always asked a guiding question, “What is it?” The “it” could be justice, piety, beauty, courage, temperance, or knowledge. For Socrates, these are the crucial virtues around which life should revolve, which is why he interrogated people when they invoked these concepts. His agenda was to draw the line between what appears to be just or pious, for example, and what justice or piety really are. The stakes are enormously high; Socrates once engaged a man who was prosecuting his own father for impiety or offense to the gods. Socrates attempted (unsuccessfully) to get this man to see that prosecuting his own father might be the impious act.
In his pursuit of knowledge about the nature of virtues, Socrates first had to debunk popular opinions about them. Popular opinion tends to have a stronghold on many of us. Debunking happened in the context of a dialogue, but in reality, it more closely resembled a cross-examination. Socrates looked for the essence, the “necessary property,” or “ineliminable trait” that made particular acts pious or just. He interrogated every definition offered to him by asking for examples, pushing and pulling against those definitions, turning them inside out and upside down, stretching that definition to see if weird things followed, exploring what follows when a particular definition is put into practice, and excavating hidden assumptions in those definitions. Being in a dialogue with Socrates was intellectual gymnastics on an Olympic level, and for good reason: Socrates took his philosophizing as a commitment to help people avoid making mistakes that would have long-lasting if not eternal effects on their soul. This isn’t exactly glamorous work, but it is vital in the pursuit of knowledge of any sort. Socrates’ work prompted the seventeenth century philosopher John Locke (1632–1704) to describe himself as an under-laborer, clearing away the rubbish that gets in the way of acquiring knowledge.7 We now call this work conceptual analysis, one of the most powerful tools a philosopher has to wield.
How does philosophy approach or provide us with a better understanding of addiction? How can we engage with popular views about it? Socrates would ask, “What is it?” And he wouldn’t be alone: psychiatrists, psychologists, chemical dependency counselors, and people in recovery programs are asking this question. Neuroscientists have entered the fray, searching for both the cause and effective management of addiction. Yet there is no definitive consensus on what addiction is or on what substances and behaviors have the potential to become addictive. Defining addiction remains an area of heated debate, with incredibly huge stakes on both a personal level and on social and public policy levels.
Despite differences of opinion, most of us can recognize—and through recognition, perhaps better understand—certain behaviors and situations in which “normal” use of alcohol and other drugs turns to destructive dependency. We can see a problem even if we cannot agree on an exact definition or description of it.
One sort of recognition can be found in examining allegory, in this case a very familiar one from Plato. Allegory—a story that functions as an extended metaphor that has both literal and figurative meanings—is clearly not science. It won’t offer an explanation of addiction, but it does offer the potential for a sort of insight that conceptual analysis cannot. An allegory allows us to unpack many of those dimensions that escape more scientific description. With the cave allegory Plato uses in the Republic to draw the line between appearance and reality, we have a powerful tool for understanding the crisis of the addicted person.
In the allegory, Plato tells about a group of prisioners who are inside a cave chained facing a wall. They cannot move their heads and, therefore, cannot look sideways or behind; they can only look forward. Behind them is a burning fire and a half wall where puppeteers hold up puppets that cast shadows. To the chained men, the shadows are real; they have no concept of the real objects that are causing the shadows. They mistake appearance for reality, and thus they have no knowledge.
Now imagine that the prisoners are released from their chains. They look behind them and see the objects that caused the shadows. Most likely they will be confused and unwilling to accept that these objects caused the shadows. Imagine now that the prisoners start to leave the cave. They will be painfully blinded as soon as they encounter daylight. Once their eyes adjust, they will be confronted by a harsh, bright world with a whole host of horrifying objects. Some of the prisoners will flee back to the safety of the darkness and shadows, valuing the familiar more than the unfamiliar. Anyone who returns to tell his friends who are still enchained what he has seen will be regarded as a crazy person lacking any credibility. Others, once their eyes have more fully adjusted to the light, will want to stay above ground. Such people come to realize that the world of light is the real one where genuine knowledge is possible. Certain people among those who have “seen the light” of truth and reality will feel compelled to go back into the cave to help those who are still enchained to leave the cave. This is the philosopher’s burden, according to Plato.8
This allegory is richly wonderful for understanding addiction, relapse, and recovery. Most people who become addicted become enchained to their drug of choice. The word “addiction” comes from the Latin verb “addicere,” which means to give over, dedicate, or surrender. In the case of many alcoholics, for instance, including my own, this is just what happens. What may have started as fun and harmless use begins to grow troubling, painful, and difficult to stop. The alcoholic becomes chained to alcohol in a way that is different from others who “drink normally.”
In various scenarios of addiction, the addicted person’s fixation on a shadow reality—one that does not conform to the world outside his or her use—is apparent to others often well before it is apparent to the addict. When the personal cost of using becomes noticeable, it can still be written off or excused as merely atypical. Addicts tend to orient their activities around their addictive behavior; they may forego friends and activities where using is not featured. Some isolate themselves; others change their circle of friends in order to be with people who use in the same way they do or worse than they do so that they can appear “normal” or “not as bad.” They engage in faulty, yet persuasive, addicted reasoning, willing to use anything as evidence that they do not have a problem; no amount of reasoning will persuade them otherwise. Each time the addict makes a promise to cut down or stop, but does not, the chains get more constricting. Each time she does something she promised herself she would never do again, the chains become tighter still.
Yet, for many reasons, some people begin to wriggle against the chains of addiction. Whether it is an experience that scares them to death (not uncommon), or losing something that really matters (also not uncommon), or looking in the mirror and not recognizing themselves or not liking what they see (quite common), some people begin to work themselves out of the chains. People whose descent into addiction came later in life have more memories of what life can be like not using. Some will be able to turn and see the fire and the half wall and recognize the puppets causing the shadows. Those whose use started so young that it is all they really know will often experience the fear and confusion Plato described. But, as sometimes happens in recovery, they can start to come out of the cave, too. And, often, they are guided by another who made it.
The brightness of the light can be painful, as many addicts realize once their use stops. The pain from physical withdrawal can be excruciating. People fear pain, and that fear can enchain a person, too. There’s also a kind of emotional withdrawal. Substances and addictive behaviors provide the possibility of relief from pain and suffering. This possibility sustains us until we can use. The difficulty of emotional withdrawal shouldn’t be underestimated. Many people fear facing an emotional tsunami. Those who used to numb feelings or avoid painful memories may feel defenseless. Often we lack the tools and skills to name our emotions; our emotional palates are usually limited. This is why some, even many, will retreat back to the familiar darkness of the cave. Too much is new and scary; they may feel and be ill-equipped to lead their lives in different ways. Back with using friends, they will find comfort, or what we understand as relapse.
Some will make it farther out of the cave and allow their eyes to adjust. They may struggle to stay in recovery and remain balanced. So many of their old coping behaviors will not work, and they will be faced with a seemingly endless task of learning how to rebuild their emotional lives. Some will achieve and live in recovery for a good while and later relapse. People relapse for all sorts of reasons. Often these have to do with old ways of thinking and behaving that may begin with a foray into one area of life that at some point becomes a roaring comeback in other areas of life. When people who have had some recovery relapse and go back to the darkness of the cave, they may be met with derision—an “I told you so” attitude. But at least they are returning to something familiar and can tell themselves, “I tried but couldn’t do it.” This may serve as justification for not trying again for a long time, if ever again.
Those who do make it out of the cave and manage not to relapse are few and far between. They know how precarious their recovery is and what they need to do to maintain it. People in long-term recovery are often the ones who need to go back into the cave, not as saviors, but for their own survival. People with years of recovery often say that newcomers help them stay sober because their pain, loss, and confusion are so fresh. Their stories remind old-timers of life enchained in the cave. Old-timers can share their stories, too, and in the process show newcomers different ways to be in the world.
Of course our stories are real and deeply personal, but, siminlar to allegories, they can wield a transformative power. Hearing shared refrains of their own experiences in stories and allegories provides people with an important corrective lens. It leads some to see and understand themselves and the world differently. Equipped with this knowledge, people can begin to transform their lives.
