No Superman Here
(original post August 20, 2014)
Well, the manuscript for the novel has been written. It was completed a couple weeks ago. So, I now have more time to reflect on life. Shortly after the book-writing was completed, I reached my fourth anniversary of being benzo-free. It felt like a double celebration of sorts. I posted a healing update on Benzobuddies which I will not repeat here. There are other things to write.
In the past few weeks, I have spent a lot of time on the phone with others who are currently in withdrawal. (Some phone calls I took during the writing of the book – primarily first-time callers and a few individuals whom I’ve known for a long time and who are very special to me.)  I have spent many hours messaging with others. As I looked through my email yesterday, I noticed that this blog was once again available to read and that Dr. Jenn was posting again. I didn’t immediately see the post in which the reference to Superman was made.
I rolled that around in my head much of the day and into the evening. I was going to post something last night, but I decided to listen to some 70s music instead. I wasn’t sure what to write, so I thought it best to let it “ferment” a bit longer in my brain until it was ready.
When I went to bed last evening, I was “stressing” a bit about getting the book edited. Earlier in the day, I had acknowledged that all I have experienced and all the good things that have been accomplished since I became well have not been the result of me “striving” and trying to “force” things to happen (although I have done that at times with near-disastrous consequences). When I have been able to just “step back,” allow things to happen, and simply have a ”willingness” to take part in them when it was obvious that I should do so, amazing things have taken place. Truths have been revealed and circumstances have materialized in ways that I never could have orchestrated or even imagined. All I have had to do is “wait for it to happen” and then go forward (much like withdrawal healing). (There was no going forward in my withdrawal until the “stage was set” and I had some strength to do so, but that’s another story.)  
So, as I lay there in bed, I recalled that acknowledgment I had made earlier in the day. In a few moments, the name of someone in my own family who loves to read more than anything else in life popped into my head. She is my niece, and she is extremely talented. When I got out of the service in 1977, I lived with her family for the summer. She was eight or nine. We played all kinds of games. The one I recall most vividly was Connect 4. Time after time she pummeled me mercilessly. I only won one game out of dozens, and I’m pretty sure she let me win that one to show that she wasn’t completely heartless. She didn’t like to lose. Neither did Uncle Don, but Uncle Don was given no choice. When it comes to cerebral endeavors, she is probably on the top of the Killian heap. (I was just contacted by one of the characters in my story who has also agreed to help with editing. She literally saved my life.)
I have met dozens of extremely talented individuals on the withdrawal forums and blogs who would normally be quite capable of providing editing help. I have sent the manuscript to a few and have found that the opening chapters are too intense and seem to rev symptoms. I have also given it to a couple others to read and comment/edit.
Anyway, I have once again gotten sidetracked and started down another path. Time for a course adjustment.
When I was somewhere around six months or so off the Klonopin, I was extremely despondent. I had not gotten even one second of relief from the mental torture and had really not even known of anyone who got through withdrawal (except for one guy I met online who never really explained how he did it – only that it was hell). One morning, as I was pacing endlessly back and forth between our bedroom and our daughter’s old bedroom, I “came to the end of myself.” I knew that I did not have even the smallest bit of strength or fortitude left. I was completely devoid of any earthly means of surviving. I was simply done. I stopped in my daughter’s old bedroom and “put out” a statement of fact to my Creator: “If I am going to survive this, you will have to do it all – every bit of it. I have nothing. Nothing. If I survive, I will never be able to say I exerted any part of my own self-will or power – not even the slightest amount.” I was not begging to survive. I was not dealing. I was not promising. I was simply stating the truth.
As I have healed, I have seen many amazing things occur in my life and the lives of others within my sphere. I have been given the opportunity and privilege to have a part in many of those things. I wrote an entire novel in four months while doing all kinds of other life things. That is staggering to me. But it all goes back to that “statement of fact” prayer.
It is tempting to assert that I exerted my will and strength as I was in withdrawal and pulled myself through. It is equally tempting to maintain that the enormous mental and physical energy that I have obtained since I have healed is evidence of my superior power and strength. Nothing could be more false. I was as weak as a human could be. There was no lower place for me to go except the grave.
In withdrawal, there are no Supermen or Wonder Women. There is only the desperate grasping on to hope from others. During that time, the Creator renewed my strength. It was not my doing. It was my Creator’s gift to me.
This has been an incredibly spiritual experience for me – one that has defied my own human logic – one that my mind cannot comprehend or begin to evaluate with any certainty. One thing that I have learned is that there is a vast difference between “that which is me” (call it spirit or soul) and that with which I think and comprehend (call it mind or human reason). I’m not even sure they are connected in any way.
I am certain that the energy and strength that I now possess is, in some spiritual way, superhuman because it comes from a superhuman source. My withdrawal experience was a spiritual journey (although it seemed like it was only physical, mental and emotional anguish at the time). In that regard, it is available to all who make it to this side of withdrawal and even to those going through withdrawal. I had read it in many success stories. It is true.
There is nothing any more special about me than there is about anyone else. I simply healed, and the strength given to me and to others who have gotten through withdrawal (even post-acute withdrawal from alcohol) is easy to discern.