Have you seen Recovery Girl at a meeting lately? She’s been at several of mine recently. I bet she’s been to some of your meetings too.

She shares only about problems she’s already overcome. All her struggles are in the past tense. All her character faults are fixed, or at least carefully tucked in, and anyway, they were minor.

If you listen closely, you might notice that her shares seem a little preplanned. Rehearsed. Carefully edited, with the vulnerable and messy parts left out. They have a “here’s how I’m a better person now” story arc, tied up with a recovery bow and a happy ending. No loose, uncertain ends hanging. Here’s what happened, here’s what I learned, I’m all better now. Done. Checkmark. And I am FINE. Fine, thanks. All good.

She still answers, “How are you?” by telling you how her qualifier is doing. She still measures her progress by how well she can hide what’s going on. She still thinks being strong means pretending she’s not hurt.

She wouldn’t tell you that she yelled at her kids today, or that she still can’t speak up for herself to her qualifier, or that she cried on the way here. And she will never, never acknowledge how scared she is of being truly seen, because she can’t admit it to herself.

So she puts up a good front. She’s good at that–after all, it’s how she survived the craziness of alcoholism. Soon she learns all the words, knows all the right things to say. She knows what others should do but thinks her own problems are unique. She listens to others’ shares and thinks, “I would never.” She secretly judges the person who cries at a meeting, because crying in public is shame worse than death. Of course she has compassion, but she herself would never let anyone see her–you know, like that.

She acts like she has it all together, and she’s a good actress. It looks like she’s making great progress. She’s got this recovery thing wrapped up.

Except she doesn’t.

Inside, she’s the same scared mess as ever. She’s learned the new vocabulary, she’s fit in, chameleon-like, to the new social environment, but one thing is the same: she is determined, at all costs, not to let her true self show. To take off the mask is the horrible, impossible thing, because it means rejection and disaster. She hasn’t changed. She’s just exchanged her old mask for a new one–the mask of Recovery Girl.

Know her? I do too. Better than I would like, in fact. She’s me.

Or rather, she’s who I’m fighting not to be. She’s my shadow, my false self, always luring me to put the mask back on, with the promise that if I just work hard enough on my disguise, I’ll be safe. I’ll be accepted, or at least not rejected.

Problem is, she’s a liar. Far from making me acceptable, the mask keeps me from being loved. The mask is a huge part of my disease. Recovery means taking it off. In fact, I’m just now figuring out that I will only recover to the extent that I can take it off. That’s hard to swallow, because my sick self wants to hang onto it–maybe not wear it all the time, but keep it just in case. Just for emergencies. Throw it away?? That’s what kept you safe all these years.

Nope. That’s what made me sick all these years. Recovery Girl is a liar. She might cuss and wail, she might terrify me with prophecies of doom and rejection, but her time is up. She can make all the noise she wants, but she doesn’t get to vote anymore.

She’s going down. By the grace of God, and with the love of the fellowship and the help of the program, she’s going down. She might still try to come sneaking around here. We’ll call her out on her bull$#!t.

I’m still learning to have compassion on that scared person who hated herself so much that she hid behind the mask all those years. But the mask itself? It’s poison. It’s got to go. That’s my recovery–learning how to live without hiding. That’s the slow, messy, un-beautiful process I’m inviting you to share with me.

Keep coming back!