My Eighth Step list used to drag me into a whirlpool of resentment.
After four years of sobriety, I was blocked by denial connected
with an ongoing abusive relationship. The argument between
fear and pride eased as the Step moved from my head to my
heart. For the first time in years I opened my box of paints
and poured out an honest rage, an explosion of reds and blacks
and yellows. As I looked at the drawing, tears of joy and
relief flowed down my cheeks. In my disease, I had given up
my art, a self-inflicted punishment far greater than any imposed
from outside. In my recovery, I learned that the pain of my
defects is the very substance God uses to cleanse my character
and to set me free.