Ask a Sober Oldster #22: Richard Rushfield

"Like so many, I grew up with broken tools for relating to others, and alcohol became the way I learned how to do that."

This monthly interview series is a collaboration between Oldster Magazine and The Small Bow, A.J. Daulerio’s excellent newsletter about recovery and mental health, and will appear in both newsletters. Learn more about this collaboration in this Oldster podcast/videocast episode.

---

Richard Rushfield. Illustration by Edith Zimmerman.

Richard Rushfield is a journalist, writing about the entertainment industry as the co-founder of and columnist for The Ankler.

—

How old are you, and how long have you been in recovery?

I am currently 56 and 28 years sober—which I just realized means I've spent exactly half my life in sobriety.

How did you get there? 

After 28 years, you'd think I'd have come up with a concise answer to that, but I think the answer gets more complicated the further away I get and the more I reflect.

The shortish answer is, like so many, I grew up with broken tools about for relating to others and alcohol became the way I learned how to do that. Which was okay for a time, until that path required more and more of me, and the problem of not knowing how to get along in the world became bigger and bigger. So by my mid-20's, the choices had become very stark, and continuing along that path was going to require going to some places even darker than I had previously imagined possible.

Fortunately, as that choice stared me down, I had two friends who had gotten sober in AA in the year before. I thought that they had done something crazy—like joining one of the many eccentric religious sects that bloom here in Los Angeles. But I also noticed that they had transformed into people who were living their lives without the sort of daily calamity I had gotten used to.

I came to a place where I was so lost, I was ready to try something different. Even that, although a sober life was the last thing I could imagine ever wanting.

What are the best things about being in recovery?

Being sober this long, thinking about that question, it's not much different from asking: What are the best things about life? Of the things that I love about my life—my family, my friends, being able to walk down the street without fear—none of that exists without recovery. At this point, it really is everything.

But when I think about what I'm most grateful for, I come back to the fact that I have a family—a wife and two children—who have never seen me not sober, who can't really imagine what I would be like not sober. To have these people in my life who think of me just…as another person in the world living a life—very much not the way people thought of me before —I can't imagine a gift greater than that, and that kind of puts a bow around everything I'm grateful for.

I was a very young 26-year-old with few responsibilities or deep ties in life, when I came in. Now I'm in my mid-50's, with a family, job, etc. Such different lives that it's hard to even compare. But what stands out for me, looking at what drove me back then, was the great lengths I went to avoid any kind of responsibility, attachment or difficulty. If there was ever an uncomfortable conversation to be had, you could bet I would go miles to avoid it.

What’s hard about being in recovery?

Remembering to be in recovery is a challenge for me. I'm not the best meeting goer these days. I still yearn so much to say—Can't I just be normal now? Why do I still have to think about this thing? That train of thought…when I let it float along unchecked long enough, inevitably leads to spiraling out about someone cutting me off in traffic, or a bad conversation at work, or obsessing on whatever little thing stood in the way of my will. On my own, I'd let those thoughts swallow up my life, and the "pleasure of justified resentment" is my greatest passion.

How has your character changed? What's better about you?

I was a very young 26-year-old with few responsibilities or deep ties in life, when I came in. Now I'm in my mid-50's, with a family, job, etc. Such different lives that it's hard to even compare. But what stands out for me, looking at what drove me back then, was the great lengths I went to avoid any kind of responsibility, attachment or difficulty. If there was ever an uncomfortable conversation to be had, you could bet I would go miles to avoid it.

Coming into AA, that was one of the first changes that really struck me. A commitment…which meant I would show up at a designated time and place, every week, and do something I said I would do. (Usually set up chairs, or stack them up after.) That was mind-blowing, the idea that I might say I would do something like that, and then do it. And that unlocked the door of living a life where I could embrace being part of society, not just scurrying around at the margins, in the shadows.   

What do you still need to work on? Can you still be a monster?

Oh gosh, we never run out of things to work on. Don't have to worry about perfection coming on too hard. I can be grumpy, forgetful, self-involved, untidy, over-indulgent in a hundred ways. I don't know if monster is the word I'd use to describe myself in before times. It's more grandiose than how I see myself, looking back. I see myself then as more sort of pathetic and hapless and rising to the level of monstrousness. As for now, I'm sure I'm not a delight to be with or work with every day, but I don't think I'm going about ruining people's lives or careers everywhere I go. I might or might not be anyone's cup of tea, but I don’t think these days that people deeply regret letting me into their lives. If I'm wrong, come tell me.

When I think about what I'm most grateful for, I come back to the fact that I have a family—a wife and two children—who have never seen me not sober, who can't really imagine what I would be like not sober. To have these people in my life who think of me just…as another person in the world living a life—very much not the way people thought of me before —I can't imagine a gift greater than that, and that kind of puts a bow around everything I'm grateful for.

What’s the best recovery memoir you’ve ever read? Tell us what you liked about it.

It's not a genre I read a ton of, but Permanent Midnight by Jerry Stahl is a great, haunting and hilarious look at the contrast between outward success and inner turmoil.

What are some memorable sober moments? 

When I was about 90 days sober I was sitting home one night feeling sorry for myself—despite sobriety, life hadn't completely turned around. I'd given up my old friends and didn't feel like I'd made close new ones yet. So I decided I'd go visit the bar where my friends and I used to go on that night of the week and see who was hanging out. I had 90 days, it would be fine.

I went to the bar, which was surprisingly cold and dingy, and didn't see any of my friends. So I stood around by myself, which made me feel more isolated. Finally, I said, well I'm here…I should have a talk with the bartender. Maybe there's something not too strong he can make me.

So I got up and turned around to walk up to the bar and collided with this woman, almost knocked her down. When i stopped to help her, I saw that it was Cindy Lou—from my regular meeting, who came in the same week I had. "Funny meeting you here!" I said. And we laughed and chatted for five or ten minutes and then she went to rejoin her group. I realized I felt okay then and didn't need a drink at the moment so shrugged and went home.

The following night, I was sitting around feeling even more sorry for myself and decided, this time, to go to a meeting. And I felt so lost and demoralized, I asked God, I said, if there's any point to all this, show me what it is. At the meeting, I still was just feeling depressed and isolated and not connecting and I said to myself, Well, I tried. Enough of this. And I stood up to leave, and walked about three steps when I collided once again, into Cindy Lou. And she said to me, “You know it's the craziest thing. Last night I was so depressed and when I knocked into you, I had given up and was walking up to the bar to get a drink.”

I ask first of all every day—Show me how can I help. Which is the thing I try to keep in mind and be open to as I go about my day. I need to constantly remind myself that that is what I'm doing here today. That might be to help my family or a stranger on the street. The biggest way I can usually help is by listening. The extent that I can keep that at the front of my mind is usually the extent I feel grounded on any given day.

Are you in therapy? On meds? Tell us about that.

I'm not. I am not against them, but I haven't felt the need.

Richard Rushfield.

What sort of activities or groups do you participate in to help your recovery? (i.e. swimming, 12-step, meditation, et cetera)

I have to say, nearly three decades later, I remain very wary of groups and still have a hard time joining things. I have practices I enjoy regularly—meditation, cooking, taking walks—not enough exercise. The best thing I can do for my recovery these days is to spend as much time as possible not looking at a screen. It's a constant battle to be present, wherever you are.

Are there any questions we haven’t asked you that you think we should add to this? And would you like to answer it?

What guidance do I seek on a daily basis now, is something I think about.

I ask first of all every day—Show me how can I help. Which is the thing I try to keep in mind and be open to as I go about my day. I need to constantly remind myself that that is what I'm doing here today. That might be to help my family or a stranger on the street. The biggest way I can usually help is by listening. The extent that I can keep that at the front of my mind is usually the extent I feel grounded on any given day.

---

With thanks, as always, to A.J. Daulerio and Edith Zimmerman at The Small Bow for the collaboration. Check out the whole Sober Oldster series.

P.S. Check out Edith Zimmerman’s Etsy shop, where she has beautiful greeting cards and posters for sale.