1 June 2022
Be forewarned, this blog wrestles with some ideas about the greatness of Shakespeare, an increasingly deprecated value, though not in this quarter. In an attempt to live a life exposed to the best of the past, I have been a fan of Shakespeare’s work since boyhood. My father revered him and had his complete works in his office, which always impressed me—so much so that I never returned them to him after taking them to university! (Sorry, Dad! Well, not really.)
I have tried various approaches to learning the plays and sonnets and am at the outset of another method—reading older criticism of his work. So I’m making my way through the wonderfully written The Meaning of Shakespeare (Goddard, 1951) as a systematic attempt at learning. Why is this interesting? It is interesting because so much of Shakespeare is about the nature of humanity—as is the study of addiction, PTSD, or burnout, some areas of interest.
After quoting the critical lines from Polonius, about being true to oneself, Goddard wrote that: “No one can be true to Shakespeare until he has been true to himself.” Could this sentiment shed light on recovery?
Goddard proceeded to outline a relationship between actors and authors, emphasizing advice from Chekhov, that an actor should not be intimidated by the greatness of an author but ought bring her own vision of the character to every role and in only that way is “true artistic work created” (Goddard, 1951, p. 5).
The expression fake it 'til you make it seems appropriate here: the successive acts required of a person moving from an identity of addiction to one of recovery is a succession of attempts—some sustained, others abandoned, temporarily or permanently. Why are some attempts abandoned? We probably abandon some aspects/facets (look at the latter word!) of self because we don’t yet have the strength (or believe we do) to authenticate them—to genuinely be what we believe is required i.e., that façade is not the face we are comfortable presenting.
A much-discussed example, in the 12-step culture, is accepting the role of sponsor or even reaching out to be sponsored. Some newbies feel unworthy of another’s time and attention or uncomfortable having their lives viewed by another. This is a rejection of what Maté, Hari et al. believe to be the opposite of addiction: connection. Which is interesting because it can also be argued that a great actor must first connect with another—the author’s outlined character, before acting or inhabiting the role. Are we actors/acting when we leave behind a maladaptive behaviour in favour of greater health?
To be a sponsee (recipient of sponsorship), or a sponsor—is to be vulnerable—a stance much of our evolutionary history cautions us against. To be vulnerable may be a precondition of connection because the willingness to connect risks pain and rejection.
If Goddard was right, there’s a triple affinity at work when viewing a play. First, as a reader or audience member, you must believe in the veracity of the characters and the plot. Secondly, you must believe in the actor inhabiting and conveying that role. But, most importantly (thirdly), you must admit, at least to yourself, that some part of that actor/character/role has paralleled and touched your own life and being to such an extent that you identify with that actor, character, and role. And this is the real value of great art: it touches and recognizes and unites us in what is universal about being human.
If we test that triple affinity against recovery, how does it fare? To be sponsored, or to connect honestly with another about your addictive journey, you must believe in the truth and value of friendship. Secondly, you must believe in the friend and her authenticity. And thirdly, there must be a spark of recognition between you, that friend, and the relationship, such that you recognize some part(s) of yourself therein. The parallel holds.
Finally, in researching and writing this blog, I spent some time looking at the accompanying image of a suit-and-tied Ian McKellen as King Lear. I thought, as I looked at the picture, that men don’t stand out in rainstorms with suits and pocket puffs getting drenched to the skin yelling violently at an unforgiving G-d whose punishments feel unbearable. And that’s true. But metaphorically—in our cars, in our beds, in a meeting or at a hospital—pain can come so near to destruction that we feel like Lear on the heath and like him, seek to take down the whole pantheon. From what I know, it was Shakespeare, more than any other writer, who documented the range of human roles to such an extent that Freud was envious, with the late Harold Bloom proclaiming that the playwright had invented the human.
How could such breadth not apply to the journey from addition to recovery?
Dan Chalykoff is working toward an M.Ed. in Counselling Psychology and accreditation in Professional Addiction Studies. He writes these blogs to increase (and share) his own evolving understandings of ideas. Since 2017, he has facilitated two voluntary weekly group meetings of SMART Recovery. Please email him (danchalykoff@hotmail.com) to be added to or removed from the Bcc’d emailing list.
References
Hari, J. (2015, 9 July). Everything you think you know about addiction is wrong. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PY9DcIMGxMs
Hitchings, H. (2018, 11 July). ‘That’s it’: Ian McKellen bids farewell to Shakespeare with King Lear. Evening Standard/Hiscox. https://www.standard.co.uk/culture/theatre/that-s-it-ian-mckellen-bids-farewell-to-shakespeare-with-king-lear-a3884406.html
Maté, G. (2018). In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction. Vintage Canada.
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