There’s an interesting theory called the Ship of Theseus paradox. It asks if a vessel remains the same object, even if all of its parts are gradually replaced, or if it would be an entirely different ship due to the new and completely different parts. Is an object nothing more than the sum of its parts, or is it something deeper than that?

Naturally, I can’t see this paradox through the eyes of a sailor, so I’m establishing relativity through my own experiences. I don’t know much about boats, but I’ve had plenty of experience with people and I love trying to figure them out, especially myself. That’s why I couldn’t think of a better way to crack the paradox than by looking a little deeper into myself.

Let’s begin with a story about drugs, alcohol and a guy named Clay.

I was about 16 when I first tried alcohol and marijuana. I loved it. From there, my love affair with mind-altering substances continued well into my adult years. I loved escaping from reality. There was just a part of me that I refused to sit with. Today, I believe that my addiction was a symptom of a much deeper problem. That problem was trauma-based and had a death grip on my being. Eventually, I fell apart.

I feel a metaphor is appropriate here … so, to put it gently, my ship capsized and washed upon rocky shores. Needless to say, it was time to build a better boat.

I’ll spare the details of my recovery process, but it goes without saying that it worked. I took a worn-out, broken man in need of repair to a facility that did just that: repaired me. I worked hard and, in theory, replaced my parts inside and out.

From the moment I arrived home from treatment, things were different. People noticed that I’d changed. They said I looked happy, healthy and present. It was as if I were a whole new person, but was I? Was I no longer me? Who was Clay?

The purge had taken place, so naturally one would think that I was an all-new man; if only it were that easy. I think there’s a misconception that treatment centers or higher powers can remove defects and replace them with better components. Sort of like rebuilding a ship out of new parts. That just wasn’t my experience.

I’ve found that today I look about the same as I did before, and although I’m changed, I’m still very much the same. There are just some defects that newer parts can’t replace. Based upon appearances alone, I’m a new and better man, yet nothing is new but what has been forgotten.

I may be older and sober, but I’m still that young man running from his trauma. Unfortunately for me, I’m not that fast. My trauma has managed to catch me at every turn and make a place for itself at my table. It seeps into my marriage and parenting, and just about every other facet of my life. Yes, I’m better equipped for the proverbial choppy waters, but I’m often lost at sea.

So who is, and was, Clay?

The old me loved pizza, and the sober me still does today. I treasured reading, and it’s still a passion for me today. The old Clay loved to make others laugh and help people when no one was looking. I can be found doing the same thing today. The old me loved drinking and having a good time; now I’ve learned to do one without the other. So am I still the same?

We all change, some for the better and others for worse. But I believe at our core a part of us remains the same. There is something deep within each of us that lives separate from our body, something that honors the debt we owe to our true self; a keeper of a promise to endure in spite of our defects.
My therapist once asked me what it felt like to be this version of myself, specifically the sober version who sails his ship among the masses. I remember pausing as I looked for the words. Then I told him, I often feel alone in a sea of faces, but worthy enough to stay afloat.

You may ask, “But Clay, how could you share this? This isn’t a happy story of repair or sobriety.” Yet for me, it is!

Maybe there’s no answer to the paradox. Perhaps two things can be true at once. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Today, I’m seaworthy and carry the same name. Albeit rough waters will always inflict damage, but the happy part of the story is this: I can always build a better boat.

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].

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