Did you know that I am a self-centered crazy person? Of course you did. I'm reasonably certain that I've been the focal point of your interest for at least as long as this blog has existed. I'm sure that after my constant pimping of my blog on Facebook you've spent most of your days pondering questions like "does he wear boxers or briefs? What's KevoTron's favorite flavor of ice cream? Has he seen London in the rain? What's his favorite season?"
Okay, okay, okay! Enough with the pestering, already! Boxer-briefs, cookies 'n cream, no and Fall because it's romantic when the leaves change color.
This will come as a surprise to you, but I'm not known for making the best decisions. I was once a paying member of three online dating services at the same time. It didn't get me laid once, but holy shit did I get good at writing email. Years ago I called in sick with pink eye and the following day, before I went into work, I smoked weed and put Visine in only one eye so the other looked red and inflamed. I have been resentful at girls I dated for a week and gotten tattoos over the experience that would make Mike Tyson laugh. I can't begin to tell you how many lies I've told about the ring tattoo I have on my right hand.
You see, I have always been convinced that my ideas are pretty great. I'm not a fan of following directions or using instructions. Instructions stifle my creative process. (Damn, that's a good line.)
Last summer I needed a new vacuum cleaner and my dad suggested I buy a shop vac instead of an expensive home vacuum. For those that don't know, a shop vac is a squat, industrial strength hose vacuum shaped like a little R2D2. I found a model for about $40 at Ace Hardware. I got it home and opened the box and was absolutely delighted with what I saw. Inside the box was a vacuum with an attached power cord and a hose. No instructions, no warranties, no spare parts. Shop Vacs don't need warranties or spare parts. They are shit-sucking mad men that will never quit.
I immediately went to town sucking up all manners of cobwebs, dust and viral infections in all the corners of my little house. I discovered that I could use the shop vac to kill flies and bees simply by sucking them up. I sucked up spiders and anything large enough to fit through the hose. I was cleaning the hell out of my house and loving every minute of it. After about two weeks of this it was time to empty the vacuum. I unfastened and removed the lid and there, in the dust bin with all the disgusting debris, was the manual and the warranty and the spare parts and the wheels and the other attachments- covered in dead bugs and cobwebs.
Do I need to explain the lesson to you? The instructions always exist, but I need to seek them out. Then I need to have enough faith to trust that the instructions are better than whatever crackpot scheme I've schemed up. I need to choose not to ignore good advice.
The vacuum is a silly, fun and harmless story. I like this tale because it's lighthearted and comical. But my tendency towards disregarding practical advice has had much more serious consequences. I still occasionally like to throw caution to the wind and try to do things my way, but I generally play it safe these days.
I love to troubleshoot and problem solve and think creatively. All of those things have a very good place in my life. But when it comes to matters of personal health I listen to a doctor, for advice about work I turn to my parents and in matters of love I follow the advice of my dear friend Casey. "You don't stick your dick in 'crazy'."
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
This blog post could really use some more jokes.
Three and a half years ago I was sitting on the patio of my favorite bar talking to a girl I barely knew, but badly wanted to know better.
"What do you do?" she asked.
"Well," began my lie, "I like photography, reading, writing. I like to cook. Right now I'm bar tending for work, but it's only temporary until I get back into something more professional. I was laid off a few months ago."
The depth of that lie becomes pretty staggering when you pan the camera back and examine the actual facts of my life at that moment. The facts were: I was a drunk living a drunk's life. My studio apartment frequently stank and resembled a crime scene complete with broken glass, bodily fluids and dozens of empty beer bottles. My kitchen sink was often full of moldy dishes and the trash never got taken out on any regular basis. Every day began with a headache and a frantic look at the clock to see if I'd overslept. I would scour the crime scene for clues about what I'd done the night before. Check the cell phone for incoming or outgoing calls or texts. Count the cash left in my pockets. Is there dope on the table? Once a story had been pieced together I'd prepare myself for the rest of the day, saunter off to work and hope I made enough money to pay for the buzz I needed that night and maybe sock twenty bucks away for rent. Bills never got paid (except for the phone- need to pay that one). I hadn't had a bank account for almost a year. BECU cut me off. I did all my banking at a sleazy check cashing place. I was caught in an awful payday loan cycle. I had taken out a payday loan about 18 months prior and every two weeks I had to pay them a few hundred dollars and then take out another payday loan to live off of. I can't begin to count the interest I paid. The employees there wore ties and were always really nice to me. I wonder if they understood what was happening to my life.
But, to address my lie more specifically, I had no interest in photography and didn't even own a fucking camera. I owned books but hadn't read anything in more than a year. I loved to write but never did. I rarely ate more than one meal a day, but I did cook sometimes. That much was true. I had also been laid off but the economy is only half of that story.
In reality, I had two hobbies: drinking and lying about my drinking. I had grown used to people, especially females I was hitting on, asking me about "what I did" and my response was well-rehearsed. After a few dates with a girl I would decide to scrub the crime scene and bring her over. I was a master at avoiding that day. I had a relationship that lasted about six months and she never spent the night at my apartment. It helped that I was good friends with some genuinely creative people. That made my story more believable.
Two years ago when I got sober, I was sitting in a jail cell looking at my green outfit. I remembered being a teenager and wanting to be a fireman, a paramedic or maybe an actor. I had pursued those things. Hundreds of hours had been spent at the local fire department and the community theater. But there I was in jail facing charges for another DUI. I don't remember ever saying "When I grow up I'm going to be an alcoholic." Looking closely at the green outfit I realized that I had become somebody I never knew I could become. There was no longer any part of my life that was not in shambles because of my drinking. Every aspect of Kevin had been macerating in alcohol for years. My former hobbies were like cherries soaked in liquor. You could see what they once were, but now they were different and they only belonged in a cocktail glass.
When I was struck sober I found myself with lots of time on my hands and a little extra cash too. I was in bad financial shape, but I needed to fill my time up and take my mind off drinking so I bought groceries, paint supplies and movies. I met sober friends. My friend Derek came to my house one day and I made us dinner and we took old landscape prints I bought at a thrift shop and painted monsters into them. He took a print of some people having a nice picnic and added robots to the horizon. I began to learn about what I enjoy doing. Very slowly, I built a life.
I discovered hobbies I love and passed on hobbies that I don't love. I realized I'm not a very good artist but I still like to paint sometimes. I make huge messes in the kitchen, but I enjoy every minute of it. I write for an audience of one (myself) and I hang on my every word.
When I think about drinking (and I still occasionally do), I remind myself about the gifts I have today. My house is small but tidy and organized. I eat often and I eat well. I have a wonderful job working for and with amazing people. I'm a student and I am passionate about what I study. I'm a single guy who goes on dates sometimes but mostly I live a very quiet life and I'm happy about that. I feel safe today and I get to have a relationship with my family and my friends. As they say, today I have a life worth defending.
Tonight at work, I had the pleasure of waiting on a woman I've known my whole life. I was in several plays at the community theater with her kids. I braced myself for the inevitable question I get from people I haven't seen in years. "What do you do?"
But the question never came. Instead, she surprised me with "Kevin Toth! What kind of art are you creating these days?"
I am glad to have an honest answer.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Yes, Honey, You Look Terrible In That Outfit But Please Wear It Anyways
Some days I think it's best if I just stay indoors and not subject the world to my cruel gaze and arrogant judgement. Today is one of those days.
I needed to go into town to run some errands and I knew my attitude was rotten when I looked askance at my neighbor's house. My next door neighbors live a little bit like I used to. Let's just say, the contents of our weekly recycling bins look starkly different. I know something is wrong when I'm sitting in judgment, condemning people for crimes that I committed less than three years ago. But I do this sometimes. Even worse, I revel in it and I write blog posts about it.
This is me on a bad day. I'm normally very tolerant, understanding and caring. I love people and I want to help. But sometimes I need to be quarantined because my judgmental attitude is helpful to exactly no one. Additionally, I don't want to scoff at the wrong drunk and get my nose broken.
But the bigger lesson came when I was pushing my cart through Safeway, daintily selecting my wild this and organic that, scoping out the carts of "less refined" (and kinder, less asshole-ish) customers. I rounded a corner and to my arrogant delight saw a man wearing a Utilikilt, Teva sandles and white socks. I felt my insides giggle and jiggle. For those of you reading in places outside the Pacific Northwest, the Utilikilt is possibly the most ridiculous piece of clothing ever invented. It is not just a kilt. It is a utility kilt- with hooks, fasteners and pockets. Because when you want to look terrible and not wear pants with a belt, you still need a place to clip your cell phone.
Just then, a woman stepped out from behind him. A woman who I love and respect very much. An absolute hero of mine. This utilitarian Scotsman was her husband whom I have not met. I felt immediately like a huge jerk. She loves this man. Knowing her, he is probably a very kind, capable and worthy soul. She, a stylish and charismatic woman, has the courage to say "honey, you look absolutely ridiculous in that outfit but it's what you want to wear and I love you." Probably she didn't say anything about his clothes at all. She just accepts him for who he is. That's when I realized: I'm jealous.
I want that very much. I want to be accepted for the effeminate scarves I wear or the strange tattoos I got in my 20's. I want to be loved as the imperfect jerk that I am. I want a relationship with a woman who will say "Kevin, that tattoo on your back is very strange but I love all the parts of you." Although I will never wear a Utilikilt because I think they're retarded, my spirit is wearing one always.
But I was jealous of her too. Because I also want to accept others the way I see other people doing it. I don't want to be a gossip or a critic. I want to be a uniter and a beacon of love. I want to be Jesus. Wait, that's a little much.
The point is: Occasionally, I can act like a judgmental prick. I know there's a wonderful girl for me out there somewhere who will accept that about me. She's probably wearing high-top sneakers and a one-piece bathing suit instead of underwear.
I needed to go into town to run some errands and I knew my attitude was rotten when I looked askance at my neighbor's house. My next door neighbors live a little bit like I used to. Let's just say, the contents of our weekly recycling bins look starkly different. I know something is wrong when I'm sitting in judgment, condemning people for crimes that I committed less than three years ago. But I do this sometimes. Even worse, I revel in it and I write blog posts about it.
This is me on a bad day. I'm normally very tolerant, understanding and caring. I love people and I want to help. But sometimes I need to be quarantined because my judgmental attitude is helpful to exactly no one. Additionally, I don't want to scoff at the wrong drunk and get my nose broken.
But the bigger lesson came when I was pushing my cart through Safeway, daintily selecting my wild this and organic that, scoping out the carts of "less refined" (and kinder, less asshole-ish) customers. I rounded a corner and to my arrogant delight saw a man wearing a Utilikilt, Teva sandles and white socks. I felt my insides giggle and jiggle. For those of you reading in places outside the Pacific Northwest, the Utilikilt is possibly the most ridiculous piece of clothing ever invented. It is not just a kilt. It is a utility kilt- with hooks, fasteners and pockets. Because when you want to look terrible and not wear pants with a belt, you still need a place to clip your cell phone.
Just then, a woman stepped out from behind him. A woman who I love and respect very much. An absolute hero of mine. This utilitarian Scotsman was her husband whom I have not met. I felt immediately like a huge jerk. She loves this man. Knowing her, he is probably a very kind, capable and worthy soul. She, a stylish and charismatic woman, has the courage to say "honey, you look absolutely ridiculous in that outfit but it's what you want to wear and I love you." Probably she didn't say anything about his clothes at all. She just accepts him for who he is. That's when I realized: I'm jealous.
I want that very much. I want to be accepted for the effeminate scarves I wear or the strange tattoos I got in my 20's. I want to be loved as the imperfect jerk that I am. I want a relationship with a woman who will say "Kevin, that tattoo on your back is very strange but I love all the parts of you." Although I will never wear a Utilikilt because I think they're retarded, my spirit is wearing one always.
But I was jealous of her too. Because I also want to accept others the way I see other people doing it. I don't want to be a gossip or a critic. I want to be a uniter and a beacon of love. I want to be Jesus. Wait, that's a little much.
The point is: Occasionally, I can act like a judgmental prick. I know there's a wonderful girl for me out there somewhere who will accept that about me. She's probably wearing high-top sneakers and a one-piece bathing suit instead of underwear.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
I'm a Filthy, Plague-Wracked Wretch...And I Don't Deserve This
Illness is pretty rough on me. Even minor colds or aches and pains seem to paralyze me and suck my will to live. A couple of years ago I thought I got sick frequently- it turns out I just had a serious drinking problem. Recently I was talking about the flu with a friend and he said the flu felt like a bad hangover. I offered that "yes, the flu is like a hangover...without the handcuffs."
I am sick and when I am sick I am no fun to be around. I become a big, giant, snotty baby. With the exception of a quick trip into Seattle to take a final exam this morning, I have been supine on the davenport (for those of you who don't speak Latin, that means "laying on the couch") for the last two days. Disgusting disgustingness is draining from my orifices. I am sitting in a heap of misery and infection. I can no longer tell where the pile of soggy Kleenex stops and my sweaty t-shirt starts. I am revolting.
I have this ridiculously entitled attitude about illness that makes me sound like a spoiled brat. Shortly after I got sober I figured the darkest days were behind me and that going forward life would be nothing but blow jobs and ice cream. I was half-right. For several months I ate about 3 pints of Ben & Jerry's a week. I also gained 20 pounds.
Nobody except myself sold me on the idea that life was going to be easy post-addiction. I just felt I deserved to have it easy. But when Spring Break ended in 2007, and I decided to pretend I was living in Cancun for 4 years, the rest of my peers were joining the workforce, starting families and taking out mortgages. I effectively blocked out all of my real-world problems for a little while. Alcohol worked it's magic and hid the hard stuff from me. I threw bills in the trash, paid the rent late and dodged collection agencies for years. The only problems I was willing to face involved the constant procurement of alcohol or drugs and acquiring the money I needed to finance the longest Spring Break ever. Everything else was "small stuff" and I had heard from some well-meaning book about business that I shouldn't "sweat" that. So I didn't.
But what happens when you stop running from your problems? Well, the problems that are chasing you catch you. Not only was I in some fairly serious legal trouble when I got sober, I was also delinquent on thousands of dollars in hospital and treatment bills and generally owed the karmic world a few hundred "lucky breaks." Within weeks of getting sober and learning about the importance of honesty, I began to take the calls from the creditors and banks that I had swindled and avoided. I started to get right with the hospitals I had fucked off and... I got really and truly sick. I came down with a flu around 30 days sober. Everyone thought I was hungover and I don't blame them for thinking that. I was filled with guilt for all the days I had previously called in "sick" when I was so hungover I couldn't even hobble down the street to tend bar. Now I had to call in sick and it was for real. I felt like the biggest asshole in Butt City.
"Hey boss, I know I called out last year with swine flu after St. Patrick's Day, Montezuma's revenge after Cinco De Mayo and PTSD on the fifth of July, but this time it's for real."
But the guilt I feel for taking my now legitimate sick days is still clouded by the bratty assertion that I should have it easy because I'm "living right." Which is why I am begging you to please bring me more Kleenex because I'm almost out. I swear, I don't deserve this.
**Thanks for reading. Seriously, my friends and readers make writing this blog fun. I love you.**
I am sick and when I am sick I am no fun to be around. I become a big, giant, snotty baby. With the exception of a quick trip into Seattle to take a final exam this morning, I have been supine on the davenport (for those of you who don't speak Latin, that means "laying on the couch") for the last two days. Disgusting disgustingness is draining from my orifices. I am sitting in a heap of misery and infection. I can no longer tell where the pile of soggy Kleenex stops and my sweaty t-shirt starts. I am revolting.
I have this ridiculously entitled attitude about illness that makes me sound like a spoiled brat. Shortly after I got sober I figured the darkest days were behind me and that going forward life would be nothing but blow jobs and ice cream. I was half-right. For several months I ate about 3 pints of Ben & Jerry's a week. I also gained 20 pounds.
Nobody except myself sold me on the idea that life was going to be easy post-addiction. I just felt I deserved to have it easy. But when Spring Break ended in 2007, and I decided to pretend I was living in Cancun for 4 years, the rest of my peers were joining the workforce, starting families and taking out mortgages. I effectively blocked out all of my real-world problems for a little while. Alcohol worked it's magic and hid the hard stuff from me. I threw bills in the trash, paid the rent late and dodged collection agencies for years. The only problems I was willing to face involved the constant procurement of alcohol or drugs and acquiring the money I needed to finance the longest Spring Break ever. Everything else was "small stuff" and I had heard from some well-meaning book about business that I shouldn't "sweat" that. So I didn't.
But what happens when you stop running from your problems? Well, the problems that are chasing you catch you. Not only was I in some fairly serious legal trouble when I got sober, I was also delinquent on thousands of dollars in hospital and treatment bills and generally owed the karmic world a few hundred "lucky breaks." Within weeks of getting sober and learning about the importance of honesty, I began to take the calls from the creditors and banks that I had swindled and avoided. I started to get right with the hospitals I had fucked off and... I got really and truly sick. I came down with a flu around 30 days sober. Everyone thought I was hungover and I don't blame them for thinking that. I was filled with guilt for all the days I had previously called in "sick" when I was so hungover I couldn't even hobble down the street to tend bar. Now I had to call in sick and it was for real. I felt like the biggest asshole in Butt City.
"Hey boss, I know I called out last year with swine flu after St. Patrick's Day, Montezuma's revenge after Cinco De Mayo and PTSD on the fifth of July, but this time it's for real."
But the guilt I feel for taking my now legitimate sick days is still clouded by the bratty assertion that I should have it easy because I'm "living right." Which is why I am begging you to please bring me more Kleenex because I'm almost out. I swear, I don't deserve this.
**Thanks for reading. Seriously, my friends and readers make writing this blog fun. I love you.**
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Coldplay...Dear God, Really?!?
Lately I've gone through a period of reconstruction and late-in-life maturing in some funny ways. One way I've tried to "grow up" is by equipping my house with common things that adults have but that I've forgone out of a lack of common sense. I've bought new socks and underwear, changed the oil regularly, new shoes, jeans that fit properly, etc... Last Summer I briefly dated a really nice and interesting girl who made the keen observation that I didn't have any hand soap in the bathroom- just bar soap, not the pump-pump-squirt variety. I bought a bottle of cheap stuff from Rite-Aid and smiled a couple of days later when I heard her notice that I had bought some.
The problem is, I inadvertently purchased a brand that I owned eight years ago when I lived in Hawaii. This is the kind of scenario that I imagine must only be a problem for alcoholics like me. You see, this cheap hand soap has a particular, clinical, unmistakable smell. A smell I will forever associate with the years I lived in Hawaii which were the beginnings of the truest alcoholic Hell that I have known. These were the years that blackouts became ordinary and expected. The years when I began to let myself and everyone else down. The years when I treated women badly and struggled to keep names straight. They were years of unsettling loneliness and years defined by a crippling clinging to self-will and a sad inability to "let go".
It's good and maybe even healthy for me to be reminded of my past so that I don't tempt myself by thinking I can ever drink like a normal person. But, I really don't need a reminder every time I use the bathroom. It can be jarring and unsettling. I'm trying very hard to let go of the past and some of the people in it.
I remember a story I read in the news during the Hawaii years, I will paraphrase it here:
A man on trial in Florida wrestled a gun from a bailiff and shot him and a judge and escaped the courtroom. He holed up in a motel room and took hostage a woman who was trying to get clean from a meth addiction. She had a troubled life and two years prior caused an accident when she was high behind the wheel and heard a voice say "let go and let God." She took her hands off the wheel and totaled the vehicle at highway speeds. Now, she was held hostage. Her captor asked if she had any weed and instead she convinced him to smoke meth with her. In his meth-induced psychosis she was able to convince him to free her.
My lasting memory of reading this story is that it was the first time I had heard the phrase "let go and let God" and it was in conjunction with a stranger's suicide attempt. Today I hear it often in my recovery circles and it has newer, hope-ier meanings. Letting go is not giving up but allowing others to live a self-determined life and acknowledging that I don't have the answers anymore.
I struggle very much with letting go of those I care for. It causes me some serious trouble. I find myself demanding that God bring back my dead friends and I'm ready to get in the ring with him about it. But harder still is letting go of those who still have a pulse but possibly no desire to live. The talented, melancholy musician Conor Oberst writes in Land Locked Blues "If you walk away, I'll walk away. Just tell me which road that you'll take. I don't wanna risk our paths crossing someday. So, if you walk away, I'll walk away."
Note that he didn't say "I'll walk away and then turn around and follow your ass around for a few months to see who you screw and how you change your haircut." Nope, he didn't write those lyrics. But hard as I try, letting go is never easy. I'm sure those are lyrics too. Wait here while I go google them. Be right back. Okay, Coldplay wrote something similar. Fuck my life.
Letting go is the hardest part (those are the exact Coldplay lyrics) because ex-girlfriends leave physical traces and fingerprint smudges all over your soul. I have been separated from my last ex for over a year and I'm still finding hairpins in the couch cushions. I cleaned my house top-to-bottom a few months after we broke up and I invited a girl over for dinner. I thought I had gotten everything but there- smack in the middle of the refrigerator- was a love note. It had become invisible.
Like the hand soap, I need the occasional reminder to help me from making the same mistakes again. But, I don't need to be reminded of life's previous hardships every time I brush my fucking teeth. Still, I find it therapeutic but painful to discard of the old resentments and struggles. Failure is familiar and familiarity is where I like to be. Healthy changes are hard to make because I set myself up for a new failure and I'm afraid new failures might kill me.
But I'm on a winning streak these days. I haven't lost a job in years. The electricity is not in danger of being turned off, I've had three squares a day for two years and I've been on several dates with gorgeous and interesting girls since I split with whatshername. Today I can let go of the past injuries and let in the victories. As a friend says, "let go of the 'Rebeccas' and let in the 'Stephanies'." *
When I can't seem to let go on my own, I can always ask for help. Or listen to Coldplay for inspiration.
*these are not actual names of anyone I've dated.
The problem is, I inadvertently purchased a brand that I owned eight years ago when I lived in Hawaii. This is the kind of scenario that I imagine must only be a problem for alcoholics like me. You see, this cheap hand soap has a particular, clinical, unmistakable smell. A smell I will forever associate with the years I lived in Hawaii which were the beginnings of the truest alcoholic Hell that I have known. These were the years that blackouts became ordinary and expected. The years when I began to let myself and everyone else down. The years when I treated women badly and struggled to keep names straight. They were years of unsettling loneliness and years defined by a crippling clinging to self-will and a sad inability to "let go".
It's good and maybe even healthy for me to be reminded of my past so that I don't tempt myself by thinking I can ever drink like a normal person. But, I really don't need a reminder every time I use the bathroom. It can be jarring and unsettling. I'm trying very hard to let go of the past and some of the people in it.
I remember a story I read in the news during the Hawaii years, I will paraphrase it here:
A man on trial in Florida wrestled a gun from a bailiff and shot him and a judge and escaped the courtroom. He holed up in a motel room and took hostage a woman who was trying to get clean from a meth addiction. She had a troubled life and two years prior caused an accident when she was high behind the wheel and heard a voice say "let go and let God." She took her hands off the wheel and totaled the vehicle at highway speeds. Now, she was held hostage. Her captor asked if she had any weed and instead she convinced him to smoke meth with her. In his meth-induced psychosis she was able to convince him to free her.
My lasting memory of reading this story is that it was the first time I had heard the phrase "let go and let God" and it was in conjunction with a stranger's suicide attempt. Today I hear it often in my recovery circles and it has newer, hope-ier meanings. Letting go is not giving up but allowing others to live a self-determined life and acknowledging that I don't have the answers anymore.
I struggle very much with letting go of those I care for. It causes me some serious trouble. I find myself demanding that God bring back my dead friends and I'm ready to get in the ring with him about it. But harder still is letting go of those who still have a pulse but possibly no desire to live. The talented, melancholy musician Conor Oberst writes in Land Locked Blues "If you walk away, I'll walk away. Just tell me which road that you'll take. I don't wanna risk our paths crossing someday. So, if you walk away, I'll walk away."
Note that he didn't say "I'll walk away and then turn around and follow your ass around for a few months to see who you screw and how you change your haircut." Nope, he didn't write those lyrics. But hard as I try, letting go is never easy. I'm sure those are lyrics too. Wait here while I go google them. Be right back. Okay, Coldplay wrote something similar. Fuck my life.
Letting go is the hardest part (those are the exact Coldplay lyrics) because ex-girlfriends leave physical traces and fingerprint smudges all over your soul. I have been separated from my last ex for over a year and I'm still finding hairpins in the couch cushions. I cleaned my house top-to-bottom a few months after we broke up and I invited a girl over for dinner. I thought I had gotten everything but there- smack in the middle of the refrigerator- was a love note. It had become invisible.
Like the hand soap, I need the occasional reminder to help me from making the same mistakes again. But, I don't need to be reminded of life's previous hardships every time I brush my fucking teeth. Still, I find it therapeutic but painful to discard of the old resentments and struggles. Failure is familiar and familiarity is where I like to be. Healthy changes are hard to make because I set myself up for a new failure and I'm afraid new failures might kill me.
But I'm on a winning streak these days. I haven't lost a job in years. The electricity is not in danger of being turned off, I've had three squares a day for two years and I've been on several dates with gorgeous and interesting girls since I split with whatshername. Today I can let go of the past injuries and let in the victories. As a friend says, "let go of the 'Rebeccas' and let in the 'Stephanies'." *
When I can't seem to let go on my own, I can always ask for help. Or listen to Coldplay for inspiration.
*these are not actual names of anyone I've dated.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
In Which I Talk About How Big A Wimp I Am. I'm A Big, Lovable Wimp.
Do you remember that song Feelings that was popular in the 70s? I don't, I wasn't born until 1980. But I've heard it and just like actual feelings and emotions, it is terrible. "Feeeeelings....Nothing more than feelings...Trying to forget these...feelings of LOVE!"
I sometimes wonder if my mother listened to it frequently while I was in her womb because I seem to have an abundance of feelings and I'm not thrilled about it. Anyone who's taken PSYCH 100 or done any critical analysis of the gender differences knows that in modern American society men are generally permitted to have two emotions: horny and angry. Any other emotion from a man is usually considered a sign of weakness by society at large.
But I am an unstoppable flood of emotion. I always have been. But more significantly I'm a great denier of emotion. For I want nothing more than to be accepted by others. This has been my downfall. I have consistently proven to myself that I hold your opinion of me in higher-regard than my opinion of me. In the past I took everyone's feedback as factually factual facts and nothing less. Call me a fag? I'm a fag. Tell me I'm tall? Well, 5' 11" is pretty huge. Tell me I suck at basketball? I'll never ask to play again and I'm very sorry for ruining your game today, sir. Call me a fag again? Please stop doing that, I swear I like girls.
So I discovered this interesting trick one day. The trick is this: drink heavily and all those pesky emotions like fear, sadness, loneliness, uncertainty, shyness, love, arousal, jealousy, anger or manic happiness turn into one big, loud emotion called drunkenness. Drunkenness is close enough to anger or horny to be considered a passable emotion for a boy to have. More importantly it helped me forget that I was feeling so many other things. But it didn't work for long. Eventually it didn't work at all. The emotions were still there and I was left with this maladaptive coping mechanism that was ruining my life.
In recovery I've learned that it's important for me to accept myself part and parcel for the person who I am. I've learned to see that I have aspects of my personality that don't serve a good purpose and I want to be rid of them to make room for my good qualities. But I'm not very good at discerning which are the good qualities and which are the bad ones. I certainly know which things about myself I don't like. The things I don't like are the emotions. But feelings aren't character traits, they're feelings and having them isn't harming me. The thing that is harming me is my (now less-frequent) inability to accept the fact that I'm having them. I've told some impressive lies in my life but the most damaging lies I told might have been the ones where I said "I'm fine" or "I'm okay" when I most certainly was not.
I'm in a place today where I'm no longer willing to be ashamed of the person I am or feel guilty about the emotions I feel. I'm not interested in apologizing for being in a bad mood or pretending I'm in a great mood when I'm upset or sad. Thankfully, I have a lot to be happy about lately and mostly I am happy. I'm a student again, I work in a great restaurant, I have a lovely family and I'm healthy and sober. I am happy.
I'm also gassy and for that I do apologize. That's another emotion men tend to feel. Gas.
Thank you, good night and I love you.
I sometimes wonder if my mother listened to it frequently while I was in her womb because I seem to have an abundance of feelings and I'm not thrilled about it. Anyone who's taken PSYCH 100 or done any critical analysis of the gender differences knows that in modern American society men are generally permitted to have two emotions: horny and angry. Any other emotion from a man is usually considered a sign of weakness by society at large.
But I am an unstoppable flood of emotion. I always have been. But more significantly I'm a great denier of emotion. For I want nothing more than to be accepted by others. This has been my downfall. I have consistently proven to myself that I hold your opinion of me in higher-regard than my opinion of me. In the past I took everyone's feedback as factually factual facts and nothing less. Call me a fag? I'm a fag. Tell me I'm tall? Well, 5' 11" is pretty huge. Tell me I suck at basketball? I'll never ask to play again and I'm very sorry for ruining your game today, sir. Call me a fag again? Please stop doing that, I swear I like girls.
So I discovered this interesting trick one day. The trick is this: drink heavily and all those pesky emotions like fear, sadness, loneliness, uncertainty, shyness, love, arousal, jealousy, anger or manic happiness turn into one big, loud emotion called drunkenness. Drunkenness is close enough to anger or horny to be considered a passable emotion for a boy to have. More importantly it helped me forget that I was feeling so many other things. But it didn't work for long. Eventually it didn't work at all. The emotions were still there and I was left with this maladaptive coping mechanism that was ruining my life.
In recovery I've learned that it's important for me to accept myself part and parcel for the person who I am. I've learned to see that I have aspects of my personality that don't serve a good purpose and I want to be rid of them to make room for my good qualities. But I'm not very good at discerning which are the good qualities and which are the bad ones. I certainly know which things about myself I don't like. The things I don't like are the emotions. But feelings aren't character traits, they're feelings and having them isn't harming me. The thing that is harming me is my (now less-frequent) inability to accept the fact that I'm having them. I've told some impressive lies in my life but the most damaging lies I told might have been the ones where I said "I'm fine" or "I'm okay" when I most certainly was not.
I'm in a place today where I'm no longer willing to be ashamed of the person I am or feel guilty about the emotions I feel. I'm not interested in apologizing for being in a bad mood or pretending I'm in a great mood when I'm upset or sad. Thankfully, I have a lot to be happy about lately and mostly I am happy. I'm a student again, I work in a great restaurant, I have a lovely family and I'm healthy and sober. I am happy.
I'm also gassy and for that I do apologize. That's another emotion men tend to feel. Gas.
Thank you, good night and I love you.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Success and failure and really, who the fuck cares?!?
I've been thinking a lot lately about the idea of success and failure. Probably because I'm such a resounding success at failing at anything competitive. Seriously, I rarely win anything. Recently some old friends and I have been getting together to play free bingo at a local restaurant so that we can laugh at all the losers (without a hint of irony) who go out and play bingo. It's tragically fun. Bingo is a hoot. The prizes are pathetic (ugly flower pots, bottles of shampoo). I haven't won once and I've played about 30 games by now. The last time I thought I had a bingo but it turns out I just suck at stamping numbers.
It's been like this my whole life. I am lousy at pool, an embarrassment at darts, I can't sit still long enough for a thorough poker game, I'm too short for basketball, too tall for tee-ball and I look awkward in a Speedo. That doesn't stop me from playing cards in my Speedo from time to time but I hardly ever win a hand. I'm just not much of a champion when it comes to games and sports. Fortunately I succeed at other things in life and most games aren't all that exciting to me anyways.
But for the purposes of this blog post I'm speaking about successes and failures in recovery. First, before I shatter your notions of success and failure wide open, allow me to give you some background. I have a dear friend who has been sober for longer than nearly anyone I know who I will leave anonymous in this post. He has extensive experience in the field of treatment and explained to me some of the metrics used for gauging a treatment center's "success rate." He says that the whole notion of quantifying a success in sobriety began in the 70's when health insurance companies were forced by state laws to start picking up the tab for alcoholics with coverage seeking help in rehab. They needed a way to determine which of the countless agencies were the most effective at "rehabilitating" the patients. It became industry standard to gauge a treatment agencies effectiveness by counting the number of patients who went through the program and subsequently abstained from alcohol entirely for one year. The methods for verifying this are simple. Court ordered patients will be tested periodically. Other patients can be given follow-up calls. Alcoholics who are drinking are obvious as hell about it. We have a bad habit of frequently turning up in places other people don't visit often like jails, hospitals and ex-girlfriends houses. These institutions can all be used to track a former patient.
There is a natural tendency to measure all kinds of progress in one year increments and it makes sense why people want to gauge recovery that way too. The first year of sobriety means you watched all the seasons change, survived your family through the holidays, experienced pro sports and did all of it without drinking. As a person who has stayed sober for a couple of years I can tell you that none of that is easy. I'm not asking for praise I'm just saying those things can be rough on an addict.
The problem is that we are holding some very complicated people with similar but vastly different problems to a high-fucking-standard. For a guy like me it was absolutely reasonable for people to expect that I would eventually get a year after I got rolling on recovery. I was employed, had insurance, my family hadn't cut me off and I hadn't lost too much in the way of mental faculties. But not everyone is situated like I am.
I believe very strongly that my sobriety is contingent on the help I get from others. I tried to do it alone and had very poor results. Any "success" I experience is far more yours and His than mine. What I'm trying to get around to saying is that just because you're not sober doesn't mean you're a failure and just because you are sober doesn't mean you're a success. As long as you keep trying nobody has the right to call you a failure.
When we pan the camera back and look at the bigger picture of addiction we see that the addict is harming far more people than just himself. An alcoholic endangers countless public lives with drunk driving. Addicts commit terrible property crimes to feed their habits often stealing from their own families. IV drug users share needles and spread diseases. Apparently people snort bath salts and take their clothes off and jesus nobody wants to see that, come on, really?!?
So can we not think about success as a person engaging in less episodic drinking? No longer sharing needles? No longer stealing from their grandmother? When I think about the people I care about who are still out there drinking and using I would love to know that they successfully stayed out of jail for a year or slept indoors the whole year. I would be delighted to know they're not prostitutes and they haven't gotten slapped around by a pimp in a year. I bet their families would agree that maybe they're not titans of the business world but if they are trying to do better and managing to maintain a certain level of dignity and hold an ounce of self-worth... they are a success.
The long-term goal for anyone serious about getting help with an addiction should be total abstinence from mind-altering chemicals. But the short-term reality for anyone with enough humility to ask for help is that they are the most successful person in the world that day and they deserve our respect.
As for me, I like to play...no... I like to lose at bingo every other Thursday night. But I succeed at having a great time and this week I might even wear my Speedo.
It's been like this my whole life. I am lousy at pool, an embarrassment at darts, I can't sit still long enough for a thorough poker game, I'm too short for basketball, too tall for tee-ball and I look awkward in a Speedo. That doesn't stop me from playing cards in my Speedo from time to time but I hardly ever win a hand. I'm just not much of a champion when it comes to games and sports. Fortunately I succeed at other things in life and most games aren't all that exciting to me anyways.
But for the purposes of this blog post I'm speaking about successes and failures in recovery. First, before I shatter your notions of success and failure wide open, allow me to give you some background. I have a dear friend who has been sober for longer than nearly anyone I know who I will leave anonymous in this post. He has extensive experience in the field of treatment and explained to me some of the metrics used for gauging a treatment center's "success rate." He says that the whole notion of quantifying a success in sobriety began in the 70's when health insurance companies were forced by state laws to start picking up the tab for alcoholics with coverage seeking help in rehab. They needed a way to determine which of the countless agencies were the most effective at "rehabilitating" the patients. It became industry standard to gauge a treatment agencies effectiveness by counting the number of patients who went through the program and subsequently abstained from alcohol entirely for one year. The methods for verifying this are simple. Court ordered patients will be tested periodically. Other patients can be given follow-up calls. Alcoholics who are drinking are obvious as hell about it. We have a bad habit of frequently turning up in places other people don't visit often like jails, hospitals and ex-girlfriends houses. These institutions can all be used to track a former patient.
There is a natural tendency to measure all kinds of progress in one year increments and it makes sense why people want to gauge recovery that way too. The first year of sobriety means you watched all the seasons change, survived your family through the holidays, experienced pro sports and did all of it without drinking. As a person who has stayed sober for a couple of years I can tell you that none of that is easy. I'm not asking for praise I'm just saying those things can be rough on an addict.
The problem is that we are holding some very complicated people with similar but vastly different problems to a high-fucking-standard. For a guy like me it was absolutely reasonable for people to expect that I would eventually get a year after I got rolling on recovery. I was employed, had insurance, my family hadn't cut me off and I hadn't lost too much in the way of mental faculties. But not everyone is situated like I am.
I believe very strongly that my sobriety is contingent on the help I get from others. I tried to do it alone and had very poor results. Any "success" I experience is far more yours and His than mine. What I'm trying to get around to saying is that just because you're not sober doesn't mean you're a failure and just because you are sober doesn't mean you're a success. As long as you keep trying nobody has the right to call you a failure.
When we pan the camera back and look at the bigger picture of addiction we see that the addict is harming far more people than just himself. An alcoholic endangers countless public lives with drunk driving. Addicts commit terrible property crimes to feed their habits often stealing from their own families. IV drug users share needles and spread diseases. Apparently people snort bath salts and take their clothes off and jesus nobody wants to see that, come on, really?!?
So can we not think about success as a person engaging in less episodic drinking? No longer sharing needles? No longer stealing from their grandmother? When I think about the people I care about who are still out there drinking and using I would love to know that they successfully stayed out of jail for a year or slept indoors the whole year. I would be delighted to know they're not prostitutes and they haven't gotten slapped around by a pimp in a year. I bet their families would agree that maybe they're not titans of the business world but if they are trying to do better and managing to maintain a certain level of dignity and hold an ounce of self-worth... they are a success.
The long-term goal for anyone serious about getting help with an addiction should be total abstinence from mind-altering chemicals. But the short-term reality for anyone with enough humility to ask for help is that they are the most successful person in the world that day and they deserve our respect.
As for me, I like to play...no... I like to lose at bingo every other Thursday night. But I succeed at having a great time and this week I might even wear my Speedo.
Friday, March 1, 2013
In Which I Struggle To Tell Juvenile Jokes and Just Write Stuff That Sounds Smart Instead
Today I'm blogging from a place of unchecked delirium as a result of illness. Last night I woke up at 4 AM with a quizzical "where the hell am I?" frame-of-mind. The common head cold has taken hold of my senses and thrust my usual whimsical nature into a dank, cavernous, biting, gallows humor. When I'm a little tired, a little cranky and a little sick my tendency towards writing fart jokes becomes an inclination towards sardonic mockery of the good and pure. I'm working on this joke about dead puppies that will just kill when I've finished sharpening the edges.
As I lay in bed last night I was doing a little old-school, real-time "blogging" (otherwise known as laying awake thinking). Like I said, my attitude goes a little south when I'm ill and the tone of my inner monologue was a little raw when unfiltered but I had this idea for a blog post and I'd like to give it a shot. It's important for me to say here that the following ideologies are not born from my own mind. These are strategies and truths about alcoholism that have been shown to me by other alcoholics. I didn't figure this out on my own and I'm not taking credit for it.
The title of this blog is Taking Myself Too Seriously because I often feel too caught up in my own problems. The truth is that my problems are small today. They are nothing like the elephant sized dilemmas I found myself in two years ago. Problems which I'm still slowly devouring (one bite at a time) today- the legal troubles that will follow me for a few more years but have lost the pressing urgency that they had at first. The collection agencies that have been settled with and politely told to "fuck off". Driving all over the county several times a week to meet treatment obligations. Those are all in the rear view. It's been a couple of years since the handcuffs made that distinctive 'click' behind my back, out of my sight. But they're still fairly fresh memories and thank God for that. The bad times (like those) are what make the best times (like these) so sweet. They serve as a reminder that I can make a pretty big mess of things in a short amount of time. They become a strong defense against getting drunk. Not the greatest defense, that comes from something else and it's deserving of a blog post all it's own. But a strong and important defense.
But still, the petty problems I face today can feel consuming and I remain very confused about the rules of society. I continue to feel as if I don't have the rule book and am struggling to figure out how to play fairly in life. Cravings for drugs and alcohol are not as obsessive and persistent as they were but they crop up at the strangest times. A few days ago I was riding the ferry to Seattle (drink) when I saw a young man and his two sons horsing around. I felt so hopelessly detached from their lifestyle (drink) and felt certain I would never understand how to live like them (drink). Then as I was stepping off the boat I made eye contact with a pretty girl (drink) and it felt too long since I'd had a real emotional connection with a love interest (drink). I got off the boat and walked by a restaurant I worked in long ago (drink) before being fired for my drinking. I realized that for the last hour all I had been doing was thinking about depressing aspects of my life and ignoring all the positives. I remembered what I had been shown by those who have been sober longer than I have. That the most certain way to avoid drinking is to help another person. I started pondering how I might help someone else. I trudged up Capitol Hill and moments later came upon someone I've known for a long time.
He looked terrible. I hadn't seen him in two years and it was plain to see that life has not been kind. He is an exceptionally nice and talented guy and I like him a lot. He told me lost his job last month, went on a bender and was checking himself into rehab the following day. I gave him my number and told him to call me if he wanted to talk. I didn't feel so hopeless anymore. With one 30 second conversation my mini-midlife crisis stopped feeling all-important. My friend looked really unhealthy but the truth is that when I look at old pictures of myself I look even worse. Eyes sunken in, gaunt expression, bad skin, unkempt hair... God spared me from all that and I felt grateful again.
I wish I could say that I always felt grateful for what I have but I don't. I'm an alcoholic and I'm wired to want more of everything all the time. I'm insatiable. There will never be enough money, sex, sugar or fun times to satisfy me. The only thing I know to do is take that craving and turn it outwards. Try, really try, to think about someone else. It's not easy. I'm pretty self-obsessed. But by following the good examples that others have set I can aim for generosity and humility.
Again, this is not my own wisdom that you've just read but merely me fleshing out my own experiences to prove philosophies that have been explained to me by others. I am thankful to those people for putting these notions into practice and always taking some time to help me and consequently help themselves.
I'm not really sure how to wrap this up. I usually try to end on a humorous note so maybe I'll just say this: fart noises.
As I lay in bed last night I was doing a little old-school, real-time "blogging" (otherwise known as laying awake thinking). Like I said, my attitude goes a little south when I'm ill and the tone of my inner monologue was a little raw when unfiltered but I had this idea for a blog post and I'd like to give it a shot. It's important for me to say here that the following ideologies are not born from my own mind. These are strategies and truths about alcoholism that have been shown to me by other alcoholics. I didn't figure this out on my own and I'm not taking credit for it.
The title of this blog is Taking Myself Too Seriously because I often feel too caught up in my own problems. The truth is that my problems are small today. They are nothing like the elephant sized dilemmas I found myself in two years ago. Problems which I'm still slowly devouring (one bite at a time) today- the legal troubles that will follow me for a few more years but have lost the pressing urgency that they had at first. The collection agencies that have been settled with and politely told to "fuck off". Driving all over the county several times a week to meet treatment obligations. Those are all in the rear view. It's been a couple of years since the handcuffs made that distinctive 'click' behind my back, out of my sight. But they're still fairly fresh memories and thank God for that. The bad times (like those) are what make the best times (like these) so sweet. They serve as a reminder that I can make a pretty big mess of things in a short amount of time. They become a strong defense against getting drunk. Not the greatest defense, that comes from something else and it's deserving of a blog post all it's own. But a strong and important defense.
But still, the petty problems I face today can feel consuming and I remain very confused about the rules of society. I continue to feel as if I don't have the rule book and am struggling to figure out how to play fairly in life. Cravings for drugs and alcohol are not as obsessive and persistent as they were but they crop up at the strangest times. A few days ago I was riding the ferry to Seattle (drink) when I saw a young man and his two sons horsing around. I felt so hopelessly detached from their lifestyle (drink) and felt certain I would never understand how to live like them (drink). Then as I was stepping off the boat I made eye contact with a pretty girl (drink) and it felt too long since I'd had a real emotional connection with a love interest (drink). I got off the boat and walked by a restaurant I worked in long ago (drink) before being fired for my drinking. I realized that for the last hour all I had been doing was thinking about depressing aspects of my life and ignoring all the positives. I remembered what I had been shown by those who have been sober longer than I have. That the most certain way to avoid drinking is to help another person. I started pondering how I might help someone else. I trudged up Capitol Hill and moments later came upon someone I've known for a long time.
He looked terrible. I hadn't seen him in two years and it was plain to see that life has not been kind. He is an exceptionally nice and talented guy and I like him a lot. He told me lost his job last month, went on a bender and was checking himself into rehab the following day. I gave him my number and told him to call me if he wanted to talk. I didn't feel so hopeless anymore. With one 30 second conversation my mini-midlife crisis stopped feeling all-important. My friend looked really unhealthy but the truth is that when I look at old pictures of myself I look even worse. Eyes sunken in, gaunt expression, bad skin, unkempt hair... God spared me from all that and I felt grateful again.
I wish I could say that I always felt grateful for what I have but I don't. I'm an alcoholic and I'm wired to want more of everything all the time. I'm insatiable. There will never be enough money, sex, sugar or fun times to satisfy me. The only thing I know to do is take that craving and turn it outwards. Try, really try, to think about someone else. It's not easy. I'm pretty self-obsessed. But by following the good examples that others have set I can aim for generosity and humility.
Again, this is not my own wisdom that you've just read but merely me fleshing out my own experiences to prove philosophies that have been explained to me by others. I am thankful to those people for putting these notions into practice and always taking some time to help me and consequently help themselves.
I'm not really sure how to wrap this up. I usually try to end on a humorous note so maybe I'll just say this: fart noises.
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