Frequently, I feel like saying "fuck this shit, let's get a beer."
I don't really mean it. In the last two years I've had a few really hard days, but mostly my protestations are the last gasps of a dying obsession to drink. Getting through a day can be tedious. I often feel like I'm "playing at" being sober- like it's some kind of game that I don't really understand. A common nightmare I have (once a week, at least) is that I'm not actually sober and this whole thing is just a big sham. In these dreams I'm always plainly, visibly shitfaced and denying it to everyone. I'll stumble out of my bedroom and see my house is littered with empty cans. Once I dreamed that every surface in my house was covered with syringes. In the corner was my ex-girlfriend, dead from an overdose. I've never used anything intravenously, but I am frequently dramatic so that dream isn't too surprising. These dreams seem to represent my greatest waking fear: that I am falling back into a drink and I don't even know it.
A simple walk through the grocery store can be hellish with the bottles of booze and wine oddly mixed in with the food. When Washington relaxed it's liquor laws last June and began selling hard liquor in the major grocery store chains it took a while for me to adjust. Honestly, it would have been nice if they at least had a separate room for the stuff. Stock it next to the condoms and Mylanta and you'd just have a whole aisle of shit I don't need anymore.
Usually I feel fine, but once in a while I have a day that feels like I have a thousand thorns in my palms. Every thing I touch makes my hands sting. It's as if there is no right move for me to make. Each decision seems to end in minor catastrophe. I pull into traffic too quickly and narrowly avoid accidents, I miss buses, burn pieces of toast and forget people's birthdays. For me, these things can be major events. I'm learning to recognize these days early on and ask for help from above.
The help always comes when I ask for it, but never in the form that I expect. Last January, I woke up feeling kind of glum and lonely. I meditated on my loneliness for a little while and asked to be relieved of it. Of course, there's a fine line between "lonely" and "horny." I specifically asked for help with loneliness. I ventured out for breakfast and when I got to the cafe I found four fellow recovering alcoholics happened to be there too. All of them are in their 80's. This was not quite what I had in mind for companionship, but it was a wonderful breakfast.
I'm never sure what it is that's going to pull me back into the game, but if I keep making choices meant to move me away from a drink I know that help will always appear. Monday it was an hour spent washing my car with my dad, Tuesday it was a chance meeting with my sponsor, today it was a thank you card from a local non-profit I volunteer for. All of them were the perfect reminders of why I stay sober. None of them were the tall, chesty blonde that I've been asking for. That's probably for the best. I wouldn't know what to do with one of those if I got one.
That's another thing: I've become embarrassingly tongue tied around girls lately. I did manage to ask a cute barista "how is your day going?" and she didn't smirk at me or spit in my coffee so I guess that's progress. Seeing as I never seem to get what I ask for I think I'll start praying for a sandwich and see if I get a girlfriend instead. In the meantime I'll just be over here, avoiding the liquor aisle at the grocery store.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
I am the smartest, most attractive, funniest and worldliest sad sack of dirty assholes you've ever met.
I have been lying to you. You played right into my hands. It was too easy.
I've spent most of my life feeling like the worlds most cunning, master criminal. At some point in my life I began to feel intense levels of shame. Long before I was a fully accredited alcohol with nary a DUI to my name, I felt as if I had sold the world an idea of who I was that was dishonest and downright fraudulent.
One of the first times I remember feeling this way was when I got a job working at a local car wash when I was a teenager. A friend of mine had recently been fired for stealing credit card information from customers. I realized that there was now a job opening and I applied for his old job. Of course I didn't let on that I was best friends with the kid who had been robbing them blind for months. I never intended to steal a dime from them (and I never did), but when I got the job I felt like I had pulled one over on the owners. "If they knew who I really am they would never hire me."
This persistent notion that I am somebody other than the person I present to the world is with me today. Throughout the years, every time I got a new job I felt as if I had again hoodwinked the person who hired me. Many times I had. I would come to the job interview freshly shaved and wearing a collared shirt. After two weeks I would show up for work looking like a carny and smelling like actual human shit.
Relationships began under the same pretense. I dated a really nice girl once. I met her at a gathering to watch an NCAA basketball game. She was my coworker's sister. At the party (which was on a Monday) I vomited several times in the bathroom. I came back to the couch where we were talking, and using my alcoholic super powers, carried on a conversation with perfect diction as if I were a normal, non-drunk person. I started dating her and knew that I would never be able to be the companion she deserved. For months I put her through the nightmare that only a person who cares about an alcoholic can experience.
I also have a tendency towards grandiosity. I am convinced that I am everything or I am nothing. I attach myself to the idea that I am the scummiest scumbag around and every time somebody pays me a compliment I refuse to believe it and instead deepen my conviction that I am a total and complete fraud.
Honestly, I never was the worst person in the world. I stayed out of physical fights. I never committed any major crimes. I never killed anybody. Nobody has presented me with orders for a paternity test. So I've resigned myself to the idea that I might be overblown in my shame and remorse. Being an active alcoholic through my twenties certainly doesn't qualify me for sainthood, but I'm not on any most wanted lists either. Perhaps I wasn't public enemy number one, but actually just public enemy number 10,040,617.
Looking at it another way, maybe I'll never be the greatest guy in the world either. Is it just possible that I'm not supposed to be? Would it be crazy to think that maybe God just wants me to be a decent human being and pay my bills on time? Do we all have to cure cancer for our lives to be successes?
So here I sit today, in my little one bedroom house that is fairly tidy and pretty clean. My bills are mostly paid, homework is almost done and there are a few dishes in the sink. My life is painfully average, but these are the happiest years of my life. I'm not living up to anyone's expectations except my own and I'm not paying restitution for crimes I didn't commit. I've gone to bed sober every night for over two years and I've cultivated a few very meaningful friendships.
Life is good between the margins. I invite you to join me and live in the world of adequacy.
I've spent most of my life feeling like the worlds most cunning, master criminal. At some point in my life I began to feel intense levels of shame. Long before I was a fully accredited alcohol with nary a DUI to my name, I felt as if I had sold the world an idea of who I was that was dishonest and downright fraudulent.
One of the first times I remember feeling this way was when I got a job working at a local car wash when I was a teenager. A friend of mine had recently been fired for stealing credit card information from customers. I realized that there was now a job opening and I applied for his old job. Of course I didn't let on that I was best friends with the kid who had been robbing them blind for months. I never intended to steal a dime from them (and I never did), but when I got the job I felt like I had pulled one over on the owners. "If they knew who I really am they would never hire me."
This persistent notion that I am somebody other than the person I present to the world is with me today. Throughout the years, every time I got a new job I felt as if I had again hoodwinked the person who hired me. Many times I had. I would come to the job interview freshly shaved and wearing a collared shirt. After two weeks I would show up for work looking like a carny and smelling like actual human shit.
Relationships began under the same pretense. I dated a really nice girl once. I met her at a gathering to watch an NCAA basketball game. She was my coworker's sister. At the party (which was on a Monday) I vomited several times in the bathroom. I came back to the couch where we were talking, and using my alcoholic super powers, carried on a conversation with perfect diction as if I were a normal, non-drunk person. I started dating her and knew that I would never be able to be the companion she deserved. For months I put her through the nightmare that only a person who cares about an alcoholic can experience.
I also have a tendency towards grandiosity. I am convinced that I am everything or I am nothing. I attach myself to the idea that I am the scummiest scumbag around and every time somebody pays me a compliment I refuse to believe it and instead deepen my conviction that I am a total and complete fraud.
Honestly, I never was the worst person in the world. I stayed out of physical fights. I never committed any major crimes. I never killed anybody. Nobody has presented me with orders for a paternity test. So I've resigned myself to the idea that I might be overblown in my shame and remorse. Being an active alcoholic through my twenties certainly doesn't qualify me for sainthood, but I'm not on any most wanted lists either. Perhaps I wasn't public enemy number one, but actually just public enemy number 10,040,617.
Looking at it another way, maybe I'll never be the greatest guy in the world either. Is it just possible that I'm not supposed to be? Would it be crazy to think that maybe God just wants me to be a decent human being and pay my bills on time? Do we all have to cure cancer for our lives to be successes?
So here I sit today, in my little one bedroom house that is fairly tidy and pretty clean. My bills are mostly paid, homework is almost done and there are a few dishes in the sink. My life is painfully average, but these are the happiest years of my life. I'm not living up to anyone's expectations except my own and I'm not paying restitution for crimes I didn't commit. I've gone to bed sober every night for over two years and I've cultivated a few very meaningful friendships.
Life is good between the margins. I invite you to join me and live in the world of adequacy.
Monday, April 15, 2013
The Days Are Just Packed
My recovery sometimes feels like a machine with lots of moving parts. Considering I was born in 1980, I'll use the analogy that my recovery is like a super-sweet car made in 1980. Considering there were no super-sweet cars made in 1980, I'll use the analogy that my recovery is like a 1980 Ford Pinto.
My bad ass recovery
In order for the Pinto to run at it's maximum maximum-ness it requires fuel. I, too, require good fuel. I need to eat a healthy diet. All the aspects of my recovery are necessary to the Pinto running smoothly. I need some magic number of meetings every week, sponsors, proper rest, exercise, socializing, school, work, counseling, time with my family, time alone... All these things contribute to my overall well-being and allow me to function in a not-crazy way. They are the transmission, wheels, pistons and the other parts I can't remember. Like the Pinto, I also have an exhaust. Because I am gassy.
Anyways, I need all of these things to be in proper working order for me to get through a week without becoming horribly depressed, irritable, bratty or (worst of all) drunk. These days I feel much more solid in my recovery than ever before and worry less about falling into a drink and think more about just being sane and kind to people around me. Giving each one of my needed parts it's due share of time is a delicate balancing act. Considering I need a certain amount of sleep each week, I have a finite number of hours to divide my time among some demanding chores. I work about 30 hours a week, spend 20 hours at school, 7 hours in meetings... I'm terrible at math so you can figure out the rest if you care to. The point is: I have a tough time fitting it all in.
I frequently don't get the mix right. I devote too much time to one area and not enough to another. Lately I've been fortunate to do more socializing than usual. There have been dinners, breakfasts, lunches, more breakfasts and baseball games where I ate tacos. Usually food is involved. It's weird. But I gave too much time to my social life and suddenly found myself getting fatter than I want to be because every social thing I do involves me stuffing myself with fried things. Also, I forgot to study and that was stupid.
That's how I found myself this morning. Stressed, tired, unprepared for my demanding classes and malnourished because I didn't eat any vegetables for two days. I shook my angry fist at the sky as I hurried out the door, late for my ferry. I groaned through a quiz and found things to hate about every one of my classmates (in this order: poor grammar, swears too much, know-it-all, too smirky, always late). I was being a total shithead and I knew it. But I don't just take out my bad mood on others. I reserve the worst of it for myself. I look at myself in the mirror and despise what I see. I mock the little pouch of weight I gained over the winter. I say the most vile and defeatist things about myself.
Fortunately, I have some tricks up my sleeve. The first trick was: shut my mouth. Just be nice. keep my ugly opinions to myself. The next trick was to get some exercise. I took a yoga class. At the beginning of the class I couldn't even look myself in the mirror without boiling with anger at the Kevin that I saw. But I worked hard at the yoga class (only my third in sobriety) and started to talk myself down. "You're doing the best you can. You've come so far. You're perfect the way you are."
When I couldn't handle looking at myself, I allowed myself to think positive thoughts about the others in the class. The young instructor is friendly and pretty. The other students are trying hard too. We are all succeeding together. By the end of the class I liked what I was seeing in the mirror. Our instructor had us lay on our mats at the end and close our eyes. She came around and rubbed her oil-scented hands in the air above my nose and gently rubbed my shoulders once. Namaste.
I felt restored. I left the class lighter than I entered it. I met a classmate at a nearby restaurant where we studied for another quiz we have on Wednesday and I ate a kale and farro salad. I bounded down the hill to my ferry home with time to spare. I did some homework, laughed at a funny television show and went to a meeting.
All of these tools have been given to me by my friends in recovery. I owe them my life. I hope that some of my readers (be you an alcoholic or not) will get something out of what I write. I would like nothing more than to share these solutions with somebody who could use them. Can you imagine what this world would be like if we all took a few hours every week to do some yoga, eat some fresh vegetables and get together in groups to talk about topics like "tolerance" or "patience"? Would people still bomb athletic events? Probably. But I'm sure not as often.
I'm not saying I'm perfect. For God's sake, I'm a 1980 Ford Pinto. But I'm the best fucking Pinto I can be. Thanks for reading my blog. I love you.
Friday, April 12, 2013
No, YOU do the dishes!
Right now (like, right this second), I'm supposed to be cleaning, studying, running or doing several other things that end with -ing. Instead, I am here. It's well known that this is The Most Important Blog on the Internet so I guess I can take it easy on myself for blowing off life and spending some time here. I mean, writing this blog is important!
I frequently make choices that are contrary to my general well being. For instance, I successfully quit smoking last July, but here I sit contemplating a cigarette. I contemplated a couple of finger nails off in the process. I don't want to be a smoker again and I know that's exactly what I'll be if I drive to the store and shell out for a pack. There's no such thing as "just one," my friend reminds me I'm "only a puff away from a pack a day."
In the eight months since I quit, I smell better, I breath better, I save money better... But positive results aren't always enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. I like things messy and complicated. A cursory look at some of the relationships I've had will confirm that. The trick is to ignore my screwy instincts and do the damn dishes, fold the damn laundry, eat the damn vegetables and date the damn girl that has her life together.
As I write this I'm reminded of some other powerful lessons that apply to me and my life. First, there's the "take it easy, Kevin" lesson. This is the lesson that reminds me to relax a little bit and allow myself the occasional unproductive day. This week I've been to the city for school twice, worked two shifts, been to 4 meetings, made several meals, worked out twice, done the dishes three times... Tomorrow will have plenty of hours in it too. My life is more organized and tidy than it's ever been. So what if I don't do the chores today? I'm the only one that has to live in the very minor clutter. Frankly, this is 100 times cleaner than my living quarters were at this time last year.
The next lesson is the "stop trying to be perfect, Kevin" lesson. Here I am reminded that, sadly, I am imperfect. Don't tell anyone. I define "perfectionism" as a fixation on the idea that I have to be perfect. Not that I do things perfectly, but that Kevin be perfect. I have myself pretty convinced that I'll be single for the rest of my life because I have a complicated life, complicated past, blah blah blah. The truth is I'm an excruciatingly simple bloke. No kids, no ex-wives, no felony convictions... Just alcoholism. Lot's of guys have that. The difference is I don't drink.
So, come what may. I'll be right here... on the couch... thinking about tobacco. Maybe I'll get off my adorable, lazy ass and do some dishes. Probably not. I'm going to order a pizza now. Goodbye.
I frequently make choices that are contrary to my general well being. For instance, I successfully quit smoking last July, but here I sit contemplating a cigarette. I contemplated a couple of finger nails off in the process. I don't want to be a smoker again and I know that's exactly what I'll be if I drive to the store and shell out for a pack. There's no such thing as "just one," my friend reminds me I'm "only a puff away from a pack a day."
In the eight months since I quit, I smell better, I breath better, I save money better... But positive results aren't always enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. I like things messy and complicated. A cursory look at some of the relationships I've had will confirm that. The trick is to ignore my screwy instincts and do the damn dishes, fold the damn laundry, eat the damn vegetables and date the damn girl that has her life together.
As I write this I'm reminded of some other powerful lessons that apply to me and my life. First, there's the "take it easy, Kevin" lesson. This is the lesson that reminds me to relax a little bit and allow myself the occasional unproductive day. This week I've been to the city for school twice, worked two shifts, been to 4 meetings, made several meals, worked out twice, done the dishes three times... Tomorrow will have plenty of hours in it too. My life is more organized and tidy than it's ever been. So what if I don't do the chores today? I'm the only one that has to live in the very minor clutter. Frankly, this is 100 times cleaner than my living quarters were at this time last year.
The next lesson is the "stop trying to be perfect, Kevin" lesson. Here I am reminded that, sadly, I am imperfect. Don't tell anyone. I define "perfectionism" as a fixation on the idea that I have to be perfect. Not that I do things perfectly, but that Kevin be perfect. I have myself pretty convinced that I'll be single for the rest of my life because I have a complicated life, complicated past, blah blah blah. The truth is I'm an excruciatingly simple bloke. No kids, no ex-wives, no felony convictions... Just alcoholism. Lot's of guys have that. The difference is I don't drink.
So, come what may. I'll be right here... on the couch... thinking about tobacco. Maybe I'll get off my adorable, lazy ass and do some dishes. Probably not. I'm going to order a pizza now. Goodbye.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
This post is DIRTY!
What a great day. This quarter I've been taking an early morning ferry to school. I'm only in class on Mondays and Wednesdays, but I wake up at 5:30 to catch a 7:05 boat into Seattle. The early morning commuters are a special kind of worker. I take some mild pleasure in being the Wild Card in the morning deck by sitting in somebody else's regular seat or making loud, mildly inappropriate jokes at 7 AM with people I run into. I greatly amuse myself. My ego knows no bounds. My ego permeates every corner of the world. If you traveled to the Grand Canyon and hiked to the bottom, you would still hear me laughing at my own penis humor. Fortunately, with Facebook woven into the modern American quilt, I can ask you to pull my finger from thousands of miles away.
But I digress. Let's start again.
What a great day. I stepped off the early ferry boat and bounded up the hill to the community college for my 8:30 AM class. We were getting New York rain today. Torrential, drenching, filling rain. As corny as it sounds, I smiled. Because today I have the choice to walk to school in the rain. Three years ago I woke up several times to find myself caked in mud. I had fallen down the wet driveway in the rain the night before. (Go ahead, laugh. It's okay, I don't mind.) The house I was living in had a steep driveway with an even steeper embankment on the side. In the dark, I would drunkenly fall down the hill and roll into the ditch. Sometimes it would happen a few times before I made it to the top. I would stroll inside, mortify my roommates with my muddy and drunk appearance, slink into bed soaking wet and pass out. In those days, I had long hair and it would hang in front of my eyes and give me a maniacal look.
Today I don't have to live that way. Today I get haircuts regularly (thanks, Tara!), today I am a student, today I don't drink. At All. Ever.
It's hard to remember how all of this started. When I lived in that same house- which was appropriately on Moran Road (get it, like moron, but stupider)- I would take the bus to work. Often times during my morning walk to the bus stop I would have a little pep talk with myself. "Okay, rent is due this weekend. You're not going to drink today. You're going to save your money. Just go straight home after work." But inevitably I would end up sitting on the same bar stool, drinking away the rent. This is certainly not an indictment of the bar or it's tenders, many of whom I'm pleased to call friends today (Thanks, Dan!). But that was an ugly last year of drinking. My falls were getting worse. I woke up with a gigantic, swollen knee after I fell down in traffic one day. The shakes were getting worse. One day my best friend asked me "we're best friends, right? So, we can talk about anything, right?" I knew what was coming. He wanted to talk about my drinking. I was so used to this by now. I lined up all my excuses like loading a shotgun (I'm just blowing off steam, that break up was really hard on me, I'm sorry man), but he didn't say anything about my drinking. What he said was far more significant. It will be the greatest reminder of my life that year. "You smell terrible. You- and your bedroom- smell like B.O., stale booze and cigarettes. I'm sorry man. Other people are talking about it."
I died. Inside, I just wilted. This is what my life had become. I was smelly and the last good qualities I had were fading. I wasn't healthy and handsome anymore. I was stinky and gaunt. I weighed 140 pounds. I was penniless, barely holding onto a job I hated, pushing my oldest and greatest friend away.
In my Pharmacology class we're learning about the different "types" of alcoholics and the phases of addiction. I was every type of alcoholic from maintenance to binge drinker and my addiction had one phase- the pathetic phase. Yes, drinking was fun for a long time. But from my earliest years I've been disappointing, worrying and upsetting people. They were fearful with good reason too. I was up to no good from a young age and I drank like I was born to do it. In my line of work I see a lot of drinking. Last night I saw some really polite, nice people get together for dinner and wine. My drinking didn't look anything like that. I would try hard to disguise it as something "social", but the only thing social about drinking straight whisky from the bottle at 8:30 AM was that I was often logged onto Facebook while I did it. If I was a "social drinker", and I tried hard to convince people that I was, than I had the most active social life imaginable. It was a social life that happened in bathrooms at work, in brown bags on Greyhounds, in alleys outside of bars. I once distinguished myself from the other drunks drinking in the park alone at 1 o'clock because I had a job (a job I was about to show up for drunk). They were just homeless, unemployed bums. I was different.
Somebody from my not too distant past wrote me a letter from jail last week. She was always a poet and this letter is a gem. I might save it forever.
My relationship with drugs fulfilled the Old Testament like prophecy "jails, institutions or death." The first two, being God's tools, manifest in my life... God has intervened on my part in protecting me from homelessness, drug use & drug overdose.
Beautiful. I don't know what, where, why, when or how God intervenes or if this is God's intervention, but I know the sentiment. 30 months ago I hastily found a new place to live. It was amazing luck that I found a perfect one bedroom house for a really low price. I had recently acquired a vehicle too. I knew that I was fucked. It took less than two weeks before I started drinking and driving. One night I was driving home to my new rental in the woods and God intervened. I nearly totaled the car by putting it in a ditch. But the car high-centered on the way into the ditch before any damage was done to it. No damage. I stood by the car and tried to dig it out for hours. It was December 9, at 2 AM and it was pouring rain. I rolled in the muddy ditch and spun the wheels trying to back out until the police found me two hours later. I could have walked away before they show up, but something kept me there. When the police found me I was muddy, soaking and shivering. I was ready.
The rain never bothers me. Today I was given the choice to walk to school in the rain. What a great day. When I got home from school I was tired. I sank into the silence of the little house that I only lived in drunk for about two weeks. I have no drinking history here. It is my sober sanctuary. Today my life is quiet, peaceful and boring, but it is never cold, muddy or wet unless I want it to be. I frequently do.
Thanks for reading my blog. I love you.
But I digress. Let's start again.
What a great day. I stepped off the early ferry boat and bounded up the hill to the community college for my 8:30 AM class. We were getting New York rain today. Torrential, drenching, filling rain. As corny as it sounds, I smiled. Because today I have the choice to walk to school in the rain. Three years ago I woke up several times to find myself caked in mud. I had fallen down the wet driveway in the rain the night before. (Go ahead, laugh. It's okay, I don't mind.) The house I was living in had a steep driveway with an even steeper embankment on the side. In the dark, I would drunkenly fall down the hill and roll into the ditch. Sometimes it would happen a few times before I made it to the top. I would stroll inside, mortify my roommates with my muddy and drunk appearance, slink into bed soaking wet and pass out. In those days, I had long hair and it would hang in front of my eyes and give me a maniacal look.
Today I don't have to live that way. Today I get haircuts regularly (thanks, Tara!), today I am a student, today I don't drink. At All. Ever.
It's hard to remember how all of this started. When I lived in that same house- which was appropriately on Moran Road (get it, like moron, but stupider)- I would take the bus to work. Often times during my morning walk to the bus stop I would have a little pep talk with myself. "Okay, rent is due this weekend. You're not going to drink today. You're going to save your money. Just go straight home after work." But inevitably I would end up sitting on the same bar stool, drinking away the rent. This is certainly not an indictment of the bar or it's tenders, many of whom I'm pleased to call friends today (Thanks, Dan!). But that was an ugly last year of drinking. My falls were getting worse. I woke up with a gigantic, swollen knee after I fell down in traffic one day. The shakes were getting worse. One day my best friend asked me "we're best friends, right? So, we can talk about anything, right?" I knew what was coming. He wanted to talk about my drinking. I was so used to this by now. I lined up all my excuses like loading a shotgun (I'm just blowing off steam, that break up was really hard on me, I'm sorry man), but he didn't say anything about my drinking. What he said was far more significant. It will be the greatest reminder of my life that year. "You smell terrible. You- and your bedroom- smell like B.O., stale booze and cigarettes. I'm sorry man. Other people are talking about it."
I died. Inside, I just wilted. This is what my life had become. I was smelly and the last good qualities I had were fading. I wasn't healthy and handsome anymore. I was stinky and gaunt. I weighed 140 pounds. I was penniless, barely holding onto a job I hated, pushing my oldest and greatest friend away.
In my Pharmacology class we're learning about the different "types" of alcoholics and the phases of addiction. I was every type of alcoholic from maintenance to binge drinker and my addiction had one phase- the pathetic phase. Yes, drinking was fun for a long time. But from my earliest years I've been disappointing, worrying and upsetting people. They were fearful with good reason too. I was up to no good from a young age and I drank like I was born to do it. In my line of work I see a lot of drinking. Last night I saw some really polite, nice people get together for dinner and wine. My drinking didn't look anything like that. I would try hard to disguise it as something "social", but the only thing social about drinking straight whisky from the bottle at 8:30 AM was that I was often logged onto Facebook while I did it. If I was a "social drinker", and I tried hard to convince people that I was, than I had the most active social life imaginable. It was a social life that happened in bathrooms at work, in brown bags on Greyhounds, in alleys outside of bars. I once distinguished myself from the other drunks drinking in the park alone at 1 o'clock because I had a job (a job I was about to show up for drunk). They were just homeless, unemployed bums. I was different.
Somebody from my not too distant past wrote me a letter from jail last week. She was always a poet and this letter is a gem. I might save it forever.
My relationship with drugs fulfilled the Old Testament like prophecy "jails, institutions or death." The first two, being God's tools, manifest in my life... God has intervened on my part in protecting me from homelessness, drug use & drug overdose.
Beautiful. I don't know what, where, why, when or how God intervenes or if this is God's intervention, but I know the sentiment. 30 months ago I hastily found a new place to live. It was amazing luck that I found a perfect one bedroom house for a really low price. I had recently acquired a vehicle too. I knew that I was fucked. It took less than two weeks before I started drinking and driving. One night I was driving home to my new rental in the woods and God intervened. I nearly totaled the car by putting it in a ditch. But the car high-centered on the way into the ditch before any damage was done to it. No damage. I stood by the car and tried to dig it out for hours. It was December 9, at 2 AM and it was pouring rain. I rolled in the muddy ditch and spun the wheels trying to back out until the police found me two hours later. I could have walked away before they show up, but something kept me there. When the police found me I was muddy, soaking and shivering. I was ready.
The rain never bothers me. Today I was given the choice to walk to school in the rain. What a great day. When I got home from school I was tired. I sank into the silence of the little house that I only lived in drunk for about two weeks. I have no drinking history here. It is my sober sanctuary. Today my life is quiet, peaceful and boring, but it is never cold, muddy or wet unless I want it to be. I frequently do.
Thanks for reading my blog. I love you.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
A Source of Inspiration
If you're anything like me, and if you're lucky you're not, you spend a lot of time on Facebook. Those of you with actual lives might not be aware of a trend that emerged about a year or two ago involving inspirational quotes. Basically, people share quotes that they find meaningful with their groups of friends. Although this trend is a little too superficial for me, I will admit to being a fan of a good quote. Something about the pocket sized nature of the solid quote is really attractive to me. Quoting Nietzsche or Einstein is easier than actually reading Nietzsche or Einstein and putting their lessons into practice.
In the Facebook era nobody has time to sit down and read a book. I'm all about the easy way out anyways. Although I don't participate in the Facebook quote sharing game, I do read two, small daily books every morning published by recovery groups. They have lessons that are pertinent to my recovery and typically end each day's page with a thoughtful quote by a variety of philosophers and poets. From these books and from other walks of life I have compiled a mental list of quotes that are important to me. Here are a few of my favorites:
"When you're going through hell, it's important to remember to keep going." -Winston Churchill
"When it get's dark enough you can see the stars." -Lee Salk
"Fuck You." -Dick Cheney
I'm writing about this tonight because I find myself identifying with the above quotes. I like to face the fact that sometimes we need to walk through hell. I don't care much for unrealistic expectations anymore. I don't mean that I don't have them, I certainly do. But I don't have much use for them. I'm trying to abandon the idea that everything is going to be okay and get comfortable with the notion that everything is going to be exactly the way it should be.
When I walk through some emotional pain as I occasionally do, I look for the quickest fix I can find. That fix used to come in chemical form. For a while that worked. When I got sober I found I have a very low tolerance for pain. I remember calling a friend while I was in early sobriety and asking him to tell me what page to read in a specific book so I could learn the magical lesson that would make me feel better and remove the agony. A short two years later, I understand that there is no quick fix for me. Some of the pain I've felt in sobriety has taken months to heal. I spent March through May of last year in total misery. It was terrible. But I trudged through it and the journey was worth it. I learned some valuable lessons.
In the last two days some old pains have resurfaced and I'm revisiting the journey I took a year ago. It's not a pleasant walk but I know the way and I've got my boots laced up tight. I keep my Churchill and my Salk quotes handy to remind me to keep going and to look at the stars along the way. And I keep my Cheney quote with me too because you know, fuck you.
In the Facebook era nobody has time to sit down and read a book. I'm all about the easy way out anyways. Although I don't participate in the Facebook quote sharing game, I do read two, small daily books every morning published by recovery groups. They have lessons that are pertinent to my recovery and typically end each day's page with a thoughtful quote by a variety of philosophers and poets. From these books and from other walks of life I have compiled a mental list of quotes that are important to me. Here are a few of my favorites:
"When you're going through hell, it's important to remember to keep going." -Winston Churchill
"When it get's dark enough you can see the stars." -Lee Salk
"Fuck You." -Dick Cheney
I'm writing about this tonight because I find myself identifying with the above quotes. I like to face the fact that sometimes we need to walk through hell. I don't care much for unrealistic expectations anymore. I don't mean that I don't have them, I certainly do. But I don't have much use for them. I'm trying to abandon the idea that everything is going to be okay and get comfortable with the notion that everything is going to be exactly the way it should be.
When I walk through some emotional pain as I occasionally do, I look for the quickest fix I can find. That fix used to come in chemical form. For a while that worked. When I got sober I found I have a very low tolerance for pain. I remember calling a friend while I was in early sobriety and asking him to tell me what page to read in a specific book so I could learn the magical lesson that would make me feel better and remove the agony. A short two years later, I understand that there is no quick fix for me. Some of the pain I've felt in sobriety has taken months to heal. I spent March through May of last year in total misery. It was terrible. But I trudged through it and the journey was worth it. I learned some valuable lessons.
In the last two days some old pains have resurfaced and I'm revisiting the journey I took a year ago. It's not a pleasant walk but I know the way and I've got my boots laced up tight. I keep my Churchill and my Salk quotes handy to remind me to keep going and to look at the stars along the way. And I keep my Cheney quote with me too because you know, fuck you.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
AND ANOTHER THING! Why's everyone drive so slow or so fast around here? And what's with those super-bright headlights? Fuck you!
That last post I wrote probably leads you to believe that I'm nothing but a sensitive, flower sniffing dandy who farts poetry and cries tears of sweet molasses. The truth is, I often greet each day with a scowl. I wake and shake my angry fist at the alarm clock. I yell obscenities at the morning news anchors and laugh at the poor female reporter that always seems to get stuck with the overly sentimental human interest pieces. I sip my expensive coffee and burn down my neighbors house in my imagination (in my mind, it's always a meth lab explosion) and I complain audibly in my shower to my otherwise empty house when Mayor Mike McGinn is interviewed on NPR. I say things like "If I still lived in Seattle, I'd vote that bike riding, lisp-y voiced elitist out of office!"
The passionate anger builds and builds within me, fueled by my own self-importance. My hissy fit reaches a powerful crescendo like some sort of old piece of German classical music by Wagner and I imagine the day ahead and wonder if this will be the day when I finally snap and call a stranger the thing I most want to call a stranger. I will say "you're an asshole" and I imagine that it will feel great and liberating.
To me, calling a stranger an asshole sounds like it would be this extremely cathartic experience. Does it feel like a long-sought bowel movement? When you look him in the eye and feel the words on your lips do you feel a little closer to Nirvana? In my fantasy I always accompany the "asshole" with a strong, forceful middle finger. I say "Hey buddy! This is for you asshole!" and I look that asshole right in the eye and he just withers and crumbles in front of me- a broken and wounded asshole. He cries softly and he never does again whatever asshole thing it is he did that made me call him an asshole.
Last September, after a lengthy and arduous shift serving lunch at the restaurant, I went through the grocery store and did some quick shopping. I had been going through some tough things over the previous month or so and my temper had reached a tipping point. I was pulling through the parking lot when a guy (about 75 years old) shook his fist as he crossed in front of me and yelled "slow down!"
I lost my shit.
Up went the bird.
He approached my car and I rolled down the window and we yelled at each other like a modern Dennis the Menace and Mr. Wilson. There I was, 32 years old, 19 months sober and screaming at some unknown AARP member in a fucking Safeway parking lot. I didn't ever call him an asshole but I did tell him to fuck off. I drove home in utter humiliation for acting like such an.... asshole. I called a couple of friends who have been sober longer than I and they both laughed. "Allow yourself some mistakes in life" was the crux of their arguments. Then I made plans to get out of town for a few days and do some much needed relaxing.
Some people call this behavior "looking for a fight," but I call it "shopping for a resentment." I go through my day looking for somebody to be angry with. I can shop for generic resentments, the cans with the plain labels that say "ex-girlfriend," or "politics". But I typically like the name-brand resentments, the cans that say "Michelle" or "Republicans."
But the expiration date on these cans has long past. Michelle and I broke up years ago and being angry at Republicans is like being angry at psychopaths. It's best just to stay far away from them, and if you go to one of their parties, hope you don't end up mounted on the wall next to an elk or caribou.
At the end of the argument, I never feel as good as I think I will. Resentment leaves me with this gaping hole in my soul that is quickly filled with self-doubt and deep self-hatred. Those are drinking emotions. As they say, "anger is the dubious luxury of normal drinkers" and when I finish my stay at the Luxury Anger Resort and check back in at the Reality Travelodge I realize that my fantasy would never play out like I want it to anyways. My whopping 160 pound frame just isn't very scary. Especially when I'm dressed like a waiter and driving a sedan. I've never been in a serious fight and that 75 year old guy probably could have kicked my ass.
So if you ever stroll in front of my car at Safeway and tell me to slow down, I will probably just say I'm sorry and look real sincere. But just know that in my mind I am stuffing you into your shopping cart, dousing you in gasoline and wheeling you to your family's doorstep completely engulfed in flames.
The passionate anger builds and builds within me, fueled by my own self-importance. My hissy fit reaches a powerful crescendo like some sort of old piece of German classical music by Wagner and I imagine the day ahead and wonder if this will be the day when I finally snap and call a stranger the thing I most want to call a stranger. I will say "you're an asshole" and I imagine that it will feel great and liberating.
To me, calling a stranger an asshole sounds like it would be this extremely cathartic experience. Does it feel like a long-sought bowel movement? When you look him in the eye and feel the words on your lips do you feel a little closer to Nirvana? In my fantasy I always accompany the "asshole" with a strong, forceful middle finger. I say "Hey buddy! This is for you asshole!" and I look that asshole right in the eye and he just withers and crumbles in front of me- a broken and wounded asshole. He cries softly and he never does again whatever asshole thing it is he did that made me call him an asshole.
Last September, after a lengthy and arduous shift serving lunch at the restaurant, I went through the grocery store and did some quick shopping. I had been going through some tough things over the previous month or so and my temper had reached a tipping point. I was pulling through the parking lot when a guy (about 75 years old) shook his fist as he crossed in front of me and yelled "slow down!"
I lost my shit.
Up went the bird.
He approached my car and I rolled down the window and we yelled at each other like a modern Dennis the Menace and Mr. Wilson. There I was, 32 years old, 19 months sober and screaming at some unknown AARP member in a fucking Safeway parking lot. I didn't ever call him an asshole but I did tell him to fuck off. I drove home in utter humiliation for acting like such an.... asshole. I called a couple of friends who have been sober longer than I and they both laughed. "Allow yourself some mistakes in life" was the crux of their arguments. Then I made plans to get out of town for a few days and do some much needed relaxing.
Some people call this behavior "looking for a fight," but I call it "shopping for a resentment." I go through my day looking for somebody to be angry with. I can shop for generic resentments, the cans with the plain labels that say "ex-girlfriend," or "politics". But I typically like the name-brand resentments, the cans that say "Michelle" or "Republicans."
But the expiration date on these cans has long past. Michelle and I broke up years ago and being angry at Republicans is like being angry at psychopaths. It's best just to stay far away from them, and if you go to one of their parties, hope you don't end up mounted on the wall next to an elk or caribou.
At the end of the argument, I never feel as good as I think I will. Resentment leaves me with this gaping hole in my soul that is quickly filled with self-doubt and deep self-hatred. Those are drinking emotions. As they say, "anger is the dubious luxury of normal drinkers" and when I finish my stay at the Luxury Anger Resort and check back in at the Reality Travelodge I realize that my fantasy would never play out like I want it to anyways. My whopping 160 pound frame just isn't very scary. Especially when I'm dressed like a waiter and driving a sedan. I've never been in a serious fight and that 75 year old guy probably could have kicked my ass.
So if you ever stroll in front of my car at Safeway and tell me to slow down, I will probably just say I'm sorry and look real sincere. But just know that in my mind I am stuffing you into your shopping cart, dousing you in gasoline and wheeling you to your family's doorstep completely engulfed in flames.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Good Morning
Derek used to call non-alcoholic people "the muggles." I understand that to be a term used in Harry Potter books to describe people without magical powers. I'm not sure I would classify the mental illness of alcoholism as a "magical power," but I certainly spent a lot of time trying to put curses and hexes on people.
Every addict and alcoholic I've ever met- and many muggles too- grew up feeling somehow different from his peers. I'm always convinced that non-alcoholics have some secret rule book that I never got. I play a constant game of comparison where I pick complete strangers and decide if I'm more or less impressive/attractive/magical than them. I frequently feel like I was born in the wrong century or on the wrong continent. I know that I'm exactly where and when I'm supposed to be and have learned to accept that I'm not always happy with who I am.
As a person who lives alone, I frequently go several hours without interacting with other people. I have come to pay close attention to my first human contact of the day. I don't count texts, Facebook or email. The first contact has to be close enough to blow a kiss. Or flip the bird.
About a year and a half ago, I had a girlfriend who lived with me for a few months. She had this amazing ability to take up a staggering percentage of the bed we shared. Her five foot, 100 pound frame would crowd me to the edge of the bed until I fell off. My first human interaction of the day was often a knee to the ribs or spine. Seven years ago I sleep walked (okay, I was probably drunk) out of a hotel room without my key at 4 AM. The first human interaction of that day occurred when the elevator doors opened and the front desk clerk saw me standing in my underwear. Nine years ago I woke up on a beach in Hawaii under a blazing hot sun. I looked to my right and saw a picnic bench teeming with empty bottles. I looked to my left and saw some very unhappy locals.
Today I woke up bright and early at 5:30 to get ready for the first day of the new quarter. I drank some coffee, read some morning reminders, glanced at the weather and made my way into town. I parked my car and walked by my favorite breakfast spot. The Streamliner Diner might be the greatest place for breakfast in the entire history of the meal. The food is fantastic and so are the employees. Celine was dutifully setting up the restaurant, but she saw me walking by the window and gave me a warm wave and smile. I trudged on towards the ferry and as I began to approach a coffee stand I saw a guy behind the window wearing a colorful beanie with a big, furry ball on top. As I passed, he flung open the door revealing himself to be Tim Tully, perhaps the friendliest man I've ever met, and exclaimed "Hi, Kevin! Have a good day!"
I grinned so big I thought the tips of my smile would meet on the back of my head. "Good morning, Tim! It's nice to see you today."
Neither of these people know that I'm an alcoholic who was born in 1432 on the planet Mars. Neither of them would care if they knew. These are good people who would generously share their copies of the rule book with me if I asked them to. The point is- the thing I want to share with you, the reason I'm writing this- is that when she waved through the window with the glare of the overcast sunlight mixing with the stenciled name of the restaurant, and when he burst through the door like a jack in the box and called me by name, I joined the human race for a few seconds.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)