In the last two-and-a-half years I haven't felt like taking a drink more than a few times. I can't say that I've never wanted a drink, but I can say that I've always wanted sobriety more than I've wanted drunkenness. More so, I've always been willing to do whatever I think is necessary to keep me sober. In the beginning, those things were obvious. As my new friends told me "Kevin, you need to change your playgrounds, your playmates and your playthings." That held true for several months and I skipped a lot of birthdays, holiday parties and barbecues. Today I am incredibly grateful for my sobriety.
I spend a lot of time thinking about how many things had to happen just right for me to gain some traction in recovery. When I got sober I had just moved into a nice, quiet house. I had a car. I had health insurance and a job. My family was ready to help. Mostly, I had this brief period of time- the first time in my life- when I actually thought it was possible to stop drinking. For many, many years I hadn't known it was possible and, frankly, I didn't want to be sober anyways.
The first five years of my alcoholic drinking (from age 20-25) were really fun. Although I was a broke college student, I frequently ended up in stretch limousines with beautiful girls and expensive drugs going to exclusive clubs and hanging out in VIP lounges in Manhattan and Honolulu. I spent money like a guy who made four times my annual income. I was probably a lot of fun to be around too. I was funny, outgoing, intelligent and unafraid of the law. I talked myself out of all kinds of jams. I never seemed to pay a price for any of the outrageous capers I pulled. Hunter S. Thompson was (and still is) a great hero of mine.
At age 26 all of that changed. I still kept my spring break spirit, but physiologically and mentally my need for alcohol had changed. I had always suffered from pretty severe withdrawal symptoms, but now they were getting worse. I shook uncontrollably until I got a drink in me. I wouldn't experience any ease until I arrived at my favorite bar and got my ass in my favorite stool and ordered my favorite round (double shot of Jameson and a pint of Old Seattle Lager). I would lift the shot glass with two hands because if I held it with one then my shaking would spill it. I would sort of suck the first shot into my mouth and swallow hard and feel this tranquility settle down my arms and the shaking would stop. This looseness would relax into my limbs and I would begin to forget about who I was and how empty and vacant my life had become.
By 27 I had been arrested for my first DUI and admitted to the hospital twice. The first time was because I had a seizure during withdrawal. I made a brief attempt at recovery, but I hated Alcoholics Anonymous. The literature seemed antiquated and boring. The meetings were stodgy and weird. I thought all the members were a bunch of liars and hypocrites. Besides, I still thought there was a chance I would be getting back into one of those limousines again.
I hadn't yet lost my vagabond spirit. One night I was leaving a bachelor party at a gentleman's club and I had lost track of the other gentleman that were gently manning the club with me. I had spent $200 on...ummm.... well, never mind. I was stumbling home and I accidentally pissed myself. I laughed and thought to myself "man, this is the life." There I was: penniless, wearing a suit, covered in piss. I weighed 140 pounds, had a serious drinking problem, some drug issues and an absolute inability to be honest with myself. Aside from the occasional visit to my parents house outside of Seattle, in the year 2009 I never left Seattle. Specifically, I never left downtown Seattle. This occurred to me one day when I was in a car headed up to Everett. I realized it was the furthest out of the city I had been in over a year.
My addiction to alcohol had become physical. I needed it in order to not feel sick. My stomach was in constant disarray. Twice I had the beginnings of ulcers. My liver was beginning to show signs of scarring. Psychologically, drinking had become a need to quiet my own self-hatred. Sober, I hated Kevin Toth. Drunk, he was tolerable.
In the last months of drinking some even worse changes happened. For several years I had been plagued with blackouts. They began in my early twenties but by the time I was 27 they happened every time I drank. By the last year of drinking, it took only a couple of drinks before I blacked out. I would wake up someplace unusual without the faintest idea how I had gotten there. One morning I awoke covered in blood with a knee the size of a cantaloupe. All I could remember was falling down in front of oncoming traffic and bashing my knee on a curb.
These are the things I think about when a drink sounds good. These are the things I remember when an old friend who didn't know me in those last five years says "I miss the Kevin that drank." These are the stories that had me begging God for help. These are the reasons I celebrated when I got 30 days sober.
On the night my nephew was born, I was sitting in my squalid apartment snorting cocaine and drinking alone. I vomited all over myself and listened to the same songs on repeat as I frequently did. I knew that I wasn't going to know my nephew and that by the time he was old enough to understand that his uncle was a drunk it would too late for me to explain myself. I wrote him a letter that night. A letter that "explained" that I hadn't always been this way. It was super fucking depressing. I have it saved on some old laptop somewhere. Today I got to play with my nephew. During the last week that he's been visiting I've been thinking about how happy I am to know him. I'm so happy today.
There's a common misconception about addicts that is far more antiquated and outdated than any current treatment program out there. That misconception is that we're all morally corrupt people who can't adequately moderate or control their addiction. Well, yeah. If I could control or moderate my drinking I wouldn't be a fucking addict, would I? Who the hell would choose this?!? The truth that's known to millions of us is that moderation was no longer an option. We are incapable of controlling our substance use. When I get started, I'm a fucking maniac. I like hard liquor, strong fucking drugs, loud music and I like breaking laws. Which is exactly how my drinking ended. Drunk off my ass with Mad Rad at top volume while I skidded around a corner at high speed. A modern Duke of Hazard.
Since I've gotten sober I haven't ridden in any limousines, but I haven't ridden in any police cars either. Mostly, I'm surrounded by people who love me and support me in my journey and every now and then I'm lucky enough to get to help someone else with their drinking problem. My life isn't glamorous, but god I love it. I love you too. Thanks for reading my blog.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
My Awesome Mouth.
27 months into sobriety I'm still having a lot of "firsts". Today was my first trip to the dentist in a very, very long time. As could be expected, after 10 years of neglecting my overall health, the news was not great. I had anticipated some of the costs, but I expected that I would leave with a rosier picture than I did. The overall scenario amounts to a couple thousand dollars in proposed dental care- I haven't actually received the services yet.
While my teeth look pretty good from the outside, apparently they are like a nuclear waste site with lots of nefarious stuff happening below the surface. Judging from the stern talking to I just got from Dr. Sally (my childhood dentist), flossing should now be a higher priority than showering (which I also claim to do daily.)
I left the 8 AM morning exam a little dispirited because paying for this is not going to be easy. As a part -time student and part-time waiter I don't have $1,400 to spend on my teeth. But I really like my mouth. It's been a good mouth and it deserves better than it's gotten. So I will be committing to the dental work in the next few months and splitting the payments into three month installments.
Perhaps the funniest part of this new expense is the sacrifice I will make in the form of a dining room table. For about six months I have been shopping for the perfect new table for my house. As it is, I eat everything at a counter, a coffee table or outside if the weather is nice enough. I really enjoy cooking and I occasionally have somebody over for dinner and it's always a little awkward to bring a dinner date to the couch to eat something I just spent three hours cooking.
So, because my house is small, I searched high and low online for a perfectly shaped table with a drop-leaf that will fit nicely into the only area I have available for it. First, I found a lovely little three piece set for $250. I periodically checked in on it on Amazon and re-measured the space behind the couch where I plan on putting it to make sure it would fit. I was ready to pull the trigger when I went to Amazon and discovered it was no longer available. Amazon gave me a notice that read something like: THIS ITEM IS GONE, ASSHOLE. YOU SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT IT 3 MONTHS AGO. YOU WILL NEVER FIND ANOTHER TABLE LIKE IT. It was like losing the girl of my dreams. Okay, that's a little dramatic, but it was a drag.
Then I found a new table. It's less ideal than the first one, but it's also cheaper. I have been watching my budget and paying for some other, unforeseen expenses and I was planning on buying it next month. Now I'm paying for my mouth repairs so this will need to be put off again. I can hear you suggesting that I buy one at a thrift store and trust me, I've thought about it and I have my reasons for buying one new.
After I left the exam I ran into some friends and I chuckled about this whole scenario. One friend said "maybe you're just not meant to buy this table," which is a pretty standard, healthy attitude that you find in recovery circles. I certainly agree with the sentiment, but I'm really confused why God would rather have me eating off my lap in front of the television. Maybe God just wants me to continue eating dinner like the average American slob.
But my experience has shown me that when I take good care of myself, good things come along. The best indicator that a guy takes care of himself is the quality of his smile. Perhaps the lesson here is to pay the long, overdue dentist bill and forego the silly table for a few more months.
Okay, it's time for me to wrap this up and get back to Dr. Sally's office for some fillings. Hopefully she'll give me a cool toy if I sit real still and don't cry like I used to. If you need me later I'll be here on the couch eating a microwave dinner and watching Jerry Springer.
While my teeth look pretty good from the outside, apparently they are like a nuclear waste site with lots of nefarious stuff happening below the surface. Judging from the stern talking to I just got from Dr. Sally (my childhood dentist), flossing should now be a higher priority than showering (which I also claim to do daily.)
I left the 8 AM morning exam a little dispirited because paying for this is not going to be easy. As a part -time student and part-time waiter I don't have $1,400 to spend on my teeth. But I really like my mouth. It's been a good mouth and it deserves better than it's gotten. So I will be committing to the dental work in the next few months and splitting the payments into three month installments.
Perhaps the funniest part of this new expense is the sacrifice I will make in the form of a dining room table. For about six months I have been shopping for the perfect new table for my house. As it is, I eat everything at a counter, a coffee table or outside if the weather is nice enough. I really enjoy cooking and I occasionally have somebody over for dinner and it's always a little awkward to bring a dinner date to the couch to eat something I just spent three hours cooking.
So, because my house is small, I searched high and low online for a perfectly shaped table with a drop-leaf that will fit nicely into the only area I have available for it. First, I found a lovely little three piece set for $250. I periodically checked in on it on Amazon and re-measured the space behind the couch where I plan on putting it to make sure it would fit. I was ready to pull the trigger when I went to Amazon and discovered it was no longer available. Amazon gave me a notice that read something like: THIS ITEM IS GONE, ASSHOLE. YOU SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT IT 3 MONTHS AGO. YOU WILL NEVER FIND ANOTHER TABLE LIKE IT. It was like losing the girl of my dreams. Okay, that's a little dramatic, but it was a drag.
Then I found a new table. It's less ideal than the first one, but it's also cheaper. I have been watching my budget and paying for some other, unforeseen expenses and I was planning on buying it next month. Now I'm paying for my mouth repairs so this will need to be put off again. I can hear you suggesting that I buy one at a thrift store and trust me, I've thought about it and I have my reasons for buying one new.
After I left the exam I ran into some friends and I chuckled about this whole scenario. One friend said "maybe you're just not meant to buy this table," which is a pretty standard, healthy attitude that you find in recovery circles. I certainly agree with the sentiment, but I'm really confused why God would rather have me eating off my lap in front of the television. Maybe God just wants me to continue eating dinner like the average American slob.
But my experience has shown me that when I take good care of myself, good things come along. The best indicator that a guy takes care of himself is the quality of his smile. Perhaps the lesson here is to pay the long, overdue dentist bill and forego the silly table for a few more months.
Okay, it's time for me to wrap this up and get back to Dr. Sally's office for some fillings. Hopefully she'll give me a cool toy if I sit real still and don't cry like I used to. If you need me later I'll be here on the couch eating a microwave dinner and watching Jerry Springer.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
That is why I do the things I do.
Sometimes I find it hard to figure out which aspect of my personality is getting me into trouble. Did I tell that lie because I'm an alcoholic? Is that my co-dependence? Or does everyone lie about "loving" kombucha?
It reminds me of a joke that Dave Chappelle told about watching Tiger Woods with his Thai wife and arguing with her about which half of Woods' heritage was swinging the golf club. I look at a situation or conflict I'm facing (likely one that I've created) and try to figure out what my motives were, which of my screwed up mental illnesses caused it and then plug the scenario it into the appropriate program of recovery (Al Anon, AA or Scientology) to find the best solution.
It's not always very easy.
Alcoholism is a complicated illness. When I was deep in it I didn't understand how thoroughly woven into the fabric of my life it was. As far as I knew, it was a disease that only encompassed my inability to stop drinking. Now I see it's fingerprints on all sorts of crimes. Alcoholism is a disease that convinced me to pay bills only under threat of discontinued service, be honest with employers as rarely as possible, throw half-empty bottles of booze in the recycling bin at work so you can steal them when you get outside, and admit to having a drinking problem when it might lessen the punishment. Mostly, it is a disease that operates with a singular motive. To get you drunk and ultimately kill you.
For example, and this may come as a shock, I used to have a little problem with honesty. I would reflexively find creative ways to steal to get drunk. I went through a period of about two years when I didn't have a bank account, but I still had the inactive debit cards which had a valid expiration date on them. I would use these cards to open up a tab at a bar and.... well, you get the idea. I would leave without closing the tab and when the bartender would run the card it would be declined. A few days later when I had the cash to cover my previous tab I would go back to the bar, apologize for "forgetting" to close my tab out, pay them with cash (plus a nice tip) and retrieve the inactive card. At that time I didn't really see anything wrong with what I was doing. The bartenders were getting paid, the house was getting what they were owed... no problem.
Except, well...BIG problem. Like, felony problem. About a year after I got sober, I remembered this little scam. I thought to myself "that sounds quite a bit like fraud."
Often I'm just projecting, but I tend to look at examples of other people making a mess of their lives and assume that they're mixed up with pills or coke or something. Last Sunday I saw a car overturned in the ravine by my house and I naturally assumed it was a DUI accident. It turns out I was wrong. In fairness, who the fuck does that on a Saturday night sober? There's a drink in that story somewhere, I'm sure of it.
But my point is: I tend to see everything through the lens of addiction. I'm totally fine with that. Honestly, I think about alcoholism all day long. Wherever I am, I'm thinking about my disease and what I'm doing that day to keep it at bay. You would think that would be exhausting. Sometimes it is. Sometimes I just want to watch a mindless television show like an average American slob without deciding if the main characters are drinking too much. Alcoholism is often called an "allergy". That sounds agreeable enough, but I doubt that people with a peanut allergy go to baseball games and count how many peanuts the guy sitting next to them has eaten. So yeah, I would like to forget about recovery sometimes.
Mostly I'm thrilled to be so immersed and focused on alcoholism and I'll tell you why: Now I know why I do the things I do. I used to think I was a miserable failure. It turns out I was just a drunk. When I stopped drinking, guess what? Life got better. One of the gifts of sobriety is having an answer to that riddle.
So when I do something stupid like scream at an old man in a parking lot, tell a fib or behave badly I can look for the reasons why I did it and try not to do it again. Then I can crack open a pint of ice cream, look the world in the eye and laugh it off.
It reminds me of a joke that Dave Chappelle told about watching Tiger Woods with his Thai wife and arguing with her about which half of Woods' heritage was swinging the golf club. I look at a situation or conflict I'm facing (likely one that I've created) and try to figure out what my motives were, which of my screwed up mental illnesses caused it and then plug the scenario it into the appropriate program of recovery (Al Anon, AA or Scientology) to find the best solution.
It's not always very easy.
Alcoholism is a complicated illness. When I was deep in it I didn't understand how thoroughly woven into the fabric of my life it was. As far as I knew, it was a disease that only encompassed my inability to stop drinking. Now I see it's fingerprints on all sorts of crimes. Alcoholism is a disease that convinced me to pay bills only under threat of discontinued service, be honest with employers as rarely as possible, throw half-empty bottles of booze in the recycling bin at work so you can steal them when you get outside, and admit to having a drinking problem when it might lessen the punishment. Mostly, it is a disease that operates with a singular motive. To get you drunk and ultimately kill you.
For example, and this may come as a shock, I used to have a little problem with honesty. I would reflexively find creative ways to steal to get drunk. I went through a period of about two years when I didn't have a bank account, but I still had the inactive debit cards which had a valid expiration date on them. I would use these cards to open up a tab at a bar and.... well, you get the idea. I would leave without closing the tab and when the bartender would run the card it would be declined. A few days later when I had the cash to cover my previous tab I would go back to the bar, apologize for "forgetting" to close my tab out, pay them with cash (plus a nice tip) and retrieve the inactive card. At that time I didn't really see anything wrong with what I was doing. The bartenders were getting paid, the house was getting what they were owed... no problem.
Except, well...BIG problem. Like, felony problem. About a year after I got sober, I remembered this little scam. I thought to myself "that sounds quite a bit like fraud."
Often I'm just projecting, but I tend to look at examples of other people making a mess of their lives and assume that they're mixed up with pills or coke or something. Last Sunday I saw a car overturned in the ravine by my house and I naturally assumed it was a DUI accident. It turns out I was wrong. In fairness, who the fuck does that on a Saturday night sober? There's a drink in that story somewhere, I'm sure of it.
But my point is: I tend to see everything through the lens of addiction. I'm totally fine with that. Honestly, I think about alcoholism all day long. Wherever I am, I'm thinking about my disease and what I'm doing that day to keep it at bay. You would think that would be exhausting. Sometimes it is. Sometimes I just want to watch a mindless television show like an average American slob without deciding if the main characters are drinking too much. Alcoholism is often called an "allergy". That sounds agreeable enough, but I doubt that people with a peanut allergy go to baseball games and count how many peanuts the guy sitting next to them has eaten. So yeah, I would like to forget about recovery sometimes.
Mostly I'm thrilled to be so immersed and focused on alcoholism and I'll tell you why: Now I know why I do the things I do. I used to think I was a miserable failure. It turns out I was just a drunk. When I stopped drinking, guess what? Life got better. One of the gifts of sobriety is having an answer to that riddle.
So when I do something stupid like scream at an old man in a parking lot, tell a fib or behave badly I can look for the reasons why I did it and try not to do it again. Then I can crack open a pint of ice cream, look the world in the eye and laugh it off.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Come on, get happy! (and by "happy" I do not mean "stoned")
I am a lucky guy. Mostly, I keep that frame of mind, but occasionally I can slip into deep depths of self-pity. The kind of self-pity that gothic teenagers wish they could experience. The kind of self-pity that writers of terrible poetry aspire to. The kind of self-pity that used to justify walking two miles in the rain down a busy highway to spend my last twenty bucks on beer.
Life is a mixed bag. I have good days, bad days and pretty good bad days. A single day can provide me with a full-spectrum of Technicolor emotions. I've almost mastered the art of experiencing two contrary emotions at the same time. I yawn and fall asleep while energetically doing jumping jacks. I cry during orgasm. I'm sorry for the visual, I know it's unpleasant to visualize me doing jumping jacks.
But, I am a lucky guy. I get to spend my days doing fun things. By sheer virtue of not being an actively drinking alcoholic my life has gotten better in spite of myself. Because the drinking and driving days are pretty far in the rear view I no longer have much wreckage to clear away from what I have come to call Mr. Toth's Wild Ride. Today I can tell light-hearted jokes about the night I nearly totaled my very nice car only two months after I got it. I can smile and wave at the police officer who was dressed in civilian clothes and driving his own family vehicle when he found me on the side of the road and told me he was calling a tow truck- a tow truck that arrived with blue and red lights and no towing mechanism to speak of. I can drive by the spot where I was arrested and I can still picture myself falling off balance, unable to recite the alphabet (without "singing or in a sing-songy voice," as the officer requested), and I can drive by that spot without even thinking about the thousands of dollars the DUI cost me or the countless hours I spent in treatment, or dozens of days spent in court. I can drive by that spot and not for a single second think about the months of anguish I felt about the state of my life. I can drive by that spot- as I do at least twice a day, because it's only a mile from my house- and be grateful that I'm sober and not endangering the lives of my neighbors or myself.
I certainly haven't always been grateful. I had to be shown how. Truthfully, I have had more good first chances to succeed in life than most people get. I don't have alcoholic parents, I didn't want for much growing up. I have some good talents and intelligence. I have a handsome face and a really cute butt. When I was drinking I knew I was good-looking but I used my cute butt for evil instead of good. I never appreciated how fortunate I was to have loving parents who were doing their best and whose best was pretty fucking amazing.
Eventually the luck I was born with was squandered in the service of alcoholism. I would use my natural abilities and gifts of communication to tell lies and deceive. The likability that I have would be used against employers and law enforcement to get me off the hook for things I rightfully should have been punished for. After I had sufficiently destroyed all good will towards me and burned everyone that had the decency to call me a friend, alcoholism really sunk it's teeth in and ruined my life.
In those last final days I truly was losing the things I had to be grateful for. I still had things to appreciate in life, but they were quickly vanishing. When I got my last DUI, life became very complicated for a while. I spent three months in "intensive" outpatient treatment. I would work in Seattle all day, rush down to the ferry terminal, drive out to neighboring Poulsbo for two hours of treatment, drive back to Bainbridge for an AA meeting and be home at 9:30 without ever sitting down for a meal for the entire day. I had begun the process of rebuilding my life, but before I could do that there was a bill to be paid. I began taking phone calls that I had ignored for years and trying to settle with the collections agencies that were eager to take advantage of my newly found honesty and my reacquired integrity.
For about a year I was in intensive outpatient treatment. At first I had three sessions a week and after three months I was only required to go once a week. Last week I completed the two-year outpatient program and have successfully "deferred" the prosecution of my DUI! Yay! Somewhere during that first year of sobriety the gratitude I experienced in meetings began to rub off on me and despite being broke and busier than hell I began to act like the kind of person who's had the lucky breaks that I've had. I began to behave like a guy who grew up on a beautiful island with a median household income of $90,000. I stopped acting like such a shit-on little shit and instead tried to give back a little.
I'm not writing this blog post to brag about how grateful and sun-shiny and wonderful I am. This blog is not called The Wellness Report it is called Taking Myself Too Seriously because that is what I do. Somewhere between my alternating beliefs that I am at once the greatest and worst person in the world lies the truth. I'm an average-to-great person who is doing the best I can with some extraordinary opportunities that the universe has provided me with.
Last night I saw somebody ruin a good opportunity that she was given in the form of a good job. I bristled at the drama because I remember feeling like good things were a fact of life and good jobs were easy to find. I had to learn the hard way that good opportunities aren't easy to come by and the older and drunker you get the harder it is to maintain that level of good-fortune.
On the way home, less than half a mile from the endpoint of my last drunk drive, I saw a person who was having an even worse day than my former coworker.
Life is a mixed bag. I have good days, bad days and pretty good bad days. A single day can provide me with a full-spectrum of Technicolor emotions. I've almost mastered the art of experiencing two contrary emotions at the same time. I yawn and fall asleep while energetically doing jumping jacks. I cry during orgasm. I'm sorry for the visual, I know it's unpleasant to visualize me doing jumping jacks.
But, I am a lucky guy. I get to spend my days doing fun things. By sheer virtue of not being an actively drinking alcoholic my life has gotten better in spite of myself. Because the drinking and driving days are pretty far in the rear view I no longer have much wreckage to clear away from what I have come to call Mr. Toth's Wild Ride. Today I can tell light-hearted jokes about the night I nearly totaled my very nice car only two months after I got it. I can smile and wave at the police officer who was dressed in civilian clothes and driving his own family vehicle when he found me on the side of the road and told me he was calling a tow truck- a tow truck that arrived with blue and red lights and no towing mechanism to speak of. I can drive by the spot where I was arrested and I can still picture myself falling off balance, unable to recite the alphabet (without "singing or in a sing-songy voice," as the officer requested), and I can drive by that spot without even thinking about the thousands of dollars the DUI cost me or the countless hours I spent in treatment, or dozens of days spent in court. I can drive by that spot and not for a single second think about the months of anguish I felt about the state of my life. I can drive by that spot- as I do at least twice a day, because it's only a mile from my house- and be grateful that I'm sober and not endangering the lives of my neighbors or myself.
I certainly haven't always been grateful. I had to be shown how. Truthfully, I have had more good first chances to succeed in life than most people get. I don't have alcoholic parents, I didn't want for much growing up. I have some good talents and intelligence. I have a handsome face and a really cute butt. When I was drinking I knew I was good-looking but I used my cute butt for evil instead of good. I never appreciated how fortunate I was to have loving parents who were doing their best and whose best was pretty fucking amazing.
Eventually the luck I was born with was squandered in the service of alcoholism. I would use my natural abilities and gifts of communication to tell lies and deceive. The likability that I have would be used against employers and law enforcement to get me off the hook for things I rightfully should have been punished for. After I had sufficiently destroyed all good will towards me and burned everyone that had the decency to call me a friend, alcoholism really sunk it's teeth in and ruined my life.
In those last final days I truly was losing the things I had to be grateful for. I still had things to appreciate in life, but they were quickly vanishing. When I got my last DUI, life became very complicated for a while. I spent three months in "intensive" outpatient treatment. I would work in Seattle all day, rush down to the ferry terminal, drive out to neighboring Poulsbo for two hours of treatment, drive back to Bainbridge for an AA meeting and be home at 9:30 without ever sitting down for a meal for the entire day. I had begun the process of rebuilding my life, but before I could do that there was a bill to be paid. I began taking phone calls that I had ignored for years and trying to settle with the collections agencies that were eager to take advantage of my newly found honesty and my reacquired integrity.
For about a year I was in intensive outpatient treatment. At first I had three sessions a week and after three months I was only required to go once a week. Last week I completed the two-year outpatient program and have successfully "deferred" the prosecution of my DUI! Yay! Somewhere during that first year of sobriety the gratitude I experienced in meetings began to rub off on me and despite being broke and busier than hell I began to act like the kind of person who's had the lucky breaks that I've had. I began to behave like a guy who grew up on a beautiful island with a median household income of $90,000. I stopped acting like such a shit-on little shit and instead tried to give back a little.
I'm not writing this blog post to brag about how grateful and sun-shiny and wonderful I am. This blog is not called The Wellness Report it is called Taking Myself Too Seriously because that is what I do. Somewhere between my alternating beliefs that I am at once the greatest and worst person in the world lies the truth. I'm an average-to-great person who is doing the best I can with some extraordinary opportunities that the universe has provided me with.
Last night I saw somebody ruin a good opportunity that she was given in the form of a good job. I bristled at the drama because I remember feeling like good things were a fact of life and good jobs were easy to find. I had to learn the hard way that good opportunities aren't easy to come by and the older and drunker you get the harder it is to maintain that level of good-fortune.
On the way home, less than half a mile from the endpoint of my last drunk drive, I saw a person who was having an even worse day than my former coworker.
Not a Happy Mother's Day
I don't know for certain that the accident was due to drunk driving but when it happens at 11:30 on a Saturday night...well...odds are good. The car is still there this morning, there was nothing on the news so I'll assume nobody was killed.
I certainly don't have all good days and I don't wake up farting gratitude either. But I've gotten what I want out of life which is sobriety and as a result of that I've gotten rid of some other things like DUI accidents. Someone I know refers to recovery as "addition by subtraction." We are removed of some terrible alcohol-related behaviors, but we are also removed of some more loosely related personality traits. I'm not perfect, but I lie less, steal less, cheat less and I don't drink and drive at all.
But at the end of the day, the more quantifiable and easily recognized differences in my life are seen in my wallet and my car. There are fewer dents in the bank account and the fenders. For that I am grateful.
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