When the Going Gets Weird, The Weird Turn Pro

To be successful in sobriety you need to abandon some obvious bad habits, foster some new, healthy ones and maintain some existing, important ones. For instance, I needed to stop visiting the bar even though I wasn't drinking there, I needed to improve my diet and find sober evening activities to occupy my time, and I needed to rekindle my old hobbies like writing, reading and hiking. I was full of irrational fears when I got sober (still am, sometimes) and one of those (ridiculous and trivial) fears was that I would never enjoy the music that I used to listen to while drinking or the writings of Hunter S. Thompson again. Fortunately, I'm retarded. Both of those things remain favorite past times of mine.

I have taken a lot of inspiration from Hunter S. Thompson. In my teens I admired the Johnny Depp version of him for his drug habits, but I grew to appreciate the real talent and insightful writings of the guy as I got older. I love reading his letters. I find him thoughtful, poignant, honest and exceedingly funny. In sobriety, I began to call my home The Unicorn Ranch which is a mocking nod to Charlie Sheen and an honest homage to Dr. Thompson. Sheen because he named his Beverly Hills (or Malibu or wherever the fuck) home The Sober Valley Lodge when he was drinking tiger blood all over TMZ three years ago, Dr. Thompson because he lived for decades in Aspen, Colorado on a property he called The Owl Ranch. He reportedly had gongs hanging around the canyon walls and he would step outside and shoot them with his .44 magnum. Man, I love this guy.

I also read once that he was obsessed with breakfast. I'll let him explain this for you:

           "I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas, or at home—and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed—breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crêpes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned-beef hash with diced chilies, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of key lime pie, two margaritas and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert…Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours, and at least one source of good music…all of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked."

Awesome. Just, awesome.

One of the new habits I've developed has been a consistent morning routine. It has none of the panache, drugs or booze that Thompson's had, but all of the psychic anchor qualities in a life that frequently borders on unhinged and unexplained. I almost always devote a good hour to waking up slowly. On days when I need to leave the house by 6:30 AM, I wake at 5 just so that I may have a solid hour to absorb my ritual. A French press of coffee, the morning news, a solid breakfast with some protein, 5 or 10 minutes of quiet thinking and two very important books. The books I look at are both recovery focused "daily readers". By this I mean there is a different entry for each day of the year. There are exactly 366 entries (one for leap year) and they often feel so incredibly timely in their subject matter. 

Having a morning routine that I stick to fairly obediently helps me stay grounded and present. It helps me remember to live life one day at a time and stay out of the past and future. By waking up and planning my day, I acknowledge that this day is all I am promised and I commit to making the most of it. By noon I might have abandoned those plans and be squarely stuck on some problem from eight years ago or panicking and fretting about an imagined decision I'm certain I'll need to face in 8 months, but at least I make a morning pledge to try and stay in the present. 

This post comes about on the second to the last day of the year when I read one of the more powerful entries in one of my books.  I'll summarize the entry:
           
           "The unpleasant things other people say or do have no power to destroy my peace of mind or ruin my day unless I permit it. Do I allow myself to respond to the words of a sick person as if they were the truth? ... There is so much to appreciate in this life. I won't waste another moment feeling sorry for myself."

It takes 364 days to reach that entry. At the end of the year you can look back on all the good and bad, tell the bad to slip away and focus on the good. No matter how much bad might outweigh the good, you can focus on the good and make that the estimation of your year. Lucky for me, it's been an awesome year. Easily the best ever. The triumphs dwarf the tribulations and the mere thought of the people I've met and things I learned bring an earnest and honest smile to my face. 

I'll look forward to 2014 and every morning I'll plan on living life to it's fullest. Outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, preferably stone naked.

"...the greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances."
       -Martha Washington

I don't know much about perfection, but I know it ain't you.

"Perfection" is not a word I would use to describe any aspects of my personality or life a few years ago. "Haphazard," "fraudulent," or "stolen" would be more appropriate words for describing my possessions or general state. What I have grown to realize, however, is that perfection-ism is far different than perfection itself. Perfectionism is an obsession with perfection. You can look it up if you don't believe me. Actually, would you look it up for me? I'm dreadfully tired and dictionary.com feels like it's miles away from this blog right now.

Perfectionism did and does describe my past and present mental fixations. Although I would measure the results of my alcoholic efforts as a solid C average, I was never satisfied with anything in my life that wasn't of the highest quality. Please note the distinction. I did not demand perfection from anything that I produced, I demanded perfection from you and all that the world brought into my life. And you let me down. Oh, boy... you let me down.

I believe it is likely part of the male condition to obsess over the idea that somewhere out there exists the perfect mate, the perfect job, the perfect porno flick, the perfect cup of coffee. We are so obsessed with the notion that something better is sitting on a bar stool down the street that we keep walking out on a good thing and we've shot to hell all chances at happiness with the perfectly good circumstances that are already in our life. For me, this obsession certainly manifested itself most devastatingly in the form of alcoholism. I kept looking for happiness at the bottom of the next pint of beer, and I just kept ordering another until I was drunker than drunk. But for other men who aren't alcoholics, they simply abandon partners and jobs at the first sign of weight gain or the first suggestion that they won't get the promotion they want. I did that too, but because I'm an alcoholic I also got drunk and shouted things like "you'll never find another guy like me!" To which she would reply, "God, I hope not."

The notion that I should not accept imperfection in my circumstances was killing me. I was satisfied with jobs for about two weeks. I'm fond of saying that "I've never met a restaurant I couldn't run better myself" although my titles have never included the words "supervisor, director or manager." My titles have included "probationary, trainee and inmate," so that should tell you something about what I was bringing to the table. Nevertheless, in the face of my own blistering half-effort, I insisted that somewhere out there (probably at that quaint little bar across town) existed a job where I would always be managed appropriately, fall in love with the girl of my dreams and make lots of money (probably get tipped with a winning lottery ticket or something).

One of the most interesting things I've learned in sobriety is that no one person can be all things to me. There does not exist a person who will never frustrate me, never be cross with me or never make a mistake.
The same can be said for a job. No job can give me every feeling of worthiness, financial security and creative license that I wish it would. So the secret to solving this is to have a multifaceted life.

About a year ago I started down a path to a new career. The path has been winding and the progress is slower than I would like. I intend to end up a social worker doing incredibly important work that will pay me an enormous sum and impress you so much that you'll name a formidable landmark after me. While my goals are certainly worthy and I love having ambition, I've had to practice patience and allow myself to make some mistakes along the way. I've been anxious to start an internship, find a second job and begin a slow departure from the restaurant industry and move into a career that I can picture myself doing at the age of 60. In the meantime, I have occasionally found myself feeling restless and antsy. But the anxiety subsided when I realized that I didn't need a job to make me feel worthy and useful. I could feel worthy and useful by being worthy and useful. This is what I mean by having a multifaceted life.

I have found refuge in things like volunteer work, attending 12-step fellowships and helping others, and my schoolwork. I realized that although I would like to find work as a social worker (and deep down I know I will, eventually), I can be perfectly satisfied with my life exactly the way it is. I make a great living working only 25 hours a week. With the remainder of my week I can find opportunities to fulfill the need I have for feeling useful and helpful.

I take the same approach to relationships. I have been blessed with an extraordinary family and a loving girlfriend. But when they fall short of what I think I need in my life, I don't have to look far to find that other aspects of my life are supplying me with a dose of love and support. When I stop demanding that one person, one job or one meal be perfect, then other people, hobbies and bowls of ice cream come along and deliver the goods. When we accept imperfection in ourselves and others, we open ourselves up to the possibility of greatness in friends and opportunities that we have been taking for granted.

All of this comes on the heels of the most special work Christmas party I've ever attended. It felt so warm, familiar and downright loving that it feels cheap to refer to it as "work" Christmas party. The fantastic restaurant that I am so privileged to call my place of employment threw a smashing little dinner for us tonight. My gracious girlfriend came and sat down with nearly the entire staff and we ate an amazing meal with the owners. We had a "secret Santa" exchange and the gifts that were given were remarkably thoughtful. It's not as if I hadn't realized it before, but I remembered how lucky I am. I see that I have more love in my life than I knew.

Is this the "spirit of Christmas" or did I just eat too much turkey? Either way, I like it and I'm going to sleep good tonight.