And We're Back to Fear

Is there any greater topic at a meeting than fear? I really should honor the concept by using capitals: FEAR. Maybe add a few exclamation points and italics: FEAR!!! That looks better; a lot more appropriate for a word that " touches about every aspect of our lives. It is an evil and corroding thread; the fabric of our existence is shot through with it." Not too much equivocal in that definition. No gray areas there. Nothing subtle to dance around as we like to do.

Fear causes about all of the problems that there are. It's interesting how in our official inventory process that the Third Column -- the "affects my" column -- always includes the word fear. It's hard to misinterpret that. I like to dress up my fears in fancy clothes: manly anger; dramatic depression; fierce resentments. The fact of the matter is that I get afraid and then I react. I'm afraid that I'm not going to get something that I want or that something I have is going to be taken away. I'm afraid that God isn't going to take care of me today. I'm afraid that things aren't going to work out.

I could talk for hours about fear. I can barely hold a two minute conversation about gratitude.

Bad and Getting Worse

Worse: In a less favorable condition; in a more unsatisfactory situation.

As if my tendency to visualize pain and death and destruction isn't aberrant enough, I mix in an uncanny ability to see how I have fallen short in whatever it is that I am doing. I don't even have to actually fall short, either, to feel terrible about my efforts. Most of the time I feel inadequate right out of the chute. If I don't -- rare as this may be -- I just need to think for a minute. Thinking about myself is one of my favorite past times. I'm good at it. With a minimum of effort I can ferret out some morsel of inadequacy about which I can feel terrible. Sometimes even this doesn't produce the desired result. So I make something up. I feel bad about an illusion.

I am the proud owner of a state of the art, fully digital Worry Scanner. This device can be preloaded with many, many Topics of Worry. When I'm feeling good and peaceful and content, I can simply switch on my scanner which will cycle through all of the areas of potential worry in my life until it finds something that is upsetting. There is a section dedicated to Universal Worries -- sickness, death, politics, money, and the like -- and there is a section for Worries Du Jour --the daily problems that flit in and out of our lives like bats.

Today I will trade in that Scanner for a nice piece of whitefish.

Worry

Worry: To feel distressed in the mind; be anxious, troubled, or uneasy.

I never imagine that things are going to work out well. It would be a great improvement for me if I could envision a moderately OK future. Most of the time I think that everything is going to be a train wreck. I wake up expecting the worst. I stop for a cup of coffee and drift off into an unpleasant reverie. I walk down the street distracted with visions of disaster. What is going wrong? What do I have to worry about? Sometimes I'll try to find the source of any free floating anxiety that is furrowing my brow, and nothing will come up. I'm worried and I have no idea what I'm worried about. And that really gets me to worrying. Maybe I have a new disease or malignant brain tumor that causes me to worry all of the time.


Sometimes I run into naturally happy people. They're always in a good mood, big smiles on their faces, songs in their heart. They just figure that things are going to work out. They understand that they will be able to handle whatever comes their way. These people are freaks of nature. These people are totally unbalanced. I can't think of the mental stress that they must be under to be happy all of the time. They must have huge brain tumors to suppress all of their worry centers.

And we wonder why the word "insanity" appears in the Second Step.

The Future

Future: The time that is to come; days, months, or years ahead.

I'm under the impression that I know what is best for me. Good friends, wiser by far, point out that I know exactly squat about bumpkus. The fact of the matter is that I know what I want, not what is in my best interest. I don't know how things are going to play out. I do not have the ability to see into the future. Which is a blessing -- the future that I envision is full of peril and pain. I seem unable to visualize how the twists and turns of life buffet me here and there, with unexpected complications and tasty treats.

I'm constantly amazed at how something painful works out well in the long run. At how something that provides me with momentary pleasure can blow up in my face. God is driving the bus. I'm not driving the bus. I'm lucky I'm even allowed on the bus. I'm not a good passenger. I'm the kid getting thrown off the bus.

What I am expected to do today is suit up and show up. I need to do the best that I can with what is in front of me and go from there. I'm not the architect of life. I'm not The Decider. I'm the Decide-ee. Things are going to work out well. God is going to take care of me.

It's All About Me, It's All About Me.

Responsible: Expected or obliged to account (for something); answerable; accountable.

One of my favorite past times is blaming other people for anything and everything. It is far, far easier than taking responsibility for my own actions. If something is amiss in my life I just figure that the problem is caused by someone else. How could it be my fault? I'm such a nice person who is taking appropriate actions with good intentions. I have everyone else's well-being in mind. I only want what is good for others.

Unless, of course, what is good for someone else stands in the way of my getting what I want. Or it causes me any pain or discomfort. And there is nothing sweeter than pinning the blame for any of the messes that I create by behaving in an astoundingly self-centered way.

I have to reboot every morning. When my eyes open I'm already pointing my finger. It's important to practice my blaming skills. I have a full schedule of not dealing with the consequences of my behavior.

It's not them.

Control Freak? Me?

I crave power. I crave control. Again and again I track the source of all of my problems to the fact that I want to be in charge of everything. I want things to work out the way that I want them to work out. I don't care about anyone else's desires. I certainly don't think that God has any idea what is going on. I don't think that he has my best interests at heart. If he did, he would give me everything that I want and protect me from everything that I fear. Why would a God that is thinking about me allow me to experience any pain or discomfort? That doesn't make any sense to me. He must have his head stuck up his brass .

The fifth word of the First Step is "powerless." This very important Step - the one that launches us on our journey - indicates that we are powerless over alcohol, then heaps on the abuse by suggesting that we are powerless over everything else. Most of us are aware of the fact that alcohol and drugs were running the show. But the idea that we have to loosen our death grip on everything else comes as a bit of a surprise.

God is going to take care of me today. He didn't take me this far to suddenly drop me on my head. I fell down and hit my head without any help from him. All I have to do is suit up and show up and do the best that I can with what's in front of me. I'm not in charge of anything. God doesn't need my help in running the universe. God doesn't call people whiling away the day drinking beer and smoking dope and watching TV. Their advice is not required.

Group Hug

Break: An interrupting or discontinuing of regularity.

I think that I am going to declare today "Give Myself a Fucking Break Day." I will try to accept the inevitable fact that I'm not going to get everything done, I'm not going to do everything perfectly, and there will be a whole slew of mistakes and missteps and omissions. My back may hurt, my brain may lock in a stupor, and feelings of inadequacy may descend. This is life in Normal World. This is what Normal People face every day. Immature, self-centered alcoholics living in Delusion Land think that they can skate through life without any difficulties.

When did I begin to labor under the impression that all of my days were going to be an error free cake walk? People make mistakes all of the time. Everybody does. While it's productive to learn from my mistakes, it is not helpful to wallow in them. It isn't OK to start the day depressed because I'm going to fall short.

Maybe I should take my whips and chains and those big metal balls with spikes coming out of them and put them in the trunk of my car. Life is tough enough without spending all of my free time beating the shit out of myself.

Give yourself a break.

Right Here! Right Now!

The Here and the Now.

The question I have to ask myself frequently is this: how are things right now? At this particular minute in time how am I doing? Not how am I feeling -- how am I doing? This is a doing program, not a feeling program. Nobody really cared how I was feeling when I began my journey in recovery. They knew that I wasn't feeling too good. I wasn't supposed to be feeling too good. I was a selfish, self-centered asshole. That's why I wasn't feeling good about myself. And I wasn't doing anything about it except sitting around and complaining or continuing to engage in the behavior that made me feel bad in the first place.

I try to balance my needs with my wants. The list of my needs, regrettably, is quite short. Food in my belly, clean water to drink, and a dry, warm place to sleep. Everything else is sausage gravy. I take for granted the fact that I always have these things. Frankly, in the world today there are hundreds of millions of people who don't have these needs met on a daily basis.

Watch Oprah if you want to wallow in feelings.

The Plan

Vagary: An odd, eccentric, or unexpected action or bit of conduct.

Life unfolds in a deliciously inconsistent fashion. It comes at us steadily and of its own accord. Sometimes it feels as if it is rushing toward us at an impossible speed; sometimes it flows like cold molasses. When we want a break, we feel like we don’t have a minute to catch our breath. And when we would like a little spark of excitement, life seems to be cold drizzle on a gloomy day.

We think that it is best to keep trudging forward. God has His own unique and clever way of directing the play; the plan is good and well thought out. All contingencies have been considered and possible emergencies prepared for. Rest assured that everything that is in our best interest is taken care of. This doesn’t mean that our wants are indulged but it does mean that our needs are met.

God expects some basic locomotion. He doesn’t expect us to hook up a chain and pull the entire train with our teeth. Neither does he permit us to sit in the first class dining car and smoke Cuban cigars and nibble on a lot of the tiny chilled shrimps. We need to go but sometimes we need to stop. It’s not always clear which action we should be taking but that’s all part of the madness.

We do our part – we walk forward each day. God does his part – he shows us where to go.

Surrender

Surrender: Commonly implies the giving up of something completely after striving to keep it.

I like the "striving to keep it" part of the definition of surrender. This I'm good at. I have a lot more trouble with the "giving up something completely" concept. I don't know what it means to give up. I have no idea what the word "completely" means. I do, however, possess a vast knowledge of what it means to be bludgeoned into submission.

I like to bargain with everything, especially my vices and weaknesses and faults. If I'm doing something that causes me woe I try to figure out how I can continue the behavior and lose the woe part. I faced my 9, 671st hangover, then experimented with a new morning after remedy. I knew the 21 vodka gimlets I had consumed was the source of my pain but I liked to drink and I wanted to keep drinking. Stopping was not what I wanted to do. So I continued to drink until the pain of living exceeded the fleeting pleasure of the alcohol.

It burns my lips to think about giving up. It implies weakness and failure. It conjures up visions of quitting. When I'm doing something that I want to do I don't care about the odds or the consequences. Alcoholics are macho. Lady alcoholics have chutzpah and big cojones.

Alcohol is Goliath. Alcohol is King Kong. I'm Bambi. Alcohol is in shape and heavily armed. I'm blindfolded and hobbled and holding a pussy willow. "OK, this is it. This is your last chance to give up," I say.

I'm a fighter. I'm always going to be a fighter. I'll always give up when I have exhausted every last ounce of my own willpower.

Where Have All the Good Times Gone?

There are only two things that an alcoholic doesn't like: change and the way things are. I'm afraid that if I try something new that it will end up being a disaster. Tried and true, that's my motto. I would get drunk, get into fights, end up in jail or sleeping on the floor or wandering around, trying to find my car, my wallet, my shirt, etc. etc. but still have the gall the next morning to scoff at your suggestion that I experiment with some new behavior. I would peer into the mirror to inspect the strange cuts on my face or wonder at the origin of the new stains and tears in my clothes thinking: " That's crazy talk. It might not work out well. It might end up worse."

I have always been proud of the fact that I'm regular in my exercise habits. OK, maybe a little compulsive in my exercise habits. OK, maybe I'm not a little anything. I exercise compulsively. As I've gotten older I find that I can't do some of the things that I used to do. My knees hurt when I run and my back hurts when I bike. I still do these things, of course, because maybe, just maybe, today the same action that has produced the same result again and again will be different.

I decided to take up swimming despite the fact that I hate water and don't know how to swim and look like a prehistoric stork of some kind in a bathing suit. It's good exercise and it's easy on the joints. Obviously I had to take swimming lessons or risk drowning in four feet of chlorine. The young woman who is the swimming instructor managed to fit me in between a four year old in a Donald Duck swimming suit and her "Gentle Splash" class, where dowagers sashay around in the water for 20 minutes, ridiculously upbeat hip-hop echoing around the pool.

I didn't want to do this. I was afraid to try and afraid that I might fail. I don't like girls calling me "Mr. Horseface." I wanted to keep doing what I have always done. I don't want to change.

I now swallow only about a liter of pool water per lap.

One Day at a Time

One of the first things that we see when we begin our journey into recovery, head down, spirit broken, are little three or four word slogans staring back at us from cheap picture frames. We don't know whether to cry, scream in anger, or throw up in the wastebasket. We are very, very complicated people with very, very complicated problems that are going to require some advanced recovery techniques. We expect intricate mathematical formulas and profound philosophical techniques, not snappy little ditties.

"One Day at a Time" seems especially stupid. It just isn't going to cut it. We eye the other folks in the meeting suspiciously. We have so much to think about, so much to plan for. Bad things are going to happen; messes have to be cleaned up. We don't have time to be where we are -- we need to be somewhere else fixing problems and achieving results. The present is boring. It's frustrating to sit quietly. Our heads are full of swirling thoughts.

I don't believe that there is a better foundation for living than the concept of being in the here and now. Virtually every religion or philosophy for right living has as a cornerstone the principle of sitting quietly in the present. This is what prayer and meditation is meant to achieve. This is why concentrating on one's breathing is so important to yoga. This is why monasteries are built in the remote mountains.

We are trying to shut down the noise and be in the moment. How bad are things right this minute?

Quiet is for the Contented

Excited: Emotionally aroused; agitated.

Alcoholics are addicted to excitement and repelled by humdrum routine. We wish it could always be New Year’s Eve – standing in the middle of a crowd of pulsating people, balloons falling, firecrackers popping, lights flashing, bass a-booming. A tremendous rush of excitement and well being on the one night out of the year when our drunken stupor is a badge of honor. We crave teetering right on the knife-edge of disaster.

This chaos confuses us; we equate it with happiness. Quiet acceptance of the many blessings in our lives seems to be a life sentence for the eternally doomed. People with some semblance of normal emotional balance don’t think like this. They recognize that a surge of chemicals and alcohol does not equal happiness. An alcoholic, conversely, believes that this is the precise definition of happiness. We are in heaven when we are racing toward hell.

It takes some time to recognize that what happens in our lives on a day to day basis is all that we can rightly expect from life. Enjoyment of something simple; acceptance by our friends and family; quiet feelings of contentment – these are the true yardsticks of happiness. We can be happy sitting quietly and being in the moment.

Take a deep breath and take a look around.

Ah, the Simple Drunk

Alcoholism: A diseased condition caused by habitually drinking too much alcoholic liquor.



Let's try to figure out the difference between a drunk and an alcoholic. Drunks come and go. Thousands are made each day and they fade away, into the mist, just as quickly. A drunk is easy to spot. He's the guy who drinks way too much way too fast, has a lot of fun for about an hour before throwing up in a potted plant and falling asleep under an end table. He's remorseful and changes his behavior. He sees that no good will come of this type of activity. The hangover means something to the drunk. He compares the hour of fun with the misery of a sour stomach and pounding headache, and comes to a rational decision. His boss is pissed and his wife isn't speaking to him. He perceives that there are a lot of good reasons to avoid this behavior.



The alcoholic is a professional drunk. Everything revolves around the drinking. It isn't an afterthought. It's the end game. The alcoholic needs the alcohol. He doesn't go anywhere if there is the slightest chance that there won't be enough to drink, or he oils the machine before leaving. He frequently appears to be relatively sober until he is clearly insanely drunk. He has a supernatural awareness of the alcohol. It speaks to him slowly and clearly, and he hears every word. He knows what everyone is drinking and how much they have had to drink. He is locked in a terrible, slow struggle with the drink.



I would be a very wealthy man if drinking was a profession.

Stuff

Stuff: Worthless objects; refuse; junk; foolish or worthless ideas, words, etc.

I'm not often satisfied with what I have. Your stuff looks a lot better. I wish I could get my hands on it. I'm sure that I would be a lot happier if I had totally different stuff. I get bored with my old, worn-out, crappy life. How did I get stuck with so many disappointing relationships and thankless jobs and shoddy possessions?


I'm equally ill at ease with the present. It's not what I thought it would it be. If I could get out into the future a ways I would find a lot more happiness. Things would be easier and more to my liking. I don't doubt this for a minute. Or maybe I could drift back into the past and enjoy the good old days and relive the good times, like alcohol poisoning and bad drug reactions and the sweet smell of police car vinyl.


Maybe the way things are today is the best that they're ever going to be. Maybe they're never going to get any better. What if they get worse? What if they get a lot worse? What if I DIE today?!? I sure wouldn't want to spend my last day on earth complaining about the color of the leather in my Ferrari, so to speak. While I don't have an Italian supercar, I have a relatively supercar kind of life. Most of us do, when we think about it, or we have the prospects to get one.


Today is it, folks. Quit casting about restlessly for something else. Be grateful for what you have.

Hello, pleasure, my old friend

Pleasure: One's wish, will or choice.


The only thing worse than my inordinate fear of pain is my inordinately inordinate lust for pleasure. I pursue anything that makes me feel better -- or that I perceive makes me feel better -- with a ferocious intensity. I like to feel good and I don't like to feel bad. This is called the All Sugar Diet, a particularly intense subset of the All Desert All of the Time life philosophy. I like Moon Pies and I loathe Brussels sprouts. Cheesecake is pleasurable -- tofu is not. Ergo, bring on the cheesecake! There are no chinks in the armor of the All Sugar Diet. It is the perfect philosophy for good living.


Regrettably, the universe is not set up to allow me to gorge continuously on pleasure. We have these damn pain receptors, and troublesome areas of the brain which cause us to feel guilt and loss and regret. Not the way I would have set up things but I wasn't consulted when the gods on high were putting everything together.


The moral of the story -- vague as it may be and hidden under a ton of blather and misdirection -- is that what I fear is often good for me and what I crave is often not. To make matters worse, I usually can't tell the difference. I have this tendency to climb on the hamster wheel and chase pleasure and run from pain.

A bowl of oatmeal, please.

All Dessert All of the Time

Dessert: A course of fruits, pudding, pie, ice cream, etc, served at the end of a meal.

I have labored long and hard under the illusion that life was going to be one big slice of chocolate layer cake. I was apparently sleeping one off when the orientation meeting was held explaining that things weren't always going to go my way. I still don't know why I'm expected to suffer. Ever. Even a little bit. No minor aches and pains, no head colds, no slow traffic, no rainy Saturdays. I want a birthday party every day. I want to feel great physically, mentally, and emotionally. I want the world to play nicely.

Most normal people start to grasp the fact that life is going to be a slog through the mud some of the time. It isn't often exciting. Obligations take up a lot of my energy and as I get older the obligations become more weighty. My bones ache. My loved ones age. It hardly seems fair. I thought that I was going to avoid all of life's unpleasantness and just enjoy its benefits.

I'm not sure why the deep satisfactions of sobriety don't grab my attention with much vigor. I'm not sure why I tend to pay so much attention to my problems and show so little gratitude for my blessings. I've got it good in so many ways.

Ah, Grasshopper, make a fricking gratitude list and quit complaining.

Walking, Talking Examples

Example: Something selected to show the nature or character of the rest; single part or unit used as a sample; typical instance.

If you tell an alcoholic what to do, he won't do it. He could be sitting in front of you with his hair on fire and still ignore all of your advice. You can hand him a fire extinguisher or a bag of fire retardant; you can explain the dangers of third degree burns on the scalp; you can provide a veritable library of books, magazines, and CD-ROMS showing how most people have taken a stand against allowing burning hair which is attached to the living human head to continue burning, and he will just set his jaw and shake his head: No. We don't trust people, we don't like people, and we aren't going to let anyone tell us what to do.


The Program teaches by example. Suspicious alcoholics lurk in the shadows in the last row, shrouded in mist and fog, and watch the proceedings. We have totally given up on laying down the law to these fog dwellers. We do what we need to do to stay sober personally and that's about it. If someone likes what they see they can ask about it. If they don't, no skin off our ass. No one has the corner on recovery. What works for me may not work for someone else.

My sole purpose in life may be to serve as a warning for someone else.

Change is relentless

Change: To pass from one phase to another, as the moon.

There are only two things that an alcoholic doesn't like: the way things are and change. We are so opposed to change on moral and ethical grounds that we avoid it even if our circumstances improve. We can be sitting in a burning house with monsters in the attic, demons in the basement, and cyborgs busting down the front door, and refuse to change. We assume that things are going to get worse. We like the way things are, even if they are terrible and deteriorating rapidly. They're familiar to us and this is comforting in a weird and deranged sort of way.

What a shock to learn that change is inevitable. We thought we were going to be able to avoid any significant change for the rest of our lives, unless it was change we believed was going to benefit us in some meaningless and superficial way.

The Program teaches us how to manage the ebb and flow of life. When we are drinking we react to the possibility of any change by screaming and yelling and pounding the floor with our little fists of rage. In sobriety we begin to see that change can be good so we react with a little more restraint. We still throw a fit, of course, but it doesn't last as long and we don't break as much stuff or end up in jail.

Our experience is that sometimes the path to a much better place has a difficult beginning. You're just going to have to trust us on this one.

Power! Power! Power!

Power: The ability to control others; authority; sway; influence.

Power is trouble. There are more pitfalls and snares in the belief that we can get, hold, wield, or flaunt power than almost anything else in the recovery process. Power is a troublesome illusion. Believing that we hold power over people, places, or things causes us just about all of the problems that we have. Belief that the possession of power will make us happy is unhappily untrue. We should be prohibited from owning power tools, using electric power generated in power plants, or eating Power Bars. Power is a just a drug for the alcoholic. There's never enough. It's the wrong kind. We always crave more.

Our society helps us feed this addiction to power. It's hard to find a magazine cover featuring some kind soul leading a simple life of service. This week in Rolling Stone: Horseface Steve visits his grandmother. Read the fascinating story of how he learned what she had for breakfast today. On newsstands today! Bonus feature: Horseface Steve tips 25% when he eats out! Horseface Steve abducted by aliens! Horseface Steve rambles 75 yards for the winning touchdown!


I subscribe to the suggestion that whenever I get stuck in any area of my life that I should figure out which Step I'm on, then maneuver backwards through the Steps until I get to the one that is really causing me the problem. And I always end up at Step One. I have always relinquished control over some part of my life and taken up the reins again.

I'm lucky if I have power over my cat today.

Liar

Lie: To make a statement that one knows is false, especially with intent to deceive.
I'm not sure that any talent I possess is more highly developed than my ability to tell a lie. I should have been in the CIA. I could have convinced a whole team of enemy secret agent interrogators that I was just a simple country lad trying to make a living tending a small plot of organic vegetables, taking care of my sick grandmother and raising my crippled little sister. I list this on my resume under "Other Skills."

My natural impulse is to make something up. I do it even when there is no good reason. Sometimes I think: "Why did I just say that? That's not true." I can't help it. It's out of my mouth before I can stop it. This is why I try not to talk very much. Nothing good comes of it most of the time.

I have labored under the illusion that lying is easier than telling the truth. Boy, is that a bad illusion. That is really a terrible illusion. Every time I make something up (doesn't that sound better than lying?) it's like taking a little tiny sip of a mild poison. It doesn't kill me right away but I get sicker and sicker. One day I look in the mirror and I don't have any hair and my skin is green and I have a third eye in the middle of forehead. "Wow, how did that happen?" I yell while I mix my next poison smoothie. One part poison, two cups of fruit, a scoop of protein powder -- blend well, chill, and drink it up.

Lying is confusing. I told so many lies for so long that I had a whole elaborate network of lies built up to keep the whole charade intact. There were main lies, supporting lies, and big whopper lies. I couldn't remember exactly what I had told anyone. It was exhausting. Inevitably, some one would catch me on something and the whole structure would collapse with a boom. I learned that the misery of being caught at a lie was much, much worse than telling the truth right out of the chute. It's like removing a band-aid or lancing an infected wound. Yeah, it hurts but then it's over. Much better than lying in bed at night, unable to sleep, worried that I was going to be found out.

"Remember: it's not a lie if you believe it." -- George Costanza.

O'Doul's

Non-alcoholic beer is for non-alcoholics.