Worry: To feel distressed in the mind; be anxious, troubled, or uneasy.
Trust the process. Very few things last forever and I'm not one of them and nothing I'm feeling at the moment is on that list, either. Honestly, very few things last longer than an hour or so.
Here's my history. Get bored and change something or change everything. Hate the change, regret the change, second-guess the change. Romanticize the thing before it changed and demonize the new thing. Decide that the answer is more change. Yeah, and I wonder why I had to drink to cope with the world.
That being said I do love change. Change makes the world go round.
As I was worrying away yesterday I flashed back to some time in the past when I had been worrying about something that never came to pass, and I was overwhelmed for a minute by a sadness, a floating sense of loss, about how much of my life has been trashed by useless worry. It has to be months and months. I bet it has been years.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Biting and Tearing With My Teeth
Worry: To harass or treat roughly with or as with continual biting or tearing with the teeth; as, the dog was worrying the old shoe. (Ed. note: The origin of this word is based on the root wyrgan, to strangle, injure).
So I've been worrying away over an issue that shouldn't be worrying me in the slightest. I know this intellectually but can't transfer the knowledge from my head into my gut, where the worry has built a nice house and seems to be settling in for the long haul. Sometimes I think we have to let our emotions do what they're going to do for a while. That's why they're emotions, after all. They're not always strongly synced up with the intellect. None of us can brush off a trauma such as the death of a loved one or ignore the thrill of a big promotion simply by exerting the conscious will.
That's all well and good. The problem is that sometimes this disconnect seeps down into things that should be disconnected upon with great prejudice.
So I've been worrying away over an issue that shouldn't be worrying me in the slightest. I know this intellectually but can't transfer the knowledge from my head into my gut, where the worry has built a nice house and seems to be settling in for the long haul. Sometimes I think we have to let our emotions do what they're going to do for a while. That's why they're emotions, after all. They're not always strongly synced up with the intellect. None of us can brush off a trauma such as the death of a loved one or ignore the thrill of a big promotion simply by exerting the conscious will.
That's all well and good. The problem is that sometimes this disconnect seeps down into things that should be disconnected upon with great prejudice.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Justify: To free from blame; declare guiltless; acquit; absolve.
Wow. When I justify my behavior I see that I'm simply declaring that I'm not at fault. For anything. I notice with some chagrin that the definition doesn't specify whether or not the behavior is proper, appropriate, or legal, either. Apparently all I have to do is state that I'm blameless to be a good Justifier. I declare I'm without guilt. Sweet.
And make no bones about it -- I'm a world-class Justifier. When I want to do something I can come up with a thousand reasons why I should be able to do it. It doesn't matter how egregious this behavior might be. This is why we have the Inventory Steps. Steps 4 & 5 ask that we take a really serious, honest look at our part in things -- instead of covering up the facts with layers and layers of justification -- and then share it with another human being. Steps 8 & 9 ask us to go to the offended parties -- people, employers, government agencies, the list is usually long and varied -- and clean up our side of the street. We are not permitted to take our brooms over to the other side of the street even though we can see it is much, much filthier than our side of the street. We don't get to say: "I'll admit my part when you admit your part. Here's the #*!! broom."
When the company that I was working for fired me a few months back I understood the firing guy -- who took 45 seconds to can me after 15 years of continuous service, as he sat on a plane taxiing to take off -- to say that I would be paid through a certain date. While I was expecting the firing to come at some point it was still a punch in the gut. In retrospect I'm pretty happy he was quick about it because stuff has a way of coming out of my mouth that should definitely stay in my mouth but often doesn't. I shouldn't even be thinking this stuff let alone saying it. But the circumstances of the firing were a little insulting. A blow to my ego. It would have been nice to be treated with a little more dignity.
Anyway, the follow up letter that a colleague of the firing guy sent me indicated my termination would be effective at a slightly later date. I didn't point this out to the firing guy, who I was still pretty pissed at, because the later date was more to my liking. And honestly, I was kind of stunned during the firing process and wasn't sure that I had heard the date correctly so I figured I'd let it slide because, obviously, the longer they send me money the happier I am, with money being the root of all happiness and everything. Also, I figured they owed me this seeing as they had treated me so abysmally over the years with all of the opportunities and nice commission checks and everything.
Let the justification begin in earnest. I took the extra check.
A few weeks ago a lackey of either the firing guy or the letter gal contacted me to verify my new address. I assumed they needed this to send out my tax forms although another check would have been appreciated as well. The next day I received a commission statement electronically and the day after that another check arrived.
I did not walk to the bank. I ran . . . repeat, ran . . . to the bank with this check. Technically, I guess, they can send me checks forever and ever if they want to. I do not think, however, that they want to. I'm guessing this is a big company where the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing.
So, dear reader, what is my ethical obligation here? Please keep in mind that I was treated O so badly! and that I love money O so much! and that money makes me happy and solves all of the problems that have ever existed, that exist now, and that will exist in the future forever and ever, amen!
Wow. When I justify my behavior I see that I'm simply declaring that I'm not at fault. For anything. I notice with some chagrin that the definition doesn't specify whether or not the behavior is proper, appropriate, or legal, either. Apparently all I have to do is state that I'm blameless to be a good Justifier. I declare I'm without guilt. Sweet.
And make no bones about it -- I'm a world-class Justifier. When I want to do something I can come up with a thousand reasons why I should be able to do it. It doesn't matter how egregious this behavior might be. This is why we have the Inventory Steps. Steps 4 & 5 ask that we take a really serious, honest look at our part in things -- instead of covering up the facts with layers and layers of justification -- and then share it with another human being. Steps 8 & 9 ask us to go to the offended parties -- people, employers, government agencies, the list is usually long and varied -- and clean up our side of the street. We are not permitted to take our brooms over to the other side of the street even though we can see it is much, much filthier than our side of the street. We don't get to say: "I'll admit my part when you admit your part. Here's the #*!! broom."
When the company that I was working for fired me a few months back I understood the firing guy -- who took 45 seconds to can me after 15 years of continuous service, as he sat on a plane taxiing to take off -- to say that I would be paid through a certain date. While I was expecting the firing to come at some point it was still a punch in the gut. In retrospect I'm pretty happy he was quick about it because stuff has a way of coming out of my mouth that should definitely stay in my mouth but often doesn't. I shouldn't even be thinking this stuff let alone saying it. But the circumstances of the firing were a little insulting. A blow to my ego. It would have been nice to be treated with a little more dignity.
Anyway, the follow up letter that a colleague of the firing guy sent me indicated my termination would be effective at a slightly later date. I didn't point this out to the firing guy, who I was still pretty pissed at, because the later date was more to my liking. And honestly, I was kind of stunned during the firing process and wasn't sure that I had heard the date correctly so I figured I'd let it slide because, obviously, the longer they send me money the happier I am, with money being the root of all happiness and everything. Also, I figured they owed me this seeing as they had treated me so abysmally over the years with all of the opportunities and nice commission checks and everything.
Let the justification begin in earnest. I took the extra check.
A few weeks ago a lackey of either the firing guy or the letter gal contacted me to verify my new address. I assumed they needed this to send out my tax forms although another check would have been appreciated as well. The next day I received a commission statement electronically and the day after that another check arrived.
I did not walk to the bank. I ran . . . repeat, ran . . . to the bank with this check. Technically, I guess, they can send me checks forever and ever if they want to. I do not think, however, that they want to. I'm guessing this is a big company where the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing.
So, dear reader, what is my ethical obligation here? Please keep in mind that I was treated O so badly! and that I love money O so much! and that money makes me happy and solves all of the problems that have ever existed, that exist now, and that will exist in the future forever and ever, amen!
Friday, January 27, 2012
Similar Steve
Similar: Nearly but not exactly the same or alike; having a general resemblance.
My new apartment is a nice neighborhood close to the downtown section of the New City where I've lived for over a year now so you have to wonder when I'm going to start calling it The City, although that sounds a little pompous. The downtown is also very nice, full of people and an active business community. In between is a four or five block area that is a little more transitional -- not rough or dangerous but more transient in nature, less established and scrubbed clean. This morning I walked the five blocks into this area to try a new meeting. I had heard this meeting was tougher than your average suburban meeting. Personally, I really didn't care; I wasn't sure how rowdy things could get at 7AM.
I'm generally careful to take the time to sum up my attitudes about a new meeting -- anything new to be honest about it -- before I even walk through the door: "I do not like this meeting. I do not like these people or the lame format. The meeting is too big (or too small), the room is too cold (or too hot, although is not a common complaint for me), and the chairs are too soft or . . . well, I better stop there. As a guy who is padding challenged in the rear area I never complain about soft chairs.
Anyway, I could see that this was not a meeting where I was going to make a lot of close friends. While I don't feel bad about myself when I go someplace where people have more stuff than me and I don't feel superior when the circumstances are reversed, I am realistic about the world. I can attend a meeting in Beverly Hills and be warmly welcomed but those people are never going to invite me over for dinner. Ditto for some rugged inner city neighborhood.
It was a great meeting, by the way. I really got a lot out of it. People said great stuff. I work hard today listening to the similarities and not the differences. I used to really focus on differences. It was a coping technique to help me justify all kinds of terrible behavior. Who of us hasn't said: "Well, I didn't get that bad" or, better yet "Sure, if I had all of your advantages I could get sober, too." Some of us use our money and privilege to buy our way out of difficult situation, extending our alcoholic misery. And The Rooms are full of legions of men and women who have been in prison or lived on the streets. Alcoholism is a great leveler of mankind.
Similarities. Not differences: similarities.
My new apartment is a nice neighborhood close to the downtown section of the New City where I've lived for over a year now so you have to wonder when I'm going to start calling it The City, although that sounds a little pompous. The downtown is also very nice, full of people and an active business community. In between is a four or five block area that is a little more transitional -- not rough or dangerous but more transient in nature, less established and scrubbed clean. This morning I walked the five blocks into this area to try a new meeting. I had heard this meeting was tougher than your average suburban meeting. Personally, I really didn't care; I wasn't sure how rowdy things could get at 7AM.
I'm generally careful to take the time to sum up my attitudes about a new meeting -- anything new to be honest about it -- before I even walk through the door: "I do not like this meeting. I do not like these people or the lame format. The meeting is too big (or too small), the room is too cold (or too hot, although is not a common complaint for me), and the chairs are too soft or . . . well, I better stop there. As a guy who is padding challenged in the rear area I never complain about soft chairs.
Anyway, I could see that this was not a meeting where I was going to make a lot of close friends. While I don't feel bad about myself when I go someplace where people have more stuff than me and I don't feel superior when the circumstances are reversed, I am realistic about the world. I can attend a meeting in Beverly Hills and be warmly welcomed but those people are never going to invite me over for dinner. Ditto for some rugged inner city neighborhood.
It was a great meeting, by the way. I really got a lot out of it. People said great stuff. I work hard today listening to the similarities and not the differences. I used to really focus on differences. It was a coping technique to help me justify all kinds of terrible behavior. Who of us hasn't said: "Well, I didn't get that bad" or, better yet "Sure, if I had all of your advantages I could get sober, too." Some of us use our money and privilege to buy our way out of difficult situation, extending our alcoholic misery. And The Rooms are full of legions of men and women who have been in prison or lived on the streets. Alcoholism is a great leveler of mankind.
Similarities. Not differences: similarities.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Wait? Dammit, I'm Going to Kill Something
Patient: Calmly tolerating delay, confusion, inefficiency, etc.; able to wait calmly.
I CANNOT BELIEVE that I have never looked up the definition of this word. But I guess that's because I have only a passing notion of the concept of patience. If I were smarter than I am now, which wouldn't be much of an improvement, that's for sure, I'd have the word tattooed on my forehead, backwards, so that every time I look in the mirror, which is distressingly often for a special guy like me, I'd see "Patience" in living color. Assuming I used color inks for the tattoo, which I probably wouldn't seeing as I'm pretty cheap and my understanding is that color really drives up the cost of the tattoo. That and the fact that I pass out when I give blood, what with all of the sharp needles and piercing of the skin and everything so I'm assuming a needle stuck in my forehead would cause some pretty significant problems pretty quickly. Maybe I could use white-out.
Anyway, I have been thinking about my new home and everything that's wrong with it. I suppose I should probably be thinking about all of its great benefits but that sounds too weird to even consider, counterproductive, even, for someone like me who enjoys pain and anxiety so much; concentrating on the negative aspects, no matter how few and insignificant they might be, comes so naturally to me and gives me such great pleasure, apparently, because I do it so often and so well and with such undivided focus and attention. The point is that there are a few things I'd like to change about it -- that need to be changed -- and I want them changed RIGHT NOW! The reality is that these things aren't that important, really, and I'm making them much more important than they are. When I do that I become impatient and I try to force things through before the time is right.
I've always liked the expression "Do the legwork and leave the results up to your higher power." The advice is that I need to do the work -- that's my responsibility -- and then wait patiently for the results -- that's god's responsibility in our partnership. I'm the guy who takes the square peg, looks at the round hole, picks up the sledgehammer, and starts making that #@!! round peg fit in that #@!! square hole. When I start forcing things, pushing too hard, then I get a lot of problems. But when I relax and take a deep breath and let everything move of its own accord then the outcomes are always so much better.
I have looked up "impatience" by the way.
I CANNOT BELIEVE that I have never looked up the definition of this word. But I guess that's because I have only a passing notion of the concept of patience. If I were smarter than I am now, which wouldn't be much of an improvement, that's for sure, I'd have the word tattooed on my forehead, backwards, so that every time I look in the mirror, which is distressingly often for a special guy like me, I'd see "Patience" in living color. Assuming I used color inks for the tattoo, which I probably wouldn't seeing as I'm pretty cheap and my understanding is that color really drives up the cost of the tattoo. That and the fact that I pass out when I give blood, what with all of the sharp needles and piercing of the skin and everything so I'm assuming a needle stuck in my forehead would cause some pretty significant problems pretty quickly. Maybe I could use white-out.
Anyway, I have been thinking about my new home and everything that's wrong with it. I suppose I should probably be thinking about all of its great benefits but that sounds too weird to even consider, counterproductive, even, for someone like me who enjoys pain and anxiety so much; concentrating on the negative aspects, no matter how few and insignificant they might be, comes so naturally to me and gives me such great pleasure, apparently, because I do it so often and so well and with such undivided focus and attention. The point is that there are a few things I'd like to change about it -- that need to be changed -- and I want them changed RIGHT NOW! The reality is that these things aren't that important, really, and I'm making them much more important than they are. When I do that I become impatient and I try to force things through before the time is right.
I've always liked the expression "Do the legwork and leave the results up to your higher power." The advice is that I need to do the work -- that's my responsibility -- and then wait patiently for the results -- that's god's responsibility in our partnership. I'm the guy who takes the square peg, looks at the round hole, picks up the sledgehammer, and starts making that #@!! round peg fit in that #@!! square hole. When I start forcing things, pushing too hard, then I get a lot of problems. But when I relax and take a deep breath and let everything move of its own accord then the outcomes are always so much better.
I have looked up "impatience" by the way.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Special Steve
Special: Unusual; uncommon; exceptional; extraordinary.
I am a very, very, oh-so-special guy. If you only knew how special I am you would certainly treat me better than you are treating me today, which is not well enough given my exceptionally special status. And if you think I'm special now you should have seen me when I was drinking; I was extraordinarily special then. I'm happy to report that the longer I've managed to stay sober the more ordinary I've become. I don't want to imply that I'm still not profoundly special because that's simply not the case, but I am making slow, steady progress descending from the very tip of the highest peak on the tallest mountain in the universe: Mt. Special Steve.
When I was drinking I was so special that no rule of god or man applied to me. I was free to do whatever I wanted, without consequences. I didn't have to go to work or show up on time; I didn't have to obey any rules or regulations of our legal system; my body was impervious to the abuse I lavished upon it; I was free to ignore the interests of family and friends; and money grew on trees. Seriously. I seriously thought this way. I had a vaguely uncomfortable feeling deep down inside that this was unsustainable in the long run but I considered myself more of a sprinter, a speed demon, a drag racer, anyway, and I figured I could outrun any blow back.
Sobriety showed me that maybe, possibly this wasn't an accurate view of the world. The Program suggested that while I was free to behave however I wished, that there might be consequences to my behavior. I accepted the basic framework of this premise, eventually, but chafed under the requirement of the consequences. That seemed unfair to someone who, while maybe not the most special person in the world anymore, was still pretty special. My friends did not support this attitude. They kept encouraging me to correct my mistakes and to try to behave well right out of the chute. Eventually, I found that it was a lot, lot easier to behave to avoid the mistakes in the first place than it was to go back and clean up messes.
I did, however, have a card up my sleeve, an ace in the hole; namely, that the world could be a very, very unfair place. When I was trying to behave well but made a mistake sometimes the world didn't give me a pass. The Book talks about the fact that the world judges me on my actions, not my intentions. Baloney on that, I thought.
Special-Special Steve would be a good nickname, too.
I am a very, very, oh-so-special guy. If you only knew how special I am you would certainly treat me better than you are treating me today, which is not well enough given my exceptionally special status. And if you think I'm special now you should have seen me when I was drinking; I was extraordinarily special then. I'm happy to report that the longer I've managed to stay sober the more ordinary I've become. I don't want to imply that I'm still not profoundly special because that's simply not the case, but I am making slow, steady progress descending from the very tip of the highest peak on the tallest mountain in the universe: Mt. Special Steve.
When I was drinking I was so special that no rule of god or man applied to me. I was free to do whatever I wanted, without consequences. I didn't have to go to work or show up on time; I didn't have to obey any rules or regulations of our legal system; my body was impervious to the abuse I lavished upon it; I was free to ignore the interests of family and friends; and money grew on trees. Seriously. I seriously thought this way. I had a vaguely uncomfortable feeling deep down inside that this was unsustainable in the long run but I considered myself more of a sprinter, a speed demon, a drag racer, anyway, and I figured I could outrun any blow back.
Sobriety showed me that maybe, possibly this wasn't an accurate view of the world. The Program suggested that while I was free to behave however I wished, that there might be consequences to my behavior. I accepted the basic framework of this premise, eventually, but chafed under the requirement of the consequences. That seemed unfair to someone who, while maybe not the most special person in the world anymore, was still pretty special. My friends did not support this attitude. They kept encouraging me to correct my mistakes and to try to behave well right out of the chute. Eventually, I found that it was a lot, lot easier to behave to avoid the mistakes in the first place than it was to go back and clean up messes.
I did, however, have a card up my sleeve, an ace in the hole; namely, that the world could be a very, very unfair place. When I was trying to behave well but made a mistake sometimes the world didn't give me a pass. The Book talks about the fact that the world judges me on my actions, not my intentions. Baloney on that, I thought.
Special-Special Steve would be a good nickname, too.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Maintenance of My Spiritual Condition
Spiritual: Characterized by the ascendancy of the spirit showing much refinement of thought and feeling.
The topic of today's meeting centered around the phrase "we have a daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition." In a meeting of The Fellowship the "reprieve" is from the scourge of alcohol and drug addiction, which is quite a scourge indeed. Many people talked about the fact that while they are no longer consumed with the desire to drink and drug they are still quite often, in fact, CRAZY. Personally, today I'm not so much worried about picking up a drink as I am about sinking under the delusions and anxieties on my aforementioned Problems List, which I'm still too embarrassed to reveal, even under the guise of an anonymity.
I also believe that all of us, drunks or not, would have a better life if we started out each day with a short period of time to enlarge our spiritual life. The whole idea of prayer, as I understand it, is to have a little chat with something bigger than me; the whole idea of meditation, in my opinion, is to shut down my mind for a couple of minutes. It never ceases to amaze me how much is going on in my head until I try to stop it from happening. I don't believe that we have to come up with any particular concept of god. That's religion and we stay away from that in The Fellowship.
Religion: Belief in a divine or superhuman power or powers to be obeyed and worshiped as the creator(s) and ruler(s) of the universe.
Can you imagine coming into The Rooms and having that definition up on the wall somewhere? Whew, that would be a ruckus.
Meditate: To think deeply and continuously; reflect; ponder; muse.
That sounds better to me. I can do that. I'm an excellent thinker; a little too good, in fact.
Pray: To ask for by prayer or supplication; beg for imploringly.
Ouch. That one would worsen the ruckus considerably, possibly causing violent riots.
I do something that I call a Quiet Time and I recommend it to others. I take a half hour and sit quietly and ponder before I rush off into my day, half-baked and fully-cocked.
Quiet: Serving to relax and soothe.
There. Isn't that nice? Spend a few minutes in the morning seeking to relax and soothe yourself. Who can complain about that?
The topic of today's meeting centered around the phrase "we have a daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition." In a meeting of The Fellowship the "reprieve" is from the scourge of alcohol and drug addiction, which is quite a scourge indeed. Many people talked about the fact that while they are no longer consumed with the desire to drink and drug they are still quite often, in fact, CRAZY. Personally, today I'm not so much worried about picking up a drink as I am about sinking under the delusions and anxieties on my aforementioned Problems List, which I'm still too embarrassed to reveal, even under the guise of an anonymity.
I also believe that all of us, drunks or not, would have a better life if we started out each day with a short period of time to enlarge our spiritual life. The whole idea of prayer, as I understand it, is to have a little chat with something bigger than me; the whole idea of meditation, in my opinion, is to shut down my mind for a couple of minutes. It never ceases to amaze me how much is going on in my head until I try to stop it from happening. I don't believe that we have to come up with any particular concept of god. That's religion and we stay away from that in The Fellowship.
Religion: Belief in a divine or superhuman power or powers to be obeyed and worshiped as the creator(s) and ruler(s) of the universe.
Can you imagine coming into The Rooms and having that definition up on the wall somewhere? Whew, that would be a ruckus.
Meditate: To think deeply and continuously; reflect; ponder; muse.
That sounds better to me. I can do that. I'm an excellent thinker; a little too good, in fact.
Pray: To ask for by prayer or supplication; beg for imploringly.
Ouch. That one would worsen the ruckus considerably, possibly causing violent riots.
I do something that I call a Quiet Time and I recommend it to others. I take a half hour and sit quietly and ponder before I rush off into my day, half-baked and fully-cocked.
Quiet: Serving to relax and soothe.
There. Isn't that nice? Spend a few minutes in the morning seeking to relax and soothe yourself. Who can complain about that?
Saturday, January 21, 2012
God Box
A popular concept in The Rooms is the god box. The way this particular concept works is that we take whatever is currently eating us alive, write it down on a slip of paper, and put it in an actual box. I suppose you could also use a bag or a treasured knickknack or an underwear drawer, although god underwear drawer doesn't have the same sexy cachet as god box. God bag doesn't sound that good, either, and god knickknack is just ridiculous. Anyway, I digress. At the end of each week we open the box up, unfurl the scraps, and see what's there.
The exercise is meant to show us how much energy we waste worrying on stuff that isn't that important. Most of it never comes true. A lot of it we've plumb forgot about by the time we open the box, or bag, or knickknack. And the stuff that does come true doesn't end all life as we know it. Sometimes it makes things better.
I recommend the god box to people all the time. Never do it myself, of course. I'm too profound and advanced and deeeeeeep for that. I do, in my defense, keep a journal and I wrote down The Problems and The Solutions when I was having my anxiety attack the other day. I'm not going to fess up to the crap I wrote down as my problems. I knew they weren't really problems when I was terrified of them and I cringed when I revisited them.
I highly recommend a god box.
The exercise is meant to show us how much energy we waste worrying on stuff that isn't that important. Most of it never comes true. A lot of it we've plumb forgot about by the time we open the box, or bag, or knickknack. And the stuff that does come true doesn't end all life as we know it. Sometimes it makes things better.
I recommend the god box to people all the time. Never do it myself, of course. I'm too profound and advanced and deeeeeeep for that. I do, in my defense, keep a journal and I wrote down The Problems and The Solutions when I was having my anxiety attack the other day. I'm not going to fess up to the crap I wrote down as my problems. I knew they weren't really problems when I was terrified of them and I cringed when I revisited them.
I highly recommend a god box.
Friday, January 20, 2012
More Memories
Relapse: To slip or fall back into a former condition, especially after improvement or seeming improvement.
My friend's death has stirred up some old memories. I remember going to visit him once in the Old City when he was in the middle of another relapse. Normally, I don't go to see people who are actively drinking without bringing another sober alcoholic along -- and I recommend that you don't, either -- but I had a long history with this guy so I made an exception. He was still doing well financially at that point and had purchased a nice home in a very nice neighborhood with a nice garage to park his very, very nice cars. I had called him the previous morning and wondered if he would like to get together. He suggested the following day, saying that he had been drinking and wouldn't be a good host. It was 9 in the morning. I wasn't in the least surprised.
I stopped by the next day. His house was beautiful and well appointed, immaculate, and devoid of any personal touches. It felt like all of the oxygen had been removed. It was soulless and cold and the air was rotten with human misery. While I realize that I'm a great exaggerator most of the time this really is my recollection. It was really quite eerie. It had a haunted aspect to it, that house, like something had died somewhere, which wasn't far from the truth. I was totally creeped out.
My friend was drinking, of course, the brave resolve of the previous day long gone. He had a can of that Australian beer that looks like it's in a 50 gallon drum and he was chain smoking cigarettes. He was taking no pleasure from either habit. He appeared to me to be a guy hooked up to a dialysis machine or receiving chemotherapy. This was something he was doing because he had to do it, not because he wanted to do it. He would pick up his cigarette and take these incredibly long drags. I swear he smoked each one in about 4 puffs. It was fascinating watching it. I couldn't fathom where all of the smoke was going. It was the same with the beer: a few deep pulls on the can, then off to the kitchen for another.
I had felt some mild disquiet before I walked in the door which evaporated immediately. I try not to pity another person because I think it can be a condescending emotion but I pitied this man. I really saw the truth in the axiom that for a Real Alcoholic who continues to drink there are 3 possible outcomes: death, insanity, or an institution.
"Is this bothering you?" he asked after a few minutes.
I didn't know what to say for a couple of beats.
"Are you kidding me"? I finally asked. "Do you think this looks good? Do you think this is tempting me?"
I don't remember if he answered. I left not long after that. I was obviously making him uncomfortable and I had seen all I needed to see. I wanted to help but I knew that was a fool's errand. It's a bitch getting sober if you're all in; it's not possible if you want to hole up and drink alone.
They say that when a suffering alcoholic is given the option of accepting a spiritual solution or dying a slow, miserable, solitary death, the response is often: "Can I get back to you on that?"
Rest in Peace.
My friend's death has stirred up some old memories. I remember going to visit him once in the Old City when he was in the middle of another relapse. Normally, I don't go to see people who are actively drinking without bringing another sober alcoholic along -- and I recommend that you don't, either -- but I had a long history with this guy so I made an exception. He was still doing well financially at that point and had purchased a nice home in a very nice neighborhood with a nice garage to park his very, very nice cars. I had called him the previous morning and wondered if he would like to get together. He suggested the following day, saying that he had been drinking and wouldn't be a good host. It was 9 in the morning. I wasn't in the least surprised.
I stopped by the next day. His house was beautiful and well appointed, immaculate, and devoid of any personal touches. It felt like all of the oxygen had been removed. It was soulless and cold and the air was rotten with human misery. While I realize that I'm a great exaggerator most of the time this really is my recollection. It was really quite eerie. It had a haunted aspect to it, that house, like something had died somewhere, which wasn't far from the truth. I was totally creeped out.
My friend was drinking, of course, the brave resolve of the previous day long gone. He had a can of that Australian beer that looks like it's in a 50 gallon drum and he was chain smoking cigarettes. He was taking no pleasure from either habit. He appeared to me to be a guy hooked up to a dialysis machine or receiving chemotherapy. This was something he was doing because he had to do it, not because he wanted to do it. He would pick up his cigarette and take these incredibly long drags. I swear he smoked each one in about 4 puffs. It was fascinating watching it. I couldn't fathom where all of the smoke was going. It was the same with the beer: a few deep pulls on the can, then off to the kitchen for another.
I had felt some mild disquiet before I walked in the door which evaporated immediately. I try not to pity another person because I think it can be a condescending emotion but I pitied this man. I really saw the truth in the axiom that for a Real Alcoholic who continues to drink there are 3 possible outcomes: death, insanity, or an institution.
"Is this bothering you?" he asked after a few minutes.
I didn't know what to say for a couple of beats.
"Are you kidding me"? I finally asked. "Do you think this looks good? Do you think this is tempting me?"
I don't remember if he answered. I left not long after that. I was obviously making him uncomfortable and I had seen all I needed to see. I wanted to help but I knew that was a fool's errand. It's a bitch getting sober if you're all in; it's not possible if you want to hole up and drink alone.
They say that when a suffering alcoholic is given the option of accepting a spiritual solution or dying a slow, miserable, solitary death, the response is often: "Can I get back to you on that?"
Rest in Peace.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Dr. Freud, I Presume
Ego: The self; the individual as aware of himself.
"The fact is we are more selfish than we know. The ego has a way of turning the loftiest activities into trash if it is allowed free range." Minor Buddha.
Free Range Ego. That sounds like something your waiter, Samuel, would introduce as the special of the day at a health food restaurant. "Today we're featuring free range ego with sauteed tofu and caramelized cranberries, for $19.99," he'd say.
And the free range ego is the good part of the individual, psychologically speaking. It's the controlled part, helping the superego keep check on the id, the part of us that is chomping at the bit to run hog wild with all of the sex and pleasure and shit that itches it where the scratch is. I'm not even sure I have an ego. I think I'm all id. I think my id killed my ego and ate its liver with a nice side of fava beans.
The point is that I don't usually trust myself when it comes to things that I think are good. I'm OK with the bad part; when I'm not acting well I know it and I don't have to check it with anyone. But when I think I'm behaving well or something is good for me I have to check my ego at the door and call someone on the telephone, tell them what I'm up to, which is usually no good.
"The fact is we are more selfish than we know. The ego has a way of turning the loftiest activities into trash if it is allowed free range." Minor Buddha.
Free Range Ego. That sounds like something your waiter, Samuel, would introduce as the special of the day at a health food restaurant. "Today we're featuring free range ego with sauteed tofu and caramelized cranberries, for $19.99," he'd say.
And the free range ego is the good part of the individual, psychologically speaking. It's the controlled part, helping the superego keep check on the id, the part of us that is chomping at the bit to run hog wild with all of the sex and pleasure and shit that itches it where the scratch is. I'm not even sure I have an ego. I think I'm all id. I think my id killed my ego and ate its liver with a nice side of fava beans.
The point is that I don't usually trust myself when it comes to things that I think are good. I'm OK with the bad part; when I'm not acting well I know it and I don't have to check it with anyone. But when I think I'm behaving well or something is good for me I have to check my ego at the door and call someone on the telephone, tell them what I'm up to, which is usually no good.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Run Away
Here's the Minor Buddha's take on my day: "One popular human strategy for dealing with difficulty is autosuggestion: when something nasty pops up, you convince yourself it is not there, or you convince yourself it is pleasant rather than unpleasant. Buddhism advises you not to implant feelings that you don't really have or avoid feelings that you do have. If you are miserable you are miserable; that is the reality, that is what is happening, so confront that."
There's a great scene in Monty Python's "The Holy Grail" where the guys are attacking a tall castle. When they get close to the castle walls the defenders begin pouring some kind of liquid crap down on them. They look at each other for a second, then start yelling: "Run away! Run away!" before scooting off. That's a good metaphor for my life; when I'm uncomfortable I don't like it and I take off running. When I was still drinking I buried the bad feelings under a sea of alcohol. I can tell you it doesn't work well in the long run.
I have been thinking about my dead friend, may he rest in peace. I remember the mental torment I was enduring 25 years ago. I have been trying to imagine how that torment would have intensified if I had never quit drinking. Even before I was ready to quit I vaguely understood that what I was doing wasn't good for me. It wasn't comforting to feel that way.
In my meditation I try to focus on my breath while still paying attention to the feelings and thoughts and sensations that are flowing by, without judgment. I'm often surprised at how they come at me in groups. Some days I'm fantasizing about things I want; some days I'm living in the fear of what may happen in the future; others find me angry about the past. It has been helpful in my recovery to see how my mind is trying to move me where it wants to go which isn't necessarily where I want to be.
There's a great scene in Monty Python's "The Holy Grail" where the guys are attacking a tall castle. When they get close to the castle walls the defenders begin pouring some kind of liquid crap down on them. They look at each other for a second, then start yelling: "Run away! Run away!" before scooting off. That's a good metaphor for my life; when I'm uncomfortable I don't like it and I take off running. When I was still drinking I buried the bad feelings under a sea of alcohol. I can tell you it doesn't work well in the long run.
I have been thinking about my dead friend, may he rest in peace. I remember the mental torment I was enduring 25 years ago. I have been trying to imagine how that torment would have intensified if I had never quit drinking. Even before I was ready to quit I vaguely understood that what I was doing wasn't good for me. It wasn't comforting to feel that way.
In my meditation I try to focus on my breath while still paying attention to the feelings and thoughts and sensations that are flowing by, without judgment. I'm often surprised at how they come at me in groups. Some days I'm fantasizing about things I want; some days I'm living in the fear of what may happen in the future; others find me angry about the past. It has been helpful in my recovery to see how my mind is trying to move me where it wants to go which isn't necessarily where I want to be.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
A Hell of a Lead Or . . .
I think a lot about an friend from the Old City who never was able to get a handle on what we're trying to do in The Program. This guy was about my age and we came in at about the same time. He was a very successful man in the business world, drinking himself out of impressive job after impressive job, always landing on his feet again with another great opportunity. Eventually, he became unemployable in his field and ended up staying with friends. At the time I thought this was probably a good thing for him because once he had money and a nice office and a cool car he became 50 feet tall and bulletproof and nobody could tell him otherwise. I thought maybe he had taken the elevator down far enough and would concentrate on his recovery.
Then, in what turned out to be a cruel twist of fate he inherited a nice chunk of money, bought a house and another car, and was running and gunning again in no time. He was an unfortunate example of how dangerous it can be for me to put the seductive things of this world in front of my recovery. I saw how some pain and deprivation was a great motivator in getting me in the front door and keeping me in my seat. I began to understand the meaning of the short saying: "Be careful what you pray for, you might get it." When I was drinking I wasn't praying for peace of mind and a positive outlook -- I was praying for the new Porsche. I wouldn't have gotten 10 miles in that car before wrapping it around a telephone pole.
Today I see people enter The Rooms and stay sober after they have fallen just about as far as it's possible to fall. They see that there's nowhere else to go and they get to work. I also see some folks blessed with a lot of privilege insulate themselves from the troubles that alcohol causes. This can be a bad thing; a very bad thing. Money can buy lawyers and good booze and nice house to drink it in, with the lights low and the blinds drawn.
SuperK and I always said that our friend would end up having a hell of great lead some day or the alcohol and drugs would kill him. Although we said this for years it still stopped me in my tracks to receive a text message this morning: "Your friend died today, apparently relapsed, holed up in a hotel in a faraway state. May he rest in peace." A few months back he had found a woman with some money and had tried another geographic cure. I did a few of those myself in my day but wherever I went there I was. If I could have left myself at home maybe the move would have helped a little more. I would look in the mirror and think: "You again?"
He was found in bathtub full of blood and water, having lain there for 24 hours, suffering from some kind of head wound. The local sheriff is not releasing his body pending an investigation. He's not sure if my friend fell on his own and was too drunk to do anything about it or whether a drug dealer came to collect on a debt and things got out of hand or maybe some other unfortunate that he was drinking with got angry and let him have it. It's not going to show up in any autopsy as "alcoholism." It's also not going to be an open casket funeral.
He has children and an ex-wife and a long, long string of sponsors. I believe that each of us can carry the message but not the drunk. I believe we can grieve for our friends but we can't get them sober. I quit chasing this guy long ago. It wasn't helping me and it sure wasn't helping him.
Ya gotta want it.
Then, in what turned out to be a cruel twist of fate he inherited a nice chunk of money, bought a house and another car, and was running and gunning again in no time. He was an unfortunate example of how dangerous it can be for me to put the seductive things of this world in front of my recovery. I saw how some pain and deprivation was a great motivator in getting me in the front door and keeping me in my seat. I began to understand the meaning of the short saying: "Be careful what you pray for, you might get it." When I was drinking I wasn't praying for peace of mind and a positive outlook -- I was praying for the new Porsche. I wouldn't have gotten 10 miles in that car before wrapping it around a telephone pole.
Today I see people enter The Rooms and stay sober after they have fallen just about as far as it's possible to fall. They see that there's nowhere else to go and they get to work. I also see some folks blessed with a lot of privilege insulate themselves from the troubles that alcohol causes. This can be a bad thing; a very bad thing. Money can buy lawyers and good booze and nice house to drink it in, with the lights low and the blinds drawn.
SuperK and I always said that our friend would end up having a hell of great lead some day or the alcohol and drugs would kill him. Although we said this for years it still stopped me in my tracks to receive a text message this morning: "Your friend died today, apparently relapsed, holed up in a hotel in a faraway state. May he rest in peace." A few months back he had found a woman with some money and had tried another geographic cure. I did a few of those myself in my day but wherever I went there I was. If I could have left myself at home maybe the move would have helped a little more. I would look in the mirror and think: "You again?"
He was found in bathtub full of blood and water, having lain there for 24 hours, suffering from some kind of head wound. The local sheriff is not releasing his body pending an investigation. He's not sure if my friend fell on his own and was too drunk to do anything about it or whether a drug dealer came to collect on a debt and things got out of hand or maybe some other unfortunate that he was drinking with got angry and let him have it. It's not going to show up in any autopsy as "alcoholism." It's also not going to be an open casket funeral.
He has children and an ex-wife and a long, long string of sponsors. I believe that each of us can carry the message but not the drunk. I believe we can grieve for our friends but we can't get them sober. I quit chasing this guy long ago. It wasn't helping me and it sure wasn't helping him.
Ya gotta want it.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Old Timers
I went to a meeting this morning, of course. It was the least I could do after my outrageous display of self-centered fear yesterday. The guy that gave the talk to kick the meeting off was old and he was an old-timer as well. The peace and ease that comes off of guys like that is unmistakable, like strong perfume. It's just there. I knew this man worked a steady, solid, spiritual program of recovery. It wasn't even recovery any more; it was more a god-centered life.
Of course, he picked up The Book and read a nice section chock full of good recovery things. Solution things written by someone after they stopped drinking. That's the stuff I need to hear, the "what it's like now" stuff. I get too wrapped up in "what it was like" stuff.
I am still suffering with a little bit of an emotional hangover from yesterday. When my mind drifts to one or another of the things that I found so upsetting I can feel a little shiver of fear course down my body. I've gotten to work on most of the things; the work being a simple change of attitude and outlook. Most of my life can be looked at from different points of view. I can take a look at the downside and blow it up into a monstrous shape, or I can look at it from a more positive point of view. It's the same thing. The only change is how I choose to approach it.
Carrying serenity into the events of my daily life is not a simple process. The transition point between the end of a meeting and the beginning of "real life" is a long jump. Sometimes I find my calm and concentration evaporate within minutes, leaving me apparently no better off than before.
That's OK -- I just strap myself back into the chair and get back to work. I'm better; I'm not good.
Of course, he picked up The Book and read a nice section chock full of good recovery things. Solution things written by someone after they stopped drinking. That's the stuff I need to hear, the "what it's like now" stuff. I get too wrapped up in "what it was like" stuff.
I am still suffering with a little bit of an emotional hangover from yesterday. When my mind drifts to one or another of the things that I found so upsetting I can feel a little shiver of fear course down my body. I've gotten to work on most of the things; the work being a simple change of attitude and outlook. Most of my life can be looked at from different points of view. I can take a look at the downside and blow it up into a monstrous shape, or I can look at it from a more positive point of view. It's the same thing. The only change is how I choose to approach it.
Carrying serenity into the events of my daily life is not a simple process. The transition point between the end of a meeting and the beginning of "real life" is a long jump. Sometimes I find my calm and concentration evaporate within minutes, leaving me apparently no better off than before.
That's OK -- I just strap myself back into the chair and get back to work. I'm better; I'm not good.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Attack!!
Anxiety: The state of being uneasy, apprehensive, or worried about what may happen; misgiving.
From the Latin anxius < angere, to choke, give pain.
I think I had a full blown anxiety attack today, which is a profoundly unsettling thing if you've never had one. I try not to give advice but I'd recommend avoiding them; they're profoundly unproductive. And just to be sure that my sentence structure isn't causing any confusion the anxiety was attacking me, rather than the other way around. Wouldn't that be something . . . me marshaling all of my willpower and going on the offensive against my anxieties. That sounds like a good 12 Step program.
"Take THAT, you formless, nameless, frequently baseless generalized fears," I'd shout, waving around a little plastic sword I found somewhere. "Fie thee hence!"
I usually start my anxiety attack by focusing with great concentration on something that I'm upset about. It's not always an important thing, either, and a lot of the time I understand that I'm being shaken by something that is unimportant. That self-knowledge doesn't do me much good, usually. Nor does the knowledge that I'm worrying about something that I've worried about many, many times in the past without having any effect on the root of the worry stimulus at all. I'm vaguely aware that I'm not helping anything by worrying and that I'll worry again in the future about many of the same things, with the same results.
A good anxiety attack will quickly sweep a whole bunch of additional stuff into the sewer of fear. A really good anxiety attack will pull in a lot of minor crap of no significance that I can also worry about. Pretty soon I'm inundated with fear and anxiety and apprehension and there's a momentum going on that I'm powerless to stop. That must be the "attack" part of the anxiety attack.
So I sat down and did some writing. I started out with all the stuff from the sewer. Generalized anxiety stuff. I listed it down and looked at it and saw how silly most of it was, how powerless I was to change most of it. Then I made a list of solutions. Ah, yes, the solutions. I wrote down those mothers, too. Then I took the first thing on the list and I did it. I don't know if it'll work or not but I don't care. I took an action. I got moving. I tried to solve the problem instead of embracing the problem.
I did some work and I got some relief.
From the Latin anxius < angere, to choke, give pain.
I think I had a full blown anxiety attack today, which is a profoundly unsettling thing if you've never had one. I try not to give advice but I'd recommend avoiding them; they're profoundly unproductive. And just to be sure that my sentence structure isn't causing any confusion the anxiety was attacking me, rather than the other way around. Wouldn't that be something . . . me marshaling all of my willpower and going on the offensive against my anxieties. That sounds like a good 12 Step program.
"Take THAT, you formless, nameless, frequently baseless generalized fears," I'd shout, waving around a little plastic sword I found somewhere. "Fie thee hence!"
I usually start my anxiety attack by focusing with great concentration on something that I'm upset about. It's not always an important thing, either, and a lot of the time I understand that I'm being shaken by something that is unimportant. That self-knowledge doesn't do me much good, usually. Nor does the knowledge that I'm worrying about something that I've worried about many, many times in the past without having any effect on the root of the worry stimulus at all. I'm vaguely aware that I'm not helping anything by worrying and that I'll worry again in the future about many of the same things, with the same results.
A good anxiety attack will quickly sweep a whole bunch of additional stuff into the sewer of fear. A really good anxiety attack will pull in a lot of minor crap of no significance that I can also worry about. Pretty soon I'm inundated with fear and anxiety and apprehension and there's a momentum going on that I'm powerless to stop. That must be the "attack" part of the anxiety attack.
So I sat down and did some writing. I started out with all the stuff from the sewer. Generalized anxiety stuff. I listed it down and looked at it and saw how silly most of it was, how powerless I was to change most of it. Then I made a list of solutions. Ah, yes, the solutions. I wrote down those mothers, too. Then I took the first thing on the list and I did it. I don't know if it'll work or not but I don't care. I took an action. I got moving. I tried to solve the problem instead of embracing the problem.
I did some work and I got some relief.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Morning People
Pessimism: The tendency to expect misfortune or the worst outcome in any circumstances; practice of looking on the the dark side of things.
Optimism: The tendency to take the most hopeful view of matters or to expect the best outcome in any circumstances; practice of looking on the bright side of things.
Practice: Repeated mental or physical action for the purpose of learning or acquiring proficiency.
I used to think some people were optimists and some were pessimists. Guess which one I thought I was? I hated optimists; I thought they were the scourge of the earth, worse than murderers and fornicators and people who like Duke basketball, with their cheery smiles and encouraging words. I couldn't stand being around them, especially when I was in a bad mood , usually when I was sober or not drunk enough.
"What's the matter with you?" I wanted to say. "It's seven o'clock in the morning."
Today I believe those beliefs were a convenient bit of crap that I fed myself daily so that I didn't feel quite so abnormal. I worked hard at being negative. It takes a lot of energy and mental acuity to find the worst in any circumstance. The definition suggests that I was practicing this worldview, that I was working hard to be negative.
That being said I do believe that some of us tend toward the Dark Side. The deal is that I don't nourish it like a tender flower trying to push up through the cold soil. I see the bad; I push the thought out to the best of my ability; I feel better.
Not always quickly but eventually.
Optimism: The tendency to take the most hopeful view of matters or to expect the best outcome in any circumstances; practice of looking on the bright side of things.
Practice: Repeated mental or physical action for the purpose of learning or acquiring proficiency.
I used to think some people were optimists and some were pessimists. Guess which one I thought I was? I hated optimists; I thought they were the scourge of the earth, worse than murderers and fornicators and people who like Duke basketball, with their cheery smiles and encouraging words. I couldn't stand being around them, especially when I was in a bad mood , usually when I was sober or not drunk enough.
"What's the matter with you?" I wanted to say. "It's seven o'clock in the morning."
Today I believe those beliefs were a convenient bit of crap that I fed myself daily so that I didn't feel quite so abnormal. I worked hard at being negative. It takes a lot of energy and mental acuity to find the worst in any circumstance. The definition suggests that I was practicing this worldview, that I was working hard to be negative.
That being said I do believe that some of us tend toward the Dark Side. The deal is that I don't nourish it like a tender flower trying to push up through the cold soil. I see the bad; I push the thought out to the best of my ability; I feel better.
Not always quickly but eventually.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Unacceptable: Not worth accepting; unsatisfactory; disagreeable; displeasing to receive.
I have noted that I'm not a big fan of winter weather. One of my Life Goals is to never, ever touch snow ever again. It's winter here in the New City, which I find less unacceptable. Anyway, I have been grasping on to this desire to be very, very warm, and making myself mildly discontented. It is as ancient a lust as I possess and as difficult a grasping to dislodge as I have ever encountered.
I spoke to a friend from The Program after a morning meeting this week. He talked, mostly, and I listened, which is something I'm not very good at, even though I have two ears and one mouth. He was holding onto something that he needed to release and he was having trouble doing this. His situation was a lot more difficult and confusing than my fairly juvenile dislike of cold weather. I gave him a few obvious bits of advice that I obviously needed to apply to my own life. He thanked me and later he wrote me a nice note, thanking me again.
I should have thanked him.
I have noted that I'm not a big fan of winter weather. One of my Life Goals is to never, ever touch snow ever again. It's winter here in the New City, which I find less unacceptable. Anyway, I have been grasping on to this desire to be very, very warm, and making myself mildly discontented. It is as ancient a lust as I possess and as difficult a grasping to dislodge as I have ever encountered.
I spoke to a friend from The Program after a morning meeting this week. He talked, mostly, and I listened, which is something I'm not very good at, even though I have two ears and one mouth. He was holding onto something that he needed to release and he was having trouble doing this. His situation was a lot more difficult and confusing than my fairly juvenile dislike of cold weather. I gave him a few obvious bits of advice that I obviously needed to apply to my own life. He thanked me and later he wrote me a nice note, thanking me again.
I should have thanked him.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Gruesome
Gruesome: Causing fear and loathing; horrifying and revolting; grisly.
I had to get a new driver's license and license plates for my car this week. I've been using the ones from the Old City, still technically valid even though I really should have replaced them after I moved, a year ago. I might have to look up the definition of the word "procrastination."
"You're still using the old plates?" a friend from The Program asked me recently. "You've been here like 10 months."
"I paid good $#!! money for those $#!! plates and they're still $#!! valid," I replied, a little defensively.
I don't enjoy doing things like standing in line at government agencies with the rest of the public. It may be fine for them but it's definitely beneath me. It's not a good, efficient, pleasant use of my time. I feel like a sheep or a herd of cattle. Ergo, I'd rather not do it. Plus, I had out of state documents, which complicated the process, and I didn't know what I was doing since I hadn't done it before and since I usually don't know what I'm doing generally.
I showed up with a fist full of documents and found out immediately that I needed to get an emissions test on my car. I didn't know this, not having done any of the appropriate research that some normal person would have done. I found the fact of this test particularly vexing. I had procrastinated for such an unreasonable length of time that my license plates had expired so we had driven SuperK's car, which meant my car was at home. I didn't ask but I assumed that the emissions test people wouldn't go to my apartment and test the car there.
"Just go over and stand in line at Window 11. Someone there will help you with your driver's licenses," the guy who irritated me with the test information said.
"OK, government, you win round one," I thought, as we headed for Window 11.
Window 11 was not staffed by anyone visible to the naked eye. We stood there for a while to no good effect until we noticed people getting in line at another window, which turned out to be the correct one. We had lost our place in line by then, and more of my valuable, valuable, valuable time was gone, forever.
The lady who helped us was very nice. She pointed out that SuperK rocked from side to side and that I rocked from front to back. She stamped documents furiously and filled out forms and told us where to go to get our picture taken for our licenses, as soon as we had taken the written test.
"The what now?" I asked.
"You have to take the written driver's license test here in the New State," she replied. "You can study this book and take it later or you can take it now. There are 35 questions and if you get more than 8 wrong you have to wait another month before you can take it again."
I began to point out that I had been driving for 40 $#!! years when I felt SuperK tugging on my sleeve, not the first time she has done this. She wisely decided to study for a bit before taking the test. I did not decide to do this. I had wasted too much of my valuable, valuable time already what with the standing in lines and doing things people other than me should have to do.
The first question asked the legal blood limit for impaired driving in the New State.
I got up and went back to the window. "I don't drink," I said. "Why do I give a flying $#!! what the blood alcohol limit is?"
"Just do your best," the nice lady said.
I picked the lowest number, figuring the state probably didn't care for drunks driving around after drinking, and got it right.
The next question was something about how far in front of a passenger car a length of wood or metal pipe could legally protrude.
I got up and went back to the window. "WTF?" I said. "My subcompact car is about 10 feet long."
The nice lady, losing patience, pointed back at my work station. It went like this for a while. Some of the questions were easy; some were silly, wondering how much leeway I should give to a blind person trying to get across the road outside of a cross walk; and some I got wrong. Not the one about the blind guy, although I looked for an answer that said: "Gun it, swerve in his direction, and stand on your horn." I would have burned a wrong answer just for the hell of it if that had been a choice.
Fortunately, I passed and told SuperK about the tough questions before I left to drive all the way back home to get my car and drive all the way to the testing station and then all the way back to the license bureau. She did better than I did on the written test, which is no surprise to anyone that knows us.
My car passed the emissions test. We did get new tags and new driver's licenses. The whole thing took about 2 and a half hours, which is about what I had figured before we left home, even with all of the tests and side trips.
I got my license today. My picture is gruesome.
I had to get a new driver's license and license plates for my car this week. I've been using the ones from the Old City, still technically valid even though I really should have replaced them after I moved, a year ago. I might have to look up the definition of the word "procrastination."
"You're still using the old plates?" a friend from The Program asked me recently. "You've been here like 10 months."
"I paid good $#!! money for those $#!! plates and they're still $#!! valid," I replied, a little defensively.
I don't enjoy doing things like standing in line at government agencies with the rest of the public. It may be fine for them but it's definitely beneath me. It's not a good, efficient, pleasant use of my time. I feel like a sheep or a herd of cattle. Ergo, I'd rather not do it. Plus, I had out of state documents, which complicated the process, and I didn't know what I was doing since I hadn't done it before and since I usually don't know what I'm doing generally.
I showed up with a fist full of documents and found out immediately that I needed to get an emissions test on my car. I didn't know this, not having done any of the appropriate research that some normal person would have done. I found the fact of this test particularly vexing. I had procrastinated for such an unreasonable length of time that my license plates had expired so we had driven SuperK's car, which meant my car was at home. I didn't ask but I assumed that the emissions test people wouldn't go to my apartment and test the car there.
"Just go over and stand in line at Window 11. Someone there will help you with your driver's licenses," the guy who irritated me with the test information said.
"OK, government, you win round one," I thought, as we headed for Window 11.
Window 11 was not staffed by anyone visible to the naked eye. We stood there for a while to no good effect until we noticed people getting in line at another window, which turned out to be the correct one. We had lost our place in line by then, and more of my valuable, valuable, valuable time was gone, forever.
The lady who helped us was very nice. She pointed out that SuperK rocked from side to side and that I rocked from front to back. She stamped documents furiously and filled out forms and told us where to go to get our picture taken for our licenses, as soon as we had taken the written test.
"The what now?" I asked.
"You have to take the written driver's license test here in the New State," she replied. "You can study this book and take it later or you can take it now. There are 35 questions and if you get more than 8 wrong you have to wait another month before you can take it again."
I began to point out that I had been driving for 40 $#!! years when I felt SuperK tugging on my sleeve, not the first time she has done this. She wisely decided to study for a bit before taking the test. I did not decide to do this. I had wasted too much of my valuable, valuable time already what with the standing in lines and doing things people other than me should have to do.
The first question asked the legal blood limit for impaired driving in the New State.
I got up and went back to the window. "I don't drink," I said. "Why do I give a flying $#!! what the blood alcohol limit is?"
"Just do your best," the nice lady said.
I picked the lowest number, figuring the state probably didn't care for drunks driving around after drinking, and got it right.
The next question was something about how far in front of a passenger car a length of wood or metal pipe could legally protrude.
I got up and went back to the window. "WTF?" I said. "My subcompact car is about 10 feet long."
The nice lady, losing patience, pointed back at my work station. It went like this for a while. Some of the questions were easy; some were silly, wondering how much leeway I should give to a blind person trying to get across the road outside of a cross walk; and some I got wrong. Not the one about the blind guy, although I looked for an answer that said: "Gun it, swerve in his direction, and stand on your horn." I would have burned a wrong answer just for the hell of it if that had been a choice.
Fortunately, I passed and told SuperK about the tough questions before I left to drive all the way back home to get my car and drive all the way to the testing station and then all the way back to the license bureau. She did better than I did on the written test, which is no surprise to anyone that knows us.
My car passed the emissions test. We did get new tags and new driver's licenses. The whole thing took about 2 and a half hours, which is about what I had figured before we left home, even with all of the tests and side trips.
I got my license today. My picture is gruesome.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
They Call Him The Grasper
Grasp At: To reach for and try to seize; to take eagerly; accept with alacrity.
It is winter where I live.
I do not like winter.
Get over it.
This should be my posting for today. However, being a gassy windbag who loves the sound of his own inner voice I'll soldier on, at great length, explaining why winter is such a trial and tribulation, for me and for me alone. I'll try to explain why I shouldn't have to endure winter and I'll fail at my explanation. Excuse me, while I kiss my personal space heater on high.
I grew up in an area notable for a lot of heat and humidity. I got used to it and it doesn't really bother me. I'm tall and skinny, and I have lousy circulation and low blood pressure so I wick off heat with no problem. The Cold, however, creeeeeeps deeeeep into my bones.
SuperK, on the other hand, is from a cold, cold place -- think of the coldest place you have ever been where people live and then think colder -- so winter doesn't bother her but heat and humidity throws her for a loop. But that really doesn't affect me, does it? I'm wondering why I even mention it. Lip service, I guess. She reads these things so I should at least pretend that I'm thinking of her from time to time.
So when the dark begins to arrive earlier and earlier and the wind blows and the rain falls and The Cold creeeeeps in and I'm driven from my little balcony back inside, my mood darkens and I begin bitching in earnest. I don't mean the standard, petty bitching I engage in during most of my waking hours: I mean serious bitching. Little kid bitching.
When SuperK and I were trying to decide where to go after we had exhausted the Old City's many charms, we narrowed our choices down to a somewhat uninteresting city that enjoys beautiful weather and to the New City, where the weather is just OK but the quality of life is significantly cool. I voted for weather; SuperK voted for coolness; we compromised and picked coolness. I'm glad we did, to be honest about it, but I'm not happy with the weather at the moment.
The Minor Buddha talks about grasping. I have been grasping at a desire to not have to put up with weather I don't like. I'm ignoring the fact that I have endured many, many winters and that winter here is milder than anywhere I've ever lived. I'm ignoring the fact that many people besides me have to put up with weather that is much worse than this. I'm trying to avoid something that makes me uncomfortable. I don't care that this makes me sound like the spoiled two year old that I am. I fight and fight my hatred of The Cold. It amazes me how much energy I put into my grasping desire to be somewhere where I can let the heat sink into my bones, like a big snake. I put the energy into the hate, which is the problem, and not into gratitude, which is the solution.
Grasping after things is a sure-fire recipe for unhappiness. There's always something else to obtain, always something else to lust after. The grass is always greener, as they say.
I really should spend some time working on this. I clearly don't get it at the moment. I clearly enjoy living in The Problem right now. Good, old misery, my dear old friend.
It is winter where I live.
I do not like winter.
Get over it.
This should be my posting for today. However, being a gassy windbag who loves the sound of his own inner voice I'll soldier on, at great length, explaining why winter is such a trial and tribulation, for me and for me alone. I'll try to explain why I shouldn't have to endure winter and I'll fail at my explanation. Excuse me, while I kiss my personal space heater on high.
I grew up in an area notable for a lot of heat and humidity. I got used to it and it doesn't really bother me. I'm tall and skinny, and I have lousy circulation and low blood pressure so I wick off heat with no problem. The Cold, however, creeeeeeps deeeeep into my bones.
SuperK, on the other hand, is from a cold, cold place -- think of the coldest place you have ever been where people live and then think colder -- so winter doesn't bother her but heat and humidity throws her for a loop. But that really doesn't affect me, does it? I'm wondering why I even mention it. Lip service, I guess. She reads these things so I should at least pretend that I'm thinking of her from time to time.
So when the dark begins to arrive earlier and earlier and the wind blows and the rain falls and The Cold creeeeeps in and I'm driven from my little balcony back inside, my mood darkens and I begin bitching in earnest. I don't mean the standard, petty bitching I engage in during most of my waking hours: I mean serious bitching. Little kid bitching.
When SuperK and I were trying to decide where to go after we had exhausted the Old City's many charms, we narrowed our choices down to a somewhat uninteresting city that enjoys beautiful weather and to the New City, where the weather is just OK but the quality of life is significantly cool. I voted for weather; SuperK voted for coolness; we compromised and picked coolness. I'm glad we did, to be honest about it, but I'm not happy with the weather at the moment.
The Minor Buddha talks about grasping. I have been grasping at a desire to not have to put up with weather I don't like. I'm ignoring the fact that I have endured many, many winters and that winter here is milder than anywhere I've ever lived. I'm ignoring the fact that many people besides me have to put up with weather that is much worse than this. I'm trying to avoid something that makes me uncomfortable. I don't care that this makes me sound like the spoiled two year old that I am. I fight and fight my hatred of The Cold. It amazes me how much energy I put into my grasping desire to be somewhere where I can let the heat sink into my bones, like a big snake. I put the energy into the hate, which is the problem, and not into gratitude, which is the solution.
Grasping after things is a sure-fire recipe for unhappiness. There's always something else to obtain, always something else to lust after. The grass is always greener, as they say.
I really should spend some time working on this. I clearly don't get it at the moment. I clearly enjoy living in The Problem right now. Good, old misery, my dear old friend.
Monday, January 9, 2012
RIDs
Restless: Never or almost never quiet or still; always active or inclined to action; seeking change; discontented.
Minor Buddhism: "Restlessness is often a cover-up for some deeper experience taking place in the unconscious. We humans are great at repressing things. Rather than confronting some unpleasant thought we experience, we try to bury it. The result is that sense of unease which we call agitation or restlessness. There is nothing you can put your finger on. But you don't feel at ease. You can't relax."
Yeah, well, this has never happened to me. When I first heard the famous phrase found in The Doctor's Opinion "restless, irritable, and discontented" I was amazed that there was some other way to feel. I know that I am often bedeviled by something I call Free Floating Anxiety. FFA is a state where something is wrong but I don't know what it is. I just know something bad is going down. There doesn't have to be anything bad actually happening; the mere potential of something bad is enough to get me going but good.
Minor Buddhism: "Restlessness is often a cover-up for some deeper experience taking place in the unconscious. We humans are great at repressing things. Rather than confronting some unpleasant thought we experience, we try to bury it. The result is that sense of unease which we call agitation or restlessness. There is nothing you can put your finger on. But you don't feel at ease. You can't relax."
Yeah, well, this has never happened to me. When I first heard the famous phrase found in The Doctor's Opinion "restless, irritable, and discontented" I was amazed that there was some other way to feel. I know that I am often bedeviled by something I call Free Floating Anxiety. FFA is a state where something is wrong but I don't know what it is. I just know something bad is going down. There doesn't have to be anything bad actually happening; the mere potential of something bad is enough to get me going but good.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Hard Rock
Hard: With vigor, strength, or violence.
At today's meeting we discussed the tendency of alcoholics to be hard on themselves. And by "hard" I mean "beat the shit out of." As a group we are masters of self-flagellation. This week I listened to a man share a 5th Step inventory with me. Most importantly, is there any greater honor as a person than to have someone share their most personal, painful secrets with you? I can't think of any. The trust that requires is unbelievable, especially for your average paranoid drunk.
Anyway, 10 minutes into an hour long soliloquy I began to feel sorry for the guy. He might as well have gotten out a brace of whips and boards full of nails, and began beating himself. It reminded me of that weird religious sect which has as its signature highlight a group of men stepping in cadence, pausing to lash themselves on the back with a chain, to what purpose I cannot imagine. His stuff wasn't that bad, wasn't at all unique, and had stopped in his sobriety, which is the most important thing, but still he kept flagellating.
I think today I try to emphasize rigorous honesty in my behavior. I look at what I've done and when I'm in the wrong I apologize, and then I try not to do it anymore. I don't lose sleep over very many things. I make mistakes, I apologize, and then I move on. I'm a flawed human being, not a piece of garbage. I don't spend a lot of time feeling bad about behaving bad. It's a fool's errand.
And nobody can tell me different.
At today's meeting we discussed the tendency of alcoholics to be hard on themselves. And by "hard" I mean "beat the shit out of." As a group we are masters of self-flagellation. This week I listened to a man share a 5th Step inventory with me. Most importantly, is there any greater honor as a person than to have someone share their most personal, painful secrets with you? I can't think of any. The trust that requires is unbelievable, especially for your average paranoid drunk.
Anyway, 10 minutes into an hour long soliloquy I began to feel sorry for the guy. He might as well have gotten out a brace of whips and boards full of nails, and began beating himself. It reminded me of that weird religious sect which has as its signature highlight a group of men stepping in cadence, pausing to lash themselves on the back with a chain, to what purpose I cannot imagine. His stuff wasn't that bad, wasn't at all unique, and had stopped in his sobriety, which is the most important thing, but still he kept flagellating.
I think today I try to emphasize rigorous honesty in my behavior. I look at what I've done and when I'm in the wrong I apologize, and then I try not to do it anymore. I don't lose sleep over very many things. I make mistakes, I apologize, and then I move on. I'm a flawed human being, not a piece of garbage. I don't spend a lot of time feeling bad about behaving bad. It's a fool's errand.
And nobody can tell me different.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Bob Wilson
I'm going to take a short hiatus from talking about Problems, as much as this pains me. I like to talk about Problems. I'm quite the Problem aficionado. It's my area of expertise. I've got a lot of experience in Problem creation. Too bad I can't get a job in that field because I'd make a LOT of money.
Anyway, I was mulling over the alien concept of service this morning in my meditation. This is a good sign. Normally, I mull over my many problems and how they are multiplying and getting worse and growing in intensity. When I was trying to get sober in Indianapolis there was an old dude named Bob Wilson -- if ever there was a name with some portent that would be it -- who picked me up and took me to meetings in his big, old car. A Buick or Mercury, as I recall. Some huge car with deep leather seats and a killer heater. I remember sitting outside my rat-hole apartment with Bob after the meetings were over, engine idling, talking about recovery. I couldn't have been a very interesting conversation partner at that point, and that assumes I'm an interesting one now, which is a stretch by any measure.
I moved to Chicago after several marginally successful months in The Program in Indy, and it was there that I began working on my alcoholism in earnest and actually got sober. I came back for a visit and I looked Bob up. I was shocked to hear that he had lung cancer and wasn't doing very well. I visited him at his home. He was frail and fading, but we still had a good talk. It dawned on me that he was sick already before I left. I never knew. He never talked about it. I bitch to high heaven when I have a hangnail so the thought that someone who had a terminal disease would sat quietly while I prattled on about myself left me slack-jawed and awed.
I returned to Chicago and Bob died soon after, which is one of the reasons I use his full name. He was not a guy I would have chosen to spend time with. We would not have crossed paths socially or professionally. But, boy, did I learn a lot about service, the kind of service that gives and gives and never takes. I believe I am on record as saying that I never do anything unless I see that it shows practical results in someone else's life. You can tell me it's going to work until you're blue in the face and I won't do it. I'm like a child that way. I watch and observe, and I follow someone's example when I can see good, practical results in their lives.
Like with Bob. Pass it on, my brother.
Anyway, I was mulling over the alien concept of service this morning in my meditation. This is a good sign. Normally, I mull over my many problems and how they are multiplying and getting worse and growing in intensity. When I was trying to get sober in Indianapolis there was an old dude named Bob Wilson -- if ever there was a name with some portent that would be it -- who picked me up and took me to meetings in his big, old car. A Buick or Mercury, as I recall. Some huge car with deep leather seats and a killer heater. I remember sitting outside my rat-hole apartment with Bob after the meetings were over, engine idling, talking about recovery. I couldn't have been a very interesting conversation partner at that point, and that assumes I'm an interesting one now, which is a stretch by any measure.
I moved to Chicago after several marginally successful months in The Program in Indy, and it was there that I began working on my alcoholism in earnest and actually got sober. I came back for a visit and I looked Bob up. I was shocked to hear that he had lung cancer and wasn't doing very well. I visited him at his home. He was frail and fading, but we still had a good talk. It dawned on me that he was sick already before I left. I never knew. He never talked about it. I bitch to high heaven when I have a hangnail so the thought that someone who had a terminal disease would sat quietly while I prattled on about myself left me slack-jawed and awed.
I returned to Chicago and Bob died soon after, which is one of the reasons I use his full name. He was not a guy I would have chosen to spend time with. We would not have crossed paths socially or professionally. But, boy, did I learn a lot about service, the kind of service that gives and gives and never takes. I believe I am on record as saying that I never do anything unless I see that it shows practical results in someone else's life. You can tell me it's going to work until you're blue in the face and I won't do it. I'm like a child that way. I watch and observe, and I follow someone's example when I can see good, practical results in their lives.
Like with Bob. Pass it on, my brother.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Boredom
Bore: To weary by being dull, uninteresting, or monotonous.
Boredom: The condition of being bored or uninterested; ennui.
I never considered boredom to be a personal character defect; I considered it to be a defect of life in general that was impacting me unnecessarily. All of the routine and humdrum, all of the teeth brushing and work and family obligations, all of it was way, way beneath me. I was arrogant enough to get upset while I was waiting in line to get my auto tags renewed on the rare occasions when I was solvent enough to have a car that was actually running, which is something that I'm required to do by law, irritatingly enough. "I'm too important for this," I groused.
I'm embarrassed to admit that I thought life was going to be all fun all of the time, all gumdrops and lollipops. I'm not sure that I could sell this concept to your average 5 year old which speaks to my emotional maturity at the time. I didn't spend any time going to doctors or maintaining my car because it wasn't fun, with predictable results to my body and cars. I had trouble making the connection between behaving poorly and outcomes that affected me.
Often, I dispensed with work because it wasn't as much fun as getting stoned and watching "The Beverly Hillbillies," as great as that show might have been. And if I had to do something I considered routine and ordinary, I drank or used to ease the boredom, with more predictable results. The last picture that I had taken for a driver's license before I got clean and sober shows me staring vaguely off into the distance at an odd angle. I seemed to be watching a rocket ship land on the distant horizon. When they said " look here and smile" I apparently couldn't handle that much concentration. I'm surprised they gave me the license.
Today when I get bored I file under "Character Defect." There's no reason for it. It's not appropriate. I'm taking a perfectly lovely and stimulating world and wasting my opportunities.
Boredom: The condition of being bored or uninterested; ennui.
I never considered boredom to be a personal character defect; I considered it to be a defect of life in general that was impacting me unnecessarily. All of the routine and humdrum, all of the teeth brushing and work and family obligations, all of it was way, way beneath me. I was arrogant enough to get upset while I was waiting in line to get my auto tags renewed on the rare occasions when I was solvent enough to have a car that was actually running, which is something that I'm required to do by law, irritatingly enough. "I'm too important for this," I groused.
I'm embarrassed to admit that I thought life was going to be all fun all of the time, all gumdrops and lollipops. I'm not sure that I could sell this concept to your average 5 year old which speaks to my emotional maturity at the time. I didn't spend any time going to doctors or maintaining my car because it wasn't fun, with predictable results to my body and cars. I had trouble making the connection between behaving poorly and outcomes that affected me.
Often, I dispensed with work because it wasn't as much fun as getting stoned and watching "The Beverly Hillbillies," as great as that show might have been. And if I had to do something I considered routine and ordinary, I drank or used to ease the boredom, with more predictable results. The last picture that I had taken for a driver's license before I got clean and sober shows me staring vaguely off into the distance at an odd angle. I seemed to be watching a rocket ship land on the distant horizon. When they said " look here and smile" I apparently couldn't handle that much concentration. I'm surprised they gave me the license.
Today when I get bored I file under "Character Defect." There's no reason for it. It's not appropriate. I'm taking a perfectly lovely and stimulating world and wasting my opportunities.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Problem Persona
Problem: A question, matter, situation, or person that is perplexing or difficult.
I've been a little too focused on The Problem here lately. It might be the New Year and all the talk of resolutions, which I never make, far too aware of my ability to not follow through on anything that might be even slightly difficult. I don't get too bent out of shape when I get Problem Centered anymore. I think the ability to see problems is pretty common in human nature. There must be something instinctual going on here: as in, "I don't have enough berries to eat tonight" or "That bear appears to be getting ready to eat me" or maybe "Man, is this cave a piece of shit."
I will say that alcoholics seem to have taken Problem Focusing into the next dimension. We seem to have been rocketed there by our problems. I know that my nature is to say: "OK, what's wrong with this picture." I can be looking at the Mona Lisa when I say this. I don't like the frame or the museum is too cold or that guy talking next to me is a $#!! idiot and why won't he just shut up?
"If I focus on a problem, the problem increases; if I focus on the answer, the answer increases."
I've been a little too focused on The Problem here lately. It might be the New Year and all the talk of resolutions, which I never make, far too aware of my ability to not follow through on anything that might be even slightly difficult. I don't get too bent out of shape when I get Problem Centered anymore. I think the ability to see problems is pretty common in human nature. There must be something instinctual going on here: as in, "I don't have enough berries to eat tonight" or "That bear appears to be getting ready to eat me" or maybe "Man, is this cave a piece of shit."
I will say that alcoholics seem to have taken Problem Focusing into the next dimension. We seem to have been rocketed there by our problems. I know that my nature is to say: "OK, what's wrong with this picture." I can be looking at the Mona Lisa when I say this. I don't like the frame or the museum is too cold or that guy talking next to me is a $#!! idiot and why won't he just shut up?
"If I focus on a problem, the problem increases; if I focus on the answer, the answer increases."
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Dream On, Dream On
Dream: To imagine as possible; fancy; suppose.
Dream on, dream on . . .
I like to dream every now and then. This has changed in my sobriety from totally unrealistic dreams -- rock star, sports legend, Ferrari owner -- to totally implausible dreams. But I've found out that dreams are free and mostly harmless, as long as I drift back into the reality of the real world from time to time, not always a sure bet in my case. And I've also found that some of my implausible dreams come true. I've had an interesting life and done some interesting things as the result of my flights of fancy. This is a nice improvement over sitting in front of The Television, smoking weed and drinking beer, watching something that I wouldn't remember watching the next day.
I try to check in with friends and hoary heads of sobriety before I fly off to fast and far. Sell all my possessions and try to replace Keith Richards -- not a good idea. Save up some money and visit Vietnam -- might happen some day.
Dream on, dream on . . .
I like to dream every now and then. This has changed in my sobriety from totally unrealistic dreams -- rock star, sports legend, Ferrari owner -- to totally implausible dreams. But I've found out that dreams are free and mostly harmless, as long as I drift back into the reality of the real world from time to time, not always a sure bet in my case. And I've also found that some of my implausible dreams come true. I've had an interesting life and done some interesting things as the result of my flights of fancy. This is a nice improvement over sitting in front of The Television, smoking weed and drinking beer, watching something that I wouldn't remember watching the next day.
I try to check in with friends and hoary heads of sobriety before I fly off to fast and far. Sell all my possessions and try to replace Keith Richards -- not a good idea. Save up some money and visit Vietnam -- might happen some day.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Anger and Indignation and Rage and Fury, O My!
Anger: Implies emotional agitation of no specified intensity aroused by great displeasure.
Indignation: Implies righteous anger aroused by what is considered unjust, mean, or shameful.
Rage: Suggests violent outburst of anger in which self-control is lost.
Fury: Implies an overwhelming rage of a frenzied kind that borders on madness.
There's a section in my dictionary right after the definition of a word that suggests some appropriate synonyms to help me understand the nuances of the definition. What a nice progression this particular list is! I start with emotional agitation which is usually full of self-righteous self-pity; I get violent -- in my thinking, at least -- and I lose self-control. The anger becomes overwhelming and approaches insanity.
Yep. That sounds like me. That sounds like a typical progression for me.
This afternoon I found that I was somewhat annoyed at life for no particular reason that I could discern. I was in a mildly bad mood which I'm afraid is something that is going to happen to all of us from time to time. When this happens I start looking for things to focus my bad mood on, and I get angry at them. I focus on things that irritate me. I guess I need to justify my bad mood. Sometimes I pick whatever happens to be handy and sometimes I go to a tried and true list of stuff that I find upsetting in a historical sense.
I'm sure glad there are tomorrows.
Indignation: Implies righteous anger aroused by what is considered unjust, mean, or shameful.
Rage: Suggests violent outburst of anger in which self-control is lost.
Fury: Implies an overwhelming rage of a frenzied kind that borders on madness.
There's a section in my dictionary right after the definition of a word that suggests some appropriate synonyms to help me understand the nuances of the definition. What a nice progression this particular list is! I start with emotional agitation which is usually full of self-righteous self-pity; I get violent -- in my thinking, at least -- and I lose self-control. The anger becomes overwhelming and approaches insanity.
Yep. That sounds like me. That sounds like a typical progression for me.
This afternoon I found that I was somewhat annoyed at life for no particular reason that I could discern. I was in a mildly bad mood which I'm afraid is something that is going to happen to all of us from time to time. When this happens I start looking for things to focus my bad mood on, and I get angry at them. I focus on things that irritate me. I guess I need to justify my bad mood. Sometimes I pick whatever happens to be handy and sometimes I go to a tried and true list of stuff that I find upsetting in a historical sense.
I'm sure glad there are tomorrows.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
New Year's Eve
New Year's Day, after a New Year's Eve spent with a group of drunks in recovery -- no fistfights, splintered furniture or ruined relationships, no cops, no missing fenders or bouts with the Porcelain God -- and I was still home, safe and warm, and asleep by midnight.
Nice to feel a sense of optimism and hope today. I'd say optimism and hope for the new year but it's more appropriate to feel that sense for today, for this day. I remember well the feeling that I was facing another disastrous year, full of remorse and regret for my life to this point, vaguely aware that I was going to be drunk and stoned in short order. Say what you will but alcohol is an effective remorse killer in the short term.
Things are going to work out.
Nice to feel a sense of optimism and hope today. I'd say optimism and hope for the new year but it's more appropriate to feel that sense for today, for this day. I remember well the feeling that I was facing another disastrous year, full of remorse and regret for my life to this point, vaguely aware that I was going to be drunk and stoned in short order. Say what you will but alcohol is an effective remorse killer in the short term.
Things are going to work out.
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