I often run into people in The Program who seem to have a hard time releasing their Pre-Alcoholic Downfall persona. These are folks who manage to work in the details of their various triumphs and successes into their comments each and every time they share. These are good people, too, by and large: kind, friendly, willing to pitch in and help anyone who asks. But I get to see how the ego is a tricky master. I know it was for me. I was like a lot of drunks: a promising young guy who didn't live up to that promise in the long run or the short run or even a short stroll. But I was still eager to let you know how smart I was and how accomplished and what I had been on the verge of achieving.
I'm sure people were saying: "Little Stevie Seaweed? That guy who's living with his parents? And doesn't have a girlfriend or a car or a job or any money?"
Yeah, that guy. I was totally fooling everyone.
It's hard for me to hide my ego. My ego is big and boisterous and very comfortable telling you all about it, even if "it" is mostly lies and innuendo and bullshit. It has been a slow process for me to let go of the need to tell you how impressive I am. What I want you to know is not what's important. What's important is transparent and right there in front of you. I don't have to make stuff up or emphasize my strong points so strongly. You like what you see or you don't. I'm not fooling anyone.
I'm sure I've told this story before, but not in the last 20 minutes, which is the length of my short term memory. I earned my living as a salesman. I enjoyed it, too, and I was good at it. I was honest and helpful and a little lazy. But it's not an impressive sounding career; certainly not as impressive as the career I was close to achieving before alcohol took me down. Little kids in grade school don't respond, when asked what they want to do when they grow up, with: "I want to be a salesman! I want to sell power transmission components to plant engineers working in heavy industry!"
Because my ego was so dented I ran through a whole gamut of impressive sounding titles on my business cards: Technical Sales; Senior Territory Manager; Filtration Expert; Account Executive. Like people didn't know what I was trying to do. I was trying to sell them stuff. I wasn't trying to manage their territory or execute their accounts. I called them up and got an appointment to show them something that I hoped they would buy if it fit their needs, and at the start I didn't even care if it met their needs. Buy this, goddammit!
For many years at the end of my sales career I handed out cards with embossed with a company name and what to call me: Little Stevie Seaweed. It helped me. It took away some of the pressure to be someone who was long, long gone, and start to be the person who I actually was. Nobody is hanging out with that guy. That guy never was. This is the guy. This is the guy right here.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Untitled (Because I Can't In Good Conscience Use "Problem" Again)
Solution: In medicine, the termination of a disease.
“There is a solution. Almost none of us liked the self-searching, the leveling of our pride, the confession of shortcomings which the process requires for its successful consummation.”
Yeah, no shit.
“But we saw that it really worked in others . . . When, therefore, we were approached by those in whom the problem had been solved . . .”
Oh, now I’m starting to get it. I'm among people who have the same kinds of problems that I do and they have solved these problems. That’s why I have to do the solution work. We’re solving problems. We’re making them go away because we have found . . . well, a solution.
My lovely wife points out frequently that she would have done NONE of the work that The Program requires did she not see that it was “intensely practical.”
I'm going to repeat myself: I am a Problem Person who hates solutions to my problems, for a myriad of unknowable reasons that I cannot begin to understand. This is why I need to keep referring to The Book. I need to be reminded over and over that there is a solution to ALL of my problems, and not just alcohol. ALL of them if I buy into the simple premise underlying our take on recovery: “ . . . there was nothing left for us but to pick up the simple kit of spiritual tools laid at our feet.”
Laid at our feet! We don’t even have to walk across the room to receive the benefits of The Program. The tools are simple and we’re going to step on them if we’re not careful because they’re almost under our feet. We have to be careful not to trip on them.
So I finish up with the meeting yesterday -- an excellent one as they so often are -- the irony of talking about solutions not lost on me as I pondered satisfying an idle desire to delay my dentist appointment for a little while, obviously preferring the problem part of the situation more than the solution part. My tooth, or teeth, has, or have felt a little better lately, as long as I don’t bite into anything hard or cold or crunchy or pretty hot, and use the other side of my mouth when I’m eating, and not chewing too hard or too fast. I’m going to hypothesize that teeth that hurt are not in the habit of repairing themselves. I’m hopeful that my teeth will, but skeptical. My experience is that they continue to hurt at roughly the same level of pain until they get worse and hurt more.
I called the new dentist in spite of myself and made an appointment. He seemed nice, or his receptionist did, anyway, but I'm sure he's not very good and he's going to over-prescribe over-priced treatment that he's poorly qualified to provide. I’m vaguely afraid, vaguely apprehensive, and not at all vague about not looking forward to going to the dentist tomorrow. I see in my future a vision of someone with sharp metal instruments and syringes full of chemicals jabbing around in my mouth, which is opened at an uncomfortable angle.
Or he's just going to fix my tooth.
And the sound of the high speed drill! If I were at all mechanically inclined I would invent a drill that sounded like a trick
Monday, February 27, 2012
Hole in the Sky
Awake: To rouse from sleep; wake; hence, to rouse from inactivity; activize.
We talked about "spiritual experience" in this morning's meeting. The passage about the importance of a spiritual experience that the chairperson read is found in the chapter "There Is A Solution," which should be a solid clue as to the importance of said spiritual experience. The discussion revolved around the circumstances which would indicate, or at least suggest, the occurrence of a spiritual awakening. The popular hope seemed to be for the big, dramatic variety of spiritual experience, where the earth shakes and the sea parts and the sky is rent in two, the rent quickly filling with angels and gods and other singing beings. The actual experience of the group was more along the lines of a steady if unspectacular awakening. This can be very frustrating for the Big Ego crowd. We like earthquakes and flocks of angels singing to us and us alone.
So much of my experience in recovery revolves around making progress even when I don't know I'm making any progress. One day I'll decide to look back into the past and think: "Huh. I've changed." This is why I continue to hitch up my britches and go to work on my recovery every day. I figure that I'm making progress even when I don't think I'm making any progress.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Tales From the Pool
Steady: Constant, regular, uniform, or continuous; not changing, wavering, faltering, etc.
How about a positive swimming message? This is theoretical, more or less, and doesn't involve any actual physical pools with actual physical people who make me SO MAD hanging around to complicate things.
Anyway, when I finally got sober I was often frustrated by the slow pace of my recovery. I wanted to get to a better place in a hell of a big hurry. I realize today that I was trying to make something time-consuming consume no time. The unfortunate drawback to this technique is that a certain amount of time was needed to work through things that needed to be worked through. I thought the good times would be awarded to me as if I had put a quarter in a vending machine and pushed A22, the selection for Twinkies. And unless this machine was transported to my vending machine area from about 1973 I wasn't going to get any Twinkies, which cost a lot more than a quarter, even though I was being overcharged at that price.
Did you know the company that makes Twinkies is going out of business? It's too late to rush out and buy some, too; you should have thought about supporting this iconic American brand long ago. Did you know that a food science professor at some university tacked a package of Twinkies above his blackboard 30 years ago, and the the Twinkies look pretty much the same, except for some discoloration from sunlight? True story.
I clearly remember that when I began swimming I spent a lot of time my laboring painfully down the lane, struggling for breath, my strokes uneven and uncoordinated. Today I'm a fairly smooth swimmer; I don't swim too fast or too long, but I'm smooth and steady. On occasion someone who is a swimming newcomer will remark on my speed or my stamina, the fools, and I find myself simply saying: "I've been swimming for 4 years." The implication is that I'm not swimming well because I'm an athlete of any renown, just a guy who has been at it for a while.
It's that way with my alcoholism. I've been doing it for a while. It's a process, not an event. I'm pretty sure that I'll get through everything that I need to get through -- which is everything that there is -- if I simply keep at it. I have a few bad days and a lot of ordinary days but I keep stroking forward.
Choking down an occasional mouthful of pool water, sure, but never drowning.
How about a positive swimming message? This is theoretical, more or less, and doesn't involve any actual physical pools with actual physical people who make me SO MAD hanging around to complicate things.
Anyway, when I finally got sober I was often frustrated by the slow pace of my recovery. I wanted to get to a better place in a hell of a big hurry. I realize today that I was trying to make something time-consuming consume no time. The unfortunate drawback to this technique is that a certain amount of time was needed to work through things that needed to be worked through. I thought the good times would be awarded to me as if I had put a quarter in a vending machine and pushed A22, the selection for Twinkies. And unless this machine was transported to my vending machine area from about 1973 I wasn't going to get any Twinkies, which cost a lot more than a quarter, even though I was being overcharged at that price.
Did you know the company that makes Twinkies is going out of business? It's too late to rush out and buy some, too; you should have thought about supporting this iconic American brand long ago. Did you know that a food science professor at some university tacked a package of Twinkies above his blackboard 30 years ago, and the the Twinkies look pretty much the same, except for some discoloration from sunlight? True story.
I clearly remember that when I began swimming I spent a lot of time my laboring painfully down the lane, struggling for breath, my strokes uneven and uncoordinated. Today I'm a fairly smooth swimmer; I don't swim too fast or too long, but I'm smooth and steady. On occasion someone who is a swimming newcomer will remark on my speed or my stamina, the fools, and I find myself simply saying: "I've been swimming for 4 years." The implication is that I'm not swimming well because I'm an athlete of any renown, just a guy who has been at it for a while.
It's that way with my alcoholism. I've been doing it for a while. It's a process, not an event. I'm pretty sure that I'll get through everything that I need to get through -- which is everything that there is -- if I simply keep at it. I have a few bad days and a lot of ordinary days but I keep stroking forward.
Choking down an occasional mouthful of pool water, sure, but never drowning.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Enough With The Pool, Already
Progress: To continue toward completion; come along.
So I'm back at the pool where I seem to have most of my problems with people (not true, on second thought -- I have plenty of really excellent problems with people wherever they lurk). A wiser man might try a different type of exercise; maybe one that he could do all by himself on an uninhabited planet in a distant galaxy far, far away. Unfortunately, swimming is the only exercise left for me that doesn't hurt everything on my body that still works, which is a diminishing list. I'm sure my problems at the pool, which occur when most adult men are working at a job, make for fascinating reading with everyone very sympathetic to the difficult life that I'm forced to endure. That's why I continue writing about them. It's not about me anymore.
Anyway, let's set the stage: there are 3 double width lanes at the pool, which means that 6 people can comfortably swim at the same time. Well, I don't mean to imply that they are swimming comfortably but rather that they fit into the lanes comfortably. The 2 lanes I try to avoid are the outermost ones abutting the pool wall; the hard, hard, unforgiving pool wall. When I arrived today there was a single person in each of the 3 lanes so I jumped into the middle lane, the non-wall lane, hoping to share with the man swimming there already and avoid repeatedly bashing my hands and feet on the hard, hard wall. I could see that he had Down's Syndrome and was swimming with great purpose but having trouble staying to one side of the double lane.
"Could you swim over there?" he asked, pointing to one of the outermost lanes. "I have trouble swimming in a straight line."
This pissed me off. I pointed out that there was someone in that lane. He ducked his head and continued to swim. I'm assuming that he quickly saw that I was an ass and that he would be better off not wasting any more time with me.
I sighed dramatically and moved to the outermost lane. Oy, what a saint.
I swim 4 sets of 15 laps for my exercise. I was honked off my first set, so preoccupied with how unfairly I had been treated by that man that I bashed my hands and feet against the wall more frequently and with greater violence than I normally do. During my second set my anger began to subside as I decided how to point out to him how unreasonable his very reasonable request had been. For my third set I realized that I should keep my %$!! mouth shut while still nurturing some delicious, delicious, scrumptious self-righteous indignation.
The 4th set? I was embarrassed for myself.
I finished my work out and hopped into the sauna for a few minutes. This swimmer finishes shortly afterward me and makes his way to the steps that exit the pool. I quit thinking about myself long enough to notice a pretty fancy motorized wheel chair sitting at the pool's edge. The man labors up the stairs slowly and with great effort, leaning heavily on the railing for support. He composes himself for a minute before taking several rapid, unsteady steps on his significantly deformed legs to get to his wheelchair. He belts himself in and buzzes off to the locker-room.
I'm a work in progress. I'm glad that my higher power is kinder to me than I am to my fellows. I'd have a tough go of it if I was getting what I deserved for my behavior.
So I'm back at the pool where I seem to have most of my problems with people (not true, on second thought -- I have plenty of really excellent problems with people wherever they lurk). A wiser man might try a different type of exercise; maybe one that he could do all by himself on an uninhabited planet in a distant galaxy far, far away. Unfortunately, swimming is the only exercise left for me that doesn't hurt everything on my body that still works, which is a diminishing list. I'm sure my problems at the pool, which occur when most adult men are working at a job, make for fascinating reading with everyone very sympathetic to the difficult life that I'm forced to endure. That's why I continue writing about them. It's not about me anymore.
Anyway, let's set the stage: there are 3 double width lanes at the pool, which means that 6 people can comfortably swim at the same time. Well, I don't mean to imply that they are swimming comfortably but rather that they fit into the lanes comfortably. The 2 lanes I try to avoid are the outermost ones abutting the pool wall; the hard, hard, unforgiving pool wall. When I arrived today there was a single person in each of the 3 lanes so I jumped into the middle lane, the non-wall lane, hoping to share with the man swimming there already and avoid repeatedly bashing my hands and feet on the hard, hard wall. I could see that he had Down's Syndrome and was swimming with great purpose but having trouble staying to one side of the double lane.
"Could you swim over there?" he asked, pointing to one of the outermost lanes. "I have trouble swimming in a straight line."
This pissed me off. I pointed out that there was someone in that lane. He ducked his head and continued to swim. I'm assuming that he quickly saw that I was an ass and that he would be better off not wasting any more time with me.
I sighed dramatically and moved to the outermost lane. Oy, what a saint.
I swim 4 sets of 15 laps for my exercise. I was honked off my first set, so preoccupied with how unfairly I had been treated by that man that I bashed my hands and feet against the wall more frequently and with greater violence than I normally do. During my second set my anger began to subside as I decided how to point out to him how unreasonable his very reasonable request had been. For my third set I realized that I should keep my %$!! mouth shut while still nurturing some delicious, delicious, scrumptious self-righteous indignation.
The 4th set? I was embarrassed for myself.
I finished my work out and hopped into the sauna for a few minutes. This swimmer finishes shortly afterward me and makes his way to the steps that exit the pool. I quit thinking about myself long enough to notice a pretty fancy motorized wheel chair sitting at the pool's edge. The man labors up the stairs slowly and with great effort, leaning heavily on the railing for support. He composes himself for a minute before taking several rapid, unsteady steps on his significantly deformed legs to get to his wheelchair. He belts himself in and buzzes off to the locker-room.
I'm a work in progress. I'm glad that my higher power is kinder to me than I am to my fellows. I'd have a tough go of it if I was getting what I deserved for my behavior.
Friday, February 24, 2012
A Zinger
Denial: A refusal to believe or accept.
I think I need to go see a dentist, but I don't want to. Something people probing around my mucous membranes with sharp stainless steel diggers.
My teeth have given me a fair amount of problems over the years even though I'm a tad on the obsessive-compulsive side when it comes to care of said teeth, as you would expect from a tightly wound, control-freak obsessive-compulsive kind of guy. I could add a few more unflattering adjectives but my limit is 3, maybe 4 if I'm rolling pretty good, pejoratives in a single phrase. I don't think I have the best enamel in the world or something like that because I brush, floss, and rinse after every meal and when I get up and right before I go to bed. I think sometimes I floss in my sleep. It's a rare medical condition called "sleep-flossing." It can actually be dangerous. Qualified experts warn never to wake up an individual who is sleep-flossing or even sleep-brushing, although there isn't a consensus on what to do with someone who is rinsing in their sleep. Sleep-flossers have been known to lash out viciously when their sleep-flossing is interrupted.
Anyway, I bit into a seed a few weeks back and got what my dentist in The Old City calls a "zinger." This means something that hurts like hell. As an alcoholic when something happens that I don't like or am afraid of I have a series of stages that I must go through before I squarely face the problem. The first is a stage I call "Pretend that nothing happened." It's a fairly stupid stage when pain is involved. Maybe if I think I've offended someone but I'm not sure then this stage makes sense, but not when I've experienced a fairly sharp, stabbing pain in one of my teeth. I'm patient when it comes to dealing with something that I've afraid of so I decided to wait this one out. My teeth aren't sensitive to hot or cold and there's no tooth ache so I figure maybe it was an isolated incident. Maybe if I ignore it then it will "go away."
As you might expect I had another zinger a week or so later and this time the sensitivity has been hanging around. So I proceed logically to Stage Two: "Investigate the problem." In this case that involved calling my old dentist, explaining the problem, and then taking his advice. This is another stupid stage. My dentist had a father who died with long term sobriety so he's used to dealing with people like me. He's a good dentist so he suggested that someone with a sharp, stabbing pain in one of his teeth needed to go see a dentist. I believe that a bad dentist would also recommend this. I believe that the nice boy who bagged my groceries yesterday would suggest that I go see a dentist or shut up about it already.
I moved immediately to Step Three: "Bitching about the unfairness of a problem." This is my favorite step. I'm good at it. I get my hackles way, way up when life is unfair, which it is by necessity. I have a long history of bitching about my problems so I tackle this step with vigor and relish. I don't see why I need to go through pain or discomfort in my life.
I'm currently dealing with Step Four, although I'm not abandoning Step Three until I'm good and miserable. I can do Step Three while I'm tackling Step Four. I'm multi-tasking. Anyway, Step Four, which I surely must do in my inexorable march through these Steps of Denial, is Anger. This Step includes both outrage at the unfairness of life and strong exceptional-ism, where I express disbelief that something bad or unpleasant is happening to me, the only person I care about, even though it's one in a series of bad things that surely must! surely will!! happen to me as well as to most other people. It's just that I'd rather pass on any unpleasantness.
Step 5 includes Greed and Paranoia, and Anger, too, I suppose. I might as well toss anger in as well. Anger is a great addition to any of my many character defects. It's the icing on the cake. It's a flavor enhancer, a catalyst that accelerates the growth of all of my defects. Step 5 involves contacting local dentists, certain that they are going to overcharge me for work that won't solve the problem and will be poorly done.
There about 100 more Steps before I go about tackling a fairly straightforward problem like an adult. I'll stop now.
I think I need to go see a dentist, but I don't want to. Something people probing around my mucous membranes with sharp stainless steel diggers.
My teeth have given me a fair amount of problems over the years even though I'm a tad on the obsessive-compulsive side when it comes to care of said teeth, as you would expect from a tightly wound, control-freak obsessive-compulsive kind of guy. I could add a few more unflattering adjectives but my limit is 3, maybe 4 if I'm rolling pretty good, pejoratives in a single phrase. I don't think I have the best enamel in the world or something like that because I brush, floss, and rinse after every meal and when I get up and right before I go to bed. I think sometimes I floss in my sleep. It's a rare medical condition called "sleep-flossing." It can actually be dangerous. Qualified experts warn never to wake up an individual who is sleep-flossing or even sleep-brushing, although there isn't a consensus on what to do with someone who is rinsing in their sleep. Sleep-flossers have been known to lash out viciously when their sleep-flossing is interrupted.
Anyway, I bit into a seed a few weeks back and got what my dentist in The Old City calls a "zinger." This means something that hurts like hell. As an alcoholic when something happens that I don't like or am afraid of I have a series of stages that I must go through before I squarely face the problem. The first is a stage I call "Pretend that nothing happened." It's a fairly stupid stage when pain is involved. Maybe if I think I've offended someone but I'm not sure then this stage makes sense, but not when I've experienced a fairly sharp, stabbing pain in one of my teeth. I'm patient when it comes to dealing with something that I've afraid of so I decided to wait this one out. My teeth aren't sensitive to hot or cold and there's no tooth ache so I figure maybe it was an isolated incident. Maybe if I ignore it then it will "go away."
As you might expect I had another zinger a week or so later and this time the sensitivity has been hanging around. So I proceed logically to Stage Two: "Investigate the problem." In this case that involved calling my old dentist, explaining the problem, and then taking his advice. This is another stupid stage. My dentist had a father who died with long term sobriety so he's used to dealing with people like me. He's a good dentist so he suggested that someone with a sharp, stabbing pain in one of his teeth needed to go see a dentist. I believe that a bad dentist would also recommend this. I believe that the nice boy who bagged my groceries yesterday would suggest that I go see a dentist or shut up about it already.
I moved immediately to Step Three: "Bitching about the unfairness of a problem." This is my favorite step. I'm good at it. I get my hackles way, way up when life is unfair, which it is by necessity. I have a long history of bitching about my problems so I tackle this step with vigor and relish. I don't see why I need to go through pain or discomfort in my life.
I'm currently dealing with Step Four, although I'm not abandoning Step Three until I'm good and miserable. I can do Step Three while I'm tackling Step Four. I'm multi-tasking. Anyway, Step Four, which I surely must do in my inexorable march through these Steps of Denial, is Anger. This Step includes both outrage at the unfairness of life and strong exceptional-ism, where I express disbelief that something bad or unpleasant is happening to me, the only person I care about, even though it's one in a series of bad things that surely must! surely will!! happen to me as well as to most other people. It's just that I'd rather pass on any unpleasantness.
Step 5 includes Greed and Paranoia, and Anger, too, I suppose. I might as well toss anger in as well. Anger is a great addition to any of my many character defects. It's the icing on the cake. It's a flavor enhancer, a catalyst that accelerates the growth of all of my defects. Step 5 involves contacting local dentists, certain that they are going to overcharge me for work that won't solve the problem and will be poorly done.
There about 100 more Steps before I go about tackling a fairly straightforward problem like an adult. I'll stop now.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
With Friends Like These . . .
Criticize: To judge disapprovingly; censure (v).
Analysis of qualities and evaluation of comparative worth (n).
I've been pondering the blessing of having men in my life who tell me what I need to hear irregardless of whether I want to hear it or not. My preference is for people to agree with me. I want them to agree with me while praising me as the greatest thing since sliced bread. I don't want criticism. I don't want good suggestions if they don't happen to line up exactly with what I want to do.
"My life is a tremendous success," I thought, sitting in my jammies in my childhood bedroom, stoned, unemployed, relationship-less, broke, sick, stupid, lost and blown away, and this at 30.
"Can you believe what that dick told me last night?"
I need friends who can give it to me straight and not be afraid that their honest advice is going to scuttle a friendship. And I need friends who can take my advice without rancor. Sure, I mutter veiled curses when I hang up the phone, but I ponder what I've heard.
Sometimes I even do it. Not too often, but sometimes.
Analysis of qualities and evaluation of comparative worth (n).
I've been pondering the blessing of having men in my life who tell me what I need to hear irregardless of whether I want to hear it or not. My preference is for people to agree with me. I want them to agree with me while praising me as the greatest thing since sliced bread. I don't want criticism. I don't want good suggestions if they don't happen to line up exactly with what I want to do.
"My life is a tremendous success," I thought, sitting in my jammies in my childhood bedroom, stoned, unemployed, relationship-less, broke, sick, stupid, lost and blown away, and this at 30.
"Can you believe what that dick told me last night?"
I need friends who can give it to me straight and not be afraid that their honest advice is going to scuttle a friendship. And I need friends who can take my advice without rancor. Sure, I mutter veiled curses when I hang up the phone, but I ponder what I've heard.
Sometimes I even do it. Not too often, but sometimes.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Lead By What Now?
It's funny how we pass the message along in The Program. I know that I am most receptive to the message delivered in an exemplary fashion. As in, "this is how I do it which you may or may not find appropriate for you." The subtext is "I really don't give a shit -- go talk to someone else if this doesn't interest you." I found it riveting that nobody was explicitly telling me what to do when I started to attend meetings. I had a long history of people telling me what to do and then explicitly not doing it, even though the suggested plan of action was much, much better than anything I was currently doing. So when I waded into this group of people who were letting me do whatever I wanted to do -- encouraging me to do whatever I wanted to do, in fact, going so far as to suggest good local hardware stores where I could buy good locally sourced, organic rope with which to continue hanging myself by the neck -- I was really drawn to the message. I was used to getting attention by acting out and here were these men and women who weren't paying me any attention at all. I had to know more.
Example: A person or thing to be imitated; model; pattern; precedent.
This is our great party trick: leading by example. Alcoholics really are like children. We don't do what we're told to do but we pay close attention to what is done. As a person, I'm very much an amalgamation of my parents; I behave in a manner very similar to both of them even though I took almost none of their advice, obviously, or I wouldn't have ended up a drunken, aimless, drug addict. So we get the leading by example part right in The Program. We give people plenty of hanging rope.
"If what you're doing is working for you by all means keep doing it," they told me, wandering off to talk to someone who didn't have their head as far up their rear as I did.
"What?" I muttered under my breath. "It's CLEARLY not working, you dumb ass. Why don't you raise your voice and stick your finger in my face and get angry and tell me what to do, or else." Either that, I figured, or pretend like nothing was wrong and if it was, it was all going to work out just fine by being hopeful and ignoring any of the symptoms of the slow motion train wreck that was unfolding in clear view of everyone.
The other thing I liked is that there were a few guys that told me EXACTLY what they thought, and it tended to the uncomplimentary side. I needed this, too; I craved some discipline. I wasn't behaving very well and I needed some people to say: "Uh, you're behaving like an ass." I needed that explicisity.
Which isn't a word but you get the point.
Example: A person or thing to be imitated; model; pattern; precedent.
This is our great party trick: leading by example. Alcoholics really are like children. We don't do what we're told to do but we pay close attention to what is done. As a person, I'm very much an amalgamation of my parents; I behave in a manner very similar to both of them even though I took almost none of their advice, obviously, or I wouldn't have ended up a drunken, aimless, drug addict. So we get the leading by example part right in The Program. We give people plenty of hanging rope.
"If what you're doing is working for you by all means keep doing it," they told me, wandering off to talk to someone who didn't have their head as far up their rear as I did.
"What?" I muttered under my breath. "It's CLEARLY not working, you dumb ass. Why don't you raise your voice and stick your finger in my face and get angry and tell me what to do, or else." Either that, I figured, or pretend like nothing was wrong and if it was, it was all going to work out just fine by being hopeful and ignoring any of the symptoms of the slow motion train wreck that was unfolding in clear view of everyone.
The other thing I liked is that there were a few guys that told me EXACTLY what they thought, and it tended to the uncomplimentary side. I needed this, too; I craved some discipline. I wasn't behaving very well and I needed some people to say: "Uh, you're behaving like an ass." I needed that explicisity.
Which isn't a word but you get the point.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Stop! In the Name of Love
Produce: To bear; bring forth; create; yield.
Stop: To cause to cease motion, activity, etc.
One of the most important things that meetings did for me at the start -- and by "start" I mean "right now at this present time" -- was simply to make me sit down and shut up and stop my ceaseless, restless activity for an hour. I had the same disease that Grandpa Simpson had, as diagnosed by Doctor Nick, where the skeleton tries to jump out through the skin. I don't remember the name of the condition at this point but I clearly remember sitting in a chair, fighting the urge to get up and run 100 yard sprints or lift weights (well, not lift weights, c'mon) or do anything physical so that I could feel like my skeleton was going to stay put. And, of course, I got to the meetings at the last minute so that sometimes I had to thread my way into the middle of a row to find a seat, with people in front of me and people behind me. It was a suffocating, constricting feeling. But I never sat in the first row. I was afraid that my skeleton might escape and leap at the chairperson, which would have caused quite a ruckus. I've been to several thousand meetings and I've never seen a chairperson get leaped at by someone's skeleton.
A lot of time today I close my eyes and try to focus on my breath so that I can actually listen to what people are saying. This is hard because I don't really care what people are saying unless it has something to do with me, which it almost never does. People aren't thinking about me -- they're thinking about themselves. But I do love it when someone says "I liked what Stevie Seaweed said." That gets my attention. I really perk up when I hear my name. However, most of the time my brain is engaging in preparing brilliant, insightful remarks in case I'm called on to share or reviewing what I've said and wondering how I could have improved it and why it is that everyone isn't saying: "Man, that Stevie Seaweed hit the nail right on the head." I don't have a hammer which is good because my ability to strike a nail is poor unless by "nail" you mean "my finger."
Sitting quietly doesn't seem to be productive to me. It's very, very difficult to do. I can always find something else to do than to try to sit quietly. But my experience is that if I take 20 minutes and sit quietly and listen to my breath, trying to calm the cacophony in my brain to a dull roar, that the results are very productive. It's just not a vigorous action requiring a lot of movement and effort which seems so damned productive.
Damn it.
Stop: To cause to cease motion, activity, etc.
One of the most important things that meetings did for me at the start -- and by "start" I mean "right now at this present time" -- was simply to make me sit down and shut up and stop my ceaseless, restless activity for an hour. I had the same disease that Grandpa Simpson had, as diagnosed by Doctor Nick, where the skeleton tries to jump out through the skin. I don't remember the name of the condition at this point but I clearly remember sitting in a chair, fighting the urge to get up and run 100 yard sprints or lift weights (well, not lift weights, c'mon) or do anything physical so that I could feel like my skeleton was going to stay put. And, of course, I got to the meetings at the last minute so that sometimes I had to thread my way into the middle of a row to find a seat, with people in front of me and people behind me. It was a suffocating, constricting feeling. But I never sat in the first row. I was afraid that my skeleton might escape and leap at the chairperson, which would have caused quite a ruckus. I've been to several thousand meetings and I've never seen a chairperson get leaped at by someone's skeleton.
A lot of time today I close my eyes and try to focus on my breath so that I can actually listen to what people are saying. This is hard because I don't really care what people are saying unless it has something to do with me, which it almost never does. People aren't thinking about me -- they're thinking about themselves. But I do love it when someone says "I liked what Stevie Seaweed said." That gets my attention. I really perk up when I hear my name. However, most of the time my brain is engaging in preparing brilliant, insightful remarks in case I'm called on to share or reviewing what I've said and wondering how I could have improved it and why it is that everyone isn't saying: "Man, that Stevie Seaweed hit the nail right on the head." I don't have a hammer which is good because my ability to strike a nail is poor unless by "nail" you mean "my finger."
Sitting quietly doesn't seem to be productive to me. It's very, very difficult to do. I can always find something else to do than to try to sit quietly. But my experience is that if I take 20 minutes and sit quietly and listen to my breath, trying to calm the cacophony in my brain to a dull roar, that the results are very productive. It's just not a vigorous action requiring a lot of movement and effort which seems so damned productive.
Damn it.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
The Slogans
Slogan: A catchword or rallying motto distinctly associated with a political party or other group.
I remember snorting derisively when I came into The Rooms and saw the slogans plastered all over the walls. Live and Let Live. Let Go and Let God. Easy Does It. Keep It Simple. I couldn't believe that the solution to my incredibly complex problems were going to be addressed by those infantile expressions. I needed the Senior Thesis level slogans to solve my problems and no one would tell me where those were kept. Little did I know, which would make a great slogan, by the way. "Little Do You Know." That one would have really pissed me off. I was not impressed with what I was seeing.
Here's another slogan I think would work well: "No One Is Thinking About You." I'm convinced that everyone is thinking about me all the time when the fact of the matter is no one is thinking about me at all. This is another example of extreme will run riot: I never think about anyone but myself yet I think everyone is thinking about me. The ego. It's embarrassing to admit it, and this from a guy who's entire life is an embarrassment.
I could have a whole room wallpapered with similar slogans and still not get it. "They're Not Thinking About You." "They're Never Thinking About You." "No One Is Ever Thinking About You, Ever!" And so on and so one. It would be like the scene from "The Shining" when Jack Nicholson's character finishes up his book after many weeks of writing and his wife finds that the whole text says: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." His wife saw he was nuts but he couldn't see it in himself.
All Stevie Seaweed All the Time. That would be a great slogan, too.
I send out my writing to a few friends and it always surprises me how often someone will ask: "Were you thinking about me when you wrote that?" Sometimes more than one person will say that about the same entry. I say: "Yes! Yes, I was!" when the truth of the matter is that I'm never thinking about anyone except myself.
Frankly, I don't see the point.
I remember snorting derisively when I came into The Rooms and saw the slogans plastered all over the walls. Live and Let Live. Let Go and Let God. Easy Does It. Keep It Simple. I couldn't believe that the solution to my incredibly complex problems were going to be addressed by those infantile expressions. I needed the Senior Thesis level slogans to solve my problems and no one would tell me where those were kept. Little did I know, which would make a great slogan, by the way. "Little Do You Know." That one would have really pissed me off. I was not impressed with what I was seeing.
Here's another slogan I think would work well: "No One Is Thinking About You." I'm convinced that everyone is thinking about me all the time when the fact of the matter is no one is thinking about me at all. This is another example of extreme will run riot: I never think about anyone but myself yet I think everyone is thinking about me. The ego. It's embarrassing to admit it, and this from a guy who's entire life is an embarrassment.
I could have a whole room wallpapered with similar slogans and still not get it. "They're Not Thinking About You." "They're Never Thinking About You." "No One Is Ever Thinking About You, Ever!" And so on and so one. It would be like the scene from "The Shining" when Jack Nicholson's character finishes up his book after many weeks of writing and his wife finds that the whole text says: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." His wife saw he was nuts but he couldn't see it in himself.
All Stevie Seaweed All the Time. That would be a great slogan, too.
I send out my writing to a few friends and it always surprises me how often someone will ask: "Were you thinking about me when you wrote that?" Sometimes more than one person will say that about the same entry. I say: "Yes! Yes, I was!" when the truth of the matter is that I'm never thinking about anyone except myself.
Frankly, I don't see the point.
Friday, February 17, 2012
The Wisdom of AC/DC
"If you want blood, you got it."
I hesitate starting my thought process with a song from AC/DC that emphasizes blood -- a lot of blood -- but what can you do? It seems appropriate as I try to work my way from the anxiety stage through the anger stage, which is where I seem to be currently residing. I'm mad at an institution, a force of nature, and a person at the moment, and that seems to cover just about everything. I take pains to emphasize that I'm not currently mad at SuperK but I'm sure that'll change. My theory is that most people get married so that they'll have a ready-made target close at hand to blame for whatever shortcoming they're currently not working on. Love, schmuv. Please. And lest I sound like too much of a dick, let me assure you that there's no shortage of incoming fire in my case. We both dish it out pretty good when the mood strikes us.
I assume I could be mad at god if I wanted to cover all of my bases, but that has never worked out especially well for me. As a fellow member once remarked: "If you want to box with god remember that he has longer arms than you do." And god seems to be able to take it, which makes it pretty irritating. He doesn't get sucked into my mind games. He chuckles and dodges my wild swings, then decks me with one shot to the nose. I mean, if you can't get someone's goat what's the point of being pissed? Full frontal anger, passive aggressive anger, sniping, suggestive anger: I'm not going to restrict my options at all.
Blood on the streets.
Blood on the rocks.
Blood in the gutter.
Every last drop.
I believe that when I get angry at one thing then I enjoy letting it spill over into everything else. Full spectrum anger. I'm a machine gun guy, not a rifle guy. When I'm not doing well I just start blasting away -- 20 rounds per second -- and try to shoot up everything in sight. "Kill 'em all, let god sort 'em" out kind of thinking.
Things that would never bother me when I've got my angst and insecurities and resentments under control suddenly get very large and take on a life of their own. And the underlying reason? Might it be powerlessness? Yes, it might be. It all comes down to the first half of the First Step: powerlessness. I try to take back power and it doesn't work out very well for me.
Ever.
I hesitate starting my thought process with a song from AC/DC that emphasizes blood -- a lot of blood -- but what can you do? It seems appropriate as I try to work my way from the anxiety stage through the anger stage, which is where I seem to be currently residing. I'm mad at an institution, a force of nature, and a person at the moment, and that seems to cover just about everything. I take pains to emphasize that I'm not currently mad at SuperK but I'm sure that'll change. My theory is that most people get married so that they'll have a ready-made target close at hand to blame for whatever shortcoming they're currently not working on. Love, schmuv. Please. And lest I sound like too much of a dick, let me assure you that there's no shortage of incoming fire in my case. We both dish it out pretty good when the mood strikes us.
I assume I could be mad at god if I wanted to cover all of my bases, but that has never worked out especially well for me. As a fellow member once remarked: "If you want to box with god remember that he has longer arms than you do." And god seems to be able to take it, which makes it pretty irritating. He doesn't get sucked into my mind games. He chuckles and dodges my wild swings, then decks me with one shot to the nose. I mean, if you can't get someone's goat what's the point of being pissed? Full frontal anger, passive aggressive anger, sniping, suggestive anger: I'm not going to restrict my options at all.
Blood on the streets.
Blood on the rocks.
Blood in the gutter.
Every last drop.
I believe that when I get angry at one thing then I enjoy letting it spill over into everything else. Full spectrum anger. I'm a machine gun guy, not a rifle guy. When I'm not doing well I just start blasting away -- 20 rounds per second -- and try to shoot up everything in sight. "Kill 'em all, let god sort 'em" out kind of thinking.
Things that would never bother me when I've got my angst and insecurities and resentments under control suddenly get very large and take on a life of their own. And the underlying reason? Might it be powerlessness? Yes, it might be. It all comes down to the first half of the First Step: powerlessness. I try to take back power and it doesn't work out very well for me.
Ever.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
My, My, My
My new apartment is a few miles away from my old place. While it's not far as the crow flies it's in a congested part of the city which makes it less convenient for me to go to the meetings that I have been attending regularly. I'm still going to go to these meetings but I also see the wisdom of establishing myself in the new neighborhood, which is rife with groups, many within easy walking distance of my apartment. I can almost see the city's main clubhouse from my balcony.
Of course, I don't like the meetings, or the people in the meetings, or the format, or the times that the meetings are held, or the $%!! chairs in the $%!! buildings where the meetings occur. They're not as good as my regular meetings. And I'll tell you this: I'm not going to go back into my journal and reread my entries from a year ago when I'm sure I was writing the exact same stuff about the meetings I now so enjoy. That would be too educational and informative. I'd rather skulk in the dark, sick recesses of my barely functioning mind, carefully nurturing my need to be as miserable as possible.
Anyway, I've given a men's meeting a whirl 3 or 4 times. Probably 3, which doesn't sound as impressive as 4 and I always err on the side of making myself sound more impressive, even though 4 is a singularly unimpressive number in its own right. I have definitely not gone 5 times. It's kind of an old-timers meeting and I find it a little clubby. You know, lots of sobriety and everyone knows everyone else and they all slip in their sobriety date every time they talk. And it's a tag meeting which means when one guy is done speaking he calls on the next speaker, inevitably a friend. My experience is that I sit there by myself until the meeting starts and then don't get called on to share. Then after the meeting I hang around for a little while until I get bored and leave. I don't think anyone has made the slightest effort to welcome me. I could be brand new.
Now my experience is that this particular meeting is pretty good, although the members tend to get a little bit in their heads as can happen with longer term sobriety. We need to mix head knowledge with what's going on in the heart and in the gut. Sometimes I feel like I'm listening to a professor lecture his students at this meeting. And I also realize that I need to stick my hand out and introduce myself instead of bitching behind my brothers' backs. But don't we also have a responsibility to make sure everyone is welcomed?
I'm not doing a very good job of self-analysis unless I break my arm trying to pat myself on the back. So here goes: I make it a personal responsibility to go speak to someone who is sitting alone or trying to scoot out of the room quickly. I talk to men and women, but I'm careful with the women. I try to get one of the ladies involved if I can. A lot of times my approach is deflected aside, but that's OK. I'm not trying to force the issue. I want everyone to feel welcome. I know who's a regular and who's not at groups I'm established in. I like to bullshit with my friends, too, and I get to do that after I make an effort to make sure everyone is included.
My, my aren't I impressive?
Of course, I don't like the meetings, or the people in the meetings, or the format, or the times that the meetings are held, or the $%!! chairs in the $%!! buildings where the meetings occur. They're not as good as my regular meetings. And I'll tell you this: I'm not going to go back into my journal and reread my entries from a year ago when I'm sure I was writing the exact same stuff about the meetings I now so enjoy. That would be too educational and informative. I'd rather skulk in the dark, sick recesses of my barely functioning mind, carefully nurturing my need to be as miserable as possible.
Anyway, I've given a men's meeting a whirl 3 or 4 times. Probably 3, which doesn't sound as impressive as 4 and I always err on the side of making myself sound more impressive, even though 4 is a singularly unimpressive number in its own right. I have definitely not gone 5 times. It's kind of an old-timers meeting and I find it a little clubby. You know, lots of sobriety and everyone knows everyone else and they all slip in their sobriety date every time they talk. And it's a tag meeting which means when one guy is done speaking he calls on the next speaker, inevitably a friend. My experience is that I sit there by myself until the meeting starts and then don't get called on to share. Then after the meeting I hang around for a little while until I get bored and leave. I don't think anyone has made the slightest effort to welcome me. I could be brand new.
Now my experience is that this particular meeting is pretty good, although the members tend to get a little bit in their heads as can happen with longer term sobriety. We need to mix head knowledge with what's going on in the heart and in the gut. Sometimes I feel like I'm listening to a professor lecture his students at this meeting. And I also realize that I need to stick my hand out and introduce myself instead of bitching behind my brothers' backs. But don't we also have a responsibility to make sure everyone is welcomed?
I'm not doing a very good job of self-analysis unless I break my arm trying to pat myself on the back. So here goes: I make it a personal responsibility to go speak to someone who is sitting alone or trying to scoot out of the room quickly. I talk to men and women, but I'm careful with the women. I try to get one of the ladies involved if I can. A lot of times my approach is deflected aside, but that's OK. I'm not trying to force the issue. I want everyone to feel welcome. I know who's a regular and who's not at groups I'm established in. I like to bullshit with my friends, too, and I get to do that after I make an effort to make sure everyone is included.
My, my aren't I impressive?
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Angry
Angry: Feeling, showing, or resulting from anger; as, an angry reply; wild and stormy, as if angry; inflamed or sore, as a cut, wound, etc.
"If we were to live, we had to be free of anger. The grouch and the brainstorm were not for us. They may be the dubious luxury of normal men, but for alcoholics these things are poison."
I like the subtle implications that I occasionally uncover when I read from The Book, and actually pay attention to what I'm reading. For instance, how about the sweet turn of a phrase "if we were to live." Boy, if that doesn't get your attention. Go ahead and do what you've been doing as far as anger is concerned but if you don't want to die maybe you can try something else.
I also like how the authors snuck in the word "normal." They were trying to be nice but the implication is that I'm not normal. It's like the Step which concludes with "restore us to sanity." I was sober for a few years when I said: "Hey!' I finally got it. I'm nuts. They're calling me nuts. I was offended for a while. Now I see that I'm definitely nuts when it comes to drinking and drugs but nuts is a very apt summation of my behavior and of my thinking even today.
I believe that I can over-simplify things, too. Generally, no; I complicate the hell out of everything so I err on the side of simple, but sometimes I need to look for a little nuance. I don't interpret the caution about anger to mean that we can control our emotions so that we never get angry. Anger is a normal human emotion and it serves an important instinctual purpose. I'll never forget the stunned look on the face of a therapist when I tried to explain why I wasn't angry about something that had happened that I clearly needed to be angry about. Pretending I wasn't angry didn't make it so, and it made how I felt a lot, lot worse. I think the warning in the passage I quoted is that when I get angry it can lead to a Resentment, which is the "number one" offender when it comes to relapses for an alcoholic. That's a good phrase, too: Number One Offender. That gets my attention as well.
Anyway, when I get angry -- and when I say "angry" I mean "afraid" but I mask it with anger because it's a lot more manly sounding than fear, even though anything even remotely "manly" is a total joke in my case -- I try to take some time to look at what's going on in my head and in my gut to make me feel this fear, which I often turn outward into anger and sometimes inward to depression. It's an uncomfortable, unsettling practice but it's also very rewarding. I get down to the root causes of why I'm afraid and I leave the other person, place, thing, or institution out of the equation altogether.
I can also see that when I'm pissed off that it poisons a lot of other things in my life. Little slights and irritations that I would easily slough off when I'm spiritually fit take on a life of their own. I've been trying out a new men's meeting and it seems a little cliquey to me. I'm not assimilating very quickly, which annoys me, and all of a sudden I'm ready to blow up the world.
It's all about me. Everything else is just fine.
"If we were to live, we had to be free of anger. The grouch and the brainstorm were not for us. They may be the dubious luxury of normal men, but for alcoholics these things are poison."
I like the subtle implications that I occasionally uncover when I read from The Book, and actually pay attention to what I'm reading. For instance, how about the sweet turn of a phrase "if we were to live." Boy, if that doesn't get your attention. Go ahead and do what you've been doing as far as anger is concerned but if you don't want to die maybe you can try something else.
I also like how the authors snuck in the word "normal." They were trying to be nice but the implication is that I'm not normal. It's like the Step which concludes with "restore us to sanity." I was sober for a few years when I said: "Hey!' I finally got it. I'm nuts. They're calling me nuts. I was offended for a while. Now I see that I'm definitely nuts when it comes to drinking and drugs but nuts is a very apt summation of my behavior and of my thinking even today.
I believe that I can over-simplify things, too. Generally, no; I complicate the hell out of everything so I err on the side of simple, but sometimes I need to look for a little nuance. I don't interpret the caution about anger to mean that we can control our emotions so that we never get angry. Anger is a normal human emotion and it serves an important instinctual purpose. I'll never forget the stunned look on the face of a therapist when I tried to explain why I wasn't angry about something that had happened that I clearly needed to be angry about. Pretending I wasn't angry didn't make it so, and it made how I felt a lot, lot worse. I think the warning in the passage I quoted is that when I get angry it can lead to a Resentment, which is the "number one" offender when it comes to relapses for an alcoholic. That's a good phrase, too: Number One Offender. That gets my attention as well.
Anyway, when I get angry -- and when I say "angry" I mean "afraid" but I mask it with anger because it's a lot more manly sounding than fear, even though anything even remotely "manly" is a total joke in my case -- I try to take some time to look at what's going on in my head and in my gut to make me feel this fear, which I often turn outward into anger and sometimes inward to depression. It's an uncomfortable, unsettling practice but it's also very rewarding. I get down to the root causes of why I'm afraid and I leave the other person, place, thing, or institution out of the equation altogether.
I can also see that when I'm pissed off that it poisons a lot of other things in my life. Little slights and irritations that I would easily slough off when I'm spiritually fit take on a life of their own. I've been trying out a new men's meeting and it seems a little cliquey to me. I'm not assimilating very quickly, which annoys me, and all of a sudden I'm ready to blow up the world.
It's all about me. Everything else is just fine.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Type A
Type A
The theory describes a Type A individual as ambitious, aggressive, business-like, controlling, highly competitive, preoccupied with his or her status, time-conscious, arrogant and tightly-wound. People with Type A personalities are often high-achieving "workaholics" who multi-task, push themselves with deadlines, and hate both delays and ambivalence. -- (Ed. note: lifted verbatim from Wikipedia).
I had coffee today with Tom Bon Jovi. He's another of my many friends with a Type A personality and luckily for him, he knows this. While there may be a few people possessing the laid-back Type B personality in The Rooms I don't run into them very often. I do see a hell of a lot of hard charging people. Personally, I confused being too stoned to get off the couch with being laid back. There is nothing even remotely laid back about Little Stevie Seaweed.
"No, you were drunk," my first sponsor said, typically not mincing words. "Didn't you say you got into a lot of fights when you were playing sports?" he asked, doubtfully eyeing my skinny frame.
"I did," I maintained. "Well, shoving matches would be a better description." I paused. "Well, I really glared at a lot of people. They had to know I was pissed."
"Laid back people don't get into fights," he pointed out. "That's kind of counter to the whole spirit of being laid back."
We Type A's do get a lot done but we're not too relaxed doing it. Today I recognize this about myself. I don't try to change the person that I am. I try to change how I behave. I believe that what The Program has done for me is to allow who I really am to come out. I don't fight it anymore. I don't sit around very well. It's who I am.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Who is Nuts, Exactly?
So I spoke to my mother again yesterday. I'm trying to be a good son by calling a few times a week. SuperK thinks I'm nuts for calling that often. She thinks I'm nuts about a lot of other things, too, but that's a topic for another day, probably tomorrow. The calls never go that well. My father hasn't spoken to me on the phone for a year -- he doesn't like to talk on the phone -- and my mother seems to labor through the conversations, somewhat. I'm not entirely sure why I call. I don't enjoy it and I'm not sure that they do, either.
There's a good episode of "Seinfeld" where George reveals that he writes down notes containing several topics before his weekly call to his parents. One of his topics, for instance, is why Bosco is an under-appreciated drink. Eventually, his parents admit that they hate the phone calls -- they lie about other engagements to avoid talking to him and even move to Florida to escape his hectoring.
I started writing letters to my folks about 10 months ago. I'll add a few paragraphs every other day or so about nothing in particular. They really seem to like these. I guess I should be writing letters and giving them a break with the phone calls that no one seems to enjoy. I guess this is another instance of me deciding how the universe should make sense and then getting upset when other people don't buy into my construction.
Anyway, I'm going to share a few snippets from yesterday's call. I add these not as a criticism but to demonstrate to myself that some of what I am was installed by others and then reinforced vigorously for years and years. That and because it really is criticism, which I enjoy so much; my saying it's not criticism doesn't make it so. I can tell the cops I only had two beers but that doesn't change the facts.
My parents are worried about the flu so they're not leaving the house to avoid any possible contact with the virus. There's something reasonable in this -- they are pretty old and the flu can be dangerous to the elderly. But it seems so over the top. How long does the flu season last? 4 or 5 months? That's a long time to avoid human contact. To me that sounds like saying: "I'm not going to drive because I could have an accident" or "I'm not going to eat anything because I could choke."
The really revealing comment was my mother sharing that a good friend of theirs goes to Florida every winter and stays with her son who has a small sailboat. There's snow on the ground in The Old City and I think the temperature dropped into the single digits last night so I remarked that a trip like that sounded pretty nice. I'd go down and stay with the guy, for god's sake.
"I don't know," my mother said doubtfully. "A storm could come up and you could be swept overboard." It reminds me of the time I told her about some hiking I was going to do and she recounted a story of someone getting mauled by a bear, somewhere else, a long time ago. Whenever I travel she trots out a ready to go list of tragedies that have struck unprepared tourists like a crack of lightning.
Be afraid.
There's a good episode of "Seinfeld" where George reveals that he writes down notes containing several topics before his weekly call to his parents. One of his topics, for instance, is why Bosco is an under-appreciated drink. Eventually, his parents admit that they hate the phone calls -- they lie about other engagements to avoid talking to him and even move to Florida to escape his hectoring.
I started writing letters to my folks about 10 months ago. I'll add a few paragraphs every other day or so about nothing in particular. They really seem to like these. I guess I should be writing letters and giving them a break with the phone calls that no one seems to enjoy. I guess this is another instance of me deciding how the universe should make sense and then getting upset when other people don't buy into my construction.
Anyway, I'm going to share a few snippets from yesterday's call. I add these not as a criticism but to demonstrate to myself that some of what I am was installed by others and then reinforced vigorously for years and years. That and because it really is criticism, which I enjoy so much; my saying it's not criticism doesn't make it so. I can tell the cops I only had two beers but that doesn't change the facts.
My parents are worried about the flu so they're not leaving the house to avoid any possible contact with the virus. There's something reasonable in this -- they are pretty old and the flu can be dangerous to the elderly. But it seems so over the top. How long does the flu season last? 4 or 5 months? That's a long time to avoid human contact. To me that sounds like saying: "I'm not going to drive because I could have an accident" or "I'm not going to eat anything because I could choke."
The really revealing comment was my mother sharing that a good friend of theirs goes to Florida every winter and stays with her son who has a small sailboat. There's snow on the ground in The Old City and I think the temperature dropped into the single digits last night so I remarked that a trip like that sounded pretty nice. I'd go down and stay with the guy, for god's sake.
"I don't know," my mother said doubtfully. "A storm could come up and you could be swept overboard." It reminds me of the time I told her about some hiking I was going to do and she recounted a story of someone getting mauled by a bear, somewhere else, a long time ago. Whenever I travel she trots out a ready to go list of tragedies that have struck unprepared tourists like a crack of lightning.
Be afraid.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Little Stevie Seaweed
Seaweed: Any sea plant or plants; especially, any marine alga.
I'm getting a little tired of the nickname "Horseface Steve." I'm definitely not tired of "SuperK," however. That is an outstanding nickname, although around the house she's usually "Princess Kristina" or "Champagne Kris" or something like that.
I digress. I'm talking about someone other than myself and I have little or no patience for that. "What's the point?" I wonder. The trouble with Horseface is that some of my many, many, MANY girlfriends are starting to object to the negative connotations of having a face that resembles a horse. And I haven't cut my hair in a year so I don't know too many horses with a lot of unruly gray hair.
"You don't have a Horseface!" one of my girlfriends said. "You're very handsome!" The reason I have so many girlfriends is that SuperK sends my posts to some of her friends. Otherwise, I have about zero girlfriends, which is roughly the number, more or less, I had when I was drinking.
"Why thank you," I said to this woman, who is very attractive, as I blushed alluringly, a lovely, subtle shade of pink, which really makes my age spots sparkly.
"No," she continued, "It's more of a mule face. Or . . . what is the result of a horse mating with a mule . . . a burro!" she added brightly.
Anyway, when I was a little boy -- an actual little boy in people years and not a little boy trapped in 75 inches of overwrought man body -- some bully called me "Little Stevie Seaweed" as a taunt of some kind. It bugged me so I told my parents who thought it was hilarious which totally pissed me off.
I'm going to try it on for size.
I'm getting a little tired of the nickname "Horseface Steve." I'm definitely not tired of "SuperK," however. That is an outstanding nickname, although around the house she's usually "Princess Kristina" or "Champagne Kris" or something like that.
I digress. I'm talking about someone other than myself and I have little or no patience for that. "What's the point?" I wonder. The trouble with Horseface is that some of my many, many, MANY girlfriends are starting to object to the negative connotations of having a face that resembles a horse. And I haven't cut my hair in a year so I don't know too many horses with a lot of unruly gray hair.
"You don't have a Horseface!" one of my girlfriends said. "You're very handsome!" The reason I have so many girlfriends is that SuperK sends my posts to some of her friends. Otherwise, I have about zero girlfriends, which is roughly the number, more or less, I had when I was drinking.
"Why thank you," I said to this woman, who is very attractive, as I blushed alluringly, a lovely, subtle shade of pink, which really makes my age spots sparkly.
"No," she continued, "It's more of a mule face. Or . . . what is the result of a horse mating with a mule . . . a burro!" she added brightly.
Anyway, when I was a little boy -- an actual little boy in people years and not a little boy trapped in 75 inches of overwrought man body -- some bully called me "Little Stevie Seaweed" as a taunt of some kind. It bugged me so I told my parents who thought it was hilarious which totally pissed me off.
I'm going to try it on for size.
Envious Steve
Glutton: A person who eats too much; also, a furry northern animal related to the marten and weasel, but longer; the American version is called wolverine.
Some people -- well, all people, actually -- said that I was a glutton for punishment when I was drinking. That makes it sound like gluttony is an overly large appetite for anything, even pain.
Temperanace seems to imply a sense of moderation. It's also a great name for a girl if you want to have a child who is going to be teased until she develops an eating disorder. I guess it wouldn't be as bad as being named Chastity. Since the girls get the Virtues maybe the boys should get the vices.
How cool would it be if my name was Sloth or Envy?
Re- Sentment
Resent: To feel or show displeasure and indignation at (some act, remark, etc.) or toward (a person), from a sense of being injured or offended.
"However, what actually happens is that your own body generated such harmful chemistry that you experience pain, increased heart beat, tension, change of facial expression, loss of appetite, deprivation of sleep, and appear very unpleasant to others. You go through the same things you wish for your enemy."
So saith the Minor Buddha.
"Resentment is the Number One offender. It destroys more alcoholics than anything else." BB of AA
Apparently, this resentment thing is pretty important. I'll ponder that as I move through the day feeling put upon because the weather isn't to my liking.
"However, what actually happens is that your own body generated such harmful chemistry that you experience pain, increased heart beat, tension, change of facial expression, loss of appetite, deprivation of sleep, and appear very unpleasant to others. You go through the same things you wish for your enemy."
So saith the Minor Buddha.
"Resentment is the Number One offender. It destroys more alcoholics than anything else." BB of AA
Apparently, this resentment thing is pretty important. I'll ponder that as I move through the day feeling put upon because the weather isn't to my liking.
Solvent
Solve: To find or provide a satisfactory solution for (a problem).
I realize I've been droning on and on a bit about solving problems rather than the problems themselves. You don't know how unbelievable it is for me to talk about The Solution so I'm really making sure that I run with this riff. It's almost unprecedented for me to think past the problem. Most unnatural.
I return to my stint in Chicago where the meetings were all based on a Step. A service position such as chairperson lasted for 12 weeks - you were expected to start at Step 1 and move through to Step 12, including all of the Steps in between and doing them in order. You were not permitted to skip any Steps or take them out whenever you felt like it. It's important to do them as suggested.
It reminds me of a Monty Python bit based on proper use of the Holy Hand Grenade, which is tossed on a count of 3 after the Holy Pin is pulled.
I realize I've been droning on and on a bit about solving problems rather than the problems themselves. You don't know how unbelievable it is for me to talk about The Solution so I'm really making sure that I run with this riff. It's almost unprecedented for me to think past the problem. Most unnatural.
I return to my stint in Chicago where the meetings were all based on a Step. A service position such as chairperson lasted for 12 weeks - you were expected to start at Step 1 and move through to Step 12, including all of the Steps in between and doing them in order. You were not permitted to skip any Steps or take them out whenever you felt like it. It's important to do them as suggested.
It reminds me of a Monty Python bit based on proper use of the Holy Hand Grenade, which is tossed on a count of 3 after the Holy Pin is pulled.
"First, shall thou count to the number 3
4 shall thou not count to,
Nor shall thou count to the number 2, unless thou then proceedeth to the number 3.
5 is right out!
Once the number 3, being the third number has been reached . . ."
Anyway, I need that kind of instruction when it comes to something as easy as starting at Step 1 and moving through the Steps one by one until I get to Step 12. You'd think that wouldn't be so but there it is.
The point is that I had to take whatever one of my legion of problems that was currently eating my lunch and figure out where in the week's Step that the solution was.
It's dark and wet here in The New City this winter. A few people have recommended Full Spectrum Lighting which is supposed to help with the mood swings that some of us (me being the only one I'm interested in) suffer during the winter. So I shell out $50 and plug in this light. They all have names like "Happy Light" and "So You're Fucking Depressed Because It's Winter? Light." It appears to be a hugely overpriced, ordinary lamp. It appears to be worth about $7. There were a lot of $7 lights there with names like "Desk Lamp" that looked to be able to do roughly the same thing.
Really? This is the answer?
I'm using it. What do I know anyway?
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Shot Down in Flames
Suspicion: The act or an instance of suspecting; believing of something bad, wrong, harmful, etc. with little or no supporting evidence.
Shot down in flames,
I've been shot down in flames.
Ain't it a shame?
To be shot down in flames. AC/DC
I've had the Coffee Lady on my mind lately; I'm trying to work out in my head what that incident has taught me. First of all, I do enjoy the satisfaction I get when I do something nice for someone with no hope of any return reward. In the past I never gave anyone anything unless I was pretty sure something was coming back my way.
Who am I kidding, in the past? Yeah, right.
Anyway, one of the weird facts of my life is that when I try to give and not focus so much on getting I feel better. It doesn't look good on an accounting spread sheet -- give up something, not get anything in return. I'd go out of business in a hurry. But it works. Go figure. It must be some of that kooky karma.
Part of my reflections, regrettably, focuses on the self-righteous satisfaction I get from giving when others are not. I think it makes me feel better than they are.
Jerry Seinfeld: "You're better than they are!"
George Costanza (enthusiastically): "Yeah, who do they think they are? I'm better than they are. (Pausing.) Who am I kidding? I'm not better than anyone."
One of the things that used to plague me was this sense that people were taking advantage of me. I'd look at a panhandler and think: lazy, or a drunk who's going to take the money and buy drugs or alcohol, or a con artist who owns a Jaguar (Ed. note: this was actually stated by a distant relative). And while that may occasionally be the case it's also true that I was refusing help to a lot of people who truly needed it to make sure - to make totally, completely sure -- that no one was gaming the system to my disadvantage. So today more often than not I shell out a dollar. I don't care where it ends up. My god has showered me with many more one dollars than I need to be a productive member of society so I can give one of them to someone else from time to time.
It's just very freeing.
Shot down in flames,
I've been shot down in flames.
Ain't it a shame?
To be shot down in flames. AC/DC
I've had the Coffee Lady on my mind lately; I'm trying to work out in my head what that incident has taught me. First of all, I do enjoy the satisfaction I get when I do something nice for someone with no hope of any return reward. In the past I never gave anyone anything unless I was pretty sure something was coming back my way.
Who am I kidding, in the past? Yeah, right.
Anyway, one of the weird facts of my life is that when I try to give and not focus so much on getting I feel better. It doesn't look good on an accounting spread sheet -- give up something, not get anything in return. I'd go out of business in a hurry. But it works. Go figure. It must be some of that kooky karma.
Part of my reflections, regrettably, focuses on the self-righteous satisfaction I get from giving when others are not. I think it makes me feel better than they are.
Jerry Seinfeld: "You're better than they are!"
George Costanza (enthusiastically): "Yeah, who do they think they are? I'm better than they are. (Pausing.) Who am I kidding? I'm not better than anyone."
One of the things that used to plague me was this sense that people were taking advantage of me. I'd look at a panhandler and think: lazy, or a drunk who's going to take the money and buy drugs or alcohol, or a con artist who owns a Jaguar (Ed. note: this was actually stated by a distant relative). And while that may occasionally be the case it's also true that I was refusing help to a lot of people who truly needed it to make sure - to make totally, completely sure -- that no one was gaming the system to my disadvantage. So today more often than not I shell out a dollar. I don't care where it ends up. My god has showered me with many more one dollars than I need to be a productive member of society so I can give one of them to someone else from time to time.
It's just very freeing.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Screwed Again
Screw: To extort or practice extortion on: as, he screwed me out of money.
I've decided to add a short gratitude list to my quiet time in the morning. I've just figured out that this might be beneficial to my emotional and spiritual well-being. I guess 25 years of resisting this practice to no good effect is proof enough. I've made my point. I've shown you that my way is better.
It does help, of course, the gratitude thing. It helps to counteract my tendency to look on the dark side of things, to feel put upon, abused, and under-appreciated. I was chuckling to myself this morning about how I can banish the darkness by shining the bright flashlight of optimism into the gloomy corners of my soul, and how I can take a good thought and make it ridiculous by overloading it with emotionally frothy metaphors.
For instance, I can ponder my taxes and grouse about how they are way too high. I can make the situation worse by considering that there are people who make MORE money than me and that pay LESS taxes. Surely, this isn't fair. Now that I'm worked up about how many people are screwing me I can add the cherry to my misery sundae with the knowledge that fully 20% of the taxes that are owed by people and corporations simply aren't paid. I'm paying for deadbeats. My tax bill would be reduced by a fifth if everyone played by the rules.
Or . . . I can be grateful that I have the money to pay my taxes; that I've earned money that can be taxed; that I live in a wonderful place where my taxes help pay for all kinds of services and facilities that benefit me. The bright side of things, in other words.
Naahh.
I've decided to add a short gratitude list to my quiet time in the morning. I've just figured out that this might be beneficial to my emotional and spiritual well-being. I guess 25 years of resisting this practice to no good effect is proof enough. I've made my point. I've shown you that my way is better.
It does help, of course, the gratitude thing. It helps to counteract my tendency to look on the dark side of things, to feel put upon, abused, and under-appreciated. I was chuckling to myself this morning about how I can banish the darkness by shining the bright flashlight of optimism into the gloomy corners of my soul, and how I can take a good thought and make it ridiculous by overloading it with emotionally frothy metaphors.
For instance, I can ponder my taxes and grouse about how they are way too high. I can make the situation worse by considering that there are people who make MORE money than me and that pay LESS taxes. Surely, this isn't fair. Now that I'm worked up about how many people are screwing me I can add the cherry to my misery sundae with the knowledge that fully 20% of the taxes that are owed by people and corporations simply aren't paid. I'm paying for deadbeats. My tax bill would be reduced by a fifth if everyone played by the rules.
Or . . . I can be grateful that I have the money to pay my taxes; that I've earned money that can be taxed; that I live in a wonderful place where my taxes help pay for all kinds of services and facilities that benefit me. The bright side of things, in other words.
Naahh.
Monday, February 6, 2012
$1.65
The basket came to me first at this morning's meeting. I had a five dollar bill in my hand so I passed the basket on to the next person. I'm obscenely generous, for a cheap guy who hates to give up any money for any cause whatsoever, good or not, but I wanted a little change for my five. After the basket went around the room I grabbed it again before the secretary added up the contributions used to help the group pay for rent, coffee, utilities, and the like.
There was $3 in the basket. There were 20 or 25 people at the meeting.
I try to keep my opinions to myself even though they're the absolute definition of truth . I try not to be self-righteous and judgmental, I really do, but it's just so damn satisfying to let myself feel superior to other people. This particular clubhouse is a little less glitzy than most so I know not everybody can afford to contribute. And I realize that I have some extra money so I feel a responsibility to contribute a bit more. I feel it's a nice way to pay back all of the people who were carrying the freight when I was getting started in recovery. Still, that $3 irritated me. There was more than one cup of Starbucks at this meeting.
My friend Shorty says I should be putting in TEN bucks each meeting. He wonders if I've seen what a beer costs these days. It pissed me off so I imagine that he's hit the nail on the head.
SuperK and I took a long walk this afternoon and ended up at a coffee shop. A lady who appeared to be carrying all of her earthly possessions in a few bags asked me if I could spare a buck for a cup of coffee. I fished out a dollar.
She paused. "Can I get a cup of coffee for a dollar?"
"Here," I said, standing up. "Give me back the dollar and I'll go get you a cup of coffee."
She handed the crumpled bill over wordlessly. I went inside and ordered her a cup of coffee. I was feeling particularly self-righteous, but not generous or guilty or kind enough to do anything but order her the smallest, cheapest drink available. She was sitting in the middle of her bags on the curb when I came back out and gave her the cup of coffee, and she mumbled her thanks. Her voice was low, husky and it was hard to understand what she was saying. She might have been sick or she might have had some kind of problem with her throat.
We sat outside for 45 minutes and watched this poor soul ask dozens of people for a dollar. Nobody gave her anything. Nobody, not one dollar. One guy stopped. "I'm sorry?" he said, leaning in. She asked again for a dollar. He shook his head, no, I can't understand you, and leaned closer. She asked again. "Oh, I'm sorry, I can't," he said, walking away.
What did he think she was asking for? The time? The weather forecast? The exchange rate of the drachma measured against the Swiss franc? It seemed a casually dismissive dismissal to me. Why stop? I didn't like it. It felt patronizing. "Pardon me, but do you know whether the moon is waxing gibbous in Buenos Aires tonight, my good man?"
When SuperK and I got up to leave she asked me for a dollar.
"I bought you the cup of coffee," I said, not unkindly, although, in retrospect, unnecessarily. Was I looking for a second thank-you, from a homeless woman, on a street curb? God, I hope not.
"Oh, yeah," she said. I don't think she remembered that I bought her the coffee. There were a lot of faces flashing by this woman, and a lot of nice cars in the parking lot of the store selling ridiculously overpriced cups of coffee. It didn't feel right. It made me think how I overvalue so many things and undervalue so many others. I want to be a Big Man On Campus but I don't want to do the little things, unnoticed, that make the world a better place.
$1.65. That's how much the coffee cost. WAY more than a dollar.
There was $3 in the basket. There were 20 or 25 people at the meeting.
I try to keep my opinions to myself even though they're the absolute definition of truth . I try not to be self-righteous and judgmental, I really do, but it's just so damn satisfying to let myself feel superior to other people. This particular clubhouse is a little less glitzy than most so I know not everybody can afford to contribute. And I realize that I have some extra money so I feel a responsibility to contribute a bit more. I feel it's a nice way to pay back all of the people who were carrying the freight when I was getting started in recovery. Still, that $3 irritated me. There was more than one cup of Starbucks at this meeting.
My friend Shorty says I should be putting in TEN bucks each meeting. He wonders if I've seen what a beer costs these days. It pissed me off so I imagine that he's hit the nail on the head.
SuperK and I took a long walk this afternoon and ended up at a coffee shop. A lady who appeared to be carrying all of her earthly possessions in a few bags asked me if I could spare a buck for a cup of coffee. I fished out a dollar.
She paused. "Can I get a cup of coffee for a dollar?"
"Here," I said, standing up. "Give me back the dollar and I'll go get you a cup of coffee."
She handed the crumpled bill over wordlessly. I went inside and ordered her a cup of coffee. I was feeling particularly self-righteous, but not generous or guilty or kind enough to do anything but order her the smallest, cheapest drink available. She was sitting in the middle of her bags on the curb when I came back out and gave her the cup of coffee, and she mumbled her thanks. Her voice was low, husky and it was hard to understand what she was saying. She might have been sick or she might have had some kind of problem with her throat.
We sat outside for 45 minutes and watched this poor soul ask dozens of people for a dollar. Nobody gave her anything. Nobody, not one dollar. One guy stopped. "I'm sorry?" he said, leaning in. She asked again for a dollar. He shook his head, no, I can't understand you, and leaned closer. She asked again. "Oh, I'm sorry, I can't," he said, walking away.
What did he think she was asking for? The time? The weather forecast? The exchange rate of the drachma measured against the Swiss franc? It seemed a casually dismissive dismissal to me. Why stop? I didn't like it. It felt patronizing. "Pardon me, but do you know whether the moon is waxing gibbous in Buenos Aires tonight, my good man?"
When SuperK and I got up to leave she asked me for a dollar.
"I bought you the cup of coffee," I said, not unkindly, although, in retrospect, unnecessarily. Was I looking for a second thank-you, from a homeless woman, on a street curb? God, I hope not.
"Oh, yeah," she said. I don't think she remembered that I bought her the coffee. There were a lot of faces flashing by this woman, and a lot of nice cars in the parking lot of the store selling ridiculously overpriced cups of coffee. It didn't feel right. It made me think how I overvalue so many things and undervalue so many others. I want to be a Big Man On Campus but I don't want to do the little things, unnoticed, that make the world a better place.
$1.65. That's how much the coffee cost. WAY more than a dollar.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
60 Cent
I was at the grocery store this week with my little cloth shopping bags. These are de rigueur in the New City. You may drive 10 miles to the store in your SUV and buy a roast that required more energy to produce than five or six hundred paper bags, but you may not forget your little cloth bag. The store, no doubt out of the goodness of its little heart, reminds you on the cart corrals: "Don't forget your bag!" I didn't.
Anyway, I had several 2 liter bottles of soda which I told the clerk that she could leave in the cart. I prefer struggling with them individually. Occasionally I drop one and cause a big mess because that's part of my allure as a husband.
"Do you want me to bag this?" she said, indicating a half gallon jug of milk.
"No, that's OK," I replied. "But I will need the cat litter bagged."
"All right," she said, glancing away. The cat litter was in a bag approximately 5 times as large as the grocery bag. The only way it would fit in there would be if you burnt all of the cat litter in a very hot fire, collected the ashes, threw half of the ashes away, then put them in the grocery bag. The cat litter wasn't going in my little cloth bag.
"I'm kidding, of course," I said, feeling a little bad.
She looked at me. "I was pretty sure you were but you wouldn't believe the things people ask me to do."
Really? I should have inquired as to what exactly people were asking her to do. I think I was afraid of what the answer might be.
We chatted a minute as she finished up. I watched as she rummaged around in her register and then scanned a coupon, money coming off my bill.
She leaned over. "I gave you the senior citizen coupon on the milk since you're funny," she said.
"Funny ha ha, or funny peculiar?" I asked. Maybe she thought I was a senior citizen, what with the wrinkles and gray hair and everything.
How much effort does it take to make a little effort with people, to acknowledge that they exist? Pretty much, apparently.
Anyway, I had several 2 liter bottles of soda which I told the clerk that she could leave in the cart. I prefer struggling with them individually. Occasionally I drop one and cause a big mess because that's part of my allure as a husband.
"Do you want me to bag this?" she said, indicating a half gallon jug of milk.
"No, that's OK," I replied. "But I will need the cat litter bagged."
"All right," she said, glancing away. The cat litter was in a bag approximately 5 times as large as the grocery bag. The only way it would fit in there would be if you burnt all of the cat litter in a very hot fire, collected the ashes, threw half of the ashes away, then put them in the grocery bag. The cat litter wasn't going in my little cloth bag.
"I'm kidding, of course," I said, feeling a little bad.
She looked at me. "I was pretty sure you were but you wouldn't believe the things people ask me to do."
Really? I should have inquired as to what exactly people were asking her to do. I think I was afraid of what the answer might be.
We chatted a minute as she finished up. I watched as she rummaged around in her register and then scanned a coupon, money coming off my bill.
She leaned over. "I gave you the senior citizen coupon on the milk since you're funny," she said.
"Funny ha ha, or funny peculiar?" I asked. Maybe she thought I was a senior citizen, what with the wrinkles and gray hair and everything.
How much effort does it take to make a little effort with people, to acknowledge that they exist? Pretty much, apparently.
Friday, February 3, 2012
HappyFace Steve (Yeah, right)
Happy: Favored by circumstances; lucky; fortunate.
"You know what the problem with you is?" asked SuperK, unbidden.
I'm never comfortable when the conversation starts with this kind of comment, which it does more often than you might think. Probably not, actually. You probably think this is a very common way for our conversations to start. I'll say this, grasshopper, it happens about 10% of the number of times it used to happen. Lest this paints SuperK in a negative light, let's remember that it happens about 0.072% of the times that it should happen given my atrocious behavior. I think the 90% drop she has managed is very generous.
"You want to be happy all of the time," she said.
"Well, yeah," I replied. "After 23 years this is news? Who have you been living with, exactly? I mean, are you kidding me?"
Here are things I have trouble with; a lot of trouble with: Tolerance, Patience, and Expectations. These three things are like the Three Stooges of Horseface Steve. They're the names I would have given to my three hypothetical daughters. They're the backfield of the 1975 undefeated Miami Dolphins or the linebackers patrolling the Pittsburgh Steelers defense.
I like being happy.
"You know what the problem with you is?" asked SuperK, unbidden.
I'm never comfortable when the conversation starts with this kind of comment, which it does more often than you might think. Probably not, actually. You probably think this is a very common way for our conversations to start. I'll say this, grasshopper, it happens about 10% of the number of times it used to happen. Lest this paints SuperK in a negative light, let's remember that it happens about 0.072% of the times that it should happen given my atrocious behavior. I think the 90% drop she has managed is very generous.
"You want to be happy all of the time," she said.
"Well, yeah," I replied. "After 23 years this is news? Who have you been living with, exactly? I mean, are you kidding me?"
Here are things I have trouble with; a lot of trouble with: Tolerance, Patience, and Expectations. These three things are like the Three Stooges of Horseface Steve. They're the names I would have given to my three hypothetical daughters. They're the backfield of the 1975 undefeated Miami Dolphins or the linebackers patrolling the Pittsburgh Steelers defense.
I like being happy.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Easy
"Here we ask god for inspiration, an intuitive thought or a decision. We relax and take it easy. We don't struggle. We are often surprised how the right answers come after we have tried this for a while." P87 Alcoholics Anonymous
" . . . suddenly the solution is there. It just pops out of the deep mind and you say, 'Ah ha!' and the whole thing is solved. This sort of intuition can only occur when you disengage the logic circuits from the problem and give the deep mind the opportunity to cook up the solution." Minor Buddha
Easy: Free from trouble, anxiety, pain, etc.
It's funny how resistant I am to letting life unfold at its own speed. I'm in there with power tools and big wrenches and steel crow bars and the jaws of life trying to make it happen right now at this minute. I am not the most patient guy in the world. In fact, I may be the least patient guy in the world.
Everything works out. Everything is going to be OK.
" . . . suddenly the solution is there. It just pops out of the deep mind and you say, 'Ah ha!' and the whole thing is solved. This sort of intuition can only occur when you disengage the logic circuits from the problem and give the deep mind the opportunity to cook up the solution." Minor Buddha
Easy: Free from trouble, anxiety, pain, etc.
It's funny how resistant I am to letting life unfold at its own speed. I'm in there with power tools and big wrenches and steel crow bars and the jaws of life trying to make it happen right now at this minute. I am not the most patient guy in the world. In fact, I may be the least patient guy in the world.
Everything works out. Everything is going to be OK.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Instinctually Yours, Naturally
Instinct: An inborn tendency to behave in a way characteristic of a species; natural, unacquired mode of response to stimuli.
I choose to continue speaking on the subject of worry. I suppose I could choose to talk at length and in depth on a subject such as happiness but that would indicate a level of maturity to which I can only aspire. We are, after all, Problem People.
Anyway, I wonder if alcoholics worry about things more than the average bear. As a group we sure seem to worry a lot. That's bad enough but we seem to worry about a lot of pretty minor stuff. I'm guessing that there are other people who worry as much (or more!?) without turning to drink but we have it down pretty good. We know what we're doing when we worry about things.
It makes me think of the relationship between the mind and the gut. I mean, all of our emotions, as I understand the concept, are installed as kind of a buffer zone between being alive and getting killed, in the original sense. You know, see a saber-toothed tiger: get scared, run away or pick up a good chucking rock, that kind of thing. I can't just ignore them; the emotions, that is, not the tigers which are extinct and eminently ignorable. The emotions are original equipment and once installed it's not possible to remove them. I need to pay attention to them when they come up instead of pretending they're not there. You know, act like an ass in front of a lot of people at work in a near black out, then act the next day as if nothing unusual had happened the night before along the lines of break-dancing on the buffet table.
"Why do I have shrimp cocktail sauce all over my clothes?" we think, the next morning. "Uh-oh. I better not bring this up at work."
I choose to continue speaking on the subject of worry. I suppose I could choose to talk at length and in depth on a subject such as happiness but that would indicate a level of maturity to which I can only aspire. We are, after all, Problem People.
Anyway, I wonder if alcoholics worry about things more than the average bear. As a group we sure seem to worry a lot. That's bad enough but we seem to worry about a lot of pretty minor stuff. I'm guessing that there are other people who worry as much (or more!?) without turning to drink but we have it down pretty good. We know what we're doing when we worry about things.
It makes me think of the relationship between the mind and the gut. I mean, all of our emotions, as I understand the concept, are installed as kind of a buffer zone between being alive and getting killed, in the original sense. You know, see a saber-toothed tiger: get scared, run away or pick up a good chucking rock, that kind of thing. I can't just ignore them; the emotions, that is, not the tigers which are extinct and eminently ignorable. The emotions are original equipment and once installed it's not possible to remove them. I need to pay attention to them when they come up instead of pretending they're not there. You know, act like an ass in front of a lot of people at work in a near black out, then act the next day as if nothing unusual had happened the night before along the lines of break-dancing on the buffet table.
"Why do I have shrimp cocktail sauce all over my clothes?" we think, the next morning. "Uh-oh. I better not bring this up at work."
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