Like a Rhino On Meth

As I charge headlong directly into one of my major, major life fantasies that doesn't include anything that can be found in my nether regions - namely, living in a place where I'll be warm most of the time - I continually question my motives.  I feel guilty when good things happen to me or when I'm pursuing something I want.  Some of these feelings are justified - I don't have a great track record of selfless motives - but some of them are bullshit.  I'm selfish, not evil.  

The Book is full of great suggestions and observations about Willpower, the direct application of our Instincts.  The literature intimates that our instinctual desires for sex, money, and power are a tad out of whack, that we grab and grab for far more than is our right or due.  However, we're also not aware of any cases where the instinctual drives have been entirely eliminated.  So we're left with these things that we can't get rid of and that we need to survive but that we don't have the slightest idea how to use properly.

I'm not going to quote directly from the literature because all of the LSD I did in college has fried my short term memory pretty good - plus I'm too lazy to look up the passages - but there's some great stuff on the proper use of the willpower.  It suggests that we tend to bombard our problems with our willpower to try to get our own way, that we should try instead to align our willpower with the wishes of god.  One section says that we can do this to our heart's content because it is a proper use of the willpower.  We can employ our mental faculties to our heart's content when we're behaving in this way.

So I try to get into the middle place - not quaking with fear, afraid to try anything new, and not charging ahead like a rhino on meth, running headlong into immovable objects, finding that I'm not the unstoppable force that I thought I was.

Warm warm warm warm warm.

You Say Goodbye - I Say Hello

I have never been very good with traffic signals.  I get confused as to when I should be moving forward and when I should stop, and stay stopped.  I was the guy blithely sailing down a suburban street, blowing through stop sign after stop sign, beer in one hand, joint in the other, Black Sabbath's "Into The Void" turned up loud enough to rattle the windows on passing houses.  I was the guy sitting stopped at a green light, car horns startling me out of a drugged reverie, wondering what all of the ruckus was about.

There's a yellow light?

Perpetual Motion

There's a guy who attends my regular 7AM meetings who often brings his daughter along - she's 4 or 5, quiet and well-behaved, and very popular with everyone.   This dude, who is the birthday chip coordinator for this group, showed up a little late with both his daughter and infant son, who appears to be about 2.  God did not program 2 year olds to sit quietly.  This little guy is a marvel of perpetual motion.  He was not unruly; he did not talk or yell or cry; he just moved, touching and investigating everything he could get his hands on.  My buddy wanted to come to the meeting because it was his 9 month anniversary and he wanted to share this with his home group.

His sponsor gave the short talk to get the meeting started.  It was nearly impossible to ignore the little boy - he was making a steady, sustained commotion.  The speaker soldiered on.  I've been there - I know how hard it is to keep your train of thought when there's a big racket in the background.  He reminded me of a jet fighter pilot trying to land his supersonic plane on an aircraft carrier at night.  In a thunderstorm.  With people shooting at him.

It was frustrating but the group closed ranks around the new guy.  He left early, as soon as he passed out the chips, and he called his sponsor to apologize.  He doesn't make a habit of bringing both of his kids - it is important that we conduct our meetings with respect and some sense of decorum.  It's also important that everyone has a place to go.

Getting What I Want

I had a lovely talk last night with my friend EMC.  He's one of the few guys I know who actively practices meditation.  Lots of us say we meditate but lots of people say they exercise regularly, too, or that they don't watch Desperate Housewives of Bergen County, NJ, or wherever they're from.  I meditate regularly - I suck at it but I give it a whirl.  Meditation is very pleasant when I'm getting what I want.  It's one thing to have pleasant thoughts whirling around in my head  and another altogether when the thoughts aren't so nice.  

I bounced my interest in moving again off EMC.  I've been pondering this and getting nothing but green lights.  The problem for me is that when I'm getting something that I think I want I'm a very spiritual man.  I'm a spiritual colossus.  I read the signs correctly and I'm impressed with my insight and calm, considered wisdom.  Then . . .  a roadblock and the inevitable rage and fear and frustration when I'm NOT GETTING MY WAY!

I'm old enough that health insurance companies aren't particularly interested in my business.  It doesn't seem to have anything to do with whether or not I'm healthy - more along the lines that they're suspicious that something terrible and costly is just about to happen.  It makes me nervous.  Do they know something that I don't know?  When I moved from The Old City to The New City I had some trouble getting coverage.  They came up with every piddling little excuse that they could find to deny my application.  As I was sailing at high speed through green light after green light in my research on moving yet again I decided to send a note to The New City insurance company.  They decided to send me a note back saying that they weren't licensed to provide care in Vacation City and that they would be happy to cancel my insurance effective one week from today, permitting me to go through the root canal-like procedure of trying to qualify for health insurance - again - with a company who is licensed in the state of Vacation City.

After several panicked emails and phone calls to clear up the matter, I got to sit down and meditate.  The thoughts swirling around in my mind were distinctly NOT pleasant.  I had to chuckle - I don't find it objectionable when my monkey mind is swinging from thought to thought when I'm happy, even though this isn't exactly what I'm trying to accomplish when I meditate.  But when the thoughts are murderous . . .   Still, the idea is to sit there with the thoughts, not judging them, not controlling them, not trying to force them to do anything.

Very unpleasant, which is either exactly the point or not the point at all.  I really don't know which is why I keep meditating.  Maybe some day I'll figure it out, but probably not.

Mind you - I'm not actually moving anywhere.  I'm considering it.  So all of the stuff pissing me off is theoretical and somewhere in the future, maybe.  I'm upset that I'm not getting something that I'm not even sure that I want.  I like to get things that I want and then find out later down the road that they weren't the best for me a lot more that getting a fork in the eye, only to discover that the experience led me to something better.

I HATE This Topic

The topic at today's meeting was gratitude.  I'm always amazed at the antipathy that this topic evokes in me.  The hair on the back of my neck stands up.  I go into flight-or-fight mode and I ain't go anywhere, if you get my drift.  I simply don't have a very well formed sense of gratitude.  I'm more about the problems.  I'm about what's wrong, not what's right.

And I'm sitting in the clubhouse on the marina as I diss the topic.  I don't have anything to be grateful for.

Get Away From Me

I had on my favorite T-shirt today.  It's a garish purple with red lettering.  "Get Away From Me" it suggests pointedly.  Most people ignore it; a few think it's funny.

"I love your T-shirt," they say.  "It's very funny."

I look them in the eyes, steadily.  I don't comment.  I don't smile.  I don't flinch.  

I think that shirt was 50% joke, 50% statement when I bought it long ago.  I think it's about 20% joke, 80% statement at this point.  I care for it solicitously.   

The Pineapple and Seaweed

I was at the grocery store wandering aimlessly in my beloved Fruits and Vegetables section.  I like to buy fruit and vegetables because it makes me feel superior to other people, even though I like to eat King Dongs and cheddar cheese popcorn dipped in chocolate and deep-fried as much as the next guy.  I selected a pineapple as one of my selections.  When I got to the front of the store there were a few lanes manned by actual check-out people and there was also an endless row of sinister-looking automated check out kiosks.  I chose one of these begrudgingly, aware that I have never yet gotten through one of them with as few as two items without being plagued by some kind of major electronic malfunction.

I was sailing through without a hitch until I got to my last item: The Pineapple.  Fortunately, a tag with a bar code was attached to the fruit.  I scanned my pineapple and noticed that the display displayed a price A Dollar!! more than I had expected.  I called over the woman who was responsible for the auto lanes and asked her to please clarify this outrage.   She picked up a phone and paged what I assume was a very important person in the Fruit and Vegetable section, the one who could tell you if the rutabagas were at peak flavor.  No one returned the call.  After a minute the woman paged again.  The result was the same.  Frankly, I was beginning to regret having wasted some of my Very Precious Time over A Dollar!!

My check out lady finally typed some stuff into the machine and the correct price popped up.

"See," she said.  "You typed in the wrong code."

I was annoyed by now that I had wasted so much of my Very Precious Time so, instead of keeping my $%##! mouth shut over A Dollar!! I pointed out that I had scanned in a bar code that her store had affixed to their piece of fruit.  My tone was somewhat peevish, I should add.

She looked at me and said: "It is $3.99.  You had the wrong code coded in."

I pondered this for an instant.  I found myself wishing that I had a phone to slam down in her ear.  I found myself regretting the self-service kiosk and the pineapple itself, delicious as it would turn out to be.

"See?"  I said.  "Someone typed in the wrong code for me."

This is why I go to meetings and talk to You People.

Slamming Down the Phone

I hung up the phone yesterday on someone who was annoying the shit out of me.  One of the great things about cell phones is that you can plead "bad connection" when you hang up on someone; the drawback is that one is deprived of that great clanging sound that occurs when you slam down a land line with great violence. The agony and ecstasy of modern communication, I guess.  The funny thing is that I hung up on this dude at SuperK's prompting.  "Just hang up," she said.  I had the phone down at my side - I hadn't actually hung up before she spoke, although I was considering it, but I was too frustrated to listen to one more word come out of this guy's mouth.  Hanging up on someone who is annoying is SOP for me but pretty extreme for SuperK.

After I had cooled down a bit I called back and lied.  "Bad connection," I said.  "Sorry about that."  I'm not sure which course was the slipperier slope: slamming down a phone, then having to make an amend or the less satisfying clicking off of the connection followed by a gentle lie.  That, and when SuperK told me to hang up she didn't realize that the line was still open so the lie-ee may have heard the whole exchange.  If that was the case he should have called me on it.  "You stinking, miserable liar," he should have said.

This would be immature behavior for a 15 year old - I'm not sure what it's called in a 55 year old.  

Ravings of the Introvert

I prefer being alone.  I prefer it to being with other people, even people I love.  When I'm with people whose company I really enjoy, I'm looking for a way out - I'm picturing the end game: when can I leave?  It's not that I don't ever enjoy the company of people but that I usually prefer silence to the endless prattling that passes for conversation coming out of the mouths of others.

I don't think I'm better than other people but I still don't want to be around them.  I don't think I'm worse than they are, either, and I don't give a shit what they think about me.  I like to read and write.  I practice yoga by myself, outside.  I go to a busy exercise club, walking through the crowded weight rooms, past the thumping, jiggling classes, to the pool, where I swim in silence, under water, listening to my own breath.  I take long hikes alone, into the back country - all I can hear is wind and birds and my own ragged breathing.  I can't imagine how hearing someone  talking in that environment would improve the experience.  I drink coffee alone at a crowded coffee shop - often I sit and think and judge and watch people swirl by.  I'm glad I'm in the midst of them and glad they're leaving me alone.

It's an extraordinarily pleasant way to be.

Meaning, Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Meaning

Meaning.  That's one of those vague concepts that gets me into trouble if I think about it too much.  I had a friend mention how much time and effort he's placing on finding "meaning" in his life as he gets older. He mentioned a prominent psychiatrist, a Holocaust survivor, who proposed that we can find meaning even in the midst of terrible difficulties.

To which the alcoholic replies: "Hey, no shit."

Hardly a novel idea, that.  It seems to me to be the keystone to achieving some acceptance in life; although not necessarily happiness, a goal that is misleading and frankly overrated.  Once we get it we worry that it'll go away.

So, weirdly enough, the destruction that alcohol and drugs bestows has been a blessing of sorts in my search for meaning.  It took a while but I figured out that Porsches, the corner office, no-obligation sexual encounters, and a big bank account were not found in any of The Steps, Traditions, Promises, or Concepts.

I have found meaning  in my relationship with a Higher Power.  I have found meaning in my halting pursuit of service to others, a concept that I totally, 100% learned in The Program.  I have a profound relationship with another human being, my wife, a completely foreign occurrence when I was drinking.

THAT'S some meaning.

Work, Work, Work

When I'm upset with someone I start by looking at myself.  I am loathe to do this - I do this with much reluctance.  I prefer to look at you instead, finding it much easier to point out your faults instead of looking at myself.  I'm sure you can understand this, being so terribly flawed.  

Of course I find that often I'm not behaving that well.  A lot of the time it's pretty easy to see how I could improve my behavior.  Sometimes I have to dig a little deeper.  The writing really helps as do the phone calls to my friends.  I lose all perspective when I try to figure things out all by myself, in my head.  I spoke to Spandex yesterday about an ongoing concern that he has.  It's not that big a deal, in my opinion, but he knows that it's important to keep the info flowing out.  No secrets and no bullshitting oneself.  

Work, work, work.

   

Service Work Minimalism

I went to a meeting in The New Vacation City this morning.  I was in a pretty good mood.  I eased on in, headed to the coffee pot, and heard someone call my name.  I was impressed.  I recognized the woman but couldn't remember her name.  I sat down to a guy who greeted me by name as well. No idea who he was.

I'll tell you it almost brought tears to my eyes: The Welcoming of The New Guy.

One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato, Four

I leave The New City, in the grip of winter.  Cold, wet, and gloomy on a sunny day.  I make a drive south, through some pretty high mountain passes, snow blanketing the heights just above the highway.  I get to my temporary rental, which I decide to immediately hate.  I ferret out every flaw, every potential flaw, anything to be remotely annoyed about, now or in the future, ignoring the fact that I'm in a position to escape winter for a few months.  That would entail gratitude which I avoid like the plague.

I wait patiently.  I do the work, hang in there, and fall in love with The First Vacation Home.

After a few months we move to a place with an extra bedroom so my mom can visit.  Well, really so that SuperK can get as far away from me as possible.  I hate The Second Vacation Home immediately and wish I was back at the First Vacation Home which I hated before I fell in love with it.  I've forgotten all about that already.  That would require gratitude and perspective, a deadly duo.  I hate The Second Vacation Home so much that I'm ready to go back to The New City where winter has worsened, making it the least desirable of the three options.  That would imply gratitude, perspective, and intelligence, which I refuse to acknowledge as a viable option.

As you can see my grip on reality is tenuous, and laughable.

Goooaaaalllll!!!!

And here's another thing about staying sober for a while: you only get to bitch about something for a finite period of time before someone is permitted to take your head off, cough into the neck-hole, dribble your noggin like a basketball, then kick it into a soccer net, screaming: "Goal!   Goooaaaallll!"

A few years ago I was complaining about something fairly pedestrian, unable to shake off the common problem.  My friends listened patiently, alternately laughing at me and offering advice.  At one point there was a pause on the other end of the line: "Are you still complaining about that?"

I got the message.  Enough already.  Quit it.

Shame Spiral

I'm still awfully good at looking on The Dark Side.  It's much easier to see what's wrong than what's right; a total load of crap for a guy like me who is drowning in blessings.  If blessings were water my body would have floated up on a beach a long time ago.

When I let my temper take charge last night it felt really, really good.  I mean it felt really good.  I spend a lot of time and energy keeping this ugly part of my personality chained in its dark cave.  This is a terrible waste of a really powerful force.  It's much more impressive when my anger is roaming the night, the dark, dark, stormy night.  

Let's say my anger is trapped inside a stainless steel boiler.  I can slowly work a complicated relief valve, a process that takes some time and effort, or I can let the pressure slowly build up until the whole contraption blows sky high.  I did not operate the relief valve last night.  It was impressive watching the thing blow up, sending red-hot pieces of shrapnel in every direction.  It's much easier than getting out my toolbox and going through my check list,  releasing the pressure slowly.  It was disturbingly reminiscent of pondering a beer or a bong hit not long after another fervent swearing-off, seeing the consequences, shrugging my shoulders, and giving in one more time.

Unfortunately, today I have to deal with the emotional hang-over.  I feel crappy so it must have been quite an explosion.  This is the problem with trying to live a spiritual life: I can't just let my behavior go wherever it wants to go.  I have to behave well or I have to pay the piper.  I can't simply do whatever I want and bury the pain under drugs and drink.

Willie calls it the "shame spiral."  Good term.  Act badly then wallow in remorse.  Takes a while to dig out of this stuff.

Restraint of Car Horn

I went mano a mano with another Director today.  It was a rout.  I have gone mano a mano with this Director on several previous occasions.  Also routs.  I have never really been in the game with this Director.  I have kept the score close at the start of the game a few times but the end result has always been the same: Rout.  The thing with me is that I'm at least trying not to run the world.  I can be stubborn and controlling up to a point; eventually I give in, not because I want to but because it's the right thing to do.

I had a long day today.  I was controlled to the left, then to the right, then I was flipped upside down and dunked in chocolate while being controlled.  I did OK.  I had a long drive home and when I arrived at my New Vacation home some #$!! was parked in the driveway.  Parking is at a premium on the narrow street so I Lost It.  I sat outside and repeatedly blew my horn to see if I could get this #$!! to move his $#!! car.  The childish effort was ineffectual except for the fact that it made me fell like shit.

Restraint of tongue and pen and car horn.

To Make A Present or Gift Of

Giving is when you give something.  Giving is not taking; it is not receiving so I don't get anything when I give as that would be taking, the direct opposite of giving.  It's outgoing, not incoming.

To Earth People this conversation would sound ridiculous, which is why I wouldn't have it with them.  Earth People don't have to write these things down to see how they look on paper.  They don't ponder them, probe them for new insights, come to startling revelations.  They give or they don't, and they know what they're doing.  It's an act remarkable in its simplicity, profound in its implications.

I offered to chip in with whatever help I could give to a family member who was hosting a holiday get-together.  "You want to help?" she snapped.  "Write me a check for $25."  She was nursing a resentment that my question released.  I vowed that she would get the $25 when she pried it from my cold, dead fingers.  A buddy of mine in The Program said: "Write her the check."  He knew the cost of my resentment was one thousand and twenty five dollars.  I sent the check - she cashed it without comment.

I need to give what someone wants to receive: money occasionally, attention and interest as a matter of course.  It doesn't make any difference if I think it makes sense or not - the giving is for the other person.  If it's boring or a big waste of my precious time is beside the point.  The giving is the point.

I have to tell myself "That's not the point" far too often.