From our literature:
"The spiritual substance of anonymity is sacrifice. Because our Twelve Traditions repeatedly ask us to give up personal desires for the common good, we realize that the sacrificial spirit - well symbolized by anonymity - is the foundation of them all."
And from Yoga's Precepts of Social Discipline:
Satya: Truthfulness. Note that sometime we may know that our words are literally true, but do not convey what we know to be truthful. This is a child's game. Satya means not intending to deceive others in our thoughts, as well as our words and actions.
I never like to hear that I can't bend my words so that I can lie but claim that I'm not lying, technically. Anyone can just lie. That's easy. I'm a spectacular liar, exhibiting a natural ability to lie and combining that with many years of diligent practice. If I had spent as much time studying as I did lying I'd be an astro-physicist right now, whatever that is. The real skill comes in feinting and parrying, looking left and going right, and convincing someone that something that isn't true is, in fact, true, all while not letting any technically lying words pass my lying lips.
Think about it - who can do that?
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Monday, September 29, 2014
Stevie Seaweed - Please Get Out of the Way
I need to keep working on the "Being of Service" mindset. And I need to keep in mind the "It's Only Help If Someone Else Wants It" paradigm. Just because I'm world-renowned for my Fried Snail Souffle doesn't mean that everyone is going to appreciate it when I swing by with some leftovers. And, most of all, I must be on guard for "Stevie Seaweed - god help us all - thinks he's in control."
Willie shared a story with me this morning where he got everything lined up just where he wanted everything to be lined up, the result being, of course, that he screwed himself to the wall.
Nothing like a drunk getting what he wants.
The point here, if there is indeed a point - no sure thing - is that, once again, I swung into action on my parents real estate situation and very nearly took a couple of actions that would have helped precisely no one. Luckily, I've learned that I'm an idiot with the instincts of a bigger idiot so that most of the time I think about doing something but don't do anything, the result being that everything works out OK.
I think that I know what's going on for what reason, exactly?
I may have mentioned getting two people involved with my parents' house - two good and trusted friends of many years standing. As the situation evolved both of these good men steered me toward the other even though I was sure that each of them would be pissed and defensive about the mere presence of the other. I am making sure through the whole process I'm being very honest and very open about the whole process. It's scary, this telling the truth, but it usually works out the best in the long run, no big attraction for a short run kind of guy. I'd much rather lie to make sure I don't experience any discomfort; ironically, though, when I tell the truth I remember that I don't have to remember what I said, 'cause if I said it then it must be the truth.
I think both of these guys, despite some financial interests, have my and my parents best interests at heart.
Still blows me away when this happens. It is still counter-intuitive for me.
Willie shared a story with me this morning where he got everything lined up just where he wanted everything to be lined up, the result being, of course, that he screwed himself to the wall.
Nothing like a drunk getting what he wants.
The point here, if there is indeed a point - no sure thing - is that, once again, I swung into action on my parents real estate situation and very nearly took a couple of actions that would have helped precisely no one. Luckily, I've learned that I'm an idiot with the instincts of a bigger idiot so that most of the time I think about doing something but don't do anything, the result being that everything works out OK.
I think that I know what's going on for what reason, exactly?
I may have mentioned getting two people involved with my parents' house - two good and trusted friends of many years standing. As the situation evolved both of these good men steered me toward the other even though I was sure that each of them would be pissed and defensive about the mere presence of the other. I am making sure through the whole process I'm being very honest and very open about the whole process. It's scary, this telling the truth, but it usually works out the best in the long run, no big attraction for a short run kind of guy. I'd much rather lie to make sure I don't experience any discomfort; ironically, though, when I tell the truth I remember that I don't have to remember what I said, 'cause if I said it then it must be the truth.
I think both of these guys, despite some financial interests, have my and my parents best interests at heart.
Still blows me away when this happens. It is still counter-intuitive for me.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Le Chaperone
I was at a Farmer's Market in Vacation City last week, a glorious opportunity not to be missed in this part of the world. I had strolled around, buying so much cheap, fresh fruit and vegetables that I had to make two trips to my car. The sun was shining, the palm trees were waving, angels may or may not have been singing - it was right out of a Hollywood movie set. My final task was to buy a ridiculously delicious lunch for my wife and me from a food truck. If you buy ethnic food from people of that very same ethnicity, people who cook each order after it's placed, people who speak that ethnicity's language better than your own, you're going to eat good.
I was standing there waiting for my food to come up when I was surrounded by a group of developmentally disabled kids and their two chaperones. One of the kids - maybe even a young woman - was perusing the contents of a tent set up by a vendor of cheap plastic crap. She held up a novelty headband - one that had Mickey Mouse ears or googly eyes affixed to long, jouncing springs, I didn't really pay attention - and showed it her chaperone.
"$2.50," announced the cheap plastic crap proprietress.
"Isn't that great?" the chaperone said. "Halloween is coming up. Maybe we can buy it next week."
I leaned in, trying to be discreet. Really, I was.
"What if I buy it for her? I whispered.
"Oh, no, that's OK," replied the chaperone, probably wondering what the long-haired creep with a pork pie hat was up to.
"Seriously, I'd like to," I said.
The chaperon announced to her charge what was going down; I passed the two-fifty to the girl; and the booth-ite made a sale. I beat it the hell out of there. I really did. It was such a ridiculously small gesture that I would have been embarrassed by even one more word of thanks. I mean, this kid was in sorry shape - she wasn't looking at a lot of varied opportunities in her life. I don't mean to suggest she couldn't be happy, just that she definitely got shortchanged in what most of us consider to be blessings. Most people - not all, mind you - would look at me and look at her, and choose my circumstances.
I'm speculating here. Maybe I've overestimating my appeal to the general public. I haven't had a lot of people come up to me and compliment me on my circumstances.
The troupe, of course, passed by my car as they left the area. The girl was clutching a little bag with her headband.
"Thank you," the chaperone mouthed at me, as I sat in my Very Expensive Car.
I'll leave it up to you to guess who felt better about that whole episode.
I was standing there waiting for my food to come up when I was surrounded by a group of developmentally disabled kids and their two chaperones. One of the kids - maybe even a young woman - was perusing the contents of a tent set up by a vendor of cheap plastic crap. She held up a novelty headband - one that had Mickey Mouse ears or googly eyes affixed to long, jouncing springs, I didn't really pay attention - and showed it her chaperone.
"$2.50," announced the cheap plastic crap proprietress.
"Isn't that great?" the chaperone said. "Halloween is coming up. Maybe we can buy it next week."
I leaned in, trying to be discreet. Really, I was.
"What if I buy it for her? I whispered.
"Oh, no, that's OK," replied the chaperone, probably wondering what the long-haired creep with a pork pie hat was up to.
"Seriously, I'd like to," I said.
The chaperon announced to her charge what was going down; I passed the two-fifty to the girl; and the booth-ite made a sale. I beat it the hell out of there. I really did. It was such a ridiculously small gesture that I would have been embarrassed by even one more word of thanks. I mean, this kid was in sorry shape - she wasn't looking at a lot of varied opportunities in her life. I don't mean to suggest she couldn't be happy, just that she definitely got shortchanged in what most of us consider to be blessings. Most people - not all, mind you - would look at me and look at her, and choose my circumstances.
I'm speculating here. Maybe I've overestimating my appeal to the general public. I haven't had a lot of people come up to me and compliment me on my circumstances.
The troupe, of course, passed by my car as they left the area. The girl was clutching a little bag with her headband.
"Thank you," the chaperone mouthed at me, as I sat in my Very Expensive Car.
I'll leave it up to you to guess who felt better about that whole episode.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Peace
Peace: A state free of oppressive and unpleasant thoughts and emotions.
I've had the same sponsor for about 25 years. My Old City sponsor. I've made it a point to have a local sponsor wherever I land but I've stayed in touch with this guy continuously for this entire stretch of time, talking to him at least once a week, more if circumstances warrant, and, as you know, circumstances do indeed warrant. He recently learned that he's pretty sick. His doctor said 4 to 7 months. That's pretty sick. He may have more time than this but it doesn't look likely.
Frankly, I can't imagine my world without this guy. I can say with no hesitation that there is an intimacy for me in our relationship that is not duplicated with anyone else, even my birth family. That's The Fellowship - that's what we get in our recovery community.
I spoke to him after I heard the sad news. He was not feeling sorry for himself and he would not let the conversation linger on his illness.
"So, how are you doing?" he asked.
I felt ridiculous talking about my petty dramas to someone who is looking at very little time left. Little Westside Jonny said that my sponsor is at peace. He is ready to go. He won't fight death tooth and nail. Sometimes people who aren't at peace with themselves and the world and their god go kicking and screaming, angry and afraid. Some people quietly get their affairs in order, prepare themselves. I'm not suggesting that he's throwing in the towel but he isn't going to go to extraordinary measures to prolong the inevitable, either.
"That's exactly what I'd expect from him," SuperK said.
Our Program suggests that we are people who wouldn't ordinarily mix. It uses the analogy of survivors of a shipwreck who find themselves in the same lifeboat - there are no longer any captains or passengers or maintenance workers. There are people happy to have found a way out and more than willing to chip in to make sure that everyone survives. That's The Fellowship.
My sponsor and I could not be more different as people. We rarely find common ground on controversial issues like politics and religions and social justice. I mean we aren't even in the same ocean let alone the same lifeboat in these areas, yet we've managed to keep up a strong and productive friendship for all of these years. I believe that we admire and respect each other.
This is not going to be a pleasant thing for me and it is, as you know, all about me. I think I'm pretty upset but I can never tell right away - I'm not a crier or a moaner, more of an internalizer. I get depressed, lose my energy. That's kind of where I am right now and I know that everyone is very interested in how I'm doing because it is, as I've mentioned before, all about me.
I've had the same sponsor for about 25 years. My Old City sponsor. I've made it a point to have a local sponsor wherever I land but I've stayed in touch with this guy continuously for this entire stretch of time, talking to him at least once a week, more if circumstances warrant, and, as you know, circumstances do indeed warrant. He recently learned that he's pretty sick. His doctor said 4 to 7 months. That's pretty sick. He may have more time than this but it doesn't look likely.
Frankly, I can't imagine my world without this guy. I can say with no hesitation that there is an intimacy for me in our relationship that is not duplicated with anyone else, even my birth family. That's The Fellowship - that's what we get in our recovery community.
I spoke to him after I heard the sad news. He was not feeling sorry for himself and he would not let the conversation linger on his illness.
"So, how are you doing?" he asked.
I felt ridiculous talking about my petty dramas to someone who is looking at very little time left. Little Westside Jonny said that my sponsor is at peace. He is ready to go. He won't fight death tooth and nail. Sometimes people who aren't at peace with themselves and the world and their god go kicking and screaming, angry and afraid. Some people quietly get their affairs in order, prepare themselves. I'm not suggesting that he's throwing in the towel but he isn't going to go to extraordinary measures to prolong the inevitable, either.
"That's exactly what I'd expect from him," SuperK said.
Our Program suggests that we are people who wouldn't ordinarily mix. It uses the analogy of survivors of a shipwreck who find themselves in the same lifeboat - there are no longer any captains or passengers or maintenance workers. There are people happy to have found a way out and more than willing to chip in to make sure that everyone survives. That's The Fellowship.
My sponsor and I could not be more different as people. We rarely find common ground on controversial issues like politics and religions and social justice. I mean we aren't even in the same ocean let alone the same lifeboat in these areas, yet we've managed to keep up a strong and productive friendship for all of these years. I believe that we admire and respect each other.
This is not going to be a pleasant thing for me and it is, as you know, all about me. I think I'm pretty upset but I can never tell right away - I'm not a crier or a moaner, more of an internalizer. I get depressed, lose my energy. That's kind of where I am right now and I know that everyone is very interested in how I'm doing because it is, as I've mentioned before, all about me.
Friday, September 26, 2014
wheem-a-whip, a-wheem-a-whip
Instinct: A natural or inherent impulse or behavior.
I've pondering my instincts lately - the desire for sex, money, and power. Funny, these instincts. The Book talks about them a lot - it suggests that we aren't aware of any instances where an individual has been able to completely eliminate them, no matter how problematic they can be, and then in the same breath mentions that a lot of our problems arise when we make the satisfaction of these instincts our primary purpose. We go way, way overboard in our pursuit of money, power, and sex.
Imagine that - an alcoholic going overboard.
The instincts are important because they keep us alive. We need to eat and have a safe place to sleep and procreate. Well, maybe not to procreate given our overreach on the sex instinct but still. And let's face it - humans are just pretty fancy animals when it comes to the instincts. Our brothers and sisters in the animal kingdom aren't shy about their instincts. Your average lion isn't thinking: "Hey, I've had enough gazelle - maybe I should share with the rest of the lions." They eat until they're stuffed to the gills.
Am I suggesting that we're no better than the animals? Is that what I'm suggesting? And what are you going to do about it if I am? Well, punk, what are you going to do?
Actually, I have no idea what I'm talking about. I jotted down these electronic notes a few days ago when something or the other was making sense. Clearly, nothing is making sense at the moment.
In the jungle, the mighty jungle,
The lion sleeps tonight.
Wheem-a-whip, a-wheen-a-whip, a-WHEEM-a-whip . . . .
If you want to get technical about it I think lions are actually going to be found in the savanna and not the jungle.
Maybe that's my point.
I've pondering my instincts lately - the desire for sex, money, and power. Funny, these instincts. The Book talks about them a lot - it suggests that we aren't aware of any instances where an individual has been able to completely eliminate them, no matter how problematic they can be, and then in the same breath mentions that a lot of our problems arise when we make the satisfaction of these instincts our primary purpose. We go way, way overboard in our pursuit of money, power, and sex.
Imagine that - an alcoholic going overboard.
The instincts are important because they keep us alive. We need to eat and have a safe place to sleep and procreate. Well, maybe not to procreate given our overreach on the sex instinct but still. And let's face it - humans are just pretty fancy animals when it comes to the instincts. Our brothers and sisters in the animal kingdom aren't shy about their instincts. Your average lion isn't thinking: "Hey, I've had enough gazelle - maybe I should share with the rest of the lions." They eat until they're stuffed to the gills.
Am I suggesting that we're no better than the animals? Is that what I'm suggesting? And what are you going to do about it if I am? Well, punk, what are you going to do?
Actually, I have no idea what I'm talking about. I jotted down these electronic notes a few days ago when something or the other was making sense. Clearly, nothing is making sense at the moment.
In the jungle, the mighty jungle,
The lion sleeps tonight.
Wheem-a-whip, a-wheen-a-whip, a-WHEEM-a-whip . . . .
If you want to get technical about it I think lions are actually going to be found in the savanna and not the jungle.
Maybe that's my point.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Parry That Thrust
Control: To exercise influence over; to suggest or dictate the behavior of.
And here's another gem of wait-while-keeping-your-mouth-shut-isms . . . .
My cousin - who is a much nicer person than I am - and her husband have decided to visit my parents. This is going to be a very nice thing - my cousin and my mother are very similar people so they're going to enjoy pawing over each and every last piece of detritus that's still crouching in my parents' house, oohing and aahing over each and every one. They won't get anything accomplished as far as reducing the size of the pile, mind you, but my ma is thrilled that someone else loves her stuff as much as she does. I've seen my cousin's garage and it looks a lot like my parents' basement - the two of them couldn't clean out a thimble with a fire hose.
So I get the word second-hand or third-hand, maybe tweeted to me by a migrating European swallow passing over my house, that my cousin wants to sleep at my parents' small apartment and also wants to save some money by using my parents' car. I don't want to put words in someone else's mouth - or at least I want to do it in a way that seems like I'm not doing it so I don't get blamed for doing it - but my folks didn't want me to stay there and they didn't want me to use their car, and I'm their son, black sheep though I may be, but I'm still pretty sure what their stance about anyone else using their car is. My ma actually threw up a polite defense, saying that they didn't have an extra bed anymore, but my cousin parried this thrust by saying that they'd sleep on the floor. I could hear my father moan from 2500 miles away - my cousins are extreme extroverts and dad doesn't like being around anyone so this had the makings of a match in a fireworks factory.
And what should I do? Tell my cousin to back off, politely, sticking my nose where it very well may not be wanted? Call ma and ask her if I should intercede, almost certainly breaking one of her cardinal rules - speaketh thou not ill-will-ly of thine relatives? I want to be an advocate for someone if I can but I also need to be careful that I'm not thrusting my nose directly into a parry of some sort.
And . . . the entire thing worked out just fine with absolutely NO interference on my part.
Howabouthat? The world didn't need me in control.
And here's another gem of wait-while-keeping-your-mouth-shut-isms . . . .
My cousin - who is a much nicer person than I am - and her husband have decided to visit my parents. This is going to be a very nice thing - my cousin and my mother are very similar people so they're going to enjoy pawing over each and every last piece of detritus that's still crouching in my parents' house, oohing and aahing over each and every one. They won't get anything accomplished as far as reducing the size of the pile, mind you, but my ma is thrilled that someone else loves her stuff as much as she does. I've seen my cousin's garage and it looks a lot like my parents' basement - the two of them couldn't clean out a thimble with a fire hose.
So I get the word second-hand or third-hand, maybe tweeted to me by a migrating European swallow passing over my house, that my cousin wants to sleep at my parents' small apartment and also wants to save some money by using my parents' car. I don't want to put words in someone else's mouth - or at least I want to do it in a way that seems like I'm not doing it so I don't get blamed for doing it - but my folks didn't want me to stay there and they didn't want me to use their car, and I'm their son, black sheep though I may be, but I'm still pretty sure what their stance about anyone else using their car is. My ma actually threw up a polite defense, saying that they didn't have an extra bed anymore, but my cousin parried this thrust by saying that they'd sleep on the floor. I could hear my father moan from 2500 miles away - my cousins are extreme extroverts and dad doesn't like being around anyone so this had the makings of a match in a fireworks factory.
And what should I do? Tell my cousin to back off, politely, sticking my nose where it very well may not be wanted? Call ma and ask her if I should intercede, almost certainly breaking one of her cardinal rules - speaketh thou not ill-will-ly of thine relatives? I want to be an advocate for someone if I can but I also need to be careful that I'm not thrusting my nose directly into a parry of some sort.
And . . . the entire thing worked out just fine with absolutely NO interference on my part.
Howabouthat? The world didn't need me in control.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Big Sale!
Girding up one's loins: Refers to the need to strap a belt around one's waist when getting up to avoid one's cloak falling off.
I've been pursuing the idea that I should do the work and leave the results up to my Higher Power for so long that it isn't funny, which leads me to ask this question (Ed. Note: said question directed to my own damn self): why don't I actually try to practice the concept? This leads me further down the concept rat hole: why am I so surprised that it works so well when I do occasionally, in spite of myself, actually practice said concept?
Here was my yesterday: SuperK and I girded up our loins to visit a local retail establishment. A few days earlier we had placed a product on hold to take advantage of a sale that was expiring that very day. The counter guy put the hold on an incorrect product, potentially costing me some damn money, and he offered to remedy this by discounting something or the other else. I added up the two numbers and saw in a damn hurry that his solution, fixing his mistake, was going to cost me some damn money. I girded up my loins with some heavy-duty girding material, certain that I was going to have to go to war, eager for the conflict.
(Ed. Note: When we go out into public together to talk to other . . . you know . . . people, I rarely get to talk - there aren't many prohibitions existent in our house that one of us has levied on the other, but me talking to other people in the presence of my wife is one of them).
Strolling into the store we immediately see that one of the two products that made the final cut (the runner-up, the bridesmaid, the second place trophy winner) was writhing in the throes of an incredible sale. We knew it was a good sale because the counter guy tried to talk us into buying the less expensive product, a product that we liked as well at the big winner which we chose, frankly, because it isn't all that damn important to us and we didn't want to be one of those weird couples who spend half a lifetime agonizing over something that they eventually hate, anyway.
Should I mention that the amount of money that we saved was far, far greater than the original sales price?
No, I didn't think I should mention that.
I've been pursuing the idea that I should do the work and leave the results up to my Higher Power for so long that it isn't funny, which leads me to ask this question (Ed. Note: said question directed to my own damn self): why don't I actually try to practice the concept? This leads me further down the concept rat hole: why am I so surprised that it works so well when I do occasionally, in spite of myself, actually practice said concept?
Here was my yesterday: SuperK and I girded up our loins to visit a local retail establishment. A few days earlier we had placed a product on hold to take advantage of a sale that was expiring that very day. The counter guy put the hold on an incorrect product, potentially costing me some damn money, and he offered to remedy this by discounting something or the other else. I added up the two numbers and saw in a damn hurry that his solution, fixing his mistake, was going to cost me some damn money. I girded up my loins with some heavy-duty girding material, certain that I was going to have to go to war, eager for the conflict.
(Ed. Note: When we go out into public together to talk to other . . . you know . . . people, I rarely get to talk - there aren't many prohibitions existent in our house that one of us has levied on the other, but me talking to other people in the presence of my wife is one of them).
Strolling into the store we immediately see that one of the two products that made the final cut (the runner-up, the bridesmaid, the second place trophy winner) was writhing in the throes of an incredible sale. We knew it was a good sale because the counter guy tried to talk us into buying the less expensive product, a product that we liked as well at the big winner which we chose, frankly, because it isn't all that damn important to us and we didn't want to be one of those weird couples who spend half a lifetime agonizing over something that they eventually hate, anyway.
Should I mention that the amount of money that we saved was far, far greater than the original sales price?
No, I didn't think I should mention that.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Clearly, I Have a Ways to Go
Just a clarification - the musing part that kicked off yesterday's blog is over 40 years old and I was not the author. The point was that the stuff that came out of the mouth of a paranoid schizophrenic sounded like some of the stuff I hear at meetings sometimes, confirming my strongly held belief that we really, really, really are suffering from a mental illness and a physical overreaction.
I did find it interesting that a few people, including my spouse of twenty-five years, who knows me better than anyone in the world, thought it was, in fact, me, trying to work something out. Jesus, I thought the person expressing that crap should have been shot and put out of his or her misery, and everyone thought it was me.
That doesn't sound too good. Maybe I'm not doing as well as I thought I was.
I'm kidding. I'm doing fine. I'm doing great. I'm trying to stay out of my own way.
I did find it interesting that a few people, including my spouse of twenty-five years, who knows me better than anyone in the world, thought it was, in fact, me, trying to work something out. Jesus, I thought the person expressing that crap should have been shot and put out of his or her misery, and everyone thought it was me.
That doesn't sound too good. Maybe I'm not doing as well as I thought I was.
I'm kidding. I'm doing fine. I'm doing great. I'm trying to stay out of my own way.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Sheesh
Psychopath: A person with a personality disorder indicated by a pattern of lying, cunning, manipulating, glibness, exploiting, heedlessness, arrogance, delusions of grandeur, sexual promiscuity, low self-control, disregard for morality, lack of acceptance of responsibility, callousness, and lack of empathy and remorse. Such an individual may be especially prone to violent and criminal offenses.
Everything becomes more negative. I haven't had a wave of such negativism in a long time. If nothing is good, what is there worth trying for?
I'm no longer apathetic about the control society exerts on me. I dislike being controlled by a huge, nameless force which has dictated all my actions up to now, and appears to have no cracks in the fortress. I feel more and more incapable of acting. And it's frustrating.
I have to admit that I don't trust anyone anymore. This is the only thing that can be causing my illogical jealousies toward everyone, even my friends. Why should anyone be happy if I'm not?
Sometimes I think I AM acting right. But I realize I'm not. I can't see the future being any different. What's the use of trying?
But I guess none of this really makes any difference. Really, it doesn't always bother me. But sometimes I WANT to change and then I get frustrated. And the frustration can get bad, so bad my head wants to explode.
And I get so angry with society, then. Why did it make me like this?
So I'm reading some of my old letters and I come across this passage.
"Man," I think. "I remember what it was like to feel that way. I'm so glad I'm sober and working a Program, making some progress toward a happier existence."
Then I see that I've attributed this to a book called: "Case Histories of Psychopathology," a book I assume I was assigned in one of my psychology classes. I hope, for god's sake, that I didn't pick it up to do some pleasure reading.
Let me repeat this: I thought I was reading something I had written about myself when, in fact, I was reading about someone who was ill enough to be profiled in a book about psychopathology. Some type of psychopath (please see definition at top of page). Maybe a paranoid schizophrenic? Some seriously sick dude and I thought it was me.
I just don't have any doubt that what ails me is a serious medical condition.
Everything becomes more negative. I haven't had a wave of such negativism in a long time. If nothing is good, what is there worth trying for?
I'm no longer apathetic about the control society exerts on me. I dislike being controlled by a huge, nameless force which has dictated all my actions up to now, and appears to have no cracks in the fortress. I feel more and more incapable of acting. And it's frustrating.
I have to admit that I don't trust anyone anymore. This is the only thing that can be causing my illogical jealousies toward everyone, even my friends. Why should anyone be happy if I'm not?
Sometimes I think I AM acting right. But I realize I'm not. I can't see the future being any different. What's the use of trying?
But I guess none of this really makes any difference. Really, it doesn't always bother me. But sometimes I WANT to change and then I get frustrated. And the frustration can get bad, so bad my head wants to explode.
And I get so angry with society, then. Why did it make me like this?
So I'm reading some of my old letters and I come across this passage.
"Man," I think. "I remember what it was like to feel that way. I'm so glad I'm sober and working a Program, making some progress toward a happier existence."
Then I see that I've attributed this to a book called: "Case Histories of Psychopathology," a book I assume I was assigned in one of my psychology classes. I hope, for god's sake, that I didn't pick it up to do some pleasure reading.
Let me repeat this: I thought I was reading something I had written about myself when, in fact, I was reading about someone who was ill enough to be profiled in a book about psychopathology. Some type of psychopath (please see definition at top of page). Maybe a paranoid schizophrenic? Some seriously sick dude and I thought it was me.
I just don't have any doubt that what ails me is a serious medical condition.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Lying At An Early Age
False: Untrue, not factual, factually incorrect.
I had a friend send me a cache of old letters that I had sent to him when I was still drinking and, quite obviously, smoking an absolute shitload of weed. I waded into the correspondence, expecting a brilliant mother lode of early insight and wisdom.
Yeah, well, right. There's a mother lode of something there, alright, most of which is flush-worthy. If this is what I perceived as correspondence when I was running and gunning then it's no wonder I didn't have too many friends. About half of this stuff consists of me transcribing the most depressing lyrics from the most depressing songs I could find. There is also an incredible amount of outright lying. I can only hope that I believed that the stories I was making up were transparently false, otherwise I'm embarrassed at my behavior. These were falsehoods.
Then I stuck this in the middle of one of the letters: "When life is over it's like a flicker of bright film, an instant on the screen, all of its prejudices and passions condensed and illuminated for an instant in space, and before you could cry out: 'There was a happy day, there was a bad one, there an evil face, there a good one,' the film burned to a cinder, the screen went dead."
Juan Ramon Jimenez: "If they give you ruled paper, write the other way."
I had a friend send me a cache of old letters that I had sent to him when I was still drinking and, quite obviously, smoking an absolute shitload of weed. I waded into the correspondence, expecting a brilliant mother lode of early insight and wisdom.
Yeah, well, right. There's a mother lode of something there, alright, most of which is flush-worthy. If this is what I perceived as correspondence when I was running and gunning then it's no wonder I didn't have too many friends. About half of this stuff consists of me transcribing the most depressing lyrics from the most depressing songs I could find. There is also an incredible amount of outright lying. I can only hope that I believed that the stories I was making up were transparently false, otherwise I'm embarrassed at my behavior. These were falsehoods.
Then I stuck this in the middle of one of the letters: "When life is over it's like a flicker of bright film, an instant on the screen, all of its prejudices and passions condensed and illuminated for an instant in space, and before you could cry out: 'There was a happy day, there was a bad one, there an evil face, there a good one,' the film burned to a cinder, the screen went dead."
Juan Ramon Jimenez: "If they give you ruled paper, write the other way."
Friday, September 19, 2014
Of Kliegs and Craws and Some of my Other Favorite Things
And the Darker Side of my reading of The Bible!! is this: first of all, let me address this issue: you knew there was going to be a Darker Side, didn't you? I'm ALL Darker Side All of the time, this is my problem. I should buy some klieg lights, some halogen arc lamps and shine a lot of light on all this darkness, is what I should do.
By the way isn't "Klieg" a great word?
Let's see, what was talking about again? Oh, yeah, The Bible!! One of the things that really sticks in my craw about great religious books of any faith or religion is that there are inevitably a bunch of people who think they have some special, deep insight on these books and they fall all over themselves telling everyone else what these special, deep insights are. Irritating enough, to be sure, but then they insist that these insights, or opinions, are facts, and that everyone has to believe them. Well, okay, some of the stuff IS pretty obvious but some of the stuff has a lot of nuance, and sometimes certain things are really emphasized and some things are completely overlooked.
Just a minute. Isn't "craw" a great word, too?
Craw:
Craw: a math rock band from Cleveland, Ohio
Craw: (surname), a surname (includes list)
Crop: (anatomy), or craw, an anatomical structure
CRAW: (organization), the Committee on the Status of Women in Computing Research
CRAW: (industrial certification), a Certified Robotic Arc Welder, per the American Welding Society (A.W.S.)
And a pretty wide-ranging word as well.
The point is, should you care to keep reading to find out if there is indeed a point, is that I have already stumbled over a few prohibited things that these blowhards talk about ALL of the time and I've also stumbled over a few more prohibited things that I NEVER hear the blowhards mention, ever. Makes me suspicious that the blowhards are kind of picking and choosing what's okay and what isn't.
So I have found myself reading the book not just to see what's there but also to pick up some facts should I ever find myself arguing the finer points of the book with one of these blowhards, which I almost certainly will never do. This is not a valid reason to read a book that has tons of really good stuff in it.
I seem to find a way to mess up about everything.
By the way isn't "Klieg" a great word?
Let's see, what was talking about again? Oh, yeah, The Bible!! One of the things that really sticks in my craw about great religious books of any faith or religion is that there are inevitably a bunch of people who think they have some special, deep insight on these books and they fall all over themselves telling everyone else what these special, deep insights are. Irritating enough, to be sure, but then they insist that these insights, or opinions, are facts, and that everyone has to believe them. Well, okay, some of the stuff IS pretty obvious but some of the stuff has a lot of nuance, and sometimes certain things are really emphasized and some things are completely overlooked.
Just a minute. Isn't "craw" a great word, too?
Craw:
Craw: a math rock band from Cleveland, Ohio
Craw: (surname), a surname (includes list)
Crop: (anatomy), or craw, an anatomical structure
CRAW: (organization), the Committee on the Status of Women in Computing Research
CRAW: (industrial certification), a Certified Robotic Arc Welder, per the American Welding Society (A.W.S.)
And a pretty wide-ranging word as well.
The point is, should you care to keep reading to find out if there is indeed a point, is that I have already stumbled over a few prohibited things that these blowhards talk about ALL of the time and I've also stumbled over a few more prohibited things that I NEVER hear the blowhards mention, ever. Makes me suspicious that the blowhards are kind of picking and choosing what's okay and what isn't.
So I have found myself reading the book not just to see what's there but also to pick up some facts should I ever find myself arguing the finer points of the book with one of these blowhards, which I almost certainly will never do. This is not a valid reason to read a book that has tons of really good stuff in it.
I seem to find a way to mess up about everything.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Willie!!
Heathen: Uncultured; uncivilized; savage; philistine; not adhering to an Abrahamic religion.
Willie told me the other day or a few days ago or a year ago or something - I don't pay too much attention when he's talking - that he had started to read The Bible!! again. He's not the kind of guy that I would imagine reading The Bible!! so I almost listened to him.
I was a really religious kid. I grew up in a family where my parents made me do all kinds of official religious things but I was intrigued enough, and terrified by life enough, to go ahead and investigate some things out on my own. So one of my activities, as an avid reader, was to read The Bible!! which I did several times. I think I read it 5 to 8 times. I really did. I really did read The Bible!!, a point I have to emphasize because I'm in the same club as Willie - the You read The Bible!! club.
I told him that as a general rule he never says anything that helps me but I was intrigued that he had picked up that book. It got me to thinking. I had rescued my old The Bible!! from the wreckage of my parent's house and it made the trip home to Vacation City.
So I picked it up and started in right where I left off, like I had never missed a beat. You know, now that I'm not always pissed off about everything I really haven't been able to find anything all that objectionable so far. As I've often said I believe The Fellowship is a common, ancient form of spirituality that has been made into a pablum that drunks can slurp down. There's not much tweaking one can do with Love your neighbor as yourself - that worked in ancient India and it works today.
For instance, one of my own personal favorite aphorisms is "any idiot can be happy when he's getting his own way." Here's a verse from The Bible!!, my version being one of those that has been reworked to get rid of all the thous and thees: "If you love only those who love you, what good is that? Even scoundrels do that much. If you are friendly only to your friends, how are you different from anyone else? Even the heathen do that."
Heathen. That's a good word. I think Willie's a heathen
Willie told me the other day or a few days ago or a year ago or something - I don't pay too much attention when he's talking - that he had started to read The Bible!! again. He's not the kind of guy that I would imagine reading The Bible!! so I almost listened to him.
I was a really religious kid. I grew up in a family where my parents made me do all kinds of official religious things but I was intrigued enough, and terrified by life enough, to go ahead and investigate some things out on my own. So one of my activities, as an avid reader, was to read The Bible!! which I did several times. I think I read it 5 to 8 times. I really did. I really did read The Bible!!, a point I have to emphasize because I'm in the same club as Willie - the You read The Bible!! club.
I told him that as a general rule he never says anything that helps me but I was intrigued that he had picked up that book. It got me to thinking. I had rescued my old The Bible!! from the wreckage of my parent's house and it made the trip home to Vacation City.
So I picked it up and started in right where I left off, like I had never missed a beat. You know, now that I'm not always pissed off about everything I really haven't been able to find anything all that objectionable so far. As I've often said I believe The Fellowship is a common, ancient form of spirituality that has been made into a pablum that drunks can slurp down. There's not much tweaking one can do with Love your neighbor as yourself - that worked in ancient India and it works today.
For instance, one of my own personal favorite aphorisms is "any idiot can be happy when he's getting his own way." Here's a verse from The Bible!!, my version being one of those that has been reworked to get rid of all the thous and thees: "If you love only those who love you, what good is that? Even scoundrels do that much. If you are friendly only to your friends, how are you different from anyone else? Even the heathen do that."
Heathen. That's a good word. I think Willie's a heathen
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
OK, I Get It - I'm Selfish
Selfish: Having regard for oneself above others' well-being.
Funny thing is . . . when things are going well I lose my tongue and my pen. What's there to write about when I'm not furious? Luckily, I'm furious most of the time, outraged that some person, place, or thing hasn't given me what I want or has inflicted me, plagued me with some minor discomfort. I'm telling you, I got it bad, bad, bad.
It took me 3 or 4 days after my return to Vacation City to recover from my emotional hangover. I did OK back there - my actions were decent and my mouth, for the most part, was clamped firmly shut, its most attractive and deeply sexy position. I got some kudos from my family for all of the work that I got done, a sure sign that I was doing what I needed to do and not what I thought needed to be done. Still, the depth of my quietly furious discontent surprised me somewhat - I thought I was more grown up. I don't want to be that annoyed at anyone, let alone my family who loves me and has done a pretty damn good job of being my family. It's not their fault that I'm a quasi-psycho, if by "quasi" you mean "complete." Might be time to dip my toe in The Other Twelve Step Program. You know the one - helps you deal with people you find intolerable. My excuse for not toe-dipping has always been that I get all I need from The Fellowship, obviously not true at the moment.
At my Monday night literature meeting we read from one of the chapters that discusses Step 10 and Step 11. On just two contingent pages I came across these references:
1. Were we resentful, selfish, blah, blah, blah.
2. . . . asking that our thinking be divorced from self-pity, dishonest, or self-seeking motives.
3. We ask especially for freedom from self-will . . .
4. We are careful never to pray for our own selfish ends.
5. We are then in much less danger of . . . . self-pity blah, blah, blah.
Do you think the founders were trying to suggest, to hint that a streak of SELF runs through us all? I really couldn't say.
I like the idea that I do best when I accept people for who they are, not who I want them to be.
No, "like" isn't the right idea. The word I'm actually searching for is "hate." I hate the idea that I need to accept anything that I don't want to accept. Back to St. Frank: seeking to understand rather than be understood. Sheesh.
Funny thing is . . . when things are going well I lose my tongue and my pen. What's there to write about when I'm not furious? Luckily, I'm furious most of the time, outraged that some person, place, or thing hasn't given me what I want or has inflicted me, plagued me with some minor discomfort. I'm telling you, I got it bad, bad, bad.
It took me 3 or 4 days after my return to Vacation City to recover from my emotional hangover. I did OK back there - my actions were decent and my mouth, for the most part, was clamped firmly shut, its most attractive and deeply sexy position. I got some kudos from my family for all of the work that I got done, a sure sign that I was doing what I needed to do and not what I thought needed to be done. Still, the depth of my quietly furious discontent surprised me somewhat - I thought I was more grown up. I don't want to be that annoyed at anyone, let alone my family who loves me and has done a pretty damn good job of being my family. It's not their fault that I'm a quasi-psycho, if by "quasi" you mean "complete." Might be time to dip my toe in The Other Twelve Step Program. You know the one - helps you deal with people you find intolerable. My excuse for not toe-dipping has always been that I get all I need from The Fellowship, obviously not true at the moment.
At my Monday night literature meeting we read from one of the chapters that discusses Step 10 and Step 11. On just two contingent pages I came across these references:
1. Were we resentful, selfish, blah, blah, blah.
2. . . . asking that our thinking be divorced from self-pity, dishonest, or self-seeking motives.
3. We ask especially for freedom from self-will . . .
4. We are careful never to pray for our own selfish ends.
5. We are then in much less danger of . . . . self-pity blah, blah, blah.
Do you think the founders were trying to suggest, to hint that a streak of SELF runs through us all? I really couldn't say.
I like the idea that I do best when I accept people for who they are, not who I want them to be.
No, "like" isn't the right idea. The word I'm actually searching for is "hate." I hate the idea that I need to accept anything that I don't want to accept. Back to St. Frank: seeking to understand rather than be understood. Sheesh.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Spend that Money
Behave: To conduct (oneself) well, or in a given way.
Behavior: Human conduct relative to social norms
I've been talking with my brothers and sisters in recovery about the trip, and this question comes up often: "How was your behavior?" I get really caught up in my thinking, giving it too much power, and subsequently don't pay enough attention to my behavior. The only thing more useless to me and everyone else on the planet than my thinking is my talking so I try not to do either of them too much, but it's the behavior that's important. Not that thinking and/or talking isn't important at all, just that it's not as important. I'm grateful, for instance, that I can't be tried, sentenced, and convicted for any of the things that I think because I would be going to the Big House up the river for a long, long time. I'm a venomous talker and a murderous thinker. Actor? Eh, pretty much a wimp.
I had one glaring instance where my behavior wasn't exactly to my liking. I've done more bitching that I should but far, far less than I wanted to about the money I've had to spend traveling back to The Old City. Not all of the money but a chunk of it. Much of the reason for all of the trips has been as a manual laborer for my folks' house. I realize, on the surface, that the attraction of my manual labor is that it's free, and I'm glad to provide the service, but it's one hell of a commute, and that I resent. Instead of openly bitching about the money I'm spending - an amount no one in my family has offered to defray by one farthing, shilling, or pence - I've tried to Set the Stage, director that I am. As in: "I can't afford to keep doing this," which is technically kind of a lie, but it seems nicer than saying: "I don't want to do this anymore," closer to the truth but a little heavy-handed.
At one point my mother said that she wanted to pay for my flight. I gave her the number, and she replied: "Well, you can forget about that," and gave a little laugh. I had been surprised by the question, stunned by the offer, and pissed by the response. I felt like I was Charlie Brown, letting Lucy talk me into trying to kick that football one more fucking time.
Seeing as the flight was more than she wanted to fund she started probing for other, more acceptable expenses. Exasperated, I said: "Mom, I don't want to talk about this anymore. If you want to give me some money, give me whatever you want to. And if you don't want to give me any money, that's OK, too. Please stop talking about giving me money. Give me the money or don't give me the money."
"That's right - you don't care about the money," she said.
!!!!
"Yes," I sputtered, "I do, too, care about the money - I care about it too much."
While this comment ended that particular conversation my mother continued to talk about the money on a daily basis. Near the end of the trip she said that she was going to send me a check for an amount exceeding all of the expenses of the trip, framing it as compensatory move to offset all of the stuff that my sister is hauling away from the house, to her house, none of which I care to touch with a ten foot pole, and completely altering the dynamic. Unfortunately, my sister overheard part of this, not getting the exact amount, and she was quiet afterwards, so I'm sure this is going to blow up in my face at some point in a way that I can only imagine.
Not that I'm going to see the money, anyway. I felt like saying: "There's the check book right there. Do you want me to get the check book and a pen and bring it to you where you're sitting, right now?"
Seemed a bit much. I am NOT spending that particular amount of money. My sister will probable get it.
:)
Behavior: Human conduct relative to social norms
I've been talking with my brothers and sisters in recovery about the trip, and this question comes up often: "How was your behavior?" I get really caught up in my thinking, giving it too much power, and subsequently don't pay enough attention to my behavior. The only thing more useless to me and everyone else on the planet than my thinking is my talking so I try not to do either of them too much, but it's the behavior that's important. Not that thinking and/or talking isn't important at all, just that it's not as important. I'm grateful, for instance, that I can't be tried, sentenced, and convicted for any of the things that I think because I would be going to the Big House up the river for a long, long time. I'm a venomous talker and a murderous thinker. Actor? Eh, pretty much a wimp.
I had one glaring instance where my behavior wasn't exactly to my liking. I've done more bitching that I should but far, far less than I wanted to about the money I've had to spend traveling back to The Old City. Not all of the money but a chunk of it. Much of the reason for all of the trips has been as a manual laborer for my folks' house. I realize, on the surface, that the attraction of my manual labor is that it's free, and I'm glad to provide the service, but it's one hell of a commute, and that I resent. Instead of openly bitching about the money I'm spending - an amount no one in my family has offered to defray by one farthing, shilling, or pence - I've tried to Set the Stage, director that I am. As in: "I can't afford to keep doing this," which is technically kind of a lie, but it seems nicer than saying: "I don't want to do this anymore," closer to the truth but a little heavy-handed.
At one point my mother said that she wanted to pay for my flight. I gave her the number, and she replied: "Well, you can forget about that," and gave a little laugh. I had been surprised by the question, stunned by the offer, and pissed by the response. I felt like I was Charlie Brown, letting Lucy talk me into trying to kick that football one more fucking time.
Seeing as the flight was more than she wanted to fund she started probing for other, more acceptable expenses. Exasperated, I said: "Mom, I don't want to talk about this anymore. If you want to give me some money, give me whatever you want to. And if you don't want to give me any money, that's OK, too. Please stop talking about giving me money. Give me the money or don't give me the money."
"That's right - you don't care about the money," she said.
!!!!
"Yes," I sputtered, "I do, too, care about the money - I care about it too much."
While this comment ended that particular conversation my mother continued to talk about the money on a daily basis. Near the end of the trip she said that she was going to send me a check for an amount exceeding all of the expenses of the trip, framing it as compensatory move to offset all of the stuff that my sister is hauling away from the house, to her house, none of which I care to touch with a ten foot pole, and completely altering the dynamic. Unfortunately, my sister overheard part of this, not getting the exact amount, and she was quiet afterwards, so I'm sure this is going to blow up in my face at some point in a way that I can only imagine.
Not that I'm going to see the money, anyway. I felt like saying: "There's the check book right there. Do you want me to get the check book and a pen and bring it to you where you're sitting, right now?"
Seemed a bit much. I am NOT spending that particular amount of money. My sister will probable get it.
:)
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
The Guilt Cherry on the Guilt Sundae
Here's the first day back stuff:
An uneventful-less trip - uneventful as always. Still, I battle and lose with trip anxiety, a fact that I really should try to keep in mind. It has always been and I expect that it shall always be, to some degree at least. And the first day after arrival? An anxiety fest. Why can't I remember that jet-lag is a real thing. I can't seem to do it.
My parents sit and bicker. Dad is pissy and mom wanders all over the place with a lot of repeating and silly concerns. I'd like to change this dynamic but they've only been married for 65 years. I wonder why my father thinks it's helpful to yell at someone who is having trouble maintaining focus. It's not like she's doing it to piss him off. I think she's about 75% there at this point. It has nothing to do with him. Why does everyone think everything is about them?
Mom, after I visited for 5 excruciating hours, asked whether I was staying with them that night, forgetting that she had shown no enthusiasm for the prospect when I brought it up several times on the phone from Vacation City. The book uses a phrase along the lines of "purposeful forgetting," which is kind of like not hearing anything because one is hard of hearing unless it's something interesting, at which point the hearing gets really damn good.
She seemed surprised that I had made other plans. I reminded her as gently as I could that we had talked about this at length. I did not say this: "If you mention that 'I guess it would be OK for you to stay here' it doesn't show much enthusiasm for the prospect, so I made other plans."
I did, however, stick to my guns. I was settled in at my very hospitable sponsor's house, where I had my own room, a nice bed, and a happy host. I know family can push buttons, making situations seem worse than they are. I know that I have to work on myself, to show kindness to people who are less able to tolerate adversity, who don't have the wonderful spiritual toolkit that I've got; I know all of this but goddam was it unpleasant being there.
When I left my mother made this comment: "It's just that we don't get to see you very often." Ah, yes, the guilt coup-de-grace, the guilt cherry on top of the sundae of guilt.
An uneventful-less trip - uneventful as always. Still, I battle and lose with trip anxiety, a fact that I really should try to keep in mind. It has always been and I expect that it shall always be, to some degree at least. And the first day after arrival? An anxiety fest. Why can't I remember that jet-lag is a real thing. I can't seem to do it.
My parents sit and bicker. Dad is pissy and mom wanders all over the place with a lot of repeating and silly concerns. I'd like to change this dynamic but they've only been married for 65 years. I wonder why my father thinks it's helpful to yell at someone who is having trouble maintaining focus. It's not like she's doing it to piss him off. I think she's about 75% there at this point. It has nothing to do with him. Why does everyone think everything is about them?
Mom, after I visited for 5 excruciating hours, asked whether I was staying with them that night, forgetting that she had shown no enthusiasm for the prospect when I brought it up several times on the phone from Vacation City. The book uses a phrase along the lines of "purposeful forgetting," which is kind of like not hearing anything because one is hard of hearing unless it's something interesting, at which point the hearing gets really damn good.
She seemed surprised that I had made other plans. I reminded her as gently as I could that we had talked about this at length. I did not say this: "If you mention that 'I guess it would be OK for you to stay here' it doesn't show much enthusiasm for the prospect, so I made other plans."
I did, however, stick to my guns. I was settled in at my very hospitable sponsor's house, where I had my own room, a nice bed, and a happy host. I know family can push buttons, making situations seem worse than they are. I know that I have to work on myself, to show kindness to people who are less able to tolerate adversity, who don't have the wonderful spiritual toolkit that I've got; I know all of this but goddam was it unpleasant being there.
When I left my mother made this comment: "It's just that we don't get to see you very often." Ah, yes, the guilt coup-de-grace, the guilt cherry on top of the sundae of guilt.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Galaxies, In My Thrall
People are living their lives here. People aren't stopping what they're doing, dropping everything, and rushing off to accommodate me - they're letting me know when they're available to be seen. This surprised me endlessly when I first started coming back to visit. This time, not so much. As a man who believes that the earth and all the planets and every star in every galaxy is revolving around him, slowly, reverentially, worshipfully, it shouldn't surprise me that I'm surprised that someone else isn't THINKING ABOUT ME! Today I say: good for you, good to see you or I'll see you next time. If I think I'm being dissed then I mess with relationships that mean a lot to me and that is stupid.
I saw as many people as I could. I'm glad I didn't try to see everyone. I spread myself too thin as it is and I had a lot to do. I tend to jump in with both six guns blazing. I tend to mix my metaphors. I tend to say the same things over and over, to repeat myself, to endlessly cover ground that is trampled with the footprints of my jackboots.
Too much time with people for this introvert. Good people, loved people, people that I want to see but people none the less. I get asked about myself too much, something you'd expect from good, nice people but I get tired of talking about myself. It's not all that interesting to be honest about it.
And it's one thing to have coffee or a meal with one or two people, another thing altogether to try to squeeze into the middle of a group that has had regular, intimate contact for the last 4 years. Did not dig this dynamic. Avoided this dynamic.
I saw as many people as I could. I'm glad I didn't try to see everyone. I spread myself too thin as it is and I had a lot to do. I tend to jump in with both six guns blazing. I tend to mix my metaphors. I tend to say the same things over and over, to repeat myself, to endlessly cover ground that is trampled with the footprints of my jackboots.
Too much time with people for this introvert. Good people, loved people, people that I want to see but people none the less. I get asked about myself too much, something you'd expect from good, nice people but I get tired of talking about myself. It's not all that interesting to be honest about it.
And it's one thing to have coffee or a meal with one or two people, another thing altogether to try to squeeze into the middle of a group that has had regular, intimate contact for the last 4 years. Did not dig this dynamic. Avoided this dynamic.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
This and That and the Other
In no particular order some notes from the last 10 days as I tried to maintain sanity, to remind myself and calm myself and counsel myself and try to not think about myself for like one goddam minute . . .
Reassure my mother that everything is OK.
I have no idea what it must be like to be in my mid-80s. It must be very frightening at times, seeing your life slipping away, feeling fuzzier mentally and frailer physically. It must be quite frightening. It was hard for me, still in the prime of my life, if by "prime" you mean "15 years past my prime," to let loose of a lot of physical things, most of which I hadn't made use of for a long time, if ever. I'm not sentimental and I'm not a great worshiper of possessions but I still found myself thinking: "This is worth some money or I remember when I was still using this thing."
I probably need to do some official Step work on my family. Stuff that pisses me off coming from them doesn't cause me to pause for a second when it comes from anyone else. I'm veering too much towards animosity, open hostility, and that's not where I want to be. I got my finger on the trigger.
The idea is to do what people want done, not what I think they should have done. It isn't my call to make. I think I've been helpful even though I don't see that I'm doing anything productive.
I wish I could be more comfortable with my lack of enthusiasm for my family. It's not as if I'm the only person out here whose mother pisses them off from time to time.
Marry my mother, become my father. As if. I'm my mother and I married my father. Don't think about this too deeply or it becomes very disturbing.
I'm sorry that it isn't easier for me with my parents, that the closeness that we all crave isn't there. Ditto with my sister.
I shan't be coming back for a good little while.
Reassure my mother that everything is OK.
I have no idea what it must be like to be in my mid-80s. It must be very frightening at times, seeing your life slipping away, feeling fuzzier mentally and frailer physically. It must be quite frightening. It was hard for me, still in the prime of my life, if by "prime" you mean "15 years past my prime," to let loose of a lot of physical things, most of which I hadn't made use of for a long time, if ever. I'm not sentimental and I'm not a great worshiper of possessions but I still found myself thinking: "This is worth some money or I remember when I was still using this thing."
I probably need to do some official Step work on my family. Stuff that pisses me off coming from them doesn't cause me to pause for a second when it comes from anyone else. I'm veering too much towards animosity, open hostility, and that's not where I want to be. I got my finger on the trigger.
The idea is to do what people want done, not what I think they should have done. It isn't my call to make. I think I've been helpful even though I don't see that I'm doing anything productive.
I wish I could be more comfortable with my lack of enthusiasm for my family. It's not as if I'm the only person out here whose mother pisses them off from time to time.
Marry my mother, become my father. As if. I'm my mother and I married my father. Don't think about this too deeply or it becomes very disturbing.
I'm sorry that it isn't easier for me with my parents, that the closeness that we all crave isn't there. Ditto with my sister.
I shan't be coming back for a good little while.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
The Other Other Thing
The other other thing about my family is that they won't do what I think they should want to do which would obviously be the best for everyone concerned if by "everyone" you mean "me." I believe it has been well established that if it isn't about me then, frankly, I'm not interested. I don't mean a little not interested, either - I mean totally, completely not interested.
Sometimes even the most idiotic of us has a common sense plan for someone else that would be preferable to what they are actually doing. It would clearly be better if my father bathed regularly, ate solid food, and quit bitching up a storm about things that are out of his control. If I could only get him to etc. etc. etc.
And I say this thing with no ego and the knowledge that it sounds completely ridiculous: I am a guy that has a lot of common sense when said common sense isn't coming up for the last time, close to drowning in a sea of alcohol and drugs. I can step back and assess things, throw out options and possibilities until something does make sense. I believe, in my own mind, that one of the things that I bring to the table is to help people look at choices. I try not to make the choice for them but just to help them look at something from the front-side and the back-side and the inside out.
I grit my teeth as I watch my family spiral. But the thing is everyone gets to live their own lives. Everyone gets to make good choices and bad choices and mistakes, hopefully learning as they go along. It gets frustrating when I see someone make the same bad choice over and over and over.
Kind of like I did most of my adult life, until I got sober. Takes what it takes, I guess.
Sometimes even the most idiotic of us has a common sense plan for someone else that would be preferable to what they are actually doing. It would clearly be better if my father bathed regularly, ate solid food, and quit bitching up a storm about things that are out of his control. If I could only get him to etc. etc. etc.
And I say this thing with no ego and the knowledge that it sounds completely ridiculous: I am a guy that has a lot of common sense when said common sense isn't coming up for the last time, close to drowning in a sea of alcohol and drugs. I can step back and assess things, throw out options and possibilities until something does make sense. I believe, in my own mind, that one of the things that I bring to the table is to help people look at choices. I try not to make the choice for them but just to help them look at something from the front-side and the back-side and the inside out.
I grit my teeth as I watch my family spiral. But the thing is everyone gets to live their own lives. Everyone gets to make good choices and bad choices and mistakes, hopefully learning as they go along. It gets frustrating when I see someone make the same bad choice over and over and over.
Kind of like I did most of my adult life, until I got sober. Takes what it takes, I guess.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Norman Rockwellian
Dickish: Offensively unpleasant and vexatious.
And the thing about family is that it's very hard to win if you're on the losing side. The problem with working a Program is that you're working a Program, and by definition constrained by some form or shape of internal ethics. It's so easy for me to say: "This or that person is acting dickish so I'm going to act dickish right back at them." Then I feel terrible for acting like a dick. But if someone is being dickish and I'm just sitting there taking it I think: "Wow. Why am I taking this abuse from this dick?"
See? I'm screwed! It's not fair! It's totally not fair! I'm in a tight spot where I have to put up with things that I wouldn't put up with for a New York minute from anyone else.
The last day of my trip I went down to retrieve the car so that I could take my folks over to their house for one last survey, meeting my sister for a ride to the airport hotel. When I got to the entrance my mother was waiting, no father in sight.
"I told him I wasn't going to buy him any beer at the store on the way home so he said: 'The hell with it then,' and decided he wasn't going to go to the house, either," she said.
SuperK and I discussed this. Who was the bigger dick: my dad for basically declining to say goodbye to me, in a snit over a 12 pack, or my mother, for trying to control his drinking, which may or may not be anywhere as bad as she says it is, seeing that she's not exactly a big drinking booster. Nothing worse than wanting a drink and not being able to get it, unless the decision is being made for you by a temperance warrior. At 86 I'm of the mind that you should be able to drink if you want to - I bet he would be a whole hell of a lot easier to be around if he had a few beers under his belt. But that's not my decision to make.
I'm also amused/amazed at my expectation of what family life should be like. There are terrible families and there are wonderful families and there are all levels in between. For some reason I think it should be my responsibility to construct a perfect, Norman Rockwellian family while simultaneously blaming myself for what I see as some kind of apocalyptic disaster. The fact of the matter is that my family life is pretty normal - not too hot and not too cold - as long as I can manage to concentrate on what's nice instead of what's lacking, a difficult task for a master of ferreting out the slightest flaw in anything.
Not going back for a long, long time.
And the thing about family is that it's very hard to win if you're on the losing side. The problem with working a Program is that you're working a Program, and by definition constrained by some form or shape of internal ethics. It's so easy for me to say: "This or that person is acting dickish so I'm going to act dickish right back at them." Then I feel terrible for acting like a dick. But if someone is being dickish and I'm just sitting there taking it I think: "Wow. Why am I taking this abuse from this dick?"
See? I'm screwed! It's not fair! It's totally not fair! I'm in a tight spot where I have to put up with things that I wouldn't put up with for a New York minute from anyone else.
The last day of my trip I went down to retrieve the car so that I could take my folks over to their house for one last survey, meeting my sister for a ride to the airport hotel. When I got to the entrance my mother was waiting, no father in sight.
"I told him I wasn't going to buy him any beer at the store on the way home so he said: 'The hell with it then,' and decided he wasn't going to go to the house, either," she said.
SuperK and I discussed this. Who was the bigger dick: my dad for basically declining to say goodbye to me, in a snit over a 12 pack, or my mother, for trying to control his drinking, which may or may not be anywhere as bad as she says it is, seeing that she's not exactly a big drinking booster. Nothing worse than wanting a drink and not being able to get it, unless the decision is being made for you by a temperance warrior. At 86 I'm of the mind that you should be able to drink if you want to - I bet he would be a whole hell of a lot easier to be around if he had a few beers under his belt. But that's not my decision to make.
I'm also amused/amazed at my expectation of what family life should be like. There are terrible families and there are wonderful families and there are all levels in between. For some reason I think it should be my responsibility to construct a perfect, Norman Rockwellian family while simultaneously blaming myself for what I see as some kind of apocalyptic disaster. The fact of the matter is that my family life is pretty normal - not too hot and not too cold - as long as I can manage to concentrate on what's nice instead of what's lacking, a difficult task for a master of ferreting out the slightest flaw in anything.
Not going back for a long, long time.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Family is Hard
Family is hard. It can be as hard a thing as there is.
When it's good it can be wonderful and when it's bad it's bad. Some of these resentments and chips-on-the-shoulders are hard-wired into our DNA. It can be incredibly difficult to brush off actions from family that don't cause us to miss a beat when they come from almost anyone else.
I didn't much enjoy the time I spent with my folks. I don't like that this is the way it is but what ya gonna do? I give it my best shot, I pray about it, I practice the principles to the best of my ability but I fall far short of any ideal. My ma is about 75% there at this point - she has trouble finishing her thoughts and she segues all over the place when she stays engaged. My pa is not getting enough to drink and he's pissed with a capital P, taking it out on my ma. She isn't unfocused on purpose. She didn't decide to start to wandering mentally to irritate dad. It doesn't help to yell at her.
So it sucks spending time with them. I honestly felt like saying to dad a few times: "Hey, why don't you shut the fuck up and let her finish?" THAT would be practicing some good spirituality on my part. It didn't help that I was there for 10 days, out of my routines, not exercising and eating like I normally do, sleeping in strange beds, being around people way, way more than I like to be. It was extremely sweet to be by myself at a hotel for that last night - the silence sounded to me like a chorus sung by the holy angels of heaven.
These family dynamics are hard to change. These are ancient riffs, rhythms from times long, long ago. I tried to see the situation from the viewpoints of these other people: leaving a home that you've owned for almost 60 years full of stuff you've collected, stuff that has a value to you that may not be shared by other people, an especially difficult fact when those other people are your kids. What must it be to hear someone say: "I know you've kept that piece of stuff for 50 years, in a box in your basement, because you thought I'd take it some day but I really don't want it." And this is probably very frightening for my dad, to see his life fracturing and drifting away.
I still didn't enjoy it. It was work, pure and simple. I was a laborer, sorting junky stuff in a filthy basement. It's not how I envisioned my family visits when I was getting sober. So be it: I did what needed to be done and I'm home now and I'm glad of it.
When it's good it can be wonderful and when it's bad it's bad. Some of these resentments and chips-on-the-shoulders are hard-wired into our DNA. It can be incredibly difficult to brush off actions from family that don't cause us to miss a beat when they come from almost anyone else.
I didn't much enjoy the time I spent with my folks. I don't like that this is the way it is but what ya gonna do? I give it my best shot, I pray about it, I practice the principles to the best of my ability but I fall far short of any ideal. My ma is about 75% there at this point - she has trouble finishing her thoughts and she segues all over the place when she stays engaged. My pa is not getting enough to drink and he's pissed with a capital P, taking it out on my ma. She isn't unfocused on purpose. She didn't decide to start to wandering mentally to irritate dad. It doesn't help to yell at her.
So it sucks spending time with them. I honestly felt like saying to dad a few times: "Hey, why don't you shut the fuck up and let her finish?" THAT would be practicing some good spirituality on my part. It didn't help that I was there for 10 days, out of my routines, not exercising and eating like I normally do, sleeping in strange beds, being around people way, way more than I like to be. It was extremely sweet to be by myself at a hotel for that last night - the silence sounded to me like a chorus sung by the holy angels of heaven.
These family dynamics are hard to change. These are ancient riffs, rhythms from times long, long ago. I tried to see the situation from the viewpoints of these other people: leaving a home that you've owned for almost 60 years full of stuff you've collected, stuff that has a value to you that may not be shared by other people, an especially difficult fact when those other people are your kids. What must it be to hear someone say: "I know you've kept that piece of stuff for 50 years, in a box in your basement, because you thought I'd take it some day but I really don't want it." And this is probably very frightening for my dad, to see his life fracturing and drifting away.
I still didn't enjoy it. It was work, pure and simple. I was a laborer, sorting junky stuff in a filthy basement. It's not how I envisioned my family visits when I was getting sober. So be it: I did what needed to be done and I'm home now and I'm glad of it.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Step to the Back of the Line, Please
Exactly: Without approximation; precisely.
I've been a traveling man the last ten days - visiting family which is always good for a few laughs if by "laughs" you mean "I'm going to kill some of these people if I stay a day longer." I was busy as hell so I didn't make the time to write much. Or meditate. Or go to many meetings. Guess what? I'm close to a full blown psychosis at this point, thanks for asking.
Starting from the end then . . .
I spent last night at an airport hotel in The Old City in preparation for a very early flight. This hotel is about 18 miles from where my family lives, a distance about 18 miles further than anyone was willing to drive to drop me off several hours before the crack of dawn. Fair enough. I wouldn't enjoy getting up well before the crack of dawn to drive someone to the airport, either. And at the end of 10 days I was thrilled with the idea of sitting by myself in a quiet hotel room not listening to anyone else say anything else. This introvert was tired of being around people, no offence intended. I watched the clock tick for about 4 hours, making a real party of it with my tap water and Subway vegetable sandwich.
The alarm tinkles at 3:45 AM. I stumble down to the hotel shuttle bus which deposits me directly at my terminal where I can conveniently view a board telling me my flight is delayed by two hours. Let's forget the fact that I was less than thrilled about getting up two hours earlier than I HAD to for a flight that required me to get up about two hours earlier than I WANTED to had that flight not be delayed. The real bugaboo was that the delay caused me to miss my connecting flight which caused me to miss my shuttle ride which made me very, very glad that I didn't try to smuggle my dad's antique shotguns onto the plane. Luckily for me the next connecting flight was sold out so that I was looking at the prospect of getting home around never. I bowed my head at the reservation counter. I showed the agent the top of my pork pie hat. I said not a word. Maybe she thought I was praying. I was most definitely not praying. The words I said are not going to be found in any prayers books that I'm familiar with.
"Just go to the Help Desk in Denver and they'll print your boarding pass for whatever fucking flight they want," she said, or something like that. I took off my belt and my shoes and put my little bottles of liquid in a clear plastic bag and displayed my computer for the security folks. I flew to Denver. I got off the plane and peed and washed my face, all leisurely-like. I stood in line at the Help Desk and watched a few people cut in front of me without being able to hork up any righteous indignation. I could hear the Help Person saying something about the third connecting flight also being full. I wondered if the line jumpers were going to snag the last remaining seats on the eighth connecting flight.
"God, could you handle this for me?" I asked. Notice I didn't ask for anything specific. I get screwed when I get specific. The god I pray to doesn't do requests - he twist them around all goofy-like. This god isn't a big candy machine. I don't pull a lever and get what I want simply because I ask all nice-like.
The Help Desk person asked me if I had been re-booked back in The Old City, seeming confused when I replied in the negative.
"Why not?" she said. "There are seats on the next flight."
My day was improving.
"You're my favorite girlfriend today," I said. "Just don't tell my wife," who wouldn't have cared, frankly.
"OK," she smiled. "If you don't tell my husband."
Because the plane was full I actually got seated in an exit aisle, with the big, comfy legroom so enjoyable to tall, skinny hipster dufuses like me. A few rows behind me I spotted the line jumpers, jammed into their puny coach seats. Obviously the airline filled all of the standard cost seats before placing the last stragglers in the premium seats. Ha ha ha. Take that, line jumpers.
It gets better. Once I arrived in Vacation City I got off the plane and peed and washed my face and made my way down to the Ground Transportation area. The shuttle service I use leaves at specific times and my original flight had me waiting about two hours for a ride home. Because my flight, as you may recall, was delayed two hours I walked right outside as the van was pulling up.
"You're my favorite girlfriend today," I said to the driver. It was all I could come up with. In my experience women enjoy being flattered by men who pose absolutely no risk.
So . . . I get home at exactly the same time as I had planned. Exactly.
Someday I'll learn something about staying out of everything.
I've been a traveling man the last ten days - visiting family which is always good for a few laughs if by "laughs" you mean "I'm going to kill some of these people if I stay a day longer." I was busy as hell so I didn't make the time to write much. Or meditate. Or go to many meetings. Guess what? I'm close to a full blown psychosis at this point, thanks for asking.
Starting from the end then . . .
I spent last night at an airport hotel in The Old City in preparation for a very early flight. This hotel is about 18 miles from where my family lives, a distance about 18 miles further than anyone was willing to drive to drop me off several hours before the crack of dawn. Fair enough. I wouldn't enjoy getting up well before the crack of dawn to drive someone to the airport, either. And at the end of 10 days I was thrilled with the idea of sitting by myself in a quiet hotel room not listening to anyone else say anything else. This introvert was tired of being around people, no offence intended. I watched the clock tick for about 4 hours, making a real party of it with my tap water and Subway vegetable sandwich.
The alarm tinkles at 3:45 AM. I stumble down to the hotel shuttle bus which deposits me directly at my terminal where I can conveniently view a board telling me my flight is delayed by two hours. Let's forget the fact that I was less than thrilled about getting up two hours earlier than I HAD to for a flight that required me to get up about two hours earlier than I WANTED to had that flight not be delayed. The real bugaboo was that the delay caused me to miss my connecting flight which caused me to miss my shuttle ride which made me very, very glad that I didn't try to smuggle my dad's antique shotguns onto the plane. Luckily for me the next connecting flight was sold out so that I was looking at the prospect of getting home around never. I bowed my head at the reservation counter. I showed the agent the top of my pork pie hat. I said not a word. Maybe she thought I was praying. I was most definitely not praying. The words I said are not going to be found in any prayers books that I'm familiar with.
"Just go to the Help Desk in Denver and they'll print your boarding pass for whatever fucking flight they want," she said, or something like that. I took off my belt and my shoes and put my little bottles of liquid in a clear plastic bag and displayed my computer for the security folks. I flew to Denver. I got off the plane and peed and washed my face, all leisurely-like. I stood in line at the Help Desk and watched a few people cut in front of me without being able to hork up any righteous indignation. I could hear the Help Person saying something about the third connecting flight also being full. I wondered if the line jumpers were going to snag the last remaining seats on the eighth connecting flight.
"God, could you handle this for me?" I asked. Notice I didn't ask for anything specific. I get screwed when I get specific. The god I pray to doesn't do requests - he twist them around all goofy-like. This god isn't a big candy machine. I don't pull a lever and get what I want simply because I ask all nice-like.
The Help Desk person asked me if I had been re-booked back in The Old City, seeming confused when I replied in the negative.
"Why not?" she said. "There are seats on the next flight."
My day was improving.
"You're my favorite girlfriend today," I said. "Just don't tell my wife," who wouldn't have cared, frankly.
"OK," she smiled. "If you don't tell my husband."
Because the plane was full I actually got seated in an exit aisle, with the big, comfy legroom so enjoyable to tall, skinny hipster dufuses like me. A few rows behind me I spotted the line jumpers, jammed into their puny coach seats. Obviously the airline filled all of the standard cost seats before placing the last stragglers in the premium seats. Ha ha ha. Take that, line jumpers.
It gets better. Once I arrived in Vacation City I got off the plane and peed and washed my face and made my way down to the Ground Transportation area. The shuttle service I use leaves at specific times and my original flight had me waiting about two hours for a ride home. Because my flight, as you may recall, was delayed two hours I walked right outside as the van was pulling up.
"You're my favorite girlfriend today," I said to the driver. It was all I could come up with. In my experience women enjoy being flattered by men who pose absolutely no risk.
So . . . I get home at exactly the same time as I had planned. Exactly.
Someday I'll learn something about staying out of everything.
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