Reiterate: To say or do (something) for a second time, such as for emphasis.
I hate to repeat myself, to say the same thing over and over, to explore redundancy, but I don't really have that many stories so if you think you've heard it before you probably have. I thought I had a lot of stories. Then I started writing them down and found that I'm just repeating myself - the trouble with writing things down is that there's proof that you've already said something. Moreover, it would be okay to repeat things if the stories were any good but they're not that good. You can see that I'm in a tight spot.
I never let the truth get in the way of a good story, oft-told. I never, ever let the fact that you've already heard something stop me from saying it again. I like the sound of my voice that much.
SuperK (conversationus interruptus): "Yeah, yeah, I've heard the story about you and Bob taking LSD and getting lost in the bear preserve."
Me: "Really? You know that didn't ever happen, right?"
Anyway, the meeting today was on Step Eleven, the prayer and meditation step. Meditation I get - you close your eyes and think about how you're going to fuck up all the people who have wronged you in the past. That, and sexual fantasies run amok. Boom. Done. Meditation. What's the big deal?
Prayer: The practice of communicating with one's god (Meh); a request, a petition (OK, much better).
Prayer is a little trickier for me seeing as I have a tendency to put word's in god's mouth. I should barely be speaking for myself let alone for my higher power. The Step does suggest that I should be careful that I don't ask for specific things for specific people - this is me assuming that I know better than god. While this is true I still need to be humble about it. The Step also warns that if I think I'm hearing specific advice directly from god I might want to check the content out with someone else - I hear what I want to hear, in other words. I hear it even when it's patently ridiculous because I want what I want and I want to avoid what I don't want.
Anyway, there's this great short story called The Lathe of Heaven. The protagonist is a man who finds that if he directs his thoughts at the end of each day his wishes manifest themselves in his dreams, which then become reality. For instance, he hates a co-worker and wishes that he didn't have to work with him anymore - this emotion leads to a dream where he murders this person. When he wakes up he finds that the co-worker died the night before in an automobile accident.
Understandably rattled he begins to see a psychiatrist and the two of them - good men with good intentions - decide to try, through auto-suggestion, to direct the dream sequences for the betterment of mankind.
They start with eliminating world hunger.
The protagonist dreams that a wicked virus kills 95% of the world's population. Boom. Plenty of food for everyone left. World hunger solved. Obviously the intent was to increase the food supply, not reduce the eaters, but you gotta be pretty precise when you want to control god.
OK, next on the hit list is world peace. What can go wrong with that, right? The dream sequence for this problem starts with a large group of alien spaceships landing on the moon and beginning to build an outpost. Their intent is sinister. The result, of course, is that the people left on earth quit bickering and begin to work together to defend the planet.
Our main characters are frustrated.
"Just get the aliens off the moon and we'll start over," they yell.
The evening's dream features the aliens launching their attack.
This is me and prayer. I'm really careful about the specifics of my prayers. My god has a weird, twisted sense of humor.
Be careful what you pray for - you might get it.
Friday, March 30, 2018
Thursday, March 29, 2018
The Hammer of Thor
Sponsor: A senior member of a twelve step or similar program assigned to guide a new initiate and form a partnership with him.
Wow, that definition was not written by someone in The Program. I like the concept of a "senior member." It has an official feel to it. It suggests that the senior member has some idea what's going on. This may or may not be the case. I also like the idea of an "initiate." That has a vaguely religious feel to it. My experience is that the whole set-up is pretty random.
I also like that this is the second possible definition listed on Wiktionary. That's awfully high up on the importance scale.
Here's Urban Dictionary's take on the matter: "In various 12-Step groups a sponsor is someone who has some time in the program and has worked the steps who is willing to be there for newcomer. Sponsors generally take the newcomer through the steps, are there to listen when a newcomer calls, and encourages him or her to get involved in the group. Sponsors expect nothing in return except that the sponsee does the sane for the next person needing help."
That's a little more accurate.
I would also add that a sponsor is not your friend although a friendship often develops after a while. But at the start most of us don't need our sponsor to be our buddy. We need someone to tell us the truth, a thing most of us don't want to hear.
So I contacted my suicidal sponsee one last time, biting back big time on my inclination to come in wielding the Hammer of Thor. I dunno . . . I was in Chicago for my formative years and people there weren't overly concerned about my feelings. They were concerned about my sobriety and to transmit this concern they were direct. I don't think they were upset when they pissed me off. He responded in the affirmative when I asked if he was being released from the hospital today. To my follow up question - whether he still wanted to get together on Monday to read The Steps and, less plausibly, whether he would be able to make it to today's Step Study - the silence was deafening and definitive.
Wow, that definition was not written by someone in The Program. I like the concept of a "senior member." It has an official feel to it. It suggests that the senior member has some idea what's going on. This may or may not be the case. I also like the idea of an "initiate." That has a vaguely religious feel to it. My experience is that the whole set-up is pretty random.
I also like that this is the second possible definition listed on Wiktionary. That's awfully high up on the importance scale.
Here's Urban Dictionary's take on the matter: "In various 12-Step groups a sponsor is someone who has some time in the program and has worked the steps who is willing to be there for newcomer. Sponsors generally take the newcomer through the steps, are there to listen when a newcomer calls, and encourages him or her to get involved in the group. Sponsors expect nothing in return except that the sponsee does the sane for the next person needing help."
That's a little more accurate.
I would also add that a sponsor is not your friend although a friendship often develops after a while. But at the start most of us don't need our sponsor to be our buddy. We need someone to tell us the truth, a thing most of us don't want to hear.
So I contacted my suicidal sponsee one last time, biting back big time on my inclination to come in wielding the Hammer of Thor. I dunno . . . I was in Chicago for my formative years and people there weren't overly concerned about my feelings. They were concerned about my sobriety and to transmit this concern they were direct. I don't think they were upset when they pissed me off. He responded in the affirmative when I asked if he was being released from the hospital today. To my follow up question - whether he still wanted to get together on Monday to read The Steps and, less plausibly, whether he would be able to make it to today's Step Study - the silence was deafening and definitive.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Fire and Chaos
Chaos: (Ed Note: I know this is going to be a great definition before I even look it up). Any state of disorder, any confused or amorphous mixture or conglomeration.
(Ed Note: even the math definition is outstanding). Behavior of iterative non-linear systems in which arbitrary small variations in initial conditions become magnified over time. (Ed Note: think on this for a minute. It's a small variation on the theme that a small step off the path repeated continuously leads one far into the sticker bushes).
I guess I've been in a position lately to see some things in other people that I need to inspect more closely in myself. I know the exercise: if someone is bugging me my first task is to go look in the mirror. Boy, can I see my defects, larger than life and in technicolor, on display in other people. All of those things that I can easily brush off when they're pointed out to me sending me into a rage when I'm see them in someone else. I believe a ancient text says something along the lines of take the log out of your own eye before pointing out the speck in the eye of someone else
Anyway, I've been stuck on this idea that my behavior gives me a reward. Often the reward is okay and makes sense - the avoidance of discomfort and the acquisition of pleasure. Fair enough - this doesn't make me a bad guy and seems to me to be pretty human. I am increasingly aware - uncomfortably so - that sometimes my behavior feeds darker impulses or, at least, more destructive, less constructive impulses. This is why we see a lot of alcoholics, used to chaos, come into The Program and continue to make really not so great decisions. In relationships, with their kids and families, in their work life and with the public in general. We know chaos. We're vaguely aware that chaos is not the way to go but we go that way anyhow. We know chaos. We don't know serenity. Serenity is weird and uncomfortable and, well, boring.
As an example, 30 years into this, which would suggest some experience in trying to avoid discomfort and acquire pleasure, in a general way, one would think that I would make decisions that would spare me excess anxiety, an emotion that I am prone to experience. Yet, I found myself paging through a few brochures advertising trips to Mongolia this morning. In my Quiet Time. I'm guessing this would be something that would make a lot of people uneasy but page through I did.
I got that fire inside me. Usually I warm my house, heat up some water for a shower, cook my food. Sometimes I burn the fucking house down.
(Ed Note: even the math definition is outstanding). Behavior of iterative non-linear systems in which arbitrary small variations in initial conditions become magnified over time. (Ed Note: think on this for a minute. It's a small variation on the theme that a small step off the path repeated continuously leads one far into the sticker bushes).
I guess I've been in a position lately to see some things in other people that I need to inspect more closely in myself. I know the exercise: if someone is bugging me my first task is to go look in the mirror. Boy, can I see my defects, larger than life and in technicolor, on display in other people. All of those things that I can easily brush off when they're pointed out to me sending me into a rage when I'm see them in someone else. I believe a ancient text says something along the lines of take the log out of your own eye before pointing out the speck in the eye of someone else
Anyway, I've been stuck on this idea that my behavior gives me a reward. Often the reward is okay and makes sense - the avoidance of discomfort and the acquisition of pleasure. Fair enough - this doesn't make me a bad guy and seems to me to be pretty human. I am increasingly aware - uncomfortably so - that sometimes my behavior feeds darker impulses or, at least, more destructive, less constructive impulses. This is why we see a lot of alcoholics, used to chaos, come into The Program and continue to make really not so great decisions. In relationships, with their kids and families, in their work life and with the public in general. We know chaos. We're vaguely aware that chaos is not the way to go but we go that way anyhow. We know chaos. We don't know serenity. Serenity is weird and uncomfortable and, well, boring.
As an example, 30 years into this, which would suggest some experience in trying to avoid discomfort and acquire pleasure, in a general way, one would think that I would make decisions that would spare me excess anxiety, an emotion that I am prone to experience. Yet, I found myself paging through a few brochures advertising trips to Mongolia this morning. In my Quiet Time. I'm guessing this would be something that would make a lot of people uneasy but page through I did.
I got that fire inside me. Usually I warm my house, heat up some water for a shower, cook my food. Sometimes I burn the fucking house down.
Monday, March 26, 2018
More Shall Be Revealed
Forthcoming: Candid; frank.
So what do I know? You can't bullshit a bullshitter, right? Apparently you can.
I visited my friend of the medically-induced coma genre last Sunday. He was relentlessly upbeat which surprised me somewhat. I don't think I would be jokey and happy as I was coming out of a coma. In my book a coma doesn't have the same feel as the experience I get going to a comedy club. It isn't funny. It wouldn't make me laugh out loud. I assume I'd be very grateful, soberly so, but I'm not sure I'd go into an improv bit about the experience.
The next day I took a phone call from a woman that I know from The Fellowship who heard that I was this guy's sponsor from a mutual friend. She was uncomfortable making the call, aware that she might be violating the standard recovery protocol of sponsor-sponsee confidentiality, but forging ahead because she really believed she was witnessing an acute, dangerous situation. Because she had known the family for many years - their kids had grown up together - she wanted to pass along some inside information in case I found it helpful.
In a nutshell: my friend had attempted suicide, not overdosed accidentally on a prescribed medication; my friend had a history of suicide in his family and had attempted to kill himself in the past; he had, perhaps, been drinking, on and off, and did not have very much continuous sobriety at all; and his wife, perhaps, was an enabling practicing alcoholic.
I knew none of this. I am surmising that this guy has not been forthcoming about the ebb and flow of his life. I am also surmising that I'm seeing a classic case of alcoholic behavior: lying and hiding and misdirection of the most extreme sort. I'm not getting much in the way of pertinent details that might enable me and others of my general ilk to get this guy going in the right direction, more or less. I don't think that this is the kind of information that should have been left hidden when we sat down and read The First Step together, the one about OUR LIVES BEING UNMANAGEABLE!!
I spoke to a few people, trusted advisers and confidantes, seers and gurus, about the situation, and received, more or less, two consistent bits of advice: That this guy doesn't get what we're trying to do, and that the guy doing this writing is powerless over the guy who doesn't get it. Not complicated stuff. Not new, exciting, untried advice.
I found myself more annoyed than sympathetic. Don't get me wrong - I wish the best for him and I'm not judging anyone on their behavior. We do what we do and we do it for all kinds of reasons. Clearly, this is a situation way, way above my pay grade - I don't have the education or qualifications to counsel someone on medicine and severe depression of the suicidal type, and I'm not getting within a hundred yards of all that. Maybe he thinks I'm going to yell at him or think less of him because he's falling short of an ideal mark.
God forbid I do that.
So what do I know? You can't bullshit a bullshitter, right? Apparently you can.
I visited my friend of the medically-induced coma genre last Sunday. He was relentlessly upbeat which surprised me somewhat. I don't think I would be jokey and happy as I was coming out of a coma. In my book a coma doesn't have the same feel as the experience I get going to a comedy club. It isn't funny. It wouldn't make me laugh out loud. I assume I'd be very grateful, soberly so, but I'm not sure I'd go into an improv bit about the experience.
The next day I took a phone call from a woman that I know from The Fellowship who heard that I was this guy's sponsor from a mutual friend. She was uncomfortable making the call, aware that she might be violating the standard recovery protocol of sponsor-sponsee confidentiality, but forging ahead because she really believed she was witnessing an acute, dangerous situation. Because she had known the family for many years - their kids had grown up together - she wanted to pass along some inside information in case I found it helpful.
In a nutshell: my friend had attempted suicide, not overdosed accidentally on a prescribed medication; my friend had a history of suicide in his family and had attempted to kill himself in the past; he had, perhaps, been drinking, on and off, and did not have very much continuous sobriety at all; and his wife, perhaps, was an enabling practicing alcoholic.
I knew none of this. I am surmising that this guy has not been forthcoming about the ebb and flow of his life. I am also surmising that I'm seeing a classic case of alcoholic behavior: lying and hiding and misdirection of the most extreme sort. I'm not getting much in the way of pertinent details that might enable me and others of my general ilk to get this guy going in the right direction, more or less. I don't think that this is the kind of information that should have been left hidden when we sat down and read The First Step together, the one about OUR LIVES BEING UNMANAGEABLE!!
I spoke to a few people, trusted advisers and confidantes, seers and gurus, about the situation, and received, more or less, two consistent bits of advice: That this guy doesn't get what we're trying to do, and that the guy doing this writing is powerless over the guy who doesn't get it. Not complicated stuff. Not new, exciting, untried advice.
I found myself more annoyed than sympathetic. Don't get me wrong - I wish the best for him and I'm not judging anyone on their behavior. We do what we do and we do it for all kinds of reasons. Clearly, this is a situation way, way above my pay grade - I don't have the education or qualifications to counsel someone on medicine and severe depression of the suicidal type, and I'm not getting within a hundred yards of all that. Maybe he thinks I'm going to yell at him or think less of him because he's falling short of an ideal mark.
God forbid I do that.
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Yikes
Delirium Tremens: The most severe form of ethanol withdrawal manifested by altered mental status (global confusion) and sympathetic overdrive (autonomic hyperactivity), which can progress to cardiovascular collapse.
Alcoholism is no respecter of anything.
I've had coffee a couple of times with a man who came into The Fellowship in his mid-50s. There are plenty of cases of alcoholics who have managed to control the consequences of their drinking for a long time - we're pretty crafty about fitting the alcohol in when we want to drink. My friend had a long career as a school teacher, dancing in and out of trouble, until the music stopped and he was asked to go somewhere else. At this point he really couldn't pretend that his drinking wasn't a problem and he began showing up at our morning meeting on a daily basis. He was active in The Fellowship but not really working The Steps. As we know, this is very popular. Working The Steps is a big pain in the ass.
But here's the deal: alcohol is hard on the body. That's why you don't see a ton of old alcoholics still practicing their craft. It messes you up after a while. It kills your ass eventually. When my friend finally stopped drinking he had to be hospitalized and put on anti-seizure medication. A fun fact to know and share about alcoholism and drug addiction is that you can kick most drugs on your own, all by your lonesome, without any serious medical warnings, although I do understand that you may wish that you would just die; weaning off alcohol dependence is another thing altogether.
Ten days ago I received a text from my friend's wife: his medication wasn't doing the trick; he had a series of seizures and his heart began to fail; the staff had to put him into a medical coma. Intubation, IV drip, the whole bit. He developed infections in his heart and lungs and there was no clear sign that he hadn't suffered neurological damage for the brain, you see, is most adamant about receiving a steady supply of blood. It is not a compromiser, the brain.
I'm happy to report that he seems to be on the mend. I'm always grateful for the lessons.
Alcoholism is no respecter of anything.
I've had coffee a couple of times with a man who came into The Fellowship in his mid-50s. There are plenty of cases of alcoholics who have managed to control the consequences of their drinking for a long time - we're pretty crafty about fitting the alcohol in when we want to drink. My friend had a long career as a school teacher, dancing in and out of trouble, until the music stopped and he was asked to go somewhere else. At this point he really couldn't pretend that his drinking wasn't a problem and he began showing up at our morning meeting on a daily basis. He was active in The Fellowship but not really working The Steps. As we know, this is very popular. Working The Steps is a big pain in the ass.
But here's the deal: alcohol is hard on the body. That's why you don't see a ton of old alcoholics still practicing their craft. It messes you up after a while. It kills your ass eventually. When my friend finally stopped drinking he had to be hospitalized and put on anti-seizure medication. A fun fact to know and share about alcoholism and drug addiction is that you can kick most drugs on your own, all by your lonesome, without any serious medical warnings, although I do understand that you may wish that you would just die; weaning off alcohol dependence is another thing altogether.
Ten days ago I received a text from my friend's wife: his medication wasn't doing the trick; he had a series of seizures and his heart began to fail; the staff had to put him into a medical coma. Intubation, IV drip, the whole bit. He developed infections in his heart and lungs and there was no clear sign that he hadn't suffered neurological damage for the brain, you see, is most adamant about receiving a steady supply of blood. It is not a compromiser, the brain.
I'm happy to report that he seems to be on the mend. I'm always grateful for the lessons.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Highly Stimulated
Excited: Having great enthusiasm; being in a state of higher energy (Physics).
Alcoholism is very stimulating. Many of us are drawn to the chaos that drunkenness engenders although we'll often deny that this is so, preferring to believe that the alcohol calms everything down. It is, in fact, not unusual to see people in recovery continue to make questionable life decisions for a few years after they've stopped drinking; not willfully, I don't think, but subconsciously. We're used to an out-of-control life lived on a razor's edge. The sports car owners among us talk about The Line: the spot on the track where you can go as fast as possible without losing control. Real life, lived as an adult, can be so . . . boring. Mundane, pedestrian. Anyone can do it. I don't think I'm getting away with something anymore. I'm usually doing what I'm supposed to be doing and I remember doing it. What's the fun in that? Who among us wants to say: "Man, yesterday was wild - I went to work and got there on time, cut the grass when I got home, had a good dinner with the family, and went to bed early."
A few years back I visited Ecuador. My buddy had a passport problem and missed the flight - being a good friend I waved buh-bye as I was boarding the plane. My trip started out in the capital of Quito, a typical South American big city: not prosperous, pockets of real crime encroaching on the central core, yet full of relentlessly cheerful people who were eager to help and be of service. As this was my first trip to a Third World country I had taken to heart the dire warnings about crime and safety; justifiably so, I might add, but to an unreasonable degree.
On my first morning I walked into the old section of the city. I was on my toes, wary, tense, my backpack strapped backwards so I looked like I was carrying a kidnapped baby, head on a swivel, looking out for all those bad people who wanted my $22 Timex. Needless to say I didn't have a great time, what with jet lag occupying the part of my brain not consumed with worrying about all of the murderers who were cleverly hidden in the crowds of polite, neatly dressed Ecuadorean families - no doubt murderous - picnicking on a Sunday afternoon in the main square. I had a great exchange with a policeman who explained where I could go safely and where things got dicey. I was hoping to go to a meeting but he waved me off, apparently another clubhouse in a dicey part of town.
After a bit I got hungry and wandered into a small open-air restaurant. The owner and I fumbled a bit with broken English and broken Spanish before he took me over to a tiny table already occupied by a little old couple, dressed in their church finery, eating their lunch. This was not what I wanted to happen. I wanted my own table, American-style, off to the side where I could watch the show and not have to interact with a murderous little old couple. There was a TV on showing a soccer match. I was still trying to get a menu when the food started to show up: soup, bottled water, a relish tray for the table, then a plate with chicken and rice and beans and salad, and dessert. My attempts to explain to the water that this wasn't my food, that I hadn't ordered yet went awry. The food was excellent.
Getting the check was beyond my capabilities. Finally, I nodded to my table-mates, they nodded back, and I made my way to the door where I encountered the owner. I tried to pantomime what I had for lunch, making clucking noises to simulate a chicken and lying down on the floor, pulling a small rug over me, to show that I'd eaten potatoes, and so on and so forth.
"Un dolar," he said. One dollar.
I'd be happier if I could say that I tipped him 500% but my recollection is that I fished out two dollars and forked them over. He, of course, took quite a while trying to give me one of the dollars back, as tipping is not common. He did appear quite pleased when I finally managed to explain that the money was for his staff.
This is why I travel. This is why.
Alcoholism is very stimulating. Many of us are drawn to the chaos that drunkenness engenders although we'll often deny that this is so, preferring to believe that the alcohol calms everything down. It is, in fact, not unusual to see people in recovery continue to make questionable life decisions for a few years after they've stopped drinking; not willfully, I don't think, but subconsciously. We're used to an out-of-control life lived on a razor's edge. The sports car owners among us talk about The Line: the spot on the track where you can go as fast as possible without losing control. Real life, lived as an adult, can be so . . . boring. Mundane, pedestrian. Anyone can do it. I don't think I'm getting away with something anymore. I'm usually doing what I'm supposed to be doing and I remember doing it. What's the fun in that? Who among us wants to say: "Man, yesterday was wild - I went to work and got there on time, cut the grass when I got home, had a good dinner with the family, and went to bed early."
A few years back I visited Ecuador. My buddy had a passport problem and missed the flight - being a good friend I waved buh-bye as I was boarding the plane. My trip started out in the capital of Quito, a typical South American big city: not prosperous, pockets of real crime encroaching on the central core, yet full of relentlessly cheerful people who were eager to help and be of service. As this was my first trip to a Third World country I had taken to heart the dire warnings about crime and safety; justifiably so, I might add, but to an unreasonable degree.
On my first morning I walked into the old section of the city. I was on my toes, wary, tense, my backpack strapped backwards so I looked like I was carrying a kidnapped baby, head on a swivel, looking out for all those bad people who wanted my $22 Timex. Needless to say I didn't have a great time, what with jet lag occupying the part of my brain not consumed with worrying about all of the murderers who were cleverly hidden in the crowds of polite, neatly dressed Ecuadorean families - no doubt murderous - picnicking on a Sunday afternoon in the main square. I had a great exchange with a policeman who explained where I could go safely and where things got dicey. I was hoping to go to a meeting but he waved me off, apparently another clubhouse in a dicey part of town.
After a bit I got hungry and wandered into a small open-air restaurant. The owner and I fumbled a bit with broken English and broken Spanish before he took me over to a tiny table already occupied by a little old couple, dressed in their church finery, eating their lunch. This was not what I wanted to happen. I wanted my own table, American-style, off to the side where I could watch the show and not have to interact with a murderous little old couple. There was a TV on showing a soccer match. I was still trying to get a menu when the food started to show up: soup, bottled water, a relish tray for the table, then a plate with chicken and rice and beans and salad, and dessert. My attempts to explain to the water that this wasn't my food, that I hadn't ordered yet went awry. The food was excellent.
Getting the check was beyond my capabilities. Finally, I nodded to my table-mates, they nodded back, and I made my way to the door where I encountered the owner. I tried to pantomime what I had for lunch, making clucking noises to simulate a chicken and lying down on the floor, pulling a small rug over me, to show that I'd eaten potatoes, and so on and so forth.
"Un dolar," he said. One dollar.
I'd be happier if I could say that I tipped him 500% but my recollection is that I fished out two dollars and forked them over. He, of course, took quite a while trying to give me one of the dollars back, as tipping is not common. He did appear quite pleased when I finally managed to explain that the money was for his staff.
This is why I travel. This is why.
Monday, March 12, 2018
Getting the Flu
Sick: Having an urge to vomit (Ed Note: I am not making this up - first definition); in poor health.
You can probably surmise that I got the flu this year. I'd like to say that I've just been normal sick but I've been sick. Sick sick. Fucking sick. And while I realize that getting the flu shot is no guarantee that you're not going to get the flu I'm miffed that I got the flu shot and got the flu anyhow. It's not like I enjoy having my skin punctured with needles. I don't black out anymore but please, go puncture someone else's skin unneccessarily.
The real irritation is listening to all of the non-scientific, conspiracy-theory types explain why they don't get the flu shot. If you don't believe science, fine - none of my business. But please don't tell me - when I'm sick with the flu - that I wouldn't have gotten the flu if I had dispensed with the flu shot. You are just making shit up. If I get the flu shot and get the flu and you don't get the flu shot and don't get the flu there is absolutely nothing causal there. You have proved nothing except that a virus is a sneaky, tirelessly mutating little fucker.
For a guy who has been depressed and upset about a loss of youth and function getting sick is definitely not the way to go. It is validating all of the worst outcome possibilities that have been lurking and creeping about in my brain. If you want to maintain the illusion of youth and vigor and vitality getting the flu is not going to help things.
When I get sick the first thought that comes into my head is this: "I want to call my mom."
The flu was bad enough - the resulting sinus infection was simply a mucoidal icing on the cake. A colored, thick icing, tinged with blood. And because my mama has abandoned me in my time of need I had no other options except to research my illness on The Internet. You know the drill: you look up your symptoms and match them with the worst possible disease that you can find, and you can find some bad diseases. Internet sites that specialize in disease know that you want to find something bad. They also know that making people think they have contracted a terrible disease drives traffic to their web site so they can sell you all kinds of unnecessary things. If your number one answer to an inquiry from a guy with a sinus infection is "Ah, quit bitching - you'll be OK in a couple of weeks" you're not going to have a lot of page views.
If you get a cold you can take all kinds of medicines and you'll get better in seven days, give or take. Or you can lay low, rest up, and you'll be OK in about a week.
My first inclination when I knew I had a sinus infection was to decide I needed Antibiotics!! The panicky sites confirmed this - the measured, scientific sites were less encouraging. They point out that sinus infections are caused by viruses - not bacteria - which means antibiotics are totally ineffective. They suggest that most infections clear up on their own in a week to two weeks, and that allowing your body to fight off a relatively non-threatening illness can be a good thing as it strengthens your immune system. And there I was, on day three, ready to pull out all of the stops.
I am not a patient man.
Saturday, March 3, 2018
The Power of Baling Wire, Duck Tape, and The Occasional Klaxon
Baling wire: Otherwise known as bale wire, farm wire, or soft wire, is a type of wire used in agriculture and industry for everything from mending fences to manually binding rectangular bales of hay, straw, or cut grass. It is also used to band together corrugated cardboard, paper, textiles, aluminum, and other materials that are processed in the recycling industry.
I'm not sure why I added this definition but I'm glad I did. My favorite word lately has been "klaxon" but I couldn't figure out how to get it in the post. I will say that "duct tape" is an excellent concept as well although none of the three are at all germane to recovery.
I've been asked to "share my story" in a couple of weeks - giving a Lead in front of a group. "What it was like, what happened, and where I am now" in Program parlance. I have been to leads in the past but I don't go to them anymore, haven't for a long time. The thought of sitting in one spot to listen to one person talk about themselves for an hour sends cold shivers down my spine. One of the basic truths that runs my life is this: You are not nearly as interesting to other people as you are to yourself. This is why most memoirs suck - no one cares what you're thinking or what you did. This is why I'm slogging away on an anonymous blog instead of cashing royalty checks from my world-famous memoir of my own life.
Because I had such a traumatic year I decided that I would re-read the journals I filled over that period. There were a number of consistent themes; there were a few that surfaced and held ascendant for a while - sometimes for long periods and sometimes for much shorter periods - before disappearing; and there was junk in there that has been part of my mantra for a long, long time.
I think this has helped me organize my thoughts for The Lead. This preparing in a general way what I'm going to say may or may not be a good thing. Here is what I deemed noteworthy enough to put into my newest journal as sort of a greatest hits recap . . . .
My attempts to moderate sugar and coffee are not impressive.
Balance - I'm getting older but I'm not old.
My body is not going to respond the way it used to. This is an inevitable fact of aging. So I'm not going to be able to rampage physically through the world the way I used to.
I just want to be at peace. Up the pain threshold. I've had so little pain in my life.
Be grateful for my difficulties. This is how I learn. This is the only way I learn.
Perspective: Maybe the lesson is that I've had a pretty good life. Maybe mom and dad and Ken are trying to tell me to be more grateful. Maybe the lesson is that simple.
I do believe that most of the troubles I've had over the past year have been about loss of youth and loss of function, the negative attitude that I'm now on the down-slope of a long, slow decline. At least I hope it's going to be long. This is inevitable but it shouldn't be catastrophic. After all death is coming for all of us.
Talk about worrying over things that are out of my control.
I clearly cannot moderate my coffee consumption. I used to be able to but that time is past. Sugar, too.
Friday, March 2, 2018
Identify Lloyd Braun and Win a Prize
There are a lot of references in our literature about anger.
"If we were to live, we had to be free from anger. The grouch and the brainstorm were not for us. They may be the dubious luxury of normal men . . . . "
Believe it or not, that's the only time the word "anger" is listed in our first 164 pages. Ya learn something every day. I was under the impression that warnings against excess anger were sprinkled liberally through this most sacred text. Goldurn.
Anyway, here in easy-peasey land I wish folks would get bend out of shape from time to time. I don't mean screaming obscenities at someone in a threatening manner but more along the lines of "that isn't right and I'm not happy about it." I've never been thrilled at the interpretation of some people that anger is a bad, terrible thing. Justified anger is bad news. Self-righteous anger unleased at undeserving victims is no good, but experiencing a normal human emotion seems pretty . . . . well . . . . normal to me.
"Serenity Now - Insanity Later." Lloyd Braun
"If we were to live, we had to be free from anger. The grouch and the brainstorm were not for us. They may be the dubious luxury of normal men . . . . "
Believe it or not, that's the only time the word "anger" is listed in our first 164 pages. Ya learn something every day. I was under the impression that warnings against excess anger were sprinkled liberally through this most sacred text. Goldurn.
Anyway, here in easy-peasey land I wish folks would get bend out of shape from time to time. I don't mean screaming obscenities at someone in a threatening manner but more along the lines of "that isn't right and I'm not happy about it." I've never been thrilled at the interpretation of some people that anger is a bad, terrible thing. Justified anger is bad news. Self-righteous anger unleased at undeserving victims is no good, but experiencing a normal human emotion seems pretty . . . . well . . . . normal to me.
"Serenity Now - Insanity Later." Lloyd Braun
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