I have spent enough time on Step 1 - addressing my obsession with my health and well-being which has opened up a Pandora's Box type scenario vis-a-vis my compulsive exercising which unfortunately opened my eyes to an on-going, never-changing nightmare scenario that is my caffeine and sugar addiction - so I'm moving on to Step 2. I don't mean to suggest that I've actually gotten any relief on these things, an indication that I've worked Step 1 successfully, but - as you can see - I'm afraid if I linger any longer that I'm going to find more shit to not work on. I can only fail at three things at a time. Any more than that and I feel like a failure.
I like that our Steps are filled with vague verbs. We make decisions and become willing and humbly ask and come to believe. I don't think that I would have been all-in if there were a lot of hard, declarative words. There's a lot of slop room in The Steps. It's a Program for people who half-ass things.
Can you imagine Moses coming down from the mountain with the Ten Commandments if god knew he had to gear things to alcoholics?
1. It's good to admit that it's not cool to worship any other gods.
2. Try not to make any idols; if you do decide to make some idols try not to make too many.
3. Make a decision to curse less. Trend obscene and scatological if you can't resist, and not when there are any kids around. You know, god damning someone is heavy stuff. It would be better to just call them a shithead.
4. It would be great if you could remember the Sabbath. It's a pretty important day - in fact, it's my day dedicated to . . . you know . . . worshiping me. With all your heart and soul and mind. Go to church 2/3rds of the time, if you can. At least show up on Easter and Christmas, for christ's sake.
5. Be entirely ready to listen when your mother and father speak.
6. You're still killing people? Really? Are you kidding me? Do I really have to suggest that you stop killing other people?
And so on and so forth with the last four . . .
Our real Step 2 - Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity - takes some time to detail the different ways that we convince ourselves that we can't believe in a higher power. The four categories, roughly speaking are: those of an agnostic and/or atheistic bent; the believer who has lost his faith; the skeptic who can only see the hypocrisy in religion while completely ignoring the good found therein; and the guy who is just too smart to have to find a power greater than himself.
Well, three out of four for me. I'm a good alcoholic - I do everything to excess.
Defy: To refuse to obey; to not conform to or follow a pattern, set of rules, or expectations.
"As psychiatrists have often observed, defiance is the outstanding characteristic of many an alcoholic." There's also something about a greedy child making an impossible list for Santa Claus. It's never a good thing when Santa Claus is referenced in a discussion about my behavior.
After I read Step 2 this morning I felt better about my first Step work. It's a kind and vague Step, conceding powerlessness and unmanageability. None of us were immediately freed from all thoughts of drinking or able to see every area in our lives hounded by a lack of control. We did our best with it, lingered a bit, then moved on.
Here's a promise: ". . . we saw them meet and transcend their other pains and trials. We saw them calmly accept impossible situation, seeking neither to run or recriminate. This was not only faith; it was faith that worked under all conditions.
Monday, April 30, 2018
Sunday, April 29, 2018
Pain! Dissatisfaction!! Resentment!!!
Complain: To express feelings of pain (Check!), dissatisfaction (Check!!), or resentment (Check!! God, yes, Check!!).
I never heard Kenner complain about anything . . . that wasn't associated with the Government, which he complained about incessantly. He just wouldn't do it. One time he was volunteering with Habitat for Humanity when the upper support of the stairs leading to the basement - the stairs that he was descending suspended above a concrete floor - broke. Ken road the beast to the ground, landing on his back on the now vertical edge of the stair. After it fell ten feet or so, and stopped abruptly on the concrete. He was probably 70 years old at that point.
Little Westside Jonny and I went to see him in the hospital that evening, and we left feeling better than when we arrived. Ken was, admittedly, a little juiced on some kind of sedative, but he was as positive and funny as ever. He eventually started laughing and then threw us out of the room. I would have seized on that tragedy to complain for like ten years. We couldn't get ten minutes out of Ken.
This was the jist of my communication with him. No matter how bad it got - or how bad I made it sound, a lot more common - Ken always brought things around to the solution, and dwelling on the negative did not fit his definition of a solution. It's not as if he was delusional, either, about difficulties - just balanced. I have a new sponsor now that I'm in touch with every week - actually the guy that helped me kick things off 31 years ago - and I have a good relationship with him, a close bond, but it's never going to be the same as it was with someone who walked the walk with me for close to 25 years.
I still miss talking to him three years after his death. We didn't have much of a social relationship until the very end when I came home to visit but it was a continuous, on-going one. Ken listened well. He talked some but he listened a lot more. One connection we had over the years was at a twice yearly men's recovery retreat that we both attended. These retreats were quiet affairs - there was a retreat master, usually a recovering Jesuit priest, who gave short talks, lots of meetings, meals together at long tables, plenty of time for walks on the peaceful grounds, and opportunities to sit and write or read or just reflect. Often we'd sit together between presentations - talk a bit, maybe, but often just sit.
I'm sure he's up in heaven telling god how fucked up the federal government is.
I never heard Kenner complain about anything . . . that wasn't associated with the Government, which he complained about incessantly. He just wouldn't do it. One time he was volunteering with Habitat for Humanity when the upper support of the stairs leading to the basement - the stairs that he was descending suspended above a concrete floor - broke. Ken road the beast to the ground, landing on his back on the now vertical edge of the stair. After it fell ten feet or so, and stopped abruptly on the concrete. He was probably 70 years old at that point.
Little Westside Jonny and I went to see him in the hospital that evening, and we left feeling better than when we arrived. Ken was, admittedly, a little juiced on some kind of sedative, but he was as positive and funny as ever. He eventually started laughing and then threw us out of the room. I would have seized on that tragedy to complain for like ten years. We couldn't get ten minutes out of Ken.
This was the jist of my communication with him. No matter how bad it got - or how bad I made it sound, a lot more common - Ken always brought things around to the solution, and dwelling on the negative did not fit his definition of a solution. It's not as if he was delusional, either, about difficulties - just balanced. I have a new sponsor now that I'm in touch with every week - actually the guy that helped me kick things off 31 years ago - and I have a good relationship with him, a close bond, but it's never going to be the same as it was with someone who walked the walk with me for close to 25 years.
I still miss talking to him three years after his death. We didn't have much of a social relationship until the very end when I came home to visit but it was a continuous, on-going one. Ken listened well. He talked some but he listened a lot more. One connection we had over the years was at a twice yearly men's recovery retreat that we both attended. These retreats were quiet affairs - there was a retreat master, usually a recovering Jesuit priest, who gave short talks, lots of meetings, meals together at long tables, plenty of time for walks on the peaceful grounds, and opportunities to sit and write or read or just reflect. Often we'd sit together between presentations - talk a bit, maybe, but often just sit.
I'm sure he's up in heaven telling god how fucked up the federal government is.
Posted, Without Comment
Dire: Warning of dire consequences; ill-boding; portentous.
My capacity to project disaster is boundless. There is no boundary, in other words, and I do not have to look that one up. The closest analogy I came come up is our universe: limitless and always expanding at the speed of one megaparsec (real word, dudes.)
My capacity to project disaster is boundless. There is no boundary, in other words, and I do not have to look that one up. The closest analogy I came come up is our universe: limitless and always expanding at the speed of one megaparsec (real word, dudes.)
Friday, April 27, 2018
Little Johnny On The Loose
"We are people who wouldn't ordinarily mix. But there exists among us a fellowship, a friendliness, and an understanding which is indescribably wonderful. We are like the passengers of a great liner the moment after shipwreck when a feeling of camaraderie, democracy, and joyousness pervade the vessel from steerage to Captain's table." BB PP 17
Kenner and I got off to a bit of a rocky start in the sponsor-sponsee relationship. I always admired his Program and enjoyed what he said in meetings while he was actually in the . . . you know . . . meeting room, but once we stepped outside things tended to get a little contentious if by "a little" you mean "goddam." Without spelling out where either of us stood on political, moral, religious, social issues - these are complex matters with a lot of nuance and few clear absolutes - we started to bicker. It was bad enough to have an argument when we would stumble unawares into a minefield but it became evident that one of us - the protagonist varied from day to day - often slipped an incendiary comment into the conversation that was only meant to irritate the other, and off we would go.
I'd like to say that this behavior was short-lived. I'd like to say a lot of things that make me look good. We clearly enjoyed talking with each other about so many things that I could feel a sense of unease beginning to set in whenever we'd start to argue about outside issues, one of us casting the baited hook and the other chomping down, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. At some point the antagonist du jour began to have trouble getting a nibble. The conversation would grind down and there'd be a short silence before one of us would start a new, less contentious thread.
Thus began a relationship of many years where we avoided those topics where our opinions were fixed and irreversible. What was the point? we seemed to be asking, other than to argue with someone whose opinion was set in concrete. I knew that I disagreed with him on some issues but decided that it was for the best to concentrate on the many areas where we shared a common connection. I learned from this dynamic how to have a deep and lasting relationship with someone who was not at all like me. I learned what we mean when we say: "Look for the similarities, not the differences."
I've always said that the four most important relationships in the world to me where my mom and dad; my lovely, irreplaceable wife; and The Kenner. He was more of a father-figure to me in many ways than my own father, and I don't say this to disrespect my dad, who was doing the best he could with the tools he had. Rather I mean that I got to share my life in a deep and profound way with Ken than I couldn't with dad. This is The Program, this is what we get when we're striding along with other men and women on a similar spiritual quest.
"Today in Little Johnny's classroom the teacher asked each child to tell the class what their father did for a living and then to spell the trade or job. The first child's dad was a cook, the second a doctor, and so forth and so on.
"Shirtmaker," said one little girl. "S-H-I-T-M-A-K-E-R."
"No, Little Suzie," said the teacher. "Could you please try again?"
"S-H-I-T-M-A-K-E-R," spelled Suzie.
The teacher thanked Little Suzie and said that she would come back to her in a minute. Little Johnny was next.
"My dad's a bookie," he said. "And I'll give you 3 to 1 that Suzie spells shitmaker again."
We were in a restaurant when Little Westside Jonny told this joke and we both swear that Kenner got up and pounded on the table in the booth next to ours he was laughing so hard.
Kenner and I got off to a bit of a rocky start in the sponsor-sponsee relationship. I always admired his Program and enjoyed what he said in meetings while he was actually in the . . . you know . . . meeting room, but once we stepped outside things tended to get a little contentious if by "a little" you mean "goddam." Without spelling out where either of us stood on political, moral, religious, social issues - these are complex matters with a lot of nuance and few clear absolutes - we started to bicker. It was bad enough to have an argument when we would stumble unawares into a minefield but it became evident that one of us - the protagonist varied from day to day - often slipped an incendiary comment into the conversation that was only meant to irritate the other, and off we would go.
I'd like to say that this behavior was short-lived. I'd like to say a lot of things that make me look good. We clearly enjoyed talking with each other about so many things that I could feel a sense of unease beginning to set in whenever we'd start to argue about outside issues, one of us casting the baited hook and the other chomping down, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. At some point the antagonist du jour began to have trouble getting a nibble. The conversation would grind down and there'd be a short silence before one of us would start a new, less contentious thread.
Thus began a relationship of many years where we avoided those topics where our opinions were fixed and irreversible. What was the point? we seemed to be asking, other than to argue with someone whose opinion was set in concrete. I knew that I disagreed with him on some issues but decided that it was for the best to concentrate on the many areas where we shared a common connection. I learned from this dynamic how to have a deep and lasting relationship with someone who was not at all like me. I learned what we mean when we say: "Look for the similarities, not the differences."
I've always said that the four most important relationships in the world to me where my mom and dad; my lovely, irreplaceable wife; and The Kenner. He was more of a father-figure to me in many ways than my own father, and I don't say this to disrespect my dad, who was doing the best he could with the tools he had. Rather I mean that I got to share my life in a deep and profound way with Ken than I couldn't with dad. This is The Program, this is what we get when we're striding along with other men and women on a similar spiritual quest.
"Today in Little Johnny's classroom the teacher asked each child to tell the class what their father did for a living and then to spell the trade or job. The first child's dad was a cook, the second a doctor, and so forth and so on.
"Shirtmaker," said one little girl. "S-H-I-T-M-A-K-E-R."
"No, Little Suzie," said the teacher. "Could you please try again?"
"S-H-I-T-M-A-K-E-R," spelled Suzie.
The teacher thanked Little Suzie and said that she would come back to her in a minute. Little Johnny was next.
"My dad's a bookie," he said. "And I'll give you 3 to 1 that Suzie spells shitmaker again."
We were in a restaurant when Little Westside Jonny told this joke and we both swear that Kenner got up and pounded on the table in the booth next to ours he was laughing so hard.
Thursday, April 26, 2018
Principles Before Personalities
Principle: A fundamental assumption or guiding belief.
I'm interested in seeing how writing The Kenner Tapes work out. So far my recollections about the cat were a big hit; dad played out about as I expected; and mom was a huge, surprising, slap-in-the-face train-wreck. Where, o where, will the Kenner fall?
Ken had three basic responses to any issue I brought up so I knew before I called that I was going to have to figure out into which category my current pressing problem fell. Twenty five years of phone calls and he could solve anything with these responses. He didn't practice a complicated Program and he didn't have a complicated spiritual life.
1. This, too, shall pass.
I really liked this piece of advice when I was not getting my way; not so much when I was happy with the results.
2. Principles before personalities.
I heard this one a lot, befitting a person with 10 index fingers that I used to point out the flaws in other people, places, or things. Ken never, ever, ever let me talk about anyone else unless I was being positive. He simply wouldn't let me do it and I never, ever, ever heard him speak poorly of another person. He was like mom in that regard: say something nice or take it outside.
After agreeing with him on this point for like five years I finally had to say: "What does that mean exactly, anyway?" I was too embarrassed to admit that I was clueless about the meaning of a key phrase in Tradition Twelve.
In someone else's words: "What does 'principles before personalities" really mean? It means we practice honesty, humility, compassion, tolerance, and patience with everyone, whether we like them or not. Putting principles before personalities teaches us to treat everyone equally."
3. I can't remember what the third thing was.
Ken H: "Take two Steps and call me in the morning."
One time I was struggling with an issue so I rang up my sponsor. After explaining the situation in great detail I asked Ken what he thought I should do. He started to laugh.
"Oh, no, you don't," he said. "If it doesn't work out I don't want to hear about it."
I learned that advice is like a person's blowhole - everybody has one. I learned that even if someone asks my advice they still don't want my advice. They're going to do whatever they want to do anyway. If someone has a problem all I can do is help them consider the matter from a lot different angles, the possibility being that they might find a new way of thinking about the issue. I can also share what I did and how it worked out for me. Or not. I'm not in the advice business anymore - I barely know what I should do. I barely know where my wallet is most of the time and I'm going to give you advice on how to live your life? I don't think so. If you like what I did give it a shot; if you want to try something else give it a shot. Give it all a shot. Blast away.
The other thing I learned from Kenner was the importance of Rule #62: Don't take yourself so damn seriously. He laughed a lot and he laughed at himself the most. He did not, however, laugh about The Government, but more about that later.
He was a devout lifelong Catholic and proud of his faith. I believe that - although we were both skeptical for the longest while - we came to appreciate each other's brand of spirituality. I believe that we are both spiritual men but that we arrived at our spirituality by taking very different paths. I was the lapsed Lutheran with a sharp distrust of anything that smacked of rules or dogma or bestowed authority on an average man. He loved the tradition and dogma and the rules in his church - it was clean and clear-cut to him, unlike my free-form, fill-in-the-blanks, whatever-goes type of faith.
The last time I visited him I arrived in the wee hours of Sunday morning. He got up when I let myself in the house and had a hearty laugh at my appearance for no apparent reason. I told him I wanted to go to Mass with him the next day.
"Really?" he said, perplexed. "Okay." I had not attended a Mass in many years and - of course - I enjoyed it. Kenner had a ton of friends there - he was clearly loved - and it was a relaxed, peaceful environment, very casual. I didn't hear anything that I found objectionable although I confess to not paying attention to much other than the Bible readings. We drove to a local breakfast spot and broke the fast afterwards.
That was the last time I saw him alive. I talked to him dozens of times after that but never put eyes on him again.
So there appears to be a long tradition of jokes in Catholicism ascribed to a scamp called Little Johnny. The jokes are pretty silly but Ken would roar like a third grader every time we told one and he was a lawyer, for chrissake. LWSJ and I tried to get one in every time we saw him. He was the show. The joke wasn't the show.
"One day the teacher in Little Johnny's class was giving each child a word that she asked them to use in a sentence. She would toss out the word 'lovely,' for example, and a student would say: "That's a lovely flower."
When Little Johnny's turn came she asked him to use the word 'beautiful.' She was careful to pick words for LJ that he couldn't run amok with.
LJ thought for a minute: "OK. Last night my sister came home and told my dad that she was pregnant."
"Beautiful, just beautiful," my dad said. "That's fucking beautiful."
I'm interested in seeing how writing The Kenner Tapes work out. So far my recollections about the cat were a big hit; dad played out about as I expected; and mom was a huge, surprising, slap-in-the-face train-wreck. Where, o where, will the Kenner fall?
Ken had three basic responses to any issue I brought up so I knew before I called that I was going to have to figure out into which category my current pressing problem fell. Twenty five years of phone calls and he could solve anything with these responses. He didn't practice a complicated Program and he didn't have a complicated spiritual life.
1. This, too, shall pass.
I really liked this piece of advice when I was not getting my way; not so much when I was happy with the results.
2. Principles before personalities.
I heard this one a lot, befitting a person with 10 index fingers that I used to point out the flaws in other people, places, or things. Ken never, ever, ever let me talk about anyone else unless I was being positive. He simply wouldn't let me do it and I never, ever, ever heard him speak poorly of another person. He was like mom in that regard: say something nice or take it outside.
After agreeing with him on this point for like five years I finally had to say: "What does that mean exactly, anyway?" I was too embarrassed to admit that I was clueless about the meaning of a key phrase in Tradition Twelve.
In someone else's words: "What does 'principles before personalities" really mean? It means we practice honesty, humility, compassion, tolerance, and patience with everyone, whether we like them or not. Putting principles before personalities teaches us to treat everyone equally."
3. I can't remember what the third thing was.
Ken H: "Take two Steps and call me in the morning."
One time I was struggling with an issue so I rang up my sponsor. After explaining the situation in great detail I asked Ken what he thought I should do. He started to laugh.
"Oh, no, you don't," he said. "If it doesn't work out I don't want to hear about it."
I learned that advice is like a person's blowhole - everybody has one. I learned that even if someone asks my advice they still don't want my advice. They're going to do whatever they want to do anyway. If someone has a problem all I can do is help them consider the matter from a lot different angles, the possibility being that they might find a new way of thinking about the issue. I can also share what I did and how it worked out for me. Or not. I'm not in the advice business anymore - I barely know what I should do. I barely know where my wallet is most of the time and I'm going to give you advice on how to live your life? I don't think so. If you like what I did give it a shot; if you want to try something else give it a shot. Give it all a shot. Blast away.
The other thing I learned from Kenner was the importance of Rule #62: Don't take yourself so damn seriously. He laughed a lot and he laughed at himself the most. He did not, however, laugh about The Government, but more about that later.
He was a devout lifelong Catholic and proud of his faith. I believe that - although we were both skeptical for the longest while - we came to appreciate each other's brand of spirituality. I believe that we are both spiritual men but that we arrived at our spirituality by taking very different paths. I was the lapsed Lutheran with a sharp distrust of anything that smacked of rules or dogma or bestowed authority on an average man. He loved the tradition and dogma and the rules in his church - it was clean and clear-cut to him, unlike my free-form, fill-in-the-blanks, whatever-goes type of faith.
The last time I visited him I arrived in the wee hours of Sunday morning. He got up when I let myself in the house and had a hearty laugh at my appearance for no apparent reason. I told him I wanted to go to Mass with him the next day.
"Really?" he said, perplexed. "Okay." I had not attended a Mass in many years and - of course - I enjoyed it. Kenner had a ton of friends there - he was clearly loved - and it was a relaxed, peaceful environment, very casual. I didn't hear anything that I found objectionable although I confess to not paying attention to much other than the Bible readings. We drove to a local breakfast spot and broke the fast afterwards.
That was the last time I saw him alive. I talked to him dozens of times after that but never put eyes on him again.
So there appears to be a long tradition of jokes in Catholicism ascribed to a scamp called Little Johnny. The jokes are pretty silly but Ken would roar like a third grader every time we told one and he was a lawyer, for chrissake. LWSJ and I tried to get one in every time we saw him. He was the show. The joke wasn't the show.
"One day the teacher in Little Johnny's class was giving each child a word that she asked them to use in a sentence. She would toss out the word 'lovely,' for example, and a student would say: "That's a lovely flower."
When Little Johnny's turn came she asked him to use the word 'beautiful.' She was careful to pick words for LJ that he couldn't run amok with.
LJ thought for a minute: "OK. Last night my sister came home and told my dad that she was pregnant."
"Beautiful, just beautiful," my dad said. "That's fucking beautiful."
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Lying Seaweed
Lie: To give false information intentionally with intent to deceive; to convey a false image or impression.
I spent many years perfecting my ability to leave other people with an incorrect version of the facts, of reality itself, all while carefully avoiding the use of words that were untrue. My view was this: if I could lie without making provably false statements then I was off the hook. It didn't matter to me if I led you to believe something that wasn't true as long as I could say I didn't specifically say untrue things. I'm fucking exhausted just writing about this tortuous process so you can imagine how awful it was to have to live with myself after I convinced someone that something was true which was - in fact - not true. I was proud of this ability. It was a mark of my cleverness to shunt someone off onto a trail of false facts without getting caught.
Let's not mince words: I like to lie; I'm good at it; and I have a deeply innate ability to do it. I'm sure I could beat a lie detector machine. I'm sure the needle would exhibit nary a flicker.
Costanza: "Remember - it's not a lie if you don't believe it."
I had lunch today with a guy who lives in my mobile home park. He's an OK guy although I would have not gone out to lunch with him if I could have figured out a way to do it without being a total dick, which I could not figure out how to do. I thought about lying but decided against it. I didn't think he would believe I was dying of dysentery and was under federally mandated quarantine.
Guy: "SuperK's golfing Wednesday, right? Maybe we could go out to lunch that day?"
Me: "No."
I used to be a total dick. Now I'm a total dick with a conscience.
At lunch he told this story about smoking a couple of joints in the community clubhouse after the manager had left for the day. A few residents were drinking some beer and playing pool - totally acceptable - and decided to blow some weed. You can't, of course, smoke anything in the clubhouse because of insurance regulations. I don't know why these guys didn't just step outside for a minute. This is California, after all - more people smoke dope here than drink beer. I'm not even sure it's against the law anymore. You're as likely to get offered some pot at a dinner party as you are a mixed drink.
Anyway, like all people who smoke a bunch of dope my guy was stupid enough to leave his utility bill in the pot-drenched room for the manager to find when she came back to lock up later that evening. The next day she called my guy to tell him she found the bill, taking the opportunity to mention that the smell of dope in the pool room almost knocked her down. She didn't accuse him directly but the comment hung in the air, hash-like.
My guy did the evasive dance where he didn't admit to anything while not saying unequivocally: "I didn't smoke dope in that room." He tried to convince me that he had gotten away with something.
I may have mentioned I'm not . . . er . . . crazy about this guy? At the very least I don't care if he doesn't like me.
"So you lied," I said flatly. He laughed and he equivocated, but he was caught and I wasn't letting him off the hook. If you would like to lie I'm OK with that. If you mention, in passing, that you lied I'll let it go. If you tell a long, involved story about lying I'm kind of stuck. What was I going to do? Agree with him? Change the subject? Share a lie of my own?
The thing about trying to live an ethical, moral-ish life is that I can't do that kind of stuff anymore. It's not so much the lying itself - it's the getting caught lying. Lying got me out of a lot of tight spots but getting caught lying provided me with some of my greatest humiliations.
Let me blunt - my greatest motivation for not lying is that I cannot STAND getting caught in the lie. We all know that feeling when someone who has just caught you in a lie is looking at you silently. Really awful, that feeling. I avoid it like the plague.
So my guy, the next time he sees this woman, is going to have live with the knowledge that she almost certainly knows he lied. At the very least she suspects it. So there will be a degree of skepticism whenever he talks to her. There will be an uncomfortable suspicion that maybe the lying is continuing.
The best thing about telling the truth is that you don't have to remember what you said.
I spent many years perfecting my ability to leave other people with an incorrect version of the facts, of reality itself, all while carefully avoiding the use of words that were untrue. My view was this: if I could lie without making provably false statements then I was off the hook. It didn't matter to me if I led you to believe something that wasn't true as long as I could say I didn't specifically say untrue things. I'm fucking exhausted just writing about this tortuous process so you can imagine how awful it was to have to live with myself after I convinced someone that something was true which was - in fact - not true. I was proud of this ability. It was a mark of my cleverness to shunt someone off onto a trail of false facts without getting caught.
Let's not mince words: I like to lie; I'm good at it; and I have a deeply innate ability to do it. I'm sure I could beat a lie detector machine. I'm sure the needle would exhibit nary a flicker.
Costanza: "Remember - it's not a lie if you don't believe it."
I had lunch today with a guy who lives in my mobile home park. He's an OK guy although I would have not gone out to lunch with him if I could have figured out a way to do it without being a total dick, which I could not figure out how to do. I thought about lying but decided against it. I didn't think he would believe I was dying of dysentery and was under federally mandated quarantine.
Guy: "SuperK's golfing Wednesday, right? Maybe we could go out to lunch that day?"
Me: "No."
I used to be a total dick. Now I'm a total dick with a conscience.
At lunch he told this story about smoking a couple of joints in the community clubhouse after the manager had left for the day. A few residents were drinking some beer and playing pool - totally acceptable - and decided to blow some weed. You can't, of course, smoke anything in the clubhouse because of insurance regulations. I don't know why these guys didn't just step outside for a minute. This is California, after all - more people smoke dope here than drink beer. I'm not even sure it's against the law anymore. You're as likely to get offered some pot at a dinner party as you are a mixed drink.
Anyway, like all people who smoke a bunch of dope my guy was stupid enough to leave his utility bill in the pot-drenched room for the manager to find when she came back to lock up later that evening. The next day she called my guy to tell him she found the bill, taking the opportunity to mention that the smell of dope in the pool room almost knocked her down. She didn't accuse him directly but the comment hung in the air, hash-like.
My guy did the evasive dance where he didn't admit to anything while not saying unequivocally: "I didn't smoke dope in that room." He tried to convince me that he had gotten away with something.
I may have mentioned I'm not . . . er . . . crazy about this guy? At the very least I don't care if he doesn't like me.
"So you lied," I said flatly. He laughed and he equivocated, but he was caught and I wasn't letting him off the hook. If you would like to lie I'm OK with that. If you mention, in passing, that you lied I'll let it go. If you tell a long, involved story about lying I'm kind of stuck. What was I going to do? Agree with him? Change the subject? Share a lie of my own?
The thing about trying to live an ethical, moral-ish life is that I can't do that kind of stuff anymore. It's not so much the lying itself - it's the getting caught lying. Lying got me out of a lot of tight spots but getting caught lying provided me with some of my greatest humiliations.
Let me blunt - my greatest motivation for not lying is that I cannot STAND getting caught in the lie. We all know that feeling when someone who has just caught you in a lie is looking at you silently. Really awful, that feeling. I avoid it like the plague.
So my guy, the next time he sees this woman, is going to have live with the knowledge that she almost certainly knows he lied. At the very least she suspects it. So there will be a degree of skepticism whenever he talks to her. There will be an uncomfortable suspicion that maybe the lying is continuing.
The best thing about telling the truth is that you don't have to remember what you said.
The Kenner - The Early Days
Ken H - The Kenner - was my sponsor for about 25 years.
I really should stop writing and post that sentence. I can't improve on that fact - it stands on its own merits.
For a great deal of that time - even after I left The Old City - I talked to him on a weekly basis, more often if I had something going on. At the start I saw him in person at our 12&12 every Friday and I still think that in early sobriety it was important for me to be seen in person. He listened to two of my four 4th Steps, both times meeting me at his house with a cooler of pop and water, some snacks, and a couple of lawn chairs so we could hop in my car and cruise up to a beautiful park near his house. I remember both experiences being pleasant and not at all stressful. Maybe because I was doing some clean-up work on myself instead if the major demolition that is 4th Step, Number One, and maybe it was because he was a kind, dear man and I was comfortable sharing my stuff with him.
Aside: I did my second 4th Step with my first Old City sponsor sitting next to a lake in a housing development that was still under construction. When we went in to the model home to use the bathroom after we were done the agent remarked: "So did you guys solve all the world's problems out there?"
If she only knew.
This was a pretty low-key event, too, although this sponsor was a bit of a know-it-all who made a lot of pretty confident suggestions, always irritating to a pretty confident know-it-all who loathes being suggested to.
My first 4th Step was in Chicago and THAT one was akin to being fed through a wood-chipper that was on fire in the middle of a pool of hydrochloric acid. I'd tell you what it was really like but I don't want to scare the children.
What a minute . . . I thought I was writing about Kenner, not giving a history of my major inventories? Maybe it all ties in: I asked him to be my sponsor when I was still working with the first guy - the irritating confident know-it-all - who was actually a very good sponsor. The problem was that he was a night guy and I'm a day guy so I'd call him with a problem during the day and he'd call back when I was already in bed. I did ask Kenner to be my sponsor before I cut my ties with him. He was a good man and fine with it, and I'm friends with him to this day.
"Great," he said. "I like Kenner. It sounds like a good fit."
Today I'd like to be a big octopus.
I really should stop writing and post that sentence. I can't improve on that fact - it stands on its own merits.
For a great deal of that time - even after I left The Old City - I talked to him on a weekly basis, more often if I had something going on. At the start I saw him in person at our 12&12 every Friday and I still think that in early sobriety it was important for me to be seen in person. He listened to two of my four 4th Steps, both times meeting me at his house with a cooler of pop and water, some snacks, and a couple of lawn chairs so we could hop in my car and cruise up to a beautiful park near his house. I remember both experiences being pleasant and not at all stressful. Maybe because I was doing some clean-up work on myself instead if the major demolition that is 4th Step, Number One, and maybe it was because he was a kind, dear man and I was comfortable sharing my stuff with him.
Aside: I did my second 4th Step with my first Old City sponsor sitting next to a lake in a housing development that was still under construction. When we went in to the model home to use the bathroom after we were done the agent remarked: "So did you guys solve all the world's problems out there?"
If she only knew.
This was a pretty low-key event, too, although this sponsor was a bit of a know-it-all who made a lot of pretty confident suggestions, always irritating to a pretty confident know-it-all who loathes being suggested to.
My first 4th Step was in Chicago and THAT one was akin to being fed through a wood-chipper that was on fire in the middle of a pool of hydrochloric acid. I'd tell you what it was really like but I don't want to scare the children.
What a minute . . . I thought I was writing about Kenner, not giving a history of my major inventories? Maybe it all ties in: I asked him to be my sponsor when I was still working with the first guy - the irritating confident know-it-all - who was actually a very good sponsor. The problem was that he was a night guy and I'm a day guy so I'd call him with a problem during the day and he'd call back when I was already in bed. I did ask Kenner to be my sponsor before I cut my ties with him. He was a good man and fine with it, and I'm friends with him to this day.
"Great," he said. "I like Kenner. It sounds like a good fit."
Today I'd like to be a big octopus.
Tuesday, April 24, 2018
Look To The Octopii!
Black Bile: One of the four humors of ancient and medieval physiology, that was believed to be secreted by the kidneys and spleen and believed to cause melancholy and sadness when present in excess.
(Ed. Note: Black Bile would be an excellent name for the heavy metal band I'm going to front someday as soon as I . . . you know . . . learn how to play an instrument.)
I should add that another of the four humors is Yellow Bile which is thought to cause irascibility, anger, and bad temper. I clearly am pumping out a lot of this Yellow Bile which isn't quite as good a name for a band. Phlegm (see below) might be the best choice. Alas, it has already been claimed by a Death Metal band from Finland.
I made that last thing up.
It would complete the Circle of Life if I added that blood and phlegm are the final two humors.
OK, Bile - which is the word I looked up before I got sidetracked by the Four Humors - means: Bitterness of temper; ill humor; irascibility.
So all of this inventory work regarding mom and dad - with the surprising addition of the cat - was at the suggestion of the therapist I saw for a while. She also suggested that I write about dear Kenner, my dead sponsor. Let's recap: I started out with the cat, finding the whole process to be a blast. I wrote a lot and it was all good, fun stuff, tinged with some mild ongoing regret that she was still dead. I clearly loved that animal with no reservations whatsoever. Animals seem to do that to people.
Then I started in on mom and dad and was surprised at the amount of bile - both black and green, with a touch of phlegm and a schtickle of blood - that came pouring out. Surprised me at the time and is surprising still.
I was talking with Willie about our relationships with The Dead and whether or not they can see us or hear what we're saying from wherever they are. If they are indeed anywhere at all. He knows I've been on an extended screed (screed: A long discourse or harangue. Harangue: A tirade, harsh scolding, or rant. Loss of Focus: What is occurring right now in my head.) about my parents with my mom taking the brunt of the tirade. Dad I'm not worried about. Dad doesn't give a shit what I think about him.
Willie roared: "I think your mom is up in heaven laughing her ass off right now."
Good point. If souls in heaven are getting bent out of shape about something going on down on earth then heaven isn't so much.
Today I think I'd like to be an octopus.
(Ed. Note: Black Bile would be an excellent name for the heavy metal band I'm going to front someday as soon as I . . . you know . . . learn how to play an instrument.)
I should add that another of the four humors is Yellow Bile which is thought to cause irascibility, anger, and bad temper. I clearly am pumping out a lot of this Yellow Bile which isn't quite as good a name for a band. Phlegm (see below) might be the best choice. Alas, it has already been claimed by a Death Metal band from Finland.
I made that last thing up.
It would complete the Circle of Life if I added that blood and phlegm are the final two humors.
OK, Bile - which is the word I looked up before I got sidetracked by the Four Humors - means: Bitterness of temper; ill humor; irascibility.
So all of this inventory work regarding mom and dad - with the surprising addition of the cat - was at the suggestion of the therapist I saw for a while. She also suggested that I write about dear Kenner, my dead sponsor. Let's recap: I started out with the cat, finding the whole process to be a blast. I wrote a lot and it was all good, fun stuff, tinged with some mild ongoing regret that she was still dead. I clearly loved that animal with no reservations whatsoever. Animals seem to do that to people.
Then I started in on mom and dad and was surprised at the amount of bile - both black and green, with a touch of phlegm and a schtickle of blood - that came pouring out. Surprised me at the time and is surprising still.
I was talking with Willie about our relationships with The Dead and whether or not they can see us or hear what we're saying from wherever they are. If they are indeed anywhere at all. He knows I've been on an extended screed (screed: A long discourse or harangue. Harangue: A tirade, harsh scolding, or rant. Loss of Focus: What is occurring right now in my head.) about my parents with my mom taking the brunt of the tirade. Dad I'm not worried about. Dad doesn't give a shit what I think about him.
Willie roared: "I think your mom is up in heaven laughing her ass off right now."
Good point. If souls in heaven are getting bent out of shape about something going on down on earth then heaven isn't so much.
Today I think I'd like to be an octopus.
Monday, April 23, 2018
In The Service
Service: An act of being of assistance to someone.
Serve: To be useful to.
During my morning Quiet Time I have a few prayers and/or mantras and/or affirmations and/or requests that I make and/or say in between the sexual fantasies and/or angry tirades that comprise my Quiet Time. A couple of years back a woman mentioned that she asks every day for her Higher Power to reveal ways that she can be of service to somebody else. I really like that so I stole it for my own personal use. It's nice and vague, real open-ended, letting my HP, in his wisdom, present opportunities to me if and/or when he sees fit. I'm content with what comes my way and I'm almost always presented with something, although a lot of the time they aren't the big and/or showy and/or dramatic opportunities that befit someone of my lofty status.
My motto: Don't do anything nice for anyone unless you get credit.
We've had a new woman coming to our meeting who is checking in each time by sharing her day count: "Today I have 6 days and this is the 7th day I got up without a hangover." On Saturday I was in my typical spot standing right outside the door to the meeting, a post I take up immediately, so I can harass and/or greet people as they arrive. It's perfect for an outgoing guy like me who doesn't like people - I get to talk to everyone, but for just a quick minute, all while being in perfect position to snub the assholes I don't like, and I do a LOT of snubbing.
When this woman walked by I tossed out a greeting and added: "15 days today?" Now, mind you, I only had a general idea of the exact number of days but I try to make our new members feel welcome. It's what I do. I'm not saying it's appreciated but it is a talent and/or defect that I have. In all of my traveling I've found that a lot of folks talk to their friends instead of spreading the love around.
Today she pulled me aside: "I wanted to tell you that I couldn't believe you remembered how long I had been sober. I thought: 'How did he know that?' But I wanted you to know that I was really touched."
It reminded me of my early days when people I didn't remember ever seeing would ask me some specific question about something I had talked about the previous week.
Serve: To be useful to.
During my morning Quiet Time I have a few prayers and/or mantras and/or affirmations and/or requests that I make and/or say in between the sexual fantasies and/or angry tirades that comprise my Quiet Time. A couple of years back a woman mentioned that she asks every day for her Higher Power to reveal ways that she can be of service to somebody else. I really like that so I stole it for my own personal use. It's nice and vague, real open-ended, letting my HP, in his wisdom, present opportunities to me if and/or when he sees fit. I'm content with what comes my way and I'm almost always presented with something, although a lot of the time they aren't the big and/or showy and/or dramatic opportunities that befit someone of my lofty status.
My motto: Don't do anything nice for anyone unless you get credit.
We've had a new woman coming to our meeting who is checking in each time by sharing her day count: "Today I have 6 days and this is the 7th day I got up without a hangover." On Saturday I was in my typical spot standing right outside the door to the meeting, a post I take up immediately, so I can harass and/or greet people as they arrive. It's perfect for an outgoing guy like me who doesn't like people - I get to talk to everyone, but for just a quick minute, all while being in perfect position to snub the assholes I don't like, and I do a LOT of snubbing.
When this woman walked by I tossed out a greeting and added: "15 days today?" Now, mind you, I only had a general idea of the exact number of days but I try to make our new members feel welcome. It's what I do. I'm not saying it's appreciated but it is a talent and/or defect that I have. In all of my traveling I've found that a lot of folks talk to their friends instead of spreading the love around.
Today she pulled me aside: "I wanted to tell you that I couldn't believe you remembered how long I had been sober. I thought: 'How did he know that?' But I wanted you to know that I was really touched."
It reminded me of my early days when people I didn't remember ever seeing would ask me some specific question about something I had talked about the previous week.
Saturday, April 21, 2018
Emotional PTSD
Reluctance: Unwillingness to do something.
I give up things that I don't want to give up only with the greatest reluctance.
Most things that I don't want to give up remain opaque to me, hidden in a murky fog of denial. I have emotional PTSD. Something bad happened when I was programmed and I don't want to take a look to see what it is. People seem to do whatever they want to do until they want to do it if by "people" you mean "I."
I don't listen to messages if I don't want to hear the message. People give me all kinds of good advice - at least they say they do - but I don't take it in. Eventually I'll say: "Maybe I should do this" and it's common to get a stunned, wordless stare. As in: "I've been saying that for 10 years and you act like you just came up with it."
I really must try people's patience sometimes.
I'm open to the message that if I want to address my defects a lot of willingness and a lot of humility is going to be required. My defects and I have a long relationship and they're not eager to go anywhere. I'm comfortable with my defects, apparently.
I give up things that I don't want to give up only with the greatest reluctance.
Most things that I don't want to give up remain opaque to me, hidden in a murky fog of denial. I have emotional PTSD. Something bad happened when I was programmed and I don't want to take a look to see what it is. People seem to do whatever they want to do until they want to do it if by "people" you mean "I."
I don't listen to messages if I don't want to hear the message. People give me all kinds of good advice - at least they say they do - but I don't take it in. Eventually I'll say: "Maybe I should do this" and it's common to get a stunned, wordless stare. As in: "I've been saying that for 10 years and you act like you just came up with it."
I really must try people's patience sometimes.
I'm open to the message that if I want to address my defects a lot of willingness and a lot of humility is going to be required. My defects and I have a long relationship and they're not eager to go anywhere. I'm comfortable with my defects, apparently.
Friday, April 20, 2018
I Think I've Spent All My Bile
Some more general thoughts about illness and injury . . .
1. If something hurts then try to manipulate that thing to keep the pain in the forefront. This is particularly helpful when you've reached a steady state where you can't actually feel the pain but that you have a sneaking fucking suspicion that the pain is still there, lurking just under the surface, ready to spring into action if you apply the correct force, torque, or pressure to the injured thing.
You can do it. You know you can. Find your inner discomfort. FOCUS on it!
Practical Example: Sore tooth. You have 32 teeth so if you have 1 sore tooth that means you have 31 teeth that aren't sore. Use your tongue to probe the sore tooth repeatedly, whether it hurts or not. More force is recommended. If it doesn't hurt don't get discouraged - come back a little later and try, try again until the pain is reactivated. The tooth has not healed - no, never. The pain is simply dormant, hibernating, waiting to spring back into action.
“I don't see why there should be a point where everyone decides you're too old. I'm not too old, and until I decide I'm too old I'll never be too fucking old.” Lenny Kilmister of Motorhead
2. If you injure yourself or get sick it's important to remember the Never/Forever Rule. It will Never heal and you will feel like this Forever. Always is also a good word to keep in mind. And in this general milleau it's helpful to understand that YOU are the ONLY person who has ever had a difficulty like this and NO ONE ELSE understands what you're going through. You are very, very special.
I'd like to add that the Never/Forever/Always Rule can be effectively applied to almost anything that you really like or really don't like. As we say often around the Seaweed household: Nobody knows the trouble I've seen . . .
There is no difference between an old man and a young man as long as they are both sitting down." Mark Twain
3. Complaining is important. It makes you feel better and it makes you popular with others. Don't you enjoy being around people who are always bitching about this or that?
I'd like to note that I complained about my knee with my neighbor who is going in for knee REPLACEMENT surgery. My chutzpah knows no bounds.
1. If something hurts then try to manipulate that thing to keep the pain in the forefront. This is particularly helpful when you've reached a steady state where you can't actually feel the pain but that you have a sneaking fucking suspicion that the pain is still there, lurking just under the surface, ready to spring into action if you apply the correct force, torque, or pressure to the injured thing.
You can do it. You know you can. Find your inner discomfort. FOCUS on it!
Practical Example: Sore tooth. You have 32 teeth so if you have 1 sore tooth that means you have 31 teeth that aren't sore. Use your tongue to probe the sore tooth repeatedly, whether it hurts or not. More force is recommended. If it doesn't hurt don't get discouraged - come back a little later and try, try again until the pain is reactivated. The tooth has not healed - no, never. The pain is simply dormant, hibernating, waiting to spring back into action.
“I don't see why there should be a point where everyone decides you're too old. I'm not too old, and until I decide I'm too old I'll never be too fucking old.” Lenny Kilmister of Motorhead
2. If you injure yourself or get sick it's important to remember the Never/Forever Rule. It will Never heal and you will feel like this Forever. Always is also a good word to keep in mind. And in this general milleau it's helpful to understand that YOU are the ONLY person who has ever had a difficulty like this and NO ONE ELSE understands what you're going through. You are very, very special.
I'd like to add that the Never/Forever/Always Rule can be effectively applied to almost anything that you really like or really don't like. As we say often around the Seaweed household: Nobody knows the trouble I've seen . . .
There is no difference between an old man and a young man as long as they are both sitting down." Mark Twain
3. Complaining is important. It makes you feel better and it makes you popular with others. Don't you enjoy being around people who are always bitching about this or that?
I'd like to note that I complained about my knee with my neighbor who is going in for knee REPLACEMENT surgery. My chutzpah knows no bounds.
Thursday, April 19, 2018
Admission
Admit: To concede as true or valid; confess to be true or to be the case, typically with reluctance.
(Ed. Note: the italics are mine. I love that the definition indicates that an admission is a begrudged concession, not an easy, willing action. You are giving something up that you don't want to give up. You are holding onto something that you should release).
We admitted we were powerless . . .
"OK, whatever, I'm fucking powerless. There, you happy?" This is roughly how I admit to anything that has a stranglehold on me.
( I'm going to digress way, way off the path for a minute. There's this lyric by Ted Nugent which I was compelled to look up because I used the word stranglehold: "Got you in a stranglehold, baby, you best get out of the way" always confused the hell out of me. How can you get out of the way if you're in a stranglehold, by definition a grip or control so strong as to make escape impossible? Makes no sense at all. Pretty good song, though. I took a short break to listen to it on YouTube even though Ted is an asshole.)
When god closes one door he always opens another, but it sure can be dark in the hallway.
Maybe I'm grudgingly moving forward. I'm getting tired of writing about all this, that's for sure. I don't think there are any more words for me to look up in Step 1 and this is saying something because I like words, mostly because they help me avoid writing about what's really on my mind. I'm at the atomic, elemental level of my vocabulary research unless I want to research words like "were" and "and."
Remember: It's always the darkest right before it goes totally black.
Pessimism: Tending to see the worst aspect of things or believe that the worst will happen. (Synonyms include gloomy, negative, defeatist, cynical, bleak, fatalistic, dark, black, despairing, and hopeless. Ed. Note: These would ALL be EXCELLENT names for a hard rock band or at least the stage names for the musicians themselves . . . "and on guitar please welcome Despairing . . .")
Optimism: Hopefulness and confidence about the future or the successful outcome of something.
Also, apropos of nothing, pessimisties is how you say pessimism in Afrikaans. Never know - might come in handy some day.
I hate optimistic people: cheery, upbeat people who always have a big smile on their face and a sense of unbridled optimism. I would honestly rather share an office with an ax murderer - an active ax murderer who is currently murdering people with his ax - than one of those cheery people. These people bring to mind the true meaning of the phrase "Scourge of The Earth."
Scourge: A person or thing that causes great suffering.
I had a coffee mug once that said: "Have a Nice Day Elsewhere."
Remember: the light you see at the end of the tunnel may be the locomotive coming straight at you.
(Ed. Note: the italics are mine. I love that the definition indicates that an admission is a begrudged concession, not an easy, willing action. You are giving something up that you don't want to give up. You are holding onto something that you should release).
We admitted we were powerless . . .
"OK, whatever, I'm fucking powerless. There, you happy?" This is roughly how I admit to anything that has a stranglehold on me.
( I'm going to digress way, way off the path for a minute. There's this lyric by Ted Nugent which I was compelled to look up because I used the word stranglehold: "Got you in a stranglehold, baby, you best get out of the way" always confused the hell out of me. How can you get out of the way if you're in a stranglehold, by definition a grip or control so strong as to make escape impossible? Makes no sense at all. Pretty good song, though. I took a short break to listen to it on YouTube even though Ted is an asshole.)
When god closes one door he always opens another, but it sure can be dark in the hallway.
Maybe I'm grudgingly moving forward. I'm getting tired of writing about all this, that's for sure. I don't think there are any more words for me to look up in Step 1 and this is saying something because I like words, mostly because they help me avoid writing about what's really on my mind. I'm at the atomic, elemental level of my vocabulary research unless I want to research words like "were" and "and."
Remember: It's always the darkest right before it goes totally black.
Pessimism: Tending to see the worst aspect of things or believe that the worst will happen. (Synonyms include gloomy, negative, defeatist, cynical, bleak, fatalistic, dark, black, despairing, and hopeless. Ed. Note: These would ALL be EXCELLENT names for a hard rock band or at least the stage names for the musicians themselves . . . "and on guitar please welcome Despairing . . .")
Optimism: Hopefulness and confidence about the future or the successful outcome of something.
Also, apropos of nothing, pessimisties is how you say pessimism in Afrikaans. Never know - might come in handy some day.
I hate optimistic people: cheery, upbeat people who always have a big smile on their face and a sense of unbridled optimism. I would honestly rather share an office with an ax murderer - an active ax murderer who is currently murdering people with his ax - than one of those cheery people. These people bring to mind the true meaning of the phrase "Scourge of The Earth."
Scourge: A person or thing that causes great suffering.
I had a coffee mug once that said: "Have a Nice Day Elsewhere."
Remember: the light you see at the end of the tunnel may be the locomotive coming straight at you.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Living The Life In Seaweed World
So more irritating things have made themselves know. I feel like I'm in a seance talking to a poltergeist that I can actually see. It would be great if things made themselves known at the beginning and all at once. This discovery crap, this uncovering of hidden truths . . . very annoying. I would say I wish I was a finished product, one that didn't require so much detailing, but the product obviously needs a bunch more finishing.
Let's recap:
Mom and dad made me mad. Which I did not know.
I am powerless over my health and my body. Which I cannot admit.
And now, completing the Trifecta of Irritation, is the realization that my exercising has also reached the unmanageable stage. And the out of control plateau. I don't need to exercise as much as I do especially given the fact that I've been suffering from more and more overuse injuries: back, wrists, elbows, knees. So I'm also powerless over my exercising. I want to exercise, I need to exercise, I MUST exercise.
Here's an example, no doubt obvious to you, gentle observer, but opaque to me: I have this swimming style where I mostly pull with my arms and kind of let my legs drag along behind me, like so much useless ballast. I guess I'm naturally buoyant so I've never felt the need to kick and flay about with my legs. A few weeks ago I decided that it would be a good idea to work on my legs so I started kicking a little bit. Not a lot of kicking but more than the none I was doing before.
"Oh," winced SuperK. "I don't try new things anymore. Kicking your legs like that has to be hard on your knees."
Where are all of these smart people when I'm doing all of these dumb things?
I've tried to use this down time to learn some stuff. All of the time I've been able to devote to my writing has been great. I've also done a lot of studying about these issues that are upsetting me: pain awareness, mommy syndrome, the effects of aging, etc. There are lot of smart people out there, did I mention that? Anyway, much research has been done on the effects of aging on the body and how best to respond to it, and I've found that if you pay attention to the source of the information that the advice becomes remarkably consistent. Of course, if you're reading obscure blog posts written by people with no qualifications to be commenting on whatever area of expertise you're researching then you're going to see the data points start to veer off the path but, all in all, good research leads to consistent results. Many experts begin to use 40 or 50 as a marker for when the body begins to respond differently and should be treated with more kindness. Blew right by those mileposts without changing a fucking thing.
I have exercised literally almost every day for 20 years. This is ridiculous. There is no need for this. Excessive is what this is. This is not salutary behavior.
I still have a definite outcome in my mind.
I should be thankful for improvement, however slow and incremental.
I should at least add the qualifier "if it be thy will" to my inflexible demands to have things work out the way I want them to work out.
Maybe this knee thing is a metaphor for my life. As in, act your age: you aren't 75 and you aren't 35. Maybe the down time is a big Taser, trying to jolt me into some semblance of reality. I should hire someone to walk around with me and slap my face whenever I drift into Seaweed World. Perhaps I am seeing that I'm really lost without exercise. Perhaps the fact that I'm not having to burn off sugar calories is helping me to eat less of them.
Reality: The state of actually being, existing, or occurring; not imaginary or fictional.
And then there's this: when something that is upsetting me is removed or ameliorated to my satisfaction I feel better. Happier. I'm not sure that this is turning it over. This seems more like getting what I want. I know my health and my knee and my exercising are unmanageable but am I powerless? Maybe flushing a trip is an example of powerlessness . . ..
Maybe it's just that concrete.
Let's recap:
Mom and dad made me mad. Which I did not know.
I am powerless over my health and my body. Which I cannot admit.
And now, completing the Trifecta of Irritation, is the realization that my exercising has also reached the unmanageable stage. And the out of control plateau. I don't need to exercise as much as I do especially given the fact that I've been suffering from more and more overuse injuries: back, wrists, elbows, knees. So I'm also powerless over my exercising. I want to exercise, I need to exercise, I MUST exercise.
Here's an example, no doubt obvious to you, gentle observer, but opaque to me: I have this swimming style where I mostly pull with my arms and kind of let my legs drag along behind me, like so much useless ballast. I guess I'm naturally buoyant so I've never felt the need to kick and flay about with my legs. A few weeks ago I decided that it would be a good idea to work on my legs so I started kicking a little bit. Not a lot of kicking but more than the none I was doing before.
"Oh," winced SuperK. "I don't try new things anymore. Kicking your legs like that has to be hard on your knees."
Where are all of these smart people when I'm doing all of these dumb things?
I've tried to use this down time to learn some stuff. All of the time I've been able to devote to my writing has been great. I've also done a lot of studying about these issues that are upsetting me: pain awareness, mommy syndrome, the effects of aging, etc. There are lot of smart people out there, did I mention that? Anyway, much research has been done on the effects of aging on the body and how best to respond to it, and I've found that if you pay attention to the source of the information that the advice becomes remarkably consistent. Of course, if you're reading obscure blog posts written by people with no qualifications to be commenting on whatever area of expertise you're researching then you're going to see the data points start to veer off the path but, all in all, good research leads to consistent results. Many experts begin to use 40 or 50 as a marker for when the body begins to respond differently and should be treated with more kindness. Blew right by those mileposts without changing a fucking thing.
I have exercised literally almost every day for 20 years. This is ridiculous. There is no need for this. Excessive is what this is. This is not salutary behavior.
I still have a definite outcome in my mind.
I should be thankful for improvement, however slow and incremental.
I should at least add the qualifier "if it be thy will" to my inflexible demands to have things work out the way I want them to work out.
Maybe this knee thing is a metaphor for my life. As in, act your age: you aren't 75 and you aren't 35. Maybe the down time is a big Taser, trying to jolt me into some semblance of reality. I should hire someone to walk around with me and slap my face whenever I drift into Seaweed World. Perhaps I am seeing that I'm really lost without exercise. Perhaps the fact that I'm not having to burn off sugar calories is helping me to eat less of them.
Reality: The state of actually being, existing, or occurring; not imaginary or fictional.
And then there's this: when something that is upsetting me is removed or ameliorated to my satisfaction I feel better. Happier. I'm not sure that this is turning it over. This seems more like getting what I want. I know my health and my knee and my exercising are unmanageable but am I powerless? Maybe flushing a trip is an example of powerlessness . . ..
Maybe it's just that concrete.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
This Is Really Not Fair
Agog: (Chiefly of eyes) Wide open; in a state of high anticipation, excitement, or interest.
Several years ago I told SuperK that I had recently learned that people began to feel more aches and pains as they got older. I was under the impression that you just got slower. Lost a step. Your 40 yard dash times went down and you weren't quite as good in man-to-man coverage. I honestly, no-shit did not even consider the possibility that there was physical discomfort involved.
Agog is the word that comes to mind when I recall the look on her face.
"You are unbelievable," she said.
"How did I get stuck with you?" she said, much more recently, recalling the conversation. "You are a weirdo."
In one of my favorite episodes from Seinfeld the loser character George is brainstorming with Jerry about possible career paths to replace the job he just lost. He's coming up with ridiculous options like talk show host or sports broadcaster, reminding Jerry that he always makes great comments when they're watching a game together.
Jerry says: "Yeah, you make great comments . . . but normally they give those jobs to ex-ball players or people in . . . you know . . . broadcasting."
George stares at Jerry for a couple of beats: "Well, that's really not fair."
Yes. Yes. This Is Really Not Fair would look great on my headstone.
Several years ago I told SuperK that I had recently learned that people began to feel more aches and pains as they got older. I was under the impression that you just got slower. Lost a step. Your 40 yard dash times went down and you weren't quite as good in man-to-man coverage. I honestly, no-shit did not even consider the possibility that there was physical discomfort involved.
Agog is the word that comes to mind when I recall the look on her face.
"You are unbelievable," she said.
"How did I get stuck with you?" she said, much more recently, recalling the conversation. "You are a weirdo."
In one of my favorite episodes from Seinfeld the loser character George is brainstorming with Jerry about possible career paths to replace the job he just lost. He's coming up with ridiculous options like talk show host or sports broadcaster, reminding Jerry that he always makes great comments when they're watching a game together.
Jerry says: "Yeah, you make great comments . . . but normally they give those jobs to ex-ball players or people in . . . you know . . . broadcasting."
George stares at Jerry for a couple of beats: "Well, that's really not fair."
Yes. Yes. This Is Really Not Fair would look great on my headstone.
Step One Sticking In My Craw
Character: Strength of mind; resolution; independence; individuality; moral strength.
So this writing bullshit is really starting to stick in my craw and - as you are well aware - my craw is packed with bullshit of all kinds. I may have several craws, a whole array of craws or, perhaps, I have a grotesquely monstrous craw, as big as a Buick, based on all of the irritating things that I've managed to cramstick in there. I'm always finding new things to be irritated about and right into the craw they go with nary a peep from any craw proprioceptors. My proprioceptors are bored: "Keep the bullshit comin', Seaweed," they say, not even bothering to look up from their cell phones.
First, the inventory that I finally do on my mom and dad uncovers all kinds of carefully covered things, revelations that I'm finding very helpful. Who knew? Then, on my wife's recommendation, I'm working a formal 12 Step inventory on my unhealthy fascination with my health - not merely an inventory but the exercise where one starts at Step One and goes through the Steps, in order and one by one, the task complete only when Step Twelve is completed.
Perhaps some numerology will help clear this up . . . .
And the LORD spake, saying: "First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin, then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out! Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it.
(If you're a true Python addict . . . the Latin lyrics that are being sung as the Holy Hand Grenade is being retrieved, under the watchful eye of Brother Maynard, are "Pie Jesu Domine, Dona Eis Requiem" which approximately translates into English as so: Compassionate Lord Jesus, Grant them Rest - and is part of many Catholic funeral liturgies).
This was such spectacular advice that I decided to take it. I figured that I would quickly blow through One, Two, and Three, getting to the Step Four inventory that I had predetermined was at the heart of the solution.
The sounds you hear are the screeching tires of a Very Expensive Car coming to a full stop.
Step One shakes out so: I admitted that I'm powerless over my body, that my health is unmanageable. I know this sounds kind of silly but my understanding of this process is that one substitutes the bothersome character defect in place of "alcohol." I marvel at the work I've done on my character defects, at how so many of them were lifted out with a minimum of effort, a smaller number came out, more or less, with some more considerable amount of work, and then there are those troublesome few that are lodged in there sideways.
I again take solace in these words: "If we ask, god will forgive our derelictions. But in no case does He render us white as snow and keep us that way without our cooperation. "
Sounds frustrating. We are forgiven but not absolved of responsibility for our behavior and, even then, god is going to do whatever god wants to do. God is not looking for feedback from me. God has this. There is nothing in there that god needs help with.
And here this is again, a concept that bears repeating: ". . . why then shouldn't we be able to achieve by the same means a perfect release from every other difficulty or defect? This is a riddle of our existence, the full answer to which may be only in the mind of god."
God is not looking for my input. The lines of communication may run both ways but there is no doubt who's in charge.
Anyway, I am totally, completely, unambiguously down with the fact that my health life is unmanageable. Out of control. Lost all perspective. Balance is gone. It is the only thing in my life that consistently upsets me and it's tireless in that regard.
Clearly I'm powerless. I'm down with this. No argument here.
Power: Ability to coerce, influence, or control.
However, I'm still trying to manage the shit out of the situation. I am trying to manage the outcome to control my health so that I fee the way I want to feel - good and definitely not bad. This is outcome stuff, running directly counter to our suggestion that we do the work and leave the results up to god. There is nothing anywhere to suggest that I'm going to get what I want.
So this writing bullshit is really starting to stick in my craw and - as you are well aware - my craw is packed with bullshit of all kinds. I may have several craws, a whole array of craws or, perhaps, I have a grotesquely monstrous craw, as big as a Buick, based on all of the irritating things that I've managed to cramstick in there. I'm always finding new things to be irritated about and right into the craw they go with nary a peep from any craw proprioceptors. My proprioceptors are bored: "Keep the bullshit comin', Seaweed," they say, not even bothering to look up from their cell phones.
First, the inventory that I finally do on my mom and dad uncovers all kinds of carefully covered things, revelations that I'm finding very helpful. Who knew? Then, on my wife's recommendation, I'm working a formal 12 Step inventory on my unhealthy fascination with my health - not merely an inventory but the exercise where one starts at Step One and goes through the Steps, in order and one by one, the task complete only when Step Twelve is completed.
Perhaps some numerology will help clear this up . . . .
And the LORD spake, saying: "First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin, then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out! Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it.
(If you're a true Python addict . . . the Latin lyrics that are being sung as the Holy Hand Grenade is being retrieved, under the watchful eye of Brother Maynard, are "Pie Jesu Domine, Dona Eis Requiem" which approximately translates into English as so: Compassionate Lord Jesus, Grant them Rest - and is part of many Catholic funeral liturgies).
This was such spectacular advice that I decided to take it. I figured that I would quickly blow through One, Two, and Three, getting to the Step Four inventory that I had predetermined was at the heart of the solution.
The sounds you hear are the screeching tires of a Very Expensive Car coming to a full stop.
Step One shakes out so: I admitted that I'm powerless over my body, that my health is unmanageable. I know this sounds kind of silly but my understanding of this process is that one substitutes the bothersome character defect in place of "alcohol." I marvel at the work I've done on my character defects, at how so many of them were lifted out with a minimum of effort, a smaller number came out, more or less, with some more considerable amount of work, and then there are those troublesome few that are lodged in there sideways.
I again take solace in these words: "If we ask, god will forgive our derelictions. But in no case does He render us white as snow and keep us that way without our cooperation. "
Sounds frustrating. We are forgiven but not absolved of responsibility for our behavior and, even then, god is going to do whatever god wants to do. God is not looking for feedback from me. God has this. There is nothing in there that god needs help with.
And here this is again, a concept that bears repeating: ". . . why then shouldn't we be able to achieve by the same means a perfect release from every other difficulty or defect? This is a riddle of our existence, the full answer to which may be only in the mind of god."
God is not looking for my input. The lines of communication may run both ways but there is no doubt who's in charge.
Anyway, I am totally, completely, unambiguously down with the fact that my health life is unmanageable. Out of control. Lost all perspective. Balance is gone. It is the only thing in my life that consistently upsets me and it's tireless in that regard.
Clearly I'm powerless. I'm down with this. No argument here.
Power: Ability to coerce, influence, or control.
However, I'm still trying to manage the shit out of the situation. I am trying to manage the outcome to control my health so that I fee the way I want to feel - good and definitely not bad. This is outcome stuff, running directly counter to our suggestion that we do the work and leave the results up to god. There is nothing anywhere to suggest that I'm going to get what I want.
Do Not Read This Post
Nobody needs to read this. This is stuff nobody needs to read but me. This is the output of all of the research I did on my knee, which is all that I'm concerned about right now. If you're on fire and I have a bucket of water and a computer, I'm going to be doing research on my knee, not dousing the flames.
The salient information for me is that if I take the time, visit competent sources, listen to trusted voices (www.you'regoingtodietoday.com is not a trusted voice) then I'm going to find a consensus, a balance, a median between reasonable extremes. Facts begin to shake out. Bullshit begins to fade.
The facts is the facts.
A twisted knee is one of the most common way the joint gets injured. This type of injury most commonly occurs during sports or by falling awkwardly. Depending on how the knee twists, it places stress through different structures of the knee so accurate knee pain diagnosis is vital.
The salient information for me is that if I take the time, visit competent sources, listen to trusted voices (www.you'regoingtodietoday.com is not a trusted voice) then I'm going to find a consensus, a balance, a median between reasonable extremes. Facts begin to shake out. Bullshit begins to fade.
The facts is the facts.
A twisted knee is one of the most common way the joint gets injured. This type of injury most commonly occurs during sports or by falling awkwardly. Depending on how the knee twists, it places stress through different structures of the knee so accurate knee pain diagnosis is vital.
Most commonly, it is the ligaments or cartilage that get damaged when the knee over-twists. Ligament injuries tend to cause ongoing problems with stability and the knee may frequently give way even months after the initial injury.
Cartilage injuries tend to cause pain and swelling, may limit knee movement, and at times can cause the knee to get stuck. In more serious injuries, multiple structures may be damaged.
Grade 1 Recovery Time - If you have suffered a grade 1 MCL tear, recovery time is usually under two weeks. In fact, some people return to sports or exercise in one week.
- Grade 2 Recovery Time - Grade 2 MCL tears take a little longer to heal. One month is average, though this depends on your personal circumstances. Some people make a full recovery from a grade 2 injury in two to three weeks.
Monday, April 16, 2018
Why Do I Do Anything That I Do?
Defect: A fault or malfunction.
Shortcoming: Deficiency.
SuperK and I had a free-ranging discussion about the tenacity of some of our defects - shortcomings? - and the best way to root them out. We inevitably return to the The 12 Steps as a pretty effective starting point for correcting our flaws, even for those that we see as relatively minor. Taking a good, honest look at a situation, doing some writing and talking about what we find, and then getting god involved is always a good place to start.
Ever defensive, I vigorously defended myself. My theory is that the best defense is a BIG offense. Whenever a baseball team is struggling I subscribe to BYL's stance that you need more hitters - that was always his solution to whatever woes were afflicting our team. "More hitters," he would say dismissively.
"I'm working The Steps," I pointed out. "I've been doing a ton of writing - a 4th Step inventory - and then talking to other alcoholics about it, including my sponsor. I've also been asking my higher power to remove my unhealthy preoccupation with my health in my Quiet Time each day."
I stepped back, smugly self-satisfied. Take that.
"That's great," she said. "But that's an inventory - that's not working all of The Steps on whatever's bothering you."
Annoying sometimes, that woman.
She added this: "You've given the problem over to god - but are you ready for whatever happens next? Remember that the defects are god's business and not yours. They're removed - if they're removed, that is - at god's pleasure and on his time frame."
As luck would have it my Step Study meetings - I attend two of 'em - have been dissecting the 6th and 7th - the throw-away Steps. The realization that I was trying to turn over this problem to my higher power without being ready to accept the answer struck me with a lot of force. Humbly ask god to remove my shortcomings; make myself ready to have them removed if that's god's will. I need to work on my humility and my willingness, my listening skills, instead of inserting additional notes in the margin of the workbook I'm putting together for god so that he knows exactly how to meet my daily demands.
"How did you fuck that up?" I ask god. "I wrote it down for you."
Kenner used to remind me that I should pay attention whenever a sentence or paragraph was italicized: "That's Bill W shouting," he said.
Here are a few phrases that jumped out at me. . . .
"Having been granted a perfect release from alcoholism, why then shouldn't we be able to achieve by the same means a perfect release from every other difficulty or defect?"
Indeed.
"This is a riddle of our existence, the full answer to which may only be in the mind of god."
Well, that's hardly fair.
". . . any person capable of enough willingness and honesty to try repeatedly Step Six on all his faults - without any reservations whatever - has indeed come a long way spiritually."
I like the fact that Bill had to stick in the word "repeatedly." It disabuses me of the notion that I do this once and then I'm done with it. I also note the italics when the reservations are mentioned as well as the inclusion of the word "whatever."
Whatever: No matter what; for any.
"If we ask, god will certainly forgive or derelictions. But in no case does he render us white as snow and keep us that way without our cooperation. That is something we are supposed to be willing to work toward ourselves."
Work? Work?! Fuck.
Shortcoming: Deficiency.
SuperK and I had a free-ranging discussion about the tenacity of some of our defects - shortcomings? - and the best way to root them out. We inevitably return to the The 12 Steps as a pretty effective starting point for correcting our flaws, even for those that we see as relatively minor. Taking a good, honest look at a situation, doing some writing and talking about what we find, and then getting god involved is always a good place to start.
Ever defensive, I vigorously defended myself. My theory is that the best defense is a BIG offense. Whenever a baseball team is struggling I subscribe to BYL's stance that you need more hitters - that was always his solution to whatever woes were afflicting our team. "More hitters," he would say dismissively.
"I'm working The Steps," I pointed out. "I've been doing a ton of writing - a 4th Step inventory - and then talking to other alcoholics about it, including my sponsor. I've also been asking my higher power to remove my unhealthy preoccupation with my health in my Quiet Time each day."
I stepped back, smugly self-satisfied. Take that.
"That's great," she said. "But that's an inventory - that's not working all of The Steps on whatever's bothering you."
Annoying sometimes, that woman.
She added this: "You've given the problem over to god - but are you ready for whatever happens next? Remember that the defects are god's business and not yours. They're removed - if they're removed, that is - at god's pleasure and on his time frame."
As luck would have it my Step Study meetings - I attend two of 'em - have been dissecting the 6th and 7th - the throw-away Steps. The realization that I was trying to turn over this problem to my higher power without being ready to accept the answer struck me with a lot of force. Humbly ask god to remove my shortcomings; make myself ready to have them removed if that's god's will. I need to work on my humility and my willingness, my listening skills, instead of inserting additional notes in the margin of the workbook I'm putting together for god so that he knows exactly how to meet my daily demands.
"How did you fuck that up?" I ask god. "I wrote it down for you."
Kenner used to remind me that I should pay attention whenever a sentence or paragraph was italicized: "That's Bill W shouting," he said.
Here are a few phrases that jumped out at me. . . .
"Having been granted a perfect release from alcoholism, why then shouldn't we be able to achieve by the same means a perfect release from every other difficulty or defect?"
Indeed.
"This is a riddle of our existence, the full answer to which may only be in the mind of god."
Well, that's hardly fair.
". . . any person capable of enough willingness and honesty to try repeatedly Step Six on all his faults - without any reservations whatever - has indeed come a long way spiritually."
I like the fact that Bill had to stick in the word "repeatedly." It disabuses me of the notion that I do this once and then I'm done with it. I also note the italics when the reservations are mentioned as well as the inclusion of the word "whatever."
Whatever: No matter what; for any.
"If we ask, god will certainly forgive or derelictions. But in no case does he render us white as snow and keep us that way without our cooperation. That is something we are supposed to be willing to work toward ourselves."
Work? Work?! Fuck.
Sunday, April 15, 2018
The Painful Truth About Never and Forevermore
Never: At no time; on no occasion; in no circumstance; not previously.
Forever: For all time, for all eternity; for a lifetime; for an infinite amount of time.
Pain: The condition or fact of suffering or anguish, especially mental; torment; anguish.
Pain motivates the individual to withdraw from damaging situations, to protect a damaged body part while it heals, and to avoid similar experiences in the future. Most pain resolves once the noxious stimulus is removed and the body has healed, but it may persist despite removal of the stimulus and apparent healing of the body. Sometimes pain arises in the absence of any detectable stimulus, damage or disease.
"Why do I hate pain so much?" I asked SuperK, right out of the chute, first thing in the morning. Might as well get the focus on me ASAP.
"Well, nobody likes pain," she said, quite reasonably. "But you have a tendency to get into your Never and Forever mode. And that's your mother. You think it's always going to be like this and it's never going to change."
Mom!!
Then I have to think about the counterpoint offered by dear Kenner who had only three responses and three responses only to anything I said: This, too, shall pass; Principles before Personalities; and I forget the third thing. I talked to this man over the course of 25 years and everything that I brought up fit in one of these slots. Talk about keeping it simple. It's remarkable that one of the slots - This, too, shall pass - has never really entered in my consciousness in any long-lasting and meaningful way. It has been an burr under my saddle now and forevermore. Maybe that's why he kept repeating it.
I can only hope that I'm learning something. My wife will frequently say to me: "Why do I try to tell you anything? You're going to do whatever you want to do anyway."
Well, guilty as charged, unfortunately.
Stubborn: Refusing to move or change one's opinion; obstinate; firmly resisting; persistent in doing something.
I know that I'm somewhat compulsive in my exercising. I know I have a lot of nervous energy that I exacerbate with caffeine and sugar, and that it feels good to burn off this mental dross. I'm also vaguely aware that I'm no kid and that some of this activity is starting to boomerang on me, causing me discomfort that is a little more severe and a little longer lasting. When the thing that is supposed to be good for you is causing more trouble than it's solving . . . .
"Why do you have to go out and take four hour hikes in the mountains, anyway?" she said, getting exasperated and, frankly, a little worked up. "Why do you have to swim four times a week?"
I don't know.
Compulsion: An irrational need or irresistible urge to perform some action, often despite negative consequences.
Forever: For all time, for all eternity; for a lifetime; for an infinite amount of time.
Pain: The condition or fact of suffering or anguish, especially mental; torment; anguish.
Pain motivates the individual to withdraw from damaging situations, to protect a damaged body part while it heals, and to avoid similar experiences in the future. Most pain resolves once the noxious stimulus is removed and the body has healed, but it may persist despite removal of the stimulus and apparent healing of the body. Sometimes pain arises in the absence of any detectable stimulus, damage or disease.
"Why do I hate pain so much?" I asked SuperK, right out of the chute, first thing in the morning. Might as well get the focus on me ASAP.
"Well, nobody likes pain," she said, quite reasonably. "But you have a tendency to get into your Never and Forever mode. And that's your mother. You think it's always going to be like this and it's never going to change."
Mom!!
Then I have to think about the counterpoint offered by dear Kenner who had only three responses and three responses only to anything I said: This, too, shall pass; Principles before Personalities; and I forget the third thing. I talked to this man over the course of 25 years and everything that I brought up fit in one of these slots. Talk about keeping it simple. It's remarkable that one of the slots - This, too, shall pass - has never really entered in my consciousness in any long-lasting and meaningful way. It has been an burr under my saddle now and forevermore. Maybe that's why he kept repeating it.
I can only hope that I'm learning something. My wife will frequently say to me: "Why do I try to tell you anything? You're going to do whatever you want to do anyway."
Well, guilty as charged, unfortunately.
Stubborn: Refusing to move or change one's opinion; obstinate; firmly resisting; persistent in doing something.
I know that I'm somewhat compulsive in my exercising. I know I have a lot of nervous energy that I exacerbate with caffeine and sugar, and that it feels good to burn off this mental dross. I'm also vaguely aware that I'm no kid and that some of this activity is starting to boomerang on me, causing me discomfort that is a little more severe and a little longer lasting. When the thing that is supposed to be good for you is causing more trouble than it's solving . . . .
"Why do you have to go out and take four hour hikes in the mountains, anyway?" she said, getting exasperated and, frankly, a little worked up. "Why do you have to swim four times a week?"
I don't know.
Compulsion: An irrational need or irresistible urge to perform some action, often despite negative consequences.
Saturday, April 14, 2018
Mental Things That Are Centered in My Mind
Patient: Willing to wait if necessary; constant in pursuit or exertion; persevering; calmly diligent.
Yesterday I figured that the smart thing to do would be to give my knee another couple of days to heal before going to visit a doctor. I say this sheepishly because I'm virtually certain that I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, a specialty of mine. There's nothing of so little insignificance that I can't expand into something of great significance. Then I decided that I would make the appointment for the end of the week - if my joint improved then I could cancel giving a fair amount of warning - in the hope that taking a little action - any action - would improve my peace of mind. With me it's rarely the physical pain - it's the mental anguish of worrying.
Little Westside Jonny and I had a lively debate once - while we were floating in a canoe on a shallow, murky lake in the Amazon Basin - over the size of compensation that we would each require to spend one night on any of the little vegetation-choked islets that were scattered around. I think I ended up as low as $50,000 as I detailed how I would clear the brush from the base of a tree, climb up as high as I could go, then sing at the top of my lungs all night, hoping to scare away most predators and lizards and insects and such. It was sort of a white board, brain-storm about how to survive with a sound mind for a night in the jungle. LWSJ refused to even consider a sum.
"You couldn't handle the misery for one night?" I asked, incredulously. "For a million dollars?"
"Oh, I could handle the physical part," he said. "But I'd have no mind left when the sun came up."
I get that. My mind is not my friend. When I think of LWSJ I think of the man who coined my motto: "Prone to Anxiety."
Vis-a-vis the doctor I realized that I was dicking around, delaying the inevitable for vague, fear-based reasons, so I slid into a same day opening and went to see him. My guy is what I would call a curmudgeon. He doesn't tell me what to do, preferring to lay out possible options, starting with a less invasive, less traumatic treatment plan, and migrating step by step through to the end game, usually something like having my head lopped off and fed to pit vipers. He doesn't encourage tests and drugs and MRIs and X-Rays unless they're clearly indicated and - because he does a lot of reading - he believes that the research generally shows that these things aren't all that helpful for most minor illnesses or injuries. I can almost see him rolling his eyes skeptically when he's talking.
He spent a very fair chunk of time manipulating my knee and asking me to do some simple exercises. An MRI would diagnose a soft-tissue injury which he was 99% certain I didn't have. An X-Ray finds bone problems which he was also 99% certain I didn't have. There's a test for arthritis you can undergo and he guaranteed me that I'd have some arthritis, adding there's not that much you can do about arthritis, anyway, that aspirin or ibuprofen, OTC medications, wouldn't address. He brought up the phrase "a 61 year old male" a few times, in the context that things don't work so good as you age. Not that they don't work at all or that they're never going to get better but that things start to wear down and become more problematic, more balky.
I read once that in biological terms nature is done with you by the time you're 30. Eat, breed, and die, basically, that's nature's game plan. Nature doesn't care about a rich and fulfilling old age where you take up oil painting, reading poetry, traveling, and volunteering at the senior citizen center.
I had done the inevitable internet research, hoping for some reassurance that would keep me out of a doctor's office, and read over and over "one to two weeks" as an appropriate time frame for a normal soft tissue sprain or strain. The less commercially oriented sites - the ones not as concerned at driving page views and selling products - bump this up to "two to three weeks." I stumbled on the website for The UK National Health Service which counseled seeking an expert's opinion if things hadn't improved after six weeks. The Brits are less panicky than us Yanks. My doctor repeated this: "One to six weeks," he said, inserting the phrase, a tad disdainfully to my ear, into some point he's making"as it has only been five days," the implication being that five days is somewhat less than the forty-two days that exist in six weeks.
"I don't really like that six weeks figure," I quipped dryly.
This guy is not real big on dry quips during a medical examination. He's busy and this isn't a comedy hour. So his response, one I've heard before . . .
"Well, be that as it may. . . . ." He's also says "as we age our bodies don't respond the way they used to. One time I replied: "That's really not fair." He didn't laugh then, either, and not because he was being unkind. He's trying to reassure me while helping me get better, not lie to me and tell me what I want to hear. Give me good news or leave me alone.
It's kind of like The Program, I guess. I go to meetings to hear general solutions to general problems. I have friends and cohorts from whom I will take specific advice to specific problems.
Did you know that there is an organization called The American Chronic Pain Association and they have a pain awareness month, that they have activities and an official color. Christ on a stick, I hope I'm never in that organization. That's just what I need - an organization that I can belong to that focuses on pain. I should be president. There's probably a banner there with my mother's picture on it. I wonder if the activities are meant to increase the pain or mitigate its effects?
I mentioned the knee tweak to one of my older friends this morning. He said:"Yeah, I got something going on with my knee, too. I'm just working through the discomfort." I remember a discussion I had with a doc friend many years ago, explaining that I had some kind of injury or another and had taken three days off from exercising: "Three days," he said, exasperated. "Why don't you try three weeks." This is a message that didn't sink in, apparently.
Jesus, these people with some perspective are my heroes.
Yesterday I figured that the smart thing to do would be to give my knee another couple of days to heal before going to visit a doctor. I say this sheepishly because I'm virtually certain that I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, a specialty of mine. There's nothing of so little insignificance that I can't expand into something of great significance. Then I decided that I would make the appointment for the end of the week - if my joint improved then I could cancel giving a fair amount of warning - in the hope that taking a little action - any action - would improve my peace of mind. With me it's rarely the physical pain - it's the mental anguish of worrying.
Little Westside Jonny and I had a lively debate once - while we were floating in a canoe on a shallow, murky lake in the Amazon Basin - over the size of compensation that we would each require to spend one night on any of the little vegetation-choked islets that were scattered around. I think I ended up as low as $50,000 as I detailed how I would clear the brush from the base of a tree, climb up as high as I could go, then sing at the top of my lungs all night, hoping to scare away most predators and lizards and insects and such. It was sort of a white board, brain-storm about how to survive with a sound mind for a night in the jungle. LWSJ refused to even consider a sum.
"You couldn't handle the misery for one night?" I asked, incredulously. "For a million dollars?"
"Oh, I could handle the physical part," he said. "But I'd have no mind left when the sun came up."
I get that. My mind is not my friend. When I think of LWSJ I think of the man who coined my motto: "Prone to Anxiety."
Vis-a-vis the doctor I realized that I was dicking around, delaying the inevitable for vague, fear-based reasons, so I slid into a same day opening and went to see him. My guy is what I would call a curmudgeon. He doesn't tell me what to do, preferring to lay out possible options, starting with a less invasive, less traumatic treatment plan, and migrating step by step through to the end game, usually something like having my head lopped off and fed to pit vipers. He doesn't encourage tests and drugs and MRIs and X-Rays unless they're clearly indicated and - because he does a lot of reading - he believes that the research generally shows that these things aren't all that helpful for most minor illnesses or injuries. I can almost see him rolling his eyes skeptically when he's talking.
He spent a very fair chunk of time manipulating my knee and asking me to do some simple exercises. An MRI would diagnose a soft-tissue injury which he was 99% certain I didn't have. An X-Ray finds bone problems which he was also 99% certain I didn't have. There's a test for arthritis you can undergo and he guaranteed me that I'd have some arthritis, adding there's not that much you can do about arthritis, anyway, that aspirin or ibuprofen, OTC medications, wouldn't address. He brought up the phrase "a 61 year old male" a few times, in the context that things don't work so good as you age. Not that they don't work at all or that they're never going to get better but that things start to wear down and become more problematic, more balky.
I read once that in biological terms nature is done with you by the time you're 30. Eat, breed, and die, basically, that's nature's game plan. Nature doesn't care about a rich and fulfilling old age where you take up oil painting, reading poetry, traveling, and volunteering at the senior citizen center.
I had done the inevitable internet research, hoping for some reassurance that would keep me out of a doctor's office, and read over and over "one to two weeks" as an appropriate time frame for a normal soft tissue sprain or strain. The less commercially oriented sites - the ones not as concerned at driving page views and selling products - bump this up to "two to three weeks." I stumbled on the website for The UK National Health Service which counseled seeking an expert's opinion if things hadn't improved after six weeks. The Brits are less panicky than us Yanks. My doctor repeated this: "One to six weeks," he said, inserting the phrase, a tad disdainfully to my ear, into some point he's making"as it has only been five days," the implication being that five days is somewhat less than the forty-two days that exist in six weeks.
"I don't really like that six weeks figure," I quipped dryly.
This guy is not real big on dry quips during a medical examination. He's busy and this isn't a comedy hour. So his response, one I've heard before . . .
"Well, be that as it may. . . . ." He's also says "as we age our bodies don't respond the way they used to. One time I replied: "That's really not fair." He didn't laugh then, either, and not because he was being unkind. He's trying to reassure me while helping me get better, not lie to me and tell me what I want to hear. Give me good news or leave me alone.
It's kind of like The Program, I guess. I go to meetings to hear general solutions to general problems. I have friends and cohorts from whom I will take specific advice to specific problems.
Did you know that there is an organization called The American Chronic Pain Association and they have a pain awareness month, that they have activities and an official color. Christ on a stick, I hope I'm never in that organization. That's just what I need - an organization that I can belong to that focuses on pain. I should be president. There's probably a banner there with my mother's picture on it. I wonder if the activities are meant to increase the pain or mitigate its effects?
I mentioned the knee tweak to one of my older friends this morning. He said:"Yeah, I got something going on with my knee, too. I'm just working through the discomfort." I remember a discussion I had with a doc friend many years ago, explaining that I had some kind of injury or another and had taken three days off from exercising: "Three days," he said, exasperated. "Why don't you try three weeks." This is a message that didn't sink in, apparently.
Jesus, these people with some perspective are my heroes.
Friday, April 13, 2018
Cut-And-Pasting Seaweed
God grant me the serenity to accept the things that I cannot change.
Serene: Calmness; peacefulness; a lack of agitation or disturbance.
Accept: To receive, especially with a consent, with favor, or with approval.
I like how acceptance implies that we're receiving something willingly, because we want to. I always took this part of the prayer to imply that when there's something I don't like it gets jammed down my throat and I just gotta be OK with that. This is saying: "Thank you, sir. May I have another?"
Courage to change the things that I can.
Courage: The quality of a confident character not to be afraid or intimidated easily but without being incautious or inconsiderate.
Change: To become something different; to make something into something else.
I like how courage implies that stupidity need not apply for a job requiring bravery. The guy running right at the machine gun nest isn't necessarily brave. More like incautiously inconsiderate.
And wisdom to know the difference.
Wisdom: The ability to make a decision based on the combination of knowledge, experience, and intuitive understanding.
Different: Distinct; separate.
Solution: An act, plan or other means, used or proposed, to solve a problem.
Problem: A difficulty that has to be resolved or dealt with.
I am a problem finder. I must enjoy problems or I wouldn't spend so much time wallowing in them.
I'll continue with my lazy post today by printing the text of the full Serenity Prayer as it was written by Reinhold Niebuhr sometime in the 1930s. Really, all I've done is look up some definitions. Be that as it may I do like the second verse, much less widely circulated, but still chock full of popular slogans found in the recovery world. It starts out with One Day at a Time - reminding me that all I got is right now. It does get a little religious for my taste before diving into Let Go and Let God - reminding me that I'm not the one tasked with modifying the world so that it's pleasing to me but the one who needs to be taking the best out of whatever situation I find myself in. There are some good reminders that I'm not going to escape pain, nor should I want to, and that the best outcome I can hope for is reasonable happiness, a real bummer for a euphoria junkie like me.
God, give me grace to accept with serenity
the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things
which should be changed,
and the Wisdom to distinguish
the one from the other.
Living one day at a time,
Enjoying one moment at a time,
Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,
Taking, as Jesus did,
This sinful world as it is,
Not as I would have it,
Trusting that You will make all things right,
If I surrender to Your will,
So that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.
Stress: the condition that results when the mind overrides the body's desire to choke the shit out of some asshole who desperately needs it.
Serene: Calmness; peacefulness; a lack of agitation or disturbance.
Accept: To receive, especially with a consent, with favor, or with approval.
I like how acceptance implies that we're receiving something willingly, because we want to. I always took this part of the prayer to imply that when there's something I don't like it gets jammed down my throat and I just gotta be OK with that. This is saying: "Thank you, sir. May I have another?"
Courage to change the things that I can.
Courage: The quality of a confident character not to be afraid or intimidated easily but without being incautious or inconsiderate.
Change: To become something different; to make something into something else.
I like how courage implies that stupidity need not apply for a job requiring bravery. The guy running right at the machine gun nest isn't necessarily brave. More like incautiously inconsiderate.
And wisdom to know the difference.
Wisdom: The ability to make a decision based on the combination of knowledge, experience, and intuitive understanding.
Different: Distinct; separate.
Solution: An act, plan or other means, used or proposed, to solve a problem.
Problem: A difficulty that has to be resolved or dealt with.
I am a problem finder. I must enjoy problems or I wouldn't spend so much time wallowing in them.
I'll continue with my lazy post today by printing the text of the full Serenity Prayer as it was written by Reinhold Niebuhr sometime in the 1930s. Really, all I've done is look up some definitions. Be that as it may I do like the second verse, much less widely circulated, but still chock full of popular slogans found in the recovery world. It starts out with One Day at a Time - reminding me that all I got is right now. It does get a little religious for my taste before diving into Let Go and Let God - reminding me that I'm not the one tasked with modifying the world so that it's pleasing to me but the one who needs to be taking the best out of whatever situation I find myself in. There are some good reminders that I'm not going to escape pain, nor should I want to, and that the best outcome I can hope for is reasonable happiness, a real bummer for a euphoria junkie like me.
God, give me grace to accept with serenity
the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things
which should be changed,
and the Wisdom to distinguish
the one from the other.
Living one day at a time,
Enjoying one moment at a time,
Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,
Taking, as Jesus did,
This sinful world as it is,
Not as I would have it,
Trusting that You will make all things right,
If I surrender to Your will,
So that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.
Stress: the condition that results when the mind overrides the body's desire to choke the shit out of some asshole who desperately needs it.
Thursday, April 12, 2018
Prevailing Winds
Prevail: To be superior in strength, dominance, influence, or frequency; to have or gain the advantage over others; to have the upper hand; to outnumber others.
Significantly though, this new research confirms the possible existence of what could be called eldest child syndrome in some families. It seems that there could be a tendency for parents to invest more time and energy in their eldest child, in part because parents tend to see more of themselves in their first child and therefore project their own aspirations on to them. Evidence shows this can have beneficial effects on intelligence levels but the downside of this extra attention is that they may not develop the happy-go-lucky attitude that their younger siblings - who may be raised in a more relaxed way - often enjoy.
Significantly though, this new research confirms the possible existence of what could be called eldest child syndrome in some families. It seems that there could be a tendency for parents to invest more time and energy in their eldest child, in part because parents tend to see more of themselves in their first child and therefore project their own aspirations on to them. Evidence shows this can have beneficial effects on intelligence levels but the downside of this extra attention is that they may not develop the happy-go-lucky attitude that their younger siblings - who may be raised in a more relaxed way - often enjoy.
Birth order refers to the order a child is born in their family; first-born and second-born are examples. Birth order is often believed to have a profound and lasting effect on psychological development. This assertion has been repeatedly challenged. Recent research has consistently found that earlier born children score slightly higher on average on measures of intelligence, but has found zero, or almost zero, robust effect of birth order on personality. Nevertheless, the notion that birth-order significantly influences personality continues to have a strong presence in pop psychology and popular culture.
Because I'm always looking for reasons to explain my behavior here's a little research I did on whether or not being the first born child is a marker for particular pathologies . . . er, behavior patterns . . . in said child. Once again, if I concentrate on the more measured, less hysterical data I find that it's hard to prove that birth order makes much of a difference at all. My wife - the youngest girl in a patriarchal family - was indisputably the most successful of all the children. The prevailing theories wouldn't have predicted this. The prevailing theories don't predict a lot of things. They prevail because they tell people what they want to hear, not what is.
It's very convenient for me to take complex situations and smash them into small, square boxes. One size fits all. There - that explains it.
Because I'm always looking for reasons to explain my behavior here's a little research I did on whether or not being the first born child is a marker for particular pathologies . . . er, behavior patterns . . . in said child. Once again, if I concentrate on the more measured, less hysterical data I find that it's hard to prove that birth order makes much of a difference at all. My wife - the youngest girl in a patriarchal family - was indisputably the most successful of all the children. The prevailing theories wouldn't have predicted this. The prevailing theories don't predict a lot of things. They prevail because they tell people what they want to hear, not what is.
It's very convenient for me to take complex situations and smash them into small, square boxes. One size fits all. There - that explains it.
In The Trenches
I had a long talk today with my sister about our family. My lovely wife has been a consistent sounding board on these matters but she's on my side, a little more willing to pile on and find additional familial blemishes to prod. My sponsor was helpful, too, but he was mostly good for general child-parent advice, lacking the intimacy that comes with actually being a family member. My sister, however, was in the trenches with me.
She takes a much more nuanced view of all the happenings, believing that most people our age have some similar set of problems with people our parents' age. Men were more restrained and distant, less involved with child-rearing, not of a mind to share emotions, while women took on the lion's share of the upbringing tasks, especially so because many of them didn't work outside the home. This was a good reminder and a comforting one - it takes some of my specific Seaweed family bitches and makes them more global, more normal, mainstream. My parents may be psychos to me but probably not to other adults from their generation. I know that I sit back, amazed, at how involved parents are in their children's lives today - when I was growing your parents were your enemies, not your friends. It's not right or wrong - it's how it is. I'm sure there will be another quantum shift in the parent-child dynamic in another generation or two.
My sister was also astounded at some of the anecdotes about mom's fear-mongering. Mom apparently either didn't treat my sister this way or - more likely - she had a constitution that was more easily able to brush off this behavior. All of us have our bedevilments, things that bother us unduly while barely causing the needle to flicker on someone else's emotional pressure gauge. I always laugh when people express alarm about the safety of some of the places I visit, pointing out that there were 5,500,000 automobile accidents in the US in 2017, killing over 33,000 people. I remind them that the most dangerous part of my trip is always the drive to the airport but most of them wouldn't bat an eye at talking on a cell phone while driving 75 MPH on the freeway. Still, they avoid these kinds of vacations while I don't pause for a moment.
I confirmed with her that she never heard dad or any of my grandparents ever complain about sickness or injury, and dad wasn't particularly healthy, suffering with arthritis and enduring a detached retina, all on top of taking an errant baseball bat in the mouth during a softball game. The bat knocked out half of his teeth and broke his cheek, his eye socket, and the roof of his mouth.
Never a peep. About injury or sickness both. Amazing. Maybe mom did enough moaning for all of them. We speculated as to whether my grandmama passed on some of the worry gene to my mother just as we wonder if my alcoholic grandfather poured some alcoholic poison on my dad's upbringing. And I have to play the organized religion card again - all of us heard a lot of dire warnings thundering down from a lot of raised pulpits.
Why did I absorb all this? My folks had other shortcomings that I avoided. My sister is of the opinion that, if you're the oldest child then you're built to walk around with the weight of the world on your shoulders. And, you know, mom lived with an active alcoholic so it's not unreasonable to assume that this behavior may have caused her to fear a loss of income or stability in home life.
And I know that hypochondria can be a compelling character defect - lllness is a great way to get attention. It's like crying. People perk up and look your way if they think you're dying from toenail cancer.
I'm under the impression that a lot of people my age grew up with a distant father and an overprotective mother. I bet this was pretty common.
I'm going to start running out of things to say here. I'm getting tired blaming someone else for my defects.
She takes a much more nuanced view of all the happenings, believing that most people our age have some similar set of problems with people our parents' age. Men were more restrained and distant, less involved with child-rearing, not of a mind to share emotions, while women took on the lion's share of the upbringing tasks, especially so because many of them didn't work outside the home. This was a good reminder and a comforting one - it takes some of my specific Seaweed family bitches and makes them more global, more normal, mainstream. My parents may be psychos to me but probably not to other adults from their generation. I know that I sit back, amazed, at how involved parents are in their children's lives today - when I was growing your parents were your enemies, not your friends. It's not right or wrong - it's how it is. I'm sure there will be another quantum shift in the parent-child dynamic in another generation or two.
My sister was also astounded at some of the anecdotes about mom's fear-mongering. Mom apparently either didn't treat my sister this way or - more likely - she had a constitution that was more easily able to brush off this behavior. All of us have our bedevilments, things that bother us unduly while barely causing the needle to flicker on someone else's emotional pressure gauge. I always laugh when people express alarm about the safety of some of the places I visit, pointing out that there were 5,500,000 automobile accidents in the US in 2017, killing over 33,000 people. I remind them that the most dangerous part of my trip is always the drive to the airport but most of them wouldn't bat an eye at talking on a cell phone while driving 75 MPH on the freeway. Still, they avoid these kinds of vacations while I don't pause for a moment.
I confirmed with her that she never heard dad or any of my grandparents ever complain about sickness or injury, and dad wasn't particularly healthy, suffering with arthritis and enduring a detached retina, all on top of taking an errant baseball bat in the mouth during a softball game. The bat knocked out half of his teeth and broke his cheek, his eye socket, and the roof of his mouth.
Never a peep. About injury or sickness both. Amazing. Maybe mom did enough moaning for all of them. We speculated as to whether my grandmama passed on some of the worry gene to my mother just as we wonder if my alcoholic grandfather poured some alcoholic poison on my dad's upbringing. And I have to play the organized religion card again - all of us heard a lot of dire warnings thundering down from a lot of raised pulpits.
Why did I absorb all this? My folks had other shortcomings that I avoided. My sister is of the opinion that, if you're the oldest child then you're built to walk around with the weight of the world on your shoulders. And, you know, mom lived with an active alcoholic so it's not unreasonable to assume that this behavior may have caused her to fear a loss of income or stability in home life.
And I know that hypochondria can be a compelling character defect - lllness is a great way to get attention. It's like crying. People perk up and look your way if they think you're dying from toenail cancer.
I'm under the impression that a lot of people my age grew up with a distant father and an overprotective mother. I bet this was pretty common.
I'm going to start running out of things to say here. I'm getting tired blaming someone else for my defects.
It's All Upstairs
Obsess: To be preoccupied with a single topic or emotion; to dominate the thoughts of someone.
The sinus problem is in the rear view mirror - aided and abetted by five days of antibiotics which knocked that sucker down right quick. I'm proud that I waited for five weeks before deciding my body was not going to defeat the infection any time soon.
The back problems are at a dull roar.
Now I have the knee tweak, an injury that occurred when I bent over to pick up an orange. For chrissake. It's not like I was straining to boot a fifty yard field goal in my pick-up touch football league.
I wonder - once more and forevermore - about all of the exercising. I clearly don't need to work out as much as I do. I'm still afraid of free time.
Hypochondria: A psychological disorder characterized by excessive preoccupation or worry about having a serious illness.
So much writing and I still don't feel like I've gotten to the bottom of the health obsession. I can indeed blame mom but shouldn't that be getting stale?
I know I'm jumping with excess energy which it feels good to release.
I also know that I consume caffeine and sugar at levels that fuel the jumpiness.
I haven't exercised for three days and it feels like forever. It seems like most of my exercise injuries are due to overuse. I'm having trouble imagining what my life would be like without the time spent exercising. I wonder if it would be better? I've had this list of things I'd like to do that I've had a hard time cracking. Maybe with a bunch of time I'd be able to dip into these activities more than I do.
That's sorta sad.
Maybe I'm supposed to get a feel for what life is like without exercise as a main pivot in my day. I sure got a ton of good, productive, quality writing done the last couple of days.
I release my anxiety into the universe. I give my anxiety to my higher power. It isn't the anxiety - it's my anxiety. It isn't trying to hurt me or kill me - it just has a message that it wants me to hear. It's all inside your head, dude. That's where everything is. You are just electrical impulses in a big meat sack.
I give my body and my health over to my higher power. I'm grateful that in the big picture I'm a remarkably healthy man: no disease or injuries, longevity in my family highlighted by a lack of cancers of any kind, maintaining a healthy diet with good sleep and exercise habits, all contributing to this good health.
Where does this obsessive shit come from? My dad was not a particularly healthy guy but I never heard him complain once - ever - about his health. Ditto for my grandparents, all four of them. Never a peep, never a bitch, never a sigh, can't remember any of them ever taking a nap. I've done more complaining than the five of them put together.
Then there's mom. I learned at the feet of the master.
The sinus problem is in the rear view mirror - aided and abetted by five days of antibiotics which knocked that sucker down right quick. I'm proud that I waited for five weeks before deciding my body was not going to defeat the infection any time soon.
The back problems are at a dull roar.
Now I have the knee tweak, an injury that occurred when I bent over to pick up an orange. For chrissake. It's not like I was straining to boot a fifty yard field goal in my pick-up touch football league.
I wonder - once more and forevermore - about all of the exercising. I clearly don't need to work out as much as I do. I'm still afraid of free time.
Hypochondria: A psychological disorder characterized by excessive preoccupation or worry about having a serious illness.
So much writing and I still don't feel like I've gotten to the bottom of the health obsession. I can indeed blame mom but shouldn't that be getting stale?
I know I'm jumping with excess energy which it feels good to release.
I also know that I consume caffeine and sugar at levels that fuel the jumpiness.
I haven't exercised for three days and it feels like forever. It seems like most of my exercise injuries are due to overuse. I'm having trouble imagining what my life would be like without the time spent exercising. I wonder if it would be better? I've had this list of things I'd like to do that I've had a hard time cracking. Maybe with a bunch of time I'd be able to dip into these activities more than I do.
That's sorta sad.
Maybe I'm supposed to get a feel for what life is like without exercise as a main pivot in my day. I sure got a ton of good, productive, quality writing done the last couple of days.
I release my anxiety into the universe. I give my anxiety to my higher power. It isn't the anxiety - it's my anxiety. It isn't trying to hurt me or kill me - it just has a message that it wants me to hear. It's all inside your head, dude. That's where everything is. You are just electrical impulses in a big meat sack.
I give my body and my health over to my higher power. I'm grateful that in the big picture I'm a remarkably healthy man: no disease or injuries, longevity in my family highlighted by a lack of cancers of any kind, maintaining a healthy diet with good sleep and exercise habits, all contributing to this good health.
Where does this obsessive shit come from? My dad was not a particularly healthy guy but I never heard him complain once - ever - about his health. Ditto for my grandparents, all four of them. Never a peep, never a bitch, never a sigh, can't remember any of them ever taking a nap. I've done more complaining than the five of them put together.
Then there's mom. I learned at the feet of the master.
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