My talons remain embedded in the delusion that eventually someone is going to slip me the key that unlocks the door to the next level of sobriety. You know what I'm talking about -- the secret level where attendance is strictly limited to the hip, slick, and cool among us. In fact, attendance won't even be required for someone as hip, sick, and cool as I am. Admission to this bastion of advanced sobriety means I'll no longer have to work The Steps or go to meetings or be of service. All of the crap that sets me off and pushes my buttons and sticks in my craw will lose its power. I'll always be calm. God will be my best friend and constant companion. I'll love everyone. Everyone will be a good driver. Not as good as me, of course, but really pretty competent.
I'm a member of the class of '87. All this means is that I should know better when I act like an ass. It doesn't mean that I get to do anything different or new. It's the same stuff for all of us. It's the same program of recovery. We all have to do the same things. Nobody gets a pass or an easier work load.
At my weekly jail meeting we stress this to the guys -- my length of sobriety is meaningless unless I am doing the same things that they need to do. I just have more repetitions on the spiritual weight machine. It's the same weight machine. We all use the same weight machine. I'm just using more weights.
My physical appearance forbids me from ever using a weight machine analogy to make a point, ever again.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Alcoholic Punishment
Meat Grinder: A machine used to crush meat into small bits or particles between two hard surfaces; pulverize.
Drinking is a brutal exercise for a mature alcoholic. It's like being fed through a meat grinder with agonizing deliberation. We think that we're having fun and we're loath to give this punishment up. What is it that we are hanging onto, anyway? We're physically sick, emotionally demoralized, and spiritually bankrupt. We don't have any money or friends and our families can't stand us anymore. Our prospects are terrible and getting worse. Who in their right mind wants to leave that life behind? How are we going to fill our time now that we don't have this wonderful outlet for all of our energies? What are we going to do if we can't sit in front of the TV for hours on end, alone, enjoying our blackout?
It is very difficult for an alcoholic to quit drinking. It takes some practice -- it takes some repetitions. Our body craves the alcohol and our minds crave the release. We remember the good old days when the alcohol was still working, when the troubles weren't that bad. It's a slow poisoning, this alcoholism. The problems mount slowly, imperceptibly, until they become astonishingly large and amazingly hard to solve.
If you have stopped, stay stopped. If you haven't, stop now.
Drinking is a brutal exercise for a mature alcoholic. It's like being fed through a meat grinder with agonizing deliberation. We think that we're having fun and we're loath to give this punishment up. What is it that we are hanging onto, anyway? We're physically sick, emotionally demoralized, and spiritually bankrupt. We don't have any money or friends and our families can't stand us anymore. Our prospects are terrible and getting worse. Who in their right mind wants to leave that life behind? How are we going to fill our time now that we don't have this wonderful outlet for all of our energies? What are we going to do if we can't sit in front of the TV for hours on end, alone, enjoying our blackout?
It is very difficult for an alcoholic to quit drinking. It takes some practice -- it takes some repetitions. Our body craves the alcohol and our minds crave the release. We remember the good old days when the alcohol was still working, when the troubles weren't that bad. It's a slow poisoning, this alcoholism. The problems mount slowly, imperceptibly, until they become astonishingly large and amazingly hard to solve.
If you have stopped, stay stopped. If you haven't, stop now.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Relapse
Relapse: To slip or fall back into a former condition, especially after improvement or seeming improvement.
How great it would be if everyone who walked into a room of Alcoholics Anonymous stayed sober for the rest of their lives. As people who believe that perfection in all aspects of our lives is attainable, we like the idea of a one hundred percent success rate. It sounds sexier than ninety percent. It blows away fifty percent and it dances all over the grave of three or four percent. Which is probably the most accurate number.
We need to let people know that relapse happens to some of us. It’s important that folks who drink again can return to our rooms and be welcomed warmly and with open arms. Members shouldn’t judge, criticize, or whisper in the corner about the trials and tribulations of their fellows.
It is not, however, OK. We want to be sympathetic but not too sympathetic. We don’t want to enable anyone by softening the blow from the hammer of truth. There is no need to drink again; it is the result of being lackadaisical about the work of the recovery process. We don’t give anyone a pass or a break or a kiss – we direct them back to the solution. We confront them. What happened? What were you doing that you shouldn’t have been doing? What actions were you neglecting that needed your attention?
What step are you on? If you hesitate the truth is revealed.
How great it would be if everyone who walked into a room of Alcoholics Anonymous stayed sober for the rest of their lives. As people who believe that perfection in all aspects of our lives is attainable, we like the idea of a one hundred percent success rate. It sounds sexier than ninety percent. It blows away fifty percent and it dances all over the grave of three or four percent. Which is probably the most accurate number.
We need to let people know that relapse happens to some of us. It’s important that folks who drink again can return to our rooms and be welcomed warmly and with open arms. Members shouldn’t judge, criticize, or whisper in the corner about the trials and tribulations of their fellows.
It is not, however, OK. We want to be sympathetic but not too sympathetic. We don’t want to enable anyone by softening the blow from the hammer of truth. There is no need to drink again; it is the result of being lackadaisical about the work of the recovery process. We don’t give anyone a pass or a break or a kiss – we direct them back to the solution. We confront them. What happened? What were you doing that you shouldn’t have been doing? What actions were you neglecting that needed your attention?
What step are you on? If you hesitate the truth is revealed.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Crisis Control
I'm drawn to pain and discomfort like a drunk to free beer. If I have a sore tooth, I'm going to probe with my tongue until the pain is exquisite. And the only way to make matters worse is to ignore the blessings that I have -- the many blessings, the wealth of blessings -- with a studied cruelty. A mouth full of good teeth and I got to keep touching the one that hurts. "Maybe this time it won't be sore," I think. "Ouch," I say.
My drinking life was full of crisis. I'm highly skilled at damage control. I'm more comfortable, in a weird kind of way, when everything is falling apart around me. So when things are going smoothly, I try to mess them up. It's remarkably hard leaving well enough alone. I feel alive and vibrant when I have some disaster to clean up. I get all jumpy and itchy when life is going well.
Leave that tooth alone.
My drinking life was full of crisis. I'm highly skilled at damage control. I'm more comfortable, in a weird kind of way, when everything is falling apart around me. So when things are going smoothly, I try to mess them up. It's remarkably hard leaving well enough alone. I feel alive and vibrant when I have some disaster to clean up. I get all jumpy and itchy when life is going well.
Leave that tooth alone.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Honesty? Honestly.
Honesty: Refraining from lying, cheating, or stealing; a being truthful, trustworthy, or upright.
Kind of a slippery slope, this honesty thing. Most of us enter into our sobriety with a long history of dishonest behavior. We have lied, cheated, and stolen for so long that we're no longer sure what is fact and what is fiction. Our lies usually fall into one of two categories: (1) the lie to excuse bad behavior, as in: "I didn't throw up on your couch." or (2) the lie to make oneself look better, as in: "Sex with me is a transcendent spiritual experience."
Yet we don't want to slip into brutality. "Your cake tastes like crap," is not an appropriate comment to make at a dinner party. However, "That dress doesn't make you look fat" or "Ooh, you have such big muscles" are perfectly acceptable white lies, depending on whether you are a man or a woman, unless the guy has on the cocktail gown that doesn't quite fit.
This week I made a commitment to assist a work colleague in a presentation that he had organized in a city about three hours from where I live. At the last minute, I decided not to go. Some of my rationale was perfectly legitimate -- it was a long drive and the prospects for significant business were not strong -- and some was a little suspect -- I didn't want to work that hard, preferring to visit my favorite grungy coffee shop for an early morning double Americano.
My first impulse is to lie. My car broke down, I'm sick, another work obligation came up, that kind of stuff. I'm a people pleaser. I'm afraid that I'll upset someone. I'm afraid that they won't like me anymore. But I can't stand the guilt that inevitably surfaces when I don't tell the truth. So I told the truth. And, you know, it all worked out fine. Imagine that.
I only lie when it is absolutely necessary.
Kind of a slippery slope, this honesty thing. Most of us enter into our sobriety with a long history of dishonest behavior. We have lied, cheated, and stolen for so long that we're no longer sure what is fact and what is fiction. Our lies usually fall into one of two categories: (1) the lie to excuse bad behavior, as in: "I didn't throw up on your couch." or (2) the lie to make oneself look better, as in: "Sex with me is a transcendent spiritual experience."
Yet we don't want to slip into brutality. "Your cake tastes like crap," is not an appropriate comment to make at a dinner party. However, "That dress doesn't make you look fat" or "Ooh, you have such big muscles" are perfectly acceptable white lies, depending on whether you are a man or a woman, unless the guy has on the cocktail gown that doesn't quite fit.
This week I made a commitment to assist a work colleague in a presentation that he had organized in a city about three hours from where I live. At the last minute, I decided not to go. Some of my rationale was perfectly legitimate -- it was a long drive and the prospects for significant business were not strong -- and some was a little suspect -- I didn't want to work that hard, preferring to visit my favorite grungy coffee shop for an early morning double Americano.
My first impulse is to lie. My car broke down, I'm sick, another work obligation came up, that kind of stuff. I'm a people pleaser. I'm afraid that I'll upset someone. I'm afraid that they won't like me anymore. But I can't stand the guilt that inevitably surfaces when I don't tell the truth. So I told the truth. And, you know, it all worked out fine. Imagine that.
I only lie when it is absolutely necessary.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Obsession, Compulsion, La La La
I'm a little obsessive compulsive. Actually, I'm not a little anything. I'm obsessive compulsive in a non-scary, don't have to be institutionalized in a padded room kind of way. As you can see, it never works very well when I try to make one of my complexes or mental aberrations or physical abnormalities sound relatively un-abnormal. All I'm saying is that I don't have to lock and unlock the door seven consecutive times before I can comfortably leave the house. Any idiot knows that five times is plenty. The last two are just to be cautious.
There are a lot of us in recovery who are similarly afflicted. I hope there are, anyway. I better not be the only guy out there who's like this. One of the more popular rationales that I place great faith in is: "If one is good, a hundred is better." It worked so well with drugs and alcohol that it can only be effective with work, exercise, relationships, and the like.
I want things and my mind has no pause button. I want it, so I do it or eat it or drink it up. Sometime after the fact the rational area of my brain -- microscopic, withered, dysfunctional, as far as I can tell -- engages and suggests that the tenth cookie or seventh cup of coffee or third hour of exercise might not have been good for me. It all seems so clear after the fact.
Now . . . did I remember to turn off that blowtorch? I better go check.
There are a lot of us in recovery who are similarly afflicted. I hope there are, anyway. I better not be the only guy out there who's like this. One of the more popular rationales that I place great faith in is: "If one is good, a hundred is better." It worked so well with drugs and alcohol that it can only be effective with work, exercise, relationships, and the like.
I want things and my mind has no pause button. I want it, so I do it or eat it or drink it up. Sometime after the fact the rational area of my brain -- microscopic, withered, dysfunctional, as far as I can tell -- engages and suggests that the tenth cookie or seventh cup of coffee or third hour of exercise might not have been good for me. It all seems so clear after the fact.
Now . . . did I remember to turn off that blowtorch? I better go check.
Trudging
Trudge: To walk, especially wearily or laboriously.
Life consists of a lot of trudging. There is a lot of work involved. Trudging and working are not how I want to spend my time. I want to relax while I'm on vacation far from the madding crowd. When I add up all of the hours in a day that I have to spend doing non-exciting things it comes up to almost 32 hours, which doesn't leave much time for personal self-indulgence. To compound my dilemma, The Program has taught me that I need to voluntarily do other things that don't directly benefit me and bring me great pleasure, like putting the needs of others above my own. The idea is that this will benefit me in some intangible way in the future. That sounds terrible. Where's the fun in that?
Something in my alcoholic core is always going to resist the concept that life is not my own personal amusement park. I can't always get my hands around the fact that there is going to be pain involved, and boredom and obligation. I don't do obligation well. I don't suffer well. It seems so . . . unnecessary, and contradicts my personal philosophy of All Pleasure All the Time. And when I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that most of my difficulties are not that difficult, and they are usually of my own making.
It's time to grow up. Life can be a chore.
Life consists of a lot of trudging. There is a lot of work involved. Trudging and working are not how I want to spend my time. I want to relax while I'm on vacation far from the madding crowd. When I add up all of the hours in a day that I have to spend doing non-exciting things it comes up to almost 32 hours, which doesn't leave much time for personal self-indulgence. To compound my dilemma, The Program has taught me that I need to voluntarily do other things that don't directly benefit me and bring me great pleasure, like putting the needs of others above my own. The idea is that this will benefit me in some intangible way in the future. That sounds terrible. Where's the fun in that?
Something in my alcoholic core is always going to resist the concept that life is not my own personal amusement park. I can't always get my hands around the fact that there is going to be pain involved, and boredom and obligation. I don't do obligation well. I don't suffer well. It seems so . . . unnecessary, and contradicts my personal philosophy of All Pleasure All the Time. And when I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that most of my difficulties are not that difficult, and they are usually of my own making.
It's time to grow up. Life can be a chore.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Stillness
Stillness: The state characterized by little or no commotion or agitation; tranquil; calm; serene.
Is there anything more difficult for an alcoholic than sitting quietly, in one place, doing nothing? I can't think of anything off hand. I don't think a panel of the world's most brilliant philosophic thinkers, taking all of the time that they needed, could come up with anything, either. I would rather crack rocks with my teeth than sit still. I would rather bend iron bars with my toes. My brain is programed for ACTION. I am programed to MOVE FORWARD QUICKLY and with GREAT RESOLVE. I could be standing on the very edge of a cliff. There is no bridge and there are razor sharp rocks percolating in molten lava at the bottom of a precipitous drop, with fire resistant Komodo Dragons swimming around, and I would try to figure out how to get to the other side RIGHT AWAY.
There exist old archival videos of the destruction caused by the detonation of nuclear devices. The scientists built little fake villages to see how different structures would stand up to the effects of the bomb. There is an eerie stillness, then the shock waves from the blast literally vaporize everything.
This is an apt analogy for my quiet times. The world might see me sitting quietly, eyes closed, breathing deeply and slowly. This is the unnatural quiet. My brain is actually on fire. It is a powerful race car stuck in neutral, the engine revved right up to the point of failure.
Actually, it's not quite that bad anymore. All of the time I have spent trying to pray and meditate has had some good effect. It's almost that bad, of course. I'm a few RPMs below engine failure now.
Is there anything more difficult for an alcoholic than sitting quietly, in one place, doing nothing? I can't think of anything off hand. I don't think a panel of the world's most brilliant philosophic thinkers, taking all of the time that they needed, could come up with anything, either. I would rather crack rocks with my teeth than sit still. I would rather bend iron bars with my toes. My brain is programed for ACTION. I am programed to MOVE FORWARD QUICKLY and with GREAT RESOLVE. I could be standing on the very edge of a cliff. There is no bridge and there are razor sharp rocks percolating in molten lava at the bottom of a precipitous drop, with fire resistant Komodo Dragons swimming around, and I would try to figure out how to get to the other side RIGHT AWAY.
There exist old archival videos of the destruction caused by the detonation of nuclear devices. The scientists built little fake villages to see how different structures would stand up to the effects of the bomb. There is an eerie stillness, then the shock waves from the blast literally vaporize everything.
This is an apt analogy for my quiet times. The world might see me sitting quietly, eyes closed, breathing deeply and slowly. This is the unnatural quiet. My brain is actually on fire. It is a powerful race car stuck in neutral, the engine revved right up to the point of failure.
Actually, it's not quite that bad anymore. All of the time I have spent trying to pray and meditate has had some good effect. It's almost that bad, of course. I'm a few RPMs below engine failure now.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Strength of the Fellowship
Sometimes I'm glad that I'm an alcoholic. A recovering alcoholic, anyway. When I'm faced with a problem, I have this amazing kit of spiritual tools that I can pick up and use to navigate through any difficulty. I have a vibrant and caring network of friends to call and supportive meetings to attend. I look at people trying to make their way in the world without these resources, and I honestly don't know how they do it. Life can be tough for even the most hardy among us.
And sometimes I'm pissed that I'm an alcoholic. It hardly seems fair to have to deal with life saddled with such a terrible handicap. I'm constantly doing battle with a squirming mass of unhealthy desires. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about them. I'm drawn to self-destructive behavior. And I take the occasional good impulse and thought and ruin it with control and obsessive over-use.
There's an old vaudeville act where a performer tries to balance a lot of spinning plates on top of tall poles. When he is setting the last plate on top of the last pole, the audience sees the first plate on the first pole wobbling slowly, about to fall. The performer rushes over and spins the pole, barely averting disaster.
This is how I feel sometimes. Mostly I'm glad that I don't have any broken plates to clean up.
And sometimes I'm pissed that I'm an alcoholic. It hardly seems fair to have to deal with life saddled with such a terrible handicap. I'm constantly doing battle with a squirming mass of unhealthy desires. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about them. I'm drawn to self-destructive behavior. And I take the occasional good impulse and thought and ruin it with control and obsessive over-use.
There's an old vaudeville act where a performer tries to balance a lot of spinning plates on top of tall poles. When he is setting the last plate on top of the last pole, the audience sees the first plate on the first pole wobbling slowly, about to fall. The performer rushes over and spins the pole, barely averting disaster.
This is how I feel sometimes. Mostly I'm glad that I don't have any broken plates to clean up.
Friday, March 21, 2008
The Fix-It Man
I'm Horse Face Steve, and I'm a human male. The evidence is incontrovertible, although my wife points out that my feminine side is pretty highly developed and I do drift into sub-human behavior on a daily basis. I try not to frequent the ladies' section of department stores anymore -- I'm a little too close to trying on an evening gown and a pair of panty hose. I have a sneaky suspicion that I would look better strapping on six inch stilettos than lacing up a pair of hunting boots.
Men fix things. We take action. When there is a problem or sticky situation, we try to figure out what we can do to find a solution. We have to do something, even if what we do usually makes the situation worse. We can't just sit and let things work out on their own accord. We can't accept the fact that we don't have the tools or authority to change every single situation. We're problem solvers even when we are faced with a problem that has no solution.
This is why women don't tell us their problems very often -- they don't want us to get involved and make things worse, which we usually do.
Men fix things. We take action. When there is a problem or sticky situation, we try to figure out what we can do to find a solution. We have to do something, even if what we do usually makes the situation worse. We can't just sit and let things work out on their own accord. We can't accept the fact that we don't have the tools or authority to change every single situation. We're problem solvers even when we are faced with a problem that has no solution.
This is why women don't tell us their problems very often -- they don't want us to get involved and make things worse, which we usually do.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Instincts on rampage
Our literature tells us that there are three major instincts common to all mankind: security, society, and sex. Or money, ego, and sex, if you will. It's kind of hard to call sex by anything but its God given name. Sex is sex. Nobody confuses a walk in the park with having sex. Some of us look for sex in the park but it's still clearly sex. I digress. Talking about sex does that to me. It's very . . . compelling.
Our literature warns us that alcoholics take more than their fair share from the instincts' buffet. We hire lackeys to cart away whole tureens of mashed potatoes. We eye our neighbor's potatoes enviously even though we couldn't eat one more bite of food. We don't even like mashed potatoes. These overwrought, supercharged instincts cause us all kinds of problems. Practically all of the problems that there are.
Clearly we have a large appetite for money. There never seems to be enough. We can always find something else stupid to buy. Sex is also one of the more popular instincts. Most of us have overdone our pursuit of the sex instinct. That's why there are so many bars, after all.
Ego is a little trickier. We feel like we are humble until someone makes us wait in line to buy our Rice-a Roni. We call this syndrome Egomania with an inferiority complex.
Oh, yeah, there's a lot more to say about ego.
Our literature warns us that alcoholics take more than their fair share from the instincts' buffet. We hire lackeys to cart away whole tureens of mashed potatoes. We eye our neighbor's potatoes enviously even though we couldn't eat one more bite of food. We don't even like mashed potatoes. These overwrought, supercharged instincts cause us all kinds of problems. Practically all of the problems that there are.
Clearly we have a large appetite for money. There never seems to be enough. We can always find something else stupid to buy. Sex is also one of the more popular instincts. Most of us have overdone our pursuit of the sex instinct. That's why there are so many bars, after all.
Ego is a little trickier. We feel like we are humble until someone makes us wait in line to buy our Rice-a Roni. We call this syndrome Egomania with an inferiority complex.
Oh, yeah, there's a lot more to say about ego.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
More patience
I had a problem with my computer yesterday. It's my belief that computers are designed, marketed, and sold by Satan. I'm kidding, of course. Satan's a smart dude -- he has set up a shadowy series of off shore holding companies that keep him well insulated from any litigation. He finds it expedient to employ a large group of ghouls, vampires, sadists, and other monsters to handle the day to day operation of his empire. You don't really believe that there is a factory in Texas making Dell computers, do you?
My software decided that it would quit doing what it had always done and would begin doing something entirely different and totally unhelpful. I tried to fix the problem, to no avail. I tried to locate a way to simply contact someone to help me trouble shoot the difficulty. This did not appear to be humanly possible. There may be a way to get help for a software problem. I doubt it, but somewhere someone may be available. I get the feeling that there is one guy working at the Microsoft Help Desk and he's on long term disability for paranoid schizophrenia.
Frustrated to the point of tears, I decided to wait for my technologically savvy wife to get home. Then I fussed with the problem for another ten minutes. Now frustrated to the point of homicide, I figured it would be a great idea to work on a solution for another ten minutes. Finally, I decided to find a gun store and purchase a handgun so that I could empty a clip or two into the cursed machine. Processing power, my ass. Tell it to the Glock.
I decided to pause and take twenty five deep breaths before heading out. This worked. I realized that I could achieve the same result by simply tossing the PC out of a third story window onto a concrete driveway. Twenty five more breaths. Maybe I should just glare imperiously at the device for a while. I went with that.
My wife fixed the problem in two minutes.
"When we are tempted by the bait, we should train ourselves to step aback and think. For we can neither think nor act to good purpose until the habit of self-restraint has become automatic."
My software decided that it would quit doing what it had always done and would begin doing something entirely different and totally unhelpful. I tried to fix the problem, to no avail. I tried to locate a way to simply contact someone to help me trouble shoot the difficulty. This did not appear to be humanly possible. There may be a way to get help for a software problem. I doubt it, but somewhere someone may be available. I get the feeling that there is one guy working at the Microsoft Help Desk and he's on long term disability for paranoid schizophrenia.
Frustrated to the point of tears, I decided to wait for my technologically savvy wife to get home. Then I fussed with the problem for another ten minutes. Now frustrated to the point of homicide, I figured it would be a great idea to work on a solution for another ten minutes. Finally, I decided to find a gun store and purchase a handgun so that I could empty a clip or two into the cursed machine. Processing power, my ass. Tell it to the Glock.
I decided to pause and take twenty five deep breaths before heading out. This worked. I realized that I could achieve the same result by simply tossing the PC out of a third story window onto a concrete driveway. Twenty five more breaths. Maybe I should just glare imperiously at the device for a while. I went with that.
My wife fixed the problem in two minutes.
"When we are tempted by the bait, we should train ourselves to step aback and think. For we can neither think nor act to good purpose until the habit of self-restraint has become automatic."
Monday, March 17, 2008
Patience
Patience: Calmly tolerating delay, confusion, inefficiency, etc.; able to wait calmly.
The concept of patience is alien to me. I have trouble saying the word. It sticks in my craw like a big slab of peanut butter. If I try to recall a time or two when I was actually patient, nothing comes to mind. The whole idea is distasteful to me. It has a foul odor and unpleasant feel.
I want what I want when I want it. There is no need to pause and think. I don't have the time to listen to words of counsel from people who are wiser than I am. It's time to go -- right now! Shut up and get the hell out of my way.
The funny thing is that when I act impetuously, the results are usually bad. My judgement sucks. My interpretation of how things are going to work out is terrible. In sobriety I have begun to learn that life has its own rhythm, it's own ebb and flow. When I am unsure of an action and pause for a minute, the answers seem to come to me. Things work out on their own without my constant manipulation. I don't have to force the issue.
Pray for patience and God puts you in long lines.
The concept of patience is alien to me. I have trouble saying the word. It sticks in my craw like a big slab of peanut butter. If I try to recall a time or two when I was actually patient, nothing comes to mind. The whole idea is distasteful to me. It has a foul odor and unpleasant feel.
I want what I want when I want it. There is no need to pause and think. I don't have the time to listen to words of counsel from people who are wiser than I am. It's time to go -- right now! Shut up and get the hell out of my way.
The funny thing is that when I act impetuously, the results are usually bad. My judgement sucks. My interpretation of how things are going to work out is terrible. In sobriety I have begun to learn that life has its own rhythm, it's own ebb and flow. When I am unsure of an action and pause for a minute, the answers seem to come to me. Things work out on their own without my constant manipulation. I don't have to force the issue.
Pray for patience and God puts you in long lines.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Religion
Religion: Any specific system of belief, worship, conduct, etc. often involving a code of ethics and a philosophy.
There isn’t a topic more likely to generate controversy than to discuss the ins and outs of organized religion. This is a hornet’s nest inside a can of worms, which is locked inside Pandora’s Box. Many of us rebel at the rules and regulations; we don’t like ritual or specific instructions of any kind. Some of us are passionate about a strong structure – if it isn’t in our particular book or preached from a pulpit we dismiss it with a snort of disgust.
And when we have stayed loyal to a particular faith, our alcoholism and twisted reasoning cause us to misinterpret and warp what is often a good message. The stuff we have made up cannot be found in any religious book that we know of. The interpretations that we have hallucinated up are not in main stream thought.
Search out people with good, strong programs. Find out how they grew spiritually. If you avoid church like the plague, maybe you can learn from someone who attends regularly. If you show up at every church service, maybe the alcoholic who has found his own personal path to spirituality can help you strengthen your own faith.
All of us would do well to open up that bear trap of a mind and listen to the experience, hope, and strength of all of our members.
There isn’t a topic more likely to generate controversy than to discuss the ins and outs of organized religion. This is a hornet’s nest inside a can of worms, which is locked inside Pandora’s Box. Many of us rebel at the rules and regulations; we don’t like ritual or specific instructions of any kind. Some of us are passionate about a strong structure – if it isn’t in our particular book or preached from a pulpit we dismiss it with a snort of disgust.
And when we have stayed loyal to a particular faith, our alcoholism and twisted reasoning cause us to misinterpret and warp what is often a good message. The stuff we have made up cannot be found in any religious book that we know of. The interpretations that we have hallucinated up are not in main stream thought.
Search out people with good, strong programs. Find out how they grew spiritually. If you avoid church like the plague, maybe you can learn from someone who attends regularly. If you show up at every church service, maybe the alcoholic who has found his own personal path to spirituality can help you strengthen your own faith.
All of us would do well to open up that bear trap of a mind and listen to the experience, hope, and strength of all of our members.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Problems
"So our troubles, we think, are basically of our own making."
I received a bill from my doctor's office a few months back. My medical insurance -- which I almost always take for granted, unless there is a minor annoyance or delay that I can immediately ratchet up to the level of an international crisis -- had already paid for most of the charges. I called the billing center and used my credit card -- which is a gift I didn't enjoy when I was drinking, I might add -- for the outstanding amount. I should probably also point out that the visit found me in excellent health -- a fact I ignore until I get sick, at which point I bitch until the cows come home, and there is no livestock in my back yard at the moment.
However, the doctor's office incorrectly charged me twice for the one visit. I expected this. I expect the worst. I figure that they are sly devils looking to steal some of my hard earned money. I called my best generals, massed the troops, and prepared for battle. My voice was shrill and shaking with barely contained rage. One excuse and I was going to blow like Krakatoa. To my great dismay, they immediately apologized and sent a credit through for the incorrect billing. Where's the fun in that? A perfect opportunity to vent some self-righteous spleen wasted!
The corrected bill that came a few weeks later had a confusing array of credits and new charges and old charges. Annoyed, I threw the bill away. They sent another bill. I shredded that one, burnt the scraps, and scattered the ashes in a remote forest. This is an old alcoholic trick -- pretend that something doesn't exist. Pretend that something bad didn't happen. The letter from the collection agency that showed up finally got my attention, and I paid the bill.
The funny thing is that the amount that I owed was not significant. The amount itself was not important -- it was the fact that I felt like someone was taking advantage of me. I spent a lot of time arguing over this money. I got angry, I rehearsed conversations, I sifted through old bills and insurance claim forms, I regretted actions. After I sent the check in, I forgot about it almost immediately.
How important is it?
I received a bill from my doctor's office a few months back. My medical insurance -- which I almost always take for granted, unless there is a minor annoyance or delay that I can immediately ratchet up to the level of an international crisis -- had already paid for most of the charges. I called the billing center and used my credit card -- which is a gift I didn't enjoy when I was drinking, I might add -- for the outstanding amount. I should probably also point out that the visit found me in excellent health -- a fact I ignore until I get sick, at which point I bitch until the cows come home, and there is no livestock in my back yard at the moment.
However, the doctor's office incorrectly charged me twice for the one visit. I expected this. I expect the worst. I figure that they are sly devils looking to steal some of my hard earned money. I called my best generals, massed the troops, and prepared for battle. My voice was shrill and shaking with barely contained rage. One excuse and I was going to blow like Krakatoa. To my great dismay, they immediately apologized and sent a credit through for the incorrect billing. Where's the fun in that? A perfect opportunity to vent some self-righteous spleen wasted!
The corrected bill that came a few weeks later had a confusing array of credits and new charges and old charges. Annoyed, I threw the bill away. They sent another bill. I shredded that one, burnt the scraps, and scattered the ashes in a remote forest. This is an old alcoholic trick -- pretend that something doesn't exist. Pretend that something bad didn't happen. The letter from the collection agency that showed up finally got my attention, and I paid the bill.
The funny thing is that the amount that I owed was not significant. The amount itself was not important -- it was the fact that I felt like someone was taking advantage of me. I spent a lot of time arguing over this money. I got angry, I rehearsed conversations, I sifted through old bills and insurance claim forms, I regretted actions. After I sent the check in, I forgot about it almost immediately.
How important is it?
Monday, March 10, 2008
Personality
Personality: The quality or fact of being a particular person; personal identity; individuality.
When I was drinking and taking drugs, I thought that I was a mellow, laid back dude. Nothing bothered me much except for people and most of the circumstances of my life. I was cool. I took it easy. I was so cool that I could fall asleep driving an automobile. I could fall asleep listening to Black Sabbath at a volume that quickly induces paranoia in lab rats. And lab rats are normally pretty tough characters.
The basic disconnect was confusing coolness with an alcohol induced stupor. I wasn't laid back -- I was stoned. There is a big difference between a mild personality and a catatonic drug state. I didn't know who I was. I hadn't allowed my natural personality to surface. Whiskey and LSD will produce that effect in an adolescent. We never take the time to stumble around, trying on different personalities until we find one that fits.
Imagine my surprise to find out that I'm a certified, investment grade, top shelf, Type A personality. I'm competitive and intense. It's not as if I have discovered that I'm not as mellow as I thought I was -- it's that I'm not even remotely mellow. I am the exact opposite of mellow. I've had about six mellow minutes in my whole life. Back in the late 80s, I think. Nothing comes to mind in the last couple of decades.
Who are you?
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Peace of Mind
Serene: Undisturbed; tranquil; quiet; calm.
Peace: An undisturbed state of mind; absence of mental conflict.
We have spent our entire lives burning in a firestorm of fear and worry. It’s as if our first swim lesson begins with the instructor just tossing us into the deep end of the pool – we thrash about wildly and barely manage to stay afloat. Hands seem to be pulling us down. We gasp for air and swallow water. We can’t touch bottom or find the edge of the pool. Shark fins are circling. Bolts of lightning are flickering around a lightning rod installed on the diving board.
This is what it feels like to succumb to our alcoholism. Our mental state is not serene and it is not peaceful. Our mind is at war with everything – our mind is trying to blow itself up. It darts and drifts restlessly. Nothing seems to fit and nothing is in the right place. Nothing makes sense.
It is a blessing to lose this frantic restlessness. As we develop a relationship with our higher power we find that our thinking begins to slow down and sometimes even stops. We are in the moment. All of the maniacs rampaging about in our heads calm down and take a nap. It’s nice, this tranquility.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Intentions
Intention: The general word implying a having something in mind as a plan or design or referring to the plan had in mind.
Intentions are nice. Good intentions are wonderful. Transcendent, God-like intentions are a main cog in the working mind of all practicing alcoholics. We intend to go to work and to shower regularly. We believe that we are going to show up and remember important things and obey the law. If we actually do what we believe that we're going to do, our resume is going to be pretty strong. We'll have good arguments to present to the judge.
In recovery we start to ponder those annoying, pesky actions. The theory is one thing - the facts are another. People don't care what we are thinking. They care what we are doing. We can think: "I'd like to steal that donut" or "My boss is an idiot." Thinking is free and it's a private enterprise. As long as we don't stick a bear claw into our coat pocket and saunter out the door, we can contemplate all of the petty theft that we want.
Throw a little tantrum in the bathroom. Plan revenge. Close your eyes and let your mind whirl for a minute or two. Then go take the appropriate action. Behave well.
Intentions are nice. Good intentions are wonderful. Transcendent, God-like intentions are a main cog in the working mind of all practicing alcoholics. We intend to go to work and to shower regularly. We believe that we are going to show up and remember important things and obey the law. If we actually do what we believe that we're going to do, our resume is going to be pretty strong. We'll have good arguments to present to the judge.
In recovery we start to ponder those annoying, pesky actions. The theory is one thing - the facts are another. People don't care what we are thinking. They care what we are doing. We can think: "I'd like to steal that donut" or "My boss is an idiot." Thinking is free and it's a private enterprise. As long as we don't stick a bear claw into our coat pocket and saunter out the door, we can contemplate all of the petty theft that we want.
Throw a little tantrum in the bathroom. Plan revenge. Close your eyes and let your mind whirl for a minute or two. Then go take the appropriate action. Behave well.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Fatal Chronic Progressive
Alcoholism is a disease It is progressive, chronic, and fatal. Unchecked, it results in insanity, death, or a permanent bed in an institutional setting. We can recover but we can never shrug off the disease. It requires daily medication. Incredibly, most of us just don't take the medicine. Apparently, progressive, chronic, and fatal doesn't sound that bad.
Alcoholism is a like a pool with no shallow end. All of the ladders have been removed and the sides are slick and slippery and sharply angled. Alcoholics are tossed into this pool, fully clothed, in winter coats and heavy work boots. Our pockets are full of lead weights. If we want to recover we have to start swimming. We can't take a couple of days off unless we want to sink like rocks. There is no way to weasel out of our predicament despite the fact that we are highly skilled weasels. No amount of weaseling is going to drain that pool.
Recovered alcoholics are standing on the edge of the pool, throwing us rafts and safety lines and inner tubes, shouting instructions: "Take off the boots! Take OFF THE BOOTS!" We swallow some more water, nearly going under, and think: "Who does that ass think he is, anyway, talking to me like that. Doesn't he know who I am?"
Take off the boots.
Alcoholism is a like a pool with no shallow end. All of the ladders have been removed and the sides are slick and slippery and sharply angled. Alcoholics are tossed into this pool, fully clothed, in winter coats and heavy work boots. Our pockets are full of lead weights. If we want to recover we have to start swimming. We can't take a couple of days off unless we want to sink like rocks. There is no way to weasel out of our predicament despite the fact that we are highly skilled weasels. No amount of weaseling is going to drain that pool.
Recovered alcoholics are standing on the edge of the pool, throwing us rafts and safety lines and inner tubes, shouting instructions: "Take off the boots! Take OFF THE BOOTS!" We swallow some more water, nearly going under, and think: "Who does that ass think he is, anyway, talking to me like that. Doesn't he know who I am?"
Take off the boots.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Depression
Depression: An emotional condition, either normal or pathological, characterized by discouragement, a feeling of inadequacy, etc.
We alcoholics love to feel sorry for ourselves. We feel like the weight of the world is on our shoulders. Everyone is against us and we can’t catch a break. The ball takes a bad bounce, Lady Luck is not on our side, and Fortune smiles on someone else. The sun is shining elsewhere – it looks like rain here.
Alcoholics are self-absorbed, self-pitying immaturity factories. Most of us have so many blessings that we should be delirious. Most of us live in places where the army isn’t in control, the police can’t kick in your door, and the criminals aren’t ruling the streets. Most of us have enough to eat, clean water to drink, and a dry, warm place to spend the night.
Are we grateful? Not as bloody grateful as we should be. If someone with $105 peels off five twenties and hands them to a alcoholic -- no questions asked, no strings attached, no reasons given – the alcoholic heads to his home group and complains about this guy who cheated him out of five bucks.
We don’t want to feel good. We don’t know how to do it. We are comfortable feeling sorry for ourselves. It is a skill that we have honed sharply over our entire lifetimes. It is familiar and we are loath to give it up.
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