Running Amuck

Amuck: To rush about in a frenzy to kill; to lose control of oneself and do or attempt violence. (From Malay amog: engaging furiously in battle).

When I get up in the morning I weigh myself. Naked, of course; I wouldn't want a few ounces of clothing contaminating the exact weight, which never fluctuates more than a couple of pounds and hasn't changed significantly in 20 years. Even though I could stand to put on a few or 25 lbs I'm very aware of what I weigh. I rejoice at an appropriate weight and fume when I'm up, wondering what foodstuff the day before caused this rise. "Cheezits," I mutter sullenly. "Damn that greasy, salty snack."


I said something in jest to a friend in The Program that I think she may have misinterpreted. I openly abuse my friends and in turn I welcome their abuse. While this is all in good fun sometimes the zinger bites the wrong way, or I perceive this to be true. I've thought a lot about this possibly misinterpreted jesting comment. I think a lot about things that are not important at all. Once I lost my temper at the mechanic who works on my car. I wouldn't recommend doing this -- the guy could damage your Johnson rod and you'd never know the difference. I went back the next day and apologized. He looked at me: "I have no idea what you're talking about, " he said.


I get stuff in my head and it swirls around and lodges in there, but good. This stuff is poisoned fatally by the fact that no one is thinking about me. They're thinking about themselves. I don't think about anyone else so why would I expect them to think about me?

Because I'm really, really self-absorbed.

The Mouse is dirty. I'm vaguely aware that it needs to be washed, even though it's winter and cold and raining, and no one else cares about my car or how much dirt it's carrying around. I wonder if I should take it to a car wash or risk frostbite by washing it myself to save the $4. I wonder what other people think about my dirty car.

I keep a list of deals that I have won in my business life to help track my commissions. I also keep a list of deals that I have lost. I'm obsessed with the losses. I could care less about the wins. I remember the losses in great detail and wonder what I could have done to change the outcome. Most of the time it had nothing to do with me, but I think: "If I had worked harder or smarter I could have changed the outcome."


This is how I spend my time.

Sequence.

I've decided to call my car "The Mouse." Maybe Mini Mouse or Mighty Mouse, but I'll probably keep it simple. The one word names are the best. I've always given my cars names. I've had The Whale, The Appliance, The Beast, The Truck, Three-Ball, The ZEE, X-Box, and The Pimp.

On an unrelated matter I've decided to run with the Bs for a while vis-a-vis my fake names at Starbucks. I'm vaguely aware that the group of women who prepare my coffee drink might start to pick up on the constantly changing litany of names. I figure if I stay somewhat consistent, in the same family of fake names at least, it might throw them off the trail. Probably I'm just another unremarkable middle aged guy buying coffee; I'd be surprised if any of them could pick me out of a police line-up. I suspect that not everyone else is thinking about me as much as I am.

I pondered using Brad again but it had an evil feel today so I decided on Bruce. Unfortunately, I froze at the last minute and blurted out Brian. I have no idea where that came from. I guess I wasn't Bruce today. All of this shift changing occupied my mind and I forgot what name I had given.

"Brian. Brian? Brian!?!" yelled the barista, looking around before I lurched into action.

I have my mind set on Boris tomorrow. It's getting cold so I feel an awakening of my inner Russian.

I had a dream last night that I killed some people. I'm not sure how many people I killed but it was definitely more than one. I was not upset about the murders at all. We had watched a documentary about how the court system dealt with a woman whose husband had beat the shit out of her and their kids for years until she had had enough and evened the score with extreme prejudice. The documentary was intentionally ambiguous. Obviously this story had weaseled itself into my subconscious and it came burbling out at night. I can't say my behavior in my dream surprised me -- it was another example of me behaving badly and justifying it in my own mind.

I almost never remember my dreams. Usually I'm naked in a public place. Not sexual naked, just not wearing any clothes and trying to do normal things. I'm often in school or at an important business meeting, late, unprepared, unsure of the timing and location of the event. More obsession with lack of control.

Anyway, the murder dream was kind of upsetting; not upsetting, really, but stimulating. I couldn't get back to sleep and I found that my mind continued working within the dream sequence. I was plotting how to get away with my crime. How to get in my house without alerting the cops; how to get money, transportation, food. Where would I go? I thought about walking over to Shorty's and asking to borrow his car.

Even when I'm asleep I'm trying to get away with something.

You Are Obviously WRONG!

Wrong: Implies the inflicting of unmerited injury or harm upon another.

As the year draws to a close I'm alternately amused and annoyed by all of the analysis saturating the airwaves. The aggrieved parties, which seem to be everyone alive, here in the richest nation on earth where very few really bad things ever happen, tell us all how terrible everything is and why what we are doing to correct this sad state of affairs is COMPLETELY WRONG! We are going to hell in a hand-basket and the only solution is to do the EXACT OPPOSITE! of what we are doing now.

I'm reminded of my mind set when I first entered The Program and heard about the 12 Steps, our suggestions to make ruined lives whole again. I was pretty sure everyone had been drinking wood alcohol or whatever the stuff is that makes you go blind and lose your mind completely. I was eager to explain that I was different, that I didn't have a job or a girlfriend or any money and no one liked me anymore and my feet smelled bad. I didn't see how these sweet and inoffensive bromides were going to solve my problems, which were real and intractable and very, very, extremely unique.

One of the great benefits of my recovery is that when I quit trying to drown out everyone else with my screams of disapproval I can learn some good stuff. I'm not always right. There are a lot of good ideas out there, and if I quit trying to explain why your beliefs are so stupid I might learn something new, something that might help me out.

I'm not suggesting that when I listen to someone that I disagree with that I'm going to change my mind. I am, after all, STUBBORN AS HELL! and RARELY WRONG! But sometimes I do change my mind because I learn a better way of doing something. And I learn to see an issue from a different point of view. Just because I disagree with someone else doesn't make them wrong or stupid, which is what I suspected before.

Today I can shut up for a minute and remember the advice I received sitting in bars, talking to other drunks.

New Year's Eve

Ever notice that there aren't a lot of anniversaries between Christmas and New Year's Eve? I can't imagine choosing to quit drinking a few days before December 31st. It was hard enough quitting in August, and there aren't any holidays in August that I'm aware of. Still, it was so hard to quit that I don't even remember the exact day. I made one up.

I was addicted to those times when drinking came out of the shadows and assumed the guise of normal behavior. along with all other times. Acceptable public drunkenness was a good thing for me when I was drinking, given my affinity for public drunkenness. I'm going to assume that most people with an AA anniversary this time of year quit under some duress: police intervention or detox or dire warnings from spouses.

So far this holiday season I have gotten to spend time with my blood brothers and marrow sisters from The Program, and also with my family of origin. Can you guess which has been more enjoyable? I bet you can.

On Christmas Day SuperK and I went to a friend's house for a brunch and a meeting. There were about 20 other people in recovery there. I have done this a number of times and I always leave marveling at the substance of this program, although the food is so good I'd come if it was some kind of time share presentation, followed by a dramatic religious ceremony. The day was what I think the holidays should be about.

My family seems to engage in Massive Expectation whenever gifts or meals are involved. I never feel like I'm doing it right no matter what I do. I get the wrong gift or I don't spend enough money or I spend too much money. There's a heavy air of passive aggressive disapproval.

Ho.

Holiday Cheer.

The holidays. The actual root of this word, of course, comes from Holy Days.

I'm amazed every year at the power of the holidays. There is a lot of potential for disaster when we try to get our hands around the simple concept of dealing with family and friends and trying to pretend that the retailers aren't ruling the world. That and reconciling the fact that a lot of the significance has clearly been pilfered from ancient pagan religions that have little to do with our modern traditions. I mean, c'mon, how did we get from frankincense and myrrh to Death Match IX -- Fatal Blow , on sale at $249.99?


This time seems to swell up and crash down on us with the violence of a volcano. It's not like we don't see it coming. The mountain has been shaking and rumbling and spewing ash for weeks. We know that something's up. We can barely drink our cup of coffee because of all of the vibration.

Some of us have learned to get out of the way. But some of us sit there slowly disappearing as the ash rains down. Future generations will uncover us, frozen in a heated argument with an obscure second cousin that we see once a year and couldn't care less about, brandishing a turkey leg like an Arab scimitar. We're Charlie Brown making yet another run at Lucy holding that damn football. We can't believe it when we end up on our back again.

I don't mean to suggest that there aren't family gatherings and religious celebrations that look like a Norman Rockwell painting, whoever the hell he was. I'm sure there are, somewhere, in a distant galaxy millions of light years away. Good for you freaky people. I have no idea how you do it but I celebrate your accomplishment.

The rest of us should take a deep breath and hang in there. If you struggle during the holidays know that you aren't alone. I see more pissed off, rude people bulldozing their way through this time than in any other time. I'm going to speculate that the expectations and pressure make this very difficult for a lot of us.

Nobody really cares if the food isn't perfect or the gift isn't the best. I always ask: what did you get last year? Nobody can remember, so it must not have been that important. If you burn the toast put out a box of Fruit Loops. If the day is really about your family and faith the cereal will be fine. If it's about making a big showy splash, you're probably screwed anyway, because whatever you do won't be good enough.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

Caffeine!!

Caffeine: The alkaloid present in coffee, tea, and kola; it is a stimulant to the heart and central nervous system.

Today I'm going to drink too much caffeine.

Coffee in my case, although I have a lot of respect for any of the caffeine delivery systems available to the average consumer. Available to the Super Consumer, too, actually, when you think about it. Pop, soda, cola, energy drinks, chocolate bars, anything that provides a jolt rates highly on my scale of Things That Are Important. I'm a little suspicious of tea drinkers, however. I don't trust entire cultures that think tea is better than coffee. That's something that cannot be explained using modern logic.

The fly in the ointment is that I wake up at full boil most days. I don't need any caffeine. I would do better with a drink that sucks the residue of yesterday's caffeine out of my body. That makes more sense than to drink something that gets me jittering and jugging around like a 2 year old on a 3 day sugar binge.

I admit to being attracted to anything that is outside my body that I can put inside my body that makes me feel different. I don't mean better, either, although that is a nice perk. I just want to feel different than how I feel now, even if I feel good now. When that's the case I want to feel better. It's never good enough with me. I'm always seeking for the next feeling. I'm planning several feelings ahead.

Today

Boredom: The condition of being bored or uninterested; ennui.

Today I'm going to be bored, bored with everything. Been there, done that, I am so bored. Usually when I'm bored I can transition into a wonderful depression. Boredom and depression are best friends, old buddies, walking hand in hand down the Road of Ennui.

Couple of things. When I'm bored I'm not being very grateful. And I'm sure not thinking of anyone else. I've heard it suggested that maybe I should go do something for someone else instead of sitting around and thinking about myself. I'm loathe to do this because I like to think and I like myself so there's a natural marriage there.

I expect too much out of life. I like to come back to the exhortation in the long form of The Serenity Prayer that we can expect to be reasonably happy. Any more is unrealistic.

i think it's quite a party trick to accept what I have. I'd rather sit around and complain that I don't have what I want.

Which is to be on top of the roller coaster all of the time.

Humility is a Many Splendored Thing

I went to a wake last night for a long time member of The Fellowship, sober some 30 odd years. He was a pretty typical old timer. He was also 82 when he went to the Big Meeting in the Sky, so I think he felt that he had earned the right to say what he wanted to say, not always passing along his excellent message with an overly careful sense of decorum. He kicked ass and took names later, basically. Some times I cringed at his directness while secretly cheering him on. At times he said what I thought should be said but didn't have the chutzpah to say. I never thought he missed the mark with his message, only with his delivery.

This didn't endear him to everyone. Some of us think that we should be very careful with the feelings of others. Some of us think that we should be careful but not too careful. I personally remember having my ears cuffed early on with amazing clarity and perfect recall. Sometimes I need a hug and sometimes I need a finger poked in my chest.

At the wake the family had put together a montage of pictures of this man's life. I was stunned to find out that he was a three sport star at the university level. Anyone who is at all interested in sports knows that it's really hard to be a one sport star at a big high school, let alone at a university. While I realize we aren't talking about Notre Dame or USC, it was still an amazing accomplishment.

I never heard him mention this once at a meeting in the 8 years that I knew him. How many of us manage to work in how much money we make or where we live or how successful we are with the opposite sex every time we share? I'm not even sure how long he was sober. Some of us mention the number every time we talk.

The big picture can be very complex.

What Are the Earth People Thinking?

So today at Starbucks I gave my name as Brad again, determined this time to remember what my name was supposed to be. I was psyched. I was focused. I felt like a Brad. I became a Brad. I was one with Brad

"Brian! Brian! Tall Americano for Brian!" my barista shouted out.

I can't even screw up The System properly anymore.

"Maybe they're screwing with you," SuperK pointed out.



!!!!

"I'm just being silly," I said.

"No, it's weird," SuperK said. "Do you think other people are in there giving fake names out?"

"Yeah, but I know that I'm doing it," I said.

"That's doesn't make any difference," she replied.

Anyway, with this behavior in mind I was pondering the public reaction to the behavior of alcoholics. Something horrible happened today to a local celebrity whose actions in the past led one to believe that alcohol and drugs may have played a part. Maybe not, too; there are a lot of non-alcoholics out there making bad decisions. I'm speculating on whether or not someone has a drinking problem which I shouldn't do. Every man, woman, and beast of the field gets to make that declaration on their own. I'm an alcoholic because I say I am.

But I get the sense that Earth People think that we make these mistakes because we're weak or evil or lazy, not because we're sick. I remember, with a cold shiver up and down my spine, how my disease drove me over the cliff time and time again. It didn't help that I was vaguely aware that I was going over the edge but I couldn't seem to take my foot off the accelerator. I don't think my car even had a brake. I didn't make a conscious decision to ruin things, I just did it. I was on Auto Pilot.

My car had a Self Destruct button the size of a minor asteroid.

Today: A Grouch AND A Brainstorm For Me.

Grouch: A grumbling or sulky mood.
Brainstorm: A series of sudden, violent, cerebral disturbances.

Today I'm going to let my anger run wild. I realize that this hasn't worked out well in the past but I think that I have shown enough emotional growth that I am now at a place where I can handle it. This will be well placed anger, justified, sound and productive for all concerned, especially me. People will come forward to thank me: "That was great, Horseface, thanks. We especially enjoyed all of the expletives and violence and ridiculous lying exaggerations. We are better people for it."

Things might get broken.

The Book suggests that "If we were to live, we had to be free of anger. The grouch and the brainstorm were not for us." Well, not for you, maybe, but perfectly acceptable for me. Actually, I didn't know that "grouch" was in use anymore. It sounds quaint, like Grinch or troll or Shrek. And what is up with "brainstorm" exactly? I thought successful people got together to brainstorm up great ideas. The definition makes it sound like a bad acid trip.



I guess the point is that anger ". . . the dubious luxury of normal men . . ." should best be left for people like me that can handle it. Today I think that I should blow up so that I can stay in good practice. If I don't rage all over the place every now and then I might lose my touch, and then where would we be?

I always feel better when I've just had a good freak out and let my dark emotion loose to roam the streets. I always feel good about myself. I'm sure I've acted appropriately. When I'm finished, lips flecked with spittle, smoke pouring from my ears, my somewhat girlish hands clenched so tightly that my knuckles glow white, I simply feel wonderful.

Everybody is OK when I do this. No regrets, no burned bridges, no hurt feelings.

Things are definitely going to get bent.

Financial Insecurity

Insecure: Not secure; specifically, a) not safe from danger. b)feeling more anxiety than seems warranted. c) not firm or dependable; unreliable.

Today seems to me to be a financial insecurity day.

Why not, I ask? Why not today?

I have a feeling in my bones that I'm going to run into big financial difficulties today. Don't ask me to provide any proof. Don't insinuate that I've been well provided for ever since I quit providing college educations and new cars for the local drug dealer and bar owner and Mr. Coors.

Please do not remind me that clean water, adequate food, and a warm place to sleep tonight are my only needs, strictly speaking. Everything else is A Want. And lest we forget, one of The Promises is that we shall lose our fear of financial insecurity.

Regrettably it doesn't specify that we won't have any financial insecurity. Boy, these rooms would be full if we could guarantee that.

Power Bar

Power. That’s one of those words that just has a good feel to it. It sounds like it has some weight and heft. When I hear that word I think: “Yeah, I want some of that. I want a lot of that. Everything would be OK if I could get some more power.”

 I want to be in charge. I want to be calling all of the shots. I was terrified to hear that our lives improve when we give up control to Somebody or Something else. I was afraid that They or It wouldn’t do as good a job as I was doing. I mean, with the joblessness and lack of money and legal troubles and living with my parents as a 30 year old and all that. How could I give that up?


I have heard the suggestion that if I’m struggling with my program then I should figure out what step I think I’m on and go backwards, one at a time, until I get to the step that I’m actually on. It’s obviously not the step I think or I wouldn’t be in so much pain. Invariably, I end up back at Step One: powerlessness. I’ve tried to take control of some person, place, or thing and it’s not working out to my satisfaction. So I get frustrated and angry. I get burned up.

 I’m not crazy that I have to start at the beginning again although I should be used to it since it happens all of the time. I believe that by now I should have graduated to the Phd program, the secret club with the funny handshake and weird hats where nobody has to do any of the hard work any more. I want to be in the Advanced Sobriety Program. I want to be on Step 47.

 But powerlessness is the crux of the problem; it’s the key to recovery. Our whole program is based on a foundation of giving up control of people, places, and things. We don’t go anywhere until we manage this trick.



I don’t like to fly because I’m not the pilot. That and the terrible seats and bad food and screaming babies, I guess. No one will give me a ride any more, especially my wife, because I’m such an insufferable back seat driver. Control. I’m not in control. I think I know best. Why in the world would I think I know best? I don’t have a very good history of predicting good outcomes. When I make the decisions about anything people get hurt and things blow up.



At the very beginning people would ask me: “What is it that you so afraid of losing? What are you going to be giving up?” Now I’m quite the talker when I want to justify what I’m doing but I had trouble defending my position. I’m the guy standing on the edge of the smokestack as the boat starts to sink below the waves, water lapping at my shins, shouting over to the Coast Guard: “Hey, thanks for the offer but I’m good here. I think the pumps are starting to really kick in.”

 “Lack of power, that was our dilemma.”


Alcoholics Anonymous – page 45.

Brad? Brad??!!?

I go to a very busy Starbucks from time to time for my totally unneccesary morning cup of coffee. My engine is at full power the minute my eyes click open; I don't need no stinking coffee to wake up. To thwart confusion they ask for your name which they put on the cup so that the drinks don't get mixed up. If I got someone's miso peppermint half-calf latte instead of my cup of coffee I would FREAK OUT. And hopefully I wasted my time explaining why they put your name on the cup. Hopefully you knew why they do that. If you don't, you deserve to get someone else's Carmel mocha frappuccino with sprinkles. I would never drink something that has been sprinkled.

Anyway, to amuse myself I always give a different name. Today I used Brad in honor of my friend, well, Brad. I have used normal names so far but I'm thinking of going foreign soon. I have my eye on Boris. SuperK wants me to dive right in with Sergio.

"I think I can pull a 'Boris' off. I think I could pass for Russian," I said. "I don't think I can do 'Sergio.' I don't look Latin at all."

She stared at me a couple of beats too long. I got a little uncomfortable.

"You're giving fake names at Starbucks," she said.

"I think I hear my phone ringing," I replied, exiting the room.

Anyway, today the woman who takes your order and signs your cup before giving it to the woman who takes the money for the drink must have misrouted the cup. The coffee line stops for no man so I was shushed onward before the cup was located. Somehow it made it to the woman who actually makes the drink, or gives it to the woman who makes the drink. I had no idea who was doing what to the cup of coffee at that point. There are a lot of stops at this place. I feel like I'm watching people make Model-Ts.

I'm standing there stupidly looking at this woman.
"Brad?" she asks.
"Brad?" she says again. "Brad?! Brad??!"

Something deep in my brain clicks and I raise my hand, and confirm the drink order. She must have thought I was on Thorazine.

I leaned over to the guy behind me and whispered: "My name's not really Brad."

He didn't say anything.

Intending To Be Good . . .

Intend: Implies a having in mind of something to be done.

In a perfect world people would judge me by my intentions rather than my actions. They would listen to what I say and pay little attention to what I do. I'm quite the talker. I'm quite the liar, too. And I'm not shabby in the manipulation department. What is it that you want to hear? I'm sure I can come up with something suitable, something pleasant to your ears, something to make you see me bathed in the soft glow of a magical light.

"That Horseface, what a guy," you say, as my buttery words beguile your senses.

"Damn that Horseface," you end up muttering, later, disappointed.

Over the years I've learned to size people up by what they do and not what they say. There are some pretty impressive resumes in The Program based on how people characterize themselves with their own mouths. I know I do it. I try to be witty, funny, and profound. I try to accentuate the good things -- good thing? is it multiple? -- and bury any bad behavior under a mountain of justification and rationalization.

There are folks who impress me by what they share and then offend me when they act. You get to know people if you stick around long enough. Sometimes their behavior doesn't jive with their speechifying. And many of us live very impressive lives of service and caring but don't spend a lot of time announcing the fact.

Like me, probably. I'm just sayin'.


Actually, sometimes I do nice things. If you give me a minute I'll try to come up with a couple.

More Tales From the Kitchen . .

Broken: Splintered; fractured; burst, etc.; violated.

I am . . . ahem . . . not coordinated. I am not coordinated in any part of my body or being. My brain sends along perfectly reasonable commands to my various body parts to no avail. Well, technically to some avail, I guess, but from time to time no avail is forthcoming. I drop things. I miss when I grab for something or misjudge clearance and distance.

Things get broken. All of the time.

This situation is compounded by the fact that I'm usually trying to do 10 things at once while thinking about 10 totally different things, and I'm in a hurry. Time is short.

Sometimes nice things get broken, or bent.

SuperK used to get upset when something died a violent death at my hands. I feel bad enough as it is -- I'm not breaking things on purpose, usually -- and having someone criticize me openly or express some obvious disapproval made my regret more acute. Being a big fan of the philosophy that "The best defense is a good offense" I'd point out that she didn't handle nearly as many dishes as I did, not being a kitchen person and all so she didn't have nearly as many opportunities to break things as I did. This is probably not true, but whatever.

I don't like to lose arguments or games or contests and I'm perfectly willing to blow up the world if I can only win. Big fights erupted over unimportant things.

Eventually we realized that it would be best just to handle the emergency. Now when something breaks loudly SuperK shouts: "What do I need to do?" I suggest that I've got it handled or yell: "Towel!" or "Broom!" or "Ambulance!!"

We mop up the blood or pop or dirt, throw away the debris, and get on with our day.

Compromise and Win.

Compromise: A settlement in which each side give up some demands or makes concessions.



So I do most of the cooking in the Horseface household. I like to cook, or what passes for cooking, so this is not a problem for me. It may be a problem for SuperK but I'm usually thinking about myself. I'm a lot more interested in what my problems are than what hers are. If it's a problem for her I assume that she'll tell me. But she won't tell me, probably, because I'd just ignore it anyway. She holds her nose and swallows quickly.

We have a great relationship, as you can see.

At some point the decision was made, probably by me, that the non-cooker would clean up the kitchen. This is not a big job because I'm the original Anal Retentive Chef. I clean as I go. I'm very efficient as I make fairly tasteless meals. I'm very, very German. I like to be in control of everything, including SuperK and the kitchen environment.

SuperK is not neurotically organized like I am. She cleans the kitchen but it doesn't fall at the top of her list of important things to do, which it shouldn't because it's not an important thing to do. Maybe that night, maybe the next morning, whatever. I clean on auto pilot. We'll be chatting in the kitchen while she makes some lunch and she'll say: "Where's my spoon?" I've snatched the still clean spoon off the counter a nanosecond after it lands and dropped it in the dishwasher, all the while unaware of what I'm doing.

"Can you at least give me a chance to use it?" she asks, exasperated.

I tried all kinds of techniques to get her to clean the kitchen on my timetable. I can only assume that this makes everything worse. When someone tries to control me I push back. Sometimes I simply ask her to clean the kitchen RIGHT NOW, but this seems a little pushy. Sometimes I clean the kitchen myself in a very obviously annoyed passive aggressive manner, banging dishes around and such. Sometimes I leave the dishes pile up so that they irritate me continuously until I clean them. I always crack before she does. I should have just cleaned up immediately and saved myself the additional irritation but this would deprive me of the satisfaction of controlling someone else.

Eventually I started to clean the kitchen myself. It takes like two minutes a day. I have to admit that I don't even know where the laundry room is in our house. I haven't touched the laundry in 20 years. SuperK gets very little credit for doing this chore which I hate to do.

I bet it takes longer to do the laundry than it takes to clean the kitchen.

Nice.

Nice: Difficult t please; very careful; fastidious; refined (from the Old French meaning stupid, foolish and Latin meaning ignorant, not knowing.)

I have never had much interest in doing nice things. I liked to imagine that people were calling me "nice" behind my back, while secretly suspecting that they were using other epitaphs. Being nice and thoughtful always seemed to entail giving, not receiving. That's not a philosophical question I ponder in my memoir: "Horseface Steve: Grabbing For What's Mine!"

I think about all of the things that I've done in my sobriety that I would call nice. There's almost 10 as long as I'm liberal with a few of them. I think about the thousands of nice things that people have done for me. Often, I understand that they have things to do that are a lot more interesting than what they are doing for me. When I was drinking and totally consumed by myself -- as opposed to mostly consumed by myself, which is my present state -- I could never sacrifice my own interests for the interests of others.

I've had to practice this and it still doesn't come easily. I've found that when I do something that is not immediately gratifying but the right thing to do, I feel better eventually, not instantaneously, but the feeling lasts a lot longer. I feel better in a general, global sense. I sacrifice the immediate reward of pleasing myself. I think down the road a little bit. I think of The Big Picture.

I should try doing some of the stuff I write about. It sounds great.

Guy Stuff

Guy: A rope, chain, or rod attached to something to steady or guide it. Oops, rather: English conspirator executed for his part in the Gunpowder plot, an unsuccessful plan to blow up Parliament. D'oh! Maybe: a boy or man; fellow; chap.

I go to an off the books men's meeting from time to time. They let me attend even though I'm not sure I qualify as much of a guy. Secretly, I think I would be more attractive in panty hose and a tight skirt but that's a another topic, probably one best discussed with Sigmund Freud, in private, with no one else around. I don't think the solution to that tendency can be found in The Steps.

This is mostly guy guys. You know, the kind who go on fishing trips and don't shave or bathe for a week, eating nothing but cooked meat and raw meat and potato chips. I get freaked out if I don't have good conditioner with me for a day, and special lotion. I have no interest in sitting in a rowboat in the baking sun on a lake somewhere, catching something I'd be afraid to eat. I'd be happier shopping for frilly things in a cute shop.

The thing I like most about this meeting is that we call each other on our crap. If I get off base, someone stops me, rudely and to the point. I don't get to spread my disease around, only my solution. I think some meetings fail at making sure that its members are adhering to the basic principles of recovery. We get too concerned that we'll hurt someone's feelings. The result is that these meetings attract people who are careful not to hurt anyone's feelings and you end up with a wishy-washy, light-hearted love in. We're dealing with serious stuff here and sometimes we need to get our hands whacked.

The problem with men is that sometimes we go too far with this behavior. It gets so over the top that it seems forced. One of my buddies asked if they still do all of that grab-ass stuff at that meeting. I don't know what grab-ass stuff is but I think it captures the tone of the gathering.

I'm a real bad ass. Definitely.

Horrible Things To Come.

Horrible: Causing a feeling of horror; terrible; dreadful; frightful.

Today I'm going to live in the future. I believe I have written about living in the future at some point in the past but it really is an irresistible topic, and one that I'm sure I'll be drawn to once again in the future, probably sooner rather than later. I can go into the past and regret what I have done or left undone or blown up, but I'm limited to what actually happened or my recollection of it. I can't make a bad situation worse when it's already happened unless I can't remember exactly what happened, which is pretty common.

But fortunately, the amount of misery available to me in the future in limitless. It is without limit. It can expand forever and ever, like our universe. It has no end. I can suffer pain and indignities beyond belief as long as I'm willing to populate what may happen with horrible people and implausible scenarios and disastrous situations. I never underestimate my ability to imagine the truly awful.



The fact that bad things rarely happen to me is not a concern. Moreover, that I now have the tools to handle everything that may come my way is irrelevant because I may not have the tools to handle what will surely be an unimaginably catastrophic series of events. I can't even imagine how horrible it will be, but I try my best.



Imagining a horrible future is a good use of my time.

Quiet: A quiet or peaceful quality; freedom from turmoil or agitation.



I always have a quiet time to start my day. I'm using the word "quiet" loosely here. My quiet times wouldn't adhere very closely to a strict interpretation of what most normal people would consider quiet. Behind my closed eyes World War III: The Mutants Attack! is taking place. It's very noisy and loud and violent. There are a lot of explosions and people running about, yelling at the top of their lungs. Sometimes there's blood. People don't make it out alive all of the time.

At least, I'm sitting down. I'm still jiggling feet and arms and everything, trying to ignore my hyper-engaged brain and all of its nonsense. Really, I'm ready to go at the drop of the hat. I used to put my car in neutral and race the engine, then pop it into drive. It wasn't very good on the transmission but it got the thing going in a hurry.

I was on retreat last weekend with 60 or so other guys in recovery. It's a lot more fun than it sounds, and very productive. I can sit in my chair and levitate in a spiritual ecstasy for a couple of hours after I leave, anyway. Then I'm back to normal.

One of the things I like most about it is that I'm living in a 5' by 12' room for two days. There's a bed and a sink and chair, and room for the door to swing open. There's nothing that I have to do. No TV, radio, papers, chores to do or places to go beyond walking the grounds or having a meal. It's always surprising to see how relaxing it is to be unchained from the cares and worries of all of the trappings of my world. I sit there for an hour. I don't turn the motor off, exactly, but I take my foot off the gas. It makes me realize how much of my worry is generated by my external life.

All of it, actually.

"If we work it."

Work: In this context, the general word for effort put forth in doing or making something, whether physical or mental, easy or difficult, pleasant or unpleasant, etc.

I think at some point somebody in charge should have explained to me that good, long-term relationships require work from time to time. Sometimes a lot of work, like chopping wood or breaking up concrete, which appears to be a lot of work although I have never personally done either. The thought of breaking concrete makes my shoulders hurt and I'd cut something off if I so much as picked up an ax, hatchet, saw, or knife. Even the word "concrete" looks meaty. The guys that I see smashing things or cutting thing up or down are as a general rule pretty big so I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's hard work. It would be hard work for me, anyway, and that's all I care about it.

I talk to boys and girls young enough to be my children but plenty old enough to be in a serious relationship, who are just starting the process. They don't seem to be too hip to the idea that work will be involved.

SuperK and I were marveling at the ebb and flow of 21 years as a couple the other day. Mostly, it has been good and easy, or at least comfortable as an old shoe, which SuperK apparently thinks I am.


"A little worn out, though," she said.
"Do I at least have good support?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah, great support," she said, breezily, exiting the room.

We calculated our time together as follows:
Really great: 5 years. 25%.
Really fucking awful: 2 years. 10%.
Very nice: 13 years. I'm assuming this is about 65% but I'm not going to do the math, exactly. I just added 25 and 10 and came up with the 65. I don't want to reach across the desk for a calculator or figure out anything in my head, which only bolsters my position that I won't break up concrete.

We keep going back to the long version of The Serenity Prayer with all that crap about being "reasonably happy" and "accepting hardship as a pathway to Peace."

It's worth it. That's the point. Anything worthwhile takes some effort.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving: an annual United States holiday instituted by the Pilgrims to give thanks to God for their survival.

Ah, yes, Thanksgiving.

Here's the thing about Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, and any other day buried under a mountain of expectations the size of Godzilla's big brother, Herb: it's Just Another Day. It's not even A Very Important Day. It's certainly not THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY EVER.

I personally don't like turkey or stuffing or pumpkin pie -- why does pumpkin get a pie, anyhow? Vegetables shouldn't get to be pies. We don't have potato pie or zucchini pie. Green bean casserole is tasteless, and corn bread pudding and candied yams are desserts that have infiltrated the dinner table illegally. I don't dislike these foods to be ornery, although I really enjoy being ornery. I really just don't like them. I find them unimaginative. Anything tastes good with a stick of butter and a pound of salt.

Several years ago SuperK and I traveled to New Orleans over Thanksgiving and went out for our holiday meal. We got dressed to the nines in jeans and comfortable shirts. Mine was comfortable, anyway; I can't in good faith speak for her, but she looked pretty comfortable. I remember peering across a table full of gumbo and jambalaya, and saluting her with a raw oyster swimming in hot sauce and horseradish.

I said: "You can take all the dried up turkey in the world and stick it where the sun don't shine."

"Pass the dirty rice," she said.

"That's what I'm talking about," I replied.

We hosted Thanksgiving a few times and tried to bookmanize it with a lot of non-traditional foods. Did not go over well. Did not go over well at all. I remember watching people pass on my homemade 8 grain bread for those little soft, white rolls that probably don't have any actual human food in them and thinking: "I am not controlling anything here."

And we try to make people confirm to stereotypes on these days. We think these days should go a certain way. For some of us, they do. There are a lot of nice, normal people out there who enjoy participating in traditional events. There are also a lot of toxic, dysfunctional families. Fistfights and arguments occur, and sometimes blood is spilled, gravy clumps, and the cops are called.

Moreover, a lot of us aren't particularly close to our loved ones. I hate pretending. I don't want to try to generate a lot of false enthusiasm on demand when I'm around people with whom I don't have a deep personal connection. I don't want that to sound bad. I want it to sound like the truth. It doesn't make me a good person or a bad person. I think A.A. has spoiled me in that regard. I have so many close friends. It's really a different dynamic being with people who are engaged in my life at that level.

I had a good time today, in spite of myself.

The Emperor Who Had No Clothes, At Least Not Any That He Was Wearing.

We alcoholics think that we're fooling everyone when we're drinking. We're fooling almost no one. I was the guy walking around with a gash on my forehead, courtesy of a door or a sidewalk or someone's fist, and a blood-soaked shirt, thinking: "Nobody seems to notice this. I think I'm pulling it off." I figured I could conceal the smashed windshield if I parked my car at the end of the lot. I'm missing my front bumper, you say? How about that.

One night I came home after a long bout of drinking and drug use -- which is a redundant qualification in my case -- and decided to listen to a little music before passing out. I put on an old LP and started to rock or groove or chill or drool. Almost immediately, the door to my room swung open -- my bedroom was right next to my parents; I'm sure they couldn't hear the stereo at 3AM -- and my mother stood there a minute, glaring down at me.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yes. What? Yes." I said, cleverly.

She lingered a minute before going back to bed. I probably didn't turn the music off, or down. I was probably angry at being interrupted, in the middle of the night, in her house.


"Fooled 'em again," I figured.

The next day I cued up the record that I didn't remember listening to. A weird, syrupy drawl came out of the speakers, like Darth Vader singing punk rock in slow motion, underwater, with a mouth full of Novocaine. Apparently when I placed the album on the turntable in my drunken state, I bumped the switch which changed the speed of the turntable, slowing it way, way, way down. It reminded me of Hal losing power in 2001: A Space Odyssey.


Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.

Principles

Principles: A rule of conduct, especially of right conduct: as, the principle of racial equality.

Principles before personalities. Try asking someone what that means sometime. Most people don't know. I think I know what a personality is but I'm a little hazy on the principle concept, even though my sponsor brings it up every time I call. I mean, it's only our 12th Tradition, the summing everything up into one neat package tradition. Why would I know about that?

To me, the big implication is that when I'm sitting around the table at a meeting, no one is any more important than anyone else. When I was drinking I always made sure to judge everyone. You were less important than I was (this was a very small crowd) and therefore not worth my notice or more important, and the object of my envy.

The Program strips away these titles. I run into a lot of More Important People (MIPs, for short) who don't have that much to say despite their belief that they do. That's what money and power and a fancy degree or title does, frequently: makes boring people think that they're profound. And, man, do I hear a lot of great stuff from people I used to ignore: the Less Important People, the LIPs.

It's great going to meeting chaired by someone who spent a few years in prison or living on the streets, and look at all the people successful by society's yardsticks sitting in the crowd. It doesn't make any difference who is doing what. Principles help us rate our fellows impartially. Just because some of us are born into wealth or with great natural intelligence doesn't make us better than someone else, any more than having blond hair does.

It's our obligation to use our gifts wisely but they don't make us better than anyone else.

What Did I Do With My Tin Foil Hat?

Sane: Showing good sense; sound; sensible.

I'm not all that sure what the big attraction to sanity is, anyway. I admit that initially I was offended by the implication that I was bedeviled and beleaguered by some type of "insanity, " as I sat by myself in my apartment, compulsively cleaning or organizing something, or talking to monsters or people who weren't actually there, with the blinds pulled and Black Sabbath's "The Wizard" cranked up to 11 on the stereo that cost more than all of my possessions combined, including my car. Insane? Not me. Pay no attention to my tin foil hat. It's medically indicated.

There's way, way too much credence given to sanity. I figure most people are sane so it can't be that hard to do. It's just herd mentality, groups of lemmings all running together and diving off the cliff into the sea for no logical reason.

Reminds me of the time I jumped into Crater Lake in Oregon from a ledge 50 feet up with no idea whether the water was 20 feet or 20 inches deep. Made sense at the time. I do remember how cold the water was. I almost had a seizure.

There's still a part of me who wants to swim against the current. All of me, when I think about it. If everyone is doing it, then I perceive it as "normal" which holds no fascination for me. I don't know why I do half the stuff I do. I amuse myself. Spandex says that he calls me "Tall Steve, you know, with the hats." I have a lot of hats. I don't particularly like hats and they don't make me look any better, with my horseface and everything, but nobody else wears hats so I'm always buying a hat. I have a sock cap, bright yellow, with a fringe of fingers protruding from the top that I like to wear. I look like a big chicken. I ask strangers: "What do you think of this hat?" Everybody is so nice. No one yet has said: "You look like an idiot," which is the whole idea of course, to look like an idiot. Anybody can buy a nice hat. It takes guts to wear a hat like that. Shorty's wife was driving by as I was taking a walk one day. She told me she thought: "Wow, that guy has a lot of self-confidence" before exclaiming: "That's Horseface!"



I do think that most of the normals out there look at me askance most of the time. Or they think I'm some kind of goody two shoes, a reference gleaned from a morality story written in 1765 about a ragamuffin who was was grateful that a wealthy merchant replaced her one shoe with a pair. I'm not sure how the definition changed to indicate someone who is smug, coy, and self-satisfied, but it's a pretty old story.

Really, all I'm talking about is being silly, most of the time. I'm not too insane anymore. Not get arrested or beat up insane, anyway.

Half-Measures Horseface

Minimum: The smallest quantity, number, or degree possible or permissible.

It's funny how few of us are willing to put very much effort into our recovery at the start. We don't run into the adult pool, screaming with pleasure, and do a big cannonball into the deep end. We sneak in the back door and stick one big toe into the kiddie pool and run screaming with fear back into the locker room. It's cold! The water's too deep! I forgot to put on my bathing suit!


This is why the literature makes reference to an "easier, softer way" and "half-measures." My nickname for about two years was Half-Measures Horseface. I tried to do the least amount of work possible to get by. This is my modus operandi for life. I drank like this, too. I take everything right up to the edge. It's all or Nothing. It's stopped, or full acceleration. In fact, my current nickname is All or Nothing Horseface.

I have heard this thread in a number of meetings lately. People say: "I was staying sober but I wasn't very happy until I really became part of the Program." For me, this is a way of life, not medicine I have to take every day. A.A. isn't Castor oil or an enema. It's supposed to be fun, sometimes, anyway.



I figure if I'm working my program diligently - meetings, phone calls, quiet times, some reading and writing - I spend a couple of hours a day on recovery. Let's be generous and say 15 hours a week, on a good week. Sounds like a lot of time until I compare it with my pre-recovery. I figure on an average week I spent 6 hours a day Monday through Friday drinking, throwing up, getting bailed out of jail, looking for my $&#!! car, stuff like that. Then Saturday and Sunday; let's be conservative and figure on two 12 hour days. So on a typical week I'm looking at 50 to 60 hours of drinking infused activities.

No wonder I didn't get anything done.

That 15 hours doesn't sound too bad any more.

Inspect The Bread.

Honest: That will not lie, cheat, or steal; truthful; trustworthy.

I've always considered myself an honest man, at least when it suits my purposes. I admit that I don't hobble myself with a strict interpretation of the definition; actually, I'm dismayed to see that lying and truth seem to play a big part of honesty. I thought honest met you didn't rob banks, which I don't. I'm afraid of guns and not very forceful and realize that I wouldn't last 10 minutes in a jail, so I'm careful to stay out of those places. Plus, my handwriting is pretty bad so the tellers might not be able to read my note demanding money. And then there's the exploding dye packets. Those sound scary, too.

We call this cash register honest. I like to hide behind this concept. Apparently there are all kinds of ways to be dishonest if I'm to believe Webster's. So I guess when I called whatever bad job I had and said I was sick, rather than too hung-over to come in, that is dishonest. I'm still hung up on the fact that lying is in there. I thought that lying was its own separate defect. Whoever is making the Defect List is mixing everything up. There's a lot of Defect cross-breading. I'm not even sure what defect I'm indulging in any more. Am I lying or am I being dishonest? Or am I doing two things at once? Probably. I'm an accomplished Defect Man.

During one of my aborted attempts to graduate from college, I lived in a crappy rooming house with some guys that needed the program as much as I did. One night, ravenous after much dope smoking, I decided to make a sandwich. I had the peanut butter but not the bread. I walked down the hall to the apartment of one John R., long dead I'm sure. I knocked, then nudged open the door. No one there. I snuck into his kitchen and found a loaf of bread in the refrigerator. I snagged a couple of slices, despite my misgivings about his general lack of hygiene, and made a nice sandwich, which I wolfed down ravenously.

Still hungry, I went back for more. John had returned by this time, so I figured the only right thing to do was ask if I could borrow a couple of slices.

"Sure," he said. "It's in the refrigerator, but I think it's moldy."

Uh-oh.

I opened the door, this time turning on the kitchen light, and took out the bread. Sure enough, it was covered with a lovely blue-green speckling of mold. Not here and there, but pretty much all over the place.

One sandwich did the trick after all.

Manipulate.

Manipulate: To manage or control artfully or by shrewd use of influence, especially in an unfair or fraudulent way.



I'm not sure if I'm behaving well or behaving poorly this morning, which almost certainly means I'm behaving poorly. I'll have to make some calls today to friends to check my motives. Shorty will probably be one of them -- not because I enjoy talking with him or value his advice, but because he likes to see his name in print. I have to humor these guys or they won't listen to me complain.

My phone rang this morning early -- 6:30 AM -- as I was preparing to leave for an A.A. meeting. I almost wrote " walking out the door to go to an A.A. meeting" but decided at the last second that I wouldn't lie to compound my probably already poor behavior. I saw that the call was from my mother. This usually means a crisis with my father, probably caused by his drinking although no one will acknowledge that fact.

I'm trying to balance being of service with being manipulated. Some recap is in order here so that I don't look completely scummy. My father absolutely refuses to go to A.A. While my mother doesn't openly reject my suggestions that Al-Anon would help, she gets quiet and begins waffling away, delaying in the hopes that I won't press the issue. She is, after all, the installer of my People Pleaser buttons. She doesn't want to upset me unless she is trying to upset me, like with the 6:30 AM call.

My sister and I have been suggesting that a retirement home might now be appropriate for my parents, partially to end my dad's isolation and partially because he would have more immediate access to help and assessment. Nothing. My mother, in fact, often introduces vague anecdotal quips to support her position: "Mrs. Smith lives there and she told me once to stay in my own home as long as I could." Or "We have such wonderful neighbors here." Fine.

It can be hard not buying into other people's bullshit. I fight the urge to drop everything and rush over to Solve Your Problems. That's not the A.A. way. I tried to get people to solve my problems at the start. They kept talking about providing me with the tools to start solving my own problems.

Very crafty, those A.A. people.

Self-Centered

Self-Centered: Occupied or concerned only with one's own affairs; egocentric; selfish.

I have been thinking a lot about how selfish I am. Which is ironic, when you think about it, because it means I am thinking about myself which, if I'm correct -- and I think that I am -- is the definition of selfish.

When I was still drinking I ended up at home from time to time, after getting fired or kicked out of school or running out of drug money. God bless my out gunned parents for enabling someone who was not taking responsibility for anything. I was quite good at seizing opportunities that allowed me to mooch off others and save my vanishingly small pile of cash for alcohol. I had plenty of initiative when it came to gaming the system.

One summer they took a vacation in Alabama, leaving me free to run amuck in their house, as I had no job or adult obligations of any kind, even though I was legally an adult and had been so for a long time. To me that meant one thing: par-TEE, par-TAY. I was smoking dope at a friend's house one afternoon -- I don't believe I was getting paid to do this, so technically I shouldn't have listed it as A Job Interview at the unemployment office -- when he received a call from my sister. This annoyed me slightly but I took the phone from him, anyway.

She was too upset to talk to me, and handed the phone over to her boyfriend.
"Horseface," he said, somberly. "I have some bad news. Your grandfather died."

I hung up the phone. I couldn't believe my luck. My parents were out of town for an entire week and this was going to throw a huge wrench into the works, and early in the process. I was put out. I was stunned. I think I believed that my grandfather died without considering how it affected me. I saw the whole fucking mess as clear as day: trying to track down my parents at an RV park in a distant state; pretending I was upset; making up for a squandered opportunity by compressing a whole week's worth of drinking into a day or two; the funeral, a major obstacle to smoking pot.

And I really liked this grandfather, too. He was a character. Probably an alcoholic but an outgoing and exuberant man. I don't think I loved him, and that didn't have anything to do with him, per se. I would have loved him if I was capable of loving anyone but myself, which I was unable to do at that point in my life.

Not a proud page in my life. Not behavior that I try to duplicate today.

Relationships, Sort Of.

Here's a fact about relationships that never ceases to surprise me: they can be hard. Every time I run into some difficulty or the other with a close friend or loved one, which is beyond inevitable, I'm taken aback. I can't believe that there is a problem. It isn't supposed to be this way. Things are supposed to be easy. For me, anyway. I'm not really interested in how they are for anyone else.


I see this all the time with couples who are just married. Ah, the early relationship stages: lots of sex and spending huge amounts of time with your soul mate and no arguments and all the new and quirky things about your lover which will become your worst nightmare down the road, sooner than you think. I don't know anyone who thought that marriage would require work, on-going negotiation, and the occasional compromise. I sure didn't, as a committed member of the Head Up My Ass club.

I was at a meeting this week with my buddy Joe Mayo. He's in a newish relationship. He leaned over and asked:

"You met SuperK in The Program, right?"

"Yep."

"Did you ever have problems early on in the relationship?"

"(Unprintable), yes."


He laughed, sort of.



I waited a couple of beats, then grabbed him by the neck, pulled him in close, and whispered:

"That's the (unprintable unprintable) question that (unprintable) you have ever asked me, you (unprintable)."



"I'm glad you're my friend," he replied. "What would I do without you?"

"Tell me about it," I said.

Complacent: Self-satisfied; smug.


Today I am going to be selfish.

Like I have to make a special effort to do that.

When I wake up in the morning my first thoughts are of my own well-being. I wonder how my day is going to go. My hope is that I get everything that I want: more money, more power, more sex. I especially hope to avoid as much discomfort as possible. My natural inclination is to pursue these ends at the expense of all other human relationships. I will, from time to time, think of others and wonder how they can help me attain my goals. Otherwise, I can't be bothered with their needs. I figure they are there to be of service to me, not the other way around.

The topic at my meeting last night was complacency. Someone wondered how to stay motivated once our lives start to turn around. This is typical alcoholic selfishness -- typical human being selfishness. When I'm OK, I don't need you. When I'm not, you should be there to help me out. I'm sure glad when I started to go to meetings that I met people who were having good days, laughing and happy and enjoying themselves. I don't think I would have stuck around very long if all I saw were pissed off alcoholics unloading the day's garbage.

In the little A.A. practice world I joined I learned how to pretend to be interested in other people. At some point, I found that this interest became genuine. I have no idea how it happened.

Not my natural state, caring about others.

A Direct Hit, From the Sky

Metaphysics: The branch of philosophy that deals with first principles and seeks to explain the nature of being or reality and of the origin and structure of the world.

More shallow and fairly obvious reflections on concepts that are much, much less complicated than I perceive them to be.

I am consistently amazed at how easily I fall into the trap of thinking that things are never going to change. I'm certain, whenever I'm in any kind of physical, emotional, or metaphysical pain that it is not going to go away. This is the way that it's always going to be forever and ever, Amen. I suffer from the same blindness when I'm doing well. And I hear my sponsor's irritating voice say: "This, too, shall pass."

I really like the diversity in A.A. When I was growing up, like most uncool kids, I was obsessed with finding the key to the lock to the door of the club where all the cool kids hung out. Now I look at my friends in The Program and see everything from soup to nuts, with a heavy dose of nuts. I'm really happy about it. I went to a high school reunion a few years ago and some of the cool kids were there. I thought: "These were the cool kids?" They were fat and bald and married to harpies, for the most part. They were as consumed with themselves as adults as they were as children.

I looked around the meeting last night and was really grateful to see some of my buddies, both men and women. They didn't appear to be overly cool.

I like people intense and serious and committed. That doesn't mean they can't laugh and have fun, it's just that they don't laugh at fart jokes. I like a little more heft to my people.

I was walking to my coffee shop yesterday and felt something hit my cap, which I was very happy to be wearing. A bird -- a bird in mid-flight -- had scored a direct hit on my head.

Talk about metaphysical. I was careful crossing the street all day.

Pain

Pain: A sensation of hurting, or strong discomfort, in some part of the body, caused by an injury, disease, or functional disorder, and transmitted through the nervous system.

What's the deal with pain, anyhow? I don't get it. I wouldn't design my system with pain as a big part of it. I understand that it serves a purpose: if I touch a hot stove I'll burn my hand and destroy some tissue, so the pain steers me away from this activity. How about a buzzer or a blinking light? I touch the stove and an alarm goes off, suggesting that I don't do that.

The point is that I don't want to feel any pain. I would just rather not.

The B-Man Takes on The Buddha

Desire: A wish or craving; stresses intensity or ardor.


"All suffering is caused by human desire, particularly the desire that impermanent things be permanent." The Buddha.

Quite a crafty guy, that Buddha. I bet he got beat up a lot in high school, saying stuff like that. I bet I could have beat up the Buddha, and I couldn't beat up anybody. Don't you hate people that give good spiritual advice when you're all wrapped around the axle about something? I want my problem solved RIGHT NOW! I don't want to develop spiritual tools that will last the rest of my life and solve countless problems down the road.



It's ironic that the Third Step teaches me to turn my life and will over to the care of god, as I understand god. It even gets funnier considering the definition of will:

Will: The act or process of volition; specifically wish; desire; longing.


So my understanding of the Third Step is that I need to turn my desires and wishes over to the care of a higher power. I have to lose my desires. I have to quit wanting things.


Wait minute! Is it possible that Bill W is actually The Buddha and that he lived in the fourth century BC? That would have made him extremely old when he died. Maybe he plagiarized The Buddha. Or perhaps the heirs of The Buddha gave him specific written consent to use the thoughts.

I always thought A.A. didn't blaze any new trails when it came to spiritual thinking. Honestly, the spirituality in A.A. has been around forever and can be easily found in all of the world's religions. All Bill did was explain it so that it made sense to alcoholics.

I still want to beat up The Buddha.

FEAR!

Fear: The general term for the anxiety and agitation felt at the presence of danger.

Today I'm going to let my Fear run wild.

I'm going to be afraid and I'm not going to discriminate against any of the many diverse types of fear that I can succumb to. I'm afraid (see how easy it is?) that some types of fear don't get proper respect. There are so many excellent and powerful kinds available to me, both real and imaginary. Personally, I like the ones that don't actually exist -- I can really get rolling when I ponder things that are very unlikely to happen, or things that are impossible for obvious reasons: attacks of flying monkeys and vampire infestation and stuff like that.

I tend to gravitate to being afraid of what may happen in the future. That's my favorite kind of fear. I love rushing ahead and suffering unimaginable pain. Nothing good ever happens to me in the futures that I imagine, so I can only assume that nothing ever will. And this is despite the fact that bad things happen to me only rarely. I'm sure the tide is turning. I feel a ground swell of Bad.


There's a lot of excellent fear to be mined in the past as well. Let's be careful not to waste this rich vein of anguish. Even though I've done my best to clean up the wreckage of my past, I'm confident that my missteps and misdeeds will come back to haunt me. The demons of my past are always stalking, stalking, relentlessly stalking, materializing out of the hazy mist of a time already gone to ruin what I have now.

Think about all of the things that could go wrong. Death! Disease! Pestilence! Famine! And that's just today!!

Ride, Ride My See-Saw

I went to the pool yesterday and had a nice swim. I bent over to pick up something or the other -- OK, some girly guy conditioner -- and my back did a bit of a seize-up. "Oh, c'mon," I thought. "This is hardly fair. This is hardly something that I want to happen with me." At least I could have gotten hurt jumping off a third floor balcony into a swimming pool or getting mangled in a bar fight or car wreck. That kind of pain I deserve. But this? This routine run of the mill happens to everybody crap? This I can do without, as long as I'm calling all of the shots.

Once again I have to try to find the middle. When I'm running amuck, instincts awry, I seesaw between wildly improbably extremes. Sometimes I pretend that nothing is wrong and I can go on about my day with blissful disregard to the actual circumstances. Like showing up at a wedding with a blood stained shirt. If I pretend that nothing is wrong, then nothing is wrong. "Maybe no one will notice the blood stains," I say. "Where did these blood stains come from anyway? Should I get stitches for this cut over my eye?" I was the guy who showed up at work with a temperature of 102 and projectile vomiting because I was too important to stay home. I thought the world would fall apart if I wasn't manipulating it.

My other tendency is to try to fix the problem with some ACTION. I'm quite the problem solver. I can solve anything with SHEER WILLPOWER. It never occurs to me to let something run its course. I have to bend it to my wishes. Sometimes I need to sit quietly and see what happens. The temperature comes down over time. The projectile vomiting gives way to the dry heaves. If I break my leg I can't jog that afternoon.

When all else fails, I can start shouting: "Why me, why me, why me?! Why did a bad thing happen to me? Why didn't it happen to someone else?"

You, for instance. That would be better for me.

Boundaries and More. Actually, Just Boundaries. There's Nothing Else

Boundary: Anything marking a limit; bound; border.

Here are some thoughts about setting boundaries worthy of Freud or Mr. Jung, the psychological father of A.A.. First of all, you should have no boundaries so that I can gain access to whatever it is you have that I want with a minimum of effort. If you insist of setting some boundaries, in a tiresome disregard of my desires, then they should be weak and easily surmounted. I don't want to have to work to get what I want. I want it to come easily.

On the other hand, I get to construct some very formidable boundaries. I'm thinking along the lines of a well defended compound, maximum security stuff, with razor wire and moats and electrified fences and lots of guards in the those little turrets, with shotguns and halogen search lights that can fix you in their icy glare with the slightest movement. You need to behave the way I want you to behave.

I don't think any of this stuff is in the Big Book. I'm not checking, either.

Is Yours an Innie or an Outie?

Needs: Something useful, required, or desired.

Yesterday I decided to explore my Inner Child, and that was a big mistake. My Inner Child is a pain in the ass. Maybe I should work on my Outer Child first, also a pain in the ass, and someone who causes a lot more problems in my life than the inner one. My Inner Child is just fine; maybe he should go play with all of the other Inner Children and leave me alone. If I could figure out how to open the gate and let him scamper free I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I'm not suggesting that I can totally ignore my psychological make-up. I'm suggesting that I shouldn't get too bogged down in it. Maybe some basic understanding of how I got to where I am today, and then get on with working The Steps. I'm not too big on getting My Needs Met, as in "I'm just not getting my needs met at that meeting." Well, tough shit. My needs are clean water and food in my belly, and a warm, dry place to sleep at night. Everything else is A Want.

Maybe I can trick my Inner Child so go away. Leave him some Maternal Love or Positive Feedback peanuts outside. He likes those. He'll follow those for thousands of miles.

Oops! Thanks! Gimme! Wow!

Praying Mantis: Any of a number of related long, slender insects with grasping, spiny forelegs often held together as if in prayer.

I read an essay on praying written by a skeptical atheist. This guy visited a number of different religious organizations, all of the main stream churches, before ending up at a country pentecostal type church. It was interesting to see how similar these groups were in their advice about effective praying. All of them stressed that praying was hard work that took a lot of practice. Work? Work? I hate work. I hate expending effort that doesn't provide quick, immediate results.

One leader said that prayers could be broken down into four groups: Oops! Wow! Thanks! and Gimme! I recalled my entry into A.A. and my initial struggles with praying, trying to throw off all of the old prejudices and rote memory exercises that meant nothing to me. My mentors suggested starting the day with Please! and ending it with Thanks! I couldn't argue semantics with that kind of advice.

Anyway, I thought the reporter would really tee off on the simple old Pentecostals. They are a pretty easy target for the cynical among us with all of their swaying and exaggerated facial expressions and brandishing of well worn Bibles. He spent some time talking to the kids at the church. He thought that they had a very simple and personal relationship with god. It ended up being his favorite church.

I have been giving short shrift to my praying lately. Praying is not nearly as sophisticated as meditating in the hip, slick, and cool world that I inhabit. But it was kind of cool listening to the kids talk about how they prayed: if they wanted something they asked for it; they frequently prayed for other people; they didn't seem to get too upset when things didn't go as expected.

My problem is that I pray AT things. God, gimme a Ferrari. God, gimme that guy's Ferrari because he doesn't deserve it. God, if you aren't going to give me that guy's Ferrari maybe he could have a minor accident -- nobody should get hurt, of course . . . too badly -- where there is extensive body damage. I get into trouble when I pray for specific results. And I think it's good technique to add that "if it's your will" disclaimer onto the end of the prayer, even though I don't mean it, obviously.

God, make my half-water Americano with unrefined sugar hot and delicious this morning.

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

Ergh.

I have noticed since I quit drinking how the active alcoholics in most families seem to drive the agenda. I don't know why it took me so long to pick up on this. When I was drinking I would have been happy to have dinner with Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan and Vlad the Impaler as long as the alcohol was flowing. I didn't go anywhere if I couldn't drink as much as I wanted to and if I did, I made your life miserable. It had nothing to do with the people; it had to do with the drinking. This is why our acquaintances get more and more distasteful the longer we drink. Decent, normal people don't enjoy being around us after a while.

When the drunk hosts a family event, which they like to do because it puts a legitimate face on drinking and drunkenness, the alcohol is center stage. The turkey and the Christmas tree and the American flag play second fiddle to the alcohol. I remember showing up at a Memorial Day barbecue a few years back at an alcoholic relative's house. This dude had wine and a bar stocked with all kinds of hard liquor. He had a Margarita station and coolers full of beer and ales. The appetizers consisted of a prepackaged, unappealing cheese ball, and saltines. I rooted around in the cooler for something to drink, finding only one kind of soda, containing both sugar and caffeine, which I try to avoid, being a total hyperactive. That stuff makes me thirstier.

I drank tap water with an ice cube I fished out of the bottom of the cooler.

Eventually we got around to eating. Drinkers like to postpone the eating as long as possible. Food harshes the buzz. At that point I was damn hungry and resentful at having to sit around watching people drink. There were no distractions: music or TV or games or anything like that. Why bother? The booze was flowing. The activity was sitting around, talking and drinking. It wasn't very much fun. And this wasn't bad drinking; there weren't any fights or people falling into the coy pond or anything like that. Just steady drinking.

It was about this time that I started to make the calls explaining that as a recovering alcoholic I had to limit my exposure to drinking. I suggested that it was a lot easier for us to tolerate alcohol in a larger context: a glass of wine at dinner, a beer at a football game, a cocktail at a jazz club. I don't even see this kind of drinking any more. To a person everyone was respectful and kind while quickly putting me on The Shit List, I suspect.

I was careful not to accuse anyone of being a drunk or a bad host. I tried to be clinical about it but people that drink too much give The Stink Eye to people who abstain. I remember early in my sobriety when I wasn't so forthright getting stuck at a bar for a going away party. There was a guy at my table who was clearly alcoholic. He asked me a few time whether or not I ever drank. You know the type: "You mean you never drink?" Like the phrase "I don't drink" implies that I do indeed drink. This dude kept ordering rounds for everyone. I kept accumulating little shot glasses of liquor at my place which I would push into the center of the table from time to time. He ended up drinking them, probably. He had skin in the game; he wasn't going to waste good alcohol.

I'm done with this. It helped me to see it in black and white.

Hm.

My relationships with my family have changed over the years more or less as a function of how I'm working my Program. I started my recovery as a total people pleaser. Most alcoholics have an unhealthy obsession with being loved by everyone. Most of us are chameleons. "What do you want me to be?" I'd ask. "I'm sure I can do that." When I drank I sort of kind of belonged a little bit to every clique and group, standing as far out on the fringe as I could possibly get. I was there but I didn't fit in, not really. I didn't know who I was so I could hardly allow you to get to know me. What I could permit was to allow you to get to know who I thought you wanted me to be. Whew.

This doesn't work in the long run, especially with relatives. I couldn't let myself be totally controlled by other people and remain happy. I got resentful. I got tired of doing what other people wanted to do all of the time. At the end it didn't even matter if I wanted to do what everyone was doing. Everything made me mad. I simply wanted call the shots some of the time. Everybody does. And to make the whole mess even more convoluted, I was too chicken shit to stand up for myself very often. When I did I felt so guilty that I caved in, and really resented everyone else.

So I shifted into bargaining mode. Because I felt like other people were pushing me around with absolutely no regard for my tender feelings and fragile needs I figured I should get to make the decisions every now and then. At that point I had been in A.A. long enough to know that I shouldn't do this all of the time and that I should compromise as much as possible. Do what I wanted to do but try to accommodate others.

This didn't work very well either. My selfish family had been used to getting their way for so long that they were loath to cede any control. They pushed back, and I often gave in. I don't like conflict, either. It's a nice addition to my people pleasing. And then when I'm mad I whip out the good old passive-aggressive playbook and really go to town. Sometimes I got my way but inevitably these people would poison the event by arriving late or dropping little hints of disapproval.

For example, for many years my mother would host a Thanksgiving meal. We would eat at either 2PM or 4PM, to accommodate church activities and children. This seemed like a weird time to eat to SuperK and me. I have trouble working up a big appetite at four in the afternoon, but we went along with it for many years. Finally, we offered to fix the meal and suggested 1PM, which is a normal meal time. Everyone agreed then showed up whenever they wanted. Some were on time but most weren't. The punctual ones had food to prepare and started to fuss around in the kitchen. We had timed the bulk of the meal for 1PM. We sat and looked each other across the table, watching the food cool.

Eventually I just began to lose interest. We have ceased fighting anybody or anything, the Book says. It's no fun being marginalized and manipulated all of the time. I started to duck events, at first with flimsy excuses and little white lies, then more openly. I quit inviting people to my house, preferring silence to unhappy guests. They wouldn't come -- giving flimsy excuses -- or made me miserable when they did.

Eventually, I have become comfortable with my behavior. It isn't ideal in any Rockwellian sense but I am consistent and forthright. My family doesn't understand. A few of them -- the drinkers, mostly -- are clearly hostile. The rest just keep inviting me to the same things over and over, to my eternal amazement.

I don't feel good writing about this kind of behavior. It feels petty.

The Self

Self: One's own welfare, interest, or advantage; selfishness: as, people concerned only with thought of self.

I do well to remember that alcoholics don't have the market cornered on lousy behavior. We have taken the pursuit of money, power, and sex into the stratosphere but these primary instincts are installed in everyone, and they are very compelling. Many people who don't drink to excess trample their fellows into the muck as they pursue money, power, and sex.

Since I've taken some time to talk about my family members behind their backs I might as well continue the riff until it's played out. Believe it or not, it's been helpful for me to do this. Sometimes other people act like jerks and I may be too close, too involved with the circumstances to look at it dispassionately. A few weeks ago SuperK and I were talking to Spandex after a meeting, describing how our relationships with our families have played out over the years. A couple of times he interrupted to say: "You're kidding me! That's unbelievable! " I was a little startled. I have lived within these dynamics for so long that they seemed normal to me; at least they were familiar.

Yesterday was Halloween; selfish behavior and good cheer was on display for all to see as various relatives tried to maneuver everyone else into positions of submission while pretending that humility was being practiced. And for those who weren't willing to be maneuvered -- OK, that's me, obviously -- the air was thick with unspoken disapproval. I can feel the gossip flowing from different houses this morning.

The problem with expectations is that people can assume that a behavior that's important to them should be important to you, too. But if you're interested in something that they could care less about then, my, how the tables are turned. I've learned in A.A. that I have to show some interest in other people even when I'm not interested in other people as a general rule. I become interested in you when I take the time to listen to you, not when I evaluate everything that's going on from my own self-centered perspective. It's not fair for me to expect someone to be engaged in everything I'm interested in but not make the same effort with them.

This is the definition of selfish.

Hearing The Message

I solicited some advice about the family drinking situation at a meeting last night. This is a men's meeting with a lot of sobriety in attendance. It can get a little over the top from time to time, as men are wont to do, but it's a solid group of guys. Generally, I hesitate bringing up a topic in a lot of meetings because there is a tendency for people to talk at me, to solve my problem, to give me advice. I think that passing along specific recommendations has its part in my recovery, but it should happen before and after the meeting or on the phone, not in the meeting itself. I understand this to be cross-talk, which I hate. If you tell me what to do I'm doing something else. If you tell me what you did, maybe, maybe, I'll listen.


Anyway, the message I heard repeatedly was this: pray for the guy; make yourself available; don't buy into any bullshit. When we're drinking and not interested in stopping there is no solution. I've gotten pretty good over the years detaching from drunks who are drinking: "You want to drink, then drink. You know where to find us." We don't pass this message along with anger or arrogance but as a simple fact. We're like teenagers most of the time. You can't tell us anything. It almost killed me getting sober when I was All In. I didn't have a prayer when I was justifying what I was doing, when I was resisting the message. The guys I hung around with early on didn't waste much time with me, as they shouldn't have. I was still a lost cause at that point; they had people who wanted the help that I was refusing.

The other thing I heard was: Family is hard. It's painful watching someone evaporate, but it hurts in a special way when it's a loved one. And then, to compound the misery, I have codependent family members calling to insist that I drop what I'm doing and Run Over! Right Now! Solve the Problem! I keep giving the same simple message over and over. I feel like I'm talking to a piece of wood; nothing is penetrating. I'm not a woodpecker.


If SuperK is around, I use the speaker phone so that I have a witness to the drama. As a people pleaser, it's not easy delivering blunt advice. Usually she pats me on the shoulder and walks out of the room. There's not a lot to say. It isn't very complicated. I should be the guy who tells people they have fatal diseases or are losing their jobs: "Sit down Mr. Johnson. I have some bad news. . . "

Wouldn't it be GREAT if I could fix everything that is wrong? Boy, would I have a big boat.

Live and Let Live, I Said

Detached: Not involved by emotion, interests, etc.; aloof; impartial.

I've been trying to sort out my impressions about my father's drinking. Not morbid wallowing in the mud kind of thinking, but thinking none the less. I don't know what else to call it. Reflection? Musing? The paralysis of analysis? I have to be careful I don't over think, which I love to do, but sometimes I have to think things through.

Shorty and I usually come up with this conclusion when we talk about any dysfunction that we can detect in our families: "It's painful." I need to embrace that simple concept more often than I do. Sometimes it's just painful watching someone I love go through something that I don't want them to go through. It's even worse when I'm not able to change the behavior that causes the painful circumstances. I don't know why everyone can't see that I know what they should do.

It's delusional for me to think that things would improve if other people would only make the changes that I recommend. Sometimes I can't stop myself from chiming in, usually with negative results. It's even more laughable when I consider that a lot of the time I'm looking at behavior that others have embraced for years and years and decades. Like I have the power to change that.


While I love my father and I know he loves me we don't have much of a relationship. I don't think he was particularly interested in getting married and having a family. When I was growing up he came home from work, ate dinner, and left for his bowling league, poker game, golf league, volleyball league, softball league, The League of Nations, in league with the devil, beleaguered and haggard. He was very active in his church. It's not that things weren't good, it's just that they weren't . . . anything. He wasn't around. He wasn't involved.

I wonder what it was like for him growing up with an alcoholic father. Probably not much different.

I've been able to work through a lot of these feelings over the years. It has been a slow -- sometimes EXCRUTIATINGLY slow -- process but it has produced some results. I can step back from the drama and make informed decisions. Sometimes I feel like a 911 operator when I take calls. I try to calm down the caller and help them handle the crisis. It doesn't feel like a loved one on the other end. I want to help them solve the crisis. I don't feel the obligation to take the entire weight of the crisis on my own shoulders. I don't buy into the drama any more. "Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts."

My best friend watched his alcoholic father struggle at the end of his life. He had a lot of regret and a lot of fear about dying. He was adrift spiritually and because he had spent most of his life thinking about himself and neglecting others -- with pretty predictable results in his family -- there wasn't a great rallying around of the troops to help ease his passage. No one was behaving maliciously, they were just doing what they had always done. They were a product of their environment. They were practicing what they had been taught. People can't stop on a dime and change like that.

I have to be very careful when I write about others. It's easy to sit up in my ivory tower and take pot shots at other people. I'm all over your flaws; it's my flaws that I can't see. But I need to sort things out from time to time as well. It's not easy facing some of these problems. Sometimes I feel cold and analytical. Calculating. But I know myself how long and hard a process it was to get to this spot. I didn't decide to stop being involved. I learned how painful it was being involved and how to adapt to manage the pain.

It's not always my fault. The solution is always with me, but it's not always my fault. If you walk up and pop me in the nose, that's not a defect on my part. Letting you do it over and over -- that's the defect.