Isolation

Isolate:  In medicine, to place (a patient with a contagious disease) apart from others to prevent the spread of infection.


One thing that I try to do is get out among people.  As an introvert who likes to isolate and generally hates people I'm not suggesting  actually interacting with these people -- more along the lines of being where other people are so that I can watch them and secretly criticize everything about them including, but not limited to, their appearance, behavior, and general social etiquette.  Kind of a constructive criticism, as it were.


I like to sit someplace quietly with a good view of the natives but hopefully hidden myself -- shades are a de rigeuer addition -- have a cup of coffee and watch the world swirl on by.  It's interesting what you can see and learn.  I try to limit my electronic screen interaction as well - which dates me, of course -- because I think my mind needs some time to drift and wander around on its own.   I need some time for some productive thinking.  I know that sounds like a contradiction in terms - we aren't generally thrilled with too much thinking in the recovery world, preferring the meat and bones of actual action -- but it isn't always a bad thing when practiced in moderation.  It's the isolating while thinking which complicates everything.

Embiggening My Good Qualities

Perfect:                 Complete in all respects; without defect or omission; sound; flawless. 
Perfectionist:       A person who believes in a doctrine of perfectionism.
Perfectionism:    Any doctrine that holds that moral, religious, or social perfection can and should be attained in this life. (Ed note: Apparently in the next life you can be a total screw-up).


I spend way too much time considering where I've fallen short and way, way, WAY, too much time embiggening my faults and defects.  It takes a conscious effort for me to bring my not inconsiderable powers of concentration back around to what I've done well and, like most of us, I've done many, many things well.  For me it's akin to turning around a huge aircraft carrier  steaming ahead at under full power; there's a lot of forward momentum that has to be arrested.  There's the sound of the klaxon blaring its warning alarm and lots of strong men, naked to the waist and covered with tattoos, glistening with sweat, muscles heaving as they spin wheels and rush around and throw the vessel's massive engines into reverse.  That's what it feels like to me.  The urge to plow ahead in stormy seas to the forbidden island of Total Negativity is that powerful.


Which is pretty much total bullshit.  All of us have plenty of good qualities and characteristics.  For some reason the alcoholic in me doesn't think so.  One of my regular practices is to review my day before I go to sleep.  For me -- just for me -- I'm usually able to say I remained sober and clean; I didn't smoke cigarettes or drink 17 pots of coffee; I ate real food; I got some exercise and enough rest; I spent a chunk of time on my recovery; I read or wrote or did something else to give my mind a work out.  I don't do all of these things every day but I work away at it.  There's some good stuff in there.  I force my mental aircraft carrier to reverse course and $#!! think about this good stuff despite my desire to fish out anything I did wrong during the course of the day and like, totally obsess over it.


At the meeting yesterday I complimented a woman whose 15 year old son I have seen at a couple of parties.  He behaves better at that tough age than I do today.  Of course, she brushed off the compliment, preferring to imbue her son with some innate qualities of polite goodness that she assumes that she had no part in imbuing.  While there are some kids that are by nature easy to raise I don't think any parent can discount the effect they have on the kids they're raising.  I could see by her reaction that she didn't spend much time considering this.  She seemed genuinely surprised and very pleased.


Today I can give myself a break.

Genghis Khan

A few months ago I started to attend a 12 Step meeting where the format is to read one of the Steps each week starting at Step number one and proceeding in order, without skipping any of the less interesting or "throw away" Steps, until you conclude with the twelfth and final Step.  I've almost always done this in my recovery.  I like the discipline that's required for me to thoroughly read and discuss a Step each week.  Our main text is also wonderfully illuminating on the topic of working the Steps but some of the chapters combine multiple Steps and a few of them get pretty sketchy treatment, in my humble-ish opinion.


As I believe I mentioned previously this group voted to add a second weekly meeting.  All well and good if one wished to attend both meetings, which One did not.  The group conscience swept me aside like Genghis Khan and his Mongol Horde laying waste to Asia Minor in the 13th century.  I responded appropriately: I was pissed and I stormed out.  I had agreed to be the secretary of this particular meeting so I resigned my position, with Attitude.  I didn't go to the meeting the following week, choosing instead to leave a tersely worded resignation on the top of the 12 Step books, like a little child.  


"What a chickenshit," you might be saying, and you might be right.  I will say that I was Pissed with a capital P and decided a gutless letter would be better than returning to the meeting while nursing so active a grudge.


The point is that I went back to the meeting this week.  It was fine.  I liked the meeting and I liked the people which is why I started going to the meeting in the first place.  I enjoyed myself.


It's not the resentments, which are inevitable.  It's how deeply I nurse them.

Next in Line!

Next:  The one immediately following.


I keep a journal so that I can jot down important ideas and thoughts as they come to me during the course of my day.  I re-read it from time to time and invariably think: "Huh.  I didn't pay attention to any of the advice I gave myself."  This is why I try not to give advice to other people.  I can't be bothered to even take any of my own advice.  Good, solid advice by someone who is intimately familiar with all of my assets and defects and the daily circumstances of my life, and still I ignore it.


"Who does that bastard think he is, telling me what to do with his I-know-better-than-you arrogant attitude?  Like he's done such a great job of running his own life," I say to myself, in a loud voice, unaware that this is the kind of stuff that gets people locked up in state run insane asylums.   Mental health professionals look askance at people walking around, arguing vociferously despite the absence of any other actual living people.  It indicates some internal conflict that needs to be addressed.


Sometimes it dawns on me that I'm the one giving myself advice and then not following it.  This fact makes it a lot more palatable when someone I give advice to doesn't pay any attention to me. The best advice I have ever dispensed, and I dispense it frequently, is don't give anyone any advice.


Anyway, I took a look back through the past year's Thoughts for the Day to see if anything important popped out.  It was a momentous year with much change that required a lot of momentous decisions.  What struck me was the brilliance of the philosophy "Do The Next Right Thing."  Sometimes we say "Do What's In Front Of You," which is even simpler and more brilliant.


SuperK and I spent a lot of time doing things and making choices without a clear knowledge of where they would lead us or whether they were the "right" decisions to make.  I was amused to see how many times we started a process, sure it would lead to a particular conclusion, only to be disappointed.  But when we kept slogging away we invariably popped out into a better, or more appropriate, at least, place.  Some of these things were decisions on matters that we very much wanted to be decided.  When the action didn't leave to an outcome which concluded the matter, we were disappointed or depressed.


Yet, here I sit today in a pretty good place.  I took the steps.  I took the actions.  I got lots of advice and I flew blind much of the time.  It can be frustrating and exhilarating all at the same time.

The New Guy

I had a new guy ask me to be his sponsor a while back for reasons that are opaque to me.  Why anyone would voluntarily seek advice from me about anything when I give it so freely unbidden is beyond my capacity to comprehend. 


Anyway, he really hasn't been making much of an effort to pick up the 1000 lb phone.  This is understandable.  I considered the phone to be some kind of inanimate serpent when I was getting sober, something that could only deliver bad news from bill collectors, legal type people, pissed friends and family members, and the like.  A ringing phone was not something that would normally cause my spirits to soar.  It was certainly not something I would use to initiate contact with anyone else.  Not very many people were glad to hear from me and those who were weren't people that I was glad to talk to.


I suggested to the new guy that he call me every few days, and not because he's all that interesting to talk to, in the way of self-absorbed new people who think their very ordinary problems are way more significant and unfair than they really are.  But I made this suggestion so that he could get into the habit of calling regularly because when something really troubling comes up, as it invariably will,  I don't want him to be frozen with the fear that we're all familiar with.  In my early days I never called anyone because I never wanted to "bother" anyone, unaware that my presence was keeping several hundred people sober.


"God, I never want to be like that again," they were probably thinking.


Nothing really changed in the weeks after I made my suggestion, which is also not surprising.  None of us had check marks in the "Takes Instruction Well" box on our kindergarten report cards.  He is waiting to get his driver's license reinstated so I gave him a ride home from the meeting a few days ago.  It was about a 15 minute drive so we had time to have a nice talk about nothing in particular.


When I got home there was a message from this guy on my answering machine.  Nothing for 6 weeks then a call immediately after getting out of my car.  I wonder if he would have given himself credit for calling me while we were driving home.


"Excuse me," he would have whispered, sotto voce, putting his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.  "I have to take this.  It's my sponsor.  He's a real asshole."


I don't think he gets it yet.

Deo Gratias

I also went to church with my mother when I was in town.  Twice, doubling my total church attendance over the last 2 or 3 years.  I didn't go because I wanted to go - and god knows it's all about me, a fact clearly authorized in one of the additional Steps only accessible to superior recovery guys like me, kind of like the keys to the executive washroom, except for recovery  - I went because I knew it would make my mother happy and god knows I can put in a little effort making that poor woman happy.


It's never as bad as I remember it being.  It is somewhat annoying and it's definitely boring, but it's not an overwhelming OzzFest of negativity.  The people are mostly pleasant and there's a lot of off-key singing, which I find amusing, and the pastor guy reads some Bible passages, which are OK for the most part, at least those from the New Testament.  The Old Testament can get a little threatening and violent with all of the smiting by a just god and everything.  The Bible seems like a pretty cool book; it's the interpretation of the Bible by guys who seem to have some reading comprehension problems that really bugs me.  So I mostly enjoy the scripture readings.  They could read from just about any religious book and I'd be OK with it.  All of the books of the major religions sound more or less the same when you strip away all of the outside commentary about how great OUR particular book is.


There is this one thing called "The sharing of the peace" that happens before the actual preachy part starts.  I'm not a big fan of this part.  You have to shake hands with your immediate pew mates - I was glad to see that they've put cushions on the unforgiving wood pews because I don't have too much padding back there, if you know what I mean - and say "The peace of the lord be with you," which seems kind of staged.  I tried to slip in something novel like "Led Zeppelin rules" or "double or nothing, please" but I lost my nerve at the last minute.


During the sermon I pretty much zone out.  I enjoy the sermon the best when I don't listen to it.  I'm practiced at not listening when other people are talking to me so this isn't an onerous chore.  Before I drifted off one of the days I heard the preacher guy throw some gasoline on the fire as far as some popular liberal social policies are concerned.  I didn't like this much, believing it isn't why we come to church, so I drifted off more quickly than normal.  More deeply as well.


But a short time later this Bible verse came up: "There was not a needy person among them, for as many as were owners of lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold and laid it at the apostle's feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need."  This sounds like socialism which is what happens when you start out as a liberal and then swerve sharply to the far left.  And there was a disclaimer in the church bulletin that read: "We hold the Holy Bible to be the inerrant word of God."  It wouldn't appear to me that there's any wiggle room that would help you avoid selling all of your shit and passing it out on the street to bums like me.


Inerrant:  Not erring; making no mistakes; infallible.


It looked to me like the preacher guy was carefully covering all of his bases, making sure that he offended everyone irregardless of their political persuasion.


Here are a few quotes that I found confusing during the course of the service:
"I will sing to the lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider he has thrown into the sea."  This was closely followed by something about " the stormy side of God's wrath."  I'm assuming that this is the side God exhibited when he did the horse and rider tossing.  I'm assuming he didn't use the sunny side of his wrath should such a side exist, which I find unlikely and contradictory.  It's unclear to me who he tossed into the sea, and for what reason.  Maybe he doesn't like horses so much that he was willing to sacrifice a couple of people to take 'em out.


There was a hymn called "Now All the Vault of Heaven Resounds."  I don't know what that means.  One of the verses started with the line "Mighty Victim from the sky!"  I don't know what that means, either.


What really burned me up was a short section called The Children's Message.  All of the little kids come to the front of the church, the preacher guy sits down on his haunches with them, and delivers a little homily while ALL OF THE ADULTS HAVE TO WATCH.  When I was a kid we got dressed up and went to Sunday School and THEN to church.  There were no Children's Message loopholes for us to exploit.  Now not only do the kids avoid Sunday School they extend the church service for the adults.  This is the definition of Adding Insult To Injury.


I still have 8+ months to Christmas.  I'm safe for a while.

Easter Dinner

I had Easter dinner at my sister’s last weekend, celebrating a weird amalgam of ancient pagan fertility ritual and relatively modern Christianity. 

“Happy Easter!” a woman walking a dog chirped cheerily at me as I hiked in the woods before heading off to dinner.

“I’m Jewish,” I said, in an overly loud voice, matching her cheery good will with an excess of my own, while still letting a little barely contained malevolence leak through.

I followed my long walk on a perfect spring day with a killer nap and a huge cup of coffee.  I was in a good mood, rested and primed for any conflict that might come my way, as I entered my sister’s house for the family extravaganza.  My sister is brazenly pursuing the almighty dollar and managed to work in how much her house was worth in the first 15 minutes of my visit, adding a sweet twenty-five percent increase to the amount they paid for it just a year ago.  I should be so lucky with my own property appreciation, especially in an era of declining real estate prices. She also managed to work in the conversation that my brother in law really isn’t into “things.”  I looked around the huge house and the three cars in the driveway and wondered about her definition of “things.” 

This is what we in the business of immature and self-centered behavior call a “trigger,” which translated roughly means “something that really pisses me off for no good reason.”  It didn’t have that effect this time although I carefully noted the egregious transgression for future use.  If I feel like working up a good bitching fit I want to make sure I have a large cache of transgressions to access.  Why someone else’s attitudes about money would have anything whatsoever to do with me is a mystery I’ll have to delve into at some future date. 

Things:  A tangible object, as distinguished from a concept, quality, etc.; as the book is a thing; it's color is a quality.

To be honest with you, instead of lying like I normally do, the whole day was fine.  My sister is a good person and so is my brother-in-law, which is what I needed to concentrate on, instead of her irrelevant money stories.  My nieces are normal and happy.  My sister simply likes money more than I do, which works out pretty well for me since I so enjoy judging other people.  Almost as much as I enjoy feeling superior to them.  I like being self-righteous, too.  And I have many other impressive qualities that I don't have time to go into today.

But I do it better than you – whatever “it” is – unless your values and morals are as high as mine, which is beyond impossible.

It:  An object of indefinite sense in certain idiomatic expressions: as, to lord it over someone.

Let the great world spin, I thought.

My sister entertains a lot.  Fancy entertaining with decorations and trendy hor dourves  and people showing up fashionably late, dressed  carelessly in expensive clothes that they are dying to tell you how much they paid for but hope you ask them first which you don’t do because you’re hoping they ask you about your clothes, which they never do, the bitches.  I think that family functions are more of an obligatory burden for her, a task she feels compelled to undertake but derives very little pleasure from, unless someone asks her how much she paid for something.  I quit hosting them long ago because the No Alcohol In My House regulation quashed the hilarity but good and ushered people out the door so fast it made my head spin.  Plus, I didn’t enjoy the whole atmosphere of artificial camaraderie so my sour mood probably didn’t add to the hilarity, either.

One holiday dinner at my sister’s I emphasized that I’d be happy to help out any way I could since she always hosted the meals.

“You want to help out?” she said, a little too quickly, as if she had thought this through and was debating whether to bring it up or not.  “Write me a check for twenty five bucks.”

I was stunned into silence, which is not easy to do.  I had no snappy comeback.  I sent her the check.  She cashed it without comment.  I thought of this, chuckling at the lack of food at dinner.  My elderly parents split a dinner roll and I had a light meal when I got home that night.  I bet this doesn’t happen when she does her fancy entertaining with her hip and beautiful suburb-mates.

I had a good time on Easter.  Can you imagine if it was a bad time?

Maybe a 2500 mile buffer zone is about right.

Dave Parker

Compulsion: In psychopathology, an irresistible impulse to perform some irrational act.

Yesterday the weather was great again so I went inside and swam in my relentless pursuit of compulsive over-exercising.  It was, of course, Take A Swim Day which falls in between Take A Hike Day except on Friday, when I swim for the second day in a row.  I’m not sure how I justify this to myself. It has to be violating some rule of compulsive over-exercising.  Normally I don’t do the same kind of exercise two days in a row for an excellent set of reasons that I can no longer remember.

Naturally, rain was in the forecast.  The debacle of Saturday still fresh in my mind, I loaded my car with a clean shirt and pair of pants and an extra set of socks.  I also borrowed an umbrella from my hosts, excellent Dr. Death and his lovely wife, who have endured my presence for 10 days for reasons that I cannot fathom.

I arrived at the park and strode purposefully up Hamburger Hill which was mercifully rivulet free and suffered no ill effects.  The track through the woods was kinder as well.  The shrubbery was dry and standing upright.  I splashed through some standing water, still with no terrible consequences.

Pressing on, treading carefully, mindful of wet roots and muddy inclines, I hiked with the sure-footed confidence of an Andean mountain goat until I slid my foot under a firmly anchored vine, lying hidden across the trail as carefully concealed as if it had been planted by a South Asian guerrilla.  I stumbled trying to free my foot, pirouetting with no grace whatsoever, arms in the air in an apparent bid to summon celestial help, recovered – almost – and went down again, this time backwards.  I have a need, apparently, to fall in all four directions: backwards, forwards, and to both sides.  I only have to fall to my left to complete the circuit.

I snuck a quick look at my backside.  I had a mud slick that ran from my ass cheek to my ankle.  I made no attempt to clean my hands.  The umbrella was, as you might imagine, somewhat bent.

This occurred at about the same spot where I deposited my first ruined umbrella in the bushes two days before, with a dramatic flourish that you have to be a baseball fan to appreciate.  In the 80s there was a flamboyant home run hitter named Dave Parker; for the purposes of this story you may substitute any other flamboyant slugger that you wish.  Dave Parker was a big man – 6’6” and muscular – with an even bigger ego.  When he connected on a pitch that he knew was going to leave the park, he would hold his bat straight up in the air, high over his head, while he watched the flight of the ball, and then flip  the bat end over end.  It would somersault several times before landing on the ground, at about the same time that he would begin his home run trot, which he called “The Thing.”

That’s what I did with Umbrella Number One.  I did look back once before it was lost at a turn on the trail.  It was flapping quietly in the wind, jaunty red against the green bushes.  I was disappointed to see that someone had removed it in the intervening two days.  I had hoped it would stay there forever, like Stonehenge, and that tourists would come to see it and wonder at a civilization that could spawn such a thing.

At the car this time I confidently put on my dry clothes, breaking an arm patting myself on the back for my wisdom and foresight.  I took my mud spattered and soaked pants, folded them carefully, and laid them on the parking lot gravel next to my car.  When I backed out I made certain to drive over them.  I wanted them to know that I was more powerful than they were.

I got to my coffee shop and ordered my Grande Americano.  It was nice being in clothes that were dry and warm.  When I reached for my wallet, I wasn’t terribly surprised to find that it wasn’t there.  It was, of course, still in the pants that I had abandoned in the parking lot, and then run over.

I’m kidding about that last part.  I had the wallet.  I’m really, really stupid, but not THAT stupid.

A Man Of Extremes

As a man of extremes I believe that there are two types of families, and two types only, and they occupy opposite ends of the spectrum.  And when I say “end” I mean to suggest that you need to travel a long, long way to get to what you think is the end, then travel about that far again.  At that point you can sit down and have a cup of coffee so that you can talk with someone about how far you still have to travel to get to the end.  As you can see, you are a long, long way from the middle, which is normally a pretty good place to be.

The point is that I see family as either an impossibly unrealistic, idealistic Norman Rockwellian portrait or a demonic inferno of anger and conflict.  The truth of the matter, of course, is that most of us have family lives that fall somewhere in between.  I think that my family is exactly in between.  It’s a hamburger with no toppings on a plain bun served on an unadorned white plate, and fries don’t come with that and neither does Cole slaw.  It’s not offensive but it’s not exactly riveting in its appeal, either.  You can take it or you can leave it alone.  You wouldn’t clamor for it but you wouldn’t throw it away if you were hungry, either.

When I came home I knew I wasn’t stepping into the Rockwell scene.  I notched down my expectations but not far enough, apparently.  I would swing by my parent’s house and my appearance would barely make a ripple in the pool.  I didn’t expect deep and profound conversations but my dad would barely look up from The TV when I entered the room.  Still, I knew that he was glad to see me.  I could say hello and go out to the deck and read, and this was OK with my folks.  I was around and that was all they were looking for.  It seemed like a waste of a long trip to me but I’m not exactly the best person to ask for advice on personal relationships.  I’ve had . . . ahem . . . some issues there.

I marvel once again at how quickly I try to build the world with my own little set of Lincoln Logs to my own little set of expectations.  “Here’s how it should be!” I shout, irritating almost everybody who wonders why the seaweed draped man is yelling over in the corner.  So I did my best.  It didn’t make any sense to me but no one was asking for my opinion.  I think my folks enjoyed my stay.  I think that they were looking for something that I didn’t know I could give.

It was a pretty good trip.

Take A Hike Day

Today was "Take A Hike" day in the never-ending Seaweed quest to exercise compulsively every single day of my life or I'll get fat and flabby and die an early death.  Sometimes on Take A Walk day I don't take a walk, like if I'm dead or have had both legs amputated or undergone a serious operation involving major organ systems.  It has been great being back in The Old City during the spring when the weather is so perfect.  There's a wonderful hike in the woods that I have been devouring since I've been back.  I got up early today and left for the trail, eager to walk before the predicted rain began to fall in the afternoon.


Those goofy weathermen.  As I got close it began to rain lightly, but not hard enough to keep me from hiking.  As I pulled into the park it began to rain with purpose.  I decided to wait for a minute or two so that the heavy rain could increase to a torrential downpour.  What to do?  My mind was firmly set on the hike.  It was, after all, Take A Hike day.  


The rain continued to thunder down, drumming loudly on the roof of my car.  I didn't have a rain coat or umbrella, or waterproof hiking shoes.  I didn't have a change of clothes if I got wet.  I didn't have shit except an iron hold on an irreversible decision to take a hike.


I decided to drive to a local department store to buy a cheap umbrella.  The rain did not abate as I returned to the park; it seemed to gain strength, to become malevolent or superhuman.  I was locked and loaded on the hike at this point.  Fire would have had to begin falling from the sky, spat at me by shrieking demons, and I would have taken that fucking hike.  It was stupid.  I knew it was stupid.  "You are so stupid," I said to no one in particular.


I waited a bit longer.  The rain fell.  I capitulated.  I got out of the car and inflated my laughably small umbrella.  The initial section of the trail is normally a dusty track that runs uphill for a mile or so.  Water was sluicing freely down the path and I had to leap over small streams and rivulets and squish through little ponds.  I was already wet so figured that I might as well get in my exercise, as if there was any doubt of that happening.


Eventually the trail narrowed considerably and entered a heavily wooded section.  The rain-saturated bushes were bent over the trail, forcing me to hop spastically over pools of standing water while using my umbrella as sort of a lance or battering ram to force the bushes out of my way.  As you can imagine, this didn't work that well.  I was forced to choose between exposing myself to the pouring rain so that I could ramrod the bushes with my cudgel or to walk through the dripping foliage while protecting my head.


I was now cold and wet.


As I was plowing ahead I lost my footing on a muddy incline and feel heavily to my right.  I managed to break my fall with my  right hand -- which was good -- but it was holding the umbrella which crumpled on impact.  I now had half of a laughably small umbrella.  The broken half hung down, blocking my view of the path like a demonic veil.  If I swung the drooping side to the rear, rain water sluiced down my back and into the crack of my ass.


I pushed ahead grimly, drenched, a survivor on a kind of Bataan death march.  I slogged along, trudged with purpose.  I half expected to face a firing squad when I arrived.  It would have been a fitting end to what I was doing.


The fall had caused me to slow down.  I didn't wish to compound my idiotic decision to walk in a monsoon with no rain gear by breaking my ankle alone in the woods.  Nevertheless, I tripped again, this time on an exposed tree root, and pitched forward into the mud, crumpling half of the remaining usable umbrella.  Math wasn't my strong suit but I believe that left me with about 25% of a 4 dollar umbrella, or 1 dollar of rain protection.  I don't know why I continued to hold it over my head.  It couldn't have been doing anything at that point.


I honestly couldn't remember being more physically miserable in a long, long time.


Eventually I did make it back to the car alive.  The only dry clothes that I had with me were a swimming suit and a leather jacket.  I was so wet it was not reasonable to go anywhere in the clothes I was wearing, as if "reasonable" applied to any decision I had made so far that day.  So I stripped naked, in my car, in a public parking lot, and put on the dry items.  I turned the heat on full blast and took turns holding my underwear, socks, and pants up to the dashboard vents, a technique that worked surprisingly well.  I guess I was due a small break at that point.


I imagined what I would say to the cop looking at me through the driver's side window: a middle aged man, barefoot, in a Speedo bathing suit and leather jacket, holding wet underwear in his hands.  I have a lot of experience lying to the cops with a straight face about ridiculous things but I don't think I could have pulled this one off.


I am so glad I got my fucking hike in.

Baseball is Better

My trip home, to the town where I grew up and where I spent 20 years as an adult, including my formative years in recovery, has made me consider my tendency to see everything in terms of black and white, good and bad, right and wrong.  It’s such an unhealthy way to live and counter to what I learn in The Program. 

I so wanted this place to be different.  When I was away at college and moving several times to further my career I was a fierce advocate for my home town.  I wanted it to change into a place that conformed to my vision of what I thought it could be, of what I wanted it to be, of what I loudly demanded it become.

“How’d that work out for you?” my sponsor would say.

“Just about how it always works out,” I’d reply.

"Good job," he'd say.

Let’s say I love baseball but I live someplace that loves football.  I go to hundreds of football games because that’s the only sport in town.  The experience isn’t awful – I enjoy some parts of the game – but I’m really more of a baseball fan.  I’m in a small minority of people who constantly advocate for a switch to baseball; it's not that we want to banish football or even relegate it to second class status but we do think some variety might be a good idea.  There are fits and starts of interest but the movement never really goes anywhere because the people really like football and don’t care that much for baseball.  After 20 years there are still no baseball teams but dozens of football games every night, played before packed stadiums, full of passionate fans.

What would a smart person do?  Shut up and watch football or move someplace with a lot of baseball teams.  It’s not that difficult.  It’s not a complicated decision.  It doesn’t take an advanced degree to figure this out.

So off I go to a baseball town.  Fair enough.  All well and good.  That's my prerogative.

The problem for me is that I come back and am flummoxed that there aren’t any baseball fans yet.  It’s hardly appropriate for me to bitch about a football fan who lives in a football town.  Football is pretty good.  I just don’t like it.  Baseball isn't that good.  I just like it better.  I don't spend any time thinking about soccer in England or cricket in Pakistan.  What do I care?  I don't live there.  It's none of my business.

But I walked by a GREAT spot for a baseball field downtown today.

The Bomber Jacket

I was at a meeting last night in The Old City that I attended regularly for many years, until it pissed me off or otherwise alienated me for reasons that I can no longer remember but probably had something to do with me being an ass, in the general sense.  It was great to see old friends that I haven’t been in regular contact with since I made the big move to The New City.  There is such a powerful sense of connection among men and women who have gotten sober together.  I  got to catch up with some ancient and important people who have had a big impact on my sobriety.  This is a steady meeting of long standing with a lot sobriety in attendance and I still knew most of the people there.

A guy spoke that I didn’t recognize.  I enjoyed what this man shared.  He was rough looking; definitely not slick, hip, and cool, and I know today how little that means.  There are plenty of wealthy and highly educated folks that shouldn’t open their mouths as often as they should and plenty of wisdom to be had from those of us who have struggled through difficult circumstances.

He came over to me after the meeting and shook my hand.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I replied, trying to disguise the fact that I didn’t have a clue who this guy was.  I didn’t recall ever setting eyes on him before.  This isn’t unusual for me.  I’m not that bright and my memory is shot and I spent half of my adult life in a black out and I’m so wrapped up in myself that I can’t remember most people I meet.  And let’s face it, a lot of people come in for a short stay and then we never see them again.

“I still have your coat,” he said.  “I wore it all winter.  It’s a good, warm coat.  I think of you every time I put it on.”

A light snapped on.

When we were getting ready to leave for The New City we got rid of a lot of stuff.  Like many fortunate people I was able to buy a new winter coat every 6 or 7 years.  I put the old coats in the closet and didn’t ever wear them again, even though they were still good coats.  This was an old brown leather bomber jacket that was all the rage like a hundred and ten years ago.  I bet I spent $200 for it in 1990.  It was the first expensive-ish coat I bought in sobriety.  It was a little worn but it was still a good coat.  Every now and then I’d come across it and think: “Why did I need a new coat again?”  Then I’d forget about it for a few years.

I attended an early morning meeting that was at a clubhouse in a rough neighborhood when I lived here.  A friend of mine brought along this new guy who had just gotten off the streets and was living in a downtown shelter.  Like a lot of shelters and half-way houses the  residents were fed at night and given a bed to sleep in but were expected to clear out in the morning to look for work or go to meetings.   I liked this guy.  He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a down vest.  This in winter in the upper Midwest.  It’s goddam cold outside in the winter here.

I wore this jacket in one day and motioned my friend off to the side. I didn't want to embarrass him.  It's embarrassing enough coming in to The Program from the streets.

“Here, try this on,” I said.

He stripped off his hoodie and put on the coat, and stood there looking at me with the strangest, most confused expression on his face.

I patted his shoulders and said:  “You’re welcome to the coat if you want it.

“Thanks,” he said, before he walked stiffly away.  Today I know that he didn’t have any recent experience with kindness.  It was unfamiliar territory for him.  I'm sure he was very uncomfortable with the whole exchange.

I saw him a few more times before we moved and we always talked for a bit.  He always had the coat on and he never thanked me again.  I was glad to see the coat getting used even though I thought he should have continued to thank me effusively for many years and then gotten a job and paid me like $300 for the coat since it’s now vintage and therefore cool.  It’s still hard for me to give up my stuff even if it’s old and not being used and worth like $15.  If I had any humility at all I could have given the coat to my friend to give to the new guy anonymously.  Deep down inside I’m sure I wanted to be a Big Man.

I assumed this guy had gotten drunk and stoned and drifted off to some miserable existence.  We show up and help others to the best of our ability - helping ourselves most of all - because we never know what flimsy reed is going to save someone’s life.  Maybe this was the flimsy reed.  We don’t give up on anyone as long as they show up and don’t cause too much of a ruckus.

How good do you think I felt after that exchange?

Falling Anvils

I think that there’s some truth to the old axiom that parents try to control their children’s lives until they get old at which point the kids try to control theirs.  Of course, I never did anything my folks wanted me to do.  Now they’re not doing anything I want them to do, and I learned my manipulation techniques at the hands of certified masters.  I guess the difference is that I’m in this Program that tries to teach me about powerlessness over people, places, and things; eventually I’ve learned to quit banging my head against the wall.  At least I quit when the blood flow becomes too heavy or the wall is particularly solid but not a minute before that.

I’d like to see my parents move into some kind of retirement home or assisted living arrangement for safety reasons, convenience, and the social benefits they would gain by being around other people more than they are now, which is damned little.  However, they don’t want to do this.  I suspect they’re a little afraid about so much change and all of the work and losing control of their stuff and lives.  It was hard for me to give up so much of my stuff and move into a much smaller apartment, and I did it voluntarily.  My folks are sane, alert people and they get to make these decisions on their own.  They’re not asking me for my advice and when I give it unbidden they flick it aside.  Why would this surprise me?  I LOVE getting unsolicited advice.  It makes my day.  I always do exactly what the person sticking his or her nose in where it doesn’t belong advises me to do.  You betcha.

OK, then.  How about that?  Why don’t I keep my mouth shut?  Why don’t I try shutting the hell up every now and then for an unbelievable change of pace.  See what happens.  I can always go back to my futile efforts to mold the world to my iron will if I find I just can’t stand not running the show.

Eventually one of them is going to get sick or hurt and they’ll lose control of the transition in whatever form that takes.  I’d like to see them more in charge of the process but it doesn’t appear that it’s going to go down that way.  

Maybe that’s OK, too.  What do I know about it?  I can barely keep my own affairs in order.  Why makes me think I’m qualified to manage someone else’s affairs?

Maybe I’ll get hit by a falling safe or anvil tomorrow and none of this will be important in the future.

What with all of the rehab work from the anvil injuries.

Here I Go Again

It's amazing how many things there are that I don't want to do.  It's astounding.  It's an overwhelming list to ponder.  It contains almost all things that there are.  Then there's the fact that some of these things I have to do.  These things are especially infuriating to me and often a colossal waste of time, in my opinion: doing taxes, doctor's appointments, standing patiently in line, listening to other people talk, bathing regularly and thoroughly with soap and water, oil changes for my car.  This is all bad enough but becomes almost more than I can bear when considered in conjunction with things that I don't have to do but should do, like this trip back to The Old City.


The basic fact is that I don't want to do things that I don't want to do.  What's truly astounding is that I'm amazed at how astounding it is to me that doing things I don't want to do is so infuriating.  I can't think about it too much.  It makes my head hurt to think about it.  It's an Escher-esque maze of circular logic.


I've been talking to people about the trip back to see my family.  The responses are all over the board.  Some people get along great with their blood kin and some people really don't.  Most of us are somewhere in between.  I've had people tell me that what I'm doing is very admirable and others wonder aloud why I go back at all.  There are people that visit their families often and other people that never see them.  My behavior should probably fall somewhere in the middle.  One guy suggested that if no one is having a very good time then maybe a visit is not the best idea.  Why cause angst for everyone, in other words.


"They say they're having a good time," I replied.
"You said you were going to quit drinking years before that, in fact, happened," he said.
I guess when I see someone's eyelid twitching uncontrollably that may be a hint that the words coming out of their mouth are not to be trusted.  Not my friend -- this eyelids are fine; my family.


It's as if there's a part of me - a Big part - that continues to believe that I can get out of this veil of tears pain free.


The ego.

Stevie Seaweed: Ass

Dependent:  Verb:    Influenced, controlled, or determined by something else.
                      Noun:  A person who relies on someone else for existence, support, etc.


I'm a people pleaser who doesn't care what anyone thinks about him.  It's a very odd combination.  I crave your approval but I don't care whether I get it or not.  It's another one of those facts that makes me think: "Hmm.  It's no wonder I drank."


One of the biggest blessings in my sobriety is that I'm not so consumed with what others think of me.  I try not to act like an ass but I don't spend an inordinate amount of time worrying that someone might not like me because they think I act like an ass.  I mean, it's not as if I never act like an ass -- it's just that I don't act like one all of the time, according to some people, anyway.  I realize that doesn't sound like much but most people who know me now and knew me when are grateful for the few minutes of normalcy that I exhibit.


"At least he's not always an ass," I overhear them mutter.


Off to The Old City I go this week.  I'm not going to score a lot of brownie points with my family. In some ways they liked me better when I was drinking.  Not the drunk part or the cops part or the throwing up part, but the Docile Stevie Seaweed part.  I didn't enjoy my time with these people by and large, but give me a 12 pack and the opportunity to burn a couple of doobies in the upstairs bathroom and I was more than happy to show up and spend an afternoon doing whatever.  I was pretty congenial, malleable.  Now, however, the differences in our interests and beliefs are pretty stark and not hidden in a cloud of pot smoke and beer foam.  Unfortunately, my family is as intransigent as I am when it comes to compromise.  So I spend some time with them but I'm going to wander off on my own a fair amount, too.  Probably when I wander off they say: "Thank god he's out of here for a while," and then feel guilty for feeling that way.  I hope not.  I don't know how anyone can take me for more than a few hours every 6 months or so.  I irritate the hell out of myself after a couple of hours.


I'm never sure how most other people act around their families.  It's not clear to me what my obligations are.  What is it I have to do and what is it that I want to do and where do the twain meet?  Some of us like to spend time with their families and choose to do so.  I wish that was the case with me, but then I see some others who have families that make mine look like a walk in the park, and I feel some gratitude.


Family is hard.

Restless, Something, and Something Else

Irritable:  Easily annoyed or provoked; impatient; fretful (implies quick excitability to annoyance or anger, usually resulting from emotional tension, restlessness, physical indisposition, etc.)


I think Mr. Webster is in my living room.  I think he's looking at me as he comes up with this definition.  I think he's having a lot of trouble not inserting swear words into the definition.  "This is a family dictionary," he thinks.  "But I'd really get my point across if I could swear a little bit." (Swear: To use profane or blasphemous language; curse).


Everything and everybody is irritating me today.  I am easily provoked to irritation, which is not a good sign.  I swear (Swear: To assert or promise with great conviction or emphasis) upon a stack of Bibles to the truth of the old Three Blowhole Rule.  If in the course of a day I meet a blowhole then maybe I really did meet a blowhole; some people really are blowholes.   But if I run into someone else and decide that he's a blowhole, too, (Blowhole:  A hole through which air or gas can escape) then I figure that I have found the blowhole and the blowhole is me.


Fear:  A feeling of uneasiness; disquiet; anxiety; concern.


"This short word somehow touches about every aspect of our lives.  It was an evil and corroding thread; the fabric of our existence was shot through with it."


I like the phrase "fabric of our existence."  There's some heft to that phrase.


It's still fascinating to me how much of our lives can be wrapped up in our reaction to fear.  I think, in amazement sometimes, that it must be all there is.  All the troubles I have can be traced back to the fear that I'm not going to get what I want or I'm going to lose what I already have.


That covers a lot of ground.  


"The chief activator of our defects has been self-centered fear -- primarily fear that we would lose something we already possessed or would fail to get something we demanded.  Living upon a basis of unsatisfied demands, we were in a state of continual disturbance and frustration. (Frustrate:  in psychology, to prevent from gratifying certain impulses and desires, either conscious or unconscious).


I take this instinctual response to my environment and try to apply it to situations found in my modern world.  The ancient fear that something bigger than me and with sharper teeth is going to eat me.  More teeth would be worrisome, too; longer teeth, quicker teeth, a greater number of sets of teeth, implying that there are more hungry mouths involved.  Fear that I'll come home from a long day fending off saber-toothed tigers and Tyrannosaurus Rexes (defined as "king" in Latin) to find some other loin-clothed dude is living in my cave.  Fear that I won't have collected enough roots and berries for dinner.  


Fear of THE DARK!