Quintessentially Seaweed

So I'm reflecting on the concept that an alcoholic is essentially a large collection of very deep holes that scream to be filled.  I know I spend vast amounts of time and energy shoveling stuff into each of my respective holes.  A lot of these holes make us feel good, until they don't - alcohol, drugs, food, nicotine, sex, caffeine, the endorphin release after exercise.  We work too hard and too long to gain recognition - to be important among our fellows - and to gain things that glitter and impress.  We pursue relationships until we possess what we're pursuing, whether we want it or not, and invariably we quickly tire once the conquest is made and the thrill fades.

I've made much progress over the years on many of these sweet delights but there is one monstrous foe that has stood tall, battled well, and refused to be vanquished: caffeine.

Here's the thing: there's nothing wrong with the effects of caffeine - a legal, fairly mild stimulant - on the normal mind if what you mean by "nothing" is "everything" and that you understand that the adjective  "normal" is in no way connected to the individual "Seaweed."    I am a guy who wakes up early, after sleeping well, and thrives in the morning.  I can nap should I get tired.  I can also go to bed early if I feel weary.  I do not need a mild stimulant in the morning or at any other time, irregardless of what stories I try to tell myself to justify the kick of the caffeine.

I am prone to anxiety and one of the possible bad side effects of coffee is an increase in anxiety.
 It's like being lactose intolerant and starting your day with a glass of milk.  A normal person who loves milk and is lactose intolerant would not drink the milk;.  The milk, temporarily delicious, produces hours of discomfort. "Hmmm," says the individual.  "Perhaps tomorrow I'll have tea."  You would applaud this decision but probably not be overly impressed.

Not Seaweed.  I teeter-totter away from the massive caffeine injection that coffee provides, dabbling in teas or nothing at all, before slithering back.  The stuff makes me anxious, screws with my aging and increasingly creaky digestive system, and serves me no good purpose.  But I get a nice, horse-tranquilizer kick at the start, and I crave kicks, jolts, and shocks.  No matter that they go away quickly, leaving me jittery and anxious - I have trouble thinking the thought through to its logical conclusion.  

Sounds alcoholic, doesn't it?  Compulsive.  Obsessive.  The hopeful drunk hoping against hope that he can sip on a beer and feel delightfully mellow, chasing that sense of ease and release that the first drink produced the first time.

Minuteman Dave, a green tea drinker, told me long ago about an anxiety attack he had experienced: "It was profoundly uncomfortable."  Columbus Mark doesn't drink coffee: "I liked speed too much."  Spandex gave it up: "Coffee and me don't mix."

Sheeyit.

Disease-Ridden Poverty Monkeys

Ed. Note:  This is not my title.  I do not have the imagination to come up with such a brilliant title, and I'm pretty imaginative.  Tip o' the cap to Spandex.

I spoke today to a very old and very dear friend from The Old City.  He's not an adventuresome guy.  The Old City is lovely and stable and friendly and easy but it isn't on the cutting edge of very many things, so when I mention that I'm going to go to India and Nepal I can hear eyeballs rolling up in heads from 2500 miles away.  I tense up, ready for the rhetorical punch in the stomach.  I get ready to play defense.

I get it, really.  This kind of trip isn't for everybody.  My buddy's family has a cabin in the woods and he has gone there for a couple of weeks every year for the last 50 years.  If I had to choose between that and having knitting needles inserted into both of my eyeballs, with a quick, violent, jabbing motion, I'd have to take a few days to ponder my response.  I don't share this disturbing imagery unbidden with people who are about to go on vacation.  I wouldn't even share it if I was bidden.  It just seems unnecessary to say: "Hey, that sounds really boring."

I'm excited about my trip but I'm also getting nervous.  Trepidation is a word that comes to mind.  I'm prone to anxiety over the smallest things and this is not a small thing.  So I don't need people telling me horror stories about the places I'm going to visit.  I know there's going to be some poverty and I know it can be crowded and I know there are monkeys in India.  I don't need anyone telling me that I might get sick - I'm taking typhoid and malaria medication, for chrissake.  I'm not going to be eating food prepared by gravediggers and I'm not going to be bathing in public toilets.  I know that the hygiene isn't going to be up to the standards of Vacation City.  I'm not going to inspect the hygiene.  This is an adventure, not a walk around the neighborhood.

If my buddy tells me the story of his stepdaughter's friend's cousin's uncle's terrible monkey experience one more time I'm going to scream.

Quiet Intensity

Intense: Strained; tightly drawn; extreme in degree; excessive; stressful and tiring.

I spoke with an ancient friend on the phone yesterday, one of those guys who knows me almost as well as I know myself.  During the course of our conversation the question arises, inevitably: How am I doing?  Most people who ask this question of me get a mixture of platitudes, half-truths, total fabrications, and brilliant misdirection.  I don't do this to be a dick - I really don't think I know how I'm doing.  Moreover, I don't know what kind of an answer people expect.  Do they want a glossing-over of anything unpleasant?  Are they being polite while remaining uninterested?  Do they really want to know?  That would be alien territory for a guy who is completely bored by the lives of everyone else and has trouble understanding why they would be interested in mine.  They want a lot of details?  Jesus, really?  I can't fathom this.  I'm sure that they must want something and I'm going to do my best not to give it to them.

I told him that I'm doing my best to remain engaged with the world while trying to avoid wrestling it to the ground.  Progressing but no longer as an Unstoppable Force.  I used to be like water - harmless enough in its resting state - trapped in a pressure cooker that was sitting on a blisteringly hot flame.  The whole kitchen was shaking - it was always just a matter of time before something blew up.  I was a feral human engaged in mortal combat with demons who kept coming at me, wave after wave of relentless demons.  I was always on the verge of being completely overwhelmed.  Sobriety enabled me to build a small cage so that I could keep the demons just out of reach - I could still hear them out there in the darkness, snarling and gnashing their fangs but they couldn't get their razor-sharp claws through the bars.  Today I live in a mid-sized compound with electricity and running water.  It's pleasant enough - not euphorically so, but then again the fact that I don't fear for my life every waking minute passes for euphoria.  I'm not sure I should take the risk of attempting to reclaim more jungle to make my compound bigger and cushier - I'm wary of what lies outside the compound.  I'm careful I don't take on too much while still trying to move forward.  

I try to achieve without asking too much of myself because when I fail to meet my unmeetable demands I get frustrated and afraid and look for release, and I have to be goddam careful of my outlets.  I have a history of very bad outlets, very destructive outlets.  I've got the pressure valve open and the flame turned low.

There was a movie called . . . I can't remember what it was called.  Hello, Google Search - I see it was called Beautiful Mind and I have no reason to doubt this.  Anyway, the protagonist was crazy enough that he took instruction from a few really destructive constructs of his mind, phantoms that he could see as clearly as I can see this somewhat blurry computer screen.  The movie progresses, the protagonist begins to recover, the denouement shows him seemingly healed, talking to his therapist or someone about how good it must be to have banished the evil constructs to the fires of hell.  The protagonist agrees, then looks over his shoulder where a couple of the most troublesome hallucinations are sitting quietly, smiling and nodding at him.  

That's how I feel about my recovery - the demons are still around.  I haven't gotten rid of them yet.  It's more of a detente.  They don't fuck with me as long as I don't fuck with them.

Pig Face and Loud Mouth

I clambered out of the pool today, mightily pleased with myself for having wheezed and labored through another 3/4s of a mile.  I sit in the hot tub for a few minutes before I start swimming, trying to loosen up balky muscles.  This also serves to make the first lap especially miserable, the warm water in the sauna a shocking contrast to the cold pool.  The payoff, after I'm done, is a nice, long 15 minute session back in the heat, drowsily meditating and congratulating myself on completing a modest session of exercise.

I peered into the sauna.  There sat two guys: one a big, loudmouthed man who doesn't know shit about anything, a fact that doesn't stop him from preaching to whomever he can hold hostage, and a bald, pig-faced guy whose politics offend me beyond all comprehension.  I left in place the ear plugs I wear while swimming and stepped into the warm water.  The jets in the pool make quite a racket so the these two men fairly scream at each other from opposing corners, unconcerned that their objectionable hectoring is easily overheard.  They're pissed about politics.  They're steamed.  They're hot under the collar.  They're getting fucking screwed by the government.

I just want to meditate for a couple of minutes, think pleasant thoughts, be grateful, be happy.  Instead, I get a torrent of vomit from pig-face and loud-mouth, two men who undoubtedly receive more perks and goodies from the government than your average bear.  I stuff the earplugs further into my ear-holes, jamming them in painfully deep.  I position one of my stork limbs over one of the water jets, hoping the vibrations set up by the water striking my leg help deaden the commentary.  I begun to hum loudly - I'm in the hot tub, humming a Christmas song at the top of my humming lungs, and I can still hear these idiots talking.  I probably look like an escaped mental patient.  I would edge away from someone with ear plugs in humming "Little Drummer Boy" in a hot tub.

Rum pumpum pum.

What is it about objectionable people that makes them so hard to ignore?  In meetings I can drift off into a side reverie at the drop of the hat unless the speaker is someone I detest, at which point I'm transfixed by what they say, I hang on every word, I'm dialed in.  And what exactly do I care about the politics of a couple of idiots that I don't even know?  Talk about spending emotional energy foolishly

Kissy-Face Seaweed

So my dying sponsor is 82 years old.  He seems to be getting younger based on his marvelous attitude - he doesn't act someone who is dying.  He always ends our conversations by saying that he loves me.  I have always known this to be true even though those exact words have rarely passed his lips.  We are guys, after all, and both of German heritage to boot - we're not exactly the kissy-face type.

Actually, that's not true - I am a bit of the kissy-face type.

It is a joy and a privilege to talk to him.  I always feel better, energized, more optimistic after I hang up.  Going out with a smile on your face is quite the party trick.

My father is 86 years old.  He is approaching his end submerged in bottles of cheap vodka - plastic bottles, for chrissake.  I have talked to him in the last year for approximately 17 minutes.  He does not answer the phone when I call and he does not return my phone calls.  He tells my mother to tell me that he loves me, and I know this to be a fact.

I caught up with my mom today who apparently had been in the hospital the past 3 days.  Too much of an effort for my dad to call and tell me, I guess.

How about that?  How about that, anyway?  Isn't that amazing?  What a Program we've got and what a way to learn how to deal with the stuff that life throws at us, especially with family.

Stayin' Alive

I used to a Program Absolutist - it was The Program or get the hell out of here.  I no longer think that way, sort of, when it suits my purpose.  I always ask people who are trying to figure out how to stay stopped: "Are you sober and are you happy?"  If you can answer Yes to both of these questions I say: "Rock on, dude."  I cannot improve on those results.  These are the desired results.

Some of us use religion instead of The Program.  Some of us get all book smart and use our knowledge to stay sober.  Some of us just seem to gut it out.  Not all of us are in the gutter when we come in here and some of us managed to put together stretches of sobriety before we quit drinking for good.  I never could figure out people who had jobs and families and houses.  That kind of shit seemed so adult.

I would recommend that if you're going to use The Fellowship that you should give the 12 Step technique a whirl.  We are, after all, a 12 Step Program that is based on the 12 Steps.  

I will say this about the friendships that I have made in The Fellowship: they really are based on The Fellowship.  I meet a lot of nice people with whom I develop relationships, but I find they endure when everyone is throwing a lot of time and energy into their recovery.  I'm also intrigued when I talk to someone who has quit working on their recovery - it's like talking to someone in a time warp.  I can't escape the feeling that I've gone back in time as if I'm picking up on a conversation with a person who hasn't changed a bit.  It's beyond weird.

Seaweed: Trusted Advisor

Advice:  An opinion recommended or offered, as worthy to be followed.

So my parents are selling their home.  To be helpful I spoke on their behalf with a real estate agent that I trust very much and also with a guy who buys older homes and fixes them up to resell.  Also a guy that I trust a lot.  I wasn't asked to provide these two excellent, excellent, EXCELLENT options for my parents, either one of which would be an excellent solution to their situation.

Self-satisfied, I sit back and wait.

Somewhere down the road they select their own real estate agent and take it upon themselves to have a little pre-sale work done on the house.  They did not call me.  They did not solicit my advice.  They just went ahead and did it, my sister helping a lot.

I went on-line and saw the house listed for far more money than I think that they're going to get and my initial reaction is this: "I hope they don't get what they're asking."  These are my parents whom I love, mind you, that I apparently hope will experience some kind of financial setback.  Not to mention the fact that if they get more money and don't end up spending it then at least half of it would come my way at some point and what do I care about someone else's business, anyway?  None of this makes the slightest bit of rational sense.

Sure, I've got my ego under control.  Sure, I'm a healthy, healthy, HEALTHY guy

A Thing That Really Sucked

Suck:  To be inferior or objectionable.

The chairman of my morning meeting is a guy that I don't like very much, if "by don't like very much" you mean "can't stand."  He has been sober a long time and is very knowledgeable about the history of The Fellowship - which I like - but he talks at every meeting and he talks far too long, both of which annoy the hell out of me,  probably because it deprives me of the chance to speak at every meeting and at great length.  Irregardless, I always greet him and I always try to concentrate on the good in what he says instead of getting irritated at the things about him that I don't like.

He practices a brand of spirituality that I'm going to be immersed in when I travel to India so I took a minute to tell him about our trip.  He mentioned that there are a couple of official religions there that don't see eye to eye (imagine that - groups of people associated with a religious group that don't get along) and, as a result, tend to self-segregate.

"Well, we do a pretty good job of that here, too," I mused.  I think this is an understandable human characteristic - if you like Fruity Peebles and your lodge is pouring bowls of Count Chocula every day your best bet is to find another breakfast spot.  Proclaiming loudly "I don't like Fruity Peebles" over and over isn't going to get you too far.

"You know what I mean," he said, pausing a minute before adding that we'd all be better off if a politician he didn't like would only vacate his office, using a terrible epithet to modify as horrible a racial slur as you could imagine.  It was unclear to me how he managed to segue from a discussion about religious practices to this disturbing conclusion.

I reacted as if I had been punched in the stomach.

"Don't say that," I said.

"I think I said something I shouldn't have said," he remarked.

I was walking away at that point, showing him a lot of back.

"You shouldn't have said that.  You shouldn't have said that."  I wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible.  I don't know what made me feel worse - that he said what he said or that he somehow, some way, thought I would be receptive to that kind of remark.  Why do people who can feel such hate feel so comfortable expressing it openly?  What did he see in me that made him think I'm a racist?  He's probably not thinking about me at all.

So, when he next talks, how do you think I'm going to react?  He's toast.  I won't accept a single thing he utters as worthwhile now because I got to see the filth underneath the veneer.

This Program - indeed, any spiritual program - preaches love and kindness and understanding and tolerance.  If you don't feel these things - and all of us, from time to time, aren't going to feel these things - then your spirituality is sucking, and whether that is a temporary state or a permanent one is up to you to decide.

Some Helpful Quotes

Resentment:  A feeling of anger or displeasure stemming form belief that one has been wronged by others or betrayed; indignation.

"Finally, we begin to see that all people, including ourselves, are to some extent emotionally ill as well as frequently wrong, and then we approach true tolerance and see what real love for our fellows actually means."

"The moment we ponder a twisted or broken relationship with another person, our emotions go on the defensive.  To escape looking at the wrongs we have done another, we resentfully focus on the wrongs he has done us."

"Let's remember that alcoholics are not the only ones bedeviled by sick emotions."

"It is a spiritual axiom that every time we are disturbed, no matter what the cause, there is something wrong with us."

"Since defective relations with other human beings have nearly always been the immediate cause of our woes . . . "

"Or, if my disturbance was seemingly caused by the behavior of others, why do I lack the ability to accept conditions I cannot change? . . . . If I am unable to change the present state of affairs, am I willing to take the measure necessary to shape my life to conditions as they are?"

Remember, Seaweed

Ambition:  Desire to distinguish one's self from from other people; eager or inordinate desire for some object that confers distinction.

Anonymity: The spiritual foundation of all of our Traditions, ever reminding us to place principles before personalities.  That is quite a statement.  I am constantly reminded as I study our Steps and Traditions how important it is for me to keep breaking down my ego.  That embodies a lot of what The Program means to me: Ego Destruction.  I'm reminded that personal ambitions has no place in recovery.  I personally need to keep trying to right-size my ego.  I'm not a piece of garbage but I'm not All That, either.

I think that I'm always trying to promote myself - sometimes overtly, obviously, and sometimes in ways so subtle that I manage to bullshit even myself.

Well, stop doing that, says this Tradition.

I also think that this Tradition reminds me to avoid gossip.  My sponsor never lets me run down another individual.  If someone has really gotten my goat and I need to unburden my feelings so they don't migrate into a resentment, he'll listen politely but end the conversation by saying: "Remember, Seaweed: principles before personalities."  I try not to say anything about anyone that I wouldn't say right to that individual's face.

Monks In Red Robes With Saffron Coll

Meditate:  To contemplate; to keep the mind fixed upon something; to sit or lie down and come to a deep rest while still remaining conscious.  

I'm not sure I'm ever going to fully understand how meditation works.  I make the time to do it each day and I almost always feel better when I'm done - calmer, more accepting, that kind of shit.  My mind, to my thinking, is not cooperating.  It's very, very active, bouncing all over the place, all kinds of thoughts and impulses and urges trying to make themselves known.  

Let them go.  Let them pass through, without judgement, without trying to control them.  They are just thoughts.

Dude asked me to help him work through The Steps again.  He really wants my advice, he says, but I'm dubious.  I think he knows exactly what he wants to do and he'd like me to be there when he goes through the process he wants to go through.  Sounds good to me.  Anybody doing some reading and writing about The Steps is doing something worthwhile.  What do I know, anyhow?  My friend has been sober for a while so it's not like he's going to mess something up.

Dorothy, On Acid

Hold:  To impose restraint upon; to limit in motion or action; to bind legally or morally; to confine; to restrain.

Money and power and sex, oh my - Dorothy.  As in: Wizard of Oz Dorothy, on acid.

Funny how these things that I want take charge of my life the more I want them, the more I try to hang on to them.  If I want something to limit, bind, confine, restrain, or impose upon me the surest way for me to do it is to try to grasp them tightly.  If I want to be controlled then I should try to control.  These instincts are the strangler figs of the moral world.  They slowly grow up around me, choking me, until the center rots away and the only thing left is a great, big old strangler fig.