Core Competencies

I am continuing to struggle with this bout of free-floating anxiety which I hypothesize has something to do with people in my life . . . you know . . . dying.  But I'm not at all positive about this - I can't usually find my car keys so trying to come up with some great overview of my current emotional state doesn't rate especially high as one of my core competencies.

I will say this: I am not at all patient right now.  Since I'm almost never patient the fact that I recognize special impatience is really saying something.

My regular morning meeting is close to our downtown area so we get a steady stream of patrons that may or may not be there for recovery.  We see homelessness and mental illness - often in one jittery package -  at almost every meeting.  Generally, we're cool with this - if someone wants to grab a cup of coffee and sit quietly we're not going to throw them out.  We're trying to keep the minimum requirement for membership as low as possible.  We want the doors to recovery to be wide, wide open.

The other day a clearly crazy guy was in the meeting.  He had a big sheaf of papers clutched to his chest.  After a bit he went over to our literature rack, took some brochures on recovery, and made his way back to his seat where he began to shuffle and organize everything that he had in a manner that I can only assume made sense to him.  He started to take the staples out of the brochures and add the disconnected pages to various piles.  The meeting is kind of a quiet place so the rustling obviously began to bother people.

I got up and walked across the room, took a seat next to him.

"You've got to stop rustling the papers," I said quietly.  I didn't want to make him feel bad - he can't feel great on a good day - and I didn't want to disrupt the meeting.

"OK," he said, quickly putting everything in one big pile.  He reached over and squeezed my shoulder to show there weren't any hard feelings and I patted him on the leg.  I was uncomfortable.  I mean - who made me president of The Fellowship?  That's a trick question - I'm self-appointed.  But I have been sober for a while so I've run into a lot of different situations in the past and I feel some responsibility to help behavior in the meeting place stay appropriate. I think this is part of the job of an old-timer.

He started rustling things around again near the end of the meeting.  You could see he just couldn't help himself.  A lot of people came up to thank me for what I did, relieving some of my anxiety, but still . . . I wish it always worked perfectly, no upsets and no controversy.

Yeah, right.  This IS The Fellowship after all.

"Yes, This Is Seaweed, and I Have to Cancel My Appointment?"

A few weeks ago I made an appointment with an imaging center to have a test performed on one of my %^!! malfunctioning legs.  At some point in between the making of the appointment and the very appointment itself I acquired the knowledge that this particular imaging center didn't play nice with my insurance company.  Being a smart guy - NO doubt about that -  I made an appointment with an imaging center that does.  This, as I understand it, is the function of insurance: to pay for things that are insured, despite the very popular notion that their purpose is actually to take in premiums and avoid paying for any benefits.  They seem to think that benefits have been tainted with the Black Death.

I needed to cancel my initial appointment.  As I picked up the phone I found myself rehearsing little deflecting untruths as to why I was doing this.   I didn't want to piss anyone off because you never know when you might need to come back to them for something else, especially given the adversarial relationship between they that provide service with they that pay for it.  As the patient I'm right in between this mess. No one appears to actually like the patient.

This is not what I did.  I cancelled the appointment without providing a mangled, implausible web of lies.  No one asked for the reason.  They were very polite.  I did not need to lie at all.  The point is that my default reaction is to lie.  More of an embellishment or exaggeration to my mind, and a pretty minor one at that as long as I convince myself that not telling the truth has degrees. It's like being on time - you are on time or you are not.  I get the idea that being a little late is probably better than being very late but the REAL idea is not to be late at all, to get ready so that you get there a little early.

Little, convenient lies.

Seaweed on the Phone

I went with a couple of friends to a recovery house in a rough neighborhood last night.  I'm glad for the opportunity to be of service, to perhaps pass the message along to someone who doesn't see much to be hopeful about.  That being said - I don't have a very dramatic "getting to recovery" kind of story, one that might resonate with a roomful of guys who are battling addictions to a variety of really nasty drugs, broke, prison stays hanging around their necks like giant anchors.  Normally I'm oblivious to this - I talk to keep myself sober, not under any illusion that I'm saving anyone, aware that you never know when your words resonate with someone.  Yesterday I didn't have it going on - I felt benumbed by the generalized anxiety tormenting me right now.  As I got started I could see a lot of pretty dead-looking eyes staring back at me.

I kind of phoned it in.  I didn't talk for very long, my words coming out, to my ear, canned and lifeless.  Sigh.  Happens to all of us from time to time.

Off the List!

I'm always working the phone as an integral part of my recovery.  I've made some really great friends and confidantes working the phone, finding that I'm a bit more honest and a bit more thorough when I'm going one on one with another recovering alcoholic.  I can stand up in a meeting and regurgitate The Book with the best of them and I can totally BS myself about where I am spiritually with the best of them, too.  But after 15 minutes with someone who knows me well I've pretty much run out of material for my act, forcing me to tell the . . . you know . . . truth. . . about what's going on, as loathsome as this can be.

I do not speak on the phone with someone who has been drinking - it's a waste of my time and a disservice to them, perhaps delaying the additional bad shit they have to endure before admitting that they're powerless.  I do call people first, however, even though most of the time these people don't call me back, especially if they're newish, although a lot of people with some serious sobriety don't call back, either.  I give everyone two chances to call back and then I ruthlessly purge them from my phone - I take them right off! -because if you can't return a couple of phone calls then you're Off the List!

I think there is some residual hangover from my sales-guy days when many, many people didn't return my phone calls, and I had a product that was so attractive that people called me to set up an appointment, and they still didn't return phone calls.  So part of me is offended - OK, annoyed - when I call someone who doesn't call back.  And I'm under no great illusion about my charisma - while I assume that some of the people who don't call back aren't in the habit of returning calls to anyone out of fear or procrastination, I simultaneously recognize that some people see my number, listen to my message, and think: "Meh."  I'm actually better with being disliked than being ignored.

The point is - should you be at all interested in the point - I called a couple of guys last week, one of them my sole sponsee in Vacation City.  Neither of them called back.  One apologized for his rudeness but still didn't call back.  Off the List!!

My sponsee thanked me for the call but he didn't call back, either.  Because I put some importance on the role of a sponsor I talked to him about  . . . you know . . .  calling his sponsor.  I don't remember what his response was but he still didn't call back.

Whenever I begin to overestimate my wisdom . . . 

Off the List!!!

FFA

I say good morning to Ken and to my mother every morning during my Quiet Time.  Tell 'em that I love 'em.  I can clearly see their faces smiling back at me, mom kind of beatific, Kenner's features twisted in more of a smirk.  It has been fun to do.  I'm sure they can hear me.  I don't think that each individual can hear what I say to anyone else, though, and for this I'm glad.  I use some bad words sometimes.

I spoke to a friend in The Program this morning and he suggested writing a letter to each of them but I don't think I'm going to do that - I'm not sure that The Dead can read.  It would seem to be a redundant system on their part, overriding their ability to access all literature of all time simply by blinking their eyes or clearing their throats.  I wrote to both of them when they were alive which seemed to be the more practical thing to do for this trudging German.  Still, a good suggestion.  I might do it later after I've forgotten where it came from, choosing instead to make it my own idea.  I steal all the time.

I called my buddy because I continue to have this heightened state of anxiety flitting about my head.  It's all crap anxiety, worrying about things that don't normally merit a second glance or worrying with no clear target in sight.  Free-floating anxiety, or FFA.  I believe that this is my odd, angular way of grieving, a viable substitute for wailing and chest beating and much gnashing of the teeth.  ONE time it would be nice to do something right out of the book.

If the only interaction that I can come up with regarding my father is to make him uncomfortable about his behavior then I'm beginning to practice a total deferral of all actions whatsoever.  What kind of an asshole am I if all I do is judge someone else's behavior? Ken would be on my ass about that shit.  Every now and then I'm glad he can't pick up the phone - I hate being told to leave everyone else alone when I'm so sure I can fix everyone else's problems.

Took What It Took

Sometimes I wish that I didn't have to go through some of the bullshit that I went through growing up and I'm using that term loosely - a lot of my growing up came far, far after I was . . . you know . . . grown up.  But I wish I could have danced around the painful stuff, the bad decisions leading to crappy outcomes, avoided them altogether.  I wish I had been spared from life's ups and downs.   I feel this way particularly when I see someone else making bad decisions, when I know that this person is going to suffer because of these bad decisions.  And I'm especially insufferable in my smug, condescending way those times when I'm right - it doesn't take a lot of life experience to be able to develop enough insight to be able to say: "I bet your work life and your family life and your interpersonal, inter-policial relationships would improve if you quit shooting heroin or drinking your breakfast."  This isn't particularly profound stuff.  I suffered mightily for a number of years because I was making decisions that were in the same emotional ballpark.

Yet, here I sit, pretty content with who I am.  I don't mean to suggest that I'm anything but a work in progress but at least I've elevated myself from some kind of sub-mongoloid species up to more of a human being level.  And I had to go through what I went through to get to this point.  I think some of my strengths came from fighting and slaying these demons.  I needed this experience to end up where I am, I needed to fall flat and fall flat again.  I'm not sure, however, that I needed to fall flat quite as many times as I did - I am a slow learner.

The scary part is that some of us fall extremely flat.  Pancake flat.  Road runner smooshed by a steamroller flat.  A good friend of mine got the call recently about a relative, a young guy in his early 30s, who fussed around with prescription narcotics once too often.  Just because they come in a little bottle from a real pharmacy, filled from an actual prescription written by an actual doctor, doesn't mean that it's OK to crush them up and melt them down and stick them in your vein.  

I wonder sometimes if we drunks handle death a little better than the general population because we see so much of it?

Barely 30.  

Vascular Surgeons, Hammers, and Guns

I had an appointment today to have some tests run on my balky leg and then to see what the doctor had to say.  He's a vascular surgeon.  You know it isn't going to work out very well when you have to have a consultation with a surgeon who is so specialized he has to have a qualifier added to his title.  What ever happened to just plain doctors?  Everyone has to do something so narrowly focused that it would be hard to listen dubiously to the consultation and then say something like: "Fuck you say?"  You know - burn them big time on some bullshit.

I had to coordinate the logistics of the test procedure and the consulting services of the surgeon with my All Powerful Insurance Company.  There are places that run the tests and there are surgeons that would slice up my leg and sometimes both are affiliated, in the same office, but apparently your average surgeon wouldn't take the test results from an alien testing services and use them to swab out a urinal.  They might even take the results -  if you were to have the courage to hand them over  - just so they could say something witty like: "Fuck is this shit?"

I'm a smart guy, right?  I call the vascular surgeon to verify that he accepts my insurance, getting a big thumbs up.  I stroll confidently into the office 15 minutes early - I'm a thoughtful guy, right? - only to be told that my insurance wasn't even remotely welcome at this particular office and I could pay cash and bill the out-of-network insurance plan on my own or I could take a fucking hike.  Maybe they'd pay me directly - maybe they wouldn't.  Not our problem was the distinct undertone.

So here I am looking for test results - that I assumed were going to be paid for almost entirely by my excellent insurance - on an optional procedure that I didn't have to miss any work to have done.  It didn't work out very well.  I'm a borderline psycho, right?  I'm a short click away from taking a hammer and smashing out store windows half the time is what I am.  I was going to say something about going up into a high tower with a rifle but I'm afraid of guns and get upset if I have to step on a spider - preferring to walk them outside on a piece of paper - so the analogy would have sucked.

It was just very frustrating.  I had to sit down for 20 minutes and listen to my breath.  I had to take what was happening out of the Very Fucking Important file and put it into the Are You Seriously Kidding Me? file.  I had to stop with the anger over something solvable and not that important anyway.  It's the stupid, illogical stuff that really riles me.  I did ask for clarification at the office about what happened with the "your insurance is golden" part of my day.  They admitted to the mistake but - in my opinion - lied about why they made the mistake, alleging that they verified my insurance eligibility but not that the office - you know - accepted the particular insurance plan, nearly prompting me to say something along the lines of: "Fuck you say - you verify eligibility on plans you don't accept?"

They were blissfully unaware of what was going on inside my head with the hammers and guns and everything.

Enough With The Bitching

Bitch:  To criticize spitefully, often for the sake of complaining rather than in order to have the problem corrected. 

And as luck would have it I got to speak to Barcelona K shortly after or before I spoke to Spandex - possibly it was the same day.  These two dudes are my favorite Insane Clown Alcoholic Posses.  These brothers are very different but they're still both insane.  It was a real treat to get them back to back.

The topic he brought up was along the lines of "I don't have enough time to think."  As a guy who has plenty of time to think I'm not sure I'm the guy to select as your Go-To Guy on these matters.  I'm not sure what matters I'm qualified to speak on and I think I called him anyway, mooting the whole point.  I did, however, have a long period of my life where balancing family, work, The Program, physical exercise, etc. was most difficult.  I bitched about being too busy all of the time so I can tell people bitching about being too busy that it's enough with the bitching already.

The funny thing today is that I occasionally experience some little angst because I'm not always busy enough. As you might imagine I bitch about it.

It's enough with the bitching already.

The Man For The Job

Balance:  A state in which opposing forces harmonize.

I caught up with my buddy Spandex a few weeks ago.  He's a good friend and a good alcoholic - he rarely has anything going on that he needs to talk about until you ask him if he has anything going on that he needs to talk about and THEN he's got something to talk about.  I'm familiar with this mind-warp - people have to pry my shit out of me.  A lot of the time I don't realize that I need to talk until I start talking.  10 minutes later I think: "Whew."  

It's pretty common for the talker to say something along the lines of: "Aren't you sorry you asked?"

Never.  I'm never sorry.  I wallow in any opportunity to get my focus off of me, an odious topic and far overdone.

Spandex had a work thing going on.  Not a particularly bad one but it was a situation requiring him to promote himself with his supervisor in a matter affecting both him and his colleagues, people who he has to work closely with and who he likes, for the most part.  We're good people when we're working The Steps, we drunks - we try to be congenial, to do the right thing, to balance what we want with our fellows may want.  We try to balance our wishes and desires with the wishes and desires of others.  We want to sleep well at night and we want to get our way, at least some of the time, two outcomes that are often in conflict with each other.  In the world - especially the world of business and money and power - it's very possible to get one's ass steamrolled if one exhibits an overabundance of deference.

My friend is afflicted with a great deal of conscience.  Most of my good friends are.  I like to think that I am as well, from time to time.  And most of my good friends are very, very hard on themselves while being simultaneously poor at self-promotion.  I think sometimes we have to say: "This is what I want - I think I'M the best person for this."  It's surprisingly difficult, especially since we know how painful it can be getting in bed at the end of the day after acting like a shrill harpy.  There's that goddam balance thing again.

An unfortunate fact of the world is that many people will take the path of least resistance if it helps them avoid unpleasant conflict - a manager may very well slight the humble employee trying to be a good team player so that he doesn't have to deal with the bitching employee trying to get his or her own way. 

Go, Spandex Go!

Sharp Dressed Man

I'm getting dressed after my morning swim if by "swim" you mean "laboring not to drown for about 3/4s of a mile," chatting with a friend of mine if by "friend" you mean "a guy who actually swims more slowly and ponderously than I do."  I pull on my 25 year old dress slacks and my thrift-store suit jacket, don my little pork-pie hat, prompting my buddy to say: "Looking sharp today, Seaweed, looking sharp."

I stand a little taller, smile a little brighter, and make my Grand Exit from the club, a trek that takes me from the rear of the building, past all of the weight machines and exercise classes lining the hall.  Looking good, feeling natty.

I toss my swim bag into the trunk and casually note that my fly is extraordinarily open.  It was kind of the cherry on top of my outfit.

King Lear

Sociopath:  A personality marked by antisocial behavior and a pervasive pattern of disregard and violation of the rights of other. 

I'm not a guy who remembers his dreams very often.  I sleep pretty deeply - I'm not sure if this is because I have a clean conscience or that I'm sleeping the sleep of the damned.  I've heard sociopaths sleep well.  I'm not going to SuperK for clarification on this one, that's for sure.

When I do remember my dreams they are hilariously literal, the theme usually being I'm not prepared for something important, often school related.  I haven't been in school for 40 years but I'm still showing up for class, for a test, totally unprepared.  SuperK scoffs: her dreams are involved and muli-layered and complex.

Last night I was hanging around the outskirts of a small open-air theater where Shakespeare's "King Lear" was being performed to a sparse, desultory crowd of people sitting on metal folding chairs.  I was worried because I was the actor playing King Lear himself in the upcoming matinee and evening performance.  I had, naturally, not studied a bit.  I was agonizing on whether I should just get on stage and wing it (I imagined teleprompters or something electronic helping me out) or come clean to the individuals responsible for putting on the play, one of them clearly an old high school teacher.

I like the fact that I'm the LEAD in a SHAKESPEARE play - maybe as difficult a playwright as there is - in KING LEAR - maybe as complicated a play as he has written.  No ego issues there. 

THERE'S a situation that I'm not controlling.

I'm Not Kidding!!!

And then to continue beating a very dead horse I'm continually amazed at how my lack of power over my powerlessness leads me back into the rat trap of believing that other people want me to tell them what to do.  NOBODY wants me to tell them want to do, even on the exceedingly rare occasions when someone actually asks for my advice.  When people ask for my advice they're lying - they're actually asking me to validate their behavior so that they can do what they've already planned to do.

And why do I think that I know what's best for anyone else?  I can't find my car keys most of the time.  I'm going to tell you what to do?  I'm going to make better decisions for you than you can make for yourself with favorable outcomes for everyone concerned?  I'm not making this stuff up - I really think this way.  It takes a conscious decision on my part not to go there.  My immediate reaction is to really believe that I can direct the life of another individual.

Does anyone know where my car keys are?

I know all of this not because I'm wise or smart or experienced or insightful but because I have no interest whatsoever in the advice of anyone else!  But I think everyone else wants me to give them advice on how to run their lives!!  

I'm not kidding!!!