I had some dealings with my birth family last week, and the proceedings weren't to my liking. When things don't go the way that I want them to I have to tamp down the urge to bring out my flamethrower, which also is a machine gun and a tactical atom bomb. It is, after all, NOT MY FAULT. Nothing ever is, and I have the evidence to prove it, unless everything works out well and then I've been known to quickly step in and take all of the credit.
I tried to behave well -- with mixed results -- and then thought it prudent to review my actions with trusted friends and servants. My sponsor, who spends a lot of time in his retirement doing nice things for people who are less fortunate then he is -- for free, I may add, which apparently is the definition of volunteering, so I'm not going to pull out my Webster's to research that word. I'm afraid that I would find a whole lot of information that I'm not interested in -- always says: "Principles before personalities, Horseface. Principles before personalities." So obviously I didn't call him. That kind of advice I can do without when I'm standing there with my lit blowtorch.
Then I thought of Shorty, my go-to guy on family matters. He doesn't analyze things or make a fuss or throw a fit, he just quietly makes himself available to be of service. That doesn't mean that he lets people take advantage of him, it's that he keeps things simple. For instance, if he's at a family gathering with a few folks that rub him the wrong way, he heads to the kitchen and peels parsnips or scours pans, in the company of scullery maids, I assume. I, on the other hand, take a position in the family room where I can keep a close eye on anyone that annoys me. That way I can spend my time judging people or trying to start arguments about matters that are unimportant to me.
I think that most people are interested in getting their own way. And I don't want that to sound sinister. There's something to be said for trying to collect a little pleasure and eject a little pain. I don't think that my family is any worse or any better than the average person. I don't want to see this. I want to start hollering like a five year old: "But he started it! He hit me first!" I don't want to cede any territory that I have already conquered, even if I feel better in the long run.
There's a good reason that we have a chapter called The Family Afterward.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Horseface Steve: Bleeding Deacon
I attended a speaker discussion meeting this morning. The format is for a speaker to read a couple of passages from the Big Book and then share for about fifteen minutes. At that point the floor is opened up for a general discussion on the chosen topic. It's a big meeting for 7:30 AM on a Saturday. Apparently it's a lot easier to get up when you don't have a blinding headache from a night of carousing.
At the table in front of me a guy was reading the newspaper as he waited for the meeting to start. Unfortunately for both of us he continued to read the newspaper after the proceedings got under way. Normally, I look favorably on reading of any kind, but during a meeting I'm less charitably disposed. If you want to read the newspaper, fine, go somewhere else and read the newspaper. This isn't Program etiquette per se; it's normal courtesy. There's a speaker who is sharing from the heart about deeply personal matters and I'm going to sit there and read the sports page? It's rude. It's like saying I'm not going to let someone talking about their recovery from alcoholism interrupt my analysis of last night's box score.
Now the quandary: run my mouth or practice acceptance? Not much of a quandary, actually. My mouth is always turned on. It's always running. All I have to do is stomp on the accelerator and I lay rubber for 50 yards, even if there's only 40 yards of asphalt between me and a brick wall. I closed my eyes, began to breathe deeply, and tried to meditate away my self-righteous indignation. This is a meeting, for god's sake. I'm here to get better, not worse. I don't want to increase my agitation.
Finally, I take a peek and see that the guy next to him has picked up a section. I floor it. I lean in, quietly, discreet: "Are you kidding me? You're reading the newspaper?" The original antagonist starts to smile at the joke then realizes I'm serious, looks back down at the paper. Number Two sets down his section.
The ringleader cracks: "Well, you got one of us to stop."
"Hey, 50% isn't bad," I retort.
I'm furious at this point. I hear nothing for 10 minutes but the raging argument in my head as I plan how I'm going to slice this guy to pieces after the meeting ends. He very deliberately reads the newspaper for the entire meeting but I can see he's pissed. One table over is a woman attending her first meeting. What is the message there? That it's OK to read? Maybe we should turn a TV on in the corner. Maybe everyone at the speaker's table should bring reading material. I-pods, cell phones, it's all on the table.
I did manage to get my emotions under control. The woman talking did a fine job and this stimulated a good conversation about the topic. But what was right? Is it my responsibility to say something? Nobody else did. But, you know, I really am pretty passionate about this Program. I think we need to show some restraint but we do need to make sure the thing works right.
I'm glad I did it.
At the table in front of me a guy was reading the newspaper as he waited for the meeting to start. Unfortunately for both of us he continued to read the newspaper after the proceedings got under way. Normally, I look favorably on reading of any kind, but during a meeting I'm less charitably disposed. If you want to read the newspaper, fine, go somewhere else and read the newspaper. This isn't Program etiquette per se; it's normal courtesy. There's a speaker who is sharing from the heart about deeply personal matters and I'm going to sit there and read the sports page? It's rude. It's like saying I'm not going to let someone talking about their recovery from alcoholism interrupt my analysis of last night's box score.
Now the quandary: run my mouth or practice acceptance? Not much of a quandary, actually. My mouth is always turned on. It's always running. All I have to do is stomp on the accelerator and I lay rubber for 50 yards, even if there's only 40 yards of asphalt between me and a brick wall. I closed my eyes, began to breathe deeply, and tried to meditate away my self-righteous indignation. This is a meeting, for god's sake. I'm here to get better, not worse. I don't want to increase my agitation.
Finally, I take a peek and see that the guy next to him has picked up a section. I floor it. I lean in, quietly, discreet: "Are you kidding me? You're reading the newspaper?" The original antagonist starts to smile at the joke then realizes I'm serious, looks back down at the paper. Number Two sets down his section.
The ringleader cracks: "Well, you got one of us to stop."
"Hey, 50% isn't bad," I retort.
I'm furious at this point. I hear nothing for 10 minutes but the raging argument in my head as I plan how I'm going to slice this guy to pieces after the meeting ends. He very deliberately reads the newspaper for the entire meeting but I can see he's pissed. One table over is a woman attending her first meeting. What is the message there? That it's OK to read? Maybe we should turn a TV on in the corner. Maybe everyone at the speaker's table should bring reading material. I-pods, cell phones, it's all on the table.
I did manage to get my emotions under control. The woman talking did a fine job and this stimulated a good conversation about the topic. But what was right? Is it my responsibility to say something? Nobody else did. But, you know, I really am pretty passionate about this Program. I think we need to show some restraint but we do need to make sure the thing works right.
I'm glad I did it.
Friday, March 6, 2009
I'm Going Down, Down, Down. Into the Ring of Fire.
Energy: Potential forces; inherent power; capacity for vigorous action.
Oh, I have some capacity for vigorous action all right. My problem is that I often apply the vigor to the action in a manner totally out of proportion to the vigor required. I have a big hammer and I'm not afraid to use it. Action is fine as long as there is some SANITY to the activities, and it also helps if action needs to be taken, which is often not the case.
I like to spring into action. Why think about what I'm going to do? It's time-consuming and boring, something for the adults sitting at the big table to do. I'm down here at the card table with the kids. If there is something to be done let's take off at a million miles an hour, six guns a-blazing, warning klaxons blaring, manning the electronic bullhorns: "Get out of my way, you dumb asses! I'm in the midst of some action!"
Action can be good. Action is like fire. Fire can keep me warm. Fire can burn all of the skin off of my knuckles, and I speak from experience on both accounts. I don't like to start a small fire. I like to gather a lot of highly combustible materials and soak them in gasoline or kerosene or some other unstable accelerant and lob a whole pack of lit matches onto the pile. Let's get warm.
This is why I go to meetings. I have friends -- some of whom also like to play with matches and gasoline -- who aren't afraid to tap me on the shoulder when I'm off in my own little world, which is where I live most of the time. They might point out that we are inside or that it's 85 degrees outside and we're currently not in need of a conflagration.
Curse you, friends.
Oh, I have some capacity for vigorous action all right. My problem is that I often apply the vigor to the action in a manner totally out of proportion to the vigor required. I have a big hammer and I'm not afraid to use it. Action is fine as long as there is some SANITY to the activities, and it also helps if action needs to be taken, which is often not the case.
I like to spring into action. Why think about what I'm going to do? It's time-consuming and boring, something for the adults sitting at the big table to do. I'm down here at the card table with the kids. If there is something to be done let's take off at a million miles an hour, six guns a-blazing, warning klaxons blaring, manning the electronic bullhorns: "Get out of my way, you dumb asses! I'm in the midst of some action!"
Action can be good. Action is like fire. Fire can keep me warm. Fire can burn all of the skin off of my knuckles, and I speak from experience on both accounts. I don't like to start a small fire. I like to gather a lot of highly combustible materials and soak them in gasoline or kerosene or some other unstable accelerant and lob a whole pack of lit matches onto the pile. Let's get warm.
This is why I go to meetings. I have friends -- some of whom also like to play with matches and gasoline -- who aren't afraid to tap me on the shoulder when I'm off in my own little world, which is where I live most of the time. They might point out that we are inside or that it's 85 degrees outside and we're currently not in need of a conflagration.
Curse you, friends.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Of Fairies and Layla and Paperback Writers
Yesterday I started off playing the riff to “Smoke on the Water.” Today, I think I’ll try “Layla” or maybe “Paperback Writer.” I realize that I’m dating myself by referencing these old songs, but I can't seem to stop. Layla! You got me on my knees!
What's funny is that I seem to keep coming back, over and over, to a few concepts that are important to me. While I’m eternally in search of the easier, softer way I want it to be very complicated and arcane. That way I can pretend that I don’t understand the instructions or that I’m somehow smarter than you or better informed on a particular topic, like How to Stay Sober. The other issue is that I’m so distracted by unimportant things -- And I want to be a paperback writer. Paperback writer! Paperback writerrrrrrr!! -- that I can’t remember what I did yesterday, so I repeat myself, saying the same things again and again, making the exact same point.
At this moment I’m in the back of a conference room attending a seminar. I’m supposed to be assisting the instructor. Clearly, my assistance is not too impressive.
Anyway, the riff today is that my problems are very rarely that important. For instance, the economy is not great right now so the money that I have saved for retirement in my 401K has lost value. And the housing market is just as bad so I suspect that my home isn’t worth as much as it was when I bought it. My sponsor asked: “Are you trying to sell your house?” When I admitted that I wasn’t he asked: “So what do you care?”
The acid test today is whether or not I can bring up a problem as a topic at my jail meeting. I didn’t know what a 401K was when I was drinking. I certainly didn’t have any money to invest for my retirement. If I had money I was investing it in the retirement account of my local drug dealer or helping finance the guy who owned the corner bar. I didn’t have a house, either or a car or anything else. Today I have a nice house and I’m making the payments on it, mostly on time if I’m not too distracted by old, not that good rock and roll songs to remember to write a check, which is no sure thing. The mortgage holder is happy to collect late fees so they don’t seem to mind too much.
Fairies wear boots and ya gotta believe me!
I saw it, I saw it with my own two eyes.
Fairies wear boots and ya gotta believe me!
Yeaaaaaahhhhhh!
Ozzie was no poet.
What's funny is that I seem to keep coming back, over and over, to a few concepts that are important to me. While I’m eternally in search of the easier, softer way I want it to be very complicated and arcane. That way I can pretend that I don’t understand the instructions or that I’m somehow smarter than you or better informed on a particular topic, like How to Stay Sober. The other issue is that I’m so distracted by unimportant things -- And I want to be a paperback writer. Paperback writer! Paperback writerrrrrrr!! -- that I can’t remember what I did yesterday, so I repeat myself, saying the same things again and again, making the exact same point.
At this moment I’m in the back of a conference room attending a seminar. I’m supposed to be assisting the instructor. Clearly, my assistance is not too impressive.
Anyway, the riff today is that my problems are very rarely that important. For instance, the economy is not great right now so the money that I have saved for retirement in my 401K has lost value. And the housing market is just as bad so I suspect that my home isn’t worth as much as it was when I bought it. My sponsor asked: “Are you trying to sell your house?” When I admitted that I wasn’t he asked: “So what do you care?”
The acid test today is whether or not I can bring up a problem as a topic at my jail meeting. I didn’t know what a 401K was when I was drinking. I certainly didn’t have any money to invest for my retirement. If I had money I was investing it in the retirement account of my local drug dealer or helping finance the guy who owned the corner bar. I didn’t have a house, either or a car or anything else. Today I have a nice house and I’m making the payments on it, mostly on time if I’m not too distracted by old, not that good rock and roll songs to remember to write a check, which is no sure thing. The mortgage holder is happy to collect late fees so they don’t seem to mind too much.
Fairies wear boots and ya gotta believe me!
I saw it, I saw it with my own two eyes.
Fairies wear boots and ya gotta believe me!
Yeaaaaaahhhhhh!
Ozzie was no poet.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I Been Working on the Railroad
Riff: A melodic phrase, repeated again and again, often used as the main theme, as in a final chorus, or as background.
I find myself going back to a few ancient riffs over and over again. The longer I'm sober the more I can reduce what I need to do down to a couple of important things. I'm like an old guitarist, sinking into senility, unable to remember any of my favorite songs except for the opening cords of "Smoke on the Water" or "All Right Now."
I heard another great lead last night -- and aren't all of them great in some form or fashion? -- where the theme was Do The Work. It's amazing how often this comes up in meetings from people I admire, which means, I assume, that Doing The Work is important. I probably don't need to point out that I'm not big on work as a general rule. Instead of working The Steps I'd prefer to think about working The Steps. Thinking I'm good at. Work I'm not.
We're complicated folks trying to work a simple program.
I find myself going back to a few ancient riffs over and over again. The longer I'm sober the more I can reduce what I need to do down to a couple of important things. I'm like an old guitarist, sinking into senility, unable to remember any of my favorite songs except for the opening cords of "Smoke on the Water" or "All Right Now."
I heard another great lead last night -- and aren't all of them great in some form or fashion? -- where the theme was Do The Work. It's amazing how often this comes up in meetings from people I admire, which means, I assume, that Doing The Work is important. I probably don't need to point out that I'm not big on work as a general rule. Instead of working The Steps I'd prefer to think about working The Steps. Thinking I'm good at. Work I'm not.
We're complicated folks trying to work a simple program.
Monday, March 2, 2009
More
More: Greater in amount, quantity, or degree.
I know what's best for me in the long run. No doubt about it. That's a statement of fact. That's an indisputable truth, with a strong foundation and a long history of successful results. If I think it's going to work out well it's going to work out well. If I see storm clouds gathering on the horizon, then it shall rain upon my head. All I require is more money, more power, more sex. All I need to avoid is anything painful or unpleasant, or anything requiring any work or effort whatsoever.
I know better than my trusted friends, advisers, and sponsors in The Fellowship. I know better than God. Why would I make a bad decision concerning myself? I love myself, and would never willingly do anything that might cause me any pain or discomfort. For instance, I like money. I think that I should have a whole lot of it. I have never made a bad decision when it comes to material things. When I get what I want it's always in everyone's best interest, even if I have to trod upon your toes to get where I want to go.
Why in the world would I think that someone wiser than I am, maybe with more experience on a particular issue, maybe with more discretion and insight than I have, might be able to steer me in the right direction? Ridiculous. Why would I think that God, who rescued me from a miserable alcoholic existence, spiraling down into the bowels of Mordor, might want to take care of me in the long run? I hate the long run! I want the short run! I don't want to run at all! I don't even want to watch other people run!
God has not taken me this far to suddenly drop me on my head. I should be wearing my helmet anyhow.
I know what's best for me in the long run. No doubt about it. That's a statement of fact. That's an indisputable truth, with a strong foundation and a long history of successful results. If I think it's going to work out well it's going to work out well. If I see storm clouds gathering on the horizon, then it shall rain upon my head. All I require is more money, more power, more sex. All I need to avoid is anything painful or unpleasant, or anything requiring any work or effort whatsoever.
I know better than my trusted friends, advisers, and sponsors in The Fellowship. I know better than God. Why would I make a bad decision concerning myself? I love myself, and would never willingly do anything that might cause me any pain or discomfort. For instance, I like money. I think that I should have a whole lot of it. I have never made a bad decision when it comes to material things. When I get what I want it's always in everyone's best interest, even if I have to trod upon your toes to get where I want to go.
Why in the world would I think that someone wiser than I am, maybe with more experience on a particular issue, maybe with more discretion and insight than I have, might be able to steer me in the right direction? Ridiculous. Why would I think that God, who rescued me from a miserable alcoholic existence, spiraling down into the bowels of Mordor, might want to take care of me in the long run? I hate the long run! I want the short run! I don't want to run at all! I don't even want to watch other people run!
God has not taken me this far to suddenly drop me on my head. I should be wearing my helmet anyhow.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
One , Two, Three! As easy as A B C!
As I look back over the history of my battle with King Alcohol I am able to roughly discern three phases, as long as I am wearing my reading glasses, which I usually have trouble locating even though I own 27 pairs, most of them broken or damaged because I forget where they are and sit on them or set something heavy on them or trod upon them, grinding them into dust.
Phase One was the Pink Cloud Period. I was in so much pain and my life was such a mess that it was relatively easy to make dramatic gains or to alleviate tremendous pain with simple actions. It's as if I was walking around with hundreds of barbed thorns in my head, courtesy of a losing battle with a bramble patch, which I wandered into in a blackout. I had so many thorns and they had been traveling with me for so long that I didn't pay any attention to them anymore. People would say: "Man, that looks painful." I pretended that I didn't know what they were talking about. I got a lot of relief when a thorn was plucked out, even though the barbs took some flesh with them when they came out.
Phase Three, which has arrived after a lot of painful thorn removal, might be called I'm Stayin' Out of That Ol' Bramble Patch. I have been in the bramble patch, I have removed a lot of thorns, and I have no interest in running naked through the sticker bushes, despite the siren call drawing me in. It's nice most of the time. I'm calm, or calmish or calm-like, on occasion. Oh, sure, I take off running from time to time, shedding garments as I go, and plunge in without thinking. That'll probably never change.
Phase Two was a little more problematic. Let's call this the I Am So Sick of This Bullshit stage. The big, easy gains had evaporated, the deep serenity of the Old Timers was still on the distant horizon, and the whole thing reeked of tedium. Some of the big thorns had been removed but a lot of smaller, many-barbed, poison-tipped, deeply-embedded, infected thorns were still in place. I didn't always feel like a million bucks when I left -- like when I was newly sober -- and I didn't often feel like a million bucks when I arrived -- as I do now, most of the time. Some of the time, anyway. OK, now and then.
This may be why a lot of people drift away at this point in their sobriety. It feels like a lot of hard work, which many of us abhor. It's a time to be vigilant.
Phase One was the Pink Cloud Period. I was in so much pain and my life was such a mess that it was relatively easy to make dramatic gains or to alleviate tremendous pain with simple actions. It's as if I was walking around with hundreds of barbed thorns in my head, courtesy of a losing battle with a bramble patch, which I wandered into in a blackout. I had so many thorns and they had been traveling with me for so long that I didn't pay any attention to them anymore. People would say: "Man, that looks painful." I pretended that I didn't know what they were talking about. I got a lot of relief when a thorn was plucked out, even though the barbs took some flesh with them when they came out.
Phase Three, which has arrived after a lot of painful thorn removal, might be called I'm Stayin' Out of That Ol' Bramble Patch. I have been in the bramble patch, I have removed a lot of thorns, and I have no interest in running naked through the sticker bushes, despite the siren call drawing me in. It's nice most of the time. I'm calm, or calmish or calm-like, on occasion. Oh, sure, I take off running from time to time, shedding garments as I go, and plunge in without thinking. That'll probably never change.
Phase Two was a little more problematic. Let's call this the I Am So Sick of This Bullshit stage. The big, easy gains had evaporated, the deep serenity of the Old Timers was still on the distant horizon, and the whole thing reeked of tedium. Some of the big thorns had been removed but a lot of smaller, many-barbed, poison-tipped, deeply-embedded, infected thorns were still in place. I didn't always feel like a million bucks when I left -- like when I was newly sober -- and I didn't often feel like a million bucks when I arrived -- as I do now, most of the time. Some of the time, anyway. OK, now and then.
This may be why a lot of people drift away at this point in their sobriety. It feels like a lot of hard work, which many of us abhor. It's a time to be vigilant.
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