Old Timers

I went to a meeting this morning, of course.  It was the least I could do after my outrageous display of self-centered fear yesterday.  The guy that gave the talk to kick the meeting off was old and he was an old-timer as well.  The peace and ease that comes off of guys like that is unmistakable, like strong perfume.  It's just there.  I knew this man worked a steady, solid, spiritual program of recovery.  It wasn't even recovery any more; it was more a god-centered life.


Of course, he picked up The Book and read a nice section chock full of good recovery things.  Solution things written by someone after they stopped drinking.  That's the stuff I need to hear, the "what it's like now" stuff.  I get too wrapped up in "what it was like" stuff.


I am still suffering with a little bit of an emotional hangover from yesterday.  When my mind drifts to one or another of the things that I found so upsetting I can feel a little shiver of fear course down my body.  I've gotten to work on most of the things; the work being a simple change of attitude and outlook.  Most of my life can be looked at from different points of view.  I can take a look at the downside and blow it up into a monstrous shape, or I can look at it from a more positive point of view.  It's the same thing.  The only change is how I choose to approach it.


Carrying serenity into the events of my daily life is not a simple process.  The transition point between the end of a meeting and the beginning of "real life" is a long jump.  Sometimes I find my calm and concentration evaporate within minutes, leaving me apparently no better off than before.


That's OK -- I just strap myself back into the chair and get back to work.  I'm better; I'm not good.

Attack!!

Anxiety:  The state of being uneasy, apprehensive, or worried about what may happen; misgiving.
From the Latin anxius < angere, to choke, give pain.


I think I had a full blown anxiety attack today, which is a profoundly unsettling thing if you've never had one.  I try not to give advice but I'd recommend avoiding them; they're profoundly unproductive.  And just to be sure that my sentence structure isn't causing any confusion the anxiety was attacking me, rather than the other way around.  Wouldn't that be something . . . me marshaling all of my willpower and going on the offensive against my anxieties.  That sounds like a good 12 Step program.


"Take THAT, you formless, nameless, frequently baseless generalized fears," I'd shout, waving around a little plastic sword I found somewhere.  "Fie thee hence!"


I usually start my anxiety attack by focusing with great concentration on something that I'm upset about.  It's not always an important thing, either, and a lot of the time I understand that I'm being shaken by something that is unimportant.  That self-knowledge doesn't do me much good, usually.  Nor does the knowledge that I'm worrying about something that I've worried about many, many times in the past without having any effect on the root of the worry stimulus at all.  I'm vaguely aware that I'm not helping anything by worrying and that I'll worry again in the future about many of the same things, with the same results.


A good anxiety attack will quickly sweep a whole bunch of additional stuff into the sewer of fear.  A really good anxiety attack will pull in a lot of minor crap of no significance that I can also worry about.  Pretty soon I'm inundated with fear and anxiety and apprehension and there's a momentum going on that I'm powerless to stop.  That must be the "attack" part of the anxiety attack.


So I sat down and did some writing.  I started out with all the stuff from the sewer.  Generalized anxiety stuff.  I listed it down and looked at it and saw how silly most of it was, how powerless I was to change most of it.  Then I made a list of solutions.  Ah, yes, the solutions.  I wrote down those mothers, too.  Then I took the first thing on the list and I did it.  I don't know if it'll work or not but I don't care.  I took an action.  I got moving.  I tried to solve the problem instead of embracing the problem.


I did some work and I got some relief.

Morning People

Pessimism:  The tendency to expect misfortune or the worst outcome in any circumstances; practice of looking on the the dark side of things.
Optimism: The tendency to take the most hopeful view of matters or to expect the best outcome in any circumstances; practice of looking on the bright side of things.
Practice: Repeated mental or physical action for the purpose of learning or acquiring proficiency.


I used to think some people were optimists and some were pessimists.  Guess which one I thought I was?  I hated optimists; I thought they were the scourge of the earth, worse than murderers and fornicators and people who like Duke basketball, with their cheery smiles and encouraging words.  I couldn't stand being around them, especially when I was in a bad mood , usually when I was sober or not drunk enough.


"What's the matter with you?" I wanted to say.  "It's seven o'clock in the morning."


Today I believe those beliefs were a convenient bit of crap that I fed myself daily so that I didn't feel quite so abnormal.  I worked hard at being negative.  It takes a lot of energy and mental acuity to find the worst in any circumstance.  The definition suggests that I was practicing this worldview, that I was working hard to be negative.


That being said I do believe that some of us tend toward the Dark Side.  The deal is that I don't nourish it like a tender flower trying to push up through the cold soil.  I see the bad; I push the thought out to the best of my ability; I feel better.


Not always quickly but eventually.

Unacceptable:  Not worth accepting; unsatisfactory; disagreeable; displeasing to receive.


I have noted that I'm not a big fan of winter weather.  One of my Life Goals is to never, ever touch snow ever again.  It's winter here in the New City, which I find less unacceptable.  Anyway, I have been grasping on to this desire to be very, very warm, and making myself mildly discontented.  It is as ancient a lust as I possess and as difficult a grasping to dislodge as I have ever encountered. 


I spoke to a friend from The Program after a morning meeting this week.  He talked, mostly, and I listened, which is something I'm not very good at, even though I have two ears and one mouth.  He was holding onto something that he needed to release and he was having trouble doing this.  His situation was a lot more difficult and confusing than my fairly juvenile dislike of cold weather.  I gave him a few obvious bits of advice that I obviously needed to apply to my own life.  He thanked me and later he wrote me a nice note, thanking me again.


I should have thanked him.

Gruesome

Gruesome:  Causing fear and loathing; horrifying and revolting; grisly.


I had to get a new driver's license and license plates for my car this week.  I've been using the ones from the Old City, still technically valid even though I really should have replaced them after I moved, a year ago.  I might have to look up the definition of the word "procrastination."


"You're still using the old plates?" a friend from The Program asked me recently.  "You've been here like 10 months."


"I paid good $#!! money for those $#!! plates and they're still $#!! valid," I replied, a little defensively.


I don't enjoy doing things like standing in line at government agencies with the rest of the public.  It may be fine for them but it's definitely beneath me.  It's not a good, efficient, pleasant use of my time.  I feel like a sheep or a herd of cattle.  Ergo, I'd rather not do it.  Plus, I had out of state documents, which complicated the process, and I didn't know what I was doing since I hadn't done it before and since I usually don't know what I'm doing generally.


I showed up with a fist full of documents and found out immediately that I needed to get an emissions test on my car.  I didn't know this, not having done any of the appropriate research that some normal person would have done.  I found the fact of this test particularly vexing.  I had procrastinated for such an unreasonable length of time that my license plates had expired so we had driven SuperK's car, which meant my car was at home.  I didn't ask but I assumed that the emissions test people wouldn't go to my apartment and test the car there.  


"Just go over and stand in line at Window 11.  Someone there will help you with your driver's licenses," the guy who irritated me with the test information said.


"OK, government, you win round one," I thought, as we headed for Window 11.


Window 11 was not staffed by anyone visible to the naked eye.  We stood there for a while to no good effect until we noticed people getting in line at another window, which turned out to be the correct one.  We had lost our place in line by then, and more of my valuable, valuable, valuable time was gone, forever.


The lady who helped us was very nice.  She pointed out that SuperK rocked from side to side and that I rocked from front to back.  She stamped documents furiously and filled out forms and told us where to go to get our picture taken for our licenses, as soon as we had taken the written test.


"The what now?" I asked.


"You have to take the written driver's license test here in the New State," she replied.  "You can study this book and take it later or you can take it now.  There are 35 questions and if you get more than 8 wrong you have to wait another month before you can take it again."


I began to point out that I had been driving for 40 $#!! years when I felt SuperK tugging on my sleeve, not the first time she has done this.  She wisely decided to study for a bit before taking the test.  I did not decide to do this.  I had wasted too much of my valuable, valuable time already what with the standing in lines and doing things people other than me should have to do.


The first question asked the legal blood limit for impaired driving in the New State.


I got up and went back to the window.  "I don't drink," I said.  "Why do I give a flying $#!! what the blood alcohol limit is?"


"Just do your best," the nice lady said.


I picked the lowest number, figuring the state probably didn't care for drunks driving around after drinking, and got it right.


The next question was something about how far in front of a passenger car a length of wood or metal pipe could legally protrude.


I got up and went back to the window.  "WTF?" I said.  "My subcompact car is about 10 feet long."


The nice lady, losing patience, pointed back at my work station.  It went like this for a while.  Some of the questions were easy; some were silly, wondering how much leeway I should give to a blind person trying to get across the road outside of a cross walk; and some I got wrong.  Not the one about the blind guy, although I looked for an answer that said: "Gun it, swerve in his direction,  and stand on your horn."  I would have burned a wrong answer just for the hell of it if that had been a choice.


Fortunately, I passed and told SuperK about the tough questions before I left to drive all the way back home to get my car and drive all the way to the testing station and then all the way back to the license bureau.  She did better than I did on the written test, which is no surprise to anyone that knows us.


My car passed the emissions test.  We did get new tags and new driver's licenses.  The whole thing took about 2 and a half hours, which is about what I had figured before we left home, even with all of the tests and side trips.


I got my license today.  My picture is gruesome.

They Call Him The Grasper

Grasp At:  To reach for and try to seize; to take eagerly; accept with alacrity.


It is winter where I live.


I do not like winter.


Get over it.


This should be my posting for today.  However, being a gassy windbag who loves the sound of his own inner voice I'll soldier on, at great length, explaining why winter is such a trial and tribulation, for me and for me alone.  I'll try to explain why I shouldn't have to endure winter and I'll fail at my explanation.  Excuse me, while I kiss my personal space heater on high.


I grew up in an area notable for a lot of heat and humidity.  I got used to it and it doesn't really bother me.  I'm tall and skinny, and I have lousy circulation and low blood pressure so I wick off heat with no problem.  The Cold, however, creeeeeeps deeeeep into my bones.


SuperK, on the other hand, is from a cold, cold place -- think of the coldest place you have ever been where people live and then think colder -- so winter doesn't bother her but heat and humidity throws her for a loop.  But that really doesn't affect me, does it?   I'm wondering why I even mention it.  Lip service, I guess.  She reads these things so I should at least pretend that I'm thinking of her from time to time.


So when the dark begins to arrive earlier and earlier and the wind blows and the rain falls and The Cold creeeeeps in and I'm driven from my little balcony back inside, my mood darkens and I begin bitching in earnest.  I don't mean the standard, petty bitching I engage in during most of my waking hours: I mean serious bitching.  Little kid bitching.


When SuperK and I were trying to decide where to go after we had exhausted the Old City's many charms, we narrowed our choices down to a somewhat uninteresting city that enjoys beautiful weather and to the New City, where the weather is just OK but the quality of life is significantly cool.  I voted for weather; SuperK voted for coolness; we compromised and picked coolness.  I'm glad we did, to be honest about it, but I'm not happy with the weather at the moment.


The Minor Buddha talks about grasping.  I have been grasping at a desire to not have to put up with weather I don't like.  I'm ignoring the fact that I have endured many, many winters and that winter here is milder than anywhere I've ever lived.  I'm ignoring the fact that many people besides me have to put up with weather that is much worse than this.  I'm trying to avoid something that makes me uncomfortable.  I don't care that this makes me sound like the spoiled two year old that I am.  I fight and fight my hatred of The Cold.  It amazes me how much energy I put into my grasping desire to be somewhere where I can let the heat sink into my bones, like a big snake.  I put the energy into the hate, which is the problem, and not into gratitude, which is the solution.


Grasping after things is a sure-fire recipe for unhappiness.  There's always something else to obtain, always something else to lust after.  The grass is always greener, as they say.


I really should spend some time working on this.  I clearly don't get it at the moment.  I clearly enjoy living in The Problem right now.  Good, old misery, my dear old friend.

RIDs

Restless:  Never or almost never quiet or still; always active or inclined to action; seeking change; discontented.


Minor Buddhism:  "Restlessness is often a cover-up for some deeper experience taking place in the unconscious.  We humans are great at repressing things.  Rather than confronting some unpleasant thought we experience, we try to bury it.  The result is that sense of unease which we call agitation or restlessness.  There is nothing you can put your finger on.  But you don't feel at ease.  You can't relax."


Yeah, well, this has never happened to me.  When I first heard the famous phrase found in The Doctor's Opinion "restless, irritable, and discontented" I was amazed that there was some other way to feel.  I know that I am often bedeviled by something I call Free Floating Anxiety.  FFA is a state where something is wrong but I don't know what it is.  I just know something bad is going down.  There doesn't have to be anything bad actually happening; the mere potential of something bad is enough to get me going but good.