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!