And Then There's Me . . .

Humble:  Thinking lowly of one's self; claiming little for one's self; not proud, arrogant, or assuming; modest.

The topic at the meeting today was humility.  I should have been asked to lead the discussion since I'm internationally known for my humility.  Not that I get paid enough for being so fucking humble - apparently it's an honorary position.  Either that or I'm not on the humility payroll.  Maybe I'm more of an unpaid intern.  I'm getting screwed, I know that.  I'm always getting screwed.

Not that I could concentrate very well with all of the animated points being forcefully made by the dude who always shows up in mirror shades and a sock cap - summer or winter, makes no difference - wearing big noise-cancelling headphones.  I can sympathize - I don't always want to hear what's being said myself.  He was very animated today, though.

Humility is best shown by one's behavior - which I pay attention to - and not expressed by words - which are a dime a dozen, especially when a drunk is talking. I've heard the most amazingly arrogant people tell me how humble they are.  Kind of like what I'm doing now.

To wit:

Michael G was at the meeting today as he is every morning.  He has 50 years of continuous sobriety, not that he's ever mentioned it in a meeting.

I used to have coffee a couple of nights a week with a group of guys after meetings.  One of them was the Chief of Staff of the biggest hospital in our mid-sized city.  He never brought it up.  I didn't call him Doctor.  I can't even remember his name he was so unassuming.

Bob S picked me up for meetings when I was getting sober.  He was one of the few people who could stand my presence for more than a few minutes.  I moved away.  I learned after his death that he was dying of cancer the whole time.  He didn't talk about it with me.

The irascible Jack K, who I knew for 10 years, revealed as a three sport star at a major university at his wake.   Not one.  Not two.  Three.  He did not talk about it.

And then there's me: Little Stevie Seaweed.  I repeat the story of anonymously giving a sponsee a subscription to a recovery magazine that cost $1 a month at the time.  He eventually confided to me that he had figured out who the guy was who gave it to him, then mentioned not me.  I nearly bit my tongue it two holding my tongue.

$1 a month.

Little Stevie Seaweed strikes again.

Green Lights

When I made The Big Move from The Old City to The New City I was traumatized as in Tra-Mah-Tized.  I was sick with anxiety before, during, and after the move.  Mostly, this is understandable - I was moving 2500 miles away from a city I had lived in for 20 years to a place I barely knew while simultaneously shedding 50% of my stuff.  It was not unexpected trauma but it was trauma indeed and pretty forceful at that.  As I contemplate my shift from The New City to Vacation Town I feel an eerie calm.  I'm not suggesting that there hasn't been any trauma involved over the last 2 months but rather that I feel like I'm on the right path, that I'm going where I'm meant to be, where I belong.  The New City was the right way point for me.  I think it was a good and appropriate step, just not the final destination. 

I was back at the transitional meeting today.  When it ended I hung around for a few minutes, welcoming a couple new guys and saying hello to a few friends, but mostly I was left along.  I can't emphasize enough how outgoing I am by nature - if you want to get to know someone quickly I'd be a great place to start and a hell of a great place to end.  Still, I felt a little isolated. 

Here I'm in the pool, splashing around by myself - in Vacation Town I'm in the middle of a raucous game of water polo.

I try not to use The Program as a social outlet - I go to meetings to stay sober and to try to repay, in some small part, the debt I owed to the men and women who passed along the message to me.  But I do find a rich social life in my recovery - it's important to me and I've missed it here.  I look forward to it.

Shoot The Bull

A couple of times during the negotiation process for the new home SuperK and I felt our patience being tested.  It's easy to see bad motives in others where money is involved.  Sometimes the testing was courtesy of our real estate agent.  We get along well with her and definitely believe that she's doing a good job.  Still, neither of us want to pass up an opportunity to be annoyed at another.  Our conversations with this woman have been friendly and positive.  At one point during the back and forth we were a little frustrated at the lack of communication. We waited patiently for a bit - aware that anger fuels idiocy - but when the situation didn't resolve itself on its own time frame without my manipulation and micro-management skills, as highly advanced, wise, and effective as they may be, I made a phone call.  I did wait until my anger had subsided so I wouldn't act like a horse's ass, which is my Facebook picture, if that tells you anything.  I was polite but I was formal; I didn't shoot the breeze, chit-chat, or shoot the shit, which is a terrible idiom for who would actually shoot some feces?  The call ended nicely.

This improved the situation.  No more communication breakdown, communication breakdown,  drive me insaaaaaaaaaane!  I've learned there are different ways to express my dissatisfaction than a profane, purple-faced, vein-throbbing-in-my-temple rage.  This is a business transaction with money involved - MY money - and I expect a certain amount of competence.  I'm happy to forgive the occasional error or oversight as well, as long as they don't come at me too frequently and are eventually corrected.

I'm just a horse's ass shooting the shit.

Oh, Were You Out of Town?

Analyze:  To examine in such a manner as to ascertain the elements or nature of the thing examined: as to analyze an action to ascertain its morality.

I've been analyzing and re-analyzing and re-evaluating and agonizing over the decision to move.  I never let well enough alone.  I'm sure I'm making the wrong decision, selfishly pursuing my own selfish desires at the expense of everyone else.  I never pass up an opportunity to be miserable.

Guilt.  I love guilt.

When I walked back into my home group at Vacation Town I got a big old warm reception.  I got a lot of hugs.  One guy said I made his day.  People swarmed around me if by "swarmed" you mean "waved vaguely from across the room, not bothering to get up."  They seemed to remember me - at least they pretended to with some convinceability.  Back in The New City there was a whole lot of "meh" with the occasional "were you out of town?" mixed in.  I don't mean this to sound critical of one place and not the other.  They're both wonderful cities and I've enjoyed my time in both; it's just that Vacation Town has been a better fit.  I feel like I've been a football player in full football regalia sitting in a baseball dugout.  The problem isn't with the baseball part - it's with the Little Stevie Seaweed, outside linebacker part.  I've been walking around the 4th green in my spikes trying to line up putts, wondering why no one was nodding warmly in my direction.

There's a very quiet, very reserved man in my home group in Vacation City.  He has my snarky, sarcastic sense of humor - making him a big star in my eyes - but I haven't developed much of a close relationship with him yet, mostly because of his unwillingness to extend himself socially.  I greeted him warmly on my return, shouldered past his outstretched hand, and gave him a big hug, which is what I do, and told him how much I missed him, to no great effect.  This was all OK with me - I take what people can give for the most part.

Later that day I was fretting in my room, worrying about something in the future that I had no control over.  My phone rang.  It was my friend.

"I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated what you said this morning," he said.  "I struggle with my social skills.  I didn't want you to be put off by my manner."

This, of course, made my day.  This made my anxiety evaporate for a few seconds.  This was one of the signs that helped confirm that I'm walking in god's path.  I understand that it doesn't mean that I'm going to groove on the every little outcome - god isn't in the business of satisfying my desires - but it does help me feel confident that I'm making good decisions.  I feel like I'm trying to do god's will.

Soldier on.

Happy House Hunting Seaweed

Before I left for my happy house hunting I had been doing some research on prospective residences.  The web is an amazing resource - it's possible for a realtor to plug in the answers to a variety of house-related questions so that when a house meeting these criteria comes on the market the listing is sent to you directly.  It's fast!  It's convenient!!  It's not very accurate!!!  

Originally when I listed my preferences nothing came up.  I guess if you want a 5 bedroom house with a large, extensively landscaped lot, swimming pool, and spectacular mountain, ocean, desert, and river views for under $100K that you are moored in a vanishingly small demographic.  Eventually, SuperK and I came up with some real-world selections which resulted in some really crappy looking shack-like structures.

"Is that even a house?" she asked, peering at a murky picture on her PC.  "It looks abandoned." 

Once we threw out the places that didn't exist, were actively on fire, or located in dangerous or distant neighborhoods, we put together a game plan.  For logistical purposes I went to Vacation City by myself, armed with a small list of places to look at, ready to pull the trigger on short notice.  We were fairly sure that this was going to be the end of our marriage because I was going - by myself - to select a new place to live without my wife in the car.  It didn't make any sense to either of us before I left, while I was there, and in retrospect.  However, I was happier with this arrangement than SuperK because I was in a position to pick out something I liked and it is, as you may recall, All About Me.

 When I met with our real estate agent I was informed that a few of the homes were no longer available and that a few more were in areas that she wouldn't recommend.  I found this infuriating.  I had provided her with a list of the places I wanted to see and I would have hoped that she would have eliminated the undesirables before I drove 1000 miles by myself and began burning through money in hotels.  So I went back to my room and began to simmer in my own annoyance.  Then, the real estate agent calls back and tells me that our bestest choice is indeed available.  This pissed me off more than finding out that it wasn't available.

Damned if I do and damned if I don't.  Is it any wonder that I'm in fear so often?  I hate it when I get what I want because I didn't get more or get it faster or get something different and I hate it when I don't get what I want because it's clearly the best thing for me and I really, really want it bad.

This is why I try not to talk.

I Thought It Was Guilt

Guilty:  Responsible for a dishonest act; having a sense of guilt.

Interesting word: guilty.  I would have thought there was some wiggle room there, that guilt was an emotion, rather than a hard, cold fact.  If you're guilty, you're responsible for behaving badly.

I've been analyzing and re-analyzing and re-evaluating and agonizing over the decision to move.  I never let well enough alone.  I'm sure that I'm making the Wrong Decision, selfishly pursuing my own selfish desires at the expense of everyone else.  I'm sure god is luring me on, egging me sealing my own doom.  I'm a guy who will never pass up an opportunity to be miserable.

Guilt.  I love guilt, or I thought I did.  I guess I don't feel guilty.  I guess what I'm feeling is unsure or conflicted.  I guess what I feel is afraid.  It all comes down to fear, to me being afraid that I'm not going to get something that I want or that I'm going to lose something that I already have.

When I walked back into my home group at Vacation Town I got a big, old warm reception.  I got a lot of hugs.  People swarmed around me, if by "swarmed around" you mean "nodded distractedly in my general direction from across the room."  They seemed to remember me - at least they pretended to with some convince-ability, which is all I really care about.  Back in The New City there was a whole lot of Meh, topped off by the occasional "oh, were you out of town?"

I don't mean this to sound critical of one place and not of the other.  They're both wonderful cities and I've made a lot of good friends everywhere I've been.  It's just that Vacation Town is a better fit for my statistics.  I've been a football player in full football regalia sitting in a baseball dugout, wondering why I'm not getting along with all of the other baseball players.  The problem isn't with the baseball part - it's with the Little Stevie Seaweed part.

"What the hell is that linebacker doing in the bullpen?" they're asking each other.  "Is he going to throw long relief in all of that equipment?"

There's a very quiet, very reserved man in my new home group.  He has my schmucky, sarcastic sense of humor but I haven't had the time to develop much of a close relationship with him yet, mostly because of his reticence to be social.  I greeted him warmly, shouldered past his proffered handshake, and gave him a big hug, which is what I do, man or woman or beast of the field, and told him how much I missed him, to no great effect.

Later that day, wondering around my hotel room, battling some mild moving dis-ease, my phone rings.

"Seaweed,"  he said.  "I wanted to call and tell you how much I appreciated those nice things you said.  I didn't want you to take any offense at my reaction - I struggle to be social most of the time."

Made my day.  Made me feel like I had indeed made the right decision.  Made the fear go away . . . er, subside a bit . . . for like 20 minutes, which is 100 years in Seaweed time.

Baffled

Baffle:  To bewilder completely; confuse or perplex.

Intuitively handle things which used to baffle us.   This is one of The Promises that I find especially powerful.  It fits nicely with my understanding of The Serenity Prayer: help me not to be afraid to do what I'm supposed to, help me wait patiently when I'm not supposed to do anything, and let me know which is which.  I believe I'm better today at taking action - I'm not so impressed with my ability to wait patiently, preferring to charge ahead into the future and make things go according to my own wishes.  I'm a fixer.  

You got a problem?  I can fix that.  (Ed. Note: except for a technical glitch in my ability to access my blogger account since July 1st, requiring the assistance of the brilliantly capable SuperK).

Ironically enough most of the time when I don't know what to do and I can keep my six-shooter in the holster, then things work out just fine.  There's an ebb and flow to life, far out of my control or understanding, and it's all great in the long run.  When I wait patiently, then answers come, problems are solved, veils are lifted, fogs evaporate, all becomes clear.

But, man, is it hard for a talented superstar like me to sit and wait because I have the answers to everything.  I know what everyone else should be doing to make my life more pleasant.  I know what god should be doing to make my life more pleasant.

I also see that I overestimate my ability to rise above the human condition.  I believe that I handle things with greater calm and patience than I used to and that I'm continuing to improve - nonetheless, I get frustrated when I haven't reached perfection.  Don't we say: "Progress, not perfection?"  My time in recovery has been very productive but clearly I have a long way to get somewhere or the other.