I seem to be in a lot of meetings where the topic revolves around the theme of Powerlessness. Maybe that's because the whole theme of the whole fricking Program revolves around powerlessness and my inability to see that I am, in fact, powerless. Any troubles that I have invariably come back to me trying to exert my self on the universe. My understanding is that the universe that I'm trying to control is quite large and is expanding (getting larger) at the rate of 50 miles per second per 3 million light-years. Yeah, I don't know what that means, either, but it sounds really, really big or fast or something.
What makes it even worse is when I run into those situations where I really do have a better idea. Don't laugh - it happens from time to time. These situations require me to step back and let people, places, and things run their own course. I like who I am today, more or less, and it took what it took to get me to this place. Some of it was torturous but it took torture to make me whole.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Crap Output Analysis
During the course of a mildly interesting, totally self-absorbed personal anecdote at my regular men's meeting I talked about both the SuperK Tiff and The Great Leg Caper. I'd say that the group is about half married guys and half single or divorced guys. I really like these guys. They're really good guys. They're also flawed and complicated and frequently wrong, just like me.
After the meeting ended a couple of the divorced guys came up and basically told me I shouldn't take any crap from my wife. I quickly explained that I wasn't taking any crap from her and if I was it would be a tiny fraction of the crap that she takes from me. I'm under no illusions as to which of us is the most difficult person to live with. Any crap she gives me is richly deserved and she could amp up her crap output and not put a dent in her accumulated crap stockpile. I'm saying she could really dish out the crap she delivers and I would be peepless.
Then, I began to run the gauntlet of the married guys, dudes not quite as eager to give me advice. One of my buddies said: "So are you going to be OK?" I immediately jumped to my wife's defense and he almost as quickly interrupted to ask: "No, your leg." He got it - spouses argue. Mothers die. Sponsors go to the big meeting in the sky. Bad, uncomfortable, annoying shit happens.
No one here gets out alive.
After the meeting ended a couple of the divorced guys came up and basically told me I shouldn't take any crap from my wife. I quickly explained that I wasn't taking any crap from her and if I was it would be a tiny fraction of the crap that she takes from me. I'm under no illusions as to which of us is the most difficult person to live with. Any crap she gives me is richly deserved and she could amp up her crap output and not put a dent in her accumulated crap stockpile. I'm saying she could really dish out the crap she delivers and I would be peepless.
Then, I began to run the gauntlet of the married guys, dudes not quite as eager to give me advice. One of my buddies said: "So are you going to be OK?" I immediately jumped to my wife's defense and he almost as quickly interrupted to ask: "No, your leg." He got it - spouses argue. Mothers die. Sponsors go to the big meeting in the sky. Bad, uncomfortable, annoying shit happens.
No one here gets out alive.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
More of That "If It's Your Will" Crap
So SuperK and I were having a bit of a tiff on Sunday - nothing serious albeit unpleasant for both of us. We're good at taking the long view with most arguments; consequently we're good at getting things out into the open air where they can breathe. We're tired of sealing them up in airtight containers and putting them in the way back area of the fridge. You know those containers - you open them up eventually and find a Nasty Surprise. And it's not like we want to hurt each other's feelings but sometimes you have to hurt your mate's feelings to get something off of your chest so you can move along to the solution phase.
On Monday morning I went to the doctor's office so he could have a look at a troublesome leg I'm stuck with. I thought it was a routine panic on my part - the doctor thought otherwise. I was shuttled off immediately for some tests and had the results been what my doctor thought they were going to be I was off to the emergency room and into the hospital. I tried to keep SuperK in the loop as this situation unfolded but it was a bit hard because I was in exam rooms and the like.
I did my usual Program thing which is to get a handle on the worst possible outcome and then get good with that. I was worried enough that I actually did one of my rare "if it's your will this is what I want" prayers. I try to avoid these prayers as a general rule. They seem pretty self-serving although The Book is very clear that a proper use of the will is to do what we think is best AS LONG AS we add that "if it's your will" crap to the action.
SuperK was worried. She's my wife and she loves me - preceding day tiff hang-over notwithstanding - and she did a lot to help that morning. Surprising everyone, the test showed a pretty routine condition - one that wouldn't even require any treatment - and not a potentially catastrophic one.
I was damned relieved. SuperK was damned relieved. As I sat with my doctor I joked that my wife had gone from homicidal to non-homicidal in the course of 24 hours. He laughed. "Yes, circumstances can do that," he said.
Later, SuperK said: "You should have told him that I was worried you were going to die before I had a chance to kill you."
I laughed. Kind of. Then I hid all of our knives.
On Monday morning I went to the doctor's office so he could have a look at a troublesome leg I'm stuck with. I thought it was a routine panic on my part - the doctor thought otherwise. I was shuttled off immediately for some tests and had the results been what my doctor thought they were going to be I was off to the emergency room and into the hospital. I tried to keep SuperK in the loop as this situation unfolded but it was a bit hard because I was in exam rooms and the like.
I did my usual Program thing which is to get a handle on the worst possible outcome and then get good with that. I was worried enough that I actually did one of my rare "if it's your will this is what I want" prayers. I try to avoid these prayers as a general rule. They seem pretty self-serving although The Book is very clear that a proper use of the will is to do what we think is best AS LONG AS we add that "if it's your will" crap to the action.
SuperK was worried. She's my wife and she loves me - preceding day tiff hang-over notwithstanding - and she did a lot to help that morning. Surprising everyone, the test showed a pretty routine condition - one that wouldn't even require any treatment - and not a potentially catastrophic one.
I was damned relieved. SuperK was damned relieved. As I sat with my doctor I joked that my wife had gone from homicidal to non-homicidal in the course of 24 hours. He laughed. "Yes, circumstances can do that," he said.
Later, SuperK said: "You should have told him that I was worried you were going to die before I had a chance to kill you."
I laughed. Kind of. Then I hid all of our knives.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Another Hula Hoop Day
Whew.
It is good to be home. I have had a blank mind the last week and please: no comments from the peanut gallery on that softball I just lobbed into home plate.
I have tried to call my father every other day or so since I returned. Sometimes he answers, sometimes he doesn't, but you can forget the return call. The calls last approximately 2.7 minutes. So be it. It is what it is. This is behavior long established
I ask my sister how she thinks he's doing and I get a food report and a sociability report. I do not get an alcohol report which I think is the most important report. Apparently, no one else does. I think he may be fooling them a little bit with his drinking patterns and I think there is probably some denial on their part and I also think that I should probably keep my fucking nose out of other people's business. I say again: it does no one any good to harp on what I perceive as their shortcomings and errors and defects of character, and it's not as if my life is any paragon on righteous living and good choices.
I LOVE it when people give me advice. Unsolicited advice.
The difficulty is that I have spent so much of my life - all of my adult life - around alcoholic drinking and aberrant behavior, facts that make it hard to pipe down when I see someone drinking like a drunk. I pointed out to many people that dad drinks in the A.M. yet no one ever brings it up.
Today I will respect your hula hoop. If I can't get inside there with you then it's none of my damn business.
It is good to be home. I have had a blank mind the last week and please: no comments from the peanut gallery on that softball I just lobbed into home plate.
I have tried to call my father every other day or so since I returned. Sometimes he answers, sometimes he doesn't, but you can forget the return call. The calls last approximately 2.7 minutes. So be it. It is what it is. This is behavior long established
I ask my sister how she thinks he's doing and I get a food report and a sociability report. I do not get an alcohol report which I think is the most important report. Apparently, no one else does. I think he may be fooling them a little bit with his drinking patterns and I think there is probably some denial on their part and I also think that I should probably keep my fucking nose out of other people's business. I say again: it does no one any good to harp on what I perceive as their shortcomings and errors and defects of character, and it's not as if my life is any paragon on righteous living and good choices.
I LOVE it when people give me advice. Unsolicited advice.
The difficulty is that I have spent so much of my life - all of my adult life - around alcoholic drinking and aberrant behavior, facts that make it hard to pipe down when I see someone drinking like a drunk. I pointed out to many people that dad drinks in the A.M. yet no one ever brings it up.
Today I will respect your hula hoop. If I can't get inside there with you then it's none of my damn business.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Logic, Straightened
This is an end of an era.
I have decided to leave my father be. I look back to the first few days of my visit and I believe my behavior fell into the category of badgering and hectoring when I wanted to be supportive and compassionate. Dad is sharp as a tack - he is aware of what he's doing. If he wants to drink beer at 6AM and then maintain a mild buzz all day long, ingesting most of the calories not due to the alcohol in the form of highly processed sugar, so be it, right? Did I think that if I pointed out that this didn't fall under any recommended dietary plan for the elderly that he would have been shocked? My intent was never to make him feel worse than he already does.
The Old City, I think, is going to keep receding further and further into the rear view mirror. I've been back 8 or 9 times in 4 years, and that's enough for a while. My mother and my sponsor have died, my father has chosen his path with vigor and prejudice, and my sister and her family are just fine without me.
I have spent a great deal of time trying to stay in touch with a lot of old friends, an effort that has by and large not been reciprocated, and that's OK, too. I've always been one of the most diligent people I know in this regard - it's unusual, I think. I'm the outlier, not the people who are blithely going about their business, not thinking of me, not trying to stay in touch. I found this irritating the first couple of times before settling into the acceptance routine. I was a piece of a complicated puzzle; I was removed while the rest of the puzzle stayed put; and I'm mad at the puzzle? Give me a break.
The hazard I run when I try to maintain old contacts in an overly rigorous manner is that I don't make the effort to develop my local contacts - it has been far easier to decide to call someone who I've known for 25 years than someone who I've known for one. I still love the old friends and I still want to stay in touch but I think it needs to be an occasion and not the norm.
Is this the last time I see my father alive? Could be, could be.
I have decided to leave my father be. I look back to the first few days of my visit and I believe my behavior fell into the category of badgering and hectoring when I wanted to be supportive and compassionate. Dad is sharp as a tack - he is aware of what he's doing. If he wants to drink beer at 6AM and then maintain a mild buzz all day long, ingesting most of the calories not due to the alcohol in the form of highly processed sugar, so be it, right? Did I think that if I pointed out that this didn't fall under any recommended dietary plan for the elderly that he would have been shocked? My intent was never to make him feel worse than he already does.
The Old City, I think, is going to keep receding further and further into the rear view mirror. I've been back 8 or 9 times in 4 years, and that's enough for a while. My mother and my sponsor have died, my father has chosen his path with vigor and prejudice, and my sister and her family are just fine without me.
I have spent a great deal of time trying to stay in touch with a lot of old friends, an effort that has by and large not been reciprocated, and that's OK, too. I've always been one of the most diligent people I know in this regard - it's unusual, I think. I'm the outlier, not the people who are blithely going about their business, not thinking of me, not trying to stay in touch. I found this irritating the first couple of times before settling into the acceptance routine. I was a piece of a complicated puzzle; I was removed while the rest of the puzzle stayed put; and I'm mad at the puzzle? Give me a break.
The hazard I run when I try to maintain old contacts in an overly rigorous manner is that I don't make the effort to develop my local contacts - it has been far easier to decide to call someone who I've known for 25 years than someone who I've known for one. I still love the old friends and I still want to stay in touch but I think it needs to be an occasion and not the norm.
Is this the last time I see my father alive? Could be, could be.
Semantic Maze of Circular Logic
Semantic: Of or relating to the meanings of words.
I'm afraid I'm in trapped way down deep in one of those semantic mazes of circular logic. If I sit quietly, take a deep breath, and let my mind fill it's always the same thing right now. I have nothing new to say so I'm condemned to repeating myself over and over and over . . .
I want to help but I don't see the point in offering help to someone who doesn't want to be helped. It's a waste of my time and it's an annoyance to the person I'm tormenting. I don't like Brussels sprouts so quit telling me about the great new sauce you have for Brussels sprouts. I can still taste the Brussels sprout flavor which I find objectionable. Unless you have chocolate sauce dissolved in marshmallows and coated with melted Velveeta it's enough with the Brussels sprouts, already.
So much of my worldview is shaped by The Program. If someone wants help we'll go to the wall trying to provide it - if they don't, we let them be. There is nothing worse to an active alcoholic than having someone who isn't drinking telling you to stop except, of course, not being able to drink at all. This is the 12th circle of hell. This is infinitely worse. A good drunk can parry the thrusts of the most dedicated proselytizer.
So here's my father refusing to make use of any services, getting more and more miserable. I'm buying into this bullshit a little but not too much, I'm proud to say. Last night he stunned me by saying he wanted to go down to dinner. There was a line to get into the dining room - maybe a five minute wait. The muttering and bitching started. "Where do you have to be?" I wanted to ask. We were seated with a couple of very nice women who live on dad's floor. The service, of course, was molasses that night. It really was slow. Dad got more and more agitated, finally getting up and leaving without a word to anyone. I didn't go. I ate my dinner with these very nice ladies. The food is pretty good here. I stuffed myself unabashedly. The ladies insisted on having the dining room staff box up dad's dinner so I could deliver it to him.
"Fuck that," I almost said. He was right down here - if he wanted the food he should have waited. They were so nice I did take the food up, which he picked at and then fed down the disposal.
What can you do?
I'm afraid I'm in trapped way down deep in one of those semantic mazes of circular logic. If I sit quietly, take a deep breath, and let my mind fill it's always the same thing right now. I have nothing new to say so I'm condemned to repeating myself over and over and over . . .
I want to help but I don't see the point in offering help to someone who doesn't want to be helped. It's a waste of my time and it's an annoyance to the person I'm tormenting. I don't like Brussels sprouts so quit telling me about the great new sauce you have for Brussels sprouts. I can still taste the Brussels sprout flavor which I find objectionable. Unless you have chocolate sauce dissolved in marshmallows and coated with melted Velveeta it's enough with the Brussels sprouts, already.
So much of my worldview is shaped by The Program. If someone wants help we'll go to the wall trying to provide it - if they don't, we let them be. There is nothing worse to an active alcoholic than having someone who isn't drinking telling you to stop except, of course, not being able to drink at all. This is the 12th circle of hell. This is infinitely worse. A good drunk can parry the thrusts of the most dedicated proselytizer.
So here's my father refusing to make use of any services, getting more and more miserable. I'm buying into this bullshit a little but not too much, I'm proud to say. Last night he stunned me by saying he wanted to go down to dinner. There was a line to get into the dining room - maybe a five minute wait. The muttering and bitching started. "Where do you have to be?" I wanted to ask. We were seated with a couple of very nice women who live on dad's floor. The service, of course, was molasses that night. It really was slow. Dad got more and more agitated, finally getting up and leaving without a word to anyone. I didn't go. I ate my dinner with these very nice ladies. The food is pretty good here. I stuffed myself unabashedly. The ladies insisted on having the dining room staff box up dad's dinner so I could deliver it to him.
"Fuck that," I almost said. He was right down here - if he wanted the food he should have waited. They were so nice I did take the food up, which he picked at and then fed down the disposal.
What can you do?
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Remorseful Seaweed
Remorse: A feeling of regret or sadness for having done wrong or sinning.
I want to help but I don't see the point in trying to help someone who doesn't want to be helped. It's a waste of my time and an irritation to the person on whom the unwanted helped is being foisted. Last time I came in I spent hours and hours getting my parents financial records in order - sorting, discarding, setting up a system that would keep everything ship-shape as time marched on. I came home to renewed chaos - I can't even find the old records let alone monitor what has happened in the interim.
I started to battle some guilt as the doctor was emphasizing the fact that dad should go down for breakfast and dinner, that one of the big pitfalls of the surviving spouse of a long-term marriage is isolation. I haven't been encouraging dad to do this - it seems roughly equivalent to encouraging a rock to apply to grad school. But then again I have the benefit (or the curse) of decades of routine with my father. The doc wants dad to socialize and I could help but the doc isn't around when dad performs his daily rejection reading of the menu, and in high dramatic form. If I could wheedle and cajole him into going down a time or two it wouldn't change the fact that he won't do it when I'm gone. I loathe wasted motion.
You'd think that as you get older that you'd have seen everything at least once. But then there was India and now there's this.
I want to help but I don't see the point in trying to help someone who doesn't want to be helped. It's a waste of my time and an irritation to the person on whom the unwanted helped is being foisted. Last time I came in I spent hours and hours getting my parents financial records in order - sorting, discarding, setting up a system that would keep everything ship-shape as time marched on. I came home to renewed chaos - I can't even find the old records let alone monitor what has happened in the interim.
I started to battle some guilt as the doctor was emphasizing the fact that dad should go down for breakfast and dinner, that one of the big pitfalls of the surviving spouse of a long-term marriage is isolation. I haven't been encouraging dad to do this - it seems roughly equivalent to encouraging a rock to apply to grad school. But then again I have the benefit (or the curse) of decades of routine with my father. The doc wants dad to socialize and I could help but the doc isn't around when dad performs his daily rejection reading of the menu, and in high dramatic form. If I could wheedle and cajole him into going down a time or two it wouldn't change the fact that he won't do it when I'm gone. I loathe wasted motion.
You'd think that as you get older that you'd have seen everything at least once. But then there was India and now there's this.
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