So I lived through and survived what was quite literally the worst six month period I have endured in sobriety with the exception of my first six months. I felt like I was being fed through an emotional meat-grinder, a psychological wood-chipper, a mental sausage-maker. I stayed the course because I believed I would come out the other side. I knew I would survive.
Remember: What doesn't kill you can still fuck you up pretty good.
Part of my epiphany has been an ever-increasing sense that I'm at peace with the past. I've been pretty peaceful as far as my past is concerned but the meat-grinder, wood-chipper, sausage-maker period helped me to look at a lot of relationships - with people, with places, with The Dead - that were troublesome, in ways that I didn't fully grasp. There were some endings, some remembrances, some rekindlings. I often forget to appreciate the helpful nature of pain, motivating me to do the work to get better.
Remember: It's always the darkest right before it goes totally black.
Here I am in lovely Vacation City, with a lovely life and a lovely group of friends who are DRIVING ME CRAZY at the moment.
Remember: When you shut the door on an old way of life you're kind of stuck on the other side of the door that you just shut, maybe impulsively, a little irritated even, so make sure you want to be in the next room before you exit the room that you're currently in. It may be a perfectly good room. The grass is not always greener in the next room. There may very well be no grass at all in there.
I had a Pissy Seaweed moment today. In most of my old recovery life the phone was a big tool that I used every day. I had lots of guys that I called and a bunch of them called me regularly, too. I made more calls than I received but that's OK - that's part of who I am: Phone Guy. I will say that people returned my calls without exception. I'm an ex-salesman who has absolutely no patience with people not returning my calls - I put up with that bullshit from prospects and I'm not going to put up with it from friends.
Vacation City is not a phone city. Maybe people don't use the phone as much as they used to. Maybe they use the phone a lot but they aren't calling me. Maybe they say: "Jesus Christ, when is that guy going to get the message and quit calling me?" It's not unusual to leave a voice message and get a text in return. People seem to be comfortable with not returning calls. Texting is sort of bullshit in my book - it's fine for letting someone know you're going to be late or to add something to a shopping list but it's a bullshit form of higher communication.
Remember: The light you see at the end of the tunnel might be the locomotive coming at you.
So I got some minor resentments working right now, directed at people who aren't behaving badly at all.
Remember: Don't go to a football game and bitch that they're not playing baseball.
I have this little group of friends that kind of hangs out together as a little group. I call them but they don't call me and are a little dicey about returning received phone calls. They like to do things face-to-face. So do I but not all the time and you still gotta return phone calls, for chrissake. So at the meeting this morning they approached me about going to dinner tonight, including one guy who texted a response to a phone call I made last week so he was already on a low-grade, minor shit list of mine. They all live near downtown and I live on the eastern periphery so most of the time we eat dinner downtown, but tonight we decided to eat at a really nice little Japanese restaurant right down the road from me.
(Ed Note: in the interest of not being caught lying I do have to say that we're talking about a ten minute drive instead of a twenty minute drive. Not a significant chunk of time for people like me who literally don't have anything important to do).
"I don't mind being called a liar when I'm lying or about to lie or just finished lying but NOT WHEN I'M TELLING THE TRUTH!" Homer S.
During the course of the day the location of dinner was changed to accommodate one of the guys who lives and works downtown, the new location being downtown. Well, this pissed me off unduly and I passed on the meal, like the small, petty, churlish child that I am. My history to screw myself - either by foregoing something pleasure or ladling something undesirable onto my plate - just to make some vague point that no one picks up on anyhow, unable to comprehend that I'd pitch a bitch over something so insignificant, but at least I'm listening to my own twisted inner self, goddammit!
It's hard to believe that I've made a ton of progress in not being as intolerant, impatient, aggressive, and prone to fits of anger that I used to be. I'm better now than I've ever been!
"It angries up my fists!" Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Rapacious Seaweed
Rapacious: Given to taking by force or plundering; excessively greedy; subsisting off live prey.
"Alcohol, now become the rapacious creditor, bleeds us of all self-sufficiency and all will to resist its demands. . . . Then, and only then do we become as open-minded to conviction and as willing to listen as the dying can be. We stand ready to do anything which will lift the merciless obsession from us." 12 & 12
First of all, Bill W, who wrote most of this book, is such a ham-bone. What a flair for the floridly dramatic that guy had when he was writing this stuff down. Thank god we also had humble Dr Bob to offset his rapacious attention-seeking. Truthfully, they made a good team - without Bill's relentless salesmanship the word would have struggled to travel far and wide, and without Bob's quiet reflection Bill would have pissed everyone off.
"Alcohol - the source of and solution to all of my problems." Homer S
And let's not pretend that alcohol was our friend. Alcohol was trying to kill us. Alcohol was trying to eat us. Alive. That is no friend. Maybe a friend will kill you and then eat you, but eat you alive. I guess that's why florid Bill adds the expression ". . . as willing to listen as the dying can be."
I did not enter The Program to quit drinking. I liked to drink. I came around because I was tired of feeling like shit and I hoped to be shown some kind of loophole that would allow me to drink while escaping the consequences that were becoming increasingly dire. It was the consequences that sucked, not the drinking. Or the drug use. I maintain to this day that if I could have the quality of life that I have now and drink alcohol and smoke drugs that I'd be typing this while driving to the liquor store.
Loophole: A method of escape, especially an ambiguity or exception in a rule that can be exploited to avoid its effect.
Yes! I wanted to exploit an ambiguity to escape the effect of the alcoholic bludgeoning.
I always laugh when I hear the phrase "half-measures." As in: "Half-Measures Seaweed." I came into The Program and I did a bare minimum of work until I drank. Then I did a teeny, tiny bit more work, and drank again. I kept adding little, minuscule bits of work onto my scrawny agenda, but never adding enough, always drinking, eventually drinking again. Finally, I came in and said: "Whatever I gotta do." I just did everything I was told - I bitched privately but I did what I was told to do. I was finished. I was cooked.
"Alcohol, now become the rapacious creditor, bleeds us of all self-sufficiency and all will to resist its demands. . . . Then, and only then do we become as open-minded to conviction and as willing to listen as the dying can be. We stand ready to do anything which will lift the merciless obsession from us." 12 & 12
First of all, Bill W, who wrote most of this book, is such a ham-bone. What a flair for the floridly dramatic that guy had when he was writing this stuff down. Thank god we also had humble Dr Bob to offset his rapacious attention-seeking. Truthfully, they made a good team - without Bill's relentless salesmanship the word would have struggled to travel far and wide, and without Bob's quiet reflection Bill would have pissed everyone off.
"Alcohol - the source of and solution to all of my problems." Homer S
And let's not pretend that alcohol was our friend. Alcohol was trying to kill us. Alcohol was trying to eat us. Alive. That is no friend. Maybe a friend will kill you and then eat you, but eat you alive. I guess that's why florid Bill adds the expression ". . . as willing to listen as the dying can be."
I did not enter The Program to quit drinking. I liked to drink. I came around because I was tired of feeling like shit and I hoped to be shown some kind of loophole that would allow me to drink while escaping the consequences that were becoming increasingly dire. It was the consequences that sucked, not the drinking. Or the drug use. I maintain to this day that if I could have the quality of life that I have now and drink alcohol and smoke drugs that I'd be typing this while driving to the liquor store.
Loophole: A method of escape, especially an ambiguity or exception in a rule that can be exploited to avoid its effect.
Yes! I wanted to exploit an ambiguity to escape the effect of the alcoholic bludgeoning.
I always laugh when I hear the phrase "half-measures." As in: "Half-Measures Seaweed." I came into The Program and I did a bare minimum of work until I drank. Then I did a teeny, tiny bit more work, and drank again. I kept adding little, minuscule bits of work onto my scrawny agenda, but never adding enough, always drinking, eventually drinking again. Finally, I came in and said: "Whatever I gotta do." I just did everything I was told - I bitched privately but I did what I was told to do. I was finished. I was cooked.
Monday, November 27, 2017
Sharing Seaweed
We had a "tag" meeting this morning. For the unwashed and uninitiated this is a process where an individual calls on someone else once they've finished sharing. It was a great meeting because we heard from a lot of people who don't normally share. The only drawback was that no one called on me, probably because I talk all of the time and constantly recycle the same small selection of tired, fairly obvious observations. I've quit saying "stop me if you've heard this before" because I'm offended when people stop me. I have to assume that they've heard this before.
There were maybe 50 people at the meeting and I'd guess that 25 people shared which means that I was in the bottom 50th percentile in popularity. This galled me despite my inner resolve that it really would be better for me to listen than to talk, although I say this with no conviction and a wry, sarcastic tone. Obviously everyone would be better off if I shared. I notice in the tag meeting that most people look at the ground, believing that eye contact invites an invitation to share. Maybe these people really don't want to talk or they're being falsely modest like me. Sometimes I stare daggers at the person speaking, daring them not to call me. This general technique of looking away, with a vaguely menacing air, reminds me of how I dealt with cops and parents and other people I was lying to when I was drinking - namely, if I can't see you then you don't exist. Sort of like hiding your face with your hands when an infant is around and suddenly pulling them away. The infant is like: "Wow, he was gone and - just like that - he reappears! Amazing!" This was my general mindset as a grown adult dealing with law enforcement.
Share: To give part of what one has to someone else to use or consume.
I'm not sure what I'm doing is "sharing." I think I'm just talking about myself.
Anyway, a lot of people who don't normally speak spoke. It was great. I don't know people who people who usually talk think they have such great things to share and why the quiet folks stay quiet.
Still, I can't believe no one called on me.
There were maybe 50 people at the meeting and I'd guess that 25 people shared which means that I was in the bottom 50th percentile in popularity. This galled me despite my inner resolve that it really would be better for me to listen than to talk, although I say this with no conviction and a wry, sarcastic tone. Obviously everyone would be better off if I shared. I notice in the tag meeting that most people look at the ground, believing that eye contact invites an invitation to share. Maybe these people really don't want to talk or they're being falsely modest like me. Sometimes I stare daggers at the person speaking, daring them not to call me. This general technique of looking away, with a vaguely menacing air, reminds me of how I dealt with cops and parents and other people I was lying to when I was drinking - namely, if I can't see you then you don't exist. Sort of like hiding your face with your hands when an infant is around and suddenly pulling them away. The infant is like: "Wow, he was gone and - just like that - he reappears! Amazing!" This was my general mindset as a grown adult dealing with law enforcement.
Share: To give part of what one has to someone else to use or consume.
I'm not sure what I'm doing is "sharing." I think I'm just talking about myself.
Anyway, a lot of people who don't normally speak spoke. It was great. I don't know people who people who usually talk think they have such great things to share and why the quiet folks stay quiet.
Still, I can't believe no one called on me.
Friday, November 24, 2017
Everyone Is Above Average
Service: An act of being of assistance to someone. (Ed. Note: And possible loophole. I'm someone, technically, so if I act to assist myself then that qualifies as Service. Note to self: check with sponsor).
I've been thinking some more about the concept of service, the idea of giving back instead of using my grubby little hands to seize additional stuff for my own personal use. It's such an amazing concept. It's as fascinating to me as someone asking if they could stop by to show me their new flying car. I see myself standing outside saying: "Dude, that is a fucking flying car." This is roughly equivalent to me giving of myself. Maybe it can be done but it's so outlandish that it strains credulity.
"Let me get this straight," I say, struggling to maintain composure, choking back peals of laughter, tears of joy. "You want me to do something nice for you with no guarantee that you'd do something at least as nice - preferably a lot more nice - for me?" At this point I'd collapse in a paroxysm of guffaws. I might not survive, unable to get enough oxygen down a windpipe totally obstructed by laughter.
Surveys of people often show that most of us feel like we're giving more than we're getting. This, as you can easily see, is not possible. It violates the laws of nature. As an example . . . one of my favorite surveys attempts to quantify how we view the act of driving a car - the result is that most of us think that we're very good drivers while simultaneously holding the belief that almost everyone else sucks. Again, statistically not possible.
Let's go to Vacation Town, where everyone is above average!
Part of my trouble is that I'm a Big Splash Guy - if my actions aren't amazing, earth-shattering, universe-bending, then why bother? It has to be huge or I'm not interested. No one will notice if it's not huge and the whole idea of doing good things is to be noticed. It's like those people who give money anonymously. WTF? Really?
Go Big or Go Home.
So there I am, breaking my arm patting myself on the back as I wheel my shopping cart back to the cart corral at the grocery store, making life a little easier for someone that will never be able to acknowledge my part in this act. Pick up a piece of garbage and toss it in a can. Say hello to every service person you run into. No glory, no acclaim, no notice, not doing it.
I've been thinking some more about the concept of service, the idea of giving back instead of using my grubby little hands to seize additional stuff for my own personal use. It's such an amazing concept. It's as fascinating to me as someone asking if they could stop by to show me their new flying car. I see myself standing outside saying: "Dude, that is a fucking flying car." This is roughly equivalent to me giving of myself. Maybe it can be done but it's so outlandish that it strains credulity.
"Let me get this straight," I say, struggling to maintain composure, choking back peals of laughter, tears of joy. "You want me to do something nice for you with no guarantee that you'd do something at least as nice - preferably a lot more nice - for me?" At this point I'd collapse in a paroxysm of guffaws. I might not survive, unable to get enough oxygen down a windpipe totally obstructed by laughter.
Surveys of people often show that most of us feel like we're giving more than we're getting. This, as you can easily see, is not possible. It violates the laws of nature. As an example . . . one of my favorite surveys attempts to quantify how we view the act of driving a car - the result is that most of us think that we're very good drivers while simultaneously holding the belief that almost everyone else sucks. Again, statistically not possible.
Let's go to Vacation Town, where everyone is above average!
Part of my trouble is that I'm a Big Splash Guy - if my actions aren't amazing, earth-shattering, universe-bending, then why bother? It has to be huge or I'm not interested. No one will notice if it's not huge and the whole idea of doing good things is to be noticed. It's like those people who give money anonymously. WTF? Really?
Go Big or Go Home.
So there I am, breaking my arm patting myself on the back as I wheel my shopping cart back to the cart corral at the grocery store, making life a little easier for someone that will never be able to acknowledge my part in this act. Pick up a piece of garbage and toss it in a can. Say hello to every service person you run into. No glory, no acclaim, no notice, not doing it.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Taker Seaweed
Take: To seize or capture; to get into one's hands, possession, or control, with or without force.
(Ed. Note: I like the implied threat of violence that hangs about the definition with the inclusion of "force." I'm coming to get your stuff, man - you can give it to me or I'm . . . going . . . to . . . take it).
Today is jury duty day, a day where the pride of civic duty, of doing my best to support the excellent structure of our society, mixes with the outrage that someone as important as me has to waste his time sitting in a stinking jury corral. No one is very happy about jury duty and it's only the threat of a big ass fine or arrest that compels us to be there. I'm sure if I had suffered some civic wrong or alleged criminal violation I'd want an engaged group of my fellow citizens to step up and do their part. The irony that I can expect this engagement from others while simultaneously groaning at having to spend my precious time just being considered for such service for someone else is not lost on me.
One of the judges comes in and takes ten minutes to explain the theory behind a jury trial, emphasizing how rare this kind of open legal system is in the world. It made me proud to be there but unfortunately didn't do anything to lessen my annoyance at having to be there. I spent the entire day hoping that I didn't get selected. When I received my jury summons the first thing I did was request a deferment as far into the future as was allowable. When my reminder summons arrived - the one reminding me that I wasn't getting out of this - I specifically selected the day before Thanksgiving, calculating that if there was a day when most people wanted to get the hell out of a government building that would be one of them.
In retrospect this was a brilliant move on my part - there were 23 potential cases requesting a jury trial and precisely none of them moved far enough down the system to actually impanel a jury, resulting in a dismissal two hours early. When the jury coordinator announced this, a big cheer went up in the room. I was appalled and overjoyed. I took my Proof of Jury Service paper and got . . . the . . . hell . . . out of there.
One jury summons from the ages of 18 to 58 - two jury summons in the last three years.
Not In My Backyard.
(Ed. Note: I like the implied threat of violence that hangs about the definition with the inclusion of "force." I'm coming to get your stuff, man - you can give it to me or I'm . . . going . . . to . . . take it).
Today is jury duty day, a day where the pride of civic duty, of doing my best to support the excellent structure of our society, mixes with the outrage that someone as important as me has to waste his time sitting in a stinking jury corral. No one is very happy about jury duty and it's only the threat of a big ass fine or arrest that compels us to be there. I'm sure if I had suffered some civic wrong or alleged criminal violation I'd want an engaged group of my fellow citizens to step up and do their part. The irony that I can expect this engagement from others while simultaneously groaning at having to spend my precious time just being considered for such service for someone else is not lost on me.
One of the judges comes in and takes ten minutes to explain the theory behind a jury trial, emphasizing how rare this kind of open legal system is in the world. It made me proud to be there but unfortunately didn't do anything to lessen my annoyance at having to be there. I spent the entire day hoping that I didn't get selected. When I received my jury summons the first thing I did was request a deferment as far into the future as was allowable. When my reminder summons arrived - the one reminding me that I wasn't getting out of this - I specifically selected the day before Thanksgiving, calculating that if there was a day when most people wanted to get the hell out of a government building that would be one of them.
In retrospect this was a brilliant move on my part - there were 23 potential cases requesting a jury trial and precisely none of them moved far enough down the system to actually impanel a jury, resulting in a dismissal two hours early. When the jury coordinator announced this, a big cheer went up in the room. I was appalled and overjoyed. I took my Proof of Jury Service paper and got . . . the . . . hell . . . out of there.
One jury summons from the ages of 18 to 58 - two jury summons in the last three years.
Not In My Backyard.
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
Tramping and Stomping and Such
Pivot: Something or someone having a paramount significance in a certain situation.
Tell me more about this "certain" situation.
In retrospect I see that my trip back to my home region was a huge pivot point in my life. Well, maybe not huge - but pretty big. Larger than small but not so large that it's monstrous in appearance. Anyway, I was moving in one direction and then I changed direction. At this point, obviously, I was moving in a totally different direction. Not radically different, but the direction change is definitely noticeable. You can see it from pretty far away.
Funny how many varieties of pivots that there are. I was able to re-establish myself in a few relationships of long-standing importance to me. I love the friendships that spring back into shape immediately despite long absences - these are real friends and I treasure them. The kind where you feel like you're continuing a conversation that began yesterday, as if years and years hadn't passed. Sometimes we need to see people face to face, I think. Even a voice over a phone wave isn't enough - the person has to be seen and touched, but not torched.
These were powerful, strengthening experiences for me.
I saw some people and was able to confirm a status quo in those relationships. You know, sometimes we're just done with someone or we see that a comfortable, agreeable distance is fine. This is okay. We don't have to be best friends with everyone. Relationships can fade away without leaving a sour taste in your mouth. They were good and now they're in the rear view mirror.
I made a bunch of tramps through old stomping grounds. I enjoyed the memories and was pleased that all of the tramping made me even more certain that where I am is where I'm meant to be. No regrets. I've moved into another phase and it's a good one. This is tremendously reassuring as was the joy I took in reliving past memories associated with the tramped upon places. These places were good and appropriate for the time and now they aren't and where I'm making memories now is really very nice.
All of this moved my brain around in a good way. It wasn't as if I was walking in the weeds far from any path - more like I was wandering down a path slightly oblique to the one I need to be on, and now I'm on that path.
Pretty cool.
Tell me more about this "certain" situation.
In retrospect I see that my trip back to my home region was a huge pivot point in my life. Well, maybe not huge - but pretty big. Larger than small but not so large that it's monstrous in appearance. Anyway, I was moving in one direction and then I changed direction. At this point, obviously, I was moving in a totally different direction. Not radically different, but the direction change is definitely noticeable. You can see it from pretty far away.
Funny how many varieties of pivots that there are. I was able to re-establish myself in a few relationships of long-standing importance to me. I love the friendships that spring back into shape immediately despite long absences - these are real friends and I treasure them. The kind where you feel like you're continuing a conversation that began yesterday, as if years and years hadn't passed. Sometimes we need to see people face to face, I think. Even a voice over a phone wave isn't enough - the person has to be seen and touched, but not torched.
These were powerful, strengthening experiences for me.
I saw some people and was able to confirm a status quo in those relationships. You know, sometimes we're just done with someone or we see that a comfortable, agreeable distance is fine. This is okay. We don't have to be best friends with everyone. Relationships can fade away without leaving a sour taste in your mouth. They were good and now they're in the rear view mirror.
I made a bunch of tramps through old stomping grounds. I enjoyed the memories and was pleased that all of the tramping made me even more certain that where I am is where I'm meant to be. No regrets. I've moved into another phase and it's a good one. This is tremendously reassuring as was the joy I took in reliving past memories associated with the tramped upon places. These places were good and appropriate for the time and now they aren't and where I'm making memories now is really very nice.
All of this moved my brain around in a good way. It wasn't as if I was walking in the weeds far from any path - more like I was wandering down a path slightly oblique to the one I need to be on, and now I'm on that path.
Pretty cool.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
ODAT
I was pondering the idea of One Day At A Time during my Quiet Time this morning. I am on - for the time being anyway - the sunnier side of the dark time that bedeviled me for a good five or six months. This morning I was sitting there, relaxed, content, grateful that the heavy pall of anxiety has drifted away. I enjoyed the lightness of being, the freedom, the optimism.
It is much easier staying in the minute when I'm feeling fine. I believe that staying in the minute is a great idea no matter what kind of mood I'm in but it's a lot easier when I'm in a good one. It's probably better for me to learn how to be with myself, quietly, when things look dark. Nonetheless, it's more unpleasant. I hang on to shit. When I'm in a good place I want it to last - when I'm in a bad one I want them to change. And I don't get either of these with enough regularity to suit myself.
An alcoholic is someone who changes his goals to accommodate his behavior.
Living in reality 24 hours at a time is the most bad-ass act we will ever accomplish.
It is much easier staying in the minute when I'm feeling fine. I believe that staying in the minute is a great idea no matter what kind of mood I'm in but it's a lot easier when I'm in a good one. It's probably better for me to learn how to be with myself, quietly, when things look dark. Nonetheless, it's more unpleasant. I hang on to shit. When I'm in a good place I want it to last - when I'm in a bad one I want them to change. And I don't get either of these with enough regularity to suit myself.
An alcoholic is someone who changes his goals to accommodate his behavior.
Living in reality 24 hours at a time is the most bad-ass act we will ever accomplish.
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