now there's a reason for gratitude.
mostly content, most of the time. just working. working. and wasting time. lost in dreams of possible futures--colorado, vermont, ski towns. visions of the young bear growing up on a mountain. the ridiculous belief that the only way i'll ever shed this 30-lb tire hanging from my midsection is to ski full time. why do i twist in the wind of high school?
a wee tad taste of self-pity? grass is always greener. all that.
is it really all so much about me? about my wants? how come i can't come around to living a life of service? how can i serve these students and help them to learn when i find myself not really caring? am i burned out or is it just a grind?
two days until spring break, the second best thing about boarding school. this is why i make the big bucks, kids, for two weeks in March when i don't really have to do shit. i'll take care of some stuff here the first week, then off to VT for a week, for a few days skiing.
once i lived in thailand, in Chiang Mai, and i taught at this awful school. my job was a blurred chore. the only thing i liked about it was that a few of the other teachers hated it as much as i did, so we'd hang out and bitch. on every vacation, i fled to the south, to the beaches, to phuket. and then i moved there.
i'm wondering if i'm in a pattern here. is this job in the boarding school on the water the same as the Chiang Mai job? I don't hate the school though. it's not misery, at least not most of the time. it's just fine. rather, it's fine, but it often feels like work. wouldn't it be nice to work at a job that didn't feel at all like work? like they say in those self-help vids. just do what your heart says and god will pave a rainbow for you and you'll be richer and more wildly successful than you could ever have imagined. so, are the mountains my phuket, and if so, why am i not packing my life into cardboard boxes?
in two days, the second best thing about boarding school life begins. the kids leave. i'm on vacation for two weeks. i'll leave for the mountains, to ski.
and for this, i should be grateful.
it's just that i grow tired of watching my life click by like a slideshow on a computer, one still shot at a time, at four second intervals.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Am I really that daft?
I run. Monday, Wednesday, Friday and one weekend day I get a couple layers on, don the old ratty pair of ski mittens and an Adidas knit cap, and off I go. And shoes, don't forget the Brooks. 6.5 miles for most days, that takes around an hour. Blood gets pumped all about inside my body, and it seems my brain gets in on that action, because sometimes I get ideas. The other day something new (to me) struck my mind, that this process of writing, or any creation presumably, demands perfect present attention. I must be in the right now to write. Am I really that soft that it took me this long, some 35 years, to put that together. Further, this hypothesis perfectly explains the why behind my paralyzing fear of this thing. I believe that I fear the now. The disease surely eschews this mind state, of that there can be no doubt. Constantly my mind wanders from sore past to terrible dim future, and that is a diseased state of mind. But when the keys move, thanks only to my fingers, and so on right up to the neurons firing away among the mush, I come up with the next word, the next thought. This place, this right now may be the safest possible place for me to be. Either that or I'm currently putting off working on my 4th step again. Building an arch...
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
death in winter
I just heard the news today about a girl who died in three feet of water over the weekend. She had been at a party and left at about 5:00. It's unclear why she left, but the assumption is that alcohol and/or other drugs were involved both at the party and in her decision making.
What hits home about this story is that the girl attended my alma mater, Concord Academy.
I'm not sure the moral of the story. Is it: a) shit happens b) some folks just have bad luck c) God decided it was that girl's time d) I'm one lucky motherfucker it wasn't me e) all of the above?
How many times did I drink to dangerous levels of intoxication in the cold, snowy winters at CA? It seems like every Friday or Saturday night, I trudged along in all weather conditions to party at a clearing in the woods we called Eden, down by the Concord River. How easily it would have been for me to slip, and to die.
After one such night at Eden, a freshmen in my dorm had to be carried home. Kids snuck him up to his third-floor dormroom and put him in bed. There he proceeded to throw up on himself. The student proctor, a black belt in some martial art, also knew CPR and administered mouth-to-mouth resusitation while we woke up our dorm parent, who called 911. Our headmaster informed us a couple of days later that the kid had actually died--for 8 seconds--but the doctors had been able to bring him back to life. He was expelled. The last time I saw him was a year later, at a Grateful Dead show. He was not sober.
Another time, I took a friend of mine home to Vermont over a February long weekend. We walked across the street, through customs, and into Canada, where the Del Monty Bar serves kids who are tall enough to sit in bar stools. We got wasted on the stiffest, foulest Zombies--think Long Island Iced Tea made with rot gut rum and some juice--and stumbled back home in frigid, arctic weather. It couldn't have been more than zero degrees out. The snow squeaked. It was dry. Later, I would think of the story "To Build A Fire."
My friend, who was a lightweight, had to go be sick, so he went off behind the library and puked his guts out. I sat down in a snowbank. I began to feel very comfortable. I remembered learning about freezing to death in the snow, how it lulls you to sleep. I was feeling very sleepy. Would I have fallen asleep had my drunken companion not lumbered up the road? I don't know. I did have this vision of my dad driving down the road on his way to work the next morning and seeing me there, frozen, like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I was glad that at least I didn't have to put him through that.
In Thailand, a friend of mine died after a relapse, or during the relapse. He was in his 60's, retired, trying to do the next right thing, reaching out and helping drugged out street kids. He drank, he died. People talked in meetings about the tragedy of it all. My sponsor finally said, "Better him than me. Okay?" I remember thinking it was harsh, but I kind of agreed. I felt my heart harden a little bit. There's not a lot of room for sentimentality with this fucking disease.
I don't feel "Better her than me" right now though. I'm grateful that it wasn't me, that I survived high school and the drinking/drug years that followed. But I'm not sure this gratitude is directly related to the sad passing of a stranger with whom I have only a slight connection.
There is no conclusion. It all sounds trite, everything I could try to say right here about HP or luck or fortune or tragedy. Only this: I'm grateful for life. Don't drink. Don't die. Go to meetings. Share on the blog. Help another drunk.
What hits home about this story is that the girl attended my alma mater, Concord Academy.
I'm not sure the moral of the story. Is it: a) shit happens b) some folks just have bad luck c) God decided it was that girl's time d) I'm one lucky motherfucker it wasn't me e) all of the above?
How many times did I drink to dangerous levels of intoxication in the cold, snowy winters at CA? It seems like every Friday or Saturday night, I trudged along in all weather conditions to party at a clearing in the woods we called Eden, down by the Concord River. How easily it would have been for me to slip, and to die.
After one such night at Eden, a freshmen in my dorm had to be carried home. Kids snuck him up to his third-floor dormroom and put him in bed. There he proceeded to throw up on himself. The student proctor, a black belt in some martial art, also knew CPR and administered mouth-to-mouth resusitation while we woke up our dorm parent, who called 911. Our headmaster informed us a couple of days later that the kid had actually died--for 8 seconds--but the doctors had been able to bring him back to life. He was expelled. The last time I saw him was a year later, at a Grateful Dead show. He was not sober.
Another time, I took a friend of mine home to Vermont over a February long weekend. We walked across the street, through customs, and into Canada, where the Del Monty Bar serves kids who are tall enough to sit in bar stools. We got wasted on the stiffest, foulest Zombies--think Long Island Iced Tea made with rot gut rum and some juice--and stumbled back home in frigid, arctic weather. It couldn't have been more than zero degrees out. The snow squeaked. It was dry. Later, I would think of the story "To Build A Fire."
My friend, who was a lightweight, had to go be sick, so he went off behind the library and puked his guts out. I sat down in a snowbank. I began to feel very comfortable. I remembered learning about freezing to death in the snow, how it lulls you to sleep. I was feeling very sleepy. Would I have fallen asleep had my drunken companion not lumbered up the road? I don't know. I did have this vision of my dad driving down the road on his way to work the next morning and seeing me there, frozen, like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I was glad that at least I didn't have to put him through that.
In Thailand, a friend of mine died after a relapse, or during the relapse. He was in his 60's, retired, trying to do the next right thing, reaching out and helping drugged out street kids. He drank, he died. People talked in meetings about the tragedy of it all. My sponsor finally said, "Better him than me. Okay?" I remember thinking it was harsh, but I kind of agreed. I felt my heart harden a little bit. There's not a lot of room for sentimentality with this fucking disease.
I don't feel "Better her than me" right now though. I'm grateful that it wasn't me, that I survived high school and the drinking/drug years that followed. But I'm not sure this gratitude is directly related to the sad passing of a stranger with whom I have only a slight connection.
There is no conclusion. It all sounds trite, everything I could try to say right here about HP or luck or fortune or tragedy. Only this: I'm grateful for life. Don't drink. Don't die. Go to meetings. Share on the blog. Help another drunk.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Does a recovery blog fit the classic definition of a meeting? Who cares, I think it worked
Tuesdays confront this nut with a spiritual challenge, but challenges aren’t always the worst thing. So I returned to school last year, full time, to earn the degree I always wished I had. My ‘professional’ career as a middle manager on large farms here in the Northeast was adequate for making ends meet, but the glass ceiling of my alcoholic mind kept me from achieving my real goals. I’m not even sure I knew what my real goals were. I’m not sure I know now. Well, whatever may be revealed to me in the future, of one thing I am certain. The wreckage in a bottle has little appeal today, yet barring a spiritual way of life, I know that dreck awaits.
So full time college enrollment this semester equates to 6 classes on Tuesday, 8am till 2:10pm, then an evening class from 6:30 to 9:30. Being on a 90/90 mission, and averaging 1.4 meetings per day, this one day a week gives colic to my infant recovery. Eureka! Odaat to the rescue. There may not be any meetings around between 2 and 6, but I’ve got you guys, my Mac and University wifi. No excuses not to post, and this is way better than sitting in the library doing statistics homework. This is also at least two standard deviations easier than writing out one of the 265 turnarounds for my 4th step. Oops, I think I just ratted myself out to myself. My sick self doesn’t want to, but my spirit knows that step-work is likely the highest and best use of any and all of my free time these days. Getting that list of names down felt like autopilot, they poured right out, transcribed from the inside of my guts (full disclosure: expression “resentments are written on the inside of my guts” comes directly from my sponsor, where he got it is anyones guess, probably his sponsor). Even the causes and affects part of those resentments came fairly easily. But turnarounds feel like a brick wall, and I know exactly why. When reading through the step, there is an action step in between writing causes and writing turnarounds that involves no writing. I need to pray for these people, and pray for willingness to put their wrongs out of my mind, focusing on where I had been selfish, dishonest, self seeking, and afraid. Well, now that I have explained to myself what I need to do, I think I might be able to manage a prayer and a little writing in the black notebook before Spanish class.
Chris S.
So full time college enrollment this semester equates to 6 classes on Tuesday, 8am till 2:10pm, then an evening class from 6:30 to 9:30. Being on a 90/90 mission, and averaging 1.4 meetings per day, this one day a week gives colic to my infant recovery. Eureka! Odaat to the rescue. There may not be any meetings around between 2 and 6, but I’ve got you guys, my Mac and University wifi. No excuses not to post, and this is way better than sitting in the library doing statistics homework. This is also at least two standard deviations easier than writing out one of the 265 turnarounds for my 4th step. Oops, I think I just ratted myself out to myself. My sick self doesn’t want to, but my spirit knows that step-work is likely the highest and best use of any and all of my free time these days. Getting that list of names down felt like autopilot, they poured right out, transcribed from the inside of my guts (full disclosure: expression “resentments are written on the inside of my guts” comes directly from my sponsor, where he got it is anyones guess, probably his sponsor). Even the causes and affects part of those resentments came fairly easily. But turnarounds feel like a brick wall, and I know exactly why. When reading through the step, there is an action step in between writing causes and writing turnarounds that involves no writing. I need to pray for these people, and pray for willingness to put their wrongs out of my mind, focusing on where I had been selfish, dishonest, self seeking, and afraid. Well, now that I have explained to myself what I need to do, I think I might be able to manage a prayer and a little writing in the black notebook before Spanish class.
Chris S.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
chasing the dragon
i was skiing the other day in nearly three feet of fresh powder, lighter than flour, and it was perfect except that my mind came up the lifts with me.
in the middle of one run, i stopped and took a breath and realized that i was skiing with the desperation with which i formerly used. i needed the world to stop, and the only way i could do this was to hit the most perfect line through the woods. in the old days i needed the perfect amount of beer or tequila or drugs or combination thereof to reach this point. to achieve quiet.
the problem was that i had gotten spun out after dropping my son off at ski school. he cried and cried and cried, "No Daddy, don't leave me...." for hours afterwards i worried that i had done the wrong thing, though i wanted to believe i was acting in his best interest. he loves ski school, all right? but why does he cry?
later in the day, i saw him, passed him on the hill and he was happy as could be, proudly lugging his little skis up to the lift. his instructors told me when i picked him up that as soon as i had left, he had settled down, stopped crying, and had a blast skiing.
i knew all this, even before any of it happened, but fear had this grip on me--and then it freaked me out even more to discover that i was using skiing as a drug, as an escape. that can't be healthy.
but it's better than taking a bong hit.
actually, that's an0ther thing that threw me off. as i'm ripping down the bumps in this amazing snow--shoosh shoosh shoosh--i come upon two guys blowing a joint. the ganja smells good. i NOTICE. then at lunch, everyone's drinking beer, but not just little cans. no, they have these tall 20-odd ounce cans of Molson and/or Labatt. It's not that i want some, but that insidious self-pity sneaks in--why CAN'T i have some? SHOULDN'T i be able to blow a joint in the woods?
thankfully, i knuckled my way through the day and we came up again on sunday. i said some prayers in between. when i dropped luke off, he didn't cry (though he did a few minutes later, unbeknownst to me until pick-up). the conditions weren't quite as sweet, but i was skiing for fun, not out of some NEED. i skied hard, and i skied better than i had on saturday. it felt good, and i felt grateful that i hadn't gone and fucked things up.
when all was said and done, it turned out to be my wife's best day of skiing as well as luke's. i'm glad that we stayed. i'm glad that i didn't give into my fears and negativity after the funk of saturday--i had thought about bailing.
i'm not sure why this is so important--well, actually, i know a bit--it's because skiing has become our family activity. it's the thing that we all like, maybe the thing we all like best. and because of that, i wonder sometimes if it's my will or the hp's will. saturday felt like the former, but sunday, i believe, had to have been that of the latter.
in the middle of one run, i stopped and took a breath and realized that i was skiing with the desperation with which i formerly used. i needed the world to stop, and the only way i could do this was to hit the most perfect line through the woods. in the old days i needed the perfect amount of beer or tequila or drugs or combination thereof to reach this point. to achieve quiet.
the problem was that i had gotten spun out after dropping my son off at ski school. he cried and cried and cried, "No Daddy, don't leave me...." for hours afterwards i worried that i had done the wrong thing, though i wanted to believe i was acting in his best interest. he loves ski school, all right? but why does he cry?
later in the day, i saw him, passed him on the hill and he was happy as could be, proudly lugging his little skis up to the lift. his instructors told me when i picked him up that as soon as i had left, he had settled down, stopped crying, and had a blast skiing.
i knew all this, even before any of it happened, but fear had this grip on me--and then it freaked me out even more to discover that i was using skiing as a drug, as an escape. that can't be healthy.
but it's better than taking a bong hit.
actually, that's an0ther thing that threw me off. as i'm ripping down the bumps in this amazing snow--shoosh shoosh shoosh--i come upon two guys blowing a joint. the ganja smells good. i NOTICE. then at lunch, everyone's drinking beer, but not just little cans. no, they have these tall 20-odd ounce cans of Molson and/or Labatt. It's not that i want some, but that insidious self-pity sneaks in--why CAN'T i have some? SHOULDN'T i be able to blow a joint in the woods?
thankfully, i knuckled my way through the day and we came up again on sunday. i said some prayers in between. when i dropped luke off, he didn't cry (though he did a few minutes later, unbeknownst to me until pick-up). the conditions weren't quite as sweet, but i was skiing for fun, not out of some NEED. i skied hard, and i skied better than i had on saturday. it felt good, and i felt grateful that i hadn't gone and fucked things up.
when all was said and done, it turned out to be my wife's best day of skiing as well as luke's. i'm glad that we stayed. i'm glad that i didn't give into my fears and negativity after the funk of saturday--i had thought about bailing.
i'm not sure why this is so important--well, actually, i know a bit--it's because skiing has become our family activity. it's the thing that we all like, maybe the thing we all like best. and because of that, i wonder sometimes if it's my will or the hp's will. saturday felt like the former, but sunday, i believe, had to have been that of the latter.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Grateful for freedom
I'm grateful for the freedom I have now. Freedom. It was my battle cry when I was drinking. And that "Freedom" battle cry brought me to a beach in the Caribbean. I was sailing away from my problems. I was "Free" so I thought. I was absolutely broke--didn't have enough money to get off the island, didn't really know anybody, and I'd just thrown 23.5 months of sobriety away by drinking. Why did I drink? I was delivering a big sailboat to Antigua, and the cook on the boat was this little pixie from New Zealand. We had what I though were deep meaningful talks in the cockpit as we crossed the gulf stream, weathered nasty weather, and shared our thoughts about freedom and adventure. She was perfect for me I thought. I was going to see the world with Sally (even though I was getting polite "let's be friends" vibes). She called me "Lovie" and she had this sexy little accent. So when we pulled into Bermuda on our way south, I thought to myself "Sally will really dig me if I'm one of those hard drinking salty sailors (instead of being the sensitive sober type) and God will love me weather I drink or not, so I'm gonna have a drink at dinner. She'll come around then"
Isn't that amazing? Isn't the/my alcoholic mind remarkable in its ability to warp reality. I/my alcoholic mind concocted this ridiculous story to start drinking again and it all made perfect sense. And I did have a beer. And surprise, surprise, nothing happened. Sally sure didn't understand that she was supposed to want to spend the rest of her life sailing the worlds oceans with me now that she saw that I was a salty, hard drinking sailor, and I didn't get arrested or anything bad. There was just nothing. Except the knowledge that I'd thrown away the only thing that had worked for me ever. My alcoholic mind then needed to go into overdrive to keep the ridiculous story intact. It was horrible. Drinking was no fun. The sailing/adventure was kinda fun but now everything was tinged with the knowledge, that deep down inside, I was on my own, again. I was on my own and nobody or nothing was going be there to catch me as I fell. The pit of loneliness grew deeper and deeper and darker and darker and even the drinking was ineffective at blotting it out. And sally called everybody "Lovie". Awesome.
So I ended up on that beach. Sally and the boat I'd sailed down on were long gone. Alone, homeless, destitute. I filled my days by watching the tourists with their video cameras and.......nothing. I spent Christmas day drinking a case of 8 ounce beers in an abandoned boat. And it was scary. F*%kin scary. Here I was. Doing exactly what my best thinking thought would help me to achieve that elusive "happiness" and the last of my money was going down my throat in the form of warm, 8 ounce beers that didn't deliver the "escape" I was hoping the would. Heineken is the beer of sailors down there. The 8 ouncers were heinekens. The abyss was so close. I could smell it, taste it and feel the gravitation pull of its coldness. The coldness was pulling me down and my alcoholic mind comforted me with the thoughts of--just fall in, it'll be the relief you've been searching for. I was teetering on the point of no return.
And then I was in the grocery store. Not for a sandwich or anything like that (no money), I was in there to see if there were any crew jobs posted on the bulletin board they had. The key to survival I thought was getting a job. Everything will be okay If I can just get a job on another boat. So I was scanning the bulletin board, fearful of and resigned to my date with the abyss when a note written on a 3X5 card changed the entire trajectory of my life. It said "Friends of Bill gathering for Christmas fellowship in the Dockyard. Eileen and Don S/V Moonrise. I'll be forever grateful for that index card. There's much more to be grateful for but that's all for now.
Isn't that amazing? Isn't the/my alcoholic mind remarkable in its ability to warp reality. I/my alcoholic mind concocted this ridiculous story to start drinking again and it all made perfect sense. And I did have a beer. And surprise, surprise, nothing happened. Sally sure didn't understand that she was supposed to want to spend the rest of her life sailing the worlds oceans with me now that she saw that I was a salty, hard drinking sailor, and I didn't get arrested or anything bad. There was just nothing. Except the knowledge that I'd thrown away the only thing that had worked for me ever. My alcoholic mind then needed to go into overdrive to keep the ridiculous story intact. It was horrible. Drinking was no fun. The sailing/adventure was kinda fun but now everything was tinged with the knowledge, that deep down inside, I was on my own, again. I was on my own and nobody or nothing was going be there to catch me as I fell. The pit of loneliness grew deeper and deeper and darker and darker and even the drinking was ineffective at blotting it out. And sally called everybody "Lovie". Awesome.
So I ended up on that beach. Sally and the boat I'd sailed down on were long gone. Alone, homeless, destitute. I filled my days by watching the tourists with their video cameras and.......nothing. I spent Christmas day drinking a case of 8 ounce beers in an abandoned boat. And it was scary. F*%kin scary. Here I was. Doing exactly what my best thinking thought would help me to achieve that elusive "happiness" and the last of my money was going down my throat in the form of warm, 8 ounce beers that didn't deliver the "escape" I was hoping the would. Heineken is the beer of sailors down there. The 8 ouncers were heinekens. The abyss was so close. I could smell it, taste it and feel the gravitation pull of its coldness. The coldness was pulling me down and my alcoholic mind comforted me with the thoughts of--just fall in, it'll be the relief you've been searching for. I was teetering on the point of no return.
And then I was in the grocery store. Not for a sandwich or anything like that (no money), I was in there to see if there were any crew jobs posted on the bulletin board they had. The key to survival I thought was getting a job. Everything will be okay If I can just get a job on another boat. So I was scanning the bulletin board, fearful of and resigned to my date with the abyss when a note written on a 3X5 card changed the entire trajectory of my life. It said "Friends of Bill gathering for Christmas fellowship in the Dockyard. Eileen and Don S/V Moonrise. I'll be forever grateful for that index card. There's much more to be grateful for but that's all for now.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Rediscovering the Program for the First Time
First, I must confess months of lurking here. Actually, you can't really call quiet seething an internet lurk. Lurking requires the act of reading the object of the lurk. I stuck the link on my newsreader and carefully placed the feed among my most ignored information sources. It sat between "Wicked Local Marion" and "NYT International". If you follow either you know that one has general overload and the other fits and starts.
Then one day, after months of so-dry-iety (I just heard that one last night from the podium), I got buzzed. The following several weeks of "controlled" drinking allowed for a sense of empowerment. I started every day with what I called 2 beers, though both were perhaps a bit larger than the conventional idea of “a beer”. Story continues, blah, control, bloody mary, blah, white russian, yada yada. Fast forward to Thursday, January 15. That first 9am beer (that's normal, right?) turned out to be the tiger by the tail. That day lead me around the classiest drinking establishments New Bedford has to offer. I do remember a “sports bar” on Union St., which qualifies as such only if drinking is a sport. The nice homeless men were a pleasure to rub elbows with. I also recall my final spot, a place we used to go in High School, where they would serve anyone who dared cross the threshold. I call it the “Blue Moon”, but it goes by some other cute name now. It sits across the street from the bus station. Obviously a fine, discerning clientele can be found here on any given weekday afternoon. The best thing about the place, I confess, is the cheap, stiff drinks. I must point out the irony here. My romantic notion of alcohol, from a very young age, involves liberal doses of sophistication and cool factor that naturally flows out of the consumption of top shelf booze at the finest locations. What more could we ask from life than to be discovered drinking a grey goose & red bull at the yacht club? Well, there I was, drinking two dollar bud and rotgut vodka white russians made with non-dairy creamer, across the street from the downtown New Bedford bus station. Absolute height of glamour, wouldn’t you say?
Sadly, this is where my memory fails me (blackout sounds so alcoholic). The next morning my wife informed me that I had finally exhausted her tolerance. That was it. I had snapped my marriage over my knee like a stick. Apparently there was much sadness and alcoholic terrorism throughout my blackout. Crying children, maniacal behavior, physical restraints, the usual. I am told that I berated and taunted my loved ones for being upset by my destructive, tornado-like behavior. That’s it. I acted as I never imagined I would or could. Yet I have pulled that crap countless times before, always swearing it off after the smoke cleared.
The next night, a Friday, out of the usual desperation, I went to a big book meeting. I discovered a passage in Chapter 2 “There is a Solution”. Bill describes the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality of a puzzling fellow on page 21. I have read the book before, and not just once. I have attended more step meetings, big book meetings and open speaker or discussion meetings than can be counted. I have maintained up to 3 years of continuous sobriety. Yet, I have never so identified with anything as I did with that passage. I have been given a gift and I had it on my bookshelf all along. I got my first big book when I was 16 years old, but it took all the relapses and recoveries up to this point for me to get a bolt of lightning. Every answer lies between the covers of that book: Die an alcoholic death, or live on a spiritual basis, Real or potential alcoholics will be unable to stop drinking on the basis of self-knowledge. The original members, as I have come to understand, did their step work promptly upon mental and physical stability, and proceeded to help others in order to stay sober. Granted, setting up chairs and making coffee may be helping others, but what Bill and Dr. Bob focused on was service directly related to relaying the message. If I don’t go through the process of the steps in a searching and fearless manner, I have no business helping anyone recover. Yet none of my sponsors had ever worked the steps as laid out in the Big Book. Keep it by giving it away. And none of this is possible without a power greater than myself.
Those first few nights, alone and filled with self pity, approached lunatic proportions. Suicide was at the top of the list of alternatives. Today, my higher power has relieved me of the bondage of self because I asked for that. I got on my knees, holding the hand of my sponsor, and recited the 3rd step prayer, him, both of us, and then me alone. Since then I have been granted peace, provided I continue to work toward recovery. Not to end only my suffering, but so that I may relay the message, so that that power may build with me what it will. Take away my difficulties so that victory over them may show others the power of that universal truth. Without this aid, I would be dead or drunk. Has my wife, sober 17 years, come back into my arms? Hell no. Do we speak to each other, spend time together and continue to raise our children together? Yes, and no one has removed their rings, yet. Am I sober to save my marriage? Not today, for I have zero control over pretty much anything and everything, save for one thing. I have control over weather I ask God for help today. I do that, and everything else trucks along just the way it’s supposed to. Thy will, not mine, be done.
Chris S.
Then one day, after months of so-dry-iety (I just heard that one last night from the podium), I got buzzed. The following several weeks of "controlled" drinking allowed for a sense of empowerment. I started every day with what I called 2 beers, though both were perhaps a bit larger than the conventional idea of “a beer”. Story continues, blah, control, bloody mary, blah, white russian, yada yada. Fast forward to Thursday, January 15. That first 9am beer (that's normal, right?) turned out to be the tiger by the tail. That day lead me around the classiest drinking establishments New Bedford has to offer. I do remember a “sports bar” on Union St., which qualifies as such only if drinking is a sport. The nice homeless men were a pleasure to rub elbows with. I also recall my final spot, a place we used to go in High School, where they would serve anyone who dared cross the threshold. I call it the “Blue Moon”, but it goes by some other cute name now. It sits across the street from the bus station. Obviously a fine, discerning clientele can be found here on any given weekday afternoon. The best thing about the place, I confess, is the cheap, stiff drinks. I must point out the irony here. My romantic notion of alcohol, from a very young age, involves liberal doses of sophistication and cool factor that naturally flows out of the consumption of top shelf booze at the finest locations. What more could we ask from life than to be discovered drinking a grey goose & red bull at the yacht club? Well, there I was, drinking two dollar bud and rotgut vodka white russians made with non-dairy creamer, across the street from the downtown New Bedford bus station. Absolute height of glamour, wouldn’t you say?
Sadly, this is where my memory fails me (blackout sounds so alcoholic). The next morning my wife informed me that I had finally exhausted her tolerance. That was it. I had snapped my marriage over my knee like a stick. Apparently there was much sadness and alcoholic terrorism throughout my blackout. Crying children, maniacal behavior, physical restraints, the usual. I am told that I berated and taunted my loved ones for being upset by my destructive, tornado-like behavior. That’s it. I acted as I never imagined I would or could. Yet I have pulled that crap countless times before, always swearing it off after the smoke cleared.
The next night, a Friday, out of the usual desperation, I went to a big book meeting. I discovered a passage in Chapter 2 “There is a Solution”. Bill describes the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality of a puzzling fellow on page 21. I have read the book before, and not just once. I have attended more step meetings, big book meetings and open speaker or discussion meetings than can be counted. I have maintained up to 3 years of continuous sobriety. Yet, I have never so identified with anything as I did with that passage. I have been given a gift and I had it on my bookshelf all along. I got my first big book when I was 16 years old, but it took all the relapses and recoveries up to this point for me to get a bolt of lightning. Every answer lies between the covers of that book: Die an alcoholic death, or live on a spiritual basis, Real or potential alcoholics will be unable to stop drinking on the basis of self-knowledge. The original members, as I have come to understand, did their step work promptly upon mental and physical stability, and proceeded to help others in order to stay sober. Granted, setting up chairs and making coffee may be helping others, but what Bill and Dr. Bob focused on was service directly related to relaying the message. If I don’t go through the process of the steps in a searching and fearless manner, I have no business helping anyone recover. Yet none of my sponsors had ever worked the steps as laid out in the Big Book. Keep it by giving it away. And none of this is possible without a power greater than myself.
Those first few nights, alone and filled with self pity, approached lunatic proportions. Suicide was at the top of the list of alternatives. Today, my higher power has relieved me of the bondage of self because I asked for that. I got on my knees, holding the hand of my sponsor, and recited the 3rd step prayer, him, both of us, and then me alone. Since then I have been granted peace, provided I continue to work toward recovery. Not to end only my suffering, but so that I may relay the message, so that that power may build with me what it will. Take away my difficulties so that victory over them may show others the power of that universal truth. Without this aid, I would be dead or drunk. Has my wife, sober 17 years, come back into my arms? Hell no. Do we speak to each other, spend time together and continue to raise our children together? Yes, and no one has removed their rings, yet. Am I sober to save my marriage? Not today, for I have zero control over pretty much anything and everything, save for one thing. I have control over weather I ask God for help today. I do that, and everything else trucks along just the way it’s supposed to. Thy will, not mine, be done.
Chris S.
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