Holidays still get me. They're supposed to be the best of the best. The best food. The best presents. The best conversation. The best fucking party.
They're always a let down, and due to my nature, I always feel left out, lonely, alone, even when I'm in the company of loved ones. If I'm with friends, they're not cool enough. If I'm with family, I'll find a fault--today it's that we're not big enough.
How can you have a proper Thanksgiving feast with three people? We're too small. Besides, none of us really likes turkey. The only traditional food for this occasion that I really love is exactly what I can't have--the sweets, especially the pies.
My first Thanksgiving, or rather, the first that sticks in my memory, was at Chelsea Lane, in West Hartford, where my grandfather lived. Maybe I was five or six years old. I remember a green quality to the house--maybe the carpet or the wallpaper or both. There were dozens of us there--a whole room of small tables for the kids. The adults spread out around a huge Arthurian round table and ate and drank and laughed loudly. We kids were mostly seen and not really heard, but the grown-ups still treated us warmly. After the feast, we walked to a nearby park. I remember the trees were huge and overhanging. It was a perfect holiday, bursting with good food, good family, and good adventure.
I've never been able to achieve such success since. The next Thanksgiving of note occurred a few years later, at my grandfather's Cape house. This time, we tied up my cousin Annie and tickled her until she threw up. Her parents got grumpy, and that was the last time we all got together. That might have been 1979 or 1980.
Thanksgiving, like all holidays, and like every drug I've ever tried, is as elusive and unattainable as lost youth. No matter how hard I try, I just can't get everything as good as it should be, or as it was the first time. There's nothing in my life's history more intense or profound as my first acid trip, at a Dead Show in Portland, ME in 1986. But the last time I took that shit, it nearly drove me to suicide.
My last relapse was on Thanksgiving night, back in 1999. I had finally surrendered, come clean to the shrink, gotten sober, quit drinking, smoking, and medical-marijuana-ing, and I had suffered through about two weeks of kicking by going to meetings and chanting the Serenity Prayer. Then the feast day came about, at a friend's place in Tucson. There were about eight of us there, and they were all drinking--first good beer, then fine red wine, then finals. When the Frangelico got going, I couldn't say no. I poured myself half a mugful. I recall it was a white coffee mug. My friend Matt and I sat outside on the porch and smoked cigarettes even though neither of us smoked anymore. The syrupy hazelnut flavor and the Camel Light did not compliment each other especially well. I received no escape, no satisfaction from my relapse, though I did think about it a lot over the next few days. Should I share about this in meetings? Is it really a relapse if you just have one? Maybe I can stop at one, after all? Do I confess my failure/crime to my shrink?
On Saturday, God-willing, I will reach the nine year mark in my sobriety. I'm not celebrating. I haven't lined up a chip or a card. There will be no presentation, no canned speech. But the cliche is true--I couldn't do this alone.
So thanks again for sobriety, for the program, for the fellowship. Thanks to my family. It was a nice day. Luke and I had a nice walk down by the shore, and for a few moments, I experienced some real serenity there, looking out over the water, at the sky, at the oysters anchored to rocks in the shallows. But still the sounds of laughter and talking and children's tables and the clinking of silverware and crystal seemed to carry across the bay, over the Boarding School's playing fields, from the corners of weathered homes, from all the parties to which I was never invited.
Next year? This is what I'm doing. I'm running from Thanksgiving. No turkey. No Boarding School. I'm strapping on my skis and hitting the mountain. And that's going to be the new family tradition.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Welcome Blog Newcomers
good to see Will has joined up. we have quite a rogues gallery here--if only you all knew each other a bit better, we'd really be rockin.
come on now, you in the back, doodling; you in the corner, text messaging--i'm not afraid to call on you.
doesn't that annoy you? you're in a meeting and someone has shared, and there's this moment of silence, maybe ten seconds, maybe even, god forbid, twenty seconds, and the chairperson says that, like he's a third grade teacher: "I'll call on you!"
i have been such a sloth these past few days, it's gorgeous. just flipped off the switch.
actually, spent all day yesterday cooking. that was a lot of work, but fun work. like meditating. thought about lots of stuff. remember nothing.
reminds me of an acid trip. you're out there, your mind firing away with the greatest ideas ever conceived, and you just have to remember them--like an excellent dream--but then you come down and they're all gone. washed down the sink with the duck grease from the roasting pan.
i'm glad Will called twenty minutes ago to ask about tomorrow morning's meeting. i was going to blow it off, but now i'm going and will indulge in an expensive cup o' Joe with Will afterward. now there's a reason to give thanks. a sober vacation when i could be five days into a bender. easily.
come on now, you in the back, doodling; you in the corner, text messaging--i'm not afraid to call on you.
doesn't that annoy you? you're in a meeting and someone has shared, and there's this moment of silence, maybe ten seconds, maybe even, god forbid, twenty seconds, and the chairperson says that, like he's a third grade teacher: "I'll call on you!"
i have been such a sloth these past few days, it's gorgeous. just flipped off the switch.
actually, spent all day yesterday cooking. that was a lot of work, but fun work. like meditating. thought about lots of stuff. remember nothing.
reminds me of an acid trip. you're out there, your mind firing away with the greatest ideas ever conceived, and you just have to remember them--like an excellent dream--but then you come down and they're all gone. washed down the sink with the duck grease from the roasting pan.
i'm glad Will called twenty minutes ago to ask about tomorrow morning's meeting. i was going to blow it off, but now i'm going and will indulge in an expensive cup o' Joe with Will afterward. now there's a reason to give thanks. a sober vacation when i could be five days into a bender. easily.
As Flav-o-Flav used to say.........
Yaaaaaaa Boiooooooooeeeee
Vacation, or vacationing and writing about it, is, at times, part of my job. But I've never anticipated a vacation or counted down the days/hours/seconds until departure they way I have for this extended thanksgiving break. The global economic meltdown has trickled down into my career sphere. It's not the end of the world. I'm relatively secure in my position. And I'm totally grateful for, and conscious of, the fact that I'm not being forced against my will to make a radical life change. But...the toxic brew of fear, back stabbing, abject despair, and selfishness that my colleagues suffer from (and that I dip my toe in from time to time) is in a word...toxic. It's a long story but it's simply horrible to be in the office. So the ability to get away and spend time with people I love this year is even more special. I have the time to sit back and really feel and understand (thanks to a simple dependence on God that I don't understand) that I'm not driven by the fears, self pity, hate, and chaos that I used to be (and that lots of people I work with seem to be driven by). I'm grateful that I can simply love and accept love. And that I can sit in a cafe in Charlottesville, Virginia, with my wife on the day before thanksgiving and know in my soul that I'm a real lucky guy. And then get on a plane to the British Virgin Islands for a week on a sailboat. I guess I'd really be in trouble if I couldn't be grateful for that. Happy Thanksgiving all you odaats out there in internetland. And let's hear from Pligrim and Kuukie, and Lisa.
Vacation, or vacationing and writing about it, is, at times, part of my job. But I've never anticipated a vacation or counted down the days/hours/seconds until departure they way I have for this extended thanksgiving break. The global economic meltdown has trickled down into my career sphere. It's not the end of the world. I'm relatively secure in my position. And I'm totally grateful for, and conscious of, the fact that I'm not being forced against my will to make a radical life change. But...the toxic brew of fear, back stabbing, abject despair, and selfishness that my colleagues suffer from (and that I dip my toe in from time to time) is in a word...toxic. It's a long story but it's simply horrible to be in the office. So the ability to get away and spend time with people I love this year is even more special. I have the time to sit back and really feel and understand (thanks to a simple dependence on God that I don't understand) that I'm not driven by the fears, self pity, hate, and chaos that I used to be (and that lots of people I work with seem to be driven by). I'm grateful that I can simply love and accept love. And that I can sit in a cafe in Charlottesville, Virginia, with my wife on the day before thanksgiving and know in my soul that I'm a real lucky guy. And then get on a plane to the British Virgin Islands for a week on a sailboat. I guess I'd really be in trouble if I couldn't be grateful for that. Happy Thanksgiving all you odaats out there in internetland. And let's hear from Pligrim and Kuukie, and Lisa.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thanksgiving Vacation
The fourth best thing about boarding school.
After: 1) summer 2) spring break 3) xmas break
Ten days in late November is sweet. Much needed. I'm already 8,000 degrees more relaxed.
The plan was to leave Friday night for Vermont. We would ski on Saturday, hang out at my folks' condo with my Uncle Steadman and Aunt Judi. Only the Boarding School wouldn't let me go.
I fed this resentment with a good dose of self-pity, but then sort of resigned myself to the situation and took Young Master Luke out on an adventure this morning in the Miles Standish State Forest. On the way, I get a call from Steadman. He asks if we can meet up somewhere, so I invite him to drive 3 hours out of his way and come stay with us for the night. To my surprise, he agrees.
Turns out my resentment is all for naught. I can't whine about not being able to see my relatives from California because circumstance has allowed for this chance encounter. One might call the shift the result of the Higher Power acting on our behalf.
I say "our" because Steadman is one of us. His visit turns into something of a meeting--you know, the casual kind of meeting when two alcoholics get together and talk a bit of program.
Sometimes things do work out for the best. Have to believe that such cosmic alignments can occur only when the mind is calm. If I had remained stuck in the negative energy, I don't believe the serendipity would shine on through.
An auspicious beginning to this little vacation.
After: 1) summer 2) spring break 3) xmas break
Ten days in late November is sweet. Much needed. I'm already 8,000 degrees more relaxed.
The plan was to leave Friday night for Vermont. We would ski on Saturday, hang out at my folks' condo with my Uncle Steadman and Aunt Judi. Only the Boarding School wouldn't let me go.
I fed this resentment with a good dose of self-pity, but then sort of resigned myself to the situation and took Young Master Luke out on an adventure this morning in the Miles Standish State Forest. On the way, I get a call from Steadman. He asks if we can meet up somewhere, so I invite him to drive 3 hours out of his way and come stay with us for the night. To my surprise, he agrees.
Turns out my resentment is all for naught. I can't whine about not being able to see my relatives from California because circumstance has allowed for this chance encounter. One might call the shift the result of the Higher Power acting on our behalf.
I say "our" because Steadman is one of us. His visit turns into something of a meeting--you know, the casual kind of meeting when two alcoholics get together and talk a bit of program.
Sometimes things do work out for the best. Have to believe that such cosmic alignments can occur only when the mind is calm. If I had remained stuck in the negative energy, I don't believe the serendipity would shine on through.
An auspicious beginning to this little vacation.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
vacation
Vacation is about the only thing I can feel grateful for right now--but I still have to muddle through three more days of brutal teaching.
I'm tired. Beat. Downtrodden.
It's time for bed.
Thank God I'm not drunk.
I was so angry today, almost all day long, I almost started kicking things in public. I was apoplectic. My boss scuttled my plans to leave for Vermont on Friday because of an arbitrary rule based on someone else's stupid mistake.
I want out. NOW.
In the meantime, there's my men's meeting tomorrow morning. Need it more than ever. It's the only thing, besides my various blogs, that keeps me sane.
Thanks to all the fellows who will be there. Cheers and good-night.
I'm tired. Beat. Downtrodden.
It's time for bed.
Thank God I'm not drunk.
I was so angry today, almost all day long, I almost started kicking things in public. I was apoplectic. My boss scuttled my plans to leave for Vermont on Friday because of an arbitrary rule based on someone else's stupid mistake.
I want out. NOW.
In the meantime, there's my men's meeting tomorrow morning. Need it more than ever. It's the only thing, besides my various blogs, that keeps me sane.
Thanks to all the fellows who will be there. Cheers and good-night.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Popeye sez..."I yam what I yam."
Been down in the trenches lately. Gratitude that once rolled out of my soul like a snowball heading down a hill covered with wet New England snow, now requires rolling up my sleeves, bringing my lunch box, and working at it. The funny thing is, things are so much better now than they were in the past. The truth is, I was grateful for the little things back then. Grateful for the ability to hold my head up. To not avoid people. To finally stop running away. I was grateful for the ability to tell the truth and for those first tentative steps into allowing myself to be exactly who I am--flaws, fears and all. Grateful for the first introductions I sought with God and the mysterious warmth I caught glimpses of when surrender was the only option. Oh yea, and I was grateful that the desire to drink and do drugs had been removed.
I'm still shackled to my alcoholic mind when I let it run, but even when it does, the result is simply pain, isolation, and a dip in the shallow end of despair (that can be dealt with) rather than looking down the barrel of the terminal unsolvable lonely tragedy that I thought my life was doomed to be. That's kinda a cool thing to be grateful for. I loose sight of what's important and fall off the beam. I do it all the time. Thank God I've got some directions to follow. An alcoholic users guide that has absolutely worked in the past. I've got real evidence. I don't know how it works. I'm always surprised when it does work. And even still, I only pick up the spiritual tools when every last one of my half-baked self willed ideas fail (they always do). It simply works. The circumstances make me willing. Maybe someday I'll do something before the pain gets too severe. Progress.... It's so nice to know I'm not alone even though my mind is always lying to me telling me how alone I am.
I'm still shackled to my alcoholic mind when I let it run, but even when it does, the result is simply pain, isolation, and a dip in the shallow end of despair (that can be dealt with) rather than looking down the barrel of the terminal unsolvable lonely tragedy that I thought my life was doomed to be. That's kinda a cool thing to be grateful for. I loose sight of what's important and fall off the beam. I do it all the time. Thank God I've got some directions to follow. An alcoholic users guide that has absolutely worked in the past. I've got real evidence. I don't know how it works. I'm always surprised when it does work. And even still, I only pick up the spiritual tools when every last one of my half-baked self willed ideas fail (they always do). It simply works. The circumstances make me willing. Maybe someday I'll do something before the pain gets too severe. Progress.... It's so nice to know I'm not alone even though my mind is always lying to me telling me how alone I am.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Snow
A sluggish week draws to its close. Mind wandering to the slopes of Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Montana, New Mexico, and Tahoe. Even British Columbia and Alaska.
Regret that I abandoned the ski bum life, that I never really indulged. If I could go back in time and change one thing, it probably would be my move to Seattle after graduation from Boulder in 1992. I should have moved up to the mountains instead, or so the voice tells me.
Fast-forward five years. I'm back from Peace Corps, and the plan is to teach sailing for the summer, then move back out West to ski bum it up. I'm debating between Taos and Tahoe, but I'm scared of both places, afraid that I won't be able to find jobs, worried that there will be no female companionship. I have no way of knowing that I'm headed for my alcoholic bottom instead.
Summer of 1997 moves from a sober 4th of July weekend to a three week bender in September. The past is killing me, specifically my inability to accept the passing of my childhood. I want to be 16, I want to be 8. I want to be carefree, or at least relatively so. Most of all, I'm heartbroken after the abortion of a love affair with a Peace Corps girl--she got cold feet; I reached for the tequila and xanax. I want to start everything over, go back in time, or rewind the years, to be a peer of the awesome high school girls with whom I teach sailing rather than their boss.
Summer ends, the girls leave, taking their youthful vigor with them, and I'm left alone, grieving a lost Eden that I never really had, drowning in alcohol, tranquilized by pot brownies and whatever pills I can find. One night we eat mushrooms. Twice. Before the police take us into protective custody when my friend bumps into the curb at White Hen Pantry. Something happens to my brain, alone in a jail cell, tripping, and drunk on tequila.
My dreams of driving out to Tahoe are shattered when I realize that I've spent all my start-up money on booze. And then my car burns up when I drive it with a busted clutch--to evade the police once again, just a few nights after jail.
Instead of the West, I end up in Vermont. A twenty-seven year old man, broken, living at home, with his parents, licking the wounds of the past, the present, and the unfulfilled future. Though I get a job bartending up at Jay Peak, I'm not living the life. It's as if every run I take is a struggle against the dark forces that have nearly destroyed me. Every turn, every mogul is about survival. I need it, the physical challenge, but you couldn't call this fun. It's ski therapy; there's a desperation that separates me from the rest of the ski bums. I'm a tragedy who can't die and just can't get over himself.
Eleven years later, nine of them clean and sober, the longing returns. The desire to find paradise in a mountain, the ultimate geographical, the finest escape.
Now I know that I'm where I am--teacher, family man, sometime writer--because of the course I've taken, because of the failed attempt at ski bumming, because of the agony of alcoholic insanity and bottoming out--I should be grateful, I know, and I am. Really, I wouldn't trade my life, but man, do I ever want to right now. Just lose myself in the perfection of the present that I've only experienced alone, in the woods, in deep powder.
Regret that I abandoned the ski bum life, that I never really indulged. If I could go back in time and change one thing, it probably would be my move to Seattle after graduation from Boulder in 1992. I should have moved up to the mountains instead, or so the voice tells me.
Fast-forward five years. I'm back from Peace Corps, and the plan is to teach sailing for the summer, then move back out West to ski bum it up. I'm debating between Taos and Tahoe, but I'm scared of both places, afraid that I won't be able to find jobs, worried that there will be no female companionship. I have no way of knowing that I'm headed for my alcoholic bottom instead.
Summer of 1997 moves from a sober 4th of July weekend to a three week bender in September. The past is killing me, specifically my inability to accept the passing of my childhood. I want to be 16, I want to be 8. I want to be carefree, or at least relatively so. Most of all, I'm heartbroken after the abortion of a love affair with a Peace Corps girl--she got cold feet; I reached for the tequila and xanax. I want to start everything over, go back in time, or rewind the years, to be a peer of the awesome high school girls with whom I teach sailing rather than their boss.
Summer ends, the girls leave, taking their youthful vigor with them, and I'm left alone, grieving a lost Eden that I never really had, drowning in alcohol, tranquilized by pot brownies and whatever pills I can find. One night we eat mushrooms. Twice. Before the police take us into protective custody when my friend bumps into the curb at White Hen Pantry. Something happens to my brain, alone in a jail cell, tripping, and drunk on tequila.
My dreams of driving out to Tahoe are shattered when I realize that I've spent all my start-up money on booze. And then my car burns up when I drive it with a busted clutch--to evade the police once again, just a few nights after jail.
Instead of the West, I end up in Vermont. A twenty-seven year old man, broken, living at home, with his parents, licking the wounds of the past, the present, and the unfulfilled future. Though I get a job bartending up at Jay Peak, I'm not living the life. It's as if every run I take is a struggle against the dark forces that have nearly destroyed me. Every turn, every mogul is about survival. I need it, the physical challenge, but you couldn't call this fun. It's ski therapy; there's a desperation that separates me from the rest of the ski bums. I'm a tragedy who can't die and just can't get over himself.
Eleven years later, nine of them clean and sober, the longing returns. The desire to find paradise in a mountain, the ultimate geographical, the finest escape.
Now I know that I'm where I am--teacher, family man, sometime writer--because of the course I've taken, because of the failed attempt at ski bumming, because of the agony of alcoholic insanity and bottoming out--I should be grateful, I know, and I am. Really, I wouldn't trade my life, but man, do I ever want to right now. Just lose myself in the perfection of the present that I've only experienced alone, in the woods, in deep powder.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Squirrely
All evening I've had this desire to fill that empty space with WHATEVER, SOMETHING. And I don't really know what it's from. Looking forward to my meeting tomorrow morning though.
So on the drive back from my lovely neighborhood Target, I passed the local bar, the only one I think in Marion. The Wave. That squirrely part of me wants to pull in. I know a bunch of other teachers frequent the place. It's one of those bars that's part dive, part sports pub, part yuppie watering hole.
I hope I never set foot in there. Places like that are Hell to me now. Like the Kettle Ho in Cotuit. I recoiled, as if from a flame, to paraphrase the ole Big Book. Though I'm still a bit irritable and discontent, I'm sure happy that I'm not in there listening to some wombat repeat himself.
It's a good night to be sober, what with the full moon and all.
And maybe that's it. Maybe it's the tug of the moon. It used to affect me something fierce. Man, I'd get bent by the light of La Luna. Always an excuse for a bender. I hardly notice it now, but I bet that's wherefrom the squirrelness comes.
So on the drive back from my lovely neighborhood Target, I passed the local bar, the only one I think in Marion. The Wave. That squirrely part of me wants to pull in. I know a bunch of other teachers frequent the place. It's one of those bars that's part dive, part sports pub, part yuppie watering hole.
I hope I never set foot in there. Places like that are Hell to me now. Like the Kettle Ho in Cotuit. I recoiled, as if from a flame, to paraphrase the ole Big Book. Though I'm still a bit irritable and discontent, I'm sure happy that I'm not in there listening to some wombat repeat himself.
It's a good night to be sober, what with the full moon and all.
And maybe that's it. Maybe it's the tug of the moon. It used to affect me something fierce. Man, I'd get bent by the light of La Luna. Always an excuse for a bender. I hardly notice it now, but I bet that's wherefrom the squirrelness comes.
H.A.L.T.
HALT has been one of the greatest tools in my recovery, and I'm grateful today that I have it in my head to pause when I'm Hungry, Angry, Lonely, and Tired. Right now, I'm a bit of all four, a fairly unpleasant cocktail.
It's just one of those days when self-pity gets in the way. I'm feeling inadequate because some of my students were disrespectful in class today, but the bottom line is that I came into the situation unprepared. It's an awful feeling to be hunting through the pages in the book I'm teaching while the kids grumble about lunch. Feel sorry for myself, and I want to crawl into a cave.
I'm about to go take a nap so I can reset the day and get on with living.
The other thing bothering me is that some trustworthy kids have informed me that one of my advisees is dealing cocaine. I believe it could be true. Part of me wants it to be true. I want to bust him, in part because I don't think coke is a good thing to have in the community, in part because I feel like I need to produce a bit more, like a baseball player who needs to get a good solid hit.
While I don't like the police aspect of the job so much, I do sort of enjoy the thrill of a good bust, and coke is always a good bust. No way do I feel sorry for a kid who's dealing that shit. There's also the challenge factor; it's hard to catch a cokehead, virtually impossible to detect. The other reason, though less significant, is that I believe that my own bust, for drinking sophomore year, is the reason I came into the rooms at such a young age (29). That's when Michael from Freedom From Chemical Dependancy planted the seed. Every time a major hangover hit from age 15 on, my mind raced back to his prognosis: "alcoholic tendencies." If not for him, I might still be out there.
It's just one of those days when self-pity gets in the way. I'm feeling inadequate because some of my students were disrespectful in class today, but the bottom line is that I came into the situation unprepared. It's an awful feeling to be hunting through the pages in the book I'm teaching while the kids grumble about lunch. Feel sorry for myself, and I want to crawl into a cave.
I'm about to go take a nap so I can reset the day and get on with living.
The other thing bothering me is that some trustworthy kids have informed me that one of my advisees is dealing cocaine. I believe it could be true. Part of me wants it to be true. I want to bust him, in part because I don't think coke is a good thing to have in the community, in part because I feel like I need to produce a bit more, like a baseball player who needs to get a good solid hit.
While I don't like the police aspect of the job so much, I do sort of enjoy the thrill of a good bust, and coke is always a good bust. No way do I feel sorry for a kid who's dealing that shit. There's also the challenge factor; it's hard to catch a cokehead, virtually impossible to detect. The other reason, though less significant, is that I believe that my own bust, for drinking sophomore year, is the reason I came into the rooms at such a young age (29). That's when Michael from Freedom From Chemical Dependancy planted the seed. Every time a major hangover hit from age 15 on, my mind raced back to his prognosis: "alcoholic tendencies." If not for him, I might still be out there.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Welcome Pilgrim, Lisa, Kuukie, and J.C.
Hi, this is Chris W., aka x w, and I'm alcoholic and an addict in recovery.
Simply click on the comments link at the bottom of this post to do so.
For those of you who are new to blogging, if you want to comment on any posting, do the same. The more interactive the writing, the more interesting this blog will become.
Any suggestions, please post, comment, or send me a message directly at odaat.hp@gmail.com
Gratitude can be work sometimes
I've learned and continue to learn, that being in AA and trying to practice principles in all my affairs..... is work. Useful work. Skillful work. At times confusing and counter intuitive work. But work that always bears fruit. Just the fact that I haven't had a drink or done a bong hit, or been arrested, or wet the bed since 1993, proves that point. But I just want coast. I want to ride the success of the past and be lazy. Spiritually lazy. Emotionally lazy. Physically lazy. I want all the good stuff but I don't want to work for it (and at times even be grateful for it). What's up with that? What's that all about? Is it alcoholism? My alcoholic mind?
Actually it doesn't matter what that's all about. All I know is there's a way out. It's been laid out for me or anybody. When I stop for a second (this blog is the perfect venue for stopping for a second), I remember how grateful I am for the set of directions that not only help me stay away from booze or drugs, (I don't even think of drinking or doing drugs), they help me grow, and love, and work, and not be so angry/frightened, and be part of life (my life) that I was either running from, or railing against.
I went to a Halloween party last week. We're just grooving along and mixing in the crowd of costumed 40 somethings then....the party seemed to empty out. Turns out there was a "coke room" at the party. What is this 1989? I didn't know people actually still did coke. Anyway, I couldn't help but realize how grateful I am to be sober. Going into the coke room, and talking to coked up people had about as much attraction to me as I don't even know. No metaphor or simile can begin to describe how happy I was that I didn't need to go into the coke room to feel a part of, or to be cool, or to have fun.
So I've been spared the alcoholic/drug addict oblivion. What a daily gift. A true unmerited gift. I'm grateful that coming to AA, and continuing to turn my whole life over gives me a life I couldn't have even imagined (but always wanted). I'm grateful that I wouldn't trade lives with anybody. All I need to do is keep working.
Actually it doesn't matter what that's all about. All I know is there's a way out. It's been laid out for me or anybody. When I stop for a second (this blog is the perfect venue for stopping for a second), I remember how grateful I am for the set of directions that not only help me stay away from booze or drugs, (I don't even think of drinking or doing drugs), they help me grow, and love, and work, and not be so angry/frightened, and be part of life (my life) that I was either running from, or railing against.
I went to a Halloween party last week. We're just grooving along and mixing in the crowd of costumed 40 somethings then....the party seemed to empty out. Turns out there was a "coke room" at the party. What is this 1989? I didn't know people actually still did coke. Anyway, I couldn't help but realize how grateful I am to be sober. Going into the coke room, and talking to coked up people had about as much attraction to me as I don't even know. No metaphor or simile can begin to describe how happy I was that I didn't need to go into the coke room to feel a part of, or to be cool, or to have fun.
So I've been spared the alcoholic/drug addict oblivion. What a daily gift. A true unmerited gift. I'm grateful that coming to AA, and continuing to turn my whole life over gives me a life I couldn't have even imagined (but always wanted). I'm grateful that I wouldn't trade lives with anybody. All I need to do is keep working.
Friday, November 7, 2008
the family afterwards...
the chapter in the big book that i probably dislike the most is called "the family afterward." i can never relate to bill's halcyon prescriptions, and his generalizations, loading with dated gender views, make me roll my eyes every time they come up in a meeting. "When boy meets girl on AA campus," and all that bullshit. it's really aimed at the dude who already has a family, who terrorized his wife and children with his drinking, and is now trying to make good. There's not much about dudes like myself, who get sober and then find a family.
at one of my meetings there's a guy named jim, a retiree, who's serene and content, in contrast to his old ways. his family used to call him old faithful because he went off like a geyser every fifteen minutes--rage. now he's chill. he's been taking the AA soma for long enough or something, but the main key, it seems, to his serenity is "life without the wife."
sometimes i get jealous. how easy it would be to be single. there'd be only myself to worry about and squabble with. i wouldn't have to justify the ways that i spend my money. i wouldn't have to share my ipods. no one would tell me to clean the car or take out the trash (not that my wife really tells me to do either). i'd have more time to write.
then i think of something another guy from that meeting once said, about being irritable and discontent: "The wife gives you a little bit of shit, and next thing you're thinking why the hell did I ever get married!"
it's not the wife, though. she's fairly consistent. it's me. my spiritual condition. that's what changes. when i'm off the beam, i'm always trying to pin it on someone else, but that's not fair to any of those people: my wife and son especially, but also my co-workers, my students, my friends, and anyone else who happens to cross my path.
i need to stay grateful for marriage, and for my wife and son. they both bring tremendous happiness to my life, despite whatever problems come up. there's physical comfort as well as emotional, there's joy and pride (the good kind) in watching them grow--she as she adjusts to life in the US; he as he learns to read or ski or play soccer. today we're going on a family bike ride along the Cape Cod Canal, and it won't be anything like the mountain biking adventure i took last weekend with a friend, but it will be beautiful nonetheless, and not just because of the scenery.
crazy thinking is romanticizing the single life, thinking i'd be better off on my own. right thinking is that i have a loving wife and son, and i'm so much happier now than i was in the dark years of single living, it's like comparing sobriety with the chasm of alcoholic blackness.
the thought process is the same: my disease talks to me, tries to con me with nostalgia, badger me with the "fuck-its." nostalgia is straight evil, like Cuervo Gold. shoot that bitch down, and i'm done. one shot of nostalgia, and my entire spiritual balance falls off. not only does it cause me to live in the past--always dangerous--it romanticizes and lies about what life was like. nostalgia conveniently deletes the unpleasantness of whatever picture it paints. it fails to recall moments like when Breakfast at Tiffany's triggered such deep sadness over my lonliness that i couldn't stop bawling for about forty minutes. when it shows its slideshows of my drinking past, it edits out the nights puking blood or the drunken cryfests with various girlfriends.
the "fuck-its" are even worse than nostalgia, though, because these impulses do take all the negatives into account. the "fuck-its" say, yeah, life was miserable single, life was miserable drunk, but FUCK-IT. fuck it all. fuck the progress you've made, the spiritual growth, the family, the sobriety. just go blast off into oblivion.
if not for meetings, i guarantee my sane mind would collapse under this dual-flanked assault. as Robert Hunter wrote for the Grateful Dead in "The Wheel": "If the thunder don't get you, then the lightning will."
at one of my meetings there's a guy named jim, a retiree, who's serene and content, in contrast to his old ways. his family used to call him old faithful because he went off like a geyser every fifteen minutes--rage. now he's chill. he's been taking the AA soma for long enough or something, but the main key, it seems, to his serenity is "life without the wife."
sometimes i get jealous. how easy it would be to be single. there'd be only myself to worry about and squabble with. i wouldn't have to justify the ways that i spend my money. i wouldn't have to share my ipods. no one would tell me to clean the car or take out the trash (not that my wife really tells me to do either). i'd have more time to write.
then i think of something another guy from that meeting once said, about being irritable and discontent: "The wife gives you a little bit of shit, and next thing you're thinking why the hell did I ever get married!"
it's not the wife, though. she's fairly consistent. it's me. my spiritual condition. that's what changes. when i'm off the beam, i'm always trying to pin it on someone else, but that's not fair to any of those people: my wife and son especially, but also my co-workers, my students, my friends, and anyone else who happens to cross my path.
i need to stay grateful for marriage, and for my wife and son. they both bring tremendous happiness to my life, despite whatever problems come up. there's physical comfort as well as emotional, there's joy and pride (the good kind) in watching them grow--she as she adjusts to life in the US; he as he learns to read or ski or play soccer. today we're going on a family bike ride along the Cape Cod Canal, and it won't be anything like the mountain biking adventure i took last weekend with a friend, but it will be beautiful nonetheless, and not just because of the scenery.
crazy thinking is romanticizing the single life, thinking i'd be better off on my own. right thinking is that i have a loving wife and son, and i'm so much happier now than i was in the dark years of single living, it's like comparing sobriety with the chasm of alcoholic blackness.
the thought process is the same: my disease talks to me, tries to con me with nostalgia, badger me with the "fuck-its." nostalgia is straight evil, like Cuervo Gold. shoot that bitch down, and i'm done. one shot of nostalgia, and my entire spiritual balance falls off. not only does it cause me to live in the past--always dangerous--it romanticizes and lies about what life was like. nostalgia conveniently deletes the unpleasantness of whatever picture it paints. it fails to recall moments like when Breakfast at Tiffany's triggered such deep sadness over my lonliness that i couldn't stop bawling for about forty minutes. when it shows its slideshows of my drinking past, it edits out the nights puking blood or the drunken cryfests with various girlfriends.
the "fuck-its" are even worse than nostalgia, though, because these impulses do take all the negatives into account. the "fuck-its" say, yeah, life was miserable single, life was miserable drunk, but FUCK-IT. fuck it all. fuck the progress you've made, the spiritual growth, the family, the sobriety. just go blast off into oblivion.
if not for meetings, i guarantee my sane mind would collapse under this dual-flanked assault. as Robert Hunter wrote for the Grateful Dead in "The Wheel": "If the thunder don't get you, then the lightning will."
Thanks I needed that
Boy I have a lot to be grateful for. But I can't feel it. Or I'm choosing not to pay attention to it. Or I'm getting some sort of alcoholic mind driven pleasure of looking around my pretty nice life and only seeing the stuff that I don't like. You know the stuff. The lights, the scenery, the actors. If they would only do as I wish....life would be grand. Or something like that.
If I had my way back in the day, my life was supposed to be bleak and dark and progress to a horrible end while I was trying to convince everyone how cool and happy I was. Back in the day I would have killed to have the things that are bothering now. The designer problems. The things that only bother me when I look though my myopic glasses of terminal self centeredness. Ah selfishness, self centeredness. Is that the root of the problem. Where have I heard that one before? So you mean to tell me that I'm not the star of my own movie? Or I can be the star of a really bad, lonely, confusing movie?
I've proven time and time again that I don't always know what's best for me. Ah the paradox. When I surrender and take those daily leaps of faith, remarkable things happen. But I keep trying to forgo the faith and arrange what I think is best, which paradoxically isn't. Thanks I needed that. I'm more grateful than when I started hammering on the keys a couple of minutes ago.
If I had my way back in the day, my life was supposed to be bleak and dark and progress to a horrible end while I was trying to convince everyone how cool and happy I was. Back in the day I would have killed to have the things that are bothering now. The designer problems. The things that only bother me when I look though my myopic glasses of terminal self centeredness. Ah selfishness, self centeredness. Is that the root of the problem. Where have I heard that one before? So you mean to tell me that I'm not the star of my own movie? Or I can be the star of a really bad, lonely, confusing movie?
I've proven time and time again that I don't always know what's best for me. Ah the paradox. When I surrender and take those daily leaps of faith, remarkable things happen. But I keep trying to forgo the faith and arrange what I think is best, which paradoxically isn't. Thanks I needed that. I'm more grateful than when I started hammering on the keys a couple of minutes ago.
gratitudes #1
gotta give thanks for blogger. i now run five blogs. my latest obsession.
it's late, and i'm due in bed, but i need to express gratitude to my employer, the school, for this sweet apartment for which i pay nothing--no water, no electrix, no nada.
the above photo i shot from my parents condo in Newport, VT, where we're heading this weekend. it's pretty sweet to still have cool, loving, generous folks, and Vermont's the bomb.
thank HP i grew up in Vermont. to quote neil young, "All my changes were there." it's not true, really, but most of my core values formed when i lived in Craftsbury. sometimes wish i could get back there, but i don't see it happening. too remote, too few meetings, too few job opportunities for both myself and Yupin, and probably fairly lousy schools for our son, Luke. Still, Vermont flows in my blood, even down here on the Massachusetts coast. can't wait for ski season.
started my day with a meditation meeting, a men's group where we read the 11th step every other week and go through the other steps on the odd weeks. every week i say i need to do more. get more spiritualized.
slacking my way through the week, otherwise, caught up in the election, but i gotta say, a whole lot of fear has lifted. obama just nuked the shit out of the deathstar, and i'm digging the shimmers of hope, the tingles of possibilities, the quivers of potential--like it's about time, right, for this country to EVOLVE.
and here we go people. thank HP i've survived the Bush catastrophe (thus far), and thank HP for keeping me sober through the darkest days.
it's late, and i'm due in bed, but i need to express gratitude to my employer, the school, for this sweet apartment for which i pay nothing--no water, no electrix, no nada.
the above photo i shot from my parents condo in Newport, VT, where we're heading this weekend. it's pretty sweet to still have cool, loving, generous folks, and Vermont's the bomb.
thank HP i grew up in Vermont. to quote neil young, "All my changes were there." it's not true, really, but most of my core values formed when i lived in Craftsbury. sometimes wish i could get back there, but i don't see it happening. too remote, too few meetings, too few job opportunities for both myself and Yupin, and probably fairly lousy schools for our son, Luke. Still, Vermont flows in my blood, even down here on the Massachusetts coast. can't wait for ski season.
started my day with a meditation meeting, a men's group where we read the 11th step every other week and go through the other steps on the odd weeks. every week i say i need to do more. get more spiritualized.
slacking my way through the week, otherwise, caught up in the election, but i gotta say, a whole lot of fear has lifted. obama just nuked the shit out of the deathstar, and i'm digging the shimmers of hope, the tingles of possibilities, the quivers of potential--like it's about time, right, for this country to EVOLVE.
and here we go people. thank HP i've survived the Bush catastrophe (thus far), and thank HP for keeping me sober through the darkest days.
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