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.
Friday, January 30, 2009
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.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Barack-O-Grateful
Now I know AA is apolitical and does not endorse stuff (especially presidential candidates), and I may get myself in trouble for saying what I'm about to say now. But I'm grateful for Bruce Springsteen. And I'm grateful for Stevie Wonder, and I'm grateful for U2, and Beyonce (who isn't), and Mary J. Blige (how could you not), and Pete Seeger, and Jack Black, and Herbie Hancock, and Usher, and Garth Brooks, and cool choirs made up of military people and high school kids. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I'm even grateful for John Mellencamp, and James Taylor and even Will.i.am and Sheryl Crow. I'm grateful for the show biz people because they put on a hell of a show that stirred my soul to kick off the inauguration festivities, and maybe I can say it this way, I'm grateful that we're going to have a new president in a couple of days.
Hope is an important thing. I know what its like to loose hope. To have no hope. To loose it deep down. To know that no matter what I did, in the end I was still going to have that hole in my soul. I was young and had a lot of things going for me but I'd lost hope. It was real scary. The things I had "going for me" really didn't matter. So I'm grateful that getting a new president after such a long wait has helped me remember the time when I had no hope, and also to remember when I got it back. It didn't come in a lightning bolt. It came (and comes) slowly for me. Little things. Putting a few days together, listening, holding my head up, being afraid and doing it anyway, and telling the truth, led to little glimmers of hope, little glimmers of "Everything's going to be allright." Little fleeting glimmers of light in a very dark place. I'm grateful that everything's going to be allright even though I have no idea how it happened and/or how it will continue. But I have hope. Or is that faith?
Hope is an important thing. I know what its like to loose hope. To have no hope. To loose it deep down. To know that no matter what I did, in the end I was still going to have that hole in my soul. I was young and had a lot of things going for me but I'd lost hope. It was real scary. The things I had "going for me" really didn't matter. So I'm grateful that getting a new president after such a long wait has helped me remember the time when I had no hope, and also to remember when I got it back. It didn't come in a lightning bolt. It came (and comes) slowly for me. Little things. Putting a few days together, listening, holding my head up, being afraid and doing it anyway, and telling the truth, led to little glimmers of hope, little glimmers of "Everything's going to be allright." Little fleeting glimmers of light in a very dark place. I'm grateful that everything's going to be allright even though I have no idea how it happened and/or how it will continue. But I have hope. Or is that faith?
Letting Go
The plan was to go skiing this weekend. I watched the weather all week long. Took note of daily snowfall. Monitored the temperatures. The resort's website said the arctic clipper that had dropped temps to -20 or colder would sail off on Saturday; but then it changed. Miss Yupin and I discussed the possibilities of skiing in zero degree weather and decided it wasn't worth the gamble. We'd just wait for another couple of weeks.
Man, did I feel helpless. It's not a big deal, I know, but I kept coming back to me. The decision to abort haunted me. MY PLAN was not working out. MY PLAN was dead. Now what the hell was I going to do? Acceptance of the situation seemed out of the question. I was stuck. On facebook, I posted that I was in prison. Then I posted that the clipper had clipped my wings.
Friday afternoon, when I was supposed to be in the vicinity of Concord, NH, nearly half-way to Vermont, I was instead preparing to lead my fitness group in a game of dodgeball here at the boarding school. I was just out the door, heading to the gym with my bag of rubber balls when one of my advisees came over.
Cam (not his real name) said that he was under suspicion for a theft he had not committed. He wanted me to know that he had misspoken to the dean of students; that really he had had less money than he had previously stated. Could I help?
Help I could.
Today, after a number of conversations with the dean, I sent Cam home. He has been expelled from school for stealing $172 from one of his dormmates. Before he cracked, he offered at least five lies in attempts to cover his ass. Then, finally, he surrendered. He fell silent, and his face sank as he knew that he was done.
I told him that now he could get the help that he obviously needs. That he's not a bad kid, just a good kid who did a bad thing. That his parents will forgive him. That they'll take care of him. I threw every cliche in the book at him. He finally coughed up his confession--he stole the money right after my class, on Friday afternoon a week ago.
When it was all over, I turned to the dean of students and said, "I was supposed to be skiing this weekend." Funny irony, no? Because by now it had become abundantly clear that I was in fact supposed to be here. Dealing with my advisee. Helping him come to the point where he could admit that his life was unmanageable--or at least to the point where he could accept in some way the responsibility for his actions. I truly believe that had he not made this admission, he would be much worse off now. He'd still be expelled, but he'd also have that much further to go in terms of carrying on with his life.
I'm also pleased that I helped bring down a thief. Theives are insidious in a small community like that of our boarding school. They do not belong in the dorms. It felt good to recover the money and return it to its owner.
So, in the end, I'm grateful that the ole HP send arctic air our way and froze me off the slopes this weekend. I'm grateful to have had this opportunity to make a difference. I'm not sure how the difference will play out, but it feels good nonetheless to have been in the right place at the right time, open to guidance.
Man, did I feel helpless. It's not a big deal, I know, but I kept coming back to me. The decision to abort haunted me. MY PLAN was not working out. MY PLAN was dead. Now what the hell was I going to do? Acceptance of the situation seemed out of the question. I was stuck. On facebook, I posted that I was in prison. Then I posted that the clipper had clipped my wings.
Friday afternoon, when I was supposed to be in the vicinity of Concord, NH, nearly half-way to Vermont, I was instead preparing to lead my fitness group in a game of dodgeball here at the boarding school. I was just out the door, heading to the gym with my bag of rubber balls when one of my advisees came over.
Cam (not his real name) said that he was under suspicion for a theft he had not committed. He wanted me to know that he had misspoken to the dean of students; that really he had had less money than he had previously stated. Could I help?
Help I could.
Today, after a number of conversations with the dean, I sent Cam home. He has been expelled from school for stealing $172 from one of his dormmates. Before he cracked, he offered at least five lies in attempts to cover his ass. Then, finally, he surrendered. He fell silent, and his face sank as he knew that he was done.
I told him that now he could get the help that he obviously needs. That he's not a bad kid, just a good kid who did a bad thing. That his parents will forgive him. That they'll take care of him. I threw every cliche in the book at him. He finally coughed up his confession--he stole the money right after my class, on Friday afternoon a week ago.
When it was all over, I turned to the dean of students and said, "I was supposed to be skiing this weekend." Funny irony, no? Because by now it had become abundantly clear that I was in fact supposed to be here. Dealing with my advisee. Helping him come to the point where he could admit that his life was unmanageable--or at least to the point where he could accept in some way the responsibility for his actions. I truly believe that had he not made this admission, he would be much worse off now. He'd still be expelled, but he'd also have that much further to go in terms of carrying on with his life.
I'm also pleased that I helped bring down a thief. Theives are insidious in a small community like that of our boarding school. They do not belong in the dorms. It felt good to recover the money and return it to its owner.
So, in the end, I'm grateful that the ole HP send arctic air our way and froze me off the slopes this weekend. I'm grateful to have had this opportunity to make a difference. I'm not sure how the difference will play out, but it feels good nonetheless to have been in the right place at the right time, open to guidance.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
welcome brian d
Yeah baby! Stoked to have another contributor. Grateful for this blog, for the opportunity to maintain an ongoing gratitude meeting online.
Hope that folks will continue to contribute. Would love to hear from all of you. I will try to post once a week. If you have not been posting, please consider putting one up from time to time. Even once a month would be valuable.
Sure is nice to have the New Year behind us. My last relapse was Thanksgiving night, 1999, when I drank a couple shots of Frangelico from a coffee cup and smoked a cigarette. Didn't get drunk. Didn't have to experience every kind of alcohol under the sun before coming back. Didn't die. Did debate for awhile whether or not I had actually relapsed. Really didn't want to reset my sobriety date--I already had seventeen or eighteen days!!!
At my next meeting I picked up a white chip. Hopefully my last. But then New Year's loomed on the not-so-distant horizon. "Tonight I'm gonna party like it's 1999." Prince just wouldn't stay out of my head. How could I miss the party of the millenium?
HP intervened in the form of two dogs and two cats and a great couple who were going away for the weekend. They needed a sitter. I watched the ball drop on their 13" black and white TV and felt sorry for myself.
The next morning, I had no hang over. I had stayed sober. It was a new year, one in which I would enter a new decade by turning thirty. My roaring twenties were closing down along with the 90s. And good riddance. My life was going on, despite the raging party indulged in by the rest of the world. Nobody had missed me, just as nobody missed me at this New Year's celebration.
Today I'm sober. If I want to wake up at 6 am to go skiing or for whatever other reason, I have no fear. I don't have to worry about still being drunk as I teach my morning classes. Grumpy, yes. Irritated? Frequently. Drunk. Stinking. Hungover. Suicidal? Good riddance.
Thanks again for this fellowship, for the HP, for ODAAT living, and for sobriety. It's a good day to be alive.
Hope that folks will continue to contribute. Would love to hear from all of you. I will try to post once a week. If you have not been posting, please consider putting one up from time to time. Even once a month would be valuable.
Sure is nice to have the New Year behind us. My last relapse was Thanksgiving night, 1999, when I drank a couple shots of Frangelico from a coffee cup and smoked a cigarette. Didn't get drunk. Didn't have to experience every kind of alcohol under the sun before coming back. Didn't die. Did debate for awhile whether or not I had actually relapsed. Really didn't want to reset my sobriety date--I already had seventeen or eighteen days!!!
At my next meeting I picked up a white chip. Hopefully my last. But then New Year's loomed on the not-so-distant horizon. "Tonight I'm gonna party like it's 1999." Prince just wouldn't stay out of my head. How could I miss the party of the millenium?
HP intervened in the form of two dogs and two cats and a great couple who were going away for the weekend. They needed a sitter. I watched the ball drop on their 13" black and white TV and felt sorry for myself.
The next morning, I had no hang over. I had stayed sober. It was a new year, one in which I would enter a new decade by turning thirty. My roaring twenties were closing down along with the 90s. And good riddance. My life was going on, despite the raging party indulged in by the rest of the world. Nobody had missed me, just as nobody missed me at this New Year's celebration.
Today I'm sober. If I want to wake up at 6 am to go skiing or for whatever other reason, I have no fear. I don't have to worry about still being drunk as I teach my morning classes. Grumpy, yes. Irritated? Frequently. Drunk. Stinking. Hungover. Suicidal? Good riddance.
Thanks again for this fellowship, for the HP, for ODAAT living, and for sobriety. It's a good day to be alive.
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Holidays Are Over!
I don't normally use exclamation points. I actually have an aversion to (maybe even a phobia of) exclamation points. But that's a story for another day. The main point of this already rambling post is the fact that "The Holidays Are Over!" Or Ova as we say here in this corner of the Northeast. And thank God. This was the first year we had Christmas in our house. Not mom's house or dad's house, or Grandma's house or the in-laws house, or the house that I grew up in and used the woods to hide in and get wasted. Our house. Yep it was stressful. But the stress was "Will the turkey be done when we're ready to eat." or "I hope the cracklin' fire doesn't make the living room too hot", or "Did you remember to water the tree?" Rather than----
Pain. The pain of knowing that every other house in America is having a happy, happy Christmas while we swim against a flood tide of pain. Pain that was old and worn like a trusty baseball glove. We always hoped it'd be different, and that this Christmas would make up for all the painful Christmases from the past, but with each year's expectations going woefully unmet, the pain slowly ossified into bone, or maybe like a clam shell or..... ice. Clear, hard, cold, ice that you can kind of see through, but you can't hear or feel anything through. It was always going to be there I just needed to endure it by hiding and drinking and doing drugs as soon as I could. I mistakenly thought if I could just numb myself, it'd get better. It didn't until.....very slowly......I started getting sober.
My sobriety date is actually December 27th 1993. I actually have two dates. The first was dec 4th 1991. I was sober for 23.5 months and drank again. Long, Long story. But the bottom line is. It was a gift. Getting back. A gift from God. Looking back I needed all the pain. To be totally broken. To be humble enough to ask, plead, for help. I'm grateful for AA. I'm grateful for a place to go, and the kind people who helped me when no one else could. And I'm greatful that the holidays are over.
Pain. The pain of knowing that every other house in America is having a happy, happy Christmas while we swim against a flood tide of pain. Pain that was old and worn like a trusty baseball glove. We always hoped it'd be different, and that this Christmas would make up for all the painful Christmases from the past, but with each year's expectations going woefully unmet, the pain slowly ossified into bone, or maybe like a clam shell or..... ice. Clear, hard, cold, ice that you can kind of see through, but you can't hear or feel anything through. It was always going to be there I just needed to endure it by hiding and drinking and doing drugs as soon as I could. I mistakenly thought if I could just numb myself, it'd get better. It didn't until.....very slowly......I started getting sober.
My sobriety date is actually December 27th 1993. I actually have two dates. The first was dec 4th 1991. I was sober for 23.5 months and drank again. Long, Long story. But the bottom line is. It was a gift. Getting back. A gift from God. Looking back I needed all the pain. To be totally broken. To be humble enough to ask, plead, for help. I'm grateful for AA. I'm grateful for a place to go, and the kind people who helped me when no one else could. And I'm greatful that the holidays are over.
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