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.
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