I know that I've detailed how I got started going to meetings; the last time I got high, and other things. This is how I ended up with the birthday (or lack of) that I've carried all these years.
At the beginning, I was counting my recovery date from when I last used pot and coke. Since I didn't intend to completely abstain from alcohol, I wasn't changing my date when I'd have one or two beers. I was there for pot and coke, not booze.
Now, I was receiving a bunch of flak from people at MSA for this. I would have shouting matches where I would defy anybody to show me where abstinence from alcohol was a requirement for membership, or attendance of meetings. I'd ask them if they felt they were up to escorting me outside.
Hint: if you want influence the opinion of the new guy, confrontation may not be your best bet.
But, what I was finding was every time I drank a beer, I'd want to smoke some weed. Really want to. And, every afternoon, I was thinking about my afternoon drink (or two). All day, until I could have that couple of beers.
This hadn't gone on very long, when I got together to shoot some pool with a couple of my old friends after work.
We went to some wanker sports bar on Aurora. The kind of place where twenty-somethings went to go listen to shitty generic rock, drink shitty generic beer, and have generic shitty conversations. You know the place. Back in 1988, it had Spuds MacKenzie posters, neon lights, and all the crap that the beer distributors hand out, because the owner sure as hell wasn't going to spend a dime of his own money giving the place any individual character, right?
Luckily, I never found any cool bars until after I was a decade sober.
Anyway, I ordered a San Miguel Dark (Philippine beer), and headed to the pool table. As we played, I finished my drink, and started on another. No biggie, right? Two beers ain't that much. And, I was a buck-eighty - not like I was only ninety-five pounds.
When I finished my second beer, one of my buddies wanted to buy me one of what he was having. Some bottle of European road tar or something. About halfway through the bottle, I felt the beginning tickles of a good buzz starting. Which shouldn't have been surprising. Two and a half beers in quick succession on an empty stomach... you shouldn't be on your lips, but yeah, you ought to feel it a little bit. And then a realization hit me: this wasn't sobriety. This wasn't the way of recovery. I wasn't drunk - yet, but I wasn't really sober, either.
And it was right then that I had what I can only describe as a spiritual experience.* I felt like time stopped, and I had a space of time to think this through - which all happened between split seconds. I didn't hear my companions, or the background of the bar; I didn't really even see anything around me. I was absolutely still, and felt like I was standing, perfectly balanced on the edge of a razor blade. If my heart was to beat, it might knock me over to one side or the other. Yeah, I know that sounds a little "woo-woo" and trancendental, but, what the hell, it's the only way I know how to describe it.
Anyway, I stood there, frozen. And, I knew - no, make that KNEW that I had a decision to make. Right then and there. That nobody could make it for me; that nobody could change it.
The decision was whether to finish that beer or not. But, it wasn't about that one beer; it was about the rest of my life. It was clear to me that if I chose recovery, that I wasn't going to be able to drink casually. And, I was going to have to make other changes. But, if I chose to finish that beer, I was never going to stop; there would be no recovery. I was going to keep running until the end.
I don't really know how to describe what it felt like to make that choice. It was like all of the stuff I'd experienced up to that point, all the fears, all of the pretense and posturing, all the façade was all gone. All that was left was me - the real me. The original me. Me at my most basic. And, it was that 'me' that made the choice.
So, I took that last half a beer, walked across the room, and set it on the bar. As I turned around to return to the pool game, the bartender saw me leave my drink. He looked at me like I had seven heads, or something, and asked if there was something wrong with the drink. I answered, "no, I'm just done with it, thanks."
Now, I wish I could say that I went and talked about this at the very next MSA meeting, and changed my birthday. But, I didn't. I'd made such an ass of myself about refusing to quit drinking that I really didn't want to change my date on the sign-in sheets.
By the time I got honest with myself about this, I'd forgotten what the date was. I know it had been in the latter part of June, but I can't remember exactly when. So, for the last twenty-plus years, I've had to write my sobriety date as a month and year.
-M
*read the appendix at the back of the book Alcoholics Anonymous; it describes a spiritual experience as a "profound" alteration to one's outlook on and reaction to life.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Friday, December 31, 2010
Shangai'd!
When I first started going to meetings, I was pretty... adamant... on my viewpoints.
And, there were a few things I had no intention of doing. Such as accept anybody's concept of God (hell, I thought you ought to have to say "Higher Power" in meetings, because 'the G word' may offend people), I wasn't going to write things down which someone could find and use against me, I wasn't going to have some damned sponsor running my life for me, I wasn't going to give up social, controlled drinking. I wasn't going to do this, that, or the other thing... and a number of people thought I wasn't going to stay off dope.
After a while, my views on drinking were amended, and I stopped. But, I continued to be no less determined to do things my way.
At that time, I was going to a number of AA meetings in the Seattle area, and the three meetings of MSA at the Fremont Baptist Church (the Friday meeting moved there shortly after I started attending).
One day, some of my friends told me about a new meeting in a suburb east of Seattle. We met up, and were going to head out, when they told me I should ride with them. So, I jumped in the car.
The meeting started in the usual manner; the preamble and other stuff was read. Then, the chair took over, and introduced the topic. It was me.
No shit.
Oh, and here's the best part, I was not allowed to speak.
Well, I sat there, and listened to what every one of those people said about me; about what I was doing wrong, about how I was not going to stay sober, how I was emotionally maladjusted, and spiritually sick.
Now, this happened fairly early in my recovery, because it took place before I moved overseas. That would have been in March of 1990, when I had nine months clean. MSA, having only been formed about nine months before I came along, was full of other newly-recovering people. So, an amount of personality conflict was probably inevitable.
Looking back, I think that the actions of a group of people to single out one member like that is as wrong as wrong can be. In my opinion, either a guy is doing something so egregious that he should be thrown out (such as violent behavior, sexual misconduct, or just being continually disruptive), or you just leave him the hell alone. But, I digress.
As I sat there, listening to each and every person present "share"*, I made a decision: I was never, ever going to give any one of those fuckers the opportunity to say "welcome back" to me. Even if it literally meant dying. I wasn't going to let any of the people present that day stay clean longer than me. Period. I was going to out last them all. Fuck them, and their shitty little meeting; I'd show them!
Am I recommending replacing the twelve steps with resentment-based sobriety? Hardly. It's not a pleasant way to go. But, lemme' tell you, there was more than one time, especially early on, when I wanted to throw in the towel. And, I'd remember that day, clench my teeth, and strengthen my resolve.
Am I recommending a group taking one member's inventory? Hell no! Let's take our own inventories. And, if you feel compelled to take mine, please have the courtesy to go out and make my amends for me as well...
And am I trying to claim that I wasn't pretty abrasive early on? Uh, I better not go down that road; somebody who knew me from my first ten years will undoubtedly see this if I say that. There's a reason that I got branded "Mahatmaganja", and it certainly wasn't because anybody really thought I was some kind of guru!
By the way, I can't remember who was present at that one particular meeting. There are only two people left who know me from before I left Seattle. One is George; the other is Tom. It seems to me that I met George just prior to leaving, and I'll have to ask Tom if he was there.
If not, I might just have outlasted 'em all. But I'm going to keep staying clean anyway - just to make sure.
-M
* by "share" I mean anything from delivering a well-intentioned lecture for my benefit, to simply spewing invective and ad-hominem attack.
And, there were a few things I had no intention of doing. Such as accept anybody's concept of God (hell, I thought you ought to have to say "Higher Power" in meetings, because 'the G word' may offend people), I wasn't going to write things down which someone could find and use against me, I wasn't going to have some damned sponsor running my life for me, I wasn't going to give up social, controlled drinking. I wasn't going to do this, that, or the other thing... and a number of people thought I wasn't going to stay off dope.
After a while, my views on drinking were amended, and I stopped. But, I continued to be no less determined to do things my way.
At that time, I was going to a number of AA meetings in the Seattle area, and the three meetings of MSA at the Fremont Baptist Church (the Friday meeting moved there shortly after I started attending).
One day, some of my friends told me about a new meeting in a suburb east of Seattle. We met up, and were going to head out, when they told me I should ride with them. So, I jumped in the car.
The meeting started in the usual manner; the preamble and other stuff was read. Then, the chair took over, and introduced the topic. It was me.
No shit.
Oh, and here's the best part, I was not allowed to speak.
Well, I sat there, and listened to what every one of those people said about me; about what I was doing wrong, about how I was not going to stay sober, how I was emotionally maladjusted, and spiritually sick.
Now, this happened fairly early in my recovery, because it took place before I moved overseas. That would have been in March of 1990, when I had nine months clean. MSA, having only been formed about nine months before I came along, was full of other newly-recovering people. So, an amount of personality conflict was probably inevitable.
Looking back, I think that the actions of a group of people to single out one member like that is as wrong as wrong can be. In my opinion, either a guy is doing something so egregious that he should be thrown out (such as violent behavior, sexual misconduct, or just being continually disruptive), or you just leave him the hell alone. But, I digress.
As I sat there, listening to each and every person present "share"*, I made a decision: I was never, ever going to give any one of those fuckers the opportunity to say "welcome back" to me. Even if it literally meant dying. I wasn't going to let any of the people present that day stay clean longer than me. Period. I was going to out last them all. Fuck them, and their shitty little meeting; I'd show them!
Am I recommending replacing the twelve steps with resentment-based sobriety? Hardly. It's not a pleasant way to go. But, lemme' tell you, there was more than one time, especially early on, when I wanted to throw in the towel. And, I'd remember that day, clench my teeth, and strengthen my resolve.
Am I recommending a group taking one member's inventory? Hell no! Let's take our own inventories. And, if you feel compelled to take mine, please have the courtesy to go out and make my amends for me as well...
And am I trying to claim that I wasn't pretty abrasive early on? Uh, I better not go down that road; somebody who knew me from my first ten years will undoubtedly see this if I say that. There's a reason that I got branded "Mahatmaganja", and it certainly wasn't because anybody really thought I was some kind of guru!
By the way, I can't remember who was present at that one particular meeting. There are only two people left who know me from before I left Seattle. One is George; the other is Tom. It seems to me that I met George just prior to leaving, and I'll have to ask Tom if he was there.
If not, I might just have outlasted 'em all. But I'm going to keep staying clean anyway - just to make sure.
-M
* by "share" I mean anything from delivering a well-intentioned lecture for my benefit, to simply spewing invective and ad-hominem attack.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
How I found Marijuana Anonymous
I got the nerve up to talk at my third AA meeting.
After the meeting, a guy came up to me, introduced himself, and chatted with me for a bit. He told me that listening to my story, it sounded like smoking pot was my big problem. He also told me that there were meetings geared to marijuana addiction.
Now, I'd never thought of marijuana as being addictive; everything I'd been told is that it might be somewhat habit forming, but was not really addictive. Of course, I'd been trying for two years straight to get one day off pot, and hadn't even got that much until I started going to AA. So, I figured that this Marijuana Smokers Anonymous program would be just the ticket.
My new friend told me more about the MSA fellowship, and the program - which was essentially just like AA - and I got more and more excited. By the time he was done telling me about MSA, I was ready to run off to a meeting right there and then.
So, I asked how to find a meeting. I was told that there were meetings held Monday and Wednesday at 7:30 at the Fremont Baptist Church, and another at the same time on Friday night at another church in the Ballard neighborhood.
Hearing this, my heart fell. I literally felt like a balloon that had just lost its air. There was no way that I could go into a church. MSA wasn't going to be available to me. I told the guy that the Monday and Wednesday meetings conflicted with a class I was taking (true enough); that I'd have to try to hit a Friday meeting sometime. Knowing full well that I had absolutely no intention of darkening the doorway of any church under any circumstance.
That was Saturday, May 28, 1988.
By the following Friday, I was going so crazy for some weed that I'd go to any lengths for some relief. Even across town to some dumb church. Which is just what I did.
For the second time, I spoke at a meeting. I spilled my guts. I was accepted.
I'd found my home.
For the first time in my life, I could talk about how I felt, and not hold back. This was a stranger thing than just not smoking pot. By quite a bit.
Before long, the semester at school ended, and I was free to attend all three meetings of Marijuana Smokers Anonymous in the entire world.
More about that later.
After the meeting, a guy came up to me, introduced himself, and chatted with me for a bit. He told me that listening to my story, it sounded like smoking pot was my big problem. He also told me that there were meetings geared to marijuana addiction.
Now, I'd never thought of marijuana as being addictive; everything I'd been told is that it might be somewhat habit forming, but was not really addictive. Of course, I'd been trying for two years straight to get one day off pot, and hadn't even got that much until I started going to AA. So, I figured that this Marijuana Smokers Anonymous program would be just the ticket.
My new friend told me more about the MSA fellowship, and the program - which was essentially just like AA - and I got more and more excited. By the time he was done telling me about MSA, I was ready to run off to a meeting right there and then.
So, I asked how to find a meeting. I was told that there were meetings held Monday and Wednesday at 7:30 at the Fremont Baptist Church, and another at the same time on Friday night at another church in the Ballard neighborhood.
Hearing this, my heart fell. I literally felt like a balloon that had just lost its air. There was no way that I could go into a church. MSA wasn't going to be available to me. I told the guy that the Monday and Wednesday meetings conflicted with a class I was taking (true enough); that I'd have to try to hit a Friday meeting sometime. Knowing full well that I had absolutely no intention of darkening the doorway of any church under any circumstance.
That was Saturday, May 28, 1988.
By the following Friday, I was going so crazy for some weed that I'd go to any lengths for some relief. Even across town to some dumb church. Which is just what I did.
For the second time, I spoke at a meeting. I spilled my guts. I was accepted.
I'd found my home.
For the first time in my life, I could talk about how I felt, and not hold back. This was a stranger thing than just not smoking pot. By quite a bit.
Before long, the semester at school ended, and I was free to attend all three meetings of Marijuana Smokers Anonymous in the entire world.
More about that later.
An evening at Skully's
After my first AA meeting (the one where the fight broke out), something really strange happened. I didn't smoke any pot the next day. Or the next. Or for about a couple weeks afterward. I didn't want to end up like 'those sick bastards who go to AA'.
This marked a huge change in my life. Seriously. I'd never put one day up on self will. But, I'd finally seen the truth about myself; I was never going to use any drugs again. And, I was only going to have a couple or three drinks at most. No hard liquor. No getting drunk. I did not want to end up like 'those losers at those meetings'.
But, I eventually picked back up. If I'd read the big book, I'd have known that a real addict, no matter how good a scare he gets, almost never can stay sober on the basis of self-knowlege alone. But, I hadn't read the book, had I? So, here I was, expecting to be able to quit, and found that I had slipped up.
Crap!
I went to another meeting, and came out with a fresh resolve to 'not end up like those sick fuckers who have to go to AA'. This time, a fresh resolve was only good for a week.
I ran into my buddy/dealer (known as 'Skully'... it's an inside joke) on a Friday afternoon. He was worried that perhaps something had happened; perhaps I was upset about something, because he hadn't heard from me for a few weeks.
I explained that I'd decided to quit smoking dope, and that it was really tough, so I was just laying low for a while; hanging with my dealer wasn't going to make it any easier. Which made my friend happy; he wasn't worried about the few bags he wasn't selling to me - they'd get sold. He was honestly worried about our friendship.
This actually made me feel a little bad, because I'd always thought he was pleasant enough, but didn't really like hanging out with him a whole hell of a lot. I considered him pretty boring... but he had pot and coke. And, here Skully was actually considering me his friend. Yeah, that actually felt kind of low.
So, he invites me to stop by that afternoon on the way home from work. He explained that he didn't want to make me start back on anything I wanted to quit, but there were a bunch of people who hadn't seen me for a while and would enjoy visiting for a bit.
After work, I stopped by Skull's place. As promised, there were a bunch of people I hadn't seen for a while. Somebody passed me a beer, which I accepted.
C'mon, it's just a beer. I didn't really have any compulsion to drink. I could take it or leave it. I didn't have to drink a bunch; I could just have one or two.
So anyway, I start sipping on a bottle of beer. Someone passes me a pipe. Without thinking at all, I hit it.
Of course, as soon as I took that toke, I realized that I'd just fucked up. Badly. Thoughts of all the things that were going wrong in my life, and how they were damn near all caused or exacerbated by drug abuse.
And here I was again.
But, then that familiar argument came back: I was already halfway stoned; not sober now. Might as well go ahead and get back on track tomorrow.
This happened about six o'clock in the evening. At six in the morning, I was still there. The beers had kept coming, the pot had kept coming, and (hooray) Uncle Whitey made a visit - I'd blown a bunch of lines up my nose.
Then I realized that I'd better get my ass back to that fellowship hall, and hit a meeting. I wasn't going to end up like 'those people'; I'd already crossed the line. Now it was just a matter of how much more bad shit was going to happen. I knew I could never use pot, coke or speed again, without consequences.
That night, I went to a meeting, where everything changed.
This marked a huge change in my life. Seriously. I'd never put one day up on self will. But, I'd finally seen the truth about myself; I was never going to use any drugs again. And, I was only going to have a couple or three drinks at most. No hard liquor. No getting drunk. I did not want to end up like 'those losers at those meetings'.
But, I eventually picked back up. If I'd read the big book, I'd have known that a real addict, no matter how good a scare he gets, almost never can stay sober on the basis of self-knowlege alone. But, I hadn't read the book, had I? So, here I was, expecting to be able to quit, and found that I had slipped up.
Crap!
I went to another meeting, and came out with a fresh resolve to 'not end up like those sick fuckers who have to go to AA'. This time, a fresh resolve was only good for a week.
I ran into my buddy/dealer (known as 'Skully'... it's an inside joke) on a Friday afternoon. He was worried that perhaps something had happened; perhaps I was upset about something, because he hadn't heard from me for a few weeks.
I explained that I'd decided to quit smoking dope, and that it was really tough, so I was just laying low for a while; hanging with my dealer wasn't going to make it any easier. Which made my friend happy; he wasn't worried about the few bags he wasn't selling to me - they'd get sold. He was honestly worried about our friendship.
This actually made me feel a little bad, because I'd always thought he was pleasant enough, but didn't really like hanging out with him a whole hell of a lot. I considered him pretty boring... but he had pot and coke. And, here Skully was actually considering me his friend. Yeah, that actually felt kind of low.
So, he invites me to stop by that afternoon on the way home from work. He explained that he didn't want to make me start back on anything I wanted to quit, but there were a bunch of people who hadn't seen me for a while and would enjoy visiting for a bit.
After work, I stopped by Skull's place. As promised, there were a bunch of people I hadn't seen for a while. Somebody passed me a beer, which I accepted.
C'mon, it's just a beer. I didn't really have any compulsion to drink. I could take it or leave it. I didn't have to drink a bunch; I could just have one or two.
So anyway, I start sipping on a bottle of beer. Someone passes me a pipe. Without thinking at all, I hit it.
Of course, as soon as I took that toke, I realized that I'd just fucked up. Badly. Thoughts of all the things that were going wrong in my life, and how they were damn near all caused or exacerbated by drug abuse.
And here I was again.
But, then that familiar argument came back: I was already halfway stoned; not sober now. Might as well go ahead and get back on track tomorrow.
This happened about six o'clock in the evening. At six in the morning, I was still there. The beers had kept coming, the pot had kept coming, and (hooray) Uncle Whitey made a visit - I'd blown a bunch of lines up my nose.
Then I realized that I'd better get my ass back to that fellowship hall, and hit a meeting. I wasn't going to end up like 'those people'; I'd already crossed the line. Now it was just a matter of how much more bad shit was going to happen. I knew I could never use pot, coke or speed again, without consequences.
That night, I went to a meeting, where everything changed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)