somebody said if for me...

I was at a treatment center meeting the other day; and as usual, I took too much time to say half of what I'd intended to.

But, luckily, someone else made one of my points for me.

There are people who can quit taking drugs or alcohol on their own.  But, there's an easy way to differentiate these people from those who really need a 12 step program.

When an addict of my variety quits using, his life continues to get worse, not better.  It takes spiritual help to keep me going in a positive direction.

The kind of person who can quit - and stay quit - on his own, is the person whose life continues to get better after removing drugs or alcohol.  Without any outside interference.

There are times I envy these people, but that's not really very productive.  Guess I've kinda' got my lot in life.  And, all in all, it's a pretty good one.

-M

all I can say is... wow

I was talking to a friend today, whose latest sponsee had decided to take Penn and Tellers' advice, and quit going to AA.

So, I went on youtube, and checked out some videos featuring Penn and Teller, 'debunking' AA.

Only one problem, guys:  it seems to actually work.

I've been going for a fair while now.  And, I've found that, out of people who attend meetings regularly (most meetings are held weekly, so "regular" attendance of meetings would indicate at least one per week), and who do the twelve steps along with a tutor (aka sponsor), and pray (to whatever god they choose) on a daily basis, the majority (i.e. over half) get and stay clean and sober.  At least, until they change their course of action.

I've met a bunch of people who've relapsed; I've rarely run across anyone who's told me that they were actually doing all these things, and still went back out.  I've met plenty of people who tell me that they had been doing all those things, and then slacked off...

One of the best things I like about some of these videos about 'deprogramming oneself from AA', and the like... the insistance that Alcoholics Anonymous is some sort of cult.

Uh, yeah.

Stop and think of it, don't most cults tell people:

• that they are a member if they say they are,
• that a small donation to help defray costs of literature, coffee, and rent would be appreciated - but is by no means required (and a number of meetings specifically ask that new people not donate for their first few visits),
• the only requirement for membership is a desire for recovery,
• they are free to believe in whatever concept of a god they choose,
• and that the door is over there, if you don't feel that this is working out for you.

Oh, wait, I guess maybe they don't.

-M

birthday night

Last night, I went and visited my friend on Whidbey Island.

Getting started a little later than I intended, I hit I-5 northbound with a vengeance.  I decided to get in the left lane and go like hell.  After riding my Sportster from just north of Seattle to Mount Vernon, I'd had enough of 70+ mile-per-hour travel.  The wind gets tiresome, especially on a motorcycle without a windshield.

Also, the combination of the "drag bars" (low-slung handlebars) don't really work so well for me with the existing forward-mounted footpegs that the bike has.  It's okay around town, but on the highway, I found my legs were getting tired from having them in an awkward position while holding myself against the wind.  This surprised me; I've spent a lot of time on the bike over the last couple months riding at 40-50 miles per hour, and never run into this issue.

So, I was more than happy to cut over to 536 (or whatever it's called) that would intersect with highway 20 en route to Anacortes. Then, I followed 20 over Deception Pass, through Oak Harbor, to Greenbank.

It's funny, at fifty MPH, the wind is hitting with about 71% of the speed that it is at seventy, but only about half the force.  (If you don't have a motorbike handy, you can get a sense of this by holding something big and flat, like a folder, out the car window at thirty, and then again at 45 miles per hour... the wind resistance goes up much faster than the speed increases.)

This caused me to reflect that this is an analog for a lot of other things in my life.  Sometimes, running around and racing to get to a goal I want to hit just doesn't bring me the satisfaction that I expect.  Sometimes getting the thing I want also doesn't work out as well as I think it should.  But that's okay; I get to stop and take a break at Deception Pass (both literally - as on the trip - and figuratively).

After I got to Greenbank, my friend took me to the monthly Birthday meeting in Langley, where there were two other guys besides myself who were celebrating 23 years this month.

I mean, whod've thunk it?  Out of a couple dozen people or so at that little meeting, there were three guys who all got sober in June of 1988? 

And not only that, but I ran into someone who goes to two of the meetings I regularly attend.

Go figure.

By the way, if you're anywhere near the area, the meetings in Langley, at the fellowship hall happen at noon and in the evening.  It's a small community, but there's a weekly step study, and some really nice people with some good recovery.

So, lots of pleasant stuff to think about.  But it's time to get some studying done.

-M

the sweet spot

I was at a meeting a while ago, and someone said something in a way that brought two big ideas together in one little sentence:

"I could never find that sweet spot".

Yeah, I know I wrote about this a couple blogs ago...

...but, I want to dive a little deeper.

Normal people don't have a 'sweet spot' to hit.  They have a puff or two, or a drink or two.  And that's it.  No biggie.  It doesn't require any more thought than how much mayonnaise to put on a sandwich. 

I can't really comprehend what that's like.  I was always searching for somewhere north of a little buzzed, but south of paranoia and problems.   Things looked like this:

• Smoke a little bit... think that I won't smoke too much.
• Smoke a little more... think that I shouldn't smoke much more.
• Smoke a little more... think that I shouldn't smoke much more.
• Smoke a little more... think that I shouldn't smoke much more.
• Smoke a little more... think that I shouldn't smoke much more.
• Smoke a little more... think that I shouldn't smoke much more.  
• Smoke a little more... think that I shouldn't smoke much more.
• Regret smoking so much.

The 'normal' person stops after that first or second line there.  There's no "enough - but not too much" kind of issue.  They just have a bit, and that's it.


Assholes.  ;-)


But, since I have the physiology of an addict, whenever I have some, I want more.  Physical addiction.


And then, there's the thinking that makes me try again the next time.  Anybody with a grain of sense would realize that there was a problem if they couldn't quit sneezing or farting. 

But if it's drinking or smoking, then we'll decide that it wasn't really that bad.  We'll drink on a full stomach; only smoke hash and not bud, or what the hell ever.  Psychological addiction.


Yeah, all of this, contained in the phrase "kept trying to find the sweet spot".

-M

Secretarying the meeting at the treatment center...

Last Friday, I had two service calls.  First, a friend texted me that he'd fallen off the wagon.  While I was getting ready, another friend called to ask if I'd fill in for him as secretary of a meeting at a treatment center.

On my way to the twelfth-step call, I decided I'd call in some backup.  Searching through my phone, I ran across the name of a guy who'd been the secretary of a meeting I go to.  He had a bunch of experience with finding housing for guys.  Perfect.  Because, frankly, I was intimidated by the thought of going.  It's been years since I'd done this.

Then, I called my sponsor.  He's a substance-abuse counselor, and works with new people all the time.

That day, I was really happy to have my friend with me, and the advice of my sponsor.  I'd had no real plan, other than to pick up my friend who'd texted me, and take him to a meeting.  Which is pretty much what we ended up doing. 

The next day, someone said something very profound at the meeting.  He said that when we quit saying, "I'm going to do this," and start asking, "what do I do", is when we start having a chance. 

As soon as I heard that, I knew it was something to hang on to.  That one sentence sums up what I've seen for the last two decades.

Then, after some reflection, I felt better, and quit being so hard on myself about being nervous to go on a twelfth-step call.  I figured it was better than being cocky.

Now, I just hope my next service call doesn't come during prime motorcycle riding weather...



-M

something cool I heard at a meeting

I've heard a lot of people say that they don't say anything original at meetings; that what they say, including their own drunkalogs, they've heard from others*.


Hell, I've plagarized that statement during meetings, myself.

Anyway, I heard something that summed an idea up more elegantly than I've heard it before:

Humility isn't thinking less of yourself; it's thinking of yourself less.

Now, it's going on eleven o' clock in the evening; time for some sleep.


-M



*I didn't know at least half of my own story, until I heard someone else tell it about themselves, and thought, "yeah, I'm just like that!"

RIP, Nesta Robert Marley

Today marks the thirtieth anniversary of the passing of Bob Marley, aka Robert Nesta Marley, born Nesta Robert Marley.

I imagine anybody reading this blog will know who he is.  If not, well, Google is your friend.

Now, it might seem odd to write about a reggae singer, a Rastafarian, in a blog dedicated to (of all things) marijuana recovery.  But, there's a point here.

In December 1976, Bob Marley, his wife, and his manager were assaulted in Marley's home two days before his scheduled performance at the "Smile Jamaica" concert.  He had been receiving pressure to not appear at the concert, which had been put together by Jamaica's Prime Minister.

Bob Marley went on stage as scheduled.

The lesson here is that he had beliefs, convictions, and passion.  These are the reasons why Bob Marley - the man, not just the musician - should be remembered.

The question is:  do I have enough passion, enough belief, and enough conviction to show up like him?  If it required anything more than a minor poking at my tender little ego, would I still go to a meeting?  Sponsor a new guy?  Write an inventory?

In other words... he's one of those guys who inspires me to 'Cowboy Up'.

-M

holy crap, it's another birthday!

Yeah, forty-four by the bellybutton today.

Next month, I'll celebrate 8400 days of continuous sobriety.  One meeting I sometimes attend celebrates a length of time called 'the twinkie', in honor of the snack food's seven-year shelf life.

I've been told that seven years equals one karmic cycle.  Oddly enough, I used for seven years.  From the ages of fourteen to twenty-one.  Wonder if that means a damned thing.

But, this month, I have my 23rd anniversary off pot.  No kidding.

If you find that hard to believe, that's okay; so do I.

This last few weeks, I've been going to meetings at a treatment center.  So, I've been hearing first step stuff there.  But, it's also been coming up at other meetings.

Which has been giving me a bit to think about vis-à-vis how come I've stayed sober.  Since, I'm not really some kind of intellectual or spiritual giant.

Some things came to mind.  First, I've always been one of those guys who tries to do what he says he'll do.  Second, I got my ass rode hard - real hard - early on; people got in my face and told me I was going to fail.  That kind of gave me a 'mean-on' for staying sober:  there was no way I was going to give anybody the satisfaction of giving me an "I-told-you-so".  I've wrote about both of these before.

But, the other thing that's come up for me several times is the phrases, "this time", and "try".  I guess that I just don't have any patience with either of these ideas; they strike me as built-in excuses for failure.  I keep hearing 'em out of the mouths of new guys; never from guys with multiple years.  Makes me think that these are ideas that must be counterproductive; winners drop these ideas, or never pick 'em up to begin with.

To say "this time", means that whatever I'm going through is just part of a series.  There have been other times.  Well, since I'm not so sure that I'm going to get another time, that "this time" shit doesn't sit well with me.  This time is quite likely my only shot.

Then, there's the concept of "trying".   I've been known to holler, "Yoda up, bitch!" at someone who said he was "trying to quit". (Jedi Master Yoda: "Do, or do not. There is no 'try.'") 

If allowing the concept of 'this time' being one of a series of attempts at recovery can be equated to shooting yourself in the foot, then - in my humble opinion - "trying" to quit is akin to jamming a thermonuclear warhead up your ass and hitting the button.  One is likely to give you a hell of a setback; the other likely to flat take your ass out.  I'll pass on both, thanks.


Now, I know that somebody reading this will be thinking, "yeah that's easy for you - you've got all this time."  Well, lemme-tell-ya'-something...  this is how I've got all this time.  Wouldn't have got where I am by thinking that relapse is any kind of an option. 


Last night, the chairman asked if anybody could give one single example of anything they've had hurt by working the steps.  I didn't get a chance to talk, but it hit me that pride would be the answer.  Screw pride.

Now, you may have watched Pulp Fiction; if not, there's a quote by Ving Rhames' character Marsellus Wallace that I think is apropos: 

"...you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps."  

Well, gonna' wrap it up here.  If you're pissed off by my remarks... well, I'm okay with that.  Not happy about it, but okay with it.  Probably messed with your pride a little.  And, that means you'll think about what I said.  Hopefully, it'll give you something you can use.   
-M

Three random thoughts

Figured I'd best check in... the idea behind blogging is that one actually does it, after all.

But, that damned first step has been sitting in the corner menacing me.

And of all the steps, that's the one that scares me the most.  No shit.  Not inventory; not amends.

But, looking - really looking - at how powerless I am is uncomfortable.  And, I've had a couple first steps early on that really ground my nose in the mess (so to speak).

Anyway, there's some random things that've been stuck in my mind of late.

First was some woman at a meeting talking about how it was impossible to find that 'sweet spot' when drinking; where she'd had enough, but not too much.

Yeah, I can remember that feeling.

Next was on this first step I'm writing out; it asks me what things were bothering me that I drank over (well, in my case, drank, smoked pot, snorted meth, smoked coke...).  When I wrote down what I used to use over, I realized that it's the same stuff that still spanks me today.

The third thing is about shooting.  One of the guys from my old home group had put the word out, looking for folks interested in clean and sober shooting.  Well, I was down with that, since I owned a pistol, and it sounded like fun.

Lately, I've been pretty active in looking to bring other sober gun enthusiasts on board.  It's been a really fun extra-curricular activity (well, going to dinner afterward has been a pretty good part, too), and has given me a reason to get off my ass and talk to people that I'd usually ignore.

And, that there is the important thing.  It's not the shooting.  It's not even the eating (okay, a couple of those meals were epic).  It's all about the fellowship.

Since about the time I had fifteen years, I've started slowing down talking to people at meetings.  I've gone from one of those guys who sponsored a number of men, and would always welcome every newcomer, to being the guy who sits at the back of the room.

Time to find my way back to doing what I used to do.  Time to get busy, before I become the guy who's buying a six pack and a sack; trying to get the mix just right - enough so that the demons will shut up, not so much that things go pear-shaped again.

-M

slacking off

Well, I should be working on my written first step.

The one I told my sponsor that I'd have done by, uh, yesterday.

And, I should be working on a car in the carport.  One that was supposed to be done by, uh, yesterday.*

But, I decided I'd take a trip by Blogger.  I've also worked on getting some side work, selling some cars, and fixing a guitar effect pedal.

I've found I can get really busy with legitimately productive stuff when it's time to do actual step work.

Anyway, this first step worksheet** he gave me is pretty brutal.  There are a bunch of questions about my physical condition (along the lines of how well I've taken care of myself), as well as my emotional, spiritual, social/family, occupational and financial life.

The bottom of the page says (yes, in caps):

IN SUMMARY

ARE YOU CONVINCED THAT YOU ARE POWERLESS OVER ALCOHOL AND THAT YOUR LIFE IS UNMANAGEABLE EVEN WHEN SOBER?

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT TH E FACT THAT I AM POWERLESS?

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT THE FACT THAT MY LIFE IS UNMANAGEABLE BY ME?

Well, I guess these folks don't pull punches.

There's a couple more pages of writing, and then the worksheet ends with the following directive:

SUMMARY STATEMENT AND TAKING THE STEP

      IF YOU ARE READY TO ADMIT YOUR POWERLESSNESS YOU CAN DO IT BY WRITING OUT THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT AND/OR TELLING IT TO YOUR SPONSOR OR THE GROUP (IF NO SPONSOR). 

     "I,                                    ADMIT THAT i AM POWERLESS AND THAT MY LIFE HAS BECOME UNMANAGEABLE."

YOU HAVE NOW TAKEN STEP ONE!!!

Somehow, I'm gonna' guess that this group is pretty big on having sponsors.  And, I'm gonna' also guess that they're probably pretty big on staying sober, and having the promises - not just the ones read at meetings, but the ones glossed over on almost any of the first 164 pages of the book - operative in their lives.

Time to get to work, in more than one sense.

-M

*Note:  the reason it wasn't done was that a part was defective, and it was getting a little late in the day.  But, I have got a replacement, and need to get out there now...

** looking at the bottom of the page, it says:  "With Love, from the Top of the Hill Group..." and their address.  If I go to San Diego, I should look them up.

stand up

I was at a meeting the other day, when a new guy shared that he was having a hard time staying sober.  His deal was that it's not easy for him like it is for us guys who already have a bunch of time.

This does beg the question, how much time does he think us 'old timers' had when we first got sober?

The same guy flakes out on stuff; has excuses along the lines that he can't be expected to do what he says; he's in early recovery, he's still toxic, he's just an addict...

There's another guy I used to hang out with at meetings.  He'd had a pretty long stretch of recovery (double digits), and then went out, and returned.

I caught up with him recently.  We were talking about working on cars, when I mentioned needing some parts that were kind of expensive, even at the Pull-A-Part.

His advice was to surreptitiously drop 'em in my toolbox while picking up something cheap, like a turn signal lens.

Since I knew he should know better, I had to ask, "what the fuck part of 'rigorous honesty' does that fall under?"

I guess I should have become a diplomat.

Anyway, the reply I got was a justification about how much the junkyard pays for the car, versus how much they charge for the parts...  which seemed to me to have nothing to do with whether or not stealing is okay.

So, what's the point?  That I'm better than these guys?

Hardly.  Believe me, if you could see what goes on between my ears... well, let's just suffice it to say that I'm one flat larcenous sonofabitch at heart.

The point is, that I'm required to live by spiritual principles (one of which is honesty), in order to maintain my sobriety.

Oh, by the way, I don't actually have the power in and of myself to be honest; it's actually one of many gifts that I've received.  Sound like a Catch-22?  Help yourself to a cookie, and go to the front of the class!

But, I've had to do my best.  And that was something I was able to do from the start.

-M

The Third Reich

"Big Book Nazis"

"Step Nazis"

I've heard people throw these terms about to describe Big Book thumpers.

Uh, let's get something straight here:  Nazis were the Nationalist/Socialist (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei) party from Germany between 1919 and 1945.  They were not, by and large, offering to take anybody through the Twelve Steps.

Nazis rounded up Jews, homosexuals, Communists, the physically and mentally disabled, along with any dissenters, and herded them into ovens...

 ...or shot the ones who resisted on the spot.

Get the difference?

-M

Hey, I resemble that remark

My buddy who moved to Whidbey Island called... we had a good palaver.  I think that he forgets that, although I'm almost young enough to be his son, I've been clean for a fair while...

So, he mentioned that he hasn't met many people who stayed clean for any appreciable time (a few years) who weren't court-ordered.

"uh, you're talking to one."

But, he's right, in that there aren't a lot of guys who are sober who weren't involved with an employer, spouse, or the legal system.  Not many of us get recovery just because our life sucks.

Here's a hint:  it's because we're pussies.  We wuss out before someone makes us quit.

All kidding aside, I've wondered why the hell I stuck with it at first.  I only had the one friend who was going to meetings, and he had to to stay out of jail.  None of my other friends were supportive (well, not initially) of this.

When my mom heard that it was a spiritual program, she was sure it was a cult.  Or a bunch of hippies.  Either way, although she didn't want me to keep using, she was less than ecstatic.  Basically, she was of the opinion that if I needed a spiritual experience, the Catholic church was the place to go.  End of discussion.

My father was considerably less supportive.  In fact, the proper term would probably be antagonistic.  He wanted me to "man up" and exercise my willpower.  He'd seen those drunks in AA meetings, and was there to tell me that they were a sorry bunch of losers who couldn't stay sober.

I remember getting a letter from him while we were on opposite sides of the Pacific (literally, as well as figuratively).  He wrote something to the effect that "the world doesn't work the same way as your AA program", and that I'd best get on with my life and leave that foolishness behind.

But, maybe that's why I stuck with it; nobody told me to do it, almost everybody in my life told me not to get involved with twelve step programs, and a bunch of the people in 'em (well, basically some members in Marijuana Anonymous) wanted to run me out.

I may not be quite as full of 'piss and vinegar' as I was half a lifetime ago, but I still have a strong "oh yeah" streak.

Sitting with my mom the other day, she had Fox News on.  Every single commercial break had one or more (sometimes three) ads for gold*.

Why?  Well, because somebody wants to sell, of course.  But, if they don't want to hold that investment, why the hell should I?  So, I called a friend who's an investment banker, to ask that very question.

"You're a natural contrarian," he said.  Which in the world of investment, isn't a value judgment; it just means that you don't jump to drink the Kool Aid.

Well, in my case, being 'contrarian' may go beyond just questioning the status quo.  Believe me: way, way beyond.

And sometimes, that works out well for me.

-M


*As it turns out, this may not be such a horrid time to buy gold; the large - as in giant conglomerates, and national governments - investors had bought heavily in the 1970's when the price rose sharply; it has risen to a good point for them to liquidate some of that investment without taking a loss.  However, he also told me that, as a private investor, selling gold is very, very expensive.  Like thirty cents on the dollar expensive.  Ouch!

all or nothing

I took a friend to a meeting last night; I thought the topic was really good.

The chair said that she'd originally been tempted to just go to her favorite passage out of the Big Book, but felt that would have been taking the easy way out.

So, she prayed, opened the book, and put her finger on her favorite passage anyway.

If you'll get your book out, and turn to page fifty-three...

When we became alcoholics, crushed by a self-imposed crisis we could not postpone or evade, we had to fearlessly face the proposition that either God is everything or else He is nothing.  God either is, or He isn't.  What was our choice to be?

 Ya' know, I remember getting to that point working with sponsors, and in workshops.  And, I always had a bit of a sticking point there.

Having no set conception of my higher power, I didn't feel qualified to make that decision.  Plus, what if my higher power wasn't really all-knowing, all-powerful, and the creator of the universe?  What if my higher power was simply something I could not define, which might not be omnipotent, but did have enough chutzpah to keep me sober?

I never really understood why I have to choose between chocolate or vanilla.  How come I can't order strawberry?

Of course, strawberry wasn't on the menu.  I had to choose all or nothing, and it was apparent the latter wasn't likely to be a hell of a lot of help.  So, each time I came to that point, I just shrugged and said, "everything, I guess."  Luckily, it doesn't call on me to have a firm faith or belief.  Just make a choice.  Decide what theory I would like to try and run with.

As time has passed, I've seen God's fingerprints on a lot of stuff all over the place.  Maybe I'm becoming intellectually complacent, maybe I'm on the right track.  Maybe I've been brainwashed (but then again, I've always had a dirty mind, so that's not necessarily a bad thing).  But, I have a sneaking suspicion that I've guessed the right way.

-M

Fear and Loathing in Everett...

You know how sometimes you can have a feeling that comes and goes in less time than it takes to have a thought?  I had one of those the other day...

I got to go to court last week as part of my ongoing divorce.  Always good for a chuckle, that place.

Anyway, as I walked out the front door of the courthouse*, I had a sudden, strong urge to have a drink.

Now when I say "strong urge", I mean like how I'd feel gazing upon a chicken fried steak, scrambled eggs, and hash browns if I hadn't eaten for a couple days.  I'm not talking some kind of vague craving, or thought that it might be kind of pleasant...  No, I'm talking about something as subtle and ambiguous as a brick upside the head.

And, when I say I had a strong urge to drink, I wanted booze.  Even though I was always more of a pothead than a drunk, weed didn't come to mind.  Nor coke.  Or speed.  And not a glass of beer or wine, but hard liquor.  I remembered the sensation of the burn as the liquid slides down my gullet.  And, before I could even think in words, I started to look around to see if I could see a bar anywhere.

By the time I could actually form a conscious thought, the feeling had come and gone.  But, it really rang my bell.  It's been a while - several years at least - since I've wanted a drink. 

If you think I was going to be able to "play the tape to the end" or "think through my relapse", then you might as well just quit reading here and fire up a spliff.  'Cause that just wasn't going to happen.  Without some power other than my own operative in my life, there's no way I'm going to not do something as much as I wanted to have that drink last Wednesday.

-M



*I'm surprised they don't follow the Scottish pay toilet system:  free to get in, but ten bucks to leave.  I don't know about anybody else, but I'd pay damn near anything to get out of that place.

...ceased to be a luxury...

At my former home group, we have a tradition that the chairperson picks a passage from the first 164 pages of the Big Book as a topic, and then writes down a quote from what was read on a blackboard at the front of the room.

Last week, the guy who chaired wrote:

"Alcohol ceased to be a luxury..."

That's from Bill's story, where he talks about how he had to have booze; two or three bottles of gin.

During the meeting, I reflected on this, and I think it's a pretty good gage for whether or not I'm a normal drinker.

There was a point where I could go without smoking pot, and I was okay.  But after a while, if I didn't have any weed, I'd start calling until I had some.  Of course, I was okay without coke, speed, or alcohol.

Then came the day I quit smoking pot.  And, I decided I wasn't going to get drunk; just social drinking.  And, damned if I wasn't looking forward to that one or two 'social' drinks after work.  I'd start thinking about it around lunchtime.  By the time I got off work, it was straight to the bar for that one or two beers.  For a guy who'd legitimately never had any compulsion to drink, it sure got to be a pretty high priority pretty fast.  Like within a few days kind of fast.

Once I didn't have pot, speed, and coke, my poor little drug addict brain was crying out for any kind of release it could get.  And alcohol had gone from something that I really didn't care if I got or not, to something that I would look forward to all day.

It was moving from 'luxury' to 'necessity' pretty quick.

Inside of a month, it became really clear to me that I was just going to go down the same damn path with booze that I'd already gone down with pot.  The fact that I didn't really have that same old 'take it or leave it' attitude showed me that there was a problem. 

Another thing occurred to me at last Thursday's meeting.  A friend of mine had told me a way that guys would distill alcohol out of a common compound.  My first thought was that this was a really clever thing.  My second thought was that it might be clever, but it was really screwed up; this was something normal people don't do. 

When I heard the meeting's topic, it all made sense.  This was a normal reaction to getting alcohol, for a person who needed alcohol.  It would only be 'weird' for a normal person to do this.  For a drunk, it's just another day at the salt mines.  For us, it's not a luxury; it's something we just have to have - and that's all there is to it.

-M

...do you smell that?

So, I've had this cold for about a week now.  It came on about eight or nine days ago, but really started hitting hard about six days back.

I've been on the upswing for the last forty-eight hours, but there's something that I found I lost over last weekend:  my sense of smell.

I noticed that meals weren't very enjoyable, but with the coughing and fever, was too distracted to notice why.

Then, I had a soda a couple days back.  I took a sip, and thought that the syrup pump on the fountain was out of whack.  Then, I realized all of a sudden that I hadn't really tasted anything when I drank my coffee earlier.  And that the bowl of cereal I'd had the previous afternoon was stale and tasteless, or something... so, I took a bite of my breakfast sandwich, and realized that I couldn't taste it at all.  Not a bit.

Another sip of soda, and I couldn't taste anything.  Ditto for the fried potato clots; I couldn't taste the salt on 'em or anything.

Now, the funny thing here is that my nose isn't plugged up at all.  I have been able to breathe through it just fine for most of this cold.  It never did get terribly stuffed up.

Over the last couple days, I've tried a bunch of stuff to see what I can and can't taste or smell.  I've found that this condition would have come in handy in grade school, when the teachers were washing my mouth out with soap; I can't taste it at all now.  The delicious candied pecans at work are just stuff that's kinda' a bitch to chew now (although at what they cost, my employer won't mind me not eating them).  Coffee = hot water; my Drakkar Noir is now like cool water spray (although I don't think I'll try it in my eyes).

There's almost no food I've found that has any taste to it whatsoever.  I tried vinegar, honey, salt water, and Sriracha hot sauce.  They're astringent, mildly sweet, mildly salty, and moderately spicy.  Even strong coffee isn't bitter enough to register.

Since I can't smell anything, I'm on a two-a-day shower regimen.  Better safe than sorry...  

My mom was talking to me today about this, and telling me how sorry she feels.  And it hit me that I'm really not too upset about this at all.  First of all, I expect my sense of smell to return.  It's probably just laid low by this cold.

Second, even if it never comes back, there's a hell of a lot of stuff I'd rather trade God for it.  Such as:

seventy pounds of weight gain from quitting smoking
male pattern baldness
serious spinal disc problems
progressively worsening myopia
asthma
arthritis
and, oh yeah, drug addiction

If someone wanted to take any one of those problems away from me, I'd gladly let the sense of smell go, and chalk that trade up in the win column.  But, I don't think that's how it works.  I suspect that I'm either going to get this back or not, and that either way, there's a lesson to be learned from it.

I find it comforting to think that there is a way I can derive benefit from this kind of crap by learning from it, but as far as there being an underlying "it happened because you did this-and-that, instead of thus-and-such" causality... doubt it.  The only thing that's come to mind is to be thankful for even small pleasures; don't take 'em for granted.

Anyway, it's getting late; time for prayers and bed.  I think I may be well enough for my meditation meeting tomorrow night, which would mean I'd missed six days' worth of meetings (well, I probably would have only gone on three or four of 'em anyway), and I'll be excited to get to go.

*edit*
A few days after writing this, my sense of smell began to come back.  But, it was gone completely for a week or so.  An interesting experience; actually very enlightening.

-M

my Champion

You'll hear people at meetings tell where they got sober.  "I got sober at the Clustercuddle Club of Inbred Antelope, Oregon," or "I got clean at the Relapse Row hall in Festerville."

In Seattle, you'll hear people talk about getting sober at Fremont.  But, there's a small distinction: some people - not so many these days - got sober at 'The Old Fremont'.  That'd be the first Fremont hall; down in the Fremont neighborhood.  It's moved a few times that I know of.  When I got introduced, it was on 85th street, next door to a bar.  Now, it's on Aurora.

The people who got their start at the original hall have to be fairly old by now; I've been clean for over two decades, and I still don't date back to the 'Old Fremont' days.  Having got into recovery young, I'm a middle-aged man by this point.  The 'Old Fremont' folks are just flat getting old.

And one of these folks from 'The Old Fremont' was an old (well, old when you're a twenty-one year old kid) hippie-esque lady who had an unimaginable twelve years in recovery.  She might have been fifty back then, which would put her into fairly advanced years nowadays.

She had sharp features, with a tongue and wit to match; brunette hair, and tended a little bit towards the Rubenesque.  Her wardrobe featured a lot of purple, and she drove a Dodge Dart.  And, she was one of those people who was never 'too busy' or 'too important' to help somebody else.  A very, very kind soul.

I remember her showing me how she used a computer to talk to to other people on something called a BBS.  There was a process of logging in, and then lines of text would appear, preceded by carats, floating on a black screen.  Yes, this is some time before I'd ever heard of facebook, twitter, apps, chat rooms, or (God help us all) AOL.

Although I didn't know it at that time, I've come to suspect that I might owe my continued membership in MSA (and possibly even recovery) to her efforts.

One of the things my Champion was known for was her insistence upon following the Twelve Traditions.  I can still remember how she'd say that early on, there were some people (misogynists, or whatever) who'd want to saddle her up and ride her around the meeting hall, and how she'd "bonk 'em with a Tradition."  The Traditions kept us all safe from each other.

She was emphatic that these twelve guidelines were something to adhere to steadfastly, if we were to survive.  And, that meant without exception.

In retrospect, I think that some of her vociferous call to stay on the 'straight and narrow' were in response to a few people wanting to make an exception for me.

Having lost a friend to alcoholism in the closing months of 2009, who had got a resentment against a member, which festered into a resentment against the membership... I don't know if I'd have relapsed if I'd been kicked out.  But, my grasp on recovery was tenuous at best - whether it would have taken more strain is up for debate.

I wish I knew anyone who could shed some light on my dim memories.  If anyone reading this remembers any of the people... I'd love to hear from you.

-M

me, myself, and I... and chasing the dragon

So, I've got this buddy who has taken to telling me that our egos are really just these monsters in our heads, that are perfectly willing to kill their hosts rather than be proven wrong.  Or something to that effect.

I don't think he really understands this, but when people start talking to me about psychology, philosophy, morality, or politics, episodes of Rocky and Bullwinkle or Yogi Bear start playing in my head...

(Yogi:  "Hey Boo Boo, I say we go pop a cap in Mr. Ranger's ass, and take all the pic-a-nic baskets for ourselves."


Boo Boo:  "Uh, I don't know, Yogi, that's some straight G-shit.  You sure got hard when you was in the joint.")

So, when I'm not re-imagining Hanna Barbera cartoons, I'm usually thinking about myself.  I'm not always selfish (not always), but I'm damn near always self-centered.

Splitting hairs?  Nah.  Selfish looks like me trying to get the last donut in the box before you do; self-centered just means I'm thinking about me.  Sitting and thinking how much I hate myself is every bit as self-centered as trying to maneuver you out of the room so I can get that last donut.

Now, sometimes I don't think kindly towards myself.  More often, I'm just kind of wandering through life, thinking about what I want; trying to maximize the benefit to myself in situations without lying, cheating, or stealing.  But, most of the time, I'm projecting how other people are going to think about me depending on my earnings, my job title, and what I say, drive, wear, or do.  Add it up, and I spend damn little time focused on anything other than myself.

I suspect I'm not alone in this.

So, it hit me the other day, what the elusive benefit I get out of meditation is:  I sometimes get a few moments where I don't think about myself.

Most of the time, I'm sitting there, trying to listen to the different levels of sound on the tamboura; and almost immediately, I'm thinking about myself thinking about how well I'm listening to the tamboura.  Then, I'm thinking about how I'm thinking about myself.  Next, I'm in a recursive loop, and think about how I need to quit thinking about the fact that I'm thinking about stuff...

But, there are moments, where I don't feel my forefinger touch my thumb; I don't feel my hands on my lap or my butt in the chair... and I don't think about anything.  I just hear myself breathe, ("hommm...  sooo....  hommm... sooo..."), and hear the rhythm of the strings on the instrument being plucked (without thinking about it); the buzz of the its bridge, the harmonic overtones that swell and recede, and the subtle interplay of undertones that make an ever-changing riff that's just at the edge of what I'm able to perceive.

Then, it's back to "me".  And, I'm off, chasing the dragon; trying to lose myself again...

I've also had a few other times in my life where I was able to be 'in the zone' and not 'in my head'.  In other words; where I was "present", and not focused on my ego.

These times include sex, and when I'm drag racing.  In fact, I've had times where I was at the track, sitting in the staging lanes, then pulling up to warm the tires and position the car at the start line... that were something I can't describe with words.  The world ceased to matter to me; the car in the other lane, the spectators, my buddies at the track - gone.  Just my car/self and a christmas tree (the starting lights).  Time actually seems to slow down.  Sounds are easily heard, but not at all distracting.  For a few seconds, there is no "me" yapping between my ears.

A few moments of precious freedom.  It can literally be life changing.

Even in car accidents, I'll think about how to minimize the impact; where to steer, how to brake.  And, I worry about what people will think.  Stop and think about this: I was driving down the street; someone in an oncoming car drove into my lane, and I was worried about what my wife would say about totaling her car.

I was more concerned about how I was going to tell the wife than I was about getting injured.  Part (a large part) of me would like to take a jab, saying that I had good reason.  But in actuality, it's just proof positive of how strong my ego's drive to be the center of attention is.

In 2004, I went to a seminar called The Landmark Forum.  There was a lot of talk there that had me reverting to clips of Bullwinkle ("Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!").  But there was a lady there who described the process of giving childbirth, and how this ordeal was followed by a sublime moment where she looked directly into the eyes of a brand new human being.  And in that moment, there was nothing else that mattered in the world.  Oh, and that this might be why she has eight kids.

A few moments of freedom from self.

I wonder if this "self" is the price of the free will we have.  As I write this, it seems logical that I might want to consider setting "self" aside.

Let's face it, the most sublime moments in my life are when this happens.

-M

Big Brother

This morning, I thought of a friend I haven't seen in twenty years.

He used to go to the three MSA meetings we had in Seattle; in fact, all three meetings had pretty much the same group of members.  Everybody knew everybody.

We'd go camping together, eat together at the pizza place in Fremont, where we'd have a buttload of garlic added on top before cooking.  A lot of us hung out together on nights that there wasn't an MSA meeting; we'd go to an AA meeting, or go out for some food or whatever.

One of my favorite guys from the meetings was this old, black fossil.  He must have been thirty-five if he was a day.  But, he was real cool for a geriatric case... 

Now, being an astute reader, you've undoubtedly noticed the title of the post.  Well, that's because this brother was big.  I mean, really big.  And strong.

Back in the 1980's, I was still every inch of six-foot-two (I've lost a little due to spinal disease), but I only weighed about a buck-eighty.  Yeah, I was skinny, as well as having all my hair.

Anyway, my friend would do that kind of crap that big brothers do to their younger siblings.  One of his favorite tricks was to come and grab me by my upper arms, pick me up a foot off the ground, and shake me like a rag doll.

Did I mention that this guy was big?

He'd shake me and laugh at me while I hollered empty threats.  I'd say stuff like, "dude, I'm gonna' kick your ass," while I was flailing around.  Of course, I didn't mean it.  First off, that would have been a pretty damned tall order for a guy who was outweighed by a hundred and fifty pounds.  And second, like so many truly strong people, he was very gentle; he never did anything to really hurt me or piss me off.  He'd just kinda' let me know that I wasn't invincible.

But, when he wasn't physically bullying the mouthy white kid at the meeting, he was a truly gentle person.  He had a quiet demeanor, and a soft, pleasant voice.  He'd talk at meetings quite often, and even though he knew all of us, his forehead would always bead up with sweat.  Funniest thing; this guy who could have bench pressed a small automobile could seem so vulnerable when talking.

Unfortunately, this is one of the guys I lost contact with after I went overseas.  If you went to meetings back then, you'll know who I'm talking about.  And, if you're reading this: dude, I dare you to try to pick my ass up nowadays!

-M

another one bites the dust...

No, I'm not talking about the Queen song.

I went to my meditation meeting with a friend, and stayed for the meeting that happens later on.

A buddy of mine chaired the meeting.  He'd just found out that a friend of his, who he'd tried to introduce to the program, has died.  From using.

The chairman, and another friend of ours there at the meeting went on the twelfth-step call for that poor bastard.  Incidentally, they also both knew my friend, John, who passed away a little over a year ago.  Also from using.

According to my sponsor, who's a substance-abuse counselor (and should be up on these stats), 10% of us with this disease die in recovery.

Ten percent.

Last night, I went to an NA meeting.  Somebody had mentioned that there are people who work the steps within a matter of weeks or even days.  And a smartass pipes up with a comment that they couldn't have done a thorough job.

Well, I don't think that the member who screws around "working their third step" (avoiding the fourth) until he relapses, or until his life gets shitty enough to make him take action (uh, hitting too close to home here...) is being very thorough.

Like my sponsor mentioned to me last weekend:  relapse does NOT have to be part of anyone's story; it is NOT a necessary part of the recovery process.  And, it always carries the risk of death.

Hopefully, I'll have something else to blog about soon.  Having problems of suddenly jumping up ten tax brackets, and needing to choose between the affections of two witty, charming women would be a nice change...

Hey, a guy can dream!

-M

so, whatcha' still waiting for?

I visited with my sponsor yesterday, and on the way home, went to a meeting with a friend.

Talking with my sponsor, he said the same thing as my dinner companion the other night:  "relapse does not have to be part of your recovery."  He also went on to add that there's no sense in beating yourself up if you do relapse; just brush yourself back off as best you can, and get back to the program.  Oh, and hopefully you'll make it back; not everybody gets to.

Later, I hooked up with my buddy; we hit a meeting where there were a bunch of people talking about having come in and gone out repeatedly.  There was one guy I was going to pounce on after the meeting, but he vaporized before I could get across the room.

Having had a couple of friends relapse recently, I take this stuff pretty seriously. 

For some reason, I've been running up against this theme repeatedly.  So, I'm going to write about it repeatedly.  Try to organize my thoughts on the subject.  Get this stuff down on electronic "paper".  Deal with concrete sentences, rather than the feelings which bounce around inside of me; changing colors like chameleons.

I was talking to a young kid at a meeting a month or so ago; yapping on about how upset I was about my friends going out.  I was surprised at how cavalier he was about it, until I realized that I used to feel as he did.  Back in the day, I'd just shrug; if they'd valued their recovery, then perhaps they'd make it a higher priority. 

I'd recite platitudes, such as: "you can carry the message, but you can't carry the addict."  But, there was always a very small thought lurking in the recesses of my mind:  had I actually done anything to carry the message? 

There's another saying that I've heard for years; I used to believe it:  "some people have to die, so that others can stay sober."

Maybe someone can explain this to me.  I've been taught that a lack of power is my dilemma, and that I can get access to the needed power to be able to not pick up, by having a spiritual experience.  This is the "wholesale miracle"I referred to in the forward to the second edition of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Somebody please find me where it says in the big book, any words to the effect:  "we found we had to find some losers to die, so that we could stay sober."

Yeah, I'm not gonna' hold my breath waiting for that.

-M

*in my opinion, a "miracle" that isn't extended to everybody, and requires that some people die of addiction, is a fairly shitty deal.

so, whatcha' waiting for?

I went out to dinner after my home group last night, and somebody made an interesting point:  too often we hear about the person who's had multiple relapses, before getting lasting sobriety.  But, we rarely hear anybody pipe up and say that it's okay to start working the steps right now.  Today.

And, I think he was right.

What my sponsor taught me, as we read through the Big Book, was that we stay clean because of a spiritual experience.  We get this from working the steps. 

Seems logical that the sooner we start, and the less we dawdle, the quicker we're going to get what we're looking for.

So, what's the big rush?  Easy:  people eventually relapse if they don't get some power in their lives from working the steps.  And, for some people, "eventually" doesn't take too damned long.

While it may be humiliating to have to come back, raise one's hand when the secretary asks for newcomers, and say "I have three days... again", that's not really the biggest worry.

People lose a lot of stuff while they're out working on their next first step story.  Jobs, homes, relationships, 401(k)s, and even their lives.  My good friend John was one of that last group.

So, whatcha' waiting for?

-M

Mean it? Write it in ink!

When my fifteenth birthday rolled around, I decided to get a tat I'd been thinking about for quite a while.

Some of my buddies were giving me grief, telling me that if I went back out and got sober again in the next half year, I could get it changed to "03" pretty easy.  Supportive group, those lads.

I guess I missed the boat on that one.  And 08 as well.  Now, my next easy mod on the tat comes in 2033...

Naaaah, screw it.  I want to get the triangle and circle thickened up a bit; it's going to make it harder to change the numbers later.  I guess I'll just have to stay sober. 

Next time, something subtle.  Maybe a huge Asian dragon on my back, with three-toed feet, holding up a blue book in one claw, with the other front claw resting on a giant pearl?  He would be looking back at you, while walking up a flight of twelve steps.  Background done like an old Chinese landscape painting; pines, clouds, rivers, impossibly steep mountains.

Can't be wasting any money on changing numbers if I want that...

-M

doing what I said I wouldn't do

I went to an NA meeting the other day; it was held at a treatment center.

Sitting in the cafeteria, waiting for the meeting to start, I started reading the lecture notes which had been left on a blackboard.  It was a bunch of theorizing about addiction.

Reading it, I realized that I've heard more theory and self-help rhetoric out of new folks than anybody else.

I used to have to understand things in recovery.  That changed one evening, after a meeting at the 7th Day Adventist hospital in Taipei.

There was this guy from Canada who occasionally came into town on business.  I'd just started coming back to meetings, and probably had my head so square up my butt that cleaning my bellybutton would've improved my vision.  I must have sounded that way.

This guy had listened to me talk at the meeting.  Afterwards, he took me aside and told me something to the effect that, "if you don't work the steps - soon - you're going to die."

He went on to explain that, listening to my story, he wouldn't bet on my living really long if I relapsed.  Oh yeah, and that I sounded like a relapse waiting to happen.

That shook me to the core.  In the first nine months, when I was back in Seattle, there'd been a couple of guys who hadn't made it.  They both died by their own hand.  I figured that if I'd seen two guys buy the farm in less than a year, this guy (who'd been sober for twelve years) had probably seen more funerals than I'd had hot meals.

I'd been yapping on about being in the third step for most of the time I'd been sober.  Well, in retrospect, I was nowhere near that point.  I still hadn't really believed exactly how royally screwed I was.  I just thought I did. 

However, at that time, I felt - on a cellular level - that it was 'do or die'.  I went home from the meeting and thought about what I'd heard.  I had no more reservations about being able to use socially.  I'd known that was gone for quite some time.  But, now I knew... no make that knew... that I was going to have to work the steps, or face the consequences of a relapse.

I was willing to set aside disbelief, and accept the idea that there was a Higher Power - a God, Supreme Being, what the hell ever - who could help me out.  And that I'd better get willing to let him (or her, for all I know) lend a hand; I was in over my head here.

By saying, "get willing" to let God help, I decided I would do what was necessary to allow my H.P. to help.  This meant doing the rest of the steps.  And, if I wasn't working on 'em, then all my talk of willingness was just that: talk.

That night, I stayed up late, and wrote a fourth step.  Since I didn't have a sponsor to guide me with some helpful tips (such as doing one whole column first, before moving to the next, for instance), it was pretty disorganized.  But, it was from the heart; I didn't leave any cards tucked in my boot.

The next day, I got a hold of the Canadian fellow; he was gracious enough to hear my fifth step before leaving town.

I got a sponsor shortly after that.

So, I ended up doing the things that I'd originally told people I wouldn't:  write a list of things which could incriminate me, and have someone mentor me.

But, I came back from Asia with about two years' recovery.  And a totally different outlook on stepwork.

-M

Lunch at the cabbie's...

MSA was started in Seattle by a couple of guys in treatment.  They were bitching to their sponsor that they couldn't relate to the stories they heard in twelve step meetings.  They were both really just potheads; not drunks, not junkies.  They couldn't relate to stories of week-long blackouts, sharing rigs with strangers, and some of the other stuff they heard.  And, they were tired of hearing, "pffft... pot isn't addictive."

As a reward for complaining, their sponsor told them to start a new kind of meeting; one for marijuana smokers.

So, these two guys started a meeting.  Nine months later, when I showed up, it had grown to three meetings a week.  They were both held at churches that hosted a number of AA and NA meetings.

One of these guys was a cabbie; an older guy (older compared to twenty-one, that is... which probably put him in his thirties or maybe even forty years old) with long, brown hair, and a mustache.  The other was a red-haired guy.  Seems to me he was involved in the maritime industry somehow; either a sailor or boat mechanic or something.  By the time I met them, they'd become involved in a clean-and-sober house a couple blocks off Market in Ballard.

Anyway, the cabbie and I didn't really hit it off too well at first.  We'd pretty much just glare at each other; we just didn't play nice together.

Remember, I tended to piss people off a lot back then, and get pissed off myself.  To this day, I'm still one of those guys that people either like or don't.  Hopefully, I'm a little more likable nowadays.

One day the cabbie invited me to come over to his house to watch the football game.  Probably the season opener.  I could tell that he really wasn't too excited about the idea; I suspected someone'd put him up to it.  To this day, I'm fairly sure of it.

But, I decided I'd go.  I figured that if he was going to throw out an olive branch, that I'd be a man about it and be cool.  Anyway, if he started acting like a jerk, I could have a good laugh at the fact that it was because he was irritated by my presence in his living room - which could be amusing, since he'd invited me.  Hell, it was a win-win.

So, I showed up a while before kickoff.  I think he was a little surprised that I showed.  But, he was being pretty gracious, and I figured that I'd be a real asshole if I wasn't pleasant back to him.

I can't recall much of what we talked about that day, apart from his regaling me with tales of driving a cab owned by a guy too cheap to fix the seat (leaving my friend to have to sit on a phone book), and people jumping out of the cab without paying.   I've got no idea who was playing, what the score was, or if the halftime show was any good.  There are only two things that stick out in my memory about that day.  First, our intrepid cabbie's friend and MSA co-founder had a corking cold; sat bundled up in a chair drinking coffee, and looked miserable for the entire game.  And that I left there really happy that I'd gone.  Whatever hard feelings there had been between us were gone.

At the next meeting, people were surprised to see the two of us hanging out, chatting it up like old friends.

Growing up, I'd always been a guy who was quick to take offense, and damned slow to set a perfectly good grudge down - no matter how insignificant the cause may be.  But, this was a real lesson.  Since then, I've tried to keep an open mind about people, even if they don't make a really good first impression.

Granted, there are always going to be those who we aren't going to get along with, and those who are untrustworthy.  We have instincts for a reason; I'm not saying that I think it's a good idea to let sketchy, shady, or abusive people into our lives.  I'm just saying that I've found it beneficial to try not to jump to snap judgments of people.  Like they say in meetings, "principles before personalities".

-M

The prayer of an agnostic

One thing I've heard over the years - which I believe to be true - is that you can't be too dumb for the program... but you can be a little too smart.

Another one is "the good is the enemy of the best".

Over the years, I've met a lot of people who, though they may have not 'known it all', certainly had a lot of insight and theories about steps they hadn't worked yet.  Plenty bright, but they got so wrapped up in knowing how and why things worked that they never seemed to get around to working the twelve steps.

Theories are good; they give us conceptual models to understand things.  But, scientists don't (well, at least aren't supposed to) get too attached to 'em.  The idea is only as good as it works out to be - and is evaluated against the results of tests, and scrutinized by peers.  It only has value if it works, and for as long as it continues to work.

Conceptual models for how we think things are can be bad for us addicts.  We're a class of people who are characterized by not being able to see the forest for the trees, when it comes to ourselves.  A group of people who stays stuck on one futile test (controlled use), with the hope that we'll eventually get the result we want, is not the group of people really qualified to objectively analyze their own ideas.  Never mind inviting people to try to poke holes in their theories... nah, that's a recipe for a bad time.

In workshops, I was taught that even ideas that are good, and have worked well for us, can hold us back from an even better understanding.  The hand that grasps something can't pick up something new.  The good is the enemy of the best.

There's a prayer that I learned there; it's also often said at MA meetings.  Rarely have I heard it anywhere other than MA or a workshop.  It goes like this:

God,

please help me set aside

everything I think I know

about myself,

my disease,

these steps,

and especially you...

for a new experience

with myself,

my disease,

these steps,

and especially you.

-M

This really makes me mad

I headed out to go to an NA meeting last night.  When I rolled up, I couldn't find the damned thing.  I don't know if nobody had showed up because it was five minutes before the start time, or if I just had the wrong place.

If anybody new reads this post, and has wandered around, looking for a meeting, feeling stupid... you're not the only one! 

But this isn't what had me pissed off.  I just jumped into my really, really awesome twenty-two year old econobox with the noisy transmission and bashed in fender, and rolled up to an AA meeting a couple miles away.  It's almost always a really good meeting, and they were still just reading the promises when I got in and got a seat next to a friend of mine.

Then, they asked if there were any new people in their first thirty days of sobriety.  In the back of the room, another friend of mine from my old home group stands up.  He'd probably been sober for a couple years, until a few days ago.

DAMNIT!

That's what pissed me off.  Not just irritated.  Not vexed.  Pissed - like something inside me is caught between bursting into tears, or throwing fists.  I'm talking really, really angry.

I've done enough inventory work to know (once I've cooled down) that anger is my mind's reaction to having lost something, or fear that I'd lose something.  Having lost a really good friend a little over a year ago, it really jerks my chain when someone I like relapses.

You might think that having been around a while, I'd get used to this.  I'd finally accept that not everybody stays clean.  But, it bothers me more than it used to.

Anyway, I took a couple deep breaths, and calmed down.  After a few moments, I wasn't angry any more; just sad for my friend.  Things can't have been going well if drinking looked like a reasonable option.


-M

My relapses

I thought that'd get your attention.  When people hear that I haven't had any drugs or alcohol in twenty-two years, they think I must not know what it's like to relapse.

Au contraire.  Let's cast our minds back to early 1992...

I was twenty-four when I found out I was going to become a father.  Being a conscientious, caring (as well as stylish, handsome, and - dare I say it - humble) young man, I decided that I should quit smoking cigarettes.  I didn't want to expose my new baby to a bunch of smoke, and I didn't want it to grow up with a nicotine habit.

This was harder than I expected.  Although I'd only smoked for ten years, it wasn't easy for a guy with such an addictive personality to quit.  Over at friends' houses, I wasn't above digging a half-smoked cig out of the ashtray, as long as there wasn't too much ash on the filter.  I remember smoking the cigarettes I'd left in a half-finished pack in my car... the ones that sat on the dash for fifteen months while I was overseas.

It was tough, but I'd got clean and sober a few years previous.  I figured I could do it.

I was taking drafting classes, and would study all day at school, where it seemed I was surrounded by smokers.  Then, I'd go work at night, and try not to think about cigarettes.

But, meetings were the worst.  I loved going out and talking to all my friends at the smoke breaks.  And, hanging out before and after the meetings, while we smoked.  And, nothing felt better than a smoke, after I'd had to confront some emotional issue at a meeting.

So, every day, I'd "white knuckle" my way through the day.  And, when I got home, I'd reward myself with a bowl of ice cream.  A large one.  Like a pint.  Or more.

After a few months of rewards, my weight had gone up from about a buck ninety (I'd put on a little weight after getting married) to two-fifty.  And, within a few months of not smoking, I was bumming smokes.  And sneaking smokes.  Then, I bought a pack.  So, now I was a fat guy who was back to smoking, and also hiding it.  Great.

I've heard that it really doesn't work for an addict to control a habit, and enjoy it.  I think it's probably true.

Hearing in meetings about hiding usage, I knew damned well what I was doing.  So, I quit again.  After a while, I went to work in the family business.  Now sneaking cigarettes during the work day was no longer an option.

After a while, I quit craving tobacco.  This wasn't so bad.  Hell, I'd been making too much of a big deal about this!  Weeks turned into months.

At a meeting, I bummed a smoke.  It was cool; I had a handle on this.

As weeks went by, I was visiting friends who smoked.  I was going to meetings almost every night.  Mooch one before the meeting, one at smoke break, another after...

Eventually, I wasn't able to reconcile the fact that I was trying to hide this from my family, so I quit again.

One day, after not smoking for a year or two, I was on a friend's roof, helping with a home repair project.  The roof had a pretty steep pitch.  I lost my footing, and started to slide down, towards the edge... heading for the concrete below.  This was gonna' hurt.

Luckily, I grabbed a vent pipe sticking up through the roof right before I slid off the end.  Being afraid of heights, this rattled my cage.  My hands were shaking.

I bummed a smoke.

Before long, I was right back.

By this time, I'd changed jobs, and was working at a garage.  Nobody there cared if I smoked or not.  I could smoke during the day.  Before long, I was smoking all day.

Once again, living the double life didn't work for me.  So I quit.  And, I stayed quit for a number of weeks.

I quit smoking a few times while I worked there, but the periods I didn't smoke became shorter, and the length of time I stayed back smoking got longer.

My marriage was rocky.  I started smoking outside after our child went to bed.  Screw what the wife thought about it.

I took a job at a different garage.  I didn't even pretend not to smoke there.  I'd just given up, and was trying to keep my daughter from knowing.  I didn't want her to grow up to be a smoker like me.

Then, my wife and I got separated, and I got my own place.  At first, I didn't smoke inside.  Then, I was smoking in the bathroom, because it had a fan.  Eventually, I said to hell with it, and started smoking inside.

The price of cigarettes kept going up.  My chest was hurting from smoking.  I knew this was really dumb, and decided to quit.  I stayed off them for a few weeks, but... well, you can guess the rest.

After about a year, I reconciled with the wife.  Basically, I just didn't want to be a weekend dad.  This meant I really should quit smoking again.

Before long, I was waiting for my daughter to go to sleep, so I could go out and smoke that cigarette before bed.

I took a job as a train mechanic.  Work took me on trips out of town; I could pretty much smoke whenever I wanted, except for the few evenings I was home with the family.  Even then, I was smoking my Camel Filters whenever my daughter wasn't around.

I got up from my sofa one night, after watching some TV, and went into my bedroom.  This was maybe all of twenty-five feet.  When I lay down on my bed, I realized I was panting.  Twenty-five feet had winded me.

Funny thing is, I walked a few miles during the course of work, every single day.  So, I shouldn't have been that out of shape.  And, while I had a good part of that ice cream weight remaining, that shouldn't have done it, either.

The doctor told me I had asthma.  Great.  I'd smoked myself into asthma.

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get more than a few days off my smokes before I'd go back.  My chest was hurting every day.  Cigarettes had jumped up again to five bucks a pack.

I had transferred into a job at the train yard, working third shift.  I was free to smoke all night.  Unfortunately, my lungs had other plans.  So, I started chewing tobacco, to get off the cigarettes.  Better for my lungs, and I would be more able to quit a habit I didn't like.

Well, that was the logic.

The way it played out was that I started putting Copenhagen Long Cut in my lip, and the cravings lessened.  Not disappeared... just diminished.  Trying to keep enough snuff in my mouth to keep the cravings away tore the hell out of my lower lip.

I started smoking cigarettes for the bad cravings, while chewing all day long.  I'd sit with a fresh dip in, and light up a smoke.  Somehow, the chewing tobacco idea wasn't working like planned.

Oh, and I'd become accustomed to the taste.  I'd rather chew than smoke.

After a year or year and a half of this, I decided that this was going to have to stop.  I was as powerless over tobacco as I had been over drugs and alcohol.  My chest was hurting more and more; I was taking inhaler hits after every time I smoked.  If things were this bad at forty-two, the likelihood of serious respiratory illness was frightening.  There was going to be no more nicotine for me anymore.

So, I quit.  And I prayed.  There's no more "oh well, I guess I can quit again" mentality.  Looking at how every time I quit, I stay quit for a shorter time... it points to progression.  Seeing how every time I start, I stay on tobacco for a longer, time, that shows progression.

At some point, I'm not going to be able to stop again.  I'll be screwed.

After a few weeks without any nicotine, the awful, irritable, can't-put-my-finger-on-it-but-something's-very-wrong feeling started to fade.  The whole world was less annoying.  My chest quit hurting so badly.

And, I started feeling weepy.  For some people, this wouldn't be noteworthy.  But, I'm one of those guys who just doesn't cry.  Except that, all of a sudden, I'd be watching a TV show, a commercial, hear a song on the radio, or have a sad thought, and I'd feel the tears start to well up.  I'd have to leave the room, change the channel, or whatever.  I knew that nicotine was a psychoactive chemical - it has to be; it calms me down, right?  But, I'd never had any idea that quitting it would have me one sad song away from the 'water works' trying to kick into gear.  Remember, decades have gone by where I didn't shed a tear.  Literally.

Luckily, that period passed.  I've got over half a year off nicotine.  But unlike before, I'm not so damned cocky about it.  I don't think about it being easy to stay off.  I realize that I've got to keep to the twelve steps; every time I went back to smoking, it was because I felt spiritually out-of-sorts.  Every time I'd picked back up, I had been upset about something.  Either angry, or afraid (there is a difference; it's mostly cosmetic).

So, nowadays, I have freedom from that habit, based on my spiritual condition.  Kind of a frightening thought, for an agnostic, don't ya' think?

When new people come in, hear how much time I have, and think that I can't possibly know what it's like for them to have bounced in and out of recovery for five or ten years... I might just have a little better grasp on how it feels than they think.

-M

Step One, part two

"We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable."

-Alcoholics Anonymous, p 59

One summer afternoon in 1988, I was sitting in a room on 85th Street in Seattle.  The room I'd gone to my first meeting in.  And I heard a phrase that I intuitively understood:  "incomprehensible demoralization".

Although it's written on page 30 of the book, Alcoholics Anonymous to describe the feeling of coming off of yet another spree, it's something that also can apply to having a life that's become unmanageable.  If you didn't know that, you'll just have to trust me here.

There are a lot of ways that unmanageability can show up in my life.  It could be repeatedly failed drug screenings at work, legal problems, health problems, loss of jobs, loss of relationships... the list just keeps going.  A lot of problems like these are easy to directly trace to drug and/or alcohol abuse.  People who don't drink don't get a ticket for drunk driving.  People who don't take illicit drugs don't have to worry about testing positive for 'em.  We all know (or have been) that person who becomes an absolute pain in the ass after a couple drinks.

This kind of unmanageability is easy to see.  And, it takes care of itself once we quit using.  Too bad it isn't always that easy.

Go to enough meetings, you'll hear the phrase "there is such a thing as 'alcoholISm', but no such thing as 'alcoholWASm'."  Or, people may refer to "the 'ism'".

Sorry to say, for addicts of my description, there are problems which don't magically just go away because I've quit using.  God knows, I waited long enough... but no dice.

What was taught to me is that my 'defects of character', to use a common AA phrase, are what not only got me started into drugs and booze - they're what will also eventually take me back.  Oh, and they'll screw up my life while I'm sober, too.  Those first two concepts there have been taught to me in an intellectual fashion; I've heard them in meetings and workshops.  But that third idea was not only told to me; it's something I've learned through empirical evidence.  AKA 'the school of hard knocks'.

So, how do I know if my life's manageable or not?  That's a little tougher once I'm sober, and the immediate repercussions of drugs and alcohol aren't present.

So, let's start with defining "manageable".

Merriam-Webster's online dictionary defines it as "capable of being managed".

Okay... looking up "manage":

  "...to handle or direct with a degree of skill..."

 So, if my life is unmanageable - or not able to be managed - it means that I am not capable of handling or directing it with a degree of skill to make things turn out how I want.  In other words, unmanageability means that some part or parts of my life aren't working how I'd like them to.

Examples:  got twenty pounds I keep wishing to lose?  Unmanageability.  Keep quitting smoking?  Don't want to invite people over, because my house is always messy?  Unmanageability.  Buying stuff, and regretting it later?  Paying bills late, even though the money's in the bank?  Lots of speeding tickets?  Problems with the spouse or 'significant other'?  Showing up to work dead on my feet because I was up all night watching porn?  Hooking up with dysfunctional people for sex, and then having to figure out how the hell to get them out of my life? Unmanageability. But, these are only a few of the possibilities.

Now, if I intended to be an overweight slob, whose house is too messy for actual humans to visit; if I decided to spend money on junk I don't need, and dig spending it on late fees and speeding tickets; if I sat down and thought that I would like to have more angry altercations, feel like hell at work, or deal with a real-life version of 'Fatal Attraction'... then I guess that answering "yes" to all those questions would be managing my life well.  But, since I don't want to live like that, it sure as hell wouldn't!

So, does this mean that I have to accept that even if I get sober, I'm going to be stuck with a craptastic life?  No.  Now that I've conceded to myself that I am not only unable to stay sober; that I will have some other problems (be they few or many) that will plague me.  Unless I get some kind of added power from outside myself.

Step one means: "I can't do it alone."  Luckily, steps two through twelve mean I can quit trying.

-M

The Zoo

Like I have probably written a bunch of times already, I did a fair amount of my initial meetings at the Fremont-Greenwood Fellowship.  Commonly known as "The Zoo".  There was a guy I used to see there.  He had long black hair, rode a black Harley, looked kinda' badass; the first time you heard him talk... he'd catch your attention.

He spoke a mile a minute, and had this litany of witticisms that would get put into what he was saying.  But one of the other things he commonly said was about the mortal gravity of addiction.  It was something that, as I worked the first step, I began to understand and believe about myself.  Eventually, I co-opted his phrase:  "...for me, to drink or to drug is to fucking die!"

(this actually came out as "...to fuuucking dieeeeee!!!")

I would run into this guy at meetings all the time.  When I went to the District AA picnic at Vasa Park, I saw him there.  I remember driving down the street one day, and seeing him out on the side of the road working to remove a broken bolt from the engine case of his bike (I think it was probably a Shovel, but I digress).

This guy, and his sayings, have stuck in my mind for over twenty years.  I saw him a couple years ago; hadn't seen him in almost two decades, but recognized him instantly.

I like to advise all my friends who are new to the program to get some meetings you regularly attend.  Get to know some folks in the fellowship.  You'll be amazed where and when you'll run into 'em.

And, you'll build some good memories.


-M

Step One, part one

"We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable."

-Alcoholics Anonymous, p 59

Early on, I was taught is that the first step, as written, means the following:

We admitted we were powerless over alcohol. 

We admitted that our lives had become unmanageable.

Sometimes, I've thought that it might have been easier to understand if it'd been written as two separate sentences.    Let's tackle the first one first.

How do I know if I'm powerless over something?  Here's my 'Readers Digest' set of questions:

Can I (by myself) quit?  Pot?  Alcohol?  Coke?  Speed?  Pills?  Gambling?  Cookies and ice cream?

Can I say quit?  Indefinitely?  Without relapse?  Even if my girlfriend leaves me, my car breaks, and my hamster dies?  Or if I win the lottery?  For the rest of my life?

If I want to control it, can I control when or how much I 'indulge'?  Not just usually; not just most of the time.  Not nine times in a row, ninety-nine, or nine hundred ninety nine... but every time?

And, do I think about it?  If I'm not thinking about smoking weed, am I thinking about not smoking weed?  Drinking?  Coke?  Speed?  Pills?  Gambling?  Food?

Unfortunately, as an addict, I have an inability to tell the truth from the false about myself.  In other words, I can't see things accurately about myself.  Until that's addressed, there's little I can do with any list of questions.

Luckily, what I have been able to do is have my own story demonstrated to me by others.  When I started listening to others talk about their experience with how much they used, it helped me make sense of my own use.

I started out smoking pot, I could get high and be okay for the rest of the day.  Even after I came down, I didn't have any desire for more.  Later, I'd get high, and then smoke more... even though it wasn't going to do much.  I'd know that I only had a bit left, and should ration it out.  But, I'd have to have just one more.  I'd take a toke, and know that I had something to do, but... that old thought would come: "I'm already buzzed - I might as well get really high now and do (whatever) later."

It was explained that this was because of an actual physical change in my brain chemistry.  Once I had some, it'd make me want more.

By the end, my tolerance went away.  It was a long time before I met another pothead who'd had this happen, but I met some skid row drinkers who explained that in late stage addiction, this isn't rare.  In fact, it's pretty common with alcohol.  Anyway, I'd smoke a little nug of weed, and know that if I smoked too much that I'd feel like crap.  And it was often the second or third one; it didn't take a hell of a lot anymore.

But, I'd always - always - take that second one.  And, if I wasn't feeling shaky, sick and weak, then I'd start fiending for another.  I wasn't satisfied until I was over-smoked.  A lot of folks quit smoking pot before they get to this point.

In meetings, I heard physical addiction equated to a physical allergy.  A bodily chemical reaction.  Kinda' like giving a guy with blood sugar issues a candy bar, and he craves more.  When you hear folks talking about "physical craving" at meetings, this is what they're talking about.

It's like the thermostat is wired backwards; instead of turning the heater off when the room warms up, it kicks it into overdrive, until a fuse blows.  Or it bursts into flames and torches the room. Normal people will not understand this.  Addicts will find it explains some things...

Of course, if I didn't smoke weed again, then this would all be pointless and academic.  But, I did, and it wasn't.  Which, I was told, was due to psychological addiction (the "mental obsession" discussed at meetings).

It was told to me that, if I had the mind of an addict, I'd go back to using at some time.  At some point, instead of saying "no" like the last nine hundred ninety-nine times, I'd say "yes".  I'd either just forget that I'd quit, or the thoughts would be kind of vague - like remembering a dream.  Or, I'd be upset and say "what the hell".

At some point, I wouldn't be able to "stop and think through my relapse", like my friends from treatment centers say.  Whatever I'd learned about myself, or about addiction wouldn't matter.  Sooner or later, I was going to come to a spot where self-knowledge wasn't going to cut it.  Threats of jail, losing a job, losing a spouse or kids... at some point, it wouldn't be enough.

Unfortunately, no amount of 'clean time' was going to help, either.  Case in point: I lost a friend about a year ago.  Cirrhosis of the liver after two years of relapse.  Ten years of recovery didn't keep him from going out.

I've come to believe this.  Over the years, I've heard people say that if they smoked weed/drank/did coke/whatever, that they'd lose their kids, house, job, freedom, physical health, or whatever.  And, then they'd go out anyway.  If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard that... we could go out to lunch.  At a pretty nice restaurant.

So, what is going to take care of that mental 'blank spot'?  Spiritual experience.  But, that's skipping ahead - we've still got the second part of step one to tackle, before we get to all that spiritual stuff.

-M

Step one, part zero

One of the things I wanted to write when I first decided to blog, was a compilation of my thoughts on the twelve steps.

Especially the first one.

It's been my experience, both for myself, and working with others, that when there's difficulty moving forward on a certain step, it's a good idea to back up and look to the steps worked earlier.  Oftentimes, there's something that was glossed over.  There is, after all, a reason that the book Alcoholics Anonymous dedicates 43 pages to the first step - and only 121 more on the remaining eleven combined.

When I was fairly new in the program, only a few years in, I had a sponsor who was an alcoholic.  Seeing as I was a pothead first and foremost, a crackhead and tweaker secondarily, and a drunk only as a tertiary issue, he grilled the hell out of me on the first step.


For anybody who is uncomfortable with the AA book, my advice is to perhaps get a copy of the CA book (which I've read, and like), the NA Basic Text (which I know nothing about), or the MA book.  I've always used the AA book.  I got sober before Life With Hope (the Marijuana Anonymous 'big book') was written, and have never really had any desire to quit using the original that's worked for millions.

For myself, I'm not really 'in tune' with the MA book; perhaps it's just from having used the AA book for so long.  However, the Twelve Questions (listed below) are thought-provoking:

1. Has smoking pot stopped being fun?
2. Do you ever get high alone?
3. Is it hard for you to imagine a life without marijuana?
4. Do you find that your friends are determined by your marijuana use?
5. Do you smoke marijuana to avoid dealing with your problems?
6. Do you smoke pot to cope with your feelings?
7. Does your marijuana use let you live in a privately defined world?
8. Have you ever failed to keep promises you made about cutting down or controlling your dope smoking?
9. Has you use of marijuana caused problems with memory, concentration, or motivation?
10. When your stash is nearly empty, do you feel anxious or worried about how to get more?
11. Do you plan your life around your marijuana use?
12. Have friends or relatives ever complained that your pot smoking is damaging your relationship with them?

Useful questions, to be sure.  But, having gone through the steps more than once, I'm sure that a person can answer "yes" to a bunch of the MA questions without being an addict.  Screwed up?  Defenitely.  An addict?  Inconclusive.

I'd contend that a person could get high alone, have people complain about it, smoke weed to deal with feelings, and just associate with people who get high... but still be able to quit without help.  And stay quit.

In fact, I've known people who have.  Don't you just hate people who can simply decide to do something like that, and do it?

That's not my experience as an addict.  I wanted to quit, and couldn't.


Studying the first step explained why.

-M