Take A Penny Leave a Penny

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

On my way to one of my favourite Thursday meetings, the dynamic duo of slow drivers and driving rain conspired to thwart my efforts in arriving there at a goodly time.  I knew of the local meeting by my house, so I drove back around, grabbed a Ventastic Quintuple Mega Mocherotic High-Fat Super-Whip Grain Fed Goat Cream pH Balanced Low Foam Extra Tepid Caffeine Beverage  (TM) and made my way through the downpour to the church basement.  I knew a fair share of the people there, so it was kind of nice to mill about and soak up the alcoholic love of the room, resplendent with the aromas of stale coffee, crumbly cookies and low level fear smattered with semi-smashed ego.

I didn’t really want to be there – I had been looking forward to the Big Book meeting further away.  I looked around to find a seat and noticed a young man, coltish and sweaty.  He was leafing through the “beginner’s package” – pamphlets and other reading material given to brand new members.  There was no one sitting near him – he was alone.  I then knew why I was diverted to that place, why I had been guided there.  I knew that I was meant to be in that building, in that meeting, at that time. To see him.

I sat near him, a seat separating us.  I introduced myself and we began to talk.  I kept it simple.  I didn’t overwhelm, like I have done in the past.  I explained what was going on.  It was his first meeting ever.  He rubbed his palms on his jeans every few minutes.  His eyes darted back and forth, perhaps taking in the entirety of where he was, taking in the weirdness of the gathering – something we’ve all done.  It had been a few days since his last drink, and he looked fine.  I mean, he didn’t have the shakes or bloodshot eyes, the puffy face or lethargic speech from lack of sleep.  Or too much sleep.  He was the kind of guy you would pass at the grocery store, unnoticed, as you filled your cart with more Lean Cuisines.  As the meeting began, he visibly relaxed the grip on his coffee cup, and I scanned the room to take in the faces and vibes of my peeps surrounding me.  It felt like home.

Drop and give me twenty Serenity Prayers, newbie!!

There is something about working with others that defies sufficient description.  There is an overwhelming sense that I am supposed to be doing it, that to do otherwise would go against the grain of my core.  It’s an alignment of what I want to be doing to what I am needed to be doing.  A melding of these strong pulls that gets stronger when in concert with one another…one of the few times where what I need and I what I want stem from the same place and don’t collide – only collude.  It can be felt at a surface level as an immediate sense of being useful.  But it also resonates at a deeper level manifesting in a general and long-lasting sense of calm, sense of purpose and the deflation of being wrapped up in self.    This is not about ego, or about awaiting pats on the back.  It’s about trying to be selfless, helpful and thinking of others…something I never was for most of my life.  Strike that –  I was helpful, but only if it served me in a selfish way.  By working with others, I do get something out of it – continued serenity and sense of being of service – but it comes not of self, but out of love.

I see this support and giving and mentorship in many ways in recovery.  I see it here in the blogosphere, in many guises and forms.  Belle’s 100 Club is something that has taken a life onto it’s own.  I also see it on a smaller scale in the Twitter world – alcoholics inspiring one another through the staccato give and go that only Twitter can provide.  Shotgun Providence, if you will, filtered through the common ground of alcoholics all trying to help each other along.  Recovery boards encompass a plethora of different people in different stages of their journey, and the instantaneous response has saved many a shaking alcoholic from picking up a drink.  The shared knowledge and experience of others has also been a growing point for me and allows me an almost instant tutelage of sorts online.

And of course in AA, we have a wide range of ways we can be of service.  The fellowship itself provides fertile ground for newcomers and old timers (and those in between) to come together as those afflicted with a common problem, talking about the common solution.  Where friendships are forged and a new way of life practiced out in the arena of compassion and camaraderie.  Even someone with three days can be of help – showing the absolute newcomer the ropes about the meetings, or sharing their story, or even pouring a cup of coffee.  Others get into service positions and/or get into doing meetings in jails, institutions and detox centers.  It’s all about that simple handshake, the quick hug, the look on someone’s face when they totally get what you’re talking about.

Quick, young shropmaid – a flagon of Folgers and a dimple of dragee for this Bacchanalian bedwetter!

While all these things have given me a chance to give back what has freely been given to me, and have also allowed me to share in a myriad of ways and forms, there is only one way of being of service that truly speaks to me in a deep way.  And that is sponsorship.  What has been most beneficial for me is taking someone through the work.  Being in the forewords of the Big Book is something that brings me a particular joy, a certain type of usefulness that taps my soul, a sense that I was put here to do this sort of thing.  A mind meld between me, the other man, and the Creator.  Spiritual consent bred of desperation, identification and the seeking of connection and trust.  When a man asks me to go through the work with him, I take it as The Divine’s plan for me.  I am of the mindset that God doesn’t put two people together just to help one.

When I share with another guy what I have gone through, what it felt when I was drinking, the things that were going on in my mind and spirit and body when I was active, and he responds, I know that I have been able to reach him in some small way.  And when I see him come back with questions and the willingness to continue going on, meeting in sweaty glassed coffee shops and sitting on park benches, I know that we have started something that is special.  It doesn’t mean that they always come back.  I have had men just drop off the planet, so it would seem.  Guys that I thought were getting it, only to never hear from them again.  And that’s fine.  That’s fear, that’s alcoholism, that’s the way it rolls.  I just pray for them and hope to run into them sooner than later.

I show my protege the old invisible snake handling technique, which chicks dig. I look fabulous. He looks like he’s waiting tables at Sushi Bargain.

A few people have remarked how I have the time to read and respond to so many blogs.  And recovery sites. And add in some of the other recovery things I do.  Yeah, it takes some time, but there is a reason for that time, for responding as I can.  It’s simple : it helps me as much as, if not more, than the people I might be helping.  

It’s like the take a penny, leave a penny tray you would find at the gas station or 7-11.  There may be times when I am short a few cents and take just what I need to get me through that moment.  And there are times I am swimming in pennies and want to hand them off to someone who might need it later themselves.   It’s the whole pay it forward idea.  And that is what this whole deal is.  I get to help people, because I get something much more out of it…just as others have the chance to help me, and gotten something out of it themselves.

Today I was able to talk to two newcomers on the phone.  One guy from my old treatment center who I had never met before but was given my number as a contact, and the other the young man I met at that meeting yesterday.  Both are also meeting me on Sunday at a special meeting.  What is special about that meeting?  On Sunday I will be presenting a one year medallion to one of my first sponsees.  My sponsor and my sponsor’s sponsor will be there.  The legacy demonstrated and continuing.

One drunk helping another.  One alcoholic lending a hand to another.  It’s what we do.  It’s what I need to do.  I feel it’s the reason why I was given the Grace of God to be here still.  It’s why we’re all here, in my opinion.

Take a penny…leave a penny.  What will it be for you today?  Whatever it is, it’s the right thing.

The Chronicles of Bar-Nia

Don’t let the old grey guy there share…he just kind of goes on and on and on…sort of like a never ending story, if you will…ugh.

Stories.

We all have them.  We all keep them.  We all share them.  We all play them over, peer at them with new specs, dig deep to find the truths, shudder at the naughty and embarrassing bits.  We cry at them.  We laugh at them.  We poke and prod them.  We hide them.  We cherish them.

Our stories.

There is nothing more unique to an alcoholic, or anyone for that matter, than our own story.  No two stories are the same.  There may be similarities, circumstantial and surface commonalities, underlying identification, comparable emotions, parallel conditions or like backgrounds, but our stories still remain exclusive to us and us alone.  And there is power in that – a leather bound tome of experience and scenes encapsulated – an ever shifting orb of focus and form.  A forever-until-the end one-act play with lots of costume changes and backdrops.  Characters that come and go, but with us still holding court in the middle.  We’re there whether or not we like the role given to us.  We may feel like Iago at times, but often we find that our true role gets more and more defined as we move through recovery and sobriety.  We see that we’re not just the clothes we put on and the words we say.  The Bard Above has cast us as the right player, but we often have decided to pick something else – a costume that never fit to begin with – and that has caused us considerable grief.

Stories.

I am not necessarily talking about war stories.  You know, the sort of one-upmanship of grotesque escapades and bottom-barrel dramas meant to draw sharp reaction.  War stories don’t hold much water for me, especially in meetings, although they have their time and place, absolutely.  But what I am talking about is our stories – the entire package, which of course includes the drunken tales of debauchery and pitiful actions, but is in the context of our emotional and spiritual landscape.

Ah yes, Sex in the City of the 30′s – what jitterbug-and-speakeasy induced shenanigans did these ladies get up to? (Too much gam showing there, ya ripe tomatoes – off thee to a nunnery!)

Some people find the stories in meetings and online depressing.  Perhaps the sliding scale of tragedy and self-induced trauma is too much to take on.  And there are some very sad tales out there.  Very sad.  But what I take away from those stories are the fact that people have survived.  The person telling their story is there in the seat or at the computer, compelled by something stirred within, to share with others what it was like, what happened, and what it is like now.  It’s not to showcase the drama or the demoralization, but to highlight the fact that this illness kills.  It’s dangerous.  It takes no prisoners.  It doesn’t care what’s in or not in your bank account, what is or what isn’t parked in your garage, what is or what isn’t the colour of your skin.  It doesn’t care how intelligent you are.  It just doesn’t care…period.  It wants you dead.  And in the course of our lives, if we are bitten by that particular bug, we have a story.  Things unfold as the illness takes hold, as ego rides shotgun with telling us everything is ok, nothing to see here.  Our polluted actions, thoughts and emotions begin to plunk like stones, some small pebbles, other large chunks, cascading into the other parts of our lives.  Everything clashes and melds together.  We get out of control, one way or another.  Our stories unfold.

The great power our stories carry is that we can identify with others and they can identify with us.  The greatest revelation to someone caught in the grips of the grapes is listening to someone else tell their tale and realize that they too might be an alcoholic.  No one has come out and qualified them as such.  When we come to that conclusion on our own, it holdss great sway.  It didn’t take me long when reading about other people’s struggles with alcoholism to realize that I too was an alcoholic.  No one diagnosed me with it.  No scrape and eye drop allergy tests administered.  No jabbing of needles to get the confirmation.  I just listened to others talk about themselves, and that was all I needed.  That is the Great Ninja Power of the narrative…the ability to stealthily infiltrate the once closed mind and plant a seed.

Dr. Frank N. Furter speaks to the inner evil alien transvestite in me. I really connect to that. Plus I dig those shoes.

Mrs. D had a great post recently that touched upon what I am speaking of.  She wondered if it mattered how “bad” she was in her drinking days.  You see, this is the problem with war stories sometimes – we hear the horrific tales of jails, under-the-bridge living, bankruptcies, torrid affairs, ripped apart families, hit-and-runs, DUI’s, arrests, institutional placements, asylum visits, hospitalizations, organ transplants, assaults, abuse, etc.  and wonder if we have hit the correct marks in the alcoholic path.  We compare growth charts. We compare mythologies (sorry, Leonard).  We see that we don’t measure up and wonder if we are just overreacting.  But what we forget is that alcoholism doesn’t care, remember?  You a hockey mom with a great job, lovely hubby and the latest iphone?  No arrests or even a speeding ticket?  But worried about the Pinot Grigio bottles hidden in the laundry room and rattling around your recycling bin?  Someone’s been there.  They have a story.  Hear it.  Let her tell you about the other stuff – the shame, the guilt, the remorse around it all.  Hear her as she lets you know how it got worse.  Let her share about the next level alcoholism took her to.  Because alcoholism always, always, always takes us down.  Some of the lucky ones get off the elevator before it keeps descending. Some of us keep riding.

So in the end it’s not the actual circumstances that defines our alcoholism, it’s the causes and conditions that bring us to the bottle.  And in that mix of emotions and thoughts and behaviours that carried me further into the depths of the disease, my story started to come together, a tapestry woven, a connecting of dots and dashes, a fortress of empties clogging a once vibrant life.  And that is what I share with others.  Not just the low-lights of my drinking career – that comes when it needs to be seen – but the internal guts of what it felt like to drink when I didn’t want to.  I share the ugliness, the desperation, the pain, the hurt, the incapacity to stop what has started.  I explain how I was cut off at the knees by my own selfishness and self-centeredness, how I created my own problems, how hopeless I felt, how deceptive and manipulative I was.  I tell them of the anger.  Oh…the anger.  Rage.  And that is where we clutch each other, linked arm in arm, in the communal trough of isolation and pain…and the identification of it.

We see in others what we see in ourselves.  And there is power and comfort in that.  We aren’t crazy after all.  We aren’t alone.

I don’t remember a chugging monkey in my story, but if there was, I would call him “Monsieur Pukey”

Our stories change and evolve.  What is done is done, obviously.  There is not need to revisit the past just to self-flagellate.  But what my story has given me is a message of depth and weight I can carry to the next alcoholic.  He or she will see that I get it.  We all do.  That is why we read and share and post out here.  That is why I love to read what is out there, to listen at meetings and to talk over hot cups of coffee.  I feel the connection and see that while the outer sheath is different, underneath there is so much in common.  I can speak of fears and resentments and have someone instantly click with me.  And I them.  And it doesn’t matter how bad things got, or didn’t get, to feel the tug of someone’s heart and soul and the fellowship that builds around that sensation is what matters at most.

My story is a ticket that gets punched over and over again to gain access to someone’s spirit.  Your story gets into my spirit.  We meet at a point of singularity where there are no externals, just the light of love and recovery and camaraderie.  We are brothers and sisters who gained admission to the family simply by coming from a place of brokenness and the willingness to hold tight and be there for one another.  To lift up, tear down, and heal.  Our stories don’t define us, yet they stamp on us an indelible mark that we carry in us during our majestic lives.  And we change the story as we go along.  We may go through bad chapters in our lives, but they’re not the end of the novel.

Keep telling your story.  Keep listening to stories.  If you don’t identify, move on.  Someone will come into your life where both your stories mesh, where you will find common ground, where things will make sense and link.  Stay aware.  Listen hard, give hard and love hard.

Stories.  We all have them.

Looks like a Rom-Com? Blockbuster stuff.

Simple Ain’t So Simple, Dummy

Where’s the DVD player and latte holder in that bad boy?

Here is a recent discussion I had with my wife:

Me: I want to meet with a nutritionist for my appalling eating habits.  I saw one online today.

Her: Good. Did you call her?

Me: No.  But I think she’s just outside the city.  See, what I did was Google nutritionists who work with addicts and alcoholics, then saw an article the nutritionist was featured in about sugar addiction, then went to her website.  Now, judging by something I think I saw on the site, she might be too far away.  So I went back to Google and was going to start getting other nutritionists, but I want to clarify my search parameters to widen and yet tighten my capture.

Her: Call her and ask where she works instead of guessing.

Me: Yeah, but I think there should be someone downtown with similar qualifications in working with guys like me.  I think that I am going to find the number of someone who knows the offices of the addiction center on College St. and see if they know someone in the area who might be of help then I can get their number and try and book an appointment.

Her: Just call the first nutritionist and ask if she knows someone downtown she can refer.

Me: I know, but if I just…

Her: Call her.

Needless to say, I like to complicate things.  A wee bit.

I have heard other alcoholics go on about this one (of many) infuriating trait we seem to have in common, about how we can see the path to serenity and directness and make a hard right to hard times. I have heard about this characteristic our peeps share that compels us to dive into the deep end filled with sharks and thumb tacks, rather than wade in the clear and bright cool waters. And so it seems that I am certainly not alone in turning the simplest task into some Herculean endeavor that would tax Job’s patience.  I never saw myself in that same category until I got sober and started to look back at just how reckless I was with brevity, simplicity and that thing called “cutting to the chase”.

I have been known to complicate this too. I’m a wiz with toothpicks, and you should see me with gumballs.

I recall countless conversations like the one above with my wife – topic just of a different hue – or attempting the easiest of chores and never completing them because I over-thought my way right out of them.  I made doing the dishes or picking up the drycleaning into complex battle maneuvers requiring ninja-like skills to navigate through.  I would respond to a simple “How was your night?” with a convoluted tale that could rival Kevin Spacey’s character’s yarn spinning skills in The Usual Suspects.  I just couldn’t wash and dry the pots or even say “My night was great – yours?” – it was too damn easy.  I had to make those things something that they were not.

And why was that?

Why did I have to make running to get a liter of milk from the store resemble Jeffy’s dotted line escapade from Family Circus?  Why did calling my mother all of a sudden require plans, timelines and written cues?  I mean, why was it that I just couldn’t think in a linear, A to B, no-detour-requested manner that could make life easier?  Why did I make things so complicated?

Good question.

Why???? Sweet swirling onion rings, just answer the question already!  Answer the question!

The first, and most obvious answer, would be that as active alcoholics, we lied.  A lot. I know that when I was active in my alcoholism, I fabricated anything and everything to keep my drinking under wraps, or to find ways to extend my drinking.  I wove tales to keep the boat afloat, so to speak…to allow my untreated alcoholism to flourish or at the very least, survive.  Little tame fibs grew into wilder and mangier lies, which eventually turned feral in my attempt to throw some vestige of verisimilitude into my stories.   And the odd thing is that even in sobriety, I have sometimes found that I would lie, even when the truth would serve me better.  Insanity. So there is this small carry over from my old habits and old way of thinking.

Another reason I spun things into an intricate dance was because of my ego.  My enormous, bloated, labyrinthine ego just loved to show off.  I would mentally transform a doorknob into a Rubik’s Cube to just show others how intelligent I was.  I would question the simplest of things, turn the plainest of observations into some elaborate scheme, or take a one word salutation from a co-worker and extrapolate the bejesus out of it until it was a Dickensian Drama with them as Villain and me as Victim.  It was my ego trying to show everything and everyone up.  The usual result was, of course, that I stumbled.  Badly.  I ended up looking the fool or couldn’t live up to my own expectations.  A squeaky hinge needs grease, not a Senate inquiry and sub-committees.   But my ego loves sub-committees. And it used to love booze as a chaser.

It’s just how I roll, man.

I was also fond of keeping busy, and keeping busy kept me away from myself and my emotions.  Keeping busy (drinking, thinking about drinking and recovering from drinking were a good start) was something to alleviate the symptoms of actually being in touch with who I was and what I was…an alcoholic in the grips of the grape.  Keeping things simple was too direct a line to the darkness of my soul.  It put me in the spotlight of recognition and illuminating the illness of my spirit and mind and body.  I couldn’t face the scrutiny of straight truth, so I preferred vodka straight up.  Keep things light yet problematic, Paul.  Keep the wheels within the wheels in motion.  Elaborate rather than condense and distill to basic atoms.  

And with that, I chose the comfort of the discomfort.  The constant state of flux in my life, willfully created by me, served to activate and showcase the chaos, to drive away the purity of life and the simplicity that was always available, but never desired by a drunk like me.  Keeping things simple wasn’t something that worked for me.  I had to keep things in a dramatic state to keep myself distracted and away from the clean lines that would help me gain clarity.  I didn’t want clarity – I wanted the fuzz of the buzz and the cloudiness of a mental state that would keep me in arm’s length of what I was really about – an alcoholic, a frightened man-boy, a stain of a human. Everything was blown up into a Rube Goldberg Machine for safety’s sake.

Oh, like there’s an easier way to do this?  I’d like to see that, smarty pants.

Knowing all of this hasn’t particularly made my life any simpler.  I mean, it has in many tangible ways, but I still spin my wheels at times.  Keeping things easy peasy takes effort for me.  It means action.  It means I just walk to the corner, drop the letter in the mailbox and mosey right on back home.  It means picking up the phone, punching in a number and speaking to the other person on the line.  It means answering a question honestly and in a straightforward manner.  It’s about taking a pause and dialing it back a few notches over where I automatically would overshoot the mark before speaking or acting.  It might even be pocketing my pride, telling someone that they are right about something, and then moving along, unfazed.  A “what would Forrest Gump do?” mentality perhaps at times suffices. 

And the payoff?

Things go smoother for me.  There are less sparks from friction and conflict – within myself and with others.  I am not encumbered by the weight of bad motives and poor decisions and judgements borne of ego.  I am freer and lighter.  I find more joy in the smaller things in life.  I am more open.  I love and feel love more.  I put others at ease.  I am available for others.

Simple doesn’t mean dumb.  It means serenity.  And I can go for double servings of that…if that’s ok with my nutritionist.

Not So Sweet Tidings

Don’t let that delicious snowman fool ya – he’s here to foreclose. Gumdrops be damned.

The experiment is over.

The research is done, the facts are in, the jury has handed over a sweaty folded piece of paper over to the judge.

No more sugar for this dude.

At the end of last January, I wrote about my decision to go sugar free.  Re-reading it with fresh eyes recently, I still see some of the things now as I saw them then – the “reach” of yet another thing to escape self, the poisonous nature of sugar, a coping mechanism that didn’t seem dangerous at first.  And there are some things I see now…things that I needed to see in the light of yet another addiction.

Now, to those who have relapsed with alcohol, this is going to sound frightfully similar here as I itemize my downfall.  Shall we go for a ride?

1) I thought that I was doing well, and that a tiny bit of chocolate wouldn’t hurt.  I was at work and thought nothing of just taking a small bite (“sample!”) of a truffle.  I mean, it had been months of abstinence and certainly one tiny morsel of decadent, rich, delicious, intoxicating, breathtaking, scrumptious, deep, dark, velvety, harmless chocolate couldn’t do any damage, right?

2) I spent a few days sans sucre and hey, that was pretty good, wasn’t it?  Ego in check.  Nothing to see here folks, move along.  Keep your tickets until the end of the ride.

3) Since I was so good at controlling my intake, it was ok to have a bite of pastry, no?  And pastry is different than chocolate…we all know that.  And hell, if I am going to have one bite, might as well finish the rest.  Wouldn’t want to waste food, or be rude.  

4) You know, I lost a lot of weight not having sugar, and those first few pounds gained back are really nothing anyway.  A muffin here and then, a bowl of cereal before bed, a few Smarties after lunch, and hey, a treat for all my hard work aren’t really a big deal.  I ride my bike a lot, so I should be fine.

5) Alright, alright.  I like this sugar thing.  I know it’s starting to creep up again.  But I can moderate it this time.  It’s not like before.  Hey – I stopped drinking and stayed stopped, OK?  I can handle some sweets, yeah?  It won’t be like it was last time. Promise.

6) I can stop anytime I want.  I am just enjoying life right now.  I’ll stop when I need too.  Get off my back, alright?  I’ll do it before it gets really bad.  Now, where are my Butterfingers and cake batter-flavoured frozen yogurt…

7) I need to get off this rollercoaster.  My moods are affected.  My body is morphing.  My sleep is disturbed.  My emotions are stalling.  I crave when I don’t even want.  How did it get to this?  How did it go so quickly? Look up OA.

Tell me the truth, son. Is daddy starting to look like Chunk from The Goonies?

Did you see the lies, the justifications, the rationalizations, the excuses, the fears, the anger, the ego and the pride in there, in that list?  I did.  You could pour it over pancakes, how thick and luscious those lies were (I might want to start using different analogies here on in).  The great myth here, the great unmasking, the great deception is this – that I decided to eat sugar again.  That is the fantastic untruth here. That I made a decision.  I made no decision at all.  It was my addiction’s choice.  It was my powerlessness over sugar that made the decision.  My ego just wanted to play along and make me think I had some say in it.  Kind of sounds like the booze thing all over again, doesn’t it?  Ugh.

So I sit in a place where I know that sugar is just another addiction for me.  Part of me doesn’t want to admit it, but that part is dying rather quickly.  Sure, I am not going to get arrested for having too many Boston Creams in my blood system, but that’s not the point.  It’s what the driving force behind it is.  It’s the causes and conditions.  It’s the coping mechanism machine kicking in again.  The clarity that has emerged out of these last few lard-and-molasses-laden weeks is that I don’t have an off switch when it comes to sugar.  I don’t have a dimmer in me that can ease things off or shut it down if needed.  I have lost the capacity to choose whether I want or not want sweets.  The choice is made for me on a regular basis.  I’m there for the ride, baby.  And I am the one suffering from it.

I feel ya Sammy. I really do, you hep cat ya.

The things that I see now that I didn’t see when I posted last about this are things that I could only see after going on this spree.  The first was that in my first attempt at eliminating sweets, I left the door open to getting back into it.  I never swore off for good, nor did I make a pact, other than just don’t have sugar.  I mentally kept the back gate open a smidgen.  And there’s nothing more an alcoholic of my type likes is to have a smidgen of anything open for negotiation and wiggling out of.  I could spread smidgens on French toast (oops, did it again).  The second thing I saw was really how much I depended on those sugary distractions, those syrupy sojourns, those cavity-inducing cathartic releases.  It was always worse than I made it out to be. In classic alcoholic form, I minimized just how much they took me over.  When the heat got too much inside, a few pieces of sugared up fried dough helped cool things down.  Lovely.

And, in the way that only the Creator could finagle this, Lisa at Sober Identity started to discuss her detox from several items, including sugar.  The timing couldn’t have been better.  It was like I was watching myself in the future.  She speaks about it in her usual brilliant self – raw when needed,  experiential and eloquent always.  She speaks of gaining greater clarity through the process and utilizing other support systems in this and other issues.  I can see the unfolding of this through her eyes, and yet I realize my path is a different one than hers.  Sugar is not alcohol.  Sugar is found in many foods.  I don’t need alcohol to survive.  I do need food to survive.  So while I plan to take my 12 step experience to this addiction, I will not doubt need a nutritionist or similar to help me navigate the actual nuts and bolts of doing this.  Some rebar to add to the cement, if you will.

I like this.  Subtle.

It’s actually a sigh of relief, in many way, this sugar thing I am dealing with (“dealing with”? Sounds like I am talking about a teen daughter who won’t come out of her room…yikes).  When I first knew I was an alcoholic, at a very gut level way, there was almost a perverse but palpable joy in it.  I was something…finally. I had felt like a nothing all my life, so to feel that I had something to hang my hat on, even if it was being a lush, was something to almost be thankful for. In the same way, I feel like I have something else to buoy myself up on here.  It’s a step in the right direction, a new path forged with the usual pitfalls and joys that only addicts and alcoholics know.  But I will have the strength and power that comes from the Creator and knowing that I have done this before…and yet am totally new to it.

Clarity.  Growth.  Perspective.  A new outlook on life.  For this alcoholic, these don’t come from self-help books or reading inspirational quotes all day on Twitter. It comes from marching through tough stuff.  Stepping on a few nails wearing worn down moccasins.  Stepping on a rake smacking your face slapstick type nonsense.  Getting ugly and snotty and facing the things that make you want to run to Home Depot and wrap yourself in Teflon sheets and bury yourself in unicorn shavings.  But out of all that comes the sense that the True Self blossoms out of that manure.  That the more the Old Self dies, what was meant to be surfaces and we fill that old void with Goodness, Oneness to one’s self and the Creator.  Big Love stuff going on.

All from letting go of what doesn’t serve us.

And just because I have been down the path before doesn’t necessarily make it easier.   It does makes it a lot more interesting, though.

Blessings, y’all.

My old path.

Nothing Normal About Being Normal…Normally

This on a map anywhere?

Not an original topic, grant you, this thing about what “normal” is and what it isn’t.  Go to any blog or teen diary (they still have those?  Maybe one with a Hello Kitty theme?  Or a Hulk Hogan hardcover version for tough softies?) and you will no doubt find all sort of words about (not) fitting in, being cast aside, feeling apart from, etc.  Every philosopher, arts grad student, sociologist, teen angst poet, TV spiritual guru and Revenge of the Nerds fan has got this topic covered.  The idea is that being normal is just an ideal, borne of the innate feeling of wanting to fit in; that “normal” doesn’t exists, except in statistics and on washing machine settings.  Normal really doesn’t exist, except in the minds of those who don’t feel they are a part of anything, which covers pretty much most people on this planet.  And the ones who claim they are normal are usually covering up some uncomfortable or “abnormal” thoughts that really are normal compared to what everyone else is thinking.  Fear, when you get down to brass tacks.  But fret not, we are consoled with the overriding self-help cheer of “Who wants to be normal anyway?!  Be your crafty, wonderful and weird self!”.  All tied up in a neat bundle – a normal way in dealing with emotional peril and social awkwardness, eh?

Sure.

Many will talk about finding a “new normal” – sort of like refreshing your home page on the Weather Network website and taking your cue from that new outlook and approach.  The new normal is like your old normal, but with a shot of fabric softener or glitter.  If I get a raise at work, I guess that’s my new financial normal.  I don’t mind that.  If another child or animal joins the family, that’s the new normal too.  The new normal is pitched as a positive thing.  It’s uplifting, it’s a way of gaining a foothold in Peace and Contentment.  It’s urged as a way of progress, of setting the bar up yet another level and waiting for the next event to ratchet things up once again.   I know it reads like I am a apprehensive about this normal business.  I am not…at all.  If it was a “meh” thing for me, I wouldn’t be exploring this very much.  I am not sure why I am behooved to scrawl away about this, but there is some psychic and spiritual poking around going on in the shed of my mind and soul about this.  And so I heed the invisible impetus.

“There is a time to laugh and a time not to laugh, and this is not one of them.”

In the context of normality and the alcoholic, the topic can branch off in so many, many directions.  We could spend ages discussing and relating how we felt different than others growing up, how we felt different from others in our drinking, how  we felt different from others when we had the drink in hand, how we felt different from others when we first sobered up, how we can still feel different when we walk in a room full of people.  A cursory glance through all the wonderful recovery blogs out there talk about this at some point or another.  Memoirs, short stories, documentaries, articles, etc. from alcoholics or about alcoholics often hinge on this one aspect of alcoholism.   I didn’t pick up a drink because all was groovy in the world for me.  I didn’t pick up that first beer because I was Mr. Popular or because I was on a winning streak.  I certainly didn’t get into AA because my life was a portrait of “normal”.  (Or perhaps it was – normal for an active alcoholic).  I picked up because I wanted to be transported out of “not normal”.

We often discuss the “normal” drinker – often the one we wish we could be, but we never were.  You know, the person who can have a few drinks, enjoy them, enjoy the setting they are having those drinks in, and either finish or not finish said drinks.  The type that can leave half a glass of wine at the dinner table and walk away from. They get drunk occasionally, but that’s because they choose to get drunk.  Or just get carried away.  I never had Door #2 or #3 options there like they did.   Door #1 was the only one available, and I opened it over and over again – it was normal for me to drink into oblivion.  It was normal for me to not have any control over my drinking.  Once I put the first one in me, the physical craving hit me and it was game over.  Done.  But that was normal for me.  And frankly, I didn’t care if it was anyone else’s normal.  I was too wrapped up in mine.

It didn’t take long for me to realize my relationship with alcohol wasn’t normal, in the normal sense.  And that is when it went underground.  I didn’t want to seem abnormal, and yet it played out in my life over and over again like a silent movie reel in my head, with ten times the annoying tinkly piano accompaniments.  So I guess I did have a new normal.  Except that instead of it moving upward into positive outcomes, it spiraled downwards into a self-perpetuating cycle of drink /remorse /guilt / shame /drink.  And when I didn’t think I could find a new level of new normal, I hit ground with shovel and dug deep again.  Ta da!  New normal.

But that’s an easy story to tell, isn’t it?  The whole progression-of-the-illness story, where we share the details of our “normal” way of drinking – usually something outrageous to any normal person out there.  Near lethal amounts of alcoholic in our blood, dustups and donnybrooks, hospital visits, relationship slashing and dashing, detoxes, bankruptcies…all the stuff of normal drunkalogues and tales from the podium or written work, all of which are useful to catching the attention of another alcoholic.

Where I have found the idea of normal intriguing is when I compare where I am now in recovery as to when I was active.  What is normal for me now – being present, being awake to thing spiritually and emotionally, being available in all ways, being level, having access to myself, being open to new ideas, asking for help when needed, being uncomfortable when I need to be, sitting with things…these were the things that were abnormal for me for all those years.  My entire life was bereft of those things that I saw as being hardwired into others.  I was often dumbstruck in how my wife or sister-in-law could go shopping or on a trip and come back with wonderful, perfect gifts for people. (Thinking of others?  How do you do that?).  I was amazed at how my brother-in-law or my neighbour could start and continue a conversation with a stranger and enjoy it.  (And not want something from that person?  Just talk? Wow)

Ever play Angry Scrabble?  I tried to spell words with an additional “F” and “U” in there.  I never had FUN.

.

So what’s normal to others (boring, dull, run of the mill) is fine by me.  I like this abnormal normality I have.  I’ve been to hell and back and being in the middle of pack suits me fine now.  And yet, we are all far from normal in our ways.  There’s that rah-rah cheer again – “Be yourself! Who cares what others think!”.  And I am myself.  Or getting there, at least.  Still figuring out the “myself” part…but moving closer to it.  I can feel the warmth of it as I get nearer to it.  I might not have had a normal way of getting to this place in my life, but I am here.  Many don’t get here.  I am grateful for the New Paul Normal.  It’s certainly something that will shift, that will be fluid and allow room for growth, like a new pair of shoes on a kid.  Next year I could be singing a different aria, which would be a possible sign of building upon ones self and change.  A sign that being static is not beneficial to where I need to be.  I was static for way too long in my search for normal.  I also eluded normal, because my ego would tell me that I was better…or less than the rest of the pack.  Ugly circles and pathways, littered with bottles.

In the final analysis, what normal means to me is that I am no better nor worse than anyone.  That’s it.  I am right-sized.  I am worthy of helping anyone out.  I am also worthy of having what has been given to me.  There are no mistakes in this Play.  The acts are there in sequence for a reason, and the Playwright knows the script.  I don’t.  I just play the part.  And that is what I do now.  Normal everyday stuff.  Live life.  Chop wood. Fetch water. Love. Inspire. Play.

Peace.

Normally not viewed.

When Your Spirit Guide Is A Turtle

This is….awkward.

It always seems to come back to turtles.

I am not sure why, but when I close my eyes, breathe deeply, crank up the burnt sage and seek communion with Upper Management, I see turtles (sea turtles?)  I wish I didn’t.  But there they are, crinkled pointed beaks, sun soaked tails, glinted and tinted eyes, unfiled nails.  A dodgy skin care program wrapped in iridescent plate armor and highlighted by a gait that is the laughing stock of the aquarium set.  Oh Great Creator, why are there no noble timberland wolves, majestic bald eagles or tony stallions in my spiritual collage?  I would even take a rat – it at least has the pedigree of having a whole Chinese New Year enshrined to it, and rats are venerated in some temples.  Even a Vietnamese Potbelly Pig has its own innate charm and joie de vivre.

But a turtle?

I will stay open minded then.  I will invite, seek and harbor ‘turtle-ness’ into my life.  I will embrace the turtle – wrinkly, ragged body and all.  The thing about the turtle is that for this alcoholic, it’s an apt zoological entity and representation for me thus far.  The correct anthropomorphic avatar…a fit for my journey so far.  Not exactly sexy, but I’ll take the George Burns of the not-so-wild kingdom over whatever the equivalents of Pauly Shore or Donald Trump are.  I’ll split even on a Paul Lynde, though.

Not Paul Lynde, but still groovy funky, baby.

For years and years, before, during and after my active alcoholic days, I had very limited ability to feel my emotions and needs.  Not to say I didn’t feel – of course I felt.  Too much at times.  Not at all other times.  That is one of the reasons I drank – emotional stability, if you can call that. (More like sustained emotional insanity).  This manifested in many ways, one of which is that I had very slow access to how and what was going on internally.  Even a simple “What do you think of this color?” or “How do you feel about this movie?” question was painful to answer.  I needed time to think these things through.  I needed lots of time to process things.  I didn’t have an answer.  It was somewhere in me, but I was covered up and trampled on by my fears, anxieties and anger.  I just didn’t know how I was supposed to feel.  Sometimes it would literally take me days honestly to come up with an answer to those kinds of simple questions.  Hare speed  - this we are not talking about.

This sort of tortoise like tempo was torture to most people in my life, especially my wife.  It’s difficult to engage someone when there isn’t anything to meet up against.  I stood there most times, seized up, as someone would be trying anything and everything to illicit an response from me.  I just didn’t know what to do or say.  My inner life was so stitched up and sewn shut that a SWAT team of snails was about the only thing that could get there and do anything about it.  I didn’t know what it was they wanted to hear, and I didn’t know what it was I wanted to say.  It was in that middle ground where I got all muddled up.  Safer to put my head in the shell and hope for the storm to pass over…let me get washed up on whatever shore was closest.  And most often, shores had huts with booze.  Giddy up, partner.

Now think December. That’s me in an oozy doozy nutshell.

And retreat – well, that was (and still can be) classic me.  Hide in the protective covering.  Don’t let them see you vulnerable.  Don’t let the see you…period.  Sneaking away into myself was a defense mechanism, much like my emotional turtle-like prosopopoeia . It was my way out, via way in.  Waaaaay in.  But there was no real sanctuary in the hub of denial and distraction.  There was no proper way of interacting when the currency of truth was forsaken and abandoned.  Honest engagement is forfeited when one of the parties has put themself down for the count before even entering into the arena of discussion.  And that was my modus operandi.  Cover up and wait it out.  Camouflage as a rock and let them bash upon you until they can’t stem their own bleeding any more.  Crisis diverted.  At least until the next time.  And there was always a next time.

The problem with a shell of course is it’s weakness – the underbelly.  Soft-ish.  Permeable. You can crack that baby open like a pinata on Cinco De Mayo.  And cracked open I got…often.  It was usually of my own doing, actually.  Drinking was a way of removing that shell, of cleaving my way out.  It was only through the drink was I able to feel less vulnerable, less targeted, less fearful of my surroundings.  I was able to feel things.  I was able to engage in those kinds of conversations that allowed me to know what it was that was going on.  But the window on that was short.  Very short.  But at least for a tiny amount of time, I actually had some opinions.  And boy did I have opinions.  And they were often the wrong type stated to the wrong people.  I couldn’t find that happy medium of finding me and losing me.  In and out of the shell.   Chafing that already sandpaper like skin.

You’re thinking of someone else, dude. I don’t speak “Ariba Ariba Andele!” Just not my style.

Another manifestation of my chelonian self is my still current way of getting to things.  I don’t do change well.  Or with fleet of foot.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy change – I do, and I know it’s imperative that I continue to change, to well….change.  I don’t want the old me showing up.  I’ve had it with that clown. But I get to things when I get to them…and I find that it happens at a pace that is much more laggardly than I would want it.  But there it is – what I “want”.  What I “want” got me in lots of trouble.  So, I have to think of what I need and how that will come about.  I must allow things to unfold at the pace they need to.  Not to say that I procrastinate and just hope that the world gets to me in due time.  I have actions I need to maintain and affix myself to so that I have a clear program of movement (albeit slow) in place.  I need to do things outside my comfort level, think and behave in ways somewhat foreign to me.  And so I do them.  But slowly.  With measure.  With full attachment to my core values and beliefs.  With the Power of the Creator gently guiding me.

I understand that I am far from alone in the slow-to-change category.  It’s perhaps part of the growth that we alcoholics (and addicts) need to break through to gain more freedom from self and to see things in a greater light.  I certainly wasn’t quick to change when I was drinking – I had my rituals, my go-to bottles, my superstitions, my emotional benders, my grudge list, my stubborn and willful approach to life.  I liked that set up and lined them up like shot glasses on a rail. So it’s old self that sometimes slows me down in the growth department.  Fears tend to be the greatest thumbtacks-on-the-road-to-slow-the-tires-down offenders.  Fear of change, or ironically enough, fear of not changing, gets me to an almost backwards crawl at times.  But I persevere, I march on, I continue even when the pace is glacial. What I have to remember is that being unhurried or measured doesn’t mean listless or lazy.  I have to make that delineation clear to myself.

Wonder Twin powers activate! Form of a glacier! Shape of a Red-Eared Slider!

I have accepted my turtle spiritual guide.  I am not exactly snuggling with it, but it works for me right now.  It reminds me that I no longer need to hide when I sense trouble.  Trouble usually arises from within in so many forms, so I am able to approach things with a steady, purposeful stride.  I have learned that my shell is now a fortification of my beliefs and my boundaries and my faith.  I need not recede within the casing, but I also don’t give ground to the things that plan to sink me.  And those things as well often come from my inner world.  I have a shell that grows with me, that builds around my core, that helps shape and keep my form solid.  I am no longer waiting to be seized upon. I do the seizing now.

In my just over two years of recovery I have realized that it’s not a race of sorts, this new life.  I am where I need to be.  I will come to things when the Creator deems me ready to come to them.  Sometimes I need to hear something from somebody to snap me out of my old place or thinking.  Sometimes it’s just about  facing something head on and waking up to it.  Sometimes I will have a thought just dawn on me, and I will slap myself up the head and say “Why did that take me so long to figure out, genius?”  It’s just what it is.  It’s where I am at – either in the sparkling water or muddy shoreline.  It’s my milieu and I need to be defined and afforded internal malleability there.

It’s my inner turtle at work.  Going with the tides, stomping in the sun, just being a turtle.

Slow down there, chief – what’s the rush??

Why I Sober Blog

Yours truly working on his latest oeuvre.

I imagine if you asked everyone in the sober blogging community why it is that they started their journey in the blogosphere, you would get answers as varied and as revealing as their own blogs are.  It is clear that the sober blogging community is a small and yet ever changing body.  It’s something that I enjoy, as I get to know a healthy amount of fantastic people, but it’s not that I get lost in a sea of faces and 12-pt font.  It’s sort of reminds me of where I currently work – it’s large enough that there are many departments to interact with and deal with, but not large enough where we are all just employee numbers and HR stats.  There is a sense of a greater good, with everyone pulling their cog-like weight if you will, each an intrinsic part of the collective conscious.  Every time the “publish” button is pushed, another strand in the tapestry gets threaded where it needs to be placed.  The big picture continues to expand, to grow in colour and contrast, to gain a richer texture.

This is the kind of stuff I stand back and poke at now and then, let the Universe show it’s hand as it’s needed and see where I stand in the big scheme when I am floating through blogs.  I half-jokingly refer to this blog my “little corner of the world”, and to me that’s really what it is – a part of, not apart from.  And yet, it’s a stand alone thing that gets better when interlaced with everyone else.  It’s sort of a reflection of my recovery – I was the lone wolf, in my den, alone until I learned that getting out there and interacting with others would make me feel better, act better, think better.  Just be better, in many ways.  Being in self-imposed exile didn’t do me any good, other than succumb to the inner Level Six Black Lower Level Demons that seemed to swirl around me and the bottle.  Like they say, the problem with being isolated is that you get bad advice out there.   And bad advice I got.    So getting on board with a recovery program that encourages and finds results with working with others, sharing with others and opening up to others was a frightening venture for me.  And my blog has reflected that, to some extent.

Everyone needs a posse – even ol’ Higgy Baby has some merit.

Like many folks in the blogosphere, I started my blog with the intent of just venting, blowing off steam, getting stuff out that I didn’t want to bother anyone else with.  I kept it all in, and yet put it all into the universe at the same time.  I didn’t put myself out there, never ventured past the confines of my tiny little planet, never showed an interest in what others were doing.  How apt for this type of alcoholic – selfish and self-centered.  I was just interested in what was going on with me.  (And I don’t mean to say that anyone that starts their blog in the same way is of the same mindset).  For me, I just didn’t want to do much with the blog in the first place.  I was still struggling in being interested in others in real life, and so I certainly wasn’t interested in others in the Interweb Fantastico.  I just wanted to start writing anything to get some relief.  My motivations weren’t as noble as I wanted them to be, but it served me well.

I was reading Running on Sober’s post on blogging a while back, and I thought it was quite groovy and brilliant.  It must have sat with me subconsciously, as it has come up more as of late – what is the point of all this?  Why do I sober blog?  Or perhaps the question should be “Why do I continue to sober blog?”  I mean, I am not planning on shutting down the factory here quite yet.  I think I still have a few more posts I have in me to painfully grind out.  But then what?  This seems like a very common things amongst the blogging community in general – this general questioning of where, how often, why.  It brought me back to thinking of Sherry shutting down her old blog and starting up Maintaining the Zen - a breaking out of the restraining “sober only” mandate and getting into life in general, through the lens of a sober person.  It also reminded me of when Mrs. D almost retired her blog and the outcry against it that followed her short-lived retirement.  She too has scaled back and has spread her wings, so to speak, making her presence known more on Twitter-form than in blog form.

And in observing the sober blogs out there, you get a quick cross-section of the range of where everyone is in their journey.  There are some wonderful new blogs from some women and men who are new on the path to sobriety.  Their trials and tribulations are more visceral, more immanent, more face-to-the-mirror type of raw material that brings home to me what it was like when I was there.  It reminds me of how it used to be, and how it could be again if I am not vigilant and self-aware and consistently working at things.  The posts from newcomers are striking in their similarities, as we all come from a common place, and follow a certain script.  But what I really enjoy is the individuality, the elan, the vigor, the fight and freedom that present themselves in those blogs.  On the flip side is the tangible sorrow, withdrawal pains, edginess, personal relationship and work issues.  It’s part and parcel of recovery, as once we start to open up our feelings, released from the fog of alcohol, we get all emotions back – the highs and lows.  One doesn’t present itself without the other.

And to those bloggers, I am ever grateful for their grit and for showing me where it all starts.

There are those with more time, of course.  A couple of years perhaps, even longer, past the days of white knuckles and ducking social events.  Those who are more comfortable in their skins, who have done the work (and continuing to do so), who are jazzing into life’s problem’s head on and learning to take the lumps while serving up the grace of one who has traveled through hell and back.  Some have even written books on the topic, or in other genres. What strikes me in reading these awesome, inspiring folks is their dedication to helping others, in shining the light on what needs to be illuminated, to showing others where the booby traps lay in the path.  I always see things in a new way when I sift my way through these blogs.  I also see that I am not alone in my weird thinking sometimes, and just taking in what others are doing and experiencing helps me in ways I don’t even consciously know.

And to those bloggers, I am ever grateful for lighting the path for those of us behind you.

Blogs come and go, as I have seen.  Some are started with vigor and later left abandoned by the side of the road like a spent jalopy. Some have had a few random posts and given up on early.  Some have run their course and are retired.  Others start strong and continue strong.  It’s what it’s worth for the time, at the time.  The only rule is that it’s the blogger’s rules.  Whatever you want, go for it.  And I love that freedom, and seeing people express themselves in the most creative ways.  The humanness and reality of the writing is what is both grounding and uplifting.  The one thing I read over and over again is how people are most themselves when writing in their corners of the world.  No one to impress.  No one to hide from.  Just pure being.

As for the original question – why do I sober blog?

Because it’s in my path right now.  It’s what I need to be doing right now.  It’s what I feel guided and navigated towards.  I blog because I need to communicate and transmit what I have found in recovery and in my journey.  Not in a righteous way, but in the spirit of giving back.  And in giving back and working with others, it helps me as well.  It’s a win-win situation.  I know that we all have different ways of approaching recovery.  Some are AA, some aren’t, some come at it in a more spiritual way, others in a more intellectual way, some through support and encouragement.  What is remarkable is the respect that everyone has for each other’s path.  The commonality is the disease of alcoholism and the effects it has on us.  The communal thread is where we are now with things, and how are we improving ourselves.  The idea of reaching out to someone on the other side of the planet, or even across the street, is fundamental to our growth, as recovering alcoholics (and addicts) and as fallible, yet strong human beings.    We bring joy, enthusiasm, experience, love, compassion and serenity to the table, share it with others, and pray that they take some of it home in a doggie bag.  We bring hope.

And that’s what it boils down to – hope.  Where there is hope, there is a chance.  There is room for change.  There is a place to recover and be the best people we were created to be.

Hope trumps all.