June's Bar

I don’t think I've ever really knew how much we loved each other. Everything I loved about June W. was everything I lacked: family, stability, credit, home, friends and pets. I just watched “Crazy Heart” with Jeff “The Dude” Bridges and saw myself in every scene. Especially when he did a face-plant on the bed just before telling his friend he’s done drinking.

I wish I could say that I’m done drinking after watching that movie, but I am writing this drunk.

June did everything for me. She made me so happy. The only thing that she didn’t do was the only thing she couldn’t do: give me a child. (That is another story.)

But I’ve learned something about her being away from her. She really missed her drinking partner. As much as she tried to handle the end of our marriage with me trying desperately to stay sober, she could not be happy with a sober husband. She needed someone who could drink with her.

The more we’d learned about each other, the less honest we’d become. We both created our own set of denial: mine not accepting being an alcoholic and her’s not being married to one. She became the ultimate denial supporter.

She didn’t want to admit that she married an alcoholic, even though she saw all of the signs beforehand. She wanted to present a stable drinker to her Wisconsin heavy drinking family. It’s like she almost had something to prove. She had finally met a man that can hold a job and drink at the same time.

Once it became one or the other, she no longer was interested in me. June had fallen out of love. Her best friend could no longer drink with her.

So, what did she do? She divorced me and built a bar, in the living room (well, just off it.)

I have never loved anyone in my life more than her, June. And I can’t get over her. I told her that I will always change. I changed into a sober man. She became disinterested. I turned to the bottle. I really didn’t know where else to go. I still don’t.

Her family saw how crazy we were for each other. I fell in love with them; they’re good people. I don’t have much in the way of family. I miss family. I really don’t have any now.

And I loved June like no other man has loved a woman. When we were together, it was like glue. Just being in the same bed made me stroke her legs with mine, rub her aching muscles, pop in her dislocated spinal vertebrae. June was the kind of woman that would take time in a morning shower for a personal scrub down, no matter what her schedule.
She liked the way I took care of things in the morning, like setting the Boss for random jazz music as an alarm clock, making the coffee, feeding the cats and clearing their box; that simple stuff. I always made sure she had a good start for the day.
She loved when I sang to her in Spanish, barely naked.

I miss doing that.

We’re all getting older. That kind of fun probably wont ever happen for us.

But, she meant a change for us. At that time, we needed it. We were cheaters.

Being married meant we’d bean done with cheating, or so we thought.

This is not the kind of relationship you want to describe to your family.

This is the kind of bar that her family dreamed of, in-house, laminate, sweet lighting, European in nature, but Wisconsin in root. Thankfully she created more of the former than the latter.

It was supposed to be a place that you can just come in, play dice, talk local, bitch about work, that type of vent. That’s all she wanted. Nothing worse.

Photos were collected, and posted. She’d married a photographer, yet she never posted photos of him. She only posted photos of friends that were more drunk than her. I noticed that. It was tasteful, as tasteful as party can be. But, thought was there.

June W. is not the ultimate party girl. She’s holding out; for someone. Not me, that’s for sure. We’ve done that dance.

I love June. I will always love her. I can tell you in detail why I will always love June, but that is not important to her nor I, nor anyone else. I just know that I must let that love lie and die. If you’re a drunk, you’d know why.


Sincerely Yours,


-- Without Wax

My Friend, Alcohol

Bug's eye of Antelope Canyon
Originally uploaded by theavonne

I really must describe my relationship with alcohol, at this time in my life. But first, must say something about this beautiful photograph of Antelope Canyon taken by Paul Rutowski. I was searching for a photograph that would visually describe the post I am about to pen, and although it has nothing to do with alcohol, I felt the need to share this awesome work of art. However, I could make a case for it:

This image describes the rift alcohol builds between the success of my life and the need to escape the reality of the lack there of.

How was that? Pretty lame, I know. Sounds like a drunk wrote it. Anyway, it’s good to know there are beautiful places like that on Earth.

Onto the subject at hand. Alcohol does for me what nothing else in my life right now can do: It relieves my anxiety. It can stop me from thinking about every problem I have in my life; although most of them can be attributed to alcohol. Today, I don’t feel the need to drink, to get drunk. But, because I know that won’t always be the case, I have chosen this particular GRH housing facility, the Hunting Hotel. And I’m going to be sincerely honest about this. The rule is that if you choose to drink and stay here, you will be kicked out. However, you don’t have to stay here every night. Bing! The light bulb illuminates.

There’s nothing to say that I must stay sober to live here. Because of this, I don’t feel pressured to stay sober. That is one major monkey off my back. When you’re surrounded by residents, staff, security guards, priests, AA members, doctors, and volunteers all praying, inquiring, prodding, and asking how many sober days you have, it’s enough to drive a man to cocktails. These people don’t feel the need to be casual about inquiring into your current relationship with alcohol; they feel it is their right. They feel the need to twelfth-step you to death, in the name of their own recovery.

You wanna help? Help me with the thirteenth step. I haven’t gotten laid in so long, my right hand is growing blisters.

At the Hunting Hotel, if you choose to drink, don’t come home. It’s as simple as that. I don’t have to come home every night, just once every 18 days. If I do get drunk, there are several places in downtown Minneapolis I can go. There’s the Tramp Pad downtown I can crash for the evening, or the detox facility if I need several days to sober up. I can even rent a hotel room, if I save up enough cash. The place I cannot go when drunk is home. (I never had this option when married to June W.; more on that in another post.) I can leave all my property at home – my wallet, backpack, anything of value – grab a few bucks for booze and a bus token, and I don’t have to worry about loosing my shirt when I inevitably black out from too much fun.

I’d like to elaborate on this part of leaving everything at home. When you’re homeless, you have very little in the way of storage choices. Most of what you value is on your back. Getting plastered risks all you own, yet we drunks still risk it. I have lost so much property from these drunken binges.

Once, I blacked out and ended up in Indian detox facility. When they took my property, they put my valuables – wallet, ID, social security card, Palm Pilot, cell phone, MP3 player, bus cards, money, etc. – in a little Tupperware container. Before they could store it in their safe, another drunk walk by and stole it. It happens all the time, from what the director has told me. I was devastated. Not having ID and social security card makes it impossible to get a job, amongst other things. Not having a home means you can’t just have them mail you a new ID either. But loosing my organizer was the worst. The Palm Pilot had my entire life in it (it’s like a smart phone without the phone). It had all my contacts, documents, financials, notes, appointments, applications, etc. The financial compensation I received from Indian detox was not nearly enough for me to replace all that was lost. It was yet another reason to drink, hard.

Let me make myself crystal clear about something. My history of loss in my life (friends, wives, jobs, property, reputation, etc.) has never been a major deterrent to drinking. Alcohol does for me something that at times I feel I need: relief from anxiety. I don’t have a friend in the world that can do that for me. My ex-wife, June W., used to, but she changed after marriage.

I don’t mind that it’s a one-way relationship. I buy my friend, alcohol. I let her in. She changes my outlook on life and I calm down. I stop worrying about everything I should be doing right now, which is everything. She says, “Don’t worry about everything at once, because you can’t solves most of them today anyway. Let me in and you can become that other person.” By the next morning, the other person usually finds a way to screw up another part of my life. But again, I now don’t have to worry about it so much.

Hunting Hotel does not require you to be part of Alcoholics Anonymous nor attend meetings. Some meetings have gone bad for me and have attributed to yet another relapse, from time to time. I’m no longer in treatment and am off paper (I’ve completed my DUI probation), so I have no AA meeting requirements. They do require you do drop on request (take a drug piss test and breathalyzer). I don’t do drugs, so that’s not an issue.

Mandatory AA meetings can be a burden to a recovering alcoholic, like myself. If you’re there because you want to be there, it’s not so obvious. But if you bring an AA card, everyone knows you’re required to be there, and you’re treated differently. They call it ‘court ordered’, but it’s not always. You could be in treatment for alcohol and/or drugs that requires a signed AA card. AAs have strong opinions about treatment vs. Alcoholics Anonymous, and they let you know that. And some AAs fairly new in the program like to compare their progress to yours, like it’s going to help the newcomer. It’s my experience that people like that wont stop that behavior until their first relapse. It’s only afterwards, when you see that sincere humility on their face, that you can sense that they know the meaning of the word ‘progress’. Again, more pressure.

There are times when the last thing I need is an AA meeting. I definitely have too much resentment against the folks at the Sober Barn to return there anytime sooner than I’m ready. I know of predictably healthy meetings, one of which in uptown I think I’ll attend tonight. One thing I really do not want to do is talk about how many fucking days I have sober. The next person who asks will get the living shit choked out of them...in a verbal way. No, seriously; I need to think of a clever misdirecting comeback to that question. I know, “The day after tomorrow, I will have two more days sober than I do today. How many will you have?”

If it becomes so fucking important that I must get drunk, I’ll simply head home beforehand and drop off anything of value, except what needed for the night, and head out. It is because I have this option that I don’t feel the need to drink alcohol today.


-- Without Wax

April Fool's Abdicate

Her legs, high heels, petticoat, car.
Originally uploaded by Sugarbarre2

I've been sober one week. Yes, my first day of sobriety was on April Fool's day. No joke. Why the legs? They're attractive. Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason for the photos I choose.

I've found a home at the Hunting Hotel. It's a GRH place, which is really a county funded program that let's sober people stay through GA funding in exchange for your food stamps. They feed you three meals a day, but the food really sucks. It's tasteless, non-diabetic-friendly, sugar-enriched, carbohydrated trough slop! I have to bring Lawry's and hot sauce just to choke it down. I eat anywhere else, when I get a chance. For example, I'll end up some nights over at Bart's Crib, where I'm always welcomed, and eat dinner there.

The week leading up to my last day of sobriety pretty much sucked. I had ended an extended stay (nearly three months) at Bart's Crib and had to stay at another shelter near the Rat House. Things were not looking up for me, so I hit the bottle as often as I could.

I was eventually kicked out of Sober Barn for arriving one morning reeking of booze. They locked up my computer and banned me from their computer lab, the one I setup. Talk about Fourth Step amendment. So right now I've got only library access to the Internet. I'll get my computer back soon, but in my own room. However, I refuse to work on their website anymore. Good luck trying to find someone willing to do the work for free, taking orders from a cranky, sober, technophobe.

I think I'm going to create my own website...you know, just to play around with. On other things technical:

My iPad review is not very supportive. It appears that Apple's iPad is as limiting as their iPhone. So, like the iPhone, it will only run Apple approved applications. Apple is taking the opposite approach to Google in that they're not supporting open source application development. This is the same tack that they took back in the 1980s when IBM made their hardware open and the Mac was closed.

It does not support Adobe Flash. Most ads are implemented in Flash, but so is a lot of content. None of the popular Facebook applications (like Farmville and Bejeweled) will run. And the entire content on sites like Disney, Hulu, and Miniclip will be excluded. It runs the iPhone OS, not OS X, so it's not multitasking. You can't listen to Pandora in the background. No 3G network, yet (so, no GPS). It uses a Built-in battery. What were they thinking? (Haven't they learned from the MacBook Air.) They could've cleaned-up on huge replaceable battery sales. Websites that support iPhone will serve up those pages to the iPad. This can be annoying when they've got tiny menus with all that screen real-estate. It is difficult to type an entire document on. No Skype. No camera. No decent chat client. From what I understand, it's a poor replacement for a PC, no matter what your use is.

It does support eBooks on Amazon.com, in color no less.

My review was inspired by CmdrTaco's review, someone who's actually bought one.

Thought for the day:
Should there be mandatory term limits for book critics?



-- Without Wax

Light Rail Ticket Again

Pinhole Light Rail
Originally uploaded by mjwessty

Light rail update: I was finally ticketed this morning; well, Clark was ticketed. Although my strategy worked, I don't think this will become a habit for me. I've been sited twice in so many days. Never before have I even been approached.

I attribute this to the new Target Twin Stadium. They must be upping the security, since there is absolutely no tail-gating parking available to Twins fans. They, for the most part, use manciple parking ramps if they want to drive downtown at all. That is not at all advisable, nor desired, as far as the city concerned. They want fans to partake in the downtown experience. They've even made the food more attractive. Dome dogs have gone the way of the dodo bird, replaced by local bratwurst. In fact, everything is local. There is a push for all food local. It sounds pretty cool. But when you leave the stadium, they want you to visit local clubs downtown. So, I can see the need to clean up the light rail.

This ticket was written out to my alias. Since I did not place my wallet in my pocket, I, again, had no fear of giving an alias. The officer was much more polite, checked my pockets for ID, found none, then told me he wouldn't be taking me downtown, where they most certainly would've found my wallet and ID. When he gave me the ticket, he told me to present it to any officer asking for my rail ticket. Again, I bought a ticket for my ride back from the airport. I'm getting tired of this cat-and-mouse game. I don't think I'm going to do it again.

Interesting thing though: The violation was named “Face Evasion”. Go figure.



– Without Wax

How to Avoid a Light Rail Ticket

Light Rail Train in Downtown Minneapolis
Originally uploaded by ssphotos2009

How to Avoid a Light Rail Ticket

I had been drinking the night before and was sipping off the hair-of-the-dog on the light rail this morning, killing time and takin' naps, when two police officers approach me asking for proof of fare. I hadn't drank in two months. Thankfully, I'd thought ahead and did not pocket my wallet. I'd been warned about the $180 fine, but thought little of it in my inebriated state.

One officer questioned me while the other stood in the isle to block my escape, which I thought was amusing. Where was I going to go? There are no handles on a speeding train. To the best of my knowledge, the conversation went something like this:

The officer woke me with, “May I see your ticket?”
“Sure,” I said while I fumbled for the non-existent boarding pass. “I'm sorry, I must have dropped it.”
“May I see your Minnesota ID please?,” He asked.
“I'm sorry. My wallet was just stolen,” I replied, not far from the truth. It was stolen months ago, and I'd just gotten my ID back, but I wasn't going to show them that.
“What's your name?,” he asked.
I've never given a police officer an alias before, and always wondered what path this would lead me down. I had one ready, “Brad Clark.”
“What's your middle name?,” he quickly asked.
Off the top of my head, I used my dad's middle name, “Joseph”.
He phoned in my name. “You know there's a fine for riding the rail without a ticket.”
I nodded, “I know. I must've dropped it,” I repeated.
“Where did you purchase it?”
“Mall of America.”
“Where do you live?”
“Homeless,” I mumbled.
“...No Brad Joseph Clark on file,” the radio squawked.
“We don't have you on file, sir,” the officer stated.
“I just moved here,” I replied.
“From where?”
“California.”
“How long ago?”
“About a month ago.”
He rolled his eyes, then called to stop the train. “Step out!” Officer two stepped aside to let me pass.
I got up and stepped out of the train.
Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “Don't get back on this train!”
“Yes sir,” I said withholding my inner-smirk.
They left me within walking distance of where I wanted to go, but didn't really want to walk. I had an errand to do, so I took a look at the fare machine and said, “Why not?” I bought a ticket and got back on the train. What was he going to do?
If he would have arrested me, I would've replied, “Oh good, three hots and a cot.” I think he knew that. If he had, however, I'm sure he'd have search my backpack and found my wallet and ID. I plaid the homeless poker bluff.
But, I really wonder why he didn't give me a ticket in my alias?


-- Without Wax

Alright, I Drank.

Alright, I drank.

Disposable dispare
Originally uploaded by oliver|PHOTO™

I feel like pulling my hair out.

It was intense. My donation experience was not nearly as expected. I became permanently deferred; Permanent Refused, PRed. The reason was I attempted to donated at another facility.

I will update you on all this…later.

I have to go.


-- Without Wax

Did The Wrong Thing

Day 55
Originally uploaded by EBacayo

Yup, I did the wrong thing. No excuse. I found the money and I bought a fifth of whiskey, and drank it last night.

I talked to my sponsy brother. I think he knew I was high (he knows me).

I bought a fifth of whiskey, sipped a bit of it, then came back to the Sober Barn.

I’ll let you know how it goes.


-- Without Wax

Drowning

drowning.
Originally uploaded by ~lady j.

I always wonder, due to my constant relapses, if anyone reading this blog wonders if I’ve died. I should be respectful and update it more often. I’ve been a bad boy lately.

I am ten day sober; had my last drink February 11, 2010. To be sincerely honest, it’s not for any other reason than City Plasma was closed down last week for their kiosk upgrade; lack of funds. While closed, no other donation center can sign up new donors, since they cannot verify any one's last donation. Suburb Plasma has a two week waiting period for initial appointments. I made one, but I’ll cancel it now that they’re only paying $50 per week instead of City Plasma’s $55. I should really shop around for other plasma donation centers. I will donate tomorrow at City Plasma and receive a whopping $20.

I don’t know if I want to blow half of that on a fifth of whiskey or not. I haven’t called my sponsor in weeks. Everyday I’ve had the urge to get drunk over this last week. I could’ve borrowed the money and gotten drunk, but I didn’t. After I got caught trying to hide in the Sober Barn during closing time, I thought they’d never let me back in again. I snuck in the first few times, and then they just let me stay after that.

So, what is the Sober Barn? It’s the place I spend my mornings, surf the Internet, play online poker, and develop their Web site. I use open source technologies to develop their Web site: Apache, MySQL, PHP, Eclipse, XDebug, Joomla, Ubuntu Linux, VirtualBox, HipHop for PHP, C++, and Java.

I’ve moved Darkness (my ten-year-old Pentium 4 desktop computer) to the computer lab I’ve setup for them. In this small lab, I’ve setup three other similar computers on a wired network, but also with WiFi, shared printer, and firewall. With little money I make here and there, I’ve upgraded Darkness’s CPU from 2.0 to 2.66 GHz, 80GB hard drive to 400GB, and installed a DVD-RW optical drive. It’s my legacy development machine with dual-boot Windows XP Pro and Ubuntu 9.10 Linux. Now, if I can only scrounge up two PC100 512MB DIMMs from an old server, I could double his system memory to 2GB (his motherboard’s limit). That will help me run Ubuntu Linux in a VirualBox within Windows XP.

Regarding the load of geekdome you’ve just read: it’s the only thing that is keeping me sober right now. This is a subject I really should devote to an entire post, but most of the above technology I have learned, or relearned, in the last three months. I’ve been in self-teaching mode.

I’ve been Homeless and jobless for one year. I’ve been living in downtown shelters since being kicked out of Rat House in October. I’ve discovered the Sober Barn and have been hanging out there days.

Lost yet another camera…really miss having a camera; I mean a really love photography. These point-and-shoot cameras, though, are really starting to annoy me with their utter lack of image control. I’ve fallen in love with several cameras, but if I had the means, I’d buy the Canon EOS 5D Mark II digital SLR. Besides being able to take stills at 21 mega pixels, it can shoot 1080p HD video at 30 fps! With a two hour battery life, you could make your own professional HD movie. At $2700, it’s one tenth the cost of an industry HD video camera without the excellent still camera lenses. It is truly innovative.

Which brings me to the featured photograph: I feel like I’m drowning most days…Which leads me to drowning my sorrows in whiskey.


-- Without Wax

30th Day "age will not worry them"

Jan 30th "age will not worry them"
Originally uploaded by Neener1

I'm coming up on 30 days sober, my first whole month of sobriety without treatment. I'll have a post for my first month of sobriety this weekend.



Sincerely Yours,



-- Without Wax

Lack of Care

Originally uploaded by Ruben Silva

There is no pure solution to addiction. I am addicted to alcohol at this time. I’ve seen friends successfully abstain from substances only to find another, albeit much less destructive habit, that possessed their lifestyle. Some have changed their way of thinking for life, some have made A.A. their life. None have ever become normal again.

Neural pathways are like that. You get into a habit that rewards you and if you don’t have any other reason, you just go for it! You just keep doing it.

This other reason may be religious upbringing or pure discipline initially. Some people notice their character defect and put up, what I would call barriers, but for lack of sense, we drink. These other people are called ‘normies’.

I searched the Internet to find an A.A. definition that I could link to and found nothing that could really define what I thought was a proper description of a normie.

normie: a person who can feel the need to stop drinking (or using) because of some fear of loosing complete control.

Loosing control, for a normie is what they seek, but in a limited way. Okay, this is in a point of view from an addict like me: Normies have this fear zone which allows them to not go past any given point, even if they are inebriated. When they loose control, they want some kind of social acceptance that it is Okay. A boyfriend, group of peers, or strangers at a bar may cokes them into acceptance.

After that, if a person does not have a disciplined set of values to fall back on, he/she may resort to what feels best. Guys like me seek out women that have those values. It’s a standard A.A. trait. It’s in the Big Book, somewhere. Often, alcoholic men find wonderful women (like I did with June W.) that adore them. I mean, she doesn’t adore me anymore.

I feel June W. did have that required set of values. She grew up surrounded by a the constant pluses and minus of desire and success. She learned what worked, but most importantly, she learned what failed. She learned how to avoid that.

That, is what kept her from becoming an addict.

She had every temptation available and yet she deflected it. She had good upbringing. That’s why guys like me seek out women like her because we lack family values. In learning that we don’t, we often build these extended families.

In my case, it didn’t work. I may be the extreme when it comes to taking things to their limits. June learned that – eventually; too late for her.

I say that because I knew her when she was at her prime. She was so excited about the world like no one to put her down. She’s almost always been like that. She explained to me one time when she lost a job for the first time in her life and she was devastated. Her husband at the time had to console her.

I’m different. I’ve had many failures and have learned from them early in life. Those lessons have been important. I find any failure as the most important, even valuable lesson one can ever have. If it happens at a company, it is their value. You now have an employee that may never make that valuable mistake again…or at least that’s the way I see it.

To June, any mistake is a complete failure that requires Catholic pendants.

I talk about June now because I’ve found I need her. And yet, I’ve screwed her.

I did a bad thing. I stayed sober for five months, then asked a favor. I was close to getting a job and needed to be prepared. I asked for some money, in credit, and she gave it to me, in cash. I saw it in alcohol. The math went into effect immediately. It was the exact opposite of what I wanted to do with her money and what I wanted to happen to my life. I translated the cash she gave me into the number of bottles of whiskey I could buy.

I asked her for credit to get my life back going…iron, ironing board, toiletries, etc. I asked for a way for me to created a line of credit, through her. She didn’t understand. I wanted a legitimate line of credit. But, it was much simpler for her to just advance me $120.00 in cash and avoid the entire shopping spree for her embarrassing homeless ex-husband.

I did the terrible thing of using these funds to buy alcohol and get kicked out of my housing. I told June. She responded:

“Nice job…I see what [you] did with money you FUCKER…don’t call or email me ever again!!! Have a great life!!!!!1”

There is no way out of that type of apology. She enabled me and I drank it. I don’t believe I’ll ever hear from June again.

This is what we do. We loose friends, lovers, co-workers, all because we can’t get over the fact that we sometimes have no one other than the bottle to go to when we are sad. Once those neural pathways are established, we’re screwed. It will take the next lifetime to erased them, and if there are any loved ones left around, it may be possible for them to have a normal live.

But for me, I’ve had none. June was it, and she’s found another ‘normal’ life. I don’t blame her. She deserves it after being with me.

There’s no way out after you’ve become alcoholic. You’re screwed.



-- Without Wax

Recession Alcoholism

Good Kisser.
Originally uploaded by Jazmin Million

Wax (myself) has to keep reminding himself that he knows nothing when it comes to recovery. This borrowed picture is not strange to him since he’d called his sponsor for a ride to detox. He sees this daily, he does. It is mostly the black community that causes this unseemly publicly visual display, but I can’t image it to be any more easily comfortable.

I say this after an addict meeting that pissed me off! Thirty black guys and two whites, me one of them. The question was posed by a black woman about domestic violence. I could not relate with what every fucking black man used as excuses for, well, a whole list of things that would make a woman feel endangered at home. The most sickening thing is that, after all that, what I would have expected as the realistic response from what I would think is a good start to a training exercise, the black woman mostly responded with, "I understand." I understand why a black woman should allow a black man to slap her into submission. Maybe that is the way blacks do it, but it is wrong in any race. The female black instructor let it go, because there were 30 black guys to two whites...or maybe there was another reason I do not understand.

Actually, there is no reason, regardless of race, for a man to hit a woman...blacks are no exception. The fact that this black woman glossed over it because she simply understands 98% of the guys in the room by race is unacceptable.

It was like they made excuses for why a woman would make them feel the need to slap them. This group was sponsored by a black woman. And I would think that she would step up and state why this is wrong…but she didn’t. She did nothing. We closed with the serenity prayer...an afront to it.

Look, I don’t know, and I don’t pretend to know, what it must be like to be violated in the most passionate of encounters, but I can understand how it can be misconstrued.

In other words: I have wanted it so badly, I didn’t think of her.

But, I have to say, going to meetings with these black people makes me feel that there is a lower life form…and they want to descend to it.

Joy

Joy of Death cold
Originally uploaded by candy rudolf

Joy

Gillian’s idea of venting anger in a healthy way has us all perplexed, wondering if the next thing any of us do will be interpreted as stepping out of line. We’ve all just been chastised by her for not taking morning meditation seriously. Guys are complaining, not commenting afterwards on how it affects them, not choosing to read at all, leaving a number of books abandoned. When Gillian gives you that scowl, you know not to get on her bad side.

Gillian D. is a talk black woman from Kentucky. Sporting grandma glasses and a low-maintenance afro, she’s here on this weekend to do one thing: get us motivated. She is wise and kind beyond imagination, but this morning she is definitely not the latter. An African American grandmother is the toughest soul.

She splits us up in three groups of three, gives us each a daily meditation book from her private library, then asks us to read it and, “…I’ll be back.” After the chastising we’d all received, there’re no protests. Arriving back, she demands, “Now each of you write your interpretation of the reading. You have 20 minutes.” She disappears again.

When she reappears, she orders us to sit in a circle, collects all our papers, and distributes them to others to read as if they were the author. That last bit is a little odd to contemplate, but again, we’re all walking on egg shells, so no one protests. When we read each of each other’s letters we are role-playing. She calls on us by the author’s name and asks us to then interpret what each letter meant to us.

Dustin V. reads my letter on Joy:

“When one full of joy enters a room, some is bound to spill out. It’s contagious. When joy comes through you, it’s shared with others. If you wake with joy in your heart, just for that day, expectations will not become resentments. People in hatred will not overcome you, and may be affected by your attitude in a positive way.”

“Joy is also a way of seeing things, not filtered through rose colored glasses, but seeing the positive in some event that would normally appear negative. Yet another learning opportunity is at hand.”

“Joy can make all the difference.”

His verbal interpretation, even through the tears, gives a positive spin on the hell he’s endured over the last week. Dustin’s mother, grandmother, half-sister and her husband all died in an unfortunate car accident 1500 miles away in California. Dustin himself is mentally challenged, speaks in a monotone voice, and generally has a difficult time making friends. This on top of the challenge we all face here at The Station with addiction. Four days after the accident, his sister with three years sobriety ODs on heroin over the trauma.

What he said blew me away, “This was exactly what I needed to read today.” Those letters were distributed at random.

I learned at last night’s meeting that Neil S., who just received his one year medallion, had too lost his sister. She’d just got back from the hospital where she’d recovered from a drug induced coma. She then settled down with her drug of choice to unwind. The crack she smoked caused her heart to explode. “It’s never enough until your heart stops beating.”

I have 85 days sober today.



-- Without Wax

Balance

Free Child Walking

on White Round Spheres

Balance Creative Commons
Originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography

The disc continues to skip as a frustrated Manny presses the eject button on the DVD player. “I know what the problem is.”

I’m sure you do.

“It’s the alignment of the seek heads of this player, not the reading heads. See the seek heads are responsible for finding the correct track for the read heads so…,” he continues his seemingly endless rapid-monotone explanation of basic laser media mechanics. “…I’m not sure if it’s these scratches on the disk or the fact that this player gets beaten up so often,” this 5’ 1” skinny middle-aged man continues. I don’t dare interrupt his ramble for fear of throwing him off concentration of his desperate task at hand.

“Peanut butter smeared on a scratched DVD or CD can mend it…” How I’d like to smear peanut butter on your tongue right now. “…But I think replacing the DVD player would be smarter since they’re only $30 and the cafeteria only has chunky peanut butter, not smooth. Those digital artifacts are the cause of…”

Just fix the bloody thing in silence, please! If you hadn’t just had a UA, I’d swear you’re on something.

Manny P. is perfect a example of the need for balance in ones life. He’s a reminder of how difficult it is for me. For all his faults, we are talking about a man who has achieved three months of sobriety, earned a scholarship to Dunwoody Technical School, and found housing. From the look at him with his receding hairline and mustache, you’d assume he’s just a normal, white, everyday rational man. It’s only once he speaks that the illusion is shattered and the fear of an endless one-sided conversation occurs.

It frightens me to think of how tortured his mind must be to function in this manner. He is doing the one thing he knows will keep him safe, productive, and sober. He also believes that God will do for him what he cannot do for himself. But Heaven help him if he ever encounters an obstacle in the road that gives him an excuse to use.

A balanced life has harmony between a professional life and a personal life. Before I moved my life to be with June W. (my ex-wife), I worked hard twelve-hour days, yet had no personal life. Once moving in with June, my life with her was my addiction and work took a back seat. Once my work began to suffer, the excuse to drink about it became so compelling it soured every other important thing in my life.

Alcohol brought everything down to a level where nothing was in balance. There were times I had to climb mountains at work. There were times I didn’t recognize the extra energy needed to put into my relationship. Eventually, alcohol was the only thing I was doing well. If that doesn’t make sense to you, it’s probably because you’re not an alcoholic.

I have a need for a balanced life that takes into account friends, work, love, family, play, private time, recovery time, and spiritual time. Anyone of these things ignored for long enough could go dormant, just as any one these things obsessed over will suffer exhaustion. It is also noted that normal people, like June, can add liquor to that list with no detrimental consequences.

Alcohol in my system will always unbalance me. Now that I’m 78 days sober, I’ve come to realize these things about myself and balance: I have no inner voice to guide my balancing, I must learn how to live a balanced life, that this inherit character defect is not something normal people endure and that I will constantly have to monitor this for the rest of my life. Laying it out in the open like that doesn’t seem so daunting a task, just as long as I am willing to work on it.

For myself, recovery is like returning home from exile. I eagerly dive into the task of putting my life back together – securing a job and place to live, paying off debts, restore my driver’s license, rebuild damaged relationships. These external needs are all important, but the strength to consistently follow through on them comes from my spirituality – my relationship with God. By taking time each day to acknowledge His presence and to ask for the Power to do His will, I find a new sense of balance. And with balance comes serenity.

Diabetes is one of those things that can throw ones diet out of balance. It’s an ironic thing to have your body crave sugar when it needs it the least. Yet, since I’ve never really had the instinct to eat a balanced diet, my newly acquired eating requirements does balance out in a beneficial way; I’m loosing weight at least.

“Today, I will examine my life to see if the scales have swung too far in any area, or not far enough in some. I will work toward achieving balance.”
-- prayer from The Language of Letting Go, April 30

Manny acquires some smooth-spread Skippy peanut butter, applies it to the disc, and it plays flawlessly. For most people, the relief of completing such a challenging task successfully would follow solace. However unfortunately for Manny, it only leads to his next segway into yet another one-sided discussion on how “…the next generation of DVD players uses a much shorter wave-length laser light, blue rather than red, to read even finer detail pits from the disc; hence the trademark, Blue-ray.”

I nod in understanding. I didn’t have to heart to tell him that Sony does not have an exclusive on the usage of blue lasers on media, that Toshiba also uses them for their HD DVD players.

In conclusion, empathizing with Manny causes me to think like him, if not for a bit. My use of the slang term segway to describe his imbalance and the description of the financially unsuccessful personal transport vehicle Segway is ironically humorous: a self-balancing personal transportation device.



-- Without Wax

Other Shoe Dropped

29/366 diabetes sucks!!!!
Originally uploaded by km928602

Being just 75 days sober, in a safe place with three squares and serenity, you’d think I’d be content, but I’m not…I’m never content.

I had been monitoring my diabetes for the last year and I thought I had it in check – until last week. My distant vision became blurry. Since I have perfect vision (20/15, meaning I can see at 20 feet what normal people can only see at 15 feet), this was of major concern. I immediately suspected diabetes, but was either in denial or too depressed to care. However, when I spoke with my primary care physician, he wanted to see me the same day. Without a baseline blood sugar, he started me on metformin and sent me home with a glucometer.

Within five days my eyesight was back to perfect. The diet is bland though: no sugars, limit starchy foods, avoid fats. Comfort foods, basically. All the things I was told to do when I was pre-diabetic to avoid full-blown diabetes. I must exercise, loose weight, and eat less. They’ve since doubled my medication dosage and it is reducing my blood sugar to a reasonable level.

I’m now dealing with both alcoholism and diabetes, caused by the alcoholism. I’m making a lot of support calls to my sponsor and A.A.s, and it seems to help.

Right now, I’m in treatment at Signal Station (or just The Station). It’s the right place for me right now. I told my PO I relapsed and she said she wouldn’t violate me. I’ve got until September when I’m released from probation anyway.

I’ll try to update this blog more often now that I have more freedom to leave and come back.


-- Without Wax

Work vs. Sobriety

Work vs. Sobriety

First off: I built this blog with the intent of showing how one man can stay sober. That was the original intent. Now I have realized that I should document my failed attempts, however drunk I am. I always wished that these posts would be sober, but from now on, they may not be. But, I will always let you know.

Currently, I’m drunk.

I have learned, from many sources, that I am what is called a “functional drunk”. No matter how many methods I’ve used to become sober, I cannot escape the fact that I want to get altered every once in a while.

I’ve found a good job. I can keep it or loose it based on my drinking. It doesn’t pay well, but I know it won’t falter in this economy.

This job is different from others in that I no longer have to pretend that I’m a ‘sober guy’. I don’t need to use the guise of AA for better or worse. It works both ways. If you stay sober, go to meetings, work the program, then no one knows that you really are an alcoholic. Once they know, all bets are off. Well, all bets are off. I have one of the most understanding supervisor that I’ve ever had. She’s seen me through detox and still kept me on. We are restructuring and I’m still there.

And I have drank at work even after all that. Slurred words on digital audio recording noticed my indecision. This hurts because some of the leads that train us notice my drunken nice. Is that a habit of chaos or what?

My sponsor, Stewart L., a very good guy, has been pushing me towards the 4th step. I’ve stolled. However, each and every resentment I’ve documented has caused me to stop any progress. And I don’t even know if taking the firth step is going to accomplish anything.

I still need to work.

I should not drink.

Reviewing all my past moral failures is not helping my current financial situation.

Photos were taken by me at the RedEye during "The Balcomy" performance.

I’m still held up in a hotel.

New Empty

A wounded heart is, frankly, damaging; figuratively and physically. Put it this way: If you move you’re life to live with someone, it moves their life and body in ways you can only be known if you are 100 years old. If you think you can out think the matrix of relationships, you could earn a Nobel prize, yet be completely wrong.

The fact is that…that…that; I’m too drunk to continue.

Too much time

Big Empty

I’m half the man I used to be.

Missing Comments

I really miss the comments.
I'll try to post more often.

Without Wax,

Employed, At Last!

With all the promises that have been fulfilled in sobriety moments before calamity, you’d think Wax had grown accustomed to it…and he has. But one week before leaving his transitional house, The House? Still he’s grown to expect the unexpected.
          For four months he’s been searching for a job, first in his chosen profession, then later, any sober job. What he landed is a compromise: Call Center Representative for a major local bank, FastBank.
          He was a little hesitant to apply, seeing that he still owns them some money, and even more surprised when they made an offer. They’ll end up with an amends.
          Two interviews was all that it took; first with Human Resources, then an hour long one with his boss. The HR interview reminded his of the standard corporate questions he’d been asked at The Department Store, with the typical disgruntled customer situations. The last interview went extremely well.
          Meeting in her cubical, Emily C. started the interview apologizing for everything from the meeting room being occupied, to her first time interviewing candidates; yes that’s right. It turns out that FastBank is trying out a new method of interviewing: having the actual boss conduct the interview. They’re just switching from a system where HR would handle all contact with new employees all the way through to the middle of training. Then boss meets employee, and if you weren’t a fit? Can you say, ‘square peg in round hole’?
          Well, that wasn’t a problem at all for Wax and Emily; they got along like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The communication was excellent, understanding similar situation they’ve experienced, and completing each other’s sentences. The only problem was that of sexual tension. Emily’s full-figured body, pouting lips, and succulent brown eyes may be an issue for Wax; something he’ll have to keep in check. After all, it’s not politically correct today to have an affair with your boss, even if she is female.
          An hour commute is an issue. Mannish House, the sober house he’s planning on moving into this weekend is in the other city. He’ll be working downtown, so bussing isn’t an issue. In fact, his new employer discounts bus fare to $35 per month. However, because of the state’s sober recovery rules, he must move from the transitional housing to a sober house. His chosen sober house isn’t on their list. If he has to choose a different one, why not move much closer to work. The only problem is he’s got ‘til this weekend to be accepted by one. The sober house he wants to move into is ideal, except for location. That is to say it’s distant from work, but he knows the area well. The advantage of living closer to work is that it’s a much more effluent neighborhood. He could find more side work as a computer repairman.
          Compensation is a little on the shy side: $10.90 per hour. His last job at The Discount Store was merely $10.76 an hour, and that’s after being promoted to manager. At his new job, he’s starting at the bottom as CCR with slightly more pay and a clear path for advancement. The job also has financial incentives for superior performance. There’s also an IT department he could slide sideway into. His new boss even questioned why he didn’t choose that and would help with the transition; she’s clearly a boss that thinks of her subordinate’s career path. His answer was intended not to prolong the employment start date: “One should walk in the shoes of the user before implementing software that solves their problems.” For the most part that is true, but he really needed this job now, and didn’t want to suffer the delay and complication of being hired by a department with much more rigorous standards. His technical history needs much more explaining and training before he’s comfortable with that transition. But dreams of making that transition at FastBank are much closer (one floor up) than with The Discount Store (one metropolis away).
          Money will be tight. With an approved sober house, the county will pay for first month’s rent and deposit. The second month’s rent will be due just as his first paycheck arrives. Until then, he’ll have to feed himself with plasma money; kind of a regenerative cycle. Most sober houses pay for utilities, cable, even Internet, as with Mannish House. So, if he hits the food shelves and uses blood money for the fresh vegetables, milk, and toiletries, he should survive until things get caught up financially. Of course, that’s not going to dissuade him from playing poker at the casino this weekend.
          Today’s photograph is of a young man waiting on a bus bench with a homemade guitar constructed of plywood. When asked if he’d built it, he replied, “No, I didn’t. I don’t know who did.”


Without Wax (speaking in the third person),

Prediabetic

The fear of becoming fully diabetic has played a major roll in Wax’s goal to stay sober and respect his body. Crossing that line between prediabetes and diabetes is just one of the consequences facing his recovery. How this plays into his immediate needs is critical too.
          Now that he’s got a new doctor that has cleared him for plasma donation, it has really helped him both financially and with his self-esteem. The story there goes that six months ago when he tried to donate at City Plasma, they deferred him for having glucose in his urine. Not knowing what that meant, and feeling overwhelmed, he turned to the bottle. Being one week sober before attempting to donate plasma wasn’t enough for his body and so he wrongly thought to punish himself by binging. City Plasma said that if he went to his doctor with their specific request for diabetes clearance, he could donate. Not having health insurance, and not wanting diabetes to become a pre-existing condition, what he should of done six months ago is what he ended up doing now.
          He discovered that there are many resources for information and testing available without having to go on record as diabetic. Urine glucose testing strips are $14 over the counter. A diabetic friend of his gave him an old glucometer and test strips to monitor his blood sugar. The hospital, where he went to treatment and was diagnosed prediabetic, trained him on how to avoid becoming diabetic with diet and exercise. Unfortunately, the same doctors would not clear him for plasma donation. They didn’t want to stake their reputation on someone who could in the future become diabetic. Because of this attitude, he avoided their recommended clinic and went with his own health care provider. With enough time for his organs to heal, proper diet, and some light exercise, he was ready to attempt another physical at City Plasma.
          He’d been donating for a month at Suburban Plasma. Although he took all the proper precautions of eating well and testing, they didn’t test him for glucose. They assumed since he’d tested negative a year earlier, there’d be no reason for him to become diabetic. Protein and iron were all they were interested in.
          When it came time to attempt donating at City Plasma, he ate a salad for breakfast, tested himself, and passed their tests with flying colors. This upset one of the older nurses who think he’s trying to put one over on them.
          The cause and effect relationship between alcohol and diabetes is unclear. I would like to revisit this subject with more reference and a clearer understand of the subject at a later time. As far as he is concerned, his alcoholism caused his prediabetes.



Without Wax,