Sincerely Sober/Without Wax I will explain later.
I have so many things spinning around in my head; I just want to get them out.
First of all, I want to thank those who have added supportive comments.
Spinning is one way of gaining control. You can spin out of control, yes. However, early in WWI flying dog-fights, pilots learned that when their plane was spiraling downward, trying to turn out of the spiral failed. But, turning into the spiral took them out of the death spiral. It's counter intuitive, like jumping into an incoming wave. Many young beginner swimmers run away from a crashing wave at a beach. But, surfers know that if you run towards the wave and dive right into the base of the wave, you'll end up popping up on the high end of the wave, just behind it...instead of getting clobbered by it.
I need to learn when it is appropriate to drink and when it is not. I blame not having parents, I really do. Dad died at 15 (my age); mom died then too. Can you image, all of the sudden, not have any parental guidance at 15? Add to that, I'd just gotten to know my dad (that's another long story). I have to become my own dad now.
Without Wax is taken from the Dan Brown novel: Digital Fortress. It is the Spanish translation of sincere. Breaking it down, cere is the Spanish word for wax. Sin is "without". Sin was translated to san; I forget how. It is close to sans serif, the type font. Serifs are those extra parts on a letter in a fonts that add style. Sans serif is technically, without extras. So, fonts like Arial, are simple, without extras. But, Without Wax means much more. It's about being honest.
Side note: Without Wax/Sincere was mentioned obscurely in Dan Brown's last novel, The Lost Symbol. Evidently, Robert Langdon (the main character in that series {The DeVinci Code}) had read an obscure reference in a 'boring novel' by some unknown author (his character's author, of course) to the connection between the word sincere and without wax. That's how he solved that pyramid puzzle; boiling the wax and all. All right, you'd have to read both novels to get it. Anyway...and by the way, you'll notice my blog predates the Lost Symbol novel, so the term Without Wax gains a little bit more notoriety.
When sculptures cut marble into beautiful works of art they sometimes make mistakes. They'd chip off a little bit more than they'd intended. Since wax was the same color as marble, they'd often cover up their flaws with wax. The end product would look exactly as expected...no one would know the difference, except the artist.
A sincere sculpture is one without wax.
In being anonymous with my telling of when I'm sober and when I'm drinking, I'm still not violating my oath to readers. I can say anything here because of that. I can be myself, yet I cannot be identified. That has it's pluses and minuses. This is my most visited website, but I can't use it to spring-board off of, because it would identify me.
I am drinking as I write this. I've planned this weekend to drink out some anger. There's nothing better than drink AT someone (yah, that'll show them).
But, I have to tell you; I initially wrote this blog as a way to write letters to June W. I really didn't even realize that until after the first year of doing so. And when she found this blog, she printed ever page of it. I'd thought that was it; she'd fallen back in love with me!
What a putz! She'd just become yet another cougar with a hot tub.
But, I like this place. I get to say anything I want, whatever comes to mind, without hurting anyone or myself (I always use aliases of real people in my life). The gossip you read is of real people, but always disconnected from their real names.
Next: How to find a woman that accepts my current life style. Either that or write a crime novel.
-- Without Wax
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
4th Step
Fourth StepAfter a week of sobriety, I thought about doing the fourth step. I can’t, I just can’t. It is too deep of a well to explore. I’ll never get out of it sane. And no fifth step will ever convince me that these regrets will magically disappear.
I know this journey is supposed to produce a better human being. And I know that I’ve been a pretty selfish being; sometimes human (well, half-human). The root of my character defects is that I am selfish. That is the one thing that June W. and I still have in common. It’s probably what attracted us to each other. I know, pretty sad.
I don’t want to be selfish any more. Yet, I have little to give. Everything is gone. I am working on the selfish flaw; I have been for the last five years. June could see that. That first time we got together after I’d been sober for nine months, I could see the feelings inside her. She was envious that I had a break from the rat-race to re-evaluate myself. I think she could see that I’d lost the lust for greed; that was something we had in common. That was a drive that took our careers in so many wrong directions.
But, she saw so many more changes in my character. She at least saw that I’d become a different person, hopefully better. I think I have become a better person over the last five years, although my bank statement would beg to differ.
I can say this for sure: I clearly know right from wrong. I know how I got into this mess. I know the steps it takes to mess up. And I know that sharing those lessons honestly with my next friend, lover, co-worker, or boss; will clearly end that relationship. That’s where the anonymous part comes in.
Remember my first wife, Alison M. She was a known alcoholic, and yet I still married her. I thought I could fix her...silly me. I should say ignorant. Because, when an enabler, like me, marries an addict, he has no idea what he’s getting himself into. What I’m talking about here is I used to be on the other side of the fence. I used to be the one surrounded by addicts. I was the social drinker. I mean I tried several drugs, but none really tripped my trigger.
Then I met Alison. It was a typical pub-crawl night where my brother, Robert J., and I would go to a club that hosted older ladies. It was called The Hop in Huntington Beach, CA, owned by the Righteous Brothers. It was late in the evening when I asked Alison to dance. She responded very suspiciously. “What, you don’t want to dance with those other young blondes?”, she said. I convinced her that I really was attracted to her. I could tell she was in a pissed mood. How much so, I’d only learn later.
That night, Alison was like a mustang I had to break, to tame...and I did. I seduced her. She drove me home. We fell into the pool. Our cloths fell off. We made hot passionate love. And when she woke up, she had a smile on her face. She was a different person than the woman I’d asked to dance the night before.
I never really understood the Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyde effect that happens with sever alcoholics; like Alison, and later, me. What I found out later, through deduction, that Alison was in her frenzy stage of drinking that night she went to the bar. When we fell into the pool (okay, I pushed her on purpose), I discovered that she was only wearing a small top and skirt; no underwear (I drew a line, in the water, up her leg to find her panties only to discover there were none; talk about arousal). She was cruising; and acting crazy.
This is what happened: Alison was pissed about something (it really doesn’t matter with us alcoholics; it’s just another excuse to drink). She got home from work, decided that the day was shot, so why not open up the red wine and indulge. She deserved it after the crap the military gave her that day (She worked for McDonald-Douglas). Then against her sober judgment, she split off wearing little, to her favorite dance bar. She probably didn’t even think about changing.
She was attracted to me when she saw me dancing with other ladies. But, at the same time, she was pissed that she wasn’t initially asked to dance. Her anger grew. When I finally got around to asking her to dance, she thought she was last-call. That’s why the angry greeting.
Back then, when I was 25, I knew; I just knew I could kick any habit. I’d already kicked a few (meth and coke). They took a toll on me. I saw in Alison a woman that I could “fix”. Engineers are all about fixing things, right? So, I agreed to fix Alison.
We got married in Las Vegas. We told no one.
As a husband, I learned early that it is very important to get home early (not to work late) to monitor her drinking habits. At that time in my career, I worked late. I worked until the problem was solved; typical engineer stuff. But, if I didn’t get home before Alison started drinking, she would switch into the Mr. Hyde mode. She’d get paranoid, hyper, angry and crazy. It would take all my effort to calm her down enough to feed her dinner. It was a stress: I must get home before she starts drinking.
And the next day, she wouldn’t remember a thing; total black out. She’d be chipper as a bird.
The funniest thing is that I never saw any of this behavior in me. I did everything that Alison did and more before I ever really got A.A. Talk about denial. And I was worse. Even when I talked about denial, I was in denial.
So, I know how people view alcoholism: in stages; stages of denial, really. No one really wants to fall in love with an alcoholic. No one wants to hire an alcoholic. And no one wants to admit that the person they fell in love with is an alcoholic. That’s why they call it anonymous.
What I’m trying to say is that no one above your sanity level will understand the depths of danger below until they’ve experienced it. But, by then, of course, it’s too late.
-- Without Wax
P.S. Has anyone figured out why I sign Without Wax?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Fiction
When a man falls in love with a woman, there is fiction involved. She thinks of him as a provider. He thinks of her has as a very small warm place to be.When this falls apart, they start to lie.
This happened with June W. and I.
She was gorgeous. I had blue eyes. We thought, we had the fiction, that we could make it together forever.
The economy proved us wrong.
She thought that my knowledge of technology would save us. I drank it to death.
Then the lies start.
I lied about the drinking and she lied about her skills.
I know how to program computers, I just don’t know what she can do.
I know my skills. I don’t know her skills. And she doesn’t want anyone else to know them.
And because she is so stupid, she’ll never really know how much I really love her. And I’m so fucking tired of loving her. I’m tired of writing about her. I wish she didn’t exist.
When she meant a lot to me, she didn’t even really realize what that meant to me.
I don’t think she really has moral value to any man anymore. I hate to say it, but it must be true.
I hate to say it, but she's not as smart as I thought she was. I must be more stupid. And I wish I had never met June W., because I've never fallen so dangerously and deeply in love ever in my life.
-- Without Wax
Saturday, July 03, 2010
No Two People
No two people want the same thing at the same time ever in life. Life is short, so we accept their differences, for a while. If you adore a feature of her for too long, it becomes a liability. And if you ever bring up a flaw, you’re dead.
This is the philosophy I’ve derived with women. You have to become careful around them. They want to be known as attractive, but not hit on; especially in the work place. They want to know that they can always fall back on human recourse when a man that she is not attracted to is hitting on her.
So, if you’re not the perfect man, you’re either celibate or a stalker. Put it this way: People that desire fun sex have a hard time hooking up. If you desire sex on a normal basis, you’ll see the opportunity everywhere around you. If that person you desire doesn’t…well then you’re in trouble.
How do you put that in check?
And then if you ever get deeply passionate, you’re sunk.
This is the philosophy I’ve derived with women. You have to become careful around them. They want to be known as attractive, but not hit on; especially in the work place. They want to know that they can always fall back on human recourse when a man that she is not attracted to is hitting on her.
So, if you’re not the perfect man, you’re either celibate or a stalker. Put it this way: People that desire fun sex have a hard time hooking up. If you desire sex on a normal basis, you’ll see the opportunity everywhere around you. If that person you desire doesn’t…well then you’re in trouble.
How do you put that in check?
And then if you ever get deeply passionate, you’re sunk.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Fear of Addiction
People fear addiction. That is the reason why no one will talk to me. I get it. I should pretend like I don’t have one. President Obama has one, but it doesn’t change other’s lives, or doesn’t have the potential to.
They fear addiction. Friends and loved ones do. They get scared…scared away. They get scared for so many reasons. Maybe because they see in you what they could be.
But then, there is the reasoning that they shouldn’t put up with that crap. With their own crap. That they should just take it.
Just take it. Yah, that would be cool.
Let’s dispel all the mistakes we’ve made into a boiling pot of anger. Let’s just it simper for a bit…let it cool.
After all this cooling, there will always be a growing uncomfortably. We will never survive this. We will always be the underclass.
Seeing my old friend taught me something. It taught me that HE will never want to be associated with US. Because, he’s scared…I think.
Is this fear more important that real friendship? Can we break the beerier of sober life?
--
Without Wax
They fear addiction. Friends and loved ones do. They get scared…scared away. They get scared for so many reasons. Maybe because they see in you what they could be.
But then, there is the reasoning that they shouldn’t put up with that crap. With their own crap. That they should just take it.
Just take it. Yah, that would be cool.
Let’s dispel all the mistakes we’ve made into a boiling pot of anger. Let’s just it simper for a bit…let it cool.
After all this cooling, there will always be a growing uncomfortably. We will never survive this. We will always be the underclass.
Seeing my old friend taught me something. It taught me that HE will never want to be associated with US. Because, he’s scared…I think.
Is this fear more important that real friendship? Can we break the beerier of sober life?
--
Without Wax
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Burning Bridges
You’ll never really know the bridges you’ve burnt until you look back; retrospect, they call it. We have a limited time on this fragile Earth. Friends are important, very important. You are not a genius. You won’t ever be able to discover who will be you’re most trusted friends. But, old friends, they have value.
Larry C., a software engineer (just like me)…has endeared me with the most entertaining drunk stories that, I’ve labeled them: the Larry Stories.
I’ve just found out that Larry has moved to the Twin Cities. We had a little pub crawl. And all was forgiven…or so I thought.
What he did one night caused us to not trust him ever again. We came to visit in Reno, NV. We stayed at his place. Then he disappeared. What had happened was that he fell {drunk} in love with a beautiful lady and totally had forgotten that he was hosting us at his place. All our trip property was in his apartment. We had to leave the next day. I could deal with it, but my girlfriend couldn’t.
I could deal with it because I know the nature of Larry. But, he just left us. No keys, no plan, and more importantly, no luggage. He knew we had to leave, yet he left us.
I tracked him down. I knew, from the local taverns that he visited, where he might be. Jacqueline was worried. I found him. I had expressed to him how upset she was to him. He was a man I had put our trust in…and then she got scared…because his dick got hard.
I had set myself to not trust him again…then he called. I was still pissed about the fact that he really didn’t understand how scared Jacky was. I felt, when he called, that maybe…just maybe he might have known how scared Jacky was, but I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt. I’d told him, “no”.
Time passed, and I’d never heard from him again. Then, we found each other on Facebook. He’d remembered the damage he’d done to our relationship. We met over beer and had forgiven and put away the mistakes of the past.
We talked and drank and looked at beautiful young ladies at bars, just like old times; but it really wasn’t. I’m divorced; he’s got a daughter, a house, more than I can have. It was unbalanced.
His ex-wife said he shouldn’t see me again.
He gave me an e-mail saying that we can’t see each other again.
I’m like: Wow: what the fuck?
He called me and said that she apologized: that she should have never forced that decision upon him. Then he called back and said he felt like a jerk.
Frankly, he was, but I cannot help but think that he was a pussy jerk. Come on! His ex-wife has now decisions about friends he’s known 20 years ago?
So, now he hasn’t changed. He can easily burn bridges has fast as I could. But, I no longer find value in burning bridges. I should teach him not to. And take respect that he hasn’t, over 20 years, learned that lesson.
I must teach Larry how not to burn bridges. That’s a job; that’s a big job. Okay, I’ll do it.
Next step.
-- Without Wax
Larry C., a software engineer (just like me)…has endeared me with the most entertaining drunk stories that, I’ve labeled them: the Larry Stories.
I’ve just found out that Larry has moved to the Twin Cities. We had a little pub crawl. And all was forgiven…or so I thought.
What he did one night caused us to not trust him ever again. We came to visit in Reno, NV. We stayed at his place. Then he disappeared. What had happened was that he fell {drunk} in love with a beautiful lady and totally had forgotten that he was hosting us at his place. All our trip property was in his apartment. We had to leave the next day. I could deal with it, but my girlfriend couldn’t.
I could deal with it because I know the nature of Larry. But, he just left us. No keys, no plan, and more importantly, no luggage. He knew we had to leave, yet he left us.
I tracked him down. I knew, from the local taverns that he visited, where he might be. Jacqueline was worried. I found him. I had expressed to him how upset she was to him. He was a man I had put our trust in…and then she got scared…because his dick got hard.
I had set myself to not trust him again…then he called. I was still pissed about the fact that he really didn’t understand how scared Jacky was. I felt, when he called, that maybe…just maybe he might have known how scared Jacky was, but I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt. I’d told him, “no”.
Time passed, and I’d never heard from him again. Then, we found each other on Facebook. He’d remembered the damage he’d done to our relationship. We met over beer and had forgiven and put away the mistakes of the past.
We talked and drank and looked at beautiful young ladies at bars, just like old times; but it really wasn’t. I’m divorced; he’s got a daughter, a house, more than I can have. It was unbalanced.
His ex-wife said he shouldn’t see me again.
He gave me an e-mail saying that we can’t see each other again.
I’m like: Wow: what the fuck?
He called me and said that she apologized: that she should have never forced that decision upon him. Then he called back and said he felt like a jerk.
Frankly, he was, but I cannot help but think that he was a pussy jerk. Come on! His ex-wife has now decisions about friends he’s known 20 years ago?
So, now he hasn’t changed. He can easily burn bridges has fast as I could. But, I no longer find value in burning bridges. I should teach him not to. And take respect that he hasn’t, over 20 years, learned that lesson.
I must teach Larry how not to burn bridges. That’s a job; that’s a big job. Okay, I’ll do it.
Next step.
-- Without Wax
Friday, June 04, 2010
May 27 2007 Strawberry Rhubard Stuffed French Toast @ The Coffee Pot in Kenosha, Wisconsin
May 27 2007 Strawberry Rhubard Stuffed French Toast @ The Coffee Pot in Kenosha, Wisconsin
Originally uploaded by cal222
There are times when I feel so close to June. She knows how to cook, and she knows how to reach any man through his stomach. I love her; I really do.
-- Without Wax
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
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
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
My Friend, Alcohol
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
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
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
April Fool's Abdicate
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
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
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Light Rail Ticket Again
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
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
Sunday, March 28, 2010
How to Avoid a Light Rail Ticket
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
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
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Alright, I Drank.
Alright, I drank.
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
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
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
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
Monday, February 22, 2010
Drowning
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
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
Monday, November 16, 2009
30th Day "age will not worry them"
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
Sincerely Yours,
-- Without Wax
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Lack of Care
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
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
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Recession Alcoholism
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.
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.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Joy
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
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
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Balance
Free Child Walking
on White Round Spheres
Balance Creative Commons
Originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography
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
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