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May 12, 2008

Imagining your way out

While we'll probably never again be blank slates, it's not too late to change even as adults. Old dogs can learn new tricks.

Thanks to Rufus for pointing out this fascinating article. The author, a neuroscientist named Susan Greenfield, discusses how the human brain continuously -- not just in childhood -- remains plastic and changes at the microcellular level in response to experiences and stimuli.

She briefly describes an experiment involving three groups of adults who had never played the piano. One group sat in a room with the piano but had nothing to do with it, a second group was given intensive piano lessons, and the last group was told to imagine themselves going through the piano exercises. The brain scan results? Not surprisingly, the control group (the one that did nothing) showed no changes in their brains. The group that did the piano exercises showed significant structural changes in the parts of their brain that govern finger movements, but most surprisingly of all, the group that imagined playing the piano showed almost as much change in their brains as those who actually played the piano!

Greenfield's article dealt with her worries about the effect of technology and psychoactive drugs on our brains; however, for me, that piano experiment struck another chord: What implications does this have for people like me, people who need to heal from trauma?

Here's another interesting article about "lies" versus what we might call "future truths." In the experiment described in that article, college students were asked about their grades and academic histories. Almost half embellished their records, but instead of becoming tensed and stressed when lying -- which happens to people who are lying in order to cover up crimes, for instance -- they became more relaxed as they lied. To paraphrase the article, this was because their goal was not to deceive; rather, the "lies" can be seen as a statement of aspiration or an attempt to project themselves toward their goals. In earlier studies, the research team found that students who exaggerated their grade point average actually went on to bump up their grades, often by the very amount they exaggerated.

I'll admit that I'm engaging in dubious speculation and making connections that may not be sound. But what I read in those articles resonates so much with my own experience. Imagining things: that's exactly what I had to do to get healthy. I told myself all the good things I wanted to believe about myself, and I acted as though I really believed it. There is a starting point: you, unhappy, feeling broken. Then there's a goal point: you, healed, whole.

How do you bridge those states? How on earth do you get to the goal? There's no map or set of instructions. All you can do, really, is imagine yourself there. In my case, I suddenly, almost magically, found myself there. My old thought habits are greatly diminished, if not totally gone. Granted, the magic was only in hindsight; I did a lot of work, invisible work because it was all in my head.

How the fuck do you change your head, you might ask? Well, it's YOUR damn head! You have a CHOICE.

This fucken works, man. I'm not the same person I used to be. My brain is different. It is absolutely possible to change something as seemingly fundamental as your personality.

April 30, 2008

How I made it through this time

I inhabited darkness for so long. I want something else. I want a warm glowy feeling. I want to be a force for good.

In recent weeks, I lost my "Everything Will Be Okay" feeling -- possibly due to stress -- and have been slithering around in a pit again (hence the "Craving" post of last Friday). But on Monday, I decided to act like All is Cool and make someone's day. At work, I joked around and made people smile and feel good and shit. But the breakthrough came at a pharmacy of all places. The clerk I spoke to had a deep, pleasant, mellifluous voice. So I told him, "You have such a mellow voice!" in all sincerity, and his face just lit up. He laughed, revealing a small gap between his front teeth (I find a small gap between front teeth endearing). I made his day, and that made my day. Later that afternoon when I went jogging, I saw the special golden afternoon light that I love filtered through bright green leaves and its beauty suddenly struck me like it hasn't struck me in a long time. A star burst warmly in my chest and I thought, "Indeed...Everything Will Be All Right in the End."

And last night, my neighborhood was filled with fireflies.

I survived some grim shit, people, and have no patience with cliches or platitudes. But it's such a simple lesson I learned, so simple it veers close to cliche: Step out of yourself. When you see how you can help others, you are taken out of your dark place. When I can be a source of joy, I know I will have joy. And that ain't no bullshit.

April 25, 2008

Craving

For the first time in a long time, I really want a drink. This isn't a wistful craving for the wonderful complexities of Belgian beer. I want the poison of my last dark days. I want the ice cold bite of vodka from the freezer. I want oblivion. I want to scream at the world, "FUCK IT." That's the feeling I'm filled with...Fuck It. Why not? Why the blooding fucking hell not? Is this "life"? This? Fuck it.

Devil on the shoulder: Who will know?

Angel on the other shoulder: *You* will know, you giant dumbass.

D.o.t.s.: When you think about it, the AA way is a bit extreme. Look at the way it constructs the problem of addiction: Total and Complete Abstention vs. (cue awful clanging cacophonous soundtrack of doom) RELAPSE, a.k.a. FAILURE. Life is full of setbacks. You have a setback, you get back on the saddle. You try and try again. It's okay to fail once in a while. Rigid standards leads to mental breakdowns or worse. Flexibility is key.

A.o.t.o.s.: Cut the crap. You're talking "controlled relapse." "I'll drink a little, then I'll stop." That would work...in a normal person. Remember, you've *tried* that before. Many times. And each time, there was always Always ALWAYS some kind of disastrous episode that made you swear to stop drinking. Which you did. And then you tried another "controlled relapse." Remember how that ate at your soul? Remember the vicious corrosive shame? The self-hate? That was your life until you went on the wagon, at which time the disastrous episodes stopped. Shall we walk down memory lane? Relive some of those disastrous episodes? What the fuck kind of solution is drinking?

D.o.t.s.: I could drink only at home. Only on weekends. Or maybe only one weekend, once a month.

A.o.t.o.s.: *SIGH* Those "weekends" always manage to get longer and more frequent, just like those "special occasions" got less and less special.

D.o.t.s.: What else will I do with my excess energy? How else will I divert and suppress and forget?

A.o.t.o.s.: And that's the perennial question, isn't it. Right now, you're on the track to solving it. Drink, and you'll never know the answer. Drink, and you'll never change. It'll never get better. And worse, you'll know it.

D.o.t.s.: Why are you being such a haranguing bitch? You think life is easy? Fuck your tough love, you heartless cunt.

A.o.t.o.s.: I'm being a bitch because you're talking like a fool, and you are no fool. And here's a thought, something that might resonate with your current mood: You drink, They win. You drink, then They were right, you're a loser. Don't let Them win. Show Them. Show Them what you're really made of. You're a fucking fighter; you always were. Even in the darkest days, you fought. Remember the last day? You took fewer pills than you wanted to. You know this. Do you remember dropping some? That was no accident. That was the fighting part of you. Don't let it die.



Don't worry, I'm not going to drink. The Angel had the last word.

March 21, 2008

Fucken Nyquil

I've got an addict story for you.

I had the flu this week. The person who so kindly passed the flu on to me spent the weekend feverish and in bed. He mentioned jokingly, "I have really good dreams when I take Nyquil."

Ping. My brain quietly stored away that pharmaceutical information.

After my throat tickled all day Sunday and my nose started to gush, I bought some Nyquil on Monday, practically drooling. Nyquil is 10% alcohol. That's more than double the strength of light beer. It's like barley wine or something. For that reason, I bought the smallest bottle they had (6 fl oz), feeling like the pinnacle of virtue.

I took a dose that night. It tasted sickly, like sickly sweet ouzo. A warm feeling began to course through my body. I paused. And took another dose. In my chemical-starved body, the Nyquil felt. so. good. It was soothing. My joints, which by that time were getting achy, felt soooooothed. I felt warm waves in my limbs. I got happily sleepy. It felt a little...a little reminiscent of the times I took vicodin.

The next morning, I called in sick and took another dose. Then I doubled the dose again that night, and finished off the bottle the morning after.

So here's the drunk-think in that story:

1) I leaped on an opportunity to possibly catch a high.
2) I pretended that it wasn't my intent to get high by buying a small bottle.
3) When I got that initial pleasant warm feeling after my first dose, my brain screamed MORE!!! in that unreasoningly urgent way I know so well. I had to fight back an urge to down the whole bottle.
4) I knew I was taking more than I should, but I didn't say anything to anyone about it until I finished the bottle.

No, it was not a relapse -- I actually had the flu and actually needed the relief. I took more than I needed, but that's about it. However, the incident demonstrated that Nyquil is a danger to me. And more bits of drunk-think:

5) I'm sitting here genuinely sad that I can't take Nyquil anymore. I feel a real sense of loss. And,
6) I wish I'd bought the store's special on Nyquil, a buy-one-get-one-free sale on the largest sized bottle. I wish I could have at least enjoyed it that much before having to go on the Nyquil wagon.

Life sucks.

February 24, 2008

Shame and its worth

Sunday night, The Wire night: I'll repeat, it isn't just a TV show. It's an ethnography of urban America, from political elites to the denizens of the street. Like any ethnography, you can find both large, sweeping themes and personal, micro-level detail. The narrative of Bubbles the junkie is a compelling example. The thread of his journey is woven through all five seasons. On one level, we follow several years in the life of one junkie, a fascinating by itself, but on another level, his story reflects far more. My buddy Ray wrote about Bubbles' journey and its implications here. His story is real enough to resonate with two former alcoholic addicts, and that's what I want to talk about -- how they get the journey toward sobriety right.

Several episodes ago (episode 55, React Quotes), Bubbles asks his sponsor Walon to go with him to the clinic for an HIV test. Unable to look at the results, he asks Walon to open it for him. The result reads negative, but Bubbles refuses to believe it: "All the shit I done? All the works I shared?....That shit ain't right, nohow." Walon sees that Bubbles expects to be punished for past sins and replies, "This is about you trying to make the past everything...Sorry, Bubs, shame ain't worth as much as you think. Let it go."

I love that line. It captures the truth perfectly. I -- addicts and alcoholics like me -- spent so many years carrying the shame of committing crimes both real and imagined, and the shame of having been the victim of crimes. I carried my shame until it became a part of me, part of my identity. But it doesn't end with getting clean. We get clean, we stop doing the things we did, we learn to think and act differently, but the past still looms large and we can't get away from it. But we must, because the alcohol or the drugs are always there with their temptation of forgetfulness or oblivion when we think redemption is beyond us.

Let it go.

That's all we can do. We might hope for forgiveness for wrongs we committed, but if there is no forgiveness, do we punish ourselves forever or hate those who refuse to forgive us? That's no way to live. For the shit that was done to us, we must somehow convince ourselves we didn't deserve it. We can't look for redemption outside ourselves

February 19, 2008

Slow down, please

I've been plotting to leave Texas, and it looks like my efforts are finally bearing fruit. I probably won't be here much longer. So much has happened to me so soon, all (or most) of it stuff that I've wanted. So...change is on its way.

I am both exhilarated and terrified. I feel like I'm finally getting my shit together, doing what I'm supposed to do. This is right; it feels right. But I also feel like I'm being swept along in a rapid current, and I want it all to stop. I want to exist in a space of calm where I can simply breathe and think of nothing. In the end, I will move forward, because that's what I do: kick ass and take names. Right now, though, I don't want to grow up. Why must we grow up? Why can't we stay where it's warm and safe and we don't have to fend for ourselves?

I suspect that some people might relapse in instances such as this. I am in absolutely no danger of that, but I recognize in an intellectual way that this fear of change and responsibility and self-sufficiency can scare an addict into relapsing back into a childlike state.

By the time the weather grows hot, there will have been many changes. I want to wrap myself in the cold rains that are falling now and savor the unchanging-ness of things.

Wait, future. Please.

February 11, 2008

Ain't nothing glamorous about serenity

Years ago, when I was more or less practicing Buddhism, I used to think of enlightenment or whatever as a kind of blissful state, but that's not how it is. First, enlightenment or serenity is not an end point; it's not like you achieve it and then you're done. Neither is enlightenment a perfect state of happiness, nor merely the absence of pain. Those are the states that we addicts chase and hope to achieve through some short-cut chemical means. Or else we avoid actually living and instead substitute for it some kind of altered mental state and lie to ourselves about how good that is.

That's pretty much all I've got sorted out about what serenity or enlightenment is: what it is not. I suppose I can throw around some catchphrases like "live in the present" and "let go of illusions," but it's one thing to say it and another to live it. But maybe I am living it -- for all the troubles I have now, I am glad to be here, now, alive, and in my skin.

There's a backstory to all this, but the details are irrelevant. I think I will be okay somehow because I trust myself to make it so.

February 5, 2008

Some wisdom from parrots

I grew up Buddhist, but I'm not knowledgeable about it. Not being religious, I didn't really get into studying Buddhist doctrine while growing up. However, nowadays, I'm getting more interested in Buddhism again because I think it'll help me formulate my personal unified theory of sobriety.

I watched The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill some years ago because I love parrots and expected to see something heartwarming and simple and good (which I did - it's a great little film). I didn't expect a nugget of Buddhist wisdom, and it was lovely and so stuck with me. Mark Bittman, the central figure in the documentary who studied and cared for the titular wild parrots, paraphrased and interpreted a quote by Shunryu Suzuki, a Zen priest, who visited Yosemite National Park and was struck by the waterfalls. I mistakenly remembered the quote as being from D.T. Suzuki; this is a different Suzuki. Bittman doesn't quote Suzuki completely in the movie, tailoring the quote specifically for his relationship with the parrots, but here is the actual quote from Suzuki's book Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind (edited for length), which I took from this site:

I went to Yosemite National Park, and I saw some huge waterfalls. The highest one there is 1,340 feet high, and from it the water comes down like a curtain thrown from the top of the mountain. It does not seem to come down swiftly, as you might expect; it seems to come down very slowly because of the distance. And the water does not come down as one stream, but is separated into many tiny streams. From a distance it looks like a curtain. And I thought it must be a very difficult experience for each drop of water to come down from the top of such a high mountain. It takes time, you know, a long time, for the water finally to reach the bottom of the waterfall. And it seems to me that our human lives may be like this. We have many difficult experiences in our lives. But at the same time, I thought, the water was not originally separated, but was one whole river. Only when it is separated does it have some difficulty in falling. It is as if the water does not have any feeling when it is one whole river. Only when separated into many drops can it begin to have or to express some feeling.

[...]

Before we were born we had no feeling; we were one with the universe. This is called "mind-only," or "essence from this oneness"; as the water falling from the waterfall is separated by the wind and rocks, then we have feeling. You have difficulty because you have feeling. You attach to the feeling you have without knowing just how this kind of feeling is created. When you do not realize that you are one with the river, or one with the universe, you have fear. Whether it is separated into drops or not, water is water. Our life and death are the same thing. When we realize this fact we have no fear of death anymore, and we have no actual difficulty in our life.

If you want to know more, the above link contains the entire book, I believe. If that stops working, I imagine the book's available at bookstores or libraries. I don't know how good the rest of the book is, however, but I love that quote. It contains elements of a central tenet in Buddhism: Don't become attached to ephemeral or transient things. This is a principle that should help me in my sobriety; I can't depend on changeable things for happiness, whether money, jobs, or relationships. My serenity must come from a steady, certain source from within.

If you're curious, and really into animal rights and whatnot, here is Bittman's take on the waterfall metaphor, taken from www.wildparrotsfilm.com/PressKit.doc:

"In Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, Suzuki-roshi tells a story about a trip he took to Yosemite. While there, he stopped to watch a waterfall. It was one of the very tall ones, and he noted that when the stream at the top of the ridge hit the cliff, it split into many individual droplets on its way to the bottom. There, the individual droplets came back together in one stream. I'd read that story many times without comprehending his point. It's simple: There is one river until it hits that cliff which is life. The one river then breaks up into many individual living beings—humans, animals, and plants—until we hit the bottom of the cliff and become one river again. Each droplet loses only its identity as a single drop. But nothing is really lost. It's all still there. I'd encountered this idea in different ways many times over the years, but I'd never grasped it. It's an elementary idea, and not so difficult to understand. But my problem was that I'd been thinking about consciousness solely in human terms. It wasn't until I considered the minds of the parrots that my outlook broadened. So my problem was not with anthropomorphism; rather, it was with anthropocentrism, which is seeing human beings as the center of the universe. The parrots broke through that illusion. The understanding that ultimately came to me from looking in the parrots' eyes was that their consciousness is one with mine. We are all one consciousness, and each finite being embodies a little piece of it. This is the preciousness of all that lives."

Years ago, I might have scoffed at Bittman's use of Buddhism, dismissing it as inauthentic and self-indulgent. But religion is more than mere doctrine; it's a living resource that people use in their lives. So who's to say what is and is not authentic, and on what grounds?

January 18, 2008

Belated resolutions

Resolutions for 2008: No more self-criticism. I'm not saying one more negative thing about myself. I'm finished with that. I've deconstructed my old self enough already; it's time to build. And no more doomsday scenarios. Everything's going to be okay somehow. I know it.

I can pinpoint the time I came to that realization with a certain amount of precision: Wednesday around 3:30 pm.

On Tuesday, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a while. She told me how happy she was to see me, that others missed me too, and all the good things about me that they missed. And something clicked in my head: Yes. I am those things. The next day, I was telling someone at work, one of those admin people who know absolutely everything, who knows all about who says what to whom and why, about my worries about not getting ahead. She sort of smiled and said, "As highly as the people around here think of you, it would be strange if you didn't."

I was thrilled to hear that, of course. But on the heels of that feeling, I thought, I'm not worthy because people think I'm worthy, people think I'm worthy because I AM worthy.

About a week before either of the above events, I related some painful details about my past to two people. Although I didn't go into exhaustive details, I've never gotten that specific before.

Weeks before that disclosure, I had been acting strangely, getting angry at the drop of a hat.

I think my mind has been preparing itself to let go of things that have ossified over the years, gaining layers of sediment and growing heavier and heavier. Sedimented growths like that are big and ugly from the outside, but if you open them and cut past the growths, you will find the small hurts inside. You can pick them up and let them go.

There have been people telling me all along how wonderful I am. I used to think that these were rare and unusual people, the likes of whom I won't encounter again. Now I see that's not the case; I was simply lucky to meet people who responded to good things in me, and to whom I responded in turn. I know this will happen again and again in the future.

I'm traveling to that place I never thought I'd reach: I think that sometime soon, I will be able to look at the past without regret. I've always said that it's a horrible thing to live in regret. I still think that's true, but not in a self-punishing way. I used to think that the only way to avoid living in regret is to do everything right the first time. Because of that, I spent so much time in my head reliving the past, wishing in vain for a "do-over." Now I know that I can live without regret by learning to accept and let go and fucken look ahead.

The rest of my life is going to be very, very good. Not easy, of course, but good.

January 4, 2008

18 Months

I've been so preoccupied that I almost forgot today is my 18 month sobriety anniversary date, so I haven't spent much time in introspection about my sobriety, for better or worse.

If I were to tell the truth, I'd have to say I've been sitting on my laurels. I haven't been to a meeting since October, even though I've been exhorting others to go to meetings and connect with people. Some might think that since I've been feeling well and working through stressful situations with success, I shouldn't be so worried about it. However -- who knows what might happen in the future. What if there's a crisis? That's not the time to go scrambling about looking for support. It's best to have a pre-existing support network at those times. But as usual, I'm resistant to creating one. It's exhausting and I'm not good at it. It also doesn't help that the last time I was going to meetings regularly and sharing, all that happened was that two perverts glommed onto me. I've been to women's meetings, in fact was the featured speaker once, but none of them connected with me.

Fuck it. Now I'm pissed. It's all on me, I know. Big Book, page 62: "So our troubles, we think, are basically of our own making. They arise out of ourselves, and the alcoholic is an extreme example of self-will run riot, though he usually doesn't think so." That doesn't fucking apply to me. I've heard that all my fucking life. That's what my parents taught me. They taught me that if anything in my environment was going wrong, it was because of my karma, which I alone created. In other words, all negative things in my environment was of my own making. There was something intrinsic in me -- my karma -- that caused people to treat me badly or things to go wrong. There was no randomness, no mean people, just something intrinsic in me that caused all that. I've blamed myself for every fucking little thing that went wrong in my life. Fuck that. I don't want to pick up my chip. I just don't care.

No, I'm not going to relapse. If I do, "They" win, whoever the fuck "They" are. All I know is, "They" can't win, so I'll show "Them" by staying sober and kicking fucking ass and taking fucking names.

Why am I pissed off? I have no idea what's wrong. I feel set upon.

What the fuck? It's an achievement, being sober for 18 months. Last summer, I flat out didn't think I'd make it to 18 months. And I have.

What's wrong?

November 10, 2007

Fraud

One of my deepest, darkest fears is that I'm a fraud. That I'm not as smart as I think I am, or as funny or pretty or lovable...whatever. And people need only stick around long enough to find that out.

I just spent two of the worst weeks of my life on a project for work, and it got a chillier reception than I had hoped for. "Nice try, but here's a list of things you fucked up." There was a tone of impatience with innovations I attempted. I got the feedback sometime after 5 pm today, so I won't be able to clarify things until next week. "Clarify" as in "Do you think I'm stupid?" I'm not afraid of being fired or anything. What I fear is being dismissed as lesser, as someone on whom resources should not be wasted. Being a disappointment.

I know I excel in other things. But this matters to me very much. It's a big thing, bigger than anything I've tried before, and I fell flat on my face.

I'm going to take some ibuprofen and take my loser ass off to bed. Meeting my sponsor in the morning.

October 14, 2007

An A+ Drunk

While cooking tonight, I took a huge swig of fizzy water, and got a sudden stabbing sense of what that carbonation was not. I miss Belgian beer. I miss drinking while cooking. Which is odd considering one rather grievous kitchen accident I had after one too many vodka shots (don't ask).

But my point is, tonight I had another one of my fleeting "controlled relapse" thoughts. It's interesting to me what these incidents, which involve thought reflexes, tell me about how my mind works. We alcoholics are sneaky schemers, always looking for loopholes in rules to promote and safeguard our habit. That's the alcoholic reflex.

As for the counter-reflex...well, you'd think after all I'd been through, my response to alcoholic reflexes would be, "What a bad idea. My life has changed so much for the better. These days, I'm happy and serene and shit." Nope! Not tonight, anyway. The counter-reflex I had tonight was "But then I won't get my 18 month chip." Now, you could read that thought in any number of ways, of course. I thought about what lay behind that thought and came to the realization that it's a total Nerd Reflex!

For me, relapsing would be like getting a B, and I don't make Bs. I don't even make A-minuses. During my school days, anything less than an A was unacceptable. And that's what relapsing would be -- a less than perfect score. For a deep down nerd like me, having to collect a whole 'nother set of chips is the equivalent of dipping below the 99th percentile. Unacceptable.

Hey, I may not play the violin and I've won no math competitions, but I'm an Asian Overachiever after all.

October 13, 2007

Glad I've kept my mouth shut

I was talking to an acquaintance, a woman I consider to be open-minded and cool and tolerant. I was telling her about putting the wrong sort of oil in my bike and having to change the oil, and we had a laugh. Then she told me about a guy she used to know who put brake fluid where he was supposed to put in power steering fluid or something in his beat up old car, and ended up going off the road and into a fence at the bottom of a field. She said she liked him a lot, that he was the only person she knew at the time who could talk with her (she's really intelligent) about philosophy or whatever. Then she said, "He was a drug addict...you know, a loser..."

:(

I was right to not tell people.

September 7, 2007

So an alcoholic walks into a bar...

This week, I went into a bar for the first time since my sobriety date (July 4, 2006). Well, I've been in restaurants with bars attached to them, but there I was at the bar. The many sparkling bottles of liquor surprisingly held no temptation -- they were just a still life to me. Decoration. The fact that my clear liquors of choice during my binges right before I got sober -- Absolut Mandrin, Bombay Sapphire -- were way over on the other side of the bar might have had something to do with the lack of craving, however.

Instead of the bottles, I looked longingly at the beers on tap. The choices weren't all that inspired, but the memory of the last time I was in a microbrewery sprang into mind. During several afternoons at that place, my oldest sister and I tried beer after beer talking lazily about this and that and munching on appetizers. That memory hit with aching nostalgia. I kept looking at the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale spigot. I would have ordered that. I thought of the Lindemans Pomme (apple) lambic I saw at Central Market, a lambic that I've never tried, and never will. I thought of the two new Spec's (huge liquor store based in Houston) locations in Austin, and how I'd never walk in to search for perry and special seasonal Belgian beers. I was fucking sad.

Some drink non-alcohol beers. Those things by and large taste like crap, but I understand how they can fill in a sensory gap for someone who feels the taste of beer is a vital component of a particular scene. But I never had one during sobriety, so I tried some sips of one. Maybe I could drink some now; maybe it would take the sting out of the craving. First sip: Bleah. This ain't real beer. Wait...let's give this a chance. Second sip: Still doesn't taste good, but I feel compelled to try again. Third sip: Holy shit, I better stop. I've discovered that near beer is trigger-y for me -- the taste of it made me want to say Fuck it, gimme some reeeeeeeeeeal beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer.

Before anyone asks, I'm all right. I wasn't rattled or freaked out, and if things got in any way hard to handle, I would have left. Just sometimes, I get a little wistful. How I envy normal people.

August 17, 2007

Ambushed

Last weekend, I went to my parent's house and slept in my childhood sheets. They still had some of the flat sheets that my sisters and I used to use (the fitted sheets had worn out long ago). I went to check on my dad who just got discharged from the hospital. We looked at old photo albums. We watched some cheesy Japanese satellite TV. It would've been nice and cozy were it not for that relentless itch in my brain.

My dad had his meds lined up on a side table by the couch. I asked my dad what he was taking --- whatever for whatever, blah blah for blah, yadda yadda for yadda, and percocet. This was my first encounter with narcotic painkiller since last July. I heard a sound effect in my head, kind of like a record being played too slowly: Peeeeerrrrrrrrrrcooooooooo...cet. I put the bottle down slowly and noticed the red seal on the cap. He hadn't opened the bottle yet! When I asked, he insisted he didn't need it. Incomprehensible concepts to an addict -- why not just take it? It FEELS GOOD fer chrissake. Not long after that, I opened a kitchen cabinet to get some multivitamins and discovered my mom's leftover vicodin. My eyes widened. Then my brows furrowed in annoyance. Again, who ever heard of leftover drugs?

It didn't stop at merely being indignant at wasting perfectly good drugs through non-use. I couldn't stop thinking about those bottles. I thought of my hard-won year of sobriety. I remembered the sheer fucking suffering I endured during that time. I thought of the immense progress I'd made, and what throwing that away would mean. Nevertheless, a quietly powerful part of my brain thought, Hmm. I'm in San Antonio. The pills are HERE, and they can STAY HERE. Ergo, if I take some and therefore relapse, it'd be a controlled relapse. The thought pervaded my brain like an infection.

Sigh. I didn't take any pills. As I drove back to Austin, all I thought of was those pills and the dreamy bliss they impart. I couldn't get it out of my mind. Then, to make matters worse, all the stress of the past weeks resulted in my eye flaring up Sunday night. Intense pain. I went to the doctor on Monday and it was with the utmost self control that I kept my drug Id in check. I didn't ask for painkiller. I spent Monday in considerable pathetic whimpering pain, bitter that being an addict kept me from relief.

I'm still thinking of those pills. This puzzles and saddens me. No, it doesn't puzzle me. It disappoints me, despite my knowledge that I have a disease, that I'm not cured of addiction. I'm going to have to endure these ambushes for how long? Until I die, I suppose.

I was just in Hawaii. When I was there, I saw light beams flickering deep in the ocean like laser beams and I paddled through liquid sapphire with the cool ocean breeze on my face. I felt the wonderful feeling of coming home to a childhood paradise, that, despite change, still felt like paradise. When I surfed, I rode a perfect wave to shore; I felt my body fuse to the water through motion. I turned my board around, and as I paddled back eagerly toward the waves, a sea turtle popped up next to me and swam beside me for a while. Beyond that, I've felt the exhilaration of solving intellectual puzzles, and the inner peace of self-transformation. I've loved intensely and had that love returned.

I know how wonderful reality is. I've experienced joy. Real joy, and even fulfillment. But I find myself being seduced by unreality again. I fought it. I didn't relapse. I refuse to fucking relapse. I know I can fight it again and win. But the possibility of relapse is still there. And to do so would rob me of everything. There's no "controlled relapse." I'd take some pills. Then I'd think, what the fuck, I screwed up, may as well get my money's worth. Let's milk this fucken relapse for all it's worth. May as well have some fun before starting up all that AA rigamarole again, eh? Relapses happen to everyone! What the hell? Just a little fun, then back to seriousness.

But it would stop only when another disaster like my overdose occurs. Or worse than my overdose. I got lucky that time. I don't need to test my luck another time.

I think I'll go ride my bike. That's good. And real.

July 5, 2007

One year + one day

I'm not sure how other people in AA do this, but I designate July 4 -- the day of my overdose -- as my sobriety date, or my birthday as it's called. That was the date last year when I was in the ER, and I saw that teenage boy, drunk and high and out of control, being brought in by his parents and restrained by the hospital personnel. That was the day when I realized he and I were one and the same, and I knew I needed help. However, I didn't yet know how to get that help.

Our first chip is a silver aluminum one. It's called a "desire chip" because it expresses the desire to remain sober for 24 hours and to give AA a try. Offers of help are extended to newcomers, but it's up to them to take the initiative. This was really hard for me -- I wanted someone to guide and help me and hold my hand, but that's not how it works. Only you can make you sober (other members would add "with the help of your higher power as you see it," but it's my choice not to sweat the higher power stuff).

I got subsequent chips at my one, two, three, six, and nine month anniversaries (this was changed to one per month before the one year mark after I got my six month one!!). Then comes one year, eighteen months, and then on your birthday once a year. Each time, the very first chip I got I gave to the person who convinced me to seek help, brought me to AA, and personally guided me through those horrible, disorienting first days (it's common to get more than one chip). I do this out of gratitude, and because it helps us addicts to stay sober if we hold ourselves accountable to other people. Anyway, on my one year anniversary, I give all of you a chip, because you help me stay sober, too. Thank you to each and every one of you for being there, including those who are silently present.

Here it is.

July 4, 2007

365 days. An eternity.

The single greatest achievement of my life is this: being alive. And whole. A year ago today I tried to kill myself. I deliberately overdosed.

For so long, I thought I was born broken. But I understand now. The things that happened to me -- they didn't make me dirty, nor did I deserve them. Now I know how much strength it takes to survive and to become whole. I wish I could fully explain what it means to me that I can say, I don't hate myself. I don't wish I were someone else; I don't want another life. I want my life. I wish I could make you see how wonderful it feels to finally cry happy tears, and to let go of crippling regrets.

I'm home alone, but not alone. I have me.

June 25, 2007

How AA works: a demonstration

Frankly stated, alcoholics have few life skills. Of course, this can be true of the general population, but the effect of having few or no life skills is more dire in our case. When we are bewildered by life, we either say "fuck it" and drink, or we soothe our stress with alcohol, actions that will eventually result in death.

One AA catchphrase that I used to loathe hearing is "our problems are of our own making." That, I thought, was too fucking harsh. But that phrase is not about blame or pointing fingers; it's meant to jumpstart a kind of self-reflection that leads to a solution. It's about empowerment.

An example from today:

I had a shitload of errands to run before work, and I barely got to work in time. As I pulled into a parking spot, I bumped the passenger side rear tire well against a pillar. Scratched paint. Fuck. Lowered resale value. Fuck fuck fuck. One of my hugest concerns is not being able to sell my car for enough money. And now this.

My first instinct was to rage at the useless asshole moron who parked right on the white line next to my parking spot, which forced me to drive close to the pillar so I wouldn't hit his ridiculously oversized SUV that he insisted on parking in a spot reserved for small cars, a habit not uncommon among the multitude of selfish assholes who drive SUVs. Next, I wanted to rage at the fucking idiots who designed the stupidly tight and poorly laid out parking lot. Then, I wanted to blow off work, since having to go to work was delaying me from dealing with this sudden crisis.

Then I stopped and pondered that catchphrase: "our problems are of our own making."

But before you can even answer that question, you have to understand what the REAL problem is.

Perceived Problem 1) Asshole SUV driver. Did he force me to park where I parked? No. I chose to park there. In any case, can I control his actions? No. Is it productive to stoke the fire of my anti-SUV driver rage? No. Does it even feel good? No.

Perceived Problem 2) Was the parking spot too small for my car? Of course not. I was in a hurry.

Real Problem -- Why was I in a hurry? I was late to work because I had shitloads of errands. Why was that a problem? I was lying around in bed for half an hour, wishing the day wouldn't begin.

Problem: pattern of responsibility avoidance; in this case, sleeping late. Solution: Get the fuck up when you have to.

Utterly mundane? Perhaps, but this kind of self-reflection that results in figuring out what the real problem is and formulating a solution is the kind of skill I didn't use to have. Having a solution reduces stress and feelings of helplessness, which prevents "fuck it" thinking which prevents drinking.

So, that's one way AA teaches us how to live.

June 20, 2007

Keeping honest

I'm typing this with one hand. I've got horrible computer overuse problems in my left shoulder, neck, and arm. I used to have it in both arms, plus numb forearms, but yoga took care of a lot of that. Yesterday it was so bad that I had trouble falling asleep despite taking meds. I fucking took action and I have a physical therapy appointment tomorrow.

In the meantime, my regular doc gave me muscle relaxants. I've been seeing him for some time now, and he knows about my alcoholism/addiction. After I described my symptoms, he suggested muscle relaxants, and I reminded him of my addiction issues, so it's all good. He gave me samples of a particularly good (non-addicting) one that does not have a generic equivalent.

So I took one, and no, it does not get me high. Unfortunately. Heh. But in any case, my addict brain screamed, "Take some more! Take some more!" Then it whispered, "No one will know if you take more than one. Really, who's going to know?" The compulsion is really strong, but don't no one worry about it -- I'm not going to take more than my doctor said. It just scares me that my brain works that way, and that this is going to be an issue for the rest of my life. Maybe the compulsion will grow weaker with time, but it's there. In any case, putting all this into words will help keep me honest. If I tell someone, even people I can't see, what I'm thinking, then I force myself to be accountable.

Anyways. Next dosage at 7:30.

June 9, 2007

The childhood I never had

Here are the things that I sometimes hate my parents for:

1. The biggest. Ever since I was very young, I would have asthma attacks about twice a year. I knew when they would begin -- I would feel this incredible dread as I got an itchy feeling in my chest. I knew that my breathing would get more and more constricted, as if the tissue in my lungs were slowly ossifying. The next two days would be agony as I used all the muscles in my torso to squeeze air in and out. After that, the grey, hard tissues in my lungs would become gradually more elastic until they again became pink tissue. Then months later they would ossify again. My parents did not take me to the hospital for this until I was 12. I wanted them to see that I was suffering and help me.

2. They never took me to swimming lessons. When I was in high school, I signed up for lessons myself, and drove to them myself. My two older sisters were taken to swimming lessons.

3. They never taught me to ride a bicycle. Again, I was treated differently here. I learned as an adult.

4. They bought my two older sisters cars. I bought my first car myself.

5. They never told me I was pretty or smart. My oldest sister was the smart and pretty one.

6. They didn't give me enough guidance in life. I spent so much of my life bewildered. I never knew what to do.

I've been mourning the childhood I never had for a long time. I wanted these things so much, and not having them hurt. A lot. I want to stop hurting, and I want to forgive my parents because I love them more than anything.

June 2, 2007

Giving back

Somehow, on the road to recovery, I haven't picked up much compassion. I don't know how much I can give back to other alcoholics. I've just now gotten up the nerve to share my experiences and thoughts in meetings once in a while, but I am not willing to go any farther than that. Other freshly sober drunks scare the crap out of me. One was contemplating swallowing a bottle of pills to escape a life she couldn't control. Another sobbed after a spectacular relapse. They're desperate and afraid, and I feel like clutching my sobriety to my chest and running in the opposite direction.

I'm not sure what this feeling is. I don't think it's necessary that I volunteer my time and energy to these people, so don't tell me not to feel guilty. I'm not beating myself up for not being some kind of den mother to drunks, nor am I going to tax my strength doing things I'm doubtful of. I'm simply wondering how much of my old attitude of "You're not going to drag me down" lingers.

I had two very good friends, both of whom were troubled. One of them went back to a husband who I thought was unstable (but not abusive), and I couldn't hang around her anymore. The other was someone who made me laugh harder than anyone I had met before. She also knew all my dirty secrets, but loved me anyway. But as the years went by, she got more and more depressed and angry and continued to make bad decisions. She'd then relate all the gory consequences to me. This happened over and over. At one point, she was hospitalized for depression and I just could not be there for her anymore. I dropped her like a hot potato.

I miss her, or at least I miss the good times. I understand that when helping someone hurts you, you have to make a decision to leave that person. You don't need to sacrifice yourself. You have to make a decision to save yourself. I call it the "oxygen mask" rule -- on an airplane, you always put on your mask first before helping others. You don't put masks on other people until you yourself die from lack of oxygen.

I know and understand that. But I also think of my own situation; what if I had been left? I did not do this alone. It's no use speculating what would have happened had I done it on my own. That can never be known. But I *do* know that I was helped and guided. What if the choice had been to bail out on me?

I understand that I'm not ready to help other drunks one-on-one. No one with any brains would condemn me for that.

Maybe I'm preoccupied with this because it meshes with my old convictions that I must be worthy of the sacrifices of others. I think I'm worthy in and of myself, but I still fear that others don't truly see this. So I go around thinking I must somehow earn my keep as a human being. Someone told me that my mere presence at meetings helps other people. The wise Miz Syl also said something similar, as did others who own a great deal of real estate in my heart.

At some point, I need to forgive myself for having left others to save myself. And believe I was worth saving.

May 31, 2007

After the war

For a girl, I'm a sucker for war movies. While all deaths are tragic, the manner and circumstance of particular ones resonate with your own fears and replay in your mind. There was a scene in Band of Brothers -- I don't remember precisely which battle -- in which a group of soldiers were singing around a statue in a town square, and suddenly a sniper fires on them. Two of them die. After having survived the big battle. Even when the big fight is over, there is always the odd sniper or a land mine or an unexploded grenade.

Darkness keeps tugging at me. This is very hard to explain. It's not a shallow preoccupation with being "misunderstood" or "different." Nor is it an actual craving. It's missing a state of mind. It was hard to hear from people that the booze and the pills made me crazy, because even during my worst alcohol and drug-soaked lows, a small part of my brain took pleasure in that. I've been sitting here trying to think of a way to describe that feeling. It was like you pushed yourself to the edge of your mortality. You could almost reach out and brush your fingertips across its membrane. Or the moment just after I stepped out of the airplane when I went skydiving, before the horrible winds hit. A suspended moment of oblivion. Dying and liking it. Small parts of my mind still like that feeling, maybe always will.

May 20, 2007

More, more, more

All my life, I plotted my escape. For the first 8 or so years of my education, the classes never went fast enough for me. I would hurry to finish the allotted work, and then poke my nose in a book where I could be someone else, somewhere else. If the teacher was talking, I would put a book in my notebook or textbook or lap and secretly read.

I had a vivid imagination. I made up several incarnations of myself, all of whom lived in different times and places and sometimes had special powers, and I would tell myself stories of myself on car trips, during classes, before I went to sleep; any unfilled time I had was occupied with these fantasies. This is embarassing to admit, but this was a habit that lasted well into my twenties. As an adult, whenever I have the means, I plot real-life getaways. I love doing research for these trips. I love imagining myself in different scenarios, experiencing different things. These are some of the ways in which I tried to search for things beyond my realities.

Miz Syl asked what triggered the sudden alcohol craving I wrote about this Friday. I've been thinking about that, and it occurs to me that the craving followed a typical thought pattern of mine. I'm feeling okay these days, but "okay" has never been enough for me. I've read that addict brains process pleasure differently; we need far more stimulation than normal people for the same level of gratification. We need more. There's never enough.

If I'm in an "okay" state, I need to upgrade it with something. Formerly, it was alcohol or whatever; these days, I have nothing. Except maybe ice cream. And even though ice cream is a powerful force for good, especially post-coital ice cream, it's not quite the same as a mind-altering substance. Neither is yoga. I want ice cold vodka. I want my pills.

Normal people might find it strange that a person would take narcotic pills just for the hell of it. But here's my thinking: Why just feel "okay" when you can feel GREAT just by taking a pill or a drink? Why just feel GREAT at a party or some such social setting, when you can feel GREAT any old time? Why stay in a "normal" state when you can have more joy, more peace, more calm, more energy, more confidence? More. More. More.

I think that's probably the hardest thing to let go of, this desire for escape, for MORE. If stress or loneliness or boredom brings on a craving, I can fight that. I have tools for that now. If I feel fear, I can soothe myself; I don't need substances for that. But how do I live without more?

May 18, 2007

Step One

I've hardly come into contact with alcohol since July 4 of last year. The other night, I went to get ice cream. For some reason, there was a keg on the sidewalk nearby. It was some kind of local brown ale. St. Arnold's, maybe? Anyway, as I walked past, the scent of the ale collided...BLAM...with my limbic system. The world went pleasantly vague while the freshness of the cool air sharpened. Shivers of pleasure traveled down my spine. My eyes shut, I inhaled more deeply, and shuddered. I must've looked like a crazy woman.

The other week, I skipped a work function because they were going to have pitchers. Even though I RSVP'd that I would go, when I heard that, I ditched it. And as it turned out, I was *so* right. I can't be around the stuff. Especially since I've been getting The Craving again lately. I miss my pills, too.

One of the goddamn cliches you'll hear in AA 10,000 times is that while you are sober, your habit is out there "doing pushups." Meaning, alcoholism is a progressive disease. Say you're sober for several years. Even though you're not drinking, the disease is nevertheless progressing. So when you relapse, it'll be way worse than when you stopped drinking. In other words, Be Vigilant.

I'm doing well right now. I haven't had a bad day in months. Seriously. My yoga practice is getting better and better, work is going excellently, and it's clear, wide open vistas for my future. I've recovered my self-confidence, and have found that...GASP...people like me, and like being around me. I feel GOOD. Yet my sly alcoholic brain sweetly whispers, "...hiromi...you're so strong...you're much stronger now...hiromi, it'll be okay, you can treat yourself..."

Several days ago, I went to a meeting, the first one in months, to get my nine month chip. And I realized, with a pang of regret, that I *must* go into those rooms with their drab decor and crappy coffee and uncomfortable fucking chairs and hear the goddamn cliche parade again and again, for my own damn good. I need to hear people who absolutely have not gotten their shit together to remind me of what I once was.

So I must say to myself Step One like a mantra because I so, so, so do NOT want to relapse. I'm powerless over motherfucken alcohol (and dur pills, too), and my life had become motherfucken unmanageable. A-fucken-men.

I better get to a meeting soon.

April 24, 2007

"Terminal uniqueness"

I've got this talent for finding the black cloud in the silver lining. Sure, there's something deeply soul-satisfying about being around People Who Get It. You don't have to explain yourself or defend yourself. You're accepted.

That being said, time and again, even as other addicts or survivors validate my experiences and comfort me with the knowledge that I'm not alone, I sometimes miss being "alone." I'm not saying this is the most productive way to think about things, but I sometimes feel resentment when people say, "Oh yeah, that happened to me, too." I feel somehow...coopted. NO, I think, I'm SPECIAL. Which reminds me of something I used to always say before: "No one understands me."

That's what we in AA call "terminal uniqueness." Let's unpack that statement. It does a lot of things:

1) The speaker is singling him or herself out as separate from the rest of humanity.
2) While that's a statement of abjection,
3) It's also a self-aggrandizing one: "No ne understands me. Because I'm special. I'm unique. I'm singular in my special uniqueness. I'm beyond the ability of others to understand."

In saying that, you push away people who actually do understand you, and who can support you and help you. In return, you get the cold comfort of sitting on the throne of your own terminal uniqueness.

So...yeah. As I cry on your shoulder, tell me you understand, but also tell me I'm special. ;p

April 22, 2007

Poll: Are addicts scum?

I assume that people reading this blog don't think alcoholics or addicts are morally depraved scum. Or you think so, but think that's a good thing.

The other day, I was at an event and someone asked me if they could get me a glass of wine. I said no, it would make me too sleepy at this time of the day. I was afraid to say "I don't drink" in case anyone asked why. I don't want to make up stories.

But lately, I've had this huge urge to shout into people's faces that I had been raped and abused and I OD'd, but now I'm healthy and happy and strong. I want to tell them about my greatest achievement in life: not only did I survive, but I got better. I don't want to cover up anything about my past or duck questions. I'm fucken proud of my fucken self. I want people to know, but I'm afraid of the consequences of telling.

So I ask you: what do you think would be the average reaction if I mentioned my alcoholism and addiction? In my experience, very few people expressed sympathy toward alcoholics or addicts in general conversation. So I have it in my head that telling people would be social suicide. Just wanting to know what y'all think.

April 9, 2007

"I rule!"

I can do a headstand!

::THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE::

I'm so fucken proud of myself that I can do that. It's not easy! But I did it!

I wanna talk about the gazillion ways that I rock. It's another Cheese Suit. This addresses #6: "Being 'found out' -- I'm convinced I'm a fraud," and #9: "Relying on my own assessments of myself." I avoid talking about my accomplishments because I'm terrified of being accused of "bragging."

I'm also asking for some feedback here. I mentioned in my April 4 post that I felt stupid being happy over doing shit other people can do without effort. I'm ashamed to admit this, but a very politically incorrect metaphor popped into my head: Gaining nine months of sobriety is like winning an event in the Special Olympics. Yes, I know that competing in the Special Olympics is hard, and that those athletes kick ass, just like not drinking is hard, and I kick ass. But why can't I get rid of that feeling of "lacking"?

Could someone please pick apart my metaphor without judgmental comments on my attitude toward "handicaps"? There's something wrong with the logic, but I can't place it. You might point out that there are separate Olympic competitions for men and women, but that doesn't mean women are somehow "lacking" when compared to men, so why should Special Olympics athletes be somehow "lacking" when compared with regular athletes? But I don't buy it. Basically, I feel like alcoholism is a sort of handicap, and I feel anger at being told how "brave" I am for overcoming this handicap, and I also feel "lacking" because of this handicap. I don't know, I'm screwed up here. Someone help me out.

April 4, 2007

Nine months!

okay OKAY, Miz Syl! ;p

So, today's a big day.

I really like the symbolism of the nine month mark. Nine months ago, I was in the ER, where the lies in me died, and while I realize that dates are arbitrary, I like the idea that I can make April 4 a second birthday. I feel that I've changed enough to make the birth/rebirth analogy valid.

It's funny, though. I was flying pretty high for about a month, feeling euphoric at not only being alive, but wanting to be alive. But when the tumblers clicked over into "9 months", I felt sort of...let down. Doubtful about the nature of my celebration. It seemed absurd to celebrate being able to do something that "normal" people are able to do effortlessly.

I know that it's a pointless exercise in self-flagellation to think of my sobriety only in terms of my "defectiveness" as an alcoholic. I'm a bundle of characteristics, not reducible to just one; I'm good and bad, normal, subnormal, and supernormal, fantastic and mundane. Hell, I gotta have a few flaws, right? I can't be *too* fabulous, after all. And while flaws do indeed make us interesting, I think there's more, something I've written about already. Having survived something, and grown as a result, adds depth. Mellow notes of oak. A sepia tinge. A smell of parchment.

Something like that.

March 31, 2007

Sorry, guys, the retrospective continues

Indulge me while I continue my retrospective prior to picking up my gestation chip.

I really want people to know that life is...I was going to say "fixable," but that isn't right. It's changeable. It's improveable.

Nights were hard for months following my overdose. They're hard to describe now; I didn't know where the pain was coming from, but it was like birds of prey were swooping down on me and tearing my flesh. The world was so...shadowy.

I'm not saying life is easy now. It's hard, it's painful, it often sucks. But I learned that

I can be happy without worrying I'll never be happy again.
I can be sad and it won't kill me.
I can hurt, but the hurt will end.
If I hurt in the future, I can survive it.

For the past month or so, I've been sort of concerned that maybe this state of mind is just a "pink cloud" sort of thing. In AA, newbies typically are in a state of euphoria after having survived bottoming out and being converted to sobriety. Or maybe I'm manic, and like all "mentally ill" people, don't realize it. But as the days go by, I'm certain that this is a fundamental change for the better, so I'm not going to worry whether this feeling lasts, I'm just going to enjoy it.

March 30, 2007

"No no no, I have it all under control..."

So, next Wednesday marks nine months sobriety for me. It's weird -- in that time, I could've had a baby, but then I guess I did in a symbolic sense.

It took me over a month to pick up my 6 month chip, since I'm so busy these days. I picked it up at the first meeting I spoke at, and afterwards, a lot of women came up to me and told me how happy they were for me, and how afraid they had been for me when I first told them my story. People who knew me in my crazy days tell me that. My therapist said that sometimes she was afraid that I'd stop showing up, not because I lost interest in therapy, but because I was dead. My sponsor tells me how far I've come with a sense of wonder. Other friends tell me that the things they did to help me they did out of a desperate hope that I wouldn't die.

Even after hearing all that, some drunk-think remains. A part of me is continually surprised that anyone should ever have worried that much. Never mind that they have experience with very troubled people and know about these things. I had everything under control, in terms of my using. Sure, I was suicidal, but I nevertheless felt that I would die by choice, not as an unintended consequence of my behavior.

I know that doesn't make sense. I think it's because I wasn't one way all the time. At times, I felt total despair and exhaustion and thought of death as the only respite. Other times, I wanted to be strong and healthy, but was afraid that something horrible would happen, and I wouldn't be able to stand this horrible thing, and I would die. Or I wanted only to escape, or was terrified at the prospect of feeling pain and being unable to numb it. I was almost always scared for myself, so why wouldn't other people be? Having typed all that, I think I've discovered another big reason why I'm surprised people worry -- I'm actually suprised that they care enough to worry. I've spent years building moats and barricades around me, not because I really wanted to be walled off, but because I couldn't let anyone think I wanted them to care. So now I find that they care. By their own choice, even. But it's still a little sad that I'm afraid to accept these freely given gifts.

March 20, 2007

Positively life or death

Let's see...My last emotional crisis was from February 6-9. Before that, it was the week before Xmas, and before that, the Thanksgiving holidays. During the November and December crises, suicidal thoughts flitted through my brain, but in February, they didn't. Since the February crisis, I've felt strangely happy and serene. In its aftermath, I learned that I can survive pain. This is a strange thing to say, but I can put a date on when I made a subconscious decision to live: February 2007. Before that, I couldn't have said for certain that I would live. After my overdose, for months, I'd been waiting for the thing that would kill me to happen. But in February, I decided that somehow, things will turn out okay. And the fact that life might be hard or painful doesn't seem so horribly daunting or frightening anymore. I can handle it. I want to handle it.

This moment didn't come out of the blue like some divine gift. I did the work, hard ass motherfucken work. I changed my behaviors and responses to emotion. I have greater control over my thought processes. This, I suppose, is the "spiritual awakening" AA people go on about. It's not a God thing; it's a fundamental transformation of self. I have a -- I never thought I'd catch myself saying this -- positive outlook on life. But this is in the most non-cliche way possible, for gaining this state of mind has been a matter of life or death. You know how in corny TV dramas, doctors will tell patients, "You're going to live"? Well it seems I fucken told myself that.

I know I will stumble time and again, but now, the thought of falling down doesn't scare the shit out of me. The thought of getting up time and again no longer drains the life out of me, 'cause every time I've fallen flat on my face so far, I've gotten up better and more fabulous than ever.

March 16, 2007

"I feel sorry for you..."

So it looks like we addicts are a growing source of entertainment. Not in the sense of Trainspotting or Requiem for a Dream, but rather our treatment and recovery. There's a new HBO series on addiction, and then there's the old standby, Intervention on A&E. I've seen only the latter, however. I'm not sure what to think. It's an odd mix of voyeurism and in my view, a puritanical anti-drug zeal. Patheticness, degradation, and squalor are emphasized.

Don't get me wrong, addiction is unglamorous in the extreme. The stories I've heard in AA; unbelievable shit. I keep having to remind myself that all that is in me, too. I heard some of my thoughts from the mouth of a crazed methhead stripper on Intervention the other night. At first, I did my usual distancing thing -- I was never like that. This girl lived in a small house on her father's property. It was complete squalor inside; old rotting food and clothes everywhere, no clean spaces, just utter chaos. Empty vodka bottles everywhere. She ran out of the house buck naked at one point. She finds men to buy her alcohol. However, during her intervention, she said to her concerned friends and family, "I feel sorry for you. You don't have what I have."

I think that is one of the biggest things sober people don't get. And it's something that I think that show could explore more fully: what is the attraction in it? Instead, viewers walk away from that show thinking, "What the fuck is wrong with 'those people'???"

You guys don't have what we have.

It's so hard to put into words what it is we have. The exhilarating ability to say, "Fuck it. Fuck it all." The ability to effortlessly let go of the little bitty stressful shits in life. Bonding with others of your tribe, and banding together against boring normies Who Just Don't Get It. Most of all, being able to remain in the state of your choice without the ugly intrusion of reality. In my case, I loved dreamy floaty feelings of "everything will be all righ