Gaze Deep Into My Navel And Despair...

How am I supposed to grow up?

I want to grow up.  I really do.  No, more than that, I need to.  I need to grow the fuck up.  I'm almost forty years old, but I still see myself as if I were twenty-five.  That might sound appealing on some level, at first; "young at heart" and all that.  And maybe it would be, if that's what I wanted for myself.  But it isn't.  I want to grow up.  I need to grow up, because I can't keep living like I'm twenty-five.  I'm not twenty-five anymore.  I can't eat like a twenty-five year-old anymore.  I can't move like a twenty-five year-old anymore.  I can't party like a twenty-five year-old anymore.  Fuck, I can't even sleep like a twenty-five year-old anymore.  It all hurts me now in a way that it never did, and I can feel myself breaking down at an astonishing rate, as if the force of Entropy inside me were being fed by some radioaction of chemical combustion.  Accelerated Decrepitude.  But on the other hand, trying to live within my almost-forty means, while still feeling like a twenty-five year-old inside, is so monumentally depressing that I can't even fucking bother; I always just end up feeling like I already have one foot in the grave.

A twenty-five year-old trapped in a forty year-old body.  How incredibly pathetic.  How incredibly modern.  How incredibly privileged.

But how am I supposed to grow up?  I don't know.  My observations tell me that for most people, this happens as a natural side-effect of breeding.  That creating a child shifts all perspectives, and forces the new parent into a maturity that cannot be achieved through any other means.  That makes sense to me.  I can understand that.

But I'm never going to have any children.  So what am I supposed to do?  How am I supposed to force myself to achieve a state that, for most people, requires quite possibly the single most life-altering event they will ever experience in order to achieve?

Sometimes I think, maybe I don't actually need to grow up?  If I don't have any children, then what do I need to grow up for?  Why do I feel this need anyways?  I can only assume it is because I reflexively compare my life to the model my parents set for me.  When I look at myself, and try to judge whether I'm doing well or not, I compare it to the life they lived.  And I always feel myself coming up short.

They went to college.  They got degrees.  They worked hard.  (My father still works harder than almost anyone else I know, and while my mother never worked as hard as he did, she still inarguably worked harder than I do now.)  They bore and raised children.  They owned houses, with yards and multiple floors and everything.

But I dropped out of college.  I have no degrees, and probably never will.  Yeah, I have a career that doesn't leave me wanting to kill myself, but I still hate it, just because it's work, and I hate work of any kind; I hate being forced to sell myself every day in order to sustain myself.  I don't own a house.  I own an absurdly tiny condo that I hate and will never be able to sell for as much as I paid for it.  I am almost certain I will end up having to live in that tiny little box for the rest of my life, watching it deteriorate around me, with me - and that thought terrifies me on a regular basis.

And even these modest achievements - a well-paying job that I can sort of do well and tolerate, and a tiny little condo I'm trapped in like a prison cell - even these barely note-worthy accomplishments I never actually earned; I didn't work hard to achieve these things.  I got this job because some well-meaning middle-aged women that I worked with took pity on me, and talked to their bosses, and told them they knew this kid they thought would do well as a programmer.  And they were right - I am a good programmer.  At least, I'm alright.  But again, not because I try to be, or because I studied or worked hard or went to school or anything else.  I just have a natural talent for logic and pattern recognition and symbology, and so I am a naturally decent programmer.  I could be a great programmer if I wanted to be; if I tried to be and put forth the effort.  But I don't.  Because I don't care.  I only want to put forth the minimum amount of effort to get by, and save the rest for indulging in my life's pleasures.

And it's a similar story with my "home."  I didn't work hard and save money every day so that I could eventually put a down payment on my dream home.  My grandfather died, and since my mother (his daughter) was already dead herself, the portion of his life's wealth that should have been hers (and he had worked hard all his life to achieve that wealth) came to me instead.  And I used all of that money to buy the apartment I had been living in for almost a decade at that point.  The biggest, most "adult" accomplishment of my life - becoming a home-owner - and it only happened because I was in a position to profit off of the deaths of two of my close family members.  And so it has never felt like an accomplishment to me.  It feels like blood money.

(It's true that I performed magick to get the job and the money and the apartment, but even taking the assumption that my magick worked doesn't help the situation any.  Magick is a short-cut.  It's easy compared to actually working hard to learn or to save money.  And it's fun to do, and for that reason alone I wanted to do it, whether it worked or not.  So even assuming that I came by these things through sorcery, it still doesn't feel like an accomplishment to me.  It still doesn't feel like I really earned them.  It feels like I cheated.)

And I will almost certainly never see that much money again in my lifetime.  I can barely maintain a savings of more than a couple of thousand dollars at a time.  I live paycheck-to-paycheck, even with my fairly significant salary.  I've always been that way.  If I have money, I want to spend it on making myself feel good right now, and I can't seem to deny myself comfort or happiness in the present, in order to save it for some undefined future.  As I've written here before, I feel like the Grasshopper, fiddling away as the first snow begins to fall.

But why do I determine the value of my life by comparing it to my parents'?  They were completely different people, living in a completely different time.  And who wanted completely different things from their life than I want from mine.  And I know this.  But I still can't shake this feeling that I am somehow failing at life, because I seem to remember my parents being so much better off in their twenties than I am in my thirties; or will be in my forties.  I just want to be happy, like anyone else.  But I constantly and consistently feel that the things that make me happy aren't good for me.  That they are self-indulgent, or immature, or masturbatory.  That I am a bad person for living my life the way that I do.  But trying to live my life any other way always leaves me just as miserable, if only in a different way.

I just want to spend my life relaxing in the bathhouse, playing games, reading, writing, watching TV and movies, sleeping, eating, drinking and getting high, and punctuating the whole thing with the occasional orgasm.  That is really all I want from life.

And I feel like a worthless waste of a human being for feeling that way.  I hate myself for feeling that way.  But even so, I have no idea how to change it; I have no idea how to want anything else.

Okay, sure, I want other things.  Bigger things.  I want to have a big house with a yard and a basement and an attic.  I want to be able to support myself through writing, or some other form of creative expression.  (If only I could make a living playing games!)  I want a sense of accomplishment.  I want to feel like my life mattered, in any way.  I want to feel a sense of confidence that when I'm gone, I will have made some mark on the world that is all my own; that I will leave behind something more than a pile of carbon dust.  I do want all of these things.  But when I think about them, and I envision the monumental amount of work it would take to even try to achieve any of them - with no guarantee of success! - I lose any hope I may have had about ever actually achieving them.

Because I know that I will never do that work.  I just don't have it in me.  Achieving anything of any real significance requires a single-minded devotion that I just don't have.  Have never had.

Because deep-down, I don't want to be great.  All I really want is to be comfortable.  And I guess I am.  So I should be happy, then, right?  Then why do I feel this way?  I just wish I could learn to be happy with what I have, instead of hating myself for not being able to be great.

I guess what it all really comes down to is this:  I feel lazy, and I hate myself for being lazy, but I don't know how to make myself be anything else.  And I hate myself for that, too.

+          +          +

Or maybe I'm just depressed because winter is coming, and I'm all out of drugs, and I can feel both of these things gnawing at my bones.

Keeping Her Secret, Postcards Home...

In the middle of our two weeks at Summer camp, we received a special treat.  We were allowed to kayak out to Santa Claus Island, an uninhabited spit of sand and tall pine in the middle of Rehoboth Bay, and camp there for the night.  There were about thirty of us boys, all around nine years-old, and six adult camp counselors to watch over us all.  We picked our campsite, pitched our tents, built our fire, dug our latrine, and spent the rest of the day catching crabs from the bay for dinner that night.  Late in the afternoon, I snuck off into the deep woods by myself to masturbate.  After dark, I was running through the woods with some other boys, our flashlight beams bobbing and strobing through the brush as we ran full speed, and I tripped over a root I hadn't seen.  Scraped myself up pretty good.  That was normal for me.  I was a spaz.  Always getting myself hurt somehow.

We ran back to the camp to get first-aid from the counselors.  As they gathered around me, shining their flashlights on my leg to check the extent of my injuries, one of the grown-ups whispered to the counselor who was holding my leg, "Dude.  Your arm."  I looked down to see something protruding from the sweatband he was wearing stretched across his forearm.  I recognized it as a rolled-up sandwich baggie.  I knew exactly what it was.  My parents kept theirs in the same type of bag, rolled up in the same way, in the secret drawer in our coffee table.  At night, they would pinch a little from the bag and smoke it from their tiny wooden pipe, and then laugh and laugh and laugh.  I can still remember lying in bed as a child, and hearing my mother's laughter echoing up from two floors below.  Sometimes, if she was already in her nightgown by the time the call finally came in, and she didn't want to have to get dressed again, she would send me out to meet her connection for her.  I would meet him down at the end of our cul-de-sac, hand him a check for the correct amount, and he would hand me one of those rolled up sandwich bags, filled with the fragrant dried remains of the secret plant that I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about, ever.  And I would bring it back to her and she would smoke it and I would smell the strong burnt odor and she would laugh and laugh.

The counselors had a Secret.  And I knew what it was.

I don't know if it's true or not, but at the time I felt like I was the only one who knew.  Even if any of the other boys had seen the counselor's stash peeking out from his wristband, surely they wouldn't have known what it was.  But I was Special.  I had grown up keeping this secret.  I knew the ways of this hidden adult world, and was comfortable there.  I like to think that when the counselor looked up at me with panic in his eyes after re-secreting his hidden eighth, that I said something like, "Don't worry, it's cool.  I won't tell anyone."  Because I wanted them to know that I was cool.  I wanted them to know that I was down.  That I knew what they were doing, and that I was perfectly okay with it.  I wasn't like all these other little boys who didn't know anything about what adults like to do to have fun.  But I don't think I actually said anything.  I was too shocked, and too afraid of getting in trouble.  I probably just pretended not to notice.  But I saw.  And as I laid in my tent that night, trying to sleep, I couldn't get out of my mind the image of the counselors sitting around our fire outside the tent, passing a joint the way I'd seen my parents and their friends do so many times before.  It reminded me of Home.  It was the first time I'd felt comfortable the entire time I'd been at camp.  The first time I'd felt like I fit in at all.  But no one knew that I knew.  No one could know that I knew.  So even though I suddenly, finally, felt like I belonged, to everyone else I was still just The Spaz.  And there was nothing I could do about it.

Back at camp the next day, we were encouraged to write a postcard to our folks back home.  I was only there for a two-week stay, so I'd only brought one postcard with me.  Trying to think of what to say to my parents, all I could think of was the counselors' secret.  The secret they and my parents shared.  So I wrote it all down on the postcard.  I wanted to tell my parents that there were people like them here with me, watching over me.  "It's okay, they smoke just like you."  I wanted them to know that I was okay here.  That we were all part of the same group, the same tribe, the same family.  The family of people who Kept The Secret.  And I was so proud of myself for being such a grown-up about the whole situation.  And I wanted to show them what a good, grown-up young man I was being for them.  After I'd finished writing out the whole story, filling the entire postcard, I went to hand it in to my counselor to put in the mail for me with the others, so pleased with myself.  And when he held out his hand to take it, I suddenly realized the horrible mistake I'd made.  This was a postcard, not a letter.  There was no envelope.  Who knows how many hands this would pass through between me and my parents?  Certainly other camp staff would see it.  And right there on the back was a detailed description of the secret I was supposed to be keeping.  That I was so proud of keeping.  The counselors smoke pot.  My parents smoke pot.  And everyone who saw this postcard would know!

I couldn't hand it in.  I quickly said I had to fix something, and ran back to my bunk, fear knotting in my gut.  I didn't want to get anyone in trouble.  Not the counselors, and especially not my parents.  I'd written it in pen, so I couldn't erase it.  But I couldn't re-write it, either; I'd used all of the room on the back.  And I didn't have another postcard.  And the counselor was waiting for me to hurry up and hand it in.  Everyone else had already finished theirs and were ready to move on to our next activity for the day.  Everyone was waiting on me.  I had to do something, but I didn't know what to do.  I had to hand in this postcard, but I couldn't hand it in with these words on it for anyone to read.  So I just started blacking out each letter, one-by-one.  Using my pen the same way we used our #2 pencils to fill in the bubbles on our scan forms when we took tests at school, I drew spirals over and over and over each letter until they were just a dark-blue scribbled blob of ink, and the letter underneath was completely obscured.  I pressed down hard, so that my marks bulged out on the backside image on the postcard, like braille.  It felt like it took forever, and eventually the rest of the group left me there in the cabin by myself to finish up whatever it was that I was doing that was so secret and so important.  Once I was finished, all that remained of my original letter home were the words "Hi Mom and Dad!" followed by line after line after line of big, fat, blue scribbled dots, and concluding with a quick "I miss you.  Love, Mike" squeezed into the lower right-hand corner, like an afterthought.  And then I handed it in.  And worried every day the rest of the time I was there that Summer that I might've just ruined my parents' lives.  What if someone could make out the words underneath my scribbles?  How could I have been so careless?

When I got home at the end of the week, my parents asked me about the postcard.  When it had arrived in the mail, they didn't know whether they should laugh about it, or be worried about me.  Once again, I'd done something strange, that didn't seem to make much sense, and that they didn't know how to take.  But now that we were alone, I could finally tell them the whole story.  And afterwards, I saw relief spread across my mother's face.  And then she kissed me, and told me she was proud of me for being so smart, and for doing such a good job of keeping her secret.

Bad News Beers...

I am definitely drinking too much.

I'm not entirely surprised, or overly concerned, by this.  It's to be expected that after abstaining for a year, I would revel a bit in the new found freedom to drink again.  It's new and shiny and fun and I want it all right now!  And I also expected it to take me a while to learn the ropes again; we have to fuck up in order to learn how to do something right.

But, still, I'm definitely drinking too much.  And I need to calm down.  Now.

I need to remember that I can't just drink as much as I want, whenever I want.  I could die that way.  And if I keep it up, I will die that way.

Wake up, motherfucker.

Further Results...

Well, this is getting downright disappointing.  Last night, things got even worse.  I'm beginning to feel down about this whole thing.  I'm honestly not sure what to do at this point.

Yesterday afternoon, I started to feel restless and anxious.  I couldn't pinpoint why, exactly.  But that's not entirely unusual for me.  What was unusual, was that the feeling steadily grew as the day went on.  And then I started to get upset.  Just feeling really down, really unhappy.  Again, no apparent cause for this emotional state, and again, it grew steadily.  By the time I got home from work, I felt like complete shit.  I was really depressed, and really unhappy, about nothing in particular, and everything in general.

And I could discern this strange disconnect between my emotional state and the rest of my perception.  For instance, something unpleasant would happen, and my mental response would be, "Oh, well," while my emotional response would be, "Oh, gods, WHY??"  And I would wonder, why did that emotional response pair with that mental response?  They don't fit together.  And of the two of them, the mental response seemed a more appropriate and accurate reflection of the event that triggered it; the emotional response seems over-the-top and uncalled for.  And that kind of thing kept happening over and over again.

Eventually I began to realize that one of my worst fears about this experiment seemed to be coming to pass.  I was clearly depressed, that much was obvious.  And it seemed likely that this was another of those backlash chemical depressions that have followed any and every intoxication I've experienced this past year.

Only one way to be sure.  Have to test the theory.  I hadn't been planning to drink last night, because I didn't want to immediately start off drinking every day again.  My plan is not to have a drink unless there's a good reason.  (And neither "it's Thursday night" nor "I just got home from work" qualify as good reasons to drink.)  But if I had a drink, and the depression and anxiety went away, then I would know that it was definitely chemical withdrawal that caused it.

So I had a shot of tequila.  And immediately felt that dizzy sickness again.  And then I started to feel better.

A little while later, I had another shot.  And then I felt perfectly normal.  No depression, no anxiety.  Nice and relaxed.

So, now I know.  On top of no longer being able to enjoy it the way that I used to, the way that I would like to, I will also have to deal with the fact that any time I take a drink, I am then going to have to deal with a deep depression, for which the only cures are to either let it run its course, however long it takes (days, weeks, months - I've experienced all of those at various points this past year), or to have another drink.

To say that I am discouraged by these findings would be rather an understatement.

Preliminary Results...

Okay, that was not at all what I expected.

I didn't actually know what to expect, exactly, but I had some ideas that seemed plausible and/or probable.  But what actually happened was something I had never even thought of.

For starters, it was a lot harder to actually do than I thought it would be.  Holding a bottle of beer in my hand for the first time in a year, I was surprised by how difficult it was to make myself take a drink.  I assumed I would be jumping right into that bottle.  But I'd been entirely focused on not drinking for an entire year of my life.  And knowing that as soon as I took that first sip, all of that was done, over, finished, made it difficult to do.  I had to intentionally and purposefully bring to an end something that I had invested a lot of time and energy into.  And I had a lot of mixed feelings about that.  It wasn't all happiness and "yeah, I did it!"  It was a lot more "I can't believe it's over" and "am I sure about this?"  It was very strange.  And, as I said, unexpected.

Also unexpected was the degree to which my tolerance has tanked.  I knew that my tolerance would be significantly lower than it was a year ago, but I don't think my tolerance has ever been as low as it is right now.  I was noticeably altered from a half of a beer.  And not just a little bit, either.  It was almost overwhelming.  From a half of a beer.

But the worst thing - and I really never, ever saw this coming - was that I didn't actually enjoy it.  Any of it.  I couldn't find any of the sensations I used to enjoy about it.  It was a wholly different experience now, and I didn't like it.  I just felt dizzy and nauseated.  None of the happiness or relaxation that I've come to expect from alcohol.

I was prepared for the possibility of liking it too much.  It never occurred to me that I might not like it at all.  And I'm finding myself really upset about that.  I liked enjoying alcohol.  And all I wanted to do here was try and learn how to enjoy it in a responsible way.  I never would've done this if I'd known that it was going to completely eliminate my ability to enjoy it at all.

All I wanted to do was try and learn how to drink in moderation.  Not become someone who can't drink, and doesn't want to.

Now what?

Fifty-one Down...

Only one week left.  Just seven days (and three hours) from now, I will have completed one of the most significant accomplishments of my life so far.

I wish I knew how to feel about that.

About To Get Wet...

thirteen days
and I'm feeling unlucky
less than two weeks
until
I break this self-imposed fast
and I don't know
what I'm feeling
anymore
so excited
overly anxious
prematurely proud
afraid
it will all go wrong

I've never wanted
a drink
more than I do right now
and every day
that is true
all over again
how will I feel
with three days to go?
with two?
that first sip of whiskey
might make me cry

what if I can't handle it
what if I get depressed again
what if I lose my creativity
what if I can't write anymore
what if I can write
but I don't want to
what if I can write
and I want to
but I don't feel anything when I do
what if I don't feel anything

I only learned
to express myself
when I stopped
only started to write
when I dried up
so now I'm afraid
dipping my toe back
into that
golden Kentucky spring
could take that all away from me
and I don't know
what I'd do without this
how I'd deal without this
who I'd be without this
joy of
turning inward
feeling around
pulling something out
pouring over it
crafting it
shaping it
until it's just right
and then
casting it out
into the universe
to be its own

if I have to choose
I know what I'll choose
but either way
I'll lose
something
I love
and I won't be
me
anymore

Three-hundred Fifty-one...

Only two weeks left.

Two weeks from today, I will drink a beer.  A Guinness.  In a bottle.  And then I will have a glass of whiskey.  Eagle Rare bourbon, my favorite.  On the rocks, in my favorite glass tumbler.  And who knows what else after that.

I can't tell what I'm feeling.  Something like excitement, but not quite.  Almost anxiety, but not exactly.  Anticipation?  Fear?  Some jumbled soup of them all, most likely.

I want it so badly.  I've never wanted a drink this much in my entire life.  I want a drink right now more than I ever, ever wanted a drink when I actually was drinking.

I feel so proud of myself for actually accomplishing this.

I feel guilty for feeling this way, and I try to suppress it, reminding myself that I haven't actually accomplished anything yet.  I have two weeks left to go.  I can feel proud then.  And celebrate with a drink.

I'm so scared that something bad is going to happen.  That I'm going to go off the deep end and lose control in some way that I never have before.  That I'm going to end up in another of those deep chemical depressions.  That I'm going to lose all of my creativity and desire to express myself.  That I'm going to lose the ability to write poetry.  Or worse, that I'm going to lose the ability to enjoy writing.  I'm scared of some other bad result that I haven't even thought of.

I'm scared of the fact that I don't know what's going to happen.

But I have to find out.

I have to know if I can handle it or not.

I have to find out how else the last year has changed me.

Lapse...

So, I think I relapsed.

Accidentally.  Without even knowing it.

That sounds absurd, but it's the most logical assumption to make, given the evidence.

I had no trouble staying sober at Dover, and though I recognized on a couple of occasions that it would've been nice to have a drink or something, I was never stressed by it, and it didn't interfere with my ability to enjoy myself in the slightest.  In fact, the one notable difference between this weekend and past trips was that this one was noticeable easier for me.  I'm normally exhausted by the experience, but this time it was just a nice little vacation; I never realized how much of that exhaustion was apparently due to the booze, etc.

So, I had a great time, and was feeling wonderful.  But then, a day or so after coming home, I suddenly started to feel really down.  It started when I couldn't sleep properly.  But it just got worse from there.  I ended up getting severely depressed, and completely exhausted.  I couldn't sleep enough, and yet I never felt rested.  And I had no energy, no drive, no ambition, no desires; at best I was numb - at worst, I was completely miserable and pissed off at everything.

I had a few different guesses as to what might be causing this condition, but as I resolved them one-by-one, with no change in my mood, I had to try and form new theories.  Which is when I realized that what I was experiencing felt like the exact same depressive period that follows a relapse for me.  And that's when I remembered the sleeping pills.

I took sleeping pills the nights we stayed at Dover.  One pill each night; half the recommended dosage.  I wasn't taking them to get high.  I was taking them for their intended purpose, to help me sleep.  We were staying in a flea-bag hotel, and I was wide awake in an uncomfortable bed, and I had a lot to do the next day, and needed to get an early start.  I didn't think anything of it at the time.  Because I was thinking of it as "medicine" and not "drugs."  But in hindsight, it became obvious - of course I got high off of them (they altered my brain-chemistry to the point that I was rendered unconscious, for fuck's sake), and so of course I was going to experience the same depression afterwards that I experience whenever I get high off of anything; the reason why I took them is completely irrelevant to my brain-chemistry.

So, I've been suffering through that since we got back, and am only just now starting to come out of it.  That's one reason why I haven't posted anything for a while.  (Work is the other half of that, but that's a whole other post in and of itself.) This one has been particularly difficult to deal with, because it's been accompanied by strong doses of self-pity and righteous indignation.  Normally, I know exactly what I did wrong, and I know exactly why it was wrong, and so a part of this depression feels like a deserved punishment; I knew what to expect, and I did this to myself, so I really have no right to complain about it, and should just shut the fuck up and take it like a man.  But in this case, I don't really feel like I did anything wrong.  I didn't truly relapse in the sense that I didn't give in to my cravings and desires.  I didn't even have any cravings or desires!  I was just trying to solve a problem I was experiencing by taking a medicine designed to alleviate that particular ailment, and is available at any local convenience store.  And now I have to feel like complete shit for two weeks??

And the worst part is, I didn't even get to get high!  If I'm going to have to suffer through this period of misery, I should at least get the enjoyment of having a drink or something out of it.  That's only fair, right?  But in this case, I didn't get the drink; all I got was the hangover.  And that just feels so wrong.

Those thoughts kept running through my mind, and it became really difficult to not have a drink.  To know that all I would have to do is have one drink, and all this pain would simply vanish for a time, and I would be allowed to feel good again for a short while - that was really hard to resist.  Especially when I felt like I was already paying the price for it; it felt like I'd earned it, in a way.  But I was able to maintain perspective, and remind myself that having a drink would only prolong the inevitable, and make it worse in the long-run.  And set me back a few months.  (I really didn't want to erase all those Sober Days from my tally and have to start back at zero again.)  And, thankfully, a part of me wanted to suffer through it.  I have that stubborn desire to build endurance through gritting my teeth and taking pain lately, and that served me well here, again.  As horrible as the experience was - and perhaps even because it was so horrible - I wanted it to be over as quickly as possible, and I knew the best way to accomplish that was just to try and keep my mouth shut and suffer through it.

I also ate whatever the fuck I wanted for two weeks and gained several pounds, but again, that's a whole other post, entirely.

What I Should Have Said...

I realize now that I failed at SMART last night.

Because it was my last meeting before the AGM, I felt like I should continue talking about my concerns about that (which unfortunately I can't discuss here - erg).  But, since my meeting with my old Temple the weekend before last, and my reflections on that meeting over the last week, I largely don't have any more concerns about the AGM left to discuss.  I feel pretty confident and excited about it right now.  So, I mentioned that.  And talked a little about how tired I was because of work lately.  And that was about it for my sharing.

But now I know that what I should have talked about, was the fact that throughout the entire meeting, I couldn't stop thinking about how badly I wanted to get the Tuesday night ribs 'n' wings dinner special at the bbq place around the corner as soon as the meeting was over.

I have a serious love/hate relationship with this bbq place.  They are Satanic.  Even their name sounds sinister:  Black Hog.  Their bbq is so good and it is so not what I should be eating right now.  I live very nearby the place, and it seems as if they've intentionally timed their cooking to coincide with my commute, because every night when I get home from work, the first thing I notice is the smell of woodsmoke and charred meat.  Fucking bastards.  Here I am, trying to eat right and get in shape, and every night they viciously assault me with their deliciousness.  It's cruel.

And last night was no different.  As soon as I got out of my car - BAM - like a smack across the face, there came that intoxicating aroma of flame-scorched flesh.  And what's worse, I had a pretty shitty day yesterday, and by that point I was tired and wasn't in a very good mood.  And all I had to look forward to for the rest of the night, was a SMART meeting that I really didn't feel like going to, and a pre-packaged, frozen dinner afterwards.  And that made bbq seem like an even better idea.  A little treat, just to pick myself up.  I deserved it, didn't I?

But that's exactly the problem, and exactly why I couldn't stop thinking about it all through the meeting.  I wasn't really hungry, and I wasn't really craving bbq.  I was trying to make myself feel better.  I was trying to elevate my mood.  And I've found that now that I'm no longer using mood-elevating substances like drugs and booze, I'm more and more lately turning to food to achieve the same results.  It's just another example of my inability to endure any unhappiness at all, and my compulsive use of external influences (or substances) that I know are not good for me in the long run, just to make myself feel better right now.

And it's really pissing me off.

I'm working really hard to try and get in shape right now, and every time I give in to my need to make myself feel better by eating some totally-delicious-and-totally-bad-for-me food, I feel as if I'm un-doing all of that hard work, and making all of that pain and sacrifice worth nothing.  And more and more I'm feeling like a failure whenever I do this, for once again failing to endure even the most minor of emotional discomfort, and for sacrificing my health and shooting myself in the foot just because I cannot abide any unhappiness.  And those feelings of guilt and failure end up tainting my experience of the meal, so in the end, I don't end up feeling better anyways.  It's the exact same cycle I'm experiencing in my recovery from drug and alcohol abuse.

So, I sat there throughout the meeting, dreaming of ways to get out of there early and sneak off to get high on bbq, and knowing full-well that I shouldn't.  But I managed to stay until the end.  And then the whole walk home I wrestled with it.  I wanted so badly to keep walking and round the corner and pick up a bag of ribs and wings and bring them back home and devour them.

But I was too aware of the problem.  Too aware of what I was really doing, and what it really meant.  In the end, I couldn't bring myself to do it, in the exact same way that I can't seem to bring myself to take a drink, even when I really want to:  it would cost me so much self-esteem and self-respect to do it - to fail at this task and take that drink, or eat that nasty-delicious food - that it's just not worth doing anymore.

So, instead of making myself feel better with food, I tried to make myself feel better by focusing on the positive aspects of my decision.  I tried to feel good about the fact that I was saving money by not eating out, again.  (We eat out every week, sometimes two or three times.  There are a dozen great restaurants within a two block radius of us, and it is so hard to make ourselves eat our crappy grocery-store dinners when we have money in our pockets and stupid-delicious food all around us.)  I tried to feel good about the fact that I wasn't undoing all my pain and effort from my workouts.  I tried to feel good about the fact that I was making progress, and actually succeeding in my efforts to endure unhappiness for a change, rather than immediately balming it away by any means necessary.  And I did feel good about those things.  But none of them helped to improve my mood the way I wanted, and I was still feeling like a grumpy old shit when I went to bed last night.

But today?

Today I feel good.

Today, I'm proud of myself for what I accomplished last night.

And just like with my working-out, I feel stronger today for the pain I forced myself to endure yesterday.

Friendships In Chaos, pt. 3...

It happens to everyone in recovery, at some point.

After sobering up, you run into an old friend, and realize that they have the same problem.

Maybe it's a new development.  Or maybe they've always been an addict or alcoholic, but you just couldn't see it before, through the rose-tinted glasses of your own addictions.  Either way, the question you now have to face is:  what do you do?

When I got together with my old Temple last weekend, it was immediately obvious to me that in the last couple of years, while I was away, one of my old friends has become an alcoholic.  The first thing I noticed, as soon as I saw him, was that he's put on at least fifty pounds.  He's always been a thin, handsome guy, so the weight is really apparent now.  But he doesn't look fat; he just looks bloated.  When I got there, he was finishing up a scotch.  I assume it was his first, but I don't really know, because as soon as he finished that one, he poured himself another.  And twenty minutes later, when he'd finished that one, he poured himself a third.  Then we went out to dinner, where he had a 32 oz. beer, and two large bottles of sake, all by himself.

Now, that's a lot for one person to drink in just a few hours, but that doesn't automatically make him an alcoholic.  The nail in the coffin was that, even after all of that, he didn't seem drunk.  He was a bit red in the face, and he was obviously loose and feeling good, but he didn't seem sloppy; he wasn't slurring his words or stumbling or anything like that.  So, either it takes that much alcohol just in order for him to get a good buzz on, or he's really good at hiding just how drunk he really is.  Either way, combine that with the weight gain, and it's clear this is a chronic thing with him.  And just in case it wasn't certain already, at one point he made a "joke" about how he doesn't even taste his first two beers of the night; that as soon as he gets home from work, he immediately pounds two beers, and then he interacts with his wife and sons.  He seemed to think that was funny, but I'm not sure why.

So, now the big question:  what do I do?

The answer is surprisingly simple.  I don't do anything.

Now, he's my friend, and I'm obviously worried about him.  But I have to remember that there really isn't anything I can do.  I'm aware of the situation, and I'm going to keep my eyes open, but that's about it in terms of my available options here.  If an opportunity arises at some point down the road for me to somehow subtly let him know that I know what he's going through, and that I'm available for him if he needs anything, then great.  If not, that's okay, too.

Ultimately, he's responsible for himself, and no one will be able to help him unless he believes he has a problem and he wants help with it.  If I were to confront him about his drinking in some way, all that would serve to do would be to alienate him and strain, or possibly even end, our friendship.  And if he does end up needing help at some point down the road, then that's the worst thing I could possibly have done, because then I wouldn't be there to be able to help him anymore.

There's also the hammer/nail problem of being a newly recovered addict.  As in, "when you're a Hammer, everything looks like a Nail."  There is nothing worse than the self-righteous douchebag with a handful of weeks sober, who suddenly decides to start going around diagnosing everyone else as alcoholics, as though being a drunk somehow made them an expert.  But even beyond simply not wanting to be that asshole, what's more important is that I could be wrong.  It doesn't seem all that likely in this situation, but it's definitely possible.  Maybe he doesn't usually drink like that; maybe he had a hard week and was just blowing off some extra steam that night.  There's no way for me to know, and it would be premature for me to judge him after just a couple of hours.  And newly sober people do have a tendency to start seeing addicts and alcoholics everywhere.  And yes, part of that is because they are everywhere, and because we don't tend to notice them as easily when we are one of them, and then they suddenly stand out like sore thumbs once we clean ourselves up.  But it's equally as true that we tend to project our issues onto other people, and see problems that aren't really there.  Not everyone who enjoys a few drinks has a problem, and it's easy for the person who does have a problem to lose sight of that.  And there's really no way to tell if someone really has a problem, or if you just think they have a problem, and so it's usually best to just keep your mouth shut and observe for a while, and just try to make yourself available.

Another thing that is important to remember in this situation, but that is often forgotten, is that there is a big difference between being addicted to alcohol and being a dysfunctional drunk.  It seems pretty clear to me that my friend has become addicted to alcohol.  But, as far as I can tell, the only negative effect that seems to be having on his life, is his health.  (And maybe his wallet.)  And if that's all - if he's still doing his job well, and maintaining relationships, and being a good husband and father and friend (all of which seem to be true) - then who am I to judge him?  We each have to decide how much our own health is worth to us, and it's no one else's place to tell us how much it should be worth to us.  (Our families might have some say in that decision, but that's about as far as it goes.  As a friend, I'm certainly not in any place to be telling him how to feel about himself.)  And so if he's enjoying his drinking, and he doesn't mind the toll it's taking on his health, or he thinks that is a reasonable price to pay for the amount of joy or pleasure he is getting out of it, and it isn't interfering with his ability to maintain his responsibilities and be a decent human being, then that's entirely his decision to make, and I really have no reason to be sticking my nose into his business.

And there's one more wrinkle to this situation that applies to this friend in particular.  I can't forget that he is a powerful chaos magickian.  And we magickians (chaos magickians in particular, I think) have a much greater tendency to get ourselves into trouble.  As a general rule, we push boundaries.  We try to find the edge of things, and then live there.  (Another way I don't fit the general model, as I tend to bounce back and forth from edge to edge in order to find the middle.)  But we also have a much greater tendency to find our own solutions to the problems we create for ourselves.  We get ourselves into trouble more often than the average, but we're also good at finding ways to smooth those problems over.  Self-empowerment is what we do.  I've seen many, many other magickians in similar situations over the years; situations where just about anyone else would be in over their head and need to ask for help, but the magickian is able to navigate the situation safely themselves, and find their own way to get better.  So, if it were anyone else, I would be much more worried.  But because I know he is a damned good magickian, I can feel confident in the fact that he has a much greater chance of successfully pulling himself out of this hole he's digging right now, if and when he ever feels the need to.

So, for now, I'm just going to keep my eye on him, and just try to be there if and when he decides he needs my help.  If I get a chance at any point during the AGM next week, maybe I'll try to tell him a little bit of my story, just to let him know that I've recently been in the same situation.

At the very least, I want to pay attention to him, as a living, breathing example of the possible future I only recently so narrowly escaped.

The Junkie And The Monk...

This is one of my absolute favorite Moth stories ever, and I'm so glad they finally posted it to their YouTube channel.


The Junkie And The Monk by Mike DeStefano

Good SMART...

Another part of getting back into my routine, was getting back to a SMART meeting last night, after missing the previous two weeks.  Rather surprisingly, this one actually made me feel a little better.

Talked about my recent relapse and depression, and my struggle to learn endurance, and to allow myself to simply accept unhappiness in those situations where I can't find any relief, rather than falling back into the habit of using drugs to create a synthetic happiness to relieve those feelings.  (I feel like I've made progress, because drugs used to be my first response to those feelings, and now they are only a last-resort when all else has failed.  But, still, it's unhealthy, and more to the point, it doesn't work - it doesn't actually relieve the feeling or make me feel better - and I'm tired of it, and I want to break this habit and learn to accept pain and unhappiness when I have to.)  I tried to keep it brief, because one of the last times I talked, the Facilitator actually cut me off after fifteen minutes for taking up too much time.  But despite my efforts, my check-in seemed to spark a rather intense and lengthy discussion that involved almost the entire group, and ended up lasting for a full half-hour.

And in that thirty minutes, I actually got some good advice.  For instance, not to even bother to give people a reason that I'm not drinking, etc.  And if they press me for a reason, to just say that I don't feel like it right now.  There's no need to say any more than that; and, in fact, often times giving people a reason will only invite them to debate said reason in an effort to try to convince you to join them.  So, don't give them a chance.

Someone described my condition as a "relief-seeking missile," which I thought was rather amusing.

Also, someone suggested that these past two weeks of depression are actually an example of the endurance I'm struggling to learn.  I hadn't thought of it that way.  In thinking about it, it occurred to me that I'd been able to endure these past two weeks because I felt like I had no other choice.  I wanted it to end, and the only way to do that was to let it run its course, and then jump up at the very first sign of emotional elevation.  And at the cabin, I hadn't been able to endure, and (probably not coincidentally) I believed then that I did have a choice; that I could choose to get high and that would make me feel better.  And, of course, that's not really true.  It made me feel a little better, sort of, for a very short time, and then made me feel much, much worse for a good, long while after that.  So, I think part of the key to getting through those triggering situations like the cabin, is to tell myself that I don't really have a choice.  I want to be happy and healthy right now, and the only way to do that is to endure those periods of suffering when they arise.  Just like I did for the past two weeks.

I was also reminded of the simple truth that the good times only exist because of the bad times; they only exist in relation to one another, so one can't exist without the other.  And therefore, the bad times only serve to make the good times that much better.  And that if I ever want to be happy, I have to allow myself to be unhappy once in a while, too.

And there was also a lot of general encouragement and congratulations and I'm-proud-of-you's just for being honest and telling my story.  (I guess this is difficult for a lot of people?  Because everyone seemed to be particularly amazed by it and proud of me for doing it.  But it's just really easy to be honest when you're shameless and generally don't care what people think of you.  Besides, if I'm not honest during these check-ins, then I'm just shooting myself in the foot and wasting my time, so what's the point of even being there?  If I'm not going to be honest, then I've got much better things that I could be doing with my Tuesday nights.)

After it was all over, I found that I felt a lot better about the past few weeks, and a lot better about myself.  Enough that I was actually surprised by the feeling.  I realized I'd actually made some progress with this experience, and that it wasn't just a setback.  And I felt a lot better about this process going forward.  I realized I was more hopeful about my chances of success now.

And all that made me realize that, for once, I was actually glad to be there.

Things I Never Thought I'd Hear Myself Say...

Finally got back to the gym this morning.  I was so excited and so happy to finally be working out again!  It's been over two weeks since my last workout, and I've been feeling like a giant, fat, useless slug of a human being the whole time.  I'm really, really happy to finally be back in my routine.

I'm tired of getting high, quite honestly.  I'm really fucking tired of this cycle, and I want out.  I get clean for a few months, and then I use again.  Ultimately, this is what I would like - to be able to use on occasion.  But years of chronic abuse have made that impossible for the time being, because right now, whenever I use at all, even a little bit, even after several months clean, I'm immediately plunged into a multi-week depression.  Part of it is simply chemical - the drugs have caused my brain to stop producing the chemicals that would make me happy.  But part of it is also situational.  I enjoy my routine.  I like getting up early, I like working out, I like getting home and to bed at reasonable times, I like writing here and meditating and all the rest of it.  When I'm doing these things, I'm happy, I'm strong, I sleep well, I have energy to spare, and, most importanly, I feel good about myself.  But when I'm depressed, and have no focus, and no energy, and no creativity, I can't do any of those things, and then that depresses me even more.  And then I eat, because it seems like the only enjoyable thing in my life that I can still control, but even that ends up depressing me more, because I swear I can actually feel myself getting fat.

My only saving grace so far has been that I hate that feeling of depression so much, that the second it begins to wane at all, I immediately start clawing my way out of that hole like my life depended on it.  Which, I guess it kind of does, without being too dramatic about it.  Maybe not my actual living, but certainly the quality of my life.

Oh, well.  I'm re-hashing old material at this point.  Learning the exact same lessons over and over again.  Maybe this time it'll stick.

In the meantime, I'm just glad to finally be climbing out of the hole of the last two weeks.  Glad to be back in my routine, and glad to finally be doing something other than sleeping, eating, or playing video games.  (Have to say, though, God of War 3 and Bioshock were pretty fucking fun.)

It's only a first step, and one I've taken more times than I'd like to admit, but still, it feels good.  And here's hoping it's the beginning of a trend; a sign of what's to come.

Disappointments & Failures...

How's that for a title, huh?

I was in a pretty good place the last time I wrote here, almost a week ago.  But the past week hasn't gone well for me, and I've swung myself over to the opposite end of the scale since then.

It started when my weekend vacation in the woods didn't work out as anticipated.  I got some writing done (expect to be reading my crappy work off and on for the next week or so), but nowhere near as much as I had wanted.  The mosquitoes and other bugs were simply relentless, so I couldn't do any meditating out in the peaceful forest setting, either, which I'd been looking forward to a great deal.  (We are both covered in itchy, red bites from head to toe now.)  And the hot tub out on the back deck, which is one of my favorite features of this cabin-in-the-woods, and which might've provided some needed respite from the bugs, was broken.  So, while the weather was beautiful, and the setting serene, I couldn't really spend any time outside to enjoy it.  Oh, and somehow, we only managed to have sex once all weekend.  So pathetic.  What a waste.

And to top it all off, after all of these disappointments, combined with all of the stress of getting everything ready for the vacation, and then not being able to find any way to relax once we got there, I ended up succumbing to my addictive desires, and relapsed again.  So much for "looking forward to spending this weekend sober."  I somehow managed to justify it with the fact that I was using a drug I'd never used before, and not one of the ones that I'm currently trying to resist because I've had problems with them in the past.  (Basically, I told myself it was okay to use this drug, because it wasn't alcohol or pot or painkillers, and because I'd never used it before.  Which is such complete bullshit.  Same old pattern I'm trying to break:  avoid using one drug by using another instead.)  I'm not going to name the drug here, but it's legal (or maybe it'd be better to say that it's not yet illegal), and while not actually a painkiller, one of the active chemicals in the plant bonds to the opiod-receptors in the brain, producing the same physical sensation, without most (if not all) of the harmful side-effects of true opiates (liver damage, chemical dependency, respiratory failure, withdrawl, etc.)

So, basically, it's a safe, cheap, legal way to get an opiate-like high.  How the fuck am I supposed to say no to that?!  The horrible, deadly, sickness-inducing side-effects of opiates are what I use to convince myself not to do them in the first place!  Without them, I'm reduced to telling myself, "Well, you shouldn't use it because... well, because you've committed to a year sober and you don't want to feel like a failure.  Oh, and don't forget that if you get high, on anything, at all, you'll end up feeling depressed and lazy and unmotivated and emotionally unbalanced for a week, remember?"

All of which is true, but I couldn't bring myself to give a shit at the time.  And now I'm paying the price.  I just wanted to enjoy my vacation, and I had run out of other options that I could find.  Somehow, sitting around the cabin watching DVDs (two of the three movies we watched ended up being really awful) and snacking (which just made me feel fat - I could feel all of my workouts being undone with every bite) just weren't going to do it for me.   And that's my problem in a nutshell.  I couldn't bring myself to stay sober, knowing that it meant not enjoying myself on my vacation.  Because when I get in a situation where I feel like I need to have a good time, and I try and fail to find any other way to do it, I always know that I've got this sure-fire method right in my back pocket.  And, sure, that shortcut comes with a heavy price to pay, but I can never seem to bring myself to care about that in the moment.  I'm always willing to pay almost any price later to enjoy myself now.

Like I said last week, a lot of what I'm trying to work on right now is learning how to suffer; how to allow myself to be okay with something like having a shitty, sober vacation, rather than feeling like I have to get high in order to avoid it (which only ends up making for a shittier vacation anyways).  And this was put to the test this weekend, hard.  And I failed that test, completely and utterly.

Anyways, then I got home and found out that my wireless had broken, again.  So I had to take the laptop back to the shop and have them fix it, again, less than a week after I got it back from them and spent two days frantically trying to restore all my files and programs.  But before I took it back to the shop I wanted to make another back up, since my previous one is corrupted.  I decided to back-up to disk this time, since every other method I've tried has failed.  After three hours, and three failed attempts, I had to give up on that method, as well.  (I have never, not once in my entire life, successfully backed-up a computer.  Every single attempt I have ever made using any method has failed.  Either it crashes while creating the back-up, or it doesn't restore from the back-up properly.  Why the fuck do I even bother?)

Then the depression from a weekend spent getting high kicked in full-force, and (combined with all of the other things I was already legitimately depressed about) totally knocked me on my ass, and I ended up calling out sick and spending two days on my couch playing video games.  (I am such a fucking child!)  I'm chemically exhausted from the coming-down, and so it takes me hours to get up and out the door in the morning.  As such, I haven't worked out in almost a week, and I know I've managed to completely undo most of the gains I've made with all that hard work in the last month.  I finally managed to make it into work today, but an hour late, only to find out that I missed an important assignment while I was out, and my boss had to take care of it for me.  (I didn't know about it, because I couldn't check my work email, because my computer is still fucking broken!)  Then my boss had a "talk" with me about the fact that I never seem to have any internet at home.  (For years, this was because our building's internet sucked.  And now that we have finally managed to fix that, my computer has been broken for a month!)  And my story of why I never seem to have internet at home sounds ridiculous (even to me, and I know it's true!) so she didn't believe me, and I can hardly blame her.

I skipped SMART last night, because I'm too depressed, and too much of a coward to face all those assholes and admit what a stupid fucking failure I am.  And I skipped my therapist appointment today (which I should be at right now, actually) because I couldn't bring myself to leave work early to go to my appointment, after missing two days and then coming in late today.

So, basically, my vacation sucked, I relapsed, I'm chemically depressed and exhausted, my computer is still broken and back in the shop again, I haven't worked out in a week, I'm way behind and in trouble at work, and I feel like a miserable, worthless, piece-of-shit excuse for a person right now.

And it is ALL.  My.  Fault.

Taking It...

Picking up my computer on the way home tonight, and spending the bulk of my night setting it up again.  I'm so happy I could shit my pants!

The yang to that happy yin seems to be my SMART meeting last night.  Every time I do my "check-in" lately (what they call taking your turn to speak) I just end up feeling embarrassed, and like I made an ass of myself.  And worse, I can't tell if I really did make an ass out of myself, or if I'm just being self-conscious.  Either way, the net result is that I end up feeling like I really don't want to go to these meetings anymore.  But I don't feel like I can stop, either.

I'm really not enjoying the experience; but, then again, is this an experience that you're really supposed to enjoy?  It's about learning and getting healthy, not having fun.  And I'd really like my Tuesday nights back (I could be volunteering at the planetarium if I didn't have to do this instead, which I'd much rather do), but inconvenience hardly seems like a good excuse to stop going.  You know what's really inconvenient?  A drug habit.

And I don't know if these meetings are doing me any good.  And that's the main reason why I still feel like I have to go:  I don't know if these meetings are doing me any good or not.  If I knew for a reasonable certainty that these meetings were not helping me much, then I would feel perfectly fine with deciding to stop going.  But if I stop now, without having answered that question, then I'm just quitting; I'm just giving up.  And as much as I'm not enjoying this, and as much as I don't seem to be getting much out of it beyond embarrassment, I'd be really upset with myself if I just gave up.

I keep coming back to this lesson again and again all over my life.  I think it's one of the big things I'm trying to tackle through this process.  It's not simply about not drinking and not getting high for the next year.  What I'm really trying to do, is learn how to take it.  When my life sucks, and I'm stuck doing things that I don't want to do, and I'm unhappy with the way things are going, and there's nothing I can do to change it, then just shut the fuck up and take it.  You can't be happy all the time.  Sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do and that make you unhappy.  And when you ease those pains with chemicals, that makes you weak.  And you come to rely on those chemicals, because you're not strong enough to simply put up with those feelings of stress and depression and unhappiness on your own.

So, I'm learning endurance here.  I'm working out my "acceptance muscle," and it's getting stronger.  I'm a lot stronger than I used to be, because I never bothered to work it out at all before.  Whenever I had to use that muscle, and whenever it got sore, I'd soothe it with the painkillers of booze, and pot - and sometimes even actual painkillers.  But now I'm using it, and working it out, and getting stronger, and learning to accept that sometimes I have to just shut the fuck up, and take it, and do what I have to do, instead of what I want to do.

Like going to these stupid fucking meetings.

Confounding Conundrum Countered, Conclusively...

Regarding the question, "if I'm still getting high, but just in healthier ways, am I really changing?  am I really getting better?" - a question I have been asking myself here repeatedly for some time now - I think I finally have an answer.

My counselor read my blog entry yesterday regarding the SMART meeting (I sometimes send him pertinent entries to keep him updated between sessions, and he is gracious enough to read them), and he sent me this reply:

A desire to want to get high and/or altering our mind/mood state is part of our genetic, biological, and chemical make-up as Humans. It is an underlying instinctual desire that we all have. That's why we have serotonin, dopamine, endorphins, adrenaline, and various other chemical neurotransmitters in the first place. These chemicals are a vital part of our survival mechanism, that's why sex, eating, and exercise can feel ssoooooo gooood! These chemicals are a part of [our] neuro-chemical make up to ensure pleasure when we engage in these activities. These activities are necessary for the healthy survival of any species. A desire to feel good or even feel high or to alter our mental status is very much a part of who we are as humans. This is why every civilization known to Man has developed some sort of mind altering practices or substances. The harm is when we lose the capacity to regulate the chemical process either internally or externally. Excess is what changes the dynamic from healthy to unhealthy and triggers addictive behaviors.

Short answer:  getting high is just a part of who we are, and we wouldn't be here without it; so, healthy methods are okay, but everything in moderation, always.

It seems so obvious now.  And in hindsight, I feel like I already knew it.  I just couldn't find my own way there, for some reason.  I was over-analyzing the situation again, I think.  Missing the forest for the trees.  I'm glad I had someone there who could explain it to me in a way that I could understand, and use.  Thanks, Doc.

I enjoyed my workout-induced endorphin high this morning, guilt-free.


PS - I kind of want to talk about this at my next SMART meeting, but I don't know if that's because I want to update them on my progress, or if I just want to start a confrontation with the panicky facilitator and prove him wrong in front of the rest of the group.  Can't deny that'd be fun.  But definitely a dick-move, too.  We'll see how I feel next week, I guess.

The Mighty Endorphin...

Day 3 of my new-and-improved workout routine.  Running harder and faster, really getting my heart rate up there.

Around about the 15-minute mark, I started to notice some changes.  It was starting to hurt less.  In fact, more than that - I was starting to feel pretty good!  The music I was listening to was just suddenly so awesome!  And my eyelids were getting sooo heavy.  I was getting really drowsy, but not sleepy, and I wasn't slowing down at all.  I was still pumping away at a furious pace, to match the beating of my heart - left, right, left, right, left right left right left right bang bang bang bang.  It felt more like nodding, that state where the opiate is so overwhelmingly pleasurable that the user repeatedly passes in and out of consciousness, or "nods off."

And that's when I realized it:  I was really high!

And while I enjoyed it, and while I knew I was doing something good for myself - and so I should just let myself enjoy this, could even consider it my reward for putting in the effort - there was a part of me that still felt bad about it and felt like I was doing something wrong.  And then I was right back to trying to answer that same question I keep coming back to:  if I'm still getting high, but just in different and less destructive ways, then am I really getting better?

If my goal here was to stop getting high in destructive and/or dangerous ways, then I could easily answer that question, "Yes, I am getting better."  But that isn't my goal.  My goal is to try and stop needing to get high all the time, period, regardless of method.  Because if I can't rid myself of the need to get high all the time, then when the healthy methods stop working as well for me, or when I get into a dark place again for one reason or another (we all have them, life is full of dark places we must traverse once in a while), then I'm going to turn to unhealthy methods again to satisfy that desire.

I'm not going to stop meditating, and I'm not going to stop studying Mathematics and other Sciences, and I'm not going to stop playing video games, and I'm not going to stop having awesome sex with Her, and I'm not going to stop writing, and I'm not going to stop working out.  So, if I am getting high off of these things, then I guess that means I have to learn how to live with that.

So, then, can I adjust my goal of trying to not get high at all, regardless of method?  Is that even a reasonable goal to have set myself?  Can I reasonably expect to be able to achieve that without moving to a cave somewhere and spending the rest of my life meditating like an itinerant sage?  Is getting high just something that I need in order to make my life feel worth living?  And if so, is that true for everyone, or just me?  What if the only real choice I have is the method I use?  And is that something I can live with?  No, I can live with it.  But is it something I can learn to be okay with?

I don't know the answers.  But I know I'm not done asking the questions.

SMART Observations...

I went to my first SMART Recovery meeting last night.

I'm going to reserve judgement until I've attended a few more (I try to never make decisions based solely on first impressions), but here are a few observations I had last night.

I was sad that they didn't have coffee.  Not that I would've had any that late at night, anyways.  It's just that, I started drinking coffee at AA meetings when I was a kid, and I've never had coffee I enjoyed quite as much as those first styrofoam cups full of burned, generic-brand, tooth-achingly sweet non-dairy creamer off-white java.  And I guess part of me was looking forward to revisiting that experience, without even realizing it.

They also didn't have any donuts, which was an equivalent bummer.

The people I saw there reminded me very much of the people I remember from AA meetings:  old, sad, tired-looking people, complaining about how difficult their lives are.  And I believe them.  Every one of them looked rode-hard-and-put-away-wet.  You could almost read the toll their addiction has taken on them on their faces, and in their posture.

It surprised me, though, how little discussion of addiction or recovery there actually was!  No horror stories of rock-bottom moments, no woeful tales of lives and fortunes lost to the demon Addiction.  Mainly, everyone just bitched about what was going wrong in their life that week; their work, their friends, their families (in-laws and children were a repeated theme).  A couple of them actually had some positive developments to report, but they were still about work/school/kids.  People would mention once in a while how the issue they were discussing was related to their addiction in some manner - such as saying, in the middle of a long rant about in-laws, that they used to drink in order to deal with being around them, and that now that they're not drinking, they don't want to be around them at all - but the other 99% of the discussion would be about the in-laws, not about how the in-laws make them want to drink, or how they are dealing with the not-drinking.  One person's story was exclusively about their struggle to avoid online gaming, but that was the one and only addiction-and-recovery themed discussion of the evening.

It also surprised me how few of them there were.  Only a handful, compared to the dozens of people I used to see at a typical AA meeting.  A typical AA meeting wouldn't have even fit in the tiny little room we met in.

The back wall of the room was covered, oddly, with all these pro-drinking bumper stickers, that said things like "Some people call it a six-pack; I call it a support group" and "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy" and "BEER: helping ugly people have sex since 1800" and so on.  There were others that were worse that I can't remember right now.  They struck me as really out of place in this context, and I couldn't tell if they were meant to be funny, or ironic, or what?

"I hope you're still as pretty when I'm sober."

"God made pot; Man made beer.  Who do you trust more?"

Towards the end they passed a hat to collect donations.  And I couldn't help but wonder, What's that for?  They obviously aren't spending it on coffee and donuts.

They asked me to introduce myself at the very end, with about two minutes left before the end of the meeting.  I wasn't really comfortable with it at that point, but I also didn't feel right refusing, after having just sat there and listened to all of their stories for the past ninety minutes.  But with the meeting almost over, I felt a lot of pressure to hurry up and get it out ASAP so that I didn't keep these people late.  So, I stumbled and fumbled, trying to quickly deliver as condensed a version as possible of what I believe my problem is, and why I had come to SMART.  I got a couple of encouraging comments at the end, but I honestly wasn't even listening.  I just wanted to get out of there and go home.

I didn't feel comfortable there at all.  These people obviously know each other well, and I'm a stranger suddenly plunked down right in the middle of their intimate and familiar conversation.  And the reverse was true, as well - it didn't make me feel very good to be revealing intimate details about myself and my own life to a room full of complete strangers.  What if one or more of them are complete assholes, whom I would never spend a minute trying to converse with in any other situation?  Do I have to pretend that I like these people?  Or worse, that I care about them?  And I didn't even share anything really personal, either.  Just some basic details of how I ended up there, and not AA.  So, how much worse will it be next week, when I have to start telling them my story?  I feel like it's going to make my skin crawl to have to open up and get deeply personal with these poor, sad strangers.

But, maybe that's part of the point.  I'm already doing all the expressing of a group therapy session here, with this blog, but let's face it - there's a comfortable safety in being hidden behind a computer screen.  Fuck, this isn't even my real name.  (Though, to be fair, that has more to do with feeling a need to protect other people in my life that I care about - mainly my family - than any desire I may have to be anonymous.)  So maybe there's a lesson to be learned from being able to say these things out-loud, face-to-face, to a group of people.  Or, maybe not.  Or maybe I'm entirely wrong, and it won't even feel uncomfortable after a couple of meetings, because we won't feel like such strangers anymore.  I don't know.

And I don't know what to expect.  But I've committed to going to at least a few meetings before I make any decisions.  So, I guess I'm gonna find out.

So far, I'm neither encouraged nor discouraged.  I don't see this becoming something I'll suddenly feel like I absolutely need in order to continue with my recovery, but who knows?  Stranger things have happened, I guess.  Right now, my only hope is simply that I won't hate it.  I would be happy if it was just a place that I felt I could go in those rare moments when I feel like I need help.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, I feel perfectly comfortable doing this on my own.  In fact, I'd prefer it that way, quite honestly.  But every once in a while, there's a situation where I do need help.  Where I suddenly, out of nowhere, feel an overwhelming desire to use, that I cannot talk myself out of.  Where I don't know what the proper response is, or how to react.  Where I don't know what's going on or what to do about it.  Times like my relapse a couple of weeks ago, and the depression and uncertainty that followed.  Because, in those moments, right now, I don't have anyone I can turn to and ask for help.  So, it'd be nice if this group could fill that role for me.  But I don't know if it can, yet.  We'll just have to wait and see.


At the end, when everyone was filing out of the tiny little room into the parking lot, the other new guy who was also there for the first time (I wasn't the only one!) yelled out, to no one in particular, "Where's Happy Hour?!"

Really, new guy?!

Really?

Hope and Regret, part 3...

On the heels of all of these thoughts on my addiction and recovery and sobriety, I started thinking about how I feel about my history of using.  And I feel a need to state here, strongly and clearly, and in no uncertain terms, that I have no regrets about my past behavior.  None.  If I could do it all over again, I wouldn't do it any differently.  Even the very worst moments, where I hurt myself badly or scared myself half-to-death or nearly died, I'm still grateful for.  Because each and every one of them taught me valuable lessons that I wouldn't have learned any other way, and I have in each instance become a better person for having learned them.

And those scary moments were few and far between.  The vast majority of the years I spent drunk and high, I laughed my ass off and just had a wonderful time.  I learned a lot about myself through those experiences, and I feel lucky and privileged to have had the chance to spend so much of my life feeling happy and stimulated and satisfied.  I've had a great run of it up to this point.  But it's just becoming a little old, a little stale, a little tired.  And so am I.  After all these years, it's taking more and more of a toll on me than it ever has before, right as I'm getting less and less out of it than I used to.  And as I get older, and my priorities for what I want out of life shift from more immediate pleasures to bigger-and-better things, it's just becoming less and less worth it for me to keep going like this.

And I always knew that it would have to end one day.  And I always knew there would be a price to pay for all those years of self-indulgence.  And I always knew that this was that price.  And I always knew that one day I would pay it.  And now that this day seems to finally be coming around, I am paying it.  Gladly.

But I'm still glad I did it, too.

And I wouldn't change a thing.