I haven't written in a long time. Long enough that it is beginning to weigh on me.
I've been busy. I haven't had much time to write.
But I have had time.
And when I've had the time, I haven't had the energy.
And when I've had the energy, and the time, I haven't had the desire.
And when I've had the desire, and the energy, and the time, I haven't been inspired.
And when all my stars have finally aligned in the heavens of my birth, and I have found myself inspired, and with a desire to write, and the energy to do it, and the time to do it in - I haven't had the tools at hand.
It's happened several times while I was driving. It's happened in the sauna, and the steam room. It's happened late at night, just as I'm falling asleep. It's happened while I was rushing to get ready in the morning, late for work. It's happened in meetings. It's happened on the toilet.
I've tried to write without keyboard or pen, but I've yet to meet any measure of success. The process is completely different. My mind must then be constantly pre-occupied with remembering and reciting and memorizing whatever I've written to that point, while simultaneously trying to determine what comes next.
But when I have a keyboard - or paper and pen in a pinch - I can focus entirely on feeling out the next line; all I have to do is express.
What I realize as I observe this, is that making it up in my head is simply not my style.
But it's all I've got right now. And I am clogging up.
Showing posts with label trying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trying. Show all posts
Friday, October 4, 2013
Monday, September 17, 2012
When We Fall...
It's amazing how quickly you can fall back out of shape.
Just a few weeks of not working out (one week at the AGM, one week recovering from being sick, one week having all free time and energy eaten up by work, etc.) and suddenly I feel like I'm back to square one. I know it's not that simple, and experience tells me that I will actually bounce back into form a lot quicker than it took to get into shape in the first place - but, still, this morning was... kinda scary, if I'm honest.
I thought I was taking it light. Not even considering the weights at this point, since I'm just trying to get back into the swing of things after such a long absence. Just figured I'd do my usual fifteen minutes on the elliptical (with a five minute cool-down afterwards) that I start every workout with. Maybe I'd push it to twenty minutes, if I was feeling up to it. That is really not much at all; I used to do thirty to forty-five minutes on the elliptical, before I started incorporating the weights into my routine.
But this fifteen minutes was hard. Much more difficult than I expected. I was really pushing myself with everything I had just to get through it. But I did it; I made it through the whole thing, and was relieved to reach the cool-down afterwards. (No way was I going to try for twenty!) But as soon as I slowed my pace, I knew something was wrong. My heart was racing much more than I'm used to. And I could feel my pulse in my head. I was having a hard time catching my breath, and I was starting to get dizzy.
Pretty immediately, I climbed down off the machine, and went and sat down on the floor with my back to the wall. I held my water bottle (which, thankfully, I fill with ice-water before every workout) all around my neck, to cool down the blood in my carotid artery, going to my brain. I tried to breath slow and deep and even, and waited for the dizziness to pass. Which it did after just a couple of minutes.
Now, admittedly, I was having a hard time getting a decent reading off the heart-rate monitor on that machine. (For the whole workout it had been giving me all these low-ball readings that I knew could not possibly be correct, and that made me mistrustful of the other readings that seemed like they could possibly be reasonable. And then at the end, after not giving me a reading higher then 155bpm for the entire workout, it suddenly gave me a reading of 180bpm, which is way into my red zone, and much higher than I would ever usually let myself get to. So, was that an anomalous reading, like all the low-balls? Or was that the first true reading I'd gotten all workout?) But, still, just a matter of a few weeks ago this was my warm-up, for crying out loud. And it just floored me! Literally!
So, obvious lesson-learned is that I need to take it easy, and start slower. At the same time, my little brother and his girlfriend just challenged me to a contest to see who could be the first one to lose fifteen pounds. And that's definitely a motivator. But I have to remember to be careful. I'm not twenty-five anymore.
And I won't be able to gloat if I'm dead.
Just a few weeks of not working out (one week at the AGM, one week recovering from being sick, one week having all free time and energy eaten up by work, etc.) and suddenly I feel like I'm back to square one. I know it's not that simple, and experience tells me that I will actually bounce back into form a lot quicker than it took to get into shape in the first place - but, still, this morning was... kinda scary, if I'm honest.
I thought I was taking it light. Not even considering the weights at this point, since I'm just trying to get back into the swing of things after such a long absence. Just figured I'd do my usual fifteen minutes on the elliptical (with a five minute cool-down afterwards) that I start every workout with. Maybe I'd push it to twenty minutes, if I was feeling up to it. That is really not much at all; I used to do thirty to forty-five minutes on the elliptical, before I started incorporating the weights into my routine.
But this fifteen minutes was hard. Much more difficult than I expected. I was really pushing myself with everything I had just to get through it. But I did it; I made it through the whole thing, and was relieved to reach the cool-down afterwards. (No way was I going to try for twenty!) But as soon as I slowed my pace, I knew something was wrong. My heart was racing much more than I'm used to. And I could feel my pulse in my head. I was having a hard time catching my breath, and I was starting to get dizzy.
Pretty immediately, I climbed down off the machine, and went and sat down on the floor with my back to the wall. I held my water bottle (which, thankfully, I fill with ice-water before every workout) all around my neck, to cool down the blood in my carotid artery, going to my brain. I tried to breath slow and deep and even, and waited for the dizziness to pass. Which it did after just a couple of minutes.
Now, admittedly, I was having a hard time getting a decent reading off the heart-rate monitor on that machine. (For the whole workout it had been giving me all these low-ball readings that I knew could not possibly be correct, and that made me mistrustful of the other readings that seemed like they could possibly be reasonable. And then at the end, after not giving me a reading higher then 155bpm for the entire workout, it suddenly gave me a reading of 180bpm, which is way into my red zone, and much higher than I would ever usually let myself get to. So, was that an anomalous reading, like all the low-balls? Or was that the first true reading I'd gotten all workout?) But, still, just a matter of a few weeks ago this was my warm-up, for crying out loud. And it just floored me! Literally!
So, obvious lesson-learned is that I need to take it easy, and start slower. At the same time, my little brother and his girlfriend just challenged me to a contest to see who could be the first one to lose fifteen pounds. And that's definitely a motivator. But I have to remember to be careful. I'm not twenty-five anymore.
And I won't be able to gloat if I'm dead.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Friendships In Chaos, pt. 2...
We also did a ritual last weekend, my friends and I.
I haven't done that in a very long time. Not even by myself, let alone with my old Temple-mates.
It wasn't even a proper ritual, really. Just a little, nothing, throw-away rite. But I was amazed at how it made me feel. To be in that place. To be with those people.
To be doing magick.
I had completely forgotten just how much I love doing that. How much I love even just the sensation of doing it! The feeling of energy flowing through me, like a conduit. Finding the sense of the "flow" of the ritual, and then letting it pull me along. The pleasure of power coming into me, and erupting out of me. The drama, the spectacle, the art, the dance and the poetry of The Ritual.
It felt like making love with a best friend I hadn't seen in years.
When it was over, I found myself swallowing back tears. And once again, I was struck by the sudden and almost overwhelming realization of just how desperately I missed this thing that I had willingly let go, honestly believing that I no longer had any use for it.
And maybe I didn't have any use for it back then. And maybe I still don't. But it's clear to me now, that I need to find a reason to do it. Because it is obviously a lot more important to me than I had allowed myself to believe. It is clearly filling a hole in my life that I didn't know was there; that I thought I had already filled long ago.
I know now that I need to do this. I don't know why I need to do it yet, but I know I need to do it.
And I can't help but notice that this all happened only two weeks before I get the opportunity to spend an entire week doing nothing but playing with magick, with a group of the best magickians from all over the world. Isn't that strange?
I'm sure it's just a coincidence.
I haven't done that in a very long time. Not even by myself, let alone with my old Temple-mates.
It wasn't even a proper ritual, really. Just a little, nothing, throw-away rite. But I was amazed at how it made me feel. To be in that place. To be with those people.
To be doing magick.
I had completely forgotten just how much I love doing that. How much I love even just the sensation of doing it! The feeling of energy flowing through me, like a conduit. Finding the sense of the "flow" of the ritual, and then letting it pull me along. The pleasure of power coming into me, and erupting out of me. The drama, the spectacle, the art, the dance and the poetry of The Ritual.
It felt like making love with a best friend I hadn't seen in years.
When it was over, I found myself swallowing back tears. And once again, I was struck by the sudden and almost overwhelming realization of just how desperately I missed this thing that I had willingly let go, honestly believing that I no longer had any use for it.
And maybe I didn't have any use for it back then. And maybe I still don't. But it's clear to me now, that I need to find a reason to do it. Because it is obviously a lot more important to me than I had allowed myself to believe. It is clearly filling a hole in my life that I didn't know was there; that I thought I had already filled long ago.
I know now that I need to do this. I don't know why I need to do it yet, but I know I need to do it.
And I can't help but notice that this all happened only two weeks before I get the opportunity to spend an entire week doing nothing but playing with magick, with a group of the best magickians from all over the world. Isn't that strange?
I'm sure it's just a coincidence.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Friendships In Chaos, pt. 1...
Even though I can't talk about my concerns about the upcoming AGM, I had an experience with the IOT last weekend that I actually can talk about. As usual, I can't discuss what we were doing, but for whatever reason, I had cause to get together with my old Temple this weekend, and that brought up a lot of feelings that went beyond simple nostalgia.
I realized, first and foremost, just how much I miss my friends. It's a shame that my friendships got all wrapped up in the Temple the way they did, but it just worked out that way; most of my best friends were in the Temple, and the rest of my relationships with the larger group of my friends were through my friendships with my Temple-mates. And so when the Temple slowly dissolved, and I lost interest in (and reasons to do) magick, then I also suddenly lost my connection to almost all of my friends. They all live at least an hour away from me, so it's a bit of an investment of time and energy (and finances as well, with current fuel prices - even with my new fuel-efficient car) to go see them. And over the years I'd just gotten used to having this set reason to see them all regularly: the Temple and the IOT. So, with that gone, I no longer had a regular excuse to get together with them. If we were going to see each other, I was going to have to make the effort to stay in touch, and make the trips out there and back, just for the sole purpose of hanging out together.
But I didn't want to do that. For a lot of reasons. A lot of it boils down to the fact that I just don't do that. Maybe I don't do it just because I've never had a reason to before, I don't know; but I know that it isn't something I do. I like having friends, but I don't feel like I need friends in order to be happy. So, if it takes any significant amount of effort to maintain a friendship, I just won't bother. And I can't overlook the fact that I was high and drunk during a lot of this time, as well, which affected things in a variety of ways. It left me with even less energy to expend towards maintaining long-distance friendships, as well as numbing me to any sense of loneliness I may have otherwise felt; I was comfortably drunk and/or high, so I never felt like I was missing anything by not having relationships with these people anymore. And it was also creating a lot of other negative effects in my life, as well, and I wasn't exactly eager to share those parts of myself with my friends, people whom I'd like to impress, if I'm able. And beyond being a fat and lazy drunk, I was also going through a lot of other issues at the time that I didn't really feel like advertising: identity crises, marriage problems, spiritual voids, etc. Frankly, I just didn't want anyone to see me like that.
And it's only now, after seeing everyone again this weekend, and the "looking back" that naturally flows from that experience, that I realize - it wasn't just that I didn't feel like I needed friends, or that I felt it wasn't worth the energy to maintain those relationships - it's that, for a variety of reasons having to do with my own feelings about myself, I actively did not want any friends. I wanted to be alone. So, I just went about my life, and didn't bother trying to maintain these friendships, and didn't think much about it. And before I knew it, two years had gone by. And if it weren't for the fact that I had to get together with them again for the AGM this year, it almost certainly would've been even longer before I saw any of them again.
But seeing everyone again this weekend also made me realize, I don't feel that way anymore. I miss my friends. And I want to be a part of their life again. And I want them to be a part of mine. And it is very much worth my time and energy to make that happen.
But I'm worried that I won't be accepted. I'm really not the same person that I was two years ago. And I know they're all expecting me to be. Not because they're trying to force me into some pre-determined mold or anything; that's not what I mean. It's just, that's the person they've known me to be for years, so who else could they expect me to be? But I'm really not him anymore. I'm not dark the way that I used to be. I'm not a pervert the way I used to be. I'm not into the same things I used to be into. I'm sober for fuck's sake. I'm not even really a magickian anymore. I've mellowed out and matured so much in my old age (I'm not even forty yet, but I feel like an old man). And I'm worried that when they get to know this new version of me, that they'll find him boring, and lame. (And, I have to admit, a part of me is worried that I might feel the same way about them, as well.) Being around them makes me feel pressured to be the person I was. And I have to try keep that from changing me too much; I have to let it affect me a little (what's the point of having a relationship with someone if you don't let them affect you at all?), but I can't let it affect me so much that I compromise myself in order to fit my perception of their expectations of me, or in order to gain their approval. I need to be myself - or at least the version of myself that they bring out in me - and I need to be okay with the fact that maybe some people won't like me as much anymore.
But I definitely know that I need to try now. Because being with them again just felt good. And it felt like the right thing to do. And it made me realize that, even though I haven't let myself feel it for a long time, I really do miss them.
I realized, first and foremost, just how much I miss my friends. It's a shame that my friendships got all wrapped up in the Temple the way they did, but it just worked out that way; most of my best friends were in the Temple, and the rest of my relationships with the larger group of my friends were through my friendships with my Temple-mates. And so when the Temple slowly dissolved, and I lost interest in (and reasons to do) magick, then I also suddenly lost my connection to almost all of my friends. They all live at least an hour away from me, so it's a bit of an investment of time and energy (and finances as well, with current fuel prices - even with my new fuel-efficient car) to go see them. And over the years I'd just gotten used to having this set reason to see them all regularly: the Temple and the IOT. So, with that gone, I no longer had a regular excuse to get together with them. If we were going to see each other, I was going to have to make the effort to stay in touch, and make the trips out there and back, just for the sole purpose of hanging out together.
But I didn't want to do that. For a lot of reasons. A lot of it boils down to the fact that I just don't do that. Maybe I don't do it just because I've never had a reason to before, I don't know; but I know that it isn't something I do. I like having friends, but I don't feel like I need friends in order to be happy. So, if it takes any significant amount of effort to maintain a friendship, I just won't bother. And I can't overlook the fact that I was high and drunk during a lot of this time, as well, which affected things in a variety of ways. It left me with even less energy to expend towards maintaining long-distance friendships, as well as numbing me to any sense of loneliness I may have otherwise felt; I was comfortably drunk and/or high, so I never felt like I was missing anything by not having relationships with these people anymore. And it was also creating a lot of other negative effects in my life, as well, and I wasn't exactly eager to share those parts of myself with my friends, people whom I'd like to impress, if I'm able. And beyond being a fat and lazy drunk, I was also going through a lot of other issues at the time that I didn't really feel like advertising: identity crises, marriage problems, spiritual voids, etc. Frankly, I just didn't want anyone to see me like that.
And it's only now, after seeing everyone again this weekend, and the "looking back" that naturally flows from that experience, that I realize - it wasn't just that I didn't feel like I needed friends, or that I felt it wasn't worth the energy to maintain those relationships - it's that, for a variety of reasons having to do with my own feelings about myself, I actively did not want any friends. I wanted to be alone. So, I just went about my life, and didn't bother trying to maintain these friendships, and didn't think much about it. And before I knew it, two years had gone by. And if it weren't for the fact that I had to get together with them again for the AGM this year, it almost certainly would've been even longer before I saw any of them again.
But seeing everyone again this weekend also made me realize, I don't feel that way anymore. I miss my friends. And I want to be a part of their life again. And I want them to be a part of mine. And it is very much worth my time and energy to make that happen.
But I'm worried that I won't be accepted. I'm really not the same person that I was two years ago. And I know they're all expecting me to be. Not because they're trying to force me into some pre-determined mold or anything; that's not what I mean. It's just, that's the person they've known me to be for years, so who else could they expect me to be? But I'm really not him anymore. I'm not dark the way that I used to be. I'm not a pervert the way I used to be. I'm not into the same things I used to be into. I'm sober for fuck's sake. I'm not even really a magickian anymore. I've mellowed out and matured so much in my old age (I'm not even forty yet, but I feel like an old man). And I'm worried that when they get to know this new version of me, that they'll find him boring, and lame. (And, I have to admit, a part of me is worried that I might feel the same way about them, as well.) Being around them makes me feel pressured to be the person I was. And I have to try keep that from changing me too much; I have to let it affect me a little (what's the point of having a relationship with someone if you don't let them affect you at all?), but I can't let it affect me so much that I compromise myself in order to fit my perception of their expectations of me, or in order to gain their approval. I need to be myself - or at least the version of myself that they bring out in me - and I need to be okay with the fact that maybe some people won't like me as much anymore.
But I definitely know that I need to try now. Because being with them again just felt good. And it felt like the right thing to do. And it made me realize that, even though I haven't let myself feel it for a long time, I really do miss them.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
The Thirtieth Olympiad Of The Modern Era...
I know the Olympics are cheesy. I know this. But I can't help it. I love them.
I love everything about them. The spectacle, the melodrama, the simple poetry of humans from all over the world gathering together for the sole purpose of doing amazing things. I spend every fourth year looking forward to them. And when they finally start, it's like two weeks of Christmas in July.
It started when I was a kid. The '92 Summer Olympics in Barcelona. The summer in between my sophomore and junior years of high school. The two weeks of our vacation at the beach happened to coincide that year with the two weeks of the Olympics. As a teenager, I was living a nocturnal existence; staying up all night doing nothing, and then sleeping all day in order to rest up for another night of doing nothing the next evening. There's nothing to do in the middle of the night in the small beach town where we stayed, and the TV in the cottage we were living in only got about six channels. And, of course, the only thing on was the Olympics. They played Olympic coverage almost all night. (And all day, but who was awake to see that??) I literally had nothing better to do, and a night full of hours to kill, so I started watching.
Late-night coverage of the Olympic Games at the time tended to favor the less-popular sports, giving recaps of the events of the day that hadn't made it into the daytime and primetime broadcasts. Handball. Water Polo. Badminton. Archery. Women's Volleyball. Sports that you'd never see on television back then. And I found myself, quite despite my desire to be an apathetic misanthrope, getting really, really into it. I fell in love with the stories of the athletes, and I cheered their amazing accomplishments. And I felt a sense of pride in my country (a completely foreign and somewhat nauseating experience for me at the time, I assure you) whenever Team USA triumphed. It didn't matter if it was a sport that I would never have cared about in a million years if I'd had anything better to do. It was about being fortunate enough to witness humanity's best, doing their best - pushing themselves as hard as they could, striving to be the very best in the whole world - and having the results of all their efforts and hard work displayed on the single greatest stage we have ever constructed, for all the world to see, whether they fell short, or were victorious. I was hooked from that moment on.
I've always been a drama-queen, and never more so than when I was a teenager. And, as cheesy as it was, and is, it was also, undeniably, the greatest drama I had ever seen. Have ever seen. And that is in no small part due to the fact that it is not a story, crafted artfully from a fertile imagination. Better than that, this drama is real.
Men and women from all over the world pushing themselves as hard as they can every single day for four years with the single-minded purpose of being the very best in the entire world at what they do. And every four years the entire world gathers to watch these people, the best in the world, compete and crown their champions. The best in the world. None faster. None stronger. No one.
What a great fucking story!
And that amazing story is made up of countless other single, just-as-amazing individual stories. Kerri Strug sticking her landing on a sprained ankle to win gold at the '96 Atlanta games. The '04 games returning to Athens. Michael Phelps at the '08 Beijing games winning eight gold medals, more than any other person has ever done before or since, and breaking his own World Record by more than two seconds! (He set new World Records in six out of the eight events he swam in!) And Usain Bolt in the same games, setting new World Records in both the 100m and 200m. (Whenever I remember that, I can't help but think of one of my favorite scenes from the pilot episode of Sports Night. As a runner half-a-world away is setting a new world record, Casey McCall, an anchor for a late-night Sportscenter-like TV show, calls his young son, waking him up in the middle of the night, and instructs him to hurry up and turn on Daddy's channel. Then he says, "I'll call you tomorrow and tell you all about it. But for now, you just watch him run. He's not doing much. He's just running faster than any man's ever run before.")
And those are my absolute favorite Olympics moments - when I see that "WR" flash up on an athlete's results, and I realize that I've just seen a human being expand the boundaries of what is possible, and push themselves to do something that no other human being has ever been able to do before. It is literally awe-inspiring, and I absolutely love it.
And I don't care if that makes me a cheeseball.
I love everything about them. The spectacle, the melodrama, the simple poetry of humans from all over the world gathering together for the sole purpose of doing amazing things. I spend every fourth year looking forward to them. And when they finally start, it's like two weeks of Christmas in July.
It started when I was a kid. The '92 Summer Olympics in Barcelona. The summer in between my sophomore and junior years of high school. The two weeks of our vacation at the beach happened to coincide that year with the two weeks of the Olympics. As a teenager, I was living a nocturnal existence; staying up all night doing nothing, and then sleeping all day in order to rest up for another night of doing nothing the next evening. There's nothing to do in the middle of the night in the small beach town where we stayed, and the TV in the cottage we were living in only got about six channels. And, of course, the only thing on was the Olympics. They played Olympic coverage almost all night. (And all day, but who was awake to see that??) I literally had nothing better to do, and a night full of hours to kill, so I started watching.
Late-night coverage of the Olympic Games at the time tended to favor the less-popular sports, giving recaps of the events of the day that hadn't made it into the daytime and primetime broadcasts. Handball. Water Polo. Badminton. Archery. Women's Volleyball. Sports that you'd never see on television back then. And I found myself, quite despite my desire to be an apathetic misanthrope, getting really, really into it. I fell in love with the stories of the athletes, and I cheered their amazing accomplishments. And I felt a sense of pride in my country (a completely foreign and somewhat nauseating experience for me at the time, I assure you) whenever Team USA triumphed. It didn't matter if it was a sport that I would never have cared about in a million years if I'd had anything better to do. It was about being fortunate enough to witness humanity's best, doing their best - pushing themselves as hard as they could, striving to be the very best in the whole world - and having the results of all their efforts and hard work displayed on the single greatest stage we have ever constructed, for all the world to see, whether they fell short, or were victorious. I was hooked from that moment on.
I've always been a drama-queen, and never more so than when I was a teenager. And, as cheesy as it was, and is, it was also, undeniably, the greatest drama I had ever seen. Have ever seen. And that is in no small part due to the fact that it is not a story, crafted artfully from a fertile imagination. Better than that, this drama is real.
Men and women from all over the world pushing themselves as hard as they can every single day for four years with the single-minded purpose of being the very best in the entire world at what they do. And every four years the entire world gathers to watch these people, the best in the world, compete and crown their champions. The best in the world. None faster. None stronger. No one.
What a great fucking story!
And that amazing story is made up of countless other single, just-as-amazing individual stories. Kerri Strug sticking her landing on a sprained ankle to win gold at the '96 Atlanta games. The '04 games returning to Athens. Michael Phelps at the '08 Beijing games winning eight gold medals, more than any other person has ever done before or since, and breaking his own World Record by more than two seconds! (He set new World Records in six out of the eight events he swam in!) And Usain Bolt in the same games, setting new World Records in both the 100m and 200m. (Whenever I remember that, I can't help but think of one of my favorite scenes from the pilot episode of Sports Night. As a runner half-a-world away is setting a new world record, Casey McCall, an anchor for a late-night Sportscenter-like TV show, calls his young son, waking him up in the middle of the night, and instructs him to hurry up and turn on Daddy's channel. Then he says, "I'll call you tomorrow and tell you all about it. But for now, you just watch him run. He's not doing much. He's just running faster than any man's ever run before.")
And those are my absolute favorite Olympics moments - when I see that "WR" flash up on an athlete's results, and I realize that I've just seen a human being expand the boundaries of what is possible, and push themselves to do something that no other human being has ever been able to do before. It is literally awe-inspiring, and I absolutely love it.
And I don't care if that makes me a cheeseball.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Hunger Pains...
I'm still hungry all the time. And it's really starting to get on my nerves.
I don't know what's causing this, but it started just after I stopped drinking, so I would imagine it must have something to do with that. But is it a biochemical reaction? Meaning, is it my body's autonomic response to being suddenly deprived of the ethyl alcohol it had grown accustomed to? Or is it a behavioral response? Is it just my head trying to fill the "Pleasure Yourself" gap left behind when I stopped drinking, with some new, more readily accessible form of pleasure? I have no idea.
I've heard that a lot of people develop an insatiable sweet-tooth when they quit drinking, because their body is craving the sugar that they used to get from the alcohol. (Our bodies metabolize alcohol into sugar.) But that's not what I'm experiencing. My problem is that I simply never stop feeling like I want to eat. Normally, I would only get that feeling when I needed to eat. And then, once I'd eaten, that feeling would go away, until the next time I needed to eat again. But now, I can eat until I am bloated and feeling sick from the amount of food in my stomach, and I still have that feeling of "I want to eat." It just never turns off! And it's so fucking annoying! It's like when you feel like you have to pee, even though your bladder is empty. It's just this really unpleasant, uncomfortable feeling that will not go away, and that you cannot do anything about.
And I really, really just want it to stop.
I'm so tired of constantly fighting with myself to keep from over-eating. I'm so tired of constantly wrestling with this phantom craving. Every night it's the same thing. As soon as I finish dinner, I want something sweet. So, I eat a little dessert, and then as soon as I finish that, I want something salty-crunchy. If I give in to that craving and eat something salty-crunchy (whole-wheat tortilla chips and 100-calorie packs of cheez-its are my current drugs of choice), then as soon as I finish that, I want something sweet again. And if I give in to that, then I want something salty-crunchy/savory again. And that just keeps going on and on forever until I end up passing out face-first into a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels.
I'm currently working out and doing my best to eat as healthy as possible, in an attempt to lose some weight. And I am losing weight, but much more slowly than I'd like. And this shit is not making it any easier.
I've been trying to come up with ways to either satisfy and/or curb this craving that do not involve adding a bunch more calories to my daily intake. Number one on the list is drinking lots and lots of water. And I mean, to the point where I start to feel full. That helps some, but not much, because the whole point of that trick is to curb your appetite by making your body feel full; and, of course, my whole problem is that my body is not currently responding correctly to that feeling. And then there's the further drawback of having my day constantly and repeatedly interrupted by the painfully urgent need to piss violently. I've thought about lo-to-no-cal snacks like rice cakes, but in the midst of these cravings, I can't bring myself to eat something completely tasteless that I am already well-aware I will not enjoy. Still, I've found a couple of brands that are mildly tolerable, and I'm planning to try really hard to make them work. I bought some lo-cal, high-protein jerky, as well, to try and help with the savory cravings. The trick there is to just chew and chew and chew and chew and chew and chew until either it eventually turns to liquid in your mouth, or you feel like your jaw is going to fall off. That way you get to spend a lot of time eating and enjoying the pleasure of tasting the salty/savory thing you're craving, but overall you don't actually eat that much food, or take in a lot of calories. The sore jaw helps to put a damper on the desire to eat more, as well. And at work, I've been having mid-afternoon Chai Lattes to try and help with my after-lunch cravings. That seems to be working out ok. It's not helping my need-to-pee-every-fifteen-minutes problem very much, though.
And there's one solution I've been trying out this week that is a little naughty.
I stopped smoking cigarettes over ten years ago. And I cannot stand cigars. But every Fall and Winter for the past six or seven years, pretty much as soon as the weather starts to turn cold, I smoke a pipe. I really enjoy a good pipe during the cold half of the year. I love the sweet, rich flavor of the tobacco. I love its aromatic smell. I love the ritual of loading, packing, tamping, lighting - everything has to be just right in order for it to work proper, but when it is, and when it does, oh, sweet ambrosia! I even love the anachronism of it. My grandfather smoked a pipe. It just has this old, retro, even ancient feel to it, and I enjoy feeling like a part of that tradition. And since I don't inhale pipe smoke, I don't have to worry as much about bronchial damage, emphysema, lung cancer, or even nicotine addiction, the way I did with cigarettes. And since I indulge in it so rarely (even at the height of my smoking during that half of the year, I will smoke, at most, two pipes a day), I don't really have to worry about it much, at all. It is a rather safe, and pleasurable, indulgence I can allow myself. Especially compared to all of my other indulgences, which are so many times more harmful and dangerous.
So, it occurred to me, perhaps an after-dinner smoke would fill the void left behind by the absence of my customary after-dinner drink. And, perhaps also help curb my appetite for my after-dinner snack - and my after-after-dinner snack, and my after-after-after-dinner snack - that is currently replacing my after-dinner drink. I know, it's still not the healthiest solution in the world, but tasting (not inhaling) a little tobacco smoke is a lot less unhealthy than drinking, or over-eating. So, I'll take what I can get. (And everyone needs some sort of vice, don't they? What's life without at least a little indulgence?) But the problem is, as soon as the weather starts to warm up, I immediately lose all interest in smoking a pipe. I don't know what it is, but it has been that way every single year since the very first. It's not something I'm trying to do, intentionally. That's just the way it works for me, for some reason. I always want to smoke a pipe during the cold half of the year, and I only want to smoke a pipe during the cold half of the year.
But on Sunday, I found a solution to this problem. There's a brand of small "cigars" (or "cigarillos," which is a rather annoying word) that are filled with pipe tobacco. It's not the greatest pipe tobacco I've ever had, but it still tastes sweet, and smells nice, and it's infinitely better than cigar tobacco. (I would rather eat old sushi than smoke a cigar. Ugh!) So every night so far this week I've smoked at least part of one of these "cigars" after dinner. And I've enjoyed them alright, but not as much as my pipes. And they've seemed to help with the cravings a little, but not as much as I'd hoped. I'd hoped that they would come close to putting an end to the cravings, but I've found that just a little while after putting out the "cigar," I'm hungry again. Still, the whole time I'm smoking, I don't want to eat. And the cravings are a lot easier to resist for a while after the smoke. So, all-in-all, one "cigar" seems to equal about an hour or so of not snacking. So, it's not as much as I wanted, but it's not nothing, either. We'll see how it goes. I'm glad to have something enjoyable to do for now that seems to help at least a little, but I could also see myself getting bored with this very soon.
Alright, that's enough for now. I'm starting to get hungry.
Time for my Chai Latte.
I don't know what's causing this, but it started just after I stopped drinking, so I would imagine it must have something to do with that. But is it a biochemical reaction? Meaning, is it my body's autonomic response to being suddenly deprived of the ethyl alcohol it had grown accustomed to? Or is it a behavioral response? Is it just my head trying to fill the "Pleasure Yourself" gap left behind when I stopped drinking, with some new, more readily accessible form of pleasure? I have no idea.
I've heard that a lot of people develop an insatiable sweet-tooth when they quit drinking, because their body is craving the sugar that they used to get from the alcohol. (Our bodies metabolize alcohol into sugar.) But that's not what I'm experiencing. My problem is that I simply never stop feeling like I want to eat. Normally, I would only get that feeling when I needed to eat. And then, once I'd eaten, that feeling would go away, until the next time I needed to eat again. But now, I can eat until I am bloated and feeling sick from the amount of food in my stomach, and I still have that feeling of "I want to eat." It just never turns off! And it's so fucking annoying! It's like when you feel like you have to pee, even though your bladder is empty. It's just this really unpleasant, uncomfortable feeling that will not go away, and that you cannot do anything about.
And I really, really just want it to stop.
I'm so tired of constantly fighting with myself to keep from over-eating. I'm so tired of constantly wrestling with this phantom craving. Every night it's the same thing. As soon as I finish dinner, I want something sweet. So, I eat a little dessert, and then as soon as I finish that, I want something salty-crunchy. If I give in to that craving and eat something salty-crunchy (whole-wheat tortilla chips and 100-calorie packs of cheez-its are my current drugs of choice), then as soon as I finish that, I want something sweet again. And if I give in to that, then I want something salty-crunchy/savory again. And that just keeps going on and on forever until I end up passing out face-first into a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels.
I'm currently working out and doing my best to eat as healthy as possible, in an attempt to lose some weight. And I am losing weight, but much more slowly than I'd like. And this shit is not making it any easier.
I've been trying to come up with ways to either satisfy and/or curb this craving that do not involve adding a bunch more calories to my daily intake. Number one on the list is drinking lots and lots of water. And I mean, to the point where I start to feel full. That helps some, but not much, because the whole point of that trick is to curb your appetite by making your body feel full; and, of course, my whole problem is that my body is not currently responding correctly to that feeling. And then there's the further drawback of having my day constantly and repeatedly interrupted by the painfully urgent need to piss violently. I've thought about lo-to-no-cal snacks like rice cakes, but in the midst of these cravings, I can't bring myself to eat something completely tasteless that I am already well-aware I will not enjoy. Still, I've found a couple of brands that are mildly tolerable, and I'm planning to try really hard to make them work. I bought some lo-cal, high-protein jerky, as well, to try and help with the savory cravings. The trick there is to just chew and chew and chew and chew and chew and chew until either it eventually turns to liquid in your mouth, or you feel like your jaw is going to fall off. That way you get to spend a lot of time eating and enjoying the pleasure of tasting the salty/savory thing you're craving, but overall you don't actually eat that much food, or take in a lot of calories. The sore jaw helps to put a damper on the desire to eat more, as well. And at work, I've been having mid-afternoon Chai Lattes to try and help with my after-lunch cravings. That seems to be working out ok. It's not helping my need-to-pee-every-fifteen-minutes problem very much, though.
And there's one solution I've been trying out this week that is a little naughty.
I stopped smoking cigarettes over ten years ago. And I cannot stand cigars. But every Fall and Winter for the past six or seven years, pretty much as soon as the weather starts to turn cold, I smoke a pipe. I really enjoy a good pipe during the cold half of the year. I love the sweet, rich flavor of the tobacco. I love its aromatic smell. I love the ritual of loading, packing, tamping, lighting - everything has to be just right in order for it to work proper, but when it is, and when it does, oh, sweet ambrosia! I even love the anachronism of it. My grandfather smoked a pipe. It just has this old, retro, even ancient feel to it, and I enjoy feeling like a part of that tradition. And since I don't inhale pipe smoke, I don't have to worry as much about bronchial damage, emphysema, lung cancer, or even nicotine addiction, the way I did with cigarettes. And since I indulge in it so rarely (even at the height of my smoking during that half of the year, I will smoke, at most, two pipes a day), I don't really have to worry about it much, at all. It is a rather safe, and pleasurable, indulgence I can allow myself. Especially compared to all of my other indulgences, which are so many times more harmful and dangerous.
So, it occurred to me, perhaps an after-dinner smoke would fill the void left behind by the absence of my customary after-dinner drink. And, perhaps also help curb my appetite for my after-dinner snack - and my after-after-dinner snack, and my after-after-after-dinner snack - that is currently replacing my after-dinner drink. I know, it's still not the healthiest solution in the world, but tasting (not inhaling) a little tobacco smoke is a lot less unhealthy than drinking, or over-eating. So, I'll take what I can get. (And everyone needs some sort of vice, don't they? What's life without at least a little indulgence?) But the problem is, as soon as the weather starts to warm up, I immediately lose all interest in smoking a pipe. I don't know what it is, but it has been that way every single year since the very first. It's not something I'm trying to do, intentionally. That's just the way it works for me, for some reason. I always want to smoke a pipe during the cold half of the year, and I only want to smoke a pipe during the cold half of the year.
But on Sunday, I found a solution to this problem. There's a brand of small "cigars" (or "cigarillos," which is a rather annoying word) that are filled with pipe tobacco. It's not the greatest pipe tobacco I've ever had, but it still tastes sweet, and smells nice, and it's infinitely better than cigar tobacco. (I would rather eat old sushi than smoke a cigar. Ugh!) So every night so far this week I've smoked at least part of one of these "cigars" after dinner. And I've enjoyed them alright, but not as much as my pipes. And they've seemed to help with the cravings a little, but not as much as I'd hoped. I'd hoped that they would come close to putting an end to the cravings, but I've found that just a little while after putting out the "cigar," I'm hungry again. Still, the whole time I'm smoking, I don't want to eat. And the cravings are a lot easier to resist for a while after the smoke. So, all-in-all, one "cigar" seems to equal about an hour or so of not snacking. So, it's not as much as I wanted, but it's not nothing, either. We'll see how it goes. I'm glad to have something enjoyable to do for now that seems to help at least a little, but I could also see myself getting bored with this very soon.
Alright, that's enough for now. I'm starting to get hungry.
Time for my Chai Latte.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
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?
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?
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Letting Go With The Flow...
Still really tired. Still no energy or motivation.
At least I made it to work today. Never made it to the gym, though.
Tomorrow's going to be a long day. I have a lot of work to do, and I have to leave early to make my addiction therapy session. And then I have a condo board meeting when I get home.
I'm trying not to worry about things I can't control. I'm trying not to think about it. I'm trying to just keep my head down and barrel forward and get it over and done with.
And I'm trying to follow Rule #32. I'll be home with Her in just an hour or so. I know I'll be able to find something in that to feel good about.
ADDENDUM: what's the Brightside here? I need to find the Brightside.
At least I made it to work today. Never made it to the gym, though.
Tomorrow's going to be a long day. I have a lot of work to do, and I have to leave early to make my addiction therapy session. And then I have a condo board meeting when I get home.
I'm trying not to worry about things I can't control. I'm trying not to think about it. I'm trying to just keep my head down and barrel forward and get it over and done with.
And I'm trying to follow Rule #32. I'll be home with Her in just an hour or so. I know I'll be able to find something in that to feel good about.
ADDENDUM: what's the Brightside here? I need to find the Brightside.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Down The Energy Drain...
I'm worried that I might've fucked things up for myself.
Ever since Walpurgisnacht, I've felt different. Little to no energy, or drive. No desire to do any of the things I've been getting so much joy and satisfaction out of recently: I don't want to do my mathematics lessons, I don't want to meditate, I don't want to work out, I don't want to read, I don't want to clean the house or run errands, I don't want to write in this blog, and so on. All I've wanted to do is watch TV, play video games, and sleep. And get high. My desire to get high has been a lot stronger since that night. I guess that's to be expected. But I honestly didn't expect such a drastic change in the rest of my personality, though. I guess that was pretty naive of me.
It's not just that I've felt differently since then. It's that I've felt exactly the way I usually feel when I'm using. The sleeping all the time, and the lack of drive to do anything productive that requires energy, are exactly how I usually feel when I'm using. In fact, I'm only realizing it now, but it all comes down to energy. When I'm using, I'm always tired, so anything that requires an expenditure of energy seems like too much work. So I end up not wanting to do anything that seems at all like work, and all I want to do is sit around and stimulate myself with TV and video games, and the occasional bath. But when I'm sober, I have a lot more energy, and so I can do all these things I want to do, and they feel almost effortless, and in the end I still have energy to spare. So, right now, I'm suffering from the same lack of energy and drive that I get when I'm using, but I don't even have the pleasure of using to offset the crappiness of feeling like a useless slug.
I'm really worried about this. I mean, on one hand, I've been through this before. On the other hand, this was exactly what I was trying to avoid. I know that I can change my behavior, I can stop fucking around and go back to doing all the healthy and productive things I was doing before Walpurgisnacht. So, it's not my actions that I'm worried about. (Those just make me feel stupid and weak.) No, my big fear is that even if I start doing all those healthy, productive things again, I won't feel the same way about them anymore.
I'm worried that I won't feel excited about them anymore. That I won't find the same joy in them anymore. That they'll just continue to feel like work, like something I have to do because I know I'm supposed to, instead of just being the things I want to do, the way they used to be. I'm worried that I won't get my energy back. I'm worried that I fucked myself up permanently. I'm worried that they'll never feel effortless that way again.
I'm worried that I'm going through this now, and a lot sooner than I anticipated.
I'm really worried, and I feel really ashamed, but I don't think there's any point in allowing myself to feel either of those things. If given the opportunity to do things differently, I wouldn't. I'd still celebrate Walpurgisnacht in the same way, because that experience taught me valuable lessons I wouldn't have learned any other way. Including this lesson here. I need to know what all the negative and unpleasant consequences of using again are, in order to keep me from using next time. If I didn't know - if I wondered, "what would happen if I just had a little?" - then I'm more likely to give in to that temptation. But now I know the price I will have to pay if I do that, and that's a big deterrent.
And I don't think there's any point in worrying about it, either. Not yet, anyways. Maybe I'll be able to get that energy and that enthusiasm for these productive activities back again. Maybe I won't. But the only way to determine that will be to get up and do them, and keep doing them for a while. Then see how I feel in a couple of weeks. Then deal with whatever I'm feeling then. But there's no point in worrying about it now, because there's no way to know what to expect. It could go either way.
Still, I can't shake the feeling that I've lost something really special. And that I won't ever find it again. And I keep finding myself feeling really sad about that.
But, for now, I'm just going to try not to think about that. I don't see that I have much choice.
Just get up, and do the work.
And keep doing it.
And hope it stops feeling like work.
Ever since Walpurgisnacht, I've felt different. Little to no energy, or drive. No desire to do any of the things I've been getting so much joy and satisfaction out of recently: I don't want to do my mathematics lessons, I don't want to meditate, I don't want to work out, I don't want to read, I don't want to clean the house or run errands, I don't want to write in this blog, and so on. All I've wanted to do is watch TV, play video games, and sleep. And get high. My desire to get high has been a lot stronger since that night. I guess that's to be expected. But I honestly didn't expect such a drastic change in the rest of my personality, though. I guess that was pretty naive of me.
It's not just that I've felt differently since then. It's that I've felt exactly the way I usually feel when I'm using. The sleeping all the time, and the lack of drive to do anything productive that requires energy, are exactly how I usually feel when I'm using. In fact, I'm only realizing it now, but it all comes down to energy. When I'm using, I'm always tired, so anything that requires an expenditure of energy seems like too much work. So I end up not wanting to do anything that seems at all like work, and all I want to do is sit around and stimulate myself with TV and video games, and the occasional bath. But when I'm sober, I have a lot more energy, and so I can do all these things I want to do, and they feel almost effortless, and in the end I still have energy to spare. So, right now, I'm suffering from the same lack of energy and drive that I get when I'm using, but I don't even have the pleasure of using to offset the crappiness of feeling like a useless slug.
I'm really worried about this. I mean, on one hand, I've been through this before. On the other hand, this was exactly what I was trying to avoid. I know that I can change my behavior, I can stop fucking around and go back to doing all the healthy and productive things I was doing before Walpurgisnacht. So, it's not my actions that I'm worried about. (Those just make me feel stupid and weak.) No, my big fear is that even if I start doing all those healthy, productive things again, I won't feel the same way about them anymore.
I'm worried that I won't feel excited about them anymore. That I won't find the same joy in them anymore. That they'll just continue to feel like work, like something I have to do because I know I'm supposed to, instead of just being the things I want to do, the way they used to be. I'm worried that I won't get my energy back. I'm worried that I fucked myself up permanently. I'm worried that they'll never feel effortless that way again.
I'm worried that I'm going through this now, and a lot sooner than I anticipated.
I'm really worried, and I feel really ashamed, but I don't think there's any point in allowing myself to feel either of those things. If given the opportunity to do things differently, I wouldn't. I'd still celebrate Walpurgisnacht in the same way, because that experience taught me valuable lessons I wouldn't have learned any other way. Including this lesson here. I need to know what all the negative and unpleasant consequences of using again are, in order to keep me from using next time. If I didn't know - if I wondered, "what would happen if I just had a little?" - then I'm more likely to give in to that temptation. But now I know the price I will have to pay if I do that, and that's a big deterrent.
And I don't think there's any point in worrying about it, either. Not yet, anyways. Maybe I'll be able to get that energy and that enthusiasm for these productive activities back again. Maybe I won't. But the only way to determine that will be to get up and do them, and keep doing them for a while. Then see how I feel in a couple of weeks. Then deal with whatever I'm feeling then. But there's no point in worrying about it now, because there's no way to know what to expect. It could go either way.
Still, I can't shake the feeling that I've lost something really special. And that I won't ever find it again. And I keep finding myself feeling really sad about that.
But, for now, I'm just going to try not to think about that. I don't see that I have much choice.
Just get up, and do the work.
And keep doing it.
And hope it stops feeling like work.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Damn, That Slope Sure Is Slippery...
I think I fell off the wagon last night.
No, that's not right. I know I fell off the wagon last night. Just hard to say it, is all.
She and I and her friend went out to our bar. I had my first non-alcoholic beer. I assumed that would be safe. It was even recommended to me as an option by my chemical dependency therapist. But the weirdest thing happened.
I got a little drunk!
There's this feeling you get when you first take a drink. It's more emotional and perceptual than physical; not like getting high. It's just this feeling of suddenly being happier, more relaxed, more interested in what other people are saying, feeling more outgoing and talkative. And it's an immediate reaction - you can feel it after just a few sips. And it's more pronounced and obvious for alcoholics like myself. Anyone can notice it, but it's really, really obvious to us.
And halfway through my first supposedly non-alcoholic beer, I felt it, clear as day. It must've been the Placebo Effect, there's no other explanation for it. After that one, I had two more, and thankfully, the feeling never went any further than that, but still, that was enough. Even just the beginning of the feeling of getting drunk was apparently enough to trigger me.
After we left the bar, my leg was really killing me. So I decided to take a pain pill. It's hard to say how much of that was legitimate and how much of it was just my desire to continue the feeling of getting high that had started with the near-beer. Yeah, my leg hurt really badly, but I probably could've suffered through it if I really wanted to. And there's no mistaking that I really did want very badly to get high right then. More so than I have in recent memory, actually. So, if I'm honest, I'd have to say that the sore leg was probably just a convenient excuse.
We got home, I took my pill, and the girls went back out again to hit another bar. I plopped down on the couch and started playing video games. It took almost two hours for the pill to kick in, but when it did, it felt like a long, low-intensity, sustained orgasm. Less than thirty minutes later, I took another one. And then I started drinking an energy drink, so that I wouldn't pass out and could stay up and enjoy the pleasure of the pills all night long. This is one of my favorites of my old ways to masturbate myself to death. I call it my "poor man's speedball."
In the span of three hours, I had gone from comfortably sober, to neck-deep in the exact same hole I almost died in just two months ago.
And I didn't even feel guilty about it. I enjoyed every second of it, playing my game and feeling so fantastic, until I finally started to nod off around 3 a.m.
And I still don't feel guilty about it, which I think is even scarier. I feel responsible, to be sure, but not guilty. I feel like I did this to myself, but somehow, I also feel like it was an honest mistake. (WTF??) I had no way of knowing that drinking a motherfucking non-alcoholic beer could possibly affect me in a way that was so unbelievably similar to drinking an actual beer. Yes, I totally let my guard down, and ended up fucking myself because of it, but I really don't think I could've possibly known that I needed to have my guard up in that situation. I mean, it's non-alcoholic beer, for fuck's sake! Its entire purpose is for alcoholics to be able to drink it safely! How could I have possibly known?! Yes, it's still my fault for taking it much, much further after that. But that's how addiction works. Addicts aren't like "normal" people. An addict can't just have a little taste and then simply walk away. That's what makes them an addict. And last night, I had a little taste, without realizing it until it was too late, and I wasn't at all prepared for it. And then I couldn't walk away.
I feel like I should be beating myself up about this. Feeling like a failure. But I know that's a trap. You let yourself feel like a failure, or get down on yourself too much for not being perfect, and then it's just a short step to saying, "Fuck it, why even bother?" Addicts relapse. That's just a fact. And believe it or not, the healthy response to relapse is to accept it, dust yourself off, and climb back on the wagon, resolved to hang on tighter next time. Accept responsibility, yes - but don't hate on yourself for not being perfect. Just try again, and try harder.
Learn the lesson and keep going.
I ended up not being able to sleep at all last night. And I mean that literally and sincerely - I laid in bed, awake, and gloriously high, for six hours, and did not fall asleep for even a moment. Whether from the pills or the energy drink, I can't say. It could be either. But I'm choosing to interpret it as my penance. And I'm accepting it gladly, and with humility. (I hope so, anyways. I'm trying.)
And I know one thing for certain: I'll never take non-alcoholic beer lightly again.
No, that's not right. I know I fell off the wagon last night. Just hard to say it, is all.
She and I and her friend went out to our bar. I had my first non-alcoholic beer. I assumed that would be safe. It was even recommended to me as an option by my chemical dependency therapist. But the weirdest thing happened.
I got a little drunk!
There's this feeling you get when you first take a drink. It's more emotional and perceptual than physical; not like getting high. It's just this feeling of suddenly being happier, more relaxed, more interested in what other people are saying, feeling more outgoing and talkative. And it's an immediate reaction - you can feel it after just a few sips. And it's more pronounced and obvious for alcoholics like myself. Anyone can notice it, but it's really, really obvious to us.
And halfway through my first supposedly non-alcoholic beer, I felt it, clear as day. It must've been the Placebo Effect, there's no other explanation for it. After that one, I had two more, and thankfully, the feeling never went any further than that, but still, that was enough. Even just the beginning of the feeling of getting drunk was apparently enough to trigger me.
After we left the bar, my leg was really killing me. So I decided to take a pain pill. It's hard to say how much of that was legitimate and how much of it was just my desire to continue the feeling of getting high that had started with the near-beer. Yeah, my leg hurt really badly, but I probably could've suffered through it if I really wanted to. And there's no mistaking that I really did want very badly to get high right then. More so than I have in recent memory, actually. So, if I'm honest, I'd have to say that the sore leg was probably just a convenient excuse.
We got home, I took my pill, and the girls went back out again to hit another bar. I plopped down on the couch and started playing video games. It took almost two hours for the pill to kick in, but when it did, it felt like a long, low-intensity, sustained orgasm. Less than thirty minutes later, I took another one. And then I started drinking an energy drink, so that I wouldn't pass out and could stay up and enjoy the pleasure of the pills all night long. This is one of my favorites of my old ways to masturbate myself to death. I call it my "poor man's speedball."
In the span of three hours, I had gone from comfortably sober, to neck-deep in the exact same hole I almost died in just two months ago.
And I didn't even feel guilty about it. I enjoyed every second of it, playing my game and feeling so fantastic, until I finally started to nod off around 3 a.m.
And I still don't feel guilty about it, which I think is even scarier. I feel responsible, to be sure, but not guilty. I feel like I did this to myself, but somehow, I also feel like it was an honest mistake. (WTF??) I had no way of knowing that drinking a motherfucking non-alcoholic beer could possibly affect me in a way that was so unbelievably similar to drinking an actual beer. Yes, I totally let my guard down, and ended up fucking myself because of it, but I really don't think I could've possibly known that I needed to have my guard up in that situation. I mean, it's non-alcoholic beer, for fuck's sake! Its entire purpose is for alcoholics to be able to drink it safely! How could I have possibly known?! Yes, it's still my fault for taking it much, much further after that. But that's how addiction works. Addicts aren't like "normal" people. An addict can't just have a little taste and then simply walk away. That's what makes them an addict. And last night, I had a little taste, without realizing it until it was too late, and I wasn't at all prepared for it. And then I couldn't walk away.
I feel like I should be beating myself up about this. Feeling like a failure. But I know that's a trap. You let yourself feel like a failure, or get down on yourself too much for not being perfect, and then it's just a short step to saying, "Fuck it, why even bother?" Addicts relapse. That's just a fact. And believe it or not, the healthy response to relapse is to accept it, dust yourself off, and climb back on the wagon, resolved to hang on tighter next time. Accept responsibility, yes - but don't hate on yourself for not being perfect. Just try again, and try harder.
Learn the lesson and keep going.
I ended up not being able to sleep at all last night. And I mean that literally and sincerely - I laid in bed, awake, and gloriously high, for six hours, and did not fall asleep for even a moment. Whether from the pills or the energy drink, I can't say. It could be either. But I'm choosing to interpret it as my penance. And I'm accepting it gladly, and with humility. (I hope so, anyways. I'm trying.)
And I know one thing for certain: I'll never take non-alcoholic beer lightly again.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Hurt...
I faced a big test today. And I failed it.
I started a fight with Her. I had a pretty good idea how she'd respond, and I had a pretty good idea that I wouldn't like it, but I set her up, anyways. I served her the line, and she hit it back to me in the exact way I knew she would, and then I got mad at her for it. Her response was hurtful, true, but I shouldn't have gotten angry with her for it. And I definitely shouldn't have yelled at her for it. Especially since I saw it coming from a mile away. I knew it was coming, so I had every opportunity to prepare myself to respond appropriately. But I didn't.
Instead, I yelled at her, and hurt her back. I failed. I failed Her, and I failed myself.
When someone I care about hurts me (which is redundant - I can't be hurt by someone I don't already care about first), I don't actually feel hurt. Because feeling hurt is a vulnerable feeling; a weak feeling. Instead, I skip straight over "hurt" and go right to "angry." Because "angry" is a strong feeling - a powerful feeling. When someone hurts me, I feel attacked by them. And so I respond by attacking them right back. I stand up for myself. I defend myself. The last thing I'm going to do in that situation is roll over and expose my belly and take it, suck it up, allow them to continue hurting me. This behavior was ingrained in me by years of childhood abuse, at the hands of people I cared about - my mother, especially, but also the childhood bullies, who were invariably the "cool kids" that I wanted so much to like me. But that's an explanation, not an excuse. Knowing why I do it doesn't make it okay.
Because this behavior hurts the people I care about. And there's just no reason for it. I'm hurt and I'm scared. I'm hurt by what you did, and I'm scared that you can hurt me. What's wrong with that? Why can't I just say that? Why can't I just feel that? Why do I have to jump straight to this macho "You can't hurt me!" place, like you're some asshole bully trying to make me feel like I'm nothing - like I'm completely powerless - as though you weren't, in reality, someone I care very deeply for, who means a great deal to me, and who simply made a mistake?
I'm trying. That's all I can do. I'm trying. I really am.
I didn't recognize what I was doing in the moment, and in that I failed. I allowed myself to fall back into old, destructive habits, and in that I failed. I hurt Her, and in that I failed. But as soon as it was over - as soon as we walked away - I looked back at everything I had said and done, and it all became clear to me. And I immediately apologized for it. Before now, I would've held onto that anger, allowed it to fuel my sense of self-righteousness. But today, almost the instant it began to wane, I let it all go. And I allowed myself to feel, simply, hurt. It's far from perfect, but it's still an undeniable improvement.
I'm not giving myself any credit for this here. I still failed, and I still have a lot of work to do. I'm just trying to take an honest assessment of myself. Nothing is entirely good, and nothing is entirely bad. Everything is both good and bad. I failed, but I learned. I hurt her, but I quickly realized my mistake and stopped doing it. And next time, I will try to do better.
That's all I can do.
I started a fight with Her. I had a pretty good idea how she'd respond, and I had a pretty good idea that I wouldn't like it, but I set her up, anyways. I served her the line, and she hit it back to me in the exact way I knew she would, and then I got mad at her for it. Her response was hurtful, true, but I shouldn't have gotten angry with her for it. And I definitely shouldn't have yelled at her for it. Especially since I saw it coming from a mile away. I knew it was coming, so I had every opportunity to prepare myself to respond appropriately. But I didn't.
Instead, I yelled at her, and hurt her back. I failed. I failed Her, and I failed myself.
When someone I care about hurts me (which is redundant - I can't be hurt by someone I don't already care about first), I don't actually feel hurt. Because feeling hurt is a vulnerable feeling; a weak feeling. Instead, I skip straight over "hurt" and go right to "angry." Because "angry" is a strong feeling - a powerful feeling. When someone hurts me, I feel attacked by them. And so I respond by attacking them right back. I stand up for myself. I defend myself. The last thing I'm going to do in that situation is roll over and expose my belly and take it, suck it up, allow them to continue hurting me. This behavior was ingrained in me by years of childhood abuse, at the hands of people I cared about - my mother, especially, but also the childhood bullies, who were invariably the "cool kids" that I wanted so much to like me. But that's an explanation, not an excuse. Knowing why I do it doesn't make it okay.
Because this behavior hurts the people I care about. And there's just no reason for it. I'm hurt and I'm scared. I'm hurt by what you did, and I'm scared that you can hurt me. What's wrong with that? Why can't I just say that? Why can't I just feel that? Why do I have to jump straight to this macho "You can't hurt me!" place, like you're some asshole bully trying to make me feel like I'm nothing - like I'm completely powerless - as though you weren't, in reality, someone I care very deeply for, who means a great deal to me, and who simply made a mistake?
I'm trying. That's all I can do. I'm trying. I really am.
I didn't recognize what I was doing in the moment, and in that I failed. I allowed myself to fall back into old, destructive habits, and in that I failed. I hurt Her, and in that I failed. But as soon as it was over - as soon as we walked away - I looked back at everything I had said and done, and it all became clear to me. And I immediately apologized for it. Before now, I would've held onto that anger, allowed it to fuel my sense of self-righteousness. But today, almost the instant it began to wane, I let it all go. And I allowed myself to feel, simply, hurt. It's far from perfect, but it's still an undeniable improvement.
I'm not giving myself any credit for this here. I still failed, and I still have a lot of work to do. I'm just trying to take an honest assessment of myself. Nothing is entirely good, and nothing is entirely bad. Everything is both good and bad. I failed, but I learned. I hurt her, but I quickly realized my mistake and stopped doing it. And next time, I will try to do better.
That's all I can do.
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