"Busy Brain"

I don't know how it is for y'all, but my disease never quits. It's always looking for a way to drag me down: new ways, old ways, creative ways, subversive ways, bold in-your-face ways... One of those ways is this constant nitpicking that goes on inside my head. It's like, no matter how much progress I make, it's never enough. For every little victory I make, the disease tells me it's not enough. It's almost like it stands there in its jail cell and yells at me, "you're still not perfect!" A few examples:

Today, I finished up a webpage with an online store so that fans could buy my CDs directly from me. What does my brain do? It goes off on how hardly anyone is going to order them. It cuts me down, saying how amateur I am, bemoans me for being so small-time. I respond the best way I can, reminding myself not to listen to the lies, and that it's okay to be proud of what I have done. It's good to be proud of my accomplishments, and important. The fact that I put a CD together, let alone have it available for sale worldwide? Excellent accomplishments. No doubt there are people out there who can complete a task, and then sit back and be proud of what they've done. And I can get to that place, too, it's just not a natural instinct--I have to do a little work to get there.

Another example: on Saturday, I drove down to San Francisco to be my friend's escort/date for a wedding she was in. I spent the day helping out, being of service. It was a religious ceremony, and the reception was long. It was at a revivalist church, which is fine, but it isn't a way of expressing faith that works for me. But like I said, it works for others and that's fine. There was a time when I would have mouthed off to about how their religion was all screwed up, got in other people's faces about how wrong the way they worshipped was. On Saturday, I just sat and let it all happen around me. Tolerance. Acceptance. Just because something isn't right for me doesn't mean I get to tell others it's not right, period. But the disease in my brain had plenty to say. Even as I won the battle against self-righteousness, the disease took a new tack and thoughts of how I should be more social started floating around my brain. 'Talk to people,' it said, 'meet people, find some gal and dance with her.'

Last week, I was at a coffee shop, reading. A good-looking gal came and sat down nearby. Instantly, the brain was in action: talk to her, strike up conversation, don't be a chicken shit! As it turns out, she and I did end up talking a little. I invited her to play a game of chess. She declined, saying she was waiting for someone. I went back to my book. When I left, she gave me a cute wave goodbye. I tried to give myself credit for overcoming my insecurities and talking to her at all, but the brain was right there with the old "it's never enough" routine. "You should've got her number!" "You should have kept talking to her!" and on and on, 'should'ing me to death.

To be fair, it isn't always like this. And, in a way, I'm glad for the times it is. This is what it's like for those of us with the disease, always being on-guard against that hamster wheel inside. We spin. Sometimes we obsess over other people. Sometimes it's over events. Sometimes, like what I'm talking about here, it's an internal thing where the disease tells us we aren't good enough, that no matter what we do it’s never enough.

The truth? The truth is that all we can do is our best, and that who we are--just as we are--is enough. So what if I didn't get that gal's number? I talked to her. For someone like myself, battling insecurity, that's a battle won all by itself. So what if I didn't socialize much at the wedding? I was there to be there for my friend. And the fact that not telling others how to live is becoming a natural instinct for me? That's huge. Maybe I don't have legions of fans clamoring for my latest release, so the fuck what?! I make my music, uphold myself to standards of quality, and the music I make is damn good. I don't do it for fame or fortune. I'm not saying I'm opposed to those things, but whether or not that happens isn't up to me, it's up to God. I do what I can. I make my music as best I can and put it out there.

This is what the program teaches us: to let go of the things beyond our control; to change the things we can; to do our best and accept that as enough. It's a process, one of learning and of doing. Growth will continue, as long as I keep on keepin' on.

"Responsible And Stuff"

I tell you, after reading the JFT for today, my first instinct is to tow the line and preach a little on the responsibility subject. How it important it is, the inner satisfaction it brings, the privilege of being sober and able to be responsible. Blah, blah, blah. Yak, yak, yak. Even to myself, as I imagine writing about it, I find my own voice sounding like one of Charlie Brown’s teachers. And if I'm bored with myself before I've even written anything down... well, bad sign. So instead, I'll start with all that and whatever else comes out, comes out.

One of my fellows talked recently about dreading work. He goes to bed each night, dreading the fact that when he wakes up he'll have to go in to work. I know exactly how he feels. I reminded him of how things used to be, the days when he wouldn't even bother to look for a job, much less hold one down. He works a sales job and gets frustrated, dislikes how so much of his time is spent convincing people he doesn't know to spend money they don't want to spend on things they don't really need. He's never said it like this, but I wonder if he feels like a con man. He tends to point to his character defect of laziness, but I wonder if there isn't some measure of his conscience at work as well. That’s the spiritual principle of Honesty happening, there.

I think, even though he hates his job, he does like having an income, and I understand that, too. These are relatively tough economic times. So many people hate their jobs, but are grateful to have them. Before I was laid-off, that was my refrain too: I am so grateful to have a job to hate. But even before I became unemployed, I wondered often about why it is that so many people hate their jobs. Why do so many people make their jobs their life? Some would argue with me that it's important to have a good work ethic. Personally, I think it's more important to lead a balanced life.

Sometimes, it seems to me that this whole culture is caught up in a bizarre notion of what it means to be happy. More is always the answer. If I work more, I'll get paid more, and then I can have more. More money, more things, more respect, etc. And the most obviously unhealthy thing about this, to me, is that it's a future-fuck. It's a focus on the future instead of an enjoyment of the now. How could people possibly focus on the now, anyway, when now is so miserable? It's only that focus on the future that allows people to get through the moment. It's okay to be unhappy now because I'll be happy 'someday'. It's a lie.

The moment--this moment, right now--is all we really have. As the old saying goes, tomorrow never comes.

Yeah, being responsible is important. I like paying my bills on time and actually really enjoy the fact that collection agencies aren't harassing me anymore. But our most ultimate responsibility is to ourselves. Nothing outside of us is going to make us satisfied, not money, not prestige, not a lover. There is a lot to be said for putting the time in, doing the hard work, and receiving our reward. But it's important, too, to not sacrifice the present for it.

The line between working towards something in the future and living in that future we're working towards is far easier to cross than we realize. And it doesn't apply just to work, either. I can't tell you how many times I've been in a bad relationship and chose not to leave because I was hoping it would 'get better'.

Our greatest responsibility is always to ourselves, where we really are--right now, right here. It's good to work towards a better future, just so long as we don't try to live in it before it's arrived.

"The Holidays Are Coming"

Maybe I should say, ‘evil spacepod people are coming!’ There are a few of us out there who would prefer that to the thought of spending the holidays with our families... or alone.

Holidays are hard for a lot of us. Some of us are lucky enough to have family in Recovery. Many aren’t. All too often, the holidays are unhappy reminders of the insanity of our families of origin, the chaos we’ve worked so hard to escape from. Some of us don’t have family to be with, or refuse to be with, or are unwelcome around. Some of us spend our holidays alone.

We don’t have to. Hopefully, where you live is like where I am. There are Alc-athons and Nar-athons--meetings and events happening all day long. My fellowship is holding our regular Thursday night meeting tomorrow, and I will be there for that regardless of whatever else I end up doing during the day. And even if, through some twist of fate, it ended up that I had no place to go for a turkey dinner, I would still have that meeting to go to, and for that I am grateful.

I heard a newcomer share last night that the holidays are particularly hard for folks like us, and he’s right. But they’re hard for others, too. There are many people (perhaps too many) who don't have families or friends to spend these days with. Some are too poor to afford a special dinner, let alone a feast. Gratitude, that's what the program gives us. If we want to, we can suffer alone and be miserable. But if we choose to, we can spend these days with our fellow addicts and alcoholics.

This will be my third holiday season living the clean and sober lifestyle. Each year, it’s gotten a little easier. That's just my experience; I can't promise it will be like that for others. But I am definitely feeling the gratitude for the program. I know many people for whom those holiday meetings are life-savers. For some of us, the fact that we've got a meeting we can go to later is what gives us the strength to get through the day. Having just written that, I find myself laughing a little. So many days are like that--holidays or not.

It’s one of the many benefits of the program--we don’t have to be alone anymore. If you’re on the outs with your family of origin, or in the middle of an ending to your marriage, losing or have lost your kids, spend the holidays with your family of choice. Allow yourself to feel real love from those who really love you.

"TOTD, yo!"

Ah, the disease. Some call it alcoholism, some call it addiction. Those of us who suffer from it call it fucking hell. The sobriety calculator app on my phone (which I usually blog from) tells me that I have 822 days clean and sober today. And yes, even with more than two years of time, I still suffer from the disease. I work steps. I attend meetings. I sponsor others. I hold service positions. But I still suffer from the disease. Don't misunderstand, things are better now than they were when I was using, but I am never cured. Like anyone living with an incurable disease, there are things I can do to treat it, but it will never fully go away. I'm thinking right now of a friend of mine who is coming up 15 years who always insists that, even now, she is not all well and wonderful.

There is still a perception out there that the disease is the addiction itself. If that were true, then mere abstinence would be enough for us. It isn't. Anyone who's lived with a binge user or a dry drunk knows that to be true. I am not the first to say that I don't need to be loaded, I can be an asshole all on my own. The disease is about behavior, about thought patterns, about ways of communicating. It is the perversion of our natural survival instincts. It is the rampant overuse of defects of character. It is our desire and attempts to control. It is the reactions we make and the actions we take based out of our fears, both real and imagined. Our use, our addiction to any one particular drug of choice, is only a symptom.

The disease develops through active use. Some say it's in our genes. For some of us, it's pressence can be seen long before we ever take our first drink or do our first drug. No matter how it starts, if it isn't arrested, it leads inexoribly to one of three places: jails, institutions, and death. Sometimes, reaching one of these is enough to wake us up from our stupor. We have a moment of clarity where we realize that we can't do it anymore. The idea occurs to us that there must be another way; there must be something better. We admit to ourselves that what we've been doing doesn't work. Perhaps we feel the presence of the divine and it gives us the strength to change. Maybe we crawl, battered, beaten, and broken, into the rooms of Recovery begging for help. Maybe we're dragged there.

We lose so much because of this disease. We lose material posessions. We lose our jobs and our homes. We lose people, too--our girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, husbands. We lose our family, our parents and our children. We lose our way, and we lose ourselves.

I've heard it said that the beginning of this disease, the thing that happens inside us that allows it to take root and grow, is the idea that we are not enough. If you suffer from this disease, then somewhere along the way you bought into the idea that who you are, just as you are, isn't enough. That you had to be someone or something besides who you are at the core in order to be loved by other people. At the heart of so many of us with this disease is the idea that we are inherently unlovable. We feel that we don't deserve to be loved, that we have to do something special, be someone else, in order to be worthy of love. For many of us, the disease progresses to the point where we don't want to be loved, where we will do anything and everything to keep others from loving us. And all the while, we live our lives with this empty feeling inside.

In the grips of our disease, we are insane. And like all insane people, we think we aren't. It takes a clear head to see how crazy we are. It takes the presence of other people who have been restored to sanity, who posess a measure or peace and serenity, who can show us a different way.

There are many opinions about the way out of this disease. Some feel therapy is the answer. Some believe that devout religious practice is. The rooms of 12-step Recovery don't claim to be the only way, just a way that does work. I've never met anyone who said they had worked all twelve steps of the program and it didn't do anything for them. I've heard it said, in different words, that it's important not to expect more than what the program offers. The program only offers freedom from active addiction, nothing more. I happen to disagree. What I have found through working the program of Recovery is nothing less than freedom. It's freedom from active addiction, yes, but also freedom to learn who I really am--and that includes the freedom to see the parts of myself I don't like and the freedom to work to change them.

I've learned, too, the dangers of underestimating my disease, of thinking that I've got it licked, that I've won the war. I don't get to win this war, but I do get a working truce. If I keep up my program, if I keep on working on myself, then I get an amicable separation from this bad marriage. And for me, that is more than good enough.

"Envy"

I wrote this song once. The chorus went: "I wanna be someone else, from another place, with a different face; I wanna see myself, in another scene, from a different dream." My bass player at the time left the lyrics out one day and his mom saw them. She read them, then looked at him and asked if he was depressed. He told her that I was the one who had written the song. At the next band practice, we all had a good laugh about it.

Because, of course, you know there was no way in hell that I would admit at that time that I actually was depressed. I couldn't admit it to myself, much less anyone else. Denial. It ain't just a river in Egypt.

Envy is a big part of this American culture, though. We see people with bigger houses, fancier cars. The pretty girlfriend. The succesful husband. There used to be a saying about being happy with who we are and with what we have. I don't hear that saying anymore. Our great consumerist society is entirely dependent on people being dissatisfied with what they have. If you're happy with what you've got, why would you buy anything else? If your cars runs and you like it fine, why would you want a new one? One of my conspiracy theory friends is even firmly convinced that the whole move to HD TVs was a deliberate cash grab by the electronics industry.

Envy is a dangerous thing. You can always find someone better than you. Someone who has more money, or a better relationship, or seems to have a better life. It's dangerous because if we're thinking of others as better than us, we're thinking of ourselves as less-than them. The reversal of these roles is the equally dangerous pride, where we think we are better than others. It's a neverending cycle that we can escape from if we choose to: we simply stop comparing ourselves to others. Period.

There is a type of envy that is useful, but I don't like calling it that because it's something that is healthy for us, while the type of envy I've been talking about definitely is not. This other kind I'm talking about is the feeling we have when we're in a meeting and we hear serenity in the share of someone else in the group. It's that moment when we're talking to members of the fellowship and we realize we want what they have. Not their material possessions, not their station in life, but that certain something they have inside that we can't even find words for. We see a kind of peace that seems to radiate outwards from them and we realize we want that for ourselves, too. It's the best advice I've ever heard for choosing a sponsor: find someone who you want what they have.

Envy is evil. Envy is the disease messing with us, telling us we're not good enough, that other people are better than we are. It. Is. Lying. Maybe we don't have lots of money, or a good relationship (or any kind of relationship, for that matter), we are still human beings. We are still people of worth and our lives have value. Don't let the disease tell you any different.

"Got Hobbies?"

One of the things I like so much about my therapist is that he’s very matter-of-fact. I suspect that it wouldn't matter if I were talking about how nice the weather is outside or crying about childhood trauma, he would still respond with the same, steady, even-keel. Lately, we’ve been talking a lot about building self-esteem. “And how do you build self-esteem? You do stuff,” he says. Simple, yet profound; matter-of-fact, and so very true.

Our self-esteem comes from having success in our lives. The longer and harder we work at something, the greater our self-esteem will rise at the successful accomplishing of what we set out to do. The old saying, ‘the harder the battle, the sweeter the victory’ comes to mind.

I had very few victories as a kid. I didn’t participate in sports. I didn’t really play much with other kids. I was smart, but most of the time I didn’t do nearly as well in school as I could have because I was afraid of the bullies who came after me when I did. My overprotective mother had conniption fits if I didn’t stay close to the house, and my fear of her reaction kept me from exploring the neighborhood. Most of my childhood was spent inside my head, in my imagination. As an active addict, I didn't have much success, either. I’ve never owned a home. My cars have always been hand-me-downs from other members of my family from when they bought new ones. What furniture I had was mostly leftover from when my grandmother died. I did have hobbies, or one rather--my music. But even that, there wasn’t much to show for it. I started many projects that were never completed. My band never played any gigs.

Things are so different now--I’ve completed and brought to production two full CDs of music this year. I do still have Nana’s couch and table, but my bookshelves are ones I bought and assembled myself; the TV I bought sits on a stand I got from Ikea. Bit by bit, things have changed.

Working the program in and of itself is a self-esteem booster. There is no feeling more amazing than to put time together where we once were unable to get through a single day without getting loaded. There is a sense of satisfaction that comes from getting through a set of Twelve Steps. Working those steps is NOT easy. Being of service can touch us in places, too, where we feel good about doing good--for others and for ourselves. But the program of Recovery is merely the foundation for living our lives, not life itself.

My music is only one of my interests. I’ve recently started shooting pool again. Many years ago, I had played in a league, even shot in tournaments. It’s been very cool to see my skills come back. I’m a member at my local art museum. I enjoy going there to see the art, of course, but also because it’s a peaceful place. Walking around, contemplating the different works, is almost like meditation for me. Modern art is especially captivating. I love to stare at a painting or a sculpture that seems to be of nothing, noticing the feelings that come up inside as I do so. I’m even getting back to exercising. It’s been a few months, and I can’t do nearly as many pushups as I used to be able to, but I know that will improve with time and practice. I found a cool website that gives a 6-week plan for building up enough strength to do 100 pushups in a single set.

Building self-esteem takes work, but it is doable. We can set goals, ones that are easily achievable at first, then add in more difficult ones as we make progress. We don’t have to beat ourselves up if we don’t succeed at first, either. We can just keep on trying until we do. Exercise helps the body as well as the mind to feel better. Our hobbies help us to round ourselves out, becoming even more fully human, more complete and whole. What we do isn’t nearly as important as the actual doing of it.

One of my sponsees talks from time to time about how he ‘doesn't like doing anything’. He says it as one of those half-joking truths. I recently passed on the advice of my therapist--do stuff. Go out and exercise; take up a new hobby. Try stuff. Do something different. Discover something you never knew you liked doing. Keep on doing it.

Sure, it ain’t easy, but it is simple. Get out there and do stuff.

"Just Another Day"

I have a saying: Blargh. It's kind of my short-form way of expressing the idea, "shit's all fucked up, life is crazy, people are nuts, and oh by the way I'm still here and watching all of it," with a healthy dose of amused 'whatever' to top it all off. It's one thing about this blog--there’s not a good way to just make unintelligible noises. It would seem that this is one of those days where I don't have any particular point to make, just writing to let my readers know that I'm still here and I'm still sober. Which any Recovering addict can tell you is a one-two miracle punch combo.

Right now I'm at my favorite coffee shop. There are patrons at a table next to me talking in a stoned-out inflection about conspiracy theories of the local power company. I'm watching business-type folks come in and go out. Some have laptops, some have newspapers. Some are on breaks from work, others are clearly looking for work. Pretty girls with their slovenly dressed boyfriends abound. The stoners' topic changes to a heated discussion of which bowling alley in town has the best lanes.

I'm still unemployed. Unemployment here in California is pretty bad, with 1 in 7 people out of work. I'm still working the program, though. I’m still doing good things for myself, still pressing on doing what I can and doing my best to let go of the things beyond my control. I've been working on promotion for my latest CD. I've got some internet radio play going and am already seeing fans crop up all over the world. Not tons, but so what? I threw up some quick and dirty music videos on YouTube. Again, they aren't getting tons of play, but I'm not stressing about that either. Sure, it would be nice to have thousands of fans, all demanding a copy of the latest tunes, but that's not up to me. I do what I can; I make the music, I put it out there, and whatever happens happens.

Every once in a while, one of the pretty girls throws me a casual glance when her guy is looking the other way. I smile to myself.

There's only a few weeks left for school this semester. It's looking like I'll pull an 'A' and a 'B' for my two classes, and I'm okay with that. It would have been nice to make 'A's in both, but that's not what I earned. The classes have been really trying for me. The teachers are blah, bordering on terrible. I don't feel like I wasted a semester, though. I'd thought that going for the drug & alcohol counseling certificate would be a good idea. Now I know it's not something I'm interested in, and that's good knowledge to have. Keeping on with it might mean a new job sooner, but I'm okay with putting in the time to become an MFT and so I’m going to set that course an head straight for it. I know now that the D&A counseling isn't a job I would enjoy and the whole point of finding a new career is to do something I want to do, a job that I’d enjoy doing. The days of slaving away at a job I hate are over. It's about knowing that I'm worth it; I'm worth the time and energy to do what I want with my life.

We've got our district meeting tonight for my MA fellowship. No doubt personalities will run strong, and that's okay too. We’re going to look at our H & I activity and see if there aren’t better ways for us to reach out to the community. California’s ballot measure to legalize marijuana failed, but there are still plenty of medical dispensaries in operation. Every week, more and more newcomers are showing up at our meetings looking for a safe place to get help.

I like days like this, days where nothing is particularly different or special, just that my attitude is good. Even as the stoners come over, uninvited, to play with my Zippo lighter on their way out to go smoke. No job, no girlfriend, and no idea what the future holds, and still I deal with the world from a place of slight amusement. It's not that life is good or bad, it simply is what it is. And today I'm able to face it from a place of strength, thanks to my higher power, and security in myself, thanks to the program.

Still staying sober over here...

"Connection"

At my homegroup last night, a newcomer shared that they didn't want to drink or use because it would cut off the connection with their higher power. I heard this said and thought to myself, "wow--you just hit the nail on the head." It was great to see someone so new clue in to such a fundamental aspect of the program. If we're loaded, we can't make conscious contact. Being intoxicated--even a little--prevents us from making that connection with the power greater than ourselves. It prevents us from hearing the small still voice speaking to us deep inside. It obliterates our ability to follow our higher power's will for us.

The program is a spiritual program. The purpose of the 12 steps is to have a spiritual awakening. By working each step, we learn a specific spiritual principle. By the time we reach the end of the 12 steps, we have had much practice in using these principles. When we work the twelfth step, we start putting all that we have learned into daily practice; we become living examples of the power of living the spiritual life. Our very presence is a message of that power. We become connected to the power greater than us, connected to our true selves, and connected to other people in a most powerful way.

For this addict/alcoholic, who used to spend his life in total isolation from all of the above, it is a gift for which I am so grateful. There really aren't words to express how it feels to not be alone anymore. There are times when I feel alone, sure. There are times when the last thing I want is to be around other people. But at those dark times, on those dark days, I lean even harder on God, and I know that my prayers are heard. My prayers are answered. Maybe not in the way that I want, but in the way that I need. It's an amazing thing, to feel empty, lost, and weak, and then be filled with the strength of my higher power.

I really liked hearing the newcomers share last night--all of them. It was great to hear their dedication to the program, hear how it's already helping them in their lives. When I shared, I thanked them for what they'd said. I talked about being where they are and remembered how it felt to be new, to go through those stages. I remembered the exhilaration I'd felt at the beginning, how it had felt so good, how it got harder, then how it got even harder than that, and how it finally started to get easier. The road of Recovery can be a hard road at times, but the journey is worthwhile--so long as I remember that it's a journey and not a destination.

Even when I feel lost, I'm still connected to my higher power. When I feel isolated from my fellows, I can go to a meeting and know that I'm not alone. Even if I don't share. Even if I don't speak a word to anyone. Sometimes I'm stuck inside myself having a pity party. Being at a meeting jars me out of that rut and reminds me of the truth: that I am connected.

The disease can block that connection, but only if we let it. Getting loaded can block it. Letting fear dictate our actions can block it. But always we have the ability to overcome. Instead of letting the disease run things, we can reach out for the strength of our higher power, let ourselves be moved, guided. Connection is always available to us, and it's our choice whether we rely on it or not.

"Feeling Lost"

There is something comforting about black and white. Either or. Right or wrong. Good or bad. It's a way of looking at the world and making what you see very simple. Small problem, though: most of life is not simple. Or shit, I don't know, maybe it is simple for some people and it's just not simple for me.

I've been thinking about selfishness lately. My therapist has got me focusing on this idea. I must admit to having some difficulty with it. Part of the problem is years of Recovery training against not being a selfish asshole. Part of it is the learning I did growing up that being selfish is wrong, bad, sinful. And part of it is just the me that is me who hates how much selfishness there is in the world around me. And part of it is the me who feels guilty and ashamed for so much as thinking selfishly.

When in the grips of our disease, we are extremely selfish. I've heard it said that being selfish isn't bad, in and of itself. It's that we as addicts and alcoholics find unhealthy ways to be selfish, and we take it to the farthest extreme. Working the program is a selfish act, but one that is good for us. It helps us to build a more positive relationship with ourselves and with others. But no matter what we do in the program, no matter how much we help others along the way, we are doing it all for a selfish reason: to not get loaded. Somehow, we decide that we are worth more than to spend the rest of our lives using. Maybe we decided that we don't want to go to jail again, or we don't want to be institutionalized again. It's still a selfish decision.

I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this positive selfishness stuff. There's a lot of resistance there, a loqt of learning to unlearn. My insides say that any kind of selfishness is bad. Period. That if I am selfish in any way, I have to balance it out, or even totally overcompensate, with selfless acts. The only way to justify being selfish is to be even more selfless. I'm thinking that this idea in my head is why I'm having so much trouble with the self esteem lately.

I'll keep working on it.

"Simple Answers"

Some people think there aren't any simple answers. I disagree. Some questions have very simple answers. Why can't I stop using/drinking? Because you're an addict/alcoholic. Why doesn't anyone like me? Because you don't like yourself. Why do I keep on ending up in abusive relationships? Because it's what you're used to.

Yes, I just said a mouthful.

Just because an answer is simple, doesn't mean it's easy. Truth can be a very hard thing to swallow--especially for those of us with the disease. Denial is like our favorite jacket. Pointing a finger at everything else, refusing to admit our part, these are habits so second-nature to us they're almost as easy as breathing. Maybe even easier.

Some people think they had a choice to use and/or drink, that they're the ones who choose to pick up and put in. One of my most fundamental understandings about the disease is that that is not so. It's when you can't quit, when you can't not get loaded (under your own power), that's what it means to be addicted. This isn't an easy truth to face. It means having to make radical, drastic changes in one's life. It's a problem that we need help to deal with. It's what it means to be addiced: we can't stop on our own. Yes, we're responsible for our actions, and that responsibility can mean we get the help we need, or we continue to use until we die.

Some of us spend all our time wallowing in sorrow because we don't have any friends and because we're convinced no one would want to be friends with us--especially if they knew us. God knows I've done some things in my past that I am not proud of. Followers of this blog know I struggle with self-esteem issues (what addict doesn't?) It's something I work with my sponsees on, too. The key there is, once again, what is our part? If we don't like ourselves, how can we expect anyone else to like us? If we spend our energy throwing out hate and negativity, why would anyone want to be around us? We can end up pushing away the very people we want to have around.It's when we take the time to do the work of self-acceptance, that we find people in our lives who accept us as well.

Unhealthy romantic relationships are another prime example. If we grew up in a home where there was abuse, we're much more likely to find ourselves in abusive relationships as adults. Our parents set the example for us; it's what we learn as normal. Changing that knowledge, learning something different, can be a long and difficult process, but it can be done. If we don't do it, then we may well be doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again, always wondering why nothing ever changes. We have to do the work, examine the problem with a cold eye, and be willing to do what is needed if we really want to make the changes in our lives we want to make.

It always comes back to changing the things we can. It comes back to ourselves, the only thing we really have any control over. We do the work on ourselves that needs to be done, and the rest of our lives change accordingly. All we have to do is keep at it, and we will see the difference manifest. And when we do, it's miraculous.

"It Was That Bad"

The JFT today talked about how easy it can be to forget how insane we were in our active addiction. It brought to my mind the story from the AA big book about the jaywalker. I've blogged about it before and it's a well-known enough story that I'll leave it un-paraphrased here. The point of both is simple: in our active addiction, our insanity is on par with asking for a fatal wounding.

In many ways, that's what we did. It's what I did. It's not a big stretch to summarize my using career as an attempt to die slowly, because I lacked the courage to do it quickly. That might not make sense for a suicide survivor such as myself to write, but here's a clue as to how deep my insanity still goes, how it lingers and persists: there is a part of me still that feels if I had really been serious about killing myself, I wouldn't have let anything stop me. Now, I can take this talking point of Uncle Steve's and recognize it for what it is--an attempt to take my story of survival and turn it into something which will drag me down to the place where I might try again to die. That's what years of Recovery has done for me; it's allowed me to see the insanity of my disease and recognize it for the lies they are.

But after years of Recovery (or even mere months) we become different people. It IS easy to forget how insane we were. It's too easy to tell ourselves that things weren't that bad, that we weren't really all that insane. And that, of course, is the real insanity of this disease that never quits. It wants us to think things weren't that bad. If we forget how bad it was, if we romanticize the times we spent using, then we are taking the road to relapse. My disease doesn't want me to be healthy and sober, happy, joyous, and free. My disease wants me to be loaded. It wants me to be miserable. It wants me dead.

The more Recovery we get, the more insane our insanity seems. To someone who feels they are loved unconditionally, that there is a power greater than himself who wants all the best for him, to compare that with how I used to feel--that fate itself was personally at war with me, that I was doomed to lead a life of misery, those things are polar opposites. The same is true for my social relationships. Where I once was convinced that no one wanted to talk to me or spend time with me or have anything to do with me at all, now I have people in my life that love and care about me for who I am and appreciate me for my own unique self. To look back and remember what it was like can be painful.

I can still remember. I can still get back into those feelings, into that mindset. I don't like going there, but remembering it is different than living it. The sting isn't quite as sharp. And continuing to go to meetings, listening to newcomers, helps me to stay in touch with it and not forget. Those days are a resource to me now. They are the experience I draw on when I share and when I talk to newcomers before & after meetings. It's how I let them know there is hope. I can say to them with the authenticity of experience, "I have been where you are; I have felt how you feel; it really does get better."

"My Problem"

"Dear God: I have a problem--me."
"Dear child: I have an answer--me."
--Anonymous

The best share opening I've ever heard? 'Hi, my name is booze and I have a Zach problem.' Followers of this blog are aware of my belief that, for those of us with this disease, our use is just a symptom. Our real problem is with ourselves. It's why we don't get instantly better once our bodies are free of substances. It's why binge users and dry drunks are still as difficult to deal with when they're not loaded as when they are. It's why Recovery is a process, not an event.

Medical doctors with their research will show how the disease is a perversion of our natural instincts. We have needs, and we try to get those basic needs met, but we do it in unhealthy ways; in ways that end up causing harm to ourselves and those around us. Therapists will talk about how the very language we speak is different than how 'Normies' communicate. We talk around the subject, with implied meaning, avoiding directness. We tell lies of commission and omission. In many cases, our very perception of reality is warped.

My problem has always been me. In the grips of my disease, I'm a deeply insecure, raging egomaniac. Inside, I think of myself as the worst of the worst, while outside I demand that others treat me as the best of the best. Oh, to be right-sized...

I'm in the vice grips of my disease again today. It doesn't surprise me, actually. I've identified the boulder in the soil of my soul--the issue of low self-esteem--and have been working on it. I've been making a dedicated effort lately to embrace the good qualities I have. I've been actively doing things I enjoy doing because I enjoy them. I ordered the CDs for my latest album; I went out and shot pool for the first time in like a year. I was of service to others this week as they struggled through majorly difficult times in their lives. And I noticed that I have been feeling better--about myself and just in general, too. So it doesn't surprise me that I woke up this morning feeling depressed and low. Why? Because my disease never quits.

My disease doesn't want me to feel good about myself. It wants me to suffer and die. If I fight, it fights back. If I feel good about myself, it looks for ways to make me feel bad about myself. It tells me the most sinister of lies. It whispers in my ear that feeling good about myself, that feeling I am a person of worth and value who deserves to be happy and healthy, who deserves all the best life has to offer, is a horrible unspeakable evil and that I am the lowest of the low if I so much as dare to think these three simple words: I am enough.

Many addicts feel they are their own worst enemy, and it's true for me too. For some, it's an out-of-control ego. For me, it's a deep lack of self-worth. But I am chipping away at that boulder, and I'm not going to stop just because the evil demon that I keep jailed up inside my brain is complaining more loudly today than normal. Of course he is; I'm winning the war against him.

I shared at a meeting last night that when I feel lost, I reach out to my higher power and ask for guidance. That when I'm confused, I ask to be shown the way to go, which way to turn, what choices to make. Sometimes I ask for specific things. Sometimes I ask for the strength to do what's best for myself. Sometimes I ask for nothing more than for God to guide me, to guide my thoughts, guide my words, guide my actions. 'Keep me on the path.' 'Help me to let go; help me to do what you would have me do.' When I do this, when I stop trying to rely on my on strength and instead align myself with the strength of my higher power, that's when things go better. Sometimes the change even happens on an unconscious level and I find myself gratefully amazed at the fulfillment of that ninth step promise--I find that I'm intuitively handling situations that used to baffle me.

Today I'm going to spend more time doing the things I enjoy, the things I know are good for me. I'm going to spend time with people who love me. I've written in my journal. I'm keeping conscious contact with my higher power. I'm writing in this blog. The disease can make all the noise it wants; the louder it screams, the more I want to smile because I know the reason for its cries: I am winning the war against my disease, and my disease is a sore loser.

"Good Man"

An important part of my program is that I journal. I write down my step work, my fears, the events that occur as I go about my life, and the thoughts and feelings that come to my mind. It's something I suggest to my sponsees, if for no other reason than to provide themselves with a written record of their Recovery journey. I'm going to share a brief bit from my entry for today.

"I want to take a moment here and give myself a break: I've spent most of my life cancelling myself out. I learned (somehow) that feeling good about myself is bad. I am working on changing these things. I am making progress. I am still on the path."

I chaired a meeting once and was told by someone afterward how much he appreciated my story, that he could tell my Recovery journey was one towards self-acceptance. I've started going to therapy again because I felt there was an immovable rock in the soil of my soul--and that rock has been revealed to me as the same-old self-esteem issue I have done so much work on. I went back to therapy looking for someone to help me figure out what this boulder was that keeps on impeding my personal growth, and for help in getting it the fuck out of there. It may be more of a break it down into smaller chunks and haul it away kind of job. And that's okay. I'm glad to be working on it, regardless of how the job ultimately gets done.

One thing I tend to do is cancel myself out. Or, in slightly harsher language, make lies of ommission about myself. I have a lot of good qualities that I don't let out, don't talk about, that I forget about. I have a number of friends, and I'm thinking of one in particular, who tell me that I'm a good man. It's true. I feel uncomfortable thinking about it or talking about it, though. That's the work I'm doing right now, continuing to become more right-sized. Honesty with ourselves has to come first before we can be honest with others. If I am attempting to lead the spiritual life, be who I really am as God has made me, then that means fully accepting who I am and not being ashamed of it--even if it means I'm a good man and deserve all the best.

This blog is part catharsis, of course. I talk about my life, hoping in part that others will read it and will benefit from my words, yes, but this blog also is a way of working my own shit out. It feels very strange to me to write about myself as someone with good qualities, but I don't doubt that my friends would think to themselves, "well, Zach, you do have a lot of good qualities; why shouldn't you embrace them and be proud of them?"

Many of us--probably most--that walk into the rooms of Recovery struggle with self-esteem issues. For myself, this struggle began long before I ever first picked up, and was compounded by my behavior in active addiction. The program has given me a way to clear away the damage I've done and deal with the wrongs I've committed. It's given me the chance, too, to work on this issue of self-esteem. With a clear head, through working the program, I've had some successes now upon which to build that which has eluded me for so long. I've stayed clean and sober for over two years. I'm one of the leaders in my Recovery community. I'm liked, respected, and admired by people I care about. It's not the be all, end all, but the beginning. It's a foundation on which I can build.

And I'm building.

"Ongoing Problems"

I have an ongoing problem in my life: being unemployed. Though I have to admit, that bit from the movie 'Office Space' keeps coming to my mind. "You've been missing a lot of work, Peter." "I wouldn't say I've been missing it, Bob." Laughter. Seriously, though, my situation, which does carry a certain amount of stress, is nothing compared to what some others have to deal with. I have one friend who's being evicted. I have another who deals with life-threatening health issues. And then there are those who have broken brains that even medication can only do so much for.

I've only been out of work a few months. There are those who have been unemployed for years. I struggle sometimes with depression, but there are those who have Bipolar Disorder. I don't have any children, so I've no idea what it's like to deal with uncontrollable kids day after day. Or to have one of them die. Or to be unable to have children at all. I've been fortunate enough in my life to rarely deal with illness. I can only imagine what it's like to have to take medication just to stay alive, or to function in society.

What I can do is be there for those I know who deal with these issues. I can help a friend move the few possessions she has into a storage unit so that they don't get thrown out by the police. I can offer reassuring words to someone who is suicidal and be an ear for them to talk to as they struggle to find the strength to face one more day. I can offer my shoulder to cry on and a tight hug to someone as she cries about not being able to have children.

I have to take care of myself, too, of course. If I don't do that, then I'm not able to be there for anyone else.

One of the things that bothers me so much about this culture is that there are seemingly so few people who care about others. There's too much guilt-based helping, people who lend a hand not because they truly want to but because they'll feel guilty if they don't. People who don't know how to say 'no'. It breeds resentment, and they end up with harsh feelings towards those who need help. So many people don't understand or know how to have good boundaries. And of course, there's always the over-arching Laissez-Faire, Social Darwinist idea that you shouldn't help people, people should only help themselves, and if they can't they deserve to die. I really hate that shit. Maybe that makes me a socialist commie pinko tree-hugging liberal. So what? The truth is that nobody gets anywhere in life without some kind of help from someone, somewhere along the way.

I'm not always able to help others. I have my days where I'm the one who needs helped. So often I have found--and this is true for myself as well--that what most people need when they need help isn't someone else's pity. They don't want someone to solve their problems for them. More than anything, what they really need is someone to listen to them, who will hear them out, and let them know that what they think and feel is valid. That they are worthwhile as a person. That what they're going through matters.

Sometimes helping is an action. Sometimes it's nothing more than listening. Whichever it is, the help I always try to give is to make sure that the person on the other end, the one who is suffering, knows that they are loved and feels it.