Wherever I Go, There I Am

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Blended Vertices was started back in October of 2016. At the time, a purpose for the blog wasn’t really certain. After cathartic writing on a now-defunct website, Open Diary, during the period immediately following my divorce, another similar experience was hoped for. With 22 posts now published, I am so thankful the decision was made to continue writing. Those posts capture a moment in time that likely would have been otherwise forgotten and to go back and reread them now reminds me of the exquisite emotion found in this life. With that said, this post is about checking-in to record where my life and mind are at here in late May, 2019.

The DUI arrest in September 2018 has been resolved with an accepted plea deal. The minimum mandatory for a third DUI in ten years is 90 days in jail. My deal called for 15, of which I only served 8. That was the only benefit to accepting the deal. The downside is that my motorcycle has been forfeited, an intoxilyzer must be installed in my vehicle for another 2 years and 5 months, and I will be on probation till April of 2021. Overall, including the value of the motorcycle, attorney fees, etc, the cost will exceed $20,000.

Jail consisted of work release from April 25th through May 3rd, and honestly it wasn’t that bad. Fortunately I had some cool roommates who were staying much longer than me. 2 of the 3 had previously been in prison for multiple years for alcohol and drug-related incidents and it occurred to me how big a part luck plays in the path our lives take. These guys were not hardened criminals but by sentencing them to be around those that were, the justice system certainly roughened up their edges. Our unique circumstances for being there were interchangeable from one to another. I just got lucky by not having been caught doing some of the really dumb things that took place in younger years.

I switched companies recently and much greater opportunity exists in that I am part-owner of one of the corporate entities. More freedom exists to work on creative projects to promote the owned entity but motivation to do so has been lacking. Passion for the specific industry isn’t really there but I try to view it as a stepping-stone to one that is supposed to be. I say that because in the decade 2000 – 2010 it felt a destiny could be found in said industry. Success there would have meant money, power, and huge responsibility; all the things thought to define personal success. I know now this isn’t true but I gravitate back towards that industry as my emotional and financial state continues to improve. It just feels familiar and seems like a logical path.

What really interests me? At this moment it seems to be observation and consideration of the human condition. I don’t know if I can go much beyond that as it isn’t really clear to me what that means. Objectively I like to read philosophy, study financial markets and politics, and consider spirituality and religion as a means for people to apply meaning to their lives. Subjectively I like to slow down and ponder my own existence through meditation, writing, and entirely too much thinking. It’s been said by more than one person that I should be a counselor or therapist, though I don’t see that in my immediate future.

Part of my probation calls for weekly attendance at chemical  dependency support  groups. For the past three weeks I’ve been regularly attending an  AA meeting that I’ve been a semi-regular at for the past 9 years. The crowd has changed a lot in the year or so since my last regular attendance but there are still some familiar names and faces I am reacquainting with. As alluded to in many previous posts, I do not subscribe to the 12-step model as a means to recovery personally but the AA community is huge in the city I live in and there are consistently 200 people at this meeting. At the very least it gives me a chance to socialize with people like me and a goal is to build friendships and minimize the isolation that is still so confounding. To do so, the facade of aloofness and intimidating demeanor has got to come down. I am aware of this and have taken active steps to soften up and  take risks by being vulnerable.

My father and mother are both almost 70 years old. I have a relationship with my mother but it isn’t close. She is still stuck in her alcoholism and at this stage I don’t believe it will ever change. Through the hard work of therapy I’ve come to terms with the fact that the relationship is what it is; the guilt I used to feel about not “being a good son” is only a fraction of what it used to be. My father is such a sweet man and being able to finally see that is another benefit of the therapy completed Since his retirement he seems so lonely and fears of his own descent into alcoholism have entered. I’m concerned for him and would like to spend more time with him. He still doesn’t know about my DUI and I’ve been avoiding him because I don’t want to lie about riding my motorcycle, etc. He will find out eventually one way or the other and these past couple days I’ve resigned myself to the idea of telling him. It is hoped he doesn’t revert back to the extreme shaming that so damaged my psyche previously. But he deserves to know and our relationship deserves to not be held hostage by the fear I feel.

I used to believe a romantic relationship was a high priority and recently I’ve been second-guessing that. Doing whatever I want whenever I want has become the standard and I don’t know what it would take for me to willingly give that up. There is a very specific set of criteria I’m looking for and it is unsure if a woman will ever come along that fits all of it. What I want is a long-term interest in fitness, high intelligence, emotional availability, and physical attraction. Women that possess all of that don’t stay single for long. Part of the issue in finding them is that I have not put myself out there physically or online. Other than the recent attendance at AA, the only other social interaction I participate in is at the gym, which is not the most conducive environment to striking up a conversation with an attractive woman. Baby steps on this one, I guess…

M sent me a message a little over a week ago. I had not heard from her since seeing her in January. She fits most of my criteria but the emotional availability part is questionable. And the fact that she currently lives 1000 miles away doesn’t help. I don’t know… There is just something about her that makes me gooshy. She says she thinks about me all the time but I think she just says that. A wise therapist once told me that if a person wants to spend time with somebody or communicate with them, they make it a priority. It made sense when I heard it because that’s how I am. Up until I visited her city in January, M and I used to communicate frequently, albeit via text message.

[The following just hit me like a thunderbolt] M has a son just over one year old with B, who she [had] been in a relationship with since 2014. A couple times in years past she would message me and say how unhappy she was with B and that he was abusive. I encouraged her to leave him while she could but she continued to stay and in 2017 she got pregnant. She hadn’t said much about him at all to me in the past couple years. When I was there in January, we had lunch and she said how great a father B was and how proud she was of him and that marriage was a possibility. She was going behind his back to meet me and I decided that I didn’t like being in the middle of that; it made me feel kind of slimy and if I was in his shoes it would really bother me. We had plans to see each other again but I broke it off and wrote her a long message describing why. She ghosted me after that until the recent message, where she said her and B broke up and that her life has been a mess and was even when I was there.

If things were messed up when I was there, then it feels like she lied to me by not being honest and I was (am?) angry. But is that a valid reaction? I replied to her most recent message with some philosophical mumbo jumbo and I’m pretty sure it came across as kinda cold (aloof). She hasn’t responded yet and I’ve been telling myself that I wan’t going to invest anymore in the friendship. But as I write this I’m rethinking that. It might be better to send another message that is more centered on concern for her rather than protecting my wounded ego. I don’t know… I’ll have to think more about that one.

I think that’s enough for post 23. There are definite actions steps to take described here. A goal is set to write in a week and provide an update on progress or insights into a lack of progress, should that be the case.

 

I Think,Therefore I Am Not

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It is very likely I will be quitting my job to start a new one, but this time as a part-owner. I am anxious about it but also excited. It has been a long time coming. Ten years ago arrogance lied and said the world was at my feet. Great success had been experienced in many areas of life: college, business, and in the social connections who considered me capable, sincere, and worthy. The primary hindrance to continued success was self-loathing, which had never gone away and existed just below the surface of the facade presented to the world. As accomplishments grew so did the fear of it all crashing down, thereby exposing me as the incompetent fraud I felt I really was.

My latest philosopher crush is Jean Paul Sartre. Certain themes have contributed to those explored with Nietzsche. Hope and progress ensues towards a path away from the morass of shame and doubt. Particularly helpful have been the ideas that existence precedes essence, refraining from objectivity in terms of the labels we apply to ourselves and others, and living in bad faith.

My future is not determined by my past. This includes past actions as well as thoughts and emotions. Every day I wake up with complete freedom of choice. If I choose to be dispirited and gruff, which will happen from time to time, accepting responsibility for this choice helps free me from making derogatory self-judgments. If I falsely believe this to be my natural disposition, then each day begins with preconceptions that will influence attitude and behavior. Conversely, choice that leads to positive consequences must be met with the same critical, and humble, examination. Each day is nothing but a series of isolated choices that has no affect on opportunity which inherently exists the following day, the day after that, and every day thereafter.

Not only does the power exist to challenge the way past experience influences expectations of the future, so too does it exist in my ability to react in the moment. If reality is perceived as fundamentally unfair and a victim mentality is assumed, then an objective label is applied to others I interact with. Surrendering to a perception that negative (or positive) experiences in the world are outside of my control, and thus are being controlled or influenced by others who place their own self interests first, completely nullifies the absolute freedom of choice at my disposal. This social pressure causes a member of the herd (borrowing from Neitzsche) to conform to the objective labels applied to him or her and participation in life becomes inauthentic. Sartre calls this “Bad Faith”. Personal experience with objective labels and bad faith can best be exemplified in two ways: addiction and physical appearance.

I am coming to the conclusion that a portion of my significant substance abuse issues have resulted from labels applied to those afflicted with this problem. “It’s a progressive disease.” “Once the alcoholic starts drinking, he can’t stop.” “Once an addict, always an addict.” Accepting these statements as absolute truth predetermines what will happen when I use chemicals and they were first heard and encoded on my identity during my first treatment at the age of fifteen in the mid-1980’s. My father found a marijuana pipe and the immediate reaction was to place me in an in-patient program that was supposed to last four months. A counselor in this program who I’ll never forget, named Jack, was a crotchety old Vietnam vet and former heroin addict who used to yell and belittle us into accepting his truth as our truth. Upon leaving this place, my identity label had changed from smart and capable to fearful addict and at this point, substance use went from occasional to chronic. Based off the false ideas hammered into an impressionable teenage mind, this is what was supposed to happen.

The same course of thought flows through traditional 12-step programs. “If you don’t go to meetings, you are going to relapse.” The difficulty experienced in believing that a higher power would somehow save me from the disease that would ultimately lead to “jail or death” if left unchecked never clicked with me. Self-comparisons with others who supposedly practiced higher power worship with great success only deepened feelings of inadequacy. My “disease was doing push-ups”, just waiting for me to slip-up. This disempowering falsehood invariably led back to the bottle and the heavy use that was supposedly predestined by my condition.

Another label that’s led to bad faith has to do with physical appearance. I like to lift weights and my genetics allow to me to be good at it. In our society a tall, muscular male creates impressions of machismo, imperviousness, and severity. Exhibiting intellectual curiosity (especially as they relate to art and aesthetics) and sensitivity run antithetical to the former characteristics described. It has often been perceived that exhibiting the latter in social circles has met with smug chuckles and disguised ridicule. Inauthentic interactions consequently ensued, leading to dissatisfaction and isolation.

Studying the great philosophers has shown how subjective the idea of truth really is and that letting go of labels I apply to myself and others reduces fear and opens up a fascinating exploration of what constitutes an authentic life. The fear of making a choice followed by another choice leads to bad faith; my essence is not defined by the events of the past but instead is redefined through every choice made. Essence is only complete upon death. Fulfillment and purpose are not dictated by society directly, how I see myself in the mirror of society, or even by vain fantasies comprised of what or who I think I want to be.

The old maxim, it is better to have tried and failed than to never have tried at all, sums up this post quite well. Either we succeed in a goal or we fail, whether that goal is exercise, sobriety, a new business, or simply making a choice to be authentic in some seemingly mundane aspect of our lives. Question truth, especially as an imposition of your own beliefs and those of others.

Me, Them, or Us

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I just listened to a speaker at a local Unitarian church. This gentleman was a deconverted pastor who came to a realization in 2012 that God does not exist. This must have been a very difficult and poignant idea to bring to consciousness and embrace. Standing firm in the belief meant publicly refuting everything his life was centered around: identity, purpose, fulfillment, and community. To varying degrees, those four items are integral components of the human condition and if a contemporary paradigm is shattered, another must be built in its place. Interest in hearing this speaker stemmed from a continued search for existential truth while I try to rebuild my own life paradigm. The last item, community, resonated with me as the lack of one has been so isolating and lonely. When left exclusively to my own thoughts for too long, the plunge into self-loathing and self-sabotaging behavior is never far behind.

The concept of community as a human need has deeper meaning than simply the world one lives and operates in; a practical definition might be, participating with other human beings in shared experience and intimacy. The criteria of shared experience is easy to meet while shared intimacy can be, and has always been for me, quite elusive. Within a healthy community, intimacy is and should be exercised to varying degrees but at its core, intimacy requires trust. It involves feeling comfortable enough to show all facets of oneself, including those very shiny facets that reflect the light and the ruminative ones that absorb it.

Falling into the western societal male gender role means being tough and “manning up” to get the job done, whatever that might entail. Weakness and sensitivity are deemed feminine, only to be hidden away, buried under layer upon layer of virile manhood. When it comes to emotional fortitude, I have been weak, especially in the past but still at times today. Perceived threats to my identity, real or imagined, have elicited feelings of inadequacy and shame. Overdeveloped sensitivity to these threats creates a risk-mitigating shield of fear that prevents authentic connection. The cycle has repeated over and over.

In the past several years I have been able to openly talk about this fear and others. The more open I am about it, the more comfortable I become and the less my behavior is negatively influenced. It started with a single trusted confidant and grew to include support group members. Now a willingness exists to talk freely about it with almost anyone who will listen. Unfortunately there are few individuals, if any, where a mutually deep level of intimacy exists and I am often left wanting in attempts to communicate on a very personal level.

I still don’t trust many people to let them in to the inner sanctum of my identity. Purposely going to that level outside of a structured institutional setting would be a new endeavor and it is understood that practice is necessary; gaining proficiency allows that mistakes will be made in initial attempts. It also means dealing with the aftermath of vulnerable communication by the inevitable replaying over and over in my mind of what was said and how it may have been perceived and interpreted. But the fact is, and I know and truly believe this on an intellectual level, desensitization will occur again and the aftermath of anxiety will lessen the more often I am vulnerable.

The first step is to identify a group and consistently participate within it to find those with a similar background and/or communication style. Close relationships of any kind are built upon consistently “showing up” for the other person or persons, whether it be a structured setting or otherwise. Fits and starts are part of the modus operandi that keeps the shield in place. Since determining to set a new paradigm after coming off the latest substance relapse, which ended September 15th, 2018, I have tried alternate support groups in Refuge Recovery, SMART Recovery, and a group at the local men’s center, all of which have been attended between one and three times. As of today, I have also attended two meetings of a Humanist group. I even went back to an old AA meeting twice.

The point is, I dabble but do not commit. And this creates a vicious cycle where I remain isolated through fear, the isolation leads to feelings of terminally awkward uniqueness, which then perpetuates the fear of being exposed as awkward, which justifies my isolation, and so on and so on. The pertinent question to myself as I write this: how much internal conflict and turmoil is necessary to commit to a community, with all its flaws and human fallibility on full display?

My Friend Nietzsche

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I am currently fascinated with Nietzsche. His inspirations, his influences, his life, and his convictions; I consume all I come across. (The fact he went mad at the age of 44 adds an entirely different and mysterious aspect) I am still in the first of four sections of Thus Spoke Zarathustra and every sentence is so full of knowledge that by necessity it is a slow read. Given the extensive use of metaphors and aphorisms, it helps to read summaries of all his work while trying to digest the plentiful nuggets contained within Zarathustra. While doing so, further exposure has been made to the lives and ideas of Socrates and Plato, the composer Wagner, and psychologists who were heavily influenced by Nietzsche, such as Freud and Adler. A long way from being anything beyond a neophyte, it is nonetheless important for me to document my exploration of these new and exciting ideas regarding the dimensions of human existence.

The concept of herd morality, eternal recurrence of the same, and ubermensch have been on my mind as of late and in this entry, I choose to explore these themes as they relate to my own life.

HERD MORALITY

“ ‘My brother, if you have a virtue and she is your virtue, then you have her in common with nobody’. Even naming one’s virtue would make her too common; if one must speak of her, it should be: ‘This is my good; this I love; it pleases me wholly; thus alone do I will the good. I do not will it the law of a god; I do not will it as human statute and need’ ”.

I can see how almost all of my drives and values have been derived from perceptions of what other people believe I should do, think, or say. The key component of that sentence has to do with perceptions of what other people believe. My interpretation is just that: an interpretation that may or may not be true. Whether it was my father talking about “how much potential” I have (hearing that what I was doing in the moment was not good enough), or comparing myself to people in Alcoholics Anonymous testifying for God as the source of their long sobriety time, other people have been the mirror I’ve used to measure my own worth. However it may exist in each moment of a short lifespan, studying Nietzsche has shown the freedom available to one with the courage to leave the herd, to forge his own way, and to overcome internal resistance in finding his true meaning.

Every day I see the herd going about their business through substance addiction, social media posts, and an unhealthy dependence on technology. Substance addiction is an obvious tool the herd uses to escape reality and doesn’t need to be expounded upon here. Addiction can manifest itself in many ways and social media is no exception. I used to have nearly 1,000 “friends” on Facebook and after scrolling through the newsfeed, a feeling of depression would typically follow. Posts frequently showed the herd at the nightclub, on vacation, or highlighting expensive new homes and vehicles. My life didn’t seem to measure up. After cutting the “friends” to around 250 people who I actually want to engage with, the newsfeed experience is much more enjoyable and relevant.

It is amazing how much time can be spent in front of a 55″ high-definition TV. After cutting the cord on cable a year ago, I’ve since picked up subscriptions to YouTube TV, HBO, Netflix, and Amazon Prime. While my interests do gravitate more towards documentaries and other content that could be deemed educational, hours upon hours can go by while lost in an alternate reality. This is especially so when my mood is low. Lately when those moods hit, I’ve been trying to pay attention in a detached, objective manner in an attempt to isolate the self-serving and demeaning fantasy used to perpetuate it. Alfred Adler’s teleology would state that deep-seated fear of being a loser within competition of interpersonal relationships is the basis for those stories, but more on that in another post. Nietzsche would say all of it is resistance, the overcoming of which leads to self-reliance and liberation, thereby bringing with it real happiness.

ETERNAL RECURRENCE OF THE SAME

“What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more’ … Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: ‘You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine’.”

I am currently on a quest. The impetus for this is a relapse into addiction that ended abruptly with a DUI arrest on September 15th of this year. It is not an egotistical boast to say that I am highly intelligent and was first identified as such in the 3rd grade; my mind has always delved into deep thought and my struggles to overcome addiction have provided convenient avenues to exercise innate curiosity. During a teenage stint in treatment, I was exposed to art museums, the orchestra, and plays as part of structured, off-site programming. Participation in this programming developed into a lifelong appreciation for the arts and may or may not have occurred without my addiction battle. Treatment also was my first experience with individual psychotherapy, and those first sessions evolved into the years-long psychoanalysis completed earlier in 2018.

My affliction and the associated consequences have afforded opportunities to exercise a curious mind, which now finds itself on a quest to go beyond the religious dogma of 12-step recovery programs to identify morals and virtues that are my own. Would this endeavour even be possible had I been born without the gene that makes addiction so much more likely? Had I been born into a supportive and wealthy family, would the comforts of an easy life sparked the same intellectual curiosity I now use to my advantage? I think it unlikely.

Even before this relapse, personal thoughts and comments to others were made regarding the belief that recovery from addiction allows for a search for meaning that others outside of recovery often can’t understand. The hypothetical question was raised numerous times of whether one would take a magical pill that could somehow cure addiction. My instinctive response was always no.

In answer to Nietzsche, if I had to do it over again, I would take the addiction, the unexpected daughter that has shown me so much, the exquisitely painful divorce, and the significant financial loss ten years ago if it led to the same personal discovery and this exact same moment in time. In committing that statement to electronic paper, as I do now, the freedom sensed in Nietzsche’s work truly can be felt.

UBERMENSCH

This concept is the most confounding of the three discussed tonight. Perhaps it is because I am still so early in the reading of Zarathustra. I know it is not a biological state of being. The overcoming of resistance and the becoming of one’s true self resonates as a worthy goal. What this means in my own life I do not yet know. I believe it is never an achievement that the ubermensch is consciously aware of. Were it so, it would happen in comparison and competition with other men and thus would violate the premise of service to humankind and my own belief in naturalism (ALL life has equal value). A conscious belief of oneself as an ubermensch is malevolent manifestation of ego, not the transcendence of the last man and the slave, human states which are traps for us all. The higher man has a reverence for oneself and a humility in his own overcoming.

I will continue to simply put one foot in front of the other, and not let fear dominate my actions in life to the extent it has thus far. As stated earlier in this post, it is important for me to journal about this experience. The value in journaling is found by going back and rereading old posts and remembering. Right now, no one knows my personal identity and someday, that may change, or it may not. Either way, this blog serves as a record of my existence. If that is all I can provide to this world, then maybe that’s good enough.

Carpe Diem

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Over the past 10 years, I’ve explored the concepts of existentialism, buddhism, mindfulness, and Freudian psychology. During the 5 years I was active in psychoanalysis, my therapist promoted these ideas in various ways during appointments. In doing the math, I averaged 3 weekly sessions and thus, over the course of 5 years, I completed roughly 600 sessions. There is no question that my psychological knowledge increased as a result. During my lifetime, I’ve always been ‘psychologically minded’ and naturally inclined towards philosophy.

Since coming off my relapse 2 1/2 months ago, committing to a fervent exploration of these topics has taken on new urgency as continued sobriety demands it. Alcoholics Anonymous as a primary framework for recovery just hasn’t worked for me but SOMETHING has to be substituted if I am going to make a go of this and enjoy a fulfilling life.

In questioning AA as it relates to me, there has been a nagging sense that powerlessness and the necessity of accepting a ‘higher power’ are anathema to basic logic. Science and empirical data overwhelmingly support my personal belief that nothing supernatural exists in the universe. While medical technology continues to change at an exponential rate, for some reason the predominant method of addiction treatment hasn’t changed much in 70 years. What other mental disorder has as its prescription that one must accept and turn their will over to a higher power, create a moral inventory, ask their HP to remove defects of character, etc., etc.?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. For those who find 12-step programs beneficial for their recovery, there is no judgement on my end. All I’m saying is that for someone like me, who has been struggling off and on with this major problem, it’s time to try other options.

Since September 15, 2018 I have been meditating almost daily. The cumulative effect of this has allowed for new insights into how fear has controlled my behavior. Borrowing a line from AA, I have lived life with regrets about the past and worries about the future. Usually at least once during each meditation session, brief moments of clarity have occurred where none of that matters. In those moments, a sense of freedom like I’ve never experienced before envelopes me. Because this takes place during a conscious effort, that effort being the meditation session itself, affirmation that it can be controlled takes hold.

Buddhism and the mindfulness approach have given a name and framework to my meditation practice. The first introduction to these concepts and anything related to philosophy took place over 20 years ago when I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I was really young when I read it and it was hard to understand. But something kept me from discarding the book and when finished, it had affected me somehow in some way that couldn’t be articulated. The discussion of Quality wasn’t really about traditional Buddhism but in hindsight it is obvious that the author, Robert Pirsig, was influenced by it.

In 2004 I was required to take a philosophy course for my college general education requirements. The course was a brief overview of many different schools of thought and it was then that an affinity for the existentialists developed. The theory that there is no meaning in the world except that which we as individual, thinking human beings apply to it resonated with me. I do not profess to be any sort of existentialist expert but I’ve read excerpts from Sartre and Keirkegaard and am currently attempting to read Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Admittedly, it’s a slow read as each word was chosen so carefully by the author. Most of the time I have to reread each sentence, paragraph, and section multiple times to fully understand what Nietzsche is trying to say.

Recently in my Facebook news feed, an ad for specific audio books kept popping up and the first on the list always seemed to be The Courage to Be Disliked. The title intrigued me and after a little research I was introduced to Alfred Adler. I ordered the book and am about 1/4 of the way through it. To be honest, I feel that the combination of meditation, Nietzsche and Adler might be the Drano I’ve been looking for to remove the nasty clog blocking my psyche. In other words, a breakthrough may be underway.

Adler was a colleague of Freud (often mistakenly referred to as a student of Freud). To summarize, Adler believed that the past didn’t matter in determining one’s disposition or personality; we all have the ability to choose our ‘lifestyle’ at any given moment. Lifestyle is used in Adlerian psychology and it is translated from a German word, lebensstil, meaning ‘style of life’. Essentially lifestyle in the Adlerian sense reflects an individual’s unique, repetitive, and unconscious way or responding to the main tasks of living: friendship, love, and work.

The power to choose my own values and the mandated freedom to act authentically in pursuit of those virtues is mind-blowing. The evidence for how this manifests can be exemplified by the long weekend just experienced.

In a fundamental sense, I’ve been afraid to go out and be around people and have acted accordingly for years. My time as a part-time restaurant manager gave me a social outlet but it was inauthentic to my values. I like intimate connection and intellectual thought, discussion, and exploration. Working at a restaurant / bar with a bunch of 20-somethings is not an intellectual pursuit. Because I enjoy and long for those intellectual experiences but lack confidence due to feelings of inferiority, I’ve used avoidance to mitigate the risk of being rejected or ridiculed for expressing my deeply emotional responses to literature, art, and philosophy. For me, a deeply emotional response is simply discussing how these things affect me on a personal level. The same fear is felt when it comes to intimate connections with other people in general, whether it is a romantic relationship or a male friendship; the fear of rejection still exists.

So with the influence of Adler in my heart and the voice of Nietzsche in my head, I vowed to try something different over the past few days. Wednesday night my sister and I went to see At Eternity’s Gate, the movie that just came out about Vincent Van Gogh. 20 minutes into it my sister whispered how she thought it was terrible and proceeded to  fidget in her seat the rest of the movie. Upon hearing and watching this negative reaction, her enjoyment was taken upon myself and my own enjoyment began to suffer. I recognized those thoughts, stopped myself, and dismissed any responsibility I had to make her happy. We drove to the theater separately and I decided if she wanted to leave, she could leave. I thought Wilem Dafoe did a fantastic job conveying the angst of Van Gogh and was definitely going to stay till the end.

On Thanksgiving my mother, this same sister, and I went to an extended family gathering in western Minnesota. It was really a surprise that my mom wanted to go and in fact, I hadn’t talked to her since last May. She was the one that reached out to me as I had been AVOIDING her because I didn’t want to put up a false front in dealing with her. (I won’t go into my mom stuff here but it’s described somewhat in previous posts). I was determined to be authentic with my mom and with everyone else at the gathering. I had a lot of fun with my family and my sister decided to stay out there and ride back the following day with my cousins. On the way home it was just my mom and I and over those 2 1/2 hours I felt we connected in a way we maybe never have. It was nothing effusive or cathartic. But it was authentic and it was good.

On Friday I went to a coffee shop in Uptown to read Zarathustra. You may be thinking, so what? I realized that for some reason, I had a fear of being judged were I to go out in public and have people see me reading a book like that. So overcoming that was part 1 of the positive experience. Part 2 was just the fact that I was around other people in a venue other than work or the gym.

On Saturday morning I finally made it to my first Refuge Recovery support meeting. I talked about this Buddhist inspired addiction recovery group in a previous post but had yet to make it to one. I threw aside fear, went to it, and spoke about the fear during the group. Afterwards, I went back to the same coffee shop I went to on Friday and read Zarathustra for a few more hours.

Today I went to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts and spent considerable time examining paintings and sculpture in the way I like to do it. Usually if I go with other people (family), they spend just a few seconds in front of each piece and continue on to the next. I feel compelled to keep up and end up disappointed in the experience. Today I spent time really examining each piece of art and the nuances of each; the brush strokes, the peripheral details, and trying to understand what each artist was trying to convey before reading the descriptive placards next to them. In this way it was an exercise in mindfulness and I left feeling fulfilled, if a bit lonely due to the fact that only a fraction of the many people there were by themselves. However, it is definitely something I intend to do again as my slower pace meant only a fraction of the works on display were viewed.

So I conclude this weekend feeling very different than at the conclusion of most others during the past several years. I employed intentional effort in getting off the couch and out among other people. I took some small risks in showing authenticity and even experienced a small amount of rejection (sister and the movie). I made some new connections in a recovery support group that feels like a better fit for me. Finally, I explored my humanity and liked what I saw.

I do have fear that this is just a passing phase and I will regress back into isolation and the historical preference for emotional avoidance. But I’m hopeful because of honest cognizance of where that path leads. Ultimately it leads to relapse but before that it leads to resentment, self-pity, and feeling inferior. Wanting something different than that created enough internal conflict to the point I felt compelled to act. I have enough faith in myself to believe that tomorrow will be a new day that will have all the same opportunities as today and perhaps more.

Always a Short Story

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The dungeon of her mind was a terrible place and just too much at that moment. Confines of the room fed on misery and soon, walls began to vibrate with contempt. The time had come to leave and the weight of her mood had transferred to the body; the effort to assemble herself felt colossal. First the shower, then the clothes, then the shoes.

Pausing at the edge of the door, the moment of choice. Certainty of comfort lay in one direction, continued angst and sadness in the other. Turning towards certainty, the immediacy of the need outweighed the inevitable conclusion. It wouldn’t end well, never did, never would.

Even after making the turn, heaviness continued and multiplied. Walking among the familiar sights and sounds of lower 82nd, the cold air and fading light of a winter afternoon added to the oppression. Powerless and out-of-control, each step taking her closer, the place called out in the impending darkness like a beacon to a lost ship.

There was still time for an adjustment but really, she felt no desire to make one. What has begun must be finished, any correction more agonizing now that the initial decision was made. Wanting to believe this to be true, even if it wasn’t, looking down was easier than looking up. Concrete and dirt stared back indifferently while faces penetrated the determined facade, exposing the bewilderment of being in this same orbit of thought yet again.

Rounding the corner, the beacon came into full view with bright lights and bustling activity. Even as her pace quickened, this last segment stretched out timelessly to provide one last moment for redemption with thoughts of truth, love, life. Hurry to get inside. Once there, it would be too late to choose anything else. With no alternative, inevitability of conclusion defeats hope.

No matter how she tried to suppress it, her hand trembled at the counter. Hopefully he didn’t notice but if so, it wouldn’t matter. By the time she walked out the door, excited fear had turned to shame. The worst feeling yet. She cracked the cap and the paradox of the moment became clear: what was most feared was also what she longed for. As the liquid flowed freely into her mouth, throat, and stomach, oblivion would wipe anything away.

Losing My Religion

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I was born in a small town in western Minnesota that was comprised almost entirely of descendants of northern European immigrants. It was a farming community, the people were friendly, and the steeple of the Lutheran church loomed large in both the literal and figurative sense. The church itself was a grand structure, having been built in the late 1800’s. My immediate family and I lived there for the first ten years of my life and I distinctly remember Sunday school classes and discovering that we were all sinners who could only find salvation through Jesus.
After moving to the twin cities metropolitan area in 1980, the first questions arose as to whether God was real. They didn’t stem from any one event other than a developing adolescent mind that began to compare conflicting teachings of science and Christianity. Reconciling the two was difficult and explanations of how to do so varied according to the teacher. Each end of the spectrum unequivocally taught that the other was wrong, and in the middle, efforts were made to fold one philosophy into the other.
My family exemplified the spectrum. During my early teens, the Lutheran confirmation process deemed that besides the weekly Wednesday night classes, one Sunday church service was required each month. I didn’t like attending any of it and would always wait until the last Sunday of each month to make the church service. For some reason it was important to my parents that I achieve the confirmation right-of-passage even though their own personal devotion was questionable at best, as shown by their willingness to drop me off and pick me up for the service without attending it themselves. I have an aunt and uncle who jumped on the evangelical bandwagon around this time. They both had been addicted to drugs and alcohol when they met and somewhere along the way Jesus entered their lives. Eagerly they sought to spread The Word and intrusively attempted to convert my grandparents, aunts, and my mother.
At the age of sixteen, I was placed in a 12-step treatment program for marijuana addiction and taught that I was nothing without a “Higher Power” and that only by hitting “rock bottom” and accepting that power into my heart would I be able to recover and live a prosperous life. Of course, the only spiritual practice known in my limited years involved Christianity and my evangelical aunt and uncle sought to capitalize on my predicament so they could save another soul.
I read the Bible, prayed each day, and went to services vastly different than the Lutheran version I was used to. For me, the idea of spiritual experience is extremely ambiguous even to this day. I can honestly say that something positive happened during that period, for which I am grateful. However, the questions still lingered regarding whether God was real and when those popped up, my religious education highlighted this lack of faith. For the boy who already thought he was fundamentally flawed, these feelings were more than discouraging. Rather than explore those questions objectively, it was less painful to abandon the practice.
When I first met my now ex-wife, winning her love meant validation of most of the uncertainties felt about my identity and character. Besides being intelligent and beautiful, she had very strong connections with her family, which I admired and longed for with my own parents and siblings. Her mother and father raised Suzanne in the Pentecostal tradition and she still had many of these extremely conservative viewpoints.. In placing her high on the pedestal of redemption for my low self-esteem, it was easy to fall back into my evangelical experience and adopt those same viewpoints as guiding principals. It proved to be deceptive not only for self-truth but also to her. But in wanting to follow a path of commitment and devotion, in reality towards her rather than any deity, sobriety of four years was celebrated and it was the most outwardly productive period of my life. It showed what was possible without self-destructive behavior even if the accomplishments never penetrated the facade enough to change negative core beliefs. In hindsight it is easy to see how I felt like an impostor; at any moment the jig might be up and exposure of the flawed, non-believing sinner would rip the scab from the old, shameful wound of overall deficiency. With this fear of exposure as the dominant guide for behavior in my marriage, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy in 2010 and the marriage crumbled as descent back into addiction took hold.
I’ve always struggled with the thinly-veiled Christian dogma of AA. AA works for many, many people and my beliefs are in no way an attempt to disparage the love, encouragement, sense of community, and overall success that others have experienced through participation in that program. While I have had great experiences in AA, the framework of the program as a means to stay sober have failed me. The first response to that statement by the avid AAer might be along the lines of “you haven’t worked the program hard enough”, or “you haven’t truly accepted that you are powerless”. For me, therein lies the problem.
My argument regarding the Christian aspect of this program can be summarized as follows: what other mental health condition, as defined in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, has at its prescriptive core the idea that powerlessness must be accepted, a higher power must be believed in, a moral inventory must be taken (is it a moral problem or a disease?), etc. etc. until a spiritual awakening has finally been experienced in step 12? The meetings start and end with a prayer. There is a single book that is revered to the point of being holy. And perhaps most discouraging for me, if any dissent from the framework of the steps is expressed, it means the dissenter is in “denial” and is bound to relapse lest he try harder to get his mind right.
So this time around I’m trying something different. I am comfortable calling myself an atheist and do so in the broadest sense of the word in that I believe no deities exist. However, there are fundamental concepts that I believe are required for me to stay sober, and on a broader, philosophical level are required for the vast majority of the population to live meaningful lives.
Let me state that I would currently classify myself as a naturalist, meaning that there are a set of principles which govern the order of things but that all of those are natural, biological, and scientific in nature. Human beings have no supernatural authority over any other living thing, be it a plant, bird, or bacteria. All living things are here by natural selection and this time we are alive is all we have; there is no afterlife.
Functioning communities are what have allowed human beings to thrive as a species. The earth is 4.5 billion years old and science has shown that the first creature to walk on 2 legs existed only 4 million years ago. If we even want to call that first creature remotely human, that means we’ve been here only 0.1% of the time our planet has existed. Somewhere during that evolutionary process, maybe a few hundred thousand years ago, banding together made more sense for survival than did going it alone. Even now, we see other species flocking together for a greater chance at survival (think birds flying south in the winter, or wolves or lions). It makes sense that human beings have a biological precedent of living in communities. Hunting, gathering food, and staying warm are all easier when we do it together.
Addiction allows for a dissociation from our biological needs. When I am sober and alone, I am uncomfortable to the point that I am motivated to do something about it. When I can get high or drunk, it is easy to be alone. So even as a naturalist, my involvement in a community is necessary to stay sober and survive. As alluded to in several other posts, it is still difficult for me to abandon fear and go into an unknown social situation but I have accepted that this is necessary.
Another practice of AA that I believe important in my recovery is found in the 11th step, where it says “sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood him…”. Meditation has proven to be a remarkable addition to my recovery program. It is hard to explain to those who haven’t done it, but my daily meditations are now 20 minutes. It seems that the first half of those sessions involves calming my mind and gradually slowing down the thoughts that come at me from all directions. By paying attention to the thoughts but not indulging in them, patterns start to become apparent and themes of subconscious motivation are brought to a conscious level. Once that has occurred, I can dismiss those themes. When that happens, there are very brief moments experienced that I would define as “clarity”. In those moments I am neither defined or identified by events from the past or predestined to any outcome in the future. In remembering those moments I can dispute self-destructive thoughts and patterns that come back again as the day goes on.
By really believing that I am not defined by what I have or have not done in the past, along with the existential principle that the full responsibility of the life I call my own rests solely on me, a sense of freedom is felt unlike anything felt before. This life is not a trial run for the afterlife, this is all we’ve got. For me, addiction absolves me of taking real responsibility for my life. If I am experiencing pleasurable feelings, it becomes easy to let time pass without motivation to make the most of it. By using the disease of addiction as an excuse, it becomes easy to fall into the same trap as the Christian who believes on a fundamental level that they are a sinner destined to sin. Confession and repentance is all that is required to make things right.
This has been a long post but one that I’ve wanted to write about for a long time. I can’t say that it came out exactly as expected but it’s a start. For me, themes of naturalism, existentialism, and Buddhism are all swimming around in my head. I’ve explored all of them to some degree but none of them on a deep level. Meditation seems to tie them all together in a way I can’t fully articulate at the moment. Tonight I am going to try a new meeting called Refuge Recovery, which is based of Buddhist principles. In researching it earlier this weekend, apparently the founder of the movement has recently gotten into trouble because of sexual impropriety. Given how excited I was to learn about this AA alternative, it was disheartening to see this blemish on a great idea that could fill a personal void that has existed for a long, long time.
But then I remembered that life is an ongoing process of change, with ongoing difficulties. Not just for me but for everyone.

Beautiful Boy

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My father, sister, and I went to see Beautiful Boy last night at the Uptown Theater. Once again, gratitude took hold when noticing the ability to experience extremely divergent emotions without being all-consumed by any of them; laughter before and after the movie mixed with the general pleasantness of belonging, and grief and sadness of the movie subject matter mixed with painful personal memories certain scenes brought up.

While I can’t say that my father and I ever enjoyed the closeness that Nic and David displayed both in print (I read the book too), and on the screen, there is a tenderness that my father has always had which is incredibly endearing. He showed up in my life, both as a child and adult, in the best way he could. In seeing David’s anguish and desperation trying to save his son, it reminded me of tears my father shed and commitments he made personally. One 1988 stint in a halfway house cost more than $20,000 (equivalent to $42,000 today at an average 2.5% inflation rate) and he was there for all family groups and events.

It’s just that I was so damn angry at him for the divorce and the way my feelings were shoved aside. After reviewing old posts to see if one of the most, if not thee most traumatic life events has ever been described in this blog, it wasn’t found in the posts I thought it might be. It may still be back there somewhere but nevertheless it’s good to write it down again. While it used to be something I couldn’t speak about due to the pain experienced, it was worked through enough during psychoanalysis sessions to allow for current free expression.

One day at age 11, I came home from school and saw dad’s car in the driveway, which was unusual for 3 pm on a weekday. I walked inside to find mom having a meltdown and dad standing there with the guiltiest of looks you could ever see: he had told her he was leaving her for another woman. Obviously the plan was to break the news to her that day and at that time. It just now occurred to me how incredibly stupid it was for him to not think how it would be for me to walk into that situation. But I digress, for the actual event which caused so much pain took place 6 months later while meeting his new girlfriend for the first time.

Dad moved out the day he told mom he was leaving and every other weekend he would come and stay at the house and mom would then leave. I knew ahead of time that he was going to be bringing P over to stay with us during one of his visits. Anxiety and fear set in for the entire week prior to her impending arrival. By the time she showed up Saturday morning, I was PISSED. Anger was the only emotion expressed freely around our house and the rageful exhibit always arrived without notice. Thus I had no idea what to do with this most intense anger, having not been felt at this level for all of my 11 years.

She came over Saturday morning and after a few intolerant hours I went into my room. Finding all the things I could which were associated with my father, they were broken, torn, and otherwise destroyed. One year, Dairy Queen had a promotion where an ice cream sundae would be served in a different miniature football helmet with the correct NFL team color and corresponding decals. It took several weeks to accumulate all of them but we did that together, and the memory of the excitement of going there with him is still etched in my mind. Those helmets were prominently displayed on my shelf and I broke all twenty-eight of them.

The Empire Strikes Back was popular around that time and he had given me a toy fighter aircraft from the movie. It had its specific place reserved on the top and to the left side of my dresser. It was broken into 3 pieces. There was a baseball from an MLB game we attended together that had signatures from all the players. It came in a clear plastic display case which sat on my nightstand. I broke the case, took the baseball out and cut the cover off of it. Over the years dad and I put together several model airplanes and cars, all placed in their respective locations around my room. I was very proud of them, but in my anger broke every one.

I don’t remember all the specific individual things besides those but there were several more. The point is that these were all things I adored, were displayed prominently in my room, and which were chosen because in my young mind they represented my father in some way. I assembled all the broken pieces on top of my bed and said, “hey dad, can you come here?” He walked into the doorway of my room, looked at the debris on my bed and called to his girlfriend to come take a look. I will never forget what he said:

“Look what a great son I have…” He walked out and shut the door.

As the anger subsided I thought to myself, what have I done?? These were things I loved and which represented time my father had spent with me. What kind of monster would do something like that? I crumpled into the fetal position at the foot of my bed and sobbed for what seemed like hours. I remember trying to get up several times but whenever I did, I would be confronted with the destruction I created in the center of my bed. With no emotional fortitude to deal with that reality, I would again fall to a sobbing heap on the floor.

In those first hours after The Destruction, the greatest pain came from the belief that I caused irreparable harm to the relationship with my father. Things already weren’t the same with him being out of the house. What would happen now that his feelings had been so hurt by his only son? Had I pushed him even further away? Once again I wondered what kind of monster could do something like this?

It was the first time I definitively remember thinking that something was fundamentally wrong with me.

I stayed in my room the rest of the weekend until P left, along with all the destroyed items. No one came in to help me process what happened, not even mom when she returned home. I next had to go about the business of deciding what to do with this debris and couldn’t bear the thought of just throwing it in a garbage can. Some of it was beyond repair, like the baseball and some of the football helmets, and had to be thrown. Doing so just pushed the incredible shame I was experiencing deeper into my soul. Some items I tried to repair, like the model airplanes and cars.

So Stage 1 of this first identity crisis was the actual destroying of things and the response of my father. Stage 2 was the anguish of deciding what to do with broken and symbolic pieces of my father’s love. Then came Stage 3: the new normal. Belongings that were not thrown away and put back on my shelves had repairs that were made by an 11 year old. The cracks and the super glue were glaring highlights of the emotional crime committed. The things that used to be on my shelves represented dad’s affection and the interest he took in me; empty shelves and fractured symbols were ominous reminders of what had been lost.

Trying to place myself back in my 11 year old mind is impossible to the extent of remembering what I was hoping for. Whatever it was, I don’t think it was a conscious thought. Having gone over this event in great detail during psychoanalysis, the belief is that after calling him over to see my anger at the invasion of this new woman in our space, I wanted him to come into my room, sit down on the bed, put his arm around me, and tenderly ask what was wrong.

(Movie Spoiler Alert) The last scene of Beautiful Boy is Nic back in treatment sobbing in a chair while David sits stoically and distrustfully in a chair next to him. Nic continues to cry and David eventually places a hand on his shoulder. At the touch of his hand Nic’s catharsis increases and he turns sheepishly towards his dad. At that point David leans into Nic for a full embrace and the movie closes with that: a father and son both scared and bewildered by what life has thrown at them but not willing to give up.

My eyes welled up in the dark theater and then the lights came on. Had I been there watching it alone, in no way could the flow of emotion been stopped. Even now as I write this post at home, alone, tears have come several times.

My father is a great man and I love him more than he will ever know. We have both changed greatly over the past several years and now enjoy a relationship that is closer than ever. I was glad to be there with him last night. I was glad to experience the confluence of feelings and memories while being able to objectively observe how wondrous a multi-faceted emotional life really is. In the course of three hours I felt anxiety, love, belonging, calm, hilarity, sadness, shame, guilt, empathy, longing, jealousy, regret, and loneliness. By paying attention to what naturally flows through my mind during these periods of reality, I in turn feel alive in a way nothing else can simulate.

When we parted ways at the end of the night I really didn’t want to. I wish we could have gone into my sister’s condo and all spent the night so we could still be together in the morning.

I love you dad and I’m grateful to be your son.

MOOD

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I don’t know what hit me this weekend. Last week went fine and it seemed productive and progressive in a positive way. The plan for Friday was to get a workout in and then come home and relax. Work went late and I came home to rest for a bit before the workout and I didn’t leave the house till today, with the exception of a couple trips to fast food joints to sooth my incredibly dark mood.

It scares me when this happens. These are the emotions that lead to drinking and they seem to come out of nowhere. “I’m a failure”. “I’m incapable of finding love”. Unworthy, despicable, without hope…

Where does it come from? My old therapist would say that it stems from mother never picking me up and dusting me off when I was down. It’s hard to tap in to that and understand it. I know when the mood hits how to describe it, just as I did in the paragraph above. But I’m sooo tired of feeling that way. I’m sure that even when I’m feeling ok, as I was last week, that feeling of worthlessness is simmering just below the surface, just waiting to say, see… I told you so whenever it seems my own expectations aren’t met.

Weekends seem to be especially tough and have been ever since I quit the part-time bar manager job over a year ago. I know what I’m wishing for and even here, in my anonymous blog that few people ever see, it is hard to admit. I want to be in love again.

I want to go to the gym together and eat healthy food. I want to go for walks in all seasons of our upper midwest weather. I want to visit art museums and talk about what the artists might have been trying to say through their work. I want to explore meditation and spirituality and have open discussions about what it means to be human. I want to make love and feel skin on my skin.

I want somebody to think I’m special.

I know this is a fantasy as long as I continue to sink into self-loathing. Or so I’ve been told by therapists and treatment programs. But the loathing never seems to let up. Good feelings do come but then weekends like this happen and hopelessness overshadows it all and I then think to myself, what’s the point in trying.

It’s like my unborn identical twin lives inside me and ridicules me with sneers and disgusted chuckles when the possibility of something more seems just over the horizon. See… I told you so. When he comes around, my heart burns with shame and I do anything to make it go away.

Last night I finally went to the grocery store to buy healthy food and I wore my baseball cap low over my eyes; I couldn’t bear to look people in the face lest I burst into tears. I walked outside with my full cart and everything seemed so bustling and alive around me. It was early evening on a Saturday night. But I felt separate from it all and just wanted to slink back to my basement and crawl under the covers. The liquor store was on the other side of the parking lot and I thought about stopping, but didn’t.

This morning I went to the gym and transcended The Mood. Then I went to my dad’s to watch football with him. I felt dirty in his presence. He doesn’t know about the relapse and DUI. I’m worried when he finds out he’ll cut me off again for another year, like he did the last time I got one 3 years ago. I was waiting for him to ask if I had been riding my motorcycle lately and thankfully he never did. Lying about anything just pushes me deeper into the loathing and I don’t know if I could’ve taken it. But the problem is that the self-loathing is better than his loathing. I’m used to it coming from me.

One of my goals is to try and write here on a weekly basis. I think I’m done for tonight and can’t say that I necessarily feel better but at least the weight on my heart seems a little less. I’m not going to go back and read this now or edit it. The therapist would probably have a field day with some of this. My guess is that it sounds like I’m really feeling sorry for myself. I don’t care. It’s raw but at 6:31 pm on October 14, 2018 it’s real, at least to me.

Hello Again

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It has been a really, really long time since I wrote anything. I’m not really sure where to start. I relapsed ten months ago and my use culminated in a DUI on my motorcycle two weeks ago. This is my third DUI since the first in 2012. The second occurred in October 2015 and oddly enough, I feel more at peace this time despite the potential consequences ratcheting up.

After quitting the part-time weekend restaurant / bar manager position in July of 2017, the idea was that free weekends would allow me to connect with people and do all the things I couldn’t do by working those long shifts on Friday and Saturday nights. I sat back and waited for the phone to ring but without established relationships with friends, that never happened. I wouldn’t allow myself to be proactive in putting in the work to turn acquaintances into real friends and sober weekends were spent at home alone, watching Netflix.

My roommate has been sober for 37 years. I moved here in September of 2016 after his wife passed away from cancer that July. Prior to the move I requested that any narcotic medication be taken out of the house completely and he agreed. Unfortunately that didn’t happen and during a period of depression last fall, the idea came into my head that perhaps I should make sure that they had been removed. Going through his room, I found Ritalin, Valium, Vicodin, Morphine, and marijuana.

If I was going to be home alone watching TV, it was better to be high. Or so I thought… After two weeks I told my roommate that I had rifled through his cabinets and all the substances were then disposed of. But by that time the seed was planted and it was easy to find pot. What started as dabbling quickly progressed to daily use by the time 2018 rolled around. Upon waking, I would immediately smoke. Before leaving for work, I would smoke again. At lunch, before appointments, on my way to the gym, and back at home, I would get high.

Despite being high all the time, I could still function. My relationships with anyone in recovery completely deteriorated. Interaction with all family members dwindled. I’ve never been one that could easily be dishonest so it was easier to avoid people than to lie or pretend. The isolation felt before relapse became ever more pronounced but it didn’t bother me much because it was easy to medicate those negative feelings away.

In December of 2017 I drank for the first time in over two years. In hindsight those early experiences with drinking should have scared the hell out of me. The third time I drank was at a going away party for one of the servers at the restaurant I used to work at. Shame prevented me from wanting anyone to know about the relapse so a pint of 100 proof vodka was kept in the truck and I went out twice within an hour to drink the entire bottle. I got drunk to the point that I couldn’t talk and still not wanting anyone to know,(apparently they all thought I was on drugs given how quickly I went from normal to incapacitated) I got the hell out of there and drove 45 minutes to get home. It should have been the warning shot that foreshadowed the inevitability of what was to come.

I’ve been in treatment 9 times since I was a teenager and am about to start number 10 at the age of 47. All the previous treatments were 12-Step based and number 10 is not. I’ve never had trouble getting sober but staying sober has been a different matter. Will trying a different approach to treatment provide new tools that will be more useful? I’ll be honest and say that I’m scared it will not…

The great paradox of my life is that I crave human connection but it is also the thing I fear the most. Rejection, abandonment, and humiliation are possible when dealing with irrational human beings and all have been experienced throughout my life, no more so than when I was young. Those experiences are hardwired into my brain and I’ve sought to avoid reliving those at any expense, with the greatest cost being a life of successes being voided by the failures that relapse have caused. My defense mechanisms tell me that being alone is the easiest way to prevent the excruciating sense of not being good enough from asserting itself once again.

I completed my intake and treatment plan last week and it was encouraging in several respects. The plan is unique to me and I have concrete goals to accomplish that center on reaching out to other people and opening myself up through acting in an authentic way. One of these authentic-centric goals that I set for myself is to write here. This is an anonymous blog and for me to be completely honest, this is how it needs to be. At least for now.

I’m glad I took the time to come back here. As I end this post, a sense of modest accomplishment washes over me. My words may not be pretty or completely accepted by others but they are still my words. I am sober and present in this moment. I am grateful. I am alive.