No booze update: coming up on 6 months since I hopped back on the wagon. But for the 10 months in between where I swung back into the old habit, I'd be coming up on 2 years in March. 1 year of that 2 year span has been without alcohol and the results are in: I feel better, physically and mentally. I have gained some weight due to sugar cravings, but I don't crave alcohol at this time. The hardest part this time around was getting through the holidays. All the top shelf wine that comes out of the wine cellars of our awesome family, I thought resisting that would be the hardest part. It really wasn't. The hardest part was getting through thoughts and feelings of being unfairly singled out. Loved ones and friends can keep on going like nothing's changed, but dear old me flew too close to the sun and, oh the agony and woe! Truth is, those thoughts were fleeting, and have also dissipated with time. I have nothing to be ashamed of now. No mornings wondering what the fuck I did the night before to result in one of us sleeping on the couch.
It's been a while since I've gone to a meeting - recovery dharma is the place I'd settled on. One thing or another has come up, but I am preparing to start going again soon, especially once get to my previous mark (I think it was 203 days before I grabbed a couple of pints at Oaktoberfest 2018. I had, after all, reached my initial goal. Then fell right back into the shit). Anyway - I needed to process some time for self care, and to enjoy just feeling good about myself, by myself. But I have a big birthday coming up, turning 50. We have rented out BBQ terrace for about 80 people for an A's game on Friday night, May 1st. If I don't take a drink at that party, I can't see really what the point would be to pick the drink back up. I'm not substituting real beer with NA beers this time around. By the time I got to 6 months last time around, I was doing that, having a six pack of Clausthaler a night. Kind of a waste. And then when I picked it back up, there was a part of me in the back of my mind that said: "Do I even really like the taste of beer anymore? What's the point?" I think it was shedding that feeling of being an "outlaw" or something. Wanting to feel like I'm doing something I'm not supposed to be doing because being an adult is boring. Or maybe I was seeking the thrill of sneaking out somewhere and looking for a shrink behind the bar who would listen to my stories without rolling his or her eyes. Or something...I don't know. I think I've worked my way through that now.
I've learned there's a new dry bar in downtown Oakland. I'm planning on going to that soon to see what it's all about. I hope it's not some straight edge shit. I don't think I need to be sanctimonious about my choice to give up the drink. I want to be able to help others get to that place now, not to feel how cool I am compared to all of those losers who still booze it up. I don't think it will be like that though. I'm going to keep an open mind!
Since the beginning of this year, I've been going to the gym a lot more. I'm to the point now where my body is craving it. "More of this, please." That feeling of relaxing after a boot camp and a shower to a nice meal with my blood still pumping is starting to replace where I was concentrating those faculties before. If I cut the sugar on this regimen, I think I will shed that gut. I know there's an awesome six pack of abs under there somewhere!
So, that's the thing for the next 6 months: Keep replacing those old habits with these healthier ones, and to start helping others. I know a bump in the road is probably coming soon, it's only a matter of time. There will be tests, and I want to stay prepared and strong. I'm feeling confident I can face whatever comes - but mindful of the overconfidence that has been called the "pink cloud."
The last thing is - my feeling that quitting drinking has reduced or even eliminated my anxiety still holds true. I do not feel the levels of anxiety I had before. I'm also really working on not trying to be a spazz. A friend of mine shared some old super 8s of us from our summers in the early 90s with my old boat in that lake life. We were young, thin, and carefree, drinking Leinenkugels out of cans, spreading mayo on makeshift sandwiches with a wrench. Silly stuff. When I look at myself now I think: "Have I always been that much of a spazz?" I'm told that is true. So I've been working on calming the spazz, and I had thought alcohol might have been the depressant I needed to do that, but I'm finding the opposite is true.
For now. It's working for now. And I'm feeling good!
One more thing: This article speaks to me.
Saturday, February 01, 2020
Monday, November 18, 2019
But who's counting?
Yet another essay on a time worn subject. But hey, this is me we're talking about, so everything is always something slightly new, right? Or I wouldn't take the time to write it - or so I say. I wouldn't repeat myself, now would I?
So instead I will say..."Continuing from the blog post before last on the subject of 'Wagon (aka sobriety) 2.0'" -
Three months back on the wagon, and some change. My goal for a mindset this time is "one day at a time," but likely facing the reality of ditching the drink for good. Most days I feel comforted in the safety I feel from potential guilt, shame, and confusion over what I might have done or said in the one out of nine times where everything wasn't fine (or merely okay) after I took that first drink. Mostly it was normal, but the one out of nine times it wasn't, the outcome was one thing to be ashamed of or another. That one time in and of itself, not knowing or trusting myself over when it might happen, when I might lose track or keep my eye off the ball and cross the line, subtle or not in my own mind, to a place where my life or those in my care might be at risk, was the source of most if not all of my anxiety. Which is why I feel less anxiety now, as I did last year when I quit for seven months. I'm safe from those kinds of fears at this moment, same as I felt back then.
I was so proud last year, having gone one month past my six month goal. I was so sure I was in control of things, certain it wasn't a pink cloud I was under, so sure I wasn't hard core so I'd be okay, I learned my lesson, etc. But what was it in me that let the old habits creep back in, that "fuck it" voice? Stopping again has been physically easy. I just stopped. Not as many night sweats or weird-ass dreams during the first week back on the wagon this time around as with last time. Emotionally, it was much harder though. I sought some help from some people I've gotten to know more recently, whom I consider good friends and trust unconditionally. I went to some meetings. Most helped. One, not so much. Thank God it was only the first one. Too much literal "higher power" in the first one. All I needed was a higher power that left room for a little more interpretation. Despite what the big book of AA says, I still believe there's room for agnostics, but I digress.
In that first week (which in the previous hiatus had been the hardest time) I was also dealing with emotional distress of another kind which distracted me from worrying about anything physical going on - trying to figure out where I was going to move to. I was sleeping on the couch, with an ultimatum to go once I could figure out where. And we were just hours away from telling our kids what was about to happen, when mercy intervened. Once again. With stipulations.
Which leads me to today, asking myself: without the stipulations, from someone, my wife of eighteen years, partner for twenty three, who cares deeply about me, would I still be on the wagon? I doubt it. And I believe that not only for our kids' sake, but if not for our relationship. If only me, and no one else, if I ended up behind the wheel and something really bad happened, would that have to have been the catalyst for me to quit cold turkey? I've been lucky in that respect.
Still, unlike normal people, for me, taking the drink had evolved into a game of Russian roulette with a couple of blanks thrown in. I've dodged the fatal bullet so far, but have been dinged with more than a few blanks. And at this stage in my life, there's just too much at stake. It would be one thing if I were all alone. Left to my devices all alone, I'd probably be a little like Barney from the Simpsons. Eh, maybe more like Peter O'Toole. Somewhere in between? There'd be wit. I wouldn't be a complete rube. I'm sure I'd feel a lot wittier to myself than I would be to others in their right minds. Then again, how many people in recovery are immortalized with placards of notable quotations like, say, W.C. Fields? The barstool does call out from time to time. But I know deep down inside I'd be much, much unhappier.
The hardest part for me at this moment in time is that I don't have a ton of people close by to me whom I've known for that long who are going through the same things I'm going through. They're not on the same sobriety train that I find myself on. Like I said, I have one or two people whom I've become good friends with but have known only recently in my life, one of whom is very much on that journey and has been an enormous source of guidance to me. But we haven't known each other for that long. And while longevity in and of itself is not always the measure of a friendship or a relationship, it is something I also hold dear. And of course, there are some other people I've known, admired and loved for a lot longer who are on that journey as well, but geographically a little further away. At least, far enough away from my every day.
Life is mostly normal for everyone in my immediate life - they can take the first drink and not have to fear the potential consequences of having too many. They may not notice that they're repeating the same thing over and over, or might be stumbling into something more incoherent than they believe they might be, but they're not putting themselves at risk of either danger or embarrassment, as I had done. It feels like unilateral disarmament, it feels unfair, at times it really just sucks. But in reality, how could it be fair if I was the one who took it to the next level, one step beyond (maybe more like two or three)? If it sucks bad enough to be the sober guy in those situations, I still have the strength and the will to remove myself from the premises, rather than jump back in. Someone told me recently that if they hear the same story for the third time in one sitting, it's time to go. Give 'em the Irish goodbye (but without the Irish, as it were).
But I don't want those goodbyes to be last goodbyes. I don't want to ditch my friends, anyone I love, for a new group of only sober people. I can't do it. I'm not off to go and be reborn somewhere. There are no cults I want to join, no missions or crusades to latch onto, no distant mountains to climb and go off the grid for a while. I don't need all of that. I want to stay firmly planted in the real world. Even if that real world is a stream you feel like the salmon swimming against (an analogy I've, um, borrowed and repeated a few times before already).
I've run a few gauntlets lately where I have been tempted to break the current streak from time to time, to call out the fact that this is one day at a time, not never. But the temptation has not been overwhelming, so that's good. Feeling like I'm in those gauntlets, or that I even use that term to describe situations is just annoying. It's boring. And I feel boring. At times, embittered over the circumstances. I would have liked to take a shot or two at my friend's 50th this past weekend. But I didn't. And I suspect I got the last laugh the morning after. Yet no one made me feel like I was out of place. No one yelled at me and said "c'mon, just one!" Everyone has been respectful. But, it still sucks. I want to feel like I'm the life of the party, one of the guys, maybe even the center of attention sometimes. I was in a fucking band, and not that straight-edge bullshit either, so of course I wanted to feel that way. That shit has deep roots. I can't help but be who I am.
But, like any functioning mature adult, I'm okay with not being the center of attention, to not feel like I'm the life of the party. I don't need it. I might want it, but I don't need it. I'm even ok with being the odd man out. I just want it to be more normal sometimes.
The Holidays is the next gauntlet. I'm sure I'll want to share that glass (or bottle) of wine or two with family and relatives. And then, making it to the new year, which, in a way, completes a one year cycle of sobriety. Seven months on the wagon, ten back off, three back on. Two to go for twelve on the wagon, if not in succession. Then to March, which completes the full year cycle (I originally began my seven month stint in March of last year). By then I'll know all of the normally scheduled things and events in a calendar year, and what to expect. Except for my fiftieth birthday, which comes at the end of April of next year. Then what?
One day at a time, right? I think there are a few numbers and the math that goes with them that needs to be cleared out. To be continued...
So instead I will say..."Continuing from the blog post before last on the subject of 'Wagon (aka sobriety) 2.0'" -
Three months back on the wagon, and some change. My goal for a mindset this time is "one day at a time," but likely facing the reality of ditching the drink for good. Most days I feel comforted in the safety I feel from potential guilt, shame, and confusion over what I might have done or said in the one out of nine times where everything wasn't fine (or merely okay) after I took that first drink. Mostly it was normal, but the one out of nine times it wasn't, the outcome was one thing to be ashamed of or another. That one time in and of itself, not knowing or trusting myself over when it might happen, when I might lose track or keep my eye off the ball and cross the line, subtle or not in my own mind, to a place where my life or those in my care might be at risk, was the source of most if not all of my anxiety. Which is why I feel less anxiety now, as I did last year when I quit for seven months. I'm safe from those kinds of fears at this moment, same as I felt back then.
I was so proud last year, having gone one month past my six month goal. I was so sure I was in control of things, certain it wasn't a pink cloud I was under, so sure I wasn't hard core so I'd be okay, I learned my lesson, etc. But what was it in me that let the old habits creep back in, that "fuck it" voice? Stopping again has been physically easy. I just stopped. Not as many night sweats or weird-ass dreams during the first week back on the wagon this time around as with last time. Emotionally, it was much harder though. I sought some help from some people I've gotten to know more recently, whom I consider good friends and trust unconditionally. I went to some meetings. Most helped. One, not so much. Thank God it was only the first one. Too much literal "higher power" in the first one. All I needed was a higher power that left room for a little more interpretation. Despite what the big book of AA says, I still believe there's room for agnostics, but I digress.
In that first week (which in the previous hiatus had been the hardest time) I was also dealing with emotional distress of another kind which distracted me from worrying about anything physical going on - trying to figure out where I was going to move to. I was sleeping on the couch, with an ultimatum to go once I could figure out where. And we were just hours away from telling our kids what was about to happen, when mercy intervened. Once again. With stipulations.
Which leads me to today, asking myself: without the stipulations, from someone, my wife of eighteen years, partner for twenty three, who cares deeply about me, would I still be on the wagon? I doubt it. And I believe that not only for our kids' sake, but if not for our relationship. If only me, and no one else, if I ended up behind the wheel and something really bad happened, would that have to have been the catalyst for me to quit cold turkey? I've been lucky in that respect.
Still, unlike normal people, for me, taking the drink had evolved into a game of Russian roulette with a couple of blanks thrown in. I've dodged the fatal bullet so far, but have been dinged with more than a few blanks. And at this stage in my life, there's just too much at stake. It would be one thing if I were all alone. Left to my devices all alone, I'd probably be a little like Barney from the Simpsons. Eh, maybe more like Peter O'Toole. Somewhere in between? There'd be wit. I wouldn't be a complete rube. I'm sure I'd feel a lot wittier to myself than I would be to others in their right minds. Then again, how many people in recovery are immortalized with placards of notable quotations like, say, W.C. Fields? The barstool does call out from time to time. But I know deep down inside I'd be much, much unhappier.
The hardest part for me at this moment in time is that I don't have a ton of people close by to me whom I've known for that long who are going through the same things I'm going through. They're not on the same sobriety train that I find myself on. Like I said, I have one or two people whom I've become good friends with but have known only recently in my life, one of whom is very much on that journey and has been an enormous source of guidance to me. But we haven't known each other for that long. And while longevity in and of itself is not always the measure of a friendship or a relationship, it is something I also hold dear. And of course, there are some other people I've known, admired and loved for a lot longer who are on that journey as well, but geographically a little further away. At least, far enough away from my every day.
Life is mostly normal for everyone in my immediate life - they can take the first drink and not have to fear the potential consequences of having too many. They may not notice that they're repeating the same thing over and over, or might be stumbling into something more incoherent than they believe they might be, but they're not putting themselves at risk of either danger or embarrassment, as I had done. It feels like unilateral disarmament, it feels unfair, at times it really just sucks. But in reality, how could it be fair if I was the one who took it to the next level, one step beyond (maybe more like two or three)? If it sucks bad enough to be the sober guy in those situations, I still have the strength and the will to remove myself from the premises, rather than jump back in. Someone told me recently that if they hear the same story for the third time in one sitting, it's time to go. Give 'em the Irish goodbye (but without the Irish, as it were).
But I don't want those goodbyes to be last goodbyes. I don't want to ditch my friends, anyone I love, for a new group of only sober people. I can't do it. I'm not off to go and be reborn somewhere. There are no cults I want to join, no missions or crusades to latch onto, no distant mountains to climb and go off the grid for a while. I don't need all of that. I want to stay firmly planted in the real world. Even if that real world is a stream you feel like the salmon swimming against (an analogy I've, um, borrowed and repeated a few times before already).
I've run a few gauntlets lately where I have been tempted to break the current streak from time to time, to call out the fact that this is one day at a time, not never. But the temptation has not been overwhelming, so that's good. Feeling like I'm in those gauntlets, or that I even use that term to describe situations is just annoying. It's boring. And I feel boring. At times, embittered over the circumstances. I would have liked to take a shot or two at my friend's 50th this past weekend. But I didn't. And I suspect I got the last laugh the morning after. Yet no one made me feel like I was out of place. No one yelled at me and said "c'mon, just one!" Everyone has been respectful. But, it still sucks. I want to feel like I'm the life of the party, one of the guys, maybe even the center of attention sometimes. I was in a fucking band, and not that straight-edge bullshit either, so of course I wanted to feel that way. That shit has deep roots. I can't help but be who I am.
But, like any functioning mature adult, I'm okay with not being the center of attention, to not feel like I'm the life of the party. I don't need it. I might want it, but I don't need it. I'm even ok with being the odd man out. I just want it to be more normal sometimes.
The Holidays is the next gauntlet. I'm sure I'll want to share that glass (or bottle) of wine or two with family and relatives. And then, making it to the new year, which, in a way, completes a one year cycle of sobriety. Seven months on the wagon, ten back off, three back on. Two to go for twelve on the wagon, if not in succession. Then to March, which completes the full year cycle (I originally began my seven month stint in March of last year). By then I'll know all of the normally scheduled things and events in a calendar year, and what to expect. Except for my fiftieth birthday, which comes at the end of April of next year. Then what?
One day at a time, right? I think there are a few numbers and the math that goes with them that needs to be cleared out. To be continued...
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
Reflections on my grandma Kay, and the upcoming election
Full disclosure - I am not officially endorsing a candidate for U.S. President on the Democratic ticket for 2020 yet. I'm just not in the mood to be an early adopter this season. But I might be getting close. And if my grandma Kay were still alive, there is no doubt in my mind who she'd be supporting at this juncture: Elizabeth Warren.
I should back up.
Grandma Kay was the only one in my family's older generations back in Berlin, Wisconsin that I can recall, who was decidedly NOT a Republican. Before I moved to Illinois, and around the time of Reagan's re-election in 1984, it was a good thing I wasn't old enough to vote yet, not that it mattered, because I probably would have voted for the Gipper. Not Grandma Kay. Her choice was clear: She said she was voting for "ABR - Anybody but Reagan." It was the first time I remember her speaking up about her political views. Not that she hadn't spoken up previously, as I am very sure she did, but it was the first time I remember. And it was an awakening, though at the time a small opening. I couldn't understand why she wouldn't like Reagan! I would find out soon enough.
It wasn't until I moved to the Chicago area in 1985 and had some distance from the political climate in which I grew up, that I began to gain a different perspective. Also, I was a sophomore in High School then. And a late bloomer anyway - I was not politically active at that time. I had just sort of agreed with most everyone else in my family that Democrats were people you didn't usually vote for, unless the circumstances were unusual. Ironically, now that we lived three hours away, I think I actually grew closer to my grandma Kay in those intervening years up until her death in 1990.
Living a block and a half away in Berlin meant day visits, but I don't recall ever sleeping overnight there. If I did, those times were few and far between. When I was a little kid, we would spend our days playing board games and sending messages down the laundry chute, and she always made the best, home made meals from scratch whenever possible. I had her undivided attention. And that attention didn't usually lend itself to politics or the world at large. But when we'd come up for a visit from Illinois, we'd stay the night or the weekend. As a result, I'd become more aware of my grandma's daily routine, watching the McNeil Lehrer news hour on PBS and hearing her views more frequently. She was a rare outspoken democrat, as far as I could tell, in a town, county and region of Wisconsin that was steadfastly Republican. The birthplace of the Republican party, Ripon, WI, is twelve miles away.
She was not a churchgoer either. Whenever people in the Berlin community asked her why she didn't go, Grandma Kay always had the same answer: "I practice my church at home."
A recurring theme for her kept coming up: Greed. The republicans currently in power were greedy. They only cared about money and themselves, didn't seem interested in helping people less fortunate than they were. I'm certain how she felt about Donald Trump in the 80s, though she may not have mentioned him by name. They were what's wrong with our country, and our world. People she admired included Barbara Jordan, Eleanor Roosevelt, Jane Goodall, Geraldine Ferraro. Strong, educated women, all. And ones who valued human rights first.
Elizabeth Warren would be someone Grandma Kay would have deeply admired, for her belief in human rights, but also for her knowledge of finance, markets, and her ability to see right through the greed Wall Street is selling, and explain, in layman's terms, why ordinary people are getting screwed on a daily basis and what to do about it. I have no doubt Warren's plans would have been read from cover to cover, and Grandma would especially admire the K-12 plan that just came out.
Grandma Kay would have loved Bernie Sanders too. But I think, if given the choice, she would have chosen the one who is not as open throated in support of the label "Socialism," if in practice Warren's plans are nearly identical to Sanders. That aside, I believe, as one of the relatively few women in our neck of the woods having earned a PhD in 1938, she would support Warren not only because the US has not yet had a female occupant in the White House, but because the world needed more highly educated women in positions of prominence everywhere. Also - Warren, really, would be closer to the label "FDR Democrat." And Grandma was certainly that.
She wouldn't have supported any educated woman for President. She didn't have very nice things to say about Jeanne Kirkpatrick, for example. And she would have had no time for a disingenuous, right wing conservative proudly promoting her popularity among the poorly educated, like being poorly educated is a badge of honor, like Sarah Palin. On the other hand, there was that time during the Iran Contra scandal where she fell for Oliver North. He was such a nice, young man, just doing his duty. But nobody's perfect. The whole point is: Grandma didn't like convenient labels or terms for things, or all-encompassing ones. On the question of not going to church, she didn't say she was an atheist, after all. Grandma never said she didn't believe in God, just that she practiced her church at home.
I guess Elizabeth Warren reminds me of my grandma Kay. Some of the things she says, and the way she says them, reminds me of how my grandma would articulate a point. Always well thought out, prepared, measured, not afraid to just stand up and speak her mind, but not in an off-putting way. Let the facts speak for themselves: "I have a plan for that." Willing to fight back, but in an old fashioned way, with a respectful tone, sticking to the issues, but calling out behavior in plainspoken terms. I think that is what separates her from Bernie, her plainspokenness as well as a reluctance to draw everything into a specific worldview.
Grandma Kay was pragmatic, but only to a point. There is the argument from some of us on the Democratic side of the aisle - in this election, we just need to take out the racist white male and the only way to do that is by nominating a white male blue dog democrat who can attract those white, middle class, middle aged males from Ohio and Pennsylvania who are probably also racists. I think that is a mistake, and it is a fear-based strategy. And it would betray the four words I try to live by and tell our kids to live by: Can't live in fear. Also: we need to inspire! So we've gotta vote for what we're really for, not what we think will just win. Grandma Kay would believe that, I think. Pragmatism to a point. She didn't live to see Clinton elected, so I'm not 100% sure. She would have hated it when Hillary said she wasn't going to just sit around and bake cookies though.
For me in 2020, it will certainly be ABT, just like it was ABR in 1984 for Grandma Kay. I like the bumper sticker going around now that says "Any Functioning Adult - 2020." I think the final four, at this writing (but past performance is not necessarily a predictor of future returns), will be: Warren, Biden, Sanders, Buttigieg. Among those, I'll plug my nose for old Joe - who, like Hillary before her, has a keen nose for sniffing out, and then snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, and I'll happily support Mayor Pete, if he makes it this round (if not, he'll probably be back). There's something corporate about him, though. And I don't like the state of Indiana. Sorry, Hoosiers! I'll vote for Bernie - but I'm not going to ever be a full throated socialist, or democratic socialist. I just don't like labels. I was never a punk rocker, never fully new wave, prog rock or anything else, even indie, in my gigging days. I was for music that had integrity and shied away from easy labels. But I'll vote for the socialist candidate if he's the nominee.
At this juncture, I'm leaning Warren. I'll forgive her for the nativist gaffe, or attempt at pandering, or for trying to apply a label to herself that really probably isn't there, is more of an appropriation. If that's the worst thing that comes out of her mouth - a mild form of cultural appropriation, well, I'll take that over someone who just compared his impending impeachment to a lynching. Also: I don't care what she'd look like riding around in a tank. We don't need more male bravado. We've had enough of that with the first 43 white male presidents and one black male. Yes, the number is 44. Look it up. Let me give you a hint - the reason it's 44 and not 45 is not because the current holder of office is a shit stained aberration on our nation's legacy and shouldn't be counted - it's because of a name that includes a character from Sesame Street and the largest city of Ohio. We've had enough dudes. We need: 1. Unapologetic civilian leadership. 2. It's time for a woman. And one who isn't a naked opportunist.
I guess that's pretty close to an endorsement. And my grandma Kay would approve. In a sense, I'm thinking I might be voting for her.
-----
.
.
P.S. My Grandma Nev, an English teacher, was equally awesome and spent a lot of undivided time with me too. I never asked her about her political views, for some reason. But she did provide the book of U.S. Presidents, which I memorized in order one rainy day in the early 80s and haven't forgotten to this day. I love her too! I'll post something about my Grandma Nev another time.
I should back up.
Grandma Kay was the only one in my family's older generations back in Berlin, Wisconsin that I can recall, who was decidedly NOT a Republican. Before I moved to Illinois, and around the time of Reagan's re-election in 1984, it was a good thing I wasn't old enough to vote yet, not that it mattered, because I probably would have voted for the Gipper. Not Grandma Kay. Her choice was clear: She said she was voting for "ABR - Anybody but Reagan." It was the first time I remember her speaking up about her political views. Not that she hadn't spoken up previously, as I am very sure she did, but it was the first time I remember. And it was an awakening, though at the time a small opening. I couldn't understand why she wouldn't like Reagan! I would find out soon enough.
It wasn't until I moved to the Chicago area in 1985 and had some distance from the political climate in which I grew up, that I began to gain a different perspective. Also, I was a sophomore in High School then. And a late bloomer anyway - I was not politically active at that time. I had just sort of agreed with most everyone else in my family that Democrats were people you didn't usually vote for, unless the circumstances were unusual. Ironically, now that we lived three hours away, I think I actually grew closer to my grandma Kay in those intervening years up until her death in 1990.
Living a block and a half away in Berlin meant day visits, but I don't recall ever sleeping overnight there. If I did, those times were few and far between. When I was a little kid, we would spend our days playing board games and sending messages down the laundry chute, and she always made the best, home made meals from scratch whenever possible. I had her undivided attention. And that attention didn't usually lend itself to politics or the world at large. But when we'd come up for a visit from Illinois, we'd stay the night or the weekend. As a result, I'd become more aware of my grandma's daily routine, watching the McNeil Lehrer news hour on PBS and hearing her views more frequently. She was a rare outspoken democrat, as far as I could tell, in a town, county and region of Wisconsin that was steadfastly Republican. The birthplace of the Republican party, Ripon, WI, is twelve miles away.
She was not a churchgoer either. Whenever people in the Berlin community asked her why she didn't go, Grandma Kay always had the same answer: "I practice my church at home."
A recurring theme for her kept coming up: Greed. The republicans currently in power were greedy. They only cared about money and themselves, didn't seem interested in helping people less fortunate than they were. I'm certain how she felt about Donald Trump in the 80s, though she may not have mentioned him by name. They were what's wrong with our country, and our world. People she admired included Barbara Jordan, Eleanor Roosevelt, Jane Goodall, Geraldine Ferraro. Strong, educated women, all. And ones who valued human rights first.
Elizabeth Warren would be someone Grandma Kay would have deeply admired, for her belief in human rights, but also for her knowledge of finance, markets, and her ability to see right through the greed Wall Street is selling, and explain, in layman's terms, why ordinary people are getting screwed on a daily basis and what to do about it. I have no doubt Warren's plans would have been read from cover to cover, and Grandma would especially admire the K-12 plan that just came out.
Grandma Kay would have loved Bernie Sanders too. But I think, if given the choice, she would have chosen the one who is not as open throated in support of the label "Socialism," if in practice Warren's plans are nearly identical to Sanders. That aside, I believe, as one of the relatively few women in our neck of the woods having earned a PhD in 1938, she would support Warren not only because the US has not yet had a female occupant in the White House, but because the world needed more highly educated women in positions of prominence everywhere. Also - Warren, really, would be closer to the label "FDR Democrat." And Grandma was certainly that.
She wouldn't have supported any educated woman for President. She didn't have very nice things to say about Jeanne Kirkpatrick, for example. And she would have had no time for a disingenuous, right wing conservative proudly promoting her popularity among the poorly educated, like being poorly educated is a badge of honor, like Sarah Palin. On the other hand, there was that time during the Iran Contra scandal where she fell for Oliver North. He was such a nice, young man, just doing his duty. But nobody's perfect. The whole point is: Grandma didn't like convenient labels or terms for things, or all-encompassing ones. On the question of not going to church, she didn't say she was an atheist, after all. Grandma never said she didn't believe in God, just that she practiced her church at home.
I guess Elizabeth Warren reminds me of my grandma Kay. Some of the things she says, and the way she says them, reminds me of how my grandma would articulate a point. Always well thought out, prepared, measured, not afraid to just stand up and speak her mind, but not in an off-putting way. Let the facts speak for themselves: "I have a plan for that." Willing to fight back, but in an old fashioned way, with a respectful tone, sticking to the issues, but calling out behavior in plainspoken terms. I think that is what separates her from Bernie, her plainspokenness as well as a reluctance to draw everything into a specific worldview.
Grandma Kay was pragmatic, but only to a point. There is the argument from some of us on the Democratic side of the aisle - in this election, we just need to take out the racist white male and the only way to do that is by nominating a white male blue dog democrat who can attract those white, middle class, middle aged males from Ohio and Pennsylvania who are probably also racists. I think that is a mistake, and it is a fear-based strategy. And it would betray the four words I try to live by and tell our kids to live by: Can't live in fear. Also: we need to inspire! So we've gotta vote for what we're really for, not what we think will just win. Grandma Kay would believe that, I think. Pragmatism to a point. She didn't live to see Clinton elected, so I'm not 100% sure. She would have hated it when Hillary said she wasn't going to just sit around and bake cookies though.
For me in 2020, it will certainly be ABT, just like it was ABR in 1984 for Grandma Kay. I like the bumper sticker going around now that says "Any Functioning Adult - 2020." I think the final four, at this writing (but past performance is not necessarily a predictor of future returns), will be: Warren, Biden, Sanders, Buttigieg. Among those, I'll plug my nose for old Joe - who, like Hillary before her, has a keen nose for sniffing out, and then snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, and I'll happily support Mayor Pete, if he makes it this round (if not, he'll probably be back). There's something corporate about him, though. And I don't like the state of Indiana. Sorry, Hoosiers! I'll vote for Bernie - but I'm not going to ever be a full throated socialist, or democratic socialist. I just don't like labels. I was never a punk rocker, never fully new wave, prog rock or anything else, even indie, in my gigging days. I was for music that had integrity and shied away from easy labels. But I'll vote for the socialist candidate if he's the nominee.
At this juncture, I'm leaning Warren. I'll forgive her for the nativist gaffe, or attempt at pandering, or for trying to apply a label to herself that really probably isn't there, is more of an appropriation. If that's the worst thing that comes out of her mouth - a mild form of cultural appropriation, well, I'll take that over someone who just compared his impending impeachment to a lynching. Also: I don't care what she'd look like riding around in a tank. We don't need more male bravado. We've had enough of that with the first 43 white male presidents and one black male. Yes, the number is 44. Look it up. Let me give you a hint - the reason it's 44 and not 45 is not because the current holder of office is a shit stained aberration on our nation's legacy and shouldn't be counted - it's because of a name that includes a character from Sesame Street and the largest city of Ohio. We've had enough dudes. We need: 1. Unapologetic civilian leadership. 2. It's time for a woman. And one who isn't a naked opportunist.
I guess that's pretty close to an endorsement. And my grandma Kay would approve. In a sense, I'm thinking I might be voting for her.
-----
.
.
P.S. My Grandma Nev, an English teacher, was equally awesome and spent a lot of undivided time with me too. I never asked her about her political views, for some reason. But she did provide the book of U.S. Presidents, which I memorized in order one rainy day in the early 80s and haven't forgotten to this day. I love her too! I'll post something about my Grandma Nev another time.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Wagon Reprise, 2.0, 2019
Once Oaktoberfest 2018 came, i tentatively took the first few sips. It felt weird to feel a buzz from two pints, but soon thereafter I picked up right where I left off, and in about ten months I was confronted with the same problems I had created for myself as the last time, only this time I was asked to move out. I made plans, thanks to a good friend, to do just that and, after the first week back on the wagon, had the stuff I needed all but packed. And then, a second chance. Or maybe a third? Fifth? Who's counting. Long story short, I'm two months in now, back safely on the wagon. Physically, I'm fine (though I've gained weight - need to cut the sweets). Emotionally, I'm back to where I wanted to be: no crippling anxiety. As before, the drink exacerbated anxiety for me, it didn't suppress it. Socially, as another good friend of mine has said, it's like you're a salmon swimming upstream. Drinks are everywhere, you've gotta just deal with it. I've been to some meetings this time, and they've been good, but some of them just devastating - in terms of some of the other people and the things they've been through. I'm trying to find the right balance, and so far so good. One day at a time. I'm not counting the days. I probably will pause and reflect should I pass my previous "record," but I think that was the mistake I made last time: setting a timeline. This time it comes down to that choice every time I have a temptation (and thankfully that feeling of temptation so far has been on very few occasions, two so far): Do I want to go back down that path? I know where that path leads. Or do I stay safe from anxiety, safe from potential guilt, shame, or the roll of the dice that might get me a DUI or worse? The two times I was tempted: The evening after my good friend's father's wake, where we went back to their house and, at the table where his dad's spot was kept empty to honor him, the wine started flowing. The second was at Oaktoberfest 2019. I ran the gauntlet and made it through. Three cheers to one day at a time!
Thursday, September 06, 2018
180 Days - A Benchmark, And A Confession Or Two
Hello old blog! It's me, to report on something longer than 140 characters, or 280 I guess now. I used to come here often, especially leading up to, and through, the 2004 elections. Remember those, when Bush was re-elected and we all thought the sky was falling? Remember, in the end, when the owner/writer of http://www.johnkerryisadouchebagbutimvotingforhimanyway.com/ posted a picture of himself pouring out a 40 with "RIP America 1776-2004?" I can't find that picture anymore, or the never-finished thesis about Kerry's "doucheitude" and such. The internet forgets. Go there now and it's a site in Japanese, something about how to get a beautiful bust. Sorry, I'm lazy - I used Google translate, and that's what it said. I left it at that. Anyway, with my job over the past few years I know enough to look up the whois data and see that the site has indeed changed hands:
I guess I was thinking of all of that 'cos my friend Mark texted me a youtube video of the Howard Dean scream. The internet doesn't always forget. But...I digress.
I'm reporting on a milestone I set for myself about six months ago: 180 days without booze.
That's beer, wine, liquor for all of you youngsters (but I may have taken two pulls and passed the pot pipe a couple of times during that period - but why do I always have to qualify this shit?). I don't think I've gone this long since college, and that would take me back to 1988, the year I graduated from High School and went on to UW Madison for my undergrad degree in English and Political Science. A long fucking time ago! I was blasting "Nothing's Shocking" from my dorm room back then to dampen the noise of Steve Miller's Greatest Hits from down the hall. And studying...once in a while. Again, I digress.
People have asked me why I decided to take such a long break from the drink - by the way, the break doesn't end today, I'm going to keep the streak going for a bit. I have said that it was, in part, for health reasons. I'd gotten some test results back in the spring of 2016, including a subsequent ultra sound, that pointed to early signs of alcoholic fatty liver. A wakeup call, yes, but in talking to others about it, the general sense was "yeah, a lot of people get that, you're probably okay." Not enough of a scare to get me to stop for 180 days, but something to keep an eye on. Which I didn't really, back in 2016, and things were about to get worse.
I've also said - "it was just starting to creep into my life more than I would like, and I needed to take stock." Also true. The crack of a can or the opening of a bottle, or the pour into a glass started a little bit earlier and ended a little bit later as the days progressed in 2016.
As spring turned into summer, there were a few episodes, from going out, to BBQs at home, where I lost track of how much I was actually drinking and passed out. The problem wasn't as much the passing out part as the things that I was saying prior to passing out, and not remembering what I said the next morning. And it just so happens one of those episodes - I consider this one of many - and rooted in the fact that I was unusually self absorbed at that time - took place on a very pivotal weekend for our family. It happened during our trip to Yosemite, which was in honor of Kiera's brother Ryan, who passed away 20 years ago from that time. The Yosemite trip was planned by Kiera's brother Gavin, as Yosemite was one of the last, if not the last, place that Gavin saw his brother before he passed away. We were all to take a challenging hike, as they did 20 years ago, in memory of Ryan.
It was not to be for me. July 3rd was when we were to take the hike. July 2nd was a full day of drinking. The hard stuff. Whiskey. Up until those recent years I had shunned hard liquor mostly because I had said that I "knew myself too well" and thus would stick to beer and wine so it wouldn't be too much of a problem. How's that for alcoholic's logic. Day turned to night, peppered with (what I probably thought were counter) insults towards my wife, when asked to do things. I had felt, in my state of mind, that she was "coming at me" in the tone of voice she took towards me when asking me to do things. That state of mind was not new, mind you, but amplified by the alcohol. I said many things that I don't remember. Among them: "I didn't get that memo" when asked if I was to help put Brenna to bed (I think). Everyone went to bed, I stayed up by the fire in what could only be described as drinking alone, contemplating....what? Pleas from Kiera to go to bed. Be present for her, especially on this tough occasion. No, I'm all right, I snapped.
Next thing I know, it is morning, my head hurts, I'm sweating, sitting upright in the driver's seat of our car, bandage on my upper lip. I had passed out, lurched forward, fell out of my chair, and cut my lip on a jagged rock. It needed stitches, but we were nowhere near a hospital and who wanted to take me to the ER anyway? Our friend Jeff helped patch me up and carry me to the car. There's the doghouse, and then there's 6 months in the hole. This feeling was like 6 months in the hole.
Over the course of the next weeks and months, many arguments, but finally, after years of turning down marriage counseling, I got to work finding a marriage counselor who could help us. Or maybe me, if our marriage was past the point of no return. After all, was it too late, that only now, after rock bottom, should I turn to help? Only after being "coerced," in a way? She'd been telling me for three years. Did I remember? Did I care?
Many arguments about that and a whole variety of other reasons why I was not putting much into this relationship - a relationship of 20 years to that point. Did I mention the fact that we had only been dating 3 months when her brother died from depression - taking his own life? Voices of resentment in my head out loud, telling me that all I'll be remembered for was how I handled things on the 20 year "anniversary" of Ryan's death, not how I handled things at the time it happened and in all the years in between. As I would learn, we all have these little voices of resentment in our heads. What alcohol does is hand a tiny little bullhorn to every tiny little voice that would otherwise go unheard, most often unheard even in the subconscious, perhaps, and give it voice to the conscious, loud and clear, and often right straight out of your mouth.
To counseling we went. And still I drank. And passed out on occasion, same pattern, same result. And I couldn't blame hard liquor. It was beer. More counseling. I'd never do it again. And then I did it again. Finally, on March 11th, 2018, the morning after an evening spent at a work event for Kiera at Cleophus Quealy, a brew pub in Industrial San Leandro, I wake up and find Kiera and the kids are gone.
And then, Kiera came back alone. "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result." It was an ultimatum. If it happened again, we were finished. "Your own daughter asked me, 'is daddy drunk?'"
The thing about quitting drinking, even for a month - it's hard to get it going in the early going. There's always something that comes up, some occasion, some bad day at work event, something with the family back east, something stressful where you're like - "well, I can't start now, this is coming up," or "I need a drink to take the edge off of this horrible day." Would I have had the strength to take that first step, on my own, without Kiera's ultimatum? I've always said I'd stay away from hard liquor because I knew myself too well. But did I? Did I ever? Or anymore?
The answer is no, I don't think I would have taken the first step on my own. And I would have relapsed again. And by now I'd be living in some crap apartment somewhere or on someone's couch, or worse. I needed help. Even if it came from an ultimatum. Intervention might be a better word.
I took the first step. 9 days in, we had our next marriage counseling session. I said then what I believe now - that I have to go through with quitting drinking, for 3 months ("6" Kiera reminded me)...all right, 6 months, and if we still have the same arguments, resentments, fights, misunderstandings and so on, then we know alcohol isn't the reason for why we're fighting all the time. Why my body language says "fuck you, I don't care," or why your voice says "are you that fucking stupid" even though you might be asking me the most basic question.
Another way of putting this too is, I have to do this for my own sake, as well as for ours. Or it won't work.
The first couple of weeks sucked. That very next weekend, there was a family funeral, or celebration of life, of someone very dear to us. It was at Kiera's Uncle Noel and Aunt Katherine's, so I knew the wine would be flowing, as usual, and some top shelf wine also, as befits the occasion. I was thinking the most about the alcohol and not as much about our family. It had gotten to the point where all I thought about, and planned around, was when I'd be able to take that first drink.
Now - I was functional. I hadn't been drinking 24/7, after all. But it had crept further and further into my life, into my sense of being, into who I was. Would I need to go to AA meetings? I left the door open, but I didn't feel like doing that right away. I made it through that first week, the worst part of the whole thing.
I began feeling better, after the first couple of weeks. I had met a fellow soccer dad on Brenna's soccer team, and fellow musician, it turns out, Ian. Ian hadn't been drinking in 18 years. I went to his house to finish up some trumpet session work for an EP he was working on, but the majority of the time we talked about the alcohol. Ian was the right man for the right time in my life to help me through a critical juncture. Offered a meeting with chill people who weren't all into God. Mentioned a book called "Dharma Punx." Meanwhile, our marriage counselor also recommended a book called "Recovery 2.0." I read both. I came to the conclusion that those dudes were way further down at their lowest than I had been. But I didn't rule out the 12 steps or meetings or the rest of it. In the mean time, I kept going. I was building a streak, and my stubborn streak kicked in. I later said to Ian, after about a month in, that I felt "mellower" which I wasn't expecting. Ian said "in the program we call that the 'pink cloud.' It usually lasts about 6 months.'" I said to myself at the time, "It's a good thing it lasts six months, because that just so happens to be my deadline for stopping alcohol. I'll have a drink maybe in September."
It got a little easier and easier as the weeks passed. It's been 6 months now. Well, almost. Technically, the 6th month will fall on September 11th, of all days. But my initial goal (at counseling, in my head, before I was corrected, was 90 days, then quickly 180). 180 days is here. Today. September 6th, 2018. Nathan's birthday. Also the birthday of our friend, Amber, and my old friend, Chris. My question is, is the pink cloud still here? I finally looked up "Pink Cloud" the other day, because I wanted to know what it really meant. The gist of it is an irrational exuberance of being newly clean and sober, and feeling that you've got this thing licked, to a level of hubris where relapse is a real danger.
I do feel mellower, which I wasn't expecting - I was expecting to have more anxiety about life, work, and all the rest, without a crutch to take the edge off. The opposite is true. And it came in handy for many things happening in my life at the same time: Promotion at work, family elder care crisis and sibling rivalry crisis back east. A trip for work that ended up in Nashville on my birthday. Trip to WI and NY in July. Trip to North Carolina for work in August. Many temptations, many tests, and I passed all of them.
But is that all because of the pink cloud? I don't think it's been the pink cloud, because, though I've been pleasantly surprised to learn that I had no physical DTs in the first week, and have been able to go six months stopping on my own without meetings, it's not like I did this without help. I've had help from a lot of people along the way. But the real turning point for me was one day, about maybe 2 1/2 months in, when Kiera, out of the blue, turned to me and said "I like you better without drinking." "You're thoughtful, dialed in." Hon, I'm not sure you know how much those words meant to me then, or mean to me now, but they are what truly turned the corner for me then, and sustains me this very moment, as I continue on the sober train. I don't think it's the pink cloud anymore because I'm afraid to find out what might happen if I try and take that first drink once again. I don't want to know what happens right now. I'd rather feel THIS.
Love, me
Here's a selfie, of me, dressed up slightly (which just means no ratted out hoodie on this day) to celebrate this occasion, in the carpool this morning on the way to work.
Domain Name: JOHNKERRYISADOUCHEBAGBUTIMVOTINGFORHIMANYWAY.COM Registry Domain ID: 116454295_DOMAIN_COM-VRSN Registrar WHOIS Server: whois.rrpproxy.net Registrar URL: http://www.key-systems.net Updated Date: 2018-02-06T08:53:24Z Creation Date: 2004-04-08T00:38:53Z Registry Expiry Date: 2019-04-08T00:38:53Z Registrar: Key-Systems GmbH Registrar IANA ID: 269 Registrar Abuse Contact Email: abuse@key-systems.net Registrar Abuse Contact Phone: +49.68949396850 Domain Status: ok https://icann.org/epp#ok Name Server: DANISZ.NLRS.JP Name Server: DANJSZ.NLRS.JP DNSSEC: unsigned URL of the ICANN Whois Inaccuracy Complaint Form: https://www.icann.org/wicf/
I guess I was thinking of all of that 'cos my friend Mark texted me a youtube video of the Howard Dean scream. The internet doesn't always forget. But...I digress.
I'm reporting on a milestone I set for myself about six months ago: 180 days without booze.
That's beer, wine, liquor for all of you youngsters (but I may have taken two pulls and passed the pot pipe a couple of times during that period - but why do I always have to qualify this shit?). I don't think I've gone this long since college, and that would take me back to 1988, the year I graduated from High School and went on to UW Madison for my undergrad degree in English and Political Science. A long fucking time ago! I was blasting "Nothing's Shocking" from my dorm room back then to dampen the noise of Steve Miller's Greatest Hits from down the hall. And studying...once in a while. Again, I digress.
People have asked me why I decided to take such a long break from the drink - by the way, the break doesn't end today, I'm going to keep the streak going for a bit. I have said that it was, in part, for health reasons. I'd gotten some test results back in the spring of 2016, including a subsequent ultra sound, that pointed to early signs of alcoholic fatty liver. A wakeup call, yes, but in talking to others about it, the general sense was "yeah, a lot of people get that, you're probably okay." Not enough of a scare to get me to stop for 180 days, but something to keep an eye on. Which I didn't really, back in 2016, and things were about to get worse.
I've also said - "it was just starting to creep into my life more than I would like, and I needed to take stock." Also true. The crack of a can or the opening of a bottle, or the pour into a glass started a little bit earlier and ended a little bit later as the days progressed in 2016.
As spring turned into summer, there were a few episodes, from going out, to BBQs at home, where I lost track of how much I was actually drinking and passed out. The problem wasn't as much the passing out part as the things that I was saying prior to passing out, and not remembering what I said the next morning. And it just so happens one of those episodes - I consider this one of many - and rooted in the fact that I was unusually self absorbed at that time - took place on a very pivotal weekend for our family. It happened during our trip to Yosemite, which was in honor of Kiera's brother Ryan, who passed away 20 years ago from that time. The Yosemite trip was planned by Kiera's brother Gavin, as Yosemite was one of the last, if not the last, place that Gavin saw his brother before he passed away. We were all to take a challenging hike, as they did 20 years ago, in memory of Ryan.
It was not to be for me. July 3rd was when we were to take the hike. July 2nd was a full day of drinking. The hard stuff. Whiskey. Up until those recent years I had shunned hard liquor mostly because I had said that I "knew myself too well" and thus would stick to beer and wine so it wouldn't be too much of a problem. How's that for alcoholic's logic. Day turned to night, peppered with (what I probably thought were counter) insults towards my wife, when asked to do things. I had felt, in my state of mind, that she was "coming at me" in the tone of voice she took towards me when asking me to do things. That state of mind was not new, mind you, but amplified by the alcohol. I said many things that I don't remember. Among them: "I didn't get that memo" when asked if I was to help put Brenna to bed (I think). Everyone went to bed, I stayed up by the fire in what could only be described as drinking alone, contemplating....what? Pleas from Kiera to go to bed. Be present for her, especially on this tough occasion. No, I'm all right, I snapped.
Next thing I know, it is morning, my head hurts, I'm sweating, sitting upright in the driver's seat of our car, bandage on my upper lip. I had passed out, lurched forward, fell out of my chair, and cut my lip on a jagged rock. It needed stitches, but we were nowhere near a hospital and who wanted to take me to the ER anyway? Our friend Jeff helped patch me up and carry me to the car. There's the doghouse, and then there's 6 months in the hole. This feeling was like 6 months in the hole.
Over the course of the next weeks and months, many arguments, but finally, after years of turning down marriage counseling, I got to work finding a marriage counselor who could help us. Or maybe me, if our marriage was past the point of no return. After all, was it too late, that only now, after rock bottom, should I turn to help? Only after being "coerced," in a way? She'd been telling me for three years. Did I remember? Did I care?
Many arguments about that and a whole variety of other reasons why I was not putting much into this relationship - a relationship of 20 years to that point. Did I mention the fact that we had only been dating 3 months when her brother died from depression - taking his own life? Voices of resentment in my head out loud, telling me that all I'll be remembered for was how I handled things on the 20 year "anniversary" of Ryan's death, not how I handled things at the time it happened and in all the years in between. As I would learn, we all have these little voices of resentment in our heads. What alcohol does is hand a tiny little bullhorn to every tiny little voice that would otherwise go unheard, most often unheard even in the subconscious, perhaps, and give it voice to the conscious, loud and clear, and often right straight out of your mouth.
To counseling we went. And still I drank. And passed out on occasion, same pattern, same result. And I couldn't blame hard liquor. It was beer. More counseling. I'd never do it again. And then I did it again. Finally, on March 11th, 2018, the morning after an evening spent at a work event for Kiera at Cleophus Quealy, a brew pub in Industrial San Leandro, I wake up and find Kiera and the kids are gone.
And then, Kiera came back alone. "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result." It was an ultimatum. If it happened again, we were finished. "Your own daughter asked me, 'is daddy drunk?'"
The thing about quitting drinking, even for a month - it's hard to get it going in the early going. There's always something that comes up, some occasion, some bad day at work event, something with the family back east, something stressful where you're like - "well, I can't start now, this is coming up," or "I need a drink to take the edge off of this horrible day." Would I have had the strength to take that first step, on my own, without Kiera's ultimatum? I've always said I'd stay away from hard liquor because I knew myself too well. But did I? Did I ever? Or anymore?
The answer is no, I don't think I would have taken the first step on my own. And I would have relapsed again. And by now I'd be living in some crap apartment somewhere or on someone's couch, or worse. I needed help. Even if it came from an ultimatum. Intervention might be a better word.
I took the first step. 9 days in, we had our next marriage counseling session. I said then what I believe now - that I have to go through with quitting drinking, for 3 months ("6" Kiera reminded me)...all right, 6 months, and if we still have the same arguments, resentments, fights, misunderstandings and so on, then we know alcohol isn't the reason for why we're fighting all the time. Why my body language says "fuck you, I don't care," or why your voice says "are you that fucking stupid" even though you might be asking me the most basic question.
Another way of putting this too is, I have to do this for my own sake, as well as for ours. Or it won't work.
The first couple of weeks sucked. That very next weekend, there was a family funeral, or celebration of life, of someone very dear to us. It was at Kiera's Uncle Noel and Aunt Katherine's, so I knew the wine would be flowing, as usual, and some top shelf wine also, as befits the occasion. I was thinking the most about the alcohol and not as much about our family. It had gotten to the point where all I thought about, and planned around, was when I'd be able to take that first drink.
Now - I was functional. I hadn't been drinking 24/7, after all. But it had crept further and further into my life, into my sense of being, into who I was. Would I need to go to AA meetings? I left the door open, but I didn't feel like doing that right away. I made it through that first week, the worst part of the whole thing.
I began feeling better, after the first couple of weeks. I had met a fellow soccer dad on Brenna's soccer team, and fellow musician, it turns out, Ian. Ian hadn't been drinking in 18 years. I went to his house to finish up some trumpet session work for an EP he was working on, but the majority of the time we talked about the alcohol. Ian was the right man for the right time in my life to help me through a critical juncture. Offered a meeting with chill people who weren't all into God. Mentioned a book called "Dharma Punx." Meanwhile, our marriage counselor also recommended a book called "Recovery 2.0." I read both. I came to the conclusion that those dudes were way further down at their lowest than I had been. But I didn't rule out the 12 steps or meetings or the rest of it. In the mean time, I kept going. I was building a streak, and my stubborn streak kicked in. I later said to Ian, after about a month in, that I felt "mellower" which I wasn't expecting. Ian said "in the program we call that the 'pink cloud.' It usually lasts about 6 months.'" I said to myself at the time, "It's a good thing it lasts six months, because that just so happens to be my deadline for stopping alcohol. I'll have a drink maybe in September."
It got a little easier and easier as the weeks passed. It's been 6 months now. Well, almost. Technically, the 6th month will fall on September 11th, of all days. But my initial goal (at counseling, in my head, before I was corrected, was 90 days, then quickly 180). 180 days is here. Today. September 6th, 2018. Nathan's birthday. Also the birthday of our friend, Amber, and my old friend, Chris. My question is, is the pink cloud still here? I finally looked up "Pink Cloud" the other day, because I wanted to know what it really meant. The gist of it is an irrational exuberance of being newly clean and sober, and feeling that you've got this thing licked, to a level of hubris where relapse is a real danger.
I do feel mellower, which I wasn't expecting - I was expecting to have more anxiety about life, work, and all the rest, without a crutch to take the edge off. The opposite is true. And it came in handy for many things happening in my life at the same time: Promotion at work, family elder care crisis and sibling rivalry crisis back east. A trip for work that ended up in Nashville on my birthday. Trip to WI and NY in July. Trip to North Carolina for work in August. Many temptations, many tests, and I passed all of them.
But is that all because of the pink cloud? I don't think it's been the pink cloud, because, though I've been pleasantly surprised to learn that I had no physical DTs in the first week, and have been able to go six months stopping on my own without meetings, it's not like I did this without help. I've had help from a lot of people along the way. But the real turning point for me was one day, about maybe 2 1/2 months in, when Kiera, out of the blue, turned to me and said "I like you better without drinking." "You're thoughtful, dialed in." Hon, I'm not sure you know how much those words meant to me then, or mean to me now, but they are what truly turned the corner for me then, and sustains me this very moment, as I continue on the sober train. I don't think it's the pink cloud anymore because I'm afraid to find out what might happen if I try and take that first drink once again. I don't want to know what happens right now. I'd rather feel THIS.
Love, me
Here's a selfie, of me, dressed up slightly (which just means no ratted out hoodie on this day) to celebrate this occasion, in the carpool this morning on the way to work.
I hope my honesty doesn't hurt - nothing can hurt or do more damage than I've already done. I hope I can help someone who's in my particular track: Not the lowest of the low points in life by any means, as some have gone, but pretty damn low for me, and now coming out the other side, relatively intact. Also: my blood pressure reading the other day was 127/69. That's considerably lower than 147/90, no?
Friday, May 04, 2018
It's alive!
Ye Olde Blog Post lives on. Will there be a countdown to shutdown? Lord knows, but since the blogosphere erupted and, thereafter, an increasingly ephemeral landscape of social media, how will all of our musings be preserved fifty, one hundred years from now? I'm sure smarter people are already looking into this.
In the meantime, I'll just mark this spot for now to keep it current. And so goes day #55 of sobriety. Cheers!
In the meantime, I'll just mark this spot for now to keep it current. And so goes day #55 of sobriety. Cheers!
Friday, July 22, 2016
An Old Turning Point
Yesterday afternoon I got the package of the old Akai FX-F31 cassette deck that I used to own many moons ago, the same model I purchased via eBay. It was an inspiration purchase, or perhaps out of nostalgia, or a sense of self preservation. Recently, I went through a bin of old cassette tapes, and in the process of finding some mix tapes I was looking for, I also discovered my old childhood tapes I thought I had lost. The earliest of these dates back to 1980, when I was 10 years old. I had had a dedicated box for them, but as it turns out -- about 10 years ago, in the process of a move -- I had gone through those, along with many other cassettes that I no longer needed because I either had the CD, the LP, or the Mp3 copy of the record I had taped, and ended up using the empty cases of those for the childhood tapes that were of cheaper quality, thus never having cases. And I integrated those with the rest of the cassettes I kept, the vast majority of which were band rehearsals, or song ideas on guitar, fragments, snippets, and god knows what else. Ever the self-documentarian, even at a young age, I also discovered a recording of myself reflecting on those tapes, and my childhood, family, friends, things I was feeling, where I hoped I was going, feelings of loss - two of my grandparents had just passed away in the course of the previous year - and I had just arrived in Villa Park, Illinois, after leaving Oshkosh in what turned out to be the last time I would see my Grandma Nev before she passed away two months after this recording. It was January 8, 1991, about 3:00 in the morning. And I went on for about 45 minutes. I have to say, it was therapeutic - I'm glad I did that. I don't think I am capable of rambling or ruminating alone with a microphone for that long anymore. But I realized in a way it was probably a message to my older self, and I even said so at the time - having an imagined conversation with myself, or anyone among my family or friends who might some day be interested. This was 25 years ago now. I definitely sound younger, but more self aware than I was expecting. It was right before a major turning point in my life. That summer I would meet someone that would eventually - albeit indirectly - help lead me out here to the SF Bay area two years later with my dear friend, Jason Ries. And I can't help but think about why, at this time, would all of this present itself, and I would be compelled to choose to rediscover and listen to this particular tape and passage. Time will tell.
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