I’m grateful for taking time to be outside – whether it’s running or walking – as it goes a long way towards increasing my serenity. I’m grateful for a partner with whom I can talk to about anything. I’m grateful that feeling sad no longer translates to automatically picking up, but rather honestly reflecting, doing the next right thing, and repeating helpful mantras like “one day at a time”. I’m grateful for the delicious ramen place where we had takeout. I’m grateful for the first snow of the season draping our neighborhood so beautifully. I’m grateful to be present for all the ups and downs in my life. I’m grateful to be sober.

I’m writing this post at the ungodly hour of 5am my time here in Denver. We actually got our first snow of the season. As I look out the window onto the street it’s quite peaceful. The previously bare branches appear so fluffy and soft, the parked cars look like they’re hibernating, and I’m inside our toasty little home sitting in my favorite red armchair.

There is a lot happening in the world and in my own life, but here in what I call “My Little Nook” life feels serene. I can genuinely say I am content with where I am right now. I have my health, I have built a loving little family, I have a roof over my head, I have a car that gets me easily from Point A to Point B, I have sufficient financial resources that keep me going, and I have coffee by my side in my favorite cup.

A few years back any feelings of anxiety, fear, or sadness would immediately push me to a drink. In fact even before those feelings could overwhelm me, I would preempt them by chugging directly from the Tito’s bottle. To every problem the instinct was never to think, or analyze, or reflect, it was simply to drink, drink, drink. When I did that I could at least black out for several hours to whisk me away from consciousness.

I am really proud of myself that the above is miraculously not my go-to move. I can’t quite pinpoint the moment where it shifted from needing vodka on my nightstand to taking more productive steps. It has undoubtedly been a process. I think I can summarize it in part by what someone shared at a meeting recently: Action absorbs anxiety. Not simply any action of course, but the right action.

In my early AA days it was doing a frenetic number of things just to stay away from the liquor store. The bombardment of advice from fellows was actually very much welcome. I was in some ways relearning how to walk because my constructive impulses were totally shot. It was chaotic as I was concurrently cleansing my body and mind. Personally, I needed the onslaught of external advice to shock my system into course correcting for the better.

Over time I’ve been able to filter that advice and begin codifying the set of recurring actions that promote inner peace. None of them are terribly radical in nature (physical activity, reframing exercises, meetings, gratitude lists, quiet reflection, etc.), however the key for me is to practice them often. If I start faltering on any that is when my serenity subsides. And if an action isn’t having the same impact it used to, I adopt another one to ensure I keep the rotation fresh and impactful. As I write this post it puts me at ease to acknowledge that I not only have zero desire to drink, but I also know I’ll soon be needing to incorporate new actions into my routine to sustain my serenity. That journey of incorporation gives me excitement, it gives me hope. I’ll be sifting through the Rolodex of my mind to understand how I can expand upon my regular actions, which will undoubtedly deepen my emotional sobriety. The fact that I can meet this challenge head on is truly invigorating.

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I am so grateful to be sober. I’m grateful I got to see my sponsor run in the marathon yesterday, I’m grateful for a slow weekend and a long weekend coming up. I’m grateful to be seeing my family on Saturday, for Timmy’s anniversary this month, for the puppy laying on my lap as I type and for coffee. I’m grateful for my friends, for the Fall, for books and for AA.

Gooooood morning my friends (: As always, I hope everyone had a lovely weekend full of rest, relaxation and whatever makes you happy during the weekend.

I’m not 100% sure how to write this post today without my own anxiety seeping through but I would be remiss if I didn’t say anything at all.

This is a pretty charged week. Today feels like, at least to me, calm before a storm. Tomorrow I’d like to burry my head in the sand and God only knows what the following few days and honestly weeks will look like.

I personally am really scared. And I’m not here to cause a rift in our community. I am here to tell you and remind myself that we do not have to drink.

Many will say that politics are an outside issue, and I hear that. I understand that. But the anxiety and fear and hopelessness one might feel as a result of politics is not an outside issue. That can make you drink.

Please don’t let it. Please pick up the phone and call someone. You don’t have to talk about politics you can talk about how you’re feeling. Please go to a meeting. Please lean on the people you love. Please don’t face it alone.

Please don’t drink or use. I don’t know if I can say that everything will be okay. I believe that our higher powers take care of us all. I believe that if we have each other, we will be okay in one way or another.

Let’s all just try our best to remain calm. If you are someone who is unbothered, please help someone who is. If you are someone who doesn’t care that’s okay, just please be there for the people who do.

No matter what side you’re on please remember that we are all just people, trying to do life sober and please don’t let that get lost. We need each other today and every day.

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Lots of love,

Jane

I’m grateful for a day of adventure and even mischief. I’m grateful for a really busy week. I’m grateful knowing that my best is enough. I’m grateful for a beautiful Fall day. I’m grateful for ease and peace. I’m grateful to be sober today.

LAST WEEK ON TFLMS:

TFLMS Weekend: Where Sobriety Isn’t Just a Consequence…

(last weekend)

I’m grateful it’s November. I’m grateful for a week with a lot of checked boxes. I’m grateful for coffee on a quiet rainy morning. I”m grateful for little adventures and waking up to peace and calm. I’m grateful to be sober today.

Mystery ?? Button

song of the week:

I listen to this song—a lot. When I stroll through the cavernous lobby on my way to the office, wearing my nearly ever-present KC Royals baseball cap and making my way through the hordes of fleece-wearing bankers, I’m not sure folks would suspect that this is what is pumping through the airpods right into my brain. I think they think I’m listening to the Daily or some other respectable podcast. Like this one:

Lots of things happening in November—potentially the end of civilization, my golden birthday, and it’s the month that Bill Wilson got sober—90 years ago. You may ask, “TBD, what’s up with the Bill W. nonsense? Why are you such a fanboy?”

Reading Bill’s Story Helped Me Get Sober.

I read the Big Book with sponsors and as part of Big Book Study Groups (6-8 of us reading the book from cover to cover). These are intensely powerful and I wish they were more often utilized. The reading aloud served a really important purpose, it made my too quickly spinning hamster wheel slow down. It forced me to listen to every word, sometimes multiple times.

A funny thing happened. As I really let those words linger in my head, I began to realize that this was my story, too. I began to see that despite the different contexts and eras, the thought process, the distorted view of myself, the fear and envy, these were all things that I knew very, very well. Bill W. expressed himself differently than I would have, but we had a lot of the same realizations:

I realized the power of alcohol and fell in love at a very early age, just like Bill. Also like Bill, it only took a few years (and no disasters) to realize just how deep the bond ran between me and drinking. In that moment, the thing I realized, but only recently appreciated the significance of, there was no way I could stop on my own. Spoiler alert: This is also the gist of Step One, I just didn’t know it at the time.

I knew nothing of the steps in 1980, or of the Big Book or any of this. I just knew that drinking completed me—at least that’s how it felt. I knew that I could do just about anything when I was drinking. But the moment when the fear-dagger pierced me on that black vinyl booth, was the moment I realized that I lacked the power to stop drinking on my own. Drinking might be the aid I need for living, but alcohol was driving the bus and making the decisions.

Of course, I spent the next 45 years trying to disprove that thesis. The idea I had was that I could stop when the time was right. I kept trying my own efforts at sobriety—100% of which failed in relatively spectacular fashion.My efforts to do it my way, to prove that I could maybe even control my drinking on my own? Well, those cartoonish attempts at sobriety seem like vignettes torn from the Big Book. You know how they say life imitates art? Well, my life imitated the Big Book—which I had not read. I think when that happens, it means you’re definitely an alcoholic.

Over the course of the next several readings of the Big Book, my appreciation for the story grew. I began to appreciate the way he constructed the narrative arc, the way he showed himself rather than telling us about himself. It’s the details that tell you everything you want to know about Bill W.—the person who revolutionized the treatment of addiction and recovery—and he didi it the hard way, by being an alcoholic. Details like:

• Packing his wife in a motorcycle sidecar for a months-long insane business trip

• Living as hobos for at least a month (no hyperbole, what they did in the 1920’s, working on a farm in exchange for room and board, was called being a “Hobo”).

• Chartering planes to complete “drinking jags.” In the 1920’s? Did they charter from the Wright Brothers?

• He tries to serve a drink to his sober friend Eby.

He was a highly-flawed person, who hurt a lot of people during his time—just like all of us alcoholics. He led this crazy, self-delusional life, just like me. He told himself the same lies, made the same excuses, held the same grudges.

The first revelatory thing about Bill’s story is how it establishes the foundation for understanding alcoholism and addiction through the lens of disease. This is a weirdly controversial topic and people express the view that calling addiction a disease robs them of hope and agency. I just always think of it as being a diagnosis, not an insult.

But when you see a group of people, of varying backgrounds and demographic details, showing the same behaviors, making the same flawed decisions, telling the same lies and following the same self-delusions; You begin to see it’s not the consequence of a bunch of bad choices (oh, bad choices there were aplenty), but as symptoms. You know, if you cough and sneeze like the other people cough and sneeze, you might all have the same thing.

Bill’s story seeped in and I made this crucial realization:

Whatever it was that Bill had, I had the same thing. If I had what Bill had, could what worked for him, work for me?

I dove into the Program, did a lot of writing and worked my way through the Steps with my sponsors. I mean, I did a lot of writing. I came to understand how the Program worked, and as I worked through the Steps, I began to see real change. I guess “see” is not the right word.

I began to feel the change.

I felt the fear ebb away. The quiet was no longer excruciating. I let go of things that had never been meant for me, or nor longer were. I let go of a lot of ill-formed (but still mine) hopes and dreams. I read the Big Book every day. I discovered new ways of thinking about things, nearly every time I opened the book. I began to re-discover myself. As I let go of what wasn’t me, what wasn’t mine, I found myself.

Not all at once. But over time, I began to feel the sensation of sinking into myself. Maybe only an alcoholic knows the nearly-intolerable burden of having to invent nearly every moment of every day. I’m very glad for the rest. Watching senseless YouTube vides beats the hell out of the psychotic plate spinning that used to comprise my life.

I began to accept the world around me, instead of trying to make my mark in it. I saw that the real reward was always in the work, the design for living laid out by the Big Book works on a flywheel principle—the more we put into life, the more expansive our own lives become. And I began to see the purpose and the manifest possibilities in every fleeting moment—they prepared me for the next moment.

Once enough of the fear and after-effects of whatever it was that afflicted me had diminished, I finally saw the path in front of me. It was a path marked by kindness and acceptance. Every day I spent on that path was a day spent being true to myself. Some days were good and some were hard. Sometimes it rained, or didn’t at all. Some days I was alone. But every day on that path was filled with learning and wonder.

After years of chasing all kinds of knowledge and fortune and fame, I realized there was a simple key to life and unlocking its full potential took only this:

Treating this moment with gentleness and kindness.

By accepting this moment, for what it is, I approach the next moment unburdened by expectations or disappointments. I arrive in the perfect condition for repeating this action, and accepting the next moment and so on. And soon enough, one has built an entire life (or five years of sobriety) based on gratitude and kindness and acceptance. And probably love and serenity, too.

But where was the stopping drinking part? This is also the other part where my story and Bill’s Story overlap—the alcohol eventually just vanished from life. In the olden days, this was where I called bullshit on the whole story. That doesn’t happen to any real alcoholic. The only thing that really stops us from drinking is death. Well, it’s what happened to that mf’er Bill and I’m here to tell you that it happened to me, too. When I finally accepted myself and found the place in the world meant for me, well, I’m not even sure they serve alcohol there?

And it’s this last little bit that is maybe the hardest. You have to start believing that things can change. The thing that kills alcoholics isn’t the drinking, it’s the loss of hope. The years of my drinking were not halcyon years, they were dark and desperate and the drinking was an effort to conceal a growing conviction that I was irrevocably lost, like a ship crushed by the ice in Antarctica lost. When you lose hope, well, trying doesn’t seem to make much sense anymore.

As long as I maintained my intellectual superiority, as long as I kept up my withering sarcastic commentary, I was safe from feeling and from change. It was when I finally saw that I didn’t have to live this way, that my icy mountain of resolve melted. The Big Book’s design for living requires a commitment to light and willingness. It’ s hard to make the switch. The losses and the pain and the frustration and the grief and the failures become overwhelming, the burden is very, very hard to shoulder.

For me, I worked patiently, waited out a lot of bad days, went to a lot of meetings, but wished at night that this serenity nonsense would just f***** get here. Then one day, I found I had the courage to do things I hadn’t done before. I began to see that things could be different. I began to feel life begin to creep back into me; could feel the possibilities begin to creep back into me. As I found the courage to open up more and more, wondrous things began to happen (some sad ones, too), and I realized from moment to moment to moment, things were okay. Things would be okay. *

I believe that’s called serenity.

That really is the outline of my path in sobriety. I mean, I have 42 notebooks filled with bright, literary conversation, but I think this version is a bit pithier. And we all know that brevity is the soul of wit. That’s why Bill’s Story is so important to me, because I was finally able to see myself in the first sixteen-pages of the Big Book.

And if it worked for a f****ed- up, drunken clown like Bill W, then it could probably work for me, too. And then I share my story and someone says, “If that dipshit got sober, I can too.” That’ s called service and it’s how AA works.

That’s how I got sober.

Happy Friday.

I’m grateful for pushing myself to be of service even though I was feeling a bit off. I’m grateful for recording one of my higher elevation gains during my daily run. I’m grateful for being able to make and keep commitments in sobriety. I’m grateful for knowing what is and is not in my control, and choosing healthy decisions based off of that understanding. I’m grateful for my fellow volunteers sharing delicious snacks while phonebanking – it provided a much-needed mental boost. I’m grateful for the amazing resources easily available these days that help me fill out my ballot in an informed way, especially when it comes to the myriad of props / amendments we have here in Colorado. I’m grateful for the chilly weather letting me layer up to my heart’s delight. I’m grateful for AA providing me the life tools to actively embrace pathways for peace instead of drama and instability.

Before anything I’d like to share with everyone that our latest Breakfast with an Alcoholic episode is now live. TBD, Daniel, and I discuss Bill’s Story in the Big Book, how our relationship with it has changed over time, and end with a lightening round that I objectively crush. Give it a listen if you have a minute!

Earlier this week a fellow shared a beautiful story about a sponsor who passed and how they left her with a message that she returns to often: “Bloom where you are planted“. I’ve never heard the saying before, but I found it immediately moving and relevant.

I tackled the message in two parts. The second part I internalized first “where you are planted”. In doing the Steps and reading the Big Book a key takeaway for me was learning how to accept my reality. Earlier in sobriety I had to constantly remember to not future trip, to not make a mountain out of a molehill, but simply to embrace today’s truth without adding drama or unnecessary embellishments. I held closely to the concept of looking for silver linings and focusing on them as much as possible while getting through the ups and downs of daily living. During my drinking it was super easy to let my mind wander into crazy, negative territory. In a weird way I sort of reveled in it. Bleak memories from years past were just as fresh as the latest embarrassments and they lived rent-free in my head every minute of my existence, completely blocking out other thoughts. When I finally put down the drink and started doing the work in AA, I was able to open my eyes and discern what’s real and what’s fake. Once I got a lay of the land it became a lot easier to sift through new noise coming my way. Separation from the vodka bottle and internalization of AA wisdom let me inhabit my present truth with greater ease. Such new-found clarity primed me for the next part of the saying.

“Bloom” – I love the usage of this word. Synonyms could be “grow”, “mature”, “learn”, “thrive” – great descriptors for what it means to invest in personal serenity and joy. Once I finally figured out what my reality is I could more confidently take the next right action. It could be something small like ensuring I find time every evening regardless of how fatigued I am to write my Daily Gratitude List or something big like moving to Denver. Regardless of what comes from my decision-making, I’d use the consequences from it to grow, to mature, to learn, to thrive on the regular. Basically I find ways these days to bloom whatever my current situation may be. Blooming is also heavily reliant on me sticking to healthy routines, which are sort of the spine of my sobriety. When I do these routines I can stand up straight, observe what options are available, and choose the best way forward.

To summarize “acceptance” and “growth” are the twin takeaways for me here. As a quick aside, I find it poetic how I learnt this from someone else’s sponsor who has passed. To think about how the memory of stranger who I’ll never meet continues to have impact on those still alive is poignant. It’s always nice to take a moment to be reminded of how interconnected we are even if we never meet in the real world. As I move along in my AA journey, I’m excited for the wisdom that is yet to be gained from those who have already trudged the emotionally sober path. If I continue to accept my reality and remain open to learning there is so much healing ahead.

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Welcome to Episode 2 of Breakfast with an Alcoholic, Season Three: A New Beginning? No one has really nailed what this enterprise ought to be called, but that’s ok. In Episode One, we discussed the role of the Big Book in our recovery and assigned some homework, which was to read Chapter One of the Big Book, “Bill’s Story,” all sixteen pages of it:

In this episode, we go through Bill’s Story in more detail, and we find aspects of the story that mirror our own.1

It was finally seeing that Bill’s Story was just like my story that opened the door for me to finally get sober. We discuss all that and more, including a failed coup attempt by the sponsees during the Alcoholic Lightning Round.2 For background, you might want to watch this first:

According to the trusty AI-bot that helps me edit the podcast,

This conversation delves into the profound struggles of alcoholism, the journey towards recovery, and the pivotal moments that lead to transformation. The speakers reflect on personal experiences, the importance of connection, and the role of spirituality in overcoming addiction. They discuss the significance of willingness to change and the design for living that supports sobriety, drawing parallels to the foundational stories of Alcoholics Anonymous.

How can you not already be listening? Also, Daniel and : Were you aware we said all that?

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And here are some take-aways from our conversation (courtesy of my personal alco-bot or drunk-bot?)—although wouldn’t you rather listen?3:

Takeaways

Self-knowledge is not the answer to addiction.

Despair and loneliness can be overwhelming in addiction.

Connection with others can lead to transformative experiences.

The concept of a higher power can be personalized.

Willingness to change is crucial for recovery.

Sobriety is a journey, not a destination.

The importance of sharing experiences in recovery.

Fear can be a temporary motivator for sobriety.4

A design for living can help navigate life’s challenges.

The journey to sobriety often involves setbacks and learning.

Vanilla is a legitimate flavor; not the absence of flavor.5

If you’re looking for a copy of the Big Book, it’s available online and I might also recommend this if you’re not quite sure that you should be reading/listening to this stuff or not:

Pour yourself a cup of coffee and join us.

I am so grateful to be sober today. I’m grateful for a slow weekend, for my parents making it back from Seattle safely, and for a fresh week. I’m grateful for reading with my sponsor yesterday, for time to rest, for coffee and chai and books and the Fall weather. I’m grateful for the holidays coming up, for opportunities to change and learn and grow.

Gooooodd morning my friends (: As per always, I hope everyone had a lovely weekend and that we’re all feeling ready for the week ahead (anyone want to petition for 4-day work weeks?)!

I believe I mentioned last week or maybe a few weeks ago that I’m reading through the 12 & 12 with my sponsor – a nice little regroup on the steps. Well, as a part of step one she asked me why I’m still in AA today.

The easy answer is because I have to be right? I’m in AA today because it keeps me sober, and I don’t want to drink. I also mentioned a few weeks ago that it feels like I’ve lost the AA spark I had when I first got sober. And that is true. But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped needing or wanting AA.

Spark or not I love the program. I love that meetings make me feel better, that I’ve met my most favorite people in AA. I love AA even when I hate AA. I love how you can hear something that changes you at any time in any kind of meeting. I love that AA helps me become a better person. I love that AA will never leave me, it’s always there no matter where or how far I go.

I love that AA is flexible. That you can make your program your own. I love that AA has no leader. I love that we all speak the same language, that we’ve all struggled and survived or are surviving or need help and there is always someone there to help you. I love AA even when I don’t love myself.

I am currently navigating a space where I’ve gone a little agnostic, I can’t see or feel a Higher Power anywhere. But I can see and feel AA. And I have lots of homework to do for step two. But that’s another reason why I love AA, because it encourages you to constantly grow.

A close friend of mine was talking to me not long ago about the matches we need to light to create a fire that catches (this is a figurative fire for clarity) and I’ve thought a lot about that since she said that. About finding new ways to light even bigger fires inside of me than the one I first had when I got sober. And maybe this is a match catching or just a particularity optimistic day but it’s nice to remember just how much I really do love AA.

A very long-winded way of sharing gratitude don’t yah think (;

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Xx

Jane

I’m grateful for a super busy day and feeling engaged. I’m grateful for a hockey game. I’m grateful for long walks on Fall days. I’m grateful for small gestures and letting things percolate. I’m grateful to be sober today.

LAST WEEK ON TFLMS:

song of the week:

[Friday]

TFLMS Weekend: Where Sobriety Isn’t Just a Consequence…

(last weekend)

I’m grateful for an inky black morning. I’m grateful for seeing what is. I’m grateful for coffee outings and strategery in the park. I’m grateful to be sober today.

Mystery ?? Button

song of the week:

Here’s the setting: It was earlier this week and I was on a mission near Bryant Park. The mission: Get some walking and thinking done, while simultaneously searching for the proper cookie and coffee combination. I will tell you, for a city that likes to boast about having literally everything available, finding a place that has both good coffee and good cookies—-well, you have your unicorns and I have mine.

This mission thus requires conducting transactions in two separate retail establishments and I come to grips with the reality that I may face the thing that could literally be the end of all of us: The way coffee ordering is done. I feel like you can probably guess how I drink my coffee, and when I have a fancy drink, it’s a skim cortado. That’s it. Someone wrote recently that there are like 5 billion potential combinations on the Starbucks menu and that the endless choices are slowly strangling Starbucks—driving up service times and expenses at the same time.

Anyway, not even close to our point. I’m also having to navigate the herds of tourists that are omnipresent. Do I greatly fear the opening of the ice rink at Bryant Park? Yes, I do. I have the music blasting like always and weaving in and out of the slow-moving and phone-staring crowds, O.J.-style.1 I may have been getting annoyed, and then the Great Spirit that Inhabits Spotify recommends this gem. And now I’ve been listening to this all week.

The super-funky intro is sneaky, it doesn’t sound that much like a Stevie Wonder song at first. The words are kind of garbled—audio production in 1972 wasn’t so great—but here’s the gist of it. This guy has this girlfriend and he would really like to see her and then he calls and she doesn’t answer and then he stews about it for a while and feels worse and then he gets this realization, this shot of reality, delivered by one of the back-up singers, and it’s deadly:

Maybe your baby done made some other plans.

I know that feeling, you know that feeling. The moment when you realize that you’ve been ignoring what’s been in front of you for a while. You’ve constructed an alternate reality from the the scattered clues, told yourself a story about what all of those slightly-troubling things really added up to. Not allowing yourself to believe the thing that is true, while convincing yourself that this other lie is the truth.

It’s always some small detail that triggers the collapse of the carefully constructed artifice of self-deception; the way a tiny hole can collapse a dam. There’s that icy-cold feeling in the stomach, the tightening of the throat, the acceleration of the heartbeat, you suddenly know exactly what’s up. That’s this moment, in this song:

Maybe your baby done made some other plans.

I heard that, and while it is not applicable to my current day-to-day, I felt it like it was happening to me. I love the fact that the bad news is delivered by the back-up singers. It made me think about Homeric Sirens, sweet songs luring sailors to their death, but this wasn’t really a sweet song. This is kind of a snarky, semi-cruel song, and then I realized, I like it because it’s very much like the voice in my head.

I’m assuming we all have that, right? That voice that runs in the background, commenting on the goings-on of the day, wondering about stuff, day dreaming even. Or, if it’s like mine, there’s also a lot of judging, criticizing, reminding of lost opportunities and other catastrophes, remonstrances about work habits and personal life. When I make references to the hamster wheel, that’s actually a benign description—the real one in my head has horrible screeching voices attached a lot of the time—like the fierce Bene Gesserit whispering in Dune.

Ok, that might be a touch over-dramatic, but you get the idea. I’ve had that voice with me for a long, long time. When we moved over and over when I was a kid and I didn’t have friends, the voice told me that it was because I was nerdy and awkward. The voice told me I didn’t work hard enough, that my dreams and aspirations were ridiculous. The voice asked me who was I to think I could be entitled to much of anything? The voice suggested there was comeuppance in the future and when it came to pass, it would be only me who could be blamed.

The voice was pretty merciless and mocking, it seemed to relish pointing out the consequences of my many flaws. The mistake I did make, that did have long-lasting consequences was that I assumed that voice was me.

During the many, many years of my recovery, I started to realize there were other voices in there, too. When I delivered the Des Moines Register in the mid-1970s, the voice that accompanied my 5:30am jaunt through the neighborhood was cheerful and funny and tried to imagine what was going on in the darkened houses we passed, hoping the collies would be out in the yard of the house at the corner of Highland and Koser, wondering about the future, what I could be, what I could do, how I might live. That was a friendly, sweet and authentic voice.

The other voice, the mean one, liked to point out how ridiculous that all was and how much ridicule I would be subjected to if I let that kind of nonsense come out of my mouth in a way that others might hear. Then I would know exactly what kind of outcast and loser I really was. I don’t know where this came from, I do know that I kind of recognized the duality inside for a long time, without realizing the absurdity of it, or the cost of it.

I know I’m not the only one who struggles with this. It gets talked about all the time at meetings, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just confined to alcoholics. For the record, I started noticing the malevolent voice long before I began to drink. But is that malevolent voice connected to my drinking? Ummmmm yes?

Of course it is. That was sarcastic. And speaking of sarcastic, the next episode of Breakfast with an Alcoholic is close at hand and simply requires just a bit more editing. This means you should do two things immediately in preparation:

and then:

Just trust me on this. When you’re listening to Episode 2, you’ll get to this spot and you’ll realize just how clever this all is. Or ridiculous. Here’s the problem: Sometimes the mean voice is correct. That gives the mean voice more power, more authority. For me, the mean voice was also always the “should” voice, and it was also the voice that fueled my sense of wrong, that I deserved more, was entitled to more. If this voice was a person, I would definitely not want to hang out with them.

And that’s kind of the answer, I stopped hanging out with that guy. When he showed up in my head I watched him and what he said and thought and then tried to understand where that came from. It didn’t take too much time examining my thoughts to begin to see that this voice spoke largely out of fear. The most significant of those fears was that I was failing to find my proper place in the world, that I was overlooked and lost.

At the bottom, it was the common fear of being lost, of being an imposter, of failing, of being ridiculed and humiliated. None of those are unique or original feelings, the difference for me was the level to which I allowed those feelings to drive my actions, my life and my view of myself.

I write a lot about the element of rediscovery involved in recovery; for me, it was really a process of finding myself, recovering the version of myself that had been lost. When I think back, the process of getting sober is a little like the opening scene of The Terminator, when Arnold arrives naked in the parking lot. I felt stripped bare, everything had finally been exposed. I’m not sure if I can describe the next part of my recovery as being comparable to Arnold going into the bar, kicking some ass and stealing clothes and a motorcycle. But sort of like that.

The point is, the moment the Terminator is kneeling and naked in that parking lot is also the moment of re-discovery and re-invention. It’s the moment his life of purpose and service begins (he does proceed to save mankind and then selflessly give his own machine life to secure that future). An important part of that re-invention and re-discovery is the integration of the voices. The fact is that all of my voices come from different parts of me, different sets of experiences at different times and different situations. But they’re me.

I had to push all of the voices together and put them into this closet-type space to accommodate a much bigger and more important thought. There could be no serenity in my life until I accepted that every person, place, thing or situation was “exactly the way it [was] supposed to be at this moment.” (Big Book, p. 417).

My voices may quarrel a bit, but they mostly get along. They fortunately share the same sense of humor and have similar tastes in music. The bad voice is not bad per se, they just bought into a worldview that brings pain, heartache and chaos. The bad voice believed in a world where I was missing out, where I was being left behind, not being valued or respected or appreciated. The bad voice drove my resentments, made me distrust other people, made me angry at them and at me.

The bad voice didn’t realize that I was right where I was supposed to be. All along. It took an awful lot for me to see that simple fact: I’m placed where I’m supposed to be. I have no idea about the “why” part—that’s why one lives one’s life from day to day, why they play the games, as the saying goes. To see what happens next, and then accept that glorious moment and then the next one after that.

IRL, I get kidded for these beliefs I express on Friday mornings, they are a bit rosy-eyed and gee whizzy sometimes. Except I think they are all completely f****** true. The people and things that are meant for me, can’t be avoided; that every day is an opportunity for gratitude and learning and growth; that life presents challenges that all have the same answer (it’s love); and that the things that are supposed to happen, generally do happen.

I’ve been sober for five years believing those things. Even the bad voice has nothing to say about that.

Happy Friday.

I’m grateful for the new effort tracker on my watch hitting the “Hard” level again after I changed up my running route. I’m grateful for feeling instantly uplifted when I saw the snow-capped mountains during my walk in the park. I’m grateful for writing having become a meditative practice for me – particularly when I observe how my mind works as it tries to capture the right words to authentically express nebulous emotions. I’m grateful when the gifts received from deep reflection inform how I tackle current issues. I’m grateful for the excitement I feel before another road trip. I’m grateful when our dog gets to join us on adventures instead of being boarded. I’m grateful to be better at taking positive, productive, HP-inspired action nowadays rather than picking up a drink when confronted with anxiety or fear. I’m grateful for a hopeful phone banking experience and being inspired by my fellow volunteers. I’m grateful for the ability to get out of self and find ways to be of service to my community.

I have a handful of well-made, cashmere pullover sweaters that have been in my possession since my mid-20s, which is now nearly 15 years ago. While they are slightly baggy on me, they are soft to the touch and provide solid warmth during the winter. Despite being inanimate pieces they do hold personal significance. I bought them during a happy period in my life when things were on the up and up. A promising career was taking me from NYC to SF. I was in my first serious relationship with boundless possibilities. I got my first dog. I got my first car. Some significant growing up was happening and these sweaters “saw” me through it all.

During my early 30s when my alcoholism was swerving into chaos, I would frequently wear them because they covered up whatever tattered, unkempt shirt I had underneath. Given their delicate construction I was supposed to only sporadically dry clean them. Being a wholly irresponsible drunk who spent every cent I had on buying vodka, I would carelessly dump these high-quality garments with my regular wash. Since my pores always oozed alcohol back then my clothes would naturally absorb that odor, which resulted in trying to remove the smell by doing laundry way too often. After a few years of abuse my cherished sweaters developed several holes and some pretty unbecoming stains. Did this stop me from wearing them everywhere? Nope.

Last week I made a pretty small, but meaningful move. As winter approaches, I wanted to wear these sweaters again. I don’t have much warm clothing to begin with and I think they still look kinda good on me. Because I don’t drink anymore, I can readily reach obvious conclusions like “Before wearing clothes publicly you must patch up the gaping holes and get them dry cleaned”. Not only do I have the mental capacity to carry out such basic adult activities, but I also have the funds that permit me to properly take care of myself.

A huge gift from AA has been regaining my dignity. I care about how I look. I care about the words I speak. I care about how I interact with the world. Something as simple as attending to my sweaters may sound trivial, but when I picked them up from the laundromat yesterday looking all nice and new I felt a tinge of pride. It was tangible validation around how I no longer treat myself poorly. Taking care of the minute tasks with relative ease these days gives me the space to tackle other, more complex life projects. When I complete those larger projects I can continue evolving in bigger and better ways. While the process of returning to sanity from the throes of addiction has been fairly incremental, I’m glad when I take opportunities to appreciate how far I’ve come. Especially when it’s reflected in noticing the smaller details like mending my beloved sweaters.

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