I’m grateful for getting to hold my grandson for the first time. I’m grateful for those big inquisitive eyes. I’m grateful for little feet and tiny hands. I’m grateful for the way he stretches and then snuggles back in. I’m grateful for two very new and very excellent parents. I’m grateful to be sober today.
(last weekend)
I’m grateful for an incredibly eventful week. I’m grateful for a dark, gray morning and really good coffee. I’m grateful for a chance to meet a certain grandson later today. I’m grateful for the beauty that unfolds in front of me. I’m grateful I found the way back. I’m grateful to be sober today.
song of the week:
This is so far out of character. Of course, there’s a story. This story began (for me) on Father’s Day in June. My daughter, K., and her husband, S., were here in New York City and we were meeting for brunch. I arrived at the swanky location K had selected and when I was seated, she pushed a card across the table and said, “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”
Now right there, I’m going to pause and explain why I regard the simple utterance of those words as a plenty sufficient miracle. You see, in all of those years of drinking, I managed to destroy the family she grew up with and loved, I managed to lie to her in incredibly shameful ways. She hung in there, even when she was really angry, she kept trying to help. At one point, she even arranged for me to try a new IOP, went with me to the intake, drove me to the sessions. Of course, I would skip out on those sessions and go drink for the next two hours until she came and picked me up and then I would tell her how great the session had been and how many meaningful insights I had gleaned. This was definitely helping me get sober.
That didn’t go over great. Things got worse, more chaotic from there. She gamely kept trying to show up in my life, but you could see the fatigue. I moved to New York on the heels of the latest relationship disaster and she’d had enough. She was in New York visiting friends and came to see me and the new apartment. I got the talk wherein I was informed that while she very much appreciated everything I had done for her throughout her life, and while she still loved me, she now got to choose who was in her life and she just didn’t want to deal with my nonsense anymore. She didn’t believe I would stay sober. She was very suspicious about my motives in moving to New York. She’d finally had enough.1
I’ve written a lot about my fantastic and loving children and the journey back to them. Since this one is mostly about K., I think it’s only fair to mention my son:
Anyway, it’s Father’s Day 2024 and I open the card and immediately think there’s been a mistake, that she’s given me the card she meant for my Dad, her grandfather. I was very confused, because the card said:
My head was kind of swimming, things seemed off-kilter and then this fell out of the card:
Suddenly, I got it. I looked across the table at K., she was already crying and just nodded her head, “yes.” About a millisecond later, I was crying, too. Of course, there was nothing sad, it was just pure, overwhelming joy and happiness. There was no thought, no processing, no thinking, no considering—I was just immediately and completely suffused with happiness and love—like a big wave knocking me over at the beach.
Things progressed and soon it came time for her to deliver. They went to the hospital on Monday and I spent a pretty sleepless night looking at my phone every 16 or 17 minutes. S. texted me when it was time to push and I just paced around the apartment for the next hour or so. Finally, the notification for the grandparents’ group text chimed and there was a photo of my beautiful, strong daughter looking like she had just fought a battle, but she’s got about the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and is holding the most precious, 2 minute-old baby boy.
I started crying right away and, to be honest, I still kind of am. I can’t really describe the swirl of powerful emotions, except that I guess this is what unbridled joy feels like. So, anyway, the song of the week!
It’s the summer of 1991, I was a 28 year-old young lawyer about to become a father. Someone had given us this “For the Children” cassette tape. It was a Disney benefit for pediatric AIDS and featured lots of famous people singing children’s songs. We weren’t parents yet, but we had started listening to the music already. Late on an August night, K. made her way into the world and arrived via C-section, I was in the room and the moment she emerged is one I will never, ever, ever forget. Her eyes were wide-open and so alert. It was like she was taking in everything at 3 minutes old. We locked eyes and it was the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt.
Bringing a new baby home is such an amazing event—and completely terrifying. Like all new parents there is the sudden realization that you are in charge and that taking care of the squalling 8 lbs is maybe not something you’re completely prepared to do. But you do it. There wasn’t much in the way of paternity leave back then, so I was working pretty quickly again. One of those first mornings I walked out of our house, started the car and someone had been playing this tape and I heard this song.
“Getting to Know You,” was originally from the Rogers & Hammerstein show, “The King and I.” And if you’d like to know the truth, having Julie Andrews sing, “You are precisely my cup of tea” to me would be a high point of my life. It’s not a romantic falling in love song, it’s about the incredibly special process of getting to build a relationship with a child.
Getting to know you, Getting to know all about you, Getting to like you, Getting to hope you like me
I loved being a dad. I loved doing everything with my kids. I’ve seen “The Little Mermaid,” and “Aladdin,” and “Beauty and the Beast,” thousands of times. I’ve coached a wide variety of youth sports teams. I cheerfully attended practices, concerts, plays, recitals and a literal shit-ton of school events. I loved reading to them at night. I loved playing the imaginary restaurant game where I would provoke the four year-old proprietress to frustration by continuing to order “weasel cakes,” when I had been advised 5 times now that not only did the restaurant not serve weasel cakes, the proprietress was not even sure there was such a thing as “weasels.”2
You could look at my actions, my conduct, my drinking, as representing a conscious decision to throw all of that away. That’s why it’s so hard to understand us alcoholics and addicts, why it’s so hard to get over the things we do. One of the many things that alcohol enables is compartmentalization. When I was drinking, I was excused from drawing connections between the different parts of my life. What happened with the kids was entirely distinct from the rest of my life. The drinking helped convince me that this was true—that what I did in the rest of my life didn’t really have anything to do with the kids. I loved them obviously, so what’s the problem?
At 28, I was drinking secretly almost every day. I was both building a family and a secret life at the same time. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to rid me of the terrible knowledge that all of this was going to come crashing down one day. But, I could drink enough to forget for one day, for today. I’d listen to this song in my car on the way to the office, think about the tiny, sweet baby at home and let the tears flow down my face.
I loved her so much. It’s a kind of love that is wholly different than anything else I’d felt in my entire life. It’s completely consuming and a little terrifying, too. When the dark thoughts would creep in, what if something happened to her? That was too much to even think about. More tears for sure. I was completely in love with that little baby at home: The way her eyes already danced, the smiles she already beamed, the way she loved to be held and snuggled. There was so much joy and happiness,
Little RH was born on Tuesday morning and he’s a bundle of sweetness and cuteness for sure:
I’m going to be honest here. There have been moments over the last several months when I’ve been a little less enthusiastic about assuming the grandfather mantle. I think mostly out of vanity, not wanting to recognize that yes, I am old enough to have a grandchild.3
I’m quite good at proving that over and over again. But don’t worry, I’m not going to f*** this up. I’m all in. All week, every time I look at one of the pictures, I burst into tears. I imagine how mind-blowing and how fantastic it’s going to be to hold him for the first time. How amazing it is that my little daughter, the one who didn’t believe in weasels, is a mom now. That’s a beautiful, beautiful thing all by itself. I’ve been alarming people on the subway all week, because while clinging to the pole and staring absently at the ads, I suddenly break out into maniacal Jack Nicholson-type smiles. Insane, huge, idiot-sized grins.
I’m imagining holding that little boy in my arms. I’m imagining all the things I’m going to do with him, the places I’m going to take him, the things I’m going to teach him, the things I’m going to read him. But mostly, I’m imagining how much I’m going to love him.
Birth represents another renewal in the great cycle the universe spins for us. It’s a chance to find that there’s even more love inside me than I had previously thought. It’s a chance to mend even more fences with my daughter. It’s a chance to be part of a family that I thought I had ruined. It’s a chance to fall deeply, deeply in love again.
The gratitude lists kind of write themselves these days. I’m getting on a train later today and headed to Boston. I barely slept last night, I’m so excited. I’m like the kids waiting at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning. There’s a part of the song of the week that still makes me cry just about every f***ing time I hear it:4
I’ve got a train to catch.
It’s a very happy Friday.
I’d had a similar conversation with my son a few months prior.
You should have seen her eyes when I showed her the display case at the Museum of Natural History with the like 75 species of weasel found in North America. Ha.
My son has derisively referred to me as “gramps,” or “pops” for nearly 20 years now, so it’s partly his fault.
The language is going to be an issue for sure.
I’m grateful for booking a trip back to NYC next month to visit family. I’m grateful to be in a mental headspace where returning home isn’t a trigger to upend things, but rather an opportunity to make peace. I’m grateful for a joyful anniversary meeting where folks with varying years shared honestly about their recovery journeys. I’m grateful for listening to my body and instead of pushing myself to run like the addict I tend to be, I took a rest day to heal and (hopefully) regain my strength for tomorrow. I’m grateful for preventive medication that is easily available nowadays and works real miracles. I’m grateful for an event I was hoping would come to fruition not happening because it shifted me to accept, let go, and take stock of what truly matters. I’m grateful for watching a TV show that reminded me of the privileges I have as a gay man in this country and knowing I should use that privilege to empower me to be the most authentic version of myself. I’m grateful for becoming better at being vulnerable and asking for help rather than playing the self-limiting lone wolf card. I’m grateful for a long, rich conversation with my cousin about how to share some life news with my parents and getting solid advice from her on how to meet them with empathy, kindness, and love. I’m grateful for and proud of the life I’ve built in sobriety.
This past week I turned 40. Investigating my feelings around hitting this milestone have been revealing. Mostly positive, but there is always stuff to ruminate on that is a little harder to address. To start off I’ll say even going through the exercise of quiet reflection on the past ten years is never something I’d do during my drinking days. It was the much too familiar search for external validation to confirm how I should think about myself. Of course when the right form of validation failed to happen in the fashion I wanted, the maladaptive next solution was drinking till I blacked out. Should I consider even for a second the repercussions of my behavior? Perhaps research whether what my gut was telling is healthy? Nope.
My early 30s is when my drinking problem began ramping up. I recently glanced at pictures from January 2015 on my phone. It was rough. I can see my face hollowing out, my eyes constantly glassy. Knowing what’s soon to come over the next few years makes me scared and sad. I still had enough of the outside accomplishments in place right at 30 so people weren’t too suspicious. Shortly thereafter though I would radically devolve. Losing relationships left and right, becoming virtually unemployable, and engaging regularly in risky behaviors. Life was devoid of peace.
But I don’t have to drink today or wallow in self-pity while recollecting what has already happened. As I enter a new decade, my life is complex, like most people on this planet, but ultimately quite rewarding. I have a design for living in the form of the 12 Steps that I can rely on to keep me centered when things go right, when things go wrong, and for everything in between. Sure, I have the tinge of regret in the back of my head wishing I hadn’t thrown away the multitude of blessings bestowed on me by prioritizing drinking. However, I am learning ways to transform that sadness and regret into wisdom, service, and acceptance of the bad for if it all hadn’t happen then I wouldn’t have what I have now.
I wasn’t equipped to handle the variety of riches I was given at 30. I didn’t have the life skills to interact with the world in ways that protected my mental health. For whatever reasons I needed to withstand more tumult before I could figure out a sustainable existence. There’s a straightforward AA phrase I often repeat to myself: “time takes time”. I like it because it reminds me to practice patience, a concept I forget easily. I needed time in my addictions to gather more evidence on how not to exist. In recovery I feel I can regularly lean on that past evidence to fuel my passion for keeping me away from a drink and to stay curious around expanding my emotional sobriety.
Recovery will definitely take time. Hopefully it’ll take the rest of my life. Overnight my vices, my regrets, my traumas will not subside. It will be a process. I just need to stay disciplined around investing in the process. When I get bored or complacent at certain junctures then I should spice things up. It may involve going to new meetings, searching for sponsees, picking up another healthy routine, finding opportunities to be of service to my fellow humans, etc. I am just beyond relieved that I got the chance to turn things around. I could have very easily died or inflicted some even more serious damage given my inebriated antics. Somehow I was spared. I was given an olive branch by the Universe to do better. While I still momentarily forget to do that, I feel my general trend line for achieving good is following the correct, upward direction. Getting to 40 and knowing I can find ways to live serenely if I stay sober are tremendously rewarding personal achievements.
Last week my partner and I went on a mini road trip for my birthday. One of the places we visited was the Grand Canyon, which I hadn’t been to since I was 11 or 12 years old. While driving there I thought about that memorable vacation in my youth where we’d gone with some extended family. During it I was introduced by my cousin to one of my favorite ’90s bands, The Cranberries, and my favorite song of theirs, Dreams (funnily enough it was through the Mission Impossible soundtrack). Growing up in a strict, traditionalist immigrant household I wasn’t allowed to listen to Western music so hearing this song, this band, was a revelatory experience as a child. Last week as we entered the park I thought to myself how much life has changed since that trip. I am such a different person. I have gone through a wealth of crazy experiences. Yet there are constants. My love for Dreams continues. The epic natural vista before me has barely changed and will probably not in my lifetime. These thoughts about time’s passage swirled around in my head. Trying to grasp how life can simultaneously go by so quickly and so slowly was trippy. If I ever visit the Grand Canyon again in the future, what else will have changed? What will be the same?
Having these existential thoughts was humbling. I can never pretend to fathom how the world works in the ways that it does. What I can do though is focus on my daily actions. I can bring it back to the minute details of my existence. I can utilize the short time I have on this Earth relatively speaking to keep engaging in productive activities that permit me to learn, to grow, and to be of service. Dwelling on resentments, petty power plays, and other self-destructive matters only ensures life passes by quickly. Daily peace for me will come through daily work in this Program. Thank you AA for helping me not only reach four decades of life, but also willingly inhabit a space of reflection and revelation.
I am so grateful to be sober today. I’m grateful that Ori is continuing to get better and better. I’m grateful for my family, for Tim, for starting my new job today, for service and for AA. I’m grateful for coffee, for cleaning and putting the living room back together, for celebrating at the anniversary meeting last night, for rest, for heat, and for a sober life.
Gooood morning my friends. Hope everyone had a lovely weekend (:
I’m coming at yah technically on Sunday night because tomorrow (today) is a busy day. I’m starting a new job today — that was the secret scary thing I couldn’t tell you about a few weeks back I was interviewing for a new job.
So here comes the word vomit – yes a few weeks ago I was so nervous about the interview. Looking back at it I hadn’t been happy at my old job since July and so over the holiday break I really hit the ground running with applying for jobs. I got an interview, the same day I had a second interview. That Wednesday I had a job offer, Thursday I accepted and Friday I resigned from my now, old job.
Then that Monday my dog got attacked, Tuesday he had life saving surgery, Saturday we got to take him home, today I have my last rabies shot, my boy gets better every single day but I feel like Rapunzel locked in her tower.
How am I ever going to walk him by myself again? How am I going to keep him safe? I wish I could just say ‘we’re never going to the dog park again’ but this happened in our building where we come in and out of everyday. I am terrified of leaving, I will not get back into the elevator. I am so scared of him getting better and then this happening again.
I am nervous to start this job. What if I’m not good enough? Will I succeed? Will I be happy? Will I get to spend more time with my pup who I am now afraid to walk?
And most importantly, my biggest ask to God is to just keep helping my boy survive. Keep him fighting. But I am so overwhelmed in my head by SO MUCH that is out of my control right now.
This month has flown by and has been really hard. In the middle of it I picked up a sponsee who I got to meet in person for the first time on Sunday and that was wonderful. While all of this was happening, God presented me with so many opportunities to be of service and I took every single one. A part of me still struggles with the idea of a punishing God so I think I was afraid that if I didn’t take them, God would take my dog away.
But I know that’s not how God works and I really really really had to force myself to NOT think like that while things were bad. God gave me all of these opportunities because nothing distracts you more than helping someone else navigate sobriety.
So I don’t even know what I’m trying to say today. That I am overwhelmed. I am scared. I am grateful. I am sober. I am excited. I am nervous. All at the same time I am all of these things.
If this has taught me anything it’s that so many things are just so trivial. My boy is ALIVE. Tim and I are SOBER. We had so much help and people who cared and showed up and helped and loved and prayed. My relationship with God changed. My relationship with myself is changing.
The fact that we are all okay and we are sober (the dog is on a shit ton of drugs he’s definitely not sober but he’s definitely one of us now) and that we have so many people who love us and we love back is truly the most important thing.
So, thanks for listening to me today. It’s not going to be 100% better anytime soon – I don’t know what 100% better even looks like right now. But I know that I am so grateful for each and every one of you.
xx
Jane
I’m grateful for a day to myself. I’m grateful for a cloudy morning and a fire in the fireplace. I’m grateful for chances and opportunities. I’m grateful for work I love and a chance to do a lot of it. I’m grateful for what’s ahead. I’m grateful to be sober today.
(last weekend)
I’m grateful for a really, really busy week. I’m grateful for feeling like things are catching on. I’m grateful for quiet nights, people who make me laugh and the people I love. I’m grateful for an imminent grandson. I’m grateful to be sober today.
song of the week:
This week’s choice shines a light on the basic philosophy behind the selection of the song of the week. One could look at the song of the week as a creative springboard of sorts, the carefully selected song yielding all sorts of reflection and reminiscing and then some kind of catchy conclusion is reached that somehow relates back to the song of the week. Oh, and it’s also sort of about recovery.
Or, it’s just a song I really like listening to and I very much would like to make you listen to it. Among the many hats I’ve worn semi-professionally was dj. I not only had a gig on the actual campus radio station but my partner Rob Sinclair (his radio name, not his real name). Yes, we also had radio names. I was known as Wilson St. Croix, sometimes that would be accompanied by the tag line,
We were silly and maybe high a lot of the time. The professional part of the gig was comprised of the value of the albums I would borrow on a long-term basis and then also the $20-$50 we would be paid to dj various dormitory basement mixers. I had mysteriously been promoted to “Music Director” of the station, which meant that I was responsible for putting together the playlists each week. It also meant that I had access to all of the new albums that came into the station. I had a good feel for the albums that listeners and the other DJs wouldn’t really like, and these were mostly the albums that I then borrowed, again, on a long-term basis.
But then, those semi-purloined albums would form the basis of the playlists for our dorm floor soirees—where we very much wanted to demonstrate how cool our musical tastes were. Except the issue with this is at every party, after about 20-30 minutes of our super cool, very trendy, new wave playlist, a couple of football players would come over to our table and request that we play “Celebrate” by Kool and the Gang or the “Apache Rap,” even if it was for the 4th time, because, “that’s what the girls like to dance to.”
I feel like I am still engaged in the same endeavor, trying to force people to like the music that I like. I do think I have excellent taste, but that’s just me. This particular song came out in 1984, when I was finishing college and heading to law school and I always thought it was pretty groovy. To be honest, the idea of a girl capturing me like a wild butterfly, even if it meant a life of captivity in a jar with jagged holes punched in the metal lid, sounded pretty good. Maybe that’s even what happened.1
And also, about the “wild butterfly” thing, that is most definitely not an effort to trick you into reading this:
Anyway, enough about the song of the week. In the alternate universe, where I selected option A as the song of the week, and the next 2000 words were filled with meaning, beauty and purpose, we would be talking about this song:
If I had a nickel for every time a well-meaning and somewhat bitter ex-girlfriend eventually sent me this song, well, I probably wouldn’t have enough to trade for a quarter. However, this song is frequently applied to alcoholics and other hard cases—often in therapeutic settings and I kind of hated it for that reason.
I was at my first IOP—Intensive Outpatient Program—where I spent most of my evenings for about 60-days, subject to random testing and taking Antabuse for good measure. There were different sessions on different nights, there was the “Feelings Lady” on Tuesday nights who taught us emotional management techniques, there were small group sessions and often at the end of the evening, we’d divide by gender for discussions about the issues facing men—I was in the men’s group, so that’s what I know. I have no idea what the women talked about—maybe the same thing.
Anyway, there were 8 or 9 of us in the men’s group one night and the counselor who led the session brought in a bluetooth speaker and I knew there was going to be trouble. There was a brief powerpoint presentation about the role of music in recovery and then while she connected her phone to the speaker, she “invited” us to stand up. I knew I was going to hate what came next.
Yeah, she asked us to close our eyes and just listen to the song and, of course, it was “Desperado.” As we listened to the litany of imminent regrets in the self-imposed darkness, I wished I was just about anywhere else and top of the anywhere else list was a certain friendly tavern near the corner of 14th and P Street, N.W.
Then she invited us to “move, if you feel like it.” Ok, this is not really a very danceable song, unless it’s a junior high dance and it’s slow dancing with one of the “Sarahs.”2 But of course, having been to invited to stand, it’s a group of alcoholic guys standing super awkwardly in a circle. It’s the worst dance party you can imagine. And, of course, as the list of regrets and imminent desolation piles up, one of my alcoholic brothers starts to sniffle and then someone’s crying.3 I uttered an alcoholic prayer:
Fast forward a few drunken years and I’m at sleepaway rehab. A group of 40 or 50 guys are gathered in one of the big meeting rooms, we’re sitting in a circle of chairs and we’re given sheets of paper and sharpies. One of the counselors begins pairing his phone and you know trouble is afoot. The usual suspects on the Rehab Playlist like REM and some other sad songs. We’re invited to write some of the consequences of our addiction on the sheets of paper and then we’re supposed to throw the sheets of paper into the middle of the circle. The counselors retrieved the sheets of paper as they landed and read them out loud to the group.
It was the usual litany of consequences for alcoholics and addicts. Lots of 45-50 year old guys with ruined relationships and estranged kids. Lots of DUIs and drug arrests at airport security checkpoints. Lots of really inappropriate relationships and then this:
That stopped the whole thing in its tracks and it really felt like all of the air left the room. The counselor who read the sheet of paper looked to identify the author and it was my friend, “Red.” Red was a courtly gentleman in his 70s, who had a nearly intractable drinking problem. His life, at this point, consisted of shuttling between all of the high end rehabs, punctuated by outbursts of coke and drinking. He was doing 6 months in rehab at this point, and then he’d go and relapse and then spend the next 6 months at Betty Ford or Hazelden or the Ocean Drive outpost of our rehab.
I had gotten to know Red because he lived in our house and I’ve written about him before:
Anyway, I had always wondered about Red. He had a lot of money and he had basically concluded that he could never live independently and never had—he literally lived in rehabs. I wondered how his life had gone off the rails and now I was about to hear why. He briefly shared the story in his very soft Kentucky drawl:
I was 15 and drinking with my best friend and we were messing around with his Dad’s car and then I ran him over and killed him.
Like I said all of the oxygen immediately exited the room and everyone just sort of stared at Red. The counselors didn’t know what to say and so we all just sat there in this stunned, heartbreaking sadness. Red just sat very straight in his chair and stared intently at nothing. Then the counselor in charge of the music played “Desperado,” and I think everyone simultaneously found themselves transported to a really dark place—the place where you have to confront what happened and what might have been.
Yes, you could look at my life and say that maybe I drew the Queen of Diamonds a few too many times and there certainly had been some very fine things laid upon my table. It also seemed very, very true that I really only wanted the things I couldn’t get. I really hated when I had to listen to this song, mostly because all of the lines were too f***ing true.
At the end of the song, we were dismissed and it was time for lunch. We walked in silence, all of us, to the cafeteria and got our food. There was no chit-chat, no talk, no bitching about the smoking gazebo edicts or the lineup of nightly speakers, everyone was spending time in the prison they had been walking around in for the last however many years. There were lots of wet eyes and sad, resigned shoulder slumping. Me among them. Facing that list of regrets, the things we lost, the things we did, the people we hurt, the ways we hurt them, the things that could have been, the things that were but could never be again.
I had an individual session with my counselor after lunch and when I recounted the whole terrible spectacle, the raw emotion and grief that emerged, he looked at me over his glasses and said,
He was right. That’s what the Big Book teaches, too. Bill writes of emerging from treatment, full of high hopes and self-knowledge. Yet, soon enough, he’s back to ruining his life and realizing that self-knowledge, including knowledge of the consequences of his drinking, is not enough to produce sobriety.
At some level, that makes a lot of sense. All of those consequences already happened and there’s nothing that can undo them. Drinking turns out to be an effective strategy for not having pesky thoughts like that. In a funny way, it’s possible that focusing on the consequences increased my desire, my need to drink.
In economic/financial terms, those consequences are sunk costs, and making them the the foundation of one’s sobriety seems like signing up for an installment debt repayment plan that will never end. Like if Sisyphus had to pay all of his credit card debt instead of pushing a rock up a hill. That’s why the focus of sobriety, in the opinion of this alcoholic, is about changing the future and less about atoning for the past.
There is certainly a role for understanding and atoning for the past, but the foundation of recovery needs to be built facing forwards, not looking back. I think the reason I was finally able to stay sober and rack up a number like five years is because I started to find happiness along the way. The Steps I worked, the lessons I learned helped me build an outlook and a life that was focused on what could be instead of what could have been.
I could never, ever make up for what I did to the people who loved me. They can forgive me, but it’s an act of grace on their part, not because I deserve it. As long as my recovery was about avoiding consequences, my life felt like I was walking a tightrope between the things I wanted to do (drink and escape) and the things I knew I should do (stay and not drink). The tension generated on the tightrope was inevitably too much for me and since I really only knew one coping mechanism—it was soon time for yet another silver chip.
I finally realized that turning my will and my life over to a Higher Power was not a sacrifice or an occasion of self-humiliation, it was the path to freedom and happiness. I’ve listened to “Desperado” a zillion times and love/hate it because so much of it describes what happened to me to; described the road I was on. The reason I haven’t had a drink in more than five years, the reason that it doesn’t even sound attractive anymore, isn’t because I finally found a way to avoid more consequences, it’s because I found myself.
Drinking helped me be the person I thought people wanted me to be. Recovery helped me find the person I actually was and to live the life I was meant to lead. My life makes sense now—at least to me. I for sure came to my senses and came down from my fences. I know I was a hard one and I had my reasons, but none of that matters, I realized.
I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to impress people. I get to be myself and live a life that is full of twists and turns, but feels strangely right and familiar at the same time. All I have to do is show up, do right by the people who love me and do right by the guy who was lost for so long. Recovery wasn’t a matter of avoiding consequences it was about love. I guess I finally understood where letting people love me before it was too late had to start.
With me.
Happy Friday.
No, I don’t think I could ever actually qualify as a “wild butterfly.”
I had several crushes on several girls named Sarah.
It was not me.
I’m grateful for the temperature finally crawling back to a normal winter range again. I’m grateful for having the next few days off to go on a mini trip for my 40th. I’m grateful that all the old wiring and pipes in our home survived this atypical weather. I’m grateful for my comfortable, roomy nook where Harper sits by me as I tackle my day. I’m grateful for a run where I saw Mt. Blue Sky so beautiful and clearly framed by the clouds that hovered over it like protective blanket. I’m grateful for the tingly feeling I get in my fingertips when I’m excited. I’m grateful for hearing a qualification that reminded me just how much muck we alcoholics can survive through in our addiction, but once we switch to following this sober AA path with integrity so much love and joy can reemerge in our life. I’m grateful for meetings teaching me how to expand my sober thinking and get outside my comfort zone.
I was reading the Doctor’s Opinion over the weekend with my sponsee and we started discussing what does labeling oneself as an alcoholic truly mean. It was an interesting conversation that got me thinking about how my feelings on this self-categorization have evolved.
Those first few months as an alcoholic for me meant being steeped in shame, regret, and simply trying to survive another day by somewhat grudgingly going through the motions of what people were telling me to do: attend meetings, connect with fellows, talk to my sponsor, read the Big Book, start the Steps, don’t go to a liquor store, adopt healthy routines, eat well, sleep early, and keep repeating all that until I experience a psychic change. Because I was so physically and mentally drained from alcohol’s impact I was luckily a more receptive sponge to the suggestions presented by others than I’d ever been before.
It wasn’t until Step 4 though where I really started understanding what being an alcoholic longer-term meant for me. The internal work I did around this particular Step truly changed me. Previously I was kind of confused when people would use the phrase “do the work in AA”. I kept wondering where are the worksheets I need to fill out or the XYZ service commitments I need to finish to keep graduating to the next phase of my sobriety. However Step 4 is when I – perhaps for the first time ever in life – honestly sat down with my thoughts for a sustained period, dug into the chaos of my past, and noticed the throughlines that explained my behavior. Step 4 provided the structure I needed to recognize the root causes for my historical approach to matters, which then inspired me to investigate ways to course correct as I slowly re-entered the real world.
Fo example, if I was steeped in fear or had the need to be in control (big Step 4 defects of mine), I became better at more swiftly identifying those mental states and tacking on a positive next right action to move away from the negativity. That positive next right action could be going for a run, writing, gratitude lists, attending a meeting, owning my part in the moment, or pausing. Regularly inhabiting AA spaces continually expanded these roster of next right actions, which I leaned into more easily with sustained practice.
Returning to the question of what it means to be an alcoholic, I believe it’s now beyond just having an allergy to alcohol. It’s also no longer about having shame or regret for this part of my identity. It’s about living an informed, well-adjusted life. It’s about knowing how to navigate through missteps with honesty and grace, rather than relying on half-baked shortcuts. It’s about showing love and empathy to all of humanity inside and outside these rooms. It’s about always being curious around how my mind works. It’s about discovering new ways of living that serve to promote self-acceptance and serenity. It’s about being of service to my community and expecting nothing in return except the self-esteem I get from doing esteemable acts.
I love that AA has transformed the world for me into something less scary, sinister, manipulative, binary, or depressing and more accessible, nuanced, exciting, hopeful, and ultimately quite beautiful. While I will always, always, always have to remember I have this allergy to alcohol, I can also appreciate that this allergy opens up the opportunity for me to explore living in more meaningful ways than I ever could drunk. That is the blessing I find today from labeling myself an alcoholic.
I am grateful to be sober today. I am grateful that Ori is alive and home. I’m grateful for all of the people who showed up and for AA. I’m grateful for Tim, for the help from both of our families, for seeing my parents yesterday and how safe they made me feel. I’m grateful we are okay, I’m grateful we didn’t drink, I’m grateful that even though today is still not a normal Monday, it looks incredibly different than last Monday.
Good morning my friends. I’m sorry I missed you guys last week.
Last Monday my dog and I were coming home from our usual morning walk and were waiting for the elevator doors to close when we were attacked, in the elevator, by our neighbor’s dog.
Today I am happy to share that Ori is home, there is a long path to recovery ahead of us but our boy survived. For 5 days I couldn’t do anything other than stare at the phone, hoping the vet didn’t call with bad news during the day or overnight, and then wondering why the vet hadn’t called yet during our scheduling morning and evening updates.
Being in the hospital myself and having to go back 3 times to complete the series of rabies shots brings up when my mom was sick when I was a kid, and all the times we went to go see her in the hospital.
This incident was the most horrific thing I have ever experienced. I have seen shit, I have done shit, I have experienced some shit while I was out there drinking but nothing like this. I have never felt more powerless, I have never felt more afraid. 5 days without him and it felt like a piece of my soul was missing. I missed his pitter patter on the floor, his face in the morning, the way he smells like a frito when he needs a bath.
Everytime I close my eyes or let my mind wander I just see the whole thing over again. It was and is horrible.
But – I’ve heard it a million times – my wife died and 400 AA’ers showed up at her funeral. I got cancer and AA showed up at my door. I’ve heard all of these stories about AA showing up during really really challenging times and I’ve never doubted them but I also never really saw it myself.
The outpouring of love and support and prayers we received from AA’ers was unimaginable. These rooms show up for you in a way that I cannot accurately explain. People never stopped checking in, people listened to me cry, people thought and prayed and cared for us as if this whole thing happened to them too. And because of that, my boy survived. We survived.
I never could have imagined the way AA showed up for us. And God…God and my grandfather saved my boy. They are still carrying us. All of 2024 my faith had been wavering and God still showed up. There are some things now that I’m really struggling to turn over because I am so afraid but God showed me in a way that I never could have expected, that he/she/it whatever you want to call God, will fix it. Will take care of it. Will be there no matter what.
I don’t know why this happened to us. All we wanted to do that day was go home. That day was just supposed to be a normal Monday. But I know that God knew we could handle it. Handle it without drinking or using. Handle it by turning to AA. And in turn, everything is going to be okay.
xx
Jane
I am grateful to be sober today. I am grateful that Ori is alive and home. I’m grateful for all of the people who showed up and for AA. I’m grateful for Tim, for the help from both of our families, for seeing my parents yesterday and how safe they made me feel. I’m grateful we are okay, I’m grateful we didn’t drink, I’m grateful that even though today is still not a normal Monday, it looks incredibly different than last Monday.
Good morning my friends. I’m sorry I missed you guys last week.
Last Monday my dog and I were coming home from our usual morning walk and were waiting for the elevator doors to close when we were attacked, in the elevator, by our neighbor’s dog.
Today I am happy to share that Ori is home, there is a long path to recovery ahead of us but our boy survived. For 5 days I couldn’t do anything other than stare at the phone, hoping the vet didn’t call with bad news during the day or overnight, and then wondering why the vet hadn’t called yet during our scheduling morning and evening updates.
Being in the hospital myself and having to go back 3 times to complete the series of rabies shots brings up when my mom was sick when I was a kid, and all the times we went to go see her in the hospital.
This incident was the most horrific thing I have ever experienced. I have seen shit, I have done shit, I have experienced some shit while I was out there drinking but nothing like this. I have never felt more powerless, I have never felt more afraid. 5 days without him and it felt like a piece of my soul was missing. I missed his pitter patter on the floor, his face in the morning, the way he smells like a frito when he needs a bath.
Everytime I close my eyes or let my mind wander I just see the whole thing over again. It was and is horrible.
But – I’ve heard it a million times – my wife died and 400 AA’ers showed up at her funeral. I got cancer and AA showed up at my door. I’ve heard all of these stories about AA showing up during really really challenging times and I’ve never doubted them but I also never really saw it myself.
The outpouring of love and support and prayers we received from AA’ers was unimaginable. These rooms show up for you in a way that I cannot accurately explain. People never stopped checking in, people listened to me cry, people thought and prayed and cared for us as if this whole thing happened to them too. And because of that, my boy survived. We survived.
I never could have imagined the way AA showed up for us. And God…God and my grandfather saved my boy. They are still carrying us. All of 2024 my faith had been wavering and God still showed up. There are some things now that I’m really struggling to turn over because I am so afraid but God showed me in a way that I never could have expected, that he/she/it whatever you want to call God, will fix it. Will take care of it. Will be there no matter what.
I don’t know why this happened to us. All we wanted to do that day was go home. That day was just supposed to be a normal Monday. But I know that God knew we could handle it. Handle it without drinking or using. Handle it by turning to AA. And in turn, everything is going to be okay.
xx
Jane
I’m grateful for a quiet morning with coffee in front of the fireplace. I’m grateful for chance sightings and mini-adventures. I’m grateful for finding my footing. I’m grateful it was the light on the other side and not a train. I’m grateful for the life I have. I’m grateful to be sober today.
(last weekend)
