I’m grateful for an entire foggy weekend. I’m grateful for the swanky umbrella. I’m grateful when things come together. I’m grateful for new discoveries. I’m grateful for two fantastic children. I’m grateful to be sober today.
(last weekend)
I’m grateful for a lovely Christmas with my parents. I’m grateful to be home. I’m grateful for a cold, pretty sunrise. I’m grateful for a Friday and what’s ahead. I’m grateful for the amazing opportunities that happen by. I’m grateful for new glasses and my same old coffee. I’m grateful to be sober today.
song of the week:
Just fyi, this is not officially the song of the year (yet). However, since Spotify brought this version to my attention, I’ve had kind of a hard time listening to anything else. I kind of thought that’s where I was going to be headed today. I had this thing worked out in my head where I was going to tell the story of my year by just putting in links to a bunch of songs. Then I lost focus for a bit, mostly on account of Christmas, but also because of a pirate-y discovery.
Q: What do pirates love most? A: Booty.
Oh, come on, not that kind of booty. Eyes up here! The treasure chest kind of booty. I was in Iowa City with my Mom (85) and Dad (86), and my Mom casually asked at some point whether I’d be interested in my grandfather’s “notes?”
Ummmmm. Yes. I am now in possession of said notes, it’s actually about a hundred pages of typed and handwritten manuscript: He was writing the book of his life. It’s divided into sections that are neatly numbered and it’s amazing. I started reading it in the Cedar Rapids airport on the way home and was alarming my fellow passengers by laughing out loud at some of the passages.
My grandfather was born in 1911 and lived on a farm about a 40 minute drive from Madison,Wisconsin. The narrative picks up in about 1916. There are stories about riding a horse-drawn sleigh to church at Christmas and a neighbor named “Fatty” Bernander, who of course played Santa in the Christmas program. There are stories of my grandfather prompting a semi-frantic search as a 3 year old, when he was discovered missing from his room late at night. His mother rousted everyone to help find the missing boy, including the Norwegian-speaking hired hands.1 My grandfather was discovered walking back up the drive to the farm, a freshly-picked watermelon triumphantly under one arm and his trusty bulldog trailing behind.
There are stories of bicycles purchased from the Sears, Roebuck catalog, of “Pa,” (my great grandfather) reading to the boys (he had two brothers) “after the milking was done,” by the light of a gasoline lamp. There is a long account of a clandestine ski jump that was built on a hill on the farm, which drew crowds of spectators and resulted in a fairly spectacular crash by my grandfather that was unfortunately observed by his father. “Pa” cooly dealt with this risky abomination Viking-style (we are Norwegians, after all), chopping it down with an axe.
And then this story:
We got married on a very hot day in August. We had decided to go to Yellowstone Park on our honeymoon. I had a 1932 four cylinder 2 door sedan. I had hung up some curtains that could be pulled closed so we could sleep in the car if we had to. When we got to Yellowstone, there was not a cabin to rent. We parked the car crosswise to a picnic table. That evening we thought we would get dressed up and go the dance at the dance hall. It was kind of hard getting dressed up in car, but we made it.
Later, we went back to the car and went to bed. We had the curtains pulled and went to sleep. Along in the night, Bernice (my grandmother), woke up and pulled the curtain open and there stood a bear on the picnic table, only a couple of feet from the car window, looking right at us. Bernice would like to have died, so she cuddled up real close to me.
I was hoping the bear would stay longer.
I laughed out loud when I read that, and then a wave of emotion washed over me, I almost felt like I was going to start crying there in the airport.2 It was so real, I could almost hear the story in his raspy voice. To be honest, as I read it, it sounded like the way I would tell the story. Also, it was hard not to note that my grandfather was writing this for an audience. And one thing I very much remember about my grandfather was that he never let the actual details of what happened get in the way of a good story.
Every time I go back to Iowa City, or read my own journals, I feel like I uncover more evidence about what happened to me. I’ve always been drawn to spy and detective fiction and movies, and I feel like I’m trying to solve a bit of a mystery sometimes. Here’s a summary of the open questions in the case I’m trying to solve:
I’m not looking to do any finger pointing or justifying, I really just want to understand myself and the journey I took myself on. The Big Book repeatedly warns that “self-knowledge” is not sufficient to cause sobriety, that a “spiritual awakening” is also necessary. Make no mistake, I think self-knowledge and self-awareness are critical elements of recovery, but in my own story, the years of therapy and treatment were not enough for me to stop drinking. To bring it down to Boy Scout terms, self-awareness is like gathering kindling and pine boughs and dry wood and carefully building what will hopefully become a fire.3 Sure, that thing with the sticks rubbing together can produce a spark after about 5 hours of frantic effort. So long as it’s not raining.
Think of the Big Book’s spiritual awakening like pulling a contraband Bic lighter out of one’s backpack and touching it to the carefully stacked self-awareness and self-knowledge (hopefully with lots of really dry pine needles and branches in there).
The more I see myself, particularly the more I see my younger self, the more I come to understand and accept what happened: The more I can accept myself. When I read my grandfather’s “notes,” I get a strong sense for how some aspects of my personality developed, how I think about things. I’m not sure how this happens or works, but I think as we bounce and vibrate our way through life, we encounter other people who bounce and vibrate in a complementary way. The combination with these people can be kind of musical and definitely magical, as we unconsciously create new notes, maybe even change keys.
These people tend not to stay, unfortunately. I think these special people are meant to help us from Point A to Point B, whatever that is. I think they help us become who we are meant to be, companions sent by the Universe to walk with us on parts of the trail we might not have found on our own.
I’m lucky to have had people like that in my life. It took me a while to understand the loss and emptiness I felt when they inevitably left. Maybe I was even angry sometimes. But my eyes have been opened and I see the world differently. I see those magical people, and my grandfather is the leader of that particular pack, as the people who helped me find the person I was meant to be. The way they did this?
I know now, I wasn’t ever meant to spend my life with these people, we were meant to accompany each other for only a part of the journey. We were meant to learn from each other and what happened. But that doesn’t mean it was temporary or that those connections ever really end. As I was reading my grandfather’s notes in the airport, I knew he was still with me, that I still carry what I learned from him, what I gained by being around him, everything that rubbed off on me in that garage or that magical basement.4 I realized that I carry those other people with me, too.
I have a pretty good sense where all of my pirate-y ideas come from. I was recounting some of the hi-jinks of my youth over the last few days. I felt like the statute of limitations has probably run on most of it. My mom commented that it seemed like I had been more of trouble-maker than they had suspected and could have probably used more effective supervision. I think I was doing just what I was supposed to (not from a rules perspective), taking in the lessons I was being taught by an actual pirate. It turns out these pirate-y lessons were what I would need to take me through life.
My grandfather taught me that it was ok to imagine and dream. Maybe we were never going on an actual safari in Africa, but we could shoot a shit-ton of imaginary wildlife in that basement from the tall metal stools at his workbench—using actual guns (always unloaded). He taught me that it was ok to think about things differently, that it was ok to take charge of amusing myself, not to take myself too seriously, definitely don’t take other people too seriously, how to maybe get away with minor indiscretions with funny stories and a little charm and really important things like:
When I did my first Fourth and Fifth Step, with a janky-toothed monk at a monastery in Dubuque, Iowa, he listened quietly and patiently to my litany of misdeeds and wrongs. The things I was most ashamed of and regretted the most. The terrible ways I had hurt the people who loved me. As I finished, and sat sobbing in the big chair across from him, he looked at me with incredibly kind eyes and asked me only one question:
Do you think there is anyone in the world who could hear all that, know all that about you and still love you?
We went to the 10pm service on Christmas Eve in the church that I grew up in. Things are remarkably the same and having spent a lot of time in that church, there were a lot of memories dancing in my head as we plowed through all of the Christmas carols. Our Lutheran church, like many in the midwest, was divided between Germans and Norwegians, and this was recognized by first singing “We are So Glad Each Christmas Eve,” in Norwegian. Then, the lights are turned off, the congregation lights the little candles that were passed out and we sing Silent Night, the first stanza auf Deutsch.
As a kid, I always tried to maneuver so that I was sitting next to my grandfather on Christmas Eve at church. There were discreet thumb wars to be fought, butterscotch candies in his pocket, the twinkling eyes as we played our necessarily secret games, the knowing glares from my grandmother and my grandfather’s shoulder shrugs. But the absolute best part was when we sang Silent Night. His raspy voice and feeling his carpenter rough hands on my little boy head as we sang about the miracle of Christmas in the dark. I knew it was special to him, too, because you could see the tears in the corner of his eyes glinting in the candlelight—just like I had on Christmas Eve this year in that very same church and I think probably the very same pew.
I’m pretty confident that my grandfather didn’t listen to a lot of Stevie Wonder, and this version probably wouldn’t be his chosen musical style. But I think this kind of a pirate anthem and he would have completely agreed with me on this part:
I’ve done a lot of foolish things, that I didn’t really mean, I could be a broken man, but here I am, with the future in my hands
Complete with the “Hell, yeah” at the end.
Happy Friday.
They hired very recent Norwegian immigrants to work on the farm while they learned English.
This can be an alarming look, I believe. Ask me about the time I started crying on a post 9/11 flight because I was reading a book about a really lovely dog dying. That’s why I don’t read books about dogs, or go to movies about dogs: the dogs always die. Why is that fair?
This is the part where I cryptically remind you of the importance of always having a potato on hand or on your person. Here’s the punchline of a potato joke: “OMG, dude, the potato goes in front.”
I’m not exaggerating. My grandfather had built an 10-yard archery range in the cramped basement of his house to practice for deer season.
I’m grateful for randomly rewatching “Noelle”, a truly fantastic Christmas movie. I’m grateful for taking it easy during my run and enjoying a different mountain view from a park I don’t frequent. I’m grateful for how much effort my partner put into making some delicious pistachio cake. I’m grateful for slowly learning how to wrap presents a bit better. I’m grateful for the Snoopy Holiday-themed screensaver that make me smile. I’m grateful for taking the time to stick to my healthy routines despite the welcome upheaval that has been introduced into my schedule the past few days. I’m grateful Harper eventually got used to the sweet German Shepard after an initial bit of anxiety. I’m grateful for a lovely Christmas Eve dinner with lots of chatter and delicious food.
In Appendix II of the Big Book, “Spiritual Experience”, it reads towards the end of the chapter:
“Willingness, honesty, and open-mindedness are the essentials of recovery. But these are indispensable.” (Page 568)
I love this part and hear it often repeated at meetings – the “H.O.W” of the program. As long as I am Honest, Open-Minded, and Willing then I have the opportunity to remain emotionally sober. I have found myself over time applying this tenet to other areas of my life. Since it’s Christmas today it felt fitting to reflect on the way I’ve leveraged H.O.W. in relation to the Holiday.
To start off, I didn’t really celebrate the season much growing up. We were a first-generation South Asian immigrant family so the whole time period isn’t quite part of our culture or my childhood. When I joined my partner’s large Italian/Polish family who are very into the Holiday – less religious and more festive – I was initially a bit aloof to all the joy. Why? No good reason except I wrongly figured myself to be “too cool” or whatever for any sincere merriment. Since I’m in this Program I thankfully worked to put my warped thinking through the H.O.W. filter.
Honesty
When authentically reflecting on why I initially felt cringy around my partner’s Christmas events, I was a bit jealous of how communal and communicative their large family is. Mine was like that at one point, especially during my childhood, but for a host of tragic reasons fissures developed. I also quite consciously separated myself from them for my own self-protection. Seeing my partner’s extended family (mostly) getting along I felt slightly envious, sad, and nostalgic.
An additional, more meta, layer is that I miss my South Asian culture. I miss the traditions we used to practice as a kid. Being alone in Denver I don’t quite do them anymore except with myself so I kind of feel like I’m losing that part of my identity. Engaging in my partner’s Christmas traditions makes me yearn for my own.
These complex concepts are not something I could’ve identified without learning how to be honest with myself. Drinking allowed me to continually inhabit the delusional space. Now that I don’t do that anymore, I can truthfully pinpoint what it is I’m feeling and thinking. From those realizations came the next step in my Holiday evolution.
Open-Mindedness
Unless I wanted to remain miserable, I couldn’t simply wallow in my awareness. I had to become open-minded around what was available to me in order to change. When my partner’s parents or his aunt or his cousin shared a tradition or task they regularly did for Holidays I needed to be receptive to that messaging. Being receptive in those early days meant listening in as non-judgmental a fashion as possible. Certainly not interjecting with how I felt about what was happening or how it should be happening. Simply listening and putting myself in their shoes to understand why what they were doing brought them joy.
Just like I don’t always relate to the specifics of a fellow’s share at meetings, but I almost always relate to the emotion behind their story, this fell into a similar bucket. I didn’t have ornaments growing up, but I had other keepsakes our family gave one another. I could use that memory and the feelings I got from it as a way to connect with why decorating a Christmas tree would be special. All I had to continue doing is remain open to whatever was coming my way.
Willingness
Finally willingness for me in this context involves actively engaging in the Holiday with my partner’s family. Listening is great, but at a certain point I have to be activated. I needed to get gifts, help with the cooking, decorate the tree, drive folks to various destinations, volunteer my home to those from out-of-town, be cheerful and talky in larger groups, etc.
Even if I initially felt a little outside my element, I leaned on what I learnt during the “Honesty” and “Open-Minded” phases to help energize myself into action around participating. With regular practice in exercising willingness the grinch-like elements of my mind started subsiding.
After a few years of engaging with H.O.W. I’ve discovered something surprising. I have shifted from being the sullen, jealous, somber person when it comes to the Holidays and instead found real joy in the season. By slowly setting aside my preconceptions, my prejudices, my own personal baggage, and genuinely opening myself up to new ways of doing and thinking I understand the the joy of what my partner’s family feels during this time of year. I like getting gifts for people. It helps me get out of self and pushes me to research what somebody else would find happiness in receiving. I like catching up with an aunt about how her life has evolved over the past year and hear how she used to celebrate as a child.
H.O.W. has empowered me to embrace a whole new way of interacting with others during the Holidays. I have even been able to find my individual joy in the experience by engaging in brand new actions that I hope over time can become my own Holiday traditions. I’m incredibly grateful for applying the wisdom of AA to problems well beyond drinking. I would go as far as saying that broadening my application of AA to other aspects of life is not only an invaluable gift that I have received, but also a true Christmas miracle.
I am so grateful for my sobriety. I am grateful for a tiny change in perspective. I’m grateful for my family, my friends, the holidays and getting to spend some time out of the city. I’m grateful for Christmas lights and music, for hot coffee and a warm apartment. I’m grateful for my relationship, my puppy, my higher power, my home group and my great big sober life.
Good morning my friends (: I hope everyone enjoyed the weekend but above all else I hope everyone is able to spend some time with their loved ones this week for the holidays.
The holidays are hard whether you are new or have been around for 40 years and this morning id like to remind everyone that you don’t have to drink. For anyone here in NYC the 79th street workshop is having an alcathon on Christmas and on New Year’s Day, there are zoom meetings ALL THE TIME and nothing – not even Santa shoving his ass down your chimney, is worth drinking over this fine holiday season.
I had my office Christmas party last week and if yall read my post last week you already know I was not in the greatest frame of mind to spend 3-4 hours with my colleagues. Last Christmas I was SO nervous to go to the holiday party and look like a weirdo with my seltzer but this year a seasoned seltzer veteran I held my seltzer with pride and when a colleague was insisting I take a tequila shot I said no.
I actually said ‘I can’t.’ After a few more oh come onnnnsssss I think it hit them what ‘I can’t’ actually meant and I have to say guys — that tequila shot looked pretty fucking appetizing. Last week was pretty fucking shitty and I absolutely wanted to drink because I absolutely did not want to deal (and quite frankly I still don’t) with the volume of uncomfortable emotions I am feeling.
But when faced with a tequila shot I still said I can’t. I can’t even though I want to because I have this big beautiful life that I haven’t really practiced gratitude for in a while. I can’t because losing my time over you people (aka work people) just simply isn’t an option. I can’t because despite how good that shot looked I’m an alcoholic, I have an allergy and I just cannot have alcohol very much like someone who is allergic to peanuts that cannot have a peanut butter cookie despite how good that cookie looks.
And so I’m pretty proud of myself. Proud that I’m just a few days I will be 3 years sober. Proud that this year has been shitty but I have learned a TON about myself, about what I want, about who I am. Proud that I still love AA with every fiber of my being.
I am so scared in the face of so much uncertainty. But I have an army of people who are there to help me even if helping me is just sitting with me and talking to me about nothing. And I am a part of an army who is always willing to help someone else. Whether that help is just reminding someone that they don’t have to drink today.
So friends, Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Here’s to the New Year. I hope everyone’s holiday is filled with love and light and laughter and good health and if you are sitting with uncomfortable emotions you can be both – happy and sad, jolly and scared. But don’t let the uncomfortable steal some of your joy and definitely don’t let it steal your sobriety.
Just say you’re allergic to potatoes or something (;
Happy Holidays.
Xo
Jane
I’m grateful for a day spent getting ready for xmas. I’m grateful for recharging batteries and hot chocolate. I’m grateful for walks in the cold and snowy mornings. I’m grateful for new starts and the chance to make things happen.
(last weekend)
I’m grateful for a cloudy Friday morning to write. I’m grateful for wrapping things up (literally). I’m grateful for little adventures and seeing things differently. I’m grateful for pretty excellent coffee and iPhone memories. I’m grateful to be sober today.
song of the week:
I think all of us dodged a bullet this morning. I was listening to music earlier in the week and trying to get my shit in a can.1 I was listening to the Doobie Brothers’ masterful “Living on the Fault Line” album. I wore that album out in my youth and it is the height of the Emo-Doobies featuring Michael McDonald, with whom I have a complicated relationship. I was listening to this song, which I’ve always loved:
I was deciphering the lyrics, as I like to do. And this is a very complicated story about a very complicated relationship. It starts out talking about how miraculously “she” came into his life, how badly he needed a drink of water, how he would gladly drown in her, how she was just what he needed, how through all the disappointment, love still remains, you’re a just lonely man living in an empty land. I know you’re made that way.
But then you get to the crux: “Say it please, Say you will, come back and be in my life, girl, if you just put in your heart in….” It’s another song emphasizing the importance of ex-girlfriends to the creative process.
I was thinking through Michael McDonald’s side of the relationship and it doesn’t make a ton of sense and then my blood ran cold and I had one of those realizations that feel like an icy knife in the gut:
That was what I was going to write, had I selected “You’re Made That Way,” as the song of the week. Fortunately, I spared us all of that by selecting, “I’m Your Boogieman,” instead.2 This is my favorite K.C. and the Sunshine Band song and you can see from the frenetic on-stage performance what the “C” in K.C. probably stood for. There’s another video (from the Midnight Special) where K.C. is dancing so hard he’s a good two measures late getting back to the piano for his solo.
I didn’t have a drivers license when K.C. and the Sunshine Band hit the airwaves. I was still spending a fair amount of time being driven in my mom’s Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon (with the swanky moon roof and wood panel decal on the side). The first big hit, “Get Down Tonight,” provoked a lot of uncomfortable Oldsmobile moments:” The line, “Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight,” had my mom wondering if I liked the song (and I clearly did) because it was about sex and me wondering if my mom was listening to the lyrics.
It’s the Friday before Xmas, so why spend it Michael McDonald-style, gazing at the sad, complicated navel of our lives, when you could be wearing super cool Elvis-inspired outfits and dancing like someone who will one day claim a folding chair at a CA meeting?3 This song is on the “Basketball” playlist and I think pretty accurately soundtracks my playing style. This is a Friday song, so go get all Friday with it.
But then that leaves us with this uncomfortable void, the awkward silence that comes when maybe you’ve run out of things to say.4 But never fear, that’s a very unlikely result here. I’m winding down a pretty improbable year, and, to be honest, when I start to do the year-end look-back, that is kind of obligatory, I’m amazed at what’s happened.
You might ask, “What happened?” Well, what didn’t? I still live in the same lovely place and have the same views and settings that propel my day. I’m spoiled to live where I live, and I know it—it’s my cocoon, a safe place, a real home—and I’m very attached to it because I don’t think I ever had one that I could call my own before. My life feels so different now—sure there are anxieties and fears and sadness and all of the normal stuff that attends life. In the olden days, it was necessary for me to drink to handle all of the normal stuff that attends life. I’ve always been very independent, very self-reliant—that was largely out of necessity and it always propelled the fear that I couldn’t manage this on my own. By “this,” I mean living a productive, happy, sustainable life. Well, it turns out, I can.
I started co-chairing an AA meeting on Monday mornings near Madison Square Park here in NYC. It’s actually at an IOP—that’s “Intensive Outpatient Program,” for those who aren’t familiar. It’s a therapeutic setting, wherein you go to group sessions, AA meetings, individual counseling sessions on an intensive basis for 60 days—often accompanied by prescriptions for Antabuse, to help recreate the sober environment one finds in sleep-away rehab.
This is a beginner’s meeting and it’s really fascinating, a lot of the people are just sorting out some of the very early questions, like “Am I really an alcoholic?” “How long do I have to call myself and alcoholic?” I see it as a huge opportunity to introduce people to the Big Book before the “Recover like me or die” crowd gets their hooks into them. I tell them that the Big Book isn’t about getting religion or worshipping anything—it’s simply about recognizing where you really stand in the Universe and answering some very personal questions about how you got here, where you’d like to go and the things that would need to change, to make that possible.
We read Bill’s Story together last week and I got to give my usual preface to establish what an insanely brilliant con-man/salesman Bill W was. That being able to lay claim to the elements of Bill’s story as my own, was what jump-started my recovery. When you read the story aloud, there are lots of details that jump out—Bill W renting a plane once to “complete a jag,” or setting out to find fortune and fame with his wife, Lois, riding in a motorcycle side-car, the time spent “working on a farm,” which really meant he and Lois were living as legit hobos for a while.
Anyway, its really rewarding to get to spend time with people at the very beginning of their journey. I mentioned at one meeting how familiar the setting was to me, how I’d done time in several different IOPs and how I’d been kicked out of several IOPs. One young man, got wide-eyed and asked, “How do you get kicked out of an IOP?”
Let’s just say I got pretty familiar with the half-life of Antabuse. I had graduated from the 60-day intensive program and was in the after-care program, which involved regular counseling sessions and a once-weekly group session. The nights of the group sessions were great for drinking, because I knew that I had roughly seven days until the next possible test—and they tested randomly, so it wasn’t for sure that I would even get tested. To me, that meant I was free to drink.
I developed an insane regimen that involved multiple Bikram yoga sessions, steam room time at the gym and pretty intense, sweat-inducing workouts. That’s how I was going to beat the IOP testing protocols and keep drinking. The insanity of the plan was revealed by the fact that it’s not possible to “sweat away” the evidence. The test that is commonly used, doesn’t try to detect alcohol in the blood, it simply looks for a protein that is produced when one metabolizes alcohol. My plan was doomed from the start, and crazily, I knew that.
Right there, I can see how different my thinking was. The crazy places I was sent by the deformed, wrong messages my addicted brain generated. I like to think I’m occasionally clever, and have definitely gotten away with things over the years. This is mostly the consequence of careful planning and a little Ferris Bueller-style luck here and there. This was a fundamental difference. When drinking, my alcoholic brain produced plans that had no chance of success, that were as doomed as a WWI-style trench assault.
I don’t have a lot of words of inspiration as the year ends. I’m pretty tired and my re-appearance at a law firm for the first time in nearly three decades is a big reason why. But I’m exhausted in the good way: I’ve been given a chance in my sixth decade to build something brand new and a pretty swanky perch to do it from. Is there a fair amount of fear and anxiety that attends this enterprise? Yes. Does it require a nearly daily effort at self-invention and excruciating levels of “showing up?” Yes. Do I feel more alive and vital than nearly anytime in my life? Yes.
Finding myself, which I think is the ultimate goal of recovery, opened doors that I couldn’t have imagined and has led me to a new approach to life that produces profound satisfaction and excitement. I learned that all that is necessary to unlock this wondrous treasure is to accept life moment to moment, and as the Big Book says, approach those moments with willingness, honesty and humility.
On some personal notes, I am heading to Iowa for Xmas and will be compiling something for next week—and it may very well include some selections for song of the year and some of my favorite essays. If you have thoughts on this, you know I would be delighted to incorporate them. I do want to say that this is maybe the most improbable part of my life. I have wanted to write for pretty much my entire life. My hard drives and notebooks are littered with failed attempts at profundity and notoriety.
It turns out, I was writing the wrong things. Starting this newsletter and getting to write about how I recover and how I live—and share it with all of you. Well, I can’t tell you exactly how much that means to me and how important it’s been to my recovery. It’s been writing this, and getting to share it with you, that has helped me find myself. So thank you for that—you don’t know how much it means to me.
Last thing. You may know that my son is in the Navy and his ship deployed earlier this Fall.
I learned over the weekend that his carrier strike force (he’s on the USS Gettysburg) transited the Suez Canal and is now on station in the Red Sea. That’s where a certain young Lieutenant, the apple of my eye, will be spending the holidays. I don’t think it’s possible to send too many positive thoughts or prayers and that’s how I’m approaching it.
Happy Friday. Merry Christmas.
This is a phrase I made up and started using in meetings. For example, you can give someone a stern look and then say, “you’d better have your shit in a can.” I don’t really know what it means, but I like the way it sounds and people get a little scared when you say it. Feel free to adopt it as your own, no attribution is necessary.
Or did I?
There are actually Cocaine Anonymous meetings in NYC and they are very popular among the young male alcoholics for exactly the reason you think.
I know I sound very old when I say this, but there isn’t much that is sadder to me than seeing the younger couples out to dinner, both absorbed in their phones.
I’m grateful for logging higher than average elevation gains during my run where I also got to wear short sleeves. I’m grateful for overstuffing on tasty Indian takeout that was made extra spicy especially for me. I’m grateful for how much of a relief it has been seeing Harper’s new home alone regimen working – much less stress on both of us. I’m grateful for receiving a lovely painting of Independence Pass, a place that holds special personal significance, from a NYC AA friend who has helped me a lot over the years. I’m grateful for a meeting where we covered a unique reading from “As Bill Sees It” speaking to the significance of AA’s circle + triangle – a concept I hadn’t dwelt on much, but am glad I did last night. I’m grateful that despite moving from NYC to Denver I’ve found the beautiful ethos of AA to be quite consistent, which feels like such a miracle given how autonomous each group is. I’m grateful for how much of a better mood I am in when I also experience solid sleep. I’m grateful for how many gifts I’ve been showered with in this life – a warm home, a nurturing partnership, my health, my mind back, people who love me, “free” membership to a Program that teaches me how to be a better human every day, an adorable dog, a functioning car, funds to pay my bills, easy access to nature, routines that keep me serene, ancestors who broke their backs ensuring I get the freedoms I have today, and so much more. I feel truly and utterly blessed.
Last week I was hanging out with a fellow who recently moved here from Chicago. As two big city kids (me from NYC) we were commenting on the relatively smaller scale place we both had landed. I’ll be honest I have been slightly bearish on Denver for the past week for a variety of reasons. A major one, sort of orthogonal to any locale I suppose, revolves around building community. I know that comes with time and based off of my San Francisco experience it can take nearly two years. However I miss other key elements of big-city living like the diversity, the energy, the culture, the overall cosmopolitan feel, especially during the Holidays which is my favorite time of year in New York.
I’m not proud to admit, but my conversation with this Chicago fellow too often veered into overly critical territory. After we parted ways I felt uneasy about my demeanor so I became inspired to put into practice a crucial component of my emotional sobriety: Acceptance. I know I’ve written about acceptance a few times already, but embracing it does serve as an important gateway for letting me inhabit a calm, content mental space.
To allow my mind to even be open to such thinking though, I first need to take a step back and be reminded of my Higher Power. When I let my HP in it puts whatever I’m going through into perspective. That perspective permits me to analyze matters more holistically and more realistically. As a result any extremes in my thinking eventually subside. The final piece involves Gratitude. Particularly for cases where I’m processing negativity, gratitude helps reframe my thinking towards the myriad of things going well in life that I can frequently overlook. To summarize, the sequence of actions for me to healthily internalize acceptance involves the following:
Allow Higher Power In → Understand Truth Of What IS Happening → Make Room For Acceptance → Practice Gratitude → Move On
So how did I apply the above when it comes to Denver? First I took a long walk to the east side of Cheesman Park where I could see the majestically snow-capped Rockies. Staring out at those imposing natural wonders gave me pause. In that quiet, pensive state my Higher Power arrived. The sheer enormity of my surroundings, the realization of how tiny I am in comparison and how fleeting time is served to humble me enough to get me out of self-pity and petty griping.
Soon other thoughts began cascading into my mind. I acknowledged I came to Denver because I wanted to come. I had a choice and I made it in a thoughtful, sober manner. I wanted to challenge myself in new, positive ways. I wanted to experience the lifestyle in a part of the country that was quite foreign to me. I wanted to be closer to some epic nature. I wanted to walk down streets where I had no history. I wanted space. I wanted to build a home with my partner that is ours – together. I wanted to move not because I was escaping from something, but because I was looking to get outside my comfort zone. I wanted to adopt fresh routines.
Has all this been happening since moving here in February? Yes, it most definitely has. Knowing this I can do more than simply accept Denver, I can thrive here since I have so much to be grateful for these days. I am slowly building a cool, new sober network of people. I’ve visited more breathtaking National Parks in nine months than I have in over the past decade. I am in a wonderfully cozy, comfortable home in a pretty dynamic part of the city. I’m surrounded by a bevy of AA meetings. Thanks to smart saving, I usually have the financial means to do what I want. I live right by my favorite park that proves to be a challenging running route and provides breathtaking views. I have a garage in a neighborhood where parking is notoriously difficult. I have some delicious restaurants, quality coffee shops, and two well-packed grocery stores within walking distance. I have fairly easy access to the mountains given my proximity to the highway that gets us there. Honestly, I can keep going but it’s obvious there is a tremendous amount for me to be thankful for in the life I’ve built in my new surroundings.
What I’m arriving at ultimately is that I am glad Denver is my home. I am also glad AA is such a vital stopgap for me when it comes to conflating negative ideas or wallowing too much in pessimism. The Program has granted me the training to look at my situation in ways that ensure my defects don’t overwhelm me. It certainly doesn’t mean I have become some kind of pollyanna. Honestly I’d find that quite inauthentic to who I am at my core. However it does let me reflect on the good and bad, with Acceptance being the foundation for whatever analysis of my current circumstance. Always building on top of that foundation ensures I remain clear-eyed as I continue trudging along the path of recovery.
I am so grateful to be sober today. I’m grateful for the support of my family, Timmy and my friends. I’m grateful for Christmas lights, only 5 more working days, for AA and doing service. I’m grateful for my sponsor, for my pup, for coffee and writing and rainy days that end up being pretty cozy.
Goooood morning my friends! As always, I hope everyone had a nice weekend for those who celebrate Christmas…that you’re gearing up for a holly jolly holiday ahead.
I received some pretty shitty and unclear news on Friday at 5:45 pm roughly 10 days before Christmas and have been feeling a lot of things these past few days.
Friday night I cried, Saturday I was full of motivation, Sunday I was angry, today I feel a bit defeated.
But I think in a way God is doing for me what I can’t do for myself. God is reminding me that I have so many people in my corner. God is reminding me that just because someone says x about you, that doesn’t mean it’s true. I honestly think HP is reminding me how to turn it over.
I don’t always think it’s fair to lean on HP exclusively when you’re in pain. It’s easy for me to be like ‘oh yes well HP is always there but I got this for now’ when things are relatively okay and then to fully turn into HP when things are not okay. But I think in this moment it is pretty clear that the signs have been there all along. Or at least in the last 6 months. In my body, in the back of my mind and all of that has always been HP.
So, a good friend of mine told me it’s all about how you recover now. And so here to all of you guys I will say that I am pissed off, that I am sad and that I am scared. That I feel utterly defeated. That I also feel for the first time in a really long time that I will not let someone else say I am incapable when I in fact am. I will take accountability when appropriate, but I will not eat shit for someone else anymore. I have a plan, and I have faced scarier things. And for the first time in a really long time I genuinely do believe that everything will be okay.
Outwardly to the rest of the world, I’m doing just fine. The boat is not rocking, my head is held high, and I will proceed as regularly scheduled until the above said plan gets worked out and then I will carry on with dignity and grace.
And again, for the first time in a really long time I genuinely feel that I do not have to do any of this alone. So perhaps the silver lining of this one thing that causes so many other feelings, is that I feel reconnected again. To myself, to my higher power. I don’t feel alone and that’s all I’ve wanted for a really long time.
Xx
Jane
I’m grateful for a day of adventure and intrigue. I’m grateful for feeling free and happy. I’m grateful for clearing away what was and making room for what is. I’m grateful for a morning full of of light and coffee. I’m grateful to be sober today.
(last weekend)
I’m grateful for a sunny Friday morning and for a fairly dramatic sunrise. I’m grateful for standing where I am. I’m grateful for what I’ve built and for the chance to feel proud about it. I’m grateful for things coming together and for letting them. I’m grateful for the people who do have my back. I’m grateful to be sober today.
song of the week:
I knew all week that it was an old-school week. I flirted with a lot of songs, married none. As I climbed into the saddle to choose the sotw, my mind was still kind of blank and then into the void, this song began playing. I know I say this every week, but I really love this song.1 I know where I was when I heard it the first time.
The scene was Moline, Illinois in 1973, I was ten years old and in the cavernous garage behind the house my grandparents lived in. It was set on an alley and several houses in the neighborhood had once shared it. There was room inside, behind the big-stable like doors, for at least 4 cars. Over the years, Most folks had opted out of the communal garage over the years and had constructed small garages or carports that they could call their own.
This was fine with my grandfather, who was semi-retired, but had picked up a side hustle restoring wrecked rental cars and then reselling them. He and his friend Hank made bank on this enterprise and it also resulted in my brother getting to drive a rescued Chrysler Imperial for a bit.2 This particular summer day, we were working on Project X—the secret go-cart project.
We both understood that the power and capabilities of the go-cart had to be carefully masked. This was owing to the fact that we were building a really lethal, lawnmower-engine powered death missile, with a gigantic steering wheel from a wrecked Ford Galaxy 500.3 If my grandmother, or worse, my mom, saw this thing, that’s the end of Project X. When my grandmother was out getting her hair set on Friday mornings, we’d roll out the go-cart, I’d climb into the plywood death missile, grasp the oversized steering wheel and prepare for launch in the alley.4 My grandfather stood by the mouth of the alley to try and prevent me from being run over by a car.
The go-cart had no brakes, only less acceleration. We did a real astronaut-style countdown and he pulled the starting cord, got the engine going and then engaged the gears he had built and it was go-time in the go-cart. When I took my foot off the gas pedal, the go-cart still moved forward, but at a semi-manageable speed. I could actually complete a big looping turn and head back up the alley—the din of a 2.5 horsepower Briggs and Stratton lawn-mowing, beast engine roaring in my ears.
If you read, “My First Alcoholic,” you get the rest of that story. Not our point today. I was at the workbench in the cavernous garage and my grandfather had a portable am-fm radio there—he liked to listen to easy listening or country music while he worked on the cars. There were times when I was left to supervise the garage, while he smoked in the alley or ran a quick errand. I’d immediately change the dial on the radio to an FM station in Davenport that played songs like “She’s Gone.”
It was on such a day that this song began to play, from the very first, very spare chords, I was entranced. This was the start of a real love affair with Hall and Oates. I loved the plaintive, soulfulness, the wretched realization in this line:
Oh man, that sounded so sad, and letting all that sadness get choked away by the carbon and monoxide sounded even better. I loved the sense of desperation and the looming need to accept the monstrous reality,
As I listened to this song for the very first time, I realized right away that there was something missing from my life, something that I really, really needed:
I realized the logistical problems involved. I was ten and didn’t have a girlfriend or really have any prospects of a girlfriend. I knew that having a girlfriend was a prerequisite to having an ex-girlfriend—and therein lay the rub.5 Ok, so I couldn’t really identify with the storyline, I didn’t have any friends named Charlie, and none of the friends I did have were allowed to pour me a drink, much less help with any quick decisions.6
You know what I loved about this song? I loved the sad feeling; the beaten, lost feeling I got when I listened to it. I know that sounds super odd, but really letting myself feel that song, imagining the living room with the rumpled blanket still on the sofa, where he slept the night before. It was the 1970’s, so he might have been smoking a cigarette to steel himself before heading to the bathroom to make the realization about there being only one toothbrush hanging in the stand and gazing into a mirror that isn’t making him look any younger.
Somehow we were all vibrating on the same frequency, and somehow I had already adopted a worldview where I kind of knew that I was going to be alone and kind of lovelorn. That’s why I liked all of the Burt Bacharach stuff. I know a lot more about neuroscience and epigenetics than I did in the 4th grade, and understand how a young brain can get wired to experience the world that way.
And that’s an incredibly windy and unnecessarily long path to this idea: Lots of things that get lumped in the mental health bucket these days—including addictions—are not entirely conscious adaptations. We might call them brain hacks today. When Dr. Ruth Fox wrote “Alcoholism: Its Scope, Cause and Treatment” way back in 1955, she recognized this:
The primary addict, from his first introduction to beverage alcohol, uses it as an aid to adjust to his environment.
Alcoholics are just people who learn to use alcohol to manage their lives. Alcohol is the thread that holds together the quilt, helps generate the brain chemicals that some people produce on their own. For me, it stilled the intense social anxiety I felt, the very strong sense that I was different, not like other people. The sense that I didn’t understand other people and foreknowledge that if they knew the real me, they would probably not like me.
I have no idea where all of that came from. I have no idea why a song like “She’s Gone,” would hit such a sympathetic vibration. I’m not sure it was meant to prepare for a semi-tragic life-to-come. No, I just think that I already felt a big pool of sadness, even at that age, and songs like that felt like understanding and empathy to me. When I think back to those days, when I discovered alcohol around 15 or so, well, that might have been the first time I fell in love:
The flood of chemicals that newly-discovered miracle elixir unleashed in my teenage brain are what literally generated that “white light moment.” The moment when I realized that alcohol was like making an incredibly cool, all knowing, all accepting friend. “Someone” who would literally make everything feel better. The “pool of sadness” might not have been sourced in terrible, violent trauma, but a simple shortage of the brain chemicals that provide feelings of happiness and motivation and overall well-being and satisfaction. Alcohol provided a super-convenient solution.
My mind went 800 mph, even in the dark. I was able to instantly see the tragedy that could attend every course of action. I was fearful and did not believe that I possessed the wherewithal to face the world on its terms. I was already unable to sleep most nights. When I finally got enough alcohol in me, enough to move the meter, it was revelatory. I was funny and slightly and unpredictably dangerous; people were drawn to me when I drank. I embraced the role and soon became the person who never faltered, never refused a drink, never waved off a flaming shot dropped in a beer glass.
I didn’t set out to be a bad person or to hurt other people or try to sabotage and ruin my own life. I started drinking because it helped me manage the world around me in a way that nothing else could. It let me leave behind the shackles of the world, but in a way that felt real and still connected. Drinking helped create a mirage of a normal life, like everyone else led. I could be like everyone else, too, I just needed to drink quite a bit so as to get adjusted properly.
At some point, after you’ve been doing this for a while, it is what is normal. The daily trip to the Logan Tavern was not because of the excellent wings (they were terrible and often left over from the day before—I recognized them). It was a fueling stop, a necessary re-attunement that would allow me to continue to exist in this world. Or just restore the chemical stasis that alcohol helped provide my brain.
The Steps do not function as a way to secretly instill religious belief, or to shame alcoholics into not repeating their evil deeds. The Steps were a form of cognitive therapy that helped me see the set of beliefs, the set of imagined needs that drove my need to drink. And it was an actual, real chemical need; when things were bad, the withdrawal symptoms came on very quickly.The first phase of recovery is the dark hard part of learning to live without the thing that you have believed is necessary to live. There are drugs that can help with these symptoms, but ultimately, it is the chance development of hope that makes the difference and sparks recovery instead of relapse.
The first three Steps are meant to inspire that hope, the hope that things could be different and that we could recover, with a little faith to help fan the flame. The hard work of Steps 4 through 9 are about clearing the underbrush from all of the synapses, wiping away the regret, shame, guilt, fear and selfishness that attend addiction, that maybe generate the need for the addiction, at some level. I believe that what one finds when they work the Steps is this:
I finally spied the real version of myself, the one that I had buried way back in 1978 or whatever. As I became more familiar with this person, as I read the words on page 417 for the ka-jillionth time, I began to make peace with this version of myself. It’s not like a “Freaky Friday” plot,7 there’s a lot of water under the bridge and the person I am is a consequence of all of that water flow and it can’t really be undone. That’s not the point.
That’s what the Steps helped me do. Maybe not everyone is helped by finally seeing what happened, but for me, it helped illuminate the path back to what I needed to find.
Sometimes, even when things are good and the world is bright and I’m brimming with energy and all-around happy thoughts, it stills feels good to feel sad. Is that weird? It feels a little like going into a room in the house where you’re not really supposed to be; there’s a sort of dangerous, unhinged possibility in sadness, and it often creates exactly the right climate for change.
Now, I get goosebumps listening to “She’s Gone,” because I have seen the empty toothbrush holder and there was that period of time as a young lawyer where I was imposing on my friend Steve’s hospitality and basement mattress. But I can see now that there is no part of myself that is off-limits and when I touch that pool of sadness, I’ve started to feel the love that attended all of those lost moments instead of regret.
I know there are more sad times ahead, more happy times, too. The Steps helped me finally see what was real about myself and helped undo the terrible knot all of the self-lies tied: The lie that I wasn’t enough. What’s ahead is less important than what is now and what is now is pretty groovy. I don’t need the carbon and the monoxide to choke my thoughts away, yeah.
Happy Friday.
No, but I really do love all of them. That’s sincere.
A bench backseat that could comfortably accommodate 3-4 adults.
You’ve probably never been to a car junkyard, have you?
I always wished it had the little knob that allowed two-finger operation, like my grandfather had in his car, but the go-cart did not have power-steering or really any hydraulics.
You’ll not be surprised that I solved this problem later on. Maybe “solve the problem” is the wrong way to put that.
I did wonder, even back then, what quick decision is it you need to make, dude? She’s Gone. That’s the title of the song.
You know it’s Friday the 13th, right?
