Landing the Big One

I'm not much of a fisherman.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy casting a line every now and then as much as the next guy.  But all in all, I find the whole exercise a bit droll.  Fishing requires far more patience than I possess (I guess I'm too A.D.D.).  My brother, on the other hand, is an absolute fanatic.  He LOVES fishing.  To be clear, when I say "fishing" I don't mean snagging a few perch off the end of a pier - I mean FISHING.  We're talking about wrestling 700-1200 lb monsters from the deep blue over the course of several hours.  Man-style.

When asked why he loves it so much, my brother will attempt to outline the indescribable thrill of the fight. He'll explain how bobbing around in the ocean all day, suffering hours of mind-numbing tedium, pays off the instant your reel screams to life.  Man against nature.  Hunter against prey.

I can relate on a whole other level.  I experienced this same thrill when recently contacted by an old acquaintance from high school.  Quite out of the blue, this guy (who I haven't talked to in 25 years) sent me a FB message asking if we could talk.  Intrigued, I naturally picked up the phone and dialed.  It wasn't long into our conversation that my old classmate, who we'll call "Fred,"admitted to reading my blog (the same one you're presently skimming) and admitted he may have a problem with alcohol.

ZZZIIIING!!!  The 12-step fishing reel screamed to life - I had a live one on the line!  I pulled out all the stops and tried everything in my Recovery tackle box attempting to land him into the AA boat.  I explained the misery of my life as an alcoholic and let him identify with his own experiences.  He'd fight and thrash, then I'd let him run on the line.  Just when he thought he'd gotten away, I yanked on the pole and started reeling - I outlined my many, MANY regretful nights of drinking, but nary a single regretful day of sobriety.  It was a magnificent fight!

Eventually the line snapped and he got away.  But that's okay, he still has my hook in his mouth.  :)

Only the Good...

Years ago, I worked as Executive Director for one of the largest educational theater companies in California.  At any given time, we had multiple performances in production, ranging from San Diego to Sacramento, as well as repertory companies and an international touring group.  In as such, I did a lot of traveling.

It was during one such production in San Diego (I believe it was "Annie") that I met a young group of actors who held a tight bond of friendship both on and off stage.  One night, after rehearsal, this group of kids invited me to go for a midnight swim up at the local reservoir.  Of course, I asked if this activity was illegal, which garnered a speedy "YES" in response.  Without hesitation, I agreed to participate.

We arrived under the cloak of night, parked our cars on a secluded dirt road, and humped up the hill to the edge of the reservoir.  Straining to see through the darkness, I could make out what looked like a guard tower jutting out of the water, about 100 yards from the shore, with power lines webbing out in all directions.  My guides informed me that said tower was to be our ultimate destination.

We stripped to our shorts and dove in.  Upon reaching the tower, we climbed up a ladder to a walkway which circled the circumference of the structure.  Mike, a tall, dark, good looking kid, put his hand on the rail and walked me through the process.  "Here's the deal," he explained.  "Climb up on the rail and use the wall to balance yourself.  When you're ready to jump, go for it.  Just one word of warning..." His tone dropped to serious levels as he pointed to an overhead wire, "Whatever you do, DO NOT touch that wire.  It's live.  You'll be dead in an instant."

"Good to know," I replied.  I climbed as instructed (avoiding the wire, of course) and leapt out into space, performing what can only be described as a "magnificent swan dive."  As I surfaced, the kids atop the tower were going nuts, not because my dive was so impressive, but because my foot came about an inch from grazing the live-wire.

"Oh man, dude!"  Mike exclaimed.  "I told you to watch out for that wire!  You almost got fried!"

We all shared a laugh then continued our illegal water-romp well into the warm summer evening.

A few months later I received the unfortunate news that Mike had passed away.  The circumstances of his death turned out to be a bit disturbing:  The group had returned to their favorite swim-hole for yet another midnight excursion.  Mike climbed atop the rail and steadied himself.  Just as prepped to jump, he lost his balance.  Instinctively, Mike reached up and grabbed the nearest stationary object to steady himself.  Unfortunately, the object he happened to grab was the live-wire.

Mike fell limp into the water below, not breathing and no pulse.  The others jumped in after him and performed CPR until the paramedics arrived.  Alas, there was nothing to be done.  Mike was gone.  The news of Mike's passing took the wind out of me.  He managed to do the very thing he warned me against and lost his life for it.  A tragic loss.

Sobriety is a minefield.  As newcomers, we rely on those who have gone before us to point out the hazards and keep us away from relapse.  All too often, those same people, who know the hazards, wind up inadvertantly stepping into lethal territoty themselves with disasterous consequences.  I have seen brothers and sisters with nearly 20 years of sobriety fall into relapse time and time again.

So often we recognize the wrong road, the path not to take.  We even warn others away, utilizing our own experiences.  Yet time and time again, we reach up and grab that live wire, even though we know it will bring about certain demise.

Somehow, over the past 10 years, I have managed to steer many people away from that wire and avoided grabbing it myself.  Many have heeded the warning, many have not.

Every time one of them falls, I hang my head and utter, "There but for the grace of God..."

What will the preacher do?

What will the preachers do when the devil is saved?

If there existed a theological argument with no skeptical defense, the entire world would be saved.  Conversely, if there existed a skeptical argument with no theological defense, religion would lose all relevance.

Thankfully, addiction carries no such complications.

Today marks 3652 days of sobriety for me.  For those doing the math, that's 10 years.  The hardest part, for me, was the first six months.  I struggled horribly with the first step and admitting I was an alcoholic.  I could not wrap my brain around the idea of eternal abstinence.  Strange as it seems now, I had to convince myself of the benefits of sobriety.

Fortunately, there's no skeptical defense for addiction.  Granted, I've watched many, many newcomers come into the rooms, only to turn around and go right back out, proclaiming every excuse imaginable as to why sobriety won't work for them.  I've heard countless individuals outright deny their disease, while others claimed to be hopelessly misunderstood.  I've even witnessed one or two assertions of a miraculous cure from God's own hand.  In the last decade, I've surveyed every variation of insanity and rebuttal to personal recovery known to man.   But never once have I observed a solid skeptical argument against sobriety.  Alcoholism ruins families, destroys careers, obliterates relationships, disseminates joy, and champions an early grave. Period.

Without a logical defense there remains but one course: Insanity and death.  
There, but for the grace of God...

Onus of Villainy

I teach Advanced Screenwriting at a local college.  It's a great way to give back.  I love it.  One of my favorite lectures revolves around "building a convincing nemesis."  My main focus in this lecture aims at inspiring my students to write believable characters, especially when it comes to their antagonist.  The main key to a powerful nemesis lay in the truth that nobody believes themselves to be the bad guy.  Even the worst of the worst of antagonists believes in the righteousness of their own actions.  Darth Vader was the hero in his own story, as Lord Voldemort was in his.  Not even Adolf Hitler viewed himself a monster, rather the savior of his motherland.  Every good villain becomes a master of "shifting the onus of villainy" which refers to the passive aggressive manner of blaming others for their problems.  And guess what ... we've all done it. 

At the height of my disease, a certain poor soul named Raymond had the express misfortune of becoming my roommate.  During our 6 months of co-occupancy, I drank all night and slept all day.  Due to my unemployable state, I rarely paid my rent on time.  Instead, I expected Ray to cover my half until I could come up with the funds.  Finally, Ray reached his breaking point.  Instead of throwing me out, he made up some horribly weak story about an eviction notice, claiming we had two weeks to vacate the premises.  I packed my stuff up and left.  We both knew he was lying. 

I harbored a deep resentment against Ray for many years, "Eviction?  Such a liar!  Did he think I was stupid?  If he didn't want me there, he should have just said so.  What a yellow-bellied coward!" I spent many an evening plotting ultimate revenge on my cowardly ex-roommate, convinced I had been wronged by his actions.  

In reality, Ray did nothing wrong.  Sure, perhaps he should have handled the situation better, but my selfish actions gave birth to the situation that needed handling in the first place.  Not once did I put myself in his shoes.  I never once looked at my part and examined the horrible position I put Raymond in.  I was hurt by someone I considered a friend (though I never treated him like one) and transferred the onus of villainy on him, rather than the true nemesis... me.

When I worked for the nonprofit children’s theater, we had a large number of parent volunteers, some of whom worked their way up to important positions in the company.  One married couple, in particular, worked their way onto the board of directors.  The wife was eventually given control of the finances, which she managed for several years.  For me, handing the books over to this woman sent red flags flying.  Not because they were bad people, but because they were completely delusional.  They were the type of people who would take any situation and twist it around until it fit into whatever mold worked best for them. I always thought it strange that this couple donated much of their time even after their children grew up, left the theater, and moved away.  It also struck me odd that this couple did not seem to have any visible means of income, yet had enough money to buy new cars, pay their children’s rent, and put a down payment on a new home.

Sure enough, large sums of embezzled money were eventually uncovered.  They were also suspected of taking money from other nonprofits along the way.  What kind of people do this?  How can someone steal from a charity and still sleep at night?

I later discovered the wife had been a victim of molestation as a child.  She coped with the trauma by stuffing the pain and denying the horrific reality of her past.  Anytime something went wrong, she crushed the reality of it down and twisted it around until it came out right.  The rest of the world saw the insanity while she consistently convinced herself, and her family, of her unstable rationale. She expanded denial to every aspect of her life and passed it on to her husband and children.

When money became a problem, this couple had to find a way to support their family.  They had access to a check book that was attached to a loaded bank account.  If you were to ask her if she was a thief, she would confidently explain, “We put in a lot of hard work for no pay.  That money was ours.  We earned it.” 

     
Her problem was not that she was a White Collar Criminal.  Theft was but a symptom of a bigger problem – she was a survivor of molestation who never sought help, which eventually manifested in criminal behavior.

In much the same way, addiction is a smaller symptom of a bigger problem.  Human beings get so screwed up in the head that they will search for anything to lessen the pain of life.  Alcohol, drugs, food, sex, gambling, pornography, and money are just a few solutions we turn to in order to silence the constant noise that plaques our minds in the quiet hours of the night.  We must first deal with the crutch of addiction, only then may we begin the healing process.

The people that surround us are not our problem, WE are our problem. It's so much easier to shift the onus of villainy to others, rather than face the true nemesis: our past hurts and failures.  

Bee A Wasp

A common phrase parroted in the rooms of recovery proclaims, "My disease is doing push ups in the corner, waiting for me to slip up."  In my early recovery, I fancied this a nonsensical remark with no concrete foundation in reality.  "My disease is getting stronger while I'm sober?  That makes no sense!"  It took a few years for the wisdom of this phrase to burrow deep and take root.

I'm an avid practitioner of MMA (mixed martial arts).  People often ask, "Why do you train in martial arts? You trying to be a tough guy?"  In truth, my reasons for practicing MMA vary from "It's a great source of exercise" to "It's a cathartic purge-valve for releasing stress."  Ultimately, I'm not trying to be the toughest guy in the room, just the toughest target.

Allow me to elaborate...  Let's say you're walking through the woods and a mosquito lands on your arm.  What do you do?  You SMASH it.  You proceed down the trail and a few minutes later a wasp lands on the same arm.  Now what do you do?   You hold your breath and gingerly brush the insect away, praying not to agitate it in the process.   Granted, you inherently understand your own power dwarfs that of the wasp and you can squash the life from its tiny frame with one swat (like the mosquito), yet you take care to lightly brush it away and run screaming in terror if it pulls a 180 and heads back in your direction. You grant the wasp due respect and hope he goes about his business without reprisal. Why do you treat the mosquito different from the wasp?  Easy: the wasp has a stinger.  It possesses the potential to inflict a small degree of pain - the mosquito doesn't.

Therein lies my soul purpose for practicing mixed martial arts.  When the toughest guy in the room decides to go looking for trouble, I'd rather he view me as a wasp than a mosquito.  Sure, he can crush me with a single blow, but he'll likely get stung in the process.  In as such, said tough guy will carve a wide swath around me, not for fear of defeat, but because less dangerous prey can be found nearby. I'm a tough target.

I often notice relapse incidents occur because addicts fail to make themselves tough targets for their disease.  For me, steadfast sobriety maintenance equals long-term recovery.  My disease is cunning, baffling, and powerful.  It can squash me with a single blow if I'm not careful.  As with martial arts, I must constantly exercise my sobriety by fostering a relationship with God, going to meetings, doing the step work, and being of service, whereby sidestepping the deadliest disease in the room.  I'm a tough target.

My disease is doing push-ups in the corner, gaining strength every day, waiting for the opportunity to crush me.  It's up to me to decide if I'm going to be an easy target.  I can stop going to meetings, abandon my step work, and neglect my contact with God, or I can do push-ups in my own corner.

Personally, I'd rather be a wasp than a mosquito.

One Day at a Time

As previously stated, I failed to recognize the nature of my disease well into my sobriety.  The idea of admitting to my alcoholic nature eluded me for many months.

My third day of recovery found me in a small men's group on a Sunday morning.  I listened as others unraveled complex drunk-a-logs, recounting black-out drinking and demolished lives.  I could not relate.  You see, I was not a black-out drinker.  I rarely drank during daylight hours and never wound up at the bottom of a freeway off ramp begging for change (though I came close).

After listening to yet another woeful diatribe, I finally lifted my hand and expressed the clear disconnect between my story and those around me.  "I don't think I'm an alcoholic," I stated with great assurance. "I never once blacked out, I didn't have to drink as soon as my feet hit the floor in the morning, I didn't lose my home or my job (not true)... I'm just not sure I belong here."

The group stared at me, encumbered in a pregnant pause.  Finally, one genius (and by "genius" I mean "a complete tool who had no business counseling new-comers") spoke up and declared in his infinite wisdom, "Well, maybe you're not an alcoholic.  Maybe you're just a problem drinker."

"What's this?" I thought.  "A problem drinker?  Nobody mentioned THIS little loophole before!" A fortuitous tidbit of information that hit me square in the brain pan.  "Eureka!  That's it!  I'm not an alcoholic, I'm just a problem drinker!  Praise Jesus!"  Little did my half-witted mentor realize, his sliver of unsolicited advice sent me blazing down an unnecessary road of hardship and confusion, nearly wrecking me onto the shores of relapse.  For the next few months, I suffered the rooms of recovery, determined to dive back into the bar scene once I had my little "drinking problem" in check.

When not in meetings, I worked the graveyard shift as a security guard in a bank.  The wee hours of the morning generally found me sitting in a guard shack, tapping the face of my watch to see if the second-hand still functioned.  No radio, no cellphone, no books, no company... just me alone with my thoughts.  I reclined in my chair, planning my first drink.  "Let's see... I think the next time I go to Vegas... yeah, that's when I'll flush this whole sobriety thing down the drain."  Visions of poker chips and Jack Daniels danced through my head.

A few minutes later, a new thought occurred to me, "Well, heck... I'm not an alcoholic, I'm just a problem drinker.  So I guess I don't have to wait for Vegas. Maybe I'll pop the cork at the next social event."  I folded my arms across my chest in satisfaction, "Yeah, I'll hop off the wagon at the next party I go to."

In a matter of moments, another inspiration rattled through my brain, "Wait a minute... since I'm not technically an alcoholic, I don't even have to wait for a party.  I can call my buddies and hit the bars this weekend!  They'll be thrilled!  I'm going to call them-"  Before that thought concluded, a new flash of brilliance erupted, "HANG ON A SEC!"  I bolted upright.  "I'm not an alcoholic!  I don't have to wait for the weekend, I can start drinking TONIGHT!"

And with that, the decision was made.  I would get loaded THAT very night.  I leaned back and let out a sigh of relief.

Now, had I punched out the clock at that very moment I most likely would have fulfilled my delusions of relapse.  Fortunately, I had a few more lonely hours on the job, enough time for common sense to creep in.

"Then again," I thought.  "This whole 'sobriety' thing has been pretty cool.  I kinda like going to sleep and waking up, rather than passing out and coming to.  I feel great, I'm happy, and I'm getting so much more done with my days.  I mean, if I think about it, nothing really special happened today that I need to celebrate.  For that matter, nothing really bad happened that I need to forget about.  Bottom line, there's no good reason to drink today.  Maybe something will happen tomorrow and I'll have a good reason to drink.  Just not today.  Just... not... today."  Then it dawned on me, "Not today... one day at a time." I leapt from my chair, "ONE DAY AT A TIME!  That's what that means!"

Thus, my moment of clarity.  I took the first step and my obsession was lifted.

I didn't want to be an alcoholic.  I tried, with great fervor, to convince myself I wasn't like "those people" in the rooms of recovery.  Their story was not mine.  A solitary night in a guard shack illuminated the singular truth that would forever stay with me - the unique nature of my drinking did not qualify me as an alcoholic, the commonality did.

From that day on, I learned to look for the similarities rather than the differences.

3 T's

In order to foster any relationship, either with God or man, we must do three things:

• •Time – Spend time with each other.  Relationships don’t happen over night.
• •Talk – Communication is a two-way street.  We must remember listen as much as we talk.  (When we tune in, like a radio, we begin to feel God’s voice.)
• •Trust – Every solid relationship finds its foundation in trust.  (We must trust God and surrender to His will.)

We bear the image of God, who exists in three forms - Father, Son, and Spirit.  In as such, we contain  three parts as well – body, mind, and soul.  Unlike God, however, our parts commonly fail to effectively communicate, or agree, under most circumstances.

     For instance... as I get older, my metabolism slows down.  My mind understands the necessity of healthy living and tells my body to eat right and exercise. Unfortunately, my body insists on adapting to every new exercise and diet, requiring my mind to come up with a new diet and exercise plan every couple of months.  In essence, my mind must resort to trickery in order to fool my body into a higher metabolic rate.  Mind and body insist upon working independently.

     When I was young, I saw something that I wanted but could not afford.  My mind said, “just take it.”  My soul, which represents my moral compass, said “it’s not yours to take.”  I had a veritable angel and devil on each shoulder.  Unfortunately, these trappings have followed me into adulthood.  When someone wrongs me, my soul begs me to forgive that person.  On the other shoulder, my mind resists, desiring to hold onto the grudge.  My mind and soul exist in perfect disagreement.

    In order to stay healthy, our bodies require food and exercise, our minds require knowledge, and our souls require spiritual/moral growth and fellowship.  Our mind, body, and soul live at constant odds with one another, working against the greater good.  If but one of these things falls to the wayside,  a vacant hole develops, begging our attention.  We grow unhappy, unhealthy, and discontent.  Naturally, in an attempt to fill the hole we may turn to food, money, or sex and empty relationships.  There are those of us, however, who turn to alcohol and/or drugs in an attempt to douse the expanding flame of hopelessness. The trick becomes finding long term satisfaction.  How do we do that?

The first step to becoming whole again:  Spend time talking to God, listening to His will and trusting He will make all things right.

So simple, yet so difficult to master.

Hope

I'm currently previewing a feature film entitled "Renee" for a potential partnership with SAVN.  It's a true story about a young addict/alcoholic struggling with recovery.  When asked how she's doing, Renee responds, "I feel like my soul's just been kicked in the nuts."  What a perfect description of early recovery!

I came into the rooms of recovery for one reason... I had lost hope.  For a very long time, I stood in darkness, having lost sight of any light at the end of the tunnel.  I was sad, lonely, and desperate.  Most of all, I was without hope.

Early recovery from addiction manifests into an epic battle between mind and body.  Our brain, which represents the needs of the body, tells us, "You don't need this!  This is stupid and pointless.  Why put yourself through this torture?  You're not an addict!"  We want so desperately to listen to this advice and accept it as the voice of reason.  We must remember, however, our brain represents the best interests of the body, which has but one goal:  INGEST MORE CHEMICALS TO STOP THE PAIN!  In as such, our brain acts as a mere vessel for the real puppet-master: the disease of addiction.  Make no mistake, the brain retains great power, with cunning and powerful strategies, aimed at obtaining specific desires.   Let your guard down for a single second and it will drag you into relapse with little resistance.

On the other end of the battle lay the mind.  Our mind represents the best interests of the soul and speaks the spirit of truth.  It has a much different goal than the body:  DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO OBTAIN FREEDOM FROM IMPRISONMENT IN ORDER TO LIVE HAPPY, JOYOUS AND FREE.  The soul upholds human ideals such as liberty, morality, justice, and accountability.  It is the very glue that holds our society together.  The soul champions our desires for love, charity, happiness, fellowship, freedom, peace, and eternity.  It cares less about our physical survival and more about our emotional well being.   The soul understands that spiritual stability precedes physical health.  It understands the necessity of breaking the bonds of addiction, which offer only temporary relief, in order to accomplish concrete and long-term happiness.  The soul is the reason we step into the rooms of recovery in the first place.

Whether or not we succeed in sobriety depends on whom we grant more strength - mind or body.  For me, my soul won the battle... barely.  The prison of my addiction gave way to the prison of my apartment, pacing the floor and watching the walls close in.  Each sweat-drenched pillow and sleepless night reloaded the addictive revolver with a fresh cylinder of alcoholic ammo.  Time inched forward in slow motion.  A week lasted a month, a month lasted a year.

I flirted with relapse time and time again, fighting back my brain's assurances that true sobriety rested atop an unclimbable mountain, out of reach of the common man.  My soul fired back, reminding me that millions had survived the genesis of sobriety before me, millions would do so after.  I dug my nails into my palms and held on for dear life.

After what seemed like an endless struggle, an almost imperceptible miracle occurred.  There, at the end of the darkened tunnel, a glimmer appeared.  For the first time in years, a light broke through.  It shone so dimly at first, but grew in intensity as I piled up the sobriety days in my arsenal.

At last, I understood a thing called "hope" still existed, one day at a time.

Tommorrow

I just figured I was broken.  Try as I may, the concept of picking up a cocktail, without plummeting into perfect intoxication, wholly eluded me. Why couldn't I drink like a gentleman?  Why couldn't I dip my toe into the controlled alcoholic foray along with my societal peers?  I often managed to give up booze in short spurts, determined to "control and enjoy" upon my return, yet came full-circle back to nightly drunken debauchery with certainty.

On a certain Wednesday, after many years of alcoholism, I stood high on my laurels and announced, "That's it!  I can stand this lifestyle no longer!  Tomorrow I shall quit drinking for good!"  The days to follow went something like this...

Thursday:  A day good as any to begin my journey into sobriety... until I realized Friday was just 24 hours away.  "I can't quit on a weekend!  I'll quit on Sunday, before the work week begins."

Sunday:  The weekend's over, time to hang up the bottle.  Um, then again, "It's technically still the weekend... I'll quit tomorrow."

Monday: The first/worst day of the week, "Mondays are miserable!  I need a drink to take the edge off.  I'll quit tomorrow."

Tuesday:  New Release night at Blockbuster.  "Who can watch a movie without throwing back a few cocktails?  It'll ruin movie night! I'll quit tomorrow."

Wednesday:  Everyone hits the bar on Hump Day.  "I should pass up an opportunity to drink with people instead of drinking alone?  Are you kidding me?  I'll quit tomorrow."

And we're back to Thursday, 24 hours from the weekend.  And thus began a never ending cycle, repeating week after week, for the final three years of my drinking career.  No exaggeration - for three years, EVERY DAY, I managed to convince myself that the following day would deliver new-found sobriety.

If nothing else, I was consistent!

Good News / Bad News

Congratulations, you’re sober!  There's good news and bad news.  The good news, you get your emotions back.  The bad news, you get your emotions back.

"Arrested Development" ain’t just a show on TV.  It's an actual condition manifested in social retardation.  For many, prior to addiction, life translates into pain.  Somewhere along the line we discover that drugs and alcohol wonderfully mask the horrific mental and emotional strife which plague our daily walk; substance abuse offers temporary relief from said pain.  As a result, our emotional maturation ceases at the genesis of the addiction. Simply put, if we start drinking and using at the age of 15, we we emotionally arrest at that level of maturity until we stop drinking and using.  Here's the rub: Once sober, we must now struggle with adult problems handicapped by the emotional maturity of a 15 year old child. 

Think of how children deal with the world: When they become angry, they throw tantrums.  When they don’t get their way, they pout and hold grudges.  Children bound about the world demanding others focus attention to their every selfish little desire (sound like anyone you know?).  But let's be clear, they're SUPPOSED to do that.  They’re children!  Their very survival depends upon a reliance on adults. However, when a grown-up behaves in the same manner, it's simply annoying and pathetic.     

1^st Corinthians 13:11 says, "When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me."   

By working the steps, we begin to acknowledge our past and grow up.  We put our childish ways behind us. 

Pros and Cons

Someone once defined insanity as, "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

Such a definition perfectly describes the nature of my disease.  For the life of me, I could not figure out why I consistently failed to drink like a gentleman.  I observed those around me who possessed the uncanny ability to drink in moderation, a behavior which left me wholly vexed.  Every drink, no matter which angle I came at it, delivered me squarely into the identical spot time and time again - complete and obsessive intoxication.

I tried, oh, how I tried to conquer the ever elusive dragon known as social drinking, harnessed by so many of my peers.  Both brief and lengthy stretches of drought convinced me, "This time!  This time I will get it right!"  Alas, my return to the bottle yielded only short and painful attempts toward temperance, finally resulting in full-blown daily debauchery.  I repeatedly slammed my forehead into a singular brick in the massive wall of moderation, in a desperate attempt to break through.  Instead, I fell to my knees, bloodied and broken.  After succint respite, I gained my feet and started all over.  Such was the nature of my insanity.

So many of my brothers and sisters have I witnessed who struggle to tame the unquenchable beast as I once tried.  In and out, in and out, in and out of recovery, declaring to the world, "This time!  This time I will get it right!"  Only to come crawling back; battered, bloody, and beaten.

The monster cannot be tamed.  Ever.

Here's how I break it down today:

• In my disease: I'm lonely, miserable, ashamed, sick, sad, broken, and unable to look at myself in a mirror.
• In sobriety: I'm happy, joyous, free, whole, healthy, confident, and proud of myself and my accomplishments.

It's a no-brainer!

Commitments

"Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile."  Albert Einstein.

Shortly after finding a sponsor, I was given my first directive in sobriety, "Get a Commitment."

Sobriety Commitments come in all shapes and sizes and I had to choose just the right one for me.  My first choice was the Coffee Commitment - You come in, brew up a batch of java, stand behind the counter, and serve it up. Everyone's always happy to see the "Coffee Guy!" Unfortunately, that position was filled.  In fact, all the positions were filled except the "Greeter" and "Parking Lot Ambassador."

The position of Greeter held no appeal for me. The idea of standing at the front door and shaking hands with total strangers  gave sufficient rise to the bile in the back of my throat.  Let's be honest, I didn't join Recovery to meet people.

Parking Lot Ambassador, on the other hand, had an official ring to it. An Ambassador! Visions of official ambassador duties danced through my head.  My first order of business - Organize a summit of fellow Parking Lot Ambassadors from neighboring Recovery groups in order to discuss the decline of modern societal motorization. Soon after, my fellow ambassadors would hoist me to their shoulders and unanimously promote me from ambassador to Parking Lot President! I imagined a world filled with peaceful parking lots, joy-filled motorists, and children dancing around the wheel-stops, singing my praises. I was to be the greatest Parking Lot King in the history of sobriety! 

I soon discovered the realities of an ambassador's job duties - staring at the asphalt while ensuring vehicles parked in the handicapped spaces had handicapped stickers.  Not so glamorous.

An unexpected consequence developed as I stood at the edge of that blacktop... I began to meet people.  Turns out, the ambassador was the first person people saw when arriving and exiting their vehicles.  They felt obligated to say "Hello" and I felt obligated to reciprocate.  In my haste to avoid the Greeter position, I failed to recognize the Parking Lot Ambassador job would land me squarely in a pre-greeter role. 

The more people I met, the more comfortable I felt within the group.  I gradually grew to become "a part of" the body of recovery; a group of misfits and crazies who were to become my second family.

Commitments (aka "being of service") requires us to give of ourselves while expecting nothing in return. Sobriety calls upon us to step up and clean the hall, serve as group officers, participate in H&I, share our stories, accept commitments, and help others who struggle with addiction.  We do all this with no anticipation of personal gain. We contribute to the betterment of the group, as a whole, without reciprocity. For the first time in our selfish existence we must set aside our own desires and cater to the needs of our fellow man.

In order to keep our sobriety, we must give it away.  Only then may we understand the joy of honest fellowship.