Monday, January 28, 2013

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!

Saturday, January 26, 2013

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. 

Monday, January 14, 2013

Spiritual Kindergarten


I believe AA, NA, OA, GA, SA and all of the other “A's” arrived on this temporal coil via divine inspiration and intervention, to be sure, inspired by God.  A glorious introduction to a higher power for those who have no interest or belief in the Creator.  

Unfortunately, many stop there. After turning to face God, many make no further movement toward Him (or Her, whichever you prefer).  For them, sobriety presents only a brief spiritual solution, buried beneath stacks of disheartened confusion.

During my early recovery, I relished in anger toward God. Much to my dismay, a solid recovery program and the 12 steps dictated I make a conscious contact with God.  Under protest, I begrudgingly renewed a cautious relationship with the Almighty.  Little did I know, I had just enrolled in "Spiritual Kindergarten."

As mentioned before, I grew up in a religious household.  I understood, all too well, the precepts of religious dogma.  Years of Sunday School and Bible studies had instilled in me a deep-seeded comprehension of most theological principles. It also planted within me a fervent hatred for the hypocritical nature of organized denominational theocracy. At the age of 18, I fled from the church without temptation of ever looking back.

Nothing could have succeeded in dragging me back into a spiritual relationship with my Maker.  Nothing, that is, but for the alarming jolt of a rock-bottom face plant. Thankfully, recovery didn't launch me into the spiritual deep-end out of the gate, or I would have spun into about-face and marched out the way I came in. 

No, the program of recovery masterfully eased me into the shallow-end, one pinky-toe at a time. It did not force me to my knees in repentance or whisk me away to confession, rather, sobriety simply required a small amount of belief in something - anything.  I could do that.

Spiritual baby steps inched me toward a growing relationship with God.  Over time, my trust in Him developed and my faith blossomed.

Finally, graduation day arrived.  God tapped my shoulder and said in no uncertain terms, "You've learned all this place has to teach. It's time for you to go home."

"Home?" I inquired. "What do you mean? This recovery hall is my home."

"No," he said. "This was only to be an orientation, a place for you to build a foundation for the remainder of your spiritual journey. Now I want you to go home."

"Fine. I'll start looking for a church-"

"Not just any church..." he interrupted. "I want you to go home."

Message delivered loud and clear. I didn't have to ask.  To say I was unhappy about it would be an understatement, "Hold on, Lord. You want me to go back to my old church? No way! I'll go to another church, any other church, just don't make me go back there. Those people drove me away from you in the first place. I want nothing to do with those self-righteous, hypocritical, bigots!"

His response was brief and pointed, "I don't want you to follow my people, I want you to follow me." 

All at once, I understood. I was never angry with God, but with the church.  Those people, whom I had resented lo these many years, were just as flawed and pathetic as me. They held no sway over my spiritual prosperity. All that mattered was my personal walk with God. If I wanted to transcend, I had to obey.

One thing I knew for certain: God wants only the best for His children. So I trusted in Him, swallowed my pride, and went back. But why did it have to be that church? I uncovered the wisdom of His plan several years later when I landed my dream job as a direct result of returning to that particular fellowship. He knew the best path for me all along (naturally). In hindsight, graduating from my "spiritual kindergarten" into a higher level of theological understanding turned out to be the best decision I ever made.

To be clear, I'm in NO WAY coming down on the spiritual relevance of recovery. I owe my life to AA and regularly attend meetings to this day. However, I came to understand that recovery, in and of itself, can never function as a sufficient proving ground for the endless advancement of spiritual growth. Supplemental fellowship is essential.  You're either moving toward God, or away from God.  There's no in-between.  

You've earned your diploma.  Now do yourself a favor and graduate to grade-school!

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Drunk Driving


I always drove in my rear-view mirror, rarely watching the road in front of me.  I was far more concerned with what may be coming up behind me instead of events unfolding before me.  For good reason:  Nearly every time I climbed behind the wheel of my car I committed a felony DUI.

I know what you're thinking, "Why drive drunk?  Why not call a cab?"  Several reasons.  First, after a few cocktails, sound judgement sails straight out the window.  "I'm fine.  I can make it home.  Heck, I drive better after a few drinks!"  Second, taking a cab home meant leaving my car behind, resulting in a subsequent trip back to the bar in the morning.  I'd have to hire another cab or find someone to give me a lift.  Who wants to suffer all that with a hangover?   Not me.  Third, calling a cab to drive me home every night would result in the hasty onset of bankruptcy.  To my mind, drinking and driving always won out as my most reasonable option.  

For some inexplicable reason, fortune smiled on me when it came to squeaking out of DUIs.  Three times I found myself pulled over for drunk driving and three times I side-stepped incarceration.

My first brush with the law happened at the ripe old age of 17.  After chugging a couple brewskies at the church softball league, I weaved my way through the streets of Orange County, CA.  Flashing police lights in the rear view mirror signaled an end to my late-night journey home.

A surprisingly attractive female officer approached my window.  "How much have you had to drink?" she asked while shining her mag-lite in my face.

"Uh ... one beer."  I lied.

"One beer?  You smell like a brewery."  She pulled out a pad and pen, "What's your father's phone number?  I'm going to call him out here to pick you up."

MY DAD??  Not that!  Anything but that!  "Uh ... couldn't you just take me to jail?"

20 minutes later, my father showed up and drove me home.  That was the longest two-mile ride of my life.

My second scare came a few years later.  Earlier that evening I managed to throw back a dozen or so cocktails before meeting up with some classmates to work on a film school project.  Fortunately, the assignment burned six hours of my life, allowing me to sober up a bit.  We finished up around 3AM, at which point I climbed into my car and jumped on the freeway.

The CHP (California Highway Patrol) nabbed me a few minutes later.  The officer pulled me out of my vehicle and administered a Field Sobriety Test (which I passed with flying colors).  However, the breathalyzer told a different story, registering my blood-alcohol level at .08 (a legal limit at that time).

Once again, the officer cut me a break and advised me to call a sober friend to come pick me up... then he left!  So I did what any red-blooded American kid would do ... I got back in my car and drove home.

The last incident occurred while serving as the designated (drunk) driver, assigned the task of chauffeuring my intoxicated roommates home from a wedding.  Hands down, this occasion should have ended in handcuffs.  My blood-alcohol levels must have been twice the legal limit (if not more)!

I saw the cop car in the distance, traveling toward me on the opposite side of the road.  My hands flashed to the proper angles of 10 and 2 on the steering wheel.  As he passed, I locked eyes on the rear view mirror in time to see him flip around and light me up.  He caught me dead to rights.  Fear wrapped its icy fingers around the midst of my soul and squeezed.   I looked at my buddies, "This is it, fellas... I'm going to jail."

The officer approached and poked his head in my window.  "Where you guys coming from?"

"Uh... we're ... uh..." I stammered, attempting to mask my breath. "We're headed home from a wedding."

He sniffed the air, "I smell alcohol."

"Yeah," I replied.  "These guys have been drinking.  I'm the designated driver."  Designated driver?!  He's NEVER going to believe that load of manure!

The cop took a step back and studied me.  "Okay," he said.  "I pulled you over because you have a headlight out.  Be sure to get that fixed."  And with that, he walked away!

We just sat there, stunned.

After a few minutes, my buddy broke the silence, "Did... did that just happen?"

I hate to say it, but I'm convinced the officer was relieved we weren't a car full of gang-bangers and let us go to avoid the paperwork.  No complaints here!

During my drinking days, driving a car presented a perpetual state of terror resulting from a perpetual state of drunkenness.  It took well over a year into my sobriety before my DUI anxieties alleviated.  My first traffic stop while in recovery came at the unfortunate expense of a couple of rookie cops.

One evening, while on my way home from an AA meeting, it suddenly occurred to me that I was low on cigarettes.  Without a second thought, I made a right turn into the nearest 7-11.  No infraction there, right?  Wrong.  I happened to be in the far left lane, prior to making the turn, and cut across three lanes of traffic.  Oops!   Of course, a couple of rookie cops happened to be cruising up behind me at the time.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to use "rookie" as a derogatory term,  but these guys still had the price-tags on their uniforms.  They were fresh.

Just as I put my car in park, the officers pulled in behind me and flipped on their lights.   So, I hopped out and walked back to meet them.  I later learned this to be an unwise behavior during a traffic stop.  Apparently, distancing yourself from your vehicle signals the officer of an intent to keep them away from your car, whereby raising suspicion.  I did not know this.

Tweedle-Dee's hand shot to his weapon. "Please stay by your car, sir!" he commanded in his best big-boy voice.  His partner, Tweedle-Dum, circled around to the other side of my car.

I stopped in my tracks, slightly annoyed, "Uh, is there something I can help you fellas with?"

Dee relaxed from his combat pose, opting not to shoot me. "Where you coming from, sir?"

"An AA meeting."

In a brilliant display of investigative prowess, Dum stepped forward and asked, "You comin' from the alcoholic AA?"

"No," I snapped, graduating from annoyance into outright irritation. "I'm coming from the Auto Club.  I was short on cash and couldn't afford the third 'A'."

"You been drinking?"

"That's right," I said.  "You got me.  Well done, Grissom.  I just came from the AA kegger down the street.  You guys must be buckin' for CSI!"

The mentally deficient line of questioning ended there.  They searched my car, found nothing, wrote me a citation, and let me go.  I had to pay a fine for my traffic violation... and it felt great!  For the first time, in a long time, I endured interrogation by johnny-law with absolutely no fear of incarceration.  Admittedly, I was a bit hard on those boys, but I just couldn't resist the Mack-truck sized openings they presented.  Perhaps I'll see them again some day and apologize.

The point is this:  I'm lucky.  After over a decade of daily drunk driving, I escaped with nary a DUI.  What's more amazing, I managed to avoid killing myself or someone else.  Many a time do I remember getting behind the wheel when I had NO business operating a vehicle; flying down the highway with one eye closed so as to counteract my double-vision, only to arrive home, stumble up my driveway and pass out on the front stoop.  How I managed to avoid an icy metal slab in the county morgue baffles me.

I guess God had a bigger plan for my life.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

My Own Private Eskimo (prt 2)


Inexplicable panic attacks set in, following Sherry's death.  I'd heard of panic attacks, but never realized the paralyzing fear produced upon onset. 

My first attack came by way of heart palpitations while driving up the 405 freeway during rush hour traffic.  "Dear God..." I thought, "I'm having a heart attack!"  I swung my car over to the shoulder and braced for unconsciousness.  "This is it.  My mother's going to get a phone call that her youngest son was found dead on the side of the road.  Dear God..."

After several agonizing minutes, I pulled myself together and white-knuckled my way home.  From then on, every excursion into the outside world incited an onset of hyperventilation and cold sweats, accompanied by the overwhelming sense of impending doom.

The coups-de-grĂ¢ce arrived by way of a trip to the airport.  At the time, my parents lived in Australia and had purchased a round-trip ticket for me to visit.  I arrived at LAX with barely enough time to make my flight, at which point I sat in the parking lot for 20 minutes trying to gain the courage to get out of my car.  I had traveled by air hundreds of times in my life, all over the world.  I'd even been to Australia before! Never once had the smallest amount of apprehension ever entered the equation.  For some reason, I convinced myself this flight would be the death of me.  I gripped the steering wheel, frozen.  The flight left without me.

The panic attacks eventually faded, but for some reason the fear of flying held fast.  Only recently have I overcome my apprehension of air travel.  

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't afraid of flying, I just wasn't comfortable with it.  Blasting through the atmosphere in an aluminum tube, topping 600 mph at 35,000 feet, defies the natural order of things.  Do you know why they pressurize the cabin?  Because there's not enough oxygen to support human life at that altitude! Not to mention, the -70 degrees just outside your window.  The only thing standing between you and certain death is 12 inches of aluminum siding.  If you think about it, it's a bit unsettling.

It kills me when people say, “You have a better chance of dying in a car accident than in a plane crash.”  Apples and oranges, man!  Of course we have a better chance of dying in a car crash – we’re always in cars and rarely in planes.  That increases the odds a bit!  That’s like dismissing galeophobia (fear of sharks) by saying, “you have a better chance of being bitten by a dog than a shark.”  Well... duh!  The fact that we share terra-firma with canines increases the odds.  However, it does NOT make swimming in the ocean any less perilous!  The point is this:  If we traveled as often in planes as we did in cars, the ratio of fatalities would be far more balanced.
       
All of that aside, I’d rather die ten times in a car accident than once in a plane crash.  First off, in a car crash, you’re probably going to die of some sort of head trauma. A little blood from the ears and nose but not very messy.  

Second, there’s a good chance you’re not going to see it coming in a car.  One moment, you’re driving along, listening to Manilow’s Greatest Hits, the next thing you know - BOOM! - you’re floating above your body, headed for a white light.  

Much more preferable to the alternative: falling from 6 miles up and hitting the ground like a lawn dart.  You’re cruising along at altitude and suddenly the wing freezes over - WHOOSH!  The aircraft inverts into what you instinctively know to be an uncorrectable pitch.  Now you have approximately 3 minutes of free-fall to ponder how it all will end.  I'm sorry, that's about 2 minutes and 59 seconds longer than I'd care to think about my inevitable demise. And don’t even get me started on the ‘splatter effect.' Total dismemberment and carnage. Nothing to bury.  Thanks, I’ll drive.

Having said all that, I'd take 1000 plane crashes over a single cancerous mortality. Sherry's excruciating exit from this mortal coil shall forever be burned in my memory. I wouldn't wish such an end on my worst enemy.

But I morbidly digress...

Where were we?  Oh yes, panic attacks!

My fast-track to self annihilation, via booze, grew steadily more apparent.  I now understand my panic attacks stemmed from the knowledge that my behaviors would eventually catch up to me, resulting in an early and ominous death.  I was scared.  

It took me another 6 months to gain the courage to walk into the rooms of recovery. Sherry's death sponsored the first step in that direction.

Years later, someone acknowledged me as their Eskimo. By far, one of the greatest gifts I ever received in recovery.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

My Own Private Eskimo

Once upon a time, there lived a Scientist.  As a man of science, he was and avid atheist with no belief in God.  One day, the Scientist decided to undertake a solo expedition to the Arctic Circle.  His colleagues warned him against the dangers of adventuring off into the wilderness alone, but to no avail.  He was determined.

Several weeks into his expedition, the Scientist was overcome by a tremendous storm.  He hunkered down in his tent to ride out the squall.  After several days, the storm passed and the Scientist emerged to discover all of his gear had been carried away and destroyed by the winds.  His GPS, maps, and compass lay scattered and broken across the arctic landscape.  Nothing remained.

The Scientist tried in vain to find his way back to civilization.  He wandered around in circles for weeks, lost in the vast icy tundra.

Finally, desperate and on the verge of starvation, he hit his knees and cried out, "Please God!  If you're real and can hear me, I need your help!  Get me out of this and I'll never doubt your existence again!"

At that very moment, something caught his eye... There, standing on a distant hill, framed by the northern lights, stood a magnificent Eskimo; a fur-covered miracle of salvation.

The Scientist bowed his head and let out a sigh of relief.  After a moment, he raised his eyes to heaven, "Never mind..." he said.  "I'll just ask the Eskimo for directions."

-------------------------------------------

You will hear this common parable told in the rooms of recovery, far and wide.  Every drunk and junky arrives out of the wilderness of addiction by way of our own private Eskimo; a savior sent by God to deliver us into the refuge of sobriety.  As with the Scientist, we rarely recognize God's hand in our salvation.  That realization comes much later.

My favorite aunt, Sherry, was a character.  Short and tough with a cropped haircut, she embodied every stereotypical trait of a lesbian middle-school gym teacher (which she happened to be).  I loved her dearly.

Sherry was the unfortunate product of a broken childhood.  She experienced unwarranted abuse at the hands of my grandfather, a hope-to-die alcoholic.  As a result, Sherry turned to alcohol herself at a very young age; a desperate attempt to combat the piles of pain stacked against the walls of her fragile psyche.  She soaked her memories (and liver) in ethanol for nearly 40 years before finally hitting rock-bottom.  At the age of 52, Sherry gave up the fight and crawled into the rooms of recovery.

Years later, at the height of my disease, I moved into Sherry's house.  She needed help paying her mortgage and I needed a place to stay.  We shared many occasions of laughter, conversation, heart-break, and tears during our time together.  She was my closest confidant and friend.

Toward the end of my tenancy with her, I began to notice a drastic change in Sherry's physical appearance: Radical weight loss accompanied by a pronounced abdomen.  She looked like she was smuggling a volleyball under her t-shirt!   "Eh..." I thought, "Potbellies just come with the territory when you get older, I guess."

Soon after, Sherry asked (nay demanded) I move out.  She cited my excessive drinking as a stumbling-block for her recovery and handed me my walking papers.   I have to admit, the unceremonious eviction from a dwelling I had called home for the past four years left me angry and resentful.  I begrudgingly obliged.

A few weeks later, I got a phone call.  Sherry had cancer.  My aunt had ignored some major warning signs (not the least of which was her bulbous belly) and by the time she went to the doctor, it was too late.  The surgeons opened up her abdomen, took one look at her cancer-riddled organs, sewed her back up, and sent her home to get her affairs in order.  There was nothing they could do.

Now it all made sense!  Sherry knew she was sick, that's why she wanted me out.  Granted, I'm sure my drinking contributed in part to my eviction, however, I'm convinced to this day that my aunt understood the horrors to come and wanted to save me the pain of bearing witness to her disintegration.  She wanted to protect me.

Alas, Sherry was an ornery sort who would not go gentle into that good night.  If the doctors wouldn't help, she'd find her own path to remission.  Out of sheer desperation, Sherry employed a "Holistic Doctor" in hopes his voodoo would present a cure.  That quack siphoned $10,000 from her bank account and insisted we avoid acknowledging her cancer in any way, shape, or form.   Of course, it didn't work. In as such, Sherry never drew up a will and we were forbidden to say our goodbyes. I still have resentment toward that man.

So began her rapid descent into a slow and hideous death.  I received the call when she was admitted to the hospital for the last time.  I was first on scene and last to see her in a conscious state.  Mine was the last face she would see prior to slipping into a coma.  

Sherry hung onto life for three days, enough time for all her family and friends to gather at her bedside. Over a period of 72 hours, I watched my aunt wither away, writhing in agony, suffering the most torturous death imaginable.  She was a registered organ donor, however, by the time she died all that was left was skin and bones.  Nothing left to harvest.

My aunt had given up the bottle a decade earlier, yet the disease still managed to hunt her down and take her life.  I will never forget the horror of those three days.

On the last night, as I stood over Sherry's wilted frame, watching her struggle for each labored breath, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I turned to find myself staring into the black face of Death.  As if straight from a Dickens novel, it unraveled its bony finger, pointed at Sherry, and hissed, "Behold, your future..."

An icy chill ran down my spine.  I had been granted a glimpse 30 years into my future and my future was bleak. It was all too much to handle.  So, I did what I was best at doing... I went out and got drunk.

Little did I know, Aunt Sherry was to become my Eskimo...