Wild at Heart

My discovery of booze was a windfall – lightening in a bottle and instant entertainment.  It didn’t matter if I was in a nightclub and surrounded by a thousand people or sitting by myself in an empty stairwell (you’d be amazed at how cool your voice sounds while singing a drunken solo in an empty stairwell) With a bottle in my hand, I was content. 

This contentment came with a price.  My "Wild at heart and crazy on top" lifestyle was slowly killing me.  I was 33 years old when I found sobriety, but I felt like I was 60.

The bent of nature leans toward the wild.  If you don’t tend your garden, the weeds will overgrow the fruit and destroy the plot of ground.  The same goes with addiction: neglect your body, soul, and mind and watch your physical, spiritual, and mental well being eek away.  Regarding your sobriety: neglect your contact with God, relinquish commitments, stop going to meetings, and watch your life deteriorate. 

One day I saw a wonderful old gal sitting on her front stoop. I walked up to her and said,"I couldn't help noticing how happy you look! What is your secret for such a long happy life?"

"I smoke ten stogies a day," she said. "Before I go to bed, I smoke a nice big joint. All my life I've eaten only junk food and I put away at least a fifth of Jack Daniels every night. On weekends I pop pills, and never do any exercise at all." 

"Absolutely amazing," I thought, and asked, "How old are you?"

    
"Twenty-four." 

Room for One More

A physics professor sauntered into his classroom with a large empty mason jar in one hand and a bag in the other.  A hush fell over the room as he walked up to the front and set the jar on the podium.  "This is your life," he said, pointing to the empty jar.

The Professor then reached into the bag and produced a box of golf balls, "These represent God and your family."  He poured the golf balls into the mason jar, filling it to the brim, and studied the room. "Tell me," he said. "Is your life full?  Can we fit anything else into this jar?"  The class unanimously agreed the mason jar was full.  Nothing else would fit.

With that, the Professor reached back into his bag and pulled out a sack of pebbles.  He said, "This is your career," and preceded to pour the tiny rocks into the jar.  The pebbles bounced between the golf balls, filling every available nook and cranny.  "Is your life full now?  Is there room for anything else in this jar?"  Once again, the entire class agreed that the jar was now full.  Nothing else would fit.

The Professor dipped into his bag for a third time and lifted out a container of sand.  "Your friends and social  life."  Once again, he poured the contents into the jar.  The sand trickled down, filling every crevice to the top.  "Is your life full NOW?" he exclaimed, pounding his fist down on the mahogany lectern. "Can we fit ANYTHING else in this jar?"

The class buzzed with excitement.  "NO!" they cried.  "The jar is absolutely filled to capacity!  Nothing else could possibly fit!"

The Professor paused (more for effect than anything else).  Slowly, he reached into his bag one last time.  The students leaned forward in unison, tipped on the edge of their seats, anxious to spy their instructor's denouement.  Could he perchance yield some sort of matter smaller than a grain of sand?

With methodical mastery, the Professor at last produced two solitary bottles of beer.  He popped the caps and systematically dribbled the ale over the sand, filling it to the lip.  The students leapt to their feet in thunderous applause.  "And there you have it," he proclaimed in summation. "No matter how full your life gets, there's always room for a couple of beers."

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In my addiction, I lived my life exactly as the Professor directed ... in reverse.  I started by filling my jar with booze.  When time came to add the more important things, there wasn't much room.  Not that I didn't try.   I made every attempt to insert a social life, sprinkle a career, and jam God and family into my life.  Ultimately, there just wasn't enough room and my jar overflowed, causing a big mess.

It took the Rooms of Recovery to straighten me out.  Sobriety required that I empty my jar and start from scratch.  I learned to prioritize, putting the big important things in first, while letting the smaller, less significant things fill in the cracks.  In this lesson, my friends, lays a valuable moral:  We can make room in our lives for all things we hold dear if first we learn how to pack.

Alas, I must take issue with the Professor's final observation... In my life there's NEVER room for a couple of beers.  ;)

Asking Your Sponsor to the Prom

I went through the first three months of my sobriety without a sponsor.  I don't recommend this.

In the early days of my recovery, I was bombarded with directives regarding my lack of sponsorship, "You MUST find a sponsor.  You MUST have someone walk you through the steps.  You MUST be mentored by someone who has what you want.  You MUST ask someone to help you on your spiritual journey through recovery."

That last directive killed me every time.  "Ask?  I have to ask someone?"  My pride snuck up and whispered in my ear, "What if you ask someone and they say no?  Then what?  How will we ever recover from that?  These people are supposed to be here to help you.  They should be offering to help.  You shouldn't have to ask!" Unfortunately, I listened to that destructive little voice for 3 months... and for 3 months I struggled to hold onto my sobriety by a thread.

Few things in this world get my knees to knocking.  "Fear of rejection" ranks close to the top of my list of things that may incite spontaneous involuntary urinary emission (translation: 'makes me pee my pants').  I have spent my entire life avoiding situations that require I unfold my ego and lay it on the ground like a potential doormat.  My fragile pride simply can't take the abuse.

Eventually, I wised up and went in search of a sponsor.  I had to find someone I respected, someone who had what I wanted, someone I could emulate.

After pouring a great deal of thought into my dilemma, I finally set my sights on a prospective sponsor. He was a bright guy with 12 years of sobriety.  He was married, had a nice home, and we shared the same profession (though he was fairly successful and I had managed to drink away most of what was left of my career).  "That's it!" I thought, "He's the one for me."  All that was left was to ask.

I pondered my method for days with painstaking obsession.   Eventually, I summoned the courage and approached him like a schoolboy asking a girl to his first prom.  "Uh ... hey..." I stammered.

He turned to face me, "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing.  I just ... uh... I was wondering..." I felt the warm sweat dripping from my palms, bile creeping up the back of my throat. "Would you... maybe, uh... consider sponsoring me?"  I held my breath and awaited inevitable rejection.

"Sure," he said. "Give me a call and we'll talk about starting you on the steps."

"That's it?" I thought.  "That's all there was to it?  That was a piece of cake!"

My sponsor turned out to be a great mentor and friend.  This was a man who had walked in my shoes.  He had ventured down the very path I now trod and knew where all the landmines were.  By listening to him and working an honest program I was able to side-step many of the hazards that should have taken me out.  To this day I'm not sure what I was so afraid of.

Reaching out and asking for help is tough.  I've been there.  I get it.  In as such, whenever approached for sponsorship I always accept without hesitation.  Each prospective sponsee receives the same spiel, "Yes, I will agree to be your sponsor.  I will not, however, agree to be your mother, your girlfriend, or your parole officer.  I will not hold your hand, nag you, or keep tabs on you.  My only responsibility is to walk you through the steps and show you what I did to stay sober.  It's your program.  How much, or little, you choose to work it is up to you.  Only you can keep you sober.  If you don't follow my advice and suggestions, that's on you.  If you go out, that's on you.  I'll go on with my life and won't lose a wink of sleep over it.  Understand, I'm not doing this for you.  Helping you along your spiritual path is how I stay sober.  I'm doing it for me."

If you're working a program without a sponsor, you're not working a program.  You MUST stop what you're doing a get one and you MUST do it now.

Steps 10, 11, & 12 - the triplets!

Step #10 - "Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it."

Step #11 - "Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and he power to carry that out."

Step #12 - "Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and practice these principles in all of our affairs."

These maintenance steps are fairly straight forward, quick and simple.  If done honestly and often, the last three steps will keep you from EVER having to go back to repeat steps 1 - 9.

In a nutshell, step #10 encourages us to make amends as wrongs occur, rather than waiting until our sins have stacked up to the point of threatening our sobriety. We've gone through all the trouble of cleaning out that disgusting closet, let's keep it spotless!  The habit of hoarding guilt, shame, and anger belongs in the past, not in our present or future.  Let's face it, after confronting the horrors of steps 9 and 10, do we really want to walk down that road again?

In step #11 we're instructed to make an effort to move ever forward in our relationship with God.  Back in step #3, we made a decision to turn our will and lives over to His care.  Step #11 pushes us toward advancing that relationship while working toward spiritual growth.  The suggested tools of prayer and meditation lay at our feet, but make no mistake, these advisories are but the tip of the iceberg!  We're well advised to expand our spirituality via theological study, scriptural examination, active fellowship, and helping others.  If we stop moving forward we risk stagnation.  You can't take the journey with your car stuck in idle.

Finally, we come to the end of our journey - step #12.  This last step requires us to simply "pay it forward."  We didn't conquer this journey on our own strength.  We met many saints along the way who helped us navigate this minefield.  If not for them, we would never have made it through the darkness.  Now it's your turn.

Steps 8 and 9

Step #8 - "Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all."

Step #9 - "Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others."

Much like 4 & 5, these twin steps have sent more drunks careening into the arms of relapse than most of the other steps combined.

Understandable.  Who wants to unpack their closet and expose past misdeeds to the light of day?  What soul relishes basking in the stench of the evil wrongdoings of yesteryear?  Who would delight in raising the rotted corpses of sins purposefully forgotten? No one, that's who.

But we must.

You cannot make "amends" without the four middle letters - "mend."   Amends refer simply to "mending" our past, asking forgiveness for life's opportunities misused and offering exemption to those who have wronged us.  The purpose for this exercise does not lay in the need to free the other person of their malice, rather, to free us from our own guilt and hatred which succeed at eating us from the inside out.  We must prepare ourselves for total humility and expose our soft underbellies to those we have harmed.  We must fully relent our pride and take responsibility for our own actions while disregarding the need for the other person to admit to their wrongdoings.

To be sure, these two steps come with many tricks and difficulties.  "What if they don't forgive me?  What if they don't admit to their part?  What if they get angry?  What if they don't even remember me?  What if I look foolish?" The answer to these questions is simple... IT DOESN'T MATTER.  It's about swallowing your pride and taking responsibility in order to forgive yourself.  One woman I had wronged refused to forgive me for years and I didn't blame her (I had really abused her trust).  I didn't lose a wink of sleep over it.   In fact, I felt pretty good.  I had done what I needed to do.  Her hatred for me was on her.  Eventually, she came around and forgave me.  To be clear, we were never friends again, but she forgave me, which felt even better!  

"What if I didn't know the person?"  Remember, the step states, "Make direct amends wherever possible..."  If the person you harmed was a stranger, then it may be impossible to make direct amends.  This doesn't mean you get a free pass.  Take an ad out in the local newspaper that says, "To the person who's parked car I scratched, I'm very sorry for doing that.  Please forgive me."  If you stole a stranger's pocketbook, buy a bunch of purses from a thrift store and donate them to the local battered women's shelter.  Get creative.

"What if the person's dead?"  Obviously, in this case making direct amends would be out of the question, unless you're a regular on "Walking Dead" (but even that would violate the "except when to do so would injure them or others" clause). If the person you have harmed has passed away, apologize to their next of kin.  If that's not possible (maybe you're the next of kin), write them a letter and place it on their grave.  Better yet, toss the letter into the fireplace and let your apology rise to heaven on billows of white smoke.  Where there's a will, there's a way.

"What if I did nothing wrong?"  Trust me when I say, in MOST cases you did SOMETHING wrong for which you can be held accountable.  However, the rare exception does occur:  I once had a sponsee named John who carried an immense hatred for an uncle who molested him as a child.  The idea of making amends to that man spiritually crippled John.  "I'll NEVER ask that man for forgiveness!"  He declared.  "I did nothing wrong!"

I tried to explain to John that "asking forgiveness" from his uncle was not necessary.  Offering forgiveness was.  It was all part of the mending (healing) process.  Understandably, John was unable to let go of his pain - the same pain that caused him to self medicate in order to forget.  The same pain he chose to stuff into the closet behind a locked door.  The same pain that doomed him to relapse.  Which he did.

Making direct amends is scary.  To be sure, you can absolutely fake your way through this process.  It's easy to fudge an amends and convince yourself you did everything you could do to make that relationship right.  Instead of directly paying back the money you stole from your old boss, you can convince yourself that donating that money to a children's home will serve as a sufficient substitution.  Question is, when you run into your old boss on the street, will you still be able to look him in the eye?  Or will you cross to the other side of the road, hoping to avoid contact altogether?  If you can't face that man with your head high, you've not sufficiently faced this step.

If making amends frightens you, you're not alone.  It scares the heck out of most people.  Just remember, it's not about being right or wrong.  It's about doing what's right, not wrong.  It's not about helping the person to whom you make amends.  It doesn't matter if they forgive you or ask for your forgiveness.  It's not about them.  It's about you.  It's about keeping your side of the street clean.  It's about forgiving yourself and letting your wounds heal so that you can begin to grow into a healthy, spiritual being.  It's about learning to love yourself.

One question:  Do you want to be free?  If so, work this step thoroughly and honestly.  No one promises it will be easy, only necessary. And remember, forgiveness is not a line you cross, it's a road you travel down.

My Candidacy...

I recently found out that Paul Ryan, the Republican Vice Presidential Candidate, graduated from high school the same year as me.  I couldn't believe it!  One of my "peers," someone with whom I could have traded baseball cards and ogled girls, could be second in command of the most powerful nation in the world!  Inconceivable.

This bit of news brought me back to my one-time brush with politics during my youth.  My 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Montenegro, encouraged the class to write a letter to the President of the United States to see if we would get a response.  I did... and I DID.  The leader of the free world responded to my query!  That was enough to set me on a course for the Presidency.

I knew I was too young to run for President of the United States.  Fact of the matter, I was too young to run for President of my elementary school (you had to be a mature 6th grader for that).  The highest office a lowly 4th grader could hold was that of School Secretary.  It was no "Commander and Chief" but would have to do.  I set my eye on the prize and began a torrid campaign.

My only opposition came in the form of a seasoned 6th grader who had held a lesser student council office the year before.  This little gal turned out to be a formidable opponent.  She not only had months of experience on me, but it was a well known fact that no 4th grader EVER won out against a 6th grader in a student council election at Thomas Jefferson Elementary.

No matter, I was undeterred.  I pressed on, plastering campaign posters on every wall, shaking hands with the common kid, and kissing Barbie dolls whenever the opportunity arose.  Weeks of campaigning led up to that pivotal make-it-or-break-it moment that every politician must face - the Campaign Speech.

The crucial day finally arrived.  I sat on the stage, behind the lectern, and watched the entire student body file into the auditorium.  The lights dimmed and the show began.  One by one, candidates made their way to the podium and prattled off their forgettable speeches.  My opponent, the "6th Grader" was no exception.  She completed her vanilla oration and yielded the floor.  It was my turn...

With speech in hand I approached the spotlight.  The crowd was quiet that day, my friends, lulled into a  half-slumber courtesy the preceding communique.  I filled my lungs and launched into a flurry of grandiose covenants in what was sure to be my tour de force.  With God as my witness, I looked straight into the eyes of my fellow students and promised longer recesses and shorter school days.  I waved my tiny fist in the air and guaranteed 3-day weekends and 4-day school weeks.  I pounded the podium and pledged to have all of the water in the drinking fountains replaced with rich and delicious chocolate milk!  Upon completing my fanciful rhetoric, I calmly stated, "All good politicians know when to take a seat.  Now I shall take mine."  And with that, I did.

The entire auditorium erupted into a thunderous standing ovation.  The kids cheered and the teachers applauded.  Smiles all around.  My peers surrounded me and patted my back. Joyful bliss abounded in Jefferson Auditorium that day.  I can't swear to it, but I even remember seeing Mrs. Montenegro wipe a single tear from her cheek.  I was a hero.

For the first time in the history of our school, the leading candidate for School Secretary was a lowly 4th grader.  All that was left was to vote.

Each student filled out a ballot and we waited anxiously for the tally.  After what seemed an eternity, the results were in... I had lost.

Defeat?  Impossible!  The election was rigged! Didn't they listen to my masterfully spun web of hope?  They gave me a standing ovation!  How dare they go against their actions and not vote me into office?  Liars!

Alas, there was no time for self-pity.  I knew there was another crucial election rapidly approaching - the race for 4th grade class president.  After my last performance, this election would be a cinch!  After all, I didn't have to win over the entire school, just my classroom.

I lost that one, too.

When all was said and done, I wasn't even able to wrangle the ever coveted "Ball Monitor" position.  In the end, I would reign as the all-powerful "Film Projector Monitor."  Oh how the mighty had fallen.

I often wonder if that election was a turning point in my young life.  Had I won that election, would I have gone on to pursue politics?  Would the Noland name be stamped on the Vice Presidential ballot this year?  Alas, I didn't win, so I guess we'll never know.  Instead of growing up to be president, the Film Projector Monitor grew up to be a filmmaker.

Tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor. ;)

Step #7 - Blind Rick

Step #7 - "Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings."

As with most people, it took me awhile to get around to Step #7 (in my blog).  Why is that?  Probably because this step requires us to admit to our helpless nature as human beings.  We have to actually HUMBLE ourselves and ASK for HELP.

Personally, my biggest character defect heading into this step was my Pride.  "I don't need anyones help.  I can do it on my own... I am a MAN!" The simple act of stepping into a 12 step meeting for the first time went against my very nature.  It was an admission that I was helpless against my disease and could not do it alone.  I needed other people.  Recovery required that I humble myself and reach out to another human being and ask for help; very difficult for a man of my ilk.  With the arrival of Step #7, I was once again required to embrace humility and ask for help... this time from the Creator.  In essence, I had to admit my weakness in order to obtain His strength.

Early on in my recovery, I had the fortune of befriending one of the bravest men I've ever met - Blind Rick.  We called him that because... well ... he was blind.  Rick had lost his eyesight late in his teen years after drunkenly stumbling into the path of a maniac with a shotgun.  He had inadvertently stepped on this guy's lawn and paid for his error with a point-blank .00 buck blast to the face.  Rick reportedly died on the operating table 4 times and woke from his coma to discover both eyes had been blown from his skull.  To this day, he has no idea why that guy pulled the trigger.

A single act of insanity had forever changed Rick's life.  Without his eyesight, he was left defenseless; forced to relearn a life previously reliant on survival through the visual senses.  Upon his discharge from the hospital, Rick promptly began his journey down the road to rehabilitation.  First stop, learning to manage simple tasks...

In order to reeducate Rick on managing basic survival skills, his therapist led him to a horse stable, instructed him to perform some simple tasks, and left him to his own devices.  Rick quickly realized that these once simple tasks were nearly impossible as he stumbled around, groping in the darkness.  He struggled for hours with no success, attempting again and again to complete just one of his assigned duties, every effort resulting in futility.  Frustrated, angry, and exhausted, Rick collapsed on a nearby hay bale, utterly defeated.  In sheer desperation, he cried out, "I can't do this!  I need help!"

Much to Rick's surprise, a gentle response emerged from the darkness, "I thought you'd never ask."  It was the voice of his therapist, who had been sitting with Rick the entire time, watching.  "I gave you tasks..." he continued, "Tasks I knew you could not accomplish on your own."

"Then what was the point?" Rick snorted.

"A very important lesson, Rick.  Sometimes it's okay to ask for help."

My friend carried that lesson for the rest of his life.  Never once did I see him cower from a challenge.  Why?  He had mastered the art of asking for help and used the working eyes around him to replace the ones he had tragically lost so many years before.  Every encounter with Rick produced a magnificent display of humility and gratitude.

I walked into the rooms of recovery, rife with defects that confined me to loneliness and spiritual darkness.  God waited patiently at my side, ready to take my hand and lead me into the light.  I only had but to ask.

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We have to remember that our perceptions of ourselves do not make up who we are, rather, it's the perceptions of OTHERS that define us.  We've spent our whole lives building defenses, survival techniques if you will, designed to defend our fragile inner ego and keep the dangerous outside world at bay.  For me, these defenses consisted of attributes in the vein of impatience, pride, and anger.  After working Step 6, I realized this was how others saw me.  I was the cocky guy with a bad temper who everyone had to tiptoe around.  This wasn't how I saw myself, but it didn't matter, it was how the REST of the world saw me.  It begged the question, "Am I okay with this?" I was not.  Time for a change.

Let's be clear, when we ask God to remove our defects, He does not wave a magic wand and "POOF" our defects vanish in a cloud of genie smoke!  That's how He works with forgiveness, not with self-improvement.  Work must be done.  Think of your Character as an old, rusted out, junkyard car - it's ragged, dirty, and dangerous.  Passersby cut a wide swath around it for fear of touching the disgusting thing.  No one wants to come near it.

You ask God to help you restore the rust-bucket, fully expecting Him to hand you a certified check covering the cost of repairs.  Instead, he hands you a manual, a grinder, and some WD-40 and tells you to get to work.  Under His guidance, and after applying a good deal of elbow-grease, that rusted-out jalopy transforms into a beautiful classic.  No longer do people avoid your "character mobile," on the contrary, they go out of their way to come in for a closer look, run their fingers along the paint job, and sit in the passenger seat.  They appreciate and admire your work.

So it is with you.  People want to like you, they want to get to know you, but it won't happen without work.  The transformation of our character is a beautiful thing that takes time and effort.  God will give us the tools, if we ask, but it's up to us to do the work.