To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

When I was little, my mother gave me children's cold medicine. It tasted like syrup. I liked it. She told me, "Don't ever take more than I give you. If you do, you'll go to sleep and never wake up."

Looking back, that was a strange way to explain death to a child. I remember believing her to mean I would literally fall into an eternal slumber, a la Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, requiring some dashing prince (or in my case, princess) to come along and break the spell. I didn't understand the permanence of death; the finality of it.

I recently sifted through my FaceBook friend list, amazed at how many people I know who have passed. As I looked back, I counted more than a dozen friends and family members whom I've lost over the years. A couple were taken by tragic accidents, a couple by early onset heart disease, but the rest, every last one, died as the result of addiction. 

Gone too young. Gone too soon.

The path of addiction leads one place: The Grave. 

Addiction has a 100% mortality rate. 

For addicts, the age of 65 is considered a "long life." Most suffer horrible, drawn-out deaths in their 40's and 50's.  I've known many, many, many active alcoholics and addicts... not one of them have lived past their mid 60's.

Not. One. 

To paraphrase a line from the brilliantly written "Stand By Me"... these folks ain't sick, these folks ain't sleeping, these folks are dead.

Sadly, I still have loved ones who live deep within their addiction. I have attempted to 12-Step them, to no avail. They stand in the queue to an early demise. There's nothing I can do.

For them, there will be no Prince Charming.

My focus must be on those who choose to live.

Chip Chap

I just took a chip for 21 years sober.

That's a long time.

To put it into perspective, someone born on my sobriety date would now be old enough to legally drink. Hard to believe it's been that long.

I think back to my first chip... a "Welcome" chip. 

I had always been able to quit drinking for short spurts, here and there, when I wanted (or needed) to. If I felt my drinking was getting too out of hand (which was all the time), I was able to hang up the bottle and dry out for a week or month, then hop back off the wagon.

This time was different. I couldn't put the bottle down for even one night. I poured all the booze down the sink, determined to stop myself from drinking... 20 minutes later I was standing in the liquor store. I got home, chastised myself, and poured all the newly bought liquor down the drain. 20 minutes later I was standing in the liquor store. 

I repeated this process 3-4 times (the liquor store owner must have thought I was either crazy or throwing a major rager) before I finally gave in and drank. It was at this point that I knew I couldn't do it alone and needed help.

I showed up to my first meeting, a "Newcomer's Meeting," at what was to become my home group in Burbank, CA. Walking into that room and asking for help was the HARDEST thing I've ever had to do, no contest. When they asked for newcomers to stand, identify, and accept a welcome chip, I complied. Trembling, I approached the front and accepted my first chip.

That chip, my Welcome Chip, was hands-down the HARDEST chip I've ever earned.

I don't remember much about that meeting, but I do remember the 30 day chips. I know other chips and cakes were taken, but I don't remember them. The 30 day chips stood out because they were attainable. I remember watching people receive their 30 day chips and thinking, "They're no different from me... if they can do that, I can do that."  

And I did. I put 30 days together and received my second chip in sobriety: My 30 day chip.

That chip, my 30 day chip, was the SECOND hardest chip I've ever earned.

Third hardest? My 60 day chip. 

You can see where I'm going with this - they've gotten progressively easier over the years.

This week, I took a chip for 21 years of sobriety and can say, without reservation, so far it's the easiest chip I've ever earned.

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.

My emotional development arrested around the age of 19 (when I started drinking daily). For the next 15(ish) years, I lived inside a bottle with my emotions stuffed neatly in my pocket. 

I didn't have to deal with the pesky things... it was great!

Problem was, when I finally got sober in my 30's, I had the emotional maturity of a teenager. I had spent the prior decade running from my feelings. When I got sober, all those buried emotions surfaced and I had NO idea how to deal with them! I was a mess!

"Substance abuse" was not my problem. My anger, my sadness, my impatience... my "emotions" were my problem. My feelings caused me pain -- so I drank to stop feeling. 

Easy-peasy. 

Turns out, the pain was caused by early trauma that lived at the root of my addiction (I've never met an addict, in or out of the rooms, who didn't suffer from some sort of past trauma). Despite this, I could never recall the origin of the wound. I assumed it was there, perhaps something that happened in my infancy, some sort of abuse that I couldn't (or wouldn't) remember.

Then I learned something...

There are two types of trauma: "Big Trauma" (Big T) and "Little Trauma" (Little T). Big T's are the obvious traumas often trumpeted in today's headlines - child abuse/molestation, violence, sexual assault, tragic accidents, etc.. These are the major life events that leave deep scars, easily identified. 

Little T's are the smaller traumas that happen on a daily basis - bullying, neglect, criticism, name calling, etc..  These traumas are akin to "a death by a thousand cuts" as they go unnoticed until it's too late. They are the most pervasive because we tend to minimize them, "Oh that was no big deal... it was just sibling rivalry... that's just boys being boys... we all go through that... etc." The open neglect of this type of trauma burrows into a festering chasm within our psyche. 

Upon learning this new info, I took a deep look into my past. What happened to me? From where were those emotions bubbling?

Big T: Uncovering this trauma was easy, as there was really only one I could remember. At the age of 11 my family went on vacation. While swimming the hotel pool, I met an older boy who befriended me and invited me back to his hotel room. On the way, he said he needed to make a stop in the lobby men's room. Once inside, after confirming the restroom was empty, he pushed me into a stall and preceded to molest me. Fortunately, someone entered the restroom and scared him off before the attack could escalate to rape. It was a brief but highly traumatic encounter that left a deep scar.

Little T: I was severely bullied by an older sibling throughout my childhood. The beatings were constant, the name-calling was daily, the belittling was persistent, the abuse was unrelenting. It seemed my older brother hated me. The Little T's piled up, year upon year, until I was forced to build a defensive wall of anger and aggression to protect my fragile psyche. I refer to this as my "anger origin story."

I asked for help. I cried, I begged. My pleas went unheeded, my weeping unheard.

Both my Big and Little T's resulted in a core wound of "helplessness." All the trauma I had experienced made me feel weak and powerless. The minimization of the abuse expounded the helplessness. I realized at an early age that nobody could help me but me. I swore, when I was big enough, no one would ever push me around or hurt me again. 

Over the following years I trained in martial arts and firearms, lifted weights, and focussed my aggression. My triggers: The insults heaped on me as a child, any form of disrespect or bullying, and God help you if you dared touch me in anger. 

I would die on my feet, rather than live on my knees. 

The abuse formed my personality.

As a result, I've spent the last 20 years of sobriety working through my anger. A large part of my step-work involved identifying my character defects and taking small steps, every day, to work through the trauma. I've learned that patience is a big trigger for my anger, so that's where I've learned to put the most effort. 

I'm a long way from perfect, but I'm getting there... One day at a time.

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Let me be perfectly clear about one thing: It's nobody's fault. 

I don't blame my brother in ANY way for my wounds. I love my brother. He was just a kid himself, dealing with trauma of his own and walking through it the only way he knew how - by acting out his anger. He was a child who had pain he didn't know how to deal with. I feel compassion for that scared, angry little boy.

Today my brother is one of my best friends. He grew to be a great husband, an amazing father, and a sincere man of God (not many people I can say that about). He has made a living-amends to me a thousand times over.

I also don't blame my parents. They were outstanding guardians who loved us, protected and provided for us, and did the best they could. It was a different time... they simply didn't know back then that we know today. I have only love and admiration for them.

No one is to blame. What happened, happened. I can spend my life pointing the finger and flying the "poor me" flag, or I can grab my tools and get to work on fixing myself.

If I don't, the only person I have to blame is me.

The Scarlet Letter

My wife and I recently watched a docu-series about the hacking of the Ashley Madison website.

If you don't know, the Ashley Madison website allows married men and women to meet, incognito, and have elicit affairs, with no strings attached and no fear of your spouse finding out (or so it seemed). 

In 2015, the site was hacked. All of the adulterers' names were released to the public. 

As you might imagine, a feeding frenzy of self-righteousness ensued. Thousands of people poured over the list, weeding out names of celebrities, YouTube stars, pastors, and neighbors. Marriages were destroyed, careers were ruined, and yes, some people opted to take their own lives rather than suffer the indignation of a scarlet letter.

Some say, "They got what they deserved!" 

I say, "I'm SO glad my drinking days were in the rearview mirror prior to the advent of social media."

We live in an age where society wants to crucify anyone who's ever committed the slightest public faux pas, not just in the recent past, but EVER. Hordes of busybodies, digging through years of social media postings, mining any grievances they can find, then demanding a public apology (followed by an equally public lynching).

There. Is. No. Room. For. Forgiveness.

Personally, I shudder at the thought of ANY of my past misdeeds becoming public knowledge. 

I was a monster in my addiction: A selfish, self-centered, angry, spiteful, lying, thieving, remorseless, abusive, self-loathing criminal. I was a cyclone of destruction, leaving devastation in my path wherever I went. I betrayed friendships and hurt the people I loved. I was a walking disaster... not even a shadow of who my parents raised me to be and the person I was to become in sobriety.

The cretan who wore my skin during those years was not me, it was the addiction. I don't know that person. I don't recognize that person. That person was not me. 

There are people, who to this day, despise me for the selfish actions of that person. Rightly so. Some continue to drag my name through the mud, 25 years later, despite my attempts to make amends.

That's their cross to bear. It's sad.

I'm just glad there was no FaceBook, Insta, or Twitter back then. None of my past humiliation has been immortalized on the inescapable big-screen of social media. 

Thank God for small favors.

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In the final moments of the Ashley Madison series, a woman whose husband took his own life, stated, "We shouldn't be so quick to judge others... We all have a list that we're on, one we wouldn't want anyone to know about."

No truer words have ever been spoken.

Glass houses, people. Glass houses.

Answered Prayer

Jesus prayed for an end to his suffering on the cross. He cried out to the Father, asking for relief. Did he expect God to answer his prayer? Was he delusional? Or was suffering an important part of the plan?

As a new-comer, I had a LOT of delusional beliefs. For instance, I was fairly certain that everyone in those early AA meetings were showing up for me, alone. I was convinced they were there for the sole purpose of seeing me through my early days of sobriety. 

Therefore, I HAD to stay sober or risk devastating the entire purpose of the group!

I wasn't so delusional to think the group would disband in the event of my relapse, but I was fairly certain there would be a group-wide day of mourning, followed by a total examination of the efficacy of the Program. 

And so (for them) I was determined to hold up my end of the bargain and stay sober. 

See? Delusional.

I also carried the pretentious belief that once I hit the magical "One Year" mark, I would no longer be a new-comer, whereby mastering the intricacies of the world. I was certain that without the interference of addiction, accompanied by my head full of recovery, the pieces of my life would fall into place. I would be happy, joyous, and free all the live-long day!

See? Delusional.

At the end of the day, my prayer was sincere. I prayed to be taken from my cross of addiction, to be relieved of my suffering. 

Was my prayer answered? 

It was... 

but not without suffering.

Early sobriety was difficult. I suffered through withdrawals, sweats, sleepless nights (pretty sure I only got about 4 hours that first week). I struggled with mental anguish, thoughts of relapse, and white-knuckling moments of temptation. My body, spirit and mind each twisted around the other in an attempt to figure out this diabolical new set of circumstances. 

I was miserable, 

I was suffering,

and it was absolutely necessary to my survival.

My suffering authored an intense appreciation for my journey to a sober life. It staved off relapse for fear of having to relive the agony of having to dry out again, lest I give in to the disease. 

I survived the journey through my suffering and it paved the way to my salvation.

People Pleaser

I'm a people pleaser.

I've spent my life bending over backwards to entertain anyone who would pay attention, silently begging, "Please love me! Please love me!"

This has been a source of great disappointment in my life.

I grew up in an international Christian organization known as The Salvation Army (you may have heard of it). My father, now retired, was an ordained minister in the organization and was a bit of a maverick. He broke barriers and rocked the boat on a regular basis. As such, he made enemies.

By association, his enemies became my enemies. Not on my part, but on theirs. Those who were threatened by his success figured if they couldn't destroy his reputation, his children were the next best thing. (and yes, I did say this was a CHURCH organization. Surprise, surprise!)

During the summer of my 15th year, I was on my way to a youth conference and was caught by airport security with my knife collection in my carry-on bag (long story... I was coming from summer camp and forgot they were in there). By the time I had reached the conference, the aforementioned "haters" had gotten hold of the "incident" and twisted it (via the gossip network) into "Noland's kid got caught with drugs and alcohol and the only reason he's not been sent home is because of his father."

I was henceforth known to the international church community as "the drug addicted drug dealer whom their children should avoid."

I wish I was making this up.

Fast-forward 20 years later: After decades of estrangement, I returned to the fold and began attending a Salvation Army church. There was a woman named Linda who was an ordained minister of the church (not the pastor) who also attended this particular parish.

I knew Linda from afar, but never really had any contact with her, other than the occasional polite "hello" in passing. To be clear, she knew my parents very well, and knew who I was, but she and I never had occasion to connect on any significant level.

One Sunday AM, the pastor was preaching on "amends." He pointed to a tray of bread that lay in front of the pulpit and invited members to tear a piece of bread off and offer it to someone in the congregation to whom they felt they owed an amends.

I sat quietly, as I was relatively new in this particular parish and hadn't had the opportunity to interact with many of the members, much less develop resentments.

Moments later, I felt the presence of someone standing next to me in the aisle. I looked up and there was Linda, standing there with a piece of broken bread extended toward me.

"I'd like to apologize." She said. "I've wrongly judged you since your return and I would like to ask your forgiveness."

I was floored. Judged me? I've never even SPOKEN to this woman! How could she have judged me on any level???

Not only did I forgive her, I greatly admired her courage and the fortitude of honesty she displayed. Her amends were public, unflinching, and warmly received.

To be clear, she was not the first (nor last) to admit implicit biases toward me, but hers was the first to really ring a bell in my brain... "Wait, I've never wronged this woman in any way, yet she managed to find reasons to dislike me? Why?"

I've always been a person who gives people an opportunity to be loved. I've never disliked another human unless they made it clear they wanted me as an enemy. Sadly, there are many, many people out there who are looking for reasons to hate, without cause, anyone whom they might perceive as a threat, with or without predication. And no, the church is not immune to such biases (in fact, I dare say they're much more prone in many instances).

It was Linda's amends that woke me up to the reality that people, as a whole, are broken, frightened, and flawed. 

It's not my job to please everybody.

I CAN'T please everybody.

All I can do is be the best person I can be, 

live a life that is holy (I fail often at this),

be kind to everybody (not as easy as it sounds),

be a little bit better today than I was yesterday,

and realize that there will be people who will still hate me for being the best me I can be, because it shines a light on their own shortcomings.

"Only fools inherit other people's enemies as some sort of weird loyalty." In my lifetime, I've made a lot of enemies who were fools.

Rick Rolled

I got rolled by a business owner who lived 3000 miles away.

Short version: I had lost my SCUBA certification card sometime back. This guy's website promised he could locate any certification for $50. It seemed like a legit business... so I bit. Turns out, my "particular certification" was beyond his purview, but instead of refunding my money, he claimed he had a right to keep it because he "had to spend time looking for it." 

You should know, I have a somewhat overdeveloped sense of justice. I cannot abide bullies, thieves, or liars. Wrong is wrong.

As you can imagine, I was consumed with anger... this guy did me dirty. It wasn't the $50, I didn't care about that. It was the principle. He was WRONG and I was RIGHT.

I went about making his life miserable. I wrote the BBB, Florida Chamber of Commerce, Florida Attorney General's Office, Federal Commerce Commission... I wrote bad reviews on Yelp, Google, FB and anywhere else I could think of. I dragged his business's name through every mud puddle I could find.

My every waking moment was focussed on finding justice. I was consumed with this resentment.

Consumed.

It finally dawned on me that this guy was renting some MAJOR space in my head. The poison of my resentment was eating me up from the inside. At the end of the day, this was not his problem, it was mine.

I knew what I had to do - I had to make amends. 

Trust me when I say, I hated the idea... I was absolutely 100% in the right. I had been wronged. 

For my own peace of mind I had to do it.

Not for him, for me.

I sent him a note and apologized, without condition, for my vitriol. I took responsibility for my part. All of it. 

A funny thing happened... the hatred was gone. Instantly. 

Shortly thereafter, I received notification from my bank that they were reversing the charge and giving me my money back. 

The old me would have shot a note off to the offender to rub his nose in my victory. 

I didn't do that. 

My amends had brought me peace...

and I wanted to keep it.