The Last Chance Texaco

Posts Tagged ‘Courage’

I am beyond furious and my sponsor is out of town.  It happened again.  I finally got last week’s paycheck cashed on Wednesday and today this week’s check bounced.  Obviously, in spite of what my employer says, I need to find a new job. Read the rest of this entry »

I hate confrontation, but I’m afraid I find myself in a position where I have to have one.  With my boss.

My paycheck bounced.

I’m trying to save up some money so that I can declare bankruptcy and my paycheck is bouncing.  I can’t stand it.  My student loan and my car payments are due as is the bill for the attorney that kept me out of jail two years ago and my “Cost of Supervision” – the surtax I pay for being a dangerous criminal.  It’s Christmas.  And I’m barely getting by.  And my paycheck bounced.  I’m so mad I could spit.

This happened about this time last year, too.

You don’t bounce payroll.  I mean it’s just not done.  It’s probably time for me to be looking for a new job but with unemployment in my area at 3 times what it was 2 years ago, and not having graduated from college and being a felon, the chances of me getting another job at the wage  I currently make are very slim.  It might be a good time to think about going back to school, too, but it’s too late to get financial aid for the spring semester.  Without financial aid it will be impossible for me to go to school.  I already have $10K in student loan debt – what’s another 20 more, right?  If I end up with a decent job that has health insurance? Seriously, I don’t think that will ever happen.  I think I’m stuck where I am.

I’m stuck where I am and I have to talk to my boss about getting paid and worry about when this is going to happen again.  I just hate that.

You know, the whole last year of my recovery I’ve been in the grips of the thought that I should be weller than this by now.  I should be more comfortable in my own skin and the world should somehow be more manageable.  Or if I’m feeling anxious or depressed or fearful or angry there ought to be something I can take to make it go away.  The Big Book is rife with claims that as recovering people we should be happy and I guess the fact that I’m not, or that I haven’t been, makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong; that I am failing at the program.  It doesn’t really register that life is sometimes difficult for everyone.

I’ve been reading an old Grapevine interview with Dr. Paul, the author of “Doctor, Alcoholic, Addict” – the story that spawned the Cult of Page 449 (acceptance is the answer) and I really like what he has to say about overcoming stuff like this:

“I grew up thinking that I had to perfect my personality, then I got into AA, and AA said, no, that isn’t the way we do it: only G-d can remove our defects. I was amazed to find that I couldn’t be a better person simply by trying harder! Read the rest of this entry »

I seem to have to try things over and over before I actually incorporate the experience into knowledge.  One of the things I learned in treatment was that trying new things increases my optimism.

I put new brake pads on my scooter yesterday. I’ve never seen a brake pad in my life. After that I did 3 loads of laundry and ironed.

Little by slowly, right?

#1. “This would make a great reality show.”

What’s weird is that “Baby Borrowers” is actually pretty cool. Some of these teenagers are horrible people. Horrible. The good news is that their boy or girlfriends get to find out. The absence of cash and prizes certainly brings out a different quality in people. I honestly only watched it because it was made here in Boise and in Eagle. Boise looks GREAT on TV. Read the rest of this entry »

First of all, thank God for the steps! I wouldn’t be able to tell this story without them. I wouldn’t because I would be trapped in the story; sucked in to the familiar familial drama of the tree from which this nut fell.

Last Friday night I had dinner with my sister and her two boys, my brother and his growing family and my aunt and uncle. I don’t remember the last time all of us were together to break bread. I was especially happy to see my sister as she is moving to Iowa City this month where her husband is doing his fellowship. Other times this opportunity has presented itself I have been way too strung out to show up. Seeing me would have been more painful than not seeing me. So to be able to show up for my family, sober, happy and present, was really wonderful for me.

As the sister and children of an alcoholic and her husband, though, the conversation took a dark turn almost from the very beginning and mostly stayed there. My family has been very protective of me and very supportive. Knowing the seriousness of my effort and knowing the gravity of my mother’s condition, they have been vigilant about not disclosing any specifics of my life to my mother. They have never passed along my phone number which she has asked for several times. They only answer her questions about how I am in the most general way. And perhaps more importantly, they spare me the details of the insanity going on in mom’s luxurious little rabbit hole.

I had no difficulty sloughing off the story of her arrest in her own driveway a couple of months ago. The scene that had been described to me was really nothing out of the ordinary – except that there happened to be police at her home at the time. I actually took a little (guilty) pleasure from it, particularly since part of her ranting had been about them harassing her when there were people like me out on the street. At dinner, though, the scene was illuminated more fully and details of the continuing downward spiral were revealed. It was not the police at her home, not in the usual sense, but rather the S.W.A.T. team. More recently there have been public urination accidents, car accidents, accidental falls down escalators resulting in knee replacement surgery, accidental falls at home leaving her husband with his femur broken in two places and passed out on the floor until the maids came in and found him (when he was admitted in the ER his BAC was .38).

By all outside appearances the gates of insanity have swung wide open and my mom and her husband have passed through, sprinted up the walk, gone through the front door, fixed themselves some drinks and gotten comfortable. For three days afterward I hoped that death wouldn’t be far behind. I imagined ways it might happen. I tried to figure out if you could get a wheel chair over the Lido deck and if a life preserver would be visible at night.

This time it only sucked me in for a couple of days. I was spared any direct contact with the dark side. All I had to endure was a 30 hour headache, an evening of plotting a final scene to the tragedy, and a few hours of step work and in return I was given a miracle, a change in perspective and the 4th step promise of being able to view my mother and her husband as spiritually sick and to think of them with compassion. Genuine compassion. I actually discussed with my sponsor ways that I might be able to be helpful to them without placing myself in the eye of the hurricane. On principle he agreed but we both though it would be better to talk to his sponsor and his sponsor’s sponsor who happens to know my parents and had parents like them.

After becoming willing to send people to my mom’s house to see if she needed anyone to go to the store or make dinner or bring in the mail I was given specific direction about cleaning up my part of this insanity in my head and in my mom’s life:

“‘Fuck off’ is an amend.”

I can live with that. I’m grateful that I was given the change in perspective from resentment to compassion. And I’m grateful to know that the most compassionate thing I can do is allow them to be on their own path.

 

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

I’m moving. At the end of the month I’m moving. And I am moving in to my own apartment. I realize that all you ‘grown ups’ out there have already done this, probably by the age of 18 or 20. But I have never successfully navigated this particular rite of passage. And it is time.

Among the considerations in choosing to live alone over moving in with a roommate was my desire to make it easier to begin dating again. Aside from the fellationship with the Imaginary Future Ex-Husband at the end of my using, there hasn’t been a man in my life, a man of any consequence, in about ten years. Sure, there have been tricks. I’m not a saint. I don’t know who would want to be a saint, really. If it was a trick I was interested in having I’m sure I could find a way to navigate that, anyway. I want to open the door a bit to the idea that if someone worth sharing time and space with should wander into my field of opportunity, that field is not cluttered with 3rd party agendas. If some Sunday morning desires to be spent with us in bed, drinking French roast and doing the NY Times crossword puzzle, I’d like it to be privately.

Somewhere along the line in this progression from ‘stuck’ to ‘recovering’ something has happened that I suppose I could have anticipated but didn’t. The age of the men who capture my attention has changed radically. In my late teens and twenties, all the way up to 40, really, the men who caught my attention were without exception older and richer than me. I had a fierce need for security. One of the 12 & 12 talks about those who place too much dependence on others, describing me perfectly.

I ran away from home when I was 17 and somehow landed in West Hollywood. Young and cute and smart and Mormon and a Boy Scout. I was a commodity, which was a good thing. It helped me survive. It helped that I was intensely attracted to men who could, and who wanted to, take care of me. I certainly couldn’t have done that on my own then. That insane need to be taken care of, the scar on my heart where my father belonged and miscellaneous other quirks landed me solidly in the arms of men over the age of 35 right up till I was 40. Even the IFX, though he was much younger than me, was a father figure of sorts.

In treatment I got a relationship with my father back. I’ve been moving toward ‘growing up’, and this bizarre phenomena has occurred. I am suddenly deeply attracted to men that are approximately the age I was when my addiction kicked into high gear – the men I would have been loving if I hadn’t been an addict. I’m really hoping that by doing the work the 4th step calls for that I’ll find myself accelerating quickly past this quirk. I’d like to get to the point where I’m most attracted to men my own age and am mature enough to relate to them, but that seems pretty far fetched when the object of my affection is another 20 year old straight boy.

At least I haven’t acted on that. At least at the point I figured out that he was straight, something that isn’t readily obvious in this boy, that I backed away and made sure that I hadn’t inadvertently upset him; that we were, indeed, friends.

Perhaps more surprising to me, in light of the off the chart, insane lust I have for, had for this boy, when I discovered he was straight it didn’t make my heart bleed. I was OK. The preoccupation, the intense desire, simply vanished.

I no longer feel, as I once did, that I am dying from a lack of intimate companionship. Though I haven’t been intimate with a man in 15 months I am not too tortured by it. I notice it. I know that I am alone. I am largely accepting of that. But I am still going to get an apartment of my own. I’m still going to create a path for him, whoever he is, should he choose to take it.

Funny how a lonely day,
can make a person say,
“What good is my life?”
Funny how a breaking heart
can make me start to say,
“What good is my life?”
Funny how I often seem
to think I’ll never find
another dream in my life,
till I look around and see
this great big world is part
of me and my life.

Sometime when I feel afraid
I think of what a mess
I’ve made of my life.
Crying over my mistakes,
forgetting all the breaks
I’ve had in my life.
I was put on earth to be.
A part of this great world
is me and my life.
Guess I’ll just add up
the score and count
the things I’m grateful
for in my life.

This Is my life.
Today, tomorrow,
love will come
and find me,
but that’s the way that
I was born to be.
This is me.
This is me.

This is my life,
and I don’t give a damn
for lost emotions.
I’ve such a lot of love
I’ve got to give.
Let me live.
Let me live.

This is my life.

Shirley Bassey
(Amurri, Norman, Canfora)

I keep this list of stuff I’d like to do on a web site called 43Things.com – kind of a social networking site for the purpose driven life, even if the purpose is pointless or silly. One of the things that’s on the list is ‘pick a theme song for myself’. Well, I think I’ve found it. And what a fabulous goddamn song for anyone who has danced on the lower end of the scale that measures experience that can benefit others. And what better role model of perseverance than Dame Shirley? At 71 she is still recording with artists like Pink and Kanye Weest. I just really love that song and I just really wanted to share it with you and I’m not afraid to tell you that if I had one iota of drag queen in me I’d be shooting for the kind of over-the-top drama and worldly edge of Shirley Bassey. I love her so much that I’m trying to talk my friend Millisen, who buys trashed Barbies at thrift stores and breathes new life into them with custom clothing and all, into making a couple of Shirley Bassey Barbies for me. For a man who loves Home Depot, there is a part of me that is sooooooo gaaaaayyyyy!!!!!!

I’m going to talk about prayer here soon, when I actually have a couple of hours to sit down and write, but I started a new job today. One with regular hours so I won’t blow it like I did McDonald’s. Between that and meetings and sponsoring 5 guys (all of whom showed up at an 8 o’clock meeting tonight so we got to all sit down together!), doing my own step work and starting to work on my 200 hours of community service, that may not be till next weekend.

In the meantime, click on Dame Shirley’s picture and enjoy an early performance of this fantastic song.

P.S.  I’ve started a new outlet for the random insanity inside my head.  You can amuse yourself with it at Cold Vinyl.

embrace

c.1300, from O.Fr. embracer “clasp in the arms, enclose,” from en- “in” + brace “the arms,” from L. bracchium (neut. pl. brachia). Replaced O.E. clyppan, also fæðm.

Online Etymology Dictionary, © 2001 Douglas Harper

Last night, late, I stepped out on my front porch to smoke a cigarette. I still smoke cigarettes. For some reason cigarettes have been harder to give up than booze and crystal meth, but I digress. I was standing on my front porch in a cold fog, looking across the street, watching two neighbor couples embrace.

The first couple live in the yellow clapboard house with the white picket fence on the corner across the street. I’m guessing they entertained last night because at this unusual hour the wife, a petite blond in her early 30s, was in the kitchen washing dishes. I saw her husband walk up behind her and place his arms around her and nuzzle her neck while they swayed. It was a picture of the kind of domestic happiness that I have often longed for but never really had, at least not for any meaningful time. I’ve never really touched life that deep. It feels like no one has ever really loved me like that -all the way through. Perhaps it is that I have never loved them back. One would think I could get the direction right since in some ways it is my most obvious and most painful disappointment.

At the same time, two doors down, the shirtless figure of the muscle boy who my friend Lindsey is engaged to, was on the front porch of their house being held, the way you hold someone who has suffered a sudden and terrific loss, by a woman I didn’t recognize. Behind him was a tall, older man with his hand on the boy’s shoulder, telling him he was fine. It’s OK. You’ll be alright. The older man opened the front door and asked if muscle boy had a shirt. It was, after all, only about 40 degrees outside. A hand reached out a shirt from inside the house. “Dad? What are you doing here?” the boy slurred as his father dressed him. Father and mother held their drunken son up as they walked down the steps and to the car and drove away from the young couple’s house. I see this boy in meetings. My friend Lindsey just celebrated 2 years clean and sober. Obviously she’s no Lois Wilson. She told me this morning that she’s broken off the engagement.

One couple clasped in the arms of love, the other in the grip of this disease.

I guess it has had me thinking about which is worse and how; to long for the embrace of an undiscovered beloved or to be in the embrace of hopelessness and futility. They are both awful. They are both lonely. At times I’ve felt like both were killing me. Lately I’ve watched people I love struggle with each of these and I’m finding it harder and harder to watch the struggle in a detached way -probably because the struggle still exists within me. The examples are all around me but two of them in particular seem to have ‘embraced’ me. One of these young women is pretty and smart and sweet and she is sensible in many ways. However, she is obsessed with what she cannot have. I think my suffering over the IFX demonstrates that I know something about obsessing over what I can’t have. Unlike my own experience though, the object of her obsession suddenly became available to her. She responded by running away, forcing this amazing man who loves her to retreat. She has responded by chasing him again.

The other young woman has been in and out of the rooms for over two years but can’t seem to stay sober for more than 30 days at a time. Yet she insists on calling on herself at every meeting and actually giving people advice. She yammers on endlessly about having a wonderful relationship with her higher power (lower case mine and intentional) and how she is working steps and has a wonderful sponsor and how much she has endured and remained sober and “what this program has given” her. Her first or second sentence always begins with the words, “I can honestly say.”

I must care about the first woman more because I haven’t pulled her aside to say, “You stupid, selfish bitch. Can’t you see what you’re keeping yourself from?” I wasn’t so well behaved with the second woman who I did pull aside last night. I believe my words were, “You don’t know shit about shit. You can’t “honestly say” anything. And shut the fuck up. You need this as bad as anyone here and you’re not going to hear it if you’re talking.” The rule I observe about not sharing in a meeting unless I’m called on or unless I’m dying has saved me more than once from either being her, with something to say on every subject and on every occasion- or unloading on her at meeting level. G-d seems always to make sure that I am not called on or (on a couple of occasions) called out of the room for some reason right before my head pops.

Why, I wonder, can’t they simply embrace the truth? Then again . . .

why can’t I?

Photo Credit:  unknown