One moment. One day. One life. One. Just one. One breath. One heartbeat. One earth. One love. One people. One.
One.
I forget sometimes. I forget that I am one. A synthesis of thought and deed. Though the thoughts may wander and wreak havoc upon the world and her children, the body may be still and silent, laying in the sunlit grass, breathing and being.
Two distinct "bodies" - one, a body of thought and desire, trapped 'tween the ears. The second, a physical manifestation, eating, shitting, procreating, dying.
I believe this twisted, braided journey is the whole kit and kaboodle - the answer to the mystery. Our wills and thoughts and consciences are torn endlessly between the spiritual truths and lofty values of our teachers and the clear, undistilled pleasures that are borne of the flesh. To lust is one thing, to chase it down to the end, grabbing that tiger by the tail and drawing blood are two very different things indeed.
But, in the end, we are one.
If we do not act, are we not still guilty of the sin? Are we inherently meant to carry those sins as human luggage? If God allows me to feel it, want it, NEED it, it must certainly be ordained, right? RIGHT? If he wanted me to be clean and sober, he would have removed the urge from me. Right? Christ, I know I would have if I were God!
I label myself an addict. This is ostensibly done to remind me of my penchant for forgetting that I am unable to have "just one"... I don't buy it anymore.
Like my friend Percy tells me, "You're not a crackhead. You just THINK you're a crackhead."
I used to delay my work - my REAL work - songwriting, prose, writing plays and stories, etc. - because I wasn't "sober"... I used to think that my truth wasn't distilled properly, that my writing was convoluted and twisted, that it didn't accurately capture my soul or my true heart; that I needed to be clean for "undisclosed duration of time" before I could write in a good way. Always waiting.
Waiting for that day to come. Maybe after one year clean and sober, maybe 6 months. Who would know? Well, I thought I would know when the time was right. Then never writing, and always relapsing. Stymieing my chances at literary success or songwriting legend.
Fuck that paradigm.
The time is now. This moment. This breath.
I am a writer. Sometimes business plans and organizational development documents, or proposals and reports, sometimes songs and prose. But always A WRITER.
And a writer that doesn't write is a dumbass. I am also a singer/songwriter. I haven't sung for months.
I love this life. And so many who share it with me. And what else is life but a celebration of who we are?
I need to celebrate. Right now. Right now. Right now. This moment, this breath, this heartbeat.
Time is becoming precious in this world.
I have a dear friend, a relative, who says, "just you wait, one day I will be truly where I deserve to be..." and he waits, sadly, forlorn, he waits. Not realizing the time is now.
The time is now.
So, onward and upward. Let us sally forth.
I recently celebrated 59 days of sobriety by picking up. Not purposely, not like "hey, I deserve this.." but sneakily, more insidiously. Like I had allowed the tiger to slip out from under the careful watch he had been placed.
I left the gate unlocked, and placed several large, tender steaks around his cage, in order that he might find his way out.
Sabotage.
Dummy.
I don't want that life. I dangled my toes in the water of the streets again, normalized behaviours of couriering mules and pushers around for a blast, driving through deathly slippery conditions in near whiteout in order that the prying eyes of "THEM" wouldn't see me in my shame. Silly goose. Thankfully, the God that I know to be there, always, held my hand, stilled my truck, held it to the icy, salted asphalt. "QUIT pushing your luck there chum, and challenging my love for you," says He. "Trust in me. Trust in you. Listen to your true self."
Simple.
I picked up a guy outside the Mustard Seed on Saturday morning. Asked him where I could pick up. He came with me in my truck, looked around, saw the little mess, the little bit of self loathing mockery I was sitting in, and asked me, "so are you Indian or what?"
I answer yes. He takes pity on me in my lostness. He has been there. He has the jewel eyes of a gaunt tiger. He also has dope. I tell him I only have ten bucks, and it is in change. He laughs, "you're worse than a panhandler."
I laugh too. This is true. He says, "well, give me a ride over to the co-op by Boyle St. and I'll hook you up good."
Then, when I've poured the handful of quarters into his hands and he's given me the goods, he looks at me and says, "hey."
I look back at him.
"Make sure you get home," he says. My heart just warms and I awaken from the tiger's hypnotic pull over me.
The gatekeeper that leaves raw meat lying outside the tiger's cage is a liar. A selfish little self pitying liar that was borne from dysfunction and chaos, reared and raised on porn and instant gratification. "I want my cake NOWWWWWW!" Sometimes he leaves the key in the lock, and sometimes he unlocks the cage entirely. The tiger will always be there, gaunt and hungry, wily and strong, pacing his cage till eternity.
The soft, quiet me, the one that I love, wants him to stay in there. The loud brash charmer, he thumbs his nose at the fear and dares that tiger to slip out. Fucking dares him.
And what is irrevocably twisted is that all are part of the one. The me. The Sheldon. The Dude. Lone, but never alone.
To what should I aspire? A comfortable circle jerk with a tiger, a liar, a gentle spirit, sitting in counsel together, harmonious? I don't know that this is a real picture.
My heart tells me that I have to meditate, sit still, listen to my heart and allow those disparate voices and characters and bullshit dissipate into the wind, until only one remains.
Now is the time.
let love guide you to the freedom you deserve...
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
It's all about me...
I have this little four word phrase that I find myself saying over and over again. It shows up at the most painful of times, it show up at the best of times. It's a soft little admission that feels so good to type and feels even better saying.
"She's right you know."
So often my better half quietly keeps her truth to herself, while I remonstrate or jump up and down, explaining with vicious and unabashed judgement how "so and so" just judges everyone, or "you can't trust that guy, because all he does is talk behind peoples' backs." Blind to the simple, beautiful truths. Blind to my own blowhard, self-seeking bullshit.
And there she sits, quietly letting me make an ever bigger fool out of myself, still loving me, still nodding once in a while at the right moment, careful not to bruise my puffed out feathers or interfere with my "cock of the yard" strut.
But then, when all of my pomp and circumstance has dwindled, and my self important speeches have ended, and all the hot air has been retired from the balloon, she takes a careful breath and very simply, adeptly and honestly lets me know what the fuck. Not to hurt, but to enlighten. Not to admonish or belittle, but to expand and teach.
She is a real beauty, a real example of shining love stuff - borne of heaven and delicately stuffed into the physical being of a supermodel. Sometimes she is a Cree princess, not afraid to rough me up or anybody else for that matter, to make her point. Her sense of justice is impeccable. Her views on truth and psychology and philosophy and social contract and empowerment and growth and all that is interesting and real in this world are nearly always bang on true and accurate (I say nearly because to be right all the time would be maddening; I should know!).
She is mother like no other. A friend to all who need one. A beacon of truth and gentle compassionate understanding.
And I love her, till this heart beats no more, I love her. From beyond this mortal coil, I will love her, brush her hair from her face as the wind; caress her cheek as a gentle rain drop; hold her close as a mist, rolling in off the lake.
And for now, I must love her from afar. Slowly plodding through the baby steps that seem so great. Through the paces of early recovery. I want so badly to run to her, to hold her, to be her man instead of her sad broken addict boyfriend.
Patience young feller. Do a little work young feller. Get through a day or two, then perhaps a week or two, then maybe a month or two without picking up; without sabotaging your growth, healing or recovery. Pay a few bills and rebuild some of what you tried so desperately to destroy.
Then, show her some of your moves:
That oughta do it!
I love you baby.
S.
"She's right you know."
So often my better half quietly keeps her truth to herself, while I remonstrate or jump up and down, explaining with vicious and unabashed judgement how "so and so" just judges everyone, or "you can't trust that guy, because all he does is talk behind peoples' backs." Blind to the simple, beautiful truths. Blind to my own blowhard, self-seeking bullshit.
And there she sits, quietly letting me make an ever bigger fool out of myself, still loving me, still nodding once in a while at the right moment, careful not to bruise my puffed out feathers or interfere with my "cock of the yard" strut.
But then, when all of my pomp and circumstance has dwindled, and my self important speeches have ended, and all the hot air has been retired from the balloon, she takes a careful breath and very simply, adeptly and honestly lets me know what the fuck. Not to hurt, but to enlighten. Not to admonish or belittle, but to expand and teach.
She is a real beauty, a real example of shining love stuff - borne of heaven and delicately stuffed into the physical being of a supermodel. Sometimes she is a Cree princess, not afraid to rough me up or anybody else for that matter, to make her point. Her sense of justice is impeccable. Her views on truth and psychology and philosophy and social contract and empowerment and growth and all that is interesting and real in this world are nearly always bang on true and accurate (I say nearly because to be right all the time would be maddening; I should know!).
She is mother like no other. A friend to all who need one. A beacon of truth and gentle compassionate understanding.
And I love her, till this heart beats no more, I love her. From beyond this mortal coil, I will love her, brush her hair from her face as the wind; caress her cheek as a gentle rain drop; hold her close as a mist, rolling in off the lake.
And for now, I must love her from afar. Slowly plodding through the baby steps that seem so great. Through the paces of early recovery. I want so badly to run to her, to hold her, to be her man instead of her sad broken addict boyfriend.
Patience young feller. Do a little work young feller. Get through a day or two, then perhaps a week or two, then maybe a month or two without picking up; without sabotaging your growth, healing or recovery. Pay a few bills and rebuild some of what you tried so desperately to destroy.
Then, show her some of your moves:
That oughta do it!
I love you baby.
S.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Small world after all...
It's a world of laughter, a world of tears...
It's a world of hope and a world of fears...
There's so much that we share, and it's time we're aware,
It's a small world after all...
Grade 3, during the blur that was my elementary school years. I think it was St. Edmund's Catholic School where I spent all of four or five months. I was dressed in my buckskin, and even a little moosehide headband with black yarn braids. I was the Indian. Among little Dutch girls, boys in liederhosen, and all the colours of the rainbow. Was I the only one who felt shame? How terrible that I was ashamed to be Indian. How fucking terrible that a seven year old has to feel those feelings. Where did they come from? How does the purity and innocence of childhood become tainted by asshole things like shame and fear and the need to be liked over anything else?
Who knows...
Singing became a big part of my life. Always, always. My family were all musical - Kokom "Mother Maybelle" Edna, Uncle Vic and his lap steel patent and professional session time and road trips with the likes of Ferlin Husky, Anny Murray, and a bevy of country stars; Uncle Jimmy and his banjo, mando and fiddle, brylcreem pompadour and a smile that shone brighter than a National steel guitar. Uncle George, who I remember dancing in pantyhose and skirt, front partial plate taken out, but whose fiddle playing rose above his fashion sense and penchant for drunken showmanship.
My mom taught me my first song - how fitting that it was a Hank Williams tune, Blues Stay Away from Me. My uncle Rocky showed me some chops - a Carter family riff, a little Ghost Riders in the Sky, and these things sent me on the way to discovering a talent for song.
Soon, Dwayne Arlidge shared a little Black Dog with me and thus a love affair with Zeppelin was forged. Rob Wingo introduced me to Major Pentatonic scale and some 12-bar blues.
But it was my mom's record collection that really created my love of music. Jackson Browne - Running on Empty - a record recorded entirely on the road, some in hotel rooms, and one even on a bus (this is obviously not the bus recording, but such a groovy tune; the bus recording has the drummer playing a hi hat and a cardboard box with a footpedal as a bass drum, and you can hear the ol' Silver Eagle gear down in the background as it approaches a downhill turn).
Music transported me. I remember lying on the floor with some big ass Dolby headphones just sitting there listening to Jesus Christ Superstar, "I don't know how to looooooooove him..."
How I longed to be soothed by Jesus like Mary Magdalene. How he could touch her heart, this woman of the street. How he could rattle her to her core... I could relate.
I remember feeling so ripped off by the world. How could we continue to kill, stockpile arms, hurt our children, drink, fight, drug and steal when clearly the truth was laid bare before us by this humble Galileean some two thousand years before.
Music used to make me cry. Softly, gently, laying on my back, all of nine years old or ten or seven or even six: Warm salty tears sliding down my cheeks, ears and ragged mullet, finally gently laying to rest in our myriad shag carpets. Comforted me so deeply. Brought reason and timing, stories with starts and finishes, middles and denouments. Brought order to my chaos.
Funny, we sometimes had pretty meagre fridge contents, but shit we had music. Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Nana Mouskouri , Beach Boys , Charlie Daniels Band.
Lots of music, all kinds. All flavours. Rock, country, blues, classical, Indian Music - AWESOME Indian music I loved this band, this album, this song. Idyllic lifestyle, being one with the rivers, the woods, the deer and fish and sky and sun.
Even my dream last night. I was diving into crystal clear waters. Swimming with my crazy step daughter while her mom was all worried, chiding us from the bridge. Free. Alive. Tears and laughter.
I awoke to a sickness in my chest and a pain in my heart, fear and loathing in my brain and hurt in my stomach. All these beautiful things within this world, and I choose crackdens, the paranoid highway - eyes in the rearview, scoping the countryside, looking for cops, people following me. What the fuck.
I missed my trip to the mountains this weekend. So sad for me. How I treat myself. Fucker. The guy that's driving this train is really starting to piss me off.
I was just listening to that song from the last link: XIT, Plight of the Redman, At Peace, and watching the video. At the end it says, "For You Native Americans Looking for Peace. Just Go Home. Where Home is. And Peace Will Find You. Mother Earth is Waiting. Grandfathers are Watching."
So I cry yet again, knowing full well the words are true. How I could have dove in crystal waters. Friday night I sat in my truck, me and my little asshole friend hiding somewhere in the hood, alone and broke, yet again. I looked up at the moon, knowing she was shining down on my friends in the lodge out in the mountains. In my home. I knew the grandfathers were sad for me, that they missed me, but that the show would go on for those whose moccasins took them there. And then, I looked above, as my thoughts were strumming around all guilty-like and self loathingly, I realized the northern lights were dancing in a circle right above me. Despite my level best effort to hide from life and responsibility and spirituality and what is real in this universe, there they were, the Grandfathers and Grandmothers themselves, dancing like I've never seen them before.
I thought of my childhood and the pain and the poverty and the shit and the scum, but I remembered only the gold and the happy days and the joy and the laughter. I thought how amazing my life was. How blessed I was. What a gift was my miserly little life and the amazing gifts I have been handed to steward and share. How could I keep thumbing my nose to Creation and flipping the hurtin'est bird to my Creator and ancestors.
What is beautiful, is that they still love me. So dearly. I know it. I want to share my vision of the world with my family, with my kids.
For so many, this has been an amazing summer. I read my Facebook; I creep friends' pages. I see what fun you're all having.
For me, this has been the summer of shame.
But watch out mofos: It's going to be the Fall of the Fall of Selfishness and the Winter of my Contentment. And heretofore, a life of Hope Springs Eternal.
I'm not ashamed to wear the buckskin anymore you know... I love it. I'm ashamed of something else, and I don't know where it is or what it is, but I'll find it if I have to.
I was just offered a nice little fulltime job from someone who knows my shitty ass truths and has seen my shine. Someone who believes in me. I think I can follow his lead and believe in me too.
Love to you all.
S.
It's a world of hope and a world of fears...
There's so much that we share, and it's time we're aware,
It's a small world after all...
Grade 3, during the blur that was my elementary school years. I think it was St. Edmund's Catholic School where I spent all of four or five months. I was dressed in my buckskin, and even a little moosehide headband with black yarn braids. I was the Indian. Among little Dutch girls, boys in liederhosen, and all the colours of the rainbow. Was I the only one who felt shame? How terrible that I was ashamed to be Indian. How fucking terrible that a seven year old has to feel those feelings. Where did they come from? How does the purity and innocence of childhood become tainted by asshole things like shame and fear and the need to be liked over anything else?
Who knows...
Singing became a big part of my life. Always, always. My family were all musical - Kokom "Mother Maybelle" Edna, Uncle Vic and his lap steel patent and professional session time and road trips with the likes of Ferlin Husky, Anny Murray, and a bevy of country stars; Uncle Jimmy and his banjo, mando and fiddle, brylcreem pompadour and a smile that shone brighter than a National steel guitar. Uncle George, who I remember dancing in pantyhose and skirt, front partial plate taken out, but whose fiddle playing rose above his fashion sense and penchant for drunken showmanship.
My mom taught me my first song - how fitting that it was a Hank Williams tune, Blues Stay Away from Me. My uncle Rocky showed me some chops - a Carter family riff, a little Ghost Riders in the Sky, and these things sent me on the way to discovering a talent for song.
Soon, Dwayne Arlidge shared a little Black Dog with me and thus a love affair with Zeppelin was forged. Rob Wingo introduced me to Major Pentatonic scale and some 12-bar blues.
But it was my mom's record collection that really created my love of music. Jackson Browne - Running on Empty - a record recorded entirely on the road, some in hotel rooms, and one even on a bus (this is obviously not the bus recording, but such a groovy tune; the bus recording has the drummer playing a hi hat and a cardboard box with a footpedal as a bass drum, and you can hear the ol' Silver Eagle gear down in the background as it approaches a downhill turn).
Music transported me. I remember lying on the floor with some big ass Dolby headphones just sitting there listening to Jesus Christ Superstar, "I don't know how to looooooooove him..."
How I longed to be soothed by Jesus like Mary Magdalene. How he could touch her heart, this woman of the street. How he could rattle her to her core... I could relate.
I remember feeling so ripped off by the world. How could we continue to kill, stockpile arms, hurt our children, drink, fight, drug and steal when clearly the truth was laid bare before us by this humble Galileean some two thousand years before.
Music used to make me cry. Softly, gently, laying on my back, all of nine years old or ten or seven or even six: Warm salty tears sliding down my cheeks, ears and ragged mullet, finally gently laying to rest in our myriad shag carpets. Comforted me so deeply. Brought reason and timing, stories with starts and finishes, middles and denouments. Brought order to my chaos.
Funny, we sometimes had pretty meagre fridge contents, but shit we had music. Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Nana Mouskouri , Beach Boys , Charlie Daniels Band.
Lots of music, all kinds. All flavours. Rock, country, blues, classical, Indian Music - AWESOME Indian music I loved this band, this album, this song. Idyllic lifestyle, being one with the rivers, the woods, the deer and fish and sky and sun.
Even my dream last night. I was diving into crystal clear waters. Swimming with my crazy step daughter while her mom was all worried, chiding us from the bridge. Free. Alive. Tears and laughter.
I awoke to a sickness in my chest and a pain in my heart, fear and loathing in my brain and hurt in my stomach. All these beautiful things within this world, and I choose crackdens, the paranoid highway - eyes in the rearview, scoping the countryside, looking for cops, people following me. What the fuck.
I missed my trip to the mountains this weekend. So sad for me. How I treat myself. Fucker. The guy that's driving this train is really starting to piss me off.
I was just listening to that song from the last link: XIT, Plight of the Redman, At Peace, and watching the video. At the end it says, "For You Native Americans Looking for Peace. Just Go Home. Where Home is. And Peace Will Find You. Mother Earth is Waiting. Grandfathers are Watching."
So I cry yet again, knowing full well the words are true. How I could have dove in crystal waters. Friday night I sat in my truck, me and my little asshole friend hiding somewhere in the hood, alone and broke, yet again. I looked up at the moon, knowing she was shining down on my friends in the lodge out in the mountains. In my home. I knew the grandfathers were sad for me, that they missed me, but that the show would go on for those whose moccasins took them there. And then, I looked above, as my thoughts were strumming around all guilty-like and self loathingly, I realized the northern lights were dancing in a circle right above me. Despite my level best effort to hide from life and responsibility and spirituality and what is real in this universe, there they were, the Grandfathers and Grandmothers themselves, dancing like I've never seen them before.
I thought of my childhood and the pain and the poverty and the shit and the scum, but I remembered only the gold and the happy days and the joy and the laughter. I thought how amazing my life was. How blessed I was. What a gift was my miserly little life and the amazing gifts I have been handed to steward and share. How could I keep thumbing my nose to Creation and flipping the hurtin'est bird to my Creator and ancestors.
What is beautiful, is that they still love me. So dearly. I know it. I want to share my vision of the world with my family, with my kids.
For so many, this has been an amazing summer. I read my Facebook; I creep friends' pages. I see what fun you're all having.
For me, this has been the summer of shame.
But watch out mofos: It's going to be the Fall of the Fall of Selfishness and the Winter of my Contentment. And heretofore, a life of Hope Springs Eternal.
I'm not ashamed to wear the buckskin anymore you know... I love it. I'm ashamed of something else, and I don't know where it is or what it is, but I'll find it if I have to.
I was just offered a nice little fulltime job from someone who knows my shitty ass truths and has seen my shine. Someone who believes in me. I think I can follow his lead and believe in me too.
Love to you all.
S.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Father... Oh Father. Part II
Hm. What a day. Two or three days of positive choices and a little bit of food and sleep, and so quickly we forget. Forget what travesties we have committed. Forget what pain we have felt or caused or both...
We forget.
Tonight I went down to a fellowship meeting to remind me. It comes flooding back, real and visceral and painful and sad, but then the obligatory dance step comes a rushin' to the surface. Shuck and jive, shuck and jive... A yadda-ta-dadda-ta-dadda-ta-Da... A-yadda-ta-dadda-ta-dadda-da-Da...
Maybe one more time... One more ride on the crazy train.
Fuck that.
Some amazing things came flying out of the woodwork today. Work stuff, personal development stuff, spiritual stuff, truths, admissions of guilt and shame, realizations of what is real and what is fucked and what is beautiful and true.
And all I have is three days under my belt. Well, in a row that is.
My friend is not home right now. Likely drinking. I smudged his house yesterday. Beautifully from bottom to top, closets, drawers, haunted rooms and coked up rooms; he was so scared the other night. Bleeding ulcers is my diagnosis but what the fuck do I know.
"Stopping drinking man; that's the only way I think," says I.
So yesterday he has Diet Pepsi. Good on you D.
Today, nobody's home, and his truck's here. Door unlocked too. Weird. Hope nothing terrible happened. But alone I am, facebooking, chatting, planning, plotting secret birthday celebrations, getaway spiritual weekends; just me and the cats.
And yet... Smudge notwithstanding, I still am uncomfortable in my own skin. My babies are not here with me due to my DIRECT FUCKING ACTIONS... guiltguiltguilt... shameshameshame...
Alone, in a basement with a cat staring at me like I'm a chocolate covered turd and I feel like a big shithead. Feel. Don't want to feel. Maybe I should... Hm.. I still have twentyseven phone numbers committed to memory; I can be euphoric (for two seconds) in ten minutes. But then paranoid, delusional, fearful, scared and fucked right up in a minute shortly following my crash.
Then I have stepped in and circumvented the Hand of God. The guiding hand of Creator is not good enough for me, and I self medicate yet again. Then likely wake up tomorrow late, miss my morning meeting, feel jittery and guilty and bomb my afternoon meeting, then miss my wife's birthday, and deny myself the chance to walk into the mountains with my spirit guides and snuggle up with 68 indians and spirits and teachers and helpers and all that is beautiful and humble and real in our culture.
And all I have to do is spend twenty bucks on some more street bullshit. All this and more self loathing, shame and blame on self.
Hm. How bout "no". How bout I show myself that I can tough it through this little ripple in the pond and step proudly and humbly into the light this coming weekend? Shine and smile and cry and sing and eat and laugh and cry some more...
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine. Would you hear my voice come through the music? Would you hold it near as it were your own?
Jerry, RIP and help me make it through the night without using. Help me make it to the mountains tomorrow and to the sweet gentle hand of my love and her family.
Tonight, a father's responsible decision. A broken child's old pattern breaking. A battle of tears and pride and softness and protective arms. That path is for your steps alone. No simple highway between the dawn and the dark of night.
Fuck me. This ain't easy shit.
It's not what you do when you're on stage that counts. It's when no one's looking. I love you baby.
Happy birthday to the most beautiful woman I know. I am blessed by your love.
S + T forever... TL4Ever
xox
S.
We forget.
Tonight I went down to a fellowship meeting to remind me. It comes flooding back, real and visceral and painful and sad, but then the obligatory dance step comes a rushin' to the surface. Shuck and jive, shuck and jive... A yadda-ta-dadda-ta-dadda-ta-Da... A-yadda-ta-dadda-ta-dadda-da-Da...
Maybe one more time... One more ride on the crazy train.
Fuck that.
Some amazing things came flying out of the woodwork today. Work stuff, personal development stuff, spiritual stuff, truths, admissions of guilt and shame, realizations of what is real and what is fucked and what is beautiful and true.
And all I have is three days under my belt. Well, in a row that is.
My friend is not home right now. Likely drinking. I smudged his house yesterday. Beautifully from bottom to top, closets, drawers, haunted rooms and coked up rooms; he was so scared the other night. Bleeding ulcers is my diagnosis but what the fuck do I know.
"Stopping drinking man; that's the only way I think," says I.
So yesterday he has Diet Pepsi. Good on you D.
Today, nobody's home, and his truck's here. Door unlocked too. Weird. Hope nothing terrible happened. But alone I am, facebooking, chatting, planning, plotting secret birthday celebrations, getaway spiritual weekends; just me and the cats.
And yet... Smudge notwithstanding, I still am uncomfortable in my own skin. My babies are not here with me due to my DIRECT FUCKING ACTIONS... guiltguiltguilt... shameshameshame...
Alone, in a basement with a cat staring at me like I'm a chocolate covered turd and I feel like a big shithead. Feel. Don't want to feel. Maybe I should... Hm.. I still have twentyseven phone numbers committed to memory; I can be euphoric (for two seconds) in ten minutes. But then paranoid, delusional, fearful, scared and fucked right up in a minute shortly following my crash.
Then I have stepped in and circumvented the Hand of God. The guiding hand of Creator is not good enough for me, and I self medicate yet again. Then likely wake up tomorrow late, miss my morning meeting, feel jittery and guilty and bomb my afternoon meeting, then miss my wife's birthday, and deny myself the chance to walk into the mountains with my spirit guides and snuggle up with 68 indians and spirits and teachers and helpers and all that is beautiful and humble and real in our culture.
And all I have to do is spend twenty bucks on some more street bullshit. All this and more self loathing, shame and blame on self.
Hm. How bout "no". How bout I show myself that I can tough it through this little ripple in the pond and step proudly and humbly into the light this coming weekend? Shine and smile and cry and sing and eat and laugh and cry some more...
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine. Would you hear my voice come through the music? Would you hold it near as it were your own?
Jerry, RIP and help me make it through the night without using. Help me make it to the mountains tomorrow and to the sweet gentle hand of my love and her family.
Tonight, a father's responsible decision. A broken child's old pattern breaking. A battle of tears and pride and softness and protective arms. That path is for your steps alone. No simple highway between the dawn and the dark of night.
Fuck me. This ain't easy shit.
It's not what you do when you're on stage that counts. It's when no one's looking. I love you baby.
Happy birthday to the most beautiful woman I know. I am blessed by your love.
S + T forever... TL4Ever
xox
S.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Father... Oh Father. Part I
I write today from the bottom of a long steep hill that I have allowed myself to tumble down. I write today, alone, away from my family, my children, my love. I write today because no one will talk to me. All they have ever heard from me are words. I write today as though I am speaking to my love, because she can't bring herself to hear anymore lies and excuses from my mouth anymore.
So much happening in the world around me, the world that I keep ducking out of.
Life.
Simple sometimes. The best things in life are so simple. Like becoming a father. Simple. Being one? Not so much.
At least not for me. Not right now. My heart is just fucking broked... Just fucking broked all up because of how I have treated my kids. Every single one of them. I have done everything possible to strain the ties between us all.
All I ever wanted to be is a dad. I remember being small and my dad not being there, how alone and afraid and unworthy I felt. How I thought, "If I was a Dad, I would hold my son so tight..." or "I will never leave my kids... Ever..."
Bullshit.
At least my dad only ever left once.
I keep leaving, over and over again. "No really, this time I mean it... I will be right back." Poof.
Fuckin' guy. What kind of fuckin' guy have I become?
I respect all those men out there who are there, day in and day out for their families. Men who sacrifice of themselves, give of their hearts and bodies so that others may live better, easier. Real daddies. Not dickheads.
I'm pretty sure I have it in me. Reasonably sure.
I will write this evening to you my love. Because I don't have to you speak to right now. Because you are protecting those you love and yourself... Protecting them from a wolf in daddy's clothing.
I will write some more tomorrow. I am so sleepy. Running and running and running from responsibility and truth and honour and faith and love and all that is good in the world really takes its toll on a body.
Love to you.
S.
So much happening in the world around me, the world that I keep ducking out of.
Life.
Simple sometimes. The best things in life are so simple. Like becoming a father. Simple. Being one? Not so much.
At least not for me. Not right now. My heart is just fucking broked... Just fucking broked all up because of how I have treated my kids. Every single one of them. I have done everything possible to strain the ties between us all.
All I ever wanted to be is a dad. I remember being small and my dad not being there, how alone and afraid and unworthy I felt. How I thought, "If I was a Dad, I would hold my son so tight..." or "I will never leave my kids... Ever..."
Bullshit.
At least my dad only ever left once.
I keep leaving, over and over again. "No really, this time I mean it... I will be right back." Poof.
Fuckin' guy. What kind of fuckin' guy have I become?
I respect all those men out there who are there, day in and day out for their families. Men who sacrifice of themselves, give of their hearts and bodies so that others may live better, easier. Real daddies. Not dickheads.
I'm pretty sure I have it in me. Reasonably sure.
I will write this evening to you my love. Because I don't have to you speak to right now. Because you are protecting those you love and yourself... Protecting them from a wolf in daddy's clothing.
I will write some more tomorrow. I am so sleepy. Running and running and running from responsibility and truth and honour and faith and love and all that is good in the world really takes its toll on a body.
Love to you.
S.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Today: I love, therefore I am...
Hi. Been a while. So the smartypants expectation that I would and could sustain a daily sober counter accompanied by some prosaic wisdom or poetic weaving has been proven wrong. Once again, I have proven that my words can very easily outweigh my actions.
Oh well. Shit happens.
I could get all "oh, the sorrow of it all..." or "oh, poor Sheldon let himself down again..." or even use it as an excuse to imagine myself a failure and keep on keepin' on in a downward direction until I have taken a final pull on the devil's dick and this unbelievably strong heart just rolls over in exasperation and quietly says "Ekosi maka."
Strong heart indeed. The things I have done, the things I have seen, the things I have put myself through. <sigh> Oh my.
I yearn today, this moment, to be kind to myself. Looking outside, the blue sky, the green grass, the ringing sound of children's voices: These are the things I would long for when I was at the end of yet another rope.
Or these were the things I chose to ignore when I was en route for another score, from my dark, lonely hiding place in the bush in a beeline to the inner city, then scurrying back to my hole - truck on fumes, smoking cigarette butts from my ashtray, picking up and tasting sesame seeds, snot particles or styrofoam from the carpet of the Chev, checking to see if they were more of that bogus, smelly rock that's being passed off as crack... Nice... way to cherish the universe and spread the love Mr. Hughes.
Well, I am here, I am clean and I will write when I am able, inspired, feeling too much, wanting to share... et cetera, et cetera.
I don't need any more pressure in my life to expect to sit down and carve out an hour each day to wax on and on, shedding light on the trainwreck that I had been trying to live and call a life. It's only part of the story anyways.
I won't show you all my scars, all my fears... I won't tell you all the hardwired action stories or all of the sad, painful or insipid truths. This is not a barometer from which you can gauge all that I am or all that I want to be.
This blog was started because I thought having a thousand eyes (or even twenty) on me would help keep me accountable, help keep me home.
Wrong.
It is the love that I feel and allow to flow through me that keeps me here, keeps me from calling all the dealers that pretend to be my friends and then sell me horse tranquilizer laced bullshit, or some concoction that tastes like transmission fluid and rubber gloves mixed together. Death in a baggie.
Bleah.
Life is a blessed event that is ever transformative, ever fluid and dancing, and can be missed if you blink.
Today, God willing, I will not blink. I will not avert my gaze from that which is real, true and suffused with love and light.
Today I will live and walk with Creator as my guide. Today I will hold hands with a big, juicy family who loves their daddy/hubby and we will allow our steps to be guided by a Heritage Festival food map!
Bring on the sheepkebabs!
hearts and smooches,
S.
Oh well. Shit happens.
I could get all "oh, the sorrow of it all..." or "oh, poor Sheldon let himself down again..." or even use it as an excuse to imagine myself a failure and keep on keepin' on in a downward direction until I have taken a final pull on the devil's dick and this unbelievably strong heart just rolls over in exasperation and quietly says "Ekosi maka."
Strong heart indeed. The things I have done, the things I have seen, the things I have put myself through. <sigh> Oh my.
I yearn today, this moment, to be kind to myself. Looking outside, the blue sky, the green grass, the ringing sound of children's voices: These are the things I would long for when I was at the end of yet another rope.
Or these were the things I chose to ignore when I was en route for another score, from my dark, lonely hiding place in the bush in a beeline to the inner city, then scurrying back to my hole - truck on fumes, smoking cigarette butts from my ashtray, picking up and tasting sesame seeds, snot particles or styrofoam from the carpet of the Chev, checking to see if they were more of that bogus, smelly rock that's being passed off as crack... Nice... way to cherish the universe and spread the love Mr. Hughes.
Well, I am here, I am clean and I will write when I am able, inspired, feeling too much, wanting to share... et cetera, et cetera.
I don't need any more pressure in my life to expect to sit down and carve out an hour each day to wax on and on, shedding light on the trainwreck that I had been trying to live and call a life. It's only part of the story anyways.
I won't show you all my scars, all my fears... I won't tell you all the hardwired action stories or all of the sad, painful or insipid truths. This is not a barometer from which you can gauge all that I am or all that I want to be.
This blog was started because I thought having a thousand eyes (or even twenty) on me would help keep me accountable, help keep me home.
Wrong.
It is the love that I feel and allow to flow through me that keeps me here, keeps me from calling all the dealers that pretend to be my friends and then sell me horse tranquilizer laced bullshit, or some concoction that tastes like transmission fluid and rubber gloves mixed together. Death in a baggie.
Bleah.
Life is a blessed event that is ever transformative, ever fluid and dancing, and can be missed if you blink.
Today, God willing, I will not blink. I will not avert my gaze from that which is real, true and suffused with love and light.
Today I will live and walk with Creator as my guide. Today I will hold hands with a big, juicy family who loves their daddy/hubby and we will allow our steps to be guided by a Heritage Festival food map!
Bring on the sheepkebabs!
hearts and smooches,
S.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Today: Blast from the Past...
Haven't written in a week. Trying to find some solace in action, not the words. No energy right now. It's coming. Slowly, coming.
No day counter. Too much pressure. There is just today. Only, always just today.
Today I am writing for a friend. For me too, but for a friend, who so quietly reached out and asked politely for a glimpse into my soul, into my storm. Not knowing why but it doesn't matter. Funny. When our friends need us, sometimes we can just give without asking why, without expecting anything in return.
Sometimes we can't. Sometimes it's our family, those closest to us, who spurn us, deny us, turn away for this reason or that. Sometimes it hurts but more often than not it don't even register anymore. We've been spurned for so long.
"Yeah, yeah," we say to ourselves, "I didn't 'spect you to come anyways. Just had to ask you know."
More often than not I kid myself that it doesn't hurt. It hurts like fucking hell.
My friend politely reminded me I've undertaken a yearlong blog expedition and that she wants some of this action.
Hmph.
Well, just to show her what's what, I will cut and paste something from the annals of our conversations and emails that captures some of what I feel, what I think, what I know... right here, right now. (I hope you are not upset that I am sharing this...)
These unexpected obstacles that slow us down, they cause us to reflect on what's important. These are what help us to see our true selves: Our true natures. It's tough cuz the pot doesn't help us at all.. Only hurts us. It's hard to see it while we're in it, but by helping us "relax", it actually prolongs the agony. Our relaxation is premised on the silky, green dragon smoke's ability to cloak our problems, to mask them in a green-tinged mockery of true love. "YEah mon, it's all good mon... " When really, inside, we're hurting, sad, scared, lonely beyond our comprehension, and just ACHING for real expression, real happiness, just REAL in general. And sometimes, real sucks; real hurts. Real is not exciting, not immediately fulfilling. Most times real is just a pain in the ass. But it is real.
That is what we yearn for. To find our real place in this world. A place where we belong. Where we can feel love. The real secret is that all along, while we may be looking for a geographical location or perfect job or relationship to discover that love, it only exists in one place: in our hearts. We just have to choose to unlock it. To discard that which keeps us mired in guilt, shame, fear, doubt, etc. To make an ACTIVE decision to love and accept love.
Sweetheart, I hate to be a broken record, but true enlightenment and understanding and all that love is only possible when we are clean and sober. When we have stared the gaunt and sombre eyes of the tiger that is our craving, and taken back the ownership of our soul.
"No," she said, "I will NOT succumb to you oh mangy and flea bitten tiger, whose eyes shimmer with the glaze of physical pleasure. I will not hide behind the promise you give with your temporary salvation, your short lived pleasure. I will instead surrender to these feelings of fear and doubt, and in that unique position of surrender, I will feel the unexpected strength that flows from the mountain, the snow; the waters and the sky. The strength that comforts me with the recognition that the very same strength courses through my veins and makes up the seat of my soul. I am one with the universe, and the universe is one with me. And it is love, sweet love, that ties me to this plane; that connects me to all and caresses my bare feet as they touch the ground. I choose today to honour my body, mind and soul by staying pure and treating myself with love."
So fuck you devil weed; fuck you coca plant; fuck you cancer sticks.. fuck you sweet alcoholic vapours! I choose today to celebrate my life with a few chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and some green tea. And maybe a little word of thanks to my ancestors, in whose steps I humbly walk, and to those yet to arrive, whose way I hope is gentle.
I choose today to honour this planet and this life in the best way I know how: by learning to listen to my heart.
And tonight, when I lay my head down in my soft bed, between the sheets and eagerly anticipating my dreams, after I have given thanks for making it through this day and showing myself love, I ask that I have the power, will and wherewithal to do the same tomorrow. And if anyone up there is listening: Thank you."
So, there's my two cents. No "solving"; just the simple explanation of the daily battle that I engage in. These awarenesses are what keep me here. What keep me believing that the best is yet to come. I choose today to walk with the universe, clean, sober and mindful of my spirit; rather than fight against the naturally flowing current of love.
"The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly." - Henry David Thoreau, from "Walden."
I love you more than you can know.
S.
No day counter. Too much pressure. There is just today. Only, always just today.
Today I am writing for a friend. For me too, but for a friend, who so quietly reached out and asked politely for a glimpse into my soul, into my storm. Not knowing why but it doesn't matter. Funny. When our friends need us, sometimes we can just give without asking why, without expecting anything in return.
Sometimes we can't. Sometimes it's our family, those closest to us, who spurn us, deny us, turn away for this reason or that. Sometimes it hurts but more often than not it don't even register anymore. We've been spurned for so long.
"Yeah, yeah," we say to ourselves, "I didn't 'spect you to come anyways. Just had to ask you know."
More often than not I kid myself that it doesn't hurt. It hurts like fucking hell.
My friend politely reminded me I've undertaken a yearlong blog expedition and that she wants some of this action.
Hmph.
Well, just to show her what's what, I will cut and paste something from the annals of our conversations and emails that captures some of what I feel, what I think, what I know... right here, right now. (I hope you are not upset that I am sharing this...)
These unexpected obstacles that slow us down, they cause us to reflect on what's important. These are what help us to see our true selves: Our true natures. It's tough cuz the pot doesn't help us at all.. Only hurts us. It's hard to see it while we're in it, but by helping us "relax", it actually prolongs the agony. Our relaxation is premised on the silky, green dragon smoke's ability to cloak our problems, to mask them in a green-tinged mockery of true love. "YEah mon, it's all good mon... " When really, inside, we're hurting, sad, scared, lonely beyond our comprehension, and just ACHING for real expression, real happiness, just REAL in general. And sometimes, real sucks; real hurts. Real is not exciting, not immediately fulfilling. Most times real is just a pain in the ass. But it is real.
That is what we yearn for. To find our real place in this world. A place where we belong. Where we can feel love. The real secret is that all along, while we may be looking for a geographical location or perfect job or relationship to discover that love, it only exists in one place: in our hearts. We just have to choose to unlock it. To discard that which keeps us mired in guilt, shame, fear, doubt, etc. To make an ACTIVE decision to love and accept love.
Sweetheart, I hate to be a broken record, but true enlightenment and understanding and all that love is only possible when we are clean and sober. When we have stared the gaunt and sombre eyes of the tiger that is our craving, and taken back the ownership of our soul.
"No," she said, "I will NOT succumb to you oh mangy and flea bitten tiger, whose eyes shimmer with the glaze of physical pleasure. I will not hide behind the promise you give with your temporary salvation, your short lived pleasure. I will instead surrender to these feelings of fear and doubt, and in that unique position of surrender, I will feel the unexpected strength that flows from the mountain, the snow; the waters and the sky. The strength that comforts me with the recognition that the very same strength courses through my veins and makes up the seat of my soul. I am one with the universe, and the universe is one with me. And it is love, sweet love, that ties me to this plane; that connects me to all and caresses my bare feet as they touch the ground. I choose today to honour my body, mind and soul by staying pure and treating myself with love."
So fuck you devil weed; fuck you coca plant; fuck you cancer sticks.. fuck you sweet alcoholic vapours! I choose today to celebrate my life with a few chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and some green tea. And maybe a little word of thanks to my ancestors, in whose steps I humbly walk, and to those yet to arrive, whose way I hope is gentle.
I choose today to honour this planet and this life in the best way I know how: by learning to listen to my heart.
And tonight, when I lay my head down in my soft bed, between the sheets and eagerly anticipating my dreams, after I have given thanks for making it through this day and showing myself love, I ask that I have the power, will and wherewithal to do the same tomorrow. And if anyone up there is listening: Thank you."
So, there's my two cents. No "solving"; just the simple explanation of the daily battle that I engage in. These awarenesses are what keep me here. What keep me believing that the best is yet to come. I choose today to walk with the universe, clean, sober and mindful of my spirit; rather than fight against the naturally flowing current of love.
"The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly." - Henry David Thoreau, from "Walden."
I love you more than you can know.
S.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Day Seven: Homeward Bound...
I was sitting in a railway station, got a ticket for my destination... Mm-mhm... Man I love Paul Simon. This guy inspired me to play, to sing. What a talent. What a beautiful soul. Onstage with Willie Nelson. Nice.
I have to go to Hinton, Alberta tonight. Two days of meetings with the Canadian Boreal Forest Agreement Regional Steering Group. Cool. My home. My place of birth. Homeward bound. (Gotta show Art too! Can't have Simon without Garfunkel)
Other things have come up as well; beautiful things. Opportunities and rewards. Terry says to me, "life just keeps putting these amazing things in front of you."
I know. <sigh> I know. Like I expect the world to reward me just for being me. Special treatment all my life. Mr. Manipulator; sell a screen door to a submarine captain - just for the hell of it.
My friend, the loudest most arrogant asshole of a recovery pro (and the sweetest, most generous man I know) says that he suffers from "terminal uniqueness." I can relate. The sense of being so unique, so special, so separate from the world - ALWAYS get my way... ALWAYS find a way... ALWAYS.... Turn on the charm and by the time I'm done, not only have you done my bidding, but you figured it was your idea.
Sick. Ever sick.
Pages 60-63 of the Big Book of AA. I have read it over and over again. Mostly because I have been directed to read it over and over again from folks that know. I know it by heart practically. And still I play God from time to time.
"The first requirement is that we be convinced that any life run on self-will can hardly be a success. On that basis we are almost always in collision with someone or somebody, even though our motives are good."
This is the trick. "Even though our motives are good." Selfish is still selfish. I remember wanting to stop the whole world just to listen to me tell them how ridiculous it was that they were at war, or stockpiling nukes or starving three quarters of the world's population so the rest of us could enjoy bologna and kraft dinner. For their own good, I wanted to impart my wisdom. My way is the right way.
Wrong.
My way is my way. Their ways are their ways. My job is to keep my side of the street clean, not sweep up theirs.
We find a way to lead by example. Show the way.
"I am the light of the world, whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life." John 8:12
Jesus rocks.
So I'm going on the road tonight. My cousin and I. Mountain bikes and fishing rods and notepads and laptop. Mostly work but a little play. My hometown. Hell, it's even his hometown. My first kiss, first love, first pube, first drink, first toke, first .. well, you know. *blush* A lot of firsts.
I love this place. The rivers, the lakes, the mountains, even the smell (pulp mill). I am pulling my trailer and parking at a beautiful ranch nestled in the foothills. Maybe even squeeze in a horsey ride.
Day seven and all is well. Bills paid, work copacetic, wife happy, kids healthy. Body, mind and soul feeling not bad at all.
Just got to get a little wiring fixed on my truck. And I'm on my way to do that.
Love to you all.
S.
xox
I have to go to Hinton, Alberta tonight. Two days of meetings with the Canadian Boreal Forest Agreement Regional Steering Group. Cool. My home. My place of birth. Homeward bound. (Gotta show Art too! Can't have Simon without Garfunkel)
Other things have come up as well; beautiful things. Opportunities and rewards. Terry says to me, "life just keeps putting these amazing things in front of you."
I know. <sigh> I know. Like I expect the world to reward me just for being me. Special treatment all my life. Mr. Manipulator; sell a screen door to a submarine captain - just for the hell of it.
My friend, the loudest most arrogant asshole of a recovery pro (and the sweetest, most generous man I know) says that he suffers from "terminal uniqueness." I can relate. The sense of being so unique, so special, so separate from the world - ALWAYS get my way... ALWAYS find a way... ALWAYS.... Turn on the charm and by the time I'm done, not only have you done my bidding, but you figured it was your idea.
Sick. Ever sick.
Pages 60-63 of the Big Book of AA. I have read it over and over again. Mostly because I have been directed to read it over and over again from folks that know. I know it by heart practically. And still I play God from time to time.
"The first requirement is that we be convinced that any life run on self-will can hardly be a success. On that basis we are almost always in collision with someone or somebody, even though our motives are good."
This is the trick. "Even though our motives are good." Selfish is still selfish. I remember wanting to stop the whole world just to listen to me tell them how ridiculous it was that they were at war, or stockpiling nukes or starving three quarters of the world's population so the rest of us could enjoy bologna and kraft dinner. For their own good, I wanted to impart my wisdom. My way is the right way.
Wrong.
My way is my way. Their ways are their ways. My job is to keep my side of the street clean, not sweep up theirs.
We find a way to lead by example. Show the way.
"I am the light of the world, whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life." John 8:12
Jesus rocks.
So I'm going on the road tonight. My cousin and I. Mountain bikes and fishing rods and notepads and laptop. Mostly work but a little play. My hometown. Hell, it's even his hometown. My first kiss, first love, first pube, first drink, first toke, first .. well, you know. *blush* A lot of firsts.
I love this place. The rivers, the lakes, the mountains, even the smell (pulp mill). I am pulling my trailer and parking at a beautiful ranch nestled in the foothills. Maybe even squeeze in a horsey ride.
Day seven and all is well. Bills paid, work copacetic, wife happy, kids healthy. Body, mind and soul feeling not bad at all.
Just got to get a little wiring fixed on my truck. And I'm on my way to do that.
Love to you all.
S.
xox
Monday, July 4, 2011
Day Six: Linking Heaven and Earth
Wow. Google rocks.
I remember spreading out our Encyclopedia Brittanica nice, juicy red volumes all over the carpet when I was a kid. So in rapture from all the information, tidbits and trivia. I loved the "H" volume with its plastic page overlays of the human body.
We even had the Childcraft supplementary volumes - 15 coloured hardcover books; Stories and Fables, Crafts, Holidays, Cultures - all manner of interesting fare for a wunderkind readaholic 12 year old.
I remember when mom bought them from a door to door salesman. How I gave her hell. ("We don't have that kind of money to throw around on encyclopedias!") How she argued the point and didn't give a rat's ass how broke we were. We needed the 1983 set of Brittanica and each supplemental volume of "Year in Review" every year thereafter. And that, asshole, was that.
Now, I punch in a word or two, carefully bonded together by a space bar punch, and BOOM, 171,734,231 hits, organized in order of importance, views, relevance, etc. Google rocks.
Today I punched in the number "6", preceded by "significance of the number." Whoa. Very cool.
The number 6 is represented by the Hebrew word "vav" which is the word used in the Torah linking Heaven and Earth. Like a "hook" the vav links heaven and earth. The physical and the spiritual.
Whoa. Six used to be significant to me because that was the increment in which beer was sold.
Six. It's pretty big in the House of David, the Jewish House. Six pointed star and all that.
Six. The sense of wholeness or oneness: The whole of an object - back, front, right, left, top and bottom. Six sides.
Today is the sixth day in this, the journey of recovery of one S. Hughes. Feeling grounded, whole. Balanced. Healthy.
Things are not perfect but they are whole. I am part of this whole.
I mask my feelings with practical realities... (as in "I shouldn't be feeling this") And it is not a very healthy thing to do. I am choosing to learn to honour what I feel, when I feel it. A time for everything and everything in its time.
But choosing to act or not on those feelings is another art within itself.
Feel them, yes, but perhaps it is best to not say "go fuck yourself" to someone who signs your paycheques even though the overwhelming desire to do so is front and centre. How to honour and value one's truths without stepping on the toes of the world or compromising your health and sanity.
This is the message of the day.
Brought to you by the number 6.
xox
S.
I remember spreading out our Encyclopedia Brittanica nice, juicy red volumes all over the carpet when I was a kid. So in rapture from all the information, tidbits and trivia. I loved the "H" volume with its plastic page overlays of the human body.
We even had the Childcraft supplementary volumes - 15 coloured hardcover books; Stories and Fables, Crafts, Holidays, Cultures - all manner of interesting fare for a wunderkind readaholic 12 year old.
I remember when mom bought them from a door to door salesman. How I gave her hell. ("We don't have that kind of money to throw around on encyclopedias!") How she argued the point and didn't give a rat's ass how broke we were. We needed the 1983 set of Brittanica and each supplemental volume of "Year in Review" every year thereafter. And that, asshole, was that.
Now, I punch in a word or two, carefully bonded together by a space bar punch, and BOOM, 171,734,231 hits, organized in order of importance, views, relevance, etc. Google rocks.
Today I punched in the number "6", preceded by "significance of the number." Whoa. Very cool.
The number 6 is represented by the Hebrew word "vav" which is the word used in the Torah linking Heaven and Earth. Like a "hook" the vav links heaven and earth. The physical and the spiritual.
Whoa. Six used to be significant to me because that was the increment in which beer was sold.
Six. It's pretty big in the House of David, the Jewish House. Six pointed star and all that.
Six. The sense of wholeness or oneness: The whole of an object - back, front, right, left, top and bottom. Six sides.
Today is the sixth day in this, the journey of recovery of one S. Hughes. Feeling grounded, whole. Balanced. Healthy.
Things are not perfect but they are whole. I am part of this whole.
I mask my feelings with practical realities... (as in "I shouldn't be feeling this") And it is not a very healthy thing to do. I am choosing to learn to honour what I feel, when I feel it. A time for everything and everything in its time.
But choosing to act or not on those feelings is another art within itself.
Feel them, yes, but perhaps it is best to not say "go fuck yourself" to someone who signs your paycheques even though the overwhelming desire to do so is front and centre. How to honour and value one's truths without stepping on the toes of the world or compromising your health and sanity.
This is the message of the day.
Brought to you by the number 6.
xox
S.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Day Five: The way to eternal happiness...
Hot bath after a day of household chores and some fresh pickerel battered and fried... Another good day in a pretty good stack of good days that this life has brought me.
Bruce Lee in HD and a houseload of kids and beautiful women. What have I done to deserve these, life's sweet rewards?
Part of me thinks I was a real tortured soul in a previous life because, as one of my recovery friends has so aptly put it "you have no idea how lucky you are." Another part of me thinks it may have something to do with the so-called difficulties that we faced when I was young. The trials and tribulations and patient, abiding tears into my pillow night after night seem to have earned me some celestial credits.
Matters naught. I am here now and that is all that matters. The world is a beautiful place and so much of what is in it is also beautiful.
No need to dig too deep today. I am a little fearful of what the cat may drag in. (By the way diesel, thanks for the mouse on the front step today. Gave the ants something to do besides ravage our peonies!)
Strange dreams these last few nights. So thankful for my bedmate. It is like sleeping beside Mother Earth so grounded she makes me feel.
I have always had this strange delusion about my writing. That one day I would just settle down into myself and just write, and be instantly grand at it. That I would write the "Great Canadian Aboriginal Poor Beginnings Champagne Finishing Smartypants Heartfelt Novel" and live happily ever after, raising kids and goats and chickens and cows and grow beets, snowpeas, carrots and spuds on a little patch of bush somewhere in the mountains.
I had a therapist one time who, while I was waiting for her to help me with my philandering, asked me if I thought I had a drug problem.
"I smoke pot," said I, fully ignorant of my own complete disregard for truth, personal or otherwise, "and I will smoke pot till I die."
"Hmph," said she. "Well, you will not make any personal growth until you admit you have a problem and decide to stop using substance chronically."
"Hmph," thought I. "What does she know, this krinkly old lady."
"And another thing," said she. "You will not write the Great Canadian Novel, Aboriginal or Otherwise, until you start writing. Not some Magnum Opus; just writing."
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I distinctly remember that statement resonating deep within me. That she was right. That to dream and delude one's self about writing the perfect blend of pain and joy and truth and bullshit on the first go round was pretty vain and self absorbed NOT to mention fairly akin to self-sabotage. So I tried.
But the slow, steady pitter pat of safe, responsible steps toward enlightenment and happiness was and is still foreign to me. I was and am much more familiar with the staccato sounds of sprints and stumbles of oxfords on the cobblestones. Sprints and stumbles. Leaps and tumbles. Up and down, sink and swim. Look like you're just about to get ahead and then pull the whole thing down on yourself.
Magnum Opus be damned. I am just going to do some Sunday single panel cartoons, but they'll be good, trust me. Fuck the Great Novel. I'll write a song or two, dazzle the onlookers and continue to undermine my own path to sanctity and satisfaction.
In the words of the Late Great Slim Pickens "WTF?"
Just like I knew in my heart that Louise, the most talented therapeutic practitioner I have ever known, was completely right in all her recommendations and analyses, I know in my heart that I have sadly shortchanged myself by living in the shortcut for so long.
Doing my homework at my desk 10 minutes before class begins 30 years ago or finishing a project for work on the day of the deadline - procrastination didn't kill the cat, but it sure made him fat and lazy. ; )
So part of my rationale for this blog is to write. Simply to write. To allow the cloudy, muddled thoughts and feelings that are "coming out all over" in early recovery to sweeten, distill, steep and settle into poetry and prose of which I can be proud as we get nearer to this time next year.
You know, I have been an addict since I ate my first Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookie at 5 years old. Even the sadness that has been my companion for all my life, I believe, is a guilty pleasure that has addictive roots.
I was the Captain of Team Chronic since the age of 11. Blackout drunk at 14. Playing the most dangerous game of stimulant addict for nearly 12 years. In all that time, the longest time I have mustered without using anything chronically is 5 months. I did that about four years ago. Then, when everything was perfect... "Hm, think I'll call *insert dealer name here*. Celebrate my newfound happiness and success."
I have had two, three, four months. Two, three, six weeks... numerous times, but no sustained "pitter, pat, pitter, pat" of slow and steady winning the race.
I admire all you folks that walk the talk. Day after day, week after week, year after year. Some of you drink and smoke now and again. Good on you. You wake up with your kids every day. Some of you fuck around and chase shits and giggles at the expense of your better halves. I don't think that's wise or kind. Somewhere in the middle of all this is a path worth walking.
I have historically waffled between some twisted version of Super Dad and insane, no show cracker jack.
Today, I choose to be here. In the now. Sharing a bed with my soulmate, and two sweaty three year olds. Allowing the flotsam to drift away and the gems to be revealed. It doesn't take long. All the clean time I've mustered, all the growth and understandings and truths - they are still there. I can't go backwards and lose them. They become clear and reveal themselves as I stop muddying up the stream, stop stirring up the shit and silt and caca.
It's not when it gets hard that I go and fuck up. It's when it gets good.
It's getting late. In deference to the late, great Bruce Lee who is currently lighting up the 46" in High Definition, I will finish with a couple of his quotes.
"Real living is living for others."
Nice. Putting in the time and the effort with this beautiful, deserving family. I managed to help our beautiful Teen Queen onto the winning float for Strathcona County's Canada Day Parade. Still some work to do after disappearing on her birthday this year, but it's a start.
Maybe finding some way to grow in recovery and share what little truths or tools I may discover. Maybe I should finish a set of steps... Can't teach what you don't know.
This is living for others.
I also like this other Bruce Lee quote. Self fulfilling prophecy.
"You just wait. I'm going to be the biggest Chinese star in the world."
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My Love to You.
S.
Bruce Lee in HD and a houseload of kids and beautiful women. What have I done to deserve these, life's sweet rewards?
Part of me thinks I was a real tortured soul in a previous life because, as one of my recovery friends has so aptly put it "you have no idea how lucky you are." Another part of me thinks it may have something to do with the so-called difficulties that we faced when I was young. The trials and tribulations and patient, abiding tears into my pillow night after night seem to have earned me some celestial credits.
Matters naught. I am here now and that is all that matters. The world is a beautiful place and so much of what is in it is also beautiful.
No need to dig too deep today. I am a little fearful of what the cat may drag in. (By the way diesel, thanks for the mouse on the front step today. Gave the ants something to do besides ravage our peonies!)
Strange dreams these last few nights. So thankful for my bedmate. It is like sleeping beside Mother Earth so grounded she makes me feel.
I have always had this strange delusion about my writing. That one day I would just settle down into myself and just write, and be instantly grand at it. That I would write the "Great Canadian Aboriginal Poor Beginnings Champagne Finishing Smartypants Heartfelt Novel" and live happily ever after, raising kids and goats and chickens and cows and grow beets, snowpeas, carrots and spuds on a little patch of bush somewhere in the mountains.
I had a therapist one time who, while I was waiting for her to help me with my philandering, asked me if I thought I had a drug problem.
"I smoke pot," said I, fully ignorant of my own complete disregard for truth, personal or otherwise, "and I will smoke pot till I die."
"Hmph," said she. "Well, you will not make any personal growth until you admit you have a problem and decide to stop using substance chronically."
"Hmph," thought I. "What does she know, this krinkly old lady."
"And another thing," said she. "You will not write the Great Canadian Novel, Aboriginal or Otherwise, until you start writing. Not some Magnum Opus; just writing."
But the slow, steady pitter pat of safe, responsible steps toward enlightenment and happiness was and is still foreign to me. I was and am much more familiar with the staccato sounds of sprints and stumbles of oxfords on the cobblestones. Sprints and stumbles. Leaps and tumbles. Up and down, sink and swim. Look like you're just about to get ahead and then pull the whole thing down on yourself.
Magnum Opus be damned. I am just going to do some Sunday single panel cartoons, but they'll be good, trust me. Fuck the Great Novel. I'll write a song or two, dazzle the onlookers and continue to undermine my own path to sanctity and satisfaction.
In the words of the Late Great Slim Pickens "WTF?"
Just like I knew in my heart that Louise, the most talented therapeutic practitioner I have ever known, was completely right in all her recommendations and analyses, I know in my heart that I have sadly shortchanged myself by living in the shortcut for so long.
Doing my homework at my desk 10 minutes before class begins 30 years ago or finishing a project for work on the day of the deadline - procrastination didn't kill the cat, but it sure made him fat and lazy. ; )
So part of my rationale for this blog is to write. Simply to write. To allow the cloudy, muddled thoughts and feelings that are "coming out all over" in early recovery to sweeten, distill, steep and settle into poetry and prose of which I can be proud as we get nearer to this time next year.
You know, I have been an addict since I ate my first Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookie at 5 years old. Even the sadness that has been my companion for all my life, I believe, is a guilty pleasure that has addictive roots.
I was the Captain of Team Chronic since the age of 11. Blackout drunk at 14. Playing the most dangerous game of stimulant addict for nearly 12 years. In all that time, the longest time I have mustered without using anything chronically is 5 months. I did that about four years ago. Then, when everything was perfect... "Hm, think I'll call *insert dealer name here*. Celebrate my newfound happiness and success."
I have had two, three, four months. Two, three, six weeks... numerous times, but no sustained "pitter, pat, pitter, pat" of slow and steady winning the race.
I admire all you folks that walk the talk. Day after day, week after week, year after year. Some of you drink and smoke now and again. Good on you. You wake up with your kids every day. Some of you fuck around and chase shits and giggles at the expense of your better halves. I don't think that's wise or kind. Somewhere in the middle of all this is a path worth walking.
I have historically waffled between some twisted version of Super Dad and insane, no show cracker jack.
Today, I choose to be here. In the now. Sharing a bed with my soulmate, and two sweaty three year olds. Allowing the flotsam to drift away and the gems to be revealed. It doesn't take long. All the clean time I've mustered, all the growth and understandings and truths - they are still there. I can't go backwards and lose them. They become clear and reveal themselves as I stop muddying up the stream, stop stirring up the shit and silt and caca.
It's not when it gets hard that I go and fuck up. It's when it gets good.
It's getting late. In deference to the late, great Bruce Lee who is currently lighting up the 46" in High Definition, I will finish with a couple of his quotes.
"Real living is living for others."
Nice. Putting in the time and the effort with this beautiful, deserving family. I managed to help our beautiful Teen Queen onto the winning float for Strathcona County's Canada Day Parade. Still some work to do after disappearing on her birthday this year, but it's a start.
Maybe finding some way to grow in recovery and share what little truths or tools I may discover. Maybe I should finish a set of steps... Can't teach what you don't know.
This is living for others.
I also like this other Bruce Lee quote. Self fulfilling prophecy.
"You just wait. I'm going to be the biggest Chinese star in the world."
S.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Day Four: Up the Creek without a paddle or "Can someone bring me some toilet paper please!?"
I have found something in my chest that I forgot existed. A good heart, strong and true, with a love for life and all that it brings. So funny all the things that are coming forward now; a never ending barrage of memories, fond and painful, trickling over my mind's eye like the headwaters of the Skeena converging in the verdant meadows of northern BC. Reminders of all that is true - of all that I believe with every fiber of my being.
And the bullshit, slowly floating to the top, easy to see, easy to smell and able to be caught with a small butterfly net and filtered away.
Yesterday was a new moon. My mom used to have the odd new moon ceremony. This is a good time to begin something; to chase away the clutter of the past and commence anew. I feel it in my bones.
Addiction and all that it brings has been a part of my life for many, many years. Even before I was a separate breathing entity, I was part of a duality within my mom's womb, where addiction played a role.
Funny. I always knew it. That our history - her history, helped to forge this alchemical soup that I had become.
My mom used to tell me stories when I was young... (I LOVED hearing about myself and our little travails and twisted, happy/sad life stories). But stories that would shock. Stories about how I was conceived. About getting punched in the stomach by a drunk when she was pregnant with me. About crying herself to sleep with me inside of her. Stories of violence and fear, pain and sadness - but also of hope and beauty and all things that made this life worth living.
I used to think of this poor 16 year old Indian girl. It's 1970 and she's in a small redneck forestry and mining town. She is pregnant by the bad boy son of the strict disciplinarian high school principal - an English principal, no less.
Whew...
What pain, what fear, what stigma.
What stress.
What stress... Stress. The emotion that wreaks the most havoc on a teenage girl's endocrine system, and most assuredly on her developing child. I always wondered what it must have felt like in there. In the dark, warm, comfort of the womb - a place that is generally considered to be safe and sound - a warm wet reprieve from the ills of the world. In there, among her pain and fear and sadness and other emotions, as she found her way past parental alcoholism and the other goodies of her teenagedom.
I always knew in my gut that I was not "unscathed" from her travails. That somehow, in some way, they touched me irrevocably.
Dr. Gabor Mate, Canadian physician and author extraordinaire, has written some books which speak to this truth. In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts is an amazing book (thanks Dad) that speak about some of the most cutting edge brain research that steps out some of these causal factors.
He is the staff physician at the Portland Hotel in Downtown Van. The only legal injection site in N. America. He has a few insights to say the least.
It has been through rifling through his work that I have discovered that I am, in fact, ADHD. Some of you probably figured this out 20 years ago! ; ) But mostly that I am not alone in my struggles. At about 5:59 of the video attached above, he touches on some things that make sense right down to my core.
Something interesting that I have finally realized is about the nature of the stimulant addiction I have maintained for nearly 12 years.
See, I used to work with kids in care; I supervised group homes and staff and some of Alberta's most troubled youth. All came with their own alphabet soup of diagnoses and prescribed medical reprieve.
I had many kids who were ADHD and who seemed to be unwilling passengers on their brain's joyride with their bodies. We didn't prescribe them "downers".... They got ritalin - a psychostimulant. This stimulant flooded the brain's chemoreceptors with dopamine and norepinephrine, effectively allowing them to "slow down" and react in more normal operating levels.
I've known people who are addicted to stimulants and, when they take them, they fly off the handle. They turn into cleaning machines or sex machines or whatever. Not me. I would turn into a zombie. I would slow down. Calm down. I couldn't handle company or other people. Always alone, always quiet - no music, no sounds.
I understand now.
Self prescribed medical reprieve from ADHD. Nice try Dr. Hughes.
How bout some other ways to manage ADHD... Like diet, exercise, high energy/high adrenaline hobbies, proper sleep and nutrition. And love. Lots of love - both self and for others.
You know, my recent discoveries about the nature of my addictive self destructive tendencies do not absolve me from my responsibility of dealing with them; managing them - mitigating them. They do not pass off the blame to my parents and the circumstances of my life. They bring light to dark shady places. They shine a penetrating unwavering spotlight on those narrow twisted curvy places in my psyche that threaten to undermine who I am. They threaten to take an otherwise beautiful person and separate him from love and light.
It's nice to know where the "Crazy" came from. But it don't change anything. I still have to deal with it, walk with it, and learn how to keep 'er saddled and between the lines.
No pun intended.
Much love all.
S.
And the bullshit, slowly floating to the top, easy to see, easy to smell and able to be caught with a small butterfly net and filtered away.
Yesterday was a new moon. My mom used to have the odd new moon ceremony. This is a good time to begin something; to chase away the clutter of the past and commence anew. I feel it in my bones.
Addiction and all that it brings has been a part of my life for many, many years. Even before I was a separate breathing entity, I was part of a duality within my mom's womb, where addiction played a role.
Funny. I always knew it. That our history - her history, helped to forge this alchemical soup that I had become.
My mom used to tell me stories when I was young... (I LOVED hearing about myself and our little travails and twisted, happy/sad life stories). But stories that would shock. Stories about how I was conceived. About getting punched in the stomach by a drunk when she was pregnant with me. About crying herself to sleep with me inside of her. Stories of violence and fear, pain and sadness - but also of hope and beauty and all things that made this life worth living.
I used to think of this poor 16 year old Indian girl. It's 1970 and she's in a small redneck forestry and mining town. She is pregnant by the bad boy son of the strict disciplinarian high school principal - an English principal, no less.
Whew...
What pain, what fear, what stigma.
What stress.
What stress... Stress. The emotion that wreaks the most havoc on a teenage girl's endocrine system, and most assuredly on her developing child. I always wondered what it must have felt like in there. In the dark, warm, comfort of the womb - a place that is generally considered to be safe and sound - a warm wet reprieve from the ills of the world. In there, among her pain and fear and sadness and other emotions, as she found her way past parental alcoholism and the other goodies of her teenagedom.
I always knew in my gut that I was not "unscathed" from her travails. That somehow, in some way, they touched me irrevocably.
Dr. Gabor Mate, Canadian physician and author extraordinaire, has written some books which speak to this truth. In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts is an amazing book (thanks Dad) that speak about some of the most cutting edge brain research that steps out some of these causal factors.
He is the staff physician at the Portland Hotel in Downtown Van. The only legal injection site in N. America. He has a few insights to say the least.
It has been through rifling through his work that I have discovered that I am, in fact, ADHD. Some of you probably figured this out 20 years ago! ; ) But mostly that I am not alone in my struggles. At about 5:59 of the video attached above, he touches on some things that make sense right down to my core.
Something interesting that I have finally realized is about the nature of the stimulant addiction I have maintained for nearly 12 years.
See, I used to work with kids in care; I supervised group homes and staff and some of Alberta's most troubled youth. All came with their own alphabet soup of diagnoses and prescribed medical reprieve.
I had many kids who were ADHD and who seemed to be unwilling passengers on their brain's joyride with their bodies. We didn't prescribe them "downers".... They got ritalin - a psychostimulant. This stimulant flooded the brain's chemoreceptors with dopamine and norepinephrine, effectively allowing them to "slow down" and react in more normal operating levels.
I've known people who are addicted to stimulants and, when they take them, they fly off the handle. They turn into cleaning machines or sex machines or whatever. Not me. I would turn into a zombie. I would slow down. Calm down. I couldn't handle company or other people. Always alone, always quiet - no music, no sounds.
I understand now.
Self prescribed medical reprieve from ADHD. Nice try Dr. Hughes.
How bout some other ways to manage ADHD... Like diet, exercise, high energy/high adrenaline hobbies, proper sleep and nutrition. And love. Lots of love - both self and for others.
You know, my recent discoveries about the nature of my addictive self destructive tendencies do not absolve me from my responsibility of dealing with them; managing them - mitigating them. They do not pass off the blame to my parents and the circumstances of my life. They bring light to dark shady places. They shine a penetrating unwavering spotlight on those narrow twisted curvy places in my psyche that threaten to undermine who I am. They threaten to take an otherwise beautiful person and separate him from love and light.
It's nice to know where the "Crazy" came from. But it don't change anything. I still have to deal with it, walk with it, and learn how to keep 'er saddled and between the lines.
No pun intended.
Much love all.
S.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Days Two and Three: Prologue...
Time is what keeps the light from reaching us. There is no greater obstacle to God than time.
Meister Eckhart
Happy Canada Day all. Today is a beautiful day. Suffice to say right now that I am so filled with love, life and family these last two days that I have had no time to write. <smile>
I will follow up this weekend with some thoughts, feelings and obfuscations... I mean observations. Enjoy your fireworks wherever they may be tonight. Kiss and hug those you love and be thankful for all that you have and don't have.
later,
S.
Meister Eckhart
Happy Canada Day all. Today is a beautiful day. Suffice to say right now that I am so filled with love, life and family these last two days that I have had no time to write. <smile>
I will follow up this weekend with some thoughts, feelings and obfuscations... I mean observations. Enjoy your fireworks wherever they may be tonight. Kiss and hug those you love and be thankful for all that you have and don't have.
later,
S.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Day One Revisited, or "Not with a bang but a whimper..."
Honesty. The only way to move forward, to change. "Those who can not recover... are men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves. They are such unfortunates..." or something like that goes the Big Book of AA.
"Addiction as a disease" school of thought would have me believe that there is an active devilish entity inside of me, clamouring to bring me to death and destruction; to spiritual ruin. "It wasn't me that took off, it was the addict inside of me." Unfortunately he had the keys to the rest of me.
Yesterday I opted for "more of the same" instead of the much more desireable "change for the better." In short, I decided to sit in my shit and feel sorry for myself - thinking about the big pile of shit I created and the amount of work and patience and diligence and effort it would take to get through it... I then opted out of the whole stinking thing.
Wrong move.
I need to be in the now. In this moment. Everything in this moment is doable. Our bodies and minds cannot cope with the future or the past. We are constructed to be able to handle the "now."
So here I am, back in the moment.
How sick. I decide to open my wounds and rip apart the bandages and show my scabs and warts to the world, and then I have what my sons would call an "EPIC FAIL."
It is not so bad. It certainly is not as bad as it seems. My life is only hard and twisted and difficult when I am trying to be a using addict. When I step forward and move with the light, my life becomes infinitely easier.
My heart breaks right now... <sigh> Thinking not only of how much pain and bullshit I have heaped on my poor, undeserving family, but how much I have heaped on me. I haven't deserved to be treated this way either. I keep pulling the rug out from under me, like I don't feel worthy of happiness, success, contentment.
Day one again. "Please God, help guide my steps that I have no more "Day Ones."... That I may better serve Thy Will always. That I may walk as Thou would me walk, do as Thou would have me do. Amen."
Now this Blog will be 368 entries, but for now, I will just commit to doing one today. One day at a time.
I'm moving on... God I remember standing in a circle with about 60 other people, swaying to this song, a fresh beautiful blue-green marble around my neck in a hand made moosehide pouch. Poundmaker's Lodge. So many years my family has been connected to that place; since its inception. Feeling so happy and clean and hopeful. But so fragile, so unprotected. I was so scared. I remember telling my counsellor all those years ago "It's so fucking easy staying clean in here, but how can I do it out there?!"
Stripping away at the ego and its bullshit, it leaves one feeling bare and defenseless. You know, I needed my ego all those years ago to protect me. Life was pretty hard. I lived in the shadow of a mountain for many years, and maybe felt I needed that bulletproof construct to keep me alive. I don't need that shell anymore.
Walk with the light, trust in Creator, and stay firmly in the moment. I don't want anymore day ones.
I feel the need to pursure selflessness, to help others. Take the focus off my selfish thinking.
Heaven is eternal - the earth endures.
Why do heaven and earth last forever?
They do not live for themselves only.
This is the secret of their durability.
For this reason the sage puts himself last
and so ends up ahead.
He stays a witness to life,
so he endures.
Serve the needs of others,
and all your own needs will be fulfilled.
Through selfless action, fulfillment is attained.
7th Verse of the Tao Te Ching
The chapters with Sheldon as the star need to come to a close. Time to become a supporting actor to those around me. Distill the bullshit into pure unadulterated love. No more talk today. Just walk.
Today I will sing my own song. (Remember that day Leo?)
Love to you all.
S.
"Addiction as a disease" school of thought would have me believe that there is an active devilish entity inside of me, clamouring to bring me to death and destruction; to spiritual ruin. "It wasn't me that took off, it was the addict inside of me." Unfortunately he had the keys to the rest of me.
Yesterday I opted for "more of the same" instead of the much more desireable "change for the better." In short, I decided to sit in my shit and feel sorry for myself - thinking about the big pile of shit I created and the amount of work and patience and diligence and effort it would take to get through it... I then opted out of the whole stinking thing.
Wrong move.
I need to be in the now. In this moment. Everything in this moment is doable. Our bodies and minds cannot cope with the future or the past. We are constructed to be able to handle the "now."
So here I am, back in the moment.
How sick. I decide to open my wounds and rip apart the bandages and show my scabs and warts to the world, and then I have what my sons would call an "EPIC FAIL."
It is not so bad. It certainly is not as bad as it seems. My life is only hard and twisted and difficult when I am trying to be a using addict. When I step forward and move with the light, my life becomes infinitely easier.
My heart breaks right now... <sigh> Thinking not only of how much pain and bullshit I have heaped on my poor, undeserving family, but how much I have heaped on me. I haven't deserved to be treated this way either. I keep pulling the rug out from under me, like I don't feel worthy of happiness, success, contentment.
Day one again. "Please God, help guide my steps that I have no more "Day Ones."... That I may better serve Thy Will always. That I may walk as Thou would me walk, do as Thou would have me do. Amen."
Now this Blog will be 368 entries, but for now, I will just commit to doing one today. One day at a time.
I'm moving on... God I remember standing in a circle with about 60 other people, swaying to this song, a fresh beautiful blue-green marble around my neck in a hand made moosehide pouch. Poundmaker's Lodge. So many years my family has been connected to that place; since its inception. Feeling so happy and clean and hopeful. But so fragile, so unprotected. I was so scared. I remember telling my counsellor all those years ago "It's so fucking easy staying clean in here, but how can I do it out there?!"
Stripping away at the ego and its bullshit, it leaves one feeling bare and defenseless. You know, I needed my ego all those years ago to protect me. Life was pretty hard. I lived in the shadow of a mountain for many years, and maybe felt I needed that bulletproof construct to keep me alive. I don't need that shell anymore.
Walk with the light, trust in Creator, and stay firmly in the moment. I don't want anymore day ones.
I feel the need to pursure selflessness, to help others. Take the focus off my selfish thinking.
Heaven is eternal - the earth endures.
Why do heaven and earth last forever?
They do not live for themselves only.
This is the secret of their durability.
For this reason the sage puts himself last
and so ends up ahead.
He stays a witness to life,
so he endures.
Serve the needs of others,
and all your own needs will be fulfilled.
Through selfless action, fulfillment is attained.
7th Verse of the Tao Te Ching
The chapters with Sheldon as the star need to come to a close. Time to become a supporting actor to those around me. Distill the bullshit into pure unadulterated love. No more talk today. Just walk.
Today I will sing my own song. (Remember that day Leo?)
Love to you all.
S.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Day Three...
Funny... I get a gentle little push today reminding me that I didn't blog yesterday. See, I even start to waver in my commitments; it only takes a few short hours for the best laid plans to turn into water under the bridge. Thanks for the reminder.
In fact, yesterday was a very difficult day. My family travelled to the north pole in order that T. could do some valuable work. I stayed because I have much work to do here. So, alone I was. Sad and alone. Realizing how much life my children and wife inspire in me. My energy level just drained. My intentions were good, as they usually are - i.e. I wanted to hit a nice Sunday evening meeting, wanted to blog until the cows came home and enjoy the quiet and the time to myself. But instead, I sat on the couch, watching movies and eating spicy food, feeling bad for not following through on at least the meeting that I had intended.
Today I am reminded that addiction is a disease of loneliness. That it can be fed by loneliness and solitude. That it tends to be the inability to want to be in one's own skin that can drive the first attempt to "pick up."
Please carry me from this place.
Lots of work to do; cleaning up wreckage, creating new pathways and new opportunities. Honouring old commitments. Learning how to love one's self.
Today I would much rather stay in bed all day and hide from the sun, from the shame, from the responsibility and from the fear. But I can't. A gentle little push from Thunder Bay is all it takes this morning.
My wife says to me a couple years ago that I will be remembered for the addict behaviour and bullshit, not for anything else. She means it well, as a means of inspiration... As in "get off your ass and smarten up, or this will be all anyone sees when they look at you..." Inside, I thought, "She's crazy. There is so much I've done. So many people I've touched. So many roses among the thorns.
But the ones who really know me, who really see me... They know. When I stop calling. When I don't check in on Facebook. When my phone goes to answering machine. <sigh> Change. Time to change.
I have lots to do today and I better get to it. I will blog again this evening to make up for my errant Sunday night. Apologies to those who require one. I will leave you with a beautiful song from a beautiful soul. Poor Shannon... Bee Girl... Always felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. Like he didn't fit anywhere... He hoped so deeply that the birth of his child Nico Blue would keep him grounded, keep him sane. <sigh> We love you still Shannon Hoon. God bless you wherever you are. And God please make life easy for the ones he left behind.
S.
In fact, yesterday was a very difficult day. My family travelled to the north pole in order that T. could do some valuable work. I stayed because I have much work to do here. So, alone I was. Sad and alone. Realizing how much life my children and wife inspire in me. My energy level just drained. My intentions were good, as they usually are - i.e. I wanted to hit a nice Sunday evening meeting, wanted to blog until the cows came home and enjoy the quiet and the time to myself. But instead, I sat on the couch, watching movies and eating spicy food, feeling bad for not following through on at least the meeting that I had intended.
Today I am reminded that addiction is a disease of loneliness. That it can be fed by loneliness and solitude. That it tends to be the inability to want to be in one's own skin that can drive the first attempt to "pick up."
Please carry me from this place.
Lots of work to do; cleaning up wreckage, creating new pathways and new opportunities. Honouring old commitments. Learning how to love one's self.
Today I would much rather stay in bed all day and hide from the sun, from the shame, from the responsibility and from the fear. But I can't. A gentle little push from Thunder Bay is all it takes this morning.
My wife says to me a couple years ago that I will be remembered for the addict behaviour and bullshit, not for anything else. She means it well, as a means of inspiration... As in "get off your ass and smarten up, or this will be all anyone sees when they look at you..." Inside, I thought, "She's crazy. There is so much I've done. So many people I've touched. So many roses among the thorns.
But the ones who really know me, who really see me... They know. When I stop calling. When I don't check in on Facebook. When my phone goes to answering machine. <sigh> Change. Time to change.
I have lots to do today and I better get to it. I will blog again this evening to make up for my errant Sunday night. Apologies to those who require one. I will leave you with a beautiful song from a beautiful soul. Poor Shannon... Bee Girl... Always felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. Like he didn't fit anywhere... He hoped so deeply that the birth of his child Nico Blue would keep him grounded, keep him sane. <sigh> We love you still Shannon Hoon. God bless you wherever you are. And God please make life easy for the ones he left behind.
S.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Day Two: Not an easy battle...
Waited until end of day to compose this second installment of this, the blog from hell. <'nother deep sigh> Ain't easy being here in this skin today.
This last round, I had amassed nearly 60 days of clean time. Not clean "recovery" time, meaning there were no meetings, stepwork, sponsor's discussions, etc. Nearly 60 days of living life on my terms. Not life's terms: My terms. This is not a winning recipe for recovery or sobriety.
Gratitude comes and goes, came and went. This is the key to staying sober. Maintaining a sense of gratitude. As well, my ego is so strong, so powerful, such a long time protector of my soft, chewy centre. It can't help but come pulsing forth like some twisted, snakeskin wearing Grendel. Keeping all those who would dare to hurt me at bay, but in its sad, misguided efforts, turns his poisonous strength against me, trying to protect me from the very feelings that would save my life.
Today was painful... physically, emotionally, intellectually. My heart hurt today. From the pain I've inflicted on myself. Today, my family was wrapped around me so beautifully. I couldn't help but feel so much shame at what I've put them through, and how they don't deserve any of my bullshit at all. At all.
Today my body ached; my stomach ached. My heart thrums like a gyroscope, slightly offcentre, yearning for a true centre. A centre revealed only by months of sobriety. Not two days.
My wife is under a lot of pressure. Financial from my own errant ways, and every other kind of pressure you could imagine. She is under a lot of pressure to abandon all hope - hope that wears thin after four years of same ol' same ol'... Pressure from even her own self.
It is hard. I put her in this position. I have to sit here and let the clock tick, praying for the ability to make the right choices at this moment in time. I can't fast forward this clock. Tick tock, tick tock. Day two.
Like I said, nearly 60 days thrown away. I took my will back, as they say, with a vengeance. Not "Thy will be done," as it should have been, but "My will be done." My will threatens to kill me.
It is so hard. Her whole family wants her to leave me. I don't blame them. You can't blame them. They love her and try to show it in their own way. I love her and show her by leaving every couple months. I can't leave anymore. This is it. I have begun to abandon any hope at becoming the man that I know I can become.
I remember when I told my boss back in the day that I was chasing the dragon and working at Canada Place while I was doing it.
"What!?" he said. "But you do such good work... You can't be doing that shit!"
"But I'm coasting by on about 20% of my capacity boss," said I.
"Yeah, but your 20% is better than most peoples' 100!" said he, and I believe I have carried that little rationalization close to my heart all this time. Full of shit. Full of shit.
My mom... God bless her heart and soul and fire and fear and love and hate and shame and shine.... God bless her for all that she was and continues to be.
"Your word is no good," she said. "That is all that you are Shell, that's all that you have" she said. "You are your word."
<sigh> My word. So many words. So much bluster and bluff... So much protestation, exhortation, rationalization.
Only way to change it, is to change it.
So today I'm reminded about what unconditional love looks like. And what conditional love looks like. I am grateful for unconditional love. So grateful that I will commit to memory just how painful it is to look in the mirror at what I saw the other night, how painful it is to be there, out in the bush, cramped in the back of a truck, alone, in the rain, knowing my children, wife and family are all home, doing their level best to live life while I am doing my level best to subvert it... turn it on its ear and hide from all that is good.
I heard tonight that I wrote somewhere that I nearly raped someone. Funny. How even though reality is bad enough, people still have to conjure up ghosts and shadows and bullshit and hate and venom to make it just a little bit worse.
The only thing I'm guilty of raping is this poor person inside of me, the one who quietly suffers the pain of 30 years of addictive behaviour. This little kid in me who cried long into the night, missing his dad, wanting his mom to be Sandy Duncan... wishing that war and hate would just go away. Wishing that booze and drugs weren't part of his idealistic little life.
This last round, I had amassed nearly 60 days of clean time. Not clean "recovery" time, meaning there were no meetings, stepwork, sponsor's discussions, etc. Nearly 60 days of living life on my terms. Not life's terms: My terms. This is not a winning recipe for recovery or sobriety.
Gratitude comes and goes, came and went. This is the key to staying sober. Maintaining a sense of gratitude. As well, my ego is so strong, so powerful, such a long time protector of my soft, chewy centre. It can't help but come pulsing forth like some twisted, snakeskin wearing Grendel. Keeping all those who would dare to hurt me at bay, but in its sad, misguided efforts, turns his poisonous strength against me, trying to protect me from the very feelings that would save my life.
Today was painful... physically, emotionally, intellectually. My heart hurt today. From the pain I've inflicted on myself. Today, my family was wrapped around me so beautifully. I couldn't help but feel so much shame at what I've put them through, and how they don't deserve any of my bullshit at all. At all.
Today my body ached; my stomach ached. My heart thrums like a gyroscope, slightly offcentre, yearning for a true centre. A centre revealed only by months of sobriety. Not two days.
My wife is under a lot of pressure. Financial from my own errant ways, and every other kind of pressure you could imagine. She is under a lot of pressure to abandon all hope - hope that wears thin after four years of same ol' same ol'... Pressure from even her own self.
It is hard. I put her in this position. I have to sit here and let the clock tick, praying for the ability to make the right choices at this moment in time. I can't fast forward this clock. Tick tock, tick tock. Day two.
Like I said, nearly 60 days thrown away. I took my will back, as they say, with a vengeance. Not "Thy will be done," as it should have been, but "My will be done." My will threatens to kill me.
It is so hard. Her whole family wants her to leave me. I don't blame them. You can't blame them. They love her and try to show it in their own way. I love her and show her by leaving every couple months. I can't leave anymore. This is it. I have begun to abandon any hope at becoming the man that I know I can become.
I remember when I told my boss back in the day that I was chasing the dragon and working at Canada Place while I was doing it.
"What!?" he said. "But you do such good work... You can't be doing that shit!"
"But I'm coasting by on about 20% of my capacity boss," said I.
"Yeah, but your 20% is better than most peoples' 100!" said he, and I believe I have carried that little rationalization close to my heart all this time. Full of shit. Full of shit.
My mom... God bless her heart and soul and fire and fear and love and hate and shame and shine.... God bless her for all that she was and continues to be.
"Your word is no good," she said. "That is all that you are Shell, that's all that you have" she said. "You are your word."
<sigh> My word. So many words. So much bluster and bluff... So much protestation, exhortation, rationalization.
Only way to change it, is to change it.
So today I'm reminded about what unconditional love looks like. And what conditional love looks like. I am grateful for unconditional love. So grateful that I will commit to memory just how painful it is to look in the mirror at what I saw the other night, how painful it is to be there, out in the bush, cramped in the back of a truck, alone, in the rain, knowing my children, wife and family are all home, doing their level best to live life while I am doing my level best to subvert it... turn it on its ear and hide from all that is good.
I heard tonight that I wrote somewhere that I nearly raped someone. Funny. How even though reality is bad enough, people still have to conjure up ghosts and shadows and bullshit and hate and venom to make it just a little bit worse.
The only thing I'm guilty of raping is this poor person inside of me, the one who quietly suffers the pain of 30 years of addictive behaviour. This little kid in me who cried long into the night, missing his dad, wanting his mom to be Sandy Duncan... wishing that war and hate would just go away. Wishing that booze and drugs weren't part of his idealistic little life.
Oh well. They were. Can't change the past. But for the love of all that is holy and good and true and real: I CAN change it now. I CAN change it today. I buried my face in the pillow and sobbed for many years. Crying for my daddy to come save me from our little poor life. Crying for God or Jesus to show some pity on our little poor life or little poor me... Chimakinapeesis. Poor little boy.
Time to let that little helpless boy relax and grow up. Time to take the helm with meaning, with heart and for all the right reasons.
I was forced to be a grownup so young, so young. I think I must have this big fucking chip on my shoulder that says "fuck being a grownup."... Well fuck being a using addict. Fuck being an untrustworthy asshole. Fuck being a victim of my circumstances.
God has never abandoned me. I know this with every fibre of my being. I have felt his touch even after days of numbing inhalation and being hidden behind curtains, dank and dark with must and spooge of all kinds. Those times, it as though I open my eyes at the end of a long, eyes closed tantrum, kicking and screaming, running and running and hiding and hiding... Open my eyes, blink once or twice, and realize the sun shines still, that my heart beats still. That those deep feelings of love and compassion and empathy and kindness cannot be snuffed out. That there they live, in my veins, with their captain, my heart.
Love to all tonight. Especially to you T. and S. and J. and M. and N. and D. and L. and S.L...
oh and you too Safflick!
S.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Day One, or "Scraped off the bottom of a shoe."
<long deep sigh> Well, this is it. This is the end of the road of ruination and selfish ways, God willing. The end of a longstanding and habitual dependence on illicit substance to "soothe" my ills, hide my booboos and run headlong into oblivion.
I will not make a promise of "never again" or "I'm done" anymore; how many times, how many people, how many broken bonds and friends' and family's trust laying a shambled heap? My words have rung emptier with each passing lie.
This is a hard thing to do.
Today I have returned home from nearly seven days "aflight"... Truth.
Today I have heard truths from my beautiful family that have shaken me to the core. I have been protected from hearing and seeing how my selfishness affects the others around me. Today I was shown point blank.
Others can attest that I do not know much about recovery. About "recommended" or "suggested" methods to recover. I will be reaching out in the hopes of becoming expert.
I need to bare my soul to do this. To do this right out in the open. Nearly 600 Facebook friends, and only a few know the sordid truth. The ones closest to me know the truth. Know how my decisions have affected my family, my kids, my life and their lives.
All my life I have been a performer. Singing for quarters at 3 years old: "The liquor was spilt on the barroom floor, the bar was closed for the night, Out of the darkness came a little white mouse, and he gazed and he gazed at the sight, He licked up the liquor on the barroom floor, and back on his haunches he sat, All night long you could hear him roar: "Bring on the Goddamn cat!" (God bless you Ralph Debock, whereever you are!)
So much of what I've done, about what motivates me, comes from the unwavering eye of the audience. Ever the performer, ever the "people pleaser", "approval seeker": Get a few pats on the head, and I start thinking I'm loved.
Little knowing all my life, that love emanates from within, not from without. I look in the mirror and do not love what I see. And then I perpetuate that self loathing by continuing to use, continuing to disappear down the darkened alley, wondering why I do not grow in love, do not grow in spiritual connection or fulfillment.
The world/God/Universe steers me to the right path; God does smile down on drunks and fools and has kept my alive thus far, despite my best attempts to undermine Him. In fact, he guided me to two different ceremonies this past week, and got me stuck in both places - mired my truck in the mud to keep me there. Maybe hoping I would smarten up, get out of the truck and go pick up a drum and sing to Him. I fought tooth and nail. And whether it was a tractor or four drunk Hutterite boys in a big diesel and vehicle trailer pulling me out, away I went, carrying on as though I knew what I was doing.
I was led to the truth of my actions today. With work, my home, and with the children who depend on my for love, guidance and the odd greenback. This is not a pretty thing. No amount of charming smile or smooth and witty wisecrack will heal the pain I've caused. No amount of guitar picking songster or deft kitchen touch studmuffin can bring back those nights, those special days that I missed; that I made about me instead of the people who deserved them.
There is only one way to get through this: One day at a time, sometimes one minute at a time. Maybe even seconds. The difference between a thought and an action is measured in nanoseconds. Sometimes it can feel like a lifetime there in that gap. My actions have become habitual, decisions shaped by years of use and abuse - be it food, sex, drugs, booze, gambling... You name it.
I joked the first time I went to treatment in 2001, the first time I had to introduce myself in a fellowship meeting, "my name is Sheldon and I'm an alcho-crack-o-sex-o-pot-aholic gambler." Add food to that mix too.
My last sober year was about 1981. I was ten. I haven't had a sober year since. I believe in my heart that I need you, the reader (or even an imaginary one!) in order to keep on keepin' on. I believe I'm fucked up just enough to need an audience for even the most sacred of tasks. Rather than risk another meltdown and losing the family that needs me, or the job that feeds us, I will go this route: 1) Appeal to God, 2) Seek out some help and guidance from other recovering folk, and 3) Bare my soul and brandish my moldy old shame and self-loathing like some secret talisman, airing it here in the light of your eyes. I do this because I can't follow the directions that are simply laid out before me by my helpful fellowship guides.
And, as some kind of celestial pat on the shoulder to guide me in this direction, is the reinforcement from Shaw video on demand...
I was thinking this during the week: Thinking about what it would take to keep me accountable, to keep me honest and walking the path during those times when it was toughest. How even my beautiful twins, or sons or daughters can not "keep me clean"... How even my most amazing wife Theresa, Saint and stalwart guardian, holder of hands, driver of dancers, band-aider of even the most painful scrape, can not keep me here when the urge beats at my temple like some prehistoric drum, telling me I need street dope like I need lunch or a drink of water.
I need it like I need a hole in my head.
So many tears. So many long, endless roads... alone. Drug addled. Paranoid, delusional. So far away from all that is real and true.
I was thinking that a daily journal, here with you. Perhaps that would work. Fearing another commitment that I will break. But secretly wanting to heal here in the open. Needing my time to pontificate and ramble. Maybe thinking that I can't hold it to 5 minutes. I thought today that I would start it tonight, but still wondering if it might not be a tad Narcissistic. Then I sat with my honey and picked "Julie and Julia" while we ate a late lunch/early supper. Did I mention I love food?
My late grandmother always reminded me of Julia Child... She was and remains a vision of home and hearth; of uncompromising and unwavering and unconditional love. Oh I miss her so. How she would feel about her sweet Sheldon acting in this manner, I don't know.
I don't know if the movie is a testament to blogging or speaks against it, it's too early and we had to stop it. (I don't know how it ends yet, as T. had to ditch to go do some preparatory shopping for Our Little Beauty Queen but it matters not: The concept of working through some of my personal development and finding innovative ways to cope with my affliction with inability-to-complete-anything-itis, (brought to me courtesy of ADD) was too much for me to handle.
What is also funny is that I gained a whole bevy of fans/friends/contacts during my early PF* days, when I used to write the odd self revealing tome on Hi-5. Some of them are still my friends. I used to write when I was "coming back" from a few days on the run...
I will work to write daily. To "check in" with my own self, let fly with the ol' "where I'm at" today biznatch. I will find some way, to carve up some time and to blog. Perhaps I will not have internet access wherever I may be. In that case, I will write a series of days and upload them at some point.
It is my sincere hope that my June 24, 2012, providing we are all still here, I will have amassed my first full 365-day collection of sober days since I rode a BMX and wanted to kiss Maureen Wasson under the spruce trees.
Maybe nobody reads it. That's ok. Although all these helpful links and cool videos and shtuff will go to waste. I will write to share my burdens and write to bear witness to the growth of myself personally; to see what happens when the shift from selfishness to selflessness commences....
"Selfishness. Self centredness. That, we think, is the root of our troubles..."
I love my family. Although there are those who would contest this. I have missed more holidays and special occasions in the last four years (and longer) than I care to admit. But I love them deeply and without judgement.
It is myself, perhaps, that I don't love. That I don't believe deserves happiness and fulfillment.
If you can relate, or if you can't; If you are an addict, or if you're not; If you love or if you hate - stay with me a while.
Walk with me towards the light.
Enough for now.
S.
*PF refers to "pre-Facebook"... ; )
I will not make a promise of "never again" or "I'm done" anymore; how many times, how many people, how many broken bonds and friends' and family's trust laying a shambled heap? My words have rung emptier with each passing lie.
This is a hard thing to do.
Today I have returned home from nearly seven days "aflight"... Truth.
Today I have heard truths from my beautiful family that have shaken me to the core. I have been protected from hearing and seeing how my selfishness affects the others around me. Today I was shown point blank.
Others can attest that I do not know much about recovery. About "recommended" or "suggested" methods to recover. I will be reaching out in the hopes of becoming expert.
I need to bare my soul to do this. To do this right out in the open. Nearly 600 Facebook friends, and only a few know the sordid truth. The ones closest to me know the truth. Know how my decisions have affected my family, my kids, my life and their lives.
All my life I have been a performer. Singing for quarters at 3 years old: "The liquor was spilt on the barroom floor, the bar was closed for the night, Out of the darkness came a little white mouse, and he gazed and he gazed at the sight, He licked up the liquor on the barroom floor, and back on his haunches he sat, All night long you could hear him roar: "Bring on the Goddamn cat!" (God bless you Ralph Debock, whereever you are!)
So much of what I've done, about what motivates me, comes from the unwavering eye of the audience. Ever the performer, ever the "people pleaser", "approval seeker": Get a few pats on the head, and I start thinking I'm loved.
Little knowing all my life, that love emanates from within, not from without. I look in the mirror and do not love what I see. And then I perpetuate that self loathing by continuing to use, continuing to disappear down the darkened alley, wondering why I do not grow in love, do not grow in spiritual connection or fulfillment.
The world/God/Universe steers me to the right path; God does smile down on drunks and fools and has kept my alive thus far, despite my best attempts to undermine Him. In fact, he guided me to two different ceremonies this past week, and got me stuck in both places - mired my truck in the mud to keep me there. Maybe hoping I would smarten up, get out of the truck and go pick up a drum and sing to Him. I fought tooth and nail. And whether it was a tractor or four drunk Hutterite boys in a big diesel and vehicle trailer pulling me out, away I went, carrying on as though I knew what I was doing.
I was led to the truth of my actions today. With work, my home, and with the children who depend on my for love, guidance and the odd greenback. This is not a pretty thing. No amount of charming smile or smooth and witty wisecrack will heal the pain I've caused. No amount of guitar picking songster or deft kitchen touch studmuffin can bring back those nights, those special days that I missed; that I made about me instead of the people who deserved them.
There is only one way to get through this: One day at a time, sometimes one minute at a time. Maybe even seconds. The difference between a thought and an action is measured in nanoseconds. Sometimes it can feel like a lifetime there in that gap. My actions have become habitual, decisions shaped by years of use and abuse - be it food, sex, drugs, booze, gambling... You name it.
I joked the first time I went to treatment in 2001, the first time I had to introduce myself in a fellowship meeting, "my name is Sheldon and I'm an alcho-crack-o-sex-o-pot-aholic gambler." Add food to that mix too.
My last sober year was about 1981. I was ten. I haven't had a sober year since. I believe in my heart that I need you, the reader (or even an imaginary one!) in order to keep on keepin' on. I believe I'm fucked up just enough to need an audience for even the most sacred of tasks. Rather than risk another meltdown and losing the family that needs me, or the job that feeds us, I will go this route: 1) Appeal to God, 2) Seek out some help and guidance from other recovering folk, and 3) Bare my soul and brandish my moldy old shame and self-loathing like some secret talisman, airing it here in the light of your eyes. I do this because I can't follow the directions that are simply laid out before me by my helpful fellowship guides.
And, as some kind of celestial pat on the shoulder to guide me in this direction, is the reinforcement from Shaw video on demand...
I was thinking this during the week: Thinking about what it would take to keep me accountable, to keep me honest and walking the path during those times when it was toughest. How even my beautiful twins, or sons or daughters can not "keep me clean"... How even my most amazing wife Theresa, Saint and stalwart guardian, holder of hands, driver of dancers, band-aider of even the most painful scrape, can not keep me here when the urge beats at my temple like some prehistoric drum, telling me I need street dope like I need lunch or a drink of water.
I need it like I need a hole in my head.
So many tears. So many long, endless roads... alone. Drug addled. Paranoid, delusional. So far away from all that is real and true.
I was thinking that a daily journal, here with you. Perhaps that would work. Fearing another commitment that I will break. But secretly wanting to heal here in the open. Needing my time to pontificate and ramble. Maybe thinking that I can't hold it to 5 minutes. I thought today that I would start it tonight, but still wondering if it might not be a tad Narcissistic. Then I sat with my honey and picked "Julie and Julia" while we ate a late lunch/early supper. Did I mention I love food?
My late grandmother always reminded me of Julia Child... She was and remains a vision of home and hearth; of uncompromising and unwavering and unconditional love. Oh I miss her so. How she would feel about her sweet Sheldon acting in this manner, I don't know.
I don't know if the movie is a testament to blogging or speaks against it, it's too early and we had to stop it. (I don't know how it ends yet, as T. had to ditch to go do some preparatory shopping for Our Little Beauty Queen but it matters not: The concept of working through some of my personal development and finding innovative ways to cope with my affliction with inability-to-complete-anything-itis, (brought to me courtesy of ADD) was too much for me to handle.
What is also funny is that I gained a whole bevy of fans/friends/contacts during my early PF* days, when I used to write the odd self revealing tome on Hi-5. Some of them are still my friends. I used to write when I was "coming back" from a few days on the run...
I will work to write daily. To "check in" with my own self, let fly with the ol' "where I'm at" today biznatch. I will find some way, to carve up some time and to blog. Perhaps I will not have internet access wherever I may be. In that case, I will write a series of days and upload them at some point.
It is my sincere hope that my June 24, 2012, providing we are all still here, I will have amassed my first full 365-day collection of sober days since I rode a BMX and wanted to kiss Maureen Wasson under the spruce trees.
Maybe nobody reads it. That's ok. Although all these helpful links and cool videos and shtuff will go to waste. I will write to share my burdens and write to bear witness to the growth of myself personally; to see what happens when the shift from selfishness to selflessness commences....
"Selfishness. Self centredness. That, we think, is the root of our troubles..."
I love my family. Although there are those who would contest this. I have missed more holidays and special occasions in the last four years (and longer) than I care to admit. But I love them deeply and without judgement.
It is myself, perhaps, that I don't love. That I don't believe deserves happiness and fulfillment.
If you can relate, or if you can't; If you are an addict, or if you're not; If you love or if you hate - stay with me a while.
Walk with me towards the light.
Enough for now.
S.
*PF refers to "pre-Facebook"... ; )
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