Contemporary Saints

Image via Wikipedia

Tired of holiday posts yet? We blogger types can get a little carried away when there's a "big" topic, and what could be more timely for a recovery-oriented blog than the holidays? All the elements are there: emotion, expectation, booze, drugs, permission and relapse potential. It lets the blogger (me) give a sermon, preach to the choir, and tug at the heartstrings. How great is that?

For my narcissistic self, constantly craving even more attention and love, it's just swell. For my reader, (and I know you're out there!) it has to be as tiresome as a long bus ride with Joe Lieberman. So, a rest from the holidays, and a thought for the end of the year:

Contemporary Saints.

I don't mean to be sacrilegious or shocking for its own sake, but I believe that we all know saints. Sometimes we know them well, sometimes we only know them for a moment. But regardless how long or how little they are in our lives, they touch us. They make a difference.

A friend tells a story about a night that he was at a meeting, and was talking about how his marriage was coming apart. He wanted out; he couldn't take it any more. It's over, he said.
After the meeting a guy came up to him and talked about how he had felt the same way, got divorced and regretted it. "Don't do it, man," he said. "If I had it to do all over again I would have stayed and worked it out. Hang in there." My friend really took what the guy had to say to heart. He asked if the guy came to that meeting often, said he hadn't seen him before. The guy said, "Oh, I've never been to one before--this is my first one."

A saint? My friend thinks so.

My favorite contemporary saint was my best friend from New York. Call him Felix. We were peer educators in a street outreach program. Felix had been through some hard times, really hard times. From Vietnam to addiction to AIDS. If you looked at his life there would appear to be little to live for: alienated from family, addicted, poor health. He was diagnosed with the Virus while in the hospital kicking dope. He said that someone walked up to him and said, "the bloodwork's in, you've got AIDS. Here's some tissues if you want to cry."

That might sound far-fetched to younger people--anyone who worked in public health in the 80's knows it's true.

They gave Felix less than six months to live, and frankly, everyone, including Felix, doubted that he would make it that long. Why not follow the short road to death that heroin offered, rather than suffer pain and illness?

But, as Felix himself often said, you want to make God laugh, show him your plans.

He went on to live for nearly 10 years, clean and sober every step of the way. His whole life was about service. As a peer educator he was excellent. We used to go together into a hardcore, boot camp juvenile facility. I am pretty good with kids, but these kids were way past my ability to reach them. Felix, a profuce of the same mean streets as them, could have been an older brother. In a pastiche of Brooklyn-accented "Spanglish" he talked to these kids about a world they knew, but in terms of hope. He talked to them about a world beyond the crackpipe and the needle; the Glock and the Virus.

And they heard him.

Felix, who was probably a candidate for an unmarked grave in Potter's Field, died peacefully surrounded by people who loved him. The hospital corridors were so filled with people he had helped wanting to say goodbye, that they actually had to cordon areas off and limit visitors.

Felix leaned on God to help him get clean and stay clean; God used Felix to show that every life has the potential for greatness, when turned to His purpose.

So there is my candidate for a contemporary saint, St. Felix of Brooklyn.

Who's yours?

The Recovering Person's Guide to the Holidays

Some thoughts on surviving the holidays clean and sober:

Image by George Eastman House via Flickr

1. If you're fresh out of the rehab, don't feel that you have to hang out with your old friends because it's Christmas. This is especially true if your old friends are anything like my old friends were. Everyone is just going to make each other uncomfortable. When you're fresh out of the rehab, everything is uncomfortable anyway. So don't make it worse.
   
2. It doesn't have to be the best holiday ever. It's easy to think that way when the last twenty or so were kind of screwed up, and you're fueled by the desperate desire to make it all  better. But one Christmas (or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa) is just that. One. Hopefully of many to come. Easy does it.
3. Always have an escape route. Even when it's the most beloved of friends and family, after the sixth or seventh cup of Christmas cheer, Aunt Tootsie from Tobyhanna's hysterectomy story really loses its zip. You find yourself biting your lip and looking longingly at the bottle of Jack D over on the server. It's time to go, preferably to a meeting. 
4. "But I don't want to go to a meeting on Christmas!" (Or Hanukkah. Or Kwanzaa.) It's going to be nothing but losers!." My sponsor periodically reminds me of when I would go out to a bar on Christmas day to buy drinks for the poor slobs who didn't have anybody. Of course, I did have somebody--several somebodies--all at home, waiting for me while I was at the bar. Just stop whining and go to the meeting. 
5. It's not your job to educate every well-wisher you meet on addiction in general, and yours in particular. It's hard for ego-centric types like us to grasp, but sometimes when people ask  how are you, they are just being polite. They don't want to hear how the craving to smoke crack is subsiding ever since you began to deal with the childhood sexual trauma issues. Oh yeah, and the self-mutilation's improving too. They want to hear, "I'm good. How are you."
6. Bottom line, it's just another day. We get through it like we get through all the others, with a mixture of grace and awkwardness, anxiety and exhilaration. Keep your phone handy with all the important numbers on speed dial. Hang in there.
7. Oh yeah--don't use!
   

"Why addicts like Christmas."

Image by Dmitry Chestnykh via Flickr

It's simple, really. it's because people are nice to us. You know what I mean.

The family down the street, the ones who usually turn out their lights and pretend they aren't home when you come to the door. All oif a sudden they're saying, "Oh hi! Come on in and look at the tree! Have a drink! What are you doing New Years?"

Of course, in a week or so you'll hear them whispering, "It's him! Don't turn on the light!" But it's nice while it lasts.

But wait, there are other reasons why we like Christmas. People give us stuff! Now, if they have been going to Al-anon or Nar-anon, or remember what that counselor at the rehab said, they usually are not handing out the $20.00's. In fact, to be honest, some of the gifts may have a sort of last minute feel to them, like they weren't sure if you were out of de-tox yet, and didn't check the Gift List you posted at the G.W. Hill Commissary. But c'mon, who doesn't need a new pair of bunny slippers or a slightly used set of rosary beads?

Then there is always unrehabilitated Uncle Frank who just can't figure out what's wrong with  little brandy for Gawd's sake, and the pot you feel only slightly self conscious bumming from your 15 year old neice as you convince yourself that her and her girlfriends think you are a cool old guy. (Uncle Creepy, they call you behind your back.)

I remember when there used to be real office Christmas parties. I was a good young active alcoholic in those days and did some newspaper work, and those people could drink! By about 10 AM almost everyone would be sloshed at the paper, except for one older WASPY senior editor, thin-lipped and taking names in his little black book. Especially the name of the guy from rewrrite who felt compelled to tell him what he thought about working for him for twenty-five years.There was a face we wouldn't be seeing into the New Year.

Which probably had something to do with finally getting clean and sober. Because as much as an addict loves Christmas, recovery from addiction means learning that every morning isn't Christmas morning, and every night isn't New Years Eve. People who arent addicts know there's a reason they only come once a year.

We have to learn that the hard way.

It Rhymes with Attitude

I am as grateful as the next guy, assuming the next guy is a selfish, manipulative, angry little man. 


I'm an addict. An addict in long-term recovery, but an addict nonetheless. During the active phase of my disease, I merrily rewired the receptors in my brain to bypass some of the functions that might blow my high. These included responsibility and conscience, and without them, comes entitlement. 


Entitlement and gratitude don't do well together. Entitlement is such a bully that it tosses poor old gratitude right out of the bus. Who feels grateful for what they deserve?


The Thanksgiving story we grew up with was a gratitude story. The Indians helped the Pilgrims and everyone had a big party and then they went hunting and got some more food to store for the winter. Everyone was grateful as all get out. Then came the revisionist story, where the Pilgrims ripped off the Indians, ate their grub and killed them.


Oh my God, I thought. The Pilgrims were addicts! They acted like crackheads ripping the Indians' bodega to cop some spicy chips! Entitled. No gratitude.


I like the old story better. I like it because it speaks to my best self. The second story speaks to the seriously damaged dude who still lurks in the shadows, ready to steal your wallet and then help you look for it. The old story may not be true, but I want to make it true. I want to be a grateful addict, not an entitled one.


Because, as the man said, a grateful addict will never use.


Now comes the part where I should list everything I am grateful for. But I won't. If I did, I would start padding it and thinking up stuff so you would think what a great guy I am. And if I did begin listing all that I am truly grateful for, it could bore you to death. 


So let's leave it at this: I'm grateful that I'm with the good Pilgrims. Being a crackhead Pilgrim sucks.


Happy Thanksgiving, you Pilgrims.

Kids

Image by kr4gin via Flickr

"Don't get me wrong, I love the Holidays. It's my family I hate." 

The speaker was 15 years old, and filled with adolescent angst.

"They're materialistic and stupid, and they don't want anyone to have a good time." He had a point. He had recently been caught smoking marijuana on school grounds, and the stupid, materialistic parents had spent a lot of money on fines and lawyers, had to kiss the school administration's ass during hours of meetings, and fun was not big on their minds.

I pointed out that good lawyers charge multiple hundreds of dollars per hours to keep you out of jail.

"So put me in jail! I feel like I'm there already!" Of course the closes to jail he had been was probably an episode of Prison Break. 

"Listen, " I said, "they're worried about you." He sniffed. I swear, actually sniffed. Like a character out of Remains of the Day. I was getting a little warm.Figured it was time to shift gears.

"Let me tell you a story," I said. 

"Can I smoke?"

"No."

He slumped.

"Once upon a time..."

He smirked.

"--there was a mom and dad who were very worried about their son. He was hanging with the wrong kids and getting high, and getting in more and more trouble at school."

He grinned at the word "trouble." If it was a badge he would have worn it.

"They had loved their kid and raised him and tried to instill some basic values. They weren't perfect. They made mistakes. When he became a teenager, they made some big mistakes because they had never raised a teenager before."

I checked. there was some eye-rolling, but also some minimal attention. Of course it was probably because I was doing all the work.

"He got in bigger and bigger trouble, and they worried more, and paid more lawyers, and had a hard time sleeping. They were desperate, and didn't know what to do. But I'm sure you know what happened next."

He nodded, sensing victory.

"Right. They moved. Cut their losses and ran. Threw him to the wolves."

"What?"

"Pulled up stakes and changed their names. All of a sudden he was on his own, in court with no one who loved him in sight. Funny thing about love, when it's there it's easy to take it for granted, but when it's gone, it leaves a pretty cold and empty vacuum behind it.And suddenly, instead of dealing with people who love him, he's dealing with people who look at him as a social problem to be handled."

"Oh no, I've taken mommy and daddy for granted!"

"There, there, little fella" I said.

The vibe on my cell phone interrupted my reverie.

Okay, that's not exactly how it happened. It would be nice, though. Usually it takes two sessions, right?

Right.

Happy Thanksgiving.

A Tale Only Addicts In Recovery Will Understand

Excellent repost from Bill Urell's great blog: Addiction Recovery Basics:
A Tale Only Addicts In Recovery Will Understand
(although I know some non-addicts who can understand this just as well.)

Posted using ShareThis

Talkin' bout my generation....

Okay, I'm no kid. I was 58 at my last birthday, and I'm old enough to have learned a thing or two, or so I like to think.
But. And there's always a but.
We don't always know as much as e think we do, do we?
I got hit with a bronchial infection last week, actually probably before lastt week, but finally went to tthe doctor after a couple of days of my dear wife's gentle prodding.
She got tired of my constant hacking and spewing, and, how can I say it, she made me go to the doctor. And of course, once the Doc took a look at me, things got serious--at least more serious than I wanted to admit. You know all those cute little excuses and manipulations that we addicts like to engage in. People think we're deceptive, and we are--self-deceptive.
Anyway, I was sick. I needed X-rays, antibiotics, steroids, and inhaler, etc. I heard about the importance of the flu shots I didn't get. An appointment was made for the following week. Everyone was nice to me, except my wife. She smacked me in the arm and said I didn't listen to her.
We have a plate that hangs in the kitchen. It says, "Don't think of me as your wife. Think of me as your friend who's always right."
So, I went home with the intention of taking some antibiotics and going back to work. Wrong. I woke up the next morning feeling like a truck hit me. The next morning, too. The one after that was a little better, then a little worse. I began to fear that there was some other condition, deadly and undiagnosed lurking behind the symptoms of Bronchitis. I was right, there was.
Age.
The scourge of our time, the illness for which there is no cure.
Age.
The disease no one wants to be cured of.
Age.
The reason most people were so nice to me!
I was the sick old guy.
Now, I may be a little dense (may, my wife would say, skeptically) but I never realized that all of those little spots on tv where they said to check on your older relatives winter and summer, or to make sure they got their flu shots, they were talking about me!
I felt like I did when I found out who my sponsor meant when he would say that some were sicker than others.
And worse, all that "you're only as old as you feel" stuff? I hope not, I felt about 92. I was going to say 80, but remember how spry my mother-in-law was at that age, and I was no where near that good. 92, maybe older.
And, I didn't bounce back. I was always proud of my ability to be back on the job in a couple of days, but this time, I'd wake up each morning, think, "today." And ten minutes later, "not today."
So what does all this have to do with recovery?
I was 25 years old when I walked through the door. My early recovery was the recovery of a young man, with all of the arrogant, egocentric and horny reckless trimmings. My middle recovery was the recovery of a middle-aged man; an expert, a builder of programs, a doer, mover, shaker. Iconoclastic.
And now, another change. My recovery becomes the recovery of an old man.
What's that mean? I don't know yet. So far, at every milestone, my Higher Power has given me just what I needed. I don't often recognize it, frequently forget it, and need to be hit over the head with it, in my Higher Power's rather persuasive way. But I get it.
This time, I really don't know what it is, but I know that I will get it. Excuse me, it will be given to me. Hopefully I will get it. It's time for a change. The change needs to encompass me body and soul and mind, I will need to give myself to it. It will involve change for my family, especially for my wife and me, as we go forward together into some terra incognita. Unknown turf, as we say. We need to learn how to nurture. We need to learn how to practice recovery in ways new and ways familiar.
That's the beauty of Recovery.
Change.