100 words a day

Today is day 26 in Rehabland; 29 days sober.  My counselor has required lots of written “homework” from me, answering questions on denial, relapse, spirituality and on-going treatment plans.

I have been brutally honest, crying while writing down my thoughts on past mistakes and future goals.  The willingness to do anything necessary for my recovery has been first and foremost on my mind.

During my last one-on-one session, my counselor told me I was doing a thorough job on recovery.  Then she said a half-way house was my only option.  I disagreed.  I’m labeled in denial.

My counselor doesn’t listen.

“When you stop drinking, you have to deal with this marvelous personality that started you drinking in the first place.” – Jimmy Breslin.  Breslin was one of my newspaper idols; full-throttle with words and everything else he did.

I’m fortunate or unlucky to have the gregarious personality Jimmy describes.  Out-going, center of attention, room-commanding, large and in charge, that’s me; a kazillion drinks ago.

For too long recently I’ve been isolated, socially invisible and disconnected from human touch.  Lousy places for an alcoholic.

I’ve bonded with myself again.  Time to reintroduce myself to everybody one last time.  I hope I’m accepted.

The warmest day of the year. A call from a friend, mid-morning. A time arranged. A drive out to the countryside, a stroll through green fields. A pause for breath at the top of a hill, by the statue of Old Father Thames. A carpet of intensely coloured bluebells in a wood. Sunlight on my shoulders.

A drive home, via a shop, for cake. Deck chairs and a garden in spring. The year’s first cup tea drunk outside. The clinking of white mugs. The unutterable bliss of knowing that I am here, sharing an afternoon, and not in an office.

So he’s an Arab.  A hot-blooded, jealous Arab.  With an ego.  I am a sweet, naïve Western girl.  When I befriended another Saudi guy, I laughed off his over-protective comments.  When I had my new friend over to my place – without a chaperone – he was pissed.  I think I can be trusted, but I later understood how that might hurt him.

After an unfortunate series of events the next week, it turned out that I had invited the new guy to a concert and forgotten about my boyfriend.  I didn’t even want to go, frankly. 

He broke up with me.

In a group setting, at least 10 times a day, we ask God to grant us serenity.  Serenity is packaged uniquely for every individual here in RehabLand and in the real world.

Part of my serenity is reading, but with no internet, books or email.  I’m relegated to recovery literature.  A lot of the material is dated, but has withstood time’s test for a reason.

I’m fortunate the staff has allowed me to keep my personal journal full of 86 Tao principles, song lyrics, notes on bar napkins and slogans from bathroom walls.

Lots of recovery wisdom in both places.

I went hashing in Riyadh for the first time.  For those of you who don’t know, ex-pats all over the world get together to form “drinking clubs with running problems.”  Two people act as hares and mark a trail; everyone follows after them.  Afterwards, you eat and socialize.

We went to the outskirts of the city where large red sand dunes intersected with white rocky hills.  We were far enough out that we couldn’t be spotted by passers-by so women wore shorts and (gasap!) tank tops.  It was a nice group, good exercise.  I wish I had discovered it sooner.

On virtual Saturday morning, I walked to the compound’s Starbucks to start my day off with a latte.  I called a close friend in the States and sat outside the franchise while I talked to her for twenty minutes.  Then I went in and placed my order.

“For here or to go?” he asked cautiously, remembering me from last week.

“Here.”

“You’ll have to sit inside.  The outside patio is for men only.”

“I’m going to sit outside.  I already sat outside for twenty minutes.”

“The religious police are nearby.”

“I don’t care.”

“Enjoy your latte with the religious police.”

She reminds me of a winner on a TV talent show. Disbelief, shock, then a look almost of pain. Hands are flung in the air, tears tumble. Her daughter-in-law, S, embraces her. S is herself a little misty-eyed.

Mum is gasping for air, shaking her head, her hand on her heart. I guess she’s allowed. It’s not every day you are told your first grandchild is on their way.

The excitement dies down, we try and think of names.

“Grandma or Nana?” I ask her.

We used to call her mother Nana. She hates it.

“Grandmama, of course,” says Dad.

“It is an unanswered question, but let us still believe in the dignity and importance of the question” – Tennessee Williams.

There are many questions, one really lingering, which family, friends, counselors and therapists want answered; right now.  This has caused me a great deal of anger and stress; until recently.  Taking Tennessee’s words, I’m giving credence and space to those around me who need to know my plans; right now.

Conversely, I’m taking the time I need to answer everyone’s questions; especially that lingering one.  My thoughts and plans are solidifying.  I know where I’ve been and where I’ll go.

I missed an important writing deadline yesterday.  It didn’t involve money, but it did involve commitment, and I blew it.  I’ve also had trouble making paying deadlines in recent months.  (Even before I started spending too much time on Facebook!)

It’s about self-sabotage.  I have the talent, and I’ve published plenty of articles before.  It’s not writer’s block, because if people ask me about the article topics, I can spout all kinds of information based on the research I’ve done.  But I sabotage the process of writing anyway.

I need to learn how to give myself permission to succeed again.

Somewhere along the way I found my perfect sleeping position: flat on my stomach, one arm stretched out above my head but below the pillow, putting my head squarely on my shoulder.

But then I did something terrifically terrible to my right shoulder.  It could have been the push ups.  Or the dish I left to soak for weeks that required Wonder Woman strength elbow grease.

I thought the pain would go away, like most other ailments I’ve ignored that eventually tired of me and left.

But it’s still here.   And now I can only sleep on my left side.

When I returned back to the house, there it all was.

The overturned coffee table next to the trashcan, the decorative stones flung all over like confetti, the candle next to my shoes – now with a few dents in it; the books out of order, the bookmarks no longer holding their places.

I set to work.

I righted the table, ordered and fanned the books, set the candle in its stand, gathered the stones and swept up the ones that didn’t survive.

Anger had dimmed, rage had subsided. What was left was the wreckage that only I could clean up.

RehabLand is pretty much like most communities; with one big exception.  In your neighborhood, people gossip and think they know everyone else’s business.  In RehabLand, we gossip, because we really do know everyone’s dirty laundry.

This fact is a good thing overall for assisting with recovery and mental health.  The fact also comes with sobering (no pun) realities which are always honest, yet nonetheless brutal.

Thinking something bad about someone is sneaky, mean-spirited and most often wrong.  Knowing something bad for sure is uncomfortable, creepy and most often disturbing.

 My awareness is widening, my focus is narrowing.  My tolerance high.

A few days ago I posted about the number of steps I literally climb everyday on the staircases of RehabLand.  Adding them up vertically over a month-long stay and I’ll hit 30,000 feet.  Mt. Everest is 29,028 feet above the sea; a coincidence I recognized immediately.

The counselor’s office, lectures and group therapy aren’t exactly the windswept cliffs of Nepal, but for me, these small spaces are just as daunting.

Day one of my climb was easy and mostly horizontal.  Two-thirds of the way up now and the territory is rough and brutal.  I see the summit, flag in hand.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake early. I go straight to my computer. I will not malinger in bed with trashy novels, drinking tea. My fingers will fly across the keyboard. The words will come. I will not be distracted, leaping up when the post arrives, emailing friends or watching daytime soaps. I will limit my coffee intake, and not eat gunk. A productive day’s writing will be followed by two hours at the gym, a healthy dinner and an evening of improving reading. I will call my parents, and retire at a decent hour.

And all will be well with the world.

RehabLand commands my attention 24/7, except for the precious five hours I spend tossing, turning and fighting old demons when I should be sleeping.

Despite my heavily-booked damage control schedule, the world is spinning quite nicely without me.  Our son performed a solo last night in “Seussical the Musical” at his grade school, bringing down the house I’m told.

Our daughter is a Governor’s Honor recipient; six weeks away this summer studying creative writing on the Governor’s tab at a fine university.  She also has found time to share her acting in “Midsummer Night’s Dream”.  That’s what I miss most.

I haven’t posted in two weeks.  TWO WEEKS!  Which means I haven’t written in two weeks.  It’s already starting to happen.  I did it with fine arts, I did it with photography and now I’m letting it happen to writing (which I told myself was The One).

I love it still, but I’m starting to slink it down my priority list; y’know, below watching TV or eating out.

Last week I said to myself, “Mike, you’re gonna post every day for a week.” I didn’t even set fingers to keys once.

I know myself too well.  This isn’t gonna last.

I stroll down to my local shops to check out the new and eagerly anticipated bistro-bar-coffee shop.

There he is, the man in the almost-smart jacket, with the fountain pen and notebook, scribbling away. Some pages, I can’t help noticing, are already covered with his dense, dark writing.

I am at once oddly jealous and deeply curious. Here is a writer, doing what writers do, putting one word after the other, page after page. Why can’t I be more like that?

But I chicken out of contact, taking my tea and slinking away to my corner table in the shadows.

Today I read aloud my drinking history to two counselors and a dozen people in my group.  A specific, detailed, down, dirty and honest account of drinking from my first sip of beer to the bottom of a bottle alone in the dark.

I wrote in great detail and with care, but so many memories are like riding a Harley through an art museum; lots of fun, fast and colorful but you never really see each painting clearly.  You also don’t fully understand how dark and ugly some of the artwork was.

Hearing my words out loud makes a difference.

“The Lion King” is one of my favorite movies; not because I’ve seen it with our kids a kazillion times, but I genuinely like every message especially the “circle of life”.

Our daughter will have earned her driver’s license next week while the Governor is keeping mine safe for awhile.  I’ve logged a bunch of road miles all over the planet and she’s diligently put in a great deal of practice in our hometown.

The beauty about driving in circles for me is I’ve gone full circle and I am back at the beginning.

My daughter is driving straight ahead.

My 28 day journey through RehabLand is more than half-way complete; proving one of my favorite famous quotes is absolutely, positively true.

Each night, it seems, just as I am trying to sleep, the ideas for writing projects spin round in my head. I get so fired up I can’t doze off. My blood is up, adrenaline and excitement flooding my body. I toss, turn, go to the bathroom. Resistance is useless, sleep hours off. Sometimes, I seem to stay awake almost until dawn like this. It’s happening more and more, this awful restlessness.

Next day, I wake up late and thick-headed, exhaustion rather than adrenaline coursing through my veins. Those wonderful ideas from the night before have all gone, quite vanished.

RehabLand is based on a 12-step program which made me stop and ponder the idea of steps in general.  I took certain steps to walk through these doors.  I stepped on loved one’s toes too.

I’ve stepped in some dark holes drinking and failed to step up to the plate far too often. I’ve lost a step or two, had missteps and been stepped on a time or three and never really kept in step.

My 28 days is spent on two floors.  The staircase is 20 stairs I use 45 times a day-900 steps.

Only the First one counts.

I think of myself as a Continuing Education participant.  Despite a couple of seemingly worthless sheepskins, my education is far from complete.

Learning something new everyday is a ritual for me; a practice I’ve passed on to our kids who know how to ask probing questions.  I’ve told both our daughter and son, everyone has a compelling story to tell if you would only ask to hear about it.

RehabLand is full of fascinating, heartfelt and hopeful stories I’ll never be able to share because they belong to the teller and the teller alone.

I met a gang member/Shriner though.

I lived out West for a long-time and have a deep appreciation for cowboy logic.  Simple reasons and advice for often complex problems.  Most times cowboy logic means doing what’s right before doing what you want.  “Feed and water your horse before yourselves” and “Keep working till the whole herd is in the pen”, are gimmies.  “When the owl shows up at the mouse picnic, he ain’t there for the sack-race” is more subtle.

 RehabLand is full of recovery logic which if only heard once or twice doesn’t sound so brilliant.  I once felt that way about wisdom out West.

A wise voice spoke to me today and told me I had a whole lot of drinks ahead of me but only one more sober.  Catch-phrasey? Sure, but it’s one of the cold-hard truths I’ve known for a long time and never heeded.

The armor and naivety I displayed “back in the day” (yep, I’m old enough to use it) is now full of more holes than protection and I’m certainly more aware.

My responsibilities and needs have changed over time, but my behavior never differed a great deal from being that studious party-animal at 18.

One last sober left.

April 19, 1995:  The Oklahoma City Bombing
April 20, 1999:  Columbine High School
April 16, 2007:  Virginia Tech Shootings

This is a week of tragic American anniversaries.  It is a week to remember the slain, honor the survivors, and treasure our loved ones.  It is a reminder that those we hold dear can be gone in an instant, and of the importance of letting them know how much we love them, every day.

To my survivor friends and family:  Know that I’m thinking of you today, and sending my love.  I wish you health, happiness, and above all, peace.

“What a dreadful day,” I say to the woman behind the desk as I check in for my annual work out at the gym.

“Awful, isn’t it,” she agrees, glancing out of the window at the leaden sky. (British to her very core, she is not going to pass up on a chance to discuss the weather.)

“They said it was going to brighten up at lunchtime as well.”

“Actually,” I say, “I wasn’t talking about the weather.”

Her face falls. Uh-oh. This is clearly far more uncomfortable, decidedly non-British territory.

“Right,” she says, handing me my ticket. “OK then.”

Sunrise on Easter morning has always been memorable for me.  I’ve been fortunate enough to watch the day unfold from a small mountain top in Southern Illinois to beaches on both coasts.  I’ve had great Easters on the back of my boat and one with snow beneath my skis.

I’ve hunted baskets as a child and had even more delight watching our two kids count eggs and hunt down their own bunny baskets.This Easter I received special permission to go out side on the back porch and watch the sunrise.

The first one of its kind and quite miraculous.

In addition to the road map for sobriety, RehabLand offers one big perk; ordered-out pizza on Saturday nights.  The concept is simple, 40-plus men work diligently all week on their own recoveries, pay attention to the staff and be serious or go home.

Pizza is not a reward; it’s a poignant teaching tool.

Ordering pizza for anyone else is a simple enough task.  Forty guys trying to sort out the complexities of their fragile lives and picking toppings out isn’t simple.The comedy of men, who for the most part led significant lives, arguing about pizza, is hysterical-and quite painful

People’s lives in need of Repair go to get fixed somewhere.  When the media uses the word Rehab, most everyone thinks of a place like Betty Ford Clinic or something tropically trendy like “Recovery Lagoon”

I’m sure these places can fix broken down lives just fine.

“RehabLand”, where I’ll get my mail for the next 20 days is more like “Joe’s Garage”.

The place isn’t trendy, tropical, or pretty.  There are no massages, chefs or servants.  I clean bathrooms, lunch rooms, and move lots of chairs.

“Joe’s Garage” happens to have the finest mechanics in the world to repair me.

It happened again the other day. I met a man, an editor, at some vaguely literary gathering. He’d worked on something I’d done, so he greets me warmly, doing the ‘Pleased to meet you’ thing any normal, friendly person would. Only he makes me believe he really is glad to meet me.

Those eyes, the craggy looks, the crumpled yet smart jeans, shirt and jacket. And, of course, I’ll never seem him again, and, what am I, sixteen? I look around at the end and he’s gone.

This happened last week with someone else.

It’s time to stop this nonsense.

As you know, I’m working in Saudi Arabia.  In this country, the only recognized religion is Islam.  Some of us non-Muslims somehow manage to sneak in, but my office is still majority Muslim.  Probably 80%. 

So why did my colleague think it was appropriate to bring two dozen Easter eggs, candy and a whole big brunch for everyone to celebrate?  Yes, it’s sweet, and it’s nice to share our holidays and culture, but sharing has its limits.  I think sharing crossed over into insensitivity when she greeted some of my co-workers with, “He has risen.”  I almost peed my pants.

I’ve always dreamed about temporarily living in Iowa.   Any writer (fledgling or established) knows its home to this country’s version of Mecca: the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

So I’ve always known there was more to Iowa than corn and cows.

Last week it became the third state to legalize gay marriage.  Or the fourth? With two occurring in a single week, it’s hard to keep track.

The New York Times reported the Mayor of Des Moines called the Mayor of San Francisco to tell him the news.

The call occurred on April 1st.  The California politician thought it was joke.

“Unless you are ashamed of yourself now and then you’re not honest.” – Mark Twain.

We sometimes joke in my house that adults and kids alike should play by middle school rules; where everyone is honest because at that age you really don’t lie well.  Besides if you do, everyone knows anyway.

I must be an honest person these past eight days because my shame is as crippling to me as it is liberating.

Being back in middle school is also strange because of class clowns, bullies, and teachers.

Telling the truth has its rewards though. Peace of mind and recess.

I hate single beds.  RehabLand of course only stocks single rubber-coated pads.  My waterbed at home is 64 square feet and when traveling, the bed is always big and soft.

I don’t require that much space and I don’t toss and turn, but like everything else for me, excess is better.

That’s the thinking which made me a citizen of RehabLand.  So, I thought about it a lot harder. My best nights have been in a sleeping bag in a National Park or tucked gently in the bow of my boat.  There was also a perfect single in Santa Monica.

Call it frustration, call it Monday ennui, call it exasperation at the glacial pace of an article refusing to come together. Whatever.  But I need to smash something up, without causing pain or damage. I opt for rice cakes, a chopping board, and a potato masher, and pound away.

Crumbs fly. I cough as a fine rice cake-y powder fills the air. I feel a little better. I sweep up.

He Skypes me.

“How’s it going?”

“Fine,” I reply. “I just smashed some rice cakes. It gave me something to do.”

“OK,” he types. He thinks I’m making it up.

Talk about a rut.  My laptop broke (the laptop that I borrowed when my laptop broke).  I need a new roommate by next Sunday.  I’m unemployed and up 25 pounds since November.  I think I need a root canal.  If this were a Lifetime movie, the surprise solution would fall into my lap RIGHT NOW.

I’m in a good mood most of the time, though.   And am either careless, delusional or just very positive, as I just paid a valuable $149 on entry into the 2009 NYC marathon when I’ve run about 15 miles since the last excruciatingly painful one.

For a long time a big part of my career was writing; Press Releases, TV/Radio spots, and communication thingies.

I’ve had lots of other “careers” but I’ll always think of myself as a writer.

I’m comfortable with pen in hand and have been pleased now and again.  My daughter is a gifted writer in part because I told her words were the most important things in the Galaxy.

In RehabLand I must write in brutally honest terms my life struggles with Alcohol, family history, relationships, mistakes and failures.

The Key words are brutally honest.

I wish I wasn’t a writer

Saturday night has rolled round again. The debate of how G and I will spend it has gone on all afternoon. First a concert, then not the concert. Dinner at my place, vegetable chilli.

He calls. My hearing is getting worse.

“Do you have enough rice?” he asks.

“No, no wine. Bring a bottle if you like.”

He repeats, patiently.

“Do you have enough rice?”

“You want me to buy the wine?”

And so it goes on. In the end, in exasperation, he sends me a written message, on Skype.

“Oh, OK, rice,” I type back. “Why didn’t  you say?”

I haven’t written in a while, and I’m sure I flatter myself by thinking you all missed my words. I missed them. Why is it that when life upends we say to ourselves “Oh, things are too crazy - I can’t write. Too much else to do.” It should be the opposite - over these last three weeks or so, writing could have been the one place that I visited that remained constant. Everything else is new. Everything else is different. Everything is scary. Writing, I suppose, is just old and scary. Still, I feel worlds better within these 100 words already.

As I was waiting for my regular sword-crossing session at the Job Centre last week, I couldn’t help noticing the number of seriously obese people there. I couldn’t help thinking – does being overweight make you unemployed, or is it the other way round? 

I was lost in these thoughts when they called my name, or at least I thought they did. People looked on bemused (it’s a busy place these days) as I rushed to the desk, only to discover I had completely misheard. 

Maybe not having a regular job makes you deaf. As well as fat. What a life.

Today was the day that my worst Postal fear came true.

Walking West on E. 55^th St., I came to the trashy 800 block.  I saw 808 and the Pit Bull harbored within a rickety fence.  The Dog Warning Card stated, “Use caution/sometimes gets loose.”

Moments passed and the Pit broke through the dilapidated pickets and came snarling right for me, broken rope around his neck.  I fought the instinct to run and turned to face him, screamed “NO!” and pepper-sprayed it dead in the face.

He walked back to his yard sneezing.  I walked back to the truck shaking.

Remember that town in the movie Footloose?  No one could have any fun there.  Now imagine if that little town were a whole country.  I think they would call it Saudi Arabia.

Last week, one of my friends called me in the middle of the night.  She was at a jail with an acquaintance of ours.  She’s a diplomat and has immunity, but he was arrested.  The charge?  Dancing in the car.

They do that for fun – and to put smiles on people’s faces.  The charge may be upgraded to “being with an unrelated female at night.”  The punishment?  Lashes.

“One day at a time”, “Easy does it”, “This too shall pass”, “It works if you work-it”, and “Keep coming back” are all good advice for humankind in general.

So are “A bird in the hand ensures dinner”, “Even a fish doesn’t get caught if it keeps its mouth shut” and “When in doubt, take both sides”.

Clichés; all of them, some funny, some poignant, some we’ve heard so many times we really don’t think about them.

Paying attention to the first few as much as I do to “Be nice, tell the truth, flush” would have made life easier.

Rehab is like trying to herd a bunch of cats.  Cats have a lot of independence (stubbornness) and genuinely don’t listen when called.

Cats have a history of making too many kittens, staying out late and drinking all the milk available until they burst.  Reining me in was as impossible as roping one of those loud, thirsty felines.

I didn’t nobly strut through the front doors here.  No, I crawled in ragged after running scared from family, a dear friend and animal control.You can’t herd cats or alcoholics.  You must let them know they have safer places to go.

I’ve had a lot of joy and adventure in my half-century.  There’s also been too much misery and sadness.

I’ve been the architect of my family’s Dysfuntionalpalooza and by rights I need to order the end of that era.

My fun-meter ticket for drinking and bad-behavior should have been punched long ago, but a little luck, charm and BS kept it alive.

Now is the time for “fun” to stop because it’s no longer fun and I’m hurting people I love.

Shrkboyworld will be coming from a Rehab clinic long on Results, short on Amenities.  I’m relieved and way overdue.

The  pre-recorded voice came over the PA system.  “Duck and cover.”  We do drills a lot, I thought, but this one sounded different.  Then a human voice followed the announcement.  “This is not a drill.  Duck and cover.”  I ran to my desk.

Several minutes later, the voice said, “There was a confirmed explosion outside the compound.  Keep your head covered.”  I was shocked.  It was happening.  I borrowed a friend’s cell phone and texted loved ones.  It was 4 a.m. EST.

Agonizing minutes later, the voice returned.  “It was a controlled explosion for a construction site.  Please stand up.”

I’ve always been an even-keeled kind of guy.  I’m the one who keeps it cool under pressure.  I’ve always been the mediator and I’ve never been in a fist fight.

But I’ve noticed a disturbing trend, as of late.  My middle ground has begun to crumble.  My highs are in the stars and my lows are in the grave.

I know it was a combination of influences that caused me to emotionally disassemble in the middle of the station; the pressure to see my ex, the April snow, the 8 hours of mail.

Regardless, unemployment has never looked so good.