Sobering (read: So-boring),

Let me just say something: stop reading this blog. Seriously, over time, I guarantee you'll be let down. It's boring! I'm boring! Have you noticed my horrific inability to write? My word selection consists of, what, 50 words? It's embarrassing is what it is. Actually, let's take this a step further -- stop acknowledging my existence altogether. I think this would be beneficial for you and me. Seriously, I'm giving you your out, no hard feelings friends, the door's open, I totally understand.

I'd also understand if you thought that my sobriety was a mistake. I didn't drink that much. I didn't use that many drugs. I only went to rehab because I was too stupid or weak willed to pull myself together on my own. Because I'm an overpriveleged white kid better labelled a "fuck up" than an "addict". You don't have to be proud of me, think I'm brave or clap me on the back with other congratulatory sentiments. It's perfectly acceptable if you think it was an overly dramatic action and that I brought it all on myself and that I took things too far. It makes sense to me if you're underwhelmed with my startling new ability to just not use a bunch of things.

Please, it's your perogative to think I'm a dork, dink, loser, self indulgent cry baby. You're well within your rights to think I'm less fun to be around and less interesting to talk to.

I'm in this program of honesty, and I'm not wholly sure what the truth is. All I get is a parade of well-wishers, enthusiastic hugs and "serious eyes" telling me I'm doing the right thing. Really? Being out at a few bars with friends lately has challenged this.

I've never really been aware of peer pressure, but if I consider past situations, I certainly did use simply to fit in to a social situation. I've used to try and normalize relationships, to prove that I could hang with the crowd and to let conversations and situations go their wild ways. It wasn't so much a peer pressure thing as it was an inability to say no and still be where I wanted to be with who I wanted to be there with.

I've also always been somewhat self conscious in social groupings. I'm constantly aware of how other people may be perceiving me, of what I'm contributing or not contributing, of people who are more interesting, attractive or secure than me. I'm aware of how young I look, how stupid my facial hair appears, a lack of interesting things I'm doing, that I'm not a very good guitar player, that I like to talk about inane things at great length, that it won't take too long for people to realise that I'm ultimately a bore.

Covered with drugs and alcohol, I stop worrying about these things for the most part. I get loud, brash and embrace my irreverant and scattered conversational style. That is, until some slick, good-looking guy, just enough the same as me and different than me to really unsettle, swoops in and starts talking to a gal I like and my insides turn to jelly.

I'm a fear-based person. In therapy and conselling, I've been told it's fear based on shame. I've learned to be ashamed of who I am, which makes me guilty for who I am. In order to cover this shame and guilt, I've developed an outward persona that's equal parts swagger, sarcasm and i-don't-even-give-a-fuck. The fear is that you'll see through it, you'll see the real me and you'll be bored.

People I know seem to really have fun when they're partying. When they're letting inhibitions slide away with drinking and drugs, when boisterous social behaviour is embraced and flaunted, when late nights get later and the unexpected gives way to the unplanned. The calm become crass, the delicate, debaucherous; the adventures are to be pieced together later with dubious amusement and mistakes are chuckled at with head-shaking shame, blamed upon people, places and things that allowed us to do things we might otherwise not have. We need these nights (and days and nights) to help escape the mundanity and oppressive boredom of day-to-day living, to ignore our shames and fears. At least, this is how I used and I assume others can relate.

I don't get this release anymore. Even being out with old friends becomes uncomfortable as they start on their third drinks and I'm sipping at my second Coca-Cola. Conversation starts to whirl, people listen less, thoughts and ideas are meant to be started, not finished. I'm jealous when I hear ridiculous stories of over indulgence and I know that in time I'll be left behind, that on nights of bonding, letting loose, fun and absurdity, I will have no place.

I'll become the guy you have a coffee with on the following day, maybe because you feel obligated. You'll apologize when you bring up some wasted action from the night before, feel awkward even when I assure you it's fine. Maybe you'll still like me, think I'm brave, respect what I'm doing... but you'll be glad it's me and not you. You'll be glad you can still vomit the night away on Friday and eat a greasy hangover brunch on Saturday.

I'm just letting you know it's okay. It's okay to realise how boring I am, how you want to hang out with me less. "Whatever," you say. "It's not a big deal. Who cares if you don't drink or drug anymore? It's pretty repetitive anyway, same embarrassing shit."

Right, except you do it. You look forward to doing it again and again, it's the great release. You feel comfortable with the people who use like you do and you use to excess regardless of how shitty you felt the last time you did. It's what you look forward to almost above all else, that night where you get to lose yourself for a little while and anything can happen.

I'm going to go read a book.

So-boring.

Two (and a half) Worlds.

When I was in treatment, there would be about an hour an a half a night when we would be allowed to watch television. Some of the men in the house would desperately look forward to this span of emotional and mental freedom, aghast if anyone wanted to watch programming that didn't contain the words “Two and a Half” or “Men”. The last time I'd watched the show, I was taking a television production course at Humber College. Rob Salem, the television critic for the Star, had brought in a variety of new shows for us to dissect, a selection which also included Lost and the new Dr. Who. We'd unanimously agreed that Charlie Sheen's career would continue on unabated and that North American culture would resume its downward spiral. Men in rehab love this show.

I would sit at a table near the back of the room -- eyeing the unused chess boards, carefully making tiny peanut butter and cracker sandwiches, writing in my journal. The men would sing along with the theme song and make haphazard guesses at where jokes were going; they'd repeat lines they found particularly humorous and would laugh long after the laugh track had recovered. They enjoyed pointing out how Sheen was as messed up as they were and would make construction worker comments about the bevy of scantily clad, buxom women that would somehow drive the plots. Sometimes a man would walk in late, glance at the tv and denounce us all as philistines for not watching some sporting event, but the glares of the devoted silenced even the most ardent of fans. Whoever held the remote would increase the volume a few notches just in time to hear Sheen's witty retort.

What I found most interesting about these social gatherings however was the response to commercials. Two and a Half Men is sponsored by a number of alcoholic beverages and these ads would lead the men to groan, pointing out how their own experiences with the same substance differed greatly from the exciting and sexy images flashing before us. There was a recurring ad that featured a time machine allowing the characters to go back in time and not make the drunken mistakes that had left their present situations less than desirable. This ad in particular would draw great guffaws from the assorted masses, “I've been there!” and the like.

The interesting thing for me were the few men who were absolutely disgusted by these ads.

Many of the men in rehab had absolutely ruined their lives with alcohol and drugs. Though there were a few guys younger than me, the majority of the 'habbers were old enough to have lost wives, homes and careers. Many of the stories I heard from people were genuinely heartbreaking; they were good people who got lost in their addictions and made a barrel full of bad decisions. Their alcoholism made them horribly self-involved, caring more about their next drunk than picking their own children up from soccer practice. They'd gotten into brawls, thrown into jails, continuously hurt those who loved them and continued to drink because they couldn't stand to be sober.

They'd rationalized their use, came up with explanations for their behaviour which left those who didn't understand to be the ones at fault. They just wanted to get drunk, goddammit, they just wanted to have a good time. They blamed everyone and everything for the way they felt – alcohol wasn't the problem, it was the solution.

I often tried to picture these men drunk. What I actually saw were men who so desperately wanted to be sober.

While in rehab, I quickly became close to a few of the men who were in treatment with me.

Randy and I came in on the same day; he was a mustachioed man, a grandfather, a kind soul. He had been through the house once before but relapsed. We smoked together, strolled together, went to meetings and went for coffees. He introduced me to his grandchildren on visitor's day, helped me make fun of the counselors and generally made each of my days in treatment brighter. He told me that if he were to relapse again it would mean his death.

Kevin was a Native man who'd been living off and on the streets. He'd come from out West and had his baby girl taken away from him by Social Services. He had a child-like innocence about him, would show me pictures of his daughter and was fiercely determined to win her back.

Aaron was a few years younger than me, of Irish descent, plagued by a failing common law marriage. His parents were both alcoholic, his mother committed suicide, he once had a blackout in Toronto and came to in Halifax. He hated alcohol with a passion and was terrified that he couldn't stop once he got out.

Howie reminded me of how I might be in ten years. He was a social chameleon, kind and quick witted, easy to make friends with. He'd been sober for ten years but had relapsed hard. He loved his girlfriend was well known and respected in the AA circles despite his recent problems. Walking into a meeting with Howie was like being in the inner circle of a celebrity's entourage. He owed some pretty dangerous people a lot of money and needed to get clean again.

I got to know these men in a short time and had great affection for all of them. Their lives had been destroyed in various ways by substance abuse and they wanted to get sober; to get better.

Randy promised to get in touch with me and never did. I have no idea how he's doing, but when we parted ways on my last day he admitted he felt very uncertain about his future. Aaron is a similar story. Kevin didn't even make it to the end of his treatment and I saw him turn up drunk to a meeting shortly after he left. Howie was kicked out for not being able to follow the rules. He owed the Triad a fair sum and I have to admit that I scan the obituaries now and then for his name.

There are others I know that have already relapsed since I was in the house, people I respect, people that wanted their sobriety.

When I got out of treatment, I thought it would be fine to see old friends, revisit old haunts, live my old life and just be the guy that didn't drink or use drugs.

But it's hard.

I can't help but to be more sensitive to the way those I love drink and use drugs. I had come from an environment where alcohol and drugs were such an obvious enemy, were life destroyers and an unnecessary means of escape. I don't judge anyone for their choices, hell, I'm jealous I can't join in the revelry at the Dakota or dance all night in an altered state. I'm not so jaded or confused that I don't know how fun that can be.

I feel like I'm torn between two worlds.

I just want the people I love to be safe, to be happy, to not have to be in the forties before they wonder where their lives went. But there's nothing I can do. Everyone is going to make their own choices and all I can really do is be there for anyone that ever needs me.

I hope I'm strong enough to stay sober so that I'll be there if they do.

Experiments are fun.

I haven't updated in awhile because of how difficult I've found the past few weeks, but on the suggestion of someone I feel close to, I'm going to try and relate recent events.

As of today I'm two months sober. I've prayed, meditated, gone to meetings and have spent a lot of time feeling very, very sorry for myself. I've felt alone, disconnected and unable to bring about a feeling of positivity or understanding in who I am, what I'm doing and why I should continue. I find myself without direction or purpose, the futility of my actions and a sombre worldview have been all encompassing and I have no release. I've thought about death and serious injury as a way out, as a means of change and escaping the trivial nature of daily plodding existence. I've suffered insomnia, depression and bouts of solitary sobbing that strip me of all strength and resolve. I miss my carefree life where days didn't matter, where choices didn't matter, where I didn't matter, masked in a haze of drinking, drugs, meaningless socialization and the next good time.

I've been to therapy where it was abruptly suggested to me that I suffer from chemical imbalances, that I might be bi polar, clinically depressed, adhd, etc, etc. I've had a few shifts in the restaurant biz where I've had to face my "lifestyle change" through awkward situations -- "Why don't you get a free drink at the bar, hang out for a bit?" -- that I've surely made more awkward than necessary. I've struggled with guilt, with my ego, with decisions and indecisions, with acceptance and not giving a shit.

I didn't want to write any blogs because I didn't want to show how hard this is.

I guess that's not the point though.

I'm rooting my recovery in honesty, but sometimes it's hard to know what the truth is. It's hard to separate feelings from truths; it's hard to see reality for what it is. I started this whole thing because of how screwed up I felt, how much I'd fucked things up and recently I've felt worse than ever. I talked to my sponsor about this -- a man who once had a $10, 000 a week coke habit -- as though I were a failure. He disagreed.

He seems to think there's been a change in me. The simple fact that I haven't gone out to smoke a big, fat joint even though I know it would make me "feel better" is huge. I try to tell him that it might just be my ego getting in the way, I've told too many people, it would be too much of a let down.

He's not so sure.

I guess the truth remains that I still hold out hope that things will get better the longer I do this. I'm not sold on the therapist's list of psychological ailments and I guess I'm not looking for an easy out. I feel good when I help other people and I need to involve myself in that more. I feel good when I'm working a little more steadily and that will come if I keep looking. I feel good when I have something to look forward to and I need to get my head out of my ass if I'm going to be able to see at all.

Last night I went to a Cocaine Anonymous meeting. It was a members' one year medallion ceremony. To hear how the beaming, confident, humble and jovial man being honoured was described by fellow members upon his first introduction to the program was a description of two different men.

I expect to always remain the same person to a certain extent, but a year from now I hope to be in a place that my current self can barely imagine: Happy, honest, hardworking, reliable and with a whole bunch of ridiculous things up my sleeve to keep life interesting; enviably insane and full of life.

This post is a bit disjointed and probably embarrassing, but I'm glad I wrote it. Part of me wishes I could fast forward this part of my life, that I could sneak a peak at what things will be like a year from now just to know that this will all make sense, but right now I'm glad I have to go through this stuff and, fuck it, I guess I'm proud.

Life doesn't make sense, what I'm doing doesn't make sense, but I'm going to keep doing it and I'm going to keep talking about it and I guess we'll see. Experiments are fun, right?