Always Coca-Cola.

I'm drinking too much Coca-Cola. 

I know it's the sugar rush, I know I'm looking for any semblance of artificial sensation, but these habits kind of creep up on me. What seems fine on one day--a can of soda mid way through the work day, a tall glass of coke, can I have a lime wedge with that? while at a restaurant--soon becomes a regular pick-me-up and then a required mood stabilizer. I know it's a problem because I internally congratulate myself when I order a ginger ale at the bar. "Ginger ales are for bars," I tell myself, ignoring the nagging at the back of my head, ignoring the flutter in my chest, ignoring my desire of Coca-Cola. Not Pepsi, mind you, not President's Choice Cola, not Jones' Soda or any of those derivatives, Coca-Fucking-Cola. 

When I order a ginger ale, I say, "Can I have a ginger ale? No ice. With a lime?" I feel like this makes it more of a "drink" I think. 

"The ginger ale is warm," I'm often told. Unrefrigerated cans lining the back of the bar. I do not relent. It's the way I take my G.A., no exceptions. I am always given a straw. I always tip a dollar. I never want the straw, but find it weird to include that in my order--ginger ale, no ice, no straw, with a lime--it seems silly. I also don't want to take the straw out and just leave it on the bar, that seems rude; tiny puddle of ginger ale, wasted straw tossed aside, its existence made pointless by my insistence to drink like a big boy. The server going through that minute extra effort to locate the straws, select one, place it in my glass all for my benefit, well, surely I'm not going to insult their diligence by promptly plucking it out. I really should just let them know I don't need the straw. Instead, I place my finger over the top, pull the straw from the warm, pale soda, place it  in my mouth and release, always disappointed by the unsatisfying dribble of liquid I am treated to. I play with the straw for awhile, eventually tying it into a knot and placing it in my pocket.

All the while, I'd rather just have a Coke.

Right now I'm staring at two green 750mL bottles of Perrier. One is half gone. Three empty bottles of Coca-Cola stand as silent sentries, mocking my inability to keep my room clean, chucking at the Perrier.

"I like the Perrier," I tell them insistently, taking a big swig as emphasis.

They say nothing. They know I'm lying.

I know the way I drink Coca-Cola is a problem because of how relaxed I feel the moment I have a can or bottle in my possession. I try to procure some early in the day, the knowledge of its existence is soothing, the knowledge that it's All Mine, moreso. I tend to drink a Coke before I feel like I need to (eventually, I'll feel like I need to, so why wait until then?), my mood becomes elevated, my tension decreases, I sigh deeply. I drink so fast at first that I always get a slight case of hiccups. "Oh man," I say, breathless, sometimes I feel the need to pause, to savour the moment.

I know the way I drink Coca-Cola is a problem because of my knowledge of which stores around the city have the specialty variations like "Cherry Coke" and "Vanilla Coke"; because I won't go to the same stores over and over to buy a can to maintain some anonymity; because I buy sandwiches from 7-11 simply to get the free mini-bottle of Coke that comes with them.

Look, I say to the empty bottles of Coke taking another swig from the big green bottle, I didn't go through the hell of giving up all my addictions to get stuck seeking a soda every time I'm feeling a bit disjointed. Plus, with the continual sugar highs and lows, my revered, medicinal carbonated compatriot, you're just contributing to the disjointedness in the first place.

Since moving back to Toronto (we'll get to all of this in a later post) I've been feeling waves of depression, isolation and loneliness. [note to all friends: i love you guys. this isn't as a result of you not being there or inviting me to things or not being the best. it's me, not you. working on it.] A huge part of me wishes I hadn't quit smoking. IE. I desperately want to smoke. I wish I could drink. I wish I could get high, and have fun, and not care and not care and not care. Let's pretend none of this ever happened, let's go back to the way things were, see you in the park, see you in the alley way, I hate Ronnie's, but I'd kill for a spot on the patio today.

Something is definitely missing in my life and I haven't accepted that it's not coming back.

Coca-Cola is not it. Coca-Cola does not get to pretend to be it. 

Luckily, Perrier doesn't seem to want to be it. It's just a big, dumb green bottle filled with a carbonated liquid that someone forgot to add flavour to. It tingles in the mouth, burns a little on the way down, promising nothing.

I'm cleaning my room tonight. Those Coke bottles have mocked me long enough.

A beginner's guide to AA.

I can't imagine going to AA.

Perhaps that's confusing, given that I do go to AA.

Let's ignore all of the pervasive anti-AA sentiment for a moment (I'll deal with that later) and go forth with the knowledge that people who drank obsessively and compulsively to the great detriment of their lives have found a way to be sober, happy and engaged through this free, readily available and inviting program.

This is an indisputable fact for me. I've met them. Heard their life stories. Heard where drinking brought them. Heard what they believe AA did for them.

For the many that congregate in church basements collecting chips and announcing their alcoholism, AA helped save their lives.

As far as I'm concerned, anyone that wants to sit on the outside pointing out the flaws of such a free and vital service must not know someone who has reclaimed their lives from it.

See, I think alcoholism and addiction are tricky things. There's no singular answer that can apply to all people who deal with substance abuse. Is it genetic? Societal? A mental disease? Some combination? There's no medical test that can tell you if you're an addict. Do you go out drinking and partying every night because you want to? Or because you have to? Or somewhere in between?

What's the answer for when, for whatever reason, you reach a point when you want to stop but find you can't? Is it CAMH-style controlled abuse? Therapy, psychiatry, mood stabilizers? A mere matter of will power?

AA suggests it's a spiritual malady. Well, it's a three part affliction: physical, mental and spiritual. In rehab, these three states were described by the Three-Headed Dragon. The first head of the dragon is physical. Addiction is a chronic illness requiring a lifetime of attention. The second head is psychological. Addiction is a disorder with mental, emotional, and behavioral components. And the third head of the dragon is spiritual. Addiction is an existential state, experienced in isolation from others.



The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous suggests we drink because of inherent nihilism:

"We were having trouble with personal relationships, we couldn't control our emotional natures, we were a prey to misery and depression, we couldn't make a living, we had a feeling of uselessness, we were full of fear, we were unhappy, we couldn't seem to be of real help to other people - was not a basic solution of these bedevilment's more important than whether we should see newsreels of lunar flight?"

Carl Jung said:

"His craving for alcohol was the equivalent, on a low level, of the spiritual thirst of our
being for wholeness, expressed in medieval language: the union with God."

Maybe our first drink was out of curiosity, then we drank for sociability, but at some point, the alcoholic who could benefit from AA drank because they had to in order to make it through the day. Without our drink or our drug, we became overwhelmed with the existential rumblings that roll ceaselessly through our heads.


Knowing we need to stop is one thing. It's as Mark Twain quipped about tobacco, quitting is easy, he'd done it a dozen times. Getting an addict to stop without a strong support system in place will leave them in a very bad place. The addict has developed a strong belief system that their substance(s) of choice are inherently good, helping them to escape their mental and emotional traumas. Sitting around uselessly, attention wandering and goal-directed action waning in early recovery allows the mind to become distinctly pessimistic, a state that psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi says might actually be evolutionarily adaptive.

“The mind turns to negative possibilities as a compass needle turns to the magnetic pole, because this is the best way, on the average, to anticipate dangerous situations.” In the case of recovering addicts, this anticipation of dangerous situations is known as craving. The next step is often drug-seeking behavior, followed by relapse. Initially, our return to the substance is because we know it is our out, our brain has aligned it with being 'good', it will remove the existential danger.

When someone wants to rid themselves of their substance obsession, there is a distinct part of them that is aware of the fact that they are looking to rid themselves of the sole emotional and spiritual crutch that has gotten them through life for however many years.

To us, alcohol and drugs are not the problem, they are the solution.

So: It's not as easy as saying "Stop drinking," or "Stop using," and I wholeheartedly encourage all forms of help: counseling, therapy, support groups, etc. But in most places, on most days, an AA meeting is going on somewhere that is ready and willing to accept you and support you.

But back to how I opened this post.

Going to AA is terrifying. I was in a rehab facility which basically functioned as 24/7 AA and I was able to go in a large group of my peers to my first meeting, I cannot imagine taking that first step on my own. Many people talk about how they were in and out of the rooms at first, some for years before committing to the program. Others are quick to label it a cult, to mock it's workings, to not accept a single aspect of it.

So here's what I suggest to anyone who thinks they have a problem and wants to seek out help:



1. Find a meeting. I use www.aatoronto.org for my area, but www.aacanada.com/cdnmeetings.html will cover the entirety of Canada.

2. Be willing to check out several different meetings. Some I find that I don't relate to at all, others make me feel right at home. People have told me that any meeting is a good meeting, but I tend to disagree and have found meetings where I feel more accepted and those are the ones that tend to bring me back.

3. Once you find a meeting you like, make it your Home Group. It doesn't matter if you didn't quite understand what was said, or if parts made you uncomfortable, when the meeting is over, talk to someone that looks like they're comfortable in the room about making it your Home Group. Generally you can ask for a phone list and you'll feel more a part of the proceedings, plus it's a minor commitment that you're making to come back.
There's no use in toe-testing the waters, the more of an outsider you make yourself feel, the more likely you'll feel like an outsider. Y'know? It'll make it that much easier for you to just stop showing up.

4. Get a sponsor. At most meetings there will be a point where potential sponsors are asked to raise their hands. Take note of these people. Talk to one after a meeting. It's a minor commitment, no contracts are signed, you can even let them know you're looking for a temporary sponsor, which is very common in AA. Simply going to meetings won't wash sober living over you, it's about facing your own habits, your own thinking and doing the step-work and for that you need a sponsor.

5. Save your criticisms. Get involved. Talk. People at AA are very warm and open and happy to extend a hand and give a phone number. Sitting in the back and judging every person in the room will not help you.


I have done all of these things. I went so far outside of my old ways of dealing with situations like this and I truly believe that it helped me out greatly.

You have to want it though.

And as scary as AA and recovery might be, it's nothing compared to a continued cycle of abuse or white-knuckled sobriety where you're constantly just resisting the urge to go back to your old problem-solver.

My Kodak moment.

He was a paramedic, a body guard, an alcoholic, a crack head. At first, all you noticed was the bulbous growth clinging to the side of his face, impossible not to stare except for the fact that you were afraid of him; cropped hair cut, wild eyes, heavy jaw, flared nostrils. I saw the roughly hewn scar carved across his cheek, but that was only imagined flair, a self perceived missing detail in his otherwise caricature countenance. Mike wore a massive gold ring on the index finger of his right hand that he would grip and rotate slightly in either direction when he paused. He rarely paused. For such a large man, Mike seemed to be made up of pure kinetic energy, walking with exaggerated bravado, gesturing with such sudden viciousness that it only seemed to be a matter of time before he flipped a table, lifted someone off the floor by their collar and said, through gritted teeth, "What're you looking at?"

Mike was one of the counselors I had in rehab.

Once, while trying to make a point about how old friends might not accept the changes that we've made, he leapt off from the counter he had briefly perched himself on and flung an accusatory finger at one of the guys in the house.

"You fucking pussy!" he yelled, suddenly incensed.

This apparent role play was lost on the majority of the now shocked group. The stunned silence of the unfortunate 'pussy' made Mike realise that, once again, he may have gone too far. His rage melted at once into a placid tenderness that seemed out of place.

Mike was really a sweetheart.

He apologized profusely.

Mike called us all 'brother', told us that he loved us, showed us pictures of his dog. He talked about how lucky he was that he got to take his nephew out for ice cream. How much pride he took in knowing that his nephew could count on him. How, after just over a year sober, he had gone to a comedy show, put down his Diet Coke and when he picked it back up, took a shocking gulp of Guiness. He had run to the bathroom after spitting it back into the glass, cupped handful after handful of water into his mouth, panicked. He left immediately, called his sponsor tearfully from the alleyway, wondering if he had just completely fucked up his sobriety. Moral of Mike's story: never put your drink down.

Mike had more than a few friends in the comedy circuit it seemed, taking a counselor's cue from the idea of bits and routines. One of Mike's bits was the Rolodex of Bullshit. When an addict wants to get out of something or to avoid something, they seem to have an endless source of excuses, just flipping through the Rolodex, flinging them out at people until something stuck. Another was White Knuckling It, how addicts lived sobriety day to day, or hour to hour, or, in his case, minute to minute at first. He'd really get into his characters, animated, playful and over the top.

The bit that affected me the most was the Kodak Moment.

According to Mike, the addict's Kodak Moment is that snapshot from our memory that reminds us of why we choose to be different people today. In ten years time, you have your house, your job, your family, your life. You no longer remember why you needed to stop drinking or using. You won't be able to feel the same things you felt when you dragged your leaden feet up the steps to a rehab facility.

Mike encouraged us to think of a moment, a point that hurt or scared us so much that we would never do anything to go back to it. To attach so much fear to that moment that any time we were presented with an opportunity to go back to our old lives, we could pull the Kodak Moment from our pocket, give it a quick glance and make the right choice.

I thought I knew mine.

As Mike went around the room, holding his imagined camera aloft, shooting the moments from the men in the room, I pictured mine.

"What's your Kodak moment, brother?" click! A man talks about being strapped to a bed, tubes coming out of his naked body, swearing death on the men left to guard him.

I'm thinking about being alone in my bedroom. It's a few weeks before I ask for help. I'm unemployed, filled with self loathing, it's late afternoon and I've just finally gotten out of bed.

"How about you, brother?" click! A man talks about a suicide attempt.

I'm thinking about how I stared at myself in the mirror. The garbage pails, bags and buckets that were partially filled with my vomit hidden from view. The reflection showed the clothes, food scraps and garbage littering my floor. The bed was completely stripped, also on the ground, the slats of wood that once held it up leaning on the wall, covered with the blood spatters of bed bugs that still infested my surroundings.

Click! Another story.

I'm holding two pills in my hand. I'd smoked the remains of a joint before hauling myself upright. The smell of cat piss hangs heavy in the air. I'm muttering under my breath. "fuck, fuck, fuck." I shouldn't take the pills. But then I watch myself do it anyway.

"Hey, brother," Mike steps in front of me. "What's your Kodak moment?"

Click.

I immediately tell him about the day before I entered rehab. I'd been sober for 72 hours. I'm lying in bed. My mom enters the room holding my niece in her arms. My mom is a false ray of sunshine, everything's fine, my niece is uncertain, seven months old. My Kodak moment is seeing my mom trying so hard to deal with something she doesn't understand because she loves me. It's seeing my niece explode into tears. It's me telling them to just get out, not feeling a thing.

"Don't forget that, brother."

I make myself cry just typing it out now.



I won't forget that moment, because I know my niece won't remember it. I don't want to scare my mom into uncertain cheerleading. I don't want to not feel anything.

Five months sober as of today, brother.

Rehabbed.

Well, you'll be happy to know that I'm done. Totally rehabbed. Ready to hit the town in sublime sober style; I'm cured like a ham, friends... so now what?

Okay, to clarify:

I first went into rehab back in October. My sober date is October 8th, 2010, a Friday. I spent my first sober night at a friend's birthday party; she, along with a few others had taken the MDMA I provided them with, I spent the night refusing offers of drinks and explaining my reasons why to people I haven't seen since then. The place I went to was called Renescent, a 12-step recovery treatment centre located just north of The Madison at Spadina and Bloor. They require 72 hours of sobriety before acceptance, during which I sweated, swore, slept and played one fairly ill advised show.

I was driven to the Punanai House on the 11th by my parents, our small talk revolving around what I'd forgotten to pack and whether or not my dad was going to get a ticket for parking on the street. At the bottom of the stairs, I hastily explained I needed to smoke one more cigarette which made my mom hustle upwind to avoid the stench and gave my dad the opportunity to point out how I might as well give that up too.

We entered the house and stood around awkwardly while being eyed by a roomful of relatively haggard looking men. Following the lead of a Native man named Kevin who had as many teeth in his mouth as not, I received a welcoming committee of handshakes from those that didn't opt to shuffle out back to smoke.

Finally, Larry, the counselor who would later become my arch nemesis before settling into simply a mild annoyance, took us into a back room for my official reception.

My parents were heartily amused at his innate ability to poke fun at everything I said or thought. My dad called me an alien, Larry called me "princess". Everyone laughed at my anti capitalist nihilism.

My parents were given their leave and I was allowed to walk them out. We all hugged, I thanked them, they expressed their positive affirmations that I was in good hands and then they were gone and I was left to smoke a solitary cigarette on the front steps. Until Larry poked his head outside saying, "Hey, we can't have the inmates loitering out here! You're committed now, butt out and get in here." He said the words "inmates" and "committed" with an italicized mockery. He then brought me back to the boardroom to insult my leather jacket, question my sexuality and tell me how much fun I was in for.

This marked the beginning of the inpatient treatment portion of my rehab. Three weeks in house, leaving only to go to AA, CA or NA meetings, ten minutes a day to get a coffee so long as you let a counselor know you're leaving and you have a "buddy". It was a long three weeks.

After completing the three-week in house portion of treatment, I immediately began the five-week, twice a week aftercare sessions: three hours on Tuesday and Wednesday plus a required minimum of two AA meetings a week. After that I began my ten-week aftercare of Wednesdays for three hours plus a required minimum of three AA meetings.

In that time I found a sponsor, started therapy and began making changes in my life.

With three sessions to go in the final part of the third phase of rehab, I started working full time and wasn't able to make it for the Wednesday meeting. I was told there was nothing they could do, shoulder shrug, I guess you're done.


                                             *****************

I'm in contact with my sponsor, I plan on making it to an AA meeting this week, I still go to therapy, but, I have to tell you, I'm not really sure what else I need to do. I work, I'm saving money, I'm thinking about my future and what I want it to look like but sometimes I just get down.

I feel removed, sad, confused.

Not all the time. Just, right now, on a Saturday night when I'm home alone and I start to think about the point to everything I'm doing. Not doing. Wish I was doing. Wish I could've done differently.

And when I feel this way, I just let myself feel it. I take a deep breath (several) and just keep going.

What else is there when going back means nothing and going forward is so unclear? Right now it's just a sad and lonely Saturday night. I guess that's okay.

Trust.

The other night I left work and headed to a friend's house. I sat on his couch reading a collection of short stories while he sat in the next room, hunched over a laptop dealing with some unfinished schoolwork. We discuss his recent breakup, he rejects my glorious insights but seems appreciative to have me around. Our friend is DJing at a bar down the street, we go, meet up with a few friends and I'm treated to free iced tea-ginger ale. The woman behind the bar is a good friend too. Most of the people I see tonight know what I've gone through, being sober in front of them is easy. I get home a bit before one, I'd called ahead to let my parents know I'd be home late, I have the next day off.

I've been sober for over four months at this point.

The next morning, my dad comes up to me, points out I've been going out a lot, questions my sobriety.

There's no suspicion when I reassure him, but that's not the point.


How does one gain trust?


Repetition equals emphasis. I can tell people that things are different now, that I am different now, and if I truly believe that, it becomes difficult to accept that other people don't.  Those that care the most often are the hardest to convince, because they're the ones that want to believe more than anyone, the ones that feel like they have the most to lose.

I've been in the midst of settling into a full work week, but I feel good right now. I've been saving money, making efforts to see people and have been doing what I can to make responsible decisions. It's my goal to keep making the next right choice and if I falter, to do what I can to correct it. I don't expect to be perfect, but, in time, I expect people to trust that I'm doing the best that I can.

To be honest, I need to prove it to myself along with everyone else.

What's the point.

I'm sitting with my dad. We're playing Rummy 500, he's winning, I'm moody but participating. It's his turn, but all of a sudden he puts his cards down on the table and begins gesticulating wildly.

"The camera zooms out! We're over the house," his hands are in the air, symbolizing the imaginary 'camera' or perhaps 'us'. He makes a sound effect that is meant to be the camera zooming. "The camera zooms out! We're over all of Mississauga!" I'm watching him, patiently, amused in spite of my mood. Zooming camera sound. "Zoom out! We're over Canada!" He thinks about this for a second. "North America!" he settles on. Then we're over the whole world, then somewhere in the middle of the universe. He pauses, palms out, fingers splayed, staring at me. I raise my eyebrows.

"We're just specks," he says quietly, as though still floating around the outer Milky Way. "What's the point? What are we doing? You work like an idiot your entire life and for what? You can't take it with you."

Another pause and then he lays down most of his cards, officially destroying any chance I had to win the hand.

As far as I can determine, my dad's basic philosophy on life is that you struggle, you suffer, you do what you gotta do, then you die.

I kind of agree. Except for the suffering bit.

I don't believe in heaven or hell. Or, for the record, purgatory, transmigration and reincarnation are out too. I look at humans as animals with sentience and a greater intelligence than other animals. We're here because a series of universal accidents, but the cosmos existed before us, it'll exist after us and, yeah, there's almost definitely other life out there pretending to be important too. The meaning of life? It's just what you make of it. The point? There is none.

That doesn't mean you can't have some fun.

I'm a bit childish. A "dork", I've been told. I like trying new things, I like to play, I like exploring -- I like fun. I don't necessarily think there's any "right" or "wrong" way to live one's life, I personally just try to take other people into consideration. One piece of religious doctrine that I've adopted for myself seems to be "do unto others", not that I'm always successful.

It's part of the reason I liked drugs, alcohol and random socialization. I embraced the fact that it altered your perception on the world, that for awhile you were a skewed version of yourself with a modified way of interacting with your surroundings. The fact that booze is legal and most recreational drugs aren't was totally irrelevent to me, I generally see things a bit differently and I figured I wasn't really harming anyone other than, potentially, myself.

Since rehab, I've had many friends and family members express how my behaviour hurt them, worried them, confused them. I thought it was just me using and playing and having fun, but part of the problem was the fact that it started to isolate me, allow me to think selfishly, as though my need to do whatever I wanted trumped all else. Having a worldview where you create your own meaning, well, that's just not who I want to be.

I'm not comfortable with never drinking or using again, but that's not what this is about right now. I'm not fully on steady ground quite yet, the depression is still prevalent, my living situation makes me feel isolated and lonely, but I know it's not going to be like this forever and I try not to dwell on it too much.

Life is only suffering if you think of it that way.

Questions.

The only thing worse than not knowing how to do something is not knowing how to do something in a room full of people who do.

Every time I start a new job, I feel like a complete moron, bumbling my way through obvious duties, staring duly, eyes vacant, my brain a tinker toy put together by a blind toddler. Most times people are more than happy to help out, explaining and demonstrating skills that are new to me and second nature to them. The problem with this is that I can't learn like that. The only thing that makes me feel stupider than not knowing how to do something is to have someone show me three times while I dutifully watch, making mental notes, knitting my brow, looking serious. Sometimes I'll even say what the demonstrator is doing, like a play-by-play announcer, generally ending with a firm nod and an affirmative statement like, "got it" or "makes sense".

Then they say, "Okay, you try it." Without fail, I will have no idea where to even start.

I learn by doing. I have to physically go through the motions of any new skill or task otherwise it doesn't register at all. I have been called a good teacher because of how difficult I find it to learn; I teach to make things as simple as possible and as practical as possible.

It's also why I don't take advice well. If someone tries to give me information that's based on their own experience, I can appreciate that they believe it to be true, but until I experience it for myself, I have a hard time getting it in my head.

My new job is as a butcher, by the way, here's hoping I learn something before losing an appendage.

Maybe that's why I don't like asking questions. I don't like to admit my ignorance, true, but I also prefer trying to puzzle my way through something, knowing that if I can figure it out, chances are I'll remember how to do a task since I actually did it. Also, if I can bumble my way to a satisfactory result and am then shown a shortcut or a more refined way of doing it, I'm generally pretty successful.

Being shown how to do something I know nothing about by someone who knows everything about it: total fail.

________________________________________________________________

I've been having thoughts about drugs lately.

I've plotted out what I'm going to use, how I'm going to use it, where I'm going to use it and how I'm going to cover it up. I consider my guilt, who can be around, what it will mean, what it won't mean.

I stopped using everything about four months ago now. A 12-step rehab program, a sponsor, AA/CA/NA and a whole bunch of people telling me I'm doing the right thing. Some of those well wishers are people who happily drink and use drugs. So what makes me different?

Oh, right I'm the addict. But, why? Because I've had problems in the past determines that I'll have those same problems in the future? What if I just deal with some of my issues, make some changes in how I interact with the world around me and shift some of my perspective, can't I use then?

In AA they claim it's the thinking, not the drinking that's the problem. The drinking is actually the solution, it's the thing that makes everything better. Chemicals medicate pain. Right, so, I eliminate the stinkin' thinkin', overcome the pain and party down, no?

Part of the problem I'm having is that I'm turning to "experts" who seem to have all the answers. They tell me that if I do what they say, my life will improve. If I don't, I'll relapse and be worse off than before. Some of these experts seem certain that if I don't do the 12-steps and go to AA meetings regularly, there's no doubt I'll use again (and screw up my life).

I'm insulted by all this insinuation.

First off, this mental disease of addiction can't really be proven. Strike one, experts.
Secondly, the apparent threat of drug induced destruction if I don't play along is fear mongering and emotional bullying (I think). Strike two, experts.
Finally, doesn't it seem contradictory when they claim that chemicals medicate pain, but then go on to say that you can never use again, no matter who you are and how much you've changed? Strike three, experts.

They claim that your addiction is never really gone, that it's doing pushups in the next room, just waiting until your defenses are low or you convince yourself that one can't hurt and then BLAMMO, everything goes out of whack and your obsession to use returns. I know I spent a lot of time, money and energy on using, recovering and using some more. I'm sure I spent even more time and energy than I realised when I try to factor in how I was constantly aware of how much I had, when and where I could get some more and how my body and mind were acting even when I wasn't actually high.

I think that last part is the one that gets me most. To not be on a substance but to still be affected by its use because of how it interacts with the human body and mind.

Anyway. The point is, how am I really supposed to know unless I try again? And again?

I learn by doing, not by not doing.

_____________________________________________________________________

Those feelings of wanting to use ultimately pass. I keep getting on the treadmill, sitting in front of the computer, opening my sketch pad, going to meetings. I keep going to work, playing music, reading and trying to see friends. I have my goals, and I'm learning how to feel good by doing.

Am I willing to potentially trade in what I've started to put into motion for a couple of hours of being high or drunk? No, not today. Today I'm accomplishing more, with a better attitude and more energy than I did four months ago. I'm less depressed and less aimless and I don't need any expert to tell me that.

When it comes to life, everyone is pretty much ignorant, making their own bumbling attempts to get by. I spent ten years drunk, high, losing jobs, making bad decisions or indecisions, hoping that somehow tomorrow would just turn out better somehow, without any effort on my part.

For four months, I've been doing things a bit differently, and right now they're going pretty well.

Maybe I just need to stop asking so many questions.

Don't you dare think about quitting smoking.

The other night I smoked a cigar to celebrate the end of an era. Again.

I started smoking cigarettes fairly late. To be honest, I started most things late, but that's another post. The first cigarette I ever smoked was in high school, I was a serious dramatic actor, see, it was for a role. We'll ignore the fact that a fifteen year old smoking indoors on school property with the support of his drama teacher seems like a bit of a miscue but, while I forget the exact scene, I can assure you I was quite dashing.

At the time, my only friends were girls. As has often happened in my life I was the gay-not-gay guy that was happy to talk about feelings instead of sports. They taught me how to smoke a cigarette and made fun of me for "ashing like a girl" (even though that's how they showed me) and most of all, pointed out how I didn't inhale.

I must've had some success inhaling at some point, because I distinctly remember vomitting in some bushes after being encouraged to smoke in the backseat of a co-worker's car. I was a lifeguard at the time, able to hold my breath for over a minute, so my powerful, pink lungs really did it for me.

But I don't count that.

What I do count is the summer after I finished University.

I had just broken up with a long term girlfriend and was at the now defunct Green Room with a few friends. I was pacing in the alley way outside, deeply entrenched in a fourth or fifth (or 20th) phone call with my ex who felt curiously compelled to constantly redial me despite no new updates on our situation.

Coming back in, I demanded a cigarette, lit it off one of the candles, inhaled like a pro and exhaled loudly. Dramatics still intact. Ah, smoking in bars... the good ol' days.

Since then, I've been a fairly regular to fairly extreme smoker.

Like a smokestack. A forest fire.

I tried quitting several times in the past. I've used the patch, the gum, I've read the Complete Guide to Quitting Smoking (or whatever it's called). Sex helps when quitting, so does excessive amounts of pot. So does going temporarily insane, but that's not something you choose.

For a million little reasons, I always started again. Moving to Halifax, emotional turmoil, the drop of a hat, Captain Black's don't count, life is hard, I'm really high, hey look, I got drunk.

I seem to always start smoking because I want to feel worse. Dramatics.

I started with DuMaurier, tried the ultra-cheap but headache inducing Native's-in-a-bag, moved to Peter Jackson's (cheapest in Halifax) and settled on Belmont's.

Whenever I felt really alone, really depressed, introspective, thoughtful, agitated... a smoke would help stop the world, draw out the moment, give me a reason to not go on.

When I quit, I whistle more. Not sure why.

The best cigarette you can possibly have is the one that gets you over the top about half an hour after you take MDMA. The subsequent ones are pretty fantastic too.

Smoking a joint without a cigarette chaser just felt wrong. Bars have patios these days for a good reason.

Plus, I look cool smoking a cigarette. I just do.

________________________________________________________

Both of my grandfather's were heavy smokers.
They both died painful deaths, both with lung cancer.
I saw what my parent's went through and I still talk about how cool I look smoking a cigarette.

___________________________________________________________


In rehab we're told, if we smoke, keep it up. Nicotine doesn't affect the brain in the same way as other addictions, so smoke 'em if you got 'em and don't spare the caffiene. The least fun drugs! What kind of deal is that?

I guess the thought is, if we're kicking the booze, the coke, the oxys, etcetc, don't overdo it. Don't push it, 'cause it'll break. I embraced this, if I could have nothing else at least I had my smokes. And, boy, lemme tell you, you ain't seen someone smoke til you see people smoking at rehab. I was over a pack a day in there and thank god the men in rehab were so goddamn chummy because I hate bumming cigarettes, even if they're the headache inducing Native's.

I don't smoke because I like it anymore. I smoke because I have to. I guess that's always true, but I've never noticed it before. I suppose living in your parent's basement, only emerging to smoke a solitary cigarette, freezing on their porch while staring out at the dead of suburbs helps.

So, I smoked a cigar, slapped on a patch and am ready to try again. If I'm going to be a rebranded teetotaler, might as well make it complete. Today I ran for thirty minutes on a treadmill and didn't die.

Tomorrow I go for forty five.

Goals

Something I've come to realise is that embracing sobriety is stupid if you're not going to change any other aspect of your life. No point in just continuing to go to bars and parties if you're just going to sip at some soda and pine for the way things used to be.

Maybe you don't always have that feeling of otherness, but eventually you come to the conclusion that these events are kind of designed to be intoxicant fuelled and without a purposeful attempt to dull, sharpen or alter reality, you end up stuck with just reality. Not that it isn't somewhat fun to be the sober guy amidst the throbbing masses, but you lose the ability to connect with the people and surroundings and eventually, well, it gets boring. BO-RING. It depends on the company, obviously, and the event at hand, but going out to the same type of event over and over with a clear head just leaves me wanting to do something different, something new.

I used to really look forward to any excuse to get high and interact with people. I felt free to flit about, have pointless conversation and silly interactions, but, really, I just wanted to get high. I made the events seem like something worthwhile, the people individuals I really wanted to see, because in those situations it was totally acceptable to be right fucked. Plus, sober me just doesn't interact with people as well and if I end up being too gregarious or I say something stupid or offensive, hey, you know I didn't mean it, I'm just a bit fucked, right?

Now sober, now more self conscious. I'm much more pensive about going to parties or events because I actually don't know how to act anymore. Or maybe, without the lines, pills, smokes or drinks to look forward to, I'm just a little less interested in general.

So what the hell do I do with myself?

I saw my therapist recently and we discussed my "goals". Turns out I didn't really have too many, solid ones at least, mine were all vague and without proper steps planned out to achieve them.

We agreed I needed to make money, so even though there isn't a career that I'm excited about and my attention is always being pulled in different areas, my upcoming job as a butcher is one to be proud of. I sought it out, had a good interview and have followed up like a desperate lover. I start this week, will have regular hours and decent pay. I went to culinary school, so the fact that it's somewhat a skill-based job feels good, plus I'll finally be able to start saving. GOOD STUFF, RIGHT?

Speaking of saving... now that I'm not wasting money at bars or with dealers, I should be able to put away some money. Except. I smoke cigarettes. In rehab, there was often nothing else to do but smoke and I increased my consumption to about a pack a day. Smoking Belmonts, this is expensive. So, goal, I'm quitting.

This is somewhat terrifying, but fuck it, if I could kick everything else, then why the hell am I going to waste almost 12 bucks a day on a habit that yellows my teeth, makes me stink and ruins all chances of competing in marathons? Plus, while not in the same category as a few other vices I had, it still creates unnecessary anxiety and I'm still allowing my mood to be affected by an outside source. No more! Tonight a smoked a big fat cigar to celebrate the fact that, tomorrow morning, I slap a patch on my shoulder and toughen the fuck up.

Speaking of competing in marathons... if I'm going to quit smoking (and everything else) I might as well replace it with something healthy, right? So, I'm signing up for the 8-k run in High Park this coming April. While I'm aiming to finish first, I'll be satisfied with completing the run without my lungs giving out.

Goals.

I'm also going to write two blogs a week. They might not be good, exciting, insightful or worthwhile, but they'll be here. This counts as one. By Sunday I'll have a second.

Do, do, do!

I miss playing music, so I agreed to play a one-off show at the Rivoli next month and confirmed that I'll be playing with a new group that's getting started. I also need a bit more purpose with the drawing that I've been working on (comics based on rehab experience) so I'm coming up with something to post on this blog by the end of February. It won't be about perfection or impressing anyone with how awesome I am, it'll be about getting it done.

Don't over do it though.

That's where I'm at now, self motivation is tough for me so I'm not trying to create masterpieces or take over the world with what I'm doing. Small steps. I'm starting to get a bunch of new ideas, but I'm trying to take it a bit slow so I don't just start idea hopping, never actually getting anything done.

Tomorrow I put on the patch and go for a run.
Sunday I go for a run and write a blog.
Monday I go for a run and go to work.

I can do that. GOALS.

Summer days.

I feel like an attempt at sober living in the dead of winter is an especially cruel thing.

So many people in rehab resume their lives by returning to jobs, to their families, to stable normalities and concrete reasons for an attempt at renewed commitments. I tried to pass off my sobriety as a decision, a break from bad choices that left me faltering, careless and cruel. I couldn't see how I had a problem while so many others didn't, so it should be fine for me to go out, be amongst the masses and simply be strong, have my fun while they had theirs and not let myself be affected by this apparent self imposed otherness. I found some of the environs to be dark, seedy, mean-spirited--people choosing to revel in morally bereft dens, exploiting themselves and each other in manipulative games of derision and diversion. I'm no longer one to judge, I just feel saddened and removed. How do I connect?

I think if it were the summer, things would be different. No, check that, if it were the summer, I had a job I liked, a love that loved me, a place I could call my own...

I forced myself to go to an AA youth event at the Tranzac the other night. I walked out of the bitter cold into a small, cramped room; standing room only, shoulder to shoulder in the back. A duo is sharing the makeshift stage: she is playing an electric guitar, the tone muffled and distant, her technique all hacking down strokes, he holds the microphone and sings as one with confidence but no skill. Their vocals come out too loudly, off kilter, some perverted version of Crimson and Clover; the audience sits quietly, polite parents at their children's Christmas pageant. I am embarrassed for all of them. It's an open mic night, fun in sobriety, we are comedians, poets, musicians. A woman is reading from her book of poems, people around me are nodding thoughtfully, one man exalts an enthusiastic "right on!" It is all back slapping support, kind and well-meaning but also disconnected--false camaraderie.

If it were summer, I could sit in the park, maybe watch the dogs.

I'm coping with this sobriety by making a victim of myself. I'm miserable because I choose to be. I look back to my former existence as one where I had nothing but good times, great friends and a carefree approach to my day-to-day. I look forward to the months ahead as more of the same, disconnected loneliness, lack of fun  or understanding. I know I need to change my perspective, but every time I try, I'm slapped in the face by -15 degree winds and slush in my boots.

As I write this, I know I'm making fun of myself. My pre rehab days were nothing exciting, I might have outwardly fit in better, but there was a lot of struggle too. My post rehab days aren't going to be all Crimson and Clover and makeshift community. I've gone through a lot recently and I think real change is going to come slowly. I start a new job soon, I've been writing, reading and drawing more than usual and, looking at things realistically, well, I can't really expect the place of my dreams or a loving embrace this soon anyway. I'm not excited about where I am right now, but I'm going to keep going because going back is just too easy an option.

Being the exact same dork who does all the same things minus the drinking and drugs doesn't really entice me to keep going. It's the unknown, the very thing I've been afraid of, that's going to keep me in this.

I just wish it wasn't so damned cold out.

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?

The Pink Cloud.

I'm currently working on several entries. There's one on "Trust", one titled "Guilt and Shame", the long-awaited follow up to "Good Orderly Direction (pt. 1)", a summary of my time in treatment and one on my feelings about going to meetings. I feel kinda shitty right now though, so here's a short, impromptu one: The Pink Cloud.

In treatment, at least towards the end, I felt pretty darned good. I "got" it. I wasn't just going to be sober, I was going to be sober, happy, productive; a real world-beater cadsarn it. Golly, nothing was going to get me down. Heck, I was stepping in for the counselors when it seemed like my troubled treatment cohorts were having a hard time grasping the concepts I now felt like I wrote. Once I got out, that feeling evaporated rather quickly.

It's said that many individuals experience life on the pink cloud after treatment, they carry that feeling of complete confidence with them for days, even weeks at a time. While there are most likely rare exceptions, the pink cloud doesn't last. To a large extent, we've spent the majority of our adult lives relying on alcohol and drugs to medicate, smooth out or completely dull our emotions. All emotions. I used when I was depressed, and I used to celebrate. I used to be sociable, I used to be alone. I used to get me through the day, I used to help put me to sleep. I used because it was raining out. I used because it was a beautiful day. For ten years I eschewed sobriety in a variety of ways and now I'm facing reality for what it is. I'm actually kind of grateful I didn't get the pink cloud feeling; I don't need any more artificial emotion.

So, I'm feeling shitty right now. There's no real reason for it per se, I mean, sure I can make a list, but in early recovery, even if I'm doing "all the right things" I have to expect this. What's frustrating is that it's the exact type of butterflies-in-my-chest pseudo anxiety that I know three substances I used to have on hand all the time would take away immediately.

But the feelings always come back. So I continue with sobriety because I'm told things will get better. You can't rely on the food you ate a week ago for nourishment today, similarly I won't rely on the positive behaviours and spiritual work I put in a week ago. I want to be happy, humble, honest; the kind of person that I'd look up to and I have to keep working for it.

So, I feel rotten right now.

That's okay, I never expected the pink cloud anyway.

Restless, Irritable and Discontent.

At this point, I've decided to put my recovery first. I'd been trying to balance a sense of my old life with my new and found myself frustrated with what I was seemingly missing out on. I wanted to still be the guy that was always around, up for anything, the guy that played lead guitar in a band, that sat around conceptualizing idea upon idea, the guy that was always there for his friends, the guy that readily embraced the unknown with the promise of adventure. I didn't want to let go of my caustic self, my judgmental holier than thou witticisms; they seemed integral to what made me me. I found that meetings were time stealing annoyances, that calling members took me too far outside of my comfort zone; I didn't want all of this, I wasn't even sure I still wanted my sobriety.

I also didn't want to have to walk this path alone. It didn't seem fair, to be the sole individual from my circle of friends to embark on this sombre sober sojourn while everyone else could maintain the status quo, apparently free from retribution. I set myself up to feel miserable; not surprisingly, I succeeded. I'd been taught a lot in treatment (something I'll discuss in a later post) but once I was out, I didn't want to accept anyone's help, I didn't want to accept that this is what I needed to do and, if I was going to stay sober, I was going to do it my own way. I was back to believing that will power could be employed, that my thinking patterns were part of who I was, that I was a unique individual. I was bigger than AA; the program might work for the feeble and weak minded alcoholic and addict, but that I was different, I was special. Alcoholic thinking, I assure you.

My natural state is one of dissatisfaction. I'm irritable, restless and discontent. I think about myself before all others, how situations affect me. I can live in the most disgusting of states, not shower for a week, have no money in my bank account and still be judgmental of a stranger I pass on the streets. I don't need to have my own house in order before passing judgment on others because I'm better than them. I'm never satisfied with what I have, don't know what I want, and sure as hell won't work toward getting somewhere or something different. I embrace the circular thoughts that race through my head, caught in the centrifuge of my apparent brilliance – I think therefore I am, and I am David.

Recently, I haven't felt this way very much at all. Somehow, I remain David.

It's amazing to me how tightly I cling to this notion of an identity. How, if I'm not somewhat miserable and judgmental, I lose my sense of self. Drugs, alcohol and temporal distractions helped to alleviate my self-centred worldview (not that I recognized it at the time) and without them, I was at the mercy of my true problem: me.

So, after trying to do it my own way, I've decided to give AA a real shot. So far, I have to admit, I feel a whole hell of a lot better. I'm not looking to analyse it too much – that's what I did throughout treatment – because, at it's core, it's a stupidly, absurdly simple program. It's just a bunch of addicts and alcoholics hanging out, keeping each other sober by sharing their experiences. That holier than thou, self-centred worldview I talked about? Yeah, they all feel the same way about themselves. It's alcoholic thinking. The more I hear my own story in bits and pieces coming from other members, the less “special” I'm able to feel. And that's a good thing.

I'm not a different person. I never will be. My thoughts will always be somewhat screwed up, I just have started to realise that I don't have to simply submit to them, I can consciously change my thoughts, take new actions and not give into old resentments or fall into old patterns. I'm better than that, and I don't want to have to resort to drinking or drugs to relieve me from the bondage of myself.

It's hard being sober.

At least I'm finally being grateful for all the help. And learning to accept it.

The Anatomy of a Meeting

There are several different kinds of meetings you can attend. First off, there's the difference between AA (Alcoholics Anonymous), CA (Cocaine Anonymous) and NA (Narcotics Anonymous). All three take their teachings from the Big Book (Alcoholics Anonymous) and tend to follow the same basic structure. In AA, participants must only have the desire to quit drinking, but the use of any other narcotic is considered an “outside issue”. With CA, the prime directive is altered to say that participants have a desire to stop using cocaine and all other mind or mood altering substances. Obviously, this includes the use of alcohol. For NA, there is no one substance that you must have a desire to stop using, it is all inclusive, you want to stop everything. I've been to all types of meetings, but now mainly go to AA because, quite simply, there are so many more meetings for AA on any given day. The message is the same, the steps are the same, and after going to a good cross section of these meetings, the people and the stories tend to be the same as well.

At first I was rather uncomfortable identifying as an alcoholic. I mean, sure, I used alcohol and, yes, I used it to excess, but I figured my problems really stemmed more from my drug abuse then a few tall cans in Trinity Bellwoods. Upon closer self-examination, however, it was easy to see that, if I was going to drink, my goal was to get drunk. There seemed to be no other purpose to picking up a drink to me. Since I was a poly abuser, a drink was usually just a means of getting me to a drug, but if the alcohol was plentiful and it seemed to be the choice of the people I was with, hey, it was good enough for me. Also, if I set out for an evening of drinking and was low on funds, I would allot a certain amount of money to limit my spending (also an alcoholic approach). Another sure sign of my alcoholism: I'd always spend and drink more than expected. I still try to make it to a CA meeting here and there, but for the most part I've found that AA works just fine.

First, there are “Open” and “Closed” meetings. An Open meeting is, well, open to all. Family members, friends, curious members of the public, homeless people trying to get in out of the cold. These are generally “Speaker meetings”, wherein an AA member who has completed the 12-Steps discusses their story — the evolution of their alcoholism, how they got into the program, how they're doing today as a result of doing the work. Closed meetings are for alcoholics only; for people who want to stop drinking. Closed meetings can be a Speaker meeting, a Discussion meeting, a Step meeting or a combination (generally Speaker-Discussion or Step-Discussion). In a Speaker-Discussion meeting, a person tells a truncated version of their story (20 minutes or so) and then the moderator will lead the group on a topic discussion (ie. Spirituality, Participation and Action, Resentments, etc). Basically anything that might come up in recovery. With raised hands, individuals are then selected by the moderator to speak. And, yes, we begin by saying “My name is _____ and I'm an alcoholic.” And, yes, the group then choruses back “Hi ______.” This is done to remind us that, no matter how much sobriety you might have, you are never not an alcoholic (or addict), you never “graduate”, you are never cured.

Side note: I'm 45 days sober as of today.

In Step meetings, the moderator selects one of the 12 Steps to discuss and only members who have completed that step may “share”. (Sharing is what we call any personal experience being talked about. Speakers share, people who raise their hand in Discussion share, people who can talk about their step work share).

Members are encouraged to find a “home group”. There are hundreds of different groups functioning throughout the city, but getting a home group is essential to committing to a smaller, more intimate community. (My home group is the Primary Purpose Group – PPG – that meets at Yonge and St. Clair). Members of a home group are assigned duties at business meetings and run that group for other AA members. Duties include: greeters, coffee and snacks, secretary, librarian, etc. Different members will be assigned to be moderators, changing meeting by meeting.

Standard flow of a meeting:

Stand outside a church smoking en masse. Five minutes before the meeting, make your way inside, shake hands with the greeters, say hi to familiar faces, take a seat. The moderator brings the meeting to order, calls up pre-selected individuals to read the 12-Steps and the 12-Traditions and there is usually one other reading, different depending on the meeting. Announcements are then made, generally upcoming members “birthdays” (ie. “John A of the Midtown Group will be celebrating 5 years of sobriety on December the 11^th, all are welcome”), or special events being put on through AA. Moderators then qualify themselves as an alcoholic thus permitting them to chair the meeting. Generally a very quick example of their alcoholism, concluded with “... and I believe that qualifies me.” Then the speaker is invited up, or the discussion is made open. At the close, celebrate the seventh tradition, which states that AA will remain forever autonomous, not accepting funds from outside sources. There are no dues or fees to be a member, but they pass around baskets in order to pay for the rental of the space, to purchase coffee and snacks and it is up to the individual to contribute or not. To close, stand, join hands with the people to your left and right, say the Serenity Prayer, continue holding hands and pump them vigorously while saying “keep coming back!”, stick around for “fellowship” (talking with members, drinking coffee) or leave.

Next post: “My Name is David and I'm an Alcoholic”: My Meeting Experiences.

A Day in the Life

5:30 a.m. – Alarm goes off. Startled, I wake up to slightly grating classical music, lurch out of bed, consider and reject the idea of a morning shower, get dressed and stumble to the bathroom with a sprightly cat dancing about my feet.

6:00 a.m. – Coffee is in a travel mug, bagel is shoved full of assorted food stuffs, five dollars in coins jangle in my pocket. I smoke a cigarette while staring into the persistent dark sky.

6:20 a.m. – I'm pulling into the South lot at Kipling station. The CBC news on the drive over has sufficiently distracted me from the over eager motorists demanding their way into the city. I pull up to the coin slot for the automated gates and strain out my open window to deposit the assorted change I scrounged up. Access granted, I descend underground.

6:55 a.m. – Sunlight remains reluctant. I'm pushing the button that alerts the guard to my presence. He ignores my plaintive tapping for a moment and then the green light signals to me that I may now enter the majestic Roger's office building at one Mount Pleasant. I sign in, trade my license for a security card, swipe it at a screen and nudge my way through the turnstile.

7:02 a.m. – Having donned a chef's jacket, over-sized black pants, ill-fitting safety shoes, a horrifying skull cap and slightly stained apron, I swish through the industrial kitchen, making sure to say hi to the various cooks. Carol, the Jamaican woman who dances and sings along with Flow, Sandy the young Spanish prep cook who teases me in a language I don't understand, Andy the Chinese assistant who gets to wear the cool looking black chef coat, Nigel the sous chef who plays the Angry Black Man until I'm sufficiently intimidated and then laughs at me, Michael the head chef who almost became a Marine and hasn't missed a day of work in 34 years. I come out onto the floor and am met by Donald and Norman, the grill cooks that Michael refers to as “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum”. Norman, a hunchback who fancies himself a ladies man and Vegas crooner, greets me with a poorly sung, bastardized song and soft shoe shuffle. I work with Blanca, the rotund, matronly Mexican woman who calls everyone “dear”.

8:15 a.m. – I get a 15 minute break. It's unnecessary as I really haven't done much at this point, but I drink a coffee, eat a danish and chat with Mayella, the head cashier who flits about with the kitchen and Roger's staff like a queen bee.

11:30 a.m. – I get a half hour lunch break, unpaid, but I get to eat anything I want. I sit outside, stare at passing traffic and send a few text messages.

3:30 – I'm forced to clean up and leave the remainder of shutting down our station to Blanca as the temp agency doesn't allow me to work any longer than 8.5 hours.

4:00 – Aching and exhausted, I'm finally free to do anything I want for the next 2.5 hours. Unfortunately, I have nowhere to go and nothing to do.

4:30 – I'm sitting on a couch at the treatment centre, writing a blog entry. As a former resident (they call us 'alumni') I'm granted free access to the house whenever I want.

5:00 – James gets in touch and we arrange to meet at Nirvana.

6:10 – Our meeting went long, the street car is packed and I'm speed walking up Bathurst, my piston-like legs somehow more sluggish than usual as the rain begins to pour down.

6:35 – I arrive to an After-Care session at the treatment centre and am mocked for being late.

9:30 – After-Care complete, I make my way to the subway in the hopes of resting my eyes on the trip back to Kipling.

9:34 – A Leafs game has just let out, it's standing room only and everyone is enthralled with the home team's big win. I stand beside an excitable young boy who is enjoying a rare ride on the TTC by trying to maintain his balance without the aid of handholds. He collapses into me several times with an eruption of laughter.

10:02 – I arrive at Kipling, it's a torrential down pour, my bones are asleep.

10:32 – I arrive home, stand on the porch, smoke a cigarette while staring into the persistent dark and rainy sky.

10:40 – I check to make sure my alarm is set for 5:30 a.m. and collapse into bed.

This was an example of an average day from this past week. The amazing thing is, despite being tired, I actually enjoyed myself. I mean, I wouldn't want my life to be like this forever, but for now it works; I'm making money, I'm busy and there's absolutely no chance of insomnia at the end of the night. I'm going to After-Care and AA meetings, calling my sponsor, calling other members and, lo and behold, I feel pretty good.

Some pretty exciting things have come up recently, but I'm not going to jinx them by revealing anything yet.

Next entry: The Anatomy of a Meeting.

Pity Party!

It's Sunday evening, coming up on six o'clock and that all-too-familiar feeling of wanting to tear off my skin has uncomfortably settled upon me once again. It gets to the point where I just want to zero in on all of the absurdities of this program, fire my sponsor, never attend another meeting, get wasted and shove my middle finger into the eyeballs of every asshole I encounter.

Instead, I'm sitting at a Second Cup a couple of blocks from an AA meeting, due to start in a few hours.

My brain is trying to convince me to just skip it. My body is trying to convince me to run around the block seventeen times in the hopes of physical exhaustion. My jaw refuses to stop clenching, though its purpose is lost on me. I'm short with people I care about and feel like I'm trapped inside a faulty sack of skin, bent on acting out against my better judgment. I want to feel awesome and I don't. So, ultimately, I'm stuck feeling like a failure; bored, scared, sad, alone. I make a mistake and then try to make up for it by making more mistakes and I don't know where the good feelings have gone and and and...

I got a job. I started on Thursday and will be working all next week, but it's through a temp agency so who knows how long it will go for (eeeeyore). I'm cooking at the Roger's building, 1 Mount Pleasant; my shift is from 630am to 330pm and while it's nice to be making money again and it's nice to have a thing to do, I'm (obviously) finding it hard to be positive right now.

One day I'll look back on this entry and laugh, right?

I hate feeling this way, I hate how it makes me act and I wish I could just go on auto pilot until things start to get better. Wah, wah, wah.

I'd send out invitations to this pity party but I bet no one would come.

Boy, writing that last line made me realise how annoying this entry is. Not just that, but how much I look to other people for support, pats on the back or empathetic commiseration.

It's gross that I'm feeling so enthusiastically sorry for myself in such a public forum, but hey, maybe I'll embarass myself enough to get my head out of my ass.

Pity party over, everyone get the hell out.

Good Orderly Direction (pt.1).

There is the claim that, if not for the spiritual aspect of the program, Bill Wilson, founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, would've easily claimed a Nobel Prize. After all, at its inception, AA was found to be the only salvation for the incurable alcoholic, write offs of the medical community who had tried every scientific approach with these desperate and hopeless cases. While the CAMH's of the world are funded for their research into harm reduction and lofty intellectual, scientific and medical approaches, AA has kept millions of people sober using two basic principles: fellowship and spirituality.

When I entered treatment, I was a pretty self assured atheist.

I was born into a Roman Catholic family. We went to church, I attended a Catholic elementary school, I was baptised, went to catechism classes and got communicated. I opposed simply sitting in an uncomfortable pew while at St. Christopher's and actually marched down with the procession, Bible held aloft, and read from the gospels to the congregation. I made jokes with the priests and was even a participating member of the youth group.

As I got older, the repetition and lack of relevant daily application became more and more apparent and I slowly began to turn my back on the church. The more I learned about organised religion, the less purpose it seemed to have for me and I began to see it as a coping mechanism for the masses. The over-sized, angst ridden paintings I created for my final art project in high school were a final "fuck you" to simpler times. I had too many questions I felt were based in reality that religion simply couldn't answer. In University, a World Religions course just further emphasized my realisations: all religions followed similar paths, confused all to hell by human interpretations.

I said I was an atheist when I entered treatment, but what I actually labelled myself was an Absurdist Nihilist Humanist. Read: There was no point to life, you could do anything you wanted, but try to be a good person.

I was considered a real problem case in treatment because of my intelligence. AA is a very simple program and I still wanted answers to all of my questions. I wanted things based in fact, science, medicine -- what I really wanted was a way out, but I didn't realise that at the time.

In AA they use the term "God", but they expand it to say "a God of your understanding". This is also termed "a higher power". They tell you that you must be willing to turn your life and your will over to your higher power because sobriety is not a thing you can achieve under your own will power. It's akin to telling a diabetic to use his will power to process sugar or yelling at a cancer patient to stop being such a wimp. Trying to shame an alcoholic or addict to stop using simply doesn't work.

Here's a condensed version of how I began to embrace the spiritual side of the program:

"You're a pretty smart guy, huh?"
"Yeah!"
"So, you have irrefutable proof that God doesn't exist then?"
"... well, no."
"Okay, so you're not atheist, you're agnostic."

Pft, whatever, semantics.

"Do you have a conscience?"
"Yes."
"And your conscience knows the difference between 'right' and 'wrong'?"
"I guess so."
"Can you ever fool your conscience into thinking that doing something wrong is actually right?"
"Uh, no, I guess not..."

This is where I started. Using my conscience as a "higher power starting point", I was asked to list out the ideal attributes of my higher power.

My list included:

Love, compassion, humility, honesty...

When I was done, I was told to do my best to be like my fictional higher power. That was it. Did I want to be those things?

"Yeah, I guess so..."

And what if you find it hard to be those things, what can you do?

"I dunno."

Pray.

Well...  shit. Now there's a sticking point. But I'll talk about prayer later.

So, I'm working on this. To be honest, it's kind of nice to have your own personal "God-In-My-Pocket" on your side. Most people in the program still have difficulty with their higher power, describing it, understanding it, but they do credit their sobriety to it and right now I'm willing to do almost anything to feel at peace in my own head.

So, call it God, Good Orderly Direction, Great Out Doors, a Higher Power, your conscience or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but I need to keep working on my own understanding because it has worked, undoubtedly worked, for so many who came before me.

You're in the right place.

I keep hearing that line, as though it's supposed to make me feel better.

I've been sober for one month now, the longest foray into clear-headed living I've attempted since my first year of University approximately ten years ago. Though, "attempted" makes it seem like a cordial effort on my part and I can't quite say this is as noble as it might appear. I hate this. Some days I want to tear off my skin just to escape my body. The anxiety, the depression, the disgruntled, discontented delirium; the isolation, the self-induced separation from society as I know it...

"You're in the right place."

Go fuck yourself.

I also get, "You're right where you should be," "Keep coming back," and, "It does get better," repeated ad naseum by smiling goons coming out of the shadows of church basements throughout the city. Yeah, no, this isn't a cult at all.

You're in the right place: This is in reference to Alcoholics Anonymous in general. Or Cocaine Anonymous, or Narcotics Anonymous, depending on the night and my mood. This is their attempt at reassuring me that, indeed, I am an alcoholic-drug addict and this is the best place to seek salvation.

You're right where you should be: This is actually an emotionally-based mapping system. People come up to you and ask how you're doing, but don't attempt to give them the standard,"Good, how're you?" 'cause they don't buy it. So, I tell them about the skin-ripping off thing and they generally laugh, clap me on the back and give me the line. Generally followed by:

It does get better: Self explanatory, and a promise. People only a year into their sobriety claim that their lives are so much better than they ever thought possible just by committing to the program, getting a sponsor and working the steps. I'm a month sober, three weeks of which were spent in a treatment facility, and I seem to remember cavorting around with friends being a bit more fun then bad coffee, uncomfortable seating and Jesus on the cross staring at my judgmentally from the basement of a church I've never been to. But what do I know, I'm a fucking addict.

Keep coming back: This is said several times throughout meetings, it's one of the slogans of AA and it's chanted in unison at the end of every meeting (after a prayer, us all holding hands, pumping them up and down in time -- Keep! (pump) Coming! (pump) Back! (pump) -- like some sort of perverse game of Red Rover or a bad collegiate cheer). The idea, of course, being that if you keep coming to meetings, life will improve.

And so, a month in and I have a home group, a sponsor, a growing phone list of members who assure me I can call at any time, after-care meetings through my treatment facility twice a week and an addictions therapist. I'm also not having very much fun.

This blog will track my life as it "does get better" or "not". I'll write about my past, rehab, the inner workings of AA and a life of sobriety. Sounds like a fucking blast, right? Bookmark this one for all your entertainment needs.

Updates to come when I'm bored. (read: all the time).