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.