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.