A good portion of my life I was a pretty good guy. I worked too much- and the funny thing is I paid the bills and thats about it. I had a wife and we had a daughter, we went on vacation now and then- camping in the desert or Disneyland or up the coast to Canada- mundane vacations that break up the monotony of life. But as far as monetary wealth goes, it seems likely Ill leave this world with about what I had when I got here. But even so- I think Ive lived a relatively charmed life. Ive dodged a lot of bullets and managed always to be somewhere else when the really heinous stuff went down. For that I am grateful. But still for all of the things that could have been much worse I still have to think that things could have been better.
I guess I should go back a ways and start from the beginning, though. Because although the years around and after my divorce- the last half-decade or so- were particularly trying, there was a lot of stuff that happened way back that most likely has had some influence on the course of my life up to now. I saw a lot of stuff that maybe left an indelible memory etched in my psyche. I was raised by my mom- she, like me, worked and made ends meet and thats about it. Its a legacy. But on the upside- nobodys waiting for anyone to die so they can inherit their riches. Mom raised us okay and we spent some time with dad- summers and holidays and every other weekend. Dad was a college professor and didnt have a television so up at dads place we did a lot of reading, and I kind of think that it made us a pretty astute bunch of kids.
My childhood could have been a lot worse. I was the youngest of us three- my sisters and I- and I guess I was kind of a pain to have around. They spent a lot of time trying to ditch me and they spent a lot of time telling me how less-than I was. If I ever caught my kids treating anyone like that I would completely lose respect for them. But it was a different time and I guess mom was doing the best she could, working nights and leaving me with my sisters.
Thinking back I have to wonder at some of the stuff that went on. They didnt physically abuse me, but in hindsight I think maybe that would have in some ways been a little better. They used to have this thing they did when mom went into a store and left us in the car. Theyd get me to get out of the car and then theyd pretend they didnt know me. I remember standing there bawling (I think I was probably a big bawler, quick to cry- but geez- how old was I anyways?) and theyd be talking in these faux-kind voices saying, Little boy- where are your parents? and Little boy- youd better go find your parents- they must be worried about you. I guess in a way its not much, but I think that kind of stuff didnt help any either. I dont really remember a lot of it clearly, but I do recall that they spent a lot of time telling me how stupid I was and how I didnt know anything- that kind of stuff. For the life of me I cant come up with even one defined instance but I know it was there. Also my family tended to be sarcastic, and I think for a small kid like I was way back I misinterpreted a lot of what went on.
One time that does stick out in my mind was a time we were staying up at our cousins house in Long Beach. They lived on a corner of Redondo and we used to spend what I remember being long afternoons in the shade on the front porch, staying cool and out of the summer sun. Mike- one of my cousins, the second to the eldest boy- was around 14 at the time. He would argue with anyone and would never give in, and he had memorized the Guinness book of World Records track and field records that summer. He was big time into track and field and I think he set some records in the triple jump (I have no idea what the triple jump is- I have a funny memory like that. But I know that was one of his events that year and that people thought he was pretty good at it.) Stevie was the youngest boy and was drawing and creating already (he goes on to be an independent artist and one of the things he did was to create Ninja Turtle figurines for toy companies.) Stevie also knows about anything you could possibly know about the Marx Brothers. Stevie has to stay in when the smog gets bad as his asthma is really bad. Becca is the youngest of all of us and terribly sweet. Everyone loves Becca. You couldnt help but love Becca. We used to get her to sing the Nutshell Library to us in its entirety because she had a beautiful voice and could carry pitch perfectly. Bess and Vicky were already out on their own, and Kitty was in her room. I think Kitty and my sister Amy were about the same age and didnt get along so well. Edie was close to Mikes age and they got along famously. I was between Steve and Becca. Mike and Steve liked to join in with my sisters sometimes in picking on me and that grew old really quick. Ricky was the oldest boy and was serious. He played drums in the garage a lot, and otherwise went off with his friends. I dont remember Ricky ever saying much to me, but he gave me a snare drum and some drumsticks one time.
So were sitting out on the front porch and they start talking about walking the ten or twelve blocksto Thriftys for ice cream cones. I want to go but Edie and Amy want to leave me, and so I go into the kitchen and hang around until aunt Cathy asks me why Im not with the rest of them. I tell her theyre going to Thriftys to get ice cream and she catches them trying to leave and makes them take me.
So the begrudgingly take me along to Thriftys and tease and harass me along the way. We buy ice cream and start walking home and I drop my cone. I get more shit for this and I begin to cry. I cant really recall how things went down but there was a one-two-three-go! and then they ditched me, leaving me standing there in the middle of the sidewalk crying my eyes out, like eight years old in a the middle of a strange city surrounded by strangers.
Now Im sure they were just a ways off somewhere hiding and watching me, but at the time the whole deal just seemed fucked. So along comes my cousin Ricky and he grabs my hand and takes me over to where they are hiding and gives them a ration of shit for pulling a dirty trick on a little kid.
All in all none of it was really that extreme- just chickenshit tricks and verbal barbs, stuff lots of families have to deal with. But just the same Im not surprised that I dont keep in touch with my family and that Im not really close with any of them. I dont know what to say about the conditioning of being told throughout ones youth over and over that youre not any good or that your stupid. I dont know what the odds are that stuff like that becomes a self fulfilling prophesy. I do know that as a young adult when someone ridiculed me I just told them to fuck off or Id kick the shit out of them. And I do know that its very common when a woman leaves my life for me to feel like Ill never be good enough and that I dont deserve anyone who I think is really great.
At around 15 I started drinking. Well- thats not completely true. At 15 I started going out on my own and partying and staying out all night. I guess I actually started drinking at around twelve.
My mom had a few boyfriends along the time that I was growing up. Jim Thompson was probably the best- though Dick Munks (sic?) was also a really cool guy. Fred Tiege kept his car keys in his Speedos when he swam at the beach, and would try to hand them to us and ask us to get him something from the car. We always declined. Fred Mullen was a strange one- kind of a cultural anomaly. He had a big beard and looked a bit like Santa when caught in a black and white still, but I never recall having Santa-like thoughts about him when he was ever around. To my recollection I considered him to be one step away from homeless. But whatever- it wasnt too terribly long after that when I found myself to be homeless, and so live and learn. Whatever- dunno what Im thinking I was supposed to learn there. Fred Mullen made fish head soup and peanut butter soup. I cant recall any of his philosophies or guiding principles if he had any, but I definitely remember the fish head soup. Thats the kind of thing that lodges itself in an eleven year olds brain. I dont suppose he was a bad guy- he was just someone that my mom met and apparently was attracted to on some level, and so I suppose that should be good enough for me. It actually is, now that I think of it. So onward and upward. Fred Mullen also made home brewed beer- an amber ale if I remember correctly- which was my first taste of alcohol with which I caught a decent buzz. As an adult Ive always had an affinity for the subtle, gentle beers from Japan and China, and I have to wonder if this comes from my encounter with Fred Mullen way back when I was eleven. So anyhow- my mom- she wasnt really someone who let her kids drink and do drugs. Albeit I drank and smoked weed when I was eleven- not regularly, but whatever- I was doing it- and could buy acid from Cathy Haslam in my art class in eighth grade and was ditching school and frying on shrooms on the beach at that very same time. But my mom never was the type to let us do dangerous stuff- she let us run amuck at all hours and carry on and she came home from work like four hours after we got out of school in the afternoon- we fought and tortured each other and I suppose we drove my eldest sister out of the house completely- god knows something did- but all in all, when mom was there she wouldnt abide by us shooting heroin. She was a good woman with the best of intentions. Except when she was drunk on Fred Mullens homebrew.
Now everyone in our family claims that our lineage is too muddied to be able to discern the origins from whence our bloodline came- despite the family tree being fraught with Scotts and Micks- and I take a step back and look at myself from afar and I see the Scottish/Irish thing straight off. I read a Norman Maclean novella not so long ago that described a character so like me it was uncanny- except that I was always as terrible a fly tier as I was a fly fisherman- but otherwise the idiosyncrasies of this character- Paul Maclean- were so similar to me that it was both comforting and unsettling. Black Scottish- thats what Norman Maclean referred to it as. Amazing- its just really comforting to find some hint as to where I come from and why Im such a complete nut. Nice. So heres my mom and Fred sitting on the back porch that my mom had built off of her bedroom at our house on 1140 Lorna st in El Cajon, California- and theyre drinking some beers that Fred had made wherever the fuck guys like that reside when theyre not hanging out in the houses of single moms with three kids in el Cajon, California. Honestly- I shit you not- I think I can clearly recall that it was a pretty decent ale but had a bit of a bitter aftertaste- something that I avoid, as I like my micro brews but I prefer them wimpy and light- for microbrews, that is. I probably made that up though (the memory, not the rest.) And so anyhow- Im fluttering around on the periphery the way eleven year old boys do when theres beer or wine or naked women or motorcycles or sharp knives or explosives- whenever theres stuff that is off limits around- Im nonchalantly being around and hopeful I can finally drink a beer, something Id seen my pop do bunches of times- one beer at lunch when he was working out in his garden during the summer- and maybe- maybe probably- hed say to my step mom I think Ill have another one before I go back out. And hed pour it and savor it in the same fashion as he did the first- slow pour, careful to not raise so much foam. A moment of silence as he watches the dew glistening on the surface of the glass. With a deft flick of the wrist hed have the pint glass betwixt his forefinger and thumb and hed lift it slowly to his mouth, not so much pausing but just moving it slow enough that he could admire the way the sunlight coming through the window in the kitchen plays upon the amber liquid, and then hed take a short draught off of it, savoring the flavor and relishing this time with his beer before he heads back out into the hot afternoon sun in the dry dirt of his garden seven miles north-west of the Tecate/California border. And so that was how it was for dad, and I figured yeah- thats how its gonna be for me. Wrong. If dad were drinking like that around me now itd be fair driving me nuts waiting for him to pull off the long draught and kill that soldier. Though I dont make it my business to dictate to others how they should partake of their nectar, I get really annoyed at the length of time it takes for someone who has a big production coming up on sucking one up. I think chiefly the problem there for me is that the waiter isnt going to come back until all the pints are at least half sunk. I fucking hate that- Ill sink mine in the first minute and then some sapll keep the waiter at bay for the next twenty minutes with his half filled pint, chatting us up and making me pretty much crazy. Half the time Ill just get up and head over to the bar and tell the waiter that were all set for another round. This serves the dual purpose of getting us our ice-cold beverages as well as maybe getting that chatty bastard halfway soused so maybe hell shut up and drink. So Fred Mullen and my mom are sitting against the railing on my moms unfinished ten by ten redwood deck that mom had built off of her bedroom on our home at 1140 Lorna Street in El Cajon, California- and Fred apparently notices my preadolescent need for an ice-cold beverage- and so he assumably looks at my mom for consent and she assumably shrugs and gives him the nod and he takes the tarnished Colt45 bottle opener from his beat up ice chest with the foam showing through and he cracks the top off of an old brown bottle and he hands it to me and I take a sip, then a drink, then after he encourages me I take the long draught and kill that motherfucker. And apparently mom gives me the nod and I get another- because anyone with any sense knows that the thirst of any eleven-year-old boy with any Celtic blood at all isnt going to be satisfied with one pint. No- he cracks me a second one, and after I kill that I feel pretty funny- tipsy and dizzy and giddy and high. Now in retrospect I figure that mom and old Fred the fuck-wad were out to teach me a lesson. I figure that they wanted me to learn that if you drink, you become sick. And I did become sick- I puked all over the bathroom and hugged the toilet for an hour or so and then I passed out in my bed and woke up the next morning a little shaky but otherwise not so badly the worst for wear and tear. I was eleven for gods sake- an eleven year olds powers of recovery are probably mans ability to heal at its peak- top notch. And so I woke up and shook it off and remembered the afternoon before with some hesitancy and I ventured out into the house cautiously, testing the waters, assuming that I was on thin ice. And upon entering the Formica shrine to the seventies that was our kitchen and finding that I had to face only a few comments about the night before and no punishment whatsoever- assumably as mom and Fred are pretty hung over from the balance of Freds beer that I left in the icebox after puking and passing out- I went out and played a game of pick-up in the street with the neighbor kids and forgot about all that adult angst and turmoil. Plenty time in life for that.
And so. When Fred Mullen was so fucking confident the next day that Id turn down his offer for another beer because he assumed Id learned my lesson with last nights antics- when he offered me a beer expecting me to blanch and cringe and decline and run scared- and I didnt even glance up at him but just casually replied sure. Confident now that there really was no penalty. Of course he didnt give me one that night. Cant recall his face, but Ill bet it was halfway between surprise and worry. Cant recall much, but I was pissed he didnt give me that beer so I waited til he was drunk and then stole three more.
I enrolled in school again and signed up to take the test to get a proficiency diploma. I met a girl (Lisa) and ended my time living on the street. Her parents let me move in with them and gave me a job building lobster traps and patching nets, and working on their fishing boat. Lisa was beautiful and introspective, painfully shy and highly intelligent in matters dealing with numbers, among other topics. She was a math wiz. We didnt find out until many years later that her shyness and the severe bouts of depression she dealt with constantly were the result of undiagnosed depression and an equally undiagnosed thyroid imbalance. But for two young punk rockers that was just about par for the course, and we weathered it Ok for a very long time. We served a purpose to each other: I kept people away from her and was her personal pit bull, she kept me from killing myself with drugs and alcohol, giving me some balance and a purpose- something to live for. Sad but true, at that point in time I needed someone else to care for because I didnt care for myself enough (a recurring theme for me to this day.)
Ever since I was a young kid I loved the ocean and my time working on that boat was the best ever. I bought myself a used board and began surfing again, getting in the water whenever I had a chance. I also bought a skateboard and began hitting the half-pipes and drainage ditches that dotted the area. At 17 years old I was getting to be a kid again. But the couple years I spent on the street, the drugs and fights and confrontations with the cops- that stuff seemed to cast a shadow over whatever rosy reality I came up with. I still did drugs occasionally, but I never really got hooked on drugs. My attitude was that they were ok and all but in the end they bored me. I was pre-wired for booze. After a certain age- around 17- I knew that I had some issues with booze. When I drank, I drank it all. I rarely drank one or two beers, unless my body was absolutely saturated from drinking heavily the night before.
From the age of 18 until I was 22 I drank some, but even so sort of weaned that part of my life off as I became busy with other things. When I was 22 Lisa and I got married and I threw myself into the trade of carpentry. Shortly after we were married I became the foreman for a construction company in North County. I had quit smoking completely and drank seldom. I worked for several companies over the following four years, one which was an engineering firm out of Taipei which was known for its lavish company dinners. Many times during that period my troubles with alcohol surfaced, but mostly nobody noticed and in that company some digressions from perfect behavior were considered acceptable- if not the norm.
Around the time we got married Lisa and I traveled with her grandparents up the Coast of California and through Oregon and Washington on Highway one, ending the trip in Vancouver for the Worlds fair. As a kid I had been down to Mexico some on my own, but prior to that Id never been farther North than San Francisco. At twenty-four my wife and I went on a cross-country camping trip through Nevada and Utah, across a corner of Colorado and up through Wyoming and a bit into Montana. Having only ever seen our Cuyamaca Mountains and places like Tecate, Dulzura, Jamul and Descanso, I was overcome by the vast emptiness and the beauty. For years I had longed for a time past when a mans word meant something and people had values and higher standards and being a stand up guy meant something. I felt that Id found it there and a year later we had moved to a small town nestled into the base of the Wind River Range in Wyoming. I worked for a local contractor for a year. When I got laid off I took advantage of Wyomings lax licensing laws (none for general contractors) and began working on my own.
Thus began a new chapter of my life, different but just as hard. Working on my own was stressful, and I prided myself on the value of my word and a handshake and that I finish what I started. That was tough sometimes, and there were a lot of hard lessons. I once observed that the age old adage that anything worth having is worth working for might leave something to be desired, and that maybe I might want something not worth so much once in a while.
In the five years I lived in Wyoming I drew the blueprints for and built four houses, several light industrial buildings, I built a bank, a small shopping center and several retail stores and restaurants. I learned on the fly and paid for my mistakes. Sometimes there was a little extra money but most of the time we just paid the bills.
At the same time Lisas Depression seemed to become worse, and she became more and more dependant on me to make things okay, things that sometimes were imaginary or just flat out of my hands. I struggled with it and did what I could. Lisa was handling the company books and the finances and that gave her a lot of stress. IF I could give anyone a piece of advice on that particular topic it would be Dont burden your loved one with a construction company. In my view construction companies are often the death of a relationship. They are just too time consuming and the customers demand too much of your time and the stress of handling the money is just too much. Today I have a bookkeeper handling all of my paperwork and accounting, taxes- she has no stake in the business and so has little emotional attachment and stress. A much better way to go and well worth the money I pay her.
Lisas depression became doubly worse when we decided we wanted to have a baby. When she was pregnant the thyroid imbalance was pretty tough to keep in check, the levels of medication she needed to stay on an even keel changing moment to moment. It was an absolutely horrible time for her and thats really sad, but again we made the best of it and weathered it okay, the result being a beautiful baby girl who we named Veronica Leigh.
Veronica was the best thing that ever happened to me. Before she was born I had a dream of holding her, and I could feel this love flowing between us like a tangible thing, her just wanting and needing and loving my attention. In real life it was all that and more- she was my little buddy and we had the best times together- but that dream sticks in my mind as one of the better feelings Ive ever encountered. I experienced that kind of emotion one time since then- another kind of love with a woman who I was very serious with- but thats another story and way down the road a ways.
Veronica gave our marriage new meaning and business was good and Lisa was happier with Veronica around. Veronica kept her distracted from herself and her depression, and Veronica was just this little shining, radiant personality who lit up a room wherever she went. Precocious, gentle, sensitive and caring- just the dream kid.
When Veronica was four years old we decided we didnt want to raise her in the cold and snow. We had recently discovered that although she was in her third year of pre-school (the school was directly across the street from our house, and she had begged and begged to be let in) the local elementary school wouldnt let her in until she was five. Her birthday was in December and so this meant shed pretty much always be the oldest kid in the class. Id read somewhere that it was better to get girls in school early, so we decided to sell everything and relocate to Kailua Kona, Hawaii- a town wed visited nearly every year since we met.
Kailua Kona, Hawaii. Veronica did absolutely great in school (and still does.) She practiced hula with a local Kumu (teacher- but more than that. Something gets lost in the translation.) I began surfing again. I got a job with a local company for a year, then started a gardening business with my father-in-law.
I began racing 44 Hawaiian outrigger canoes. I raced a season and gold medaled the entire way, steering a crew of twenty-something surfers who were determined to win. We all became very close and raced for three years together as a crew with very few changes, and we all still keep in touch. I raced for five years, Lisa and Veronica joining in on the second year. Lisa became a steersman also, as did Veronica. We started Veronica steering at six years old and by ten she was steering crews of sixteen and eighteen year olds in the island championships (there are always short crews who need an extra member and having a tiny, light person steering helps the boat go faster and straighter. She was terribly cute, this tiny little girl steering this 400 pound, 44 foot long koa canoe. Like I said- precocious.)
I ended up giving the canoe club a lot of my time, eventually coaching, repairing boats and equipment, taking care of the grounds, sitting on the board. Lisa also coached, and most of our spare time was spent in or around the canoes. It was a good time, but eventually we wanted to try something else. Veronica had been taking Karate at a local gym and not to be out done, Lisa registered and began taking lessons. A few months later I decided to sign up. Having fought a lot as a kid it was perfect for me, and it helped me get the chip off of my shoulder that appeared every time someone got confrontational. Im a psycho magnet and throughout my life nutty people have again and again seeked me out. People all of the time were trying to get in my face. If I were at a party and someone showed up looking for trouble theyd scan the room until they saw me, and then theyd smile and come right over to pick a fight. No lie- paranormal qualities here.
Anyhow- the karate turned out to be karate, kickboxing, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, self defense and boxing. It was a well rounded curriculum and again we became deeply entrenched in the school, teaching classes and running the sparring and grappling sessions. Veronica and Lisa eventually got their black belts. I made it to second degree brown and was a part of the black belt test (I was one of several people you had to spar with to get your black belt, among a ton of other stuff you had to go through. It was not an easy task, and you didnt get your belt just for putting in your time. You worked hard for it and became proficient.) I never got my black belt because right around the time I was to begin training my life fell apart.
Now heres where things get a little strange, and again and again I have to look to the past for some explanation. I think maybe as a young man I was just strong enough to hold everything together. Maybe it was my marriage that wasnt any good- totally possible, given the reasons we were together. When we decided to get married it was kind of like, So what do we do next? I guess we get married. Dont get me wrong- we cared about each other. But it was often times like we were brother and sister. We served a purpose to each other, and that worked for a time.
Maybe it was my alcoholism-which is more than likely, but doesnt rule out that marriage thing. Maybe I was strong enough to stave off the alcoholic tendencies for all of that time, but sooner or later I was going to have to pay the piper.
At any rate, things began to fall apart shortly after a Hawaiian Airlines pilot put our DC10 into the ocean just off the end of the runway in Papaette, Tahiti. That was the eve before Christmas eve- December 24 at midnight, 2000. I never liked flying anyhow, and crashing only allowed me to realize that it CAN happen to me. I was a wreck. No fatalities and I was the only real injury- a bum knee- but just the same when I went to the psychologist he informed me of all of the signs of post-traumatic stress disorder and I found that I was a pretty good shoe-in for the laughing factory. I wasnt the Vietnam vet who was afraid to pick up a can of soup at the grocers because it might be booby-trapped, but I was about two clicks away from that. First thing that started to go was the marriage. Truth be told, after that crash the yawning grind of day-to-day life just didnt seem to have any urgency whatsoever. I was coming up on my black belt test and so in top physical condition. Mentally I was a confused wreck.
As my marriage fell apart and my emotions had me further and further confused, I trained harder and harder, waking up at four in the morning and running five miles, going to the gym at five and getting a couple hours in before work, after work swimming a mile or so or going surfing.
Another thing that happened right about then is kind of predictable. My marriage was in shambles and I had realized that there was nothing between us anymore. I was tired of maintaining her emotional state and I wanted more from life (by the way, all pretty much textbook stuff that people with PTSD say about their marriage as it falls apart.)
There was a woman I became friends with who trained martial arts with me. She was pretty and smart and kind and funny and warm and pretty much everything I loved in a woman. She was in a marriage that hadnt worked out the way she initially thought it would. Her husband wasnt a terrible guy- maybe just guilty of being indifferent. Maybe worse, I dont really know. She and I spent a lot of time talking and laughing, spending hours on the sidelines while our kids did their classes. We trained together for a long time and I thought of us as really good friends.
So one day she passed me on the highway and flagged me down up the road a ways. I remember I saw her and my heart did a funny thing that hearts do when you see someone you really like. I pulled off the road and we stood and talked for ten minutes and then she went her way and I mine, but after that she was on my mind a lot.
Fast forward a ways and Im working near her work two towns over and call her to ask for a lunch recommendation. She asks me to just meet her for lunch and I do. After that we meet for lunch often, and eventually I tell her how I feel about her. She tells me she doesnt want to come between my wife and I and I tell her thats falling apart as we speak. We spend more time together, lunches and sitting up at her work talking, window shopping and holding hands- and I ask her to leave her husband and come be with me. She says she cant- that she has kids to take care of and so do I. I tell her that will all work out. She says no- she cant- and shortly after that Im divorced and she stops returning my calls.
Of course Im heartbroken and scared, alone for the first time in nearly twenty years, living on my own and missing this girl terribly. That is when I began drinking again.
I tried to forget her but that didnt really work. I think of her nearly every day, if not every day- and I sometimes wonder what she meant to do there. We never did have an honest to god affair- I wasnt really into that. Im not a good liar and dont care to be. I couldnt stand seeing her go home to someone else every night and I sincerely wanted her to come be with me.
Towards the end I asked her what she was trying to do, and she tried to backpedal and say that she cares about me like a friend and some other stuff. I asked her if she recalled the times we held hands and kissed, and when she told me she loved me. She said yeah- she remembers that. I asked her why when her cat jumped out of the car on the way to the vet did she call me and not her husband? She didnt have an answer for that. There was a lot of stuff she didnt answer. It left me with a lot of unanswered questions, standing in the vacuum she left when she left my life with a sad look on my face. Pitiful. After that my relationships havent really worked out very well.
So anyhow- that girl is no longer part of my life. Shes a memory that I have mixed feelings about. End of story, I suppose. Chances are it would have been a disaster anyhow. But it was sweet and felt very good for the brief time it lasted.
So now I sit here looking back at reasons and motives, stuff that makes me the way I am. I have no more figured out now than I did when I started typing this. Im an alcoholic- probably always have been. Im probably the only alcoholic guy in a room who doesnt want to go sit by that pretty girl who just walked in. I could do without girls who promise me happiness. Whenever some beautiful creature offers me my dreams I find myself waiting for the sound of the other shoe dropping.
So anyone want to digest all that and give me the straight dope on why Im a drunk? Genetically predisposed to consuming ridiculous quantities of alcohol? (Irish and Scottish with a quarter Swedish thrown in for good measure.) Was it trauma? Cause and effect? Just how screwed am I? weirdface
"So anyone want to digest all that and give me the straight dope on why Im a drunk?" ------------------------
Well bud......I read it 3 times......had to take a break and go out for more smokes....lol
The above line that you quoted...really caught my attention.....
My Answer? "Just because it turned out that way" "nothing to analyze"..:)
Things go for a crap with those so called normal people...too----thats life...
You add alcohol to our busy lives...and the crap becomes a mess...:)
Youre not screwed up...and youre no different from the rest of us friend...
I still go back into yesterdays and ask the word "Why" and "Why things happened the way it all did" and even the "Whys...of things that are happening today?" that I have no control over...
And the answer I can come up with is "Just because"
Did you ever notice that alcoholics think too damned much??? Me Too..(smile)
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Live each day as if it were your last...because tomorrow?
It might be.
I drink rootbeer as fast as I drink booze. I eat faster than anyone I know. I become interested in a subject and buy ten books about it and read them in a week. Funny wiring.
Well. since u put so much time and effort into your post I thought I would reply..Who the heck knows why we are like we are. Some people go thru more crap then either you or myself have gone thru and they are perfectly fine. Maybe not quite fine, they may not be alcoholic like our sorry butts are, but Im sure they have their issues. I dont know, but maybe like me you think it totally sucks that were alcoholics!! I hate it like crazy. But, on the bright side, we can do something about it! Even tho we (LOVE THIS WORD) BALK!! at it. Ive mentioned before that I work with cancer patients. There is nothing they can do but pray and hope that they will get better. Some will, most dont. I laugh now b/c in helping others we are helping ourselves.....Here I am and I am just realizing it!! When a patient has cancer, the help they get thru chemotherapy makes them sick..diarrhea, weight loss, mouth sores, depression, and worse, most of the time death!!! They are doing all they can to survive. I whine because I dont sometimes want the "cure". But what is the worst side effect I get???? Happiness, fellowship, sobriety...at what cost!? Little compared to them!! I guess Im lucky, in a way, that all that I have wrong in my life right now is being an alkie!! So, I guess, in response to your question about being screwed up....Be glad thats all you are, Lani
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"We tend to forget that happiness doesn't come as a result of getting something we don't have, but rather of recognizing and appreciating what we do have. "
Obsessive Compulsive and funny wiring???? lol Jee sus!! Im not alone..:)
And Lani? You work with cancer patients? I'm going to let it all hang out here....and share with you that I am one...and its been quite a battle at times..over the last 4 years...and at present they say Im living on more borrowed time....and we are not getting into that one except to share...maybe 8 months of good living left...and then its all downhill...been through everything that can be done.....and..I accept that...
Ive been very fortunate to have been living on borrowed time as a recovering alcholic...for almost 23 years....one day at a time...and it if hadnt been for AA..I wouldnt even be here..
The most valuable thing that I have learned in that period of time is "What true love is" and "How to show love to others"
Still unknown to her...my last wife taught me that one....even tho she couldnt accept it, because of her own past crap...no blame involved..
There are two main emotions in life....Love or Fear"
Everything we do and think...is either love based or fear based...
And yes..I have spent time in a cancer hospital and watched people go right down the tubes..because they just gave up..with no hope...
I do have hope...and AA taught me that....
Hope that I can wake up tomorrow.....and just try to be the best human being I can be...
When the tomorrows end...??
I will have no regrets....there will be a few "What the hell was I thinkin??"...but no regtrets..
Keep on truckin..
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Live each day as if it were your last...because tomorrow?
It might be.
Bless you for sharing this with the group, Phil. You're the one that has kept alot of the rest of us going forward with hope when we were ready to bury our heads between our knees. Our turn to try and give back what we can. Love you dearly my Friend. chris
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"Never argue with an idiot... They'll drag you down to their level and beat you with experience..."
TLH, your story is incredibly close to mine, only I'm 75% Irish, the balance canadian/english (that's the light weight part lol). As far as the "Why" I'll quote popeye "I Yams what I Yams" and that's the part of "accepting the things that I cannot change" that I've "Got". It's not really personal, like I've also got a lot of moles on my skin. I stopped asking "Why" about the moles when I was a teenager. Great story by the way. It's not often that I get to hear about another preteen alcoholic and drug addict.
I grew up in Southern California and was a teen in the late seventies, early eighties. If I were to venture a guess I'd bet that a LOT of alcs/addicts my age have eerily similar stories. Twas an interesting time and drugs were readily available and a lot of the parents seem vaguely absent from the stories I've heard. I was the quintessential latch key kid- and out of all the kids I ran with we had the most stable household, the nicest house and the most "normal" environment. It was downhill from there, that's for sure. We used to get one of my best friend's lunch money from her dad at a bar downtown on our way to school. That was pretty extreme but there were a lot of variations on that. Mom's that were coke heads, we stole shrooms and acid from my best frind's dad- that kinda stuff. Rummaging through their underwear doors to score a bindle of coke.
We were 15-16 years old and from fairly nice, relatively well educated families. What the hell is wrong with that pcture?
I read these posts both from Toby and Phil from the first....read....and reread. Both it is certain took enormous courage to be so candid. That is an enormous feat in itself to come to terms with "life on life's terms". Surely if your honesty stirs one soul to sobriety.......than surely that "love" will come back to you. With gratitude, Wanda
That's not totally fair to other people who share better in person. I write- it's just something I've always done since I was a small kid. It was something I fell into naturally. I'm actually not very good at sharing in person. Public speaking gets me flustered and gives me the worst nerves- total butterflies. I almost feel sick. Which is kind of wierd because at one point I was a city councilman and had to speak in public every day. It bothered me then also. I think it's just something that is. But I can write pretty much anything without feeling self concious at all.
I think I'm prewired to write like I'm prewired to drink. Odd. But yeah- the people who can share like that face to face have my complete admiration. I get so keyed up I could probably make myself cry- not because of the subject matter so much but the combination of the subject matter coupled with how jittery it makes me to speak in public.
And really odd- with my closest friends I can totally speak in front of them about anything- no self conciousness or anything. It's just strangers, I think. And maybe the fact that as a kid I was criticized a lot and maybe that might be a factor- I dunno. Probably. I work on this stuff all the time. P.O.W.=Pile of work.
Toby, You are human. Not everyone was born to be public orators. Some of the greatest inspirations in life for me have come from the writers who in their time (past) were simple ordainary people. Though eyes can search the face and eyes of the speaker for truth, let us not forget that there are faces that can betray what is in their heart. What brought us togethor was #1 We admitted we had a problem (with alcohol) -----in other words we had to FIRST be HONEST with ourselves. With each of the steps thereafter......Honesty is the overall theme. It is certain that it was hard for Wren/Chris to "write" about her daughter in prison.... for Doll/Jen to about John and their relationship ending....... for Tina to speak of her son, his follies, moving, ect.......for John to relay about his aunts deaths.......for Lisa to tell of the losses of those animals she loved as family......or for Phil to acknowledge "aloud" to everyone that his health is as such it is cheating him out of "time"........and lastly to reveal details of my own personal life. The fact is WE ALL have had our own respective torments, gut wrenching pain, irritations, ect. We came looking for answers..........through AA and this board......we may have different occupations, we may be in different financial ranges..... and yet in these posts there are many many things that touch our souls in such a way we ponder upon the words and can relate to them in someway. And we say to ourselves ........ this person/these people understand what I'm going through......the anguish I feel, the trouble I'm in...... Thus, there is a "spark" lit....... and we individually begin "to open our hearts" ........a tiny bit of putting trust in another by telling what is in our hearts........the good right along with the bad.......and in turn we find solace in the support and encouragement to cope and go on........ To sum this all up.........Yes, there are those who can verbally motivate us. That is their "gift". There are those as well...........who can inspire us through written words....... see how others have struggled in the similar and turned what seemed like failure into a victory that brings peace, joy, and happiness to another. It is what I myself have found here........bits and pieces .....to cope.....while simultaneously glimmers of hope......and that my dear friend has gradually restored (and continues to do so) peace to this heart. Things that I once feared either don't frighten me as much or scare me at all. Things I never thought I could do......I now do...by myself. The irony in all this..........the "alcoholic" (in my life) who I so desperately wanted to be sober has put me right in the midst of other "alcoholic(s)" who have and continue to teach me some of life's more valuable lessons. Right here comes to mind that old saying "what don't kill you .......will make you stronger." Could it be that through all these trials that HP is strengthening you for something better? With gratitude for what you've taught, Wanda
We were 15-16 years old and from fairly nice, relatively well educated families. What the hell is wrong with that pcture?
Those were crazy times in the aftermath of the 60's when everything was kinda of out of control. The DC area was just like that. Northern Va. was for the most part an upper middle class to upper class neighborhoods and most of us were partying like crazy. It was what it was.
