Exactly four years ago, and when I say exactly four years ago, that's what I mean, exactly four years ago to the day, I was sitting in my second rehab.
But before I go into the flashback, there's something else that leads me to it. I watched a film at the theater today with my father, "Charlie Wilson's War." The film's not important. What's important is that I'm back home in College Station for the break visiting, and I'm watching the film here, and as we're leaving the theater, I hear my name. So I look to see an old friend of mine, Christina. At first, there was nothing really significant about running into Christina, me and her weren't really close friends in the first place, in fact, I was closer to her ex-boyfriend than her.
What was significant about her was something she said. She remarked upon an occasion where a mutual friend of ours was playing a song that I used to play often at a coffee shop and apparently another friend of mine (the name was unfamiliar to me though) said that she recognized the song because I used to play that song often at that coffee shop when I was homeless. When Christina said the homeless suffix, I remarked something to the extent, "Yeah, but that was a long time ago."
And that's what got me thinking. And then I started thinking really hard. It's hard for me to believe now that it's been almost ten years since I entered high school and six since I left. Five since I started college, and it's been four years exactly since I spent the holiday season in BVCASA, a rehab for the homeless in Bryan. I had no idea about the history yet to be made in my life (for instance I never met Christina and those people associated with my last relapse that would lead me to my final rehab and eventually to where I am now; furthermore, it almost makes me cry to think about last Christmas and how I spent it in Kerrville, silent away from home with my father, still confused and heart broken, and how now I've been sober almost 1.5 years- how much has changed!). At that moment, I had just met my mother's new husband-to-be while I was in a psych ward, and I was confused over my life because I just left the University of Michigan, something I loved, but something I was coming to terms with believing I was never returning to (which I haven't). My first rehab failed miserably and quickly, and I was curious about this one, and just got off the worst heroin binge of my life (and the worst detox thus far- the one in 2006 was pretty bad, too. The first one was a piece of cake). I thought maybe this time, I should stay clean, but my mind was a wreck. And I was homeless. My father made probably the hardest decision of his life- he asked me to leave his house, and while I was angry then, now I see how it was beneficial for me.
But Christmas rolled around. And in this rehab, we were a tight group, because it was a small bunch and they kept the same group for the holiday season, taking no new clients and releasing none of us. I remember Christmas, all of us sitting in the dimly lit TV room, sharing stories of our lives when everything was better- before the prisons and bridges and rehabs and broken homes. I was the youngest one there at 19, and I will never forget how much they took care of me there. I will never forget the sadness and pity in their eyes, and the hope they had for me. And while I feel sad that I failed them then, I wish to find them now to show them who I have become. But I remember that Christmas in the TV room, wish the stories and our cups of coffee, and how we tried to laugh, but instead our eyes tried to avoid the slight aura from the Christmas lights from the house across the street.
And when the families came and visited me, and my father gave me a present, and it was my first guitar, I did break down. It was the second time I broke down in front of my father at that rehab, the first when he picked me up from detox to take me to St. Joe's psych ward. I took that guitar on all my travels when I was homeless, learning how to play and write songs. I think, if it wasn't for my guitar, I wouldn't be here today.
I think about this, and in the drama that I can make it, I smile. I love it. This is who I am. I see it with a grace that is above me, and an understanding that is particular to those that have been through what I have, a grace that is pretentious, and I know it is, but I do it anyway- I look at it, and I know there's those with worse, but I look at it and I give thanks that when autumn came, and the seasons change, I wasn't a bristle leaf that faded into the wind, but I stood firmly to my stem, and matured into something strong, independent, and free.
I'm just rambling and thinking about the past. Thought I'd share. Merry Christmas. Give thanks.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Conclusion to My Break
It's strange, I sit here again in my simple apartment, back in San Antonio, and I think about my Thanksgiving break. This being my first real break in sobriety. You could contend that last year was my first break, but I would argue that I was living in a half-way house, and I was in Kerrville, and spent it only with my father and his girlfriend. This time, I went full fling, back home to College Station, spent five days with family and friends. I saw football games (how the Aggies won, I don't know- miracle by God?), a ring dunking (Aggie tradition), my friend Shaun and Leah's baby, a Lambo Diablo, and had a great dinner at the bassist of my father's band's house. In all this time, the thought of drink and drug never crossed my mind. The miracle of this was, of course, that I know I could've used, and no one in San Antonio would've been the wiser.
An interesting experience happened on my last day there. I went to Revolutions, a real hip bar that I liked going to back in the day. My friend Felix and I were to meet up with our friend Scott Youngblood, someone I haven't seen in years. As I arrived, the band that was playing was a local band called Bulletproof Brown, which I've seen many times. They are a phenomenal band of talented musicians, but what makes them real special to me is their lead guitarist- David "Bagel" Adams. I've known Bagel since I was in seventh grade. He's a townie just like me. The thing is, Bagel is in the program like me (don't worry, I know he wouldn't care if I broke his anonymity). When I was living in my half-way house in Kerrville, and I was about six months sober, he came up there, without knowing that I was living in Kerrville, to try to get sober. The thing was, about five months prior to me getting sober, he went to rehab in Hunt, Texas, which is right outside of Kerrville. So, he actually knew people that lived in Kerrville- that's why he came up there to get sober. When I ran into him, I learned he was sleeping in his car, so I let him sleep on my couch in my half-way house. He stayed there about a couple of weeks before some drama happened and he had to come back to College Station.
About a month later, I came to College Station to do my ninth step (making amends), and I saw him. He had relapsed, and it was sad. I was happy to know he was okay, but sad to know that he relapsed. Anyway, as I walked inside Revolutions, the band was between songs so immediately I walked to the front of the stage and he saw me and hugged me. Then, he asked me if I was still sober, and I said yes, I have 16 months. He smiled, and then with great pride, he told me he just got six months. I looked at him, and you know, he looked so happy and different, I knew it to be true (and the fact that he was drinking from a water bottle the whole night, and that his younger brother told me the same story was a comfort, too). During their break, we talked a little bit more, and it was good to know that he was sober.
It's funny to think about all that, because at the ring dunking, I saw a whole bunch of people I went to high school that haven't seen me in a long time. The thing about high school for me was that I did really well in high school, so me being behind in my class, and a drug addict, well, I'm always curious as to what other people think- even though, honestly, I doubt people think much about it all, if any. But, people walked up to me, and hugged me and asked me how I was doing. Most of them heard I went to rehab and got sober, and said that they were happy I was finally sober (I've tried before). It was sort of touching.
I'm kind of hungry, so I'm going to end with this. Another funny thing that happened at Revolution's was that I ended up talking to this girl, and in the midst of this conversation, I learned that we had a mutual friend, Megan Ochoa. Megan and I used to jam a lot together on the guitar either just for fun, or on stage (we once played a competition together at the Groove). When I told this girl my name, she gives me this weird look and then says she's heard all about me and that Megan plays a song of mine at every single one of my shows. I wrote a song called "Beauty and the Morning After" that I remember Megan loving, and we recorded it once in Dallas with her singing and playing the drums. Well, this girl told me that Megan plays that song every show and dedicates it to me. Then, she asked me why I left their lives. I told her I didn't leave their life, I had to take care of mine. But, I haven't seen Megan in almost a year and a half. I do miss her a whole bunch. So, today, I went to her myspace page, and there's a video of her playing my song live at Revolution's. Watching it, I almost cried.
In the end, I want to say, I had a great Thanksgiving. I needed it a lot. I was getting stressed and depressed here in San Antonio. I missed my friends and my home. But, I'm somewhat growing fond of the 210. As I drove into town, I felt myself getting giddy. Is this a new stage in my development?
I don't really know. What I do know is that I'm hungry.
An interesting experience happened on my last day there. I went to Revolutions, a real hip bar that I liked going to back in the day. My friend Felix and I were to meet up with our friend Scott Youngblood, someone I haven't seen in years. As I arrived, the band that was playing was a local band called Bulletproof Brown, which I've seen many times. They are a phenomenal band of talented musicians, but what makes them real special to me is their lead guitarist- David "Bagel" Adams. I've known Bagel since I was in seventh grade. He's a townie just like me. The thing is, Bagel is in the program like me (don't worry, I know he wouldn't care if I broke his anonymity). When I was living in my half-way house in Kerrville, and I was about six months sober, he came up there, without knowing that I was living in Kerrville, to try to get sober. The thing was, about five months prior to me getting sober, he went to rehab in Hunt, Texas, which is right outside of Kerrville. So, he actually knew people that lived in Kerrville- that's why he came up there to get sober. When I ran into him, I learned he was sleeping in his car, so I let him sleep on my couch in my half-way house. He stayed there about a couple of weeks before some drama happened and he had to come back to College Station.
About a month later, I came to College Station to do my ninth step (making amends), and I saw him. He had relapsed, and it was sad. I was happy to know he was okay, but sad to know that he relapsed. Anyway, as I walked inside Revolutions, the band was between songs so immediately I walked to the front of the stage and he saw me and hugged me. Then, he asked me if I was still sober, and I said yes, I have 16 months. He smiled, and then with great pride, he told me he just got six months. I looked at him, and you know, he looked so happy and different, I knew it to be true (and the fact that he was drinking from a water bottle the whole night, and that his younger brother told me the same story was a comfort, too). During their break, we talked a little bit more, and it was good to know that he was sober.
It's funny to think about all that, because at the ring dunking, I saw a whole bunch of people I went to high school that haven't seen me in a long time. The thing about high school for me was that I did really well in high school, so me being behind in my class, and a drug addict, well, I'm always curious as to what other people think- even though, honestly, I doubt people think much about it all, if any. But, people walked up to me, and hugged me and asked me how I was doing. Most of them heard I went to rehab and got sober, and said that they were happy I was finally sober (I've tried before). It was sort of touching.
I'm kind of hungry, so I'm going to end with this. Another funny thing that happened at Revolution's was that I ended up talking to this girl, and in the midst of this conversation, I learned that we had a mutual friend, Megan Ochoa. Megan and I used to jam a lot together on the guitar either just for fun, or on stage (we once played a competition together at the Groove). When I told this girl my name, she gives me this weird look and then says she's heard all about me and that Megan plays a song of mine at every single one of my shows. I wrote a song called "Beauty and the Morning After" that I remember Megan loving, and we recorded it once in Dallas with her singing and playing the drums. Well, this girl told me that Megan plays that song every show and dedicates it to me. Then, she asked me why I left their lives. I told her I didn't leave their life, I had to take care of mine. But, I haven't seen Megan in almost a year and a half. I do miss her a whole bunch. So, today, I went to her myspace page, and there's a video of her playing my song live at Revolution's. Watching it, I almost cried.
In the end, I want to say, I had a great Thanksgiving. I needed it a lot. I was getting stressed and depressed here in San Antonio. I missed my friends and my home. But, I'm somewhat growing fond of the 210. As I drove into town, I felt myself getting giddy. Is this a new stage in my development?
I don't really know. What I do know is that I'm hungry.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Home
So I'm home. I drove in last night, and I'm home. It's a strange sensation to say that, as I sit in Sweet Eugene's, this coffee shop that is so familiar to me. As I sit here, listening to music, I smell the fragrances that were so common to me, and I think back to days where I was homeless and I vacated my days, vagrant on their patio, finding money for a donut with my friend Ernesto, who was homeless with me. And I sit here, and I think about times when I was fourteen years old and there was a stage in here, and bands would play, and I would drink coffee and listen to them. I would think about when I was twenty-one, and I was no longer homeless, and friends and I would play guitar all night on that patio.
Driving into town, I felt this giddy excitement fill my body. Without knowing it, my body began to hit the gas peddle harder, my eyes perused my surroundings at the new buildings and scenery that I haven't seen in the many, many months I have been gone. Looking at the beautiful women that make College Station so unique (if you haven't been here, then you don't know what I'm talking about).
There first thing I did when I came into town, I met up with my friend Felix. He took me to some brand new Japanese restaurant on University Ave., which name I can't remember right now. Walk into that new, highly trendy area of restaurants and coffee shops, I was immediately astounded by how chic everything looked. In the center of the large metropolitan complex was this large, complex fountain, with water exploding from center at least fifteen feet in the air from a center gorged deep in the ground. The circumference of this fountain was too large for me to even begin to estimate what it was.
The inside of the Japanese restaurant reminded me of something you would see in the movies when some people would eat in an upscale Manhattan restaurant. I remember saying to Felix, as we waited for our seat at the hibachi grill, "What ever happened to the good ole' days when College Station was just some small redneck town?" And of course, I was distracted by the women. I have been desensitized. Not to say there aren't beautiful women in San Antonio. It's just not as many in such a compacted space, and personally, I think the average in College Station is... well, I won't finish that statement (I sound so vain, don't I?).
Felix and I ate this amazing dinner, and hung out a bit at this coffee shop nearby the restaurant, where he showed me a frame to a bike he was about to put together. After which we parted ways and I went home.
This morning, I woke up early, hit a seven a.m. meeting that I found through a contact I had since 2003 here in CSTX, and now I sit in this coffee shop, watching familiar faces show up to work. I wonder what lies ahead in the next few days. I'm waiting for a good time to call my friend, to see what he's doing. See what's going on. I know I should study for biology, but I don't want to. I just got here, and I've been doing the school thing for this past few months.
Anyway. I know this was a random entry, but expect another one. I just wanted to write something about being home. I like it here.
Driving into town, I felt this giddy excitement fill my body. Without knowing it, my body began to hit the gas peddle harder, my eyes perused my surroundings at the new buildings and scenery that I haven't seen in the many, many months I have been gone. Looking at the beautiful women that make College Station so unique (if you haven't been here, then you don't know what I'm talking about).
There first thing I did when I came into town, I met up with my friend Felix. He took me to some brand new Japanese restaurant on University Ave., which name I can't remember right now. Walk into that new, highly trendy area of restaurants and coffee shops, I was immediately astounded by how chic everything looked. In the center of the large metropolitan complex was this large, complex fountain, with water exploding from center at least fifteen feet in the air from a center gorged deep in the ground. The circumference of this fountain was too large for me to even begin to estimate what it was.
The inside of the Japanese restaurant reminded me of something you would see in the movies when some people would eat in an upscale Manhattan restaurant. I remember saying to Felix, as we waited for our seat at the hibachi grill, "What ever happened to the good ole' days when College Station was just some small redneck town?" And of course, I was distracted by the women. I have been desensitized. Not to say there aren't beautiful women in San Antonio. It's just not as many in such a compacted space, and personally, I think the average in College Station is... well, I won't finish that statement (I sound so vain, don't I?).
Felix and I ate this amazing dinner, and hung out a bit at this coffee shop nearby the restaurant, where he showed me a frame to a bike he was about to put together. After which we parted ways and I went home.
This morning, I woke up early, hit a seven a.m. meeting that I found through a contact I had since 2003 here in CSTX, and now I sit in this coffee shop, watching familiar faces show up to work. I wonder what lies ahead in the next few days. I'm waiting for a good time to call my friend, to see what he's doing. See what's going on. I know I should study for biology, but I don't want to. I just got here, and I've been doing the school thing for this past few months.
Anyway. I know this was a random entry, but expect another one. I just wanted to write something about being home. I like it here.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
The Seeker that Seeks but Never Finds
My cup for my cigarettes is getting full. My throat is rejecting the Marlboro Reds I bummed off of Jeremy, begging for a menthol, but I'm saving those for tomorrow. The unabashed poverty of my situation does not come to grips with the fact that my eyes burn and get blurry with each word and each page that I turn with each text book. This, my friends, is the first intense week of school I've encountered since I've come back to it. Back to back tests, for three days in a row, culminating with the Bio exam from hell on Thursday is the gauntlet in which I test the mettle that I've accumulated in the last few years.
I listen to a song my friend Justin Hancock wrote, that a couple of friends of ours remade called "Waiting." I am infatuated with the song. It is soft and subtle, and carries me through a kaleidescope of emotions, as my mind wanders late at night, and I give into
my dreams and of fiction and truth, where the past somehow comes out to light, and my fantasies come to be sometimes the miserable hopes that can either keep me looking forward, or looking down at the ground.
To the right is a picture my friend Justin took of Korea. He lives there right now- he's been there for the past few years. I don't know where he is, but all I know is that he teaches English there. I am almost as infatuated with this picture as I am with his music. He is one of my musical icons, as well as a good friend of mine.
I haven't seen him in almost... God, I don't know how many years. I know he came and visited, but I just got out of rehab and was living in a half-way house in Kerrville and couldn't make it to College Station. I miss him so much that sometimes it hurts. Late at night, like it is now, I get reminded how strange it is to move to a new town and start a new life. I became to lose my sensibilities with numbers and political theories and cellular respiration. I begin to flash to times where all I had was a guitar and some rolling papers for my rolling tobacco, and then I flash to now and my stomach gets tight and apprehensive with the coming future. Can my faith handle it? But it's not a question of faith in God with me, it's faith in myself.
But, people with my disposition have it cruel. We, the bohemian type, whom launder our days with vapid thoughts of the "what ifs" and "is it possible" and "should I," worried that she didn't pay attention to me, even though I might've only said a word, plus to her. We, those whom throw ourselves at the mercy at the white water rapids of the world where we take a chance and let our minds run, let our fiction run loose in perils of song, verse, and art, hoping that others will take notice, but especially the important ones- and sometimes, not the important ones because we are scared. Of what? Rejection? Or even more, being disappointed. So we escape again, into our minds, where everything is what we make of it, and everything, at least for a few seconds is okay. The traumas we once faced are no longer our enemies, but just useless pieces of information. Now we are inundated with life and a freedom we have never known, if at least, just for a second.
There is the guitar. The pen. The voice. The stencil. The pad. The piano. The cello. The keyboard and the keyboard(s). There are those with talent, and there are those that find talent within themselves. But, in the end, there are those, that share with me this disposition, that during a week of tiring, blistering solitude, with only the feeble academics of undergraduate studies, put on hold for so many years and once again battled, in this new city, do I violate the constraints of civil society that chastise the man that says I cannot escape into a place where I picture myself happy in love, in life, in peace, without a worry in a world.
So, for all of you that searches day in and day out for that place, whether in your mind, or in your life, through art, sport, friendship, or whatever vessel, I pray that your search go well. I pray that you find what you search for, but don't forget to look in all of the places God grants you- even if you don't believe in him, believe that in even the most sordid spots, sometimes lie the brightest gold. And don't forget, sometimes the brightest gold is the heaviest to hold. Maybe you'll find just what you're looking for, and it's not what you expect it to be.
Or maybe, at one in the morning, you'll just get done studying for a math exam, in a town that you barely know, and with your mind wandering around to all the reaches of the world, listening to a song that you love, in my case, a song a friend wrote and was remade, you begin to write, just anything for the pure joy of writing and sharing knowing that probably no one will read this, but if someone does, he'll have to understand, I had no idea of where this was going, but I found some peace in the act; and for me, that's all I need before I go to sleep and wake up to the world that awaits me in the morning.
So, good night, good morning, and hello.
Sketch
P.S-
Mother, I'm wearing bigger shoes.
Maybe they'll fit better soon.
Snakes came after the rain
fell, but I was not afraid.
My first step led me to the floor,
yet your hands taught me to endure
pain, stand on my own, and
leave steps where I go.
You're waiting.
Father, I know you by your voice.
It's warm and soothing, yet course.
Made like an unfinished road.
It's good to know familiar sounds that
take my memories home.
Take my memories home.
You're waiting
and waiting.
My first step led me to the floor
but your voice taught me to endure
pain, stand on my own and
take my memories home.
Waiting.
Walking unfinished roads,
wearing these bigger shoes,
and waiting...
"Wating," by Justin Hancock
I listen to a song my friend Justin Hancock wrote, that a couple of friends of ours remade called "Waiting." I am infatuated with the song. It is soft and subtle, and carries me through a kaleidescope of emotions, as my mind wanders late at night, and I give into
my dreams and of fiction and truth, where the past somehow comes out to light, and my fantasies come to be sometimes the miserable hopes that can either keep me looking forward, or looking down at the ground.To the right is a picture my friend Justin took of Korea. He lives there right now- he's been there for the past few years. I don't know where he is, but all I know is that he teaches English there. I am almost as infatuated with this picture as I am with his music. He is one of my musical icons, as well as a good friend of mine.
I haven't seen him in almost... God, I don't know how many years. I know he came and visited, but I just got out of rehab and was living in a half-way house in Kerrville and couldn't make it to College Station. I miss him so much that sometimes it hurts. Late at night, like it is now, I get reminded how strange it is to move to a new town and start a new life. I became to lose my sensibilities with numbers and political theories and cellular respiration. I begin to flash to times where all I had was a guitar and some rolling papers for my rolling tobacco, and then I flash to now and my stomach gets tight and apprehensive with the coming future. Can my faith handle it? But it's not a question of faith in God with me, it's faith in myself.
But, people with my disposition have it cruel. We, the bohemian type, whom launder our days with vapid thoughts of the "what ifs" and "is it possible" and "should I," worried that she didn't pay attention to me, even though I might've only said a word, plus to her. We, those whom throw ourselves at the mercy at the white water rapids of the world where we take a chance and let our minds run, let our fiction run loose in perils of song, verse, and art, hoping that others will take notice, but especially the important ones- and sometimes, not the important ones because we are scared. Of what? Rejection? Or even more, being disappointed. So we escape again, into our minds, where everything is what we make of it, and everything, at least for a few seconds is okay. The traumas we once faced are no longer our enemies, but just useless pieces of information. Now we are inundated with life and a freedom we have never known, if at least, just for a second.
There is the guitar. The pen. The voice. The stencil. The pad. The piano. The cello. The keyboard and the keyboard(s). There are those with talent, and there are those that find talent within themselves. But, in the end, there are those, that share with me this disposition, that during a week of tiring, blistering solitude, with only the feeble academics of undergraduate studies, put on hold for so many years and once again battled, in this new city, do I violate the constraints of civil society that chastise the man that says I cannot escape into a place where I picture myself happy in love, in life, in peace, without a worry in a world.
So, for all of you that searches day in and day out for that place, whether in your mind, or in your life, through art, sport, friendship, or whatever vessel, I pray that your search go well. I pray that you find what you search for, but don't forget to look in all of the places God grants you- even if you don't believe in him, believe that in even the most sordid spots, sometimes lie the brightest gold. And don't forget, sometimes the brightest gold is the heaviest to hold. Maybe you'll find just what you're looking for, and it's not what you expect it to be.
Or maybe, at one in the morning, you'll just get done studying for a math exam, in a town that you barely know, and with your mind wandering around to all the reaches of the world, listening to a song that you love, in my case, a song a friend wrote and was remade, you begin to write, just anything for the pure joy of writing and sharing knowing that probably no one will read this, but if someone does, he'll have to understand, I had no idea of where this was going, but I found some peace in the act; and for me, that's all I need before I go to sleep and wake up to the world that awaits me in the morning.
So, good night, good morning, and hello.
Sketch
P.S-
Mother, I'm wearing bigger shoes.
Maybe they'll fit better soon.
Snakes came after the rain
fell, but I was not afraid.
My first step led me to the floor,
yet your hands taught me to endure
pain, stand on my own, and
leave steps where I go.
You're waiting.
Father, I know you by your voice.
It's warm and soothing, yet course.
Made like an unfinished road.
It's good to know familiar sounds that
take my memories home.
Take my memories home.
You're waiting
and waiting.
My first step led me to the floor
but your voice taught me to endure
pain, stand on my own and
take my memories home.
Waiting.
Walking unfinished roads,
wearing these bigger shoes,
and waiting...
"Wating," by Justin Hancock
Sunday, September 16, 2007
To All Friends of Bill W. (Especially Those in CA)
I just got back home from a meeting, one that is generally small. In fact, the only people that show up to this particular meeting are me and two other people. Some sundays, we show, and stay thirty minutes just to make sure we'll be there for a newcomer and we'll talk recovery and all. Here's the deal, today, we had two people show up that never have been to this meeting before, so we actually had it. After the meeting was done, me and one of my friends talked about why this meeting never doesn't have people come to it, and he said that at first, it did have a lot of people come to it. And, he was right. It did, at first, have a lot of people come to it. But, people got turned off to the meeting because it was disorganized primarily due to the person who ran it, who ironically enough doesn't go to it anymore.
I will tell you this now, I primarily go to CA meetings- it's just me. While I am an alcoholic, I did more drugs than alcohol in my life time (even though the end of my using career could debate that issue). The sad thing is, in CA, most people do not amass much time, so me, with my 13+ months has reached an echelon that puts me as one of those people in the room that have a responsibility to make sure that that 11th tradition applies to all meetings.
So, when my friend said that that meeting does not attract people, I said the same thing to him, that me and him had that obligation to make it attract to the newcomer. Even more importantly, us as people that have completely the 12 steps, having a spiritual awakening, it is almost our duty to carry God's will out, and be ready to make sure we can reach the most important person in a meeting- the newcomer. It is imperative that we do so, or recovery dies.
The ninth tradition supports this. In our group conscious meetings, we have to prepare ourselves to organize, but not control, the meetings so that when necessary, God's will, and his message, and the solution carried in the Big Book will be openly available to the those ready to receive it.
This was poignantly pointed out to me today at this meeting as one of the two people that showed up for the meeting was a newcomer, as in this was her very first CA meeting. Imagine the implications of no one being there at all. What would she think of CA? What could of possibly happened to her that night? Even if you don't like a meeting, I must remind any addict or alcoholic, after a while, it's not what you get out of a meeting, it's what you bring to it.
In the hearts and minds of every person recovery should be the pain and suffering of the time before their first meeting, or before their first step (their first honest one at least). Upon remembering that, ask yourself, how much are you doing for your AA/CA/CMA/NA etc. community? How many people do you sponsor, how many H&I's do you do, how many meetings do you chair? Yes- I understand that their are families and jobs and so on, and it's important now, more than ever that we are sober, not to neglect them, but I urge you to read page 143, where it reminds us that we must place recovery before all else, for without that, we have no homes and families, no nothing. By placing recovery above all else, we place God above everything. Remember you third and seventh step prayers. Page 77- fit yourself to maximum service to him and your fellows. God. Recovery. Life. If there's no God, there's no recovery. If there's no recovery, there's no life. Don't plan your recovery around your life.
I get frustrated with people who say that they don't have that much time for recovery after they get sober for a while. I hate to remind them that when they were shoving rigs in their arm, sucking on that glass cock, putting lines up their nose, I'm sure they didn't really have much time for anything else. I know for me, in my addiction, my life revolved on how can I plan work, friends, school, all that around my drugs. Now, I find ways so to fit school, friends, family, so I can do a meeting every day, a couple H&I's a week, and sponsor 4 people right now- and for two reasons. One, because I want to. This program saved my life and I genuinely want to pass it along. I had that spiritual awakening and it's an amazing thing. The Sketch of the past is very different than who I am now. Two- I know I have to do this for the rest of my life or this disease will catch up with me. I will die with this disease, I don't have to die from it. I'm sure, all these people with "no time" came find some time that they used to give to drugs, to find at least one hour for a meeting, or an H&I or to talk to a newcomer. Just something to give back, to honor that oath they gave to God in the third and seventh step.
I know, I probably sound like pretentious 23 year old that amounted some sobriety, and you might be right. I might need to pray and drop some of my ego. I just got really frustrated today. I saw that woman, who by the way, to make it even more tragic, brought her kids to the meeting because she had nowhere else to leave them, come to the meeting, and I got scared. I got scared thinking about the meetings out there that are scheduled and no one goes to. And the newcomer shows up, and he's fucked. Fucked. I remember how hard it was for me. I didn't get this program the first time around. I didn't get it the second time around. It took years and pain and suffering and hurt and trauma just like it did for many others in this program. So, maybe my ego is getting into this, but if I can just maybe make one person in this program just a little bit more aware of the newcomer, than I feel... better.
But, it's not about words. It's about action. This is a program of action. It's about doing something. Like Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "In the end, we will not remember the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." So suit up and show up, and act. Sometimes just being there is all it takes. That's all it took for this woman for her to at least not use for one hour.
And one more quote by MLK I like, I'm going to put here because I find it somewhat apropos: "Faith is about taking the first step, even if you don't see the whole staircase."
I will tell you this now, I primarily go to CA meetings- it's just me. While I am an alcoholic, I did more drugs than alcohol in my life time (even though the end of my using career could debate that issue). The sad thing is, in CA, most people do not amass much time, so me, with my 13+ months has reached an echelon that puts me as one of those people in the room that have a responsibility to make sure that that 11th tradition applies to all meetings.
So, when my friend said that that meeting does not attract people, I said the same thing to him, that me and him had that obligation to make it attract to the newcomer. Even more importantly, us as people that have completely the 12 steps, having a spiritual awakening, it is almost our duty to carry God's will out, and be ready to make sure we can reach the most important person in a meeting- the newcomer. It is imperative that we do so, or recovery dies.
The ninth tradition supports this. In our group conscious meetings, we have to prepare ourselves to organize, but not control, the meetings so that when necessary, God's will, and his message, and the solution carried in the Big Book will be openly available to the those ready to receive it.
This was poignantly pointed out to me today at this meeting as one of the two people that showed up for the meeting was a newcomer, as in this was her very first CA meeting. Imagine the implications of no one being there at all. What would she think of CA? What could of possibly happened to her that night? Even if you don't like a meeting, I must remind any addict or alcoholic, after a while, it's not what you get out of a meeting, it's what you bring to it.
In the hearts and minds of every person recovery should be the pain and suffering of the time before their first meeting, or before their first step (their first honest one at least). Upon remembering that, ask yourself, how much are you doing for your AA/CA/CMA/NA etc. community? How many people do you sponsor, how many H&I's do you do, how many meetings do you chair? Yes- I understand that their are families and jobs and so on, and it's important now, more than ever that we are sober, not to neglect them, but I urge you to read page 143, where it reminds us that we must place recovery before all else, for without that, we have no homes and families, no nothing. By placing recovery above all else, we place God above everything. Remember you third and seventh step prayers. Page 77- fit yourself to maximum service to him and your fellows. God. Recovery. Life. If there's no God, there's no recovery. If there's no recovery, there's no life. Don't plan your recovery around your life.
I get frustrated with people who say that they don't have that much time for recovery after they get sober for a while. I hate to remind them that when they were shoving rigs in their arm, sucking on that glass cock, putting lines up their nose, I'm sure they didn't really have much time for anything else. I know for me, in my addiction, my life revolved on how can I plan work, friends, school, all that around my drugs. Now, I find ways so to fit school, friends, family, so I can do a meeting every day, a couple H&I's a week, and sponsor 4 people right now- and for two reasons. One, because I want to. This program saved my life and I genuinely want to pass it along. I had that spiritual awakening and it's an amazing thing. The Sketch of the past is very different than who I am now. Two- I know I have to do this for the rest of my life or this disease will catch up with me. I will die with this disease, I don't have to die from it. I'm sure, all these people with "no time" came find some time that they used to give to drugs, to find at least one hour for a meeting, or an H&I or to talk to a newcomer. Just something to give back, to honor that oath they gave to God in the third and seventh step.
I know, I probably sound like pretentious 23 year old that amounted some sobriety, and you might be right. I might need to pray and drop some of my ego. I just got really frustrated today. I saw that woman, who by the way, to make it even more tragic, brought her kids to the meeting because she had nowhere else to leave them, come to the meeting, and I got scared. I got scared thinking about the meetings out there that are scheduled and no one goes to. And the newcomer shows up, and he's fucked. Fucked. I remember how hard it was for me. I didn't get this program the first time around. I didn't get it the second time around. It took years and pain and suffering and hurt and trauma just like it did for many others in this program. So, maybe my ego is getting into this, but if I can just maybe make one person in this program just a little bit more aware of the newcomer, than I feel... better.
But, it's not about words. It's about action. This is a program of action. It's about doing something. Like Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "In the end, we will not remember the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." So suit up and show up, and act. Sometimes just being there is all it takes. That's all it took for this woman for her to at least not use for one hour.
And one more quote by MLK I like, I'm going to put here because I find it somewhat apropos: "Faith is about taking the first step, even if you don't see the whole staircase."
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Why I Feel Like Sometimes I'm Getting Old
Between arguments I have with my friends after meetings as to where we should go to eat (either the Village Inn or Jim's, which is arguably the same, just we can smoke at Jim's), or which cereal is better (Frosted Mini- Wheats vs. Cinnamon Toast Crunch) I sit in these classes at school that I have to take because it's been five years since I entered college and I'm transferring to UTSA from out of state. So, I'm surrounded by freshman in three freshman classes I take (I do have a coup d'gra (sp?), in a junior level, which is where I'm classified, poli sci class) right now, and it's a bit disconcerting. They're all so young and healthy looking. I need to shave.
So I'm sitting in my bio class, and this cute little girl sits down next to me, and we start about the class, which, being bio, I have no idea about. Biology is like speaking a different language to me. You could speak in German to me, and I would respond, "Is that a bio thing? Should I right that down? Spell that for me, please." And so, this girl and I start talking, and I mention how I haven't taken a bio class since my freshman year of high school, which just to clarify why this story scared me, was in 1998. While I'm still young at 23, what happened next made me want to cry. So, I tell this girl I haven't been in a bio class since my freshman year of high school, she says, yeah, I took it in high school too, thank God it wasn't that long ago, though, right? That
"right?" at the end just wasn't "right." That's when I realized she thought I was her age. That's when I looked at her- "Well, not really. I took this course in '98." "Christ!" she says. (Seriously, I'm not joking.) This girl just graduated high school. So I did the math. That means she entered high school in 2003. I graduated in 2002. So, when I graduated high school, she still had one more year to go before she even entered high school. Which means, furthermore, that when I was a freshman in high school, she was in fourth grade. And then my mind started regressing some more. The freshman in high school now, they were born in 1993! 1993! Nineteen-motherfucking-three (pardon my biology)! In 1993, I was in fourth grade. It's all so sad.
Then, I looked around the room, and I didn't know how to react. Sitting upon at least 85% percent of the students' desks were laptops. I remember when I was in college that if you pulled laptop, which was not necessarily a rarity, but at least was combating with desktops (and wireless was unheard of) out in class, your prof would tell you to put it away. Now, I see everyone with a laptop out. Of course, only half of the are actually taking notes. The rest are on myspace or some other waste of time like that... why do I feel an irony saying that? Anyway, as I sit here and take notes by hand, I think about my laptop back home, the one I'm typing on now which I've owned for about 2 weeks. This thing scares me. I remember the computer I had growing up. I shared it with my father, and it about the time to make a sandwich and eat half of it to load up, and man, I thought it was fast. 33 mhz, baby! And a modem, 55 kilohertz. Now, those speeds are jokes. I bet just reading those numbers, you laughed a little to yourself.
Now, here's the thing that really kills me. Right now, as we speak, my friend Leah is in labor. I've know Leah since I was ten years old, and I've know her husband since I was nine. I knew them and was friends with them before they were friends with each other. I lived with Leah (she let me sleep on her couch for a few months while I was homeless, right when she started hanging out and dating Shaun, interestingly enough) even, and I was a groom's man in their wedding. They mean a lot to me, and I've known them for most of my life- they are like family, and I can remember us being young. I still remember Shaun and me playing basketball my driveway on my house on Celinda Cr., or playing Doom on his computer. I still remember making Leah laugh in our fifth grade reading class with my stupid little jokes. Now, they're about to be parents with college degrees and full time, real life jobs.
That, people, is something amazing. I am at that stage. I am at that stage where I am beyond the teenage "what does it all mean, who am I?" searching of the soul, questioning all the intrinsic things. Now, I wonder "who am I becoming? Who do I want to become, and who with?" and somewhat importantly, "did I live the days of my youth well?" I start looking at the past with less of a glory eyed nostalgia, and more like a father within myself, smiling gracefully when I pinpoint certain moments and now I can say, "there, right there, that's something that made me who I am." And with a tacit certainty, I quit looking back at the days of my youth, but I take them with me now and I scan for pieces of answers to the questions that come as I grow older.
I don't know. I just feel happy for Shaun and Leah. My prayers go to them. For now, I'm out. I'm going to play my guitar and lament that I was one question away from making an "a" on my biology exam.
So I'm sitting in my bio class, and this cute little girl sits down next to me, and we start about the class, which, being bio, I have no idea about. Biology is like speaking a different language to me. You could speak in German to me, and I would respond, "Is that a bio thing? Should I right that down? Spell that for me, please." And so, this girl and I start talking, and I mention how I haven't taken a bio class since my freshman year of high school, which just to clarify why this story scared me, was in 1998. While I'm still young at 23, what happened next made me want to cry. So, I tell this girl I haven't been in a bio class since my freshman year of high school, she says, yeah, I took it in high school too, thank God it wasn't that long ago, though, right? That
"right?" at the end just wasn't "right." That's when I realized she thought I was her age. That's when I looked at her- "Well, not really. I took this course in '98." "Christ!" she says. (Seriously, I'm not joking.) This girl just graduated high school. So I did the math. That means she entered high school in 2003. I graduated in 2002. So, when I graduated high school, she still had one more year to go before she even entered high school. Which means, furthermore, that when I was a freshman in high school, she was in fourth grade. And then my mind started regressing some more. The freshman in high school now, they were born in 1993! 1993! Nineteen-motherfucking-three (pardon my biology)! In 1993, I was in fourth grade. It's all so sad.
Then, I looked around the room, and I didn't know how to react. Sitting upon at least 85% percent of the students' desks were laptops. I remember when I was in college that if you pulled laptop, which was not necessarily a rarity, but at least was combating with desktops (and wireless was unheard of) out in class, your prof would tell you to put it away. Now, I see everyone with a laptop out. Of course, only half of the are actually taking notes. The rest are on myspace or some other waste of time like that... why do I feel an irony saying that? Anyway, as I sit here and take notes by hand, I think about my laptop back home, the one I'm typing on now which I've owned for about 2 weeks. This thing scares me. I remember the computer I had growing up. I shared it with my father, and it about the time to make a sandwich and eat half of it to load up, and man, I thought it was fast. 33 mhz, baby! And a modem, 55 kilohertz. Now, those speeds are jokes. I bet just reading those numbers, you laughed a little to yourself.
Now, here's the thing that really kills me. Right now, as we speak, my friend Leah is in labor. I've know Leah since I was ten years old, and I've know her husband since I was nine. I knew them and was friends with them before they were friends with each other. I lived with Leah (she let me sleep on her couch for a few months while I was homeless, right when she started hanging out and dating Shaun, interestingly enough) even, and I was a groom's man in their wedding. They mean a lot to me, and I've known them for most of my life- they are like family, and I can remember us being young. I still remember Shaun and me playing basketball my driveway on my house on Celinda Cr., or playing Doom on his computer. I still remember making Leah laugh in our fifth grade reading class with my stupid little jokes. Now, they're about to be parents with college degrees and full time, real life jobs.
That, people, is something amazing. I am at that stage. I am at that stage where I am beyond the teenage "what does it all mean, who am I?" searching of the soul, questioning all the intrinsic things. Now, I wonder "who am I becoming? Who do I want to become, and who with?" and somewhat importantly, "did I live the days of my youth well?" I start looking at the past with less of a glory eyed nostalgia, and more like a father within myself, smiling gracefully when I pinpoint certain moments and now I can say, "there, right there, that's something that made me who I am." And with a tacit certainty, I quit looking back at the days of my youth, but I take them with me now and I scan for pieces of answers to the questions that come as I grow older.
I don't know. I just feel happy for Shaun and Leah. My prayers go to them. For now, I'm out. I'm going to play my guitar and lament that I was one question away from making an "a" on my biology exam.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Ghost
This storm is so far beyond anything call the norm- enough to say I've never encountered such beautiful pain dressed in mother nature's embrace of her son's tears. And if I've been here before it's been to cover my eyes to compromise that the sun comes after the night and I can't take that much light and I'm drowning in rain water but I still lover her daughter that I kiss her neck, but I sleep with the rest. And I'm a ghost in this storm, as the shower goes through me, it washes me clean so I can commit to my next deed.
I'm a kid in a toy store without all the toys, and I scream and I shout to be louder than all the noise, but I whisper like a lion, like a giant, who wishes he could be triumphant but knows that every time he holds all that he loves, he breaks their necks and they curse his name from heaven up above. But from Michigan to Texas I got the same message, I'm a ghost in the storm, what you say goes throu
gh me, I can't conform, even if I know I'm wrong.
I used to say I was a victim, now I say I have a sickness, but if you test me, I'll show you how much patience I have left in me. I'm tired of hurting all the people around me, but as long as I remain a ghost, my tears mean the most to those that know I mean to show love but instead I wash away with the rain and down into the drain of forgotten memories.
I'm a kid in a toy store without all the toys, and I scream and I shout to be louder than all the noise, but I whisper like a lion, like a giant, who wishes he could be triumphant but knows that every time he holds all that he loves, he breaks their necks and they curse his name from heaven up above. But from Michigan to Texas I got the same message, I'm a ghost in the storm, what you say goes throu
gh me, I can't conform, even if I know I'm wrong.I used to say I was a victim, now I say I have a sickness, but if you test me, I'll show you how much patience I have left in me. I'm tired of hurting all the people around me, but as long as I remain a ghost, my tears mean the most to those that know I mean to show love but instead I wash away with the rain and down into the drain of forgotten memories.
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