When Erin and I were still engaged, we did the two-day marriage course that the Catholic Church makes you take before you can get married (Pre-Cana). We got this priceless advice early on: “Never go to bed angry with each other.”
We’ve worked hard in 13 years of marriage to follow that advice. When we argue, as any married couple does, we always try to work out our differences and make up before going to bed.
It has worked pretty well, though most still-madly-in-love couples will still tell you the angry to bed, angry to rise part still happens.
We all get self righteous and even a little pissed at the inconvenience of being disagreed with. It’s part of being human.
Today my younger brother Brian married the love of his life, Sharane. During a brief but beautiful ceremony, the man who officiated over the vows gave that same advice we heard all those years ago:
“Never go to bed angry.”
It’s not always easy advice to follow. But trying to follow it has served me and Erin well.
I find myself worried this morning that, by opening up in this blog, I’ve lost another dear friend.
That’s the challenge with expressing one’s feelings publicly: Even when you think you’re taking care to protect one’s privacy, leaving out names and such, you find a way to hurt someone anyway.
Writing this blog has been a lifesaver most days. A lot of people have told me it helps them.
But sometimes I curse the day I started this thing.
For now I just have to walk away and hope time heals another wound.
When a person relapses back into addictive behavior, it seems like the end of the world. Everything they’ve worked for is in ashes, and they embrace their old demon with reckless abandon.
A lot of people have a hard time seeing compulsive binge eating as an addiction on par with alcohol and heroin. But it’s just as effective at destroying a man’s life and health as those other things. And since you still need to eat to survive, there’s a lot of fear around this type of relapse, because it seems to suck us in deeper more quickly.
Anyway, this post isn’t meant to convince the skeptics. It’s directed specifically at those who have relapsed to their addictions, whatever the substance. It’s the same message to be had in today’s mood music, from the Sixx A.M. “Heroin Diaries” soundtrack:
You know that accidents can happen
It’s OK, we all fall off the wagon sometimes
It’s not your whole life
It’s only one day
You haven’t thrown everything away.
The best thing to do is accept the relapse and start over. But when the feeling of failure overwhelms you, it’s easier said than done. The point was brought home to me the other day when talking to my friend who relapsed.
He noted that this is his third relapse, and that he wasn’t sure if he could return to the halls of Overeater’s Anonymous. He correctly noted that there are some people in the program who look at relapse cases as pariahs. Most people will embrace you and try to help you regain your footing. But the ones who look at you like an exploded zit can be overwhelming and keep you from going back.
Shame takes on a lot of insidious forms for the relapsed soul.
Talking to this fellow makes me realize just how lucky I was this time. I came to the brink and started getting sloppy. But I pulled myself back before falling off the cliff and going on a binge. A lot of good people aren’t so fortunate.
I really feel for my friend. He’s stuck down the hole and doesn’t know if he can ever find his way back out. He says he’s knee deep in the food and won’t leave his house because he’s putting on weight so fast that he doesn’t want to be seen.
That is one of the shittiest things about compulsive binge-eating: You can’t hide it because your behavior is obvious in the fast weight gain. This disease hangs off our belly like a sack of shit. And when it keeps you from leaving your house, you are in a very bad place. I know, because I spent a lot of years avoiding people because I didn’t want them to see the mess I’d become.
Hell, in my journey to a near-relapse, I didn’t gain weight but still felt bloated and didn’t want to be around people.
In the week since I realized how far to the edge I’d come, I’ve tightened the bolts on my program considerably. I’m starting to feel better, and I’m close to having a new OA sponsor. Like I said, I was lucky this time.
But I feel a little anger toward some of the people in this program for making my friend feel so ashamed. We’re supposed to help each other up when someone falls, not treat this like some powder puff popularity club where the folks with long term recovery are rock starts and the fallen are zeroes.
I shouldn’t feel the anger, though, because that kind of behavior is just another part of this disease. None of us were playing with a full deck to begin with, and even in recovery, it can be hard not to be an asshole.
But as I told my friend: “Fuck them. It’s not about what they think. It’s about what you do to get better.”
Like any human being, I have days where my attitude sucks and I want to punch someone in the teeth. I never really would, but I can see how easy it is to cross the line.
Today is one of those days. It’s been a tough week, though it has been highlighted by some beautiful moments. When a week is rough, Thursdays are usually the day lava starts pouring from my eyes and ears.
That’s when I turn to some heavy, intense rock to squeeze out the anger. So take my advice: Before you smash the asshole next to you in the head with a cafeteria tray, play these songs. You’ll feel better afterward.
If you don’t, go take a nap.
Let’s start with Pull Trouble From The Fire. I’m a bit biased in favor of this band because I’ve known a couple of its members for many years. I care about them deeply, in fact. When I heard of their band, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But ever since their songs became available, I can’t stop playing ’em. What’s not to like about lyrics that involve planting a seed up an insect’s ass and watching a tree sprout from its back? This isn’t that song, but it’s a good anger-squeezing song and a nicely-done video from Bill Fennell:
This soundtrack would not be complete without something from Pantera, a band I always turn to when I’m good and pissed off — which seems to be a lot lately. I listen to Dimebag’s guitar shredding and mourn over the music we’ve been denied since his murder in 2004.
Henry Rollins speaks my language, and this is one of my favorite examples of that:
http://youtu.be/louQ7s1ZkGU
Let’s end with another local band, The 360s. I have friends in this band as well, especially singer-guitarist Audrey Clark. She has told me this blog is helpful to her. I’m glad, because her music is certainly helpful to me.
Today is Duncan’s 8th birthday, and we’re all very proud of him. In honor of this special day, I share with you some of my favorite Duncanisms. Let’s begin with his retelling of the morning he was born:
Mood music:
What happened:
Erin’s labor pains came on violently and we rushed to the car. I sped out of the driveway and slammed the pedal to the floor as we approached the train tracks. As we went over the train tracks, the water broke. At the hospital, I accidentally slammed Erin’s hand in the car door.
How Duncan tells it:
“When I was being born, you drove over the train tracks and mom cut her finger from breaking her glass of water.”
Now for the random stuff I hear from my precious boy on a daily basis:
–Me: “You’re a good kid, Duncan. I’m proud of you.” Duncan’s response: *rolls eyes* “Go away, Dad. You’re spoiling my fun.”
–Casually uttered from the mouth of Duncan as he walks by, strumming his severely out-of-tune guitar: “Nobody puts Baby on the shelf…”
–Duncan, puzzled to learn that Darth Vader killed the Emperor in “Return of the Jedi”: “Where does he get off killing his own boss?”
–Duncan, catching me with my shirt off: “Really, Dad. Do you have to be such an ape?”
–Duncan, upon learning he’ll be an attendence monitor in class: “Wow, that’s great! And I don’t even know what an attendence monitor is.”
–Duncan pounced on me, pounded his elbow into my spine and kissed my bald head, telling me he just gave me a “love ambush.”
Duncan and his good friend Gabby
–Duncan, watching a rack of CDs fall on a girl in the bookstore (the kid was freaked out): “I hope those CDs don’t get a scratch in them.”
–I threaten to smack Duncan in the butt (I’d never follow through). His response: “You don’t want to. You don’t know where this butt’s been.”
–Discovered the password Duncan uses for his online “Poptropica” game is “Farts of Doom.”
–Duncan, in full tattle mode: “Sean threatened to punch me out if I talk during the car ride. Now go punish him.”
–“You’re a stupid old shoe everyone steps on cause it’s ugly.” — Duncan’s attempted crusher on his dad (He was angry because I got Sean some gum and he was feeling left out. In hindsight, I can’t say I blame him.)
–“Hanging out with you is challenging.” Duncan, after I wrestled him to the floor in a good-natured game of rough housing.
—Duncan, twirling his toy lightsaber: “You can call me Jedi Bob.” Sean: “I’d rather call you an idiot.”
–Duncan on Santa: “If you don’t believe you don’t receive.”
–Duncanism of the day: If the inside of my head was empty, I’d be light-headed.
At bedtime, I read Duncan a book about how to deal with your feelings when you’re angry. One page notes that it’s OK to get angry with God for life’s unfair twists, as long as you keep praying and get over the need to blame Him for everything.
Duncan says something stunningly insightful for a 7-year-old. Or, perhaps, he’s just proving again that kids have a clearer picture of the world than we grown-ups have:
“Dad, I don’t see how people could get mad at God,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because while we’re all busy getting upset down here, we have no idea what God is doing up there.”
That’s probably the best way I’ve ever heard someone explain that God has a plan and we have no idea why things happen the way they do.
But Duncan is pretty certain about one thing God’s not doing up there:
“I know this much,” he says. “God’s not picking his nose, because he doesn’t like that.”
In yet another sign that I’m not playing with a full deck, I realized this morning that I miss the fighting between my best friend and his father.
Mood music:
It’s another stray memory that came to the surface as I went to the wake and funeral for Al Marley. Al and Sean used to have some blistering arguments at the dining room table over religion and politics, appearances — you name it.
At the funeral this morning Father Dick mentioned how he used to have a lot of conversations about faith with Al. One of those talks was about Sean’s tendency to dye his hair multiple colors. Al was conservative and dressed that way. Sean was the opposite. Father Dick said it took a few conversations to convince Al that Sean’s hair dye was no big deal.
Erin suggested I have a sick sense of humor — which I do — because it takes a sick person to enjoy a situation where two people are erupting into anger.
But here’s the thing: To me, it was always a lovable anger, the kind you might identify with friends and couples who bicker constantly but hug and smooch afterward.
Al and Sean used to have a battle of wits. Did they often get angry at each other? Absolutely. But their love and respect for each other was always there on the surface.
One afternoon during the 1988 presidential election season, Al looked at me with those intense, sparkling eyes of his, took a drag on one of the many cigarettes he’d smoke in one sitting, and warned that Michael Dukakis would be as disastrous a president as Jimmy Carter.
“Carter didn’t do what he had to do during the hostage crisis,” Al said. “He just sat there in the Rose Garden wringing his hands.” Al rubbed his own hands together for emphasis.
“That’s total bullshit,” Sean bellowed from the other side of the table. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. But the next hour they were hugging, laughing and bantering about something else. They always made up.
The arguing was always over meaty subjects. Religion was another one they would get into intense debate about. Al was a traditional Roman Catholic, but Sean liked to challenge all the traditional beliefs. He just loved to pick an argument over the deep stuff.
Looking back, I think that sitting there watching the arguments made me smarter. It definitely inspired me to do a lot of research and challenge conventional wisdom. Watching two sharp guys go at it is a good educational experience. It’s one of the many gifts those guys gave me.
I’ll bet they’re going at it right now, and loving every minute of it.
At the wake for Al Marley yesterday, Father Richard C. Messina gave a stirring description of what he thinks the afterlife might look like.
Mood music:
http://youtu.be/ZADcJdFY-0w
He described how people get excited when a baby is on the way.
“The baby will be here soon!” friends and family will say. Then the baby arrives and the aunts, uncles, grandparents and family friends come to meet the little tyke. It’s the beginning of life.
That, Father Dick said, is what it must be like in Heaven. Everyone who went before you is up there saying, “Al is almost here! We’ll see him soon.” Then you die, and everyone up there excitedly comes to greet you.
“I have no doubt Sean was there to grab him by the arm and pull him to the other side,” Father Dick said.
I know he’s right. In the room in the funeral home where they show a slideshow of the deceased’s life, there were some pictures of Sean I hadn’t seen in a long time: Sean, with a jet-black mohawk, cutting his father’s hair, wedding photos, family trips to the beach in the 1970s and 1980s.
Buried in the slide deck was another picture I hadn’t seen in a long time. It’s my brother Michael and Al, sitting on a log. They appear to be doing something with a fishing line. Both have big smiles on their faces.
It’s been an emotional few days. I came to the edge of a relapse. A father figure died. Then there was the 9-11 anniversary. This stuff can burn a person down to nothing. But I don’t burn like I used to.
Mood music:
It’s funny how people react not only to their own adversity, but that of others. Some people become incapacitated with grief when a pet dies and some of us want to say, “Fuck, man. It’s a pet. Get over it and stop crying in front of everyone.” But that’s just us judging someone without all the facts.
When I come up against difficult things, I write about it. One now-former reader lamented that my blog is “soooo depressing” that she can’t read it anymore. That suits me fine, because she was the type that had all the answers and told you how you should live. She was an expert in everything, but she never really understood the purpose of this blog, which is to stare the horrors of life in the face, describe it honestly and deal with it. Life is full of depressing things, but when you can face those things head on, there’s a ton of joy and beauty on the other side. That’s my experience, so I try to share it without telling you what to do.
And that’s what this post is about. Dealing with adversity and learning to get over it.
Yeah, I came close to a relapse last week. I did what every addict does — I reached a point in my recovery where I got so comfortable and felt so in control that I started getting sloppy. It’s funny how this happens, because when we feel in control it usually means things are falling apart behind the scenes. In my case, my father having three strokes tired me out enough that I started forgetting to do the things a person in recovery is supposed to do.
I went to a 12-Step Big Book study last night and the chapter of the night was perfect for me. It was about people who relapse because they think they have their addiction licked. They have that one weak moment that sends them back down to hell.
Going to a meeting the night that chapter was on the table was a classic case of God trying to tell me something. That something goes like this: Life is full of the good and bad. Deal with it and get over it. And, above all, don’t binge over it.
I write this stuff down and share it because we all have moments where we need that kick in the ass. My ass stings pretty good right now, but I’m feeling very grateful for it.
When you become paralyzed by the hole in your soul, the thought of dealing with it is terrifying. But when you finally take that next step, it’s one of the best, natural highs out there.
Last week I started to deal with things. I told my wife about my sloppiness and decided to declare myself in breach of abstinence and sobriety. I decided to tear it down and start over.
Yesterday I left my sponsor a message telling him I was sorry for being such a lousy sponsee. Now we’ll see if he wants to stick with me or if I need to find someone else. At least I took that step.
This evening I’m going to go to the wake for a man I looked up to, and it will be with a sense of celebration, not sadness. He lived his life as we all should: To the full. He earned a ticket straight to Heaven, and that makes me happy. I’ll admit I’m a bit nervous about seeing his wife and daughter for the first time in many years. They haven’t been happy with me in that time and tonight probably won’t change things. I don’t want to be an uncomfortable presence. I’ll just do the best I can.
I have all the coffee I need and I packed three abstinent meals for the day. I guess you could say my pistol is fully loaded and I’m ready for what comes next.
I have a busy work day, and I couldn’t be happier about that. I do, after all, love what I do.
I have to deal with my feelings about ending the estrangement with my mother. This week, I’m going to talk to Erin and carve out an action plan.
If you see me twitching and talking to myself, don’t worry. I’m dealing with life and getting over things I can’t control or undo.
