Category Archives: AA

Saturday Night Live

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It recently was the Saturday Night Speaker meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. In a meeting on Friday, someone said that the last time this guy spoke, he brought eleven pages of material and only got to two, so they were looking forward to the other nine. This was clearly someone of my species.

 
The speaker began after the usual fare.

 
There was only one Speedo joke. For those unfamiliar with Alcoholics Anonymous, I’ll let you guess if that’s a running gag with the fellowship or not. No mercy.

 
Near the end, he said something that really resonated with me. It was really near the end. Maybe that’s bad. Maybe I shouldn’t let him know how long it took for something he said to really stick.

 
“I’ve given up all hope for a better past.”

 
Wow.

 
Or…

 
Ouch.

 
The things I’ve done will never stop being real. Even, or perhaps especially, the things I don’t remember, because the period of time that’s ECT damaged was filled with heavy hurts and grief. I have, as a drunk, as a suicidal ball of depression and crazy, and simply as a person(three separate categories and three identical categories) done terrible things. I have trashed every living situation I’ve been in. I have lived in my car rather than resolve differences with people that love me. I have neglected animals. I have abused people I’ve been in relationships with. I have stolen. I have lied. I have attempted suicide.

 
I have made people worry about me. I have made people give up on me.

 
And still I kept drinking.

 
But that quote: “I’ve given up all hope for a better past.”

 
It’s very First Step. Life was unmanageable then. I was an active alcoholic.

 
And there’s hope for a better future.

 
I haven’t given up on that.

Snotmanglers? Why not?

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There’s a little secret to writing- it’s spewing crap so the screen isn’t empty. It’s not a secret to writing well, but it gets something on the page, which is often just enough motivation to continue.

And that, my friends, will be what we talk about tonight. Continuing. In spite of boredom, or frustration, or a goddamn broken foot. Continuing, when you’re in the fog and it seems endless.

I had a meeting with my sponsor last night and she expressed some worry. We went through a book she had and determined that I’m showing 6 out of 9 relapse warning signs.

Then I introduced her to Gorski, who she had never heard of, and we found that there’s 7 phases of relapse warning signs before one even starts missing meetings!

Which I guess I was doing. I got a tad complacent after my 90 in 90.

I’ll be honest. I’m getting a bit bored with the program.

My psychiatrist said that being bored was absolutely a good sign, because depressed people don’t get bored. They just lie around being depressed. With a broken foot and being off work, who wouldn’t be a little bit bored? It’s great news!

But that was boredom in GENERAL, not boredom with RECOVERY.

People just say the same thing over and over.
It’s just recitations from the Big Book.
The readings take forever.
Like 30% of everyone’s share is them saying how grateful they are.

God, I’m a whiny little brat.

It never fails that I feel better leaving a meeting than I did walking in. There’s not many things that can make that claim. Not even making art- that sometimes frustrates the living snotmanglers out of me and throws off a whole day.

I hate who I was as an alcoholic. Granted, I hated myself since I was sentient. The key is that that is improving as I get more sober time under my belt, and the quality of person that I am improves directly with the application of the steps. Where do I learn more about applying the steps? Those stinkin’ meetings.

I need to spend time associating with people and hearing their stories. I need to spend time telling mine. Otherwise I get jammed too damn far in my own head and I start forgetting that I’m not alone.

So you know what?

I think I’ll continue coming back.

On the Second Step

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My sponsor asked me to write a paragraph or two about my higher power.

When I close my eyes in the darkness and the silence, nothing comes to me. There is no still small voice. When I meditate, my mind wanders away like a neurotic puppy, and I bring it back, but I find no peace or joy in the activity. When I try to pray, there is no presence. When I grieve, there is no comfort.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.

That’s Isaiah 55:8. It’s the verse that I most relate to.

So much spiritual abuse has been heaped on me. So much pain in the name of God. Manipulating, forcing, cajoling. Writing pages of the bible until my handwriting improved and I developed mild carpal tunnel. Not believing in mental illness, not getting help, watching me retreat further and further into myself until I was a shell and then trying to break me down with an exorcism. I regret not being stronger but more I regret needing to be strong. Needing to be protected from those that were only acting out of love, only doing what they knew and thought was best.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.

No, I don’t find God like that.

But when I am making something, something fanciful takes over me.

I see God in the way an edge gets shaded just right,

or a piece of sheet metal bends precisely how it needed to,

or the twirl of a burr being removed,

or a cut falling away.

My higher power is not passive. I must worship at the alter of calluses and minor burns.

I must seek out the Muse. She is not a god of prayerful prone postures. She delights in mad midnight marches of over-caffeinated whimsy.

And with that, I close my prayer.