This depresses the hell out of me. Like millions of other latch-key kids in the 70s, I would watch him on The Partridge Family on TV after school. He was never able to get a handle on the drinking, and it killed him. Eventually, it does, either by some crazy drunken accident or escapade or, in his case, multiple organ failure. Sobering is hard for a drunk. I imagine it's even more difficult when you're famous and being hounded at every turn by the eternal gossip machine. I can't imagine what it must have been like for him, struggling with this his entire life, in and out of rehab over the years, being dogged by coverage like this, and this, and this. The price of fame, blah, blah, etcetera and etcetera. But it's still really depressing. RIP David.
"This morning I woke up with this feeling I didn't know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself I'd hide it to myself and never talk about it..."
Someone emailed to congratulate me on 8 months, but also mentioned that I should perhaps give thought to what this blog is doing to my "personal brand." Ironic, since one of the more esoteric of my many job titles over the years was "Brand Manager," which mostly entailed screaming at our ad agency and telling people they had to move our company logo .0002 microns higher on that 3-fold brochure. Worst job I ever had, and that includes retail.
Anyway, I'm not entirely sure what "personal brand" I've been projecting to the world all these years. Would that be the "Getting drunk every day on my lunch hour" Brand? Or the "Funny, likable guy who goes home from work seething every night" Brand? How about the "Has three drinks too many at the holiday party and calls his boss an insufferable prick" Brand? Or maybe the "Jonesing for his next drink every morning, with DTs and shaky hands" Brand? Look, I sincerely appreciate the concern. I get that the stuff I post here might make some people (myself included) uncomfortable, or even angry. But I'm no longer in the business of projecting some idealized version of myself to the world. There's just no percentage in it for me, and I'm okay with the embarrassed silence or outrage that may ensue. If it makes y'all feel better, consider this my "personal rebranding."
I walked away from polite society a few years ago. I'd been working in Washington, DC for some 30 years and had worked my long and arduous way up to the wasteland of middle management when a conveniently-timed company reorganization came along. There were opportunities to reapply for positions in the new hierarchy, but also a rather generous severance package for those who opted to move on or simply didn't make the cut. I'd been in the trenches for a long time at that point, had gotten tired of all that and, seeing the writing on my cubicle wall, did what any normal, responsible person does in these situations: I said, Fuck y'all and moved to the beach. Since then, I've actually been to the beach once or twice, despite my tendency to burn. I kicked around for a couple of years pretending to be an "artist," which for me meant working out of my garage and going to the occasional gallery opening. I liked being an artist, because there were lots of opportunities to guzzle free box-wine from small, plastic glasses. And I made some nice things along the way, which my friends bought. But I soon learned that having no fixed schedule and no place to be on a regular basis is not a terribly healthy thing for drunks. At least not for this drunk. It turns out I'm someone who needs a job, and not especially for the paycheck.
Which brings me to where I am today. If you had told me, back when I still had the white-collar desk job that I would be doing the type of work I'm doing now, I would have laughed in your face. (And if I told you the hourly rate I make now, compared to when I had that white-collar desk job, you might be tempted to laugh in my face, for which you would be instantly forgiven.) I work with elderly clients, providing care and assistance in their homes. It pays slightly more than nothing, but I’m fortunate to be at a point in life when some of my ships are coming in and I have now multiple dribbles of income and some meager resources to call upon in a pinch.
You might think, Dear Reader, that someone as crabby as I would recoil at the thought of helping others to the toilet, but I've found this isn't the case. I like my clients, especially the crabby ones (ahem), and the work itself actually sets a counter-balance to my own crabby nature; it suits me, and no one is more surprised than I am. It isn’t glamorous — far from it — but neither is it ever boring. No day is ever the same as the day before, and yet there comes a sense of normal routine. My schedule is largely my own, while still requiring that I show up sober and on time. There are challenges of course, but these do not exhaust or deplete me the way my “real career” often did.
Mostly, it pulls me out of my own crabby self, and and allows me to see beyond my own anxieties and angst. It forces upon me a sense of compassion, and allows me to feel helpful to others in ways that pushing papers never did. I mention all this, because I've been thinking about those years in DC. Through the magic of Facebook I'm still in touch with most of my former colleagues, who number in the hundreds, spread across the nation. I watch their progress, track their comings and goings, their accomplishments. When I see that one of the regions are coming together for a conference or planning meeting, it always makes me smile. I remember how much fun it was to see everyone, to catch up, and to plan strategies for this or that new initiative we were launching. And if I don't often miss my former life, I must admit, I do sometimes grow wistful at those moments. I miss being a part of it. During those years, I had the privilege of working with the very best and brightest in their fields. I learned a great deal from them, and was a better person for the time we spent together. I have tremendous respect and admiration for them, all of them, and I like to think that feeling is mutual. And yet... and yet... there's this nagging little voice in my head that says, "They weren't fooled, y'know. They all knew you were a drunk who was just phoning it in all those years. If they still think of you at all, it's probably to snicker about how far you've fallen." That is one wicked little voice, let me just say. It's what one of my favorite former mentors refers to as my "inner critic," and I've fought it my entire life. I'm my own best enemy, blah, blah, blah. I've come to think that being drunk was a way of silencing that inner critic, of replacing it with a different voice, one of bravado and surly confidence: "Oh yeah? Think you're better than me? Well, bring it on, bitches, 'cuz you ain't seen nothin' yet!" All this played out only in my own head, of course, a neurotic circle of thought that went round, and round, and round. Walking away from my former life was my first serious attempt at breaking that circle. And, though I'm still grappling with it, I'm finally making progress.
I don't regret getting off the merry go round long enough to finally wrestle my demons to the ground. I don't regret walking away from what I had before; from who I was, before. I am not that person today.
Yesterday made 8 months sober, the longest I’ve ever gone. It doesn't sound like much, but to me it's huge. I'm not carrying my regrets forward. And I’m not going back.
I've been thinking a lot about honesty lately. I'm always a little envious when people jauntily tell me how bitchy they can be, or that what you see with them is what you get. I'm jealous that they find it so easy to just blurt out whatever comes to mind, and are therefore unburdened of any secrets. Because I'm now trying to unburden myself, and I'm finding it damn hard.
I struggle with how to be "honest" without being "too honest," and as with most things, I make it needlessly complicated. To me, being honest has always been less a straight up/down, on/off proposition -- more like 50 Shades of Truth. Must we be either brutally honest, or lying through out teeth? Or are there gray areas, times when one needn't tell the truth -- or at least not the whole truth? If I smile and make polite chit-chat over dinner when I'm actually thinking, Fuck this, I'm so outta here, is that a lie?
People often tell me with great earnestness to just be honest about what's really going on inside my head, to share my feeeeelings, to open up. But it doesn't always work out so well for me. When I am finally honest, I often get shocked silence, embarrassment, hurt feelings, or outright anger in return.
I suppose I can't really blame people for this. It's not their fault that they're shocked or confused when I finally show them what I'm actually thinking and feeling, because what I've always shown them in the past bears no resemblance to what I'm showing them now. It's completely understandable that they'd feel angry or betrayed. I haven't aways been honest with them in what I project. Does that mean I've lied?
When people ask me to be honest and then get angry when I am, does it mean they didn't really want me to be honest in the first place? Does that make them liars?
Is withholding information not being honest? I spent my early formative years trying to make sure no one in my small town -- including family, close friends, teachers, clergy, etc -- knew that I was queer. It seemed expedient to my survival at the time, but even now, standing before you as the well-adjusted, confident gay man that I've since become (ahem), I still find myself in situations where my reflex is it hide it. I don't, god forbid, pretend to be straight or make up stories about having a wife or girlfriend somewhere. But I don't necessarily correct them if they make presumptions about "my wife." (Shut up, all of you, it still actually happens.) Does that make me a liar?
My point is that my desire to hide is so engrained that I often do it reflexively. Sometimes I'm not even aware of it. And, whether you think the above examples make liars of us all, or that there's maybe something to be said for tact and diplomacy, the fact remains that I have a decades-long pattern of subterfuge and camouflage that have proven ultimately toxic and destructive.
Which is why I can't always tell where the lines are drawn between honesty and rudeness, candor and cruelty. I frankly haven't developed the skill sets to be proficient at this whole honesty thing without accidentally burning the house down.
I was trying to figure out why this time around feels so different to me. Gawd knows, this ain't my first time at the sober rodeo. But this is the longest I've ever managed to stay on that bucking bronco, and this doesn't feel like just another of my temporary relapses into sobriety. I have a few theories: First, I've actually written down (and stuck to) a plan for when my resolve starts turning wobbly. I never did that before because it seemed kinda hokey, like I'm in the remedial class of "Sobriety 101." But it actually works. More than once I've found myself with too much time on my hands (dangerous territory for me), literally pacing the floor and wondering what normal people do in this situation. This will sound stupid, but there are times when I have to literally refer to my plan before I realize: Oh. It says here I should eat something. Second, this is the first time (outside of my stint in rehab a few years ago) that I've faithfully stayed on medication that makes it impossible to drink alcohol. There's a lot of stigma and misinformation surrounding Antabuse, and I'll tackle that in a later post, but I've found it very effective in shutting down the inner dialogue about whether or not I'll drink today. If I literally can't drink, temptation becomes a moot point. I was resistant to taking it in rehab, but I've since realized that the Antabuse is my friend. But lastly, I had an insight last night about why this go-round feels so different: This is the first time I have blown the doors off the closet and been completely honest with the entire world about what I'm going through. I've always kept it to close friends and family, discretion being the better part of blah, blah, blah. The fact is, I never wanted to share it broadly because I was afraid of what people would think, what they'd say, how they'd react. I didn't want to go down in their estimation. Welp, call it maturity or call it just not giving a damn anymore, but somewhere along the way I stopped worrying about what other people think of me. It's been a little scary to start this shitty blog and invite everyone along on this journey, but it has also been strangely empowering. I didn't start this blog just to present my same old facade to the world, or to say all the right things, or go through the expected dance steps. I realize now that I started this blog so that I wouldn't be trying (yet again) to sober up in the "drunk closet." It takes too much energy to pretend I'm perfect, and I don't have the energy to waste right now. In other words, this blog -- and you, Dear Reader -- have become an important part of my ongoing effort to stay sober. So, y'know, thanks for that.
I'm kind of at that point I always get to when I stop drinking again: The novelty of being sober has worn off, all my personality flaws and moral failings have reasserted themselves, and that sense of relief and empowerment I felt in the first few weeks are now but a distant memory. Gone are the days when I felt the outpouring of love and support from my friends and family for not being shit-faced drunk. I suppose it's a sign of progress that everyone just assumes now that I won't be drunk all weekend, but I miss those days when showing up sober still won me an "atta-boy." It's time I faced it: My honeymoon with sobriety is over.
The magic is gone.
This is not to say I'm going back to the booze. I am not. I've now been sober for longer than at any other point since raising that first misbegotten drink to my pale, trembling lips those many years ago. That has to count for something. But I've been down this road often enough to realize that this is where things always start to go wobbly. I'm staring at the days and weeks ahead and realizing I'm going to have to chart a course forward that doesn't involve going back to my old way of life. I knew this moment was coming, because eventually it always does when I quit. In the past I've always white-knuckled it until the urges stopped or, more likely, I gave in and started the whole shit-show again. Well, not this time. I'm not going back. This time, I have a plan:
Finding Others
Not these people, though. Too happy for me.
Look, I do a lot of bitching on this shitty blog about AA, and this will no doubt continue. But here's the thing: It actually helps to be around other people who are going through it. This can mean going to meetings more often, or just reaching out to individuals I've met there. (I don't have a "sponsor," because the concept creeps me out. The guy who considers himself my "sponsor," I consider just one friend among many. In that sense, I have many sponsors, so maybe he and I are in an "open" sponsor relationship? Whatever. Like most things, I make it needlessly complicated.) Also, I mentioned the other day that I'd heard of a SMART group not too far from me. Now would be a good time to check it out.
Excercise
Almost jogging
I'm no jock but, for awhile there, I was walking every morning. Vigorously. No, better than that: Briskly. Almost jogging, okay?Anyway, it's a start so shut up all of you. I've let it lapse these last couple of weeks, which is unfortunate because I really do feel much stronger physically and mentally afterwards. So this morning, when I'm done ranting on the internet, I'm going for a walk. Briskly.
Meditation / Visualization
Whoa, my chakras are totally fucked up.
Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking: Does that squishy new-age shit actually work? This may surprise you (as it did me), but the answer is yes. It takes practice and an open mind (two things I'm not particularly good at) but spending a few minutes a day pondering how shitty I'm going to feel AFTER the party, and then swapping out that vision for how empowered I feel when I choose NOT to dig myself back into that miserable shit-hole, it can carry me through a tough moment.
I just need to be careful not to spend time visualizing those nice, chilly bottles of wine I don't guzzle anymore...
Inspirational reading
I hate the Big Book. There, I said it.
Yes, it does exist, and I'm not talking about the loathsome Big Book. There are a lot of web sites and books out there that aren't over-heavy on the preaching. I'm too lazy to post them and what works for me may not work for others, but that's why we have the Google Machine. Anyway, it's time to dust off a few of my favorites and read them again.
Eat Something
This is called "food."
Ever tried to get drunk on a full stomach? Big fat waste of time. I rarely ate when I was drunk, because it interfered with my buzz. Food was, and is, the ultimate buzz-kill. If I'm eating something, it's a good sign that I'm not drinking booze, because it's pointless. Also, I'm less likely to have a lag in energy which not only makes me crabbier than usual, but erodes my resolve. This is why, for the first time in my adult life, I'm eating breakfast every day.
Escape
Take me away.
I'm a big fan of escapism. Escapism is underrated, IMO, and I'm going to engage in it for every second that my day allows. One of the things I had forgotten was how much I like to read. I can't count the number of times this last month when I've wanted to drink, but picked up a good book instead. And you know what? I forgot all about wanting that drink. (For some reason, this doesn't work for me with TV or movies or videos. There's apparently something unique about reading.)
Also, for me, is writing. I've always written for as long as I can remember. It's the hub upon which my career was built, and I've started to pick it up again. Since I don't write as a J-O-B anymore, I'm able to write only what I want, when I want, how I want. This shitty blog is one example, but I've also resumed work on a novel and a memoir and some other projects I'd let languish. Writing is helpful for me, because it makes me focus and completely consumes me when I'm doing it.
So, that's my plan in a nutshell. If you have any other suggestions, leave them in comments or @ me on twitter. But now if you'll excuse me, it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. I'm going for a walk.
Oh fer fucks sake, could we please all stop pretending that we're "seeking treatment" for our shitty behavior? If you're running around sexually assaulting 14-year-olds, you don't need treatment -- you need prison. I'm reminded of my one and only stint in clinical rehab for my drinking. Close observers may have found it odd that I had never gone "seeking treatment" before my rather unfortunate DUI came along. In fact, they may have been tempted to think I was less interested in "seeking treatment" than I was in avoiding jail time. And they'd have been right. I had no real interest in "seeking treatment" at that time, and had no real intention to stop drinking. Also, can we stop acting like the drugs and booze somehow make it, if not okay, then at least kind of understandable? Here's Spacey's non-apology: (emphasis mine)
"I honestly do not remember the encounter, it would have been over 30 years ago. But if I did behave as he describes, I owe him the sincerest apology for what would have been deeply inappropriate drunken behavior, and I am sorry for the feelings he describes having carried with him all these years."
"God, was I ever drunk last night..."
Because who among us hasn't gotten a little tipsy and tried to rape a 14-year-old, amirite Kevin? It could happen to anyone after a few beers.
Oh, and while I'm at it, Kevin, let me also just say THANKS SO MUCH for using this occasion to finally tell the world you're gay. Because god knows there aren't already enough people out there comparing gays to pedophiles.
I've been sober long enough at this point to notice things are different now. Some of those things are simple, like the fact that my closet is neater, my files makes sense, my bills are paid on time. Life is more orderly now, less frenetic, and it feels good to reclaim the ordinary skills of daily living that others take for granted.
But some things are more abstract and harder to pin down and are, honestly, kinda troubling -- like the fact that I seem incapable of reaching out to anyone lately, or that I'm maybe sleeping too much, or that I don't want to go anywhere or do anything outside of my regular boring routine. In fact, truth told, I just want to be left alone for awhile.
Maybe part of why I don't want to talk to you right now is because there's no nice way to say, "I don't want to talk to you right now."
Which raises another interesting thing: I've gotten a lot more blunt about what I'm thinking and feeling lately. This isn't something I've consciously decided to do, it just happened by itself. I can't seem to reign it in, and probably wouldn't if I could. But it does make me hesitant to be around others.
Believe it or not, Dear Reader, but there was a time not long ago when I was thought to be a nice guy. Now? Not so much. Example: Someone invited me recently to an air show not far from here. The old me would have either A) bit my tongue and gone along because they really really wanted me to; or B) invented an elaborate excuse for why I couldn't go. Instead, I went right to option C) and blurted, "That sounds like my idea of Hell."
Oddly enough, this feels like progress. One of the main reasons I drank the way I did was because it demolished my filters for awhile and allowed me to just say and do and be whatever I was feeling in the moment. I didn't have to be nice. I didn't have to be polite. I didn't have to get along.I'm only just now beginning to realize that I still don't have to.
I'm reminded that it's not my job in this life to be everyone's nice guy, or to make everyone like me. It's not required that I go places and do things I don't want to do. I don't have to hold my tongue simply because someone might not like what I say. These things are not my job. I do not owe these things to the world.
The good thing about being sober is that, unlike when I was smashed, the filters are still there if and when I need them. Still, it's kind of comforting to discover that I can be just as much of an asshole without the booze if I want to.
This depresses the hell out of me. Like millions of other latch-key kids in the 70s, I would watch him on The Partridge Family on TV after school. He was never able to get a handle on the drinking, and it killed him. Eventually, it does, either by some crazy drunken accident or escapade or, in his case, multiple organ failure. 
Sobering is hard for a drunk. I imagine it's even more difficult when you're famous and being hounded at every turn by the eternal gossip machine. I can't imagine what it must have been like for him, struggling with this his entire life, in and out of rehab over the years, being dogged by coverage like this, and this, and this. 
