keeping it real

Thirty-two days have passed since my last drink.  I got a red chip and lots of applause last night at my home group meeting for passing the thirty day mark.  It felt good to get that chip.  It's been a tough month.

You know, after a few weeks of hearing stories in the rooms, I am truly grateful that in some ways I got off easy.  My last stop could have been at a much scarier place than it was.  That said, though, it's important for me to acknowledge the validity of my own experience.

I woke up from my stupor to a tangled thicket of some complicated life situations.  Now that I've got a little time under my belt--now that the first shock is wearing off, I'm realizing what a mess I've got on my hands.

It's sort of like waking up to a kitchen full of empty bottles, full ashtrays, stray clothing, and strange people.  Except this time I'm not hungover.

What I'm trying to say, I guess, is I'm not singing from the rooftops every day.  I'm not tapdancing down the street, splashing in puddles, and twirling my umbrella.

I've been feeling sad, empty, lost.  I don't think it's self-pity, because in a way, as much as it feels bad, it feels "right".  I think it's just slowly dawning on me the amount of damage I've done to myself and my life--to my spirit, my relationships, my finances.

For so long I've been refusing to deal with life, numbing myself to the point of oblivion.  It's like floating on a raft in the ocean.  You don't pay attention, and suddenly you're a mile away from shore.

I think these emotions--this dull, weary ache--is grief.  Maybe it's more than that, actually.  Maybe it's the first stirrings of compassion for myself. 

I've really hurt myself.  I've done bad things--to other people along the way sure, but I've really, really, really crucified myself.

So this "hangover" is a little different.  It's not from the withdrawl of alcohol.  It's from realizing how long I've been withdrawn from life.  How long I've gone without caring.  About anything.  Especially myself.

My instinct is to try to assign my feelings to one particular circumstance or another in my life, but I think it's bigger than that.  I think I'm going through some initial stages of a vast existential healing.  A higher power is moving and working on things in my life, and for once, I'm trying not to snatch the reins. 

I feel vulnerable and raw and uneasy and tired.  I feel lonely and disoriented and infuriatingly horny. 

At the same time, though, I have an odd sense of peace about things.  The noise in my head has quieted down.  I'm not chasing every insane obsessive thought that crosses my mind down it's own dark, twisted rabbit hole.

I'm moving through the days--slowly, cautiously--with a bit of that shock and awe I always associate with post-apocalyptic B-movies...

It's important for me to stay grounded.  To be honest when I'm not feeling great.  I've always been "fine" before.  Even when I was falling apart on the inside.  God forbid I should have any feelings or emotions that might make someone else uncomfortable or inconvenienced in any way...

I've gotten over my over-achiever attitude about fast-tracking the 12 steps and getting to joyous, happy, and free right now, dammit.

As the gunsmoke clears, and the sun rises up over the edge of the battlefield, I see there's a long journey home ahead of me.

When I feel the weight of things, I do my best not to wallow or dwell.  I also, though, try not to brush those feelings aside.  They're important, those feelings.  For the first time in a long time they're not the distorted shadow plays of drunken obsession.  They're honest-to-goodness emotions.

Also, one day at a time, I try to keep perspective.  I spend a little quiet time communing with the universe, feeling the stars spin, trusting that I'm on the right path.

An old-timer in a meeting I went to tonight gave me a good belly laugh.  He completed a saying or slogan I'd heard a hundred times in the rooms, and this time I got it.

He said, "I can be assured that everything in my life is the way it's supposed to be, because if it wasn't, it would be different."

Honesty, serenity, and truth, folks--24 hours at a time.

the lost art of laziness

Today I did nothing--all day long.

I slept late.  I woke up.  I sat outside most of the day drinking obscene volumes of water and Diet Coke. 

I listened to music.  I talked with friends.

I did not exert myself.  I did not think about work. 

I did not think about the future.  I did not think about the past.

It was a day of absolute, sublime sloth.

I had minor chores I could have done.  I didn't.

I ate well.  I enjoyed the weather.  The day passed like clouds.

No buzz.  No hangover. Total rest.

Endless hours of purely being.

It was a very good day.

Honesty, serenity, and joy, folks--24 hours at a time.

home for the holiday

It's my first Saturday night since I've been sober that I haven't had plans.  Sort of incredible when you think about it.  I was very lucky to meet a good group of people who have kept me occupied and out of bars for almost a month.

Tonight, though, I'm on my own.  The rest of my household, including an out-of-town guest went out on the town, but I stayed behind.

I'm not really feeling sorry for myself.  I've been out with the boys when they've been drinking and I haven't.  If I had to drive, I would always wait until we were home from the bar before I started drinking seriously...

Anyway, I'm not really sad about missing the perennially predictable scene here in town, but I'm realizing how much of my social life is structured around drinking.  My one guardian angel, who has already been more than generous with his time, is working tonight.  I've met several cool folks in the rooms, but no one in this short amount of time do I know well enough or feel comfortable enough to call at the last minute and say "hey, you wanna hang out?" 

I just have to remember that for the first time in a long time I'm actually feeling social.  I'm interested in being around people instead of sitting home alone drinking and ruminating. 

Now that I'm not drinking I realize how much noise there is in my head, and how much of it is really narcissistic and boring.  Instead of drowning out the noise, I've been enjoying taking time off from my self-obsession to take part in the company of others.

But, as it has been said to me many times, and as I learn more everyday to believe--everything happens as it should.  I thank my higher power and my sponsor for reinforcing my instinct that I needed to steer clear of the watering holes tonight.

An old-timer in a meeting I went to earlier tonight talked about making the journey from the head to the heart.  He wisely observed it's your brain that will lead you to another drink, and it's your soul that will lead you in the other direction.

I've been relying on my (what is revealing itself to be increasingly warped) mind to run my life, and I've seen where that's landed me.  So I'm taking a breath, trusting this path, and trying to let go of everything else.

One particular distortion I realized sort of in a flicker of enlightenment earlier today, is that I've been on this kick that I have to do this whole sobriety thing "the right way".  I need to work hard.  Be perfect--or at least really good at the whole 12 step thing.

Tonight in the meeting, I realized I still am operating under the illusion that I am running the show.  Granted I've taken big steps.  (I tend also not to give myself credit and criticize myself mercilessly.)  But it has been the support, the other hands and a higher power reaching out in the other direction that have helped me keep moving forward...

If I get into the mind-fuck that I have to be "perfectly" sober, I'm not going to last long.

This has been probably the most difficult 28 days of my life, and I need to let myself acknowledge it's been a struggle.  I'm still a babe in the woods to all this stuff, and I need not worry about getting to anyplace other than the end of this day without a drink.

Profoundly beautiful and wonderful things have been happening in my life, and I need to remember to absorb them, be grateful for them.  They are not "miracle" boxes to be checked off on a form.  I think somehow I've been operating under a false assumption that I'll complete my form, do my time, and then I'll be happy, joyous, and free.

My compulsive nature is to consume and move on, attack and conquer, but this is life.  To be finished is to be dead.  So I need to enjoy the journey.  Appreciate the days.  Not get wrapped up in accomplishment.

Another side bar to this distorted mind trip, is I realize a lot of the time, when I'm around folks in the meetings, I answer anyone who asks by telling them I'm doing pretty well, hanging in there, whatever...  The truth is, a lot of the times I don't know how I'm feeling.  My existence has been pretty much hyper-drive-crisis-obsession mode or numb.  There's not a big range of emotions for me to report on at this moment.  Maybe the best response would be "I'm here", because at least that I know is true.  "I'm here and I haven't had a drink."  Maybe that's more than enough for now.

Someone last night was asking me if I was "riding my pink cloud", which I thought was a very gay and fabulous question even though I had no idea what the person was talking about.  They explained that sometimes in early sobriety, you get a quasi-ecstatic sense of euphoria, of utopia.

What I have felt several times in these past few days is relief. 

I woke up this morning, and without the rush to get up to go anywhere or do anything, I had the remarkable realization that I wasn't hungover.  That was a really cool feeling.  I've been feeling more peaceful.  I have my crazy days, but I can sort of get a little perspective on my craziness and it doesn't wreck the whole train.  Although I'm still not quite comfortable in my skin, I'm letting myself be hugged, and I'm hugging people.  I'm genuinely glad to see people I know show up at meetings.  And as someone was mentioning last night, I've had a couple of authentic, deep from the belly, not cynical or snide, full out laughs.  Laughing, when it's pure, is an amazing act.

I'm not sure where I'm going with all this.  I guess I'm feeling good about feeling better and feeling okay about not being perfect.  I'm making peace with my night home alone.  I'm putting out some more stuff in cyberspace that may trickle down and help someone else get some bearings or pass their own night alone.

There are all these phrases that I've been hearing from people in meetings (not to mention on bumper stickers), which I before dismissed as clichés.  I understand now they are really mantras.  They work through repetition, and they heal the soul.  "The journey is the destination" is the one that's speaking to me tonight.

And on that note, I'm going to close up shop, offer thanks to the universe for guiding me through another twenty-four hours, and get my not-drunk-or-wasted ass into bed for a good night's sleep.

Sweet dreams, everybody.

Honesty, serenity, and joy, folks--24 hours at time...

where have all the flowers gone?

Earlier this week, I was contacted by the litigious agent of an artist who was incensed that I had featured her work on my site.

While I'm pretty sure my site is safe from legal action based on the fair use exemption of the Digital Millennium Act, I certainly didn't want to be using any art against the artist's will.

At the same time, though, I have to admit I got indignant and a little huffy--to myself. 

I mean, this is a personal, non-commercial site where I share the work of artists whom I think are really cool.  I love provocative (and erotic) art: photography, painting, whatever...

The more I thought about this demand that the work be removed (a screaming email in ALL CAPS with lots of exclamation points!!!!!!), the huffier I got.  I could make a case for using art on my site with or without the artist's permission.  Journalistic reasons, creation of a new multi-media derivative work--on and on...

In the shower, on my drive to work, any moment I had a spare second, I was fuming and musing and debating with myself.  I got riled up to the point of a full blown tizzy.

Finally, from somewhere in the ether, I suppose my higher power knocked me upside the head, because I calmed down, stopped my internal rant, took a breath, and started to think about things.

Yes, I have a discerning eye for the sort of art I like.  Yes, I like to share this art as an accompaniment for my posts.  But you know what? In the end I have to own up to the fact, that like so many bloggers, I'm an image scavenger.  Yes, I credit the work of the people I feature on my site.  Yes, I provide links back to the artists' home site or a place where the work can be purchased.  All those sound like very nice and reasonable things to do, especially since I don't have to...

But at the end of the day, the truth is, with only a couple of exceptions, I didn't ask those artists if I could use their stuff.  I just naturally assumed they'd be honored to be featured on such a worldly, cosmopolitan, sexy blog as this one...

Apparently not.

For a brief moment I got on a "well everybody does it" kick, which didn't last long, precisely because that's never an argument that carries much weight with me.  I have too much of a non-conformist streak.

So after spending way too much time ruminating bitterly, I finally said to myself, "You know what?  There's an opportunity here."

I have always had a passion for photography myself.  I've always had a fantasy about taking erotic photos of hot guys.  Why not use this altercation as an opportunity?

Taking it another step further, there are several artists out there on the web whose work I really dig.  Part of my trip is a fear of talking to people, a fear of rejection--why not actually approach some of these folks?  Introduce myself?  Make some new friends?  Get not just permission, but all the other things that go along with it?  And then, of course, if someone says no--they so no.  It's a big place, cyberspace.  There are lots of artists in the world doing remarkable things.

Therefore, I've spent the last few hours going back to the beginning--December 2004--and removing all the images from my site.  There are a couple of exceptions.  I actually do have in my archives some images I took myself, and there are a couple of posts that are legitimate reviews of artists and photographers.  Other than that, though, I'm starting from scratch.

So bear with me for a bit while I start amassing new works to share.  The ol' blog may feel a little naked, but hey, it's good to be naked...

Most importantly, though, I don't have to deal with the whining contingency in my skull.  I don't have to buy into the drama, the worry, the whatever--what's on my site from here on out has every right to be here.  It's either my own work, work properly cited and indisputably fair usage, or it will be the work of folks who want to be part of this little piece of my universe.

That said, consider this an open invitation to send me your own stuff, your own sites, your own links.  There's nothing so cool as being contacted by readers.  If you've been reading for any length of time, you know I go for actual artistic stuff.  It can be hot.  It can even be explicit.  Just something with a little more thought and personality than the usual porn.

Honesty, serenity, and joy, folks--24 hours at a time...

sometimes quickly

I've heard them talk of miracles in the rooms before. 

I've had a few uncanny conincedences.

I am utterly dumbfounded and amazed, however, at what is possible when you stop fighting yourself, "let go and let god", as the saying goes...

The "situation"--that huge, monstrous, complex problem that's been weighing on me for days and weeks--the one I wrote about just a few hours ago as a matter of fact, has simply resolved.

It took me trusting myself, trusting my higher power, and trusting another person in my life, but in the end things just happened.

I sat down, and I said--quietly, calmly, without anger, and with all the courage I could gather--what it was I needed to say.

I expected things to... (aha!  I caught myself-- I "expected")  All my "dark imaginings" were just that.

Serenity finds its own way.

The key to serenity--slowly and stubbornly I'm learning--is honesty and communication.  Holding in the craziness is what makes it grow into a monster...

A wise friend told me that if you're confused about a situation and not sure what to ask for, you should ask for the highest good for all involved.

That's what I do when I talk to my higher power, and I also try to always remind myself, "your way, not mine".

I don't know what will happen next, but for once, that's just fine. 

"Even the very wise cannot see all ends," said another (fictional) person whose opinion I greatly value.

I do have, though, a deep-in-my-gut faith that wherever things go from here is exactly where they need to go.

That said, I should mention the resolution of the big bad situation has some sadness to it.  It's not a Disney parade. 

I have to remind myself that I actually live in the real world, not an artificial magic kingdom. I have to remember in real life it's okay for there to be sadness.  Sadness won't kill you.  Trying to drink away the sadness might, but sadness itself won't.

So instead of being drunk to the point of passing out, tonight, at this moment, I am feeling at peace.  It's really an amazing feeling.

What's more, now that I'm through wrestling my own shadows, now that I'm through clanging the crazy-think against my skull, now that I've truthfully spoken what my needs are and put them out there even if they might cause discomfort, I'm feeling a very strange lightness. 

I feel genuine tenderness and compassion for the other people involved.

I feel the truth that life just happens, and we all do the best we can do under any given circumstance.

I'm beginning to understand that if you approach life on life's terms, and not through the theater committee of the brain, you wind up in the place you're supposed to be.

Let me make it clear--everything is not solved and tied up in a neat little package, because life is not a problem to be solved.  Wow.  Isn't that the truth?

We are human beings, each on our own path.  It's important to honor our own journey and support each other as best we can in finding our way through the world.

What began as a rotten Monday has ended up truly profound.  Meloncholy maybe, a little bittersweet, but real.

So I close my day with gratitude.  Gratitude for the benevolence of the universe, the presence of my higher power, the beauty and strength of a very special person I am privileged to have in my life, the wisdom and guidance of another amazing person in my life, and finally the collective good will of all those folks in the rooms, doing their best to get through each day, helping each other along the way.

I wish peace and the highest good for us all.

Honesty, serenity, and joy, folks--24 hours at a time...

do not distress yourself with dark imaginings

The title of this post is from the great Max Ehrmann poem "Desiderata".

I'm very good at "distressing myself with dark imaginings". 

I talk myself up into an agitated frenzy, until I feel stressed out, totally trapped, and existentially frustrated.

I've heard a lot lately about the dangers of expectations and the importance of accepting life on life's terms.  At first I thought that meant not to expect too much, because you'd probably just get disappointed.

What I'm beginning to realize is that the dangers of having expectations is that you're always anticipating an outcome, good or bad, rather than relating to life on its own terms.  Rather than acting with awareness in the waking world, you get lost in the drama going on inside your head.  The problem is, that drama isn't real.  It's just so many neurons firing.  Intense, yes, emotional, yes.  It can trick your body because your heart rate goes up, your pulse quickens.  You're having full blown emotional reactions to your own illusions.

That, my friends, is drunk thinking, and that's where my head has been all day today.  Thankfully I'm at least aware I'm doing it.  It's when you're not aware that the trap snaps shut, and you fool yourself into thinking the only key out is in the bottom of a bottle.  I've been there--many times.  I know how it goes...

My trouble is, though, I've got a situation that's really driving me crazy and consistently threatening my serenity.  I've turned it over to the Universe, done my best to let it go, but it's like one of Brer Rabbit's tar babies in my brain. 

I keep aksing myself--"what's my part in this?", "have I done everything I can do to fix the situation?"

Probably not.  I think a big part of my problem is courage.  I'm scared of what will happen next.  Always.

That's where the dark imaginings come in. 

So I'm in this place where I'm feeling constant pain and at the same time debating with myself whether the pain is really all that bad.  That's some twisted thinking.  I'm afraid to make a choice that might end the pain, simply because I fear my lack of control over what might happen.

There's a lot at stake, actually--personally, financially, emotionally.  It would probably make some sense logically to stick things out a little longer, not rock the boat.  All my life, though, I've been subjegating my emotions to the security of the boat--refusing to acknowledge the things I do or don't feel for fear I might get the answer wrong.

I've been catching glimpses over the past few days and weeks, of a kind of life I want to live.  A life of authenticity, integrity, honesty. 

I don't feel like I have much integrity left in this situation.  I feel like I'm betraying myself, my own principles, and so again, I feel stuck.

When I paint myself into that corner of my brain, I have to remember to breathe.  Take a step back.  Tie all that craziness in a nice little package and send it express mail to the Universe to deal with.  It's like emptying a leaking boat, though, there always seems to be more where the last bucket came from...

It feels good to write all this down.  I learn a lot when I get the gook out of my brain and out onto the screen.

If you haven't read "Desiderata" in a while, the text is below.  It's a good guide to making it through the day...

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

-Max Ehrmann

Honesty, serenity, and joy, folks--24 hours at a time...

neverending stories

"The universe is made of stories, not atoms"

This is one of my all-time favorite quotes (by Muriel Rukeyser, fyi).

I never understood how true it was until these last few weeks.

So much of my recent past has been about withdrawing, insulating, isolating myself from a world I no longer could even pretend to control.  I took a long slow elevator ride down, down, down into the depths of my own self-pity, my own loneliness, my own desparation.  I really had no idea what to do, except pour myself another drink.

The deeper I went, the more distorted things got.  Like Alice in Wonderland, my little "drink me" bottle on the table radically altered my perception of scale.  The world seemed warped and unfriendly.  I wanted to leave the scary rabbit hole and get back to the yellow brick road where everybody was singing and dancing.

I felt so alienated--literally--like an alien on some planet that looked and sounded exactly like the world I was from, but somehow wasn't.

I can't express the degree to which this feeling of unreality, this sensation of vertigo kept compounding, growing exponentially, piling on weight and more weight and more weight, until it was all I could do to lift glass to lip and climb the stairs to pass out.

With my home situation so stressful and strange, I didn't even want visitors.  I didn't want to talk about what was going on.  It hurt.  I didn't understand it.  I couldn't control it.  I definitely didn't like it, but I couldn't figure a way out.

When I attended my first AA meeting, some garbled vomitous version of my life came tumbling out of my mouth and into the room.  A story that was scary to hear and scarier to realize was my own.  Then came another story from another chair.  And then another story.  And another.  Voices: quiet, excited, serene, anxious.  One after another the stories kept coming, and I felt something break inside me.

There is a power in our stories.  You can feel it whenever a bunch of recovering drunks get together.  The stories flow, naturally, essentially.  These stories heal.  I really don't know how, but they do.  Looking at people--who on the street I would either never give the time of day, or assume had it completely together--calmly discuss all the ways in which their lives have been completely out of control.

At first I was shocked, and in some ways felt like some of these stories were completely unrelated to my life.  But I was smart enough not to tune out.  Something told me to pay attention.  And by listening to these stories, I began to see myself in everyone from the business exec to the guy from the homeless shelter.

Our stories connect us.  They speak to the truth of who we are.  The narratives can be wild, even extreme, but they reflect the frightening realities people wake up in when they spend their days chasing the numbing haze of alcohol or drugs.

I'm starting work now on a narrative of my own life.  Beginning way back in childhood.  Trying to honestly and humbly piece together the patchwork of tales that shape my history.

Today I went to lunch with some new friends after a meeting, and I was amazed, sitting in the sunlight, how so much pain, so much confusion, so much hurting can be told, in a few words, as a story.  We were laughing out loud about things that would normally make my stomach churn with worry and fear.

Everyone has a story.  That story needs to be told. 

I used to tell myself stories, but only inside my head where they'd twist and grow into fantastic nightmare fables.  I'd see disaster and despair everywhere I looked.  I'd see hopelessness and dead ends at every turn.  I knew, in this tangled place, there would never ever be a happy ending, that the witch would eat the children, that the ring would be reclaimed by its dark lord, and that Dorothy would never get home.

But listening to other people's stories, I've heard some happy endings.  I've heard how brave adventurers made it out of the jungle alive.  I've witnessed people who've taken trips into the underworld and made it back out to tell the tale.

There is power in stories.  That power is hope.  And there are always stories, all around. 

It's important to take the time to listen and to tell your own...

Honesty, serenity, and joy, folks--24 hours at a time... 

a writer recovers

I have been a writer as long as I can remember.

Even when I was just learning to read, I'd draw pictures and tell myself stories.

I won a Halloween short story contest in the major local newspaper when I was in fourth grade, and by my senior year of high school, I was editor of the school newspaper.  I was accepted into the creative writing program of the Kentucky Governor's School for the Arts.  I didn't go.  Wonder sometimes how life might be different if I did, but, as they say, "the past is past..."

Oddly enough, as much as I have written throughout my life, from short stories to plays to poems to essays, I never actually thought of myself as a writer until I picked up a book by Natalie Goldberg called Writing Down the Bones.  Shortly thereafter, I took a post-bac poetry class with an amazing woman who is now Kentucky's poet laureate.  Today, I'm making money--pretty decent money--as a writer.

Writing is something I've managed to stay good at, whether I was drinking, hungover, or just plain crazed.  If it wasn't for writing--in journals, on this blog--my descent into darkness would probably be, by now, complete, and the only writing would be on my gravestone.

The reason for this rumination, is that I've been contemplating the third rung on the twelve step ladder, "We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him."

As I said in my previous post, I like to be in control.  The idea of turning my life and will over to anyone rankles my fur.

But then I started thinking about my writing.  I have been given a talent to write.  It happens.  Words come, and I instinctively know what to do with them.  The more time I spend working words, the better and tighter they get.  Most of the stuff on this blog is straight from head to screen, but when I spend time revising and editing, I can produce some pretty amazing stuff.

But I don't control the writing.  It flows from some deep place in me that I don't have conscious access to.  When I'm connected to that place, the sentences come.  But I have to sit down and do it.  I have to turn over my life and my body and my will to the act of writing.  That's my part of the deal.  Once I do that, the words come.

So when I think of it like that, the idea of turning my life and will over to the care of a higher power doesn't seem so scary.

My life and will under my own care has landed me under a mountain of debt, in the wasteland of a dying relationship, and a living situation that's severely fucked up.

I wrote a few months ago about Alan Watts and his lecture on "neurotic water".  I think I understand a little better how that relates to this new life.  Instead of trying to force my part of the river to flow upstream, up walls, and avoid rocks, maybe it's time to trust the current.

In "the rooms", they talk a lot about accepting life on life's terms.

That's not something I'm very good at.  I want life on my terms, and I want it with the right soundtrack, impeccable lighting, and Tony Award-winning set design.  I'm a great negotiator and bargainer.  I have all sorts of bizarre rituals I go through to help me believe life is going along with my plans for it.

But as I learn more and more every day, my perception of reality has a tendency to get pretty distorted.

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm ready to take this third leap of faith.  I'm willing and ready--with some skepticism I must honestly admit--to turn my life and will over to the universal flow.

I've met enough people in the last three weeks, who have amazed me with their freedom, authenticity, and joy, that I'm willing to gamble on the fact that there's a benevolent Something out there willing to guide us out of our own gutters. 

To tell the truth, I'm starting to notice small, glacially-paced changes in my own life since I put down the bottle.  When my brain storms of obsessive thoughts are at a lull, I feel a sort of wholesome optimism and peace underneath.  Doesn't last long, but it's a glimmer...

Let it be said, then, that I have now, officially, on the pages of this blog, taken my three first steps toward recovery and a new life:

I admit that I am powerless over alcohol, and that my life has become more than I can manage myself.

I am beginning to believe that there's a power out there that might just restore me to sanity.

And I'm willing to trust that power enough to let go of the reins and let the Universe guide my way.

We'll see how it goes from here.

I'll keep writing, and hopefully, you'll keep reading...

Honesty, serenity, and hope, folks---24 hours at a time.