Here We Go...

I've hit bottom.

It's 2:15 AM and I'm high. I'm at my parents' house because Linsey and I can't live together after my relapses. I lost my job at the church (more about that later) and I might lose my family.

What I need to do is go and wake up my parents, and tell them that I've been using in their home. Isn't that totally addict behavior? I pack my black bag full of all the stuff I need to live and work, and move in with my parents, because Linsey and I are in a bad place, relationship-wise. I go to meetings and get newcomer chips and hugs, then go to CVS and steal three bottles of my drug and smuggle it back to my room at Mom and Dad's Place.

And I'm looking at the insane addict behavior and I'm realizing:
Here I am, justifying the drugs and porn, laying in a bed at my parents' house. My parents - who gave me a place to live when Linsey couldn't take it anymore. I've brought the addiction right along with me, thinking I could stop it when I moved back home.

A friend in recovery IM'd me the other day. She said that she'd be in trouble when her "hunney" got home. She had relapsed, and was in that coming-down-and-feeling-guilty place. In her inebriated state she typed, "Why does it have such a hold on us?"

Asking for Help

I'm starting over again. I know there are people out there who think I shouldn't be blogging about recovery when I've relapsed so many times, and if you've been following me for a while, you know I don't blow off anybody's advice. So I've taken some time to think about what I'm doing here, and here's what bobs to the surface: I'm healthier when I'm blogging. There's something about putting thoughts “out there”, as opposed to ranting in my password-protected journal, that helps me. So I'm going to keep doing it. I don't think I make any claims that I've got it all figured out.

On the other hand, I'm struggling a little with the conversation-like nature of blogging. What I was actually thinking about when I started this blog, in my typical grandiose manner, was writing a book. Now I know the world doesn't really need another drugalog – I can swap war stories with other addicts after meetings. So when I began posting three years ago, I was mainly looking for a workshop-like setting where I could practice writing. I quickly found out that blogging, at best, is a conversation. At times I considered disabling comments, and approaching the whole thing like a magazine column. (I could be the next Mary Roach and write witty columns for Reader's Digest!) Eventually I figured out what blogging was, and found the comments to be helpful – if not for getting sober, at least for not feeling alone. My struggle is that I often hesitate to post at all when I remember that by saying anything, I'm inviting feedback. But that brings me back to what I said earlier. Something happens when I post here. Something good.

My biggest obstacle to posting is that I don't want to share until I've got a success story. That was part of the allure of the book idea: Struggle, struggle, struggle, then fix it, document it, and share it. But recovery doesn't work that way. It's in the agonizing moment of vulnerability that healing happens. In that place where I've come to the end of myself and have to ask for help. When I don't ask for help because I'm supposed to, but because I must. So I wanted to post today before I do something scary. I need to tell my pastor (and boss) that I was under the influence yesterday while in my office, which I've never done before. I had alcohol hidden in my filing drawer. At worst I'll be out of a job, at best I'll set up a new level of accountability with him, which is something I've needed to do for a long time anyway. Tonight at my meeting I can finally connect my pastor with my sponsor. I'll post later about the outcome. I just know that I can't get better until I ask for, and accept, the help I need.

Stranded

I'm stranded in a parking lot in Anaheim, in front of a Spanish language health care clinic. I can smell Little Ceasars pizza, and there's a woman singing opera in the apartment next to me. She sounds like Snow White when she sings to the birds. I ran out of gas so Linsey's bringing me the gas can. Oops.

I am grateful for:

-My (mostly) sweet pre-teen daughter Ashley, who's braces-filled smile lights up my day. And that she still IM's me “I love u” on Facebook.

-That James still begs me to play light-saber fights with him.

-That Linsey and I filled Valentine's Day with love and patience, not hurt and alcohol.

-That every night I have chihuahuas nestled up against my head and my ankles.

-That I got to sing and play the piano for a living this morning. And I'm thankful for the song “Our God.”

-I have pink eye. I'm not grateful for that(!), but I'm thankful it's getting better. Man, it itches.

-For thirty days of sanity.

-That people I've never met bother to read my site and leave comments that have helped me through some awful times.

-For my rabbit Max, who's dug a cave system under my patio. Now that the rain has stopped, he's sunning himself outside my window.

-That I have bro's I can call – like my cousin who came and helped me patch my tire this week. For some reason that flat tire had me feeling helpless and depressed, but I didn't have to deal with it alone.

-For parents who live down the street and will loan me $ to buy antibiotic eye-drops when my bank account's totally empty.

-I'm grateful for Entenmann's donuts. I just am.