a Sober Groundhog

In rural New Hampshire, as in rural, North Carolina, the days can collect themselves at your weaknesses.  There is no sightly or unsightly difference between one day to next.  I suppose I took other states hostage…during my addictive haze!  Ohio, Maine, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, pretty much the southeast coastline…and a few places in between.

However, for aesthics purposes, I will attend to the states of my mind, New Hampshire and North Carolina.

The days in mid winter are long though short.  Almost as if, what little light you see, you want to capture in a Bell Jar and hang on to for dear life.

To a deeply satisfied with self, addict.  Days, night, hours and seconds, are all relative.  A sort despondence occurs.  Like the final break to a bough that seemed strong enough to hold back the stormy weather.

My days were never different.  Dusky, dirty, impoverished, self seeking and evermore…uncertain.

An existentialist would say that, to truly know oneself you must hit rock bottom.  Without rock bottom there is no growth.  No knowledge of your inner most virtues.

 

I have hit, hopefully, my only needed twice…rock bottoms, in two states.  The days not much unlike each other.  Bright and sunny and full of hope, to someone else.  My more recent rock bottom found me entombed by my will run riot.  Incarcerated by four walls, two big bay windows and a bed.  The whole in my soul had ridden it’s high horse for a full year of anti social behavior.  Indeed, I had known sobriety.  I grasped it in my sweaty hands…five years prior.  I also let it go…as if it no longer wished to be caged.  I let it go driving down the highway with a tall boy between my legs, motorcycle weekend on the horizon, in a Scooby Do mini van…looking to get laid at a bar in Haverhill, Mass.

Had I a death-wish?  Honestly?  Every alcoholic, addict, abuser, I know…has a death-wish.  We believe ourselves to be like a cat.  Fighting it out until our last life, the 9th, is used up.  After relapse, when I begun my descent into madness and mayhem; I averaged a gallon of cheap Vodka and a case of beer per day.  Course, the bouts with blotter had to be put aside.  The pills?  Too obvious to those who watched my behavior like hawks.  Booze had strictly been my downfall.  Though, when offered, I did not turn down the occassional chance to do illegal drugs.

It’s all relative!

This different day set in rural New Hampshire.  Started out with neither a bang, toke or pop.  The night before I had been dragged kickin’ and screamin’ to a local AA meeting.  Course my captors had us leaving for our destination way too early.  Therefore, I had the misfortune of stopping by Home Depot after eating a, this is a bad idea, large greasy fry from Burger King.

Today, I cannot stand overhead lights.  Matter of fact, if it doesn’t fit in a lamp…it doesn’t come into my house.

I walked that 1,000 mile journey to the 24 hour chip.  Claps, not judgement, all around.  I who had been so tough as bitten nails, found myself weak in the knees.  Scared of having to deal with the shit storm I had brought about.

That meeting could have happened last night.  With vivid detail, I can list who was there, what hung on the wall, the speaker and the kind of donuts being handed out.

After all the well wishes from past friends with sobriety…I laid myself down for a long winter’s nap.

I don’t cry.  Given my family history…tears were for those of lesser value.  The kinds of people who get picked on.  And, that was not for me.

I cried that night.  Thoughts rambling around, mixed with Dead tunes and burning incense.

One thought:

“Once you say out loud you are an addict.  That is it!  You are banned for life from enjoying a drug or a drink…ever again.”

I hold no one responsible for my illness.  And, yes, there had been lovers than neccessary.  As well as, a wife and children.

Awake and awakening…that morning, I saw part and parcel, the same shit different day.  I had dragged my partner from North Carolina to New Hampshire…promising…change.

Neither one of us found change.  You cannot always rebuild a love that has been hit with a shit stick.  Lesson learned!

“Once I used to believe
I was such a great romancer
Then I came home to a woman
That I could not recognize
When I pressed her for a reason
She refused to even answer
It was then I felt the stranger
Kick me right between the eyes”

Thing is, the woman I did not recognize had not been my wife.  It had been me!  Some serious decisions needed to be made.  A complete life change and the slightest misgiving that…I would have to take care of myself…for once.

The first week in February is tough, up north.  People are generous with their disdain for continued windchill factors.  The ice on the windowpane never melts.  And, the air seems stiff with indifference.

I believe my sobriety date is in and around Groundhog day!  I cannot be absolutely sure.  I could ask my ex wife.  However, after that fateful day…we did not do much intellectual chatter.

And, though, the room spun, the shakes made my insides feel like roadkill, I opened my eyes to ‘same kind of day, but slightly different’.

I stayed locked up in that room for a week.  The detox that time around had been much more physical and far more, mentally grueling.  My legs bare and barely movable, made it to the bathroom, the kitchen and back to the bed.  The sheets were laden with sweat and tears.

Different?  Just a tiny, fragment of an inch!

Oscar Wilde once said,

‘No good deed goes unpunished!’

Certainly he was right.  Yet, the morning seemed lighter.  Easier to take.  The bedroom mirror was not my enemy.  It had been an example of what good could come…if I work for it.

I suppose, with deep philosophical thought, it simply could have been that…I changed the prescription to my spiritual glasses.  Fortunate was I to know there had been a way out.  I know for a fact that those different days.  Days that do not come very often.  Those times when something is left of center…are a precept.  A saturating desire to believe in something greater than I.

15 years later, I still struggle.  But I struggle with life on life’s terms.  As do…most adults.

Help come with Faith

Bleeding the Heterosexual Blues

How can these children not be straight
How can these children not be straight

“He who sees the truth, let him proclaim it, without asking who is for it or who is against it.” by Henry George.
Whether I am Ambien Grace, Dishonored Debutante from Concord NH or Bethany Run O’ The Mill, decadently debunked debutante from Ohio. We all fly the same blue beach bomb flag:
Being trite with tremendously trivial tact.
In other words, how can I volunteer down here in Winchester Virginia with the likes of Amber’s and/or Mercedes or whatever other non-descript name you can find: When I stand for nothing. In my actions, I am homophobic. I bleed heterosexual blue. I acknowledge nothing from my past. And, it is my past that has followed me.
Gray and tan all over and passed up for the ‘hardcore’ assignments, I meander close to the edge of mundane. I have seen rape, yet I do not report it. I have seen bigotry, yet, I ask my parents nothing of their unfounded hatred. I cowardly strive to be an adult with issues teenagers have managed to tackle as easily as English 101.
I cry myself to sleep at night. The darkness invades my mistakes and my unwillingness to amend my past or connect my blood to the future.
I am Traveling with Ambien Grace, for I am a walking and talking sedative. Dumbed down by the hyprocisy that I breath in and out everyday of my unexamined existence.

 

 

In these days of changing ways
so called liberated days
a story comes to mind of a friend of mine

Georgie boy was gay I guess
nothin’ more or nothin’ less
the kindest guy I ever knew

His mother’s tears fell in vain
the afternoon George tried to explain
that he needed love like all the rest

Pa said there must be a mistake
how can my son not be straight
after all I’ve said and done for him

Leavin’ home on a Greyhound bus
cast out by the ones he loves
A victim of these gay days it seems

Georgie went to New York town
where he quickly settled down
and soon became the toast of the great white way

Accepted by Manhattan’s elite
in all the places that were chic
No party was complete without George

Along the boulevards he’d cruise
and all the old queens blew a fuse
Everybody loved Georgie boy

The last time I saw George alive
was in the summer of seventy-five
he said he was in love I said I’m pleased

George attended the opening night
of another Broadway hype
but split before the final curtain fell

Deciding to take a short cut home
arm in arm they meant no wrong
A gentle breeze blew down Fifth Avenue

Out of a darkened side street came
a New Jersey gang with just one aim
to roll some innocent passer-by
There ensued a fearful fight
screams rang out in the night
Georgie’s head hit a sidewalk cornerstone

A leather kid, a switchblade knife
He did not intend to take his life
He just pushed his luck a little too far that night

The sight of blood dispersed the gang
A crowd gathered, the police came
An ambulance screamed to a halt on Fifty-third and Third

Georgie’s life ended there
but I ask who really cares
George once said to me and I quote

He said “Never wait or hesitate
Get in kid, before it’s too late
You may never get another chance
‘Cos youth a mask but it don’t last
live it long and live it fast”
Georgie was a friend of mine

Oh Georgie stay, don’t go away
Georgie please stay you take our breath away

Acceptable Crosses to Bare
cast out by the ones he loves
A victim of these gay days it seems