Gleaned from a Kind Soul

Last night at A.A. I gleaned a word of wisdom from a long time A.A. goer. "Walk," he said. "Feel like you are going to drink? Get out of the house and walk." That is what I did this morning. I got up. Ate a granola bar. And set out through my neighborhood in the chilly air to shake off these urges I was having. I donned my radio and made great strides early this morning as I passed by the many houses -- their occupants sleeping within. Fueled by my desire to be a sober man -- a respectable member of society. It really does work. I felt so calm when I arrived back at home. The urge to drink had left me.

Another A.A. goer last night also shared with me that he reaches out to newcomers when he feels the urge to drink. "Be of service to others," he said. "Alcoholism is such a selfish disease and we have to cast aside our old ways of thinking." I feel much too raw and new in my sobriety to be of help to a newcomer though. I could share my own experiences with drinking and maybe that could help.

As I was walking this morning, I thought of Clara and Ferret, homeless. The days are growing shorter and the nights much cooler. Soon, the first big cold front of fall will come roaring through bringing cold temperatures. There is already snow falling in the Sierras. I shuddered to think of my own forlorn days spent in the cold woods of Alabama when I was homeless. Frost covered mornings would greet me as I escaped my tent to start a fire and get some hot coffee percolating. I would long for the sun to rise and get high in the sky to warm me with its gloriously bright light. And to think, I have daydreams and fantasies of going back to that kind of life. They are just daydreams though. Grand fantasies of me living by my wits and drinking copious amounts of beer -- a life I cannot live. A life in which you have nothing to lose as you've already lost it all. Maybe that is why I fantasize about it. I have lost so much -- so much hurt and pain. Homelessness would be safe and comforting. There would be nothing anyone could take from me. I could scoff and laugh crazily at threats from my father or the heavy pressure society puts on me to conform -- to be normal and socially acceptable.

I have often thought lately, deluded, that the medications my father makes me take are mind controlling agents. Agents to make me conform to the whims of society and the myriad of rules and norms it places upon us. Isn't that what crazy or insanity is? Acting abnormally and not being constrained by all the countless rules and regulations that mold us into the dutiful citizens we are. The delicate social and societal dance we all waltz through everyday is interrupted by the unwell mind of a mentally ill person. When I was extremely mentally ill, I didn't care for this dance, nor knew how to go about it. No social pleasantries. No grooming. Even meals were forgotten and my delusions would spur me on to things that broke social norms. Exasperated, my family would send me to countless doctors and try countless drugs. I still struggle with the idea that I am just eccentric and not schizophrenic. A free soul amid millions of conforming clones. Once you are labeled insane though, there is no going back -- forever destined to play out the family and societal role of the one with an unwell and sick mind. Coddled. Tread around as if walking on egg shells. Lost in the system that is mental health care. Just another statistic among countless others struggling often without avail to conform to a society that exasperates us. I am envious of people like my father that make it look so easy.

Unloading

My father informed me last night that I have to take down my advertisements on the blog. "You are making too much money," were his words. I am hesitant to do it though. This money has meant so much to me like this month it is buying me contacts to get rid of these terrible glasses I wear. You see, I have to make less than $12,000 a year for all my prescriptions to be covered by the Medicare part D drug plan. My risperdal consta shot alone costs $1500 dollars a month. Add in the numerous other medications I take and the total is well over $2000 dollars a month. So, with great aggravation and depression I am going to take down the advertisements and go ad free. It is aggravating because it was so nice to get paid for writing -- something I love.

On a positive note, my check from last month is going to be $269 dollars plus the $179 I've already made this month. I am going to use that money to buy me a new digital camera and will soon have pictures and videos back on the blog. I know Cheryl will like this. I want to do a video of my new house for you all. I will try and get that camera ordered in the next day or so.

Thursday Afternoon Check-in

I enjoyed my first online A.A. meeting this afternoon. I was rather surprised at the order and civility of it. You would think when you get a bunch of recovering drunks in a chatroom that chaos would ensue.

Rosa feels much better this afternoon. She has taken up knitting and is knitting me and her woolen caps for winter. I love to walk into the den and see her on the couch knitting away. It reminds me of my grandmother and is so comforting.

I fixed us a lunch of pimento cheese sandwiches with a garnish of sliced banana peppers. I had never made pimento cheese for Rosa and she just loved it. Rosa can eat anything and will still stay slim. I am trying to keep the weight off and still eat well by walking six miles everyday. So far, so good. I walked three miles this afternoon and plan on walking to the Thursday night A.A. meeting.

Tonight is our weekly hotdog supper for me, Rosa, and my mother. It has gotten to be a tradition. I've already prepared the sauer kraut, wrapped the buns in aluminum foil and placed them in my toaster oven, and pulled out the pan to boil the dogs. Everything is ready to go and I look forward to our meal together tonight.

How was your day?

Two Peas in a Pod

When it rains, it pours. Not only am I having panic attacks, but Rosa had an anxiety attack as well last night.  She woke up and couldn't breathe.

"I was having a dream I was still using and homeless," she told me, flustered. "I was scrambling to get more cocaine."

"Calm down, darlin'," I said as I held her. "It is going to be okay."

I got up and fixed her a Coca-cola and got a cool, damp washcloth for her forehead.  I wonder if there is such a thing as post traumatic stress syndrome for those of us that were addicts, formerly homeless, and in recovery.

"You sure you don't want to go to the emergency room?" I asked her, worried.

"No, just let me lie here and be with you.  I will be okay in a minute."

It is so hard to see the one you love hurt. You want to reach out and soothe them -- to take away what ails them. I know from my own experience with anxiety attacks that there is no worse feeling.  You feel like you are having a heart attack and feel so out of control.  I actually hallucinate when having them.

"Me and you are something else," Rosa said as she smiled weakly and started to feel better, catching her breath.

"We certainly make life interesting, don't we?" I replied, smiling back and holding her firmly.

Soon, Rosa was back asleep and I got up to let Maggie out and to start my writing for the day.  I had to also fill out some paperwork for social security about my prescription drug benefits.  I had trouble figuring out how to declare the income from what I make on this blog.  I don't consider it working and the amount I make is haphazard.  I finally just came up with the average that I make $200 dollars a month in revenue.  I am sure I will get a call from them in a few weeks about it. They are like the gestapo of the Nazi war years about benefits. I was talking to dad about my benefits just last night as he brought me all this paperwork to fill out.

"Dad, a seriously mentally ill person would never be able to keep up with all this paperwork and fill it out," I told him.

"That is why so many mentally ill people end up on the streets or in jail," my father said. "They don't have someone to help them with it."

"It is sad, really," I replied.

"Just thank your lucky stars you are able to keep up with all the paperwork."

I sighed and told dad goodnight. It just doesn't feel fair. So many mentally ill people are more deserving of it than me.     

Penance

Lunch was tomato sandwiches with chips and dill pickle spears. One of my favorites. Rosa and me sat in my kitchen talking after our meal. I am so glad to have her home. I know it sounds cliched, but Rosa is my best friend and also my lover. She is also my confidant.

"What is the hardest thing you have ever been through?" Rosa asked me as we sat there striking up a conversation.

"Childhood," I replied. "It was a dark, ominous time for me. I felt depressed all throughout my youth. I struggled with being ostracized and being overweight."

"I hated being poor as a child," Rosa said. "Momma would have to pawn things to buy us shoes for school every fall."

"That sounds tough. I never had to worry about money growing up. Mom was a teacher and dad was always a pharmacist with his own business."

"What is the hardest thing about being an adult now?"

"My lifelong love affair with drinking," I replied. "Alcohol can be a cruel mistress. That, and the schizophrenia."

Rosa had a rare moment of introspection about her own trials with crack cocaine. She rarely talks about it.

"I can't believe I sold my body to get more rock. I would do anything to get high."

I held her hand. "We will not regret the past nor shut the door upon it."

"You sound like a good Alcoholics Anonymous meeting goer," Rosa said as she smiled.

I laughed.

"I've been indoctrinated!"

"You still have dreams of being homeless?" Rosa then asked.

"Yeah, I can't help it. I feel it should be my penance to pay -- to atone for my sins. The anonymity of it all appeals to me as well."

"Always talk to me about it, okay?"

"I will," I said.

"What was the hardest thing for you being homeless?" I then asked Rosa. I like to hear her talk of her homeless days.

"Not knowing where I was going to be sleeping at night. I would do tricks to get up enough money for crack and a cheap hotel room. Me and some working girls would usually go in together."

"It was the cold for me," I replied. "I never did like being cold and I almost froze my ass off when I was homeless."

"Yeah, but you had an income," Rosa said. "And all that camping gear. I had nothing, but the clothes on my back."

"True," I replied. "I had it easier than most."

"Then, why do you want to be homeless again?"

"I can't explain it. Maybe it is part of my mental illness, or part of my lack of self respect. I just think it would be easier."

Rosa had enough talking and helped me clean up the kitchen and put away the dishes. It worries her about my homeless fantasy. She thinks I am going to have a moment of weakness and walk out the door to never return.

"Promise me you are not going to leave," Rosa said, wiping a plate clean and putting it in my cabinets.

"I promise," I said with good intentions and an earnest heart.

I do hope I don't ever become homeless again. I don't want to relive that part of my life. My homeless fantasy is what imaginations are for.

Hello, Kermit!

It is a wonderful time of the year. I have all my windows open. The door to my porch is swung wide. A fan is adorning the window in my front bedroom. This will help me save money. My utility bill was $229 dollars last month. Ouch!

I went to see my psychiatrist, Dr. Kermit, today. I wanted him to prescribe me valium or xanax for my panic attacks.

"You need to guard your sobriety carefully," he told me of the addictive nature of benzodiazepenes.

"I am just scared, doc," I said. "Scared those panic attacks will happen again."

He showed me breathing exercises for which I rolled my eyes in exasperation. I needed something to stave off those attacks before they start. I wanted potent drugs to take. I didn't get any. He kept my medications the same and didn't start me on Zyprexa. I am kind of relieved that we didn't change anything.

Home Sweet Home

Rosa made it home late last night.  She had spent a few days visiting with her daughter and granddaughter.  I was so excited I was about to burst to have her home.  She gets so exasperated with her daughter, though.

"To think. I was once so young and dumb," Rosa told me of her daughter last night.

"We all were once," I replied. "I didn't know my ass from a hole in the wall at her age."

I told her of George calling yesterday.

"You go to that party and I will pout with you for weeks."

I laughed and assured her I had no intentions of going. I was flattered that George had called, though.

Not much else to report. I walked two hours yesterday for six miles and then went to my A.A. meeting. It was another very small meeting which made me uncomfortable. I managed to share and felt like a fool. 

This morning Rosa and me were laying in the bed. I managed to sleep for seven hours straight which is a record for me.

"Don't get up yet," Rosa said as I started to slip out of the bed. "We were sleeping so good."

"I am hungry and want to start breakfast," I replied.

Rosa sighed and curled up in the covers with Maggie. I really wish I could sleep more.  Hell, I wish I could sleep my life away, but cant. When I am awake, I am awake.  A change is probably coming though. I start Zyprexa today and it will make me so sleepy that I cannot stay awake, but for a few hours at a time.  I shudder to think what is going to happen to the blog and my life when I sleep all the time.   

A Call in the Dark

George called me this morning. It was the first time I have heard from him in weeks. I miss George deeply, very deeply, but just can't deal with his drinking ways. George and I would be best friends if he were just sober all the time. I have tried to get him to come to AA with me, but he refuses. He says AA is a religious cult for the brainwashed. I worry about George's health.

George asked me to come to a cookout this weekend at the lake.

"We are having lots of beer and burgers," he told me. "I would like for my brotha to be there. Bring that woman of yours as well."

I told George I would think about it. We talked for a while longer about what was going on with the gang.

"That homeless woman is still hanging out down at the Piggly Wiggly," George said. "They won't let her panhandle though."

It made me think of Clara, the homeless woman, and how different her life could be if she just chose a different path. Clara is one of the unlucky ones without a family to take care of her. George has his mother to pay the bills and feed, house, and clothe him so he can drink with abandon. Clara has no one and must fend for herself.

"I saw Ferret yesterday," I told George, changing the subject.

"That nigga is crazy!" George said as he laughed. "He is still sleeping by the river and drinking beer all day."

"Yeah, I know."

I asked George if he thought his cousin, Monte, would let Ferret move back in. George said only under the conditions that Ferret take his crazy meds and quit drinking. That is not likely to happen.

"Am I going to see you at the lake Saturday?" George then asked.

"I'll think about it," I replied, knowing I could never go.

I love burgers and beer and the temptation would just be too great. I don't trust myself. I got off the phone with George and thought of my friend for the longest time. George and I used to have the best times together. We were the odd couple. An older middle-aged African American alcoholic had befriended this young, schizophrenic malcontent. Each day would find us on a new adventure with the gang accompanied by our standard props of beer and cigars. Sadly, I had to shut the door on that part of my life and can only live it in my memories. Strangely, I feel I am missing out on a good time by being a teetotaler. Hah! There goes that stinkin' thinkin' again!

Beyond the Diagnoses

Tonight was the first time in a very long time I had my bed to myself. I stretched out blissfully upon the whole width of my bed. I hogged the covers and slept on my back so I could snore as loudly as I wanted. My little slumber party was finally interrupted when Maggie jumped into the bed with me. "You just had to go and ruin my fun," I told her playfully, looking down at her lying at my feet. She watched me for a few moments and then went sound asleep with a canine sigh. I sat on the edge of my bed to put on my shorts, shoes, and came in here to write, listen to the radio, and drink a Mountain Dew.

Soul wanted to know more of the man beyond the diagnoses. I think I am smart and driven. I am very creative and have a flair for things such as music, drawing, and painting. I imagine myself to be from a long line of creatively brilliant schizophrenics known for their eccentricity and candle light bright lives that are short and furious in their living. Rosa says I am too smart for my own good and that I tend to over think things. She is usually right when it concerns me and knows me best. I have grand aspirations for life. I want to marry again. I want to regale in a life that is dull and full of routine which I consider normal. I would like to work again and support myself. I want to make love with abandon and howl at the moon. I don't want to take medications and deal with their side effects for the rest of my life. My Achilles heel is a stiff drink. I feel most passionate after a few drinks. That passion has been hard to capture any other way.

I was talking to my father last night and I love how "normal" his life is. I want my life to be so mundane.

"Tell me of your routines," I asked him as we sat in my den.

"Oh, I put on my favorite t-shirt and pajama bottoms every night when I get home," he said. "I usually pour myself a diet coke and turn on the t.v. to The Weather Channel. Your mother asks me a thousand questions as I unwind from my day. I have to pet my pussy (his cat). I then usually toast a piece of buttered cinnamon toast as a treat and go to bed."

I sighed wistfully and longingly.

"Tell me about your day," dad then asked.

"After you leave from giving me my medications, I go straight to bed and listen to the radio as I drift off to sleep. Rosa usually complains about it being too loud. I sleep for a few hours then wake up excited that my favorite program is on."

"What program is that?" dad asked.

"Coast to Coast AM. I then stay up to about 7 a.m. and then cook breakfast."

"Oh, that is that show about bigfoot and aliens," he said as he smiled. "You also like a traditional breakfast, don't you."

"Yeah, I like eggs, bacon or sausage, and buttery toast. I usually slice some sharp cheddar as well."

"Does Rosa eat breakfast with you?"

"She gets up to eat and then encourages me to come back to bed.  She says my sleeping habits are crazy and that I keep her up all night.  I have told her she can always sleep at her house, but she insists on staying with me."

"See? You have comforting routines as well," my father said.

"Yeah, and I can be rather autistic about them getting interrupted."

"That's why I don't ask of you as much as I do of your brother or sister. I don't want to upset you."

"What are Maggie's routines?" my father then asked.

I laughed, calling her my cherub.

"She goes in and out of the dog door all day. Lunches are spent on the riviera sunning ourselves. A dainty dinner of kibbles is served at noon.  Afternoons are spent lazing about, watching our human host like some rendition of The Truman Show."

My father laughed and loved the humor for which I told of Maggie's day.

"You've taken such good care of her and I am proud of you for that."

"I love her," I replied. "She is as close to having a child as I will ever experience." 

I walked my father to the door and told him to go enjoy his routine. He smiled and hugged me goodnight.

"Get some good sleep tonight," he said.

I thanked him and curled up in the bed for a few hours and then started my routines for the day. There is a long stretch ahead of me filled with radio until breakfast at 7 a.m. Then, I can go back to sleep with the air turned down low and with Maggie by my side. It is going to be a good morning and I better quit writing about it and go and enjoy it. Good morning and good day.

Conversing with God

If you talk to God, you are praying;
If God talks to you, you have schizophrenia.

--Thomas S. Szasz, The Second Sin,
Anchor/Doubleday, Garden City, NY. 1973, Page 113

Clandestine Tears

A tear clandestinely rolled down my cheek as I sat in an AA meeting tonight.  So many people reached out to me, hugging me, and shaking my hand. "Keep coming back!" and "It works if you work it!" rang out in the meeting hall at the meeting's close.  I needed others tonight and needed to be around other people of a like mind.

"What's is this about you thinking you are going to be a homeless alcoholic?" Phillip asked me as we sat smoking on the back porch.

"I just think that is my lot in life," I replied.

Phillip scoffed loudly. "You have a choice."

"I just don't think I can go the rest of my life without drinking," I told him. "The only time I feel okay is after a few beers."

"You just don't have to drink today," he replied. "One day only. You can handle that."

"I guess so," I replied, rubbing my chin in deep thought.

"One day at a time," he said reminding me as I got up to walk home.

That is all I could think of on the short walk back to my house.  One day at a time.  It seems so simple, but is much harder to put in practice if you have been a lifelong alcoholic such as myself.  

What am I going to do?  Meetings, and then more meetings.  I am going to pick myself up and keep trudging forward.  As Churchhill said once, "If you're going through hell, then keep going!"  That is what I intend to do.

Tonight, my mother is coming to spend time with me after her Monday night social group.  I so look forward to sitting with her and talking about our days.  Unlike my father, I can be honest with my mother and tell her exactly what transpired today without judgement.  When my father comes tonight, I will have to act like everything is just hunky dory and swell.  I love him and wish I could talk to him in a more candid manner.  Such is life, as they say.  I should just be glad I have one parent I can talk to.  Many don't have any.   

Sun on the Horizon

I poured the rest of the beer down the drain. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. I had twenty left to pour out. I got on the phone and called Phillip. Our local Patriarch for our AA meetings.

"Phillip, I drank four beers this afternoon," I told him. "Can I still come to AA?"

"Where is the rest of the beer?" he asked.

"I poured it out," I replied.

"Get to a meeting tonight when you sober up. Come even if you are still drunk. Do you need a ride?"

I was no where near drunk -- just mellow and calm. This, I assured him.

"I can walk," I replied. "And will see you at the meeting."

We talked longer of how cunning and baffling alcohol can be. I told him it all started with me seeing Ferret this morning and my desire to be a homeless alcoholic.

"You can find a new way of living in these rooms if you just keep trying," Phillip told me before I got off the phone. It was so reassuring to hear him say that on the other end.

I feel so tired and wasted. It has been a tough few days with my mental illness and I have been thinking irrationally. Throw in my addiction and it can be doubly hard. Thank you to those of you that understand and commented. I do appreciate it very much.

Painting the Rails

William Wray's paintings speak to me. I love the railroad scenes. If I do gather myself in a few days, I would love to start taking art lessons and to learn to paint in a style of William's.

The Succumbed

The clouds started to roll in after lunch -- a gray, looming sky befitting my mood. I drove down to the pawnshop with my portable DVD player in the passenger's side seat next to me.

"Pawn or sell?" the lady asked as I handed over the DVD player.

"Pawn," I said.

"I can give you twenty dollars for it."

"It's a deal," I said, signing the pawn ticket.

I escaped from the pawnshop with twenty dollars in my wallet and headed straight for Fat Albert's convenience store. Throngs of people were playing the lottery as I walked inside. I grabbed a case of cheap beer and headed for the cashier.

"Going to a party?" she asked facetiously.

"This will last me for weeks," I said of the beer, lying. Knowing I would be finished with all this beer by late tonight.

I came home and wrote this for posterity. This blog is a record of my life in electronic form warts and all. I felt immediately better after a few beers. Too bad this will not last as I will get too drunk in a matter of hours. Thus the insanity that is alcoholism. At least I have a smile on my face for the moment -- the first in days.

I hesitated to write this. No one in my blogging life would know if I just stayed glum and quiet. I would never have to deal with disparaging comments or the scorn my succumbing would incite. No one in my real life would know as well. I would just disappear for a few days with no one the wiser. I feel this inescapable urge to confess though. As if I am breaking some carnal law, I want to scream out to the world that I have no control over my drinking. I can't stop. God, why hast though forsaken me? Why have I forsaken myself?

"It's your genes," I just mumbled to myself as I wrote this in between drinks of beer. "You are fucked."

Forever destined to die alone. Alcoholic. Useless. An outcast. I just need to take that Google check and travel to Nashville. There, I know where to get food and where to sleep. There, I won't have Rosa or my family always mad at me or outdone with my most recent alcoholic outburst. I will have no accountability to those that love me and hurt me. I can't help I was born this way and have always been. I can see why, now, the mentally ill and/or alcoholics disappear onto the streets to never be found again. Forever, a nameless grave in some anonymous graveyard after a hard life. No family. No hope. Only a bottle of booze for comfort. It saddens me that I am most likely going to be resigned to this fate. At least I can blog about it and maybe someone will learn from me or just understand.

Intangible Mangling

It is a good thing I am broke today. I don't have a dime to my name. I do have a check from Google coming for $269 dollars, though. I have thought often of taking that check and getting a bus ticket to Nashville to live homeless. I would be just another crazy homeless person on the streets living by my wits. Another statistic in the uncaring world our nation has become.

I have also thought of pawning my DVD player and joining Ferret by the river today. He is down there getting drunk as I write this. The weather is perfect. The day is long. I have no job to hinder me. Rosa is at home today with her daughter and grandchild. My only worry would be getting home from the river, but I could always sleep down there on the ground.

This is what they call in AA stinkin' thinkin' -- a desire to sabotage all good gains garnered in life. I just don't feel well and want to feel better. I know if I get drunk then I will blackout and escape life for a few days. I better go hide my car keys from myself. I feel these panic attacks are coming about from my sobriety. "Maybe I need to drink," I tell myself. "Maybe I am just an incorrigible drunk and always will be -- destined to fail."

I tried to tell myself this afternoon...

"I would rather live three year's drunk than live forty more years of the hell I am experiencing. I don't want to live miserable."

Conscious Contact

My father rushed me to his pharmacy last night to give me some medicine and to take my blood pressure.

"You're blood pressure is perfect, but your heart is just racing," he said. "You're not having a heart attack. Your pulse is strong."

"Dad, give me something to take," I replied, pleading. I felt so terrible.

My father stepped back into his pharmacy to get a pill.

"What is it?" I asked as I swallowed it and drank some Sprite.

"State secret," he said. "You will feel really sleepy in a few minutes and I guarantee you will feel better."

He was right. I don't know what he gave me, but I felt better in thirty minutes. A calm washed over me and I went home to go straight to bed.

This morning I woke up at 2 AM and went for my morning walk. There was a chill in the air bespeaking of fall and I wrapped myself in my favorite fleece pullover. I prayed to God as I walked for him to help me and comfort me.

Dear father, bring this soul some comfort. Help me through these tough times. I know I only come to you in times of need, but I need your help. I am scared and feel out of control. I am not doing well. If you can see it in your heart, please remove these panic attacks and cure me of what ails me. Thank you and I love you.

A soothing calm overcame me and I felt not so alone. I can see why Marx called religion the opiate of the masses. It gives you hope when there is none. I have tried so hard to nestle a spirituality within me -- coming in conscious contact with a God or power greater than me. It is my last, best, and only hope where medications and therapy have failed me. It feels strange talking to myself and God, though. I never was a very religious man, and now I find myself crying out to some power in the sky. My rational side wants to scream, "This is crazy!" The line between crazy and religious zealot is blurred as I don't know if my talking to God is a symptom of my mental illness or a yearning desire to have contact with my maker. It is maddening and is why I always avoided religion once doing well on my medications.

That Old Crutch of Mine

I watch from this bedroom window as my neighbor goes to get breakfast every morning like clockwork at 5:30 AM. She will soon arrive home with a McDonald's or Krystal's bag in hand as she escapes back into her house to eat. It reminds me of routines and how integral they are to my life. Breakfast around here is usually served around 7:00 AM. Rosa will sleepily awake to walk into the kitchen finding me scrambling eggs or frying sausage as Maggie lies on the floor hungrily awaiting table scraps. We will sit and eat and then go crawl back into the bed for a few more hours. This morning was the same. I cooked and then Rosa washed up to then find us curled up in the bed holding each other.

"You feeling better?" she asked me amid plush covers.

"I feel scary," I said, lying on my back. "I worry the panic attack is going to come back."

"I can't imagine what you go through. You don't talk about it much."

"Last night I was desperate. I thought I was going to die."

"Next time, let's go to the hospital to have you checked out. That is not normal."

My family tries to assure me it is just a simple panic attack. There is nothing simple about my mental illness though. It is a complex series of events that will leave me exhausted and mentally bereft. I am scared to bother others and will not call 911 -- afraid I will just be seen as attention seeking. I could have used a shot of something strong to alleviate the symptoms last night though.

Soon, Rosa was snoring again. I have never heard a woman snore so much. It doesn't bother me. It is actually rather comforting as it is soft and not loud. Kind of like heavy breathing. I looked over and brushed the hair out of her face and pulled the covers tightly around her.

"Sleep well, my cherub," I told her quietly.

I lay there thinking and realized I would always drink beer when I got to feeling this way -- mentally unfit. The alcohol would calm me and the time would fly by. I would end up drunk and depressed for yet another day. Usually, to drink and drive to buy more. I long for a drink right now. My escape. They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I realized my pattern of drinking was insane as well, but when my prescribed medications don't work, I seek out other avenues of help to alleviate my pain. Oh, to be curled up on the couch with a case of beer and a Saturday filled with football. That malty goodness sliding down my throat and chasing away what ails me. The rush of inebriation as I escape my reality and the dourness that can be my life. Soothing. Calming. Drunken bliss. I want to forget my days ever happened and a case of beer will allow this.

I can't drink normally though. I drank only to get drunk -- one beer after another like some madman spurred on by an insatiable desire. My whole life will fall apart around me and the castle of beer cans sitting on my couch side table -- a monument to my sickness and the desire to wallow in self pity. One day at a time as they say in AA. I don't always have to abstain, but I choose to abstain today. Just one day. I can handle that. I can't imagine going the rest of my life without drinking, though.

Afternoon Check-In

Spent a long time sitting with my grandmother this afternoon. She was actually positive for a change and bragged on the fish they had for lunch. I had to settle a dispute she was having with one of her caregivers about a bathing issue though.

"She won't let me bathe her," the feisty black lady told me.

"Just let her bathe herself," I replied. "She is still able."

This seemingly simple solution pleased both parties.

I arrived home to find my mother waiting on me. She just wanted to sit awhile and talk. She was lonely.

"Mom, they discovered that the gene associated with left handedness is also associated with schizophrenia," I told her excitedly.

"Where did you hear this?" she asked.

"I read it on the Internet today," I replied.

We got embroiled in a long discussion about gene therapy and whether it would ever be viable as a cure.

"Wouldn't it be incredible if you could take a magic pill and be cured?"

My mother sighed and said, "It would have changed my life."

"Mine too."

Us schizophrenics can always hope, can't we?

Supper was a treat fixed by Rosa. She cooked some fettuccini and a rich and creamy parmesan cheese sauce. I boiled some broccoli and added it to mine which Rosa chose to forego. Dessert was some strawberry shortcake that Rosa prepared and it was delicious and hit the spot.

"Can you take me to my 8 PM NA meeting?" Rosa asked me after supper. I handed her the keys to my car and said I would just walk to my 7 PM AA meeting. It only takes 30 minutes to walk there. Well, let me get ready to leave in thirty minutes. I am excited about tonight's meeting and look forward to the camaraderie involved.

Finding Social Nirvana

Last night's AA group was small. There was only three of us. I like the anonymity of larger groups and felt uncomfortable. I shared that I hoped my higher power was going to help me find a sponsor -- someone to guide me through the steps. This spurred the two older men in attendance with six years sobriety each to tell me their sponsor stories. I finally grew relaxed after a few moments and settled in.

"The first sponsor I had was terrible," one man said. "We were a complete mismatch. So don't give up at first."

I want to find a sponsor who has dealt with social anxiety or mental Illness, but my chances are slim. I keep holding out hopes that God is going to guide me to find him -- a God of my understanding. It is going to be a major hurdle for me to overcome to ask though. I have been playing various scenarios out in my head for practice.

"Hi. I am Andrew and I am an alcoholic. Will you be my sponsor?"

Or...

"I heard you speak in the meeting. Will you be my sponsor?"

Or...

"Help!!! I need your help!!!"

The last one sounds too desperate doesn't it? *laughs out loud* It is these social situations like this that can often mystify those of us with schizophrenia and social anxiety. We are like small children still being taught the ins and outs of social etiquette. I just hope that when the time comes I will know it and will use it to my advantage.

Family

I'm at your house without you, but I am too tired to spy, to care about photos from your past, to search for love letters. I'm in your bed waiting for your return, listening to George Noory on Coast to Coast AM. I hear the front door open and shut loudly. You are home. You walk into the room and quickly take off your clothes down to sleeping wear and crawl into the bed.

"Tired?" I ask.

"I'm bushed," you reply.

I spend too much time worrying you’ll die, or I’ll die.  I want you to know, if I never get to say goodbye, that you’re my dreams.  You’re my future.  You’re my family.  And a part of me worries I’ll die before I get to say those words.  That people won’t know how important you are to me, because we didn’t get there yet.  I worry the world won’t know, that you won’t know, that you’re all I’ll ever need.  I want that chance to tell you, to show you, what you are to me, my family. 

You've had a tough day and wanted to stay home.  A friend gave you a ride to a midnight Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Your first in years. I understand completely -- the need not to go alone. I only wish I could have went as well.

"Your daughter called," I say as we curl up in the bed.

"No problems," you reply. "Tell me in the morning."

Everything feels okay that we are together -- two souls in the bed. You say goodnight as you turn off the lamp. I go to sleep to the sounds of you breathing. Comfort. "It's going to be okay," echoes throughout my busy mind as I drift off into slumber land. I am here with my family and it is going to be okay.   

Afternoon Check-In

I finally got out of the house and went for a long walk after the afternoon storms had passed. The temperature was perfect and I made great strides while I listened to National Public Radio on my little Sony radio.  Then I forced myself into the bathroom to shave.  It had been a day and I had a heavy shadow. I abhor shaving.

Tonight, I have a 7 PM AA meeting and I hope it is good. It has been a terribly long day here. Afterwards, I am cooking supper for me, mom, and Rosa. I am fixing beef lo mein over a bed of rice and chow mein noodles. It is going to be a late supper as I won't arrive home till 8:30 PM.  Tonight's group is the local "oldtimers" group.  Not my favorite, but it is the only viable group left in the area of Alcoholics Anonymous. The Tri-City Sobriety Group is dead for the most part with only court ordered attendees.

Apathy

The symptoms of schizophrenia can be divided into two main types: positive and negative.  The positive symptoms are more associated with craziness.  Talking to yourself. Laughing inappropriately. Delusions. Paranoia.  The negative symptoms are more nefarious and insidious. Anti-social behavior. Impulsiveness. Loss of drive. Poverty of thought.  I have always suffered from the negative symptoms for the most part. I tend to act most impulsively when the going it at its best thus my urge to be homeless again now that I have a home.  My biggest positive symptom is paranoia -- thinking others are out to get me and to cause me harm, and delusions about social situations.

For years, I didn't know what was happening. I knew something was wrong -- I actually knew something was wrong when I was a child, but psychiatry was still in the stone age then. I left home and college found me exhibiting bizarre behavior. Laughing inappropriately in public. Shying away from human contact. Drinking incessantly. The drinking was the hardest part because I thought I had found a magic elixir that cured all that ailed me. I felt empowered and "normal."  I discovered deserted country roads, bottles of Budweiser, and years of Joni Mitchell albums and talk radio. I was content until my aberrant ways caught up with me and I started to fall out of college. 

The Homeless Guy recently came out on his blog that he is capriciously schizophrenic. I wasn't surprised, but I was sad it took so long for him to reveal it. I do not feel shame for having schizophrenia just as a person with cancer should not feel shame. I believe he thought it would stigmatize him -- just another crazy homeless person.  It would have answered so many questions and criticisms he endured over the years of writing his wildly popular blog.  People can better understand black and white and not the shades of gray he obfuscated with for years about his condition. 

One of the biggest symptoms I am dealing with daily lately is apathy or the loss of drive.  I start out very strong, but degrade into a situation where I am afraid to go out of the house.  For example, I had grand plans to attend a lunchtime Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, but sat here spinning my wheels in indecision. I dreaded getting ready and the long drive.  The abhorred social contact made me shy away. I tell myself that I will never get better sitting in this house whiling away my time listlessly.  I need to get out and experience things and life to get better and to overcome my fears.      

Jostling, They Come

I neglected Rosa yesterday and feel terrible for it. She walked. Watched television. Read her books and looked at magazines. She was waiting for me to finish. I tend to be compulsive and got completely caught up in writing for the whole day--sequestered in this front bedroom with the door shut. I try to tell myself I am "working" even though I see little monetary benefit (I only made $8 dollars on my blog yesterday).

"You don't have to say anything," Rosa told me as I emerged from my writing hermitage.

"Sorry," I said, weary eyed. "I got carried away."

Rosa already had on her sleeping clothes and was curled up on the couch reading a National Geographic.

"I will make it up to you tomorrow," I finally said as I lit up a cigarette--bluish smoke billowing around my face.

Rosa folded the magazine shut and got up.

"I am going to bed. You staying up tonight?"

"Yeah," I replied sheepishly. "I am not tired yet."

I heard the back bedroom door shut with a soft thud and I was alone. I felt so guilty. I hate it when my energies take an inner focus like yesterday. I have little left for others after one of my creative bursts of writing. One of the biggest side effects of my schizophrenia is a poverty of giving or recognizing others in my life. It is such a selfish disease. I get so caught up in my own desires and emotive writing that I forget that others are jostling for my time as well.

It was well after midnight when I opened the bedroom door to find a dark room and the sound of Rosa snoring. I quietly stepped inside flanked by Maggie as I took off my shoes, socks, and put on one of my favorite sleeping t-shirts. I crawled into the bed and lay there for hours as Rosa and Maggie slept. I was sleepless. I love you, I thought. And I am sorry for neglecting you. I never did sleep and finally got up to come in here and start another day of writing.

The Pseudo Man in the Road

There was a time, not long ago, that Rosa and I would sit up late at night listening to Coast to Coast AM. "I can't believe you believe this stuff," she would tell me. "I don't," I would reply. "I am amazed at people that do, though." Planet-X. Chuppacabras. Aliens. Big Foot. All came to life on the radio late at night for our listening enjoyment. We would sit on my porch as the moon and stars danced in the sky as my little portable radio droned. The infamous Art Bell would speak excitedly of things mystical, unreal, and unbelievable in a way that made you want to believe.

Tonight was a flashback to those times. I and Rosa sat on my porch as the radio played softly and the rain steadily fell. A man was quoting scripture from Revelations in the hopes of proving the existence of Planet-X. "I believe it's return will shift the very foundation of Earth and move the moon and stars," the man said excitedly. His excitement was contagious.

"Do you believe in Planet-X?" Rosa asked, amused.

"No," I replied. "But I can see why people do. It is so fantastic!"

The "open line" hour arrived and I listened intently. A man called in to this nationally syndicated radio show from my hometown saying he saw a Big Foot on county road 103. I was amazed at it being such a small world.

"Did you hear that?" I asked Rosa excitedly.

"County road 103 is the road to Columbus, Georgia," Rosa said astonished.

It was a pitch black night without a moon. It was big--like an ape--covered in wiry hair. 7 foot tall, it stood in the road and stopped my car and growled at me--my headlights illuminating it. I reached for my camera, but it had disappeared as fast as it had appeared. I remember the smell. It smelled like manure and it was overwhelming.

"Hey, to think we have our own Big Foot," I said as I smiled and looked at Rosa with an amusing glare.

"That guy was drunk or smoking something," Rosa said so seriously.

I burst out laughing. So true. Something got in that fellow's Wheaties that morning. It just goes to affirm why I love this radio show so much. I just wish it came on during the day and not after midnight. It is playing havoc with my sleeping habits.

A Drink to a Better Temperament

My grandfather used to get my grandmother drunk so she would laugh and smile. "They drank every weekend," my aunt once told my mother. "I thought they were alcoholics." Dancing. Cigarette smoke hanging heavily upon the air. One drink after another. My grandmother and grandfather would sit down at the little honky tonk on Lee's Crossing every Saturday night. "Here, drink another margarita," I can picture my grandfather telling my grandmother. This is the same grandmother I spoke of yesterday.

I remember my grandmother's laugh, but it was rare. It was such an oddity that I can remember one distinct time from my childhood. I was in the backyard playing in the sprinkler with my grandmother's dog, Missy. I slipped and fell in the wet grass and Missy ran over to lick my face. My grandmother burst out laughing and it embarrassed me. I stood up and brushed off errant blades of grass as I sheepishly escaped inside to dry off and change my clothes. It would be years before she would laugh again and I should have savored the moment.

People are strange. I have my own idiosyncrasies as well. The only time I could be sociable was to have some drinks as well. I called it liquid courage. I met quite a few girlfriends drunk at parties that I would have never attended without being blitzed. I remember Laurie. A torrid love affair. I told her she was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen the moment I saw her. She giggled and blushed from the attention. "You live over in Lund hall?" she asked. We escaped back to my dorm room to make love the first night we ever met. Normally, I would have been nervous as hell, but I was filled with liquid courage and made love with abandon--like some wild Don Juan. I didn't even know her last name. We woke up in my bed the next morning and I noted that she didn't look near as pretty as she did the previous night when I was imbibing. I still fell in love though.

My most vivid memory of my grandmother growing up was the wonderful meals she would cook and then she would get on to you for eating too much. She was thin obsessed. Shallow. "You are going to be fat as a pig," she would tell me if I tried to get seconds at any meal. It forever scarred me to this day. I would later grow very thin in my youth with the help of bulimia and she would encourage me. "Only lazy people are fat," she would say. I found a way to be lazy and could still eat everything I wanted. Many hours were spent bent over the bowl of a toilet upchucking. My grandmother's shallowness was a blight that marred my character as well. A family curse. I still struggle with my self image and food to this day.

Into the Night I Go

I quietly started to slip out of bed after midnight. I felt Rosa's hand reach out for mine.

"Where are you going?" she asked, sleepily.

"To the porch to smoke," I replied.

"Don't be long. I can't sleep without you."

I pulled on some shorts and my tennis shoes and escaped outside to be greeted by a beautiful night. There was a touch of fall in the air with the temps hovering in the sixties. It almost made me shiver. Don't be long. I can't sleep without you. Those words echoed in my mind as I sat there inhaling heavy cigar smoke -- the taste of cherries on the tip of my tongue. I remembered the first time I saw Rosa down at the shopping center. "You got a cigarette?" she asked. She looked homeless, frumpy, and lost. I would have never thought in a million years that we would fall in love. I thought we were like night and day. "I was a prostitute and homeless," she told me one day in a rare moment of introspection. "Really?" I asked, uncomfortable at such a subject. "It was the only way I could survive without sleeping in homeless shelters," she said. Never say never, I thought about love as I pulled on my cigar. Love has a way of making anything and everything happen.

Mom asked me last night with Rosa sitting there next to me if I thought we would ever get married. "Your father would disapprove, you know?" she said not meaning any harm. It is just mom's blunt and aloof way. I blushed. Yes, I could see us married I wanted to respond, but I just looked at Rosa and smiled. She has never spoken much of the subject.

"Coming to bed yet?" interrupted my wistful thoughts as I turned to look at who was speaking. Rosa was sexily standing at my porch door in a slip and a pair of white cotton panties. I took one more drag of my cigarillo and extinguished it in my ashtray. "Coming," I replied. "Let me write about this first." Rosa smirked and then escaped into my bedroom, shutting the door. Good night dear Rosa. I am soon to follow.

The Terrible Eighties

I drove down to see my grandmother a moment ago at the assisted living home. Old people were jockeying for positions at the dinner table when I arrived. "Eight minutes till dinner," the nice lady told me in the reception area. I had eight minutes to visit and sadly, I was relieved. I normally stay thirty minutes and have been going twice a week. I have been torturing myself and am a glutton for punishment.

I found my grandmother lying in the bed looking listless. "Suppertime?" she asked me as I stepped in the room. "Oh, it's you." Don't be so happy to see me, I thought.

"The food here is terrible," my grandmother complained. It smelled delicious though and made my stomach grumble. I wanted to stay for dinner, but wasn't sure of the protocol involved. My grandmother then hobbled on into her den to have a seat. "You ought to be ashamed," she told me. "You ought to be ashamed for having your father buy you a house. A grown man should see about those things."

"I would have been homeless Memaw," I said. "I lost everything in the divorce."

"You are a lucky man," she said shaking and waving her index finger at me scornfully.

"You hungry?" I asked, trying to change the subject to more kinder small talk.

"Oh, I can't eat these days," she protested. "I am just wasting away. I think I will die soon."

That was enough to cheer me up (sarcasm.) My grandmother is a stern, ostentatious, surly old woman.

"Do you really enjoy me coming twice a week?" I asked her with a rare candidness.

"You and your mother are the only ones that come to see me," she replied, not answering my question.

This woman has five children and fourteen grandchildren. They all shy away from her. I have been trying to be "of service" to others by going twice a week. I have only recently started. I can see why, now, that no one comes. It is the most unpleasant experience. Getting a tooth pulled would be a far kinder happening.

Later this afternoon, I was talking to my mother. She had brought Maggie a bag of various and assorted dog treats.

"Mom, was Memaw ever nice? Was she ever kind?" I asked my mother after telling her of my visit.

"Your grandmother used to laugh and sit up with us kids at night reading stories," mom said. "She was a wonderful cook and would cook the most delicious and nutritious meals in a loving way. She got pregnant with your uncle in her forties and then your grandfather had his heart attack and she was never the same."

"I love her, but she makes me feel terrible," I told my mother.

"She makes me feel small as well," my mother replied. "So I understand. But it helps me by you going. I have noticed her being more nice lately since you started to go. She actually paid me a compliment the other day about my hair."

I gasped. Memaw? A compliment? The very foundation of this good earth must have shook and floundered. I felt better at my mother's words that some good was coming about by my seeing my grandmother. I wish she was like my father's mother who could do no harm in my eye. I would be down to visit Sally Lou almost every night. She was such a kind soul.

"You are still going to go, aren't you?" My mother asked as she stepped out towards her car to go to Weight Watchers.

"Yeah," I replied. "But I am going to need some tranquilizers afterwards."

Mom laughed and gave me a hug. There is always one "Memaw" in everyone's family, isn't there? I will continue to be of service to my grandmother and love her despite all her foibles and misgivings. Love will make you turn a blind eye as they say. I hope you all have a great night. I am off to AA.

A Reason for Living

One of the biggest differences I have noticed in me lately is that I crave human contact. For years, I shied away from humans, scared of them. Long, lonely nights would be spent drinking and listening to music that would make me cry. It was a sad and lonely existence not fit for even the meekest of us. Steely Dan. Joni Mitchell. Bruce Coburn. All maestros that once sung the soundtrack that was my life.

Last night, I went to a Sunday evening Alcoholics Anonymous speaker's meeting. A good time was had by all and there was a wonderful young man sharing his story. He had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals with homicidal and suicidal thoughts for years. He got sober at twenty three... twenty three. He said he drank to hide his pain. I also drank to hide my pain and to assuage my social anxieties. I felt a strong tying chord with him.

"Thanks for sharing your story," I told the young man after the meeting as I shook his hand vigorously.

"No, thank you," he replied, catching me by surprise. "Thank you for being here to listen to it. Keep coming back."

I watched as a group of cranky, old alcoholics gathered around this young man to say thanks and to encourage him, too, to keep coming back. I thought of the courage it took to get in front of a very large group of people to speak. "I want that," I thought. "I want that confidence. I want to be so sure of myself."

I arrived home to find that Rosa had cooked supper. It was such a nice surprise. The house smelled of wonderful food as I walked in the door. Barbecue chicken. Field peas. German potato salad. Fried okra. All comfort foods that I enjoy.

"You are a saint," I told Rosa sitting at my kitchen table hungrily eating.

"I can cook, you know," Rosa replied as she smiled.

"And what a wonderful cook you are," I said leaning over the table to give her a kiss.

It was so nice to come home to something like that. A surprise. I usually do all the cooking. We sat out on my porch for hours after supper and the last light of the sunlight faded away. Cigarillos were smoked and much calm and quiet conversation was had.

"You're different lately," Rosa told me at one point.

"I think I have found a higher power," I replied. "A purpose for living."

"What is your purpose?" Rosa then asked.

"I want to help others. I want to help others stay sober and to get through their mental illnesses."

"I just want you to be happy," Rosa told me. "And if that makes you happy then I say go for it."

The day ended with our usual rituals. Rosa took a long bath as I curled up on the couch reading a book as the Weather Channel softly droned on the television. I took my nightly medications and then drifted off into slumber land, curled up in the bed with Maggie and Rosa by my side. It was a quiet, calm, and serene day much needed out of the many tumultuous days I had experienced in my life. I hope you all have a great day today and I am off for my morning walk.

Annabel's Interview

I asked my good blogging friend, Annabel, to think of some questions for this blog meme going around. As I had predicted, she asked questions I would enjoy answering. Thank you, Annabel.

1.You mentioned that you were thinking of going to church. What have been your church experiences? Did you go as a kid? Where you Baptized? If you go, which church will you attend?

I had a great experience on my grandmother's farm growing up. She went to a little country church with charismatic preachers. I always felt at home despite the doom and gloom in the preaching. The people going to that church were loving, kind, community based. I was baptized at around twelve which I think was too young. I really didn't understand the meaning of salvation and the implications. I will probably attend my mother's Catholic church for awhile and see how that goes. She is going to start going with me. My neighbor, Joyce, said her church would be "too elderly" for my tastes.

2. I know you love the weather. Have you ever seen a real tornado (in life, not t.v.)? What is the most interesting weather phenomenon that you have experienced?

I have never seen a tornado, but I have seen funnel clouds -- the harbingers of tornadoes. The most interesting weather phenomenon I lived through was the super storm of '93. Snow drifts piled up against the trailer I was living in and it swayed in the harsh wind all night long. I remember leaving work and the snow was really coming down and it was lightning and thundering something crazy (thunder snow). I was my only experience with a snow more than just a few inches.

3. You are an amazing writer and I know you’re writing your memoirs. If you could choose any writer in history (or current) to write your biography, who would it be and why?

William Faulkner, bar none. Of course, I would choose a southern writer from Mississippi. Faulkner had a way of being hard to read and obtuse much like my own life and emotions. I would love to read how he handled my alcoholism, schizophrenia, and my interactions with George and the gang. I would love for his biography of me to be The Sound and the Fury Part II.

4. If you could change anything about your appearance, what would you change?

Puffy cheeks. I hate my puffy cheeks. The picture I show on this blog sometimes was when I was at my slimmest. I miss those cheekbones being shown.

5. If you could choose your very last meal before you die, what would you have?

That's an interesting question, but easy to answer. I would have a plate of my late grandmother's macaroni and cheese -- the traditional southern way she always prepared it with hoop sharp cheddar and a creamy white sauce.

Here's the rules.............

Interview Rules:1) Leave me a comment saying "interview me" along with your email address.2) I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.3) You will update your blog with a post containing your answers to the questions.4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. 5) When others comment asking to be interviewed you will ask them five questions.

Keep Coming Back

I sat outside the AA meeting hall in Lagrange, Georgia at dusk last night. I was scared and nervous. I had never been to a night meeting up here. I watched as happy, shiny people got out of their cars to go inside. I so wanted to be like them. Content. Fulfilled. So sure in their sobriety, looking as if they didn't have a care in the world. Yesterday had been a tough day battling my addictions. College football Saturdays always are. My sister and her daughter were in town -- a fine family diversion allowing me to drink until abandon. "Get your ass to a meeting," I told myself late last night after seeing my sister.

It was a long and uneventful drive to unfamiliar territory as I listened to the Kentucky and Kent State football game on the radio. The little college town of Lagrange greeted me as I drove past the city limits. It seems the AA meeting halls are always on the seedier side of towns though -- poor neighborhoods were the rent is cheap accommodating thrifty and less generous AA meeting goers. I had found directions on the Internet and luckily found the meeting hall on the first try -- an old Methodist church long abandoned by it's congregation and becoming home to a burgeoning group of ex-drunks. Self Help Harbor.

"Thanks for coming," several people told me as I passed the front door to shyly take my seat.

"Everybody ready for a meeting?" rang out at the top of the hour -- 8 p.m. I sighed relieved that I could now blend in and just listen for an hour unless they did the dreaded move of going around the room to speak.

We talked of admitting that we were powerless over alcohol. My natural inclination is to balk -- ashamed that a simple drink has control of my life, but it once and still does. Step one of the twelve steps. A seemingly simple step, but human will and ego doesn't want to allow you to admit you are powerless and helpless.

"I drank with abandon," one meeting goer said. "I had one drink and just couldn't quit. I knew then I was powerless over alcohol. It had me in it's grips."

His words rang out true to me. I couldn't have just one drink either. I had to have twenty or more until I was passed out or blacked out -- a scary proposition. It is a wonder I have any functioning brain cells left. I thought of the cold, wintry night that I had had a fight with Rachel, my ex-wife. I had just gotten a home after being homeless and drove drunk on my motorcycle. I don't even remember driving out of town. My next memory was lying on the road with a broken arm as I went off to jail.

"You sure you are okay?" the officer asked me as he drove me to county jail.

"I think so," I said from the backseat -- my pain blunted from the effects of over thirty beers.

It was a long night of lying on a dirty floor of a jail cell writhing in pain with a broken arm and shoulder. I will never forget a kind officer driving me to the hospital in the morning.

"Long night?" he asked as he handed me a cup of hot coffee that I could only hold with one hand.

"It was excruciating," I replied stifling back a tear.

I wanted to go home to my safe bed. I wanted my family.

"We are going to get you some help this morning and pain medications."

"My savior," I thought from the back of his patrol car as we drove across the county to the hospital.

The meeting finally ended. I felt loads better as I gathered my backpack and grabbed a list of meetings from the bulletin board. "Keep coming back," a young African American man said to me as he walked past and I smiled, standing there. "Yes," I thought. "Keep coming back." I want to be one of those shiny, happy people I met tonight enjoying life without having to do it drunk. My thoughts turned again to that cold and wintry night of lying on the highway, drunk, next to a broken motorcycle. I have so many reasons to "keep coming back."

A Festering Blight

I am sad to report that our local Alcoholics Anonymous group is about dead. I sat out last night in the late evening heat awaiting on people to show up for the Friday night meeting. A passel of black kids were playing basketball and dealing crack down the street -- the characteristic throng of passing and stopping cars a clue to this nefarious activity as the kids would run to a car to make a transaction and then shoot the hoops nonchalantly.   I watched on interested as I smoked my cigarillos and listened to Dr. Laura on the radio.

The court ordered AA members showed -- their rides bringing them due to the numerous driving under the influence charges.  A raggedy group of hard looking men formed outside the clubhouse.  One walked over to me to ask me a question...

"Got a cigarette?"

I handed him a cherry hinted cigarillo which he declined when he saw it.

"You waiting on these meetings?" he then asked.

"Yeah," I said. "It doesn't look like they are going to show, though."

"Man!" the guy protested. "I don't know what I am going to tell my parole officer."

He looked genuinely disheartened. I noticed his eyes were red and you could smell alcohol on his breath. I have often thought of these hardened court ordered men and wondered if these meetings are punishment or actually a deterrent to future crimes. I notice they never return after fulfilling their obligations to a judge or parole officer.

7 p.m. arrived and my hopes for an AA meeting were dashed. The group of men outside the clubhouse dispersed. I sat for a few more moments as I noticed an older black man in a powered wheel chair approaching being flanked by a very pretty and young white girl.  She had flowingly straight brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders and a nubile face -- she was dressed in the latest hip-hop fashion. 

"Shit," the girl said loudly and coarsely in ghetto speak. "I ain't got shit."

"You be havin' enough to drink on," the disabled black man said from his wheelchair wanting money.

"I've got to have my beer money, dawg," she replied as they disappeared past the throng of black boys playing basketball.

I watched on as more drama played out in this very poor and once very nice mill village. The ravages of crime, poverty, and substance abuse had taken their toll on the populace.  I felt out of place and as if I was an interloper in another world or microcosm.  I cranked up my car and drove home leaving that forlorn neighborhood behind -- back to my safe and white neighborhood just ten minutes away.  Maggie -- my cherub pup -- greeted me as if I had been gone for hours. 

"No show?" Rosa asked as I walked through the door.

"Yeah, no one showed except the court ordered guys," I replied.

"What 'cha thinking?" Rosa then asked at the consternated look upon my face.

"About how much that neighborhood has gone down," I replied. "That was my mother's childhood neighborhood and used to be so nice. Crime, poverty, drug dealing -- they were all playing out for me as I sat waiting for that meeting."

"You should have seen my old neighborhood when I lived in Atlanta," Rosa said. "It would really make you feel out of place."

I thought of how many people don't have safe and healthy living environments.  You are a product of your environment and neighborhoods such as I visited last night just breed trouble and are like a festering blight. "Economics," I thought. "Simple economics." The poor can't afford anything better -- forever caught in a vicious cycle that can be poverty and crime.    

A New Do

I have probably stated this before, but one of my biggest phobias is getting my haircut. I have gotten where I cut it myself and it looks like crap. Well, I have also been wanting to go to church and a nice haircut precludes this. The midday sun was beating down on this little southern town as I mustered up the courage to visit the barbershop.  I got tunnel vision as the swirling red, white, and blue barber's pole came into view. I grabbed the door handle and my life seemed to stop as I walked in and took a seat. Sweaty palms. Palpitating heart. I crossed my arms in self defense. 

"Have a seat in the chair," the barber said.

"Okay," I squeaked.

I took off my glasses, closed my eyes in fear, and let the barber go to work. It seemed like hours had passed when the barber said, "All done," and took off the apron.  I looked in the mirror and looked like a new man. I didn't realize how bad my hair had gotten in the past few months.

"Oh my gawd," Rosa said when I arrived home. "Take off your hat and let me have a good look at you."

I took off my omnipresent baseball cap and Rosa squealed with glee. 

"I can't believe you got up the courage to do that," she said as she hugged me. "I am so proud of you."

"I was so scared," I replied. "He stood so close to me. I could feel him breathing on me."

"Do you think you can do it again?" Rosa asked meekly.

"I wish I had Cheryl to cut my hair," I said tersely of my blogging friend. 

"Oh, don't go on about those online friends of yours," she replied. "You talk about them like you know them."

I laughed.

Much has happened this week. Instead of sitting around and waiting for life to happen, I have been getting out and making it happen.  Bright, sunny days are filled with a bright, sunny mind. Someone had asked on the blog if they thought that AA was making this big difference in me.  I would say God is working through me and making the BIG difference.  For the first time, I have a relationship with a higher power of my understanding and it feels awesome.  

Serenity in a Bottle

"You know," I told my father last night. "I thought I would never be this way, but I loved my day being so busy today."

"I'll trade your 'quiet' days for my busy days," dad replied.

I laughed and said, "No thanks."

I went to a lunchtime AA meeting which was good. I saw an old professor friend from my old place of employment and surprised him. I had no idea he struggled with drinking.

"Remember, the AA rule about anonymity," he told me, worried.

"Mum's the word," I replied, kindly.

We had a good time catching up with each other after the meeting. He, like me, had gone through much over the years since we last saw each other. Alcoholism will take your very soul if you let it.

Mom arrived after lunch.

"You need to go by the police department and take a copy of the accident police report to the insurance office," she said.

"Already done," I replied.

My mother was so relieved I was so johnny on the spot about that yesterday. Mom then wanted me and Rosa to go to the grocery store with her. We were the daring trio driving with mom to go to the Piggly Wiggly to pick up potato chips and sauer kraut for last night's hot dog supper. I used to work there and always get caught by my old boss talking. He wants me to come back to work in the produce dept. I said, "no thanks," yesterday again.

Mom then wanted to go by the bank to cash a check. We went by there and then drove over to Fat Albert's so Rosa could play the lottery and I could get my coveted weekly allotment of red hot pickled sausages. Mom eyed my sausages hungrily, but she is on a diet.

"Come on and try one," I told her. "They don't have that many calories."

Mom greedily tore into the package to eat the sausage.

"Gosh, these are delicious," Mom said. She was just starving.

I looked back at Rosa sitting in the backseat and smiled. I loved seeing my mother take satisfaction out of something I so enjoy.

The day ended with another AA meeting and our weekly hot dog supper. I watched the Saints vs. Colts game and went to bed. It was a horrible game to start the NFL season. I was so disappointed in the Saints -- my team.

This morning, I thought of my good friend Pipe Tobacco as I went for my early morning walk as he was probably doing the same. I listened to NPR, like him, as my mind wandered and the sights of the many neighborhoods drifted by. I was greeted by a beautiful sunrise and felt serenity for the first time in quite awhile. My mind was at peace with no evil voices, delusions, or paranoia. I said a little prayer thanking God for this rare moment in my life. I wished I could bottle that moment in life and sell it. I would be a very wealthy man, indeed.

Damn Ye! Ye Elderly Drivers!

It's funny what you will and wont share on your blog. I will blather all day about uncomfortable topics such as my mental illness or alcoholism, but shy away from mentioning something as simple as a car accident in which it wasn't my fault. Yes, I had a fender bender yesterday when an elderly lady who tore through a red light and hit me. My car only suffered minor damage, but the police wrote me a citation for not having current proof of insurance. I was sure I had those papers in my glove box, but couldn't find them. C'est lie vie as they say. It could have been a lot worse.

After the accident, I continued on with my plans to make it to that Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and was glad I did. It was a large and bustling group full of good folks and good conversation. Much coffee was drank and many tales of past deeds while drinking was shared.

"Hi, my name is Andrew and I am an alcoholic," I finally said, shyly.

"Hello, Andrew," the group responded.

"I almost didn't make it today due to an accident and I am glad I did. I believe it was an act of God and his will."

I felt so strange saying that about God. As if I had done something wrong or committed heresy. I didn't realize my lack of belief was so fervent and ran so strong. It was a very strong, emotional moment for me that I will remember for a very long time. I actually admitted to a group of people that I believed in God and it felt so... strange. I felt like the group wouldn't believe me and as if I was lying. It was very much akin to a spiritual moment and I had a small window of spiritual clarity and awakening. There is hope for me yet! Maybe I can wake up from this long slumber of spiritual darkness.

The evening found my mother over at the house. As I have often said, we use each other as our psychotherapists.

"Mom, do you dread things?" I asked her.

"Oh, something terrible," she said. "I have the biggest panic attacks having to go see your grandmother twice a week. She drives me crazy."

I laughed. My grandmother can drive the most mentally competent soul insane. I hate to say it, but I kind of resent her for the way she has treated my mother over the years and shy away from her.

"I dread things, too," I told her. "I got in the shower yesterday and thought I couldn't make it. I broke down crying and sat naked in the tub. I wondered how 'normal' people do it."

"Your father makes it look so easy, doesn't he?" mom asked.

"Yes, he does," I responded.

I gave my mother a big hug as she was stepping outside my door to leave.

"Thanks for being a mother and a friend," I told her.

"I love you and you hang in there. Let's hope it gets better," she replied.

Thus concludes my day.

One Big Day

It's not from too much drinking... anymore. At a certain point, towards the end of the week, someone will inevitably ask, "How was your week?" or "How was last weekend?" Small talk, mostly. Polite. Curt. Maybe they really want to know, but mostly I find it an accepted norm of social behavior. Those suffering from social anxiety miss these cues for conversation, or grow frustrated trying to keep up with them.

My days smear together without a job. Everyday feels the same were the weekend no longer has a certain significance. TGIF? What's that? I strive for TGIW, Thank God it's Wednesday, because that means the week is half done. I am tired of living just to pass the time. I thought that maybe I could fill up my days with Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but it is proving hard. I do have a lunchtime meeting that I can attend, but I am scared. It's new and different. Unfamiliar faces will stir that old nemesis of mine, social anxiety. What if I drove all that way and there is no one there? It is a lengthy drive. The Internet is fallible, you know. Can I manage to sit down in a room of all those strange people? I usually end up wanting to go bursting out of room to the safe confines of my car.

I remember my work days at the University. It was hard to get up, but I would drive that long drive without fail everyday. Breakfast would often be a couple of scrambled egg and cheese biscuits. A cup of coffee. I would always check my email when I got in my office -- usually enough to keep me busy for about an hour as coop members had questions or needed help. Research projects would then be worked on in the greenhouse. I was in charge of designing and building a timed irrigation system that only allowed more water depending on soil moisture. I felt busy. I felt productive. There was a purpose to my days.

The social anxiety grew worse though. I found myself shutting myself in my office all day afraid to come out. I would avoid all the other professors that worked with me. Paranoia. Delusions. Schizophrenia would take hold and I would design and invent grand schemes by my co-workers to oust me from my job. When I left, I just knew one professor was "out to get me." I was on a very low dosage of Risperdal at the time and it just wasn't working. I was too afraid to tell my psychiatrist or family because I fear they would put me in the hospital. It is amazing I held it together enough to get married.

So... back to that lunchtime meeting. Should I go? Should I face my fears and bite the bullet so to speak? I long to be with people who have experienced what I have in alcoholism. Rosa can have a beer on occasion and just doesn't understand. Right, let me go for my morning walk and get a shower and put on some nice clothes. I can do this...