First wrote 2019 – updated with suggestions from HA. It made it to final round of publication
Crossing the threshold of a former ‘Home from home,’ Vegas scans the room with a feeling akin of an uncomfortable school reunion. He walks to a shelf, picks up some paper and a pen, and pays no attention to the walls plastered with sporting newspapers. An old friend had phoned him earlier that day and mentioned a horse. Vegas had wrestled with his conscience ever since.
The voice in his head shouts, what chance really? It’s more than a long shot!
Half an hour earlier he’d left his weekly Gamblers Anonymous meeting brimming with excitement due to the intention of buying an engagement ring in the jewellers shop opposite this place. Vegas scratched his eyebrow with a pen, fixated on the betting slip, 14/1 against the heavy favourite in the big race. Leave before it’s too late, echoes the voice.
The door bursts open. All eyes view the interruption as two snivelling shit kickers accompany a lover of sun beds and Armani. Staring into him the group march to the roulette machine on the far side of the betting shop. Vegas holds his ground as a passing elbow wings him below the ribs.
The Armani Kid barks orders, forcing one of his stooges to the counter.
“You sure Tommy?” said the stooge.
“Place the bet thick shit.”
Momentarily Vegas’ memory flashes to a scene from way back; a universe from this place and that gaggle of shit stood at the slots, that big night when he earned his nickname. His 24-hours of fame at Caesars Palace, wasted on Dom Pérignon, cocaine, strippers and 70k to the good.
Meanwhile, the stooge hands the bookies assistant a roll of cash. She glances through the crowd straight into Vegas’ eyes; only for a split second, but he recognises it, fear mixed with something else: Respect!
A familiar voice breaks the stare.
“Is that really you?” says an old man.
“Yeah Colonel, it’s me. How are you?” asks Vegas.
Staring straight through him he replies,“Prostate cancer and malnutrition. Thanks for asking.”
Vegas’ smile disappears, his eyebrows narrow. “I’m sorry to hear that. You got a tip for the big race?”
The Colonel laughs, “Since when do you take tips from the likes of me?”
Vegas shrugs, “Its good to see you.”
“Where have you been? You’ve been a big miss round here.”
“Christ sake Colonel it’s only been a year.”
“A year without your wisecracks and company. Things haven’t been the same without you around,” the Colonel frowned.
“Sorry old friend I just had to make some changes, this doesn’t do it for me anymore.”
“Then why are you here?”
Vegas paused and seemed distant for a moment, “Not sure,” he replies, “I’ve being asking myself the same question.”
The Colonel continues, “20-years I’ve been coming here and the best times were with you.”
Vegas interrupts, “I’ve met somebody.”
“Someone special?” asks the Colonel.
Vegas’ smirk is accompanied by a wink, “If there’s anything further to report then you will receive an invitation by post.”
The Colonel looks unruffled, “The last invitation I got in the post was from the Palace.” He laughs then adds, “That will take some beating, but you my boy, are the man.”
He looks around the room and rests his eyes on the Armani Kid, “I notice you’ve met our rising star.”
“Who is he?”
“The new you.”
Vegas almost chokes, “Bullshit, don’t ever bury me dressed like that.”
“Things have changed while you’ve been away.”
“How come?” Vegas mutters.
“Drugs.” The Colonel nods towards the roulette machine, “They pimp that shit to kids, placing bets with someone else’s soul, took this place for 50k recently.”
“Nature of the business,” said Vegas while shrugging his shoulders.
A celebration breaks out at the roulette machine as the Armani Kid drops the Jackpot. The stooge who placed the bet at the counter bounces on the spot like Eminem, hollowing and whistling. Stooge number two is motionless; his eyes are everywhere at all times, he’s low on words and heavy on muscle. The Armani Kid stares at Vegas and smirks while nervous punters fidget.
“What’s his problem?” asks Vegas.
“You,” said the Colonel.
Vegas takes a second look at the shop assistant: Nice tits, greasy hair, bags under her eyes from too many late nights gripping the headboard. The stooge manages to interrupt his vision, he’s a slimy bastard wearing Stone Island jeans and Hugo Boss T-shirt. Handing the woman a ticket he begins to harass her as she calls for the manager; Vegas leans closer, trying to catch their conversation but struggles to hear as the TV announces runners and riders for the next race.
Glaring at Vegas, while moving towards the shops big screen, the Armani Kid shouts at the manager…
“Dave add these roulette winnings to what I’ve placed on ‘Bonsai Baby,’ write me a check if you’re short of cash.” He laughs as the colour drains from the managers face. Dave’s bottom lip begins to quiver, he bites down on it with his top teeth. The shop assistant notices, her hands tremble, she again looks at Vegas.
Moving towards the counter, Vegas asks, “How much?”
The assistant scans the room,“Excuse me sir?”
“Smart arse with the two clowns, what’s his stake in the next race?”
“We don’t need anymore trouble, it’s best you leave Mr Vegas.”
The assistant starts to scratch her arm. Vegas notices sweat break out on her forehead.
“Why, and how come you know my name?”
“Everyone knows your name.”
Her cheeks redden as she says, “Would you like to place a bet? Customers are waiting sir.” Lowering her eyes she whispers, “A grand at even money.”
An explosion of noise ignites the shop as Vegas watches from behind a crowd stood in front of the TV. The horse ‘Bonsai Baby’ crossed the line in first place. The Armani Kid and his two sidekicks erupt with revelry.
“This has been a mistake says Vegas,” as he reaches out a hand and the Colonel shakes it, “Keep me updated,” he says, watching his friend move towards the door.
“Leaving already, Mr Big Shot?” shouts the Armani Kid.
“What business is it of yours?”
The crowd stare, the Colonel backs away, lowers the peak of his cap and drops his eyes.
“I heard you were good at this. I’m guessing you got lucky, just the once eh?” The Armani Kid sneers.
Vegas shoots the him a look, “Get fucked.”
“You fancy a bet?”
“On what?”
The Armani Kid smiles; his sidekicks giggle.
“I’ll match whatever cash you’re carrying against that betting slip you’re holding onto.” He looks Vegas up and down, “Horse of my choosing of course.”
Vegas feels the notes bulge in his pocket, hard earned currency from months working a concrete pump, so many hours of overtime, an honest life and that special girl keeping a warm home for him to return to. He remembers the jeweller’s shop opposite the bookies and the ring in its window. After a year attending Gamblers Anonymous meetings, finding the girl of his dreams, and the camaraderie of working on a building site, his roots had grasped new soil. Still here he was. He wished he’d just went straight ahead and bought the engagement ring, yet something had triggered him. Hard to say what: Fear of commitment, wrong place at the wrong time, the temptation of cash, or doubts that he could keep this new way of life going and it would all just turn to shit sooner or later anyways. He’d explained to this special lady exactly who he used to be, held nothing back, and she loved him even more because of that. So what the fuck am I doing here he asked himself.
“Second thoughts,” he says to the Armani Kid. “The distance is wrong for my horse, I will pass thanks very much.”
His antagonist springs forward face to face, the stench of liquor on his breath, “Like I said, lucky that’s all.” He spins Michael Jackson style with arms punching skyward pronouncing victory. “All of it Dave, on ‘Click and Collect’ in the next race, plus the fifty large I took off you.”
“But but…” starts the manager.
“Less of the ‘but but’ you stuttering fuck this is still a bookies isn’t it? All of it and be quick man the horses are at the gates.”
And then it happens…
In a betting shop far from Las Vegas a group of men stand watching a horse race on TV, an old man known by the name of ‘The Colonel’ raises the peak of his cap, leans into the wall and lights a cigarette, a shop assistant stares at an individual watching from way back. Eleven horses complete the first lap. Four fell attempting the fences. Punters scream as the horses attack the second loop. The manager grips his chest and falls to the floor as the counter shutters screech, lower, and lock into place. 6/4 favourite ‘Click and Collect’ heads the field at the final fence, leaping safely with 100-yards to go. The frantic crowd roar as the TV camera zooms out on one horse making a last dash. Brutally the rider deploys the whip. The horse gains ground.
“Open these damn shutters bitch,” the Armani Kid yells, “I swear I will carve you up.”
“What happened?” said Vegas. He chucks a crumpled betting slip at him, “Thought you were good at this.” Smiling he adds, “See what you could have won.” It reads – 14/1 the winner ‘Resurrection’.
A shriek echoes. The door handle turns.
“Good luck with this kid. You’ll need it.” Vegas crosses the street and finally walks into the Jewellers. He never looks back.
“Unless it comes bursting out of your soul like a rocket – Don’t do it Unless being still would drive you to madness, suicide, or murder – Don’t do it
When its truly time and you’ve been chosen it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you
There is no other way and there never was.” – So ride that fucking tiger! (Paraphrase – Charles Bukowski).
Some time has past since I started my memoir. For those who don’t know, a memoir is a snapshot of life, a period, a character arc of conflict where the protagonist walks into a storm, faces the antagonist and comes out changed.
In some ways, as short or long as that is, it sums up the whole of creation and expansion of the universe. After all what’s the difference between 9 billion years and 9 months if it all mirrors the same universal truth?
The beauty of writing a memoir is its non linear format. You can write a scene from any section of that period and piece them all together later in the editing process. The difficulty being is its so tempting to write what’s raw rather than waiting for some space to find an element of emotional detachment. I made that mistake in the last chapter that I wrote about 3 months ago. I was left feeling like I had took a sledgehammer to the ribs and had no other option than to walk away for a while. More experienced writers suggested journalling for reference so that when the time is right to start again, get off the stool, get up and go another round you will be fully prepared. I didn’t at that point have the strength, and in honesty kept myself way too busy with other distractions.
Nobody wants to read a misery memoir and I have no intention of writing one. So if this post suggests an element of self pity, then I in no way apologise. If you don’t like it then fuck you. Go do something else; take a walk, have a wank, or metaphorically blow your brains out with the TV remote. At this moment in time I don’t give a fuck either way. I have 60 mils of Diazepam racing through my system and this is my attempt to make sense of how that happened –
“It’s inconceivable, but even at its worst life is beautiful. I have to tell you this, and this is spiritual, I had to be beaten into submission. It didn’t happen overnight, I had to go to hell for this. It’s all about loss, my gain is all about loss. Life is about loss. As time goes on we lose fights, we lose people we love, we lose our hair, and then we lose our life. But through all these loses we learn so much. You know what this means? And this is spectacular – it means you’re favoured by God. But when you’re favoured by God you’re also favoured by the devil. He loves you too and he’s coming for you, and he will give you power. But you gotta be strong and stay on the right side. Whose side are you gonna choose? You stay with the one who brought you here, you gotta go home with the guy who brought you to the dance. If you don’t believe it, you’re gonna find out. Believing it is the way you worship Him. You’re God’s creation. You disrespect yourself then you don’t disrespect God’s creation, you disrespect God. If you love God then you gotta love yourself, you have to believe in yourself, you’re here for a purpose. You think this is a fluke? That you’re here by osmosis?
You’re the prize, why do you think you’re on this road? This is what the road is all about. Be an annihilator of doubt, you gotta kill it, kill it, kill it till it’s dead. Give God His gratitude. Thank Him for your skin, your breath, your victories and loses, thank Him for your mother and those who put you in this situation. Thank Him for who you are. And who are you? Why are you here? What’s your purpose? The past doesn’t dictate you. It’s all about the now, that’s the path you must walk!” – MikeTyson.
In the pure brilliance of these words I thank those that brought me here, not to the dance, but to this snapshot: The woman who betrayed me in her sickness and cost me my career, I thank my son’s mother for trying to murder him, I thank the social worker who left me an ultimatum, I thank my past that brought me to submission and opened up a whole new world. I thank my son for filling me with the terror of planning his funeral, and I thank the man who slipped me some Benzos 18 months ago when I was unable to get off the stool and go another round. I thank God for my loses. I thank those who came heaven sent; strangers who supported my son and opened doors that he chose to walk through and the miraculous changes in his life that these brought, I thank the Marine Corps that 30 years later have opened a door for me when my doctor refused outright to sign a script to taper me from a hell that posed as heaven when I didn’t have the strength to hit the beachhead running. Im grateful for the intense suffering that they now bring and the God that suffers and rejoices with me. I thank Him for the comeback He has planned for me if I only dare trust him with ALL (everything in there: Hopes, Fears, Ambitions, Desires, Love, and even Hate) my heart.
Im grateful that I know how the memoir ends. If that interests you in the slightest then you will have to wait and buy it. Im grateful that I still don’t know the middle but that’s down to ‘Mysterious Ways’ and Ive learned to expect a curve ball every now and again. But in my heart I know no matter how long remains before reaching the clearing at the end of the path, the shutter is starting to close on this snapshot. The path I must walk now is reclaiming the piece of my soul I traded to be where we are NOW. I have to go into the storm and face the demon. However that turns out, it will bring change. My past experience confirms this.
This is the universal truth I spoke of at the beginning. I have to find my own way. My son is awake and moving in his own direction that fills my heart with so much pride that even if this process was to kill me I’d still feel it was worth it.
I have a spoken a lot lately with people who I originally found it hard to communicate with. That also is a gift from “I am that which who I am.” The empathy, understanding, compassion, and support of these brave souls have opened a whole new door. On the other hand my heart breaks knowing I must close the door to some that no longer serve a purpose. The most recent conversation I had with my long term AA Sponsor left him telling me “Why don’t you just stop taking them?” Well apart from the last time I did that I never slept an instant in 8 days, became completely agoraphobic, was took hostage by a level of anxiety that transcends any understanding, then punched my son through a fire door, breaking his teeth and the door in question before running round the shop and coming home with a bath tub size portion of hard liquor. This event leaving social services close to removing him into care and ditching us in a worse place than where we started.
I ended that conversation with him thinking “Cunt!” When was the last time someone told him to just stop? Was that the time he got suspended from work, then showed up drunk and assaulted the manager, tormented and terrified his ex partner, got arrested and placed in the psych ward before accepting a whip round from AA members to go to a private rehab, then left because he thought he was better than those with a real reason to be at that treatment centre (They couldn’t just stop). What about the time he had me terrified thinking he was about to throw himself under an oncoming train while I had my hand unknown to him 2 inches from his waistband to drag him back should he make a leap for the tracks. Self-righteous bullshit is all I need after what feels like I’ve been kicked through the gates of hell. No resentment, I love him and always will, but any fucker who speaks to me like they are reading from some script card when I’m desperately reaching out for help can go fuck themselves from now on.
On a more positive note I spent a couple of hours yesterday with an amazing woman who was instrumental in turning my life around ten years ago as I battled with early recovery from alcoholism. The debt I owe her can never be repaid.
Also a video call with the most beautiful soul I’ve ever encountered talking about his optimistic albeit realistic battle with pancreatic cancer. His problems make mine seem as serious as standing in dog shit.
Never lose Hope
“Focus on me not the storm” ~ The Carpenter
“I took a little journey to the unknown and came back different I can feel it in my bones, I fucked with forces that the eyes can’t see, now the darkness got a hold on me” ~ Lord Hutton
“You have caused men to ride over our heads; we went through fire and water, yet you brought us out into a place of abundance” ~ Psalm 66:12 (Ollie).
When I first said the words I wasn’t sure they’d be heard, But on bended knee I voiced the first line And offered myself to thee, Life progressed and I learned new skills free from the bondage of self will, By osmosis I soon understood that to be truly free I must become the change I want to see, Build with me, do with me as thou will, at times felt like an insurmountable hill, Take my difficulties as witness to those I would guide, left my brain from time to time deeply fried, The journey has been arduous with moments of pure joy. The older I get I need to remind, I’m still your boy, still your child, Looking back you’ve held me to my word, My prayer indeed was surely heard, This pledge I made, the deal is done, An example of your way of life, power, and love, I have become, My daily practice handed down to others, like father to son, So one day at a time on bended knee, I offer you my will, my life, knowing we take it serious, both you and me. And you to your eternal word are true, Another 24 hours without death’s rendezvous, A life adventure I couldn’t foresee That very first time on bended knee.
“Everything you want is on the other side of fear.” ~ Jack Canfield.
“Even in the midst of devastation something within us points us on the way to freedom.” ~ Sharon Salzberg
“Today I felt the prompt to re-read the Book of Joy.” ~ Ollie B
My first conscious awareness of my unconsciousness took place in a rundown mining community sometime back in the early ‘70s. A shit hole of a place – it still is. The streets back then were reminiscent of a scene from peaky blinders and I still remember the smell of the outside toilet and the day the wall just gave up the ghost and collapsed while I was sitting there emptying my guts. A riveting place. One that holds the record for the most lottery winners and murders of all the estates in my home town. I guess life has its way of balancing things out.
Growing up there was interesting to say the least but nothing more grabbed my attention than one particular event. An event of the mind that follows me to this day.
On the day in question, I was a young kid, and had just stepped across the safety threshold of the home. Out into the street unaccompanied for the first time. I experienced what I assume Captain Kirk would expect after giving the order – “Warp speed Mr Sulu,” where for some reason everything just sped up. It was like some fucked up acid trip where noise and colour intensified and all faces turned in my direction and appeared to melt in the burning heatwave of that incredibly hot summer. The reality surrounding the event was very different; the kids in the street continued to blast the ball at some fat lad who had been designated goalkeeper and stood between a pair of jumpers that served as makeshift goalposts, residents of the street went about their day to day business, including my neighbour who made a living fixing cars in the street before been exposed as the ‘Fox’- the Public Enemy number one that year, who took his pleasure stalking couples the length and breadth of the country before raping them at gunpoint in the comfort of their own homes. He also liked to fly kites. While a few yards further down my school friend’s brother decided to see how many times he could ram the coal fire poker through his grandmothers rib cage before slicing her throat. Maybe I had a vague idea this was not a normal environment to pitch a tent but then again none of this had anything to do with the event in question. What really happened that day was something shook me by the kneecaps and grabbed my attention, something that freaked me the fuck out, something I will never forget: I heard a voice. A challenge. No way a psychotic episode, more like a drill instructor barking orders about holding my shoulders back, stand up straight, fill that shirt, and ‘stay focused fuckwit’ you have now entered the danger zone. And this voice was mine. Hyper critical, never encouraging, kind or loving, and it was seemingly incapable of highlighting anything positive regardless of the environment or any surrounding situation. I spent my entire life attempting to hide from that voice while remaining convinced it was only me who could hear it. The more I hid from it, the easier it found me, the more I tried to drown it with drink and drugs the stronger it swam.
As time passed the impact of this voice had a profound effect on my experiences. Educational psychologists labelled me a troubled kid with a desire for attention, Judges condemned me as a violent upstart who would benefit from the ‘Short, sharp shock treatment’ of detention centres, the military wrote me off as a social hand grenade, wives and partners where quick to click on to my insecurities and somewhere amongst the clusterfuck of all this I lost the ability to discern which voice was my authentic self.
Decades later after getting sober this almost split personality, a possession of sorts, really came to the forefront of my thinking. It seemed to get louder and demanded devotion. I wanted to beat it. Recalling the bad choices I had made in my drinking while tuning into radio chaos I was determined to be shot of it once and for all. I heard phrases in Alcoholics Anonymous like, “I came for my drinking and stayed for my thinking.” But the longer I stuck around the more I witnessed it’s power in myself and others.
The celebrated psychologist Carl Jung had different ideas. A brilliant man who played second fiddle to Freud because of humans natural tendencies to look for a quick fix, something tangible that provides an ability to control the mind rather than hold a healthy fascination with something unfathomable. Jung understood this was part of who we are. He called it ‘The Shadow Self.’ It’s pertinent to note that in the book of Genesis when Caine murdered his brother, God placed a mark of protection on him, forbidding any harm come his way. Like his parents he was an outcast but unlike them he had only his shadow for company. And off he set on a trudge through the sludge amongst the ‘Valley of depression.’ All great men have great demons. In periods of growth I have come to understand my greatest antagonists are my greatest teachers. This is something I’m quick to forget with each new season of suffering as I march through the badlands with my shadow as my companion. That fucka always whispers what I don’t want to hear or face about myself, only later do I realise it speaks the truth. It’s in the process of separating the wheat from the chaff that I become confused and disturbed as I work through that process along with the insane conviction that this time all that I view as negative will remain permanent on this occasion. How many times must I fall for that bullshit.
The Buddha said “Everything you think, you will become.” That used to scare me. I went through some pretty intensive psychotherapy to deal with the horrors my head would tell me and the intense fear that one day I would snap and go ahead and carry out their warped instructions. I now believe that God blessed me in the same way he did Caine – Nothing shall hurt me.
The way I understand things now; the mark of Caine, the ‘Shadow Self’, is nothing other than the experience of those who have gone to their depths, uncovering an indwelling Presence. It is a deep and loving “yes” inherent within us. Christian theology names this inner Presence as the Holy Spirit, which is precisely God as immanent, within, and even our deepest and truest self.
Let’s get current – 14 months ago I went through a life changing experience. I was sacked from work, a job of prestige that played games with my ego. My alcoholism had manifested into workaholism, and now having been shown the door, I immediately had a teenager thrust into my care. Not my first choice if I’m honest. I guess my greatest subconscious fear has always been to find myself somewhere around middle aged and just about washed up while stood toe to toe with the mirror image of my younger self. Think ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.’ It quickly became a war of attrition while my 6th & 7th Steps promptly put the dogs in the kennels, locked down the house, and headed off for sunnier climates. My character defects decided the party had been postponed for too long.
The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous states “Some of us tried to hold onto our old ideas and the result was nil until we let go absolutely.” I tried to manage an unmanageable situation, control something that wasn’t controllable by me. I was quickly smashed in the face by my own shadow. This left me with the illusion of been hurt and I blamed my son for the pain. Quickly forgetting my shadow can’t hurt me, it’s job is to shake me by the kneecaps and say “ You’re bimbling through the danger zone again motherfucker.’ Things only started to improve when I decided it wasn’t down to me how the boy interacted with his own shadow. My job is to do as my AA Sponsor reminds me – ‘Don’t fight with it, dance with it.’
The act of surrender is a beautiful thing. Though I’ve learned to expect immediate improvements when doing so, I also understand it’s longevity is based on daily repetition. Things have improved massively, God will do for us what we can’t do for ourselves. May I do my best to remember that my shadow prefers to dance rather than box but if I again find myself asleep with my thumb up my arse it will not hesitate to wake me up with a swift smack in the mouth rather than hold my hand for another tap dance through the 12 Step fandango. A tough but valuable lesson to learn. I fully expect more will be revealed.
“Whatever is hidden away will be brought out into the open, and whatever is covered up will be found and brought to light.” – Luke 8:18
“For him who confesses, shams are over and realities have begun; he has exteriorised his rottenness. If he has not actually got rid of it, he no longer smears it over with a hypocritical show of virtue” – William James.
“If you cannot bring peace to your own household, how dare you try and rule a city?” – Jordan Peterson.
“The heroes main feat is to overcome the monster of darkness: it is the long- hoped-for and expected triumph of consciousness over unconscious. And so God said “Let there be light.” – Carl Jung.
When I wake up my head throbs. It vibrates with the noise the beast has made in my dreams. Him and his cronies hold band practice while I snooze! Though I go to bed ‘Fully Recovered’, I come too with ‘Full blown Alcoholism.’ I accept this now. It was different at the start – 10 years ago! I then hoped for a cure, that it was just a phase, early recovery; in time it would get better – No such luck! Sarah Blondin (Live Awake) says, “We surrender to the night and sink into stillness. We rest. We sleep. But first we put aside our heavy mental baggage on the bedside table.” I get to choose whether to pick it straight up and carry on where I left it, feeding negativity, calling forth insanity, starting the day needing a drink… whether I take one or not, or… I can pray! Thanking God for including me on His wake up list again today, asking for guidance and the knowledge of His will for me and the power to carry that out. Coffee, tobacco, writing, and meditation – Peace! When I wake up I seek peace! As it is written, “Seek and you will find.” When I wake up… I find what I’m looking for.
“When I write.”-
As in writing, as in life: I sit down to the page bringing two writers to the fore! The battle rages between the realist and the perfectionist! Where as in Alcoholism ISM = I Separate Myself, Writerism ISM = I Suspend Myself. I’m suspended between the realistic desire to get words down on the page; fuck how it looks, sounds, or the style that shapes it. Just get the damn thing down John. This is the birthing process of the art. Not meant to be pretty, just a fucking mess of shit, piss, and blood; I pause to catch my breath and let the odd tear roll down my cheek – all the while perfectionism demands to count fingers and toes. I battle to remember that this is meant to be fun and creative. Just a beginning. The work comes alive in the second draft, the editing process. It’s there that I get to cut the adverbs. I don’t ‘Hit Hard’ my pen is ‘Concusive’, my prose stops sounding ‘Powerfully Written’ it becomes ‘Explosive’. No more ‘Thrilling Orgasm’, more like a suicide bomber at ‘Detonation’, cutting the reader in half. Shit dumped I take a break. I return to the page bringing both personalities to the review stage. Slowly the Realist volunteers the keyboard to the Perfectionist. As in life, as in writing – it’s all about multiple personalities. The second guy gets the joy of 2-3-1 Re-writing each paragraph, starting with the second most powerful sentence, hiding the weakest statement in the middle, then leading the reader headfirst into the shockwave of the final clause, desperate to find out what comes next. When I write I wrestle with these two personalities – Yin & Yang. Neither win nor loose. Both need each other. And in that: I no longer need to Separate Myself.
“Why do I meditate?”
Many reasons! Ultimately one above all else. The eleventh Step ‘Suggests’ – “We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him.” The key word is ‘Conscious’ – In early days I was taught that the opposite of addiction is connection, but this is only half the story. Throughout my drinking I separated myself. But separation is an illusion, a fantasy, it has no bearing on reality. My first thoughts as a kid were “I’m different.” My insides didn’t match what I saw on others’ outsides. I dreamed of being somebody else: Strong, confident, and comfortable. In my head there was me ‘Over here,’ and the rest of the world ‘Over there.’ Attempting to describe the shitshow that followed from that early age is too much of a long story. I was prone to violent outbursts followed by periods of disassociation. I chased excitement that always left me empty. I was never still, never present. Never here in my body, always somewhere else in my mind. Consequences came quick and hit hard leaving the feeling it was me against the world. Nobody could help me, though many tried. Then I found alcohol along with others who had found it too. For some time this worked – Connection! Anybody who didn’t fit inside that box was ignored, rejected, or assaulted. Progression progressed, leaving me heavily isolated as my 30’s turned to 40. I was lost and defeated. The beast that lives inside my head challenged me to suicide on a daily basis! The story is both dark and exciting but in reality it is disturbing. It was a process of euthanasia on an instalment plan. Then one night I screamed at God – “If you fucking exist you better fucking help me or I’m fucked.” – Still the most honest prayer I’ve said to this day. I’ve come to believe that God listens to authenticity. He doesn’t answer 999 hoax calls. Recovery found me, the end of isolation began, I connected with others, those typical of the type I would normally cross the street to avoid. I felt connected. Something resembling that first drink I took as a child fired up inside me. I was comfortable in my own skin. Though I have friends in every meeting on the planet – We are 2 million strong, I remain alone. For I am a Spiritual Warrior on a quest; it’s Me vs Me everyday. I connect to check in with others, seek guidance and share experience. This gives me hope. The hope to stay awake, not to go back to sleep: Tuning into ‘Radio John’ where DJ Taz plays the songs of my nightmares. So I meditate to remain ‘Conscious’ to the silent voice that answered that prayer. You see, wherever I AM, God is!
If I’m lost in the past He is somewhere long behind; if I race into the future I loose sight of Him in the distance. But if I’m here and now He is right here with me – “Be still and know that I Am God.” So in stillness I find Him. Because that’s where I left Him. Shunryu Suzuki said, “The only Zen you will find at the top of the mountain is the Zen you took up there with you.” On this mountain called life God whispers, “Take my hand, we will climb it together.” Alone but never alone – I meditate to remain ‘Conscious’ of that fact.
“Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee. You can’t hit what your eyes don’t see.” – Muhammad Ali
“The most important things are the hardest things to say.” – Stephen King
“I have heard of You by the hearing of the ear but now my eye sees You.” – Job 42:5
I have a desire to write. It’s been that way since 2015 when I took on a Winston Churchill Memorial Trust Travelling Fellowship to the United States. I would document each day the details of my visits to various American Homelessness Services and send out a blog each evening. The blog was a success, and I got massive positive feedback regarding it. Due to my obsessive nature, I wouldn’t go to bed each evening until I wrote, edited, and posted the latest piece on line. I recall after a long Subway ride from visiting a Homeless Veterans Accommodation Project way up in the North Bronx – NYC, writing and completing the blog on the train back to my appartment. All done on my iPhone. The desire was strong. It fuelled me creatively as well as spiritually. I recognised that this was good for me. Writing awakens common sense; emptying the nonsense my head creates. It helps join the dots when things fuck up beyond all recognition. I need to do more of it. The problem been the desire itself. The desire must burn strong. That desire hits the tarmac when fear tears into my consciousness, or unconsciousness depending on your viewpoint: See the late great Charles Bukowski’s (Poet Laurette of Skid Row) understanding of this annexed* at the end of this post – below the quotes.
Anyhow, with a burning desire once again, I punch holes in the keyboard as the power of the latest shitstorm subsides…
Seven months have passed since my last post. At that point I had hoped things might have settled by now and that they would sweep the horizon with breathtaking vistas. Self delusion: One of my character defects; I’m a skilled tradesman with that Motherfucka.
“The road is our home,” said Jerónimo Nadal, one of the early companions of St Ignatius – founder of the Jesuits (God’s Marines, or ‘The Company’ as they prefer to call themselves). Ive recently came to a place of acceptance that this road I’m travelling now is home and it will remain that way, like it or not, for some time to come. Halle fucking lujah! Pushing against that understanding, fighting it with all my might, whilst praying and willing things to be different, drove one foot back into the Cuckoo’s Nest (again).
My Step 1 shoots out of the window not when I forget I’m Powerless over Alcohol, rather when I ignore the second half of that Step, which reminds me Life has become unmanageable (with or without a drink). Let me point out that by Life I mean the force going off inside this Human Vehicle I trudge around in. Not the events and circumstances that make up my daily experience.
There are many excuses for taking a drink (I can list a couple of thousand that I’ve used over the years), but as a an alcoholic who fully appreciates one drink is too many whilst a zillion is never enough, there is never one good solid reason to reach for the bottle. Not considering the intense mental torment that always follows, closely by the total inability to leave it alone until the fish finally breaks free from the hook. Some never do. I’m aware that one day that could easily be me. Only by God’s grace have I received another chance time and again. It has absolutely fuck all to do with me. Left to my own devices I would carry on drinking after suicide.
So what happened this time to allow an uncomfortable skin to embrace my skeleton? Leaving me with no effective mental defence against the first drink…
In my last post ‘Insanity Restored’ I described my suspension from work followed by dismissal from the Service; how I then took on my son (a young man with multiple and complex issues) to prevent his removal by Children’s Services, making a new home for us both, and my struggle to adapt to such a colossal lifestyle change at over 50 years old. I noted how things imploded after a period, followed by relapse into addictive behaviours. Some hope for an improved future was the undercurrent of that script.
Much has happened since then. I guess if you’re reading this you may think, ‘So fucking what? Much has happened to everybody!’ If that’s the case – Fuck you! Write your own blog!!!
This is the third time I’ve lived on this council estate. First when my now 30-year-old son was an infant, and the last time I left here was 15 years ago to begin a very brief marriage to my youngest son’s mother. I could be super spiritual and empathetic, blaming myself for the failure of both those relationships. Truth is: My drinking destroyed two perfectly unworkable associations. When I’m sick I attract sick women. It never ends well. Who would have guessed?
Little by slowly I began to realise that this estate I’ve built a home in, which has always had its fair share of social issues not unlike any other council estate in this part of the world, has become an open air lunatic asylum. Take a guess who stepped up to the plate and decided to make it his own – like McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – If you guessed my head banging upstart teenage son then check out the big brains on you. Sorry, no prize. This ain’t a quiz show.
Drugs, Violence, Intimidation, Family Feuds, Damaged Properties on full display, Turf Wars and other less than pleasant tomfoolery abound throughout each street. Although I hold my head high and walk like I own the place, his involvement in the negative activities of the neighbourhood has the capacity to attach my anxiety to the next space programme. His ‘choice’ of peer groups takes me back to my early days on the planet, which again leaves much to be desired.
The boy was recently diagnosed with ADHD –Inattentive (formerly known as ADD) along with a learning disability. That aside he is as street wise as some slum dog on the streets of Mumbai. No school will touch him – ‘Needs unsuitable for this one, his needs too complex for the next one.’ Three times a week he goes out with a bunch of ex-soldiers for 4 hours and participates in survival skills and outdoor adventures. I’m very proud of him, though he has a natural ability to drive me nuts. I’m working on that and slowly getting better. Progress not perfection. How could he possibly understand that he has without any intention dragged me back into a cave I nearly died fighting my way out of. How could he know that his behaviour resembling me at my worst freaks me the fuck out? How could he know? Nobody knows what it is that they don’t know.
His drug abuse is a concern. I struggle badly with it. When it’s just cannabis, I can roll with that. When he comes home off his lips on whatever Class A substance is doing the rounds that week I find it hard to hold my tongue. Hold it I must, otherwise he just looks me in the eye and denies all questions on the matter. One time late last summer this led to the sweetest punch I’ve thrown in a long time, sending all 5.8 feet and 13 stone of him through a door with busted teeth. I’m not proud of this. It was a punch thrown intuitively out of fear. Though I must admit it felt good for a moment or two.
Earlier in that summer, it briefly felt like we were turning a corner. We spent four days with my oldest son’s former boxing coach and his dog at their caravan in the Lake District. The boy and dog were inseparable. For a few days my then 14-year-old lad seemed to have regained his childhood.
On the back of this we returned home and I bought a dog. Without a shadow of a doubt one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made.
A 12 week old English Bull Terrier we named ‘Cassius’ (Helmeted Gladiator).
. We drove to Wales to collect him. It was love at first sight. For the first couple of weeks the boy and Cassius were devoted to each other but as soon as the pup started to grow in size and power my wayward child disappeared for six weeks. When I say disappeared I mean took up residence in the nearest crack den. He would return home for 10 minutes every other day looking filthy and disheveled. The dog missed him badly and attacked me twice when he heard me arguing on the phone with my son. When we passed the drug house on walks it took every ounce of strength I had to stop Cassius running headfirst through the door. He could smell the boy from outside the block of flats. My heart broke. Eventually, the ex-soldiers reported back to his previous school (where he is still on their register as they fund the alternative provision) that the boy had missed sessions and I was drunk when they came to collect him. Social Services and the Police turned up and are still involved today. It all got too much and after 4 months of watching an incredibly beautiful and intelligent animal grow I returned Cassius to the breeder. I hit the drink hard and chased it with Valium and Xanax. In no time at all I was the craziest fuckwit this side of the Mississippi. I have never felt so distant from God and the Fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous. Everyone knew I was in deep shit and contacted me daily. To be honest, I felt inconvenienced by them. I know they love me and just wanted to help but I was hell bent on self-destruction. Driven by a hundred forms of fear, I fell prey to my mind; when I’m in my mind I’m in serious trouble. Often you hear people say “I’m out of my mind, I’m losing it.” The reverse is true with me. My mind is like a bad neighbourhood, not safe to enter without automatic weapons. The Steps, and especially the disciplines of Steps 10,11, & 12 have given me peace and freedom from that but they don’t mean shit without a thorough effort in working the previous nine.
The basis of a first Step grants me acceptance of a problem I have no control over that not only feeds my addictive behaviours but creates an inner unmanageability. Step 2 leads me to a believe in a Power Greater than myself (that I choose to call God) that could and would restore me to sanity (Insanity and unmanageability are synonymous). Step 3 encourages me to seek that Power while the fourth Step identifies what blocks me from the God of my own understanding (self, self, and more self – not my son, he’s just doing what he does). So I went back to basics after many others who have walked this path beside me told me what I already knew. I just couldn’t do it for a period. It wasn’t that I couldn’t just let go it was more a case I couldn’t stop squeezing tighter. I attempted to micromanage a teenager with his complex issues, hoping he would improve just to make me feel better. Not only is that an unrealistic expectation, it is self-centredness to the core (the real route of all addictions). This all proved challenging beyond description. I was in severe Benzo withdrawal alongside alcoholic poisoning.
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There was nowhere else to go. I returned to basics. Started attending meetings again. Got vulnerable and shared my honest truth. Started picking up the phone every morning and texting other members of the fellowship and phoned at least one of them each day. I was coming out of a 4-day period of constant insomnia and agoraphobia, which in itself was a nightmare of the sickest quality. A mental torment that had me dripping with panic attacks and wired with hyper vigilance during daylight hours. My understanding of “- life had become unmanageable” (the second part of the first Step) increased tenfold. I knew more than ever I needed the support of others. My false illusion that I had become an ‘Oldtimer’ in the programme, a legend in my own head, fed by the miraculous changes and wonderful experiences the programme has blessed me with (We suddenly realised that God could do for us what we could not do for ourselves.), was smashed. The fellowship loved me back to sanity. I was at Step 3 within a week and immediately started a 4th Step. This took on the form of Mark Manson’s “The subtle art of not giving a fuck journal.” Unlike previous AA suggested styles of 4th Steps I’ve took, this one focused on the major problem in my current life and how to move through it. A revelation. I took my time, been honest and concise, completing it in a week. I’m now waiting for my sponsor to find a day’s gap in his work shift pattern so I can share a 5th Step with him. Then I will carry on with the rest of the 12 Steps immediately.
Then, amongst all this work on myself, not my son, the miracle showed up. Apart from him getting arrested 3 times in as many weeks for violent offences, he started to take an interest in life outside of drugs. Still using, but noticeably less, he began to attend the boxing gym twice a week with myself and his big brother
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We are back to sitting down for an evening meal at the dining room table each night. He comes home at a sensible hour. He’s sharing honestly again with me, albeit it some things I’d rather not know but I force myself to pause and respond from a place of compassion rather than react like a Sergeant-Major.
Step 11 (Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for ME and the power to carry that out) has been invaluable each and everyday. I can feel my grip loosen a little more on a daily basis and letting go has brought us closer. Part of Prayer for me includes reading on all things Spiritual written by those that have trod this path longer than me. Some who are no longer with us. The celebrated Psychologist Carl Jung describing our automatic responses arising from the unconscious mind. His writing to Bill W (co-founder of AA) led me to a letter Bill wrote to the AA Grapevine magazine in 1958 on Emotional Sobriety. It has been a game changer for me. Here is a link to that letter should you be interested –
Are we out of the woods yet? No fucking way Jose –
Am I loving life again? Absofuckinlutely!!
Till next time – D&O n Fresno
“Run and tell all of the angles this could take all night, think I need a devil to help me get things right,” ~ Foo fighters: Learn to fly.
“Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.” ~ Carl Jung.
“A champion is someone who gets up when he can’t.” ~ Jack Dempsey.
“How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me remove the speck from your eye’; and look, a plank is in your own eye? Hypocrite! First remove the plank from your own eye, then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” ~ Matt 7:3-5
(This post’s title is a paraphrased quote from St Teresa of Avila 1515 – 1582).
Down & Out in Fresno 