| Monday May 8, 2000 Saturday Jeffrey changed his plans so we didn’t go to the beach for the
afternoon. I still wanted to do the sunset, so I took the bus later.
Our usual beach is at Durand-Eastman
Park. We like it specifically because it’s less popular since there are no
“improvements”. You’ve got to climb down a bank through trees and
undergrowth to get to it. Once there, there’s nothing but sand, water and bugs.
Unfortunately it’s about a mile walk from the nearest bus line. No sidewalks either.
I didn’t relish the thought of walking a mile on the side of the road in the dark.
The #1 Park Ave bus runs right down to the corner of Lake Ave and Beach Ave at the
water’s edge in Ontario Beach Park in Charlotte. (Say it “sha-LOT” and
you’ll sound like a local!) Park Ave is only a block from my apartment so I
don’t even have to transfer or anything. Still, it’s nearly an hour’s ride
including the layover downtown.
I haven’t been to Ontario
Beach Park in years so it was interesting to see the improvements the county has made
in the past few years. They’re converting all the old warehouses in the Port of
Rochester along the river into commercial buildings for shops, restaurants and a museum.
They’ve put in a new marina and tons of new parking.
Eventually part of the port may be used for a terminal for the proposed fast-ferry to
Toronto. I think the idea of a ferry is cool, but I don’t think it’s well
thought out financially. Last I heard they were planning to charge $145US for the
90-minute trip. You can drive it in three hours for under $20US in gas, (even at the
current prices.) No matter how cool it may be, I think $125 extra is a bit much. (Unless
it comes with dinner, drinks and a blowjob.) Fortunately, the funding was killed in the
state budget last week, which may give the bean counters time to think about it.
Anyway, the park itself has really been whipped into shape. There’s all new lighting,
pavilions, sidewalks, a bandstand and they’ve put in a boardwalk. The old beach
house. which dates from the 1920s, has been renovated and they moved the concessions from
the old concession stand at the foot of Lake Ave to the beach house. Volleyball nets have
been installed across the boardwalk from the concessions and basketball courts have been
put in behind.
The boardwalk parallels the lake about 50 yards from the waterline running from the west
end of the park to the river at the east end. Lawn, trees and “improvements” are
on the south side, sand and water are on the north. (Remember, we’re on the North
Coast here.) A railing limits beach access to three or four spots, each with a gazebo and,
interestingly, and wheelchair ramp.
My first thought was, why is that there? I mean have you ever tried to push a stroller in
sand? Or bicycle? It’s damned near impossible because the wheels sink in the sand. I
can’t imagine it with a wheelchair. My thoughts were confirmed by my observations of
a half-dozen wheelchair-bound people who never strayed down to the beach. Still, I guess
there are folks who have trouble with steps, so it’s not necessarily a bad idea, but
I’m left wondering if there isn’t a better way.
In any event, I threaded my way through the park to the boardwalk and headed for the west
pier. To confuse you further, the west pier is at the east end of the boardwalk. But
it’s the west side of the river. And it has a lighthouse. The east pier is across the
river in Summerville and has no lighthouse.
The pier was just packed with people. I decided to just find a place along the rail to
watch rather than walk all the way out to the end. It was a half-hour before sunset when I
decided on a spot. I was about a third of the way out, close enough to the beach to see
everything and far enough away not to hear any of it. I took a guess at the sun’s
path and tried to line myself up so it would set between the smokestacks at the Russell
Station power plant.
It was really too bad that I didn’t have a camera because the sky was cloudless, (in
itself unusual around here) and lake breeze kept most of the humidity at bay so it was
fairly clear. The sun was a bright golden-orange and its reflections off the water were
captivating. I hardly paid any attention to the sky and the other people on the pier just
melted away from my consciousness. Only the occasional duck or fish broke my thoughts, or
rather, the complete absence of them. It’s the most relaxed I’ve felt in months.
I was rewarded for my choice along the rail by the sun setting right between the
smokestacks like a ball falling right between the goalposts. I could hardly keep myself
from shouting “Score!” I killed the time before the next bus by strolling along
the boardwalk again. Then I watched the beginning of the parade of chrome, loud exhausts
and louder stereos along Beach Ave. Which would no doubt last until the wee hours of the
morning.
It’s not Venice Beach, but it’s all we have.
Sunday I had planned to go to
Highland Park to check on the
lilacs. Overnight, the breeze was what the forecasters call “light and variable”
and it teased me all night with occasional random puffs through each of the three windows.
It shifted to the east and became steady by morning the whole place was perfumed with
lilacs when I woke.
The bush in the yard behind my apartment had bloomed. Friday it was still tight little
buds, less than 48 hours later, it was in full bloom. That negated the need to visit the
park, so I spent the day lounging around here. Besides, I didn’t want to go to the
park alone and I couldn’t think of who to call. The high point of the day became
instead, laundry. Woo hoo! 
This morning, the
newspaper reported that the lilacs in the park are at
peak, a week before the beginning of the Lilac
Festival. It’s been the same for the past several years, ever since Lilac Sunday
morphed into the 10-day Lilac Festival.
For over 110 years, Lilac Sunday was the Sunday before Mother’s Day and was primarily
a local event. Over the years it’s grown to an international event. I can’t
decide if it’s a strategic triumph or a massive blunder that the festival commission
changed it to 10 days and moved it to start a week later on Mother’s Day weekend. I
guess it depends on your viewpoint. Do you go for the lilacs or for the crowds, music,
activities and deep-fried festival food?
We locals get to quietly enjoy the place before the city is mobbed with 500,000 tourists
(the official estimate for this year.) We get to see all 500 varieties, ranging from
white, through all hues of the purples (including “lilac”),
to blue (my favorite) and deep blood-red, all while they’re at their best.
Tourists get all the noise, the crowds and get to see 1,300 lilac bushes, all brown and
going to seed. But the city, county parks department and the merchants are happy with the
traffic, (read: greenback$).
Okay, so I’m gloating.
I spent the rest of the day
getting ready to move. I was going write “packing” but I haven’t packed a
thing. I’m cleaning out. It’s far easier to trash stuff now rather than to move
it first. From one corner of the bedroom I junked enough stuff to empty five banker’s
boxes. I was delighted to discover that an entire stack of boxes was filled with nothing
but packing material -- plastic bags, tissue paper, Styrofoam peanuts, smaller boxes and
bubble-wrap. I’m one of the few people on the planet who can resist the urge to pop
it all.
I took a break when the late afternoon heat started getting uncomfortable. It hit 84°F
(29°C) today, the warmest yet so far this year. I took the time to call my mother to see
how the garage sale fared. Lucky me, all the rocks I toted out front sold (at $5 a pile)
and all but 100 pounds of lead went out the door. They’ve decided to leave the
remaining lead in the garage until next year’s sale. Whew!
Now that it’s cooler and I’ve had dinner, I’m going to clean out all my
“geek stuff”. I’ve collected all sorts of telephone, audio, video and
computer stuff over the years. I’m going to do my best to get it down to one or two
banker’s boxes. That alone will be a significant decrease in volume. Tomorrow
I’ll go through all my clothes and by the end of the week I hope to have the desk
cleaned out.
The plan is to pack and move all the non-essential stuff by the end of next week.
I’ve worked it out with my father that I’ll help him shampoo the rug in his
basement in exchange for his helping me shampoo the rugs in both apartments and move and
shampoo the sofabed that I stored in their garage. If I thin stuff out and pack it
correctly, I should be able to get all the non-essential stuff moved in a single trip with
his minivan.
We’ll see how everything works out.
Friday May 12, 2000
What is the connection between depression and addiction?
For as long as I can remember I’ve battled each one, thinking that they were separate
entities. But in truth, addiction was my escape from depression and depression was my
trigger for addiction. There is a relationship. An intimate one.
Feelings and emotions are triggered by events in our lives and then we act upon those
feelings, or we choose inaction. I used in order to modify my feelings. I didn’t know
any other way to do it, (action for instance) and drugs do it so easily. Generally it was
to help me feel less bad about some event, someone or myself. Other times it was to
suppress feelings altogether.
Part of coming to terms with one’s addiction is accepting that drug use is not an
appropriate coping mechanism. It’s harmful to oneself and therefore wrong. Many times
this realization alone isn’t enough to make one stop drug abuse, but it’s
sufficient to make one stop legitimate use because that legitimate use becomes tainted by
the abuse.
I’ve known addicts who refuse to use medication for physical ailments. They
won’t take an aspirin or Tylenol for a headache, or an antacid for stomach upset. It
seems paradoxical that an addict won’t use medication for its intended purpose.
Conventional wisdom says that the meds are refused since there’s no buzz factor. But
it’s largely a control issue. “If I can’t control my drug abuse, at least I
can control my drug use.” True, it’s splitting hairs, but that’s how we
addicts think.
A few months ago in my most recent battle with my abuse, I’d forsaken my legitimate
meds, despite the hue and cry over being unable to afford them, for crack, which I chose
to afford instead.
In recovery we’re taught that the difference between abstinence and sobriety is
whether or not we’ve addressed the underlying issues of our addiction and have not
fallen into the trap of substitution. We’re always warned of the temptations and the
dangers of substitution. We’re taught that because of our propensity towards abuse,
(and substitution is a continuance of that abuse,) our goal should be to learn how to live
drug-free. Free from all mind-altering substances. Or rather, the lesson intends, those
for which there is no legitimate intent or purpose.
When I made the decision to stop using again, I found myself not wanting to refill the
prescriptions for my depression meds despite their legitimate intent and purpose.
“Drug-free” had become my mantra. And worse, my meds are psychoactive. Fear of
substitution. (What ever happened to the shades of gray I
argued for?) I chose instead to “tough it out” drug-free. (Except of course for
nicotine. “Can’t pull all the crutches out a once,” he said, justifying a
continuing addiction.) But are those the real reasons?
Substitution comes in many forms. It doesn’t have to be an alternate drug. It can be
shopping, eating, running, sex, gambling, the Internet or a whole host of other things.
I’ve admitted to using reading as a substitution. I’ve done it again this week.
I read three novels in 36 hours. I’ve also admitted to using writing as a
substitution. And here I sit after deciding to avoid the library.
Have I chosen abstinence and substitution over sobriety?
I’ve written before that depression is a thief. It robs me
of feelings and emotions, much to the same effect for which I used drugs. Yet, I've
avoided the very meds which can relieve my depression.
Have I substituted the numbness of depression for the numbness of cocaine? |
