Bruce’sOnline Journal |
| “I write because I don’t know what I think, until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor |
Week of May 21, 2001
Skip ahead to Sat
May 24
“Good morning,” my counselor greeted us. We were in the large group room because on Thursdays both Phase One and Phase Two are together. We can’t all fit in his office.
The nice thing about the large group room is the wall of windows on the south side. Rather than overlook a parking lot, across the requisite expanse of turf, there’s a stand of trees. Some hardwoods and some conifers mark the base of the ridge that rises behind them like a wall and gives Ridgeway Avenue and Park-Ridge their names.
“This morning,” he continued, “we’ll start with your name, drug of choice, last use date, a feeling, mental health diagnosis, what you’re going to do this weekend to promote your sobriety and finally, if you’re going to need any time in group.” All the usual stuff. My attention turned to the windows.
What’s bad about the large group room becomes evident on a day like today. Right up until we took our seats, our standard-issue overcast blocked out the sky. As soon as the door closed, pow! Instant sunshine. Wishing I were outdoors, I tuned out, knowing it would be a half hour before my groupmates were done turning morning greetings into detailed examinations of minutia.
“But today we’re going to do something a little different.” Uh oh, I thought. Addicts and alcoholics don’t like different. He’s skating on thin ice here. I tuned back in, just in case there would be fireworks.
“I also want you to share where you were and what you did last Memorial Day weekend, and what has changed the most for you, or what was the biggest turning point for you in the past year.”
While the rest of the room argued over the specifics of what we needed to say about last year and what exactly constituted a major change or turning point, I withdrew into myself (imagine that!) and flashed back to a year ago.
It’s all right there. I don’t need the journal to remember that weekend. We moved to the ‘hood that weekend. All the bickering, sarcasm and put-downs. The pain in my knee that made it hard enough to walk let alone carry furniture up and down stairs. The hurt, the sadness, the pain and the relief of knowing the landlord from hell would soon be in my past.
And of course, the cocaine.
We smoked a lot of crack that weekend. The ‘hood has more crackhouses than a drag queen’s tiara has rhinestones. Knowing we’d just moved in, they were all vying for our business. And I knew that having seen all the electronics we carried in, plans were already being made to separate them from us. The most brazen was a guy across the street who shouted an offer of five bags for my 27” Sony. Any time.
The din in the room had faded and I tuned in, just to see how things were going. Ah. A droner. People in rehab fall into two general categories, each according to their own drug of choice and diagnosis.
The droners are usually either garden-variety drunks or heroin addicts, with the occasional prescription drug abuser thrown in for good measure. Typically their diagnosis is some form of depression. As if you couldn’t figure that out for yourself.
The prattlers, on the other hand, are generally bi-polar, have an assortment of anxiety disorders and ADD. They’re usually crackheads, methheads or ravers (imagine that!).
Don’t get me wrong, here’s a good bit of overlap. The prattler that annoys me the most is a garden-variety drunk with depression. I too have a foot in each camp. I tend to drone. My Axis I diagnosis is Dysthymia (a depression disorder), yet I have ADD, at least two anxiety disorders (we decided any more would only confuse the Medicaid people) and I’m a crackhead.
A prattler was next. I really wanted to tell them to put a sock in it. Instead, I withdrew to consider the second part of the question.
I’ve made tremendous progress in the past year, there’s no doubt about that. I’m not sure I could characterize any aspect of my recovery as having changed me the most. The gains have been pretty much even across the board. But defining moments and significant turning points? I have several to choose from.
Would it be at New Year’s when I realized that The Promises were coming true for me? How about last Thanksgiving when I first faced the fear of myself and began to work on Step Four? Then there was the day in October when the right combination of meds and dosing schedule clicked in. That was truly life-changing, but it can’t be described as a moment.
So was the weekend when I moved from the ‘hood to here, getting so out of sorts I couldn’t decide which foot to put in front of the other. That was when I learned the power of the first three steps.
What about the Judas betrayal I suffered over Labor Day? Or the Friday night in August when I attended my first AA meeting? You could also point to the day in July when a spot opened at Partial Hospitalization and I finally began therapy. Or another day in July, which I don’t recall writing about, when I knew that since they couldn’t take a hint, I had to forcibly eject You Know Who’s mother and girlfriend from my life. Otherwise I’d be signing my own death sentence.
No, those are all significant turning points to be sure, but the process had already begun. I went back another month to June.
The week of my birthday has to mark the single biggest change in my life. And no, I don’t think it was the “event” itself, although one could argue the point I suppose. Rather, I think it was on that Friday after the first appearance in court when the Assistant DA, whose name I can’t remember, all but shook me by the shoulders to get me to go to Victim’s Assistance, Park-Ridge ER for x-rays and to get an appointment at DSS.
That was life-changing, and it happened in a moment. At a couple of minutes past three on a sunny Friday afternoon not quite a year ago.
They’d alternated around the room like a game of Duck, Duck, Goose. Prattler, prattler, droner. Droner, droner, prattler. Shortly after ten, goose. It was my turn.
“My name is Bruce and I’m a crackhead and alcoholic. My last use was six-nineteen. My diagnoses are dysthymia, generalized anxiety disorder, social phobia and ADD. I’m feeling relieved this morning with some residual anxiety.” After nearly ten months, it’s like punching a button. It all tumbles out without my having to think about it.
“I’d forgotten this was a holiday weekend until last night. A bunch of us are getting together for a cookout on Monday, but otherwise I have nothing at all planned.”
Nothing at all planned.
I have no obligations to anyone for even a minute of my time for the first time in months. A large part of the relief I feel comes from that. A huge chunk of relief and most of the residual anxiety comes from the big presentation Tuesday night.
There were over two-hundred people in the room. I was seated behind a table on the elevated dais, protected only by the screen of the laptop, a blue pinpoint-oxford shirt, my favorite tie and a sport jacket.
A wire snaked up behind my tie from the transmitter clipped to my belt. It ended at the black, pencil eraser sized lavaliere microphone two inches below the knot. I pushed the mouse around the table. Behind me, a foot long pointer moved around the projection screen. My voice boomed from the speakers in the ceiling.
I gestured. I pointed, clicked and intoned. People laughed when they were supposed to and nodded thoughtfully when that was appropriate. As I’d asked her to do, the moderator discreetly got my attention two minutes before my time was up.
Then it was over.
I was down the steps off the side of the platform. The chair of next committee on the agenda was already standing behind a lectern beginning his report. Someone was helping me remove the mic, which somehow had tangled itself in my tie. I was looking for a place to set down my papers so I could tie the shoe that had come untied, entirely of it’s own accord, in the aisle halfway between the back of the room and the dais when I’d been announced. Then I was outside in the cool evening air. My shirt was soaked through, front and back. So was the jacket.
And it was over!
My little ten minutes. Something I’d never dreamed I’d ever be capable of doing. Particularly not with generalized anxiety disorder and social phobia.
Still I was trapped for another three hours. One of dinner and two more of parliamentary procedure. During dinner next door in the town hall and later afterwards, people came up and introduced themselves saying they’d been impressed. Those I already knew congratulated me for giving a comfortable, casual, yet informative and professional presentation. “Just the ticket for this group,” one said. “You were terrific,” said another.
There was one more component to the relief I felt this morning. In the time I spent faded out from the morning greetings in group, I reached a decision. It’s been rolling around in the back of my head for weeks now. Then, finally this morning, I knew the time had come.
“And I have two more little things this morning,” I continued. “I won’t be here next Thursday because I’ll be at Microsoft’s little do at the convention center for the launch of Office XP. It includes lunch and I couldn’t pass up a chance to have Bill Gates buy me lunch.” It also includes a $100 off coupon, which is a good thing. The upgrade version of Office XP Developer Edition, the only edition that includes FrontPage, tips the scales at $549. Yikes!
“The other thing is that I’ve decided it’s time to graduate from this program. I’d like to do it on a Thursday and since I won’t be here next Thursday, I think we’ll do it the Thursday after that.”
The whole group applauded. I’m not sure if they were just being polite, if they’re glad to see me go, or they’re happy I’m well enough. It doesn’t matter. It was applause.
So finally, that will be over too.
I haven’t a single clue as to what comes after. I suppose I’ll find out when I get there.
May 26
A dwarf has moved in across the street. A genuine, accept-no-imitations midget, little person or… Gee, I really don’t know what the current politically correct term is. That makes me slightly uncomfortable. I don’t want to be insulting or condescending. It reminds me though of how uncomfortable some people feel when they find out I’m gay. Or an addict. Or mentally ill.
“Marge! Lock the doors! Hide the kids! You know that faggot across the street? Not only is he a junkie, he was in the loony bin just last summer!”
It’s a reminder that I have to be just as careful with the feelings of others when I come out to them, as I have to be of my own. Although no-one’s ever directly asked me, from some the facial expressions I’ve seen I can tell the questions they’re asking themselves are, “Do they really put their you know whats up each other’s you know wheres?”
Sometimes the look seems to be taking the measure of the man, so to speak, and I can see them sizing me up and asking themselves, “I wonder if he’s the man or the woman?” I have been asked that question. More than once. After I’m through feeling insulted and marginalized, I’ve always thought to myself, “Silly heteros.”
It’s had me thinking about the relationship between tolerance, respect and understanding. They seem to be all tied together somehow and I haven’t quite figured it out. But it’s also had me wondering why we focus on our differences when we all have so much more in common?
We all have feelings. For the most part, they’re all the same. They come from the same places, we feel and react in the same ways. I know without a doubt that the way I’ve made people feel when I’ve been insensitive to them is exactly the way I feel when someone is insensitive towards me. And I know that what I feel when I feel loved is the same as what you feel.
So why do I find myself averting my eyes when this guy walks down the street? Why do I feel uncomfortable in introducing myself? Why do I feel the need to ask questions about how his stature makes his life different than mine? Is it any different than when people want to know what I do between the sheets with another man?
It’s an interesting learning opportunity that’s been placed before me. I’ve always felt on the receiving end of these things. It’s strange being on the other side.
