Tuesday, June 26, 2018

For


At the time of this post, we will be on our first full day of our two-part vacation. It’s the first trip I’ve taken in over a year, and I have been looking forward to the break for quite some time. That’s all irrelevant. Well, it isn’t, but this post is more important than an update on my whereabouts.

Today is the anniversary of the first day of my new life: I am four years old. I say that because in many ways I didn’t start learning how to cope with life until four years ago and some might say I react like a four-year-old might in certain situations.

Darkened circles around my eyelids: my right eye socket bruised from a fresh robbery, and nothing in my stomach for days except for methamphetamine. A gait in my walk illustrated that my life was destined for failure. My lips were cracked and dried from chemical and heat. I had something like $78 to my name as I walked in to face the magistrate for sentencing. I had seen the judge six days previous and we all agreed that I would be admitting my guilt and heading to prison on this perfect June day.
This is a picture I took of myself six days before my sentencing. My eyes tell a sad story.

That is where my life ended. I had no hope. I had no fear. I did not care about myself or those that loved me. That Vince died that day.

I sealed myself in a cocoon for a year-and-a-half. When I emerged I was not a butterfly, because butterflies can’t speak or write, and I think they just eat leaves. I like meat, and sweets. The cocoon was just an analogy.

You all know the story if you’ve been following my life since those dark days. I’ve been making a lot of progress in many areas of my life, and I keep on improving  on things that I think are my shortcomings, and I’ve become something I never was: a human.

In the beginning things were difficult. I had to work on what was killing me from the inside. I worked with a couple men who had been through the same thing and who had some serious time in recovery to back up their new lives. I saw in them a happiness that I knew I could achieve with a few simple steps: Twelve to be exact. I followed their instruction and listened to their advice, and slowly I began to see things around me from a different angle. I started to see where my actions hurt others, and I saw where I could start giving instead of taking.

Four years in and my daily life is more challenging than I ever expected, but I get through it without relying on alcohol or drugs to cope. I use communication wherever possible, and I use meetings to talk about things you people would never understand. (Yes, you people.) A lot of what I do is second nature now but only because I constantly practice.

I don’t do this for me anymore. I do this for you. I do this for my friends, my family, society, and my ladies. I do this for my dog, your dog, your friends, and all of you who read this blog. I do this for my coworkers, my neighbors, and the people in my past that I have harmed and I will never see again.

Every anniversary is significant, but every day means more to me than most people will ever fathom. Every day I am free. Every day I am truly thriving. Every day I am sober. Every day I feel alive.

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Glaucoma and Tattoos


It’s Sunday, the day of rest. Not for me. Today is the first day of my nine-day vacation and I’m spending the day packing, cleaning up after animals and children, potentially mowing the lawn if the weather allows for it, and writing this post. The writing probably won’t take me more than 45 minutes, but during the process I will be bombarded by many thoughtful questions and concerns of two young children. As usual, as soon as my laptop opens, they immediately jump on the couch with me and make things difficult. I love it.

Eye pressure is measured in millimeters of mercury as you all know, and the normal range is 12-22mm Hg and anything greater than 22 is considered high. Actually, 20 is pretty high on the normal scale. At my last eye exam, my optometrist referred to me as a “glaucoma suspect” (at which point I said, “allegedly”) because the pressure in my left eye was at a 24 which seemed to surprise everybody that came into the room. They tried two variations of the test which used to be a stupid air puff to the eye, but has now evolved to an electrical impulse to the eye, both of which are entirely frightening. My vision has also grown substantially worse in my left eye which furthered his concern and I have to go back in a month for further examination. I should also mention in this post something that I did not mention in my exam that I had trouble seeing the jiggly dots in another test from my periphery, a sure sign that there already may be some optical nerve damage.

It’s very possible that this is nothing, and just an elevated IOP (intraocular pressure) and maybe even temporary. But for now, I will have to go back frequently to track the pressure and my vision. Glaucoma is treatable and does not necessarily have to include permanent loss of vision. I have to go change a diaper now.

About a year ago I wrote a post called Tinnitus and Tattoos in which I described another medical issue of mine, along with the description of the beginning of my tattoo project, which is now finished. The process took one year and eight days to complete and included four sessions of tattoo removal and four sessions of new ink. My Facebook friends have already seen the final result, but here are the same pictures for the rest of you with some captions.

This was an abandoned project from my first attempt at long-term sobriety back in 2003. I don't really know what I was going for but I think serenity might have been the idea.

 
 
This is about five months in after four sessions of laser removal. Each session was approximately 15 minutes and was rather painful. It was necessary to dull the original artwork so it wouldn't show through the cover-up.

 

These two pictures are from ink sessions one and three. The foundation of black and brown was laid down during the first session, and the color was added in the third. For those of you without tattoos, the coloring is an extraordinarily painful process, and my two coloring sessions were each about five hours long. The result is what counts, and we have a winner here.

Sessions two and four focused on the inner part of my arm. This would be considered one of the more sensitive areas of the body when it comes to tattoo work. Again, the result is worth the pain, but it's not fun while it's happening.


 
The original artwork is all Hieronymous Bosch (pronounced Boss) who is a 15th century surrealist. His works can be translated with a biblical tone, but he focuses on human sin and punishment in the two paintings from which this arm collage were taken.
 
 
 
 
Image result for hieronymus boschImage result for hieronymus bosch
 
I am happy with the entire course my arm has taken over the past year. It all started when I walked into a shop looking for advice and happened to talk to the shop owner. We spoke for a while and he showed interest and we discussed a plan. That day I had my first laser appointment at Beloved Laser Removal and scheduled my four ink appointments with Brandon at Beloved Studios. I walked out knowing that when it was all done, I would feel more confident, and I would love showing off my arm when people asked about my tattoos.
 
I was right.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Plastic and Poops


Some days are better than others. My worst day sober is better than my best day on meth, and I’ve found that time heals all ails. I’ve portrayed my relationship as flawless over the entirety, but it has its ups and downs. Today we are in a down, and it is likely to continue until both of us are in the right mood to sort it out, but it will be sorted out.

From my side, I know I can be difficult to deal with, which is why they invented Alanon. Unfortunately, my recovery dictates that I am only allowed to see things from the perspective of other people when it comes to fear, resentment, selfishness, and dishonesty, and I don’t always do that in real time. Sometimes it takes me a few days to realize what’s going on and by that time the air is acrid with acrimony, and I’m not willing to concede my position on whatever the issue might be.

Sitting here at the kitchen table, I realize what’s important: my ladies. In front of me, sitting in the living room watching her favorite T.V. show is a three-year-old who doesn’t understand animosity, and doesn’t care that I’m being selfish. She is trying to plug an unplugged phone charger into a plastic lemon that is connected to itself by Velcro at the middle. It’s Velcroed so that when you cut it with a plastic knife, it appears as if you’ve cut a lemon. There are roughly 100 plastic pieces on the floor right now all relating to kitchen work. Saucepans, carrots, canned tuna, a spatula, spoons—both slotted and not—and various other fruits. I will pick them up before dinner, and I will probably pick them up again before bedtime. She is three. She turned three on Sunday, and she handed me a poop.

We were busy getting the house ready for the party on Sunday and the girls had both just taken showers. There’s usually a grace period between the end of a shower and when a diaper goes on, and when we’re busy, that period can extend. I was in the bathroom when she rounded the corner and pointed her finger at me. On the tip was a marble-sized piece of poop. I know it was poop because she told me. I asked her where she pooped and she said excitedly, “Mommy floor!” That meant the bedroom floor. She was correct. She’s potty training so anytime she doesn’t go in a diaper; she thinks she’s been good. I can’t really be mad at her.

The older sibling is in her room dressing boy dolls in girl’s clothing. I know this because she showed me. At least poop wasn’t involved.

These girls are who I’ve invested my life in, and sometimes it’s tougher than I expected. Their mother is the woman that I know I want to be with forever, but sometimes things don’t go our respective ways and friction grows and we go our separate ways and vent the way we vent best for ourselves.

My sponsor once told me that it’s more important to be happy than right. And I know that sometimes I say things that are true, but hurtful. And sometimes I don’t know how to properly communicate my needs and frustrations. And even though I don’t show it in a way you’re familiar with, sometimes I can be hurt by action or inaction. Sometimes I need to be told I’m doing well, that my actions are helping, and that I’m a good role model for the girls. But I can’t control what you do or don’t say.

Either way, I love you, and I’m here for you and the girls. It’s dinner time. I wish you were here.

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Water Part 2 (Anhydrous)


The leak remained active for days. Every time I went down to my man-basement, I could hear the steady drip. Drip. Drip. I possessed the metal to repair the pipe, but I did not own the mettle. Drip. Drip. Drip. On Monday, I was sitting on the couch researching plumbers on Home Advisor, when the overpowering urge to not suck at being a man my whole life became present in me. The worst thing that could possibly happen while repairing pipework is that, well, I could confuse a pipe for a copper gas-line and we would all explode. That is a very real thought process I examined before I turned off the water to the house.

Broken

Fixed
 I decided that there shouldn’t be any gas lines behind the bathtub, and I proceeded to crawl into the empty space that cabinet drawers normally occupy. I secured the close-quarters pipe-cutter I bought from Menard’s three days previous and began to turn. From above, I could hear the drip below. Drip. Drip. Drip. I turned, tightened, and turned until a gush of warm blood gloved my hand and I shrieked in terror. I adjusted my flashlight and realized that the blood was actually water seeping through the cut I had created in the copper pipe. I was only slightly concerned that water still flowed even though I had turned off the main knob in the basement, but the pressure slowly subsided and all was quiet except for the drip. Drip. Drip. Even the drip slowed and faded. Drip.

The lower half of the copper pipe naturally fell away a couple inches as I had made room for that a few feet below, and I was left with a pipe screwed to a connector that I needed to unscrew and rethread, which I did using some pipe-goo-stuff. I then connected the two ends of the copper tube using a coupler that I had also purchased from Menard’s and I prayed.

I went back to the basement and turned on the main water supply and I waited for the noise of a dam bursting. But nothing came. Silence. I waited. Silence. I went back upstairs to see my work, and I could see that there was no water leaking from anywhere. I turned the water on and off several times on the faucet, and everything held.

 

All it took was a little self-motivating and about $20 more to finish this first vital step. I officially did something worth a shit, and I felt really good about it. I want to do more stuff, so I need some more stuff to break. I’m positive it will all happen in good time. I do want to re-pipe the whole house with Pex which looks pretty easy, and I have a neighbor willing to help with it all. That may be the next big thing. We shall see.

This is all for this post, I just felt like writing. Time to get back out into the sun!

 

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Water


Everything breaks eventually. Some things take millions of years, some just a few seconds, but in the end, nothing will remain intact. I have found over the past week that water—the all-powerful giver of life and leisure—is the most destructive force inside a home. Now, that sounds bad because I’m a writer and that sentence was meant to be cryptic and inexplicit, so allow me to explain in further detail with a follow-up paragraph.

It all started when I was giving a neighbor a tour of the house last week. In the basement, I observed that a few of the ceiling tiles were sagging a little more than I had ever seen before, so naturally, I poked at it. My finger went right through and a torrent of water came rushing through the small finger hole. I investigated further by pulling down that tile and a few others surrounding it that also had water damage, and I saw the culprit: a leaking “S” trap from the bathtub drain. Of course, at the time I didn’t know what an “S” trap was, so it was just a leaky pipe, and I thought it could be fixed with a little thread tape and some elbow grease. I was not correct in that assumption.

This is where it all started.
 
A week later, $20, a helpful neighbor, some time given by Amanda’s brother, and a new segment of P.V.C. pipe to replace the old (Metal?) piece, and we are back down to one leak, this time from a much more difficult area of the same tub; the faucet. The new leak is the result of moving some other pipes around to saw off the old pipe.

This is the fixed drain pipe. The small copper pipes on the top side of the picture lead to the bathtub faucet. The one that extends farther is the leaker.


All of the working pieces of plumbing are still just called pipes, knobs, and turny pieces when I speak. I haven’t picked up any of the lingo yet but I have done an incredible amount of nodding as to look much more intelligent in the matter than I am. I do not possess any of the tools to fix this problem on my own, and my neighbor who was helpful yesterday is not available today. So for now, a bucket in the basement will serve as a collection receptacle for the slowly dripping water that needs to go away. More on that some other time.

It's actually the one on the left that is releasing water through some small perforation in the metal. The one on the right will surely burst a leak sooner rather than later. The more we dig, the more problems we find.
 
This week I went to the only recovery meeting available in my small town of 811 people. Out of those 811, four are in my condition. I say that in a good way, of course. I was in a room for an hour with three other gentlemen talking about the solution to our old problems. I’d like to point out that a lot of people think we talk about our problems and bitch about life in meetings, but really, anybody who works a good program should be talking about the solution, and how to bring that to other people who need it. But anyhow, I got a lot out of that meeting and plan to return every week. I would like to find a larger meeting in the nearby town which hosts an Alano club where I can find some guys to work with and maybe some outside service commitments like bringing meetings to detox centers or jails.

And finally, for my last topic, I just want to share how incredible this neighborhood we live in has turned out to be. The girls are always on the move: they are either here with their friends, or at their friend’s houses playing. We have had many visits to houses in the neighborhood where the girls play, and we have in turn had many parents over here. I believe I mentioned in my last post that this community has a very safe feel to it, and that sentiment has only been enhanced with time. This is going to be a great place to live, as long as the house doesn’t flood itself.

 

Saturday, June 2, 2018

It Works If You Work It


At the kitchen table sits me, two placemats, three bananas, and my phone. There are other things on the table, but their view is obstructed by my laptop computer. Just beyond the table is the larger of the two sets of kitchen windows through which I can see the two girls playing happily with the two girls who live directly across the street from us in what appears to be a mansion. We have not yet been inside, but we are developing a rapport with the owners as well as many others in this neighborhood.

This is a quiet street, in a quiet town. I haven’t seen a car drive by since I started crafting this post five minutes ago. This is our house, in our neighborhood. This is our town. (It still brings me joy to say little things like that.)

The girls have adapted quite well and have made friends in every direction. At this moment there are four children roaming around this house playing various games. They will leave, and come back, but I don't worry much about keeping a constant eye on them like I would in a bigger city, but most of the time I can see them right out the front window if they aren't inside. The adults have also been coping well with the stressors of owning a new home. We have two rooms left to unpack, but they are quarters in which we will not spend much time, so they will be gotten to at our leisure, but before we host our series of housewarming events. (If you know me well enough to have been invited to such an occasion and have not been, first check your Facebook invites, then contact me directly as I am a little scatterbrained these days.)

 

My recovery has been largely phone-based these days as it has become harder to regularly attend meetings. Next week, however, I will be going to the in-town gathering for people like me, and the plan is to go every week and continue my work over the phone with my sponsor and meet whenever possible. I am in a good spot in my life, and I know how I got there. This is not the time to give up my work in the program; this is the time to be more involved. When I become a regular at this new meeting I can get back into service work, which can include so many things in and out of meetings. In my previous home group, I volunteered to be the chair, the 7th tradition rep, fellowship rep, sponsorship coordinator, and many other positions vital to the flow of a good meeting. I didn’t do all of these at the same time, of course, I would hold one position for a period of 13 weeks as we cycled through the steps and ended on gratitude week. This all makes little sense to somebody not in recovery, but to those that are; you know what I’m saying.

Service work is one of a few ways to get people to commit to coming to a meeting every week. For me it worked in combination with a few other things like going out after a meeting and working with others in the book. I needed a combination in the beginning to keep me going for years. I still like meetings, and I really like the inner workings and would someday like to serve up a little higher at the district level to give me some more responsibility: more reason to keep going back.

What is the result of doing all of these things? Well, that’s what I’ve been writing about for years. Those who have read from the beginning have seen me struggle, fail, and succeed. As I look back over some of my older posts, I see a number of positive steps that at the time I saw as failures. Nobody ever learned life lessons with a smile on their face, and most people don’t know at the time that a lesson is being taught. I have the privilege of looking back over the past four years of my life (I can’t believe it’s been almost four years since I walked into that steel cage,) and seeing what a transformation my life has undergone. From sleeping in cars, to sleeping on a plastic mat in prison, to living with my mom (whom I love dearly), to this: a fucking house. And it isn’t just the fact that I’m in a house, it’s that I can afford to be here (with equal help of course from my gf.) The bills pile up and it doesn’t worry me; we can afford them. The first mortgage payment has been paid and I still have money. My car has gas in it and so does my lawnmower.

Life on this side is good. I wish I would have discovered this way of life 20 years ago, but then I wouldn’t have built up all of this character, and been able to share this story with my family and friends and those still struggling with addiction that need to know that recovery works. The result of working a solid program will always be the same: you will love your life. This program of recovery works... If you work it.

And Counting

I remember vividly waking up at 5:19am, one minute precisely before the lights would come on; the indication that it was time to stand a...