For Ever Ever?

Yesterday was tough. Amanda and I attended our fourth funeral of 2019. Every funeral is emotional, but losing my close friend suddenly was particularly shocking and after everything, I have found a new perspective on my sobriety.

I have to be brutally honest here. In the back of my mind, for years, I’ve always had the thought that maybe, just maybe, when I retire, or I get old enough that everybody who I know and cares about me is gone, I could try some controlled drinking. Maybe I could hire a bodyguard to protect others from me, and hire a driver so that I could drink the way that I want to. I could just sit by the lake (by my cabin I don’t own yet) and have a few beers or a margarita. Don’t worry, this is perfectly normal thinking for an alcoholic, what probably isn’t normal is admitting it, and openly writing about it. But I have to do this to help me process this new found need for permanent sobriety.

Having and end in mind for sobriety, or even thinking I could handle a controlled drinking life, is the end to many an alcoholic. It’s how my friend started his relapse that lead to his demise, and even in the Big Book, it speaks heavily on what a waste the idea of controlled drinking is.

My longtime readers will know that when I relapsed sometime in 2006, I started with one beer in a classy Italian restaurant with my girlfriend at the time. The next night I sat at a bar alone and finished a liter of Jack Daniels and blacked out sometime after I laid down a vomit-trail to my house. When I woke up in my piss-soaked clothes the next day with the worst hangover I ever had, I promised myself I would never drink again. And I didn’t. For three days.

Three weeks after I started drinking, I started doing meth, and then it was the year 2015 and I had nothing to show for my life. I was dying very slowly, and fortunately, I was hit by a fast-moving trolley car called prison and I was able to turn it around. But this doesn’t mean I’m safe. None of us is ever safe.

That last line was in the original draft of the eulogy I wrote for my friend. I thought it was too ominous, and I wanted to stay as positive as I could for the moment. When I delivered the eulogy, my eyes welled constantly and I kept thinking that somebody would be doing this for me if I ever have one drink. One sip. If I ever stop going to meetings or talking with my sober network, if I ever stop giving back, calling my sponsor, listening to the newcomer, speaking in front of groups, I will die. Now that’s ominous.

The day that I found out my friend died, I received a letter in the mail stating I had finally been approved to bring meetings into the McLeod County jail. Service work is where I thrive, and I’ve always wanted to bring meetings to people in custody.

 (Just now, the four-year-old came to me on the couch crying because she wanted to give me a hug and a kiss. I obliged but she snuck the kiss in before I realized she had a large trail of snot streaming from her nose and when she touched my face I quickly pulled away and we sort of reverse Lady and the Tramped it and she laughed, I gagged. This is my life now.)

When I was in St. Cloud state prison, we were able to leave our cells very little. You could go to church, school, meals, occasional recreation, and meetings. In the beginning, I went to church and meetings because those were the only places in the building with air conditioning. I stopped going to church because it just wasn’t for me, but I kept going to meetings. I kept listening, and eventually I started sharing some of my story, and people listened to me. And then I started going because it made me feel better. Every time I left a meeting, I was happy. And to this day that remains true, and it’s why I kept going to meetings after I wasn’t forced to do so when I got out.

Bringing meetings into a locked facility will give me the chance to give somebody else that opportunity. I’m only bringing the meeting, they still have to show up, but it will be there for them.

 Too many people are dying from addiction. It’s never hit this close to home, but I know it has for so many others I know. When does it stop?

Today I choose to think of my life without chemicals forever, and it doesn’t sound impossible or boring. My sobriety can define who I am, and it can help others, and it makes me tolerable. I will picture myself by the lake by my cabin (that I don’t own yet) surrounded by grandkids and family, with a clear mind, a clear conscience, and a loving heart. I don’t have to drink. Ever. I just have to put in a little work to make sure I don’t. So I will.

 

 

See You, Man

My only cellmate in Moose Lake prison knew that I was going to boot camp. For the first few days he warned off the wannabe bikers from trying to intimidate me into giving them my newspaper every week in exchange for not beating me up because they assumed I was a sex-offender because of my state-issue glasses. I’ll admit, I questioned myself in the mirror a few times. He knew a few other guys that were also non-violent offenders and were going to C.I.P. and he offered to introduce me to a few of them so that I wouldn’t accidentally make friends with an actual rapist.

He brought me out into the common area and took me to a table where there was a rather lanky, tall, bald-headed man playing cards and introduced me to him as a fellow boot camper. We chatted, realized we were both from St. Paul, and spent the next few months playing Monopoly, cribbage, and as many different games as we could find to help pass the time. He became one of my friends along with a select few gentlemen that seemed to care about not being in prison anymore. We were the few that gave a shit.

The tall one I’ll call Mac, to protect his identity. You’ll know why soon enough. Mac was there when I ran my first mile, and he helped me get my technique down and breathing pattern correct enough to pass the fitness test for boot camp. I distinctly remember one time he ran a mile backwards while I was struggling to run a few laps at all. I was wearing my full prison-blue uniform, and he had on his optional sweat shorts and white t-shirt. It was hot, and it was the worst.

Mac went to boot camp two months before I did, and thus left two months earlier. We maintained contact in the program as much as possible even though we were housed in separate barracks, and when he got out, he wrote me a letter. He told me he found work, and that I should come get a job at a laminating factory when I got out.

I did. And I ended up moving into the house he was in and we were roommates for nearly a year. We were really friends. We loved baseball, and went to several Twins games together. We had grill outs, went to meetings, talked at coffee shops. We were sober and we weren’t bored. We remained friends for years after we evolved in our lives and purchased homes, and found our forever-gals. We chatted, we met, and we reminisced.

 

Yesterday, I took the girls to the pool in town after writing my blog post. While I was there, I received a message request over Facebook messenger, and it was his mother. She asked me to call her.

My heart sank.

I knew something was wrong, and I hoped that it wasn’t relapse. I hoped she just wanted to plan a surprise party, and she wanted to invite me. I called her.

Mac died yesterday morning after a short struggle with our mutual disease of addiction and alcoholism.

My heart is shattered; tears streaming as I try to write these words on my keyboard. My friend—one of my true friends who can identify with who I am, what I’ve been through, and how I think—is gone forever.

 

Mac. I need you back. I didn’t know you were hurting, and I want to fix it so you don’t have to die. We need you. We need your love, compassion, and your friendship. I want to go back so you can tell me you need help. I want our times back so I can remember more. I want to hear you laugh and call me Mr. Meartz like we had to do in boot camp. I saw you in the sunrise today through the clouds and I cried because you didn’t answer me. I know you can hear me. I know you know I love you.

You don’t get to see the sunset anymore, and it’s never going to be as beautiful for me knowing you can’t see it. It’s only been a day and I already miss you so much. I should have called you more; I should have seen it coming. I should have seen the signs, but you were hiding. I’m so sorry you were hurting. I’m so sad you’re gone.

 

PooPee Roofie

For three weeks, my life has been a solid mixture of liquid and semi-solid waste. For three weeks, my life has been filled with frustration, confusion, and bitterness toward our new dog that nearly exclusively uses our house as a toilet.

We got him as an older pup: 14 weeks. By then, most dogs are potty-trained, however we got him from a breeder that apparently didn’t have housebreaking in their schedule, and it’s been a literal mess ever since. His name is Roofus, and he is a beautiful German Shepherd.

Imagine a litter box, and then imagine it without litter, then imagine the litter box as our home, then change it from cats to dog. There you have it; my life of shit and piss.

He also excessively whines, barks, and chews. I have frequent urges to hit him, and I fantasize a situation in which he magically disappears and my life is back to normal. (I know negative reinforcement doesn’t make a better dog. I don’t hit him.) But, alas, we keep adapting to him, and closing off areas of our house to ensure we don’t have to use the carpet cleaner every day. And slowly—almost painfully slow—he’s catching on to the fact that he gets a treat when he goes potty outside. I started going outside as well because I really like the flavor of the treats and I think maybe he will learn faster if daddy shows him what to do.

The first time we left him home alone, we put him in a kennel, and when I arrived home, all sides—including the top—were completely smeared in feces. Roofus himself was caked from head to tail and just getting him from kennel to door left a splattered trail of poo on everything he neared.  I hosed him down. I hosed down the kennel. And I did it all again the next day. On a completely unrelated note, I have a large, shit-splattered kennel for sale. Cheap.

He is loving, kind, and learning obedience. I have him enrolled in an 18-week obedience course where I go for an hour every Tuesday night and learn some basics and into some advanced stuff for the last six weeks. He picks up simple commands rather quickly, and he’s eager to do anything that’s new. We took him to the dog park earlier this week and he did really well.

Willie gets along with him too, which is very important for him. The cats don’t like him, but I think that’s pretty standard. And, the girls love him and that is the most important. He will be our family dog for hopefully a decade, and even though he’s off to a pretty rough start, he has a lot of time to improve. He can really only improve.

It’s about a hundred degrees outside right now and I am so happy I mowed the lawn yesterday. I am stopping this post short to take the girls down to the pool to cool off and have a little fun. I’ll write more later.

 

Any suggestions on potty training, please let me know.

402 Words and 35 Days

I’m back. I haven’t spent that much time away from writing since I sobered up over five years ago. It feels good to be back in front of the computer screen, thinking about how much I have to write about. Aside from my anniversary post, I haven’t written anything but my wedding vows for nearly two months. Yesterday I finalized my vows, and printed them, and deleted permanently the digital copy so Amanda can’t find them. I wrote 402 words, which is a little over half of a normal blog post. It isn’t a blog post, nor is it written like one. I like it, and I hope she does, too.

A lot has happened in the last two months. We’ve planned, paid for, and talked about the wedding every day since (and well before) the proposal. Weddings are expensive, but not for rich people. I commented in a meeting at work this week that the cost of the salads for a particular wedding at the club was more than our entire food cost. We definitely are on a budget for our event, but I don’t want the focus to be on food, I want people to remember this wedding for so many other reasons, and I hope they do.

In 35 days, I get to marry the woman I love. It’s only symbolic, but it means a lot to a few people. Last week we went to get our marriage license at which point I could have legally had my name changed to King Pineapple after the wedding, but neither Amanda nor the records office employee even hinted at a smile when I made the suggestion.

We reached a milestone. We have received over 100 R.S.V.P.’s. I think that’s a pretty good number for inviting roughly 200 people. There’s still plenty of time, but if you have received an invite and you haven’t responded yes or no, we would appreciate it if you could. Enough on that.

 

Work has been stressful this year. Summers are normally hectic in the restaurant industry, but this season seems to be particularly taxing for so many reasons but mostly a large and consistent turnover of tenured and new staff alike. The middle of the busy season is not when we should be training staff, but this is our steady condition as we collide with each day and somehow survive. There is light at the end of the tunnel as we have hired a new chef and he has made some executive decisions and made moves with our guidance to alleviate pressure on the kitchen. Personally, I haven’t taken a sit-down break in about two months, and I am well-worn at the end of the day but I know I have accomplished an incredible amount of work and have been part of the solution, not part of the problem, much like I try to do in my sobriety.

 

I continue to attend my meeting in town and I always look for opportunity to bring meetings into institutions and recently I applied to the county jail for a monthly spot. The application itself was vague and didn’t ask about my background; however there was a spot at the bottom for the recipient to check a box that said Background check completed. I applied because I was told there just needs to be a two-year window from the last period of incarceration, so I went for it. It’s been three weeks since I sent off my application and I haven’t heard anything. I will call them soon to see what’s happening.

 

Six hundred words in and I now have a four-year-old next to me dying for attention. Also, we have a new member of the family in a German Shepherd. He needs to go pee or poop, much like myself, so I’ll stop this post here and I will take him outside and show him how to go potty on the lawn. I’ll write again soon.

Willie, meet Roofus.

High-Five

1,826 days ago my life began again. Five years ago I walked into a courtroom knowing I would be locked away for fifty months, and I stood and faced the judge and calmly walked away—in handcuffs, escorted by a bailiff—to sit quietly for a few years.

I’ve decided to break my writing silence for this post, because today is significant in that for five years, I have abstained from all mind-altering chemicals that I used to need to live. Not one drop, breath, chug, glug or snort. That’s not to say I haven’t failed in other ways, but I’ve remained true to myself, my family, and my friends in this most important way.

This has without question been the toughest portion of my life. I’m in debt—I still owe thousands from starting over when I got out. I owe a car payment, a mortgage, utilities, credit cards, and more. But with my fiancé, my job, and a lot of effort, I’m not behind on any of them. These mountains really are molehills, and I am so grateful to have these financial obstacles because they motivate me to keep trying.

A lot of people motivate me: My love, the girls, my momdad, my readers, my neighbors, my family, my coworkers. They all push me to keep improving in all of my goals and accomplishments. I’ve never been able to do any of this on my own, I’ve had help from so many sources, and I love you all so much. I am alive and thriving today because nobody ever gave up on me. Nobody told me to go away. Nobody turned their back.

On the contrary—aside from certain potential employers—I have been welcomed back into society and given opportunities that normal people take for granted. They let me have a house, a car, and bills. They know what I’ve done, and they wave at me, call me, and call me friend and neighbor. They let me in their homes to eat, cook, and talk. They support me by listening, reading, and loaning me tools I’ve never heard of. They tell me they love me, and I can feel what that means. I can feel.

Prison gave me the chance to start over, albeit with a swift kick to the ass. I will never forget that I do not want to go back there, and many decisions I’ve made since my release have been made solely on that thought. I’ve made mistakes, I’ve owned them, and I’ve moved on. I will make more mistakes, but as I’ve said before, when I screw up now, it isn’t society that feels the burden, it’s just me, and so it’s easier to repair. When I fail now, I adjust and try again, or I try something different, and I still might flop, but I won’t be dead or in prison.

Today I celebrate five years of continued sobriety. I don’t believe I’ve been able to claim this amount of time since I was about twelve years old. (I didn’t hyphenate the age because it came after the noun (me) which I never would have known five years ago.) I am not the same person that walked into that courtroom. I was broken, battered, and angry at the world. I was high, for the last time, and I hated the feeling. The first ten days in jail were fraught with cold-sweats, vivid nightmares, and erratic muscle movement. I had dreams where I escaped through the walls of my dream, and everything on the outside was the same as how I left it, so I went back into jail. When I woke up I was so sure I had been outside, I frantically checked my pockets for cigarettes and a lighter. Nothing. My pockets were empty just like they always were on the outside. I went back to sleep and escaped again, this time into a world of foggy green where my druggie “friends” were all telling me to come back to them when I got out. These were my recurring nightmares.

I didn’t go back. Instead I chose my life.

I did just under fifteen months of my fifty-month sentence, and survived boot camp, I.S.R., and parole. My rights have been restored, and I’m at peace with what I’ve done and where I’ve been.

I am so incredibly grateful for all of you who have—in one way or another—included me in your lives.

Today I am giving myself a little high-five, because I’ve earned it. But really, it’s just another 24-hours.

This is me the last time I was high: five years ago.

Never forget,

Until Next Time

When my mother and I started writing the original blog nearly five years ago, we had no idea what it would become. I’m sure we still don’t, but we have high expectations that it will be discovered by a descendant of Oprah, long after we are dead and made into a holographic movie—because it’s the future. Our separate blogs often overlap on subject, but have their own theme and passion. She writes about travel, life, and on occasion, prison, recovery, and family. I try to stick with recovery but often life is too brilliant to let it be unwritten.

My life now is as I’ve always hoped it would be: full of love and laughter. It’s not perfect. I still make mistakes; I still fail. But I always keep trying to be better. I persist on this life that I want to keep. I have everything I need, a lot of what I want, and I’m learning. I received a scholarship in fatherhood education, although I might hint that it has cost a lot. I’m still very new at trying to be a role-model for the girls for whom I have purchased a minivan and a home, and I feel as if I didn’t receive the owner’s manual to which I could refer when I am alone. But, again, I keep trying. I keep building relationships with these little people that look up to me for guidance, patience, and apple juice. We are all learning together, and we have ups and downs, but overall, we have a good thing going. I am a Girl Scout dad.

My last post reflected on my engagement to the mother of the two girls we guide through life. We’ve also had our ups and downs, but I stayed with her because I knew from the moment I saw her that it was her that would change my life again. If she hadn’t been sitting in that exact chair, in that precise moment, my life could be different now. But this is where we are, and this is what we are building together. We don’t just own a house together, we are evolving a home. I love all of them, and I want to make this last. So…

I’m taking some time away from writing publicly to spend more time creating this love that I crave now. I’ve taken breaks before, but never for the right reasons, this time I’m not doing it for myself. I will continue to write. I plan on spending my writing time developing a unique, funny, and realistic spin on my wedding vows. I want to create something she will never forget, and something I can actually adhere to, because I can’t have and hold her when I’m at work, and definitely when I’m driving. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health seems so vague. What about herpes? What if I get a superpower from a leech, and I become a new hero called Man-Leech? I would have to commit to that probably as crime dictates.

I want to write something sincere and heartfelt, and I need to take some time with this or I’ll just write stupid jokes like I did in the previous paragraphs. I don’t want it to be cheesy.

 

So, off I go. I’ll be back, and I’ll update you on my life as it evolves, and I’ll probably change the theme and purpose of the blog at some point before I go live again.

Enjoy the summer if it ever arrives.

So long.

Yes!

I fumbled around in my closet and found a pair of black dress pants I had hoped were where I had left them and took them to my dungeon-like basement to take a shower and get ready. When I was done cleaning myself, I put on my white undershirt, underpants, and then became wedged in what turned out to be a pair of Amanda’s work trousers which resembled mine in my haste. Shit. I scrambled to find mine which ended up being in the dryer, and I continued the process of dressing up, doing my hair up, and triple-checking my list which contained only two things: the ring, and the camera.

I had been planning this moment for two years. You see, exactly two years ago I walked into the Lafayette Club for the first time, and that was when I first saw her. I knew nothing of her at the time but something whispered into my conscience, “There she is.” Since then, I’ve sacrificed a lot and gained everything. I’ve actually been planning this proposal for about a month, and it involved a lot of people and a lot of secrets, and it was completely flawed, yet somehow unbelievably flawless.

Wearing my own pants, I checked my pockets for the ring, my wallet, and the ring. I had the ring. I put the camera around my neck and packed an overnight bag for the youngest child for whom I had arranged to be picked up from daycare by a neighbor. She was going to have a sleepover at her friend’s house, and the oldest was going to be picked up by her friend’s father, and she would be sleeping there. Kids: check. This took a lot of arranging, but it had all fallen into place.

I took one more look at the proposal I had written two weeks ago and flew out the door. Oh, I stopped by the flower shop on the way home from work and picked up an arrangement I had ordered on Tuesday. She said, “It’s very important that this stays upright so the water doesn’t fall out of the cups because you have a lot of driving to do.”

“Got it!” I replied.

About two hundred feet into my drive home I heard the flowers tip over in the back of the minivan and I had to pull over, get them out, and wedge them in front of the passenger seat. They stayed put for the duration.

I stopped at my neighbor’s house with the overnight bag and he gave me some words of encouragement and a hug and I was ready. I just had a 45-minute drive to think of all that could go wrong. What if she says no? What if I crash and die? What if this is when the aliens finally come take over and use our anuses for science? What if the flowers die?

I drove and drove, and I rehearsed dozens of times and it sounded perfect. I called Amanda’s coworker and friend who would be responsible for taking pictures and coercing her into coming out into the dining area and told her I was close by, and she met me at my van when I pulled in. We spoke briefly and she took the camera and I put the flowers into a vase with water I had set up. I took a breath. Well, I suppose I always take a breath. But this was a deep one, and I turned and walked in. I received a lot of stares and smiles because the bouquet I ordered was rather extravagant. I smiled politely and continued to breathe.

I made it inside. I passed the front desk and made it to the host stand. This is it. This is the moment. This is what you have wanted for two years. She wants this. You’ve got this.

Eyes closed, deep in meditation. Or possibly I blinked.

 

But Amanda was busy, and I slowly accumulated a gathering of her coworkers and her boss, who said he would bring her into the “livingroom” which is pretty much a gorgeous lobby with lavish woodwork and charming décor. I waited, and the camerawoman waited on the other side. In a minute, I could hear their voices drawing closer… And closer. And finally, she rounded the corner.

Finally, the woman I want to love forever saw me. “What are you doing here!?” She exclaimed.

You'll notice a theme: Amanda covers her face with the flowers in nearly every picture. there's no intent, it just happened.

And this is where I fell apart. I handed her the oversized bouquet of flowers and cited the first line of my rehearsed proposal. I touched her awkwardly a few times on the shoulder as I stumbled through the words that came so easily in the van, and I told her that I loved her, and that I wanted to lover her forever. I got down on one knee, and I said, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” She cried.

And then the aliens came.

Nothing was perfect, and yet it all was, much like life itself. I had also planned with her boss to taker her out afterwards and we went to Acme Comedy Company to see Louis C.K. and laughed for a couple hours. It was a fitting end to a wonderful day.

To show how funny life is, I will include some pictures of the actual proposal, then the one we had to do afterwards because the damn flowers got in the way of everything. Remember, if you want to make God laugh, make plans. I think I could hear him chuckling a few times yesterday.

 

 

 

 

Thank you to Vanna, Toni and Jake, Emily and Craig, Sandy, Greg, Mom, and everybody who helped me keep this a secret for so long. I couldn't have done this without you all. I almost didn't do it with you all, but in the end, all that matters is that we are officially engaged.

 

Another landmark move, another step toward the life I have worked to hard to achieve. None of this would have been possible five years ago. I wasn't a person worthy of her hand. Today I am proud, today I am happy. Now I can hold her hand forever.