Life in Hell

What I know about the situation is that I placed myself in it, for starters, so I have no business complaining about it or being so butt-hurt. I also know how to solve the problem of wallowing in self-pity and resentment. I know how to mend the pain of being sore at myself. But apparantly, at the moment anyway, I am unwilling or unable to pick up those tools and put them to work. I imagine that tells me that I'm getting some sort of reward out of this being miserable which is a perverse idea so it shouldn't surprise me.

I went to court yesterday to be sentenced for a probation violation. If I had not violated I would have been off probation in like 10 more months.

Now I have 5 more years.

200 hours of community service to do within a year and 5 more years of being on probation in a state that doesn't allow me to leave except by special permission and only to go be with immediate family. Which means I'm here, in this state I can't stand, where I don't believe I'll ever have a boyfriend, where there are no opportunities unless you really like hunting or fishing or are a Mormon or a Republican, for five more M*$#er F@&$(*g years.

I seriously, at least at the moment, think I'd rather die. And unfortunately, because I placed myself in this position, it validates every rotten thing I already think about myself and every reason I think carrying on is not worth it. I know that is my disease talking. I know this too shall pass. But it won't pass till I'm fourty f-ing eight years old. Till then I'm trapped in a mean, nasty republican cultural wasteland trying to protect myself from my past and from my drunken mother.

What is stupider is that if they hadn't made it a requirement I probably wouldn't feel this way. I'd probably end up here for five more years anyway. And this feeling is so overwhelming, particularly on my 11th consecutive Valentine's Day without a companion or any prospect of one, that I'm afraid if I said what was really going on in my head I'd be locked up for my own good. In case anyone needs me I'll be hiding in my room, crying, praying for the willingness to do the work.

Broken Windows

"Consider a building with a few broken windows. If the windows are not repaired, the tendency is for vandals to break a few more windows. Eventually, they may even break into the building, and if it's unoccupied, perhaps become squatters or light fires inside.

Or consider a sidewalk. Some litter accumulates. Soon, more litter accumulates. Eventually, people even start leaving bags of trash from take-out restaurants there or breaking into cars."

Broken Windows by James Q. Wilson and George L. Kelling, which appeared in the March 1982 edition of The Atlantic Monthly

Yesterday I learned that my mother had finally, after all the crap she's done, all the drunk driving, drunk dialing, drunk wedding wrecking, drunk ax wielding, drunk lying, drunk sending her kids to Scandinavia and leaving them there, etc. -- gotten herself arrested. Money can insulate you from almost anything, but not forever, and money cannot buy happiness. It can finance a spectacular misery and it can postpone, or evade entirely, reaching a real bottom. That is mom's situation; too rich to have the kind of consequences that it sometimes takes to fully concede defeat.

I learned from my sister that my mom had been arrested. I was checking e-mail on my mobile phone at work last night around 9. Her note said if I ever need a reminder of why I stay sober, take a look at the Ada County Sheriff's Arrest Report for January 31st. Of course I called my sister immediately. I'll spare you the details of the sordid story - it will probably make it into a screenplay at some point anyway - but the climax was my screaming mother being arrested in front of her home for obstructing police. Some part of of me, the part that isn't perfect yet, was thrilled that she was finally reaping some consequences from her addiction. The part of me that still hangs on to resentment toward her for any of the thousand ways she has harmed her children suddenly felt vindicated. In spite of all the 4th step inventory written on her and in spite of having some idea of my part, I have kept a careful distance from her. It wouldn't do either of us any good to make that amends too early. Clearly I need to do it so that I can put that inappropriate glee behind me.


The joy was fleeting though. It lasted just long enough for me to get home from work and pull her mug shot up on the sheriff's web site. It shocked me.
If the community of recovery is a neighborhood and the eyes are the windows of the soul , I live in a great neighborhood today. I live among people who solve their problems by serving their Creator and helping others. Windows in my neighborhood don't stay broken. Trash doesn't stay out on the street. Looking at the windows in mom's neighborhood breaks my heart.

Bird In A Guilted Cage

Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.

—Erma Bombeck

Guilt is the central issue recovering addicts have to face once the physical aspect of our addiction is put in order (At least to the best that it can be. Many have huge obstacles in that regard.). There are two types of guilt as near as I can understand. The built-in one that results from all the wrong choices we have made in regards to our own well being and happiness; the kind of guilt that fuels self regret. And then there are the choices we have made that have ancillary effects on those around us, those we care deeply about to the extent that we can; the kind of guilt born out of external resentment. It is the guilt that weights the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The kind of guilt one succumbs to because it is ongoing and unbearable. It’s the “fuck you! guilt. Burns bridges. Eats us alive. Takes us down. And it’s not our fault because it’s from someone else’s pain. Easy out courtesy of the wronged.

When I was suffering under the weight of my own use, I cannot tell you how many times I felt wronged by people who were in the throws of their own addiction. That was a consideration I failed to make though I never failed to wonder why they could not see the pain that my addiction was causing me. If only they would see how much I hurt, I would feel less pain. If only.

I think that may be the way out ,though. When we begin to feel our own pain again then we begin to see the pain of others. Ouch! And ouch again. Will it last forever? Why bother? Why me? Why not use again? Felled by whys. And yet, what can one do? Guilt has so many points of contact that it cannot be avoided. The fall back position is pity and that really does not work either. If I make pity my personal currency I am only damning myself to a life of misery. I’ll need some drugs for that.

But one question seldom thought through are the “What ifs?" What if I had; What if I had not? How about what if I do? Can’t do that in the past. I can only do that now. And that would be the point.

We have to focus on what we want now and what we want tomorrow. And we are not going to get that by focusing on the past. Yesterday is gone. Even if it was good you can’t get it back. Why would you want to dwell on that? Why not dwell on the possibilities. If we are are expecting repayment for all our pain and suffering then we should all just use drugs, get addicted and pull all the same crazy shit on those who wronged us. That’s repayment in kind. It's also not the way to happy land; it's the way out.

Forget about the sad past and have a happy tomorrow. Why the hell not?