On Jello, and Recovery

I can't help it, I've always been an observer, and I have a tendency to search for patterns subconsciously. (If you want to make me insane, put me in a room with wood-grain paneling, or paisley draperies. My mind tries to make sense, find cohesive images in the swirls, and drives itself to distraction seeking visual meaning where there really isn't any.)

One pattern I see in the rooms is temperaments that are disproportionately reactive. I was in a meeting the other day, and a woman visiting from out of state spoke. She was in town visiting family, and was so agitated she shared first at this meeting; she needed to vent.

Not surprisingly, she originated from a severely dysfunctional family. Also not surprisingly, she reported being unable to hold still as a child - likely ADHD. And of course, here she was in recovery, for other resulting compulsive behaviors. Her story could be the story of many I've seen, in the rooms. Doesn't even matter which rooms.

She shared, squirming in her seat, eyes bouncing around the room nervously. Her body was curled up fetally, knees pulled up to her chin on the sofa. She held her arms up, demonstrating boxer fists, saying she always just wanted to FIGHT in the face of a threat, that she could never seem to outgrow her rebellious pattern, her innate reflex to be defensive.

That as a small child, she had been forced to learn offense, as a defense, to survive. As she spoke, she gritted her teeth, her eyes narrowed, and her voice cracked. One could see the hurt, angry, frightened little girl sitting there, half a century later. Such is the depth of pain some of us carry around, trying to fix, after our substances are taken away.

What the heck does this have to do with Jello?

I was thinking about this characteristic, the walls we build to defend our inner children, to survive. The vestiges of which we are left to deal with as adults in recovery, that get in the way of healthy living. And I realized that early in recovery, when we are trying to rid ourselves of destructive compulsions, we have a double risk. First, we remove what coping mechanisms we were using (the compulsion, whether it be substance, behavior, etc.), and second, we have no inner solidity to hold us up. It is our walls that contain us, early on.

The process of recovery is like the making of Jello. We are but formless liquid held in by our walls - the mold - initially.

Recovery puts us through the heat of rigors, just as one needs boiling water to dissolve the Jello. (We build, or discover, ourselves through the work of the steps.) The Jello then must stay encased within the mold, until there is a cooling period, and then the process of polymerization takes place, where things come together at the molecular level in one phase.

Once the gel is set and cooled, then the mold can safely be removed, and the shape will hold on its own. This is "stable" recovery, when solid state is achieved. (about 5 years on, according to this article, http://alcoholism.about.com/od/faq/a/recovery.htm)

Here I must digress a moment and speak of black and white, and grey. For me, the process of "cooling" has to do with the personal growth that occurs such that the ability to modulate, and compromise, is developed. The addict mind has a tendency toward extremes, polarization toward one end or the other - behaviors, opinions, etc. There is a paucity of middle ground, grey zone. One of the developments of mature recovery is this middle ground. The ability to navigate without the need to polarize. To see solutions in the middle, win-win situations, that sort of thing.

I think one of the reasons long-time sober folks display that aura of serenity, that calmness, is that they know they will not be forced into a corner, to choose black OR white, anymore. That they now have the option to navigate an infinite spectrum of choices, in between. They have a lot more choices, period.

What we curse and wish to rid ourselves of quickly - our molds, our walls - we fail to recognize as primitive tools that were also gifts of survival, early on. The task is in the timely removal of the obsolete. The challenge is the patience for the correct timing, and then the courage to unmold, when the timing is correct.

My point here being that the combative temperaments of compulsive-types tend to fight against the big picture and try to expose themselves prematurely, rather than work within it, and allow the gradual transition into the grey zone. Either by rushing the timeline (impatience), attempting shortcuts (laziness, complacency), skipping steps (fear, avoidance), or some other means. It's always much harder, that way. Again, it points to turning over, surrender. Acceptance. Patience. So simple, so hard.

Is it any wonder we need a Higher Power, to help us through? And Sponsor? And network of peers?

Those that "go out" find quickly that they are puddles of red goo.

Such was my waking thought, yesterday. I'm gonna skip the discussion of custard, as enough food analogy is enough.

-The Traveler

On Brains, and the 12 Step Process

I had all sorts of thoughts, this morning. But I put them all aside to pull this one to the forefront. My problem is not generally producing thoughts, but rather filtering them, and triage. OK, so I have a chaotic mind. I fully admit it.

I think later today I may still put out the entry on Jello, but I'm doing quality control on it. It's a kind of white-bread analogy that just isn't elegant, but hey, maybe I'll throw out that story later, anyway.

For the moment, however, I'd like to highlight this article on CNNs website:

http://www.cnn.com/2007/HEALTH/conditions/11/12/adhd.brain.ap/index.html

ADHD runs rampant in my family tree, and it's a very real thing if you've ever lived with it. It has colored my brother's entire life, my mother's entire life, landed several family members in addictions, etc. There is some link, I'm convinced, between the neural wiring and neurophysiology of the ADHD brain and the compulsive/addictive brain. Yes, I'm going to post on Jello, I just decided, because it relates to this, partially.

What's the tie in? Well, I don't really need one, since there is no overall theme here, but I've been hitting the search for God and recovery topics so far, and this is related to us folks in recovery.

I see sub-populations of folks in recovery. Folks whose brains are outside the bell curve. Gifted brains that lived on the edge of overload that were driven to calming via substances. ADHD brains that began substances to moderate behavior. Post traumatic stress brains with overactive limbic systems and not-so-functioning frontal lobes, often the result of the stress of a childhood in alcoholic or abusive environments or being member to an "outsider" group in the larger society where acceptance wasn't an entitlement in general.

These things are real, and these brain sub-types are real, also, I'm convinced. Not sure where the party-ers turned alcoholic/addicts fit in, but some at least are under the ADHD umbrella. And this is not to say it's clear, what category one may fall under, or certainly that these are the only folks to end up in the rooms. People are complex, and defy simple pigeon-holing, but general patterns do emerge, if one observes.

The beauty of it is that the 12 step system seems to address many of them adequately. Like they say, "It works when you work it."

I spoke to a man in recovery (addict/alcoholic) recently who had attended an Al-Anon meeting, because he's dealing with alcoholics/addicts from just about every direction in his life. He owns a horse farm, drives livestock for a living, and did the rodeo circuit when he was younger. Handlebar moustache, cap that never leaves the head, the scent of Marlboros in his clothing. That type.

He attended an Al-Anon meeting populated by himself and Catholic soccer moms.

Now, I don't know about you, but I'd have thought this guy would cut and run, finding himself in a room full of folks so "unlike" him. But the fact is, he knew the program from the other side, and knew the steps work, and you have to work them. He went into that meeting with people "totally unlike him" (I put that in quotes because this is also another instance of God's irony) and he shared for about 20 minutes, processing through where he was, out loud.

Just the imagery of that is miraculous to me. And when I think about it, it's a testament to the 12 step system. He is likely of the ADHD ilk, and the soccer moms not, but dealing with alcoholic family members. Yet the issues of addiction were the same in their lives, and the steps provided for both brain-types to address them and work.

I continue to be in awe of this system. I know it isn't perfect, and it has its abuses like any other human-populated system. But it works pretty darned well, for a lot of different folks. I appreciate that. And am grateful.

I mean, think about it.

So there you have it, freeflow thoughts - from ADHD brain structure and neurochemistry, to how the 12 steps work. And it's all related, loosely. Just as the Jello will be...

-The Traveler

Don't Tell Me He Ain't a Funny God

I didn't get enough sleep last night, resulting in the alarm interrupting REM or something, because the mind was racing when I came to. Thoughts of Jello, and custard, and how very funny God is, if you pay attention. More on the Jello and custard later. For now, we need to lighten up.

Y'know when you go to buy a car, and the model you lust after gets set into your mind, and all of a sudden you see them everywhere, on the road, when previously they hadn't seemed so ubiquitous?

Well, I think God's irony is like that. He is a funny guy.

(For the record, and for you who get bent on such things, where I come from, "guy" is rather gender neutral. We just want to appease the audience members, whom we are trying our damnedest not to think about, as we write. God's gender, or orientation, is also something I don't know. Oh, wait, maybe Gods don't even have genders. Hmmmm. There's a lot I don't know. I'm finding out more, every day.)

Take for example the hilarity of my waking realization this morning.

One of the stalwart couples in a meeting I attend are both long-term in their sobriety; as a matter of fact, they met each other on their recovery journey.

These guys are quiet leaders, you know the type who wait to be asked, but when they are, you listen to what comes forth, because it tends to have wisdom in it. They sit separately in meetings, and one might never know they are connected, if one didn't know that.

But both have that aura of serenity. Different manifestations, but undeniably present. His is gregarious, sparkling. Hers quiet, settled. But you know, you can feel it. There is a relaxation of the face in folks with serenity and a force field of calm about them. Now, I don't know if all y'all out there have experienced this, but I have. These types are not in every meeting, but when they are, you can feel them, something about the presence of serenity. You can feel the number of 24s they've put in, and the seriousness with which they have traveled the Journey.

OK, so here's the funny part. God put these two together.

He is a septic guy. She is a psychoanalyst. They are leaders in the local recovery community.

Stop, and think about this!

They both professionally deal in shit. His, tangible, hers, intangible. They are two of the cleanest people I know, on the inside. This makes me want to cackle uncontrollably at the irony, the hilarity of our dear God up there, pulling the marionette strings, directing the play.

God is a very funny guy. And smart.

I wonder if it's more of a sonic boom - His laugh - or, an almost imperceptible twitch at the corners of His Divine mouth, and a twinkle in his omniscient eyes. I tend to think the latter, but what do I know.

And no, I ain't makin' this stuff up. It's real.

-The Traveler

It Takes, and Never Gives Back

So I'm on my way to a meeting tonight. Yes, the second today.

As I drive into the parking lot of the facility - this meeting is held at a significant inpatient rehab facility - I notice a certain je ne sais quoi. The parking lot is full, and I'm early. Whatsupwiththat.

I round the corner to the other leg of the parking lot, and see.

Paramedic SUV. Police cruiser. Ambulance. Blocking off the other parking.

Suicide, is my first thought.

As it worked its way through my mind on the drive home just now, I realized that this disease of addiction takes, and never gives back. It's like having an inoperable aneurysm in your brain - a bomb in your head.

You can't extract it.

It could rupture any time, and leave you dead.

All you have is this 24, so you'd better thank God.

If you get another, you're doubly blessed.

And if you think it's cruel of God to have put that bomb in your head, ask yourself: Would I have drawn closer to Him, without it?

I'll be the first to admit that it seems an all-powerful sort like God should have been able to design a system wherein people were drawn to Him without the need for bombs in their heads. Like I said, He's un-understandable at times. Tonight was one.

-The Traveler

On Drunk Church in the Diner

In true compulsive-brain fashion, I've been over-thinking my first entry. I've gone through several essays in my mind, only to ditch them because they were just too contrived, and I have a tendency to get too contrived when I'm thinking too much. Which I do too often.

Today is a good day for me. I never used to like Sundays, because they were a day of obligations, and they provoked within me the agitation of inner dishonesty. One hears so often of people finally making it into the rooms, and their stories of "never feeling comfortable in their own skin," resulting in the compulsions of escape. I am no different.

My skin would crawl when I was a child, when I would think of God, and know I didn't know Him. And I had nowhere to turn, with my fears, because it was heresy, and I knew I couldn't try harder, or just pray about it, or have more faith.

The silence was deafening, and stayed that way until I landed in the rooms. And when I landed, I felt I'd found home. It was a place I understood, where people were more honest about God than I had ever experienced. The people in the rooms are flawed, and dishonest, and harbor skeletons. But they hold much less pretense about it. It's mostly just dirty laundry, hung out with everyone else's.

I never felt comfortable in my religious matrix growing up, first because it was not of my choosing but rather coerced upon me. Second, because I wanted to be good, and to be good within this matrix necessitated that I claimed I knew things I didn't and felt things I didn't. So it put me, even as a very young child, in a moral quandry - the specialty of religion.

Now, on Sundays, I can't wait to get up and get going. Whodathot. I drive about 15 min, to a diner quietly nestled at the base of a hill. As a matter of fact, it's built into the hill, on the back. It's not open to the public, but instead the owner is a long-term AA who owns the diner and adjacent building, where his business is housed.

He uses the diner solely to host 12 step meetings of various flavors. Outgoing and affable, Charlie has found his service niche, perfectly. He opens up his diner, sits back, greets with an infectious smile, and enjoys his life while others scurry about doing the nitty gritty. His generosity enables more than a hundred lives to be touched every week, and we are truly grateful.

The diner is casual 50s, authentic, not re-created. Tongue-in-groove knotty wide pine planks in clear amber lacquer line the walls, framing gigantic single-pane picture windows out the front side. The windows are half-covered in cafe curtains of bright red-and-white gingham, buffalo check to be exact. The floor is aging, cracking, square-foot tiles of linoleum, also in red.

Round white formica tables dot the interior, surrounded by tubular chrome diner chairs upholstered in plain red vinyl. All along the backside, a serving bar counter in 50s taupe-grey-cream random chip design formica is lined front and back with chrome bar stools, also upholstered in red vinyl.

Behind the serving bar counter is an orifice to the much-too-small kitchen, where a motley crew of scruffy, steamy, T-shirt clad men harangue each other as they cook and jostle for position. It's a male bonding zone, and these guys take their service with a kind of territoriality that's unspoken. It's ok to to visit them, but don't try to get a job there. LOL.

Breakfast buffet starts at ten, and the meeting at eleven. Every week, the topic is Step 11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood him, praying only for the knowledge of His will for us, and the power to carry that out.

There are no booths, and no juke box, although there is a pinball machine to one end. It's never in use, though, as it holds the clean empty plates, flatware rack, and breakfast donations basket atop it, at least on Sunday mornings.

To the right side of the pinball machine are a couple no-frills banquet tables. One of these tables is topped with crockpots of scrambled eggs, or fried potatoes. The other table holds several sterno-fueled chafing dishes filled with pre-cooked meats: thickly sliced ham, crispy scrapple, bacon, link and patty sausages. And a large basket of bananas.

To the left side of the pinball machine is a doorway into an adjacent small room where a table with 12 step literature is set up, and a counter with pitchers of juice, coffee machines, and associated accoutrements are offered.

There is something magical about this place, where every meeting I have attended there has been extraordinary. There was the week a recovering alcoholic chaired, and spoke of self-esteem, and how his physician had announced he needed a liver transplant. This guy's voice quivered as he spoke of wanting to refuse one, just wanting to die in shame, that he felt unworthy of a second chance if his getting a liver - that could go to a non-alcoholic instead - would put someone "more worthy" at higher risk of dying. And you could tell he meant it.

He went on to tell how another person had finally told him his drinking had been damn bad, but not bad enough for him to self-impose a death sentence, that his death was for his Higher Power to decide, not him. That if God wanted to offer him a liver, he should take it, and quit trying to take over God's job.

The tears welled in his eyes as the next sharer suggested God valued even him, enough to merit that liver. That being a drunk did not negate his value, to God.

There was the morning we discussed God, and one woman spoke of her quirky notion of there being only one God, a sort of "cosmic cow," where each religion had a teat at the udder, but all took from the same source, ultimately.

Today, a man spoke of his struggles with his ego, how he had to come to terms with the fact that he doesn't understand God, and doesn't know who or what God may be. But that his conclusion is that Step 11 is about the process of seeking - that is his job, to keep on the spiritual journey.

It never ceases to amaze me, the things that come out in this meeting. I come home, inspired, every single time.

I don't have any profound lesson, today. Only that I really like this meeting, and wanted to share the ambience with you. I feel so grateful, on Sundays, now. Every week, I see reflections of God, in the diner.

-The Traveler