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Dispatches From Dystopia

~ "What man by worrying can add one cubit to his span of years?"

Dispatches From Dystopia

Category Archives: alcoholism

Finding Purpose (Again)

17 Saturday Nov 2018

Posted by David in alcoholism, Depression, Health Issues

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

recovery

I grew up around drama. I grew up around people struggling with weight and weight related health issues. In 1968, Thanksgiving weekend, my mother’s brother, died of a stroke. He was only 45 and dangerously obese. He received a Purple Heart in WW Two and I suspect he was haunted by The War to the day he died. It just occurred to me that this is the 50th anniversary of his passing.

That was a very real bit of weight drama. My mother’s weight drama was ongoing. She would get serious about losing weight, then start jonesing for sweets. Eventually she developed heart disease and diabetes. She too had a stroke, but lived on another eighteen months afterwards before she died.

Her weight drama and her depression went hand in hand. There were tragedies galore in her family, her father’s alcoholism, her sister’s out of wedlock pregnancy, her father’s death from a cerebral hemorrhage. For a crazy woman, she did the best she could. Pure Christian Love prevailed over most of this.

But I came out warped, broken. I had a few missing pieces to my puzzle of mental health. The disease that is alcoholism affected me and I found recovery in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous and its 12 Steps.

The other bit of drama is my rather casual attitude toward diet and exercise. I would lose weight, gain it back over the past 12 years, I would commit to a regular program of swimming, then my sense of hopelessness would take me out of the pool.

This all combined to give a general lack of purpose to my life. Until. This time when I found out I was diabetic, I embraced healthy habits with a passion.

Today, after learning we have to replace a vehicle, I was all worked up. I was about to blow off swimming today, but did not. And I had a good workout, the longest in almost ten weeks, 1750 meters.

It takes effort for me to live life as free of drama as possible. My mother’s craziness, her outbursts of anger live permanently in my memory. Thank God she never physically abused us. And she loved us, took care of us, and wanted us to grow up to be decent human beings. But the repercussions from her brokenness linger in me to this day.

So every carbohydrate I don’t eat is in honor of you Mom. Every lap I swim is for you. I want to be the healthy person, you could never quite be.

I choose to be a positive example,

Friday Night

13 Saturday Oct 2018

Posted by David in alcoholism, Amtrak, Depression, Exercise/ Fitness

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

#Recovery #Reflection

It is Friday night, almost 2200 hrs. I have the Virtual Railfan, LLC channel on YouTube, watching the automobile traffic go by, before a train appears. The auto traffic has that soft hum of the motors, the thunk, thunk, as the vehicles cross the tracks. There are street lights burning and, occasionally, boisterous college students make their presence known.

The AMTRAK trains are running late; I just heard a train horn, a freight, perhaps. The bright light of the locomotive captures the picture. I was wrong. It is a passenger train. Southbound, running late, but not as late as the AMTRAK website posted it as being. I can see inside the passenger coaches, the passengers seated, waiting for their trips to end, I am certain.

The experience takes me back to the times when I visited my elder son in Philadelphia, where he grew up. His mother was a physician and her practice was in the suburbs. She didn’t hate me or anything. As a matter of fact. She and her then husband found me quite tolerable, as company went.

I would take the train to 30th Street Station and a SEPTA to Abington where he lived. We would knock about all day Saturday and most of Sunday, til it was time to go back. The train ride back involved drinking pricy AMTRAK marked-up beer, watching the East Coast pass by the window, the highlight I think was crossing the Chesapeake Bay near Havre de Grace, Maryland.

Not too many years later, my second wife would go to alcoholism rehabilitation at a near by high-powered inpatient treatment facility. Political types, like US Senators, started their recovery there, along with some Hollywood celebrities. Senators (“R” or “D”) have the same crap going on everybody else has. Don’t let ’em fool ya!

Not too long after she finished rehab, we divorced and after our son grew up, we grew apart. Then she died from cancer. Some days, I dedicate my recovery to her memory, thinking, hoping she will see, from beyond the cremation urn, that I’m serious about being a better man, a more virtuous man,than the one who was married to her.

That train window memory of Harve de Grace wasn’t what I expected to surface when I started this post. I thought about my day, the satisfying water-treading session I had as I worked and loosened some tight muscles. I was not eager to fix dinner, because my muscles ached from the workout, but I did. It was not bad, grilled salmon, baked sweet potatoes, half of an avocado. My wife has been in bed with a kidney stone, so my day, apart from the workout, was looking out for her.

I find it interesting how quickly attitude can shift, from staunch resistance to getting up from my leather recliner and going to the Y, to just plain leaving without a second thought. Depression is a subtle paralysis. I think we think depression involves some high drama, like standing on a ledge, prepared to jump. But really, it’s an accumulation of little behaviors and attitudes that add up to huge self-hatred. At least that’s what it’s like for me. Breaking the cycle is doing simple little things as a matter of habit.

A Minor Recovery

11 Thursday Oct 2018

Posted by David in alcoholism, recovery

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

# Fitness. #Swimming

Hanging around the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous for over twenty four years, I’ve learned that we can and do have setbacks (not relapses, when we go back “out” and drink) but setbacks where we lose momentum in maintaining our spiritual connectedness. Or sometimes we get out of the habits that make sobriety a rich and welcome experience.

I had gotten out of the habit of regularly working out. I have some issues with my left shoulder; when I swim, my overhead freestyle stroke hurts. The muscles seemed tight. The stroke felt totally awkward. I stopped at 150 meters. I decided to tread water, using my arms as much as I could, moving, rotating, stretching, putting in an hour of treading. Right now, nearly six hours later, I feel the soreness and pain near where the scapula meets the spine. I will go again tomorrow.

Back to rebuilding, grateful for all I have sustained, I begin another intensive approach to emotional and spiritual recovery. Life is good. Sobriety is good, for with it comes a clear head and a forgiving heart.

If I have learned anything lately, it is to let go of feelings of animosity towards those with whom I disagree, the more strident the angry words and feelings, the more urgent the need to completely let go.

I am not the person I was when I started this blog. I have changed the title three times, from The Celibate Pervert, to Celibate Or Chaste?, to Dispatches From Dystopia. I think we do live in a dystopia, the source of which isn’t political; rather it is our quest for the ideal culture, of perfection that ignores the baseness of the human creature. We can’t ignore the greed, the anger, the lust. the pride.

Maybe we just don’t have all the answers. And never will.

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your…philosophy.- Shakespeare, Hamlet. (1:5 167-8)

24 And There’s So Much More

10 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by David in alcoholism, Family, Sobriety

≈ 2 Comments

It has been 24 years since I had my last drink. When I consider that I drank for 25 years, I’m entering that year when I will have been sober for as many years as I drank.

I had a lot of sick, self-serving thinking. As I move further down the sobriety path, I discover a little each day how that selfishness damaged those around me.

I’m tired now. There will be more.

Natty Boh: A Memory

26 Friday Jan 2018

Posted by David in alcoholism, Baltimore, memoir

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

#Duckpin Bowling, #National Bohemian Beer

(I do not own the copyright to this image. The folks at Pabst Brewing do. I am not using the image for commercial gain and hope they understand.)

That cartoon image of the one-eyed chap with the handle bar moustache is an image from my childhood. Way back in the 1950’s there was broadcast on local television here in Richmond, a show called Strikes ‘N’ Spares. Its subject was bowling, duckpin bowling. Most of y’all don’t know what duckpin bowling is. The pins are smaller. The ball is smaller, fitting in your hand, about the size of the ball used in bocce. The bowler has three rolls per frame, rather than the two of ten pin.

The show originated from Baltimore, just up Rte 301, I-95. or the railroad tracks, where duckpin was, and still is, popular. The game is loads of fun. It was the first bowling game I played. We played it on Fridays in Freshman Physical Education at Willow Bowl just west of my high school. They came and picked us up on an old school bus, repainted baby blue, from the old school bus yellow. WILLOW BOWL was printed on the side where the old school district legend once was emblazoned.

The sponsor of said show was National Bohemian Beer, known colloquially as Natty Boh. This was a strong, Baltimore-brewed brand, popular in the Richmond market as well as Baltimore. As time ground on, Budweiser, Miller, and, at one point, Schlitz, took away market share from local brands like National Bohemian. The financially weaker local brands disappeared or faded into the background, becoming minor players in the beer market.

To this day, I can sing the National Beer jingle. I’ve pulled the cartoon commercial up on YouTube. Still has that funky naive charm that Fifties commercials possessed. Whether this advertising subtly seduced me into the drinking life, I can’t say. But they did portray beer as an innocent enough beverage.

Back then, we had no admonitions to enjoy beer “responsibly”. In Virginia, the Baptists and Methodists still had enormous cultural sway. They set the tone. Drinking was not cool. There weren’t bars selling hard liquor by the drink till the late 1960’s. A different world it was.

Facebook Go Home

06 Friday Oct 2017

Posted by David in alcoholism

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

#AA, #Facebook

I made the mistake of logging back on to Facebook, only to play in The Gun Control Opinion Circle Jerk. Big mistake.  So I deactivated yet again.  An AA friend of mine died last night, so I felt compelled to post a condolence.

The big news around Richmond is that Facebook is building a data center in the area so they can spy on the whole world more efficiently. Of course, the new overseers on the same Old Plantation think this is great. And politicians of both parties are beside themselves in self-congratulation.  I’m betting with the tax breaks FB gets, we’re paying for the privilege of them being here and will continue to do so for a long damn time. Liberal billionaire leeches will suck money  from the tax base too.

I’m angry, because I’m grieving. Roger, my AA buddy, is the third of the spiritual mentors in my life who died this year. These have been tough losses. Part of the lesson I’ve learned this year is that I am way more conservative than I am willing to admit.  Conservative in the sense that I believe in Absolute Truth. And Heaven And Hell. And Satan. There is evil in the world. Pure Evil. Two words people, Las. Vegas.

I’m not a fan of moral relativism.  Sorry. People are going to stop following me because I wrote that. Chances are good, they pride themselves on being tolerant as long as they don’t have to tolerate any idea that makes them uncomfortable.  Yeah. That’s tolerance for you. Not.

My hunch is that most people who claim to be tolerant have never really had to accept people exactly the way are, because their lives aren’t contingent upon acceptance.

Enough Think about that.. I dare you.

Sweaty Summer Nights

13 Thursday Jul 2017

Posted by David in alcoholism, Sexuality

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

summer. love. sweat.

Tonight I am on vacation from the uninterrupted state of comfort that air conditioning affords. The thermostat is acting up. Oh well. 

Sweaty summer nights always bring back the memories of when I couldn’t afford AC. but my libido and the libido of my lover functioned independently of any thermostat. To be naked, and horny, and available, and horny and sweaty and horny is one delightful place to be. 

We were more alive .  I remember the taste of her pussy, tinged I think with the tobacco that would one day kill her. And to watch her cum as our bellies were joined by a thin adhesive of sweat.  What could possibly end this party?

Unmet expectations.

Resentments.

Alcohol.

And end it did. 

Cousins, Part Two.

16 Friday Sep 2016

Posted by David in alcoholism, Health Issues, Sexual Identity

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

homosexuality, memoir, Obesity

When our story left off, Annette had just come out as a Lesbian to me and my wife. This revelation would fall under the heading of Confirming Our Suspicions.  Nevertheless, it was a huge deal to come out in the mid to late Eighties.  We came to understand that her sexual orientation was just one aspect of who Annette was a person. What Annette never had was an enduring relationship. She had attractions, dalliances, affairs.  We never met her lovers.

She was a loving and caring aunt, but a realistic, observant and feisty one.  She rapidly discerned that her surrogate parenting job entailed damage control around her brother’s marital and familial escapades.  She once confided in me that Leroy had an eye for “White Trash”.  He would get married, with all the accompanying optimism.  Then the drinking and the late hours at the Safeway would erode the foundation of family life.  Finally  the once-blissful bride would depart, to “find herself”, leaving Annette with the job of taking care of her niece, then a nephew, whilst Leroy was at the store. It actually worked out fairly well, because Annette had both a sense of  responsibility but also fun. There was the pool at Aunt Lois’s for summer days.  In its quirky, near dysfunctional way, the children received nurturing and parenting.

Meanwhile, Aunt Ruby’s health was declining, in a predictable descent; diabetes, impaired circulation, nerve damage, gangrene, amputation, and heart disease.  Ruby passed, leaving Annette and Leroy in the bedlam.

The niece and the nephew, children of different mothers, grew up. Annette’s health spiraled downward, so that the house she inherited from Aunt Ruby fell into disrepair. An opossum moved into the attic through an open vent. My brother named him “Maurice The Marsupial”. Her obesity had rendered her disabled. She moved in with Aunt Lois.  Things were good at first. Aunt and niece would go to farmers’ markets, and cook for the family gatherings that occurred at the holidays.

Annette lived her lesbian life vicariously, through the internet, The Advocate, and lesbian-themed DVD’s. It was no kind of life for anybody to live. Soon the wheelchair was a necessity and the wheelchair ramp became part of the architecture of the postwar bungalow Lois and Annette called home.

Annette became Lois’s reason to live.  She took her to dialysis, the numerous other doctors’ appointments, and in January 2006, to the Medical College Hospital, where Annette lapsed into a coma, and died of renal failure.  There is a reason why they call it Morbid Obesity.

Leroy was the last of the family, Uncle Jim, Aunt Ruby, Annette were gone. About a decade before, Safeway pulled out of the Richmond market. Leroy then went back to school, and became a computer nerd, earning a good enough living to afford his own house with a swimming pool, private school for his son, and Austin Nichols Wild Turkey Whiskey.

His alcoholism captured him, isolating him from the family.  He surfaced for the principal family events, which were now funerals.  My brother, through a circuitous system, involving Magic Jack, would contact him of the passings,  Aunt Lois in May 2011, my Dad in August 2011, Cousin  Bailey in January 2012. He and his son would show up at the funerals.

One day, in March 2012, my siblings, my elder son, and another cousin  were cleaning out the house where Pop, Grandma, Aunt Lois, and finally, Annette had all lived, preparing it to sell and settle Lois’s estate. We were interrupted by a call from Leroy. He had fallen and cracked a vertebrae in his neck.  He was in the hospital.  The neck fracture came from bones weakened by metastatic cancer of the lung.  Leroy was still smoking the Marlboro Reds in the box, just like he did in High School. His son was joined by his daughter,  now an Army wife, who had flown in from Germany. His ex-wives came back as he now lay in hospice.  Within two weeks of that phone call, Leroy was dead.

After Leroy died, we learned his biological father had not died as we were told. Ruby had divorced him. The family was a family of secrets.  There were emotions, numbed by food, turned raw by alcohol.  Were Leroy and Annette ever happy? Probably not.

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