Assignment 5

In my seventh week of substance abuse treatment the assignment is to write an autobiography. Or, rather, summarize ones life with emphasis on significant addictive events, tragedy, moments of personal growth, and religion (because one can't get clean without religion, but that's for another time.)

Of course, the glaring difficulty with asking someone who has had frequent blackouts over the last decade to recall specific events of that decade is obvious.

Dozens of memoirs are on my bookshelves. The majority of them I've read. They fall into two categories. The authors who write what happened, however crude or objectionable; and the authors who write what happened followed by understanding, perspective and often remorse. That is not to say either author doesn't feel remorse or guilt -- a mistake I feel critics make if the author doesn't explicitly state regret -- only they have made the editorial decision that writing about it plays a significant role in the narrative. Most times, I think, this is done to appease the detractors.

Ultimately, I realize people will think what they want, and often, likely, say it to my face.

So, step one in writing a narrative of drug history: be confident, honest and humble.

Here we go...

Wheelchair Awareness

The second time in treatment for an eating disorder. I was in a wheelchair for several days and our group was going on a community outing for a snack. Driving to the shop, another patient looks over to me and asks what my story will be.
"My story?" I asked.
 "Yeah," she said. "You know, why you're in the wheelchair. Last week when we went to lunch for outing and I was still in a chair I told them I had heart issues."
"And I was in a skiing accident," a emaciated girl, no more than 14 years old in treatment her first time, chimed in.
I was floored. It never occur to me to lie. I have an eating disorder. They are very common and individuals require professional help and support for recovery.

It occured to me then. I need to talk about my experience often; not be afraid or shamed to hide what I'm going through. In fact, often when I share my story in a large group there will be at least one or two individuals who also share their struggle with an eating disorder.

And that's all I can do. Not be ashamed or scared and tell what I know. And the more I talk and tell people about eating disorders the likelier it is someone who needs help will come forward and tell a friend or loved one.

If you are reading this and feel the need to talk to someone or just want to know more about signs and symptoms please contact the National Eating Disorder Association at www.nationaleatingdisorders.org or call the helpline at 1-800-931-2237

My Mom and I email about God

It started simple. My mom and I were exchanging emails about books we were reading. Our conversation developed into a nice dialogue of what be both believe. I've been immensely helped by this as I've had to look closer into what I actually believe. A sort of comprehensive monologue of my personal belief.
This is how it began:

I haven't read it yet mom. (Lit by Mary Karr)
it's on my list early this year. one of the first. yeah, i agree about being choosier what one reads. i usually have 2 or 3 books going at once. sometimes if i read a couple hundred pages of one a get a little bored so i can skip to another. also, with a book like that it can be really descriptive and graphic so i like to be reading something else fun at the same time. kinda like food. whatever you put in your body or mind has an effect. very true mom.

 My mom replied the next day:

In your last e-mail you said something about whatever you put in your mind......reading, has an effect on you.  And that made me wonder if you are putting in HIS WORD?
It amazes me at times when I read something I realize that the verse was just what I needed. God has certainly blessed us.  When I look back at my mother and dad, brothers and sisters. I feel blessed even thou some choose not to be part of my life.  And then I look back on Tom's, your Dad's family and I am so thankful to God that I was part of their life.
 And of course then theirs Dad and you and Steven.....and the years have gone by. Wonderful memories!
 Funny isn't it Adam how you would like to STOP the clock and go back in time and really appreciate each day and appreciate that person or people.  But the "time" might be right now that you would be looking back on someday. Here is a verse that I read not long ago that I liked..... Ephesians 4 11-13  love mom

 My mother is a fantastic woman. She has always had a strong faith in God and Jesus. To my knowledge she has never wavered from this belief, even after the death of my father, she was resolute, strengthened by God's promises of an afterlife. Religion has truly gotten her through the toughest of times. However, our experiences with religion vary greatly. Without going into it now, here was my response:

it's interesting you should mention that. i just finished a book by Graham Greene called the Power and the Glory. i share all the books i read on this website, goodreads, so my friends and i can give eachother reviews or recommendations. anyway, this book got me thinking a lot about how individuals overcome sin. themes like: is damnation absolute or guaranteed salvation.

"As the lead character, the 'whiskey-priest', moves from one place to another, Greene takes us along on a journey taut with suspense and tension. However, it is really his moral journey which is the most captivating. We not only witness the priest's struggle to escape, we also get to look into his tormented soul and his ambivalence. He is constantly torn between following what his religious faith has taught him while his worldly sense seems to make more practical sense. He feels guilty for his sins, but he loves the fruit of his sin. He almost wishes that he be caught so that he could be rid of the fear and the misery. But doesn't his faith teach him that it is his duty to save his soul? He has sinned and is immoral, but he is also full of compassion and love for fellow human beings.
A question that haunts the priest and the reader throughout is whether he will find redemption and if his soul will achieve salvation? Or do immoralities and sins always overshadow a man's goodness? Greene makes it so easy for one to understand his characters. The priest, with his virtues and his flaws, feels like a very real person. It's not at all difficult to imagine such a person walking some part of this earth in flesh."

i like to read books that make me think. moreover, i don't like being told what to think. i don't like someone who says to me, "god (lowercase on purpose) wants you to do this," or "this verse means this." i'll figure it out on my own if that is what it means.

i just don't care for reaading the bible. i don't trust it. i don't trust men or established religion at that time (40+ A.D.) i believe in a god and i believe there was a Jesus, but that's about all i'm certain of. and i'm OK with that. i haven't met or heard of a single person alive or dead that got Jesus' teaching correct. every person has their own interpretation, i know i have mine, and that is what guides my life. i'm not pushing it on anyone else. only doing what i think is best -- not following the word (cause that's flawed), but following what I believe Jesus taught: love.

i feel like this email has gotten too long. but i wanted to explain so i don't misrepresent myself or how i feel about religion, the bible or god.

Grant it, I may have given a little more than she expected, but I felt it was a good opportunity to open a dialogue between my mother and I about what we believe. As i've been mostly clear for a long time about what my mother believes, I've suspected she felt the same way about me: my beliefs were much like hers (not true). So an opportunity arose, and I took it. I don't consider this disrespectful. I very much enjoyed this exchange with my mother.


More to come...

Untitled 05/08/10

and we sat together and watched the night burn until the flame fell, and in the morning we sat stared at the ash.

over the years the ash has blown away and left only a small mark in our memory, where, when we look back hard enough, we can see the spot of that night when the flames were so high and fire so bright it melted us into one.

Suicide Theives: The Alley

Smoke hung high in the air and drifted into my lungs. The smell of old carpet, old bowling shoes and angst was palpable. I strode through the entrance aside a confident, purposeful Samantha. At the lobby I paused to admire the dusty trophy case, in it were decades-past portraits of polyester-clad champions. Their prideful smiles couldn't have been further removed from the scene ahead of us. I turned to face the lanes. I moved through the smoke and inebriated laughter like a keen anthropologist. Being only among the faces, not a part of them. I stood beside and apart from Samantha.

I introduced myself to her friends then retired to the periphery. In dress and spirit I felt in absolute contrast to the bodies around me. Wearing faded shirts of their favorite local metal bands; wallet chains fastened to stained and shredded jeans; and tattoos of spiderwebs, hemp leaves and scorpions, the roughly half dozen of them stood loosely. Always one eye on the crowds around, they never appeared completely at ease -- for good reason too. It was common knowledge on weeknights this bowling alley was harbor to individuals described here. Their deprivation was smug; respect had to be earned. I respected myself enough not to try.

I sat without notice at a sticky table colored with neon pins and balls. Samantha was different. I knew she was, but I was naive. Surely, being alone around friends she would miss her boyfriend, Ben, not yet two weeks underground. She had deep disarmingly cold eyes. Almost common if one were to look at them for only a moment. However, a long gaze, the kind we presently shared from opposite sides the table of spilled drinks and pizza scraps, gave those cold eyes a quantifiable value. We held each others' gaze. Was what I saw sadness, fear or a mournful indifference? Could she see the insecurity and youth in my eyes, or were they, as I hoped, well masked by a supportive and concerned face?

A ball crashed into the pins. We looked down the lane. "Spare," shrieked one of the girls in our group. I looked back at Samantha. She was talking to the man next to her. I listened intently and waited to join the conversation. Wondering how, or when, she will introduce me. Am I the friend, the date or simply Adam. The conversation started with sympathetic apologies and condolences to the still somewhat grieving girl across from me. It quickly digressed.

"Dude got ten months for slammin' Nick face to glass," Matt said. He thought Nick deserved the 18 stitches from Dan. I couldn't keep the whole story together. Samantha looked at me knowingly.  "After all, fucker slashed his Honda after the split with that bitch sister of his," Matt justified. "I miss that car," Sam said. I looked at her and shrugged. I couldn't piece together the names and faces and criminal records of everyone I'd met since we arrived. I didn't know these people or their lives, and I didn't want to. I knew Sam, and they meant something to her.

Another crash of the pins.
Why did we come if we didn't intend to bowl? I must have been invited to meet her friends. If not, she felt bad leaving me at the ice cream shop. Haven't decided which. But was I being presumptuous allowing myself to fantasize of a place in her life. I looked over to Samantha, about to ask if we should go buy shoes to start a game. She was looking beyond me with warning.

My chest struck the table edge in front of me. Samantha gasped. I spun around. Fists up and head down, the man who was pushed into my chair charged toward his aggressor, a stocky Native American man with long dark hair and an aged jean jacket who belong to another larger group of people several lanes down. I jumped up and took several steps back until I was alongside Samantha.

We watched as the bald-headed man who crashed into me took a long-winded swing at the Native American. The dark haired man stepped back. The punch hit the air with force and Tim lost balance. He swiftly hit the wooden floor. His friends, or my friends by way of Sam, quickly stood him up and restrained him. Darin, the dark haired man, said they should go outside to finish. Matt suggested a parking lot in Bismarck. He led Tim out to his car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Sam and I jumped into her messy Saturn. We were now in a line of several cars en route back to Bismarck to watch a fight.

Suicide Theives

That was really the first time someone close to me died by self-harming. What happened after was another strange series of events. I was close to the dead. Close as friendly coworkers are. We spent limited time together out of work: He, his girlfriend Samantha, and I.
Tall with dark blonde hair, she walked confidently through the halls of our work. She knew her duties, and she was an exceptional worker. After work she was controlled chaos; planning and cancelling without hesitation or remorse. He was like her. They complemented each other like the blades of a scissor.

I was the youngest of us three, younger still considering life experiences. Less so after the events of that evening.

One week after he shot himself in the head with an old revolver, Samantha and I made plans to get together. Ice cream and a movie. Nothing romantic or stressful. Only an easy night with a friend.

Kids were everywhere around us. Their parents sitting peacefully outside eating their vanilla cones. Lines of Friday night teens ordering dessert for their dates. Us sitting at a high-top, one waiting for the other to break the silence -- this was not the atmosphere I wanted. I cannot remember who spoke first, but discussion lead to which film we would see. Nothing at the cineplex piqued her interest.

She raised a brow reading a message on her mobile, confirming what I feeling; the air around us was stale with forced conversation and platitudes. We needed to split and quick, before the uneasiness became suffocating. I asked what she had read. She said several of her other friends were at different location. I saw in her eyes she wanted to go. I didn't press the film idea further. We left that low-key Friday night suburban scene and took nothing from it; as when we arrived nothing was given to us.

The inside of Samantha's old Saturn smelled of cigarettes and take-out food -- the evidence of both was under my sneakers on the passenger side. From my seat, I looked and her empathetically, her eyes fixed on the road as we crossed over city lines on a steel bridge spanning the cold ice-packed Missouri River. In a vehicle, did she think about him in his vehicle with the barrel to his temple? Was she thinking about me next to her, trying to take his spot? Or was she not feeling anything at all, driving only from one point to the next.
"Keep moving!", I heard the voice inside her say. She was hopeful the anger and sorrow and loneliness would give up the chase if only she could keep moving.
To my knowledge she's still moving; living life in the moment after you leave but before you arrive.

We came to a stop in a sparsely used lot under a large half-lit blinking sign atop a building that read, BOWL.

Blessing

A sad state indeed when cyclists go through a blessing ritual each year in hopes to decrease their chances of an accident, according to this piece in the LA Times. Once a year cyclists gather outside Good Samaritain Hospital for a blessing from clergy. And to bring awareness to the thousands of bicycle related accidents Good Samaritain treats every year. Roughly 250 of more than two-thousand reported accidents are hit-and-run."Not for the faint of heart" are the roads of L.A.

Of late I've been quite proud of Fargo, ND. On my 10 mile round trip to work I've seen the city marking a handful of new roads as either shared or with specific bicycle lanes. Now the hard part is informing public how to react around cyclists, instead of acting like they've just seen an orange zebra.

Hopefully they'll get it together before september. Otherwise it'll all be foregotten for next year.