“But who am I to guide someone forward?”

March check-ins: We’re making it through another day.

We can’t lie: Things aren’t great. And when things aren’t great — when we’re hurt, when we’re scared, when we’re sad — the urge, often, is to act: to do something, anything, to change the feeling in our bodies. Now to be clear: The Small Bow is not anti-taking action! But the action you take matters, and picking the right one or ones can be hard when you’re overwhelmed by emotion. So this month finds our TSB community waiting it out. Taking a minute, and then another minute, and then another minute. We’re communing with ourselves in moments of extremis: with the self who is hurt, who is scared, who is sad. We’re loving and forgiving that self. We’re communing with and loving and forgiving that self so that we can commune with and love and forgive others. Things aren’t great. But gosh if we aren’t all trying.

Let’s go to the Check-Ins. —TSB Editor

If you are unfamiliar with our Check-In format:

All the Anonymous writers below are credited collectively as “The Small Bow Family Orchestra.”

The ***** separates individual entries, as do pull quotes.

And, of course, TSB looks incredible because Edith Zimmerman drew everything. 

One last thing! As some of you may recall us mentioning, we’re working on a Small Bow mobile app that we’re releasing this summer. The plan is to translate everything that's great about the newsletter and its community of readers, and turn it into an app. We’re in the process of building it now and could use your help. Click here to fill out a short 3-minute survey telling us what you love most about the Small Bow, and we’ll use your answers to make the app better.

Thanks for your continued support of The Small Bow. If you love what we do and believe we have provided some value to you or people you love, please try out a paid subscription and access our complete archive and the Sunday newsletter.

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A Necessary but Not a Sufficient Condition

by The Small Bow Family Orchestra

March has always seemed like the just-keep-going month. There’s the promise of better days around the corner, the old saw about it coming in like a lion and leaving like a lamb. Growing up in New England, March was the last month you had to endure to get to the bliss of flowers and warmth. I usually love spring but I find myself scared to leave the comfort and hiddenness of winter. No one expects you to make plans in winter. Spring is for doing things. Sometimes being sober and medicated feels like exile. Being drunk was a passage to the land of normal, even though I could never quite pull it off, never stay in that everyone’s-having-fun stage, and too often ended up on the angry or weird side. Even though I know logically there is no such thing as normal, I still imagine that everyone else is just doing life, making it work, smiling at the warm weather, while I sit here, afraid of my own shadow, a groundhog dreading the sunlight to come.

*****

I’m coming up on seven months sober, the longest I’ve ever gone. I came out of a rehab in Pa. — my fourth in-patient — in September. At 65, I’ve been dipping into AA and sobriety for 13 years, but I cautiously say this time has been different. When people ask me how or why, I say it’s that I am trying to do everything—meetings, sponsor, service, outpatient treatment, prayer and meditation and a desire to sense God in my life, and, probably most important, connecting with people in the program more than I ever did. At the rehab, I was in a men’s relapse unit, which was so important, because most of the guys were serious about at least trying. And we have stayed in touch — in active chats and a weekly zoom AA-format meeting. Usually these communications peter out after a few weeks, but we are staying at it, supporting each other including a number of guys who have relapsed; we of course can’t reverse our one fatality. In the past I resisted most of this work; I thought AA meetings and undifficult meetings with a sponsor meant I was in recovery. Now I am viewing my recovery as an ongoing project. I don’t hesitate any longer to tell people that I am in recovery. That’s partly because of my advanced age and not giving a shit, but more because I view “in recovery” as who I am — not all defining but still an essential aspect of me that requires care and sustenance.

*****

After smoking fentanyl with a cute guy I met in rehab, I got kicked out of my IOP program and I also got clean. I’ll have a year sober this week, for the first time since middle school. I did it all the right way, too. I got a sponsor and worked the steps. I made my lists of resentments and character defects and amends. I picked up meeting commitments and gave rides and took all my various medications, and I’ll celebrate with my home group at the end of the month. I’ve spent the past 4 years trying to get sober over and over again and relapsing after a few months each time. I told myself the AA Promises would start coming true if I finally got 12 months clean, it’s something I’ve been motivating myself with for years now. On a very surface level, I suppose they have. But like . . . What now? I feel so incredibly lost. I know the next step is to start sponsoring, but who am I to guide someone forward? I could veer off the road at any minute. I’ve done everything right, by the literal and metaphorical book, but I still kind of feel like a fraud.

*****

Thanks to TSB’s ketamine coverage, I am considering paying for ketamine treatment to deal with my PTSD. But now I’ve bought a bunch of magic mushrooms to try and deal with all the emotional stuff first by myself, cause the Canadian government requires medical proof you’ve “tried everything else” including SSRIs and psilocybin treatment is only granted as a last resort. I haven’t been drinking much alcohol, though the last 2 beers I gulped down guiltily behind my roommate’s back were not gluten-free, and my stomach ached for days afterwards. “Not worth it,” I thought, “but anything to get over the breakup . . .” Then I had a dream that I was trying to kill my mother last night. I woke up suddenly with the image of my hands around her neck, trying to strangle her, my heart beating so fast that it took a while to calm down once awake. Her abusing me while she went through menopause is one of the reasons I need PTSD treatment. (Well, that and my cousin sexually abusing me too. Fuck family.) I’m at the same age and rage level of hormonal imbalance that she was when all this began. May the shrooms and the k-hole help release it all back to the universe.

*****

Old guy here, sober 3+ years. What has it been like, lately? On the Andy Griffith TV show from about 100 (?) years ago there was a character, Gomer Pyle. In one episode, he exclaims: “Surprise. Surprise. Surprise.” It became a funny and repeated punctuation mark in various silly plots. That’s daily life now. Sometimes feel okay, but then a surprise. Shit happens. And almost no matter what it was, my mind drops. I go from doing a halfway decent job approximating normal — like existing on the ground floor of things — to falling through to the basement, then the sub-basement, then down through more floors and black spaces. Sober is climbing back up, slowly, trying to attend. If I pay attention the moments can be endured. So, there’s being sober and then there’s everything else: emotional problems, misperceptions that come with being a flawed human, histories of bad acts committed, and good actions undone. They say (in AA and elsewhere) to do the work, practice forgiveness, be patient. Figure how acceptance, courage, and wisdom might be found in daily life. But at this age with this history and mind I probably should just be planning for the end. Write up some notes, buy grandkids a few year’s worth of birthday presents, think (a lot) about how one should live one’s moments, and work on how to end gracefully. (That last one might be the truest gift.) It’s a surprise to be sober and I’m very grateful for getting to this place. But, surprise. Sobriety for me is a necessary but not sufficient condition to continue. Best to maybe go read something now? Go to a meeting or clean the kitchen? IDK. TTFN.

*****

I decided that when I cleaned up I would start going back to the doctor. It’s been 2 months and 2 days since I last used cocaine, and I’m seeing the doctor.

I never thought the hardest part of getting clean would be managing anxiety from doctor visits. When you’re waiting to learn how big the hole in your septum is (5mm btw) the gap between appointment check-in and being seen by the doctor is actual purgatory.

The nurse could tell I was nervous while she was taking vitals and drawing blood, and went out of her way to make small talk. “It’s Valentine’s Day and you didn’t bring me anything?” she asked. “If I had known it was you, I would’ve,” I said.

She told me I was doing the right thing by seeing the doctor again, and I think she was right.

*****

This month will mark 30 years since my last drink. Been to a lot of meetings. I confess that every reading of “How It Works” left me feeling unsure about whether I was one of those unfortunates that did not have the capacity to be honest with themselves. In day-to-day motion, I thought I was doing OK. Yet there have always been unquestioned demons popping in and out of my peripheral vision. A handful of years ago I revisited “The Promises” with my son (who works an admirable program, btw), and realized that I’d always parsed the Big Book for words that didn’t apply to me. “The Promises” have not manifested for me because, clearly, I thought sobriety was enough. That is an unthinking man’s mistake. I began to recalibrate a mountain of memories, and wondered how much I have ever been present in important relationships. More recently, sorting through old paper, I hit a vein of letters and journals and this & that vividly revealing how little I have changed over these decades. I have stayed dry largely as a skilled practitioner of half measures, which pretty much equates to minimum effort, and a ton of rationalizations and magical thinking. I thought I’d been lucky. But really, all I’ve done is cash in on my white male privilege. I have avoided asking for help. I have told myself I could “take it” a million times, only to create instant micro-resentments, unacknowledged and left to fester. I have rationalized that my emotional presence didn’t matter to more easily avoid those who cared about me, punishing them with silence. Conditional morality and sneakiness helped maintain the image of a thoughtful guy. I’ve lived a White Knuckle life. The most profound thing I’ve heard since my agonizingly slow re-awakening began is: The opposite of addiction is connection; with others and, especially, oneself. I decided the safest thing to do was risk nothing and touch no one. I ran and hid without asking from what or why. I chose fear over love. I missed the opportunity of a lifetime. But I haven’t had a drink . . . .

*****

Objectively I am at capacity, maybe over capacity, yet quantifiably thriving. Subjectively I am underwater with a straw for a snorkel. But I am getting the air I need. I’m getting everything I need, really. I try to call my sponsor every day and that means I actually do it a few times a week. One sponsee almost has 90 days, which is not my victory but I’m nonetheless thrilled and hopeful for them. I make it to my home group almost every week. I know that’s the minimum threshold for my sober stability and that I would surely benefit from more meetings, but I truly cannot in this stage of life: two small children, full-time jobs, spouse in night school. This is the truth but I still feel guilty, like I should somehow be able to do more. More! Lol. I pray all the time though. Mostly “please help” when my 4-year-old wakes me daily at 5 a.m. but also lots and lots of “thank you”s. I am deeply grateful for this life.

*****

I really only realised that I may be an alcoholic because I heard it being called that for the first time on the Search Engine podcast.

This past year has been a turning point in my life. In December 2023 I received a huge windfall through some inheritance, was overly stressed because of my job and was fired. I climbed into bed and honestly didn’t leave bed for 2 full months, spanning Christmas and the New Year alone.

I spent the past year trying to get work, trying to function but really struggling. Throughout that time I was burning through my windfall, drinking and taking drugs and, on the surface, having fun. But it wasn’t real and there were 4 evenings last year where I was absolutely blitzed and contemplated sui***e. I fell out with my housemate, lost friends and still . . . Thought everyone else was the problem.

Last year, I heard the podcast in 2024 (almost exactly a year on from my day of climbing into bed) from Search Engine with The Small Bow . . . And heard myself in the podcast for the first time.

Am I an alcoholic? That big scary word.

I think . . . Yes. It sounds like it.

This, followed by seeing The Bear (FX) and realising the destructive power of alcohol and seeing my own mum in the awful Christmas episode (IYKYK) I realised it was true.

I always thought of myself as not being a problem. After all: I have worked as a successful producer and publicist. Hearing the podcast I realised that career successes are in spite of self destruction, not a proof that I'm not self-destructive.

Now, every time I drink a lot I realise that I lose a full day afterwards. I’m trying to cut back and quit, but honestly, I’m at the very beginning of my journey. I’m 35 in March, single and realising my destructive behaviour.

But on the plus side since my revelation:

• I’ve been producing new work

• Got lots of new work coming

• Got a new fish tank for my fish

I’m realising this is a process. Alcoholism (which feels terrifying to call it that) is an everyday thing and, I think, is more of a general self-destruction which shows itself in trying to escape through a specific vice.

I think all I can say is: I’m not really sure.

I just want everyone to be able to find a way to put one foot forward and focus on the new things. Allow oneself to forgive oneself and focus on finding a single achievable goal sometimes.

This month, I want to try and stay sober. We’re doing an Ethiopian tea evening and I can’t wait.

Keep going folks! We got this.

*****

I “qualified” at my homegroup a few weeks ago. Some truth came out I wasn’t expecting. My mental theme was how my relationship with honesty and shame had changed over the course of my drinking & using and then into recovery & eight years of sobriety. Most importantly I called my daughters “human rainbows” totally impromptu and although I’d never called them that until that very moment in front of a bunch of strangers in a dimly lit church room it’s stuck with me and now they’re known to my core family as the human rainbows. That was a Wednesday night.

On a Wednesday night last week I got home from that same meeting feeling anxious and overwhelmed and burned out and hopeless as my futile job search continues. After watching an episode of The Leftovers — which I’ve found so staggeringly heartbreaking I can barely keep watching/can’t stop watching — my migraine took a turn and I writhed on the couch for a while and snuck into the shower in our bedroom so as not to wake my wife and laid on the cold tile and whispered a bunch of awful things to myself and let the warm water fall over me until I puked down the drain. Then I felt better.

So it goes.

*****

I decided to check-in mostly for a reality check. Cause I am just not sure any more what is real or some figment of my fucked-up sober imagination. I never in my life could have imagined I would find myself in this place.

In October my boss decided it was “time to retire” me as if I was a cow. I was nowhere near ready to retire.

So, in submitting to my new reality, I find myself filing for unemployment, social security and Medicare all at once while executing a fruitless job search. At least rebuilding my resume reminds me that I was once a hirable and productive human. (Is that a word?)

The trials and technical insanity are bullshit and inconvenient. Every time you apply for a job you have to create a new user, password and login and then text yourself to authenticate. Which is a bitch when you lose your phone and are too frazzled to care. It’s kind of a beat-down.

And yet NOTHING, none of all that shite comes close to the greatest pile-on of all time: The reality that I am now my 89-year-old mother’s babysitter AND she’s a total RAGER! I’ve found her 2-3 scotches in by cocktail hour, then drives to Happy Hour followed by a signature “Final Final” only to drive home. Or leave her car somewhere and hope someone is kind enough to call her an Uber. Last week the American Legion had her car towed to the police station. When the siblings found out I was trying to help her I was threatened with a cease-and-desist order. Blah blah blah. The shite goes on and on.

WTF? How did I end up here?

Anyway, thanks for the space and camaraderie.

Update: My Mom just told me she resourced a local cab company. She now has a black dude picking her racist ass up and dropping her off at her favorite watering holes. Kind of like her own private cabbie. Again, never in my life did I see this coming. Progress I suppose.

*****

I can’t lie; things aren’t great. Every day, something in the news makes me want to buy a bottle of tequila, sit in the shower, and cry. Everyone I know is, in their own way, hurt and scared right now. Sometimes it feels like the only thing keeping me here is the promise I made to my cat to take care of her. I know I’m not responsible enough to have a joint (just one! I promise!) to take the edge off, but taking deep breaths doesn’t feel like it’s enough to manage the kind of stress I’m feeling. Weirdly, though, when I do make the time to sit still, close my eyes, and focus on my breathing, the calm feeling returns. From that space, I really do believe every single one of my emotions is a blessing.

I got high every day for years because I didn’t want to face reality. I didn’t want to connect with anyone, I didn’t care about anything, and I couldn’t stand being alone with myself. The thought of telling my friends I loved them never occurred to me. Now, when I let the anger and fear and bitterness filter through me, what’s left behind is the sense that I really do care—about myself, about my friends, about strangers. To feel so deeply now is proof not only that I’m alive but that I want to be alive.

Sometimes it sucks. But I’ll keep walking past the liquor store, I’ll call my sponsor, and we’ll sit in silence and breathe. I’ll make it through another day.

*****

Two days ago, I celebrated my first year of sobriety, which is still kind of a gentle shock daily, after around twenty years of alcoholism. The writing was on the wall pretty early, it was bad for maybe fifteen years of it, the last ten were absolutely hideous. Like a lot of people, it's very difficult for me to explain why it started to work for me this time instead of one of the numerous earlier moments when it could not have been clearer that something had to give, but here we are now. What I’m here to say now is that this must have been the hardest year of my life, right? Like if I told you what happened and what I was doing and dealing with all year, what I was like when I went to my first meeting of this effort and actually kept showing up and not drinking between them, I would have to be describing the worst year of my life. But it has easily been the best, and it's not close. I would never, even before the active alcoholism, have considered the kind of life I have today possible for me, would not have known how to describe it or want it, and would have judged myself unworthy of it if I could have. These are meant to be brief: I imagine anyone reading this and I could probably talk for hours and hours about the hows and whys and details of what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like now, but I just wanted to pop in here and say that a year ago I was totally hopeless and could not imagine going on with or without alcohol, and today I am so glad I didn’t die.

*****

fin

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OTHER RECENT CHECK-INS:

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This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.

You can also get a Sunday issue for $9 a month or $60 per year. The Sunday issue is a recovery bonanza full of gratitude lists, a study guide to my daily recovery routines, a poem I like, the TSB Spotify playlist, and more exclusive essays.

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Demon With Watering Can Greeting Cards [Edith’s Store]

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ZOOM MEETING SCHEDULE

Monday: 5:30 p.m. PT/ 8:30 p.m ET

Tuesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET (NEW MEETING)

Wednesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Thursday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET (Women and non-binary meeting.)

Friday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Saturday: Mental Health Focus (Peer support for bipolar/anxiety/depression.) 9:30 a.m. PT/12:30 p.m. ET

Sunday: (Mental Health and Sobriety Support Group.) 1:00 p.m PT/4 p.m. ET

*****

If you don’t feel comfortable calling yourself an “alcoholic,” that’s fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, DEBT, codependency, love, loneliness, depression, come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome.

FORMAT: CROSSTALK, TOPIC MEETING

We're there for an hour, sometimes more. We'd love to have you.

Meeting ID: 874 2568 6609

PASSWORD TO ZOOM: nickfoles

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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:

Everyone Sang

by Siegfried Sassoon

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Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark green fields; on; on; and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted,
And beauty came like the setting sun.
My heart was shaken with tears and horror
Drifted away . . . O but every one
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

April, 1919

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