We Have No Choice But To Sit With It
February check-ins: This month, our inner critics have bullhorns.
How are we this month? So glad you asked. We’re doing okay, actually. We’re facing our pain. We’re experiencing comfort, even if it scares us. We’re being graced with moments of enlightenment. We’re exhausted. We’ve got to stop it! We’re ashamed and also fuck shame. We’re listening to MJ Lenderman. Did we mention we’re scared? Mostly though, we’re grateful. Over and over and over again: we’re grateful, we’re grateful, we’re grateful.
Let’s go to the Check-Ins. —TSB Editor
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The Only Place Where Peace Exists Is Right Here
by The Small Bow Family Orchestra
I think that’s the point — the mystery.
I started going to Al Anon a few months ago because of this newsletter. I can’t articulate exactly why it has changed my life, but it has. I think that’s the point — the mystery. I keep having these moments of intense presence that I’ve never, ever felt before. I was raised by alcoholics who were raised by alcoholics, so the prevailing wisdom was: escape and dissociate. Sever with reality by getting blacked out. For as long as I can remember, I’d been trying to escape myself and escape feeling anything because I was afraid of being overwhelmed by the pain. If I kept my eyes fixed on what was ahead or behind, I could outrun it. But it turns out, the only place where peace exists is right here. There’s pain here too of course, but it has to be faced. And it can be faced. And I’m so grateful to know that now.
*****
However, that comfort scares me, and if I’m honest, I miss the chaos sometimes.
Watching people post/talk about Dry January while I hit 9 months of sobriety has been an interesting experience. I never bothered to try Dry January because I knew I was an alcoholic and any “dry” periods were going to be out of necessity, not social pressure. Plus, it reminds me too much of Lent (I joke that I am a recovering Catholic as well).
In most ways, the 9 month milestone feels really good. I survived the holidays, international travel, and a citywide crisis in the last month. I have an amazing group of friends and fall more in love with living in California every day. Overall, I’d say I’m feeling more comfortable and less insane than I did at previous milestones. However, that comfort scares me, and if I’m honest, I miss the chaos sometimes. I guess I am feeling a bit paralyzed by what comes next — turning 39, searching for a new job, working Steps 8 & 9, doing an ADD assessment, and inching closer to my 1st sober birthday. But I just keep reminding myself that sobriety really is the gift that keeps on giving and no drink is worth bringing me back to the utter misery I was living in. Thy will, not mine, amiright?
*****
Oh. My. God, I thought. That’s what I have thought was love was for most of my life.
I spent a week in Boulder with my 86 year old mother recently. She was fighting the awful “it’s not the flu and it’s not COVID” thing that was going around, hacking and spitting like a tubercular patient. I helped as much as I could but spent a lot of time reading — oh yeah, it was also between -2 and 15 degrees out there. I felt irritated and confused by an idea that was floating in the air between us but never actually expressed. Why don’t you move to Boulder and live in my house and take care of me in my dying? The day before I left, I spoke to her about it, gently, explaining that while it’s an idea that’s on the table I feel deeply conflicted about it. She was grateful.
I went to one AA and one Al-Anon meeting while I was there. The Al-Anon meeting was the one I took my younger son to last June. We have the same qualifiers: his mom and brother. It is one of my great joys to report that he is now deeply invested in Al-Anon recovery, and I see him on screen at a hybrid meeting I go to in Philly. That’s the meeting I had a revelation in last weekend.
A woman I admire was telling her Al-Anon story, and in the middle of something she was describing, she used this phrase: “ . . . because, you know, love is not a performance-based reward.” In addition to staying sober and healing myself slowly from the wounds of various people addictions, I come to meetings for moments like this, when Higher Power crashes through an innocuous phrase and enlightens me. Oh. My. God, I thought. That’s what I have thought was love was for most of my life.
I shared at that meeting about how I have always felt like I have to prove to someone that I’m worthy of love, how it has sabotaged my love relationships, and how it all began with my mother, who left my dad and me when I was three and was never a reliable person in my life. At the end of the share, through the Zoom speaker, I heard my son say, “Love you, Dad!”
Recovery is possible.
*****
Sometimes for five minutes, things feel normal again.
Since December, I’ve been preparing for an important medical procedure. No drinking, no drugs, no caffeine, no regular exercise. All my ways of quieting my inner critic are out of reach. I'm newly dating and it’s terrifying to put myself out there right now. My inner critic has a bullhorn and she’s relentless: The person I’m dating doesn’t really like me, they’re getting bored, and I’m a naive idiot for thinking I can do this. Sometimes for five minutes, things feel normal again. Then I feel embarrassed for spiraling before the chatter starts back up. I have no choice but to sit with it. It’s exhausting. And all this on the eve of Valentine’s Day with its expectations. I’m doing my best and for anyone else putting themselves out there this month, I’m rooting for you.
*****
Before discovery, I would have handled these pressures by acting out and with porn, drugs, and booze
I’m doing “ok.” My sobriety is solid, my relationship with my partner is improving daily, and my relationship with my kid is great.
Things is my “second” sphere of influence are a little nutty — my partner’s brother is being evicted from his shop and we’ve been traveling every weekend these past two months to help him clean it out, pay his apartment rent, etc., my nephew just narrowly avoided jail time for reckless driving and possession of a ghost gun, and my mother seems to be in the early stages of memory loss.
Before discovery, I would have handled these pressures by acting out and with porn, drugs, and booze. My current sex life with my partner is non-existent for a variety of reasons (perimenopause, recovering from my infidelity and rage (I take accountability)), so my old ways of dealing are off the table. I’ve been low-dosing in my middle circle by looking at pictures. Not porn, per se, but it may as well be, and I’ve got to stop it.
*****
I’m grateful to be alive, but cautious of slipping back into a lifestyle that will kill me.
I wrote a submission back in September for the newsletter about coke. I was the Twitch guy.
At the end of last year I continued to use coke, albeit less often. Now over a month since quitting, I’m having more complex emotions than expected. There’s shame and embarrassment for how I used to treat myself, but also pride and optimism for taking control of my life. It’s a weird soup of feelings, and every day is different.
The MJ Lenderman song “On My Knees” has a line that goes “And every day is a miracle/Not to mention a threat” and that about sums me up. I’m grateful to be alive, but cautious of slipping back into a lifestyle that will kill me.
*****
This time, though — and maybe for the first time in my adult life facing real adversity — the devil on my shoulder didn’t win.
When my inner child zips himself up in a sleeping bag and curls up next to a fire, the fire is shame. Shame is the emotion I feel most comfortable with — due in part to an abusive, rage-aholic father. More so, though, for how I treated myself and others over the course of 18 years using alcohol and drugs literally every day.
That was eight years ago, though. Sobriety has brought me countless gifts and gratitude — like two young daughters, a functioning marriage, and a steady paycheck. Until now. I got laid off in a vicious media industry mass execution toward the end of last year and have been riding severance and anxiety ever since. February marks the first domino falling in my self-described worst-case scenario: no income, no healthcare, no job, no hope.
What made it worse was a conscious decision — hammered out over fastidiously calculated spreadsheets and months of late-night talks — that for the next few years my wife would stay home with the littles and we’d all live off my paycheck. We knew it was a risk, but we thought our kids deserved some nurturing neither of us had.
And then there was shame again. I didn’t get fired. I didn’t behave badly or perform poorly. Quite the opposite, I’d like to think. But every journalist looks like a nail to the corporate hammer these days. Or so I tell myself. The shame that came with losing my job manifested in sitting on the couch, staring at a wall for a couple of weeks. Then some resume polishing, zoom’ing and coffee-ing with friendly faces. And developing a healthy hate for LinkedIn.
This time, though — and maybe for the first time in my adult life facing real adversity — the devil on my shoulder didn’t win. Or at least only won a few rounds here and there. I don’t like the G-word any more than most of us when it comes to recovery. But to extend the metaphor, the angel on my shoulder said firmly: meetings and exercise. Neither of which I had managed to maintain a relationship with recently. But I listened.
I live in the burbs now, but I began taking the Metro North in every Wednesday to attend my home group on the Upper West Side. I signed up for a gym membership with money I didn’t think I had to spare.
But I’ll be damned if every time I leave a meeting or the gym, I feel ... not shame. I’m grateful for that.
Fuck shame.
*****
I’m filled with uncertainty and dread these days and have found it hard to channel my usual joie de vivre.
My mother died in December after a long bout with Alzheimer’s. I thought that by “pre-grieving” during the many years she was ill, I would insulate myself from the grief. But her death has hit me very hard and thrown me off-balance — a lot of unexpected weeping, for one. Meanwhile, my industry — non-profit humanitarian work — has cratered during the last week as a direct result of the new administration. I’m filled with uncertainty and dread these days and have found it hard to channel my usual joie de vivre. My mother’s wake is tomorrow. It’ll also be the first day of February. Perhaps this will be the catharsis I need. I am grateful to be sober, now more than ever.
*****
I’m tired of hurting but sometimes it’s easier to deal with the feelings you know, no matter how bad they are, than the unknown.
“Hurt people hurt people.” Hearing this in an Al-Anon meeting recently shattered me. This perfectly describes my relationship: Two very hurt people, hurt in the past by others, hurt in the present by each other, and continuing the cycle. Seething with resentment long gone that has been brought up to the surface through each other. You don’t do X — well, you don’t do Y. How can I say “I am tired of being hurt by you and hurting you. This is not healthy and no amount of therapy will help”? It is over in my head. He has hurt me for too long and in turn, I don’t like who I have become. Mean, nasty, defensive, complaining, passive-aggressive.
I’m tired of hurting, but sometimes it’s easier to deal with the feelings you know, no matter how bad they are, than the unknown. The hurt that could come from something new is even scarier.
*****
I don’t know who I am as a sober artist and that’s okay.
Well, I surrendered. I wanted what they have and found myself willing. I’m doing the thing in the basement of churches now. It’s funny because I was gifted a sticker with a cute rendering of a Tarot card that says ‘The Sober One’ on it with drawings of two chairs and a coffee pot and a book. This was back when I was in the midst of white-knuckling. I didn’t know how much those symbols would actually end up meaning to me. Now I have an actual book and black coffee in the mug handed to me and I am sitting in the chair and then putting my chair away. Every morning I start my day on Zoom listening to others. I have people who call me and genuinely want to know how I am doing, and I am calling people and genuinely want to know how they are. In January, I closed the chapter on my biggest project after a seven-year run because, while it was my passion, part of it died when my past self died. Now, I am completely sober. I don’t know who I am as a sober artist and that’s okay. I’m just getting to know who I am as a sober person. Sometimes, I’m not so sure about all of it. And sometimes, I have zero doubt in my mind. If I work it it’ll work, I am told. And I have felt that to be true. I took my first step — now, the second.
*****
Maybe he was also there because he had unprotected sex with a quasi-family member.
I hit a new bottom over the holidays. Which I was surprised about. I didn’t know that kind of bottom existed for me and booze. I knew it did with cocaine. But, I haven’t done coke in a year and a half, so I thought I was in the clear.
The short story is that I fucked my sister-in-law’s brother (so, my brother-in-law-in-law?) in our niece’s bed. Oh, and for the record, we’re actually both her godparents. Gawd that little kid better have some amazing guardian angels, cuz she is so fucked if her parents kick the can.
Anyway, today I found myself looking at a hilarious illustrated guide to giving yourself a rectal swab (because, of course, we didn’t use protection) with my pants half off and my leg propped on a toilet seat in the bathroom of the lab testing place I went to for anonymous STI testing. Except it was only anonymous insofar as they loudly explained how to do the swab while I was in line, and a colleague was two people behind me (what are the fucking chances? I’ve seen this guy twice in about 2 years, and yesterday I saw him at the office, and today we both learned how to swab “the other place,” which apparently is medical jargon for your rectum). And this is a general lab, so I can’t even assume he was also there because he had unprotected sex with a quasi-family member.
At any rate, the silver lining is that I had my last drink on December 30, 2024. And, this round at kicking my addiction feels completely different than it ever has before. I am motivated and clear-eyed. I don’t feel like I’m missing a thing. I feel a huge relief at never taking another sip of alcohol in my life. And, I am going to do everything in my absolute power to make sure the memory of me swabbing my asshole isn’t in vain. Thoughts and prayers that my next piece of writing isn’t about antibiotics or anti-virals.
*****
I walked outside with the dogs, marveling at the events that had transpired, relieved that the crisis had passed and that I’d handled it — maybe not heroically, but competently
Last week, my wife woke up at 4:30AM with arm pain and numbness. We sat there on the edge of the bed, looking at her arm and wondering if she’d just slept on it or if it was something more serious. I observed that my first instinct was not to rush her to the hospital, but to hope that she could walk it off and my sleep wouldn't be further interrupted. My selfishness made me wince.
We decided, eventually, that the ER was the right move. A half-hour later, navigating the complicated internal roadways of the nearest hospital, we were hit head-on by a car making a left in front of us. We were traveling slowly but the car was totaled. I explained to the apologetic other driver that I was taking my wife to the ER and could not stay for the customary exchange of info. She was confused, perhaps a bit in shock, and I saw her in my rearview mirror waving her insurance card as I coaxed the car — now sounding like a covered wagon — the rest of the way to the ER.
Two policemen entered the ER waiting room. The way they called my name suggested they knew I frequently drove drunk in the 1990s. They already had an accident report, and understood why I’d left the scene. An hour or so later, the car towed and my wife diagnosed with a pinched nerve, our daughter drove us home.
I walked outside with the dogs, marveling at the events that had transpired, relieved that the crisis had passed and that I’d handled it — maybe not heroically, but competently. I’ve been sober a while, but knowing my behavior did not contribute to a situation is still highly comforting for me.
I then slipped on a patch of ice and landed hard on my back. After I caught my breath, I giggled.
*****
fin
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OTHER RECENT CHECK-INS:
Every Time We Need to Begin Again
I Could Use a Hug But I'm Surrounded By Strangers
Blessed Are the Days of Unmet Expectations
When Things Fall Apart (Again)
Whatever You Think About the Most Is Your God
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.
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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
Lament
by Edna St. Vincent
************************
Listen, children:
Your father is dead.
From his old coats
I’ll make you little jackets;
I’ll make you little trousers
From his old pants.
There’ll be in his pockets
Things he used to put there,
Keys and pennies
Covered with tobacco;
Dan shall have the pennies
To save in his bank;
Anne shall have the keys
To make a pretty noise with.
Life must go on,
And the dead be forgotten;
Life must go on,
Though good men die;
Anne, eat your breakfast;
Dan, take your medicine;
Life must go on;
I forget just why.
I'm delighted to report that since falling on the ice, I have been incident free.
Agree so raw & honest. I burnt my arm cooking recently since I was high & drinking. So dumb to be near a stove. I tell myself never again. I respect all of you for your bravery. Praying I get there.