The World According to Chuck

I have no idea what the current definition of blogging is, mostly because I’m too lazy to look it up, but there are more candidates now than there were. It doesn’t seem to be defined by frequency of posts, subject matter, purpose, point or perspective, although they’re all there. I read ellipse blogs (my term, thank you very much, meaning dot-dot-dot/Walter Winchell/brief notes, many of them), political blogs, summary blogs, journaling blogs and just overall personal blogs, and enjoy them all (or I stop reading).

Even “personal” is hard to cage up, since there are several bloggers on my own list who write about their lives in their own ways with their own charming and idiosyncratic and unique styles, doing essentially what I get paid to do except me maybe not so much with the charm, depends.

And there are a lot of recovering addicts, some of whom I read, some of whom I’ve stopped reading. I understand their motivation to write about this particular and overwhelming aspect of their lives; I’ve certainly done my share (I’m doing it right now, just wait), and I understand the therapeutic value in getting this serious shit out there, out of our brains and psyches and stomachs and out there, exposed to the light of day and maybe somebody else.

But it can get old, and not very interesting, and thus we’re back to the paradigm question: Why do you write, for whom and for what reason? It’s important to you; as a reader, maybe not to me.

I’ve always appreciated (and stolen, from time to time) a thought from Garrison Keillor, who wrote a wonderful article for The Atlantic years ago on judging a poetry contest. “It’s not fair to bore someone when they can’t bore you right back” was the gist, although the quotation marks are just penance for me since, again, I’ve stolen the sentiment more than once. I don’t want to bore you. Still, along with my own therapeutic needs, I get overwhelmed by a desire to explain; as I’ve said before, I have a pretty strong apologist streak.

So prepare to skim, or stop. No hard feelings. Although I’ll aim for brevity.

The best thing I did was read “Staying Sober” by Terrence Gorski in the months following my last drink. It was recommended to me as I left treatment, an odd choice but possibly a lifesaver, if you’re willing to extrapolate a little. Gorski early on in his career in addiction medicine became interested in relapse prevention, a subspecialty of chemical dependency treatment, and “Staying Sober” is essentially a textbook.

(I’m going to use “addiction” and “chemical dependency” interchangeably here because I’m lazy, although I’m talking mostly about the latter; the former has come to mean a lot of different things and represent a lot of different behaviors, a subject for purists and narcissists if you ask me, which you didn’t, of course.)

Biological, psychological, social: These are the basic three areas affected by addiction, and why preventing relapse (which seems obvious, and then sometimes is ruled off the table in some recovery circles) is tricky. The brain physically changes by prolonged use of chemicals; whether it changes back is a question. I assume it doesn’t, just to keep it simple. So neurochemistry speaking, there are some serious messages out there for an addict, leading him/her to all the wrong places.

Social is pretty obvious, which is why changing lifestyles completely is important. Sometimes friends have to be let go, etc.

Psychologically, we’re just all too human. Six months into sobriety, when lots are lost, we get cocky, maybe, or delusional, or maybe just desperate. So having a plan, a program, support and information are all crucial.

I read this book, then, a couple of times. Gorski’s initial surprise in his practice was realizing that the process of relapse is usually undetectable in the beginning, unless you know what to look for. In other words, an addict who’s abstaining from his/her drug of choice might start to do things that are so subtle no one notices, but in retrospect are red flags. Some of these are thought processes or emotional states, but a lot are behaviors.

For example, after a few months of sobriety I began to watch a lot of TV. A LOT. I went from virtually no television watching to six hours or more daily, all of it seemingly innocent and reasonable, and all of it essentially compulsive. Thanks to the book, I saw this. I mentioned it. I stopped it.

And it’s happened over and over since. Some of it may be a case of being too aware, and maybe reading too much into something; other times, it practically leaps out of my body and waves its arms like the robot on “Lost In Space,” an image that right this minute is cracking me up. Warning, Will Robinson, yadda yadda. I call this “addict mode,” and I recognize it now and I’m grateful for that.

I am currently in full-blown addict mode. The point, therefore, of this post. Overdue, too.

It’s a fascinating thing to watch, in a macabre way. I wonder if bipolar people have similar feelings when they start slipping into manic phases, for one, poorly informed example. It started with my sort of spontaneous decision a few weeks ago to quit smoking cigarettes, not very well thought out or planned, and for many, many people a fairly simple if difficult process. In my case, it opened up cans and cans filled with worm-like creatures, awareness and insight and fear and loathing and depression and mania and denial and I’m really boring you about now, right? Or was it a while ago? Just curious.

None of this is particularly life-threatening or even all that obvious, except that I live with two people who surely are aware. And it’s fairly benign, if you look at it casually. Someone is sure watching a lot of videos lately. Someone is sure eating a lot of ice cream lately. Someone is sure cleaning house excessively lately. Someone even cleaned behind the oven. Alert the media.

As I said (and I’m almost finished, but so much for brevity), it’s fascinating to me, watching myself flutter with control. And it’s a good thing that I’m aware, that I’m educated on the subject, that I can see through the haze of obsessive and compulsive behaviors some truth. And, I should add, this is not Emo Chuck, although I can get blue. I’m just saying. And even as severe as this is at the moment, I also have some experiences that might offer me a solution. For one thing, despite the walks and the constant trips to the store, etc., I really, really need to get out of the house more. Call it a delayed winter cabin fever thing.

In other words, I really need to take a trip.

Wow. As luck would have it…

Boston in a week. Just in time.

I confessed the day following the bad night, the night that started off optimistic and went downhill, but then. A nice dinner with my wife, a romantic comedy and a water glass filled instead with vodka, and by the end I was tossing wet paper towels and cussing about my miserable life. It ended with an accident, throwing myself into bed and bouncing, cracking my head against the end table and passing out, Julie applying direct pressure and crying.

So I confessed, and we were both relieved, and the next day we went out to the movies, a new film she thought I’d enjoy. It was “The Sixth Sense,” though, a horrible choice, and later I wandered out into the day, lost and empty, ready to scream at the obvious. “I’m dead,” I thought, and nobody knows it but me…”

OK. Well, that’s a joke, a little humor writing, but it’s been on my mind, sort of a mental little yellow sticky, a reminder that somberness has nothing to do with sobriety, really, and that I want, mostly, to write about funny stuff. I keep it around so I won’t get bogged down in my pedestrian problems and forget to see the trees. Really, I can just go off if I get in a mood, and some really dark, dumb shit comes out of my keyboard.

When, instead, this project I’m working on is about something else. It was supposed to be about hope and change, but then some Chicago politician just ripped me off, so I’ll say just that it’s about joy. My joy, your joy, all God’s children got some joy.

That’s really where I am, even if I get a little gloopy this spring. Some of that, too, comes from wandering around my darker days, just because I have to, because I won’t have a point unless I do. But it’s hard, and then I have to take a long walk and remind myself again of where I am, where I was, and why I’m writing this dumb book that nobody, relatively speaking, will read.

Why not?, that is. So it goes.

I once stood on a stage at 19, unable to please him, frustrated by the whole thing. I finally asked him what it was he wanted me to do.

“Do better,” he said — The Measure Of A Man, The World According to Chuck (Xlibris, 2004)

———————–

I could have called this 98 Days Later. I thought about it.

So here we are, New Year’s Eve. Fourteen weeks later.

I had all this profundity to share, but I decided against it. Really, when you start talking about obesity and diets and weight loss, it gets worse than politics. People have attitudes, opinions, issues. I’ve heard from some. I want to say, It’s not about you, but I’ll just leave it alone. I started on a journey, a little challenge to myself, an attempt to change something. I ended up here.

Here’s a story, though, that’s been on my mind. When I was in treatment in 2006 for my alcoholism, I sat through a lecture by a counselor, a woman who’d been addicted to meth. As she was describing her life at its worst, she told of how she made her children scrounge for scraps while she hid in the bedroom, smoking her meth. And how she’d force them to go to bed at 3 in the afternoon just so she could get high in peace.

“Most people wouldn’t understand,” she said, “but another addict would.”

And it took all my feeble will at that moment not to stand up and say, “I’m an addict, and I don’t understand.”

A little later, I brought this up in my group counseling session, and my counselor nodded in understanding, chalking it up to my personal minimization of all the many faults and abusive behaviors I must have demonstrated during my drinking. He tried to be gentle, though. “You think you’re better than her,” he said.

“I AM better than her,” I said.

I was, too. They were children.

—————–

I have done time with my demons. You have too, probably. It was hard. I’m still here. I’m doing OK. Other people have done the same thing, lots of them.

It doesn’t mean you get to be forgiven everything. You might have to make some amends. You might have to grovel a little. You might have to come to terms with the chaos you caused, not just yours but theirs. You might, in fact, have to do better.

——————–

So I changed what I could. I thought it’d be better if I lost some weight. Healthier. I also found the theatrical aspect intriguing; I would not only feel different, I’d look different. Believe me, that kept me going on a lot of rainy days when I didn’t feel like walking.

It was just my thing, at that moment. It was the only thing I could think of at the time, actually.

I have lots more things now.

And besides the sense of accomplishment, and the fun I had today buying a new pair of jeans (dude, check it out: 34 regular, not “relaxed fit,” not “loose,” but freaking regular), I have the satisfaction of knowing I crossed that one thing off my list for now. And more than a little energy. And cockiness. I lost 70 pounds in 14 weeks. You want to take me out of the game? You’d better bring a loaded weapon or a whole bunch of kryptonite, I’m not going easily.

Of course, tomorrow I might get hit by a bus. You pretty much only get one day at a time, a daily reprieve, but I’ll take this one, and my new jeans, and the knowledge that the world is just waiting. If only for today.

Because in 49 years, stuff happens. I’ve been pretty fortunate, but still. I still miss my dad, gone now four years. I miss my daughter, living her own life on the other side of the country. My son faces problems that overwhelm me sometimes. A dark winter looms, money is always an issue, I have career choices to make, the roof needs fixing. But for today, this last day of the year, I get to say this.

Through my life, at different times I have battled grief, loss, loneliness, depression, boredom, financial insecurity, obesity and booze, and you know what?

I won.

*God claps*

An acquaintance of mine, a woman in her late 40s, got some bad news 10 months ago. A visit to the doctor revealed that she not only had an elevated cholesterol level, but her blood sugar put her in the early stages of diabetes. Her physician gave her a list of medications and a couple of prophecies thrown in for good measure.

To her credit, she jumped right over denial to bargaining. “Give me two months,” she said.

And two months later, in fact, her levels were normal and she’d lost weight. I don’t know what her doctor said, but I can guess what he was thinking. Only 30% of patients with diagnosed high cholesterol are compliant with medical treatment. That increases to only 50% for diabetics. And 70% of Americans are overweight. Even cautious optimism can seem unrealistic.

Her husband told me last night that she’s lost 78 pounds now. And if you’d asked me last December to describe this woman, I probably would have listed 4-5 things before I landed on her body shape. She seemed normal to me, certainly overweight but not standing out in a crowd of fat Americans.

Seventy-eight pounds. A little less than 8 pounds per month, per WeightWatchers with their points and such. The next time I see her, I’ll ask about her secret, although I think I know already.

I walked through the grocery store today, just needing some dishwasher detergent and feeling odd about that, as if I’d gone to the movies, grabbed some popcorn and left. I’m used to getting food.

I went back to the old neighborhood, the frozen food aisle, where that pizza I developed a taste for a couple of months ago still lives. On sale, too. As was the Haagen-Daz peanut butter-and-chocolate ice cream I liked to eat almost on a daily basis (one of those little ones, you know? A friend used to call them shooters).

I was just looking. I was curious, and it also occurred to me that after spending 10 hours in class tomorrow, and with Julie and John in the mountains for a church retreat, it might make a nice Saturday evening alone, sort of blow the diet plan just this once.

Let’s do the math. Say four pieces of pizza; that’s 1300 calories. If I ate half the ice cream it’d be about 660 calories, but I’d never stop at half. So let’s say 2600 total for an indulgent evening.

It’d be a blip in my plan, hardly worth noticing in the long run. And haven’t I done good? Eleven pounds gone already, right on schedule. I can give myself a break on this one, right? We’re talking about adjusting a regimen for life, not because I have to fit into imaginary clothes for an imaginary event. Sometimes boys just want to have fun.

And I might do that. Tomorrow is just sort of a concept at this point in the afternoon.

But I also might stop at the liquor store on the way home from class and buy a fifth of my favorite vodka (that would be the liquid kind). I could drink it and nobody would know. And at approximately 2000 calories for the whole bottle, I’d be ahead of the game.

The reasons I won’t do either of those things, I suspect, are varied but pretty much the same. I’ll feel guilty. It won’t provide nearly the pleasure I think it will. I’ll feel like hell in the morning. I’ll have regrets.

And I don’t want to.

My brain tries to tell me something else. In the case of the vodka, my brain has been remodeled at a cellular level, never to go back, all sorts of new receptors born and bred, waiting for the chemical they were created to process. It’s now, at 14 months, gone into passive-aggressive mode, like a mother who prepares a huge Thanksgiving dinner only to discover her kids have gone vegan on her.

“Don’t worry, dear. You just enjoy your celery sticks. I may stick my head in the oven for a bit.”

For a long time that worked on me. It might work again one day. But today I choose, and that’s my secret.

That’s her secret, too, I think, my friend with the weight loss. See, she didn’t change her life 10 months ago; she changed it 16 months ago, when after 30 years of drinking and drugging she found her choice again. Compared to the peculiar hell of addiction, dropping 78 pounds must have been a walk in the park.

I drink at least 100 ounces of water a day (pushing 3 liters for you Canadians and Europeans); my skin looks great. I eat six meals a day, sometimes, roasted chicken and tuna and salads with my beloved jalapenos. I started exercising this week, lightly, moving up.

I may resume my old habits, eating and drinking, but next time I get to choose. Assuming I choose correctly, at some point in January I’ll be officially not fat, and people will want to know how I managed to pull it off.

“It was a piece of cake,” I might say, but I’ll know it had nothing to do with cake, and everything to do with me.