Thoughts About Thoughts I Once Thought

In a conversation with my partner Donald, I recollected a childhood much like his own: One rampant with almost unbearable yearning to be someone else and somewhere else; to be more in control of one's destiny.

I mentioned a memory I had of standing in a clearing at the town park where I grew up. It was a summer day with a potent wind. Thick grass all around me, waving like an ocean. I closed my eyes and stretched my arms out and felt, for the briefest of moments, that I had transcended the earth and was rising...rising...rising. I was flying away. Much of my childhood was spent fantasizing that I was rising above my life, transcending the existence of a lonely, shy, fumbling, fearful, uncertain kid who was picked on by bullies, belittled by my father, and never comfortable with my own family. I didn't fit in with them, my school, my peers. Nobody. I had no comfort zone other than my own mind, where I created vast empires for me to rule and magnificent powers that made me stand out from the crowd.

It wasn't odd that I gravitated toward books that encouraged that type of dreaming: Lord Of The Rings; The Chronicles Of Narnia; A Wrinkle In Time. Had I a sword and a fearless horse and a suit of chain mail and an army behind me, I would have led the charge against the enemy without hesitation. Instead of girlish preoccupation with dolls and clothes and painting my toenails, I was obsessed with finding a place in the universe that would allow me to unleash my inner warrior. While others admired Barbie, I worshiped Joan Of Arc. Underneath all my hesitation and wallflowery behavior there lurked a Valkyrie.

Adolescence brought about a tempest of emotional problems, exacerbated by drugs, alcohol, sex, thievery, violence. The desire to rise and fight the good fight died. The chemicals I ingested might have loosened my tongue and given me false courage, but facile power is a fake god. If I swaggered with seeming confidence be assured I would stumble when it was least to my advantage. The pendulum, it appeared, had swung sideways.


I gaze upon my thinning hair
White and silver hanging there
Where did I get this sagging skin?
And what about this double chin?

I never knew I'd get this old,
Back when I felt so young and bold.
It startles me occasionally
When I get a glimpse of Present Me.


I wrote that bit of doggerel today in my head after examining my face in the mirror. On lame limbs, I go about my days sans the yearnings of childhood and the screaming of my teenage years. Under my white mop of hair, my eyes are still blue and clear, and I see beauty in many things. I'm calmer and happier, in quiet ways.


Not that I wouldn't jump at the chance to lead an army to victory or slay a dragon.

"A Thousand Nameless Fears"

Anyone who is in recovery from drugs or alcohol has heard these words before. They come from a guide that many of us use. Not until I became sober and began the process of recovery from my own alcoholism did I become willing to confront the fears that have driven me all of my life. Fear of the dark. Fear of rejection. Fear of pain. Fear of others. Fear of poverty. Fear of men. Fear of change. Fear of being lost. Fear of responsibility. Fear of success. Fear of everything, really.

Once I was able to give a name to these fears, I was able to confront them head on. ("To name a thing is to have power over it."---Ursula K. Le Guin.) It has taken years for some of these fears to dissipate or resolve themselves. Throughout this process, helping hands and hearts have been there to help me march through the darkness of fear and come through to the other side where wisdom, courage, and knowledge await. I'm not alone in this. Ask anyone who has managed to stay clean and sober for a good measure of time, and their stories will be similar to mine. It's a process; a road we all must travel if we wish to be free of those things that drove us into addiction.

Part of my process has been to face things that I've avoided dealing with. Part of the process has been confronting people who, ironically, are like how I was before I began to heal. This is happening at the place I currently work. I am confronted with someone who is full of fear, and her fear drives her to lie, manipulate, lash out, and try to control people around her. Through some work I've done recently, the fact that she is so fearful was illuminated. Because I now know what her true motivations are, I am able to relax somewhat and realize that her behavior is not my responsibility nor directed at me personally. She has been this way a long time. I'm positive I've not been the only person subjected to character traits.

Now, I am able to go to work and see her through different eyes. I'm able to see that she is driven by terror. The instinct to help someone who is in great fear has come back to me. I don't know what form my help will take. It could be that I will just be as pleasant as possible and do the work and not allow her to get to me.

Just for now, I will try to bring up compassion instead of anger. I'll keep you posted.

The Road I Traveled: Thank You, Dr. Peck

Dr. M. Scott Peck died on September 25, 2005.

I don't remember where I was and what I was doing on that day, but perhaps I felt a twinge of sadness and didn't recognize it for what it was. A man who had greatly influenced my life had ceased to exist on this planet, and I wasn't aware of it. A few months prior to his passing, I looked up his website and learned that he wasn't well and that neither he nor his family could be contacted. I had toyed with the idea of sending him a letter telling him how profoundly his writings had affected me over the years; your typical fan letter. When I learned he was ill, I discarded the notion.

I remember when I first heard of the man, M. Scott Peck. My mother, who never gave up hope that one day I would pull my head out of my ass and learn to function as a normal human being, gave me a copy of "The Road Less Traveled". It was a best seller at the time, and she had read it herself, finding a lot more of interest in it than I had when she gave me my copy. I remember cracking it open for the first time, reading the first line in it: "Life is difficult.", and then tossing it aside with some sort of expletive.

I was twenty-two, immature, stupid, selfish, and wallowing in drugs, booze, sex, and other such hedonistic distractions. Work was what I did to earn enough money to do the distractions. Such things as rent, bills...those were things that interfered with my pastimes. Dr. Peck's book meant little to nothing to me. I wasn't deeply interested in changing who I was. I expected people around me to change to suit my fancy, and that was that. I was destined to be a rock star or Oscar-winning actress, and in the meantime, I was going to pursue my self-centered activities and pleasures as I saw fit. To hell with responsibility. To hell with earning a good living. All that would come to me from the great Sky Fairy who would one day reward my talent with the bounties I had come to expect were my birthright. Nothing like attaching a big ego to a small mind.


In my early thirties, somewhat settled down with a small child, a husband, and a job I had stuck with long enough to get promoted, I picked up another copy of "The Road Less Traveled". This time, I actually got past the first line. Some of what he wrote made sense, but I argued with most of his ideas. That love was: "The will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth." Oh, please. Love wasn't a feeling? Are you kidding me? Of course it was! I felt love all the time. What a dry and unromantic definition, I thought.


Terms like "cathexis" and "dependency" made me shrink. Love was supposed to be a series of explosions, wasn't it? If you asked my husband then, he would have probably asked that the explosions cease. I was an explosive person. I demanded what I thought were signs of love from him---completely disregarding who he was, what he was capable of, and what his own needs and desires were. It wasn't about HIM, goddamnit. It was ME. When I didn't get my way, I blew up. Oddly enough, we were divorced after only a few years. He didn't really love me, I said. He was a jerk, I said. He was selfish and uncaring, I said. Dr. Peck was wrong, I said.


I didn't touch "The Road Less Traveled", or any other book by M. Scott Peck until many years later. By that time, I had entered into recovery and gained sobriety and a willingness to change. When, in the fourth year of my recovery, I once again picked up Dr. Peck's first major work and read it again, it was as if I had never read it before. I was astonished at his wisdom. The ideas about personal responsibility and spiritual growth and how love is WORK---Why, they all made sense! Of course! This new recognition was courtesy of a Twelve Step program, my Higher Power, and the collective wisdom of those who were making the journey of recovery with me. At last, what Dr. Peck had penned all those years ago clicked with me.


In this, my middle age, I still have "The Road Less Traveled" as part of my personal library. It has become almost as invaluable to me as religious tomes are to the religious. I often quote from it. What was taught to me through this great book has stayed with me. What I learned from it has helped me in friendships, work situations, and with my partner. Because of what I have absorbed and incorporated into myself  from Peck, I think of my partner as a loving, caring, separate being who has chosen to spend his life with me; and that it is up to me to be that same person right back at him. He isn't an extension of myself. He wasn't put on this planet to serve my needs or heal my old wounds. He is a gift, and I am to cherish him as he cherishes me. I am to extend myself willingly for his spiritual growth, as he encourages me along the same path.


In a way, I guess, this blog is a fan letter to Dr. Peck. His other books are wonderful in their own ways, but it is "The Road Less Traveled" which will stand the test of time and remain a source of inspiration and power to many for years to come. I am only one person who was touched by him. Here's hoping there are many more out there who will discover his gift to the universe.

I Fear For My Country

Right-wing blogs, "news" channels, and talking heads have managed to make a lot of people fearful lately. They fear a black man as president. They fear anyone who is different than they, whether it be skin color, country of origin, or religious belief. They fear they won't have any money when they are old. They fear terrorists. They fear government. They fear each other.

Know what I fear? I fear that the United States of America has lost it's Constitution. I fear that laws are for changing at a whim. I fear that racists and homophobes and other hateful people are taking over our government. I fear religious oppression in the form of those that call themselves "Christians" imposing their warped biblical ideas on the rest of us. I fear that whatever rights I currently possess as an American citizen will be taken from me. I fear that America will become a horrible place to live.


I find myself getting angrier and angrier at the people who are causing my fear. I want to lash out at them, and I sometimes do when responding to comments on threads or blogs. I become vituperative in my responses. I am full of bile when speaking to those who spout hatred and bigotry and homophobia. I don't like myself when I get like that, and I'd dearly love to find common ground with those I am angry at, so that I could have reasonable discourse with them. But, I've become so fearful of the future of this nation that I've lost my patience with people such as they. I end up in battle mode when confronted by them.


This doesn't make me proud. I'm not thrilled if I feel I've scored some sort of verbal victory. I feel helpless. Helpless to make people understand how they have been lied to and manipulated and brainwashed into believing that same-sex marriage is wrong. That liberals are evil. That Barack Obama is a Muslim. That government regulating corporations makes us all less free.


It's like beating one's head against a wall. Most of the people I encounter who fit into the categories of Tea Party people or Republican or Libertarian are impermeable to logic and reason. Seemingly oblivious to facts or rational thought. It's astonishing how they dig in and refuse to admit anything outside their sphere of knowledge to penetrate and perhaps change their perspective. They appear allergic to new ideas.


I fear them. They are legion. They are everywhere. They are my neighbors, co-workers, customers, and even family. I can't find common ground with them.


I was taught to be tolerant of others, but I have yet to find that level of understanding with these folks. I don't know that I can.

Difficult People...Difficult Me

Back in the day, I was something of a partier. I just loved getting high or loaded and dancing and singing and carrying on like Mardi Gras. The image I had of myself was that I was a lot of fun to be with.

Of course, those more sober and rational than I saw things differently. To a lot of people, I was irresponsible, obnoxious, gossipy, aggressive, loud, petulant, moody, and lazy. I was dishonest when honesty was necessary, and angrily honest with my criticisms when it was best I keep my mouth shut. I was not a good employee; frequently late, absent, and when I deigned to show up, not very productive. I copped attitudes against co-workers and carried grudges for years for the least little slights. Nothing ever went my way, and by gawd---I was going to let you know it.


So...I sobered up and grew up. Now, all these years later and being middle-aged, I have gained the wisdom one gets when one painstakingly goes about changing one's entire outlook upon life. It took me a while, but eventually, I was able to get the hang of interacting with people without causing friction or bad feelings. I learned discretion. Rather than reacting to whatever was tossed at me, I learned to step back and think about what was going on. My manner tempered and became more laid-back, serene. I gave a day's work for a day's pay, and even a little extra if it was asked of me. Bosses began to like me---not consider me a problem. Instead of a liability, I was an asset. Instead of an enemy, I became a friend.


Not that I've become some kind of spiritually enlightened guru or anything. I'm a pain in the ass sometimes. There are times when I lose my temper---the major difference being that I don't lapse into "FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK!" as an automatic response anymore. The hugest difference is that I am able to listen. I mean, really listen. Not listen for what I want to hear, but to hear what another person is truly saying. This ability to listen to others has given me a larger sense of compassion and tolerance. It's an amazing transformation. It wasn't easy and it wasn't quick, but it is still a marvel to think that I am no longer that person mentioned above.


This is more of a reminder to me than it is a message to anyone else. There is a person I work with who is very difficult. She's gossipy, overly talkative, opinionated, obnoxiously insistent on doing things her way, and dishonest. She's manipulative and phony. She has managed to alienate all of her co-workers, including myself. Unfortunately, I'm the one she works with the most, and it has taken all of my life's lessons and all of my patience not to blow my lid at her. She is exhausting to work with.


There is a lesson in here for me, beyond the obvious. I have a theory that my manager placed her on my shift for a reason. Perhaps it's because he knows I am wiser and stronger than my younger colleagues. Perhaps he trusts me to do the right things. It doesn't matter to me one way or another. What I really want is relief from her. I don't wish her ill, but I do wish she would go away. She is one of those people who sap your energy just by being in the same room with her.


I'll deal with it. I always do. I have to, in order to keep my job. Something will change about the situation, and it will probably be me. I have the capacity to change, whereas it doesn't appear that she does. Whatever it takes to get peace, I will do.


So...onward. More learning ahead.

Lazy

There aren't any excuses. I've been lazy. Lazy about cleaning. Lazy about getting my car up to date. Lazy about contacting help for my financial woes. Lazy about getting to necessary gatherings of folks who can help me keep clean and sober.

It's as if I entered a vast, lethargic phase that allows me to sleep long hours and wish to do nothing but doodle on the computer and take baths. Nothing that requires thought or work.

It isn't the same thing as the typical depression that my brain is wired to produce. It's not a chemical imbalance. It's thought imbalance. Or rather, lack of thought imbalance. I don't want to think about anything important. I want to hide. I want to dodge anything remotely resembling an idea.

The compassionate among my fellow travelers would tell me that this phase is a natural reaction to a stressful week, and that I am merely recharging my batteries. That it should be so simple. Rigorous honesty prevents me from using that escape route. The truth is, I shut the business of me down for a week and lost productivity.

On this evening, I shall attempt to jump-start the process all over again and meet with my fellow sober folks. I will not try to hide tonight. I will suit up and show up.

The truth is: I am prone to be lazy. No way around it.

For years, I did wrong things, thought wrong thoughts, said wrong words. Finally, in the latter part of my life, I have done the right thing. This has cost me. It has cost me tears, turmoil, and the loss of family connections. There are those who say that what I have done is wrong because it conjures up ghosts from the past and resurrects those hideous memories to bring them into present daylight, thereby causing pain.

When one is haunted by something, the only way to cleanse oneself of that haunting is to bring it out into the light. Although I cannot discuss what it is that I have brought out into the light, I am convinced that it was absolutely the right thing to do. It will cleanse not only myself, but many, many other people. That which has haunted us all will be exposed and dealt with. There will be peace and justice and new life.

Years ago, I made a decision for myself that was wildly unpopular with a group of my so-called friends. They turned on me like rabid dogs, and I was devastated by their reactions. For at least a month, I hid away from all contact because I was afraid, depressed, and unsure.

A dear man who is no longer on this planet called me. He asked me this question: "If you had to make that decision again, knowing that people would react the way they have, would you still do it?" I hesitated for a moment and then said: "Yes." He said: "Then, stand by your decision and yourself. Life isn't a popularity contest, Jan. To thine own self be true."

For the first time in my life, I understood what "To thine own self be true" meant. It isn't about selfishness. It's about being able to speak the truth and live with the consequences. It's about having the courage to stick up for oneself, even if others think you are way off base. It's about knowing who you really are, and being willing to be who you really are, even if it means losing the affections of people you care about.

It isn't about doing or saying things that are deliberately hurtful, or pursuing one's own selfish agenda. It's knowing that you are doing the right thing, not only for yourself, but for others. It's knowing where you stand and how you operate, and being willing to face opposition for speaking out about it. "To thine own self be true" gives no one license to hurt others, but it does allow one to realize right and wrong, and to elect to do the right thing---even if opposed for it. I didn't come by this decision lightly, nor did I make it alone. I made the decision I made after long counsel and much discussion. I have come to acknowledge that what I have done is right. I am no longer afraid of the consequences.

I am being true to myself. And being true to others.

I'm Afraid

I'm afraid of this coming event. I cannot mention it. It's way too personal and way too controversial.

I am afraid of it because it requires a courage I don't feel. It requires speaking the truth. It requires that I be present and aware.


Nevertheless, I am going. I will speak the truth. I will be present and aware.

Lost

It's hard to say how old she is, what with the missing teeth, ravaged face, and ratty hair. She's a regular at the store. Most of the clerks despise her. She wants to borrow the store phone, or spare change, or she babbles on incessantly about how life is doing her wrong. She's an addict. I knew from the moment I saw her and heard her speak. Addicts have a way about them that screams: "I'M FUCKED UP!"

There's a saying in the sober tribe I belong to that is both sad and humorous: "What's the difference between an alcoholic and an addict? An alcoholic will steal your wallet and run. An addict will steal your wallet and hang around to help you look for it." She fits the bill, this one. I've watched her over the last few months, and the deterioration has been steady.

This morning, she enters the store and asks to use the phone again. I hand it to her and return to waiting on other people. She dials a number and begins a long, weepy, angry, prolonged conversation with her mother. I know it's her mother because she keeps repeating: "Mom! Mom! LISTEN TO ME, MOM!" It's a one-sided conversation, but I can guess from the woman's responses that her mom ain't buying what she's trying to sell her. Her rent's overdue and they're evicting her. She doesn't have a ride to her new job that she just got four days ago. Her utilities have been cut off. It's someone else's fault, not hers. Really, Mom...Are you listening to me? He's no help. I've tried that. No. No one will help me. Mom, I need a place to stay and a ride to work. MOM!

I know the machinations of her mind better than she does. Been there---done that---got the tee shirt---saw the movie. I prevailed on friends and family for help out of situations I'd gotten myself into because of my own addictions. I begged, pleaded, whined, cried, and stormed at them and the world because nothing went my way. It wasn't my fault! I just got behind, is all. Never mind that I got behind because I didn't pay the bill because I drank up the money for it. Oh, no...that couldn't POSSIBLY be the reason.

The longer I listen to her rail at her mother, the more I am reminded of those days. I'm relieved when it's six o'clock and my shift has ended and my replacement shows up to deal with the situation. I want very much to go to her and say: "This bullshit could stop right now if you are willing to let me drive you to a treatment center and check in and go through whatever they tell you to go through." I would be willing to do that for her. But, she isn't at that place yet. The place where you have to be in order to be willing to walk on coals to get some relief from the pain and madness of your life. She's still arguing with her mother when I leave the store. I drive home, feeling a little guilt that I didn't approach her and make the offer. I know that all addicts/drunks have to hit a bottom before they are willing to look up, and I'm wondering if this is enough of a bottom for her. Or, will she die? That's the choice we all have in the end. We can find a way to quit, change ourselves, and gain a new life...Or we can die. There's always jails and institutions, but death is inevitable for us if we don't find a way out of the mire.

So, before I sleep today and prepare for another night at work, I pray for her. I pray something or someone guides her to recovery. To life. To joy.

As I was.

Honesty---What A Concept

Born into an environment where secrecy and lies were the norm, I began my career as a liar early. It's impossible to remember when I began hiding, obfuscating, and outright fibbing, but it came to me as easily as talking.

Because I was raised Catholic, religion played a large part in my thinking. The god I was taught to believe in wasn't someone I felt I could hang out with on a daily basis. Instead, I ducked and dodged Him, speaking to Him only when I was in a jam ("God, please don't let me get busted with this pot in my glove compartment!"). I didn't like the idea of a god to begin with, especially one who resembled Charlton Heston and who kept threatening to smite me for all my evil machinations. Just about everything I did or said was a mortal sin, according to the Pope and his minions, so I figured it was only a matter of time before the shit hit the fan and I would be facing 25 to eternity in some kind of burning pit. My mother told me about St. Jude, who is allegedly the patron saint of Lost Causes. I figured he was my "out card", should I have come before the Big Guy and plead my case. Law and Order: Heaven's Attorney.


There was a therapist I saw, during one of my many brief attempts at self-examination, named Dr. Weiner. He was a lovely old man, and very patient. During one of our sessions, he broached the idea that I could change the way I feel and think about people and things, and that it was really my own responsibility to do so. I was appalled! WHAT? I CAN CHANGE HOW I FEEL AND THINK!? YOU'RE KIDDING ME, RIGHT?! It was a completely foreign thought, quickly discarded in the face of my own selfishness and fear. Wait a minute---You mean if my husband is being a total jerk and making me feel awful, I'M SUPPOSED TO CHANGE ME??? WHAT ABOUT HIM, HUH??? WHY DOESN'T HE CHANGE???


The very idea! That I'M supposed to change---not those around me. Baloney! I wrestled with this notion for years. It's not my fault! I'm not to blame! They're being assholes! He's a jerk! Waaaaaaaah! Somebody make them STOP!


In my late thirties, I crashed. Physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. The nadir of my existence. It was then that the process of maturity began. I liken my crash to the passage in "The Right Stuff" where a pilot is described going down with his plane and hollering into the radio: "I've tried A! I've tried B! What do I do?!" Whump! That was me. I went down in flames, hollering that I'd tried everything and nothing was working. Whump! I woke up amidst the wreckage to find that I was still alive, but empty and void of ideas. Thus, the journey began all over again. Only this time, I found the right path to walk upon.

These days, I don't have to fight honesty and personal responsibility. As distasteful as it might feel to admit I'm wrong, I do it nearly automatically. Occasionally, I still need prompting, but for the most part, I'm on it. It isn't that I've become a paragon of truth and that I never lie---that isn't real. What's changed is the inner dialogue and outer behavior. I try, on a daily basis, to be truthful with myself and others. When someone does me wrong, I take a look inward to see if I have somehow brought this on myself by my own actions or words. If it turns out I'm in the clear, then I have to let go of the whole "I'll get even with YOU!" attitude which pervaded my earlier thinking. I cannot change people, places, and things---only my own outlook upon them. Sometimes it's a pain in the tush to have to do so much self-examination, and I occasionally rebel and lapse into childish fits of "I DON'T WANNA!", but it always comes back to me: I gotta change my thinking.

The whole god thing changed right along with my thinking. I let go of the previous version of a Supreme Being and adopted one who accepts me the way I am, flaws and all, and won't send me to purgatory for being a miscreant. It isn't everyone's cup of tea as far as a spiritual philosophy, but it works for me. Being a science buff, I accept that everyone's DNA is entirely unique. If I'm going to believe in a deity who started this whole life process, then I'm going to assume that He/She/It loves uniqueness, and as such, doesn't require that all of us think the same way. That's my hypothesis, and I'm sticking to it.


Honestly.

Make A Family Where You Are

In recent months, I have alienated members of my family through both harsh words and standing up for what I know is my own truth. I own the harsh words. There are ways to communicate what I need to say without being angry, and I fell into anger as easily as I pick up a handful of Cheez-its. Knee-jerk reactions to what others say and do. I'm good at that. Too good. Despite my knowing better, family inevitably brings out the worst in me. I always say that if you want to feel thirteen years old again---attend a family reunion.

I had a friend whose family was mostly drug addicts and drunks. She, too, struggled with her addictions. Despite the fact that her family members consistently enabled each other and her, and used her for money and other handouts, she continued to be around them. They were toxic, and they poisoned her over and over again. It was her choice. No matter how many times her siblings shit on her, she always let them back in. The fact that she couldn't stay sober seemed par for the course. I loved her, and she helped me tremendously over the years, but I finally had to detach myself from her and move on.

My own family became toxic to me. It's only been recently that I came to the realization just how toxic they are. Unfortunately, I didn't allow the lessons I've picked up over the years to kick in when it came time for me to voice some of my unhappiness. I pulled a Mt. St. Helens and erupted at them, spewing years of frustration and anger. Consequently, they aren't speaking to me.

At first, I was okay with that. A sense of relief that I no longer had to pretend to like them buoyed me along for a bit. Now, I'm feeling blue. Memories drift back of their kindness and love. Things they did for me. Support they gave me. Guilt set in. I miss them.

I've been away from them for years. Not just in the physical sense, but emotionally and mentally. They remember me one way, and I've gone another. Politically, socially, and spiritually---we're just not at the same place. I have less in common with them than I do with co-workers. Friends I've had for years know me better than my own flesh and blood.

A former wise head in my life advised me once to "Make a family where you are...". She meant that I should adopt those I loved around me and consider them my family. I do so now. My partner-in-life, Donald, is my family. My daughter and grandson are my family. My friends are my family. Those in recovery are my family. Even my Facebook friends are my family. I have a huge family.

Not that this makes losing my siblings' love and respect and contact any easier. I mourn my mistakes. I mourn their sickness. We were raised in an alcoholic household. Our parents failed us terribly. There was evil in our family that remained secret for years. We've been poisoned, and it's still affecting us.

I say this without any sense of superiority, but I've had help digging out of the hole that I grew up in. It came from outside my family. Much of what I've grasped about living well was learned through others who crawled out of their own personal hells and became strong, confident, loving people---what I always wanted for myself. This doesn't put me above the troubled members of my family. It puts me ahead of them on the road. And, as the scout, I should have been a guide---not an angry, self-righteous toad. I failed them more than they failed me.

However, the adopted family continues to embrace me and lead me onward. I pray that somewhere and sometime along the way, I'll find a way to make the breach between my sisters and brother disappear. This will be amended. My faith comes from experience.

Back to trudging...

And So It Begins

For a number of years, I drove cab. I loved being a cabbie. It saved my life. When I was hired to drive a taxi, I was at one of my bottoms in life. I was detaching myself from a destructive relationship. I was unemployed. I was severely depressed. I was virtually homeless, living on the beneficence of friends. When I became a cab driver, the shadows hovering over me began lifting almost immediately. It gave me a home, a hearth, a welcoming embrace, and an education.

Jimmy K. took me out on my first training run. He told me: "You'll get addicted to it." He was right. I'm a recovering alcoholic, and I become instantly addicted to anything that makes me feel good. Driving a cab made me happy. From the very first, I loved the freedom of living behind the wheel. I loved the always-changing scenery through my office window. I loved the breeze through the windows. I loved the radio chatter, instant cash, variety of passengers, and the confidence I gained by learning to read maps and find locations quickly.

I loved my taxi brothers and sisters: Leo, Frank, Pierre, Caroline, Barbara, Terry, Randy, Zip, Jimmy K., Fig Newton, Hooter, Beaker, Heath, Jason, Valerie, Monique, Tony D., Tony B., Jeremy, Igor, Buddha, Lisa. So many faces and voices live in my head from days and nights on the roads and streets. I hear them in my sleep, in my imagination, and in my heart.

When I started on this new career path, I was just over four years sober, and still struggling with life's lessons. There were many things I needed to learn that cab driving provided in small doses. For instance, I needed to realize that I could not control people, places, and things. Traffic didn't flow at my whim. People didn't behave as I wanted them to behave. Weather was. I couldn't change what was outside of me, so it was imperative that I change what was within. Slowly, painfully, I began to grow up a little. I learned to accept reality and dance with it. Temper tantrums, tears, and toil---but I finally began to grasp lessons which had eluded me in my first few years of being sober. Joy usually appears wearing a different costume.

When I stopped drinking, wise heads informed me that I would find "...a new freedom and a new happiness". And so...it began.