600,000,000 blogs with millions more added every week, but not a single one like this!

2-25-21:  This morning I woke up early as always but, rather than attend my regular 8 AM AA meeting, I felt compelled to attend the 11 AM meeting instead.

         Unlike the morning meeting, there are always two tables at 11 AM, and I always sit at the traditional one at the back where we share in the traditional way but, unlike always, I felt an unusual urge to do book study instead.  The topic was “resentment” so, in place sharing the fact that I had discovered just that morning I had over a year of sobriety under my belt rather than 11 months because I misremembered my last catastrophic group event at Boyne Mountain that led me to decide never to drink again for the rest of my life for the first and only time in my life, I shared the very first thing that popped into my head. 

“I broke my finger playing wallyball before a party, was locked out of the host’s house when I left early and, because I was both bitter and in physical pain, drank even more than I had originally intended.  I puked on his pristine white basement run, embarrassed myself in front of my friends and fiancée, and ruined a great friendship.  And I resented him for not accepted my heartfelt apology for the last 9 years.”

         I felt grateful to God for nudging me toward that epiphany, but that was just the beginning.  Because just 27 minutes later (details redacted to protect group anonymity) an event occurred that struck me to my core.  In full consciousness of the irony of the timing, I felt so betrayed by another member I considered to be a friend that my resentment level instantly redlined.  The pre-sobriety-me would have used that event as an excuse to abandon my beloved AA group and obliterate myself with horrific amounts of booze and drugs.  The sober me would have tested the limits of just how much pot an adult male with tremendous tolerance could possibly smoke.  But the latest, greatest version of myself accepted this challenge as the most blindingly immediate gift God had ever granted me.  (After all, it took 27 years of inconsistent prayer begging for total faith before that one was finally granted).  But the chasm between what my analytical hyper-aware brain knew, and how I emotionally felt, was Grand-Canyon-wide and deep.  Just imagine the most unexpected, blind-sided bone-deep insult from someone you spent the last five months lionizing for nothing more than asking for help in their unique area of expertise.  But I pulled myself together, walked home, shared the story with my roommate’s brother as I played with pure exuberance in the form of a combined 97 pounds of Irish Setter puppies, and felt better.  But still, I could hardly catch my breath.  How could I have misjudged a person so completely and deeply?  But just by asking myself, “how could I?” rather than “how could she?” meant that I was making progress.

-Zen-

I’m a surprisingly fit guy well acquainted to the gym, and I didn’t even feel I was pushing myself too hard today.  I always wear headphones and I never talk to anyone.  After a few leg press warmup sets I felt a bit dizzy, so I rested, and decided to do just one more set before calling it a day.  “Best to leave some left in the tank,” as my latest workout philosophy goes.  When I stood up, I passed out.  After coming to, I had no idea where I was for a few seconds.  I had completely lost consciousness.  And for someone who has been completely sober (420-free) for almost a full month—longer than any previous time in over a decade—I must admit…it felt freaking great!  And the first thought that popped into my head was that “I’ve heard of a runner’s high, but that leg press just got me freaking stoned!”  

         Again, I never talk to people at the gym and, these days, there just aren’t that many people around anyway.  While changing in the locker room, there was one guy, but he was wearing headphones.  I thought to myself, ‘if he takes those things out before I leave, I’m going to share my clever line with him to see if he laughs.’  (I may be an introvert who always needed booze to be “the life of the party,” but I do enjoy amusing complete strangers.)  Unknown to me, he had witnessed the whole event and knew something was up with me.  A single “throwaway line” sparked epic conversation, him asking me for my phone number, and an informal plan to work out together tomorrow.  (And the last time I had lost consciousness (not from drugs or booze) was during “Shock Treatment,” the final event at Tough Mudder 2015, and that just happened to be the T-shirt I was wearing that day, after discovering it buried in a box the previous month.  I could not make this stuff up, I’m not that good!)

         Now this would all be great, but I should ad that he was an incredibly fit, handsome, 24-year-old, well-dressed African American man, and I appeared as an unshaven, middle-aged, white, mentally ill homeless man in search of a free shower.  My un-cut hair was gross, my raggedy clothes had stains, and there wasn’t a reason in the world he should have given me the time of day, let alone ask for my contact information.  Now here is the part where I correct a potential assumption; I’m straight, and so is he (not that there is anything wrong with that—with Seinfeld-style delivery).  The point is, he looked like Mr. Popular in every way, and I looked like someone with nothing to offer to anyone even on their worst day.  But after just a few minutes of conversation, this young man saw past my carless appearance and saw me for who I really was.  And that older white woman in the meeting who had heard me speak my heart out fifty previous times, who knew I was successful (with potential for future success at least), who should have been flattered by my polite and humble request for her knowledge, who should have seen me for who I was; still treated me like dirt.  (And I should remove that word from my vocabulary, and I am incredibly grateful—in retrospect—for her rude dismissal.)  And the fact that these two incredible chance encounters occurred within two hours of each other has changed my perspective on everything! 

2-26-21:  For someone as sensitive to the fine line between the regrets of the past, the suffering of the present, and the unlimited potential of the future, all it takes is an Amazon movie I “randomly” fell into because of its Matrix-like potential for greatness to rethink everything I’ve so optimistically become certain of since my self-actualizing “born again” experience on 5-27-20.  But for that to make any sense to you—my theoretical future reader—I should explain to you the bare fundamentals of my life that led me to this existential examination.  (Also, I feel myself slipping into my familiar cycle of depression)

         As I just explained to the woman from my AA group yesterday on the phone a few hours ago, I was born physically and mentally disabled.   Enough so that I almost died a few times before my first birthday, that I needed leg braces, custom made orthopedic shoes, and was relegated to such remedial English and math classes that when kids called me “retarded,” I had every reason to believe them.  After all, I heard my teacher refer to me the same way to other adults.  But like eight-foot-tall pituitary-gland-damned giants who rarely live long enough to legally drink, my mind and imagination never stopped developing and buy middle school, I began to master the art of fitting in and appearing to be “normal.” 

         I figured out how to work just hard enough at school to earn full academic scholarships through my master’s degree, without the benefit of direction or passion to ever master anything and simply fell into becoming an English/math high school teacher and college instructor, among other things.  Like most typical Americans, my profession paid the bills, but my passion—my true expertise—never earned me a dime.  And like the protagonist in so many poorly written predictable dramas, at the pinnacle of appearing to have everything anyone could ever want to experience the “American Dream;” a career that had finally become rewarding, engaged to the woman of my dreams after decades of failures and loneliness, an incredible social life and more high-quality friendships than any ten men could hope to expect, I lost it all.  And I went crazy.  I mean literally crazy.  Full blown adult-onset bipolar disorder, with I treated with a healthy dose of alcoholism and drug addiction on top of all my prescription meds I eventually was prescribed.

         One of those popular drugs I won’t name for numerous reasons worked like the magical drug from Bradly Cooper’s Limitless.  It made me feel so incredibly good and mentally focused and energetic, after feeling so horrifyingly bad for so long, my only real fear left in my life was that it would soon stop working.  But it kept working perfectly until I felt I no longer needed it to live my best possible life. 

Yep, you guessed it, that perfect life didn’t last long.  And the same pill worked about as well the second time around in a relationship with someone who obviously lied to you when she said she forgave you.  Even after doubling the dosage.  And ever since then, no matter how much progress I made in my life, with or without the aid of drugs, I could never trust it would last, because it never did.  And for the record, we’re not talking about the normal ups and downs in life, I’m talking about a lifetime battling clinical depression, with just enough “everything going absolutely perfectly, total gratitude beyond all reason” and pure mania added to the mix to make unfathomable lows feel that much lower.

         Fast forward to my rebirth, my name change, forgiving everyone, hating no one, banishing all regrets and accepting God into my heart and soul in a way I never dreamed possible for me and, as I’ve told anyone in my life who would listen, “almost every day since then has been one of the best days of my life.”  And if they are a real friend, I might add that the reason my days are so good despite the fact that I have yet to earn back all the things I lost when my life seemed perfect, that while I appear as an unemployed, blue-balled loser on the outside, I now derive my gratification internally, rather than externally like before.  You know, like yourself and everyone you know.

         And I really am still happy and grateful.  And I really do finally believe in God in the way I’ve always wanted to but could never figure out how.  And I really did decide over a year ago to simply never drink alcohol again, and I never did and, after 22 years of abuse, I have zero temptation to drink.  Yeah, by anyone’s standards, I’ve achieved quite a bit.  So how is it that I still took it so personally when I felt that my friend from AA insulted me?  And how is it that computer problems and bank problems and life problems can still enrage and depress me, when I know for a fact that they are all small stuff, and I promised myself I would no longer sweat that shit?  And finally, how the hell can an interesting but unremarkable movie that almost put me to sleep make me doubt all the progress I was so sure I had made? 

         Is the single most powerful driving force in my life that has not only kept me drug free, happy, grateful, optimistic for so long; my complete certitude that I will find the right woman and my next contracting company and next functional health consulting firm will absolutely succeed, despite the fact that they didn’t the last time around, is that force in my life as illusionary as the bliss sought after in the perfect world of the future which may, or may not, even be real?  What is real?  If our own perception is our only source of reality, and we have loads of evidence that perception is so easily altered by drugs, mental illness, and my well-established powers for self-delusion, then how can we ever be sure of anything?

         Or, to approach this common dilemma from another angle, if reality is as malleable as my own life experience has demonstrated beyond all reasonable doubt to me, then perhaps I have more control over it than I give myself credit for.  In other words, if we can “make a hell out of heaven, and a heaven out of hell,” then your life is a choice.  Mental illness, clinical depression, alcoholism; been there, lived that, what’s next?  Which one do you pick for yourself?  How do you choose to define yourself?

-Zen-

In my kitchen on my farm up north by Port Sanilac, after the only real fight I’ve ever gotten into with my dad, on the verge of yet another mental breakdown, I came to the conclusion that if I simply decided that if I accepted every single traumatic, wonderful, and epic ounce of suffering and bliss I’d ever experienced as the price for self-actualization and the complete banishment of all regrets, it was a price I was willing to pay.  So, I did.  But as great as that sounds, I am clearly “on the spectrum” and a bit obsessed-with-number-as-symbols-from-God in my life, so that’s what I did.  Just a few weeks later, the license plate for my new trailer for my too-successful-to-manage business made possible by the fact that I actually gave a job to one of those homeless people with an old cliche cardboard sign that read; “will work for food,” and that license plate read “227 527.”  And if you call that a coincidence, I’ll call you the most depressing cynical creature ever to be cursed with consciousness, and hope that you didn’t take offense, because none was intended.  I only mean to say I feel sorry for you and can’t fathom how bleakly you must see the world. 

[I have countless more examples, but I’ll give you one more, one that occurred just seconds ago.  In order to register my new Google Zen business email address, they send me a postcard with a five-digit code to prove I live at my address.  The last three digits were 514.  Why should that number matter?  My core number since watching Seven on my 21^st birthday with my dad (a rare paternal encounter), has been 7, which prompted my deep dive into the Seven Deadly Sins, which is the theme of my future Escape Room at my farm, and my eventual discovery that Pride really was my own personal sin around which all other failings originated.  Again, could I make this stuff up?  I mean, I guess I could.  But my 80-year-old father could confirm, I still have the original ticket stub and “A+” essays I wrote in high school and college and, must I continue?  Who could make this stuff up?]

         I’ve started and abandoned six previous blogs in my life, each one started with the same optimistic determination with which I entered my failed marriage.  But this is blog number 7, which I will start tomorrow, on 2-27, and my track record for longevity of goals I make with a clear head, unclouded with crazy passionate love or blinding mania, it a bit better.

1. I vowed never again to eat disgusting garbage fast food again in 2010.
2. I vowed never again to drink pop in 2014.
3. I vowed never again to drink alcohol on 2-10-20.
4. I vowed never again to purchase chips (but can eat them at events) last summer.
5. And just last month I committed to daily “Zen Bible Study,” prayer, and meditation.

So far, I have maintained all of the above commitments.  And now I’m adding one more, on one of the most significant dates I can think of; to maintain this blog.  No, I’m not committing to daily updates, but I see no reason to ever go longer than a week.  And just like my bible study practice, which soon transformed itself into a daily vlog and full personal analysis with my own personal perspective, which I will start posting to YouTube starting soon, with zero expectation that it will ever amount to anything beyond a way to hold myself accountable, I have no idea how this blog will mutate.  Will it turn into my own public journal, or an eventual springboard to my church and wellness consulting practice?  The most beautiful part is that, like a good father, I will provide for it all that I can to care and nurture it, and allow it to take shape in its own, without forcing it into my preconceived notions of success.  And yes, I expect to far surpass any current expectations I could possibly conjure up today.

5-27-21:  Uploading these words to the appropriate blog hosting platform between the year whatever year that blogs became popular until 2015 would have been as simple for me as legally driving to the grocery store.  But today—living with my unique manifestation of a common mental illness—that same simple task is almost as insurmountable as…well…as legally driving to the grocery store.

         But just as a blinded adult can learn to hone his remaining senses to what seems to the uninitiated to be superhuman levels, so to can I now think so far outside of the preverbal box.  Blinded to what has always been so easy for me until bipolar disorder and finally acknowledging the fact that I had repressed and compensated for mild autism my entire life, I unknowingly traded one set of skills for another.  I guess I couldn’t enjoy both simultaneously.

         Nothing I write will convince the close-minded individual how I could give up such deeply ingrained negative addictions by replacing with such widely accepted positive ones that seem impossible for normal Americans to maintain, but that is the reality in which I now exist. 

         Comprehending and accepting what I write in this blog will be made easier for the both of us if you can stipulate to the fact that I practice now practice Radical Honesty and feel shame-free.  Everybody lies to each other and themselves, but an intelligent or perceptive person can determine another’s level of truth through the following obvious methods (obvious to me but, as you’ll get tired of reading, I’m not normal).

1. Length of time elapsed between caught in lies, exaggeration, lies of omission, etc.
2. Degree to which “outlandish” truth benefits or “humiliates” the speaker
3. Motive of main ideas (bragging or sympathy, selling or pandering)
4. Uniqueness of statements (who could or would make this stuff up?)
5. Fact check-ability (criminal records, marathon times, taxes, all public records)
6. Track record (if everything else checks out…)
7. Overall sincerity of tone, body language, and general disposition

[I’m sure there are more official lists by more qualified individuals, but that’s just what I came up with on the spot.]

By far the most important thing to consider when reading or watching any person or company make any claim about anything is intentional or unidentical bias.  In other words, “follow the money,” the legitimacy of sources, history, etc.  Always consider; “What do they want from me; my money, attention, praise, or to get into my pants?”

         This is the first blog I’m writing that has the theoretical potential to earn some money in the future, so I’m going to pay some money upfront.  Maybe I’ll find future clients, sell the dozen books swimming in my head desperate to appear in print, promote my future YouTube channels, or maybe it will become nothing more than an outlet for expressing my creativity, channel my passions, and represent the latest incarnation of the journal that managed to ground and wrangle my heard-of-kittens-mind and untangle my maelstrom of thoughts.  What I do know is that it will be a micro-miracle if I can get this uploaded today, on 2-27.  It will represent a personal achievement that you could never hope to understand. Because if you believe nothing else, believe this singular unifying fact: the last time I was this happy, I had everything any normal person could ever want to be happy, but I was still a drunk and still didn’t love myself and was still afraid of death because I could not for the life of my complete my leap of faith.  And yes, I feel myself entering a depression, but I’m still happy and grateful.

         Today I have none of the things I had until 2015, but I’m even happier now than I was then, because now I have the certainty that I will earn back all of those “trappings” of life, but with the addition of intrinsic happiness, complete faith in God, and feel more satisfied by truly helping a dozen readers than achieving a million views and whatever commercial success that would entail.

         I’ve never been more grateful to be alive, and I’ve never been less afraid to die.

-Zen-

I was going to write about connecting my experience from the latest episode of Billions to the phone call I just endured with my mother, but that could take another hour, and distract me from today’s most important goal, getting this freaking thing online!