The next few months were a blur.
The hole in my soul was wide open, a cold wind blowing through it.
Part of me was not here anymore. She wasn't out of town...or in a foreign country. I could cover every inch of this planet and she would not be here. My Mother was gone.
I didn't drink, but used every other conveyance to try and stop feeling. Nothing worked.
(Authors note-never do cocaine right after eating beef ribs...I'll spare you the details.)
It was during this period that my Father elected to cease the medication he was on to combat his congestive heart failure. He had been reduced to an oxygen tank and a wheelchair, this man that used to fill ballrooms with his presence.
He had chosen to move on. He made his peace with God and hospice took care of him in his home as every day he got smaller and smaller.
Our peace was unspoken but we had stopped the jousting. I was hurting too much to defend or attack. He was too medicated to hurt. I suppose it worked out.
I would visit a couple of times a week, not staying long...I couldn't. I remembered sitting on his lap when I was too little to know what anguish was... smelling his smell, hugging his neck, dying for his approval.
But I could not approve of him dying. He was supposed to live forever... isn't that what Daddy's do?
My oldest brother came to visit, healing the 20-year rift the old man had started. We never had the chance to be close, but would have taken it, I know. (He died a year later-heart attack after work, walking to his truck on a muggy Houston night.)
When not visiting I would sit alone in my attic room. I would hold a double barrel shotgun, loaded, and place the barrels on different parts of my body, knowing all I had to do was thumb the hammers back and squeeze, just a little.
Eventually I tasted gun oil, but decided vanity wouldn't allow me to blow my head off. (How's that for ego?)
My Uncle called me on a night in March, telling me if I wanted to see my Dad one last time, this was it. They expected him to go sometime in the night.
I don't remember the drive. I remember him laying on a hospital bed in his living room, breathing fast, wispy breaths, his dry, paper thin lips making a small puffing sound when he would exhale.
He woke up and saw it was me holding his hand. His eye's smiled and he said, "I'll love you forever..." and he slipped back into sleep.
I left but can't tell you how I got back. There was a roaring in my ears while the rest of the world had been muted. Time was stopping and all I could do was watch.
About two-thirty in the morning, my Father was dead.
The hole in my soul had become alive, and it screamed in pain.
tracker
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.- Matt Groening
And a torrid, brief little affair began.
Once it was determined that, while her baby girl was precious, I was in no frame of mind to be a new "Baby Daddy," I was replaced by a Frito Lay truck driver.
Good for her.
My guilt about my girls was a fog that would not lift, and the financial wagon I had hitched my sputtering star to, was in a considerable rut.
One missed paycheck...then two. Can anyone say "Karma?"
I wasn't drinking but changed the way I felt through fist fulls of Benadryl. Complete with muscle spasms in my legs, and feeling like I was sleeping in jello. The end result of yet another great idea.
The job came to an end after a particularly nasty assignment. I was through with crime scene photos, diagrams, lying clients, and dirty prosecutors.
Defending the guilty had already begun to leave a decidedly sour taste in my mouth and finally, I had enough.
The underbelly of life. With it's pale; translucent, squirmy things, always digging under rocks, uncovering dirty little secrets...it can wear you down, and it certainly had an effect on my general outlook.
Depression was settling in, and I never saw it coming.
My Father was in his last few months of life, and I decided to move in with he and my step-mom and care for him, one last time.
I wanted to connect. To let him know, that through it all, he was still my Dad.
I mowed the lawn, I cooked, cleaned the pool, and cut his toenails. I took him to medical appointments...always waiting for the right time, to have "the talk", or to let him initiate it.
Both of us were too proud. It never happened.
Before Christmas, I moved out.
Moved in with a friend who had a vacant attic. Six blocks from my Mom's house. I may have visited once.
Spent my days on unemployment; playing disc golf, smoking weed, and trying to start up a P.I. business. (i.e. delusional, grandiose, pipe dream)
The week of Christmas, I got the phone call.
My Mother was dead. She had been sober twenty years. She started to drink again on a Monday and was dead the following Saturday.
Dear readers, if any of you smoke weed on a regular basis, do not, I repeat, do not, under any circumstances attend your Mother's funeral high. I did. I thought it would help.
I forgot it was an open casket.
Once it was determined that, while her baby girl was precious, I was in no frame of mind to be a new "Baby Daddy," I was replaced by a Frito Lay truck driver.
Good for her.
My guilt about my girls was a fog that would not lift, and the financial wagon I had hitched my sputtering star to, was in a considerable rut.
One missed paycheck...then two. Can anyone say "Karma?"
I wasn't drinking but changed the way I felt through fist fulls of Benadryl. Complete with muscle spasms in my legs, and feeling like I was sleeping in jello. The end result of yet another great idea.
The job came to an end after a particularly nasty assignment. I was through with crime scene photos, diagrams, lying clients, and dirty prosecutors.
Defending the guilty had already begun to leave a decidedly sour taste in my mouth and finally, I had enough.
The underbelly of life. With it's pale; translucent, squirmy things, always digging under rocks, uncovering dirty little secrets...it can wear you down, and it certainly had an effect on my general outlook.
Depression was settling in, and I never saw it coming.
My Father was in his last few months of life, and I decided to move in with he and my step-mom and care for him, one last time.
I wanted to connect. To let him know, that through it all, he was still my Dad.
I mowed the lawn, I cooked, cleaned the pool, and cut his toenails. I took him to medical appointments...always waiting for the right time, to have "the talk", or to let him initiate it.
Both of us were too proud. It never happened.
Before Christmas, I moved out.
Moved in with a friend who had a vacant attic. Six blocks from my Mom's house. I may have visited once.
Spent my days on unemployment; playing disc golf, smoking weed, and trying to start up a P.I. business. (i.e. delusional, grandiose, pipe dream)
The week of Christmas, I got the phone call.
My Mother was dead. She had been sober twenty years. She started to drink again on a Monday and was dead the following Saturday.
Dear readers, if any of you smoke weed on a regular basis, do not, I repeat, do not, under any circumstances attend your Mother's funeral high. I did. I thought it would help.
I forgot it was an open casket.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Ego...not just a screwed up spelling for a waffle.
Powerful stuff.
The Ego, the Id, whatever it is.
It makes me believe my own bullshit, when left to my own devices, and that never, ever, ends well.
The home life was quiet. The hurt echoed through the house.
My head kept telling me I could do better alone. It's truly a terrible thing to be absolutely lonely when you're married. But I suppose I had it coming.
The firm I was working for was working me to death, as lead investigator, and the partners collected the cash, rode motorcycles and played golf. The nerve.
Again, my head told me I deserved better. Of course it did.
We lived next door to one of the partners, and late one afternoon I received a call from a prospective client and acquaintance I had known, working at the D.A.'s office. He needed us on a case, outside channels.
I told him I'd give him a sweetheart deal, do it on my own and off the books. We agreed on a price and he hung up. About fifteen seconds later the partner was at my door, phone in hand. He overheard the entire conversation on his cordless phone. I was busted flat footed.
Heated words were exchanged and I shut the door, hot with shame and embarrassment. I called another client, a prominent Defense Attorney in town and told him I was looking for greener, more permanent pastures. He agreed to see me the following day.
I interviewed in Preston Towers, and he offered me the job. My own office and secretary, a twenty-something, single, Hispanic Mom, who, truth be told was cuter than a baby duck wearing a hat.
Of course I took the job. The P.I. firm failed to take it well.
I told the wife I was moving out, needed some space, and rented a tiny apartment in Highland Park. She took it even worse. The guilt over leaving my girls was crushing, but my false pride carried me the next step. I was a shit heel and a fraud, and I knew it.
However the defense firm I was working for paid well, and I kept getting coy looks from my secretary, while she played with her hair.
Defending the guilty, while distasteful, is a requirement by Law. The adage, somebody has to do it applies. I admit to idealistic visions of defending the innocent, but no one innocent ever came to our office.
We won some and lost some, as is the case most of the times. But I was able to wear nice suits, afford Armani eye wear, and feel special.
One night I was working late, just me and our secretary. I was going over client interviews when she appeared in the doorway. A storm had rolled in, and lightning flashed through the blinds. She shut the door behind her, and turned off the light.
I heard the fabric of her dress as it dropped to the floor.
Oh, shit...this was not covered in the employee handbook.
And to think, I didn't even have dental...
The Ego, the Id, whatever it is.
It makes me believe my own bullshit, when left to my own devices, and that never, ever, ends well.
The home life was quiet. The hurt echoed through the house.
My head kept telling me I could do better alone. It's truly a terrible thing to be absolutely lonely when you're married. But I suppose I had it coming.
The firm I was working for was working me to death, as lead investigator, and the partners collected the cash, rode motorcycles and played golf. The nerve.
Again, my head told me I deserved better. Of course it did.
We lived next door to one of the partners, and late one afternoon I received a call from a prospective client and acquaintance I had known, working at the D.A.'s office. He needed us on a case, outside channels.
I told him I'd give him a sweetheart deal, do it on my own and off the books. We agreed on a price and he hung up. About fifteen seconds later the partner was at my door, phone in hand. He overheard the entire conversation on his cordless phone. I was busted flat footed.
Heated words were exchanged and I shut the door, hot with shame and embarrassment. I called another client, a prominent Defense Attorney in town and told him I was looking for greener, more permanent pastures. He agreed to see me the following day.
I interviewed in Preston Towers, and he offered me the job. My own office and secretary, a twenty-something, single, Hispanic Mom, who, truth be told was cuter than a baby duck wearing a hat.
Of course I took the job. The P.I. firm failed to take it well.
I told the wife I was moving out, needed some space, and rented a tiny apartment in Highland Park. She took it even worse. The guilt over leaving my girls was crushing, but my false pride carried me the next step. I was a shit heel and a fraud, and I knew it.
However the defense firm I was working for paid well, and I kept getting coy looks from my secretary, while she played with her hair.
Defending the guilty, while distasteful, is a requirement by Law. The adage, somebody has to do it applies. I admit to idealistic visions of defending the innocent, but no one innocent ever came to our office.
We won some and lost some, as is the case most of the times. But I was able to wear nice suits, afford Armani eye wear, and feel special.
One night I was working late, just me and our secretary. I was going over client interviews when she appeared in the doorway. A storm had rolled in, and lightning flashed through the blinds. She shut the door behind her, and turned off the light.
I heard the fabric of her dress as it dropped to the floor.
Oh, shit...this was not covered in the employee handbook.
And to think, I didn't even have dental...
Friday, July 3, 2009
The chronicle continues....
The last post in the autobiographical narrative of this is dated 12/03/08, if one wants to catch up.
Fast forward three years. Interior of Mexico, attempting to gain medical documents in an insurance scam case with disregard for the usual channels.
Once again, I do not speak Spanish.
Through ridiculous pantomime, a bit of mordida and ape like gestures I got what I came for.
Having passed a bit of a bribe to a border guard to expedite the process on gaining entry without too many questions, as I had absolutely no legal authority to be doing what I was doing in a foreign country, I felt smug.
Tracking the nefarious through foreign countries was pretty cool. I enjoyed it. For a time. But as with everything, a price will be exacted.
Sober four years and my twins were three years old. I was gone most of the time. Case after case.
My girls had a nodding acquaintance with Daddy. Back for a couple of days; a couple of tuck-ins, and gone again.
I didn't know it, but it was the beginning of the end, precluding years and years of ugliness between their Mother and I, and brief bits of it with them.
Lest one think the life of a real live Private Investigator is glamorous, consider if you will the following:
Exhibit A-I video taped an Insurance claimant from a Port-a- Potty, for eight hours, with an out-of-service sign on the door, at a Canton, Texas, trade day show. He was running a barbecue concession, claiming total disability. I will never forget the cloying smell of shit and barbecued turkey legs.
Exhibit B-I video taped another insurance claimant through a hole in my gym bag, while she conducted an aerobics class at an all black community center. She too, was claiming total disability.
Exhibit C- I staked out a Nigerian money laundering operation from an empty apartment, across from a Nigerian owned convenience store for three days, sleeping on the floor, with various people pounding on the door, screaming for someone named LaToya.
Either she was very popular or she owed some bad actors some cash.
There are many more of these exhibits; following unfaithful spouses, digging in to child abuse cases, tracking a stolen Lexus to a storage facility- somewhere in Kansas, and on, and on.
This was my job. I felt providing for my family was most important, as my wife at the time was not working, and from the growing impression on the couch, had no intention of it.
I will never get that time back with my girls, and if I had been going to regular meetings and working with a sponsor, maybe someone would have called me on it.
I wish they had.
The girls were making a foray into the child beauty pageant, commercial, modeling arena. I wasn't home enough to complain, but attended one event. Behind the scenes it was like Mother Bear's gnawing on pure adrenal gland.
Terrible ugliness, but my girls were darling.
The home life was headed down a narrow, steep, slope. It could only end crashing at the bottom. With any luck there would be survivors.
As we lay in bed one night she asked me an innocent, conversational question.
"You know what I'd like to be?"
"I don't know," I mumbled, " A size six?" What an asshole.
The crash had started and I never once pumped the brakes.
Fast forward three years. Interior of Mexico, attempting to gain medical documents in an insurance scam case with disregard for the usual channels.
Once again, I do not speak Spanish.
Through ridiculous pantomime, a bit of mordida and ape like gestures I got what I came for.
Having passed a bit of a bribe to a border guard to expedite the process on gaining entry without too many questions, as I had absolutely no legal authority to be doing what I was doing in a foreign country, I felt smug.
Tracking the nefarious through foreign countries was pretty cool. I enjoyed it. For a time. But as with everything, a price will be exacted.
Sober four years and my twins were three years old. I was gone most of the time. Case after case.
My girls had a nodding acquaintance with Daddy. Back for a couple of days; a couple of tuck-ins, and gone again.
I didn't know it, but it was the beginning of the end, precluding years and years of ugliness between their Mother and I, and brief bits of it with them.
Lest one think the life of a real live Private Investigator is glamorous, consider if you will the following:
Exhibit A-I video taped an Insurance claimant from a Port-a- Potty, for eight hours, with an out-of-service sign on the door, at a Canton, Texas, trade day show. He was running a barbecue concession, claiming total disability. I will never forget the cloying smell of shit and barbecued turkey legs.
Exhibit B-I video taped another insurance claimant through a hole in my gym bag, while she conducted an aerobics class at an all black community center. She too, was claiming total disability.
Exhibit C- I staked out a Nigerian money laundering operation from an empty apartment, across from a Nigerian owned convenience store for three days, sleeping on the floor, with various people pounding on the door, screaming for someone named LaToya.
Either she was very popular or she owed some bad actors some cash.
There are many more of these exhibits; following unfaithful spouses, digging in to child abuse cases, tracking a stolen Lexus to a storage facility- somewhere in Kansas, and on, and on.
This was my job. I felt providing for my family was most important, as my wife at the time was not working, and from the growing impression on the couch, had no intention of it.
I will never get that time back with my girls, and if I had been going to regular meetings and working with a sponsor, maybe someone would have called me on it.
I wish they had.
The girls were making a foray into the child beauty pageant, commercial, modeling arena. I wasn't home enough to complain, but attended one event. Behind the scenes it was like Mother Bear's gnawing on pure adrenal gland.
Terrible ugliness, but my girls were darling.
The home life was headed down a narrow, steep, slope. It could only end crashing at the bottom. With any luck there would be survivors.
As we lay in bed one night she asked me an innocent, conversational question.
"You know what I'd like to be?"
"I don't know," I mumbled, " A size six?" What an asshole.
The crash had started and I never once pumped the brakes.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Resuming the tale...
Since we are pretty much caught up on my present situation I am going to resume the saga wherever it left off. I will post the date and title of the piece where I stopped and go from there.
As this takes more thought than simply rambling about my present circumstances, it may take some time to kick back into gear.
Thank you for your patience...
As this takes more thought than simply rambling about my present circumstances, it may take some time to kick back into gear.
Thank you for your patience...
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Under extreme pressure, diamonds are made...
The challenges I face these days are being met in a very foreign matter. I face them head on, instead of doing the 50-yard lurch and jerk, cowering in the shadows of a bell tower.
I am doing everything differently, including taking direction and making choices and decisions based on the needs of others instead of being based on self.
I have a hurdle to meet tomorrow and have committed to doing so. I am contacting the powers that be and telling them where I am working so they can start garnishing 50 per-cent of my earnings, for past due child support.
Ordinarily I would have waited and let them find me. Which would not be hard to do-they seem to know where I am working most times before I do.
But that would be entirely self-centered and not the next right thing, as uncomfortable and difficult as that is for me.
I can assure you, this decision is not martyr based, it is based on responsibility and commitment.
When my sponsor visited me in the VA hospital, I asked him how to proceed with my life, having turned away from all I had, in order to try and save my life. His response was, "Do everything differently." And so it goes.
I spent the afternoon yesterday at a sober pool party with my sponsor and about 35 other sober adults, and a maybe a dozen children, whom I assume were sober as well. (However there was this six-month old little boy though, demanding and crying and alternately laughing and sleeping, much like me when I was loaded, but who am I to judge.)
I just returned from my Sunday morning meeting, which was on self-centeredness, don't ya know, so as usual, I was right where I was supposed to be.
My sponsor mentioned on the way back to the Ox, that I was selling my Higher Power short. As I have just recently become acquainted with my H.P. and don't know him very well, I think it's understandable.
But we talk every day, so in time, I may learn to trust.
I am doing everything differently, including taking direction and making choices and decisions based on the needs of others instead of being based on self.
I have a hurdle to meet tomorrow and have committed to doing so. I am contacting the powers that be and telling them where I am working so they can start garnishing 50 per-cent of my earnings, for past due child support.
Ordinarily I would have waited and let them find me. Which would not be hard to do-they seem to know where I am working most times before I do.
But that would be entirely self-centered and not the next right thing, as uncomfortable and difficult as that is for me.
I can assure you, this decision is not martyr based, it is based on responsibility and commitment.
When my sponsor visited me in the VA hospital, I asked him how to proceed with my life, having turned away from all I had, in order to try and save my life. His response was, "Do everything differently." And so it goes.
I spent the afternoon yesterday at a sober pool party with my sponsor and about 35 other sober adults, and a maybe a dozen children, whom I assume were sober as well. (However there was this six-month old little boy though, demanding and crying and alternately laughing and sleeping, much like me when I was loaded, but who am I to judge.)
I just returned from my Sunday morning meeting, which was on self-centeredness, don't ya know, so as usual, I was right where I was supposed to be.
My sponsor mentioned on the way back to the Ox, that I was selling my Higher Power short. As I have just recently become acquainted with my H.P. and don't know him very well, I think it's understandable.
But we talk every day, so in time, I may learn to trust.
Friday, June 26, 2009
A matter of perspective...
I really don't know where the statement I am about to make derives from, but I am going to toss it out into the ether without fear of some cosmic reprisal or buggering.
This time in my life; these moments, these circumstances, may in fact be the start of the best year of my life.
Yeah, I know. I'm stunned too.
Something has happened; a psychic change, a spiritual enema, call it what you will, but regardless, I am not the same.
I face each day in these times ready to live my life, in the best way I know how, and my gratitude for being able to do these things is palpable.
My needs are being met and the list of real needs has gotten quite smaller and yet the wants don't enter into it.
My wants or lack of getting what I want kept me sick, alone and bitter, for longer than I can remember.
My now, ( as in present moments) while challenging, feels rewarding. And I am operating from a place of strength, humility and conviction.
Yet I am able to do the things I am called upon to do without too much grousing, if you don't count mowing a lawn straight up in 98 degree heat. A few choice words were uttered during that experience, and it really is medically or physically impossible for a lawnmower to perform the acts I was demanding of it.
My bad.
I have run across several folks living on the street over the last few days and instead of making a joke (like-What's the best thing about dating a homeless girl? You can drop her off anywhere.) I feel empathy, and I wish them better circumstances.
Then again, this could be a brain tumor, ending in me suddenly smelling cabbage and singing the Hokey Pokey in Portugese.
In fact this might prove it-"Põe o seu pé direito em, põe o seu pé direito fora, Você põe o seu pé direito em E você o sacudode todo sobre. Faz o Hokey Pokey E você se vira em volta, Isso é o que é todo sobre. " I thought I smelled cabbage.
But for now, to quote one of my mentors...Life is good and I surely am grateful.
This time in my life; these moments, these circumstances, may in fact be the start of the best year of my life.
Yeah, I know. I'm stunned too.
Something has happened; a psychic change, a spiritual enema, call it what you will, but regardless, I am not the same.
I face each day in these times ready to live my life, in the best way I know how, and my gratitude for being able to do these things is palpable.
My needs are being met and the list of real needs has gotten quite smaller and yet the wants don't enter into it.
My wants or lack of getting what I want kept me sick, alone and bitter, for longer than I can remember.
My now, ( as in present moments) while challenging, feels rewarding. And I am operating from a place of strength, humility and conviction.
Yet I am able to do the things I am called upon to do without too much grousing, if you don't count mowing a lawn straight up in 98 degree heat. A few choice words were uttered during that experience, and it really is medically or physically impossible for a lawnmower to perform the acts I was demanding of it.
My bad.
I have run across several folks living on the street over the last few days and instead of making a joke (like-What's the best thing about dating a homeless girl? You can drop her off anywhere.) I feel empathy, and I wish them better circumstances.
Then again, this could be a brain tumor, ending in me suddenly smelling cabbage and singing the Hokey Pokey in Portugese.
In fact this might prove it-"Põe o seu pé direito em, põe o seu pé direito fora, Você põe o seu pé direito em E você o sacudode todo sobre. Faz o Hokey Pokey E você se vira em volta, Isso é o que é todo sobre. " I thought I smelled cabbage.
But for now, to quote one of my mentors...Life is good and I surely am grateful.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The Ox
A dear friend coined the phrase referring to my present living conditions. Oxford House-The Ox. It is the year of the Ox, in Asian culture and represents to me I am exactly where I am supposed to be at this given place in time. Cool.
The Ox is an older two-story affair, a couple of blocks from my favorite Street in Dallas; Swiss Avenue. There are eight of us cohabiting and of course being who we are, situations arise, friction develops and lessons are placed before us to learn. We have two house dogs; Ronin, (I thought it was Roman-my bad) a black lab mix and Belvedere, a madly affectionate toy Dachshund.
We share a computer; we have our own rooms-complete with cable, a work out room, large tv's in the common areas, laundry facilities and kitchen. It would appear several of us are in the food service industry-which seems natural, considering the amount of drug and alcohol use in this industry-but are all, thank God, in recovery.
I took the bus for the first time yesterday but had to get a ride back to the house from my manager, as for the first two weeks the conditions of my living arrangement dictate I have to be back prior to midnight-I suppose before I turn into some form of orange gourd. And orange is not my color.
There is a large adjustment in all of this, not only for myself but the other guys involved. I am the new guy. Therefore anything that appears odd or different within the house casts suspicion on me. I can accept that. I would do nothing to jeopardize this situation as getting here was indeed a gift and it allows me to practice the axiom, live and let live.
This has been described to me as an investment in my future and I would have to agree.
I now have to mow the lawn before I go to a noon meeting.
Responsibility-it's not for everybody.
The Ox is an older two-story affair, a couple of blocks from my favorite Street in Dallas; Swiss Avenue. There are eight of us cohabiting and of course being who we are, situations arise, friction develops and lessons are placed before us to learn. We have two house dogs; Ronin, (I thought it was Roman-my bad) a black lab mix and Belvedere, a madly affectionate toy Dachshund.
We share a computer; we have our own rooms-complete with cable, a work out room, large tv's in the common areas, laundry facilities and kitchen. It would appear several of us are in the food service industry-which seems natural, considering the amount of drug and alcohol use in this industry-but are all, thank God, in recovery.
I took the bus for the first time yesterday but had to get a ride back to the house from my manager, as for the first two weeks the conditions of my living arrangement dictate I have to be back prior to midnight-I suppose before I turn into some form of orange gourd. And orange is not my color.
There is a large adjustment in all of this, not only for myself but the other guys involved. I am the new guy. Therefore anything that appears odd or different within the house casts suspicion on me. I can accept that. I would do nothing to jeopardize this situation as getting here was indeed a gift and it allows me to practice the axiom, live and let live.
This has been described to me as an investment in my future and I would have to agree.
I now have to mow the lawn before I go to a noon meeting.
Responsibility-it's not for everybody.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The Father's Day that almost wasn't...
Three days ago, after my trip with my girls, I was on top of the world.
Two days ago I received two, rambling, hate filled, dramatic, long (really long) diatribes by text message from my 18 - year old twins' Mother that I was to under no circumstances contact them because my contacting them was annoying and unappreciated and I was Mr. Horrible and if I loved them I would have blah, blah, blah....(She even forbade me to contact my youngest daughter who was visiting her sisters...who is not even her daughter.)
I have tried to repair that relationship every way I can, but in their world love equals money. Sad, really. But I know I have a part in this and I own it. However, I refuse to be the brunt of all their problems.
(Every few years she feels she needs to remind me of my failings in case I've forgotten. I don't know who left her in charge of that - but I thank her for her input.)
It takes two to destroy a marriage and she definitely played a part in that. But it's not about her. It's about me and my reactions.
I am powerless over people, places and things, and I will always keep my heart and door open for the girls if they ever wish to have a relationship with me. And I pray for the Drama filled Mama, and may she go to heaven...within the next fifteen minutes would be great.
I did receive a text from my youngest wishing me a Happy Father's Day.
And so it was.
So I'm one for three.
I went to a meeting this morning (the topic being restraint of pen and tongue- for the love of God) and afterward waited over an hour for a bus. None came. So I walked about five miles. God hasn't seen fit to cripple me yet so I'm grateful I can do it. (But the day's not yet over.)
Note from 10:00 pm. - One of my twins text messaged me a Happy Father's Day, and that she still loves me. Thanks God, I'm two for three.
Two days ago I received two, rambling, hate filled, dramatic, long (really long) diatribes by text message from my 18 - year old twins' Mother that I was to under no circumstances contact them because my contacting them was annoying and unappreciated and I was Mr. Horrible and if I loved them I would have blah, blah, blah....(She even forbade me to contact my youngest daughter who was visiting her sisters...who is not even her daughter.)
I have tried to repair that relationship every way I can, but in their world love equals money. Sad, really. But I know I have a part in this and I own it. However, I refuse to be the brunt of all their problems.
(Every few years she feels she needs to remind me of my failings in case I've forgotten. I don't know who left her in charge of that - but I thank her for her input.)
It takes two to destroy a marriage and she definitely played a part in that. But it's not about her. It's about me and my reactions.
I am powerless over people, places and things, and I will always keep my heart and door open for the girls if they ever wish to have a relationship with me. And I pray for the Drama filled Mama, and may she go to heaven...within the next fifteen minutes would be great.
I did receive a text from my youngest wishing me a Happy Father's Day.
And so it was.
So I'm one for three.
I went to a meeting this morning (the topic being restraint of pen and tongue- for the love of God) and afterward waited over an hour for a bus. None came. So I walked about five miles. God hasn't seen fit to cripple me yet so I'm grateful I can do it. (But the day's not yet over.)
Note from 10:00 pm. - One of my twins text messaged me a Happy Father's Day, and that she still loves me. Thanks God, I'm two for three.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Letting go...
The trip was great. Being with my wonderful, funny girls was the best day I have had in a very long time. It was enough to get me through whatever difficulties I have coming.
To change subjects and to get to the title of this post-I am letting go of an old idea, for now. Comedy, or more importantly, performing standup.
Yes, I love doing it, and yes I can do it clean and sober, but I find I am as addicted to applause as I am a bag of "white widow" and a six pack of bass ale. It also feeds my already strained ego and fuels the grandiose delusions that have permeated my 49 years.
That is not to say I will never do it again, who knows? However the path I am on at the moment, which is rebuilding a life-one day at a time, one moment in time, appears not to include that.
More later...
To change subjects and to get to the title of this post-I am letting go of an old idea, for now. Comedy, or more importantly, performing standup.
Yes, I love doing it, and yes I can do it clean and sober, but I find I am as addicted to applause as I am a bag of "white widow" and a six pack of bass ale. It also feeds my already strained ego and fuels the grandiose delusions that have permeated my 49 years.
That is not to say I will never do it again, who knows? However the path I am on at the moment, which is rebuilding a life-one day at a time, one moment in time, appears not to include that.
More later...
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Obsess much...
That was the me that used to be. Not that I have given it up completely, but obsessing on things outside of my control is horribly counter productive. But it takes practice... laying down the obsession and morbid thinking (that being the worst case, and I mean worse, that my addled mind can create.)
For instance, I have been accepted into Oxford house, a sober living house for men, however, I don't have the money together to move in.
That will take me about two weeks...if someone else applies and has the money...well, to the victor goes the spoils. But there is nothing I can do about that, I have done everything I could... and now the tricky part.
Leaving the results up to God. That faceless, formless power that I absolutely have to rely on when my best is all I can do.
Sure, one day at a time applies, and I have to focus on that instead of two weeks from now, because if I don't I'm peeing down my leg thinking it's raining. Meaning I lose focus on the Now, and where I truly am, and reality takes a backseat.
So today is all I have - as usual.
God also granted me a gift today. I was able to borrow my sponsors car so I can take my twins to Central Texas to see their little sister, before her tenth birthday. For once I haven't disappointed them.
Just me and my angels...
Thank you God.
For instance, I have been accepted into Oxford house, a sober living house for men, however, I don't have the money together to move in.
That will take me about two weeks...if someone else applies and has the money...well, to the victor goes the spoils. But there is nothing I can do about that, I have done everything I could... and now the tricky part.
Leaving the results up to God. That faceless, formless power that I absolutely have to rely on when my best is all I can do.
Sure, one day at a time applies, and I have to focus on that instead of two weeks from now, because if I don't I'm peeing down my leg thinking it's raining. Meaning I lose focus on the Now, and where I truly am, and reality takes a backseat.
So today is all I have - as usual.
God also granted me a gift today. I was able to borrow my sponsors car so I can take my twins to Central Texas to see their little sister, before her tenth birthday. For once I haven't disappointed them.
Just me and my angels...
Thank you God.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Changing my o's to e's...
Let us look at the following statements, one's that up until recently were everyday occurrences: I've got to get up because I've got to go to work. I've got to go to a meeting because I've got to help others. Seem pretty average? They are. They also are the seeds for resentment.
If I change the two simple letters within those statements they appear as the following: I get to get up because I get to go to work. I get to go to a meeting because I get to help others. These statements while similar couldn't be more different than the one's above. They are the seeds of gratitude, a state in which I need to stay.
Resentment never hurts the other party...but will eat my lunch with a spoon. I heard a great definition for a resentment, stated by a woman far wiser than I...
A resentment is like setting yourself on fire hoping the other person dies of smoke inhalation.
Cough...
If I change the two simple letters within those statements they appear as the following: I get to get up because I get to go to work. I get to go to a meeting because I get to help others. These statements while similar couldn't be more different than the one's above. They are the seeds of gratitude, a state in which I need to stay.
Resentment never hurts the other party...but will eat my lunch with a spoon. I heard a great definition for a resentment, stated by a woman far wiser than I...
A resentment is like setting yourself on fire hoping the other person dies of smoke inhalation.
Cough...
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