Addiction. A scapegoat or a disease.

When I first heard someone say, "My addiction caused me to do this," as a die-hard cynic, my first thought wasn't "poor guy." Or even "poor girl." It was, "wait - what? Is that right? It sounds like they're using addiction as an excuse." I'm not the devil for thinking this. Super slippery slope though.

Sure enough,
I heard it again.

Later, I heard it again. 

Each time I heard it, the phrases "my addiction caused me to do this," or "while I was in my addiction..." sounded exactly like that person who said it didn't know the difference between alcohol addiction and alcohol abuse. "My addiction caused me to do this," sounded exactly like the phrase was being used as a tool to get them off the hook instead of holding themselves responsible.

Now - and I'm convinced of this - because we do this all the time, ya know, blame the food for our weight problems, "My addiction caused me to do this," is so easily used as a crutch for poor choices.

For some people "my addiction caused me to do this," is real and their addiction did/does mess with them while using and their addiction drives them TO use and continue the damage to themselves, their relationships and, uh, most of all, their self-worth.

But for some of us, "my addiction caused me to do this," is simply not the case. We just overdrank again and again and again. We made horrible choices again, and again, and again. And we must keep one thing super-clear:

There is a difference between alcohol abuse and alcohol addiction. 

The difference is big and sensitive. Choices you make when you're not drinking HAVE to be considered. 

If you have ever skipped classes, skipped meetings, called in sick, canceled or rescheduled an appt, or blacked out because you drank too much the night before -- I don't believe it makes you an alcoholic. But it do think it's abusive.

If you should have skipped class, skipped meetings, called in sick, rescheduled appointments or blacked out because you drank too much the night before -- I don't believe it makes you an alcoholic. But I do think it's abusive.

If you've ever lied about how much you drank, or woke up worrying about what you said or what you did because you drank too much the night before -- I don't believe it makes you an alcoholic. But I do think it's abusive.

You don't have to have a million regrets to want to stop drinking, or accidentally get someone pregnant, or accidentally get pregnant, or test yourself for 30 days to justify wanting to stop drinking. 

You definitely don't have to be labeled an alcoholic because you want to stop drinking.

All you have to do is have the awareness that you want to stop for any bleeping reason and that is good enough.

EP. 2 [3 min read]

Use me for example. I don't like the way alcohol affects me. That's on me.

I don't like the way I feel after drinking and I'm not talking hangovers, folks, I'm talking about regret. I'm talking about shame. I'm talking about embarrassment. That too, is on me.

Maybe you can relate. If you can, there's good news and there's bad news. The good news is that having those feelings don't automatically make you an alcoholic and today you can take a step towards feeling better about yourself. Today. Hell, tonight even.

The bad news is, if you are relating to me in any way about alcohol, or, oh for cryin out loud, any drug, don't you dare let yourself off the hook just because I said you're not automatically an alcoholic. Because if you are relating to me the bad news is -- you might be. Letting yourself off the hook would make you naive to the fact that alcohol abuse can lead to alcoholism. Has lead to alcoholism. And for many people will lead to alcoholism.

There are so many people in the world like me. Who abused or are abusing alcohol. But hear this next thing: Abusing alcohol doesn't automatically make you an alcoholic either. 

Stupid, maybe. 
Immature, maybe.
Unsafe, maybe. 
Irresponsible, for sure. 

Dangerous, yes.

For 20 years I let people call me an alcoholic. Because I wasn't sure that I wasn't.

Maybe, just maybe, hold-on to your pants now, but maybe I simply couldn't control the booze. Did anyone ever think of that? 

Why, with alcohol, does that inability have to be a major alcohol-addiction-recovery scenario? It's a drug. It does still effect 100% of everyone, 100% of the time. 

For conversation, hear me out -- this drug (alcohol)effects me in a way I can't handle. Now that I choose not to drink it and live a different lifestyle - can't that just make me sober? I'm a non-drinker because now I am aware of how alcohol effects me and it's on me to make better choices about it. FINALLY, Awareness!

Celebrate that! 

Why do we make people feel like there is something wrong with them because they can't control themselves under the influence? It's not right. 

Addiction is not just the end result of however much alcohol you swallow, or even how often (but it's for sure debatable). Addiction also includes how you behave and your choices while NOT using. 

If you say it doesn't, you're lying.

Yes you are. 

A COMATOSE GROOM

Divorced by some 10 years, here's my beef still:

Her maiden name is Johnson, but the last name on her drivers license was Masera - which was her previously married name before her and I were married, you follow so far?

For some reason she preferred to keep her old married last name - Masera, over her new married last name - Groess, or even her maiden name – Johnson. She always said something about, "Masera sounding cooler," but it never made sense to me - and I'd bet from a Diddle Eyed Joe to a Damned if I know that it still says Masera right now.

So, for the three scandalous years we dated, plus the two embarrassing years we were married, the name on her driver’s license remained her old married last name - Masera. Ugh. 

Maybe, after her first divorce, if she would have at least changed her last name back to Johnson, I wouldn't have always thought she was holding on to him. There's nothing wrong with wanting a cool sounding last name, except, when it isn't that cool - or her last name anymore. There was no reason to refuse changing it – no kids, no professional identity, and certainly no more marriage, ha. Dating, I didn't pay any mind to it okay I did but I didn't let it get to me because we weren't married and I assumed she'd changed it after we were married, but, married, it always rubbed me wrong that she said she would change it while having no intention of taking my last name. 

Obviously you’ll have to take my word on this.

Maybe this is no big deal. Maybe I'm being a baby about it. 


Nah, that ain't it.


Refusing to change her last name from the old, diseased first marriage to a cooler, better looking, younger, darker skinned, medium built and newer last name would have been easier for me to handle if there were some anthem behind it like if she were trying to distance herself from her immediate family, BING - there's an idea - or if she were some type of million dollar Sales Exec hold your laughter who had million dollar customers that only knew her by Masera and to change that name would disrupt her million dollar career just enough to potentially lose millions of dollars in business, which is to lose salary, which is to lose standard of living, which is to lose lifestyle and if I remember correctly, which I’m pretty damn sure I do, none of those scenarios were a reality - so refusing to change last names sends the message that there’s something else. Possibly something else still stirring? Did you follow that last paragraph? Go ahead, read it again.

And again, you’ll have to take my word on this. 

I was mistaken for Mr. Masera for almost two years. Identity dead, right? Maybe, maybe not. During my run as Mr. Masera I took the beating of my life and was put in a coma that I'd gladly lie in for almost two years. But when I woke up, ...I had what we problem drinkers call, A Moment of Clarity. I had a moment that slapped me in the face and woke me the hell up.

None of the coma stuff is literal, of course, I was never in a coma but I did have a moment of clarity when her sister's husband and I ended up throwing each other against the garage walls and someone 
body-slamming someone else onto the hood of a car denting the hood for life and causing sister's husband to miss an entire week of work. But prior to that, as Mr. and Mrs. Masera, and not Mr. and Mrs. Groess, I decided the best course of action, till I get my bearings, was to play possum. 

...you know, eleven years ago, when we lived together in the Hollywood suburb of Burbank, Ca, and I sang, "Your Song" from the movie Moulin Rouge, into your ear right before that waitress brought us dinner and you cried and kissed me - if I had to make a list of impossible things that could never happen - You performing a coup-de-grace on my feelings by getting pregnant by some other guy - while married to me - would be right at the top of the list. I'd've been wrong, wouldn't I?

There are consequences to choices like that.

RISK (PART 2)

"This is stupid."  ..and then I take another puff.

"Why do I even - it's gonna kill me one day," and that is what sparks the thought of my still alive Father.

Alzheimer's will get him, lifestyle change or not, it will get him. 

If you and I were eating lunch with him I don't think you would notice. I barely do, but dad has Alzheimer's. 

It's not down the road or around the corner. It's kicked open the door, rearranged the furniture, and jumped in bed with him.

I had no intentions of writing about this moment between me and my dad, until I felt the nudge to write about risk - which is nothing more than a challenge to leave my own comfort zone in the face of someone else's needs, or saying something nice to someone that I wouldn't normally think I'd need to say something nice to. This moment with my dad has been holding the gun to my head. There was nothing good enough on the net to forward, or share, but to ignore it would be an epic fail. Almost as epic as that epically stupid phrase.

The other reason I haven't written about this is because I've officially been praying on how to share the work of God with actual moments of my life when He shows up for us but for whatever reason - we never acknowledge it. For whatever reason. This might be it - I don't know.

Last summer my dad phoned me to help set his irrigation system. A million dads have probably phoned a million sons to help do that, but my dad takes pride in his lawn and has sometimes pompously noticed the difference between his irrigation-assisted lawn compared to my water-hose-handicapped lawn. But this time he said he was getting confused with the switches and the time options, "I'm just getting confused with the, ah, switches, and all the, oooooh, what are they called, the time options." Mom says the last three stints he's has had trouble getting it done, "Your Ma, she doesn't know." This was my moment, my chance at redemption for all the yard digs over the last four years and I wanted to torture him with, "sorry, bud, can't help ya with that," and, "what? what's that, you need my help?? Say it - SAY IT!!", but I couldn't pull the rip-cord. I could only mutter three measly words - "no worries, dad, I'll be right there," fine, seven.

Dad has Alzheimer's, and while I know full well that my dad can set his irrigation clock blind-folded and in the dark better than any TruGreen Chemlawn staff member, but never better than me, I also knew the disease was the cause of his fumbling. It was the first noticeable bout of Alz that I was going to witness.

On the drive to his house I held my own dry run: "'It's no big deal dad,' and then don't make a big deal out of it. Eye contact will make it emotional. Keep your eyes on the timer. Don't make it uncomfortable." That's all that would be needed.

Within minutes we're in the garage and he's holding the timer, stubbornly unwilling to hand it over, going over what each switch does and what every arrow means. I already know what they mean because I've done this before and because I can read, but I let him ramble. Suddenly, he trips up. I catch it right away and remind myself to stay calm. He stutters, which is new to me, until he can figure it out in his head and when he feels like it's been too long he hands the timer over to me, and irritated, tells me to try, "...here, try."

I gently touch the timer making a point of not pulling it away from him until he has completely let it go with his hand. When he does, I pull it close and start setting the times of each zone. I go down to one knee and dad sits down on the foot-stool behind me. Lord knows what's going through his head.

After a moment, I hear faint whimpering, like a boy trying not to cry in front of his dad. Then I hear a sniff and a throat-clear which is the family tell at the poker table. The confirmation that my dad is crying. What do you do?

My mind raced. Alzheimers, breathing and at work just behind me, and I don't know what to do or say to my own dad.

"Set the timer," I repeat. It's easier to keep him behind me it's easier to let him cry give him space allow him that moment to mourn the loss of a small tiny little moment in Alz, it's harder to look but suddenly, against all instincts, I set the timer down and I turn to my dad, who, yeah, was crying, and I look at him and my mind goes blank but I'm looking at him and thinking thinking thinking what the hell do I say and then I blurted out:

"It's okay, dad."

Through tears and a lumped throat, he whispered back, "No, it's not - it's not okay."

My mind is racing and panicked with shaking knees, and I don't have any words and want to turn away.

"Dad, it is okay. This is part of it. We know this is what happens."

With the same hands that picked me up barely more than 40-years earlier, he covers his face and I notice his cuticles and the new wrinkles on the back of his hands and that his wedding ring is a lot tighter than probably the day that he put it on which I'll let go for now, the man is crying, but I'll return to it.

The only difference at this moment between me and dad is who is and who isn't trying to prove they're okay.

"I'm not ashamed of you, dad. I love you. I love you, dad," tears gushing down my face and my top lip in a convulsive fit that I have zero control over. I intentionally put my hand on the back of his neck and rub his head, "I don't think you're stupid. You don't embarrass me. I've seen you set this timer for 10 years, I know you can do it and I understand why you can't."

I said that. Bleeping-Amazing.

That's God showing up and getting to work if you let Him.

RISK (PART 1)

I'M IN A BIG TIME RUSH.

Saturdays I have to be to work by 11AM but I like to stay home so long that I'm almost intentionally late and relying on the fact that I can drive faster than anyone else.

I DASH OUT THE FRONT DOOR CHECKING MY WATCH.

I jump in the car.
Stick keys in ignition.
Pull seat belt over my lap.
Look over my shoulder.
Hit the gas, pull away from the curb, and at the last possible moment, noticed the gas was on E.

(WIFE!!!)

I had about thirty seconds to hit a gas station and fill up.

While filling up I'm totally multi-tasking:  calculating in my head how much cash I'll have left over for a coffee or a muffin vs how much time I have left to get to work.

I walk thru the doors and the line was eight-people-deep. I'm stuck waiting. Adding and subtracting the miles vs the minutes. It never ends up being accurate.

Seven people left. Six people. Five.

And the line stops. For this man trying to buy three donuts, a bag of chips probably for later, and a Monster, not an actual monster but a monster energy drink with cash, and it's taking forever.

I start watching because the longer it takes the more I want to see, and the more I watch the more it looks like he has cash and his card on the counter.

This man in line, he already has a mouthful of doughnut and the rest of his stuff is laid out on the counter for the clerk. While they talk he starts feeling around for pockets. Back pockets, then the front pockets of his shorts as if he misplaced his keys or something and I'm thinking he's looking for more money. The clerk swipes his card, "...no, Sir, it's not going through."

Poor guy.

I've been in his shoes. It's really embarrassing.

I have cash and I'm even gonna have some left over. I have money in my account. Not a lot,but enough to buy this man his doughnuts, chips, and energy drink.  

He looks around, like he's stalling until someone in line will bail him out.

None of us do.

My eyes follow him as he walks out. I notice his dirty t-shirt, droopy basketball shorts, and he's wearing nothing on his feet. Barefoot and dirty at 10:15 in the morning. “Too bad I’m stuck in this line,” I thought to myself. “If only I had been behind him, I’d give him a few dollars, but…”

I keep watching him and in a blink I'm next in line. Almost out of here so I can let this situation be forgotten.
I pay.
I get four dollars and change back.
I walk out the door and he's all the way across the parking lot. Against my own comfort, I glance his direction - a random car has pulled up next to him. The traffic drowns out any chance of hearing what the driver is saying, but their hand extends out the window squeezing the middle of a stack of dollar bills. Maybe they're five-dollar bills, maybe they're ten-dollar bills, who knows, but he takes them and nods in thanks.

I hate myself.

SO disappointed in myself.

I’m a decent guy, but do you know what it takes to be a better person? I don’t know either but here's my guess: insight, foresight, discipline, sacrifice, willingness, guts, and the most problematic for me would be the willingness to risk… anything. ANYTHING. My pride, my vulnerability, my emotions, my wallet.

Chance encounter? No way. 

I felt Your nudge to help but I chose to do nothing? I didn't help this man because I was afraid to make the first move. Afraid of being a fool in front of other strangers instead of being the man You want me to be in front of You.

You asked me to take a risk. I know because this isn't the first time I've been in this spot --

I can feel it, and I'm legitimately scared because I don't know how to get them to see you through me.

BUT WHAT I HEARD INSTEAD WAS THE CLOSING OF THE BASEMENT DOOR

Sunday, June 2 2013

Lils,

Quick backstory: we had a bunch of rain. 2 or 3 days. The basement flooded, 2” standing water all around the walls and floor, blah blah blah... turned out that we (when I say we, I really mean, I) needed to rip everything off the wall - framing, planks, insulation, jerry-rigged waterproofing, the whole 9.

For 2 seconds during that afternoon, mom and I were downstairs together evaluating (big word) the standing water while you were upstairs waiting for us to come back. You walked to the downstairs doorway and we asked you to “stay there, honey. Don’t come down.” Which you did, thanks for listening by the way. I fully expected to hear the pitter-patter of your little feet running through the kitchen, into the dining room, and right into the living room which is where the pitter-patter stops because of the carpet floor.

But, what I heard instead is the closing of the basement door.

Mom and I didn’t think anything of it at first. We thought you just closed the door. That seems sort-of funny but not beyond a 2-year old’s ability. So it didn’t cross my mind. Matter of fact, I thought it was me. When we tried to open the door, I thought I mis-turned the knob and so I did it again. Then I did it again, not giving you any real possible chance. I did it again, and even again.

Finally mom said, “she locked the door.”

We started laughing. Oh, we were laughing. We got it on video and you have to watch it. It’s a classic. I kept asking you to unlock it and you kept replying, “I can’t.” “I can’t do it, daddy.”

Mom and I laughed the entire time we were locked downstairs trying to talk you through the process of unlocking the door. I even took the door knob apart thinking that at some point the lock would have to detach, but the lock was a separate entity. It wasn’t connected to the door knob at all.... we laughed. I’m not talking a chuckle. I’m talking belly laugh, red-faced, can’t breathe laughing.

So there we are, me and mom. Standing in the dark, in the downstairs stairwell, with a hundred door knob pieces in our hands, no other way to open the door, and not having any idea how we would ever get to freedom and there you are on the other side of the door, looking at us through the peephole that used to hold the door knob with a blank stare as if we were asking you to eat your dinner.

I was reminded of Ch. 7 in Kill Bill: The lonely grave of Paula Shulz and I started tapping our side of the door for a soft spot because I was about to perform a Beatrix Kiddo through that door, but seconds before I did, mom asked if I had my phone on me? We were home in the basement so why would I have it on me? Why wouldn’t it by laying in it’s spot, between the couch cushions? But I instinctively felt my pockets and BINGO! It was there. Right front pocket.

We then called Auntie Heather to come over and she did and we got out.

You didn’t care either way. But you certainly gave it a good try to keep us down. Watch the video (CLICK HERE). It’s a classic.

Fun story. Love ya.

Dad.

** For more Lily journal stories, go to the LILYANA tab **

"THIS ISN’T HOW I WANTED TO WAKE UP."

Imagine, if you can - you haven’t had a vacation in almost four years, probably longer.

Imagine, the day comes and you go out-of-town with a couple of really close friends, and it rocks. You can relax. You can finally. breathe.

On the way out of town, you eat fast food; you drink pop; and you house an entire bag of Hint of Lime tortilla chips. It doesn’t get much better than Hint of Lime tortilla chips, so things are great!

You get there and it’s everything you pictured in your head. The days are filled with easy activity - fishing, camping, hiking, grilling and you love it. Or you just sit in the lawn chair with the shade. Doesn’t matter which.

Stay with me now.

Imagine, you just finished a long fast-paced wog, that drenched you with sweat, and you’re hungry. You’re standing at the kitchen counter in your out-of-town lodge, drinking a cool glass of water, eyeballing the cupboards for a snack.

Until recently, not even a really deep breath could help get your pants to button. So, months ago you started watching your diet - specifically sweets because your sweet tooth has gotten the best of you. Being months into this, you’re still fresh. You’re still strong. You’re still nothing less than confident because it’s a healthy lifestyle change and you’re proud of yourself. Good job.

Imagine, a donut sits there on the open counter top and it could be any kind of donut - glaze, chocolate covered, jelly, sugar, half-eaten, doesn’t matter - this donut looks GOOD.

You want it. But, no. You pass it as you walk into the next room.

But you’re on vacation!

You pass it again as you walk back from the next room.

Nobody is going to care if you eat it. You’re on vacation, you should eat it!

You haven’t had one of those in five months - over five months - and it’s probably closer to seven months if you want to be exact, so this one day won’t throw you off your lifestyle change.

Plus, you’re on vacation with your close friends, nobody back home will even know for cryin’ out loud!

Plus, your new schedule has you at the gym often enough to wash-out the donut calories even if you did eat it, no big deal.

If you think about it, you really only need to avoid sweets when you’re in the middle of the daily grind, in the midst of everyday stress that life can unleash. On this day, given the fact that you're on vacation, eating a donut is just fine! You have the right tools to fight the craving when you really need to, but not right now while you’re out-of-town. You can go back to not eating donuts when you’re back home.

So you eat it and although you fought the impulse off for a tick, you always knew in the back of your mind you’d eat it.

Sometimes we just can’t say no. It happens. Luckily, it’s just a donut.

When Raffs asked if I wanted a drink, I just couldn’t say no. It happens. Unfortunately, my battle isn’t over donuts, but now you know my thinking process. Every time.

How many reasons can I find to give myself permission to take the “donut.”

The next morning, before my eyes open, I know this isn’t how I wanted to wake up.

It seems I know I’m sick even before I know I’m awake.

Cold sweats, the after-taste of alcohol has soaked into my tongue, body aches, congested chest, gagging, fatigue, headache. The Vegas Death Plague.

I couldn’t stay sober for more than two weeks on my own.

I feel spineless, and that isn’t a hangover symptom.

I wish I would have called the sponsor that I never got because my counselors told me I had to.

“You need a sponsor, Dennis.”

“Sure thing,” I replied.

I’m stupid.

Now, I’m awake before I’m even awake, lying face-down in my pillow trying to figure out how to escape the Vegas Effect, wondering how no became yes.

I’m weak.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute.

Slow down.

Stop beating yourself up, stupid.

In the coming years, this would become a common frustration, but this was the first time. It’s true, you always remember your first. This was the first relapse, and all it took was two weeks out of my support system, an old reconnection, and Las Vegas.

I had failed, yes, and this story has been a secret of mine for years. The first chance I had to stand up on my new legs and I fell flat on my face.

Until this admission, Raffs and I are the only ones who know it happened. I’m pretty sure he has no idea how much that night impacted me. Even now, today, I’m ashamed of myself at how easily I let persuasion persuade me.

Here is my list of top five truths about that night:

1) I didn’t want to quit drinking. I still doubted that I had a problem.

2) I was terrified of being different.

3) I was afraid of what Raffs would think of the new me.

4) I was afraid of what I would think of the new me.

5) I was afraid the entire city would notice that I might be the only guy within the state lines without a drink in my hand.

6) I wasn’t strong enough to say no.

Okay, so that’s six but I could have listed a hundred.

That was a humbling experience. To wake up ashamed of myself again. Did I hurt anyone? Yes. Me. I let myself down, and that is harder to accept than hurting another.

But that time in Vegas stayed with me. Perhaps that's what it was meant to do because it was five years before I had another drink.