Category: Uncategorized

Dear October,

You suck and I won’t miss you.

Bitterly yours,
Ian

I don’t know what’s going on with me. I’ve been off-kilter for the last two days. Thursday was a good day. Friday was not. Today was not. I’m supposed to come up with songs to sing tomorrow morning for church and I can’t. I don’t even know if I should be writing this because I’m supposed to have it all together. But no. That’s a lie. Someone who means a lot to me helped me figure that out. I don’t have to have it all together. But then I think of all those guidelines in Paul’s letters concerning leaders in the church and I have to remember that “avoiding the appearance of evil” is different from “never having struggles and always being happy.” Those were the people I couldn’t stand in church. I understand them, now. I judged them for a while, but this didn’t make me happier or better or anything, so I’m trying to stop. We all have reasons for doing things and often they don’t make rational sense. I don’t make sense.
I feel like I’m living the seventh chapter of Romans constantly. How far along was Paul into his ministry when he wrote that? That should be an encouragement to me, right? Here’s one of the most influential people of all time, and watch as he pens this chapter of brokenness. Wretched man that I am!
Ok.
I know what I have to do. My stomach churns to repeat platitudes, but I just have to do the next right thing. My dad and I had a discussion a few weeks ago in which he told me of this person who decided that every five minutes or so, he was going to ask himself the question, “Am I doing what is pleasing to God right now?” or some variation. I always know the answer to this question, and asking it as often as I do has been changing me.
But then there are days when I totally forget about all of it, when I start looking at the world longingly – the world in the Biblical sense – and when I come to I’m just so disgusted with myself. How can these things still be in my heart? WHY are they still in my heart? Yes, yes I know I’m still sinful and I won’t be perfect until That Day.
O Lord, hasten.
But that doesn’t change David’s sentiment that I resonate with so deeply: my sin is ever before me. And I know it’s not before God – Well may the accuser roar of wrongs that I have done / I know them all and thousands more, JEHOVAH FINDETH NONE. Ian, you’re forgiven. Ian, you’re forgiven. Ian, relax. Take the advice you so willingly give to everyone else. Take the next right step.
I’m keeping myself from including swear words in this post, and I’m not sure why. I’m starting to think they’re a bit… stumbly? is that the word? unnecessary? But they convey such emotion, and emotion is what I’m feeling right now. But I’ve gotten careless over the years and overused them, so I’m taking a break. I just don’t know why they’re called “swear” words. They aren’t swears. It’s not what the Bible is talking about when it says don’t swear. I mean, there are a few of them that can be classified as unwholesome talk, I think, but only when they’re actually taken literally, or used literally, and you know of which I speak…
Deep breath.
I also don’t know how great an idea it is to be airing all this online.
And here’s the other thing. I’m really tired of trying to sound smart all the time. I mean, some of what I write is written the way I actually speak, but other times – this is embarrassing – other times I’m getting on thesaurus.com and looking up words that sound smarter. I should be fair to myself: sometimes I’m also on thesaurus.com looking up words that make more sense than the ones I’ve used. I just mean that I read over what I’ve written from time to time and it sounds like I’m trying too hard. So, from time to time, I write things like this, where I don’t let my fingers stop moving across the keys. I write and write and write and let it come because I’m tired of trying to sound smart. I’m tired of trying to BE smart.
Why do I want so badly to be smart? to be intellectual? I don’t know! I really don’t. Most likely it’s an identity thing. Ian has to be this, this, and this, or Ian isn’t ok. And one of those thises is brilliant. But here it is, folks: most of the time, I’m not. I’m not smart at all. Believe me, I understand the difference between wisdom and intellect. And as far as intellect goes, I think I’m average. There it is. I’m average. I’m not that great. (I’m saying this for my benefit. I know you don’t need convincing.) I do things like spell out “et cetera” because… just because. Actually, no. I’m going to tell you why I spell out “et cetera.” It’s because I’m tired of hearing people pronounce it incorrectly – ecksetera. Just like Nick hates it when people say things like, “went missing.” Well, it’s not just like that, because “went missing” is nonsensical and “ecksetera” is just wrong.
And wisdom… let’s not go there, except to say that I desire wisdom these days far more than I desire intellect.
You can get wit dis, or you can get wit dat. I love that commercial.
Ok. I’m done.

P.S. That last bit was not a plea for affirmation, and if you comment on this with statements like “Oh Ian, but you are smart,” I’ll probably feel sick. Sorry if that’s rude. This funk I’m in will probably last until tomorrow morning, and then I’ll look back on this and think, “Wow, Ian. Get a grip.” So, apologies, et cetera.

(Boosh.)

This is why.

Does anyone else feel drawn to wallowing in despair?
I do.
In fact, it’s more difficult for me to choose happiness a lot of times, which is ridiculous when I look at it on paper. I would rather sit in the muck, and I don’t know why. I mean, let’s be logical for a little bit: I prefer the feeling of being happy/content so I should do things that make me happy/content. And I mean really, deeply happy, not temporal fixes like drugs, alcohol abuse, et cetera. So why don’t I do those things that contribute to lasting joy? Why does it sometimes feel like I’m drawn to pain in the same way I was drawn to heroin – with what seems to be no choice in the matter?
Sometimes I just want to be done, to go home. I look at kids and I understand what all the adults used to say to me when I was a kid – You’re gonna miss it! Enjoy your youth now! – because I don’t want responsibility most of the time.
But now is where it really matters. Now the rubber meets the road, so to speak. Three jobs, a leadership position at my church, rent, a cell phone bill I’m paying myself for the first time (man I’m a spoiled brat), saving money for a car. And on top of that weight, there were certain things I thought I’d have or get back at this point that I don’t have and haven’t gotten back.
Welcome to life, huh?
I’m getting there.
Here’s what I think is going on: When I was first getting sober, everything hurt. I couldn’t cope with anything, because my coping mechanism was drugs. Period. But things gradually got more bearable, felt less like my whole being was an open and bleeding wound. And just so – slowly but surely and by God’s grace alone – I made it through the program at Wayside. Now, I have a new set of issues – that list from before about rent, etc. – and if I’m smart, I’ll look back on how I got through eight weeks at Teen Challenge Chicago and then six months at Wayside, and I’ll trust my Jesus whose strength is made perfect in my weakness, and I’ll keep limping after him.
It’s just that the first few weeks getting into the swing of things is so hard. That’s always been my problem. Take school for instance: Before the semester started, I’d be all pumped, and then a few weeks later, reality would set in, and I’d freeze up and fail all my classes.
I’m at that freezing point right now, and, knowing me, it’ll last for the next few weeks at least. Then, the wounds will begin to heal and the lies I kinda believe right now about how I can’t really do this will no longer have ground to stand on, and, always looking to Christ, I’ll start to feel okay about life.

I’m done.

If I drink more than one normal-sized cup of coffee – or if I drink that normal-sized cup too quickly – my heart beats fast and my lungs decide they haven’t had enough oxygen, which revives a long-held suspicion that, should I err in the slightest, my world will spiral irrevocably into chaos.

Just so the two of you who read this (Hi Mom! Hi Dad!) know, I’m considering changing the name of this blog. If you’ve read Donald Miller, you’ll have realized Red Like Tango is a parody of Blue Like Jazz. I thought it clever at the time – and still kind of do – but I’m in a different place in life, nowadays, and have decided on a new direction for this blog, namely, a journal of a recovering addict. Not sure how many blogs out there cover the topic (haven’t looked), but I figure I’ll add my voice to the list. Haven’t decided on a name, yet. Suggestions?

The program I’m in right now is a part of Wayside Cross Ministries in Aurora, Illinois, named Master’s Touch. It’s a men’s residential program which has been around for eighty-two years, I think. It’s twenty-four weeks in duration, after which there are options for staying on for an extended amount of time. It’s a really great program.

No place is perfect, though. The buildings we live and work in have to be fifty years old or more. There are two dorms, the third and fourth floors. The third floor packs fifty-seven men together, the fourth, thirty-eight. There are few modern amenities – air conditioning, for instance, is available for those who’d like to sleep on the floor in the chapel downstairs – but we have the necessities (three squares a day, a mattress and pillow with the accompanying linen, indoor plumbing) and that’s more than most the world can say.

It gets pretty hot on the fourth floor, which is where I sleep. It also gets… malodorous… what with thirty-eight sweating men, some of whom haven’t learned the finer points of hygiene. Like showering. (I wish I wasn’t serious, but I’ve witnessed some of them using a sink and a rag for their daily routine. Lord, have mercy.)

The staff isn’t perfect, but this does not phase me as it once might have. Why it is that so many come in the doors expecting everyone but themselves to be perfect – especially those in authority over them – baffles me. Or perhaps they are blind and believe they are, indeed, perfect. Not so baffling, when put in those terms, because I’ve been guilty of the same over and over again. Daily, in fact. I’m always getting angry at someone for doing something wrong or not being who I want them to be, and then God – sometimes gently, sometimes not – shows me the hundred ways I’ve not hit the mark that day.

Anyway, every once in a while, I kind of snap to, and I observe my surroundings. This happened yesterday. I was thinking about all the less-than-pleasing parts of being at Wayside, and it occurred to me that, despite all of them, I’m sober, and have been for almost five months (woohoo!). Then, it occurred to me that the exorbitantly expensive Hazelden didn’t keep me sober. Nor did Calvary Center in Phoenix. Okay, don’t hear me saying they’re bad places. They aren’t. Also, don’t hear me saying Wayside is keeping me sober. It isn’t. But Hazelden and Calvary lack the foundation I’ve found here at Wayside, namely, a solid theology. A “god of my understanding” doesn’t do it for me. In fact, it was detrimental.

Jesus means everything to my sobriety, and, for that matter, my sanity. If I’m just going to create a god out of a tree or a rock, as a counselor at Hazelden and some in AA told me to do, I’m going to struggle – did struggle – with applying any sort of logic. How did that rock reach into my life and bring me out of my addiction to heroin? How is that tree going to fill the void in my soul? Addicts and alcoholics are really comfortable talking about that void, but they get mad when I tell them an inanimate object probably won’t fill it. As my grandpa would say, Cada loco con su tema!

My God makes sense. Indeed, the Christian religion, as founded on the Bible, is the only belief system that makes sense of all this terrible stuff that keeps happening in and around me. I was told the higher-ups in AA added that line “of my own understanding” so they wouldn’t offend people, because God knows addicts and alcoholics are in a vulnerable spot. Please. Everyone’s in a vulnerable spot. Maybe we need to have our ideas about God and the universe and everything challenged. Maybe the logic we’ve employed – especially as addicts and alcoholics – isn’t the best logic in the world, it having gotten us into rehab at best, or sleeping in some gutter, at worst.

I’m glad I’m at Wayside, with its many failings. Coming up against these (relatively) difficult situations has made me a better person. And that makes me happy.

I have great news! I haven’t smoked a cigarette since Sunday evening. That’s a solid 96 hours.

I feel good about it. When I quit before, at Teen Challenge, it was forced. Now, at Wayside, it isn’t. I’d been smoking for ten weeks – that is, from the very second I left TC. Ten sounded like a nice, round number to me. More accurately, I’d been smoking for six years – that is, from the day I turned eighteen. (That’s right, I just had a burfday.) Six sounded like a nice, round number to me.

My parents came for my birthday weekend, and the plan was to smoke my last cigarette the day before my birthday – last Friday. Well… that didn’t work out. I didn’t smoke through my whole pack by Friday night, and I hadn’t the strength to simply toss the rest. Yes. I’m ridiculous. So I smoked the rest on Saturday. Sunday, when my parents and I were coming back from our short trip to Wisconsin, I fell further into compulsion and bought another pack at a gas station. I’d recently become a huge fan of Newports, and am even now lamenting how late in the game I discovered them. Anyway, I wasn’t doing well.

We got back to the west suburbs around one in the afternoon, just in time for the Argentina vs. Mexico game. Viva Argentina! At halftime, I stepped onto the porch to smoke because I was feeling anxious, and it didn’t help. Actually, I felt more anxious. This had been occurring a lot over the last few weeks. Cigarettes used to calm me down, but they weren’t doing the trick any more. They weren’t really good for anything except for that wonderful Newport taste – and, of course, the poetic aura to which I’ve become so attached over the years. What vanity!

My parents took me to see a movie after the game, and I had a post-movie cigarette, just like all the other times I’ve watched movies in the past six years. There it was again: anxiety. And this time, there hadn’t been any anxiety preceding the cigarette, so I knew I was in trouble. Or at least my habit was.

I got into the car with Mom and Dad, and told them what was going on, except I wasn’t super clear about it. “I think I’ve become really susceptible to caffeine. Even the smallest amounts make me crazy.”
“It could be that,” said Dad. “The nicotine probably isn’t helping, either.” Saw right through me.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, nicotine is an upper, don’t you know.”
“Whaaat?”
“Well, yes!” With feeling now. “The reason most people feel they are calmed is that they’re satisfying their addiction, which has made them nervous. Meth to a meth addict is calming. To anyone else, it’s crazy-making.”
We pulled into the bar-and-grill at which we’d decided to eat. An undertrained young man sat us, sped through his welcome, and darted away. I’d planned on pushing my almost-new pack of cigarettes off on him, but he was too quick for me. My parents and I continued our conversation.
Ahah! There he is again. “Excuse me, sir?” Didn’t hear me. “Sir!” He turned. “Do you smoke cigarettes?”
“Cigarettes? No.” That’s code in the world of pot-smokers for “I smoke pot.”
“Well, does anyone you work with in there” – I pointed into the restaurant because we were sitting on the patio – “smoke?”
“You just wanna give me this pack of cigarettes?”
“Yes.”
“O..kay?”
Pack of Newport cigarettes – and Bic lighter – gone.
“Why didn’t you just trash them?” asked Dad.
“It… didn’t feel right.”

My writings are postmodern. Therein lies my frustration with them.

Thanks for the pointer, Papito.