Today We Shall Have No Eggs

Day: 2,806

The big Six-oh is coming for me this year. Fifty-nine is fine but sixty doesn’t sit right. A five and a nine is perfectly acceptable and sounds (in the scheme of delusion) youngish.

Six-oh sounds old as it waits and percolates. For fifty-nine whole years it’s there, just at the end of the road, hanging about, checking me out like an aged mugger. Mentally I’m in my early twenties, possibly a late teenager. Probably Emo. Or I could quite well be my sobriety years – seven. Mentally, it’s all possible. Unfortunately, I must act my actual age and do stuff that appears rational and sane. I dislike doing that.

When I was drinking, I was no age at all. It was bad programming going through the motions. AI – artificially ignorant. My faulty wiring sparked and tripped. Ageless but aging, breathing but lifeless. My brain had been made redundant and had to go elsewhere. Rational thinking and cognition were inoperable and of no consequence. Bottled red grapes saw to that.

There are no downsides to recovery. There may feel like huge losses at the very beginning: more confidence after a drink, better creativity after a drink, more sociable after a drink, better lifestyle with a drink etc. All gone? No. But we all believe it to be true and cling to it at the beginning. It’s one of the reasons recovery is hard and relapse can be a Merry-go-round. All the (so-called) life enhancements above, and other delusions are a popular falsity dragged along by Dutch courage. It feels true at the time but it’s all alcoholic smoke and mirrors. The confidence, creativity and the lifestyle improve immeasurably when sober. And you don’t need to apologise afterwards.

But regret does rear its ugly head now and again. I have many. But as we know, constant hindsight can be the assassin of even the strongest sobriety. My latest regret is being on the wrong side of the aging tracks when I finally got sober

I got sober at Fifty. Now I’m almost Sixty.

Oh why didn’t I wise-up quicker, get help earlier? The amazing things I could have done with those extra, younger years.

But I didn’t. Devilish hindsight.

I have done amazing things with the years I’ve had (and have). It’s a shame I left it later in life, but that’s all it is – a shame. Tough. There’s no right or wrong time to get clean and sober. When it’s time, it’s time. Regret won’t kill me – dwelling on it might. So, I’m always wary and vigilant. But I’m not impervious to mistakes. I’m human, just like you. No better, no worse. Human.

Now, as a recovering alcoholic, my elder brain has returned like the proverbial prodigal son. It’s been doing wonders over the last seven years. But lately it seems to be glitching, corrupting and giving bad data. It’s as if it’s fighting and ridiculing me. It’s fiddling with buttons and levers that it shouldn’t for no apparent reason – just because it can.

I rarely remember my dreams, but below is a snippet of one it ‘gifted’ me last year. Don’t worry as you begin this, it’s about as erotic as straining hot vomit through an old sock. The only person who needs a trigger warning is me. Also, my brain couldn’t be bothered going the extra mile with glorious technicolour. We are in grainy, scratched black and white. Good ole monochrome. Anyway.

I’m lying in bed next to a beautiful woman. We’re naked beneath the covers. I’m in tears and apologising to her profusely. She is staring up at the ceiling, arms firmly folded over her boobs. She is obviously and absolutely mortified. The creases in her pursed lips gouge deep in utter disgust. Her jaw appears welded. After all of my pleads I beg her to say something. There’s a quiet cough. Eyes still skyward, she utters this immortal line. “Well, your chicken is definitely cluckin’ – but today we shall have no eggs,”

What the actual hell! Not so much a life-enriching reverie as rather a cruel blotch of anxiety-inducing, inferiority complex enhancing, cognitive distortion. Make of the above what you will. There are any number of ways to interpret, decipher, analyse, and decode that slice of unconscious wackery. In any of the scenarios, there are none in which I emerge with my dignity intact. But to say I woke from that dream, not exactly feeling my tip-top best, is an understatement. It still haunts me. I think we agree that something wasn’t acting in my favour.

Thanks, brain – you’re a natural wonder of biological engineering that could have transported me to any number of amazing and inspiring visualisations known to man, woman, or beast. But no; ‘today we shall have no eggs.’ Not even in colour. Anyway.

I’ve always been a drummer. A really good one! I’d dearly love to get back to it, truly. I’m as good now, if not better than I ever was. But the looming Six-oh and Brain are conspiring – switching the ears off. Deafness, a raging tinnitus and now, hearing aids. I also have possible spondylitis in my neck and spine. Everything is being fiddled with. Oh, the joys. But hey-ho! I’ve done my stint. I’m thankful for what drumming and music gave my life.

Not all bad news. Luckily, thanks to a long and extremely thorough eye test this week, all is wonderful and good in the hood! So far. So yeah, I can’t hit skins with sticks anymore (I can but I shouldn’t), but I can still read and write. Two of my longest soul-squeeze passions. I can still do long-winded recovery posts online that hardly anybody reads.

Hardly anyone reads because (a) I don’t keep up with all the ‘I want the world to read all my amazing posts’ technology that WordPress offers; or (b) I’m a shit writer. But you’re the judge of that, not me. The (a) scenario I may do something about in the near future if I think it’s worth it. The (b) scenario? Ah well.

But whether I’m read by one interested person or a million scrollers who pass me by – it’s fine by me. I enjoy the process either way. If that one interested person sees a sliver of light somewhere in my ramblings and gets the help they need, then me and my almost Six-oh brain can at least agree on one thing – we did good.

Take care and be safe, everyone. Oh, and sweet dreams (hope they’re better than mine) xx

A Lad Insane?

Day 2,450

Among the many that I cherish, there are two quotes that have always stuck in my mind. I’ve always remembered them but never fully taken them in, until now. But with the creaking grind of time, they have taken on a more saddening and darker significance in my brain. The first is by David Bowie:

“I’ve got a library that I keep the ones I really really like. I look around my library some nights and I do these terrible things to myself – I count up the books and think, how long I might have to live and think, ‘F@#%k, I can’t read two-thirds of these books.’ It overwhelms me with sadness.”

The second is by the actor who played (amongst many other roles) the original and definitive Eric Draven character from The Crow, Brandon Lee:

“Because we do not know when we die, we get to think of life as an exhaustible well. And yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon so deeply a part of your being that you cannot conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, or five times more? Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.”

I actually heard Brandon Lee saying these words in an interview in the 90s; it was one of the extra features on The Crow DVD. I remember thinking even then, they were extremely wise words for somebody so young. But when your dad is Bruce Lee, wisdom, deep thinking, and talent (and unfortunately, a mysterious and premature death) trickles through the DNA. But it wasn’t until I read his words in black and white that the sentiments resonated so much.

Reading both quotes again at 58 years old, (as Bowie with his books) overwhelms me with sadness. The deep thoughts of two extremely talented human beings whose careers in music, film, and art I followed for a big chunk of my life. Both thinking about their own mortality amidst their successful careers. Both are now gone. Bowie died of cancer at 69 years old. Lee was shot and killed by a dummy bullet during the filming of The Crow – he was only 28 years old. Life is very short.

Fun fact. Did you know that the title and lyrics of David Bowie’s song, The Jean Genie from his album Aladdin Sane, were inspired by one of his literary heroes, the novelist, poet and activist, Jean Genet? No? Now you do.

Before I read the Bowie quote, I was also guilty of working out how many of my books I could possibly read before my breath runs out. No doubt my tiny library of around 300 or so books is nothing compared to Mr Bowie. I plough through them at a rate of approximately 20 to 30 per year. That is nothing compared to other devourers of books, but it’s enough for me. If I do live to a good old age I will reach my goal, but . . .

The problem is, new or second-hand, I buy more books. I’m lessening my chances with every book haul. It could be much worse; I could be spending all my money on alcohol. The irony being that my book problem would no longer be a problem, because it wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t be able to read. I wouldn’t be able to write. You wouldn’t be reading this because it wouldn’t exist and eventually, neither would I. And the cherry to top it all off, I wouldn’t give a flying camel’s fanny about any of it.

But I don’t drink alcohol, and (airborne dromedaries genitalia aside) I do care. Hence the brain wonderings (and wanderings) on mortality. My life is far from perfect but it’s ok. At the moment it’s calm and pain-free enough to do the things I want to do. I try not to worry as much as I once did but it (like my book-grabs) is a hard habit to break. My sleeping patterns are a little haywire, but I do sleep. So, for anything to get in the way of all the things I’m now able to do; medical, financial or otherwise, worries me. I mean, I’m not naïve, it will happen, but at least give me 5 or 10 years of peace. I know it’s a stretch but . . . Please? I don’t believe in a god, so who the hell am I pleading to?

Universe! You’ll do! Give me another 5 to 10 years and I’ll hug all the trees you want and be a good boy. I’ll go vegetarian. I’ll wipe the seat after I pee. But let me do stuff in peace for a few more years. Pretty please!

As I write these words, I’m still waiting for the results of a bowel cancer test. It’s not because I have signs or symptoms, but because I’m of a certain age, I have to (voluntarily) get tested every two years. The results won’t tell me if I do or don’t have cancer. They will either say that further tests are needed, or not. Two years ago, no further tests were needed. But that was two years ago. A lot can change in 730 days.

And it has.

Within those 730 days I’ve been put on blood pressure tablets because my readings were dangerously high (in the 180s). I now have a lovely little umbilical hernia. Tinnitus screams constantly in my ears these days, making simple pleasures such as listening to music, not simple or pleasurable. The pressures in my eyes have become much higher over 730 days, happily winging their way to Glaucoma, macular degeneration, and eventual blindness. The only thing that’s improved over two years is my teeth. No alcohol or cigarettes and having to pay for private dentistry has kept the ones I have left, in pretty good condition, firmly jammed in my gums. No doubt many years of drinking, smoking and loud music have contributed to things wearing out, tearing, blocking, and snapping off. Nothing has actually snapped off, by the way – but give it time, something will.

Well, that was a bit of a Debbie Downer. Maybe I need to be a little more positive and show some gratitude.

My blood pressure is now at normal levels thanks to the medication. My hernia is tiny and painless at the moment; not significant enough to warrant surgery. But if it grows and tears through my stomach, forcing my guts plop onto the floor into a steaming, bloody mess, surgery may apparently be considered. The tinnitus is annoying and maybe badly affecting my hearing but I can still hear. Eh, what? Obviously, I’ve taken no action to get my hearing looked at, diagnosed, and possibly treated. Maybe do that eh? What? Instead of complaining. My eyes are monitored every year and my eyesight is pretty decent. I read 30 books last year without any problems so I’m not doing too bad. I have teeth in my mouth and I can eat without pain. I don’t deserve them after years of abuse, but there they are like a little enamel graveyard in my mouth. And as far as I’m aware, nothing on my body has actually snapped off. I’m pretty sure of that.

There, that sounds a little better. A bit of gratitude and positivity never hurts anyone. Unless you happen to be ungrateful and negative, then being a miserable little shit is quite normal.

I’ve actually forgotten what the point of this post was. Ah, mortality!

Universe? You ain’t off the hook! Trees/good boy/pee-free seats. Don’t forget!

Serendipity (or the universe) is bizarre. As I was writing all the above, a letter from the hospital has just (right now) been handed to me by my dad. It will be the results of my test because I’m not expecting anything else. I haven’t opened it yet. It could go either way. Here goes.

‘No further tests are needed at this time.’ Phew! Two years until the next. 730 days to do stuff. Knowing my luck, on my morning bus, the driver will have to slam his, or her brakes on and I’ll go merrily flying down the stairs from the top deck; hernia exploding, teeth smashed, my glasses slicing into my eyes as sombody’s umbrella stabs into my ear, piercing my brain. But happy thoughts, eh?

“Dear Universe. Two years grace in the space of one post ain’t too shabby. Keep that up and we’ll both be ok. Many thanks my swirly, gassy, black-hole friend. By the way, just in case; if God really did create you, please can you give me a head’s-up. I don’t want to be rooting for the wrong team and hugging trees for no reason. Cheers.

P.S. I’m not entirely sure I can forgive you for taking away David Lynch from us this month. But I’ll try.”

This post didn’t go the way I planned. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. If you spent precious time getting this far when you could have been doing something else more constructive – thanks. You did good.

Take care everyone x

The Floorboards Creak and Break

Day 2,429

Although addiction and recovery were the catalysts for this blog ever existing way back in 2018, I want to try and vary things this year and attempt to write about other things. It may or may not happen.

But today is not that day. This one was inspired by something thought-provoking that I found recently in a box at home. It got me thinking, as interesting things do. Especially when you start snooping around on yourself.

As I was tidying out some drawers last month, I found something that I’d completely forgotten about. It was a black, hardback A5 notebook from the end of February 2018. I vaguely recall writing in it, but I can definitely remember being unbearably cold. I was taking shelter in the local library to get warm. I had ridiculous amounts of clothing layers on, and a huge, thick coat. But the icy air had already gripped my bones and I couldn’t get warm. Remnants from a storm called, The Beast from the East was whipping everything around outside. This particular storm and it’s after-effects seemed to be going on forever.

I had only been out of rehab for around two months, after twelve weeks of intense, recovery-filled days there. I think I was doing some course or another at the time.

My mind was still a cocktail of excited, proud, overconfident, and terrified, which when mixed together produces its own version of brain fog. This is probably why my memory of writing in this notebook is very unclear, but I can remember the weather, what I was wearing, and the place I was defrosting myself in. It’s akin (I guess) to some form of alcoholic dementia, which of course is self-inflicted.

Anyway.

This notebook was thick with lined pages inside but unfortunately for me, only one page (both sides) was filled in. It was strange seeing my old handwriting again from that period. It was still pretty neat considering the recent past chaos of my life, and the arctic pandemonium outside the library. Apart from that one page, the only other words written are on the inside cover. It reads:

Novels, short stories, non-fiction, etc. Anything goes. Don’t stress. It’s not that important. It really isn’t.

Don’t stress. It’s not that important. It really isn’t. When it comes to writing again after so many years of being away from it, that’s actually good advice. It takes the pressure off those daunting blank pages. Perhaps the reason that the rest of the notebook was blank is because I didn’t take my own advice.

Or was it?

I did some snooping on myself in the 2018 part of my journal, in which I’ve been writing doggedly since 2005. It told me exactly why all those pages were blank. Did my pen run out? Did some part of my body freeze and snap off? Did God tell me ‘not’ to do it?

Read what was written in the notebook first, and I’ll spill what my informant (me) unearthed. I’ve copied-out the writing and kept the punctuation as it is. No changes. Good luck.

* * *

28-2-18

My finger wipes a lens into the steam on the window. The world flickers by, as it always has. In the time I’ve been away, nothing and everything has changed within the blink of an eye. The death and life game, as always, remain in constant flux. People, traffic, and coffee – wired people turn red for a second. I’ve bitten my nails too close again as I gulp at the bloody taste. The world comes to a halt as the bus doors open and the sick, malty smell of beer hits me. It’s seven-thirty in the morning, but nothing surprises me anymore. Or so I thought.

Rock-bottom.

A place you read about, look-up or hear about. Even when you think you are there and other people look down on you, and tell you to pull yourself together – the floorboards creak and break, and you fall further downwards into the darkness.

There are many levels to this rock-bottom, the hell that never ends. Some people keep falling, never to be seen again, most find a floor and crawl away, into the light like Lazarus. Rock-bottom is an open house, anyone is welcome. There are two ways to vacate your room – in a body bag or on your hands and knees. I’m not sure what level I’m on, but the floorboards are creaking again and something snaps.

* * *

There you go! Not a bad start for a bit of raw, rough, stream of conscious type scribbling. It shows a little bit of promise. Book idea? Short story? Flash fiction? Who knows! The most probable thing going on here is I was scraping the cobwebs from the inside of my creative brain to kickstart it again, to get some ideas going. Learning how to write again.

Or maybe I was planning something.

It’s such a shame I didn’t fill those empty pages. It could have led to something productive and soul-filling. But the words already written in there, did lead to something. It definitely was not soul-filling or productive. My snitching journal told me so. Here’s what it told me:

* * *

19 May 2018

I drank. I did 233 days. Was I sitting on my laurels after all? Thinking I was invincible? As of the 14th May, I’m now six days sober. Back to the drawing board. Back to rehab.

The only way I can describe it is that my head went into hell-mode, then I fell through the floorboards into Hell’s basement. Everything went black and went into chaos! But are they all excuses. Probably. When it comes down to it – I drank! Simple.

It started last Wednesday and went on until Sunday. On the Monday I woke up with every intention of carrying on drinking. But something clicked in my head and I got myself to the rehab where I was welcomed with open arms. It was hell, but at least I was in a safe place with safe people. They are letting me attend every day. I can’t write much more yet. Hopefully I’ll be here (in the journal) later. My head’s an absolute mess. But one positive – six days sober now. Rehab again tomorrow.

* * *

There you go! That was my second relapse (or lapse, as it were). It has never happened again. I hope it never will. It was the first time I had ever stopped myself. Usually, it was because I’d run out of money, my job was on the line, or some friends had swooped in. But I had never stopped myself before. It was a first. God knows where I would be now if I hadn’t.

So, I was writing completely sober in the notebook on Wednesday, February 28th 2018. I fell off the wagon on Wednesday, May 9th 2018. Just over two months gap in-between. My notebook and my journal seem to agree; the floorboards were very much creaking, and through them I fell.

And yes, it was all my fault, there were no excuses. Thankfully, the lapse only went on for four days. I had enough recovery tools in my head to stop myself and have the sense get back to rehab again.

If only I had carried on writing in those notebook pages. Maybe I could have worked things through in my head by continuing with something productive. Writing was one of the weapons I could always shoot the screaming demons down with, and carry on. Instead, after reading those words again and again, it looks as if I was planning my downfall. I mention rock-bottom three times but there are no positives to offset them. And . . . There are two ways to vacate your room – in a body bag or on your hands and knees. I’m not sure what level I’m on, but the floorboards are creaking again and something snaps. There’s a lot of self-fulfilling prophecy in there, which doesn’t help matters when you’re newly sober. Thankfully the body bag option didn’t happen. I probably frightened myself, writing words that were revealing too much of what was going on inside. No doubt I didn’t want to carry on confronting myself in black and white, not wanting to admit I was planning my own downfall.

Eventually I got back on track again: volunteer, part-time recovery worker, full-time recovery worker, learning support assistant. Not long after that lapse, I began this blog; that really helped. I read, I write, I listen to music, I do some art – I live.

It was interesting going to the 2018 part of my journal and seeing what was going on, and how it tied into that notebook. What if I went back to 2005? Now that would be interesting. That would be me, documenting my full-blown alcoholism in real-time. Maybe that could be something I could share snippets of here bit by bit? Maybe. Who knows.

Again, I often wonder what would have happened if I would have carried on writing in that old notebook.

Well. There are actually fewer blank pages now. Why? Because I’ve begun writing in it again. Novels, short stories, non-fiction, etc? Well, anything goes. I won’t stress, because as we know, it’s not that important. It really isn’t. The only thing I’ll be confronting, working out and planning this time – is my writing.

I hope you all had a great and safe Christmas. I also hope 2025 is kind to you all.

Take care everyone x

Are You Really Me?

Day 2,415

It’s been a while. Two years! That’s a hell of a long time to be away from here. A lot has happened – plenty hasn’t. But I guess the main thing, the whole reason I started all this random rambling here in the first place many moons ago, is . . .

I’m now 6 years, 7 months, and 9 days sober (I don’t count the days, I prod my trusty sober app). So, that happened. Yep, still hanging in there.

The last actual post I wrote in here (aside from the more recent book rambles) was 17th November 2022. I’ve totalled fifty-one posts in six years. Hardly prolific by any stretch of the imagination. It could have been a lot more but poof! I disappeared. So why the gap when everything seemed to be going so well here?

The honest answer is the same as always, I let life get in the way. It’s still getting in the way and it always will, but I may as well be here, in good company and write about how, when, where, and why it’s getting in the way. It’s kind of the whole point of blogging, isn’t it? I need to remember that. So why come back to WordPress, babbling into the ether again?

I missed it. Thinking, writing, creating graphics, uploading, sharing, and commenting were a big part of my life here for a while.

I would have been back much sooner but for two reasons:

1: The trusty WordPress app I was using for these posts was informing me to change to the new Jetpack app. When I was considering coming back, not only had I completely forgotten how to use the original WordPress software that I once confidently navigated in my sleep, I had to move over to another software and not know how to use that either. Of course, there were conflicts, issues, glitches, missing images, missing this–that–and–the other. Slowly, I finally got my head around everything and began finding my way around again. Things began to make sense. I’m still blindly navigating my way around, but it’s getting better.

I began reading and checking through all my old posts again. Holy shit!

2: So yeah, the old posts. That was an eye-opener. Reading through them again had me tempted to delete the whole site and begin again from scratch. To say I winced, squirmed, and cringed is a huge understatement. I didn’t recognise the person writing it. Seemingly arrogant statements began revealing themselves as I scrolled. Declarations such as ‘I never give advice on this site but . . .’ Then I give advice. Onward to the rushed and ridiculous attempts at poetry – sheesh. The recovery memes (word noodles as I called them) Jesus. The anger, the frustration, the overconfidence, the self-deprecation, all wrapped around an annoying cockiness that I was finding hard to bear as I reread it all. But I stayed away from the delete button and slept on it for a night or two.

I began to think back to who I was, where I had come from, what I had lost. The few hopes and dreams I still had, and the extremely low expectations that I could ever get (let alone stay) sober. What I was actually reading were the words of a terrified little human who was trying everything in his power to make amends with a ragged life. A person trying desperately to fight his addiction with everything he had. The (not so poetic) poetry, the self-made recovery memes, the overconfidence, and self-deprecation was all he had at the time. All in the hope that it would work out and eventually come good.

Well, it worked out!

At the time, every single word of every post was a lifesaver. I had somewhere to go in my head, something to do. They helped get me through some crisis/event or other: a minute, a day, a week, a month – birthdays, bank holidays and the very dreaded Christmas period. Blogging in here helped me. Most were written on a bus either going to, or coming back from a recovery meeting, group, or rehab. Every word at the time was important – to me. So, rereading everything in here brought me back down to earth. Instead of judging my old self, wincing and squirming in my seat, I was proud of myself.

But! Before I could even contemplate starting this all again with the aim of people reading my new posts and possibly scrolling through older ones, there was another huge hurdle to overcome. The horrific, unfathomable, and indecipherable writing needed sorting out. Wow! That isn’t me judging myself, it was awful.

You don’t need to be a literary genius to write a decent blog post, and I’m no literary gymnast. But you do, at the very least, have to make sense. You know, so people can read and understand what the hell you’re talking about. I took a big breath and began repairing, deleting, adding, rearranging, editing, and re-editing every single post, right from the very beginning. Also, many images had to be resized because they were enormous data vacuums that slowed the site down. Some were replaced. Most of the posts didn’t have a featured image, so I created new ones from scratch – I don’t know if I needed to but I enjoyed the process and carried on anyway.

I started all that in the beginning of August this year. It took some time. Right at the end of all that, when I finally finished editing the last post, my mum sadly passed away. But that’s a subject for another time – maybe. Maybe not. But I’m finally back here.

I haven’t done a total hatchet job to the old posts. In fact, if anyone who has read them before and has the energy to reread them again, the only difference I’d hope they would notice is that they are now coherent and make sense. I’ve taken many things out, but also left a lot in. I didn’t want to ruin the spirit of the original posts. Things are left in there because that’s what came out at the time (as tempting as it is to hit delete now in 2024). Me and my older self, compromised. It seems to have worked out well.

But I completely understand why the posts were chaotic at times. They were written in a cycle of excitement, hope and terror. I was taking my sobriety seriously for the first time in my life. If I had an idea for a post, it came out with enthusiastic urgency. They were written in hurried spurts, maybe checked once or twice (without really checking), a flick through my phone for a graphic and Bam! Uploaded and published online. Onto the next post or idea. I simply wanted to move forward as fast as I could with what I had at the time. Everything seemed urgent, demanding to come out there and then. It felt good, achieving something in tandem with my sobriety. Also, (as if getting sober isn’t enough), obviously I wanted to save every addict in the world because I was doing well. I had words of wisdom, and obviously every addict in the world was reading my wobbly WordPress blog of insightful genius, right? It’s a lovely, deluded thought but . . .

Yeah. Anyway. Time and tide calm most things down. Sometimes to a complete halt, poof!

So those are some of the rhymes and reasons for why I disappeared and returned, that you never asked, thought, or cared about in the first place.

But there they are and here I am, again. Sorry about that.

So, what now? Will this continue be an addiction/recovery/writing blog with some book reviews and possibly some of my fiction thrown in now and again? It’s why it all began in the first place. I guess the answer is yes, for now. Will I still be asking myself annoying, rhetorical questions throughout every post and answering them? What do you think? Yes, I think I will.

But I promise not to inflict any more poetry attempts or recovery memes on you. Feel free to sigh with relief, whoever you are.

Who are you? Maybe you are actually me, and all my old and new words are actually yours truly, sorting things out and making sense of things – talking to myself again. Possibly that is the real reason why I’m back – just another place to ramble, question, and argue with myself. I’ll take that.

But if you are actually, you and not actually me – hello! Feel free to join in, or not.

To anyone who said nice things way-back-when, regarding my old posts – thank you so much. You were very kind, and made a quaking, hopeful wreck very happy. I can’t promise a massive improvement from now on, but hopefully from 2024 onward my nonsense will make sense (if that makes sense).

I’ll be here next week with either a book review or a post. But I’ll be here, saying something about something, or other. Sorry about that.

Take care everyone xx

Time Dies When You’re Having Fun

Day 1,601.

Time, time and time again . . . recurring, until . . . End. Stop!

It feels lately as if I’m constantly drowning in a constant Tsunami of time. A raging Tinnitus of tick, tick, ticking time. A dirty bomb of spinning, jagged physics that never quite goes off.

Weekends flash by. Mondays loom like dark and imposing monoliths, constant reminders that our lives-lived have already been archived into the universal library, awaiting the next entry.

Weeks and months come around so fast. I seem to buy my weekly travel ticket, daily. In the morning I sit on the bus and wonder: how many heartbeats do I have left? How can I put the final one off for a little longer? Now that I’m being good, can I have some fun first? Am I wearing pants? These morbid and strange thoughts are still very new to me. I don’t like it, but I do. But I don’t. But I do.

I don’t like this new way of thinking because there is way too much thinking to think about at any given time to think. New thinking thoughts are hard.

But I do like this new way of thinking because now, I actually do think!

There were thirteen years when rational, cognitive thought processes were as rare as rocking-horse crap. Time stood still. A swirling black hole of constant nothing.

I’ve now created my own personal mind gym inside my head. I’m happy with the décor and the people inside seem nice. I read, I write, I listen to music and I work. I’m falling in love with my old passion, Philosophy.

We all dodge the existential tornadoes, waves, and lightning bolts of life whilst running through the killing fields of time. We exist because time exists. Time has, and always will be. It happens with or without us, whether we breathe or eventually become plant food.

I had a sure-fire, failsafe way of slowing down time to a crawl. If you ever follow these posts, you will know it’s not recommended. My key to bending the universal laws of physics that all light and life depend? Alcohol.

Back in the day, time simply idled around, sloshing here and there in no particular direction. It oozed over me like boiling tar, as feathers fell like rain. Nothing much mattered. The higher the alcohol content of my blood, the more time hung like the peeling 1970’s wallpaper of a grotty hotel that nobody can be bothered to cover up or take down. Way too much effort.

The internet, phones, computers, in fact technology in general, are not the alcoholic’s friend.

A couple of lines of a Facebook post would take me most of the day to write. The work of staggering genius that I’d drunkenly composed (and post) would turn out to be the most meaningless, shambles. What I thought was taking me minutes to write was actually wasting most of my day. Hours of squinting at the screen through alcohol-fogged eyes, only to produce a few meagre and embarrassing sentences. All would eventually have to be deleted.

Time was my silent drinking partner. I was barely aware of it. I could watch the same music video on YouTube all night, because by the end of it I would have nodded off. I rapidly developed Goldfish brain. I was Dory from Finding Nemo: just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming. The swimming turned into drowning.

Online, I was pathetic and worryiong, bizarre and self-pitying. I was always the last person to know. I would be pulled aside and ‘informed’ by others the next day. It was never good news. Alcohol anaesthetises your morals, for a while. Thankfully I was never nasty or aggressive. I existed in a tear-soaked, foggy world of pain and shame. Nothing mattered. I didn’t care.

That was my life in that time.

But now things matter and I very much care.

I literally care – it’s my job. I get paid for the privilege. I now care for adults with learning disabilities. Before that, I cared for people like myself, addicts at every stage of their recovery.

It took a lot of clean blood, mind-work, perseverance, friendship and help to get to the stage where I could even begin to care about myself, let alone others.

I now care about writing, art, literature, and music. I care about family and loyal friends. I care about the state of the country and the world. Although I dislike the monarchy, I even cared about the death of our Queen. I care about poverty, abuse, and discrimination.

Now I care, and it all matters!

But now that I’m finally here, there never seems like enough time. It’s racing, roaring and flying by. The blurring isn’t caused by alcohol but the speed of life. My life, your life, everybody’s life. Life’s life.

My son is now almost twenty-years old. How the hell did that happen? We are 250 miles apart but we still connect. I’m still here and he’s still there. It could have been so much different. He now has the best version of me that he’s ever had. My son was the only exception to the I don’t care – nothing matters of my addicted days. With him, I always cared, I still do care, and I always will care – heart-burstingly so.

The only thing that will stop that?

When time stops. When the heartbeats stop. When the blood in the veins dry up. When all thoughts finally stop. When (my) time stops. Maybe not even then. Love is full of surprises.

What do I know anyway? I’m only a pinprick in the vast and endless darkness of the universe.

As the author (not the comedian) says in his novel, Cloud Atlas: ‘My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?’

Time to go. Until next time . . . recurring, until . . . End.

Stop!

Take care, everyone xx

Our Blood in a Line-up.

Day: 1,461

Four years sober today.

Well, that happened. My friendly neighbourhood sober app has been counting the days for me since I stopped drinking. It gave me a congratulations notification. I’ll take that.

A few weeks ago, I joked at work with some friends that being sober is overrated. Joked? Dare I make fun about something so serious? But I did. Nobody died and I survived to tell the tale. But after everything I’ve achieved to remain sober for almost four years, it got me thinking.

Have a got to a dangerous stage now were I’m taking my recovery for granted?

I joked in private. It was to diffuse a difficult situation at work that we were dealing with at the time. I tried to lighten the mood and it worked. I’ve found myself doing this now and again in other areas of my life. I do it rarely and only with people I trust. Friends who know me well enough to understand that my recovery is solid. They know that now and again I can make light of it if I need to. But that’s just me, it’s my way. But maybe I shouldn’t.

I’m at a point where I rarely think about drinking alcohol every hour (or second) of the day, as I used to. I simply get on with my day-to-day stuff. But right at the very beginning, every part of my body screamed for the alcohol I’d deprived it from. My brain was on high alert 24/7. It had to be. But in time, and as life gradually improved, the urgency wore off bit by bit. I began to trust myself. It was irrelevant if others trusted me or not (although life is so much easier when they eventually do).

The only person who needed to believe in me – was me.

Everything crumbles to dust if you can’t find the courage and strength to believe in yourself.

You kick, and you kick hard to get the demons further away until eventually the inner screams fade to whispers. But they are constantly waiting. Don’t be fooled by the peace and solitude you’ve created in your head. The demons are there waiting, ready for the next round of guilt and self-degradation.

I remember writing in a very early post on here that I’d seen my own blood so many times in one horrific form or another, I could recognise it in a line-up. I never want to go back to that passive disregard towards life again. A life (if you could call it that) when my daily mantra was ‘I pray that the next drink will kill me.’

Nobody gets sober years under their belt by luck or because it’s easy. It’s a slow, laborious, and often hellish process that I don’t want to repeat again. Flukes aren’t something that exists in anybody’s recovery

In recovery, the only time luck comes into play, the only reason I’m typing this at all, isn’t because I’m superhuman or my organs can survive any torture I put it through. It’s luck. Pure luck. I shouldn’t be alive. But here I am. Our friend luck is the only reason any alcoholic or addict survives the liquid Russian Roulette.

Overconfidence and ego are lethal in the early months and years in recovery. They are as real a danger to us as walking into a pub or pressing a dealer’s number on your phone.

Overconfidence and ego give you permission to feelimmortal, that you’re immune from all that life can throw at you – ‘bring it on, I’m strong enough to handle it.’ You become dangerously deluded. It’s human nature. But all this bravado is the flimsy, Marvel comic audacity of a child, crying behind a cheap mask

Recovery doesn’t exist within smoke and mirrors. It exists because there is a need for it to exist. You have to make it work or you die.

I know this because very early on I was plagued with overconfidence. I’ve also seen countless other recovering people fall for the same mental scam again and again. We fail miserably – again and again.

You can’t just have one! As the saying goes – one is too many and a thousand isn’t enough.

But you do need confidence. It gives you the self-assurance to make informed choices. It helps you be assertive and to stop your life and soul becoming stale. It gives you the nerve to delete negativity and move on safely. Without it, the everyday becomes merely a static snapshot.

But allow that confidence to overinflate and, well . . . we know where that one goes.

Balance in anything is key.

Last year I read fifty-two books.

No big deal there. Many people read much more, others much less, some nothing at all. So what! It’s a big deal for me! I’ve read books voraciously since I was a child. I was the typical NHS spectacle-wearing, nerdy bookworm. I lived for the words and worlds wrapped within paper covers. But for the thirteen years of hardcore drinking, there was nothing. Everything I loved became distorted through the bottom of a wine bottle. I could barely even see.

My beloved art, music and literature didn’t stand a chance.

Nowadays I go about my everyday business of life like everyone else. But floating around inside my mind is a constant, critical awareness of all the mental traps I could easily fall into at any given time and place. It isn’t something that occupies my full attention 24/7. But over the years of constant brain-training and support, it’s a part of me that now silently exists inside, keeping me safe. A kind of addicts sixth sense, or antivirus.

A blind person cannot see, therefore all other senses are heightened and fine-tuned to compensate for the loss. A recovering alcoholic cannot drink alcohol, therefore . . . a recovering drug addict cannot use, therefore . . . A recovering gambler cannot bet, therefore . . .

You get the picture. I ramble.

This post is a bit of a messy mix-and-match of everything I’ve written here since I began. I’ve no doubt plagiarised and repeated myself. But some things are important enough to need repeating. These are simply some of what I’ve learned up until now. It all got me here, four years on. But everyone is different. If anything in here helps anyone, even in a small way, I’m happy. But find your own way. Throw away what doesn’t work for you and stick with what does. There are no fast and hard rules in recovery. Make your own. It’s your life.

This is mine, so far.

So, do I take my recovery for granted? I hope all the above answers that.

Take care and stay safe xx

The Ability of Disability

Day 1125,

I never give advice in these posts. It’s not what they are about.

But we all need help along the way: AA, rehabs, therapy, recovery services, spiritual or whatever it may be. Support in the field of addiction is vast and diverse. Anything that works for you, is good. Whatever breathes life into you is an extra heartbeat in your life-bank.

So yes, I never give advice on here. But! I’ll tell you a good thing to get into your life. As a recovering alcoholic of now over three years, I highly recommend this (very gentle) advice. It worked for me, and carries on working to this day. I suspect it may have saved my life.

Spend time with humans who have learning disabilities: Autism, Downs Syndrome, Asperger’s, whatever it may be. Spend lots of time with them.

Why?

Why not!

These beautiful humans were born without a choice in life. They didn’t ask for their particular disability, nature forced it on them. But even so, they live life so very, very well!

They are: funny, kind, intelligent, curious, cheeky, a pain-in-the-ass, loyal, loud, silent, frustrating, creative, friendly, huggy, windy, caring, surprising, and staggeringly non-judgemental. The list is endless. Why wouldn’t you want all that wonderfulness in your life?

Very quickly, as you get to know them, the disability evaporates. You neither notice, see or hear it anymore. It happens naturally, as bonds build. What you’re left with is, well . . . friends!

Friends who are genuinely happy to see you every day, who love you and care about you. Perfectly lovely little ambassadors for all the life-affirming good that humanity can give.

I would dearly love to show you photographs of everyone working together, but unfortunately, confidentiality prevents. But just imagine smiley, wonderful people in your head. See them? There they are!

Care workers and PA’s will also enter your world. Their dedication to these human beings is a sight to behold. You will see the little miracles every day. There’s a lot of love surrounding all this work. It also comes with its own stress and sadness, but it’s worth it.

You’ve found a safe, sweet-spot on the earth. Life has opened up. The cards are back on the table. Voila! You have a purpose. You’ll spend time with the very best of humanity life has to offer. Thoughts of alcohol and drugs slowly erase. You’ll find yourself celebrating the good in life for no apparent reason. Nothing is forced. It simply happens.

Find places to volunteer. They are literally crying out for you! Have a Google-fest and you’ll see it all. They need you as much as your new life needs them. They will lighten any darkness and stop the pity parties.

So, what’s this got to do with addiction and recovery?

Everything.

Recovering addicts need to stay grounded and keep self-pity at bay. I’ve found no better way than working with these beautiful people.

Just think of it this way . . .

People with learning disabilities were born without a choice in life, but celebrate their daily lives with utter joy and kindness. They simply get on with it.

Addicts are born with all the choices, but choose to murder themselves daily with alcohol and drugs.

Disability gives perspective. It offers a mirror to our own natural ability which we arrogantly take for granted.

At the end of every single day spent with these people, I always think to myself, “who really has the disability here, them or us?”

Take it from me, it’s not them!

If you’re struggling, volunteer! Help people who need it most. You will probably be saving your own life without knowing it. Humans with learning disabilities saved this human. They still do.

Stay safe and amazing, everyone xx

Top Ten?

Day 733

Two years sober! That was a bit of a ride, and to be honest, the ride never stops. So how did that happen? Overnight? A magic pill? The fact that stopping drinking alcohol is simply a piece of cake?

None of the above.

Here’s my top ten of the steps that worked for me. In no particular order (apart from step one):

1: Always putting my recovery at the top of every list.
2: Wanting to stop drinking (not just having to).
3: Accepting help (you can’t do it alone. Believe me).
4: Hard work.
5: Finding my sense of humour again, very quickly! If you can laugh, you’re alive!
6: Realising nothing is ever bad enough to use as an excuse to drink.
7: Listening. Talking is great, but listening is just as important, if not more.
8: Learning about my addiction.
9: Being selfish in my recovery. I come first. Always!
10: Always making sure step number one never changes. Ever!

All the above, and a hell of a lot more, took me three years to realise. The list is endless and you will find your own to suit you. Three years to get two years sober. It certainly didn’t happen overnight. Two lapses and two stays in rehab, and a hell of a lot of hard work. I won’t sugarcoat it for you, it was hell on earth at the beginning. I felt as if I was going insane. I was in mourning for my murdered my best friend, alcohol. The friend I believed looked after me and kept me safe, every day of my life – garbage.

But alcohol was a deceiver and a serially slow killer. A stripper of souls. A trickster, a fraud, an abuser, a scammer, a personality hacker and a rapist of the heart and mind.

But slowly, very slowly, it improved day by day.

Baby steps. And if baby steps were too hasty, I walked slower. Staying alive isn’t a race. If you want quick, there is always death. But I wouldn’t recommend it.

Even now, I’m constantly on my guard. Addiction is a slippery little sucker. It whispers to me often. It will never go away. I may be an addict, but it doesn’t mean my addiction will kill me. I have too much to do in my life now. I made myself too busy to listen to my addiction. My recovery network is huge, and I use it every day. I built it myself, bit by bit, person by person, book by book. Hope by hope.

Hope by example, saves lives. If you think you literally have nothing to live for, you’re wrong. You have hope. Somewhere. You just need to find it. It’s there. And when you find it, you can start to live again.

Baby steps + hope x hard work = A new beginning.

Find your own top ten. It’s yours. Especially designed for you, by you.

But a word of advice. Always make sure your recovery is number one, the top of every list. Because if it isn’t . . .

Stay safe everyone xx

Towards 2020 and Beyond

Day 587.

It’s Christmas! Hoorah!

Not hoorah?

When the familiar comfort blanket of alcohol and drugs have gone, the only thing in your bloodstream is juice, coffee, or tea. With white knuckles, you’re soberly watching the world and his wife happily celebrating (ironically with an array of alcohol) this once joyous period.

Christmas can be hell on earth for people early in recovery. In fact, pick any occasion: birthdays, funerals, weddings, new employment – you name it. The newly-clean and sober, often struggle.

We do try. People wouldn’t believe how hard we attempt to get through these events of normality. If they could only see the mental gymnastics we have to perform, simply to get to our beds at night, clean and sober. They would be stunned. But others can’t see it. Unfortunately, they aren’t mind readers. We try not to talk about what we do, and we certainly don’t want patting on the head for our efforts.

For us, the daily 24-hour internal wars that we fight is just another day. It’s what we must do. But during booze-fests such as Christmas, we have to up-the-anti, crank up the super-psychology, sharpen up and pull even more tools out of the bag.

Unlike previous years, this Christmas I won’t be torturing myself with thoughts of alcohol, hopefully. I’ve put a lot mental groundwork in. My mind is calmer. Every day spent sober gives my mind the confidence to give itself a break. Sobriety isn’t easy, but time is a major player in easing or erasing the toxic thoughts around difficult events.

So: 1: Do I enjoy Christmas now? 2: Am I happy and contented? 3: Am I fixed? 4: Am I now a smug little bastard with all the answers, now I’m sober?

Let’s see:

1: I do not enjoy Christmas at all. I tolerate it because I don’t have a choice. Actually, I do have a choice. I choose to do it alcohol-free. The other choice is no longer an option. This Christmas I can promise myself I’ll get to 2020 sober. Previous years I couldn’t give that promise. I simply don’t enjoy Christmas as I once did. No big deal – it’s just another day. Life goes on and always will. Baby steps.

2: I’m not happy and contented. I’m riddled with guilt. I constantly beat myself up about the past, all the wasted time, all my failed hopes and dreams. I convince myself I’m not good enough. My own personal standards of myself were ridiculously high and unachievable. I’m striving to change that. I am my own worst enemy.

But I’m getting better. The past is the past and unless somebody invents time-travel, there’s nothing I can do about it. Was the past really ever as good as I thought? Maybe. But maybe not. It’s the present that’s important. Things are much better than they were, and my old hopes are gradually becoming a reality. So, for now, that will do. I’m working on Paulie: version 2.0. It seems a good version. Baby steps.

3: I’m not, and never will be fixed. But I will always have choice. I could still take the easy path by pressing the fuck-it button and drink. Block everything out and have a shitty life again. Or I can remain on the harder, more fearsome path, to stay sober every day and see where it takes me. I eventually chose the latter. To live. To see what happens and see what’s on the other side.

This is what I do day after day. Experiencing life on the other side of the bars of the cage – seeing where it takes me. So far so good. I have wonderful friends, a nice little job doing what I love, and fantastic colleagues. A nice little life. It’s far from perfect but nothing is. Is it? Baby steps.

4: Smug with all the answers? I hope not. No, I’m just a little bit wiser, a little healthier, a little less stupid now that my brain cells have finally kicked in. There are no answers when it comes to getting clean and sober. You can be guided, but no real answers reveal themselves. We are all different and we all find our own way. What might work for me may not work for you. But one thing I do recommend that helped me, is this:

Be selfish! No, I don’t mean be an asshole to everyone. Be completely and utterly selfish with your recovery. Every list you ever make: in your head, your life, your phone or on paper, make sure your recovery is number one. If it isn’t at the top of the list, everything beneath it could eventually evaporate – and you’re left with nothing, again.

You must put yourself first.

Don’t want to do something because it will make you twitchy? Don’t do it. Been invited out but you don’t feel safe? Don’t go. People think your weird because you’re not drinking alcohol at Christmas? Tough! It’s your life, your recovery. You know what works for you and what doesn’t. You are in charge and you are in control. If others can’t accept that at Christmas or any other time – again, tough.

So, my advice for Christmas? I haven’t any. My wish? That you are safe as you find your own way. That you don’t crumble beneath other people’s pressure. That you put yourself above everything. Christmas is just another day. It will not kill you. Find some joy and gratitude from somewhere – anywhere! It’s there! You’ll find it, even in the darkest corners of the darkest rooms in your head. It’s there. Grab it and run with it towards 2020 and beyond.

You’ll be ok. You’ll survive the best way you can.

You’ll find your way.

Stay safe everyone xx

Shadows Bursting into Colour

Day 377

This sketch really knocked me for six when I saw it today (unfortunately the artist wasn’t named to give credit on here). I haven’t been able to take my eyes off it. It threw some big emotions around my head and heart.

The image is how I imagine the how my son saw me not so many years ago. His dad slowly but surely fading away in front of his eyes. Watching helplessly and unable to do anything, no matter how hard he tried. And he really tried.

I like to think of myself now as fully-sketched and visible. As time goes on there may be a bit of colour appearing. We fade away during the fog and filth of alcoholism, we don’t care. We allow ourselves to disappear. Unfortunately, some of us never come back. Thankfully I did.

In a perfect world, every addict would eventually come back. In a perfect world, there would be no such thing as addiction. But unfortunately, the world is far from perfect.

My son can now see his dad. For many years he only saw the fast-fading shadow. My hope is to be the brightest painting I can possibly paint for us both.

Take care all xx