Steppenwolf was published in 1927 and reads as modern as anything published today.
I didn’t know much about this book, apart from its literary and social influence, but it certainly wasn’t what I expected. I didn’t realise I’d be reading something that feels so modern, fresh, and incredibly relevant in today’s world.
Harry Haller leaves a manuscript of his strange and wonderful inner and outer life to the nephew of his landlady – then disappears.
In the first few pages of Steppenwolf, the nephew tells us of his short time spent with the strange, sad, and brilliant lodger he so admires, but finds impossible to understand. Then, ‘we’ get to read the whole of Haller’s manuscript to ourselves. But is it real? Or is Haller simply a brilliant fantasist?
Harry is not happy. Harry is us.
Harry Haller believes he is half wolf. This is explained to us in dream-states, a magic theatre, and in conversations with the woman he needs to fall in love with and then – kill.
Suicidal, Harry meets Hermione and everything changes. She tells him he takes life way too seriously and teaches him to dance to music he hates. She also finds him a lover in the prostitute, Maria.
Every hour of every day, the wolf had ripped the meat and chewed the bones from the important parts of his academic, social and romantic life. It snarled and sniggered at his every thought and action, making him insular, self-doubting, and often suicidal.
But now he dances to jazz music with every woman in the room. He has learned to smile and enjoy himself.
But it never lasts.
Can Hermione save him from himself and keep him alive? Will he ever be free of his Steppenwolf? Can he save himself from himself?
I loved this book so much. More than my meagre ramblings can explain. I’m glad I read it before being hit by a bus, or decapitated by a speeding fin in a sharknado. Because you just never know!
Its been a while. I’m going to be writing regularly here in the next week or two. I’ve been working on some recovery posts, and various non-fiction, simply to kick-start my writing in general. But I’ve been reading a lot. I’ll post a few mini reviews until then.
I read this amazing debut from Gwendoline Riley when it was first published in 2002, and I’ve been reading everything she’s written ever since. It blew me away!
Carmel McKisco is a 20-year-old barmaid drifting aimlessly though the grey and rainy wastes of Manchester, navigating around the people who come in and out of her life. That’s pretty much the book, really. At only 150 pages she packs a lot into a little.
Like all her books, it’s a slice of life at a certain point in time. Not much happens, except everything. Her descriptions of a dreary Manchester at the end of the 1990s, the bars, the clubs, the second-hand bookshops and the people who inhabit them are written like a Russian master in All Star and Mary Jane’s shoes.
All Gwendoline’s books are slim, but they are filled with the swirling universes and black holes of life. She’s serious, sassy and funny (sometimes in the same sentence).
She was around 20 years old and working in a Manchester bar when she wrote this. It’s not rocket science to guess that she drew from her own experiences. At such a very young age her prose is startlingly mature and brilliant. And with every book she gets better. My Phantoms her latest novel is a masterclass of prose writing.
I’ve realised from many reviews of her books, you either adore her work or hate it. There doesn’t seem to be middle ground. She’s been praised and slaughtered in equal measures.
I love all her work and Cold Water was written by a northern genius in the making.
As always, my words fall short of describing how brilliant she is. Read her. She won’t take up much of your time.
Like many fellow earthlings, I beat myself up on a daily basis, for many reasons. My list of internal self-hammerings is endless. If I’m honest, most of the things on there, are out of my control. But there they are, existing and judging me anyway. The sodden, grey sponge in my head doesn’t seem to recognise the absurdity of some of these mental squatters that mess up my mind with their ethereal graffiti.
Our brains (a supposed wondrous biological miracle of evolution) often fall desperately short when we really need them. With its organic logic, and lightning-quick problem-solving components they can be a master of dodge and weave. When we need its full functionality and capacity for all the things that give us joy and harmony – Bam! All current thought patterns are replaced with that of a bored Panda swinging in a car tyre.
Are our brains simply too big and complex for us mere mortals to handle? The author, Kurt Vonnegut seemed to think so. I’m with him! ‘So it goes.’
There is one recurring subject on my ever-spinning toilet roll list of regrets. It always bleeds its way to the top. The one regret that demands attention, like the constant knock of a Jehovah’s Witness as I hide behind the curtains. This regret?
Writing.
I’ve been a bookworm for as long as I can remember. I began taking my writing seriously in the mid-nineties. When I say seriously, I mean actuallywriting it instead of thinking aboutwriting. Slowly, I began to learn the craft. I read the things that did and didn’t work. I read the good stuff to learn, study and improve. I also read bad stuff to know what to avoid like the plague. Whether the latter succeeded is another matter. I’m told I do ok at knocking the odd sentence together. I must be doing something right or you wouldn’t have gotten this far.
Anyway.
As a child, I always loved horror films, comics, and books. Naturally I went down that route first with my writing as I already had some knowledge of the genre. I haven’t read any horror fiction and fantasy for over twenty years. I don’t really know why. I guess I struggle with suspending disbelief that far anymore, which is such a shame. I miss that side of me. I tend to read literary fiction these days. Novels written about the human condition. Also, a lot of non-fiction. Maybe the horrors I experienced with alcoholism killed my fantastical side. It may come back. It may not. I hope one day it does.
Anyway.
I began writing short dark fiction. At the time email was still in its infancy so I would physically mail them to the various horror zines of the time. They were a wonderful and fantastic source for budding writers like myself. They were filled with amazing artwork and short horror and fantasy stories by talented beginners and professional writers. I waited.
The rejections plopped through the letterbox like waterfalls of pulp. My early stories were not very good at all. I’ve re-read a few lately – they make my guts cringe and tighten inside. They were bad.
But the rejection letters were unbelievably kind, friendly, supportive, and offered lots of constructive advice for improving my writing. I took it all on board and carried on. I learned with each failure. I’d love to brag that I learned quickly, but it took some time. My writing gradually improved. After about a year of constant rejection, advice and perseverance, I got my very first acceptance letter. Then I got another, and another, and another. Apart from the odd rejection here and there, most of the stories I wrote were accepted into the zines. The tides were slowly turning for me.
Most Zines could only pay very little money (by cheque in those days), if any at all. I didn’t care about payment. Simply seeing my words in print amongst the other writers I admired was payment enough.
Networking.
I joined the British Fantasy Society and began physically meeting and talking to the people whose novels and short stories I had on my shelves. They normally organise a Fantasycon once a year in a hotel somewhere. I highly recommend anyone to join them if you write horror/fantasy/sci-fi fiction. You will meet the cream of the crop of British writing. They are the most kind, generous, decent, and supportive of people. The things you’ll learn from them are pure gold dust. You’ll also make good, like-minded friends. The British Fantasy Society is still going strong. Give them a Google and check them out. So yeah, I had all that going on.
There’s the writing autobiography you didn’t ask for or want. Sorry about that.
Things were looking good for me as a writer if I carried on – extremely good!
And then . . .
All the writing stopped. Virtually all the reading stopped too. Ah, Alcohol was the culprit? Nope. I hadn’t even developed that particular nightmare addiction at this time. So then, what?
I met a girl. I moved down south. I got a job. We got married. We had a wonderful son and life together. So why no writing?
I let life get in the way.
I was so busy living, and getting on with my new life. My promising writing career became a rapidly lengthening shadow. I loved and adored my new life exactly as it was. My bubble. A bubble that I wasn’t keen on stepping out of, or letting people into. I didn’t realise at the time how incredibly bad and toxic my way of living was. After 5 years that bubble burst. During those 5 years – no writing. Zilch! The rupture of that life had absolutely nothing to do with the word-vacuum. I simply didn’t write. That’s it. Nobody to blame but yours truly.
True writers and artists never let life get in the way. Life becomes their art. Life feeds their art. Life is their art. Their art is their life, be it professional or not.
Writers write, painters paint, musicians play, sculptors sculpt – and nothing, but nothing gets in the way of creating. It’s the way of anybody in the arts. It’s always been the way. A part of you feels bereaved if it goes away. It’s in the blood, the bones, the heart, and the soul.
Art is life.
So, at fifty-six years old – where does that leave me now? Do I, could I consider myself a writer?
Not so long back, in my journal (my only constant source of written words since 2005) I wrote this admission to myself: ‘as much as I adore the idea of being a writer, and the fact that I’m not half bad at it – my life’s output has been worse than dire, to be totally honest with myself. I could never, ever call myself a writer. Ever! I guess I’m merely an avid reader of interesting books who can string some good sentences together now and again, which some people like.’
I wrote that to myself to let my creative brain off the hook. To stop it beating itself to a pulp and melting down with guilt.
I didn’t become the published writer that I wanted to be. But I lived a life!
I lived it as creatively as I possibly could with what I had at the time: music (I’m a drummer), art (I’m a decent artist when needed), and literature (see all the above). I strive to live my life as decently as I can, without knowingly hurting anyone. I’ve not had the best or easiest of lives, but I’ve certainly not had the worst.
But I do write. Writing that has no deadlines or pressure to be published or read. It doesn’t demand an audience or payment. It dawdles, Idles, and turns up whenever and wherever it wants. I make my own rules, bend them about and take a lot of liberties (especially with my ridiculously bad grammar).
What I write is important, to me.
So, what does all this have to do with alcoholism, addiction, or sobriety? Absolutely nothing.
When you’re sober, everything in life isn’t all about hardcore sobriety 24/7. Hopefully that’s all running nicely in the back of your mind like trusted software.
You must live a life – your life. I’ve just made it sound easy. It’s not. It’s hard. It’s simply easier when you’re not trashing your system with poison.
I’m getting by in life day by day. I don’t wake up in the morning to stay sober. I wake up to see what life has in store. It’s by far a perfect life, but it’s a life. I do what I can with the best I have, because that’s all I’ve got.
I write what I can, where I can and when I can. But I do write. Yesterday I began a short story. I hope I’ll finish it someday. If I do finish it and I think it’s worthy, I’ll research a few writing markets, send it off and see what happens.
My wonderful son turns 20 years old today. On the phone we say how proud we are of one another. We keep in touch every week and finish every conversation with, Love You! I’m happy enough with that.
Below is my little review of a dazzling memoir by the wonderful writer, Frances Park. Highly recommended! I’ve put a link to her (and her sister’s) site at the bottom of the page. Click on the book. She’s amazing!
* * *
I Don’t know Frances and she doesn’t know me. We’ve never met. She lives in the USA and I’m in the UK.
But now I’ve read this precious book, I now have the slight upper hand. I ‘feel’ like I know her.
For the past week, her words have been telling me some of the stories of her amazing life. She writes with such a wonderfully original and passionate voice that she could have been sitting next to me and reading aloud.
The main artery running through this book, were all the warm blood flows and pumps, is the early death of her dear father. A man I feel I know, but don’t. I wish I had. A Korean scholar; a peaceful, proud, and philosophical man who adored his family. He died at fifty-six years old. I’ve just turned that age – and I’m a dad. That’s a sobering thought.
Although the whole book reads like a love letter from daughter to her dad, it’s so much more. We get to meet many people in these pages: friends, family, colleagues and even a beloved dog. But with every story, you get to meet Frances.
As if through a movie camera lens, you’ll watch every version of her: the daughter, the sister, the lover, the friend, the teenager (who apparently she’d happily slap now), the wife, the writer, the sweet shop owner, the business woman and the dreamer of big dreams – to name but a few. But there’s only one Frances. The Frances that makes life better.
There is a lot of personal loss in the book, but these aren’t depressing or maudlin stories. We learn from them and they give us hope. Dream big, live your life, make your mark and above all, have fun with the time you have. Because you never know when it will be over.
I tried to read this book as slowly as I could so I could savour every page and take them in. But it’s hard when the writing and the voice is so good and blazingly engaging. I was gutted when finally it was over.
But Frances isn’t over. She’s dazzlingly alive and so are her words. I know there are more glorious stories to come. So I wait.
Tap the book to take you to more books by Frances. Oh, and chocolate. 🍫
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.
I’ve read some fantastic books this year, fiction and non-fiction by some wonderful writers. One bonus about being sober is that I’ve reverted back into a bookworm again. None are addiction or sobriety related, but many have pulled me out of one mental Hell or another. This is reading for the pure joy of reading. I’ll post more reviews as time goes on, between writing addiction posts (which are as usual, sadly lacking). But I am working on my next post.
Take care all xx
* * *
This is Michael Bracewell’s fourth novel and was published in 1989.
The main plot is simple. Three young women desire the well-bred, well-off, and good looking Miles Harrier. For all his privilege, Harrier is a nice, well-mannered, kindly soul but lacks energy, interesting thoughts or conversation. Between them, they weave a complicated dance around misguided love, awkward relationships, and desire.
It sounds simple but in this author’s hands, it isn’t.
Things get complicated (or simplified, depending on how you look at it) by the most bizarre, shocking, and amusing double-death scene I’ve ever read in a novel. It’s so darkly surprising that you can’t help but smile.
It’s a satire on how desire, good manners, relationships, and bad sex, work amongst the privileged young of London in the 1980’s. Everything is taken at surface value, looks, and a full wallet (or purse). Everything appears fabulous until our narrator exposes the flawed minds and mentalities of the characters.
Considering the privilege and fine wines, it’s an incredibly bleak tale stripped of all emotion and sentiment. It’s also very funny. My kind of book. It’s refreshing to read something that doesn’t mention social media, email, or mobile phones.
Michael Bracewell loves his descriptions: buildings, weather, clothes, food, alleyways, roads, London – and so on. They are almost extra characters in the book. And they are on every single page.
Michael Bracewell is also extremely ‘wordy.’ Possibly many, many words when one would do. His writing has been described as sometimes pompous, and I saw one review lovingly describe his writing as “up its own arse.” Each to their own.
His readership isn’t huge by any extent but he does have a loyal following of readers and adoring critics. I guess he could be described as a cult writer. Or not. Who am I to say? But he is a wonderful and brilliant writer who puts me in a strange, but good and nostalgic place when I read him.
You’ll know by the first page or two if Michael Bracewell is your kind of writer. He’s definitely mine. ‘Wordy’ descriptions and all.
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.
Many people see addicts as frightening, or at the very least, intimidating. I get it. Before alcoholism sucker-punched my life, so did I.
Many moons ago, before the alcohol became bad, and when I was living near London, I regularly delivered stationary to a tourist information centre. It was next-door to a recovery centre. As is always the way, outside was always a raggedy group of recovering addicts, smoking cigarettes with shaky fingers. I had to park my van and walk past them, quickly wheeling my trolley full of stuff. I’d hear them, smell them, see them – fear them. They were never impolite or intimidating, simply jittery, frustrated, and anxious. Just a bunch of anxious people standing around and getting their last smoke in before a group or appointment.
But they were addicts!
The hollowed-out cheeks of heroin addicts terrified me. Were they heroin addicts? How the hell did I even know? I was clueless. Others were red-faced and bloated. Probably alcoholics. Again, I was naive and judgemental. But what if the heroin people mugged me for their fix money? What if they injected me with dirty needles just for kicks? Because that’s what heroin addicts do all day, right? What if the alcoholics got together in an alcohol-fuelled rage and beat me to a pulp? Just for the hell of it! Because that’s what, blah, blah, blah . . .
Ah, stigma. I knew you so well!
There was more chance of a vagina growing on my elbow than any of this ridiculous internal fear-mongering coming true. But I didn’t know. I was too busy being paralysed by fear, hyped-up on media, gossip and rumour.
I was simply walking past a group of fellow humans who had dealt with their past problems the wrong way. They were trying to put things right for themselves.
Most addicts are passive, shy, and private due to huge amounts of shame and guilt. Many are terrified. Aside from the rare few who feed the stigma machine, addicts wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
* * *
Skip a few years. I went from addict-phobic, to standing outside a recovery centre, anxiously smoking roll-ups with my fellow addicts, in-between groups, and appointments. We would, amongst other things, talk about how harsh it is to be stigmatised by judgey-normals.
But I can absolutely understand why people fear addicts.
During addiction we can appear like the animated dead, unreadable expressions on our faces as we stumble and mumble. We’re anxious, depressed, frustrated, and poisoned. We have been known to vomit and urinate in public (wherever we lay our hats, and all that). Sometimes we sleep in the wrong places (sometimes at the request of the police). We can smell odd, often eye-wateringly so. But we are mostly people who got life wrong for a while – and became stuck.
But what you’re actually seeing is total, raw vulnerability.
We often get preyed upon, blamed, shamed and taken advantage of. Why? Because it’s easy. We are rarely aware when fingers are pointed. Also (mid-drink or drug) we don’t care. Apart from flooding of our blood with various poisons, we rarely care about much. You tell us black is white and you’d maybe get a thumbs up and a nonchalant smile. We mostly just want people to leave us alone.
On two occasions, I really did take people at their word. I paid for it dearly, for years afterwards. Here they are:
1: I received a standard letter from the bank asking me to come in for a review of my account. Nothing bad or even anything to worry about. Just a chat. I went. I think I did! I must have done. Because when I woke up the next day, I had printed documentation in black and white with my signature confirming it. I didn’t remember a thing. But I’ll guarantee you this – I will have staggered into that bank, slurring my words and stinking to high-heaven of booze. I would have been unshaven, scruffy, and wearing the same clothes I’d been in for days. It wouldn’t have been a pretty sight, or smell. So why did I wake up the next day with a crumpled contract for a £4000 loan and a credit card? I only went in for an account review, right?
2: One morning I woke up hungover after a blackout. Next to me was a brand-new mobile phone and a wine or blood-stained contract. It tied me in for £70 per month for two years. All neatly signed by me! This was from the friendly local Vodafone shop. Done and dusted!
To this day, I remember nothing of both occasions. But I definitely remember the years of struggling to pay everything off.
So who’s fault was it?
Mine, obviously. I got slaughtered on wine or whatever, and staggered into two corporate, money-hoovers when I really should have stayed home in bed. Simple. Got me bang to rights, guvnor! Stick the cuffs on.
But I have questions! Not many, but a few.
You’re a phone sales human, or a bank human. You see, hear, and smell an obviously intoxicated person stumbling in through your doors. Obviously, you gently persuade them to go home and come back another day, right? You’re not going to get any sense out of them. Or you go to your manager and ask for advice? He/she would advise the above, obviously?
Obviously not!
You go for the money-shot. Straight into the pockets of the vulnerable and pull out as much cash as possible. Drain that bank account and milk it for what it’s worth! For years! Because you’ve got them where you need them – vulnerable! You may as well kick a homeless person in the face and steal their change whilst you’re at it. Pull a feeding baby from its mothers breast as well. Why not eh? It’s all the same thing. Taking advantage of, and taking the money from, the most susceptible people who walk through the door. Making the figures look good. Having your tongue firmly wedged up your greedy boss’s ass.
I’ve heard so many similar stories like mine from friends and ex-clients. Mine isn’t a one-off story. I’m not the only addict who’s been taken advantage of like this. Unfortunately, I won’t be the last.
But I’ll tell you what! What goes around, comes around! Many of us recover. We begin to shine and we never forget being screwed-over. We make our own money and pay our dues and debts. You’ll never take advantage of us again. When the going gets tough, the tough get creative. We write letters, books, essays, memoirs, emails, messages, posts, and blogs – sometimes about money-stealing, life-wrecking, cowardly excuses for humans.
If you are one of these modern-day robbers, I do forgive you. But I hope after reading this you’ll never screw-over another addict’s life like that again. Be fair. Be nice. Be a decent human being. Just be kind to your fellow humans. Life is too short. Simple.
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 withouta 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.
On March 8th 2020, I landed my dream job as a full-time recovery worker in the field of alcohol and drugs. On December 16th 2020, I handed in my resignation.
I loved that job with all my heart. I still do! I adored my wonderful friends and colleagues. I still do! The service does amazing work around the UK and has helped to save many of the lives of countless addicts for over Fifty years. So, why resign?
Self-preservation. If I hadn’t, the person writing this probably wouldn’t exist. But thankfully, I do exist, and I held on to my sobriety – just.
So, what happened? How did things turn out?
The world changed devastatingly quickly for everyone. Far too fast for this human. I was still very early into my recovery, and at the very beginning of a brand-new, extremely demanding job. People’s lives and welfare were my business.
Without going into too much detail, three weeks into my new job, Bang! Lockdown!
The service rapidly, as everything did and has, had to go virtual. Everything via video link, email, or phone. Apart from a handful of us still working in the building, everyone at the service worked from home. The personal contact with clients and workmates vanished. I did well, for a while. I had a lot of good successes with my clients. I was a hardworking and dedicated worker. All my volunteering, and part-time work at the service from 2018 had stood me in good stead.
But eventually, without the personal contact, hug-ability, and constant life-saving humour of my peers, everything went dark inside my head. Too dark. Black! The psychological tide turned on me: daily thoughts of suicide, self-harm, and drinking reared their head once again. Too many conflicting and negative thoughts, spinning at light-speed in my mind. All wrong and at the worst time. So, I made the hardest decision of my life. Instead of concentrating on helping addicts to get clean, sober and improve their lives – I decided to save my own.
It certainly wasn’t plain sailing, away from the job. The work on myself had only just begun. The demons had come to visit and the beast wanted to move in again.
I had no confidence. My fire had gone, and my lust for life was no more. My lust for self-oblivion had replaced it with a venom. I would only leave my bed to eat and go to the bathroom. As I lay on my bed, I covered my face with blankets because the darkness was too bright. My mobile phone gave me panic attacks. Notifications of kindly messages (there were many) came through from friends, freaked me out. I would not answer the phone, only listening to voicemails in terror.
I’d lost my closest friend to a toxic relationship. So, she was gone. At the beginning of my job, I was weeks away from moving into my own place, finally moving out of the family home. Lockdown soon coshed that into a pulp. I had to remain with parents. Not the best of arrangements.
The temptation to ease the load with the liquid antichrist screaming at me was coming ever closer. But I’d look at photos of my son (who is 250 miles away thanks to alcohol) every day and the beast in my head finally went away.
But the months of black-nothing continued. A big lifeless nothing. No reading or writing, and my love for art had long died. Antidepressants were not working. But then something happened!
I randomly picked up a book from my towering ‘to be read’ pile. It was non-fiction, White by Bret Easton Ellis. I tentatively read the first line. A few hours later I was a quarter way through the book without realising. Something was happening. The rusted cogs and worn gears in my head had slowly begun moving. I finished the book and went on to the next, and the next, and the next.
Things are now much better.
I’m now reading my thirty-sixth book of this year.
I’m writing the first draft of my novel.
I’m making art again.
I have my best friend back.
I am volunteering again. But this time on a farm, helping adults with learning disabilities. I’ve been asked to do bank work there, and I seem to have turned into the resident photographer. I still keep in touch with my recovery workmate buddies. I’m going to volunteer at my old recovery service and see how things go.
My wonderful son passed his chef exams with flying colours, and we’re hoping to meet up over the summer holidays. I’ve connected with the most wonderful writers and artists from around the world on Facebook and made wonderful creative discoveries. I could go on and on, but the list is long now.
All because I decided to save my own life. All because I read the first line in a Bret Easton Ellis book. All because I looked at pictures of my son every day.
That was my route out of Hell’s basement. Everyone has their own. These are just a few ways I did things. You will find your own if you’re in your own personal Hell.
You’ll do it. You really will. Stay safe everyone xx
Stumbling Towards Hindsight 