The Quietening

Day 2,960.

I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that one day, seemingly sooner rather than later, the world (my world, at least) will go silent. At the moment, two little audiological marvels are keeping deafness and raging tinnitus at bay. When I wake in the morning, sounds are dull and distant, apart from the constant hiss which is unfortunately here to stay. Hearing aids in – switch on – and bam! Tinnitus gone, and there is the world whooshing through my ears in all its chaotic glory. That’s the good bit. The gloomy part is when I go home at the end of the day and switch them off before bed. The sudden silence. The extent of the loss, (quite profoundly in my right ear) still shocks me. The quietening always hits hard after a day of electronically enhanced life-chatter. The world withdraws and goes to sleep. The tinnitus kicks in and – hisssssssssssssss.

I have to admit. I’ve made peace with my tinnitus. It took a while. We argued and fought long and hard. The experts had told me that there was no evicting the cacophonous invader. It had boarded its windows and barred the door. But eventually, we shook hands and agreed to get on with one another. It’s now one of the few constants in my life along with: sobriety, work, toast, and the friendly but slightly unsafe weirdos on the bus. The serpent hisses – I listen. Tinnitus, my screaming little head squatter. But he’s (she’s) ok. We’re fine.

By the way. This post isn’t about hearing aids, deafness, aging, hissing, or any ongoing and upcoming human falling-to-bits-ness. No, it’s about . . .

Well, it’s about something. I’m sure the whole point of this post will reveal itself as long, as I-just-keep-wri-ting. Have faith (I’m talking to me, not you).

So! I said I was coming to terms with impending deafness. How so? I hear you ask. You are asking, aren’t you? Well!

I’ve been visualising the day when my volume dial goes from 11 to O (yes, my robotic ear amps are of the Spinal Tap kind). Also, can you actually visualise going deaf?

The deaf day comes whenever it comes, but it comes. Bang! There! The world has gone out. What will I miss?

Well, I guess one of the major sources of loss is music.

1979 was the year I got the bug. I wasn’t really interested before then. I was devouring books and comics. Music was always more of a running soundtrack in the background from TV, radio and other people’s record and tape players. But for some reason in 1979 my ears lit up with everything that was coming out at the time and I became hooked. It never went away.

From taking in the sounds of 1979, I eventually went backwards in time, soaking up Miles Davis, John Coltrane and all the jazz greats. I became immersed in Electronic pioneers like Tangerine Dream, who I was lucky enough to see three times in the 80s. Rock, heavy metal and all of its offshoots were a huge part of my life: Black Sabbath, Rush, Led Zeppelin, Nine Inch Nails, Killing Joke, Ministry, Tool – the list is endless. Stravinsky and Philip Glass kicked off my classical tastes. I then discovered the holy grail that is Frank Zappa, and the rolling plethora of other-worldly musicians he worked with, and that’s when my musical world truly opened up. I fell down the rabbit hole of what could truly be achieved with music. Nothing was off the table, anything and everything was up for grabs. I embraced it all as my eclecticism increased. But now I didn’t want to be a mere passive bystander. I wanted to be a part of it.

Enter, drums.

As soon as I held my first pair of sticks in my hands as a teenager, I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I got my first drum teacher but I wasn’t a natural. I had to practice long and hard. My early auditions for bands were embarrassing failures. The least said about that the better, but they were awful. There were more uncomfortable tragedies. I could have easily given up there and then, but strangely I accepted rejection well at such a young age. I was determined.

Rejection taught me diligence, respect and professionalism. I practiced harder, listened intently, and wouldn’t take any negativity lying down. I got good – really good. Impressively good! I got every gig I auditioned for. I could read music, play in odd time signatures, improvise, do anything that was asked. My reputation grew. I never stopped. Lifelong friendships and long-term girlfriends grew from music. I found my people and my family. It all worked out.

There has never been a time when music wasn’t a part of my life. I stopped playing drums around 2015 when alcohol put the brakes on most things. But it couldn’t stop the music, the thing that kept me going.

But what will happen when the music finally goes out?

As the song ends, when we turn off our music player of choice: CD, vinyl, streaming, radio, whatever, and our speakers and headphones go silent, the music never truly goes away. We continue to hear it all within ourselves. We hum, whistle, dance and sing as it rebounds endlessly around our minds and bodies. We store our own libraries and playlists beneath our skin, inside the meat of our bones. Harmonies and rhythms pump through us with the heart as timekeeper. From cradle to grave, music is given to us as a gift. When the music is off, its echo transfers through us like osmosis, staying alive and breathing with us as we carry it everywhere. You only need to hear an earworm once and it’s already burrowed deep within. Once we’ve absorbed and experienced music, it fixes onto our cells.

It’s shamanic, voodoo, and witchcraft of the highest, transcendent, and life-affirming order. It’s primal. Every emotional, spiritual, physical and mental level is ignited because that’s where it originates. It’s given birth from the pain, happiness, desire, love and anger through the millions of humans that created it. They gave it to us. We do not have to physically hear music to enjoy and revel in its wonder. We are music!

When my world finally goes silent and the birdsong ends. When everything in the physical world rushes out into nothing. When deafness finally comes. All the music that I have ever heard in my life, will still be there inside me. It will simply be another way of listening.

So, what has all that to do with addiction and recovery?

Something that we all, addicted or not, eventually have to learn – acceptance.

The old AA adage rings true: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. AA wasn’t the way I went to get sober, and I don’t believe in a god. But those are among the wisest words you’ll ever hear when you’re at the crossroads all addicts arrive at. It’s not hippy dippy word vomit. It’s a basic truth.

If you don’t accept what you can’t change, anger, ego and denial quickly kick-in and fester. They infect, corrupt and destroy your inner software as quickly as any computer virus kills its host system. Acceptance and adaptability revert us back to our factory settings, to a time when we weren’t so chock-full of the messy, outmoded data that life has filled us with, overloading and confusing our memory as we glitched our way into our own personal hells and eventual shutdown.

I know that fighting and filling myself with rage and repudiation at my eventual deafness will lead to nothing but a waste of the energy. I can put all this to much better use, enhancing a new internal life. So, I may as well embrace what’s to come as my flesh speakers slowly sputter out over the coming years, and work on my new internal Wi-Fi system. All the music I’ll ever need will already be in there. I just need to work on the new settings.

Acceptance is the only way I can visualise how I’m going to deal with a silent world. There may be a few failed attempts along the way until I get there but I’m confident I’ll be ok. I’m already one step ahead of myself because I’ve already successfully achieved it once before in sobriety. I lost alcohol but accepted a life without it. I’ll lose the sounds I love but will have to accept a new way of hearing their echoes.

Yes, there are many, many things in life that decent humans cannot and should never accept: unjust wars, the slaughter of innocents, abuse in all its sickening forms including our spinning abode. Global homelessness and hunger, the one percent. The soul-stripping – brain-sapping – all-consuming data-thieving antichrist that is, AI. The list of the unacceptable is endless. But these man-made atrocities can only be fought collectively as a community, as a group, as a nation, as a world – as a species.

But for me? For you? Singular organisms dealing with inner turmoil, marrow sapping loss, and the weight of an unjust world?

When the anger, the fighting and the denial are no longer an option?

We always find our way. We always have. We always will. We must!

Accept the fact that as humans, our time here is so very short. But also accept that this is our time. We are here. You. Me. Us. Right now. We breathe. We live.

Music would be the most obvious loss when my world goes silent – but not the biggest. That loss would go to hearing my son speak. But all the words we have ever said to one another since he was a tiny child have never left me. Every single word he’s ever said has always remained inside. Replayed every day, until the end of my time. I accept every new word as a gift.

We’ll be fine – just fine.

After the birdsong finally fades to nothing, we’ll listen to it together. You and me.

Take care everyone x

The Best Version?

Day 2,922

That’s a lot of days! More days than I was expecting after I dragged myself through day one in 2017.

So yeah, eight years sober today. So far, so good. The wagon is holding well. It’s either a sturdy wagon, or my grip on it has strengthened over the years. Either way, here we are.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a shaky, frightened little somebody who was thinking about taking the big step to attend the same rehab that helped me all those years back in 2017. In fact, we were both sitting in the garden outside that very rehab, as it’s on the same grounds as where I now work. Their worker brought them for a look around and introduced us. I guess I was as an example of a success, which felt nice. They (I’m using the pronoun ‘they’ for confidentiality) were obviously very anxious and stressed about making the big move to recovery. So, in my own little roundabout way, I more or less said the following:

Tiny steps. Once you’ve built up the courage, knowledge and rediscovered the lost faith in yourself, those tentative little shuffles eventually pick up speed, and lengthen into the confident strides which ultimately have you arriving at eight years clean and sober (or wherever your recovery may be right now).

Eight years ago, I couldn’t imagine eight minutes sober was possible. But nothing is impossible if you truly want it. It’s hard, but not impossible.

You will get a tsunami of advice (good and not-so-good) from many, many people. If you try to soak it all in at once, you’ll simply drown beneath the noise. Take away what you need and see what works for you. Whatever works, keep doing that!

Do everything at your own pace and never put pressure on yourself. There are no rules for keeping yourself alive, so find and make your own and stick to them.

Find good people. Weed out, ignore and eject the bad and negative ones. Dig deep to find and reclaim your lost sense of humour – it will make the hard things easier and may ultimately save your life (it saved mine). If you really and truly want to be clean and sober – you will, and nothing on God’s earth will stop you. But all in your own time, not somebody else’s.

But the most important thing – always keep your recovery at the top of your list. Number one! If recovery isn’t at the top of your list, you ain’t got a list.

Obviously, I didn’t say all this verbatim. I was much less ‘wordy’ and more to the point when I was chatting to this person. I offered them a friendly conversation, not a sermon. I smiled a lot. I needed to show that there’s a lot to smile about when you’re not assassinating body and soul with your poison of choice. I simply wanted to get over to them the above points that worked for me. They listened. They smiled. They heard hope. That’s all they (anyone) need to hear at the biggest crossroads of their life. Hope.

Hope is the beginning of everything and the springboard to wherever you want to go. Hope got me to eight years sober. Hope will get me much further, as long as it lives within me. Wherever hope exists, so do I. The recovery baton was passed to me by many good people all those years ago when I had nothing, and I pass it on wherever and whenever I can. That’s what we all do. That is what recovery is. Selfishly save your life and pass it forward. Others will do the same by example. Recovery for yourself is selfish. It has to be – it’s literally life or death. But giving back is wondrous, warm and fulfilling.

If you’ve been reading my posts since 2018 when I began this blog, you’ll recognise all the above. I’ll repeat them until the cows come home. This is the roadmap I made for myself. It works for me. They may or may not work for you. It’s your job to find your own – and you will.

No, it isn’t all a bed of roses. Nothing ever is. Some days are hellish and others simply a white-knuckled countdown to get to bed at night sober. But as time goes on it gets better. Recovery, with tried and tested goals and roadmaps is made so much easier and stronger. Winging it on your own in the dark doesn’t work, we’ve all tried.

Some (usually non-addicted) people think it’s pointless keeping track of sober time. Just pull our socks up and get on with it. Well. We did, and we are! But having milestones and goals are a great source of inner pride and achievement. Some people feel the need to shout it out from the hilltops – and that’s fine. Some celebrate in silence – that’s fine. Others pseudonymously document it on social platforms such as (ahem) WordPress. And that’s fine too. Whatever works for you: loud and proud, quiet and content, or the privacy of silence – whichever it is, if it is keeping you clean and sober, carry on doing just that.

Does sobriety and recovery change a person?

I suppose it depends on the person. If you were an abusive, crappy person before sobriety, it would be nice to think that going through, and coming out of hell would make you a more caring and empathetic human. But unfortunately, once a dick always a dick. Recovery isn’t the fuckface whisperer.

Me?

I’m pretty much the same person as before, but now I can walk in a straight line, think more clearly and most importantly, I can fart safely. I still get paranoid, stressed, anxious, irritated, annoyed, and deal with a mild OCD. But when at one time I would let all these brain-ticks spiral out of control into a whirlwind of mental meltdown and self-destruction, I can slow myself down enough to deal with them before any carnage ensues. It doesn’t always work, but mostly it does. I also have good and loyal friends to talk to.

CBT and Mindfulness helped me with all this in the early days and still serve me well. They are not for everyone, but if they are ever offered to you, give them a go. AA works for many people but not for everyone. Find out and see if it’s for you.

I can still be a mildly irritating asshole, but I like to think that I’m now a nice mildly irritating asshole who feels guilty about the times I am mildly irritating and an asshole. But the jury is out on that.

But hopefully we all (addicted or not) strive to be the best versions of ourselves we possibly can. How we get there is as easy or as complicated as life lets us with all its landmines, headfucks, fakery and all-round shenanigan-isms.

I’m a better version of the person I once was because I can now function confidently within society (as fractured as it is), give back to humanity (as vulnerable and lost as it is) as much as I possibly can. I appreciate what I have and have not. With alcohol, I had nothing.

I’m light years away from the best version of me because, in all reality, does that even exist in any of us? Really?

I suppose the goal is in always striving to get there, even if it’s always out of reach. It’s not a bad goal really. Is it?

Actually, I lie. The best version of me does actually exist. It’s my son.

Take care everyone x

Juggling Dust

Day 2,840.

Plaiting fog, knitting gravy, juggling dust – just some titles of tricky little human irritants (caused by other actual human irritants) that make the roadmap of life far from easy.

They drop their spectral fingers on the anti-gravity button, causing everything we hold dear to rise up, fade and disappear. One minute everything is there within huggable distance: money, joy, employment, love, friendship, ripped abs (insert your cherished-whatever, here). The next: 3,2,1 up, up, and away they all go! Everything has gone. Everything but us, the emptiness, frustration and anger. Invisible ankle weights bear down keeping us fixed to the earth as we gaze up through glazed eyes, watching everything we had, shrink to a dot. Just when we least expect, it strikes like a prehistoric predator acting as prophet – Veloci-Rapture. All gone. Poof!

Of course, it doesn’t all happen at once. We don’t get it all over with in one agonising lump, then start afresh. No; like our breath in Winter, it evaporates in increments. Days, weeks, months, and years meld and blur behind us. A thief in the night\day\dawn – take your pick.

I don’t actually know where I’m going with this post. Really, I don’t! I may have written myself an over-wordy sinkhole. Well, you’re this far in with me. You may as well get the popcorn.

From screaming our tiny lungs dry on our first day of birth, to screaming back at the empathy-hoover of an automated voice on the end of a phone. We get though life by juggling dust. Unfortunately, it’s obligatory and non-negotiable whether we like it (we don’t) or not. We are not told about such things at our very beginning as we wet our pants, dribble and throw our food at parents. But it soon creeps up as we grow, as life kicks us in our financial, mental, and spiritual backsides. Them’s the unwritten rules. We are the jugglers of dust. Poof!

All life on earth could paved with such an endless abundance of love, joy and sustenance for all – if only it weren’t for one clutch of nasty little elements – humans. Or more accurately, the excremental (not a typo), labyrinthine undercurrents of human nature.

Add a heap of wealth to a nice human. Now sprinkle in some success. Stir in some hype, and add dollops of ego. Let it all cook slowly in government buildings, tv and film studios, organised religious churches and the like. Decorate with the lies and deception of the high-earning, low living accumulation of digitised, online Influencer detritus who throw their pixilated barbs into us for, follows, likes and cash.

Let it all simmer until you end up with charming a looking dish – totally inedible due to the rotten ingredients that steam and writhe within. I’d advise being in running distance of a toilet after gorging on all that.

Sounds bad? That’s us!

You still here? My apologies, and thanks.

It breaks my heart to see once-perfectly naturally beautiful girls and women, whose faces and bodies have been influenced, co-opted, branded and self-altered, become clones of one another. Lips are swollen into permanent pouts. Botox infused foreheads refuse natural expression, and (perfect?) eyebrows: waxed, tweezed, threaded, pencilled, tattooed and micro bladed within an inch of their once wild little lives.

Then we have the hollowed-out cheeks and the skull-like gauntness that haunt tabloids thanks to Ozempic or other dodgy alternatives. It was good at the start, they thought. Then . . .

The influencers make sure that natural beauty is never enough. A little fix here and there to begin with is never enough. Nothing is ever enough. We can all look never enough together until we all look exactly the same. Then comes thrill of the chase. More, more, more!

Addiction is its own savage and repulsive animal. But if it is fed daily by the greed and antipathy of the scum at the top of the mortality chain – it breeds and runs feral to the vulnerable who have already been emptied of the promises life once gave them. Its victims once the highest of intelligence and the most radiant of beauties, the strongest and most impenetrable of bodies and wills. But each will be stripped and ripped by the teeth of addiction into the most vulnerable and broken of souls. The animal is kept fed by the hand of the obsidian darkness, the bleakest of human nature. Fed by money, greed, desire; domination over every thing and every one. Nobody gets out with their dignity, beauty, finances, or souls intact. Nobody gets out alive.

As a child I used to believe in God. I was a cherubic little catholic; a choirboy and altar boy at my local church. I attended mass every Sunday. Now I don’t believe. Life saw to that. Nothing in particular happened. Life happened. But what sane god would allow the state of this once beautiful planet and its occupants to self-implode and burn like this? All tv and online news media are like scenes from Hellraiser and American Psycho. I’ve seen firsthand what organised religion can do to vulnerable, trusting people who become lost. All in the name of a loving god. They unwittingly lose their soul via their bank accounts and dignity. There are many, many genuinely good people of faith out there. There are. But devils walk among them dressed as angels and acolytes.

But god is not for me. I’ve never met a god that practices what he/she preaches. I’ve never met a god. Have you?

I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan. I’m an out-and-out carnivore. It’s in my (our) nature. I’m more than well aware, as we all are (or should be) of the sickening and horrific practices inflicted on innocent animals to get their meat to our oversized plates and mouths. I do feel that constant, distant rumble of guilt in my conscience as I chew on other-species flesh. But unfortunately, the meat still goes down. We carnivores shouldn’t be able to easily sleep at night. Our minds should be riddled constantly with deafening nightmares of the torture and depravity, perpetrated on our fellow, other-species earth dwellers. But sleep, we do. One day I will cut out meat altogether. I think it’s the right thing to do. They say ‘meat is murder.’ If you care about such things, I suppose technically, it is. I think about these things. I have a conscience. We all have a conscience!

But the slaying doesn’t stop at other-species.

And boy do we murder ourselves on a barbaric and disgustingly grand scale that would make Satan and his sick little minions wince a little as he hammers up the sign on Hell’s basement which says ‘No More Vacancies.’

Femicide, infanticide, genocide, suicide – pick a cide – but whatever cide you pick – it’s always the same cide of a bad cide of a bad lot. The inhuman side of human nature.

As children, we have the get-out clause written as the bliss of ignorance and innocence. As sane adults, we can’t use that same article. We’re willingly and gratefully ill-informed. We should know better, do better, be better. But we don’t.

If the human race were an actual greyhound race, we’d all starve to death in our wide-open traps, as the hare runs in endless circles.

You sill here? Wow! Help!

But all that stuff, the jet-black stuff, that’s all human nature gone wrong, stuff. The dark underbelly of a superb bit of still-evolving biological super-engineering, given as a gift from the universe to a spinning rock called earth. We schlepped out of the sea one day, many years ago and Bingo! You and me.

Humans. The average Joe. Joe Bloggs – just getting though life the best we can.

Always double-checking we are wearing pants before we walk out our front door, bleary-eyed in the morning. We fill our cars with trusting humans on the school run or work, and try not to hit and maim other biological familiars in similar, speedy tin-can transport. We start work and finish the day in the hopes of not trepanning our co-workers with a long, thick shard of coffee mug when they infuriate us. We bank on them giving us the same courtesy.

Most humans are fantastic ambassadors for upright, intelligent, and chatty biology. We do try our best on a daily basis. We really do. Although we only use a tiny fraction of our brain capacity, the miniscule part that we do benefit from is mostly put to good use. Mostly. We invented the wheel, some time ago, all by ourselves! We can pretty much take the credit for miracles of medical science. All the arts? Yep, all that was us. We also invented Love Island and TikTok, but we all make mistakes. We’re only human.

This post was supposed to be quite short. A rant and ramble about how life could be so wonderful if it were not for the hearts of darkness inside the small percentage of humans belching out smoke in front of distorted mirrors. The inflicting of so much pain on the rest of humankind, animal-kind, and ecological-kind. How recovery from addiction is made so much harder by the greed and soul-filth of others trying to drag us off our wagons and under the wheels. Why we are constantly influenced to be absolutely anything and everything, but ourselves. I could have just said that. But I didn’t.

If you made it this far, you’re a trooper and a star. Unfortunately, I can’t give you your time back. But I can give you thanks.

Thanks.

Take care everyone xx

More, Now, Again, by Elizabeth Wurtzel

I’m in the middle of writing a new post, so I thought I’d put up a short review of a great (or not) book I’ve recently read.

Published in 2002, More, Now, Again is Elizabeth Wurtzel’s second and final memoir.

In 1994, Elizabeth Wurtzel blasted into the literary scene with her searing, funny, and brutally honest debut memoir, Prozac Nation. It chronicles her treatment for depression and became an international bestseller, spawning a film of the same name starring Christina Ricci and Jessica Lange. But after her treatment and success, things didn’t pan out the way she hoped.

In 1998, I had a ticket to go and see her do a reading at Waterstone’s in Manchester when she was promoting her second book, Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women. For whatever reason, I didn’t go. I was probably busy doing nothing. What a dick! But it’s probably good that I didn’t, and this book recounts why.

More, Now, Again tells of Elizabeth’s downward spiral after the whirlwind of publicity and pressure of promoting Prozac Nation.

She takes herself away from friends, family, and other distractions to work on her new book. She can’t concentrate and sleeps too much. The book isn’t happening. Her therapist prescribes Ritalin, used for ADHD in children. The drug hits the spot and good things begin happening.

But she wants it to hit the spot better.

She crushes up her pills and snorts the prescribed dose.

She was right. It hit the spot better!

But then she’s snorting her medication forty-times a day until it runs out. Next, she’s hoovering-up vast quantities of cocaine and dragging various men in and out of bed. The self-harming, via her legs is getting out-of-hand.

The book isn’t going well. Things turn to shit. Elizabeth turns to shit. Life isn’t going well. Elizabeth isn’t going well.

Hospitals, detox, recovery house, etc, etc.

Elizabeth Wurtzel is completely self-obsessed, self-indulgent and needy. But most of all she really, really wants to tell us about it; how badly-done-to this privileged, beautiful Jewish girl is. Luckily, she’s a brutally talented and astute writer; hyper intelligent, extremely funny (the gallows-humour count is high in this one) and eye-wateringly honest.

I completely understand why many people despise this book (and they do, in droves).

She pisses people off. She always has, with her high and low opinions (of herself) and judgements.

But I’ve always loved her writing, and it’s such a shame she’s no longer with us. We need her more than ever now in this trash fire of a world. I miss her blazing honesty, intelligence and biting humour. I so wish I’d gone to see her in Manchester that day in 1998, when I was busy doing nothing. Again, now, more – what a dick!

You’ll probably be irritated beyond belief reading More, Now, Again – which is why you should definitely read it. If your irritation is such that it moves you to want to rip off your own arm and repeatedly slam the soggy and bloodied end in your face, you should definitely read Prozac Nation.

Or you may just adore them both as you fall in love with Elizabeth and her raw, beautiful writing. Your call. Good luck.

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

The Power of 7

Day 2,604

Well, so much for posting here on a regular basis, especially after making such a big deal about the irregularity and pitiful state of my old posts. But with 7 solid sober years under my belt this month, I thought I should at the very least show up where it all began and write, if only to remind myself on here.

* * *

I didn’t show up. I wrote the above paragraph on May 4th, with the honest intention of posting a lengthy piece of positivity-filled writing on my sober anniversary day (14th May). It’s now almost July. That’s as far as I got. Simply acknowledging it to myself on my hard drive. Sometimes that’s enough. God knows what you’ll get here by the time this is posted. If it ever gets posted. Good luck.

Anyway, the sober anniversary came and went, as all other types of days come and go. They start, things happen here and there, and then they end, until the next one begins. My day was pretty much the same as yours (unless you’re a serial killer or the fly on your screen that’s reading this). You get the picture. The anniversary is a metaphorical notch on my bedpost, minus the grunting, sweating, back ache and mess. I’m sure there are much better analogies than that but, hey-ho. Luckily nobody pays to read my literary incompetence, which lets me off the clarity and sanity hook.

I do feel a little disingenuous in celebrating the stopping of something (knowingly diluting my blood with alcohol) that I shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Especially when the world is spinning out of control like a trash fire and seemingly heading towards its own oblivion. Men, women, and children are having bombs raining down on them whilst snipers pick them off as they are starving to death. AI is being trained to steal the work of authors, musicians, and artists without having to bother with those pesky little details such as permission, copyright or the law. The climate is turning into an MRI machine, bombarding the burning earth and seas with this and that, and none of it good. Seasons are slowly going out of sequence. Countless people are living (dying) in debt, without being able to afford even the bare minimum to sustain themselves. They can’t afford to live. They can’t afford die.

As all the above biblical darkness and so much more continues; metal birds filled with breathing human life are falling from the skies, seemingly on a daily basis, creating non-breathing human non-life. Flooding, burning, infecting, shooting, stabbing, quaking, erupting, slaughtering, warring, dictator-ing, starving: dying-dying-dying.

End times? Near the end times? Or have times already ended without us knowing as we stare zombie-like with anaesthetised empathy at our phones? At least we’re not over there. At least we’re not them. At least it’s not my kids. At least it’s not me! Oh, a new TikTok with a cat!

Anyway! Happy thoughts, eh?

So, yours truly celebrating being a good boy for seven years doesn’t quite feel the same these days as it once did, especially after a few minutes of scrolling through the news. Maybe stop scrolling the doom? Reading the paper? Watching the news? Just pretend it’s not there?

In the old days my carpet bulged with all the things I’d swept underneath it. All the hidden life in-between floorboard and carpet made it hard to walk across the room, but at least I didn’t see or hear what I didn’t need to. It was worth the inconvenience. Or at least, that’s what alcohol told me. But now it’s no longer there to give me bad advice. It left (was kicked out) 7 years ago. My bad advice to myself is now completely my own and self-inflicted. Hey, let’s celebrate?

Well, I am. I’m simply not shouting it from the rooftops, phoning and emailing everybody I know. Gone are the days of posting my yearly joy on multiple social platforms and waiting for the ‘likes’ and congratulations to roll in (and they kindly did, because most people are nice and want to see others doing well). When my trusty sober app notified me last month of my achievement, pinging me awake in the morning, I may have given a little internal yay! before getting up, having breakfast, brushing my teeth, and beginning the day. I didn’t make anyone aware of the significance of the day.

In other words, I didn’t tell anybody. I’ve only told you, but I don’t know who you are, and that’s ok. Yay! Actually, I may have quietly told one or two people in passing that the date was arriving at some point, and they will have told me they were happy, maybe even proud. That’s enough.

I suppose the reality of getting on with my day, and living a life is quiet celebration enough. I’m making it sound like a silent disco – minus the dancing, and the people, and the music. Yep, another crap analogy. It sounded good at the time. But it’s free of charge.

Am I embarrassed about my recovery and it coming around every year? Is that why I’m not making a big deal about it?

Absolutely not.

But I am embarrassed that I haven’t achieved more with my sobriety. I’ve achieved a lot, much more than I thought I would ever do. But I’ve always been cursed with a brain that has placed a bar way too high for everything I do. I’m embarrassed by my internal procrastination and laziness. I’m embarrassed that I’ve lost control of my future, and I’m not exactly where I envisioned to be in my present. Maybe I’ve achieved enough (my mind gives the middle finger as I wrote that).

Facing the days head-on and tackling life’s shenanigans without the aid of my old liquid invisibility cloak, doesn’t make me want to sing it from the rooftops as I once did. Life without alcohol, and getting on with it no matter what, is simply, life. It’s what everybody does every day. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s a shitshow. The self-delusion was simpler with alcohol until that option had to be deleted. I can still delude myself, but it’s harder and wears off quicker.

Don’t get me wrong. If you’re reading this and your knuckles are white from being one day/week/month/year – clean and sober, you shout it from the fucking rooftops as loud as you can. Get on social media and tell everyone your amazing achievements. Post the screen captures of sobriety anniversaries. Go and visit your IRL (yes I can netspeak) friends and let them hug you with pride. Have some well-deserved LOL’s together. If you still have any family left, repeat all the above. Anything that makes you feel good, confident, motivated, and alive – do that. You completely and absolutely deserve it. You’re making the impossible, possible. You will make it if you want to make it. It’s the want bit that’s important. Being clean and sober is the most important and life-affirming thing you will ever do! Some people liken it to being a warrior. Be a warrior! Be the warrior in the army of yourself. In time, maybe you’ll help others in the fight. But it’s not obligatory. Do what you need to do, not what other people think you should do.

So, why haven’t I made my 7-year sober anniversary sound as amazing as you beginning your sober journey?

It is amazing. Firstly, it’s amazing I’m alive. It’s amazing I have retained enough brain cells to write all this stuff online to complete strangers. It’s amazing this account exists. It exists because I exist. It’s amazing I can hear birdsong in the rain. It’s amazing I witness the sun in the day and the moon at night. It’s amazing I have people who still want to be my friend. It’s amazing I can read all the books I want to read and listen to all the music I want to listen to. It’s amazing that my mum’s passing last year didn’t bring alcohol back into my life. It’s amazing that I’m employed and still employable. It’s amazing I can smile and laugh, sometimes when I don’t want to, but to make others smile and laugh. But the most amazing thing of all . . .

A card arriving with a present. The card said this:

Dad, HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!! Hope you take it easy and read a ton!

You’re an inspiration, thanks for being amazing and I’m proud of you every single day. Keep doing what you’re doing, you’re the best!

From your favourite son, love you loads xxx

If my sober anniversary didn’t come around every year – if my sober anniversary wasn’t amazing – if my sober anniversary didn’t exist – I would never get to read these stunning words from my son. I would never get to ever see or talk to him. I would never get to tell him how proud I am of him and how much I love him. I would never get to hear how proud he is of me and how much he loves me.

I would never get to feel how proud I am of myself.

I just never need to shout about it anymore. Or maybe, in a way, I just have. Shhh . . .

Take care everyone x

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

Brain, You’re Off The Hook!

Day 1,648.

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 actually writing it instead of thinking about writing. 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.

Until next time. Stay safe all xx