If you Google "Effexor withdrawal," you'll be rewarded with a host of results, many of which, from my less-than-scientific survey, detail the horrors of the ordeal. Go to askapatient.com, and you'll find plenty of examples of people telling you to avoid Effexor at all costs, that it's the worst medication in the history of the world, that Wyeth is evil, it's worse than coming off heroin....I've come across blogs on which people discuss their Effexor experiences.
One common refrain among those experiencing withdrawal concerns brain zaps. For lack of a better description, the cognoscenti describe the sensation as such. I can relate. For me, they typically occur when I turn my head suddenly and feel as if all the components fail to move in unison. Imagine "The Six Million Dollar Man" when the bionics are activated. N-n-n-n-n-n. Somehow my brain trails the rest of my head. Effexor withdrawal also makes me feel like I want to jump out of my skin. The way I imagine colicky babies feel when they clench and scream.
I've usually approached the reduction of my Effexor dosage gradually, one-quarter of a 75-milligram pill at a time. After a week, the next quarter. That has worked fairly well, though it hasn't been without incident. Any dosage adjustment, up or down, carries collateral effects.
So, here I go again. I've been taking 150 milligrams for the past month, and I'm going to taper. A little more aggressively this time, since I can't get a good night's fucking sleep. And the higher dosage has caused greater anxiety. Besides, I haven't had a drink in 23 days, and I don't feel like I'm losing weight. This I attribute to the Effexor, since I haven't altered my eating and exercise habits. Previously, I've taken Effexor and Remeron in conjunction, and then I was able to sleep. But Remeron packs more weight on people than any other antidepressant, from what I've observed. So, no Remeron. The doctor prescribed Klonopin for sleep. Klonopin is supposed to be among the most addictive medications available, though. I took it, anyway, and it made me drowsy, but it didn't alleviate the disruptive dreams and therefore offered me no respite. I must say, after about 10 days on it, the withdrawal was unpleasant. However, the Effexor withdrawal had disrupted sleep, so I have taken an ad hoc Klonopin.
I do like to take a Tramadol every now and then. Well, two at a minimum, since one doesn't do shit. Tramadol is a painkiller, which allegedly affects serotonin and has a weak affinity for some receptor or other. It's a pussy painkiller. Not like oxycodone. Originally I had it because I had some shoulder and back issues, but now I really just take it to take the edge off. I've told the doctor as much. I don't really know what the difference is between taking Tramadol or Effexor or whatever. If it works, why not use it? There seems to be a stigma attached to certain drugs. Effexor has the government's stamp of approval, so there's no issue with taking that. But from I can gather, it's as addictive as anything I've ever used. And it makes you fat and you have crazy dreams. I was held captive by bin Laden's group one night, and they didn't decapitate me or anything. I had some concern, however, that one of those goons was going to stab me in the leg. He didn't, at least not before the alarm came on in the morning. Antidepressants can tax your liver, make you heavy, inhibit orgasm and raise your blood pressure. Why not just drink? Yeah, I suppose you can function more effectively on the medicine, but it delivers less pleasure. A certain hypocrisy exists concerning one's approach.
Some doctors with whom I've been i contact have dismissed the side effects as inconsequential. I've read similar accounts from other patients. I guess if they see something that works, however ungracefully, particularly for patients with stubborn afflictions, they don't want to abandon it.
Perhaps salvation lies in the next new thing. Agomelatine has received approval in Europe but not in the U.S. Some have provided testimonials as to its effectiveness, but, like everything else, it's a mixed bag. It is supposed to help with sleep. I'll be dead before the appropriate medication surfaces.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Devil Inside
How do you tell your children about the beast who lurks within? When their uncomprehending eyes witness the latest eruption, when alcohol distorts behavior, when depression wraps its tentacles around your heart and brain and threatens to drag you into the abyss, how to explain?
I favor candor, but the desire to inform without frightening necessitates a certain balance. Anxiety and concern already occupy too much of Son No. 1's time. At least I have a frame of reference that helps to guide my approach. As an angst-riddled youth, I had nobody to whom I could turn for comfort. I try to ensure that he does.
Along those lines, I recently explained a transgression to him by indicting my behavior. I told him it's not acceptable for me to act like that, in case he thought it was all right. He said he didn't. My wife says the kids idolize me and that if I do it, they're likely to think that they can, too.
I suppose I could attempt to conceal the inner turbulence, but what happens when the kids experience the rage or the melancholia or the general disillusionment and wonder about its origins? When I consider the manner in which I was raised, and the resulting confusion, I'm convinced that the direct approach, tempered based on a judgment regarding the child's intellectual and emotional capacity, outshines obfuscation. When I consider my youth, I can't help but wonder what might have been had anyone possessed insight into the afflictions that beset our family. Perhaps it would be unreasonable to expect that from someone within the family, since such recognition presumably would lead to remedial activity and mitigate the unpleasant circumstances. Instead, the path of least of least resistance apparently offered the most attractive route. Maybe my mother's coping mechanism was such that she convinced herself that she was providing a true account. Many times she told me that I offered sage suggestions, yet she ignored them all. The one that most readily comes to mind involves my recommendation that we sell our big house and the associated responsibilities, while simultaneously ensuring that my brother(s) no longer would live with us. The alcohol, the drug selling, the violence, the disruptive late-night partying and wall-rattling decibel level made the situation unappealing for someone who hadn't yet hit his teens. And the household maintenance, which fell disproportionately to me, became one more burden to bear. But my mother, her faculties now further compromised by a stroke, never did reach the point at which she could extricate herself from my brother, from the co-dependent and dysfunctional.
So, does recognition equal a remedy. Not necessarily. The mere fact that I recognize self-destructive tendencies and their collateral effects doesn't mean that a solution comes easily or quickly. Were it so, I likely wouldn't be wrestling with this question of the day/week/month: How do I explain myself to my kids? Do I even need to explain myself? The ethos of a previous era would suggest that such introspection is counterproductive and that we owe our children no such consideration. This doesn't make me feel enlightened, just marginally sensible. I don't blow smoke up my kids' asses. If one of them swings at a pitch over his head, I ask why he swung at a pitch over his head. If they do well, I tell them they did well. I try to hold myself to the same standard, and maybe I'll have credibility with them if I at least set a good example in that respect. Not that acknowledging one's transgressions should necessarily lead to exoneration. But it's a start.
I joke that the kids will reach an age at which they'll resent their parents. The progression seems natural. But I hope that, on the other side of that resentment, they consider me worthy of their love and admiration. Maybe this is all an academic exercise. Maybe they won't experience even a fraction of what I have.
I favor candor, but the desire to inform without frightening necessitates a certain balance. Anxiety and concern already occupy too much of Son No. 1's time. At least I have a frame of reference that helps to guide my approach. As an angst-riddled youth, I had nobody to whom I could turn for comfort. I try to ensure that he does.
Along those lines, I recently explained a transgression to him by indicting my behavior. I told him it's not acceptable for me to act like that, in case he thought it was all right. He said he didn't. My wife says the kids idolize me and that if I do it, they're likely to think that they can, too.
I suppose I could attempt to conceal the inner turbulence, but what happens when the kids experience the rage or the melancholia or the general disillusionment and wonder about its origins? When I consider the manner in which I was raised, and the resulting confusion, I'm convinced that the direct approach, tempered based on a judgment regarding the child's intellectual and emotional capacity, outshines obfuscation. When I consider my youth, I can't help but wonder what might have been had anyone possessed insight into the afflictions that beset our family. Perhaps it would be unreasonable to expect that from someone within the family, since such recognition presumably would lead to remedial activity and mitigate the unpleasant circumstances. Instead, the path of least of least resistance apparently offered the most attractive route. Maybe my mother's coping mechanism was such that she convinced herself that she was providing a true account. Many times she told me that I offered sage suggestions, yet she ignored them all. The one that most readily comes to mind involves my recommendation that we sell our big house and the associated responsibilities, while simultaneously ensuring that my brother(s) no longer would live with us. The alcohol, the drug selling, the violence, the disruptive late-night partying and wall-rattling decibel level made the situation unappealing for someone who hadn't yet hit his teens. And the household maintenance, which fell disproportionately to me, became one more burden to bear. But my mother, her faculties now further compromised by a stroke, never did reach the point at which she could extricate herself from my brother, from the co-dependent and dysfunctional.
So, does recognition equal a remedy. Not necessarily. The mere fact that I recognize self-destructive tendencies and their collateral effects doesn't mean that a solution comes easily or quickly. Were it so, I likely wouldn't be wrestling with this question of the day/week/month: How do I explain myself to my kids? Do I even need to explain myself? The ethos of a previous era would suggest that such introspection is counterproductive and that we owe our children no such consideration. This doesn't make me feel enlightened, just marginally sensible. I don't blow smoke up my kids' asses. If one of them swings at a pitch over his head, I ask why he swung at a pitch over his head. If they do well, I tell them they did well. I try to hold myself to the same standard, and maybe I'll have credibility with them if I at least set a good example in that respect. Not that acknowledging one's transgressions should necessarily lead to exoneration. But it's a start.
I joke that the kids will reach an age at which they'll resent their parents. The progression seems natural. But I hope that, on the other side of that resentment, they consider me worthy of their love and admiration. Maybe this is all an academic exercise. Maybe they won't experience even a fraction of what I have.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (A Dry Spell)
I got a bad liver and a broken heart
And I've drunk me a river since you tore me apart
I don't have a drinking problem
'Cept when I can't get a drink. --Tom Waits
There's a lot of doctors that tell me
You better start slowin' it down
But there's more old drunks
Than there are old doctors
So I guess I better have another round. --Willie Nelson
However much I booze, there ain't no way out. Pete Townshend
There probably are about a zillion other songs that deal with drinking. Relationships likely top the list of song subject matter, but I bet drinking is up there. I remember a Country song, even, where the guy sings about how life isn't fun since he quit drinking. Actually, it's called "You Ain't Much Fun,'" by Toby Keith. I just looked it up.
Anyway, I think I need to take a shot at abstaining from alcohol (pun intended), at least for a while. There just have been one too many times of too much drinking. Or a hundred too many. Or a thousand. I don't know anymore.
I don't think I'm an alcoholic, but some people, using certain definitions, probably would consider me one. Frames of reference differ. While some people might consider four drinks excessive, my friends and I consider it a minimum, an appetizer of sorts. I am, however, an alcohol abuser. I have difficulty controlling the quantity I imbibe, once I get started. And I don't really see the point of having a few beers. I drink for the altered state.
The gastroenterologist tells me he can feel the edge of my liver, indicating the organ is fatty. Fatty liver can lead to hepatitis, which can progress to cirrhosis, which killed my father. My liver-function blood test came back normal about a month ago, and if the liver is indeed fatty, it will repair itself during abstinence. If you drink, days off apparently are a crucial aspect of maintaining a healthy liver. I take plenty of days off, which is one of the reasons I don't think I'm an alcoholic. The GI doctor routinely tells me to stop drinking. He says he doesn't know if I would end up as one of those people whose organs start to fail as they age, but he fears I could be setting myself up for problems in about 20 years.
There's no time like the present to, at the least, take a break. To let my fatty liver slim down. To prove that I can do it. Reasons always abound for procrastination. I'd like to see how I feel, physically and psychologically, after abstaining for a while. To see how I feel on an antidepressant without alcohol. I have to say, though, that I have felt pretty bad in the past without alcohol and antidepressants. Pete Hamill, in "A Drinking Life," said he felt better after about a month after he stopped drinking. I exercise pretty heavily, so I wonder if I'll lose weight. Probably not, because of the antidepressants. I had about five drinks the night before I ran a half-marathon last month.
Is alcoholism/alcohol abuse a disease? The doctor says it is. Give me a fucking pill, then. The ones I'm taking don't cut it. I have observed that for some people there's never enough alcohol, while others can take it or leave it. There has to be a physical component to that. I don't think it's my fault that I have difficulty stopping once I start. I don't set out to do it intentionally. Maybe my ultimate goal should be to get to the point where I can control it. First things first, though--a break is in order. Perhaps I won't want to resume after a hiatus.
So, how do I go about this? The GI guy told me all the people he knows who have quit drinking (mostly patients, I'd guess), say AA is the way. One day at a time. But I don't fancy standing up in front of a roomful of people and introducing myself as an alcoholic. Particularly because I don't think I am. So many denials must make it seem like I'm trying to talk myself out of the realization that I actually am an alcoholic. Except I'm not. Anyhow, these programs say you have to admit a problem exists. I do acknowledge the existence of a problem. But I don't see 12 steps as the route:
Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over our addiction - that our lives had become unmanageable.
Maybe, maybe not. I don't think so, though.
Step 2: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Am I insane? I've never thought so. And who is this power greater than ourselves?
Step 3: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God.
Here I would have a problem. Is there a difference between steps 2 and 3?
Step 4: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
I do this routinely, anyway. I'd be happier if I were like my mother and avoided a moral inventory at all costs.
Step 5: Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
I've admitted to myself and the people who matter. Again with God.
Step 6: Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
Does anybody detect a pattern here?
Step 7: Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings.
Oh, for Chrissake.
Step 8: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
I'm not aware of anyone I've harmed with whom I haven't made amends.
Step 9: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
This seems like a substep of step 8.
Step 10: Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
Don't think I have a problem here. And this is like a substep of Step 4. Step 4b.
Step 11: Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood God, praying only for knowledge of God's will for us and the power to carry that out.
This seems redundant.
Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other addicts, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
I don't think so.
With two steps containing substeps, it's like only 10 steps really exist. And if you combine all the God steps, that would make one out of six. When you combine the substeps with their paternal steps, and you've combined the God steps, you're left with five steps.
I didn't have the greatest experience when I went to Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings when I was in college. Those people were serious. I mean, I didn't feel great, but some of those folks seemed like their heads were going to explode. One night, a gentleman who must have been about 25 years my senior, struck up a conversation with me. I shudder to think of this now, but he invites me back to his condo, and we're going to meet his younger friend there. So we're there, and this guy has a piano, and he's playing French love songs....I know, I know. But I really didn't get it until my friends laughed so hard that they nearly pissed themselves. I did manage to get out of there physically, if not psychologically, unscathed. There was another time when a gay guy expressed interest in me, but even I couldn't miss that signal: He said I didn't have be gay to let someone suck my cock.
So I figure I'll just take this break on my own. For how long, I don't know, but I'm looking at maybe a month. Maybe less. I'll see how I feel. A month seems to be the experts' consensus--if you can abstain for that long, you don't have a problem. I don't want to entertain the prospect of not being able to drink under certain circumstances.
I quit tobacco on my own more than three years ago, so I can abstain from drink, I suspect. My habit involved primarily smokeless tobacco. Copenhagen. For the longest time, I chewed my thumbnails and rendered them useless. Now I have thumbnails, perfect for opening cans of tobacco, and no tobacco on which to use them. The effects of tobacco withdrawal immediately descended upon me and convinced me that I had made a grave mistake by having used tobacco in the first place and that forgoing it somehow precipitated my peril. I became lost in the throes of depression, which provided an impetus for me to resume medication. I remember the distinct moment when the withdrawal peaked, forcing perspiration out of my body in a shudder, as if in a final purge. My jaw stopped hurting, and the lesions inside my mouth that appeared after I desisted, the ones I swore were malignant, began to heal. The tingling in my back and neck subsided. According to what I've read, that tingling resulted from the increased oxygen flow, in the absence of nicotine. Who knows? Maybe it's all bullshit. But there are documented similar experiences. And I know what I felt. Some people, on the Internet, of course, say withdrawal from smokeless tobacco affected them more negatively than quitting smoking. I think another person said it was harder than heroin. Or crack or something. I can't relate to that. It did suck. So far, nothing even remotely similar with respect to alcohol. See, I told you all I'm not an alcoholic. Withdrawal from tobacco demonstrated, to my surprise, that I had a physical dependency. Not so with the sauce. That's good, though I'm not trying to justify the sometime abuse of alcohol.
A big part of the difficulty in relinquishing tobacco involved psychology. I had grown so accustomed to chewing tobacco when I...did virtually anything. Walking the dog. Washing the car. Fishing. Working out. Reading a book. And on and on. Alcohol hasn't achieved the same prominence. It couldn't; I'd be dead. I do, however, have some questions. During the times in which I would normally drink, what am I going to do now? Caroline Knapp, in her memoir, "Drinking: A Love Story," wrote about watching the movie "Clean and Sober," with Michael Keaton. Apparently he comes home after rehab and is sitting in his apartment wondering what the fuck to do. She said she felt just like that. I don't feel so much like that. The kids alone can keep one pretty busy. I suppose I can try to be constructive in the time during which I normally would drink. But I've also wondered what I'm going to do with no vice. I can't remember living without a vice. I need an addiction, goddamnit. I'm addicted to addiction. Negligible caffeine, no tobacco and no alcohol for a spell. I risk becoming an ascetic.
I never had an epiphany regarding tobacco. I didn't awaken one morning and think, 'I've had it.' I did have a lump inside my mouth, though, that may have started me down that course. The dentist said it was nothing, but when it didn't go down after about six months, I visited the oral surgeon. He said it was a fibroma, from biting my cheek. He removed it with some radio-loop technology that enabled him to scoop it out, the smell of burning flesh left in its wake. He sent it for a biopsy, anyway, just in case his certainty about its benign nature proved incorrect. I remember how I felt when I detected that lump and it wouldn't go away, and perhaps that provided the catalyst for me to stop. With drinking, I've similarly not had an epiphany, exactly. I have recently felt as if I haven't been setting the best example for my children, so that weighs on my psyche. As a youth, I thought that an approximation of me to my father fell outside the realm of possibility. As someone with a few more years under his belt, the notion that fewer dissimilarities exist than I thought has proved disconcerting. But, alas, he left his family and drank himself to death. He left me.
I have felt more that the manner in which I've been drinking has run its course, just as I felt with the tobacco. If I resume drinking, the pattern has to change. The manner in which I've approached drinking over the past few years doesn't lend itself to long-term sustainability. Maybe 20 years. Maybe 30. I don't know. Perhaps fewer. I'm reminded of a woman I read about in a Wall Street Journal science column concerning longevity and genetics. A researcher on aging is quoted as saying: "I have a woman who recently celebrated 91 years of cigarette smoking," says Dr. Barzilai. "She is 106 now."
Nevertheless, the medication I take taxes the liver a bit already, and even though my liver function remains sterling, it could use a rest and I could refrain from piling on. And that smoking 106-year-old is probably the exception. More than once I've put not just myself, but my family, in a precarious position. I might have a disease, or at least the seeds of one, but that doesn't mean I should spread it. People with AIDS shouldn't have unprotected sex.
Abstinence, even if temporary, does carry some benefits. I'll have more money. When I quit tobacco, I started putting away $40 every two weeks, roughly the amount I spent on Copenhagen. Over three years, I saved more than $3,000. But what is money when compared with overall well-being? In fact, money is part of well-being. I'm not yet convinced that abstinence enhances well-being. I won't wake up in the morning with a headache, though they usually go away within a few hours. But I won't wake up not recollecting what transpired the night before...at least not because of drinking. I guess my health will benefit, though the doctor has said that my cholesterol numbers, which are off the charts in a good way, likely have benefited from drinking. Maybe I'll lose weight. I think I've exhausted my list. Perhaps I've fried too many brain cells drinking, rendering me unable to compile a more comprehensive list.
The negative aspect of teetotalling I suspect is hard to convey to people who aren't as inclined to seek respite through the bottle. The absence of a lubricant makes me an even more antisocial miscreant. With alcohol, confidence increases, apprehensions fall by the wayside. The troubles with which I'm so preoccupied go on hiatus. Beer is one thing. It can taste good, but I wouldn't drink it if it didn't have alcohol. It can make you feel bloated sometimes, also. Whiskey is quite another matter. I'm not into the aesthetics of drinking like the aforementioned Caroline Knapp. She described the shape of the bottle, the beads of sweat on the outside, the sounds of the pour. Her writing on the subject contains some eroticism. While I do admire the color of a fine bourbon, the therapeutic effects don't begin until it hits the tongue. A few passes under the tongue, a few brushes with the upper palate, the burning sensation, followed by the swallow, the whiskey's coursing. Then the aftereffect, what the pretentious connoisseurs call the "finish." How long the burn and the taste linger. These aficionados say you taste with your nose; I can smell some vanilla sometimes in bourbon, but I guess my nose and palate are unsophisticated. I don't get the grass and citrus and oak. Orange peel and lemon rind. Peppery, buttery. Toffee. Pair it with this food. Beer people do the same thing. Give me a fucking break. It all brings to mind a "Rescue Me" episode in which Maura Tierney says it all tastes like alcohol to her. Touche. Of course, my use of French words, especially in a confessional of this nature, might seem pretentious, also. Right on.
What I'm doing involves breaking a pattern, not completely abandoning a life of sin. That's what I'm telling myself. I could have used a beer while writing this, also.
And I've drunk me a river since you tore me apart
I don't have a drinking problem
'Cept when I can't get a drink. --Tom Waits
There's a lot of doctors that tell me
You better start slowin' it down
But there's more old drunks
Than there are old doctors
So I guess I better have another round. --Willie Nelson
However much I booze, there ain't no way out. Pete Townshend
There probably are about a zillion other songs that deal with drinking. Relationships likely top the list of song subject matter, but I bet drinking is up there. I remember a Country song, even, where the guy sings about how life isn't fun since he quit drinking. Actually, it's called "You Ain't Much Fun,'" by Toby Keith. I just looked it up.
Anyway, I think I need to take a shot at abstaining from alcohol (pun intended), at least for a while. There just have been one too many times of too much drinking. Or a hundred too many. Or a thousand. I don't know anymore.
I don't think I'm an alcoholic, but some people, using certain definitions, probably would consider me one. Frames of reference differ. While some people might consider four drinks excessive, my friends and I consider it a minimum, an appetizer of sorts. I am, however, an alcohol abuser. I have difficulty controlling the quantity I imbibe, once I get started. And I don't really see the point of having a few beers. I drink for the altered state.
The gastroenterologist tells me he can feel the edge of my liver, indicating the organ is fatty. Fatty liver can lead to hepatitis, which can progress to cirrhosis, which killed my father. My liver-function blood test came back normal about a month ago, and if the liver is indeed fatty, it will repair itself during abstinence. If you drink, days off apparently are a crucial aspect of maintaining a healthy liver. I take plenty of days off, which is one of the reasons I don't think I'm an alcoholic. The GI doctor routinely tells me to stop drinking. He says he doesn't know if I would end up as one of those people whose organs start to fail as they age, but he fears I could be setting myself up for problems in about 20 years.
There's no time like the present to, at the least, take a break. To let my fatty liver slim down. To prove that I can do it. Reasons always abound for procrastination. I'd like to see how I feel, physically and psychologically, after abstaining for a while. To see how I feel on an antidepressant without alcohol. I have to say, though, that I have felt pretty bad in the past without alcohol and antidepressants. Pete Hamill, in "A Drinking Life," said he felt better after about a month after he stopped drinking. I exercise pretty heavily, so I wonder if I'll lose weight. Probably not, because of the antidepressants. I had about five drinks the night before I ran a half-marathon last month.
Is alcoholism/alcohol abuse a disease? The doctor says it is. Give me a fucking pill, then. The ones I'm taking don't cut it. I have observed that for some people there's never enough alcohol, while others can take it or leave it. There has to be a physical component to that. I don't think it's my fault that I have difficulty stopping once I start. I don't set out to do it intentionally. Maybe my ultimate goal should be to get to the point where I can control it. First things first, though--a break is in order. Perhaps I won't want to resume after a hiatus.
So, how do I go about this? The GI guy told me all the people he knows who have quit drinking (mostly patients, I'd guess), say AA is the way. One day at a time. But I don't fancy standing up in front of a roomful of people and introducing myself as an alcoholic. Particularly because I don't think I am. So many denials must make it seem like I'm trying to talk myself out of the realization that I actually am an alcoholic. Except I'm not. Anyhow, these programs say you have to admit a problem exists. I do acknowledge the existence of a problem. But I don't see 12 steps as the route:
Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over our addiction - that our lives had become unmanageable.
Maybe, maybe not. I don't think so, though.
Step 2: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Am I insane? I've never thought so. And who is this power greater than ourselves?
Step 3: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God.
Here I would have a problem. Is there a difference between steps 2 and 3?
Step 4: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
I do this routinely, anyway. I'd be happier if I were like my mother and avoided a moral inventory at all costs.
Step 5: Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
I've admitted to myself and the people who matter. Again with God.
Step 6: Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
Does anybody detect a pattern here?
Step 7: Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings.
Oh, for Chrissake.
Step 8: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
I'm not aware of anyone I've harmed with whom I haven't made amends.
Step 9: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
This seems like a substep of step 8.
Step 10: Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
Don't think I have a problem here. And this is like a substep of Step 4. Step 4b.
Step 11: Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood God, praying only for knowledge of God's will for us and the power to carry that out.
This seems redundant.
Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other addicts, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
I don't think so.
With two steps containing substeps, it's like only 10 steps really exist. And if you combine all the God steps, that would make one out of six. When you combine the substeps with their paternal steps, and you've combined the God steps, you're left with five steps.
I didn't have the greatest experience when I went to Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings when I was in college. Those people were serious. I mean, I didn't feel great, but some of those folks seemed like their heads were going to explode. One night, a gentleman who must have been about 25 years my senior, struck up a conversation with me. I shudder to think of this now, but he invites me back to his condo, and we're going to meet his younger friend there. So we're there, and this guy has a piano, and he's playing French love songs....I know, I know. But I really didn't get it until my friends laughed so hard that they nearly pissed themselves. I did manage to get out of there physically, if not psychologically, unscathed. There was another time when a gay guy expressed interest in me, but even I couldn't miss that signal: He said I didn't have be gay to let someone suck my cock.
So I figure I'll just take this break on my own. For how long, I don't know, but I'm looking at maybe a month. Maybe less. I'll see how I feel. A month seems to be the experts' consensus--if you can abstain for that long, you don't have a problem. I don't want to entertain the prospect of not being able to drink under certain circumstances.
I quit tobacco on my own more than three years ago, so I can abstain from drink, I suspect. My habit involved primarily smokeless tobacco. Copenhagen. For the longest time, I chewed my thumbnails and rendered them useless. Now I have thumbnails, perfect for opening cans of tobacco, and no tobacco on which to use them. The effects of tobacco withdrawal immediately descended upon me and convinced me that I had made a grave mistake by having used tobacco in the first place and that forgoing it somehow precipitated my peril. I became lost in the throes of depression, which provided an impetus for me to resume medication. I remember the distinct moment when the withdrawal peaked, forcing perspiration out of my body in a shudder, as if in a final purge. My jaw stopped hurting, and the lesions inside my mouth that appeared after I desisted, the ones I swore were malignant, began to heal. The tingling in my back and neck subsided. According to what I've read, that tingling resulted from the increased oxygen flow, in the absence of nicotine. Who knows? Maybe it's all bullshit. But there are documented similar experiences. And I know what I felt. Some people, on the Internet, of course, say withdrawal from smokeless tobacco affected them more negatively than quitting smoking. I think another person said it was harder than heroin. Or crack or something. I can't relate to that. It did suck. So far, nothing even remotely similar with respect to alcohol. See, I told you all I'm not an alcoholic. Withdrawal from tobacco demonstrated, to my surprise, that I had a physical dependency. Not so with the sauce. That's good, though I'm not trying to justify the sometime abuse of alcohol.
A big part of the difficulty in relinquishing tobacco involved psychology. I had grown so accustomed to chewing tobacco when I...did virtually anything. Walking the dog. Washing the car. Fishing. Working out. Reading a book. And on and on. Alcohol hasn't achieved the same prominence. It couldn't; I'd be dead. I do, however, have some questions. During the times in which I would normally drink, what am I going to do now? Caroline Knapp, in her memoir, "Drinking: A Love Story," wrote about watching the movie "Clean and Sober," with Michael Keaton. Apparently he comes home after rehab and is sitting in his apartment wondering what the fuck to do. She said she felt just like that. I don't feel so much like that. The kids alone can keep one pretty busy. I suppose I can try to be constructive in the time during which I normally would drink. But I've also wondered what I'm going to do with no vice. I can't remember living without a vice. I need an addiction, goddamnit. I'm addicted to addiction. Negligible caffeine, no tobacco and no alcohol for a spell. I risk becoming an ascetic.
I never had an epiphany regarding tobacco. I didn't awaken one morning and think, 'I've had it.' I did have a lump inside my mouth, though, that may have started me down that course. The dentist said it was nothing, but when it didn't go down after about six months, I visited the oral surgeon. He said it was a fibroma, from biting my cheek. He removed it with some radio-loop technology that enabled him to scoop it out, the smell of burning flesh left in its wake. He sent it for a biopsy, anyway, just in case his certainty about its benign nature proved incorrect. I remember how I felt when I detected that lump and it wouldn't go away, and perhaps that provided the catalyst for me to stop. With drinking, I've similarly not had an epiphany, exactly. I have recently felt as if I haven't been setting the best example for my children, so that weighs on my psyche. As a youth, I thought that an approximation of me to my father fell outside the realm of possibility. As someone with a few more years under his belt, the notion that fewer dissimilarities exist than I thought has proved disconcerting. But, alas, he left his family and drank himself to death. He left me.
I have felt more that the manner in which I've been drinking has run its course, just as I felt with the tobacco. If I resume drinking, the pattern has to change. The manner in which I've approached drinking over the past few years doesn't lend itself to long-term sustainability. Maybe 20 years. Maybe 30. I don't know. Perhaps fewer. I'm reminded of a woman I read about in a Wall Street Journal science column concerning longevity and genetics. A researcher on aging is quoted as saying: "I have a woman who recently celebrated 91 years of cigarette smoking," says Dr. Barzilai. "She is 106 now."
Nevertheless, the medication I take taxes the liver a bit already, and even though my liver function remains sterling, it could use a rest and I could refrain from piling on. And that smoking 106-year-old is probably the exception. More than once I've put not just myself, but my family, in a precarious position. I might have a disease, or at least the seeds of one, but that doesn't mean I should spread it. People with AIDS shouldn't have unprotected sex.
Abstinence, even if temporary, does carry some benefits. I'll have more money. When I quit tobacco, I started putting away $40 every two weeks, roughly the amount I spent on Copenhagen. Over three years, I saved more than $3,000. But what is money when compared with overall well-being? In fact, money is part of well-being. I'm not yet convinced that abstinence enhances well-being. I won't wake up in the morning with a headache, though they usually go away within a few hours. But I won't wake up not recollecting what transpired the night before...at least not because of drinking. I guess my health will benefit, though the doctor has said that my cholesterol numbers, which are off the charts in a good way, likely have benefited from drinking. Maybe I'll lose weight. I think I've exhausted my list. Perhaps I've fried too many brain cells drinking, rendering me unable to compile a more comprehensive list.
The negative aspect of teetotalling I suspect is hard to convey to people who aren't as inclined to seek respite through the bottle. The absence of a lubricant makes me an even more antisocial miscreant. With alcohol, confidence increases, apprehensions fall by the wayside. The troubles with which I'm so preoccupied go on hiatus. Beer is one thing. It can taste good, but I wouldn't drink it if it didn't have alcohol. It can make you feel bloated sometimes, also. Whiskey is quite another matter. I'm not into the aesthetics of drinking like the aforementioned Caroline Knapp. She described the shape of the bottle, the beads of sweat on the outside, the sounds of the pour. Her writing on the subject contains some eroticism. While I do admire the color of a fine bourbon, the therapeutic effects don't begin until it hits the tongue. A few passes under the tongue, a few brushes with the upper palate, the burning sensation, followed by the swallow, the whiskey's coursing. Then the aftereffect, what the pretentious connoisseurs call the "finish." How long the burn and the taste linger. These aficionados say you taste with your nose; I can smell some vanilla sometimes in bourbon, but I guess my nose and palate are unsophisticated. I don't get the grass and citrus and oak. Orange peel and lemon rind. Peppery, buttery. Toffee. Pair it with this food. Beer people do the same thing. Give me a fucking break. It all brings to mind a "Rescue Me" episode in which Maura Tierney says it all tastes like alcohol to her. Touche. Of course, my use of French words, especially in a confessional of this nature, might seem pretentious, also. Right on.
What I'm doing involves breaking a pattern, not completely abandoning a life of sin. That's what I'm telling myself. I could have used a beer while writing this, also.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Suicidal Possum Meets the Indecisive Squirrel
The possum, standing on the roadside as daylight waned awaiting a car in whose path he could run, spied soft headlights in the distance and prepared for his denouement.
As the vehicle approached, the possum gathered his resolve, like a Baghdad suicide bomber, when out the corner of his eye he discerned movement. His concentration thus unraveled, the possum found his opportunity usurped by a squirrel that sprinted past him and into the path of the oncoming car.
The squirrel, lacking premeditation and perhaps foresight, appeared to have second thoughts about his mad dash into the street and turned back in the direction from which he had come, like a furry gray rodent stricken with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. But as soon as he had turned back, he thought it reasonable to reverse course again, the 50-mile-an-hour vehicle quickly closing the gap in a 25-m.p.h. zone. The bemused opossum watched as once more the squirrel turned toward him, changing direction for the third time.
"Squirrel," the opossum asked, "what the fuck are you doing?"
But the squirrel again had headed for the opposite curb, at which point he could have measured the tread of the vehicle's front right tire had he been so inclined. Apparently not so predisposed, the squirrel again veered toward the possum and the car passed.
"What are you doing?" the possum inquired.
"Fuck you," replied the squirrel, "and what were you doing standing there like that alongside the road, anyway?"
"I was waiting for my chance to get across."
"Bullshit. I saw you from 50 yards away, and you had plenty of time to cross before that car came. You're being disingenuous."
"Well, I was preoccupied for a moment," the possum answered.
"Preoccupied with what?"
"With whether or not some stupid squirrel would come along and mess up my chance to cross the street."
"I don't think so. I've seen enough possums flattened like pancakes to know that you're either the dumbest creatures that ever lived or you have suicidal proclivities."
The possum blew out a thin stream of breath and settled back on his haunches, asphalt pebbles pocking his skin. "I was thinking about health-care reform and financial-market regulation."
"I don't have time to think about that. I'm just worried about getting across this road."
"I hear ya," the possum replied.
A cool breeze carried stinging roadside particles along on a current of air.
"This is it, squirrel."
"What do you mean, this is it?"
"Well, what else is there?"
"For one thing, if I ever get across this fucking road I'm going to scavenge for some acorns. I can't go a day without some." The squirrel lifted his right leg and scratched his ear, staccato-like.
A car slipped by, and the animals felt the vibrations of the pulsing bass beat.
"I hate that shit," the possum said.
"Me, fucking, too."
"You ever go in that yard there?" the possum asked, gesturing with his head over his right shoulder.
"Yeah, some dog."
"That bitch won't leave me alone."
"They're like that," said the squirrel. "Don't kid yourself that they're not. Sometimes she seems friendly, but then the teeth come out."
A car, with a dead deer lashed to the hood, passed.
"You suppose they hit that deer with the car or shot it and tied it there or picked it up off the side of the road?" asked the possum.
"Shot it, I guess. Deer don't have anywhere to go, then they get shot. Could be you splayed on the front of that car."
"Or you."
"See you next time, possum."
"Yeah, squirrel, maybe so, maybe so."
As the vehicle approached, the possum gathered his resolve, like a Baghdad suicide bomber, when out the corner of his eye he discerned movement. His concentration thus unraveled, the possum found his opportunity usurped by a squirrel that sprinted past him and into the path of the oncoming car.
The squirrel, lacking premeditation and perhaps foresight, appeared to have second thoughts about his mad dash into the street and turned back in the direction from which he had come, like a furry gray rodent stricken with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. But as soon as he had turned back, he thought it reasonable to reverse course again, the 50-mile-an-hour vehicle quickly closing the gap in a 25-m.p.h. zone. The bemused opossum watched as once more the squirrel turned toward him, changing direction for the third time.
"Squirrel," the opossum asked, "what the fuck are you doing?"
But the squirrel again had headed for the opposite curb, at which point he could have measured the tread of the vehicle's front right tire had he been so inclined. Apparently not so predisposed, the squirrel again veered toward the possum and the car passed.
"What are you doing?" the possum inquired.
"Fuck you," replied the squirrel, "and what were you doing standing there like that alongside the road, anyway?"
"I was waiting for my chance to get across."
"Bullshit. I saw you from 50 yards away, and you had plenty of time to cross before that car came. You're being disingenuous."
"Well, I was preoccupied for a moment," the possum answered.
"Preoccupied with what?"
"With whether or not some stupid squirrel would come along and mess up my chance to cross the street."
"I don't think so. I've seen enough possums flattened like pancakes to know that you're either the dumbest creatures that ever lived or you have suicidal proclivities."
The possum blew out a thin stream of breath and settled back on his haunches, asphalt pebbles pocking his skin. "I was thinking about health-care reform and financial-market regulation."
"I don't have time to think about that. I'm just worried about getting across this road."
"I hear ya," the possum replied.
A cool breeze carried stinging roadside particles along on a current of air.
"This is it, squirrel."
"What do you mean, this is it?"
"Well, what else is there?"
"For one thing, if I ever get across this fucking road I'm going to scavenge for some acorns. I can't go a day without some." The squirrel lifted his right leg and scratched his ear, staccato-like.
A car slipped by, and the animals felt the vibrations of the pulsing bass beat.
"I hate that shit," the possum said.
"Me, fucking, too."
"You ever go in that yard there?" the possum asked, gesturing with his head over his right shoulder.
"Yeah, some dog."
"That bitch won't leave me alone."
"They're like that," said the squirrel. "Don't kid yourself that they're not. Sometimes she seems friendly, but then the teeth come out."
A car, with a dead deer lashed to the hood, passed.
"You suppose they hit that deer with the car or shot it and tied it there or picked it up off the side of the road?" asked the possum.
"Shot it, I guess. Deer don't have anywhere to go, then they get shot. Could be you splayed on the front of that car."
"Or you."
"See you next time, possum."
"Yeah, squirrel, maybe so, maybe so."
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