Gracias, Mrs. Ford

Just thinking (always a dangerous occupation for me) about former the former First Lady, Cancer and Addiction Survivor.

I'm not sure, and even if I was sure it's only my opinion, but I kinda think that this one lady has probably saved more lives than anyone else since Bill & Dr. Bob (for my non-drunk friends out there, they are the two founders of AA - a great story to check out some day even if you're not "one of us"), and if you factor in the countless lives she saved by going public with her fight against Cancer, maybe even more successful.

That being said, there are times I wonder if alkies & addicts wouldn't maybe be better off without a "Betty Ford Center," or "Celebrity Rehab," or any of the countless, pointless references to sobriety that society is bombarded with these days.  Don't get me wrong, there is no way I would ever say that someone doesn't deserve their shot (or, like me, multiple shots) at sobriety; but to my way of thinking there is something fundamentally wrong with wearing an addiction - or a recovery - as a "badge of honor" or some other kind of claim to fame.  No doubt there are people who have seen somebody famous get cleaned up and thought that maybe they could give it a shot as well, and just the fact that we don't necessarily need to hide in the shadows is a good thing (usually), but the fact remains, for every one who "gets it" there are 20 or more who don't.  For every Tom Watson, Stevie Ray Vaughn, or yes, even Betty herself, there are way too many Lindsay Lohans, Gary Buseys, or Charlie Sheens who give the recovering public a black eye.  It's bad enough that people already think of AA as a religion, a cult, a crutch, or any of the other, shall we say, not so nice things - and I know that AA, NA, CA, and all the other "A's" are not the only way to get or stay sober - but every time one of these yahoos goes back out amongst 'em, at least part of the blame usually gets placed on a 12 Step program's door step.

Not really sure where I expected this to go, but I guess my point was that I just wanted to say Thanks to someone who at least helped to make some people realize that we're not all bums & gutter trash.  


R.I.P.

Well, here goes nothin'...

Against my better judgement, I'm gonna give this thing a try.  

Couple of things before the show starts:
  
The title is kinda sorta from a Kris Kristofferson song - "The Pilgrim, Chapt. 33" - one of these first days I'll post the lyrics for those of you who a) don't know how to work YouTube, or b) either aren't into song lyrics (or are the kind of people who think Jimi Hendrix' song really did say "'scuse me, while I kiss this guy") Those of you who've known me for awhile will understand, and those who don't probably won't be reading anyway.

I know myself well enough to know that this more than likely won't turn into a "regular" thing - I'm not that great with schedules/deadlines/pressure, plus the fact I tend to get bored and/or get burned out easily, so if you're looking for posts on any kind of a regular schedule, sorry in advance. 

I guess from the few of these things I've read that the first thing to do is some kind of an introduction, so with that in mind I'm gonna copy & paste an essay I wrote at CWI - my English & Psych professors and a few others who've read it thought it was OK, plus I'm too lazy to start over from scratch...

A LIFE (Abridged Version)

Russ Keely

It’s depressing to think that your greatest achievements in life happened when you were a senior in high school, especially when high school was 30 years ago.  When the event had all the makings of a cheesy made-for-TV movie or maybe a teen radio song, it almost makes it worse.

The last football game of senior year, in front of the home crowd, and of course the “hero’s” dad is in the stands for one of the few times in his entire career.  Riding the bench this season like he has pretty much every year since he started playing in fifth grade, nobody expects much from the one armed kid – but they always say they admire him trying.  The home team stomps the visitors bad enough that the coach lets the scrubs go out and play, even the third-string tight end who hardly gets thrown to in practice, let alone in a game.  Except for the fact that I didn’t score a touchdown, Disney couldn’t have scripted it any better:  I’m wide open (what coach is going to tell his players to make sure they keep an eye on that crippled kid) and the quarterback actually throws the ball at me and to everybody’s amazement, including mine, I catch the damn thing.  Thirty yards and just like they say in the movies, the crowd goes wild.  I still get goose bumps thinking about it sometimes.

Cut to a few hours later and the real handicap shows up.  After working a shift at McDonalds – being a gridiron hero didn’t pay squat back in those days – I got a ride to the kegger from my best friend (because I spent half my senior year grounded from driving) and proceeded to make up for lost time.  Looking back on it, I’m not sure which was more embarrassing:  drinking until I got sick every weekend, having it become such common knowledge that any time anybody else got sick they called it “pulling a Keely,” or the fact that everyone at school knew just exactly what “pulling a Keely” meant.

When you grow up with one arm, it is sometimes difficult to convince others that your greatest handicap isn’t necessarily the one that they can see, but the one you fight on a daily basis in your mind.  Trust me; if I had a say in the matter, I would much rather have a missing body part than to be afflicted with alcoholism.  People are more impressed with the things you can do despite a physical handicap than they will ever be for overcoming an addiction that most of them see as a weakness rather than a disease, but it is much easier to be engaged in a physical battle than a mental one.  Being a crip is easy – playing “Otis the Town Drunk” is hard.  Learning how to do something with one hand, while normally not a cake walk, is more like putting together the pieces of a puzzle:  you know the outcome you want, whether it be a tied shoe lace, a shot made on the basketball court, or a wall built, and the task is simply how to achieve that desired outcome with the tools you have been given.  On the other hand, dealing with life in general without the chemical crutch you have used since high school is like going on a road trip without a map:  you’ll eventually end up somewhere, but chances are better than average it won’t be anywhere near where you had planned.   

I’m pretty sure I was an alcoholic from my very first drunk at about age thirteen, but it took another 35 years of practice to finally admit it truthfully, and have some small grasp of what it really means.  I have spent the better part of the last three decades trying to get back that feeling I found in those early days.  When I drank I was suddenly ambidextrous; for a while there I was just like everyone else. 

I grew up around alcohol.  I have old home movies showing parents giving sips of beer to toddlers; it’s kind of shocking even to me to see it today, but back then it was just the way it was.  We also survived swimming in drain ditches, riding bicycles without helmets, and school without computers or even calculators (gasp!), but with swats on the backside when you screwed up; hard to imagine in these politically correct days.  I am way beyond blaming genetics, family, or the environment I grew up in for my disease – while I am sure that there may be a pre-disposition involved, ultimately it was still me that pulled the trigger.  My brother and many others went through the same things I did, with the exception of the arm thing, and for the most part turned out fine (in my little brother’s case, more than fine; I am so proud of him it hurts sometimes, which also has the added benefit of being one more in a long line of excuses to drink.)  Whatever the reason /excuse/cause, the fact remains that in recovery or not, I am an alcoholic.

Everything I have done right in my life, from sports to working “normal” jobs to the single most important thing – my (ex) wife and children – I have managed to screw up by my drinking.  I barely graduated high school because I would rather party than study.  I dreaded every testing season because every year I would get the “why don’t you apply yourself” lecture.  I have always blamed dropping out of college on the job I had at the time, but the truth is I was only working more hours to pay for more booze.  I could have gone to the National Championships and possibly even the Olympics for handicapped skiing, but I convinced myself that I couldn’t afford it when what I couldn’t afford was to not buy booze.  Every time I worked my way up at a job I have blown it by allowing my work to deteriorate, showing up smelling of booze, or just flat out showing up drunk, period.  Up until the last couple of years, I’ve always made pretty good if not excellent money, but I have always been behind on my bills, from rent to child support & taxes, because I would rather spend it all on drinking than responsibilities.  If the laws then would have been as severe as they are now I would have gotten my felony DUI 25 years ago.   The first time I proposed to my first (and only) wife was when I was in a rehab unit trying to stay out of jail.  The stay out of jail thing worked, and so did the proposal, eventually.  Except for the three most beautiful children in the world, I’m not so sure anymore that either outcome was as successful as it seemed at the time. 

For a long time I was what they call a functional alcoholic:  I had the beautiful family, the good job, and friends who didn’t wallow around in the gutter.  There really isn’t a specific instance I can point to and say that’s where I crossed the line into complete chaos; I’m sure my ex could tell me, but I’ve been afraid to ask.  I’d like to say that I woke up one day and it was all gone, but nothing that dramatic happened.  It was more like a process of circling around the toilet bowl of life waiting for the big cosmic flush – and the end result/destination has pretty much been in fitting with the metaphor.  In AA they teach you about taking care of the wreckage of your past – “We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it” - but not a day goes by that I don’t wish that I either couldn’t remember the past, or that I had a time machine (every alcoholic’s secret wish) to go back and change the last 25 years or so.  I will go to my grave trying desperately to fix the damage I have done to my kids, my family, and most importantly – and the hardest to finally realize – to myself. 

It has cost me my wife and children, my freedom, every decent job I’ve ever had, and most importantly my self-respect.  Up until about a year ago, no one (including myself) would have ever thought that I would be a college student now, especially a sober one.  If you had asked me then where I would be today, I probably would have told you in prison.  I was awaiting re-sentencing on a felony DUI; re-sentencing because I had been sentenced earlier to probation, and eleven days later showed up to my first probation appointment smelling like a brewery.  When my probation officer asked me how much I had drank the night before (this was at eight in the morning) I was semi-truthful when I told him only a couple, but it was a damn good thing he didn’t ask me how many I had had for breakfast that morning.  Why the judge didn’t just ship me out to the State Pen where both I and the prosecuting attorney thought I belonged, I will never understand but be forever grateful for.  Instead he sent me on what they call a Rider, where you go through a six-month treatment program at the North Idaho Correctional Facility up at Cottonwood. Like I said, I will never understand why I went there instead of just being warehoused south of Boise, and I probably won’t ever be able to put into words what finally “clicked” while I was up there, but the one thing I am certain of is that Judge Petrie more than likely saved my life.  Not only did it give me a lot of the tools I use to stay sober, but it put me in a place to start the ball rolling to eventually get me back here in school – so now you all know who to blame for that, too. 

October 1^st will mark my first year of sobriety, Lord willing, and for the first time in a long time I don’t hate myself.  I am actually proud of some of the things I’m doing for a change, and hopefully some of the wounds are starting to heal, especially with my children.  I have goals that don’t revolve around my next day’s supply of beer and how to afford it, and I don’t dread talking to my kids anymore.  I’m a 48 year old unemployed college freshman and I kind of like it