This blog needs to be about sex. But, like my life, it has constantly been sidetracked by my addiction.

I live with an emotional abuse and incest survivor. This fact colors every single day of my life. It taints and poisons the most basic and honest of my human impulses – love, affection, intimacy. I need to be growing in patience and love for my wife, learning how to meet her needs and open her heart. I need to be nurturing a place where she can redefine sensuality, in her own time, with someone who loves and cherishes her. This can’t…

They’re cleaning out my grandparents’ house – the rooms are full of boxes and the walls are bare. Grandma’s a collector, of things beautiful or sentimental or remotely useful, so there’s a lot to go through. The depression generation, or “The Greatest Generation”, according to Grandpa and Tom Brokaw, tends to save things that I would throw away. But they can only fit so much into their new “home”, an assisted living rental, so most of their stuff has to go.

Mom found a flower pot I made for Grandma in the fifth grade. Money was tight that year, so we…

I relapsed. I was prescribed Vicodin for a back injury and I thought I could handle it. I was proud that I told my wife immediately about the prescription, gave her the bottle and let her dole out the pills. But I started banking them, saving them up and taking handfuls at the end of the day so I could get a little rush.

Years ago we volunteered with a foster child, a tough one who stayed in the highest security group homes. They’d give him his little cup of anti-depressants and anti-psychotics and then check under his tongue to make…

I’m addicted to Snus. Stupid little tobacco-ish pouches being pushed by 7-11’s for people like me, who want the zing of nicotine without the social stigma of smoking or spitting. Reviews talk about them tasting more like candy than tobacco, but they’ll give you mouth cancer all the same. I recently discovered that my (sober) alcoholic cousin shared my interest in the little pouches, so I told him how I like to stuff two or three in my mouth at the same time. After all, the American version contains only 6g of tobacco versus the Swedish 24g.

Pretty clear indication that…

The hardest thing about losing Charlie was handing him over to the receptionist in the pet emergency room. He was cold and unresponsive, wrapped in a towel in my arms, and didn’t even look back at me as he was whisked away through a door marked “Employees Only.” I was wet and cold from the rain, but he wasn’t. I’d been rubbing his little body in the car, driving with one hand, and telling him, “it’s okay little buddy, just stay with me for few more minutes. We’re almost to the doctor’s.” It was midnight. I never saw him again.

Charlie…

Linsey got mad when I told her. I think I need to be home tomorrow. I promise we’ll find another day to go to the snow. I could have just kept my mouth shut – been a good dad, a good husband. We were driving home from the office Christmas party, where I’d been a good employee and a good pastor, so why quit now?

On the other hand, a couple of days ago I was melting into the couch, summoning just enough energy to operate the mouse so I could play Chuzzle on PopCap.com. (Don’t worry, I’m not getting any endor$ement…

It’s late and I’m tired. But I’m going to try something that I’ve not really tried before: Structure.

Since it “works if you work it” and I used again yesterday, I think it’s time to work it.

To the four or five people who read this blog and know me personally, I haven’t told everyone yet that I’m starting over, again. Tonight I told my Friday night group and my sponsor. And now I’m telling you. That’s all I can handle for today.

So without fanfare or drama or swearing or crying, this is my plan, based on the suggestions of those wiser…

I’m in that familiar post-relapse conundrum. A poisonous emotional mixture that’s usually buried is now very accessible. I know for a fact that these emotions were already bubbling up; my inability to handle them contributed to my relapse in the first place. And once I start using, everything I’ve been suppressing comes spilling out in an orgy of self-pity and resentment. So it is with the alcoholic. The Big Book nails it on this point.

When I’m healthy and sober, I sometimes find it difficult to pinpoint exactly what I’m angry about. That is not my problem this week.

On the other…

Been sailing some choppy seas of late. Despite my failure to post here, I’ve stayed well connected in my recovery circles. I’ve had to – the beast came back.

I’m not looking for pity or shame. You poured out compassion and good advice when I slipped last month. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated your words. I guess I just wasn’t really ready to listen. Even though I stopped using, I spiraled down further, into depression and self-destruction. Then I used for a week. Then I asked for help and stopped it again.

I scared people who care about me. Their…

This is not what I thought it would feel like to be 35, I told Linsey. She asked what I meant: Did I think I’d be the Composer in Residence for some college orchestra? More successful, career-wise? A better dad?

Not really more of anything, actually. The only way I knew to say it was, I thought I would be less lost.

The weeks after a relapse, even a quickly aborted one, are inevitably brutal. I’ve screwed up my brain chemistry: things that should feel good feel bland, things that should feel bad feel excruciatingly painful. Food for thought next time I get a…

What is your definition of “sanity”?

Last night’s step study ended before we got to this question in our Celebrate Recovery workbooks. I didn’t get to share my answer. So here ya go…

Sanity is stopping this relapse before the demon in my head possessed me again. Thank God I’m not in my addiction today.

Sanity is having friends like you, that I’ve never met, who encourage me and pour out heartfelt empathy and solid advice when I’m at my worst. I appreciated every one of your comments last week.

Sanity is leaving the most uncomfortable counseling appointment I’ve ever had, and knowing what…

I lost my way.

I used last night. I don’t know why. I’m still coming down so I’m not thinking very clearly.

During the darkest hours of the night, I thought about how my brain works. I knew that if I waited for morning, I would try to hide my mistake, and would find myself caught up in the machinery of addiction. I would think that I could stop it all through prayer and willpower and work, sidestepping disclosure. I’ve been there with embarrassing frequency, in that cycle of swearing off, planning, acting out, then starting over again and again.

So I woke…

We’re in an RV park just outside of Yosemite. The kids get into little screamy fights a few times a day because of the close quarters, (James says, “I just need my personal space!”) but other than that we’re having a great time. I’m still struggling, as I wrote in my last post. I spoke to my wife just a little bit ago, so that she knows what’s going on, and I’m hoping if I keep doing the right things I can turn around.

Turn around is exactly the right phrase. The problem isn’t as much what I’m doing, as where…

Lately I feel like an addict. It’s a sucky feeling.

I find myself dancing on the cliff’s edge, where there is neither serenity nor escape. I’m looking for something I can’t have. Linsey was right: you can’t have an ass-kicking experience every single day of your life that’s better than the day before. For example, you only get one virgin viewing of Fight Club. Every time after that you’re just re-watching it.

My addict is moving in, rearranging my furniture and hanging posters on my walls. He has the tactical advantage of knowing my weaknesses. He can match my debating skills and…

Green taco sauce was poured into the glass’s clear water, representing envy. Yellow mustard was fear, vinegar was bitterness, beer represented addictions. We’d started with a glass of pure water, a symbol of the way we begin our lives. As the speaker added one contaminant after another, the demonstration resonated with each of us in the audience: We all start with good intentions. But life gets complicated, and poison is everywhere.

At the time, I was full of vinegar. “Resentment is the ‘number one’ offender,” says the Big Book [p64]. Bitterness, resentment, anger – these consumed me so I drowned them nightly in vodka. What was I so…

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

Diane is driving me mad. I cannot change Diane. Under a sheen of civility, her attitude is increasingly negative and adversarial. I know that on an even deeper level, she is motivated by fear. Fear that she’ll look like an incompetent mother when her adult children make poor decisions.  Fear of our church changing around her.  Fear of the world changing around her. Even though I’m a bridge-builder, a deliberate friend to Diane and her family and her children, I’m still a threat, because I’m the guy who understands computers.…

Tonight I cuddled with James on our hammock under a spider-man blanket. On a clear night you can see a few stars from my back yard; tonight there was a cloud cover reflecting the lights of the city. In years past, I spent many nights on that hammock. I was high, smoking cigarettes and imagining the aliens who lived on planets circling the stars above me. A few times I woke up Ashley so she could join me. She thought I was being a good dad, and begged me later to wake her up more often for midnight snuggles.

I’ve been…

Who’s the fool, Charlie Brown or Lucy?

My therapist Heidi wants me to stop kicking myself when Lucy pulls the football away. She says we’re making progress.  That each of us is working through our “stuff” and that I should go ahead and let myself get aroused. That I should jump in, sink or swim, then journal about what happens.

But how many times do you feel sorry for Charlie Brown before you think, why did he believe her again? Why did he run for that football again, only to fall on his ass when Lucy pulled it away?

You codies have to…

Saturday night, when it happened, the shame was crippling, and I couldn’t breathe or think. Everything was a muted wash of gray.

Until the waves of rage and nausea, and the fantasies – beating holes in the wall with a microphone stand, slicing my wrists open, shrieking obscenities into the night. Then the addict, slamming me with euphoric recall. Escape this body, plunge into ecstasy, get what you deserve, Eli. I’m a strong swimmer – I’ve trained in these waters for years – so why the fuck was I drowning again? I was fighting for breath, but my cognitive and recovery tools…

I think I loved her.

There, I said it.

I want to put some kind of warning at the top of posts about Elena (the emotional affair) so that Linsey (the wife) won’t have to read them.  But why bother?  Linsey knows everything anyway.  I call her Sherlock Holmes because she’s so freakin’ hyper-vigilant.  Over the years she’s become a better and better detective, while I’ve become a better and better liar.  The codependent vs. addict arms race.

Back to Elena.  It’s hard enough for me to express the officially sanctioned emotions, like gratitude or joy or excitement.  So I guess I should…

On my porch there are two potted trees (not just one!), waiting to be planted. But don’t tell anybody.

Our Palm Sunday musical featured Tree #1, which represented the branches placed at the feet of Christ a week before Easter. But really I just wanted to grab people’s attention with a giant tree in the middle of the sanctuary.

Tree #2 was a sneaky replacement prop for Good Friday. We bought this tree larger, and trimmed it to match the first tree’s shape. Then we cut off every single leaf. It stood stark and bare for our Friday evening service, a symbol of…

There’s something about grieving that’s…mysterious.

That’s what he said. And that’s what I needed to hear.

Of course we’d also hit the basics. The five stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. It’s funny how you can hear this stuff over and over, think you’re so emotionally intelligent, and then completely miss what’s going on in your own life. Until your therapist points it out. So part of recovery is facing the grief of loss, even when the losing is intentional, as in letting go of your addictions and the people who’ve dragged you down.

Not that this is anything new…

Day 105

Early in my crazy-person career, I visited my college’s medical center because I was so depressed I wanted to kill myself. This was a problem.

I was grabbing life by the throat. I got out of bed most days at sunrise and jogged. Then came the black vinyl planner, filled with lists. Lists of things to do and people to call, lists of goals and mission statements, lists of errands, lists of lists. I had been ad-libbing for too long, and was determined to eradicate every piece of procrastination from my life. If it could be organized and prioritized I…

Day 87

I knew they kept the hard liquors in the back of the cupboard, and no one was looking, so I checked. Rum and some kind of liqueur. No thanks. Whiskey would have been tempting, maybe vodka. Never was interested in beer or wine either. By the time I suck down enough to do the job I’m ready to puke. So why the hell did I find myself drinking a beer? Half of one to be exact. Not enough to feel a damn thing except gut wrenching shame, regret, guilt. Waves of nausea came over me as I imagined telling…