A while ago when our residential galaxy burped, some of us brainy too successful leftovers from the late 60s decided enough with the funerals. We re-directed our lives onto sober and clean pathways. At first, our feet were wobbly; the paths sooty and crowded with karmic debris and our eyes could not stop from being emotive gushers. Eventually, with the help of those who had climbed Pike’s Peak before us, and gracious grace, we found our singular movable walkways leading into our sober lives and nearly everything improved.
For me, now the widow on the hill in Costa Rica (Finca Vigia) who lived a wonderful life with another sober person for 19 years – my husband of right action, brilliance, and too many fishing tales – I find those oblivious to their crappy dysfunctions (yet are sober and clean) the ones who keep it green for me. I no longer attend 12th meetings because I discovered I maybe the only person there not using. See (read insight), using is not limited to substance abuse. Using in fact covers just about every act and consideration a dysfunctional human can fester up to keep the game of denial obese and still hungry.
No, I am not self-righteous no matter how you perceive the tone of this piece. At any turn on the karma wheel, I could be grabbing the crazy absurd monkey’s tail (getting high), once again. Why I am catapulted over the cosmic hedge grove to the land of wonder and near happiness is beyond my understanding. I tried during fits of ego-inflation to figure out why I saw my triggers so easily and mostly avoided the traps of dysfunctional bull dung leading forever back to the trough of madness. Alternatively, if I was blinding binding myself, it was not for any duration or encampment. The pain of my own arrogant stupidity drove me into the corral where I had to harness the wild monkey (me) or get trampled to death by this one monkey morphing into a raging herd of pissed off giant monkeys screaming at me via me.
Some examples defining the denial of others, because these are not real anyway, may elucidate the contortion of dysfunction or possibly provide a glimpse into the crystal ball of your life. Take what you what, dump the rest on Mars, or plant it in your backyard compost heap. I have no investment in these samples of wondrous stupidity except to remind myself how easy it is to buy into my own bull corn, one mo time.
Scenario Uno: A dear friend, a smart resilient cookie, a former mystical mystery tourist, who is gladly sober and clean way into the double digits lives part of the year with a man. Now, from the outside of the cloudy cantankerous bubble it looks okay. They share a beautiful home (hers) were she provides the financial underpinning. He buys groceries and pays the vet bills. When she is gone, he tends the place and pets. They are forever becoming parents of abused canines who saunter into their lives starving, blanketed in fleas. In an unsaid division of tasks, he picks the ticks, she whips-up vegan meals.
He sold his property, next to hers, yet he never bothered to build on his land, anyway. Why should he? He lives at her abode. Her tropical non-hut home has a swimming pool and ocean views. Her slice of tropical paradise (and his by her dysfunction) is at the end of a jungle mountain road and remote, in more ways than location. The other quirky connect is her husband died many moons ago and the person living at her abode the last several years was his best friend. On the other hand, at least this is how the story is told. I have no confirmation with any interest in divining the specifics. I know, I know, how unlike the haughty journo I am with the too many questions and a level of persistence like shingles on a psychopath.
My remarkable spiritual female friend, and I, would both, in our holy wholly honesty, say to each other, when you point the finger at someone, you usually need to desperately point it at yourself. I can hear her down-East voice resonating within my winking sorrow-laden third eye.
Herewith is the chink in the gourmet herbal New Hampshire goat cheese. My bud goes to Alanon and AA. She sponsors many folks, including me (surprised you, correct?). I have 29 years sober and clean in case you were counting and pickin’s are flaco (slim in Spanish) in Costa Rica for healthy sponsors.
Too many times I have heard my dear dear friend say she is not looking for a man in one yoga exhale and in her next inhale she truly needs to sell her property to exit the jungle and go live somewhere else. “I have had enough of Latin culture,” she says not with anger or remiss. In fact, the revelation comes out quasi-mystical. Yet, one statement at face value does not compute with my Tanager birdbrain. There is sans Latin culture hereabouts in the southern Pacific zone of Costa Rica. Nature is our primal soul food along with water sports, gardening and personal creative pursuits.
Somewhere else for my buddy may generate a special man who is a contender for her farmer’s daughter hand and various yoga retreats? Moreover, not too obvious, is the primary need solution to end living with someone who she is not living with (in the Biblical sense). Selling her home and land forces her current housemate dude to pull up his vampire stakes and seek shelter somewhere else. The other vein of blue mold in the cheese log is my friend has listened her property at too high a price compared to what is available in the marketplace (a lot).
In the rooms of AA, we talk about geographical cures. I would suppose most of us with serious time under our sober belts and notches on our clean suspenders generated a geographic change at some puncture juncture in our sobriety. Such behavior is typical, as we shed slimy skins and slippery people along with self-inflected hooks, to seek a fresh locale and ramp up a life living sober in improved circumstances.
If you cannot discern the dysfunction in Scenario Uno, keep coming back.
Scenario Two: This is going to get bumpy Hoopoe, so you might want to not just mix another tall glass of potato juice, you may need the entire bottle next to your laptop and the rescue cat may need to go outside.
When my husband was still alive, an individual shifted into my awareness because I thumbed-up his precious art somewhere in cyber space. He found me, some how, and sent me a chat notification on Fedbook. From this humble human connection oddity, we established a deep and close friendship via the Internet. Over the years (hard to believe but true) some horrific changes occurred. My husband died. Egypt exploded.
I also wrote a trilogy, except part two is not finished because I cannot stop weeping for my husband. My genius artist writer politico friend is also the finest muse any writer could dream up or ask Genie to produce from the three-wish fantasy of Arabian tales.
From the outside of our crystal clear bubble with imbedded arrows of sorrow – mine over my husband, his over Egypt – we have found a place, a secret place for each other in our hearts that unwillingly migrated to our souls. At first, I balked, then he balked, then I balked again because the circumstances are awful. I mean I was married to a remarkable loving human being. He is living in a foreign country on the last pittance of his self-made fortune with a foreign woman.
So, here we are today, stuck like a non-dynamic duo of rising meat thermometers in a roast the size of Australia. He cannot leave her, and/or return to Egypt. I have no desire to ruin his or her life by arriving unannounced. Stalking is not in my personal relationship repertoire. I do admit necessity being a motherfucker of invention I have stalked stories.
Pride is the dysfunction in both these syncopated examples of how to reach for the golden ring yet remain suspended in air like a soaring kite held to the ground by a thin silver thread tied to a corroding pair of cement boots. This sentence is why my writer husband told me I am an editor’s nightmare, repeated infinitum.
Gollywood always prefers a glorious Grammy ending where the cool guy gets the gorgeous girl, or vice a versa. Human hearts need to know unrequited love endures to eventually get to the final foggy scene. The one where he is running across the tarmac in the mist toward her and she is standing still, waiting, wearing a chic hat, an elegant overcoat, and Prada high heels. In the background, we hear the roar of the prop engines and an overlay of some fantastic Randy Newman tune building to a crescendo.
Prayer is part of the program of recovery in sobriety. We exclusively pray for God’s will because our fat egos with inferiority complexes were self-led into hell. First, it seemed such merriment, yet in the apoplectic epilogue we nearly drowned at the bottom of the Dixie cup.
The world is going to hell in a long line of Mercedes cabs driven by guys who say they are our friends because each is wearing a plastic Anonymous mask made in China. Envisioning is not available via DMT for us sober kids. We have two choices, and none others. Get fucked up and sooner than later kill our selves, or get off the merry go-around and run toward the light on the other side of the carnival and ask for help.
If you expect some definitive answer or revelation from my telling you these two tales, forget about it. If I had a friggin’ clue to solve these conundrums, I would not have to purge myself with this written therapeutic nonsense.