the smussyolay

non·plus  (nn-pls)

It seems it’s been over a month since I wrote anything for the blog. Remember when I’d write once a day, sometimes, two? I don’t know what’s happened — I think I’m depressed and stressed out, for starters.  But there are so many times I think “that would make a good blog post,” or even come here to write one and just can’t make myself go through the motions.  And I even have a part-time job where I could do a fair amount of blogging from when it’s not busy (con permiso). Even still, I feel stalled and stilted and stifled.

Sometimes, it’s because I’ve managed to convince myself that everything I’ve written here — all the drama, the dread, the dredging up of memories of things that many people can’t relate to — is fucking me somehow. That potential roommates or employers or something have found this blog and are reading it and are deciding my fate based on … gosh, it’ll be eight  years of blogging come the end of March. Anyway, eight years of ruminating and revealing and just laying it all out there. It = me.  And thinking that so many people have read all of it or some of it or even a post and decided that they don’t like what they see. Or read. Or hear. I don’t know.

So, I come here, ready to tell a tale or share an experience or lament about something, and I find myself reluctant. Why now? I don’t know. I can’t even answer the question myself. If I was that worried about it all, I’d just take the damn thing down, right? RIGHT? But I keep on.

Anyway, I’m here to say that the beginning of 2012 has been a real kick to the ribs. I don’t know what to do. (I always love how I worry about this blog and then I come right back and lay it all out on the table again. Like a fucking idiot.) I am homeless. I can’t figure it out, really. I’m starting to become regularly ashamed of my age — which I swore would never happen.  And one of the reasons I am, is because I can’t believe I’m this old and have nowhere to live.

Strangely enough, it’s not for reasons which I might have suspected at any one given time in my life. I blew all my money and now I don’t have any for rent, for instance. Spending foolishly and recklessly has always been one of my worst behaviors. But that’s not it. I have money for an apartment. I’ve essentially been looking since November, with no luck. It’s that I have a cat. And that she can’t live with other animals. That seems to be the thing. Unless the people who have met me have just seen the desperation and hopelessly needy desire to have a place to live.

It’s too bad, because I’ve lived with enough people at this point, that I think I make a pretty good roommate. I’m laid back — not much gets me whipped up. I’m open to compromise and communication. I can hang out or completely leave you alone. I’m pretty flexible. Yet, I find myself with no place to live. I didn’t have a place to live when my lease ended on the 31st of January, and my ex-roommate was gracious enough to allow me to stay with him for a month.  That’s drawing to a close as of tomorrow, and I still have nothing. Completely clueless.

I’m baffled for a lot of reasons. One is that I just got this new part-time job working over at the city’s quintessential home for sketch comedy. I work in the box office and I like it a lot — I’ve thought about a vague blog post about all of that, but haven’t managed one yet.  But it seems if I am to move home with my parents or something, that I maybe wouldn’t have gotten that job or something. I don’t know. And there was the huge deal this whole month with my kidney infection. Again, blog posts coming out my ears, but I just couldn’t put fingers to keyboard to make them happen.

So, I don’t know. I’m not sure where I’m supposed to turn or what I’m supposed to do or how this all works out. It’s always worked out before. Even when I was doing a lot less to even try (working or looking or caring). And now, I feel like I’m trying to bust my ass to find somewhere and I can’t come up with a thing. Or I find an ad that seems fucking perfect and they don’t get in touch with me or they pick someone else. I’m failing *roommate* interviews, at this point, people.

I’ve been maintaining the idea that ‘everything happens for a reason’ for a long, long time. But I can’t get my mind around this one. I guess maybe there’s supposed to be something I need to do in Wisconsin or something? I don’t know. I’m clueless. Baffled. Lost. Nonplussed.

State of the Union was pretty good tonight. (Oh, I might as well mention it, Crowley is going to just HAVE to write something shitty about Obama in the comments anyway.) But there was one part where Obama lost me. When he started going on about Iran … sigh. The money you want to take from the defense budget to fund clean energy resources isn’t going to be there if you get us further into the Middle East. Further into another unwinnable war.

My friend, John, and SEVERAL of my young, male compadres are all about Ron Paul (I never hear women championing Ron Paul’s cause). Oh, dear lord. It’s like they’ve found a new religion. Their savior has come, and he can be yours too, if you’ll let him. I won’t let him, but I would love if I could cut out the rest of the crazy and go with his plan just to fuck off of all the wars. I don’t know where we get off thinking we’re so much more awesome than all of the other countries who went to Afghanistan and came back home whipped, with their tails between their legs. And you’d *think* maybe Vietnam would have given us some recent lessons in such matters, to boot. But, we just don’t seem to be very good at history.  It’s like we’re alcoholic when it comes to war. There’s some strange mental blank spot that prevents us from remembering the suffering and humiliation (and death and horror) of even a year or a decade or a generation ago.

And I’ll be the first to admit, there’s a huge percent of the population that can go by, willfully ignorant to it all, if we so desire. If you have no one enlisted, and you want to turn a blind eye, you can. There’s no draft. No rations. No victory gardens. No working together to help the troops. In fact, I don’t really even see those overblown dramatic commercials for the military anymore, either (I’m not exactly sad about that, but that’s one less reminder of what’s going on). There’s no personal toll or loss for most of us to be in these wars; our gas is a little more expensive, but just like the alcoholic and the person addicted to cigarettes, it’s not stopping anyone from buying those SUVs and driving them everywhere. Or continuing to drink and buy cigarettes (“When they get to $5.00 a pack, I’ll definitely quit!).

But someone’s paying a toll. Someone’s losing. Families are losing daughters, aunts, wives, mothers –  brothers, uncles, sons, fathers. American and all over the world. Men and women are losing limbs, memories and the ability to come home to a normal way of life. Communities are being torn apart with families grieving and people struggling to make a living and wondering how they will make their mortgage, even *after* they return home with a hero’s welcome. Veterans are left with scars that no one else can see and desperately fight to assimilate into their old world while still trying to make sense of memories and events they’ll never quite leave behind.  I don’t know that we’re doing any better of a job of helping these men and women now than we ever have.

I talk about this because I was trying to get rid of some things in my inbox and I came across a draft of something I had written when I was still working for the apartment finding service. I think it was the Saturday before I was let go.  I had written down some notes about a man who had come in to get an apartment. He was somewhat handicapped. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on. He seemed a little physically disabled, but there also seemed to be some mental struggle as well. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but one of the managers was helping him out. When people couldn’t take the stairs, they would always just take care of them downstairs. I was happy to see that he was being so well taken care of.

He was filling out some paperwork, and he started telling his story. He was in the military. He was on a personnel carrier. When he said that, I was thinking aircraft carrier at first, so I wasn’t really expecting the rest of the story. But it makes sense once I think about the words … it’s a *personnel* carrier. They’re the ones that are like the fast tanks. They’re the ones you can climb out of the back and shoot and fight. He was in one, and they got hit.  There were three of them — him and two of his friends, two of his brothers in arms, and he was the only one who came out alive. It took him a whole year to learn how to walk and talk again.

He told us that he can’t remember things. That he couldn’t remember having conversations an hour later. Or how much money he has with him or how to buy a soda. That it’s very easy to get lost. If he has to go into buildings, he’s not going to have very good luck. I remember that we (do you like how I instantly co-opted him? I wanted him to do well) needed to find him a place that was going to be a straight shot, bus route wise, to where he was getting help — some place related to the VA or something. The military was going to pay for his housing and such; a landlord really should have no problem accepting any application we turned in. It was guaranteed money.

Just like I’m sitting here, crying now, I just remember thinking that here is a guy who now has physical and mental disabilities — who KNOWS he has them — who was previously fully functioning. We might not have agreed on politics, I don’t even know. He could have been a right-wing, gun loving Republican, for all I know.  But now, because of a war that is so needless, he is irreparably damaged. And two of his friends? They’re not even here to tell the tale. So, he’s got that on top of it all. Broke my heart.

I know that it’s a speech. But I just don’t want any more war, Mr. President. It’s good for absolutely nothing.

Chicagoist ran an op-ed piece today about some of their staffers’ dissatisfaction with Restaurant Week. The gist was that due to the increase volume of customers, restaurants offered smaller portions, restricted menus and crappier service (due to the fact that servers were now being tipped less on smaller checks, vicious cycle, etc.). Their conclusion was that they’d rather skip the whole thing and just eat at home.

Here’s why I will be eating at home: I’m unemployed and sometimes a trip to the Hollywood Grill is out of my budget. I understand that a  prix fixe menu at a really nice place is an incredible deal, and I have often lamented that I haven’t taken some of these places up on their offers for a nice, three course meal for $30 or so — pretty nice for a French restaurant, especially when I’m not going to be drinking.

But the noise (buzz?) that’s being generated all around Alinea, Next, Girl & the Goat, Longman and Eagle, Publican, Blackbird*, Moto and the like is starting to give me a headache. I won’t lie and say it’s not a muddled combination of sour grapes, envy and just a lack of general foodie-ness in there somewhere. If someone said they’d take me to one of these restaurants, I most likely wouldn’t turn them down. I hate to be left out of things.  However, I will say that another element in my general distaste for the constant chatter comes from the fact that even were I able to go, I’d feel pretty guilty knowing two people had spent my rent on what would soon be toilet fodder.

I’ll be eating at home instead of out at Restaurant Week not because I’m finding fault with the general concept/treatment, but because I am treading water just to pay my bills while looking for employment. And that my friends, is the reality for a lot of people. So, before we get all whipped up about how Restaurant Week is sucking, maybe we can go donate some money to the Chicago Food Depository?

*Out of that list, the only one participating in Restaurant Week (as far as I can tell), is Blackbird for lunch.

i am wandering in a weird spiritual limbo right now. everything is crystal blurry.  it is the winter of my discontent. it is the winter of my gratitude. it is the winter of my frustration. it is the winter of my resignation. it is the winter of my fear.  it is the winter of my hope. it is the winter of my inspiration. it is the winter of my curiosity. it is the winter of my faith.

victims don’t stay sober.

i keep walking around in this surreal chain of watching people and thinking “if you keep doing that, you’re going to die.” and then i look at my life and i think, “if i don’t change, i’m just going to eventually die and not know it.” i see people who want people to fix everything for them and can’t figure out why the world just isn’t stepping up to the plate. and i look around and wonder why no one ever calls me. why people i thought were my friends really aren’t my friends at all. why they say one thing and do another. i look over at people and pity them because they can’t see how they are being taken care of. and i listen to myself complain about how i just can’t ever get anyone to listen to me about this or take care of that.

it’s bizarre.  i’ve been also stuck between this place of listening to a lot of old-timers in coffee club talk about the old days (these people have 32, 45, 53 years type of sobriety) when people were given a certain type of direction. when the program wasn’t as watered down. when people weren’t afraid to hurt people’s feelings a little. and i’ve been identifying with that a little. feeling like there’s a bunch of “kids” in coffee club who don’t know to act anymore. like they don’t know how to listen or sit down or come in on time or just respect the program. or how to be involved.  and then, i’m pissed off because i think my friend doesn’t really want to give me the time of day because i’m not working the kind of program she wants me to be working. because i’m not doing it the way she thinks it should be done. so, i become the friend of convenience. even while i judge others who are doing it “wrong,” too.

see? it’s a rock and a hard place. i think it’s why i’m so humbled this anniversary. instead of 10, it feels like _0 again. i just realize how blessed i am to be alive and sober and still around the rooms. still open to being taught and open to new experiences and open to what god has in store for me. i just know i have so, so much more to learn. i just don’t know anything and i hope that god is gentle with me and continues to help me as i struggle with my ego and wanting so desperately to be right.

the gentleman who spoke tonight said that when he came in, a woman told him his ‘ideas were like cement: well-mixed and firmly set.” i feel like that. i feel like they are like new cement these days. they can be changed easier than when i came in. they’re open for molding.  but i’m still hard-headed.  i still struggle not to be the one in charge, the one who has to be in first.

i feel like i’m on high heat, tumble dry these days. i just want the world to stop spinning and to have some peace. it’ll happen. i just need to get on the same page as god.

Here I was, ready to get the calculator out (actually, I did and then was embarrassed when it spit out the result — hey, give me a break, it was 3 in the morning or something) only to find that ten is a lovely number to multiply things by. And 365 times 10 is 3,650. 3,650 days and counting. Well, sort of. I don’t count days anymore. I haven’t for a long time. I think I stopped somewhere after 90, realizing that my next “chip” wasn’t going to be until 6 months anyway, and it was going to be easier to start using my dry date as a way to pass the time rather than counting days. Because if you really do it, months don’t really add up right. 30 days = month doesn’t add up to one month on the calendar every time and it starts to get confusing.  Much easier to just use the calendar and call it a day.

And that’s what I did. Blessedly, it was easy to let the day counting go quite easily, for the desire to use alcohol and smoke marijuana wasn’t there like it had been. Every day after work. Every weekend. Every time I was bored. Every time I went out. Every time there was a party. Every time there was nothing to do. Every time there was a time that that wasn’t filled with work, if I had a job. I loved to drink and I loved to get high. These were comforts to me, they were companions. They were the ways by which I measured your personality and the way you would fit in with my “lifestyle.”

It was a life, but I don’t know that it had much style. Some people I know finished college during the worst of their addictions. Some people bought houses and got married. Some people traveled, had careers, accomplished things. It’s not to say that they weren’t still miserable, but it always strikes me as odd that I didn’t think I was miserable, but I couldn’t get any of the aforementioned done. I was being slowly poisoned. I was imperceptibly drowning.

The final straw on my way into the coffee club was that my brain finally shorted out and I was diagnosed with manic-depression. That led to an intensive outpatient program and an eventual week’s stay in the psych ward which led to a summer of the worst isolation and depression I have ever known. It is always darkest before the dawn. I tried to rekindle my romance with alcohol for a bit, but it was never the same again.

I had several powerful spiritual experiences in a short amount of time which led to my eventual sobriety. One was that I realized I was completely powerless over alcohol — that I could no longer stop drinking when I wanted to — after I was with someone who couldn’t have alcohol around them and whom I had never drank with before. Despite potentially catastrophic consequences for this person, I absolutely needed (and procured) alcohol for myself anyway. The second came a week later, after having gone to a meeting where people shared their personal experiences with powerlessness and having read a little bit about the physical aspect of alcoholism, when I sat down for a night of drinking. The first sip of alcohol hit my lips and I knew without a shadow of a doubt what people were referring to when they talked of a “phenomenon of craving.” The idea that one drink begets a string of many that the drinker has no control over. I also knew I would have no future success drinking with that sort of shit running around in my head. The third came the next day, when someone I had been in the outpatient program with called to ask me if I wanted to go to a meeting. For some reason, I said yes. I don’t know why she called, and I don’t know why I said yes.  We stopped by another friend’s house to see if she wanted to go with — she was already in a few wine glasses deep and declined to join us. The first friend didn’t manage to stay sober with any regularity as far as I know (I lost track of her pretty quickly) and the second friend is dead; murdered by her lover.

I don’t know why I’m here. I really don’t. I know that over the years, I have taken actions that were contrary to my desires. The coffee club is the *only* thing that I seem to be willing and able to get up on a weekend at 7 or 8 am to go to some conference to speak or hear someone else speak. It’s the only thing that’s held me accountable to things that to other people would seem wildly tedious and boring. I have definitely learned how to grow up here. I realize that I have learned many things — many skills, emotional and practical — that I previously didn’t know and didn’t know I didn’t know.

But I also have done so many things “wrong” here. Failed to take suggestions. Plain refused to do things. Stalled out. Balked. Neglected my spiritual life. Struggled to find my way. Been headstrong and filled with self-will. Things which I have seen put other people out on their ass and sometimes in their graves.

So, I don’t know. I don’t know why me and not someone else. Frankly, I don’t know where the time has gone. I don’t know where my original crew has gone — how they all ended up getting married, moving away and having kids. How life keeps on happening and things keep on changing and at the end of the day, it all sort of kind of stays the same.

God, I guess. Creative Intelligence. Spirit of the Universe. Higher Power. That’s what I got or regained here. A sense of connection with it and the spark of the divine that is it in me. That knowledge that I have it in my soul — that I am it, that it is me. That I have a small, still voice right inside of me to guide me, lead me, give me the next instruction — if I clear away all the other crap that’s screaming over the top of it and generally saying some really crazy ass shit.  That’s the thing I know. That’s the thing that keeps me sober every day. That I ask for help. That brought me in, that got me here, that takes me home. I don’t care if it’s JC or Buddha or Allah or Taoist or New Age or Kundalini Yoga or whatever. It’s all of that. I take them all. I use them all. It’s all the Source. It’s all the deal. It’s all conspiring for my (and your) good.

Now, I just have to walk out there and act like I believe it’s true.

I’m sure you’ll all school me out the gate, but all my friends (IRL, Facebook, Twitter) have been watching the Republican nominee debates since they started, tweeting about them, getting riled up, etc. Tonight, they were all a-flutter about the Iowa Caucus.

Ummm … who gives a fuck? Are they kidding? Rick Perry? Herman Cain? Newt Gingrich? Mitt Romney? Ron Paul? Rick Santorum? Jon Hunstman? Michelle Bachmann? Seriously? Dear God.

I wouldn’t have wasted one minute (I didn’t) watching debates with these people.  Some of them are flat out crazy. Some of them are just degenerate. Some of them are really unthinkably twisted. I don’t get it.  Here’s the thing … I’m not voting for any of them. Ever. Even as I struggle with some of the things Obama has been doing recently, I’d never, ever vote for any of these people.  (No, my dear, friend, Sam, I’m NEVER VOTING FOR RON PAUL.)  So, I’m not going to sit and make my head want to explode and my ovaries want to burst into flames and my blood run cold every two minutes by watching that shit. I just don’t get why my friends and acquaintances and other people do. WHY? What are you possibly gaining from this? Are you saving up some sort of special ammunition for when one of the jokes is nominated as the Republican candidate?

I just can’t do it. I don’t see the point. Seriously. It just makes me angry even THINKING about watching that shit. So, I can’t figure out why you’d want to do it. Romney seems like he’d stand the biggest chance to make a play against Obama, and you have people who probably won’t even vote for him because he’s a Mormon. Really? You fucking psychopaths. And then there’s the whole thing that he sort of kind of did Massachusetts a solid and got them all healthcare. You know, that douche move. Yeah, I can’t even get into it. Cause then, it’s all about how they can all out-crazy each other by taking away abortion rights (even if you’ve been raped by your dad) and all sorts of other crazy ass shit. I don’t get it. I don’t get who really is that fucking scared of Obama and buys into all this crazy shit that is being thrown around that they really look at these sexually-harassing, adulterous, crazy people and thinks, “Yeah. This is my guy/gal. I want them in charge of the weapons.”

See. I’m all riled up and I’m not even watching this craziness. Why are you?