The reason 12-step programs work is that it’s one former sufferer reaching out to another and the person who has recovered has personally gone through what the person they are approaching is currently experiencing or just been through. It’s not out of studying or speculation or good intentions. It’s because they have actual experience with going through the depths of addiction and then taking some specific actions to recover and then being able to relate those experiences (both before recovering and after) to the person who is struggling with a drinking problem, or hopefully, with trying to get sober.

Better yet, when someone comes to a meeting and hears someone “share” or “give a lead” in front of other people, there’s something so powerful in the telling of a personal story. There’s so many elements to it. There’s the personal identification that comes from hearing someone share their most intimate feelings, secrets, and hardships and being able to go, “I’ve also felt like that. I’ve never been able to articulate it. I’ve been afraid to tell anyone else because they wouldn’t understand. I’ve always felt alone and isolated. I’ve never felt like I fit in with anyone else because of these things.” There’s the relief that comes from hearing someone else tell the things you thought you would never hear another person say out loud — and hear them sharing it from a podium, in front of 100, 200 people — because it no longer cuts them to the bone; because they no longer have to live and die by the specters of their past.

It’s not unique to recovery programs, of course. The myth of and the power in telling stories has crossed generations and countries and ages. There’s a reason we see the same archetypes and go over the same sorts of ideas in our stories;  in books, in movies, in television. But something transformative happens when we pass stories down orally — when we pass down our experiences in person, with ritual, in groups. There’s something that exists in our collective consciousness and unconsciousness that takes that story and makes it bigger than the sum of its parts. I’m convinced of this because I’ve been a part of it, both passively and actively.

And for our Vice President to get up before a bunch of wounded living — people who have lost their relatives to the permanence of war — and share his personal story of grief with them is astounding. It’s a picture of courage and truth and honor and valor and love that should not go unnoticed. And I don’t believe he did it to gain favor with anyone; in fact, he knew that what he was sharing would make him vulnerable to all sorts of ad hominem attacks on his character. But he did it anyway — he called it out in the middle of  his speech — because he wanted to give a little something to those who were suffering. He wanted to turn his past to good account. He knew that it was the least he could do. Not to mention, it was just probably one thing that he could turn to out of a situation that clearly still caused him great heartache and sorrow that he could point to and say, “maybe this can make it a little bit better.”

He shared with them his grief. He shared with them his anger. He shared with them tips on day-to-day living. He shared with them how difficult it was to deal with people. But the most important thing he shared with them was his humanity. He related to them on a personal level. The thing that struck me that was so like sitting in a coffee club meeting was when he shared how he hated to hear people tell him that they “knew how he felt” when his wife and daughter died, and the crowd just laughed and laughed. They laughed out of identification at something that should seemingly be just tragic, but there is a part of the human spirit that is so glad to find a kindred spirit, that we can’t help but to agree in joy.

Watch the video. Watch it all the way through. I couldn’t help but cry for a million reasons. I would only hope that Mr. Biden could help our President see that we have to make sure he doesn’t have to go to any more of these functions. But if he does, I hope that he doesn’t change a thing. I hope that he keeps being himself, and he keeps telling his truth. It’s what sets us free and it’s what helps others get free, too. It’s what helps them see a light and have hope that if he can live again, they can, too.

Peace and love, Mr. Biden. Peace and love to you and yours.

(1) And let’s be real. For as much as I’ve loved and been disappointed with and fluctuated in my emotions and swooned over and been hurt by and felt enamored of Obama, that whole recent gay marriage scene wouldn’t have gone down the way it did without Biden shooting his mouth off. And by that, I mean just saying what he feels and means without having to self-censor constantly. So, good looking out for all the rest of us who just want someone to be a normal person, Joe. Good looking out.

there are so many actions i need to take in so many areas of my life; but i seem powerless to do anything about any of them. i know that it’s not true. i’m not powerless. but it feels that way. i feel castrated, impotent. paralyzed and handcuffed. by mental and physical barriers, seen and unseen.  mostly, unseen and unknown.

i know i have to start manifesting differently. i’ve been reading ‘conversations with god,’ and talking about a lot of different spiritual stuff with a couple of my friends lately. it’s good to bounce ideas off of them and get inspired by them by hearing and re-hearing things i already know. even just being given courage to let go of physical things — books, clothes, things i don’t need to hang on to — is good work.

it’s hard. my mind, my ego, the louder voice running around inside my head all of the time seems to think it’s the truth and seems to put itself out there as the THING THAT IS REAL. it’s done this for so long that it’s hard to remember that there’s a still, small, surer voice inside of me that knows that the mind is a tool to be used and that its output isn’t reality, it’s just masquerading as such.

choose to be happy. choose to be well. choose to be positive. choose to feel love. i don’t have to think that what i hear all day in my head is real; i can know that working from a place of love is the way to go.

and i just get here and i think, “don’t even post this. you sound silly.” 

and i just went to save draft, and i can’t find the option, because i decided to be lazy and write this in the new pop-out post thing-y they’ve added. so, whatever.  it’s 3 a.m. i’ve rambled about much worse and much weirder on this blog.

I lived in an apartment complex next to the Metra tracks for three years, with two different roommates. First Emily, then Aaron, and then Emily again. The whole period is sort of a blur of pot, Milwaukee’s Best Light cans and a rotating cast of characters. Rooms and rooms filled with our friends, listening to music, playing cards, smoking cigarettes and pontificating about life.

I guess it was mainly just one room, the living room of the second year with Aaron Feaver. And the music was always either the Beastie Boys — generally focused on Paul’s Boutique — or some greatest hits album. The kid owned more greatest hits albums than anyone I knew. Violent Femmes. INXS. Fleetwood Mac. CCR. And Bob Marley. Always with the fucking Bob Marley. I cannot even listen to Legend because of Aaron. I know we were potheads of the highest order, but enough Marley, man!

The thing about Aaron that was infinitely frustrating was that the kid was always ridiculously high, completely carefree and yet, managed to be a brilliant mind — earning a degree in physics or calculus or civil engineering or something. He went on to get a master’s and then maybe even a doctorate. Kid is working for Boeing, last I heard.  However, despite his genius intellect,  there *was* the time he and two of my other friends went out into the wild west (of Illinois) and brought back sheaves of naturally occurring cannibis and laid their bounty out on our kitchen table.

To this day, I cannot imagine 1. why I was not with them on this particular adventure, instead finding myself aroused from a dead sleep at 4 a.m., 2. why on earth they thought this ditchweed was going to be smokable, much less produce a high, 3. and why on God’s obviously green earth, no one thought of the fact that when you get busted for weed, you get busted for the WEIGHT of what you have, regardless of whether or not it comes from the dankest, hairiest nugs wrested from some holy place in Hawaii, or the most ragged, ridiculous pile of nothing you found in nowhere, Illnois. They’re still going to mark pounds, not ounces. I looked at the pile of brush on the kitchen table, ascertained its worthlessness and became buzzkill #1. I told them to get it the hell out of the house and went back to bed.

Although that was my very first apartment, it’s not the apartment that holds the dearest place in my heart. That honor goes to 3763 N. Kenmore, my very first apartment in Chicago. Located at the corner of Grace and Kenmore, it marks the beginning of my adult-ish life — August, 1997.  I had a job at a downtown financial establishment, and a place in a real city. Like most WASPy immigrants to Chicago, I had previously only spent brief flurries of activity in and around Lakeview; hanging around Belmont and Clark — exploring the mysteries of The Alley, getting fringe and weird with the masterminds of improv over at the Annoyance when they were still at Belmont and Broadway, and going to the occasional show at Metro. Cabaret Metro, as it were. A place that would go on to change my life in ways I couldn’t possibly have imagined. But we’ll get there.

So, having limited knowledge of the city, it was only fair I should find an apartment smack dab in the middle of Wrigleyville. And I do mean smack dab. Short of putting my bed up against the ivy and waking to the sounds of batting practice, Grace and Kenmore didn’t get any better. And I really mean that. The apartment on Grace and Kenmore was perfect at the time. We could open our windows during the National Anthem and hear the crowd sing along; you could do the same for the 7th inning stretch. If one were so inclined, you could just go and sit down at the end of Kenmore and hang with the guys shagging homeruns and follow the game with Harry and Steve on someone’s TV or with Ron and Pat on the radio if you wanted some real drama. We could still come home after a day’s work and walk up to the ticket booth and pay $10 for a decent seat at a Monday night game that first year. It was 1998, and the magic of the homerun race between Sammy Sosa and Mark McGuire was literally in full swing.  You also could still pretend baseball wasn’t riddled with HGH and steroids.

A baseball sidebar: I invited my parents and some of their friends down to watch a Cubs/Brewers game toward the end of that year. They arrived VERY early — 10 am early — to barbecue in my front yard and get the party started. My friend, Jeff, was in town from Naperville to join the festivities and enjoy a late-season game. This was pre-9/11, and you could still bring coolers filled with liquid into the ballpark, and while they weren’t *supposed* to be filled with liquor, you could whip up a good batch of vodka pink lemonade, and no one was any the wiser. The Brewers and the Cubs had an incredible game. It went into extra innings and it seemed everyone and their brother on both teams had a homerun, pitchers included. The Cubs came back to win the game and it was one of those days where you just think to yourself, “that was one of the greatest games.” And if you’re blackout drunk, you just might say it out loud, tauntingly, ad infinitum to the guests from out of town. Until my dad was ready to get into a fistfight with him, my sister tried to talk some sense into him in the kitchen and when all he could do was mindlessly say  “That was one of the greatest games I’ve ever seen” on robotic repeat, she was ready to put up her dukes as well. I managed to end the party when I said “fuck” in front of my dad and my mom told me to ‘watch my mouth.’ After hours of making sure everyone was okay and trying to keep everything on an even keel, I snapped like a dry twig. I whirled, facing my mother in a slight crouch and said, “It’s MY fucking house and I will say fuck if I fucking want to. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck.” Then everyone looked at me as if *I* were the fucking lunatic. Good times.

But for the most part, I was never fazed by the party — partly because I was up for the party back then, and partly because despite anyone’s recollections to the contrary, the party wasn’t as hedonistic as it is now. Gone are the days of the dive bars like the Wrigleyville Tap and when you could go down the street from Sluggers to do your laundry at Laundryland (it’s a Chase bank now, natch).  When Yakzies still had an obnoxious yellow awning and Bernies didn’t look like every wooden faced bro bar in the city. When John Barleycorn was where it belonged — on the mayhem of Lincoln Avenue between Diversey and Armitage. But I bitterly digress.

I found my roommate like I’ve found all my best roommates in the city; the lottery process of the rooms to share section of The Chicago Reader (or now, Craigslist). It was back in the day when you had to actually read the print version of the magazine, scouring the tiny ads in the back for your true mate — either the ones you would drop $.99 a minute on to ascertain their potential date worthiness by the dulcet sounds of their voice (BAD IDEA), or the ones you would scour in an effort to find a suitable living arrangement. I fared much, much better with the roommate ones than I ever did with the few larks into the Reader Matches scene.

I had never had to look for a roommate who wasn’t previously known to me, and in retrospect,  my first meeting with Ann Marie was pretty comical.  I remember looking around at the apartment, intuiting she wasn’t a serial killer and announcing “I’ll take it.” She looked at me like *I* was fucking crazy, since I should have been the one in the supplicant position, applying to live with her, as it were. Luckily, she didn’t kick me out right there, and we sat down to continue our chat. We figured out that we were both small-town Wisconsin girls living in the city, making our way, Packer fans to the end. We also worked out our proclivities for puffing, various and sundry substances that could fit in a pipe.

It turned out we were two peas in a pod. We spent countless hours firing up bowls, snacking, watching various and sundry on TV and playing cards or Yahtzee. We shared stories and secrets. We shared music.  She gave me Crowded House, I ended up giving her everything else.

Music. It was so much easier to go to shows living in the city. There wasn’t the angst of a huge commute; an hour in traffic or trains and buses to see a band for an hour. The small, intimate club scene of Chicago became my home. Schuba’s, Double Door, Metro, The Vic, The Riv, Park West, The Aragon (when absolutely necessary), Subterranean, Gunther Murphy’s, Lounge Ax, Beat Kitchen.

Back then, it seemed like I was at Metro more than anything. I don’t know if it was because it was my neighbor or because that’s just where the bands I wanted to see were playing. The 90’s in general were good to me. Indigo Girls, Gin Blossoms, Judybats. Almost getting crushed by a sea of flannel in the front row of Material Issue. Better than Ezra, Sarge and Semisonic.  I became the nominated representative to sit (literally) outside  in the frigid December air for two hours to get tickets for when Dylan came to Metro in December of 1997.  There was also the time my friend Shawn and I recklessly and foolishly said that we were too tired or too whatevered to go see Nirvana at Metro (she had two free tickets) and that “they’d be back again.” Unless of course, Kurt killed himself or something. Ouch.

And then, one May day in 1999, Big Star was playing a show at Metro. I was so excited. I found out about Big Star working at my college radio station in Naperville. I  was clueless — but my friends showed me. See? R.E.M. loves these guys. See? They’re poppy and lush and beautiful.  See, Trip Shakespeare covers them. See, the Replacements sing a song about the lead singer, Alex Chilton. And so I dove in. And fell in love. But they never toured. So, it was what it was, listening to this underrated band that all my favorite bands loved and just knowing that it was enough, I suppose. Like knowing I’d never see XTC live.

But, then …I would. Alex and Jody were touring with Jon and Ken from the Posies — a dream come true. I tried to keep low expectations, because I had heard that Alex could be unpredictable when playing live, that he could sometimes be … well, kind of a dick. I was there, front row, trying just to be happy that it was even happening. There was the whole matter of standing for hours to be in the front row. There’s that whole matter of the opening band, and all. My friends and I talked about what we could be in for. My friend, Shawn and I were just hoping for anything better than the aforementioned Material Issue show where before getting smushed against the front of the stage, we had to stand and be crushed by the sound of a band called Specula. Their name sounded like an instrument used in giving a Pap smear, and the experience was less pleasant.

We chatted amongst ourselves and then this band came on. There were five of them, all dressed alike, in what I remember being white suits, but my memory could be completely wrong. All I remember is that they looked awfully Beatles-esque and my hopes were lifted. And they started playing and I was mesmerized. I instantly decided one of them was the “Paul” of the band and that the other was the “John.” I’ll admit, it didn’t hurt that they both were easy on the eyes. The five of them just went through song after song, and I’m sure I sat there with the stupidest smile on my face.  They had a HORN! They sang harmony! They were so fucking good!

I made a note of their name — Frisbie — and I swore that I’d go to their shows whenever they played in Chicago. Lucky for me, they were Chicagoans, and I’d have plenty of chances. The next show I can remember going to was at Lounge Ax, and I vaguely remember saying something vaguely stupid to one of them after the show. I think this is the start of my becoming a groupie.  I hated that word. It conjured up visions of blowjobs in backrooms and the stories of whorish girls who’d do anything for a backstage pass; wild rides of Cynthia Plaster Caster and her salacious sculptures.  I wasn’t “down to fuck,” I was down to rock.
Not to mention they all had serious girlfriends or wives and such, and there’s always that weird conundrum of having your rockstars being so attractive because they’re so … good. Dan Wilson is sexy as fuck, but if I ever found out he cheated on his wife, I’d be crushed.

And here’s where I struggled for weeks. I didn’t know where to go with this piece. It was supposed to be a first apartment piece, but I won’t lie — I cheated on this one. Instead of writing the story or having the idea first, song second, I wanted to go the other way around. This month marks The First Time’s second anniversary. And when I found I was cutting it close with readers, I decided I’d read. And I decided I knew what I wanted to hear these guys play. I wanted you all to hear something original from them. You hear them tackle covers from all eras and genres with amazing skill and ingenuity. You often remark to me afterward what a great band they are. You don’t have to tell me twice. I know. Come May, I’ll have been listening to them for 13 years.

I found out that Steve and Liam played a weekly set as a duo up at Pops Highwood on Tuesday nights for the better part of …several years?, and Tuesday nights were booked after me and Shawn and Ann Marie and Kelly found out. I traveled on a Greyhound bus 24 hours round trip, to see them play. I traveled the West Coast from San Diego to San Francisco one summer because I just couldn’t get enough. Yeah, I definitely groupied out.

But something else happened. We grew up together. They got married. They got divorced. Some of their band members moved away. The band struggled with the effects of mental illness, and so did I.  There were loves gained and loves lost. I was walking the same path with a different cast of characters.  I stopped drinking, and got spiritual again. They had children and they fell in love again. The band reorganized and gained new members. They recorded another album. I was worried; would I still like their music? Would I still think they were as wonderful as I did when I was younger and more naive and a little more crazy?

They changed and so did I, but their music remained great. I had nothing to worry about. When something is real, it doesn’t fade over space and time, it just is. Truth and love and music for me, mostly. And so here we are, all these years later, different and the same. I wanted you to hear them being themselves, but selfishly, I picked two songs that most resonate with me. They’re both from an acoustic album they did, called period. They’re songs that their drummer, Zack Kantor, wrote, and which they performed acoustic for the album, in much the same setting as you see here. .They had been playing the songs out the whole time I knew them in various shapes and forms, and they’re the songs that took root in my heart and my soul.  I’ve said a lot and could say much more. Here’s some Frisbie for the First Time at the First Time. Happy Second Anniversary everyone.

To wit:

Part of the problem is that I’m always holding out hope that people are going to change; that people really mean well; that people can’t possibly do it AGAIN. and yet, they do. And I’m bewildered, flabbergasted, flummoxed, stunned. Even worse, is that I often chastise the SAME people for being fooled by *their* friends, their relatives, their hopefuls.

So. Yeah. That’s it. I’m sad, my feelings are hurt and I’m furious. Pick one. The channel changes regularly.

But, being of the “fairer sex,” it means I’m destined to spend a lifetime of sitting and/or squatting in public bathrooms.  Lest you get the wrong idea, I’m no prude when it comes to scatalogical functions in public facilities, but I *do* think there are some very simple rules one should follow.

Hey ladies:

1. If I’m in a stall, and there are other stalls for you to choose from with a space inbetween the two of us — take it. There is absolutely no reason to get up all in my business when we’re both going to the bathroom. I’m fine using a public bathroom, but we don’t need to get ALL public about it.

2. Speaking of which, I suppose the bathroom is the place to get all farty, and I’ve definitely had the occasion or two where I’ve been felled with some sort of horrible gastric distress that has led me to some uncontrollable disaster coming from my colon; however, do you really have to come in there playing the 1812 Overture out your ass?

3. If you are the type of person who is wont to make your own raggedy toilet paper seat cover because a. you are convinced that your ass is going to be invaded by some sort of toilet germ by sitting down on it, b. you think the germiness will be mitigated by the ridiculous sham of a toilet paper cover you have created for yourself and c. you can’t just hover for the time it might take you to take a piss (or you have to dump), then … for god’s sake, flush the damned thing after your done, yeah? I don’t need to see that piece of scientific wizardry you’ve made up.

4. Speaking of hovering. Sometimes, it’s necessary. Sometimes, it’s such a filth pit in a bathroom, where you just absolutely CANNOT sit down (see: nearly every gas station bathroom, a lot of department store bathrooms, and some rando bathrooms that are shockingly dirty — a lot of movie theaters, for instance).  It’s also amazingly good for your thighs. However, if you just are trying to save your ass the germs sans a crazytown paper creation, then have the common courtesy to give the next lady the reacharound and wipe the drips off the seat for the next chick coming in (2) (3) (4).

5. The public bathroom is not your personal vanity mirror. Do your makeup and hair at home, please. While I have no problem talking shit about shit, I do like a private moment to take one, and there’s nothing worse than going in to take a shit and having someone come in, take a piss, and then spend the next 10 minutes doing … I don’t know! What the fuck are you doing!!? (5)

I guess I’ll leave it at that. There’s more to be had, I’m sure. But there can always be a bathroom rules, round 2.

(1) I think I was with my friend, JZ, on St. Patrick’s Day around 7 p.m. We were walking south on Halsted toward his place. Passing through the Halsted/Barry/Clark intersection, we came upon a man pissing into the bushes at the Walgreens right there on the corner. We couldn’t deal. It was so funny. Seriously? It was late by St. Patrick’s Day standards, but not in real life. It was so brazen, it was either 1. a bet or 2. he was so shitcanned, he had no clue what was going on. I was putting every last dime on #2.  Joe went on to say that there were so many more nooks and crannies he could have pissed in, like the corner over … and there, where he pointed, was a man, taking a piss. The night was taking off with a fine, urinated start.

(2) Growing up, I can’t tell you how many needlepointed and cutesy-crafty signs I saw that said something like “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.” No joke.

(3) It’s pretty bad when dudes get all the lip for the drip, and I’m wiping piss off a seat in the ladies’ room.

(4) Sometimes, it’s not piss, it’s just that ridic upflush from the automatic flushers in some of those toilets. Whoa, Nellie! Sometimes that stuff is like a power wash bidet. My lord.

(5) It’s worse than people who intentionally cockblock a sneeze. What is UP with that? Why would you do that on purpose?

honest to god, i’ve always gotten a very sinking feeling in my gut whenever the freemasons were mentioned, even as a kid. then, you grow up and get a little more shady, sketchy information under your belt (freemasons, illuminati, et al) and the feeling intensifies.

i know, i know. it’s just a bunch of men who are trying to do good for their community and live by moral principles but for some reason JUST HAVE TO KEEP THEIR RITUALS SECRET AND ONLY ALLOW IN MEN.

yeah, that.

there’s just nothing anyone can say that will convince me that’s awesome. or that i should be stoked if my friends tell me they’re all about being freemasons. i’ll just shut the fuck up and let them do their thing, but i’m not going to pretend i think it’s amazingly wonderful. there’s plenty of other ways to get hooked up with god and to do service work that aren’t secret. and that allow women to participate. i just can’t get on board. sorry, guys.

People. That’s code for “suicide,” right? I don’t get it. They won’t say suicide because they don’t want anyone else to do it? Or get the idea to do it? Let me tell you, if you’re suicidal, you don’t need anyone to come up with ideas for you. You’ve run the gamut and tested the waters on hundreds of ideas yourself. If you’re like me, you’re too chicken to follow through on any of them, lest they be too painful or too awful in their execution or you be unsuccessful and have to live with the outcome. Or, really because like some coffee club literature says, “nature abhors suicide,” and you really just want to live and see what’s going to happen tomorrow or have some small glimmer of hope that there might be something great you’re going to miss.

That’s how I know I’ve never been seriously suicidal. I’ve never really been able to finish the thought, complete the sentence. I’ve been in the room, but the door’s been way too far away for me to close it, and I’ve been too lonely, tired and exasperated to figure out how to really get there. But I get it. I get the concept. When people rant and rave on those news articles (especially CTA suicides), and go on about how “selfish” the person was, I can only shake my head in bewilderment at the ignorance of the person making the statement. In one way, they’re right, they’re selfish in the sense that they can’t see outside of themselves, they can’t see that there might possibly be another way than the thoughts that are swirling around inside their head, making life seem completely hopeless. They’re completely self-absorbed, self-centered; they are literally thinking of no one but themselves.

But, it’s not because they don’t care about anyone else. It’s because they are mentally ill and their thinking is SO distorted that they no longer can tell truth from reality; they can no longer see this world for what it is. They can no longer comprehend love or joy or the idea that this too, absolutely will pass. That the desperation and depression and hopelessness they’re feeling are just that — feelings. That whatever external circumstances are — no matter how bad they seem — they will also pass, and that there are always opportunities to fix things, to get better, to change. They can absolutely cannot see or hear any of that, and they are lost in their own delusions and twisted thinking and they’ve convinced themselves that the only way out is not through, but over. Or, that they are just too tired to continue and they want to be done. They just want some blessed relief from the constant torture and pain of living as they see it. I suppose that’s the other side of the coin.

I think it’s just because I have such a huge sense of empathy that I get that stuff. I really do. I’ve had bits and pieces of it through my manic-depressive journey as well. I worry that my mom always thinks I’m somewhere near that precipice if I even get sad, when in reality I’ve rarely been there ever. I’ve seen that edge, but it’s always been pretty far away even when I’ve had the chance to glimpse it. But even glimpsing it is heartache enough, and I’m assuming it’s like the Grand Canyon; once you see it, it tends to take you by surprise, it’s pretty overwhelming, you come to respect it right quick, and you absolutely never forget it.

It’s with that knowledge and my one quick trip to the city of psychosis that I watched something else with empathy last night. Apparently, a new guy to coffee club brought a gentleman he had met on the bus with him that night. It was the very last comment of the meeting and the minute the guy got up (got up was one of the first signs) and said that T had “brought him here to speak to this meeting” I said out loud to a couple of friends next to me, “uh-oh.” I knew instantly that the man was unwell. Honestly, at the time, I thought, “This guy’s crazy.”

As he turned out to be. There’s the newcomer insanity, where they prattle on about their last drink and how bad their lives are, or some sort of thing that’s really irrelevant to what is being talked about or what we’ve read. Where you can tell they are still living very much in the problem rather than in the solution. But we’ve all been there, and mostly there’s empathy and the knowledge that while they’re sort of oblivious to how they sound, it’ll all work out; they just need to get a sponsor and work the steps. But I could tell from the get that this guy wasn’t a newcomer. Or if he was, that wasn’t his problem. I could tell that whatever spirit had touched him over the last hour, had whipped his mind into a frenzy that was definitely beyond human aid.

He was here to talk TO us … about I’m not sure what. But he was here to give a speech. And I knew we were in for something. When he started going on about the “alabaster hour,” I knew it wasn’t anything anyone was equipped to deal with. This man was full-blown psychosis. Psych ward time. I looked to a couple of my friends around me — men with a decent amount of time — and they weren’t even moving. I was fighting with what to do. Should I speak up and say “Are you an alcoholic, sir?” Should I walk over there and ask him to leave? I wasn’t sure. At one point, the group tried to stop him by thanking him and clapping for him. This sometimes has the effect of editing an otherwise ego-filled alkie who is on a rant. They tried it twice, but unfortunately, after the first time, I could tell he probably thought people were excited about what he was saying.

Finally, two of the guys in the group got up, but I could see they were in “stance.” Like … “if we’ve got to force this guy out, we will.” That’s when I quickly got up. I knew that could be a dangerous move. People who are in a psychotic mania can be wicked strong. Not to mention they’re highly volatile. Calm one moment, extremely violent the next. Thankfully, there were also two RNs there that night (actually, at least five by my count) who were familiar with dealing with psychiatric issues and they got him out the door. I went immediately outside after the prayer, started with a traditional offering for “a moment of silence for those suffering in *and outside* the rooms,” which was followed by some nervous laughter. I wondered how many people in that room understood that we were all so close to being that guy if we didn’t stay sober.

I knew. I knew that drunk I was getting there. I knew that not properly treating my manic-depression, I was getting there. I also knew that there were a lot more people in that room that were in the exact same boat. A LOT of them. Many diagnosed, and probably a handful undiagnosed. I hope that people had some sort of compassion for the guy instead of seeing him as a nuisance or a bother. I hope they were seeing “there but for the grace of God, go I.”

My friend, A, called an ambulance, and an ambulance, two cop cars and a fire truck showed up. The man was remarkably willing to go along to the hospital. I probably didn’t start things off well with the paramedics when I said, “you could have done without the fire truck.” She said, “I don’t dispatch.” But when 5 firemen, two paramedics and 2 cops started walking toward the guy, who was already calmly talking to a cop and my two RN friends, I yelled out, “Hey, hey … you don’t need all those people over there. Not necessary.” And the paramedic just looked at me with a hateful face and said, “YOU need to go over THERE.” I wanted to say, and “YOU can stop being a BITCH.”

Sometimes all it takes for someone who is that out of their mind to go completely balls to the wall is to see 10 people walking at them. And then it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. SEE? We needed all these people — he went completely apeshit. Well, he went completely apeshit because you brought 10 people, dumbass. It alarms me the number of people employed by the city who probably have little to no training in mental illness or drug and alcohol abuse. Yet, what are they dealing with the majority of the day? The direct and indirect effects of mental illness and drug and alcohol abuse. Something’s not right here.

All I know is that I hope that man got some help last night. I hope they took him to a psych ward where he was given some meds and that he got some sleep and that he’s being given a plan to see life a little clearer. I hope maybe he can come back to the meeting and hear what we all heard last night: a message of hope. And I hope all my friends could see that we’re not so different than he is; that we’re all in there somewhere.

I had a teacher, Mr. Toman, in 5th grade and who I also went on to have in middle school history as well, who was a Beatles fan and who I just adored. For some reason, he made me think that these times were super exciting and that  it would have been great to be there. Mostly, it was the Beatles love and his penchant for using strange words like rapscallion that made me love him ever the more.

But right now, the way things are going, I’m not sure those times were so great. They may have been exciting, but excitement and anxiety are the same emotions, you know. They manifest the same way in your body — it’s all in how your mind perceives them. Rollercoaster you love: excitement. Fearing you will be fired: anxiety. And I think that maybe those days of old may have left me more anxious than excited, it turns out.

Because it seems those days are back. At least from what I can tell. We’re watching people fight against women’s right to contraception. Trying to take away their right to legally get abortions. Slyly trying to get Jim Crow laws back on the books disguised as “voter ID/fraud” laws.  And racism is flourishing, especially that against African-Americans, with people selling anti-Obama bumperstickers that say “Don’t Re-Nig” and actions that seem tantamount to public lynchings — people blatantly shooting unarmed black boys, claming “self-defense,” and being left to walk free, not even being charged in the first place.

How is this possible? How do we have a half-black President in the White House, and yet, we have a self-appointed neighborhood watch leader going around firing shots into young men after 911 dispatchers tell him to do nothing? After the boy has nothing but some candy and some iced tea in his hands? How is someone legitmately shot over a hoodie? This wasn’t a tragic case of good boy caught in gang gunfire. It wasn’t a tragic case of good boy turned bad getting caught up in the gangsta life. It wasn’t a million other stories you hear about African-American teenagers who get slain in cities every day.

This was a story of a man who thought he was above the law, deciding to “protect” something, call it “self-defense,” and kill someone in cold blood. Thing was, so far, he’s gotten away with it. Not “gotten away with it,” done it, gone to trial and been pronounced innocent. No, this man was never charged, never indicted. I don’t know which is worse. Well, for now, there’s still hope. Never charged means he still has a chance to go to trial and be held accountable for his actions. His actions — the ones that constitute murder. Not self-defense, not manslaughter. Murder. He murdered Trayvon Martin just as sure as I walk and breathe. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, Google “Trayvon Martin case.”

And to make matters worse, the ludicrous statements by Geraldo Rivera on Fox News serve to drive home the point that some people will never allow the truth to stand for what it is; they will always strive to find some way to blame the victim. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, Google “Geraldo Rivera hoodie.” I will expound a little here, though. Geraldo basically said it was pretty much Trayvon’s fault he got himself into that situation — what with him wearing that hoodie and all. Let me tell you, if a hoodie is a prerequisite to being murdered, all the hipsters of Wicker Park, the bros of Lincoln Park, and everyone else who has ever just not felt that up to getting that dressed better watch out. Hoodies abound; at least here in Chicago.

I used to long for the days when I could march in the streets. Those days are here. To march for women’s rights. To march for civil rights. To march against the oppression of a police state and an ever growing class warfare. Here they are, but I’m not so young and I’m not so confident I’ll have a fantastic time in jail. I haven’t lost my optimism, but I’ve gained a real dose of realism, too.

I was just talking with a co-worker about the various shows that I haven’t ended up watching (“Game of Thrones,” “The Walking Dead,” “True Blood,” and “Mad Men”), all for different reasons. I guess Mad Men has its season premiere tonight, and she (along with millions?) of other people, are stoked. I told her that I remember when Mad Men came out, I was reluctant to watch it because I feared that as a feminist, I would be discouraged/depressed/enraged by the depiction of women/treatment of women on the show. She agreed that although she was no feminist — “she liked doors being held open for her and stuff” — it was awful how the women were treated, and that her mom said it was a really accurate portrayal of the atmosphere at the time.

It struck me how she disassociated herself from feminism because she liked to have a door held open for herself. I can’t say I entirely misunderstood, because I think in my younger years, I thought that feminism meant taking nothing from a man — I’d get my own door, I’d pay my own way, I’d make sure I jumped in front to maybe make sure that I held *his* door — to show how strong and capable I was. I still don’t mind holding a door for anyone, and I’m always inclined to split a check, especially if the situation is sexually unclear. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand some things.

Chivalry is a good thing. Courtesy and generosity and valor and being a gentleman is a good thing. It’s when it tips over into condescension that it becomes faulty and dangerous. It’s when it starts to become cocooning women; wrapping them up in cotton balls so they will never be damaged or chip a nail that it becomes a method by which men and society start to constrain and control. It’s when showing the same traits back to a man is seen as uncouth or unwelcome or unacceptable that we’ve got a problem on our hands. But the general principle of a man holding a door or letting a woman go first on the bus or making sure she gets a ride home — that’s not a bad thing at all.

And feminism? What is this thing, and why do so many young women distance themselves from it? Why do they see it as some sort of evil? I’m not exactly sure. Part of me thinks it’s because the media and society has done such a good job of demonizing the concept. Instead of it being about equal rights for all, about being for everyone having a fair playing ground, for everyone being able to be afforded the same rights and privileges, it looks something like this:

Feminists should never wear makeup. They don’t want kids. They hate men. They’re all lesbians. They are all want to only be with and hang out with women. They are here to make our lives miserable.

Which, in my mind, couldn’t be farther from the truth. Wear makeup. Love your men. Have kids. Love life. I want there to be chivalry and feminism for all. The two can co-mingle quite nicely, ladies. The “f-word” isn’t feminism. I think it might be fracking.