The Marble Story

Not My Image

The Marble Story

November 1, 2013 at 8:49pm

I promised I would share the marble story. Here it is: 

In March of 1990, I was five months sober and living at Serenity House in Portland Maine. Serenity House is a live-in treatment facility for men recovering from alcoholism. I was 27 years old, and had given sobriety a try on several occasions. None of my efforts proved fruitful, so I decided that living in a situation where sobriety was required would help me. I must add that others had previously suggested I try Serenity House, but I declined. 

I moved in during Super bowl week of 1990. I had 90 days of sobriety at the time. There were daily groups, councilors to provide support, and a host of other venues in which to try out this sobriety thing. My hopes were dim, but I soon made connections with other Men who had been sober longer than me. They were instrumental in my staying sober and helped plants roots that have grown stronger over the years. 

But in March, I was only sober a few months and lacking the skill set I have today. I continued attending groups and found a job at the local YMCA. Props to the YMCA for believing in me. My name in the field of recreation was mud. All of which was my own doing. Previously, I couldn't stay sober long enough to work. Now sober, I worked in an after school care program and was teaching/life-guarding as much as time would permit. 

One morning before work, I attended a group in the house. At that group, one of the councilors did what was called The Marble Exercise. He gave us all a marble and told us that if we decided to drink, throw the marble as far and as hard as you can. Then you can tell folks that before you drank, you had truly lost all your marbles. Conversely, if someone accused you of losing your marbles while sober, you could reach in your pocket and show them that you still had one left. 

I kept my marble by my bedside table. I shared a room with four other souls who were trying to get sober as well. One day I was making my bed and bumped the table. The marble rolled off the table and onto the floor. I watched as it rolled under the bed and out of sight. I looked and looked, but could not find it. 

Around this time, I was feeling a bit resentful about my circumstances. Nothing major, just the sad realization that I once was an aquatic director, coach and swim lessons supervisor. Now at twenty-seven, I was working a job that any high school kid could do. I kept this to myself, despite warnings from staff to share my feelings. A day or two later I got ready to go to work. 

As I drove, it occurred to me that I had an overnight available (Residents had two overnights a week that they could sign up for). I decided that I would go to work, come back for a mandatory house meeting, sing up for an overnight and go drink. I would drink just one night and come right back to the house. I figured nobody would know, and I’d get right back on the beam the next day. I was feeling pretty smug about my plan as I pulled up to the school where the kids would be waiting for me.

The bell rang, and the kids in my after school program showed up. My job was to keep the students entertained until their parents came to pick them up at 5:30. We usually started on the playground. The weather was nice, so we all went outside.

This one kid came off the playground with a closed fist presented to me.

“Here” he said.

“What’s this?” I inquired.

(Big sigh!) . . . “Here!” He exclaimed again.

I put my open hand out, and he dropped a big blue marble into my palm.

“Why . . . Why’d you give me that?” I said in disbelief.

He shrugged and said, “Something told me you should have it.”

I did not drink that day. I went back to the house and told them of my plan and the story of the boy and the marble. The staff laughed. They also commended me for coming back and telling the truth.

I have that marble somewhere in my possessions. It’s tucked away in a box, behind a box somewhere in my things.

It is priceless!

M :-) 

Vacation

Trigger Warning: Recovery from substance use/abuse content. Some discussion of trauma recovery.


My Husband and I will be on vacation, beginning Friday, July 7th.


And yet, I promised myself I'd make 30 blog posts in 30 days.


What to do?


On occasion, I have supplemented with pieces I've previously wrote for other social media sites. I may do this occasionally during our time off, and away. I'm also not very iPad savvy, so longer posts are tougher to maneuver when I'm not on my laptop.


I love having the ability to take a vacation. I usually front-load these times with some recovery based actions. Kind of like having insurance. I will gather with others in recovery to ensure I'm grounded, and can enjoy my time off.


If and when we travel, I'll get online to find recovering resources. Even if I don't utilize them, it's nice to know they're there. And the related contact information is additional insurance to my personal recovery.


The plan is a "Staycation" with some day trips and travel to family in New England. Maine is such a wonderful place to take a holiday, and folks come from all over to enjoy our lakes, mountains, oceans and other tourist and historical attractions. I am truly blessed  to live in such a beautiful state.


Which reminds me of my first paid vacation in sobriety, some twenty-five years ago. I was around two years sober, and I finally was employable in a job with the benefits of three weeks paid vacation. I took a week in the summer, and figured that some road trips would fit the bill.


The night before vacation, I broke out my old cooler and started cleaning it. I soaked it in hot water and dish detergent. I scrubbed the thing inside and out, then dried it with a towel. I put over an hour into making it as clean as possible.


When finished, I stepped back to survey my work.


I was thinking of what I would need. I knew from experience that the cooler would hold almost two cases of beer and a bag of ice . . .


What?!


It was then that I remembered I no longer drank. I shuddered a bit at the thought of all the time and effort I was putting into preparing my cooler for a boatload of beer; without even realizing it. That slow, but steady, internal emotional escalation started to accelerate. My thoughts and feelings began a footrace to full-blown anxiety. What was I thinking? Was I going to get drunk? What would happen to me? Should I even go on vacation?


I made a quick call to a trusted, sober friend and told him what I had attempted to do. Of course, he started laughing at me. For clean and sober folks I know, laughter is the highest form of identification with another's situation. Tim and I had a brief conversations about how spending decades building habits are not undone in two short years. Then he gave me some recovery suggestions of what to do to start off my vacation on the right foot.


And then, you can fill your cooler with juice, soda, ice and food! He said.


What a novel idea.


I went on vacation. I hung out with other sober folks. I went on some road trips and slept in my car a couple of nights. It was one of the most wonderful, freedom-feeding, vacations I've ever had. I would take many road trips over the years, but this was my first clean and sober vacation. And it was awesome!


And I learned something about myself, and my recovery. The lesson of that evening with my cooler taught me that I can begin to plan a relapse without even realizing it. The old behavior ingrained in the fabric of my being could start that ball rolling, and I would be none the wiser.


This taught me (one more time) that recovery is an ongoing process. That a continuing search for wellness was one of the best ways to guarantee that I would remain in recovery. And that, even during subconscious,  unhealthy behavior, I could build awareness that would protect me. The habits I used to build my recovery would supplant, even the most covert attitudes built upon years of behavior from my drinking history.


For me, my recovery from trauma comes from the same script. The more I build a world of safety through writing, meditation, groups, individual therapy, and other skills, the better prepared I am for whatever comes to the surface from that dark, negative energy that exists in areas of my past yet uncovered.


This does not mean that I need to constantly dig for injury. That stuff has no problem coming up, in its own time and own way.


Rather, I can work on wellness and have as much fun as possible along the way. I can celebrate love, life, laughter, and actually feel those things deeper as a result of the work.


And my vacations are generally time well spent as a result.


Peace,


M :-)

Mr. Baily and Gratitude

Edited for content on February 18th, 2018. I wanted to highlight Mr Bailey, and remove any teacher names from the post. Here's hoping the focus of the story remains. 


OK. Time for some gratitude!

There was an interesting dynamic to my first week in high school.

My brothers were six and seven years older than I. They had gone through the high school I attended, and attached some (what seemed) rather legendary behavior to the family name. I'm not sure what class this happened in, but I remember the teacher taking attendance the first day of my freshman year. The conversation resembled something like this:

Blanchard?
Yes sir.
Are you Ron and Phil's little brother?
Yes.
Well . . . YOU BETTER NOT BEHAVE LIKE THEM! I'M NOT GONNA' PUT UP WITH ANY GRIEF! YOU UNDERSTAND BLANCHARD?

I was mortified.

After that class though, I remember my classmates expressing an interest in all that was related to the Blanchard name. The decades since have removed the memory of the teacher, and the faces of most of the students that approached me, but I remember the feeling and kudos from my peers. Suddenly, I felt like I was popular.

I decided that this "reputation" could be put to good use. If folks thought I was crazy like my brothers, then nobody would mess with me. I was in swimming and band, and knowing upper class-men seemed to help my cause of stripping away the layers of bullying I had put up with through elementary and part of junior high school. I figured I could play this bad boy image just enough to gain respect, if only I wasn't caught misbehaving by my parents!

Ahh! Troubled youth feigning a bad-assed reputation based on the family name. That's a model for success.

I met my school guidance counselor during the first few weeks of my freshman year. He was a high school coach in a big sport. I told him I wanted to take college-prep classes, instead of the general course of study I was enrolled in. Coach never got my name right. He would ask me if I was another student.

No. I said.
Do you play football? 
No.
Oh . . . I can't help you. 

We had basically the same conversation numerous times over the first two years of high school. Each time, he misnamed me. And each time, after finding out I don't play football, he would smile and tell me he couldn't help me. I hated that smile.

At the end of my sophomore year,  I went to see Mr. Bailey.

Everyone called him "Bongo" Bailey, and I piled on right along with my friends. We made fun of his voice, and his long pauses between words as he spoke. Those pauses where always sustained with an "Ahhhhhhh." If he addressed any portion of the student body, we would all start saying "Ahhhhhhh." as he went to the front of the class, or the podium.

But I saw that Mr Bailey was different than other guidance counselors. I watched as he took the time to work with folks, and decided he was the person that would help me. I went to him with my story about Coach's lack of help because I didn't play football. At least, that's what it sounded like to me.

Mr. Bailey (I stopped calling him Bongo that very day), never responded to my impressions of Coach. Instead, he simply offered to add me to his case-load, and help me with college prep courses.

In retrospect, I must have taken quite a bit of work by Mr. Bailey to accomplish this. During my junior year, I enrolled in sophomore college prep classes. And during my senior year, I signed up for junior college prep classes, and still met my requirements (Thanks to Mr Bailey's help) to graduate with my senior class.

When I look back at the hoops Mr. Bailey must have had to jump through to make this all work for me, I am in awe of his efforts.

Despite my commitment to swimming and band, I struggled as a student, and found numerous ways to get into trouble, both with academics and deportment. Smelling trouble, I'd slink into Mr. Bailey's office. He would take off his glasses and rub his whole face. This was something he did when he was flustered, and my behavior flustered Mr Bailey . . . a lot.

The conversations usually began like this:

Michael. We have an issue. You're not doing your assignments for class. If you don't complete your work, you won't graduate. How can I help you? 

Or . . .

Michael, you can't behave like (Insert bad behavior here) in (Insert teacher's name here) class. You realize you need this class to graduate. Don't you? 

I don't remember exactly how the conversations went, but the above quotes are an attempt at the gist of his words to me; as I remember them.

What I haven't told you yet is that Mr. Bailey had experience with my older brothers in school. Like me, they were troubled young men at the time they went to high school. And they both had their share of blow-ups with Mr Bailey. Years later, both my brothers told me of their regret over the way they treated him.

But unlike other teachers of that time, Mr Bailey never mentioned anything bad about them. He simply listened to what I was trying (however haltingly) to do. He went above and beyond to help me. He set boundaries on what my behavior expectations were (Over and over!), and worked with me on better solutions that would lead to a successful graduation. Never once! Did he compare me to other family members, though he sure had good reason to.

I hadn't thought about Mr Bailey in a while. But a dear friend from high school and I were talking on a lovely July day at Willard Beach. She mentioned some of the teachers we had, and the gifts they bestowed upon us. My thoughts turned to Mr. Bailey and his wonderful advocacy.

I did not attend college after high school. In today's world, I'm sure someone's statistical look at return on investment would negate the efforts put in by Mr. Bailey. He has long since passed away, and I'm sure there's no remaining record of his association with me.

But I'm an avid reader, have pretty good writing and communication skills, and have done several jobs over the years that are usually reserved for college educated individuals.

All because Mr. Bailey cared.

M :-)

Charlie Brown, Linus, and the Act of Grieving

Trigger Warning: Mention of trauma, and journey through a grieving session. 

Additional link to previous post that discusses trauma and behaviors associated with it. 

Also: Beware of cuteness 





Hello world:

Meet my adorable husband. This photo was taken at a Halloween Party. We went as Linus and Charlie Brown. I'm Linus, and the adorable man in the yellow shirt is my husband, Rod. We decided to go as a grown-up version of Charlie Brown and Linus, with the added "what if?" the two fostered an adoring relationship in adulthood.

Rod is simply the most wonderful man I've ever met. He is handsome, kind, sincere, and possesses a capacity for great love. He also has a way about him that just melts me in any given moment. We slow-dance before dinner at home, and look to one another for support. We also give each other space to grow. Rod is better at this last skill than I am. But he is exceptional at setting boundaries when I try to manage his stuff, over mine.  

His love has captivated me in a way that no other person ever has. I'm willing to admit that this may have something to do with the work that I've done to become lovable in a relationship. I had this backwards for so many years. "If I can just loose five more pounds, I can make him love me." Or, "If only I could bench 240lbs, then they would find me attractive."

Today, I work out purely (OK . . . Mostly!) for myself. And my handsome prince is so gentle in his display of love. It's more than him simply snuggling with me, or doing something demonstrative. We're both good at that. It's the thoughtfulness behind his actions that leave me awe-struck with his intentions.

Which brings us to grieving. I don't like it. It's messy, and it feels like it's beyond my control. And I don't . . . like . . . not . . . being . . . in . . . control!

Oh, I can talk about the process of grief. I can illustrate in both written and oral language the steps and work to make space, and benefits of grieving. But the next boat-load of sadness coming down the pike feels like it's gonna' kill me! I don't want to cry in front of anyone, and I want control (Did I mention control?) of the circumstances on which I am going to grieve over, and for how long, and to what intensity. Thank you very much.

This is not to say that I am incapable of grieving without a struggle. In fact, I'm a big-old softie. Send me to a Broadway touring company musical, or the right movie, and I can go from zero to Niagara Falls in mere moments. But these are controlled (Did I mention control?) circumstances where the length, content and intensity is predetermined.

Did I mention control?

So this attempt to bring you along on my latest journey of grieving is something I do not take lightly. I know that survivors of adverse childhood experiences wrestle with grief in unique ways that may not lend themselves to typical skills sets that get presented to us. Therefore, I've decided to bring you with me for a glimpse at my process. I do this for two reasons. 

1. I am fortunate to have survived and flourished. Over the years, I have seen many people with similar histories falter and slip into what appears to be the bottomless trenches of past trauma issues; some have never returned. 

2. I know that writing has been a strength for me. Writing my story down not only makes room for recovery in my life, but becomes a frame of reference when needed. 

I've been feeling some severe sadness as of late during the one constant in my life that usually sustains me . . . Swimming. 

Swimming has been a symbol of safety for my entire life. Swimming has challenged me both professionally and personally to be more than I thought I was capable of. As a child, swimming was a safe space to experience positive interactions with adults. As an adolescent, swimming became something that gave me physical prowess and praise among my peers; something I desperately needed. 

In high school, there were problems with substances and relations with others, but swimming set the bar for what would and would not be acceptable. While there were difficulties, swimming double sessions over the summer, and focusing on swimming during the school year kept my grades acceptable, and broadened my circle of friends. 

After graduation, it was my return to swimming that helped me see (however slowly) that the person I was purporting to be on the pool deck was not the person I was when away from the water. Now a coach, instructor, and lesson supervisor, I saw that my behavior away from the pool did not sit well with me. Other organizations and institutions over the years would help free me from substance abuse, and other issues. But it was swimming that always shed light on the necessity of this movement to wellness in the smallest and most impressionable measures. 

Even during a lull in my own swimming, I worked in and around the fringes of the sport; mentoring others and assisting with teaching for sessions from time to time. I would help out with a lesson program and teach young instructors how to teach. 

As an adult who quit smoking, swimming called to me once again, and I answered. I love being in and around the water. I found myself giving impromptu lessons to other adults during lap swims, and working behind the scenes to come back to the water. I attended swim meets again, and saw just how much I loved the sport. 

So why this recent sadness at the prospect of teaching, guarding or lap swimming? 

I know there is always work for me to do. My young life had a significant amount of trauma, and I realize full well that there are days where I must redouble my efforts at working on and through those issues. Years of substance abuse and other behaviors that were attempts to keep stuff at bay were not long-term solutions to recovery. 

But this was different. This had a tag to my soul, and I knew why it pulled so deeply, and so painfully. 

This is one of those times where I must consider the welfare of others. I will write cautiously for anonymity's sake. It is not my place to grieve at the expense of another's comfort. A boundary has been set, and I will respect it. 

Before swimming laps yesterday, I called a trusted friend in recovery. I reviewed some recent decisions I had made, and the regret associated with those decisions. I was aware of the source of the sadness, and how swimming made the awareness of those decisions intensify.

My wonderful friend offered candid and loving feedback during our conversation. They were both advocate and cheerleader. Something my friend said stayed with me. "It's like training for years for an event, then being told your not swimming, as your heading up to the blocks." 

I swam and reflected on this conversation. This is something I do often when swimming laps. The inverse is that I simply count my laps and (if troubled) awareness and perspective comes to me during the swim. I have had immense success with this as well. I also know that it's just nice to "check out" and swim. More often than not, I do the latter of these three things while doing laps. As much as swimming is good for my body, it is precious fuel for my soul. 

I finished my swim and showered in the changing facilities. As has been my practice lately, I took some time to meditate after the swim. I tend to be using the pool when the crowds are dim, so there's time and space to do this in the locker room, undisturbed. It has been part of my letting go process recently. I'm in a clearer space after a swim, so I take advantage of that clarity to search inward. 

I returned home with one goal. Change and clean the litter box. Circumstance upended that plan the moment I tried to move the bag of cat litter. There was a hole in the bag that required patching. The bag was in a delivery box, and moving the box spread the remnants of the cat litter through two rooms of the apartment. The spillage of litter meant I would have to vacuum. The vacuum wouldn't work, because I inadvertently knocked one of the outlet extender plugs out of the wall trying to plug in the vacuum. The vacuum clogged, and in my agitated state, I made it unusable; but not before getting up all the cat litter. 

Ever notice that accidents and mishaps tend to domino when stress is already in the mix? Or is that just me? 

At this point, I'm furious! I am just so mad that nothing is going my way. I change and clean the cat box, and bring the trash downstairs. That's when I give a second notice to a box that is on the bed (Image recreated here). 

I sit down to look at social media on my iPad, and decide to peek in the box. I'm a sweaty mess, I'm pissed off, and here's what I found. 

That thoughtful, sincere, loving husband I told you about? This was inside the box. Linus and Charlie Brown. His gift signified a wonderful evening we spent together at a Halloween dance fundraiser. All the friends we saw, the love and adoration we experienced, the slow dancing and affection we shared that evening and always. Here was a heartfelt little token of appreciation from the most wonderful man I know. 

And as my heart mended a little bit more, the floodgates of sadness opened. I began to sob, then weep, then cry uncontrollably. The words of grief flowed with my tears. I will embellish for sake of privacy: 

I'm sorry! (Name not included)

I'm so fuckin' sorry! 

It's my fault! 

I tried to do right. 

But I must have done it wrong. 

I included professionals.

I wrote.

I tried to reach out.

I'm sorry! 

I don't sit well while crying. I was also frightened, so I got up to check the door; locked and latched. I went back to the bedroom and picked up Charlie Brown and Linus. 

I'm sorry! (Name not included)

I tried to do right!

But I must have done it wrong!

I checked with therapists.

I tried.

I'm so sorry! 

Then something shifted. There was another level to this grief. A depth I thought reconciled that needed to be expressed. I began making amends to my 13 year old self. I can speak freely of my own self talk. 

I'm sorry Mikey! 

I'm so fuckin' sorry!

I didn't mean to take you to Deering Oaks.

I didn't know that man was going to be there.

He wanted to take fuckin' pictures! 

That sick fuck!

Why did he do that to me?

Why! 

I'm sorry Mikey!

I'm so sorry I took you there!

I didn't know!

I didn't know there were men like that out there!

I was grieving a situation that had defined me. As a damaged 13 year-old with a trauma history, I had gone looking for sexual contact and found one of the most evil of men. Someone looking to exploit young boys. I now realize that whatever shreds of humanity I had left were stolen from me that day in the spring/summer of 1975. 

Read the full story sometime at this link: 

(Additional Trigger Warning) Memories of Junior High School (Previous Post In This Blog)

Later that summer, a broken arm prevented me from swimming. I took it up again during the school year and swam for the Junior High team during my 8th grade year. I swam that summer, and on through high school. I was a school record holder and a state champion. 

I also taught swimming to kids and worked summers at a local YMCA. This increased my self-esteem and began (little did I know) the healing process of the abuse I suffered. I had an opportunity to be good to kids, and the kids seemed to enjoy working with me. 

Given all that swimming has brought to me, it makes perfect sense that swimming would also make room for the child within to grieve as an adult. One of the things I haven't mentioned is that when I was sobbing, I was clutching a lifeguard shirt. The irony is not lost on me. 

And letting go, for me, is part of the healing process. It's why I can still be fearful of grieving. I'm afraid that I will feel all of the pain in one fatal dose. It's why I strive for control when dealing with sadness. But letting go of control is the very key to feeling those feelings. 

There's a theme here with control, letting go, and grieving, I believe (Snark font unavailable) 

And the simple loving act of my husband's gift dropped my guard enough for me to feel the pain of that little boy who pedaled his bicycle into Portland in 1975. That little boy had already been lied to in deed and word by a large number of adults who had exploited him. My little, precious, curious Mikey did not have the proper tools to maneuver through puberty. And there were additional people who abused that. My young feet may have brought me to that place, but there were already adults who had steered me in that direction. 

I embrace that little boy that lives inside me. It is my hope that I can help him continue to flourish . . . And grieve when he has to. I want to hold space for him (and others like him) where compassion and understanding can create a healing place. 

I hope this has been helpful to the 800 people who have viewed this blog so far, and those that will continue to visit here. 

As always, I would love to hear from you about your strategies for grieving or other tools of recovery.

Peace, 

M 

Trauma and Hope for Healing

I needed to see this again today. I wrote it in response to the death of Robin Williams. Little did I know that the writing from that day would give me permission to grieve today. 💕

Originally written August 12th, 2014

I soooooo needed to see this today. The video link is a scene from Goodwill Hunting. 

I see a lot of empowering posts about choice and choosing not to be a victim. They are important reminders of our present circumstances. And I believe that the gift of choice can be the determining factor in one's own recovery, whatever the circumstances. 

But sometimes, our past can be a huge determining factor in our daily lives. Processing through that past can be heart-wrenching, even under the safest and best of circumstances. 

I think we sometimes have the expectation that public figures in our lives will have the same capacity for strength and character that we have seen displayed under controlled circumstances. While these performances can be personally empowering for us, we would do wise to see the humanity beyond the roles they are playing. 

And it is important to recall that there have been moments in my own life where all choice was lost from view. Moments when I have been carried with little or no assurance that the next moment would bring anything like real relief or peace. In those moments (and there have been many), the most important and healing response I received was; "I hear you." 

Of equal (if not greater) priority is the knowledge that living through trauma does not always make a person stronger. And hearing those words can further recede any glimpse of hope, light or choice in the matter. Truly, an almost impossible amount of strength and courage was required to get past a horrendous moment or series of moments. But a canned response by an uninformed person that has the context about the hard part being over is hollow and devoid of empathy. It is crucial to be a witness to someone's pain . . . again, and again, and again.  

We can retreat to care for ourselves. Setting boundaries for self-care while being a witness to someone's trauma process can be influential in their healing, and sustaining to our availability. 

But if we begin to determine just when and how someone will 'get over' their history, we have become nothing more than an extension of those that have delivered the trauma unto these frightened, vulnerable beings in the first place. 

While scars can heal stronger than what once was present. It is the wound that needs treating. And no one can determine that timeline for another. 

Peace,

M

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYa6gbDcx18  

What Life Could Have Been

Originally written on April 19th of this year.

A special note to those that have sought numerous hospital admissions. You are not a frequent flyer. You are a self-care warrior. 💕

What Life Could Have Been

Trigger Warning: Trauma/Suicide.

I wasn’t going to write about this topic, but recent events reminded me that telling my story, may save a life or a soul. 

Twenty years ago, I watched a young golfer by the name of Tiger Woods win his first Masters Championship. I remember it so well. He was the young phenom. The heir apparent to Jack Nicklaus. Surely, Tiger would win more Majors than Jack had. And there were many times that Woods, clad in the red Nike polo, would charge through Sundays and on to victory. It seemed that Tiger’s twelve-stroke victory in April of 1997 was merely a precursor to all that lay before him. 

I remember the buzz about Tiger, because I was literally, a captive audience during his first Masters victory. You see, I was an inpatient at Jackson Brook Institute on Running Hill Road at the time. 

I was seven years sober, and had reached my rock-bottom around a host of issues. Depression had me by the throat. My own trauma history, coupled with working in a field that, systemically, was loaded with homophobia, had ripped my insides to shreds. 

Outside of work, I was once again, chasing someone I could not have. A young man who fit all the missing pieces (so I thought) of my life, but could not love me the same way I loved him. External homophobia pales in comparison to the decisions a person makes based on internalized homophobia. Somehow, I thought that loving a straight man would make being gay somewhat . . . Forgivable.  

Now I had come out some four years prior to this. And in order to get and stay sober, I had to get honest about a lot of things. My sexuality being at the top of that list. But coming out is not a task to be done and over with. There are layers of coming out that happen on a daily basis. I first started talking to folks about my sexuality, when I was attempting to get sober in the late 1980’s. But I could not admit to myself that I was even an alcoholic, let alone that I was (Gasp!) gay!

And beneath my sexuality lurked a terrible, and forbidding trauma history that had left me with silent secrets about sex and sexuality that had me questioning my own sanity on a daily basis. 

I now know that the deeds done to me were emblematic of the sickness of the individuals who delivered that trauma, but I had no frame of reference at the time. In the seventies and eighties, drugs and alcohol where the only coping skills I had. And the behaviors and debauchery that went along with them left me even more ashamed and lonely. 

Getting sober in 1989 was a good start, and coming out in 1991 was crucial. But there were additional boatloads of work that needed to be done. I had much love and support, and did some incredible work over the first seven years of my sobriety. 

I met a man in 1991 who helped me come out, and celebrated all the little victories of that process. He was gay, sober, and happy. I couldn’t get those three things in the same zip-code. I shall be forever grateful for him. He was the first gay man in my life that extended kindness to me, without trying to sleep with me. 

I also was directed to the Caron Foundation in the spring of 1993. I left a ton of trauma memories on that hill in Wernersville Pennsylvania. Most of the nightmares stopped. And for the first time in my life, I experienced something like real relief from this sticky, ugly past that was my childhood. 

But I still had cornered the marked on dysfunctional behavior, and I was doing and reacting to things that made me desperately unhappy; all based in trauma and internalized homophobia. 

Which leads me to back to being seven years sober, and an inpatient at a local psychiatric facility. 

In early April 1997, I had tried to commit suicide. I used my bicycle to ride from the top of Munjoy Hill, down to the intersections of Congress at Franklin Arterial. I stood at the top of the hill and timed the lights, counting the seconds they remained green and calculated the speed and distance necessary to run a red light; making things appear like an accident. I tried several times that evening, and a couple of times the next day, but did not “create” an accident at the arterial. 

Despite my best efforts, nothing happened. I ended up back at my apartment, laying on the couch, in gut-wrenching pain. I was a coach of a local swim team, and had decided that it was best that the kids not know what a failure I was as a person. I was out as a gay man, but not out to the kids and parents of the team I coached. Being inside that invisible closet was literally killing me. I was convinced that the team would hate me. Given the climate twenty years ago in athletics (Heck! Given the climate now!) I may not have been too far off in my perception. 

But I must add that many of those kids are now adult friends and acquaintances in my life. They absolutely love what I’m doing, love my husband, and care for me a great deal. So in the final analysis, my skewed self-image, combined with internalized homophobia and depression was a recipe for self-destruction. How fortunate I am to have survived. 

I walked from my apartment, up to the local emergency room. I must say that I paused at the one busy intersection and contemplated another attempt. But something held, then pushed me across the road safely, and I went to the hospital. 

Once in treatment, I discovered that depression was a physical illness. And Oh! did I mention that I had been a mental health worker as well for almost five years when I became an inpatient treated for depression? 

I had been immersed in mental health and substance abuse work, but I couldn’t see the problem in myself. I thought I was the only one! Many times during my life, I have learned (and re-learned) that any emotional pain or doubt that I have will manifest itself in the need to isolate. The key to wellness in these situations is to break out of that isolation. 

And so began anew, my journey into wellness. The next ten years were full of lessons (and behaviors) that have led me to a place of peace and comfort. There were times I threw in the towel and settled. I thought I’d never find love, fidelity, or contentment. But little by slowly, all those things came my way. And the key was breaking out of the isolation of the given behavior I was struggling with at the time. 

One of the most amazing things that happened to me was finding a level of recovery when I was 17 years sober that I thought impossible. This layer of awareness came my way as the result of yet another emotional bottom that revealed a place of comfort and like-minded people who had struggled at the hands of the addictions of others. I thought, being an alcoholic, that I had no right to experience the kind of personal growth they offered. But I was assured there was a seat at the table for me as well. I learned that the alcoholism that surrounded my life had effected me as deeply as my own addictions. 

I didn’t join this group of folks to quit smoking, but that’s what happened. I didn’t join this group of folks to give up flings and find personal integrity, but that’s what happened. I didn’t join them to return to the water, start swimming, and rekindle my passion for the sport, but that’s what happened. And I certainly never intended to return to recreation full time, but that’s what I’m looking to do.  

I saw this morning that Aaron Hernandez had killed himself. I then witnessed the shit-storm of hate for this man’s deeds on social media. It brought me back to that place of fear and self-loathing that I had at such dangerously high levels in 1997 (there have been struggles since, but never to that magnitude). And I thought of friends of mine who have lost sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, siblings, parents, friends and a host of other relations to the terrible diseases that fan the flames of suicide. 

And I thought of Tiger, and his well-documented struggles. And how deeply they have effected his professional and personal life. And how quickly the social media age and the public judge and condemn people who stumble and fall. 

Then I thought of those that see all of this and suffer in silence, like I once did. No matter who I was talking to, or what behaviors I was engaged in, no one could see the immediate desperation that was so ever-present in my life at that time. Heck! Even I couldn’t see it!

So let’s all try and be a little more gentle with one another, shall we? 

Peace,

M 

Patrick, Nachos, and All of the Feels

Last night, I bumped into an old friend of mine. I was hopeful that I would see Patrick. His social media page mentioned that he was coming back to Maine for a visit.

I won't give you a lot of information about my friend. He was coming home after some challenging aspects of letting go. I have yet to check this out with Patrick, so I will err on the side of caution. I knew he needed to come home to reboot, and recharge.

So I went to a place where gay men focus on recovering issues on Friday evenings. I wanted to see my friend. And sure enough, he was there. I stole a hug and a kiss before we started. Then we got down to the business of recovery. It was a productive meeting, and the energy in the room was fantastic.

When things came to an end, my friend and I embraced again. I asked if he wanted to go with tradition and meet with the guys for dinner, or get together for some "Mikey time."

Patrick had future plans with folks from the group, so we agreed to meet at Denny's on Congress Street. I had selfish reasons for wanting to go there. It's close to my house, and I was working in the morning. We agreed to meet at the old recovery haunt. The classic, meeting after the meeting spot in Portland during the late 80's and early 90's.

We embraced again in the parking lot and ventured inside. The moment we sat down, I had to make a declaration.

I'm having all of the feels! 
What kind of feels? asked Patrick.
All of them! I said.

I quickly recalled all the times we and others had hung out here after meetings. It was as if I could see the members, sitting in their booths; a low cloud of smoke, hovering over the tables. We both took turns, filling in the blank spaces of our experiences with memories of people helping us. I added that my dear friend Patrick was so helpful to me.

Patrick has something about him that I do not. My perception is that he has always worn his sexuality like a loose garment. Comfortable and inviting. Not in a come hither way, but safe, secure and reassuring.

25 years ago, Patrick scared the shit out of me!

We returned from memory lane to more recent events. I let Patrick talk first. He's been dealing with loss, and I wanted to make space for him to lay all that out on the table. In what is typical fashion for a man that works on his recovery with amazing effort and grace, Patrick placed the pieces of the situation before his friend. And I was honored to bear witness to this (and all phases) of his journey.

We spent some time talking about my recent journey. Patrick listened and offered encouragement and candor in equally loving doses. We also worked through a plate of nachos, and each had a dessert.

During my all too brief meditation this morning, I thought of how blessed I have been to have this man in my life. Then I realized that the depth of my friendship with Patrick and other people is directly proportional to my willingness to engage in, and process, my trauma history.

I share these snippets of my life for the benefit of those that may feel isolated and alone with their history. Doing the work (However haltingly) and the passage of time has softened the rough edges of my history, while creating these wonderful, powerful memories of resilience, support, and recovery.

As of this writing, there have been 678 views of this blog in just over ten days. I am deeply moved that so many people have come together to this place to experience recovery from adverse childhood experiences.

I would like to make space for you, the reader, to share your experiences as well.

Thank you.

M