Kiss Me, I'm Irish

Irish Need Not Apply!" 

Written March 17th, 2011

My Grandfather told me these signs were common in the Portland area during his youth. I had the privilege of living with him toward the end of his life. I wish I had taken better care of him, but that's between me, him and God. I got sober and decided the best I could do for my Granddad was to go get the help I so desperately needed, which meant moving from his home.

When I still lived there, however, I would share breakfast and the newspaper with him. There were some specific events that happened during my five years at his home. A viable Woman candidate appeared on the Vice-Presidential ticket. The Space Shuttle, Challenger exploded on its way in to orbit. Jesse Jackson made an improbable run at the Dems nomination and delivered his historic "Keep Hope Alive" speech at the Democratic National Convention.

One of the things I was absolutely sure of was that old people had wisdom. Richard Pryor told me so. On one of his stand up routines on HBO, he mentioned that we should listen to old people. They were smart. That's how they got old. I knew I wasn't very smart (but thought I knew everything), so I listened when Grampy discussed the historical context of the news.

On the Challenger, he spoke of the risks taken previously and lives lost in the space program. About Geraldine Ferraro, he noted that in less than a century, Women had moved from not having the right to vote to "making the ticket" in a Presidential election. Grampy believed that it was a question of when, not if a Woman would some day be elected President of the United States. 

My Grandfather was a Deputy SheriffSherriff, and a boxing trainer. He didn't care what color you were. "Long as you could hit." he told me. That meant he trained what were referred to then as Negro fighters. Grampy didn't like the word and used the term black; at least as far back as I can remember.

It seemed that whenever I brought Grampy anywhere, we would run into someone who knew him from the fight game. There were the usual grins, insults and other assorted greetings between him and whomever we met. If the unsuspecting person hadn't seen my Grandfather in a while, there was always the eventual look of sadness on their face as they realized my Grandfather's  mind was betraying him. His long term memory was flawless, but he couldn't remember anything from a few minutes ago.

"How long?" one of the greeters would pull me aside and say.

We're not really sure was part of my usual response. My Grandmother hid a lot of info from us. We didn't figure it out until after she passed. Then I would hear how she was a saint, and that my Grandfather had a wild side and liked his whiskey (Wondered where I got that). But I would also hear that he was the best corner man (Boxing term for manager) in the state, on the East coast and even the country. The story had other aspects too.

On more than one occasion, I heard from the men (Black and White) about how my Grandfather brought Black fighters into the game despite warnings to the contrary. The story goes that "They" told Grampy that he wouldn't go anywhere if he kept bringing up Black fighters, but he kept doing it. I never figured out who "They" were. I know that Eddie Griffin was really good to my Grandfather and helped him no matter who Grampy was training. "They" had to be someone else. Not Eddy.

He was "One hell of a Man." they would tell me; like he was already gone. Sadly, they were right. He was retreating a little every day. Despite my Grandfather's strength of long term memory, he never spoke of being cheated or singled out by the system that kept him down for doing the right thing. He never uttered a bitter word about the experience, but he could tell me volumes about the likes of Smitty Hicks.

Jesse Jackson gave his Keep Hope Alive speech at the 1988 Democratic National Convention. As we followed  the news in the paper (Yeah. We did that back then), my Grandfather would comment on how far the Black Man had come since slavery and the struggle for Civil Rights less than twenty years before.

During discourse on social issues, my Grandfather  would draw parallels between now and the struggle for immigrants during his youth. There were also religious taboos. Grampy recounted that he was surprised when his Mother mentioned that a friend of his was "awfully nice for a Catholic boy."  My Grandfather chose to go to Portland High School. His Class picture looks like the melting pot that Portland was at the time. However, there were many things being said about the Irish, French and Italian populations of this city. Systemic discrimination ran rampant, and my Grandfather was bewildered by it all. At least as he remembered back and saw the current struggles and social issues, he voiced the common threads, and his displeasure at them both. He always insisted it would get better though. As it had.

Even what little press was being given to Gay Rights did not escape him. He would tell me about a gay friend and how kind the person was and how they were no different. In retrospect, he told me that story a lot. He repeated many of his stories, but this one seemed out of context and was only brought up when we were alone. Maybe he already knew something I was much too ashamed to admit to myself most of that time.

Which brings me to St. Patrick's Day. We've come a long way from "Irish Need Not Apply!" I have a dear friend who finds the whole spectacle offensive. This person feels as if the history of the struggle is given over for this homogenization of a holiday that leads to revisionist history. I respect that position. Forgive me if I do not do justice to it during this writing.

Then it occurred to me today that this could happen for my community, but in all that is good about this day. Imagine having Harvey Milk Day for a moment. Imagine everyone parading around wearing pink with buttons that say: "Kiss Me I'm Queer!" It could be a day where everybody was a little bit Queer.

It could happen. My Grampy said so.

M<3

PS: I will fore-go the pink beer though. ;-)

Feeling Dirty, And The Recovery It Can Bring

Not My Image

Trigger Warning: Discussion of trauma as it relates to stimuli and a child's place in the world. Working through dysfunctional sexual development. 

One of the reasons I started this blog was the realization that there were other men and boys out there who were like me. The fabric of sexual trauma can weave itself around and through our basic interactions, and our most intimate physical, emotional, and spiritual beliefs and behaviors too.

It has taken decades to see sunlight in the way that I experience it today. My soul kept tugging at me that making this space may help other men and boys who have been violated with and damaged by the exploitative behavior of others. I was hesitant to tell my story with such detail.


It is my belief that men and boys younger than myself could possibly catch a glimpse of the signposts in my experience and seek help. Additionally, I was hopeful that men and boys would see the goodness in their own lives, via positive experiences that I have been blessed with along the way. Maybe they too could discover and reclaim similar moments of sustenance in their lives as well.

Sexual trauma has a way of blocking out anything positive, safe, and nurturing that was happening in our lives. The moments of abuse (constant in my young world) created a cloud of memories filled with doubt, fear, and shame. There have been times when recalling the instances of trauma and exploitation blocked out any hint of the love and kindness that I received as a child.

It is important to note that there was a good chunk of my lifetime where I was oblivious to the memory of being sexually abused. What happened at four, five, and six years old was a myth. A foggy recollection of a scary experience with water, being in kindergarten, having my tonsils out in first grade, and not much else.

In my early twenties, I started to have brief, but frightening visions of abuse from my childhood. These visions usually visited me in my dreams, but would occasionally appear while conscious. Being an active alcoholic and drug addict, I would seek out my next fix as quickly as possible. I would grab hold of any substance or behavior that would obliterate even the slightest insights into my past trauma history.

While desperately trying to remain unaware of my truth, I realize now that my behaviors, mind-sets, and outlook on life were emblematic of an untreated survivor of childhood sexual abuse. To survive, avoidance was key.

Furthermore, the ordeals suffered had the potential to make any moments of normal spiritual, emotional, and physical sustenance, feel sexualized, and therefore, dirty.

Children are meant to be nurtured by design. Holding, snuggling, sitting on laps, being cuddled to sleep. These are the moments that make for healthy, productive, childhood development. This type of emotional sustenance via physical contact is lost on survivors of childhood sexual abuse. At least, that was the case for me. Every physical contact, platonic or otherwise, was left with lingering questions of motive and feelings of shame.

As a child, I gravitated to sexual contact. While some experimentation is an appropriate portion of childhood development, I was drawn to intense sexual situations with both peers who were sexually active, and eventually, adults who were willing to exploit my deficient skills sets as a result of sexual trauma. Thirteen year old boys do not wander into situations where they are exposing themselves to adult males without being led (consciously or otherwise) by adult, predatory forces illuminating the way (See: http://swimlessons62.blogspot.com/2017/06/memories-of-junior-high-school-trigger.html).

As a result, I was distrustful of physical touch, and constantly questioned my motives for even incidental contact with another person. Any ability to be nurtured via physical contact was ripped away from me. Instead, I developed this warped sense that any lingering touch, any lasting stare, meant that a possible sexual connection awaited me. I knew only excitement and shame when any physical contact was made.

This is not to say that I wasn't an affectionate child. I hugged and kissed family members in accordance with customary greetings and such. In some cases, I was able to separate these instances from the random (and sometimes, frightful) prospect of contact due to unplanned or spontaneous circumstances.

Riding in a carload of people, for example, terrified me for years. Especially in situations where crowded occupants would need to sit side by side. I was in constant fear that our necessary contact meant that the person next to me was picking up signals that I was "available." Even if I wanted nothing to do with them. Being a closeted, gay youth made these feelings even worse. Tortured by the natural biology of my desires, I would expend incredible mental energy to avoid any and all feelings, should I have the misfortune of being attracted to the person sitting next to me. In my young mind, it was all bad. And oh so wrong!

The other side of this coin was the never-exhausting hope that some perfect storm of random contact would lead to an encounter with a peer. Though this never happened to me (I should say, was never successfully implemented . . . The lone exception being when I was out cruising), I had the road-map of my continued cruising behavior to fall back on as a guide for these situations. I would sneak my hand ever so gently over, waiting for the person to respond in kind, and expecting a connection.

And the directions for this mindset? It came from my continued exploration of cruising spots in and around the greater Portland area. Despite my feelings of shame from my first experience at age thirteen, I continued to seek out adult males for experimentation. I was drawn to these spots via graffiti in public restrooms, and continued networking with the men I had encounters with.

I need to add here that this was not emblematic of the gay community. Rather, it was a small faction of men that attached themselves to the ugly underbelly of cruising spots (Two adults who cruise for anonymous sex is no different than rolling through the Old Port for heterosexuals). In the 70's it was still common to be fired and held up to public ridicule for being gay.

Perpetrators banked on this forced anonymity by cruising these same spots to search for young, vulnerable boys like myself. Who among the closeted adults present would report the behavior? The consequences for the reporter were socially fatal! There was the occasional adult gay man that would pick me up and attempt to talk to me, but I wanted nothing to do with facing my truth. I only wanted physical titillation, and had nothing on board emotionally to face who I really was. I was a perfect mark for someone looking to steal my dignity.

Back to the men who would engage. They would circle around in their vehicles and tap their brake lights. Most of my cruising was done under the cover of darkness. These men would drive by, and I could walk to a spot where they could park. Once stopped, a typical adult man would invite me into their car to talk. We would sit and chat for a while. Then came the silence.

We would take turns extending our hands. It was a dance that both occupants appeared well versed in. I would let my hand drift to the left, and the driver would let their hand drift to the right. After what seemed like forever, our hands would touch. This seemed to be the official signal that we could engage physically, and the "fun" would ensue.

What I realize as an adult in recovery is that these men were looking for the child to make the first move. It was a weak-assed justification that I must have wanted to engage, so they were only following through on my desires. They felt as if they were able to have sex, since that's what I was there for. I was a freshman and sophomore in high school at the time, and most of these men were in their thirties and forties.

I must admit that I carried aspects of this behavior for a very long time. The last time I cruised was in April of 2010, and there were a whole host of customs and "signals" I learned over time that led to engagement. As trauma survivors, we peel away what we can as best as we can, over time. 

But back to being a high school student, I had only my interactions with adult men who were preying upon me. I didn't even know I was the prey. I thought I was the one taking advantage of them. And my experience with touch was trounced upon and emotionally damaged years before I ever ventured into Portland for the first time at thirteen.

The irony here is that there were two adult, gay men in my scholastic life. Both of them later became confidants and friends I could rely on for support. Yet as an adolescent, I vehemently attacked both of them verbally. I had to make amends to these men after I got sober. They both said basically the same thing. They knew I was gay, but the world was different, so they couldn't reach out to help me or offer support.

After I got sober, I played out this dynamic of vulnerability and pursuit by falling for younger men who were newly sober. I fell in love with their potential, and their seemingly unaffected nature. Almost the first decade of my sobriety involved intrigue of some type to this end. Most of it played out in my own mind, but there were moments where my associations became intense.

I found myself in the mire of unrequited love on more than one occasion; cursing myself for being involved in this dynamic . . . Again! These situations always ended badly, with the individual in question returning to drinking and making disparaging remarks about my behavior with them. Alcohol and innuendo, in combination with my dysfunctional contributions, made for some mishaps that left both sides terribly unhappy. Even though others would relapse, I became thirsty and isolated. It was only the willingness to work with my support system, despite the shame, that kept me sober through it all.

And all of it was based on that perceived perfect random contact that somehow went wrong. A back rub that I suddenly decided was a bad idea, or the offer to work out with someone one on one. Offering to assist with a beard or goatee trim. Behavior that had to remain covert, with the hopes that all would be revealed.

Reading these last few paragraphs, it's easy to see how the emotional entanglements were skewed by the abuse I suffered. I had come out as gay soon after getting sober. And I began disclosing my sexual abuse and working on the horrors of that truth without picking up a drink or a drug. But I struggled mightily with the emotional aspects of being a trauma survivor. The damage permeated my dysfunctional attempts at intimate relationships, and cruising was an ever-present option and opportunity to pile on more shame.

Spiritually speaking, it's hard to get close to god when I'm doing things to myself that bring me great shame. I indulged in wounded relationships with friend and stranger alike. It seemed like a vicious circle of entanglement with someone who couldn't be there for me, to constant anonymous sex, to periods of reflection and abstinence, only to start the entire cycle all over again.

Eventually, I let go of entanglements and tried my hand at dating. But dates that originate in cruising circles (including the new to me, online hookup apps) held no substance for me. Emotionally speaking, it was like switching seats on the Titanic. So I gave up on that too.

Despite an enormous amount of emotional work, at seventeen years sober, I was still that wounded, little boy, who had pedaled his bicycle into Deering Oaks Park, in an attempt to escape the overwhelming darkness of his adolescent world.

Something had to give.

And it did. I lost a job. That is, I was "not recommended for further employment." I had once again become the magnet for the workplace bully and retaliated, after holding it all in, I very publicly blew up. It led to a series of messy scenes, and I had to go. 

I ended up with a group of people who truly understood what I was going through. I had associated with them for a few months prior, but had nothing but contempt for them. While we're on that subject . . . Why is it that trauma survivors push away people who are emotionally safe while embracing folks with our level of illness and affliction? More on that later in this piece.

So these folks helped me see that I had been negatively affected by the alcoholism and trauma in the lives of those around me. They further offered support as I began a spiritual path of recovery that involved reassessing my belief systems and the apparent "hard-wired" thinking that went along with the alcoholism and abuse that had encompassed my younger self. They detailed how I became someone who wanted to fix others in order for me to be OK, and how that strategy backfired time and time again.

I bemoaned that it took me 17 years of sobriety to get to this place. One of the folks put their hand up like a stop sign.

Your sobriety needed to be that strong for you to walk through these doors. It's not a deficit. It's a gift from your higher power, so you'll be safe here. 

Christ!

I mean, that's some deep stuff right there.

And over the next ten years, I quit smoking. Didn't show up at this place to do that, but it happened. Then I gave up cruising. Didn't show up at this place to do that, but it happened.

And I found something like real intimacy. I'm married to a most wonderful man. He is my handsome prince, and my one and only. More than that, I am a member of his family. Something that truly amazes me. It never occurred to me that love would extend beyond my significant other, to those that love him as well. I didn't know, what I didn't know.

I've also found a couple of dynamite professionals along the way. Good thing too, because I've needed them both over the course of the last nine years. I returned to counseling after quitting smoking. I had to. As the smoke literally cleared from my lungs and my life, I began to see myself differently. And I saw how nicotine played an important role in my cruising activities. What an efficient signaling system a lighter and a cigarette could be in dark places. When the smokes were gone, the dynamics of the behavior were revealed. Substance abusers are thick-headed like that.

Long after the cruising had ended for me, I also discovered a younger version of myself. I tried to help as best as I could. I involved that first therapist, and considered reporting options. But I decided that just being there on the fringes may be enough to offer an alternative to all that I went through. Some days, that's enough. Others . . . I feel like I could have done more. I tried to reach out with the assistance of the professional I see now, but was politely shut off.

This person did exactly as I would have done. Yet I was surprised and hurt by their reaction.

For some reason, this rebuff brought up those old feelings of being dirty. I did a ton of writing and sharing in a closed men's group before taking the risk of reaching out. I wanted to make sure I was doing right by this person. Times had changed, and I did not want the remaining vestiges of my own internalized homophobia to prevent me from being available. I wasn't sure what the response would be, but I wasn't expecting the terse, "I'm all set. Thank you!" reply that I got.

It is a different time for them, just as the 70's were a different time for me.

So I felt dirty. I felt all that old stuff that my younger self felt when I was a child. That at my very core, I am a faulted human being who is damaged beyond repair. I felt this, and I cried. And I've grieved over the summer, and I cried again recently.

Intellectually, I know I'm grieving that part of myself that pedaled into Portland as a teenager, and into the jaws of behaviors I would spend decades stripping away. I know that I have been able to embrace that pudgy little boy who became an exceptional athlete and somehow, survived the insurmountable amount of damage hidden within my soul.

I know that my recovery is an ongoing process, regardless of the outcome of my relations with others. That there are people in my life today whom I deeply appreciate, who I once shunned for fear of them seeing the skewed and dirty version of what I once thought to be my truth.

And I know that today, I can feel dirty and be OK. In fact, feeling the unclean remnants of trauma are symbolic of the spiritual growth that allows me to process without the overwhelming need to check out, or otherwise, hurt myself.

Feeling dirty does not represent brokenness or signal the need to be fixed. Feeling dirty is a sign from my higher power of my true connection to both myself, and my truth.

It is a spiritual experience to feel dirty . . . To feel shame. It means I am in the healing place. No longer burdened (or protected) with the self-destructive behaviors of the past.

I can heal.

M

I tore myself away from the safe comfort of certainties through my love for truth -- and truth rewarded me. 

-Simone de Beauvoir, author and philosopher (9 Jan 1908-1986) 

I will be back soon.

M 💕

Pain Management, Addiction, And Maintaining Recovery

Trigger Warning: Discussion of pain management, addiction, and trauma. 

Not My Image

I'm 55 years old.

As a youngster, and into adulthood, my addiction to drugs and alcohol brought me to many places that were physically challenging. That is to say, I got drunk and had my share of fights, falls, and scrapes. I ended up doing some damage to my body that is with me to this day.

Additionally, I was spending what little sober moments I had at swimming pools. I worked as a lifeguard, instructor, supervisor, and coach for 40-50 hours a week. The overwhelming majority of that time, I went barefoot on pool decks made of tile and concrete.

I remember older gentlemen cautioning me as they gingerly made their way to the slower lap lanes about going barefoot all the time. They would tell me of their arch, ankle, knee, hip, and lower back issues. These men would warn me of the damage, over time, from walking on cement with no shoes.

"Thank you sir." I would say. But these rare veterans of bare-footing didn't look like me. After all, I was in my early twenties, and I was never going to look like them. They had bellies . . . And man boobs! That was never going to be me!

Thirty years later, I am the one cautioning young guards about the dangers of walking around without footwear on pool decks. "Thank you sir." they say, with the same look of bewilderment and wonder at how a person can let themselves go to such an extent. Oh! To be young! Thin! And pretty again!

Uh . . . No thanks. I'd much rather have this wonderful, old body that I take swimming, walking, and to the occasional workout at a local gym. I can also do without the madness that encircled my livelihood during those younger years. At 30, I had too much energy, and too little insight. I'll take wisdom, insight, and serenity over youth and a svelte physique any day. Even if the trade-off includes the occasional aches, pains, and discomfort of entering my senior years.


I also remember being thirty-five and weighing 172 lbs. I'm about 5'll" and I was just convinced that, if I could lose another 5 lbs, I could make "Him!" love me. I never want to return to that space again either.

Apologies to those that are young, healthy, and devoid of any issues disclosed previously in this blog. ;-)


Today, I'm a recovering alcoholic/addict. My sobriety date is October 31st, 1989. Because of past physical history mentioned above, I suffer with occasional aches and pains that vary from light, to moderate, to almost debilitating on rare occasions.


While there has been a new focus on pain management and the slippery slope to addiction (Both locally, and nationally), I've been (luckily) cognizant of the need to maintain my sobriety while addressing pain management issues for a very long time. There have been numerous instances where I've seen clean and sober people with excellent recovery skills, cross the line from treatment to relapse in what appeared to be microseconds.


So I've developed a routine that I keep in my mind for the rare occasion that pain management becomes an issue.


As I discuss my own, personal routine, I feel it is important to say that this is what works for me. I cannot speak for everyone as to how they should (or should not) treat their addiction during pain management moments. I've been blessed with muscle-skeletal issues that do not aggravate my life on a daily basis. My stuff comes and goes based on the factors listed previously. And I can do much with rest, stretching, water immersion, anti-inflammatory medications. and some mindful meditation that usually negates the need for anything stronger; albeit non-narcotic. Even anti-inflammatory meds are consumed sparingly and for a targeted time by yours truly.


But for me, non-narcotic does not give me free license to take prescription meds without the care and guidance of a support system. As a friend of mine in recovery says, "My as-needed button is broken."
There is another aspect to pain management for me. My trauma history is triggered by these discomforts as well. I can feel incredibly vulnerable and unable to protect myself when I'm in pain. My fear increases, and I begin to worry about my immediate safety, and that of my Husband. I'm not a grand physical specimen, and nobody in the UFC need worry about my abilities. But, when limited, I become keenly aware of how easy of a mark I have become. It's scary to be saddled with a history of trauma and bullying, and be in a condition where I can barely get around.


And there is the added stressor of having digestive discomfort when my back pain is at it's worst. I have occasional trouble with IBS (Not uncommon among sexual abuse survivors), and lower back and hip problems can exacerbate any issues with regularity. Being hyper-aware of the problems in my digestive tract can cause additional stress beyond the difficulty of dealing with pain. Specific moments of being violated are recalled, along with the present day discomfort in my bowel. This in turn reminds me of my trauma history in ways that are hard, and sometimes, horrible to deal with.
At moments like these, emotional self-care becomes tantamount; even in the face of physical pain. I make sure to be vulnerable with trusted friends about my trauma history in these terrifying moments. And I give over safety to them. They are such blessed people in my life, and they point me back to safety.     


So there's a lot of stuff that I bring into any pain management decisions. I treat the whole thing like a triangle where one side is the addiction piece (Chemical), another side is the injury (Structural), and the final side is self care where trauma (Emotional) is concerned.

Not My Image

I find that treating the addiction piece is something I do automatically. This is due to practicing recovery on a daily basis. Gary McKenney was the Clinical Director when I lived at Serenity House in the winter of 1990. He used to say, "I work my program (of recovery) on a daily basis. So that when I have to, I don't have to." I thought he was freakin' Yogi Berra! But the lessons I've learned in that house at 30 Mellen Street are ongoing, right up through today.


If I'm in a space where I need to use something other than ibuprofen, then I prepare to have a series of conversations with other clean and sober people in recovery. I know that narcotics are not an option for me, and I don't want them for this issue. But discussions around non-narcotic, muscle relaxants are crucial to have going into the process. There are some that are effective. And others that, while effective, will leave me with a level of personal despondency, that I feel as if I've relapsed.


So I get on the phone, and I talk with folks. Then I make a doctor's appointment. I might even make the appointment, then have conversations with recovering people prior to the appointment. But I believe that one necessitates the other.


In my personal experience, I try to avoid quick-care or emergency room care. There are a few reasons for this. For one thing, these two medical venues are common places where people involved with active addiction will try and gain access to prescriptions that aid and ease the profound stages of withdrawal. Many times, I've seen folks in recovery receive treatment loaded with suspicion, and downright shaming messages, simply for trying to treat pain. But I've also witnessed folks in their cups with addiction being as charming, or nasty as the situation required, just to feed their addiction.


I want to work on my pain management in an environment where folks are familiar with me, and during regular business hours. This is part of the transparency that keeps my recovery safe as I enter into treating my occasional pain.


So the conversations have happened, the appointment (sometimes, same-day) has been made, and I bring someone with me to the facility, and into the examination room. This time, it was my Husband.
After my vitals are taken, I inform the providers of my addiction history and recovery. I insist that I will not be taking narcotics to treat the current pain and list the previous non-narcotic medications I have had both good and bad experiences with. I explain that my Husband is there with me for transparency and support during this endeavor . . . Have I mentioned the importance of transparency? Nothing can skewer recovery quicker than a secret.


Then I listen to the provider. I do not interrupt. I just take it all in. This can be hard, as professionals are making value judgments on my addiction. But if I want to be successful (i.e. Stay clean and sober), I must make room for any and all feedback. I have already had discussions with folks in recovery, and they have reminded me that what the provider says is a reflection of how they perceive addiction. Not a value-judgment on who I am.


So we come up with a new med that all agree on. I have discussed medication options with recovering folks before the appointment, and this med is in the realm of what was suggested. The Nurse Practitioner gives me a script that avoids any as needed  instructions, reminds me to utilize my clean and sober support system, call the office with any questions/concerns. Then she turns to my Husband and reiterates the instructions to him. "Just so we're clear." she says. I like her instantly.


We stop at the local pharmacy and pick up the script. I take the medication as prescribed. About an hour later, I feel the pain and discomfort leave my body. One would think that is a good thing. Right?
Except that I feel guilty as hell! So I call a clean and sober friend to discuss pain management and the need for this med (Did I mention that my hip keeps dislocating?), and how important it is to treat the muscle spasms, so I can work the hip back in during Physical Therapy.


Over the next five days, I take the medication as prescribed. Then something strange happens. I stop feeling pain when it's time to take the next dose.


I'm someone who defaults to the side of not needing medication. Given my addiction history, I'm glad that is the case. I've seen the horrific results of folks who default in the other direction. There are both famous people and personal friends who have dosed once too many, and ended up careening into relapse. These situations become ugly in a most speedy fashion. Some of them end up with fatal results.


So if I had my druthers, I'd take the erring on the side of less meds are better. But that can lead to some difficulties as well. Mainly, needless suffering under the guise of having a staunch attitude about my recovery. This too can cause misery for myself and those that love me.


So I remain ever faithful to my clean and sober friends and the concept of transparency. I involve my providers in my ongoing care, touch base with recovering people morning, noon, and night, and inform my Husband of my pain levels.


Still, this makes for the second week of pain management a tightrope walk. I'm no longer in a place where I need as much as is prescribed, yet I need to manage my pain and muscle spasms so my body is open to treatment.


I need to ask myself (out loud) with the help of recovering people.


1. Am I in pain, or am I having muscle stiffness?
2. Should I be working?
3. What about light duty?
4. Will my back brace help?
5. If I'm wearing my back brace, I need to remember to only bound my abdomen for an hour at a time. Things in my intestines and other organs need freedom to move.
6.  Am I talking with folks about my thoughts around pain? Hanging out with recovering people on a regular basis? Avoiding isolation?
7.  Am I utilizing meditation?
8. Am I taking time to rest/relax?
9. Will swimming help? Or hurt?
10. When is the last time I called or spoke to someone in recovery?
11. Am I discussing my pain level with any and all professionals I am working with?
12.  Does that pain level match what I am telling my friends in recovery?


It sounds like a lot, I know. But in order to maintain emotional and physical sobriety while dealing with pain management, is not something I take lightly. My end goal is to come out of this ready to function physically, medically, and spiritually. And to maintain my clean and sober status at all phases of my treatment.


Last Saturday, I found no need to take the medication. Physical therapy was helping me keep my hip in, and the additional exercises prescribed, swimming, and ibuprofen were enough to keep any discomfort at bay. I also had several discussions with recovering people about stiffness vs. soreness and/or pain. I had boatloads of stiffness and soreness, but no pain.


The physical therapy continues. When this all started, my hip hadn't been that bad in almost ten years. We are using stretching, resistance, and movement to realign the hip, and train the surrounding muscles to hold it in place.


It seems that I got away from some of the original exercises prescribed during a previous PT visit to keep the hip in alignment. I can hear Gary McKenney and his Yogi-isms again.


"I work my program on a daily basis. So when I have to, I don't have to."


OK. OK. I'll keep doing these exercises two to three times a week! Honest! . . .


Now where are my arch supports and stretchy bands?


M

 

My Last Visit With Don Doane

Written September 12, 2015 Revised on September 19, 2017.

The Author with Don Doane at the Rockport Lobster-Festival in 2009

Editor's Note: Don Doane passed away December 16th, 2015. But the musical legacy he left will shine on indefinitely. Today's post focuses on my last visit with this dear man in September of 2015. There are some personal notes about both Don and myself in this story. Because of this, I chose to get permission from family members before posting. I am grateful to Joe Doane for allowing me to post the story as written two years ago. However, I did edit for content and grammar before posting here. I find that a writer is never done crafting a piece. And I look forward to comments from other musical alumni on Don's past and continuing influence. 

I went to a local veteran’s home to visit my music teacher from elementary school yesterday.

Don was a fixture in my life both musically and personally for a very long time. He was a little rough around the edges, but I just knew he was in my corner. Even after elementary school, Don was involved with the musical interests and aspirations of his students. He showed up for all things musical, and always found just the right thing to say to us. He would encourage, but he didn't suffer fools well. Yet his warmth, sense of humor and love for music and all that played was omnipresent.

High School Music Students would just about bow in his presence. Don showed up to Marching Band practice on his nights and evenings off. He made appearances at Junior High and High School Band Practice. He brought his fellow musicians to Stage Band so the students could experience Jazz played by professionals. 

He did all this without interfering with those in charge, and was still able to command respect from all the kids. We, in turn, would mirror his love and respect to younger students. It's just what was done, and Don was one of those rare figures central to the music program without grabbing any spotlight.

As many of you already know, my childhood was not a happy one. There were countless instances of abuse. Yet when I was with Don, I felt safe. I couldn't wait for our "All City" band practices where all the elementary schools would play together. I loved our local elementary school practices too. In retrospect, these practices were wonderful times where I could forget about any struggles in my young life. Between this and summers at the local pool, I somehow survived my childhood.

I was not a great musical student, but I felt respected, even when Don was critical. It was just his way that he could do so (with or without and over the top reaction of disappointment) that let you know he really cared about you personally. On occasion, childhood antics were met with open frustration. Yet Don expressed himself in a way that was firm to us; while being caring and kind.

About fifteen years ago, they were going to convert the old Westbrook Junior High School on Main Street into elderly housing. They were looking for a name for the building. I wrote an essay about why the building should be named after Don Doane.

In doing the research for this paper, I discovered his private philanthropy and commitment to the arts programs in Westbrook; especially music. Don stood toe to toe with a lot of resistance in that blue-collared town I had grown up in. He made sure that every kid that wanted to play had the means to do so. Parents would purchase musical instruments on reasonable monthly payment plans. When folks were hurting, the payments got made. When talent or enthusiasm was spotted among the poorest of the poor kids, Don made arrangements for these kids to get free instruments.

Many times, Don would play gigs that paid for kids to have that drum, or wind instrument, or time at the piano, etc. He'd scour the local music scene for additional free or reduced priced equipment. The building got another name, but it's where Don's soul enhancing work had its roots.

I've seen Don over the years. He's had a stroke, but still plays a three-valve trombone. He even has a practice time in the nursing home. You may have seen the latest installment of his musical story on the news in the past year (Originally written 9/12/15). 

  

I had seen Don play a few years back at the Rockport Lobster Festival. I was sitting under the tent enjoying some seafood. There was a torrential downpour, and a band was playing behind me. I heard his trombone and was touched by the sound. In between songs, the singer mentioned Doan Doane, and I spun around to see him playing a three valve trombone. I didn't know there was such a thing.

I visited with Mr. Doane that day between sets. He remembered me (as always) and we spoke about our lives. Though Don was dealing with the issues of his massive stroke, he made it a point to find out what was going on in my life, and offer encouragement.

Later, I heard that he had to go into a nursing home. Then I learned that his wife had died. I know Don's son, Joe, and I asked about visiting with him. Joe told me to stop in any time. That was about six months ago.

I don't know why, but I struggled to go and see him. I knew I wanted to . . . Had to, really.

I wanted to tell him all the things he had done for me. I wanted to let him know that I felt safe and secure under his care. I wanted to tell him just how much he has meant to me over the years.

I decided to visit yesterday (September 11, 20015).

We talked about old times. Then he asked what I was doing now, so I told him. He asked how I got into this kind of work.

"As a patient!" I said with a bit of nervous laughter.

That led to a frank discussion about our own battles with alcohol/addiction. Turns out that Don had been sober for over fifty years. He did his work via taking a pledge and confession through a local church. It was serendipitous, because he worked with Father Barrett, the one priest from my childhood that I felt absolutely safe with. I talked openly with him about my recovery. We had so many common denominators. That fateful look in the mirror and not liking what one sees staring back at them. The fear and disgust of being locked in addiction, and so many other familiar places we'd both been to; emotionally and spiritually.

We talked some more, and I was able to add, "Speaking of confession . . .”

I told Don just how much he meant to me when I was a child. I told him that there were many unhappy aspects of my childhood, but I let him know just how safe I felt under his care. I was able to let Mr. Doane know how much his teaching and mentorship had meant to me. Don brushed away tears from his eyes and took my hand.

"Wow!" I said. "You're the first sober influence in my life."

He just smiled and said, "Yeah."

He did deem it important to let me know that he hoped he wasn't too hard on me. I let him know that I never felt anything but respect from him.

We talked a bit more, and then I wheeled him back to his room. He reminded me to come back again. We said our goodbyes, and he said "It's nice to meet the real you."

This is one of those moments promised to me by other trauma survivors. A promise that, if I sifted through the wreckage, surely, I would find nuggets of spiritual and emotional gold. A moment of thanks and gratitude for being treated well as a child by a trusted servant. Someone who honored who I was, and everything I had going on. 

I am truly blessed

Max The Most Loved Pug

Not Max 

I like to post a good memory on here from time to time, for balance. 

From my parents house on Brackett Street, I used to walk to Canal School. I'd usually walk with a couple of neighborhood kids. We'd head down Pennell Street, cut through a couple of backyards near the Moreau's house, and on to East Valentine Street. That's where we would always stop to greet Max. 

Max was an adorable little pug that lived with his person family on the corner of Little Avenue and East Valentine Street. He was a lovable dog with one mission in life. To greet every kid walking to school. He would be outside as we walked by. Max would hop and jump on his leash and would come up to any and all comers with little butt wiggles and snorts to accept pets from us. 

As I remember it, one of his owners (a woman) would usually watch through the window as kids greeted Max. Funny how I can't place her face, but I do remember her smiles. 

After school, we would walk down Glennwood Avenue to Monroe Ave, turn onto Woods Road and take the path to cross Spring Street, and onto East Valentine to see Max waiting for us. He would repeat his enthusiasm and look forward to seeing each of us kids. 

We came and went in groups, and Max was on a tight timetable. He'd give you attention and wags (butt wiggles) and hop from kid to kid for pets and praise. But he would not linger. If Max spied another group of kids approaching, he would politely step past you and begin to announce his presence to the next group through a series of snorts and little barks. I believe he would also run his feet along the ground, throwing dirt, grass, or snow (depending on the season) as a way to garner attention from the next group. 

Max made going to school fun. I always looked forward to seeing this little fellow. I remember talking with his owners and having them tell us that they liked putting Max out to see the kids. As I've said previously, I cannot remember who the owners were, but I remember they were kind. 

Time passed, and we moved on to Junior High and different routs to school. Down Brackett Street to cut through the cemetery and on to Main Street, then the bus when the new (to us) Junior High School opened up on Bridge Street in the fall of 1975. We'd catch the bus at the corner of East Valentine and Brackett. 

Max faded from our lives, but I assume he greeted other Canal School kids long after we had moved on. He wasn't there anymore when we began walking to High School a couple of years later. I can't say for sure if he crossed the rainbow bridge, or his people moved, but Max was gone. 

Still, Max has been on my mind a lot lately. I think there are lessons in what Max taught so many of us. He made room in his day to show up and express and receive love from a multitude of people. 

We should all be so diligent with love and affection toward others. 

Maybe, we'd all be as blessed as Max. 

M :-) 

The Church Of My Childhood

Trigger Warning: Trauma, Power Over Victims of Adverse Childhood Experiences

Not My Photo 

So about god. 

As I've said previously, I use the term god, higher power, spirit of the universe, etc, interchangeably. 

I've certainly had my time at defying god. I have trouble with the all-seeing, all-knowing, santa-clause version who keeps a naughty and nice list. I was initially raised with this deity in the sky who judged ferociously. The people in my life that administered Catholicism were few and far between with the matching spiritual principles purported and promised if one remained close to god.  

Sidebar: 

I need to add that there was a great man from my childhood who served in the most wonderful of ways. Father Barrett was a safe and, dare I say, Godly priest. And I've heard more spiritual things about his works since his death. It seems especially tragic to me that the horrors I suffered occurred during his tenure. 

I have nothing but safety and goodness where Father Barrett is concerned. 
When I discovered through recovery what had happened to me at St. Mary's, I wanted to go to him and ask for counsel on how best to move forward from the terrible memories imbedded in my flesh and soul. But I decided that the tragedy of such news was better served being shared elsewhere. I did not want to burden Father Barrett with this knowledge in the twilight of his life. 

More on that work later in this piece. 

Given that the church I was raised in was rife with sexual predators, it's no wonder that I had an extreme and adverse reaction to men and women of the cloth whenever I saw them later in life. I only spent kindergarten and first grade at St. Mary's in Westbrook, but it was more than enough to squelch this young, vulnerable child's search for anything godly. 
Nearing the core of my sexual abuse history: For me, 625 Main Street in Westbrook is a site that represents all that is unholy with the Catholic Church. I have memories of being savaged by nuns and a young priest at this site. Their appetite for violence and exploitation against this wonderful, beautiful child was without equal. I have a distinct memory of them attacking me as a group, usually in the basement bathroom of the church. I will spare the reader with the details of these unwanted and damaging encounters from when I was five and six years old. 

My experiences at this most unholy of sites became what appeared to be the cornerstone of my trauma history. It is no wonder I have struggled with faith as a result. At my very core exists a god that is punishing and demands submission in order to provide protection from the great, unknown (or worse yet, known) dangers that await followers who stray from the path. 

Fifty years later, I am still working to peel away layer upon layer of shame disguised as spiritual judgement. 

This feeling can be intensified when the prospect of relief in recovery is presented as a spiritual solution. While most methods of recovery leave the spiritual aspect up to the individual, the collective conscience can sound an awful lot like the need to submit in order to recover. 

I believe that what is described as an addicts ego can often have roots in this refusal to submit yet again. So many addicts and alcoholics I've worked with (professionally and personally) can clearly point out their own adverse childhood experiences. Yet those ensconced in their professional positions or well-rooted recovery will often poo poo the painful reality of those that actively suffer at the hands of addiction. 

During my recovery from trauma, I have spoken with hundreds of survivors of adverse childhood experiences. One of the saddest parts of being sexually abused is the apparent ability of perpetrators to spot young folks who are vulnerable to abuse. It is as if the first traumatic sexual experience I suffered placed an invisible neon sign above my head that said I was open to being abused. After my experience at St Mary's, the misconduct was delivered again, and again. 

As I aged, and puberty began to have it's way with my body, I began to explore the only sexual dynamic I knew . . . Being exploited. Imagine a vulnerable, 13 year-old boy showing up at a renowned cruising spot and being picked up by men two and three times their own age. Add to that an incredibly homophobic society where other closeted members of the community were forced into silence of what they witnessed, because to report would mean coming out to a hostile world, and being attached to the abuse by association and stereotyping. After all, all us gay folks are after your children. That's the message I received in spades, based on my activity as a young boy. And this belief was reinforced by the homophobic society I was raised in. 

This was the second layer of a foundation that kept me from faith . . . Judgement. In my adolescent mind, I was the one committing the sin by searching in the shadows for connection. My bike trips, and bus rides into Portland to look for sex were accompanied by the only mentors and messages I had at my disposal. Those mentors were trauma, and the perverse spiritual messages that went along with being raped, All these adverse childhood experiences perpetuated the dynamic of exploitation. And that's who I searched for, and what I found there during adolescence. 

There was no one in my world to talk to about my budding sexuality, and my only companions were these negative messages and experiences. I was, therefore, the perpetrator of these instances. I had no reason or yardstick of recovery to believe otherwise. 

As an adult, I became complicit in the silence. I would avoid certain things, telling myself that I was with folks who could consent. But I continued to witness behaviors that reinforced my beliefs that I was sexually damaged beyond repair, and that god would surely punish me for my most horrible of sins . . . Being gay, and seeking sex with men. 
By this time, drugs and alcohol were my only solution for relief from some power greater than me. But even as a young, stoned and drunken adolescent, I couldn't escape the feelings of shame and guilt about who I was. So I tried to get higher. 

Not much room for a loving, accepting, and compassionate god in all of that mess. 
While some folks are blessed (or cursed) with the ability to stop using substances on their own, I needed professional, medical, and community help to get sober. But even here, on the tail end of the 1980's homophobia was alive and well in treatment modalities. Some suggested that the work I was doing to get sober would "cure" my sexuality as well. 

Thank God (Capital G emphasis) for people who began suggesting that my higher power could be of my own definition. This scared the shit out of me, given my decision making process. But they promised that I could re-define the god concept in a way that was personally empowering and life sustaining. 

It was a small, but important beginning. 

When I lived in Serenity House on 30 Mellen Street during early sobriety, I had a hard time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, trauma memories would flood my mind. I had to have something greater than me to offer me comfort. I pictured god as a big, fluffy cloud that could hold me. My perception of god needed to be without arms, legs and other body parts that could hurt me. Sometimes, I could even imagine myself enveloped in this cloud of complete love and comfort. Not bad for a raving lunatic with 90 days of sobriety. 

I remember my first summer sober. I worked in a local organization's home learn to swim program. I would drive from residence to residence and teach neighborhood kids to swim in a homeowner's pool. I was driving through Cumberland, in-between appointments. I smoked cigarettes then, so I was chain-smoking and cranking heavy metal rock and roll. I was also absolutely bananas that particular day. I drove by a church and tromped on the breaks. 

There was a sign in front of the church, who's location has long since left me. The sign gave me my first glimpse into the unconditional love from something beyond me that I was searching for. It simply read: 

All Loving

All Knowing

All Caring

I wrote it down in my journal that was my constant companion during this time. I had found a working definition for my god concept. 

Now . . . Over the years, I have vacillated back and forth (sometimes, to dangerous extremes) with just who and what god is in my life. I mean, How can an all loving, all knowing, and all caring god let the things that had happened to me be out for my best interest? 

There have been times of rage toward god too. Since a mentor of mine told me that his higher power had big shoulders, I figured an occasional "Go f*ck yourself!" wouldn't hurt god's feelings. I journaled to god, I raged at god, I abandoned god, and I vilified any person or institution who purported to do "God's work" while doing tangible damage to individuals or society at large. 

And I practiced prayer and meditation as well. I did prayers that other Queer people felt comfortable with. I modeled their spirituality, because mine was a complete mess (Can you say judgement?). And I practiced, practiced, practiced. 

I wish I could point to a particular white light moment or epiphany where I all of a sudden just "got it" where god is concerned. The truth is, it's an ongoing lesson for me, and one in which I am willing to journey forth. 

I remember sitting in the balcony of a church on Congress Street one day. I was in the balcony, and I just started praying for a god personal to me. One without judgement (whose judgement?) that I could truly embrace. I looked up at the alter, and just above it were symbolic icons of several religions. I didn't know at the time that I was sitting in a UU church that believes all are welcome. Imagine that! There I sat in a church that welcomed all of us. A place that would engage in civil rights struggles on my behalf, and I was asking for acceptance from God. Kind of makes me giggle now. 

And yet, I struggled (Struggle!) with the idea that a spiritual life is necessary insurance to prevent an otherwise horrible end. And when some fresh trauma memory, or a real-life struggle of someone close to me appears, or we lose another person to this awful disease of addiction, or someone says "Enough!" and checks out permanently from their trauma history, I rail against this absolute power of a supreme being that has elected to be so harsh as to abandon a soul in pain. And I wonder . . . Will the day come where my higher power will abandon me? Will I be one of those poor lost souls that will suffer immeasurably when god washes its hands of my predicaments? 

And I discover my deepest fear. That maybe god won't be there after all. Maybe, I truly am alone, and my footwork along this path won't be enough. Maybe I'm not going to make it. 

Or worse yet, maybe I must submit to a power greater than myself in order to prevent further suffering. Why do religions insist on pledging allegiance? Why does God's fragile ego require my kneeling and subservience in order to be effective in my life? 

I know these are age-old questions, but I also know that having been forced to submit makes even the asking of these questions all the more difficult. 

And I really don't have any answers. Not for me, and certainly not for anyone else. 

Lately, my mind keeps returning to my time at St. Mary's. Not for the traumatic memories, but for the lessons taught to that young, beautiful, and vulnerable child. I'm searching for the connections between childhood rape and my resistance to the spiritual. I use the term god, because it's easy. Not because I believe there is the monotheistic, white bearded fellow in the heavens waiting to pounce on my imperfections. 

But he's there. He's in the fiber of my being. And though I know he exists as a myth, perpetuated by humans who desperately sought control of a small and defenseless child, I shudder at the thought of his presence. 

I've easily transitioned to other spiritual beliefs, and look at my devotional practices as a buffet table of easily accessible skills sets that are there for the taking, and free to all to use, or not use, without judgement. I have worked for that belief of ultimate forgiveness and unquestionable love. 

So what do I do with this other guy?  

Regarding "More on that work"

I returned to the church of my childhood as a sober man. I knocked on the door of the rectory and asked the priest in attendance for a moment of his time. We went to the church that has since been torn down and I disclosed to him what had happened to me in the building next door. 

The priest wept as I revealed my story. By the time I was finished, tears were streaming down his face. He told me how sorry he was that any of that had happened to me and asked me what I needed. 

I told him I needed a moment of time to tour the old building where the church had once been. I wanted to offer up a prayer where the alter once stood. He obliged me and we toured the old building. Our last stop was the site of the old church before the remodeling. 

I walked to the place where the alter had been and hit my knees. I offered up a prayer, but I don't recall what it was then. I think it was a check-in with god about how I survived and had forgiven. 

I thanked the priest and left. 

There was and is so much work left to do. But I realize now that in my moment at the alter, I did not submit to the abuse. I reached for a better version of myself in order to attain wellness. 

Maybe that's the answer?