Monthly Archives: July 2010

The Tough Guy Wannabe

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Years ago I was watching a guest on the Johnny Carson Show (God, I miss that show) talk about this one member of the tabloid press that grabbed any chance possible to bad mouth him in ways that were, when he cited some examples, about as childishly condescending and tough guy wannabe (a wimp) in tone and content as one can get. Clearly someone with way too much time on their hands.

Anyway, Carson asked his guest who the member of the tabloid press was. The guest, who, like me, had a heft dose of street in his make-up, smiled widely and said, “Ya see, this punk is just looking for attention. He’s nothing more than a lonely little rodent that I bet no one likes not even his Mommy. So…” he went on, turning to look in the camera, “I ain’t ever gonna mention your name or say who you are you are punk ‘cause you’re not getting any attention hanging on to my coattails. But you can meet me outside any time and we can settle things that way.”

And so it is that I have a similar childish, condescending, tough guy wannabe,  who from time to time, usually when the blog is about some tough time I am going through on the personal front, will write in spewing idiotic crap like, you’ve had your brain injury 20 years already, Peter, whatsamatta? Don’t have your act together? Actually, let me bring this person up to speed.  It will be 26 years this August 24 since the injury.  This person’s attacks usually involve a kind of slithering demeaning commentary about the brain damage I live with.

I have some rather instinctive responses to this person. First, I pretty much know who it is. Even though they will never leave their name – another characteristic of cowardice – who it is is rather obvious. Second, were their behavior not, when you really look at it, truly sad, I’d likely find it amusing. Third, were it not for the fact their behavior is truly sad, I am sure a sly smile would emerge on my face  and I, like the Carson guest above, would be inclined to invite him to meet me outside to settle things which would require, at most, 30 seconds of my time.

Having said all this, my overwhelming response to this person is one of compassion. And  I do not mean this in a sarcastic or snide way. The compassion for this person is real. And if it is who I think it is, this is someone who has lived through some brutal things in life, and while the way he is managing it is not healthy, and he is certainly accountable for his choices and his behavior, none of this makes him less deserving of compassion.

While I would gladly sit down over coffee with this person and talk, I will not, ever ever ever, publish their nastiness, or mention the name I know is theirs.

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One Indelible Truth

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And so the hunt for a new home continues. I am not at all unique when I say not knowing where you will live next brings a formidable amount of stress that is, quite frankly, exhausting.

The other day I asked Christine to take my house plants to her house so they’d be safe. She was sweetly reluctant, rightly pointing out that the presence of plants was calming and uplifting. True, I said, “But keep in mind that the whole process of going through an experience like this is like a fire fight; you’re not going to get through it without being bloodied, without being damaged, wounded. The thing is you keep going, keep fighting.” In other words, allow the experience, and all that comes with it.

Not easy. And, in a word, terrifying.

It is striking to me, though not at all surprising, that the large majority of those reaching out to me are people who, like me, are in recovery and the loved ones of same. With some exceptions, there has been pretty much silence from all others. Nothing unique there. And it’s okay. People are people with, like me, frailties and limits. So goes the wonderful and perplexing world of humanity.

There is one indelible and glorious truth that is by no means lost on me. I am alive and therefore afforded the privilege of going through this experience – one day at a time.

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Leaps of Faith

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I heard the following joke recently. A man falls down a deep hole that extends miles into the earth. He manages to stop his fall by grabbing onto a root with one hand. As he begins to tire he looks up at the small circle of light above him and yells, “Is there anybody up there?!” Suddenly a bright light from shines down and a deep voice says, “I am the Lord thy God. Let go of the root. I will save you.” The man pauses for a moment and then yells, “Is there anybody else up there?!”

Real leaps of faith, by any measure, are not easy. They often mean you’ll be holding hands with some gut ripping fear for a bit. Which is exactly what I felt this past Sunday when my landlords, a truly good and decent couple, informed me I would need to move out of the home I’ve been renting from them for nine years, in 30 days. It seems their marriage is coming to an end and the husband need to take up residence in the house.

I don’t need to tell you how frightening it is to lose your home. Home is far more than a physical thing. It is a spiritual, physical and emotional sanctuary.  Not so when you realize it is lost. Frightening for anyone, with an added degree of difficulty when the very part of your brain that allows you to manage emotion is damaged, which is where my damage is. The frontal lobe. And so for the first day I was pretty much incapacitated, difficulty speaking, trembling, hunched over, knowing what it was that was happening to me but unable to shake it and knowing too that that’s okay. Those disabling moments still grab me during the day – and night. We are all allowed our human experience, even when upsetting and unpleasant, and we make a mistake, albeit an understandable one, when we try to avoid the more unpleasant experiences of life.

I long ago learned that the only way to get through a terrifying or heartbreaking time is to give myself permission to go through it. In other words, allow the experience.

And so here I am with my three dogs hoping that I will be able to find a new home in time. I have already gotten a storage space and will begin to place things in storage and look for friends to watch my dogs for me if the worst happens and no new home shows up in time. I have been homeless in my life and the homeless monster is, even though I know intellectually it will not get me (I don’t think), bearing down on me with glistening hatred eyes.

There is one thing this experience will not take from me. My sobriety. One of the wonderful things about being sober is when all hell breaks loose in life, I can look the circumstances in the eye, snarl to myself, and say, You can’t take my sobriety.

Anyway, one day at a time. Keep the faith, even if doing so is a leap. It is for me right now.

And remember, it’s okay to be afraid, don’t let it scare you.

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Special Favors Threaten Lindsay Lohan’s Life

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If news reports that Lindsay Lohan is receiving special favors in jail are true her already at-risk life is even more at risk. I say if because if there is anything I am sure of, it is the penchant of some members of the media to close-dance with rumor rather than spend time in the world of reality. The latter being something someone facing the challenge of addiction must do if they want to stay alive –and free.

Anything that gives someone facing the disease of addiction the message that they do not have to deal with reality is, in short, life threatening.  Like cancer and other diseases, addiction doesn’t give a rat’s ass if the person it has hold of is famous. Addiction knows no bigotry. It simply destroys everything in its path.

One news report claiming Ms. Lohan is getting special visiting privileges says that whenever she leaves her cell everyone else is placed in lockdown. Another report says she has been given a special room with a TV, hospital bed, and a dresser for her clothes. If any of these reports are true, Ms. Lohan is being put in real danger. In order for an addict-alcoholic, like me for instance, to get well, they must fully experience the damage the addiction is inflicting on their life. To spare someone this experience is to empower the addiction and put the person at greater risk.

Ms. Lohan is not her fame, she is not her looks, she is not her addiction. She is a human being who, unless she fully experiences the damage be inflicted on her by addiction, is, in a word, doomed. 

For those who continue to use the story never ends with, they lived happily ever after.  For the most part the media doesn’t give a damn about Ms. Lohan.  In fact, you can be sure some members of the media would love it if she died from an overdose of some kind because oh my the papers they would sell, the ratings they’d get.

Ms. Lohan, like anyone facing the challenge of addiction, is in a fight for her life. If those who love her give a damn, they will allow her to fully experience jail, and not seek to create an abbreviated version of the experience. After she is released, she should go right into treatment, her father should get his self-serving ass off the talk show circuit, and those who love her should show their love by supporting all things sobriety.

Ms. Lohan deserves to get well. And she deserves  people around her who empower her, not the addiction.

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Breaking Hills Redux

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Back in 2003 I began training for my first lengthy bicycle ride, a 175-mile trek from where I was shot in Brooklyn to Albany. I live in a very hilly area so I began thinking of a motivational term I could link to the challenge of reaching the top of a steep and, at times, lengthy climbs.  Finally I decided on breaking hills. Breaking the hill meant defeating the climb, taking the challenge and pushing through it no matter how grueling.

For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, I am back on the bike breaking hills and loving every minute of it. Perhaps a recent reduction in coffee intake,  which brought about a nice drop in anxiety levels, helped me rediscover the joy of getting back on a bike and going for it. Then too, there has always been something about taking on a physical challenge, getting back in touch with my body, that I’ve found emotionally and spiritually healing.

Many years ago, around 1986 I’d guess, after nearly a year in seclusion, I began  going to the 23rd Street YMCA actually named the McBurney YMCA with my friend Dane.  The nine-story McBurney YMCA was built in 1869. When Dane and I went I’d play racquet ball, diving all over the court with a somewhat manic little boy joy. I was genuinely saddened when I learned the YMCA closed its doors there and reopened on 14th Street. I find it hard to believe that the Michael Bloomberg era of money first tradition last had nothing to do with creating the atmosphere that led to the building conversion to a bunch of condominiums in 2004. 

Later, in 1991 I ran my first marathon and from 1991 to 1995 tacked on five more.

At any rate, the spiritual glory of breaking hills is on me again. Recently a man in Long Island asked me if I was planning to do any more lengthy bike rides. I did the 175 mile ride  in 2003 and a 1,000 mile ride in 2004. I surprised myself when, without pausing, I said, “Yeah, why not?”

And I meant it.

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