Good morning. Huge batch of Check-Ins — people are absolutely IN it this month. The trembles of September, I guess.

We’ll have to split them up into two different newsletters, so look for that on Friday. And remember that it’s Recovery Month? More on that on Friday as well. —TSB Editor

Somehow Learning to Corral it

By The Small Bow Family Orchestra

In an hour I will fire someone.

Research indicates that firing someone is measurably better than being fired, but I still find the impact I’m about to have on another person’s life nauseating.

The termination is for cause — documentable, irrefutable. “A layup,” says my HR colleague.

The man I will fire is a well-traveled industry veteran, and he will find it brutally hard to find another landing strip. He is difficult and awkward, neither of which is why he’s being fired. He may be sharing confidential information outside the company, which is considerably closer to why he is.

He had a horrible childhood and has been on his own since he was 17. He has a dog.

I feel like I’m firing the dog, too.

Seventeen years ago, I was fired.

“Cost-cutting,” they said, although I wondered if they were getting tired of the packages arriving at the office in my name from Mexico. I had discovered the black market for painkillers and couldn’t have them delivered to my house. I was ingesting pills that arrived in baggies from Guadalajara, trusting that Carlita had at least some pharmacological training and wasn’t looking to poison a random gringo.

The people who fired me knew whatever version of me showed up for work each morning. Maybe they thought I was struggling. Maybe they thought I was an asshole. Maybe they really were just cutting costs. I have no idea. What I know is the man they fired that day was more complicated than anything they could put in an HR file.

So is the man I’m going to fire today. In an hour, I will sit across from him and alter the path of his life. He may ask me not to do it, but I will stay the course, because believing someone is complicated does not mean they should keep their job.

Later, I will want to call him. I’ll want to tell him that losing a job isn’t the end of the story, that seventeen years from now he may bear little resemblance today to the person he is today.

But I can’t know that, either. So I won’t call. I’ll fire a man who should be fired, and I’ll feel awful about it.

This is one of the odder gifts of sobriety.

This summer I set a goal of walking 1000 miles between the beginning of May and the end of August. I don’t live in a city so it was aspirationally semi-realistic. I ended up with 346 miles, which is not 1000, but it’s way more than I would have done if I hadn’t set the goal. I need to do more things like that. Setting goals without knowing for sure that I can do it, trying my best, and giving myself credit for my accomplishments even if it’s not perfect; EPECIALLY WHEN ITS BIT PERCECT.

Something broke inside me in July. I went on a Hinge date that felt promising (we even made out a little). The next day she texted me that she had run into an ex at an ecstatic dance party that night, and they were going to give it another go. But if I was down to hang sometime and talk about all we have in common, she would be too. I was not down.

That day I left dating apps after a year of . . . near misses and dead ends that all felt very much like rejection. I am about to turn 64. Dating at my age hits different. The specter of last chances hangs over each encounter. As a member of the anxious attachment club with a history of body dysphoria, the whole thing is a set-up: to drink, to escape, to sink into paralyzed depression. “This is so bad for me” was the download I got that day.

I have practiced step 3 reasonably well in most areas of my life, including my eldest child’s addiction, which brought me to my knees. But not this — not my love life. I did not give that to the care and protection of a higher power. But I’m trying to now.

One of my best female friends, who introduced me to The Small Bow, fell in love with one of my closest male friends. She and I were unstoppable; we felt everything, always showed up for one another, and had expressed feelings for one another in the past. The hurt is harder to stomach because the hard conversation(s) between us never really happened. It’s ironic that the same gifts that make someone an exceptional communicator can also enable them to withhold crucial parts of their story. And the response to the story — where my heart was held, and my feelings mattered — felt glossed over, almost irrelevant. Words like grief, deception, and betrayal were alluded to but never centered. What mattered was her freedom, even at the expense of our friendship. I think of TSB as training for sitting with hurt. It’s hard when you assume the people who have experienced hurt themselves will show up for you, and they don’t. So, I enter September with a tender heart and hope the weeks ahead show me something new about patience and self-resilience. What nurturance comes after righteous anger?

The fear of financial insecurity returned with a vengeance last month.

I work in a no-base-salary business that is based on “closing deals.” The work itself is great — it aligns with everything I love to do — but the lifestyle of not getting paid unless I make a sale truly does require a s* ton of faith. I haven’t given up hope or belief in a Great Universal Spirit (GUS), but there have been times when I’ve wondered if it was time to quit and start over entirely. 

I should mention that I’m in my mid 50’s now, so a reboot isn’t as cute as it was when I was in my 20’s.

A few weeks ago, it looked like I could have closed a sale large enough that I wouldn’t have to work until after the holidays. But then everything fell apart, and I had to dip into the last of my savings to keep my family fed and avoid bouncing checks.

What’s gotten me through the fear of financial insecurity? Leaning into productive work, going to therapy, running, writing, working with sponsees, starting the steps in CODA, eating healthy, eating ice cream, and reminding myself that this too shall pass. 

A small commission finally came in a few days ago. I bought groceries and took the kid for back-to-school shopping. It all felt like a spiritual experience. 

Some of my friends in recovery have told me that God pointed the following men to me, knowing that I wouldn’t let them down. I have sponsored in the past 10 years 3 men who had significant issues beyond alcoholism. 

The first was moderately disabled and needed help navigating stairs. He couldn’t drive so it was my happy chore to get him to meetings, pick up his mail, and guide him upstairs back to his apartment. 

The second was severely disabled and dependent on a morphine drip to relieve pain. It was a pleasure helping him as we would go on long walks with me holding on to his walker to keep him from falling. He had worked in production in Hollywood and even had some bit parts in great movies. His walls were full of Hollywood memorabilia signed by the stars. I spent many afternoons there watching old movies and TV shows! 

The third was a man I had seen at meetings on and off over the years. He was always helping others but he was declining mentally. He could no longer drive so I became his taxi. As he very rapidly descended into dementia, I spent time before every meeting dressing him and after the meeting running him on his errands. BTW, dressing a 6-foot, 2-inch man is much more difficult than dressing one of my children! Eventually, the doctor declared him incompetent and he was sent to a hospital 3.5 hours away. I was left taking care of his 2 dogs for the next few months as I promised him I would find a no-kill shelter for them, which I did. I should mention that my loving wife helped me significantly with this!

During this time, I descended into frequent periods of exhaustion and was sure that it would subside after I was relieved of my burden but that didn’t happen! 

I have now gone through an extensive battery of medical tests with my doctor, cardiologists, pulmonologists, and other specialists with no cause found. My GP and my wife are probably right in that they suggested that I have unresolved grief from the loss of two sons in the past eight years. 

Therefore I will soon be meeting with a well respected therapist to deal with it. Fortunately, he doesn’t believe in drug therapy and will discuss faith if I choose to.

Wish me luck!!!

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was getting my shit together: My girlfriend and I are coming up on one year together, we’re moving in to a new place in the next few weeks, and I’m starting a new job after I got laid off (AGAIN) back in March. But the baggage comes with me regardless: I’m still struggling to kick a porn habit, though I’ve done a lot of work to reduce my consumption. I’m seeing results, but there’s a long way to go. One day at a time, as they say. Maybe we never fully get our shit together, but we somehow learn to corral it.

I haven’t had a drink in years, never really did drugs, my main addictions are food and spending, chasing the same dopamine hit, just in different ways. 

And I will posit — and defend to my death — that my recovery is harder than yours! Poor me. 

But, in some ways I do think it’s true. Neither of my addictions have “bright lines.”

Alcohol?  None, never, no, strictly prohibited. 

Drugs? Same. 

Food? All God’s children gotta eat, right? One might suggest my bright line could be no sugar. Okay . . . can I have fruit? Can I have cornbread (which, like a true southerner knows, always has some sugar in it)? No ice cream, but how about frozen yogurt? Almost everything has some sugar, trust me on this!!

Spending is the same. What do I need vs. what do I want to need?

Both of these demand that I be rigorously honest. I know when I’m “cheating” and not being honest, dammit. 

Other people may not see when I slip up, no tell tale DUIs, or loss of job, etc., but I know and have to hold myself accountable, dammit. 

So, in September I will continue to take a moral inventory every day and try to stay on the right side of a bright line that wants to inch its way toward my downfall.

I noticed a new emoji in my text app: a Pigpen-esque cloud of dust filled with stars and lightning bolts and chaos. That sums up the resting state of my heart and mind, for what seems like years. I became aware that I have been holding my breath, and of my hands clasping tightly together for no apparent reason. I can’t possibly imagine being capable of maintaining healthy relationships. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt . . . okay. 

Is this me now?? This is how I’m spending these precious minutes, days, years? What an astronomically stupid idea. Of course, I’m aware of how unhealthy it is, but it feels as if I’m on a ride without brakes.

Last year about this time, I had a rare opportunity to participate in a Vipassana meditation course — something that promised some general direction towards clarity and peace. For me, it was kind of a big deal. However, at the last minute, the Universe put the kibosh on it without even bothering to consult me. I was devastated, and left wondering, “Now fucking what??” True to form, I spent most of the year stewing in self-pity and anxiety. 

This year, I actually get another shot. I anticipate the experience will feel like pulling off an emotional band-aid. It will be challenging, and I have no illusions it will be a permanent fix. I’m already worrying about all the ways I will screw up on the other side of it. And it could open the door to parts of myself that I haven’t seen in decades. I’m trying my best to enter into it with curiosity and gratitude, to keep things in perspective, to not worry so much, and to allow my heart to lead me where it needs to go. I get to try again.

The end of August has been uncomfortable. I’m eight days off Instagram, a week off coffee, 17 days no contact with someone I outsourced my self-worth to, and thinking about leaving the only city I’ve lived in soberly. There’s a lot I could write about the last half of that sentence, a lot I’ve talked about in therapy this month, and many doom spirals I’ve had about it all while doing the dishes. Yesterday, I tried to focus on the water falling in front of me instead. The redirection helped and (for a minute tops) interrupted the thought loops. Sharing about it has helped too. Most people I’ve talked to are going through it — navigating old fears, possible endings, and life changes. It feels like there’s so much stuff up in the air waiting to settle. And all I can do is drink my boring breakfast tea, keep moving forward, and try not to rush any big decisions. 

I lost my soul cat Friday after almost 17 years together. My sobriety does not know life without this green-eyed tripod, and this will be my first September without him since 2009.

He witnessed me stumbling home, too drunk to go upstairs to bed, waking up on the living room floor covered in puke. He kept a close watch over me after I almost killed myself in a car accident. At two years sober, he jumped straight into my arms when I came home after 6 months in jail. 

This guy lived alone with me in a tiny studio apartment after I lost everything, including my license for three years. He welcomed me home after countless meetings and sat with me when I cried and asked God for direction.

When I got married and moved to St. Louis, he demanded to ride shotgun sans cat carrier. He snoozed the whole way, confident that this new life of ours would be better than the last.

He loved his new home, new dad, and dog siblings. Through surgeries for both of us, a new job, new support group, and two more sponsors, he was there for me, my constant companion who never knew a stranger. 

How do I do this without my cat? September is a new beginning in my life and in sobriety without him. I will look for signs from my guardian angel, knowing that he is still my co-pilot, but now he's watching down on me from above.

Thank you for everything, Ashi Hemingway. Rest well, my best friend. 

fin

ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN