The Unfortunate One

From Chapter 5 of he Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous:

Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path. Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to the simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves. There are such unfortunates. They are not at fault; they seem to have been born that way. They are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty. Their chances are less than average. There are those, too, who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recovery if they have the capacity to be honest.

In 2012, I went through the 12 Steps. It was a year long, grueling period of my life with a lot of self-reflection, hard work, time and effort.  But as described above, I now see myself as one of the unfortunates that couldn't be honest with himself, or develop a manner of living that demands rigorous honesty.

As I'm going through the material a second time, I read in wonder how none of these texts on honesty ever jumped out at me or made me feel guilty the first time I went through it. I can't remember any of it -- and the books are filled with pages and pages about how foundational honesty is to sobriety. I was so wrapped up in staying sober by the other practical methods (boundaries, check-ins, habits) that I neglected where I feel now the real healing is.  You can't maintain any sort of happiness or joy if you aren't honest with yourself.  You also can't have or maintain any genuine friendships without being honest with those that care for you. And of course, as I'm learning these days, a marriage will not survive without honesty.

The true delusion is that I have always thought of myself as an overall honest person, except when I'm not.  I know of all my lies, omissions and half-truths - and there are a lot of them - but for some reason I still see myself more honest than the average person.

Upon reflecting on my entire life, I'm not so sure. I do recall a time in Jr. High (Middle School) where I did tell myself that I lie a lot. I boasted about a lot of things: things I could do that I really couldn't, events in my life that never happened, and virtues in my life that I never really had. I had an artificially inflated ego, and because I was already accomplished, likable and seemed trustworthy I feel like everybody accepted it.  I was never called out on a lie, because I was just so good at it. I did have a fear that I would be found out, and I sometimes did have trouble keeping all of my stories straight, but I managed and nobody knew me well enough to know for sure.

I have a person in my life that is a chronic liar. He lies about everything, even if there is no reason to.  I hate it. The fact that he thinks I'm stupid enough to try even attempt to lie to me about something as innocuous about how much he paid for the latest video game he bought drives me to anger. I don't even care in the first place how much you paid, guy - even if you claim it was 80% less than retail. But I'm pretty sure the reason I hate it so much, while my wife just lets it go, is that I see a lot of myself in him - and I have always been self-aware enough to see that.  We both lie to get validation, affirmation and to inflate our egos.  It takes one to know one. The difference is that his lies are easily debunked, and mine are easily hidden, hard to prove, convincing and damaging to those around me. 

While this liar in my life lies about dumb things like what great deals he gets at the store, tall tales where he stood up for his principles, and exaggerations about his popularity in his teenage years, I can at least read him like a book. He is still somehow genuine, even with his lies. He doesn't hide who he really is.  I know his passions, his faults, I know what bothers him and I know his convictions.

On the other hand, I lie about who I fundamentally am. I hide and lie about my passions, thinking that others will make fun of me. I hide and lie about my opinions, in case someone thinks differently than me. I hide and lie about what hurts me, because I don't want other people to know that I'm broken.  Nobody really knows me, and it's not because of my lies - but rather my lack of honesty.

It's strange to think that one can be a liar but still be a genuine, authentic and transparent person.  Maybe even honest.

This time around, I do know that the only path to my ongoing sobriety is rigorous honesty.  It will be hardest part for me.  Eight years ago, when I first worked the steps, the hardest part for me was disconnecting myself from screens and media for 90 days.  Yes, it was hard, but looking back it really wasn't any work and it was easy to see how it would be good for me to do so.  Honesty though? Being genuine? I've knitted my entire world around lies, and to undo the whole tapestry that has taken me 40 years to build will be painful for me, those around me, those I love, and even for future me.

I do hope that I'm not one of the Unfortunate Ones. Born incapable of honesty. Unable to ever find recovery. Right now I feel like it's a huge mountain to climb. I'll feel exposed.  Naked. And even I don't know what I look like under 

Something is Wrong With Me

A few minutes ago, my wife and I finally had a conversation today after a few days of silence.

It didn't go well.

I have a problem. And in no uncertain terms she dropped a number of truth bombs that made me reevaluate my entire life, purpose and identity. She talked about all the pain I've made her go through, and how cruel I've been to her our entire relationship. Cruel is a word that was tough for me to swallow. I never intentionally tortured her. I never plotted or planned in causing her any pain. In fact, the opposite is probably true... I did everything I thought best to protect her from pain, including keeping secrets and hiding things from her. But most importantly I also never cared for her.  I mean, I loved her.. absolutely, in the way that I thought was love.  But it's true, I never cared for her in a way another human being should care for another. And with her being my wife, that's cruel.

My wife had a health scare and has been in and out of the doctor's getting evaluated. Not once after those evaluations  did I ever check with her on how they went. In fact, I should have been in those evaluations with her to support her.  I have no excuse, other than the severity or importance of the appointments never worked their way into my heart. Or maybe they did, but as I said before, my heart and mind don't communicate. And when the heart and mind don't communicate you lose compassion and caring.

And it's not just her. I seem to block any and every bit of pain other people experience. I don't check in with my aging dad or mom when they have health problems. My brother has been going through depression and stress causing him to take months off work, and now you know as much about it as I do. I have a friend who has recently also gone through a lot of pain and transition in her life, and I never followed up. Another friend has moved several times, and I never find out until months after their move.  I just can't seem to care.

I struggle lots with emotion, and I tie a lot of that to my addiction. But after the painful conversation with my wife, what if this is just the way I am? What if I have recovery from addiction and I find out I'm still uncaring? What if I'm a sociopath and am incapable of caring for someone... Ever?

That led me into a spiral of thoughts that just ruined me this evening.

Being a good person has always been important to me. It's a core part of my identity. It's a success factor in this short life and I consider it to be pretty much the minimum bar for the clichéd deathbed reflection... "Well, I might not have made millions of left a lasting legacy, etc... But at least I was a good person. (Dies)"

Every night I recite a prayer for my eldest son... Part of which is:
"We pray that you grow in kindness and bravery, treasuring truth, loving others and doing good, even when it's hard."
Doing good is something so important to me, I want to instill that philosophy into every fiber of his being.

I always thought of myself as a good person. What is a good person? Well, I obey the law always. I never jaywalk. I get disgusted when I see something block an emergency exit. I follow rules. I've never hit anybody in my life. I open doors for everybody. I am generous with money and, whenever possible, my time. I even believe you can be an addict and still be a good person. Obviously, I'm a horrible, stupid piece of shit to my wife and family because of all this, but I'm not beyond redemption and if I work towards change and recovery I can still become a good person, right?

But what if I am incapable of caring for anybody, including people I love? What if I overcome my addiction and still am utterly incapable of empathizing with people? What if it isn't possible be a good person if you don't care about people?

It's true. You can't be a good person if you don't care for others. It doesn't matter what else you do, if you don't care, you're just not a good person.

So I guess I'm not a good person, and it's hard to say whether or not I ever will be. And I'm not saying that in a self-pity kind of way where I'm looking for sympathy from anybody.  It's just a logical conclusion. I'm cruel. I'm uncaring. I'm very likely faulty from day one. I don't have much to say for my deathbed reflection.

I'm not the person I thought I was.

It Starts With an Ending

Last night, on December 28, 2019, my wife of 13 years said that we were getting a divorce.

Even though I half expected it, I'm still reeling. It's something I never thought would happen in my life and the words that were spoken I never thought would come out of somebody I still love so dearly.  We have two young children, ages 3 and 5, and their lives will be turned upside-down in the near future. It's the most gut-wrenching feeling knowing that their lives won't turn out the way either of us had planned, and at such an early age.

I bear all responsibility for the upcoming ending of our marriage.  I have an unspoken addiction that has consumed my life, my thoughts, my emotions, my mind and my soul.  My wife has known about the addiction for some time, and even though I have had periods of sobriety in the past, my failures have caused a complete and irreparable destruction of any trust that my wife has had, and could ever have with me.

I'm currently grieving. I've never known how. Waves of emotion hit me when I look at the faces of my children, or when I feel how cold my wife has become.  I can look at an old toy we had bought for the kids and remember when my wife and I had picked it out... and I cry. I haven't cried in a long time. 7 years give or take.

I thought I had time to fix things.  I thought I would have one more night I could sleep in the same bed as my wife.

I hate my addiction. It's a disease that has ruined my life, and I know no matter how long I'm sober it will always be a part of me.

My hope is that by chronicling how my life is falling apart that I could help others avoid the same mistakes I have made. It will also help me practice something that I now realize is a weakness of mine: Telling the truth.