They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab...and I wrote Poetry

Well...I actually went to rehab...five years ago at the Pride Institute. Those of us that went to Pride and met each other there, often refer to it as our extended time at the spa. If only I had spent that five months getting facials, seaweed wraps, and Swedish massages by a man named Thor.

Instead I spent five months up to my ears in therapy, the 12 steps, meetings, relapse prevention classes, self reflection, and, I believe, I filled about five journals with thoughts, feelings, emotions, rants, raves, and poetry.

Anyone that claims to be a poet and insists that he or she is completely well adjusted, has never had a problem with any sort of mind altering substances, and/or comes from a functional family...is either lying or is an alien and should be reported to the Men in Black. Poetry is the way that marginally crazy people that have seen a little or a lot of the beauty in the ugliness of this world share what they have seen, felt, or experienced...in this waking world or in some other altered or dream reality. Poets go places that other people can't go or wouldn't survive if they went there.

The earliest recorded literature that still exists are epic poems. The stories of Gilgamesh, Beowulf, The Odyssey and The Illiad, fantastic tales written by folks...some of whom that didn't survive too well past publication of their works, yet live on, despite their personal struggles, in the beauty they left behind.

When I was at Pride, a friend of mine was graduating from the program, and I decided to write him a poem to express to him what his friendship meant and how he had touched my life during our time together. That one poem turned into a tradition during my stay at Pride. Soon, folks that were graduating were asking me if I would write a poem for them. Some of these people were folks that I can say with an almost 100% certainty had never voluntarily read a collection of poetry, gone to a reading, or could name more than five working, living poets. Yet, these same people saw something in poetry and something in poetry woke up something in them that made them want to be a part of it.

I am currently doing 9 hours of classes a week in what basically amounts to rehab refresher courses. There are people in the group sessions that have been sober for 13 years and there are folks that were using two days ago. Some are straight up kids, 18 years old, and just in or just dropped out of college. Some, like me, are professionals trying to keep ahead of their addictions, and others are grandmothers and grandfathers trying to make sure they are around to see their grandchildren grow up. Some people walk in that are obviously people of means and others are obviously working poor.

I see poetry in all of these people.

These rooms are filled with folks that come in with their pain, fear, anger hurt, joy, triumph, hope, inspiration, sadness, ambivalence, and frustration. Some have stories that make my struggles seem downright easy, and others have stories that are milder than my own, but each person, it is obvious, is in pain and that pain is real without needing to or being measured in severity against an other's. Some folks have managed to get on my damn nerves straight from the gate, but, I can say with all honesty, I love these people for the poetry in them. They are living, truly living, because they are struggling against their circumstances in a fight to LIVE differently.

In this city of millions, I watch people coast through life every day. I watch living automatons moving about their day, oblivious or sedated to the point of oblivion. I watch them do the same things, in the same way, each and every day. Rich or poor they have accepted what they have, without examination, or having examined where they are and what they have, they have chosen to make peace with stasis or at least have chosen the route of apathy.

I want to live, I want to grow, and when I leave this world, whenever that may be, I want to look back on it and say that I struggled against what needed to be overcome, accepted all the love that was freely offered, and returned love freely to those that needed it.

And so I write poetry, because it is the way that I love myself, love the people around me, and love the world. Openly, as honestly as I can at the moment when writing, and wishing only that someone, somewhere finds something in the words I write to help them live a poetic life of their own.

A Change is Gonna Come

Living in my house, right now, is like living in a constant state of spiritual warfare. And, today, I almost lost a big battle.

I am a recovering addict. I spent several years using crystal meth fairly heavily, and I hid it quite successfully from the people that love me. I was a binge user, and I used on a clockwork schedule: every two weeks for two to three days at a time, almost always over the weekend.

After having a near complete breakdown and spending a week as a guest of the mental health ward of Fairview Riverside hospital and then spending another almost six months in various structured recovery programs at the Pride Institute in Eden Praire, MN, I was able to get to a place where I had the skills to fight back against my own biology. Addiction is a physical and mental illness and it takes physical and mental therapy to keep it in check.

I have had, what is called in 12-Step lingo, slips. But I haven't slipped for a long time now, and I am aiming to keep it that way. But, to do so, I have constantly to find ways not to internalize difficult emotions and emotional situations, I have to eat well and exercise, and I need to be engaged with a life and a world that is spiritually uplifting.

In general, my life is centered around all of those things. I have a great partner that is extremely supportive, I am a Christian that believes in the universal and healing power of love embodied through Christ (one of many Sons of God and prophets sent to teach us), I have recently begun chanting in the Nichiren Buddhist tradition (nam-myoho-renge-kyo), I use this blog as a vehicle to draw out lessons from my daily experiences that I need to learn or look at more closely, I write and perform poetry as a way to externalize my feelings, and I try to find small ways, each day, to experience God, the Divine, and love.

Unfortunately, with the love of my partner and a desire to build a home with him, has come his ex partner (of whom I have written plenty before) who lives in our living room on our couch. I am not overstating or exaggerating when I say his presence is an actively hostile and malevolent force that is actually palpable. His energy is destructive and hurtful, his words and actions are negative and damaging, and I, as the new boyfriend of his ex, am the direct and active target of his hate. When something goes wrong or amiss in the house, I am to blame. When David and I had our first threesome, which was a beautiful and spiritually uplfiting experience with an amazing human being, he didn't speak to me for almost a week yet did not treat David the same way, he stares at me with such undisguised loathing that it feels like a punch to the stomach. To be the object of revile for anyone, particularly someone with whom you live, is a constant burden and pressure.

I quite literally choose whether going to the bathroom is sometimes worth the walk to the living room, and I tell you that on more than one occassion a bottle has looked more appealing than a porcelain bowl on the other end of the house through the spectral landmine field I have to cross to get there.

The economy sucks, and David, as a freelancer, has had a great reduction in the amount of work he has been able to do. Yesterday, he left for a two day gig in the Hamptons. We can use the money, but, more importantly, David needed to work, for himself, on a fundamental level. For several days leading up to his leaving, I felt the weight of his absence. David is a buffer of sorts between the ex and me. His ex feels required to constrain himself when David is around. When David leaves, he feels no such constraint. I wrote before about the ex and the ex's current boyfriend and their ambush and attack of me. This time, there was no screaming...just a heightening of his already hateful presence. And, frankly, I reached the end of my spiritual reservoir.

Thank God that God had my back.

Quite literally, yesterday, I was on the fast track to relapse. I began looking for a connection. In this interconnected Internet ready world, finding drugs is as easy as logging into Craig's List or any number of cruising sites. I know all the code words and key phrases. Luckily, just as I was on the edge of the relapse cliff, my phone rang. I had just come home from a work event, and my best friend called. We have been trying to see each other, unsuccessfully, for weeks. The one sure way to get me out of and away from myself is for someone else in need to ask for my help. He sent a text saying that he could use some friend time. I packed a bag, jumped in a cab, and I headed to Harlem and spent the night. This morning, we got up and chanted together, which fed my spiritual well just enough to keep sober, though I didn't know I was going to need to use it so soon.

Today, the ex did one of his favorite hate tactics. He played on my fears and vulnerabilities around David. He enjoys telling me stories about the few times, over their ten year relationship, when David did not adhere to their relationship rules. And though I know in the moment that exactly what that hateful man wants is for me to start questioning David and myself, there are times when fears slip through cracks. They did, and I was again speeding down the path to relapse.

Except this time, as I started to leave the house to look for drugs, I stopped myself. I looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. The clouds were rolling in thick and black and ugly from Jersey...and I began to ask myself what the hell I was doing. I had gotten up from the computer where I was doing work for my amazing job. I was walking away from the committments I made to my partner. I was walking towards hurting myself deeply and fundamentally. So I turned around and walked home. I ordered some terrible MSG filled food from the Chinese spot downstairs, and I ate myself into a near catatonic state, all the while composing donor renewal letters for work (I may be crazy, but I am definitely productive).

I am done with letting another human being impact my life and spirit to the point that I am willing to do myself harm and, in doing so, hurt the people that love me. The ex is moving out of our home at the end of July. I am not sure if I can find enough ways to sustain myself until then, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. I may have to spend many more blog entries between now and then speaking to you all about this situation.

Also, my insurance kicks in tomorrow and you best believe that me and therapy are about to get real cozy like again.

The minute that man exits the building for the last time, I am going to have a shaman, a priest, a Vooduin, a medecine man, a rabbi, and any other holy person I can find to come over and deep clean his ugliness and hurt and hate and pain and darkness out of this place. I wonder if they got some sage flavored Febreeze at the Target.

Thanks for reading ya'll.