0 for 1 with 8 hours to go

Okay, I missed my first goal of the day and it's only 9:25. The plan was to head to the library straight after dropping my son off at school.

Going to the library is part of my plan to get my taxes done and get me further down the recovery path, the rationale including that it will get me out of the house, it's an environment without distractions, I'm surrounded by people quietly working, and doing it at regular times will add structure to my day.

I can't really say how the plan is working right now, as I am sitting on my couch watching last night's episode of The Daily Show. I'm trying to be optimistic though...there are still 8 hours to go before my wife gets home and I report on the success or failure of my day.

No...now I've really done it again

Up until last night my mind was largely occupied by my sex life with my wife and a conversation we had about it on the weekend (see post ...is my sex life dead too?).

Not any more, partly because of a good session with my psychiatrist, but mostly because I've got bigger worries. I'm in big trouble with my wife, trouble like I haven't felt since I was using. I'm terrified and - no surprise - using it to avoid everything.

Here's what happened: Going through tax receipts a few weeks ago I found a $500 check from my bank. It was ages since I had any money in my pocket, so I cashed it. I wasn't taking it from anyone, no-one was going to miss it, so I figured I wasn't doing any harm in spending it.

By this week it was ancient history...until my wife picked up a voicemail from the place where I cashed the check. Turns out the check was "stale" (more than a year old) so I had to pay it all back. So in 30 seconds I went from "no harm" to:

a) keeping a secret and money from her,

b) for all she knows, spending all the money on drugs, and

c) adding $500 to the our debt, more than she's spent on herself in 6 months

I've got to run to group therapy now, so taxes won't get touched today, but hopefully I'll get something positive out of the group.

Oops I did it again...the Wednesday edition

It's 11:15, kids are at school, I took my meth at 9:30 and now I'm blogging to keep up my new daily routine. With luck I'll have enough momentum after to do some work on my taxes, untouched now for a week.

Ahhh, but there's a catch. My weekly psychiatrist appointment is today at 1:00 and I have to leave at 12:00...in 45 minutes. In other words, no taxes happening before my appointment (or after, if history tells us anything).

And there we have it...negotiating out of my taxes again, avoiding the inevitable for another 24 hours, my only real daily routine for months. Like many Wednesdays gone by, I've let 60 minutes torpedo a whole day working on the biggest problem facing my family, my marriage, my future, my life. If you're keeping score, it's something like Gord - 275, Gord - 0.

The Daily Fork in the Road

According to my post about blogs adding structure to the day, today has been a somewhat productive one already:

1. I still have 5 hours before picking up my son from daycare and my wife arriving home - plenty of time to make a major dent in work I have to do.
2. Having made one (albeit depressing) blog post already today, I feel marginally productive.
3. Adding to the productivity, I also learned how to link Twitter to my blog, how to make a reasonable avatar for myself, and how to tweet (and therefore blog) from my cell phone.
4. Along with the little feeling of accomplishment I also have a slight feeling of momentum, like I could enjoy continuing to do something productive, something on the computer perhaps. Getting the object at rest in motion in the toughest part after all.

But what do I really do now?

This is the fork in the road. This is the point in the day - usually right after taking my son to school - where I decide to take a quick break before getting to work, the quick break that ends with the sound of my wife's keys in the front door that evening, sending my heart pounding up into my mouth and my self-worth plummet.

Today I've got an unquestionable advantage. Can I take advantage of it?

On top of everything else...is my sex life dead too?

Had a fight a couple nights ago with my wife about sex. Not about the fact that it’s been a while, or how many close calls we seem to be having (she’ll say ‘maybe’ earlier in the day, which obviously means no, but I of course take to mean ‘except in case of rapture’).

No. This was about how much I miss her instigating it. When we first started seeing each other she was the catalyst most of the time. And now; it's literally never. Granted 15 years have passed, along with 2 kids, work stress, health stress, family stress...not to mention the whole husband who blew all the money on crack and Oxycontin, which doesn’t do wonders in the love department.

But it's not the sex itself that has me awake at nights - as is so often the case, it's what she said that I can't get out of my head, and I worry that shaking it may prove to be a long term engagement.

What she said is perfectly understandable; she’s not 22 anymore, she’s always tired and she's at her wit's end with stress. There's more to it though, that any of the physical, emotional and sexual energy she could have enjoyed with me, she's used up dealing with the aftermath of my drug mess. And finally...sexual activity, let alone instigating it, just isn’t a priority, and that ain’t going to change.

What's bothering me is not a simple case of a guy not getting it.

For me, it's the latest in a years-long string of blows to my self-esteem. A double blow in fact, for I cannot help but conclude a) she no longer finds me attractive, and b) I'm obviously not succeeding in the "pleasure" department.

But it doesn't end there. It’s also about figuring out my place, my value in my family... whether there’s more to me than letting and weighing my loved ones down. I know my kids don’t judge me; they adore me and the high I get from them is better than any drug. But am I the best father figure for them in the long run?

For my wife, am I any more than a burden? I don’t make her laugh any more. I’m a source of daily disappointment, headaches and stress. I clearly don’t inspire any intimate pleasure. And I can’t remember the last time – for no reason in particular – she just held my hand, or hugged me, or anything that showed the pure, unscripted, love I thought made us so happy for so long.

So what does it mean? I've been thinking about it almost non-stop since Saturday night, every train of thought leading to a long, downhill life separated from my family. Maybe a better father and husband for the family. Maybe I find a new town with a bachelor apartment and a bottle of hair dye. All because of a sex talk.

Am I just having a bad few days? Am I overreacting? Or am I blind to something staring me right in the face? Am I just the last to find out?

Building Blogs and Structural Integrity

In addition to the weight lifted by unloading secrets into cyberspace, the other important thing this blogging project has to offer is structure. Simple, basic, daily structure is pivotal to replacing drugs with healthier people, places and things. .

Indeed one of the most valuable takeaways I brought out of my rehab program almost a year ago was this simple lesson, and three weeks of practice having a basic structure on which to build my day: three good meals, sleeping at the same time, taking the right meds and getting out of the house at least once a day. Hardly rocket science, but it’s harder than one might think to start practicing, and easier than you could imagine to let it slide.

When even a simple structure starts to disappear from our lives, it can be a slippery slope to more couch time, more feeling sorry for ourselves, and more of the vicious cycle of self-anger...confidence breakdown... productivity paralysis...and then back to self-anger. Also my favourite, self-coined phrase, The Four Horsemen of the Relapse Apocalypse (hungry, angry, lonely, tired, I believe taken from AA but I’m not sure what they call it).

So where does blogging fit in? It’s one, simple, quick and easy thing I can commit to doing each day, if for no other reason than to plant a seed of schedule or structure to my day. Even 3-4 minutes of writing – what I’ve done so far in the day, what I thought about Obama’s State of the Union – is something I absolutely have the time and resources to do.

Maybe there’s a way to set up a twitter account and tweet to my blog when I have a really quick thought to post? Something to look into.

So that’s what I’m going to do – make blogging one of the first chores of the day. Once my wife and kids are out of the house and once I’ve had a couple cups of coffee, so no earlier than 9:00 a.m. But definitely before 10:30 because that’s when my morning’s methadone effects are already starting to fade if I’m not busy (gotta strike while the iron is hot!).

Who knows where things could go from here. Three square meals can’t be far behind, and from there it must only be a quick jump to karate lessons and the full time hunt for a new career. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now the goal is simple; if only 3-4 lines, if only my observation on CNN or MSNBC that morning, I’m getting a blog out the door before 10:30 a.m. each day.

Secrets a Heavy Load to Carry

At least one good thing to come from the last week is that it reminded me why this whole blogging exercise is a good thing.

If nothing else, I know first hand now that it’s good for both my addiction and my depression to share my thoughts, my battles and even my secrets In writing - even if virtually nobody else reads them, and even if I do it anonymously. Just getting these things off my chest, no matter how minor, feels at least a little good.

Why? My theory is that a lot of the things we (addicts or the depressed) are likely to write about are secrets in some way:

* Something shameful that we still haven’t admitted to anyone (e.g. pawning a dead relative’s wedding ring for less than a day’s fix of crack).

* The “making amends” conversations with friends and family (e.g. explaining why we just disappeared, why we stayed out of contact, why we still crave their forgiveness, etc.) that we’ve avoided having...in some cases for years.

* Especially for the type-A, usually dominant male people in a household, admitting to close friends and family – especially hard admitting to children, or younger siblings who have always looked up to you as a role model – that you have weaknesses, you’ve made mistakes, and you need help.

As those who have been through it already, the ironic twist to this notion of secrecy and avoidance is that actually confronting them is almost always less stressful or shameful, less draining of energy or self-esteem, than the countless hours and anxiety that we go through procrastinating and dreading them.

Meanwhile, the simple act of writing them down – the written confession or letter seeking amends – makes these tasks seem even a little less daunting. Hopefully just writing them out will get us closer to confronting the secret itself, but at a minimum it feels good to do, if only a little. And these days, a little bit of good is a lot more than we’re used to.

No News is Bad News

It’s been a week since my last post. Generally not a good sign.

It means I’ve been avoiding the computer, emails and probably the telephone – trying to avoid all of my sources of stresses and, in doing so, all but minimal human contact. It means I’ve almost certainly done no work on my taxes, job hunting or re-engaging with old (good) friends. And it probably means I’ve spent a lot of time on my couch feeling Hungry, Angry, Lonely and Tired – the “Four Horsemen of the Relapse Apocalypse” in rehab circles.

This past week has been no exception.

I’ve felt as low as I have in months, spending hours on end thinking of nothing but how depressed I am. I put in a total of maybe 2 hours of productive work (taxes, job, etc.) all week, spending far more time in the self-hatred/anger/paralysis viscious circle. There were several days of spending a full 10 hours on the couch, watching a full day’s cycle of CSI (Miami and NY included) between Spike and A&E. And yes, I had a relapse.

But I’m not just writing to come clean on a miserable week’s worth of inactivity. No, far more important (both for me and for those around me) is that there were a wealth of warning signs in clear sight the whole time. Consider that, as of yesterday at noon, when I was within a minute of finishing this post and should have just wrapped it up:

I had 17 new voicemails on my cell phone.

At least 4-5 were from two of my closest friends, both aware of my situation, both hoping to hear a response to their dozens of unanswered phone calls over the last couple months just to hear that I’m okay.

At least 3-4 of those voicemails were from my dad’s girlfriend who not only knows my whole situation already, but is calling to offer further (and proven valuable) help going through months of old tax receipts in my “to-do” pile.

At least a couple were from my sister, my strongest family ally outside of my wife and in theory no source of stress whatsoever, calling yet again to see if I’m doing alright as I have not spoken with her in two weeks.

My wife picked up a voicemail on our home phone from one of those closest friends saying he had been trying to reach me for weeks and was worried. Could she call him and let him know I’m alive and okay?

I have no idea how many other messages I’ve missed on the home phone. Not only have I not checked voicemail, but I went out of my way not even to look at the caller ID whenever I heard the phone wring.

Every night when my wife returned home from work I was more and more stressed, always in a worse mood to talk, constantly too tired to spend the time and energy I want to with my two kids, and always promising that another couple days would give me the rest and time to get back to normal.

A week of mail has piled up unopened by the front door, including at least one letter from the IRS and probably a couple of overdue bills. I don’t know for sure because I haven’t even looked at them.

I hadn’t checked email in almost a month, so I suspect I have on the order of 30-40 real unopened emails, definitely infcluding some from friends and family above, but maybe including bill collectors, missed job opportunities and who knows what else.

A look inside my medicine cabinet would show that I am out of both anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medications, with another 10-15 days still to go before they are due to be filled again.

I had been wearing the same pants and sweater for 5 days. I also haven’t shaved in the same period.

My point in rhyming off this list isn’t to whine about all the things I’ve done (or haven’t done) wrong. Anyone in my position has had weeks like this. What I hope I’ve done is help illustrate just how clear the warning signs are, both to our supporters and to ourselves. It’s far too easy to ignore them, either because our supporters want to give us the benefit of the doubt that we’re just having a bad couple of days, or because we ourselves revert to the old denial phase, telling ourselves that these warning signs are different, that we’re well too far along in recovery to worry about a few things like these slipping.

I hope my experience – and those of others, for my story from the last week is far more common than unique – has shown otherwise. With addiction and depression, smoke unfortunately does lead to fire more often than we’d like, and I believe that smoke is almost always in the form of withdrawal – from communication, from friends, from family, from obligations, and more.

We’re never too healthy to be immune to pitfalls, so whether observer or sufferer, listen to your gut when you see the warning signs, before a week, a month or more has gone by.