The String Theory

From the deoxygenating highs
To the claustrophobic lows

The search for a balanced self
Involves an unwinding

Of the coil of truths

Meshed with a slinkie of Pinocchios

The marionette staged
For the world to see

Is but an illusion of the puppeteer
That controls the strings

Art imitates life
Just based on the real thing

To live the life

Is more than just the beauty
Of the flower

It involves the pollination
Of the bee

That’s always willing
To sting.


The Show Me State

The road of good intentions is riddled with alleys and byways that lead to distractions.

I’m a show me dont tell me kind of person.

I’m also a pessimist.

My wife told me last friday she was going to start drinking alcohol again.

She showed me.

For the last week she has drank progressively more each day and started earlier each day.

Last night as I was 3/4 asleep she told me-

“I’m going to finish this bottle of wine and then I’m done drinking”

Show me….dont tell me.

Why the sudden change?

Not sure.

Could be the aid of friends talking with her about it…

Could be she probably wont have a job after today…

Could be the fact that I got angry with her.

Why did I get angry?

Thursdays we have the opportunity to spend a few hours with our grandkids.

My son drives into town, picks them up and brings them over.

When I got home from work, I asked if they were coming over.

She said slurringly that they were on the way.

She was drunk.

I told her to go to the bedroom and lock the door. I didnt want the grandkids to see her like that.

I then called my son. He declined to bring them to the house.

I’m proud of him.

My wife said she didn’t plan on getting drunk…..

She showed me that 2 1/2 bottles of wine between 1 and 5 will in fact ensure that she was drunk.

She also showed me that getting drunk was more important than spending time with her son and grandkids.

Show me dont tell me that I’m 2rong in my assessment.

We will see what happens.

The Brewing

After 18 years of continuous sobriety my wife started drinking again.

Not being able to adopt the baby was the final straw in a haystack built over a lifetime of trauma that sealed the deal.

18 years.

We have been married for over 13.

Simple math.

I had never seen her drink alcohol.

Now I have.

To say that there will be a rough road ahead is an understatement.

But, I said “I do” to ALL of the cliche vows that go with being married and I’m sticking to them.

We met in sobriety. I didn’t marry her because of it.

I love her and will do whatever it takes to help her.

Except, drink with her.

The storm is brewing, another change on the horizon.

Damn, this life.

Past me (revisited)

Don’t let life discourage you…everyone who got where he is had to begin where he was.
Richard Evans

What a joy it is to be up at 4 am. Sleep is always hard to come by at the end of the year.

Might as well make some coffee, sit on the sofa and watch the ceiling fan blades make their never ending clockwise journey and think about what was, what is, and what could be.

I sigh and remove the eyeglasses from the bridge of my nose and rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger.

My introspective moment is shaken by a voice from the love seat sitting adjacent to the sofa….

“Why don’t I have any hair?” The strangely high pitched yet familiar voice questioned.

I put my glasses back on and look in the direction that the voice centered from.

I was quite surprised to see…me.

Minus 30 years, waiting for a response.

I returned the question with a bewildered look and asked,


I took off the baseball cap I always wore, pointed at my bowl cut, unruly, red hair that hung just over my eyebrows and said,

“Where does my hair go?….I mean you are me…..except bald….why?”

As I look at my younger self, I question whether I should respond with the truth about the cranium shaving or avoid the impending heartbreak of me knowing why….years before I should.

I mean….would the 14 year old me believe it….even understand? Would it change anything?

I bite my bottom lip while I decide.

“Mom does that when she doesn’t want to tell me truth about something….” I say from the love seat.

“Does what?” I reply.

“Bites her bottom lip. You’re not gonna answer me….are you?”

I chuckle to myself….about myself…at how even at such a young age I realized my Mother’s nuances and apparently took them on myself.

“No. Not right now. Maybe later. I would like to know how you got here and why you are here.”

I look back at my younger self and wait for a reply.

My 14 year old self squints his eyes and unknowingly begins to bite his bottom lip while searching his own cranium for the answer.

“I don’t know….the last thing I remember is Mom telling me I had to go to bed…..Dad is drunk again and took off in the car. I hate him when he drinks…does he ever stop for good?”

I look deep into the eyes of my younger self and see……and feel….actually feel the pain and despair that I felt back then about life at home.

My Mom tried so hard to keep a sane and normal home life while dealing with an alcoholic husband. Our normal was not everyone else’s normal, but it was the only normal we knew.

Outside appearances were important. We tried to keep the implosion tightly within the confines of our crumbling family. Our job as the kids was to act like everything was great when out of the house. When at home, the reality was Dad was someone we hated (when he drank) and we didn’t know what to do.

I pondered how I should reply. Would telling me the truth alter what ends up happening? Would I believe me either way? Is this really happening?

Am I really having a conversation with a 14 year old me?

Hope wins out. I remember that at that particular age that all I wanted was hope.

“Things will be tough…..but he does stop. If you can do anything just hold on to that. Eventually…..he does stop.”

My 14 year old self relaxes a little and smiles. Then looks up at the sky and slumps his shoulders and says,

“I gotta go. Mom has to get Dad out of jail again….I gotta watch the babies. You sure he stops?”

I look at myself and fight back the tears of yesteryear and memories of how hard it was, what happened, and what eventually came to be and reply….

“Yeah, just hold on and never…ever…give up hope. Sometimes….that’s all you got.”

I smile and look back up at the ceiling fan that is still in its perpetual turn for a moment to stop the tears from falling then look back at the love seat which sits empty…..

Except for the baseball cap I always wore when I was 14.



A man cannot free himself from the past more easily than he can from his own body. ~André Maurois

Still reeling in my emotions from my meeting with my 14 year old self, I got up and turned off the ceiling fan.

My mind told me, it must have been the reflection of the bulb off the bottom of the blade that hypnotized me into believing I just had a conversation with my younger self.

I heard rummaging around in the kitchen and guessed one of the kids must be up and starving. A good nights sleep has that effect. I wouldn’t know, as of late, but that’s what I hear.

I walk into the room to see the fridge door open and someone funneling around in it.

I lean against he counter, took a puff off my electronic cigarette, exhaled the vapor and said,

“You finding what you need son?”

A familiar irritated voice started to answer and then came out from behind the door.

“Where’s the beer? I know you…got..WHOA…are you….me?…What happened to my hair?”

It was me….in my mid 20’s. Long red hair hanging in my eyes held back with a bandana. Blood shot eyes, nervous disposition, unshaven.

I had already talked to myself once. This time, I see myself older….but not wiser. I answer my question,

“Yeah…I am you….in about 20 years. There is no beer. I don’t drink anymore….I shaved it off about 13 years ago.”

My younger, cockier self seems to not share the same shock as I do in talking to myself. He just wants to drink.

“No way. Drinking is what I do. Quitting… for quitters! I hope there was a good reason for going all chrome dome. At least you still smoke weed. Lemme hit that.”

I snicker and reply,

“It’s not weed. It’s a cigarette substitute. It won’t get you high, And you’ll find that reason soon enough.”

“Is this what kind of lame ass I become? Next your gonna tell me I’m married and have a family.”

I just shrug my shoulders and smile.


I change the subject.

“Why are you here?” I ask

“How am I supposed to know….I went out with the guys for a few shots. I only planned to stay for a few. The next thing I know it’s 6 in the morning. I gotta be at Mom and Dad’s at 10. I gotta get rid of these shakes and pull it together. It’s their anniversary.”

I remember that disaster of a day. I reeked, tried to pull off that everything was fine and left early to get drunk to make myself feel better about it.

At that time, my Dad had been sober for over 5 years and was doing his best to make up for lost time. Only to watch his son follow in his footsteps into a slow oblivion.

I had to ask myself a question…even though I didn’t think I wanted to hear the answer.

“Why don’t you just stop? You saw what it did to Dad. It almost killed him. Remember that Christmas when he was drunk and asked you to come in and sit with him. You held him and put your head on his chest and heard his heart skipping beats as you smelled the alcohol coming out of his pores? I remember how scary it was…Do you? Is that what you want?”

Me and I shared a moment of uncomfortable silence as we both relived that scene. Each of us seemed to be daring the other to break into tears. My mid 20’s self broke the silence with defiance.

“That was him not me. I just like to party. I got this under control. He had to quit…I just need to take a break and slow down a bit. How dare you look at me and see….him. I gotta go. I gotta enjoy life while I have one…looks like I got a good 20 years left. You at least have a couple of bucks so I can get a quart?”

I closed my eyes, bowed my head and sighed. I thought to myself…

“Should I give myself money to drink or tell me to go?”

I opened my eyes and looked up, ready to answer, but my mid 20’s self was gone.

Except for the bandana that lay on the floor.



You’re born, you die, and in between you make a lot of mistakes. Unknown

I grabbed up the baseball hat, the bandana and my truck keys and headed out the door.

I had no destination in mind. I just had to go….somewhere.

I couldn’t figure out why I was coming back to me at younger ages and reliving my past this way.

I am very well versed in my past. I know my feelings about it and how I dealt with it.

I know my life. It is MY life. I just want it to get back to the present where I don’t know what will happen.

I make the effort to drive around aimlessly down back country roads for a while to regain whatever sort of composure I have left.

I make my way back home and turn down our street and park in front of the house. I pull the keys out of the ignition, take off my seatbelt and open the drivers door.

I pull my left leg out and turn to face the house as I place my foot on the curb.

To my mental dismay, I have gotten out in front of my parents house….on the day my Father died.

I know this to be the day, because I am slumped down on the front sidewalk clutching my knees and rocking back and forth. I am 31 years old.

I walk up to myself and speak.


I look up at me and seem to have no recognition of my future self. I just stare at the photo of my father that is clutched in my hands.

I look down at myself and realize how frail and sickly I look. I remember I had been on a 3 or 4 day binge the week before he died. Cocaine. Booze. More cocaine. Little sleep. Less food. I came to the house from the bars when my Mom called me to say he wasn’t doing well the night before he died.

Prostrate cancer did him in. Years of hard drinking didn’t do it. He lived his last 12 years clean and sober.

I remember thinking then…as I do now…that it just wasn’t fair.

“He’s gone.” I said as I looked up at me and back at the photo.

“You can and will get through this.” I replied.

“Get through this?? How do I get through being an almost non existent son during the worse time of his life? A worthless junkie son who never had the balls to say he was sorry for not being there and caring more about getting drunk and high that anything else? Get through this….f$&k you.”

The words stung and hit home. I didn’t only hear them. I felt them. I believed them.

I know life gets better for me…but I can’t convince my former self of that anymore than I can convince myself right now.

I am left confused by the whole interaction.

I kneel down next to me and ask,

“So…what are you going to do?”

I look at me with dark sullen eyes, pause, smirk and reply.

“I need a change. I think I’m gonna shave my head like you and then drink myself into a coma. What does it matter…look at Dad, better yourself…die anyway. I gotta go. Mom needs me.”

He gets up to leave and I reply,

“Shaving your head because your Dad dies is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

I look back at me with complete recognition and reply.

“Stupid is as stupid does….and hey, ask yourself…have you gotten through it yet?”

I crouch down on the sidewalk and hug my knees and close my eyes for a second, taking all the events in.

I get up with the intentions of walking in that house and making things right.

I turn around to face the front door, only to realize I am at my house.

13 years, 8 1/2 hours and 500 miles away from my parents old house.

My 31 year old self is gone….but the photo of my Dad lay on the sidewalk in front of the door.



To hold, you must first open your hand. Let go.” –Tao Te Ching

I stand on the sidewalk in front of my house and just stare at the picture of my Father who has been gone for over 13 years. I rub the worn, glossy print with my thumb to ensure its reality. I then return to my truck to retrieve the baseball cap, left by my 14 year old self, and the bandana, left by my mid 20’s self, and go inside the house unsure of what to do with the 3 items or the revelations learned from my past self.

I turn the knob, enter the house and close the door behind me. I walk into the family room and place the items on the table that sits below the 7′ by 3′ mirror that has been in the house since my wife bought the house a few years before we were married.

I stand up and look at my reflection. I stand arms at my side, confused yet contemplative look on my face.

My reflection looks back at me with arms crossed, concerned yet confrontational look on my face.

I blink, rub my eyes and move around like one of those weird windsocks that are on display at car dealerships


in an effort to make sure my reflection did as it was supposed to and mimic me.

I just looked back at me from the other side of the mirror and shook my head back and forth in a ‘no’ motion.

“Have you seen enough?….cuz I have.” I say from the other side.

“I’m tired of talking to myself…I just want this to be over…I want to just live my life without…all this weird crap going on….yes I’ve had enough!” I reply exhaustively.

My reflection uncrosses my arms and begins to bite his bottom lip. After a few moments of thought he speaks.

“You haven’t lived your life in over 13 years…you have had periods of living….but you don’t stay…you always return to wallow in regrets of the past….”

I interject before I can continue.

“What are you talking about? In the past 13 years I’ve stopped drinking…and stayed stopped…I got married and am raising 2 kids with my wife….”


I agree with myself, then my reflection continues…

“But…during that process of growth, you have also isolated yourself. Outside the walls of this house you put on the happy face for the world. Inside you are your 14 year old former self who has to keep things together. You want to be out and about for family events but get so anxious and nervous about being good enough that you retreat in disparity like your mid 20’s self. And no matter what you do…you feel you will never…ever make up for time lost with Dad because of your mistakes…..just like you 31 year old self. In a world full of opportunity and people…you are alone….with yourselves from the past. It’s time to get past me…and get on with our life.”

I let my words sink in…really sink in and realize that I am right. I look at myself and ask,

“How do I get past…me?”

I relax my reflective stance and smile a little and reply.

“All you have to do is forgive yourself. You have spent a lot of time learning about amends to others since you got sober….but you have never made amends to yourself for carrying this weight for so long. Forgive. Let go. Live again.”

I felt a shudder as that sunk in. I closed my eyes and shook it off.

I looked back at my reflection and expected more. What I got was me staring at myself while I bit my bottom lip. I raised up my right hand and waved….the mimic was back.

I looked at the 3 items I placed on the table under the mirror. I placed the bandana and photo into the baseball hat and spoke,

“To my 14 year old self…I’m sorry for giving up hope on myself. You visited me and I told you to keep up hope when I had none for myself. I ask for my forgiveness.”

The baseball cap disappeared.

“To my mid 20’s self….I am sorry for exchanging alcohol for isolation. I was always good enough. I ask for my forgiveness.”

The bandana disappeared.

“To my 31 year old self….I am sorry for not allowing us to grieve and move on after Dad died. He was there for me when I was born and I was there for him when died. Each time we held each other’s hand. That’s all the time we needed. I ask for your forgiveness.”

The photo of my Father did not disappear. It changed into a photo of he and I from years past.

I took that photo and placed it in my wallet for safe keeping.

I returned to the spot in front of the mirror and did the little windsock dance again to make sure it was just my reflection and said,

“Wow. I got a lot of life to live…no better time like the present!”

I turned toward the kitchen with a little bounce in my step.

My wife was standing there, in her pajamas, looking at me with a bewildered look and said,

“Are you talking to yourself, again?”

I looked back at the mirror, chuckled, and then back at her and said,

“Not anymore…there are more important things than me.”



Sidenote-I wrote this back in 2013. Reread it and am posting it after trying to decide how to reintroduce my past to my blog to anyone new after a six year absence.

After wiping tears from my eyes because of the actual memories of events, I decided screw it post it again.Pushed aside memories hit hard, reliving them aint easy but it helps to heal from them.

Rain On The Parade

20131014-122624.jpgKicked in the teeth by reality.

That is what it feels like.

Start the day with a sober anniversary,

End the day with a sobering fact.

Recovery from addiction….ANY addiction is….hard.

There are zero guarantees. No warranties. No refunds.

Either sit at the table and go all in


Try to bluff.

The problem with bluffing in recovery is the only one stuck with the consequences of the bluff…


Dilly dally

with recovery and your results will be

dally dillied.

A guy I know from the start of my recovery took his own life this weekend.

I last saw him at the AA International Convention in San Antonio a few years ago.

Young. Smart. Alcoholic.


A person I know, who was on the verge of a multiple year sober anniversary, decided it was a good idea to go on a NyQuil shooter binge.


The cup on top is not a shot glass…..and I don’t believe the recommended dosage is set at a bottle at a time…..especially if you are not coughing, sniffling, sneezing, aching, don’t have stuffy head, and are not attempting rest.

I’m pissed.

I’ve been listening to Bleach by Nirvana on repeat since last night.

It’s fueling my emotions rather than calming them.

But I’m good.

I’m just confused.

Recovery is not a quick fix.

It takes time.

Tick tock tick tock

A lot of time.

A lifetime.

Active recovery means time on your side.

Bluffing recovery means…

Time out.

Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick…..
Tick tock…..

Frame of Mind- 6 Years After One

Seven-days in the week


Se7en-deadly sins

The number seven has been regarded with superstitious awe for centuries—some consider seven to be lucky; others, unlucky. Rather than being viewed as bringing good fortune or misfortune, the number seven has long been considered a digit of great power. For example, there are seven ecstasies of Zoroaster, the seventh day that celebrates the Sabbath, the seven days of the week, the seven golden candlesticks of Solomon’s temple. Among various early peoples, the seventh son of a seventh son was believed to be born with supernatural powers, a boy who would become a wizard when he grew to manhood. Likewise, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter was believed to be born with gifts of prophecy and healing-


Unlucky 13

The number 13 is considered an unlucky number in some countries. Charles Stewart Parnell had an irrational fear of the number thirteen. The end of the Mayan calendar’s 13th Baktun was superstitiously feared as a harbinger of the apocalyptic 2012 phenomenon. Fear of the number 13 has a specifically recognized phobia, Triskaidekaphobia, a word coined in 1911. The superstitious sufferers of triskaidekaphobia try to avoid bad luck by keeping away from anything numbered or labelled thirteen. As a result, companies and manufacturers use another way of numbering or labeling to avoid the number, with hotels and tall buildings being conspicuous examples (thirteenth floor). It’s also considered unlucky to have thirteen guests at a table. Friday the 13th has been considered the unluckiest day of the month.
The Code of Hammurabi consists of 282 laws, but does not have law number 13-

13 and 7.

Just numbers.

They do play a significant role in society. Some believe they are unlucky. Some believe the opposite.

Others are divided on the 2.

For me, the numbers are part of an equation that add up to solve the question on why life keeps moving in a


direction instead of in a



Friday the 13, 2006, in the month of October, was my first day of sobriety.

I was on probation for 2 felonies facing upwards of 20 years in prison.

I was alone.

Truly alone.

My choices were get sober or enjoy a few decades in a cage…..

Or die.

3 choices.

A beginning.

A pause.


An end.

I reluctantly chose a beginning. If not for any other reason than to delay the inevitable for a while.

Today marks seven 10/13’s since that choice was made.

During that time frame, there have been many things that have happened.

I found a belief in God and relied on that faith.

I married the woman that I never dreamed I could have I life with.

I gained the responsibility of being a stepfather.

I became free from the chains of the state of Texas.

I lost faith in the God I came to understand in early sobriety and walked away from the program that taught me how to live life without the sauce.

I continue to search….I do not disregard.

I have maintained my sobriety.



Just numbers.

But, in my equation of things, they define the difference between





The Signs

What constitutes a drinking “problem”?

Umm…you drink too much?

That’s the easy “go to” answer. But…is it really that simple?

Since I have laid off the sauce for a few years now, I have been able to look back into my past to see if there were any warning signs that should have tipped me off to whether or not I had a drinking problem or not.

You decide-

-more bar tabs to pay than general bills to pay

-bar tabs in 2 countries

– 2 bedroom 2 bath apartment where one bath was utilized as a beer cooler.

-stop drinking at 5 am… at 6 am

– lost a car due to drinking…not repossessed…LOST. I forgot where I parked it. Never found it by the way.

-drove into a house…while drinking

-got banned from Mexico

– drove a car, with no brakes, 16 miles to get the bartender to work on time and to get free drinks.

-used to shake bottles of beer and snort them through my nose…because drinking them just wasn’t fun enough.

-was escorted out of a major metropolitan city and driven 700 miles away because “my peeps” were tired of my drinking escapades

-drove 45 miles in a blackout. Rewarded myself with drinking after coming to.

– drank 23 shots of tequila in 35 minutes….woke up covered in vomit on a jail floor in Mexico


I think I hit the trifecta.

If it wasn’t for alcohol, Mexico, and driving I might have been eligible for sainthood.


Maybe he could have saved me….

Nah, he only saves Will Robinson.

The Reach

Pharmaceutical happiness
Chemically enhanced joy
All easily accessible when
Life starts to annoy.

End of work day liquids
Sticks that turn to smoke
Ahh…that’s what was needed
My senses….they are awoke.

Injections for beauty
Pulls that skin tight
Outer appearances are important
The insides are a fright.

Can’t eat too much
To overindulge makes a sinner
Purge out the excess
The mantra is…….thinner.

Rehabs and support groups
Will toss a life line
Hard to ask for help
When the belief is…You’re fine.

Experiments in youth
Blossom to reliance with age
Reach out for the line
It starts with a change.


Chasing The Void

Nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it.

I have heard this many times. My response is always,

“Try nailing jello to a tree.”

I’m not a pessimist. I just know from my own experience that putting your mind “through” it and not just to it causes change that makes nothing being impossible to nothing at all.

Let me explain…

I was a user abuser of chemicals and alcohol for many years. Willfully participating in those things, in the quantities that I chose, for the timeframe that I did it in, changed my mental makeup.

I was a confident, outgoing, fun person who became a paranoid loner recluse.

It has been over 6 years since I ingested any chemical or alcohol. I am mentally stuck between 2 states of being.

I’m somewhere in between confident and unsure…..loving life and who cares…..full of trust and withering in doubt.

My wife calls me the “King Of Indifference”, I don’t know what to call it.

I’m not comfortable being around drinkers, but I am just as uncomfortable being around people that don’t drink.

I can’t fit in when I don’t know where I fit in….so I blend as best I can.

Regretfully, I ain’t as good a blender as Mr. Lizard.

I get around people and I can’t wait to get away from them.

I sit alone and in silence and I just pace around unsure of myself.

It all come back to “30 days”.

In between sober and nowhere near sober I did some jail time for crimes I definitely committed.

Not an extended amount of time. Approximately, 4 months. The first month of which I was committed to the jail psyche ward.

I was so whacked out on chemicals that my mind flipped completely out.

I was apparently not safe to be around other inmates much less being around myself.

I think the term generally used is f**king crazy.

I wrote about it in a post called something like “Cold Silence

For 30 days I had no human interaction….unless you count the 22 hour screamer or the feces thrower in the other cells.

3 times a day a tray of what was called food was passed through a slot. After 10 minutes I was to pass the tray back out.

That was the closest I got to human contact.

30 days.

Of nothing but me.

And 3 concrete walls.

Nothing else.

The first 7-8 days, my mind was attempting to return to whatever state of normality it had left.

In that time, I talked to the visitors who would visit me. In mid conversation, they would disappear.

The rest of the time I sat in silence. Just me and my warped ever changing thoughts and realities of my decision making…and the screams and rants of the occupiers in the other cells.

It is impossible for me to revert my mind to a state of normality when the norm is impossible for it to define.

30 days that I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

Much less upon myself.

My choices in life led me to where I ended up at that point.

Incarceration for me was never a question of “if” but “when”.

That part of my life is behind me.

Way behind me.

It is just hard for me to comprehend that out of the over 16,000 days I have been living, there are a mere 30 of them that won’t just go away.

Sometimes avoiding the crashes of the past creates a void to the future.


The Pickpocket Putback Principle

The pickpocket pilfers the pockets of the plenty,
placing packages onto his person to please his perverted pleasure.

Podering perhaps that his pathway to pain is predestined,
He proceeds to place packages pointlessly INTO the pockets of pedesrtrians and passersby.

Thereby pouncing the predicament of prison….

Say all that 10 times fast…but just watch the video once.

I know I am not much of a poetry person, but please be polite….

For some reason I gotta go “P”.