Temporary feathers.

DISCLAIMER: The nature of this writing is more personal than social graces might allow. I would apologize for my candor if I meant it, but I don’t. In addition to warning everyone about how weird this is going to be and providing those disinterested souls an opportunity to get the hell out of here, I wanted to finally clear the air about why I started this mostly ignored blog in the first place (it ties in later, I swear). I suffer from severe self-doubtitopia. Left untreated, it can lead to paralysis of the brain, and in rare cases, genital warts. So my remedy included various vulnerability exercises, one of which included starting a stupid, stupid blog. There’s a green bucket in my office filled with writing I’ve done over the years that I never had the balls to show anyone. Some of that actually worked out for the best because that hidden writing includes “poetry” I wrote at the start of my teenage angst and it is some of the most pathetic, poorly written literature ever conceived. That’s not even self-bashing; that’s reality. I still think I’m a pathetic writer (not an invitation for support), and when the weight of this fear began to grow so heavy that I started thinking of a career change, I mustered up all the boldness I could manage and decided to submit my work to the most vulnerable place on the planet: the INTERNET. So here I am, in the throes of some emotional fire, stripped to the nerve by life and its happenings, writing some personal editorial for no other reason than to expose myself to the whipping wind of the public and hopefully dig a little deeper into vulnerability.

This is going to get weird. Continue reading

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Please don’t feed the animals.

When my oldest brother was an infant, my parents decided to join a church so that he would have some kind of religion in his life. They have stayed members of the same church for nearly thirty years now, a much larger Baptist church than the ones they grew up in. We have never been an overly religious family, but throughout my childhood we maintained consistent Sunday morning attendance and each kid was baptized at some point by the same pastor. Growing up in this church, I always felt like an outsider looking in, like someone merely passing through to be viewed but never known. Words from the bible twisted up in my mind and I created a warped, terrifying view of the Christian God which I fled from at the earliest opportunity. This was the context under which I ventured away from the church house, leaving behind all those well dressed, holy people. After all, they and I were only there to view each other from our respective posts in the pew, and never to get to know each other as fellow travelers. Christians, as a result, became like inhabitants of an exhibit at the zoo, with placards of misinformation progressively written with my own hand in crayon, glittery pink gel pen and black sharpie. “Look here, the Christians, residents of Stupid Town. It says they feed on judgment and the weak, their natural habitat remains the brick and mortar houses of ridged doctrine and their population has dwindled as a result of the plague of hypocrisy.” This exhibit is boring. Let’s move on. Continue reading

Susan, know thyself.

Figuring out the step outline for a screenplay I started damn near two months ago brought me to tears, so I decided to write this instead. Today is March 3rd, which as everyone (almost no one) knows, my sobriety “birthday” is in 4 days. That means that five years ago today I was drunk in my house making plans to go to rehab. I was probably packing clothes, toiletries and such. I remember I watched 28 Days before I left, you know, for preparation. I also distinctly remember, as crazy as this sounds, dancing around my house because I was beyond relieved that I was finally going to get some help. Some people don’t want to get sober when they get sober. That’s not my story. By the time I put in a call to a fancy rehab place, I was done with the hell on earth I had been living in. What makes that hell so much more unbearable is that there is practically nothing you can do on your own to get yourself out of it. Sure you can go to treatment or to AA, but you can’t do things like buy a set of CDs titled, “Transform Your Life”, listen to them and all of a sudden stop drinking. Not for people like me at least. I’m an alcoholic to the core, which means I was born with the disease of alcoholism. This is a much different reality than that of the “heavy drinker”. The line between the two gets blurry, but I know when I made the call to ask if this place had a bed for me to detox in, I had moved miles beyond the realm of heavy drinking, hard partying and was in a much deeper mess than some bogus CD set could get me out of.

So what’s the big deal? Continue reading