The drunk man tells me his name is Harley, and also that he is really drunk. He smells of cheap alcohol and keeps falling into me or towards the cars. If I let him go he can’t walk more than two paces before falling into the road again and I worry he’ll end up frozen to death under a hedge or taken out by another taxi. I imagine reading his death in the Lancaster Guardian.  I decide me and Chris have to walk him home and Chris looks at me and I know he’s got the same idea.

Harley’s pretty friendly. He keeps saying thank you. He’s surprisingly articulate but he can’t manage to walk three feet by himself. So Chris holds one of his arms and I grab the other and we make slow but steady progress towards his house.

“What religion are you then?” Harley asks. He stares at me with big bloodshot brown eyes. He has a kind face.

“Um, I’m not really.”

“Then why do you do this? I’m so sorry, I’m really drunk.”

“To be honest Harley my main reason is that I don’t want to see you fall in front of a car.”

He laughs. “That’s really good that is. That’s really good. You two are really good. You’re really good. I like how people do that, because you know not everyone… are you a Catholic then?”

Our conversation circles around the issue of whether I’m a Christian of Catholic or Anglican – although he’s drunk so he pronounces Anglican ‘angling’ and it takes me five minutes to realise he’s not just raving about fishing. He’s had religious parents, he tells me and Chris, staring at each of us in turn. A big family. A strict upbringing. He’s one of several brothers and they’re still religious; he’s the black sheep.

The pubs are closing and several people eye us cautiously as we stagger past; our linked three make up an unusually mixed demographic – one manager, one PhD and one drunk. But it turns out me and Harley have quite a bit in common and he’s a good talker, despite the beer.

“I was brought up to be religious – a Catholic,” he says.

“Me too. I was raised a Jehovah’s Witness,” I say.

He stops and looks at me. “Is that why you do this?”

He keeps accusing me of being religious and I’m not. I guess I’m still an agnostic, or maybe now I’m just tired of the question. I remember saying to my mother, in a horrible moment, that I would look back into religion – but later and in my own space. It seems like a strange time for the issue to come up this evening, hundreds of miles from Derby in a backstreet with an alcoholic. Do you think this is how God does it – through the drunks, the homeless and the dispossessed? Maybe he uses them as a goad towards religious fervour and righteousness because they seem to give a fairly independent review of religion.

“I’m not religious. I just didn’t want to leave you by the road. Are we nearly at your place now?”

It’s freezing cold and Harley stops walking and stares across the street.

“I don’t know,” he starts to laugh, “I can’t remember.”

As a person endeavoring to be healthier (emotionally, spiritually, and physically) so that I can live my life well and love those around me more.  I have seen the importance of looking back at the issues in my life that have shaped me and influenced me.  I have also learned that not only is it important to “understand where I have come from” but it is also very important to grieve over some of those things in a healthy way.

Let me first provide my definition of grieving for the sake of this article: to mourn or have sorrow for an event or a loss that has hurt you or those you have a close relationship with.

For some it may mean a divorce, a loss of a loved one, a loss of innocence, a major life disappointment ( in some cases you may look back and think the loss was insignificant but the pain was never grieved), abuse that was committed against you.  These are just a few examples.

Grieving can be a scary thing for most of us.  It can be seen as a sort of “slippery slope” to self pity, despair, and depression.  That fear is largely due to our misunderstanding of grief and its power and benefits.

Grieving is a process that consists of stages or phases:

Stages of grieving:

• Shock and denial

• Pain and guilt

• Anger Frustration and Bitterness

• Acceptance and Resolution

Some of these phases will come and go at different times of the process and not always in exactly the correct order.  Just remember that they are all part of the process.

Be careful that neither you nor anyone else  put time limits on this process.  It will pass but everyone grieves in different ways at different paces…  How long will it take?  It will take as long as it takes.  And honestly sometimes the reason it takes so long is because we try to skip over some of these steps and move towards acceptance and resolution without experiencing the anger and frustration in a healthy way.

If you have never done an exercise in which you recall or consider the events of your life that have not been grieved in a healthy way, I would recommend seeing a trained counselor or support group or safe friend to work on this in your own recovery.

I have used several methods to grieve in my recovery.  The first was an exercise I learned in a book called “Wild at Heart” by John Eldredge.  I wrote down every event that wounded me in a significant way that I could remember from childhood to present day.  I wrote why I believed I was wounded and how I felt about it.  It was amazing how many things came bubbling up once I started writing.  I was then able to talk with a very safe friend of mine and discussed the list and how to best seek resolution on the issues where that was appropriate.

The second method is something that MUST be done with a trained therapist.  It is called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR).  I will not get into the specifics of this method.  However, I will say that it is extremely powerful in dealing with major stress and trauma’s from your past.

The third method I have used is the Step Study at Celebrate Recovery.  Specifically Step 4 which deals with the events that have hurt you, what your part or responsibility in the event was, and your response or reaction to the event.  This step is best done with a sponsor who can help you with perspective and balance in your perspective.

Next I will write about the importance of emotions.

If you enjoy these blog topics please comment, share them with others, and/or subscribe by clicking the links provided.

Thank you very much for visiting and reading!

A

100% AWESOMENESS. Not quite as much of a banger as the Avicii edit, but still sick. Enjoy!
Tim Berg – Alcoholic (John Dahlback Remix)

I gave in to Thanksgiving week without a fight and picked up a 1.75 liter bottle of vodka instead of the usual liter last Friday.  I ended up drinking about 30 oz for the weekend, which is consistent with what I have been drinking. I am still disappointed however. With Thanksgiving coming up, I had hoped to drink a lot less during this past weekend and I almost did. Going into Sunday evening, I had only drank about 20 oz (6 on Friday and 14 on Saturday) which was pretty good.  However, after getting home from a family day out and about on Sunday, I was ready for a drink and went for it.  I ended up drinking about 10 oz Sunday night between about 5 and 9pm.  Oh well.

Now I have to be careful over the next few days. The one difference between this past weekend and others is that because I went for the 1.75 liter bottle, I now have 30oz left. I won’t go overboard tonight as I have a business meeting in the morning. Then, tomorrow night I have a meeting at my church at 7:30pm.  That doesn’t leave much time to drink after and I won’t drink before.

What I noticed again about this past weekend, is that I feel like I am drinking for no reason when I spread out my drinking.   I started drinking early on Saturday, around 2pm and drank 14 oz over the next 7 hours.  2 oz of booze per hour doesn’t do much, at least not for me.  Lately, the time I enjoy drinking the most is that one big shot about an hour before going to bed.  And, the effect is much better when it is my first drink of the day. So, why do I drink during the day?  I am not sure; I guess the alcohol is just stronger than I am.

 

Ontario stands firm on street racing law Toronto Star  A judge overturned the stunt-driving conviction of Jane Raham, 62, of Oakville who accelerated past a truck to get out of its blind spot. A second Ontario judge has ruled that the province’s stunt driving legislation is unconstitutional, but provincial police say they will continue to lay charges under the so-called street racing law.A street-racing charge automatically leads to a conviction, which can carry a minimum fine of $2,000, an immediate driver suspension and vehicle impoundment, as well as a maximum jail sentence of six months.Justice Peter West, a provincial court judge in Newmarket, found that an accused driver’s Charter rights are “clearly infringed” by the potential jail time because the law doesn’t permit the person to put forward a defence. More than 15,000 drivers have been charged under the stunt driving laws since they were introduced in 2007, Ont. street-racing law constitutional, says AG CTV.ca

Judge tosses stunt-driving charge as unconstitutional National Post

EVEN COPS DO NOT THINK SPEEDING IS A SERIOUS CRIME…

Feb. 10 2009 4:35:51 PM  The Canadian Press  TORONTO — It appears no one is exempt from Ontario’s street racing law — including the police. A provincial police officer in an unmarked vehicle was stopped on Highway 403 on Jan. 31 for driving 65 km/h over the limit. Det.-Const. Heidi Fischer was charged after an investigation determined she was “not within the lawful execution of her duties at the time.” Because she was charged with exceeding the speed limit by more than 50 km/h, her driver’s licence was suspended for seven days — and her police vehicle was also impounded for a week..

ALL THESE HARSHER POLICE DEMANDS ARE MAKING CANADA  A  POLICE STATE

It is not the rapists, drunk drivers that mostly  fill the courts calendars, docks it is mostly the revenue generating traffic tickets.. if the government wants to get tough on crime, as it purports, it should go after the real criminals. Drunk, impaired drivers too.  After all speeding is not the major cause of vehicular accidents, what you did not know that yet? and the police Chief himself did not tell you? What is then the cause of major car accidents? Drunk driving, road rage, impaired driving, distracted while driving…. and what the revenue generating traffic division has not gone after all this mostly instead yet too? and why Not? The Cops becoming judge and jury, now taking the law into their own hands  even when they still say “ In most cases, our cops are the best to judge if stunt driving is really stunt driving. Or, is it simply speeding. If that is the case, they should charge accordingly or face more legal challenges.” And them the cops still being continually soft on drunk drivers is cause too many cops do  drink alcohol now too?  http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2009/09/10/speeding-is-not-the-major-cause-of-car-accidents-still/

http://picasaweb.google.com/anonconformer/Thenonconformer# OR http://www.mininova.org/tor/3176107

And do see  also the other posts here about bad cops, alcohol and speeding.. 

http://postedat.wordpress.com/2009/09/10/the-unfortunate-facts-of-life/

http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2008/06/15/bullies-free-speech/

http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2009/09/02/drink-alcohol-and-die/

http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2009/01/02/alcohol/

http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2009/03/19/third-police-vehicle-impounded-under-hypocrtical-speeding-legislation/

http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2009/02/08/drunk-driving-arrests-jump/

http://postedat.wordpress.com/2008/07/16/a-blatant-tax-on-the-motorist-speed-cameras/

http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2008/09/16/call-it-what-you-want-but-it-is-not-about-safety/

http://thenonconformer.multiply.com/journal/item/1/No_cop_is_above_the_law

http://postedat.wordpress.com/2008/12/26/paradoxically-despite-all-the-dangers-warnings/

http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2009/09/19/pretentious-incompetent-in-real-life/

http://thenonconformer.wordpress.com/2009/09/10/speeding-is-not-the-major-cause-of-car-accidents-still/

by Fulton Oursler

(Fulton Oursler was a magazine editor, religious author, and Hollywood screenwriter, and was an early Oxford Group member and friend to AA. He passed away in 1952. His official relationship with AA is as follows: Sept. 30, 1939, the very popular weekly Liberty Magazine, headed by Fulton Oursler, carried a piece titled Alcoholics and God by Morris Markey (who was influenced to write the article by Charles Towns). It generated about 800 inquiries from around the nation. Oursler (author of The Greatest Story Ever Told) became good friends with Bill W and later served as a Trustee and member of the Grapevine editorial board..
In Oct. 1949, Dr. William D. Silkworth and Fulton Oursler joined the Alcoholic Foundation Board.)

My Mother. Over eighteen years ago, she conceived and gave birth to me (and oh, doesn’t she remind me of that). She’s brought me up, clothed me (for sixteen years – past two years it’s been down to me), fed me (for the most part – but it depends if she’s spent all of her money), and well… Tried to be there.

The truth is, I don’t think she has ever really been there. Her alcoholism is destructive, and it has been since I was about six/seven. I didn’t know it then, but her alcoholism and depression resulted in her cutting. I’ve never told anyone that before.

I found out that nugget of disturbing information about four years ago – also when she was drunk. I’ve never properly reacted to it, but since she made me aware of it, and she made me aware she had scars on her arm, I now cannot help but notice them all the time. In the summer, you see them a lot more. Her dark tan makes the white dead tissue stand out, like trophies in a cabinet.

She told me, it was her drinking and depression that led to that. It was a bad time, she had just divorced my step-father, had several miscarriages, no money and two young kids to look after – all at the age of twenty-five. It’s not an excuse, but it’s a perspective.

That was the mid-nineties. It’s now nearly the end of the noughties and where are we?

Well, she still drinks, and she’s still depressed; and I’m shit scared that one day she’ll go back to cutting again.

Even so, she doesn’t need a blade to stab away at herself or other people, me, to hurt. Oh no, her tongue, her vicious temper, and putrid venom are more than enough to tear herself and other apart.

Her drinking is vile. I hate it, I’ve always hated it. The family hates it, even she Ma Mere, hates it. So why then, has it turned into some form of a joke? Why is it acceptable for a person, a mother, to be allowed to destroy herself, hurt those closest to her, and to waste the little money she has on something which I know will ultimately end up killing her.

Her Doctors, they always ask her, she always lies. When I go with her (which is often), they look at me, and I know that they know, and they can see the same in my eyes.

I’ve tried everything I can think of to get her to stop. Occasionally it’ll work, may be for a week or two; and then the long drunken nights resume. It used to be worse when she would wake up to see me off to school, still drunk, stumbling and swaying around the kitchen, smelling like piss-puddle, slurred speech, and nothing but “You don’t know what it’s like to be me… No money etc etc” – those would be unbearable. I would still have to walk into school and pretend that everything was fine, smile and continue on with the day, but dreading my return. Would she remember what she said?

It was this that put me off drinking. When all of my friends were getting drunk when we were sixteen/seventeen – I would be sober. I couldn’t stand to think of myself to become what she is. I would fear that I would fall into this trap of drinking – my grand mother also spends a large proportion of her time drunk too, and so did her mother etc. I didn’t want to “catch” her alcoholism; I didn’t want to bring myself anywhere near her level.

It took me a long time to realise that I can still drink, have fun, relax and have fun, without turning into her. I was scared that if drunk, I would behave as she does, I would spit words of hatred and disgust, I would hurt everyone around me. I would hurt myself. It scared me.

Then, I got to the point where I had to let myself go. She can’t control me forever, right?

It worked for a few months, but now, after the way I saw her behave, I don’t know anymore. It’s an easy cycle to fall into, and I don’t want to become a victim. I’ve already spent far too much of my life playing that role, hurting, crawling in my own self-pity, wallowing in hatred and anger. I don’t want to return to it. I don’t want there to be an excuse for it.

I tend to see so much of herself in me. We’re two very similar people, both quite reclusive, and stubborn. We keep most things to ourselves, and although we don’t like to admit it, we both put on a false front – everyone must always think we are stronger and better than what we are. We’ll never admit to our insecurities, and we both love power – power makes up for everything else.

It’s a horrible path that I am on, and one that I fear will guide me in the worst possible direction.

I refuse to live in constant fear of myself, but I feel that this is already manifesting. What do I do to stop it?

What do you do when a stranger walks into your house on a Saturday morning, unannounced at 8 am asking for a beer?

Our otherwise calm weekend was shattered….someone I barely recognized just strolled into my sitting room – it took me a moment to recognize him as a friends boyfriend.

It was not much after 9 am – he walked into, just like that , as if invited, and asked us for a beer.

For a moment Peter and I were stunned. We just stared at him. Peter for one had never even met the guy -a tall Indian dude.

I realized from the pong that this chap, lets call him Charlie, was quite drunk. I asked Peter to get him some Ribena and began wondering how we’d get rid of him. We don’t know him well enough to feel comfortable with him being around us on an otherwise intimate Saturday morning, but I know him enough to feel it was a bit too rude to simply say “F- OFF you aren’t invited”.

Dressed rather oddly for a Saturday morning it became clear that this was a Friday night turned Saturday morning. I made a comment that it had been a long night and he revealed that he’d been in a car accident, rolled his car 3 times and had walked over to us. Luckily he wasn’t hurt we all agreed.

I felt as if the pieces were falling into place …but what a perfect con.

The next ten minutes he’s bragging that he’s a trained rally driver, and that he’s a magnificent driver and at age 42 had never rolled a car, that he was in a state of complete shock, as if the car had somehow turned against him. The bashed car was at the garage – he said he’d sent a cheque of half a million to pay for the damages “no big deal he says” – does this retard think we are impressed with talk of cheques of half a million shillings? The only thought going through my head was “What an ass” how do I get rid of him?

“Does your girlfriend know?” I ask “I don’t know” he says, “my three phones were broken” (three phones my ass). “I’ll call her” I offer,

“No, don’t” he replies.

I go to make coffee detouring to my office to send her a text.

“Not sure if u r aware Charlie is here says he had an accident is traumatized, says I shouldn’t call u”

I turn on the kettle and Peter emerges “he says he broke Annes arm”

“WHAT? “

“He broke her arm”

“How? In the accident?

“No, says he got angry and threw something at her”

Now I’m totally confused and very very mad, no FURIOUS.

I call her – it’s true she’s at a local clinic. Shell shocked, she’s asking if he’s being a pain what can she do to get him out of our hair. I tell her I’m coming for her.

*?*! (deleted expletive) beats up his girl and comes over to my house for sympathy. What the *^$%?

I ask him to leave, he puts on that stupid British school boy attitude “I understand” and stands up and wobbles about. I leave Peter to get him completely out with instructions to lock all doors of the house.

We  leave, the @^% is somewhere wondering around the garden, instructions to staff – get rid of him.

Peter and I rushed off to help Anne who is at a clinic waiting in line. She is complete shock. She tells us that  he had crashed his car at about 4 am on his way to her house. He says it rolled 3 times and that the roll bar saved him and his seatbelt. She sounds thankful that he’s safe… what a poor guy traumatized and all. “The  %$#@^&&%%$#  has broken her arm” my head screams!

He told us that he was playing with the steering wheel when the car lost control. I can’t even bring myself to do a Duh! He told her that after the accident a crowd gathered at the scene and someone called a tow truck. He gets the crumpled vehicle towed to her house at 5.30 am. Calls her, she opens up and is sympathetic to his accident, but he drinks some more (he was already completely drunk) then gets angry accuses her for causing the accident (because she didn’t go out with him the night before – THANK GOD

She says he goes into a wild rage, starts breaking things and throwing things around including a full jar of Tahini that hit her on the elbow causing quite some considerable damage. I look at it – her elbow is totally deformed with the swelling, it’s turning blue.

The clinician refers her to a major hospital for an x-ray and we agree to take her immediately. As we were driving she gets a phone call from her house keeper. She listens silently then tells us that the *^&%  has come back and has broken all the windows.

The she breaks down into a pool of tears. We stop the car and I advise her to go straight to the police.

She agrees and we ask the police to arrest him – we know he’s still around, very drunk and is on foot somewhere. He’s easy to spot. Two police officers move off on foot to “catch him”  …can’t be tough, tall skinny Asian guy in an totally African neighbourhood.

They keep calling saying they can’t find him and keep asking for descriptions – this is silly, we know he’s around – there’s only one road  – he’s on it somewhere. A lady drives up to the police station – she tells us she gave a tall Asian a lift to a bar across the way, and that immediately after she dropped him two police ask her for a lift  – they tell her that they are looking for a tall Asian. She said she took them to the bar – at the entrance someone said the Asian got on a boda boda motorbike and left. They head off in the direction the boda boda went in.

We leave the police station furious that he  has escaped but as we drive past the bar I look over only to see the ASS sitting at the very bar– he can see us.  *&%^&^%$#$#$!

We go straight to the two foot patrol men and point them at the guy – they arrest him. We proceed to hospital. It’s now lunch time.

By 5 we’re done with X-rays and are driving back home. She’s agreed to stay with us  – her house is a mess anyway.  At 6 the police want to know what to do with the fellow. Follow your procedures we say – he’s beaten her up and destroyed property. Put him in.

They say they are going to lock him in at the main station. Good.

By 8 pm and we’re at her house evaluating the damage and getting a night bag. Broken bed, broken bulbs, broken lights and a broken door. White gloss paint poured over the newly finished house. She’s in tears again. The place is a mess.

His parents call and beg Anne not to press charges, to get him out of the cell. They admit he’s done wrong but he’ll be molested, attacked, injured even killed in the cell.  She’s torn.

We ask her what she wants to do  - it’s clear. She’s a wreck, her arm is blue and three times the diameter but she doesn’t want him raped or hurt in a cell. She says he’s remorseful (My *&^%!)  I know she’ll never forgive herself, and he’ll never let her forgive herself if he has to sleep in a cell.

So we have to head back to the police station – the Officer in charge is not available. The Duty Officer does not have authority to let someone out. Well we tried, its good enough for me, let him rot in the cell.

But no, someone suggests we ask the Officer in charge of the Division – the guy is in and wants to see us. What happened next could easily be made in a movie. Kenyan policemen are thugs.

I know that spouse abuse is common in Kenya but that does not make the victims pains any less. The police responsible are doing their jobs but they could hold back the laughter and fun they are getting out of this particular situation. They speak in Swahili and poke fun knowing Anne does not understand – but their expressions reveal the fun they are making. They say they don’t understand, the guy has injured her, destroyed her property and why? Because he rolled his car and was frustrated.
“But what did YOU do to make him hit you” the OCPD asks.

She is being asked to admit that she is the reason he got mad, that she triggered something, that it’s all her fault. If its not her fault the officer says then he could come back and hurt you again tonight.

“If it’s just frustration and drink ” he reasons “Why didn’t he go home and wreck his own house – why drive across town at 5 am to break your houses?” the police man asks

It’s a Good *&^* ing question.

Part of me wants to yell at the stupid cop but what good would that do in this situation – we are all his victims now. I feel like a prey stuck in a spiders web. The spider torturing each one of us in turn. It’s taking forever, we have no  idea where his line of questioning is going.

But after an hour of the police logic I knew what I’d do,  let the fucker rot in the cell for the night. He could deal with his plight tomorrow – and his damn parents who claim to love him should come rescue him. Asking his victim to rescue him is obscene and totally retarded.

But I also knew that Anne wouldn’t sleep tonight if he was in a cell. She’d worry and feel extreme guilt. She’d probably punish herself somehow. The police man notices that she has mercy, he can see that she worries about him and asks why. He asks “Why didn’t he worry about you when he started attacking her and destroying her new home?”.

She knows the answer, but logic seems to be on vacation.

They bring the &^%$ out of the cell and haul him in front of us. His attitude alone made me want to instruct the police officer to throw him in with the worst offenders for the entire weekend.

Normally a strong, beautiful, lovely, loving, happy and elegant woman is reduced to a quivering puddle of tears. She can’t escape.

But Charlie, he is enjoying this scene. He has a smirk on his face, he’s actually smiling, enjoying the pain he’s brought to her, the annoyance to us and the police station.  He is feeling loved that someone cares enough to make such an issue out of him. What a ^*&&%$!!!

We get back into the car to leave and I try to talk to her about it, I just don’t get it. The guy is a complete and utter Ass. She says she knows he’s controlling, dangerous  even, he drinks too much (sorry but that’s not an excuse). She tells me she worries that he’ll come and wreck my house if she stays with me. I tell her he cannot. I remind her he hasn’t wrecked anyones house but hers, he hasn’t hurt anyone else but her. He does it because she lets him.

I give her time for that to sink in – he does it because she lets him.

She can’t see it. She says he’s sorry and remorseful – “yeah” I think “just like Kagwai  who says he’s sorry for gauging out his wifes eyes”. She was blinded for life.  He did seven years for, Anne can’t even imagine this Ass doing one night in a cell!

Logic is truly on vacation.

She, ’s a puddle of tears and I feel angry – double angry. Angry because she isn’t angry at the injustice, angry that she’s letting this *%&$  manipulate her. Angry that she’s making excuses for him. Angry that she can’t see – no matter what, she can’t see what I do.

I tell her my own bitter spouse abuse story. Walking out was tough but it was a walk to freedom. And, I’ve never looked back. Everytime I see my &*(*^%  and his wife I feel so grateful it’s not me.

I decided that being alone, lonely, unloved and all that came with it was far far better than in an abusive relationship.

I’m also angry because after all that, we bailed the Fucking Bastard out.  After putting him in, we bailed him out. Retards.  It cost us Khs 10,000/- and an entire day of my life. He doesn’t deserve it. He probably won’t show up for court either.

She left this morning. I know she’s gone to clean up the broken glass, to remove the paint, fix the windows, anything to avoid dealing with what she needs to do to save herself.

I know I have no right but I asked her anyway, if she could imagine writing him off completely, never seeing him again.

She said she could not.

It’s a day later and I feel certain that she will drop the charges, continue seeing him in a fatal attempt to mend his broken being. He isn’t like this every day… he’s a troubled man, a spoilt boy with no boundaries…. she is convinced that he needs her. He’ll apologise, cry genuine tears, even see a councelor and shower her with gifts, take her to great places. He’ll probably even propose to her.

But he’s still the same &*(*^ . I dread what he’ll do to her next time. She knows that we will be there to pick up the pieces, …she’s too nice to do anything that will hurt him. It’s as if she’s trapped – she just can’t let go of him. He has infected her.

But maybe she can escape, she can if he lets go….

I’m not hoping, but just saying….maybe the roll cage won’t hold next time.

Post note:

Charlie and Anne are real people but these are not their real names. Over a 12 hour period I discovered what it takes to effect an arrest in Kenya for spouse abuse – its not easy and you need stoic friends to help you through. Spouse abuse happens every day but most cases never get reported because it’s a fucking drama at the police station and male policemen tend to ‘understand’ male urges. They encourage victims to ‘make up’ and withdraw cases. Victims of spouse abuse need to be strong. Know your rights, make a statement, get the P3 form, take photos of the damage and injuries, and put the Fuckers away for a long long time.  Oh, and turn off your phone so that his parents can’t reach you. The incident happened yesterday and as you can probably tell, I’m still fuming.  And, I know that men are also abused – either way it’s wrong. Get out of toxic relationships fast.

Dr. Hans Selye, a pioneer in helping us understand stress, once told a story about two boys who grew up in the same home with an alcoholic and abusive father.  Adulthood took them down separate paths with differing priorities and life decisions.

Many years later, both men participated in the same psychological study, though each did it separately.  In-depth interviews with each one showed just how different they had become.  One would have nothing to do with alcohol and had become an upstanding and well-respected citizen in his community.  The other had followed his father’s example and become an alcoholic with a path of destruction in his wake.

When asked what factors influenced each brother’s lifestyle, both men returned the same answer, “What else would you expect when you have a father like mine?”

It’s not what happened to you; it’s how you responded to what happened to you that has created the person that you have become.  Have you chosen to become the victim or the victor?

If you chose the victim’s role, the sooner you accept accountability for your choices, the sooner you will begin to heal.  Blame and resentment over what happened to you only gives the other person or thing a never-ending supply of power over your life.  If you chose the victor’s role, then you undoubtedly know the truth behind the maxim, “That which doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

Life has many things to teach us, but we have to show up ready to learn.

Childhood can be a nightmare. It is an act of grace that many of us fare as well as we do considering our family history. We may feel that we were born into the wrong family. Had we been born into the family next door, things might have gone more smoothly.

I once had an alcoholic patient who had been sober for several years. I saw Martha with her boyfriend for couples counseling. Early in our sessions, I got the impression that she was avoiding addressing childhood feelings. She would minimize her family history and refocus our attention on current relationship issues.

I was concerned about the triggers which caused Martha to relapse. Martha’s mother had come to visit her prior to our session. Her relationship with her mother was described by Martha as cordial. After further exploration, Martha told me that she felt like a little kid in her mother’s presence. This discovery led me to explore her family history to find out why Martha felt the need to sabotage her progress with sobriety. Her mother’s visit had brought to the spotlight core childhood issues.

Her mother was an alcoholic. At an early age, Martha recalls carrying her mother to the bedroom after her mother would fall because of bouts of drunkenness. To complicate matters, Martha’s father suffered from Bipolar Disorder and tried to mask the symptoms through the use of marijuana. Her father would frequently lash out at family members with physical and verbal abuse. Martha recalled her father pushing her mother down a flight of stairs when she was a teenager.

We cannot wish our childhood pain away by ignoring it. As adults, our emotional history will follow us, creating a pattern of self-defeating behavior. Eventually, we make a choice. Will we stay in an impasse, neglecting the ramifications of a childhood filled with terror? Or, will we choose to follow our emotional pain to its source and seek to find a way out? Those who commit to reinterpreting old childhood assumptions with a new psychic map will experience fulfillment and meaning during adulthood.

Note: This case is a composite drawn from my practice as a psychotherapist. It has been altered to protect the individual’s right to confidentiality and privacy.

I have so much on my mind, but most notably Frank and I went to a housing conservation center just down the street from us to seek legal help in getting section 8 housing, which we’d learned through his therapist, Miss Marbles, is still available, contrary to what is told to everyone, even by the mayor’s office for the disabled, and it seems, though maybe I was wishing to hear what I did or misunderstood what was said, that we can remain in our current apartment at a frozen rate of only 30% of Frank’s income/benefits, but could this be possible?  Was I too tired and anxious to understand what was communicated?  Was it true that the woman we spoke with was reassuring us everything would be all right?  Or is this all a fantasy?

If it indeed was a product of my imagination and we do still have to move, at least we know that section 8 isn’t a myth, that we’d be a top contender of any available apartment, and that Miss Marbles knows how to fill in the applications for us to ensure they’re taken with the utmost seriousness, though sometimes I do wonder if she exaggerates her mastery of the system.

As for questions answered, I learned what the stupid question was that provoked my brother’s girlfriend, no longer to be known as Voldemort, to break up with him.  But it wasn’t a stupid question at all and reveals her to have the wisdom and insight that my brother insisted she possessed and that he is so lacking in.  Part of what he’s missing is an accurate and developed understanding of my mother.  Of course, just as it’s not my job to make him see he needs to stop drinking, it’s not my job to make him see my mother is far from infallible.

What does concern me appropriately is how difficult it was for Frank during the meeting with the housing conservation lawyer.  He was in so much pain due to unrelenting exhaustion this past week from all his appointments, he couldn’t think of words like “identification” or names of places we’d contacted already and I found myself . . . scared.  I knew it was because of his pain, but I momentarily forgot it wasn’t a constant, his level of disorientation.  Thankfully, Frank has his first appointment on Monday with a pain management clinic headed by a specialist he’s been trying to see for years now and hopefully this is the first step in his stopping the progression of his symptoms and reversing the toll its taking on his days.  But what people who haven’t experienced it personally may not see is that attaining disability status is sometimes the only way you can get the treatment to function again.  It’s not a matter of giving up on yourself but of taking back control of your life, away from your medical condition.  At least, this is what I see in going through all these bureaucratic trials these past couple years with Frank.

I’ve been thinking how fortunate Frank and I are for the services provided by the city for the disabled (and thanks to Jim for making me realize this) and how completely unfortunate and regrettable it was that my parents chose to lash out at Frank because of their anxiety.  I know how to move forward in my own life, with my own goals and with Frank, but I don’t know how to proceed with my parents.  Is it possible to have them in my life without being aware of their disdain  and disappointment?  But I hope my own Miss Marbles can help me with that.

“…And booze was always there for me,” he continued when the crowd had quieted.  “My favorite drink was Wild Turkey… cause they named it after me.  So I had to drink it.

“Anyway, coming from a poor family, I always had to earn everything I got.  I graduated from trade school, and I became an aerospace designer.  Then I graduated as an engineer, and I became one of them people… 27 years in engineering.  I worked on many aerospace projects, and I did it loaded.

“I got married at 20 – divorced at 22.  That was a good two years.  I stayed pretty loaded most of that time.

“But then I caught her in bed with my best friend…

“Divorced her; moved in with him.

“True story,” he decreed over the audience’s mirth.  “But it’s okay… cause I learned how to forgive.  I forgave them both because we were still partying.  It was all good.

“You know, I don’t know about most of you, but for me, drugs and alcohol was fabulous.  Fab-you-lous.  I had a great life.  I was using and abusing.  I was on fire in the fast lane.  Anybody here ever live life in the fast lane?”  He chuckled unabashed as many raised their hands.  “Yeah, we got some takers.

“You see, for me… drugs and alcohol worked real good.  They killed that pain; they took away that anger.  Drugs and alcohol were like a false courage.  And because of that, I proceeded to do things that were dangerous.  I proceeded to drag race cars.  I rolled a Datsun pickup truck… loaded… at 80 miles per hour… me and a buddy in there.

“You know, that was the first day ever that I didn’t wear seatbelts.  I was coming back from trade school in Arizona at Christmastime.  Me and my buddy had been driving all night when we made it to the last passing lane in Santa Paula.  I was trying to pass one more truck when I lost control of it, and it was gone.”  His hand shot outward, his fingers flicking as if the truck had just flew away.

“When that truck rolled, my buddy went out the side window and I stayed in it for one more roll; then I came out the side window.  Both of us got tossed up instead of out, and we landed on the side of the road.  Alive and unharmed.”

“So you see, there’s more times than you got fingers and toes that I should have been dead due to drugs and alcohol.  My life was sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll.  And it did not matter what order they came in.  It was all good for a long time… that career of drinking, drugging, and living life in the fast lane…

“Until that day.”  He sighed.  “Until that day… when it stopped working.

“And it did stop.

“Just to put the record straight, I been arrested four times for drugs and alcohol… cause I am a quick study… and I learn mighty quick.” He chuckled at himself.  “My first drunk driving was in 1978.  I was riding my motor scooter and a cop pulled me over.  He said I was weaving.

“So, I’m sitting on the bike when the cop comes up to me and says, ‘Get off the bike.’

“Well, I got off the bike, but I forgot to put the kickstand down.  The bike fell and I spun round.  Then I kicked it and said, ‘Stay!’

“The cop looks at me and says, ‘Are you drunk?’

“And I say, ‘I sure hope so, cause I don’t do this every day.’

“Well, he starts laughing.  Then he says, ‘Put your hands behind your back.’

“And that’s what I did…

“And he took me to jail.

“That was the first occurrence.”

Saying I am about 4 days sober sounds like a broken record (at least to me), but I am content with my drinking schedule.  The week has gone as planned so far. I had my last drink around 8pm Sunday. So, I will have been dry 4 days in a few hours. I am confident I will make it through tonight as well and plan to have my first drink of the weekend around 6:00pm tomorrow (Friday).  Monday and Tuesday were pretty easy. Last night was tough. My wife decided she was going to go out with the girls for a few hours.  She told me this around 5:00pm and my thoughts went immediately to “how can I get to a liquor store?”  I did not have the desire to go crazy; however a couple of drinks would have been nice.   For those that read a post of mine from a couple of weeks ago, last night was very similar.  I went out to walk my dog around 7pm. There is a liquor store in the area that I hovered around, money in my pocket. However, just like last time, there were too many people I knew in the area and I walked away empty handed.   As soon as I made the final decision not to pick up, the cravings subsided. Funny how that works. 

When I woke up this morning, I was glad I had made it another day. While I was confident I would not have gone overboard, it was still the right decision.  I had only a mild temptation to pick up some vodka so that I could have a shot tonight. What made it easier is that I have a very important business meeting tomorrow and I need to make sure I am at my best.

Now, I am already thinking about Thanksgiving and how that will affect my 1 liter of vodka a week rule.  Honestly, in my mind I have kind of given up already.  I will probably work a half day on Wednesday and a half day at most on Friday.  That allows for more drinking time.  Anyway, I don’t want to plan that far ahead.  Let me get through another day sober sand see what Friday brings.

Cuanto caliente soy!!!

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Atomic Jello Shots, bitches!

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Hell yummy yeah!

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It is with a heavy heart that I present to you more evidence of how amateur pole dancing has again ruined an event for everyone… *sigh*… where are this girl’s friends?

P.S. You have to watch the entire video.

Amateur pole dancing gone wrong… again

Amateur pole dancing works for the where-are-her-friends procrastinator for:

x Passing time while talking on the phone

x Watching trash tv

x On the train, bus, car… public transport

x Good detox … after work, while writing a paper…

x Good to lull to bed

x Stop and Restart

Lit: A Memoir

By Mary Karr

Published November 3, 2009 (Hardcover) Harper

Mary Karr changed the rules of memoir when she wrote The Liars’ Club, she continued that tone in Cherry, and topped it off with her newest memoir, LIT .

In LIT, she brazenly reprises enough of her earlier life to set the stage for the emotional strip she does for the current memoir.  Karr exposes her alcoholism and depression, checking into the Mental Marriott, as she calls the famous loony bin where she stays for several weeks.  Wearing slippers with happy faces on them.

So, yes, LIT is funny as well as brutally honest. And so is Mary.  I interviewed her, and will blog about that on Monday.  You will be able to hear the interview on Open Book with Diana Page Jordan on www.pdx.fm at 1pm PST, or download the podcast later.

She marries a gorgeous man whose upbringing is as foreign to her, as hers is to him.  Warren is from Old Money on the east coast, reserved in attitude and appropriate.  Mary is a witty Texan.

Her alcoholic mother is clean when Mary and Warren’s son Dev is born, and for some crazy reason, her mom reintroduces Mary to booze.  This time, she can’t seem to get sober, no matter how hard she tries.  It’s when the marriage starts falling apart that she finds herself on the brink of suicide — a half an attempt, as she puts it.

She stumbles upon 12-Step groups, and the alcoholics tell her she must embrace God or at least a Higher Power.  Mary grew up an existentialist.  Her transformation — as she first curses at God whom, she believes, got her into this mess  to the first crack in her resistance, then to wholeheartedly believing in God, and becoming a Catholic  — is a gorgeous arc.

LIT wasn’t the easiest book for me to read.  I enjoyed a hunk of drunk years myself — happily drinking the guys under the table, stripping off my clothes on the front lawns of radio stations and — I am told — on houseboats, and then looking at my mother’s life and deciding — about twenty years ago — to never touch a drop of booze again.  Mostly, I was the child of the drunken mother, wife of an addictive man, and the mother of the addicted son.  Most of my life, I’ve been codependent, which I have now mostly unraveled.

Points of Mary’s story poke at my most tender memories.   It is hard for me to read LIT — a flood of my own troubled times wash out the dikes I’ve erected over time.  I can hear the ice cubes clinking in the glass, as my mother staggers around.  My stepfather’s yelling and breaking bottles.  Seeing the holes in the wall the next morning — from my stepfather’s fist and my mother’s butt, where she fell.  The day of the beauty pageant my mother made me enter, and she was nowhere around — she was hospitalized instead.  My life — a different angle from Mary’s.  When she sees herself becoming like her mother to her son, she stops drinking.  That’s powerful, persuasive stuff.

The book is funny, too, and it is — my favorite — transformational.  Mary Karr’s  life is back together, better than she ever dreamed possible.

So tonight I went to the weekly men’s meeting at my old home group. The topic was gratitude. You can always count on the gratitude meetings starting right before thanksgiving, but just like Christmas stuff at the local walmart, seems like it happens earlier ever year…

It was actually a great meeting…a lot of heartfelt sharing and some good laughs. We have one guy…60 or so years old…just got a 90 day chip last week. This will be the first sober holiday for him in 30-something years….he seemed a bit worried…

Can’t blame him, I remember my first sober holiday season…I had a bit longer than 90, but not much. It was nerveracking and scary…went to a lot of meetings.

I am grateful that I don’t feel that way anymore…and grateful to be able to talk to someone who is right where I was a few years ago…the reminder of that feeling helps me remember again just how much power alcohol and drugs had over me. And the pensive, but hopeful outlook of this man reminds me of the miracles this fellowship so freely distributes.

I have a lot to be thankful for…and I owe it all to the big guy and this fellowship, whose members patiently taught me that there was a solution to the darkness, fear, and lonliness of alcoholism. That statement may seem excessive to the uninitiated, but to the alcoholic who has strung together a few one-day-at-times after countless other attempts to do so, it is almost an understatement.

I have been given an incredible gift, and I try every day to retain it…I know, without a doubt they I am capable of allowing the insanity to slowly creep back in, and make me sick enough to hand that gift back, and pick up the bottle right where I left it…

But not today…

Together: set back in 1975, it documents the make ups and break ups of a crowded hippy commune in Stockholm – doesn’t sound great but this is one of the best drama films out there, easily. Other than a few zooms there are no fancy tricks to this film, leaving everything to come from the characters; vegetarians, homosexuals, hippies, confused teenagers and alcoholics under one roof – it’s basically a scrip-writer’s wet dream. There are no main roles, just an ensemble of credible characters that you can relate to – from the uneasy teen to the textbook socialist – which makes the story very absorbing. There’s some nice subtle and awkward comedy hidden there too. It may be a tad slow for some but has one of the best endings that I can remember. All in, it’s a simple feel good tale about the ups and downs of living with people. This is was only Moodysson’s 2nd film, and between this, Fucking Amal and Lilja-4-ever he definitely started his career with a bang. We’re better together.

Score: 8/10

so i went to a meeting yesterday with my wife. we are both in recovery…long story, maybe another time. topic was kinda vague (the issue is actually more with my memory than the chairperson’s ability to frame the topic), but basically centering around the point in time that you realized that you were powerless…that you had indeed crossed that line from which a ‘real’ alcoholic is never able to cross back. my wife shared…a couple of others, then me, then others, then came the tirade. a ‘REAL’ alcoholic who seemed to have issues with something that someone had said, although i still am not sure who.

‘don’t drink and go to meetings is just fine for the people who are not alcoholics who are here but 3rd tradition says they can be here and we won’t call you an alcoholic, but i will call someone an alcoholic and so will my sponsor because we know, but it doesn’t really matter unless the person believes it and i have a lot of friends who have died of this disease and…and….and….’

so that did no actual justice to what he ACTUALLY said because my mind immediately went to the thought of ‘is he bitching about something i said? let’s see…what the hell did i say? did i make myself sound like i wasn’t a ‘REAL’ alcoholic? should i double dip and say something to try to redeem myself? i am an alcoholic you snotty bastard…wtf?!?!?

the last ten minutes of the meeting were lost to the insane internal mental ramblings of an insecure, ego driven, emotionally and spiritually stunted alcoholic…

after the meeting, i caught up with my wife and she was bothered by the whole thing too. she told me ‘i think he was talking about me when he went off…’

so there we are. truth be told he more than likely wasn’t talking about either one of us in his rant…or maybe he was…and in reality what does it matter?

what really makes me an alcoholic? my drinking habits? how long and how far down the ladder i went? i didn’t drink in the mornings (well, a few times, but usually after not sleeping and snorting all kinds of shit up my nose then drinking through sunrise hoping i would either die or pass out from the alcohol and pills i took…but that doesn’t really count does it?), i never got a dwi, or slept under bridges (woke up on more than a couple of floors and front porches and once next to a river, but there was most definitely no bridge in the vicinity)….

one of the things i shared was that i have heard it said in the rooms, and have said myself that i was not an alcoholic before coming to AA. i knew i had a drinking problem, and sure my wife was about to leave me, and the boss was not real happy with my performance most days. i had to dig myself pretty deep down before i could make that admission, and it wasn’t until i came into the rooms to find out that there was something i NEEDED to admit.

The sensation is so elusive that, while they admit it is injurious, they cannot after a time differentiate the true from the false. To them, their alcoholic life seems the only normal one.

normal? maybe an overstatement, but most certainly the only life i had known since i was 17 or so.

i became an alcoholic when the people in the rooms shared what it was like…i connected…i saw myself…suddenly the reason behind that awful lonely pain in the pit of my being that i didn’t really even know was there started to become clear. i became an alcoholic when the people in the rooms told me that they had no control over alcohol, that they understood that insane craving that crept up no matter what good intention or important reason existed….

i became an alcoholic when i found out through these people that there was hope…no…not just hope…PROOF that this brutal, insidious, moment by moment, bit by bit, tear you apart from the inside and slowly destroy everything and everyone that matters on the outside disease that i was suddenly self-diagnosed with did not have to take me all the way down to the bottom that doesn’t let you come back…..

they smiled and told me to come back. there was a solution to what i was going through.

the insanity still had me for a while after i first walked in…but that seed had been planted…i knew now.

that was the beginning.

sometimes i feel like i have come so far in the past 3 and a half years….then on days like yesterday, after that meeting, i pray to the big guy once again…relieve me from the bondage of self that i may better do thy will…take away my difficulties, that victory over them may bear witness to those i may help of thy power, thy love, and thy way of life….

it’s not about me….

It was not easy, but I made it through with the one liter of vodka.  I was a little surprised at myself that I picked up the liter about noon on Thursday while I was out on an appointment, but did not have shot until about 9:00pm and I only had one.  I had about 6 oz on Friday night but went a little over planned on Saturday.  Considering I only had about 5 oz left on Sunday, that means I drank about 20 oz on Saturday. The problem as always when I go over is that I started too early on Saturday having my first shot around 1pm.  Since I spread it out over 8 hours, I never got too buzzed, but I was a little disappointed in myself for drinking that much in one day.

Plus, the left me with not as much as I would have liked for Sunday.  My wife and I went with our daughter to a Christmas show at 10am Sunday. While too early for most to drink, I took one good 2 ½ oz shot before going in and I did enjoy it. It helped me to relax a little. That left me with only 2 ½ oz more for the rest of the day and that was tough. I was tempted many times to pick up more and was actually trying to figure out a plan to slip away to pick up more. But, in the end I held off.  I waited until about 8pm to take the final shot in one gulp to relax before going to bed and it felt good.

I have been talking about the pros and cons of spreading the liter out vs. drinking it over a 3 day period. Another reason to consolidate it is that I feel better today because I drank the bulk of the vodka early in the week.  Another feeling common as of late is that I was feeling deprived again yesterday.  We went to lunch at a nice restaurant after the show and others were drinking wine, bloody mary’s, cold beer etc, and I really wanted one.   On Friday, on the way home from a business appt, I passed a local restaurant/bar and actually stopped to gaze in the window at the people in the bar and thought to myself how nice it would be to simply walk in, sit at the bar and have a nice cold beer.  Oh well, maybe someday, or not.

Alan Hamilton - Back in the Trailer Park

“Okay,” he continued when the mike was settled.  “I’m going to start by telling you right out the gate… what I say is my experience only.  If you want to know what this program’s about, you read the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous.

“With that said… Is there anybody here who ever felt so much fear, they didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning?  Raise your hand.”

Nearly everyone in the room lifted their hands.

“Very good.  Is there anyone here who’s ever drank so much booze, they couldn’t get out of bed?  Raise your hand.”

Again, a large majority of hands went up.

“Has anyone ever crashed their hang glider over a hundred times and lived to walk away from it?  Raise your hand.”

Raised hands disappeared while some people sniggered uncertainly. Surely, he wasn’t serious.

“Anybody ever drank Wild Turkey at eighty feet below the water while scuba diving?  Raise your hand.”

This time, people looked around wondering if anyone would raise their hands.

No one did.

“Anyone here ever rolled their truck at 80 miles an hour and lived to walk away from it?  Raise your hand…”  This time hands shot into the air and Alan leered knowingly.  “Alright – we got some takers on that one.

“Is there anyone here that alcohol messed up their life so bad, they didn’t want to live no more?  Raise your hand.”

Up went the hands.

“Has anyone ever pulled their parachute three times at terminal velocity while skydiving and lived to talk about it?  Raise your hand.”

Just as before, hands disappeared.

“Well if you notice, newcomers, it’s not so much about what we did… it’s the feelings we share.  That’s what we have in common around here.  We all did different things.  The things I mentioned are things that I have done personally.  And that includes the feelings.

“I’ll start a little bit at the beginning.  I was born in Oakland and I was a Navy Brat.  My daddy was a sailor; my momma was a housewife.  Daddy was a Republican; Momma was a Democrat.  Daddy was a Baptist; Momma was a Catholic.  And neither of them were alcoholics.

“I have two brothers and a sister, and none of them show symptoms of alcoholism – only me.  I’m the black sheep of the family.

“So that was my upbringing.  My family was a very poor and loving family, and my parents didn’t have much in common.  But the one thing they did have in common was love.  My parents were both very loving and caring people.

“But… on April 8^th, 1972… God called my daddy home.  He took my hero.  He took the man I looked up too.”  His voice cracked as he stated this, his eyes glistening with an ache that had never dissipated… even after 36 years.  When he tried to clear the sudden lump in his throat, his Adams apple bobbed madly.

The crowd could feel his pain.

“That was a month after I turned sixteen years old,” he continued.  “And that day… I got angry at God.  I got furious at Him for taking my hero.

“So on April 9^th, I got plastered. Totally plastered.  I got me some booze, got me some pot… and I went out in the lemon orchard and just did it up.  Before then, I had chipped away at drugs and alcohol, but I had never really done anything that bad.  I had never gotten that drunk or out of control.  But on that day – April 9^th – I told God I wanted nothing to do with Him anymore.

“See, I knew about God.  I was raised Catholic and Baptist.  I spent two years as an altar boy, two years at Missionary Bible School, four years at Catholic School, two years of Catechism – all that crap.  But regardless… the day God took my daddy was the day I turned my back on Him.

“And then, in my genius way of thinking, I figured I’d do everything God didn’t like.  So then I thought: ‘What does God not like?’

“Well, I knew you weren’t supposed to get drunk; that was in the Bible.  So I said, ‘From now on, I’m gonna get drunk and I’m gonna get loaded.  I’m gonna chase women and just have a great life.’ I already knew I was gonna be a Post-Toasty, so why worry about it?

“You see, I wasn’t mad at people.  I was mad at God.  So I didn’t take my anger out on people; I took my anger out on God.

“And that’s what I proceeded do.  I proceeded to do all these things I knew God didn’t like because I wanted to – because it didn’t matter.  I got out of high school and I learned how to hang glide.  I learned how to drink and smoke pot while I was hang gliding.  And I used to fly loaded.  I’d take a few magic mushrooms and go flying off Rincon… try to hit the beach.”  He chuckled at his past stupidity.  “In fact, in hang gliding, they used to call me Bonsai.”  He crooned the nickname proudly.  “They also called me Kamikaze… because I had more successful crashes than any Kamikaze pilot ever had in World War II.

“You see, people… I’m dual diagnosed.  My drug of choice is more…”

Isn’t it amazing how different people’s worlds-views of money can be? JW grew up in a household where they believe that you have to work hard for your money, so did I.

Instead of learning to work hard for his money, the lesson JW has taken from his parents is that money is difficult to come by. This is a convenient interpretation for him, because if money is always a scarce commodity, then there is nothing you can do about it and so logically, you should do nothing about it, and while you are doing nothing, you might as well enjoy yourself because money is difficult to come by, and therefore you owe it to yourself to drink and be merry.

JW is a qualified and highly skilled mechanical engineer, one of the most sought after skills in South Africa. He could have a very rewarding and successful job if he wanted to work in our economy instead of in a pub.

I have to sell the house, I won’t keep paying for it with JW  free-loading more than ever. I had an estate agent around to look at it, and she says that because of the state of disrepair he has allowed it to fall into (with a little help from his friends), that it is only worth three quarters of my bond amount.

When we were married, I contributed around seventy percent of the household budget including paying the full bond. We fought continuously, because he didn’t want to meet me half way.

For the past three years I have been building a small, sophisticated, high end, niche IT consultancy. When times were difficult in the early days of starting my company and I needed JW to participate in the financial running of the house, he would cease the little work he did, telling customers that he was too busy, or arriving at meetings smelling of alcohol.

Not only did he nearly bankrupt me but he was unpleasant and abusive while doing it. JW didn’t bring any money in, instead he would belittle me and blame me for not making enough. He would tell me that all his friends thought I was a loser, and then afterwards, he would boast in public that he was the one who supported us through difficult financial periods.

Now he seems to think that all that screaming at me, represents an equal financial contribution. I suppose that if Jesus could turn water into wine, JW could turn whine into money. He is claiming that half the house is his because he paid the domestic worker, my phone and the petrol bills for a couple of years.

Since we have been separated, he has only paid for a domestic worker one day a week by way of  contribution to Jesse’s upkeep, and he still threatens to fire her on a regular basis because she is expensive.

I have experienced that money can be difficult to come by, especially when you start a business with no capital investment, or when you are weathering the turbulence caused by the economic crisis, but this is the challenge. God gave me more than my fair share of intelligence and I have  worked hard to develop my skills and experience. When times are tough, it as an opportunity to hone my business ability and the value I give to my clients. This is starting to pay off. My business is picking up and I am financially on my feet.

I need to get JW and the past out of my life so that I can invest in Jesse’s and my future and build us a beautiful home. I never want to experience the terror of financial scarcity that I have in the past eight years and the victimisation it exposes you to. I am going to make sure that Jesse grows up with enough financial security for him to believe in himself, work hard and be happy, and put us both firmly emotionally on our feet.

Shiri: Korean action blockbuster that opens up promisingly with some apeshit assassin training followed by a slew of hits that leave police scratching their heads. Throw in a couple of grudges, potential moles, twists, numerous gunfights and you’d think this film was solid gold. Unfortunately, it’s not very original: secret weapon nicked by breakaway terrorists who threaten to use it against the public. Someone basically nabbed the best bits from films like Nikita, Heat, Hard Boiled and Die Hard. Unfortunately, they didn’t steal a good soundtrack, as this one is beyond rubbish. The 2D characters could have benefited from a better script. Despite on-screen animosity between North and South Korea the film’s clearly pro-unity. Overall, it’s a pretty standard effort that brings nothing new to the table. Brainless action flick – best stick to the one’s mentioned above.

Score: 6/10