Pain is mandatory, but misery is optional. – some smartass Some days you’re the coyote, and some days you’re the cliff. Everybody runs into one of those days eventually, when problems pile up like an awkward balancing act in a Dr. Seuss story gone terribly wrong. My problem-solving skills used to come in a
With the final days of the winter of 2025 approaching and extreme boredom setting in, the Pink Elephant Group decided it was time for something new. Already in the books were several Bowl-a-thons, Karaoke Nights, and finally, the fly-by-night Velcro Twister Games, which led to random thirteenth steps and oodles of resentments. We dropped them
Alcoholism and recovery? How did my book wind up in this genre? To make a long story short… I began writing poetry as a teenager in the late sixties after a tragic event triggered depression and PTSD that went unrecognized for decades. Unbeknownst to me, it served as a spiritual release valve that let my
Tragedy twists some of us so savagely that a retreat from the pain at a level deep within becomes imperative. It may be aided by the hand of the unseen, or the broken yet enduring spirit that resides in our innermost recesses, using the survival instinct in some crude yet merciful way to preserve
When someone mentioned freedom at my first 12 step meeting, I wasn’t feeling it—it felt more like I was trapped. I didn’t know it was just what I needed. But I’d been gone a long time, and my life was in a shambles. I felt conspicuous and unprepared for human contact as I faced the
DJ’s was the sober oasis disguised as a coffee shop that NutJob Bob introduced me to early in my recovery. It was Holy Ground. He and a motley group of brain-damaged followers would stroll in after their daily spiritual make-over, lifted from the meeting and ready for more coffee, cigarettes and fellowship, along with a
Yikes! It was the third time this week, and it was still Tuesday. “Dude, you’d better get off the booze.” It didn’t matter where Dishonest John went—it followed him everywhere. Dammit, at least his bowling team was supposed to be on his side, wasn’t it? Sheesh! He pointed at a few nearby barflies in protest.
Wannabe I always wanted to be somebody else, right out of the chute. The notion sprouted in my head when I was a young boy—I wished I was my cousin. The one who lived on a farm with umpteen brothers and sisters, and tons of farm animals, too. Fun and excitement were routine at his
Some are sicker than others and Crazy Paul’s first name was a heads-up for the newcomers in the rooms. No other warnings were necessary—as soon as they listened to him babble for a couple of minutes, they knew his tip didn’t go to the top. Crazy attended meetings in our neck of the woods while
Outside noisy. Inside empty-Chinese proverb “Welcome to the Here and Now,” he said, then winked and sipped his coffee, awaiting my response. The sage but puzzling remark was followed by a mischievous grin and eyes so penetrating they unmasked me. The Whiz sensed we were talking long-distance—I was trying to see through the
