One of those friends I trampled over, in my insane drunken tantrum, is a soulmate no sane person would ever let go of.  Neither of us really quite fits in the typical world.  So it only makes sense that when I first decided I should get sober (which was not when I actually got sober), we rewrote the twelve steps to fit our reality.  The twelve steps are honest, but I sometimes require a firmer nudge. So here they are:

Find Your Dreams Again – They Are There – You’ll Get There – Love You

The 12 Steps – Our Version

1. Life has become unmanageable.
2. Find hope.
3. You are not all there is.  Remember where you came from.  Surrender to the universe.
4. Face your shit.  Sit with it.
5. Verbalize and be willing to admit your path – beccause it got you here.
6. “Always be prepared for riotous and endless waves of transformation” – Best. Quote. Ever.
7. It sucks ass having to ask for help.  But you have to do it anyway.  
8. Your life is not a vacuum.  Apologize to those you whirled through.  
9. Be sensitive when you are apologizing.  It’s about them, not you.
10. Continue to face your shit.  Make it a habit.  
11. Take time to still your mind.  
12. Get involved.  People will need your story.

I just read a quote that said "If you can't handle me at my worst...I don't blame you - that shit is ridiculous".  I don't know how I didn't lose more people in my life in the last couple of years.  I traded everyone, including myself, in for alcohol.  My girlfriend, my best friend, my family, my job, my self respect...it all came out to $7.99 a day.  Figuring out how I could scrape together enough change to stay drunk and not have my girlfriend notice the money gone from the account.  I would pay for a fifth with quarters and dimes, come up with reasons why I got home from work so late (because I fell asleep when I sat down in the car), and pee in parking lots.  I once pissed my pants at work because I couldn't get them undone fast enough in the stall.  I was soaked all the way to the ground.  I ran to my car, sped home, changed my clothes, and made sure I stopped for another bottle on the way back to work.  Every break or lunch I'd run to the car and swig some more.  The chase was constant.  My day, always planned around the bottle.  

And then I stopped.  

Stopping wasn't easy.  Stopping meant rehab.  Rehab meant the baptist cluster, in which I found myself, would know I was an alcoholic.  That meant the reputation of my family, which I was already slowly ruining by being gay, would be even more diminished.  I was down to rehab or die.  I chose rehab.

The scarier part of rehab was/is that I have to figure out who the person inside this shell really is. Years and years of lies, heartbreak, mistaken and mislabeled identity.  I have mastered telling everyone around me what they want to hear.  So much so, that I have no idea what I want to hear.

So here I am.  Sober. And trying to come to terms with whoever this sober person is inside me. Trying to get past what and who everyone else wants me to be.  I can't imagine I'm the only one.

We're all master liars and manipulators....but for this sober thing to work...for me to actually be happy...it's gotta stop.  Tag along if you like.  Here goes nothing.