Ever since I started telling personal stories on this blog I have wished you could hear them in my real voice. A better writer could convey more expression in prose than I am capable of, but I find when I read them out loud there is more lilt and roll, rise and fall, and emotional nuance. It’s more personal.
For the past couple of months I have been immersed in learning how to do voiceover work, building up a home studio and learning editing techniques in addition to getting coached on voice acting. My initial motivation came from the long-held dream of turning this into an audio blog, where you can read along with the sound of my voice if you wish, or just listen as you do something else.
So far I have uploaded audio for about a dozen posts, including the whole Boom-to-Bust thread. I have created a category called “Audio”, available from the menu on the upper right. The category can also be accessed directly through the link kirkwise.com/category/audio. I hope you enjoy it!
I suppose I am a human being. I mean, that must be the assumption, right? I have always felt like a freak. I was frequently called “weird” and “a freak” growing up. I admit I have always been puzzled by the way people around me behave. They all seem to be in on a secret to which I have never been privy. What to do and when to do it. I have always done my best to act in ways that that meet with approval—whenever I can, anyway. I guess the word people use now is “masking.” I’m glad we finally have a term for people like me: neurodivergent. It doesn’t sound so bad when you say it like that.
Physically I am average in every way. I look normal, I suppose. Somewhat attractive, I am told. I have traced my ancestry and I come from a long line of everyday people. My genetics are English, German, Scot and Irish, in that order. I am a plain old ordinary guy, but somehow I was gifted and cursed at the same time. I’m hyper-sensitive, queer, musically inclined, and with a very high IQ. Oh, and also an alcoholic (with forty years of sobriety). If you are meeting me for the first time and are interested, scroll back and read “From Boom to Bust,” a thread in which I recount my childhood, and you will get a sense of who I am.
I hit a point in my autobiographical storyline where I had to stop and rethink how I wanted to proceed. I have been thinking about it a lot over the last few months and have decided that the theme must be “a man’s search for meaning.” Mine has been a journey of spiritual growth, but I have to take a moment to define what I mean by that term.
I don’t believe in God or gods, or in any of the things that are generally encompassed by the term “spiritual.” But there is no denying the reality of what I call “the human spirit.” Humans are interesting beings: we evolved like all animals, yet we have reached a point where we can reflect on ourselves and assess. If other animals have this capacity it’s hard to know, since they don’t talk to us, at least not in words. They do communicate, and we form bonds with them. How much they are like us I just don’t know. But humans, we talk a lot. Every person has a spirit about them. I mean all the things beyond the merely physical: qualities of character, vibes and energy. What we value shows up in everything we do. Most importantly, I believe in the plasticity of the human spirit. We can, by choice, cultivate in ourselves any qualities we wish, given time and persistence. The Buddha recommended developing compassion, generosity, and wisdom, and any of us can do that if we choose to prioritize those things. What we often forget is how amazing that is!
So, I see humans as animals with a little something extra. We are organic life forms, but something about us can transcend mere nature if we try. Inside of each of us is an image of what we are striving to become. I call that our higher self. When I do 12-step work, that’s the “higher power” I’m working with: the yearning to be more than I was yesterday, and the inherent power to move one inch closer each day, trusting the process.
It has been a long journey, and I have learned a lot. My life story includes many stages including grasping to make some sense of my life when I was in the depths of CPSD and alcoholism with a dissociative identity disorder, recovery with the help of 12-step programs and therapy, a decade as a devout Methodist, then as a “new-age guy,” then Buddhism. Eventually I became a licensed massage therapist so I could go back to college. I completed a double-major undergraduate degree in philosophy and economics and finally felt that life made sense.
Until lately. Now I am living through the descent into darkness, the ripening of negative karma, of my once great nation, with which I happen to share a birthday, July 4. My disappointment in my species, of which I have only ever barely felt a part, is crushing. Humans are more than our animalistic urges, but only barely. People can rationalize any atrocity if sufficiently motivated, and I’m seeing a lot of dark motives playing out in our public life. I am disgusted.
But I also feel a sense of urgency bordering on despair. I have so much I want to say that I feel I could pound away at this keyboard for the rest of my life and barely scratch the surface. Today I wonder if my country will die before I do, and if these “messages in bottles” will be picked up and read by anybody, or if I am just yelling into the wind. Regardless, writing in this blog is a duty I owe to myself and my loved ones, so I will proceed.
Happy to have finished that long thread about my childhood, I think I will celebrate by writing some really crazy shit today. I’m going to go full Shirley MacLaine and tell the story of the three dreams I had when I was about fifteen years old. While I recognize the risk I am taking in revealing such embarrassing details — the risk that you’ll think I’m nuts — it’s probably good to do this from time to time so that my readers will know to take everything I say with a little grain of salt. I don’t know that these are past life memories. It’s just the best explanation I could come up with at the time. And I have yet to come up with a better one.
Most of my dreams are like acid trips: I feel disembodied, everything flows continuously, people morph into other people, scenes mix and change frequently, and it’s hard to form a coherent narrative. But these dreams stood out because they were solid. I could feel my body, including the clothes I was wearing. I knew things about myself and my surroundings, and the flow of time was contiguous, like a single scene clipped from a movie. Each time when I awoke I was still awash in the memory of it, since they were brief enough to remember every detail. And each left me shook.
First let me tell you about my bedroom. After my parents’ divorce, what used to be my dad’s study was taken over by my older sister Karen. It was in the front corner of the house with two windows facing the front yard and one looking into the side yard, which we called the jungle because it was so overgrown. Being on the opposite end of the house from the rooms of the other children, it was relatively quiet. I took Karen’s room after she moved out. I moved the piano and all my sheet music into it, but other than that it was neat and uncluttered. The ceilings in the older parts of the house were fourteen feet high and the windows were tall and narrow. The walls of the room were covered in long strips of brown burlap, which made it even quieter. There was a double bed, quite cozy, and I think for the first time in my life I was able to sleep really soundly. I felt safe in my solitude. Perhaps this is why I was open to having these dreams. Being in my mid teens I was past puberty, above five foot nine, skinny, and becoming aware of myself as a young adult. In each dream I was struck by the differences in my physical form.
In the first dream I was twenty years old and only about five two, but well-muscled. I was wearing some kind of leather helmet and breastplate, like a warrior. I could feel my feet were bound into leather sandals and I remember glancing down at them, seeing and feeling the leather straps binding them to my calves. I was wearing some kind of skirt, canvas maybe, no undergarments. I could feel my whole body, the dry breeze on my legs and butt. It was hot, there were no trees. A large group of us were milling about on the top of this rocky hill, checking our weapons and armor. I remember feeling for the hilt of my sword, giving it a little tug to make sure it was loose in the scabbard strapped tightly at my waist. I remember being pretty confused about exactly what was going on, but I sensed we were preparing for battle, and I knew it would be my first. Suddenly there was a loud shout and everyone started moving at once, heading down the hill. As the people in front of me were now below me, the view opened up as I ran and I could see to the bottom of the hill and up the next hill in front of us. My scrotum contracted in fear as I saw what we were facing: a large force of horsemen in black robes and turbans with long spears and other weapons, now charging down the opposite hill towards us. I pulled out my sword, which was short and wide, and remembered that I was supposed to get close enough to a horse to cut its hamstring as it ran by. I could hope to do little else in this scenario. My senses heightened as the horsemen drew near. There must have been a hundred of them. Suddenly we were in contact and all hell broke loose, total chaos and clouds of dust. I remember dodging and striking at my first horse, spinning. Slightly off balance I turned back to engage another one only to see, too late, that a tall dark-skinned horseman was leaning toward me swinging what looked like a long stick with something round on the end. He sneered and looked straight into my eyes as he struck me on the side of the head. I knew I died instantly in the dream and woke up. Thinking about it, I decided that I must have been Greek, it was sometime BC, and probably in Turkey or Persia. Maybe I was in Alexander’s army?
The second dream was very different. I was tall, at least six feet. It was cold and dark as I meandered through the narrow streets of a medieval city, either Portugal or Spain, from the looks of it. I remember the feeling of leather boots on my feet. The streets were wet from a recent rain. I was wearing long pants, no zipper or fly, a thick wool coat with buttons, and some kind of wool hat. It was late, the street was quiet. I came upon a narrow wooden doorway and went up the creaky staircase to another door. I had a big metal key in my pocket which I used to open the latch at the top door, then I pushed it open with my shoulder. The room was tiny, like a studio. There was a desk in the corner. I lit a lamp, adjusted it, probably oil fueled. It was the only light in the room, but it was on the desk. In the light of the lamp I could see the desk was strewn with papers, not the 8 1/2 x 11 papers we’re used to, but big thick parchment sheets. I took off my coat and boots, left them next to the door, sat down, spread a sheet of parchment, grabbed a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and began writing in Latin. When I woke up I concluded that I must have been some kind of philosopher, maybe five hundred years ago.
The final dream, which occurred within two months of the first, took place in a mountainous region of Central America, which country I am not sure: probably southern Mexico or Guatemala, and within the past couple hundred years. There was no electricity. I was a woman, around fifty years old, maybe five three or four, and corpulent. I lived alone in a small house with clay walls, very comfortable, with lots of colorful rugs and wall hangings, wooden furniture, and piles of herbs strewn about the kitchen. I had just warmed the water in the wooden tub from a pot I had heated over the cast iron stove, so I disrobed and got in. I vividly remember looking down at my rich brown skin and ample curves as I soaped my body. I remember what it felt like. It was delicious. Next thing I remember I was dry and dressed again. I opened the front door to enjoy the sunset. As I stood on my little porch a group of campesinos came walking by in their brown hats. As the last man in the group was passing by me a few feet away he paused, turned toward me with a look of pure hate, and snarled, “Bruja!” I felt a self-satisfied laugh well up within me and woke up. It seemed like I must have been a curandera but had moved beyond traditional remedies to develop my own innovative practice. I was a very proud, arrogant woman.
I can still close my eyes and picture these dreams perfectly clearly. I remember how I felt at the time, a bit terrified and awestruck–sure that they represented something real, something personal about me. They were so random! Whatever the case, the net effect of the dreams was to give me a sense of life extending beyond the narrow scope of this one incarnation. The physical impression of possessing very distinct forms has affected my self-awareness. When I move I feel that this is just one possible form I could have, and I am not bound to it. Who and what we are is in great part random and accidental, and it’s best not to identify too strongly with any of our particulars.
Tomorrow I will resume work on the thread I have been doing about “From Boom to Bust,” but on this day I feel I should take a moment to offer a few reflections on sobriety. No one asked me to give a speech, but it’s my blog and I have the prerogative to say a few words here if I want to.
Today happens to be Saint Patrick’s Day. It is also the thirty-ninth anniversary of the day I decided to try sobriety one last time. This morning began as all mornings do, fixing a cup of coffee for myself to have during my first chess session of the day. My wife, Sarah, gave me a little squeeze of appreciation as she congratulated me for making it through another year sober. I smiled. A few moments later my phone buzzed with a text message from my ex-wife, Laura, also offering a celebratory sentiment. This year we will have been divorced for thirteen years, having been married for twenty-two years before that. She is the mother of my biological children. I thought to myself that it’s nice that we still wish each other well. My mother sent me a “birthday” card every year for as long as she was able. Reflecting on all this made me think, “Wow, what does it say when there is a general consensus that the world is a better place just because I don’t drink anymore?” I guess my drinking must have been pretty bad.
I came-to that morning of March 17, 1985, which also happened to be a Sunday, after a crazy binge that began Thursday after work. There will be future posts with more details about how I had hardly drawn a sober breath for the previous eight months, but suffice it to say for now that what made this Sunday morning different from the previous ones was not the fact that I was contemplating quitting drinking. What made it different was that for some reason I realized that it was a loop: I had been having these thoughts every Sunday for weeks now. I would resolve to take a break, if only to clear my head and get a little perspective. But by Monday I would forget, and find myself drinking again as if my resolution had never happened. This had been going on for weeks, and only on this occasion did I have the mental clarity to realize I was stuck. Eight months earlier I had come to a point of radical acceptance of my fate. I was moving out of the apartment I shared with my then girlfriend because my new love interest wouldn’t have sex with me as long as I was living with someone else. Why? In her words, “because I’m decent.” That left me no choice but to get my own place. As I was leaving, my girlfriend tearfully asked me why I was being so cruel. I looked at her intensely and said, “I’m doing this to protect you. I’m dying, and there’s not a damn thing you or I can do about it. I’m getting out of your life to spare you.” In that moment I had every intention of dying drunk, and I knew it wouldn’t be more than a year before it happened.
My parents had also reached a point of radical acceptance. They hadn’t heard from me in months, but they had a sense of what was going on. Divorced for years, both of them were attending Al-Anon meetings in their respective towns. My dad had twenty-one years of sobriety at that point, but his biggest challenge had become what to do when your child is dying of the same disease. They prayed for me and had their friends praying for me also. Both braced themselves for the seemingly inevitable bad news that could arrive at any time, probably from a third party, that I had met my end. It was a dark time.
But that morning was different, somehow. The miracle arrived in the form of a question: what if I am wrong? I had acquiesced in the knowledge that it was my fate to die drunk. I had stopped fighting it. I was embracing it. I had burned all my bridges and was just trying to go for all the gusto I could on my way out. People I didn’t even know were stopping me and offering warnings and advice, it was so clear from my behavior that I was going to flame out. It must have been sad to know me then. But that morning, for some reason, it occurred to me that maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t meant to die drunk. What if I was supposed to recover? That was a terrifying thought, because every aspect of my life was a complete shambles. To try to turn things around now was going to be incredibly difficult. Even just my financial situation was astonishingly hopeless. I had just lost my latest girlfriend, I was about to lose my job, and it seemed like no one at all was buying my horseshit anymore. I had run out of cash and had only enough in my pocket to buy a pack of cigarettes or a six-pack, but not both. When I realized that I had been vainly trying to stop for several weeks and forgetting each time, I realized that this might be my very last chance.
As I sat there contemplating the question of which fate I might be destined for, another question hit me. What if it’s a lie? What if the one thing that has been making my life a little bit bearable, the one thing that gave me a moment or two of relief from the hatred I felt for life and for myself was actually causing all the problems? What if instead of being my one true friend, alcohol was actually what was killing me? If that were true, I owed it to myself to at least try to get sober one last time. Ugh. But if it were true, and I were to pick up that next drink and begin the slippery slide to oblivion knowing what I knew, it would be very embarrassing, to say the least. What a fool I would have been! So, that’s how it started. All these years later, I have still not picked up that next drink. It turns out that it was not my destiny to die drunk after all.
I brought my phone to my wife to show her the text from my ex-wife, and made a wry comment about how bad my drinking must have been for everyone to celebrate the fact of my sobriety. But neither my current wife nor my ex-wife has ever seen me drink! Sarah said, “Well, it’s always been clear that your sobriety is very important to you, so I’m happy for you.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Of course it’s very important to me. It is the foundation of every good thing in my life, everything valuable thing about me as a person. Yes, it’s very important to me. Sometimes I mention to someone that I have been sober for a long time and they respond with, “You must be very proud of yourself!” No. I went back to college in my fifties, thirty years after I dropped out, and busted my butt over the next three years to graduate with a double major, summa cum laude. I am very proud of myself for that! But sobriety? I only feel gratitude for it. Grateful that I escaped the whirlpool and I don’t have to do that shit anymore. And I am grateful every single day that none of my kids has ever seen me drink. Very grateful, indeed.
I wrote a post a few years back called The Wisdom Prayer in which I talk about how pointless it is to accept anything that is not an actual fact. For example, for thirty years I accepted the “fact” that I had missed my chance, that it was too late to go back to college! People in recovery sometimes seem to elevate the idea of Acceptance into some kind of general principle, as if it is the key to everything. But like trying to use a screwdriver when what you need is a wrench, practicing “acceptance” in the wrong situation can keep you stuck in a victim mentality. In such situations what is needed is Courage, and to know that, you need Wisdom. But I want to share something, a fact which I have accepted as such all the way to the core of my being. When I think about all the things that could possibly happen to me — illness, bankruptcy, tragedy, horror — I am unable to imagine a situation that I couldn’t make worse by taking a drink. Honestly. That particular form of radical acceptance keeps me sober.
This is the first year I can remember where I haven’t had a single drinking dream. You know, the nightmare in which I am at some sort of social gathering walking around talking to people with a half-finished drink in my hand. I suddenly realize that I am drinking and wonder, how long have I been doing this? And in the dream I think back and realize that it has been happening for a while now, and that somehow I have lost my sobriety without even noticing. I take these dreams as a warning. In my youth (I was twenty-three when I took my last drink), whenever I would resume drinking after a few weeks or months it would happen without fanfare. No drama. I would just “forget” somehow that I wasn’t drinking. I have no doubt that if I were ever to start drinking again it would happen like that. Terrifying! But I haven’t had any of those dreams this year, thankfully, not even during the Annual Dreary Rehash. The past year has had it’s share of challenges — a couple of colonoscopies, people around me having mental and physical health challenges, financial stress, a sense of impending doom for Western Civilization — but I have a good life. I believe that as long as I am grateful every day for the gift of release from the horrors of alcoholic drinking, I will be fine.
Before I continue my story I want to pause and check in. I thought it would only take about a half dozen posts but we are barely halfway there, so I apologize. It’s also taking more time for me to draft each post as we go, as my memories get very muddled in these middle years, and the topics are increasingly complex and painful. But if you are reading this I take it to mean that something here has grabbed your attention enough to get you this far, and I think if you stick with me you will be rewarded. I also want to say that, as dark and hideous as things are about to become, everything I write is from love, compassion, and gratitude. I have reached a place of healing and equanimity, and it is the hope that something I say will help someone somewhere that impels me to write. So, thank you.
My dad and his new bride relocated to the wine country along the Russian River, a couple hours away by car. We visited one weekend a month. He was a reliable ex-husband, always picked us up when scheduled and never missed a support payment. Unfortunately, it was not enough to survive on without my mom getting a job. She was a registered dietician and found work in institutional settings such as retirement homes and Meals-on-Wheels. We got by. She found friends in the Al-Anon groups she had been attending for years and spent many hours on the telephone “talking program.” She eventually started dating one of the men she met at a group.
Not long after my dad and step-mom established their cool hippie lifestyle in a rented cabin across from a Russian River resort, an incident occurred that shifted the configuration of our family significantly. My eldest sister, Stephanie (I have decided to start using first names), was a classic “problem child.” Famous for her outbursts of temper, anti-social antics, and frankly bizarre manners and beliefs, she could be forgiven for two reasons right off the bat. She was a genius, frankly. She told me once that beginning at the age of fourteen she read between one and four books a day. A. Day. And she remembered everything: author, publisher, year, table of contents. She could not only quote what they said, she could explain what was good and bad about it, and what others thought. Amazing. I remember one time not too many years ago discussing a rather thorny topic with her, one that not everyone even knows exists. She popped out with, “Well, have you read [such and such a book] by [three authors]? It’s from the early 1980s, so it’s a bit dated, but in the third chapter they talk about [such and so] and they say [this].” She was not showing off: it was truly helpful to my understanding of the subject. (She passed away in 2016 and I am tearing up writing this: I miss her so.) The other reason was that she was born with a congenital syndrome that required her to have dozens of surgeries over her lifetime. Developing cancer was a side-effect of the syndrome. She lived with post-metastatic cancer for twenty-five years before succumbing. So the second reason was that she had suffered a lot from this malady, and frankly just never really felt well.
In her early teens, Stephanie and my mother would get into arguments on a regular basis. It was like two cats fighting, because my mom was gifted as well. The volume would increase and the pitch would rise as their verbal kung-fu fights soared. On this particular occasion the crescendo was suddenly punctuated by a loud pop, a horrid gasp from my mom followed by a quiet “oh,” and then silence. We all gathered around to find my mom looking down at the floor, a hand held to her reddening cheek while Steph stood there panting, arms at her sides, staring as if she had just come out of a trance. Everyone was in disbelief. Had she slapped Mom across the face?!?! Inconceivable. Silently my mom made her way to the telephone a few steps away, sat down and dialed. “Ed?” she said. “You’re going to have to come pick up Stephanie. She’s going to have to live with you. I just can’t handle her anymore.” Stephanie never lived in our house again. My dad was good with her. It turns out his master’s degree was in working with at-risk youth, drop-outs who were working to finish their high school education. His libertine lifestyle and laid-back vibe turned out to be a good fit for her, since she was already hanging out with bikers and using drugs. He had only a few simple rules for her and she followed them.
So my middle sister, Karen, one year Stephanie’s junior, took on a lead role as Mom’s assistant as we continued muddling through as a single-parent household. In another year, my Mom would remarry, but that is for the next post.
The day has finally arrived and I am a little bit terrified. I have known for decades that someday I would be old and retired, and there would be no more excuses. I always knew that someday I would have to begin to tell the story of my life. It’s not optional: it was locked into the contract. Not only was I bequeathed a rare gift at birth, but when I fucked it up so badly that death was going to be the inevitable consequence, the grace I was shown meant that I would owe something in return. And now that my life has entered its final phase, I feel I cannot evade the responsibility.
“Kirkwise” is the name of the blog, and it’s a double entendre. Yes, my name is Kirk. Some people think I am wise. Also, I would like my readers to get of sense of what it is to look at the world “Kirkwise,” that is, through my eyes. Some have asked, “Kirk, how did you become so wise? How can I too achieve such wisdom?” It’s simple. Fuck up in ways that leave you stuck in complex situations with a set of problems that are astonishingly difficult to solve — some that should inevitably lead to an early death, somehow miraculously disentangle yourself and survive, then spend the next few decades ruminating ad infinitum to extract every ounce of insight possible. Apply what you have learned. Repeat. Simple, really.
I am a very complicated person. Actually, I am too complicated to really be considered one person. Scientists say that our brains are mosaics, that layer upon layer was added starting from the primitive lizard brain, eventually resulting in the sophisticated primate brain we have now. Events transpired in my life that left my personality fractured. I lost the ability to tell you who I really was or to even understand within myself why I felt the way I did and why I did the things I did. It’s called “dissociative identity disorder,” and it occurs usually from severe trauma. So I have the tricky monkey brain by nature, and a squirrely mess of personalities from nurture, if you can call it “nurture.” Not to be too hard on my parents. They succeeded in being far less horrible than their own parents, and I am proud of them for that.
Before you read further, it seems fair to tell you more specific things about me, so you can decide if anything I have to say will be relevant to you. I was assigned male at birth but do not consider myself to be cis-gendered, since that requires one to be accepting of that gender assignment, which I have never felt. When I first encountered the term “gender dysphoria” I went, “Ah, so there is a name for it.” I never wanted to be male. I never wanted to be born, especially not born human. Dolphin would have been a better choice. In 2007 I did a pre-birth regression under hypnosis. I thought my therapist was a bit whack for suggesting it, and I didn’t really believe in it. But we had had two really amazing sessions prior to that, so I decided to give it a try. I can’t give all the details, but the gist of it was that I really didn’t want to come back this time. I thought I should be done. I was angry at the suggestion that I had more to learn from taking human form again, and I was resisting. By my side was a beloved and trusted companion who was urging me to do it. “It will be so good for you, I know you won’t regret it. And it’s important,” she said. I eventually agreed to go forward on one condition: that she accompany me. I don’t know what kind of karmic pull we had, but amazingly enough we were soon sharing a uterus, as fraternal twins. When we were just a few weeks along my mother miscarried. I remember being told the strange story growing up: how my mom miscarried eight or ten weeks into her pregnancy with me. She called the doctor, he confirmed it. A week or two later, she called him back and said, “I swear I am still pregnant.” Back she went. It was true: she was twelve weeks along. She said she always wondered how that could be, the signs had been so clear. (I was her fourth of six children: she knew the drill.) It was only after this hypnosis session that it occurred to me that it could mean that she had lost one of a pair of fraternal twins. I called her and asked her to tell me everything she remembered about it. I am convinced that I really did have a lost twin. I felt it my whole life.
Back to the session, where I am still a fetus: I was enraged. I felt abandoned and betrayed, and now I was stuck in this miserable human form without the one companion who would have made it ok. My earliest memories are of raging against life itself. My mother says I would cry and cry as an infant. She laughingly told me she finally got so frustrated that she started pushing the side of the crib to rock and roll my tiny body. She did it harder and harder until she was forcibly shaking the crib and I was bouncing and rolling all over the place while wailing at the top of my lungs. Then, boom, I was asleep. That became a routine. Possibly related note: when I was older, maybe five to seven, whenever I heard the washer going into a spin cycle I would run and sit with my back to it, letting it bang rhythmically against the back of my head. It was so soothing!
So I was a weird kid. My mom got a call from the elementary school when I was entering first grade. They said that my IQ test was unusual and that she and my dad were going to have to make extra efforts to provide me with stimulation and enrichment. We didn’t have “gifted” programs back then. I don’t know if it would have helped. I had attention problems in school, was often bored and disruptive. What I remember most about being sent out into the hallway for a timeout was the sound of the entire classroom laughing, often including the teacher. I did enjoy making people laugh.
OK, I will write a lot more about my childhood in future posts, but to finish this one I will give some factual background that will help you put me in perspective. I was born in the early 1960s, the fourth of six children. My parents were progressive Democrats of the Kennedy persuasion, including being very Catholic. I grew up in a small farm town in northern California. My parents were both college educated, my mom at Berkeley. My dad was a popular teacher at the local high school. I was a gifted musician. I sang, played the piano, and then every band instrument they would let me borrow, including string bass. I learned to write and arrange music, got decent at jazz improvisation, and really wanted to write movie scores when I grew up. My band director in high school sat me down one day to ask about my plans for the future. His suggestion was to head straight to LA after graduation and start doing studio session work. He said, “I don’t even think you need to go to college. You are already better than a lot of those guys. You know everything you need to know.” Oh how I wish I had taken that advice! But under the influence of my girlfriend’s very old fashioned family I enrolled in the University of California as a chemical engineering major. Much more to be told later.
I have been sober for over 38 years now. I had multiple careers, including computer programming, vocal studio accompaniment on the piano, IT management at a regional bank (reaching the VP level), and finally, fourteen years as a licensed massage therapist. I had dropped out of college due to my alcoholism in 1983. After a 30 year hiatus I returned to college in 2012, finishing a double major in Philosophy and Economics, summa cum laude. I have two biological children who are now in their early thirties, and a step-daughter who just started college. Whatever else I might have accomplished in life, it is my children of whom I am the most proud. They make the world a better place just by being in it.
So, future posts will include many stories about my life. Some are traumatic enough to come with a “content warning,” while others will be funny. All will be incredibly complicated, especially when you consider my tendency to digress. But I think there is a lot to be learned from my experiences, even while being entertained. My goal is to write daily, so we’ll see how it goes!
I don’t even know if Grandpa Norris was literate, growing up in an orphanage and all. I do know that my grandma and her second husband were only educated through the sixth and eighth grades. They could definitely read and write: my grandma wrote folksy poetry and songs, and my grandpa taught himself calculus and got his ham radio operators license. It’s just that public schooling in the United States was still pretty sketchy in a lot of places a hundred years ago. So my dad’s parents were marginally educated, working class people. But my dad and his half brother were artistically inclined. My uncle made his living as an artist/painter, and my dad went to college and became a high school teacher. My dad had many talents, actually. He had a lovely singing voice, entertaining audiences with Woody Guthrie tunes, strumming away on his guitar or ukulele. He and a buddy had a nightclub act full of songs and jokes. And he was a radio DJ on weekends, had a column in the local newspaper, and started the theater program at our high school. He was always in demand as a public speaker, sweetening his insightful remarks with hilarious one-liners. But mostly, he wanted to write “The Great American Novel.” Never did, though. He planned to in retirement, but unfortunately he already had stage four lung cancer when he retired. He died at sixty-six. I am sixty-one now, so I think about that a lot. Maybe that’s why I retired early, to try to beat the clock.
My English teachers heaped praise upon my writing, beginning in seventh grade, when my teacher exclaimed I was a budding Will Rogers. I had no idea who that was, but she thought an essay I wrote was particularly funny. In high school my creative writing teacher tried to get me to submit a story to a national competition, saying I was one of the few students he’d had who might have a chance to make it as a writer. And so forth. I always figured I would spend my twilight years punching out some stories. And here we are.
All this to say that my dad and I didn’t fight with light sabers. We penned missives. We saw politics and economics through the same lens, so we didn’t fight about such things. But over the course of our lives I think we both cared a lot about what the other one thought of us. So when we wrote to each other there was an undercurrent of urgency, maybe even desperate hope. Because we both felt we were poorly understood by other people, we found in each other a certain fraternal affinity. Nevertheless, we often disagreed about each other’s priorities in life. Most notably, when I was on the verge of entering into a hasty marriage with my high school sweetheart just shy of my twentieth birthday, he wrote me a twelve-page handwritten letter begging me to reconsider. I thought he didn’t know what he was talking about. Yes, he made excellent points, and the similarities with his ill-advised marriage to my mother were numerous, but I was offended that he thought I was as stupid as he was. I knew what I was doing! Three years later I stumbled upon that letter. The marriage had only lasted a year and was a total disaster, as he predicted. As I reread his words, only for the second time, I realized he knew of which he spoke. So, another eight months down the line, when I hit alcoholic bottom, perhaps I was more open to reaching out to him than I would have been. It saved my life.
The roles reversed a little towards the end of his life. He was going through some deep therapy and seemed to be flailing about, while my life had really come together after a decade of sobriety. So we wrote to each other frequently. He was grateful for my helpful insights. My next post will touch on some of what was going on, and what I think about it all now.
According to my research into my ancestry my grandfather appears with different last names on the 1920 and 1930 census. In one case he uses his mother’s maiden name. I suspect he alternated between them as necessary. He and his brother appear in the 1910 census together listed in an orphanage in Bangor, Maine. I’m not even sure if they had the same father. Rumor has it that their mother was an alcoholic who placed her boys in the orphanage when she couldn’t take care of them herself. I have the impression that her marriage was also on and off again. Norris was handsome, slight of build, with a swarthy complexion. It is possible there was some Portuguese in his ancestry, but not officially. I guess I am implying that my great grandmother was a “woman of ill repute.” It would fit. My apologies: I could also be completely wrong about this. However you cut it, life was difficult for young Norris.
I am told that he was charismatic and charming, good with the ladies, and addicted to gambling. He also had a volatile temper, especially when drinking. As I described in an earlier post, my grandmother never forgave him for his abandonment of her and their baby son. Throughout her life she showed many signs of severe trauma. She received shock treatments in the 1950s for her depression. Given the way both my dad and I took after him, not just in appearance, but in personality as well, she seemed leery of both of us at times. She seemed much more comfortable with her second son, my father’s half-brother. When she remarried, her husband adopted my father and we all have his last name. My biological grandfather, my father, and I all seem to have been cut from the same cloth, including the reaction to alcohol and the temper, but also the charm. One story about Norris that stuck with me is how one time when he was hungover he threw his entire breakfast, plate and all, against the wall. I know that my temper was a problem for my family when I was growing up, and I am sure my dad was no different.
The last thing I will say about Norris is how he came to play a direct role in my recovery. In the final two years of my drinking I lived in San Francisco. As I got closer and closer to the edge my life began to fall apart. Eventually I stopped communicating with my parents entirely. My world was getting darker. Shame and guilt grappled with rage and confusion as I thrashed about pursuing momentary urges, continuing my deliberate slide towards death. I had decided during my first year there that I would not overtly commit suicide, but I was convinced that I would die drunk before I was twenty-five and I didn’t mind the thought. I found out later that both my father and my mother, long divorced, had each lifted me up in prayer: she in her church prayer circle, he in his Al-Anon group. He had started attending Al-Anon because of me. They both came to accept that they were going to lose me to the disease. But just a few weeks before my recovery began, unbeknownst to me of course, in a state of desperation he began to pray to the spirit of Norris, the father he never had the chance to meet. He said something like, “Hey, we both have suffered from the affliction of alcoholism. You died young, but I was lucky enough to recover. Now my son is fighting the same battle and it looks like he’s not going to make it. Wherever you are now, is there any way you could maybe put in a good word, pull some strings, help him?” He persisted in this prayer daily for several weeks until, out of the blue, I called him one evening, reaching out for help. Now, is any of this real? Ancestor worship is one of the oldest human expressions of religion. Who knows? What I do know is that during those final weeks of my drinking there was a series of weird coincidences, spooky experiences, and seemingly miraculous encounters the accumulated effect of which led directly to the breakthrough that reversed the course of my life. I guess I choose to believe that grandpa was indeed able to pull a few strings and call in a few favors. Why not?
I am old enough now (sixty-one) to have lived through the end of innumerable worlds. We all do. It’s common. The end of childhood, for example. Divorce. Losing one’s parents. Any major life transition, frankly, is experienced as the end of one world, the beginning of a new one. Optimistically speaking, I am entering the final one third of my life. (I am not so optimistic as to believe I will live past ninety, but it is theoretically possible.) Having just recently retired from a fourteen year career as a licensed massage therapist, I feel the end of that world acutely. The new world in which I find myself is less structured, less complicated, and, I suppose, lonelier. But it feels good to have the newly expanded energetic space filled with people I truly love: my life partner, Sarah, her teenage daughter, and my two grown children (both around thirty.) And I finally have the time and freedom to write, which was always the plan for my final stage.
I have been thinking a lot lately about my father, who passed away in 1998. At sixty-six he was only five years older than I am now. We shared a love for the game of chess. He taught me to play as a child. He had a few books and was a decent player. In my teens I remember playing quite a few times with my best friend, Chuck, who was an avid member of our high school chess club. He frequently urged me to attend, but I was too busy with musical activities to ever try it. It wasn’t until my father purchased a chess computer in 1979 that I became truly fascinated with the game. I vividly remember visiting him over Christmas break during my first year of college. My brothers and I watched my dad play against his new contraption, and we took turns ourselves. I managed to beat it on my second or third try. I explained to my older brother the mistake I believed the computer had made. Puzzled, he mused, “Wow, but I thought computers don’t make mistakes.” It was the earliest stage of computer chess and the machines of those days were rather weak. I explained to him about the billions of possible positions that exist even a few moves ahead, and how the computer must examine as many of them as it can with limited processing capacity and memory storage, in a finite time. There is no way it can think of everything, so it was possible to beat it. That began for me an exploration of what makes a good player better than a weak player, an obsession that has stuck with me for over forty years. It was a subject I always enjoyed discussing with my dad. Even today, when I am playing or studying, I often imagine him at my side as we discuss the marvelous ideas that emerge from even the simplest positions.
My relationship with my father was quite problematic, actually. Until I got sober in 1985 we never really got along. We got on each other’s nerves, probably because I took after him in so many ways. Friends and family have often commented that he and I were so much alike, and I remember cringing every time he described me as “almost like a clone.” Because it wasn’t really true. I have just as much in common with my mother, but it is different things. I think those parts were invisible to him. He was a bit narcissistic, for one. And also he didn’t like thinking about my mother (they divorced when I was nine), so he wouldn’t be disposed toward seeing her in me. When my siblings, all of whom had major issues with my dad, say that I take after him it never feels like a compliment. I end up feeling a bit sheepish about it, and make an effort to show them that I am different.
When I needed to get sober I reached out to my dad, who at the time had twenty-one years of sobriety. All of a sudden he had a role to play, and he and I went to meetings together and had long discussions about the program of recovery. My world at that time was a terrifying place, and I could visit him as a refuge. It was good to finally experience something like a healthy father-son relationship. I remain grateful for all of that. I was thirteen years sober when he died, and was the only one of his six children to have anything like a positive relationship with him at that point. In my next post I will give more details, because what I am experiencing now reminds me of what his final years were like, even while utterly different.
Content Warning: frank discussion of alcoholism and recovery, with family details
I am third in a direct father-to-son line of alcoholics. Not people who “drank too much,” but alcoholics of the “hopeless variety” –those whom alcohol affected in a crazy way, who never took a “normal” drink in their lives. My father hit bottom when he was thirty-two, soon after the birth of his fifth child when I was two years old. I have no memories of his drinking, but I suppose my older siblings might. I do have many vivid memories of attending AA meetings with him from an early age. My dad never met his own father.
Grandpa Norris died when my father was ten days old. At that time they lived in East Los Angeles. While my grandmother was still recovering from childbirth my grandfather was partying in the little town of Mojave. This was 1932, before Las Vegas was a thing. I am told that in those days Mojave, about one hundred miles north of LA, was the place to go to play cards. Norris got lucky and won big. He was drunk when his car crashed, killing him and his passenger, who happened to be his brother’s wife. This is what I recall being told growing up. My father believed that his tires had been slit in revenge for winning at cards, but however you slice it, the circumstances of his death are compromising. My grandmother never forgave him.
My dad was a “periodic drunk,” which means he was mostly sober, but occasionally, perhaps every ninety days or so, he would go on a binge. During these binges he would lose all control, black out, and come-to after about three days. He told me the last time it happened he came out of a blackout while on the road to Susanville, where he and my mother lived some years before, many miles from the town of Woodland where we lived at the time. He had no idea what day it was or why on earth he would be making that drive. He pulled over, found a pay phone and called my mother. The last thing he remembered was partying on Friday night. It was now Monday, and the local high school had been calling the house to find out why he had not shown up to teach his classes. It was a very sobering situation. He sought out the local fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous and began his recovery. He had thirty-five years of sobriety when he passed away of lung cancer at the age of sixty-six.
Despite having grown up surrounded by sober alcoholics and receiving education and warnings about the danger of inheriting the malady, I developed a drinking problem of my own. It was apparent even at fourteen that I didn’t process alcohol in a normal way. I partied a lot in high school, and by the time I was nineteen I went to AA myself to get sober. I will be writing a lot about my experiences in future posts, but for now let’s just say that I was given an ultimatum by my then girlfriend and future ex-wife that I had to choose her or the “cult” of AA. I chose her and drank for another four years. Eventually I hit bottom at twenty-three and have been sober ever since.
kirkwise 