Ain’t nuttin' but a C thang baby...

It’s like this and like that and like this and uh…

1,2,3, and then the 4. Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre were talking about a certain form of connection when they were singing about their G-shit—gettin’ their drank on and smokin’ the chronic. It ain’t the same kind of connection that I’ll unpack in today’s offering—but getting fucked up together with my homies served me for a long time. I thought I was connecting. I was—in a way.

I can trace the source of my alcoholism to a teenage moment. The day, month, and year is vague, but I’ll never forget who I was with—and where I was. The feeling of it. I can track the many years of fun, camaraderie, and bonding that my partying brought me.

I can likewise trace the source of my sobriety back to a single minute of a single day. I can also track the uncertainty, the soul-searching, and the hard work that has led to 14+ years clean and sober. And it is better for me now.

What I want to dig up and drill into a bit today is the source of my ongoing recovery—the links—the anchors—the vaccine. It’s called connection. And it’s vastly different than the connection I thought I had in my partying days.

We’ve discussed the progressive nature of both addiction and recovery in previous essays—particularly this one.

There’s a lot of talk out there about finding your community—your tribe. When you find your tribe you can better define yourself. That’s well and good but is it always healthy? Nope. Think about it. Homeless people have some form of community. Angry and violent political activists have a tribe. Fraternities have a brotherhood. Those hooded fuckers in the Klu Klux Klan—they had a community. Terrorists have a shared community. Identity politics has made aligning with a tribe sometimes very toxic. So yeah—there’s community—but healthy wouldn’t be an adjective I’d use to describe many of those tribes.

Yes—addicts and alcoholics in the grip of their all-consuming shit—have a community. There were times in my life when I wanted nothing more than a dark corner bar full of other drunks pouring our cope down our throats or our dope up our noses.

I knew their names. They were Buddy. Mac. Hey. Yo. Dude. I didn’t know and didn’t care if they were doctors, lawyers, mothers, fathers, cops, or writers. I only cared that they were warm bodies sharing a dark space anonymously with me—helping me feel less alone in my pursuit of feeling nothing.

When you feel my heat, look into my eyes
It's where my demons hide
It's where my demons hide
Don't get too close, it's dark inside
It's where my demons hide
It's where my demons hide

Imagine Dragons “Demons”

For many years my drinking and using was done in a celebratory manner. There once was a high. There were high-fives and toasts and buying friends drinks. There was day drinking under an umbrella on a sunny day outside. There were ballgames and golf courses and office parties and fabulous restaurants and sommeliers and wine crushes and scotch flights and first-class flights and hotels and resorts. At some point in the stages of my progression those times became the prelude. The real work was done at home—alone—in private—after the prelude and the lies told to escape the prelude and rush home to the real thang. Two’s my limit. I gotta go—early meeting tomorrow. It was then that any connectivity to anyone or anything else began to die.

From the big book of AA:

FOR MOST normal folks, drinking means conviviality, companionship and colorful imagination. It means release from care, boredom and worry. It is joyous intimacy with friends and a feeling that life is good. But not so with us in those last days of heavy drinking. The old pleasures were gone. They were but memories. Never could we recapture the great moments of the past. There was an insistent yearning to enjoy life as we once did and a heartbreaking obsession that some new miracle of control would enable us to do it. There was always one more attempt-and one more failure.

The less people tolerated us, the more we withdrew from society, from life itself. As we became subjects of King Alcohol, shivering denizens of his mad realm, the chilling vapor that is loneliness settled down. It thickened, ever becoming blacker. Some of us sought out sordid places, hoping to find understanding companionship and approval. Momentarily we did-then would come oblivion and the awful awakening to face the hideous Four Horsemen-Terror, Bewilderment, Frustration, Despair.

Connection is the antidote to isolation. Isolation is the fundamental aspect of addiction that is often discussed but also often overlooked. Late stage addiction is about isolation. Even so-called functioning alcoholics or addicts eventually find that alone-place the most useful—and the most devastating. Those of us who have struggled in the past—or are struggling now—experience isolation in the middle of a crowded room. We are isolated from everyone else by our thoughts and our fears. We are locked inside our heads. Specifically, we are trapped by our amygdala—by our animal responses—our needs. When the alone comes there is nothing else but need. And fear. Alone. In our heads—trapped. Thinking we can maintain it—thinking its sustainable if I can just…

Connection in sobriety is different. I can hear you saying thank you Captain Obvious. But for us—for me—during that other time—it wasn’t obvious. It was far away and uncertain.

Buddy, Mac, Hey, Yo, and Dude have drifted far away with the wind. I see them periodically when I drive down a sunlight street and see them entering a dark neon-lit doorway at 2 pm.

You—my friends and readers—are part of my real connection. My sober community is part of it. The community of Wimberley, Texas is part of it. My Subtack writer community is part of it. My relationships with my family and my friends are the root of it. The hundreds of volunteers, colleagues, and supporters of the non-profit, low-power FM radio station that I host a weekly show for and serve on the Board of—is a part of it.

I think back to the 7 AM daily meeting at York Street meeting house in Denver. I went damn near every single day for 7 years until I moved to Texas. The friends I made in that room full of pain, joy, reality, and laughter is something I think about every day. I could call on any of them to this day if the need arises.

I revel in the day I met John Brown (rest in peace dear friend) in our iconic Wimberley Cafe—a classic small town Texas eatery—to discuss becoming a part of the soon-to-be-launched community radio station in June of 2016. Every single relationship I now have in this town—and I have many of them—grew from that one connection made that day.

I marvel at the many national connections I’ve made in the common purpose of long-term recovery as a member of Hazelden Betty Ford’s alumni and Philanthropy Council.

My heart swells when I think of the true friends—and of course my family members—who patiently—or not in some cases—stayed with me through my years of lying and hiding to see me emerge out the other side to becoming a fully engaged participant in our relationships.

I feel the powerful, sensual, and beautiful woman who agreed to marry me back on December 16th despite who I was—and because of who I am.

I know you. I engage with you. I tell you the truth. I share your hurt and your joy. I feel your striving and your pain. I give and I get real stuff. That is the muthafuckin’ C thang baby. I will never be alone.