“There
is a lesson in everything we do, every day, as long as we’re paying attention
for it.”
I
nodded my head in affirmation upon hearing the words. It’s something I could
hear myself telling someone else. He repeated the words three more times during
the conversation for further emphasis. Five days later I finally understand
why.
Prayer and meditation have become
prominent aspects of my life in the past few weeks. I’ve never had a problem
praying, only admitting the fact that I do it, all the time. I would pray for
the pain to stop, for my life to be easier, for all the things that I thought I
deserved. But that’s all that I would do is pray.
I keep hearing the same idea:
prayer is asking a question, mediation is listening for the response to that
question. I’ve never been good at mediation. I would even go as far as to say
that I was afraid of meditation. During my meth-free summer of 2017 I went to Refuge
Recovery a couple of times, a non 12-step recover group with a heavy emphasis
on Buddhist teachings and meditation. It was incredibly difficult for me to sit
through the guided meditations. After about four minutes the only thing I could
focus on was my circulatory system and it was constantly crying out, “Feed me
meth!” Looking back on the experience I can see the problem wasn’t meditation
at all. It was the question I was asking. I lacked the skills and perspective
to recognize that my subconscious thinking was completely consumed by my urges
and while I meditated I was projecting, screaming even, “What do I want more
than anything?” Of course the answer was meth! It was the one thing that I knew
could alleviate the emotions I was unwilling or incapable of experiencing.
Just
yesterday I made a post on facebook saying, “I want someone who won’t get embarrassed
telling me all the things I do, or don’t do, that I need to change.” I am
convinced that there are countless things that I am either completely unaware
of that I am improve upon. In many ways I am just a giant eight year old.
Having spent the past twenty years consumed by my addiction I failed to learn
many of the basic lessons on how to take care of myself. I realize now that
it’s not that life was hiding these lessons from me. It tried to teach them to
me countless times but I was blinded by anger-masked shame I wasn’t allowing
myself to experience. Anytime someone would tell me exactly what I needed to
fix I would promptly acknowledge that yes I needed to fix it. Then I would bury
the lesson in substances, along with the undesired emotion, never to be
addressed or felt.
It’s
not that I need someone to tell me all the things I’m doing wrong. Deep down I
know what they are. Instead I need to unpack the badly weathered and
overstuffed trunk marked “DO NOT OPEN - EMOTIONALLY HAZARDOUS WASTE” and be willing to
actually listen to what those memories say. If I don’t it’s only going to keep
screaming, “feed me meth!”
This is
my 7th real attempt at getting clean. This time around things feel
different. Last night I decided to ask for help identifying the difference. Then
meditated on the answer, which that alone marks a huge difference from before. I
laid back, armed with a half smile and willing hands, and immediately knew the
difference. I don’t just want a life free of drugs anymore. I want a life where
I’m free to feel even when it’s unpleasant; a life that I can see my own
shortcoming and make the changes needed to move beyond them; a life where when
I listen I actually hear what’s being said; a life where I’m able to live up to
my potential instead of hiding in fear of it. I don’t just want to be clean
this time. I want to recover. I think that life is within my grasp, I just have
to remain willing to work for it.
--------------------------------------------------------
Little Saigon is
not generally a place where tall, bulbous white men find a way to fit in but
Chris seemed to find a way. He didn’t speak Vietnamese, or even have a
rudimentary understanding of the alphabet, but in every restaurant he walked
into he was greeted in the native tongue with a smile.
The only exception
to this was the infamous Saigon Deli. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Chris
specifically or because they were racist, which they very much were. The Deli
was one of the most popular lunch options in the area and often would have
people spilling out of both entrances. You didn’t just have to know what you
want before reaching the counter, but also how to order, or you’d be dismissed
by the staff and quickly shuffled back in the fray by someone more prepared.
Chris held one advantage here in that he was nearly six and half feet tall and
towered over most of the other patrons.
A woman near the
registered shouted an order for three sandwiches while thrusting a
shrink-wrapped package of spring rolls over to the clerk. The other clerk
scanned the crowd and briefly made eye contact with Chris who immediately
shouted out, “Four #3’s!” The clerk nodded and translated the order to the
women behind the sandwich counter. One of the most important things to know if
you actually want to be served at the Saigon Deli is that eye contact, no
matter how brief is the cue to order and if you don’t take the opportunity
you’ll end up leaving frustrated. Chris had been a regular customer for over
six years and not once has anyone every asked him what he’d like to eat.
He could have
easily walked the ten blocks back to the office, but there was a bus stop just
outside the deli that was served approximately every six minutes. He was also
concerned that even in such a short distance he would find himself dripping in
perspiration under the hot August sun. He had a tendency to sweat profusely
given even the slightest exertions. A byproduct of too many years behind a desk
and carrying an extra two hundred pounds on his frame. He’d all but lost his sense of smell in his
youth and was convinced that the smallest bead of his sweat could be
individually identified for up to two miles away. This was only partially true.
His body odor did have an undeniable signature that anyone who had met him in
person before could easily pick out of a crowd, however it was only noticeable
once he perspired through outer shirt. Unfortunately this was a regular
occurrence. No one ever mentioned it to him. Occasionally some lunatic come
truth teller he’d encounter while riding the bus would call attention to his
predicament. This usually resulted in a lot of words crunched together quickly
that Chris couldn’t understand, fast talking always confused him, and then the
other riders would be so embarrassed for him they’d play it off as
schizophrenic ramblings. This particular day he’d probably have been better off
walking though.
There was an
unusually large crowd gathered at the stop which meant there was a hold up
somewhere along the line. Chris slowed his pace, eventually stopping under the
shade of a small maple tree. As soon as his feet lost their inertia he was
approached by a woman. It was difficult to make out most of her features as she
was wearing an oversized parka, complete with fur trim that covered most of her
face. Her body trembled slightly as she asked Chris for the time, careful not
to raise her voice above a whisper while constantly looking in various
directions. She didn’t even leave him time to reach into his pocket for a timepiece
before letting out an exaggerated sigh that sounded distinctly like “shit” and
quickly turning away. There was a sound of foot steps rapidly approaching from
behind and much to Chris’ dismay this woman seemed to be trying to use him as a
shield from whatever may be approaching.
A man,
presumably in his late forties but who could have been as young as
twenty-eight, stopped a few feet shy of Chris. He was wearing a pin striped
suit with the shirt untucked and bore a healthy five o’clock shadow still early
in the afternoon. It was clear this man was well seasoned in these sort of
encounters as he began to assess the role that Chris may play in their upcoming
drama before making any rash decisions. His head tilted slightly in one
direction and then the next. He knew better than to potentially invoke the
wraith of a man so much larger than himself. After careful contemplation he
made his move. “Excuse me, sir,” he said politely with a desiccated rasp. “Do
you know this woman?”
“Know me? Of
course he knows me! He’s been looking out for me since our days back on Fourth
Street. Tell him, tell him about our times on Fourth Street.”
For the first
time Chris caught a glimpse of her eyes from beneath the winter hood. They were
hollow and bloodshot in a way that made him think of peeling scabs off his
shins as a child. Beneath their painful exterior he could faintly make out the
faded blue irises buried within. He knew that she was begging him, not only to
lie to this man but to save her life. Her’s was an expression of absolute fear
as she repeated, “Tell him. Tell him you know me.”
Chris looked
back at the man, who’s lips had started to curl into a sinister smile. The
hesitation said everything, The man knew that Chris was just some bystander
waiting for a bus that would gladly remove himself from the situation without
even having to be asked. He took in a deep breathe and seemed to inflate
himself to appear two sizes bigger as he moved around Chris. “I’m sorry that
she’s trying to bring you into this. I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
She cowered even
deeper into her coat, but made no attempt to run. The man continued talking in
such a way that you could easily discern the inflection but a volume that was
inaudible to anyone outside of the parka’s fur. As he began to shuffle her back
in the direction he originally came, she took one look back at Chris. She
didn’t blame him for not getting involved, this is exactly what would have
happened had he never been there at all. She honestly felt sorry for asking him
to lie and wanted desperately to apologize, but she didn’t know which words to
use and knew that any sound from her mouth would only be met with greater
punishment. Her only hope was to catch eyes with him again in hopes that she
could channel what little was left of her own humanity into a silent apology.
Chris’ attention was fixed intently on the
approaching bus.
Comments
Post a Comment