Happy Halloween, blog friends!
For the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to this zany holiday.
Something about being somebody I’m not for a day appeals to me. Maybe others can relate. I’m still learning to be happy with who I am.
I think that’s why Halloween is so popular: We can all dress up and act silly while we celebrate our differences.
“Candy bombed” by some awesome friends of the family.
A big part of recovery is learning to have sober fun, which I’ve never been great at doing. I did it tonight though, if only for a little bit.
The local CrossFit gym where I’m the newest newbie had a “Halloween WOD (Workout of the Day.” I almost did what I often do during sober social situations and punted. But I went for it on fourth and short anyway. And I had a great time with good friends. I even made some new ones who I will always remember by the super hero names instead of their real ones.
You followers who aren’t crazy in Alabama might have a more difficult time guessing my costume…so check out the photos and leave your reply!
My hope is those who are struggling who might read this will have fun on Halloween Day.
If it’s a full day, an evening or even a good hour, I hope you find a way to have some fun.
War Damn Halloween!
By Jack Smith
We huddled on a small hill at the highest point of an otherwise flat campus just after sundown, our eyes fixed on the sky. It was a crisp and clear autumn night.
A distinctive amber light, brighter and different than all the other stars, soon painted the sky above and behind us. And then it was gone.
It was the International Space Station hurdling across the big Texas sky at 17,500 miles per hour. Somehow, it appeared to be going no faster than the trains that rumble by near the campus of the clinic I called home for 21 days.
By Jack Smith
I remember loud music, empty bottles clanking together on the floorboard, the pungent smell of cheap liquor in the air and the putrid aroma of vomit on my shirt.
I remember urinating in a field, trying to keep my balance while looking up to a spinning night sky, wondering where in the hell I was.
I was 15 years old, I was drunk and I was about to get in a whole lot of trouble.
The older teenage boys I was out with that night turned me over to the custody of my big brother, who gently slapped me around for being so absurdly intoxicated at such a young age.
That’s about all I remember from my first drunk, because I blacked out that night. I nearly got away with it, but my mother’s suspicions sent her up the stairs and to my bedside, where I had no hope at all of convincing her I hadn’t had anything to drink.
While I can’t recall large chunks of time from that summer night, I remember being almost glad that I’d been caught.
That was the first sign that I might be an alcoholic. Unfortunately, a massive hangover and healthy dose of shame didn’t stop another 25-plus years of alcohol abuse and dependency. Continue reading