Ante up . . .
I used to hear this at poker games.
This means the cards are on the table and it’s your turn to bet.
This means get ready to play the hand you have and be ready to gamble.
I say this here and now: Ante up.
But it’s not like you think. This isn’t a card game.
Not in the least –
Life is not this hard or a rigid line in the sand of either or, or ifs and buts. No, life moves. Life evolves. Life changes and here we are on a daily basis. Moving around on this big rock. As we move through the maze that we call life, and as we take in the news and information around us, as we adapt to what we see and adjust our sights to find what we hope for, there are different stages of learning and realization. There are times when we go back to the beginning and times when our beginnings overlap with new discoveries.
We are in a constant state of evolvement. So, one thing must be true.
We have to update our thinking. We have to remain teachable so that we can learn on a continuous basis because otherwise, the alternative becomes hard and rigid and inflexible to the life around us.
I think of the process of learning and the critical harshness that comes at us from within. I think about the steps we take to learn or to discover new items in our life.
I think about the internal critic which often prevents us from asking for help. But more, i think about how much easier it would be to learn or to adapt without the inflexibleness of ego-based concepts that keep us strict to our emotional-based failures or mistakes.
I think about the times we overestimate our failures and underestimate our ability to redeem ourselves or to re-adjust our efforts and our ability to recover or overcome.
We can learn. We absolutely can.
Our minds are an incredible machine, yet we forget to use them accordingly in the sense that we can’t remember the last compliment we heard about us, but damned if I’m not right, we can remember the last insult we received . . .
I think of the human mind and body and how infinitely incredible we are.
I think about how amazing we are, yet we fail to see ourselves this way.
I used to be part of a club which is not to say that my lifestyle has changed or that I’m no longer a member. But more, I have learned to live my life differently and in my abstinence from any recreational or mind-altering substances, I can say that I am part of a club that is based on a 12-step process. Oftentimes, at the beginning of these club meetings, people would count their days that celebrate their last taste moments with a substance or a chemical or a drink or so on.
They called this counting days . . . .
Obviously.
This is a humble thing to do.
To say, “Hi, my name is So-n-So” and I have one day or two days or ten days, twenty, thirty and then upwards and onwards until there’s a celebration of 90 days and then six months, or nine months. Then, of course, we have the anniversary of one year clean and sober.
I would love to tell you that systems like this are all-powerful enough that this works for everybody. But it doesn’t.
I would love to tell you that all who walk through the doors at clubs like this are able and free and that everyone “gets it.”
But they don’t.
No, in fairness to the truth and to the rebirth of our sanity, the truth is life is a struggle. This is true for all of us and not just the members of my club.
The truth is change of any kind, especially when we’re talking about our mental health and our sanity; and when we talk about fears and pain or worse, when we talk about the anticipation of withdrawal, or when we consider the hollow emptiness that comes with the absence of the one and only thing that makes sense to us (even if this doesn’t make sense to anyone else and even if this defies logic or sanity and even if these actions make no sense at all) it’s hard to let go of the one thing that makes sense to us.
I get that.
It’s hard to change direction. it’s hard to change habits when all you want is comfort; therefore, in the absence of comfort – to hell with it, might as well dabble in something that brings on a little comfort – at least for a little while.
It’s hard to change. It’s hard to let go of a life that we are pathologically attached to; and worse, it’s hard to let go of something that we are both emotionally and physically attached to.
Life is hard.
This has already been established.
We know this because we have encountered enough hardships in our life. We have all had our share of letdowns and disappointments. We have encountered enough grief and faced enough setbacks and backslid into bad or unfortunate positions.
We have gone through this more than once.
We have all heard the sayings about being our own worst enemy which, in part, is what we deal with.
There is what I call a self-destructive response disorder.
This is very real to me.
We are always responding to something. This is not about good or bad, pass or fail. But more, this is about our response to information and the entanglements of our ego which, let’s get this straight, ego is a bitch!
I have gone to these clubs, so-to-speak, and heard people count their days, which is great. This is indeed something to celebrate. I have also been there to hear people announce, “Hi, my name is So-n-So” and I have one day back or two days or three.
They change their date that defines their last “trip” with their habit or problem.
This means they relapsed or “went out” or used again.
I relapsed too.
I remember lying. I remember holding the lie inside because I knew the truth.
I knew what I did, but I wondered if I could play it off.
No one else had to know. No one else knew what went on.
I could just smile and play the role.
No?
What would anyone else know?
They weren’t there. So, why tell anyone?
But truth is also a bitch. The truth began to eat at me. I tried to smile. I tried to play this off. I tried to shake off the mistake and pretend as if I could live with the lie.
But I couldn’t.
I just couldn’t.
I had more than one year clean and sober. I was a kid.
That’s all. I was just a kid and the year was 1991.
I was scared. I was insecure.
I was afraid and intimidated.
I swore that I was nothing more than a diagnosis and a stigma.
I swore that I would only be successful if I learned to hustle or learn to create a scam or something like that because other than that, I swore that I was unteachable.
I swore this because this was all that I learned.
I swore that I was too stupid to learn how to work or how to survive and keep up, or how to excel and achieve a respectable level of success in an actual career.
I believed this; therefore, it was true.
Now what?
Now, I proved myself right.
I gave in to what I call my self-destructive response disorder and proved that I was the monster I was predicted to be.
I overestimated my failures and worse, I underestimated my ability to adapt, to recover and overcome a thought-bourn, social and emotional illness which is something that has swept around this world for longer than we realize.
I sat in one of the meetings at this club of mine.
I raised my hand at the beginning when they asked about newcomers to the group or if anyone is counting days.
I raised my hand. I remember the people who knew me. I remember the look on their faces. I remember how they clapped for me and at the same time, I remember their judgments and facial expressions, so tragic. I remember the discussions that took place behind my back, over what I did wrong or how I could have saved myself from this self-propelled destruction.
I agree . . .
I could have saved myself.
So, I chose to do just that.
I said Hi, my name is Ben and I’m an addict and alcoholic and I have one day back.
It’s funny though, how we judge people. It’s funny how these so-called rooms judge people on the span of their time between their last “trip” and their length of so-called sobriety.
The fact is, I didn’t lose my education.
I didn’t lose my understanding of recovery. I might have lost my way. I might have lost the time that I had before my relapse. But, I didn’t lose my knowledge.
I didn’t lose my understanding of the program or my understanding of self.
No, I lost to a thought-borne problem.
I lost to an infinite sadness and to an internal narrative and to a resentful string of thoughts, ideas and opinions.
I forgot to maintain this. I allowed the pressure to build up. I allowed the pressure to become otherwise insurmountable and when I couldn’t take it anymore – I blew up.
I exploded and nearly took the world with me.
That’s what happened.
In fact, that’s exactly what happened.
This took place far before my actions led me back to an item that nearly killed me. This took place weeks before or this could be months before.
This took place because emotionally, I was unsolved. I was unsettled.
I was undone and then unraveling, I unwrapped an old familiar solution, just so I could feel better, even if it made me feel worse.
I relapsed. I went back out.
Next thing I knew, I was driving through an old familiar part of Brooklyn, New York.
I was in a van full of equipment with a nickel-plated .357 beneath my car seat and worse, I was fit to make another mistake even worse than what I had already done.
Fortunately, the night only turned out to be moderately tragic instead of altogether catastrophic. Events changed which saved a life, including my own.
I say this to you now, almost in disbelief that this was me. Or to say that this could’ve been me is crazy too because one time; this was me but not now. Not anymore.
No, 32 years later, I don’t recognize or relate to that person at all.
Yes, hi. My name is Ben Kimmel.
I am a person in long term recovery. I am a person who has survived multiple suicide attempts of both the literal and superficial kind. I have survived myself. I have adapted and improved. In fact, I have surpassed any of the predictions that we made for me. Instead, I decided to change this and predict a future of my own.
I live with scars and features that no one can see or tell about.
I have memories of faces and things that I’ve seen.
I have committed terrible acts, yet throughout my tenure in this thing I call recovery; I have done my best to replenish and to replace the divots I’ve left on this Earth. And more, I have done what I can to replace the scars in the hearts of those who I have hurt or offended.
But so what?
My active life in that capacity is limited to a small number of years which, by now, one could argue that I have repaid my fair share, if not more.
At minimum; I’ve repaid enough to say that I am even with the house again.
So, my credit should be good now, right?
Safe to say that it’s fair for me to ante up now.
Right?
Absolutely.
I do not allow myself to have discussions about my past debts because, to me, since my recovery is unending then so is my reason to give back. So is my reason to help, to support, to care, or to return the undeserved kindness that was given to me back when I needed it the most.
I would like to share this with you for the specific reason that in this thread of information, I can extract the DNA of my so-called failures and the so-called self-destructive responses. But also, i can extract the primary ingredients to my personal success.
Sure, one could argue that if something degrades us so much, then why would we do anything like that at all?
If drinking makes us sick, then why do people drink to the point where they throw up?
If drugs or drinking make us worse, then why do we do this at all?
Yet, look at the news and the statistics – Everyone knows someone with a habit or a problem.
Don’t we?
Of course, the answer as to why we do certain behaviors defies logic and, simply put, although brief, the moment of euphoria is an answer that honors a discomfort or a thought, a feeling or an emotion.
Also, the sting of punishment is a fashion of self-harm. Plus, this makes sense to us – even if this doesn’t add up or make sense to anyone else – we know why we do what we do.
I punished myself. I pleasured myself.
I punished myself. I pleasured myself.
That was the rut.
The emotional harm and the emotional mutations that took place are exactly what geared me back to an old and unsuccessful answer. I say unsuccessful but still, an answer is an answer, especially when all seems hopeless.
Hey, when you feel badly or sad or when your depression is mounting like an angry shadow behind you, and when insecurity takes hold, or when the voice in your head puts you down all the time and there seems to be no other way, a moment of relief is still a moment of relief.
Sobeit.
Now –
Imagine how easy change would be without an emotional input.
Think about weight loss. Think about the beginning of this change and the intimidation of the scale. Think about the absence of the go-to comfort foods which we loved and now, there’s no more cakes or treats and there’s no more bread and gravies and there’s no more sugary substances which we loved because the smells and the flavor alone was enough to lift our attention away from the life at-hand.
Sure . . .
this was great until we found ourselves on the couch, shamefully full and almost narcotized in a food coma.
Imagine this, too much food or too much of anything. Then think about the way we feel, or how we feel worse which, in all fairness to logic, we would learn our lessons here and now.
But now, we pony up, once more.
We ante up and go back for more because at least there was some relief.
Now, imagine if there were no emotional ties to the items of food. Imagine if there was no emotion at all. But instead, there was only our G.P.S. which is our Goals, Plans and the Strategies we use to achieve them. This is our new G.P.S. which is our personal navigational tool.
Imagine the great separation between “feeling” and facts and how just a question, but how simple would life be if we allowed ourselves to move strategically instead of in fear or worry that something can or will be wrong.
The thing that kept me sick was the emotion and the shame of my personal secrets. Also, the internal dialogue. This literally almost killed me.
This ate me up inside. In fact, this ate me up alive and to a point where I eventually found myself in a treatment center, riddled with shame and regret. Once more, the five fingers of rejective thinking which are blame, shame, guilt, fault and regret were closed up in a fist, which is the same fist that I used to beat myself up with.
Imagine change without these thoughts.
I certainly do now because had it not been for a miraculous change of events, I would have succeeded in a life-ending event. Essentially, I would have succeeded at one of my greatest failures, which was the last time I tried to commit suicide.
Now –
I understand this example is intense. I understand this might be extreme for some people. I understand that not everyone has this struggle. But I also understand that depression does not care about race, status, wealth, religion, background, culture or sexual orientation.
I understand that emotional thinking leads to emotional results. I understand that without personal understanding and without the benefit of a healthy mental fitness and emotional intelligence, we are limited to the ceilings in our mind.
But me . . .
I want more.
If it were true that I was nothing more than who I was and if it were true that a leopard can’t change its spots and if it were true that once a junkie, always a junkie, or once a drunk, always a drunk, then by any means, if any of this were true, then statistically, I would be dead.
But I’m not dead.
Not even a little.
If it were true that education and diplomas make the world go round, then what would this say about the self-made geniuses who built empires?
What does this say about people who lived and worked and built and created a life for their family?
I had to stop allowing any of this to define me.
Rather than give in to the definitions and the social-constructs of success or happiness and rather than build my life from the platforms of social and popular blueprints of what we are told life is “supposed” to be like; and lastly, rather than build from emotional plans, I had to redefine my bets so that yes, i could ante up once more and play the hand that I’ve been dealt.
So, question . . .
What would our life and changes look like if there were no such thing as the five fingers of rejection? What would our rebirth of sanity look like if there were no thoughts or influences that degrade our sanity?
What if we set aside our thinking for a minute?
What if we allowed ourselves the freedom to make mistakes and rather than believe that our mistakes make us?
What if we allowed ourselves the pardon to learn from these errors?
What if we gave ourselves a break?
(So we can improve)
It is our thought-borne illnesses that keep us sick. It is our bouts with the five fingers of rejective thinking. It is true what they say: you can’t save your ass and your face at the same time. You’ll have to choose one.
Saving face might be quicker and temporarily, you might get away without dealing with too much pushback or shame. But, to what avail?
Saving your ass might hurt more and this might be humbling, which it is (and was in my case a bitch for sure) but the effects are long-lasting and more substantial.
No one wants to feel pain. No one wants to feel withdrawal and so, in anticipation, we buy time and procrastinate.
“I’ll start tomorrow,” but far too often tomorrow never comes
But that’s what we have today for.
Right?
We have today:
To put the ego aside
To give ourselves a break
To make the change
To take the steps, to adjust, to amend our past
And, from this day forward, to have the life we truly want for ourselves.
No questions asked.
The hardest thing to get out of is our own way.
But once we do –
The change is incredible.
So, ante up kid
Trust me –
The suspense at the table is amazing!
The Written Addiction 