Originally posted April 29, 2008
When I decided to kick my drug habit in September 2007, I white-knuckled it for months before ever stepping foot in an NA meeting. It was a hard time, let me tell you. People walk out on you, disappoint you (though to be honest, I had disappointed many), turn away at your most critical time of need, and just fail to realize how hard it is for you. I spent many nights curled up in a ball, my dogs and the TV my only friends. It was while watching LOGO one evening that I happened upon an artist that, I feel, would change the course of my recovery quite dramatically. The video began with a dreamy vibrato and smooth chords, followed by the words that hit me like a ton of bricks:Free falling, oh now where do I beginFree falling till the birds begin to sing
Then I found you in a crowd of anguish
Standing on solid ground
So sure, like you're holding onto something
Like you've been in love with me for centuries
Singing hang around for me
You've got to hang around for meIf I'm gonna hang around for you
Who is this person? This Gregory Douglass? Immediately I turned to Google for the answer and discovered a prolific songwriter whose talent had been unknown to me, but who had been around the independent scene for a while. At 27, this guy was anything like I'd heard or experienced before. Checking myspace I found his profile there and quickly asked for his friendship. What began as a night of typical self-pity and rock-bottom behavior turned into complete adoration and respect for an artist who would continue to affect my recovery in ways he couldn't imagine.
I've tried to explain his musical style to many people but always come up short in my description. He's a little bit rock, a smidge of folksy, a tad angsty, but never angry. Think Tori Amos meets Jeff Buckley meets Radiohead and you can kinda figure it out. How is it, I wondered, that someone so young could have such complete and soulful understanding of love, pain, triumph, tragedy - in fact, the entire human condition - and not come across as preachy or naive or cliched? Whatever the circumstances that supplied his empathy with the world, I didn't care. It was only important for me to ingest more of what he had to offer so iTunes offered that avenue.
Knowing that Gregory played house concerts, and was to be in the southeast in April, I emailed him to see if he had any interest in playing a house concert in Little River, SC. To my amazement and giddy excitement, he said yes. The date was set and I was ecstatic. Not many people have the opportunity to experience a performance by someone they admire so much, yet it was to happen for me. In my own living room. To be shared with people that I love. An opportunity for me to share this fascinating man with others who knew my pain and anguish. Finally, a way to connect my recovery with those who couldn't quite grasp its destructive effect on my life, but in a way that was therapeutic and not graphic or morose.
On Sunday the 27th of April, Gregory arrived well ahead of the set performance time, giving me plenty of time to talk to him. I didn't have a need to see him as anything other than an artist and inspiration, so there was no probing and prodding to get to the underbelly of his life. We shared on a variety of topics and industry issues that were revealing as well as informative. We had dinner together and joked about pop-culture and his experiences with the culture of the places he traveled. He gave a performance to a small audience, much to my chagrin as I had wanted and expected more people to attend. But in the end the crowd was inconsequential to the desire I had to listen to a great songwriter perform his craft. Not only did I have Gregory in my presence, I was gifted with a performance that will forever be cemented in my mind. A connection that will forever live to inspire.
It's a lot, I know, to lay at his doorstep the immense praise that I give him. He didn't set out to change my world, or anyone else's for that matter, but he did supply me with the motivation and desire to continue on my path of recovery and listen to the music that life creates all around me. It was his performance of my favorite of his songs that I hold closest to my heart. In closing, I share those lyrics with you. Namaste, and be well.
Wait For Me - Gregory Douglass
i think the sun is coming out
what am i suppose to do with iti think the sun is coming outi've been hurt before buti never hang around to heal it
it's a long and lonely ride
don't give up on me already
lover wait for me
love wait for me love
lover wait for me
love wait for me love
baby you're just what dreams are made of
now i'm starting to believe you
now i'm slowly letting you in
you're the first to come that feels true
and i'm bound to see it through
baby i love the way you move
please understand what i am going throughbaby i'll meet you there real soon
'cause every moment comes right back to you
nothing can weigh me down for longi thought i'd changed my name but i was wrong
nothing can weigh me down for goodi'd let this go if only i could
Originally posted November 3, 2007
That which eludes me is gathering nearby
Its sonnet of spring, a radiant sky
Punching holes in the flesh
Feeding on life
Casting shadows in darkness
The starkness of strife
That which eludes me is twitching nearby
Its sonnet of summer, a blistering sky
Tearing holes in the fabric
Longing for air
A touch or feeling
Still nothing there
That which eludes me is dancing nearby
Its sonnet of autumn, a darkening sky
Chilling eyes turned to heaven
Gasping in tears
Seek not the salvation
It complicates fears
That which eludes me is speaking nearby
Its sonnet of winter, a crystalline sky
Come see the great fortune
A mystery found
Our lifetime amusement
This burial ground
Originally posted January 25, 2008
People who know me have always understood that I love to talk. Communicate. Lecture, even. To say that I'm passionate about certain ideas doesn't quite sum up my intense desire to connect with someone, anyone, on a social level. There is no "putting your finger on it" exactly, but this desire may have a lot to do with my addictive nature. A close friend told me, not too long ago, that I was overstimulated - that I needed constant feedback. This statement was made as she casually observed my hungrily devouring any news pieces and interesting headlines I could find on the internet. Could it be that I fear being alone? Do I seek this stimulation because I'm bored with my then current surroundings? Most of the downloaded tidbits have absolutely nothing to do with my life, have no bearing on my day-to-day existence, and offer no positive reinforcement for my psyche. It's all just useless information from which no meaningful purpose can be derived. I'm a walking, talking, super-computer full of "Trivial Pursuit" answers.
When I was in my darkest moments a few weeks back (yep, the holidays), I picked up a book titled "Amusing Ourselves to Death" by Neil Postman. The book is subtitled "Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business". Truly fascinating is its simple suggestion (one of many) that society cannot continue in its desired community state if we don't connect with the ideas and philosophies of our current surroundings. In other words, observe and understand that which affects your life locally, rather than drive yourself mad with things and circumstances over which you have no control. It hit me, as I was reading this book, that so much of what I discuss during a casual conversation is irrelevant to the receiver of my words. Never one to gorge myself at the popular culture trough, you'd rarely ever hear me discussing anything celebrity-driven. I honestly don't care what any screen or TV artist is doing or saying unless, of course, it happens to be some prolific songwriter whose words impact my life. TV is not my bag unless I require some creative stimulation from a cooking show or do-it-yourself program (and I do find David Bromstad to be just as visually stunning as his room designs).
The recent events that have shaken my foundation and changed my intentions have also forced me to learn to listen. Opinions are harder to grasp than simple statements of fact, and I should know better than to dismiss them. What another person may believe, or feel, or comprehend is not necessarily an affront to my understanding of the world, but rather a series of cognitive thoughts which I may build upon to create a stronger counter opinion or even redirect my own thought processes. Seems simple enough to comprehend, yet lends itself to the old adage "I know you are listening, but do you hear what I'm saying?". Ahhh....you want me to comprehend, huh? I get it. And, it's high time I did.
Someone I know through myspace has lately had their life upended and is experiencing a maelstrom of pain and loss. We didn't speak about it, rather, I observed this chaos through the exchange of emails and the reading of blogs. I suggested that they let go and let the emotions carry them where needed. Forget the advice of friends, for though earnest in the telling, that advice is always clouded with selfish desires to have you return to normal quickly. Unfortunately, loss is painful and heavy-handed and unfair and draining - so why should you bounce back without reacting with sadness and anger and resentment and passion? We must learn from our experiences in order to cope. I've learned that you don't need to speak to empathize. As I said to this person, the wonderful thing about our species is that we do not have to be close in proximity or nature to understand the things that cause us all to suffer in kind. We don't need to be tactile in order to share the emotion. This is why a song, a phrase, a book, a picture, a scent even, can deliver a powerful punch to our gut and make us think of things long lost or desired.
My suffering was long and painful, and my recovery full of compromises. But my life now is more fruitful and full of love. Simple gestures leave a lasting mark where words might be fleeting. Observation through silence has been more advantageous and comforting than imparting a thought or disseminating useless information. For now, I'll sit back and observe.
Originally posted January 19, 2008
Over the course of the past couple of months, many people have commented on my strength, perseverance, will to succeed and overall courage. Though I took such comments humbly, I was always left feeling as if I had some larger shoes to fill - that I was being lifted on a pedestal for others to scrutinize, study, deconstruct, etc. I was, and always will be, a fighter. But to think that others felt safe around me, were inspired by me, had faith in me, trusted me, learned from me - well, that just couldn't be, you know, me. You'd have to understand the context within which these comments were given, I suppose, in order to gain insight into my overwhelming desire to simply wipe away these characteristics of my psyche as too supernatural to assign to me. For you see, I was a drug addict. To them, anyway. In my understanding of things, I am and always will be an addict. Now, I am recovering.
Heroes were never my thing. They belonged in comic books and Saturday morning cartoon shows. They wore unitards, tights, flashy boots, had hot bodies, displayed feats of pure magic, and conquered the world. I never aspired to be like anyone and never modeled my life after anyone. Being a southern boy, born and bred, it was my nature to be charming, polite, moral and kind-hearted. Moving to Philadelphia 15 years ago did not really make me jaded - it only hardened me to the slings and arrows of life. I'd like to think that my successes could be attributed to my lingering southern charm and idealistic view of the world. But deep inside me, the pain was there. Being gay was a part of it. Being a loner was a part of it. The greatest pain though, in my view, was the constant craving of acceptance. I would do anything to fit in, within reason, until reason no longer defined my path and the pull of drugs took over. I was eventually speeding in that fast lane (oh, how cliche), always thinking that I was only coasting in the slow lane.
You don't need to watch but so many TV shows, hear so many sad songs, see so many dramatic movies, before you understand that art imitates life. The life of addiction will ride you hard, strip you of your asphalt, recycle your treads, and smear your ass all over the countryside until you are but a forgotten Route 66. There are no guardrails, no fellow drivers for hundreds of miles, and no rest stops where you may quench your thirst. Drugs will destroy your soul. The end.
When I decided to stop the madness that I'd been living in, I had the strength to call my own intervention. You don't just call up a couple of friends and discuss rehabilitation over cocktails and finger foods. You get down to the nitty-gritty and you cry, and scream, and beg, and plead, and apologize (oh my dear god, how you apologize) until every ounce of energy is unleashed in a flurry of emotions. You are stripped bare for the world to see until humility is all you can feel. And then, when it seems that all you can do is crawl from one minute to the next - and every hour seems like a day - you begin to grow. I liken it to becoming an infant again. You learn to build relationships from scratch. You learn that love really can be unconditional, and boy that is the best part of this recovery. Not only can I receive love, but it pours forth like the blood in my veins and reaches out to every suffering soul that I encounter. What a divine find.
So, back to heroes. I have them now. When I decided to ride along in the slow lane, I was able to take a different view and actually open my eyes to the people who have, either directly or indirectly, been responsible for my new life-lease. I've lost many friends, but I've gained a few dozen super-friends. I could name them all here, but they know who they are. I can't ever begin to repay them for their sacrifices and charity, but I can be the strong, persevering, successful and courageous man they knew me to be - and hope against all odds - that I will be again.
Namaste and blessed be.
Originally posted December 13, 2007
Never would I have imagined that I would wind up the broken shell of a man that I am now. Broken spirit. Broken dreams. Broken love. Shards of glass everywhere and not a clear place to step without damaging even more of my flawed existence. There is no path that I can see - one that leads away from this mess.
Everyone tells me I will get better. This will only make me stronger. I am a survivor. I am a leader. The places I can go are limitless. They don't know me.
I cry for what I had. It lives now in someone else's home. Their backyard. Their office. Their dreams. It hangs on their walls. What life did I create exactly? These past few months seem like years ago. It can't happen this way. Where are the fond memories and laughter and joy? Where are the friends that said they would be by my side? You don't know lost until you've been reduced to living from a suitcase. Searching for your toothpaste in a paper bag. Other trinkets stored away in an attic. Forgetting what you placed there.
Things will never be pieced together again. This is no puzzle. This is a starting over. I'm scared of what needs to be done. I lack the strength to do this properly. Friends and family will not like my decisions. Should I care? Isn't this about me and what I feel is important? I've lost enough already - there is nothing left to hang hope on.
Well, I wrote something a while back. Never published it. Only stored it away in an empty folder on my laptop. For the sake of beginning fresh again, I want to share it here:
The fog is lifting and I suddenly feel as if everything is returning to normal. For me, the past few months have been rather surreal. I found, saved, loved and lost a very intelligent and insightful man. I understate his qualities as it is difficult to vocalize or put into prose exactly what it was about him that caused my heart to pour forth every ounce of compassion I've ever produced. The emotions that I had the great pleasure to experience, and at times endure, will be forever stamped into my sub-conscience and hopefully aroused by another at some later point in my life. To say that is to say also that I don't know if I would ever want to replace those feelings.
I want him back.
Welcome to the open blog of SecondClassCitizen. This is my first crack at "real" blogging, as I've had my prose published on myspace for quite some time. The feedback I'd gotten there had pushed me to consider opening my writing up to a wider audience, and with a little inspiration from a certain bear, the moment presented itself.
For starters I'll post some of my older stuff so that you can get a better sense of what you're in for. You'll find mostly paragraph writing infused with pain, contempt, anger, joy, enlightenment and love. Many times my writing takes the form of stream-of-consciousness poetry. If I'm feeling so inclined, some of it may rhyme, but more often than not it just pours out of my stricken brain without much punctuation or reason.
I'm a recovering addict. If this is something you understand, or have experience with, you'll "get" me. Or even if you've been to your own personal hell (death, relationship end, known suicide, etc.) you may still come to appreciate what I have to say. Though I am more than willing to expose myself and all the gory details for you to consume, I will not, for purposes of adhering to the traditions of Narcotics Anonymous, discuss my personal relationships or experiences with other addicts.
Feedback is not important to me. If I am able to touch just one life, that is the best I can hope for. I will not treat this blog like an open forum, so suffice it say that any negative, creepy, trashy or down-right hateful comments will be dealt with accordingly.
Enough said. Enjoy.
