Wilingness "versus" willpower

AA and the blue-covered paperback book contrast willingness and willpower. And my cogitation, plus some relatively recent sobriety support experiences, say this is wrong.

They're complementary and intertwined.

Sobriety willingness gives the power for willpower that is sometimes all that is to avail when an addictive voice whispers temptations. Sobriety willingness provides the willpower to subsume those addictive voices, those addictive subselves, the "what I don't want to do" portion of Paul and Augustine's lament, the less desirable internal neighbors in Walt Whitman's multitudes or however one expresses that.

And, we do contain multitudes, or at least small neighborhoods; modern philosophy of mind and cognitive science talk about subselves.

So, that's why willingness and willpower intertwine. The willingness to give a sober self or subself more room in the neighborhood is part of what empowers it.

The sobriety support experience that stimulated my thought is that sometimes, what seems to be an abundance of willingness may hide a lack of unity of mind, or even, to get to the willpower issue, may hide a **desired** lack of unity of mind.

And, I've seen somewhat related issues outside the sobriety world.

Years ago, at my group of suburban Dallas weekly newspapers, we hired a person to be the news editor of one of them when we got an opening. Said person was making notes for himself all the time about being organized to do this or that ...

And, amidst all the notes and reminders to himself to get organized, never actually DID get organized.

And, I don't think was even fully conscious or cognizant of that.

I expect to write further on this in the future.

Taking another's inventory not just a 12-step thing

As a recovery blog, this is primarily about my recovery from both alcohol abuse and addiction, and sexual abuse.

But it's also, at times, about general issues in sobriety, including my observations in sobriety support.

I started in AA, before discovering secular sobriety and moving on to it. And, I heard the comments in AA warning about "taking another person's inventory." The old-timers didn't say don't do it, they just warned about it. It's like Jesus saying, "don't judge, lest you are judged in return," but he did not say never do it.

Anyway, it happens in secular sobriety, too. And it's insidious when an inventory is taken in private and another attitude is presented in public.

It's generally bad, outside of that, if the person taking the inventory isn't a sobriety rock themselves.

And, I think that's the main reason the warning arose in the AA version of the sobriety world.

Taking another's inventory is much more than the cheap "when you point at someone, you have three fingers pointing back."

The big issue is that for a person with relatively little sobriety time to take another's inventory, it usually involves not taking a good inventory of their own sobriety standing.

Anger: More displaced or more real?

I went to my city's library this Saturday. Got there at about 3:40 p.m. or so; it closes at 4.

I grabbed one book from the new nonfiction rack, then went into the stacks to browse for more.

I lost track of time a bit.

Then, the lights on the back wall go off. From my experience in a town about the same size where I lived before, I figure I've got 10 minutes.

So, I browse about 2 minutes more. Then more lights go off, as in about all of them.

I stride up to the counter with books in hand. One clock was at 4; the other a minute or two earlier.

All lights were out. Back office doors were being closed. I was told staff computers were already shut down and I couldn't check out the three books I had.

I basically said nothing, but they could see my look of disgust.

And I emailed library staff when I got home.

That said, had I not been engaged in some self-distracting behavior online, I would have gotten there earlier.

So, how much of my anger was displaced?

Some of it ... yes.

No more than 50 percent, though, if that. The poor customer service would have happened even had I gotten to the library when I did for other reasons, "good" reason.

In fact, I don't think more than 20 percent was displaced.

And, I need to make sure that I'm not 12-stepping or something to do an "inventory" that isn't true.

On the flip said, I think my expression was good. No yelling. Minimal comment in general. Setting the books on the counter firmly, even forcefully, without slamming them.

I give myself credit for that.

Nature and the Dao

There's an old, but non-cliched, saying among environmental lovers: "Nature bats last."

I tried recently applying that to Daoism. But ... no, doesn't work.

Makes it sound like the Dao is the other team. And it's not.

"Dao is the quarterback"? That's somewhat better, especially if one thinks of today's NFL, where the whole offense runs through the QB.

Still not quite right.

"The Dao is the dealer in a giant solitaire game"?

That's probably closer.

It's a metaphor I will work with more.

I'm stopping this post here for now.

====

Mom would have turned 90 today

My mom, as regular readers of this space may know, was a problematic part of my life.

By the time I was 12, if not earlier, I had come to the conclusion that she had some sort of mental health issues. In more adult times, I recognized this was neurosis level, not psychosis. But already by 12, I saw it as bad enough that I didn't want to have kids, lest I pass on some genetic bad seed. (I later doubled down on that for various reasons related to my mom and dad.)

Mom also engaged in what an adult group therapist called "covert sexual abuse." This was primarily done through her getting ready for work, when I was in puberty, with her bathroom door propped open and her partially nude.

Years earlier, when my older brothers were in puberty and before my parents divorced, she would have the bathroom door shut, but yet unlocked, while doing the same. And, they opened the door and pushed me in there more than once. (With 1.75 baths in a house of seven people, the bathrooms were in regular demand, and mom knew that, too, aside from my brothers doing this.)

I don't know what all was behind this on mom's part. But, as shown by the reactions of my brothers, it was a form of sexual abuse and it had its fallout.

Some of this may be related to her early adulthood.

My mom was a stewardess for TWA back in the 1950s, when they were called "stewardesses," hired specifically for their looks (and usually fired for the aging of their looks by their mid-30s) and TWA was one of America's top airlines.

So, she "had it," if you will.

My mom was a little more than a year older than my dad when they got married. And, at age 26, she was getting close to "old maid" age for the height of the Baby Boom. And, my dad had tried to break their engagement but, in those days when engagements were considered halfway tantamount to marriage, mom's parents raised holy hell and dad's parents said, tagging along, "man up."

So, had previous men seen something in mom's personality that dad was now catching? Dad had seen her as a "catch," physically in general, and perhaps to prove something about his level of manhood to his dad, and even more to some of his uncles.

So ... he bowed his head and moved forward.

(By marrying each other, their "bad seed" didn't spill off onto others. Instead, it — in both genetic and nurture forms — hit the five kids they had together.)

About the time of that covert sexual abuse, mom divorced dad, claiming he was trying to force all of us kids into religious careers. Given that this was after all my brothers had graduated high school, and that she never fought for primary physical custody of my sister and I, this didn't add up in reality. (As I later found out with a stolen college application, there WAS a fair amount of truth to dad doing this, but, still almost none as far as why mom divorced him.)

And so went the rest of my life's connection to her, really.

Dad's anger was at least something tangible. Mom often being an emotional and psychological vacuum was just that — a vacuum.

I'm reminded of the long-ago animal psychology experiments with monkey babies who could cling to a mother-like piece of cloth for nurture even if that meant undergoing deprivation of other physical needs.

If not outright emotional abuse, it was emotional neglect.

I think she bonded somewhat more to my sis as the only daughter. Sis certainly reached out to her. I'll venture there was, at least in early years, emotional bonding of some degree to my brothers. (That said, per mom's beauty focus, there was competition there, too.)

I never felt that.

One time, I felt actual help from her above the age of 8. One other time, she was in horror at physical abuse on my from dad.

Otherwise, she was a smotherer and an infantilizer of me the few other times she tried to do something that probably seemed like nurturing loving.

No wonder that I wanted to escape both parents, not just dad's anger, in hindsight, the one time I tried to run away as a kid.

Today? If mom had a living spirit, I would mutter "namaste" as a benediction and a call for it to get afterlife help, if needed, rather than an acknowledgment of divinity. I can't even do that.

I need to keep doing it for myself.

Goodbye, mom, and diminish, memories.

The Puppy, Part 2

The reference is to this previous poem about an incident in my life from the middle 1990s.

THE PUPPY, PART 2

I’m more of a man than you, dad.

I killed the puppy

When it returned

From wherever you took it,

Unlike you,

Who couldn’t do it

With the puppies in Flint

You couldn’t immediately get rid of.

I proved it

To my self

In my mind

I’m more of a man

Than you, dad.

I was sad

But controlled it.

No tears.

I was angry

It took too many shots

Before the puppy

Stopped moving

And was truly dead.

But in it all

I was more of a man

Than you, dad.

Even as

Your innuendoes

And your put-downs

About me

Being less of a man

Less sexual of a man

Rang in my brain.

Violence, not power

Is the ultimate aphrodisiac

In too many minds.

A dead puppy

Is now humus

Across a quarter-century

Of time and space.

And across that stretch

I have let go a little bit

Of the perceived need

To prove myself to you.

Dear Mr. Frederick

For a variety of reasons, including an adaptation of an idea from Bessel van der Kolk's trauma and counseling book, and what a hexagram in the I Ching "said," I decided to write a letter to one of my upper-grade homeroom elementary school teachers, once I found who I believe is the correct version of that person.

The letter follows below. After that comes some thought about the letter.

----

Dear Mr. Frederick
(I still can't call you Roscoe!)

I am not sure you even remember me … but you've been on my mind off and on for the past several months. I finally did enough Googling and found what I was told was your current address.

I was in Jefferson Elementary in the early and middle 1970s. You gave me A+ and even A++ grades on math quizzes, if I got all the extra credit stuff correct.

A short, skinny kid. Bullied a fair amount by others. Maybe you noticed some of those effects, even if  you knew nothing about the bullying itself.

I so fondly remember the post-lunch play and recess time, with you playing quarterback for two teams of kids.

It just felt at times like you were especially looking for me. Even if that's not true, it felt that way.

In hindsight, you were perhaps a small bit of a surrogate father, or at least a surrogate uncle whom, I wish today, could have been more of a surrogate father.

And, that's all part of why I remember it.

Per refreshing your memory, if you don't recall or know, my dad was the pastor at the Lutheran church. Unfortunately, life at home in general was not spiritually nurturing.

However — or maybe "because of" is a better reason — I tried to follow in my dad's footsteps, all the way through his divinity school, when I realized I just couldn't do that.

I eventually landed on my employment feet as a newspaper journalist. Especially in small towns, it's one of the few "professional" job options open without a degree specific to the employment, like you as a teacher.

Of course, I had no idea, 20-plus years ago, that the newspaper world would be where it's at today.

Anyway, those surrogate father thoughts have grown in the last year or two, as I feel more trapped in not just the field, but a particular newspaper job, and in Texas as well. It's America and I'm over 50.

At some point, something like the voice speaking to James Earl Jones in "Field of Dreams" led me to think, Why not find out where you live? And, when I did, then, Why not write?

As far as material benefits, I'm not expecting anything. (Not that I would say no if you had anything!  This is America.) Per "Field of Dreams," I don't know if you're in any sort of pain, anyway. But, I'm writing.

Maybe I'm trying to ease my pain. Or, per Proust, trying to reframe it through a Re-Remembrance of Things Past.

Anyway, even if you have no pain, I hope this helps with your own reflection on things past.

I've also included side-by-side pictures, a then (for your memory) and now. A couple of online and social support friends suggested that.

Anyway, I don't know what else to say at this time. I don't know where you went after Gallup.

My dad eventually wanted to finish a second masters, then a Ph.D. I moved with him to St. Louis after my parents divorced. I eventually landed in the newspaper business after realizing I couldn't be a minister, for reasons noted.

I have bounced around various places in Texas, and was also in Hobbs. I don't know if you were back in Carlsbad in the late 1990s or not.

It's a nice place. I'd been there once as a kid on vacation.

As an adult, I have done the Riverwalk and some of the newer-opened sections of the Caverns. But, I'm afraid I probably wouldn't like the amount of oil-related traffic in the area if I were there today.

Anyway, Mr. Frederick, I am at the address on envelope or on email at XXXXXX.

---

First, the sentiments are real. So is the fact that I cast a hexagram, and an "interior hexagram" off that helped prod me to write.

Second: Is it the right person?

I'm pretty sure. Through half a dozen different search tweaks, I found his wedding announcement in the Gallup paper the summer we moved there. I eventually figured out the "J" that MyLife listed as a middle initial was actually for "Jr." And, Mr. Frederick's dad had been a high school teacher and coach for decades in the town where this Roscoe Frederick is now retired. I thought he was about five years older, based on childhood memories, but he's old enough to fit the bill.

Third, the feelings post-letter?

First, I thought it was maybe a bit selfish. Then, I started having antsyness about him writing back.

Third, assuming this is the right person, right address and that he's not either on vacation or in a nursing home, by a full 10 days later, I found out he doesn't do email. And, apparently, unless he's in a nursing home or on vacation, doesn't want to talk.

Well, I made one other southwestern connection this past week. Whether that leads to short-, medium- or long-term benefit remains to be seen.

Me and Bob Conners

Note: Bob Conners was a college English and speech professor of mine. He had the outreach to students of "Just call me Bob," and occasionally dropping in on dorms to visit students there.

But ... he wasn't always perfect. And, beneath the surface, years later, I started wondering about his level of investment in some reach-outs, and also how much they were about the students, and how much they were about him.

BETWEEN ME AND BOB CONNERS

Bob, you told us all,

On that spring break road trip,

That in your family, growing up,

Nobody told anybody to “Shut up,”

Because it was considered an insult.

And then you told me to “Shut up,”

More than once, across hundreds of miles.

Did you have fun?

It may have been teasing,

But, decades later, across mnemonic reframing

I don’t recall you qualifying yourself that way.

Certainly, not regularly, and my emotional memory

Says it didn’t feel that way.

Rather, some part of me,

Inner child, inner teen, inner college student,

Says it felt like bullying, not teasing.

It felt like I was the class clown again,

But as the laughed-at, not the laugh-inducing,

As though I were on a negative pedestal

For everybody in dad’s Suburban.

No, it wasn’t all bad. And I don’t

Want to sound like a complainer.

But, to the degree I felt I was getting attention

It did feel like being a class clown at emotional gunpoint.

Later, when I for the first time was graced

By one of your legendary dorm visits

Yes, I appreciated it.

And, your insight of

“There’s no one here for you, Steve,”

Rang true.

But, per Deena

With hindsight,

It also rings vacuous, even if not hurtful.

Who was the “who” that should be for me?

What was your insight beyond your statement?

Did the same surface of openness,

Followed by depths of shields and distance,

Ultimately lead to your divorce?

Is it why Mike thought you a phony,

To read between his lines on campus?

In the short run, your comment

May have eased a small amount of pain,

And even tempted me to a bit of superiority.

In the long run, because the real truth is that

There was no one there for me at home,

It may have left me with more pain, for more years,

Than I wish I would have.

Namaste

For some reason

Just popped into my stream of consciousness

Even though there is no divinity there in that space between us.

Rather, it felt like

A Hindu “rest in peace,”

As the best I can offer your memory.

Nobody cares

I had a dream, during an afternoon nap, of being at a childhood lunch or dinner table. Pre-divorce, and mom and dad both seemed halfway engaged with me and reasonable attentive. I had emotional "pressure" building up inside myself, until it burst. I said "I want to quit," repeatedly, while crying dry tears at the same time. (I presume what that statement actually means is clear.) I'm not sure what led to that dream. I do have a friend, not too too much older, facing a cancer diagnosis that is serious but not necessarily terminal. That is surely one thing. Feeling isolated, even though I shrug it off at a conscious level, is surely another. Perhaps a "surface-level" Thanksgiving time at Jason's is another. If I remember the flip side of "nobody cares" is a solitude that nobody can take away from me, I should be better. Nonetheless, this was NOT a fun dream.

I didn't kill the puppy

Well, I did, but I didn't.

It was you, dad, inside my mind.

Urging me.

And so, I was stronger than you.

I didn't tell you.

You would have gotten insanely angry at me.

In part, because I had shown myself stronger than you,

And in part, because you knew that you had caused this, over years,

And over decades.

Go look, I say, to your non-existent soul

And what imprint its non-existent self

Still has in my mind.

Find the bones, and any fur, or meat, or bits of blood,

Still left beneath the grass.

You did it.