Coach update

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[Ello Sailor]

[spike]

What’s pink cloud?

[tommy]

"Pink Cloud Syndrome is a phrase that developed within the recovery community to describe someone who is new to recovery (often just out of withdrawal) and riding a wave of bliss. The person feels such confidence and excitement about their recovery that it borders on unrealistic"

[96583UP]

Good AA breaks you down to nothing then builds you back up again.

A good shit would accomplish the same thing and it's a lot less hassle

really terrible poop this morning

so forced

was like a brown pudding pop turtle that refused to emerge from his shell

late night red wine and pasta

appetizer sized salad could not match up against that volume of orecchiette

had to do salad again for lunch

pray for me

I'll take the Trag gauntlet.

fuck in a year of amazing, high fiber shits you go and cherry-pick the one recent night-after-red-wine-carby-dinner one that sucked and make it public outside of the sanctity of the poop thread

might have been the worst poop of the year

thanks obama

[Ello Sailor]

This is a catch-all thread for recovery. That includes your butt and all of its troubles, Numbers.

We're here for you.

[Coach]

No hostility on my end at all coach. I find there’s a few basic archetype personalities in AA:

-den mother/den father
-pink cloud
-drill sergeant
-dutiful foot soldier
-philosopher type who tried to work within the confines of the program
-dry drunk
-complete disaster in crisis mode

Internally im a pure philosopher type, but if dealing with incoming members I’m somewhere between a lightweight drill sergeant and dutiful foot soldier.

All good, my friend.

How did you deal with people not accepting your apology for fucked up shit you did when drunk?

This time around, unlike last time, more people are ghosting me and not accepting my apology and I am having trouble moving on because I feel bad. I know I need to forgive myself and move on but it's tough when a decent chunk of people have tossed me from their lives.

[Higgs]

Just deal with what you have control over Coach. You aren't responsible for others feelings about you.

Its hard if people are avoiding you when you are apologising but it's early days, words are cheap and time is long. And time really does heal all wounds (eventually). It also wounds all heals, but that's another story.

The ones that matter will come around, your job is just to stick at doing you though. Like I said earlier, keep on ritfw.

[Vitalogist]

Best of luck to you. Stay strong, and remember you can only control your own actions and reactions. Don’t get hung up on other people’s reactions.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[Coach]

Yeah thanks guys.

I’m postponing the amends for now. I def reached out too early to some but I’ll just have to let those go and stay silent for now.

[Higgs]

Keep your cloud grey and solid Coach. Time passes.

[Coach]

Oh yea my pink cloud didn’t last too long

[Strat]

I can speak for someone who has a dear friend dealing with major substance abuse (alcohol) and has been near death/in and out of rehab for a few years now.

I no longer accept him in my life because he has let me down too many times. I went out of my way to be there for him when he was ill and when he got out of rehab with a new set of eyes.

I had to uninvite him from my wedding and i will no longer spend time with him or respond to his messages (they come on rare occassions). Its not cause i dont love him, its because I love myself more.

He has let me down too many times and ive had to deal with him far too much over the years with his drinking and continued struggles.

I hope the best for him but i no longer care to watch him die and have to deal with that. I have detached in a healthy way.

Is there room in my life for him someday? Possibly. It would take quite a bit of time of sobriety and an acknowledgement of the shit he's put a lot of people through who care for him. How long of sobriety before i can trust him? Whos to say. 1 year? 2 years? dont know.

So, yea, an apology right out of rehab or even an acknowledgement that he needs to quit drinking, i dont even care to hear it anymore.

It takes time. Words can often times be hollow.

[96583UP]

This is a catch-all thread for recovery. That includes your butt and all of its troubles, Numbers.

We're here for you.

thank you

my poop this morning was good

i just had taco salad for lunch w lots of black beans and veggies, so I am optimistic about the future as well

thank you, for being there for me through this journey <braces for Trag lecture based on his personal walk with poop>

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[spike]

No hostility on my end at all coach. I find there’s a few basic archetype personalities in AA:

-den mother/den father
-pink cloud
-drill sergeant
-dutiful foot soldier
-philosopher type who tried to work within the confines of the program
-dry drunk
-complete disaster in crisis mode

Internally im a pure philosopher type, but if dealing with incoming members I’m somewhere between a lightweight drill sergeant and dutiful foot soldier.

All good, my friend.

How did you deal with people not accepting your apology for fucked up shit you did when drunk?

This time around, unlike last time, more people are ghosting me and not accepting my apology and I am having trouble moving on because I feel bad. I know I need to forgive myself and move on but it's tough when a decent chunk of people have tossed me from their lives.

Two things:

1. You’re apologizing too early, IMO. Amends don’t come until step 9, and you really have to get the scaffolding right to attempt meaningful amends. FWIW, I didn’t get there until about nine months of sobriety (I spent four months on step 4, with a list of people over 200 long…YMMV).

2. Higgs is right that your job is to just keep doing you. As far as the negative reactions you’re getting from some that you’re apologizing too, I’ll first refer you to #1…And then I’ll add that my hunch is that some of these people would be better served by a living amends rather than a direct amends. My experience was a bit different in that all my direct amends went down really smooth, but my worst transgressions were against women I had dated or slept with, and for each of them I just made a living amends because there was too much opportunity for collateral damage — to their families as well as my own — if I started calling up every girl I’d slept with and apologizing for things I did 15 years ago.

I can see you want to make things right with those you’ve harmed, but just follow the roadmap and you’ll get there.

Wait, people in recovery will seek out sexual partners from years ago to make amends?

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[spike]

So there are some sensible guidelines. What sort of parameters need to be met to justify making amends with old sexual partners? Like, a drunken one night stand shouldn’t be a enough of a qualifier.