My First Crack at a Jack Kerouac Impersonation

            What is sobriety? Sweet, I just started this piece of literature (if you want to call it that) with a question, one of the most mundane and boring ways to start any form of writing. We teach it as a hook to get the reader’s attention, but really, how much does a simple question such as; “What is sobriety?” hook the reader? Are you hooked? Do you want to keep reading or are you already bored and want to switch on reruns of Alf on the Hub network? Now, I could have extended that question to; “Is sobriety a form of physically and mentally functioning without the aid of alcohol, drugs, or any other substance that creates a sense of pleasure or out of body experience?” How about a thesis to answer that question! Yowsa! I probably could have started this writing off much better such as utilizing an anecdote that is colorfully illustrated or straight to the point. I could have just started with my thesis and delved right in to what I really want to say. Let’s start over, that is if you still are reading.

            Late February of 2005 was a chilly, sobering, and eventful period of time. I was evicted from my efficiency apartment in Sioux Falls, SD and sleeping in the back of a red Ford Explorer at the rugby pitches along Highway 50 in Vermillion, SD. I chose to partake in the transient/hobo experience because I had to wait a week to move in with my new roommate in the apartments across from the Coyote Student Center. Now, if I would have known that I would spend three and a half months attempting to fall asleep to the sounds of his girlfriend’s obnoxiously loud screams of fake orgasm as he drilled her for oil, I would have performed a manhunt for a roommate who was single, but I digress.

            Aside from the cold nights in the back of the exploder, damn if only that thing retained the heat of an explosion at night, life was not too shabby. It had been almost seven months since I last had a drink, bump, or hit. My eyes were open as wide as a newborn on day number two after escaping the womb. I felt a sense of urgency and excitement that permeated in every nervous conversation I participated in with whatever individual chose to speak to me. At night’s as a carder at the Main Street Pub I would get asked, “Why did you stop drinking?” or “How can you work in the bar and stay sober?” The replies those poor, inebriated souls received were generic and generally revolved around the fact I was too crazy or it was just time to stop. I never expunged why I quit drinking, or how I can work in the bar and stay sober. My extremely close friends knew, my future wife knew once we started hanging out that spring, and that was about it. Why did I sober up? What was the point of it? Aside from speeding up the process of dying, why do it? Oh, one more digression, the drunken jock, meth-head, shit-faced soho who gained sixty-five pounds since turning twenty-one would bawl to me about how he/she/it needed to quit drinking and was wondering if I would help. This generally happened ten to fifteen minutes after twofers ended. What a Foxtrot Charlie that turned out to be! Now, back to the spewing of words that hopefully create some form of majestic message that can give a new meaning to why I exist or will eventually save a person, or that will simply entertain the poor individual that decided to spend forty-five minutes to read about the hydrogen bomb mushroom clouding in my mind. If you do not understand this metaphor, I am truly sorry and you need to go back to sixth grade English class and study metaphors all over again. Yikes!

            Let’s go back to the very first question that started this drivel, what is sobriety? I ask that question every morning when I wake up. Is it just not having a substance of some sort to get through the day? Is it dealing with whatever issues that re-side in one’s mind? Is it telling yourself you can do it? What the hell is it? Is it attending AA meetings and whining about how awful your day was and that you wish you were normal and could have a drink like a sane person? Is it dealing with the fact you are completely insane and are one stubbed toe away from a wrist slitting campaign? Is it a twitching foot to keep from running to the liquor store, alley, shady apartment on Elm Street, or dilapidated farmhouse? How do you know? The answers to all of these questions are yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Quick Disclaimer: what you are about to read may hurt your feelings, make you cry, make you think differently of the author, will contain disturbing images of your friend, brother, uncle, nephew, husband, son, teacher, or any other way you would describe the role of this author in your life, proceed if you have the intestinal fortitude but be wary, and I apologize for the vulgar language in advance.

            I am a bastard, alcoholic, addict, stud, leader, athlete, fuck up, loser, geek, dweeb, hopeless, helpless, hopeful, genius, ass kicker, ass kickee, asshole, softy, piece of shit, best dude ever, sweetheart, lover, Star Wars nerd, animal, somebody who needs to be loved, a king, a peon, dedicated, regretful, and strong man. Every single second, minute, hour, day I am awake, I go over each of these identifiers. I explain to myself how I am each of those, how I can overcome the pain that some create and how I can utilize the joyous/positive ones to strengthen my being, strengthen my manhood, strengthen my abilities to care for others, strengthen my ability to care for my beautiful wife, my two awesome sons, and all who else may come into contact with me. I rely on this strength to make it through each and every day. I am strong! How strong am I? The shit I have been through mentally and physically, going to the depths of hell as a child, teenager, young man, and adult and then coming back to provide for my family, take care of my young ones, give love to all who need it, and conquer the evil demons that permeate through my freaking mind on a regular basis are just the starting point of my freakish strength. I am just discovering how to tap this strength to help or care for those who need it. I am tapping into this strength to hopefully discover some form of inner peace. Right now, at this writing, I am a few years away from reaching that point. There is a riot of emotions, descriptions, and thoughts bum rushing my heart and mind.

            I am a bastard. I do not care what people attempt to say. I hate that fucking word more than I hate Hitler, Saddam Hussein, Stalin, Satin, rapists, chomos, and murderers combined. From day one I was told how I was different from everybody. It started off that I was special because my mother loved me so much that she gave me to a family who could take care of me. It evolved into being a bastard that was not a real son, a real brother, an outcast who could be taken back anytime I misbehaved. Mistakes that were made in later high school years and in college would never have been done “by any son of mine”. “You’re not my real brother, you know that don’t you? Just think, Mom and Dad can take you back anytime.” These words are packed with more force than the United States military and cut into your chest with a dull spoon. Bastard, BAstard, BASTARD! Ugh! If I ever hear somebody call another person a bastard in my presence it will be a right hook to their jaw!

            There is a part of me that has embraced this bastardhood. I was in limbo for a good decade and a half, especially after meeting my biological parents. Was I a Messmer, a Jones, a Novak, a Santori, a Martin, a Marks, a Somadossi? Who or what was I? One side tugged here, another tugged there. I felt torn, I wanted to treat my bio mom like an aunt or a friend in order to not step on my adopted mom’s toes, to show her respect. The same went for my two dads (what a bad 80’s show that was). I could not do that. Satan had a massive grip on me. I did not know who to be and the selfish me told me that I was not a part of any of these families. I am me, I am alone, I am a bastard. Part of that was freaking self-pity, but the other part was truly confusion. I honestly did not know. For six years I wished to die, that is how messed up my mind was from this. I did not have one clear explanation about who I was, there was no respect for me or my feelings from either side. I had selfishness from all three parties; bio parents, adopted parents, and me. What a conundrum I faced. Yeah, I drank and drugged so I would not have to think about any of this. Instead of figuring it out, getting help, talking with all parties involved, I flushed the end of my teens and the first half of my twenties down the toilet. Those seven years just floated and swirled on by. Confusion was at the epicenter of the Sparky toilet bowl. And in case you did not know, I am an unbelievable actor. I can act soooooo happy, which is what I did all throughout those seven years. I didn’t start drinking till I was twenty (what a funny story that is), but I gave up on my and where I belong in the later part of my eighteenth year of life. Train wreck. So I drank, drugged, and slept through my life. I had potential, at least I reminisce that I had potential. Hopefully I did. But I pissed that away at that time. Well, maybe it was more like I dumped it down the crapper.  Like I said, I should have reached out, attempted to find help instead of try to ruin myself but I didn’t.

            I eventually hit rock bottom. I was broke, drunk, and had a girlfriend who totally sucked ass. Seriously, she was evil, wicked, and one hell of a snob. She sucked! I hated my life, all aspects of it. So, I ended up hanging out in the hospital for a few days. C’mon, what do you expect to happen after a case of Budweiser, a 1.75 of cheap scotch, and a quarter of a bottle of Sapphire. To think that I was shocked I ended up in the hospital after that episode seems absurd. After all, I once guzzled down thirteen car bombs as I drank gin and tonics one night at Carey’s and came out having only a nasty hangover. I gulped down some charcoal, ate some pudding and Jello, and evacuated my insides every couple of minutes. Come to think of it, I had a colonoscopy a few years ago and I am still one clean dude! The nurse, I feel bad that I cannot remember this person’s name or whether or not the nurse was a male or female, recommended I go to the Keystone treatment facility and seek out help because I had an obvious problem. Damn, it was obvious. I remember thinking that because I thought I concealed it quite well.

            I am discharged and the following day I go to Keystone and take a survey. I wish they would have given me a copy so that I can see my results and answers today. I am fairly certain I lied on a few of the questions because I was in denial, face it, we all are. I then meet with a man who was a recovering alcoholic. I do not remember how long he was sober for at the time, but I remember it was a long time. He and I had an incredibly long discussion, as in an afternoon long. He asked me questions and told me about his life and his life mission. He recommended that I seek outpatient treatment so that I could work at my spectacular job of building windows in a factory.  I figured what the hell? I might as well go but had not fully bought in to the program that afternoon. I went to the first treatment session that evening. It was a Monday. I walk in this room, everybody is my age or relatively close to my age. I am twenty-five and still a punk douche. I was scared out of my gourd after the first person spoke. He was a former meth dealer/user who had just spent the past few years in a federal penitentiary for distributing meth and had to go through the treatment program as part of his release. He was serious about it. He wanted to be clean. This man opened up and shared some pretty disturbing secrets about his childhood. My jaw was unhinged, my tongue rolled onto the floor, and a waterfall of drool streamed to the floor. Here I am, a complete stranger sitting next to this man looking at me and telling the entire group of people, thirty of us, details that seared into the brain the way a branding iron sears the logo of the rancher onto the cow’s ass.

            Then comes my turn to speak, yeah, I got to go second on my first night in treatment. I utter the words softly, “Hi, I’m Mark, I am an alcoholic/addict.” I sat in astonishment for the duration of a millennium. Actually it was thirty seconds but felt like ages. I had to grasp myself. I was not going to cry. I promised myself that nobody will ever make me cry again, including myself. After the thought of not crying passed over me, I took in the fact that I indeed was a complete and total user, abuser, fuck up. I proceeded to tell how I got into the treatment program because I did not know what to say. Next thing I know, twenty-nine other people are walking over to me and hugging me! It was bazaar and I got extremely nervous. Not because I did anything wrong, but because I was getting hugged. For those who do not know me as well, hugs freak me out. I can do it with my wife and other family members. I make myself do it with my friends because they are huggers. Body contact freaks me out a bit for some strange reason. I felt good, I felt good that I was finally not alone, that there were freaks out there like me. I attended outpatient treatment at the Keystone facility every Monday through Thursday from August 3^rd through October 18^thish. Wow, thinking about that time, it’s amazing. The feelings I still get, I shudder as I type this. A tsunami of emotion overcomes me, no I am not crying. I was so lost, misguided, and destroyed at that time. My foundation as a human being was rebuilt through this sublime program. I will forever be grateful for the patients and staff of the Keystone treatment facility.

            Every August 3^rd I celebrate my sober birthday. My last drinks and usage were on July 31^st, but my true sobriety began on August 3^rd. That is when I realized how powerful of a disease I was fighting. I was consumed and defined by that dreadful disease and will be for the entirety of my life. I am an alcoholic/addict who stands up to this issue and fights it tougher than Mike Tyson’s knockout right hook. I am a scrapper who will not go down ever. In AA and treatment they always say never say never. No, that is fucking bullshit! I can honestly say that I will NEVER consume alcohol ever again. It is that easy, if a person, especially an alcoholic give him/herself a little opening, that is all it takes. I have sealed that crack in my foundation. Hell yeah, I can work in a bar, I can go to a bar with friends, I can be at family event where everybody is drinking an alcoholic beverage of any type. I do not have an urge to drink. Why is that? Okay, let’s go back to what sobriety is. We all know that I do not drink, but sobriety is even more than that. Remember when I was discussing my identity crisis? Sobriety is dealing with the emotions, the thoughts, the pain, the demons, the joys, the angels that rumble around in the heart and mine and finding ways to identify with and develop a concept of peace with each. Some of it may be as simple as solving a problem. Some of it may be seeking therapy. Maybe you just need a hug that day, blah! But sobriety is first admitting there is a problem, fixing who you are, as in dealing with all issues, and then working towards helping or being kind to others.  Let’s call it spreading love.

            So, the past eight years, I have dealt with my problems and my identity crisis. Some of that is via the tap method. Now, I conduct it differently than the psychologists who are recommending it. I cannot just sit there and tap my own arms while thinking through my issues. I listen to music, preferably sad/depressing music or lovey type of punk, instead of crossing my arms and tapping my shoulders I play video games. I prefer to do this with sports games so that I do not have to think about the game. Then I go over every thought I may be having at that time and analyze why, what sparked it, why it happened, how it happened, how I can overcome it if it is a negative, how can I ensure that I will not cause others to make me feel that way, and how I can convert it to peace.

            This summer has been the summer of alliterationofm seeking identity. Who am I? What am I? I want this peace so damn bad. My beautiful and all too precious wife gave me the greatest birthday/sober birthday present I could have ever received. It was perfect and the timing was perfect. It was a trip to Kansas City to go to Kaufman Stadium and watch the Royals play, visit the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, go to Chiefs training camp, and to spend time with my aunt and uncle and their children which two are married and have children the other two do not yet. Visiting the K, NLBM, and training camp was spectacular. Great memories and my son has a new favorite Chief. But, the key portion of the trip was visiting with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. I do not know if this was intended by my wife, or if this was a by-product of this positive trip, but my identity issues, my family pain was set to peace. This family (my aunt, uncle, and cousins) are on my adopted mother’s side of the family. We were talking one evening, and my aunt and uncle said to me, “Although you are adopted, we don’t care about that, you are our family. You are blood,” with a conviction that I have never, ever heard in my life. They were adamant that I was their nephew, that I was extremely loved by them. They show it too, the way they speak to me, the way the teach me about our ancestors, the way they act towards me, and the fun they have with me and my family. I am a Messmer, Marks, Jones, Novak, Martin, Santori, Somadossi.  I am the railroad crossing that connects seven strains of families. I have found familial peace for the first time in my thirty-three years on Earth.

            Now, how could I work in a bar and be sober? I like to say, if it is easy, it is probably not worth doing. You see, my buddy JFMcF the third got me a job as a carder at the bar. I put bouncer on my resume because it looks tougher but I think I had to actually perform bouncer type duties three or four times. I mostly checked id’s, pushed drunk girls away from me, and cleaned up glasses. I like challenges. I also figured that if I am going to be sober and survive in the world we live in, I need to be able to be around drinking. No problem! I was fired later that summer because the other carder called in with a tooth ache and the owner of the Pub was crazy and I think may possibly have a personality disorder of some sort. I am not doctor but those mood swings, damn!

            Thank you for reading through my attempt at stream of consciousness writing. I am doing my best attempt at pulling a Jack Kerouac minus the coffee, cigarettes, heroin, and countless days without sleep. I am staying up a few hours past my regular bed time, sucking on butterscotch candies, and drinking copious amounts of ice water. I promise you that future writings on this blog will be planned, detailed, funny, not depressing, and a thesaurus will be used. I will also be attempting metaphors, similes, alliteration, flashback, foreshadowing, and a multitude of other literary techniques that I am sure you do not care about but I find to be fun to list! I love you all, now go eat a breakfast burrito or some tacos depending on the time of day you are reading this.

PS) no corrections were made to any misspellings, grammatical errors, or other stupid mistakes I probably made. Stream of conscience baby!

PSS) Thank you Uncle B, Aunt S, Beautiful J, L,M, C,J,L,M, JFMcF the third, Mom, Mom, Dad, Godfather, S, E, R,J,D, Uncle J, Uncle J, Aunt J, Aunt D, Aunt T, Uncle T, Uncle J, Aunt A, Uncle C, G, and anybody else who helped form this lump of coal into a shiny diamond!