No subject
integer at www.god-emil.dk
integer at www.god-emil.dk
Fri Nov 22 05:34:54 CET 2002
claudia
>she says: hope is a question of will.
!t !z alzo uear dze prblm rez!dez
1 abuzez dze zelv uen 01 kanot lokat odzrz 2 abusz [dze !nternet = tzooooo vazt
4 01 != lovabl hensz 01 != lvd hensz 01 != lvz - affordabl loop kontrol
Nickolas ___... there are other more delicious [schhhh] methods for maintaining a simply.SUPERIOR self
[r!zn zpeed!ng
t!ketz = hurt
2 alternatives [since you aren't really ill ... just rubbing against the world like 01 bad windshield wiper [lvr
|||
simply.INFERIOR + unlovable
1. in ost.europa [+ elsewhere 2 b fair] alcoholism is a national pass time
as the communists say: comrade lovers - 01 national illness = 01 cause for a may day parade !!!!
they don't tell you but ... what made the occident invasion so pleasurable
was the vast vast arsenals of plum brandy.
>>"Ivo Skoric" <ivo at reporters.net>
>>
>>f@#!u
>je sper du + odrz = lokat dze dezperaz!on 2 ztop f@#!urzelv
2. Nechaiev ______... u knou uat ! _mean
4. life your personal simply.SUPERIOR world [karefl - may cause marital + health problems
5. kmfdm u!zprd - let me be your piggybank. let me be your piggybank.
!f ue zubzt!tut piggybank u!th alkohol ....
master + servant [okz!dent demo.krass! macht ganz gluckl!ch + fre!!!!!!!
>>"Ivo Skoric" <ivo at reporters.net>
>>
>>f@#!u
let me be your
Nickolas Maxwell Herman t!pd
>Goodbye Letter to Drugs and Alcohol
Communist fairy tale - without fairy tales life isn't worth living
et apropos - with one exception [she !z an angel uho uearz leaves az heartz] everyone who
fell in love with nn suffers from the same malady you do.
i just can't stand the smell of plum brandy ...
Goodbye Letter to Drugs and Alcohol
Nick Herman
November 14, 2002
Dear Drugs and Alcohol:
I know we have spent a lot of time together, and I have followed you
many places I wouldn't have gone otherwise. I have listened to
your requests and granted them almost every time. In adolescence I
believed you when you said I could make my feelings disappear and make
life easier. I believed that I couldn't be happy without you,
even as a teenager, before I'd tried other ways.
Maybe our first relationship, when I brought marijuana into my life in
high school, wasn't so destructive at first. But it set in motion a bond
between us that both hurt me then (though I was too foolish to see it)
and set the stage for the incredibly damaging relation to alcohol that
has finally brought me to treatment and AA for help.
I guess the way you made me feel good, and were always there for me,
blinded me to your greed and unbounded selfishness. It seems to me now
that your only goal was to take me over, to run my life, and eventually
to take it completely. I can't blame you for this--you are what you are--
but Lord knows I can't deny your the true nature of our relationship.
If I don't leave you, and learn to live without you, I'm not only going to
be a loser, but a dead loser.
Of course I am dependent on you, which makes me think--as you so often
make sure to tell me--that I will be a loser without you. That might be
true, but if you were a person telling me that, I'd give you the heavy
smackdown: you'd be scared to show your face. However, because our
relationship was so cunning, baffling, and powerful, I always thought
you were innocent. Little did I realize how cleverly and relentlessly
you would suck the strength out of me and use it to keep me a slave to
you.
Well now, get ready for a big setback, because I prefer not to go out
like that, see? You have always been able to smother me with lies and
flattery, like a big heavy suffocating blob, but you never had the
blade of Truth to cut me and finish me off. The Truth was my first
childhood love, and the only reason you attracted me is that you were
easier to obtain. You only wanted my time, energy, and money, and you
accepted me as a jerk living way below my potential. You didn't
reflect my real self back to me, but only what I wanted to see. You
indulged my vanity and weaknesses the way the Truth never did.
You realized right away what my vulnerability was: my love of Truth was
weak. I didn't feel like I was good enough for the Truth, and in my
despair you swooped in and grabbed me up. I actually was so afraid of
the Truth I thought it would literally kill me. The Truth showed me
pain, fear, insecurity, and loneliness, so instead of developing my
relationship with the Truth--and finding that there was so much more
there, so many possibilities and so much relief--I chose you, the
substitute. And you took me into your ways like lightning. As they
say, if it's too good to me true, it probably isn't.
For better or worse, our relationship has been falling apart. God knows
at first I tried to protect it with all my wits and schemes. You would
take me to places that got me fired, beaten, jailed; you drove decent
people away from me and replaced them with other addicts; you drove me
to attack the very people who wanted me to get help--but still I didn't
blame our relationship. In the same way that I wanted to delude myself
that I was perfectly OK, I wanted to believe our relationship was healthy.
After all, we had what seemed like fun and closeness at times. Now that
I'm starting to observe the reality of our bond, I can't help but see it all
as a morass of lies and deception.
Finally my own pain and illness became too much, and in desperation I
asked for help. It became unavoidable to me that perhaps our relationship
had to end for good. So I asked around, and took some time to sort out
the feedback I got--questioning for the first time in years who had
honest motives, and who was lying to me--and heard that crucial term
"powerless alcoholic." It didn't take right away, that's for sure, but
now I know that there's more truth and beauty in that term, for me, than
any of the heavenly illusions you've paraded before me all this time.
You never wanted me to subject our relationship to the light of Truth
or to the honest caring and help of other people. I guess you didn't
want to share me for fear of losing me. I of course played along but
now, after treatment and meetings, after really listening to the
people who care about me (not the bartender and the dope-man), I'm
starting to like the Truth again. It's not always easy, and yes, I have
some work and pain to go through, but did you really think I couldn't
realize that recovery is better than the lazy numbness you offer? I've
always liked work, life, and emotions good and bad. I simply had to be
reminded. Thankfully I was, and things between us can never be the
same.
I once read about deductive logic that "everything follows from a false
premise." (This idea has even turned up in my recovery readings.) When
I accepted the lie of your care and love for me, my whole way of life
followed along. My mind and faculties began to serve you, not me and the
people I care about. Yet just as a tiny crack can break down the
strongest dam, and the invincible Achilles died from a single arrow in
his heel, I don't think you can hold me now that I know you don't really
love me at all. You actually want a living hell to be my future. Our
relationship is built on hate: for myself, for other people, for God,
for life itself in all its beauty and freedom.
You must be aware, as I am, how forgetful I can be. Even those who
would help me are not all-powerful. Certainly you won't let me go
without a fight, because you are jealous and addictive. I also can't
really get away from you, can I? You have changed me down to the
cellular level and you will never be farther away than the corner bar.
Not to mention the habits and personality I learned during our time
together--they won't disappear. They can only recede.
Yet now I truly believe that our relationship can end, and this belief
gives me gratitude, pride, and hope. I have seen that
I can replace you with the bounty that healthy recovery will bring if
I stick with it. I may lose my nerve, heart, or confidence at times,
but I can ask for help and I know that help will always be there. Sure
I've only been away from you for thirty-some days, but I already have
found hope and support. After years with you, I never saw one iota
of those things in your face. You look ugly to me now. My infatuation
with you has been tainted, just as you poisoned my love for myself.
You don't seem necessary to my life anymore; not all the time anyway.
Common sense is gradually coming back to me.
Please do not take vicious hope in the word "gradually." I know I've
shown myself in the past unable to free myself of the blame, shame,
guilt, anger, and hopelessness bred of our relationship. I need time to
get free, and the more time away from you the freer I get. The burdens
that our relationship has left with me are heavy, but I have seen others
carry them even through the stress of early sobriety without going back
to you. I have seen those burdens grow lighter and lighter for other
alcoholics in recovery. I know mine will lighten as well--every sober
day I get through, they get lighter, even if I don't know exactly how or
why at the time. My body is recovering from your ravages and so is my
soul. I won't forget this feeling of redemption, because it is too
sweet and too gracious even for a lazy liar to dismiss.
Forgive me if I call you a deceiver and parasite--after all, I chose under
my own power to live with you for so long. I betrayed myself and the
spirit of life that dwells in all humans, using you as my accomplice and
alibi. Yet now I am feeling life's spirit again, which proves to me
that all is not lost. You can destroy me, but only if I let you--only
if I trust you again. I do not think that is likely to happen, and
never with the unconditional acceptance I used to have of our
relationship. The seed of doubt has been planted in my mind, and I
am confident you can never kill it completely. My aim is
to make it grow stronger to shelter me for all the days of my life.
Goodbye, drugs and alcohol: may God be with me.
Nickolas Maxwell Herman
November 14, 2002
++
Autobiography
Nick Herman
October 2002
I was born in Minneapolis, MN, in 1969. My father had recently
gotten a job as a biology professor at the University of Minnesota,
which he kept until his retirement in 2002. My mother met my dad
at Northwestern University, and they were married in 1962. My older
sister was born in 1965, and my younger sister in 1971. I have no
brothers.
My earliest memory is from age 3. I was along with my parents visiting
a friend's farm in Maple Grove. They had a party at which all the
guests helped paint an old piece of farm equipment in restive colors.
I remember the pants I had on, and the paint on them. It was a
beautiful fall day. Recently the friend who owned the farm told me
that he and I had "a normal, adult-level conversation" that day.
My family was a typical academic family. My mother stayed home with
us kids, or worked part-time during the school day when we got old
enough. We lived in the house my parents still own, and we always
were cared for in terms of food, health care, etc. My dad was not
wealthy by any means, but the bills were always paid and his job was
secure. We would take vacations up north every year at Leech Lake,
which are some of my best memories. Christmas and Halloween, Easter,
and Thanksgiving were always enjoyable, with visits from my maternal
grandmother. (Both of my grandfathers died before I was born, and my
dad's mom died when I was four--possibly of alcohol-related heart disease.)
Our home was not religious, although we would go to church for Candlelight
Services on Christmas. My sisters and I had a fairly secular upbringing,
focused on science and the arts. You might say there was an absence
of spirituality, because my parents, being older than your typical baby
boomers, were pretty conservative in most things, including feelings and
emotions. We didn't go to church, but the explanation was not very
spiritual. Science was placed above religion for us. My parents had
a ethic of hard work, academics, and following the rules. They were
not disciplinarians, and were not prepared at all when my sisters and
I eventually discovered drugs, alcohol, and dating. I remember a lot of
pain and guilt--the "silent treatment"--when my sisters or I would get
into trouble. It created a lot of sadness, which over time would rise
to intense levels.
Our family was chilly when it came to emotions, particularly my dad.
He had come from a broken home, had spent some time in an orphange, and
having been born in 1931 grew up during the Depression and World War Two.
He had an "old-school" attitude about expressing feelings. He could be
funny
and playful, or stern and silent, but not much in-between. I remember
feeling distanced from him, and perhaps more attached to Mom, who was
more approachable and spent more time with us.
The worst event in my life happened when I was five, and had a connection
to my lack of affection and interest from my dad. His sister had two
sons, and besides my grandma they were our only extended family. My
aunt and two cousins would visit during holidays and sometimes in the
summer.
They lived in California, and were very funny and extroverted. I became
very attached to the younger cousin, who showed me a lot of attention.
He was athletic, the center of attention, and always the "leader" of us
kids. Unfortunately, as I found out only a couple of years ago, he
had been molested by a more distant relative as a child. I thought of
him as my best friend, almost a big brother, and when I was five years old
he betrayed that trust and affection.
He and I were camping out in our family's screen porch, which was
detached from the house, one night. I remember that he would sometimes
talk about having sex with his girlfriend--he was 15 when I was 5--
and I thought this was interesting and showed I could fit in with older
kids. Actually, it was the behavior of a sexual abuser. That night
in the porch, he started masturbating, and asked me to suck his penis.
It was a freaky and scary event. It seemed like playing doctor, so I put my
mouth on it. I didn't "suck it," so he asked me again. I put my mouth on
it again, just for a second, but it made me feel sick. I went to wash
out my mouth with water, but the damage had been done. He then finished
masturbating, and nothing else happened.
The next day I was very angry at him, but didn't know why. I tried to
throw a cup of water that I had peed in on him, but he dodged away,
laughing.
I didn't have the courage to tell my parents, and felt guilty. He had paid
me a dollar to do it, which was a lot of money for me then, so I
blamed myself. It was the only occurence of sexual abuse in my life,
that one time, but I cannot say it didn't affect me profoundly.
I never told anyone in the family about it until I was 17. It broke up
the relationship, and after that he has never been allowed in my parents'
house.
Life went on, but the experience had changed me. I was bossy with my
friends growing up and had a cruel streak. I never abused anyone, but
I could be very mean, in spite of the goody-goody image I had to portray
to my parents. I was always the smartest kid in class, and popular with
other kids, but there was an anger in me that would lead to introversion
and mild depression as I hit adolescence.
I was always smaller than the other kids, but used my brain to stay
tough and not get picked on. The worst thing about my early teen years
was that I didn't hit puberty until ninth grade. I was sort of a freak
in junior high, babyfaced and small. It was hard to deal with the lack
of attraction I had from the girls, and I prayed to grow up faster
during that time. Some people of course made fun of me, and it hurt,
so I retracted into a shell emotionally even more, knowing I couldn't do
anything but wait.
I used to even ask my parents if they thought I was gay, and why I wasn't
growing like the other kids. They said not to worry, but were not very
supportive--like I said, they were not comfortable with much emotion,
especially negative ones like insecurity and fear. They seemed not to
have any answers for me, and wanted me to just suffer through it and
leave them alone. I kept getting all A's, and that was all that mattered.
I got into a math program for gifted kids, and waited.
For whatever reason, I wasn't part of any of the cliques growing up, but
could hang with all of them. My best friend was another shy kid from
the math program, but we shared an interest in punk rock and helped each
other act out a little--we were rebellious. We were both only accepted
by our parents for good grades, so we became partners in mischief. We
bought
punk albums and went to parties together. He made me feel I wasn't such
a freak, and he liked my popularity and outward cockiness. I was friends
with two other "short and angry" kids, one a hockey player who had been
adopted from Korea, the other a rock drummer with dyslexia. In high school,
I would play poker with the jocks and win their money. No one ever beat me
up or picked on me too much, and I got a reputation as a semi-delinquent
genius. I was on the tennis team and slowly starting to grow. By junior
year I had girlfriends, hung out with "the cool crowd," and used pot and
alcohol. I had gotten past the painful awkwardness and started to feel
safe.
High school had seemed to last forever, and I did get a reputation as a
stoner. (My older sister was a punk rocker, and gave me my first weed.)
Partly because I didn't like the pot much anymore, and partly because
I was getting in a little trouble (my math friend and I had gotten caught
with pot a couple of times, got grounded and all), I quit pot on the last
day of school my junior year. I had a very cute and popular girlfriend,
and liked the feeling of being able to quit. I didn't want to get dragged
in with the burnouts. I kept my grades up, was captain of the tennis team,
and made new friends with people who didn't use as much. I would still
drink
at parties, but it wasn't major.
I got into a good college and decided I wanted to be a writer. I made
a decision to focus on that, and never used pot or alcohol. I was popular
but had trouble forming relationships. Emotionally I was very repressed,
and my friends would tell me I had to deal with it. I knew they were
right, but I wasn't sure how to change. I tried different things, but
as my dedication to writing and learning poetry and literature got more
intense, I returned to a kind of introverted life. I was serious and
sometimes depressed in college, but didn't use. Both of my sisters were
going through hard times with drugs, sex, and other problems. I decided
I had to break away from my family emotionally because they were so
dysfunctional. My father started to drink a lot when my younger sister
was sent to treatment for bulimia and substance abuse. The family seemed
to be falling apart, and I was on my own. I didn't fight or make trouble,
but I had pulled away from them. This continued for my college years.
After my second year of college, I decided that I wanted to be independent
and not follow my orders to get good grades anymore. I kept my grades high
for my own self-interest, not for my parents anymore, or so I thought.
I transferred from my small private college to a state school where I'd have
more time to write and wouldn't need as many loans. I had made the plunge
to become a writer at all costs--it was everything to me then. I avoided
all my high school friends at Madison, didn't party at all, just read
and wrote all the time. I studied everything, and began to argue or
disagree with my professors. I decided no one could help me be a writer,
and I had to do it myself. I finished my first novel--ironically, about
the isolation of the creative life--in 1992. I had taken all my graduation
money to pay my rent in Madison for 9 months. I lived alone that whole
time,
and became sort of depressed. I was a loner. I finished the novel, a lot
of poems, and several short stories. I felt more alienated than ever.
In late 1992 I came back to live with my folks for a while as I decided what
to do next. I sent my novel to many literary agents, but they all said it
was "too experimental." This made me feel all the more desperate and
alone, yet still determined to succeed. I got into a creative writing
graduate program in 1993, still feeling isolated and depressed, even a
little
crazy. I withdrew even more into my writing and argued a lot with
professors.
Some told me I was gifted and encouraged me; others just got angry. I was
kind of hostile to the faculty and didn't get the scholarship I had needed.
I quit the program in '94 and returned home to my parents.
The winter of '94 was when my real drinking began. I was still socially
isolated
and working as a housepainter. I would drink beer and watch TV after work
every
night. Sometimes I would get pretty buzzed, but I still hadn't gone back to
weed at all. I was lost and confused and very anxious about my future.
Those were
kind of dismal times.
To get out of the house and back on track with my life, I applied to
creative writing programs again, but none of them accepted me. I then
decided to go just for an English degree, because I had an English major
and good grades and recommendations. I scored high on tests. In '95 I was
given a three-year full ride by Syracuse University, with tuition and living
expenses paid for. It was my biggest academic success in life, getting that
fellowship. I thought to myself, "I have three more years to become a
writer.
If I can't, I'll give it up and move on with life." Yet the alcohol, the
emotional repression, and social isolation were catching up with me. I felt
tired
and empty even before I went to Syracuse.
There in the drab town in upstate New York I got more serious about writing,
drank heavily with other artists and writers, and got diagnosed for the
first time with clinical depression. I couldn't make close friends or
girlfriends,
people treated me like I was a freak (or a genius), and I was hostile.
Those were
bad times, and my drinking became serious. After being very depressed and
put on
Paxil, I decided academia was bad for me. I reestablished contact with my
old math
friend and my family. I decided I had to rejoin the human race. It was a
big
relief. I decided to be the funny, sweet, likable fellow I had been
earlier on. I wasn't going to let writing kill me. I knew I had to change,
but didn't know how.
In 1997 I moved to San Francisco to stay with my older sister. She was
clean by then,
and I wasn't there to party. I wanted to take care of myself. I was still
on
antidepressants but I went to therapy. I had a great therapist, who helped
me sort out many of my feelings of isolation. I dealt with my sexual abuse
for the first time there. I had decided to give up the intellectual life,
which
had led me into so much isolation, frustration, and pain, and go into
computers. I jogged
every day, went to museums, took my dog to Golden Gate park, and learned
guitar.
I was getting healthier and more social.
Unfortunately I was offered a job at a bar. At first I was determined not
to use,
or even smoke cigarettes, on the job. I hadn't drank heavily after Syracuse
and didn't want
to go back to it. I was seeing my therapist and rebuilding good relations
with my
family. By 1998, I was tending bar at a very hip nightspot, making a lot
of money, and shooting a documentary about the year 2000 with my new
videocamera.
I had bought a computer and began to build an artistic reputation on the
internet that
continues to this day. But as I accepted the pressure around me to drink, I
became a true alcoholic. I barely finished the documentary before losing my
job bartending
for using coke.
In 1999, I moved back home to Minneapolis, a serious alcoholic. I was
drinking often, and
often in excessive amounts. I was using pot again. I tried to quit
drinking in early 2000,
but the anxiety was intense--I was experiencing withdrawal. A doctor who
didn't
know me well prescribed an anti-psychotic (because I was so obsessed with my
documentary and website) which made me suicidal. I was hospitalized for two
weeks, but recovered when they switched me from Zoloft back to Paxil at high
doses
and Klonopin for sleep and anxiety at night.
My drinking didn't end with the hospitalization. I switched to pot only
for a few months but soon I was back to heavy drinking. My family was
urging me
to get help, but I was in denial. I had one incident with the police in
2001, and was
damn lucky not to have had more. I was hiding my alcohol use, blacking out,
losing temp jobs, and getting into riskier and riskier behaviors. I was
robbed twice because of being wasted and even my friends became scared of
me.
I tried meetings, and was able to stay sober for a couple of months here and
there,
but I had become a true alcoholic. I has been hard to admit to myself, but
with the genetic predisposition, the consequences, the blackouts, and
the wild behavior when drunk--as well as an inability to drink in
moderation--
I have accepted that I am without doubt alcoholic and chemically dependent.
This is why I am in treatment, have a sponsor, and go to meetings. I pray
every day for recovery. I am willing to work for it as I have worked for
other things. I deserve it and I owe it to myself, my friends, my
family, and my community. I am glad to be in recovery. It's been too long,
but at least I'm here.
Ten Harmfuls
Max Herman
November 12, 2002
1. 1986 Pot--Publicly accused of pot use/dealing
Self: Bad reputation, stricter rules from parents, lost girlfriend
Others: Hurt/embarrassed parents, bad rep for younger sister,
lost trust of younger sister
Feelings: Humiliated, angry, frustrated, ashamed, scared
2. 1995 Alcohol--Fell on face, ER
Self: Stitches, black eye, Rx bills, lost trust of department and
fellow students, ostracized socially
Others: Let faculty and other students down, friend had to drive me to ER
Feelings: Embarrassed, out of control, depressed, isolated, ashamed,
degraded
3. 1996 Alcohol--Depression first diagnosed
Self: Couldn't finish term papers (incompletes), placed on antidepressants,
social isolation, self-destructive behaviors, Rx bills
Others: Scared family and friends
Feelings: Sick, scared, helpless, abnormal, hopeless
4. 1997 Alcohol--Mugged in SF
Self: Lost $, shoes, punched in face, lost sister's trust
Others: Scared & embarrassed friend
Feelings: Out of control, lucky, scared, concerned
5. 1999 Alcohol/Coke--Fired for using
Self: Lost social group, $, apartment, easy life
Others: Disappointed co-workers and employer, had to move back to parents'
Feelings: Embarrassed, angry, confused, concerned, relieved, immature,
self-destructive
6. 2000 Alcohol/Pot--Hospitalized for depression
Self: Confinement, couldn't work, suicidal thoughts
Others: Scared family and friends, cost parents $, cost county $
Feelings: Suicidal, hopeless, terrified, vulnerable, lost
7. 2000 Alcohol/Pot--Parents were robbed
Self: Had to move out, belongings vandalised, police involvement
Others: Parents lost checks, passports, vacation, $. Terrified
Mom and Dad.
Feelings: Scared, ashamed, lucky, endangered, numb, out of control, sad
8. 2001 Alcohol/Pot--Missed opportunity to be published
Self: Lost $, career opportunity, respect of colleagues, self-respect
Others: Disappointed colleagues, violated trust
Feelings: Depressed, weak, ashamed, sad, hopeless
9. 2001 Alcohol/Pot--Fought with police
Self: Broken teeth, maced, night in jail, bail, suspended sentence.
Banned from bar, lost respect of friends
Others: Terrified family, scared friends, endangered friends
Feelings: Out of control, terrified, violated, degraded, humiliated,
criminal
10. 2001 Alcohol/Pot--Fought with Briggs/Lost House
Self: Lost lease $, house, friend, working opportunity, rehearsal space
Others: Had to borrow $ from parents and move back in, humiliated friend,
friend had to break lease and move out with no $, band lost space
Feelings: Ugly, abusive, out of control, ashamed, dependent, foolish,
angry,
cheated, depressed
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