Looking Good in Green (No Picture Included)

             Three years ago, I was drinking green beer.

An ex and I entered ourselves in a St. Patrick’s Day .10k (yes, point 10k, a few hundred feet) run, put on by 94.1 WJJO--a rock station in Madison, WI. This was a pedestrian-run bar hopping event cloaked under the guise of fitness; it truly captured the Madison spirit. It wasn’t my first (or last) race from one bar to another, but it was the first one that came with a free green t-shirt!

I’ve been told it was really fun, and that it was one of “the good times.” I wouldn’t really know for sure. I was so hammered by the time that I got to the event, that I don’t recall a thing. She took pictures, so I know that I was there--physically, at least. There I am in the digital photo: At the finish line of the .10k (or the starting line, it doesn’t matter), with a green beer in my hand, beer-soaked green shirt on my back, and a cigarette hanging out of my green mouth of my green face. Those were the days. I wasn’t concerned with a toxic relationship—I could drink myself into believing I was satisfied! I wasn’t preoccupied with finding a more stable place to live—the next year’s rehab center filled in for an apartment. Indeed, I didn’t know how glamorous the words, “elevated liver enzymes”. I’m up to speed on all of that now. Maybe this time it will stick.

I’m lucky to be alive and sober through another holiday. No, I don’t resent St. Paddy’s day, or alcohol, or anyone or anything for that matter. I am content to remember, and happy to write, even if I sound overly-cynical or sarcastic. Writing allows me to connect my thoughts to my memories, and since I don’t keep pictures around from my drinking days, I write, so I can paint the pictures for myself. I see the colors brighter this way.

 

This St. Patrick’s Day will be a little more demanding of my body, as I hit the open highway to actually run, instead of hobbling drunk down the street. This time I’ll run for a couple miles instead of a few hundred feet, and there won’t be a bar at the finish line. I won’t have a cold, green beer to welcome me home. That’s good. I never looked good in green anyway.

 

 

 

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Comment below telling me your plans for St. Patrick's Day, or tell me your favorite holiday to write about, or just comment with your thoughts.

 

Thank you for reading.

Buster the Dog: Rolling Down the Highway

       Buster was brought to our family in a unique way.  He was thrown out of a moving car in front of my neighbor's house.

     "Hey, do you guys want a dog?" My neighbor Michael asked. Yes, we did.

     His previous owners apparently didn't have the wherewithal for a task as daunting as dog ownership. They made sure to slow down to at least 5 miles an hour, kindly, and utilized the freshly graveled shoulder of our road as a drop-off for doggy. He was shaped like a tube then. I wonder how far he rolled.

     There he was: A pug terrier with a snake-like mouth, buggy eyes, a pointy nose perched on top of his face like an alligator, and barely any meat on his bones. His anxious disposition was cured instantly once he found a blanket, clamped down, and began sucking. He missed his mom. Our Great Dane, Sophie soon became his new mom, and when she passed, he once again missed his mom. He stuck close to me--always. Buster loved to eat, and fed himself in between scheduled feedings. Starved and neglected as a puppy, his behavior and stress responses were engrained deeply, so he ate every meal, and scrap, and molecule of food like it was his last. If it wasn't tied down, Buster ate it, and this quickly became a concern as his ass started to fatten quite rapidly. So, instead of kicking him out of a moving automobile, we put him on a diet. It was a win-win.

     When a dog is so tortured at a young age, it can become vicious, but this wasn't the case with Buster. He was happy, and his teeth were always out. He smiled openly to the world that callously decided he wasn't worth keeping. I'm so blessed to have had him in my life. When I was ill, Buster would sit by my feet and nuzzle against me, and his under bite would dig into my calf. When I was doing well, Buster would run and play and roughhouse with me, making me feel like a kid again. Through thick and thin, he was there, trudging along beside me with his tiny feet. He'd accompany me on errands daily, slamming his baseball head against the passenger window until it was rolled down for him to feel the breeze, and we'd roll through town, listening to music.

     For almost a decade and a half, Buster lived with me in numerous places in Wisconsin: Mazomanie, Mt. Horeb, Prairie Du Sac, and two houses in Sauk City.

     When I was a cook, Buster had the pleasure of gnawing on the soles of my food-packed shoes after work, while grabbing onto them with both paws. He was waiting at home for me when I was pulled out of work to be notified of my father's death. He sat--stoic--and stared at my red eyes, and licked my hand. When I passed the Wisconsin state real estate exam, Buster and I celebrated, running wild around the house, growling, and rolling on the floor for a good twenty minutes.

     Buster came to work with me frequently when I built a mobile restaurant, and he sat obediently outside, watching me fix and fuddle around with gauges and propane tanks and freezers. His ears would perk up and he'd cock his head to the side curiously when the grill fired up. He was a strong supporter of anything to do with food... One day I didn't take him in the car with me, and that day I got in a single-car wreck. Every night, for weeks, Buster laid pressed against my broken ribs as if he knew the pressure was comforting. I missed Buster when it was time to go to rehab; but when I got out, he was waiting for me. His wagging pug tail and his crazy smile. It felt so good to see him through sober eyes. Especially today.

     As he passed today, him and I shared ear buds and listened quietly to music, just like we'd do after a stressful day. We relaxed together for the last time.

     From the moment he rolled down the highway, this dog has been a true companion. Buster would sit next to me every morning, waiting patiently for a goodbye kiss on the head, as I got ready to face the day. When the day was done, he would lay at the foot of the bed, clamp down on the comforter, and drift off to sleep.

     I miss him already.

     Rest In Peace, Buster
     3/6/13 
     Who's the special animal in your life? What life events have proven that your pet is always there for you?
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     @WritingSober

Copyright 2013 Cole Bishop

Writing Sober

     Since I was a young child I've struggled against this, and today I work with it. Writing through this helps me, and I can continue to help others as I've been so blessed to do.

     The picture wasn't pretty. Panic, phobias, fear, and insomnia took a toll as I was a child, an adolescent, and a young adult. Eventually, a slew of labels and poor coping skills set me up for nearly a decade of severe alcoholism, which tore my life apart--other people's lives, too. I've gotten familiar with jail, where everyone is angry. I've gotten familiar with psych wards, where everybody's crazy, and two years ago I fought my way into 30-day inpatient treatment, where everybody's angry and crazy.

     I'm lucky to be alive. My mind and body were run ragged for years, and I was flirting with death on a daily basis. Flirting with death: It's not as romantic or exciting as it sounds. It is a state of complete misery and chaos with no real meaning behind it. If you believe in Hell, the life of a person with a dual diagnosis (e.g. alcoholism and bipolar disorder) could qualify as a form of Hell on Earth. Nevertheless, today isn't for wallowing in what was. Today is about gratitude. Through sheer grace I've been able to shatter the concept of "9 lives" (I think I approached triple digits).

     Life is getting better; it gets better every day. I enjoy continued sobriety (no alcohol, no drugs), I am mentally stable and physically fit. It's a big picture and it all starts with the basics of self-care. I'm keeping life simple, and going back to basics to aide me in my transition from wishing death to embracing life. Writing helps a lot.

     Don't get me wrong; the dark and destructive part of my being is not gone and it never will be. It sticks around. However, there is a major difference. There is a wall that I've broken down over time; somewhat by force and somewhat by blessings and teachings I've received thus far. It comes down to this: I no longer give my illness the power to rule me, but I do not fight it, either. I acknowledge it, and I let it be. I do not feed into it or follow it, but I do not deny it or attempt to push it away. We coexist.

     Treat every day as if it was a test. Prepare for it, do your best, learn, and let it go--and don't forget to put faith in tomorrow.

     Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment and follow my blog. I'd love to hear feedback, your own experiences, constructive criticism, and any tips you may have for me as I continue writing.

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     --Cole Bishop