In which I begin with a lot of angry blather but eventually through folksonomy and random serendipity end at a position of emotional stasis, having (hopefully) made a point while utilizing an interrobang and a plethora of parentheses.
I swear, James Frey pisses me off so much. He’s on TV right now. The female reporter is saying, “He made some big mistakes.” Gee. You think‽ Thank God she pointed that out.
Frey himself says, “I probably made some mistakes in marketing the book.” Gee. You think‽ Thank God he pointed that out.
Goddamn it. There isn’t much out there for people trying to recover without believing in God. I was trying so hard to get sober and I just couldn’t. But shit, if James Frey could do it then obviously it could be done. But what’s the number one thing you can be sure of when you’re dealing with an addict? Stephen King said it. “All addicts lie.” I regularly forget that and tend to be very trusting of addicts who are in recovery because the truth is that while everyone lies; at least the addicts in recovery admit they lie and actively try to be more honest.
Years ago Richard Bach wrote that after Jonathon Livingston Seagull was published, he came home from barnstorming to find himself very rich. Of course (of course!) the first thing he did was go to the public library and search through the card catalog to find a book about what to do when you become unexpectedly rich. I did exactly the same thing when I was unexpectedly diagnosed as a sex addict, I headed to the public library and unlike Bach, found a few books that helped me understand sex addiction. Thank you Patrick Carnes and Sue Silverman. Later, I found the AA Big Book and the books of the s-recovery fellowships, SLAA, SA, and SAA. I found a meeting and got started right away on working the steps. But even though I was doing every goddamn thing that was suggested, putting my shoes under the bed, making phone calls, blah, blah, blah, I couldn’t get sober.
I swear, there wasn’t a more willing sex addict on the face of the earth and nothing was working. (Well, duh, ‘cause I was in a fucked up relationship with my therapist and didn’t know it.) So I went back to the library, where I spotted Frey’s book. The cover was cool. That hand covered with the multicolored capsule innards reminded me of Sex, Lies, & Cocoa Puffs, which I enjoyed. I got a quick mental flashback to the Tylenol capsules, you know the pre-cyanide ones that dissolved quickly? On a side note, isn’t it fun to deconstruct a series of seemingly unrelated thoughts? So I had that sick-happy jolt that happens when pleasure and death get swirled together and picked up the book. And when I flipped through the pages I read that good ole James had gotten sober, “without a Higher Power.” Holy shit! That meant there was hope for me! I bought the book without a second thought. I wish I’d kept the receipt so I could have gotten a refund.
If the world was fair, you would have read my book, which would be featured on Oprah’s Book Club and a runaway bestseller. After my amazing interview on Oprah, my phone would be ringing off the hook with agents trying to buy the movie rights and people wanting to book a speaker. But most importantly, some poor sap who’s trying to figure out how to do this without a Higher Power will read my book and put down the gun.
Hmm. Maybe that’s a bit grandiose. But I am enjoying the serendipity of finding a really good article along a truly winding hyperlink trip through cyberspace search that started with cyanide and ended with soulmate. Plus, I used the word serendipity three times. It’s such a cool word. I feel so smart when I use it.