Are you for real?

An authentic life is defined by risk and courage. Authenticity opens one to the possibility of rejection, not getting what I want and in politically charged situations, death. When I began the conscious practice of right living, I was initially anxious in situations that involved an agenda. To be honest, I first had to let go of the results. I doubt that letting go of results will ever be easy for me. This is particularly true in the areas of romance and finance.

When I first got clean and sober, I had no idea of who I was or what I wanted. For most of my life I would try to conform to what would gain me the greatest acceptance. As a kid, I developed whatever mechanism I could in order to avoid physical pain. Sometimes it worked, often it did not. I began to perceive the world as conspiratorial and hostile. Every authority figure in my life was punitive. It’s not like I was beaten and tortured all the time, just enough to cloud every decision and almost every action I took.

Sometimes I wonder which is worse, being humiliated or getting hit. It’s hard to say because they either happen at the same time or in close sequence. The higher powers in my young world, Catholic priests and nuns, ruled the here and the hereafter. These people taught me how to sustain terror, shame, damnation, physical torture. Oh yes, and that God loved me because he died for our sins. Apparently mine in particular.

My parents did not drink or do drugs. If they had, their behavior would have made more sense. My father was mercurial. One day he would be happy, laughing, telling stories about his years in the Italian Navy and Merchant Marines. In the height of his good mood he’d say, “Tomorrow we’ll go buy a bike.” The next day he would get angry if I brought it up. If I brought it up more than once, he would ridicule the way I asked him and then he’d hit me. I was never really sure how to act. This background in no way excuses my future behavior. At the same time, I got a signal that being truthful was dangerous. In later years, this fear of being honest would manifest in a lack of integrity. Lack of integrity would be particularly acute in my relationships with romance and finance.

The nuns in Catholic school offered a glimpse into the medieval. The place was St. Leonard school in Brooklyn. It should have been called Our Lady of Perpetual Pain and Sorrow. Their brand of punishment would have given Stalin a hard on. These people get into a kid’s head and inject a virulent level of incomprehensible fear. The Church’s approach was holistic, their attack complete: mind, body, soul. God saw and recorded your thoughts — all your thoughts. In Catholicism, the thought is tantamount to the deed. “You mustn’t think evil thoughts.” How can a little kid control his thoughts when most adults can’t? Besides, how does an eight or nine year old define evil? The message I got was that the body was the enemy. The body was always an engine propelling toward sin. They also told us that the body was a miracle and a gift from God. If you touched yourself, Jesus and the Blessed Mother saw the deed and would remember you on judgment day. By the time I was nine years old, I knew I was condemned. At nine I was experiencing an existential crisis. My best hope was to a cop a plea and get into Purgatory. Then Vatican II eliminated Purgatory and I was doomed. Vatican II also eliminated Saint Christopher. But the neighborhood wise guys kept him on their Cadillac dashboards anyway.

There is a problem with the Church’s attempt at control. When one feels beyond redemption, all hope is gone. The notion of restraint becomes meaningless except when avoiding authorities. In other words, the fuck it factor trumps the Pope and the cops.

So what does all this have to do with telling the truth? First, I had to learn what my truth was. I was dismayed to discover that the truth moves with the swiftness a moving target and reality is fundamentally difficult to grasp. Interestingly, alcoholics and addicts believe they have a firm grip on reality.

I tried to live my parent’s truth, the Vatican’s truth, the American truth and perceived truth fueled by drugs and booze. After living through all these filters I had to start all over and create my truth. A project that will take me to my last breath.

What is my truth with women? Philip Roth, Norman Mailer, Henry Miller, Lenny Bruce, D.H. Lawrence and to some extent, Jack Kerouac and the beats were my male role models. Erica Jong was also very influential. My young head was dedicated to synthesizing the information of these authors. They were gods to me. They held the keys to the kingdom. If I was stoned enough, it all made sense.

As a young man, I envied the agility with which these guys articulated their experience with women; dealt with their feelings in a cool way and then moved on. When I read Fear of Flying, I felt like a spy peering through forbidden information. If I could be more like Miller, Mailer and Roth, maybe I could meet someone like Erica. At times, I attempted to emulate one or the other. But I was not them. Nevertheless, I tried to adopt what I believed to be an attractive front because I saw myself as inherently flawed. As soon as I woke up, I felt that I started the day with a deficit. If I did not fake it, I would be nothing. I would never be loved. I would live and die in loneliness, my life would mean nothing.

If I met a woman I liked, I would try to make myself indispensable. I was a carpenter which really came in handy. It is amazing what some women will do for free woodworking and shelving units. I would also cook as well as build stuff. I was a good hustler and would come up with goodies; and I was good at problem solving. I did it all not to be left, which I always was, and to feel loved and needed, which I rarely did.

I did this through all my long-term relationships and some of my short-term ones as well. During all my relationships, it never occurred to me to be honest about who I was and what I was feeling. In those moments when I would allow myself to be vulnerable and sincere, terror would blast through my chest. If they really knew me, they would never like me. Of course I was left; these women were attracted to an impostor. When they got a glimpse of the man behind the curtain, whatever sparks there were died then and there.

The first thing I had to do on my road to recovery was to start telling the truth. I had to start with myself. The 12 step program suggests a fearless and thorough moral inventory. My fear was that I would dig deep and find nothing. I knew I wasn’t evil, I was afraid that the emptiness was really my core. I don’t mean the Buddhist notion of emptiness either. When all is said and done, I feared that the truth would reveal that I was as much of a zero.

It always seemed to me that almost everyone around me had this life thing figured out. They appeared to have life all wrapped up. I suppose when one feels low about self, everyone looks like they have their inner and outer lives together. Of course this is an illusion, nevertheless, when I’m feeling low most people appear to have their lives in such order it would stir the envy of Germans.

As I began to explore life through a more sober filter, I started to express myself more honestly. I started with little things, like saying yes or no when I meant it.

I had to learn the difference between prudent admission and compulsive disclosure. During the day to day run of the mill activities, this shift of behavior was at times fun or moderately uncomfortable. However with women I felt rudderless in a stormy ocean. If I were with a woman I really liked, I found myself being really careful. I would try to balance my fear of rejection with an air of confidence and self-assuredness. Inside, I just wanted to relax. I yearned to hear her say, “it’s okay baby, you’re safe with me, I’m glad you are here.” Then I cursed myself for such unmanly thinking. Christ, I’ve been doing this ridiculous dance forever. I want off this stupid ride.