It’s not a heralded anniversary. Big parties are not the norm. It’s a mark that passes by, just another day on the calendar.
Today is six years sober. Almost forgot, not the sober but the date. Walking in the Downtown Eastside and a post from Guy Felicella sparked looking up the actual date.
If you’re not following him on Twitter, you should be. You may agree with him or be exasperated by him, but you will be provoked to think about the topic of recovery in ways you didn’t consider. He’s @guyfelicella
A recent post finds him talking about people in recovery who have ‘recovery capital’ – where they have a good life and after completing recovery will have support of family, friends and employer which makes it so much easier to succeed.
That’s in contrast to those without that support system, who may not have a home or job, and will struggle to maintain sobriety.
This struck a chord, as I had the good life – a home, job and friends committed to my sobriety. Others I spent time with at Cedars did not, with some of them tragically dying despite a desire to succeed. They weren’t given the tools to succeed outside of recovery.
On a walk yesterday morning in the Downtown Eastside that hit home again. It doesn’t seem to be getting better and we need to try a new approach.
Warehousing cleans the street but doesn’t cure the symptoms. Talk of wraparound services usually means how to keep a pulse and not how to reanimate someone’s life.
We need to ensure those with the tougher path have support in the journey (Read Guy’s post here).
It’s going to cost but the price of failure is infinitely higher for those in need and society in general.
After arriving to secure the desired site and collecting some firewood, we headed out in the side-by-side to explore. Five minutes up the first trail, the backend of two white tails were in view as they scampered down into the protective embrace of tightly-spaced trees.
That would be it.
Over three-and-half days, those backsides were the only sightings of game – some chipmunks and a quail not withstanding.
Which is okay. Stocking the freezer would have been nice. But being outside and away from the constant churn was rewarding.
Everything tastes better at camp, a roaring fire warms more than toes and comfortable companionship brings an inner peace.
Plus, it was chance to take in the majesty of nature in a different season than summer. The colours more vibrant and the air more crisp. It puts life into perspective.
We started out hunting for one thing and came across tranquility. So we did bag something.
Welcome to Act III. What to expect? Excellent question. Think of this as interactive experience where you get to play a role in what comes next.
For those of you just joining, here’s quick recap.
Act I was nearly 15 years in journalism, which included hotspots like Kapuskasking, Timmins, Quesnel, Salmon Arm, Prince George, Chilliwack and Surrey. It was an incredible time, back when newspapers truly reflected the communities they served and the rush was to get it as right as possible without pressure to break it first. Flew with the Snowbirds, interviewed prime ministers and premiers, started a paper and just became a part of each town.
Then Act II was a foray into politics. Just before leaving Prince George, was dropping film off to be developed (that long ago, yes) and have the distinct recollection of telling Grant, the owner/operator, that the expectation was for the job to last max eight years. Was off by 12.
But what a ride.
And an honour.
Getting to serve the public in such a role, working with leaders like Premier Clark, Senator Denise Batters, Shirley Bond and a host of others, is an experience this boy from Barrie never expected to have. It was a constant journey.
Throughout it all, I’ve always said political jobs are not for life – they are for a time, they will prepare you for just about anything. Vivid is the memory of telling a friend after 2013 it was time to move on and then I didn’t. I stayed. Then was almost out in 2017 till Rich Coleman dragged me back in. Now it’s time to put those skills to use in a new forum.
I’ve been lucky – been both a firefighter and a roadbuilder in this phase of my career. Dealing with issues and also communicating policy, each have their own unique high. Six years in the premier’s office provided many examples of both. The bottom line in each, though, is the same: know want you stand for and work out from there.
Which brings us to the next act.
It’s definitely time for something new, but I don’t know what that means. So, as I still mostly think of myself as a writer, I will chronicle the journey. Over the past few years, you’ve joined me as I’ve altered my physical health, stayed with me for the inner reworkings and now you can be part of seeing what blossoms from all that work.
Take a resume, as an example. Do people still do them? Or do you just TikTok it? Found an old one but it was five pages in length, which seems long for today’s shorter attention span. Through some creative editing, have it down to one. Pretty, it’s not. Functional, yes. Which basically describes me.
So welcome along, expect occasional updates and you can be part of it but letting me know of any exciting opportunities. I’ll even send you copy of resume.
Recovery has a language unique to the process but it also shares some nomenclature with child development. As such, I feel like I’m entering the terrible twos.
When a baby is born, development is measured in days, then months and at two the ruler changes to years. It’s the same in recovery. That first day, the coin on the first month, then again at three months and six. Then it’s one year and 18 months. Finally, two years and the next milestone comes after a calendar year.
A first task for parents is getting that newborn into a routine, which gives something approaching a predictable routine. And recovery is no different.
Sitting in group at Cedars, the need for structure was emphasised. For many, it was a commitment to attending meetings as often as possible. Being the rebel, I rather dramatically said I’d rather shoot myself in the head than do that. I pronounced that I would be seeking balance – a meeting here, yoga there, a movie night out or dinner with friends. Ah, the halcyon days of pre-COVID.
That, of course, failed to materialize. I did attend meetings at first, even got my three-month chip which I carry every day and it doubles as a marker on the golf course. But Zoom wasn’t the same after hours on it for work, so I’m long overdue for an in-person and a few more chips.
Yoga became one of the cornerstones for the structure I needed, an opportunity each night to separate and focus on breath. As hokey as that sounds, it’s true. The routine provided balance off and on the mat.
The other foundation has been running, something I practiced before and that has become even more important. It’s the time when the basics are observed: movement and breath and covering ground. The simplest of tasks provide respite.
And that’s been one of the keys to getting through 24 months, especially during a pandemic. Shunting the world aside and allowing the focus to be on me and not the beeping of my phone.
But now we’re at the terrible twos, where the temptation is to push the limits, see what you are now capable of and confident you can handle it all. Plus, the world is slowly opening and life is becoming, thankfully, less solitary. It brings challenges though.
That’s why I’m approaching this milestone with some trepidation. This is not, by the by, a harbinger of some great shaker for my birthday. This is simply a way to not keep thoughts boxed up till they burst. My approach on this journey has been to deal with issues as they come up honestly. I’ve never said I’ll never drink again, as that seems like a set up for failure. Instead, I choose not to drink today.
Each day I check the Cedars app and the people who inspire the most aren’t the ones who have five years or 12 years, though that provides comfort. It’s those with the courage to notify their peers of a stumble and that they’re starting over that provide motivation.
So as the terrible twos begin, it’s with an openness that cockiness could lead to temptation; that coming this far doesn’t mean all the past problems have been solved. It’s opting to share my truth to be prepared to slay dragons as they come.
When I run into John Horgan I always call him premier. And when we’re done debating Doctor Who, I say ‘goodbye premier.’ The same when encounters with ministers occur, I accord them the respect of the office they hold.
Why do I share this? It comes from the belief that Parliamentary practices need to be respected. That the work done at 501 Belleville is more important and rises above the people who inhabit the position for a time.
The respect is for the office, which is the population as whole. We – all British Columbians – can vigorously disagree on issues but the institutions invested with authority deserve respect or it all crashes down.
What has spurred this? The decision of Premier Horgan to skip the last two Question Periods and then appear in the Legislature seconds after it ends.
Why does this matter? The Legislature won’t meet again now until October, meaning no opportunity for MLAs to hold the premier accountable.
Our whole system is based on accountability, about the opposition being able to ask questions on behalf of British Columbians. Hiding in your office is ducking.
No premier likes being challenged but they shouldn’t cower from it.
And before trolls start talking about my former boss, here’s the facts. Did she appear in every QP? No. When she was in Victoria did she sit in her office? No.
To be honest, I can’t recall a premier dodging the final day of QP. But this premier was either afraid or “arrogant in his confidence.”
Ultimately, it was disrespectful of the Legislature and the people of British Columbia.
My friend Cam and I about a decade ago. He hasn’t changed much, me a wee bit
“Please tell the truth about why I died. We need to open up the conversation.” Strong words, for sure. Imagine, though, you wrote them just three days short of 19 years of life, that the pain was so unbearable that ending your life seemed the best option available and yet, somehow, your thoughts turn to ensuring others don’t suffer the same pain. Can you imagine? I can’t. I’m not that strong.
Society is evolving. Talking is not seen as weakness. A stiff upper lip is not the preferred attitude anymore. While the openness to hear is welcome, it doesn’t mean those who need to talk can always do it. Guilt continues to press a strip of tape over their lips. It’s fraying, fragments of speech might slip out but there’s no geyser of detail. There’s guilt over feelings that seem disconnected to having a good upbringing. There’s despair that you continue to fail those you care for, repeatedly. Weighted down, the best direction seems to be to fall further and prove the unworthiness you feel.
How do I know? Been there. As an 18-year-old angel-armed in a snowbank in southwestern Ontario and calling on God to bring me home; instead a Samaritan was sent and the journey continued. As a thirtysomething who moved every two years to avoid connections and caring and being able to ‘reinvent’ while really just repeating. And as fiftysomething, who reached a point where caring was just too much work.
Did I have friends? Yes. Was I moderately successful at my job? Yes. Could I battle the ennui and despair on my own? No.
The first small step, sadly, came after the death of Georgia McAlpine, who penned the words that start this confession. She was the daughter of my friend Cam. My weaknesses and excuses prevented me from providing the support I wanted, fear acted as a greater motivator than love. It’s important to remember that telling folks it doesn’t matter won’t alter what resides in their gut. They expect you to be kind and loving, which then makes the inaction all the more devastating.
I decided to pen a letter to Cam, yes, a letter. Old newspaper guys, with ink flowing in the veins, can communicate with words. Largely forgotten are the exact phrases, but not the sentiment: you’re a good man, I’m sorry and the next year I promise to try and be a better man in honour of you and Georgia.
Did it work? Sketchy results. Ultimately, about two years later in 2019, crossing the threshold of Cedars at Cobble Hill would provide the jolt to push away some of those fears and, more importantly, how to cope with them.
It’s about being honest, figuring out why there’s pain and then addressing it. One skill those who are suffering develop is a knack for storytelling, for giving the illusion of improvement while revealing very little. I’m a very good storyteller. My first days at Cedars, even knowing and accepting the need to dig deep, were highlighted by stories. I’d write out for my counsellor, sharing experiences and feelings heretofore not mined. But when sharing, storyteller mode took over – enough detail to elicit some sympathy, enough babble to show I was dealing with it. Then someone looked at me: “I didn’t like it. I didn’t connect with it.”
That was a lightbulb moment for me.
Connection is the hardest thing to do. It takes time. If someone is reaching out to connect, they’re not necessarily looking for answers. They want you to listen. Do I share more? Yes, to the chagrin of my golf buddies. But don’t fear I’m unlikely to bend your ear and share my story if we’re ever side-by-side on an airplane.
It’s important to share. To make voices heard. To let people know they can share their stories. For those hurting to see that with help life can seem a little easier. But it requires people standing up. It challenges all of us to do better. Saying I’m FINE might not mean that. It could mean Fucked Up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. So, take the time and really listen. That’s what you can do.
And there’s one more thing you can do. You can support Georgia’s Wish.
Being well aware of my own flaws as friend, partner and father, I’ve always admired the way my friend Cam inhabits all those roles.
No matter the number of stumbles on my part, his friendship and support are never in doubt. And when I felt that I had most let him down, what did the sweet bastard do? He comforted me.
Now, he’s not perfect. Not knowing what a gridiron was and exceedingly poor taste in headwear are prominent challenges. But he’s a good man. And as two guys in their 50s (he looks older but I am), we don’t share how we feel nearly enough. Though, that might just be me. That’s why I’m so excited to be able to run along side him in this special project.
I’ll let him explain.
There’s a hill behind our house we refer to fondly as Georgia’s Mountain. It’s not actually called that, but that’s how we think of it. Georgia used to climb up it when she was young. She’d go up there and just look out over the valley and think. It was her peaceful place. (That photo at the top of the page is her on top of the hill when she was 15.)
Starting at 5 am on July 1, I’ll be running up and down this hill over and over and over until I’ve accumulated 5,000 vertical metres. The hill is about 40 metres high and a quarter of a kilometre bottom to top. Which means I’ll have to climb it 125 times give or take, covering approximately 65 kilometres in the process.
Is it going to be hard? Yes.
But to me this route is important. Because for many people suffering from mental illness, every day is like waking up, and looking up a hill with feelings of dread, knowing they have to climb it yet again. Every day, over and over, the same hill of pain, anguish and distress.
For those who don’t know, Cam’s daughter took her own life on October 4, 2016 – just three weeks shy of her 19th birthday. In her goodbye letter to her family, she asked: “Please tell the truth about why I died. We need to open up the conversation.”
And since then Cam and his family have done that, exhibiting nothing but strength and compassion along the way. They started Georgia’s Wish and this run is a fundraiser for that.
On Canada Day, I’m going to do my best to get Cam near the finish line so he and Georgia run across the line together.
“Not in a joking, out with the boys kinda way. A laugh line that elicits guffaws and a toast.
“But in a way that is striking with it’s simplicity and power.
“I’m Shane. I’m an alcoholic.”
Much thought has gone into how best to open this post. Try for cleverly witty or maybe distressingly profound or would sadly reflective work best. Then a memory, the simplest of words penned just five days into my stay at Cedars at Cobble Hill. Real, raw and true then and as valid today, one year into sobriety.
It’s not as if the thought that I had a drinking problem had never crossed my mind. It dwelled in the corner of my brain and soul for years. The activity, the behaviour, all led to one destination. However, it was easy to take a side-road to lengthen the trip, think of it as trying to avoid a road check.
Half-hearted attempts failed, taking the needed steps skipped over due to a lack of courage. But friends and co-workers (really both at once) stepped in and forced the situation. Call it intervention, call it ultimatum or kick in the ass. It was an opportunity to be grabbed by a man thirsty for not a drink.
Everyone arrives at Cedars in different ways. Some propelled by inner strength, others by guiding hands and others with great reluctance. Tales of people drinking on the ride to the rural setting of the facility or taking one last hit in the parking lot for nerve are legion. I entered with a sense of relief, knowing it was the right time but frightened by the work ahead. Not just admitting the problem but delving into the past that had been so neatly sequestered away.
It’s easy to convince yourself it’s not that bad, you’re not as bad as that person or that person. You haven’t hit rock bottom and you can deal with it on your own, as others really need the support offered by counsellors.
A poem, though, began to change the self-image.
It was a Saturday, where all residents gather and participate in a group activity. This occasion was poetry writing, many so heartbreakingly sad as they recalled and totalled the losses of their addictions. An unlikely one is etched in the memory.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I’m in rehab
And so are you
We were all equal – our progress in life was measured by the simple fact we were sharing rooms in the log lodge of Spruce House, that from whatever highs we had achieved to the lows we were arising from there was a sameness when you cut us. We were all equal in needing the community that is Cedars.
Another woman, who had just joined our home group (a small grouping that you spend the most time with), drove the knife deeper. Emanating fragility, she seemed to be in her own world – freed from the conversations we were having. One of the weekly tasks in home group is telling how things were going in your recovery, then then rest of the crew offer one-word blocks or resources (what’s getting in way of recovery and what’s helping). And even if you’ve just arrived, you participate. So, when this woman’s turn was approaching, I suspected she would pass. Instead, she surprised.
Like an art restorer, who knows there’s something worthwhile under the painting, she stripped me bare. Not using the cheat sheet of words that were familiar to all of us, favouring to draw on her experience and call bullshit when she saw it – in a way that was imbued with wisdom and not a hint of anger.
That was reinforced by another woman, who after hearing my ‘story’ for the first time just peered over her glasses and in a soft voice said, ‘I didn’t feel it, there was no connection.’ And she was right.
It’s so easy to craft a narrative, especially when that’s your job and a facility with words is one of the gifts that have been bestowed on you. Acknowledge the flaws, make it seem oddly romantic and drop a few self-deprecating remarks to bring people along for the ride. It’s smooth, believable (especially to you) and just a façade.
A few weeks later, after many sessions with various groups and counsellor, it was time to retell the story, in front of a larger group and without a lot of prior notice. No chance to really prepare, to edit and work out the material. Just do it.
I did not enjoy it.
But it was cathartic. It was the moment I’d worked assiduously to avoid since arriving. Pen to paper, not a problem. Share quickly in group, easy to do. Emotionally open, no thanks.
Admit the litany of failures that hurt family and friends and deal with fact that cosmetic changes to appearance are not a substitute to beginning the process of healing. By the end, I felt spent and, thankfully, hugging was not taboo.
And it is a process. Being at Cedars is relatively simple: you can’t drink or do drugs, everyone is supportive and the outside stresses can wait. The fear is what happens when you walk out the gate. It was relief coming in and discomfort abounded when leaving time approached.
Would fate be tempted? Was I fixed? Had I dealt with the devils in the past? Was it like cancer and if you cut out the mass of misery then you’re cured? How do you handle all the eyes on you? Do you tell people you can’t drink?
One alteration in philosophy, for me, has been key: Can’t drink versus don’t want to drink.
Can’t is like a red flag, covered in the sweet taste of nectar and in a vault where entry is not that difficult.
Don’t want to drink is my decision. Each day I make the same decision. It’s comfortable. I don’t need to explain, unless I choose to.
This story is short, though for you the reader it might not seem so. There’s no litany of escapades and that’s by design. It’s not a competition and every journey is different – the particulars of how we arrived don’t matter, it’s recognizing where we have arrived. Maybe I’ll write about this topic again. Possibly I won’t. I just know that right now is the right time to share this portion with a wider audience.
So, what wisdom has been gleaned after a year? It’s hard work, maybe not in the way you imagine. No waking up in a sweat after a dream about a pint. No longingly gazing as a wine glass gets refilled at dinner with friends. The sweat comes in discovering the balance that works for you, that upsets some of the old habits: for me that’s running, yoga, Wednesday ethics meeting, golf, baking and reading.
The most challenging component: communication, it’s keeping an open heart and finding the willingness to share.
One of my bad habits is erecting boundaries, not wanting to be a burden on others and opting for lonely brooding with multiple eight-packs. I endeavour to now let others set their boundaries, let them decide how much they want to hear and have discovered people don’t see it as an extra weight but an opportunity to help someone.
Which is not to say I’ve mastered it. I have not. But I try. Every 24 hours, I try.
At Cedars, the word FINE is basically outlawed. You can’t say you’re fine as it means Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. It means you’re not dealing with the issues in life, that you’re trying to sweep challenges aside and hope they evaporate.
This pandemic has been hard on many, forcing them into isolation and situations never faced. The pressure can be immense and the desire to pull back, to keep it all in and become a brooder is immense as no one wants to believe they are a millstone to others tackling similar challenges. Saying your fine seems the simplest option.
Being fine isn’t anyone’s reality currently. Sharing though can get you through it. On offer here, two ears to listen and one mouth that will remain zipped. Cause sometimes all you need is to be heard, without judgement.
Back 75 pounds ago, I posted an early run and the pace as recorded. A friend challenged it, somewhat disbelieving that someone of my girth and appetites for beer and bad food could achieve that speed for any sustained time.
His misgivings were understandable. But somewhere in my bones remained the vestiges of the runner I once was. It’s possible the time was off, as it was sourced via by iPod mini. But the effort was real.
Since then I’ve kept track of time, pace and distance. And I post them.
The primary reason is accountability for me, to myself and my training and my goals. It’s a selfish decision to post, as in doing so it prevents me from exaggerating. There are no fishy times – they are what they are.
As many know, the treadmill is my nemesis. It kills me. And it would be extremely easy to quit, to simply push the pause button and hit the shower. No one else particularly cares, but the workouts are either 44 minutes or 56 minutes – precisely. Quitting early is a form of cheating; however, knowing the post will be public forces those final few minutes out.
On the road, it is slightly different. When five, 10 or 15 kilometers away from home there is the imperative to return to the starting point. Running wallet free means catching a Lyft back is not an option.
Sharing the effort of the day is also a visual reminder of progress or stagnation, something all runners will experience. It’s a way to say ‘I tried’ and that on that day, at that time, it was the best you could do.
Also I’ve been touched by those who have shared their support for the physical transformation the posts represent. Some profess admiration, some confess to being motivated to start the process themselves and some make sly jabs about why I waited till my 50s to renew my affection for running.
So is it braggadocio that motivates the posting, no. Is it a desire to hold myself answerable? Yes. Does it feel good to know others might feel inspired? It would be fraudulent to say otherwise.
The times, though, ultimately are unimportant. Advancement is not in the pace, it is found in the evolution, in the forward movement and crossing the line that works for you.
While some may put it down to a natural curmudgeonly streak, there is no excitement bubbling up in this quarter for tonight’s #WeTheNorth match as the Toronto Raptors look to bring the NBA championship to Canada for the first time. None. Not an iota.
Some will see this as heresy – a rejection of tribalism and nationalism all rolled into one. It’s not. When it comes to sport, tribalism is alive and well. And it’s not a dislike of Toronto (though the words The Six will not pass through these lips). Hockey, it’s the Maple Leafs and in baseball it is the Blue Jays. And with both comes long-suffering.
A team is always your team is my mantra. A change in geography doesn’t alter that. Adopting a new team with every move seems a perfidious action. Own and suffer – just like I’ve had to for the past 25 years.
Maybe that explains the lack of enthusiasm for the Raptors. When the team – who resembled and played like Barney – first entered the league this scribe was already enconsed in British Columbia. Any loyalty at that point would have gone to the Grizzlies. There’s no connection to the team, no youthful memories to dredge up and start the adrenaline going.
With the Leafs, so hard to highlight one of the humiliations. The whole Ballard era, the hope of Sittler and Lanny, followed by Wendel and the damn Kerry Fraser call. And with the Jays it was shivering in Exhibition Stadium and skipping school to watch from couch the very first game when, in the snow, Doug Ault homered to beat the White Sox.
With the Raptors, nothing. And there was no connection to the Grizzlies. And not just because they sucked and were always in chaos. In all honesty, the problem is the sport itself.
On paper, basketball shares a dynamic with soccer. The best players find space, create openings and have moments of individual brilliance. It’s a team sport but a Jordan or Messi can still change the outcome with one dramatic intervention.
But in practice… it’s so boring. Up and down, up and down, score, score, score. It’s the only sport where you expect to rack up points on every possession (unless you count darts as a physical activity).
Athletic, yes. The range shown by LeBron and Zion Williamson is astounding. But it’s so boring. It’s 42 minutes of back and forth. In contrast, the excitement of soccer is knowing that one moment can change the outcome. That each foray into enemy territory is meaningful in a way that lugging the ball up court isn’t.
There. It’s out of my system. The sport isn’t that exciting to me. Nationalism isn’t really in play for me. The Raptors win, good for them. Instead, I’ll be crushing yoga.
Back 75 pounds ago, I posted an early run and the pace as recorded. A friend challenged it, somewhat disbelieving that someone of my girth and appetites for beer and bad food could achieve that speed for any sustained time.
On the Right Side 