69. It’s Going to Be Okay

At lunch Tigger didn’t bounce into my office, but some of the old spring had returned to his step.  He told me he had finally accepted he wasn’t getting Tim back.  “I’m going to be okay,” he said. “I didn’t think I could ever be okay again, but I don’t know, I just realized I would be. You ever had one of those moments?” 

I told him about a girl who had dumped me in college.  “While she was dumping me, she described how I should react.  Suddenly I realized not only would I be okay, I would be better off. It was a great feeling. There have been times in my life when I didn’t think I’d ever be okay again, but I kept going knowing that feeling might be just around the corner.”

If I face hardships today, I will try to look forward to that ‘it’s going to be okay’ feeling.    

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

68. Yoda was Wrong

The next day two men were sitting in our waiting room, waiting for Josh The Evaluator. 

The younger man said, “What are we doing here? I’ve tried everything. This isn’t going to work.”

The older man hit the roof.  “You tried? You tried two NA meetings. A girl you met there refused to go out with you, and you never went back. You kept smoking weed and drinking while you tried anti-depressants.  You tried SMART Recovery? You read some of their materials online, ignored their advice, and switched to wine. How smart was that?  You did truly try heroin.  Then you tried methadone, got a prescription for Valium, and smoked weed the whole time. You tried Suboxone? Let’s not even go there. You know what you should try? Try really trying!”

Today whatever I try, I will truly try.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

67. Turning Over a New Tire

At the gym that night a guy I knew told me he was done drinking, he was turning over a new leaf. I said rather than turning over a new leaf, turn over a tractor tire. “You ever see anybody train with one of those tractor tires that’s almost six feet across?” I asked. “First they get low, recognize how heavy their problem is.  Then they get a firm grip.  They bring everything they have to bear.  They expect to struggle most just before they turn the thing over. And when they reach the tipping point, they let it go, completely. Holding on would just get them hurt.  The smart ones step back after they drop it.  Sometimes the tire doesn’t take kindly to being dropped. It bounces and rolls and can hurt them if they don’t distance themselves. Turn over a tire.”

Today I will turn over a tire.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

66. Talent Not Wasted

At lunch The Other Ken slid a glossy catalog across the table.

 “Tim, Tigger’s ex, sent this to me,” Ken said.  “They’re valves Tigger invented. Tim’s company markets them. Some are slight improvements over older models, but one saved the lives of fifty workers in a Texas oil refinery fire.  Tim wanted to remind Tigger of how much good he could do.”

I said, “Or he can sink into his addiction. Spend his time regretting his lost relationship with Tim.”

Ms. Rella said, “I always wonder what never gets invented because of drinking.  What medical breakthroughs never happen, what music doesn’t get written because of some talented person overdosed?”

I thought of all the talented people who did great things, but died young.  How much more could they have contributed?

Today I will be grateful for people who didn’t drown their talents.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

65. Flirting with Disaster

“Week fifteen - my baby is starting to grow hair,” Mick told me. She also told me she had stopped by her brother’s house to tell him. Her brother had been her drinking buddy and dealer.  I asked her if she thought visiting him was a good idea.

She told me she felt tempted but didn’t drink.  She noticed the worried look on my face.  “Have you heard the expression ‘flirting with disaster’?” I asked.  “People flirt with disaster for the adrenaline rush, the thrill of being near the cliff. They love the euphoric recall – remembering the first time they met their new chemical love. That rush, that recall? It’s why some recovering addicts try to just sell drugs, why people revisit the scene of their crimes, why happily married people look for old flames online. Once you start flirting with disaster, it’s hard to stop.” 

“Won’t do it again,” she said.  Her smile made me wonder.

Today I won’t flirt with disaster.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

64. Laughing at Myself

That night I was sitting in my recliner, working on the laptop.  I heard a car horn.  My daughter came bounding down the stairs in short shorts and a bikini top.

Seeing the stunned look on my face, Blondie said, “Daddy he’s twenty-seven, he drives a Mercedes, and he’s going to show me his parent’s lake house. Don’t spoil this for me.” With that she flew out the door.

I dropped the laptop, struggled out of my chair, and burst through the door.  All fear of incarceration left me as I prepared to dismantle Mr. Didn’t-ring-the-doorbell-too-old-for-my-daughter-lake-house man.

What did I find? No Mercedes, no twenty-seven year old, just Brat Boy with a camera.

“OMG – the look on your face,” he said, not recognizing the danger he was in.  He showed my daughter the camera’s display.

“Gotcha so bad!” Blondie said. “I told you I’d get you for pushing me off the couch.”

I took a deep breath, glared at my children, then looked at the display. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.  I was grateful I could. 

Today I will be grateful when I can laugh at myself.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

63. Beware the Onomastic Cure

Tigger and Mick saw Sam and stuck their heads into my office. Mick said, “Hey I want to run an idea past you guys.  I’m thinking of changing my name.  Mick is short for Michelob. I hate my real name – Glinda Belle. Now that I’m sober, I was thinking I might change my name.  Maybe when my baby is born.  Whaddya think?”

“Well it’s not an onomastic cure,” Tigger said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

 “Onomastics is the science of names,” Tigger said. “If you change your name, but don’t change yourself, you’ve just re-labeled the problem. I call that an onomastic cure. If you change yourself, then change your name, that’s starting fresh. Mick has changed, she’s starting fresh. Fresh start, new name.”

 “I totally get it,” Mick said. “Onomastic cures are kinda like geographic cures. If you move without changing yourself first, you’ve only transported the problem to a new zip code.  That’s sarcastically called a geographic cure.  On the other hand, if you change yourself, then move, that’s starting fresh. Fresh start, new address.  Change something inside before you change something outside.” 

Today I will choose real change over onomastic or geographic cures.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

62. Euphemistically speaking

Sam came back, expecting to pick up where he left off. He admitted he had eaten a few Oxys and smoked some weed. His drug screen was positive for benzodiazepines as well.

“I didn’t relapse, I just had a little slip,” he said, laughing.  “A slip is no big deal.”

“Slip is just a euphemism for relapse,” I said.  He stared at me. I added, “A euphemism softens language. Instead of saying someone died, you say she passed away.  If you keep slipping, and you and your lawyer are caught bribing child welfare workers and judges, you will learn some new euphemisms. Let me use a few to describe your future. You will receive government funded transportation to a correctional facility. There you will be surrounded by men dedicated to weight lifting, but unconcerned with societal norms, laws, or customs.  You will have to exchange monetary considerations for safe passage through the rooms and corridors of your new home.  Otherwise, they will make medically unnecessary incisions upon your person using handcrafted cutlery.”

“What does that mean?” Sam asked

“They will haul your butt to prison. You’ll either pay protection money, or muscle-bound career criminals will shank you. Doesn’t sound so good when you eliminate the euphemisms, now does it?”

Today I will beware of fooling myself with euphemisms.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

61. Generation

When I got back to the office, Mick was sitting on the front steps, beaming.  She said to me, “I’m thirteen weeks pregnant and all is well!  My baby has fingerprints.  Fingerprints.  They’re unique, they set you apart from everyone else. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.” I asked her to explain. Mick told me her child would be like her, but still completely her own person.  It gave her great hope her child wouldn’t make the mistakes she had made.

Today I will be grateful the next generation may not repeat their parents’ mistakes.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

60. The bell tolls

The next day I was eating lunch at a restaurant.  The group behind me was discussing the rash of overdose deaths, and a newspaper article about Narcan. One woman felt sad for three people who had died the day before.  Her companion said, “Three less junkies to rob you.”  His friend argued Narcan cost taxpayers money by keeping people alive who would likely need government services.  Their conversation turned to a tailgate party they planned to attend that weekend.

I wondered how they’d react if one of them died driving drunk on his way home from the tailgate.  They’d probably talk about what a great guy he was, and how much life he had left to live, pondering the things he might have done. Nobody would say ‘that’s one less drunk on the road.’ There would be a lawsuit if the EMTs or the ER doc hadn’t used every means possible to save their friend.

I couldn’t blame them.  Most likely they wouldn’t know they had known someone hooked on oxycodone until she died.   Would they say she was a nice person, with much to live for, who might have done great things had she not died tragically?  Or would they say ‘one less junkie?’

Today I will mourn the loss of anyone to addiction, regardless of their drug of choice.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

59. Clear Conscience

While he was signing out for the day, Sam overheard Ms. Rella take a message, “Got it. Have Ken call trooper McAdams tomorrow at the Greensburg barracks.  I’ll make sure he calls you in the morning.”  Sam jumped to the conclusion the trooper was calling The Other Ken about him. He assumed he and his lawyer were in trouble over some shady dealings aimed at restoring his custody of his son.  Thinking he’d lost any chance of seeing the boy again, he got high that night. 

The call had been for me.  Trooper McAdams was putting together a community presentation on the opiate epidemic.  He wanted me to recommend an expert to discuss opiates and brain chemistry.  Sam’s guilty conscience had sabotaged his recovery and happiness in the most unpredictable way.  I added ‘a clear conscience’ to that day’s gratitude list.

Today I will be grateful for a clear conscience.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

58. Time for a Change?

“I’d ask you if you disliked me, but I don’t think you’d be truthful,” Tara said.  I thought I might.  “I don’t like me either,” she added, “but I want to.  My husband has early onset Alzheimer’s.  It’s shaken us up.  He was the kind of guy who’d run you over in a crosswalk, then sue you for getting blood on his Mercedes.  Suddenly he’s apologizing to people and giving money to charity.  I’m in rehab and Amanda is dating a nice kid her own age. We want to be different people right now because we don’t know what he’ll be like tomorrow.  I gotta tell you, being kind doesn’t come easily to me, but I hear the clock ticking.”  She started to cry.

Today I will be grateful for changes I don’t have to make in a hurry.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

57. How Do You Like Them Apples?

“I finally remembered where I’d heard your last name,” Tara said.  She had stopped by my office on her way out of the building at the end of the day. “My daughter goes to school with your son. Her name is Amanda.”

The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Being demanding and entitled like her mother had earned her the nickname ‘Demanda’. Now Amanda was trying to change. She was an apple trying to roll away from the tree.  I doubted she was getting any support from her mother.  I knew from my children that Amanda’s father wasn’t very involved in her life.

Because of confidentiality regulations I couldn’t tell my children anything about Tara or Amanda. I could encourage them to support Amanda.  And, I could take inspiration from someone so young, with so little support, trying not to be an apple that hadn't fallen far from a bitter tree.

Today I will do what I can to help ‘bad apples’ roll away from the tree.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

56. Grenades and Nukes

“I liked my original plan of not telling him someone else might be the father,” Mick said.

“Better a grenade now than a nuke later,” I said.

She nodded her head and sighed, “Better he knows today and he’s a little mad, rather than he feels tricked and betrayed five years from now.” 

“What does your gut tell you he’s most likely to do?”

“I think he’ll accept the child no matter what.  He’s that kind of man.  Sometimes I don’t know what he sees in me.”

“Maybe it’s that you're honest with him, even when it hurts."

“Lucky guy.  I tossed him a grenade,” she said, a tear leaking from her eye.

Today I will remember better a grenade now than a nuke later.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

55. Ready, set…

Mick stopped in to tell me she was in the final week of her first trimester.  She was excited about the baby, but clearly something weighed on her mind.

“I told my boyfriend the baby might not be his,” Mick said, looking away.  “I wanted him to say he’d stand by me no matter what.  He doesn’t know how he’ll react if he isn’t the daddy. I told him the truth, isn’t that supposed to set me free? I feel worse not knowing how he’ll react.”

“Do you know why I still take a daily inventory after all these years sober?” I asked.  “Because the world is full of uncertainties.   Every day I want to know how ready I am for whatever life throws at me. Not possible to be completely prepared, but good to know where you stand, figure out what you need to do. ”

Today I will accept life is full of uncertainty,

and prepare as best I can for whatever life has in store.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

54. What Kind of Word

The next day Carolyn called to thank me.  She said I’d helped her find the strength to take a firm stand with Phil.  I told her I appreciated her call, but she should talk to The Other Ken.  He was Phil’s clinician, and he had helped her much more than I had.

She told me she had thanked The Other Ken.  While the bulk of the good advice she’d heard came from him, she wanted to thank everyone whose kind words helped her take a firm stand with Phil.  

“I needed all the support I could get,” she said.  She asked if she could speak to Miss Rella to thank her as well.  I felt a little guilty as I transferred the call.  The last time I had spoken with Carolyn I had thought I was wasting my breath.  I never expected her to change her behavior.

Today I won’t underestimate the power of a kind word.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

53. Learning to Remember

That night as I sat in my chair ready to write my blog, I remembered:

1. Earlier in the day I’d had a great idea for a chapter.
2.  Really liking the idea.
3.  Thinking readers would really like the idea. 
4. Thinking I should write down that idea. 
5. Saying to myself ‘I’ll write it down after I finish another project.’
6. Thinking I’d never forget such a good idea.

 I didn’t remember the idea.  I did, however, remember a thousand other times I’d done exactly the same thing with exactly the same results.  I hoped I'd learn my lesson soon, and never trust my memory again.

Today I will be grateful for anything I do remember, and for lessons learned the first time.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

52. Training Wheels and Probation Officers

Tigger slid into a chair in my office.  No bounce – I wondered if he was cycling into depression.   He said, “They say you gotta want to change.  What if you want to change because someone else wants you to change?”

“Making a major life change to please someone else is like learning to ride a bike with training wheels.  Eventually either you learn to want change, or at least accept the change, or you relapse.  Either you learn to balance on your own, or you fall hard.”

“See that’s where I think you’re wrong.  I could stay sober just because Tim wanted me to.”

“Maybe,” I said, “It’s not the same thing, but I’ve seen at least a hundred people relapse who stayed clean to make a judge or their probation officer happy.  They never took recovery to heart. Some of them got high the same day they came off probation. In a way, getting clean to keep Tim happy would make him like a probation officer to you.”

Today I will make positive changes because I want to.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

51. The Truth Comes Out

Phil tested positive for benzodiazepines.  He immediately withdrew his written permission for us to talk to his wife.  Phil thought she might be unhappy he had relapsed on her Xanax prescription. Miss Rella told him it wouldn’t take his wife long to figure out why we couldn’t talk to her.

I suggested Phil watch the news.  “You see really old cases getting solved, and even older verdicts overturned. The truth has a way of coming out eventually.”

“It’s not my fault she didn’t hide her pills very well,” Phil said. “She knows I’m an addict.  Now I just need a little time to figure out how I’m gonna handle her.”

The next time we heard from Phil he was staying at the mission.  The truth was obvious to Carolyn.

Today I will be grateful I am honest because the truth tends to come out eventually.
 

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

50. Got Me
The next day The Other Ken did random drug screens and breathalyzers.  To my amazement, Tara thanked him.  She must have seen the expression on my face when I passed her in the hall.  She shrugged, and said, “I’m for anything that keeps me honest. I don’t have much of a conscience.”

I liked to think I kept me honest, but I had to wonder if fear of consequences didn’t help me walk the straight and narrow.

Today I will be grateful for whatever keeps me honest.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)

49. Positive Changes, Negative Reactions

When I got home, Blondie and Brat Boy were in the living room doing homework, watching TV, and talking about Demanda.  Demanda was going to the Homecoming Dance with a sophomore ‘nice guy.’  Blondie was upset with her classmates’ reactions.

“Dad, they act like she did something horrible.  Instead of going with the hottest senior or the captain of the football team, she’s going with a really nice nobody. I think that’s great, but people think she’s up to something, or she’s trying to spite the popular boys. Give the girl a break!”

Brat Boy chimed in, “Never liked Demanda, but if she’s trying to make a change for the better, why is everybody getting so weird about it?”

“When you do the unexpected, even something positive, negative people will be skeptical, cynical, maybe even unhappy. Do it anyway and tell the unhappy folks to kiss your…”

“Daddy!” Blondie yelled before I could finish my sentence.

Today I will make positive changes regardless of who reacts negatively.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)