Ken Montrose's Blog - Posts Tagged "daily-message"
AArdvarks
Young people’s group
When The Boss - my boss at the rehab, not Mr. Springsteen - asked me to run a young people’s group, I politely declined. She laughed.
I argued that I was overqualified. This really seemed to amuse her. I tried to argue that I was under-qualified. She agreed without hesitation.
“Good luck,” she said.
I wanted to run a young people’s group almost as much as I wanted to run into traffic. On the other hand, I’d grown accustomed to eating and I had a mortgage to pay. I knew I had to do the right thing.
“Hey Krista,” I said to the evening therapist when she got to work at lunchtime. “The Boss wants you to run a young people’s group in the afternoon. She wants me to sign your notes, and kind of oversee the group, without actually running it.” The Boss had been amused, but Krista was beside herself.
When she finally stopped laughing, Krista said, “you are so predictable! Check your email. The Boss sent everyone a message saying not to let you con them into running the young people’s group!”
I knew running that group was the right thing to do, I just didn’t want to do it. Later, I would be very glad I did.
Today I will try to be grateful when I’m forced to do the right thing.
When The Boss - my boss at the rehab, not Mr. Springsteen - asked me to run a young people’s group, I politely declined. She laughed.
I argued that I was overqualified. This really seemed to amuse her. I tried to argue that I was under-qualified. She agreed without hesitation.
“Good luck,” she said.
I wanted to run a young people’s group almost as much as I wanted to run into traffic. On the other hand, I’d grown accustomed to eating and I had a mortgage to pay. I knew I had to do the right thing.
“Hey Krista,” I said to the evening therapist when she got to work at lunchtime. “The Boss wants you to run a young people’s group in the afternoon. She wants me to sign your notes, and kind of oversee the group, without actually running it.” The Boss had been amused, but Krista was beside herself.
When she finally stopped laughing, Krista said, “you are so predictable! Check your email. The Boss sent everyone a message saying not to let you con them into running the young people’s group!”
I knew running that group was the right thing to do, I just didn’t want to do it. Later, I would be very glad I did.
Today I will try to be grateful when I’m forced to do the right thing.
AArdvarks: Conspiracy Theories
Conspiracy Theories
Patty, The Office Manager Who Really Runs The Site, walked into my office with her head down. She handed me a thick chart, put her hand on my shoulder, and muttered, “sorry.”
The thickness of the chart reminded me of the only conspiracy theory I’d ever believed. I was convinced most documentation requirements were a scam perpetrated by the lumber industry, with a wink from the government, to create a demand for paper. Only such a conspiracy could explain a chart so thick with daily progress notes, progress note summaries, summary summaries, and a checklist form to track other forms. (There was also a ring stain I hoped wasn’t from a specimen cup.)
When I moved from clinical work to training, I had thought much of the paperwork would fall away. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Most of my time was spent maintaining records, updating contact lists, tracking down lost certificates, and completing accreditation forms that sometimes ran hundreds of pages.
“Thanks,” I said to Patty, forcing myself to smile. ‘The paperwork beast must be fed,’ I thought. ‘I might as well get started.’ I read most of the chart, then wrote a note saying why I thought this client was appropriate for my new group.
Today I will do what I have to with as much good humor as I can muster.
Patty, The Office Manager Who Really Runs The Site, walked into my office with her head down. She handed me a thick chart, put her hand on my shoulder, and muttered, “sorry.”
The thickness of the chart reminded me of the only conspiracy theory I’d ever believed. I was convinced most documentation requirements were a scam perpetrated by the lumber industry, with a wink from the government, to create a demand for paper. Only such a conspiracy could explain a chart so thick with daily progress notes, progress note summaries, summary summaries, and a checklist form to track other forms. (There was also a ring stain I hoped wasn’t from a specimen cup.)
When I moved from clinical work to training, I had thought much of the paperwork would fall away. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Most of my time was spent maintaining records, updating contact lists, tracking down lost certificates, and completing accreditation forms that sometimes ran hundreds of pages.
“Thanks,” I said to Patty, forcing myself to smile. ‘The paperwork beast must be fed,’ I thought. ‘I might as well get started.’ I read most of the chart, then wrote a note saying why I thought this client was appropriate for my new group.
Today I will do what I have to with as much good humor as I can muster.
Michaela
Michaela
The first chart was for a twenty-five year old soccer mom named Michaela. The chart listed her as white, single, employed, and having no religious affiliation. This was her third time in our treatment system. Michaela had left our inpatient unit twice against medical advice. After getting a second DUI, she had been given the choice to complete treatment or go to jail.
Michaela had an eight year old son, and she chose outpatient treatment to avoid being separated from him. The evaluator had wanted her to go inpatient. The judge allowed her to try outpatient with the understanding that should she relapse, she would be required to go inpatient. Michaela wasn’t happy with this arrangement. She blamed the judge, the breweries, the police, child protective agencies, our rehab, and the Ford Motor Company for being in treatment.
Michaela felt cheated. She had gotten pregnant right before her senior year in high school. Her college plans evaporated, as did her relationship with her son’s father. According to the chart, she had summed up her reason for drinking as, ‘I’m a 25 year-old soccer mom working in her Dad’s real estate office. When my son goes to sleep, I’m entitled to a little partying to make up for all I missed!’ I thought about how much more she’d miss if she went to jail.
I will not miss today’s opportunities trying to make up for what I missed yesterday.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
The first chart was for a twenty-five year old soccer mom named Michaela. The chart listed her as white, single, employed, and having no religious affiliation. This was her third time in our treatment system. Michaela had left our inpatient unit twice against medical advice. After getting a second DUI, she had been given the choice to complete treatment or go to jail.
Michaela had an eight year old son, and she chose outpatient treatment to avoid being separated from him. The evaluator had wanted her to go inpatient. The judge allowed her to try outpatient with the understanding that should she relapse, she would be required to go inpatient. Michaela wasn’t happy with this arrangement. She blamed the judge, the breweries, the police, child protective agencies, our rehab, and the Ford Motor Company for being in treatment.
Michaela felt cheated. She had gotten pregnant right before her senior year in high school. Her college plans evaporated, as did her relationship with her son’s father. According to the chart, she had summed up her reason for drinking as, ‘I’m a 25 year-old soccer mom working in her Dad’s real estate office. When my son goes to sleep, I’m entitled to a little partying to make up for all I missed!’ I thought about how much more she’d miss if she went to jail.
I will not miss today’s opportunities trying to make up for what I missed yesterday.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
Addiction is Everywhere
Addiction is everywhere
By the time I finished reading Michaela’s chart, Patty The Office Manager Who Really Runs The Site was back with five more. I was reminded just how big a problem addiction is. There were twelve more people in the clinic who were too old for young people’s group. Our clinic was just a small part of a much larger agency, and our agency was just one of thousands. Many of these agencies had waiting lists. For each person in treatment there were probably ten more who needed help.
Today I will respect my enemy,
I will not test my sobriety, I will remember addiction is everywhere.
By the time I finished reading Michaela’s chart, Patty The Office Manager Who Really Runs The Site was back with five more. I was reminded just how big a problem addiction is. There were twelve more people in the clinic who were too old for young people’s group. Our clinic was just a small part of a much larger agency, and our agency was just one of thousands. Many of these agencies had waiting lists. For each person in treatment there were probably ten more who needed help.
Today I will respect my enemy,
I will not test my sobriety, I will remember addiction is everywhere.
Sales Tax
Sales tax
When Emu left, I went looking for Ann. Ann was nineteen, but looked younger. She had shoulder-length blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her T-shirt and jeans were a little big on her petite frame. Her chart listed her drug of choice as cocaine, which could explain the weight loss. No secondary drug was mentioned, which was unusual.
“How could you afford coke?” I asked, immediately kicking myself for asking such a stupid question.
There may have been a time when she would have blushed at my question, but her first response was a slight smile. “I look like I’m fifteen, but I’m legal. Guys like that.” She paused, and added, “I have to quit. The coke is starting to hag me out.”
She hadn’t done coke for almost a month, but weariness hung on her like an oversized shawl. I had a horrible image of a hard rain driving her to one knee, a strong wind blowing her over, and a puddle slowly rising to drown her.
She reminded me of a man who promised his boys an Xbox video game console for Christmas. Two days later he sold the Xbox to buy crack. He told the boys they had been robbed, but the boys knew.
Today I will remember some things can’t be sold without taxing your soul.
When Emu left, I went looking for Ann. Ann was nineteen, but looked younger. She had shoulder-length blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her T-shirt and jeans were a little big on her petite frame. Her chart listed her drug of choice as cocaine, which could explain the weight loss. No secondary drug was mentioned, which was unusual.
“How could you afford coke?” I asked, immediately kicking myself for asking such a stupid question.
There may have been a time when she would have blushed at my question, but her first response was a slight smile. “I look like I’m fifteen, but I’m legal. Guys like that.” She paused, and added, “I have to quit. The coke is starting to hag me out.”
She hadn’t done coke for almost a month, but weariness hung on her like an oversized shawl. I had a horrible image of a hard rain driving her to one knee, a strong wind blowing her over, and a puddle slowly rising to drown her.
She reminded me of a man who promised his boys an Xbox video game console for Christmas. Two days later he sold the Xbox to buy crack. He told the boys they had been robbed, but the boys knew.
Today I will remember some things can’t be sold without taxing your soul.
Cuiousity and the cat
Curiosity and the cat
A minute after Ann left, James walked into my office. He was tall, and for the same reason as Ann, too thin. His father was from Kenya and his mother British. His speech had a riveting cadence sprinkled with the shibboleths of his mother’s country.
He had tried almost every drug I’d ever heard of, and some I had to look up. While he was waiting to see me – he would have said ‘whilst he was waiting’ – he had been reading an article on locusts. James wanted to know about the college I had attended, what I thought of suboxone, if Hilary Clinton or Joe Biden would be the Democrats’ next presidential candidate, and if I liked to cook.
I steered the conversation to his drug use. As I might have guessed, his use of drugs had started with curiosity. Like so many people before him, he had underestimated just how addictive crack can be and was hooked almost immediately.
Despite my personal rule about never predicting who was going to get sober and who wasn’t, I had high hopes for James. Curiosity almost killed this cat, but I thought curiosity would also drive him to walk through the doors opened by his recovery.
Today I will feed my curiosity.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
A minute after Ann left, James walked into my office. He was tall, and for the same reason as Ann, too thin. His father was from Kenya and his mother British. His speech had a riveting cadence sprinkled with the shibboleths of his mother’s country.
He had tried almost every drug I’d ever heard of, and some I had to look up. While he was waiting to see me – he would have said ‘whilst he was waiting’ – he had been reading an article on locusts. James wanted to know about the college I had attended, what I thought of suboxone, if Hilary Clinton or Joe Biden would be the Democrats’ next presidential candidate, and if I liked to cook.
I steered the conversation to his drug use. As I might have guessed, his use of drugs had started with curiosity. Like so many people before him, he had underestimated just how addictive crack can be and was hooked almost immediately.
Despite my personal rule about never predicting who was going to get sober and who wasn’t, I had high hopes for James. Curiosity almost killed this cat, but I thought curiosity would also drive him to walk through the doors opened by his recovery.
Today I will feed my curiosity.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
@#$%!!
@#$%!!
I walked outside with a cup of coffee to soak up some sunshine. Michaela must have had the same idea. She was standing on the edge of our parking lot, peering up at a hawk circling overhead. I stood beside her and watched the hawk.
Without prompting from me, she said, “I was drunk when Jayson was conceived. What a @%^&* cliché. Knocked up by my @#$%& high school boyfriend.” She turned to look at me before continuing. “I @%^&* hate being here. I hate being @%^&* sober. I hate #@%%+ AA.”
“You know you swear a lot,” I said, laughing.
“There’s a good %^&* chance I’m going to %^&* hate you.”
“Yet here you are,” I said. “You’ve stayed in treatment for a reason.”
“Because drunks make really bad moms, and Jayson deserves a good mom. He deserves a good father, but that wasn’t in the cards.”
“Did you ever notice you don’t swear when you’re talking about Jayson?” I asked.
She stomped her foot so suddenly and with such ferocity that I spilled my coffee. We both laughed, and she said, “I’m going to stay sober. I believe everyone deserves a good mom. I’m bitter, and I’d push you under a bus for a drink. Even so, I’m going to do what it takes to do right by him.”
“I’d admire people who act on their convictions,” I said.
Today I will act on my convictions.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
I walked outside with a cup of coffee to soak up some sunshine. Michaela must have had the same idea. She was standing on the edge of our parking lot, peering up at a hawk circling overhead. I stood beside her and watched the hawk.
Without prompting from me, she said, “I was drunk when Jayson was conceived. What a @%^&* cliché. Knocked up by my @#$%& high school boyfriend.” She turned to look at me before continuing. “I @%^&* hate being here. I hate being @%^&* sober. I hate #@%%+ AA.”
“You know you swear a lot,” I said, laughing.
“There’s a good %^&* chance I’m going to %^&* hate you.”
“Yet here you are,” I said. “You’ve stayed in treatment for a reason.”
“Because drunks make really bad moms, and Jayson deserves a good mom. He deserves a good father, but that wasn’t in the cards.”
“Did you ever notice you don’t swear when you’re talking about Jayson?” I asked.
She stomped her foot so suddenly and with such ferocity that I spilled my coffee. We both laughed, and she said, “I’m going to stay sober. I believe everyone deserves a good mom. I’m bitter, and I’d push you under a bus for a drink. Even so, I’m going to do what it takes to do right by him.”
“I’d admire people who act on their convictions,” I said.
Today I will act on my convictions.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
The Not So Steep Path
The not so steep path
He was sitting in our waiting room when Michaela and I walked back in. Relapse Boy.
He had been in treatment two years ago, when he knew everything, and felt comfortable sharing his wisdom with everyone he met.
I wondered what had happened in the two years. He looked beaten. He had nothing to say.
I shook his hand. “You OK?” I asked. No response. “I’m glad you came back to treatment.”
“Do you remember telling us there were many paths up the mountain?” he asked.
“I do remember. You were telling the group there was only one way to be spiritual,” I said. He winced.
“Well, there’s also many paths through the swamp. On some you just get your feet wet. Some paths take you to crazy, scary places.”
“So why travel those paths?” I asked. “Why not climb the mountain?”
“Because the paths leading into the swamp are all downhill. The water never looks that deep, and the alligators seem far away. The path up the mountain always seems steeper than it really is.”
He stared at his shoes for a long time. Something had happened in the swamp, but I decided not to press the issue.
“You ready to climb one of those ‘not as steep as it seems’ paths?” I asked. He nodded.
Today I will climb the path.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
He was sitting in our waiting room when Michaela and I walked back in. Relapse Boy.
He had been in treatment two years ago, when he knew everything, and felt comfortable sharing his wisdom with everyone he met.
I wondered what had happened in the two years. He looked beaten. He had nothing to say.
I shook his hand. “You OK?” I asked. No response. “I’m glad you came back to treatment.”
“Do you remember telling us there were many paths up the mountain?” he asked.
“I do remember. You were telling the group there was only one way to be spiritual,” I said. He winced.
“Well, there’s also many paths through the swamp. On some you just get your feet wet. Some paths take you to crazy, scary places.”
“So why travel those paths?” I asked. “Why not climb the mountain?”
“Because the paths leading into the swamp are all downhill. The water never looks that deep, and the alligators seem far away. The path up the mountain always seems steeper than it really is.”
He stared at his shoes for a long time. Something had happened in the swamp, but I decided not to press the issue.
“You ready to climb one of those ‘not as steep as it seems’ paths?” I asked. He nodded.
Today I will climb the path.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
Intuit
Intuit
The next day my email harbored a series of disappointments, messes to clean up, and mind-numbingly boring tasks. I was torn between putting off that day’s work until the next day, or faking my own death.
I remembered the promise from the “Big Book” (Alcoholics Anonymous) that I’d know intuitively how to handle situations. It said nothing about how easy or difficult handling these situations would be.
“Find a reason to be grateful,” I said to myself, out loud. Despite all the booze, drunk driving, dicey situations, and my habit of antagonizing angry people with my drunken ‘wit,’ I came out of my addiction still able to think. I could still intuit solutions.
Today I will be grateful for situations I can handle, even if handling them is no fun.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
The next day my email harbored a series of disappointments, messes to clean up, and mind-numbingly boring tasks. I was torn between putting off that day’s work until the next day, or faking my own death.
I remembered the promise from the “Big Book” (Alcoholics Anonymous) that I’d know intuitively how to handle situations. It said nothing about how easy or difficult handling these situations would be.
“Find a reason to be grateful,” I said to myself, out loud. Despite all the booze, drunk driving, dicey situations, and my habit of antagonizing angry people with my drunken ‘wit,’ I came out of my addiction still able to think. I could still intuit solutions.
Today I will be grateful for situations I can handle, even if handling them is no fun.
AArdvarks (c) 2013 by Ken Montrose
Pondering
“Whatcha doing? my son asked me on a Wednesday night. I was sitting in my writing chair with my laptop open.
“Pondering,” I said.
“Pondering looks a lot like staring into space, listening to really old brain cells die. Whatcha pondering?”
“Whether to start the next book tomorrow, or just send out a notice saying the new series begins on Monday.”
“I know what you’d say to me, ‘don’t put off until tomorrow, blah, blah, blah.’”
I knew he was right, but I said, “Now I’m pondering the cost versus the benefits of sending you to military school.”
He snorted. “You’d miss me way too much.” I knew he was he right.
Today I won’t procrastinate. And, I will hold myself to my own standards.
Life on Life’s Terms II © 2015 by Ken Montrose
“Pondering,” I said.
“Pondering looks a lot like staring into space, listening to really old brain cells die. Whatcha pondering?”
“Whether to start the next book tomorrow, or just send out a notice saying the new series begins on Monday.”
“I know what you’d say to me, ‘don’t put off until tomorrow, blah, blah, blah.’”
I knew he was right, but I said, “Now I’m pondering the cost versus the benefits of sending you to military school.”
He snorted. “You’d miss me way too much.” I knew he was he right.
Today I won’t procrastinate. And, I will hold myself to my own standards.
Life on Life’s Terms II © 2015 by Ken Montrose
