Day 7

“The elephant is loose,” – the children from the village screamed with piercing quails. The young girls ran for their lives. The mothers in horrific terror scooped up the toddlers and the men grabbed anything at hand in which to drive away the beast.

The elephant is I, and yesterday was my last day at “The Cabin”. The cold iron chains that tied me in place are as real as those little green monsters that climb the walls at night. I need more than a free mind to get to the other side of the wall. I need a free body, for that is where my experiences lie and wait to be discovered.

My status is officially documented at “The Cabin” as outpatient – I’m obligated to return on Tuesdays and Fridays for one-hour therapy sessions with Ali and physical training with Krum or Ty. They tried putting me up at the Hotel Centre’, located inside the ancient stonewalls of the inner city. The room was small and the bed as hard as the solid teak floors. This morning I located the Bodhi Serene, a thirty-eight room boutique hotel build in Lanna¹ style. Because of the holidays the only room available was a specious junior suite costing 5,000 baht. This was the second most expensive room in the city at $ 165.00.

Today is organization day. I found the Mungilala Clinic not far away. Chiang Mai is the Thai version of Philadelphia. A densely populated metropolitan area with a downtown that still works for pedestrians. The Mungilala Clinic owned and operated by Dr Roongrat and Dr Sudhisakwas was highly recommended by the hotel’s staff as the cities best holistic medical center specializing in traditional Chinese acupuncture. I believe this may be my last chance for passive medicine before Dr. Anson, my neurologist in Vegas, will get to sterilize his scalpels and buy his next Porsche from the profits of my operation. My treatment begins on Monday and will continue twice a week until I leave Thailand. I’ll see if I can arrange a pincushion photo of yours truly for the next posting.

I also found the Powerhouse Gym, a ten-minute taxi ride away that offers Pilates instruction. On Monday I sign up for private lessons and continue my quest for a healthy new year. I am determined that 2011, the year of the rabbit, will be significantly better than 2010 was for me. How fitting, the year of the rabbit, I am ready -- get rid of the heavy and bring on the fluffy.

If you noticed that this blog is going downhill since I left all the drama that’s surrounds rehab centers – you’re right. So, as to not waste any more of your time, or mine, my postings will be shared only when there is something worth sharing. I wish you all a very joyful, healthy and prosperous New Year. Celebrate and have a glass of lemonade on me. Remember, celebrations do not have to be associated with alcohol. Go for a hike, smell the roses before the thorns catch you in the ass, give some love to someone deserving, give some love to someone undeserving and cherish your friends and family – I do, you’re the only ones I have.

12/31/10 Larry Rubenstein

1.              The Lanna Kingdom, founded by King Mengri in 1259 was seated in the northern Thai city of Chiang Rai. Its signature decorating style is a beautiful, enduring tribute to that time in Thai history. The steep gabled roofs that descend from an elongated pinnacle into a set of curving eaves identify Lanna architecture. The eaves were made to resemble flames. Most traditional Lanna structures are made from teak and elevated from the ground making it necessary to ascertain that the ground where the structure will be located is seismically stable (or that the structure itself is protected from earthquake damage).

Day 6

Today came from nowhere, like opening a window to discover it’s raining kangaroo’s. A surprising event was scheduled by our creative councilors at “the Cabin”. An outing inside the walls of the old city of Chaing Mai to the Wat Ram Poeng, a Buddhist temple and the Northern Insight Meditation Center of Thailand. We were about to become students in meditation 101, a class consisting of Leslie, Marlon, and myself studying under the personal guidance of Lim, a resident monk and teacher of foreign students. How often does one get the opportunity to learn from a one-on-one contact with an ordained Buddhist monk? The technique we were about to learn was called Vipassana Kammatthana, or walking meditation.

            Walking meditation is Wat kindergarten, or an introduction of how to meditate in general. It is the systematic slow flowing movement of the hands and arms while sitting on a mat. The right hand always moves first as Lim would chant; open, open, open … lift, lift, lift, … touch, touch, touch. The left hand would then follow suite; open, open, open … lift, lift, lift, touch, touch touch. Both hands would end up in a praying position centered on the sternum, and with the same slow concentration you would begin the bow to the floor. This serious of actions would be repeated over and over again. The time one meditated between movements depended on the experience of the individual. It could be as little as a minute, in my case, or as long as an hour for an advanced student. The object is to have you deeply concentrate on the slow steady rhythm of your hands so you don’t get caught up in what’s in, or not in, your head. To see someone perform this with any level of experience is truly beautiful.

            My Buddhist humor of having an empty head is totally unfounded. In reality your mind is simply suppose to be open. Meaning, let in whatever you think, or whatever you hear – whether it’s birds singing or garbage cans clinking, it matters not. Let everything in without any thought to what it is. Let your mind effortlessly drift like water lily's floating in a stream. The direction of the tide should always be inward. That’s the basic strategy. Lim watched my technique except me being hard of hearing created a humorous interaction. He would critique my movement or posture, then, in a more agitated voice than normal he would continually tell me to stop opening my eyes. Except, I tried to tell him I cannot understand or hear what he is saying unless I follow his lips --- to do that I must open my eyes. Finally, it was easier; more in flow with the universe, sort of speaking, to keep my eyes closed and ignore him.

            He set me up with an old egg timer and suggested I start with a ten-minute meditation. Then he hesitated, and changed his mind – fifteen minutes was now suggested. I did my best. I truly concentrated, my movements were slow and accurate – it was my body that had issues. I let in the sounds that surrounded me, the resident students talking in Thai outside of the room. I heard a truck with garden equipment being unloaded, traffic, and the sound of falling water somewhere in the distance. Then I became anxious. My heart rate increased and my breathing became tight and irregular. I thought I was close to the original ten- minute target anyway, so I stopped. The lime green plastic timer displayed a rip-roaring two minutes had passed. This may not be my forte’ I thought to myself,  but it very well may be Leslie’s. She was a natural. Not one movement out of place, her concentration steady, complete in every manner. This may be exactly what she needs, I thought to myself, positive self-awareness without therapy or having to discuss drugs, shame, or guilt included in the dialog. These types of Wat’s are all over Thailand and this one in particular offers meditation instruction in a ten or a twenty-six day course. The courses include residency and are free of charge. Physical labor is required in return for instruction and lodging and monetary donations are greatly appreciated if the student has the financial where-with-all to do so. Finals for the resident students in the twenty-six day basic course are to go three days without sleep and only meditation. 

            Lim noticed my sciatic nerve issues and suggested three times, it appears everything is done in threes, that I avoid bananas and black mushrooms for the rest of my life. I should also begin acupuncture immediately. Why not? I’ve tried everything else. I’ll contact Dr. Succipan in the morning and see if he has any suggestions as to where and how many treatments I could schedule during the next couple weeks. He also said I shouldn’t blame myself that I wasn’t able to maintain the meditation position for any length of time. I told him I didn’t blame myself -- I blamed him. He gave off an easy laugh and said humor is acceptable in the classroom for we are all students together here.

I asked Ty and Luim if we could stop for an ice cream on the way back, I’ll buy, and was rewarded with a stop to a small family owned coffee-ice cream shop with an outdoor seating area in a orchid garden.

Though the elephant’s leg is tied to chain and the chain bolted to an iron pole embedded deep in the ground his mind is free, therefore if he wishes, then he to could be free. I’m the elephant guys – come on, get with today’s spiritual program – maybe it’s not so bad here and these big wooden gates that are keeping me in prison simply exist to keep everyone else out.

            

Day 5

Leslie / Part 2

This morning Leslie’s eyes looked clear and it appeared she was able to sleep. Yesterday they were red, swollen and tearing from withdrawal. She gets her methadone medications throughout the day so it’s difficult to know her state of being for more than a few hours at a time before she swings in the opposite direction.

            She explained what she thought was the origination of her drug use – separation and abandonment, an absence of love from the time she was born. Her family is English, aristocratically rich, and emotionally disconnected from expressing feelings of any type. She claims she can’t remember her mother ever telling her she loved her. She can’t remember being held. She can’t remember ever seeing her parents hold or show affection toward each other. 

            She has been married for twenty-two years and her husband is a Xerox copy of her father. She has absolutely no idea of his true feelings for her. He has never filed for divorce, yet has thrown her out of the house on more than one occasion and refuses her to have contact with their children. He belittles her, reinforces her uselessness by not allowing her to work. He states her job is to take care of the family and be the chauffer for the kids – that’s not what she wants. She wants to disappear, and does so internally. The drugs are the vehicles, not the destination.

            She can’t deal with more than one child at a time, and sometimes not that. The pharmaceuticals begin at dawn. Speed followed by Valium until she crashes. That takes her to 11:00 am. The cycle repeats itself in the afternoon. The kids are scurried to bed as early as possible. It is then when she begins drinking alcohol – gin is her drink of choice. Her cocaine and heroin use is more recreational and saved for weekends when she allows herself a new high. After awhile the cycle plays on her mind like a bad Dracula movie, uselessness, apathy, misery, helplessness, depression and self-loathing combine to form her shame. Shame is the only constant in her life. After awhile she can’t take it any longer and needs to be punished, so she slashes her wrists. It’s never an attempt to commit suicide, but rather proof that she can feel some sensation from time to time. The scars are what she wants, for the scars are a physical reminder of guilt and punishment. Punishment for not doing the one and only thing expected of her – to be a mother. It is when the scars begin to fade that her cycle becomes worse, and she cuts herself again.

           

*   *   *

Talking about blood, my lab work came back today. I have no idea how I can possibly be so healthy, but I am. My liver shows minimal chronic damage, about 10-15%. Dr. Succipan says it will repair itself to complete normality within two to three months. It appears in this short week I have come to understand my medical condition including the severity of my back problems. My original concept was to cleanse myself of all toxins, all drugs and determine how much pain I generate subconsciously, acting as my own enabler to self medicate. Unfortunately, the self-medication worked, at least in regard in masking some of the pain. Walking, standing, sitting is far worse now than it was six months ago. The pain is now a shooting burning pain rather than the aching, annoying discomfort I use to have.

            I’m thinking a second fusion on the lumbar 4/5 is in my near future. I’ll work out the details of recovery and rehabilitation another day. I also decided, with the suggestion of Stu, one of the councilors; how I can obtain continuing support without get involved with AA when I return home. I hate AA, and have since my experience in Boulder. The religious connotations along with the recovered alcoholics that still attend after twenty years of sobriety, mainly for social reasons turns me off immensely. I will hire a councilor weekly or bi-weekly for a private session as simple and as straight forward as my Pilates classes. Everyone needs to find his or her own way, and I think I may have found mine.

Day 4

Monday, and things are supposed to kick into high gear. My personal issues, petty or otherwise are to be discussed, reviewed, and resolved. I have given much thought regarding achieving a compromise between me and “The Cabin”. Ali, an owner, and my caseworker will meet with me today.

            There appears to be a goodly amount of flexibility of the part of the management and staff with daily schedules but zero tolerance allowed from the guests. Ali and Guam were the first staff members to arrive during breakfast. If a first impression is the most important than Ali and I didn’t do to well. I hadn’t started breakfast and was waiting in the open air seating area in front of the offices. I woke up to an emotional speed bump this morning that I didn’t expect. The Internet server was down. The routine I found for myself of waking at 5:00 am and writing, and returning emails, was interrupted – I couldn’t do what I planned and expected to do. I was hoping that when the office opened I could log onto their private line and spend thirty minutes catching up. Maybe Ali also woke up this morning on edge. He saw me sitting there with my laptop on the table and his opening words were,

            “You’re not supposed to have your computer here. It is to remain in your room at all times”. Ali is very English, with a strong accent that makes communication for me more difficult than with the others. Emotionally, he’s on the cold side a typical English trait. He was tan with shortly cropped dark hair and a large forehead that would exaggerate his facial expressions. He appeared to be slightly ticked off.

            “ I wouldn’t be here with my computer if the Internet service that is supposed to be available in my room worked”, I retorted agitated and now expecting a confrontation rather than an interview.

Instead he retreated and said, “That’s fair enough”. Then went on to describe the computer issues here and how the Internet wireless service to my room is on a timer and fails due to reasons no one is able to determine. It is now attributed to humid environmental conditions. My issues seem to be building. I had discussed that my work is important in my day-to-day life and that my being able to be away for four weeks is based upon my establishing a consistent work schedule. If I knew the computers could be down twice a week, and the pool not heated I doubt I would be here.

            Guam turned out to be the unexpected miracle that saved my day. She stood under five foot with no body fat and could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty years of age. It was totally impossible to tell. She substituted the yogi class for a group bike ride. My guess is, that this was for me. She selected a more difficult route than my Saturday ride with Ty, have three hills and riding through a village with traffic. We ripped through sixteen kilometers in about forty minutes and I never fell more than two bike lengths behind her. Back at “The Cabin” during our post ride stretching she mentioned that I get two, possibly three if I request it, one-on-one physical training sessions weekly.

            “We could go on a more challenging ride for you during one of these if you like.” Pulling at her legs with the agility of a yoga instructor and a challenging smile of a competitive marathon runner.             

This ride was just fine, I thought to myself and hobbled back to my cabin to shower and wishing I were fifty again.

            I can feel the positive changes in my body of not drinking and off the anti-depressants. Without my back issues, I could get back to the physical stamina reminiscent of my Boulder days. What the physical exercise did do is insulate my morning mood and create a natural tolerance to the forces we can’t control – like not having Internet service.

            Leslie / Part One

            At forty-three with an addiction problem that spans every known drug to man from alcohol to heroin, Leslie is the most disturbed personality here. Her husband tossed her out of the house and she has lost all legal control of her three children. Her parents disconnected long ago. She has difficultly connecting the simplest dots of life and after sixty days in rehab she is still taking meds to limit her heroin withdrawal. She doesn’t miss her husband or her children and likes the fact no one is expecting very much of her here. She’ll have another sixty to ninety days here before moving to a halfway house. It will be a long time before she’s back in Australia and is allowed to participate in motherhood to any extent.

            She clung to Alissa and would not let her out of her sight since I first arrived. I felt bad by disturbing the group energy. Alissa and I were attracted to each other, conversationally, if in no other regard. Leslie became instantly jealous and clung even tighter. If Alissa were to put on earphones and liston to music, Leslie would follow suite a minute later. It was obvious, I was a threat -- Leslie didn’t like me. Now that Alissa is gone I’ve been trying to win Leslie over to a minimum degree. She’s way behind in her workbook following the twelve-step method. She has a difficult time expressing her feelings orally, and capturing them in written form is almost impossible. I offered to help her with homework if she would let me. I told her I might be able to help her get her emotions into words or pictures. She hasn’t taken me up on the offer, but the fact that I did offer seems to have helped. 

Day 3

Sunday is lazy day at “The Cabin”. Everything seems to be in slow motion and taking longer than need be. Our excursion began with a trip in the mountains to visit a small market where five different hill tribes gathered to sell their wares. The Karen hill tribe [Long Neck’s] that migrated from Myanmar to Thailand onehundred years ago was the most interesting. Notice the gold rings in the photograph of the young girl that are added one at a time during adolescence to promote the expansion of the neck. The original purpose was so neighboring tribes wouldn’t steal their women – and interesting concept.  

Alissa.

This exquisite charming Thai woman resides in Bangkok and has successfully completed her twenty-eight days of Rehabilitation. She checked out for home this morning. I will miss our conversations together along with her warmth and charisma. She was the first guest to greet me when I arrived. Ty was leading a yoga session by the pool that I walked passed following Stu to my new accommodations. Alissa, without hesitation made eye contact and followed with an inviting smile and wave of her hand. At thirty feet I could feel the communication of welcome and the sublime message that life was wonderful – at least on the surface.

            “The Cabin,” was Alissa’s second shot at rehab in the last two years. She was a prestigious fashion designer and the owner a chic clothing boutique in Bangkok. The shop sold her original creations as well as high-end sports wear from Paris and London. There was no way anyone could know that she was an alcohol and cocaine addict. The peer pressure and party life, she explained, was impossible to avoid and still remain hot, as a designer. Her drug experiences were with friends, business contacts and artists. She explained quite frankly, without any hesitation, often she would do lines of cocaine in public. Partying openly in bars and clubs three and four times a week until the wee hours of the morning.

            “Our idiotic drug experiences were determined by our status in the fashion world. We called ourselves designers but our minds were empty, and the drugs didn’t give us the imagination we hoped for. We never know any real pleasure, so we existed in collective destruction.”

She told this to me during one of the few times we were able to talk one on one, usually waiting at breakfast for the others. Many times we engaged in deep conversations that would abruptly end when someone else’s presence was felt.

            Alissa’s shop is closed now. It didn’t take long for that life style to catch up with her. She wants to go home, to her boyfriend and family and reopen the boutique. During one of our last conversations she told me she was totally recovered, just like the last time. Though she still felt remorseful and afraid. Afraid -- because she knows she’s going back to the same lifestyle and to a boyfriend that still uses drugs. We looked at each other without a word passing between us – and knew it wasn’t going to work.

            Sometimes we have to believe in miracles I thought to myself, and prayed for this woman that I liked. I couldn’t understand why she was knowingly going back to the same situation that continually produced negative results. Her life was like a clear glass bottle shattering over a black granite floor, the sound echoing over and over in my brain as I watched her taxi drive away into a pure stainless morning.

Day Two

Christmas morning began with a chill in the air that reminded me of early spring on Pika Road in Boulder. My wardrobe of cold weather wear was limited to one pair of jeans and a light biking windbreaker. I didn’t bring any long sleeved shirts.  

            After breakfast and the morning group/reading session ended it was badminton time. Little did I know badminton is a serious sport in Thailand, consisting of fake serves to fool your opponent and bullet drives reminiscent of spiking in volleyball. This was a match I probably should have avoided. The motions needed to sprint, laterally move, and swing a racket was something I hadn’t attempted in years. After about ten minutes of play I found myself in severe pain. Ty, our athletic director, I believe I incorrectly called him Ali in yesterday’s post, gave my a short deep tissue massage limited to my lower back and buttocks – I was rejuvenated, and with dreams of fame, fortune, and Nike commercials I once again joined my fellow teammates.

            Two hours later I couldn’t believe I was mounting a mountain bike, actually it was the only cross-bike they had – being a gentlemen I let everyone else choose their bikes first. The ride was wonderful. I made a joke of being outside the gates and screamed “freedom at last” one time to many. I’m not sure if it’s my particular sense of humor that goes ignored or the fact that these people are humorless – something I intend to explore in the near future. The two women riding slowed us down, which was probably a good thing for me. Our group of four spent an hour gently coasting on flat narrow paved and unpaved roads that proved to be effortless and thoroughly enjoyable. The scenery consisted of rice patties, private residences of all scales, a Wat, a river and small pond that Ty called a lake. We stopped at a local market for a short break at an intersection and I was reminded of how much I missed my freedom. I’ve been thinking about discussing my unhappiness regarding the rules and regulations that I felt were not discussed during the marketing and evaluation calls in October and November. I also needed to do some cooler weather shopping for clothes very soon.

            The ride was immediately followed by a one-hour massage in my room. The ninety-minute message I requested at registration was met with deaf ears. The masseuse was fair at best compared to my experience in Phuket last September. This was my second massage with the same women, once again my request to change masseuses was ignored. Offering the benefit of doubt, I’ll assume my requests are being ignored due to a skeleton staff over the holidays.

            Christmas dinner was magnificent. It was served buffet style at the side of the river that runs directly behind “The Cabin”. Everyone was dressed to the nines, and the staff looked more youthful and beautiful than ever. If there is one single high point that would keep me here for any length of time it would be the food – The cook has developed the perfect mix of Thai and American dishes skillfully prepared.

            I was very much looking forward to my first night of sleep since arriving. My thoughts were that the sport activities in addition to ending a magnificent day with a full turkey dinner that sleep should easy follow. I didn’t except the problem that would arise. Christmas in Thailand is not the somber religious or family event one might have in the U.S. It’s more like the combination of Christmas and New Year’s all rolled into one – with firecrackers and loud music blasting into the wee morning hours. The private residence directly behind my cabin played the most awful consent electronic drum solo that I guessed was created by a machine designed to perform backup for music lessons. It played a two-minute piece repeatedly, without any musical accompaniment, over and over and over again. I tried using wads of tissue as earplugs to little avail. The electronic bass of the drums vibrated through my bones, I don’t think my ears were used at all.

            Due to my fatigue I fell into a light sleep anyway, but the continuous drum solo caused God awful dreams all having the same scenario. It was a chase theme on foot in small confined office spaces with my aggressor getting closer and closer. Before I was ever caught I would wake for a few moments than fall back asleep then the dream would reoccur with the drum solo as the soundtrack. I was desperate by 1:00 am to tried to find the where this maddening noise was coming from. I wanted to destroy it along with any people that thought this was music. It was silenced by a kind soul around 2:00 am. Only then could I fall into a quiet restful undisturbed sleep that lasted about four hours.

            As I get up from the desk chair after writing this I can feel my leg calf and thigh muscles are quite sore – in a good way. The way you feel after a good day exercising with a new routine. A soreness that says I’m out of shape and need to get my act together. My back is in the same miserable condition as usual – at least I can walk.

            Today, Sunday is our weekly field trip outside this enclave. I understand Hans, the meditation instructor, is taking us to a petting zoo with live Tigers. I’ll take pictures for Luna and Cruz to be posted on tomorrow’s blog.

Day One

Insomnia mixed with my jet lag resulted in two nights without sleep. I was tired of twisting and turning by 4:30am and was waiting for the day to begin. The days here are supposed to be played in a soft relaxing tempo, like listening to the monk’s horns from a nearby Wat. That wasn’t to be the case; breakfast served at 8:15 was interrupted by Stu telling me I had to be ready by 8:30 and go to the Chaing Mai hospital for a medical exam, standard procedure upon admission, status quo, etcetera, etcetera.

            The states could learn a great deal from the Thai medical system. The new patient form was about the size of a large post-it pad and didn’t care what your grandparents died of. The waiting time from registration to seeing the doctor was about ten minutes and didn’t include the three-dozen nurses that acted as support staff. The physician was bilingual, polite, efficient and knowledgeable. The fifteen-minute exam consisted of touching, probing, and asking questions, very old school but one built on confidence and trust.

Did you know the human liver would function normally after it’s 75% destroyed, and repair itself in three to six months if kept healthy. The overall consensus at Chaing Mai medical was that my liver was 25% shot. Hell, that’s better news than I expected and based on the doctor’s projections would mean I have another one-hundred and eighty years to live before I’ll need a liver transplant. By that time a Miracle-Liver will be available in my favorite color. Stripes won’t be available until after the year 2210. Dr. Succipan, a handsome fifty-something man with a reassuring smile suggested, and humbly so, that I have blood work done to insure a narrower margin or error on my one hundred and eighty year theory. The results are due back Tuesday. The doctor’s appointment, blood work and taxi ride in both directions came to fifty dollars. Did I mention Dr. Succipan would bring the results to me personally at “The Cabin”?

            Ms. Ure, pronounced “Or” a case manager and Australian beauty with rich brown eyes and sandy blond hair nestled very nicely on her bare shoulders suggested I rest rather than participating in group therapy today. I seems news travels fast and the entire staff including the kitchen help knows I didn’t sleep last night. I tried to nap, wrestling with boredom, but to no avail. I located the fleet of mountain bikes and chose one for tuning. It was there that I met Ali, my personal trainer, yoga master, weight lifter, and otherwise what use to be called by the girls in high school, a male hunk.

*   *   *

Marlon. The sun was beginning to set over the Mae Hong Son [river], and created a violet glow like neon around the lean boy approaching. He looked forlorn with his head hung low, eyes to the ground and shuffling his feet slowly without any purpose to his stride. I said hello and he nodded back, introducing himself as Marlon and telling me, without my asking, that he had come from an intense one on one therapy session. I asked if he was all right and did his response mean the therapy went well?

            “It did,” he responded, now appearing slightly more alive since someone had taken an interest in his wellbeing.

He surprisingly suggested if I were to wait for him to put his notebook away he would come back and get to know me. Five minutes later he was jabbering away at what I’ve learned was everyone’s favorite topic in therapy -- themselves. If I were to pass Marlon on the street my first impression might be of a young kid trying to look and act tough. His hair was cut short, not a quarter inch from his scalp and he wore a four-day growth like a badge of honor. He was six-foot with no body fat and had those long unnoticed muscles like a seasoned swimmer. If it wasn’t for the lost faraway look in his eyes his facade was of someone who stayed in shape with little evidence of any addiction problems, but appearances can be quite deceiving. Marlon was a retired kick boxer from Indonesia and a serious pill popper at the ripe age of twenty-one. More varieties of pain medications passed through his system them I had ever heard of, or could imagine. Opium derivatives of Hydrocodones were chopped into small grains of white sand and snorted through his nose. Then there was his Valium abuse to come down after the high. He said he tried fighting like that once and lost so badly his back got broken. Then with all that down time he turned to “Zimpy”, crystal methamphetamine. The scary part is he told me how lucky he was.

            He explained, “A young teenager was brought here last week with a crystal meth addiction so bad his brain had neurological disorders resulting in his becoming mentally retarded. He only lasted two days he was incapable of treatment. They moved him to he psychiatric ward for the mentally insane in Chaing Mai. He could no longer communicate with the outside world.”

            Marlon said if they would let him, he would like to go visit his friend inside the old city walls. The friend’s name was never asked or mentioned. I suggested I might go along with him if he wanted. It was obvious to me, Marlon wanted to be someone’s hero and was trying hard to please me, possibly a parent figure that he met five minutes ago. My suggestion to accompany Marlon was my acknowledgement of my acceptance of him and his loyalty to his friend. I knew it would be a depressing wasted trip, his friend was seventeen and dead on the vine.

            It’s Christmas morning in Thailand and Marlon’s mother is coming to visit. He’s getting more nervous by the hour and shrinking with a low self-esteem that gives off an odor of rotting eggs and dead fish. No more jokes for today.

            

Jet Lag

Who ever said, “It’s a small world” never flew economy class. After thirty-six hours of traveling I feel like a seven day old bused Chiquita banana just delivered to Nome, Alaska. My head is the size of a small house and getting larger each minute; my sciatica nerve is shooting lightning bolts of burning pain down my right calf into my ankle. The toes on my left foot tingle, the ones on my right side I can’t feel at all. My shirt is soiled from the micro waved petroleum products passed off by the airline industry as food, and I cut myself shaving the morning I began this adventure.

I was met at the airport by Peter, an Englishmen that came to Thailand eighteen years ago doing charity work with a youth group from his church. He must have been seventeen at the time. Peter was the front man for “The Cabin”, a fair haired, clean-cut young man with easy manners and with an education in hospitality. His starched chinos’, polished black shoes and shinny new SUV were a bit more formal than I expected -- thought I’m not sure what I expected. Possibly a bohemian type driving a 1960’s four-wheel drive Land Curser with open sides and a rag top kicking up balls of dust in route to a our hidden enclave in the jungle.

The road remained paved and the area looked inhabited by healthy villagers. My earlier envisioned white pearly gates turned out to be a stucco eight-foot high wall with a heavy timber gate. The color of the interior was mountain formal – with dark brown timber structures lifted above the ground for protection from the possibility of flooding and the never-ending insects of the jungle. The site plan was delineated in a easily distinguishable pattern of bisecting axis’s with plush green lawns and manicured gardens that separated the simple wooden buildings.

I was introduced to Stu as he emerged from the reception office to meet me, the closet dwelling to the main gate or escape hatch as it will be hereafter proclaimed. Stu was a slightly younger version of Peter proudly claiming a Canadian residency. A past alcohol/addict as I was told as all the caseworkers were. Peter was not my caseworker but handling my admission, I would be introduced to my caseworker tomorrow.

I am beginning to fell anxious about this entire ordeal. I’m not sure why? My first thought is that I possibly rushed a little to quickly to rid myself of the Cymbalta meds. Maybe I should have weaned myself of this particular medication a little slower. After all, I had been on antidepressants for years and petering out in two weeks might have been a tidbit to fast. Oh well, since I didn’t bring any -- time will tell. I promise to be watchful of any confrontation, biting off someone’s head on a first encounter will not add to my collection of friends. In fact I already had a first encounter with Stu, but I thought I handled myself firmly and admirably. During the two interviews over the telephone I stressed flexibility and what I expected from the program --- a sober environment in which to read, to write, to become healthy through exercise and meditation. I did not want a prison where I was to be watched through the eyes of big brother and be lead on adventures throughout the countryside of Thailand wearing a leash. Well maybe that’s exaggerated but Stu did search my belongings and confiscate my mouthwash, Advil, and Benicar, my blood pressure medication. I was told the Benicar would be dispersed to me each morning at the front office. Compromise is the basis of peace so I reluctantly agreed while waiting for the next ax to fall. It did, very quickly. I was informed that mobile telephones were prohibited and mine would be confiscated and returned when I left. This was something I was never told and could not comprehend. Why would they allow laptops but not telephones, it seemed like a funny place to draw the line, I flatly, but politely refused. I have discussed my work with Peter, and for the hour and a half in the morning and the same period of time in the evening I must be available to communicate with work.

“Stu, I am sorry but this is a deal breaker. Not having access to my telephone was never discussed at any time.”

After a bit more discussion of the topic he informed me this could create havoc in the cabin community as three other guests have had there telephone reluctantly confiscated.

“That is not my problem,” I informed him, while calmly sipping the wonderful strawberry smoothie a young Thai lady has served me, they’re daily specialty of the house and offered twenty-four hours a day. Time out. Stu goes running outside just as Peter is waiting for the escape hatch to open and drive his SUV to the land of the living. I take the brief pause in time to look around the reception area and see two desks and an open but more private office to the right. A cabin yes, built like one might find in the mountains of Colorado though offering more light from the exterior. The walls were bare for the most part, as it is difficult to hand things on logs. The desks were cluttered with newly printed forms and the usual array of hold harmless waivers and contractual agreements. I found my personal schedule lying on a heap of forms. Though after a brief glimpse I noticed it was not for me personally, but a general weekly schedule for everyone to follow. A minute later Stu returned, and as I suspected, has agreed, as long as the telephone remains in my room and is only used during the same hours as the laptop. To save face he then adds that this will be more thoroughly reviewed tomorrow.  

I bring up the topic of the schedule. I restate the discussions I had about flexibility and accommodating the individual needs of each guest. There are only a few minor changes I would like to make, with your permission, of course.

The two one-hour messages a week. I would really prefer one and a half hour messages, preferably four times a week. Please realize, my humble blog follower, that a one-hour message in Thailand costs about 300 baht, or ten bucks. The schedule appears very tight beginning at 8:15 in the morning and ending at 9:00 in the evening.

“What, no time for a nap -- poolside, say about 2:00 – 3:00? I see Tuesdays and Thursday evenings the group goes to town and visits a local AA meeting. That sounds very sociable. I was doing a little research and did you know there is a chess club in Chaing Mai that meets on Thursday evenings; I would much prefer to go there if you don’t mind. I also understand they have some very famous markets called the walking markets on Saturday and Sundays, surely an occasional visit to those are acceptable?” All of these comments were added in a very homey manner filled with smiles and subtle compliments about the facilities and manicured flowerbeds.

Stu was a bit lost and I’m sure wished he were not left alone with the new arrival for he had not had a chance to ask the questions most important to him and his staff. Was I suicidal, did I have a past history of child molestation or violence? Was I thinking about violence now? Only in the quiet deliberate controlled manner of a serial killer I thought to myself. Was I ever convicted of arson, the building are all wood he added? The last question was the most difficult by far. Will I agree to not engage in sex with any of the other guests or employees? Damn! He had to throw that at me before I had the opportunity to meet the clientele. I’m giving up alcohol not life, once again thinking to myself and kept my tongue in check. It appears maybe I haven’t cut the Cymbalta off to quickly after all; I’ve gone the first hour without saying anything I’ll regret.

The meeting ended as well as my day at 5:00 in the afternoon after being shown to my room and my personals well fondled by security. Did I fail to mention that although the toilet facilities are very much indoors and suitable, the shower is walled off connected to the bathroom and outdoors under the stars, how utterly delightful.

Preface

In Buddhism life is considered a test, I tend to believe in that philosophy though a bit unsure of who is exactly doing the testing and to whom. With this thought in mind I give myself a great deal of latitude with my thoughts and actions. I have decided to call most of my past life a ‘do-over’, just like we use to do while playing sandlot baseball as kids. If I had a miniature doll of myself I might hold it up to God and kiss it to rid myself of all impurities. Today, December 21, 2010 begins my quest to find something to grab hold of that will define a new place or a new chapter in my life. What I seek most is a new personality, or maybe an attempt to try and reinvent myself and become a different me. I have tried this before but I would always reach a dead-end. No matter where I moved, from New York to Houston, to Boulder, to Las Vegas, I still ended up being -- well -- me. I’ve discovered what is missing in my life never changes? The scenery may change, but the ‘me’ doesn’t. Once I fall into a basic routine I become the same incomplete person I have always been. Those same missing elements of my personality keep haunting at me each time a relationship ends.

I have been joyfully absorbing alcohol through my body for about forty-five years. The fact that it hasn’t killed me by now is beyond any form of rational thought. It has adversely affected every one of my three marriages and most of the numerous relationships that have eclipsed them. I have caused a good deal of mental anguish to women that have tried to love me. Like a monk that must take pilgrimage to a special place before he can truly become a spiritual being, I have decided to journey the 8,842 miles from my home in Las Vegas to Chaing Mai, and skirt the traditional end of the year holidays to begin twenty-eight days of sober reflection. I am not sure if I need alcohol rehabilitation because on November 19, 2010 after I decided to go through with this endeavor, I also realized that it would be hypocritical to continue my lifestyle of guiltless debauchery up until the time of entering the white pearly gates I imagine at the entrance of “The Cabin”. There I will commit my body and spirit to a band of English and Canadian do-gooders who have found a life and business venture in the northwestern jungles of Thailand.

Why give them the pleasure to witness all my withdrawal symptoms so they can speculate with smiles and giggles in some doctors only-room discussing the degree of my infirmity. Sorry boys, I much rather play the martyr in the privacy of my home and test my own fortitude and self-discipline. I have achieved success with the one exception of two glasses of wine when a visitor from Houston, you know who you are girl, dabbled temptation with a hit of sex appeal in front of me and I caved in like the coward I am. No more I tell you, no more. I am stronger than you think. I have stopped chasing the spirits, whether aged to perfection or not, and any remaining pharmaceuticals offered by the generous doctors trying to make me more comfortable while filling there pockets with swag. I stand on my hypothetical soapbox and scream to the hilltops – no more Percocet for pain, Ambian for sleeping, or Cymbalta, my anti-homicidal drug that keeps me putting up with people I can’t stand. No more I say. The pharmaceutical giants of the world be fore warned, tomorrow I start a new life with a brand new day. I have no answers for my quest is only beginning. I only hope to wake up after twenty-eight days with the sun shinning and love in my heart.

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