Dylan Stafford

…damn… The Dallas Cowboys are no longer in the playoffs. They got beat by Favre-bean and the Minnesota Vikings, 34-3. Favre, who is the same age as me, but 200% tougher, handed Dallas an ass-kicking.

My wife and son are out of the house. This morning, Marisa asked what I wanted for my Sunday. “I want to watch the Cowboys game.” I stated clearly. “You will have to be a single mom for the whole morning. I’ll do anything else for the rest of the day but I need to watch the game.”

She said that she would take Jack to the park or maybe the aquarium and that I could watch the whole game. She then proceeded to take a shower, blend up some smoothies and vacuum in the living room, eating up almost the entire first half before leaving with Jack. My wife gives me what I want but on her schedule.

Marisa and I had a fight last night. If we are going to make a second baby it is the time of the month to take action. She told me yesterday morning that after we put Jack to bed last night we would need to get going. By the time we got to Saturday night, I was not in the mood for baby making and instead we had a quiet fight. Our anger was staggered so we were never both angry at the same time. Finally it was time to go to bed and pray for a better Sunday.

It’s time to make a baby and you’re not participating. Shame on me. Not a man. Bad husband–Marisa didn’t say any of those things. But I said them to myself.

As I learned to live sober, someone taught me “HALT”. It stands for Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. You can even add Sick to the front, but “SHALT” isn’t as easy to remember. If I’m upset and even one of those emotions is present I should slow down and chill out.

Saturday afternoon I was three of the four. I’d worked a whole day for our monthly recruiting event and I had been a keynote speaker in front of almost 200 people. As much as I love public speaking it had worn me out. California is out of money so everyone’s salary is reduced but we still work weekends and we’re trying to grow the program and it stresses me.

After work the plan was to meet Marisa and Jack in Santa Monica for church. I called and Marisa suggested she could take Jack to Mass alone so I could go home and relax but I blazed ahead anyway. I left UCLA and drove to Santa Monica with the three amigos in the car with me Angry, Lonely and Tired. I would have been hungry too except for a jar of peanuts in the car. I drove west on Sunset Boulevard with a fading red sky silhouetting the palm trees and mansions of Brentwood.

Growing up a preacher’s kid, I watched kids in church with their moms and their dads often absent. My mom took me to church too, but since my dad was always there I felt superior. When Marisa was pregnant with Jack I converted to Catholicism and now I am trying to not be one of those absent dads. I go to Mass and listen and try to let the Good Word seep into me. I want to be a role model but it is a struggle most times and it wasn’t working at all last night. The choir annoyed me, the readings confused me and I felt sorry for the priest during the homily.

It was all a low-grade upset. I looked around the congregation for signs of life. I got a couple of smiles but not too many. I probably wouldn’t have smiled at me either with the mood I was in.

When I go to sobriety meetings I can’t help noticing the contrast against my experience in church. Church is so head-space, with scripture readings like obtuse poetry. But in a sobriety meeting people lay it out with brutal honesty–what they are dealing with, pissed about, challenged by, or struggling with is front and center. It is uncensored and unscripted, from the heart- and gut-space. It is present problems vs. ancient poetry. There is foul language and there is laughter. And I love it. I get more spiritual nurturance hearing people talk about how f***ed up they feel, than I ever get from a polite church service.

This Jewish savior I worship named Jesus came and preached to the prostitutes and tax collectors, the bottom rung of society. I wonder if he ever used salty language. I wonder if he laughed with the woman at the well. He didn’t go preach to the rich and famous. The rich and famous didn’t have much use for what he had to say. He preached and healed and led by example.

My life is unmanageable. That is a key sobriety conversation. I can’t. God Can. I think I’ll let him. Those are the first three steps.

I’ve maintained consistent physical sobriety for several years but mental and emotional sobriety is much more sporadic. Marisa knew I was upset in church last night. She can tell when I’m faking. We went home and ate a pizza. There were one or two moments where I laughed and she thought maybe I’d turned a corner, but I had not. We put Jack to bed. She asked me if I wanted to make a baby. I didn’t answer. She asked me if I wanted to go to a sobriety meeting, if maybe that would help me get centered again. Again I didn’t answer.

It wasn’t that I knew what I wanted but didn’t say it. It was that I was all knotted up inside, stuck. I wanted to crawl away and try to figure myself out. I wanted some cave time to be left alone, but there’s another sobriety cliché, “We are people who treat loneliness with isolation.” That was me and I knew that hiding myself away wouldn’t actually help. I didn’t want my wife to see me so blue but blue was the color of last night. My thoughts were thick as we brushed our teeth before going to bed. I had a series of thoughts that seemed so hopeless that I thumped the wall with the palm of my hand in frustration. It made me feel better, but made Marisa feel worse. That was how we were the whole evening, taking turns being angry.

We went to bed unconsummated.

Jack woke us up today by coming in and saying “Boo!” at 6:45am. I took Marisa up on her suggestion from the night before and went to a 7:30am sobriety meeting. The room was full of people looking for serenity and drinking God-awful coffee. I heard exactly what I needed to hear and I came home and we talked.

“I’m sorry I was so stuck last night. I’m sorry.” I opened.

“It’s OK. When you hit the wall I got disempowered. It made me think of my friend who divorced her husband because he had anger management issues.” Marisa said.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get myself better last night. My job is making me stressed. Those big recruiting afternoons used to be the best part of my job but I’ve been doing them seven years now and it isn’t the same. I don’t know if I can make the goal they’ve set for this year and I felt tired and alone going home yesterday. I wanted to go to church with you but everything about it was pissing me off and I was trying to fake it but I probably should have just skipped it.”

Marisa listened and I went on.

“I can’t promise I won’t ever hit the wall again. I’d like to make that promise but it would be hollow. In sobriety I make promises on a shorter time horizon, like just 24 hours. I won’t hit the wall today. I can promise that. My thoughts were just shitty as we were getting ready for bed last night and I was frustrated with myself and I thumped the wall. I didn’t mean to make you think about anger management. In the eight years we’ve known each other, I don’t think I’ve broken anything in anger. I’m not worried about myself about that, but I can see how it would upset you and I won’t do it again.”

“It also made me mad last night when I asked you what would your sponsor say to do and you just looked at me.” Marisa said.

“I know. That was the right thing to say but I couldn’t hear it. I wanted to isolate and I didn’t want to fix it yet. I was tired and mad and yucky feeling and you were so happy early in the evening and I felt so out of sync and it was just stuck. This morning at the meeting I heard everything I needed to hear. That meeting is full of people with all kinds of challenges and it makes me realize how blessed our life is. It was what I needed, but I wasn’t ready for it last night.”

We talked for about thirty minutes. I missed half of the pre-game hype leading up to the Cowboys’ game. Marisa took her shower and blended smoothies and did her vacuuming through the whole first half. I watched the ‘Boys struggle and stall and not score a touchdown. During the second half I washed clothes and ironed my work shirts for the week. Jack and Marisa came home from the park with stories about getting ice cream and making new friends.

The football game today ended as an ass-kickin’. We hadn’t won a playoff game since 1996. We managed to win one this year but no more. I don’t know if we’re going to have a second child or not. We had less that a 2% chance to get pregnant the first time and now we have a healthy, happy son. We’ll see what life has in store for us and for today that is enough.