Week 28

Lap 34

Today I have been sober for 28 Weeks. 196 Days.

Sobriety

Last week was one of the hardest I’ve had in terms of sobriety for some time. I won’t get into it. That’s what last week was for. But I am pleased to report this week has seemed to return to normal programming. I literally just noticed when typing the above that I am super close to yet another milestone. 200 fuckin’ days.

I can’t seem to avoid milestones at the moment. And while they are great to acknowledge, I can’t help but feel there is an element of pressure that goes with them. Kinda like I am making one day of sobriety carry more weight than any other

I turned 34 old Australian years of age on Sunday. The first Birthday I have spent sober in probably… 19 years? Fuck me. That’s bad. Was I drinking at 16? yes. I’m from Lanyon. I’m not glorifying underage drinking at all. The attitude around drinking at that age is the attitude I carried through all my drinking. You drink to get drunk. The drunker you get the cooler you are. It’s of the utmost importance to be cool when you’re an insecure teenager. Most people grow out of that shit. Some, like me, don’t.

We are the ones who use alcohol as a coping mechanism rather than a tool to enjoy social interactions a little more than we would have otherwise. Once you develop that association it’s really hard to reverse. I think this is because it kind of happens without you noticing. I think that’s one of the main problems with alcohol. You don’t realise you’re developing a dangerous habit or association until it’s too late. Especially in middle-class Australia. It’s just so normal and accepted. Only you know how you feel when you drink, or why you drink, and unless you discuss it with others, how are you to know that drinking makes you feel any different from anyone else?

My cake was made from crushed Oreos and vegan condensed milk… diabeetus

When I first got sober I was speaking to a legend of a bloke called Paul. One of the best internet mates I’ve made. He’s helped me a lot through my sobriety (thank you so much, mate). Paul has been sober for over two years. His life has actually mirrored mine to a large degree in recent years. He moved towns, bought a house, changed jobs, and had a son all around the same time I did. The only difference is he’s been sober a little longer than me. Recently I found out we even named our sons the same name. Ain’t that some shit.

Paul warned me that the hardest moments would be those days that you associate so heavily with drinking. Christmas, holidays, that kind of shit. So I was a little bit worried about my birthday this year, Especially given it fell on a weekend. Anytime prior to seven months ago, I always viewed my birthday as an opportunity to wipe myself out with no repercussions or sense of guilt.

Usually, I would have internal conflicts around doing drugs. The voice that said not to was often weak, but it was always present. Not on birthdays though. That was game on. I would plan in advance to do drugs on my birthday. Even if I had nothing else planned or organised, I was definitely going to do drugs. Lots of them. I’d even save up in the weeks beforehand to make sure I got to do lots of them. I would have no clue what I was going to do, who I would do it with, or where I would go. I just knew I was going to rip the fuck in. I would even warn my partner it would happen. How fucking ridiculous. “Ya see darlin’ the difference about this weekend is I turn one year older, that means I am allowed to spend heaps of our money on drugs, disappear for a couple of days, not answer my phone, let it die and I’ll see ya Sunday arvo sometime… maybe”, and I would expect that that was okay because it was my birthday. I’d even take a day off work as a run-off day to spend on the lounge eating lemonade icy poles and drinking blue Powerade. Even being a rotting piece of shit on the lounge could be justified all because it was, nearly was, or recently had been, October 30th.

The dumbest fucking part about all of this is that for years now, I haven’t given a shit about my birthday. Not to sound like one of those people, but I really don’t care for my birthday. I guess I’m just sort of practically minded about things like that. Maybe I’m just a bit of an apathetic prick. I don’t see what makes a birthday any more or less a reason to have a drink. Just like I don’t see day 200 being sober as any different from day 199 or day 201. The person I was then would find any excuse. I think the main reason was I could fabricate a reason to excuse a bunch of behaviors that didn’t align with my values which meant that one weekend I could carry out these behaviors without feeling that shame and guilt that would come with them on any other weekend. Obviously, I was and have been running from certain things, emotionally. I’m trying to be too hard on myself here. But I think using the language that I do helps to reiterate to myself just how fucking stupid and ridiculous my mindset was when affected by or driven by using substances. I need to remind myself, to help me stay sober. It’s fucking bullshit. It’s a cop-out and it’s weak as piss. Some things I need to be harsh on myself about. I’m not for a moment suggesting anyone else does the same, but it works for me, so just let me do it. I’m learning to love myself incrementally, it’s going to be a long hard road, but I am doing it other ways. As someone who likes to think I am fairly practical and logical, I am so determined to not end up in the same position I was in that I simply need to remind myself of just how fucking stupid the logic I was applying is.

The good news? Sunday was fucking easy. This birthday was just different. I spent a little bit of time in the morning getting organised for the week so I didn’t have to do it later that day, then had my first-ever birthday as a dad. We went to a bit of a hidden beach to eat some sammichs and accidentally took the young fella to his first-ever nude beach. As we walked down the stairs we saw three middle-aged blokes wearing nothing but sun hats just kinda wandering about. The beach looked bloody lovely, but I didn’t want the middle-aged naked blokes feeling weird about seeing a baby and I want my son to look up to. I didn’t want him or my partner to see anything more impressive than they saw at home either, so before we got too close I suggested we chuck a u-banger and head back to the other beach.

The point is, I learned a lot this birthday and it was actually a special day. It was hands down my favourite birthday I have ever had. Very few phone calls or texts, no beers, no lines, no nothing. Just sammichs and old blokes’ cocks. My two favourite things to eat. Haha, fuck, that one was bad. I’m sorry. I’m joking, but I’m leaving it in there.

I didn’t think about drinking once. It was more significant than last Sunday and I’m sure next Sunday. It was my first birthday spent with my son. My first birthday as a dad. I loved it. I’m excited that I’m starting to look forward to the little things in life. Someone said to me recently about my birthday, they’re not even about you anymore, they’re about your kids and even though he had no fucking clue what all the carry-on was about, it was still special and I loved it. I haven’t been excited about my next birthday since I was 17. Now that I’m 34 years and two days old, I’m looking forward to my next birthday, hopefully sober, already.

It was a bit of a milestone moment for me in a different way. Nothing to do with metrics. For the first time since I have been sober, I felt that really nice feeling inside of me that I used to get from my first beer after a long day. Or my first line after a stressful week. And it was all natural. So I think this could be a significant milestone, or a turning point maybe? I have finally realised that I can enjoy things like this without substances. In fact, I enjoy them more. I think it’s because I have a greater appreciation for the things that they are at their core. It’s kind of like substances left a hole inside of me and until now I have been covering it with a metal plate. Maybe there is security in that because I could just take the plate off and fill it back up with substances whenever I choose and that’s why I haven’t properly filled the hole back in. Maybe though, it’s time to start filling it in. Filling it in with moments and memories I have created where I have felt genuinely happy without substances. Maybe it will take a while and maybe I’ll take the plate off, throw a few shovels in, and put the p[late back on, just to be extra safe. Whatever the case, I think it’s time to slowly start fillin’ the ‘ole. The proper way. Kinda like private contractors patch out potholes properly whereas the council just throws shovels of cold mix in them. Time to box out this ‘ole, and fill it with something decent that will last forever.

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I’m Back- Hopefully, This Helps Someone

Both physically and figuratively. Anyone who has ever followed me on socials met me in person or somehow come across my bullshit rants knows about my love/hate relationship I have running. The details are in other blogs that you can read through and find, but basically last year I couldn’t train at the gym due to tendinitis in both my shoulders. So all I could do is run, and run, and run. I set myself bullshit targets to hit, thinking I was David Fuckin’ Goggins, but I was more like David Floggins. Ultimately I fell out of love with running. After a solid six or so months of training in the gym with the very occasional plod, I started to get the itch to run again. So I started with some short treadmill runs on the treadmill after a session in the gym. I was pissed off to find that my stupid dumb back wasn’t in the mood for running. I started with sciatica dramas, got that sorted with the physio, and then started getting really bad tightening in my lower to middle back approximately 100mm on either side of my spine. Some days I would run 500m and it would seize up. On other days I could run further, but I could never run quickly. As soon as I started running a decent clip it would seize instantly.

I went back to the physio and he suggested it was my hip flexors. He gave me a bunch of stretches to do, but the problem was, I fucking hate stretching. I don’t know why, I just do. I always have. I think it’s probably because I’m too busy to roll around on the ground like a rigid piece of construction site rubbish. I’m also not very flexible. I’m not built like a runner. More of a Rugby Union hooker. Not a Fyshwick hooker, sadly. begrudgingly, I started stretching each morning before I started my gym session. I was making some progress, but it was slow. Over time I started stretching for longer and longer each morning. Slowly, so fucking slowly, but surely, with more running and fucking heaps more stretching I started making more progress. It was still painfully slow, just a tiny little bit less slow.

I made a bunch of other changes too. I jacked my car seat up as high as it goes. A local runner and all-around fucking legend Cam Dyson-Smith suggested I raised my car seat as high as I could. Cam runs stupid distances for Bears of Hope. Bears of Hope are an amazing charity that provides support for families who experience the loss of their baby. Check them out, please. Cam suggested I need to get my hips higher than my knees in my car. To make the angle of my back and legs obtuse rather than acute. I spend a lot of time driving for work and every time I would have a big day of driving my back would get really fucking tight. So I jacked my seat up as high as I could. I’m not a tall man, 172cm short, in fact. I also got a triangular lumber support cushion for the car, I didn’t like how it was meant to be used, but I laid it down on the seat to get my hips even higher above my knees and that seems to be helping too. Currently, I’m driving around with my head almost touching the roof of my car. I feel like I’m driving a double-decker bus from the top level. It’s fucking bizarre and it feels fucking odd, but at this point, I’ll do anything to prevent this fucking horrible back pain and to be able to run freely again.

I also went and got myself some aftermarket innersoles for my shoes. A mate of mine is pretty high up in sales with a large brand shoe company and he tells me no shoe company invests any money whatsoever in their innersoles. So I got some gel innersoles just for some extra cushioning and they seem to be helping too. I’ve also been trying to run less on the treadmill and more outside, in like, nature and shit. I have no science to back this up but I think maybe the treadmill is a little too rigid and since I’ve been doing more running away from the treadmill my back seems to be playing by the rules a little better. Apparently, a treadmill affects your gate too, and can make you run a little unnaturally. I just find them extremely convenient. You can run to heart rate so easily on them, which is very helpful when trying to build fitness to run more distance at less energy output. You can also control the climate easier. There’s a massive fucking fan right next to my favorite treadmill at the gym and as a sweaty prick, I value that. Essentially, I like the treadmill because I’m a fucking sook. But I think it’s time to stop running on the spot and get out and smell the roses. I live in a beautiful spot and I’ve been choosing to run on a fucking treadmill, that’s hurting my back, staring out into a carpark. What, the, fuck?

I mean, look at the photo I took the other morning when I was out for a run. This was on my fucking iPhone. no filter, I kid you not. I’m not a photographer asshole either. I just fluked it. But this is where I GET TO live and I’ve been choosing to run on a fucking treadmill? What the fuck?

The other thing I have found that has helped me a lot has been stretching after my run. I’m a fucking impatient person. So for me to spend an extra 10 minutes after a run rolling around on the ground is difficult. My mind is racing, thinking about what I’m going to do when I get to work. I like to get to work before anyone else. It’s my time to get in the zone and do all my monotonous boring shit before anyone else is there to distract me. I value that time highly and don’t want to give it up. But, if I want to run freely and without pain. I just have to do it. I have found that by doing dynamic (moving) stretching before I train and static (staying still stretching?) after I train, I have been getting good results. I’ve also been using my massage gun here and there of a night time, just around the problem areas. Does it work? Fuck knows. Does it feel nice, fuck yes. So I’ll keep doing it, on the odd occasion I actually remember to.

After a couple of months, I’m starting to move freely and while I’m still getting some pain, it’s minimal and manageable. The other morning I was able to run 12k in a little over 60- minutes while keeping my heart rate down around 150bpm (zone2 for those who are into that shit). I’m not fast, and I’m not a great runner, but for a bloke built like a Kelvinator chest freeze

A photo of me at a party a few years ago

r, I’ve always known that running sub5 minute k’s in zone2 means I’m pretty fit and going alright. I’m almost there and after I warmed up I was able to peel a good chunk of k’s close to 5 mins per k at a comfy heart rate. So that made me happy

I ran a 6k the next day and the back half of it had 3x sub5 k’s under 150 HR

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This Sunday I’m running the Canberra Times Fun Run Arthur (half-marathon). A fortnight ago I was thinking I’d be lucky to finish it in two hours. After a couple of months of stretching and making adjustments to my car and shoes this last week has started to feel really good. I’m cautiously confident that I might be able to peel off a sub1:45 Arthur if I bump my heart rate up to around 160. It won’t be close to my PB but after the last 6 or so months of running, or lack of it, I think that would be pretty cool to achieve and put me in good stead to work towards a sub3:30 marathon (or double Arthur as Benny A would say) at the Canberra Running Festival in April next year. That would be nice.

Time to bring it back around Sam, people come here to hear you talking about being a former piss wreck and your dumb feelings. So what does this have to do with anything? I have always used exercise to manage my mental health. My weight and fitness have always been a reflection of where I am mentally. When I’m battling, I’m fat and lazy. When I’m fit and healthy I’m usually going alright in the top paddock too.

I’ve spoken about it before, but running, particularly long distances, does something for me and my mental health that nothing else on the earth does. I don’t understand it, I don’t care to try. You can say endorphins etc, but other shit releases endorphins too, and running is different. Someone once said to me that once you get past 90 minutes of running is where you find that bliss point. Where nothing else in the world matters, and I tend to agree.

I’m happy and excited that running is getting easier, less painful, and ultimately more enjoyable. I’m starting to get the urge to run longer and longer and I’m now feeling like I might be physically able to do it again. I’m looking forward to getting that extra special, post-90-minute runners high regularly again. Call me Big Fuckin’ Kev.

RIP to The Great Man

Apologies

I’m sorry that this week I didn’t get too deep on much stuff. I just kind of didn’t feel the need to do so and it’s important to me to write openly and honestly. I’m not going to make some dramatic shit up just to appease people. I think it’s important for me to use writing to process my thoughts and help me figure out what I think and how I feel. Sometimes, I feel pretty good. So, I’m sorry for feeling good? Nah. fuck that. I’m not.

Have a good week legends.

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