20 Years Sober--Reflections on the Glass Ceiling of Perception

I got sober at 26, just before the start of the OJ trial. Only die-hard nerds used the internet. Some people had pagers--they'd go off and then we would find a pay phone to return calls. My friends would bitch because mine had a Santa Monica number and it would take 55 cents to beep me. AA meetings had ashtrays, some with a line down the middle of the room dividing smoking and non-smoking. How did that work? The smoke magically stopped at the taped line. 20 years later, people get angry if someone fires up a ciggy within 100 feet of an AA meeting place. Pay phones are relics, people's faces are buried in smart phones, oblivious to their surroundings. People phone zombie in meetings. The upside is, I can find meetings on the fly.

The Royal Palms Alcoholic Recovery Home at 360 S. Westlake Ave was in one of the worst neighborhoods in Los Angeles. Located in a "drug enforcement zone" meant the area was basically under martial law. Early Royal Palms entertainment: a drive-by shooting on our front steps the first week I was there. While guys who had lived in South Central LA their whole lives stood up and ran towards the windows to see the shooting, the blond kid from Redondo Beach hit the floor in 2 seconds flat. The guy on the steps had been instantly relieved of his brains and died instantly. The other 4 dead guys I saw over the next 3 months were all shot with a small caliber to the temple, most likely gang related. We had our own crack dealer across the street. Palms residents would take the proceeds of their monthly $11 GR checks. It could also buy 6 packs of bootleg Mexican Marlboro reds and a hooker. Teeming masses of what I called the "walking dead" (crackheads who looked like zombies) roamed the streets and nearby MacArthur Park. Next door to the rehab were the steps leading to a building that had burned down. Every night after dinner, I would sit on the steps, listen to Cher and the Scorpions (the 2 tapes I had), look at old photos of people and places I'd lost...and cry.

I walked and walked and walked. I wasn't going to be like the idiots relapsing over $11. I was getting sober young, while I still had my brains, health and face. I decided that if I could stay sober at the Palms, I could do it anywhere. That and being there would make me never want to go through rehab again. My roommate Nathaniel was in his 60's and had lived on Skid Row. He described the disease of addiction like the boogie man who would sneak up on you in your sleep. At the time it didn't make much sense. It doesn't exactly hit us in our sleep but it is insidious. Anyway, I'd walk all the way up Wilshire Boulevard, past MacArthur Park with its $2 toothless, unfortunate AIDS infected prostitutes to fancy Hancock Park with its Tudor mansions and emerald lawns. My ego saw no reason why I couldn't live in a place like that, my disease told me I didn't deserve it.

With addiction, the greatest battle is our own reflection. I've always cringed when the media reports someone "battling addiction". When we cease the battle and surrender, we begin to recover. The people who have the most difficult time recovering are the really intelligent ones. "Stupid, stupid, stupid" was the mindset I was told to have. Follow suggestion and direction. I did. I also plotted, schemed and mapped out my future. I was told that was dangerous as I was supposed to take a day at a time. Fuck that, I had a plan. I was going to complete Phase 1 (3 months) and then go to sober living (a halfway house) for a couple months, get a job and then move into my own place. My new roommates in the halfway house were guys who had been kicked out of the rehab for using. With almost zero supervision, guess what they did all day? I worked my ass off and in 7 weeks saved enough money to move. I was a raving lunatic and I probably should have stayed in rehab a year.

So what's this "glass ceiling" business? The glass ceiling of perception means this: the sky is the limit for us but people who know us have an idea of who we are that (often) cannot be changed. So far, I'd spent the bulk of my young adult life being a waiter/part time college student/Hollywood velvet rope party boy. I needed to reinvent myself in sobriety. Someone said "sobriety will change everything about you." I thought my only problem was the booze and drugs. "More shall be revealed."

I took the waiter thing as far as it could go. I started as a busboy at 16 in the Black Oak Restaurant in Paso Robles, working 5-10pm Monday and Tuesday nights. By 29 I found myself out in the middle of the desert, Arnold Schwarzenegger yelling "where's my fish?" In Vegas fine dining, it wasn't unusual for me to make $1000 a day, but in my grand plan I didn't want to be a 40 year-old waiter. I started thinking about returning to college.

I'd been sober long enough to realize I'd failed at school for 2 reasons and only 1 was Jack Daniels and cocaine. The other: I hated what I was studying. I'm a creative type who has been writing since I was 8. I was published at 11. I embarked on a path of Business Administration because I listened to the wrong people and didn't do what I wanted, which was to study creative writing, English and Literature. I hit a scholastic spiritual bottom in Accounting 101. I also realized I'm not the type of person to work 1 job 50 years and then retire with the gold watch. That's my idea of hell. I've been blessed to have a few careers. I did the Alcohol Drug Studies program at GCC for a couple years and then went to work in the field. It was rewarding and I learned a lot about myself. The money sucked, so I went into real estate. I cursed myself for not having done it sooner.

It was during my real estate career I learned about the glass ceiling of perception. In Vegas I was making over $100,000 a year but I was still a waiter. This was different. I got licensed and embarked on a very steep learning curve. I identified a 5 square mile area and conquered it. I became a shrewd negotiator. I listed scores of properties and made my investors millions. People trusted me with their life savings and I never let them down. I sold raw land, homes, condos, commercial property and even a pot farm amounting to hundreds of deals. I once had a mortuary in escrow but my buyer backed out to buy the pot farm. There was money in the washer, money in the dryer, it seemed like it was everywhere. I was financially successful. To those who had known the waiter/part time college student/Hollywood velvet rope party boy, that's who I still was. Some still see me this way today. It didn't help that I was out in the middle of the ocean, away from everyone who knew me.

To get a leg up in this business in LA (or pretty much anywhere), you start with your sphere of influence. Friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, fellow religionists or whomever else you encounter regularly. This is a wonderful opportunity to get a bloody nose banging against the glass ceiling of perception. What's the answer? In my case, giving up, but not on my career. I visit other real estate offices with a blend of smug (many times I've done more deals than everyone in the office combined) and envy because they're making money and I'm not. "Just throw me the fucking ball!" I want to yell. I've lost count of how many times I've had to do the other agent's job, although I must admit I've enjoyed exploiting their weaknesses to my clients' advantage. 

Every year at this time I have some sort of light bulb moment and my 20th brings this: find the edge of the glass ceiling, get out from under it and soar. I don't think we should ever have to work to convince people who we already are. The Artist's Way (a recovery program for blocked artists) teaches us that people want to keep us in a box and don't want us to blossom into something new because it makes them uncomfortable. When I started writing fiction again, I posted about a chapter online every week or two and literally thousands of people read and commented, "please finish this book, I can't wait to read it!". I managed to find the 2 most critical people in my life and listened to them. I think this roughly falls under the glass ceiling.

Long-term sobriety can be lonely. Of the sober people close to me, all of them except one have relapsed and/or died. The ones who are still alive are trapped in the purgatory of "can't live, can't die" that scares the shit out of me. These were exceptional people with a lot on the ball but active addiction turns the awesomest sober person into a stranger you'd sometimes cross the street to avoid. Because of this and the glass ceiling, I'm working to make new friends which is admittedly more difficult on the downhill slope to 50. I'm writing fiction again and lo and behold, a bunch of other opportunities just blew my way. 21 is going to be a great year.