Getting Back On The Horse

Many begin the process of addiction recovery with high expectations and high hopes. Many have decided that "the pain of addiction is greater than the pain of recovery" and want to take steps to finally rid themselves of their addictive behavior.

(NOTE:  Even though the topic here concerns addiction recovery, the ideas apply to any unwanted behavior)

They may have been been given an ultimatum from their partner.  They may have been advised by someone to seek help.  They may have lost someone very important to them as a result of their addictive tendencies.  They may have tired of the secrecy and double life they have had to live to maintain their addiction.

So they begin to attend a support group.  They begin seeking therapeutic help from a therapist versed in addiction recovery.  They begin reading recovery literature.  They begin regular consultations with an ecclesiastical leader.  They are on the road to sobriety.

In many cases, through sheer willpower, known as "white knuckling," they achieve some sobriety.  Triggers to engage in the addictive behavior may recede for a time.  They may be filling their head with recovery.  This can be a hopeful time. 

But inevitably, something occurs, prompting well known thoughts and feelings to arise. Seemingly, all of the positive expectations melt away under the heat of the desire to return to the addictive behavior.  The positivity is replaced with pessimism and there is a feeling of helplessness.  The once hopeful addiction warrior has fallen off of his/her horse.

Having fallen off the horse, the focus often is placed on the addictive act rather than on what took place before that led up to the act.  The reality is that the addictive act was symptomatic, the final link in a chain of previous thoughts and feelings. Whether due to triggers or due to engaging in "slippery slope" thinking and/or behaviors, there was a specific moment in which the warrior had the thought to engage in the addictive behavior. 

Nearly all of the literature indicates, and nearly all those who work with people with addictions agree, that most warriors will sooner or later fall off their horse on the road to sobriety and recovery.  It just happens!  But that doesn't mean that all is lost!  It doesn't mean that there is no hope for sobriety!  It certainly doesn't mean the warrior is a loser! All it means is that the warrior fell off the horse!

A difference needs to be made between "slip ups" and "relapses" for the warrior who sincerely wants to put an end to the addictive behaviors and has amassed some sobriety time, however modest.  A "slip up" can happen when he/she willfully but disappointedly engages in the addiction.  A "slip up" can happen when something unexpectedly occurs that prompts him/her to "go to the dark side."  A "slip up" can take place when a loved one says or does something that really hurts, physically or emotionally, and, unable to handle the inner turmoil. the warrior engages in the addiction.  In other words, the "slip up," while unwanted, is a disappointment, but it is part of the sobriety process.  And falling off the horse hurts!

Relapses, however, are tied to hopelessness.  They can occur as the result of repeated failures to achieve some extended sobriety time. The warrior feels like a failure. Relapses can take place when the warrior forgets to focus on the process and only sees their failure to achieve the end result of sobriety.  They happen when instead of focusing on the behavior, they look at themselves--who they are--and see themselves as excrement with the accompanying self-loathing.  Relapses occur when "the pain of recovery is greater than the pain of addiction" and he/she decides that the journey requires too much.  In a relapse, not only has the warrior fallen off of the horse, he/she sees no reason to get back on it! 

In either case, the goal needs to be to get back on the horse and start riding again.  Those who relapse have to decide that it is worth the trouble; whether they want to put themselves through the process again.  It may take time for them to find and regain hope. If the act was viewed as a "slip up," he/she needs to own what has happened and focus on a hopeful, brighter future.

But before mounting the horse again, a careful study must be made to determine what happened in the first place; a "post-mortem" so to speak.  

What event prompted the original thought to engage in the addictive behavior?  What feelings or thoughts came crashing down like a tsunami that overwhelmed the warrior? Were these feelings or thoughts familiar ones from their past, or did they catch the warrior off guard?  What circumstances were present that allowed the behavior to take place?  What precautions were or were not taken to maintain sobriety?  What can be learned from the circumstances of what happened?

Answeering these questions might lead to more opportunities to look at in-depth, underlying reasons for the act.  They can lead to seeing unresolved issues from growing up years. They can lead to understanding better what emotional core issues manifested in the act. But dealing with these deeper issues is for another day!  

The important thing to do in the moment is to get back on the horse and begin riding again, accumulating sobriety time and confidence once again, armed with greater understanding as to what happened, and the decision as to what to do if the original thought and circumstances occur again. 

Getting back on the horse takes great courage.  It takes faith in one's self and faith in the process.  It takes being aware of circumstances that can lead to falling off the horse again.  It takes discipline and hard work, but it is very worth it!

A Keen Mind

When I was three years old, so the story goes, my stay-at-home mother printed the alphabet on some flash cards and proceeded to teach me the letters.  I don't remember those activities, but I do remember riding in the front seat between my parents on a stool (no seat belts or kid seats back then) and sounding out and reading the names of the cities/towns that were illuminated just below the roof line of the Greyhound bus terminal in downtown Salt Lake City as we drove by.  I was probably four or close to being five at the time.

I went to kindergarten at Onequa School at age five and then was advanced to first grade months after turning six.  I was assigned to Mrs. Moore's class, and remember her as being a kind, older lady.  Near the beginning of the school year, perhaps in the first or second day of class, I was sitting in her class. I received a copy along with my classmates of My Weekly Reader, which I believe was a national publication for children to help us learn to read.

Of course, under my mother's tutelage and because of a keen mind I had been given from above, I already knew how to read.  Because this happened 55 years ago, I don't remember exactly what happened in those minutes, but I believe when classmates began stumbling in their attempts to read passages such as "See Dick run." "Run, run, run."  "See Spot chase the ball." I raised my hand and proclaimed that this was too easy for me.

What I remember happening next is that she called me to the front of the class and handed me her Teacher's Copy of the publication.  I began reading it, with no problem.  I was too naive and too young to look at her facial expression, but I imagine that she must have been very, very surprised.  Who knows at what grade level I was reading?

I don't remember if it was that very same day, but within the next 24 hours I was taken out of Mrs. Moore's first grade class.  What happened next has been blurred by time, but I am told that I was given an aptitude test, the result of which was a recommendation that I immediately be "skipped up" two grades to the third grade.  I don't know if it was because of some recommendation from a psychologist, from a friend or relative, or perhaps they felt they were inspired, but my parents decided to advance me not two grades but just one. I was placed in loving Mrs. Provostgaard's second grade class.  

As it was, I was a much younger, physically small, redheaded boy, but I seemed to be able to keep up scholastically with the other students.  In fact, in the fourth grade, in Mr. Beckstead's class, when we began to learn how to mulitply, my native calculating talent assumed front and center, and I quickly learned how to multiply numbers 1 through 12--the times tables, I guess they are called. I learned them much quicker than most of my classmates.

In Mrs. Slater's fifth grade class, I took second place in the class spelling bee, another talent that came easily for me.  On my last elementary report card in the sixth grade with Mr. Woolston and the delightful Mrs. Kershaw, I got straight As.  And as long as I am reminiscing about sixth grade and tooting my own horn, I was the only boy out of four sixth grade students to receive the local Kiwanis Club's Hope of America award.

Looking back in retrospect, knowing now about socioeconomic realities in education, I had a very fertile mind with great natural talent, but grew up in a blue collar neighborhood on the less than affluent west side of Salt Lake City.  My guess is that teachers and administrators at my elementary school knew of my abilities early on, but must have decided that skipping me up a grade was good enough.  

I must assume they had no understanding or knowledge of what to do with gifted children and how to take a child's above average abilities to another level.  I must assume that I wasn't seen as someone with a extremely high IQ (who knows if my IQ was tested?) but just a child for whom learning concepts was easier than those of my chronological age.

I have wondered through the years since then if I had been born on the east side of Salt Lake City, or like in Southern California, and/or born 40 years later, what might have happened to me scholastically. I do not regret my middle to lower middle class upbringing; I was surrounded by salt-of-the-earth people, by an ethnically diverse population, and I developed a good work ethic.  My growing up environment is an important part of the story of Bobby Davis. But whenever I hear of a story about a gifted kid and how he or she has flourished in a rich, rigorous, and nurturing educational environment. I wonder what if....

No Respecter of Persons

Since I have been released as the Sunland Ward Missionary Leader, I have split my time during Sunday School between the Gospel Principles class (for investigating non-members, members becoming active in attendance again, and new members) and the Gospel Doctrine class (for members who are active or semi-active in their attendance at Sunday services). Even though I am usually more comfortable attending (or teaching) a Gospel Principles class, I chose today to attend the Gospel Doctrine class, and the lesson title was "God Is No Respecter of Persons."

The title was taken from words that the apostle Peter spoke in Acts 10:34-35, which read, "Then Peter opened his mouth, and said, Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons: But in every nation he that feareth Him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with Him."

The back story of Acts 10 is that Cornelius, a centurion and a Gentile (non-Jew) who is "a devout man...that feared God with all his house, which gave much alms to the people, and prayed to God alway[s], is told in a vision that he should set up a meeting with a man (Peter) who at the time was in a neighboring town.  Literally at about the the same time, Peter is blessed with a vision in which he sees a knitted, four-cornered sheet, upon which are different kinds of animals that are forbidden to be eaten by Jewish law.  He is commanded to kill them and eat them, but hesitates because as a Jewish practitioner, he had never eaten them.  As the vision, ends and Peter is contemplating what he just witnessed, servants from Cornelius arrive where he is lodging.  The servants from Cornelius and Peter head for Caesaria where Cornelius lives and has gathered his family and close friends awaiting their return.  Peter realizes what the significance of his vision was and teaches these Gentiles. Ultimately, these Gentiles are blessed with a manifestation of the Holy Spirit.  The Jews of Peter's day had a very hard time with what had happened and the new doctrine of not having to live the Mosaic Law.

The instructor of the class discussed a latter-day event in which a significant change in doctrine occurred within the LDS religion, specifically, the revelation allowing all men to receive the Priesthood. As most class members acknowledged this landmark doctrinal change in 1978, the instructor pointed out how some members, as did some Jewish members in Peter's day, could not abide the new doctrine and left the Church.

He then began to talk about the call by priesthood leaders for Church members to get involved in the passage of Proposition 8.  I wasn't sure what that had to do with what occurred with Peter, or what occurred in 1978, but perhaps he was attempting to connect this recent "revelation" with those of Peter's or President Kimball's (the 1978 revelation), and seemed to frame it as a revelation.  Gratefully, he only spent a couple of minutes talking about it and accepting remarks from the class about the Proposition 8 debacle.

As whenever the topic of Prop 8 or "same-sex attraction" is spoken of in a class or over the pulpit, I become uneasy, and I was feeling those feelings today.  Rather than raise my right arm that had on its wrist a multi-colored band that shows my support of LGBT people and marriage, and hijack the lesson for a time, I kept my arm down.  It would likely have come to naught and would not have prompted anyone to consider questioning what was being taught at that very time.  I chose to be empathetic to the teacher rather than lead the class in another direction--for better or for worse.

But it seemed so incongruous to be listening to a lesson about inclusivity, about not judging, about casting aside old ways of thinking and being open to new ones, about a God who is "no respecter of persons," to talk about Prop 8.  

I had a notion to ask what class members would do if an obviously gay or lesbian couple walked into the room.  This couple, like most who dare with great courage and apprehension to darken the doors of a potentially hostile environment of our church building (so ironic!), are probably true believers who want to be nourished with the "good word of Chrst"  like their heterosexual brothers and sisters.  They would want to be blessed like Cornelius and the thousands of black members throughout Africa and Brazil prior to 1978. 

Would the class members get the real message behind Peter and President Kimball's revelations and make the connection between the inclusivity doctrine and its application?  It is one thing to talk about changes in doctrine or policy as a topic for a talk or lesson, but quite another to implement what is being preached in the here and now, with His children. It is easier to "respect persons" and emotionally distance ourselves from those we consider "unclean."

If God truly is "no respecter of persons," and I really believe that about my Heavenly Father and His Son, my Savior, it requires us as Their disciples to do what They would do.  My duty as a disciple is to be loving, kind, understanding, and welcoming no matter who I meet, because that person is my spiritual brother or sister.  

My hope is that the practices of the institutional Church and the behavior of its members will evolve to reflect a more Christ-like treatment of those whose behavior does not match what currently is being taught or inferred in classes or over the pulpit.

Memories From My Old Neighborhood

Occasionally when I travel to Salt Lake City from Los Angeles and we make it a priority, my siblings will take me over to the area where we all grew up on the west side of the Valley.  When I was surprised last year by a trip there for my 60th birthday, Ann and I had some time to make the pilgrimage.

Armed with my camera, we walked around the immediate neighborhood and I took some pictures.  We drove around to other places that were part of my childhood and I took some photos of them as well.  I realized that I had never posted them here, and because I want my blogs to chronicle my life in order for others, particularly my descendents to know my story, I'm taking the time to show my past, and to write a bit about them.

Before taking this virtual tour, I have to say that these places, and particularly the homes, are from my childhood, many of them were many years older than the 60 years I was celebrating.  Some look remarkably as I recall them, while others, including my own home, have changed--not completely, but they've changed through the years.

This is the home in which I grew up.  It was a two bedroom, one bath, small home.  It had a basement, largely unfinished that included a "fruit room" under the outside front porch, in which food storage was kept and which was a fun place to hide.  It had metal kitchen cabinets like those of that era.  All rooms intersected to a hall that had six doors. The current residents have really made the exterior and interior look very nice (I know about the interior because I asked on another trip if they would allow me to look around inside, and they gladly permitted me to do so).  The chain link fence that blocks access to it was not there when I lived there.

You can almost see from the photo the address is 509 (above the door).  I seem to recall that during my teenage years or maybe a little later, the street numbering was changed by the City.  The streets which had been 800 West/8th West and 400/4th North became 900 West and 500 North.  In my memory, though, my address will always be 509 North 8th West.  My phone number was EL 5-6901.  (EL was short for Elgin, and was dialed 35)

Cornia Home

Next door to the south, on the corner of 8th West and 4th North was the home owned by the Cornias.  They had three children and the youngest, Gay, was a couple of years older than me.  In my early years, Mrs. Cornia would paint on the front window and would have a Christmas scene behind it in their living room during the Holiday season.  For may years, there was not a fence between our properties.  I learned how to ride a skateboard on their driveway.

For some reason I did not take a picture of the home to the west of the Cornias, perhaps because it had been changed so dramatically as to be almost unrecognizable.  It was the Webster home, and where my good buddy Keith lived.  I spent countless hours inside and outside that home, in front and behind.  Their side yard abutted our back yard.  Keith was the youngest of four children.  Of the friends I had in the neighborhood, I spent the most time with Keith, who was two years younger than me.

The street that ran parallel to 8th West was Chicago Street.  I spent many hours on that street, because some of my friends lived there, and because in those days before video games and non-stop TV watching, we often played outside. For most of my childhood, I knew just about everybody on Chicago Street. Below are some of the homes of people and friends with whom I interacted.

Matheson's Home, with a porch that wasn't there when I was young.  Jack was a friend.

Selma Mitchell's Home, where she and her mentally challenged son Roy lived.

The Johnson's Home, across the street from the Call's.  My friend Scott had two brothers, Jerry and Kent.

The Call Home, where my friend Jay lived.

My mom would get her hair done at this home, the Thorpe residence, located on the corner of Chicago Street and 5th North.  One of their children, Van, would later become my Explorer leader.  I remember how exotic the weeping willow tree in front of their home seemed to me.

The Thorpe Home.  The weeping willow was gone.

Behind the Mathesons and the Calls, there is an alley that splits 8th West and Chicago Street.  I spent many, many hours climbing trees, playing wiffle ball, riding Keith's Tote Gote, climbing onto sheds, walking to and from the Calls and Mathesons, and hanging out in that alley that seemed so long and wide back in the day but which now seems so short and narrow.

Because friends weren't always available, and because I was an only child at home, I would sometimes shoot baskets alone on the hoop hanging from the front of Keith's garage.  Inside my home, I created actual board-like games.  I created "stock car" races using Monopoly boards or the braided rug in the hallway (stock car races were run at the Fairgrounds about 3/4 of a mile away every Saturday night, and I knew many of the names of the popular drivers).  I played "starving Bobby" in that hall intersection.  I created a nine-hole par 3 golfing course--in the front, side and back yards of the house, using my dad's golf clubs with cups (cans) in the ground.  For a brief time, there was a basketball hoop to the height of the carport roof (about 8 1/2 to 9 feet high), and I spent hours shooting baskets.  I would play a game with myself shooting foul shots.  I practiced my skateboard skills on the slanting sidewalk from our porch to the sidewalk below.

I created tent forts in the basement by haging blankets and sheets from the clothesline.  I created a "fort" there as well using 2x4 pieces of wood from my brother's work.  This wood fort had lights, a radio, a place to store stuff--a regular little room/womb to hang out in.  I also had a dart board downstairs and I got to be a pretty good dart thrower.

If it rained, I would sometimes go behind the four-plex apartments to our immediate north and connect the puddles.  It was childhood engineering, making a river from one puddle to the next in an attempt to drain it, and my goal was always to have multiple rivers flowing at a time.

Riverside Ward Building

All of my pre-missionary life on Sundays was spent inside this church building on 3rd North and 10th West.  I left on my LDS mission from this buidling and spoke in it upon my return. Though it has fallen into disrepair, what went on inside of that building was a significant part of what molded my childhood.  To this day, I remember all of the hallways and many of the rooms--and the "secret" passageways. 

My very best friend during junior high years was Richard Jacobsen who lived in this house on 7th West near 4th North.  His house was on the way home as I walked from Jackson Junior High and from West High because I couldn't drive. He had all kinds of games, and as I recall we would spend most days after school playing his many games.

Richard Jacobsen's Home

I learned how to play tennis on the courts behind the Fire Station on 2nd North and 9th West. near the Utah State Fairgrounds.  I played against Tom Shaw and Kirk Harmon who were older and would inevitably beat me, but I was hanging out with the cool older kids and that was all that mattered.

The tennis courts.  The Fairgrounds racetrack was just a few hundred feet away.

The building below has all kinds of history associated with it, near the intersection of 7th West and 2nd North.  It was in this home/building, upstairs and down behind the awnings (original from when I was growing up) where my mother grew up with most of her 10 siblings.  It also housed the store and butcher shop where my maternal grandfather had his business, and where my Uncle Bud and Aunt Mary lived.  And the residence to the viewer's left on the ground was one of my sister's first apartments after marrying Bill. I would park my bicycle behind it while attending 7th grade at Jackson Junior High School (which no longer exists).

What memories, what memories are inside (and outside) this home.  It has to he over 100 years old.

Oh the stories my mom and aunts and uncles (and my siblings to some degree) would tell about what carried on in that house!  If those walls could talk, what stories they could tell!

Ensign Peak, where early LDS church leaders placed a pole, and ensign, for all the world to ackneowledge.

The little dome at the top of the hill/mountain above the homes (that didn't used to be there), and to the left of the center pole, is Ensign Peak. If you look closely, you can see a flagpole at the summit. This easily hiked Peak overlooked where I grew up, my high school, the capitol building, Temple Square, all important in my growing up story.  Would we hike it from Beck Street on the west, walk down the south face to the Capitol building, and then eventually make our way back home.

Front of the School.  The back below was not at all like this when I attended.

I attended West High School on 2nd West from 1968 through 1971, where I graduated the day before turning 17.  It was where I evolved from a nerdy, backward, bespectacled kid to a popular, dating, singing, picture taking, basketball managing, radio corresponding, assistant editor of the school newspaper and co-master of ceremonies at the awards banquet.  I don't think it particularly prepared me scholastically for BYU (except for some singing prowess), but West is another important piece of who I became during those teenage years. 

Of course, there would have been no Me, no neighborhood, none of this, without these two, buried in the beautiful Salt Lake Cemetary, high in the Avenues. They provided well for me, gave me a pretty good, stress-free upbringing, taught me values and morals, and loved me as best they could.  I honor them, and am attempting to make them proud up there in heaven.  Thanks, Mom and Dad!