Life as a Yogi Part: One
The never ending process to figure out what is wrong with yourself, some sort of psychological hypochondria. That is how I lived most of my adult life, skipping from therapist to psychiatrist, counselor to psychologist, mainly in a viene attempt to find sleep of all things. At that time, all I really wanted out of life was a good nights sleep and just a little of not having to deal with any shit that came my way. One of the hardest things I had to come to grips with was my obvious alcoholism. By obvious, I mean subtle, but really I mean obvious.
The first time I ever got intoxicated was, ironically, behind a liquor store when I was 15. I had tried some alcohol before, but it was nothing more then a couple of sips of hard liquor and maybe some malt liquor here and there. This time it was going to be Mission Accomplished. I did not have to walk out on to the deck of an aircraft carrier in a some sort of PR stunt in a flight-suit to get this done. Just plug my nose and guzzle it. The mission was accomplished and I loved it all the way up to the puking part.
The next day I laided on this wicker sofa in the back room of my house watching my mother iron some cloths, just complaining how sick I was. I hated the stuff at the time. Why the hell would anyone want to pay this price for something that tasted so shitty? That, at least for the moment, kept me off the hooch for a couple of years. It was not until much later in life I discovered this was part of the issue
Now, as time went on, I just could not put things together. I could tell that there was something different about myself. I never fit in with anybody. I had at least two groups of friends, one of them was the group that would deal with my drinking, at least until I turned into a cocky mofo, then the other group was where I went when I wanted a break from the daily grind of drug use. To me, I figured if I could cobble together a couple of days of sobriety between benders, I was ok.
I met Dr. Holloway in 2004. He was an older psychologist, but he also was not indoctrinated into the failed cabal that is modern psychiatry. If anything, he was a hippie that traded his hair for a suit and tie, plus a fancy degree on the wall. There was one difference between him and the others I had been to see up until that point. He had done a lot of Yoga, not just the stretchy Yoga that people claim men to do get at their junk*, but honest meditative Yoga. He gave me a book to read "Autobiography of a Yogi". That set me off on a long a complicated path of self discovery and awareness that continues to this day.
*By junk I mean penis.
The first time I ever got intoxicated was, ironically, behind a liquor store when I was 15. I had tried some alcohol before, but it was nothing more then a couple of sips of hard liquor and maybe some malt liquor here and there. This time it was going to be Mission Accomplished. I did not have to walk out on to the deck of an aircraft carrier in a some sort of PR stunt in a flight-suit to get this done. Just plug my nose and guzzle it. The mission was accomplished and I loved it all the way up to the puking part.
The next day I laided on this wicker sofa in the back room of my house watching my mother iron some cloths, just complaining how sick I was. I hated the stuff at the time. Why the hell would anyone want to pay this price for something that tasted so shitty? That, at least for the moment, kept me off the hooch for a couple of years. It was not until much later in life I discovered this was part of the issue
Now, as time went on, I just could not put things together. I could tell that there was something different about myself. I never fit in with anybody. I had at least two groups of friends, one of them was the group that would deal with my drinking, at least until I turned into a cocky mofo, then the other group was where I went when I wanted a break from the daily grind of drug use. To me, I figured if I could cobble together a couple of days of sobriety between benders, I was ok.
I met Dr. Holloway in 2004. He was an older psychologist, but he also was not indoctrinated into the failed cabal that is modern psychiatry. If anything, he was a hippie that traded his hair for a suit and tie, plus a fancy degree on the wall. There was one difference between him and the others I had been to see up until that point. He had done a lot of Yoga, not just the stretchy Yoga that people claim men to do get at their junk*, but honest meditative Yoga. He gave me a book to read "Autobiography of a Yogi". That set me off on a long a complicated path of self discovery and awareness that continues to this day.
*By junk I mean penis.