six years 🙏🏻

Volume 17.

Begin story… I am lucky. I am grateful…. End Story.

(This is a summation of what is to be detailed below, but if you feel so inclined, feel free to read on.)

It's just after 6:00 am, and I am sitting on a tall, backed barstool drinking coffee at my kitchen counter, wondering how on God's sweet earth I got to this moment. Six years. Six years since I last put a needle in my arm or brought a bottle to my lips. Six years since I picked up the two-ton telephone instead of the pistol that lay beside it and made a call for help. Six years free from the self-imposed prison of perpetual poisoning.  Six years I have spent figuring out who Joseph is, what Joseph wants, and how to navigate this world of seemingly certain uncertainty. Safe to say, six years later, I am sixpence the richer of man for having chosen this rigorously introspective path, and as a result, I am, without question, living a life I could have only dreamed of back then. Thus, I feel it is my duty to share a piece of my story as a reminder of how far I have come and potentially offer encouragement to others that it is indeed possible to get better. This is my six-year ode of gratitude.

On this day last year, I published a snippet of a semi-autobiographical fiction piece I had been working on as a prelude to my five-year ode of gratitude. In it, I spared no details in the otherworldly feelings and emotions I was experiencing the morning I finally said enough was enough, packed my bags, and bid farewell to my one true love. My mistress of enabling self-destruction, Mrs. Drugs and Alcohol. The affair was over once and for all. To this day, I am still unsure what shifted that morning. Whether it was a moment of clarity, absolute hopelessness, or total luck, I don't know, but I surrendered to my pride and finally mustered the courage to climb that stone tower, reach for the flaming torch, light the Beacon of Minas Tirith, and call to Gondor (my buddy Alex) for aid. That was the last morning I drank or used, November 8, 2018. 

That morning my buddy Alex took to me detox at the old COPAC, a treatment center not too far out of town from Jackson. Here, I spent five days getting all the bullshit out of my system. Far from glamorous, let me tell you. Sick as a dog. Withdrawals are like having the flu to the millionth degree. Especially given the cocktails of booze, hard drugs, and pharmaceuticals I had been taking. Zero fun sir. I was still enrolled in graduate school, in my first semester of getting my MBA when this all went down, yet, I didn’t withdraw. I went and did my time and came right back to class. That might sound insane, but I think it is simply a testament as to how fed up I was with the vicious cycle of using. I was tired of being sick and tired. I guess when you know you know, because I had been to treatment of some sort half a dozen or more times in the previous four years, and each time I held reservations that I could drink or use again normally. With impunity as they say. This time. The gig was up. That shit was over, and I knew it. No more.

Has it all been uphill since then? Absolutely not. Well, actually… maybe it has? If that singular moment that morning was my metaphorical rock bottom, then yeah, perhaps it has been all uphill. From feeling so low I could limbo under a pregnant ant, it's hard to think things could have gotten any worse since, and in reality, they haven't. I have been on the up and up. I could finally begin the climb outta the doldrums of despondency. Turns out, it is a hell of a lot easier to make that initial climb to the base camp of sobriety without a thousand-pound silverback gorilla of temptation weighing you down. 

I'll probably never know what happened or why, but my desire and craving to get high evaporated that morning and has pretty much been gone since. I think I just knew it was time to hang up the cleats. If I continued, there were only two ways that nightmare would end: turning the lights off for good. Whether by accident or by my own hand. 

Have there been dips, falls, and setbacks in this self-analyzing ascension? Without a shadow of a doubt, but the Dory in me just keeps swimming. Hoping that if I don't quit and keep repeating where I want to go to myself over and over, I won't forget, and if I am lucky, I might just find my way to 42 Wallaby Way. Crossing my fingers, it's anything but a dentist's office. 

I am aware I talk about fear here a lot. Like last week, dotting on change and its accompanying fear, but the truth is that fear is my biggest inhibitor. I get stuck in my ways and grow too scared to try anything new. Willing to bet and argue it is the impetus to growth for just about all of us. Pride too. It took me calling on Miley and her wrecking ball of personal preconceptions to knock down the wall built of former lies and beliefs I told myself when I was drinking and using to begin to build a new, stronger, grounded, and more honest wall of self-understanding.

What am I bringing up fear again? Because getting sober is some of the scariest shit I've ever been through. Horrifying, honestly. So many feelings, emotions, and crazy thoughts, not to mention swallowing mountains of truth about myself while giving up the one thing I know will comfort me and make everything better. The depravity and following spiritual and emotional bankruptcy could be likened to taking a pacifier away from a hysterical, tantrum-throwing child. Or maybe even worse, a gruesome, gut-wrenching breakup. Parting ways with the old lady that has been my ball and chain and seen me through my darkest days. It sucked the life right out of me, but the good news is, with all that bullshit that was filling my Big Gulp of denial gone, I had an empty 32 oz. cup to refill to my choosing. 

Getting sober is, in many ways, like an artist starting on a new painting. Fresh white canvas and all. A world of infinite possibilities right at your fingertips. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ain't no mountain high enough for this engine that could. At times, it is borderline delusional, but the dreaming is what fuels that initial recovery period—imagining all that could be now that the bondage of self has been broken. Time to fly. 

The reprieve accompanying this new freedom reminds me of a passage from Steven Pressfield's The Virtues of War written about Alexander the Great. In the scene, Alexander and his army encounter an old philosopher who refuses to submit to the great conquerer. Alexander's lackey berates the old philosopher, shouting, "This man (Alexander The Great) has conquered the world! What have you done?" The philosopher replied without an instant's hesitation, "I have conquered the need to conquer the world." To me, so much of sobriety can be summarized in this simple surrender and self-realization. When I was drinking and drugging, I was at odds with the world. Very much like Alexander, I was combative and belligerent, fighting my way through each day, wanting more, more, more mowing down whoever and whatever stood in between me and my prize, getting high. Oppositely, putting down the drink and drug requires a heap of acceptance, and it is in this passage that I feel so deeply the simple yet profound concession needed to start a new life clean and sober. Surrender to win. 

While I may no longer be at wild odds with the world, the fight amongst me, myself, and I continues and probably always will. In reality, the fight to conquer myself and my inner demons births each morning when I wake and dies each evening when I go to sleep. All given my ability to lay my head on the pillow clean and sober. I'm fighting still, just in another way. Sequestered in my own Cisalpine Gaul with my legion of tried and true spiritual practices, I feel the darkest days of my Bellum Gallicum are in the rearview, yet I am still a ways off from crossing the Rubicon. 

For whatever reason, it has been relatively smooth sailing this go around. There hasn't been much of a fight regarding staying clean. Mostly flat seas and strong wings for this sober ship, and I am incredibly grateful for that. I think it has a lot to do with letting the captain do his job, and when I say captain, I mean the spirit of the universe. What can happen when you stop trying to control the uncontrollable is pretty incredible. It doesn't come so easy for everyone, but I reckon the price I paid was falling on my ass several times before I got things right. Fourth time’s a charm and all, right? More realistically, it was like waving the white flag I think. I just quit fighting and joined the winning team.

With each passing day, more and more of the folks I grow closer to today did not know Joseph in active addiction. Sorta a cool thing, but the flip side of that is that with each passing day, I seem to loose or grow farther and farther away from my oldest friends and family who did know that Joseph. But hey, so it goes. Life goes on. Like recently loosing my grandmother, Jacquie, who I credit for keeping me alive when I was at my worst, or my oldest dearest friends who are simply living their lives. Married, kids, relationships, work, spread out across the country, the whole shebang. It’s just part of life. We naturally grow apart in one way or another. What I guess I am trying to say is that I am so thankful for both parties. New friends and a chance to make lasting first impressions, and old friends, many of which who are also sober, to remind me of where I came from. My yin and yang which I do not think I’d still be sober today without.

The other day I was listening to a podcast about a guy that has sorta moved to the top, or near the top, of the list of my style icons. He was talking about how he got to where he is in life and how he feels so grateful to be where he is. He’s kinda like a fashion creative director that consults with brands to help them grow or bring dead and flailing brands back to life, working with some of the biggest, hottest names in the business. Yet, this has not always been the case for him. Having had a raucus and confusing 20’s not knowing where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do with his life he fell back on what his mother always told him growing up. Follow your bliss. Similarly, I feel like my parents always told me something different, but very similar. That I could do anything I set my mind to. I truly believe that if we go all in on what is nearest and dearest to our hearts that things tend to work out. When untamable passion is pulsing through the fabric of our beings it is utterly impossible to miss. It jumps out and hits ya right in the nose.

Today, I believe I am doing just that, following my bliss. Making hats, writing, and trying to build a brand. All of which I love, but I am arguably even more excited about a few new things I am working on. It really has my gears going right now, to be honest. I can't recall if I mentioned it here before or not, but i’ll share a little bit about each. The ball is rolling for beginning my version of what I see as a Tiny Desk Concert Series concept here in the shop (tiny hat shop series). Embracing the heart, soul, and sound of the Music City and beyond. Working title, but "Shop Sounds" is what we are calling it right now. A homage to one of the greatest albums of all time, Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys. We do have the furry four-legged mascot, after all. 

Harry Styles performing Tiny Desk in 2020

Mac Miller Tiny Desk Concert

Including a Youtube link for those who are not familar with the Tiny Desk series. This should give you an idea what I want to recreate in the shop. Mac Miller's appearance is arguably the most iconic Tiny Desk Concert of all time.

Also, after years of procrastination, I have finally laid the foundation and begun writing my first book. Think if Winnie the Pooh and The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse had a western-slanted philosophical baby. This tale featuring none other than a little cowboy and his wiser than his years hound sidekick, George. Working title again, but George & Jeauxben or George and Little J. For now. Something like that. You get the picture. Very early stages but it feels good to share, and my hope is that this is my accountability to keep the story moving. It's in some ways a shot to my ego to admit that’s what I am writing, but as much as I would love to be some prodigal writer to go down in the annals of literally stardom like Ernest Hemingway or Jane Austen, I, deep in my heart, feel like this is my lane. For now, at least. It feels very me. Very honest and authentic to who I am as a person, my beliefs, and my outlook on life, and I think that's what this whole ode to gratitude is about—being true to myself and my story. Where I have been and where I want to go. 

excerpt from Charlie Mackesy’s The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse.

I am at a place where I just want to get better at life. All of it. From the littlest of things to the biggest of things. What is the point if I am not striving to improve mentally, spiritually, physically, and emotionally every day? I want to be the best version of myself I can be, and the only way that is remotely viable is by staying sober. It would be impossible if I were still drinking and using, if I were even lucky enough to still be alive, that is. For the better part of a decade, I was a walking red flag existing in a whirlpool of utter chaos, barely able to keep my head above water, but somehow, someway, I found my way out of the storm of addiction. There was a time when as little as six minutes of peace felt out of reach, yet slowly but surely, it grew to six hours, six days, six months, and now six years. SIX YEARS! Utterly unfathomable! If I can do it, anyone can. I am feeling lucky and blessed beyond measure today. What a beautiful thing it is, this life. 

no more

quiet was the morning everything changed.
the vibrations settled.
the voices gone.
the thirst quenched.
the hunger quelled.
lost to thin air.
a simple truth.
i knew.
no more, no more.
from this day hence.

-JM