When I hear the word “acceptance”, I think about Coach Ham, yellow squash and this little thing we deal with called, LIFE. Last night I was lamenting beautifully to my Sponsor about my day. I was explaining to him the many trials and tribulations that lay ahead of me… and how, if ever, anyone would understand or know what it was like to be Brock Cravy. Self absorbed much? He fired back, unsurprisingly, with “You need to lower your expectations. While you’re at it you might want to lower your expectations of others.” I gasped! He obviously did not know whom he was talking to. Friends, I’m currently enrolled in “Recovery” as a second language… and I take the short bus to class.
After what I THOUGHT was a compelling argument filled with talking points about setting standards, never giving up and how high expectations can help you reach your goals, I thought we were going to break up. He calmly suggested that I read “Acceptance is the Answer”, a chapter in the big book, then he politely bid me goodnight. I thought to myself, That man is a serenity show off! I did read the chapter he suggested and I now suggest to you, that you do the same. Now, I could summarize the chapter for you, but where would be the fun in that? If I’m not special, and that’s according to my sponsor not me, neither are you… read it.
I will however “quote” my point.
“The higher my expectations of other people are, the lower is my serenity. I can watch my serenity level rise when I discard my expectations. But then my “rights” try to move in, and they too can force my serenity level down. I have to discard my “rights,” as well as my expectations, by asking myself, How important is it really?”
-Acceptance was the Answer, The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous
How important is it really? If you see stars and hear birds chirping I think you get it. This is one of those things that I just can’t explain. I just have to do. I just have to accept. Moving forward with progress, I need to ask myself before I gear up for battle, Is it worth it? That reminds me, Coach Ham.
Coach Ham taught my sophomore biology class. He was a large hairy man, a missing link kinda hairy, and the narcissistic sort that insisted on being called Coach, despite the fact he did not (or no longer), coached anything. This bothered me so I called him, Mr. Ham. This bothered him and he insisted I call him Coach. He had no idea who he was dealing with sooooo, I re-introduced myself through persistence. After a lengthy summit, it was agreed that I was to address him verbally as Coach Ham in class and Mr. Ham in writing on homework assignments and reports. Unsatisfied with this agreement I continued to mock and patronize him publicly, in a gentle undertone that only other teenagers, like my self, could understand. Victory was sweet.
Looking back… Was it worth it? No, not really. I made a big to do about nothing. What about the yellow squash you ask? Well, I can’t stand yellow squash. Despite my demonstrable distaste for the vegetable it is here to stay, forever, regardless of my opinion. Coach Ham, on the other hand is not.
My name is Brock Cravy and I’m addicted to me. firstname.lastname@example.org P.S. There he is… there’s that 16 year old punk from biology.