“That’s it! One more outburst, and I’m making damn-sure that Champ ends up in New Orleans and that the rest of you jackasses play Seattle again, in the 2014 pre-season opener!”
This viewing room has never heard a louder silence.
Champ is a cool dude and all, but it was the thought of what happened last night, happening again… It’s too soon.
“There’s a reason that I got you boys watching this idiot’s tape,” he’s pointing at me, “and not the one of your public hanging that everyone else is calling Super Bowl XLVIII!”
Coach’s scowl floats over the room, making sure that he’s not only being taken serious, but that he’s also being feared.
Unfortunately, for Champ and the Seahawks, there’s going to be at least three more outbursts.
Coach presses play and there I am on the screen, again.
I’m dialing my phone. It’s my Motorola Sliver, my second-to-last phone before I hand myself over to Apple and AT&T.
“Hey mom, how are you?” I say into the phone.
I had, completely, forgotten about this day.
Step number five of the 12 Step Program is: Admit to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Here’s another thing about me: I’m a functional illiterate. I can read, but my mind is always racing; it has to get to the next step. What ends up happening is one of two things: I scan what I’m supposed to be reading. When scanning, I match the shapes of the words that I’m looking at, with the words that are in my head. Scanning works ninety percent of the time. There was one time that it failed, while I was channel surfing, and I confused the word “repo” for the word “rape”, causing me to think that Operation Repo was the most misleadingly named reality show, ever.
(Once I realized my mistake, I had to deal with the fact that I, willingly, turned to a TV show that, I thought, was named Operation Rape.)
If I decide not to “scan”, then I guess. I mean that I read words until I can guess the rest of the words and then I stop reading. This one has a fifty percent success rate and the fails are always epic.
Instead of reading the fifth step thoroughly, as I should’ve, and then going on to admit that I was a sex addict to God, myself, and another human being, I guessed what the words after “and to” were, and I went on to admit that I was a sex addict to God, myself and… other people.
For whatever reason, I was, somewhat, familiar with the 12 steps of the program prior to my submitting to Sex Addicts Anonymous, so I took what I thought I knew, married it to what I thought I read, and then made a shit pie.
Without realizing it, I had mistaken step eight, “Make a list of all the persons we had harmed and become willing to make amends to them all,” and step nine, “make direct amends to such people whenever possible, except when to do so will injure them or others,” for step five. And since I was just reading each step, one at a time, I thought to myself, “There’s no apologizing? Just call people and tell them that I’m a sex addict? Super cool! I can do that. I have zero shame and I love my fiancée.” Let me remind you that my only motivation for being in The Program, to begin with, was that I loved the woman who would become my ex-wife.
(I wouldn’t realize that I was actually, for the first time of many, just seeking her approval until about two weeks ago… from the date of this blog entry.)
My first call was to my loving mother. Her response to my saying, “Mom, I’ve come to realize that I’m a sex addict,” was just as loving as her responses to my saying, “Mom, I’m in jail,” “Mom, I’m going to be an unmarried father,” “Mom, I’m in jail”. She just took a deep breath and said, “I love you and I will help you get through this, if you need me to.”
(This time, I didn’t need her to help. Her help would’ve just made it weird… er.)
(I’m here oldest and most special son. Just ask her.)
My teammates, on the other hand, refuse to show me even a tenth of the love that she had shown me.
Knowshon Moreno sounds off first. He says, “Coach, I don’t like wearing the same uniform as this guy,” while pointing at me.
I don’t say anything to him, for three reasons: I keep forgetting how to say his name, he touched the ball five times, in the game that we are supposed to be watching, for a total of negative seventeen yards, and he’s going to be going to the Miami Dolphins very soon.
But then Wes Welker chimes in with, “Can he at least wear the home jersey when we wear the away and vice versa?”
To which, I respond, “ Eat a dick, Welker! You’re just pissed that you can now blame both Mannings for your not having a Super Bowl ring,” and then I shoot Peyton the bird.
Coach looks at Champ and shrugs his shoulders as if to say, “I tried.”
The viewing room settles down as I end the call with my mother, feeling loved, and begin to call everyone else I can think of: My long time best friend, close friends, guys from college, my two brothers, and one of my mother’s five sisters. I made all of these phone calls without any shame whatsoever! As far as I was concerned, I was correcting a bad behavior and I was damn proud of myself for that.
The best calls, were the ones that I made to my friends. Each friend, after I went into detail about my “affliction”, would say, “Shit! Maybe I’m one too.”
The most memorable call was the one that I made to my middle brother, Elliott. When I told him that I was now calling myself a sex addict, he went nuts, trying to convince me that I wasn’t a sex addict. He said all of the things that Hindsight would later tell me, when I was ready to listen.
I hate that I didn’t listen to my brother then, but he wasn’t my fiancée and I was only willing to do whatever it took, no matter how ridiculous, to make that woman happy with me.
Hindsight now uses all of those phone calls point something out: I didn’t make one phone call to a woman who wasn’t related to me. The only women in my life, at this time, were my aunt, mother and fiancée, who, if you’ve been paying attention to this blog series, would go on to become my “ex-wife”.
I had no other women, in my life, to call because I did not have any female friends- it’s very rare that I do- and not only that, but I had been, voluntarily, abstaining from sex for the two years and a half years prior to my meeting my soon-to-be ex-wife.
That, does not a sex addict make.
Had I realized that then, when that douche bag of a counselor, who I hope, one day, chokes to death on warm ice-cream, was sending me off to learn how to keep my dick out of my hand, I would’ve told him to go eat a dick. Sadly enough, I didn’t realize that then, and now one of my closest buddies has a recording of me saying, “Hey bro, just called to tell you I’m a sex addict. Call me back.”