How Can You Put Your Life Online?

by admin Posted on May 17, 2013

My latest contributions to my blog have sparked interest in how I reconcile “putting my life online” with the principle of anonymity, and other issues. Here’s my response to that.

When I first started this blog, I had no idea where it would go. I didn’t know where my journey would take me. I certainly never anticipated that I was going to relapse.

I have always believed, and this is what keeps me blogging with more honesty than I seem to be able to offer up in person these days, that it is one way to combat shame. Shame is poisonous. It keeps us sick. Whenever I belittle myself for something “stupid” I’ve done (self shaming) or permit another person to put me down (shaming), I am in dangerous territory. Shame and stigma do a lovely dance together. They kill. I really am not being dramatic. My mother died so full of shame, she never truly came clean about her drinking. She was buried in shame before she was, well, buried herself.

Morbid? Yes. Hopeless? Not necessarily.

The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous talks about the importance of “rigorous honesty” in sobriety. It also champions that “acceptance is the only answer.” In tandem, where there is rigorous honesty and acceptance, shame can’t thrive.

I’ve not done a great job of being honest– with myself, with others, even with you. I have things to deal with that I’ve not yet shared with anyone. I am deeply, deeply ashamed of myself. So ashamed, I want to hide out in my apartment. So ashamed, I am having trouble looking myself in the eye. And I know the one thing– the one thing– I can do to bring me out of this shame spiral is to blog about it. I have to put my shit out on display for everyone. It helps me. I think it also helps other people.

What about my sharing about things other people want to keep private? This one is harder. I maintain that I tell my story– not yours, not his–my story. Of course, a huge part of my story is my relationships with others. I try to not disclose things about others unless I change identifying characteristics and/or ask if someone minds my blogging about x, y, or z.

Actually, this is the perfect place to share one of the things about which I am currently, deeply ashamed. I have used my blog to do evil. What I mean is, on a couple of occasions, I have been disrespectful to my loved ones and used my blog as a way to take cheap shots.  Because I was hurt by something. Now that goes against everything I want to be… against my own ideal of integrity. It’s unkind and manipulative.

I am kind of in a space today, tonight, where I have once again exhausted the phrase, I’m sorry. Fuck. I hate it when that happens because I’m sorry is so fucking easy. So, I need to figure out what I can do to make things right. Make amends. I intend to do so with the parties involved.

What of anonymity as a principle? I respect and honor the principle of anonymity as it relates to 12-Step Programs. I never disclose names and I do my best to rework specific encounters because, as those in recovery know, what we hear here, who we see here, let it stay here. I try to respect the traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous. Unless I am citing the Big Book, or another recovery text, I protect sources. I generalize where possible. I don’t use Alcoholics Anonymous as a means to promote my own personal agenda.

Another related issue is that of protecting my own anonymity. Here’s the thing about that. My right to anonymity is just that– my right. I feel I can “out” myself in whatever way, shape or form I desire. So people can figure out my last name through Facebook. Oh well. I don’t feel there’s an ethical dilemma there. I’ve also been asked, What if a potential future employer finds your blog and doesn’t hire you because of it? There, I weigh not writing my blog against the possibility that it will interfere with employment. It’s a risk I am willing to take. I would like to work with persons and organizations more enlightened than those that would discount me because of my blog.

I want to lighten the end of this up a little because well, shit, I think the only reason I am still around sometimes is because of my ability to laugh at the most horrific stuff. I think it’s something we humans share… a need, a craving, for some kind of release. Sadly, I’ve got nothing absolutely horrific to share tonight. Fresh out of horrific. What I can share with you is my hair debacle.

This afternoon, I made a HUGE decision. HUGE. I decided I was going back to blonde. By nature, I am a strawberry blonde. More blonde than strawberry. For years now, I have dyed my hair a deep red/brown. Why? My hair stylist tried it once and thought it made my blue eyes pop! Plus I had this whole schtick about how I wasn’t being taken seriously as a blonde. So dark I went.

Not sure what inspired the change today. And really, all I can do is laugh at it. You see, I decided to forego my usual stylist and go to Andrea’s Salon of Misery for my hair needs. Oh my fucking shit. Bad idea. Anyway, my hair is now a lovely shade of orange. Not red. Not blonde. Orange. Also, I elected to have my bangs trimmed at said salon. I just don’t even want to talk about that.

I think we all have coping mechanisms. Some healthy and some maybe more self destructive. Recovery has helped me to develop some of the healthier coping mechanisms. Before recovery, I don’t know that I really had any, honestly. Just sex, alcohol, and cigarettes. I am so grateful for sobriety and recovery because without sobriety and recovery, I would never have started writing like this. And though I’ve gone through significant periods of time without writing, writing always helps me. Always.

So thank you for your readership. I invite questions like the one I tried to respond to here. Bring it.

Peace and love and warm hugs to all.

 

 

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Too Much Loss

by admin Posted on May 16, 2013

If you’ve read my blog recently, you know I had to put my beloved Golden Retriever to sleep. She had been sick off and on for months. We tried medications, tests, etc. but when she was bleeding out of nose and it didn’t seem to stop, it was time.

I’ve always loved animals. We grew up with cats and dogs. I remember thinking, as a kid, that I couldn’t wait to get my first pet.

I adopted my first pets in 1999, right after my father died of myelofibrosis. He was 56.  I found Stevie and Ray at the Humane Society. Two little black brothers with ear mites and upper respiratory infections. I adopted them and nursed them back to health. Probably the only healthy coping mechanism I developed after Dad died.

A year later, Booty Rocket, yet another black kitty, came into my life. I had adopted her for a friend who had recently lost a parent. It was the only thing I could think of that might help him. Of course, he ended being allergic. My then-boyfriend and I sat with Booty Rocket and called everyone we could think of. We were sure someone would want to adopt this silly little rascal. Nope. And then there were three. Black cats.

Stevie died right after my mother died. We don’t know what Stevie had but I believe he died quickly and painlessly. My mother suffered greatly. She had liver failure associated with alcoholism and a severe respiratory infection at the time of her death.

Ray and Booty are still alive and well. They have been acting different since Nora Lee died. They lived most of their lives with her, as she joined the brood about three years after my father passed. Anyway, Booty and Ray have been more affectionate and calm the past few weeks. Booty climbs on my lap and falls asleep. Ray slumbers right next to my head every night. It is the small bit of comfort I feel in my new, foreign setting.

I must address something here. I am feeling the tension between maintaining total honesty and respecting the privacy of others. It’s hard. I know there are several people who don’t wish to be characters on my blog. At the same time, I must tell my story. It’s how I am of service to others. It also helps me. So I broach the next topic with what I hope is decorum and sensitivity. Again, it’s only my story. I cannot tell anyone else’s story. I don’t presume to know anyone else’s story.

Last week I moved out of the house that felt very much my home. I now live in a comparatively teeny tiny loft. Half of my stuff is in storage. There are a couple perks. One, I have free wireless Internet. Two, I have a washer/dryer in the unit. Three, it’s a nonsmoking building (meaning it’s forcing me to take further steps toward quitting). It doesn’t feel like home. It feels like a weird space with all my stuff, I’m sorry, half my stuff, crammed in. It looks cool, or so I’m told, and I feel totally out of sorts.

I thought I was okay. I believed it was the right decision for me. I did not expect to feel so hollow. I did not think I’d cry at the mention of a certain five-year-old girl’s favorite songs. I couldn’t have foreseen that every leggy teen in short shorts would cause me to tear up, thinking of my two favorite teenage girls. And I certainly didn’t expect to perk up at the sight of every tall and nearly bald man in a blue button-down shirt. 

I am in a space that is unfamiliar. Literally and figuratively. My heart hurts. I feel like there’s an elephant sitting on my lungs. I cry at work. I cry in the shower. I cry at my best friend’s four-year old daughter’s class singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I cry right now.

I cry and cry and cry and cry and cry. Then I reach a moment where I am certain I must be cried out only to feel snot running down my face. It fucking sucks. It’s embarrassing at work. I’ve told people I have allergies and issues with my contacts. That seems believable, I guess, because no one seems concerned. When it’s really bad, I take to the bathroom and hole up in a stall. When it’s really, really bad, when I am shaking uncontrollably and hyperventilating, making sounds I never knew I could make, I feel safest in my car.

I wake up with puffy, red eyes. My contacts are cloudy from tears, even after sitting in sanitizing solution over night. I have lost about 8 pounds in a week. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today. My appetite has disappeared and the thought of eating makes me want to throw up. I suppose it’s the one upside of all this sadness.

I am grieving hard core. I don’t even know exactly what I am grieving. Everything I guess.

I miss my dog. I miss my silly, hairy, smelly, over weight, old dog. I miss hugging her. I miss combing her. I miss playing with her. I miss rubbing her belly while she lays on her back. I miss how she would collect as many bones and toys as she could fit in her mouth and wander around, showing them off to everyone while making her high-pitched whimper which I called her “happy noise.” She was a happy dog. I miss her and it hurts.

I miss my parents. I could really use people who are obligated by society and biology to take care of me. I could also use some guidance. I feel I’ve reached a place where I don’t know what’s next (in the global sense). I’ve actually contemplated applying to Post-Doctorate positions at schools all over the country– Los Angeles, New York City, Charlottesville, Washington, D.C., and Atlanta. Parents would be awesome right now. They’d say all the things my friends don’t feel comfortable saying. I don’t know why I think this, but I am certain they would know the right next step for me.

I miss the people who’d become my family these past couple years. I know I must accept responsibility for my side of the street and I am trying to do that. I made mistakes. I failed to hold up my end of the bargain, particularly these past few months. I’ve been selfish and dishonest and deeply afraid. I was so consumed with my own shit that I was stunned to find out that people thought me unreliable and irresponsible. I don’t know what else I can do but own my garbage and try to move forward with integrity.

I told my friend earlier, It’s just too much loss. It is. It’s too much for any one person to handle. It’s all rushing in– the deaths of my parents, Nora Lee, losing my man friend and company– and I am consumed by grief.

When each of my parents died, I was still drinking. I look back and wonder if it helped me to cope. Maybe. But mostly it enabled me to numb up so I could go about the rest of my life. And so I wonder if that is part of the reason I feel the world is coming to an end right now. It’s not just losing my dog, my boyfriend, and other people I care about. It’s losing my parents again too.

I was talking with a friend earlier about drinking and made a reference to drinking alone in bed. She said, “Doesn’t that sound depressing?” I replied, “No. I am an alcoholic. That sounds amazing to me.”  I can’t tell you the number of nights I drank a bottle of wine by myself just in order to get through the couple hours leading up to bed time. I also can’t tell you the number of nights I drank far more than that and passed out on the couch. I didn’t always isolate and drink, but I did a fair amount of it.

I’ve written this in my last few posts, but I cannot tell you how I am coping without alcohol right now. Well, aside from all of my emotions and hurt dripping from my eyeballs. But I don’t know why I am not drunk. I don’t know why I don’t even want to get drunk. I have to believe my higher power (the Universe) is keeping me dry. I’ve been utterly humbled. I am desperate. I have actually gotten down on my knees, for the first time in my life, and prayed.

It’s just too much. Too much loss. Too much sadness. Too many tears. I want to believe the Buddhists are right, that suffering is optional. I’d like the suffering to end now, please. I also think Pema Chödron was onto something too with the direction to lean into pain, not back away from it:

Feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck. This very moment is the perfect teacher, and, lucky for us, it’s with us wherever we are.

I hear frequently the following sentiment: the Universe only doles out as much as you can handle at one time. I don’t know if that’s true. I suppose it is. For here I am, at the end of my rope, but I am sober, functioning at work, seeing friends, and making future plans. I suppose I am handling things okay.

Offering up all the light and love I hold in my heart. Peace and good night.

 

 

Posted in Family, Happiness, Self-Care, Spirituality, Suffering | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

“Circumstances Make Us Willing”

by admin Posted on May 15, 2013

My old sponsor and I used to meet for walk and talks. She had much wisdom to impart upon me. And for a time, I listened. And I was happy. Then I put on ear muffs and stopped hearing. I “fired” her and a couple months later, I relapsed.

For a time, I really wanted to ask her to be my sponsor when I came back. I did make amends to her for my behavior but we never got together again. It’s something I still feel bad about.

She was fond of telling me, “Andrea, circumstances make us willing.” I totally grasped that concept but I failed to take the time to apply it to my life. I don’t know why. I guess because, again, I was happy. I was in love. Everything was going very well.

Turns out that’s a common sentiment among alcoholics; that it’s when life is dandy that they need to be super vigilant about their program. I never understood that. It reeked of the same sentiment as “I am a grateful alcoholic.”

I once heard someone describe recovery this way:

This program, it’s like insurance. You know, you pay in to be protected in the event of future illness. In recovery, we work a program. Always. We continue to pay in to be protected, even when life is good. If we don’t, when the shit hits the fan, we are depleted. There’s no insurance against misery or relapse.

And yet another way to consider this:

“Often we have to break down to break through.” (Renée Peterson Trudeau, Nurturing the Soul of Your Family)

Whether it’s circumstances and willingness, paying into an insurance program, or breaking down to break through, it’s the same message– pain is our teacher. When life deals us a lousy hand (or what we consider to be a lousy hand), we get motivated. If we’ve been paying our deductible, that is. We change. We do better. We listen. We follow direction. And we “make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” as my father used to say.

At least that’s the ideal. For me, whenever I arrive at this place of utter desperation, I berate myself. Why the fuck haven’t I figured this shit out yet? Why must I get so damn low before I am willing? I am so tired of Teacher Pain. She is a real bitch. And what the hell am I meant to learn? What’s the lesson here?

I think it’s this– I need to take a long and hard look at my behavior. Early sobriety taught me that if I want to feel different, I need to act different. That makes sense, yes? For someone who is accustomed to reacting to things, to responding in fear, it is extremely uncomfortable. Because if I act in a way that’s familiar to me, at least I can predict how it will all play out.

I feel bad enough right now to try different on. A small example would be how I dealt with sleeplessness last night. Not a new deal; I am an insomniac. Typically I manage my mid-night wake ups by tossing and turning, sighing loudly, willing myself to just go the fuck to sleep, and finally rising and either binge eating or smoking cigarettes. Usually I would then return to bed only to have very fitful sleep the rest of the night. Last night I tried something new. When I got out of bed, I didn’t reach for the ice cream or my cigarettes. Instead, I grabbed a large glass of water and my computer. I slid back into bed with my laptop and I wrote. I probably wrote for a good hour. And by the time I was done writing, I was exhausted but calm. I turned off the lights and immediately fell asleep. Peaceful deep sleep. That never happens for me.

Case in point. Different action (writing rather than eating) = different feeling (more relaxed and satisfied) = different outcome (peaceful sleep).

Pretty fucking cool.

I have more plans for different too. I don’t really want to get into them just yet but I promise to share more next week. I will say this– for the first time in months, I have hope. It’s just a tiny little sliver but it’s hope just the same. I don’t know exactly what I am hopeful for, I just know I don’t feel quite as sad and anxious and terrified as I did yesterday. What’s going on right now (breakdown), it’s an opportunity (break through). To take stock, make adjustments, and keep on living. To practice love, not fear. To have faith.

Peace and love and light to all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Acceptance, Conflict, Emotional Sobriety, Gratitude, Happiness, Self-Care, Spirituality, Suffering | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Two Modes

by admin Posted on May 13, 2013

I’ve long thought that hand-in-hand with intelligence comes misery. I don’t mean that offensively, merely that with the greater propensity for retrospection and deep thought comes a greater propensity for unhappiness. I also have the experience to support that hand-in-hand with unhappiness comes endless creativity. When I am happy, I don’t want to write. I find writing to be labored and forced. I am too busy basking in happy to be creative. When I feel like shit? Fuck, I can’t possibly write enough. It just oozes out of me.

I’ve made some changes lately to minimize stress in my life. Got it in my head that stress was causing me to be depleted, exhausted, unfocused, and desperately unhappy. So, I am now living alone again. I have my evenings to write, work on my thesis, see friends, go to meetings. I have my own space. I can leave dishes under the coffee table. Or stay in bed until noon. I have my own schedule. Essentially, I got what I craved, what I wanted, and I’ve never felt lower. I would give anything to be back among the chaos and frenzy and noise.

I’ve gotten messages from friends– some of them, actual messages (email, text, etc.)– telling me I have to pull myself up by my boot straps. I understand that it’s hard to watch people suffer and flounder about. I know our impulsive is to help. And when compassion and understanding fails to work, there’s the tough love approach. I’ve not responded well to these tough love messages. They make me want to act out, to say fuck it and do something irresponsible. They also make me feel worse. I responded to one dear, dear friend, “Don’t you think I want [to be happy]?

I was asked recently by a doctor when I last remembered feeling good, like really really good, for any significant amount of time. The question annoyed me because I felt it akin to focusing on my childhood–yes, it certainly is interesting that I failed to attach and I am terrified of being left behind, but what the fuck does it matter?  But I even surprised myself with my response. Junior high with some fleeting periods in college. Junior high? College? So when I was ten, I was happy. And when I was twenty, I was happy sometimes.

I don’t mean to suggest I’ve never been happy these past 15 years. I’ve been ecstatically happy. I’ve been fuzzy puppy dog calendar happy. But it is unsustainable. Probably because when I get fuzzy puppy dog calendar happy, I stop doing the work I’ve been doing to get to fuzzy puppy dog calendar happy. And then I am that piece of toilet paper stuck to your shoe when you exit the public restroom.

Anyway, hearing myself say that I’ve not been able to be happy for any memorable length of time for most of my adult life pissed me off. I mean, how pathetic am I? I am so pathetic. Just like I create and have responsibility for my own happy, I create and have responsibility for all the unhappy too. But thing is, knowing this doesn’t help me. It makes me feel terrible… like a bad person.

I don’t like feeling bad. I was as close to buying alcohol today as I’ve been in a year. I went so far as to look up the hours of the liquor store across the street. The website said 9 pm. About 8:30 pm, I looked out my window and saw customers approach the liquor store entrance only to shake their heads and turn away. Guess it closed early tonight. Huh. What’s weird is that I didn’t go back online to see if another store was still open, or get in my car and drive until I found one. I just kind of thought, oh well.

If I had to explain my addiction issues to anyone, I would tell them that they stem from a complete inability to withstand negative feelings, emotions, thoughts, stories, facts. I also have difficulty discerning feeling from thought from fact. If you tell yourself something long enough and hard enough, repeatedly, story become fact and fact becomes emotion. In this whirlpool, cesspool really, of fact or fiction, fiction or delusion, my brain longs for something to dial it down. My brain just doesn’t work like other, healthy people’s brains. It’s got two modes: on/off and up/down.

Here’s an example. I’ve struggled with gaining weight this past year. It has really taken a toll on my relationships, my self esteem, and my energy levels. I have allowed this pathological obsession–an addiction, really–to take over. Someone says I look pretty? I think, yeah, for a lard ass. Someone compliments my eyes, I imagine, yeah, but you think the rest of me sucks, which it does…. I am a lard ass.” My jeans don’t fit or a step on the scale and the snugness of fabric or the digital numbers on a cheap Walgreens apparatus dictates how the rest of my day will go. It is total insanity. But I believe it. I believe that I am a lard ass. It is an opinion, an unkind opinion. It is not fact. But my sick brain wants me to think it is. So I will feel bad and then over time bad enough to drink.

My issues with poor body image have led to more than just increased cravings to get shit faced. Obsession with weight, jean size, eating… all of it has come between me and those I care for. Just ten days ago, I was told that I was “totally unavailable and unpleasant to be around.” My response? I put as much distance–physically and emotionally–between me and the person who said that. I told you– two modes.

It’s not like this is new information. I’ve known this for ages. But I find it hard to see it when I am in it. It is only time and reflection, fucking perspective, before it nails me on the head.

I watched my mother change her physical surroundings at least once a year after my dad died. I also watched her size herself up before a mirror, asking the dreaded, “Does this make me look fat?” I watched her start a master’s program at Harvard only to just stop. It is hard to swallow the notion that you turned out like your Mom. It’s even harder for me to accept it. I don’t want to be her. I don’t want to be self obsessed and unavailable to people around me. I don’t want to be so consumed by my needs that I am oblivious to those of others. On the flip side, I am proud to be like my mother. She was brilliant, well-read. She was generous. She was a hoot. She was small and curvy. People liked her… even though she was convinced she was unlovable.

I wish I could turn off my moodiness, my insecurities, my grief. I wish I could close my eyes and be back to my life, six months ago. I wish I could have the chance for second chances. I wish I could find an unshakable love, one that can withstand me and my two modes.

Peace and love and light to all.

 

Posted in Acceptance, Complacency, Cross Addiction, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Sobriety, Family, Fear, Gratitude, Help, Negativity, Regret, Relapse, Spirituality, Suffering | Leave a comment

Moving Out; Moving In; Moving On

by admin Posted on May 12, 2013

Yesterday was May 11. That is significant for two reasons: 1) It was my sober date; and 2) It was my relapse date. Last year, after three years of recovery, I relapsed. On my sober date.

It was at a party. I am going to just say this: I don’t like parties. I don’t like any occasion where everyone else gets to drink and thereby get comfortable enough to talk to strangers. I am from the East coast; we don’t talk to strangers. Anyway, parties bum me out. I feel like the dork I was my freshman year in high school. I say things I think are funny but no one else seems to get. I inevitably wear something to impress and spend all night guzzling diet coke and tugging on my shirt.

So yes, I relapsed at a party on the day I had three years. And it wasn’t an “oops” moment. I deliberately chose to drink. I’d been thinking of “trying drinking again” for months and months. I’d stopped going to meetings and I fired my sponsor. I decided I wasn’t alcoholic but rather just desperately unhappy for most of my life. My problem wasn’t booze; my problem was depression. It’s fucking amazing the amount of bullshit we will tell ourselves in order to justify our behavior. And it’s even more fucking amazing that after some time, we actually mistake the bullshit for truth.

The night I imagined? Romantic. I’d make everyone laugh with my fresh sense of humor and impeccable intelligence. My then man-friend and I would have the most fun we’d ever had and the evening would conclude over a bottle of wine in the backyard and lots of laughter.

Yeah…

I got myself a glass of some chilled white wine. And I remember this very clearly–I held that glass for over 30 minutes before I even took a sip. I was petrified. I then took that sip, and another, and another. 3 glasses of wine, 1 beer, and 2 hours later, I was driving the then-manfriend and myself home. We argued. It was awful. I did get my end of the night out in the backyard with wine but I was alone. I was alone and pissed off and drunk. So I continued to drink and get angrier and angrier. Then I threw up and went to bed. It was gross and the least amount of fun I’d had since May 11 three years earlier.

The horror, the shame I felt the next day is indescribable, unquantifiable…

I had more on this–a cleverly worded bit on self shaming, self flagellation, and how I am done beating myself up for the relapse– but then I deleted it. Because it was a load of crap. I cannot seem to stop the rumination and the loop of what-ifs and should haves. I am in a lot of pain. I have made some terrible mistakes. I am just beginning to beat myself up.

I know. This too shall pass. Every time I’ve ended a relationship, I am fairly certain I will die and/or never be able to trust and love again. That’s the space I am occupying right now. How the fuck am I going to get over this? Or under this? Or through this? I guess one fucking day at a time. Maybe more like one fucking hour at a time. Today has been a continuous loop: feeling okay and productive and unpacking and loving my little awesome loft only to start sobbing–the kind of crying where you lose your breath and make sounds that you’ve only ever heard on film. Then I calm myself down and keep unpacking and organizing, only to have an image, a thought, a memory flash through my mind and there I am again, on the floor bawling.

I do not know how I am getting through this without drinking. I really don’t. I am an alcoholic. My brain’s desired state is fucked up, not sober. And when things get hard, the desire to just squelch all thought and feeling is powerful. Plus I live right across the street from a liquor store. But it’s Sunday and it’s closed.

I remember an old college friend playing this Tom Petty tune during a break up. Time to Move On. My favorite part of the song is this:

Broken skyline, which way to love land
Which way to something better
Which way to forgiveness
Which way do I go

I wish I knew how to move on, how to get going. There has just been so much loss in a short period of time. My dog. My manfriend and his children and family. My home. I don’t know I’ve ever felt like this. It’s different from the death and loss of my parents. They died. I could no longer see them. It was concrete. But when the person you lose, or the thing you lose, still exists but is beyond your reach? That is worse. For me, anyway.

And so I send light and love and compassion to all, particularly, today, those nursing a broken heart. Be kind and be well and I will try to do the same.

Peace.

 

 

 

Posted in Acceptance, Emotional Sobriety, Parties, Regret, Relapse, Self-Care, shame, Socializing, Spirituality, Suffering | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

I’ve Learned in the Past Almost 11 Months…

by admin Posted on May 10, 2013

… That people don’t change. Maybe on the surface. Maybe a different face for a special occasion. But at their core, and absent what most people would consider a compelling reason, people don’t change.

… That people can’t be changed by other people. This is the backbone of Al-Anon. Many of us enter relationships, unconscious that we are going to do our damnedest to change the other person. Maybe just a little. And I maintain that a fair percentage of “breaks,” break-ups, separations, and divorces happen when one or both parties to the relationship realize, fuuuuuuck… it’s true. I can’t change him. And that is one of the inflexible truths of our species. No amount of love, sex, money, friendship, compassion, honesty, blah blah blah, will change someone else’s behavior. Past the “honeymoon” stage anyway.

It’s serendipitous that Somebody That I Used to Know just came on my stereo. It’s the fucking perfect break-up song. Incidentally, the man friend and I broke up this past week. I only mention it because he and his family have been a huge part of my life for the past two years. I don’t wish to dwell on it and I am not really ready to share on it… Let’s just say the obvious–it hurts like hell. I am crying, a lot. But it’s a fresh start. My friends–bless them–keep showing up with words and love and hugs. I am so not alone. I have a new place to live. It’s small. It’s a loft. And I love it.

… That I do not need anyone to take care of me. It’s just me, myself and I. I’d forgotten that I am independent and self sufficient and intelligent and determined and witty. I can change a tire on my own. I can carry several heavy boxes up flights of stairs without assistance. I can put together a bureau without the instructions (about those extra parts… yeah…). I can make myself laugh. I can use a step stool to reach things high up, like those light bulbs that needed changing. I can help myself get through scary, hard, nasty, I-want-a-drink-right-now, fuck-sobriety, moments. Like today, for example.

My car got towed this afternoon. Now I maintained to the property manager that I parked exactly where she told me to park AND I got towed anyway. She pulled out a map and said that no, she told me park over here, in another parking lot. Most people would say, oh shit, yeah, sorry about that. Me? I told her again that she screwed up and then I started to cry. She hadn’t a clue what to do with me. [Truth? I am sure she was right and I was wrong. I was just so pissed and embarrassed I was wrong to admit it. Clearly I owe her an apology.] Anyway, I called a few friends and most were at work or didn’t pick up, so I called a cab. The first guy who picked up told he, “We don’t do St. Paul.” Seriously? I live like half in St. Paul/half in Minneapolis (the street I am on runs through both cities). So I made a super disgruntled, condescending noise, and hung up. Side note- hanging up on people is not as satisfying as it once was. I think it’s because we can’t actually slam something down or make a loud noise. Hanging up is pretty anticlimactic. So, eventually I got ahold of a cabby who’d cross the city lines and he took me to the scary, Stand By Me-esque junkyard where my poor, newish car had been towed. 300 bucks. Ouch. But I did it. All on my own.

… That I want my own children. This is something that I do not want to delve into today. It’s a bit of a big, oozing wound right now. But these past few months, I’ve found myself ruminating about being pregnant, giving birth, and raising children. I have NO idea where that came from. Biological clock finally ticking? I am not sure. But I do I feel a bit like Tina Fey in the intro to Baby Mama. I see babies everywhere.

…That no matter what shit goes down, I have an entire community of people to lean on. Recovery is so much more than stopping drinking. It’s being invited into a pool of people who get “it,” whatever “it” is. Stress at work, disagreement with a friend, break up, car towed, bank account nearing zero– there are people who want to help. And not by telling me what I want to hear. Often it’s the opposite. I get the truth. The compassionate, loving, laughing truth. I leave meetings feeling lighter and taking myself a little less seriously. And that–that space–no one can take that from me.

…That being alone doesn’t have to be lonely. Right now, in this moment, I am by myself. And I like the quiet. I am okay company for a Friday evening. A few friends have called and it seems like ages since I’ve laughed on the phone with my girlfriends. I’ve got everything I need– my laptop, coffee, music– the only thing missing is my dog. She used to lay on my feet while I wrote.

Spending quality time with me isn’t lonely. It actually feels wonderful. I can breathe. As an alcoholic, however, I must be ever aware of when being alone morphs into isolation. I tend toward isolation when I feel lonely. I stay in bed and sleep. I don’t answer the phone. I don’t respond to messages. I shirk all responsibility. And I feel resentful of just how shitty I feel. Isolation is bad bad bad. Particularly for an alcoholic like me. My alcoholic brain feeds on negative thinking. Isolation is like the vacation fun zone for my disease.

The point I arrive at, after writing and rewriting this evening, is… that I can trust my gut and need not worry about being lonely. Sometimes I make decisions counter to my instincts and while I don’t keep a spreadsheet of these decisions, I can look back and pinpoint exactly which ones were made in fear and which ones were made from a loving space.

May this find you in a loving, compassionate space. Peace and light to all.

 

Posted in Acceptance, Conflict, Emotional Sobriety, Family, Gratitude, Help, Honesty, Relationships, Self-Care, Spirituality, Suffering | Leave a comment

What Can I Do to Help?

by admin Posted on April 29, 2013

Today was a hard day.

Allow me a brief tangent here. I know my problems are those of the privileged. I don’t live under a bridge. I never think, actually ever, about the quality of water I drink or the quantity I use to brush my teeth. I have all my shots. I have fucking kick-ass health insurance. I am overweight, which means I definitely have plenty to eat; I am pale, which means either I don’t get enough sun or I wear sunblock. I know I am deficient in Vitamin-D which circles us back to the fact that my problems are ones of the privileged who get tested for Vitamin-D deficiency in a state where 86% (I totally made that figure up) of its citizens suffer from a Vitamin-D deficiency. Because in Minnesota, we have a month of fall, followed by 9 months of winter, then 10 minutes of spring, then about two months of nasty, humid, mucky summer. It’s 70 today and it’s supposed to drop down to 20 by the end of the week and snow again. I don’t really care, because here’s something I don’t know if you know about me– I prefer to be cold than hot. I cannot withstand the heat. And I just traded my car in for a car that handles much better in rain and snow. So, temperature drop and snow? Privileged person problems.

Setting that caveat aside, it was still a hard day.

Let’s start with the most mundane and work up to the juicier stuff.

Work was a drag. I am reaching the roadblock I inevitably run into in every job I’ve ever had: boredom. It’s when I start spending more time thinking about the job I want than continuing to do good work in the position I already have. The timing is about right, 8 or 9 months. I have the 9-month itch (and no, that’s not an STD). At the same time, I know I need this job. I am trying to switch up my mind set. Work is work. I can find intellectual stimulation in other areas of my life. 

Bigger than the work doldrums is the deep sadness I feel. I am so sad, my heart hurts. I have a lump the size of a lime in my throat and when I cry, it just gets bigger. And I cry. Oh, I cry every day, multiple times a day. Today, I cried in my crappy little work cubicle (and blamed it on allergies) and then  sat in a bathroom stall and cried some more. I cried over dinner with a dear friend, who later asked me, “What can I do to help you? Like actually help you?” I told her I needed to think about that. What I didn’t add was that I couldn’t respond to the question because all that came to mind was, I just want everyone to leave me alone. 

The only other time in my life I recall truly wanting to be left alone (and not just saying it for the attention), is when my father died. I wanted to be left the fuck alone. If you didn’t leave me alone, I either cut you off or picked a fight with you. It frightens me a little that I am revisiting that territory. I notice other similarities. Eating makes me want to gag (although I managed to throw down a beet salad tonight, through the tears and over the lime lump). I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t feel like putting on real clothes. I certainly don’t want to put on makeup because, well, for one, I suck at putting on makeup (I told my friend tonight that I look like a blind hooker when I wear a lot of makeup) but more so, I know I will cry, thus making said makeup application totally pointless. Someone once told me that waterproof mascara destroys your lashes. I don’t know if that’s true or actually if I even care, but it’s always stuck with me.

We talk a lot in recovery about our outsides matching our insides. I think of it as integration. So I pose this question: If we are meant to be fully integrated human beings, why isn’t it okay to look shitty when you feel shitty? Why is it so concerning when someone looks sad when what they are feeling is just that–sad? Why do we want to make everything negative go away? Why can’t we just let people move through their feelings, without judgment? How come therapy, 12-step meetings, and church are the only places we can be our authentic selves regardless of where we are at? Who decided expressing emotions was such a bad thing anyway?

One of my favorite men in recovery, let’s call him Rob, came up to me tonight and gave me a long hug. I’d told everyone about Nora Lee and broke down and cried during the meeting. I admitted that I am really, really struggling. I’ve been struggling for months. And that I have NO idea how I am staying sober through all of this, but I am. That reminds me of something very sweet my favorite five-year-old girl said last week. She said, “Andrea, don’t worry. Nora Lee is up in heaven with you mommy and daddy and they are all watching you.” Guess how I responded? Yep, I cried. I digress– Rob. Rob reminded me that he lost his best friend in the world last year. A fellow in recovery with cancer. He then looked me square in the eye and said, “It’s okay to be sad when you lose your best friend.” More tears, more hugs. I think I got hugged by 12 people tonight and every single one of those hugs made me feel just an iota more human.

I don’t know what anyone can do for me right now. I guess just listen. Be patient. Know that the loss of my dog isn’t just the loss of a pet. She was my best friend. She greeted me every day after work with a bone and her happy squeal. I planned my activities around getting home to take her outside. I’d lay on the floor and bury my face in her fur and just hold her. She was my constant companion for 11 years. And that love, that truly unconditional love, is so pure, so uncomplicated.

Here’s the other thing. Losing Nora Lee wasn’t just losing my dog. It was losing my Dad all over again. It was losing my Mom all over again. That probably elicits groans from some. There’s Andrea making much ado about nothing again. To those folks, I offer this up (with all the love I can muster): take a walk in my fucking shoes and then tell me I shouldn’t feel how I feel.

Harder than sadness is my anger. I am screaming at the lady who cut me off on the highway, then cutting her off right back while giving her the bird, angry. I feel angry with some of my friends. I feel angry with my siblings. I feel angry with my boss. I feel angry that the oral surgeon can’t do a damn thing about the dry socket in my mouth, other than to comment, “It’s kind of cool, you can see the nerve running through the socket like a string of spaghetti.” Yeah, cool like me kicking you in the nads, cool? I feel angry that I suffered nerve damage from the wisdom tooth extraction and that I feigned excitement when the oral surgeon predicted I would have full sensation again in two to six months. Two to six months? Seriously? I am going to be dribbling food down my chin, biting through my lip for two to six more months. How about you bite me?

Now here’s the real issue. None of those things are really what I am angry about. They are tangible issues that I can get angry about. I can direct my rage toward others. But to whom should I direct the anger I have over my dog dying? God? Who can I flip off? The Universe?

No answers here… it is just something I have to wait out, much like the numbness in my chin and lip. Could be two months or six months or three years. Who the fuck knows.

I’d like to close by responding to my dear friend who asked what she could do to help me. First, what you said to me tonight took hutzpah. I didn’t like it but you put it out there and now it’s out there and I have to do something about it. But, and second, allow me to wade through this crap with as much grace as I can muster, with no expectation of me being anywhere other than where I am in that very moment. Know that my sadness doesn’t mean you aren’t a good friend. Third, invite me to a Friday afternoon bad movie matinee or a double bill of Dear John and The Notebook. Fourth, know that you are helping already. What happened to night made me write and writing is one of the most important ways I can take care of myself and can be of service to others.

Peace and light and love to all.

 

Posted in Acceptance, Depression, Gratitude, Honesty, Mental Illness, Negativity, Patience, Relationships, Self-Care, Spirituality, Suffering | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Coping with Loss

by admin Posted on April 22, 2013

I am suffering. Physically and emotionally. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve thought “fuck everything” today. I know I’ve said it aloud at least twice. I’ve also been querying the Universe, “What is the point?”

I move slowly through the house. I see something that reminds me of her and my stomach drops to my feet. I think I hear her. I wake up and stretch, thinking about my day, and then BAM, it comes back. She’s dead.

Death makes things harder. Everything requires more effort. My muscles are fatigued. I feel as though I could sleep for a month. I am pretty sure I will never smile or laugh genuinely again.

I’ve been in this space before. The space of loss. The space I thought I knew.

But I am not coping with this loss very well. I feel asea. You see, when my dad died, I drank. I drank wine until I blacked out. I drank wine and cried. I drank wine and chain smoked cigarettes and wrote letters to friends. Alcohol helped me forget how sad and lonely I was. And alcohol’s partner–denial. Denial helped too.

Long gone are those coping mechanisms. Instead, I have my blankies (yes, a thirty-five -year-old woman can have blankies), bad (as in awesome) 80′s movies, and candy. Lately I’ve been into hard candy, which frankly frightens me. I am that much closer to being the little old lady with random hard candies in her purse.

I keep thinking I hear my little old lady Golden asleep and snoring on the floor beside the bed. Or I start to get ready to take her outside and remember and my head falls and the tears start. Nora Lee, my 11-year-old pooch, died on Saturday morning.

Maybe the grief is compounded by other events. It began about ten days ago. A terrible fight with a beloved friend the week before. A nasty altercation with a family member. The extraction of an impacted and infected wisdom tooth– pain, blood, and numbness of the chin and lower lip (nerve damage). Dry socket. More pain. Financial difficulties. Overdrawing the bank account. Miscalculating balances. Mixing up deposit dates. Panic. Stress.

Oh dear. I had great intentions for this blog post. I planned to use the Kübler-Ross model of grief to explore where I am and where I may be going. You know, anger, resentment, bargaining, and so on. Alas, I don’t have it in me tonight. What I have in me is my bed, blankies, and bad 80′s movies. So I guess that’s how I am coping with loss.

Peace and love and light to all.

 

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Cee Lo Green Said it Best… (Originally and Radio-Friendly)

by admin Posted on April 7, 2013

…when he said, Fuck You.** Or, Forget You. I prefer “Fuck You.” I like saying fuck. Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck fuck. The phenomenon of forgetting is a brain scratcher for me. I have never been good at forgetting anything (although I LOVE Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings’ Better Things). And finally, “Fuck You” suits the tune better. While we are on suits, check out Cee Lo’s pink getup. Classic shit.

Anyway, you probably can deduce that I am pissed. I am. I am pissed. Things suck right now. I say that without judgment, so don’t judge me. The most spiritual beings are allowed to be pissed and are expected to feel things suck from time to time. If I could meet the Dalai Lama, I would ask him three things. First, what do you think of Bill Murray’s tale of meeting you in Caddyshack? Gunga Galunga? (Personally, my favorite line comes at the end… so I have that going for me…which is nice.) My second question for His Holiness would be, did Claire Mosher really meet you? Did you pet her pugs over the fence in Cambridge? And third, how the fuck do you move though life when it fucking sucks?

My mind automatically goes in two directions. One, let’s go get good and fucked up and that will fucking show everyone. Two, use the fucking tools at your disposal and wait. Just wait. For me, the “tools” are found in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous and literature around spirituality. I am thinking a lot of Pema Chödrön. Specifically the following quote (taken from her text, Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living):

Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both. Appreciating the gloriousness inspires us, encourages us, cheers us up, gives us a bigger perspective, energizes us. We feel connected. But if that’s all that’s happening, we get arrogant and start to look down on others, and there is a sense of making ourselves a big deal and being really serious about it, wanting it to be like that forever. The gloriousness becomes tinged by craving and addiction. On the other hand, wretchedness–life’s painful aspect–softens us up considerably. Knowing pain is a very important ingredient of being there for another person. When you are feeling a lot of grief, you can look right into somebody’s eyes because you feel you haven’t got anything to lose–you’re just there. The wretchedness humbles us and softens us, but if we were only wretched, we would all just go down the tubes. We’d be so depressed, discouraged, and hopeless that we wouldn’t have enough energy to eat an apple. Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other. One inspires us, the other softens us. They go together.

Glorious and wretched. Spectacular adjectives to describe this magic carpet ride. And her words on grief… I have experienced a significant amount of loss in my 35 years. I continue to. It’s the nature of being human: everything dies. I push up against this reality, however.   This is where my whiny, self-pitying voice takes over. It’s not fair. Why do bad things keep happening to me?

In writing those two thoughts down, immediately I see several problems. Or maybe I should say opportunities; we are waxing spirituality, after all.

I teach medical ethics and philosophy and sexuality at a local University. I think one of the first things students struggle with is that word– “fair.” It’s oft used but also misconstrued. What does “fair” even mean? “Fair” according to whom? “Fair” by what standard of measurement? There is no such thing as global fairness. So it’s amusing that I discourage students from using the word “unfair” when it’s the only word that I feel captures my life at present. Big red flag. Big red, woe-is-me flag.

Same argument around the word “bad.” And, for that matter, good, moral, immoral, ethical, unethical, wrong and right. Words and what they describe are often on a spectrum. We all see and experience things differently. How wonderful and awkward. There really is no “bad” or “good.” I mean, there are things we might universally and generally agree are “bad.” Famine. Starvation. Rape. All bad. But the ethicist in me jumps to the second argument students often find difficult: things are not black or white. Philosophy and its step-child, ethics, are gray. Humans struggle with this (and I can’t speak to other animals’ experience). We are drawn to white or black. They are checkable boxes, definitions we can picture and repeat. We want things to fall to one extreme or the other. But they just don’t. I often encourage my students to exhaust the question, “Why?” It’s one way to spelunk your way through philosophical arguments. And I happen to find it great fun. Usually my students do not agree.

The notion that things are happening to me is myopic. Selfish. Inaccurate. I possess no innate or cultivated qualities. My experiences are not unique. I relearn this every time I listen to another alcoholic. We’ve all done crazy ass shit. Fucked up stuff. And bad (again I am drawn to the descriptor I try to dissuade my students from using) shit, fucked up shit, happens to everyone. No one is immune or safe. Life just fucking sucks sometimes.

And here’s where I stop. Because telling you all about why life sucks, though enticing and provocative, is not useful. For example, I could write volumes about finding out someone I thought I could trust has been talking smack behind my back. But to what end? I’ve spent countless hours bargaining with the Universe. I will give you this if you can make this better. Doesn’t change a fucking thing. I wish it did.

Peace, love, and light to all.

**Warning: This post contain foul and offensive language. But you can still read it– just replace every fuck with “fudge,” each “shit” with stuff. PG-rate this shit. Stuff. FUCK!

 

 


Posted in Happiness, Honesty, My Story, Negativity, Regret, Relationships, Self-Care, Spirituality, Suffering, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

No Digitty, No Dignity

by admin Posted on March 26, 2013

Warning: This post is not for the squeamish.

I had an experience yesterday that I wish I could forget.

I’ve been dealing with some chronic abdominal pain, nausea, constipation, heartburn, bloat, etc. I’ve been seen by CNPs, PAs, and MDs. I’ve been to the clinic, Urgent Care, and the ER (twice). I’ve been diagnosed with GERD, a hemorragic ovarian cyst, and acute constipation. I’ve now been prescribed a proton pump inhibitor, carafate, one OTC and four (yes, four) prescription (or what I’ve taken to calling “industrial grade”) laxatives, and meds to combat nausea. And yesterday, I had an enema.

I have devoted way too much energy to whatever the fuck is going on in my tummy–medical appointments, tests, time spent in bed (I write this from a semi-lying-down position because sitting up hurts) and missed work. I have 50 graduate exams to grade by Thursday morning and I’ve committed myself to working extra hours on Thursday and Friday nights so that I can make up for said time in bed. Ugh! I am so sick of being sick.

Before I move on from it though, I want to go back to the enema thing. My man friend was kind enough to take me to the ER yesterday afternoon. He sat in several different, but I’d guess equally uncomfortable, chairs and when I asked him to stay in the room but on the other side of my butt during the enema, he held my hand. If I haven’t told you enough, my dear, I love you and appreciate you.

Anyway, there I was, clad in a hospital gown for fat elephants, on a bed made for the tallest skinny person ever, grasping my knees into the fetal position. The nurse did her thing and then I did mine. I made a couple pathetic runs across the hall to use the bathroom, each time, returning to my room with no real progress to report.

I believe the word I used yesterday was undignified. Never in my life have I been in such an awkward, vulnerable state… and I have taken a crap in the woods during many a long run. I think what made it feel so undignified was the exposure– my skin peeking out of gaps in the hospital gown, my constant tugging on its seams to somehow, magically, make the enormous sheet of ugly, itchy fabric, cover my butt without exposing another part of my body. The lack of privacy. The being poked and prodded. The tests done to rule out issues with, as one nurse put it to me, “my lady parts.”

I think it also reminded me of my parents. My dad died in a hospital and my mom, in an ICU. My dad spent a day without his glasses (and if you’re as blind as we, you understand the disorientation), a tube up his nose. It was the only time in my life he told me I was beautiful. Then my mom–shaking with alcohol withdrawal, grappling with ascites, yellow as a spaghetti squash. She too struggled with the hospital gown.

I don’t believe I am done with this topic, however I have reached my maximum tolerance for discomfort and must retire the laptop and lay all the way down.

Thanks for reading and if this was TMI, I don’t believe you’ve read some of my earlier posts.

Peace and love and light to all.

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