A-holic

Do you ever feel like you're getting your shit together for like the nine hundredth time this year? That's me. I mean, do people who aren't a-holics just understand this all their lives? I'm getting used to the ebb and flow of my life, although I'm still surprised by how it does it. After almost four years sober I know what's coming mostly- about four times a year I get sad and lost, and about four times a year I pick myself up and find a way around that corner again. 

I wonder if it's stretching out my life suit, like growing but instead of in sizes in measures of prayer and hands up. But also like my ass is spreading out some, like I'm settling it down into the mud that is my life, wiggling it into the mud for a long stay. Getting comfortable. Finding a home.

I was laughing with my therapist the other day about how impossible it seems that until about eight months ago I had no idea that I struggled with anxiety. And now that I know it I recognize it everywhere- in traffic, at work, teaching yoga, when my kids argue, when my husband doesn't seem to see me, when people disagree and I'm not even involved, when I feel lost about who I even am anymore, should I have a cup of tea or water- there it is: anxiety. Is it attachment to outcome that makes me grab on so hard or just the fear of being an afterthought? 

But because I recognize it I can recognize it. And then that helps me to understand that if I recognize it then I can surrender to it because it's something I know. It's like the day I decided to quit drinking- I recognized myself as a person who is an alcoholic and so I understood that I could surrender to that, that it was safer to be an alcoholic than it was to be someone who would spend another day denying what I knew was the truth. 

Is there a difference between an alcoholic and a problem drinker? I only know that as soon as I slapped the label of "alcoholic" on myself I got sober. How fucking weird is that. It brings me a strange comfort in a way to be able to call this strong forceful part of myself something. Over the years that grew into calling myself an "a-holic" because I don't just only want to drink all the booze, in varying degrees I am driven to have more more more of anything that feels like permission. Giving this part of me a name gives it a form, it gives me something I can grab on to and hold and shake and shape. It gives me a part of myself I can identify and recognize. It makes it so when I feel anxious and I'm holding a handful of chocolate covered raisins I can think about who is holding those raisins and be able to put them back. It gives me someone to run to in the dark, someone to hand the light and pull in and tell sweet things like "it's okay" and "I think you need water".

I'm interested in your thoughts. 

Again and Again

There are a few times a year when PMS knocks me for a loop. This has been one of those times- you know, one day things are fine, then the next day you want to crawl into the dark closet with a quilt over your head and just cry cry cry your heart out all day because you don't know why but because.

I imagine this is a tiny taste of what depression might be like. Things go sideways and there isn't really an explanation- just this deep feeling of everything and nothing all at once, but then there's also  intense impatience and quickness to anger that I'm not sure where to put. In an argument with my seven year old about getting ready for school I flipped him the bird and yelled "Fuck you!" at him. I picked a fight with my husband about the same thing we always are trying to work out. Twice. I came home from work and sat in the car sobbing for a long time before I wanted to come inside.

I can remember when I first got sober it was like a revelation when I could feel the crazy creeping up on me. I would start to feel impatient, and irrational, and weepy but I would know what it was: PMS. I never knew this before. Drinking I was always so off center because I was hungover and I felt like hell, guilty and ashamed. Sober I knew it was my wacky hormones being out of whack. Then I found an app that would keep track of it for me and it's been lovely that as soon as I feel off kilter I peek at my app and yes- the concrete evidence is there. I am not just batshit crazy, I'm definitely not hungover; there's a real reason for all these flying around feelings.

Again and again it seems like I am always looking for reasons for things. Reasons why I feel this way, or that way. Reasons why my seven year old can't manage to get ready sometimes. Reasons why I have to be so feeling when it seems so easy for some people to be so blasé about it all. Reasons why people blow themselves up in Paris, why at a football game I can't help but feel compassion for the losing team. I really wanted to go down on the field and say "Hey y'all, wouldn't it be more fun to play football? And maybe after have some coffee and cookies?" It seems like I am always looking for explanations to make things that don't make sense make sense. If I find the reason then I can find the solution and then I'll be able to understand. Lately I've been having this urge to hold everyone in my heart because I want it all to be ok. Like a giant Kumbaya on crack. Which seems like an odd thing to say on a blog about addiction, but well, maybe you know what I mean.

I've been doing a lot of heart opening. I wish I could explain how you do this in steps and then it could be easy, but I don't really know. There's a lot of laying on the floor, getting my body on the ground. A lot of not concentrating on outcomes, a lot of not being the same as always. I didn't really know it was happening to me until I just now thought about that it has been happening to me, but I did know too. It has been my intention, but I didn't really realize that it was actually working until I thought about it. Which seems to be the case for every fucking thing- I set out to do it, kind of forget I'm doing it, but I've put that intention out there and so the universe is hard at work answering my prayers anyway. Then things get good, but also tough and sad, and then I remember my intention and feel awesome but also pissed off because dammit! Prayers are meant to be answered...ohhhhh, right.

There aren't a lot of big things weighing on me- it's all the little things that pile up together making a big thing. Actually it's my attachment to all these little things that make a big thing. I'm reading about avidya (spiritual ignorance) and it makes so much sense- because I am afraid I become attached to these little things and I forget that I am already who I'm supposed to be. Because I am already who I'm supposed to be I don't need to be afraid and attached. But I'm so attached to my attachment to the little things! Who am I if I'm not my idiosyncrasies or victories? Who is my self if I am not supported by these illusions?

Rolf Gates says, "Our pain is simply feedback from the universe: 'No, that's not it; no, that's not it either. Oh yes, you are getting a little warmer, a little warmer. Ooops, you're getting a little colder.'" I think that's such a cool way to think about it- the universe playing the hot/cold game with me. It makes it easier to take when I feel so sad and lost inside, or when I'm feeding my arrogance and not my confidence. Such a simple message: change direction. Move to where you are comfortable, where it feels better. Too hot or too cold- move to where it feels good. I don't have to all over everytime question it: Shouldn't I push myself though? or Whoa! Is that too much? These are just things I can know how to answer.

The day I cried in the car after work was a big step for me. It wasn't awesome to feel so sad, but it was awesome to let that sadness out- to feel my heart breaking and know that it was okay- I found the right spot in the hot/cold game. As soon as I yelled "Fuck you!" at my son I had a big peace come over me and I got quiet and said "I love you. Let's stop fighting." It took a minute, but he did, and grabbed me around the neck and we both cried. The right spot again. I often wonder who made the rule that hearts are wrong unless they're singing?

Again and again I find my life to be so much like seasons: after winter must come spring. And then around around again. Slowly circling around the spiral reaching closer and closer to center. Sometimes the view is the same, again. Sometimes it's all so new I don't know where to look. It isn't about arriving at the center though- it's about getting there even though you're already there. It's about seeing when you've mistaken your pain for pleasure, and then healing along the way. It's about taking a knowing look at yourself and understanding that the grace comes when you surrender and allow your prayers to be answered. Sometimes that's the hardest thing to do, again and again.

Ready

Lord. Where have I been? Every morning I wake up and think, shit. I have a blog post to write. Then I think it again the next day, and then there's so much to say that I sort of got overwhelmed and just put it off for a better time, another day I'll be able to sit down, to concentrate for real. Then I can do it.

Ha ha ha. We all know how that kind of planning goes. But then! The children went to see their grandparents for Mother's Day. My husband is at work. I'm having a huge Saturday night vegetable roasting party and I'm the only one invited so I can do whatever I want. Which means I can cook and write and go to sleep when I get tired. Word.

I finally funked right on out of my funk. Something that helped was this rock my therapist gave me in group the other week. Here it is:

I was talking about how I can't get things to go the way I want or think they should and then we all nodded since I have "issues" with being a little...."controlling"? And then she gave me this rock, some slips of paper, and a rubber band. She said something like: "Write the things you're worried/trying to control on the slips of paper. Rubberband them to the rock. Carry it everywhere. When you're ready to let something go take it off of the rock until there's just the rock. Then maybe be able to let that go too."

I wrote my things: my mom. My dad. My weight. Money. Finding balance. Work frustration. Eating too much. I rubberbanded them to my rock and went to sleep with my rock next to me on the table by my bed.

I got up the next morning and went for a run: me and my rock and my worries. In my head I was bitching at myself for holding on to things, for being worried and not faith full. Chiding myself for not being able to do the rock thing right. Worrying about failing. In my in my head desperate voice I wailed to myself "But what if I fall???"

And then a voice, my own, but from way down deep inside of me said,

"What if I catch you?"

I sobbed in relief. Instant, overwhelming, blanketing full on full out relief.

I looked at the rock in wonder.

Then I remembered that I was in public, and running. And so I said a fervent prayer of thanks out loud straight up to the sky. Then I wiped my eyes and kept on going.

When I got back to the car I took the rubberband off of the rock and put the slips of paper in the door compartment of the car. I drove home with the rock in my lap.

I haven't really carried the rock around since. My parents and I have made a gentle peace with each other- kind of like we were all wearing tight coats and then someone suggested we unbutton them. It still feels weird, but more comfortable. I am still too thinking about my weight, but I'm running, and rolling around on the floor doing yoga. I'm not eating too much on purpose. I gave up money worries because it's May, or Saturday, or a bird chirped.

I'm reading this book. It's changing my life. It came along when I was ready. Ready, just like I was ready for the rock. Ready for my voice.

Ready, after all these years, to trust myself again.

So, a while back someone from Good Housekeeping contacted me about me being in the magazine. Not for Christmas cookies. For being sober. For being sober! My whole being hit the floor.

You mean you want me to be in a magazine because I quit drinking? You read my blog? Um.....what?

This happened this summer, and now here it is:

I only knew the article was out because someone emailed me and said, "Hi, I saw you in Good Housekeeping magazine....." And so I called Jonathan before I left work and said to please go to the store and get a copy or four so I could see it.

Holy crap y'all! I am so excited! I mean, there I am! Mixed in among the foolproof holiday dinners and smart ways to save this season talking about getting sober!

And I am also a big bunch of nerves, since now people might know. You know, like my mother-in-law who we haven't said anything to, or maybe someone at work who doesn't really figure into the equation, or well, you know- other people besides my safe sober community. It makes me want to explain: "But, see, really it was only a little problem, and I'm fine, and you know everyone drinks more than they should sometimes and and and....."

While I was hard thinking this morning I realized that I am afraid. Afraid of what people will think. Not of me now, but of past me. Now I'm fine (even when I'm not), it's then that's so messy. That old me is kind of embarrassing. I can stack up twenty different ways I shamed myself in ten seconds thinking about things I've done when I was drunk. (Ack. Don't do that to yourself.) I could probably fill a room with people who could say something bad about me that happened when I had too much over the course of my drinking life. I could feed a small country on the shame of it all.

It's hard, sometimes, to remember that that isn't who I am anymore.

I am afraid that people won't believe me. That they'll think I'm going back to the booze one day. That I am not totally committed. That I can't be trusted. That just like I hid my drinking I hide my sobriety. That I don't mean what I say. I'm afraid that I don't believe me either. What if I'm a big faker? A liar? What if I'm not good enough to have a nice together life? What if I don't really deserve it?

And then I realize that it's none of my business what other people think of me. The only opinion that I need to listen to comes from inside of me. I do believe me, big time. I do deserve it. We all do.

Here I am, in a magazine, and so the universe is making sure that I keep going. There is published out in the big wide world evidence now so there really is no turning back. If that's not a "you're doing the right thing" from somewhere out there I don't know what would be. I'm so grateful for that.

As I got further into my hard think I realized something. I am proud of who I am. And I'm OK with people thinking their own thinks about me. Cause besides all the bad stuff, there will be good stuff. Some of it really good. And so when I need to tie up my ship I'm going to head over to that.

So much of the twenty years I drank was about the continuous self tear down mission. FUCK THAT. I am no longer ashamed, or afraid to put myself out in the world just as I am, right now, today. Getting sober has made me finally, finally, mostly OK with me. Wow.

So this is me. My name is Amy, I am sober, and I am really proud of who I am.

Telling Practice

I've been sharing my story a lot (and by a lot I mean I told 3 or 4 people) this week: putting myself out there for people to see. Owning up to being an alcoholic. I don't have any practice at that since I still don't go to meetings. So it feels strange, and shameful, and very very freeing. Being able to say that I quit, that it was a problem. That I wasn't just a woman having one or two too many, but having enough to knock out any reasonable person who wasn't an alcohol superhero like me.

......"Duh duh duh dun da da! Boozewoman! Able to leap tall bottles in a single stumble! More drunk than a skunk! Look down on the floor! It's a rug! It's some dust! No! It's BOOZEWOMAN!"

Lord.

In these conversations I start to sugar coat it before I say it, to make it not that bad, and then I remind myself gently to be honest. This has happened. Has happened. It is who I was, but it is not who I am today. The hard part is how much I sugar coated it for myself, and how now that we're being all honest I really see how bad things were. Oh, how bad. Oh.

I can see it on my husband's face. How he didn't know what to do and because I'm stubborn and he's more the go along type he just didn't speak up. Couldn't speak up. Didn't want to damage an already shitty situation beyond repair. Things are better and better but, man. We have a ways away before he trusts me again with his whole heart.

Writing this post reminds me of what sobriety really is: it's hopeful and reaching. And at the same time devastating and heart rending. It's everything all done up in a funny papers wrapped present: you're not really prepared so you use what you've got. It's charming, and colorful, and is kind of funny. When you open it your hands are going to get dirty.

When you want to share it some people will say no thank you. They will feel bad for you that you have to admit such things, and act like you are naked right there in front of everyone. Or they will be baffled that you could even do such a thing: NOT DRINK? They will look at you like you have three heads because such a thing is not possible. Then probably offer some excuses why they would love to quit, but.....

Most people are slightly underwhelmed and a little uncomfortable.

The hard part for me is that you don't really know what people think. How being an alcoholic changes their opinion of you. How admitting it may make them think worse of you when in reality you are so much better. That blows my mind a little. Then I have to gently remind myself, "It's none of my business what you think of me."

Owning my alcoholism makes it easier to be who I am. As time goes by it becomes more a part of me, of my history. It becomes more of a trait than a defining word: I am funny, and stubborn, I'm an alcoholic, I love eggs and toast. The truth is in the telling, the telling makes it true. And the truth is setting me free.

I Can't

Today is a day, if I still drank, that I would be a little drunk on the porch right now. I'd be smoking, surfing around on the web. Adding ice and seltzer to my wine so it lasts longer. Dear God, I can even just inhale and feel the relief from that.

But. I don't drink anymore. I do this other thing: I deal.

Do you ever have those days where it's not really that bad, but it just really sucked? Or, really only one thing really sucked, but then there's all these underlying things that keep nagging, insisting on popping up over and over and over.

Like the ladies in my neighborhood. We used to hang out all the time. Drink on the weekends. I used to listen to A talk about B. B talk about C. C talk about B and A. One of them is a pathological liar. They all sort of bait each other. But act like the best of friends. And then tear one another down behind each others backs. I realized quickly when I quit drinking that I wanted no part of that drama anymore. I hadn't even realized how in the middle I was. So I stepped back. Created distance. Created awkward.

And then days like today happen- I'm innocently walking my eight year old to school and voila. Here they are, walking their kids to school. And I don't want to deal. I want to pretend we forgot something and go back to the house. But it was too late. So we walk along, slowly. But they slow down too. And I just cannot figure out how to avoid it. We say hello (why must some folk be so over the top at this?) and it's fine, but I'm nervous and I just want to say, "Please. Just go away from us."

I realize on my way home why I feel this way. This is exactly how I felt in high school. Trapped in the middle of friends who pretended they liked each other. Stupid clueless me. I was always people pleasing. Always going along with it just to fit in. It bit me in the ass over and over and I still kept on doing it. Right up until last December when I decided to stop being in the middle and make friends who liked me, not who wanted me around because I would listen to them bitch about each other and keep it a secret.

And then later this afternoon I realize this can be as big, or as little as I make it. Since I am in control here. So I decide to make it not awkward. I can be friendly, and kind. I can treat them as I want to be treated, and keep my distance without making my life in the 'hood hard. Phew.

Then I get an email from my son's teacher. Asking if something is different at home because he's been really intense about things for the past few weeks. My oldest is intense by nature. He is this 40 year old man trapped in an eight year old's body. He is a perfectionist. So hard on himself. So angry sometimes he tells me that the only thing that makes him feel better is if he hurts himself. He is super smart, and super competitive. Super intense. He is also charming, and funny. Quirky. Sharp. Loving. He has amazing manners. He looks you in the eye when he talks to you. He might need some help.

So I reached out and asked for help. Got a recommendation from the pediatrician for a child psychiatrist. Another recommendation from a friend whose partner is a psychiatrist. I'll make an appointment tomorrow. It will make him feel better. It might change his life. It might make it so he can deal without having to go through twenty years of drinking to do it.

All day I just kept telling myself to open my heart. To not close it and try to hide it all away, but open it wide and let everyone see inside. See that I'm hurting. And scared. See that I'm dealing by not drowning my worries away in a sea of white wine and just-please-can-I-forgets. I dealt with what I was given today by looking closely even though my stomach was in knots and I wanted to look away. I can't do that if I'm drunk.

I can't tell what will happen with either situation, or the other handful of things I'm worrying about right now. I can't hide under the covers and wish the hard stuff away. I can't ignore how much stronger I've become in the past almost six months. I can't pretend everything is OK, even though I'm scared that maybe it really isn't. And I can't imagine how I got through my life while I was drinking all my problems away. Oh, right. I didn't.

So tonight I'm so grateful for my sobriety. So grateful to myself for sticking with myself even when the going is getting tough. So grateful for this woman I can trust, this me that tells me it will be OK, have an orange and go watch "Parenthood". There has not been a much better feeling than knowing I've got my own back. That I can trust myself to be vulnerable. That I can deal with it. Whatever comes along.

Sober Birthday or: How I Remembered Every Bit About Turning 42

Me, Jack, Hampton, & Husband. Yes! That's really us!

I celebrated my forty-second birthday this weekend. It was my first one sober in about twenty humpfh snerf years. It was one of the best times I've ever had. Ever.

We ran. We camped. We laughed- a lot. We slept on creaky loud cots, and it was cold in the morning. On my birthday I woke up and stood outside cooking eggs and bacon while shivering and drinking delicious coffee. It was awesome.

Y'all, camping has always been a drink fest. You know- you get there, start to unpack the car, crack open a cold beer. Slowly get wasted. Wake up hungover in the morning annoyed at the kids and the outdoorsy-ness of it all. Maybe you lost the keys to the car somehow when you were trying to hide them so they'd be safe before you passed out and now you're dying of thirst and all the water is in the car. And you're miles from a locksmith and the campground host isn't around to call since you have no cell phone service. And you're still dying of thirst, and the children are confused and hungry.  But then you finally find the keys right where you left them. I mean, that could happen. 

So....once again, sober was so much better. My oldest and I were walking to the bathroom together and he grabbed me and looked up at me and said in his sweet way, "I just love you mom." like he does when he really does just love me, and all is right with the world. I was there for everything: not concentrating on how much beer was left, or if it was too soon for another sip of the sipping tequila. Not wondering if we should open some wine. Not wishing it was time for the children to go to bed so I could smoke cigarettes and stop worrying about them and get drunk. (Like I wasn't already well on my way....)

I laughed so much.

I said, out loud, how much I loved people. How much it meant to me that they were there to celebrate with me. I called a friend to thank her for the flowers she gave me instead of texting her. I said "Thank you so much, this meant so much to me" to another friend who brought cake. I was so grateful to my husband who did almost all the packing and unpacking for our trip. I hugged my mom and dad and told them while I looked at them how wonderful it was for them to share the weekend with me. All of that was very brave since I love a lot, but not out loud.

I also said out loud to myself how proud I was of me. I hugged and held my sweet sober self and cried some with all the gratitude and joy sobriety brings me. I forgave myself my past more. I turned forty two. And I will always remember every sweet little bit.