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.

Growth Spurt

This picture is what sobriety looks like to me. That first one- the radical one? Right on. Then in the middle the hyper part. Then that taller wearing a hat part. Then the stretching up part . The shedding of the shell part. The look at my beautiful leaves part. And don't forget the roots. Extending. A little hairy. Just like life.

A seedling is such a fragile thing. So is a newly sober person. And then, sixty days go by. You start to get really really really great ideas about your life. You start to get unafraid. Suddenly there are chances to be taken. Dances to be danced. Hair to be let down. How cool.

I started thinking about how I want to spend my life. How to earn money since I need to work unless we want to live in the car. What will satisfy the bill collectors and my soul. Before I would have immediately told that little self to shut up, none of that "pie in the sky" stuff for you. Plod along. Make decent money. Good benefits. Give your soul to the "man". Be a minion. A playing it safe sycophant. Please- don't rock the boat.

But I started thinking about what I could do that would make me feel "real" on the inside. I got really brave and thought things like "go back to school" and "master's degree". I told my parents about it and they acted like I'd said I was abandoning my husband and children and going to join the circus with the bearded lady.

Things were said like "Too old" and "Children! Responsibilities!" There was crying. Yelling. Leaving.

I'm forty one years old. I know I don't need their approval. I was looking for encouragement and found quite the opposite. (Giant life clue: This could be part of my problem. Stop trying to get everyone to like you and what you do. Approve of self.)

So I left and didn't call. My mom wrote me and said sorry. We talked and I stood up for myself. I didn't try to soothe her, and it hurt to hear her cry over the phone, but I said my truth. Mine.

What surprised me the most of how strongly I felt that ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE. That I don't have to be afraid anymore. Life doesn't have to be this grand ship I'm waving to from shore. I don't have to wonder about all those lucky people, I can be one of them. Or I can be a total fucking failure at something and then hop on another ship. People on boats are especially friendly.

God. Sobriety is such a magical place. I can compare it to this: I have been a seed in a packet. You know a seed is just a seed. It can roll around in the bottom of the drawer just being a little round seed. Until you give it some love. Until you plant it with intention. You put it in the ground and grow it. You grow. You don't ask all the other seeds if you're doing it right. You don't try to be like all the other seeds. You don't settle. You push your tiny seed-y self towards the sun as hard as you can. You grow.

You grow. Up.

Say What?

"'Motherfuck-itude' and 'motherfuckery' is 

about quitting your bitching, getting out of 

your own ego, and getting to work."

I read this and wanted to immediately print it out and tack it to the wall above the desk. And then live by it every single mother fucking day. I'll have to memorize it since it's probably not appropriate for an eight and a four year old to get their minds on. "Mommy? What's a 'mother fucker'?" I think the word 'ego' is a much dirtier one. But the bad word police didn't ask me. 

I've been wallowing a lot since the Girl Scout cookies arrived. Eating them with total abandon. Alcoholic abandon. "Hi, my name is Amy and I'm a Girl Scout cookie-a-holic." Really it's more like this: "Hi, my name is Amy and I'm a give-myself-permission-to-do-whatever-I-want-even-if-it-makes-me-miserable-and-I-know-it-will-a-holic". Phew. Say that ten times fast.

I have not enjoyed revisiting the place where I say "Fuck it!" and then beat myself up for it, and then do it again! I have gone backwards in the past week. And I don't dig it one single bit. I've been living unintentionally. Not having any direction, or purpose. Flailing about not concentrating on anything, doing a little of everything, accomplishing nothing. It has sucked. 

I hate this feeling that I'm being dragged along while the crazy person makes all the decisions. It's like when you were little and someone tickled you until you were laugh-screeching for mercy. You loved it, it was so funny, but it was awful because you couldn't escape or breathe. 

I'm learning that I like structure. A lot. That I like telling myself "NO!". It works for me. The easy choice isn't always so easy. Yes, I can cram cookies down my throat while sitting on the computer instead of paying attention to my children and doing a load of laundry. That seems delightful and easy. But then. My face breaks out from the sugar. The children gallop around the house, wanting to be noticed. No one has anything to wear. I feel fat. Easy's not so easy anymore. Fat, yelling, and zitty in dirty jeans: not so delightful. 

I did better yesterday. And then, like magic, this quote appeared this morning. 

And I mother fucking love it. 

p.s. Here's the article if you want to read it.

On the Line

I had so much time to think, so much time to stew and fret and dream while I was sick. I thought of about fifty different posts I wanted to write, and managed to at least title a few so I wouldn't forget. I save those as drafts to come back to later. If you knew me- like you're getting too but probably not that well yet since this blog is only a little bit old, and not really. This blog is really young. I feel really young sometimes too- not in that vibrant toss me a bikini way, but more of a tender baby bird way, and mostly just with my feelings. My skin has started to do the crepe-y thing when I gently bunch it together, god knows that is not young. Or young feeling. When I bunch my feelings together they do something new and different too. And it's a very breakable feeling.

Like I was saying...if you knew me you'd know that patience is not my best act. It's actually one of my worst routines. Ever. I'm sitting here now wanting to get to the end of this post so I can see how it turns out. I always rush the end. Saving drafts of posts is like torture. I get frustrated doing housework because it's taking too long. Sometimes the childrens' pace makes me want to burst Hulk-like from my skin, and then turn around and smack myself for being such an asshole. Sometimes I'm so mad at my husband but I'm really just mad at my own self. I want to cause a fight entirely to get to the end.

I suspect all this comes from a few places: childhood dramas, hiding from my alcoholic self trying to make it look like everything is fine look here if we rush by in this blur you can't see how hungover I am! or if I speed everything along then bedtime comes faster and I can sleep and not deal with anything. Anything at all.

It's funny how God, or the universe, or mother nature- whoever or whatever you pray to or talk to- aligns things just right so even when you're rushing by you can't help but pause. A spiritual speed bump. A soul ka-thump.

I have felt very proud, and very in control being sober all these days in a row. I feel far away from that heartsick woman who healed herself with too much wine and denial. But I'm not quite sure how to make this sober me wait. To take my time. To shut the fuck up before I put my foot in my mouth again. (Since I tend to process out loud all over people instead of in my own head.) To not expect everyone (like husband) to have a great healing just because I'm getting my shit together. To understand that years of hurts don't just disappear because I put down my wine glass and said "I'm sorry".

Agh. That's what's hard. It's hard to make up for being drunk. For the things said and done when booze ran the world. It's hard to sincerely apologize for something you don't really remember saying or doing. Especially when you pretended so well that you did remember when you were actually in the middle of a blackout. Again, and again.

It's hard to feel "well"  and then feel that shame. Oh, the shame. What a beast. What a burden.

It's hard to be patient and let the beauty unfold when you've finally put it all on the line.

Through the Wringer

This is me yesterday, only I'm not the woman with the purple hair, I'm one of those flat women. I think the one in green. I had a meeting at work and it was a doozy. Add that to the great ground beef fiasco Sunday night and maybe both of those women are me-well, the one in green is me, then the one in red is my nerves. Since my nerves could be on the outside of my body they've been tested so hard this week. And I think they have that surprised look, like WTF just happened here?

Yesterday, after this two hour meeting (which was not all bad, most of it was very good, but the bad part was bad. I'd been having trouble with my boss. He said sorry and his boss said put it in the past.) I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. I was jangle-y, tense, spent. I sat in the driveway on the phone trying to give my husband a five minute synopsis and all I could think was, "I NEED A FUCKING DRINK." (see comments in picture above)

Of course then I remembered that I don't do that anymore. And I only intensely wanted one for about a minute. Because then I also remembered that a drink wasn't what I really wanted, and it surely wasn't what I needed.  What I needed was some dinner. Lots of deep breaths. Some normal life.

Normal life. As in go inside. Hug kiddos. Make dinner. Let my inner mama take over. (my mama, as in me mothering myself) I was patient when I wanted to fuss and grrrrrr. I somehow got through pj's and stories without losing my mind.

My inner mama doesn't play. Now that she knows I'm listening she is not afraid to speak up. And she doesn't like excuses.

Me: "But I had that awful meeting at work and I want to bury my head under the covers and feel sorry for myself. Wah wah wah."

Inner Mama: "That has nothing whatsoever to do with these two boys who love you and want to spend time snuggled close to mommy. Chop chop. And do try to enjoy it. Plenty of time for sad burrowing in a bit."

I made myself do it.

Y'all, no matter how bad and hard and sad and terrible some things have been this week I know that because I'm sober I am getting through it instead of going around and around again. It's been hard to feel- really feel all these roller coaster emotions- to throw my hands into the air for the biggest hills, mouth wide open wailing with fright and sorrow. Feeling the grace of comfort and the warmth of pride for doing it all without my old avoidance technique- i.e. seven glasses of wine. Phew. This shit is real.

I have been through the wringer this week. And the most important part is that I made it out to the other side.

Ground Beef

Doesn't it look innocent, just sitting there, all ground up and no place to go?

You'd never think it would have caused a three hour long sobbing meltdown at our house this weekend. And before you start wondering which child was responsible, it wasn't them. It was me. Me.

It all started because we were having burgers, but also spaghetti later in the week. I thought husband was using too much meat for burgers leaving our spaghetti painfully short. It turned into a "kids stay outside" argument. It turned into me sitting on the bed rocking back and forth sobbing and saying "help me help me help me" and "please please please" in a tiny voice. It turned into a lot of snot and tissues.

I tried to come back down for dinner. I remember trying to eat dinner this upset as a child- the food is an unswallowable lump. It all tastes like nothing. I could not stop crying, just quiet tears rolling down my cheeks. Husband mad, children totally confused. I had to leave the table. I grabbed my wine glass of ruby red grapefruit and seltzer and went up to start the bubble bath for the kids. I keep right on crying.

The kiddos came up to hop in the tub. I managed to pull it sort of together. My oldest and I read our book on the floor of the bathroom for a bit. Youngest started blowing bubbles and wanting us to pop them. It was almost fun. Husband cleaned the kitchen, came to check on us, went to watch football. Oldest and I had a hard four minute conversation that went something like this:

"Mom, are you OK?"

"Yes, dad and I are just in a fight right now, but we'll talk about it and we'll be fine."

"Oh."

"What's up?"

"I worry that you and dad aren't going to be together."

"Oh." (We've talked about this a couple times before. I ain't gonna lie, sometimes I wonder this too. Sometimes things have been tough and not so happy around here. I hope with all my might that it was mostly my fault and that since I'm not drinking anymore, ever, that things will slowly get better. And they are.) "Dad and I will sort it out. We're going to be just fine. Just like you and your brother fight, dad and I fight too. But we'll be OK."

I looked at that wine glass I brought up with me. I was so relieved it had grapefruit and seltzer in it, so relieved that I was sober and not half drunk. So grateful that I was in the middle of something so hard because I was in the middle of something so hard. Glad to be sitting on the bathroom floor able to look my son in the eye showing him who I am without feeling ashamed. To show him that life isn't always perfect. To show him I can deal with it.

The hard part about being sober isn't the not drinking, it's the dealing with all the things that come up without the booze cocoon.

Eventually the kids went to bed. Husband came in and sat on the bed, not mad anymore. We talked, really talked. Tossed some old hurts out there, made apologies, offered forgiveness. I cried more.

And then things were better. We curled up and laughed lightly, just a little, still tender from the great ground beef fiasco. We went to sleep.

I woke up the next day, eyes swollen swollen swollen. But my heart was swollen too. Big and proud that I let it out. That I was brave and vulnerable and sober.

Feeling Stuck

I'm having the "I'm about to have a revelation" feeling. Like my soul has it's head stuck in the porch railing bars, but oh look! the fire department is on the way with butter and a ladder. This little girls' name is Tong Tong, and she was trying to sneak off to play when she got stuck. The metaphor here is suitable. 

But look, you can see the fireman in the background. She fucked up, but here's someone to rescue her. 

I am my own fireman. 

Twenty-one days sober today. 

Present

Merry Christmas Y'all!

I'm nineteen days sober today. It seems like a lifetime. I woke up this morning and felt so deep down grateful that I'm not hungover today. Really deep down grateful.

It's no surprise to be writing about sobriety as a gift, the best gift. No one can tell you or make you, you just have to one day wake up believing that you are going to be able to do it. And then tell yourself over and over and over and over that you are doing it. And then it gets easier, and then whoops, harder- then OK again. When I wake up in the morning and I don't have that awful feeling of dread, dead tired and sad- I just know, for that moment, that I can make it one more day, one more week or two- that I can string those days together until they become a collection and starting over seems so stupid. It feels good to say big numbers like 17, 18, & 19 in my head.

Sobriety is a present in every meaning of the word. Pre-sent and pres-ent. An offering and a moment. A gift and a time; the gift of time. A hard-earned struggle-y hoot and holler look at me go this sucks ass ever changing present. And it fits just right.

HIGH FIVE! Sunday 12.23.12

 

WELCOME TO HIGH FIVE SUNDAY!!!!!

Here's where you can post about something or things that was high five-able about your week. It/they can be big or small or even medium. And you can include your days/weeks/months/years sober too. And I will shower you with friendly words of encouragement. 

I'll start. 

Last night the kiddos were together in the tub. Which mostly always goes sour at some point. (But they always want to take a bath together. Hmmmm.) Last night it was all about a floating frisbee. (twenty seven toys in the tub and they always want the same one) "I want the frisbee!" "NO! I WANT THE FRISBEE!" Scuffle, splash, grab...youngest hits oldest. Me in calm soft voice making youngest get out of tub. Drying him off. Not talking. Being gentle. Putting on pj's. Having a story. After things have calmed down looking him in the eyes telling him not to hit. Bedtime was saved! And I was not a tired screechy banshee. (Well, I was tired, but I was not a banshee) Go me! 

I said "no" to a friend this week when I needed to, and she really wanted me to say "yes". Phew!

I am seventeen days today. :)