You Love Her

My youngest has the sweetest crush on a girl in his class. She is his seat mate, they talk all the time: "Even more than me and you mom!" One day after school we waited for her mom to show up so we could ask her to come over to our house. I introduced myself and said to my son's friend, "Would you like to come over to our house one day to play?" She said, "No thank you, I'm fine," and my son pulled in his lips and made the please don't let me cry face and I kind of laughed politely and said, "Oh, okay, um see you later. Nice to meet you." We walked the long walk to the car and when we got in he tried to smile but cried instead. I tried to make it better by saying things like be patient and maybe today just wasn't a good day to ask but he kind of got himself together with a ragged sigh and proceeded to act like it didn't matter.

This has been my relationship with myself. I send out these fancy love letters to myself and then when it seems like time to become home friends and not just at school friends I clam up and refuse politely, and I also forget to feel how heartbroken I am and I breathe a lot and pretend like I'm just fine anyway, thanks. Mixed signals all over the place.

Is it embarrassing and a little self indulgent to admit that I love myself? Does that make me one of those people that persistently posts selfies and quotes about how they just keep going no matter what because even in the darkest day there might be a slice of light? When did it become wrong to love yourself? Does school beat it out of you? Your peers? Just life? Can it just be okay and acceptable and not make me arrogant or full of myself if I am okay with saying I'm okay?

I'm reading THIS BOOK and although I get tired of all the rah rah rah I love reading about giving myself permission to be cool with myself. Gratitude to HIP SOBRIETY for publishing her book list, I hadn't seen You are a Badass before and I really am almost to the liking the idea of thinking of myself as a badass cool lovely woman point. What have I got to lose? I mean I hated myself for years, so I'm giving love a chance. It's all part of the MERGE. :)

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. 

Good Advice

I've been feeling super cocky in my sobriety lately. (Being in a magazine didn't hurt.) Like I am a sober badass, and will be forever. Nothing will stop me. After a summer/early fall of feeling pretty wavery and sad and just down in the dumps something changed and I took another step up- another leap away from boozy me and towards this awesome new person I am slowly becoming, that I already am.

It still feels very uncomfortable to think of myself in positive terms, but I'm practicing. A lot.

Which makes me realize that at some point in my life I felt really good about me, and then I felt toooo good about me. And then I got knocked down several times and finally stayed down.

I can be quite firm in my beliefs. Almost unbending. I can also be "If I can, you can. So just do it." Not super fair.

I want so much for anyone struggling with alcoholism to find their way to sobriety- consistent, lasting sobriety. And I'm at this point where I have almost a year, and I feel good about it, but I cannot forget where I came from. That bossing people into being sober (which is where I was heading) is not the way to help people to be sober.

Alcoholics aren't really the type you can boss into anything. Alcoholism is really an act of defiance. You can't really manhandle people like that (me) into anything, much less saving their own lives. Lord knows no one could have told me to stop drinking. It just would have made me drink more. And it did! The more I told myself I needed to quit the more I wanted to drink. You can't tell me what to do.

I'm struggling some with guidance and excuses. How to hear someone's struggle and it be expansive, and then how to draw lines in the sand that define boundaries that cannot be crossed. How to hear explanations, but not excuses. How to have forgiveness, and have expectations. How to hear people in their sobriety, not mine.

My universe friend Amy and I had a really good good conversation yesterday and I could tell I was feeling so smart and wise and superhuman. My advice is so good. My thoughts are wonderful and the best. I was basking in my glory.

And then she said some things in her universe Amy way that brought me back to earth.

One of them thundered through my head: "When you start feeling invincible is when it gets really dangerous. Then you could be way more likely to drink."

It reminded me to be humble in my sobriety. It reminded me to listen to those who have years on me, that my wisdom is far from complete. It reminded me that I am me, and you are you. And that to be the strong person I am and want to be I have to be able to use what works for me, but then I also have to use what works for you, too.  It reminded me that I have a lot to give, and a long long way to go.

A Broken Promise Revisited

When my youngest turned two we took a bike ride on the trail near our house together. We went to this trail almost every day- I logged miles and miles running and running and pushing both he and his older brother there in the running stroller. On that day he was behind me in the bike seat. I was very hungover.

"I promise you, for your birthday, I will quit drinking. I will quit for you. I will quit on your birthday so I will always remember. I will quit so you can have a mom better than me." I said these words reverently, quietly. I meant them. All of them. But it was a promise I only kept until later that day when we opened bottles of wine to celebrate.

I regretted even speaking those words out loud, for even though he wouldn't know what I meant the universe surely heard and was possibly pissed. But then again the universe knew I was a big fat liar and didn't believe a word I said anyway.

My youngest turns five on Sunday. He will never know the pain and sadness I feel at how I frittered away his babyhood and toddler days carelessly drinking and drinking. I drank when I was breastfeeding. I drank and drank away his first year so carelessly and sporatically that I don't really even remember much of it, other than I was marathon training, picked up smoking again, and stayed out all night getting wasted with people from work when I should have been home with my new baby, his brother, and my husband.

Looking back, I can guess that I had some pretty serious postpartum shit going on. Which I probably could have seen if I hadn't been in such a fog of drunk and hungover and emotional overload. Holy shit. God, I think back on that year and how I hate it. I ran a marathon and was so proud of myself. The accomplishment of that one day should have been what I felt every day about my home, my family. That year I was so so so selfish, and hated it all while I loved it so much I had to turn away. There was so much to lose, and I was trying my best to lose it.

I remembered that bike ride earlier today. Out of the blue it popped up in my head. I didn't keep that promise for a few more years, but the important part is that I finally kept it.

I am so thankful to my husband for staying even when he should have left. I am thankful to my children for loving me in spite of what they don't even realize I've done. I am so thankful to myself for finally coming to my senses and being brave enough to say help, and no. No more. No. more. Please. And then I can. I can. I am doing it.

It's unsettling how I can recall that one snippet of declaration from three years ago. And totally understandable since I said those things to myself all the time, but just never out loud, to anyone. And how that one conversation on that one day stuck with me.

I imagine that my sobriety is built on all of these conversations and wishes. I believe that I am so strongly sober because I yearned for it so desperately for so long. I know that one reason I stay sober is because I made a promise to a little boy three years ago and I need to keep it. I will stay sober because I make a promise to myself every day to keep going.

Luckily my husband stayed. My boys love me fiercely with open arms and hearts. Our loves aren't perfect, but they are ours. I don't have to break the beauty of them to keep them holy. I keep my promises. I make ones I mean. I'll stay sober. I'll love and not be afraid. I'll go through it instead of around it. I promise.

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.

Inner Instructions

Um, what? What is that? It's kind of what I feel like when I'm trying to direct myself and my life, kind of like I'm making a shuriken. Whatever the hell that is.

I was five months sober yesterday. I'm so good at the not drinking part of being sober, but I've been pounding sugar like crazy. (no, really. I ate two pieces of cheesecake the other day. Then a sliver of pie. Then I broke off the crust of the pie and ate it. Then I finished all the yogurt pretzels.) I'm eating alcoholically.  Terrific. And also coffee. Coffee. COFFEE!!!!

I wonder at the part of people that says, "enough". When they were giving out "enough" I must have been in the bathroom. I don't really have that part. It's my missing piece. La la la la la.....what's that you just said? "Eeeeeee-huh? Eeeeeeee-nuff? I don't understand."

Yesterday I went on one of the worst runs of my entire life. It sucked from step one. I plodded along and plodded along, hating it, mad at myself for being so slow and so not wanting to run when I really wanted to run. Then all of the sudden I said to myself, "ENOUGH!" And I stopped running. And I walked. And then a really fit girl ran past me so I ran a little more because I imagined that that was what I looked like running and so I should probably be running. And then I walked. Adjusted my shirt. Glared at my pouffy belly. Agh!

But then. I said, out loud, "Who cares about your stupid pouffy belly?" And I laughed at myself, and all the angry inner instructions I bark at myself all day. Pretty much a bunch of crap about how I'm not doing it right, and I don't measure up. More about how I look to other people. (Horror. I kid myself that I don't care about that, but I guess I do.) No wonder I was pounding wine like it was my job. No wonder I down cookies like they're wine. I'm trying to shut my inner instructions the fuck up.

I need to stop trying to make a shuriken. I could start listening to the real inner instructions- you know the ones that aren't my ego. The ones that say things like: "Coffee is really messing up your sleep. You need to stop drinking it" and "Don't buy a pound of yogurt pretzels just so you can eat them all" and "Hey there, when you run, eat right, and get enough sleep you feel awesome. Let's go back to that."

So I haven't had coffee since Saturday. The headaches have been awful, but it's my body readjusting so they are kind of (kind of) a nice reminder that I'm resetting. The sugary stuff I want is gone (I ate it all) and I'm not going to buy more. Why can't we just do the things that make us feel right? Why do we resist what makes us feel the best? What the hell is wrong with me?

Nothing. *waves*  Just over here being human, working on some new instructions.

Bogged and Boggier

 I have been so wiped out by my self lately. It's all ho hum, and meh, and blah around here. I was having a conversation with someone today about how why life just keeps on dishing it out when it's totally clear that right now you just cannot take it? How can I call "Uncle" or put up a "T" for time out and then I get a break from my head and my heart and I just be while laying out in the grass watching the clouds roll by?

I get so bogged down by things I'm not doing, or the things that aren't going right that I completely forget about the good stuff. And then I'm impatient with myself for feeling that way, and then I need an all day run to straighten myself out- or to at least slog out of the bog and maybe into the tall grass.

There's this thing I do. It's called: TOO MUCH. I am very good at too much. Perhaps a pro even. I eat too much cookies. Too much wallowing. Too much negativity? I've got it. I'm a gold medalist in too much self criticism. Numero uno at wanting to hide and hibernate, and also great at too much blaming other people when I'm not feeling good with myself. Too much afraid of life, of always being in this position I'm in and never getting on with it.

This part of early sobriety is not fun at all. It's not too much fun, it's the opposite of that. So I don't have the market cornered as far as the too much there.

So I guess I'm running up the boggy hill, bogging it up. I'm still going, but not very happy about it. I want my clouds back- pink or whatever. I liked that better. I feel better for a bit and then back to *sigh*.

And then I read about people dying in Boston and I feel like an asshole. So I guess what to do is this: keep slogging, keep bogging. And most important keep blogging. And really most important: remember to be grateful even when you feel like a grumpy black cloud. Because I'm sober and alive, and I can never get too much of that.

A First

It used to be that every so often I'd get "creative". In other words, get a little drunk then want to paint or create something. It would be fun, and there were loads of cigarette breaks and tons of swilling and I'd inevitably go about three steps too far and ruin it when all was said and drunk.

This week I've done TWO projects that would have called for some serious wine drinking and cig smoking. Both without any of that. Monday I planted plants and fixed up the back porch (my old private drinking spot) with new chairs. I've been dreading the spring- how will I sit out there and not want to head right back to drinky town? Like this: change that mother fucker completely. It looks nothing like it used to. It looks like a great place for a book and a cup of tea. It's going to be heavy with tomatoes and herbs, peppers and flowers by the time July arrives. It looks like a place a sober woman like me wants to be. I just have to twirl some lights around the railing as a finishing touch. I threw away the flower pot with all the cigarette butts in it. Did you know I quit smoking the same day I quit drinking? I don't miss that stinky habit either. Now I can have zinnias instead of cigarette butts. This new life rules.

And! Project number two...painting my desk. I sanded it and everything. This project would have been perfect for wine etc. As I was sanding my desk I kept thinking about how I would have stopped for "breaks" and how I would not have been as careful or as caring about my pretty new desk- I would have just been rushing to get it done so I could take more breaks. Instead I did it right, took my time. Leaned my head back and forth. Breathed in and out. Stopped to have a coffee and a cookie when I started feeling impatient. Two more coats of paint and an overnight to dry and I'll be all set. A few days left. Me and my pretty peacock blue desk. Blogging about how awesome it is to be sober.

As hard as it is, as sad as I feel sometimes, I still get the magic of this life. I get so grateful to have even just this one another day to be sober. To be me and me and me. To wait for the good parts. To put in the time to make it what I want, not just rush muddle it to be finished. The patient part is the part that makes it all worthwhile.

Sobriety 101 Part 2

So, of course what happens after you get sober is that you have to stay sober. No easy task there. Unless it is easy, which some days it really just is. And then there are those other days. The hard ones. Ugh.

Here's the thing: you will never know how good sober feels until you do it. You can head to the fridge for just one more for one more day or five more years. You can wait until you are ready, or you can know that by thinking you might be ready, you just might really be ready.

Getting sober is hard. Really hard. (Like you didn't already know that. Duh.) Booze is not for you. You can't have it. If you read my blog I'm guessing you have a problem with alcohol. The only way to get rid of that problem is to stop drinking. And the only way to stop is to....stop. There are a thousand ways I adjust every day to stay sober. 988 of them I don't even notice.

You thought you were ready. But then a few weeks or months later it turns out you weren't ready. And you drink. And it isn't different. It's the same mother effer that it ever was. And so are you. You are that same person who couldn't drink. On your report card it says, "_____ is a delight in class. Eager to learn. Cannot moderate." Whoops. The dog ate my homework. But do you have to start the whole grade over again? Hell no. You just study a little harder. Lock up the dog when you're trying to finish your homework. Stop trying to moderate and maybe jump rope instead.

I guess moderation works for some people- and many people I read still hope to be able to drink again.This is not me. I get such comfort from knowing I don't even have to worry about that anymore. I don't drink. I can't. It's just not allowed. And that doesn't make me sad, or miserable. It doesn't make me long for the days of yore. It doesn't make me feel left out, or lacking. It makes me feel sober. And kind of like a bad-ass.

You don't know me personally, but you know me from reading what I write. Some days I cry a little after I write this blog thinking about me, who I used to be. How grateful I am that I gave myself a chance. How just one hundred days (less really.) changed my entire life. How I wish I could take everyone who is still struggling with quitting and bring them home with me for a while to feed them soup and care and seltzer. Thinking about maybe you, reading this, and you wishing you were talking about your hundred days. Or your one week. How I wish I knew, when I was stopping and starting over and over again how good it would feel to just stop. How I wish you knew I was there in my heart, holding your hand, telling you to be brave. Telling you it is uncomfortable. Totally. And we would laugh about it. How at the beginning you are all loose ends and feelings. How you are kind of a beautiful mess, but a sober one.

Here's another thing. Staying sober is hard too. I can't say how hard it is past the day I'm on. But I think that's the way to do it- stay on the day you're on. Whether you want to count it or not. And also think about the future. What if I were brave enough to say "I will never drink again" and it stayed true for the rest of my life? What if we all just were that brave? To say a big word like never. To follow it with again.

How to be sober: never drink again.

How to stay sober: keep saying never. Again, and again, and again.

Life As A Box

I was talking with a new friend about possibilities the other day. We were talking about life. And how it can be kind of like a box. And how you are the one who decides how big your box is.

I've had several people ask me what the benefits of sobriety are. In other words, why be sober when drinking is so a-) socially acceptable and sobriety makes you a weirdo and b-)  so easy and comfy. This is the best way I can explain it. Drinking makes your life box small. My legs are cramping up a little already just from looking at her in there.

It's like, if you drew a box on the floor and put yourself in it, the ways you would stretch when you drink are just arms length. A reach out to the fridge for another bottle. A reach over to turn the alarm off for the fifth time. A reach up to massage your aching head. A reach inside to push yourself around for being hungover again.

When you really quit drinking your life box grows. You can start to push your boundaries. When I first quit I think my life box even got a little smaller at first- I was so scared to do anything. And the only thing I really wanted to do was stay sober. It was all I thought about. Then, suddenly I was walking around a bit. Taking a look around. Peering out the windows. Hell, making some windows. There are trees. And birds. Possibilities.

Because I am sober I can make my life box just what I want it to be. I can add whole rooms if I want to. Growth is feasible because I'm not suffocating from a hangover. I can commit myself to my life. I can make plans. Invite other people in. I can say, "Look! See what I'm doing? Isn't this nice? Aren't you proud of me?" My life is a place other people want to be.

I can give love to other people since I'm feeling love for myself. Sobriety makes my heart bigger. Whereas I used to hide- not answer the phone. Oh, God. NOT the doorbell. (This still takes practice. The phone rang last night, I picked it up, looked at it, didn't answer. Then I called right back. Silly. But I didn't answer the phone before, or call back, ever. I didn't want anyone to know I was drinking. And then I didn't want to have to make up excuses for why I couldn't make plans.) Now the kids can have friends over. I make lunch plans for my days off. Sometimes this even happens two days in a row.

You know how, when a house or building gets built, you use these things called cornerstones? Look at the definition: a stone representing the nominal starting place in the construction of a monumental building, usually carved with the date and laid with appropriate ceremonies. And: something that is essential, indispensable, or basic. Holy crap. That's what happens when you make a sober date. You make a cornerstone. A nominal, indispensable starting place. A strong place to start your new life box.

OK, now, also. It can get a little crazycakes when you start making the box bigger. You might have to go whoa whoa whoa! Hold up. Tooooo many changes. I can't even find the other side of my box now. I need to go back to my cornerstone. Have a seat. Think a minute. And you can do that since you aren't drunk so you know where you put it. Here it is. Ahhhh. Right where I left it.

You also might forget that the box is yours and start trying to make it look like someone else's. You get turned around then too because you don't recognize your surroundings. Head back to the cornerstone. Walk the perimeter. Trust.

Imagine your life as a box. Imagine how booze makes that box jail. Imagine how you can make a cornerstone. Or two. Or as many as you want because this is your box. A box to shape and grow. A box to open. A gift to share.

A life.

Breadcrumbs

Early sobriety

Last night I listened to my first Bubble Hour podcast. I liked it. It made me think different thinks. It made me think about being lost with no map in sight. It made me wish for flashlights and compasses for everyone. It made me want the way to sobriety to be as easy as one two three Google Maps. It made me want to be a guide, with senior helpers.  It made me think about Hansel, and Gretel.

My path to sobriety was littered with breadcrumbs every day. Not a day went by that my inner mama/guide didn't drop crumbs on my way. Hints, suggestions- sometimes loaves of them. Most days I would just keep trudging along, ignoring the crumbs and searching the forest for other things instead. (Look! A forest! But I can't find the trees...) I couldn't be bothered with simple breadcrumbs- I had bigger messages to get, and they were all at the bottom of my wineglass.

And every day those little bits were there. Every day I knew what I needed to do. I needed to follow those crumbs, which were parts of my heart. Every day that I drank I tore off another piece of my heart and left it lying there on the path for me to see the next day. Every day I tried to save myself. Every day I looked away.

I don't know what made me look the day I did. I tripped over a heart loaf and fell. Hard. And while I was down there, lying on the path, I saw all these bits of me waiting to be put back together. I got hungry. I was tired of the sea of trees. I could not go a step further until I looked down at the path to see where the heck I was going.

So I looked. I started picking up those crumbs and going the way my heart and soul wanted to go.

It's never enough for someone to say "Sobriety is so much better" and "You'll be so much happier" or even "Follow the breadcrumbs". You have to do it yourself. You have to trust the signs you leave out for yourself in the night, in the dark, in the hope of your heart. The way to get your inner compass to stop spinning is to take the clues you're given. You follow and trust and hold virtual hands with other people who are trying to stop spinning too. People who come back for you even though it's raining and dark and you wandered away again. You believe you can do it until you are look ma no hands! doing it. You are Hansel and Gretel. And you are doing it.

Give it Up, Give it Up Again...

A blog friend recently had a relapse. That sounds so clinical, though, doesn't it? It sounds better to me to say a blog friend recently chose to drink after a little over a month sober. And we all get it. If you're reading this you probably have, at least once, told yourself that you were going to quit drinking. And then you probably drank again. I have promised myself to stay sober and then drank myself silly. Again, and again, and again. Until that last time.

I can't make guarantees that you will deep down believe since you haven't known me long. And some days I don't believe that I will never, ever, EVER??? drink again. I haven't known me long either. But in my heart I know. I know I can't. I know I just plain flat out don't want to. I don't want to. At the end of a hard day, or a sunny day, or a day that I'm alive there is just not a reason for me to drink. Period. I don't crave it, I don't want it. I don't miss it.

I don't miss it.

I'm reading this great, great great book by Augusten Burroughs called This is How. He talks about a lot of different things. I'm on this part now about drinking and he says basically this: It is not hard to quit drinking. You just don't drink. You decide that sobriety is more important than being drunk. Period. And if you drink then you've decided that being drunk is more important than sobriety. And that the past is the past. It doesn't make you who you are today. I think I drank for as long as I did because I believed that was who I was: Amy who drinks and wishes she could quit. That was the core of my identity. It was all I thought about. Either drinking, or quitting. Every day. Over and over and over. Years and years. And fucking years. It was my second job, all that thinking about drinking.

Surrender is a funky kind of word. It can mean you throw back your arms and head and let the world come at you like a breeze. It can mean you become small and lose yourself to fear. It can mean you give up every belief you have about yourself because maybe, just maybe you were wrong about you. I was wrong about me.

Surrender means you give up. Here though: have another perspective. Instead of surrendering to booze, or surrendering to the idea that you are powerless (NEVER, ever, ever are you powerless over booze. EVER.) Surrender to sobriety. Surrender yourself to strength. Don't surrender to a higher power- be a higher power. And no, I don't mean start calling yourself God. But I do mean create a universe. I do mean create days and nights. And light. I do mean make a life. And on some days rest.

I'm gonna tell you this: If you will not or don't want to surrender you will find a reason to drink again. You will find an excuse. You will reason it out in your head all the whys why it's OK this one time. And you'll get drunk and you'll be sad about it later. Or even while you're doing it. You'll pull out the powerless card and throw it on the table alongside your glass of booze and cry inside "But I need it!!! I can't live without it!!! Why can't I have it?" Surrender. Because you can't. You just fucking can't. Give it up. Out of all the glorious things in life there is only one thing you cannot have: alcohol. Drop that shit like a bad habit. Cede from the land of booze. Abandon that baby. And don't look back.

Curse Show

I'm not sure what it is about sobriety that makes me want to cuss like crazy. And not like "Awwww, fuck." Like "Fuck yeah!" or "Holy shit!"

Yesterday on my run my ego started whining, "This is kind of hard. Shouldn't we slow down and get comfortable?" And I spoke up, "Fuck you! RUN! It's supposed to be hard!" Then I chanted "Fuck you, run fuck you, run, fuck you, run" until I finished my last mile really fast for me. And then I walked and beamed and felt great since I gave that ol' ego bastard a beat down.

Oh, life. Aren't you funny? When I got home the dogs were filthy. Beaming at the back door, hair all stringy from the mud. Only their heads we a little dry. And us with a broken shower dog rinser thing-y. Cue ego: "Oh, no. This is haaarrrrddddd. What will we do? Let's just avoid this situation." I was noticing a trend here. Things get hard, ego hands you the easy card. Or a wine glass. Fuck you. Deal.

Instead we made a dog pen in the dining room so they could eat, drink, and dry off. (Side note: Dogs still messy. You should see the dirt on the couch from it drying and falling off while Jelly slept. Holy shit.)

As an encore life had this one last thing while I was two minutes from finishing dinner: "Mom? Hampton just threw up all over the coffee table." (my oldest said this so casually I thought he was kidding.) I walked in to the room to look. Yep. Barf. Coffee table, rug. And then all over the kitchen floor where he tried to make it to the toilet. Ego: "Waaahhhhhhhhh!!! Whhhhhyyyyyyyy?????? Who will clean this up?" I actually considered for a brief millisecond calling my husband at work so he could come home and clean it up.

And then I handled it. Fuck you. Big girl boots. Clomp. Clomp.

Sobriety. It's this cool place where you suddenly get to decide. You decide you can do hard things, and then you do them. It's this place where you have to yell strong words like 'fuck' and 'shut the fuck up' to that whiny part of you that's such a damned coward. It's where I get to feel like a superhero because I do hard things like run fast, handle dirty dogs, and mop up vomit.

It's where, in the night, I can go to my little sick four year old son. I hear his tiny voice "Mommy? Mommy?" and I'm there. I'm all there. I can rub his back, and look into his olive brown eyes. Push back his dirty blond hair. Hold the trash can while he barfs. And I'm not drunk. I'm not drunk.

Fuck yeah. :)

Gobstopper Days

My dear pen pal/sober blogess extraordinaire Belle posted about being curious about who's hanging about reading her site, days sober, and quit dates. Well, I had to pull up the calculator (which either says "Wow, you've been sober for a long time" or "It's hard to add 25 + 33 at six in the morning"...) I always remember that I have twenty one days in December. Except I have twenty-FIVE days in December. Please pass the coffee.

That's a grand total of 58 days. Did you hear a little pat pat pat? That was me, gently patting myself on the back. Almost two months. How about that. *crooked little smile*

I am floored by this- but not because I feel like "Whoa! That's such a long time." More like "Really? That's it?" I feel like I've lived a year in these past almost two months. That's what happens when you remember your life I guess. It seems longer because it is longer. There aren't these giant holes of hours where you've been living, but in a vacancy. The days stretch and last in good ways and bad. I know what happened last night every morning. I'm living, and not drowning. Everlasting.

Holy Shit Y'all.

I woke up in the middle of Monday night and felt the mind race gearing up so I turned on the TV. I was looking for Law and Order (always on, puts me right to sleep) and the image on the screen froze. So I started flipping channels. They were all frozen. Then this appeared on the screen:

"After eighteen years of sobriety, Terry relapsed two years ago." 

Holy shit y'all.

EIGHTEEN YEARS. 

RELAPSED. 

6570 DAYS. 

Holy fucking SHIT y'all.

It turns out the show was "Intervention"- which for me is enthralling and totally depressing. I used to get secret satisfaction from watching people who were waaaayyyyyy more fucked up than me. Then I would rationalize: "I'm not chugging mouthwash in a locked bathroom. Phew. I'm just fine." I liked to see the people get better. That made me feel like if only someone would whisk me away to a fabulous rehab then I could be the sober one waiting for my family to get there. And that my hair would look better.  

And then sometimes the catch-up info at the end would say things about relapsing, and getting sober again. And I would think it wasn't possible. That everyone goes back. Why even try? 

I haven't watched "Intervention" since I quit drinking. I found out that watching people fucked up on booze and drugs is uncomfortable and depressing. And not (for me) a vehicle of deterrent. More like the bus over the high cliffs of hopeless. I read that sentence on the TV screen and wanted to shake Terry with all my might. I wished I could have been there to yell "DON'T DO IT!!!!" when he picked up that bottle and told himself after EIGHTEEN YEARS that it was OK. (Terry also went back to his crack habit, too. Thank you sweet baby Jesus I never had one of those.) At the intervention he said yes. Then he relapsed again. And then got sober again. And now? Well, who knows?

I have been almost rudely lucky since the stars aligned and I chose to get sober when I was exactly the readiest. I don't want to drink. Most of the time. Ninety percent of it. The I see some shit like that and I feel like I might need a suit of armor. A bodyguard. Or at least a guard dog. A mouth chastity belt? Now that would be cool. Right. Mouth locks are the new black. 

This looks comfy eh?

I don't want to be at my sons' wedding in eighteen years and blow it. "Why is mom doing keg stands at the family reunion?" Lord. 

I don't tell myself,  "I won't drink today, just for today. I can drink tomorrow if I want to." I tell myself,  "You can never ever drink again. It ruins you." Because then for me there is no decision to be made. It's kind of like asking if I'll push that old lady in front of the speeding train. It's the never asked question. There is no question. The answer is always "NO!!!". And you really don't have to ask. This doesn't work for everybody. The thought of never drinking again makes me feel relieved, not desperate. It could be all in the way you look at it. Or it could be just me. But it works for me. And hopefully it will for years. 

Caring Isn't Punishment

For the past few days I've felt like this child in the corner. I know that's what made me give up my Whole30- it started to feel like punishment, like I'd done something wrong and deserved to do without. Hold up.

I realized this morning that I carry this notion that nurturing myself has negative connotations. That it's a bad thing. A selfish, self-centered, greedy thing. Well, dang. Where did that come from? If you wrote to me and said you were doing something nice for yourself I would be all for it. Hell, I even have a whole day of this blog devoted to cheering for myself and y'all.

So why does my inner bully start tapping the bat when I'm starting to feel pretty good about things?

And when did I stop believing that I was a worthy person? Because I cannot remember a time when I didn't feel that way. Whoa.

Getting sober uncovers all these simple truths about me. It's like I'm meeting a whole new person. It's pretty damn cool, and pretty unsettling at times too. If you'd asked me three months ago if I liked myself I would have said flippantly, "Sure, I guess I do." And I really wouldn't have known the answer, I didn't even know who I was. I was a shell.

If you asked me that today? Right now? I would say with my head, "Hmmmmm. I think so. I'm still figuring this one out." and with my heart I would say, "I would die for this woman. She is brave, and kind, and strong. I love her."

As I would say to my oldest, Jack (he's eight):

"It's OK to think your self is cool."

I think it's time to learn that lesson for myself.

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.

Waiting Room

I loll about in bed for ten minutes or so before I get up. Thinking about things, feeling what it feels like to wake up sober and stretchy and safe. There's usually an idea that pushes it's way to the front of the line and that's what I write about in the morning. This morning I started thinking about time, and patience, and waiting.

I have waited my entire over eighteen years old life to get sober.

That just blew me away a little.

All those times I felt ashamed, and angry. Impatient with my scared sweet self because I just didn't "get it" yet. Where the fuck is my light bulb moment? Furious at me, embarrassed by the person that I was. So disappointed that I couldn't care about myself enough to take care of her, to show her how I really felt. Anxious and always giving up, sick of waiting.

It's like being at the doctor's office. The nurse had called my name, I was in an examining room. But no one was showing up. No one was coming in to take a look at me and tell me how to fix what was wrong. I kept a hopeful eye on the door. 1989, 1997, 2002...jeez, what was taking so long? 2006, 2010... Finally! THERE YOU ARE.

I am so proud of these thirty days that I waited and waited to get to, year after year, hangover after hangover, one day after another. I cradle and clutch them close. I honor them by adding to them and protecting them every day. I burst out in sudden brief sobs when I'm running or alone humbled and grateful that I waited all this time and someone finally showed up: ME. I take the time to think about what being sober means to me, to my husband, to my children.  How it took forever to get here. How we all waited without even knowing what we were waiting for and when it would come.

How suddenly, but with lots of warning (lots of warning, years of warning) I finally arrived. HERE I AM. AND I AM FINISHED WAITING.

Now I wait for other stuff. I roll thoughts around in my head, marbles and morsels and bits of what makes me me. I'm figuring out what I like, what I'll stand for. How to stand up for myself. (since I'm starting to know what the hell I'm talking about) I wait for ideas to finish. I'm not ten steps ahead of myself all the time unable to concentrate on the task at hand. I take a breath. I "be in the moment". Patient. Waiting. Taking MY time.

The Voice

I'm not sure when I picked up the voice in my head that runs a pretty much constant commentary starting when I wake up. Oh, wait. That's me. So maybe I'm really wondering when I got to be such a damn downer. I don't really notice until I'm peeing first thing in the morning feeling a little grumpy and I suddenly think, "Why am I in a bad mood already? Nothing has even happened yet!" I have to chuckle to myself since it's so stupid to wake up mad at nothing, but it's annoying. Ooops. I'm being a downer again.

That voice makes mountains out of molehills. Mountains that I can climb all day until I have blisters on my poor little soul. That voice can take a small burst of impatience and turn it into me being a terrible mother in my head for hours. Me: "Everything is fine. Everyone gets impatient." Voice: "No they don't. You suck you suck you suck you suck." That voice was the thing that told me to drink, too. Me: "Drinking makes me miserable." Voice: "So what? Just go get wine and you'll feel so much better. You're drunk you're drunk you're drunk you're drunk."

I used to ask my me voice to get stronger when I was running. I would beg me to step up and save me from the voice- don't listen don't listen don't listen don't listen. When I was running I would feel so strong and capable and me would step right up and say "We've got this" and I would believe it until 5 o'clock or so when the voice would push me aside and suddenly I'm at the store buying cigarettes and overpriced beer. Before you knew it the kids would be in front of the TV and I would be in the backyard smoking with my first quick drink chillin' on the air conditioner unit. I always liked it in the summer when the A/C would come on and blow the smoke away so the neighbors wouldn't know I was smoking. A forty-one year old woman hiding in the trees.

In a moment of clarity I realized that the reason this voice probably started was when I was waking up hungover and guilty and I had the constant tape on replay "You suck you suck you suck you suck". Twenty years of that can be hard to undo. I know that. I really know it. I know in my heart I have to be gentle with my breakable new self; I'm only twenty-one days in for goodness sake. Give "me" a break. But sometimes I feel so good, so real, that when the voice pops up I feel so surprised: "Oh...you're still here?" And isn't it odd that the part of me that's doing the healthy thing feels bad, instead of the part that's wanting me to self destruct?

I hate that fucking voice. Now I just need to learn not to listen.

My First Beer Dream

I had my first "I drank a beer" dream last night. I was sitting at a long table with lots of other people eating food. I got up to leave, looked down, and there was a full pint sitting at my place at the table. Without a thought I reached for it and drank it right down. Then I had that "oh, wait. oh...no!" feeling and realized "I don't drink anymore! What did I just do!" moment. Which was quickly followed by that "Weelllll, you've had that one, might as well have more!" moment.

And then I woke up. Phew!

Thirteen days in and I'm finally dreaming again. I'm slowly starting to sleep through the night. I'm like a new baby, waking up every three or four hours and being awake from 1 AM to 4 AM tossing and turning, just thinking and thinking and thinking every which thought, every which-a-way. Yelling at myself in my head "Shut up! Go to sleep! Huh, I wonder what I should do on Thursday, and I wonder if they need for post it notes for Jack's class. I should have checked on that earlier. Now his teacher probably thinks I'm a slacker mom. I am a slacker mom. Why do I suck as a mom?..." This can go on for hours.

But last night I woke up, fell back to sleep. Woke up again, fell back to sleep again. I like that. All that midnight worrying is exhausting!

I have been more anxious about drinking this week. I'm feeling stronger, but more fragile. I started crying listening to a Nick Drake song in the car. Washing the kids hair. While running. It's like I'm feeling more, turning up emotions like turning up dirt. I have these moments where I feel like "oh! I feel like me." And then I check in, and sure enough. Just me. Not hungover me. Not drunk me. Just...me.