Hell-ish.

There must be something in the spring that makes me go a little off. At this time last year I entered a funk that lasted all summer- it didn't abate until early fall. And here I am again.

I've taken the whole week off from work because I lost my voice on Sunday. I'm still hoarse today. I went to the doctor yesterday, she breezed in, announced what I had was a viral infection, there was no magic pill, I needed to rest and drink lots of fluids and could go back to work in a few days. Gee, thanks.

I suppose I need to back up a little and tell you that I've been having trouble with double vision since around Thanksgiving last year. My regular eye doctor sort of blew it off and so I did too. Then it started getting worse, and so I went to a different non-blow-it-off eye doctor who sent me to a double vision specialist who sent me for a myasthenia gravis blood test. That I managed not to freak out about until the night before I got the results: negative.

Oh yay! Negative! Oh....no. Negative. So now what? A neurologist. Deeper tests. The double vision plus other symptoms mean something is going on, but none of us know what. So we're pulling back on my eyeglass prescription. I'm going to see a hollistic health specialist since I'm one of those folk that believe in treating the source not medicating the symptoms. I have another appointment with my double vision specialist at the beginning of July.

At yesterday's appointment I learned that I gained ten mother fother pounds since last year. Wahhhhhhhh.

I wasn't really going to say anything about all this until I read this post from my dear friend Sherry and knew that I had been hiding myself away too. Yesterday I read this post from another blog friend, Chenoa, and really felt the fear I've been feeling: me, rolling stone, innocently gathering moss. Insulating and isolating from keeping my soul full.

Shit y'all. I'm scared. Scared I'm having something big that I can handle because I'm sober, but so resentful too because goddammit! I am sober! Can't that be enough? Can't it be enough that I suffered for all those years? Can't I just be healthy and happy for one time, ever?

OK, I know. I am healthier and happier than I have ever been! I am, really. All the dealing with life is still something I am not quite used to. It's hard! So hard. Work, and kiddos, and this and that. Sometimes that is more than I can handle without words like "neurologist" and "autoimmune neuromuscular disease" thrown in.

The funny thing about all this is I know what to do. I know how to feel better. I need to eat right which means four pieces of pizza are too many. I need to exercise every day which means go for a walk. Stretch some. I need to read things that comfort me rather than the book I'm reading now (The Goldfinch) that is totally stressing me out. I need to do the things I should do and not the things I want to do- and I know the difference.

The difference is: the things I should do make me feel capable and safe. The things I want to do make me feel fat and wobbly-brained. Fuck. The shoulds are good seems easy enough to remember. So why can't I do them?

The things I "want" to do put me back into my booze cocoon sans booze. It all started with a bad situation in my recovery group and is now snowballing because I'm dealing with things in my old way (i.e. NOT dealing) rather than keeping myself at the level to which I've become accustomed. I got a big shove backwards and it's not easy to regain momentum even though I know overthinking myself into paralysis is not the solution.

I know that I need to not sneak out of the pool and slink away. I need to climb up on the diving board and holler "CANNONBALL!!!" and jump back in. And so when my brain says "coooookies" I'll just yell "CANNONBALL!!!" and when I want to hide under the covers I'll get up on the diving board instead. Because that's all I can do. Because I know my old way doesn't work.

Because really, the water is fine. I am fine. I'm OK. I am capable and able and I can swim. Even though life is hell-ish it isn't hell. It's only hell-ish. And I have to remember that's a big step up from what it used to be.

8 Days Until Christmas: Countdown of Good Reasons to be Sober Day 8

Day 8

The value of the help I get and give cannot be measured even with the big ruler. I would never, ever ever have gotten to feel the cradle of a helping hand- whether it be a pen pal, or a friend, or a group, or my own backbone without first asking for help.

8th Good Reason to be Sober

Helping hands

When I was drinking I could never ever ever ask for help. Ever. I just drank and remained helpless. Helpless.

When I quit drinking the one big big biggest thing that made me not jump in the car and buy ninety four bottles of wine to chug while I made dinner was this: I wrote an email to a woman I'd never ever met or heard of and said, "Hey, I'm trying to quit. I'm scared." And then Belle wrote me back and said, "I'd be glad to be your pen pal." And she help save me.

Because I asked.

As I got more sober time I learned something: I could ask myself for help. And then I would show up. Every time. Reliably. I became my own help. I help save myself.

Because I ask.

Then I prayed to the universe for a face-to-face friend and Universe Amy showed up. I call her when I need to say "Gah, life is a plane crash today and my heart is breaking into pieces." and she reminds me that I'm OK. Makes me laugh. Values me. She is help.

Because I ask.

And then I joined a women's recovery group. I cry and laugh it out loud over and over: "Help me. Help me. Help me." All these hearts and hands reach out and save me.

Because I ask.

Some say you gotta sin to get saved. But I think you have to ask to get helped, and when you get helped you get saved more that you ever imagined could be real for your one living life.

You reach out your scared hand and heart and say "Help me. Heal me. Save ME. SAVE ME. HELP ME."

Just ask.

Phew.

Life has been a little roller coaster-y for me lately. I feel exactly like that: here is a solution but I'm busy being busy and won't stop to look. Plus there have really been some big things going on.

Y'all, I met Sherry from Oh for the love of...me! After much planning and arranging and finagling we found a free Saturday for both of us. It was so damn good to give her a hug, to know that there's another person out there who gets my crazy. She gave me some great perspective on some things like saying "I need" rather than "You never".

We talked like we'd known each other for years over five hours at a Starbucks halfway between our houses. We talked freely. We told stories about ourselves, our drinking, our families, the way we are exactly the same about papers all over the damn kitchen counter. :) We had a few moments that made us both get goosebumps. We got to look into each other's eyes and hug each other hard and promise to do it again.

There's just something about talking to someone face to face who knows mostly exactly what you've been through. There's something so comforting about that "Mmmmhmmmm" and head nod. There's the way you hug someone a little tender tighter because you know they've been where you've been and you know it was a hard place to be. It was such a pleasure to spend the day together.

Another big thing is that my women's group ended.

I knew I was learning stuff, but I didn't really realize how it all sort of came together. You know, like being sober. You start and you try and then you kind of go, "Oh. Here I am. Whoa. I have been changing! I am flowing along! Really?"

We wrote about ourselves in six months, but it had to be in the present tense. (So like the stuff was happening) I wrote that I was running again. And meditating. That writing was a bigger part of my life. That my husband and I were partners, intimate and life. That we moved to a smaller house and were saving money, paying things off. She told us to dream big and so I wrote that my website was a success, and that I was working on a book, that Soberbia was going to be a real place, and that I also had stopped yelling at the children. I wrote that I was strong enough to handle what life gives me- good or bad.

I have to say, that writing was cool. Like, all of these things are totally possible! And not only are they possible, but I believe they can happen. Wait, wait....is that the future? And does it look.....OK? Dude.

Another big, big bigger thing at our last meeting was that I realized I had reached a point of peace with my mom. We had a conversation the other day that was sort of crying and disagreeing and sort of spouting out some feelings. My mom is tough to crack, she isn't mean, she's just....protective of herself.

"While you're busy living your life you don't know other people's pain!" she said to me. Oh. I realized that she is the way she is not out of anger at me, but that she was hurt A LOT as a child and that she doesn't know how to be open and tender without feeling totally out of control. And so she acts abrupt and curt to protect herself. So now I can try to take it differently: now I know when she's acting bitchy that she might be just scared underneath.

I'm still considering how I feel about the group ending. What is my next step? Um, AA? Join the ongoing Tuesday group? I'm going to take advantage of my five free counseling sessions I get with my health insurance. (woooo five y'all! I'll be healed in no time!) I have great admiration and respect for the therapist who ran the women's recovery group and maybe I can see her once a month.

Another biggest thing that happened was sitting in on my son's first counseling session. My kids have been fighting like crazy lately. As a family no one is happy much. We don't laugh, or joke. Or relax for fuck's sake. We have been a "me first" family all year. Except there are four of us.

We might ALL need some therapy. Really.

Yesterday my mom said, "I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, but they act what they see." It was spoken soft, and with open kind eyes so I knew there was no judgement.

And after Jack's session I was really knocked for a loop. In a "Oh! This merry-go-round is so fun but I think I might throw up" way.

He's so pent up, and frustrated, and angry. He's so hard on himself. So hard.

He's also really well spoken, and funny, and quirky. And so fidgety!

I realized that he is being a lot like, um, ahem. Me.

Hard on myself. So hard. Quick tempered. Needing perfect. Chasing the end and upon reaching placing another rung just too high to reach. Never feeling relaxed or happy because it just isn't happy enough or relaxed enough. Never good enough.

Here I am, there again. In that wonderful cringe-y moment where I am seeing the light and dang, that is real bright and a little painful. But oh. It's so good to be able to see my way again. And I'm OK, and the therapist seems to be a good fit- he talked to Jack like he was a person and not a little kid. It made me realize that there is a lot of anger running through all of us. That these qualities that are so easy to pick out in my little boy (anger, perfectionist, never good enough) are wild and alive in his dad and me. Well, shit.

My husband and I are meeting with the therapist together without Jack on Thursday. I am really nervous and glad. Inviting a trained to see stuff stranger into our family dynamic is nerve racking, but if I can help Jack deal with the bigness that life can be it's worth it. So much of sobriety is uncomfortable, and this is one of those things. Doing this feels like I put on a too small sweater and now I can't get it off. Which is why we need some help. Just a little help.

Sort of Surrender

This is what I looked like while I was praying/pleading with the universe for some patience and also understanding. Except there was more crying and not as much of a pretty glow.

The past two days have been rough. Like, rough.

I swear when I was sobbing and pleading for help on the bedroom floor earlier I was not all the way crazy. I mean, I knew I was down there doing that. I felt like I could cry my very heart out. Like I wanted to cry it out. "Just get out, heart," I would say. "All this caring and hurting and living is so hard. Please, just go away."

I thought about when I drank while I was laying there. I thought about that when the going got rough I got drunk. Now I just get on the floor and cry. I'm sure the children don't understand either way, but at least after my cry I gave them baths and then we cuddled up on the couch and watched TV for a bit before bed.

So I did surrender and listen to Jack's teacher. He is a kind young man who feels a kinship with Jack. He thinks up things for Jack to do when he finishes ahead of everyone else. He and Jack have a journal they write back and forth in. Jack's problem is not behaving at recess. They have a whole enrichment thing for that: a Personal Empowerment Program (PEP) (what the hell? Isn't he, um, eight?) that Jack will complete since he gets overwhelmed by Four-Square. My husband actually said, with no trace of sarcasm, "You're telling me my kid can't behave at recess?"

But the head banging is cause for concern, and also Jack's holier than thou attitude. He alienates himself because he thinks he's smarter and better than everyone else. And he puts so much pressure on himself to be the best, and first. And the best. And first.

The whole thing was surrealish and good but weird. And we all lived.

I did three asking for help things today. Help for Jack- finding a counselor for him to talk to about why he's so hard on himself and dealing with his anger and sense of entitlement and injustice. Help for me- my women's group ends Monday. I won't be joining the other group that meets on Tuesdays, and we can't afford for me to see my current therapist. So another counselor for me. And more help for me- an appointment with a new GP who does acupuncture and nutrition therapy. Someone who can help with my foot, and my hormones. Word. Word.

What really sucked was when the nice woman who was helping me figure out what I wanted in a counselor asked me what I was looking for I had to say, "I'm a recovering alcoholic. That part is more important than the holistic part. That's the most important part." Saying it out loud, to a stranger, over the phone seems like it could be a piece of cake. Except it isn't. Telling her that Jack's counselor needs to know that about me too doesn't make anyone feel like mother of the year.

Then I got off the phone and cried a little and whimpered to my husband, "It's hard to ask for help."

Because, God. It really is.