Love's Not Love

The other day my oldest son, age 12, brought home a lovely bouquet of dandelions and sweet little purple flowers for me. He stuffed all these flowers into his LaCroix lemon seltzer can during outside time at school, carried them around with him half the day and all the way home on the bus- the bus that carries eighth graders who are relentless in their teasing of my under-tall unfashionable glasses wearing boy. He came in the front door grinning. "Mom! I picked these for you!"

I am never surprised by his open heart, the heart that stays open in spite of always being teased for being different and this year, 6th grade, is the first year he's finally had a solid group of real friends. His love for me is so big, and he is so honest about it, that sometimes it feels so vulnerable for me to witness. He is so confident in it- this love we have for each other- that I find myself being envious of the person he loves so much until I realize she is me.

I love him back in this same open way, he and my other son are the only two people on the planet that I can really let my own apprehensive heart reach out to and receive back from. I relax into both of my children like soft pillows, my love for them feels so good and safe. I relish their arms around my body, their faces pressed into my shoulder or my side, giving me love. Even when they yell things like I HATE YOU MOM! and YOU ARE THE WORST MOTHER IN THE WHOLE WORLD! I know they don't really mean it, without any doubt. I let them love me in whatever way they do, unafraid of their anger or resistance, encouraged by their independence, secure in the knowledge that they love me, really real-y forever.

It is easy for me to give love. When I say that what I really mean is it is hard for me to accept love. I cringe at being offered love by anyone other than my children. I am the first to offer a hand, a heart, or a help, but I vanish to last in line with my blind eye turned when those things are offered to me. I am uncomfortable when given things like tenderness, empathy, and care. So uncomfortable that I can feel my shoulders tensing even now, just writing about it.

This makes a marriage hard.

Sometimes in my head I am the loving wife I think my husband might need- I imagine melting into his arms when he reaches for me as I walk past in the kitchen first thing in the morning, I picture looking up at him with kindness and a kiss, but then I react the way I always seem to when offered the soft gift of love: I straighten and panic. I can feel the wall clank into place, annoyance fixed on my face, impatience brushing him away, again and again. How many times can I do this before he stops reaching?

I'm working on it- chipping away at the days and years of self protection with a tiny chisel and a fearful yet courageous heart. Logically I know, I know I'm safe. I know I am capable of watching out for myself, and knowing when I don't have to be protected, but my involuntary nervous system is well trained and stubborn.

And thankfully my husband is patient and good humored.

The longer I'm sober the more I recognize what I need- and god... do I ever need and want love. Funnily I hate even admitting it, that I cannot be some self contained underwater breathing apparatus, a closed system, a solo artist. I long for and cringe at the thought of fading into the amount of trust it takes to allow myself to be loved, it's like I'm dying of thirst holding giant glasses of water. It makes sense to drink it, but what if? So I stand there thirsty, sheepishly smacking my lips, taking smallish sips and seeing if anyone noticed.

Sobriety has given me the courage to even think about all this. It gives me the ability to laugh at my hunched up shoulders and to share these thoughts with you and to keep going further and further into the woman I really am inside all the years of hurt and fear. It allows me to see who I am and to recognize myself clearly in all the messes and rejoice in the finding.

So maybe love's not love. Maybe it's more than that- more than a word, more than a feeling. Maybe it's acceptance, maybe courage, maybe nothing more than a grin and some flowers, held tight then given freely on an early spring day.

11 Months Sober Today

I'm 11 months sober today. It hardly seems possible that almost a whole year has gone by, but it has! I'm going to visit a lifelong friend next weekend. The last time we were together we sat on my back porch and drank and smoked for hours. She asked me if I was still not drinking, and I said  yep, and she said wow. That's a long time. Yep.

I've been counting days again- looking forward to this 11 month benchmark. It makes me feel safe. It makes me feel like I can look in my rearview mirror and I don't even see any booze in the picture. I have a pile of sober days now, a sober history now. I have enough time that it isn't just a phase, or a whim, but a truth about me. I am so, so, so fucking proud of that.

Last night my husband and I went out to dinner together just us for the first time since I've been sober. (I know, in pretty much a year. Holy head smack.) It was wonderful, wonderful. We talked. And ate. Relaxed. And ate. I went to the bathroom before dessert and felt so good to be sober. To be standing in the bathroom not uber buzzed after way to much to drink already. To not be reeking of cigarettes and wine. To not worry if I stumbled. To feel beautiful and clear. To remember it all.

I feel like we shared a meal. That we had a chance to bond. That we need to do that more! Our marriage is kind of like a kid learning to ride a bike. There can be a lot of wobbling, and sometimes a wreck. But we really want to know how to ride a bike, so we keep practicing. As I learn to live in my sobriety I learn how to be a better wife. A kinder one. I see that my husband really loves me because I give him the chance to. When I was drinking my heart was a wooden door. It's hard to open it, but I'm learning to trust him. To lean on him and feel safe. We are becoming a "we" again.

Oh, the progress of sobriety. God, it is such a wonderful hard thing.

Dinner with Amy

Y'all, I had a visit and dinner with my asked for and answered universe new sober friend Amy. We laughed hysterically at general silliness of selves and children, and then had some suddenly deep as shit conversation. It was incredible to actually face to face talk to someone who has had so many of the same struggles I've had. I can see now why AA has such pull- a sympathetic ear is a balm to the soul. I felt more OK in my own skin today just from the compassion I was gifted. 

I have been having a bit of a rough time, not all the time, but just that adjusting thing that keeps happening. I am practicing so hard being kind to me in my own head, but it's a hard habit to break. It's so hard especially since it's mostly unconscious and definitely unwarranted. Sometimes I just say, "You're OK, you're OK, you're OK" to myself just to be OK.

But last night I heard someone else say it. "You're OK." Amy said it like she meant it. And she said, "I understand" and it made me feel like I wasn't my own brand of crazy. That my to's and fro's are just regular back and forth. She looked at me with kindness and that has reminded me all day to keep looking that way, at other people and at me. I'd been not noticing closing my heart, putting up some protection: a shell to guard my delicate new self. Our visit last night made me realize that I have to open my heart wider, not cover it over.

Early sobriety is hard, and the early middle is harder. It's nice to have a friend to help carry the burden, another hand on the bucket. Thanks universe. And Amy's.