Replacement (Part 1)

I've been a runner since spring of 2005. In my memory I started running to offset the boredom of walking with the baby in the jogging stroller. But, it was probably more to combat the extra weight I was carrying from having been pregnant. (baby weight on top of the extra weight I was already carrying from a lot of late night binge drinking) 

Another fighting my body. 

I have always wanted to be effortlessly beautiful. 

When I was in my early 20's, I moved home a year or two after dropping out of college. I got a DUI the night before my mom was driving three and a half hours up the mountain to Boone, NC to pick me up and bring me home. I called her as soon as I got out of jail just before dawn that morning, lying, saying I had to work just one more day, could she please come get me tomorrow? 

Back at home, I got a job waiting tables at Chili's and I'd go hike up Crowder's Mountain whenever I had free time. I lost weight- down to a size 2, which to me felt like a weird miracle, and yet I still often felt excruciatingly big and uncomfortable in my own skin. I was probably a size 8 or a 10 to start. None of that feels important now, and yet it does- these decades old numbers and the images that go along with them tattooed on my brain. Anything past about size 6 started to mean you were an out of control body failure. I have spent years of my life resenting the body I have- wishing someone else would find me substantially beautiful enough enough times so I could start to believe it myself. 

You know how you get so tired of something, exhausted from carrying the idea you were taught that wasn't even yours to begin with? And yet, resigned you sigh, heave it up, ratty and worn, heavy old burden that's super glue fused to your thoughts, the boomerang that can't be tossed far away enough to not come back? God, damn my fixation about my body. I'm so sick of it. 

I start to feel uncomfortable. I start to try to control it, but then following my pattern, I alternately want to starve myself or stuff myself. I stress. My body is the first place I turn against when I'm stressed. I immediately start finding things wrong- my stomach isn't flat, my legs are dimply. The solution seems to become "look different and all problems resolve themselves". I feel ugly. I start to change clothes 7 times when I get dressed, my anxiety making it harder and harder. But also looking too pretty is a problem, so I have to find the right balance of I look great and I didn't try at all. 

If I only could look right then everything will be okay. 

What does "look right" even mean? 

It's interesting to be 50 years old and still feel like this. To tangibly want to give up giving a shit about this, and to be so attached to it as a coping mechanism that losing it feels like losing myself, in a way. What do I have if I don't have this consistent criticism of my appearance in my thoughts to comfort me? 

The empty space is harder than the familiar. It is hard to quiet the voice and wait. It feels inauthentic to cheer myself on, the other option feels like waiting for what else I have to say but that is so...empty. I resort to comforting myself by trying to say the truth (I look like me, I 'm supposed to look like me) but I can only approve of myself in an echo chamber for so long before my own voice coming back to me feels insulting. 

It seems like it's about control. I think about myself on the beach in a bathing suit and the people who see me are thinking: look at her body, she has no self control. 

Ha! I am overflowing with self control! I have a grand surplus of it! It squeezes out of everywhere, bursting forward, leaking all over everything. 

To let go of control. Or approval? Or both? 

Circling back to the beginning and me being a runner..now I physically can't run much more than a mile. I can walk about 4 or 5 miles, only after some ibuprofen and it isn't great. I have to stop some, and the last mile or two I'm often wishing I were finished already. So I don't go as often, even though running in the woods is my redemption, my saving grace. 

It happened suddenly, not being able to run. Around Christmas I was continuing a long practice of running 6 miles four or five times a week, sometimes further. I was signed up for an 8 mile trail run in February. But I had to email the race director mid January and let them know I wasn't going to be there. I physically could not do it.  

My body reflects this change in my running practice. It feels like a slap in the face. I have been devoted, careful, dedicated to running in a way that felt wise and good. Losing it means I lost my comfort in my own skin. I feel like I'm in a stranger's body. Like I inflated a little and can't exhale. It's not much, no one would notice. Like a rock in my shoe, you probably don't see it, but I feel it. It's painful, and annoying, and also feels petty and vain. 

The picture above is one I took of myself before my consult with the surgeon who is going to replace my hip on June 13th. Finally, after years of pain and lack of mobility I will get a new hip. He will replace the one that's worn out, the one that is bone on bone, with bone spurs that act like locked doors and that for the past couple years has only let me do one kind of movement: run. In turn, running let me feel okay. It gave me control of my body, and my own approval. 

Now, it's gone. 

And it's not okay. 

For now, I'd like to acknowledge that. To not rush myself past what I'm experiencing now, but to feel it, suffering vanity, the lack of approval, the discomfort I have in my own skin. 

Not rush towards the solution, to the but, but, but! 

"But no one can tell!" 

"But it's not forever!" 

"But you know you are (insert positive descriptor here)!" 

I am here now to say: I want the time to feel uncomfortable. 

I want to see what it feels like, to get to know it, so maybe I learn something about myself by not being okay. 

To be patient enough to hear the silence of me not knowing what to say. 

 

These Revelations

I sent a complaint letter.

I've never done this before, me, people pleaser extraordinaire, forget the thought of me speaking up when mistreated or handled in a clumsy way, but I did it.

I have revelations all the time- Oh! I can do this! Oh! This seems so normal! - it's disconcerting how I realize and understand so much about myself in these short bursts, like an explosion of light bulbs above my head, it's so blinding and so illuminating all at one big time. Sometimes I have to laugh because I feel so off center and wobbly that if I don't laugh I might just cry and revelate forever. I reassure myself with little victories: I'm learning to walk, how to stand while bearing weight on both legs- to be in my body. I can take deeper fuller breaths than I could a year ago, I'm not always holding my breath. My accomplishments may seem small in the grand scheme of things- I can keep my chin level now instead of a little up ready to defend, I think about sex without wanting to seethe, disappear or hide, I danced with other people in the room, I sent a complaint letter. Revelations. Grand scheme ones.

I've gone from reading about sex to reading about grief. Unexpressed grief is basically like shoving giant wads of gunk into your feelings pipes so they get mucked up, impassable, and you become anxiously paralyzed by the fears you'd meant to cry out but drank down for twenty years instead. I can connect the two so clearly, sex and grief go hand in hand for all of my life. I can see how the grief was the beginning, I can take myself back to me at five sweet years old, strawberry blond hair hanging down my back, past the ties of my favorite pinafore, sucking in my tears because I was too dramatic and so so stupid for crying, my parents teasing me for having feelings. I can feel how much it hurt when I needed tenderness and my parents had no idea what that even meant since their parents had no clue how to do things like feelings either. How that grief led me to using sex for hurting myself and being hurt, how drinking helped me unrealize who I was enough to do it, over and over until the beauty of my body was lost and I spread my legs again, bereft. Revelation.

I can feel how much I try to hide myself, too big to disappear and too unwieldy to blend in.

I sit on the couch across from my therapist and stay a good girl, unable to sob out the tears that are dying to get out because I want her to like me and have me please come back again next week. I have stuffed it all down for so long that I'm afraid to let it out because I could possibly head into a nervous breakdown, never to return- we only have one small hour, and then I have to head to work. Not a lot of time for falling apart and then back together.

I imagine a time when I don't have all this work to do, that these moments of glaring understanding, these revelations, will happen only a few times a year instead of a few a week. These things that come up, these elementary understandings that could have been lessons learned long ago had I only been bravely paying attention instead of fearful and drinking. I feel so stupid sometimes that I'm just now getting the idea that I can ask for what I need and it isn't a crime, it isn't wrong. Why wasn't I this person I am now all along? My years of work boxing up and shoving down all of the feelings and it turns out they never disappeared after all. All that work, down the drain.

The other day I was talking to my mom about being sweet when people are hurting and she said she uses humor to make people feel better. WHAT? I felt so sad and angry thinking of all the times I cried, hurting, and got humored by my own parents. They were using their humor, the very people who were supposed to love and heal me instead making it worse. Making it funny. I'm in total disbelief that she thought that teasing was what made people feel better. I want to stomp my five year old foot and scream stop laughing at me! right in her smiling face. Which would have only made her laugh harder.

No wonder I have no clue about what a normal emotional response is. No wonder I don't know how to take myself seriously, or how to speak without questioning myself, or how to be tender, or where to put all these big feelings. No wonder when I sit on the couch at therapy when the most hurty things come up I laugh. God, no wonder. No wonder my life is full of revelations, these connections that lead me from disappeared to conscious again and again.

I'm all spun up, so much happening, so many feelings that I don't know where to put them all. They're all unruly as puppies, scattered and making messes everywhere. I don't feel like myself anymore, but I don't know who I feel like either- sometimes it feels so much like me and then I hardly recognize who I am. It's like giving birth, but for years.

I feel so fortunate to be coming along in my understanding, and also so right at the beginning, like I've been running for a hundred years and somehow I'm still within sight of the starting line. It's frustrating in this gracefully annoying way, this is where I have to laugh, where it actually is funny, and lovely, sweet and amazing. Me, at forty-five years old, stumbling along, learning to walk. Learning to fly. Being exactly myself at my life. Being born, by revelations.

Reality Lane

"Sometimes you find that what is most personal is also what connects you most strongly with others." -Grace Paley

I figured out that raking is something else you can do when you're at loose ends and don't drink. 

There are blisters on both of my hands because I am still a classic over do-er. It continues to amaze me that my -ism comes out it so many other ways in my life, and so therefore I can only assume that -ism is my nature and since I know that I know it. 

Is it my ego, or my insides that makes me push things to edges and then limits and then breakage? I know my addiction is a thing I have, a dis-ease, a characteristic of what makes me up. Knowing that it isn't limited to alcohol is kind of relievingly puzzling and annoying. 

I started walking this week since running again turned out terrible. Walking. I haven't just walked since my oldest was a tiny baby and I was too many pounds of new mama. After you're a runner who can walk again? In my running running days I was certainly that vain asshole running and smirking at the people who were walking. Now all I can do is walk. Smirk smirk. 

And so then I started walking, and then planning the marathon I was going to do next spring. 

Classic over-doer. 

The conundrum is this: in my thinking I just get to the marathon finish line- woooooo woooooo and it's almost like.....magic? I don't really think through all the actual work and thought that would go into it. I want it and so therefore it should just BE. Huh.

But then, oh. There is that actual work, and the running and planning and not getting hurt again-ing. There is the doing.

This was why I couldn't seem to get myself sober. I wanted to be it, but I didn't want to do it. 

Well.......dang.

This is one of my hugest biggest hurdles- am I just lazy? Deluded? A magician? 

It's good to know these quirks and qualities of oneself so that then you can put on the reflective safety vest and direct yourself around them. Like this: "Hey, I'm walking! I feel good. Great! I should train for a....WOMP WOMP slow here..... move over into the reality lane please....." Or: "Hey! I had one drink, and it was fine! Maybe another would be.....BOOOP BOOOP reality lane please....." 

And then there you are, all reflective and thinking about reality and then things don't go out of hand wonky but keep on moving along smoothly-ish and you aren't limping or hungover.

Perhaps we are all magicians, but in sobriety we become masters of different illusions. When we were/are drinking we are brilliant at the I Feel Great Not Hungover at All/ This many Drinks is Totally Fine/I'm Quitting Tomorrow illusions. In sobriety we have to master the illusions of reality, until they aren't even illusions anymore. And only one of those tricks really works. 

Life is good y'all. 

Getting A Miracle

The Good Housekeeping article! Thanks to everyone for your support and kind words. I've gotten a few emails from people who say things like "divine intervention" and "just in time" and that has been really really cool. Y'all know I deep down believe that when you pray the universe will answer, but you have to listen, and if someone reading about me getting sober helps them get sober.....the totally amazingness of that is big to contemplate.

That article coming out led to this:

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  Hey, Hope all is well. I wanted to give you a heads up about something that has happened/been happening for awhile now. Amy has quit drinking alcohol as is was a problem for her and our family. She will be 1 year sober this Dec 7th. I am very proud of her and her ongoing accomplishment. This has been a strugle that she has taken on full steam. Bravo on many levels my sweet. As a part of her healing process, she started a blog about her struggle. The name of the blog is Soberbia. It is a journal so to speak, of her struggles. As it turns out, many people read and comment on this blog as it speaks true and in line with other peoples problems with alcohol. This blog is out there for everyone to read and we are happy that so many do! Warning, there is colorful language, plain and simple. A few months ago, Amy was contacted by Good Housekeeping asking about her blog. As it turns out they have a column that is all about self-help/betterment, and they wanted to feature her in the magazine. She said OK. We were hoping to get an opportunity to speak about this in person and figured the wedding wasn't right, so here I am not in person letting you know. The article is scheduled to be in the December issue of Good Housekeeping. As it turns out, December is released the first of November. We were unaware that it was going to be on the newsstands this soon, or we would have talked sooner. We wanted you to be aware in case that someone approached you about the article. I am very proud of Amy and hope that you will support her as I and the children have over this last year. Sorry this is coming to you via email, but it is the most effective way for me to articulate our feelings to everyone.

  Please tell Gram and anyone else that you feel necessary.

  Love to all!

  Jonathan

  December 2013 Page 69 in the "Feel Good" section

  Amy you are a rock star, keep up the great work, Jack Hampton and I are so Proud!

This letter took my breath away. So much love coming from my husband to me that I felt about 27 million feet tall. My heart feels so full. Then I called his grandmother (who is 88 and an old school southern lady) and had to tell her I was an alcoholic, and that pretty much everyone might know about it since I was in a magazine.

"Oh Amy! I am so proud of you!" she said, not missing a beat. Not one second of disapproval. NOT ONE. "Good for you!" she said. More love. More taller.

Then the email from Jonathan's mom came:

I am so thankful that you have shared this with us! I only wish I had known earlier. I would have been praying for Amy....for all of you...and would have been one of her biggest cheerleaders this past year. I have plenty of love and support to give. I have started reading the blog.....from the beginning.....but since I do have to get some work done, I have to save the rest until I'm home. I am SO PROUD of you Amy! My heart is about to pop! Love you so much! Mimi/Mom

Now I am hugely tall. Taller than ever. My heart swelled to as big as it could get, and then stretched out to make room for the support coming from my family and people out in the world who don't even know me but believe in me.

Whoa. Thank you universe. I needed that. Ask and ye shall receive. But you have to ask. And also receive.

It seems like that when you put yourself out there you can get what you give. So I put myself way on out there (way way on out there) and the universe made sure I was safe, and loved, and OK. That since I did something brave I could feel the love that was coming from everywhere: but I had to open my heart to get it. When I said to the world "Here I am: but for real though" the world said "Cool. Here's this love. You are OK."

Sometimes when you spend all your time hiding love just can't find you, no matter how hard you wish for it to show up. But then you stop hiding and love shows up. When you say things like "Help" and "Here I am" and you squinch your eyes closed and hope for the best and then open your eyes and the best shows up too. And then you realize that even a little best is so much better than your old idea of best, and this new big big biggest best is amazing and like a miracle.

That you are loved and that a lot of that love comes from within you yourself is a miracle too.

Getting close to my year anniversary and getting emails from people just starting out makes me think about all the things I was just a year ago. Scared. Drunk. Hidden. Worried. Sad. Unable. Suffocating. Drowning. Full of undone wishing. Under my pretty regular life I was a pretty big mess holding it together with linty old tape and fraying dirty string- liable to break at any moment.

A year ago today I was probably hungover. Then I woke up that one day and decided I wanted my miracle. That I could have it. That things like "love" and "best" were actually for naked mole rat people like me too. That I could put down the thing that made me unable to see the gifts the universe had been holding out to me all along. That I was worthy. And strong. Capable. That I was a live-r and not a life-r.

And so maybe here you are: hungover. What if at this time next year you've been sober for almost a year now? What if you look around and decide it's time for your miracle too? What if you think it will be too hard, and that you can't can't can't but then you do it anyway?

If you are reading this you can have your miracle too. I give you permission from me and the universe because the universe once gave me permission and told me it was OK to offer it to anyone else who needed it. It's hard and sad and glorious and you won't even believe that it's you anymore until that day when you've been sober for a while and you suddenly realize you're the you-est you you've ever been. Then you will drop to your knees in you heart and give out thanks for strength and for yourself. You will be soul naked and scared but you will be you and you will love yourself so much for it. And you will cry this deep heartfelt cry, and as the tears of joy and blessing roll down your face you will know.

You are a miracle too.

In the Middle

Instead of a people pleaser I call myself a peacemaker. I think this is a people pleaser, but maybe the deluxe version. Not only do I want everyone to be happy, but I do it at the expense of my own well being. With some added meddling and fixing where I really don't belong. 

My mother and I have a complicated relationship. I adore her, but she can be difficult to deal with. Which I'm sure she would say about me immediately in rebuttal. I defend her a lot in my head to myself and to other people. Try to protect her. Try to make people see the person I see. 

She is loud. Opinionated. My way or the highway. Quick to tell me she's proud of me, but quick to say something hurtful too. We have a seesaw dynamic that never feels steady, or safe. I don't like asking her for help- it always seems to come with baggage. Her moods are unpredictable. 

I want her to be my soft place to fall. So much. I want to trust that when I call she won't be on a rant, or in a bad mood. I have A LOT of issues coming up with this that make me nervous and feel more alone in the world. Which I am feeling. Which are a big part of what I was hiding from in wine bottles. Which is hard for me to admit because of loyalty to her, love for her. She is my mama after all.

I put myself in the middle of a situation with her that I don't want to be in. I realized that I put myself in the middle of a lot of situations I don't want to be in, some I don't even belong in. Oh. 

By not drinking the bad away I suddenly got my get out of jail free card. Hello, my name is NOT the middle. I don't have to help her with this ongoing sticky situation. It's none of my business. The universe just told me politely to 'butt out". And I wasn't drunk, so I heard it. Loud and clear. 

Flash of Brilliance: Happy-ness

Sometimes I have these moments that I like to give the fancy fixed up name "Flash of Brilliance". A sort of superhero that swoops in and saves the day. A gentle reminder that I really am growing, and changing. Getting better! Feeling.....happier.

These often come at the tail end of a really sad, hard time: just one day I wake up and I don't feel blah. Not a little frantic in my head. And I notice that I've been reading more, running again. Being patient when I want to yell and freak out. Putting flowers from the yard on the dining room table. Not calling myself names. 

You know....."normal". :)

This particular flash comes from my oldest. He is a serious kid. He isn't carefree. He is a kind of grumpy 60 year old man in an 8 year old body. He is so smart, and witty. Sharp. He has a temper, and is a terrible loser. He wants to be the best, and he wants it handed to him with no work at all. As in: "I should be able to show up at the swim meet and be the best at all the strokes just because I showed up." I don't know if you'll understand this but I had to quit drinking just to keep up with him and how he sees the world in this really sharp intuitive way. So we could talk about it at night like we do and I wouldn't become a big drunk dumbass. So I could still be smart and teach him stuff. So I could help him be happy.

Whoa. Now there's the part that I got brilliant about. It is not my job to make him happy. Or anybody else for that matter. I can twist and bend and gumbify myself into a thousand versions of best mom ever and guess what? He still might not be happy. And here's the bad part: neither will I. So I have to let that go.

That is hard. When I was little I don't remember anyone really caring whether or not I was happy. I didn't feel tenderness. Adored. Needed. Wanted around. I was more of a nuisance than a gift. And then when I drank I was the bad daughter on the outside that I felt like I already was on the inside. I have made it my personal mission to make sure my children know they are loved and adored. Important. Cared for. Thought of. Needed. That I am happy they are here. 

But see, that is my mission. And mine and theirs are two different things. Just like mine and yours.

One reason I love Gretchen Rubin is because she emphasizes how different what makes people happy can be. Muddy kids in the backyard makes me happy. But perhaps you can't stand dirt. Lists of hopeful goals makes me feel.....hopeful, whereas to some people that is way overdoing it. Going to bed early and getting up early makes me feel real good. But maybe 5 AM is much too early for you.

It seems like the real unhappiness creeps in for all of us, whether we know it or not, when we are trying to live someone else's happy life. And by doing that we make our own lives miserable. Oh. OH!!!!

FLASH OF BRILLIANCE!

I realized that everyone has their own truth. Their own way. And that where I was really fucking up was trying to fit my path to someone else's. This was so concretely true when I was drinking, heavy and true. Now that I'm sober I see that clearly: I cannot make myself happy when I'm not making myself happy.

Get it? I have other people's standards for a lot of my inner/outer stuff. Weight is a big one. The way I dress is another. (Although sobriety has released me from that big time. I hardly ever have outfit anxiety like I used to.) I feel so judged by my outward appearance that I forget to let my eyes shine when I smile, or I forget to smile at all. I tend to want what other people want rather than take some time to figure out what I want. Being sober makes me not so much that way. And then the F.O.B. showed up and I can lighten up some.

Cause it's amazing how trying so hard to make others happiness makes me so so un-happy.

I've had a rough time of it lately. Not overwhelming, not awful. Just blegh. Sometimes I feel guilty because my demons aren't in the shape of wine bottles, but repetitive soul searches- paths in my head worn paper thin from traveling them over and over again. For me, at this point in my sobriety it's not the booze I miss, it's a sense of well-being. I feel like now I'm getting my groove back, ready for another trip among the pink clouds until the next life lesson comes along. The nice part is that I feel better- stronger. Like I'm becoming more and more me.

P.S. Going to the recovery meetings (I've been to 2) has been a blessing and a curse. The relief, the be-lief, the connection to others has been extraordinary. Cleaning out the closet of my shoved down secret self is no fucking fun. But seeing the look of compassion from other people that says "You're still OK with me even with all this stuff" has helped me. Shored me up. Made me brave and unashamed. Proud of who I am.

Where Did THAT Come From?????

Until now I've had a truthfully "easy" time of it as far as craving alcohol. (Did I really just say that out loud?) I don't long for glasses of wine, or if I do it passes and I move along relatively unscathed. Just another passing thought.

Until last night. When I was driving home from work and it hit me like a TON OF BRICKS.

I wanted a drink, a bottles of wine. I could see myself settling in on the porch: wine in hand, I should get cigarettes too. I would drink the first bottle so fast and smooth, light cigarettes one after another until I was soothed and stinky and drunk.

Holy SHIT.

And even more holy shit because then I started reasoning it out with myself in my head.

"I've made it six months. No one would fault you. It would be fine. I'm off tomorrow, and Monday. Plenty of time to recover from a hangover. I can stop at the store, that one right there, where I used to get beer and cigarettes. I MISS that store. It looks so safe, so right. I should stop."

But I didn't stop. I came home. My four year old came down and asked for cereal, not tired. (It's 9:30 PM by the way) So he had cereal. I had water and snacked on blueberries, and coconut, and cashews. Flipped through the mail and found a letter detailing a women in recovery series I've been waiting for.

Rock on universe.

It got me worried about our camping trip later this month: our annual beginning of summer trip that tends to be a bit of a booze fest. A bit- heh heh. How am I going to do this trip and NOT DRINK?

Is it too soon? I'm never around people drinking. And I want everyone to whoop it up if they want to. So I might just be in bed at nine with the children. That would be OK. I'd better start pep talking now. Luckily the first day of the recovery series is the day we get back from our trip.

Luckily I can do hard things.

Giving a Fuck

I talked myself into a bit of a tizzy this morning- you know how you sort of convince yourself that things just aren't going the way you want them to. Like this: "Ugh. I ate that graham cracker cereal last night. I feel fat. And also so many cashews. Why can't I stop drinking so much coffee? I think coffee makes me eat sweet stuff. I'm blaming everything on coffee from now on. And I have to stay up later so I don't wake up in the middle of the night wide ass awake. The coffee again. Fucking coffee."

And I won't replay the other conversation about the GIANT zit I have forming on my chin from all the sugar I ate this weekend. It is giant, but I'm resisting the urge to mash and squeeze it until nothing comes out and I've made a huge red spot on my face that scabs and peels for a week and a half.

But y'all, at least I give a fuck.

This is my new mantra. My way of making myself seem sane when I'm making myself my own special brand of crazy.

I care about my skin and my sleep. I pay attention to what I eat and what I drink. It matters if something isn't organic, or is pumped full of chemicals. I hydrate. And try to remember to floss and brush every night. At almost six months sober just being sober isn't an excuse for me anymore. It's not a free pass to eat eight cookies, it's inspiration to do better because I know that I can.

Being sober is so much more than just being not drunk. Perhaps we can change it to being human, or being a full human instead of a half assed one. Worrying about all this shit may seem pointless but for me it shows me that I care about myself. I'm concerned for my welfare and well being. How about that!

Belle always asks me a valid question: "What if you were good enough right now?" But what if I am? And what if enough is enough, and better is more me- or to feel like me I need to kind of try things on for size to get the life that feels comfy and fits. What if coffee seems right for a while, but then I can bend another way? And that way is better? What if wondering and trying is my way?

Speaking of trying, and new, and my way- I can't run. This is heartbreaking. Running is my one thing that is ALL MINE. And I can't do it. I keep setting my alarm so I can get up early and walk, but then it goes off and I feel like what's the fucking point? So I'm going to have to wonder and try myself into doing something different for a few months until my foot heals. Another thing to gnash and gnarl over. But I am getting better at noticing when I'm not doing things because I'm fearful in a small or big way. Or knowing that I'm being a big fat ego about it. (walking? Hrumph. That is not running. Walking does not make me a bad ass. Laying in bed ignoring the alarm definitely does not make me a bad ass either!)

So I am good enough right now. And I'll be good enough tomorrow, and the day after that too. And maybe one of these mornings I'll be good enough on a walk. And I won't eat too many cookies when I'm feeling nervous. And I'll keep on trying to do better, not because it's a way for me to beat myself up, but a way to show me how much I really care, that I really really give a fuck.

Like the Normal

Here are some things going on in no particular order:

• This morning I realized I had no idea what number of days sober I was on! And so of course, I just counted them: 166! How cool!

• I am grinning a bit since I would have never, in a million ba-jillion years thought that I would quit drinking and not keep a close count. But I guess once they start piling up you just sort of.....get on with it. 

• And then, the tag on my tea bag says this: "Be proud of who you are." (It's one of my favorite things about Yogi teas- the sayings.) I've switched from coffee to decaf tea recently since coffee was kind of taking over my whole life. Luckily I only spent about two and a half months drinking coffee recklessly. Phew!

• My job is about to chill out big time, which will help with so much. (And please, y'all. I have a very simple job. But it's about to get simpler, and I'll reduce my hours. So I can concentrate on other stuff. Like my children. The garden. My new fabulous sewing career! Not being at work all the fucking time!) I chose to make a change since I am miserable where I am- and instead of grinding away for a few more years drinking and resenting it I decided to change that shit. Something I would have never, evah! done if I weren't sober. I still have to brave up and reiterate the hours I want to work- I kind of wishy-washed around when my new boss asked me yesterday. Not being afraid to speak up for what you want is kind of hard! But.....we can do hard things. 

• I'm going to visit my brother and his family this weekend. I've already told him I quit drinking in that "no big deal" way. I don't know whether to have a bigger talk with him about it. 

• I told one of my oldest and best friends about being sober. At first I was also going to take that the casual route- you know, "Oh, just quitting for a bit for a challenge.....blah blah yadda yadda." Then I realized that would be a lie, and I don't do bullshit anymore. So I told her, and told her about this blog. And she read it, and was supportive. And we will analyze it thoroughly on our annual camping trip I'm sure. I cannot wait to hear what she thinks. 

• The longer I'm sober, the longer I want to OWN IT. It is a huge-mungous part of who I am. Hiding it would kind of be like trying to hide one of my legs. "Oh, that? Just one leg, nothing to see here.....move along....." It would be awkward to tuck up behind my back, or it would make my one leg look really giant. And then it might pop out suddenly *sproing!* and how do you suddenly explain a surprise random extra leg? It's just easier to have it be a part of me like: "My favorite color is purple, I love to run, I'm sober, kale is my favorite food....." I think the preemptive strike is easier, because it's all on your own terms. So I'm sticking to that. (But not the over sharing method. Just because you got it out that doesn't mean you have to wave it all around in everyone's faces.)

  

• Life is good. Like, pretty really good! I really am treasuring all these normal days, and they are starting to feel like the normal. When I sit and review the past five months I am amazed at how different my life is! It pays to take time to reflect. I must add that to my helpful help getting sober hints:

1. Have special things to drink: seltzer, fresh fruit juice- the splurge-y stuff you would never buy because you spent all your money on booze. That $6 Pellegrino is yours for the taking!
2. Be kind to self. Sleep when tired. stick the kids in front of the TV for a while so you can nap, or just hide in bed for 45 minutes. Buy small treats: tea, flowers. Pamper self! 
3. Take time to reflect. All these changes aren't easy to see when you take them day by day. Play a mental movie of your new life. Write them down. Hug sweet self. 
4. BE PROUD OF WHO YOU ARE.

Trusting the Universe

Or the title could be: How I Stopped White Knuckling It and Started Letting Go. Having faith that whatever happens happens. Not in the "it is what is is" way (which I hate) but more in the "What will be will be" one. Que sera sera. In the I can't control it but I'm OK with it way. Not in the nothing I can do anyway so who cares way. But with some control included. See?

Sometimes I am grasping at everything: concentrating on how life isn't what I want it to be rather than making it what I want it to be. Be a better runner? Then run. Be in better shape? Then don't eat dessert twice every night sometimes twice a day a week. Be a better mom? Then pay a-fucking-ttention to what's going on and stop checking the computer. Clean house? Take an hour or two and just do it. Plant the garden? Plant it then!

I have a habit of wanting things, and then waiting for someone else to do them,. And then getting mad when they don't get done. Lord, help me.

Or the subtitle could be: Getting/Giving Up Control. I have another habit: Giving things up. Now that I've finally given up booze forevah I have other stuff to take care of. I never drank coffee before when I was hungover a few/several/every day a week. It made me nervous and sickish, and I already felt bad enough without the cursed thought patrol coursing at ninety miles an hours through my head. So I would just chug water and ibuprofen and wait for 5 o'clock somewhere.

Then sobriety arrived (hello there and welcome, and thank you sweet baby jesus) and I started drinking coffee. It was innocent at first: just a cup in the morning while I wrote my blog. Then another a little bit after I got to work. Then another before I left work. Then maybe another after I got home before I walked over to get my oldest at school. And then all these cups became necessity not luxury. And suddenly I was pissed off every evening, gritting my teeth through bath time and stories please please please is it time for fucking bed yet? And I was waking up at 2:30 in the morning mind racing unable to get back to sleep. (and when you get up at 4 or 4:30 what's the point?)

So, sadly, coffee and I aren't meant to be either. It would have been much cooler if we were, but getting sober isn't just about giving up booze. It's also about learning what works now that I am coherent enough to identify what does and what doesn't. Learning myself. Getting comfortable. Being mostly happy, or at the least content-ish. Which means I'll be experimenting with things. Like giving up coffee.(yes, this obviously works- I feel mucho better-o today (day 4)) Or running more. Running longer distances slower, running short distances faster. Giving up things like cheesecake and cookies and having things like dark chocolate or a little maple syrup in my oatmeal. Because those things make me feel better in my head for a long time, while eight cookies makes me feel better until the last crumb goes down and then I regret them all immediately. Which might make me reach for a couple more cookies. So giving that stuff up gets me some control. And with that control comes peace. Peace in my mind.

Which is my new prayer. I am not spectacularly religious, but I do believe in prayer. And so my new prayer goes like this: "Please help me do the things that make me happy and give me peace." I'm relaxing my knuckles by gaining some control. Giving myself permission to do whatever I want makes me unhappy. Just because I stopped drinking it doesn't make it OK for me to keep passing my stopping points. That just starts the rounds of bad how-could-yous that I've given up. So being sober is all about not drinking, but also all about not behaving like an       -aholic. Whether that includes cookie-aholic or coffee-aholic or giving things up-aholic. Setting some damn limits around here. Like I'm five years old and don't know any better. Parenting myself. Teaching myself.

And trusting that the universe is listening. And that maybe, just maybe, I'm listening too.

Tiny Parades

I must admit, I've been recoiling a little bit. Feeling a little lost in the shuffle/down in the dumps/pity party city. Not in a huge, or unmanageable way, more like in a ho hum sort of way. Jesus, life isn't a parade every day? What the hell?

But, then again...maybe it is. Maybe just not the Macy's Parade every day. (That kind of sounds a little hard to maintain.) Maybe a small town Arbor Day Parade some days. But a reason to celebrate nonetheless.

I've been getting bogged down in the "me-ness" of it all and forgetting to smell the roses. (another parade!) Is it possible to bore oneself to death with ones own self-ness? If so, I may be close. Like Belle says, "Get a life." Actually, she didn't say that, but I think she might have meant it. But in a nice way. More like, "Find something else to focus on besides just being sober." (That's what she really said.)

Here's another interesting thing about being sober: once you have been it for a while the excitement sort of wears off. That sounds shitty, doesn't it? But I mean it wears off, and that's a good thing. You just need something else to think about now that you're finished thinking about drinking. So for years I thought about how bad I felt because I was drinking, and then I've been thinking about how awesome I feel since I'm not drinking and now I think I need to start thinking about other stuff.

What the hell else is there?

I know, a thousand million things. And here's the other thing: not forcing it. Letting God or the universe or that tree over there reveal your new stuff slowly. At its' own pace. Not all this frantic searching "what is my thing, what is my thing, whatismything!?! I have to be interested in something! ANYTHING!"

So my new hobby is breathing. In. And Out. I added telling myself to relax and take it easy yesterday. I also try to make my mind blank. (*ahem*) Have you ever tried to make yourself not think about anything? This is hard. So I've been doing more breathing than anything else. What all that boils down to is not forgetting how great I am, and how good life is. And how even if there's only one float, life's still a parade.

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.

Sobriety 101

There's something about a hundred of something. It feels so....hundred-y. So....solid. So....a lot.

So....impossible.

A hundred days? Like, no way. I couldn't make it more than three or maybe five. Seven days? Why bother. Thirty days? Well, you might as well tie me up and put me under the bed. Drop me off in the middle of the Sahara. Super glue my lips closed. Throw away the key. A hundred days? I must be pregnant. Or dead.

But look! Here I am- neither pregnant, nor dead! And one hundred and one days sober today!

The New Job Feeling

You know how, when you start a new job, you just don't feel quite right? You don't know where the bathroom is, or who to ask for help. You just don't know how things work around here. And then, after a few months you start to feel more comfortable. Make some friends. Find your feet. You don't feel like an asshole all day because you have no idea what's going on. Then people start asking you questions.

You get used to it.

Sobriety is just like that.

It's hard to leave a job where you're comfortable. Where everyone knows your coffee cup is the one with the owls on it. Where you are part of the wheel. Where it's safe.

Drinking is just like that.

I've been thinking a lot about what keeps you there when you're still drinking and you want to quit so much but you just can't. You just can't. And this is why.

It's the new job feeling. It's the I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-I'm-doing feeling. When you get sober you don't really know what to do. I made a full time job out of drinking, being hungover, and guilt. I didn't know how to do anything else. And it sucked, but it was comfortable. Safe. I knew how to do it. Not do that? Well then, what the hell else am I supposed to do? I don't know how to not do that. So it was easier to just stay at my old job- drinking- than go get a new one- being sober.

Doing new things is hard, period. Even when it's something fun, like riding a bike, it's hard. You have to baby bird put yourself out there for the world to see. And then you might fuck it all up. You might have to start over again- how embarrassing. You might have no clue where the bathroom is. Or who's coffee cup with the owls on it you just broke by accident.

Now try starting a whole new life. Holy crap. No wonder people put off getting sober. No wonder I told myself "I'll start tomorrow!" so many times. It's the new job feeling times a thousand. It's like trying to learn to ride a bike. With no hands. Blindfolded. On a tightrope. While playing the accordion. Which I don't know how to do either.

But eventually I had to say fuck it. I quit. This job really blows. I had to get a new one because as safe as the old one was I couldn't stand it any more. The old job feeling (drinking) was worse than the new job feeling (being sober).

Here's the thing about jobs, and life. You can always change your mind if it's just not working out. You can always go in and tell the boss, "This isn't a good fit" or "I'm seeking other opportunities" or "I quit asshole". You can make your life anything you want it to be. Ask for promotions. Be a cake decorator when you've always been a farmer. All of it takes practice. All of it gives you that I-have-no-clue feeling.

Especially sobriety. But who knows? With some practice, you could be really good at it.

The 11th Commandment

Ooops. I forgot one!

I've been thinking a whole lot about the messages I tell myself, the way I react to me, and how I handle decisions.

I figured something out that anyone with a grain of sense could have seen. Easily. But you know how the seeing things thing is, and how you just don't until you just do.

I have...trust issues. And by 'trust issues' I mean the kind that you have with the most important person in your life. I don't trust ME.

I notice that when it comes to making decisions I waffle all over the place. "Well, maybe this? Or that? Whatever could be good, too. If I do this then will that be mad? Blah blah blah." I also think I tell myself in that destructive whisper-y voice that you can't hear with ears or your head but the one that you just know in your heart that I'm not doing it right. Ever. That I can't be trusted. That I don't know what's best for me. I have zero credibility with myself. My motives are always questionable. That I have been given the opportunity time and time again to do what's right and I failed. Miserably.

I was listening to The Bubble Hour again yesterday. It was the one about early sobriety. The first guest was a  woman who had to move herself and her young child in with her mother. Her mother was having a hard time trusting her now that the woman was sober because for years the mother had been lied to. Let down. This is me. I am the liar and the distrusting mother. Talk about a tough crowd.

Learning to trust someone after twenty some years of letdowns is a big big big deal. Sometimes I can feel myself not even wanting to try, having given up on me so many times- and maybe even for good years ago. Don't get me wrong, I am trying so hard. And I want to try so hard. I haven't ever wanted anything more in my whole life. It's the knowledge that the person that hurt me the most is ME that blows me away. It's knowing that my soft place to fall has it's arms crossed and is eyeing me suspiciously. It's that I can't be trusted to make even simple, seemingly easy decisions without the scrutiny squad tearing them to bits looking for hidden agendas. And I'm paralyzed and frustrated and skeptical. And brimming with self-doubt.

So I suppose this all boils down to instincts. And hearing. And trust.

And my 11th Commandment: Honor Thyself. Because if the neighbors can be part of it, then I can be part of it, too.

Those two words give me such pause. Honor Thyself. I would have never though to do that before. Hold me in high esteem? Me deserving respect? Having dignity? Credibility? Whoa. No wonder I'm feeling a little awed at the prospect of bestowing myself with all that. No fucking wonder it's hard to trust that, and that something like that is confusing to hear. Especially since I haven't really ever done that, and so I'm extra extra out of practice.

Sobriety is hard, but really life is hard. When you choose to get sober and turn around to face your life you just can't imagine all the remarkable things you're in for. When I made the choice to quit drinking forever I declared my intention to honor myself. Out loud, into my universe, to my higher power, to myself. Every day  is an act of building trust. A lesson in self respect. Every day I stay true to the promise that I've made to myself strengthens my integrity, my self worth.

If I can choose to honor my higher power, the lives of others, a day of worship and rest, and to not lie about my neighbors or want their stuff then I can make a new commandment too. A commandment to be taken earnestly and holding monumental significance. Maybe the most important one of all.

HONOR THYSELF.

Every one of these eighty-six days shows me that my word has value. And that I am not a liar after all.

If You Are Just Starting Out

Two months ago today I woke up hungover. I use the term "woke up" loosely as I really didn't get up, more like stared blearily at the kids as they placed the plate of french toast beside the bed then promptly went back to sleep.

Two months ago today I ached inside and out from the toll booze was taking on my body. On my mind. On my life.

Two months ago today I got fed up.

Two months ago today I got saved.

By saved I don't mean Jesus came in and smacked me on the forehead and I saw lights and Bibles. By saved I mean I tossed the life raft to my soul. And I caught it. I pushed it down onto my waist. Nice and snug. I started dragging myself back. Back out of the rough waves. Away from the evil undertow. Towards the warm sand of the shore.

You know how waves are. Just when you think you've almost made it they suck you back out again. But I was brave, and no longer afraid of water and so I just kept swimming. I still do.

I do not envy anyone just starting out. But then again I do. This journey is hard, and magic. You will weep and bitch and laugh and be so grateful you have to cry because you never ever thought you could feel so fucking good. You will look in the mirror and smile. You will wake up and get dressed and not feel ashamed. You will feel pissed that you can't drink. You will learn to tell yourself that that's OK, but like an errant child who needs a "no" you'll give your inner drinking buddy one too. "NO" you'll say. You will make seltzers with grapefruit and give yourself little presents like sweaters and time. You will lean into your life like it's the wind and it will lean back to support you. You will feel free.

I have lived a life in these two months. I have changed so much, or maybe I've just come back around to being me.

Sometimes when you're in the ocean you can't tell where you are. So you swim and you fight the current. You wish for the shore. And then you get tired and you wonder how deep it is. If you can touch the bottom. You reach your feet down and feel the sand. You stand up and either laugh or get pissed because you've been swimming so hard and the whole time you could have just walked right out of the water.

If you are just starting out, stand up. And then keep swimming. And stand up again. Do it every day until I'm reading your blog and cheering for your three days, then ten days, then fifteen, then thirty. Reach out. Try not to be ashamed. Or afraid, even though you really really are. Be gentle and kind to yourself and your own biggest cheerleader. Be imperfect. Be sober.

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.

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.

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.

No Joke

I've been sort of stuck lately. I was chalking it up to having the flu and the cold medicine. Today is the first day in over a week that I've been up at my "regular" time. I am bad a interrupted routines. I'm worse at getting squirreled away into my own head and starting the call to war. "Time to worry...you suck...time to worry...you suck...you're not doing it right...not doing it right..."

It's weird, but now that I'm all in with my sobriety, to me too far to go back now, I think my brain needs something to obsess about. And since I'm going to be finished with this fucking Whole30 (thank you sweet baby Jesus made from a biscuit) on Thursday I feel like my poor self is a little lost. What will I worry over? What makes me working on myself? What makes me special?

I am always starting some new restrictive "diet" or plan. (husband can tell you that) For example: no gluten, or no dairy. Or vegan, or paleo. Macrobiotics. The lists are endless, and the information is too. Today: eat grains. Tomorrow: grains are horrible for you. I have no food allergies. I am often jealous of people who can just eat and not wonder where the meat was raised, or who go to the grocery and pick up a pepper and not check the sticker to make sure it's organic, or look around for local produce. Who just use the creamer that is right there in their coffee instead of always asking for something other than dairy or soy, and then being a little annoyed since it's the regular almond milk not unsweetened. Is it being conscious or crazy? I get a little sick of myself.

People have always thought I ate weird stuff. It's my "thing". You know how we all have one. Like: He only wears flip flops. Even in the winter. Or: She only writes with blue ink. Or: He only wears black t-shirts and jeans. Something that's your "signature move". I have one neighbor that gets it. Everyone else stuffs their children full of Goldfish and candy and looks at me like I have three heads. What will I do when I have no food stuff to fret over? Start wearing black turtlenecks every day?

Because I've decided (gasp!) to give it a rest for a while after this is over. Quitting drinking and starting the Whole30 (two weeks later, what was I thinking? Oh, yeah. I ate fourteen thousand Christmas cookies) taught me something very important. I really don't want to shift my bad relationship with alcohol over to the way I eat. And I want to be aware of my food choices, but not every moment of every day.

But even deeper than that, I don't want to get into attaching myself to another "cause" that prevents me from seeing life day to day. I don't want to hide behind the curtain of another better-me scenario. I think that keeps me from dealing or not dealing with the minutiae. That whole seeing the forest for the trees.

Getting sober and staying sober has been such a gigantic release of distress. I picture myself opening my mouth wide and thousands of birds flying out- an avian worry spew breaking away from me. Every bird a voice that gave me permission to keep lying. But then I get afraid to live inside out and so I flutter my hands around trying to stop them, trying to keep them in. Trying to put myself back in the cage I've always been living in. Back where it's safe.

It's a scary prospect for me: to just live. To take each day as it comes, with no death grip hands on the wheel  muscling it this way and that. Instead to sit back, and enjoy the ride. Giving up control is no joke. But missing out on the nuances of life because I'm too busy trying to make it what I *think* it needs to be isn't so funny either.


p.s. I found the picture after I had the thought about the birds. I love the internet.