Conflicting messages.

My mind is a blank. My mind is racing.
I am an outsider. I belong.
I don’t want to be here. I’m glad I came.
I have nothing I want to share. Yes I do, please pull my number.
Please don’t come and hug me. Hey, come over here, I missed you and need a hug.

Yes, I went to my regular Wednesday meeting and THAT is what the committee in my brain was doing--the entire time. I can’t turn it off. I can only accept it as the crossed wires in this alcoholic’s brain. The wires that are designed to cause enough conflict to lull me into believing I’m different; unique. The same wires that turn “wah wah wah…wah wah” into a powerful message.

I went to the meeting, not for me, but for the newcomers in the room. (Magnanimous of me, wasn’t it?) What I didn’t count on was that a friend would stand up and identify as a newcomer after almost 2 years of sobriety. His relapse was all of one night, and he came back the very next day. I had felt him pulling away over the course of several months. This isn’t an isolated incident. It’s happened before with others. I either have radar about these things, or give off some kind of vibe. They say the mental relapse begins long before the physical one. Maybe living a lie most of my adult life, in one form or another, has given me a sixth sense. In any event, I felt a plethora of emotions when he identified and will no doubt process this with my sponsor tomorrow.

But what it boils down to for me (at least tonight) is this: I went. It doesn’t matter for whom. And that is only one of four crucial things I must do if I’m going to stay sober.

Don’t drink no matter what.
Keep my side of the street clean.
Help another alcoholic.
Trust that God is on the job.

By showing up, even when I didn’t feel like it, even when I’m in a very dark place emotionally, even when all I want to do is to isolate, I stayed sober another day. Does that mean I helped another alcoholic? I hope so. Cuz today…it’s all I could manage.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Tic...Tic...Tic...

A favorite AA quip of the old timers around here is: “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.” Well, uh…yeah. So last night as I prepared for bed and ruminated over the task of moving towards a solution to the crisis I experienced earlier in the evening, I began to pray for the knowledge of His will for me and the power to carry that out…tomorrow. Yep…He laughed.

As it turns out, my Cuban roommate overheard portions of my telephone conversation with my sponsor. He knew I was distressed which distressed him. (Yes, we’re all codependent around here!) So he approached my closed door and my darkened room and knocked.

I couldn't help overhearing your phone conversation. Would you like to talk about it?
Yes, I would, but I need to put some distance between my initial reaction and actually talking about it.
Okay, but you know we are here. But I won’t be able to sleep until we get this out in the open.
(Grrrr…) Okay, I’ll be right out.

You know what happened? The fuse that was lit earlier, so rapidly and so potentially destructive, fizzled out as if a bucketful of sand had been thrown on it. The paralyzing fear of talking about my hurt feelings turned out to be a product of my alcoholic thinking. Catastrophic thinking. Stinkin’ Thinkin’.

The three of us talked for over an hour, related to each other on a level that we hadn’t previously and resolved this misunderstanding. We methodically covered each point, not moving on until all of us were in agreement and comfortable. Huh! It felt good to face the fear and talk about where it came from, why it was so incapacitating, and take a positive action to prevent further misunderstanding and resentment. When all was said and done, I felt like I had conquered K2.

I believe that God knows what is in my heart whether I consciously articulate it or not. Prayer is a way to make “conscious” contact with my Higher Power and I believe it is more for me than anything else. What I didn’t realize is that in my prayers last night, I was attempting to control the outcome by postponing this confrontation (for lack of a better word) by praying for the right moment, praying for the right words, praying for the willingness, blah, blah, blah. Things happen in my life on God’s Time. I just need to take the first step in faith.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Super-size mine, please.

When I order fast food, I am presented with so many choices. Which meal deal would I like? Fries or onion rings? Diet Coke or regular? And of course, would I like it small, medium, or large? I love a good deal, so more often than not, I opt for the super-sized meal. It fits nicely with one of my many character defects. (So does the fast food restaurant, and the drive-thru, but that’s another blog entry.)

I really got a lot of bang for my buck this evening.

My reaction this evening to a situation that presented itself was instantaneously “over the top”. My sponsor calls this being too big for what the current situation warrants. When I felt my face flush, started hyperventilating, and my ears began ringing, I knew that this was one of those times. I could not however, articulate where the underlying culprit lay, so I called my sponsor. I’ve been in similar situations before, and through many weeks of what must have been dozens of moments when she wanted to bang her head (and probably mine, too) against a wall, her patience with my immature processing skills paid off. The first of those instances was a HUGE “aha! moment” where I felt instant relief. She must have too. It is that moment I usually recall when I am on the other side of super-sized emotional responses.

What my sponsor has helped me to learn is that the underlying reason is not about the current situation or the people involved at all, but what it represents from my past. When I phoned her this evening, I was in full blown (albeit, manufactured) crisis. I was angry and it had everything to do with “them” and how I was being persecuted. As we talked, the process brought me to that first breakthrough where I realized that this was not about this particular incident. Certain elements were reasonable enough for my adult, recovering alcoholic self to process. Other elements, the ones that provoked the really BIG response, were about experiences in my childhood. The feelings were all present and accounted for, but the players were not from the original cast and crew.

I haven’t been exactly utilizing my sponsor as much as I should in the past couple of weeks like I used to. (We’ve talked about that briefly, and she was loving, patient, and kind…but I know there’s work coming regarding that…oh there will be work!) But what used to take weeks, maybe months, to process and resolve, took only 20 minutes this evening. HUGE! HUGE! HUGE! And while I still have the actions to perform that will bring closure to this situation, I am grateful that I can still do what I need to do when faced with a monster of a reaction. And that’s to pick up the phone.

(Is it a coincidence that I began reading “Codependent No More” again this morning before this all occurred?)

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

It's on the shelf where I put it.

My firstborn child, a daughter, called this morning. What a joy! I was planning on calling her later in the day, after the race. While it’s not unusual for her to reach out, the fact that she was doing so on the very day I planned to call her, without pre-arranging via text, was a sign I should turn off the TV and turn my attention to her.

As usual, we talked about a variety of things. She’s a junior in college and not only well informed on many topics, but just plain fun. She is well read, and a gifted musician and writer. She’s also street wise and had to grow up very quickly when my disease put on its running shoes. Our conversations are always interesting. I do tread lightly at times because her pain over the hardships she suffered at my hand is often palpable. Lately she has let me see that she has comforting memories that affect her positively, even now. It touches me deeply that she can reveal these things to me. It didn’t used to be that way. She’s opening up and I couldn’t be more grateful.

When I suggested she make contact with her brother (to check his liberty schedule) when she travels to within driving distance of where he is stationed next month, it opened a wound. She and her brother haven’t spoken since a disagreement they had over the New Year’s holiday. I had no idea. (This is actually a triumph that indicates I’m fairly successful in keeping our chats focused on who I am talking to at the time.) I know only bits and pieces but did not pry. I wanted to…yes, I wanted to meddle. But this is between them.

My mother’s heart aches for time lost. Her pain is obvious when she talks about this rift between them. What I wanted to say is that this is silly. That life is too short. That no matter what, they are siblings and in the end, family is what matters. I wanted to say so much, but didn’t. What I did say was that as their mom, of course I would like them to reconcile, but that in the end, they needed to work through this themselves,and if she wanted to talk about it, I'd listen. When I think about it now, I think I may have meddled after all. I did tell her that he once told me that before he left for boot camp, they had become close, and it was her absence at his graduation that disappointed him the most. I wish I hadn’t done that. I now realize I was attempting to tug at her heart strings. Manipulating. (My nephews would recognize this and say to her: “Pack your bags, you’re goin’ on a guilt trip!”) And my motives are difficult to accept. I wanted to fix their relationship to feel good about me.

Enter: my own codependency issues. I guess it’s time to take a certain suggestion down from the shelf, dust it off, and step into another phase of my recovery. Why doesn’t this surprise me?

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

You got here in that?

I spend a lot of time avoiding activities that may bring certain memories to my conscious mind. For the most part, I generally don’t think I’m aware of that as the reason. (Okay, so maybe there’s a little denial in that statement.) But I do know it was my inability to deal with the feelings associated with these memories that inevitably led to hitting my bottom, so maybe it’s a form of self-preservation against taking that first drink. In the past, when faced with certain memories without the aid of alcohol, I could feel my heart and mind shatter into a million pieces. Now, by using my spiritual tools, I can have a very different experience.

Today, a friend and I went somewhere I’d been dying to go, yet in 3 years of living here, I have not even attempted. As we wandered through the exhibits at Petersen Automotive Museum, I experienced certain flashes of pain and at times felt the walls closing in on me. I wanted to get out; run. And then it happened. I spoke the words that I had avoided thinking much less uttering out loud. “I’m having a tough time differentiating between the things that are truly me and the things that are a by-product of who I used to be.” I put a voice to the fear and took the power out of it. It suddenly sounded so ridiculous.

What I realized in that very moment is that it really doesn’t matter. What matters is that I was enjoying the moment fully and completely. This is who I am-- Today. And what it took to get here was necessary. It’s a part of me. In all honesty, there are a lot more pleasurable memories than painful ones. And they are a package deal.

I don’t want to run from place to place anymore, searching for the true me. It’s exhausting. I am recovering alcoholic with a past and a future, period. I can no more change that, than I can change when the sun rises or sets.

I love antiques. I love old black & white movies. I love Prairie Style homes and furnishings. I love camping and fishing. I love American Art Pottery. I love all things that go fast. And on this day, I discovered that I do love cars.

Who cares why? It is a part of my patina.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

It's only me...

I got to talk with my son last night. He is in the Navy and between his school schedule and his duties, it’s difficult to know when he’s available to chat. I texted him a couple of times over the last few days and received no response and that got the committee in my head started. What did I do, or not do to make him avoid me? Oh yeah…I’ve got it bad.

My mom used to call me and when I didn’t answer, she’d hang up. When I saw her number on the missed caller ID and no message was left, my mind would race to places way out there. I finally got her to start leaving messages so that I knew: 1) when she called, and 2) if it was a “hey, there’s something important we need to talk about” or “it’s been a while since we talked and I just wanted to catch up”. (Yes, this was more about me than anything else.) So her messages started and more often than not it sounded like this: “Hey Jul, it’s only Mom. I never know when to call you, so…um…give me a call when you have time, okay?”

It’s only been in my sobriety that I have begun to think about this as another extension of how unimportant she felt. It’s difficult to look at my part in that. Did I do what I could to show her exactly how valued she was? Probably not. Okay, definitely not. And I wish I could do it over again. But I can’t. So instead, I’m working on staying in touch with my children, accepting their limitations, strengthening my own feelings of self-worth, and trying to not project my insecurities on them. When I remember my mom and try to conjure her voice, it is that voicemail that is played in my memory. And I embrace it.

So my son and I did talk. And it was as wonderful as always. It wasn’t too long ago that he would have nothing to do with me, so I feel eternally blessed that we have the relationship we do today. It turns out he’s got a lot going on and didn’t want to rehash some of it with me. I did my best to reassure him that I won’t push if he just says that he doesn’t want to talk about that right now, but I will ask because what’s important to him is important to me. Only time will tell if he can ever trust me again. As I try to live my life based on integrity and principles, I will become a better mom, giving my children what I didn’t give to them for so long.

“When we knew better, we did better.” (Thank you, Pammie.)

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Baruch dayan emet: Blessed be the one true Judge

It’s a gloomy morning here in LA, which complements my mood perfectly.

I awoke to the news that my “date’s” mother passed away early this morning. It was one of those moments that took my breath away. She had been in the hospital and her discharge was planned for today-tomorrow at the latest. He had been reeling over the ramifications of finding an ideal living situation that would provide her with the care that she would need on a daily basis. What a difference only a few hours can make. When I messaged him this morning, he was in a meeting. He was doing what he needed to do to take care of himself. Something I am not doing for me.

My “date” knows of the difficulty I am having right now. He does not sit in judgment of me or my actions. He does not question my willingness, my work, or my “way”. He is just “there”, providing the love and acceptance I cannot seem to muster up for myself at this very moment. And he is doing what is right for him today.

Being raised in the Catholic faith, I am fairly ignorant to the beliefs and rituals of other faiths. I have many AA friends now that are of the Jewish faith, so I am learning slowly, but this morning, in my desire to provide him with the support he needs, I did a little research into the proper etiquette in this situation. I was struck by the phrase “Baruch dayan emet” and its significance, not only for my Jewish fellows, but for me, today.

I am not finished pondering this concept. I have a lot of work to do.

For my “date”: I wish you long life.

Thank you for paying me a 12 step call.

Stuck

Wow! It’s been a while since I’ve felt this stuck. I have absolutely no desire to do anything.

This is the second Wednesday in a row that I have missed my favorite meeting. Missed? MISSED?? Uh, no. I made a decision to NOT GO. I have the every other month commitment of secretary. This is my month “off” and in true alcoholic fashion, if I don’t have to be there, the slightest excuse can get me to stay home. Never mind that this is the first meeting where I felt safe. It was the first place where I shared openly and honestly without fear of judgment. Oddly enough, it is not the women’s meeting at the recovery home I lived and worked in for 10 and 4 months, respectively. This is a gay men’s meeting.

These wonderful men have loved me, unconditionally, since the day we met. You know, I was thinking yesterday when the treasurer of this meeting called me pretty…he meant it. I laughed at first, but then I realized that he doesn’t see the outside me. He sees the inside me. It took me a long time to realize that what I love about this meeting is that I don’t have to dress pretty, put on make-up, try to lose a tremendous amount of extra weight, or become someone I’m not to be loved and valued. I get to just be me. It's like I have this gay entourage who have adopted me for the sole purpose of teaching me that I am worthy of nothing but the best. It is a wonderful thing to not worry about committing a faux pas of one variety or other and to be able to concentrate on my sobriety. In every other area of my life, though, I feel as if I am lacking—somehow less than.

Though I am accepted fully, I am starting to feel as if I do not belong here. And I know the longer I stay away, the more difficult time I will have convincing myself to go back. And we know what follows. So, what is the real problem here?

I’m being selfish, self-centered, and self-pitying. I’m having a tough time and I just want to feel miserable. It’s easier than doing the work. I know what I need to do. I am just not willing. I suppose when the pain of holding on to this becomes greater than the pain of letting go, I’ll do the work. Until then…

I don’t know.

Thank you for paying me a 12 step call.

A precious gift.

Sometimes a day is just a day. Nothing out of the ordinary happens; nothing to inspire self reflection or offer opportunity for growth. Usually, I welcome those days. They give my mind a rest, and lately with all of the step work I’ve been doing, I was beginning to think there was no reprieve in sight.

Today was such a day. I just did what was in front of me. The morning rhythm that I have come to enjoy since I broadened my recovery community by blogging was interrupted by an early venture, but I’ve learned to be flexible. “Improvise, adapt, overcome”, (from the Clint Eastwood movie Heartbreak Ridge) has become my mantra when my mojo is threatened. It works. I just postponed my routine a little. No need to run amok. The remainder of the day was uneventful.

Then…

My baby called. (The youngest of 3) She is 17 years old. I was pleasantly surprised to hear from her during the week. I try to call each of them once each weekend (I’m trying not to smother them) and she & I had already spoken on Sunday. Usually the call times are arranged through text messaging. I know it sounds so impersonal, but when you have kids that grew up with text messages, sometimes it’s the most effective way to communicate. I arrange my schedule around theirs as much as possible for this call because it is about THEM, not me. For so long I put my needs first. They deserve to have their needs supersede mine now and for a long time to come. I do let them know they can call me anytime. Sometimes they do. Like today.

She had a rough day. Preceded by a rough night. Nothing she really wanted to talk about. I didn’t push. Sometimes kids just need to hear Mom’s voice, I guess. (I can’t get the image of me righting the crystal chick yesterday out of my mind!)

What a precious gift!

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Don't EVEN go there!

While I was making my bed this morning (something I did NOT do for many years), I knocked over one of the crystal chicks that sit on my bedside table. I bought the set of Mama and 3 chicks for my mother’s collection many years ago to represent me and my 3 children. (Why I did not search for a Papa to add to the set to include my then-husband is an area of my subconscious I have yet to explore.) Once certain items were returned to the original “givers”, Mom’s collections of crystal figurines and Hummels were distributed evenly among her children after she passed away, which is how I have them now. As I righted the chick, my brain was immediately filled with superstition. Which of my chicks was in trouble?

Though my first inclination was to call each of them to find out if they were “okay”, I refrained. (That is what I would have done in years past to bring my “amazing mother’s love and intuition” to their attention. Oh, the drama!) Instead, I pushed the thought out of my mind. I do not like the tremendous pain I feel over their physical absence in my life. I do not like to visit the sad memories of how my active disease led to them moving far away from me to live with their father. I do not like to dwell in the wreckage I have caused in their lives. Yet I know I must.

In working Step 8 and Step 9, I chose originally to start with my children: the 3 people to which I believe I owe my biggest and most difficult amends. I am relying on my Step 4 inventory as an outline for the amends. It is an emotionally overwhelming undertaking to again be assaulted by my own actions. I thought once I did Step 5, I was home free. Sigh. Alas I was wrong. (You old timers can stop laughing at me anytime now. My sponsor has already done so for that statement!) I am reminded of the following quote, taken from page 49 of the 12 & 12: “Pride says ‘You need not pass this way,’ and Fear says, ‘You dare not look!’” In my humble opinion, this goes for Step 8 and Step 9 as well.

My sponsor suggested that I get a few less difficult amends under my belt before attempting amends to my children (WHEW!) and concentrate on remaining a responsible, consistent presence in their lives; even if from a distance. I trust her wisdom and experience though I am impatient and just want it done. Not an alcoholic characteristic at all, is it?

My brain has been busy this week. I am exhausted. But a very good friend, and fellow alcoholic, told me that step work done thoroughly is indeed exhausting. If my level of emotional fatigue is any indication, my work is solid.

Making my bed every morning and righting a chick serve as very important reminders to me.
1. New habits can be learned and enjoyed.
2. Righting things immediately helps to eliminate future chaos and fear. (Sounds suspiciously like Step 10)
3. I am not the person I was a little over 2 years ago that thrived on manufactured drama.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Surrender to a rainbow.

As I sit here wrapped in an afghan that my mother made (thanks to my sister for insisting that I bring it home with me this past Christmas), I am at peace.

The morning meeting on the beach was exactly what I needed today. The white flag that marks the meeting spot was a welcome sight. Though I did not participate in my usual round of joyful hugs and kisses before or after the meeting, the benefit of just being there was evident as I noticed a feeling of peace enter me.

The speaker, ironically, spoke of the death of his own mother (who succumbed to our disease) which he experienced in sobriety. He related the blessings to all that resulted from her passing. I have always viewed my own mother’s passing as a blessing for her. She was one day shy of her 71st birthday (yes, tomorrow is her birthday). She was relying on a wheelchair for mobility as well as losing her sight due to her diabetes. She was a very stoic, self-sufficient woman before her diabetes robbed her of the things we all take for granted. I remember sitting with her on her bed one day as she cried. She talked about how one plans for their “golden years” only to be sentenced to life as an “invalid”. Oh how I cringed when she used that word! To me that word, broken down meant “not valid”. It indicated the hopelessness that had settled over her. Little did I know then how I would become an invalid of a very different sort.

I never thought of her passing as a blessing of my life…until today. March 21, 2003, I believe, was the day I gave up feeling. I drank myself into oblivion that night. I no longer wanted to feel anything, ever. The denial of those feelings, and many more since then, set off a chain of events that brought me to the gates of insanity in just 4 ½ years. In classic alcoholic fashion, I had “lost” everything worthwhile in life. (I use quotes because many things that I “lost” were in actuality, pushed or given away. I say “lost” to simplify.) That gift of loss and desperation led me to surrender my will and my life over to whatever was bigger and more powerful than me: my Higher Power.

Though my life does not even remotely resemble the plans I had as a younger woman, I believe that my spiral to oblivion and beyond was necessary for me and for those I can help as a result. I still sometimes wonder “what if” and wish things were different, but I no longer want to check-out. I believe I am more whole. I trust there is a reason for everything. I love and I forgive. I laugh and I cry. I still make mistakes, but I now care and make amends promptly when I am wrong.

I saw a rainbow on the way to the hospital that afternoon. I used to cry whenever I saw rainbows after that day because they served as a reminder of my loss. I hoped to see one today in celebration of how far I have come since Mom died. It was overcast and foggy at the beach so there was no chance of that, so I’ll settle for the rainbow of emotions I can feel today without taking a drink. And the next time I do see a rainbow, I will smile and know that my mom is smiling down on me, proud that I am alive, again.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Feeling...

A veil of melancholy is covering me today. I miss my mom. As it so often happens when “celebrating” the anniversary of a significant event, my thoughts have taken me to the dangerous neighborhood of sorrow and regret.

I cancelled an evening meeting tonight with my “date” from the fundraiser of last week. We were to go to a new meeting he wanted to try in Long Beach. I’m just not feeling social. I had read his FB post about visiting his mother in the hospital earlier in the day; first there was envy, then floods of memories of visiting my own mother in the hospital 7 years ago came rushing back. Instead of making excuses when I phoned, I was honest about my need to just "be" tonight. Sometimes I feel the need to sit with the feelings I was so accustomed to erasing with alcohol. It's a miracle to be able to acknowledge and survive their existence now. He was loving and supportive and truly a blessing in my life.

Before I left Mom's hospital room the evening of the 20th, she tried to tell me not to “bother” coming to visit the next day. She didn’t want to be a burden. She wanted me to go to work and not let her illness worry me or alter my plans. (She was always saying things like that which leads me to believe she was unaware of her profound importance in the lives of those who loved her.) My baby brother was there with me and we sat with her for a while as she faded in and out of sleep. We were both there when the priest came to perform The Anointing Of The Sick. I remember feeling alone in the moments immediately following the prayer. Incredibly alone. There was a dread that settled in my heart as we left her. That dread has resurfaced today. And the pain is as crippling now as it was then.

Thankfully, I was blessed to be with her as she passed from her earthly life to her eternal life the following afternoon. Those memories I will put away until tomorrow.

I am starting my day tomorrow at one of my favorite meetings on the beach. The tumultuous crashing of the surf somehow brings me peace and that is where I feel most connected to my Higher Power. I didn’t used to seek God in times of emotional distress. I used to escape into the alcoholic abyss. Today, prayer is my first thought; my first action.

And that is how I choose to honor my mother.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

TCB (AKA: Self-Care)

Haircut and pedicure day. I don’t know why I put them off for so long. I wait until I absolutely can’t stand it anymore. My hair gets out of control and I am ashamed to wear open toed shoes (which in LA is positively sinful this time of year). Unmanageability. Yep. That sounds right up my alley.

So why don’t I take better care of myself? Wow. I don’t have an answer. I could blame it on finances, but that is only a recent ailment that prevents me from doing things. I fear the issue has its roots in my childhood as I watched my mother do very little for herself. She was busy raising 8 children, doting over my father, and working a full-time job. I have none of those excuses. She wore the same clothing day after day, went infrequently to have her hair done, and I don’t think she ever had a professional manicure, much less a pedicure. (Oh, wait. I think she may have had her nails done for my sister’s wedding when the bridal party had ours done the morning of the wedding.) I remember watching her hands when I was young and thinking how beautiful they were. The few times she did polish her nails were really a treat. Always a light shade with sparkles. As she aged, it was sad to witness that her skin had lost its elasticity and sometimes when I look at my own aging hands, I remember my mother.

In any event, they say children learn what they live. While I’ve always been a fan of that sentiment, I believe in this case it’s a cop out. Where the problem really lies, I think, is the overall feeling of unworthiness that is planted deep inside of me. Penance for the wreckage of my alcoholic past. And while I’m beginning to shake that pall that I wear so comfortably, it requires a lot of hard work and deprogramming.

My stylist is a man, and “one of us”. For the first time ever, I went to his home for my cut. He knew I would be coming soon as he had been following my grow-out (as any stylist worth his mettle would do) via the pictures on Facebook. (Life as it is revealed on the World Wide Web…it’s mind boggling, isn’t it?) We sat for a while before the actual cut in his cozy living room chatting like old friends. This is incredible since this is only the 3rd or 4th time I’ve interacted with him, and the second time he’s cut my hair. But as only another alcoholic can understand, there is an instant kinship…an understanding which can only be explained through the language of the heart. This was a wonderful start to my day. God’s work is an amazing thing. I don’t know who benefitted more from our morning, but I have the feeling we each went on with our days just a little lighter in our steps. (And I was minus a whole lot of hair!)

I went with a floral design of color for my French pedicure. After all, it IS spring. I don’t have pretty feet by any stretch of the imagination, but I should treat them kinder than I do. They have the tremendous task of carrying my frame for the rest of my life. Making that statement just now made me realize that my connection to my Higher Power is very much like my feet. Not necessarily well tended to, but not a failure to me thus far. Both require more attention than I have been giving.

So, by taking care of business today, I am investing in myself. And that is definitely progress.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Dinner on the homefront.

I really felt uninspired all day today. I think the step-work I’m doing is taking its toll.

I usually look forward to cooking a meal, but I was considering cancelling making dinner this evening for my 2 roommates. This normally wouldn’t be a big deal, but it’s the first time since I’ve lived here with this couple that we’ve made a point of having a “family meal”. After the shenanigans of the last couple of weeks with my aborted move, I made the suggestion so that we could hopefully bond and get to know each other a little.

Grilled Chicken Kabobs with Red and Green Peppers. Steamed Long Grain and Wild Rice. Sautéed Mushrooms. I forgot how much I enjoy cooking and entertaining. We all stood in the kitchen chatting as the meal was prepared, then sat at the table pleasantly conversing while we enjoyed the meal. Nothing mind-bending. Just light conversation about our days and our plans for the upcoming weekend.

All in all, I think it went well. I was surprised that my Irish roommate attended at all as he was not thrilled with the suggestion to begin with. His suggestion was that we meet for dinner after a meeting. His schedule is far too busy to commit to spending any time at home. To me that kind of blew the whole purpose: creating memories in our home. In the end, his schedule allowed him to participate with my Cuban roommate and me, and he seemed surprised at how things turned out. I wasn’t surprised at all. It’s what families do to stay in touch. My parents taught me that. Thank you, God!

This dinner, though, I fear will be an anomaly. It truly isn’t often that our schedules permit us to share an evening together at home. And that somewhat saddens me. I long for the feeling of a family unit again. Oh, I know that my AA family is ever present in my life, but for me, the memories of “home” and sharing a meal, a movie, a game of cribbage, or just sitting around the table having coffee, all in your own home, is a hole in my life I am yearning to have filled.

I realize now as I sit here lamenting over better days gone by, the anniversary of my mother’s death is bearing down on me. (Sunday the 21st will mark 7 years.) With the step-work I’m doing, there are a lot of memories, good and bad, being brought to the surface. My sponsor has taught me that I cannot ignore the emotionally toxic memories. They have just as equal a part in who I am today as the fluffy feel-good memories. In recovery, the two can co-exist. It is my choice which I project.

So today, I will accept this dinner as a token of hope that I am making forward progress in my recovery and in my relationship with my roommates. I will view it is a success in taking contrary action. I will acknowledge that maybe the family dinners of my childhood may just be a little romanticized in my mind. And I will thank my Higher Power for another day sober.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

When the light goes out.

What do you do when your favorite lamp quits working? Yes, I tried changing the light bulb and checking the breaker for the outlet. Nothing. The problem clearly lies within the wiring of the lamp itself. I’m handy with a lot of things around the house, but wiring is something for which I have a great deal of respect. And I don’t mess with it. My father was constantly repairing all things electrical. My ex-husband did as well. There were a few incidents that occurred as a result of incomplete or hurried repairs, and thankfully no one was hurt, but for the most part, I trusted that the power that ran though the wiring would do so without serious interruption to my comfort.

I have a few options here:
1) Do nothing and keep the lamp in the corner, as a purely decorative piece which serves no purpose other than as a reminder of what it once provided.
2) Have the lamp repaired which will require time and energy, knowing it is injured and at some point may become a danger to my well being.
3) Discard the lamp, mourn its loss, and replace it with a new lamp which, if chosen carefully, quite possibly will provide me with longer lasting enjoyment as well as be more complimentary to my current needs.

This lamp thing has me bugged. Not because it is broken, but because of the similarities between the options for resolution of the broken lamp and the options for resolution of broken relationships.

None of the options here are perfect. But a choice must be made. It’s not working anymore. And when something isn’t working anymore, we take action. Right? If repairs are made thoughtfully and with the help of others who have some experience, hopefully the changes that are made out of necessity will create only a tiny disturbance to my comfort. Discomfort with change is always a given in my life. But eventually I accept it and move on. Moving on is easy, what it leaves behind is difficult.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Green in, green out.

So I chose to not wear green today. Call me a renegade. Since my favorite color is, in fact, green, and I wear it all the time, St. Patrick’s Day does not offer me any inspiration to alter my choice of attire on a Wednesday.

Being a natural redhead, with a feisty temperament, I am mistaken for a person of Irish descent all the time. One of my roommates was born and raised in Ireland (any wonder that he is the roommate with whom I clash?) and when we first met, he called me “Irish”. It was endearing, though I often wondered if it was because he couldn’t remember my name or if he was making a reference to my attitude. He is proud of his heritage and I now believe it was meant as a compliment.

Today everyone is Irish. Everything is green. And I am no exception.

My baby brother is all about the Shamrock Shakes. Gosh how I used to love them as a child! Having followed his craving for the wonderful treat for the past 2 weeks, I got a bee in my bonnet to have one…today only. (See? I can inject green activities into my day.) Absolutely delightful memories came flooding back with the first slurp. Anyone who grew up in a large family where sending someone out for McDonald’s was a rare (and expensive) treat, can understand. We may have rarely been able to order a Happy Meal or Big Mac, but we could get a (small) Shamrock Shake. Today it’s a symbol for me of what sacrifices my parents made for us. And I am grateful to know and truly feel that I was loved and cared for, in the unique way that only my parents could have done.

As I take in the pleasure of the minty green shake, I think about the green that is flowing out. Money.

A few things set me off kilter this morning and I had my feet firmly planted in avoidance. So when I finally went out to my car, I found a lovely present from LA Parking Enforcement. Grrrr! Parking is a nightmare here on Wednesdays and Thursdays: street cleaning. And yep, I know the rules. So, when I chose the action (or inaction in this case), I also chose the consequence. While I am irritated that my actions brought this additional financial burden upon me, I accept it as a path towards becoming a person of integrity. Because of the way I live my life today as a sober member of Alcoholics Anonymous, I will pay the ticket. And I will pay it on time.

I now patiently wait for St. Joseph’s day which falls on March 19th. A day to wear red and celebrate my Polish heritage. You bet your dupa I’m Polish!

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

What have I got to lose?

Some days I just really get so emotionally worn out. Take today for example.

I wasn’t able to make it to my usual support group at 6 because I couldn’t pee. (Yeah, there’s a story there, just not today.) I did the responsible thing and notified the facilitator that I would be coming to the 7 PM meeting instead. Rushing through downtown LA traffic to actually make good on that was harrowing enough without the committee working overtime in my brain over the pee thing. (Seriously, this is an issue which requires more time to explain than I have now.) I received a text message in transit that was upsetting. Potential bad news for a loved one. Sigh. “This is the last place I want to be” was my mantra as I walked to the meeting room. Ever feel like that?

WELL…person after person described in detail how hopeless they felt. So hopeless that using again seemed like a viable option. The monologue in my head was going something like this: "OMG! This is taking forever. Can we not move it along so we can just get out of here?" (Sound familiar?) At some point I stopped being self-obsessed and started actually listening. And to remember what it felt like to be there. To feel that desperation. To not be able to see a way out. To just say “screw it” and have a drink. It’s overwhelming.

When it came my time to share and the words started flowing, my gratitude over how much my life has changed in the past 2+ years hit me solidly. Things may not be the way I planned at this stage of my life, but they are far better than when I got here. And I never have to go back to living like that ever again.

I think one of the reasons I don’t drink is that I never want to have to stand up as a newcomer again. To admit I lost the time I accumulated in front of friends and loved ones would really suck. But what I need to remember, is, that the only way to lose is to end up in a body bag. So, I’ll keep coming back. Just one more time.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Stirred, not shaken.

Oh, I know the quote is “shaken, not stirred”, but in this case, for me, it’s the other way around. I woke at 4:05 AM to a 4.4 magnitude earthquake. Not unusual for Southern California. What is unique is the gratitude I feel …and why.

The obvious why is that with so many devastating earthquakes occurring worldwide, one cannot help feeling grateful to have survived. My heart continues to go out to those suffering in Haiti and Chile. This was just a little rock-n-roll, centered 10 miles from where I am. No life altering consequences for me or my friends. Plenty of opportunity for reflection though.

My blessings are of a different sort. The first two earthquakes that I experienced when I moved to Los Angeles 3 years ago were during the active phase of my alcoholism. I slept, or rather remained passed out, through the first, and the second became an instant drama with which I saw a way to glean sympathy from my family. By that time, though, my family had long since stopped paying any attention to my histrionics. I was an active fault-line in their lives prone to wreak havoc without any provocation whatsoever.

I have experienced many earthquakes since then. A jolt of electricity always ran through my mind and my body, giving way to fear, and yes, excitement. Today, though I was stirred from my slumber, I was not shaken. I was fully in the moment. My concern did not become a vessel to manufacture concern, pity, or attention from friends or family. Instead, I turned to prayers of thanks that this wasn’t “the big one” and prayers for those whose lives have been forever altered by acts of Mother Nature. I rejoice in God’s plan, though I have NO idea what that is. I have a faith today that can be stirred, but not shaken. I wish the same for all of my fellows.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

Family angst.

The labyrinth is a spiritual symbol of the path to enlightenment. The 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are my labyrinth during times of family turmoil.

I was raised in a middle-class family of 8 children on the south side of Chicago. Both of my parents worked very hard to provide us with all of the necessities of life, and the extras when they could. I don’t recall many inequities in treatment from one child to another. Those I do recall stem from the perceptions of a child. I am examining those daily to bring them out into the open where they can become warm from the light of love and truth. We generally all get along (with one exception), and I have been blessed beyond measure that they have accepted me back into the family folds. I still have formal amends to perform. And I will do so when I can do them in person with the respect and consideration that these wonderful siblings deserve.

My extended family has suffered a terrible tragedy in the past week. It is difficult to comprehend surviving such an event. There are no words that can comfort them. One can only listen and offer the love and strength they cannot possibly draw from those so intimately involved.

Instead, there has been an “issue” with one of my siblings and her public opinion on the matter. There is always an issue with her. I don’t understand it. She was raised in the same family, yet is just so “out there”. My parents and each of my other siblings have become targets for her hateful, self-seeking agenda from as early as I can remember. Things like repeatedly knocking my brother down and pushing on his Adam’s Apple, throwing a butcher knife at my sister while we were carving pumpkins, lying to my mother about conversations that never happened causing Mom to be hurt and confused, and other incidents that I really think should not be divulged publicly. (I do, however, share these things with my sponsor and a few trusted friends and family because we are only as sick as our secrets.) My 6 other siblings have nothing to do with her. Nor do I. She has adopted cousins, aunts, and uncles as her family now, publicly describing in detail how horrific her upbringing and her natal family are, while praising her new family for being the only “real” family she has ever had. No telling what untruths are being told. All I’ve wanted to do was scream a warning from the top of my lungs. But I haven’t. It is not my place…or is it? What would be my motive? To get back at her for the harm she has done to me and my family? To prevent future heartache and embarrassment for others? And what is the cost of doing such a thing? What is my responsibility to my extended family? The” fit has hit the shan”, and once again, others are suffering at her hand.

When I step back and try to objectively evaluate and process the dynamics of her behavior, all I can come up with is the term antisocial. I know that’s harsh, but the definition truly fits. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antisocial_personality_disorder And I cringe when I realize that this comes after I have done (what I thought was) a thorough 4th Step surrounding my relationship with her. I need to consider her a spiritually sick individual as directed in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. Her behavior does so closely resemble mine at the height of my active disease. So I will go back and re-examine. Do another concentrated 4th Step on this issue. Pray for myself and for her. Meditate. And trust God. After all, I am powerless over people and situations. The only control I have is over my own actions.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

It's a beautiful life.

I bought flowers for myself today to celebrate.

Spring is definitely here.  There's a certain feel of the air.  It wraps itself around me like a comfortable, old blanket.  I love spring.  The sleepy world wakes slowly to coax hope from its hiding place.

I remember a day about 2 or 3 weeks ago when I saw my first hummingbird of the season.  It was early morning on my balcony.  As I watched him flitter from flower to flower, my hearing became more in tune with my surroundings.  The birds were singing beautifully.  I couldn't see many of them, but they were there nonetheless.

The first sign of spring used to be the appearance of the crocuses or tulips and the first sighting of a robin; the joy that maybe the snow was done for the next 8 or 9 months.  That was when I was living in the midwest.  I don't think I fully appreciated the stark contrast of seasons there.  In southern California, with year-round blooms, the seasons are more subtle.  Having lived here now for a full 3 years as of March 12th, I am learning the nuances.  Or maybe I am just more observant.  And filled with gratitude.

Spring also brings with it memories.  Memories, I now choose to embrace, like the coming of spring.  Definitely a gift of sobriety and developing a relationship with a Power greater than myself.

My flowers are on my bedside table where I can enjoy their fragrance; where I can be sure they are the last thing I see before I go to sleep and the first thing I see when I wake up.  Life is beautiful.  Isn't it?

Thank you for paying me a 12 step call.

Into action

What a wonderful day! The weather was perfect beginning at sunrise, which helped set my mood for the day ahead, and the evening was crisp and clear; perfect for an outdoor event.

The success of finally being able to move the rest of my "new" bedroom set into my room is a relief. I was able to unpack the last of the boxes that were sitting on my balcony serving as a reminder of my little "episode" of self-will. I must say, the arrangement of the room and ridding it of the clutter has given me a feeling of being home. That's not to say there isn't work to be done in the room or with one of my roommates, but I have left the bedroom door open more, removing the physical barrier to encounters. The empty boxes remain on my balcony, torn down and stacked neatly in a corner. I have this irrational fear that the moment I get rid of them, I, or someone else may need them. And they are such perfect, sturdy boxes. It would be a shame to sentence them to the trash heap. So I wonder how long they will sit there. What will it take for me to haul them to the recycling bin? Is this reluctance of letting them go a symbol of my unwillingness to surrender to God's will? Or is it just that I didn't want to tackle dragging them down the fire escape today? In either case, there is clearly work to be done.

An evening fundraiser for a men's recovery home is not generally considered a frightening event. Yet I was dreading it. All those people, happy and easily conversing with others they don't know. And me, an awkward, social misfit. My initial declination for attending was based on my financial situation. True, I am currently without a source of income, but not a sufficient reason to deny support to a home that plays such a crucial part in helping alcoholic/addicted men put their lives back together. The director of this home holds a very special place in my heart. His "story" is a compelling one of heartbreak, as he was in the grips of his addiction with little hope, yet surrendered, thus changing his life as well as thousands (undoubtedly more) others'. And he is a Chicago native, so...I immediately fell in love with him. Well, not in love, but I do love him tremendously. I also have enormous respect for him and the work that he does. As I think about using that word, "work", I realize how inept it sounds. This is his calling. His passion. He helped me to open up emotionally; allow myself to be vulnerable. As any alcoholic can tell you, this is no small feat. The gift of unconditional love, from a man, I felt (for the first time in so long that I can not remember) from him. He has no agenda. He expects nothing in return. His smile and laughter are genuine. His embraces are warm and safe. His direction is clear. So when responding to a new friend's request to attend, as his guest, I immediately agreed, knowing I would have the opportunity to support someone so important to my recovery.

The evening was absolutely lovely. A different venue. Outdoors, in fact. The weather was perfect. The food, delicious. The turn-out was not as big as I remember from previous years. The silent auction items seemed not as abundant. Yet the mood was full of hope. The familiar faces I encountered all had some connection to this recovery home. The gratitude was apparent. Other faces, not so familiar, seemed to remember me. Huh? Me? There were more than a few residents, past and present, whom I do not remember. Yet they knew me. By name. Wow. I suddenly felt like I made a difference. I was showered with examples of small things I did, or said, that touched them at the exact moment they needed that particular tidbit. Things easy and uniquely me. Nothing profound. Just me. Which, when I think about it, is exactly why I remember certain people that I encountered in my earlier sobriety. Some of those people I have not seen again. Yet I know when I do, I will remember their name and recount to them why they touched me, just as these newly sober people did with me. It is an unbroken chain. If we can only overcome our fears. And we do. Because it's what we do. We show up for others, even when we're in fear. And we invariably get what we need as well.

As I snuggle in for the night, I rejoice in my comforting surroundings, full of gratitude that for just one more day, I am sober. As long as I continue to take action and face my fears, everything is possible. Even dance lessons.


Thank you for paying me a 12 step call.

You can't always get what you want.

I went to my former, almost-roommate's apartment this morning to pick up a piece of mail. (I had changed my address, a little prematurely, and apparently the correction hasn't taken effect yet.) Being the trusting person he is, he messaged me that the key would be available in our pre-arranged location. In hindsight, I should have returned his message to let him know that I was on my way over. (Character defects can sneak up and smack you at the oddest times.) Instead, I arrived, unannounced. Upon entering the apartment, I heard his voice, then saw he was talking on the phone. His distress was obvious, as this kind, gentle man wears his emotions on his sleeve.

Through our brief association, I have come to adore him. We've bonded over CMA chips (of which I am not a fan...early recover story to follow someday), lumpia, stories about butterknives, wonderful dreams of sharing our new home with mutual friends, and then the disappointing blow to our plans. ( "Our plans". Therein lies the root of the problem.) We did what was asked of us by the landlord. We decided that if we are going to live our lives honestly, that is, differently than we have in the past, we would follow direction and not lie or cheat (AKA: manipulate) our way into what we wanted. I would not move in until the "approval" was final. We would leave the results to our Higher Powers and live in acceptance of whatever the outcome would be.

Ah, yes. Acceptance.

As it turns out, my credit is horrible. (Like THAT was a newsflash!) That was the basis for the denial. Funny how things work. I pushed ahead, without any knowledge of the details of my credit report, but imagining it was pretty bad. Talk about denial! (DENIAL=Don't Even Notice I Am Lying) So, my lesson here has been to take care of what's in front of me instead of living in the future. Things like finding a job, concentrating on my program, and performing financial amends. The amazing thing is, that I've looked at my report now, put it on paper, and when it comes down to an actual dollar amount, it's not a scary as I thought. Well...once I have a job, anyway. But that's another story for later.

Then there's the component of my current living situation. Which isn't horrible, in all honesty. What I was doing, in part, was running from one situation, to another without examining what my part in my discomfort here really is. That needs to change. Pronto. I am not a child who cannot stand up for herself. The roommate with which I have difficulty, may resemble my father and my ex-husband in many ways, but he is not them, nor is he responsible for my feelings. I forget who said this, but it certainly fits: "You are not responsible for the programming you picked up in childhood. However, as an adult, you are one hundred percent responsible for fixing it." So, I am resolved to live in the moment and do what's in front of me, today. Open my eyes to the reality. And change what I can about me.

Back to my former, almost-roommate. He too, made peace with the final decision. He began "nesting" and was doing his best to come to terms with the uncertainty he felt about living alone as a sober individual for the first time in a very long time. I was actually envious. While I dream to be living in a place of my own, I am not ready financially or strong enough in my recovery yet. His distress this morning was with his landlord. Apparently, he was served, just moments before I arrived, with a 3-day notice to vacate. He took the bit in his teeth and called the landlord to inquire into the infraction that would bring such a harsh action, only to be told that he was in violation of the lease by having an unauthorized tenant living with him. Oh, brother, did my brain grab this and run with it! See, again we go back to our "plans". Though I stayed in my current situation pending the final decision, I was so certain that this was a done deal, that I had my new (well, new to me) bedroom set delivered to his apartment a couple of days before we got the final "no". Then a week after the blow was delivered, had the bedroom set removed again. All of that activity spurred the resident snitch to phone the landlord. What a mess! My friend is facing eviction, and all I could think about was how I was at fault, or not at fault. Self-centered? You bet. But as I watched my dear friend, who has shown me nothing but kindness and compassion since we met 2 years ago, agonize over this terrible turn of events, I was suddenly mute. I ran some of the AA slogans through my head and decided to not utter a single one. Instead, I listened, hugged him, and left. Hopefully it was what he needed.

I don't know what lies ahead for my former, almost-roommate, nor do I know what lies ahead for me. I do know, however, that we each have grown in our recovery. We got what we needed. And we have grown in our friendship. Now all that's left is to accept it, learn from it, and pass it on.

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.

So, I'm starting a blog...

What am I thinking???  Why would I open myself up to scrutiny by publishing a blog?  Especially one that has my recovery from alcoholism at its foundation?  I don't really have an answer to that question myself.  I do, however, know, that through writing, I have made some of the most profound discoveries about myself.  These have helped me to grow as a person and extend myself to others suffering from the disease of alcoholism.  One of my favorite movies, "Pay It Forward", echoes but one cornerstone of the AA philosophy.  By helping others, we are helping ourselves.  The realizations I have made, and continue to experience about myself thoughout this journey may help another alcoholic.  If I can make a difference in just one other person's life, then I have accomplished much.

In the spirit of my handwritten journals, I will be open, honest, and non-editing.  What I post here will be my unique thought process.  I will maintain the anonymity of my fellowship, so please don't tear up the airwaves, BBM, tweet, Facebook, MySpace, Xanga, etc. by blabbering what you read about so-and-so.  And if what you read strikes a cord because it resembles you, please know that I am including it here, not for shock value or as a point of gossip, but because it has somehow touched a place deep within me. It has given me pause, provided an opportunity for self examination, led me to personal growth, and obviously helped me in my journey. 

Thank you for paying me a 12 Step call.