Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Me, Myself and Me

My ears are so cold they ache, the muscles in my legs are pulled tight and I am teetering on the edge of exhaustion.
I feel great!
I just came back from a long walk with my friend Jan. She came over for dinner and we leashed up Indy and went for a walk along Lake Street, which overlooks a long stretch of beach and a great view of Lake Superior.
Indy was wild with joy, wilder still when we encountered one dog after another. Did I mention that my leash arm is sore?
Jan is a fellow writer, so we spent most of the time talking shop. Talking to a fellow writer is simultaneously exciting and comforting.
"I have the worst time settling down and just writing."
"Me too!"
"My best ideas seem to come when I don't have any way to write them down."
"Me too!"
Ah, there's nothing like sharing lofty thoughts with someone who understands.
That's about the most human impulse there is, don't you think: trying to find another person who "gets it."
That's one of the blessings of recovery. You find people from all walks of life, all ages, all races, both sexes, who "get it." It meaning you.
I used to believe I was a freak. Not in the fun, dye your hair magenta, dance in the streets sense. I thought I was too weird to connect with other people.
Then I got sober. And I found my people. Those feelings, thoughts, fears and ideas I thought were so weird were simply human. There was nothing about me, from the deepest inner core of me to the very tip of my nose, that was so singular it hadn't been felt, thought about, or dealt with my someone else. It was good enough just to be me. It was better than good enough. And once I accepted that I was ready to work on becoming a finer version of genuine me. And the project continues.
I am a work in progress. I am me. And at this moment, me is a pretty good thing to be.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Dry/Drunk

I am slowly emerging from the foggy neverland of a dry drunk. For you non-alcoholics, a dry drunk is a period wherein an alcoholic steps away from their recovery program and surrenders to the power of the behaviors and character defects they've been working to overcome. Or, as I like to think of it, it's a severe case of cranium en rectus: the unenviable condition of having one's head planted firmly up one's ass.
Neither definition is scientific or official. And I can only speak of my own experience.
Me on a dry drunk: disconnected, unmotivated, disinterested. It's a sick little cycle that feeds on itself, much as drinking does. I know it's wrong, I know it's unhealthy, but oh, it's comfortable hiding in that fuzzy little corner away from pesky old reality.
At first I wallowed. I functioned just fine, but I was forgetful, and I was saying things I didn't necessarily mean just for the sake of saying something.
I knew I should pray for help, so I did. Only God is nobody's fool. God knew I was sorry the way a juvenile delinquent is sorry when she gets caught. My prayer was a rote, monotone "Oh please, God, please pull me out of this, I am sorry, please let me out."
God helps those who helps themselves, and I wasn't interested in helping me at that point.
There were a couple of days when I woke up clearheaded, feeling like my sober self again. There it was, the light at the end of the tunnel. What did I do? Turned and ran deeper into the tunnel.
Today I am mentally exhausted from forcibly tuning out. What I have is a psychic hangover. I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired, which means I'm ready to pick up my recovery program and move forward again.
Going backward is scary. Like driving your car up a mountain and having the brakes slowly lose power. But if I ever hear the siren song of normal that sometimes lures alcoholics back to the bottle ("You can have one. One won't hurt.") I hope I remember this week and know that although I am a lot of things, normal isn't one of them.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Good, good night

I am tired. Every now and then I go through a phase of thinking I really don't need as much sleep as I think I do. The first day after a low-sleep night feels okay. I feel surprisingly chipper, which fools me into believing I can go another night on fewer hours of sleep. On day two I am tired. TI-ERD. But I get through the day, although I'm in neutral instead of drive, and everything at work, from answering the phone to typing up church briefs, feels so hard. The upside, as I see it, is that when I'm sleep deprived I can drink as much coffee as I want. Hey, it's medicinal!
Which leads to poor sleep night number three. I crawl out of bed at 6 a.m. with the reluctance of Dracula leaving his tomb at high noon. But after two or three or four cups of coffee I'm chatty and cheerful. Super chatty. Mega cheerful. In a nutshell, I am wired. I think I'm being super productive, but my work production rate and stupid mistake ratio are equally balanced. I blurt out whatever pops into my head, because in my fuzzy state of mind every thought is clever, if not hilarious.
By nightfall of day three I can barely pull myself up the stairs to my bedroom. Changing into pajamas is a climb-Mount-Everest-sized challenge. I do not want to talk. I do not want to think. I fall into bed and like a tree felled by a killer chainsaw.
In the morning I feel groggy, but oddly coherent. Yesterday feels like a bad dream. And as I recall some of what I babbled about at work and at home, I wish it had been.
Today is day two. I will not be risking a day three. My head is full of short-circuiting wires. Ideas develop, then pop like soap bubbles. Is this any way to run a life? Maybe when you're 20.
I suppose I could mope about the fact that, for my middle aged self, eight hours of sleep is a requirement, not an option. I'd rather focus on how firm and welcoming my mattress is going to feel tonight, how my pillow will gently cushion the weight of my overtired head, how softly my worn but heavy quilt will cocoon me.
Good night, sleep tight. And if the bedbugs bite, well, let 'em. I'll be too tired to care.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Prom Night

On Saturday I watched my younger daughter get beauty-ed up for a night she's looked forward to forever: prom night. In her long, flowy, white with silver accents dress, silver shoe-boots, upswept hairdo and glitter-dusted eyeshadow, she was a true teen angel. I snapped photos, joked with her handsome young date, and swallowed against the lump in my throat.
Moments like that make me me acutely aware of how lonely it sometimes is to be a single parent. Ron died was Melissa was 13. He's missed her first day of high school, her pride over earning a spot in the school symphony orchestra, her excitement when she got her driver's license - and prom night.
No matter how strained or painful a marriage may be, there is something to be said about having someone there who is equally invested in your children's milestones, someone with whom you can exchange a proud, nostalgic smile, knowing that while you're looking at the tall, beautiful, poised young woman you've raised, in your mind's eye you're seeing a fluff-haired toddler in a fuzzy yellow sleeper, clutching her beloved stuffed Barney toy.
As I snapped photos of Melissa and her date, I imagined Melissa was thinking of her dad, wishing she could hear him tell her how amazing she looked, wishing he was there to give her date the firm, man to man handshake and stern "behave or else" dad eye.
The late comedian George Carlin had a standup routine on the subject of death. He scorned the notion that our dead family and friends are looking down on us "from a better place." Why would they want to waste time watching us if they were enjoying a perfect existence in heaven, he said.
I can easily believe that family and friends would treasure the opportunity to look down at us here on earth. And I could have summed up the reason for Mr. Carlin with two words: prom night.

Friday, April 16, 2010

The Mother of All Fridays

Is there any sweeter moment for a working stiff than 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon? There is if it's your last day on the job.
Skip, our advertising manager, retired today. We celebrated with a traditional office potluck, which means everyone ate way too much and became more stuporous than we usually are at the end of the week. Skip left in a flurry of goodbyes and good wishes - tinged, of course with an edge of envy. No matter how much we love our jobs, the siren song of retirement seduces us with promises of silent alarm clocks, third cups of coffee and a glorious blank canvas of hours to fill in whatever madcap way we choose.
Retirement envy's got me thinking of get-rich schemes, some of which almost make sense.
I could, for example, write a best selling novel. That should only take a few years. And some brilliance. And maybe an idea for a plot.
My recurring genius idea is a car that comes when you call it. This idea neatly bisects with my contention that life should be a lot more like a Warner Brothers cartoon.
Picture a chilly fall afternoon. An ill-tempered wind is flinging sleet pellets in your face. You smugly pull out your computer programmed whistle and give a toot. From its parking spot blocks away your car revs up and glides over to where you wait, its sensors detecting oncoming traffic and pedestrians. The heater is already on, as is your favorite CD.
Wouldn't you take out a second mortgage to own this wonder-mobile?
All I need is the engineering knowledge, the mechanical knowledge, and a few million bucks for product development.
Then there's my more plausible retirement plan: work hard, save money, and bid my desk adieu in another twenty years or so.
Wait. There is one more resort. All right, Jess, Dan and Melissa, who's going to amass a fortune and support Mom in the style to which she wants to become accustomed?
Enough daydreaming. I'm going to get this weekend started. After all, I'm due back at my desk Monday morning.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Everyday blessings

It's easy to lose sight of gratitude in the everyday-ness of work, home life, finances and whatnot. One thing I've learned from working at a newspaper is that every day is someone's worst day ever. If it isn't your turn, count your blessings.
Today was overcast and warm and the air smelled like rain. Then came the rain, the heavy, silvery rain that streaks the windows, ripples down the streets, then rolls away, making room for the sun. I feel privileged to have had nothing more critical to do today than keep my head above water at work, come home, make dinner and walk Indy. Some of the people I love are currently hurting, trying to keep their heads above water in the face of illness or a loss. My frustrated impulse is to want to fix it, but I can't. I can listen, care, and be a friend. I've had my turn in those shoes, and I know eventually it'll be my turn again. So for today I'm thankful for that everyday-ness of early rising, punching the clock, washing the dishes. I know there are a lot of people who would trade anything for a life so ordinary.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I carry three medallions in my left front pants pocket at all times. The medallions are in recognition of my years of sobriety. One is the most recent I've received, for 27 years. Another was a gift from my beloved friend and surrogate mother, Jackie. The third is my 24-year, which went to Phil Collins (yes, that Phil Collins) along with a letter from me thanking him for the role his music has played in keeping me sober and (semi) sane, and was returned to me with a kind note from the man himself. More on the long, amazing story of Mr. Collins and my sobriety another time.
On one side of each medallion is the phrase "To thine own self be true." It took me a long time to understand the resonance of those words. Easy enough to say, but how can you be true to thine own self if you don't know who thine own self truly is?
Being your genuine self is work. It's much easier to show the self that pleases, the self family, friends and coworkers expect of you. Better to smile and say "I'm fine" than reveal that you're having a soul crushing day, right? Who wants those gory details? Better to nod and agree than say what's on your mind and risk the possible fallout.
It's taken me a lot of years to know and love the me that I am. Alcohol was my escape hatch from reality for a few short, intense but critical years, my late teens and early 20s. Instead of becoming who I was meant to be, I avoided reality, particularly the uncomfortable reality of being an overly sensitive, self-conscious little mouse of a person. Booze loosened me up, helped me to pretend I was anyone other than me.
Sobriety, hard work and middle age have hewed me into a closer version of the me I was meant to become all those years and bottles ago. I am driven less by impulse and more by choice. I'm not afraid to speak up, but I've also learned the value of keeping silent.
Some traits I once aspired to I now recognize will never be mine. Pretending, or getting drunk and pretending, won't make me graceful, glamorous or gorgeous. Being sober allows me the freedom to be funny, tenderhearted and compassionate. A more than fair trade.
It's good to hear those medallions jingling gently in my pocket. I still need that daily reminder that being my true self is an obligation of my sobriety ... and one of its greatest rewards.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Love, patience and shoes

My friend Jan came over for dinner on Friday. We had a good time talking about writing, our pasts, and what we hoped our futures would hold. She's moving to Lansing at the end of the month, and though I haven't known her long she's already become a close friend, and my "miss you" blues already already gearing up.
Jan is a favorite of Saira, the family beagle. Jan loves dogs, Saira loves a good belly rub. It's a match made in heaven.
After Jan left I turned on some bouncy jazz music and began washing dishes. The dogs relaxed in the living room, worn out from the excitement of company, begging for morsels and jockeying for attention.
As I wrapped up my kitchen chores, an odd sound caught my attention. My leftover mom radar tuned in to a sound that wasn't quite right. A sound of mischief. I walked into the living room and saw that Saira was energetically gnawing on a shoe. My shoe. Half of my best pair of shoes.
"What are you doing?" I cried. Saira reacted as any naughty child would: she ran from the crime scene, leaped onto the couch and tried to wipe the guilty expression from her face.
There was no saving the shoe. What was once the top of my shoe was now a scattering of black confetti littering my pale green rug.
If this had happened a year ago I would have been shouting at Saira, and she would have cringed and likely had an accident on the rug or sofa, further enflaming my temper. I would have seethed and cursed as I cleaned up the damage.
But this is now. I gave Saira a mild scolding, gathered up the sorry remains of my shoe, found its mate, and dumped both into the garbage. Instead of rage, this thought kicked in: I can have a ruined shoe and a terrified dog, or I can have a ruined shoe. Getting angry would not repair my shoe and would teach Saira nothing. Sometimes pets destroy things. They make no distinction between their ratty stuffed bear or your best article of clothing, and they aren't going to learn that distinction.
I have, by force, become a better person because of my dogs. We adopted Indy and Saira a year and a half ago from our local humane society. They were adult dogs; they came with personality quirks and behaviors we were unprepared to deal with. At times I thought we'd made a huge mistake. Two mistakes.
What it's been has been a powerful lesson for me about anger, ego and love. All my life I've had a quick temper. My husband and my children suffered for it. Now I was unleashing that temper on two more innocent bystanders. I was angry that they didn't "know any better." Meaning they weren't behaving as I thought they should.
My moment of clarity came on a sunny fall afternoon when Indy knocked me down. Absent of leash manners, Indy was a brakeless freight train on every outing, dragging me down sidewalks as I fought to control him. I was walking him less and less often, dreading the battle of wills that always ensued.
On that fall afternoon, Indy spied another dog on the other side of the street. He went berserk as usual, pulling at the leash, yelping his glass-shattering shriek of excitement. Tangled in the leash, struggling for dominance, I lost my footing and fell over.
I was mortified. I imagined people thinking, "Geeze, why doesn't she control her dog?" I got up, yanked Indy over to me and swatted him. And swatted him.
My daughter Melissa, who was walking Saira, begged me to calm down. "Please, Mom, you look like you're abusing him."
I paused then. Indy was staring up at me, frightened and puzzled. Clearly he wasn't learning a lesson on leash manners. He was learning that the person he was learning to love and trust couldn't be trusted not to hurt him.
Was this who I wanted to be? This furious woman whose pride mattered more than her dog? It was a painful moment, but sometimes pain is what it takes to drive home a message.
From that day on I made a conscious effort to rein in my temper and keep my ego in check. When either dog misbehaved I responding with firmness rather than fury. On a recent walk with Indy I stopped to chat with a couple who lives down the street. Indy waited patiently, even sat and let himself be patted on the head. My neighbors said they couldn't believe this was the same out of control dog they'd watched me struggle with last fall.
The lesson has carried over into my human relationships. Instead of battling with my kids over this or that, I ask myself, do I want to be hurtful Mom, sarcastic Mom, win-at-all-costs Mom? Usually I don't. Sometimes, though, I still do. Like my dogs, I'm a work in progress. And it's all a labor of love.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Introducing ... Me!

Welcome to my world - or at least a corner of it. My name is Deb, and I'm an alcoholic. I have 27 years' sobriety. I am the proud mother of two daughters, age 23 and 17, and a son, age 21. I became a widow four years ago, when my husband died of an overdose.
I am here to share my experience, strength, hope and observations, as well as the humor, sadness and wonder that spring from a life filled with recovery, faith, family, friends and pets. My life has been a kaleidoscope of tragedy and miracles, much of which I will share with you because I want you to know that long-term sobriety is possible if you are willing to go to any length to achieve it; I am living proof of it.
I am blessed with bottomless gratitude and a pleasantly warped sense humor. I hope you'll laugh, think, relate, and keep coming back.