Diversification

Diversification

No matter how much it is proven to me that I am loved, I so often feel alone.  No matter how many people reach out or acknowledge that I matter, there are times I am lonely, there are times that my current living arrangement is harder than others.  No matter how much working the steps has helped me and no matter how close I come to seeing the magic all around me everyday, there are times that I am overwhelmed by just being me.
I love the holidays and yet I quake in fear of them as well.  I recognize that it is my own ego based expectations that I have set that threaten to tilt me off balance when they don't pan out.  I recognize that even when the holidays are not upon us, my ego-centric expectations and desires will knock me off balance.
I love most everything about the idea of the holidays.  I like the lights, the giving of presents, wrapping paper, the warm fuzzy feeling it can evoke, the children's excited anticipation,m the reactions of the kids when they open gifts, the conspiracy among adults to create mystery for all little ones who celebrate Christmas, the food and most especially the music.
I desperately want to make the holidays better for my kids than they were for me.  I want them never to deal with the fights I saw growing up.  The throwing of plates across the table when my mother pushed my father too far and he had drunk too much.  I don't want them to be left the only one sitting at the table on Christmas Eve wondering what just happened.
I think that Frank and I have made it magical for them so far.  I think that even this year with me living elsewhere, we managed to make it happy and fun.  I spent the night and it was awesome.  I know that focus remained on them and on how much they could enjoy without us going crazy with ridiculously high expectations and pushing ourselves too far as we have so often in past years.
Even after all these admissions, I was desperately sad last night.  I had spent the night Christmas Eve and I did not want to leave and come back to the apartment last night.  I did not want to have to face last night the place I am in.  The situation that addiction and my reactions have placed me in.  I wanted to stay.  I wanted my husband to be in love with me again.  I wanted for December not to be so hard every year.  I wanted to hold my infant nieces without missing Liam so desperately at the same time.
They feel like him right now.  They are the same age he was when he died.  They make the same sorts of sounds, they fit in my arms the same way, they smell the same and their hearts beat next to mine in the same fashion his did when I lay them on my chest.  He died two days after Christmas eleven years ago and I can't run away from how that makes me feel.  I can't run away from how that sadness will always find me.
I also wanted everyone close to me in my life to see what I have become.  I wanted to shout from the rooftops that I have changed and that they must recognize this.  I want them to see me the way that I see myself now but I can't force other people's focus to change.
I see clearly this Christmas that it is no longer about how I want them to change and see me the way that I think I need them to, but that it is me who must work on how to navigate life when they don't or won't.  I can't make anyone see the subtle shifts in thought process that allow me to wake up every day and make better choices for myself.  I can't force anyone to see that I feel connected to the universe in a way I never have before.  I can't force anyone to see that I have a power within that has allowed me to walk tall and make changes that have felled many other people like me.  I can't force anyone to see that I am special.  I know that I am and that I have and the universe knows that I am and that I have and that has to be enough now.
I am learning that there are people in my life that I love very much, that I spend a lot of time with, that I am connected to for eternity, that will never be able to give me everything that I need.  I can't do anything about that, but I can diversify.  I can go to other people for acceptance.  I can share other things that inspire me with other people who are thusly inspired.  It doesn't all have to come from Frank or my in-laws or my oldest friends.  It can come from the recovery community, Facebook friends, spiritual connectedness, new and future friends and it can come from within.
I will only set myself up for failure and accuse those I love of failing me if I expect them all to give me everything I need and want all the time.  So just like playing the stock market, I will diversify.  I will create a portfolio that represents all aspects of my life so that my love is spread, my needs are spread, my dependence is spread and no one crashes, no one loses value, not the least of whom being me and there is nothing left but for us all to gain.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas, blessed today to be spending the day with family.  Love this man and the little people we share.  Hoping you all have a wonderful day...

https://soundcloud.com/fiona-purcell-1/jesus-born-on-this-day

Good morning and Merry Christmas Eve.  I have not written as much of late as I have been busy with work and best of all with family.  I will try and post more later today if time allows but wanted to leave you with this.  Letting myself keep in touch with my creativity is a large part of my recovery be it writing, acting, knitting or... Singing.  Here is a song that I recorded for Frank and the kids and honestly for myself.  I do this every year now and mostly they are Christmas songs or other significant songs but this year a couple are a bit more spiritual that before.  This song I am posting is because I am grateful and it helps me to express that.  It is a shout out to our collective subconscious, our spiritual connectedness, God, Gaia or whatever semantic you chose.  Have a happy and safe holiday...

https://soundcloud.com/fiona-purcell-1/amazing-grace-2014

The Holiday Party

The Holiday Party

I got to go to New York City this past week for business.  The first part of the day was a meet and greet with an agency that I work with the most and meeting other people at my own company.  The last part of the trip was going to the company holiday party.
To many people in recovery, events like holiday parties cause great anxiety.  There will be drinking and how do you navigate that?  How will you make it through when every drink in every hand is like a beacon, calling you to what it tells you is a safe harbor, but truly will dash you on the rocks at the first opportunity?  The craving will come.  You will want to be "normal" and just relax and drink like you perceive everyone else is.  Then how do you get through drinking seltzer water without anyone noticing and asking why you aren't drinking, because they will?  There are always the hosts who will press drinks on you, over and over again as though your not drinking is somehow a condemnation of the merry making.  You have to make a plan in advance.  What will be your excuse to leave early if you start to get uncomfortable?  This is how I felt at this time last year.
This year, it was mercifully different.  This year, I was not really concerned.  I can thank my work on the steps for giving me fresh perspective on life and giving me a strong foundation.  A lot of the people I work closely with know I am in recovery so there was no real stress around what to say when I wasn't imbibing.  For me it was not about drinking or not drinking but about meeting people that I have worked with but had not yet met due to distance.  It was about being in New York City at Christmas time, visiting the Chrysler building, then being at a really lovely restaurant and sitting among friends enjoying a meal and chatting and it was about networking for sure.
I was, for a long time before I became immobilized by alcohol, the fun drunk.  The one you wanted  at your table for my ability to make the other people sitting there laugh and engage.  I could hold court and be so charming.  I KNEW at the time that it was because of the liquid courage I was drinking.  I was SURE that I could not be the same without it.  I was SURE that I would be a shrinking violet without a glass or two (translation - a bottle or two) of wine.  It turns out that I never needed that kind of courage.  In fact, I don't need courage at all I just need to be me.
I did notice how much it seemed to be about drinking to many others there.  I did notice one of my companions drinking four martinis in the first hour there and then I decided to stop noticing because that truly is not my business.  I did notice that the company that I work for has a corporate office in Kentucky so the holiday gift to the employees contained Bourbon Balls and a bottle of Old Kentucky whiskey.  I just smiled and gave them away.
I marveled on the way back on the train about the really nice conversation I was able to have with my boss.  A really congruent conversation full of new revelations about each other and a certain level of vulnerability that filled me with warmth and had me smiling for a long time after we parted.  I marveled about how easy it was for me to be there among my fellow humans and not be triggered, not be white knuckling my way through the event.  I marveled at how I once thought that I needed the liquid nerves of alcohol to make it through such an event when all I need do is be openly and purely Fiona.

Chinks of Light

Chinks of Light

I was at my home group meeting last night and while the others were speaking a thought and an image began to form in my mind.  We were talking about step four in the twelve steps.  Step four involves making a "fearless and searching moral inventory of ourselves".  For me, going through step four has been one of the most powerful experiences of my life.  I won't prosthelytize about it, or at least I will try.
To sit down and examine yourself thoroughly over the course of weeks and months, causes you to bring yourself into focus.  It forces you to stop lying to yourself which makes it uncomfortable to continue to lie to others.  It makes you begin to think differently, and through this process you begin to see situations in 3D rather than flat on a page.  You can see problems, resentments, fear and hurt from entirely different angles.  I can now look at a problem I may have with another person, pick it up, hold it in my hand and turn it around examining all its' facets. I begin to see it differently, to see it through the other person's eyes.  Once I can see it from this other viewpoint I can then move forward to either help to solve this problem, or at least handle it more peacefully.  Does it work brilliantly all the time?  No, but I am getting better day by day.
There is a phrase associated with step four which has become one of my favorite expressions; "the sunlight of the spirit".  It is a beautiful expression and one I could never have fully appreciated the simple depth of had I not done this step work.  Prior to these experiences of the past months, I would have shut my mind to what I would have seen as a religious phrase and a somewhat hokey one at that.  But now I can look at it for what it is and it affects me deeply.
I believe that we are all born with this sunlight of the spirit.  I think it is present from the magic of birth, inherent goodness and innocence in all newborns.  I think it is the Quakers who say that every child contains the spark of God and I love that expression as well.  Over time, though, as we grow and experience life, we are protected by our egos.  Our egos begin to allow resentments, fears and self-seeking motives to warp that light.
When I began this process it was at if I were In a cave whose entrance had been blocked by the wreckage of an avalanche.  The rocks of the past and negativity blocked me from leaving the cave.  The sunlight of the spirit was on the other side and though I could see chinks of light shining through the gaps in these rocks of self protection, these mantles of victim hood, I did not have the strength to move the rocks.  I wasn't sure if I could lift them and even if I could which one would I move first so as not to cause the pile to fall in on me.
Through the work that I have done since leaving rehab in March, I have moved these rocks from the mouth of the cave and emerged. I am walking in the valley of life, basking in the sunlight of the spirit and discovering the beauty of the world around me.
I look around me now and wish for other people to be given this gift of clarity.  I can recognize now which of them is stuck in their own caves, lying to protect themselves.  I know the smell of denial so well, like a bloodhound that sense in me is strong.  I try to look those people in the eyes and listen without judging because cave dwelling is a bleak existence.  I wish for them emergence and the opportunity to bask as I feel I am.

Dancing With Regret

Dancing With Regret

Dancing with regret is a phrase Frank used not to long ago in a conversation we had about the woulda, coulda, shouldas in life.  He was wisely saying that dancing with regret was a dangerous thing to do.  I could not agree more, but it is a dance we all are too familiar with and fall back into step with it when we are feeling weak of spirit.
It is a precarious act of balance that I do every day to acknowledge my past, remember the lessons it has taught me, and then step into the day without wallowing.  If I am spiritually full and balanced then I can sashay into the day rather than trudge, but I am human and there are days I sway to the familiar rhythm of victim hood.  It lulls me like not other music but I no longer want to be lulled by this old tune.  I don't want to merely survive two-stepping in the background.  I want to thrive in the spotlight with new music and new steps.
All this sounds good, but as with any form of art, it takes practice.  That is why I write.  That is why I meditate.  That is why I share, speak, listen and contemplate things I never did before.  That is why I keep learning and questioning.  That is why I have brought forth my creative side, which I had buried for so long.
Writing was something I never did before.  I saw myself as a singer and an actor.  I still see that about myself, but I see also that I am so much more.  More than a daughter, sister, wife, mother.  I am a creative being, a woman, an alcoholic a friend, a student of life, a writer, a comedienne.  I am full of labels yet  I defy labels at the same time.  I am large of spirit when I let myself.
So I am choosing today not to dance with regret but instead I am choosing to practice new moves.  Jazz hands!

Screaming into the Abyss

Screaming into the Abyss

Depression and desperation are all too familiar aspects of my life.  They have been strange bedfellows of mine for as long as I can remember.  They became debilitating the first time, my freshman year in college and have revisited me regularly ever since.
When I get that familiar feeling I know exactly what will happen.  I know I will have what feels like a hole in my gut.  I know I will be incapable of stopping tears of grief, loss, frustration and sorrow from coming no matter how hard I try to stop them.  I know I will want to call the same few people who have had to listen to this production over the years far too many times, just to hear their voices and have them attempt to staunch the flow of cascading emotions with a small band-aid of reassurance and understanding.  All this happens every time I get depressed.  It is like being trapped in a void and exhausting myself repeatedly by screaming into the abyss of my own soul.  Even though I know that it isn't, every time feels worse than the last.
Dragons swoop down and begin a constant stream of lies and assertions.  I weaken and begin to listen, repeating out loud the thoughts I know are not true.  I hear myself saying, "I am all alone", "No one loves me, nor should they", "They would all be better off without me", "I can't do this anymore, I can't go on",  "It isn't fair", "There is no hope".  The list of lies goes on and on and this is all my ego talking.  Not in the typical sense of ego that most people think of, but it is my ego nonetheless.
I often ask myself these days why we have an ego.  It seems to me that it is involved in all of my problems.  Not the cause or even the root, but certainly it gets in the way of the solutions available to me.
There is a step three prayer that is used in twelve step programs that I know by heart and the following line is my new mantra: "relieve me of the bondage of self."  If I can get out of my own thoughts, the ones that center around survival, gut reactions, defense mechanisms and the massaging of old wounds, I can start to think more clearly.  If I can separate my "self" from situations, then I can begin to de-fog the windows around me and see more clearly.
When I relieve myself of this state of mind I can see my problems as equations that can be solved.  I can see another person's point of view, I can turn desperation into action.  It isn't easy, but it can be done.
Now when the familiar feelings of depression and desperation creep over me, I don't feel their effects any less, but I am able to remind myself that these feelings have ALWAYS been transient.  They will ALWAYS pass.  This time is NOT worse than last time.
Now as I stand in the void and scream into the abyss, my fear turns to rage and I begin to fight against the noise of the false prophets I have listened to for so long.  My head turns toward the sky and the twinkling light of hope breaks through the clouds and I walk on.

The Demons

The Demons

I want to say in advance that I am writing this not as a call for sympathy or a cry for admiration, but rather I write this as an illustration of the lack of self compassion that fells many an addict and plagues many of us in this world, wether addict or not.
As Frank began training for his Tri-Athlon, the kids would often go with him to run, or walk or bike or swim.  They were his mini-cheering section and they really enjoyed it.  Dermot is an athletic little guy and grew to love this time with his dad.  He pulled me aside once in the kitchen to say that he really loved exercising with his dad and then said, "Mama, wouldn't it be great if we all exercised together as a family?"
I've mentioned that that one sentence uttered by my favorite Dermot that ever there was using his big green eyes as imploring exclamation marks spurred me on to wunning.
Someone recent asked me what wunning was and I replied that it is alternating running and walking so that I don't die, which is as accurate a definition as I could come up with.  We started wunning as a family on Saturday mornings when it wasn't raining, going two miles which I did in about half an hour. I starting wunning on Sundays with a friend when we could.  That was all I managed with my crazy schedule at the moment, but it was more than I had been doing.
I signed myself up for the Rothman 8k during the Philadelphia marathon weekend and Frank decided to do so as well, then his sister decided to do so and then the kids wanted to do the fun run.  So we all met yesterday morning and I was nervous.  I am not in shape, I am overweight and I have only been exercising on the weekends so I knew I wasn't going to finish the 8k in any record breaking time, but here we went.
We did the 4.97 miles in about an hour and 22 minutes.  Erin stayed and chatted with us before she had to leave to go home and Frank and I lingered to wait for the kids' race and I burst into tears.  Frank is used to my crying as I am and always have been a pulsing raw nerve of emotion.  He asked me what was wrong and I heard myself saying, "I wanted this to be more inspiring!  I wanted to run more than walk and I feel like I only ran about 10-15 percent of the time and walked the rest."  He was a little flummoxed by this and said, "Did you want it to be more inspiring for you or for other people?"  I thought for a moment and I wanted it to be more inspiring for me.  I wanted a Rocky Balboa moment and I was mad at myself for not doing better, not training harder, not doing more, not being faster, not being thinner, not being more athletic, not being this, not being that.
I stood there beating myself up and Frank said, "You need to be kinder to yourself."  And he was right, but I was being visited by The Demons of negative self-talk that have swooped in to torture me throughout my life.  I have long been plagued by this kind of internal dialogue and it is a common thing among people in general but it is present in addicts and alcoholics almost to a man.  I can look at someone else and marvel at their accomplishments, revel in their successes and tell them in all honesty the impressive things they have done.  I can do this for all of you, but I find it very difficult to do so for myself.
I saw my therapist after the 8k and he was horrified when I told him about The Demons who were visiting me yesterday and he asked me this question, "would you talk to Dermot and Wren this way?"  And of course the answer is an absolute NO.  In fact about an hour after my race, I was an enthusiast cheerleader who basked  in the excitement of their accomplishment.  I posted a string of blow-by- blow proud comments and details.  I was so happy they raced together, being each others' support system along the way.  But my own race?  The one where I crossed the finish line with two such supporters was a failure in my head.
Now, this abhorrent string of self flagellation is much quieter these days than in days past, but yesterday proved to me that The Demons are poised to strike at any moment.  They lay in wait to swoop in when I least expect it.  My sponsor's husband likens this to Satan talking to you.  Once I was able to look past the overt religious bent of this comment, I understood and could appreciate it.  The Demons, the devil, satan, it doesn't matter what you call them, these are all monsters and the things they utter are all lies.
The worst thing of it all is that when they are there they lay the groundwork for the sweet beckonings of the red dragon of addiction.  It will come in, perch on my shoulder and whisper about the seductive pull of welcome oblivion that only can be found in drugs and alcohol.  Like a lover, it offers to quell the voices of The Demons and take me to places I have never been before.  I know now these are all lies, because these are places I have been before and there is nothing sweet about the oblivion they offer, but what if there comes a time that I forget this?  That is the crux of recovery.
As addicts and alcoholics, we have to remind ourselves daily of where we were and where we are now.  We have to be vigilant and right our wrongs as they come along so we can rest easy at night and build walls of protection against The Demons and the red dragon of addiction.  We are not good at self-assessment.  It does not come naturally to us, but with practice, it can be done.
So this morning I wake up and assess the day yesterday.   I can recognize today that a year ago I would never have even thought of exercising.  I would never have done something this healthy by my self or with my family.  I would not have signed up for a race, I would not have run at all.  I would not have accomplished what I accomplished yesterday no matter how it looked and felt.  I am learning to nurture myself as I nurture my kids and though the process is slow and imperfect, it is a process that is underway and that is more than I had ever before envisioned.  So, in short, "Yay me,"

The Humbling

The Humbling

Today I am going to quit my part-time job at Bed Bath and Beyond as I am spending more and more time with Frank and the kids.  I am stretching myself too thin and though I love the people at the store and it has been a great experience, something has to give and it isn't going to be time with my family.  

But I have to say that I think every person coming out of recovery should get a job and a job that humbles.  When I was at the recovery house I cleaned houses for while for a woman who owns a business cleaning up newly constructed buildings and residences.  Then I worked as a cashier at the Christmas Tree Shop and then moved back close to home and did the same at Bed Bath and Beyond.  I had never had a retail job before and I have to say in a previous time in my life, I thought I was too good for such.  I don't feel that way anymore.  People in retail work really hard and they deal with angry customers face-to-face working odd hours standing on their feet the whole time.

I think humbling yourself daily is crucial to recovery and so many of us, addicts or not, could use a little humbling.  Being humble forces you to remember that we are all but grains of sand in this vast universe, small in our existence, but large in our potential.  To remember that you are small but that you can affect change one act at a time helps you focus on your intentions.

Beyond that, a recovery job provides much-needed structure, much-needed responsibility and much-needed self-esteem.  I know that, at least for me, I needed some self-esteem coming out of rehab and I heard someone say once, that if you want self-esteem you have to begin by doing esteemable things.

Recovery jobs may not be glamour us but they make us industrious members of society again.  They allow us to earn pay rather than steal from family, friends and strangers as many of us have done to support our habits.  It gives us the opportunity to work hard.  They are what you make of them.  I tried to be the happiest and friendliest cashier that I could be.  You can enjoy almost anything if you make a conscious choice.  There are lessons to be learned in all things around us and inspiration to be found in all faces we look into.

One of the women at the store is a janitor.  She comes in on the weekends and cleans while we work.  She empties the trash as we stand at the register and she is such a lovely person.  She is so happy and so friendly.  She told me the other day when I commented that she was always smiling, something to the effect of, "I try to spread smiles everyday, it might make a really big difference to someone who needs it."  Such a basic truth and one I would never have learned if I had not humbled myself.

So retail taught me a lot even if I it never made it possible for my nether regions not to clench when someone handed me change after I have already opened the drawer and I have to try and do math in my head!

Endangered Species

Endangered Species

Last week I had a temporary cap put on a tooth and the dentist was going back and forth about wether I should have a root canal or not.  When I got in my car to drive home from work last night, the temporary cap fell out.  It hurt a lot but I thought it would subside in a few minutes...  I lasted ten minutes before I was on the phone to the dentist begging to come in.  It is shockingly painful to have an exposed nerve.  They can't take me till 2 pm today and I cannot adequately explain how my mouth feels right now and how I long for 2 o'clock.  But I am grateful this morning because Though I woke up in pain I quickly realized that I am actually more afraid that the dentist will accidentally give me something for the pain that, being in recovery, will put my sobriety at risk.
I have mentioned before that the rates of relapse for addicts of all sorts are egregiously high and not even close to being accurate.  Some addicts have even more dismal rates, heroin addicts and meth addicts among them.
Since I left Caron Foundation in March I know of one person who has relapsed and one who has died.  I don't know more because I have not been in touch with many people from the relapse unit.  The one relapse I know of is a man who is a father and a husband.  He has been struggling with addiction of multiple kinds for literally years.  He called a friend I saw from a Caron gratitude breakfast and told her he was desperate and then stopped answering her texts and calls.  I hope he is well and finds peace soon.  The man who died was a gentle soul, and the loss of his life haunts me.  He was in his fifties and so hopeful about his future and his life.  He was found dead in his house.  I can't tell you how sad I am that this lovely person died so tragically and so alone.
Since leaving the recovery house I was staying in until June there have been so many relapses and frightening brushes with disaster that I am almost unable to process the facts.  The house has a nine woman capacity and I know of seven relapses of women who stayed there.  Now there was overlap as people came and went on their own recovery schedules but that is pretty high.
Two women moved into an apartment together and "went out" together as they say in twelve step groups.  Their collective relapse ruined their friendship and while one is doing relatively well right now, the other is back in rehab.  Three of the women relapsed in the hose itself.  One brought vodka in a water bottle and proceeded to get drunk.  She is actually doing quite well now and did not need to return to rehab.  The other is a good friend of mine who relapsed on huffing which is such a dangerous and scary substance.  She is also thankfully doing quite well and has moved out on her own.  One left to move to another city and start her life anew only to succumb to alcohol within a few weeks.  She nearly died but managed to get herself to a detox center before going back to rehab.  She had just celebrated a year of sobriety when this happened and her family is at their wits end with her as she had been in institutions for that entire year.  Another ran away from the recovery house and fell of the face of the earth for several days before surfacing in a hotel room.  She did not remember how she had gotten there nor with whom.  She awoke to find all her possessions gone and called for help.  She also went back to rehab.  She is in an apartment now but I suspect she is using again based on information I got from a mutual friend.  The last relapsed on cold medication and also went back to rehab.  She was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder while there. She told me the other day that she woke up not too long ago and realized that her mind had cleared after her new medication had had a chance to kick in.  She said she thought to herself, that she finally felt normal.
The fact that I am more afraid of relapse than I am of this near unbearable pain says so much to me this morning.  Though I am greatly uncomfortable this morning, I would rather remove all my teeth than lose my mind again.  I don't want to be a part of the grim statistics surrounding relapse.  I want to be part of the inspiring statistics that I hope will grow in number as we find a way out of the abyss of addiction.
I DO NOT want to trip the neurotransmitters in my chaotic mind and go back to the base of the mountain I have been climbing.  So now I am going to do some research on laughing gas and the like so I can go in armed with knowledge this afternoon.

Finding Joe

Finding Joe

I have been in and and around a certain 12 step program for a few 24 hours now.  I remember distinctly my first meeting and shakily sobbed out who I was and that I was an alcoholic.  It was the first time I had said it out loud and the sound was shocking and I remember being ever grateful for the other people in the room.  I could feel that they understood and did not judge.  I could feel them sending positive energy my way and it felt good... Until they started to talk about God.
As soon as God was mentioned,  part of me shut down.  I was desperate but I wasn't that desperate.  I wasn't going to listen to bible thumping, well I would listen but I would disregard politely.  This was coming out of rehab the first time.  35 days later I came home and embarked on hanging my head low and trying to fly under my family's radar.  I was sorry, I was sad, I was angry, I was confused and I hated conflict.  I went to IOP, I went to group therapy, I went to individual therapy, I went to marriage counseling and my husband had his own therapist.  We both had an appropriate 12 step program.  I got a sponsor, I started working the steps.  I did service for my home group, I chaired meetings, I went on a 12 step call.  I went back to school and after a year had the coursework done to become a certified addictions counselor (I got a 4.0).  Then I promptly relapsed.
I went back to rehab, this time to a special relapse unit where we would sit around in a circle and collectively hang our heads and say a downtrodden, "Oh, Fuck."  This rehab is a little different.  They told us the facts about our brains and our brains on drugs etc... But they also talked about our spirit.  I don't know when it happened, but slowly, with loving firmness, they managed to prize open my mind.  They talked about God, in general terms and I started to want to hear more.
I never grew up religious in any way.  We went to Sunday School (actually we went to Friday School but that is another story altogether) but it was more of a "everybody does it" kind of thing for my parents rather than something that they believed and wanted to instill.  At some point we were given the choice to sleep in and that was that.
There was an arrogance about my dealings with religion.  I thought people that believed in God were simple, blind in their belief in something that you can't see and touch and religion has been interpreted in so many ways and often not in the ways of good.  So I dismissed them out right, because I knew more, I was more advanced.
Years later, and now in a more humbled position in life, I am less arrogant.  I am much more open.  I am just as confused though.  For instance, I have experienced love, I can feel it but I can't touch it or hold it (unless it is in the form of my children and husband).  You can't easily define it or put it in a box and it means different things to different people, but it definitely exists.
Now I look at people who tout about God and most of the ones I encounter these days are happy.  I don't mean happy in a giddy, silly sense, but in a profoundly calm and serene sense.  So what if I am wrong?  What if there is something to this?
So now I have gotten to this phase where I can say I think that there is a possibility that there is some form of divine, some creative intelligence, some universal connectedness... Now what?  God seems a very arbitrary name, someone else's conception that I can't quite put my arms around and embrace.  I feel silly praying, I feel inadequate talking to God.  I went back and forth about that for many months until it occurred to me to ask myself a series of "what if" questions.
What if my concept of God could be more approachable?  What if I were able to have a conversation with God?  What would it take for me to not feel silly?  Who would tell me what I needed to hear that I could both respect and enjoy?  What sort of being would set me at ease but be "no bull-shit"?
Slowly my mind went to a dusty, deserted highway somewhere in the sky.  There is a neon flashing sign that says, "Eat at Joe's" over the top of mid-sized 50's diner.  The sign hums and flickers and the "J" flashes on and off so sometimes it says, "Eat at  oe's".  You can go inside and there are a few regulars there eating their "shit on a shingle" and "eggs sunny side up".  Joe is behind the counter wiping the surface down with a somewhat white rag.
Joe is a burly man in his mid 60's.  He has salt and pepper wavy hair worn short.  He is balding on top but he covers his pate with a white chef's cap.  He has two visible tattoos.  On his right arm is a green and blue and red tattoo that says "I love Bernice" with a heart representing the word love.  On his left arm in black are the words, "Keep it Simple Stupid".  He knows me by name and offers me coffee and a smile.  I sit at the breakfast bar and check the menu even though I will always order scrambled eggs and corned beef hash.  Joe knows this, but allows me this eccentricity and waits for me to tell him "the usual".  He turns around and starts to cook me breakfast and asks me how things are.  I tell him what I am struggling with and I ask him what I should do.  He looks at me from under his bushy eyebrows as he places my plate in front of me and says, "really Fiona?"  He speaks with a Jersey accent for some reason.  "This is the kind of question that, ya know, if you have to ask, you probably already know the answer."
This is my concept of God, a burly short order cook from Jersey named Joe who reminds me that problems are actually pretty simple, life is pretty simple, and you already know most of the answers.  You just have to get out of your own way and let your good shine through.
Joe bless you all.

And That Is My Religion

And That is My Religion

"When I do good, I feel good.  When I do bad, I feel bad... And that is my religion." - Abraham Lincoln

I have mentioned before that I am not a religious person.  I was not raised with religion and what little exposure I had I did not take to.  I didn't understand it and nor did I care to explore it.  I am still not so interested in adopting a dogma of any kind.  I don't relish the idea of labeling myself one thing over another, but I am willing to listen to religious people now which is something I never did before.  There is wisdom to be gleaned from some people who carry the mantle of religion.  Not all religious people certainly, but the ones who stand for love and tolerance have things to offer us all.  To my untrained theological mind, there are lessons to be learned and perspective to be gained from listening to these people.
I have met a lot of people as a result of my addiction.  A lot of people I would not normally have been exposed to.  People who once were incarcerated, but now walk tall as upstanding citizens.  Powerful people as felled by addiction as the rest of us.  Famous musicians, children of old money, junkies from the streets, homeless addicts and an array of religious people.  Certainly there are many people I wish not to get to know better, many people to avoid, but there are gems among the coal just like there are in the outside world.  Those are the souls I gravitate toward and many of them are religious.
I know a Native American who refers to the Great Spirit.  I know devout Catholics, serving Rabbis and many, many tolerant and lovely Muslims.  My sponsor and her husband are Baptists...  That is right I said Baptists!  Not Westboro Baptist Church type Baptists, but lovely, accepting people whose higher power is God and who choose to hold hands and pray before they  eat dinner.
I used to balk at all things dogmatic.  Any mention of God had my brain shut down tightly and my logical side took over and everything that then came out of a religious person's mouth I stoutly disregarded.  Now I see there is some magic in religion.  There is much love and there is power for some people in following religious traditions.  Who am I to say there is no God?  Who am I to dismiss these people who hold a belief I can't quite see?  Am I that arrogant?  I used to be...
Since starting on the road to recovery I have had to, by necessity, abandon all my pre-conceived notions about people and labels and mostly about myself.  I have been blessed, yes blessed, to have many lovely and caring people reach out to me.  I have had a woman who is a friend of a family member send me a devotional because she "believes that God is moving through" me.  In years past I would have turned away from her and from the devotional, turning a blind eye to what a gift that is, what an honor for her to say that of me.  I have had numerous people let me know that they are praying for me and for Frank and Dermot and Wren.  That sentiment and action is no longer ignored by me, but embraced.  It feels good to know that people are thinking of you and sending healing energy in your direction.
In a twelve step meeting recently, a man was speaking about how, before he went through the steps and before, in his words, he had found God, he was a womanizer.  He talked of how he mistreated women and cheated on girlfriends.  He ended this eloquent speech by saying that he now sees women as "beautiful daughters of God."  Can I say that I wept when he said that?  I wept because I am touched by his candor, touched by the fact that people can change and frankly because this man sees me as a beautiful daughter of God.  No one has referred to me in such a way before and it felt loving and warm and I was honored.
I am curious about religion now.   I mentioned in a meeting that I had actually thought of reading the bible lately and the next week, my sponsor and her husband presented me with one.  Again I wept.  What a lovely gesture.  How supportive and thoughtful.  They wrote a note to me inside that it was from them and from "Joe".  These are people who believe deeply in God but who never proselytize, so to have them give this gift to me, was from the heart.  I have that bible beside the bed and have read a bit from time to time and it does calm me when I am feeling overwhelmed.
I still don't feel that I will adopt one religion over another, but then a lot has changed this year and I can't honestly say "never" about anything.  I know that the quote above suits me to a tee and I know that this is going to be a journey of discovery that includes religions in all forms.

Project Daddy

Project Daddy

Project Daddy is all a go! Yeah!
If we didn't try, try, try
Who would we be?
Project Daddy is all a go!
Here you are Daddy
The present of Music
What shall we do without you

The other night I got to my in-laws house to relieve them and bring them across the street to home so that we could all have dinner together.  Frank was stopping at to the store to pick up supplies and would be there in a few minutes.
I walked in and the kids excitedly brought me upstairs to show me what they had been doing.  They had put a sign on the door to a guest room and it read, "D & W's Recording Studio".  They had taken all the instrument from my mother-in-laws box of toy instruments and had them all laid out on the bed.  They had been playing music and writing a song.  They had me stand by the stairs so they could use the landing as a stage and performed the song I wrote above.  They were so proud of themselves and so excited to play it for Frank when he got home.  Dermot said to me, "Daddy is going to be so excited, he is going to say, "WOW! This is awesome!""  He imitated Frank's usual enthusiastic response to anything they do that is creative.
When Frank got closer to home I told him we would be waiting for him at my in-laws because the kids had a surprise for him.  When he walked in, I acted as emcee and introduced the performers.  They sang "from the heart" as Dermot puts it when you belt out lyrics.  Now anyone who knows my kids will know that they both have very froggy voices, especially Wren.  They are not natural vocalists or musicians so this was loudly off key but perhaps one of the most beautiful performances that I have ever had the honor of attending.  I thought Frank was going to cry.  It was a truly special moment.
I got to see the kids thank their dad for all his efforts over the past eight months as he stepped up and took over as single parent to these special little souls.  He has done an amazing job and as parents will know, this job can sometimes be somewhat thankless.  They didn't even realize the gift they were giving him, but they did.
It is very difficult as parents to know if what you are doing is right.  It is very difficult to know if what you are telling them is sinking in.  You don't really know what you are doing and you are responsible for other people's lives.
Frank will be the first to admit that he has had a lot of help from my in-laws.  They are there when he cannot be and we live across the street from them so it is easy for the kids to traipse back and forth.  The kids have a great relationship with their paternal grandparents and we are eternally grateful for their love and support.  But the fact is, that Frank is the true constant in Dermot and Wren's lives right now and always has been.  I was the main caregiver for years but I can't escape the truth that I have twice been torn away from them by my addiction to go to rehab.  I also had been absent before physically leaving when I was in the depths of addiction.  There but not there at the same time.  I missed both of their 7th birthdays, but Frank has always been there.
Over the past few months he has not only simply taken care of them, he has set an example and done so many positive things with them.  Even though they are going through a hard time with the fact that I am still not home with them and dealing with the upheaval my addiction has wrought on their lives, I can honestly say they are not only surviving, but they are thriving.
He set an example by training for the triathlons he has competed in.  H showed them that trying is more important than winning and the trying in and of itself is a win.  He has them eating more healthily and getting them involved in picking what to eat that week and preparing the food so they are more invested and have more of an understanding of what healthy eating looks like.  The TV in the kitchen is gone, the TV in the living room is gone, they can have electronics before breakfast and after dinner and mostly don't even choose to do that anymore.  They read on their own as well as relishing reading with a parent.  He teaches them as he goes about his day.  He patiently explains things and sets the boundaries that they need.  He does this tirelessly and I am in awe.
It strikes me that our kids ( I mean this in a general sense, not just talking about mine at this point ) ARE listening, they ARE watching our every move.  They are taking it all in and we don't give them credit for that as much as we should.
Last year Dermot was having trouble containing his anger and it frightened him.  He asked us if he could go and talk to a therapist about it.  Frank was alarmed that our then eight-year-old was asking to see a therapist.  I had a different response.  I was proud that he wanted this, as it meant that he was emulating us.  He saw that I was going to therapy, that Frank was going to therapy and that we were going to therapy together.  So he was seeing that if you are struggling emotionally, going to a therapist is a positive way of getting help.  He did go and it helped him immensely.  Both the kids go to this particular therapist even now because of the chaos of the past year and it helps.
I am struck also that Dermot has noticed that I journal now.  I talk about writing a lot and the other day he picked up a notebook from his room and started writing in it.  Wren also started talking the other day about journaling.  I don't know that it will last, but I hope it does, it will mean I did something this year to influence them in a healthy way.  I so hope to impact them as positively as their dad has in the years to come.
So to quote the song above, "Here you are Daddy, the present of music, what would we do without you?"

Praying Mantis

Female praying mantids sometimes eat their mates, starting by beheading them before they copulate...  It apparently makes the males better lovers when their heads are disconnected from their bodies.... I'll leave the second part of that little factoid there, though it is "food" for thought.
Why do I bring that up?  There is a connection there to what I am trying to write tonight.  I am a girl, which makes me very different from a boy.  A simple statement to be sure, and one that no one will argue.  Besides the basic structure of my body I am different because of my hormones.
I am guessing that many of the women who read this (and some of the men, though I don't think many would be wise to point it out) will be able to relate to the fact that every month when I get my period, it is like the first time... I start to get zits and I am shocked.  I feel bloated and I am shocked.  I am hungry, angry and tired and I am shocked.  I cry for less than the little reason that I usually need to cry and I am shocked.  Frank begins to accuse me of being a praying mantis and eating his head and this enrages me further and I am shocked.  I come to the same conclusion every month... It must be Legionnaire's Disease.
Seriously though, I am not very good at listening to my body.  I never liked to sit with myself for very long and be mindful of the things going on with me.  It was uncomfortable and scary to be alone with myself because in sitting still I would invariably be confronted with traumatic memories.
So I moved forward, firmly placing the past in the past not realizing that by ignoring it, I only made it stronger.  I am actually rather good at disconnecting.  I will forget facts, figures, book plots and experiences that I have had of things that have occurred, and this happens often.  Frank will remember far more of the moments that make me uncomfortable than I do.  It is actually quite frightening.  I don't think I am crazy,  and I know I am an intelligent person, I think I learned early in life to disassociate as it was a coping mechanism.  I have to unlearn the habit.
This sort of numbing I think extended to a lot of things including my physicality.  I also hate to exercise, or at least I did.  Still have a hard time with eating well, have a lot to learn there.  I have Frank to thank for setting the bar on exercise and involving the kids as he has...  His physical transformation is inspirational on its own, but the kids' excitement about exercise is more impressive still.  That is what is making exercise fun for me now, that and supportive friends who accompany me.  And now that I am getting better at sitting with myself and not wanting to scream, these other things are starting to fall into place slowly.
Both men and women can be addicts, clearly.  Something like 40 percent of reported alcoholics are women.  As it has been found in most of the areas of medicine, men and women often have different treatment needs and hormones play a large part in those needs.  Women absorb alcohol differently than men and tend to get drunker faster and in an obvious correlation, they become addicted much faster than men.  They also tend to relapse when they have PMS... Guess what?  That's when my relapses occurred...
Pile on top of all of the above that I had gastric bypass surgery in 2010, a traumatic childhood and a history of alcoholism in the family; well it's kind of a "duh" moment isn't it?
There are new and alarming statistics coming out connecting alcoholism as an after effect of gastric bypass surgery, especially in women.  The surgery further changes the way we metabolize alcohol and we get drunker faster.  Now they warned me that it was a risk going in and I thought I could handle it, but then I really wanted it all to work out so it was easy to convince myself it would be ok.  The weight started coming off and then I started feeling better about myself and more confident.  We moved to Annapolis which is a lovely town but is the booziest place I have ever lived and we had a lot of fun at first.  Before I knew it was a problem, it was a problem.  I thought for a while that my sweats and weight gain were because of peri-menopause.  By the time I realized it was my drinking, I was beyond the point of no return in any decent fashion and my addiction had taken over my mind and sound reason.
I am not blaming my addiction on the surgery, but I do think it hastened my decent into the void.  Now when I speak at rehabs I mention the surgery and several heads among the women listening snap to attention, because they are in the same boat.
So what do I do now... I can't reverse the surgery,  I can't relive my childhood, I can't remove all the pain I have caused, I can't go back to "normal" drinking.  I have to grow up and start truly listening to my body.  I have to recognize that what works for the men I know in recovery may not work for me.  I need to chart my cycle, recognize the signs before they become a problem.  I started seeing a psychiatrist who treats women with addiction and she has made a huge difference.  She has me tracking my cycle (imagine that) and interestingly she has me munching on Tums with calcium halfway through my cycle because calcium helps reduce the symptoms of PMS.
I guess I am just trying to impart of bit of what I have learned the hard way.  Exercise makes me feel better so I must keep it up.  Eating better makes me feel better so I must keep it up.  Sitting with my emotions and not always "reacting" makes life easier for all involved.  Learning what hormonal shifts can do to my mood will save me putting myself in danger of relapse.  These are all things the women reading this can use to their benefit I hope...  The men too.. though best you not try and point out the obvious to the women in your life or you may be headless before you know it.  In the meantime I am buying stock in Tums with Calcium.

Throwing Away The Gameboard

Throwing Away the Gameboard

Frank and I started going to marriage counseling in 2012.  It was a suggestion given us from my first rehab (sleep away camp as my brother-in-law calls it).  It was dreadful.  Frank was so angry and I was so beaten down by my own shame and guilt that I don't think I could look people in the eye at that point in my life.
Our marriage counselor works with addicts and alcoholics and has done for years so he has been a huge resource.  He is able to point out where we are going astray and does so without judgement.  I utterly respect his opinion and so does Frank.  He is professional and caring but takes no prisoners.  He listened to our sick dynamic for a few months and then challenged me to stop acting like I was less than if I wanted not to be treated in that fashion.  He challenged Frank to get over his anger because coming to therapy and railing at me was not getting us anywhere.
Slowly things got a bit better between us and we embarked on a tentative peace.  But it rutted.  It stalled.  It started to backslide.  We hadn't really changed anything other than that I wasn't drinking anymore.  Yes, we had moved and yes I was not working, but nothing else had changed.  I still acted less than; Frank still responded to this by trying to fix me.  It was very much a parent-child dynamic and that really isn't much of a marriage.
Then I relapsed for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that I had not changed, I just wasn't drinking.  I had given up my coping mechanism and to be sure there were moments of serenity and sanity, but when I started to get uncomfortable for any number of reasons, I was miserable.  I had no other way out of my discomfort, or so I thought, so I picked up a drink and then another and then another and back to sleep away camp I went.
I already mentioned that this time I was much more humbled, much less arrogant and much more open-minded.  I had attained the gift of desperation.  When the counselors suggested meditation, I tried it.  When my sponsor suggested praying I tried it.  Anything that was suggested I gave a fair shake.  Except when Frank suggested that he wasn't ready for me to come home.
When he said that in marriage counseling I thought my heart was going to beat outside my chest.  I wanted to break a chair, a door, a window.  I wanted to rage in a fashion I have only once  before desired.  I pictured myself scratching his face with my fingernails.  I was a barely contained banshee.  I did not handle it well.  I did not make it look pretty by any means.
I am not an angry person.  I have had moments for sure, but I am afraid of my anger.  I have been for a long time.  I have always recoiled from its brilliance, as though allowing it out is like trying to stare at the sun.  I do this because during a particularly torturous phase of my childhood I contemplated murder.  I wanted to stop my brother and wanted to end my pain.  I actually stood over his bed while he slept holding a kitchen knife in my hand.  I was twelve.  Every cell in my body pulsed with the idea of being free from my nightmare.  Adrenaline careened through my veins and my hands shook as I held the knife aloft.  I stood there for minutes that felt like hours until I turned and walked back to the kitchen, returning the knife to its slit in the block.    It is an indescribable moment when you come to the realization that you are utterly capable of killing.  I shudder now to think how close I came to bringing that fantasy to fruition.  Since that night I have swallowed anger, burying it with little pieces of my soul each time.  I am working on having healthy anger now.
So to say that I felt rage when Frank asked me not to come home illustrates how strong my feelings were.  He didn't really handle it all that well himself.  We neither of us was at our best at that time.  We kept going to marriage counseling every week and some days it felt like we were clawing at open wounds that were still seeping from the last session.  But we didn't give up.  We kept going back.  I began to change and Frank began to change.  And slowly we were able to start seeing things more clearly and we started to get along and then we started to tentatively enjoy each other.  Now I am not trying to say that we are there yet, but I will say that we are in a good place and several months ago I would have said that was impossible.
I fully believe that the reason we have gotten to this place is because everything changed.  I did not come home.  I got an apartment and a job instead.  I started taking care of myself and doing the work of recovery which includes, for me,  paying bills and fixing things and being responsible, all things that had been Frank's role.  Frank shoulders the job of a single parent at the moment and does the things he hasn't had to in years because they were my role.  He does laundry and cooks, makes lunches and organizes play dates.  He does all the other things as well and he has had to because I have been away.
What at first unleashed my anger, turned out to be such a gift.  I have had the luxury of the time to self-reflect and Frank has not.  It is a most cherished present and I don't think he even realizes that he has given it.  People don't normally do these things.  They don't normally take these kinds of drastic steps.  Our marriage counselor said the other week that he was amazed we we were where we are.  He told us that months ago he thought we were doomed and and that he wasn't relishing that he had a front row seat to our destruction. He says we didn't just move the players around on the game board, we threw it away and are creating a whole new game.  I like that; refurbished players, new rules, new game, new prize at the end.
Honestly I am amazed at what I see when I put aside my pre-conceived notions and my sad desire to protect my self concepts.  Frank might just be a better stay-at-home parent than me.  Of course he doesn't have the luxury at the moment, but given the chance...  He is particular about laundry now, cooks much healthier meals than me and teaches the kids to be self-sufficient when I simply did things for them all the time.  He teaches them to fish as it were which is a far more valuable lesson than seeing Mommy follow behind them and pick up after them so our house looked picture perfect.  Me? I quite enjoy being the parent they crawl all over and want to play with when I walk in the door.  That was always his role because I was always with them and barking instructions in their general direction.
And so I have hope today.  We have made it through the death of a child.  We have made it through Frank's cancer diagnosis. The odds of us surviving as a couple after being wrenched apart by addiction are not good, but the statistics haven't taken into account that we are playing a new game now.

To Infinity And Beyond

To Infinity and Beyond

Let's talk about fear for a moment.  I don't mean fear of heights or spiders or enclosed spaces.  I'm talking about fundamental fears.  Fear of abandonment, rejection, loss, success, failure, judgment, betrayal... The list goes on.
I picture, have begun to believe, that we all have souls.  We are born naked in the eyes of the universe.  We have no preconceived notions, no set programming on how to react to anything but primal needs.  If you have ever really watched a child grow and I mean really watched them, then you will likely have been amazed at the wonder they express at the most basic of things.  They are intrinsically innocent and beautifully vulnerable.  We were all like that once.
Then as we age and have experiences, our souls begin to don small pieces of armor to protect us against the wrongs done to us and those we have done to others.  We begin to listen to the words people have said about us and the words we say about ourselves.  Our fears protect us.  It makes sense that we would arm ourselves, it is a tactical move of defense, a closing of the ranks to protect our flanks.
The problem with that strategy is that, often, we close ourselves off from listening to the music of the world around us.  There is a magic in the air we cannot see, hear or feel through the grills of a knight's helmet.  We can't move freely in stiff suits of armor.
As adults we are in a unique position of having the wisdom that comes with experience.  But so often our armor rusts at the joints and we are paralyzed in place by fear.  If we are truly brave, we will lay down our arms, face our fears and return to the vulnerability of our core self.  It is not as difficult as we have lead ourselves to believe.  I read a German proverb the other day that spoke to me. "Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is."  It could not be more true.
When I sit down to make an amends for example, I am afraid.  I inwardly shake as I tell someone what I have done, acknowledge their pain and accept my part in it.  I look this person in the eyes and a piece of my armor falls to the ground and I move more freely.  I am afraid of success.  I am afraid that if I do well, I will be given more responsibly than I can handle and I will inevitably fail but now I am learning to take my successes as they come and not ground them before they can fly.
I manage to face these kinds of fears today because I have stopped listening to that part of my mind that catalogs the hurts that I have endured.  I have stopped listening to the voices of those whose off-hand comments throughout the years told me I was less-than.  I have started to put down the self-truths I have held onto like shields.
A friend of mine in college took me with her on one of her trips home.  I spent a good deal of time with her family.  I remember cooking in the kitchen with her and her dad and I vividly remember us having a conversation about our futures.  Her father commented to us a both when we broached the subject of what my friend's future held, what she thought she might like to be...  He said in such a heartfelt way, "I am confident that you will be fine at what ever you chose to do.  You are unlimited."  Think about that for a moment.  How powerful a statement is that for a parent to make to a child?  What if we were able to tell ourselves that very same thing?  "I am unlimited."
  Recovery to me is like climbing a mountain without a rope.  The bottom of the mountain is the debris and chaos of addiction.  Getting sober, simply stopping drinking and going no further in allowing my soul to thrive, is like being on a ledge of fear half way up the mountain.  And the apex, the summit is spiritual freedom and redemption of epic proportions.  I chose not to be stuck on the ledge anymore, so I am reaching up to find handholds along the way.  Down is destruction, up is salvation but nesting on the ledge of stagnant fear is no way to live.

Joe's Minions

Joe's Minions

There are so many things I see in better focus these days.  My mind is no longer fogged by substance, no longer blocked by ego, no longer closed to the miracles of life all around me.  This marathon is far from over and far from easy, but now that I am looking straight ahead and not at the ground, my head held higher... I am able to appreciate the beauty of the route.
For a long time in my life I have had issues with abandonment.  It stems from childhood I know, and it is time to put that fear down and walk on.  It is my single biggest fear outside the loss of another child.  When I am down, I feel so alone, so isolated, so disconnected from humanity.  Gone is the history of support I have received from friends and family, the proof that I count and the basic truth of my link in the great human chain of love.  I don't know why it happens, but it happens less and less as I examine everything more closely now and allow the "sunshine of the spirit" to warm my upturned face.
As my spirituality grows and my faith in the paradoxical ethereal concreteness of "Joe" cements in my mind, I not only enjoy the beauty of the route I am on, I notice the sidelines are manned with cheerleading minions.  I have scores of minions, who knew?  Once I allowed myself to be vulnerable, they poured out of the woodwork and started passing me water bottles at rest stops along the way.  They started passing me towels to mop up the sweat and cheering loudly as I struggle up the hills.
You can criticize Facebook all you like, but I think it is a miracle.  It has allowed me to connect with people I would likely never have seen or heard from again.  Growing up overseas and moving back to the states I would have lost touch with so many people, but social media allows me to have a relationship with so many.
I get reminders that I count every day.  I have recently been gifted a Bible from my sponsor and her husband after musing that I have never read it and wonder where all my contempt for it came from given I know next to nothing about it.  I received a devotional from another friend who thinks I have a message to share and wanted to offer me words she has found so fundamental to her.  I have gotten messages from friends letting me know that I have affected them in a positive way, that my writing hits home to them or to someone they know.  Strangers who read "Rising From The Ashes" let me know I am helping... This blows my mind.
I got a message the other day from a guy I haven't spoken to since I was in tenth grade.  He is a rough-around-the-edges guys guy who messaged me in the middle of the day about a week ago.  He wrote to tell me it was a beautiful day outside and that he hoped I got a chance to go out and enjoy the sunshine...  He had no idea how much that meant to me.  I think about it and smile frequently.  To have someone so far in my past whose connection to me I had assumed was so tenuous and small, reach out and let me know I was being thought of, was huge.
There are so many other people who have helped me, those who donated to my M.A.D.D. page among them.  I mention this not as a plug, but as a message of gratitude.  These are people, again that I haven't spoken to in over twenty years.
So many people care, so many people let me know that I count.  So many people to thank and be grateful for.  I cherish each and everyone of you.  Imagine how much a difference we could all make in other people's lives if we just reach out and tap them gently on the shoulder and remind them that they matter. Thank you for being "Joe's minions.  Now let's go forth and multiply.

Walk Like M.A.D.D. - fundraiser

What am I doing?  I am an alcoholic in recovery striving to make amends for my past actions in many arenas.  I struggle with how to make amends to my family and friends for many of the things I have done in my addiction.  I struggle with how to make a amends to my children for driving them while drunk, to my husband for putting our kids at risk in this way.  I struggle to find a way to make it right with the babysitter I also drove drunk and to her parents for putting her at risk. I struggle frankly in finding a way to make amends to the public at large for this reckless disregard for human life.  

I decided this was one way I could start that amends process.  I have signed up for Philadelphia's "Walk Like M.A.D.D." and will be walking in honor of Frank, Dermot and Wren Purcell and a few others whom I will not name but they know who they are.  I have a goal to raise $500.00 and this is my page.  If you are thus inclined, please help me support this important cause.

http://support.madd.org/goto/RisingFromTheAshes

Choosing a New Wardrobe

Choosing a New Wardrobe

I get up early now.  I got up early in the past, was always the first one up, but I get up really early now.  I usually wake up on my own around five in the morning, sometimes earlier.  I get up and write, get myself together, ease my soul into the day.  This last Saturday morning I didn't wake up until the alarm went off at 6:00 AM.
I had set it on the off chance that I might not wake in time to get to the 7:00 AM meeting I like to go to on Saturday.  I hit snooze and when it went off again, I hit snooze again. When it went off a third time I went into internal debate mode.  I could skip the meeting and get some much needed sleep.  I would be fine, I wouldn't miss much.  Then I remembered a woman I had had coffee with earlier in the week and how she is in rather dire straights.  She is relapsing frequently and about to lose everything.  About to lose her marriage, her kids, her home.  I can relate to her pain and struggle on a very fundamental level and I knew she was counting on seeing me at that morning meeting.  In short I felt guilty and dragged myself up and out the door.
I forgot to make myself coffee to go and decided to stop at Wawa for a cup to avoid the sludge they make at the clubhouse.  I walked into Wawa and ran into not one, not two, but three other meeting goers while I was there.  One woman came up to me as we were both filling our cups and said, "How do you do it?"  I asked for clarification, not understanding in my foggy morning mind and wondering honestly if she need help pouring!  She said, "How are you living away for your family, working and taking care of yourself and being positive about it all?"  Well I wasn't expecting that.
I wanted to say "I don't really have a choice."  In fact I think I may have said that at first and then corrected myself.  Because the most basic thing about my life right now is that I DO have a choice.  I have a choice about everything I do today.  It does not change the fact that there are things about my life that are not what I would necessarily wish for myself, but how I react to that is absolutely a choice.
When Frank asked me not to come home I was full of ego defenses and my familiar uniform of victim clothing.  That victim uniform is so comfortable.  It is like an old pair of jeans, I can fit right into that pair of jeans and make myself right at home.  I can hold onto the victim outfits of "victim of incestuous molestation" or "victim of the loss of a child" or "victim of addiction."  I know those uniforms very well, I've worn some of them for a long time.  I started to want a new wardrobe.  One more suited to my core being.  Better fitting clothes that enhance my figure rather than hiding it.
I at first acted as if all these situational things coming out of the recovery house were happening TO me.  "HE says I can't come home.  HE isn't being fair.  HE is abandoning me.  HE doesn't understand.  How can HE do this to me."  I said all these things aloud and in my head.  Our marriage counselor kept saying to me "you are in victim mode and you have choices here."  I told him more than once that Frank held all the power.
Then I started to listen to my sponsor's suggestion that I pray for Frank.  I have mentioned before how praying for someone you are struggling with is a miracle.  I still am unclear as to what I believe I terms of God, but I do know that praying for, or meditating about someone else enhances your understanding of what they are struggling with.  I was able to start seeing things more from Frank's point of view and I could be more logical about how to talk to him about things.  I was able to start accepting things as they were.  I was able to start making choices.
So to answer her question, I am doing this by making choices everyday.  You see I can either crumble or I can rise.  This is a choice.  I can get up in the morning and do the right thing.  I can find myself a job, or two as the case may be.  I can support myself.  I can own my mistakes.  I can make amends.  I can be there for my kids in whatever capacity makes sense right now.  I can listen to Frank and respect his healing process.  I can take care of myself.  I can reach out and help others.  I can write and share what is going on.  I can do the things I know help keep me sober.  I can be positive about all of these things.  I can get up and go to a meeting where I am needed and where I need, even when I am tired and want to keep hitting the snooze button.
I can shed my old uniform and try on a whole new wardrobe.  I can do this and I can do this as a sober woman carrying herself with Grace and dignity.  These are all choices.

There is no "Sorry in a Box"

There is no "Sorry in a Box" Facing your own truth is not for the faint of heart. I have run from completely looking at myself my entire life. I tend to look outward at others and see their flaws as part of what makes them unique - not always, certainly, but more often than not. When my vision turns inward, I see my own flaws as my whole self. They are bigger than the rest of me and I see them as casting a shadow over the things about myself I should champion. This is part of the "Fiona Dysphoria" I described before. I don't see myself in focus, I look at me and I morph into a monster. Like standing naked under fluorescent lighting in a room whose walls are made of mirrors I see only cellulite, bulges and varicose veins. Well guess what, no one looks good when viewed in such a a fashion. It is only now as I go through the steps that I am able to look at myself realistically. I am looking at myself under a microscope and it isn't all pretty, but it is not as bad as I expected either. It isn't as frightening and it isn't as catastrophic; it isn't the lost cause I thought it was seven months ago. Fear is an interesting thing. It stops us from growing, it stops us from trying, it stops us from developing into who we ought to be. Most of my fears are manifested inside my own mind and strangely enough I have been finding that the more I face my fears the smaller they get. Their immensity turns out to be an illusion. When I look at them in the rear view mirror, I see the writing on my mirror now says, "objects in mirror are smaller then they appeared." When I considered the task of making amends for example, I was petrified. I was so afraid that I would be rejected, faced with anger, disappointment and distrust. I am still petrified when I do them, but I just keep walking through it, because once it has been done, once I have spoken my piece, it is never as bad as I had imagined. Most people want to forgive. Most people just want to understand what happened. Most people love me despite my imperfections. Similar to the feeling I get when I help someone now, I almost feel guilty for the relief and lightness I get once my soul bearing is at an end. Wether the person I have hurt or wronged accepts my words and actions or not is really almost irrelevant. Does it make it easier if they do? Absolutely, but if they don't I at least know it means I have tried, it means I am no longer carrying the weight of guilt, it means my head lifts up a little higher and my recovery gets ever stronger. The other surprise I got from this process was how many fewer I need to make that I had imagined, another illusion my fear created in my head. Not to say that I don't have plenty, after all you embark on making amends for all your wrongs, not just the ones that happened in addiction. I have 41 years of mistakes to straighten out. But what a house cleaning it is once all the shame, guilt, blame and remorse is unpacked, sorted and cleared away. It leaves room for more emotional growth, it leaves me space to become wholly Fiona, not disphoric Fiona. There are amends I can make face-to-face, some through electronic letters and notes, others by calling and still others by just living right going forward. Some people are owed money, which I am working to pay back with my new job and my part-time job. My therapist and I are at odds over this one. He is in recovery himself some twenty odd years now. He is fiercely protective of my tenuous sobriety. He looks out for me in ways that I sometimes reject but not before mulling them over thoroughly. For the two family members on my list to whom I owe money, I am not even clear they know it was stolen and certainly not by me. So he suggested I pay that money to a charity rather than going to them and acknowledging my past action. He is afraid they won't trust me. I can't adhere to that piece of advice. I won't feel right until it is paid to them and I assured him that they don't trust me now! I can't have any hope of earning back trust unless I show them some more trustworthy actions. I can't ignore the depths to which I sunk anymore, I have to see them fully so I won't return to that level of destruction. Some people I can't figure out how to make amends to but I am working on it. It will take some time and it is emotionally exhausting. I struggle, for example, over how I will go about making amends to Frank and to Dermot and to Wren or to the parents of the babysitter I drove drunk. There aren't any words I can say that seem adequate, there is no Hallmark card series I can buy that says, "Sorry for making your life a living hell." Or "Sorry for putting your life or the life of your child in jeopardy." Or even to the public at large, "Sorry for driving drunk... my bad." There is no sorry in a box. There is acknowledgment, there is good intention, there is genuine remorse, there is moving forward and doing the right thing. I have decided to try doing one thing for Frank, Dermot, Wren and a few others who know now who they are, when it comes to my history behind the wheel. I am walking in November to raise money for M.A.D.D., and I am doing it in their honor. It is the only thing that seems appropriate so far. I, at first thought the organization would want nothing to do with me given that I did precisely what they are fundraising to prevent. I decided to reach out to them because I didn't want to offend anyone who lost a loved one to a drunk driver by participating, but far from being rejected, I was welcomed enthusiastically. I hope as I move down my list of the wronged, that I provide them with piece of mind. I hope they feel vindicated in some way or at least feel acknowledged by me. The least I can do is look them in the eye and validate that their pain is real and that I caused it. I can listen to what my actions did to them and thank them for sharing what they wish. If they choose to forgive me which has happened in all cases but one, then all the better. If they don't chose to forgive me, then I chose to forgive myself.

Aiding and Abetting

Aiding and Abetting

I mentioned recently that I had spoken at a rehab.  I have done this a few times now and I will continue to do so.  A large part of the twelve steps revolves around giving back and in my twelve step program that means reaching out to other alcoholics.
It sounds very selfless and giving and good.  It is giving and good, but selfless it is not, at least not for me.  I hold by the fact that I get far more from speaking at the rehab, or at a meeting or answering a call or a query than the people on the other end.  I almost feel guilty about how good it feels to help.  I almost feel guilty about how inspired I get, how energized, how re-committed and how renewed.  It boggles my mind that I can stand in front of a group of people and tell them about the ugly things I have done, the desperation I have felt and the darkness I am walking through and that in doing so it is helpful to them.
It is staggering that it resonates with some of them, that they want to hear more, that they want my advice!  My advice?  I really can't wrap my head around that one...  There is part of me that wants to laugh and say, "You're kidding right?  I am chaos personified, I am an utter train wreck, you don't want to know what I think!"  But I don't, instead I chose now to find it to be a compliment.  It shows me through other people's eyes what I have always refused to see, a truer picture of myself.  I don't, as many of us don't, give myself much credit.  I have incredibly painful self-talk.  The way that I speak to myself is abhorrent.  I would never speak to people that I intensely dislike in the same fashion with which I speak to myself.
The term "gender dysphoria" is used to describe the psychological condition where a person is "discontented" by the gender they were born into.  I swear I was born with "Fiona Dysphoria."  I don't know how to be consistently happy with myself.  I am better at it now, but boy can I slip right back into self-condemnation on a dime when the stars are aligned.
Just like I have to remind myself that people care about me, that I am loved and appreciated by many, I have to remind myself that I am not too shabby a person really.  I am smart, funny, creative and loving.  I mean well and I am resilient.  I haven't given up and that in and of itself is a miracle.  The people I hold most important in my life know that I love them.  I am doing my best to right my wrongs and I am living in a state of honesty that I have never previously known.  Oh, yes, and I can sing.
So when I get up in front of others who are as low as I was about seven months ago and speak, it shows them that there is hope.  It shows them that there is a road ahead, there is a map and all is not lost.  The road sure doesn't look like I thought it would and I am not sure what the destination will be, but when I look back to where I was, I know that wherever that destination is, it is a damned site better than where I was.  When they tell me I have helped them it makes the fun house mirror image that I see come into focus and I can see me in all my glory, warts and all as they say.  I don't feel compelled to look away any longer.  I kind of dig my warts at the moment.  They don't define me but they give me depth, perspective and experience that I would not have without them.  So I will keep helping others because the more I give them, the more I gain and isn't that such a sweet paradox?

Learning to Walk on Water

Learning to Walk on Water

I stumbled upon a group of people in the rooms of my twelve-step program that are just that little bit different.  Different enough for me to listen just that little bit more attentively.  They have a very specific and intensive way of looking at the twelve steps.  The idea is to go through the steps in a very disciplined and self-revelatory fashion.  I refer to it as the masters degree of step work.  I won't go into detail about their process but suffice it to say that my sponsor required that I dedicate at least an hour a day to my recovery work while I was working on step four, which I diligently did for four months straight.
The fourth step involves making a "fearless and thorough moral inventory of ourselves."  It is often thought of as the resentment step.  There are a lot of things that made up the work I did, but when it came time to write the resentments I had no problem listing the things I felt people had done TO me.  But once I was finished with that, I was told to look at each resentment and turn it around, to look at it from another angle.  Basically I needed to see either what my part in the situation was, or what I saw in that resentment toward another that I didn't like about me.
In most cases I really didn't have much trouble figuring out what my part was.  For example I got yelled at as a child by my grandmother's neighbor.  I was picking blackberries off of her tree with some other children in the neighborhood.  I held a resentment about that all my life.  When I looked at it from her point of view, it was pretty simple to see that my part of it was that I stole her blackberries.  Pretty basic example.  In others it wasn't as easy.  It wasn't always a simple equation of tit for tat but I worked at it and was able to figure it out for all the resentments... Except one.
I got stuck on my brother.  I got stuck looking at that dark, sad set of memories and was blinded by the horror of it all.  How was I going to take my resentment toward him for molesting me and turn it around?  It seemed impossible.  I was a child, I had done nothing wrong, nothing to invite the abuse, nothing to deserve such soul-destroying treatment.  I remember pacing back and forth looking at the sheet of paper and shaking my head in frustration and anger.  I nearly gave up, I nearly walked away and didn't go back to that twelve step meeting.  It would have been easy to throw my hands up and say this was all bullshit, but I didn't.  Running away from discomfort has been my MO all my life and I just didn't have that option anymore.  It has never really served me well.
Fortunately I didn't give up and after talking to "Joe" for a while, it came into focus for me.  I thought about how much I crave forgiveness from those I love for the mistakes I made during my active addiction.  It occurred to me that I had been ill.  I had done some awful things as a result of that illness.  Then I thought to myself, for someone to have done what my brother did, well... they would have to be ill themselves.  I consider him to be sick and he did something abhorrent as a direct result of that sickness.  I wrote this down on the other side of the paper to the resentment and there was the answer in black and white.  I was sick, he was sick.  I deserve forgiveness, he deserves forgiveness.  If I want to be forgiven, I must first learn to forgive.
There have been many gifts I have received of late but this is the biggest one by far and the sheer beauty of it is that I gave to to myself.  I can look now at the two, five-subject notebooks that I filled with resentments, hurt, fear and anger and marvel at how heavy that all was to carry around with me for so many years.  Is it all gone?  No, but a lot of it is.  I feel lighter and seeing the situation with my brother from this angle has been like learning to walk on water.  No, I am not trying to compare myself to Jesus in any way, but I am beginning to rise above my own troubled seas and find a new way to navigate.

I's So Easy to Forget

It's So Easy To Forget

I heard from an old friend the other night and it was so lovely.  Actually since starting to write this blog I have heard from a lot of old friends and new ones.  I have had visits and calls and texts and cards...  It has been a refreshing and sometimes shocking reminder that I am loved, cared for and cherished by more people than I had given myself and those who care about me credit for.
Why don't we reach out more than we do?  Why don't we tell people that we care about them more often?  Perhaps it is that we don't think that doing so will make a difference.  Perhaps we don't realize the power of the action.  Perhaps we don't think the person needs to hear that they are on our minds, that they make an impact on those around them.  Perhaps we just have forgotten to reach out because we are all so busy.  I don't know, I don't do it often enough myself but I can tell you that it has made a great impact on me over the past few months.  I have one friend who sent me cards and cards and cards while I was at the recovery house.  I have them all and I look at them sometimes when I am feeling down.  She told me just this morning via Facebook message that there is yet another one on the way and I am looking forward to seeing it in my mailbox.
Another friend (actually several now that I think about it) told me she was shocked that I had relapsed, she said she thought I had this thing called life...  I can assure you that I don't.  Lest anyone reading this blog thinks that I am skipping through life and recovery with a constant grin on my face full of spirituality, serenity and confidence, let me assure you that I so am not.  I have moments of those things, but more often than not I am on shaky ground just trying to keep my footing.  But when I get a reminder from people that care for me, that I matter, my balance gets somewhat restored.  I am able to steady myself a little faster and to remember that I am worth it and that moving forward is not easy, but I am not alone.
I was talking to yet another old friend via Facebook message the other day about someone else in her life that suffers from addiction.  She was frustrated that her friend seems to not be able to be honest with herself about where she is in her addiction and what it has done to those around her.  I used the example when writing to her that recovery is like climbing a mountain without a rope.  Redemption is the apex but destruction lies at the base.  You reach a certain ledge and can be too afraid to make a move, but to me that ledge is a plateau of fear I no longer wish to cling to.  It takes knowing yourself enough and valuing yourself enough to face yourself honestly.  Addiction aside, we are all that vulnerable and sometimes our inner sense of value is not enough.  Even a small reminder from someone outside ourselves can tip the scale and help us restore the balance we so desperately need.
I think about Robin Williams often at the moment.  I know some will be tired of hearing about his death and I get that, but it is such an example of how isolated people can be inside their own heads.  Suffering from depression over the years I so understand how you can be surrounded by people and yet feel completely alone.  I understand how much of an effort it can be to just get out of bed and take a shower.  I understand how heavy your own thoughts can make the day and how easy it is to forget that you are loved.
Robin Williams was a man who seemingly had it all.  He had skads of people who loved him.  He had a purpose, he used his talent and made a living from it, he had a family, children and a wife, friends and admirers.  Yet somehow, he felt alone.  Somehow he felt he could not go on.  Somehow he thought that those who cared for him could not help.  Or even worse, perhaps he felt he was not worth saving.
I made a decision after I got that touch from my old friend the other night.  I made a pact with myself to reach out to a friend each week.  I am going to pick someone from my vast list of contacts and perhaps once a week make a call, send a card, write a text, dispatch an e-mail.  I want to pay it forward.  I want to spread that sort of bonhomie.  I want someone else to feel as loved as I do, to feel as connected, as cherished, as simply thought of.  I don't want the people in my life to forget, because it is so easy to do so, that they matter, that they have made an impact, that they are enough and that they have made my life better simply by being.

Remembering the Lizard Puzzle

Remembering the Lizard Puzzle

There was an exercise we did in rehab that I remember bringing me great insight.  I actually had many epiphanies over the weeks there which was incredible but this one made so much sense to me that I remind myself of it often when I start to drift into negative thinking.  It wasn't the same for everyone because I think perspective plays a much larger part in our lives than we think but my perspective this last time around was to get as much out of the experience as I could.
The relapse unit spent the day off site at a camp ground.  It was a log cabin with a fire place and couches.  We spent the day hiking, meeting and having lunch there.  One of the exercises began with each person being handed a piece of paper with instructions on it.  We were told to read the instructions, not share them with anyone and begin the activity as a group, but do so without talking.  I am going to give away at least my part of it and I am sorry if you end up having to do this in therapy one day, but bear with me.  We were given a floor puzzle to put together.  It was a series of interlocking lizard pieces that went together in a very specific manner.  My instructions were to pick one piece from the pile, place it in the puzzle and then not let anyone else move it.
So there is a group of maybe 15 of us, all with different instructions trying to put this puzzle together, we aren't allowed to talk and there are many ways to put the puzzle together but only one right way... Oh yes and we are all alcoholics and addicts withdrawing from our drugs of choice!  Lovely.
We managed to stay quiet for a few minutes, but then one person here would try and speak  then another over there would mutter under his breath.  One lady announced she was tired and sat down.  After a few minutes one guy blew up and stated that he thought this was all bullshit before he stormed outside for a cigarette and then there is me in the middle staunchly holding my piece in place forcing everyone else to build the puzzle around me.  They were huffing and glaring and generally shooting daggers in my general direction.  I have to tell you, I was nervous, shaking, sweating and upset.  Then is the middle of all this discomfort a lightbulb went off inside my head.  THIS was EXACTLY how I felt growing up in my family  THIS was EXACTLY how I felt at family gatherings as an adult.  I am simply not good at family dynamics.
What I came to realize while sitting in the middle of the woods in a log cabin with my finger on a blue lizard puzzle piece, was that I am terribly co-dependent.  I could not relax if I thought someone else was uncomfortable.  If someone was upset, I was upset; if someone was unhappy, I was unhappy; and conversely, if someone was happy I MIGHT allow myself to be happy, but all the stars would have to be aligned first.
Let me tell you, this is not a good way to live.  You are doomed from the start if your emotions are tied to what you perceive are the intentions and emotions of another.  You have to consider always what your perception of your own emotions is, you have to consider always what your intentions are.  Co-dependency at this masters level is a seemingly selfless outlook but it is actually truly self-centered.  I would spend all my time worried about why someone was upset.  Invariably I found a way to make it all my fault.  I had done something, I hadn't done something, I had said something, I hadn't said something.  I was a ping ping ball of guilt, shame and blame all inside my own head without knowing all the facts or even asking.  I crushed myself down daily with all of this and guess what... It just simply wasn't all about me.
Now I TRY to not go down this rabbit hole anymore, but it IS my default I am finding that I often have to repeat this mantra in my head over and over when I am with family and friends and all is not honky dory. If I think I am about to turn into Alice in Wonderland... I says ah to myself, "remember the lizard puzzle, remember the lizard puzzle..."  After all during the exercise, I had done my part, I knew the truth of the words on my piece of paper and others' reactions to the game were more a reflection on them than they were on me.
My therapist says that if someone has to be upset that he chooses you.  I get that and I can appreciate the sentiment. I don't really want to be quite that cut throat, but perhaps if someone is going to be upset, I don't have to join them if I can help it.  His point to me the other day was, say you are with a friend and they do something that bothers you.  You can either sit and fester over it with them having no idea that what they have done upsets you, or you can talk to them about it and maybe clear the air or at the very least you share the discomfort and don't own it alone.  There is a saying in my 12 step program that I love which is, "Hanging onto a resentment is like taking rat poison and expecting the other person to die."
I try now to say when things are uneven or shaky between myself and another person that they are free to talk to me about it.  I don't accept so much what a third party says about how they feel.  If someone has a problem with me I hope they will tell me themselves.  I never thought I would feel that way mind you.  I looked in the past at confrontation as Armageddon.  Now I can recognize that it might not be fun, but confrontation is not going to break me.  It never was I just didn't understand that I am far stronger than I gave myself credit for.  I have faced Armageddon on the day that Liam died in my arms and I am still standing, though on fawn's legs for now, but standing nonetheless.