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.