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?"