The "B" Word

I hesitate to use this word these days, but I'm a recovering Bitch. Oh, I wasn't raised that way. When I was a teenager I had a problem with my driver's license and I had to go to the DMV. My father went with me. I quickly lost my temper with the agent when she didn't get my drift. My father took over, and with his charm, he had her quickly straightening out the problem. Afterwards, he said, "You'll catch more flies with honey." Duly noted, I thought, like I thought about every other piece of advice he gave me during my teen years.

I was always volatile and of course, my usually altered state didn't help. I used anger to keep people away, which is what I wanted. When I got clean, however, I really didn't see myself that way. I just thought I had very big boundaries and people weren't respecting them.

The longer I stayed clean, the more I saw that I didn't know how to set appropriate boundaries without anger. I began to see that my anger was no longer serving me, that I was starting to outgrow it.

I finally came to the realization at about twelve years clean that I was a bitch. I used to joke about it and tell people that I was going to start Bitches Anonymous and you guys could join Bitchanon. But I also began to make incremental changes in how I dealt with people, such as my oldest brother, since we were struggling together to take care of my mom as her Alzheimers progressed. I began to stop manipulating people with my anger.

I also worked 4th steps specifically to figure out why I was so angry. I eventually quit looking for the source of my overall anger. Besides, I think I came out of the womb pissed off.

As part of being placed on the transplant list, I was interviewed by a team of psychiatrists at St. Louis University, where I had my transplant. They asked me how I felt about having someone else's organ in me. (I had to let that one pass, guys and gals!) I told them I didn't have any feelings one way or the other, but I felt that the liver, which produces bile, has a lot to do with emotions and that I'd always been slightly pissed off and I didn't know why. I hoped I would get a happy liver. They laughed. They assured me that they would get me a liver, but they said they couldn't promise it would be a happy liver.

As it turned out, I received the liver of a six-year old boy. How unhappy can a child be at that age, given that his parents were brave and generous enough to allow SLU to harvest all his organs? I think I got my wish.

So I expected, after nearly dying and receiving this little loving liver that I would be a new, more loving person. It wasn't that simple. It took about five months post transplant, and I was back to my old self, copping resentments, bitching about nothing and getting irritated over trivial things. But I was aware of it, and on guard. I didn't want to live that way anymore, with anger as my primary emotion.

Last Saturday I went to an NA picnic at a local park and took Romy along. I left her in the car with the windows rolled part-way down while I looked for a spot to sit away from the small dogs in attendance. (Why is it people with small dogs invariably march them up to big dogs and ask "Does your dog get along with other dogs?" Just as I'm picking the fur out of her teeth, I say, "NO!")

When I went back to my car to get Romy, a woman was hanging up her cell phone and telling me that she'd just called the police. She began to tell me quite excitedly what I already know: dogs who sit in hot cars can die. I know all that. The dog had been in the car for about five minutes and it was 65 degrees and the windows were down. As I tried to explain all that to her she just kept yapping.

I lost my temper and said "Shut the fuck up." It did shut her up momentarily, but I immediately felt terrible. I got Romy and walked away until I cooled off, then I walked back and apologized. "Look, I said, "I'm sure you did what you felt was best." I turned and walked Romy away.

I went to a meeting that night and shared about it. My friends fell out laughing when I said that I'd "lost it" and one said to me, "You didn't lose it; you found it." They came up to me after the meeting and said that I hadn't done anything wrong; that she needed to mind her own business. (They're from southern California, where people get shot for a lot less.) I find, interestingly, that when others validate my bad behavior, it actually pushes me to more quickly accept responsibility for my actions. Maybe they're using reverse psychology, but I don't think so.

I was concerned about my behavior and my sponsor was, too. She suggested that a simple "mind your own business" would have been more appropriate and suggested I "work a step." I was taught to do 10th steps which are letters to God outlining my fears and resentments. I simply take a sheet of paper and write "Dear God: These are my fears and resentments." I list them, and call my sponsor to go over it with her. I can decide from the list if I need to take any further action. These 10th steps help keep my recovery comfortable.

What came out of this 10th step is that, as is almost always the case, the woman trying to save the world one dog at a time was just the tip of the iceberg. Under the boiling sea that swells around me is the issue that punctures my hull.

The people I admire the most are loving, not angry, and that's what I strive to be. There are times when the love in my chest swells so big that it leaks out my eyes. But even after all these years I still sometimes fail miserably. But I fail forward, because each failure pushes me to a higher level. And because I'm not perfect, one day at a time I'm still working on not being a bitch.