The check engine light is on again in my Trooper. It happened a few months ago when I was heading up Mingus Mountain on my way to my friend Barbara's house. It began idling rough and the result was over $600 in repairs. It's on again and although the truck is running fine, I'll call my mechanic because I know the light signals a potential problem.
Wouldn't it be nice if we humans had a check engine light? You know, a light that comes on and flashes in our mind's eye that warns us "You need help. See a professional." Or maybe it would say simply "Go to a meeting" or "Call your sponsor."
Today, my light is lit. I'm sad, I'm feeling rootless, and I'm feeling slightly overwhelmed. My check engine light is already usually lit when I get in situations that are confrontational and I don't handle them well. My check engine light is like a pilot light that is subject to explosion. I have to guard myself when I'm feeling like I feel.
There's no time for a meeting today because I have an article that I need to finish by tomorrow. Tonight we're painting closets so I can begin to settle in my home. And there's Romy dog, who's been by herself for three days and who is curled up right by my side. She needs attention, too.
I know when I feel this vague sense of sadness, I have to be vigilant. (My boyfriend and I call ourselves the Vigilant Idiots.) I have to take time out for me. It may be a simple adjustment I need, like a meeting. It usually is. But I know that when I feel like I do right now, I have to think my feelings through to the bitter end, which is that the end result of feeling sorry for myself is rationalizing the need to drink. Just for today, I'm not going there.
I'm going to recall the lesson I learned last year about gratitude. It's not "I'm grateful except"; gratitude is black or white. I'm either grateful or I'm not. Today, despite how I feel, I'm grateful.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Laughter is good medicine
I have always gladly suffered a raunchy sense of humor. I think it is one aspect of my character I can blame on being raised with three brothers. I think as a woman, who by that definition has marginal status (a sociological term for groups of people who are either excluded from or outright persecuted by the dominant culture of a society--think gays, Jews or Mormons), I have used humor as an inclusive tool. Especially in the business I am in, male-dominated, I learned early that if I can make you laugh, you are much more likely to listen to what I have to say, since there's a strong possibility of a payoff, a feel-good laugh from my humor.
I believe that some of the character defects (if we view my sense of humor as a defect as it's been viewed at times) we cultivated before we recovered saved our lives. I know getting thrown in a jail cell in Oakland full of sisters at the height of the racial tension in the 70s made me funny fast. Good humor defuses tension and if used appropriately, jumps boundaries like culture or race or gender.
Yesterday I went to a noon meeting I began to attend last year after my liver transplant. I grew to really like it, but it's very different from my home group here in town. First, it's a smoking meeting three days a week. There's also a ton of crosstalk, especially by one senior member who feels he must comment on everything everyone says. Third, the language is pretty horrific and perhaps I'll blog on that topic soon. But there is a lot of laughter and yesterday was no exception.
We had a newcomer, so the focus of the meeting was about our first meetings and how we felt in those first few days. One gal said that she was sure that she was coming into a room full of one-toothed people and she drove 30 miles away from town so no one would recognize her. The crosstalker at the meeting immediately took out his upper plate and gave her a toothless grin. Unfortunately, he was looking in my direction when he did it, so it was pretty gross. But it did remind me of a story.
My home group in Arizona, Hip, Slick and Kool, had at its center when I got clean a few- bubbles-off woman, a former biker who would later be caught up, although mistakenly, in the Buddhist murders that rocked Phoenix. She had about 17 years clean when she had all her teeth pulled. When she got her dentures, she stood at the podium and took out her teeth to show other recovering addicts that "You can stay clean through anything."
A guy sitting in the meeting said, sotto voce, "I'm glad she didn't have a hysterectomy." I told that story at yesterday's meeting in response to the our crosstalker, and it got a big laugh. I told it for the newcomer.
I know that when I walked into the rooms first in 1983, I was in hopeless misery. There was not one darn thing funny about my life. I had come from a family where humor was abundant, but in my addiction, I lost the ability to laugh. One of the big draws to the rooms for me was the humor, the laughter that each community that is marginalized uses to identify itself, to say "Hey, we are important, too!" Twelve-step programs have their own language, their own humor and through it we form a cohesive bond.
When I'm traveling and in strange towns, I'll walk into a building where the meeting is held, not knowing where to go. Some may be drawn by the smell of the coffee, but I listen for the laughter. That's how I know where the meeting is. I orient myself through laughter.
When I had only a few weeks clean, my father, whom I adored and whom I've blogged about before, said, "Hey, you know you're getting your sense of humor back?" I hadn't noticed, really. That's why we have others in our lives, to point out the things that are important that we may miss.
I thank God that my sense of humor returned, because it's helped me walk through a lot of difficulty. Although my humor is a little over the top at times, it's mine, and its another thing that keeps me coming back.
I believe that some of the character defects (if we view my sense of humor as a defect as it's been viewed at times) we cultivated before we recovered saved our lives. I know getting thrown in a jail cell in Oakland full of sisters at the height of the racial tension in the 70s made me funny fast. Good humor defuses tension and if used appropriately, jumps boundaries like culture or race or gender.
Yesterday I went to a noon meeting I began to attend last year after my liver transplant. I grew to really like it, but it's very different from my home group here in town. First, it's a smoking meeting three days a week. There's also a ton of crosstalk, especially by one senior member who feels he must comment on everything everyone says. Third, the language is pretty horrific and perhaps I'll blog on that topic soon. But there is a lot of laughter and yesterday was no exception.
We had a newcomer, so the focus of the meeting was about our first meetings and how we felt in those first few days. One gal said that she was sure that she was coming into a room full of one-toothed people and she drove 30 miles away from town so no one would recognize her. The crosstalker at the meeting immediately took out his upper plate and gave her a toothless grin. Unfortunately, he was looking in my direction when he did it, so it was pretty gross. But it did remind me of a story.
My home group in Arizona, Hip, Slick and Kool, had at its center when I got clean a few- bubbles-off woman, a former biker who would later be caught up, although mistakenly, in the Buddhist murders that rocked Phoenix. She had about 17 years clean when she had all her teeth pulled. When she got her dentures, she stood at the podium and took out her teeth to show other recovering addicts that "You can stay clean through anything."
A guy sitting in the meeting said, sotto voce, "I'm glad she didn't have a hysterectomy." I told that story at yesterday's meeting in response to the our crosstalker, and it got a big laugh. I told it for the newcomer.
I know that when I walked into the rooms first in 1983, I was in hopeless misery. There was not one darn thing funny about my life. I had come from a family where humor was abundant, but in my addiction, I lost the ability to laugh. One of the big draws to the rooms for me was the humor, the laughter that each community that is marginalized uses to identify itself, to say "Hey, we are important, too!" Twelve-step programs have their own language, their own humor and through it we form a cohesive bond.
When I'm traveling and in strange towns, I'll walk into a building where the meeting is held, not knowing where to go. Some may be drawn by the smell of the coffee, but I listen for the laughter. That's how I know where the meeting is. I orient myself through laughter.
When I had only a few weeks clean, my father, whom I adored and whom I've blogged about before, said, "Hey, you know you're getting your sense of humor back?" I hadn't noticed, really. That's why we have others in our lives, to point out the things that are important that we may miss.
I thank God that my sense of humor returned, because it's helped me walk through a lot of difficulty. Although my humor is a little over the top at times, it's mine, and its another thing that keeps me coming back.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Groundchucks
My friends visited from the Bay Area over the weekend. They'd never been to Missouri and we had a blast simply driving around, cooking and talking. I've known Judith and Tom for almost two decades. Judith and I met when we were both working for Fireman's Fund Insurance Company in downtown San Francisco. We sat two cubicles apart, and knew each other just well enough to say "hello" when she passed by me on her way to her seat.
Adjusters are generally overworked and a bit irritable about doing anything corporate but their jobs. They simply don't feel (and they're probably right), that they are viewed as a valuable part of an insurance company because they don't generate income like the underwriters and marketing people do; they spend money. Judith and I were no exception. But we also shared more in common--we were both artists, she a painter and me a writer, although she's writing now, too--mysteries.
One morning, without warning, we were pulled away from our desks to watch a film on corporate responsibility. One thing adjusters hate is corporate indoctrination; we feel like it's a complete waste of time. This film was no exception.
We came back from the film groaning inwardly, if not grumbling outright to each other about the colossal waste of our valuable time. I went in to use the bathroom, and as usual, found that whoever was using the toilet ahead of me had once again missed. (I thought until I worked in the Bay Area that only men missed. Boy, was I wrong.)
I wiped the seat, washed my hands and returned to my desk. But I had a brilliant idea. I wrote a note and taped it to the bathroom mirror. It said "Gals, let's practice some corporate responsibility and practice peeing in, not on, the toilet. Sign me, Wet Butt."
I returned to my desk and forgot about it. About an hour later, Jude, who is about 5 feet tall and weighs about 95 pounds, came chugging up to my desk, obviously trying to hold in her laughter. "Did you see the sign in the bathroom?" she asked.
"Yup," I said, "I wrote it." We both burst out laughing, loudly, until we were hushed by a supervisor. But our friendship was sealed.
Over the years and despite all my moves, I've always kept in touch with her and when she heard about my transplant, she made plans to visit. The words were unspoken, but we both realized that life is too fleeting to fail to take time for friendship.
I showed them the new house and since they are both design people, she a painter and Tom a professional photographer, they had a lot of suggestions about small design fixes that will make the house more livable. We even went to the paint store to find a color to paint the trim, something I would never have thought to do. "Just slap on the same color," I told my boyfriend. They pointed out that all the beautiful woodwork and molding should be accented, not hidden in the wall color.
We saw a red fox behind my house Saturday morning then in the afternoon saw another one trotting across the field at Riverside Park. I've only seen about three fox in my entire life and in one day seeing two was a wonder. Last night, we stopped near the highway and watched the groundhogs play. It's kind of embarrassing. In the south, they call them whistlepigs, although I don't know if they whistle or not. They call them woodchucks here, and I keep getting mixed up, calling them groundchucks.
We drove down around the Lake of the Ozarks, watching the beautiful red-winged blackbirds, red-tails and other stunning birds as we drove. When I drove in last night, a racoon was stuffing his face with seeds from the bird feeder. He barely looked up until I opened the car door. A black snake was curled above my door and fell down behind me when I opened the door, slithering away under the porch.
It was a quiet weekend, one best enjoyed with good friends who know your history and love you despite your pecadillos. Adding Missouri's beautiful flora and fauna on top of it, well, I can't think right now of anywhere I'd rather be. Except maybe Arizona.
Adjusters are generally overworked and a bit irritable about doing anything corporate but their jobs. They simply don't feel (and they're probably right), that they are viewed as a valuable part of an insurance company because they don't generate income like the underwriters and marketing people do; they spend money. Judith and I were no exception. But we also shared more in common--we were both artists, she a painter and me a writer, although she's writing now, too--mysteries.
One morning, without warning, we were pulled away from our desks to watch a film on corporate responsibility. One thing adjusters hate is corporate indoctrination; we feel like it's a complete waste of time. This film was no exception.
We came back from the film groaning inwardly, if not grumbling outright to each other about the colossal waste of our valuable time. I went in to use the bathroom, and as usual, found that whoever was using the toilet ahead of me had once again missed. (I thought until I worked in the Bay Area that only men missed. Boy, was I wrong.)
I wiped the seat, washed my hands and returned to my desk. But I had a brilliant idea. I wrote a note and taped it to the bathroom mirror. It said "Gals, let's practice some corporate responsibility and practice peeing in, not on, the toilet. Sign me, Wet Butt."
I returned to my desk and forgot about it. About an hour later, Jude, who is about 5 feet tall and weighs about 95 pounds, came chugging up to my desk, obviously trying to hold in her laughter. "Did you see the sign in the bathroom?" she asked.
"Yup," I said, "I wrote it." We both burst out laughing, loudly, until we were hushed by a supervisor. But our friendship was sealed.
Over the years and despite all my moves, I've always kept in touch with her and when she heard about my transplant, she made plans to visit. The words were unspoken, but we both realized that life is too fleeting to fail to take time for friendship.
I showed them the new house and since they are both design people, she a painter and Tom a professional photographer, they had a lot of suggestions about small design fixes that will make the house more livable. We even went to the paint store to find a color to paint the trim, something I would never have thought to do. "Just slap on the same color," I told my boyfriend. They pointed out that all the beautiful woodwork and molding should be accented, not hidden in the wall color.
We saw a red fox behind my house Saturday morning then in the afternoon saw another one trotting across the field at Riverside Park. I've only seen about three fox in my entire life and in one day seeing two was a wonder. Last night, we stopped near the highway and watched the groundhogs play. It's kind of embarrassing. In the south, they call them whistlepigs, although I don't know if they whistle or not. They call them woodchucks here, and I keep getting mixed up, calling them groundchucks.
We drove down around the Lake of the Ozarks, watching the beautiful red-winged blackbirds, red-tails and other stunning birds as we drove. When I drove in last night, a racoon was stuffing his face with seeds from the bird feeder. He barely looked up until I opened the car door. A black snake was curled above my door and fell down behind me when I opened the door, slithering away under the porch.
It was a quiet weekend, one best enjoyed with good friends who know your history and love you despite your pecadillos. Adding Missouri's beautiful flora and fauna on top of it, well, I can't think right now of anywhere I'd rather be. Except maybe Arizona.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Fido's testicals at risk!
When a country is in revolution, I heard in a novel about Liberia recently, you should flee when they shoot your dogs. In America, I think the rule we should use, because we say that we are a civilized nation, is slightly different. We should flee when they overregulate our dogs. Americans, we are barking at the heels of fasicsm.
I stumbled across this little article today in the La Canada, California, newspaper. (See this link for the complete story http://www.lacanadaonline.com/articles/2006/05/18/news/lnws-dogs0518.txt I will parabark it for you, though, for time-saving purposes.
In their ultimate wisdom and with so much time on their hands to tackle truly weighty issues such as dog birth control, citizens of La Canada along with apparently all other cities and towns in Los Angeles County, are now forced to either spay or neuter their dogs by the age of four months.
The bill was orginally drafted to control the breeding of Rotties and pit bulls, but was later amended at the suggestion of county counsel (we should turn loose the dogs on attorneys) to include all dogs. There are certain exceptions, such as assistance dogs or purebreds who compete (the AKC has done more to ruin breeds in America than any twenty organizations combined, so they should be the ones forced to spay or neuter their disease-ridden, temperament defective show dogs), but essentially, no matter what the dog owner's personal preference, a dog must be spayed or neutered.
I remember in college one of my English professors warning his wide-eyed students of the erosion of our civil liberties. I listened, but didn't understand the impact of what he was saying until many years later. He had a friend, an old river boat captain, who used to tell him "Buddy, you don't know what freedom is." In a few years and at the rate we're going, we definitely won't.
I remember when I lived in Los Angeles in the early 1990s, the County Board of Stupidvisors, in their ultimate lack of wisdom, debated forcibly implanting birth control in welfare mothers if they wanted to keep receiving welfare benefits. I wrote a scathing letter to the editor of the Los Angeles Times, which they refused to publish. "How do they think these women get pregnant," I asked rhetorically, "with a turkey baster?" The same legislators that run headlong to legislate morality as they hastily zip up their zippers are the same ones who probably don't think twice about frequenting strip clubs or calling an escort service. Those are the perks of the rich white mainly paternal and if female, mainly co-opted ruling class.
Now, they've turned to dogs. Supervisor Mike Antonovich originated the measure. Here is his email form to complete and return: http://antonovich.co.la.ca.us/forms/index.html#email%20address I'm emailing him, not that he will give a hoot, but please, if you are tired of government intrusion in your lives, write to him and keep writing to him and to others who trample your civil liberties. We are all sliding toward a regulated hell on earth, but at least, slide down barking!
Aren't there some meatier issues the Stupidvisors could sink their teeth into, such as controlling our bleeding borders? No, they won't make any meaningful strides on this contentious issue because it requires taking a stand, something no politician, John McCain especially included in this assessment as he panders to the right-wing so-called Moral Majority, the modern-day Pharisees, will do. They are spineless, too afraid to alienate a perceived "constituency."
It boils down to this. There are too many real problems in America that aren't being addressed to waste time intruding in people's personal lives, or the lives of their canine companions. Whether our federal government is busy collecting our telephone records at our expense, or a County Board of Idiots is legislating a dog's testicles, it is time Americans said enough. We need to sweep the plate clean. Maybe instead of www.electnolawyers.com, we should start www.electnofascists.com.
I stumbled across this little article today in the La Canada, California, newspaper. (See this link for the complete story http://www.lacanadaonline.com/articles/2006/05/18/news/lnws-dogs0518.txt I will parabark it for you, though, for time-saving purposes.
In their ultimate wisdom and with so much time on their hands to tackle truly weighty issues such as dog birth control, citizens of La Canada along with apparently all other cities and towns in Los Angeles County, are now forced to either spay or neuter their dogs by the age of four months.
The bill was orginally drafted to control the breeding of Rotties and pit bulls, but was later amended at the suggestion of county counsel (we should turn loose the dogs on attorneys) to include all dogs. There are certain exceptions, such as assistance dogs or purebreds who compete (the AKC has done more to ruin breeds in America than any twenty organizations combined, so they should be the ones forced to spay or neuter their disease-ridden, temperament defective show dogs), but essentially, no matter what the dog owner's personal preference, a dog must be spayed or neutered.
I remember in college one of my English professors warning his wide-eyed students of the erosion of our civil liberties. I listened, but didn't understand the impact of what he was saying until many years later. He had a friend, an old river boat captain, who used to tell him "Buddy, you don't know what freedom is." In a few years and at the rate we're going, we definitely won't.
I remember when I lived in Los Angeles in the early 1990s, the County Board of Stupidvisors, in their ultimate lack of wisdom, debated forcibly implanting birth control in welfare mothers if they wanted to keep receiving welfare benefits. I wrote a scathing letter to the editor of the Los Angeles Times, which they refused to publish. "How do they think these women get pregnant," I asked rhetorically, "with a turkey baster?" The same legislators that run headlong to legislate morality as they hastily zip up their zippers are the same ones who probably don't think twice about frequenting strip clubs or calling an escort service. Those are the perks of the rich white mainly paternal and if female, mainly co-opted ruling class.
Now, they've turned to dogs. Supervisor Mike Antonovich originated the measure. Here is his email form to complete and return: http://antonovich.co.la.ca.us/forms/index.html#email%20address I'm emailing him, not that he will give a hoot, but please, if you are tired of government intrusion in your lives, write to him and keep writing to him and to others who trample your civil liberties. We are all sliding toward a regulated hell on earth, but at least, slide down barking!
Aren't there some meatier issues the Stupidvisors could sink their teeth into, such as controlling our bleeding borders? No, they won't make any meaningful strides on this contentious issue because it requires taking a stand, something no politician, John McCain especially included in this assessment as he panders to the right-wing so-called Moral Majority, the modern-day Pharisees, will do. They are spineless, too afraid to alienate a perceived "constituency."
It boils down to this. There are too many real problems in America that aren't being addressed to waste time intruding in people's personal lives, or the lives of their canine companions. Whether our federal government is busy collecting our telephone records at our expense, or a County Board of Idiots is legislating a dog's testicles, it is time Americans said enough. We need to sweep the plate clean. Maybe instead of www.electnolawyers.com, we should start www.electnofascists.com.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Ms. Roger's neighborhood
I am used to living on acreage, away from people, cars, noise and other animals. This Missouri house is in a neighborhood, something I'm not used to, nor is Romy, who is already asleep, exhausted from today's guard duties.
When I walked her down the street this morning, there was a small brown and white bulldog who had chewed through his leash that ran toward us, happy to see someone who might know what to do. "Where do I live?" he seemed to ask. Romy was offended but managed to let him tag along. He followed us home where I set out several bowls of water. He was just a pup, and once he'd drunk his fill, he wanted to chew on my leg, my hand, anything he could sink his little teeth in. He lay in the grass under the tree for awhile and when he realized Romy wasn't about to let him in the house, he wandered off toward what I think is his home midblock.
As if that wasn't enough excitement, a salesperson came by the house and Romy scared him off the porch when she banged open what I thought was a locked screen door with her foot. She don't take too kindly to strangers. I then introduced her to the postal person, but she was not impressed. She enjoyed the car rides to the PO box, thank you. "What's this delivery stuff all about?" she seemed to ask.
A few hours later, toward dusk, I heard her barking from the sunporch where she lies to watch the birds and squirrels, who are beginning to discover the feeders. A woman walking a chihuaha stopped in front of the house when she saw me and waved. I went out to introduce myself, trying to avoid her dog's teeth as he nipped at me. She lives a few doors down and she rattled off all the names of the other neighbors. We talked for a few minutes (she's a lobbyist for animal rights) and she mentioned a street barbecue the neighborhood holds in June.
Tonight I found a tick on Romy's ear, something I would never have in Skull Valley. We've only been here a week and we have parasites. And neighbors. Yuck. I don't know if I can get used to living in town or not. The jury is still out.
When I walked her down the street this morning, there was a small brown and white bulldog who had chewed through his leash that ran toward us, happy to see someone who might know what to do. "Where do I live?" he seemed to ask. Romy was offended but managed to let him tag along. He followed us home where I set out several bowls of water. He was just a pup, and once he'd drunk his fill, he wanted to chew on my leg, my hand, anything he could sink his little teeth in. He lay in the grass under the tree for awhile and when he realized Romy wasn't about to let him in the house, he wandered off toward what I think is his home midblock.
As if that wasn't enough excitement, a salesperson came by the house and Romy scared him off the porch when she banged open what I thought was a locked screen door with her foot. She don't take too kindly to strangers. I then introduced her to the postal person, but she was not impressed. She enjoyed the car rides to the PO box, thank you. "What's this delivery stuff all about?" she seemed to ask.
A few hours later, toward dusk, I heard her barking from the sunporch where she lies to watch the birds and squirrels, who are beginning to discover the feeders. A woman walking a chihuaha stopped in front of the house when she saw me and waved. I went out to introduce myself, trying to avoid her dog's teeth as he nipped at me. She lives a few doors down and she rattled off all the names of the other neighbors. We talked for a few minutes (she's a lobbyist for animal rights) and she mentioned a street barbecue the neighborhood holds in June.
Tonight I found a tick on Romy's ear, something I would never have in Skull Valley. We've only been here a week and we have parasites. And neighbors. Yuck. I don't know if I can get used to living in town or not. The jury is still out.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
The meltdown
As the risk calling it a self-fulfilling prophecy, I knew it was coming. I am here in Missouri; the sun has showed itself about 30 minutes in five days; my boyfriend has a keen vision of what he wants in a relationship; I have no vision of what I want in a relationship or even, at 50, if I should even bother trying to begin a relationship; I have almost no career left since the transplant; and I miss Oz. (I feel like that comedian with the dog puppet who continally shouts, long ears flapping, "loser, loser, loser" in the comedian's ear.)
They have ganged up on me, the "poor me's." These are familiar feelings: I've experienced them often when I've moved from one place to another in one form or another, starting over once again. But since I'd lived here before, I didn't expect it to attack with such intent. I know the solution. Go to meetings, call my sponsor, work with a "wet one" as my sponsor used to suggest, put one foot in front of the other. But frankly, I'm worn slick.
My friend Lisa, a sax player who has a jazz combo in Columbia is coming by to visit in an hour or so. We met at an NA meeting and I discovered she was from the Bay Area, where I went to college and spent many years, including four years of using in the chaotic early 70s. It turned out, as we talked, that her San Francisco sponsor and my Oakland sponsor were close friends, and our friendship was sealed. She is a heroic little figure. She left her cush job with a utility company in San Francisco after studying sax at UC San Francisco with John Handy (if you want to hear a cool jazz riff listen to Handy's tune "Hard Work") to pursue her passion--music. She's always there when I need an ear; today will be no exception.
I was full of self-pity last night. I felt like God is playing a cosmic joke on me to have let me almost die several times awaiting the transplant, then still giving me the day-to-day, life-on-life's terms difficulties that I encountered before I was ill. I expected, I guess, that I'd paid my dues and life would get easier, or at least different. And it did, for awhile. I learned last year that gratitude is black or white, there's no "I'm grateful, but . . . ." So it's back to gratitude once again.
It's humbling after all these years to experience this despair, even though by comparison with how I felt when I was out there, the emotions are fleeting. Last night I was questioning my faith, whether God is even listening or whether He is cruel and capricious. Today, even though it is raining, I woke up feeling better. The squirrels have found my feeder and the show, hilarious skirmishes between the bushy tailed rodents and the birds, will be on. One day at a time, I will walk through this skirmish, too.
They have ganged up on me, the "poor me's." These are familiar feelings: I've experienced them often when I've moved from one place to another in one form or another, starting over once again. But since I'd lived here before, I didn't expect it to attack with such intent. I know the solution. Go to meetings, call my sponsor, work with a "wet one" as my sponsor used to suggest, put one foot in front of the other. But frankly, I'm worn slick.
My friend Lisa, a sax player who has a jazz combo in Columbia is coming by to visit in an hour or so. We met at an NA meeting and I discovered she was from the Bay Area, where I went to college and spent many years, including four years of using in the chaotic early 70s. It turned out, as we talked, that her San Francisco sponsor and my Oakland sponsor were close friends, and our friendship was sealed. She is a heroic little figure. She left her cush job with a utility company in San Francisco after studying sax at UC San Francisco with John Handy (if you want to hear a cool jazz riff listen to Handy's tune "Hard Work") to pursue her passion--music. She's always there when I need an ear; today will be no exception.
I was full of self-pity last night. I felt like God is playing a cosmic joke on me to have let me almost die several times awaiting the transplant, then still giving me the day-to-day, life-on-life's terms difficulties that I encountered before I was ill. I expected, I guess, that I'd paid my dues and life would get easier, or at least different. And it did, for awhile. I learned last year that gratitude is black or white, there's no "I'm grateful, but . . . ." So it's back to gratitude once again.
It's humbling after all these years to experience this despair, even though by comparison with how I felt when I was out there, the emotions are fleeting. Last night I was questioning my faith, whether God is even listening or whether He is cruel and capricious. Today, even though it is raining, I woke up feeling better. The squirrels have found my feeder and the show, hilarious skirmishes between the bushy tailed rodents and the birds, will be on. One day at a time, I will walk through this skirmish, too.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Two dogs blogging
My brother suggested I rename my blog and I am seriously considering it. Romy and Oz seem to have more wisdom to offer the world than do I. They view things pretty calmy, and when they do get ruffled, they bark with intent: fierce, protective and focused. "It's nothing personal," they seem to say, "I just have to protect my people."
We spent the last three days working on the house. It is an old home, set in a wooded neighborhood, backing up to a small creek. Birds screech from the trees in early morning; fat robins, small brightly colored finches and mousy wrens. Yesterday at a friend's I saw pilated woodpeckers, happily knocking on tree limbs. Later today I will set out feeders near my sunporch to lure them in here, as well.
When I was so sick last year, I sat, hour after hour, on my bed, watching squirrels and birds fight for possession of the feeder pan I set out. It helped to pass the hours where I learned what it means to be acutely alone. I've always been a bit of a loner, but the more I was separated by illness from my Fellowship pack, the more I realized what a pack animal I'd become.
I went to a meeting last night, where the topic was the reading from NA's daily meditation book. It was the definition of insanity--repeating the same actions and expecting different results. I shared about my struggles with anger and was promptly cross-talked by a member about how someone working a spiritual program doesn't allow him or herself to get angry, which is absolute tripe. We are all human, subject to different failings, big or small. One of mine is anger--which I work on immediately when I notice it in its many nuances: impatience, not listening, or outright get-out-of-my-face indignation. We all struggle with our failings, but they masquerade differently in everyone. But to my small credit, he didn't piss me off, so I guess that's growth. An oldtimer early in NA used to say "The phonies will eliminate themselves," and I often take comfort in that phrase. I know that it doesn't mean they get loaded, it sometimes means they box themselves in to such a tight circle they disappear from the rooms.
The skies have been gloomy and the air damp since I arrived, as if to taunt me for leaving warm and sunny Arizona. I've had the heat on since I seem to get cold easily these days. I know in a few weeks, I'll be dealing with the humidity. Not much changes in Missouri but the weather. It can be 75 one day and 45 the next. There's a saying here, "If you don't like the weather, stick around, it will change." That much I know is true. At this time, it's the only thing I know is true.
That and my buddy Romy is A-okay because I'm here. When I first pulled up to the house Thursday, she hopped out of the truck and ran right up the steps and into the house, although she's never been here before. She didn't bark at Rodney, although she hadn't seen him since February. She seemed to remember he was a pack member. Even his father, who came over to help pull carpet, was warmly greeted by Romy, which is unusual. Maybe she senses the genetic link.
I had a German shepherd, Atomic, who was, as my friend Pat said, a "standard poodle in a German shepherd suit." I used to take Atom to the Berkeley dog park, a mile-long leash-free park on the bay. My good friend had a standard, and I'd pick her up and Izzie and Atom would romp back and forth in the station wagon enroute to the park. People would pull up to us at stop lights, peering in, wondering why the car was rocking. They would inevitably laugh to see the two dogs, so disparate, wrestling.
Every day at 3 o'clock was standard poodle hour, and many of the Berkeley and Oakland poodle owners, usually stay-at-home types in Volvo wagons, would arrive with their poodles. Atom was an honorary member, and would run like crazy with the poodles. They accepted her as one of their own. But I noticed one thing. If another German shepherd was in the park, she would briefly abandon her poodle buddies and run directly to him or her, sniffing, tail wagging. I think, in short, they understand genes better than we do. They probably understand many things better than we do. Until tomorrow, then, remember: God is Dog spelled backward.
We spent the last three days working on the house. It is an old home, set in a wooded neighborhood, backing up to a small creek. Birds screech from the trees in early morning; fat robins, small brightly colored finches and mousy wrens. Yesterday at a friend's I saw pilated woodpeckers, happily knocking on tree limbs. Later today I will set out feeders near my sunporch to lure them in here, as well.
When I was so sick last year, I sat, hour after hour, on my bed, watching squirrels and birds fight for possession of the feeder pan I set out. It helped to pass the hours where I learned what it means to be acutely alone. I've always been a bit of a loner, but the more I was separated by illness from my Fellowship pack, the more I realized what a pack animal I'd become.
I went to a meeting last night, where the topic was the reading from NA's daily meditation book. It was the definition of insanity--repeating the same actions and expecting different results. I shared about my struggles with anger and was promptly cross-talked by a member about how someone working a spiritual program doesn't allow him or herself to get angry, which is absolute tripe. We are all human, subject to different failings, big or small. One of mine is anger--which I work on immediately when I notice it in its many nuances: impatience, not listening, or outright get-out-of-my-face indignation. We all struggle with our failings, but they masquerade differently in everyone. But to my small credit, he didn't piss me off, so I guess that's growth. An oldtimer early in NA used to say "The phonies will eliminate themselves," and I often take comfort in that phrase. I know that it doesn't mean they get loaded, it sometimes means they box themselves in to such a tight circle they disappear from the rooms.
The skies have been gloomy and the air damp since I arrived, as if to taunt me for leaving warm and sunny Arizona. I've had the heat on since I seem to get cold easily these days. I know in a few weeks, I'll be dealing with the humidity. Not much changes in Missouri but the weather. It can be 75 one day and 45 the next. There's a saying here, "If you don't like the weather, stick around, it will change." That much I know is true. At this time, it's the only thing I know is true.
That and my buddy Romy is A-okay because I'm here. When I first pulled up to the house Thursday, she hopped out of the truck and ran right up the steps and into the house, although she's never been here before. She didn't bark at Rodney, although she hadn't seen him since February. She seemed to remember he was a pack member. Even his father, who came over to help pull carpet, was warmly greeted by Romy, which is unusual. Maybe she senses the genetic link.
I had a German shepherd, Atomic, who was, as my friend Pat said, a "standard poodle in a German shepherd suit." I used to take Atom to the Berkeley dog park, a mile-long leash-free park on the bay. My good friend had a standard, and I'd pick her up and Izzie and Atom would romp back and forth in the station wagon enroute to the park. People would pull up to us at stop lights, peering in, wondering why the car was rocking. They would inevitably laugh to see the two dogs, so disparate, wrestling.
Every day at 3 o'clock was standard poodle hour, and many of the Berkeley and Oakland poodle owners, usually stay-at-home types in Volvo wagons, would arrive with their poodles. Atom was an honorary member, and would run like crazy with the poodles. They accepted her as one of their own. But I noticed one thing. If another German shepherd was in the park, she would briefly abandon her poodle buddies and run directly to him or her, sniffing, tail wagging. I think, in short, they understand genes better than we do. They probably understand many things better than we do. Until tomorrow, then, remember: God is Dog spelled backward.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
The Show Me state
I am two hours from my Missouri home, sitting in a Panera in Springfield, Missouri. I left Skull Valley Tuesday morning, a red tail hawk circling above my SUV, Romy safely tucked on a pad in the back. As I approached Iron Springs Road, a roadrunner ran briefly alongside, wishing me a speedy return. Or maybe he was saying "meep, meep"; what do I know?
It. has taken me two-and-a half days to drive the 1450 miles from Skull Valley to my second home in Missouri, or will when it is all said and done. Romy is a road warrier, only standing up occasionally when I slowed, to roll down the back window (she taught herself how, just as she figures out almost every drawer and door in the house) and stick out her head, sniffing the air as if to reorient herself and me, for she takes her duty as my protector seriously.
This morning I awakened to her ferocious barking when a maid knocked on the hotel room door. I feel safe with her. Oz is remaining in Prescott for the months I am gone, in training with my good friend Pat so that in August we can begin the process of titling him. On my way out of town Pat met me at Young's Farm in her van and Romy ran toward it, sniffing for Oz. We opened the door to show her he wasn't there, and she seemed satisfied. She was sure he was coming with us, but on second thought, I'll bet she wondered, where would he ride? Every available inch is stuffed with clothes and boxes and dog items.
My friend Barbara (www.thefirstchakra.blogspot.com) downloaded an eight-disc book for me, "Darling," by Russell Banks, and it has made my trip across the southwest much less introspective, if not sad because the book is a grueling look at a rootless woman's life. I wonder if she was trying to tell me something? For once, though, I can concentrate on someone besides me.
When I travel, I see myself stopping and investigating small towns, antique stores and walking in beautiful, tree-drenched areas. The reality, however, is that I am always anxious to arrive where I am going and I rarely stop, except to get coffee or let the dogs run. This trip was no exception, except for a short stay in Gallup to cruise the few still-open American Indian jewelry wholesalers, for I arrived late in the day.
When I was at the Old Shoe Group Monday night, I told the story of my encounter with the mad New Yorker in the alley behiind Gurley street. One of the group members had encountered him, too, and had the same experience, except that he is a six-foot-plus male and when he got out of the car to confront the man, he fled. So on my way into Prescott I called my friend and told him I had a plan.
"My truck is packed, Romy's in it, I have a U-Haul, and I feel like a wrong-way drive up a one-way alley," I told him.
He laughed and said, "Yeah, tell him there's some good rehab facilities in New York for one-armed men."
We both laughed and it helped to quell the sadness of leaving Arizona, for I am truly an Arizona woman, almost born and bred. I don't know what my future holds right now; I feel like I'm starting over with my Missouri boyfriend since we've only seen each other once in five months. I'm nervous and tired and trying to watch my fears and expectations.
I know this. Wherever I go, I have learned to bloom where I am planted. Missouri, where I have also lived happily, will be good to me.
It. has taken me two-and-a half days to drive the 1450 miles from Skull Valley to my second home in Missouri, or will when it is all said and done. Romy is a road warrier, only standing up occasionally when I slowed, to roll down the back window (she taught herself how, just as she figures out almost every drawer and door in the house) and stick out her head, sniffing the air as if to reorient herself and me, for she takes her duty as my protector seriously.
This morning I awakened to her ferocious barking when a maid knocked on the hotel room door. I feel safe with her. Oz is remaining in Prescott for the months I am gone, in training with my good friend Pat so that in August we can begin the process of titling him. On my way out of town Pat met me at Young's Farm in her van and Romy ran toward it, sniffing for Oz. We opened the door to show her he wasn't there, and she seemed satisfied. She was sure he was coming with us, but on second thought, I'll bet she wondered, where would he ride? Every available inch is stuffed with clothes and boxes and dog items.
My friend Barbara (www.thefirstchakra.blogspot.com) downloaded an eight-disc book for me, "Darling," by Russell Banks, and it has made my trip across the southwest much less introspective, if not sad because the book is a grueling look at a rootless woman's life. I wonder if she was trying to tell me something? For once, though, I can concentrate on someone besides me.
When I travel, I see myself stopping and investigating small towns, antique stores and walking in beautiful, tree-drenched areas. The reality, however, is that I am always anxious to arrive where I am going and I rarely stop, except to get coffee or let the dogs run. This trip was no exception, except for a short stay in Gallup to cruise the few still-open American Indian jewelry wholesalers, for I arrived late in the day.
When I was at the Old Shoe Group Monday night, I told the story of my encounter with the mad New Yorker in the alley behiind Gurley street. One of the group members had encountered him, too, and had the same experience, except that he is a six-foot-plus male and when he got out of the car to confront the man, he fled. So on my way into Prescott I called my friend and told him I had a plan.
"My truck is packed, Romy's in it, I have a U-Haul, and I feel like a wrong-way drive up a one-way alley," I told him.
He laughed and said, "Yeah, tell him there's some good rehab facilities in New York for one-armed men."
We both laughed and it helped to quell the sadness of leaving Arizona, for I am truly an Arizona woman, almost born and bred. I don't know what my future holds right now; I feel like I'm starting over with my Missouri boyfriend since we've only seen each other once in five months. I'm nervous and tired and trying to watch my fears and expectations.
I know this. Wherever I go, I have learned to bloom where I am planted. Missouri, where I have also lived happily, will be good to me.
Monday, May 08, 2006
I always hear what I need
when I go to a meeting; it just somehow works that way. Tonight was no exception. I've been packing, it seems like forever, to head back to the midwest for a few months. I was supposed to have left Saturday, but when I went into the lab Saturday morning to have some bloodwork done, they said they didn't have the order from my doctor. So I was bound and determined to get it straightened out today so I could leave late today.
I called my doc's office early today and asked them to refax the lab order. When I got to the lab, there was still no order. It took me bursting into tears before a supervisor got involved and they discovered my transplant center wasn't faxing the lab order, they were faxing the results of my last lab tests. Well, at least they got the transplant right, at least I think they did. I'm still alive, anyway.
After that, I went to meet my friend and do some training with Oz, which was hard because Oz picked up on my angst and didn't behave well.
By the time I got home and started packing again, I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. I found myself thinking "I would rather drink than feel this way one more minute."
Now that is dangerous thinking. I decided right then that I wouldn't leave today and that meant I could go to the Old Shoe Group, which is only a mile from my house. Well, I got there, and of course, the topic was just what I needed to hear. It was "restless, irritable and discontent."
I was guilty of all three, and the chairperson picked on me to share first. I proceeded to unload about what a tough few weeks this had been. But when I share how bad things feel, I also come round to the solution, which in this case to stop taking everything so seriously and to take time to pray, which has hit the back burner with all the packing and cleaning and organizing.
Tonight's meeting was one of the funniest meetings I've been to in awhile. Everyone had a story to share about losing their temper, of which I'm often guilty, or just a histrionic recounting of the day's events, complete with self-deprecating humor. Then there's always the group optimist, who pissed us all off by telling us how happy she is. There's one in every crowd, I guess.
Meetings are where I go to hear the solution to any problem, big or small. I recall hearing early in recovery that there are no big deals, but this move is seeming like a big deal. I know once I get there I'll feel better, but right now, I feel restless, irritable and discontent. At least I did until I went to the meeting.
I'll get up early tomorrow to head east. And I think I'll remember to pray.
I called my doc's office early today and asked them to refax the lab order. When I got to the lab, there was still no order. It took me bursting into tears before a supervisor got involved and they discovered my transplant center wasn't faxing the lab order, they were faxing the results of my last lab tests. Well, at least they got the transplant right, at least I think they did. I'm still alive, anyway.
After that, I went to meet my friend and do some training with Oz, which was hard because Oz picked up on my angst and didn't behave well.
By the time I got home and started packing again, I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. I found myself thinking "I would rather drink than feel this way one more minute."
Now that is dangerous thinking. I decided right then that I wouldn't leave today and that meant I could go to the Old Shoe Group, which is only a mile from my house. Well, I got there, and of course, the topic was just what I needed to hear. It was "restless, irritable and discontent."
I was guilty of all three, and the chairperson picked on me to share first. I proceeded to unload about what a tough few weeks this had been. But when I share how bad things feel, I also come round to the solution, which in this case to stop taking everything so seriously and to take time to pray, which has hit the back burner with all the packing and cleaning and organizing.
Tonight's meeting was one of the funniest meetings I've been to in awhile. Everyone had a story to share about losing their temper, of which I'm often guilty, or just a histrionic recounting of the day's events, complete with self-deprecating humor. Then there's always the group optimist, who pissed us all off by telling us how happy she is. There's one in every crowd, I guess.
Meetings are where I go to hear the solution to any problem, big or small. I recall hearing early in recovery that there are no big deals, but this move is seeming like a big deal. I know once I get there I'll feel better, but right now, I feel restless, irritable and discontent. At least I did until I went to the meeting.
I'll get up early tomorrow to head east. And I think I'll remember to pray.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Two sixes and a three
I went to a meeting tonight and after, as is the custom of this meeting, we all went out to dinner. About half the people at the table, me included, had lived in the LA area and although these other Los Angelenos have lived in Arizona only a year or so, I have become friends with them because we either knew each other a bit in LA or know a lot of people in common.
These guys and gals have between 20 and 30 years now, so using is only a memory. But what do we do at dinner? We tell war stories. Tonight it was explaining the shortchange hustle to the higher-end addicts at the table.
One man who is waiting for his third liver transplant (the hepatititus C just keeps crunching his new livers), was telling us about some counterfeiters he knew. That reminded me of one of my father's favorite jokes, especially appropros since I spent the day packing to head back to Missouri for a few months.
Two brothers from Arkansas were struggling financially and they finally hit on a great idea. They would become counterfeiters. One brother wanted to print tens and the other brother insisted they print twenties.
"If we print tens," said the one brother, "it'll take us days to make any money."
"If we print twenties," the other brother said, "we'll stand out too much. The clerks will remember us."
Finally they compromised and decided to print fifteens.
They set off with their first batch of bills. One brother drove and the other brother's role was to run into stores as they drove along and cash the bills. Their first stop was a small market on a lonely country road.
"Keep the car running," one brother said to the other, "and I'll run in and cash the bill." The driver sat in the car, engine running, waiting for his brother's return.
His brother ran out of the market and hopped into the passenger seat. "Get out of here," he said.
The driver gunned it and drove away. "How'd you do?" he asked.
"Great," his brother responded. "I got two sixes and a three."
These guys and gals have between 20 and 30 years now, so using is only a memory. But what do we do at dinner? We tell war stories. Tonight it was explaining the shortchange hustle to the higher-end addicts at the table.
One man who is waiting for his third liver transplant (the hepatititus C just keeps crunching his new livers), was telling us about some counterfeiters he knew. That reminded me of one of my father's favorite jokes, especially appropros since I spent the day packing to head back to Missouri for a few months.
Two brothers from Arkansas were struggling financially and they finally hit on a great idea. They would become counterfeiters. One brother wanted to print tens and the other brother insisted they print twenties.
"If we print tens," said the one brother, "it'll take us days to make any money."
"If we print twenties," the other brother said, "we'll stand out too much. The clerks will remember us."
Finally they compromised and decided to print fifteens.
They set off with their first batch of bills. One brother drove and the other brother's role was to run into stores as they drove along and cash the bills. Their first stop was a small market on a lonely country road.
"Keep the car running," one brother said to the other, "and I'll run in and cash the bill." The driver sat in the car, engine running, waiting for his brother's return.
His brother ran out of the market and hopped into the passenger seat. "Get out of here," he said.
The driver gunned it and drove away. "How'd you do?" he asked.
"Great," his brother responded. "I got two sixes and a three."
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Growl
I saw the best dogs of my breed destroyed by the Humane Society,
starving, fur wet and matted,
limping, pads torn walking through yards at dawn
searching for food and a pat on the head
who were expelled from homes for pissing on the carpets and chewing on the begonias
who howled in the backyard for the simple joy of howling
and were dragged off to the car to be abandoned on the other side of town
who ate Kentucky Fried Chicken bones out of the garbage and curled up,
wet and forsaken on the front yards of Amerika
who in desperation presented themselves to the steps of Academia
where they were strapped to tables and injected with cancer cells and formaldehyde.
who, with no thought but preservation found themselves in front of cameras
starved so that they would eat Alpo
who were burned alive in plaid doggy sweaters as they sat in cars
watching for their masters to return from Sears with the doggy door.
who lost their puppies to the whims of human masters and who plunged themselves
under Volvos searching for their progency
Ah, dog, you are not safe, I am not safe, and now you're really in the total dog soup of time
who, although a Dalmation, returning years later truly bald except for spots of blood
who rose again in the ghostly clothes of ribs, saying "Man, man, why have you forsaken me?"
starving, fur wet and matted,
limping, pads torn walking through yards at dawn
searching for food and a pat on the head
who were expelled from homes for pissing on the carpets and chewing on the begonias
who howled in the backyard for the simple joy of howling
and were dragged off to the car to be abandoned on the other side of town
who ate Kentucky Fried Chicken bones out of the garbage and curled up,
wet and forsaken on the front yards of Amerika
who in desperation presented themselves to the steps of Academia
where they were strapped to tables and injected with cancer cells and formaldehyde.
who, with no thought but preservation found themselves in front of cameras
starved so that they would eat Alpo
who were burned alive in plaid doggy sweaters as they sat in cars
watching for their masters to return from Sears with the doggy door.
who lost their puppies to the whims of human masters and who plunged themselves
under Volvos searching for their progency
Ah, dog, you are not safe, I am not safe, and now you're really in the total dog soup of time
who, although a Dalmation, returning years later truly bald except for spots of blood
who rose again in the ghostly clothes of ribs, saying "Man, man, why have you forsaken me?"
To all the girls I've loved
Sponsorship, what a gift it is, both when giving and receiving. For the next few days, I want to meander along my memory and share with you the amazing women who have sponsored me over the years.
When I first came into the rooms, like other newcomer women, I didn't much like anyone, male or female. I had put up with a lot of abuse from men when I was out there, so I really disliked and distrusted them. But you women, well, although I had many close women who I ran with, basically I operated under the belief that there was a limited supply of drugs, men controlled them, and women got in the way of my access.
My first two friends in the program were men, Bobby and Steve. (Bobby has since died in a car accident.) They loved me partly because I was so crazy. Steve said he loved hanging around with me because "it was like meeting a different person every day." I'm not sure that was a compliment.
At one of my first meetings, Bobby assigned his girlfriend, Valerie, as my temporary sponsor.
Valerie was beautiful and warm, about ten years younger than me. She looked like Gidget and I looked like Lucy LaMode, the lead singer of the punk band Killer Pussy, with bright red hair mowed on one side with a long tail on the other. Remember that old saying "I've spilled more dope than she ever did"? That was my impression of Valerie. But I grew to love her, because she loved me unconditionally.
To make a long story short, I think I really used Steve as my first sponsor but I knew I couldn't work the steps with him. Each time I went out he welcomed me back. The second-to-the-last time I used, I had gone to my girlfriend's house for a BBQ. She was still using, but I had 90 days and was bulletproof, or so I thought.
They starting smoking; they called it "freebase." I took one hit off a pipe and knew instantly that I didn't want that way of life anymore. I flew out of her house and to the Rhythm Room, where a bunch of recovering addicts, including Steve, were going to go listen to music. Steve was waiting out front for me. He took one look at me and said "You're high."
"You're right." I said. I was miserable. "I'm one of those ones they talk about in the Big Book, aren't I? You know, 'constitutionally incapable of being honest with myself.' I'm not going to make it, am I?"
"Yes, you're going to make it," he said, looking me straight in the eye. I sometimes wonder what might have happened to me if he had said "No." I really think I would have given up and slinked away to die.
"Do another first step," Steve said, and I did. Valerie must have heard 20 first steps from me, and finally I stayed clean. I starting writing my fourth step and it was like the Phoenix phone book. I had quite a bit of baggage, to say the least, and although I loved Valerie, I was too low-end an addict to feel comfortable doing my fifth step with her. Again, Steve came to the rescue and recommended a friend of his, Patti.
She was a wonderful, wacky woman about ten years older than me with about 14 years clean. She and another addict pretty much started Phoenix NA, although she had by then drifted off to the other Fellowship mainly. She still came to my home group sometimes, Hip, Slick and Kool.
I remember doing my first fifth step. I went over to Patti's apartment. I don't remember much except that she unplugged the phone. It took about five hours to get through my fifth, but I left there feeling like just maybe I could stay clean. She didn't give me a lot of feedback, but she was always there to discuss things if I had questions. I ran into her the other day at a meeting she attends regularly, and we talked as if we'd just seen each other the day before. She has 36 years now, and she is still warm and funny and has the best things to say.
My favorite story about her, and now that I'm remembering it I think that this is why Steve referred me to her. She and her husband were living together, I'm not sure if they were married or not (they're still married, in fact he was at the meeting with her). They had a big fight and neither one of them had the money to move out so they divided the house in half with a rope. Neither was allowed to cross the rope except with permission. The problem? The phone was on John's side, and every time someone called for Patti, he had to hand her the phone over the rope.
Steve thought that was hilarious and slightly wack, so that' s why he thought she'd be a good sponsor for me. She was. I used her later, too, when I moved back to Phoenix after my engagement ended.
Over the years, watching her marriage with John and watching her become more deeply Christian yet not abandon her Fellowship roots, she's been a strong role model for me. She is one of my many teachers. Soon, we'll meet Denise.
When I first came into the rooms, like other newcomer women, I didn't much like anyone, male or female. I had put up with a lot of abuse from men when I was out there, so I really disliked and distrusted them. But you women, well, although I had many close women who I ran with, basically I operated under the belief that there was a limited supply of drugs, men controlled them, and women got in the way of my access.
My first two friends in the program were men, Bobby and Steve. (Bobby has since died in a car accident.) They loved me partly because I was so crazy. Steve said he loved hanging around with me because "it was like meeting a different person every day." I'm not sure that was a compliment.
At one of my first meetings, Bobby assigned his girlfriend, Valerie, as my temporary sponsor.
Valerie was beautiful and warm, about ten years younger than me. She looked like Gidget and I looked like Lucy LaMode, the lead singer of the punk band Killer Pussy, with bright red hair mowed on one side with a long tail on the other. Remember that old saying "I've spilled more dope than she ever did"? That was my impression of Valerie. But I grew to love her, because she loved me unconditionally.
To make a long story short, I think I really used Steve as my first sponsor but I knew I couldn't work the steps with him. Each time I went out he welcomed me back. The second-to-the-last time I used, I had gone to my girlfriend's house for a BBQ. She was still using, but I had 90 days and was bulletproof, or so I thought.
They starting smoking; they called it "freebase." I took one hit off a pipe and knew instantly that I didn't want that way of life anymore. I flew out of her house and to the Rhythm Room, where a bunch of recovering addicts, including Steve, were going to go listen to music. Steve was waiting out front for me. He took one look at me and said "You're high."
"You're right." I said. I was miserable. "I'm one of those ones they talk about in the Big Book, aren't I? You know, 'constitutionally incapable of being honest with myself.' I'm not going to make it, am I?"
"Yes, you're going to make it," he said, looking me straight in the eye. I sometimes wonder what might have happened to me if he had said "No." I really think I would have given up and slinked away to die.
"Do another first step," Steve said, and I did. Valerie must have heard 20 first steps from me, and finally I stayed clean. I starting writing my fourth step and it was like the Phoenix phone book. I had quite a bit of baggage, to say the least, and although I loved Valerie, I was too low-end an addict to feel comfortable doing my fifth step with her. Again, Steve came to the rescue and recommended a friend of his, Patti.
She was a wonderful, wacky woman about ten years older than me with about 14 years clean. She and another addict pretty much started Phoenix NA, although she had by then drifted off to the other Fellowship mainly. She still came to my home group sometimes, Hip, Slick and Kool.
I remember doing my first fifth step. I went over to Patti's apartment. I don't remember much except that she unplugged the phone. It took about five hours to get through my fifth, but I left there feeling like just maybe I could stay clean. She didn't give me a lot of feedback, but she was always there to discuss things if I had questions. I ran into her the other day at a meeting she attends regularly, and we talked as if we'd just seen each other the day before. She has 36 years now, and she is still warm and funny and has the best things to say.
My favorite story about her, and now that I'm remembering it I think that this is why Steve referred me to her. She and her husband were living together, I'm not sure if they were married or not (they're still married, in fact he was at the meeting with her). They had a big fight and neither one of them had the money to move out so they divided the house in half with a rope. Neither was allowed to cross the rope except with permission. The problem? The phone was on John's side, and every time someone called for Patti, he had to hand her the phone over the rope.
Steve thought that was hilarious and slightly wack, so that' s why he thought she'd be a good sponsor for me. She was. I used her later, too, when I moved back to Phoenix after my engagement ended.
Over the years, watching her marriage with John and watching her become more deeply Christian yet not abandon her Fellowship roots, she's been a strong role model for me. She is one of my many teachers. Soon, we'll meet Denise.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Happy birthday, Dad
My father would have been 87 today. He's been dead over ten years and still I miss him. I watch as newcomers enter the rooms, many of them now second-generation addicts. Their tales of fathers in prison, mothers addicted to crack, at six of having to climb up on counters to open and cook cans of soup or go hungry, and while my heart aches for them, I just can't relate. I call them the children of wolves. They raised themselves and it's no wonder they, too, became addicted.
The longer I stay clean and continue to gain perspective on my childhood, the more I realize that I had it pretty darn good. My father was Lutheran, a Huegenot, I learned a few years ago. The Huegenots fled France, many of them to upstate New York, to escape religious persecution by the French Catholics. Ironically, my father married my mother, an Irish Catholic from upstate New York. My mother always said it was "love at first sight." They were both engaged to others, but she said that when she first saw him at the GE plant where they worked, she knew that she would marry him.
Dad was a bit of an enigma. He talked little of his childhood on a Melrose farm. His father deserted the family when he was about five, and he carried that stigma his entire life. I don't believe he knew how to be a father, at least to his sons, my brothers. He just did what he thought was right.
He was a depression-era child and he could fix anything. I once told my mother that I was going to marry someone just like him, except he couldn't sulk, because Dad could get mad and stop talking like no one I've ever met. He would always talk to me, but to my mother? "She's not talking to me," he'd say, as I sat with him behind the barn, where he pretended not to smoke. I'd mention it to my mother and she's say "Oh, I'm talking to him. He's not talking to me." And we'd laugh.
On one of my first jobs as a claims adjuster, my boss was cooking the books big time. My coworker had turned him in to the main office a year earlier, but nothing had been done about it. I was newly clean and worried about being in that environment since I wasn't the most honest thing when I got here, to put it mildly. So I called my dad, who'd been an insurance agent for about 40 years, and told him I needed to talk with him.
He and mom were waiting for me when I drove out to their house. I explained what my work environment was like and asked him if he thought I should quit, because I didn't want to be around the temptation. My dad said "This is the type question we've been waiting for you to ask us all your life. " (I had left home at 15 and didn't seek a lot of parental input at any age.)
He went on to say that at some point in your life, and some hit it sooner or later, you "have to make a decision." He said you ask yourself if you want to do the right thing or the wrong thing. He knew I was strong enough to choose the right thing. He suggested I keep my job. "I know you'll make the right decision," he said.
One day, a few months later, the home office guys showed up and fired my boss on the spot, escorting him out of the office. We ran around the office high-fiving each other, ecstatic that the truth had finally been revealed. It was a big lesson for me.
I was a terrible daughter. I know I broke his heart in the worst possible ways a daughter can break a father's heart. When I went to him early in recovery to make amends, he interrupted me as I tried to express how sorry I was for what I put him and mom through. "Stop," he said, holding up his big hand. "You will never be anything less than perfect in my eyes."
In that simple lesson, Dad taught me unconditional love. He was a great man, a man beloved by his friends and sadly never understood by himself or his sons. And I miss him. Happy birthday, Dad. I love you.
The longer I stay clean and continue to gain perspective on my childhood, the more I realize that I had it pretty darn good. My father was Lutheran, a Huegenot, I learned a few years ago. The Huegenots fled France, many of them to upstate New York, to escape religious persecution by the French Catholics. Ironically, my father married my mother, an Irish Catholic from upstate New York. My mother always said it was "love at first sight." They were both engaged to others, but she said that when she first saw him at the GE plant where they worked, she knew that she would marry him.
Dad was a bit of an enigma. He talked little of his childhood on a Melrose farm. His father deserted the family when he was about five, and he carried that stigma his entire life. I don't believe he knew how to be a father, at least to his sons, my brothers. He just did what he thought was right.
He was a depression-era child and he could fix anything. I once told my mother that I was going to marry someone just like him, except he couldn't sulk, because Dad could get mad and stop talking like no one I've ever met. He would always talk to me, but to my mother? "She's not talking to me," he'd say, as I sat with him behind the barn, where he pretended not to smoke. I'd mention it to my mother and she's say "Oh, I'm talking to him. He's not talking to me." And we'd laugh.
On one of my first jobs as a claims adjuster, my boss was cooking the books big time. My coworker had turned him in to the main office a year earlier, but nothing had been done about it. I was newly clean and worried about being in that environment since I wasn't the most honest thing when I got here, to put it mildly. So I called my dad, who'd been an insurance agent for about 40 years, and told him I needed to talk with him.
He and mom were waiting for me when I drove out to their house. I explained what my work environment was like and asked him if he thought I should quit, because I didn't want to be around the temptation. My dad said "This is the type question we've been waiting for you to ask us all your life. " (I had left home at 15 and didn't seek a lot of parental input at any age.)
He went on to say that at some point in your life, and some hit it sooner or later, you "have to make a decision." He said you ask yourself if you want to do the right thing or the wrong thing. He knew I was strong enough to choose the right thing. He suggested I keep my job. "I know you'll make the right decision," he said.
One day, a few months later, the home office guys showed up and fired my boss on the spot, escorting him out of the office. We ran around the office high-fiving each other, ecstatic that the truth had finally been revealed. It was a big lesson for me.
I was a terrible daughter. I know I broke his heart in the worst possible ways a daughter can break a father's heart. When I went to him early in recovery to make amends, he interrupted me as I tried to express how sorry I was for what I put him and mom through. "Stop," he said, holding up his big hand. "You will never be anything less than perfect in my eyes."
In that simple lesson, Dad taught me unconditional love. He was a great man, a man beloved by his friends and sadly never understood by himself or his sons. And I miss him. Happy birthday, Dad. I love you.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Go back to where you came from . . .
a guy told me today when I was accidentally driving slowly the wrong way up a one-way alley. He walked out in front of me and I stopped for him, waving him on. He crossed then walked away. As he walked he started screaming at me, "This is a one-way alley, idiot." Because the weather is beautiful, of course, my windows were down.
"Okay," I said out the window, "But why do you have to get so angry?" I asked him. That was all it took. He came over and started screaming in my passenger window. "Did you know this is one-way?" he asked.
"Hey," I said, "I'm driving a station wagon here; I don't think I'm a criminal. If I knew it was one way, I'd be going that way."
"Well now you know," he said furiously. As he stomped off, because I had out-of-state plates on my car, he yelled "Why don't you just go back to where you came from?"
By that time, I had pretty much lost my temper (see The "B" Word, previous post) as only I can do. When I get really angry, there's some scary part of me that will go toe-to-toe with anyone. I know someday it may get me killed, but there you have it. I blame it on post-traumatic stress, but maybe I'm just a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
"Hey," I said, "I'm not the one with a New York accent here!" He didn't have anything to say to that and he stormed away. I made a U-turn and headed back the right way down the alley. God, I am such a criminal!
I don't know what's up with me lately, but I think I'm a bit of a looney magnet. It seems like all the idiots in the world that think it's their job to tell other people how to live/drive/eat/handle dogs have surrounded me.
But it always comes back to me and what I need to do about it. I need to force myself to walk away from jerks. He was looking for an excuse to be mad and I was as good as an excuse as any. If I had just turned around and driven away, I wouldn't feel like I felt after our exchange. I don't like to feel this way, this anger, this angst that comes from these unexplained hostile encounters. But at least I didn't have to get out of the car and get back in his face, which is what I wanted to do. That's growth, for me, at least.
Just for today, I'm trying to love me. And that jerk in the alley.
"Okay," I said out the window, "But why do you have to get so angry?" I asked him. That was all it took. He came over and started screaming in my passenger window. "Did you know this is one-way?" he asked.
"Hey," I said, "I'm driving a station wagon here; I don't think I'm a criminal. If I knew it was one way, I'd be going that way."
"Well now you know," he said furiously. As he stomped off, because I had out-of-state plates on my car, he yelled "Why don't you just go back to where you came from?"
By that time, I had pretty much lost my temper (see The "B" Word, previous post) as only I can do. When I get really angry, there's some scary part of me that will go toe-to-toe with anyone. I know someday it may get me killed, but there you have it. I blame it on post-traumatic stress, but maybe I'm just a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
"Hey," I said, "I'm not the one with a New York accent here!" He didn't have anything to say to that and he stormed away. I made a U-turn and headed back the right way down the alley. God, I am such a criminal!
I don't know what's up with me lately, but I think I'm a bit of a looney magnet. It seems like all the idiots in the world that think it's their job to tell other people how to live/drive/eat/handle dogs have surrounded me.
But it always comes back to me and what I need to do about it. I need to force myself to walk away from jerks. He was looking for an excuse to be mad and I was as good as an excuse as any. If I had just turned around and driven away, I wouldn't feel like I felt after our exchange. I don't like to feel this way, this anger, this angst that comes from these unexplained hostile encounters. But at least I didn't have to get out of the car and get back in his face, which is what I wanted to do. That's growth, for me, at least.
Just for today, I'm trying to love me. And that jerk in the alley.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Why am I the only one laughing?
I came home from the Old Shoe meeting in Skull Valley tonight to a mess. Normally Romy or Oz ride along with me, but tonight I left them home, in separate areas of the house. If I forget and leave garbage under the sink when I leave, Romy goes through it every time. I congratulated myself as I walked to my car for remembering to take out the garbage. But when I came home, she'd managed to open the refrigerator and clean it out. Although I have tile floors, eating on the tile just won't do. Whatever she eats she takes to the carpet--it's a dog thing.
I knew something was wrong when I first walked in the house because I couldn't find her. Normally she waits by the door when I drive up. I walked into kitchen and saw the open refrigerator. I looked into the great room and there, strewn all over the carpet, was the contents of the refrigerator.
There were chicken legs, beef hearts with a corner gnawed off, beef livers half-eaten, an empty, torn baggie of unknown origin and a few other items that caught her eye. I had a coffee cake covered by foil in the refrigerator. She'd peeled back the foil but apparently it didn't interest her, although I know that if there hadn't been so much meat, it would have met the same fate.
In case you think I'm some type of horrific carnivore, the meat was for the dogs. I try to feed them as much raw food as possible.
Just after I'd cleaned up the mess, my boyfriend called. I tried explaining the sight to him, all the while laughing hysterically. It was just a visual, I guess, legs and kidneys and hearts all splayed out on the floor. He didn't find the humor in it. It worries me when we don't laugh at the same things. I think you can get through just about anything if you can laugh about it.
The meeting, though, was good. The topic was the literature and reading in general. The Old Shoe group is an informal group, small and humorous. I always leave meetings in a better frame of mind than I arrived in. Tonight was no exception. I said goodbye to my friends since I'll be heading back to the midwest later this week. I hate leaving friends, but I know that wherever I go, if I go to meetings, I'll make new ones.
I knew something was wrong when I first walked in the house because I couldn't find her. Normally she waits by the door when I drive up. I walked into kitchen and saw the open refrigerator. I looked into the great room and there, strewn all over the carpet, was the contents of the refrigerator.
There were chicken legs, beef hearts with a corner gnawed off, beef livers half-eaten, an empty, torn baggie of unknown origin and a few other items that caught her eye. I had a coffee cake covered by foil in the refrigerator. She'd peeled back the foil but apparently it didn't interest her, although I know that if there hadn't been so much meat, it would have met the same fate.
In case you think I'm some type of horrific carnivore, the meat was for the dogs. I try to feed them as much raw food as possible.
Just after I'd cleaned up the mess, my boyfriend called. I tried explaining the sight to him, all the while laughing hysterically. It was just a visual, I guess, legs and kidneys and hearts all splayed out on the floor. He didn't find the humor in it. It worries me when we don't laugh at the same things. I think you can get through just about anything if you can laugh about it.
The meeting, though, was good. The topic was the literature and reading in general. The Old Shoe group is an informal group, small and humorous. I always leave meetings in a better frame of mind than I arrived in. Tonight was no exception. I said goodbye to my friends since I'll be heading back to the midwest later this week. I hate leaving friends, but I know that wherever I go, if I go to meetings, I'll make new ones.
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