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.