Tradition 3) The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop using. "Using" pretty much covers it, because each substance, including alcohol, we "use" to alter our reality, to block pain, to self medicate. Why, then, do we continue to hear "addict/alcoholic" in our meeting rooms? Should we even care? And more importantly, why do we hear the barrage of pompous comments about a member's "pure NA program"?
Much of the "dually addicted" problem is coming from treatment centers. I was in an AA meeting the other night and heard someone state that they were "an addict with a desire to stop drinking." How original, how unique, how many treatment center counselors did it take to come up with that one? How deadly, though, because I don't know your story, but my terminal uniqueness is what almost killed me before coming to the rooms and kept me in and out in the beginning for two hellish years.
It's pretty simple. If you're in an NA meeting, respect the Third Tradition and identify as an addict. If you're in AA, respect its Third Tradition and identify as an alcoholic. If you are in AA and you feel the need to "remind" yourself that you're also an addict, guess what? You need to take your slippery butt to NA, where you probably belong.
It's dangerous to get a few years on the block then hide out solely in AA. I can't tell you the number of friends my recovering addict pals who went strictly to AA I have lost to pain pills because they seem to forget, yup, they once liked those darn pills, too. They forget, before they try to claw their way back, that pain pills are addictive, just like the heroin they used to shoot or the cocaine they stuffed up their noses.
My heart belongs to NA. It's where I got cleaned and where I was loved unconditionally. It's where, for the first time in years, people looked me in the eye and said they loved me.
But when you have a few years in the camps, and you live in a town of 30,000 and you're consistently among the one or two people in the meetings with more than a few years, there are times when AA is a great alternative. But my heart is in NA. The message I carry is an NA message. It is where I tell my truth.
But the constant anti-AA message I hear when I go to NA reminds me why I sometimes don't want to go to NA. I began drugs largely due to peer pressure in high school and you know what? I'll be double damned if I'm going to be coerced from attending whatever Fellowship I want.
If I let your narrow thinking coerce me, does it mean I shouldn't go to Gamblers Anonymous if I can't stay out of the bingo halls? What if I'm a recovering sex worker, wounded from years of sexual abuse? Should I avoid Sex Workers Anonymous in a desire to work a "pure" NA program? What if I'm addicted to Twinkies? Do NA members really want to hear about that creamy white filling during an NA meeting when our focus should be on the desire to stop using?
I first came into the rooms in '81 and NA literature was limited. (Does anyone remember the Fourth Step guide we used then that had a question on bestiality? Hey, that's okay, I was raised around sheep, too.) We got clean on the--gasp--Big Book. That is my history. Does NA want only revisionist history? That's what Marx did, and then came Stalin.
I am proud of our NA literature and my stint at the World Service Office helping to develop several of our most-used pieces. I don't feel the need to fly my NA flag to anyone; I have done my time in the trenches and I continue to serve. However, when I had about 12 years clean and moved to a small town, I began to attend AA. Today I am just as loved in AA and as long as I have friends there, I'll continue to attend.
Which programs others attend is absolutely none of my business. If it works for them, I'm happy for them. When I share, I speak a clear NA message when I'm in NA. In AA, I may mention I used drugs and will talk to anyone who is having a problem with drugs after the meeting, but I focus on my experience with alcohol. If you don't have a history with alcohol, don't go to AA. Or if you do go, identify as an alcoholic because that's the Third Tradition, or don't identify at all and go to open meetings.
I was fortunate to study at Naropa for three summers, a college of poetics in Boulder founded by, among other great beat poets, Allen Ginsburg. Ginsburg was a giant among poets. At a time when no one was talking about it, he openly discussed his drug use, his homosexuality and he put his politics on a plate. He was a great and in my experience, a loving man. He said something once that fit. He studied under William Carlos Williams, one of the great American poets. But he spoke about his close relationship with Williams, which hit the rocks for a number of years. He said for an artist to find his or her own niche and become great, he or she "must first despise your teachers."
I believe this rebellion is part of adolescence, be it in life or in art. We have to break loose from the restrictions we feel are placed on us, whether real or imaginary, from our parents, our teachers, our mentors. Only then do we find our own way.
It appears to me that NA is still in its adolescence, breaking away and "despising" AA. But just as in our addiction most of us rebelled against our parents, in recovery we hear over and over in meetings of the joy of rebuilding these fractured relationships. My hope for the NA Fellowship is that it grows in maturity to the point that we don't waste valuable energy boasting about our NA "purity."
Like it or not, AA is the mothership from which NA sprang. Let's stop crapping on the deck of our mothership with snide, non-productive remarks like "I work a pure NA program" (I've got news for you; there isn't one); "I get everything I need in this Fellowship (good for you; now try staying out of the casinos for a few days); and the one from a dear friend with the most hubris I've ever heard in 20-plus years in the Fellowship: "If AA didn't come along, I believe it would have been something and NA would still have started." Speaking strictly for me, I wouldn't place all my marbles in that belief basket. Personally, I thank God on a daily basis that I was born long after Doctor Bob and Bill W. and a few befuddled hopeless alcoholics miraculously found each other and floundered to a start. I, and probably many of you, would have died in the gutter but for that.
It's time for NA to go from its raging adolescence to maturity. It's time for us to simply stand quietly on our own feet and stop bashing the mothership. I have never heard an AA member bashing NA or wearing a t-shirt that proudly proclaims "Pure AA member." It's a waste of breath and ink.
Just as we now, in most cases, love and honor our parents, it's time for us to stop bashing the mothership. Let's put our energy where it really belongs--in carrying the message to the addict who still suffers.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, April 29, 2006
No long megillah
Today, I promise, I will be brief--no long megillah (forgive me, I'm Irish). While I was gone it rained, and although Arizona is as dry as a tortoise shell and I worry about the fire potential this summer, today is as clear and green and exquisite as only an Arizona day can be. I guess that's why this is, sadly, one of the fastest growing states in the nation.
One of my AA friends dropped by this morning and we drank coffee and talked. I told her about yesterday's "coincidence," and we had a laugh at how strong, how tenacious, denial is. She had been at her home group Wednesday night when a newcomer arrived, fresh out of a year in prison for a DUI. Usually a step study, the group immediately did what a small group should do when there's a newcomer: they went to Step One.
Sheryl talked to her after the meeting about the five things you've "got to do" to stay sober. (There are no musts, but there are a few "you darn well betters," I've heard said.) Cheryl ticked them off 1) Go to 90 in 90; 2) Read the literature; 3) Get a sponsor; 4) Work the steps; and 5) Pray, whether you believe in a Higher Power or not. The newcomer had a lot of excuses: No car, living in a remote area, a lot of reasons she couldn't go to a lot of meetings. If a year in prison hasn't made her willing, what will? That's between her and her God. All we can do is make suggestions.
I love it when a car comes up the drive. Ever since I've been clean, and even before, I delight in visitors. My parents welcomed visitors, what they called "southwest hospitality," and I think it's genetic, that feeling of welcoming someone into one's home. I try to ensure there's always a pot of coffee either on or ready to perc, and when company comes, I'm always happy.
Living 16 miles out of town prohibits all but the adventurous from visiting, though; everyone's schedule is busy with children or work and errands, it seems. The best part of the past year's medical travails has been that I've discovered something important. I never again want to work full-time. It impedes too much that I've found important--friends, the dogs, volunteering, blogging, writing--the things that I believe I was put on earth to do.
After the transplant, I had to be realistic. My life expectancy has changed. The question I've lately asked myself when weighing decisions--should I go to Missouri, should I go to Phoenix to a meeting, should I keep trying to find an agent for my books--is this: Is this really how I want to spend the time that I have left?
If it were a perfect world, I would never step foot out of Arizona again, except for vacations. But my partner is in Missouri and I'm perfectly happy there, so I will go, at least for part of the year. But Arizona is my home. Skull Valley is where I want to die. I want to be buried in a simple knotty pine casket and put in the Skull Valley cemetery with a headstone that says "I Only Came Here to Laugh."
The wind is blowing a bit, but if I listen, that's all I hear. Twice a day the train comes by and even though they're used to it, two dogs barking, well, they bark. They see that as their duty. Other than that, and an occasional bird, it is silent.
At night I sleep soundly, Romy at the foot of my bed, Oz curled up on the couch. Occasionally a pack of coyotes will howl and the dogs pick up their heads and listen intently. When the moon is full, we walk, the dogs bounding along in late-night ecstacy. I pull the curtains near the bed and the moon weeps in, bathing me in its topaz light.
And I know, without a doubt, that there is a God who is taking care of me. So until tomorrow, enjoy the spring. And don't forget, even if you're in a rough patch, to say "Thanks" to your Higher Power.
One of my AA friends dropped by this morning and we drank coffee and talked. I told her about yesterday's "coincidence," and we had a laugh at how strong, how tenacious, denial is. She had been at her home group Wednesday night when a newcomer arrived, fresh out of a year in prison for a DUI. Usually a step study, the group immediately did what a small group should do when there's a newcomer: they went to Step One.
Sheryl talked to her after the meeting about the five things you've "got to do" to stay sober. (There are no musts, but there are a few "you darn well betters," I've heard said.) Cheryl ticked them off 1) Go to 90 in 90; 2) Read the literature; 3) Get a sponsor; 4) Work the steps; and 5) Pray, whether you believe in a Higher Power or not. The newcomer had a lot of excuses: No car, living in a remote area, a lot of reasons she couldn't go to a lot of meetings. If a year in prison hasn't made her willing, what will? That's between her and her God. All we can do is make suggestions.
I love it when a car comes up the drive. Ever since I've been clean, and even before, I delight in visitors. My parents welcomed visitors, what they called "southwest hospitality," and I think it's genetic, that feeling of welcoming someone into one's home. I try to ensure there's always a pot of coffee either on or ready to perc, and when company comes, I'm always happy.
Living 16 miles out of town prohibits all but the adventurous from visiting, though; everyone's schedule is busy with children or work and errands, it seems. The best part of the past year's medical travails has been that I've discovered something important. I never again want to work full-time. It impedes too much that I've found important--friends, the dogs, volunteering, blogging, writing--the things that I believe I was put on earth to do.
After the transplant, I had to be realistic. My life expectancy has changed. The question I've lately asked myself when weighing decisions--should I go to Missouri, should I go to Phoenix to a meeting, should I keep trying to find an agent for my books--is this: Is this really how I want to spend the time that I have left?
If it were a perfect world, I would never step foot out of Arizona again, except for vacations. But my partner is in Missouri and I'm perfectly happy there, so I will go, at least for part of the year. But Arizona is my home. Skull Valley is where I want to die. I want to be buried in a simple knotty pine casket and put in the Skull Valley cemetery with a headstone that says "I Only Came Here to Laugh."
The wind is blowing a bit, but if I listen, that's all I hear. Twice a day the train comes by and even though they're used to it, two dogs barking, well, they bark. They see that as their duty. Other than that, and an occasional bird, it is silent.
At night I sleep soundly, Romy at the foot of my bed, Oz curled up on the couch. Occasionally a pack of coyotes will howl and the dogs pick up their heads and listen intently. When the moon is full, we walk, the dogs bounding along in late-night ecstacy. I pull the curtains near the bed and the moon weeps in, bathing me in its topaz light.
And I know, without a doubt, that there is a God who is taking care of me. So until tomorrow, enjoy the spring. And don't forget, even if you're in a rough patch, to say "Thanks" to your Higher Power.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Eskimos
My sponsor has a name for them--Eskimos. They are the people God sends to take care of you when you are at that jumping off point--ready to drink, use or just in a mess. God's angels in human form. Today, I was an Eskimo.
I flew in from Ft. Lauderdale last night and rather than driving home, I decided to stay in Phoenix and catch a 9 a.m. meeting that my first sponsor, who now has 36 years, always attends. Sure enough, she was there, and we had a great time catching up. It was a stick meeting, where each person takes a stick with a topic on it and shares. It was a good meeting and I left, as I almost always do after a meeting, in great spirits.
I was driving up the 1-17 and just as I passed Black Canyon City, I noticed a late-model green car weaving up the road in front of me. The driver would slow to 60, weave a bit, speed up to 80, weave more, slow to 60, you get the picture. I and the other drivers around her, when she slowed again to 60, were signaling to each other and rolling down windows to say "Watch out," and "I called 911." There was a state trooper behind us who had pulled over a school bus, so I figured it wouldn't take long for him to catch up to her.
I didn't want to pass her for my own safety, but as I came up to the Crown King exit, she pulled over. I could see her clearly--she was about my age and alone. I pulled over in front of her and walked back to her car. She was talking to her mother on her cell phone and crying. She hung up and looked at me through bloodshot eyes. "What's up?" I said. I could smell the liquor through the open window.
"Nothing, why?" she asked.
"Because you're all over the road and the highway patrol have been called."
She had a dozen excuses, one running into another, about why she was weaving--she was tired, she got up too early, she was upset--we all know the taradiddle.
I asked her where her mother was and she said Prescott. "Well, it just so happens that I'm going to Prescott so can I give you a lift? Just lock up your car, the police give you 24 hours to move it, and I'll drop you at your mom's." I was shocked when she agreed.
It took her a few minutes to collect everything, but we put her suitcase in my car and off we went. I told her I had just left an AA meeting and that I used to drink heavily. I never asked her if she'd been drinking, or if she had a problem, I just shared a bit of my story and told her how grateful I was that she let me give her a ride so that I didn't have to make the rest of the trip alone. And I listened. I listened to her excuses for the chaos in her life: the insanity of being married to one man but living with another, of the death of her father, how much she loved her mother and more. I was overcome with gratitude.
I dropped her at her mother's, a friendly woman whom I liked right away. She was very concerned. She took me aside and asked me what had happened. I told her that her daughter was all over the road and I was concerned so when she pulled over I stopped and offered her a ride. I didn't say much more, but gave her my phone number and invited them out to my house if they felt so inclined. If she calls me, I'll mention Alanon.
We all know there are no coincidences. God put Eskimos in my path more than once and for that I am eternally grateful. Maybe today's event is just what she needs to take a look at her drinking. Or maybe not. Maybe a DUI would have been the kicker. I just knew the right thing to do at that moment in time was to get her off the road before she hurt herself or others.
I also know this--I stayed sober today.
I flew in from Ft. Lauderdale last night and rather than driving home, I decided to stay in Phoenix and catch a 9 a.m. meeting that my first sponsor, who now has 36 years, always attends. Sure enough, she was there, and we had a great time catching up. It was a stick meeting, where each person takes a stick with a topic on it and shares. It was a good meeting and I left, as I almost always do after a meeting, in great spirits.
I was driving up the 1-17 and just as I passed Black Canyon City, I noticed a late-model green car weaving up the road in front of me. The driver would slow to 60, weave a bit, speed up to 80, weave more, slow to 60, you get the picture. I and the other drivers around her, when she slowed again to 60, were signaling to each other and rolling down windows to say "Watch out," and "I called 911." There was a state trooper behind us who had pulled over a school bus, so I figured it wouldn't take long for him to catch up to her.
I didn't want to pass her for my own safety, but as I came up to the Crown King exit, she pulled over. I could see her clearly--she was about my age and alone. I pulled over in front of her and walked back to her car. She was talking to her mother on her cell phone and crying. She hung up and looked at me through bloodshot eyes. "What's up?" I said. I could smell the liquor through the open window.
"Nothing, why?" she asked.
"Because you're all over the road and the highway patrol have been called."
She had a dozen excuses, one running into another, about why she was weaving--she was tired, she got up too early, she was upset--we all know the taradiddle.
I asked her where her mother was and she said Prescott. "Well, it just so happens that I'm going to Prescott so can I give you a lift? Just lock up your car, the police give you 24 hours to move it, and I'll drop you at your mom's." I was shocked when she agreed.
It took her a few minutes to collect everything, but we put her suitcase in my car and off we went. I told her I had just left an AA meeting and that I used to drink heavily. I never asked her if she'd been drinking, or if she had a problem, I just shared a bit of my story and told her how grateful I was that she let me give her a ride so that I didn't have to make the rest of the trip alone. And I listened. I listened to her excuses for the chaos in her life: the insanity of being married to one man but living with another, of the death of her father, how much she loved her mother and more. I was overcome with gratitude.
I dropped her at her mother's, a friendly woman whom I liked right away. She was very concerned. She took me aside and asked me what had happened. I told her that her daughter was all over the road and I was concerned so when she pulled over I stopped and offered her a ride. I didn't say much more, but gave her my phone number and invited them out to my house if they felt so inclined. If she calls me, I'll mention Alanon.
We all know there are no coincidences. God put Eskimos in my path more than once and for that I am eternally grateful. Maybe today's event is just what she needs to take a look at her drinking. Or maybe not. Maybe a DUI would have been the kicker. I just knew the right thing to do at that moment in time was to get her off the road before she hurt herself or others.
I also know this--I stayed sober today.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Why I hate Florida
I figured it out today--why I hate Florida. It's because the women here are thin and beautiful and I feel like a fat, ugly stepsister. Tonight I wandered over to the mall near my hotel and what was there? A whole bunch of thin woman in skimpy clothes wearing catch-me-come fuck me shoes that would immediately break my ankle. When I wander in stores like they have in Broward County, where a skirt sequined, skin tight, about four inches long and costs $270, I know I have entered a parallel universe. I immediately noticed my NA t-shirt was wrinkled and I was wearing Sketchers, can you imagine?
But I'm heading home tomorrow; our audit is wrapping up in the morning. Reviewing commercial insurance underwriting isn't a lot of fun, so we spend a bit of the day cracking very bad jokes and listening to our favorite audio clips we have stored on our computers. For underwriting reasons, agents can't write certain coverages like wind in certains cities in some states. We were having a hard time figuring out which states in Texas were restricted. One of the auditors said "Where is Graham City, Texas?"
"I don't know," I said, "but I'll bet a bunch of crackers live there." That was arguably the best line of the day, until the same auditor (who's from London) said "the audience loved me" when he recently, when he was "blasted," karoaked the theme from "Shaft." Okay. Maybe the drunks loved him, anyway. Whatever you say.
We then moved on to the newest pedophile sting that was on the morning news, this one in a small town in Iowa. I mentioned I'd looked at my state's sex offender web site and one of my neighbors was one it. "They tend to live in clusters," one of the other auditors said. "Yes, I think that's called a clusterfuck," I said.
Tomorrow, we'll have a few laughs, and then the Arizona team heads home. I won't miss Florida one little bit. In fact, if I never came here again, it would be alright by me. I prefer my own cluster.
But I'm heading home tomorrow; our audit is wrapping up in the morning. Reviewing commercial insurance underwriting isn't a lot of fun, so we spend a bit of the day cracking very bad jokes and listening to our favorite audio clips we have stored on our computers. For underwriting reasons, agents can't write certain coverages like wind in certains cities in some states. We were having a hard time figuring out which states in Texas were restricted. One of the auditors said "Where is Graham City, Texas?"
"I don't know," I said, "but I'll bet a bunch of crackers live there." That was arguably the best line of the day, until the same auditor (who's from London) said "the audience loved me" when he recently, when he was "blasted," karoaked the theme from "Shaft." Okay. Maybe the drunks loved him, anyway. Whatever you say.
We then moved on to the newest pedophile sting that was on the morning news, this one in a small town in Iowa. I mentioned I'd looked at my state's sex offender web site and one of my neighbors was one it. "They tend to live in clusters," one of the other auditors said. "Yes, I think that's called a clusterfuck," I said.
Tomorrow, we'll have a few laughs, and then the Arizona team heads home. I won't miss Florida one little bit. In fact, if I never came here again, it would be alright by me. I prefer my own cluster.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Florida
I'm in Ft. Lauderdale, saying beautiful Ft. Lauderdale would be a stretch for me, helping on an audit. It's the first time since my surgery that I've tried to work, so I'm approaching things a bit tentatively. The team of Arizona auditors flew in last night on a red eye and we went into the agency today on three hours of sleep. Maybe I'm getting old, but in retrospect this seems like a very dumb idea.
Florida is a funny state, or rather its residents are pretty funny. It's sort of like a state of New Yorkers on steroids designed to help inhibit the aging process. I saw this elderly little slip of a woman drop her sweater coming down the escalator to the baggage carousel. She tried to pick it up but couldn't. She got this diabolical look on her face and kicked it, where it sailed to the bottom of the steps. (She's probably a retired New Yorker. She had that New York attitude.)
I've never spent more than a few days, maybe five in a row, in Florida, and that's been enough. It just isn't my kind of place, between the crowded highways, the humidity and the throngs of people all seemingly headed in the same direction.
I was in Ecuador for two weeks with a friend of mine in the early 90s. After our stay, I flew into Miami 15 pounds lighter with a terrible case of stomach virus and a greater appreciation for what it means to live in the United States. But the aching poverty of Ecuador, and Ecuador is one of the wealthier of the South American countries, juxtaposed against the noveau riche glitz of Miami, was a slap in our faces when we flew into Miami to spend three days before we flew home.
The best part of traveling, though, is attending meetings where you don't know anyone, don't know how the meetings are run, and you automatically put principles before personalities because you have no history with the people you meet. It's a delicious break from my home group and I always take away more from an away-from-home meeting than I came in with.
I've been blessed in my recovery to live in a lot of places and travel to more. I've been to meetings in three countries and more states than I can count. I find that no matter how lonely or rattled I am when traveling, I walk into a meeting, whether it's at a ghetto church in Jersey or a beautiful New England cathedral, and I'm home.
Florida is a funny state, or rather its residents are pretty funny. It's sort of like a state of New Yorkers on steroids designed to help inhibit the aging process. I saw this elderly little slip of a woman drop her sweater coming down the escalator to the baggage carousel. She tried to pick it up but couldn't. She got this diabolical look on her face and kicked it, where it sailed to the bottom of the steps. (She's probably a retired New Yorker. She had that New York attitude.)
I've never spent more than a few days, maybe five in a row, in Florida, and that's been enough. It just isn't my kind of place, between the crowded highways, the humidity and the throngs of people all seemingly headed in the same direction.
I was in Ecuador for two weeks with a friend of mine in the early 90s. After our stay, I flew into Miami 15 pounds lighter with a terrible case of stomach virus and a greater appreciation for what it means to live in the United States. But the aching poverty of Ecuador, and Ecuador is one of the wealthier of the South American countries, juxtaposed against the noveau riche glitz of Miami, was a slap in our faces when we flew into Miami to spend three days before we flew home.
The best part of traveling, though, is attending meetings where you don't know anyone, don't know how the meetings are run, and you automatically put principles before personalities because you have no history with the people you meet. It's a delicious break from my home group and I always take away more from an away-from-home meeting than I came in with.
I've been blessed in my recovery to live in a lot of places and travel to more. I've been to meetings in three countries and more states than I can count. I find that no matter how lonely or rattled I am when traveling, I walk into a meeting, whether it's at a ghetto church in Jersey or a beautiful New England cathedral, and I'm home.
Friday, April 21, 2006
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.
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.
Jump
Jump
.
.
They say those who really want to die
jump from the Golden Gate Bridge facing the sea.
Those who still cling to life leap facing the city
arms outstretched in silent benediction
perhaps wondering again
in that last millisecond
"Why me?"
Who's to say?
I know I'm fundamentally changed
for now
I would jump facing the city.
.
.
Depression, it's a controversial issue, even in the rooms of recovery. Taking an antidepressant, which admittedly has positively changed the lives of millions, is one of the hardest decisions one makes in recovery. I struggled through the first ten years of my recovery depressed. I went to two different therapists who suggested I struggle on, and I did.
.
.
Finally, when I had ten years clean and my mind's tape (one friend refers to his as a small rat terrier voice) still told me I was "a piece of crap" and that "I should just kill myself," I had a moment of clarity. I had ten years clean, I had the job of my dreams, I had purchased my first home, there was nothing wrong yet I still had that voice in my head. I remembered that old cliche, "Pain is mandatory; suffering is optional." I was suffering. I decided to heck with well-meaning therapists who recommended I wait it out. My family doctor prescribed Prozac.
.
.
For me, it was miraculous. As long as I took my small daily dose, it switched off that voice, that constant companion of years, telling me I was worthless. I stayed on Prozac, switching later to Wellbutrin which had less side effects for me, for about a decade. I did see a psychiatrist at one point to address my attention-deficit disorder (ADD) after I had went through diagnostics to ferret out why I was still having trouble functioning administratively (I spent more time looking for things than working). I was told that I was ADD and perhaps a little bit manic-depressive. I gave that report to the psychiatrist who commented "Being a little bit manic is like being a little pregnant."
.
.
I stayed on Prozac, but then the choice became should I take another medication for my ADD. He suggested dexedrine. Speed wasn't my drug of choice, and the psychiatrist assured me that if I took it AS PRESCRIBED, it would not be a problem. I reluctantly took one pill, felt my jaw tighten in that old familiar way, and threw the bottle away. I couldn't risk my recovery, and I've chosen to manage my ADD myself. (Ask the administrative assistants I've had through the years--my plan hasn't worked so well.)
.
.
As I got too ill to take any medication approaching my transplant, I stopped taking my antidepressant. I felt, once I was told I had only a few months to live, there is little difference between depression and facing the end of life. It's all dark.
.
.
After the transplant, I don't take an antidepressant. Although I'm still somewhat emotionally labile (up one day, a bit down the next), I choose to ride with the wave. As I often say in meetings, "I don't have many bad days." I have had God's grace in so many ways in my life, first that I, an addict of the hopeless variety, could get clean, and second, that because a six-year old boy died an untimely death, I could live. How bad can it get?
.
.
I believe that the brain of a depressed person does not function normally. Depression runs in my family; my father had long silent spells, and several of his children have not escaped unscathed. Add this genetic component to years of chemically managing our moods and it's little wonder that so many of us have a few gaps in our synapses.
.
.
I only discuss this subject because so many of us struggle with depression and sometimes in silence. On the other hand, I find that so many of the newcomers who ask me to work with them are already on antidepressants, a trend I found troubling. Unless there is some psychiatric history, I usually suggest that newcomers who are depressed wait a year before they decide to take antidepressants. I'm not a psychiatrist, of course, nor a Scientologist, so this blog is merely what has worked for me. It may or may not work for you. There, now I've written a legal disclaimer.
.
.
Well, it's a beautiful day, Romy wants a walkie and I'm going outdoors. A bird built a beautiful nest up on a post on my porch. She had eggs in it and I delighted in watching her fly in and out, perfecting it. When the wind blew it down a few nights ago and smashed the eggs, I was sad. I placed her nest, which was about six inches in diameter and spectacular (she raided my dryer vent for part of it), in a tree near the porch hoping she would reinhabit it.
.
.
Yesterday I went onto the porch with my coffee and noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The nest was back in its original spot! I can't figure how she moved it; if she did it herself (it probably weighs a lot more than she does) or she had help from her bird partner. (My boyfriend suggested perhaps they used a small helicopter.) That was my day's lesson in determination.
Until tomorrow, may you listen to your Guidance.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Oz goes to the sperm bank
A few months ago, my dogs had a nasty tussle. Oz grew up with R-dog, but now that he is three, he won't take herdominance anymore, and she won't back down, so I have on my hands a dangerous dilemma. I have a few options. 1) Keep the dogs separate, which is hard because of the way I live with my dogs; 2) Sell Oz, which I don't want to do; or 3) Neuter Oz and hope he calms down.
I don't like any of the options, but the third option looked the most viable in the weeks after the fight as I limped around healing from three puncture wounds to my thigh. So because Oz is such an awesome dog, I sent him to the sperm bank in the event he was, as I call it around him, "tutored."
What I know about banking sperm is nothing, but his trip proved quite interesting. Only one vet in Phoenix banks sperm, and they had an in-heat female, what they call a "teaser dog" there on a Sunday. I couldn't take him that day, so my friend Pat volunteered.
First, they took Oz into a yard where females in heat have been urinating. That got Oz' attention right away; he was pretty much out of his mind in moments, Pat said. She led him inside and in a few moments, they brought in the "tease." I don't know what he was expecting, probably a big Teutonic dish named "Hilda," but what he found was a char pei.
Pat said Oz swung his head and looked at her as if to say "What the heck am I supposed to do with that?" But even given the wrinkley view, he did the deed, then afterwards went out in the yard. Pat said he spent at least a minute kicking gravel many feet into the air, a dog's way of spreading its scent. "Gravel rained down on my head," she said laughing.
I told the story at my home group, which is mainly made up of horse people and ranchers, and they cracked up. "You should have given him a six-pack of beer," one said, "then he wouldn't have worried about how bad she looked."
He then told an insemination story of his own. He was a vet tech when he was drinking and helped orchestrate cattle artificial insemination. Apparently to inseminate a cow, one uses an artifical vagina which is heated with warm water and inserted into the cow. The bull then does his bidness in the artifical vagina and voila, future cow progeny.
On one occasion, he said, a vet tech assisting with a breeding between a particularly prolific brahma and a gurnsey cow, used an overheated vagina. The brahma entered the cow, bellowed and then took off. After that, he would never touch another gurnsey. "Those gurnseys are just too hot to handle," I'm sure he thought.
As an addict, I'm not sure I can relate to a brahma who has the "once bitten twice shy" mentality. No, I normally have to hit the same speed bumps on the road of life again and again before I finally realize, "Hey, I can take a different route." And that ain't no bull.
I don't like any of the options, but the third option looked the most viable in the weeks after the fight as I limped around healing from three puncture wounds to my thigh. So because Oz is such an awesome dog, I sent him to the sperm bank in the event he was, as I call it around him, "tutored."
What I know about banking sperm is nothing, but his trip proved quite interesting. Only one vet in Phoenix banks sperm, and they had an in-heat female, what they call a "teaser dog" there on a Sunday. I couldn't take him that day, so my friend Pat volunteered.
First, they took Oz into a yard where females in heat have been urinating. That got Oz' attention right away; he was pretty much out of his mind in moments, Pat said. She led him inside and in a few moments, they brought in the "tease." I don't know what he was expecting, probably a big Teutonic dish named "Hilda," but what he found was a char pei.
Pat said Oz swung his head and looked at her as if to say "What the heck am I supposed to do with that?" But even given the wrinkley view, he did the deed, then afterwards went out in the yard. Pat said he spent at least a minute kicking gravel many feet into the air, a dog's way of spreading its scent. "Gravel rained down on my head," she said laughing.
I told the story at my home group, which is mainly made up of horse people and ranchers, and they cracked up. "You should have given him a six-pack of beer," one said, "then he wouldn't have worried about how bad she looked."
He then told an insemination story of his own. He was a vet tech when he was drinking and helped orchestrate cattle artificial insemination. Apparently to inseminate a cow, one uses an artifical vagina which is heated with warm water and inserted into the cow. The bull then does his bidness in the artifical vagina and voila, future cow progeny.
On one occasion, he said, a vet tech assisting with a breeding between a particularly prolific brahma and a gurnsey cow, used an overheated vagina. The brahma entered the cow, bellowed and then took off. After that, he would never touch another gurnsey. "Those gurnseys are just too hot to handle," I'm sure he thought.
As an addict, I'm not sure I can relate to a brahma who has the "once bitten twice shy" mentality. No, I normally have to hit the same speed bumps on the road of life again and again before I finally realize, "Hey, I can take a different route." And that ain't no bull.
Meet the Goombahs
It's 9 a.m. and Romy, my nine-year old German shepherd had her breakfast and is lying on the couch with her head propped up on three pillows. She is staring at me. Romy has been with me for all but her first six months; and of course when I got so sick before the transplant both she and Oz, my three-year old male, stayed with my friend Pat. At the risk of making my other dog trainer friends mad, she is the finest dog trainer I've ever met, and I've met many. It's probably her patience that helps, but she has an intuitive feeling for animals that is absolutely uncanny.
Pat has worked with all types of dogs, and when someone I know is having a problem with for instance a Rotty, she'll listen and then say, "Well, in my experience Rottys . . . " or "Brittanys don't normally have this short attention span, but this one has a bit of a problem." She kept both Romy and Oz for at least nine months while I was too ill to have them; but Romy is her mom's girl and is pretty indifferent to anyone but me. Romy thinks I'm simply mahvelous.
I think that's what I love about dogs; their total commitment to you no matter what your mood. If I want to hang in the living room and watch TV, they hang in the living room. If I go sit on the porch with my inevitable cup of coffee, they want to hang out in the sun near me. If I decide to go the bedroom and read, they go to the bedroom, although they prefer napping over reading.
Oz is a handful. He is also a howler. My brother, a songwriter, was visiting here a few months ago and a friend came up for the day to see him. They started howling. Oz looked confused, then threw back his head and howled along. He's hilarious and predictible. If you howl, Oz looks confused then decides, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" and throws back his head for a full-throated yodel. It always makes me laugh.
Both my dogs are trained in Schutzhund, a dog sport originating in Germany where dogs perform a variety of maneuvers, including off-lead obedience, running a track to find a hidden object, scaling walls, and most important, biting a bad guy in a padded suit. Oz just turned three and he's so full of testosterone that I'm having a hard time handling him. Yesterday he put his foot on my chest and pushed me, as if saying, "I'm the boss, remember?" Just like a guy.
Romy is part Czech, from the Border Patrol lines imported by another great trainer friend of mine, Zdenek, www.alpineK9.com. Oz is from German parents, in fact his father was the top Schutzhund in the world in the late 90s and Oz appears to have just as much ability. The Catch-22 is that I don't have the expertise to take him to the top.
So what do I do? Sell him to a more experienced handler who can take him at least to nationals? Doing so means I lose input on how he is treated, and while the people I train with are very humane, believe me, I seen things happen at competitions and in training that are very unfair to the dog. The group I work with, Riverfront in St. Louis, Mo. www.rwdc.org, train almost totally without correction and are a great bunch of people. But people who compete are, gee, competitive, and if their dogs don't perform, well, the dog often takes the blame. I was at a handler training in Illinois with a past member of the world Schutzhund team. His dog didn't obey him immediately and he hit him on the top of his head with a closed fist as hard as he could. The dog just looked at him with an adoring look, "Hey, whaddid I do?" A German judge was standing with us and said in his halting English "Why you hit the dog?" My sentiments exactly. "Because he won't out (release the object)," the handler said, a flaw in training that cannot be corrected, in my humble opinion, by harsh corrections.
Or I could neuter Oz, but I can't bring myself to do that and besides, Zdenek would never speak to me again. My friend Barbara took a lovely little Aussie stray Pete in to a spay/neuter clinic to be neutered so she could place him (few will take an unneutered dog) and the vet butchered him. Pete almost bled to death and has been in and out of the hospital now for several weeks. (If you want to donate to the vet bills, let me know as they are about $1,000 and climbing.) But Pete has cojones, or did, and Barbara, when I asked her how his placement in a new home was progressing, said "Forget it, I'm keeping him. Pete has more heart than any dog I've ever met." You go, girl.
Remember that with dogs, 90 percent of the time when the dog screws up, it's handler error. Recently a police dog in Prescott Valley hopped out of the officer's car at his house and promptly took off down the street and chewed on a woman who was walking. The problem? The handler underestimated the dog's drive, which was probably stimulating by being in the car thinking "Hey, I'm working now and I see a bad girl," and seeing the motion of the women walking. The cop may have just opened the door without thinking, and let the dog out without getting eye contact and reminding the dog, "Hey, dude, I'm the pack leader and I give the commands." That's the point with working dogs: You have to think all the time or a deadly accident can occur. Qwest, the dog, is back on duty after two extensive evaluations, although I'm not convinced his credibility with that department is shot as far as the public is concerned.
Living with high-drive dogs is not easy. I'm always vigilant to be sure I either have the dogs on leash or in an environment where I have about 1/8 mile of clearance from other people and dogs. It sometimes tires me out. But I've lived alone for years and having two dogs willing to literally take a bullet for me (ask Zdenek--Romy backed him up just the other day because I was lying down when he approached and I think she sees me as particularly vulnerable when I'm reclined). Zdenek trained Romy early on for home invasion complete with starter gunshots and door kicks, car jackings, all potential "bad guy" scenarious. She isn't sure, years later, why she doesn't trust him, she just knows she doesn't. He brings her beef hearts and she takes them, but always keeps her eye on him. I feel pretty darn safe with the goombahs around.
Having said all that, I've decided that these will be my last German shepherds. The older I get, the more I miss my Dallas, a Belgian malinois (pronounced mal-in-wah), a cousin to the German shepherd smaller and light brown usually with dark masks. Dally was my ex-fiancee's demo dog (he was a trainer) and when we split up, she had begun to get quirky as Malinois are inclined to do, so we agreed that I take both her and Romy when I left, and because of that I never regret our relationship. He also introduced me to Skull Valley, where I live, and where the first time I came here I knew I was home.
Dally was almost a perfect dog. (Every dog has glitches, just like every person.) She was incredibly intelligent and loyal. We used to put on dog-training demonstrations with her and part of the act, and it was for real, was "Now, Dallas will read lips." The crowds loved it.
Dally was great around kids but hated to be led by her collar. I was at a meeting with her one night (she was my Home Group, Hip, Slick & Kool at the Arid Club in Phoenix, mascot). She was outside with a bunch of kids. I heard a sharp bark and a kid crying, so I ran out. "She bit me," he said when I asked him what was wrong. Dallas never bit anyone, so I asked, "Are you sure she bit you?" He had no marks on him.
"No," he finally admitted, "but she put her teeth on me." I'm sure she did, because if he pulled her collar she would eventually put her teeth on him to warn him away. I never left her unattended around kids after that. Dogs are lawsuits on four legs, no matter how minor the incident.
As my mother become sicker and sicker with Alzheimers disease, Dally was her constant companion and grounded my mother. If Dally was there to pet, everything was A-OK. When Dally died before she did, she'd ask where she was and we'd lie. "She's next door swimming, mom," or "I think she's upstairs napping," we'd say. I'm crying as I write this because I loved my mother (and Dallas) so much. They are so intertwined in my memory that I don't know which I grieved harder at their deaths, Dally or my mom.
Mom was a true Christian. She never said a harsh word against another human being. If someone was particularly difficult, the most she would say is "I feel sorry for him." She just didn't judge but I seem to have failed to inherit that gene.
So back to the dogs, who ground me. They have been the most stability I've ever had in my life. They force me to be responsible. But most, they love me with brown-eyed gazes that say, no matter how I feel, that I'm the greatest. And all for a bowl of kibble a day.
Pat has worked with all types of dogs, and when someone I know is having a problem with for instance a Rotty, she'll listen and then say, "Well, in my experience Rottys . . . " or "Brittanys don't normally have this short attention span, but this one has a bit of a problem." She kept both Romy and Oz for at least nine months while I was too ill to have them; but Romy is her mom's girl and is pretty indifferent to anyone but me. Romy thinks I'm simply mahvelous.
I think that's what I love about dogs; their total commitment to you no matter what your mood. If I want to hang in the living room and watch TV, they hang in the living room. If I go sit on the porch with my inevitable cup of coffee, they want to hang out in the sun near me. If I decide to go the bedroom and read, they go to the bedroom, although they prefer napping over reading.
Oz is a handful. He is also a howler. My brother, a songwriter, was visiting here a few months ago and a friend came up for the day to see him. They started howling. Oz looked confused, then threw back his head and howled along. He's hilarious and predictible. If you howl, Oz looks confused then decides, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" and throws back his head for a full-throated yodel. It always makes me laugh.
Both my dogs are trained in Schutzhund, a dog sport originating in Germany where dogs perform a variety of maneuvers, including off-lead obedience, running a track to find a hidden object, scaling walls, and most important, biting a bad guy in a padded suit. Oz just turned three and he's so full of testosterone that I'm having a hard time handling him. Yesterday he put his foot on my chest and pushed me, as if saying, "I'm the boss, remember?" Just like a guy.
Romy is part Czech, from the Border Patrol lines imported by another great trainer friend of mine, Zdenek, www.alpineK9.com. Oz is from German parents, in fact his father was the top Schutzhund in the world in the late 90s and Oz appears to have just as much ability. The Catch-22 is that I don't have the expertise to take him to the top.
So what do I do? Sell him to a more experienced handler who can take him at least to nationals? Doing so means I lose input on how he is treated, and while the people I train with are very humane, believe me, I seen things happen at competitions and in training that are very unfair to the dog. The group I work with, Riverfront in St. Louis, Mo. www.rwdc.org, train almost totally without correction and are a great bunch of people. But people who compete are, gee, competitive, and if their dogs don't perform, well, the dog often takes the blame. I was at a handler training in Illinois with a past member of the world Schutzhund team. His dog didn't obey him immediately and he hit him on the top of his head with a closed fist as hard as he could. The dog just looked at him with an adoring look, "Hey, whaddid I do?" A German judge was standing with us and said in his halting English "Why you hit the dog?" My sentiments exactly. "Because he won't out (release the object)," the handler said, a flaw in training that cannot be corrected, in my humble opinion, by harsh corrections.
Or I could neuter Oz, but I can't bring myself to do that and besides, Zdenek would never speak to me again. My friend Barbara took a lovely little Aussie stray Pete in to a spay/neuter clinic to be neutered so she could place him (few will take an unneutered dog) and the vet butchered him. Pete almost bled to death and has been in and out of the hospital now for several weeks. (If you want to donate to the vet bills, let me know as they are about $1,000 and climbing.) But Pete has cojones, or did, and Barbara, when I asked her how his placement in a new home was progressing, said "Forget it, I'm keeping him. Pete has more heart than any dog I've ever met." You go, girl.
Remember that with dogs, 90 percent of the time when the dog screws up, it's handler error. Recently a police dog in Prescott Valley hopped out of the officer's car at his house and promptly took off down the street and chewed on a woman who was walking. The problem? The handler underestimated the dog's drive, which was probably stimulating by being in the car thinking "Hey, I'm working now and I see a bad girl," and seeing the motion of the women walking. The cop may have just opened the door without thinking, and let the dog out without getting eye contact and reminding the dog, "Hey, dude, I'm the pack leader and I give the commands." That's the point with working dogs: You have to think all the time or a deadly accident can occur. Qwest, the dog, is back on duty after two extensive evaluations, although I'm not convinced his credibility with that department is shot as far as the public is concerned.
Living with high-drive dogs is not easy. I'm always vigilant to be sure I either have the dogs on leash or in an environment where I have about 1/8 mile of clearance from other people and dogs. It sometimes tires me out. But I've lived alone for years and having two dogs willing to literally take a bullet for me (ask Zdenek--Romy backed him up just the other day because I was lying down when he approached and I think she sees me as particularly vulnerable when I'm reclined). Zdenek trained Romy early on for home invasion complete with starter gunshots and door kicks, car jackings, all potential "bad guy" scenarious. She isn't sure, years later, why she doesn't trust him, she just knows she doesn't. He brings her beef hearts and she takes them, but always keeps her eye on him. I feel pretty darn safe with the goombahs around.
Having said all that, I've decided that these will be my last German shepherds. The older I get, the more I miss my Dallas, a Belgian malinois (pronounced mal-in-wah), a cousin to the German shepherd smaller and light brown usually with dark masks. Dally was my ex-fiancee's demo dog (he was a trainer) and when we split up, she had begun to get quirky as Malinois are inclined to do, so we agreed that I take both her and Romy when I left, and because of that I never regret our relationship. He also introduced me to Skull Valley, where I live, and where the first time I came here I knew I was home.
Dally was almost a perfect dog. (Every dog has glitches, just like every person.) She was incredibly intelligent and loyal. We used to put on dog-training demonstrations with her and part of the act, and it was for real, was "Now, Dallas will read lips." The crowds loved it.
Dally was great around kids but hated to be led by her collar. I was at a meeting with her one night (she was my Home Group, Hip, Slick & Kool at the Arid Club in Phoenix, mascot). She was outside with a bunch of kids. I heard a sharp bark and a kid crying, so I ran out. "She bit me," he said when I asked him what was wrong. Dallas never bit anyone, so I asked, "Are you sure she bit you?" He had no marks on him.
"No," he finally admitted, "but she put her teeth on me." I'm sure she did, because if he pulled her collar she would eventually put her teeth on him to warn him away. I never left her unattended around kids after that. Dogs are lawsuits on four legs, no matter how minor the incident.
As my mother become sicker and sicker with Alzheimers disease, Dally was her constant companion and grounded my mother. If Dally was there to pet, everything was A-OK. When Dally died before she did, she'd ask where she was and we'd lie. "She's next door swimming, mom," or "I think she's upstairs napping," we'd say. I'm crying as I write this because I loved my mother (and Dallas) so much. They are so intertwined in my memory that I don't know which I grieved harder at their deaths, Dally or my mom.
Mom was a true Christian. She never said a harsh word against another human being. If someone was particularly difficult, the most she would say is "I feel sorry for him." She just didn't judge but I seem to have failed to inherit that gene.
So back to the dogs, who ground me. They have been the most stability I've ever had in my life. They force me to be responsible. But most, they love me with brown-eyed gazes that say, no matter how I feel, that I'm the greatest. And all for a bowl of kibble a day.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Dodging bullets -- love in the 21st century
I was married once, years ago, to a man I loved very much but who just wasn't ready to give up his pain pills. It was either them or me and he chose them. Fifteen years later, he's doing better and we're still friends, in fact he called this morning to update me on his Hepatitis C status, which probably prompted this post. Even after all these years, I sometimes still wonder "What if?"
If you're struggling in a relationship, deciding whether to stay or go, there's a little-known but fantastic book that has become my vade mecum as I tilt toward commitment with a wonderful man I met in AA. It's called I Will Never Leave You and is written by a couple, Hugh and Gayle Prather, who are therapists who have been together through years of the ups and downs of marriage, including early in the marriage years of Hugh's multiple affairs.
The one riveting statement they make in this book, and they have counseled thousands of couples, is that absent physical abuse or a few other issues, they have never seen a person walk away from a marriage as a better person because of it. Divorce tears a hole in the psyche, they believe, and although I have worded it to suit myself, I find it true in my life.
I had about five years clean when I divorced my husband, and I left Oakland, where we had been living and I went to college (Mills), to pursue my writing career in Los Angeles. I worked for the World Service Office of NA surrounded by recovering members with multiple years clean who worked fantastic programs. Vida was one such member. I remember complaining to her that I was in so much emotional pain from missing my husband that my body actually hurt. "Of course it does, honey," she said. "Why do you think they call it heart broken?"
I did several years in Naranon and learned to "detach with love." But when a few months after the divorce my husband suddenly decided to get clean and promptly fell in love with another women, years of repressed anger exploded. I was furious. How dare he? After all I'd done for him, including giving up a teaching fellowship at Fordham University to put him through treatment again! The nerve, that he would get clean, my dream for him, not his, as time has proved, and love someone else.
But I moved on, and entered into a few more relationships, including one near-miss with marrying again. I clearly see now that what feels like disaster at the time, in this case my fiancee sleeping with a 22-year old, was a blessing for me. God did for me what I could not do for myself by forcing the issue of abandonment. I also learned that the grief that overcame me after his betrayal was much bigger than his acts. It was all my life's grief compounded--losing friends to the disease; the death of my father, not grieved because I felt I had to stay strong for my mother; the career path glitches; and the decision not to go to graduate school. As I hear one wise women say in a southern California meeting, put on the blues and lean into the pain. There's no way around it but through it.
But I digress, which I'm good at doing. Back to commitment. As addicts and alcoholics, we have a "ditch-it" mentality, I believe. When I had a few months clean, I heard an addict share in a meeting that his cat had kittens and he was ready to take them to the pound and dump them off. He came to the realization, however, that "ditching it" was his typical response to anything that required any real effort. To practice new behaviors is how we become sane, I believe, and that's just what he decided to do: He kept the kittens and found homes for them. Mini-ephipanies are the keys to our spiritual development.
In the Prathers' book, they write "Marriage is a spiritual path. You find someone who is adequate, and you simply make the decision to stay with that person until the day you die. You will suffer, you will go through one hell or another, but you will not leave." It's much like staying clean. You make the decision (Step One), you go through one hell or another (Step Two), but you do not use!
I've found as I've moved from one relationship to another, I drag old boundaries with me. For example, my ex-fiancee was extremely emotionally abusive, although I couldn't pin a name on his behavior at the time--I just knew it hurt and tore me down. When my boyfriend criticizes me or gives me advice, I fight against the thought of "never again will I let someone belittle me." My ego won't allow that and unless I really work at not responding out of anger, the ego's best friend and the emotion that hides all other emotions, the feathers can fly.
"He must think I'm an idiot!" I think when he makes suggestions, even in areas where I know he has more expertise. (This morning it was driving on a low tire.) I tend to demonize the behavior, saying "never again" which stops communication. Only with a Higher Power's help can we work through our "stuff" because at 50, we both come with a gunnysack of crap well prepared to dump it on each other.
But, as the Prathers' say, "It's as if God sent you the box of your missing parts." I'm emotional, he's a bit stoic; I'm verbal, he's more analytical; I have a raunchy sense of humor, which typically upsets him while he's more proper, keeping his humor gender specific; he's had only two jobs in twenty-some years, I've had ten or more. Yes, there's lots to work through, but you know what? I'm ready.
Before my liver transplant last year and especially after, I spent hours and days by myself. I was living in Missouri and I simply didn't have the support system I have in Arizona. I was acutely alone. I realized that I had come to a place in my spiritual development where I was ready for a commitment and God handed me someone so much more than adequate. But what God hasn't removed is the fear.
So we slog on. I'm spending the summer in Missouri and he had planned to fly out and drive back with me next week. Yesterday I was asked by a former employer to go to Ft. Lauderdale to help on an audit, which blew our plans. I called him, knowing that he would be very upset because he doesn't live his life the way I do, which is at a moment's notice I'm comfortable with jumping on a plane and flying off to God knows where to solve a problem.
He was upset, but he handled it very well. He didn't exactly say what I had hoped to hear, full support for my decision, but he did the best he could to support me because he knew it was important to me that I start back to work and feel useful again. This blog ain't paying the mortgage!
So next week it's off to Ft. Lauderdale for a grueling week (don't even think I'll be lying on the beach), then back to finish packing to head to Missouri for a few months. Two dogs barking will stay with a friend, God bless and keep her. So until tomorrow, may God bless and keep you.
If you're struggling in a relationship, deciding whether to stay or go, there's a little-known but fantastic book that has become my vade mecum as I tilt toward commitment with a wonderful man I met in AA. It's called I Will Never Leave You and is written by a couple, Hugh and Gayle Prather, who are therapists who have been together through years of the ups and downs of marriage, including early in the marriage years of Hugh's multiple affairs.
The one riveting statement they make in this book, and they have counseled thousands of couples, is that absent physical abuse or a few other issues, they have never seen a person walk away from a marriage as a better person because of it. Divorce tears a hole in the psyche, they believe, and although I have worded it to suit myself, I find it true in my life.
I had about five years clean when I divorced my husband, and I left Oakland, where we had been living and I went to college (Mills), to pursue my writing career in Los Angeles. I worked for the World Service Office of NA surrounded by recovering members with multiple years clean who worked fantastic programs. Vida was one such member. I remember complaining to her that I was in so much emotional pain from missing my husband that my body actually hurt. "Of course it does, honey," she said. "Why do you think they call it heart broken?"
I did several years in Naranon and learned to "detach with love." But when a few months after the divorce my husband suddenly decided to get clean and promptly fell in love with another women, years of repressed anger exploded. I was furious. How dare he? After all I'd done for him, including giving up a teaching fellowship at Fordham University to put him through treatment again! The nerve, that he would get clean, my dream for him, not his, as time has proved, and love someone else.
But I moved on, and entered into a few more relationships, including one near-miss with marrying again. I clearly see now that what feels like disaster at the time, in this case my fiancee sleeping with a 22-year old, was a blessing for me. God did for me what I could not do for myself by forcing the issue of abandonment. I also learned that the grief that overcame me after his betrayal was much bigger than his acts. It was all my life's grief compounded--losing friends to the disease; the death of my father, not grieved because I felt I had to stay strong for my mother; the career path glitches; and the decision not to go to graduate school. As I hear one wise women say in a southern California meeting, put on the blues and lean into the pain. There's no way around it but through it.
But I digress, which I'm good at doing. Back to commitment. As addicts and alcoholics, we have a "ditch-it" mentality, I believe. When I had a few months clean, I heard an addict share in a meeting that his cat had kittens and he was ready to take them to the pound and dump them off. He came to the realization, however, that "ditching it" was his typical response to anything that required any real effort. To practice new behaviors is how we become sane, I believe, and that's just what he decided to do: He kept the kittens and found homes for them. Mini-ephipanies are the keys to our spiritual development.
In the Prathers' book, they write "Marriage is a spiritual path. You find someone who is adequate, and you simply make the decision to stay with that person until the day you die. You will suffer, you will go through one hell or another, but you will not leave." It's much like staying clean. You make the decision (Step One), you go through one hell or another (Step Two), but you do not use!
I've found as I've moved from one relationship to another, I drag old boundaries with me. For example, my ex-fiancee was extremely emotionally abusive, although I couldn't pin a name on his behavior at the time--I just knew it hurt and tore me down. When my boyfriend criticizes me or gives me advice, I fight against the thought of "never again will I let someone belittle me." My ego won't allow that and unless I really work at not responding out of anger, the ego's best friend and the emotion that hides all other emotions, the feathers can fly.
"He must think I'm an idiot!" I think when he makes suggestions, even in areas where I know he has more expertise. (This morning it was driving on a low tire.) I tend to demonize the behavior, saying "never again" which stops communication. Only with a Higher Power's help can we work through our "stuff" because at 50, we both come with a gunnysack of crap well prepared to dump it on each other.
But, as the Prathers' say, "It's as if God sent you the box of your missing parts." I'm emotional, he's a bit stoic; I'm verbal, he's more analytical; I have a raunchy sense of humor, which typically upsets him while he's more proper, keeping his humor gender specific; he's had only two jobs in twenty-some years, I've had ten or more. Yes, there's lots to work through, but you know what? I'm ready.
Before my liver transplant last year and especially after, I spent hours and days by myself. I was living in Missouri and I simply didn't have the support system I have in Arizona. I was acutely alone. I realized that I had come to a place in my spiritual development where I was ready for a commitment and God handed me someone so much more than adequate. But what God hasn't removed is the fear.
So we slog on. I'm spending the summer in Missouri and he had planned to fly out and drive back with me next week. Yesterday I was asked by a former employer to go to Ft. Lauderdale to help on an audit, which blew our plans. I called him, knowing that he would be very upset because he doesn't live his life the way I do, which is at a moment's notice I'm comfortable with jumping on a plane and flying off to God knows where to solve a problem.
He was upset, but he handled it very well. He didn't exactly say what I had hoped to hear, full support for my decision, but he did the best he could to support me because he knew it was important to me that I start back to work and feel useful again. This blog ain't paying the mortgage!
So next week it's off to Ft. Lauderdale for a grueling week (don't even think I'll be lying on the beach), then back to finish packing to head to Missouri for a few months. Two dogs barking will stay with a friend, God bless and keep her. So until tomorrow, may God bless and keep you.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Legal disclaimers
I belong to a risk users' group with members from all around the world. While risk may not seem like a fascinating topic to you, risk has been my entire life. I grew up the youngest child of two insurance agents. When my bonehead brothers or I did anything stupid (normal, you know, just what the other kids did), other kids got grounded and we got the "you're going to get us sued!" lecture.
As the baby, as my older brothers went off to the service (Yeah, Coast Guard), my parents would come home from work and the three of us would sit at the dinner table while I listened to them talk about sideswipes, binders, deductibles and other fascinating insurance talk. I felt invisible.
I was a '56 model boomer, and to me the 1970s were a blur of the end of the People's Park days, LSD, leather-painted purses, the Berkeley cops hosing down Telegraph Avenue with bleach to drive the junkies away (it didn't work) and free love that had terribly high hidden price tag.
When I started, at about 22, trying to figure out how I was going to make a living, all the vocabulary I had was the lingo of the streets and the language of insurance. I was fortunate that my mother nagged me into taking typing and shorthand (her hit on it was I would work until I got married) and if I could type, I could always get a job. So I found a job in an insurance agency in Phoenix.
They hired me as a back-up to the personal lines agent and a receptionist; however, I soon found my forte in claims. People would call in, hysterical, and what to them, perhaps backing over the neighbor's toy poodle Fluffy, was to me a walk in the park. I had seen crises. I could always calm them down and even make them laugh.
To make a long post short, my boss would say: "When you're awake, you do a really great job" and I began to get some self-esteem, although I was still drinking and using. It took another year, but I decided I needed more help than methadone maintenance was providing me. I went to the office manager and told her I had a drinking problem--that I needed to go into treatment.
They convened a tribunal, behind closed doors, then summoned me in. "We've been watching you," said the office manager, "and we're sure you have narcolepsy." (I think they forgot a syllable!) They already had an appointment for me at Scripps in San Diego for evaluation.
I could never stand up for myself; there seemed to be nothing there to stand up for. I felt like a walking bag of crap. This time, however, and I'm sure it was God working in my life, I insisted. I was going to St. Luke's.
Anyway, that was 23 years ago and I didn't stay clean after treatment. It tooks two more years (as I heard one addict say, "My bottom had a hole in it), but I came in and out of the rooms and since the doors swing both ways, I finally "got it." I celebrated 21 years in December 2005, through the grace of a loving Higher Power and the people in the rooms.
So now, I live a bit of a double life. I'm an insurance professional (now a full-time freelance writer specializing in, get this, recovery, dogs and insurance) who rarely breaks her anonymity in the business world, because it's dangerous to break one's anonymity for a variety of reasons, not just for my protection.
But as I was saying, my risk group offer me fantastic free advice about insurance (and sometimes life as we're currently giving a fed-up father advice about how to deal with his rebellious teenage son. What I did find odd was that someone quoted Bill Gate's words of wisdom to tell the boy--Bill Gates? Apparently whoever suggested it didn't follow the history of Microsoft and the hundreds of companies he stepped on to get where he is today, the Bill Gates Foundation aside. But hey, he's a spawn of Satan, what can I say? I'm convinced that the anti-Christ will be an attorney.)
Lawyers, that brings me back to my original topic, legal disclaimers. There are a few lawyers on the list group, and their legal disclaimers are about 500 words and totally clog up my digest and simply shout: "Look at me! I'm a lawyer and I'm important."
Which leads me to my next train of thought. ("Is there a caboose to this train?" you may be asking right now. Yes, there is.)
I had a thought a few years ago but not the will to act on it. I find I'm a great thought generator and a poor initiator. If you need ideas, I'm your idea gal. Here's my thought. Last time I checked, www.electnolawyers.org is still available. Don't you think we should stop electing lawyers and start putting ordinary folks back into office, guys and gals who have had a job and cared for aging parents in home and not been able to find health insurance and not had rich fathers to fund their campaigns and clean up their messes and wondered how the heck they were going to pay for their child's college education?
It's not a radical idea. Is there anyone out there with the juevos to start this little organization? Or am I dreaming? Well, alas, I must run to the post office and mail my taxes. God is alive, magic is afoot. But the taxman still cometh.
As the baby, as my older brothers went off to the service (Yeah, Coast Guard), my parents would come home from work and the three of us would sit at the dinner table while I listened to them talk about sideswipes, binders, deductibles and other fascinating insurance talk. I felt invisible.
I was a '56 model boomer, and to me the 1970s were a blur of the end of the People's Park days, LSD, leather-painted purses, the Berkeley cops hosing down Telegraph Avenue with bleach to drive the junkies away (it didn't work) and free love that had terribly high hidden price tag.
When I started, at about 22, trying to figure out how I was going to make a living, all the vocabulary I had was the lingo of the streets and the language of insurance. I was fortunate that my mother nagged me into taking typing and shorthand (her hit on it was I would work until I got married) and if I could type, I could always get a job. So I found a job in an insurance agency in Phoenix.
They hired me as a back-up to the personal lines agent and a receptionist; however, I soon found my forte in claims. People would call in, hysterical, and what to them, perhaps backing over the neighbor's toy poodle Fluffy, was to me a walk in the park. I had seen crises. I could always calm them down and even make them laugh.
To make a long post short, my boss would say: "When you're awake, you do a really great job" and I began to get some self-esteem, although I was still drinking and using. It took another year, but I decided I needed more help than methadone maintenance was providing me. I went to the office manager and told her I had a drinking problem--that I needed to go into treatment.
They convened a tribunal, behind closed doors, then summoned me in. "We've been watching you," said the office manager, "and we're sure you have narcolepsy." (I think they forgot a syllable!) They already had an appointment for me at Scripps in San Diego for evaluation.
I could never stand up for myself; there seemed to be nothing there to stand up for. I felt like a walking bag of crap. This time, however, and I'm sure it was God working in my life, I insisted. I was going to St. Luke's.
Anyway, that was 23 years ago and I didn't stay clean after treatment. It tooks two more years (as I heard one addict say, "My bottom had a hole in it), but I came in and out of the rooms and since the doors swing both ways, I finally "got it." I celebrated 21 years in December 2005, through the grace of a loving Higher Power and the people in the rooms.
So now, I live a bit of a double life. I'm an insurance professional (now a full-time freelance writer specializing in, get this, recovery, dogs and insurance) who rarely breaks her anonymity in the business world, because it's dangerous to break one's anonymity for a variety of reasons, not just for my protection.
But as I was saying, my risk group offer me fantastic free advice about insurance (and sometimes life as we're currently giving a fed-up father advice about how to deal with his rebellious teenage son. What I did find odd was that someone quoted Bill Gate's words of wisdom to tell the boy--Bill Gates? Apparently whoever suggested it didn't follow the history of Microsoft and the hundreds of companies he stepped on to get where he is today, the Bill Gates Foundation aside. But hey, he's a spawn of Satan, what can I say? I'm convinced that the anti-Christ will be an attorney.)
Lawyers, that brings me back to my original topic, legal disclaimers. There are a few lawyers on the list group, and their legal disclaimers are about 500 words and totally clog up my digest and simply shout: "Look at me! I'm a lawyer and I'm important."
Which leads me to my next train of thought. ("Is there a caboose to this train?" you may be asking right now. Yes, there is.)
I had a thought a few years ago but not the will to act on it. I find I'm a great thought generator and a poor initiator. If you need ideas, I'm your idea gal. Here's my thought. Last time I checked, www.electnolawyers.org is still available. Don't you think we should stop electing lawyers and start putting ordinary folks back into office, guys and gals who have had a job and cared for aging parents in home and not been able to find health insurance and not had rich fathers to fund their campaigns and clean up their messes and wondered how the heck they were going to pay for their child's college education?
It's not a radical idea. Is there anyone out there with the juevos to start this little organization? Or am I dreaming? Well, alas, I must run to the post office and mail my taxes. God is alive, magic is afoot. But the taxman still cometh.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Dogs and recovery
After two decades in recovery and a liver transplant last year, my life is pretty simple--I get up and let the dogs out; plug in my coffee (a percolator, not a drip); turn on the national news; open the shades to let in the beautiful Arizona sun; and check my email. I tend to view life as I think my dogs do:
**Is it time to eat yet?
**Hey, how come the lid's down on the toilet?
**Can we go for a ride in the car?
**Do you think we need to go check the post office box again?
**Hey, got any snackies?
**Who is that driving up the road?
**Is it nap time?
**Which chair is better for napping, the big orange one or the rocker?
I'm a writer, but finding an agent to represent my daily meditation book (with a book on risk management on the back burner) is hard. They all send very polite letters telling me that they "just don't see the commercial prospects."
Oh well, I'm not complaining; I know God hasn't brought me this far to drop me on my head. Somewhere out there is the perfect agent/press for me. I keep slugging away.
**Is it time to eat yet?
**Hey, how come the lid's down on the toilet?
**Can we go for a ride in the car?
**Do you think we need to go check the post office box again?
**Hey, got any snackies?
**Who is that driving up the road?
**Is it nap time?
**Which chair is better for napping, the big orange one or the rocker?
I'm a writer, but finding an agent to represent my daily meditation book (with a book on risk management on the back burner) is hard. They all send very polite letters telling me that they "just don't see the commercial prospects."
Oh well, I'm not complaining; I know God hasn't brought me this far to drop me on my head. Somewhere out there is the perfect agent/press for me. I keep slugging away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
