Another good meeting

Today's topic was from a daily reading, that drinking cuts us off from our God. This was a great meeting; as one member said about half-way through, "AA coals are burning today!" God was the topic, and our chronic relapser was there, up and down during the meeting, crying, a mess, basically, still in the "My life is so much worse than all yours! I drink and cry then I drink some more." She still lacks that one essential ingredient without which we cannot get clean and sober: willingness.

Our local priest was there, who shared about the power of God (and the local police department) helping him to decide maybe he did have a problem with booze. The entire meeting the topic stayed focused on one thing -- a Higher Power as we understand Him.

I remember my sponsor I had when I lived in LA, Lillie M., shared with me that her sponsor often said one thing when Lillie called with a problem. Lillie would say something along the lines of "I have to talk to you!" and her sponsor would say, "God is the answer; now what was the question?"

Of course, I don't think as newcomers we get that concept, do you? So many of us get here so tweaked and having so much negativity towards what we perceive as God (usually a church lurks there somewhere!), that there's just no way we can grasp that concept. It takes many of us years before we get comfortable with our God.

I know, though, after slogging along this twisted path for 22 years now, that indeed, no matter what the problem, my God has been the answer. Very often, His answer is "Wait!" I rarely like that answer, do you?

I know that I have a disease of bad attitude; my desire to drink or use is long, long gone. But what I sometimes still have is a bad attitude, the "F--- it" attitude I walked in here with often rears its head, even today, even when I know that with my behavior, I'm going to pay a price. Sometimes, though, I feel powerless over doing that next right thing.

My life today is still plugging along much as it was this time last year. I'm still recovering from my transplant; I still am looking for a job, although more and more it becomes clear to me that I will never be happy working for anyone again; I'm not sure how much farther along I am in my relationship than we were last year at this time, although we fight less; I still write all my checks the last week of the month then wonder how I'm going to get through the next three weeks until more money trickles in; and I still, despite being acutely aware of my defects, still have some, that's for sure.

Despite all this, I know that God's divine plan for me is working in my life far beyond my wisdom. So I stay clean, keep putting one foot in front of the other, continue to work with others, and go to meetings. Everything else will come in God's time.

The little eagle that couldn't

I'm grateful I don't live here!
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And in other news, in Juneau, Alaska, some residents lost power after a bald eagle towing a deer head hit power lines.
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According to spokespersons for the power company, the eagle apparently discovered the deerhead in a landfill (Who reconstructed this accident?) and this bird with brio decided to take it home. Unfortunately, the bird hit a transmission line and was found dead near the deer head.
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I can just see the eagle chugging along saying, "I can, I think I can! -- AWK!"
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Until tomorrow, let the ice around your heart melt away in the glow of recovery. Or pick up a deer head and lug it to your home group for your next group conscience.

Another cold night

It is cold here, that's simply all I can say. I appreciate the posts regarding my blog. "When my ride comes," as Warren Zevon said, if I've helped just a few people stay clean, then maybe I've made up for all the wreckage I caused in my addiction.

If anyone is having trouble posting to my blog, please email me at romyandoz@yahoo.com and let me know. I'm having complaints from a few friends who are having trouble posting. If so, I need to determine why. Let me know if you're on a Mac or a PC.

Until tomorrow, stay warm, and because no good deed goes unpunished, stay out of any butt-smacking incidents! :)

It's Sunday

How was your weekend? I've been considering why I keep doing this blog. I spend more time each day working on the blog than my other writing, which may eventually and sometimes does pay. Tonight I was thinking "All this blog really does is piss off my significant other, a few people comment from time to time, but what difference does it make, really?"

I also noticed that although I have some traffic, it's not increasing like it seems to on the other blogs and I definitely don't get the hits others get on their blogs. I keep thinking readership will pick up, that "something" may happen. I know I've recently "found my voice," as my brother says, and usually I have no problem coming up with a topic. But given those few positives, I'm thinking maybe it's time to let it go.

I'm thinking about quitting before the miracle and putting the hour or more a day I put into this blog into something that will perhaps pay and get published and be of more help to more people.

I did get a nice email from a woman I sponsor who said that she enjoys my blog and I have a few loyal readers who comment. But in truth, maybe my time is better spent working on other things.

I went to my home group tonight where two members celebrated a combined 32 years, then one of them swatted another member (female) on the butt with a magazine. His wife was not amused and the fireworks erupted.

I used to sponsor the gal he smacked and she came to me after the meeting, very upset. "What should I do?" she asked. "My fiancee would be furious and his wife is furious." She was visibly upset and embarrassed.

Since this wasn't the first time he'd done this to her, I told her she needed to "read him the riot act" and tell him that it was totally inappropriate and that he should never do that to her again. Sometimes people, even if they're 45 years old, don't know how to act if we don't set boundaries and in those circumstances, righteous indignation or even downright ripping someone is, to me, appropriate to ensure it doesn't happen again.
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Next his wife came to me in tears over the incident. I told her that his behavior was no reflection on her and all she could do was tell him how she felt about it. "Why does he do that?" she asked me. I can't possibly read into his behavior what it's about. All I could tell her is that it's an immature thing to do. As NA Turns. It absolutely, after all these years, keeps me young and laughing.

I took a class one time on female leadership from a fantastic trainer. She told about how, at her job, a male coworker kept parking in her parking space as if she didn't exist and she'd have to park on the street in a big city and hoof it two or three blocks to work. She asked him nicely, two times, not to use her parking space. The third time he did it, she parked on the street, came into the office, barged directly into his office (he was with a client) and strode up to him. Interrupting his meeting, she said directly in his face, "If you EVER park in my space again, I'm going to flatten all four of your tires." She turned around and walked out. He never parked in her space again. Isn't it sad that we sometimes have to resort to a tactic like this to get people to hear us?

So anyway, it's about 12 degrees or something here and I'm heading off to bed with a book and twodogs. I hope you're all doing well. I have another busy week ahead of me; I don't know how I'd find time to work if I did find a job.

Until tomorrow, take it any way it comes, but take it clean and sober and one day at a time.

What week is it?

It's national "No Name-Calling Week," that's what it is. If you think I'm kidding, hit their website and see what they have to offer in the way of "just say no to name-calling" advice. Their URL is www.nonamecallingweek.com. Some people obviously have too much time on their hands, don't they?

I grant you, I know this is a serious problem in schools. When I was in grade school I was called many, many mean names because my last name was weird. I hated it. But do we really need a week dedicated to this? I mean come on, let's dedicate a week, just one week, to not dissing feeder pigs, perhaps, because they really get dissed all the time!

I've gotten better about not calling people names, especially if they are bigger than me. But rather than giving someone the finger in traffic, which I gave up long, long ago, despite how mad I get (Oh, okay, it's a program of rigorous honesty. Maybe I've done it a time or two in twenty-two years.), I do admit to muttering bad names under my breath when people almost kill me because they're talking on their DARN cell phones or cut me off in traffic.

But I love some insults; they just roll off the tongue. "Idiot." Now that has a great sound to it. Someone I know was interviewing a guy for a job the other day and he used the word "S---bag" a bunch of times in the interview! That's a word, in case you don't watch cop shows, that they use routinely.

I personally once slipped at work and called an attorney who was giving me a particularly hard time a "douche bag." My coworkers' mouths fell open, then they fell out laughing. I turned bright pink. (Get it, gals!)

But here's one great idea. Why not extend National No Name-Calling Week to be inclusive of women. How's about we ask entertainers, especially, to delete the word "bitch" from their stand-up comedy routines? Or the word "hooker"? How many times do you think Jay Leno says "hooker" on his show per week? Probably at least six times, if I'm not mistaken. Or the word "whore"? There's a guy on trial in Canada right now for killing 49 prostitutes and I won't go into any more details because it's simply too horrific. How many cops do you think called the victims "whores," these women who had mothers and sisters and probably children who are crying for them to come home yet they never will?

As long as we use words that describe "objects" and not women, words like "whore" and "hooker" and "stripper," it's much easier to see these women as disposable. Unfortunately, they are disposable, in society's eyes, at least.

I'm obviously on another rant. I'd better hang up. Until tomorrow, I won't call anyone a name if you don't.

"Everyone but me is an idiot!"

I don't know about you, but I suffer from that unique alcoholic thinking that "Everyone but me is an idiot!" I think I know it all, know what's best, often think a Twelve-Step program is the only way to get clean and sober, think other people, if they would just listen to me, would be much happier, the list goes on and on and on. I will say this in my defense: This defect has slowly reduced itself over the years of my recovery. Unfortunately, it still rears its ugly head early and often.

Last night in class was the perfect example. I was lucky enough, after I got clean, to earn a scholarship to one of the few remaining women's only colleges in America, Mills, in Oakland, California. I studied Communications and minored in Sociology. I'm now attending another school for my graduate degree in Sociology. Unfortunately, after going to Mills, which had superb instructors and rigorous standards, the masters' classes I'm taking are almost laughable.

The texts we're using we would have used at the 200 level at the most; the instructors can't keep control of the classroom or are so impressed with themselves they go on for twenty minutes about arcane areas of their research, which is not in Sociology, and most of the students spend class time rolling their eyes and talking to their neighbors about God knows what (mostly the bad professors, from what I overhear).

The question the professor asked last night was if there was a homeless problem in our city. I've been to the Salvation Army on many occasions; I volunteered there when I was recovering from my surgery. There is rarely a night that the place isn't stuffed to overflowing. Yes, there's a homeless problem in our fair city, I'd say.

One student went on for ten minutes about homeless people "working the system." Yes, I admit, some do, I've seen my share. I've seen my share of people "on disability" in the program who are totally capable of earning big money under the table while on disability and then brag about working an "honest program." But is someone who is mentally ill and can't keep a roof over his or her or their children's head or a single parent with five kids stuffed in one room at the Army "working the system"?

What about victims of domestic violence, as this student said, got into a little "pushing match." Domestic violence often starts with a little "pushing match," and if it's not nipped in the bud by an ability of the non-pushing partner to set appropriate boundaries, or in some cases by police intervention, it can escalate into a "big" pushing match, which culminates in someone getting hurt or killed.

When things get tense, I'm always the one who makes a joke. I blame it on being the youngest child in a household with a lot of tension. After this woman, who I really like, incidentally, went on her tirade, I raised my hand and asked the professor, who had let the thing spiral totally out of control, if her opinion was an example of "the functionalist perspective," the sociological perspective that theorizes that each social problem serves a societal interest. He just smiled.

When the class ended, I beat feet out of class to attend a meeting, where the topic wound around to "resentments." What came up for me was the fact that I still have resentments against many institutions, and this type of class brings them up and puts them in my face with a mighty blast.

I have another job interview today. I did send out a mailing the other day for my copywriting services and have had two replies, so that's good. God has some plan, I'm sure. I just wish He'd hurry up!
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I went to a drugstore today and as I was checking out, I heard the clerk say to someone who asked how she was, "I'm blessed." I asked her if that helped her. She smiled and talked for a few minutes about our need to be aware of our Higher Power not just when things are bad or we're in trouble, but to give thanks and dialogue with our God more frequently. It was a nice exchange and it really made me think "Am I spending enough time in prayer and meditation?" My former sponsor's sponsor would say to her "God is the answer; not what was the question?" when she'd call her in times of trouble.

Have a good day and remember to list your institutional resentments (medical establishments, police, schools, etc.) in any Fourth Step. See how much it's helped me?

Snow in Phoenix

Arizona, too, has had its share of El Nino weather, complete with snow. It makes me homesick.

Another day

It's cold and clear in Missouri today. The snow is dirty now, and still icy in some spots. There isn't much going on. I started grad school last week and I've been doing the assigned reading and figuring out what I'm going to be doing papers on, one from each class I'm taking.

I'm getting my masters in sociology. I think I've always seen the world in "horizontal linkages," as Marx called them; those interconnections of people. The thing I like about working past the BA is that you can specialize more and begin to hone your areas of interest. Of course (as you can probably tell based on my recent posts), I am going to focus on women "deviates." Because I'm a "conflict" theorist, I believe that women, or drug addicts for that matter, are labeled "deviant" by the ruling elite. It's amazing to me that most of the top sociologists, criminal justice thinkers and many federal judges are calling for decriminalization of drugs and yet that issue isn't even on anyone's radar.

Nor is national health care, although Senator Clinton has said that if elected, she will make this a priority. To me, it's disgraceful that this nation, which has plenty of money to throw trade at China, outsource jobs, send troops into countries, imprison a majority of certain populations and stuff themselves with favors and gratuities, won't even consider helping to level the playing field so that health care is affordable.

I was at the capital again a few days ago and a regional communications firm was there giving away jewelry to legislators. They had a list and the legislators were filing by picking up their spoils. Want to have some fun? Go to your state's capital on any given day, but perhaps pick a Friday, and watch what happens. You'll see food baskets, ill-hidden booze, giveaways, free food buffets, the list goes on and on and on. Our legislator, at least at the state level, runs on food and booze and gratuities. Can you imagine what it's like at the Federal level?

I don't have much to share today. When I do say something important, it seems to be too difficult for me. I found myself crying this morning over feelings brought up by my post on Saturday. It's amazing having this many years in recovery and still grieving over old hurts. The promise that "We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it" has yet to come true completely in my life. So I'm keeping my posts light for awhile, I think.

I've been working on a promotion for a local business here and tonight is their buffet with a certain state caucus of legislators. So you see, I'm part of the problem. If you give them food, they will come. So until tomorrow, have a good day.

Women's meeting make a difference

I really struggled in early recovery with my relationship with women. It wasn't like I disliked them, they just weren't on my radar screen. When I was in the disease, women were competition. Men controlled the drugs and hence I sometimes "used" men for access to drugs. (Who was using whom is a matter for another day, but you know what I mean.) So women, to me, were inconvenient. Even the women I drank and used with and loved either left me due to my behavior or a new boyfriend or they died, several killed by men, one thrown out of a hotel window in New Orleans by her boyfriend. It didn't pay to get too close to women.

In early recovery, my first sponsor was a man, but as soon as I started writing my first step, I knew that I couldn't share my truths with him. I had to find a woman. I've blogged before about my first sponsor, Valorie, the one who looked like Gidget. But over the years and my many moves, I've had quite a few sponsors, all of them, of course, women. And not just "women," but strong, courageous, beautiful, tough women who were willing to confront me if my behavior was unacceptable or I was walking a slippery slope. They loved me when I felt, as I still sometimes do, unlovable. Thank God for these women.

After I got clean, I began to attend women's meetings because all my girlfriends did. The longest running women's meeting in Phoenix, now called PMS, was started in my living room by me and a few other women. I found that at women's meetings, the core issues I had, issues from my childhood, my feelings toward men, at least men the caliber of the drug dealers I was hanging around, my shattered sexuality, my distrust of any institution or authority figure, these things I could talk about freely in women's meetings.

About my fourth year in recovery, I had no support in my life for some of the things I wanted to change. My marriage was crumbling as my wasband stayed loaded, I couldn't talk about what was going on even in women's meetings sometimes because my experience, I thought, was too unique.

So a few women in Oakland, Louisa J., Constance T., Susan L., a beautiful woman named Danielle, and a few others banded together and formed, what they would have called in the 60s a "consciousness-raising group." A twelve-step format, we focused on our sexuality, what we had been through in our usage, the rapes, the getting knocked off barstools by men in a drunken rage, the domestic violence, in many cases early childhood traumas, the shame of being a woman alcoholic and addict, the whole traumatic mess of it.

We met for several years, until I moved to Los Angeles to go to work for the WSO and they continued to meet for another few years. This group was instrumental in changing many core problems I suffered with because I could explore them courageously, with support, love and understanding. Finally, I'd found a group of women who understood me and I could speak my truth.

My life, of course, moved on. As I've stayed in recovery, I've continued to attend women's meetings. They are where I check my ego at the door and talk about core issues that are still, at 22 years in the rooms, troubling me. This morning's women's meeting was a perfect example.

It was small today, about six, but we each got to share at length about what was going on in our lives. Two of the gals were newer members, one back from a slip. One was in tears over the ending of a short relationship. We know, though, whether the liaison is short or long, we often get terribly wounded as we lay our hearts on the line. One member was having problems in her business and considering "chucking it." Several of us were in great spaces and could offer some experience, strength and hope during the meeting and after, one-on-one, with the gals who were troubled. We talked frankly about things that we would never share in a mixed meeting. In a women's meeting, we cut straight to the core and we forget, for a time, about "saving face."

I go to more mixed meetings than women's meetings, but I leave a women's meeting with an incredible sense of peace, both because I've usually been able to be of service and I've identified with those core struggles we face as women.

My recovery has been so much richer from the women in my life and most of them I met at women's meetings. I see other women at mixed meetings, but I really get to know them and rely on them when I can see them, for one hour, once a week.

One of the best parts of our women's meeting is that we often carpool and we laugh the entire way there and the entire way home, often with an accompanying stop at the store or to eat breakfast and more laughter. Who can laugh for twenty solid minutes and not feel better?

There's six inches of snow on the ground and twodogs are ready to run, so I'm off. Until tomorrow, have a great day.

I will fight no more forever

In 1877, Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce (the American Press called him "The Red Napolean" for his bravery and his tribe's fierce and canny fighting) gave this surrender speech.

I Will Fight No More Forever

I am tired of fighting.
Our chiefs are killed.
Looking Glass is dead.
Toohulhulsote is dead.
The old men are all dead.
It is the young men who say 'no' and 'yes'.
He who led the young men is dead.
It is cold and we have no blankets.
The little children are freezing to death.
My people, some of them,
Have run away to the hills
And have no blankets, no food.
No one knows where they are

Perhaps they are freezing to death.
I want to have time to look for my children
And see how many of them I can find.
Maybe I shall find them among the dead.
Hear me, my chiefs, I am tired.
My heart is sad and sick.
From where the sun now stands
I will fight no more forever.
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Chief Joseph (Thunder Rolling Down the Mountain) died in 1904 of a broken heart, according to his doctor. He remained exhiled from his homeland.

Happiness

Yesterday's meeting topic was happiness, taken from a daily reading. It was a really good meeting because so many members had simple yet profound things to share about their versions of happiness.

I grew up in a very funny family. Laughter was the strongest common denominator that we shared so using humor was the best way for us to connect to one another. When I came into the rooms, I had completely lost my ability to laugh.

Of course, there was nothing funny. I never paid my bills until the cut-off notice came, the police had confiscated my vehicle, I weighed 102 pounds, when I looked in the mirror I saw nothing looking back at me, and my dog had run away. And that's just for starters.

Before I could be happy, I see now in retrospect, I had to quit drinking and using. There was no joy in my life when I hung out with lowlifes (as one member said, "I hung out with lower companions until I became one"); couldn't hold a job; did whatever I felt necessary to drink and use; and ran roughshod over everyone who ever loved or tried to help me.

I’m a person who is prone to depression; often sees the glass as not only half-full, but with a hole in it; and has worked at cross purposes many times in my life pursuing financial security over what I believe God put me on earth to do. Today, I’m trying to change these things because I’m tired of living the way I’ve always lived. It seems like many people are in the same boat, but new research can help us adjust our attitudes and live happier, more contented lives.

What makes us happy? In 1998, the American Psychological Association’s president chose as his theme for the year expanding mental health to include not just studying mental illness, but understanding what makes people happy. Now, thousands of researchers throughout the United States are studying happiness. Here are some key findings, which I find strangely in tune with our program of recovery.

• Once basic needs are met, more income increases our satisfaction with life very little.
• Faith lifts the spirits.
• Social skills and friends are very important to our happiness.
• Reconstructing our day to discover what we enjoyed as opposed to what went wrong. (I guess so that we can do more of it. Sound like a 10th Step?)
• How things end is often more important than what really happened. (Maybe that’s a good hint that even when we have unpleasant encounters, prompt amends or immediately attempting to “patch things up” can help us avoid alienating others.)
• How we spend our time is a great indicator of happiness. It’s not the pursuit of happiness; it’s the steps along the way. (I’m almost always happier on the days I attend a meeting.)
• Genetics account for about 50 percent of our attitude, social scientists have postulated. (I used that excuse for years: "Oh, I was born pissed off.")
• Most of us have a “happiness set point” so that no matter what we encounter either good or bad, in a short time, we return to that baseline.
• Two life events seem to be hardest to overcome: The death of a spouse and the loss of a job. With the loss of a spouse, it’s five to eight years before one returns to equilibrium. With a job loss, unhappiness can linger even after we return to the workplace.
• Keep a gratitude journal. One researcher found that those who wrote down their gratitude once a week were more satisfied with life than those who did not write a list. (Now I know why my sponsor sometimes makes me write a gratitude list.)
• The broader the span of things we’re grateful for, the greater ability we have to reduce our fatigue and pain.
• Interpersonal virtues like selflessness and the ability to love are strongly tied to happiness.
• Acts of kindness and selflessness makes our lives more meaningful. Most people, according to Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, a well-known and highly regarded social scientist and author of the book Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, are happier when they’re with others than alone.
• Happiness is a habit. We need to, every day, recommit ourselves to happiness.

A Google search brings up scads of information about how to be more happy. A neat website, www.reflectivehappiness.com, is devoted to helping us discover more about ourselves and feel better about ourselves. There are tests (if you’re wondering if you’re depressed, there’s a test for that) and an interesting “Signature Strengths” test. Answering a series of 240 questions, the test reveals our top five strengths compared to others in your demographic. My core strengths from top down were: Forgiveness and mercy; appreciation of beauty and excellence; curiosity and interest in the world; fairness, equity and justice; and humor and playfulness (now there’s a surprise!). There are also some exercises which are touted to help us to learn skills to “build emotional well-being.”

One member yesterday remarked that she had stopped striving for happiness; what she now looked for was contentment. Today I know this. I'm happier now, more contented, even given all the challenges I've had over the past two years, than I've ever been in my recovery. Those challenges include a transplant; loss of my job and what appears will be a career change; the loss of my beautiful home; being away from twodogs for months due to my illness; three moves; still having most of my belongings in storage for two years (see, we really can do with much less); limited income and blowing through every dime I had due to the illness; continued medical visits and a slowly deteriorating sense of foreboding that, any time, my transplant could fail.

Why is that? It's again the grace of God, my friends and family, and in short a great support system built on the back of the Fellowship. Each day I have a great sense of adventure, a great sense of the absurd, an ability to laugh at myself, a beautiful place to live, great, great relationships, and strong hope for my future. Oh, and twodogs. How can I ask for more?

How not to use if your "ass is on fire"

If It Be Your Will
By Leonard Cohen
BestAudioCodes.com


If your ass is on fire, God is burning off the dross.

It's an ice holiday

Things are warming up a bit in Missouri, but the ice is treacherous. I could have stayed home yesterday but instead, no, I decided to go to my s/o's house and pick up something to cook at my house for dinner. Recall that I am from Arizona and the only ice I've ever driven on was in a highball glass.
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He has a steep driveway, I have four-wheel drive and more heart than brains, so I tried to go up his driveway, which is steep and sits on top of a hill at about a 45 degree angle. As I went up the driveway, the vehicle started slipping (hey, guess what? Ice has no respect for four-wheel drive!) and soon I was hanging over the 45-degree angle praying the truck wouldn't slip any further. I set the parking brake and thought, "Crap, now what do I do?"
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I tried once more to get the vehicle straightened out, but it slipped closer to rolling. I was afraid to get out because if the truck did go over, I could be crushed and my liver transplant team would be very unhappy with me. I called my s/o from the driver's seat and asked him if, perhaps, he could give me some suggestions about what to do. His advice was to get out of the truck.
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Now that was easier said than done, because to get out, I would either have to crawl over and open the passenger door and get out, hoping my moving wouldn't send the vehicle over. A man drove by and stopped, seeing the situation I was in. He tried to walk up the lower portion of the driveway but it was a solid sheet of ice. "Just grab your blanket and slide down!" he shouted. Did you know that long wool coats make perfect coasters? They're colorful, too.
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I had AAA on the phone by then and I did manage to get out. The tow truck arrived in a record of 15 minutes (I love small towns), the driver made it up the driveway after a few attempts, hooked my vehicle to a winch and with me once again safe behind the steering wheel he towed me out.
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Next, I came home and fell down in my driveway. My s/o came over later that night and he had just fallen, slid down his driveway and skidded out into the street. You know when someone tells you something that was obviously painful and embarrassing? Why do we laugh?
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So today we're two limping wrecks, but it could have been much, much worse. Thank God I didn't have twodogs in the vehicle because getting them out would have made things much harder. It's highly unusual these days that I don't have one or the other or both in the truck, so all in all, I'm grateful as heck.
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This morning it's warmed up a bit and I had an hour drive north for a job interview. Everything is frozen; the trees look like chandeliers. I took Oz with me and on the way home, we stopped so he could play. Both he and Romy are hilarious on the ice. He's much more graceful than she is; she is almost spastic.
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There's not much other news here in Mid-Mo. This weekend I'm heading in to St. Louis for an area assembly to attend some workshops, so it should be a fun day of fellowship. Until tomorrow, stay warm. And hey, don't try to drive on ice. See, I'm always learning something.

Happy Martin Luther King Day

Today, thanks to the program of Narcotics Anonymous, where I learned that the saying "Once an addict always an addict" is a lie, and by grace of God, I, too, am free at last. To hear excerpts from his speeches and other material, visit www.thekingcenter.org

Step Three

There's a cool ice storm here and a lot of meetings have been cancelled, I'm sure. But we die-hard NA members skidded and slid into our meeting tonight. The topic was Step Three.

It was an emotional meeting. One long-time member is having relationship problems, which are ongoing, and asking if it's God's will to stay in the relationship or go (again). I talked about the pain I put myself through with some bad decisions that I made without some guidance from others.

Life on life's terms, in all its messiness, is truly what it's about after a few years in the camp, isn't it?

There's one thing about messing up your life through self will when you have some time clean. There is nothing between you and the pain but pain. It's where the rubber hits the road and you hunker down and stay clean even though your --- is falling off.

I am so grateful that I was able to stay clean despite some real setbacks in my life. I'm grateful that the thought of using is a distant memory. I'm grateful that I have my NA friends who walk me through life. And I'm especially grateful that the tile floor is laid.

Until tomorrow, sleep tight.

German shepherds rule!

This is what trainers call a "bad bite."

Below is an example of a "good bite."
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Buffy, a seven-year old German shepherd in Oakland, California, may have saved her owner's life when she ran out to greet him as he exited his car in his driveway on Wednesday. A robber approached the man at about the same time and demanded his wallet. Buffy wasn't up with that, so she tried to bite the robber, sending him fleeing, and took a bullet in the leg for her efforts. According to the Oakland Tribune, Buffy lived, but may lose her leg.

"She won't let children fight each other, she won't let me get too close to my husband if we're play-fighting. She's against violence, period," according to the dog owner's wife.

I'm against violence, too. Until last year, I've mainly lived away from the city on acreage, alone. My German shepherds, who I know in my heart and who my trainer www.alpinek9.com has agreed "Would take a bullet for me," give me peace of mind in an increasingly crazy world.

We're stuck in the middle of an ice storm and the front yard, steps and drive are sheets of ice. I took Romy out this morning for her constitutional and watching her legs going in four different directions was hilarious. I finally grabbed her rear and guided her up the front steps. She's never been in ice before and you could tell she was trying to figure out what was up, or down, in her case as she slipped and slid and fell a few times.

We're tiling the floor still today, so this entry will be short and sweet. Keep commenting; I love to hear from readers and it makes me at times reconsider my point of view. It also allows me to visit other blogs to see where the recovery action is. Until tomorrow, it's four paws up for Buffy!

Spiders on drugs

Caution! Do not watch this at work!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHzdsFiBbFc

New daily meditation book

Well, harrumph. Hazeldon Publishers turned down my daily meditation book, so bear in mind that I have a slight attitude toward any meditation books they have published. One of my program friends was raving about a daily reading book and I thought, after hearing her talk about it, that I'd ignore my resentment and order this book, which was written in 1997. It arrived today from Amazon. (I love Amazon, don't you?)

Yesterday's Tomorrow: Recovery Meditations for Hard Cases is aimed at what the author describes as addicts or other '. . . ics' who have "perhaps a harder shell when it comes to receiving recovery wisdom." I admit that described me when I first arrived here.

If you don't mind a liberal sprinkling of profanity and a few good laughs, then I recommend the book. It's not a daily meditation book like you're used to. There are no dates like the traditional meditation book, but there is an index that lets you look up topics like "resentments," "embarrassment," "healthy relationships," and much more.

It's really more a book of vignettes, short stories about issues this addict has experienced, who is also, by self-admission, a compulsive overeater, incest survivor and an adult child. Whew! (As my friend Wendy says, "Hello, I'm not a gambler!") It's a collection of Barry L's experiences gained over his (then) 15 years of recovery.

I spent several hours reading it today and I'm enjoying it. I think that as our Fellowship continues to mature, we'll see more books of this nature appear.

What's good about this book is that just when we start once again thinking we're terminally unique, someone will come along with the same problems, thoughts, or insanities that we encounter, sometimes despite a number of years clean.

Until tomorrow, we're battening down for a Midwest storm, so me and twodogs are bundling up.

Smart duck

A ducks walks into a bar and asks, "Got any grapes?" The bartender, confused, tells the duck, "No, this bar doesn't serve grapes." The duck thanks him and waddles out.

The next day, the duck waddles in and asks, "Got any grapes?" Again, the bartender says to the duck, "No, this bar does not serve grapes, has never served grapes, and, furthermore, will never serve grapes." The duck, a little ruffled, thanks him and leaves.

The next day, the duck returns, but before he can say anything, the bartender begins to yell ''Listen, duck! This is a bar! We do not serve grapes! If you ever ask for grapes again, I will nail your stupid duck beak to the bar!''

The duck is silent for a moment, and then asks, ''Got any nails?'' Confused, the bartenders says "No."

''Good!'' says the duck. ''Got any grapes?''

***

I was that duck. I continually waddled (staggered, fell, walked, whatever) into bars trying to order a grape. My grape was that magic drink that would allow me to order just one or two or three and quit drinking. Of course, I never found it.
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Instead I found the Fellowship, which has given me so much more than I ever thought possible. Today, I am thankful that I never found that magic grape.

War story

I'm listening to Calexico's "Alone again or" as I write; their music is more fun than a night in a Tijuana tavern, which, if you've never experienced it, I do not under any circumstances recommend.

I grew up in Phoenix, so at the tender age of I can't remember but I clearly recall my last stoned trip there at about the age of 20, we would at the slightest provocation pile into someone's car and head for the border town of Nogales, which was then about two-and-a half hours away. Stories to tell, which I shall refrain from sharing today and believe me, you should thank me. That someone didn't have to bail me out of a Mexican jail was a credit to the grace that God has continued to show me throughout my slightly unworthy life.

Okay, I'll just share this one. My friend and I, Roy, and I only mention his name because I'm sure he'd dead because he used drugs like I did, decided to go down to Nogales to score since, hey, it was Tuesday, as good a reason as any. So off we went in his station wagon, which he drove at phenomenally high rates of speed, scaring the literal heck out of me.

I had no money as I recall, so I went along as the mule. He looked like any other kid I hung around with, long hair, beard, ripped and faded levis, in short, he just didn't look like he'd get back over the border without a cavity search if any Border Patrol agent in his right mind spotted him, which was inevitable since he was hell-bent on driving over the border when we could have easily parked the car on the Arizona side of Nogales and walked. Even then, men just wouldn't listen to us much smarter females.

The plan was for us to score, with us splitting up before the border and me walking back over with the dope, and him driving where we'd meet back up on the Arizona side of Nogales. Not a bad plan, if we weren't two idiots to begin with, but hey, that's another story.

So off we go with a few hundred dollars and good intentions. Well, I guess bad intentions, but you know what I mean. We were on a mission. We get to Mexico, I hang around in front of the bars while Roy goes into a few bars to drink and talk with the various low-lifes from Mexico in his broken Spanish (you can believe me when I say that most Arizona dope fiends know a lot of 'copping Espanol'), and he finally scored. I blame most of the following events on Roy, but I probably am not as innocent as I remember so bear this in mind.

Roy just can't wait until we get over the border to get high, no, so he stops at the first gas station he comes to, which believe me, isn't like any gas station you'd see today in America. The station had one gas pump, three hundred half-bald tires in front, and two vatos sitting on a broken-down, stuffing-coming-out sofa eyeing us with a not-so- friendly look, although Roy was smart enough to tell me to buy two gallons of gas from my pocket change so they wouldn't turn us in to the Federales, every American dope fiend's worst fear in Mexico.

Roy, of course, because he's "the man" (and admittedly it was his money), decides he's going to get high first (like there's any real "decision" involved in that no-brainer) and into the bathroom he goes while I pay for the gas. After I pay, I back the car around and angle it right outside the bathroom door, because, gee, I'm next. I wait patiently (Ha!) and wait and wait for him to appear. He doesn't. Finally, I get out of the driver's seat, go around to the door and start whispering "Roy!" No answer. "Roy!" I said, a little louder, scratching on the door. No answer. Now I'm starting to get that sick feeling in my gut thinking, "Es no bien; we may have muchas problemas."

"Roy," I practically shout, and about then one of the vatos heaves himself off the couch to peer around the corner at me. "Es no problemo!" I say to him with a forced smile. "Mi amigo esta muy malo!" I say, pointing at the john. This seems to satisfy him, because most Americans leave Mexico muy malo. He disappears around the corner.

I try the door handle and it's locked. "Roy," I practically yell, kicking the door. Still, no answer. So I'm thinking, "What should I do?" I know I'm about two minutes from a Mexican jail and I'm pretty freaked out. I could leave him there to die, I think, but I had no money to score and I was sicker than a dog myself. Besides, I did have some conscience instilled in me by my parents, which made it extremely hard to be an efficient dope fiend. So being the altruistic dope fiend that I was, I decided I'd better try to get him out of there and back to Arizona.

I give the door handle a twist, push the door open (it's blocked by Roy's body on the floor), and there he is, overdosed on the floor of that filthy little hole in Nogales, Mexico.

"Roy," I say slapping his face after I manage to push him away from the door and get in. He was breathing and he wasn't blue, so I knew if I could just get him in the car, I stood a chance to get him over the border and into Arizona to a hospital. But first, I take the dope out of his pocket and put it down my pants. I can't wake him; he's just making groaning noises and I'm not waiting any longer for the cops to appear.

I open the back seat of the car, drag him by his feet (Frye boots, I remember because they kept slipping off so I finally took them off and threw them in the car, dragging him in his stocking feet) into the car and off I drive toward the border. I stop every few blocks to slap his face and yell, "Roy, wake up, you idiot!" Roy is still breathing, so I continue on.

When we hit the border, and believe me, I'm so scared I'm barely breathing, the agent stopped me and looked into the back seat. Thankfully, this was before the advent of the drug-sniffing dog with almost every agent. "He's really, really drunk," I tell the agent. The agent just looked at him, looked at me, shook his head a bit and waved us through.

We get to the Arizona side of the border and I try to decide if I should take Roy to the hospital. But first, I had business to attend to, as you can well imagine. It was my turn to get high. Priorities, you know, because it was clear Roy was going to live. I finally got him awake enough to ask him if he wanted to go the hospital, and he mumbles "No," of course. What addict wants to ruin a perfectly good high with a shot of Narcan? So I drove toward Tucson. Just as we hit the halfway mark between Nogales and Tucson, Roy sits up in the back seat like a jack-in-the-box and orders me to the first rest stop so he can fix again. "Fine," I snap, "but if you o.d. again, you are on your own!"

Well, we got back to Phoenix with him nodding out most of the way none the worse for wear, although this event strained our friendship greatly, much more from his stinginess with the drugs after he woke up than his overdose.

As I started to say before we all took that roadtrip to Mexico, music transports me. My parents loved music so we grew up in a household noted for its high-fi. The happiest times of my childhood were when my brothers and I gathered around the stereo with my parents listening to Marty Robbins' "Gunfighter Ballads" or the Sons of the Pioneers or the First Family Album. I thank my parents daily that they instilled that love of music in all of us kids. Music is a vehicle that frequently takes me closer to God.

The Sound of Music was a ritual with my mother and I and as she progressed in her Alzheimer's, if she became upset or disoriented, we'd put the movie in the VCR and she would immediately calm down. I watched it a few weeks ago with my s/o and it was bittersweet, watching the movie with him as memories of my mother flooded me. I am so grateful, unlike so many people in the rooms, that I had parents who were there for me emotionally, who never stopped believing in me, who literally, I believe, prayed me into the rooms.

"Alone again or" has come back on and the dogs are waiting for a dance. So if I don't show here tomorrow, twodogs say "hey."

Until then, mis amigos, stay in gratitude.

Are we carrying the best message?

Three relapsers came into the meeting today with, as we used to say in Phoenix, "arrows sticking out." It's bandied about the rooms that the holidays are a difficult time to stay sober and many people relapse. My experience is that anytime is a difficult time to stay sober if you don't work a program. I'm not sure that the holidays cause any more people to relapse who would not have anyway.

I have nothing against relapsers. I, too, stumbled in and out for almost two years before I finally "got the message." No one judged me (they did laugh at me, and not always with me as they proclaimed), but each return I was greeted with love and tolerance and that's what I extend today.

Something struck me over the past few weeks as our phone line picks up activity and newcomers seem to be hitting the meetings more, whether from our local drug court or from our quiet public relations efforts. At most meetings after we learn there are newcomers, people go around the room and many of them share their story of relapse.

I know that is uniquely their story, but I wonder what the newcomers think. "You mean this guy stayed sober for ten years and then drank? What hope is there for me?"

I understand when members tell newcomers that, if they relapse, they should come back. I heartily agree with that. But what I heard when I got here (although I didn't believe it for a long while) was this clear message: "You never have to use drugs again, one day at a time."

Maybe I'm overanalyzing, but lately I've been almost cringing to hear older members tell tales of relapses when we have several or more newcomers in the rooms. What about the "One day at a time" message?

My experience with relapse is that it is almost always preceded by a period, short or long, of "self-will run riot." We slip into thinking we can make all sorts of decisions without help. Even at this stage in my recovery, I've learned that my own best thinking is still unsound when I don't seek guidance, whether it's from my sponsor or other trusted members who won't steer me wrong.

I've run on self will and I've learned the hard way that there is a price for this behavior. Today, I'm no longer willing to pay the price. These are my late-night ramblings and I hope you have a great night. I know, since I chose not to drink or use drugs today, I'll sleep like a baby.

Grief

There's been some talk on Scout's post about grief with some very good insights. I thought I'd share my thoughts about how I've come to understand my grief.

I had a dog-trainer friend suicide a few months ago, high, alone and terrified, I'm sure. I could never carry the message to him despite him watching me walk through recovery and having a male friend 12-step him. Although we had not been close for a few years, when I was told of his death, I was struck with grief. It was instantaneous and lasted, intermittently, for several weeks.

My friend had caused so much wreckage in his life that no one, not the few friends he still had, not his mother or his fiance, would claim his body. Over the weeks after his death, all I could think of was his body, alone and unclaimed in some county morgue. It really caused me pain. It still hurts, perhaps because there was no funeral where I could grieve and grieve with others and say "Goodbye. You may not have known it, but you were loved, if only by me and your dogs." Funerals usually provide closure, at least for me.

One of my friends was puzzled that the death of someone I was no longer in touch with would upset me so much. As a result, I didn't talk to anyone about how I felt about his death. It's easiest to talk to others when we feel safe exposing our feelings.

As He often does, God sent me an Eskimo. Right after his death I was on a plane trip to Seattle to visit my brother Fast Eddie. The lady who sat next to me was a Christian. We began to talk about her church in Chicago and as often happens with women, the talk quickly turned personal. I found myself pouring out my feelings about Mike's death, my hurt that his body lay unclaimed and my worry that he was not any more at peace in death than he had been in his 40-plus years on earth.

She spoke about God's immense love and our inability as humans to know what takes place at the moment any person passes into God's arms. As a result of being able to talk through my fears and my feelings with her, a loving stranger with her calm and comforting words, I was able to have some closure over his death.

I still think about Mike from time to time. He was a classic example of someone who, no matter what others said to him, could not love himself. In that case, we often can't help, no matter how hard we try. As my sponsor used to remind me regularly, "It's an inside job."

A lot of people don't "get" grief and are uncomfortable watching us grieve. If they don't know how to help us, they may try to "cajole" us out of it with platitudes or tell us when it's time to stop grieving. In those cases, it's best to walk away. I try to recognize that they are doing the best they can. In their clumsy way, they may be trying to comfort us.

Over the years, like anyone who takes life on life's terms, I've suffered many losses. When my marriage dissolved many years ago, some days I would stumble home from work and sit in a bathtub, aching all over. I talked to Vida, a wise recovering L.A. addict about it, telling her my body hurt from the pain. "Sure your body hurts," she said. "Why do you think they call it 'heart broken'?"

After a failed three-year engagement at 10 years, I literally could not get out of bed for a week. All this over a heartbreak? I wondered. I eventually understood that the grief that overwhelmed me was not just about that particular loss. It was all the losses of my life: the broken hearts, my father's death, the loss of many friends along the way, career losses, watching my brilliant mother lose her mind, all the losses of my messy life.

If I don't feel the feelings when things happen, perhaps because I'm numbed by pain or feel I have to "stay strong," I will still feel them eventually. Sometimes the grief I feel is a combination of griefs and losses. Often none around us will understand except those who have experienced it.

As I heard a woman say in a meeting in LA after she lost her fiance, she "put on the blues and leaned into the pain." There is no way around grief but through it. Some people are equipped to help us with our pain, some not. With or without support, I've found grief vital to my recovery. I don't need permission to grieve.

Daily meditation book excerpt (from my upcoming book)

Courage is fear that’s said its prayers

Emboldened by drugs or alcohol, we often had false courage. As we began to recover, many of us had no idea what fear felt like in our bodies. Part of the journey of recovery is identifying feelings like fear and how fear feels in our body. Once we can identify the feeling, we slowly learn how to handle this new emotion.

In our addiction, we never admitted to fear. Our bravado, we believe, may have saved our lives when drinking and using. But in recovery, fear may sometimes become a paralyzing force in our lives. When fear overcomes us, we must remember -- God is bigger than our fears.

Fear may be the catalyst that allows us to develop deeper faith, perhaps because through our questioning we become greater friends with our God. But beyond the fear, keeping faith requires us to ignore fear-based thoughts. Instead, we focus on the broader spiritual truth — that God, if trusted, will provide our every need.

Courage is an action. Even though we may be afraid, with help from our recovery community and our spiritual advisers, we continue to walk forward courageously trusting that God holds our safety net.

"Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it is that quiet voice at the end of the day that says 'I will try again tomorrow.'”

Mary Anne Radmacher

The believable lie

What is the core "believable lie" your subconscious tells you about yourself again and again? What is that voice saying to you, over and over and over? What is the recurring theme in your life?

Believable lies are just that; self-statements which, if taken at face value, seem believable but are in fact lies we began to believe about ourselves, often formed early in our lives. To change the spiral of negativity these thoughts perpetuate, we must first discover our believable lies and then gently push them away.

Try this exercise. After reading this paragraph, close your eyes for a few minutes, sitting quietly. Ask yourself this question. "What is the core thought that comes to mind when I sit with myself for a few minutes, the thought that constantly recurs in my mind when I'm discouraged, distraught with myself, can't sleep or in turmoil?"

If you hear that thought, the answer may surprise you. For me, the answer came quickly and clearly. "I am unlovable," I heard my mind speak. "No one will ever love me."

This exercise was a great discovery for me. It illuminated the problems I had in relationships; the feelings of inadequacy I carried despite a number of years in recovery; the need I felt to have everyone like me or something terrible would happen; the need to be a hero again and again, the need to be the best and the brightest; the fear of success to the point that I again and again sabotaged myself in my career and my writing. It came when I felt that if I stopped for one minute, my entire life would implode.

I tell myself many believable lies, most of them stemming from my one core self-denigrating belief. "This is the best it will get"; "I'll always be alone"; "I'm a failure"; "No one understands me"; and one of my most frequent, "I'll never be good enough, no matter how hard I try." These believable lies suck me into my own personal drama, a dangerous and isolating place for any addict to be.

I usually know today when I'm in stuck in the believable lie because I'm discouraged, quick to judge, angry, sleepless or somewhat depressed. But once I was aware of them, I've learned tricks along the way that have helped me counteract those thoughts with more positive thinking.

I sometimes hear that voice that says "You are unlovable." Today I have solutions: The Steps, a sponsor, loving friends in and out of the rooms; my s/o, who loves me despite myself; uplifting literature; and twodogs, of course, who love me unconditionally.

Those believable lies block us from self love and the discovery of who we really are, and hide our true purpose on Earth. Once I identified my believable lie, I could begin to become the person I was meant to be.

God Calling journal

I've mentioned my favorite daily meditation book, God Calling, the book on which our Twenty-Four Hour a Day book is fashioned. We were at the bookstore last night and as I looked in the poetry section, my s/o mogged around the religion section and found me a gift. It's the God Calling Daily Devotional Journal.

It is a lovely leather book with gold leaf. It has the daily reading, space to write one's thoughts about the reading, and a Bible promise to go with it. I've used the God Calling devotional for many years, having stumbled across it somehow in my many spiritual travels in bookstores and it's simply, to me, the best devotional around. Recalling that it was written in the 1930s and edited by someone other than the two "listeners," some of the readings may require several readings to fully grasp their meaning. It's worth it, though, because the beautiful comfort found in the pages of God Calling surpasses most of the daily readings I see on bookshelves today.

It's available at http://www.barbourbooks.com/ if you can't find it anywhere else. I highly recommend it.

A blogger's convention

Here's what I think. I think all recovery bloggers need to pick a location to gather and meet! I'm planning to attend the World Convention NA in San Antonio August 30 to September 2, 2007. Are any of your planning to go? Forward this to as many recovery bloggers as you can!

Let me know!

Amends revisited

I have a dear friend in the Oakland area, Louisa J., who I have learned so much from over the years. I remember once when I had a few years clean we were talking about amends in a meeting. I had a situation troubling me and I talked to her about it at "the meeting after the meeting."

I knew that a friend of mine was upset with me for something I truly believed was not my fault. I have always been stubborn, and I didn't want to make amends for something I didn't do. I told Louisa this, and she commented, "I've found that even if you didn't do anything wrong, it's sometimes better to apologize anyway in honor of the friendship."

That comment didn't sit too well with stubborn old me. I don't believe I ever made amends in this case, but over the years, I've learned the value of her belief. If an issue is standing between me and another person, I need to talk with them about it. Usually, even if I don't believe I did anything wrong, if they're hurt or upset, it's often better to apologize.

I was talking to a friend the other day who is having a hard time with a family member who continues to throw her behavior in her face despite the passage of many years. What I recommended she say, rather than defending her behavior at the time, was "I'm sorry that you see it that way."

We often get frustrated with people who can't seem to forgive us for our transgressions. We may not feel that we did anything, or the other person won't tell us what we did. Those are tricky amends to make, and I've got catchphrases I use when I don't feel that I've done anything wrong, for example, if by my setting appropriate boundaries I've hurt someone's feelings. "I'm sorry that you feel that way" or "I'm sorry if you were hurt" often covers it.

Amends cost us nothing, yet we stand much to gain by making them. We often gain an understanding of the other person's perspective; we gain humility; and we often gain stronger relationships when we make a heartfelt apology.

Making amends

Isn't he a cute little fletcher? We had a great night here in Missouri. We organized a New Year's Eve party and I organized the beverage committee, which despite my fears and the initial difficulty of getting people to agree to take a shift, went without a hitch. This fear, like 99 percent of my fears, never materialized.
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Because it's been on my mind lately, I wanted to talk about amends and how we make them. When I had quite a few years, I was living in LA and went back to Oakland to visit a few friends, where I spent years three through seven or so. I ran into an old acquaintance, who, the last few times I'd seen him, had been really rude to me. I didn't know what I did so I just figured I must have offended him somehow.
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This trip to town, I saw him at a Sunday morning meeting and he came up to me after the meeting really friendly and apologized for being so short with me. I didn't ask him why, but he offered, saying "I just heard from some people that you were really selfish!"
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I was flabbergasted. I just didn't know what to say. All I could imagine was that it must have surrounded my divorce, which took place in Oakland in year five. This particular man was involved with one of my good friends who had strong opinions about my marriage, so I immediately suspected that she must have told him that I was selfish.
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I was crushed, both at what he had told me (of course, there was a ring of truth in what he said, as there always is when people make these sideways "I love you/you are a bad person" attacks), and at the suspicion that my good friend had judged me and talked out of school, contributing to the whole mess.
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I talked to my friend I was staying with, who had been my wasband's sponsor and knew me for years. He told me not to worry about it, because that's the way this particular person often approached people; he was known for these types of attacks. In other words, "Don't take it personally."
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It bothered me for some time, and whenever, in the past ten years, I saw this person (which isn't often since I don't travel there much anymore), I avoided him like the plague. Once bitten, twice shy and all that.
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In my early years of recovery, I didn't know how to make amends. My sponsor was never specific about how to tell people I was sorry, so I figured it out the best way I could. I would find the people I needed to talk with, tell them in great detail that I was sorry, but only after explaining in greater detail why I had wronged them, allowing them to clearly see what I felt they may have contributed to the situation.
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For example, I might say "I'm sorry that I snapped at you at the service meeting over the way I was handling the meeting minutes. You see, I'm very sensitive to that because as a child, my mother constantly criticized me and you triggered all those childhood feelings of inadequacy." (I called this the "You stole my tinker toys" defense.)
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However, when I had seven years a good friend I worked with at the WSO, Deb M., who knew more about the Steps than about anyone I've ever known, set me straight.
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"Here's how you make amends," she told me. "You simply say "I was wrong; I'm so sorry." Then, of course, you determine how or if you can right the wrong.
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I realized after Deb taught me this that it isn't an amend if you tell someone you were sorry by pointing out any part they may have had in the problem. It's your amend, not theirs. Amends, as Meg Moran reminded me with her comment today, are an exercise in humility.
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I may understand perfectly well why I acted like I did. The other person may have been acting badly, as well. They may even have a huge part in the whole mess. However, there is no reason for the other person to know your life history or what "triggered" your feelings. That is your issue to resolve and your responsibility, not theirs.
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Amends are a powerful way to transform relationships. The simpler the words, I have found, the better. People will read into our words many meanings, so when I make amends, I use the KISS principle and "keep it simple." Making an amend is supposed to make the situation better, not worse, so be careful!
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Have a great day! Remember, it's the start of a new year and you can do anything differently you'd like, starting now.