I am dealing with grief and as I write this, I rebel against feeling that feeling. It feels like it may swallow me whole. I know the reality of grief is that it's often like a three-car pile-up. This bout is no exception. As I wait for my brother to pass from cancer, the loss of both my parents in the past years is also weighing on me.
One of the gifts a dysfunctional family often provides is that we become extremely close to our siblings. My brother has always been there for me and in fact, my parents abdicated much of the responsibility of child raising onto him, so in many ways he raised me. He was a constant in my life I could always turn to and because he dealt with serious mental illness, I was the constant in his life, as well.
Sunday I'll head back up to Eugene, Oregon, for the fourth and final trip to be with him as he transitions. It is one of the toughest things I will ever do but it is also the gift I can give him. The program taught me how to walk through this.
Saturday, December 08, 2012
Thursday, September 06, 2012
"I Got to Choose My Own Bottom"
At a meeting today, a young woman who was at her first meeting with her mother by her side admitted she wasn't sure she had "hit bottom," but was hoping that NA would work for her. As often happens when we speak honestly in meetings, we get our most perplexing questions or concerns answered.
Toward the end of the meeting, another young woman with six months clean spoke up. "I heard what you said about not being sure you hit bottom," the young woman said. "I know this: If I had used just one more day, I would have lost custody of my children. I got to choose my own bottom."
How powerful is that message, that we choose our own bottom? When I came to Narcotics Anonymous almost 30 years ago at the age of 27, most of our members were hardcore junkies who had hit a pretty horrific bottom. Some were old bikers who had done time in prison; some had detoxed in Lexington; others had lost everything. I knew when I got here and finally took that first step completely that there was nothing left for me out on the streets. Many of today's addicts are much different.
Many NA members today come to us through treatment programs or through the court system. Many are still in their teens, even their early teens. The old saying I heard when I got here, "I spilled more dope than you used," just doesn't ring true anymore. We all know it's the emotional bottom that finally gets us to seek help.
It's amazing to me to look around the rooms of NA today and see all the young faces, the teens, those in their early twenties, and those who used only a few years before they realized they needed help.
In a sense, I suppose I chose my own bottom, as well. There are times when things are tough, like they are right now as I work through post-traumatic stress issues, that using may be a remote possibility. I know, though, if I choose to use, what awaits me. There is no way I have the ability to survive long using the way I used when I arrived in NA. But using is always still an option, so I continue to attend meetings regularly and rely on my support system for help.
Thank God I had the bottom that I continue to choose.
Toward the end of the meeting, another young woman with six months clean spoke up. "I heard what you said about not being sure you hit bottom," the young woman said. "I know this: If I had used just one more day, I would have lost custody of my children. I got to choose my own bottom."
How powerful is that message, that we choose our own bottom? When I came to Narcotics Anonymous almost 30 years ago at the age of 27, most of our members were hardcore junkies who had hit a pretty horrific bottom. Some were old bikers who had done time in prison; some had detoxed in Lexington; others had lost everything. I knew when I got here and finally took that first step completely that there was nothing left for me out on the streets. Many of today's addicts are much different.
Many NA members today come to us through treatment programs or through the court system. Many are still in their teens, even their early teens. The old saying I heard when I got here, "I spilled more dope than you used," just doesn't ring true anymore. We all know it's the emotional bottom that finally gets us to seek help.
It's amazing to me to look around the rooms of NA today and see all the young faces, the teens, those in their early twenties, and those who used only a few years before they realized they needed help.
In a sense, I suppose I chose my own bottom, as well. There are times when things are tough, like they are right now as I work through post-traumatic stress issues, that using may be a remote possibility. I know, though, if I choose to use, what awaits me. There is no way I have the ability to survive long using the way I used when I arrived in NA. But using is always still an option, so I continue to attend meetings regularly and rely on my support system for help.
Thank God I had the bottom that I continue to choose.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Updates
I haven't been writing for quite awhile. Busy with life and working and my program. All is well and hope to start writing again soon.
I did get the support group up and running.
I did get the support group up and running.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Support Group for Families of Sex Workers Begins
April 5, 2012, 7 p.m., at 6060 N. 7th Ave., Phoenix, AZ.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Moving forward
Lots happening in my recovery. I am finally venturing into my community more assuredly to give back to those I can. Next month here in Phoenix I am starting a support group for the families and friends of sex workers. I have worked in a small way for decades helping women exit the sex industry; that is no secret. What I noticed is that there are so many family members impacted by sex workers' choices and there is no support from them.
So April 5 we start a meeting called "Because She Matters" for the families and friends of sex workers. This may be women or men who work the streets, strip, work in the porn industry, whatever path they choose deeply impacts those they love.
I'll post more details soon.
So April 5 we start a meeting called "Because She Matters" for the families and friends of sex workers. This may be women or men who work the streets, strip, work in the porn industry, whatever path they choose deeply impacts those they love.
I'll post more details soon.
Tuesday, February 07, 2012
I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who irritate me.
∞ Fred Allen
There has been plenty to irritate me lately. A new job and adjusting to a boss who I am sure has several planets in Virgo, at least Uranus. A sister-in-law of 32 years dying of cancer, yet we are not allowed to say our goodbyes. A brother who moved into my house after four months in the hospital who sits on the couch all day watching reruns of Law & Order, predicting the end of Western civilization, his comments punctuated by vomiting in a kidney-shaped emesis bowl. Yes, there is plenty to be irritated about.
But then, there is the wonder. Cool walks up North Mountain where I smile at Labradors and their panting owners. A steady pay check, health benefits and bonus checks when many of my friends are unemployed; the soft snore of my two German shepherds as they guard my bed each night as I wait for sleep. Wonder for my friends who post funny pictures on Facebook and poke me when I change my status to “pissed off.”
Yes, there are many reasons to be irritated. But there are many more reasons to breathe in, breathe out and say quietly, “Thank you.”
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Of Course You Hurt, Honey. Why Do You Think They Call it "Heart Broken"?
Funny that on Thanksgiving as I fill the lull between cleaning, organizing and putting the turkey in the oven, I am reflecting on red flags in relationships.
Relationships have not been my strong suit in recovery. I was married at two years clean to a man I truly loved, but he was and still is not able to stay clean. At five years clean, despite the pain and uncertainty, I divorced him to move on in my life and to try to fulfill my needs for intimacy. I talked to him last week, and sadly, he is homeless in Austin, a good place to be if you're homeless, and his life is pretty unmanageable, at least by my standards.
At about ten years clean, I fell in love again with a non-program man. That relationship lasted four years, but ultimately failed when he fell for another (and much younger I might add) woman. I was devastated, particularly because we lived in a small town and felt everyone (except me) knew that she was pregnant and what was happening. (Our own minds manufacture much of the drama, of course.) However, the signs were there for a few years and I ignored them or left and returned, thinking "It will get better." It never did. Now I am grateful for him in my life, for I found my wonderful dog Romy, who entertained me and many of you readers with her refrigerator-raiding antics over the years. I also found that I loved the area where he lived and ultimately bought a house there, where I hope to retire some day soon.
Anyhow, about relationships. Here are some red flags I've seen and often ignored over the years.
Verbal abuse. What is verbal abuse? It is hard to define, but we often know it when we hear it. Statements like, "You didn't get a good education," or "You are too fat," or "You are not as smart as you think," can all be defined as verbally abusive. Unfortunately, I was clean a long, long before while I finally understood that he verbally abused me. I only know I felt small, not smart enough, fat and confused a lot of the time
Relationships with extreme "highs" and "lows." Relationships characterized by extreme "feeling greats" then followed by feeling "totally down in the dumps" are often abusive or harmful to us. What we strive for in recovery if we allow ourselves to take direction is a lack of drama and emotional stability. My favorite episode of The Simpsons had Lisa sitting in Santa's lap. When he asked her what she wanted for Christmas, she answered, "Some stability in my life and an absence of mood swings!" I so related it made me wonder what was wrong in my life. A relationship that swings from "I'm on top of the world" to "I can't believe how miserable I am" is often toxic.
A lack of common financial goals and differing money-handling abilities. The last person I dated was retired and received a pension. When I think "retired," I think "financially stable." Only after we had dated for awhile did I realize that he wasn't retired, he was underemployed. He had quit his last job and taken early retirement because he hated his boss, and was still fuming about that. He took odd jobs when he could find them, but basically this meant if we were going to be in a relationship, I would have to bear the burden of partially supporting him. I couldn't afford to and found that I was too far in to exit gracefully. I saw him last week at a clean-time party and he left the party rather than speak to me. While few of us discussed how to handle money in our family of origins, hopefully in recovery we learn the skills of discussing money and budgeting.
Someone who lacks friends and family support. When I first started dating my mid-recovery relationship, I noticed he had no friends. He was a dog trainer and knew tons of people in the town where I lived; however, he had only one friend who lived in another state. I later learned why. It was because no one could live up to his expectations and he ultimately either destroyed or judged away each potential friendship. Of course, since this was his pattern, I couldn't live up to his high expectations, either. That was a huge red flag I chose to ignore. I thought my friends would become his friends, but that never worked. He found them defective, as well. In fact, the woman who worked for me one day said when he sashayed into my office to drop off a dog to babysit for the day, "I don't know about him." I chose not to listen and it took another year or so to really understand the depths of his narcissism. It's important that we look for people with a support system around them so that we don't become overly burdened by their emotional needs.
People we "can change." I know I'm not the only one who has been attracted to someone who has "PR" as we say in the program, either for sexual promiscuity, gambling compulsions or other issues that scream, "Unmanageability." When I sponsor women who are at the peak of their sexuality, craving love and affection, and watch them gravitate toward the NA "Casanovas," I often have to hold my voice--restraint of tongue. I can only gently caution them to watch the men's behavior in the rooms and outside the rooms. If they are breaking hearts as they march through recovery, I ask my gals: "Do you want to be in that lineup? What makes you any different?" I have seen far too many people use over broken hearts to ignore the fact that the old timers told us, "Under every skirt's a slip" (or under every pair of boxers) for a reason.
I think what I'm trying to say if you are thinking about romance in the rooms, go slowly. Who we fall in love with is often smoke and mirrors. We are always, me included, on our best behavior as we get to know a potential romantic partner. There is no magic number that outlines how long we should get to know someone before we decide to become intimate. The longer the better, though. One thing I am so grateful for in early recovery is that I knew that I didn't want to walk into a meeting and think, "I've slept with him and him and him." Believe me, I saw many women fall into that trap and many of them disappeared. They slept themselves out of recovery.
I hope your Thanksgiving (if you're in America) is wonderful. To my friends across the globe, Namaste. Feel free to add your own red flags.
Relationships have not been my strong suit in recovery. I was married at two years clean to a man I truly loved, but he was and still is not able to stay clean. At five years clean, despite the pain and uncertainty, I divorced him to move on in my life and to try to fulfill my needs for intimacy. I talked to him last week, and sadly, he is homeless in Austin, a good place to be if you're homeless, and his life is pretty unmanageable, at least by my standards.
At about ten years clean, I fell in love again with a non-program man. That relationship lasted four years, but ultimately failed when he fell for another (and much younger I might add) woman. I was devastated, particularly because we lived in a small town and felt everyone (except me) knew that she was pregnant and what was happening. (Our own minds manufacture much of the drama, of course.) However, the signs were there for a few years and I ignored them or left and returned, thinking "It will get better." It never did. Now I am grateful for him in my life, for I found my wonderful dog Romy, who entertained me and many of you readers with her refrigerator-raiding antics over the years. I also found that I loved the area where he lived and ultimately bought a house there, where I hope to retire some day soon.
Anyhow, about relationships. Here are some red flags I've seen and often ignored over the years.
Verbal abuse. What is verbal abuse? It is hard to define, but we often know it when we hear it. Statements like, "You didn't get a good education," or "You are too fat," or "You are not as smart as you think," can all be defined as verbally abusive. Unfortunately, I was clean a long, long before while I finally understood that he verbally abused me. I only know I felt small, not smart enough, fat and confused a lot of the time
Relationships with extreme "highs" and "lows." Relationships characterized by extreme "feeling greats" then followed by feeling "totally down in the dumps" are often abusive or harmful to us. What we strive for in recovery if we allow ourselves to take direction is a lack of drama and emotional stability. My favorite episode of The Simpsons had Lisa sitting in Santa's lap. When he asked her what she wanted for Christmas, she answered, "Some stability in my life and an absence of mood swings!" I so related it made me wonder what was wrong in my life. A relationship that swings from "I'm on top of the world" to "I can't believe how miserable I am" is often toxic.
A lack of common financial goals and differing money-handling abilities. The last person I dated was retired and received a pension. When I think "retired," I think "financially stable." Only after we had dated for awhile did I realize that he wasn't retired, he was underemployed. He had quit his last job and taken early retirement because he hated his boss, and was still fuming about that. He took odd jobs when he could find them, but basically this meant if we were going to be in a relationship, I would have to bear the burden of partially supporting him. I couldn't afford to and found that I was too far in to exit gracefully. I saw him last week at a clean-time party and he left the party rather than speak to me. While few of us discussed how to handle money in our family of origins, hopefully in recovery we learn the skills of discussing money and budgeting.
Someone who lacks friends and family support. When I first started dating my mid-recovery relationship, I noticed he had no friends. He was a dog trainer and knew tons of people in the town where I lived; however, he had only one friend who lived in another state. I later learned why. It was because no one could live up to his expectations and he ultimately either destroyed or judged away each potential friendship. Of course, since this was his pattern, I couldn't live up to his high expectations, either. That was a huge red flag I chose to ignore. I thought my friends would become his friends, but that never worked. He found them defective, as well. In fact, the woman who worked for me one day said when he sashayed into my office to drop off a dog to babysit for the day, "I don't know about him." I chose not to listen and it took another year or so to really understand the depths of his narcissism. It's important that we look for people with a support system around them so that we don't become overly burdened by their emotional needs.
People we "can change." I know I'm not the only one who has been attracted to someone who has "PR" as we say in the program, either for sexual promiscuity, gambling compulsions or other issues that scream, "Unmanageability." When I sponsor women who are at the peak of their sexuality, craving love and affection, and watch them gravitate toward the NA "Casanovas," I often have to hold my voice--restraint of tongue. I can only gently caution them to watch the men's behavior in the rooms and outside the rooms. If they are breaking hearts as they march through recovery, I ask my gals: "Do you want to be in that lineup? What makes you any different?" I have seen far too many people use over broken hearts to ignore the fact that the old timers told us, "Under every skirt's a slip" (or under every pair of boxers) for a reason.
I think what I'm trying to say if you are thinking about romance in the rooms, go slowly. Who we fall in love with is often smoke and mirrors. We are always, me included, on our best behavior as we get to know a potential romantic partner. There is no magic number that outlines how long we should get to know someone before we decide to become intimate. The longer the better, though. One thing I am so grateful for in early recovery is that I knew that I didn't want to walk into a meeting and think, "I've slept with him and him and him." Believe me, I saw many women fall into that trap and many of them disappeared. They slept themselves out of recovery.
I hope your Thanksgiving (if you're in America) is wonderful. To my friends across the globe, Namaste. Feel free to add your own red flags.
Friday, November 11, 2011
What I've Learned in 26 Years
Next month will be my 27th anniversary in Narcotics Anonymous. It amazes me that I have managed to stay clean all these years. For someone who drank and used the way I did, to stay clean for almost three decades is a miracle and one I thank God for on a daily basis.
On my anniversary I will speak my home group, Hip, Slick & Kool. I will give a brief drug-a-log, because newcomers need to hear you used the way they did—the heroin, methadone maintenance, cocaine, liberal doses of PCP—and I will share about some of the key things I have learned in my 27 years clean. Here they are.
The people you love may not always love you. Or, the way they can love you may not be the way you need to be loved. As painful as that was, once I faced the truth, turning it over and moving on has been my only answer. It takes time and courage, but admitting that I needed more and detaching with love has been the only solution that has worked for me.
Everyone is struggling with something. You may see people who you think “have it together.” Trust me, everyone, no matter how long they have been clean or how spiritual they appear, struggles with something. It may be food, it may be gambling, it may be an inability to be intimate, it may be how they handle money—but it is something. We each are gifted with our own personal struggles we wrestle throughout our lives.
My family often lets me down, but people in the Fellowship rarely do. I continue to be disappointed in my family members. I continue to invite them into my life; they continue to refuse. People in the Fellowship are happy to accept almost any invitation I extend. My friends in the Fellowship have become my family. I can call on them at any time and they will drop everything if I need help. They are always at the top of my gratitude list.
My God is always bigger. I have walked through very difficult circumstances in recovery. The death of both parents; a painful divorce (which is almost an oxymoron); very public humiliations; an almost fatal illness and subsequent organ transplant; the death of animals I have loved more than most people, to name a few. In all these instances, and when I thought I could not go on either emotionally or physically, my God has always been bigger than the problem at hand.
There were many times when I wasn’t sure I could stay clean. Whenever I ask myself: “Why am I bothering to stay clean, to suit up and show up?”—when I am at my wit’s end, considering that first drink which will lead me back to my drug of choice—that is when God inevitably sends me an Eskimo. It may be that newcomer I reluctantly agreed to sponsor, calling with some drama of her own. It may be my sponsor showing up at the door. It may be my phone ringing unexpectedly, the caller ID announcing a close friend. It may be a simple post from a Facebook friend that suddenly slips into that hole in my gut and clicks into place. These Eskimos tell me that, one day at a time, nothing is so bad that I can’t face it and that I never have to face it alone. There have been many, many Eskimos in my recovery. You may be my next one.
You really can’t take it with you when you die. When my doctor told me I had only a few months to live, I had a lot of time to think. I looked around my house at all the “stuff” I owned. I realized that at best, these possessions were just things that someone would have to dispose of or donate when I died. None of the physical things I owned mattered one iota in the end. What matters is how I live my life and how I treat others.
When shit hits the fan, and it will hit the fan, put on the blues and lean into the pain. There is no way around the pain—no shortcut, no detour, no avoidance. Just walk toward the pain to get past it. It will not kill you. It will feel like it will kill you, but I and others who have chosen to stay clean for years and years have learned that pain is not fatal. Beyond the pain there is new freedom. You will come out stronger on the other side.
What really matters is friendship. To have friends, you have to be a friend. Whenever I have problems in my recovery, my NA friends are there for me unconditionally. That is because I am a friend to them. NA taught me how to be a friend.
These are just a few of my thoughts about my years in the Fellowship. My dearest friend in NA, the love of my life I will never marry, sent me a card last year for my clean date. I think his words sum it up much better than I can.
“That you arrived was an act of Providence. That you stayed is a daily miracle. That you endure displays your courage. What you have accomplished makes you an inspiration.”
Those words can be said about almost anyone who stays clean in NA. We didn’t get here by accident and we don’t stay clean by accident, either. I thank God daily for the Grace that brought me to these rooms.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Carpe Diem
Peggy's husband died last week at the Veteran’s Hospital. A Vietnam combat veteran, he passed away surrounded by a loving group of friends, held by his wife as doctors removed life support. Last Friday we filled the Congregational church; family and friends. Bob, a serious man I know only slightly, ministered at the podium. He is a mail-in reverend who owns a Jack Russell Terrier named Walter, famous for his terrible terrier antics. Peggy stood at the front of the room, receiving hugs and condolences.
Many of us see each other only occasionally, so the chatter took minutes to subside while we said our hellos and exchanged hugs. People in recovery are huggers, oblivious to how nervous it makes non-program people. When finally we quieted, Bob offered a poignant portrait of Bill, who died from throat cancer after a lifetime of smoking and occasional relapses on crack. Bob told anecdotes about Bill; about the time he was selected from the audience at the Renaissance Festival and pulled to the stage to “be king.” He made his wife come up to the stage and kneel before him. “That didn’t happen at home,” Peggy said. We all laughed. We know Peggy and we knew she wasn’t kidding. She definitely was the king of her household. Bill bowed to her wishes. Hers and crack’s.
As pictures of Bill, an accomplished photographer who was usually behind the camera, flashed on a screen, attendees shared their recollections about him. The memorial service lasted 45 minutes, perfect for a group of recovering addicts. Many of us still have a hard time sitting still. It was such a beautiful service that I approached Bob afterwards and only half-jokingly said, “I want to reserve you for my memorial service.”
That night many of us wrote about the beautiful ceremony on Facebook. “I booked Bob for my own memorial service,” I posted. Then I went to sleep.
My phone rang at 6 on Saturday morning. “Hello,” I said groggily. “Nancy, are you sick?” It was my sax-player friend Rayna in Central Missouri time, where I lived until I returned to Arizona in 2008. “No,” I said. “Why?” The fact that I had a liver transplant six years ago rarely occurs to me; but to my friends who watched me nearly die several times both before and after the transplant, that detail remains firmly fixed in their minds.
“I just read your Facebook post about your memorial,” she said. I started laughing. “No, I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking.” I hung up and went back to sleep.
After I got up, I drank my coffee and updated my status on Facebook. “The reports of my death are highly overrated,” I posted. But are they? Are anyone’s? Did anyone who went to work at the World Trade Center on that warm day in September of 2001 expect to die? Does my brother, who is in the agony of three months on a feeding tube after esophageal cancer surgery, what is left of his stomach the size of a fist? Each time he eats he vomits into a kidney-shaped plastic bowl. Does my middle brother, raging in his alcoholism and denial, expect to die soon?
I think of myself as 25 or 30. It surprises me when young people treat me as “old” or talk around me as if I am not there. I was in the carwash a few months ago and a young cashier admired my copper jewelry, commenting on this piece and that piece. “You’re like a really hip grandmother,” she summed up enthusiastically. For a moment, I wondered who she was talking to. I went back to work in a huff, telling my older coworker what she said. I felt only slight better when my coworker laughed and said, “Don’t feel bad, dear; that’s why she will always work in a carwash.”
I am 55; solidly middle aged. I don’t feel it. I feel 30; that I still have a full life still ahead. None of us know when our hearse will arrive. As I waited near death for the liver transplant, not sure if I would be put on the transplant list, I was forced to accept that I might die. I spoke often to the God of my understanding, telling him how powerless I felt and how sure I was that I still had things to finish. “Of course it’s your choice, God,” I would say humbly. But I wasn’t humble. I wanted to live so desperately! I wanted to sit in my armchair in the middle of my five cedar-lined acres in Missouri and watch the squirrels fight the blue jays for possession of the feeders. “Carpe diem, squirrels,” I would say, laughing as they climbed up the most ingeniously designed anti-squirrel feeders. I wanted to live long enough to write a book. I wanted to see the newcomer women I sponsored stay clean and celebrate their victories—getting their driver’s licenses reinstated, buying a car, getting married, having children.
We don’t know which day we will die. As I have aged, I live each day with that fatal understanding that I am granted a tiny, daily reprieve. As my friends and family get sick and die around me, those days I contemplate dying. Most days, I live a life full of joy and occasional wonder. For each day, I am grateful.
Many of us see each other only occasionally, so the chatter took minutes to subside while we said our hellos and exchanged hugs. People in recovery are huggers, oblivious to how nervous it makes non-program people. When finally we quieted, Bob offered a poignant portrait of Bill, who died from throat cancer after a lifetime of smoking and occasional relapses on crack. Bob told anecdotes about Bill; about the time he was selected from the audience at the Renaissance Festival and pulled to the stage to “be king.” He made his wife come up to the stage and kneel before him. “That didn’t happen at home,” Peggy said. We all laughed. We know Peggy and we knew she wasn’t kidding. She definitely was the king of her household. Bill bowed to her wishes. Hers and crack’s.
As pictures of Bill, an accomplished photographer who was usually behind the camera, flashed on a screen, attendees shared their recollections about him. The memorial service lasted 45 minutes, perfect for a group of recovering addicts. Many of us still have a hard time sitting still. It was such a beautiful service that I approached Bob afterwards and only half-jokingly said, “I want to reserve you for my memorial service.”
That night many of us wrote about the beautiful ceremony on Facebook. “I booked Bob for my own memorial service,” I posted. Then I went to sleep.
My phone rang at 6 on Saturday morning. “Hello,” I said groggily. “Nancy, are you sick?” It was my sax-player friend Rayna in Central Missouri time, where I lived until I returned to Arizona in 2008. “No,” I said. “Why?” The fact that I had a liver transplant six years ago rarely occurs to me; but to my friends who watched me nearly die several times both before and after the transplant, that detail remains firmly fixed in their minds.
“I just read your Facebook post about your memorial,” she said. I started laughing. “No, I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking.” I hung up and went back to sleep.
After I got up, I drank my coffee and updated my status on Facebook. “The reports of my death are highly overrated,” I posted. But are they? Are anyone’s? Did anyone who went to work at the World Trade Center on that warm day in September of 2001 expect to die? Does my brother, who is in the agony of three months on a feeding tube after esophageal cancer surgery, what is left of his stomach the size of a fist? Each time he eats he vomits into a kidney-shaped plastic bowl. Does my middle brother, raging in his alcoholism and denial, expect to die soon?
I think of myself as 25 or 30. It surprises me when young people treat me as “old” or talk around me as if I am not there. I was in the carwash a few months ago and a young cashier admired my copper jewelry, commenting on this piece and that piece. “You’re like a really hip grandmother,” she summed up enthusiastically. For a moment, I wondered who she was talking to. I went back to work in a huff, telling my older coworker what she said. I felt only slight better when my coworker laughed and said, “Don’t feel bad, dear; that’s why she will always work in a carwash.”
I am 55; solidly middle aged. I don’t feel it. I feel 30; that I still have a full life still ahead. None of us know when our hearse will arrive. As I waited near death for the liver transplant, not sure if I would be put on the transplant list, I was forced to accept that I might die. I spoke often to the God of my understanding, telling him how powerless I felt and how sure I was that I still had things to finish. “Of course it’s your choice, God,” I would say humbly. But I wasn’t humble. I wanted to live so desperately! I wanted to sit in my armchair in the middle of my five cedar-lined acres in Missouri and watch the squirrels fight the blue jays for possession of the feeders. “Carpe diem, squirrels,” I would say, laughing as they climbed up the most ingeniously designed anti-squirrel feeders. I wanted to live long enough to write a book. I wanted to see the newcomer women I sponsored stay clean and celebrate their victories—getting their driver’s licenses reinstated, buying a car, getting married, having children.
We don’t know which day we will die. As I have aged, I live each day with that fatal understanding that I am granted a tiny, daily reprieve. As my friends and family get sick and die around me, those days I contemplate dying. Most days, I live a life full of joy and occasional wonder. For each day, I am grateful.
Friday, April 22, 2011
A full life
Help me welcome the new addition, Sabra.
There is not much to report as the heat begins to settle in for the summer in Arizona. I am busy writing, working, and riding my new scooter. What a blast.
One of the things I struggle with daily is to remain present. Riding this scooter, which gets 70 miles to the gallon, incidentally, I have to remain totally present. Much like living my life, I have to ensure I'm not in anyone's blind spot, that I keep my eye on the goal (the road ahead), and that most people at stop lights are friendly and curious and often want to say, "Hey."
I know I often take things personally. When people are rude to me, when they ignore me, when I don't get invited to a function, I often feel like I'm riding through life in other people's "blind spots." The reality is, most people don't wake up in the morning and say, "Gee, I think I'll hurt 2 Dogs' feelings today." When people step on my toes or ignore me, it's generally because I'm in their blind spot.
I struggle each day to remain present. I am struggling with eating mindlessly. I find when I must suit up and show up at work, I can barely sit at my desk for long. Instead, I get up and wander the office aimlessly searching for something to "graze" on. I am learning that I must sit with those feelings of boredom and frustration to avoid overeating. It is one of my lifelong challenges.
When you ride a cycle, if you look at something to the left or right too long, your bike goes in that direction. I've learned this firsthand. When I ride, as much as I may be tempted to lollygag along and look all around me, I have to keep my eye on the goal--the road directly ahead. This doesn't mean I can't look around when I'm stopped, but when I'm moving, I must focus directly in front of me and immediately around me. I find this is also true in life. I keep my eyes on my goals and try to focus on where I need to be, not necessarily where I think I should be, or where I could go if this happened or that happened.
One of the first things I learned as I road is that often, people talk to me at stop lights. It might be a carload of young vatos like last Saturday, or it might be someone just saying, "Hey." People long for connection. Many people have no one. We are so fortunate that we have the rooms where we connect.
There is much to learn in life. As I continue to attend meetings, work the steps (this time in a step group with a bunch of awesome women), and stay clean for the long haul, my life becomes richer each day. I have stretches of joy that make me grateful I am still alive and moving forward.
Have a great day.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Great fun in recovery
Yesterday a friend who came to the rooms when he was a teenager celebrated 25 years clean. I hosted his birthday party at my house and we had a blast. I cooked a main dish and a few side dishes and others brought things. For hours, we reminisced, roasted my friend, Chris, and talked program. It made me very grateful for the rooms of NA in Phoenix, where I got clean and live today.
I have had some health issues the past month, a tooth problem with subsequent infection that kicked my butt, and now a cold. It is critical that I remember when I am sick, any medication I take can impact how I feel not just physicially, but mentally.
When my tooth became badly infected (can you spell "procrastination?), the doctor prescribed pain pills. If I have to take pain medication in recovery, I make sure a trusted friend in the Fellowship is aware of what I'm taking and I'm accountable to that person. In this case, after a few days while I waited for my appointment, I became very depressed, feeling almost suicidal. One night I was lying in bed feeeling overwhelmed and it suddenly hit me: "Oh, pain medication. Depressant! Duh!"
I have been through major illness in my recovery, including a liver transplant five years ago. I understand how much pain we can withstand without pain medication, because once they stopped my morphine a few days post ICU, they never prescribed anything stronger for pain than a huge aspirin thingie, which gave me a huge resentment. The pain was intense. But guess what? I did not get loaded.
Over the years, I have seen many of my fellow Program members relapse, and some die, on pain medication. We must be ever vigilant if we must take pain meds. However, we do not have to suffer because we are addicts.
Additionally, just because you tell your doc or dentist you are an "addict," YOU must take responsibility for the pain meds you accept from prescribers and those you take once you fill the script. The initials "MD" or "DDS" after a name imply little training on addiction. So buddies, it is up to us to remain vigilant against relapse.
I shall exit my soapbox and tell you I am glad to be back openly blogging. The professional issues I had earlier forced me to close my blog, and it is now back and steaming along. I may not post too frequently since I am very busy living a full and rewarding life.
If no one told you today they love you, I do.
I have had some health issues the past month, a tooth problem with subsequent infection that kicked my butt, and now a cold. It is critical that I remember when I am sick, any medication I take can impact how I feel not just physicially, but mentally.
When my tooth became badly infected (can you spell "procrastination?), the doctor prescribed pain pills. If I have to take pain medication in recovery, I make sure a trusted friend in the Fellowship is aware of what I'm taking and I'm accountable to that person. In this case, after a few days while I waited for my appointment, I became very depressed, feeling almost suicidal. One night I was lying in bed feeeling overwhelmed and it suddenly hit me: "Oh, pain medication. Depressant! Duh!"
I have been through major illness in my recovery, including a liver transplant five years ago. I understand how much pain we can withstand without pain medication, because once they stopped my morphine a few days post ICU, they never prescribed anything stronger for pain than a huge aspirin thingie, which gave me a huge resentment. The pain was intense. But guess what? I did not get loaded.
Over the years, I have seen many of my fellow Program members relapse, and some die, on pain medication. We must be ever vigilant if we must take pain meds. However, we do not have to suffer because we are addicts.
Additionally, just because you tell your doc or dentist you are an "addict," YOU must take responsibility for the pain meds you accept from prescribers and those you take once you fill the script. The initials "MD" or "DDS" after a name imply little training on addiction. So buddies, it is up to us to remain vigilant against relapse.
I shall exit my soapbox and tell you I am glad to be back openly blogging. The professional issues I had earlier forced me to close my blog, and it is now back and steaming along. I may not post too frequently since I am very busy living a full and rewarding life.
If no one told you today they love you, I do.
Friday, November 19, 2010
There are many nice people outside the rooms
Last night I went to a fundraiser for a college I attended. It was so nice being with such amazing positive people who talked, for more than two hours, about the importance of education, how important it is to give back and how setting goals and getting a "hand up" changed their lives.
When the event was over (and I got all dolled up as the theme was vintage, wearing my mom's old mink stole), I went to a late night meeting where the topic was the Tenth Step.
You know what I struggle with the most, it seems? Being consistently nice. There are times when I get so frustrated by life on life's terms--bounced checks, people who don't act "right," always having a bit less money than I would like--that I can get pretty difficult and sometimes, downright hateful. That is what I struggle with today.
This weekend I'm doing a weekend intensive thing, sort of EST-like, I guess, for those of you old enough to remember EST. It's mostly program people and I'm hoping for some breakthrough, because I feel stuck.
I'll keep you posted on how it goes. Until then, as my sponsor used to say, "God is the answer, now what was your question?"
When the event was over (and I got all dolled up as the theme was vintage, wearing my mom's old mink stole), I went to a late night meeting where the topic was the Tenth Step.
You know what I struggle with the most, it seems? Being consistently nice. There are times when I get so frustrated by life on life's terms--bounced checks, people who don't act "right," always having a bit less money than I would like--that I can get pretty difficult and sometimes, downright hateful. That is what I struggle with today.
This weekend I'm doing a weekend intensive thing, sort of EST-like, I guess, for those of you old enough to remember EST. It's mostly program people and I'm hoping for some breakthrough, because I feel stuck.
I'll keep you posted on how it goes. Until then, as my sponsor used to say, "God is the answer, now what was your question?"
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
I'm back!
The reason I shut the blog down a year or so ago is no longer relevant so I am able to "come back out." I missed blogging and missed talking with you all, even if it was only in cyberspace (except Meg, whom I actually met).
My life is incredibly busy and fulfilling. I am crazier than an outhouse rat currently, perhaps because I'm coming up on an anniversary and am on Step 3. I want to get my 4th done by my birthday in December.
I hope you are all doing well. I haven't much profound to say except that the longer I stay clean, the more I realize I have a lot to be humble for.
Friday, October 22, 2010
My Romy is gone
I haven't posted in awhile. There is so much happening in my life, but the most difficult is that my beloved Romy went to be with Dallas and my parents. It has been several months and I still can't stop crying when I think of her.
She didn't suffer hardly at all. She was playing with Oz when her front leg broke, probably from bone cancer. She was brave right until the end. On three legs, she marched up the ramp into the truck.
It made me realize how she was the center of my life. There just wasn't much room for anything else.
Oz is doing well, although I think he misses her. He is even more affectionate now.
I hope you are all doing well. I'm hoping soon I can make the blog public again, but for now, I'll keep it private and hope you still check back from time to time.
Hugs and happiness.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Another few tragedies among winners
A gal I sponsored in Missouri woke up next to her husband, who was dead. He was 37. She is staying clean and walking through the pain. The day after he died, a young couple with about two years clean who called to tell me about her tragedy woke up to find their 17 year-old son dead in bed from an overdose. They are staying clean.
When I was coming back to Arizona to try to get my liver transplant, I met with my young sponsee before I left and told her that when "it gets hard, and it will get hard," she will have to walk through it. It has gotten hard for her and despite her initial response, which was to say "Screw this," she stayed clean and buried her husband and did the right thing to be there for her children. They need her.
Life is hard. We go through so many adversities. To those of us who, for so many years, chose to use rather than face life on life's terms, walking through the difficult times isn't easy.
There is no way around the pain; the only way around it is through it. I hope, no matter what life throws at me, I can continue, one day at a time, to stay clean and be present for both life's disasters and the joy.
When I was coming back to Arizona to try to get my liver transplant, I met with my young sponsee before I left and told her that when "it gets hard, and it will get hard," she will have to walk through it. It has gotten hard for her and despite her initial response, which was to say "Screw this," she stayed clean and buried her husband and did the right thing to be there for her children. They need her.
Life is hard. We go through so many adversities. To those of us who, for so many years, chose to use rather than face life on life's terms, walking through the difficult times isn't easy.
There is no way around the pain; the only way around it is through it. I hope, no matter what life throws at me, I can continue, one day at a time, to stay clean and be present for both life's disasters and the joy.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
It's raining hard in Arizona and I am glad. The way I feel matches the weather. I am tired of people throwing away the gift of recovery. Here is a shakedown of the past week.
Next week we will no doubt memorialize a man who threw away almost 18 years, a family who loved him, a wife who probably cannot support herself, a business, and the love of his friends in the Fellowship in search of a bag of heroin. He found it. He went on a one-man crime spree robbing banks and ended up in what can only be called a "suicide by cop."
There is my dear friend who has been around as long as me and has been in and out for years, always using her "mental illness" as the excuse to use. I don't judge her, but she breaks my heart and the hearts of those who love her. She is the funniest person I know. She called me the other day and left this message. "I'm done with NA; there's just nothing left for me." So I called her back and told her about our friend in the first example and said, "Yes, there is something left for you." Our literature tells us in every meeting only too clearly: "Jails, institutions and death." That is the grim, grim reality.
Then yesterday, my ex-husband calls straight out of an overdose and loaded. It's everyone's fault, as usual: his loveless marriage, women who hit on him because he's such a babe after 40 years of drug use, his hard work. Whatever the excuse, he always has one. What can I tell him that I haven't told him before?
This disease is breaking my heart. But it isn't exactly the disease, it's the casual discard of the lifeline by people who should know better that hurts so much.
I am tired of burying people; of losing people through their own cavalier, "I don't give a fuck, I'll show them" attitude.
Today we will go celebrate a woman's 25th birthday and I will be surrounded by the NA winners. Those who have gone through difficulties in their lives yet chosen to stay clean one day at a time. And it will feel healing.
Next week we will no doubt memorialize a man who threw away almost 18 years, a family who loved him, a wife who probably cannot support herself, a business, and the love of his friends in the Fellowship in search of a bag of heroin. He found it. He went on a one-man crime spree robbing banks and ended up in what can only be called a "suicide by cop."
There is my dear friend who has been around as long as me and has been in and out for years, always using her "mental illness" as the excuse to use. I don't judge her, but she breaks my heart and the hearts of those who love her. She is the funniest person I know. She called me the other day and left this message. "I'm done with NA; there's just nothing left for me." So I called her back and told her about our friend in the first example and said, "Yes, there is something left for you." Our literature tells us in every meeting only too clearly: "Jails, institutions and death." That is the grim, grim reality.
Then yesterday, my ex-husband calls straight out of an overdose and loaded. It's everyone's fault, as usual: his loveless marriage, women who hit on him because he's such a babe after 40 years of drug use, his hard work. Whatever the excuse, he always has one. What can I tell him that I haven't told him before?
This disease is breaking my heart. But it isn't exactly the disease, it's the casual discard of the lifeline by people who should know better that hurts so much.
I am tired of burying people; of losing people through their own cavalier, "I don't give a fuck, I'll show them" attitude.
Today we will go celebrate a woman's 25th birthday and I will be surrounded by the NA winners. Those who have gone through difficulties in their lives yet chosen to stay clean one day at a time. And it will feel healing.
Monday, December 14, 2009
My thoughts on a quarter of a century
Yesterday was my 25th anniversary in Narcotics Anonymous. It amazes me that I have managed to stay clean for a quarter of a century. I remember turning 25 at a drunken party where I felt good the next day because I had managed to control my drinking enough not to black out. But to stay clean for 25 years, that is a miracle and one which I thank God for on a daily basis
I shared on my birthday at a meeting at St. Luke’s, the treatment center I went through about 27 years ago. I gave a brief drug-a-log, because newcomers need to hear you used the way they did, and then decided I would share on some key things I have learned in my 25 years clean. Here they are.
The people you love may not always love you. Or, the way they can love you may not be the way you need to be loved. As painful as that is, turning it over and moving on is the best way. It takes time and courage, but admitting that you need more and moving on is the only solution that has worked for me.
Everyone is struggling with something. You may see people who you think “have it together.” Trust me, everyone, no matter how long they have been clean or how spiritual they are, struggles with something
My family often lets me down, but people in the Fellowship almost never do. I continue to be disappointed with family members. I continue to invite them into my life. They continue to refuse. People in the Fellowship are happy to accept almost any invitation I give. My friends in the Fellowship have become my family.
My God is always bigger. I have walked through very difficult things in recovery. The death of both parents, a painful divorce (which is almost an oxymoron), very public humiliations, an almost fatal illness and subsequent organ transplant, the death of animals I have loved more than most people, to name a few. In all these instances, and when I thought I could not go on either emotionally or physically, my God has always been bigger than the problem at hand.
When it hits the fan, and it will hit the fan, put on the blues and lean into the pain. There is no way around the pain, no shortcut, no detour, no avoidance. Just walk toward the pain to get past it. It will not kill you. It will feel like it will kill you, but it will not, I have learned. Beyond the pain there is a new freedom.
You can’t take it with you when you die. When a doctor told me I had no more than four months to live, I spent a lot of time thinking. I looked around my house at all the “stuff” I owned. I realized that at best, they were just things that someone would have to dispose of or donate when I died. None of the physical things I owned mattered one iota in the end
What really matters is friendship. To have friends, you have to be a friend. Whenever I have problems in my recovery, my NA friends are there for me unconditionally. That is because I am a friend to them. NA taught me how to be a friend.
These are just a few of my thoughts of my years in the Fellowship. A friend sent me a card and I think his words summed it up much better than I can.
“That you arrived was an act of
Those words can be said about almost anyone who stays clean in NA. We didn’t get here by accident and we don’t stay clean by accident, either. I thank God daily for the Grace that brought me to these rooms.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Why I Say "I Love You"
Recently my friends stayed the night, on their way to California for vacation. My friend is from the Czech Republic and is very emotional, to put it mildly. It all started with a simple game of Scrabble. Because I haven’t played in years and his girlfriend was very experienced, she and I decided we would just start playing and I would refresh myself on the rules as we went along, and we would teach him as we went. Boy, was that the wrong decision.
The lack of a dictionary was another major impediment. The first word he tried to spell was “eco.” We both said that was a prefix and he couldn’t use it. He argued quite loudly that it was most certainly not a prefix, after asking, “What is a prefix?” The second round went no smoother, and he took his tiles and dumped them, and quit.
While she and I played on, he continued to watch and read the rules and correct us loudly at about every move. She beat me soundly, by twice as many points. I am a type A and if I can make a two-letter word and move the game forward, that is my strategy, which, of course, is a strategy only for a sound arse-kicking.
We bedded out finally about midnight and went to sleep, their two German shepherds asleep with them in the great room, mine locked in my bedroom with me, since Oz was being a bit snotty to their male, Bernarde.
This morning the dogs barked when they got up. I think Romy forgot we had overnight guests. They went for a walk and I slept in. When I finally got up a few hours later, they were at the kitchen table playing, you guessed it, Scrabble! There was less argument because she was allowing him to do some phonetic spelling: “genre” was spelled “janre.” Really, that’s how it is pronounced!
As we ate oatmeal with brown sugar (his with three egg whites and one cooked yolk on top), I helped him lose his first game. As they were getting ready to leave, he noticed a wall plate I have, where the entire world, instead of continents, is renamed things like “the Ocean of Love,” “Sea of Deceit,” “River of Revenge,” and “Peninsula of Procrastination.”
“That is where I live,” he said, pointing to Procrastination.
“I would, but I never get around to it,” I responded. We all laughed.
They packed up the car and the dogs and drove off to California, first routing their trip for me on their atlas. A few minutes later, my phone rang. “We left the peaches,” he said. “They don’t look good, but they are delicious.”
“I’ll eat them,” I told him. And I said two more things.
“Be careful,” and “I love you,” because I never want to let friends leave anymore without that reminder. The world is an unpredictable place, and I want them to know how I feel, just in case. In that matter, I no longer procrastinate.
The lack of a dictionary was another major impediment. The first word he tried to spell was “eco.” We both said that was a prefix and he couldn’t use it. He argued quite loudly that it was most certainly not a prefix, after asking, “What is a prefix?” The second round went no smoother, and he took his tiles and dumped them, and quit.
While she and I played on, he continued to watch and read the rules and correct us loudly at about every move. She beat me soundly, by twice as many points. I am a type A and if I can make a two-letter word and move the game forward, that is my strategy, which, of course, is a strategy only for a sound arse-kicking.
We bedded out finally about midnight and went to sleep, their two German shepherds asleep with them in the great room, mine locked in my bedroom with me, since Oz was being a bit snotty to their male, Bernarde.
This morning the dogs barked when they got up. I think Romy forgot we had overnight guests. They went for a walk and I slept in. When I finally got up a few hours later, they were at the kitchen table playing, you guessed it, Scrabble! There was less argument because she was allowing him to do some phonetic spelling: “genre” was spelled “janre.” Really, that’s how it is pronounced!
As we ate oatmeal with brown sugar (his with three egg whites and one cooked yolk on top), I helped him lose his first game. As they were getting ready to leave, he noticed a wall plate I have, where the entire world, instead of continents, is renamed things like “the Ocean of Love,” “Sea of Deceit,” “River of Revenge,” and “Peninsula of Procrastination.”
“That is where I live,” he said, pointing to Procrastination.
“I would, but I never get around to it,” I responded. We all laughed.
They packed up the car and the dogs and drove off to California, first routing their trip for me on their atlas. A few minutes later, my phone rang. “We left the peaches,” he said. “They don’t look good, but they are delicious.”
“I’ll eat them,” I told him. And I said two more things.
“Be careful,” and “I love you,” because I never want to let friends leave anymore without that reminder. The world is an unpredictable place, and I want them to know how I feel, just in case. In that matter, I no longer procrastinate.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Updates
I cannot believe it's been two months since I posted. I have been heading up north to get out of the heat, although this weekend I stayed in town and am roasting. I forget every winter how hot the summers here actually are.
My friend is awaiting a liver transplant and I have been trying to help him get out of the house whenever possible, so last night we went to the speaker meeting and dance and later with another friend went to eat. The speaker got clean with me about the same time and her best friend, who died of brain cancer, was a good friend of mine, as well, so we have a lot in common. Also, we shared a sponsor for many years, although we have both moved on to new sponsors.
She was a crystal meth addict and pointed out that when she came into the program, NA was mostly junkies, which included me. Today I find when I share my story that unless old timers are in the audience, I am not sure that people can relate much to my using. So I try, unless it's a speaker meeting, to focus on recovery and the desperation of my feelings when I got here.
I am sharing the Sunday morning meeting at a big camp out in Colorado later this summer. I have to laugh, since the Sunday speaker is generally the "spiritual" speaker. I think maybe they have the wrong person (?). As I have blogged before, I still struggle with anger so much that I find it hard to call myself a spiritual person. But I keep chugging away.
Last week I started therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder, something I probably should have done years ago. A few months ago someone came to my house in the middle of the night and started ringing the doorbell then kicking the door. I called the cops and a helicopter was here in about three minutes then the police in about ten, but in the interim, even with 2dogs going crazy and me in the hall with a handgun, I was terrified.
For several days I was in "reactive" mode and was so devastated I finally figured out perhaps it is time to deal with the wreckage of my using. One of the original pains of my early using has been coming around lately to haunt. It's the image of the man I loved from 15 until my mid twenties who was twenty years older than me and willing to put me on front street to run his drug dealer business. What kind of men do these kinds of things?
Of course, once I made the decision I talked to my sponsor and immediately began berating myself for "waiting 24 years to do this." She calmly pointed out that to do anything at all at anytime in regards this was "brave" and to not beat myself up. That is the value of sponsorship. Sponsors help us see what we cannot see, often right in front of our faces. While I would have told a sponsling of mine the same thing, I couldn't remember to tell myself what she told me. Thank God for sponsorship.
I have also started a blog that will cover the social justice aspect of prostitution and the unsung victims who are either dead or trying to leave the life. I have been putting some energy into that and I am please with my efforts to far; however, more remains to be done and it is time consuming.
I did one other brave thing, or perhaps it was done to me. I am not going to write many of the insurance columns I've been writing and instead will focus on writing and keeping my copyright. It may mean money is funny for awhile, but I am tired of that rat race and dealing with corporations that are too slimy to be believed.
It is pretty simple today to self publish and this is the route I think I am going to pursue.
Until I blog again, I hope you have a great day. Hopefully at some point I can go public with this blog again, but not now.
My friend is awaiting a liver transplant and I have been trying to help him get out of the house whenever possible, so last night we went to the speaker meeting and dance and later with another friend went to eat. The speaker got clean with me about the same time and her best friend, who died of brain cancer, was a good friend of mine, as well, so we have a lot in common. Also, we shared a sponsor for many years, although we have both moved on to new sponsors.
She was a crystal meth addict and pointed out that when she came into the program, NA was mostly junkies, which included me. Today I find when I share my story that unless old timers are in the audience, I am not sure that people can relate much to my using. So I try, unless it's a speaker meeting, to focus on recovery and the desperation of my feelings when I got here.
I am sharing the Sunday morning meeting at a big camp out in Colorado later this summer. I have to laugh, since the Sunday speaker is generally the "spiritual" speaker. I think maybe they have the wrong person (?). As I have blogged before, I still struggle with anger so much that I find it hard to call myself a spiritual person. But I keep chugging away.
Last week I started therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder, something I probably should have done years ago. A few months ago someone came to my house in the middle of the night and started ringing the doorbell then kicking the door. I called the cops and a helicopter was here in about three minutes then the police in about ten, but in the interim, even with 2dogs going crazy and me in the hall with a handgun, I was terrified.
For several days I was in "reactive" mode and was so devastated I finally figured out perhaps it is time to deal with the wreckage of my using. One of the original pains of my early using has been coming around lately to haunt. It's the image of the man I loved from 15 until my mid twenties who was twenty years older than me and willing to put me on front street to run his drug dealer business. What kind of men do these kinds of things?
Of course, once I made the decision I talked to my sponsor and immediately began berating myself for "waiting 24 years to do this." She calmly pointed out that to do anything at all at anytime in regards this was "brave" and to not beat myself up. That is the value of sponsorship. Sponsors help us see what we cannot see, often right in front of our faces. While I would have told a sponsling of mine the same thing, I couldn't remember to tell myself what she told me. Thank God for sponsorship.
I have also started a blog that will cover the social justice aspect of prostitution and the unsung victims who are either dead or trying to leave the life. I have been putting some energy into that and I am please with my efforts to far; however, more remains to be done and it is time consuming.
I did one other brave thing, or perhaps it was done to me. I am not going to write many of the insurance columns I've been writing and instead will focus on writing and keeping my copyright. It may mean money is funny for awhile, but I am tired of that rat race and dealing with corporations that are too slimy to be believed.
It is pretty simple today to self publish and this is the route I think I am going to pursue.
Until I blog again, I hope you have a great day. Hopefully at some point I can go public with this blog again, but not now.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Last night I drove up to north with a friend to my sponsor's to her husband's 25th birthday. She is a pet lover, and as I was walking around in her house, this CAT came out of the laundry room. What do you think? I couldn't resist adding her to one of my favorite sites, www.icanhazcheezburger.com.
The party was fun and it was good to see many of my friends I haven't seen in months since I've been so busy with school. Ciao for now.
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