Bumping

"I don't want to walk timidly through life."  I say this to Fr. Charlie, my spiritual director. It is a relief to unload all my fears and hopes and gut honest thoughts. We haven't spoken since the day before my mastectomy. There is a lot of ground to cover. After several hours I leave his office, affirmed once again in my humanity.

I had almost cancelled the appointment because the weatherman had been forecasting snow and I have become a coward when it comes to winter driving. I find the need to talk myself through many things these days. It's as if well, because of the cancer diagnosis I realize on another level that if that can happen anything can happen. So I constantly have to remind myself that just because anything can happen doesn't mean it will happen. And like a boat gently tapping up against the dock, waves constantly keeping it in motion, I keep bumping up against fear of the unknown.

Crazy Shit

I was driving to town yesterday feeling incredible gratitude for this beautiful summer convinced I've never appreciated it like I do this year. The thought flitted through my head that such gratitude and awareness must mean this will be my last summer. That's how my brain works.

I know.
Crazy shit.

This morning as I was watering my flowers (aren't they pretty?) I was thinking about that again and realized it was just a different take on that belief which drives me crazy ~ that life is so good, too good, so it must surely come crashing down soon. Whenever I hear other people talk like that I run around in circles in my head screeching NO at the top of my lungs. It's shitty theology to believe that God will surely heap misery on their heads because they're enjoying life as it is. It was a good come uppance to realize I still think like that, too. It had just shape shifted a bit so I couldn't recognize it as easily.

So I'm going to enjoy my flowers and the summer and leave it at that. There are people close to me fighting for their lives this summer that I am hyper aware of the gift of life and shitty theology. I am so grateful that AA teaches God is a loving God.

I chaired a business meeting yesterday and watched as it triggered my need-to-keep-everyone-happy button. I didn't realize it was still so present and willing to take front and center stage. Someone seemed offended at a group decision and shut down instantly. So instantly that they never said another word all meeting nor in the meeting after that. When they left as soon as we were done saying the Lord's prayer I had to stifle the urge to run after them and try to make it okay. I wanted to take responsibility for their shutting down. The anxiety I felt at not making it all better escalated somewhat and I had to really work at letting go of it and keeping to my side of the street. Chairing business meetings is not my favourite thing to do. I realized yesterday that I consider I've done a good job only if there is no conflict.

I know.
Crazy Shit.

It is a gift that we keep getting opportunities to recognize crazy shit. And hopefully the pile of it gets smaller every time the same shit appears on my radar screen. Once I told Fr. Charlie that it seemed like I kept dealing with the same shit different pile and he told me that I was further along on the journey and seeing it from a different perspective now. At that time I thought the goal was to eliminate crazy shit altogether.

I sat here this morning and enjoyed my breakfast while listening to a chorus of song birds greet the day. When I went to sleep last night after midnight there were still remnants of the setting sun filtering through the trees. Now that is not crazy shit. To me it's a piece of heaven.

The Umpteenth Time

"It never delivers, does it?"

I said that after she blurted out in passing that she was just itching to go spend some money. When I told her I knew that feeling she said it was comforting to hear she wasn't alone. There was a time when I would have felt compelled to launch into a mini sermon on why those kind of urges don't deliver in the end, don't fill that aching place inside. But, I didn't.

Dogs don't like sermons, either. At least not the screeching kind. The Yoga Pup was threatening to do his business in my freshly rototilled garden. The little shit. He and The Engergizer Bunny are oblivious to us when they go outside. They wander with an intensity to their explorations that makes them deaf to humans, I swear it. Then when they sniff the whole world they abruptly turn and come running for the house. Tonight dearest one put a fence around the garden. Yoga Pup chatters like a squirrel when he is upset or excited. I imagine he will chatter at me through that fence a lot this summer.

I spent several hours on the road today going to and from the place where my spiritual director lives. Our normal meeting place was in a kerfuffle due to renovations so we chatted for two hours in a chilly,don't-turn-up-the-heat-between-Sundays church near by. Before us was a beautiful alcove with stained glass. I found that both calming and comforting. I wandered to the back of the church and stood before the table full of prayer candles. I wondered about the people who had lit the candles and what burdens they need lifted.

I try not to dissect my sessions with the spiritual director too much anymore. Some sessions are bland and some are intense and some are in between. I used to want them all to be intense as if intensity was the only way to measure if I was getting further along in the healing process. Now I accept that every session helps me in the journey. Today I felt like I was rehashing the same stuff for the umpteenth time. And maybe I was.

On the way to my appointment I was eating and driving. It's hard to dip chicken strips in sauce and drive at the same time. In my little it's all about me moment I was sure the vehicle that had been quite a ways behind me was catching up to me for the sole purpose to get my licence plate so they could report me for dangerous driving. I'm embarrassed to admit how many miles I drove before I realized how ridiculous the thoughts in my head were. Then I looked in my rear view mirror and the vehicle had disappeared. So much for it being all about me.

Unmasked

"Do you want me to cover your nose or your mouth?
We leave only one open so you can breathe."

Crap. I hadn't thought that far ahead. Momentarily, I panic. Please don't take away my voice. If she covers my mouth I will feel like I have no voice. If she covers my nose I might hyperventilate. Uncertain, I ask what other people have done. She tells me they usually choose to have their mouth covered. I breathe deep and tell her okay, cover my mouth then. God, this takes trust. I am truly at her mercy. I hadn't thought that far ahead, either.

And so my therapist begins. Gently she wipes my whole face down with Vaseline, making sure my eyebrows, eyelashes, and the hither and yon wiry hairs that grow above my upper lip, are covered. Neither of us wishes to turn this into an impromptu waxing session although I've always thought it might be nice to have my eyebrows done. Satisfied that every bit of skin is covered she then cuts strips of plaster. I watch as the powdery mesh piles up on her lap.

Next she dips a strip of mesh into water and starts placing it on my Vaseline caressed skin. First a strip across my forehead, then one along my jawline. One down the center of my nose. One by one she lifts the wet strips and places them on my face. Before too long I sense my expression becoming fixed. Just before she places a strip over my mouth she warns me. We grin at each other, for we both know how I love to talk. I feel my cheeks move up against the plaster as I smile and I tell her she will have to push the wet strips back in place. She works deftly, fingers smoothing out the roughness, as she places layer upoon layer of wet plaster on my face, working quickly before it sets.

She tells me she is going to do my eyes now. Oh, so that's why my eyelashes needed to be Vaselined. I had imagined a mask with eyes open and mouth free. How else can I see the world around me? How else can I know what's going to happen next? Down go my eyelids and as the wet mesh covers first one eye, and then the other, my world becomes dark.

I decide that the only thing to do is go inward, so I sit quietly. I feel the weight of the mask on my face. It does not escape me, the irony of how heavy a mask truly is. I notice how unmovable my face is becoming, my expression set. A swirl of thoughts runs through my mind as soothing Celtic music plays in the background. I sense my therapist's fingers smoothing and touching my mask. Some bits of the mask are thin and soft, her fingers could easily penetrate the shell. Others places are thick and hard already and it would take a lot for either of us to break the protective covering.

I think on these things.

My mind wanders back to my first session with Fr. Charlie. "Do you wear masks?" he asks me. "Oh, no, not me," I proudly tell him, "wearing masks is what other people do". He sat quietly then, leaving my words to hang in the air. Before too many sessions had passed we both knew I wore layers upon layers of masks. I told him that if I had my way, I'd wear sunglasses year round, because then I could let down my guard. Wearing masks took energy.

The Celtic music rises above my meandering thoughts and it reminds me of my favourite movie. I think about William Wallace and his fight for freedom. I love his passion. His determination. His fierceness. I love his freedom. My body relaxes as I let the music wash over me.

I think about what I might feel when my mask is removed.
My face will be smooth because of the vaseline.
Fresh.
Will I feel reborn?
Breaking through my thoughts comes the phrase,
"You have been set free."
Over and over, like a record stuck on a warp,
the phrase repeats itself,
drowning out everything else.

Slowly, it fades.

Next comes a phrase Fr. Charlie has told me countless times:
"You shall know the truth
and the truth shall set you free."

I picture William Wallace
looking at me as he cries, "Freeeedommmmm."

Goosebumps rise on my arms.

Fr. Charlie and my therapist have never met.
It feels like a hop, skip and jump kind of journey,
one leading me to the other though.
And now, in this session,
the one where I am masked and then unmasked,
the two have merged, both so pivotal
in my quest
for inner freedom.

The mask dries.
I move my face,
first my lips
and then my cheeks
and lastly my eyes.
As I do so, the mask separates from my skin.
Gently my therapist pries the mask
off the last strongholds.

I blink in the daylight
and smile at the mask.
The mask that is
and isn't
me.

Gimme Gimme

"What if I'm using confession as a means to an end? In the same way I used people for sex? In that gimme, gimme kind of way that is pure selfishness?"

That was just one bit of conversation yesterday during confession with Fr. Charlie. He very gently pointed out that I had no idea how the grace imparted in this Sacrament was going to work its way out in my life. Only that it definitely would.

I'm grateful that I can't figure out how God is going to work in my life. That grace remains a mystery and a gift. While I can be a conduit of it, I can't manifest it.

Over twenty years ago a minister asked me how I defined God's grace. At the time the only working knowledge I had of the word grace was something you said before meals when your grandma was present. So I looked at him and said,in one of the rare moments pre sobriety, "I don't know." A few years ago I found that minister's email address and wrote him about that conversation. I'm still left speechless trying to describe grace but I can recognize it when it pours over me like rain. And give thanks.

Confessionville

"God must have wanted me to get to confession before I hit the ditch."

Fr. Charlie laughs in response to my observation.
My heart rate's been going beserk ever since I nearly landed in the ditch on the way to my appointment. I hit a patch of slushy ice and my tires caught. I headed towards the ditch where another vehicle was already sitting, having hit the same patch of ice. I screamed for Jesus to help me and remembered my manners at the last minute because I added "please" before I stopped screaming. Sometimes I wonder if God isn't up there scratching his head at someone remembering their manners when their life is flashing before their eyes while he knows they forget to say 'excuse me' on a regular basis when they brush too close past someone in a store. Go figure.

Inches from the shoulder of the highway my car went back towards its lane and through the rest of the slushy ice before we hit a dry patch of road. Not sure what the people in the vehicles in the oncoming lane thought as I swerved hither and yon. Within a short distance there were 3 vehicles in the ditch. I slowed down and made my way north towards Confessionville. I thanked God that I was safe. I asked the angels to protect me. I thought about our friend's daughter and wondered why one person is spared and another isn't. I quickly realized there will never be a plausible explanation to that one even though in my head rolled platitudes and well meaning explanations from people I know. Truth is, we simply don't know cause we aren't God. Accepting life on life's terms is a bitch some days. Feels that way anyway.

So I got to Confessionville where Fr. Charlie and I caught up on each other's lives. We laughed, we sat in lengthy silence, we talked nonstop for a bit. And slowly we came around to meaty stuff. The stuff that comes from the gut. My gut. I had a revelation during confession that left me speechless for a moment, wondering if I was going to get brave enough to speak it aloud. After several starts and stops, I did. The tears ran freely. Grace, grace, God's grace, is a beautiful state of being.

On my way back home there was a semi truck freshly pulled from the ditch on the opposite side of the road where I nearly went in. I wondered if there was a priest somewhere waiting for that driver to fess up, too. Not that I was ready to trade places. It does shed a light on keeping to my side of the street, though. Truly. I need all the help I can get to stay out of the ditch.

Mantra Chantra

It looks like a lovely day out there.
I am heading out to see Fr. Charlie in a few hours.
Should be an interesting appointment.
He gave me a talking to a while ago.
He's never done that before.
I needed it.

Tonight there is a Big Book Study happening in town.
If I'm not too tuckered out from travelling
a hundred miles in the opposite direction
I'll head in to town.
Someone from south of the border is coming
to speak in our little neck of the woods.
I know I'm going to be intrigued by his accent.

When I lived in another part of the country
I used to rant about the Canadians there
being so influenced by the Americans
right across the border
that they had adopted their accent.
I don't know why I felt so threatened by that
other than it was a time in our history
where my part of the country was ranting
about separating from the rest of it.
I'd rant about that, too.
I ranted about everything.
When I was drunk I thought I ranted
with a touch of charm.
Ha.

Those of you who've listened to my radio documentary
know I have my very own accent.
I can't hear it.
Isn't that so much like life?
I'm normal, what's your problem?
That was my mantra for ever and ever.

These days I'm glad I am content to be me
and let you be you.
Instead of being threatened by our differences
I can accept them.
I can welcome what we have in common
which is always way more than our differences.
Even if I do end all my sentences with "eh?"

The Balls of God's Grace

"I don't like this part of the journey."

"And which part do you like?"

He asked as if I've complained about every part of it along the way.
Touche.
I laughed and said,
"The part where I have some serenity regardless of the circumstances."

So went my afternoon with Fr. Charlie.
Close to the end he asked me if I still wanted to celebrate the Sacrament of Reconciliation. I looked at him and said,
"Have I confessed enough?"
The whole session had been one long confession....this is who I am...this is what I did....this is what I said....this is what I felt like doing....this is what I harboured in my heart.
Lord, oh Lord, have mercy.

I am never more certain of how desperately I am in need of mercy than during Reconciliation. It is a balm to my soul.
Tears flowed as a vision of healing oil pouring over my entire being
flashed through my mind during absolution.
There is a God and I am so not it.

My difficult conversation this morning went. End of sentence.
Before I got out of the car I told God I had not one iota of courage to say what I had to say, but that I knew it needed to be said, so please give me the grace to do it and a measure of charity to boot.

In the end I didn't make any friends. I don't think I made any enemies, either. Neither is my concern.
I said what I had to and am relieved to have it behind me.
Tonight I read this postand had a snot nosed cry because essentially in that difficult conversation this morning I was saying, "I'm sticking up for those who are powerless and if you act like a Mutha F*cker, I've got their back."

How I wish someone had done that for me as a child. I know all too well feeling frozen and powerless. As I read Pam's post my body remembered that place and the emotions were overwhelming. It was as if I was a little girl all over again. There are no words for that place. I felt like a little bit of that place was redeemed today - those times when the mutha f*ckers in my life should have been cold cocked by someone. Hmm. I have never used that term MF before and I'd resolved to not swear on my blog this year. Forgive me, it's one of those phrases that I want to say a dozen times in succession tonight and beat the crap out of something at the same time.

I hated that conversation this morning.
When I say gutsy things dearest one tells me
I've got me some balls.
They must have been tucked up into my pelvis when I was a kid.
Kidding.
I'm no hermaphrodite.
It's only by the balls of God's grace
that I spoke up today.

Give Me The Reins

"Thanks for helping me get my head screwed back on straight."

Sometimes I arrive for my session with Fr. Charlie feeling like a bobble headed woman in need of a neck adjustment. Yesterday was no exception. Spiritual direction should really be renamed Let's-Peel-Another-Layer-Off-The-Onion, shall we? Some days it feels like baby steps towards something healthier, the layers coming off slowly and carefully and then others it feels like someone's taken a knife to the onion and said, let's get to the core right now.

There's a bit in the Big Book of AA that talks about an alcoholic being like a director who, if everyone else who just follow directions, the play (of life) would be grand, except people don't cooperate very well and it all goes to shit when a person is expecting people to hop to it. I try to direct the whole shebang from time to time. The ensuing anxiety isn't worth it.

Yesterday, during the session, a picture popped into my head of holding a pair of reins and then suddenly flinging them in Jesus direction. I felt like my life was like a pair of runaway horses and I wanted to stick my head in the sand until it settled down again. I doubt there's any merit in head in the sand theology. Jesus gave me back one of the reins, put his arm around my shoulder and those darn horses that had been galloping hither and yon, settled right down and the ride became much less bumpy.

I wanted to judge myself for keeping one of the reins. The whole God is my co-pilot bumper sticker came to mind and how many times I've sighed at the sight. Never mind how much time I've simply driven my life as if God were dead. Then it occured to me that there is much about life that is simply about doing the next right thing. We were given a brain and can function in many everyday capacities without it being a big deal. Sticking my head in the sand was a way of copping out - as if God would tell me everything from what colour of shoes to wear to whether or not I needed to wash the dishes before bed. I can only imagine God sighing, "give me a break". No wonder Jesus gave me back one of the reins. However, sticking my head in the sand over stuff that I need divine direction for, is going to make for one bumpy ride.

I doubt if life's circumstances will miraculously be smoothed out overnight. I do know that when I'm not trying to run the whole damn thing the ride will feel much less bumpy. I can hear my bobble headed neck thanking me already.

Sweetness and Pain

"What you see as being back at square one,
I see as another layer in the onion."

Wise and comforting words from my spiritual director yesterday.
Not sure how many layers there are to the onion that is my soul,
most likely they are infinite.
Where I saw defeat and despair,
Fr. Charlie saw hope and healing.
Which is why we shouldn't try to journey alone.
Our perspective is too limited.

I haven't felt this humbled,
or this hopeful
in a very long time.
There is a sweetness and pain embedded in both.

The mulitple conversations this week
where I confessed, sifted through,
became vulnerable,
has left me exhausted this morning.
Tears have filled every crevice
and are waiting to be released.
Healing, healing tears.

Through the sifting yesterday,
one big piece of the puzzle
found its place.
A huge "aha" moment, a gift of the Holy Spirit
through the words of Fr. Charlie.

Guilt dissipated in an instant
with the connecting of dots
between a deep wound and an attitude
thirty years deep.
I felt such relief when I realized I'd had no other
point of reference than the one I've carried for so long.
A twisted, warped attitude that found its ugly point
of reference and now
can be reframed.

I feel like there is the thinnest of gauze
between my naked soul
and what could be.
Beauty bubbling forth from the depths.

All is gift.
All is grace.

How Sick Do I Want To Be?

A full day of appointments from late morning until late tonight.
I'm grateful that's even a possibility.
With any luck I'll be able to get
to a noon meeting as well, just be there a little late.
My sponsor said last night that was just fine.

I'm dropping off my resume and cover letter today for a job.
It's been over 5 years since I was last in the workforce.
I like comfortable and predictable.
But I know being uncomfortable and
being in unpredictable circumstances won't kill me.
That will be my mantra if I get the job.

Tomorrow I'm off to see Fr. Charlie.
An appointment between appointments.
That last one brought some stuff to light
that I needed to face.
It took me a while to mull it over
and then some more time to get up the courage
to speak to someone about it.
Actually between picking up the phone and
dialing my friend's number I had an internal conversation
where I convinced myself no fessing up was necessary.
Then I asked myself how sick did I want to be?
So I fessed up.
Humility is good for the soul.
I now need to go back and speak to Fr. Charlie about it.
His radar was spot on last time
and I wasn't ready to admit it.
I am now.

The Power of Choice

"You need to find a way to release your anger and embrace your little girl."

I'm sitting in Fr. Charlie's office yesterday and in the space of two hours I've gone from relaxed and joking to angry and shaking to wanting to curl up in a ball and rock back and forth to soothe myself. I used to stifle my emotions, especially sadness, in these sessions. Well, really I used to stifle my sadness anywhere from the grocery store to church. I was talented at shoving tears down into the abyss of my being at will. I cried more during yesterday's session than I have in all my sessions combined over the past 3 years. I know, I know, that's progress. Exhausting progress.

I'm at one of those turning points again where moving forward means risk. I had an experience earlier this week where I saw, in one of those split second moments where the veil drops, that I keep my cards rather close to my chest. I let next to nobody into that place where I reveal the whole of who I am. My biggest protest yesterday was that if I took said risk I wouldn't feel safe. Being vulnerable makes me feel out of control. In reflection this week I realized I process my journey mostly in my head, all by my lonesome. Yes, I process bits and pieces of it with my sponsor, with friends, and here on my blog with you. But the really deep fears, the thoughts that once voiced would make me feel incredibly vulnerable; those I keep to myself.

The worst of it yesterday was that I thought I was somewhere else in my journey. Like I'd been here so many times before and had moved on already. Finding another layer in this particular onion did not feel like something to celebrate. Fr. Charlie would remind me that it's really not the same place, that I'm a few more revolutions around the mountain since the last time I looked at life from this view.

We talked of fear, shame and guilt. Of power, powerlessness and empowering oneself. Much of it centered around the sexual abuse and how not taking the risk means continuing to let the abuse define me. At that point I wanted to kick my abuser(s) into the ground. The fuckers. I simply shook my head in disbelief over where I'm at.

I don't understand it. I don't have to. Oh, but I want to. Living in my head feels much safer than taking that 18 inch journey to live from my heart. (It really is 18 inches between the two. Good perfectionistic alcoholic that I am, I measured.)

Our session ended with celebrating the Sacrament of Reconciliation. I love this Sacrament and the peace that washes over me during absolution. What else is there to say to God other than Here I am in all my brokenness, in much need of Your mercy. [Oh, and by the way, I'm getting on a plane in three days and if I haven't surrendered by then, I will when the plane takes off.] I don't know if priests regularly laugh during confession but I really did say that. And Fr. Charlie really did laugh.

On my drive home I mulled over how my not wanting to risk is really about not wanting to trust. I was thankful for the long drive home so I could pray and think and choose. I've heard it said so many times at meetings that sobriety gives us the power of choice.

Last night I took baby steps towards letting another in. I voiced my fears, those thoughts that come from that little-girl-who-has-to-protect-myself-forever place inside of me. I surrendered to what is, however ugly, broken and wounding to my pride it is. I think that's called accepting life on life's terms. It's two days before my plane's left the ground so I'm ahead of schedule. Lord, oh Lord, have mercy.

An Invisible Thread

"The thing about healing is that I have no control over the twists and turns it takes. Don't know what I'm going to feel until it's too late."

I said this through tears to Fr. Charlie yesterday. There are times when 'oh, for fuck's sake' seems far more appropriate than 'glory, hallelujah' to describe the healing process.

A few weeks ago I was writing away - working on an article about women and their struggle with sexual addiction. I was free writing - typing every thing that came to mind, not having a particular direction I was looking for. Often writing is akin to playing for me. I was writing in a "let's see where this will take me" mindset. Playing with fire was more like it because in the midst of this came a paragraph from my own journey. A paragraph that, when I saw it in black and white, left me stunned. It had been 30 years since the incident had happened and seeing it converted from thoughts in my head to words on a page, stopped me in my tracks. It left no room for denial, showing me that despite a black hole in my memory when I was being sexually abused, my response in this particular situation confirmed what the black hole had tried to hide.

Instinctively I knew the paragraph would make an opening paragraph of a book. It's a sick, twisted paragraph but gut honest and pivotal to my story. I promptly printed off everything I'd written, stuffed it into the clear plastic sleeve with other material for the article, and shoved it under a pile of books and papers on my desk.

I haven't looked at it since.

But it's contents have been haunting me.

Yesterday I shared the specifics of that paragraph with Fr. Charlie, the first time I'd spoken of this particular incident to anyone. I couldn't look him in the face as I spoke because I still feel some shame about it. It makes me look more like a whore than anything.

I told him how seeing it all in black and white on the screen had stunned me. How it forced me to face that what I suspected had happened, had. That my involuntary response in the incident showed me that my subconscious knew all along what my conscious mind didn't want to. I could see an invisible little thread tying my whole story together from the sexual abuse to this incident to every other bit of my sexual story. No wonder I felt like I really need a punching bag yesterday. When we talked about forgiveness I told Fr. Charlie that I wanted to beat the shit out of this person first, then I might consider it. He gave me a 'that makes sense' look and left it at that.

We talked about how was I going to honour my story. Fr. Charlie talked about the responsibility to that little girl within me to set her free. Into my mind popped a picture of her coming and sitting in a chair beside my computer. She talks and I type. She isn't sad, she feels important and listened to, and she's ready to tell it all because there's someone willing to listen, to validate her story, to not try and shush her up for speaking the truth.

I looked at Fr. Charlie and told him of the picture in my head.
Then I said, "I can do that."
I don't feel brave, just determined.
It also scares the shit out of me because I have no control over the mix of emotions that may come but I know that until I let her tell her story I will continue to be haunted by that paragraph.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Day 617

I'll be on the road today making a 200 mile round trip to see Fr. Charlie.
Some people express surprise when they find out I still see him for spiritual direction despite his move to a different parish. Many people simply move on to another SD when circumstances change.
Next month it will be three years I've been seeing him for sessions.
Maybe other people have an easier time building trust relationships.

I trace where I'm at in my recovery, in my spiritual journey, in large part to the grace of God working through Fr. Charlie. He's listened as I talked around and around in circles. He continued to believe in me long before I was able to do that for myself. In short, he had hope in me while I was still hiding in the shadows. It was in his presence that I first spoke the words 'sexual addiction'. When he didn't die from shock at the phrase, I saw a glimmer of hope that I didn't have to continue living in the shame of that addiction forever. Through many relapses he continued to affirm my journey. I'd sit there all teary over losing 90 days of abstinence, looking backwards as if I was a total failure. He looked at the 90 days of grace and held it up as a beacon of hope that 91 days was possible. I have lost track of the times he has said to me that the truth will set me free. Today is day 617.

I've learned that the sessions where it feels like no progress is being made are just as much a part of the journey as the times when huge 'aha' moments happen. (Kind of like blogging.) I remember phoning him between sessions once to tell him that it all just felt like same shit different piles. That I was wasting my time and his. He replied that going from one pile to the next was still movement. Could you just get as weary of me as I am? I wanted to shout. But he didn't.

So today finds me making a worthwhile journey.

Shifts Are Happening

This afternoon I had a session with Fr. Charlie.
We sat in the coolness of a basement room
and visited for 2 hours.
We laughed quite a bit.
We shared back and forth.
We sat in silence, too.

As I reflect on the session
I see I need to relax and simply
be where I am on the journey.
Shifts are happening within me
and I need to let them work themselves out.
Or rather in.
There's no hurrying the process.

There is no end to the areas in my life
where I will go look for distraction
rather than be present.
I had my eyes opened
to a whole new area today.
I don't feel discouraged
but I do feel surprised.

That void that only can be filled
with His life
I often try to be fill
with other things.

Fr. Charlie rarely has answers for me,
Just questions.
Pokes and prods my soul.
Stays out of the way
while the answers take
their own sweet time to surface.

More Birthday, Less Belly

One of the most frequent hits I get on this blog is for the term belly button birthday, which I wrote about nearly a year ago and reread today. It's a term used to differentiate between your birth day and the day you celebrate your sobriety.

This will be a full week. For those of you who are so inclined, my spiritual director, Fr. Charlie, is having surgery in a few days and prayers would be appreciated. He often talks about the ripple effects of transformation in a person's life. I am a beneficiary of the ripples of his own transformation. And I think you may be, too. He has held out a beacon of hope for me when I've been unable to see any way out of the miry clay. This past week he kept asking me the same hard question half a dozen times during our session. It took that many tries before I was willing to consider the question and answer. Fr. Charlie's seen every avoidance tactic I employ and is not fizzed by them in the least. God bless him.

The radio documentary airs this week. That same day I will see my therapist, say goodbye to a friend who was recently diagnosed with cancer and has only a few weeks to live, and visit another friend who has been on the brink of death so many times that I've pulled back from the friendship because I can't handle that we're not going to grow old together. Those are more words than any sentence should contain. Oh well. Trying to wrap my head around death continues to befuddle me.

My birthday is the following day.

This year I have more birthday, less belly. Typing that makes me grin because my brain goes into overdrive with too much information. Sorry. Sixty pounds less weight means less belly. The same wonderful rising bread dough punched down flesh that comes after babies and more babies and weight gains and losses and the ageing process that makes it all go south eventually. When you live as far north as I do going south has a nice ring to it. Okay, okay, I'm done being corny. Considering that I was born 12 weeks too early in a time when survival was not expected, I'm grateful for every year I age. No, I don't always embrace that pimples, wrinkles and grey hair can coexist. But in the whole scheme of things, every day is a bonus. I get to live this day.

Friday night I will be on a team for Relay For Life. For 12 hours through the night, one of our 10 member team will be walking around the track with 140+ other teams. The event is held at night to remind us that cancer never sleeps. You know, with my chronic health issues, what a gift it is that I can take part in something like this. Yes, I'll be spoonless for a while afterwards, but I will bounce back. I will bounce back. Well, with my extra skin and less belly, I'll bounce a little further. Everyone should be so lucky. And they aren't. And I'm really aware of that today.

Of Presence and Presents

It seems like such an old pattern, one that's been mine since childhood: I'd rather go looking for distraction than be present in this moment. Distraction was the fuel that kept my addictions alive and growing while I was dying spiritually and relationally.

Distraction, being stuck, avoiding this present moment, all came to a head yesterday. Next week I'll be turning 46 years old. Last year on my birthday I decided to gift myself with no more binge eating. One day at a time, sometimes one nanosecond at a time, by the grace of God and my willingness, it continues to be a gift. I've often pictured my binge eating self as a ravenous animal tearing away at flesh, out of breath and still not satiated. I've certainly wanted to go there this past year. For today I ask God to help me choose not to.

I've been mulling over for a few weeks now what this year's gift will be. Centering prayer is the answer that's kept coming to me. Centering prayer places me right smack dab in today. One on level I see that as a huge gift. On another it seems like torture. Which is why I keep mulling it over, hoping another answer will appear. Yesterday as I went to do Yoga though, I decided that centering prayer would dovetail quite nicely at the end of my session. So I set my pocket timer for 20 minutes and began.

I cried from beginning to end.

From my journal:

"The tears just kept coming. First of all that I'm being called to this kind of prayer ~ that it will be my birthday gift to myself ~ as I acknowledged that I start to sob. The safest place ~held in God's embrace ~ feels so scary of a place to go. So I told God that. I cried out, "Daddy, I'm scared."
Then I got an image of one of my prayer candles, lit within me. Acknowledging the Divine presence within me I saw it expand and fill my being. More tears. What people have been commenting on ~ my peaceful countenance, my brightness, my radiance, is all His doing. His presence within me shining. Like a firefly who simply glows because that's what it's created to do. All I can do is surrender to God and being illuminated happens despite me. I can stop striving.
Then came whispering into my heart, "intimacy is found in me." And I laid there and sobbed and thought about where I've been looking for that intimacy. In that moment I knew that true intimacy flows out of my intimacy with Christ and that when it's present it's because Christ is at the core of it. Otherwise it's a false intimacy. In Him, With Him, Through Him.
The phrase "Merciful Jesus" kept coming to me. With Reconciliation tomorrow how else can I approach Him?"

Then today, as I met with Fr. Charlie, came more clarity into why distraction remains such an attractive option. One of my recovery heroes, Earnie Larsen has a phrase, "Who's driving your bus?" by which he means, whenever you find yourself reacting to someone, or a situation, what age are you? Is it your 5 year old self driving the bus of your life, the teenage self or your adult self? Where are you reacting from in that moment? My little girl self survived childhood by looking for distraction. It was a necessary tool back then. Back then. When I resist living in this moment I am letting my little girl drive the bus of my life today. Realizing this doesn't magically fix anything but it does give me a new awareness. It makes choice possible.

During the Sacrament of Reconciliation today Fr. Charlie emphasized two things:

God loves you as you are.
God's graces are being poured over you.
Know this.

It's Tuesday, Right?

One thing about spending three days without a timepiece in sight (they ask that you voluntarily give up all watches, cell phones,etc. for the duration and they cover up all clocks) is that I not only lose track of what time it is but what day it is, too. The only way I seem to be able to know today is Tuesday is to look at the calendar.

It was a wonderful weekend, spiritually refreshing, fun, loving and life giving. I feel blessed to have been a part of it. My spoon supply was adequate, which still seems miraculous. Not that I'm not weary today, but it's a manageable weariness not an overwhelming one. For that I am grateful.

It's a winter wonderland out there this morning. It looks beautiful. Hopefully tomorrow the roads will be driveable because I'll have my last sesion with Fr. Charlie in person for a while. We both drive between one and two hours for our spiritual direction sessions now and I'm not keen on winter driving so after tomorrow we'll talk on the phone until after the snow melts in the spring.

The nightmare that I alluded to in my last post; it's meaning was revealed to me during the weekend. It was the first time I had a dream where I didn't wake up until after the scary, heart stopping scene was finished. Anyway, the meaning went from murkiness for clarity and for that I am grateful. When that happened I acknowledged that scary things don't always have to be pushed to the recesses of our minds.

5 months of no binge eating as of yesterday. Thanks be to God. My session with the counselor from the sexual abuse centre has been rescheduled for next Monday as she forgot it was a holiday yesterday when we booked it. I can wait.

The thought that has been reverberating in my heart from the weekend came from one of the spiritual directors, a priest. We gathered for team Mass before the candidates arrived and he talked about how we didn't know where these women were in their spiritual journey and how our place was not to judge. He said we aren't called to tell people they are lost but rather to be there with them when they feel they are lost. What a freeing perspective.

Last Night I Baptized A Book

I was getting settled under the bed covers the other night, my latest read and a cup of tea occupying both hands, when a few teaspoons of golden hot liquid spilled onto the book. As I reached over to get a Kleenex to soak it up a sentence popped into my head:

"Last night I baptized a book."

"Well, that's weird," I thought, "Books don't need rebirth." At that I wiped the tea away, opened my book and began reading. The sentence kept circling my head like an airplane in a holding pattern, though. "Excuse me, I'm trying to read here!" I murmured. By the time I went to sleep the sentence was still in orbit. It was the first thing to break through my consciousness when I opened my eyes 9 hours later, too. It still didn't make any sense.

Yesterday I met with Fr. Charlie. I arrived late and found the front door locked. I yanked on the doorknob once last time, not knowing that if I would've moved my fingers an inch to the left, they would have pressed the door bell to let them know I was there. Sometimes the solution is so simple. Fortunately, when I walked around to the side of the building, someone finishing up dishes from lunch saw me through a window. She opened the side door, told me the front door was always locked, and led me through a maze of hallways and staircases where I eventually ended up in Father Charlie's office.

I miss the serenity of the sitting room in his old office. The one with comfortable furniture and peaceful paint colours. It felt safer there. In this new space there's high ceilings, institutional white paint and two uncomfortable wooden chairs. They're meant to sit facing his desk but when we meet he comes around the side and sits in one while I take the other. With barely enough room to navigate, the chairs are turned to rest against adjoining walls. We turn them slightly to face one another. If only ceiling height could morph into floor space when needed.

But it doesn't and so ensconced in our chairs we began. Back and forth. Probing questions. Tears. Silence. Unbelief that I could find myself in such a state. Again. Not that he was taken by surprise, mind you. I look forward to the day when my humanity no longer slaps me across the face with a ferocity that stuns me. I covered my face with my hands and cried when he reminded me to honour whatever I was capable of on any given day. That good enough was indeed, good enough. I looked at him through the tears and told him I'd forgotten such a simple truth. Celebrate the here and now. Accept myself as is. As is is good enough. Always.

Later on I shared this recurring feeling of having a cry inside me that was begging to be let out. That it came from my core and the thought of giving it a voice scared me. Made me feel out of control. For now all I could do was open my mouth wide and practice without making a sound. He wondered aloud what the cry was trying to tell me. What was behind it. I hadn't felt like this in nearly 20 years I told him. Back then I'd been angry with my mom. Really angry. I'd recently shared my story with someone for the first time. The pain that followed was nearly unbearable. I was in the midst of sobering up and when the pain got too much I would lie on my bed and fantasize about how a six pack of beer would make everything better. Except I'd already been to Al-Anon by then and knew beer wasn't going to solve a thing. It was all my mother's fault. And if she phoned I was going to let out this primal scream to let her know it.

Yesterday though, the cry didn't feel angry. When I sat with it long enough to feel its breath I told Fr. Charlie it was a wailing cry. Deep and painful.

"Like new birth?" he asked.

At his question I turned to look him right in the eyes. Facing him I said out loud, "Last night I baptized a book." At this he sat up a bit straighter. We sat in silence, the sentence making figure eight loops as it circled between us both now. I then shared the story of how this sentence had popped into my head the night before. How this particular book was taking me to raw, painful places.

From there our conversation took several turns when he asked me if any pictures came into my head. So I shared with him that the day before I'd pictured myself as a little girl running into caves. I wasn't very discerning about which I ran into. Some of them were full of fire and some were calm and peaceful. It didn't matter to me, I just wanted a cave to hide in. Once inside it's doorway I sat hugging my knees, rocking back and forth.

Further into the conversation we talked of altars built of stones. Places that marked significant events in one's journey. As we talked I pictured a huge boulder set on my path. One I put there by choice. As a person walked the path that was all my yesterdays, one saw the word RECOVERY painted in white across the middle of the boulder. To get that far you had to navigate chaos, stones, pebbles and obstacles. And my mother. On that side of the boulder I was the little girl who hid in caves and rocked back and forth. As I made my way around the rock I became a woman. Strong. Capable. Facing forward. And my mother couldn't come with me. No one got past the boulder without my permission. As I looked before me I saw a calming white that reached into infinity.

As my session came to a close Fr. Charlie shared what had come to him as I talked. As he reflected on the tea stained book he said the book was where I was in my baptismal journey. New birth, if only I would wail the wail and let it out. Caves and boulders both symbols of resurrection.

A surge of peace enveloped me as he spoke.
New birth.
Wailing the wail.
Deeper conversion.
Cries of my heart.
"Okay," I said, "I can do this.".

Suddenly honouring my story in whatever way its sentences form morphed into the path before me and became something to celebrate, not fight.

The circling stopped.
The plane landed.

Hollowing Out A Space

"...our greatest strength was forged in our worst pain and suffering. It was precisely those "worst times" that hollowed out a space in us that wouldn't have existed otherwise. And this space becomes the haven where others find the compassion, understanding and strength we so badly needed ourselves at one time." ~Earnie Larson in Destination Joy

Dearest one woke me up this morning by placing a snowball in my hand. There were snowy footprints on the deck this morning although we were spared the several inches of white stuff that other areas got overnight. As I look out the window it's nearly all melted now. Soon I will go for a walk and savour the crispness of the air and breathe in the smell of decomposing leaves. I love their earthy smell. They remind me that this journey is temporary.

Thank you for praying. I'm slowly regaining my equilibrium. There is an undercurrent of serenity beneath the pain. Yesterday as I went for my walk I started to name out loud all the reasons I was grateful. After a few moments I burst in tears because the gratitude was genuine and that I could have gratitude in the midst of emotional pain overwhelmed me. I never knew it was possible. Typing that sentence has me in tears all over again. God is doing for me what I could not do for myself. And I'm so very aware and grateful.

My home group in AA is called Gratitude 24/7. When I first went I thought that people who were grateful in the midst of pain were lying. I easily wrote off anyone who smacked of Pollyanna. "Ha. At least I'm realistic," I told myself. And while I still have a hard time liking people who are fake and smiley when everything else about them cries pain, I know my ability to sneer in the face of the genuine gratitude of others is just another version of camouflaged pain. In my all or nothing way of thinking one could either be in emotional pain or be grateful but never the two shall meet. I know now that gratitude is cultivated. It is a perspective one chooses. It doesn't deny reality, it exists in the midst of reality.

As I was walking one day this week I was begging God for the grace to show compassion towards myself. When I'm in the worst places emotionally it hasn't been my pattern to have self compassion. In the midst of my pain and the shame that threatened to overwhelm me I knew that the biggest gift I could give myself was compassion. The old patterns, the inner voices that wanted to accuse and condemn me were competing with the new pattern of loving and forgiving myself for being human. And as I prayed the word mantle popped into my head. It was such a random, strange word that I let it sit in my mouth for a while. As I did the line from a song we used to sing came to me. "His mantle over me is love." How true.

Yesterday I went for a long drive to meet with Fr. Charlie. I've chosen to continue seeing him for counseling/spiritual direction even though he has moved to another parish. As I reflect on today's quote it is Fr. Charlie's own hollowed out place, born out of working through his worst of times, that makes him a safe place of compassion, strength and understanding. It was good to be able to just spill my guts to him, no explanation needed.

On my drive home I returned a call to the sexual abuse counselling centre. As I told the woman my experience of having the rape triggered this past weekend and the battle it's been since to simply get through my days she told me she would bump me up the waiting list. It's now about 2 weeks before I get in to see someone.

It felt good to say I need help and then to reach out for that help. None of us can journey alone. It just isn't meant to be.

Yesterday Fr. Charlie asked me if I was still blogging. I told I was but that it was often such narcissistic crap I didn't know what the point was anymore. Today I know I need a place to say, this is my story. And I know those of you who read here regularly can see patterns, threads and growth that I am blind to. For today I embrace that reality.