A Bystander In My Own Life

"I think....I feel....I believe..."

He'd pause between each phrase, drawing it out as if trying to teach a child to speak. I could feel the anger rising in me when he'd interrupt me mid sentence, coaching me on how to own what I was saying. The instant I started any sentence with they, you, whoever, that person over there he'd interrupt me again. He didn't want me speaking for him or anyone else. Had he been the counselor it wouldn't have been so bad but we were both clients in a government run treatment centre. His interruptions would remind me again that I couldn't speak for anyone except myself.It was pretty hard on my ego to shrink my sentences down to I statements. I would have told him to go fuck himself except I'd already heard his story and his journey of learning how to use "I" statements for himself had a way of invoking stunned speechlessness on the part of those listening. He was a gentle, humble man without a hint of malicousness in his coaching. He wanted me to own my life.

If you'd read through the past 15 years of my journals you'd notice pages and pages of writing without the word "I" anywhere. You might even wonder if I was observing someone else instead of recording my own life. The first time this struck me as not quite right I felt unnerved, like a crack had started in my armour without permission. Eventually I realized that writing in the third person was a way of distancing myself from my heart. I'd catch myself writing sentences something like this

"One really needs to think about what they want out of life from time to time."

No way was I going to write

"I really need to think about what I want out of life."

I did it in letters to friends, too. One day a friend commented that I wrote as if I was putting on a persona. Persona? I had to look that word up before I could even consider that she may be right:

"per·sona (pər sō′nə)

noun pl. personae -·nae (-nē), personas -·nas

1.the characters of a drama, novel, etc.
2.Psychol. the outer personality or facade presented to others by an individual" (emphasis mine)

It was uncomfortable when I realized that even in my journals and letters, never mind my day to day speech, I was distancing myself from my very life. After a few weeks of my new friend reminding me to use a pronoun I started to use the word "I" more than "you" or "they".

Scared the shit out of me to do so.
Freed me, too.
From being a victim.

Since then, whenever I catch myself writing or speaking in third person a little warning bell rings in my head. That warning asks me to double check to see if I am trying to be a bystander in my own life instead of a participant. Sometimes it is still hard to face the fear in owning my life. It takes all the power out of pointing fingers and blaming others for my reality.

All this to say that my writing instructor suggested to me today to rewrite my novel in first person instead of keeping the reader at a distance by writing in the safety of a third person point of view. When I read his note I said to myself, "Oh, shit. Here we go again." because that very thought had crossed my mind a few weeks ago, too but I'd dismissed it as too much work (all 50K words considered) and besides, I have no idea what's going to come out of my character's mouth if I give her that kind of leeway.

I wrote him back and told him that I was scared to get inside my character's head but if he really thought it would make the story better then I would rewrite the whole thing. I wrote that my head said no way but my heart said yep, you're right.

Something tells me that the character in my book wants to be more than a bystander in her own life, too.

Hopeful Reality

"The pain between my shoulder blades has disappeared."

Instantly tears well up in my eyes.
I know so well how stuffing my emotional pain
makes my physical pain skyrocket.
She's sharing this with me in the very building
I learned how these two corelate, too.
I want to sit there and sob but I don't.
I do let the tears spill down my cheeks.
I've learned to honour my tears,
instead of apologizing for them.
They're part of my story.
Just not the whole story.

So it went at the treatment centre today.
Visiting someone who is in the same program I took part in
not so long ago.

It's been a good and exhausting day.
I went back to sleep this morning only to wake up
and feel like I'd been pummelled mercilessly.
It hurt to move.
My heart was doing its race around the track.
I nearly stayed home but figured
it might be wise to go somewhere
so I could refocus.
I was wanting to whine and curl up in a ball
yet I thought going to a meeting might be more
therapeutic than staying home.

Just before I woke up I'd been dreaming
that a whole group of AAers
came to my house and trashed it.
Ransacked it from one end to another
and broke my most treasured possessions.
They were everywhere, in the house and out in the yard.
They tore down a wall in my porch right to the studs.
One asked me what direction they could shoot a gun after dark.
It was a very weird dream.
Ya think?

This morning there was a newcomer at my home group.
My sponsor kicks ass when she chairs a meeting.
I love to hear her speak to newcomers.
Newcomers from last week,
came back and filled a chair today.
Their countenances were clearer than last Saturday.
A glimmer of hope was visible in their eyes.
I was glad I was there to witness that.

A hot shower and a cup of tea,
curling up on the couch.
That's my plan for the evening.
I am grateful for the day.
For the journey.
And glad that this morning's dream
is nowhere near reality.

Give Me A Sign

This week, when I hit the one year anniversary of going to rehab, I sat down and wrote a letter to my treatment counselor. Yesterday I decided to drop it off in person. In my neck of the woods it's recently become law that no one can smoke within 5 meters of the entry to a public place. Around town there are signs on lots of stores to remind patrons of that fact. I imagine most people eyeball the distance and stand just a little farther from the door than they used to. Who knows.

I was walking up to the front door of the rehab center yesterday when I saw a sign reminding people of the new law. I thought to myself, "I wonder how often inpatients get told they are standing closer than 5 meters to the door as they light up their smoke." Next I wondered how much resistance the inpatients had when they were told that. Or how many times someone tattled on someone else who habitually got as close to the door as they could get away with.

Perhaps that sounds juvenile and ridiculous to you. During my 20 day stay there last summer I not only witnessed others acting juvenile over piddly things, I did it myself, too. I had a real hissy fit in group counseling one day about people in another group who would just not shut up during a multi group workshop. I complained about the facilitator who didn't enforce the 'no cross talk' rule and how rude these people had been and on and on I went. When my counselor pointed out that I could have put my hand up and asked those people to be quiet I said, "oh." It never occurred to me that I was capable of handling the situation myself. I'd expected the counselor to tell the other group's counselor about their behaviour and she was such a tough cookie, I figured she'd straighten them out. Then I'd be happy, joyous and free, right? That's rather embarrassing to admit but hey, since then I have spoken up more times than I can remember, instead of waiting for someone else to take responsibility for my attitude. We all have to start somewhere.

Within a few seconds of wondering how much conflict the 5 meter rule created I looked around and saw a tall white stick with a pointed end attached to the flower bed quite a ways from the entrance. Written on it in blue letters were the words: "5 meters". I laughed right out loud when I saw that.

I was still chuckling as I got back into my van. I glanced up and realized I was parked right in front of my old group counseling room and that it was time for the afternoon session to begin. The huge windows are covered in that material that lets people inside look out but prevents people outside from seeing in. It was all I could do to not make a big sign that said, "If there's hope for me, there's hope for you. Just ask your counselor."

A Growth Opporutnity

"Anxiety is the space between 'now' and 'then.'"
~Richard Abell

One year ago today I was full of anxiety as I waited for my 2 pm. intake appointment at the local addictions centre. Once inside the locked doors I was going to sign on the dotted line for a 20 day stay. Staying meant following the rules or being asked to leave. One of those rules was making my bed every day. I set a life time record in following that rule and it's never happened since. My bed is unmade as I type.

Other habits I learned in those twenty days have stuck though. What a year this has been. There hasn't been a year in the past 25 where I haven't thought the past year was the best one yet but really, this past year has been the best. I can hardly recognize myself as I am today compared with a year ago. I am humbled and grateful that change is always possible. As I surrender and do the next right thing, change happens. I don't always want to and sometimes I choose to wallow in the mud like a two year old having a temper tantrum. But, by the grace of God, I get up eventually and carry on. If that isn't hope filled I don't know what is. I don't have to stay stuck in the mud forever.

Here is my favourite post from this past year. Dearest one and I both read it over this morning and grinned at each other. I spend more time these days in awe, than in feeling threatened, by his growth and healing. When I came out of treatment it was the scariest risk to move forward in healing and recovery accepting that my marriage might not survive the changes. It seems like such a paradox that the more we let each other see who we really are, the more we reveal our pain, our flaws, and our humanity, the closer we become. On our own strength we would never had made it. Our relationship with God undergirds it all and is where the strength to keep facing ourselves comes from. Knowing at a gut level how loved we are gives us the courage to love ourselves and one another.

The hard work, the showing up, the putting one foot in front of the other, is all worth it. You all share a part in it because you continue to show up here as well. I am especially grateful for your presence on those days when I feel like all is lost, or rather that I am lost. You remind me that whatever state I find myself in today, it has the potential to be a growth opportunity, and that even in the worst of moments, a ribbon of hope continues to weave itself throughout my journey.

Thank you.

Beautiful Decay

Saturday afternoon it rained leaves all over the sky and I soaked in the beauty and absurdity of the sight. As I watched the trees do their hula hoop dance I wondered just how tall that tallest tree was. The one that seemed like it could hit me on the head if it snapped right about then. Between the furious music of the wind and the dancing of the leaves I sat entranced.

update: Ha. Not that tree but one just about as tall did crack under the furious music of the wind today, falling away from the house not towards it, thank God.

Last night I was at the treatment centre for a women's AA meeting. Once again welcomed by the warm, caring women who show up week after week to share their experience, strength and hope with whoever is in treatment or detox and with one another. There were a few newcomers last night. One newcomer biking her way there, arriving out of breath part way through the meeting. How beautiful it was to hear them get kudos for having the courage to walk through that door. To have every woman write down her phone number for them and say call us before you take that first drink, day or night we are here for you. To let them know we all had to do walk through the door to get where we are today. And where we are is not an arrived place but in process. To hear in every sharing a story of redemption. And I wonder for the umpteenth time why church often seems to be a place where we prize looking so put together and never less in need of a saviour than on Sunday morning. How guilty I am of giving off those vibes as well. God help me.

I'm finding that the more serenity I have, my need to project an image of perfection lessens.

Every day as I've been walking I leaf watch. There is a beauty to their decay and I take deep breaths as I pass by. As I drove to town yesterday I looked at the near naked trees in the river valley and sighed, mourning that this particular season of beauty is over for another year.

I wonder what needs to die within me and will I embrace its beauty just as much?

In Need

"What do you need?" she'd ask.

Inside I would think to myself....how the fuck do I know. You tell me.
Nothing was the word I wanted to reply but when you're in treatment for addictions it's a rather moot point to say you have no needs, you know? I could just hear her say "And you've paid $300 to share that with us Hope?" Once I knew the question was coming it was like willingly exposing my battered soul knowing I'd have to ask (strangers, no less)for what I needed to heal it.

That's the way it went nearly every day in treatment. My counselor would listen to my check in, where I had to explain why I chose whatever feeling word I had for the day, and then she'd ask me what I needed from the group. She started asking me this the second day of treatment, right after I'd been exposed as a caretaker of other people's feelings and numb to my own.

Oh, part of me wanted to cross my arms, send daggers her way and chant the mantra of survival I'd used all my childhood: "I don't need anything." In these sessions I worked hard not to sit cross armed and closed in on myself, although I was sometimes unsuccessful on the sending daggers part. Those close to me know exactly when I'm thinking fuck you and I think counselors get trained in decoding that as well.

Once Fr. Charlie asked me what I needed from my mom that I hadn't received. The first word that rose to the surface was nurturing. Aside from all the physical abuse I endured as a child, I had been born premature and spent my first 3 months in an incubator. In an era (hey, I belong to an era. Does that mean I'm old?) that lacked the knowledge of how much infants need physical touch. Heck, even without the incubator part, children need nurturing. Lots of it.

When he asked me how I could get that need met today, it was a new idea that I could search within and either meet my need myself or ask someone else to meet it for me.

I'm making progress. The other day I sat there with tears streaming down my face telling Fr. Charlie that I just needed to hear someone acknowledge how hard I was working at this recovery thing. In the course of our time together he did just that. Affirmed my journey. Affirmed the pain. Affirmed the hope. He was able to pick out from my sharing one spot of joy in my life. I told him that after my session at the treatment centre the other day I went and bought myself a $5 bouquet of flowers. Three beautiful, deep pink roses nestled in some baby's breath. I bought them as a testimony to my journey. I told dearest one I just might need to buy some every single week as a symbol of hope that the hard work is worth it. And that, dammit, I'm doing it.

Knowing what I need still doesn't come naturally. I have to work at it. But today I'm open to asking myself and either meeting the need myself, if possible, or asking for it from others. What does that look like? The other night it meant asking dearest one to hold me in his arms so I could feel safe. Another night it meant wrapping up in a blanket and rocking back and forth in my rocking chair. Every day it means showing myself compassion. Not too long ago it meant seeking someone out and making an amend. I realized afterwards that the amend came so effortlessly because I no longer define myself by my mistakes. That feels like huge progress.

What do you need today?
I need to know you read this.

Illusion Meets Reality

"The more we were forced to lean on God, the more quickly we gave up our illusion of control. Only then could God do something with our lives."
~ Paula Huston in The Holy Way

There's nothing an addict, like me, likes better than the illusion of control. It's downright comfy like my favourite pair of flannel pjs. I could stay in it all day. Well, okay then, all my life. And why'd they have to tell me it was just an illusion, anyway? Damn.

Truly the illusion is not working too good for me anymore. And so these days I'm learning to let go a little quicker and leave whatever God is doing with my life in God's hands. I'm just here for the ride.

This week the ride has been ever so bumpy. "Let me off" is the refrain I most wanted to shout as I got tossed to and fro. But here I am, it's Friday and I'm still connected and in one piece. Thanks be to God. On my own strength I'd still be oblivious that there truly is another way to live this life.

I met with my after treatment counselor today. Many tears. A few laughs and even a smile through the tears at one point. I needed to hear her affirm that I am indeed making progress, especially today when I feel like I am mired in the muck and moving nowhere. I am grateful for the many affirmations she was able to give me. Today I have 3 months of no binge eating. Tomorrow will be 10 months of abstinence from sexual addiction. And then there's the 19+ years of sobriety; the six weeks of stage II recovery. I've let more opportunities than I can count go in the past 2 weeks to caretake another living soul. And the world didn't come to an end in the process. It actually is possible to worry only about my side of the street. Baby steps.

The first words out of my mouth, before we even reached her office, were "the honeymoon's over." She listened as I processed these past 2 weeks. Thank God for the ability to be objective. Her ability, that is. My own's been a little blurry this week.

I learned again that using all my energy at this point to stay in recovery and do good self care is normal. I was judging myself for not being able to focus on anyone else (well, except when I am focused on everyone else. You know that x-ray vision where there's such a friggin huge log in my own eye I'm squinting all beady-eyed at others.)

The nitty gritties are too painful and too personal to write about. Patterns that are so mired in the muck that it would be easier to continue to keep looking the other way. But I can't. Unless I want to go back to the insanity of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Last weekend at the AA Round Up I bought a picture frame with Earnie Larson's phrase If nothing changes......nothing changes on it. I had laughed right out loud when I saw it because it just is so true. And I'd really like a bit of sanity so change must happen and it starts with me. Oh God, I've typed myself right into a corner. Damn.

It starts with me.

All or Nothing

"You've got to be kidding me?"

That was the open mouthed shocked expression I gave my counselor more times than I care to count while in treatment. Which she all duly noted and wrote down. I get my summary from her next week. I'm sure it will be pock marked with, "Hope continues to be surprised that she is so sick in her thinking." I typed all that with a big grin this morning because after a while my being shocked ceased to surprise anyone, including me.

One of those shocking realizations was that I tend to think in terms of all or nothing. I learned every addict is an all or nothing person. Which makes me feel a bit better. I mean, who wants to be alone in their sickness? Want an example? All or nothing thinking looks something like this: "Oh, I just ate a piece of cake. Oh shit, I didn't mean to do that. Oh, what the hell I might as well eat the whole cake now that I've blown it." The kind of thinking I excel at. It's the same kind of thing that leads a person from one sip to an all out drunken binge in what can seem like 60 seconds flat. Or how about this one: "Darn, I missed exercising today. That means my whole exercise plan is shot. I might as well not exercise until (next week, next month, next year.)" Next year is my personal favourite.

I know it's possible to stop thinking like that. I'm hoping it gets easier soon. This morning I am sitting here with quite a few less spoons than I'd like because of wonderful all or nothing thinking I indulged in yesterday. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

I had an excellent session with my after care treatment counselor yesterday. For most of an hour we sat and discussed my treatment experience. Then came the hard work. The homework. The practical application of what I learned and what she expected me to do about it before I see her in two weeks. Talking about it, or typing about it for that matter, is so much easier and less risky than actually living it. Which was her point exactly. So before the next two weeks is over I get to choose one very big elephant in the closet situation in my life and bring the elephant out into the light. She showed me how to choose the timing by making sure neither I nor the other person involved is not Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired when I start the discussion. All she wants me to do before I see her in two weeks is acknowledge out loud to the other person there is a discussion to be had. Baby steps, Hope, baby steps. Which is far removed from my all or nothing thinking which in the past would have had me not only dragging that elephant out of the closet but getting to the other end of the discussion in one long fight discussion.

After my session I went shopping. One of my after care plans is to stop being a martyr and admit I have needs. Like adequate clothes. Today we have a wedding to go to of a close family member. I was able to find something yesterday so that when I look in the mirror at myself I can smile and feel comfortable and confident. I somehow have lost enough weight in the past month to drop two sizes in clothes. And in my all or nothing thinking that must mean I either have cancer or diabetes. See, it's just so darn easy to slip into that mode! Realistically dropping two sizes is what happens when I go from being a veritable sloth to moving at a much greater speed. Not feeding my feelings helps, too.

Last night, after a long day in town, I was on a mission to go for my evening walk. It didn't matter that my body was trying to tell me that really, Hope you've done enough walking for a day. How about a shower and bed, instead? Not me. Nope. In my all or nothing mentality I had to prove to my body that I could still go for my walk. Which I did. Which meant I fell into bed before 9 pm and which also means I am starting another long day without adequate spoons to get through it. Which also hopefully means that tomorrow I will have zilch to prove to my body and will settle for something that looks a lot different than all or nothing.

Can't you just picture my all or nothing mentality being greeted by a much more reasonable viewpoint tomorrow? Can't you just hear it say
"You've got to be kidding me?"
To which I will reply
"It's been so nice knowing you, my dear. Farewell."

That Place In Between

"It's not so much that we're afraid of change, or so in love with the old ways, but it's that place in between we fear....it's like being in between trapezes. It's Linus when his blanket is in the dryer. There's nothing to hold on to."~Marilyn Ferguson

This was a quote shared with us at our first workshop in treatment. I couldn't relate to it then but it surely describes life as I find it now. About the only thing I would change is that I'm hanging on tightly to God as I take baby steps in living this new way of life. Interestingly enough I have my own Linus like blanket. I am forever cold and I often sit wrapped in this blanket. I took it with me to the treatment centre. On one particularly hard day, under the guise of being cold, I wrapped myself up in the blanket and went to my sessions that way. Halfway through the group counseling session I realized I wasn't cold instead I was using the blanket as a coping mechanism. Doing so was keeping me from opening up. I took my very real Linus blanket back to my room at break time with a new awareness of myself. Oh vey, isn't life grand?

All my energy these days is going into healthy self care. The things that many people take for granted....shower, dress, eat healthy, exercise. If those things go kaput in my life then I am already headed for trouble. I have a 37 point checklist to read daily - things to check within that can signal a change in direction from where I want to go. Reading it one morning this week was enough to motivate me to get in the shower, get dressed and go for a walk instead of crawling back into bed. The nap came later after the basics of daily living were attended to. I figure if I can get showered and dressed 20 days straight in treatment then I can do that at home, too. The same could be said for making my bed although that hasn't translated into daily life quite so well! If I had decided not to make my bed during treatment enough days of that and they would have asked me to leave for not following the rules. Funny what can motivate a person!

It's been a full week. I decided to resign from all my volunteer work. Work that has not been life giving. I knew that all along but was unwilling to do anything about it until now. I will choose carefully any volunteer work I do in the future.
I had my final session with Fr. Charlie yesterday. He heads for his new parish next week. Our parish farewell potluck will be on Sunday. There will likely be many tears but I cheerfully told him yesterday that I was okay with crying in public now. I spent most of the session grinning from ear to ear because I feel transformed and that is such a gift. He told me I looked radiant and that the transformation was apparent just from looking at me. I've had so many sessions with him where I wanted to curl up in a ball and rock in the chair; closed up tight with emotional pain. Yesterday half way through the session I realized I was sitting with such open body language that I laughed outloud. I looked at him and said, "Isn't this a miracle?"

Tomorrow I have my first follow up counseling session at the treatment centre. I am blessed that counselling is free for as long as I need it. I also had a phone intake interview with a local counseling centre this week. A place which specializes in providing help for sexual abuse survivors. That was a tough one. At the end of it the woman interviewing me told me to do gentle self care for myself that day as taking the first step in phoning was a huge one. Next week I go in for a more in depth interview and after that they will try and match me up with a counselor. This counseling is also pretty well free. I took one workshop at the treatment centre that was for sexual abuse survivors and it triggered so much in me I wanted to escape my body. This counseling will help me deal with the long term affects of the abuse. I can't say I'm looking forward to it but I am willing to take baby steps there, too.

Dearest one and I are having quite a time adjusting. It's almost like I went away to an extreme makeover place and came home a stranger, a more beautiful one at that. It's no wonder he's feeling a bit adrift because I am no longer doing those things that came so effortlessly before. Things like trying to control him and take care of him and when I wasn't doing that I was playing the martyr with ease. Those are roles I can still fall into at the drop of the hat but roles I no longer want to play. At one point this week he said to me, "You're, you're so calm".
It took us 25 years to get comfortable in our ruts together, it's going to take some time and hard work to get out of them. I am still blown away that there is a different way to navigate the journey and that I've been given the tools to do just that.

Lingering Sadness

If tears are a form of prayer then I prayed a lot during my 20 days in rehab. Good, healing tears. In front of other people. And I survived to tell you about it. I also wrote more in my journal in 3 weeks than I did in the previous 3 months. It was good to have a place to process my thougts and feelings. It was my first experience of having to lock up my journal in case others might read it. At home I leave my journal lying around because we respect one another's privacy.

If I ever needed confirmation that I was where I was supposed to be, I got it. My second day there I passed a bulletin board and was stopped in my tracks when I saw a prayer from a retreat I spoke at 18 months ago. I gave every woman at that retreat a copy of it and the one on the bulletin board was the exact piece of paper I printed it on with my handwriting on the other side.

I have been a caretaker extraordinaire. My body's been trying to tell me that's not a healthy choice. It really got my attention after an evening of unconsciously trying to be the emotional caretaker of loved ones. I woke up the next morning hardly able to function and so short of breath I couldn't talk and walk at the same time. I had to phone my loved ones and ask them not to visit me the rest of my time there because it took too many spoons. That whole experience was heart breakingly eye opening. Who knew my spoon supply was being depleted by my being a caretaker, people pleaser, perfectionist and martyr far more than any physical demands I put on it?

After 10 days of walking a huge building I stopped taking the elevator and took the stairs. I have more physical stamina now than I've had in over 4 years. I have a new way to listen to my body and a new appreciation for following through on what it's trying to tell me. I find that both liberating and sad.

Having someone else cook for me was absolutely wonderful. Every time someone complained about the meal I just reminded myself what a treat it was to not cook. Because of my food allergies I basically was able to eat just like I do at home so it wasn't much of a change, other than salad, soup and dessert at every meal, too.

One day I was so pissed off at a group of people that I yanked open the dessert case, took out a brownie and thought to myself, "piss on it, I'm going to have this even if I am allergic to it." The next moment I thought, "I'm not going to give them that much power in my life" and I put it back and chose something else. That was progress. What an 'aha' moment when I saw my addiction operating so smoothly. AA says alcohol is cunning baffling and powerful, so is compulsive overeating.

Despite being fed so very well I managed to drop some weight. Enough to fit into clothes I haven't worn in a long time. I hadn't expected that. I found myself eating slower and more mindfully than I have ever done. Whenever I found myself pacing in a "Give me something to eat otherwise I'm going to blow up at someone." mode I became aware of my pattern of behaviour and the need to stop and deal with my feelings. It means I can no longer indulge in comfort food eating. Feeding my feelings instead of dealing with them will take me down a road I can't afford to go. I find that liberating and sad, too.

Did you know good isn't a feeling? We had a four page list to choose from every day of how we were feeling and good was not on it. Neither was fine. For two solid weeks I chose words that described emotional pain of some kind or another before I was able to honestly write on the board the word peaceful.

Which I think came about directly because of your prayer support. Dearest one would drop off emails and comments from online so that I could read and gather strength from them. There were several stretches where I could really feel the support. There is an abundance of people out there who have no one to support them in their recovery. They leave rehab and have to find a whole new support group and have to cut ties with family, too. I feel blessed to have a strong support group both at home and online.

However, I did not want to come home.
The treatment center was safe and predictable. I was able to practice the things I learned in a supportive, caring enviroment. I was overwhelmed much of the first two weeks in treamtent, and overwhelmed when out on pass. So much so that I chose not to go out on pass after the first time. Leaving the center on Friday found me scared and bewildered. Lingering sadness is my feeling phrase for today.
Coming home Friday night felt like culture shock.
I'm still adjusting.

Merciful Compassion

This will be my last post before I go for treatment at the local Alcohol and Drug Abuse center August 4th to 24th. This morning I attended my AA home group. I realize many enter rehab without a supportive group of people behind them. I am blessed to have support from several different communities, inlcuding online.
Thank you.

I am also asking prayer for my mom, the alcoholic of my childhood,who is still actively drinking. I had a long chat with her yesterday. It took me most of the conversation to clue in that she'd been drinking. She has congestive heart failure with permanent damage to 50% of her heart. Drinking can hasten her death.
For many years all I had towards her was intense anger. There was a time, right before I sobered up, that I swore if I heard her voice all that would come out of me was a never ending scream. The more I do recovery work, the less anger I have towards her. Facing my own demons and shortcomings has helped me look at her with compassion, knowing she judges herself harshly for making a lifetime of choices that have damaged every relationship she's had. My prayer is that I don't add to her condemnation. There is a part in the Big Book of AA that talks about an alcoholic pointing out every flaw in every situation and person because they want perfection and think everyone else does, too. That sums up part of my mom's story and certainly my own as well.
I also know that there will be a chunk of time devoted to working through my childhood issues concerning my mom while I am in treatment.
Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.

Fragile Surrender

When I started writing this blog I had no intent on turning it into a recovery blog. Could be that because back then I was still in denial about being a sex addict and a compulsive overeater. The sobriety I had when it came to alcohol seemed to be a non issue. How wrong I was on all counts. How far I've come. Pure gift and grace.

I'm turning a corner in my recovery and I feel fragile. Fragile in new behaviour and thinking. Feeling more alone, not less. It's taking every bit of energy I have to do those things on a daily basis that support my recovery. I often feel more selfish, not less for doing them. There are moments when it would be easier to relapse. I read last night a quote [from Patrick Carnes book on recovery from sexual addiction called Don't Call It Love] that resonated with me:

"Preserving a hard-won sense of self is not an easy task. A coaddict name Juilee spoke of the difficulties of "having to stay focused on recovery when every fiber in my body wanted to say, 'Okay, you win! I'll stop my meetings. I'll go back to who I was. I'll be me again. I'll be who you want me to be: a people pleasing codependent.'"

I'm in the home stretch now as I prepare to go to rehab August 4th. The first thing on the list of things I'm supposed to bring is a bathing suit. Are they nuts? This 240 pound woman is not bringing a bathing suit. It's enough to go into a situation where I will be bearing my heart, never mind my body. Gah.

I can't receive phone calls when I'm there, neither will I have any access to computers. I need support throughout those weeks from people who have journeyed with me to this point. Some of you out there are such people. I'm asking if you could drop me a note of encouragement to my email sometime between the 4th and 24th of August. I'll get dearest one to bring them to me if he can come visit. My counselor told me last week that sometimes the homework is to ask your spouse to come visit to hash through issues. Sometimes they recommend that no family come visit. I'll have to wait and see what they think for my own situation. If you'd like a snail mail address instead just email me and I'll send it to you. Thank you in advance.

Today is 8+ months of abstinence from sexual addiction, and 6 weeks of no binge eating. My primary addiction is alcohol and today is 19 years and nearly 4 months of sobriety. I cannot do this on my own strength.

Father, I abandon myself in to your hands,
do with me what you will.
Whatever you may do, I thank you.
I am ready for all, I accept all.
Only let your will be done in me
as in all your creatures;
I ask no more than this.
Into your hands I commend my soul.
I offer it to you with all the love of my heart,
for I love you, Lord,
and so need to give myself,
to surrender myself into your hands,
without reserve, and with boundless confidence,
for you are my Father.
~the Abandonment Prayer of Charles de Foucauld

Desire To Be

I feel like I'm in a holding pattern mode, waiting for something to happen. That's how I functioned throughout childhood. Never living in today, but waiting for something to happen. Two weeks from today I will be starting my first full day in rehab. I am still as scared as I've ever been about going.
It feels like the first day of grade one except they keep you there for 20 days straight.
But I am going.
I'm not giving myself any other option.
It's getting harder to live in today while waiting for these next two weeks to pass.

My addictions counselor tod me this week to be prepared that other clients in the program may give me some flack for being in rehab 19 years after my last drink. Maybe I can tell them I'm a slow learner.
She said it was going to be a good opportunity for me not to apologize for being there. I told her I had read just that morning on page 82 of the Big Book that "...a (person) is unthinking when (they) say that sobriety is enough." I have those words underlined and highlighted in my book because I am a poster child for that sentence. I don't feel any shame about it. Knowing that I need help and am reaching out for it feels like a gift today. It doesn't always, but today it does. The rest of the time I feel like I am screaming in silence and saying to myself WTF did I sign up for?

A week ago at my AA meeting I felt like I got a kick in the pants simply by listening to others share. It had been a rough week and I was feeling it. During the meeting I recognized that I wasn't doing the daily things that can set a person in the right direction at the beginning of the day. No reading the Big Book and other daily readings. No prayer. No surrender. If I want what others have in the program then I need to do what they do. When I got home I moved my books and journal to my bedside table and this week I have been doing those things before I even get out of bed. I know if I leave it until after I am out of bed that I can easily get distracted by anything on the way from my bedroom to the rest of the house. Like taking a detour when I come to the computer room only to emerge several hours later without any memory of what I wandered down the hallway for in the first place. So to sit with my journal and Big Book and other helpful reading material first thing in the morning feels good. Even on the days when I feel like I am simply going through the motions.

There is something about praying Thy will be done that puts life in perspective.

Yesterday I arrived at my meeting to find the door locked and no one with a key. Enough of us arrived though that we simply moved the meeting to a park that was a few blocks away. Someone had a Big Book in their van and we were set. Nine of us recovering alcholics sharing our experience, strength and hope with one another on a beautiful sunny summer day. What a privilege.

There is so much I haven't let go of. Today it's enough to know that I desire to let go of it. That letting go of it is possible. That by some mysterious combination of my willingness and God's grace, change can happen.

I found this gem this morning as I was reading:

"It is not what you are nor what you have been that God see with his all-merciful eyes, but what you desire to be."
~from the Cloud of Unknowing quoted by Sister Jeremy Hall in Silence, Solitude Simplicity.

Wallowing Close To The Cesspool

Some days it's frightening how much I can wallow in stinking thinking. Like today. I was still chewing on my session with Fr. Charlie yesterday when I woke up. Chewing hard enough that I gave out stay back and no one will get hurt mega vibes to dearest one and youngest son as soon as I saw them this morning. I can have quite the intense conversations in my head, and play either side, given enough room to think. Actually that's a lie. It was a one sided conversation full of anger and resentments and all out war. Not good at all. Not that that stopped me. Oh no. I went my merry (okay, not so merry) way thinking nasty thoughts all the day long. Dearest one was smarter than last time this happened (which was the last time we were in town together...hmmm there seems to be a pattern). Last time he wanted me to cheer up lickety split. Not a good thing to say to a woman who is acting for all the world like she has PMS times ten.

Today he let me be.

It's such good and blessed thing that it was me thinking nasty thoughts and not him. Because today our family doctor taught dearest one how to inject the long acting freezing into my shoulders so that my pain can be managed at home instead of making the 150 km round trip for relief. I suspended nasty thoughts during the needles. There's nothing like an inch and a half needle shoved in between bone to make one have a little clarity.

The clarity, however, was not long acting.

I stewed through lunch and grocery shopping and all the way home for that matter. Part of me wanted to blow a gasket (which my van did several weeks ago, literally.) and part of me wanted to state my thoughts calmly. In the end I did neither. I'm pretty good at being a valiant crusader and a chicken shit simultaneously.

I came home and called my sponsor. I got her answering machine. So then I called my mom. And the conversation we had gave me other things to think about. When I hung up I prefered thinking about them rather than resuming my nasty thinking. I find it a bit funny and a bit sad that getting sidetracked by someone else was all it took to short circuit my internal war. There's got to be a lesson in there somewhere.

I'm hopeful that one day I'll write that I recognized my stinking thinking and did something about it before wallowing for 12 hours first. That indulging in it is like taking three steps backwards towards a cesspool I no longer want to wallow in and so I let go of what wasn't mine to carry and got the courage to say what I was thinking without trying to destroy another in the process. I'm not there yet, obviously.

Tonight rehab can't come fast enough.