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

Being Held

I wrote the following this week for an online friend who is struggling with many adversities in her life. Scary uncertainty keeps cropping up for me.


Wanting to escape is so human.
I've been in almost all those scenarios
you are now in.
I desperately wanted an escape.
A fix.
Something to numb how scared I felt
about accepting life on life's terms.
I had my methods.
They never really fixed anything
for more than a moment.
But I wanted them and
went after them
all the same.

Food.
Pornography.
To name a few.

Without the
numbing
there is
now
a gaping hole
that I humbly acknowledge
and beg for the grace
not to fill it
with those things
that will not satisfy in the end.

Even though some days
the gaping hole feels
like a bottomless pit
and my desire to escape
a screaming
that never ends.

But I am held
and so are you
by something
much bigger than
a gaping
empty hole.

If that wasn't true
I'd return to
every one of
my addictions.
Today.

It's easy for me to
write this
now
that I'm no longer
in that place
of scary uncertainty.

I pray
that you will
let yourself
be held.

For strength
to do
the next right thing.

To know that the
feelings
are temporary
even if
they last
a lifetime.

And that
being held
is
eternal.

Waiting To Give

This post on resisting sexual temptation is well worth going to read.
Here is an excerpt:

Lord, thank You for the beauty of this person.
Thank You for the gift of my own sexual desires.
Lord, I recognize this twisted, lustful desire in my heart,
and I ask You please Jesus,
by the power of Your death and resurrection,
to untwist in me what sin has twisted,
so that I might come to experience sexual desire
as you created it to be,
as the desire to love in Your image.

This Path

I took those words, "It is not what you are nor what you have been that God sees with his all-merciful eyes, but what you desire to be." with me to Mass this afternoon. I felt a quiet joy within me as I went.

It was one of those Sundays where tears just kept welling up within me. Good tears. The kind of tears, had I been in solitude, would have become a torrent. It's been a long time since I felt so weepy at Mass. Every time I turned around [what, you didn't know we turned around at Mass?! :)] hearing God's word proclaimed reduced me to tears. It's been a long while since I felt pierced by God's word. Or had pictures come into my head in response to prayer.

One picture that came into my mind was that of being carried into rehab in the arms of Christ. And after it came into my head I thought to myself, wait, that doesn't make sense because where is he carrying me? Shouldn't I be getting carried towards him not by him? I mean is he carrying me to the counselors? They aren't going to heal me. Or are they? I had quite the little arguement in my mind about it all. Eventually I let it go and kept with me the picture of being carried by him into rehab.

Then, after receiving the Eucharist I felt like I was being held and rocked within safe arms. I turned, lifted my head and told Jesus, with one finger, you could heal all of me....the physical, the emotional, the addictions. And as soon as I said that I got a picture of myself with bleeding knees and a rocky path ahead of me. And he seemed to say, this is your path. Tonight I trust that this path I'm on is right where I'm supposed to be and that healing will come. It just might not look like what I'm expecting. But I do trust that I'm being carried, being held as I go.

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.

Lightening Up

I need a little break. People have often said I'm intense. My dad told me after I became a Christian that I should lighten up a little. He said I was much more fun before all this Jesus fuss. I wanted to remind him that I had been a very fun drunk (most of the time) but I didn't. Drinking is the only way I know to really relax and cut loose. I hope rehab will help me discover fun without the hang over.

All this to say that I got tagged to list 8 random facts about myself and I'm choosing ones that are devoid of seriousness and intensity.

1. When I was growing up a neighbour lady had an out of proportion fear of barn swallows dive bombing her. So much so that one day she came to our house until her husband could come home and get rid of the swallow nest that was above their front door. Her kids ended up with the same fears. I determined not to do that. So the whole time my kids were growing up I pretended to like spiders, bugs, mice and all those things. "Oh, isn't that a cute spider, sure, let it crawl all over my hand." Yes, a person can be screaming inside and calm outside. I did it for years. The end result was that my kids have less freak attacks about those things than they might have had I been left to my own devices. I do think only daughter felt a bit betrayed though when I finally decided, when she was an older teen, I had accomplished what I set out to do and told her that no, I really didn't want to hold her hamster and no it was not cute. This whole story is only funny if you know just how much control it takes not to scream and fuss about those things that really scare the crap out of you. I wonder who the patron saint of phobias is. Last week a big honking spider crawled across the livingroom floor. I did let out a squawk and took a coffee cup and covered it. Then I was too scared to do anything else with it so I left it there for the whole day until dearest one could deal with it. See, I'm no different than my neighbour lady. Although I'd rather have a barn swallow dive bomb me than a spider crawl across my path any day.

2. I did sing that "Itsy, bitsy spider song" to my kids despite my fear of the suckers (the spiders, not the kids). I cannot carry a tune to save my soul. I wonder what age kids are when they figure out their mother cannot sing in tune? This random fact about my not being able to carry a tune is only funny (or sad, depending on your point of view) if you've heard me sing. Sorry kids.

3. Jann Arden, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, The Bare Naked Ladies and k.d. lang are some of my favourite Canadian Artists who can sing in tune. I'm listening to Dido while I type but I don't think she's Canadian.

4. The farthest east I've travelled in Canada is to Quebec. I went on a student exchange the summers I was 16 and 17. Once to southern Ontario and once to Montreal. My father worked for Beaver Lumber then, which was owned by Molson's. Every summer Molson's sponsored the teenage children of their employees to go on an exchange to another part of the country. It was a privilege to be a part of this. Being a guest in a francophone household really stretched my high school french. Of course, like many teenage girls, the words for boyfriends and important stuff like that was the content of our first foray in speaking one another's language.

5. I am not bilingual much to only daughter's chagrin. When she was younger and tallying up the various heritage between her parents she was so disappointed that not one of the languages that could have been her ticket to bilingualism was in our portfolio of skills. She learned Latin instead.

6. I am a mixture of English, Italian, Danish and Norwegian. My great aunt tried to teach me Norwegian but gave up when I couldn't rrrroll my rrrrr's.

7. I can't roll my tongue either.

8. Or wiggle my ears.

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.

Walking The Path

"When in doubt, tell the truth"
~Mark Twain

I wish I could write that I am happy to be home after a week of holidays but I'm not. I'd rather still be at the cabin. Still be in a place where life was less complicated and I didn't have to deal with another human being if I didn't want to. Father Charlie keeps reminding me that relationships are messy and they take work. Including my relationship with myself.

The cabin was wonderful. Nestled in a forest of evergreen trees with privacy and quiet, it was a good place to be. We went on day trips when we felt like it and stayed put when we didn't. Dearest one disappeared over the bank one trip and reappeared with a handful of stones for my would be writer's cabin path. He had this wonderful smile on his face as he came up over the bank towards me. Three stones that weighed 50 pounds in total and he was grinning because he knew how much I like those stones. Knows how I dream of a stone pathway leading to my own yet to be built cabin. We came home with 100 pounds of stones in all; I would have been happy to fill the whole car with them.

The highlight of the trip for us both was the time we spent walking a path in the bush, on the edge of a deep river canyon. Or whatever the word for that steep cliff that seemed bottomless is. There were times when dearest one, who normally is not scared of heights, said outloud to himself, don't look down, don't look down, as we walked so close to the edge that a slip could have seen us disappear over the edge. At times the path took us farther in the bush, complete with tall trees and beautiful wild flowers. We were both amazed that my spoon supply saw us walk more than a mile up and down the hilly trail and back. A few stops every so often for me to catch my breath and then on we went.

I am scared of heights. Very scared. I panic when other people get close to the edge of things far more shallow than a river canyon. When we travel in the mountains I lean towards dearest one and away from the steep drop offs on my side of the car. So it really is a little miracle that I walked the path.

I may be braver than I think I am.

Which is something I need to remember. Back home, in less than an hour 5 minutes, I ran smack up against my lack of ability to control those around me, my ability to give away my power and my distaste for the hard work that recovery demands of me.

Today, in my session with Fr. Charlie, we hashed out what being a truth teller involves. How hard it is for me to do that. How necessary it is to learn in my recovery. How disrespectful it is of myself and others when I willingly give away my power so that they still like me. Except, when I'm not being honest and up front, they're not really liking me anyway. Just the mirage of who I set out there for them to like. Today I was convinced that to really be me meant that others wouldn't like me. Fr. Charlie simply said that my search for self would rock the boat for those around me. It was what he didn't add that was the kicker. I told him I felt like I was at a cross roads. Either be the way I am now, giving away my power, being dishonest in my relationships, all for the sake of being liked, or speak my truth and be at peace with myself; risking rejection by those I rub shoulders with in my day to day life.

I'm not a risk taker.

But recovery work is demanding that I become one. Or accept my choice to stay stuck and resentful.

Traveling Mercies

Dearest one and I are headed out tomorrow for a week of holidays. We've rented a little cabin in the foothills of the Rockies for several nights. Then we'll head over to see only daughter in her show and after that I'll have a check up with one of the specialists I see for my chronic illness. Several thousand kilometers after we begin we'll be home again.

Traveling with dearest one in a vehicle is one of my favouritest things to do. Just the two of us. We prefer rainy weather for travel but will take the sunny, hot days that are in the forecast.

I won't be online until we get back. Talk to you then.

Patient Trust

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are quite naturally impatient in everything
to reach the end without delay.
We would like to skip the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being on the way to something
unkown, something new.
And yet, it is the law of all progress
that it is made by passing through
some stages of instability -
and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you;
your ideas mature gradually - let them grow,
let them shape themselves, without undue haste.
Don't try to force them on,
as though you could be today what time,
(that is to say, grace and circumstances
acting on your own good will)
will make of you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming in you will be.
Give our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.

~by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, SJ

Care To Dance?

I've had a great stack of library books to read lately. Thought provoking, challenging reads. The latest has been by Sara Miles called Take This Bread. These past few months I feel like my view of God has grown in such a way that it's like a feather pillow has burst its seams and there's no way to gather the pieces up again. The thought alternately thrills me and freaks me out. Reading this book saw even more feathers float through the air. I can either run around and try to gather them up or I can dance with joy in my new surroundings.

The older I get the less desire I have to quibble over matters of faith. If you only knew the energy I've expended in defending right thinking. I don't want to dismiss where I've been on this journey, because it's brought me to today, and I have no desire to use my energy that way anymore. Some days I feel like I'm copping out to say that. Other days I know just how capable I am of being petty about things that, in the end, don't matter.

I write that as if I know, with certainty, what matters and what doesn't. I sometimes fret that not having it in me to squabble and defend means I'm letting Jesus down. Not in an "Oh, sorry, I've dropped You on Your head" way but in the "Am I denying you if I don't want to scrap about You anymore?" sort.

Being active in blog land these past two and half years has stretched me and continues to do so. I don't know if my lack of interest in debating matters of faith is because I don't think I can do it well enough to convince anyone of anything or if it's because I struggle so much to live it out and am unable to convince anyone by my actions. Oh, that smacks of so much navel gazing I'm getting dizzy. [You didn't know gravity could make a belly button that low to the ground now, did you?]

Being active online has helped me embrace Christians I would have written off as unbelievers at one time. People like Sara Miles. Years ago I had a neighbour share with me about her faith. She told me she believed in being inclusive. She said that to me as I sat there with head covering and dress on, not knowing her words would reverberate in my head ever after. Sometimes I worry I'm becoming so inclusive that I shudder.

In the second last chapter of her book, Take This Bread Sara Miles writes about her friends who saw her as someone so different from other Christians they knew they thought she couldn't be a real Christian. Here is what she wrote:

"I knew what they thought: Christians were corny, sentimental, vulgar, embarrassing, intolerant, superstitious, dogmatic, self-righteous, do-goody, obtuse, smug, unsophisticated, and dumb. They thought I wasn't like that, so I couldn't be a 'real' Christian.

But I was like that. I wasn't more enlightened or less enamoured of my own piety or purer. Christianity, if it was all I'd come to believe, demanded that I understand exactly how like everyone else I was. And it was this realization that would not go away, even as I battled with the costs of faith."

The irony is that, as I typed that out, I recognized how enlightened I often think I am because of where I am on the journey. How capable I am of inwardly sneering at the next person because they're exclusive and I'm not. (How exclusive is that?! Lord have mercy.)

I need reminding that I'm like everyone else. Not better than. Nor less than. Just the same. If I could truly grasp what was important and what wasn't I'd most likely be content to embrace our shared likeness.

Whether I'm running around trying to gather up the pieces of who God used to be to me or learning to dance with joy in my new surroundings I need reminding that either way, this journey is never a solo act.

Bona Fide Coping Mechanisms

It's Saturday night and the house is quiet. Dearest one is working a night shift and youngest son is off with his brother doing stuff I'd rather not know about. Both boys like to tease me about their shenanigans. I'd rather be blissfully unaware. There's a fireworks display in town tonight and I'm sure one or two beer will be in the mix. I'm glad I'm on a need to know basis and that I don't need to know the rest.

Sometimes I look at them and think "Okay, when I was your age I was married and when I was your age I was a mother." Often I feel all smug about that as if marriage and motherhood were a mark of maturity. The rest of the time I remember that I'm still waiting to be a bona fide grown up. I thought when I began sprouting white mustache hairs I would qualify, you know? Except I didn't anticipate sprouting mustache hairs of any kind. Never mind chin hairs. Yikes. It ain't a pretty sight.

All of the above is really a side trip. Reality is it's Saturday night and I'm alone and I don't do alone very well anymore. Seven and a half months of abstinence from sexual addiction tonight and 17 days of no bingeing. The gaping hole left in the wake of no coping mechanisms feels like a chasm of gigantic proportions tonight.

I typed that sentence several hours ago. As I typed it I realized I do have coping mechanisms. I stopped typing and phoned my sponsor. We live 50 kms apart yet she decided instead of having a gab fest on the phone she would come over for coffee. What a blessing. I can do this. I can. I just can't do it alone.

An Adequate Faith

"If I, as a Christian, believe that my first duty is to love and respect my fellow in his personal frailty and perplexity, in his own unique hazard and need for trust, then I think that the refusal to let him alone, to entrust him to God and his conscience, and the insistence on rejecting them as persons until they agree with me, is simply a sign that my own faith is inadequate.

My own peculiar task in my Church and in my world has been that of the solitary explorer who, instead of jumping on all the latest bandwagons at once, is bound to search the existential depths of faith in its silences, its ambiguities, and in those certainties which lie deeper than the bottom of anxiety. In these depths there are no easy answers, no pat solutions to anything. It is a kind of submarine life in which faith sometimes mysteriously takes on the aspect of doubt, when, in fact, one has to doubt and reject conventional and superstitious surrogates that have taken the place of faith. On this level, the division between believer and unbeliever ceases to be so crystal clear. It is not that some are all right and others are all wrong: all are bound to seek in honest perplexity. Everybody is an unbeliever more or less." ~ From "Apologies to an Unbeliever" by Thomas Merton

I printed this out from someone's blog and have had it up on my wall of quotes for a while now. I read it at least once a day. I want to love and respect my fellow human being as much as I want to receive it. I fall short yet I know my heart desires to be changed so that I can live it instead of simply reading it. One of the biggest gifts I've received since becoming Catholic is knowing that living it out is what matters. And also the hope that it can be.

I trust that God, who has brought me this far, will continue to do his good work in me. My prayer life these days seems to be one of almost total silence. Other than praying, "I can't do this on my own strength." In the silence I'm finding an underlying peace which is helping me simply rest in where I am. A gift from a God who loves and respects us in our personal frailty and perplexity.

Everything Belongs

I headed out for town early Saturday morning, hoping to get the grocery buying done before my AA meeting. I was about 50 kms from home when I heard this funny beeping. I was listening to the radio at the time and thought to myself that the beeping didn't fit in with the song. Duh. It took a bit before I turned off the radio only to still hear the beeping. I looked down at my dashboard and saw the van's temperature gauge was as high as it could go. I brought the van to a stop at the side of the road and phoned dearest one. I really don't like carrying a cell phone, so much so that I couldn't tell you my cell phone number. [a few months ago I was reviewing caller ID's on the phone before I deleted them all when I saw an unknown cell phone number on my phone with dearest one's name attached to it. In short order I thought to myself, that man has gone and got youngest son a cell phone in his name without consulting me. Instantly I was having an imaginary fight in my head, ready to defend my opinion of that. Thankfully I realized it was my cell phone number on the screen before I opened my big mouth. I'm embarrassed to admit how long it took to recognize it!]

I was pretty thankful for the cell phone as I sat at the side of the road. I was also glad for my purse that youngest son affectionately calls the black hole. I carry a lot of stuff in that bag and to pass the time while I waited for the tow truck I read my favourite Anthony DeMello little book and some of a pocket Thomas Merton. Some women carry makeup in their bags, I carry books. [Once when I went to a retreat I left my bible at home. In the midst of a discussion at the retreat we needed a bible and I said I usually carried one but had left it at home. One of the women looked at me and said, "Yep, you're going to need your bible when you go to the grocery store but not at a retreat." We laughed.]

Despite reading Anthony DeMello I get attached to lots of things - like my van. By many people's standards it's old. It's got over 300,000 kms on it yet I'm hoping it's a fixable head gasket rather than a totally shot motor. We don't make vehicle purchases very often and I'd rather keep this one going a few more years than invest in another one. When dearest one gets some time off he'll be able to see if it's salvageable.

Today I had an appointment with Fr. Charlie and I braved the road with our 1979 Ford half ton. Dearest one was in the midst of getting it road worthy again when the van crapped out so I was thankful to have a vehicle to drive. No muffler though. I kept expecting the cops to pull me over and give me a ticket. I kept my foot off the gas as I drove past the police station, sure that if I gunned it I'd make enough noise that they'd be able to hear me inside the building. With my imagination I pictured a cop making a dash to the cruiser and coming after me. Yes, I know, I don't have enough to occupy my mind with.

Here's a quote that's totally unrelated to this post but is one of my recent favourites:

"Have you been loved well by someone? So well that you feel confident that person will receive you and will forgive your worst fault? That's the kind of security the soul receives from God. When the soul lives in that kind of security, it is no longer occupied with technique. We can go back and do the rituals, the spiritual disciplines, but we longer follow them idolatrously. We don't condemn people who don't do it our way. All techniques, rituals, and spiritual disciplines are just fingers pointing to the moon.

But the moon is the important thing, not the pointing fingers. We stand in adoration before the moon. We sing, Holy, Holy, Holy. We say, "Yes, yes, it is good." We are energized by what we see. And our private darkness is no great surprise. Who cares? Who cares where I am on the ladder of perfection? That's an egocentric question. "Where am I?" "How holy am I?" become silly questions. If God can receive me, who am I not to receive myself -- warts and all?" ~ Richard Rohr in Everything Belongs

Peaceful Chaos

Today the church celebrated the birth of John the Baptist and the Sacrament of Baptism was celebrated in each of the three communities within our parish. A month ago when Fr. Charlie announced he was being transferred, he reassured a young mom that her soon to be born baby would get baptized before he left. The very next week she delivered a premature baby boy. Today we got to see the little guy for the first time. Tiny and precious in the white baptismal gown that his own mother wore when she was baptized.

On a regular Sunday we may have 10 people present for Mass. Today we had many more, including more young children than normal. Add a baptism in the midst of the Mass and well, there you have it. A peaceful kind of chaos. The parents and God parents were standing up front and several of their children were going back and forth. At one point two of them were sitting/laying on the steps leading up to the altar when Fr. Charlie looked at them and said he hoped they would always be that relaxed in church. And he meant it. The next moment the 2 year old brother of the baby being baptized figured out how to get the kneeler unhinged and it came crashing down. His parents looked anxiously in his direction at the noise while Fr. Charlie said, "He's not crying, so don't worry." And the celebration continued.

The relaxed atmosphere allowed the holiness of the celebration to seep through the cracks of our humanity. The children's inability to remain seated and silent was accepted as part of the process. Their behaviour was not frowned upon. It simply was. More than once I noticed the mom of the new baby looking concerned, torn between remaining present in the Sacrament and scolding her children. Letting go of perfection, letting go of her children seemed so fitting for what we were celebrating.

Several moments stood out for me. One was when Fr. Charlie carried the baby to each person in the church and invited them to make the sign of the cross on the baby's forehead. Everyone from the elderly to the two old were invited to bless this child. When his turn came, the two year old gently brought his cheek down to rest it on his baby brother's forehead. His cheek stayed there a few moments longer than expected, long enough for the beauty of the moment to touch us all.

Then, at the end of the baptism Fr. Charlie laid the baby on the altar and had the parents stand behind it as we prayed a blessing on each of them. The sight of this precious baby, asleep on the altar, arms splayed out in total trust will stay with me a long time.

Getting Clear

"Discovering the truth about ourselves is a lifetime's work, but it's worth the effort.

~from The World According to Mister Rogers

Trusting women in recovery is difficult for me. They make my spidy senses go into overdrive. I disclosed that bit of info voluntarily, near the end of my intake assessment interview yesterday, at the rehab centre. To a woman counselor.

As I was locking up my vehicle before I went into the center I had prayed for help to simply be honest. I reminded myself that this interview wasn't about trying to get the counselor to like me or any of the other things my mind can get wrapped up in when meeting someone for the first time(or second or third or every time, for that matter.) I just wanted the courage to be honest.

Then I walked into the waiting room and found a handful of women rehab employees standing there having a chat. As I told the secretary who I was there to see, my counselor stepped forward, introduced herself and off we went down that long hallway into never never land.

I felt scared. And vulnerable. Yesterday reminded me how much I dislike situations where I'm not in control. Where I'm not the one running the show. Where I don't know what is coming next. Yet it also reminded me that no matter what happens (and some awful things have happened in those circumstances) I will survive.

When I first went to the rehab center to inquire about treatment I was given a form to take home and fill in for this intake interview. I had to smile at the little amount of room given to answer such questions as "How have your actions/addictions affected your family, work, health, social life, etc?" Three tiny lines to answer that? One of my recovery friends laughed and told me to put, everyone, everywhere, all the time. I wanted to write a book for each answer.

Harder still was the questionnaire the counselor and I filled in together. She asked the questions and as I answered she filled in the forms. Questions about flashbacks and nightmares that prompted flashbacks all on their own. Having to list the specifics that prompted those. Questions about my sexual addiction. Questions about my food/body image issues and having to answer affirmative when she then asked if I would say I had an eating disorder.

The worst was at the end when she was sharing with me what she had written down as the issues she felt I needed to address while in treatment. I could handle all she listed and even added a few of my own. What nearly did me in though was when she said that because of the sexual abuse issues I had disclosed she was adding a session with the grief/loss counselor. In an instant I felt grief rising in my throat, up to my eyes and my whole body felt sad. She told me in that class I would work on a collage. In my mind I saw myself laying down my head on top of a half finished collage and sobbing. The best I could do yesterday was look her in the eyes as she spoke and let her see the sadness there.

Today I was planning to go with a recovery friend to a grad ceremony at the rehab center. She knew someone who was graduating and thought I'd like to see what happened. Last night I told my sponsor that my only reason for going to the grad ceremony was so that I would have one situation where I had a heads up. Then I told her what I really wanted to do was take a notebook and quiz the new grad about every minute of her last 20 days so that I would know what to expect. She replied with this "Ohhhhh..." that said so much. Then she graciously told me about her stay there many years ago. That her bags were searched upon check in, how that felt and a few other tidbits of information. It wasn't a play by play of the whole shebang but enough of a taste to reassure me that I would be okay. She reminded me several times that every person there was just like me and her.

This week I read a book by Anne Wilson Schaef called Living in Process. I found it very much a "take what you like and leave the rest" kind of book and the bits I took with me are gems. This one resonated with me:

"Sometimes, all we need is the willingness and our inner process will do the rest. Yet, willingness is not just an act of the will. It is much deeper than that. By willingness, I mean an openness to face courageously whatever we need to face to take the next step in our journey.Often, our fear is so overwhelming that we're afraid that we won't be able to handle the information we learn about ourselves. Yet, in the end, all of this information is inside of us and it's our information. Getting clear about it, whatever it is, and working through the healing is what life is about. I find that it is often our mind and our thinking about horrible illusions that make our healing difficult, not our reality. Ironically, as we truly probe deep within ourselves and face our learnings, we find that our connection with our spirituality gets stronger and stronger, and we find we have the immeasurable support and caring to do whatever we need to heal."(emphasis added)

I'm not much of a risk taker. I much prefer the predictable. Yet even though I feel scared and vulnerable about going into treatment, I also have a willingness to take this next step. I thank God for that.

After my intake interview I went to the doctor to get more injections in my shoulders. At one excruciating point in the process I said outloud, "Breathe Hope, breathe." My doctor smiled and told me if I didn't remember to, my body would eventually.
Prophetic words those ones.

Coherency

I can't seem to put together a coherent post.
I'm not without things to write about.
But, is it worth the energy to write?
My sister tells me my best posts
look flawless.
I tell her it's a 2 to 3 hour
time investment
to make it look that way.
If it ever does.

Here is the short version:

Dearest one resigned from his answer to prayer job.
Too much stress.
Too many politics.
Too little time.
He is back working night shifts and
hating every minute
of the long drive home afterwards.
Especially after he nearly tangled with a semi
one morning last week driving home.
He's looking at his options.
I hate change.
Well, change I'm not in control of.
It gets complicated because I often
think I'm in control of all change.


Youngest son broke up with his girlfriend
almost a month ago.
I feel relieved.

I believe that those who
push our buttons
are our greatest teachers.
His girlfriend was one such person to me.
I don't think I learned
what I might have.
But I did learn some.


Fr. Charlie is being transferred
to another parish
many hours away.
I was blissfully unaware, and
absent from church
when this was announced
to our small church community.
Everyone in church ended up in tears,
including Fr. Charlie.
I don't do tears very well in public.
Let me rephrase that.
I don't do tears very well in front of anyone.

The day I last had injections
I also had freezing at the dentist.
It was too much of a good thing.
I ended up in ER the following day.
The pain was wretched.
All is well.
But it didn't feel that way at the time.

Dearest one threatened to call the ambulance.
The thought of the EMS people
trying to make their way
to my bedroom,
through the mess my house is in,
motivated me last week to use all my spoons and then some
cleaning it up.
Well, the parts you can see.
I'm not talking about the closet, or bedroom,
the office
or porch
or anything like that.
Living room, kitchen, dining room only.
It's very nice to see clean spaces again.
Ha.
I just remembered
the parts EMS would have to navigate
are more messy than ever now.
I mean, where do you think all the
I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-it stuff
went?

My intake assessment interview
for rehab
happens this week.
I'm more scared than anything
although I do have moments
of overwhelming gratitude
But they pass.

I suspect that

*hating change I'm not in control of;
*believing those who push our buttons
are our greatest teachers;
*not doing tears well in front of anyone;
*experiencing wretched pain
and
*cleaning up the mess no one sees

will all be addressed
when I'm in rehab.

Lucky me.

Belly Button Birthday

45 years ago today my mom nearly gave birth to me in a bedpan. At 2lbs. 11oz. it's really a miracle that I lived. At one point in my 3 month stay in the incubator, I lost 9 of those precious ounces.

My best birthday present of all time was an orange banana seat bike when I turned nine. My grandma watched me ride around and around the yard until I finally found my balance and rode off into the sunset my bike until bed time.

It's been a quiet, but good day. For so many years I wanted the hoopla to come and surround me and I was always disappointed when it didn't. This year, the hoopla is in my heart. This quiet knowing that I count. It's the first year I've ever experienced that. On my birthday, I mean. The pressure I've put on others over the years to reassure me that I matter, especially on this day, must have felt like I was trying to suck the very life out of them. How do you satisfy a soul whose hunger is never ending? Who is trying to get life from another life instead of from the Source? Very difficult. Impossible. Ack. This quiet knowing that I count is a gift all of its own.

I do have 100 birthday buckaroos wearing a hole in my pocket though. If you only knew how difficult it is for me to spend money on me. There's a mulitude of different places I could spend it. Indecision and hand wringing will most likely occur before I part ways with it. I am a hoarder by nature. It's hard for me to trust that I won't lack. I've spent so much energy convinced it was up to me to arrange life so that I wouldn't. Kind of like, OMG if I spend this $100 on me, the well will dry up and we will starve to death. That's me and money. Including birthday gift money. Sigh.

Maybe I need to go for a bike ride until I find my balance again.

Attached.....Or Not

I was sitting in my van at the library, passing the time until I could go sign on the dotted line, people watching. An elderly couple came out to their car, which was parked directly across from me. She was carrying a bag of books and he had the key fob in his hand. With a slight flourish he pointed it in the direction of the car's trunk, pressed down on it, only to have nothing happen. The same flourish, evoking a your wish is my command my dear sentiment, was repeated several times. He did it with such grace that I swear there was this invisible, wordless little bow within his gesture.

I sat there and watched this, enjoying his flourish. When nothing happened he eventually walked over and opened the trunk the old fashioned way, with a key. She clunked her bag of books inside it and he closed the trunk for her. As he turned towards the driver's door my first thought was, oh, he has man boobs. My next thought was that really doesn't matter in the whole scope of life. How has he maintained, or learned, when flourishes fall flat, to take it in his stride and do the next right thing? There was no look of discouragement on his face, in fact, there was still a hint of the flourish in the very way he walked. I sat there and hoped I would be like that when I was his age. Better late than never, right?

***

Yesterday I went to town for my home group AA meeting only to get there and find the meeting had been cancelled. As we pulled up, a woman from my group was just getting off her bike. We talked for a moment before deciding to have our own little meeting a few blocks away at Dairy Queen. It was a beautiful sunny day and we agreed to meet outside at one of the tables. Dearest one dropped me off and I had an hour to gab and listen, gab and listen. A coupon for a free ice cream cone got me a nice cold treat. I momentarily wondered if it was safe to eat it, seeing how dairy is one of my allergies and I had no medication along to quell the intestinal drama that might follow. Oh what the hell I thought and thoroughly enjoyed both the company of my friend and the soothing coolness of the cone.

I have a really hard time trusting women in recovery. I tend to think they're the enemy. I'm hoping to get that sorted out when I go to rehab. I think it must have something to do with my mom being the alcoholic parent in my life. This woman from my group is one of 2 women in recovery so far who I feel comfortable with. She is honest and vulnerable in a non threatening way. We were sharing our journeys with one another, talking about our issues when she couched hers in this way,"I'm attached to my shit", meaning she doesn't share her issues easily and she only lets go of them when she's ready.

God has a huge sense of humour. Trust me. I sat there listening to her share her journey, when my soon-to-unfold intestinal drama nudged me. Before I had a chance to say anything - like how unattached I was going to be to my own shit if I didn't run for the can - I crapped myself right then and there. Oh vey.

Today I can laugh about it. Yesterday I couldn't. It's rather humiliating to crap yourself in public. A mile away from the bathroom. Eventually I got cleaned up with a little help from her, dearest one and Walmart. I'll spare you the details.

Tomorrow I will call my AA friend and ask her if she thinks I'm as attached to my shit as she is to hers and we will laugh. I wonder if that old man at the library has let go of his own issues a time or two. If that's what has to happen in order to handle life with grace and an invisible bow.

Let's just say it's a bit of a bitch to walk with a flourish when you're attached to your shit.

The Next Right Thing

The first of June already. This time last year I took the month of June off blogging. I also went to my first AA meeting in over 8 years. I still remember rolling to a stop at an intersection in town and having the thought flash through my mind that I could go and buy some beer, go home to an empty house and drink it, and no one would be the wiser. Shame was my overwhelming feeling those days due to my out of control sexual addiction. Somewhere deep down I knew I was going to have that first sip if I didn't do something different.

A year later I'm no longer covered in shame but find a thin cloak of it surrounding me sometimes. Having some abstinence (six and a half months today) from sexual addiction helps. Having a home group and a sponsor does too. I think the thing I've learned the most in the past year of going to AA meetings is that it's very hard for me to be honest, to know how I'm feeling and to own those feelings. It's much easier to try and find a way to numb the feelings and talk my way around honesty instead. I still feel like I'm somewhat tenuous in my recovery. When I talked to my doctor 2 weeks ago about pain management and was emphatic on no narcotics because I was scared I'd start abusing them, I felt fragile.

When I sobered up in March of 1988 I lived in a small town on the prairies that had a rehab center. How bizzare. A town in the midst of nowhere with a busy rehab. I don't remember ever considering going there when I stopped drinking. I don't know if it was because I had a newborn, a toddler and a preschooler and the logistics seemed impossible. Most likely I thought rehab was for other people.

I've wished for a long time that I had gone to rehab. In the past year I've come to realize that 19 years of not drinking does not equal walking the talk, working the program, or being in recovery. It just means that (by the grace of God) I haven't picked up a drink.

I think it took less than a handful of meetings for me to realize that telling people I'd been sober for 18 years meant diddly squat to them. A person can have an 18 year dry drunk too. Which is mostly what I had up til then. Which is what I still have some of the time these days.

On Wednesday dearest one, through the course of his work, found out that rehab was still a possibility for me. We had thought it was expensive and out of reach. He phoned and dropped the new, doable information in my lap and then listened as I came up with one excuse after another why I couldn't go until winter time. He wisely told me he was just delivering the information, what I did with it was my baby. Shit. So much of my life I've had a stance of "Don't you dare try and tell me what to do." Then there's my other favourite stance of "I don't want to own my own decisions, please will you make them for me?" Dearest one is a saint.

I didn't sleep well Wednesday night. Fear and panic were my bedfellows. It's one thing to want a thing and talk, talk, talk about it when you think it's out of your reach. It's another to have it right before you and purposefully turn away. I had a running conversation with myself most of the night. Turn one way, Yes, I'm going. Toss the other, Not a chance in hell. You can always tell how much I toss and turn in the night by how my hair looks in the morning. I have a whole range of bed head styles. The next morning, courtesy of a restless night, found me sporting a mini mohawk all of my own. A two inch high strip right down the center of my head.

After a glance in the mirror I decided to confess my panic to someone else so I phoned my dear friend, bobbie. What a reminder that there's more than one perspective to hold. That we need other perspectives. No wonder recovery work doesn't work well in isolation. Her encouragement and excitement for me to have this opportunity blew me away. It was like, Oh, I could be excited and happy instead of afraid and panicked. That wouldn't have occured to me had I not talked to her. I hung up from our conversation with much to think about.

Yesterday I signed on the dotted line and my rehab intake date is August 5th.