600 Steps

This is post number 600.
Not sure there's any significance to that.
It has reminded me that putting one foot in front of another
for 600 posts has me further along on the journey.
Or at least in a different place.
It's sometimes embarrassing to be so honest with you all.
And sometimes embarrassing how much navel gazing I do in public.
Such as write about post 600.

Oh well. It's certainly been a journey.
So if I'm going to take navel gazing to a new height
is there a post of mine that you especially remember
or that made a difference?
Or is it just watching the twists and turns over time
that keep you coming back?

It's late.
I'm tired.
Dearest one is out of town on work related business.
Once upon a time we used to celebrate when
the other person would get the bed all to themselves
for a night when one of us was away.
Not sure when that changed.
But sleeping alone is not my idea of a good time anymore.
I'm tempted to wake the energizer bunny and see if she wants to sleep in my bed.
She has a habit of sleeping right up against me in a very comforting manner.


Anyhow sleep must come so I leave you with this poem by Mary Oliver. I think it sums up my journey through treatment and beyond especially.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.

~ by Mary Oliver ~

Weird and Weirder

I got this meme, listing ten weird things about oneself, from truevyne and tagged myself. Feel free to tag along.

1. Once I get a song stuck in my head - oh the poor saps who have to put up with it until my infatuation has run it's course. I guess the only saving grace is that I don't actually sing the song, just put it on endless repeat for months days at a time. Ok, weeks.

2. You gotta fold a towel a certain way to look right to me. Dearest one overheard me talking to my mom about this one day and afterwards wanted to know what "right" looked like. The man is the king of folding towels now. They look like they've been pressed when he's done folding them. I haven't folded more than a few towels since. Worked myself right out of a job. Towels folded in half and then again in half, then folded in thirds, finished end facing out, look fantastic.

3. However much I love all those nicely folded towels on the shelf there's usually a mass of dirty ones on the floor. Those look fine to me, too. Go figure.

4. I should be asking dearest one and kidlets what's the weirdest thing about me. I'm sure they could list ten things faster than I can type. (Leave 'em in the comments family.)I love to type. If I didn't have problems already with my shoulders I would be happy to get paid to type the day away.

5. I love a bawdy joke, a crude joke, dark humour, I do. Or a funny bumper sticker or what have you. On the weekend a lesbian friend of my sister's, bought a pin which said, "I can't even think straight." I'm still chuckling over that one. Repeating these jokes to the wrong people is met with stunned silence. The only problem is I can't usually tell who fits the criteria of wrong people until after the fact.

6. I can sit with piles of books, papers, stuff around me. But not with any residue of any kind on my fingers. Must wash hands immediately and go sit myself back down amongst the junk. Dearest one recently watched a show about slobs on tv and turned to me with a 'omg, she'll never change' look on his face.

7. Tie your long hair back if you want to come into my kitchen. Pugs excepted. LOL can you imagine a pug with long hair?

8. Family Feud is my favourite game show. Growing up on the prairies without cable tv,meant I wasn't introduced to this game show until I went east for college. Today, being a pj/couch day, I thoroughly enjoyed watching it.

9. To our friends dearest one and I are known as the heckler and the diplomat. Guess which one I am?

10. I wake up with a mowhawk hairstyle every day of my life. On the weekend I slept at oldest son's place after finishing the Relay For Life. His first comment when he came home again and saw me? "It's been a while since I saw the mowhawk." Thankfully a shower and a hair dryer fix the situation.

Minutae

The energizer bunny is sleeping at my feet. She spent the 5 minutes before that barking at an imaginary enemy down the hallway. I had to open a bedroom door so she could tentatively peek and reassure herself that no enemy lived within. Youngest son's room does look like a warzone at times though. Well, then again, so does mine.

Yesterday my in-laws came over to work in our garden. They have just a little raised garden bed now and were happy when we offered to plant potatoes here for them. Yesterday they came to hill them and do a bit of weeding, something my mother-in-law especially enjoys. She with leukemia and he with congestive heart failure and there they were each with a hoe, enjoying a sunny afternoon in the garden. I picked weeds by hand, putting them in a 5 gallon bucket to throw over the fence. 15 gallons later the garden was weeded. I even found the Lavatera which had germinated despite the competition from the rag weed.

All that weeding means I have less spoons today than normal. Bending over to weed still takes a lot out of me. More than I realized. I have nearly 20% of my blood volume bypassing picking up oxygen as it does the loop and when I bend over my lungs protest and beg for air. Well, they don't beg for it until after I go horizontal so overnight they went into overdrive and are protesting as I type. Breathing deep hurts and makes me cough. I had hope to resume walking and yoga today but I think a day on the couch is going to be the wisest choice I can make.

Dearest one has a final exam tonight. He could use some prayer. Going to school plus teaching full time has left him feeling exhausted. The worst/best of it is that this will continue to be his reality as he was awarded a tenure track position this spring. That means he has 3 years to complete his Master's degree and then he'll receive tenure. On top of all that he is working hard on inner issues which he says is more exhausting than school and work combined. He is one courageous man. He's in a place where it's too late to stop the momentum of inner work/growth yet has days when the new awareness is so painful he'd like to erase the forward movement he's made if only to take a momentary breather. He's goes on a work related trip later this week and gets to see only daughter as a bonus.

Energizer bunny is now snoring gently at my feet. It's time to join her. Not in sleeping on the floor, mind you, but in sleeping. It's only 8:30 am. My body is screaming at me to pay attention and get some rest. I am grateful that spoonless posts are not the norm anymore, although they have been in the picture more often of late. This too shall pass.

Bone weary, heart happy

Thank you for the feedback on the radio documentary.
It does my heart good when people 'get it.'
It makes a difference to the producers as well.
I'm surprised by the number of people who cried during the listening.
Concentric circles where our stories intersect
create strong emotional responses.
If that's the wrong geometric figure excuse my mistake.
I've had little sleep in the past 24 hours.
A hot shower, some pain killers to ease the hip/knee/back pain
and I am off to la la land until tomorrow sometime.

I am bone weary yet heart happy after participating in
the Relay For Life last night.
The human body was never made to go 12 hours through the night
with 30 minutes of sleep.
Then again, it was never meant to grow cancer cells either.
I walked 4 to 5 hours of the 12.
You all know what a miracle and a privilege that is.

Here are two posts I wanted to share with you:
joyful subversion and subversive redux.

Skippety Do Da

It's been a long but terrific day.
Shopping with my soon to be daughter in law
reminded me how much fun it is to shop with another woman.
Especially her.
I figured out I can suck my belly in
in order to get the dress to fit.
But there's no such thing as
sucking in one's boobs.
What a dilemna.

Went to an AA meeting that was fantabulous.
The meeting opened with just two of us.
15 minutes later five more had joined in.
Sat there realizing I was feeling incredible peace.

On my way to see a friend at the hospital
I passed the homeless shelter in town.
On the grass sat a woman singing her heart out
in the key of pain and suffering.
She was singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."


My counseling appointment came next.
A hope filled session
complete with challenges and new insight.

Met dearest one and a friend for coffee.
Lots of joking and laughter and an opportunity
to be generous that was received with surprise and quiet acceptance.

Bought myself a toy to celebrate my birthday tomorrow.
I always wanted one of them as a kid and so I get to be
a kid again at 46.
That's how I'll be spending my birthday.
Skipping around and around and around.

Stood in line at the grocery store.
Privileged to be able to buy the basics
plus a treat.

Came home and soon the house was filled with friends
who came to listen to the radio documentary with us.
First they all took a turn with my new toy and we all got to be
kids together again.
Cheering each other on as we attempted and succeeded
in being more coordinated than we ever thought possible.
Then they sang me happy birthday
and I felt loved.

Listened and heard the radio piece as a story
instead of the cut and paste, cut and paste version
that's been reverberating
in my head.
I done good.

People sometimes belly ache
(sucking that belly in or not)
about getting older.
Like it's a burden
instead of a gift.
So, so much goodness.
My cup overflows.

Gotcha.

More Birthday, Less Belly

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

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

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

My birthday is the following day.

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

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

Resting

A change is as good as a rest. I've mulled over the past few months whether it was time to give the blog a final rest but as you can see opted for a change instead. The coolest new feature is found on my blogroll where you can see when those blogs have last been updated.

Of Presence and Presents

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

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

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

I cried from beginning to end.

From my journal:

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

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

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

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

Flipping Pages

Tagged by Steve to complete Dr. Benton Quest's meme.

Here are the rules:

Step One – pull out a book on the book shelf.
Step Two – go to page 123.
Step Three – read and write out the 5th sentence.
Step Four – tag 5 more people.

Unlike Steve, who looked in 8 books, I looked in nearly 3 times that many. Darn. I have many books with scads of lines highlighted and not one of them was on page 123, line 5. So here is my excerpt from By Way of Grace by Paula Huston:
"We are in the presence of God, and like human lovers who 'are content, sometimes, with being near or within sight of the person they love without speaking to her, and without even distinctly thinking of her,' we simply rest in God's nearness."

And then here are several of my favourite books with quotes from page 123, just not on line 5. And yes, Steve, I did want to cheat, badly.

"But the God of the impossible won't ignore my cry." ~ Carlo Carretto in Letters from the Desert

"Most of us are living a life of addiction to our past - its mistakes and the guilt we carry - or to a future that drives us like a tyrant." ~ Fr. Francis Stroud, S.J. in Praying Naked: the spirituality of Anthony de Mello

"Gratitude makes us whole, not stuff" ~ Earnie Larsen in Destination Joy

"There is a kind of knowing, a kind of powerful conviction, that comes from spiritual emptiness." ` Richard Rohr in Everything Belongs.

Tagging whoever wants to play along.

An Ember Letter

I came across a post on a new to me blog today that prompted me to write an email to a friend. An "ember letter" of my own, if you will.

What's that you ask? An ember letter is officially a letter between a postulant and their Bishop that lets the Bishop know how it is with them.

When I read the post I immediately thought how healthy recovery demands a daily ember letter of sorts. If not between myself and God, at least within myself. It could also be between me and my sponsor or another supportive person. The minute I start avoiding any of those options I am isolating and headed down a dangerous path. The problem is that isolating can feel so cozy and comfortable.

Last week my therapist asked me to take a step back and question what being stuck was doing for me. What the payoff was. I came to the conclusion, hashing it out with Bobbie, that stuck means avoiding being present to myself or to life around me. Stuck feels cozy and comfortable.

But it's where I'm at. That much I can be honest about. This week I've returned to Centering prayer because it's one 20 minute period of the day where I'm present or at least very aware of my inability to be present. It requires an honesty of me that is unavoidable. I didn't know 20 minutes could be so long.

I'm having a love/hate relationship with being stuck.
Waiting, waiting for something to happen.
It's such an old pattern.
Time to make a new groove.

In the true spirit of an ember letter
I know I am in a better place than I was a year ago.
A year ago I was preparing to go to treatment and feeling very scared.
A year ago I didn't have the tools and skills to do anything but
avoid my feelings at any cost.
A year ago I didn't know what it cost me physically to spend so much energy in avoidance mode.
Ah.
For many days now I've written in my body journal
"tired, so very, very tired."
That's too high a price to pay any longer.
I see that now.
Grace to be present.
Not straining, nor striving.
Just be.
That's my prayer.

One Lone Bird

I am not a morning person.
I doubt I ever will be.
But when you live in a land
where the sun is now close
to never sleeping
one becomes a morning person
by default.

It seemed like just last week
I got up to go pee
and knew it was the middle of the night
because there was darkness.
Last night I got up
and looked outside and thought
right
it's that time of the year.
Where one has to be a master of shades of grey
to discern how close
to morning it is.

Then one lone bird sang
in the twilight.
Damn.
Way too close to morning.

Day Is Done

It's time for a soak
in the shower and then bedtime.
I love my bed.
I love showers, too.
It's been a full day.
Mowing lawns.
Planting flowers.
A walk with dearest one.
Cleaning, dusting, vacuuming.
Chicken tacos for supper.
Ice cream for dessert.
Tomorrow might be a day
with no spoons
but today was worth it.

Easy Does It

There should be a halt button on blogs with a hand in your face that asks if you're whiny before they let you in. Don't say I didn't warn you. Go ahead and change the channel. I may still be whining when you return but chances are I'll be over myself by then. At least temporarily. We can always hope.

Seven years ago I had an episode of Bell's Palsy. It's never really gone away. Today one half of my face is tingling like I've been to the dentist and if I look in the mirror it has itself a mild case of dropsy. Having it flare like this is like getting a tap on the shoulder, reminding me to take better care of myself.

Dearest one is beside me listening to Supertramp as I type. A song that starts out with whistling. I turned to him and said, "Oh, are you whistling?" I've never heard a person whistle who wasn't also cheerful and I thought maybe some of his mood would rub off on me. Dearest one starts the song over half a dozen times and sometimes whistles along just to confuse me. I turn to him every time and catch him whistling once. Eventually I tell him to stop messing with my head. The half that still moves anyway.

Youngest son is in the livingroom watching mana depleting television.(Diablo fanatics live here) That's what we call it in our house. A year ago, when I was in a chronic pain group, I learned of a study which found people subjected to violence on tv had depleted immune systems for 2 hours afterwards and conversely when they watched something uplifting their immune systems got a boost for the same time. I don't really enjoy violent shows but that was motive enough for me to stop watching them altogether.

It's slowly dawning on me as I type that your immune system may be under attack from reading my blog today. However, if you whistle while you read, there's a chance you'll come out even.

Baby Stepping My Way Forward

I don't think I can stand another post about the radio documentary, can you?. I'm obsessing about it and that's not good. So for today I will change the subject on purpose. Tomorrow I'll try and do the same. No guarantees.

Today was a birthday meeting at AA. The guy whose birthday it was we've been wondering week to week when he'll show up for his cake. His sobriety birthday was last month but work took him out of town. He showed up today sans cake and so the chair of the meeting handed me the chair duties while he went and bought a cake. I had a wedding to go to right after the meeting.

About a year ago when I was getting ready to chair my first meeing I said how nervous that made me. My sponsor asked, "What are you afraid of - making a mistake?" Um, yes. Definitely yes. Her question simmered me down and gave me perspective. If there's a safe place to screw up it's in a recovery meeting. Well, except we alcholics/addicts tend to be perfectionists, but at least we can laugh about it and recognize the insanity of it.

So I didn't fret when the meeting ran over time. I just handed the chair duties back to the cake buyer and ducked out to go to the wedding. I have no appropriate clothes to wear to such a celebration. I didn't realize that until I went to get dressed this morning. After a nearly 60 pound weight loss no wonder I have no fancy schmancy clothes to wear. The only semi appropriate dress in my closet was too big so I opted to get back into my jeans. We're pretty casual at the little church in the wildwoods that I go to so I wear jeans every Sunday. And flip flops some days. Or thongs, as they used to be called, before thongs got hijacked to describe a different pary of the anatomy. Doesn't that just crack you up?! I have a pretty pair of lime green thongs on my feet.

Anyway the birthday fellow is one of my favourite AA people. He speaks wisdom every time he opens his mouth. Because I chaired I didn't get a chance to tell him how his journey has impacted mine. I have his phone number in my wallet though so I may just call him later on tonight. We have similar years of sobriety but he was the one who I watched at meetings and said to myself, "he has what I want." I listen hard when he shares at meetings.

Best thing I heard at the meeting today was that it takes baby steps to get where we're headed. Those baby steps add up but we have to be patient for them to do so. It made me make a mental note to ask myself every day what baby step can I take forward today?

For today it was not to write about the radio documentary.

My 15 Minutes of Fame

The radio documentary has an air date. For those of you who requested I'll be sending out an email with the details soon. There is at least one regular reader I'd love to pass the info on to so [if you're reading from southern Ontario] email me [writerchick62 AT yahoo DOT ca] if you like and I'll let you know the details. Otherwise, you may have figured it out from my posts and I'll leave it at that.

This week I had to speak up and share a few concerns I had about the piece with the producer. It's much easier for me to take the well worn path of "everything's fine" than risk god knows what by speaking my mind. I did speak my mind and then carried on. And the one line in the piece that was causing me no small amount of angst got edited out of the final mix. I've decided not to let my parents know when the piece airs. The first go round where I spoke to them about the abuse was hard enough. Hearing the piece will simply open up those wounded places again for them. So unless they ask when it's going to be on I won't be offering any information. There was a time when I would have enjoyed being in their face and forcing them to pay attention. Those days are gone. It sucks energy from my own healing journey, which is the only journey I have any control over.

Nappage

It's time for a nap.
But before I go do that here's a link to a post
I thought was too good not to share:
the story of a friendship.
As a kid I was often looking for a friend in the adults around me.
Wanting someone to notice and invest time in me.
Which is probably why this story made me really teary.

Fear, Hope and Everything In Between

My head's been in addiction land the last few days. Mulling over not only my own story but the story of others. Two books I've been reading In The Realm Of Hungry Ghosts and Love Sick have been fodder for my thoughts. Today I have 18+ months of abstinence from sexual addiction and almost a year of no binge eating. Some days both addictions nearly feel like a thing of the past and others they hound me, begging to be let back in. Fucking things.

Today I wrote an email and then followed up with a phone call to someone I was wanting to 'play nice' with instead of being honest and risking offending them. Fear is such a shitty motive for not being true to myself. One I don't want to live by so I wrote the email and then picked up the phone and said what needed to be said. No offense was taken, either. So there you go. Risk it.

Recently someone commented on the hope this post had given them: No Fear
That key fob is long gone. Dearest one recently bought me a silver one with the word hope engraved on it.
Which is what I keep doing, one foot in front of the other, day by day. This day.

Belly Down, Standing Tall

I've spent the last few weeks
travelling back and forth
between stuck and unstuck.
Some days find me belly down in the rut
and others have me standing back up tall again.
One afternoon when I was home
doing the radio documentary
I followed a well worn cattle trail
from the middle of the farm
back to the barn yard.
Those trails always lead home.
I'm trying to trust that the path I'm on
is headed in a good direction as well.
It means being present in the now.
Being present sometimes feels like being stuck.
Other times it means unstuck.
Being present.
I hope it won't always
be a place of fear for me.
A place I often avoid
even though I know it's the only
sane place to be
despite what it feels like.

Stuff

I'm healing.
I can handle drug free
childbirth better than
a gash to the knuckle.

There was a light mist of rain overnight.
It left a beautiful fresh scent in its wake.

The energizer bunny and the stray
came-back-from-the-dead cat
have become fast friends.
Watching a pug trying to learn
how to rub up against a cat
makes me laugh.
I did wish yesterday
that the pug could purr.
She seemed so content.

Dearest one and I planted
the garden last night.
Being healthy enough
to take on the responsibility
of a garden is a gift.

Painful Edges

I'll be offline for a day or two.
Call it a lost battle
with a plastic wrap sharp edge.
I got a gaping hole
alongside my knuckle,
middle finger.
Dearest one is a nurse.
Not much fizzes him.
I'm hopping around in pain,
freaked out by the sight.
He calmly tells me ER would
just put steri strips
on the cut instead of a stitch or two.
So he bandaged it up for me.
I can't bend that finger.
Typing was never meant to be painful.
I would never make a nurse.

Rough Mix

Today's mail delivered the rough mix CD of the radio documentary.
I listened to it by myself.
I'm not good at new things in front of others.
Even if I had already read the transcript.
It still was scary.
I'll know at the end of May when it will air.
I got paid for doing this and that feels like a bonus.
My first paycheck for creativity in 20 years.

I feel vulnerable with my story out there.
Very vulnerable.
I will let you know when it will air.
But I might go hide for awhile afterwards.
My older sis told me my dad will forget when
the air date is and my mom won't listen.
I hope that is true.
I really do.

Ain't She Sweet?

I like being home. It's been nearly a month since I last had several days in a row at home. It suits me. It suits the energizer bunny, too. Isn't she cute? I don't have much to say, just wanted to show you a picture of the energizer bunny. I'm content to have regular days again with a normal routine.

Don't Analyze That

Despite spending most of my blog time analyzing life to death I'm getting better at not doing so every waking moment. Sometimes when I catch myself living in my head I think, "Don't analyze that, just [enjoy, accept, let go of, deal with] it." And amazingly I'm able to for that moment. As someone who excels at living life from the neck up, this is progress.

So bear with me while I continue to hash out the feeling-like-I'm-drunk-post-sedative-episode I had earlier this week and stuff that's old news but is still rattling around in my head. I've shared the sedative incident twice at meetings this week and with my after treatment counsellor. I think it takes a fellow addict to appreciate how very scary it was to love that drunk feeling and experience a 20 year time warp as if my sobriety had never been. One of the things I had to not dwell on this week was how seductive that drunk feeling was. There's a clarity now - knowing if I ever take a sip it will take supernatural help to sober up again. Oh, who am I kidding - it takes supernatural help to stay sober today, every day. My after treatment counselor told me she knew several people who had lost their sobriety from experiencing what I had with the sedative at the hospital. It was good to get confirmation that scared shitless was an appropriate response to loving that drunk out of my mind feeling. She recommended that I talk to my doctor about never getting that particular drug again. The risk is too huge. I know me too well. I'd look forward to another colonoscopy if it meant getting that drug again. Cunning, baffling and powerful is the voice of addiction.

My AA meeting today was incredible. Lots of laughter, incredible sharing and an all around good time. I am so thankful I could share honestly. I have a hard time doing that. I tend to feed my ego little slips of miracle grow and end up wanting to impress someone with where I'm wishing I was at instead of sharing where I'm really at.

When I was at my parents a few weeks ago I went to an AA meeting in a scary, not safe part of the city. It was the only meeting I knew how to get to. I like routine, comfort zone, small meetings. This meeting met none of those criteria. The first guy who shared that night left his ego behind and I am always in awe when I hear someone share so freely just how it is with them. I have much to learn. I look forward to the day when I'm not out to impress someone, including myself.

I had a neat experience after the meeting today. One of the members recently celebrated 20+ years of sobriety. The thought came to me awhile ago to buy him this little book I read all the time. Because it comes from a Christian perspective I wasn't sure I should buy it for him. I didn't want to offend him. I happened to find a copy of it in a book store in the city I grew up in. It took two trips to the store before I bought it. Today I was able to give it to him. I slid it across the table to him before the meeting was over and he looked at it, looked at me and mouthed the author's name with a question mark expression on his face. I nodded yes. After the meeting he told me that author had been recommended to him for a long time but he'd never read him and looked forward to doing so. Cool, eh?

Yesterday my sexual abuse counselor helped me see that feeling like I'm stuck in a rut, falling backwards, and having an incessant need to talk about the whole radio documentary process is most likely because I'm preparing to face fully forward for the first time in my life. What will I grasp at once I leave behind me the identity of sexual abuse victim/survivor? There will always be residue from experiencing what I did, it's shaped who I am, but it's not the whole of who I am. It needn't define me. Do I have the courage to truly own my choices in life? Even as I type that I can hear a sputtering "But..but....but" in my head.

For today I can do this.
I can even live it from my heart.
Celebrate progress not perfection.
Enjoy taking baby steps.
Continue to grow up.
And they all gathered 'round
and said,
"Amen. Amen. Amen."

What Is

One thing I've realized lately is
how I am is how I am.
There's no faking it.
I've expended so much energy trying
to be somewhere else on the journey.
Not able to accept myself as is
whatever 'is' happens to be.
People I haven't seen in a while keep telling me
I look peaceful.
Yesterday a woman I haven't seen in six months
said I had a brightness about me.

I can't take the credit for it.
Sure, I show up
and am willing for
transformation.
I sit in prayer and ask God to scrape
the womb clean.

How transformation happens
is a mystery I'm content to let be.
This is where people try and write books about how they got from here to there as if a journey prescription can be written.
And while I feel different inside
than I was a year ago
there isn't a formula to follow.

I've been thinking then that maybe
I can learn to be comfortable
with where I really am
because where I am shows on my face
no matter how conivnced I am
that no one sees but me.

Sometimes I feel foolish for only realizing this now.
I could have saved myself a lot of energy
being content
with what is.

Jumping Off The Cliff

Below is a letter I wrote to the producer this morning in response to one from him. The raw mix of the radio documentary is in the mail to me. As far as I know it will air within a month, maybe a little later than that. I don't want to post the link here to where you can listen to it so if you would email me [writerchick62 AT yahoo DOT ca] then I will create a mailing list and send the information when I know it. It will be streamed live and will be available afterwards to listen to online. And then there's the old fashioned way of actually listening to it on the radio.
For some reason this morning tears are close to the surface.


Thank you Radio Producer.
Thank you.

I feel like I've somewhat fallen apart this week.
A combination of the sedative on Monday (that's the first time
in 20 years that I felt drunk and it was more than scary afterwards how
good drunk can still feel. God help me never take that first sip or I'm sunk. I know that at a deeper level now. That I didn't relapse right then and there,
considering the emotional upheaval of this past while,
tells me my recovery is solid.
For today, by the grace of God, I can do this.)
and finally being still enough to process the stress
of the past month while doing this piece.

In the end it is worth it.
I'm still humbled by the process.
And by the healing.
Not many people get to see me
at my most vulnerable.
I've only learned to feel my feelings
in the past 8 months since
I came out of treatment.
So I'm still new at it.
It's a testament to you as a person
that my walls didn't go up while taping.
I tend to think of my walls going up
being like the electric windows in a car
except mine move with lightning speed.

I'm glad that you are pleased with the
final mix. I know how satisfying it is to
write something good.
If there was anything to be cut I'm glad
you cut the packing scene.
That was most uncomfortable for me to tape.
Cutting it doesn't take away from my story.

I'm quite sure I'll be fine with the final mix.
For all my earlier panic, while the sedative was wearing off,
I do trust your instincts.
My biggest fear was that I would turn in material that
was crappy and not worth using. That you'd all roll your eyes
and wonder why my pitch had been accepted.
I have my own insecurities.

The scene with the peas in the garden.
I haven't even gone back during my therapy sessions
and relived anything.
That was really brutal.
The hardest part of the whole process.
Had I gone with my gut that day I would have pushed
myself back from the microphone,
turned my chair to face the window
and screamed all the pain out of my body.
But I remind myself that I not only survived the initial incident,
I survived the retelling, too.

I sent my mom a Mother's Day card last week.
This is only the second year in my life that I haven't stood
in the Mother's Day section seething with anger over
the pathetic cards portraying mothers who don't exist.
I found a card this year that fit really well.
That spoke truth.
I talked to my mom yesterday.
She said, "Thank you for the lovely card."
She cried when I told her to remember
that what the card said was true.
This is the first year she was accepting
it might really be.
And that wouldn't have happened without
taking all the risks this piece
gave me the chance to take.
So there you go.
Thank you.

Beyond The Swamp

I read this guy's daily message often. Today's hit the spot for me:

"The story of Beowulf is an ancient story about the King of Denmark who sent his best officers to kill the monster, Grendahl who kept eating the children. Finally the monster was killed and all rejoiced. But later that night an even greater monster came and laid waste to the land. The greater monster was his mother.

It is not the thing that we fear that drags us down but the mother of that which we fear. The point of the story for those of us on the journey is that we start off thinking we know what the problem is, we think we know what the fear is, we think we can probably create a box strong enough to contain the fear. What we find out is that it is something much deeper that we must face. As we journey towards the light it takes lots of courage. The ability to accept that we are loved, that someone will stand up for us, to truly believe in our heart that we are loved and accepted and treasured for who we are is courageous work. But behind this work is far greater light. Beyond the swamp, is peace."

Feeling the Feelings

The medical procedure I had yesterday
went well.
No tumours.
Good, good news.
The sedative they gave me
left me feeling drunk
when I woke up.
I couldn't walk straight.
I couldn't concentrate.
I didn't make the greatest of sense
when I talked.
When I got home there was a message from the
radio producer.
I called him back.
It's just as bad to call when you feel
like you're drunk
as when you are drunk.
He asked if I had read the transcript
of the documentary yet.
So I opened my email and read it.
I started typing replies.
As in multiple replies.
I open my inbox this morning
to an email from him
basically telling me to calm down.
I was always a happy drunk.
I felt happy last night.
Telling youngest son that
this is what he could look forward to
if I ever relapsed.
Eventually dearest one
suggested I go to bed.
I slept 10 hours straight.
Rationally I know it was the sedative
producing the irrational behaviour in me
yesterday.
But I feel the exact same shame
as if I'd been drunk.

Fetal Positions

It's Friday. Don't you just shake your head when you read such a silly sentence as if you don't know what day of the week it is? It's more for my benefit than anyone else's. I'm still really tired. I've been battling nausea on a daily basis for quite a while now. Also an increasingly painful area in my abdomen. On Monday I'm having a medical procedure to see if they can find the cause. Let's hope they don't. Let's hope they do. Does that make sense?

Before I write anything more please know how grateful I am for your prayers while I was gone. The week could not have turned out like it did on simple human willpower. Something bigger than all of us was at work. Well, doesn't that sound so trite. Something bigger than all of us is at work always. Last week I was simply very aware of it.

My trip to finish up the radio documentary was both grueling and good. My parents met me more than halfway. My mom softened instead of getting defensive when I spoke of the abuse. I don't think I'll ever wrap my head around that. And while it was an uncomfortable conversation - the producer told me later I sounded like I was hyperventilating the whole way through - we all got through it with our relationship intact.

In the radio studio I relived on tape an incident from my childhood. It set off every alarm bell within me that I was really crossing the line. As a child I was told point-blank-to-my-face by my mom that I was never to talk about what happened in our home. [Let alone do that on national radio.] My older sister consoled me by saying if I tell my dad when the program airs he will forget and miss it and my mom will never listen to it anyway. Small mercies of the aging process. After a 2 hour taping session I left for an AA meeting. Later that evening I was trying to cryptically tell my older sister - my parents were sitting right there - how intense the taping session had been. Eventually she came and stood in front of me and told me she could tell it had been intense because I looked about 12 years old to her.

The last day of taping the producer and I drove to the land hoping to tape me finding some closure. I had no idea if that would happen. I don't remember what he asked me but all of a sudden the little girl in me was standing within my body. I saw her step into me with her feet in my footsteps. It was as if we were one except the top of her head only reached my knees. Then she started to grow and she grew until she fit my adult body. Her arms grew and touched to my fingertips. Her head reached the top of my own. At that point I started to cry and talk. That any kind of closure happened was a bonus. That it happend on tape - I feel a bit pissed about that because it was so private. But that's what I signed up for and I'll work through it yet. The producer was sensitive and left me alone after that. He walked back to the vehicle while I slid down the hill and had the moment I wrote about previously.

Later on I went back to the land with the buyer and his family. The most poignant moment in that conversation happened when he yelled out to one of the kids asking what he saw as he crested a hill. The little boy held up his arms as if he was a body builder posing and yelled, "Mother Nature." I was quite teary while I watched the buyer's kids and their friends explore the land with all the exuberance that childhood can hold. It felt right. I chose to walk across country to get back to my parents' house. I followed old cattle trails until I saw landmarks I recognized. I stopped at my sister's house to share my afternoon with her. My pocket held some prairie sage and a crocus. That little crocus dried in a fetal position which is ironic because I finally feel like I'm no longer frozen in that position.

Walking Away, Moving Forward

I am emotionally done in.
Exhausted.
Not a spoon to be found.
I am humbled
by this past week.
Risks taken
Healing unfolding.
Secrets spoken.
Many tears.

Yesterday I lay on
the ground
amidst the prairie sage
saying goodbye
to myself as that
wounded
little girl.
At first she was curled in a fetal position
then she healed enough to get up,
run and play amongst the brush.
Growing even bigger she stopped her playing
looked at me and said,
"Thank you for doing the hard work
of healing, for becoming the beautiful
woman you are."
And with that she skipped off
to play.
I lay there until the tears
subsided, then
got up and walked
away from the land.

I CAN DO THIS

This is my last post until the first of May. Next Tuesday I'll be flying home to spend a week with my parents and finish up the radio documentary. After that I'll fly to the city where dearest one will be at a conference and we'll spend a night there and then head home. Some of you have said you will keep me in your prayers for the duration that I am gone. Thank you. Prayer changes me. For the better. Even on days when it feels like a complete waste of time and nothing seems to penetrate the invisible shield of my being, prayer is doing it's work in me. Yesterday I returned to contemplative prayer after an absence. Tears and peace were a part of that process yesterday. To open myself up to God and rest in His presence, knowing that God does God's work in me as I show up and remain willing is a mind boggling Mystery.

Here is the letter I sent to the radio producer tonight. The process has been painful, yet worth it. I think anything we go through in life has that potential. I am grateful and humbled to be given a glimpse of that in my own journey.


Dear Radio Producer,

The taping is going well. For a few days I thought it all was garbage but I'm over that for now. :) I'm working on making notes of what is on what track on the discs. I've used up most of one disc and part of another. I think at the most, with the recording I'll do with my family, I will use 3 discs in total.

I met with my therapist today and had her record what she thinks selling the land will do for my healing journey.
Later on I had a pretty big 'aha' moment in my session.
I've kept going back to the thought about owning my story and what does that mean and how badly do I want to do that. I figured out today that doing this piece is forcing me to look that in the face. One of my friends told me not too long ago that parenting is a make work project. In the process of parenting we give our kids enough baggage to last them a lifetime. Owning my story is about taking responsibility for what I'm going to make of the baggage. Am I going to carry it forever? Am I going to use it as a shield to keep others out? Truly owning my story means absolving my parents of the responsibility to make it better. It is what it is. Owning my story means letting go of being a victim. It means taking responsibility for my choices today. It means an end of pointing fingers. Of saying, 'it's all your fault." My life is what I make of it. I've spent way too many years giving my power away to others and not taking responsibility for my own life. In one of my taping sessions I talked about selling the land being a catalyst for me to face forward....to stop living in the "perhaps one day" and accept that life can only be lived this day.

I'll get those thoughts recorded unless you'd like to cover them in the interview.

Another interesting bit that I haven't talked about with you and that I only thought of mentioning today is that 8 years ago I had a nervous breakdown and the straw that broke the camel's back for that was my dad's refusal to let me sell the land. Shortly after that I went into a tailspin. That breakdown was a pivotal point in my healing journey. It was the first time I really felt the pain of my past and it started the process for me to individuate from my parents. Eventually I had to confront my mom about a situation and at the same time tell my dad the truth about that situation. During that phone conversation I held a little piece of paper in front of me at all times that said, "I am an adult." In part of that phone conversation I told my dad that he was the one with the power as the land was in his name even if us kids each had a piece named in his will. I don't think I'd ever been that blunt with him before. And in the healing that took place, as I was willing to feel the emotional pain and not run from it, I finally stopped letting the voices of my parents be the dominate voice in my head. I had just turned 38. I had a lot of shame connected to the breakdown. So much so I didn't tell my family about it and I never even mentioned it to my family doctor. I had a brief time when I just about checked myself into the psych ward but started to function a bit better and chose not to. I cried for about 6 months straight. It was the most pain filled time of my life and while I hope to never experience it again, it forced me to grow up. Anyway I share all that with you because I think it fits the thought that this really is a journey.

One other thing I wanted to mention to you is what I am and am not willing to talk about on tape regarding the abuse. If there is a way to allude to the abuse without naming names that is my preference. I have never gone back to my brothers and talked about it with them and do not want that to begin with public radio. Also I'm not willing to talk specifics on tape about what the abuse actually was. I am willing to talk about the fallout of it, about the emotional pain, about my side of the journey at whatever depth is necessary. Also the physical, emotional, verbal abuse from my mom - if there is a way to approach that without getting specific that would be my goal there, too. I want to be as grace filled as possible about it without skirting the topic. I have no idea what your plans are for that taped conversation between us but I just wanted to give you a head's up on my thoughts so I don't have to say at that moment that I'm not willing to talk about that.

You know if nothing ever came of the piece, if you decided to scrap it, it has already done it's work in me. This process with you has been another pivotal point in my healing and for that I am incredibly grateful and humbled. The story is bigger than any of us. And it's not over yet. I read not too long ago that courage is moving forward in the face of fear. Next week, the conversations with my parents, will take incredible courage. Without the opportunity of doing this piece I would shrink from it instead of embracing it. Often, since coming home from treatment, I've ended my journal entry for the day with - "I can do this." Then I put down my pen and do the next right thing in front of me and keep moving forward. I think every night as I'm with my family, I'll be writing in capital letters I CAN DO THIS.

Thanks for being a part of my journey.

Talk to you soon - in person.

Looking Back

From the comments:

I think I know a lot about how you are now, and how you think now.. but not a lot about you growing up, or as a young adult. Unless it relates to something in your life today, we don't really hear much about you in that sense. Would love to hear more!

That comes from my soon to be daughter-in-law.(Waving hi to you today!)

and this from my dear friend Mich:

"How did you come to live in all the different places? Were you a writer as a kid? Do you know any stories about your ancestors?

I'm going to answer both in bullet form as anything more cohesive is still beyond me.

* I broke my arm in grade one. A green stick fracture they called it. My cousin and I were walking along the top of a fence and she started to fall and I tried to stop the momentum and we both fell. The lawn on the other side of the fence had a bit of a dip in it and that's where we landed. She was unhurt.

* I had the same teacher for grade one that my mom had had in grade nine. She was still as miserable a teacher for me as she had been for my mom. Once I stole a cough drop (Sucrets) off her desk. It tasted wretched.

* In grade two I got a severe case of Poison Ivy. I still remember the little yellow pills I had to take to keep the itching under control. It was in grade two that I wrote my first essay. It was titled "When The World Began And How." My mom kept that essay (written on fullscap) tucked in one of the kitchen cupboards until I left home. Unfortunately I lost it in a move early in my marriage. I do remember it though and it was well written and I've kept the same writing style I had back then.

* My grade three teacher was strict and a lover of words. She was also the school librarian. One day I read a book under the top of my desk between first bell and first recess. When I returned it during recess her eyebrow went up as if to ask me when I'd found time to read it when I was supposed to be doing school work. I don't remember getting in trouble for it. When I met her again the summer I graduated from high school, she sighed in the most beautiful way when I told her of my plans to go study journalism. "English, my favourite," was her reply.

* In the summer between grade four and five I went to a Bible Camp. My first and last time. It was my first experience of being in an enviroment where I knew adults loved and cared for me. I did not want to go home. I had an experience there of seeing an angel in the rafters of the cabin. The adults I told didn't believe me but I never forgot what I saw. I had an experience of an angel watching over me a few years ago, too.

* My grade five teacher didn't believe in homework. She was also a very compassionate teacher and I felt safe in her classroom. This was the year my mom got breast cancer the first time and then became an alcholic. That's a story in itself.

* My grade six teacher read us Jean Val Jean. He had previously been a teacher in a federal prison and was a passionate teacher. Grade six was a rough year for me and he went to bat for me several times. I've tried to find him over the years to express my gratitude for his presence in my life but haven't been able to track him down. I'm not the only one in my class that knew the basics of Les Miserables because of his influence.

* I started writing in grade seven and was published in a farm newspaper for the next five years in their youth pages. I wrote everything from poems to plays throughout high school. I spent a year as the editor of the school newspaper and a year being advertising manager of the yearbook. I was given quite a bit of leeway as newspaper editor although there were a few times when I was reprimanded for risque content. When I was a young mom I did freelance writing for the farm newspaper for a year. My last interview took place when I was 9 months pregnant. I wrote human interest stories and they are still my favourite kind of newpaper article to write or read.

* Those junior high years were the worst of them all. I was either bullied or being the bully. I was not a happy camper. It got better by grade 10.

* I left home right after grade 12 and moved across the country to get as far away from my mom as I could. I went to study journalism and spent that time doing more interesting things than studying. It was almost as if school was an imposition. I've often wished I had applied myself to my studies. I had a great journalism instructor who pushed me to reach my potential. He was the first editor across Canada to publish a story about Thalidomide Babies after a mother came to him looking for answers.

* I got pregnant within the first few months of being at college and the father was from a foreign country. We were not in agreement about what to do. I wanted to give the baby up for adoption and he wanted to raise it. I miscarried before the first trimester was over. I buried the pain of that loss until I had an ultrasound when I was pregnant with youngest son at the same gestation as my miscarriage. When the technician pointed out his beating heart I realized I had truly lost a baby all those years ago. While in treatment last summer I did a grief and loss collage. I had three pictures of babies on my poster for the three babies I lost through miscarriage.

* Our many moves were a combination of youth and geographical cures. Well, not that moving cures anything, but it took us 18 tries through two provinces to realize that. I'd be happy not to make another move. I find them traumatic. As a child moving and being the 'new kid' was one of my greatest fears although my parents still live in the house I grew up in.

* I've spent the last few days reading through 35 years of my grandma's diaries in preparation for my radio piece. On the other side of the family the claim to fame is that my great grandma was born a Pacelli in Italy and was related to Pope Pius XII. Which is a good or bad thing depending on how you interpret what you read about him. My great grandma on the other side of the family came across Canada with the Barr Colonists.

* One of my motivations for writing a blog and keeping a journal is so that I leave a sense of who I am for those who come after me. I write that knowing relationship is of more importance than anything.

Focus

This Saturday I have an appointment with the local writer in residence to discuss my writing goals and where to focus my writing energy. I'll bring along two novels that I've made less than half hearted attempts at writing and maybe a blog post or two. Ideas are easy to come by. Actually writing isn't. That about sums up my life in so many areas. It's much easier thinking about doing all kinds of things than actually doing them. There was a point when I realized I enjoyed reading books about writing every bit as much, if not more some days, than writing.

I'm feeling distracted by life at the moment and focusing any writing on blog posts seems out there in the distance somewhere. So if any of you have any burning questions you'd like me to answer or throw out a topic for me to write about I'd be open to that challenge. Give me an idea and I can write about it. Trying to think it up myself at this point seems futile.

Sunday Night

It feels like bedtime.
It's 8 pm.
Today I went for a walk.
The first one since last Tuesday.
It was good to have the energy to do that.
Thank you for your prayers.
This radio documentary is kicking my butt.
I need courage and strength.
Or rather I think I do.
I don't know what I need.
I can worry something to death.
Or to life.
Which robs me of
living in this day only.
Today I can handle.
I hope to really know that
one day.
Today.

In Short Supply

Spoonless in Canada.
Prayers appreciated.

Tagging Along

I got tagged this morning by bobbie. I have about 5 minutes before I need to go get ready for the rest of the day so here goes:

1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog.


1)What was I doing 10 yrs ago?

1998. I was homeschooling all three kids. They were 14, 11 and 10. It was the year I started writing again after a 10 year absence. The last time I'd written anything I'd been doing some freelance work for a farm weekly and did my last interview for that paper when I was 9 months pregnant. The guy I interviewed was an AA member and I was 3 months from getting sober. Wait, that's all 20 years ago.

2) What are 5 things on my to-do list for today (not in any particular order):

I used to be the queen of to-do lists. My day was ruled by them in a way that put the list ahead of relationships. I rarely make them anymore. But because I could forget what I really need to do today here is my own reminder:

1. Counseling appointment at sexual abuse center
2. AA meeting following that
3. Grocery shopping
4. Try on the next size smaller of jeans cause dearest one and I are going clothes shopping next week.
5. Prepare for tonight's phone interview with radio producer

3) Snacks I enjoy:

Ah, too bad this isn't a list of snacks I used to indulge in when I used food as my escape route instead of facing those ever loving feelings. These days when I'm hungry between meals I either grab a piece of fruit or some olive oil and cracked pepper triscuits topped with cheese. Occasionally a yogourt granola bar.

4) Things I would do if I were a billionaire:

Give most of it away. Hoarding is one of my character defects.
Create several charities
Create scholarship funds for needy students
Build a retreat center for my out-in-the-booney part of the planet

5) Three of my bad habits:

Just three? Aw.
1. Interrupting people
2. Getting distracted by visuals when someone is talking to me
3. Tiptoeing across the floor in my muddy footwear (shhh, don't tell)

6) 5 places I have lived: (i'm anonymous, so i'm going to be vague, just because i'd like to stay that way...)

1. Alberta
2. Saskatchewan
3. Ontario
4. More Alberta
5. More Saskatchewan

7) 5 jobs I have had:

1. Telephone solicitor
2. Cashier
3. Receptionist
4. Telephone Answering Service Operator
5. Welcome Wagon Lady

8) 5 peeps I wanna know more about:

I'm running out of time so whoever would like to play, play along. Play nice. Play. Play is good. Which reminds me. I need to buy something today that has to do with playing. Like a skipping rope or a giant bubble wand. Or sidewalk chalk.

The Small Voice

The Way We Are to Go

By Elizabeth O'Connor

"In our wishes, small urgings, dreams and fantasies, we are given intimations of the way we are to go. It is our way alone and cannot be learned by reading books or listening to scholars or following others. We can learn our way only by taking seriously the sign that we see and the small voice that we hear. These we must treasure up in our hearts and ponder over. The code we are to decipher is written into our genes and sent out to us, as it were, from the core of our beings."

Source: The Eighth Day of Creation

via inward outward

So appropriate for where I am today.

Of Stewardship and Legacy Part Two

You can read part one here.

I had purposely not reread the script before we went to see the play. Maybe because of that or maybe it was just the head space I was in that made the watching of the play so painful. I worked out beforehand with my therapist what I needed to do to feel safe. I chose a seat in the theatre where dearest one was on one side of me and a railing on the other. (No, it wasn't so I could jump if I needed to.) I just didn't want a stranger to sit beside me while I watched. I needed to feel in control of something and where I sat was about the only option.

If you're a parent you know you say the same stuff over and over again to your kids. Some of it might even sound cute or evoke a laugh, a groan, a rolling of the eyes. Some of it might not. The mother in the play held her body in such a rigid way. It matched her words perfectly. Two minutes into the play I heard my words coming out of an actor's mouth. Dysfunctional, control freak lines, 98% of which, had come straight from my mouth at one time or other. (Oy, fucking, vey.)

What hadn't was my daughter's responses. Lines full of anger. Seething anger. I got to hear what would have been healthy and necessary responses on her part had she been given the chance as a kid. As I sat there shaking in my seat a thought flashed through my mind, "At least she's found a way to give voice to her story in a way I haven't been able to do with my mom." That single moment of clarity would later inspire me but at the time I just wanted to put my hands over my ears. And my heart.

At one point in the play the mother relives being raped. My daughter knows none of those details of my own but the scene was so vivid it was as if I was being raped all over again. Damn. I sat there and sobbed as quietly as I could. My body just wouldn't stop shaking. There's nothing worse than being glued to your seat while your brain is screaming, "Run, you fool, run!"

But you know what? I survived.
Not only the initial rape but the triggering of it, too.

I can write that now because I've had 6 weeks of distance between the play and today. It wasn't my initial response. Initially I was on automatic pilot. In survival mode because the pain was so intense I wanted to escape my body. It took several trips of walking around the small town where only daughter lives, before I could work the shakes out of my body. I dreamed that night of the play and the rape and woke up the next morning absolutely drained.

By the grace of God
I didn't binge.
I didn't drink.
I didn't numb out in sexually addictive behaviour.
I stayed in the feelings.
It wasn't pretty.
There was no perfection
other than being
perfectly fucked up.

I came home more determined than ever to face what needs facing so that the abuse loses its punch. I may be at this the rest of my life, my therapist assures me I won't. She assures me that healing can happen to the extent that I won't always be triggered by my past.

As I face telling my story in the radio documentary I'm working on I realized last week that only daughter is the one who has paved the way for me to have the courage to do it. Here is what I wrote to her last week:

"What I really wanted to tell you is that you are the one who is paving the way for me to have the courage to do my story for the radio. That you trusted the creative process over hurting family members with your play and how that really is breaking the cycle for who knows how many generations... of not revealing family secrets or at least not talking about them in such a public way. Not that I think my sexual history is such a secret but it was a very brave piece for you to do and you found the courage to give your story a voice despite my voice echoing in your head. ..... at some level the abuse has to be alluded to in the piece and I am breaking a huge taboo in my family by doing so. And because the communication is not open about the abuse there is no way for me to prepare my parents about what the piece is really going to be about. So I feel like I'm jumping off the edge of a cliff willingly. Or possibly tying my own noose. Yet I know I will be okay no matter what the backlash could be. Anyway I just wanted you to know that I am taking courage for my story and for using my voice from the precedent you've set. And it makes me very teary to type that because watching your play was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. But there really is a bigger picture in life and now this is all unfolding in my own. It doesn't mean that I feel all that courageous yet my gut instinct tells me I have to be true to the story. That it isn't an accident that my pitch was accepted, that the producer poked and prodded in the interview to uncover the abuse and how I felt about the land and that this is the direction the piece is headed. Father Charlie is always talking about the ripple effect in our families when transformation happens. I am very grateful for the ripple effect of your transformation on me."

God help me be a good steward of my pain.

Of Stewardship and Legacy Part One

"I thought a lot about what the stewardship of pain means; the ways in which we deal with pain. Beside being a steward of it, there are alternatives. The most tempting is to forget it, to hide it, to cover it over, to pretend it never happened, because it is too hard to deal with. It is too unsettling to remember.

I think the world is always asking us to do it that way. Our families are always, in a way, part of the family system and so apt to say, "Don't talk about things that cause pain. You can't trust the world with those secrets. Those are family secrets. Keep them hidden. Keep them hidden from each other. Keep them hidden from yourself. Don't allow yourself to feel them." ~ Frederick Buechner (ht to Mich)

Twenty years ago I sat across the table from a friend and broke the silence and secrecy around the abuse I experienced as a child. Physical, emotional, verbal, sexual. In the telling I had a moment of utter clarity where I realized if I didn't change, my then 3 year old daughter was going to sit across the table from someone one day and tell nearly the same story. Utter panic. Utter despair. That's how I felt when that moment of insight flashed through me. By my daughter's tender age I had already heaped physical, emotional and verbal abuse on her and her one year old brother. The newborn in my arms was yet unscathed. It was that moment of clarity, combined with my inability to change on my own strength, that eventually led me straight to the arms of God. The few months between that clarity and my surrender were a living hell.

I can trace my motivation to change back to the day I broke the silence. I so hope to leave a legacy of healing for my children and their children. I hope to see the generational cycles of addiction, abuse and silence broken. This is what motivates me to continue to do whatever I must in order to heal and therefore make the path easier for those who come after me. I don't always like doing the work. In reality I rarely do. But I do like being able to look in the mirror and like what I see. I don't miss the cloak of guilt, shame and self hatred that I used to wear 24/7. And so, no matter how painful the journey, I continue to embrace it. Even though I sometimes whimper, wail and protest first, I've never forgotten that moment of clarity and it still motivates me to choose healing. And while I like to think I'm paving the way for my children to heal, sometimes it happens the other way around.

Six weeks ago we traveled south to see only daughter produce and perform a one act play she'd written. A play about breaking the silence. About telling secrets. About showing what happens when secrets stay hidden and how they can unintentionally harm others. She chose to send me a copy of the script, a way of preparing me for what was to come. That she sent it after I'd been to treatment was a godsend. I read it and thought, "Yep, that's the way it was. Not pretty, but the truth." The play dealt with the warped messages about sexuality I'd given to only daughter growing up as a result of unhealed and unspoken (to her) sexual abuse in my life.

Between that reading of the script and the play being produced I began therapy that was geared to dealing with and healing the effects of being sexually abused as a child. If you've ever tried to wash the face of a toddler who doesn't want their face washed and tries like everything to get out of your grip, that's what the therapy has felt like at times. When the truth gets revealed I want to twist and turn away from the process as much as a toddler wants to escape having a clean face.

The hardest part of the process has been the feelings. Feelings like sadness, anger, more sadness, intense anger. Fear. Insecurity. My body has shaken with memory and I've had showers of grief wash over me from head to toe. I know my feelings won't kill me but I also understand why people choose not to feel them. It's safer that way.

I went to opening night of only daughter's play knowing it could trigger a whole lot of feelings. What I couldn't predict was that in the midst of experiencing body memory and intense emotional pain I'd have a moment of clarity that would pave the way for me to tell my own story.

Life Giving Energy

Don't tell dearest one but I think I'm in love with the energizer bunny. She is one smart puppy. She knows my daily routine involves watching an hour of tv in the morning and when that tv goes off I usually go for a walk. So now when she hears the click, well, actually when she sees me point the remote control in the right direction, her ears go up and she starts getting excited. This is where I ask her if she wants to go for a walk and she starts howling her yes. Picture a wolf howling at the moon and then insert little pug face howling and you get the idea. I think it's adorable. Dearest one and youngest son think it's a crime worthy of a muzzle. So energizer bunny has learned to only howl about going for a walk when I'm the one doing the walking.

She sleeps in a kennel and not long after we got her I passed her kennel at bedtime and said, "night night." To which youngest son said, "Did you just say night night to a dog?" Yep, I did. And now when I say night night she trots down the hallway and into her kennel all on her own steam. I think that's cute.

She also recognizes my yoga clothes and knows that means she'll be in her kennel until yoga is done. At this she turns down her ears and tries to hide. Oh well, 2 out of three ain't bad.

Bits and Pieces

This week has felt like a mile in length.
Tomorrow I'll start recording answers to questions from the radio producer.
He actually told me not to erase anything I record. He said he might have been able
to use that bit where dearest one chased me around the kitchen and I was laughing.
So dearest one will surprise me one day soon and chase me again and we'll see if I
have the same reaction. Laughing with dearest one is one of my favourite past times.

Yesterday dearest one and I were up shortly after 5 am and into town before 7.
I had lab work and a diagnostic test at the hospital and he was there with a group of students.
A noon AA meeting and a counseling session were lined up for the afternoon. I was in a fair amount of pain from the test at the hospital but today it's better. The dizziness from the weekend is gone but nausea continues to plague me. It feels minor all things considered.
The best part of my day was walking into a regular store and trying on all these cute tops and being thrilled/shocked that they fit. Not sure when my warped body image will be a thing of the past. Sometimes it feels like I peer into a mirror when I try on clothes and say, "Hope, is that you?"
I booked my plane ticket home so I can interview family for the radio piece. I'll be there in less than 3 weeks and will be staying a week.
I have a blog post I want to write about what's going on inside me about the whole deal but am waiting for some input from a family member first before I go ahead.
I hope you've had a good week.
The geese are back.
It's really and truly Spring!

Swiftly Tilting

If I sit very still the room doesn't spin.
Last night I crashed into the wall trying to walk.
Today is a bit better.
Not sure if it's my blood pressure taking a dive
again or what.

Youngest son drove me to my AA meeting this morning.
He didn't want to risk being a passegner
considering the combination of my dizzyness, nausea
and the steering wheel.
Me neither.

But he laughed as we headed into the bank,
me weaving a little as I walked.
Normally I would have missed my meeting.
But today I was celebrating
my 20th birthday in sobriety.

So youngest son told me if anyone thought I was
walking drunk
he'd just tell them I'd been 20 years without a drink
and was celebrating.

Yesterday I learned how to use the recording
equipment for the radio documentary.
I was encouraged by the producer to play with
it over the weekend.
Dearest one plugged in the microphone to play
and proceeded to chase me around the kitchen
with the microphone.

The sound of my laughter on the disk
was very pretty music.

Gravol is my temporary new best friend.

Floating In De Nile

The recording equipment arrived today in the mail to do my radio documentary. Tomorrow I'll have to fess up to the producer that I am equipment illiterate and take it from there. Thankfully dearest one loves gadgets of any kind and I think this equipment qualifies so if all else fails he can figure it out and teach me.

My day has been full. Today was my last scheduled appointment with my after treatment counselor. I feel like I have an adequate support system in place to get me through whatever life throws my way. Seeing to my spiritual life is the first priority of the day. With that intact when life throws me for a loop I've learned to call in the posse and with their experience, strength and hope have made it through some tough moments. It's not about staying strong in the rough spots but about telling the truth about how I feel about them. My counselor remains a phone call away and I told her today that I knew I could call if necessary and also knew that by the time I actually got an appointment to see her the crisis would be over. We laughed. There was a time not too long ago when I would have made the crisis last until the appointment because I didn't know what else to do. Today I do. Deal with it.

Next I had a doctor's appointment. When he asked me how I was I started to chuckle and he told me that was the wrong answer. I told him how tempted I often am to say, "help, my body's falling apart." We laughed. He listens differently since I've been to treatment. Treats me more holistically. Today I shared with him about doing the radio documentary. About how I'm telling the story of selling a bit of the family farm - that's been in the family nearly 90 years - and how conflicted I feel about my decision. I was telling him how the radio producer had poked and prodded until the story came out that I felt safe on that land. That across the road, where my grandparents and most of the 960 acres that encompassed the family farm were, felt predictable and safe. Home was unpredictable and scary. In the midst of that conversation my doctor said to me, "Selling the land is like the last step in the healing process. You don't need the land to feel safe anymore." Somehow I don't think they teach you that kind of reading between the lines in medical school.

You see I thought the story was going to be about selling the land, about the demise of the family farm. About betrayal of generational bequeathment. About selling out. Going into it I knew there was an underlying story of abuse and recovery but I didn't think it would surface. Had had only fleeting thoughts about whether selling the land was symbolic of moving forward. So when the underlying story surfaced the producer told me that's the real story. The one I need to tell.

Telling the story will be breaking every taboo I was raised with. Especially the one where my mother said to my face, "What goes on in this house, stays in this house." And here I am preparing to tell on national radio. Someone asked me tonight if there was a way to prepare my family for the real story to be told; but how do you warn someone of something they are in denial about?

So I'm trusting that God will make clear a way to honour my journey without running roughshod over my parents. A way to honour my journey without trying to shelter them from my reality. A way to be gracious and honest.

I trust that telling my story will not smack of selling out in any way, shape or form.

And that body of mine that's falling apart?
As of today it's 47 pounds lighter since I stopped bingeing.
Not sure what parts I've lost but them there's a falling going on.

Stretching Hope

"As I sat in centering prayer this morning the image of being held, of resting in the womb of God came to me. That no matter how vigorously I stretch and push against its walls I remain safe in the womb. So struggle away, Hope, struggle away."~ journal entry March 18/08

"As I listen to the gospel for today and hear how Jesus gives John his mother and how John welcomed her into his home I sit here and wonder what it means to welcome her into my home. They ask what we want to say to Jesus as he hangs on the cross and all that comes to me is "remember me in your kingdom." Without his mercy we are without hope." ~ journal entry March 21/08

Tread Softly

It's been the most draining of days. I feel if I bent my head and looked into a pond of water I'd see tears streaming down my face even though there are none on the surface. My body is carrying it's mourning around with it. I find grief work hard. Maybe I need to simply acknowledge all the hard, hard work I've done in the past 7 months and let those healing tears flow.

I had a counseling appointment this morning. Turning in pages of homework dealing with control and losing control felt wretched. Facing my emotions around that stuff is scary. A loss of control of its very own. Every time I looked at the homework this past week I felt anxious and wanted to run screaming from the room. Eventually I did what I could and shared it with my counselor. I left with the remaining 30+ pages to read and fill out. I can do this but there are times when I wonder what the hell I've got myself into. There's this saying in AA that goes, When you know better, you do better. Well. Some days I'd like to crawl back into the hole of not knowing better if only to soothe myself into oblivion for a moment or two and then re-emerge and keep going forward. The only problem with that solution is the moment or two turns into a decade or more in a blink of an eye and I'm so not going there, God help me.

So tonight as I was headed to the pantry to make myself a bag of microwave popcorn I kept right on walking and picked up the phone and called my sponsor. Thank God for sponsors. As I shared how desperately I just wanted to self medicate the wanting to softened it's grip on me. Then I was able to breathe and do the next right thing.

This afternoon I had the phone interview with a producer about my mini radio documentary. It left me feeling so vulnerable. He is good at what he does. Which is look for the story beneath the story. He found it. Shit. To do this piece with any integrity and to own my story within it, I'm going to have to navigate through a family mine field.

I feel like beating my fists against God's chest.
And swearing.
Underpinning it all
is my belief that
I'm right where I need to be on the journey.

Today my counselor pictured the phrase
losing control
as a ring of fire
surrounding me.

It wouldn't be so bad except that my gut instinct says that walking through the mine field of don't talk and don't feel is going to bring a greater peace in the long run than any other option. I just hadn't bargained doing it on national radio.

Fighting demons
is hard work.

Compassionate Energy

It's 8 pm and I'm just getting online. What can I say, it was the Brier in Canada today and I am a fan. Did you know I'm the sports fan in our home? I always feel weird about that but that's the way it is. Dearest one grew up in a home where TV was evil and worldly so he missed early initiation rites for Hockey Night In Canada and the Grey Cup and the Brier. I didn't.

We were up early and headed into town for Passion Sunday Mass. Dearest one and youngest son have been house sitting this past week and today it's my turn. This was my first experience of Passion Sunday in a large church. It's the weirdest thing to go from a little church of perhaps 10 people on a Sunday to a church where there are over 500 people at Mass. I don't much like it. After that I went to a different AA meeting. There again going to a meeting where there were perhaps 30+ people where the regular meeting I go to usually has 5 people. How can you tell I like small and comfortable and within my safety net better than big and uncomfortable and out of comfort zone?

My pitch for the radio documentary was accepted this past week so that was definitely the highlight of my week. I jumped up and down and hurt my back a little bit in the celebrating. But it really was a good thing to express physically what I was feeling in my heart. I have 45 years of suppressing joy of any kind lest it leak out and I look like an idiot. The energizer bunny was the only one to see me jump up and down and shout. She just put her ears back and looked like she wanted to hide in a "No, I don't know this person" kind of way. This program receives 1000 pitches a year and accepts about 150 so I feel validated and honoured. And scared. I like coming up with ideas better than making them a reality so this is going to be interesting. I am confident though that I can do it. Tomorrow I have an hour long phone conversation with the producer and then the fun begins. Recording equipment will arrive somehow to my little house in the boondocks and we'll take it from there. I will let you know when this piece goes to air but only through email. The documentary will be 13 mintes at best so this will be my real live 13 minutes of fame yet I want to retain my blogger anonymity, too.

Lent is nearly over. Not sure what I've gleaned this year but it's felt like a good Lent. I simply know I'm growing but would be hard pressed to say exactly how. There's something very peaceful about operating from a core of self compassion instead of self loathing. That that is my reality feels humbling and miraculous. Thanks be to God.

Without Your Mercy

This is my 8th day in a row online. That's how well that is going. Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to walk away from the computer. Even if it's only 10 minutes online a day, it feels like a fix of some kind.

I sent off my pitch to Outfront this week. That felt good. I've been able to figure out a magazine I can pitch the same story to as well. Yesterday there was a poster at the library for a session with the writer in residence, a new venture for the library, and one that sure works for me. She'll be available for consults for 2 months and I plan on seeing her. I'm feeling ready to take another crack at writing a book. Fear of failure is really what's kept me from it thus far. Writing here has helped me gain some confidence.

I had an appointment with Fr. Charlie this week, the first one since November. Our sessions have moved from counseling to spiritual direction. It is a comfort to spend time with someone who has seen me in the gutter and kept on believing, when I couldn't, that I wouldn't always feel mired in shame. Experiencing the Sacrament of Reconciliation this week had a particular sweetness to it.

Here are bits from my journal:

"Perhaps facing my feelings and letting them stay surfaced will one day be a non issue. So far it's still a lot of work." ~March 4/08

"Last night when I came home it was a clear starry night. I looked up at the stars and said, "wow" several times. I never get tired of their beauty." ~March 6/08

"Without Your mercy we would have no hope." ~March 7/08

"During my time of centering prayer I got a picture of opening my heart to God. Then I remembered how the statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus at church has made me picture my chest open, my heart exosed and touching the heart of Jesus. Today I understood that opening my heart would make it possible for Jesus to envelop it." ~ March 7/08

"Yesterday's scripture reading was about Jesus at the feast of Tabernacles and how the people wanted to arrest him but couldn't lay a hand on him because his hour had not yet come. I thought about the possibility that if no one could harm Jesus because it wasn't God's will then maybe I could stop worrying that some tragedy is going to befall me and cut my life short. Trust. Do I trust God enough to rest instead of wrestle?" ~ March 8/08

The two disciplines that I'd hoped to start during Lent complement each other. The yoga has been relaxing. Working up a sweat doing yoga has come as a bit of a surprise. The discipline of centering prayer has been a good antidote for my waning affair with perfectionism. As Thomas Keating says, "the only thing you can do wrong in this prayer is to get up and walk out."

Bits and Pieces

Yesterday I thought I knew what I'd write here today but whatever my idea was it's vanished. So I leave you with a few quotes I've read this past week and bits of journal entries of my own:

"Bravery is the being the only one who knows you are afraid." ~ Franklin P. Jones

"In God's economy nothing is wasted. Through failure, we learn a lesson in humility which is probably needed, painful though it is." ~ As Bill Sees It (AA daily book)

"To be plagued our whole life long by temptation, failure, sin and brokenness is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it can be our saving grace as human beings. In our failures we are brought to humility, and to discover our need for God. In the particular way that pain and fear has taken shape in us, we have a way of opening ourselves to human and diving love. It is through our wounds that we may be touched deeply. In our vulnerability, our lack of control, we can be open to our need for God and other people." ~ Brian C. Taylor in Spirituality, Contemplation and Transformation

"I've been reading Thomas Merton this morning. What spoke to me above all was my need to accept where I'm at as a precursor to moving forward. If I reject what is then my growth will be a work of the ego instead of the soul. Where I'm at, in the fullness of my humanity, is okay, is necessary. Gentle be." ~ journal entry Feb 26/08

"This journey is not about liking the 'new' me better but about liking the me that is at any given moment." ~ journal entry Feb 29/08

"As I was eating lunch I thought about the potato chips in the cupboard. I thought about how I wanted to feel my feelings more than I want to numb them. Which made me think of the intensity of my feelings while watching only daughter's play. I wonder if actually feeling them and not rejecting, avoiding or numbing them made a breakthrough possible. My feelings won't kill me." ~ journal entry Feb. 29/08