Tag: clarity

Relief.

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Relief is one of those charged words.

You have to know how to feel relief before you can say it. Its meaning is implicitly assigned.

Relief.

It’s letting go. It’s breathing. It’s getting home after a shitty day. It’s the TEXACO station in the middle of bumble-fuck Texas when your gas light’s been on for 35 miles. It’s a check in the mail. It’s hearing someone you care about is OK. It’s discovering you’re going to be OK. It’s a sigh. It’s pain — subsiding.

The thing about relief: It requires waiting.

We would never be rewarded with that moment where we let the air escape from our lungs, feel our muscles relax, and allow ourselves to breathe into the deepest part of our stomach if we didn’t have to suffer, even minimally, just waiting for it.

I have decided that relief is biology’s coerced version of gratitude. When we can’t be grateful mentally, our bodies tell us what we’re thankful for and we can literally feel it. The first time I realized that I was physically designed to feel gratitude I was, in fact, grateful for the ability to experience this phenomena. Sobriety enabled and allowed me this tool, I’m sure. Because, in my “blue period,” AKA stark-raving-wasted,  gratitude did not exist for anything or anyone other than the someone-next-to-me at the bar who offered to buy my next round.

For a long time, my relief was served in a rocks glass. The air that I allowed myself to breathe was filtered through my liver, not my lungs. Everything ended up drunk. Everything.

When we don’t listen to our body’s language, its warnings, its instructions…it stops talking. Consult over. It just starts wreaking havoc. And, in that case, much like a case of the insane, we start talking to ourselves. In tongues mostly. We then enlist a whole team of bottles to sort out what’s trapped in our skulls. My most hired translator: Jim Beam. Though, there were nights I preferred the roll of José Cuervo’s “R”s. — “RRRrrrrelief!”

These days, relief comes and goes. But, I feel it. My body knows itself again. A translator is no longer necessary to fully appreciate my own suffering and joy. I’ve come to realize that, in addition to signaling my own condition, relief notes my compassion. I feel, I breathe, I sigh for other people too; something for which Jim Beam has no words.

Like relief, sobriety has too many meanings. All thrown into another charged word that means so much more than the sum of it’s parts. It’s more than just being off the sauce. More than being right-minded. More than calm in the company of calamity. It’s hearing the alarms that you, yourself, have tripped. It’s seeing pain outside yourself that needs tending to, and then, attending to it. It’s the relief of administering aide for the first time, not because you have to, but because you are capable. The pure exhilaration, the inhale-exhale, the integrity that allows someone else’s relief to become your own. The connected, universal pain– subsiding.

Heed your body’s call –Breathe again. Sigh. Feel it all.

 

“RRRrrrrrelief!”  — No José required.

 

Stay saucy,

Sarah

Permission Impossible

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Approved

 

For much of my adult life, I’ve been waiting on something.

Until recently, I wasn’t entirely sure what that something was, but, I could just feel it holding me back.

It’s the little voice that talks me out of ordering the pasta (It’s too many carbs!), or buying the new pair of shoes (They’re too much $$$!), or taking time for myself (There’s just too much to do!!!). All those little restrictions we place on ourselves, day-in-day-out, seem so minor that we lose sight of their collective effect.

The truth is, all those little “no-no’s,” add up to something pretty significant: A Lack Mentality.

When we are constantly coming from a place of lack, no’s, and next time’s…there is no way to bring abundance into our lives or into the lives of the people around us. We stop ourselves before we get started.

While I’m no therapist, I’m pretty sure the lack mindset stems from many origins: Childhood. Growing pains. Relationships, both failed and successful. All life’s rejections, big and small. Lack grows. Lack builds on itself. It gets woven into our DNA, neuropathways, and ends up effecting our decision making dramatically. The tricky thing is that, in order to repair this flawed and limiting mindset, we have to forge our own, new paths. No more relying on the wisdom of our elders, no drawing on the pain of experiences past, and no implementing the peer check-and-balance system. We have to decide, independently and firmly, despite all evidence that would have us believe otherwise, that we are worth it.

Recently, I’ve found myself asking “Whose permission am I waiting on anyway?” I just turned thirty for fuck’s sake. It strikes me, as a self-sufficient adult, I shouldn’t have to wait for anyone but myself. Yet, I continue to check in with family, friends, even co-workers to make sure that what I’m doing is “OK.” I need that stamp of approval. I want to be told I’m making the right choice, doing the right thing.

The thing is, I don’t need to be told what’s right and what’s wrong. I already know. We all do. And, I’m fairly certain at this point, even when I’m not 100% right, the mistakes I make are meant to teach me something. But, really, who the fuck knows?

I often think that the day I’ll finally feel like a real adult is the day when I make all my own decisions without running them by my mom or my cousin to make sure I’m not fucking up big-time. And, don’t get me wrong, I think checking in with the people you care about is GOOD. It’s healthy to get an outside opinion. But, let opinion be the operative word there. It’s when we come to rely on other’s advice to make our final decisions that we get ourselves into hot water.

Give yourself permission to make the choice YOU need to make. It may not look the way your mom, dad, cousin, or best friend think it should. And, that might be scary. It’s scary for me. But, at the end of the day, my mom, dad, cousin, best friend…not-a-one of them has to live with my choices. I do.

Unless it comes from your own gut…it’s never going to feel right.

The reality is, sometimes the choices you make will dissapoint, upset, and scare other people. You can’t make everyone happy. It’s impossible. Did you get that? Because it’s really important:

YOU CAN’T MAKE EVERYONE HAPPY. IT’S IMPOSSIBLE.

 

My advice: Forget trying to figure out the right thing. Figure out the right thing, for you.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

The Not-So-Great Escape

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ESCAPEFISH

Who doesn’t love a great escape?

We all have our little exit strategies. In fact, I have an extensive repertoire of escape plans that expertly let me off the hook for any and all of my (in)actions. No matter what task I’m facing, I always have an escape route. Sometimes several. It’s one of those defense mechanisms that seems really brilliant in its conception, but, the long term results of escape: No Bueno.

Escape plans allow for, wait for it…wait for it…ESCAPE.

Come on! Who wouldn’t want to hear, while they’re waist-high in shit, that they have the option to bail the fuck outta there? It’s human nature. If things suck, in general, we tend to avoid them. It makes sense. But, I’m discovering, the longer I have my wits about me, the best lessons are learned while we’re wading through the crap. Sure, it stinks, it’s uncomfortable, and when we’re finally out, more often than not, it appears that we have nothing to show for having made the horrendous journey. Therein lies the lesson: Sometimes, you find out the hard way that there isn’t always a door prize for your effort. That shit you’re caked in? Congratulations! That’s your prize! I hope you learned something, because there ain’t no escaping this one kids: Growing up blows.

We attempt escape for lots of reasons, but let’s boil it down. Because really, at the end of the day — it’s all about fear. Nine out of ten times, the thing I’m avoiding, the thing I’m telling myself isn’t the best bet, or even a possible bet — it’s fear. Fear that I’m not going to get the mythical thing I’ve envisioned.

We stay in places we should leave. And, we tell ourselves some pretty amazing lies. We make it sound good. We romance ourselves. You know what I mean. You tell yourself to stay when you KNOW you shouldn’t because, if you stay:

  • You know what you’re getting.
  • It’ll be better this time…
  • You can change this.
  • They can change this.
  • This may be your only chance!
  • Once you leave this place, there’s no way back!

Yeah. Lies. Lies. Lies.

Stop! Bubble busting time!

Hammertime

Finding freedom is all about running through the burning building of your mind. Finding an escape route on the fly — alone and mid-crisis. Stay in the burning building for an extra minute, get some smoke in your lungs and feel the heat*.  If you run out too early, it can only mean missing out on valuable truths about yourself. If you reframe your fear, the escape plan itself becomes magical. So, find your proverbial unicorn and then: Get the fuck outta dodge!

What if you embraced what might happen, what could happen? Be honest. If what should have happened had actually happened, you wouldn’t find yourself with this dilemma. Instead of copping out and staying put — JUST GO!

  • Be unsure, and be surprised.
  • It could be good. From the get-go. Like, whoa.
  • Action IS change.
  • No one is perfect, don’t rely on others to make you happy, they don’t determine your outcome.
  • There are unlimited chances.
  • If you’re meant to be somewhere or with someone, there is always a way back.

 

My Advice: Wade through some shit. Walk through a burning building or two. Ride your well-earned unicorn into the sunset — now that’s an escape!

 

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

*SaucySobriety.com would like to note here that we do NOT recommend you stay in a building that is literally burning. This is a metaphor. Please see your building’s fire codes for escape plans in the event of an actual fire.

 

 

Finding Yourself(ie)

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When I first got sober, I thought I knew who I was. But, I wasn’t going to tell you.

Even just a few, short months ago I wasn’t interested in broadcasting my sobriety, at all. It’s never been something I’ve tried to hide, but I haven’t been especially open about it either. For a long time, it was information I distributed on a need-to-know-basis. The people in my life who needed to know, knew. I left everyone else to wonder.

Yet, here I am. Locked and loaded. Fully equipped with a fucking dot com, selling my alchie-soul to Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram. How does this happen?

Simply put, I found myself(ie). That little voice I’d been shhhhushing for so long, well, it turns out, she actually had something to say. It took some time for me to decipher what was divulging too much. I asked myself: How much of my story did I really want to tell? Tough call. Historically, I’ve been a pretty private person. So, it shouldn’t be surprising that sobriety wasn’t the Girl Scout badge I wanted to showcase. For a long time, to me, sobriety equated alcoholism–one required the other. I wasn’t ready to out myself.

It’s not that I don’t have pride in the work I’ve done or the person I’ve become, I sure as fuck do. But, somewhere along the line, I decided that I wasn’t going to let sobriety be the thing that defined me. Promptly following that decision the inevitable question arose: If sobriety doesn’t define me, what does?

zoo

OK, so, I’m no longer shitfaced and miserable. Now what? What makes me tick? What do I want to do now that I’m not glued to a bar stool? I batted ideas around like a kitten for 18 months. I had no idea. I couldn’t decide. And, I wasn’t alone.

The wonderful world of 12-Step provided me with a host of littermates that were similarly phased by their new found freedom from being constantly intoxicated. I started to see a theme. My former-drunk-y pals had either started to run with their sobriety, acting on their goals and dreams, or, their asses were glued to folding chairs in church basements 24/7, clinging to paper coffee cups to keep them from floating off into lunar orbit. I didn’t know which category I fell into. Was I goal oriented? Or, was I just hangin’ on to my cup of Folger’s for dear life?  I came to realize that I wasn’t either. More importantly, I didn’t have to be. I started making my own plans. The 12-Step Kool-Aid is delicious, but, it’s not going to take me to my spaceship.

After much hunting and soul searching I came to discover that: You are my spaceship. Yes, you. Since you’re reading this, I assume you care about what I have to say, or, at the very least, you are so judgmental that you’ve taken the time to note how craptastic I am!

But seriously, this is where my heart is: Writing my experience. I open my mouth, I speak, and I hope someone is listening. And yes, it’s true, I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing with my life, but, I will always desire to be heard.

And so, Saucy Sobriety was born: An unabashed look at my sober-life, not my sober-alcoholism. In this blog, it’s me you’re getting–not the alcoholic. Though, I do happen to be one. For me, sobriety isn’t about alcoholism. It’s about freedom.

Finding yourself(ie) is an ongoing process. (So, you may find your iPhone handy-dandy for last-minute edits…)

My mistake was making recovery my life. When I made my life about living, the story wrote itself.

 

My advice: Don’t wait until you have a plan. You don’t need one. Put pen to paper and write.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

Accepting Thirty.

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THIS IS THIRTY: The moment where your Grandmother tells you that she prays, every night, that you’ll find a man. And, instead of laughing, you’re crying, thanking her profusely for her prayers.

I wish I could be an adult about this, because honestly, twenty days into my third decade, I should definitely qualify as one.

But, there’s that piece of me that just won’t comply. I’m still just a little girl standing in the middle of the living room, stomping her feet because she didn’t get her way. Thirty?! No! NO! NO!!!!

Why doesn’t the Universe know?! By now, I’m supposed to have a great job, one so overwhelmingly fabulous that I just spring out of bed every morning, dance into the bathroom, singing into my toothbrush like Joan Jet, serenading the day that awaits me. Just down the stairs, my hunk of a husband, is seated at the granite-topped island in our fabulous kitchen, reading John Updike, waiting, with a cup of French-press coffee, just for me.

STOP. WAIT. WAKE UP.

Welcome to my real life:

I’m single. Broke.  My cat has to scratch me out of bed in the morning because half the time I ignore the alarm. No one’s waiting with my coffee. I’m the one brewing a 12-cup pot of Costco Columbian Select when I arrive at my lack-luster desk job. Frankly, my Sonicare toothbrush is the most energetic part of my morning.

For the past few months, leading up to this: thirty, I’ve devoted a lot of time and energy to thinking about all the things I haven’t done. All the goals I haven’t accomplished. All the women I’ve wanted  to be, but, have successfully eluded becoming. I’ve thought about my contemporaries, assembling the dreaded comparative checklist. Sure, there are the “successes,” the lawyer/business mogul-superstar daughters of my mother’s coworker, and there are my cousins who are happy, married, and breeding. (Grandma’s prayers worked for them!) But, after some investigation, I found that most people in my age bracket have no idea what the fuck they’re doing. And, it’s OK! They’re surviving! We’re going to be alright!

When I actually slow down, assess the situation realistically, I realize that, maybe, just maybe, I’m right where I need to be.

And, for now, Right-Where-I-Need-To-Be happens to look like a crazy train wreck. Wham-O: I’m in the midst of a depressing break-up (again), at a dead-end job, and I’m a renter, a fucking renter! So fucking what?!

Thirty is really the same as twenty, except now, I’m a hot warm mess. I’ve learned truly valuable lessons about love, losing it, and what NOT to do. And bonus prize: I’m still YOUNG.

Holy shit people! I looked in the mirror on my thirtieth birthday and I had to admit, it’s the best I’ve looked in years!

I haven’t peaked! I’m not peaking!! This is PRIME TIME!!!

I’m sober. I get to live my life now, not just watch as it passes by my blurry eyes. And, while I’d be a big fat liar if I told you I had all my shit together, I’m not totally without purpose. There is a destination, I think, even if it’s a mystery. For the first time in my life, I feel worthy of something good. Now, maybe it hasn’t arrived just yet, but, I’m old enough to know it’s on the way.

Thirty is my lesson in acceptance.

Accept a new decade, and, realize that it’s the same deal.

Sure, it’d be nice to feel a bit more secure. It’d be nice to have a partner to pick me up when I crash and burn. It’d be nice to own a home. It’d be nice to know that if I die in my apartment, that someone will get to me before my cat eats my face. But, in all honesty, things are on the up’n’up. I’m no longer the wimpy twenty-something, chain smoking outside of bars, throwing back tequila shots, and falling off ledges–breaking, then losing, my $500 Prada glasses (yes, I did that).

I’m an adult, but, I’m still cooking. So, you can wait a few more years before you stick that fork in me, please.

Thirty Fucking Schmirty.

I’m on the way up my lil’ saucies.  On the way up.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

P.S. Tell me all about your birthday revelations in the comments! I want to hear your acceptance stories, pronto!!!

 

There’s just this moment. Now.

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Ram.Dass

When I first discovered Ram Dass, I was a lost soul.

I felt stuck. I was still drinking heavily, but, I was starting to question the road I was on. I knew in my gut that there was no way for me to keep up with my own lifestyle. I was afraid of who I was becoming. I didn’t know how to change. I didn’t know who to be. And, I was afraid to ask for help.

In my confusion, I began to read voraciously. And, in a passage of  Anne LaMott’s Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith, she mentions reading, and having a life-changing experience with, Ram Dass’ classic: The Only Dance There Is. I immediately went to my local bookstore and bought a copy. The moment I cracked open the spine, Ram Dass exploded into my heart. His language: woo woo, hippie-dippy, far-out, and super groovy, spoke to me. He was unapologetic about his place in the Universe. His presence was his own. I envied his clarity and confidence. In his own, marked place of presence, he made me feel PRESENT and ALIVE.

It was only a few months after reading The Only Dance There Is that I called my parents and told them I needed help: I wanted to stop drinking.  And, with their support, I was able to leave my job and enter a six month, holistic, outpatient rehab center.

Without drinking or using drugs I had no choice but to be present. Of course, I tried to distract myself. I obsessed. I got lost. But, eventually, I found myself in a moment where I had to stay. A moment where I had no choice but to experience what was happening. A moment that is everything and nothing simultaneously. Yes, it’s far out.

When I found my presence, it was scary. I’d spent most of my adult life attempting to escape such moments. Yet, somehow, it came to pass that I was actually seeking my own presence, my own unapologetic being.

Sobriety is the ability to be fully present. Any type of addiction cuts us off from our authentic state. It was difficult for me to get to a place where that concept made sense. I spent a lot of time missing my drinks. I was convinced I was missing out on something. But, eventually the opposite was revealed: I had been missing out on lots of things by continuing to drink and use drugs. Being present is the ultimate tool. If you can live with yourself, you can be anywhere, do anything, and feel any and every emotion, because no matter what, you’ll be authentically you. That’s all there is.

For the first time, I became present. I became available to myself and to the infinite Universe of which we are all an important part. It is a gift that I sincerely hope everyone has the opportunity to receive.

This week I encourage you to stop and Be. Here. Now.

How will you show up for yourself and the world today? What stops you from being present? Share your story in the comments…I want to hear it…

Stay saucy,

Sarah